A Perfect Sunday (obviously) starts with the night before. Last night Dad took me to see the North College Hill Community Theater production of The Real Inspector Hound. The accents came and went a bit, but it was delightful (I LOVE Tom Stoppard [the author]) and a nice little space. The only thing that could have improved it would have been to tie it with another of Stoppard’s one act plays. On the flip side, with only one act we got home before bedtime.
Also last night the Puppy slept through the night. Which was a Big Freakin’ Deal. We are quite hopeful that this is a sign that the 4am barking phase is over and done with.
Today, I hope to get to the gym early and be home in time for the most important event of the year. You got it: the Puppy Bowl.
This year they’ve included several “disabled” dogs. Um, “differently-abled” please. The really wonderful news is that all these pups are from shelters and have now been adopted. Big cheer from the endzone if you ask me.
I really hope it’s a good game. It’s the last one of the season and I hope, hope, hope it provides 100% in the way of entertainment and sport and 0% in the way of scandal. We, the People, need that.
Meanwhile, the sun is shining, the streets are clear, and the coffee is hot.
There is a reason not one single solitary fragrance manufacturer has ever (emphasis on EVER) thought about introducing StinkyBoySweat as the Scent of the Season.
They’ve used vanilla, bergamot, ylang ylang, wild orange, and a host of other things tantalizing to the nose. But not StinkyBoySweat.
In fact, the IFRA (the International Fragrance Association – there really is such a thing) does not even list StinkyBoySweat on its ingredient list (I checked).
When you look up StinkyBoySweat, you find that its chemical ingredients include snips and snails and puppydog tails (extra points if you get the reference) with a skull and crossbones and rotting football next to the description. And a warning in big, bold, blue letters which reads: Do not allow to come into contact with skin, clothing, small mammals, or (for that matter) any living thing. May singe nose hairs. Will paralyze sense of smell for up to 18 hours. May cause you to wish your sense of smell gone forever. Side effects include loss of friends, loss of hair, and loss of consciousness.
Pi and I went to the gym yesterday. When we went over to the mats, my nose rebelled.
Me: I smell StinkyBoySweat.
Pi: I don’t smell anything.
Me: It’s definitely StinkyBoySweat.
Pi: You haven’t smelled StinkyBoySweat until you’ve been in a football huddle.
I had to concede that one. I’ve walked by hordes of football players after a game and almost passed out.
I’ve had unwashed hockey players in my car (the cost of fumigation was more than your college tuition), but apparently more is more when it comes to BoyStink.
I don’t know where rugby ranks on the Stank Scale.
What I do know is that all those who work with people dripping with StinkyBoySweat have much stronger internal fortitude than I do. Or perhaps a less developed sense of smell.
I was (of course) there to see my favorite future athletic trainer work the game.
I particularly wanted to see something spectacularly colorful but ultimately insignificant happen so that I’d know the Kid was learning something. (This led to my friend saying, “Enjoy the rugby game. I hope someone gets hurt.”)
I don’t know why, but that reminds me of this:
It was snowing, windy, and about 28 degrees, so I was quite happy to find a parking space right near the end of the field from whence I could watch the game in relative comfort.
I may have witnessed the least injury-filled rugby game in the history of rugby.
No one understands rugby because it was (we think) invented in England where they have a history of creating sports no one understands (looking at you, Cricket). We know that rugby can be played with either 7 players on a side or 15 players on a side (although typically not at the same time) and that the traditional striped rugby shirt was very popular in the 70s. A game without mud is considered a failure and a game without injuries is considered unsporting. A game without alcohol immediately afterward is nonexistent.
Oh sure, there was mud. And yelling. And several dudes getting up from the bottoms of various piles looking a bit dazed. And Our Boyswon, so yay.
But there weren’t any interesting injuries. There weren’t even any uninteresting injuries. The highly developed medical assistance skills waiting on the side in of the field in the cold were not called upon.
Until about 5 minutes before the end of the game when one of the other team’s players went down with a splat and didn’t immediately bounce back up. (Fact: Rugby players may be big, but they are very Tigger-like in their bouncability.) After another moment or two, I thought “Oh good. I’ll see the Kid in action.”
Just as I thought that, the player got to his feet and lumbered off the field, and I thought, “Oh good. I’ll see the Kid in action on the sidelines.”
Do you know what an injured ruby player does? He does not head over to the athletic trainer’s table for assistance, oh no. He decides to walk it off. When that fails, he sits down. When that doesn’t help any more than the walking, he shrugs, gets up, takes his rugby shoes to the car, turns to his cell phone, and begins to take selfies.
When the athletic trainer (aka the Kid) brings him a Helpful Bag of Ice, do you know what he does? He takes the bag politely, thanks the Kid, places the ice bag on his injured knee (while standing) for 1.387 seconds, then stands there holding it (not anywhere near the injury) cheering on his team to defeat, all the while thinking that it will be much easier to deal with the pain (and the defeat) as soon as he’s drunk. (Probably also hoping that the team will finish quickly so he can begin that medical journey as soon as possible.)
So that’s what I saw. The Kid delivering ice. But very well-qualified and well-bagged ice.
Note:Turns out there was also a pretty significant nosebleed that required nose plugs, but I didn’t know about that until much later.
It’s Super Bowl Sunday (which is almost as good as Eat Ice Cream for Breakfast Day but with better TV coverage). Not only are the traditional bets in play (who will win, who will lose, who will come out on top in the office square betting), but prop bets are going crazy.
You remember about Prop Bets right? They are the fabulously funky bets about everything other than the score of the game. Here are some of my faves available this year.
Note: You are a college student without lots of excess cash. All your bets should be for things like who washes the dishes after dinner, who takes out the trash this week, or other non-monetary consequences.
The second best prop bet for this year is how many times “dab” or “dabbing” will be said by announcers during the broadcast. Yes, I know what dabbing is (read here if you don’t) because I am twelve kinds of cool and I looked it up weeks ago. I don’t intend to count, but the betting is over two or under two and it’s hard to imagine they’ll say it less than twice. (NOTE: Halftime doesn’t count.)
The best prop bet for this year is whether “Left Shark” will make an appearance during halftime. You can also bet on which song Cold Play will play first (but not whether they’ll be cold), and what color shoes Beyoncé will be wearing.
Peyton Manning things you can bet on include whether he’ll announce his retirement in the post-game interview, whether he’ll throw a pick 6, and if he’ll be seen crying at any point during the broadcast.
Speaking of post-game interviews, you can bet on who the Super Bowl MVP will mention first (God, team, city/fans, coach, family, or something else).
You can place bets on a zillion things related to the coin toss, three zillion things related to kickers and punters, and five zillion things related to when scoring happens.
You can bet on whether Cam Newton will break the Super Bowl record for must rushing yards by a QB (see “dabbing” above).
You can—I swear I am not making this up—bet on the exact outcome of who wins the Super Bowl AND who wins the presidential election. You can bet on the Carolina Panthers winning the Super Bowl and the Golden State Warriors winning the NBA title. You can bet on whether the goals in the Montreal/Carolina NHL game February 7th will be higher than the total number of receptions by Greg Olsen, and whether the Arsenal goals February 7 will be higher than the number of Peyton Manning TD passes.
You can bet about whether Mike Carey will be wrong about a challenge, whether there will be an earthquake during the game, and how long the national anthem will be.
You cannot—as far as I know—bet on whether your mother will stay awake to watch the entire game or what commercial people will be talking about tomorrow.
I’m still a fan of the Bengals. But the whole professional behavior thing has to be addressed.
Clearly, the Bengals aren’t the only team demonstrating unacceptable behavior recently. I understand when celebrities and pro athletes say they should be left alone. They just want to do their jobs (act, sing, score touchdowns) without being judged on their off-field/off-screen behavior. Except, um, no. You’re in a profession which puts you in the spotlight, you are a role model whether you originally intended to be or not, and ergo paparazzi. Behave yourself, be boringly normal, and people will leave you alone.
As I said, I understand (even if I don’t agree with) the desire to be left alone outside the work environment.
Recent, er, displays, however, have been on-field. During important games.
Something must be done.
I have put a great deal of thought into the whole professional athlete debacle and I am delighted to announce that I have figured out how to solve the problem.
Pro sports teams need moms.
I am not joking.
When your mom is watching you, you behave better. Assuming you have a good mom who is involved in your life, anyway. And if the team doesn’t have the right mom, I’ve decided the league should provide them.
Consider the Campbell’s Soup commercials with that the football player (I’m sure you know who I’m talking about) and his mom. He loves Mom, he respects Mom, and he has never been involved with the kind of nonsense we’re seeing both on and off the field from other players.
Then there’s football.
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