Today we introduce a new writer to The Nickel-Dimer, my friend Mitch. Mitch(not his real name, but his real nickname) has decided to descend further into anonymity and be known only as "Cadillac." In his inaugural post Caddy makes 92% of all married sports fans want to punch him directly in the yarvels.
Cadillac:
For a sports fan, getting married is kind of like waiting on the results of your STD exam. You know your day of reckoning is coming, and the results could go either way…but no matter what happens, your course for the future unavoidably hangs in the balance.
What if she pitches a fit when I want to watch the game? This could lead to a divisive force in the marriage – a Twilight Zone of sorts where consequences exist if you trod in at 11pm after the conclusion of MNF. For these people, the thought of marriage is nearly the same as heading to the Health Department a few days after hooking up with that pale chick who always comes down with the flu.
In my marriage, though, metaphors need not apply – I am indelibly entitled to unlimited sports programming…wife in tow.
I consider myself a “married sports fan anomaly,” and it’s not something I take lightly. The delicate balance of TV programming for the wife and I usually exhibits no give-and-take. I flip to ESPN, she props up her feet, and starts making observations:
“Brady looks a little hesitant in the pocket so far,” my wife cooed during Kickoff weekend, basically sending me into a sports-gasm.
Without giving her the slightest acknowledgement, I followed with “It’s his first game back from major knee surgery, cut him some slack.”
“I just think he’s a prima donna,” she quipped, displaying her full awareness of sports’ current events.
Yes, it’s just like that. And on a regular basis.
Let me cut you off before you say “That’s weird…and butch.” No, my wife isn’t an overbearing sports nut who throws out stats ad nauseam, but she does hang in there when exposed. She has managed to meld into my group of friends, who are nothing short of sports xenophobes, and hold her own on more than one occasion. I’ve watched my fair share of “Jon & Kate Plus 8,” but never at the expense of an important sports game. This carries over into more than just TV programming, as she is a diehard St. Louis Cardinals fan, and is as excited as her husband to pay the yearly homage to Busch Stadium.
The thing that I find appealing is her visceral attentiveness to the happenings in the world of sports, not just her “favorite teams.” It’s almost as if she reads the ESPN sports crawler out of habit than out of necessity.
Am I tired of bragging on my wife for being so damned cool? Yes. The existence of this very blog will go unbeknownst to her, for obvious reasons. For a sports fan such as I, I would dare not test such a beneficial and personally rewarding concept.
Would I have married this woman had she yielded a different approach? Perhaps. But I very rarely deal in uncertainties.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Hey, Hello There, It's Been Awhile
Sorry about my prolonged absence, dedicated TND fans. It must have been hard, but somehow you've managed to get by without me.
Busy time here recently at The Nickel Dimer Estate--your Mann broke his arm in a freak bike riding accident, we caught up with the Scuzzo Man in Stillwater, OK(more on that later), and the Gige and I have been busy planning a trip across the pond.
We've got a record setting week planned as we shoot for five updates, just like the big boy blogs do. Stay tuned as we discuss the greatness of Albert Pujols, introduce the world to the nefarious Scuzzo Man, recap a wild three weeks of college football, and more.
Plus, as a bonus, we might be graced with another TND first--a guest poster, Mitch, who will no doubt wax sophomoric and regale you with his catchphrase, "boner time."
Hey, I told you there'd be dick jokes.
Busy time here recently at The Nickel Dimer Estate--your Mann broke his arm in a freak bike riding accident, we caught up with the Scuzzo Man in Stillwater, OK(more on that later), and the Gige and I have been busy planning a trip across the pond.
We've got a record setting week planned as we shoot for five updates, just like the big boy blogs do. Stay tuned as we discuss the greatness of Albert Pujols, introduce the world to the nefarious Scuzzo Man, recap a wild three weeks of college football, and more.
Plus, as a bonus, we might be graced with another TND first--a guest poster, Mitch, who will no doubt wax sophomoric and regale you with his catchphrase, "boner time."
Hey, I told you there'd be dick jokes.
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Moustache Follies
For those unaware, we here at TN-D are, for the most part, a bearded lot, and have been for the past several years. The beard was a part of me, providing comfort, protection from the elements, as well as a rugged handsomeness that sends the hearts of women aflutter.
That all changed last night.
The lip sweater has been making a comeback in both sports and popular culture. Brad Pitt has been seen sporting one. The St. Louis Cardinals pitching staff(along with select position players) donned them to break out of some mid-season doldrums. Not surprisingly, by the power of the moustache the Redbirds are now leading their division. Several years ago Jason Giambi used the help of a nose neighbor to help him bust out of a slump(although, it seems Giambi will do just about anything to hit a baseball).
With the Cardinals and 2-3 pints of beer as my guide I crafted a plan to help propel my recreational league softball team, The Jackpots, to our first league championship. The plan was simple: moustaches. We would all adorn our visages with the push-brooms of yesteryear. The plan was infallible, and we had two full weeks to grow them.
My ladyfriend, The Gige(pronouced "Jeeej") expressed concern over the power the 'stache might have on me. We both knew that women would throw themselves at me, that men would regard me as their natural leader. I explained to her that she knew the deal when she got mixed up with a part-time recreational league softball player and occasional upper lip facial hair enthusiast.
So last night, just before our scheduled 9:30 p.m. start, I put razor to skin and crafted the finest flaxxen flavor saver this side of Alan Jackson. I was prepared for battle.
As fate would have it, I was the only one. My moustachioed comrades fell one by one, each having his own excuse to stand down in the face of excellence("my boss won't let me," "those things look pervy," "I'm a girl...this is a coed team"). I remained unfettered--I would carry the whisker banner for us all.
In the end, The 'Pots got crushed, and the 'stache will fade into softball-league bolivion. My lip pelt did have its moment in the sun, however. In the top of the second inning I attempted to score from second on a single, and as the throw beat me to the plate it appeared there would be a collision with the pitcher who was covering home. I lowered my shoulder and braced for impact, hoping to disrupt the play...only I felt nothing. One can only presume that the pitcher was thrown onto his backside by the sheer awesomeness of my mouth brow. An MVP moment for my 'stache, for sure.
That all changed last night.
The lip sweater has been making a comeback in both sports and popular culture. Brad Pitt has been seen sporting one. The St. Louis Cardinals pitching staff(along with select position players) donned them to break out of some mid-season doldrums. Not surprisingly, by the power of the moustache the Redbirds are now leading their division. Several years ago Jason Giambi used the help of a nose neighbor to help him bust out of a slump(although, it seems Giambi will do just about anything to hit a baseball).
With the Cardinals and 2-3 pints of beer as my guide I crafted a plan to help propel my recreational league softball team, The Jackpots, to our first league championship. The plan was simple: moustaches. We would all adorn our visages with the push-brooms of yesteryear. The plan was infallible, and we had two full weeks to grow them.
My ladyfriend, The Gige(pronouced "Jeeej") expressed concern over the power the 'stache might have on me. We both knew that women would throw themselves at me, that men would regard me as their natural leader. I explained to her that she knew the deal when she got mixed up with a part-time recreational league softball player and occasional upper lip facial hair enthusiast.
So last night, just before our scheduled 9:30 p.m. start, I put razor to skin and crafted the finest flaxxen flavor saver this side of Alan Jackson. I was prepared for battle.
As fate would have it, I was the only one. My moustachioed comrades fell one by one, each having his own excuse to stand down in the face of excellence("my boss won't let me," "those things look pervy," "I'm a girl...this is a coed team"). I remained unfettered--I would carry the whisker banner for us all.
In the end, The 'Pots got crushed, and the 'stache will fade into softball-league bolivion. My lip pelt did have its moment in the sun, however. In the top of the second inning I attempted to score from second on a single, and as the throw beat me to the plate it appeared there would be a collision with the pitcher who was covering home. I lowered my shoulder and braced for impact, hoping to disrupt the play...only I felt nothing. One can only presume that the pitcher was thrown onto his backside by the sheer awesomeness of my mouth brow. An MVP moment for my 'stache, for sure.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Matt Holliday, Crusher of Baseballs, Dreams
Matt Holliday hates my friend Kiloh.
Well, hate is probably too strong of a word. But he has, throughout Kiloh's life, terrorized him.
Matt and Kiloh grew up in the backyard of Oklahoma State University together. They went to the same school, were in the same grade. And long before Holliday made his debut with the Colorado Rockies he and Kiloh tangled in the Stillwater, OK youth baseball league.
Well, tangled is probably too generous a word. Matt was, as one might expect, a phenomenal athlete. And like most talented young athletes Holliday was conscripted to pitch for his team.
Kiloh played outfield for the Reds, and was one of the few(if not the only) left-handed batters in the league. As is common with hard-throwing eight year olds, Matt Holliday's control was suspect but he had learned to harness it against right-handed batters. With Kiloh being left-handed, he quickly became the unwilling recipient of Holliday's wayward pitches anytime their teams clashed.
Kiloh quickly tired of taking leather to the kidneys, and after a season of pissing blood rather than excellence he quit baseball forever. He moved on to become a well-above average guitarist, an engineer, and an avid perceiver of slights(Kiloh can, in almost any situation, perceive that he has been in some way wronged)(it's unbelievable)(seriously, any situation)(even church).
Matt Holliday went on to be drafted by the Rockies right out of high school, leading them to their first ever National League Championship Series win and World Series berth. He's been a three time all-star, and was named the 2007 NLCS MVP.
Kiloh's kidneys eventually healed(although he still goes to the bathroom about every 25 minutes) and even came back to baseball, becoming a fan of the Chicago Cubs after taking in a game at Wrigley in 2004. It was a natural fit--over the years Cubs fans have believed themselves to have been slighted in many, many fashions. A goat, a black cat, Steve Bartman...all have been blamed for the Lovable Losers' woes. Kiloh believes the newest slight, however, to have been targeted directly at him.
On July 24th, 2009, Matt Holliday became a St. Louis Cardinal--the arch enemies of Kiloh's beloved Cubs. The Cubs were favored to win the National League Central Division coming into this season, and have flip-flopped with the Cardinals all season. Although he won't openly admit it, Kiloh fears that once again Matt Holliday will get the best of him.
And he's right. Since joining the Cards Holliday has hit .606 with 10 RBIs in 9 games. Of the 10 RBIs, 7 of them have either tied games or put the Cardinals ahead. With two months to go in the season it will be interesting to see just how damaging Holliday is to the Cubs postseason hopes.
A fastball to the kidneys might be less painful.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
And he shall be LeBron, and he shall be a petty man...
Look, I like LeBron James. I'm a fan of both LeBron the player and (what we know of) the person. He is a fierce, talented competitor, and comes across as genuine in interviews both on and off the court. King James has also done a masterful job at handling the hype that has surrounded him since he was in early high school. Heavy has hung the head of those crowned the next Jordan, and only LeBron (maybe Kobe to a lesser extent) has been able to withstand the pressure. He's generally handled his celebrity with aplomb, and should be commended for it.
But occasionally we're reminded that LJ is still a 24 year old, prone to all the brash outbursts of emotion that aren't uncommon to young men early in their careers. Our first glimpse was in the Eastern Conference finals when he stormed off the floor without shaking the hand of Dwight Howard, his USA Basketball Olympic teammate, or the rest of the Magic. We chalked that up to fire and intensity.
Then came the dunk. Word first trickled out into the blogosphere that James had been dunked on during a pickup session during his LeBron James Skills Academy that he hosts in Akron for the top highschool and college players in the country. My first thought: Who cares? People dunk, especially in pickup games where defense is lax.
Then we got a name: Jordan Crawford. I'm familiar with Jordan Crawford--because his brother, Joe, played four years for UK, I watched several of Jordan's games his freshman season at Indiana. He was solid(torched the boys in blue), but not what you might call a physical specimen. I was still not particularly impressed by the news of the dunk, but thought that it was a little interesting.
Finally, we learned there was no video. None. Well, video existed but it had been confiscated by Nike reps at the behest of the King. The dunk immediately became legendary. Sportscenter covered the story. FoxSports and CBS Sportsline both ran articles about it. Once news leaked that the video was taken the dunk became the nastiest thing outside of a Panama City Beach hot tub.
In my head(and yours too) this dunk was just absolutely sick. Two-handed-junk-in-face-get-a-good-look-son-mouth-0pen-spit-flying-embarrass-your-family-my-phallus-is-bigger-than-yours-sir dunk. Just absolutely badass. And everyone was dying to see it. Only LeBron had his feeligns hurt, and wouldn't let anyone see.
He got beat, took his ball and went home.
Only the world wouldn't let him. The story wouldn't die for almost three weeks. Crawford gave interviews. ESPN2 filled 8 hours of programming discussing it. And eventually it got big enough that James and Nike came off the footage.
When I got video in email I thought: I cannot wait to see this dunk. I clicked the link, excited for a basketball revolution.
Meh.
I saw what you saw. A fairly pedestrian dunk on a busted inbounds play. Crawford doesn't even appear to be LeBron's responsibility. LJ just gets there late.
And in trying to keep himself from being embarrassed publicly, James has made himself look petty and childish.
THAT was the dunk? That? Really? Nike and LJ would have been much better served to just let the sophomore from Xavier have his day. Given our current media landscape it would have been a story for about 8 hours. Now? The dunk is legendary for all the wrong reasons.
But occasionally we're reminded that LJ is still a 24 year old, prone to all the brash outbursts of emotion that aren't uncommon to young men early in their careers. Our first glimpse was in the Eastern Conference finals when he stormed off the floor without shaking the hand of Dwight Howard, his USA Basketball Olympic teammate, or the rest of the Magic. We chalked that up to fire and intensity.
Then came the dunk. Word first trickled out into the blogosphere that James had been dunked on during a pickup session during his LeBron James Skills Academy that he hosts in Akron for the top highschool and college players in the country. My first thought: Who cares? People dunk, especially in pickup games where defense is lax.
Then we got a name: Jordan Crawford. I'm familiar with Jordan Crawford--because his brother, Joe, played four years for UK, I watched several of Jordan's games his freshman season at Indiana. He was solid(torched the boys in blue), but not what you might call a physical specimen. I was still not particularly impressed by the news of the dunk, but thought that it was a little interesting.
Finally, we learned there was no video. None. Well, video existed but it had been confiscated by Nike reps at the behest of the King. The dunk immediately became legendary. Sportscenter covered the story. FoxSports and CBS Sportsline both ran articles about it. Once news leaked that the video was taken the dunk became the nastiest thing outside of a Panama City Beach hot tub.
In my head(and yours too) this dunk was just absolutely sick. Two-handed-junk-in-face-get-a-good-look-son-mouth-0pen-spit-flying-embarrass-your-family-my-phallus-is-bigger-than-yours-sir dunk. Just absolutely badass. And everyone was dying to see it. Only LeBron had his feeligns hurt, and wouldn't let anyone see.
He got beat, took his ball and went home.
Only the world wouldn't let him. The story wouldn't die for almost three weeks. Crawford gave interviews. ESPN2 filled 8 hours of programming discussing it. And eventually it got big enough that James and Nike came off the footage.
When I got video in email I thought: I cannot wait to see this dunk. I clicked the link, excited for a basketball revolution.
Meh.
I saw what you saw. A fairly pedestrian dunk on a busted inbounds play. Crawford doesn't even appear to be LeBron's responsibility. LJ just gets there late.
And in trying to keep himself from being embarrassed publicly, James has made himself look petty and childish.
THAT was the dunk? That? Really? Nike and LJ would have been much better served to just let the sophomore from Xavier have his day. Given our current media landscape it would have been a story for about 8 hours. Now? The dunk is legendary for all the wrong reasons.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
This One's For Pops
Nickel-Dimer [nik-uhl dahym-er]
-adjective
1. Basketball. Descriptor for an unwarranted foul. Popularized by college basketball broadcaster Bill Raftery.
2. General Vagrancy. Term used to denote an extremely attractive woman with an unattractive friend.
Before I begin I owe no small thanks to several folks who helped get this tiny, tiny blog off the ground. First off is my good friend Kiloh(not his actual name), who pushed me to find some way to do what I enjoy doing, which is writing. Thanks for the nudge in the right direction. Second is Drano(actual name) who, after four days of Vegas sleep and having watched 40 hours of basketball over a long weekend, openly remarked "look at the little nickel-dimer" as an attractive woman and her unattractive friend passed us on the casino floor at Planet Hollywood. This blog derives its name from that unplanned moment of genius(well, genius mixed with assholery), and for that I am grateful.
This inaugural post of TND, however, is dedicated to someone else...a man I never met.
I am a St. Louis Cardinal fan and Kentucky Wildcat fan by birthright--along with my brother, I am the third generation of fans on both my maternal and paternal side. Due to this lineage I have been able to see both of my favorite teams win Championships, something that I realize not every fan gets to experience. I am grateful for this rooting lineage, and thus the initial post is dedicated to my maternal grandfather, who passed away 6 years previous to my birth. A man I'm sure I would have called "Pops."
Pops was a die-hard fan of both my teams--he used to sit and keep score of UK basketball games while listening to Cawood Ledford on the radio, then keep the scorecard and review them year to year. Like me, he loved the statistics around the game as much as the game itself, which is presumably how he fell in love with baseball and the Cardinals. He was a man desperate for sons, and the fates gave him three daughters whom he adored.
Several years ago I came across a letter he had written to his mother during WWII. I was very surprised to learn that his writing voice and style was almost exactly like my own. Pops loved to entertain, and that is the ultimately the purpose of this blog--to entertain those who happen to stop by for a bit. That's what we're going to be about, and hopefully in the most ridiculously sophomoric way possibe. We'll hopefully have some friends stop by and lend their thoughts as well, and I'll try to keep the juvenile humor to a maximum.
So this one's for you, Pops. I hope the rest of the posts make you proud.
Sorry about the dick jokes.
-adjective
1. Basketball. Descriptor for an unwarranted foul. Popularized by college basketball broadcaster Bill Raftery.
2. General Vagrancy. Term used to denote an extremely attractive woman with an unattractive friend.
Before I begin I owe no small thanks to several folks who helped get this tiny, tiny blog off the ground. First off is my good friend Kiloh(not his actual name), who pushed me to find some way to do what I enjoy doing, which is writing. Thanks for the nudge in the right direction. Second is Drano(actual name) who, after four days of Vegas sleep and having watched 40 hours of basketball over a long weekend, openly remarked "look at the little nickel-dimer" as an attractive woman and her unattractive friend passed us on the casino floor at Planet Hollywood. This blog derives its name from that unplanned moment of genius(well, genius mixed with assholery), and for that I am grateful.
This inaugural post of TND, however, is dedicated to someone else...a man I never met.
I am a St. Louis Cardinal fan and Kentucky Wildcat fan by birthright--along with my brother, I am the third generation of fans on both my maternal and paternal side. Due to this lineage I have been able to see both of my favorite teams win Championships, something that I realize not every fan gets to experience. I am grateful for this rooting lineage, and thus the initial post is dedicated to my maternal grandfather, who passed away 6 years previous to my birth. A man I'm sure I would have called "Pops."
Pops was a die-hard fan of both my teams--he used to sit and keep score of UK basketball games while listening to Cawood Ledford on the radio, then keep the scorecard and review them year to year. Like me, he loved the statistics around the game as much as the game itself, which is presumably how he fell in love with baseball and the Cardinals. He was a man desperate for sons, and the fates gave him three daughters whom he adored.
Several years ago I came across a letter he had written to his mother during WWII. I was very surprised to learn that his writing voice and style was almost exactly like my own. Pops loved to entertain, and that is the ultimately the purpose of this blog--to entertain those who happen to stop by for a bit. That's what we're going to be about, and hopefully in the most ridiculously sophomoric way possibe. We'll hopefully have some friends stop by and lend their thoughts as well, and I'll try to keep the juvenile humor to a maximum.
So this one's for you, Pops. I hope the rest of the posts make you proud.
Sorry about the dick jokes.
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