Who Were The Four Asschunkers?

Recently... Mia Hamm was voted into the the U.S. National Soccer Hall of Fame along with fellow player Julie Foudy and builder Alan Rothenberg. As a prelude to my inevitable ramblings and rages which will make me seem like the biggest soccer fan this beautiful country could be blessed with, I'll admit that I was unaware of the existence of the Soccer Hall of Fame. I mean, I assumed there was one, and by assumed I meant that I never gave it a blade of thought, I just wasn't really surprised to hear that there was one. So hopefully you don't dwell heavily on that, I admitted it, lets all just be grown ups and move past that and onto the matter at hand.

Mia Hamm is no stranger to records, her 158 career international goals is the highest total by any female to ever play the game, and so it came as no shock to this sports "enthusiast" (why did I put the quotations over enthusiast? Not sure but I'll just leave 'em there) that she was inducted into the Hall on February 27th, 2007 with a record number of votes, 137 out of 141 possible votes, an unprecedented 97.16% (beating the previous record of 95.77%). My question is simply this. Who in hell were the four asschunkers that didn't vote for her?!? Are you serious? You sit on the board which elects Hall of Fame members for the sport of soccer in the United States, and you do not have enough sport knowledge, patriotism, or awareness of life itself to vote this woman in unanimously? I realize patriotism might be a stretch, but Ms. Hamm is, arguably (and its a damn good argument with few water leaks, and those leaks may only be there because the argument is too damn heavy for whatever the hell holds arguments. The argument bucket?)... where was I? Oh yeah. She is, arguably (see previous sentence), the best female soccer player to have ever played the game. I would even say she is one of the best, sex organs aside, to have ever played the game in the history of the sport. 158 goalies and 158 twine nets stressed by the immaculate strength of her shot can't be wrong. Immaculate? Thats right. I went there.

137 out of 141. Lets take a look at a few more of her credentials. We have discussed the 158 career international goals; there is the 1991 and 1999 World Cup victories; 1996 and 2004 Olympic Gold Medals; at 15, she was the youngest person (notice this doesn't specify just female) to ever be a member of the U.S. National Team (where she ended up playing 17 years); at age 19 she was the youngest player to win a World Cup; 4-time NCAA Champion (only 4 years of eligibility right? Right.); led the nation in scoring in '90, '92, and '93; graduated with an all-time record for most conference goals (103), assists (72), and points (278). There's more, but lets just stop there. The argument reservoir (the bucket just wasn't big enough) is already reaching critical levels.

137 out of 141. Mia Hamm accomplishes all that while starting her very own foundation (Mia Hamm Foundation) which raises funds for bone marrow research.

137 out of 141. I'm going to go ahead and tell myself to believe that the 4 muffgobblers in question were told not to vote for Mia, and apply some sort of reasoning to it (although its absurd that she didn't get 100%, as previously stated, so I can't guarantee the reasons will be any less absurd). It is possible that they were told to do so, for the simple fact that the perpetual bar could, in the future, always be raised, or so the universe wouldn't implode on itself or something... something to put my mind at ease dammit.

137 out of 141. That statistic is going to stick in my head for a while now. Thanks a lot you short-n'-curly-hair-gaggers. You are fully and solely responsible for any and all insane rants and rages I go on over the course of the next 24-48 hours and whatever deaths they may cause. Think about THAT. Sleep well, and with one eye open. Or I'll Mel Gibson your ass (think Braveheart... the scene with the mace and the horse.) There are 4 of you that need to sleep lightly. There were also 4 "lords" in Braveheart that had their asses handed to them if my memory serves me correctly. I'm not saying coincidence but...

Ok Universe,.. You Win This Round.

An Explanation is Needed on This One...

I've come to the realization that the only reason they make statues to pay tribute to a great person is that the honoree probably had to put up with a lot of shit in their time, and whoever erected the statue needed something there to keep the birds busy, while tourists and locals could worry about something other than having to pack an extra hat for the day. They got shat on in life but still persevered, so its a safe bet they're going to persevere now. The fact that they're dead and unable to complain about the smell is irrelevant, isn't it?

More and more recently I have noticed that nice guys, and girls, finish last more often than they finish first. And even if its not a last place finish, they have definitely hit the wall and are trotting embarrassingly towards the finish line, with maintaining a shred of dignity their only motivation. More often than not they'll still have a smile on their face, or at the very least they won't be frowning.

"Well Colin, thats just life" some might say, to which I reply "ERRONEOUS!" And it really is.

These are the people that keep the world running smoothly, the type of person who will see the silver lining on the dark cloud, the type of person who tries to see the good and the bad in, under, around, and on everything, the bird shit as well as the statue. I cannot comprehend that these people sometimes end up being that statue.

Recently, the store that I work in, owned by a member of the "nice guy team", if not the damn captain, was closed for a good 5 weeks due to a fire that was started in another store two floors above. This guy-of-all-guys busted his ass for those 5 weeks to get the store back open. While I'm sure part of the reason he worked tirelessly to get the store back up and running was to generate the income he was so sorely lacking, thanks to the birds upstairs, I also believe that he wanted to get the store back on its feet so as to provide his customers with the shoes they need and his employees (students) the money they practically salivate for.

Greg is the type of person that you never, ever, want to disappoint, ever. Not just for the completely unselfish reason that you wouldn't want to disappoint HIM, but also for the narcissistic, egocentric reason that you wouldn't want to let YOURSELF down. I'm guessing it would feel like growing up in Boston in the 70's, but end up playing for the Lakers in the 80's. You let down people around you, die hard Celtics fans, but dammit all if you didn't let down yourself by donning the purple and gold. If there were a million more "Gregs" in the world, well there would be a million less assholes.

As I walked down the street and around the corner while on my way to work today I stopped, speechless, outside the store's front window. All the stock was gone, and a sign on the window read, simply, "Unfortunately we have had another fire." Apparently the idiot who owned the building didn't have his electrical sources fixed correctly since the last fire, and on Friday night one of the fuse boxes actually exploded, shooting a ball of flame up a stairwell and knocking out power to the entire block. This leaves Greg with another couple weeks of paperwork and working out an empty shell of a store trying to get special orders and unique requests filled for customers, all the while battling the strong, piercing stench of smoke which the fire ungraciously left in the store.

Yet another example of how life can teach you, no matter who YOU are, to never, ever, ever take anything for granted.

He'll pull through, I'm 97% sure that he will. As for the remaining 3%, well lets just say that I'm glad I'm a friend, and the chances of me staring down the business end of an AR-15, autoloading, centrefire rifle with his twitchy finger on the trigger are slim. But still, if I catch wind that he's on any kind of a warpath, I'll be the first to sign up for a 3 week fishing trip with George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg, perfect storm be damned.

The sea can be cruel, but I'd rather take my chances with her. As complex as women can be, there's something so simple about a man with a gun and a reason that is chilling, viciously chilling.

Seaman Colin reporting for duty. Where do I sign?

Kate Hudson Knows What I'm Talking About...

I'll be honest, I didn't expect to read what I did.

I had mixed feelings as I read each paragraph, and there were quite a few to read. The past two weeks have been a quick sprint down memory lane thanks to Facebook, a couple beers with Jenny M., and Tellie's recollection of Piccadilly Porch. I remember standing on that porch the day I moved out and thinking that I wasn't just stepping off the porch for the final time, I was taking my first steps in the direction of uncertainty. In that house, for that one whole year, everything had made sense. The good (jam sessions), the bad (jam sessions after too many drinks), and the ugly (Jim joining in on our jam sessions). It had been comfortable there, and before I could take those last two steps down off the porch and onto a sidewalk that would lead me to another stage of my existence, I had to realize that I was, for the time being, stepping outside of my comfort zone, which, I might add, had the thermostat set at 71 and a healthy portion of a case of beer still cold in the fridge. The Bleacher Life post was no different. An individual very comfortable in being himself stepped outside of that warm, safe, and well-stocked environment to convey that message, and that floored me.

I have to be completely honest and say that during the ceremony I didn't notice anyone being absent because, quite simply, I didn't notice anyone else except Emily and our reverend, John Lescard. I think that was his name. I had never met him before the rehearsal day, a concept that has just recently started to bother me. Here is a guy that books 4 weddings to perform in one day. He drives in, stands around and makes small talk with the groom so as to calm his nerves, or it could be out of complete boredom that he initiates conversation. He then waits for the bride to walk down the aisle, starts talking, and 17 minutes later he's out the door and off to the next wedding, driving with the top of his convertible down, at peace with the fact that he, if you extrapolate his earnings in 17 minutes, makes a shade over $700 an hour. Anyways, I'm on a tangent and will continue that thought in my next post. The point is, Em and John were the only two people I noticed during the time I was walking up the aisle with my mom, to the time when Em and I turned to face everyone, Reverend Guy-Off-The-Street announcing we were now officially married. I had two uncles, an aunt, and a cousin who got lost, missed the entire ceremony, ended up in Oakville and had a small chunk of the guests on my side a shade over "mildly concerned". If I was so oblivious to anything else other than the wedding ceremony that I didn't notice family missing, I definitely wasn't going to notice anyone else missing. So I hope he doesn't take that as an insult.

It was only when Emily turned to me, after we were back inside and ready to sit down to dinner and speeches, and brought to my attention "Brian didn't make it to the ceremony." We invited 140 people to our wedding and to the reception, and every person that confirmed that they were coming showed up, which is, so I've been told, almost unheard of. So the news that one person didn't show for the ceremony didn't affect me for long, I couldn't allow it to. Moments after Em had said this I was laughing at some joke, or listening intently to Kelly (our planner), with Emily's news long gone from my thoughts. Again, no insult meant, thats just how it has to be on that day. I thoroughly enjoyed my wedding day, but I definitely could've used a couple more hours in there in order to really, fully, and truly appreciate the day and how amazing Emily looked in her dress. It was over in a blur. I told myself before the day arrived that whatever happens, I was to relax and let things happen, to not get worked up about anything.

That split second, however, after Emily brought that to my attention, I felt my insides twinge. Its tough for me to describe... placing words in aesthetically pleasing arrangements is not my forte. I'm guessing its how each and every 6 foot plus Orangeman with size 15 feet felt today after learning an NCAA tournament would be played without the influence of a Syracuse presence. Perhaps it is akin to the feeling Phil Mickelson got each time he blew up on the back nine of many Majors (until he finally stopped the bleeding and cauterized his career with a Major victory). I will even go so far as to say that Kate Hudson would understand the feeling after someone else walked home with a shiny bald guy and a ripped envelope, with Kate's performance in "Almost Famous" judged NOT to be the best performance by a leading actress that year. If you ask me, and I'll display my common arrogant prickedness and assume you should ask me, it was the single most greatest performance of any actor I've seen. Throw Drew Barrymore or Scarlett Johannsen in there and the entire movie changes, and not for the better. I'll bet you most people don't even know who won that year, but they definitely know that Kate Hudson lost. Another tangent, I know. Anyhow, Kate Hudson, Phil Mickelson, and the entire Syracuse Orangemen 2006-2007 basketball team could possibly describe it better, so ask them.

After you've asked them and they've explained it, you probably wouldn't wish that feeling on anyone, and neither do I. What happened, well, it simply just happened. There is no going back to change it. A hard step was taken with that post, and I'll put my arrogant prickedness suit back on, 'cause it just fits so well, and assume that if I were to shrug off the apology and the years of friendship I would invoke the same feeling in the same person who was big enough to put those thoughts into words. I can't do that. I don't want to do that.

Apology accepted. Now, I don't want to hear another word about it. We paid good money for a photographer, well actually we didn't but someone else did, but the point is, good money was paid for a photographer and the reason he was there was to capture the day in as many pictures as he could take. So trust me when I say this, after going over the pictures and talking to Uncle Jack, it'll be like he was there. Hell, we'll even open up a laptop and photoshop him into a couple pictures to make it "official". Perhaps we'll replace the reverend's face with his, trading someone who I could've cared less whether he was there or not, with someone who I truly wanted to have there.

I'm finished school in a month. Something needs to be set up for late April.

Shamone!

A good friend of mine regularly sends me texts which mean absolutely nothing but, more often than not, leave me either with a smile on my face or an embarrassed look because I've just laughed out loud in a crowded store. I try to return the favour when I can and hope he experiences the same pick-me-up to his day as I do, although as a true friend I hope there are more embarrassing moments.

This morning I received a text and opened it... my usual interest in its contents aroused. There it was... the first word in the text.... Shamone. To get a full appreciation for this word I believe telling the story of its inception is appropriate, if not a necessity.

I recommend taking a cross country trip on a Greyhound once. Thats it... just once. As in, one way. Fly home. I guarantee you will see things you always wanted to and some things you wish you never had. A certain butch looking transvestite and his very diminutive, very senior cowboy escort come to mind. That, however, is a campfire story.

There were two of us and we wanted to travel to California and do some serious bouldering, and Bishop, being the bouldering mecca of the US, was the destination. Our usual day consisted of waking up at 6am, it was just too hot to sleep any later than that, and pack our gear for a good solid morning of climbing. We were usually on Highway 395 by 6:30am with a pack filled with 5 or 6 bottles of water; a crashpad (that doubled as a sail on windy days); and a first aid kit. It was approximately a 3 mile hike up into the desert to our climbing spot. After about 4 or 5 hours of ripping the skin off our fingers, sitting naked on rocks, and dodging rattlesnakes, it was then time to head back to the camp and get showered up before grabbing a well deserved bite to eat. From the campground to the edge of town was about a mile hike down Highway 6. One particular day I was really really really hungry. Like the wolf. I really wanted to get moving but Bri seemed content to relax. I don't blame him... we'd been climbing for a few straight days now and killing ourselves doing it. Then it happened. I don't know where it came from or what made me combine the words "come" and "on" in the way that I did, but SHAMONE was the command that Bri got. I'm not sure why his reaction was as such, but I distinctly remember him losing it. Laughing that is. It was the word of the trip and, if my memory serves me correctly, that camp season too!

I love that word. Its one of the things I'm proud of. Seriously. Is that weird? I don't think so... it is what it is.

Here's to a great word.... SHAMONE!

I Need a Beer.

I really do. So I guess I'll get one.

One More Strand of Gristle Goes Pop... and Voila! You're a Pedestrian.

Well, nothing popped... this time. But an old injury came back into the mix when I tried to go snowboarding a week ago. Frustrating doesn't describe it, seeing as how I now have to sell all my snowboarding stuff.

I had a chronic condition due to overtraining about 7 or 8 years ago called compartment syndrome. It basically involves a buildup of pressure in one of the bodies muscle compartments. In my case it was the lateral compartment of the lower leg, and I had the surgery to correct it for good. Or so I thought.

Last year while snowboarding (and even a little bit while climbing) I experienced the symptoms but not to the degree that I did before the surgery. Basically, the symptoms involve intense pain on the lateral side of my leg just above my ankle; a small herniation which you can see and push on; red, shiny skin; and my feet go numb. Fun stuff.

Last week I tried snowboarding but the pressure of the boots on my feet, especially my right foot which is permanently attached to my board, brought back the original symptoms. I couldn't even do one run. Had to slide down most of the hill on my ass while holding my board. By the time I got back to the car my feet were completely numb.

Connective tissue. Thats what gets us all in the end. But I'll be damned if it gets me now.

Hell, I've strained muscles, sprained ligaments, broken bones, had surgery just to be able to run, but nothing would ever deter me from doing the things I love. If you wanna focus on specifics, then yes, you could argue that these recent events will keep me from snowboarding for the rest of my life, unless I go under the knife again. You know what? I've been sliced open just so I could go for a run again. Oh, and the condition was so bad originally, that I couldn't walk up a hill or walk in snow without being in agony, but that is beside the point. I did it all for that feeling you get when you're zipping along a trail during the summer or an empty sidewalk at night, the feeling you get after an 18 miler... when the rest of the day is spent bumping into random items (basically being Tellified) because you can't control small movements, the feeling you get after a workout where you have figuratively and literally kicked the shit out of yourself.

So far it has only affected my snowboarding. I'll admit... its hard when your head and your heart are into an activity, and your body, maddeningly out of your control (although it should be in your control... there's the next evolution), says no. If it continues and affects other activities like climbing or, God forbid, running... well... I'll be doing a lot of research on the success rates of second procedures. Here's hoping it doesn't come to that.