From the notebook: Eagles Fantatics and Hope

If you're any sort of a casual reader of this blog, you by now know of my man crush on Joe Posnanski.* Although I first became familiar with him as a sportswriter, he's gained the distinction of my favorite writer du jour partly because of his work outside the realm of sports. On his blog, for example, he has a running series of posts called "From the notebook", for which he posts previously written, non-sports-related pieces. They're quite possibly some of his best work, and his recent Lolo post is absolutely no exception. In fact, outside of his post on Tiger Woods -- as far as I'm concerned, that's his gold standard -- I think it might be the best thing I've read by him.

*Judging from this picture, I'd like to think it's pretty clear that I love him for his mind, and his mind only.

So please read the Lolo post. You will be enlightened. And then, in my own homage to Joe, and because this is easier than writing completely new material, but mostly because the city of Philadelphia is as few as nine rain-delayed outs away from capturing their first championship in any major sport since 1983,* have a look at my own "From the notebook" post below, which is a piece on Eagles fans -- and to some degree, Philly fans in general -- that I wrote for my Penn web page in my last year of college, waaaaayyyy back in January 2003.

*And for this comment, I have irrevocably jinxed them.

A forewarning: Please, please, please note that I picked up the below exactly as originally written and have not edited it in any way, shape or form. This is for the worst. I apologize in advance.

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Eagles Fanatics and Hope

For those of you who somehow made it through my previous ramblings on the coaches of the NFL, you'll probably note that I mentioned a few times in there that I thought the Eagles were going to take it all this year.

Two days after a seriously crushing defeat to the Bucs, I'm here to admit I could not have been more wrong. The Bucs showed up to a freezing Philly (believe me, I should know -- I worked outside in that cold for seven hours on Sunday) and made the Eagles their bitches. That gives them a two game winning streak in games under 40 degrees! Quite impressive, at least for them.

Of course, I'm not letting it go that easily. I'm not going to talk about the actual game here and how the Eagles lost the game more so than the Bucs won it. Instead, I want to talk about the fans here in Philly.

Before I start, my heartfelt sympathy goes out to every one of you. I've lived here for only 4 years and even to me, that was a crushing defeat. Considering my hometown of LA is NFL football-less, I've taken somewhat of a liking to the Birds and have suffered, to a lesser extent than most of you, the knife in the back that this town has endured time and time again for the last few decades. I can only imagine the gut wrenching pain that some of the Philly lifers are going through right now.

In case you've never been to Philly, the fans here are completely rabid about the Eagles. This entire past week, it was nothing but Eagles, Eagles, Eagles. You would walk around the street and people were chanting, "E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES!!!" in passing cars. There were "Go Eagles!" signs EVERYWHERE. People had those little flags they attach to their cars. I also saw several interesting new paint jobs or additions to cars and vans.

Then, on Friday, it was if the city went absolutely crazy. I turned on the local news at 12, and I swear to you, the ENTIRE hour of news was devoted to Eagles-mania. (There may have been some story on a rape in like the 47th minute.) At the program's end, they officially began the 50-hour countdown to kickoff time. The coverage was practically round the clock. Probably the funniest moment was the coverage of the Bucs' plane landing at the airport. The entire segment was devoted to just the Bucs' plane. Not the Bucs walking off of it. Not the Bucs giving interviews. Just the plane. The correspondent had nothing to say. He was like, "We think this is the plane. They should be on it right now." And the entire shot on the screen was a plane several hundred yards away taxiing to its gate.

By Saturday, I think the local news just took over all programming on television. NBC, CBS, ABC, and Fox were all devoted to Eagles stories. That night, I attended a banquet and talked to a Philly lifer who admitted quite frankly that he hadn't been able to get the game out of his head all week. His wife, who had already gotten quite drunk and somewhat belligerent, began accosting every person that passed by and asking them where they were from. If the answer wasn't Philly, she'd go crazy on you. Considering LA doesn't have a football team, you'd think she wouldn't mind me so much. Nope. The fists came flying out. Of course, the poor sap from New York had some serious answering to do. (And rightfully so.) The guy that was born in friggin' Moscow seemed to get by okay though.

By game day on Sunday, the city came to a standstill. The local news at 8 am was already at the Vet, interviewing fans that were ALREADY tailgating. They were getting drunk… at eight in the morning!! In fact, the earliest fans had arrived at 4:30. Whose idea was it to show up for a game almost 12 hours before it began???? As I parked car after car at my valet job, I listened to a pregame radio show that had started at something like 7 am (game time was 3 pm) and was broadcasted from the Vet. By 10, it was pretty apparent from the noise in the radio show's background that everyone at the Vet parking lot was wasted. By 11, I watched as the Bucs began to leave their hotel (they were staying right near where I work) to a crowd of Eagles fans heckling them. There were also maybe 3 Bucs fans who were stupid enough to wear Bucs clothing. Back at the Vet, they were stabbing Chucky dolls (who look very similar to the Bucs' coach, Jon Gruden) with knives, pins, and then ripping their heads off. If only Ozzy was there to bite off the head of Gruden himself. By 2 or so, most of the crowd I could hear over the radio show had screamed themselves right into laryngitis.

Being from LA and all, this whole diehard fan thing is rather new to me. Remember, I'm from a town where baseball games are four innings long (we come in the 4th and leave in the 7th), public apathy drove out two football teams in a two year span, and basketball championships are pretty much taken as a given. Has there been even close to this much public or media hysteria during the Lakers' current championship run? Not even close. Us fans just get pumped up when we really have to, such as Game 7 of the 2000 Western Conference Finals or anytime we play the Queens. We expect victory. (Of course, I'm not complaining about LA. Victory is oh so sweet, especially when you can go to the beach for a little nightcap after watching a Lakers victory in January. Want more proof that LA -- and the rest of Cali -- rocks? Just read up on Jim Caple's recent ESPN.com column. Of course, all of this overwhelming evidence that Cali rules once again proves the old point that I'm an idiot for going to school on the east coast.)

That's pretty much the typical, lazy LA fan. What about Eagles (or more generally, Philly) fans? They really, really, really want it. But they sure as hell can't expect it. They just let their hopes fly up to a crescendo and then crash and burn.

So by the time the game started at 3, the city had officially stopped. The only people who were still outside were those who were working (like myself) or had no clue at all. For instance, when I asked a woman if she knew what the score was, she surprisingly responded with a knowledgeable, "7-0," which was correct at the time. But when I asked her how the Eagles had scored, looking for a response such as "Staley ran it in" or "McNabb hooked up with Thrash," she said, "The Eagles did a touchdown." Those were her exact words. They DID a touchdown.

I made it home by the second quarter to watch most of the game, and the outcome is all history. And now, Philly is mourning. The loss was difficult enough for me to take. I feel so bad for some of the people I know. One of the guys I work with said that a friend of his literally burst into tears, "as if his mother had just died." No lie. And, of course, there was some anger. I talked to one guy who said that Philly fans were some of the sorest losers he'd ever seen. From what I've seen, I think that's a little bit of an exception, but it certainly is true in some cases. A sports reporter for a radio station here absolutely ripped into the Eagles yesterday, calling much of the team, especially Reid and McNabb, some rather distasteful names. And you know he was practically on his knees praising those guys last week.

Even though Philly right now is acting as if Revelations is unfolding, I know there's one diehard Eagles fan out there who isn't surprised at all. About six weeks ago, when everyone was realizing that the Eagles could win even without McNabb, this guy I had met at work, who had lived in Philly his entire life, told me that he wasn't getting excited about the Eagles. He said he had learned his lesson with them. He really wanted to see them win, but he was not going to get his hopes up. He'd been disappointed too many times by them. I couldn't believe a Philadelphian would utter such words. But you know what? He was dead on. The Eagles choked, once again.

Although this guy probably isn't too disappointed today, you have to think that no one more than him deserves to see his team win. He's essentially lost hope, and that's too bad. (Cue the sappy music.) Unless you're a Clippers fan, a Bengals fan, or a Red Sox fan, there's always a glimmer of hope that your team can win. That's what makes sports so damned exciting. (I mean, look at the World Cup or the NCAA Final Four. You watch those tournaments, and even if you know nothing about the teams that are playing, you're still on the edge of your seat because you know how badly everyone wants it. And you also know there's enough parity so that either team could end up victorious. In many ways, that's what makes Major League Baseball so damned boring sometimes, because there's not nearly as much equality in that league. I'm looking at you, Steinbrenner.) All of this heartache and sorrow only means one thing: the Eagles will win the Super Bowl next year. Mark my words on this. The fans, as rowdy and crazy and obnoxious as they can sometimes be, deserve to see that happen. Their time has clearly come, and my man who has apparently lost all hope needs to get it back.

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So. That exercise was... interesting. Mentions of the Vet? (RIP, baby.) Implying that the Red Sox have no hope of ever winning?? Guaranteeing an Eagles Super Bowl victory in 2004???!? Yeah, maybe we won't do this again.

But the thesis of piece still stands, and for the sake of my man who has lost all hope, I hope the Phils can see this thing through, whether it be in Game 5, or back in Tampa.

PCW Redux or: The anatomy of an exercise in creative writing

One year and one day ago, I told a story. Which may have included some creative liberties. It's for the best, I thought at the time. For the premise was there. And to become something great, all it needed was some patchwork, for some holes to be filled in, for a little softening around the edges. You know, like -- ahem -- adding in a whole middle and end. So I did that. And the resulting story went over fantastically. Like gangbusters.

A few days into my visit to New York in August, it occurred to me that if the stars aligned, a potential situation could occur that would bring the walls of my little story crumbling down, thus exposing the few creative liberties* that I may have taken.

*When I say "few creative liberties", I really mean "ridiculously huge amount of stuff that isn't all that true".

I panicked. And began to plan for the worst. Should it arise, what could I do to get myself out of said situation? Awkwardly change the topic of conversation? Dive out of the closest window? Scream "FIRE!" in a crowded theater? No, none of those would do. In fact, I came to the depressing conclusion that there really was nothing that I could do to avoid it except hope and pray that it wouldn't be raised. So I hoped. And I prayed.

And then on that fateful Saturday night, at dinner with Dave, Erin, Robert, Maz and Laurie -- before the party that welcomed Robert and me back to New York for the weekend -- my prayers were smashed. And the walls? Oh yes, my friends -- the walls, they came crumbling down.

So let's just get it out of the way right now: the majority -- okay, the vast majority -- of what's in my infamous Portuguese Chicken Wars post is made up. Not so much a lie, per se... let's use that term "creative liberties" again. And then multiply it several times over.

It all started off so innocently. For the premise of the post, that Shorty had emailed me before coming to Sydney to tell me about Ogalo, the fire there, and to never go to Portogali? True. The rumors of some tomfoolery regarding the fire and Portogali's possible involvement? (Not the rumors themselves, perhaps, just that there were rumors.) True. Everything else? Wellllllll...

Fine. I decided to have a little fun. And got carried away. It started off as a vague idea, quickly snowballed into a stream of consciousness, and became something great. And none of you can deny that, this much I know. That story is great. You all said as much. In emails. In comments on that post. In phone conversations. And in many more emails that followed.

But yeah, the story mostly belongs in the fiction section. With a bit of an emphasis on "mostly", because there is some truth to it. So maybe it should go into the "Based on a true story" section? Yeah, that's about right. In fact, let's call the story this blog's The Perfect Storm. Literally and figuratively. (And if you don't get that reference, just look at the first paragraph in the upper right part of this page.)

Anyway, no more creative liberties, no more beating around the bush, no more half-truths. Just the full truth, as we do PCW (Portuguese Chicken Wars) Redux:


A perfect segue indeed! For not only have I been back to Ole, not only have I been back to Portogali, and not only have I been to Ogalo since it (finally) reopened, but... BUT... BUT...

Well. Before we get to this "BUT" -- and it's a doozy -- let's first quickly hit on these three establishments and give you the 100% honest truth on each of them. Because if I'm not an open book, what am I?*

*This is a very rhetorical question. Please don't answer it.

Ole: This is the default establishment for our apartment. It's the closest (by a good ten seconds!), and, well, I'm not sure there's any other good reason. (As if that's good enough of a reason on its own.) The sauce that they serve with the hot chips* -- errrr, fries -- is good? One of the girls who works there is semi-attractive?

*This would be prego sauce, and it's amazing. I'm not sure exactly what it's made of, but it's some concoction of at least mayo, vinegar and maybe a few spices. That description absolutely doesn't do it justice, and may even perhaps make it sound disgusting, but believe me, it's earth-shattering stuff. Maybe not quite as good as sweet chili sauce and sour cream, but it's a close second. Anyway, each of the Portuguese places has their own prego sauce, but I'd probably rate Ole's as the best.

Portogali: A bit of the black sheep for us, although this of course -- of course! -- has nothing to do with the claim in Shorty’s original email that they burned down Ogalo. More simply, it's probably because this was the third entrant into the market, with Ole and Ogalo having already established themselves. I hardly ever go there, and based on my own grandmother research, it's the least frequented of the three Portuguese establishments. If that says anything.

Ogalo: Shorty's old favorite, and after he talked it up for the six freaking months that it took them to rebuild, I was beyond excited to try it when it first reopened. But to be honest, my first experience let me down. Maybe the expectations were set too high? Perhaps. Although I think the most telling sign is that Shorty doesn't frequent it as much as he did pre-fire. Has Ogalo lost whatever mojo it had going for it pre-fire? Or is there just no difference among the three establishments, thus allowing us to default to Ole?

And that last point, my friends, that may be the thing. There's a certain perceived level of parity among the three establishments, because they really don't do anything to differentiate themselves. Consider: They all have near-identical menus. They all are laid out in a similar fashion. They all have friendly employees, who would never, ever even dream of berating you for going to one of the other two places. (I mean, honestly...) So how do we choose? In our case, I think it's simply a matter of proximity. Even if that proximity is a matter of ten seconds. But that's not a good reason, is it? I say no, that there has to be a better way. However, that’s very much a conversation for another day. And we'll address it sometime soon.

Okay, back to the "but".

BUT...

Upon arriving back in Sydney from the US at the end of August, I was greeted with this news: a fourth is coming. A fourth Portuguese chicken restaurant. Right down the street from the other three. I shit you not. Because not one, not two and not even three Portuguese chicken restaurants within two minutes of each other is enough. Oh no. Someone actually thought, "I'd love to open a Portuguese chicken restaurant. I know, let's put it right near three others!" A conversation to this effect actually happened. And then it was acted upon. It's mind-boggling, it's inconceivable, it's fascinating, it's bewildering, it's hilarious, it's... well, it's any and every adjective ever invented.

With that said, let's welcome the newest Portuguese chicken restaurant to my neighborhood: Angelo's!


Excuse me while my head explodes. And as I prepare for the next stage of the Portuguese Chicken Wars.

Woe is freaking me

The title of this post is the line I used in an email to some friends yesterday, and it's really quite apt in capturing the essence of my last 48 hours. Consider the following:

Monday, circa 3:00pm
I duck out of work for about an hour to watch the Sox, down 3-1 in Game 7 of the ALCS, tease me in the eighth and ninth innings and ultimately lose to the Rays.* Not to take anything away from the Rays, for they are a really good team, but that's a game that the Sox should have and could have won. And probably would have won a year ago.

*Somewhere, a higher power is saying: "Let me get this straight. You have two teams. They both made it deep into the playoffs. This is a good thing. Yet you’re bitching about the chance of them meeting up in the World Series??!? Fine, you’ll get nothing and you’ll like it." As I've said from the beginning, I brought this upon myself; I deserve whatever comes to me. Including this.

Monday, circa 3:20pm
Back in the office for maybe 20 minutes, my agency's managing director calls an impromptu meeting to give us the lovely news that my client is going to another agency. That would be the client that I'm 100% resourced on. Shortly, they will not be with the agency. A nonexistent client means a nonexistent job. More on this surely to follow.

Tuesday, circa the entire day
No one knows what's going on with our client leaving or how it's going to play out. All we know for sure is that jobs will be lost. Including mine, potentially. Nothing will happen in the immediate few days or weeks, but it will happen, perhaps even within the next month or two. So throughout the day, there's absolutely something in the air in the office. And circa the entire day, I'm just annoyed.

Tuesday, circa 6:30pm
My normal five minute wait for a bus turns into 20 minutes. Under normal circumstances, this is an annoyance. On this day, this is infuriating.

Tuesday, circa 7:40pm
Halfway through a run to blow off some steam, about as far as I can possibly get from my apartment, I step into a pothole and sprain my ankle. With no way to call anyone or money for a bus or taxi, I proceed to limp the two miles back home.

Now it's Wednesday. I woke up to an ankle that has ballooned, as if someone inserted a golf ball into it last night. I cannot walk, I cannot put any weight on it. So no work today. Instead it was off to the doctor, who's sending me out for an x-ray, because it could be broken. I'm on Forest Gump-style crutches, and it's pouring outside.

Yeah. Woe is freaking me.

Watching baseball on the Internet

It has never looked so good.


We started the season with this beautiful sight, and now we’re nearing the end with the above beautiful sight, which I had the pleasure of enjoying from the comfort of my desk in the middle of a work day. Watching on TV probably would have been a bit better, but if that's what it takes to get this outcome, I'll take it.

One down, two more to go.

I'm mailing it in!

Today, for the third time in my life, I voted for a president for the United States of America.

So far, I'm 0-for-2 in voting for the dude who has won. Here's to hoping that I up that average to 1-for-3 with this latest vote.*

*Of course, considering I'm casting this ballot in New York -- where Obama currently holds a 33% lead in polls -- I'm guessing it will never be counted. But hey, at least I can still feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

AK All Day Face: New York, New York

New York, New York (photo: Andoo!)

I had visions, yes I did. AK All Day Face in front of the Empire State Building! AK All Day Face overlooking Central Park! AK All Day Face at Shea Stadium! AK All Day Face saluting the Statue of Liberty!

Yeah, you get the point. I had visions. Of the AK All Day Face all across New York. Instead I submit to you this: AK All Day Face on the subway. And on a direct collision course with muchos alcohol and sausages at the Astoria Beer Garden, followed by my depositing of said alcohol and sausages on the subway platform at the 57th Street stop the next morning.

New York, New York, baby...

The vitals
Title: New York, New York
Subject: AK
Face: The maggotation
Location: New York, NY

Throwin' Kleinballs on the brink of disaster

The Dodgers completed a sweep of the Cubs on Saturday. The Red Sox finished off the pesky Angels on Monday. And I'm one step closer to disaster. I'm officially frightened. And thrilled. I hate myself. And yes, I wouldn't blame you for hating me too.

I'm not sure how much attention Erick Aybar's little dance in protest of his tag on Coco Crisp in Game 2 of the Sox-Angels series received in the US, but when I first saw it, I burst. As did the other Aussies in the room. Thankfully, someone out there was kind enough to a video on YouTube... in the only ridiculously crude fashion that MLB would allow to slip through their iron fist:


With the time difference, most night games are played the next morning my time. This worked out perfectly for me this past weekend, as I got the Sox-Angels on Saturday morning, Dodgers-Cubs on Sunday morning and then, thanks to a three-day weekend (Labour Day in October!), Sox-Angels on Monday morning. Of course, what was perfect for me -- three consecutive mornings/early afternoons of baseball -- probably wasn't so much for my roommates and visitors to my apartment. This came to a head with a marathon of a Game 3 between the Sox and Angels, during which at one point I was surrounded by nine Aussies. As the game went into extra innings and Jason Varitek and Mike Napoli seemingly trying to one-up each other with multiple visits to the mound every inning, I was just waiting for them to revolt, rip the remote from my hand and throw me off the balcony, cheering all the way.

Filling out my weekend with sports, the Rugby League grand final was on Sunday night, between the Melbourne Storm and Manly Sea Eagles. As you may recall, I witnessed the Storm absolutely embarrass the Cronulla Sharks, 28-0, in the semi finals. In the finals, Manly returned the favor and shut out the Storm, 40-0. That's some exciting rugby there!

I have absolutely no idea what this guy is talking about, but if (a) I lived in Jamaica (we can dream, right?) and (b) I didn't do it already, this would make me buy Guinness:


A subtle benefit of living here: being able to thank someone by saying "cheers" or calling a friend "mate" and not sounding like a complete jackass.

We sprung forward last weekend! So for those keeping track at home, until you guys fall back an hour on November 2, I'm now 15 hours ahead of the East and 18 ahead of the West. Those in the middle, you can figure it out on your own.

Or don't worry about the time difference and just come visit! Qantas is currently having a special to Australia, which you can view here. $881 roundtrip from LA, $1,081 roundtrip from New York. Granted the travel must be between October 20 and November 27, but those are honestly the best prices I've ever seen. Get on it!

The John Higgins baseball playoff preview

As I do all too often, I wrote most of this post a few days ago and then sat on it. If I were write it from scratch today, it would probably read a bit different. But that of course isn't going to happen, so please note that some of these thoughts are slightly dated and perhaps irrelevant. You'll deal with it.

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Watching one of the first games of the Cubs-Diamondbacks NLDS match-up last year, I noticed with absolute bewilderment that the D-backs had given all of their fans white pom-poms to wave around like a bunch of idiots. At a baseball game. Naturally, this enraged me. In fact, it got me so worked up that I decided to write a team-by-team preview for the playoffs.

This year, the Tampa Bay (Devil) Rays have made the playoffs for the first time in their very non-illustrious history. This history has been so un-illustrious, in fact, that they'd been hemming and hawing for the last few weeks of the season on who would throw out the first pitch for Game 1 of their ALDS match-up against the White Sox. Finally last week, the Rays announced that John Higgins, their very first employee, would have these honors. This didn't enrage me. But I found it to be ridiculously random; Higgins will forever be the answer to a trivia question in the greater Tampa Bay area. And this intrigues me. In fact, it has intrigued me so much that, yes, it's worked me into enough of a tizzy that I'm going to bust out a team-by-team preview -- or probably more accurately, just a random group of my thoughts on each team -- for this year's playoffs.

So here we go, in some sort of particular order:

Chicago White Sox
Who cares. Really. The only reason I'd ever watch this team is on the chance that someone will hit a home run and I'll get to hear their TV announcer's home run call. Seriously. That alone is worth the price of admission. But as for their prospects in the playoffs? Who really cares? After taking a bit of a hiatus after their World Series victory in 1919, they won three years ago, so they've already cashed in their sympathy support. This year, they've limped in as their own manager berated every player on the team in some sort of a misguided attempt to motivate them. Is there even any kind of a compelling story on the team? With the possible exception of Alexei Ramirez? Who cares.

Milwaukee Brewers
Considering how little I really care about this team, I kinda like them. And you gots to love the CC Sabathia. Although you have to wonder about how he's going to pitch next year after throwing 241 innings last year and 253 innings AND COUNTING this year. He is a man, a man's man, a Steve McQueen's man, but after all those innings, I absolutely would not want my team to be signing him this off-season for however many years and at whatever ridiculous salary he's going to demand. Anyway. Like I said, I kinda like this team. But what other pitchers do they have? No one. So they shouldn't win. And they won't win.

Tampa Bay Rays
I really didn't think this team was going to hold onto the AL East lead throughout the year. Not in May, not in June, not in July, and especially not through the grind of August and September. Where's the experience, the proven grit, the knowledge to know how keep at it for 162 games? But somehow, they did it. And I'm convinced. They're absolutely, positively legitimate, with a solid core of players throughout the roster. No absolute game breakers -- and it's this absence that I think has most people befuddled at their success -- but just a solid core of players from top to bottom. Batting, fielding, starting pitching, bullpen. They could go deep.

Philadelphia Phillies
I'm not going to reread what I wrote about the Phillies in this preview last year, because I'm probably about to write the same thing again. And I'm going to keep on writing it every year until they do what's absolutely necessary: they need to win. They must win. Not for the team. For the city. Hell, with all the angst and anger that seeps out of that city and contaminates everything within a 300 mile radius, they need to win for the freaking nation. Does it need to be the Phillies? No. Could be the Sixers. Or the Eagles. And maybe -- just maybe -- even the Flyers. But someone's got to do it. Because if these teams keep on losing, one of these days, after another early exit from the playoffs, that city is just going to implode. If and when you start to see hints of this, and you live anywhere on the Eastern seaboard, run. Just run.

Los Angeles Angels
Hey, isn't it crazy that both teams from LA and Chicago are in these playoffs? And neither team from New York is? I love that. What I don't love are the Angels. Well, I do love them. But I don't. I love Mike Scioscia, I love Mickey Hatcher, I love how Art Moreno runs the team, I love that they're (kinda sorta not really) in the city that I grew up in. But the team as a collective? I don't love them. It's the basically the same team that we've seen since 2002. And it's become boring. They've worn off on me. Whatever.

Chicago Cubs
I'll be honest. I'd be very happy to see one of four teams in this year's playoffs win the World Series. That's right: four, or half the teams in there. We've already discussed the Phillies. We're about to get to two of the other teams. And then there are the Cubs. For they too need to win. And soon. Not necessarily for their city, but for their fans. Need I say anything about their history? Nah, I think I'll leave that for the five bajillion sportswriters out there. Instead, I'll just wish them well.

Los Angeles Dodgers & Boston Red Sox
This is where it gets fun and complicated and intense and shitty and thrilling and frightening. I'll be the first to admit it: very slowly during the 90s and into this decade,* I became a baseball bigamist. And I love and hate myself for it. The Dodgers were the team of my youth. Mike Scioscia. Steve Sax. Orel Hershiser. Jay Howell. Mickey Hatcher. Alfredo Griffen! Fernando Valenzuela. Kirk Gibson. Ron Perranoski!!! My first vivid baseball memory is when my Dad surprised me one October afternoon in 1988 by showing up early at my after school daycare with tickets to one of the NLCS games between the Dodgers and Mets. It was awesome. A few weeks later there was Kirk Gibson limping and seemingly flicking his wrists, Tommy Lasorda wildly flailing his arms, Vin Scully not believing what he just saw, and a World Series victory. That was it. Dodgers -- and absolute playoff futility since then -- for life.

*I absolutely love that we still don't have a name for this decade. It's strange, if you think about it. Names for all the others come so naturally and obviously, but in this decade, no matter what century it may fall in, we have no name for it. And as far as I can tell no one has made a concerted effort to come up with one and make it stick. So it's just some decade. But once we hit 2010, won't we need a name so that we can refer to it? Or are we just going to call it "last decade"? But then what about in 2020? "Two decades ago"? There has to be a name at some point. My favorite is "the naughties". But I'm thinking that's just a little too punny for most people's tastes.

But then, there were long summers on Martha's Vineyard. Red Sox Nation. Endless Red Sox paraphernalia, Red Sox coverage on the local news, Red Sox talk among the locals. And they grew on me. Not in any one moment or any one summer, but slowly, over the course of the 90s, they grew on me. Enter the summer of 2001. I lived in Boston. And that slow growth bloomed into full fandom; I was sucked in. Who's going to buy the Sox? Are they going to tear down Fenway and build a new one? And what the hell is wrong with Dan Duquette? Enter October 2003. I'm in a packed bar in New York, surrounded by Yankees fans. Grady doesn't pull Pedro. Aaron Boone pulls a Bucky Dent. Enter October 2004. Papi. World Series. Happiness.

I've set myself up for disaster. Because I pray that the Dodgers make the World Series. And I pray the Red Sox make the World Series. Yet I pray above all else that the Dodgers and Red Sox don't meet in the World Series. It's a curse, but it's 100% self-inflicted, I know this. So I go into these playoffs hoping for the best for both teams, as long as it really only pans out for one of them.

In this space last year, I didn't make predictions for the playoffs. Shortly after that post, however, I made some calls to a friend in an email, and actually correctly picked the winner of each of the seven series that are played. Seven for seven. This year? I'd love to make some picks here. But I can't. I just can't. It's gutless, I know. But please rest assured knowing that the closer the Dodgers and Red Sox get to the World Series, I'll be ripping my eyes out every step of the way.

Throwin' some Return of the Kleinballs

It's Return of the Kleinballs! Back from a 78-day hiatus! Who's excited?

Went to my first Rugby League match on Friday, a semi final between the Melbourne Storm and Cronulla Sharks. As reigning champions and owners of the best regular season record, the Storm are pretty darned good. However, they hadn't played up to their standard so far in the playoffs and were without one of their best players (he's been suspended from the remainder of the playoffs for committing a dangerous tackle in a previous game), so the match was shaping up to be a good one. I ended up sitting in a section full of Sharks fans, as one of the friends who I went with is a big fan. This made for a lively and fun atmosphere... until the Storm began to disassemble the Sharks. Demolish them. Pulverize them. Shellack them. Embarrass them. 28 to freaking 0. Not pretty. In fact, so not pretty that by the end, Sharks fans were getting into fights with each other. I've never heard so many f-bombs in all my life.

Saturday was a beautiful day, so a group of us decided to capitalize and headed off to the races, literally a three minute walk from my new apartment. It truly was a gorgeous day. With the obvious exception, of course, of me losing money. Again. I've been to the races many times in my life, and never have I left the track being up on the day. I've won a few wagers here and there, but to leave with more money than I started with? Never. Still, it was fun.

Went to a German restaurant that night with an American friend. Drunkenly demolished a schnitzel. That was good.

Saw Snakes on a Plane for the first time last week. We all know what we're getting with Snakes on a Plane, right? A stupid but fun movie, right? Well, yes and no. Because although the movie was in the vein of what I expected, it exceeded my expectations in every imaginable way. Maybe the best, campy movie I've ever seen. Seriously. I was enthralled, from beginning to end. So if you want mindless entertainment that you can laugh at and unabashadly enjoy, I implore you to go watch Snakes on a Plane. That famed Sammy Jackson line probably doesn't even crack the Top 20 of best moments, if that says anything.

Pumped for baseball playoffs starting tomorrow morning my time! Let the Internet scoreboard stalking commence! Think I'll try to do a bit of a write-up of thoughts and predictions later this week... I'm sure you can't wait!

The below video is just cool. It gets very interesting about 15 seconds in.



A happy new year to all my Jewish brothers and sisters! I celebrated by, uhhhh, yeah, well, ummmmm, there aren't many Jews in Sydney.