City of Brotherly Hate
"Eagles over New England. Revenge is mine saith The Large." - Large
I really believed. I thought we had Miami/Bears on our hands, and that the unlikely Marino stand-in was a ballsy backup by the name of A.J. (Soprano) Feeley. Right down to that godforsaken interception in the end zone, the sight of which entered my ribcage like a cold steel blade, I believed that the Iggles were going to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of their sullen mediocrity and enter the annals of permanent highlight posterity with a single heroic effort. How often do you see references back to that Miami/Bears Monday Night game in '85? Marino to Moore! Marino to Duper! Marino to Clayton! How can this be happening? Every season, as soon as someone goes 3-0, they trot that thing out for a nice little V/O package in the pre-game. Now, I thought, we've joined the club, and no matter what happens, we ruined these smug bastards' shot at immortality and they'll remember this game for the rest of their perfect, Super Bowl ring-laden, supermodel-banging lives.
No Masians, I harbor hate in my heart. I am not the cheeriest of lads in the first place, but last night, I felt murderous. I felt like if I suddenly found myself in the presence of Herr Brady or that twinkle-toed dwarf Wes Welker, if either of them happened to stop by my place after the game for a little late-night hang, well, shit would very quickly turn all Saw II. I would smile in their faces and ply them with liquor and carbohydrate-rich snacks and then make for the kitchen knives and then when they started to pass out from all the heavy pastries and the mickey I'd slipped them in their whiskey I'd stab the shit out of them right there on the rug and then make a martini with their readily flowing blood and drink it in front of them while their pleas for human mercy filled the air and sounded to me like sweet music, like a gentle wind, like the laughter of innocent children playing tag in the sunshine by a burbling meadow brook.
I've often said here on No Mas that one way that you know an athlete is truly great is when you've rooted against him and hated him so damn much you could hardly stand it. Roger Staubach and Tony Dorsett, Steve Garvey, McHale, Bird and Ainge, Paul Molitor and Joe Carter... these are the V.I.P. members of that elite club of assholes that at one time or another I have fantasized about killing and thus have no choice but to bitterly acknowledge their undisputed greatness. Terrible Tom Brady already was knocking on the door of that club before last night - today he is a full-fledged member in good standing.
I really believed. I thought we had Miami/Bears on our hands, and that the unlikely Marino stand-in was a ballsy backup by the name of A.J. (Soprano) Feeley. Right down to that godforsaken interception in the end zone, the sight of which entered my ribcage like a cold steel blade, I believed that the Iggles were going to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of their sullen mediocrity and enter the annals of permanent highlight posterity with a single heroic effort. How often do you see references back to that Miami/Bears Monday Night game in '85? Marino to Moore! Marino to Duper! Marino to Clayton! How can this be happening? Every season, as soon as someone goes 3-0, they trot that thing out for a nice little V/O package in the pre-game. Now, I thought, we've joined the club, and no matter what happens, we ruined these smug bastards' shot at immortality and they'll remember this game for the rest of their perfect, Super Bowl ring-laden, supermodel-banging lives.No Masians, I harbor hate in my heart. I am not the cheeriest of lads in the first place, but last night, I felt murderous. I felt like if I suddenly found myself in the presence of Herr Brady or that twinkle-toed dwarf Wes Welker, if either of them happened to stop by my place after the game for a little late-night hang, well, shit would very quickly turn all Saw II. I would smile in their faces and ply them with liquor and carbohydrate-rich snacks and then make for the kitchen knives and then when they started to pass out from all the heavy pastries and the mickey I'd slipped them in their whiskey I'd stab the shit out of them right there on the rug and then make a martini with their readily flowing blood and drink it in front of them while their pleas for human mercy filled the air and sounded to me like sweet music, like a gentle wind, like the laughter of innocent children playing tag in the sunshine by a burbling meadow brook.
I've often said here on No Mas that one way that you know an athlete is truly great is when you've rooted against him and hated him so damn much you could hardly stand it. Roger Staubach and Tony Dorsett, Steve Garvey, McHale, Bird and Ainge, Paul Molitor and Joe Carter... these are the V.I.P. members of that elite club of assholes that at one time or another I have fantasized about killing and thus have no choice but to bitterly acknowledge their undisputed greatness. Terrible Tom Brady already was knocking on the door of that club before last night - today he is a full-fledged member in good standing.
16 Comments:
You hated Paul Molitor? OK, he won the MVP in that 93 series, but hating him is like hating vanila ice cream, or McDonalds french fries. Not much to "hate" other than him having a career year and a great WS.
By the way, that year, 1993, was the only year in his 21 seasons in the majors that he ever hit over 20 HRs (22).
Dude, one Series was all I needed to hate him for all eternity. The man hit like .890 in that WS, and I swear to God, he had about 12 at-bats a game. My hate was so deep that it is still, fourteen years later, easily accessible. To this day, I don't know how Cito Gaston managed it, but somehow Paul Fucking Molitor batted in every inning of the '93 World Series. Immediately followed by Joe Fucking Carter.
Ah, to be a Philly sports fan. A true lover of losers and apparently a hater of winners. I feel for you son. But to paraphrase Hyman Roth, " this is the life you have chosen."
let it go, large.
what you should really be worrying about is the question of mcnabb or feeley. what say you?
The glinting stabbing knifewound of that endzone interception aside, I can't possibly see how, after last night's performance, you could sit Feeley in favor of McNabb. Donovan always has been an erratic passer at best, and now that he has lost the lion's share of his mobility, that's about all he is - an inaccurate QB with a strong arm. There's no mystery in my mind that two seasons in a row DMac has gone down and been replaced by much cheaper quarterbacks who can actually lead their man on a down and in and the next thing you know the Iggles have an offense. Feeley sits next week and I'm leading a palace revolt... somehow.
how are you gonna stage a revolt at the reid house? that place is a drug EMPORIUM, you know they have armed guards and shit.
i agree with you though, the writings been on the wall for mcnabb. my guess is he takes over for the sex cannon in chicago next year.
Why does everyone seem to either hate or love Tom Brady. Ids it the beckham syndrome or is he really an asshole?
MS - he's just really fucking good and he ruins your goddamn day. The fact that he bangs the choicest ho's annoys me only slightly compared to his ridiculous quarterback-osity.
These comments increased my enjoyment of this column ten-fold.
Had things turned out differently, the hate I would feel for Dykstra and Jim Fucking Eisenrich would have been equally powerful and thick, not unlike Darren Daulton.
Speaking of Dutch Daulton and those Phillies...is there an argument to be made that they took over the mantle of steroid role models from the Bash Brothers? Large - are your Phillies responsible for making doping look cool?
GMan, I don't know what you're talking about. No Philadelphia Phillie - in fact no Philadelphia athlete - has ever used performance enhancing drugs of any kind. Those drugs are for the other guys, the bad guys, primarily minorities and athletes from California.
large shut gman up and just do this. put out an album with songs just about steroid athletes. it could be called The Needle and The Damage Done unless you hit a lot of fucking homeruns. I think that ballad you'll write on Marion Jones is going to be your "Imagine"
sp
Mountaintop of Top 5 Phillie steroid users:
5. Jimmy Rollins - 30 HRs? come on.
4. Greg Luzinksi - Captain Obvious
3. Grover Alexander - Old Pete threw 22 complete games at age 40. Where was Mark Fainaru-Wada when we needed him?
2. Dick Allen - Doubled his HRs from 20 to 40 in 1965. He must have been sticking something in his ass during the winter of 1964.
1. Mike Schmidt.
The 1993 Phillies were the ugliest sports team of all time. Dykstra, Eisenreich, Kruk, Mickey Morandini, Mitch Williams... I mean, Curt Schilling was the good-looking one.
Morandini? Ugly? Your man-dar is on the fritz, Five Pound. Not to mention His Royal Hunkitude, Dutch "Adonis" Daulton.
Roger Mason wasn't a bad-looking fellow either. Sort of had a Todd Martin thing going.
Morandini rocked the official 93 Phillies mullet-and-stubble combo and had the dazed, off-kilter look of somebody who'd just woken up smelling of last night's Jack Daniels. Which is not uncommon for baseball players, of course.
And yes, compared to the motley gang of camera-melters he played with, Darren Daulton was Brad Pitt.
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