Observations from Game 1

Today was one of the more miserable days of work in recent memory, mostly because I woke up without a voice, and without the drive to do much of anything, after attending the Celtics 95-90 loss to the Magic in Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Semi-Finals last night.

The game itself was a thriller, with the Celts rallying back from a 28-point deficit to come within three points of Dwight’s (only 16 pts, 22 reb) (Only?) (Yeah, we’ll go with that.) Magic in the closing minutes. It was such a remarkable comeback / epic collapse that it’s tough to say which team walked away the winner in this one. The Magic just took away home court advantage (in theory) and are up a game over the defending champs, but at the same time the Celtics just proved to themselves and everyone else that they are a force to be reckoned with and can overcome even the most seemingly insurmountable odds.

That said, here’s a list of observations from my Game 1 experience, in no particular order.

1) My buddy Cunn is not to be left alone while intoxicated. He accompanied me to the game last night and we met up beforehand at (the legendary) Halftime Pizza to slug back some brews and grab dinner. He, being Cunn, had taken the train into the city to meet me, and had downed a glass of Jim Beam before boarding the train and an additional apple juice bottle full of Jim on his way in. Needless to say, by the time he had downed two of Halftime’s 32-ounce, $7.50, personal pitchers of goodness, he was hammered.

Now… before I continue with this story, I feel obligated to tell you another one. Last year, I went to the Celtics season opener against the Wizards with Cunn. I was in school at the time in Vermont. Cunn was in school in Mass. It was a Friday night, and I had an exam that morning, so we agreed that I’d drive down after my exam, meet at my parent’s house, and take the train in to the city for the game.

My piece of shit car broke down on the way down from Vermont though. Luckily, it was a minor problem that I paid a mechanic extra in order to fix so I could make the game. I called Cunn up and told him I’d meet him in the city, outside the garden instead.

So, I get down there 10 minutes before tip off, have to park in the Fanuel Hall parking Garage cause there’s no parking anywhere near the Garden, sprint over to the Garden thinking, “Shit, I’m gonna miss KG’s intro,” and what do I see? Cunn standing outside the Garden, visibly sloshed, hitting on a homeless girl with dreads.

The ensuing conversation went like this:

Me: “What the fuck are you doing?”

Cunn: “A-what?”

Me: “Do you know what time it is? We’re gonna miss tip-off.”

Cunn: “I was talkin’.”

Me: “To a homeless girl! What the hell were you talking about? WHY were you talking to her?” What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Cunn: “I don’t know how I got into that situation, but I couldn’t get out.”

And there you have it.

Last night, though, the legend of Cunn grew tenfold. After I finished my last beers at Halftime, Cunn was struggling with the final sips of his. I needed some wings before the game, so in the interest of time, I decided that I would go over to 7/11 while he finished his beer and grab a Red Bull, and told him to meet me on the corner outside of Halftime in 5.

Cunn was opposed to this idea. “You can’t leave me by myself,” he said, explaining he was basically at the point where he needed a chaperone. Naturally, I told him to stop being a pussy and deal.

So I go to 7/11, get my caffeine fix, walk out, and there’s Cunn, standing on the corner with a confused look on his face, talking to some homeless guy. I could tell by the look on his face that this was a conversation he clearly wanted no part of, so I quickly walked over, tapped him on the back and said, “All right man, let’s go, we’re gonna miss the intros.”

Without saying anything Cunn turns and starts to walk away with me, but the homeless guy starts yelling something, barely intelligible, that I believe was, “Hey, man, no man, hold on man, my brother, Ha Ha, my brother.”

He comes up to Cunn, and hugs him. The homeless guy hugged Cunn in the middle of a crowd of people on Causeway Street before a Celts game. HE HUGGED HIM. WHAT THE FUCK.

Me: “Why did that guy just hug you?”

Cunn: (Petrified) “I have no idea.”

Me: “What were you even talking about?”

Cunn: “I have no fucking clue.”

Me: “How do you not know.”

Cunn: “I don’t… know”

Me: “How did you even start talking to him? How did you suddenly find yourself in that situation?”

Cunn: (Laughing like an idiot at this point) “I… don’t… know”

Me: “So you walk out of halftime, and next thing you know some homeless guy is hugging you.”

Cunn: “Yes… I told you, I can’t be left alone.”

The Big T(r)icket

Just a real quick scenario that popped into my head this morning....

KG is coming back at some point in these playoffs.

(Rocky intro starts playing in my head.... picture of KG doing the Paul Pierce Memorial hop out of the locker room.... the crowd starts going nuts as he triumphantly raises one finger above his head and Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight" starts playing over the PA system.... the opposing team's players slowly hang their heads in defeat as they realize the whole injury was nothing more than an elaborate publicity stunt conceived of by David Stern, who forced the unwilling threesome of Garnett, Ainge and Rivers to play along, the dishonesty eventually conflicting with Danny Ainge's core Mormon beliefs and leading to so much stress and worrying that it caused a mild heart attack)

(This is the way my brain works)

Fantasy Football Hell

You know that place where you second and third-guess every decision you make? Where you over-analyze the smallest of details and as a result go against your gut instincts?

You know that place where you're banging your head against the wall because you started Willie Parker over Michael Turner in a must-win week 12 fantasy match-up and now you're stuck screaming at the TV during the Colts-Chargers game because Joseph Addai is you're only hope at overcoming a 35-point deficit.

Yeah... that's where I am right now.

Two things about this NFL season:

1. I'm going to assassinate Dominic Rhodes, who got every significant crunch time carry for the Colts, and allowed Joe Addai to slowly kill my fantasy team like an NFL version of the AIDS virus. I'm not sure when Dungy lost faith in Jigga Joe, but it screwed over two of my fantasy teams this year and...

2. How can you not love the Falcons right now, even after the playoff loss. This is just a great young team that has been able to reinvent itself with Matt Ryan, Michael Turner and Roddy White, and really leave the Michael Vick era behind. With a physical D and the uncanny ability to hang with almost any opponent, they're just captivating to watch. I say these guys come back big in 2009. I mean, didn't you see that drive in the fourth quarter where Matty Ice literally willed the team down the field. Forget the two picks, there was bound to be mistakes due to inexperience, what's good is that he still threw the ball with confidence even after some mis-steps. Kid's going to be great.

What I really want to talk about though, is fantasy football hell.

There is no other game, sport or recreational activity on the planet that causes the same amount of stress as does Fantasy Football - the #1 cause of heart attacks in American males age 16-30.

Why? Well it's simple really: it takes no knowledge of the actual sport of football to be able to play fantasy football.

Take for example a girl in one of my fantasy leagues. For the purposes of this column, we'll call her Laura Anacone. Last season, the inaugural season for this particular league, Laura decided to draft LT with the second overall pick in our draft. Very respectable, except for the fact that the LT she drafted was Lawrence Taylor.

"I'll take Lawrence Taylor," she said, and then managed to somehow not come in last and beat out real football fans, who watch football, in the playoffs.

I don't care that Donovan McNabb doesn't know games can end in a tie - well, I do, but what I care more about is the fact that the kid in my 12-team league's championship game drafted Ricky Williams in the fourth round of our draft this year when Michael Turner, Ronnie Brown, Chris Johnson, Matt Forte, LenDale White, Darren McFadden, and Jonathan Stewart were all still on the board.

All this individual did was read Matt Berry, ESPN's Talented Mr. Roto, religiously each week and do his darndest to follow every recommendation Berry made. Through that, and sheer luck (he scored the second fewest total points over the course of the regular season in a 12 team league and somehow managed an 8-5 record because he caught teams on shit weeks), he made it to the championship game.

FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is the kind of shit that makes real football fans - the kind that saw the potential in Michael "the Burner" Turner from watching him back up LT (no, not Lawrence Taylor, Laura) and grabbed him just at the right spot in round 5, the kind who waited an extra round for Larry Fitz instead of pulling the trigger on Anquan Boldin because they knew Boldin's only played a full 16 games twice in a six year career - it makes those fans nuts.

Just nuts enough to do it all over again next season.

One Ranchero at a Time...

Throughout the annals of history, the weak and vulnerable have been endlessly exploited by those in positions of power - in short "the man" has been sticking it to the little guy for years.

With that said, allow me to tell you an inspiring tale of one young man who is turning the tables, sticking it right back to the man; a modern day Robin Hood.

See, my good friend Cunn has recently decided to strike back at the corporate powers that oppress him. Cunn is a student at one of the many state and community colleges in the great and glorious Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He is currently living at home and commuting to classes each day, and as such has been forced to purchase a parking pass for the school's lots at the completely unreasonable price of $146 per semester.

Cunn is clearly not happy about this, and is even less so due to the fact that, and I quote, - "I have to drive around the pahkin' lot for a fuckin' half hour every mornin' to find a god damn space."

"I literally have to stalk people while they're walking to their cars and steal their spaces," he says.

So, last week, Cunn informed me that he's had enough - and he's striking back.

How you ask?

Ranchero style.

Cunn has been stealing Ranchero sandwiches from the school's cafeteria during lunch. And he plans on doing so until he's stolen, that's right, $146 worth of Ranchero's - just enough to make up for his parking permit.

According to him, the caf is set up like a one way street, in the entrance and then out near the registers at a separate exit. The drinks, however, are positioned right at the entrance, so Cunn, each day after grabbing his Ranchero, pretends like he forgot to grab a drink and doubles back toward the entrance. He checks to make sure the coast is clear, snags a coke, and walks right back out the way he came in.

Cunn, taking down the man... One Ranchero at a time.