Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

Golf Balls

Just a quick Sunday morning funny for you...

 

Golf professional Henrik Stenson gave the crowd a little FORE! play when he stripped down to his Calvins during the opening round of the CA Championship.

It was his attempt to keep his clothes from getting completely muddied when a tee shot went a little wack.

Not sure how dirty his shaft got, or how many strokes this added to his score.  Doesn't look like he was using a wood, but he sure has a good grip...

Peace = Goal? Or Goal = Peace?

By now, regular readers are well aware that I am soccer fan - actually, scratch that - I am a futball fan.

Futball is the accepted name of the sport everywhere on this planet except here in the good ol' US of A where we are always arrogant enough to change things, anything, just because we can.  (And to those many folks who ignorantly declare it's just a bunch of men or women chasing a ball?  You make me laugh.  Try it.  You and your Chicago Bears inspired beer gut won't last two minutes in this highly demanding, extremely physical, skills-mandatory sport.)

Baseball may be our national pasttime, our bragging right, if you will.  But baseball's origins in this country (exact dates vary depending upon source material) only date back to the 1800s.

Futball, or football, the world's sport, can be traced, according to FIFA (the modern day sport's governing body), back to BC.  In fact, the "very earliest form of the game for which there is scientific evidence was an exercise of precisely this skilful technique dating back to the 2nd and 3rd centuries B.C. in China (the game of Cuju)."

In addition, the Roman game Harpastum is thought to be a distant ancestor of football. It is also documented that various forms of football were played in medieval Europe, though rules varied greatly by both period and location.

But even when we Americans finally relent, letting it wash ashore here, we change its name.

Soccer.

Oh well.  PotAto, Potato.  It's still the same game and I am a fan.

So it's no surprise that I have been watching with interest, the Iraqi team's advancement through gameplay in the Asian Cup - it was their first appearance in the finals in this particular tournament.

This past Wednesday, the Iraqi team, named "Lions of the Two Rivers, a team no one considered to be a true contender in the Cup, held steady throughout the early rounds, earning their place in the finals after defeating 2002 World Cup semifinalist South Korea in a shoot-out.

Celebration was instantaneous throughout Iraq - and for a brief moment, being a Sunni or Shiite did not matter - they were all Iraqis and they were all suffused with pride.

And it is that moment on which I would like to comment. 

You see, when I say that soccer, football, futball - whatever - is the world's sport - I mean exactly that.  It is played with passion in nearly every country, large, small, infinitesimal.

As opposed to the United States where sports loyaties are divided along statelines, regions, hometowns - (seriously, put the Steelers in a Superbowl, I'll watch.  Dallas Cowboys?  Absolutely.  Cincinnati Reds in a World Series.  I'd have some interest.  Then again, I have lived in each of these places.  Mets?  Yankees?  Cubs?  Raiders? Bears? Packers?  Could not care less) - soccer, the world over, unifies entire countries, it glues people of every financial strata together, it makes mates out of bums and brokers.  It shuts down whole workdays when a country's team is on the telly.

That's what was so great about watching from afar as the country of Iraq, a country that should be mainlining Prozac due to continued nerves, constant stress, and depression, was celebrating, embracing, rejoicing.

Rejoicing, of course, until some a-holes decided all those throngs of people in the streets of Bagdad were ripe for the car bomb picking and killed roughly 50.

Yet amazingly, in the face of further death and destruction, the country again sat on edge today watching as their Lions took on three time Asian Cup champs, Saudi Arabia, in the finals - AND WON.

A gorgeous header sent screaming into the goal from captain Younis Mahmoud Khalaf in the 71st minute sealed the deal.

As the final whistle blew shortly after the 90th minute, the streets of Iraq erupted yet again - only this time, it was with celebration and exuberance, pride and confetti, not bombs and body parts - all vehicular traffic, in Bagdad at least, from cars and trucks to cycles and bikes have been forbidden, and remain so until Monday morning.

Yes, there are many folks around their country doing the obligatory Middle Eastern whoop-de-doo - firing guns into the air - but so far, the celebrations have been the focus, and the only thing running in the streets are happy countrymen - not their blood.

I realize this unity will not last.  As soon as the blush is off the celebratory rose, the people will go back to hating one another for reasons so old most of them have no true idea what the origins may be.

But for today - for this brief shining moment - futball, the WORLD'S sport - has done what it does so well.  Made friends of enemies.  It has Hatfields rejoicing with McCoys.

Perhaps if more people in this country would stop and take a look at what is happening in Iraq because of a sport we seem to hold in such conceited disdain, the USA just might give soccer a chance.

It really does have more to offer than just a good looking guy named Beckham.

Coming Out Of The Closet

Well, here goes nothing...

(slow opening of closet door)

My name is Linda ... and I’m a flaming...

Soccer fan.

I’ll pause while you put your eyeballs back in their sockets from having rolled them so hard at the stupidity of that confession.

Actually, my love of the sport hasn’t been the best kept secret. I blogged about last summer’s World Cup (the period of time in which the chair in my living room was permanently reformed into the shape of my ass – I watched roughly 99% of the games played over the course of a month.); I have written about the teams two of my daughters play on; and regularly include some mention of David Beckham and the shrine my daughter has erected to him in her bedroom...

Ahhhh, David Beckham.

 

Sorry ... where was I?

Ah yes...

Unless you have been asleep at the wheel of life the past couple days, you know that he has now arrived on USA terra firma and will be formally presented by The LA Galaxy later today.

(And I would actually encourage a viewing of Victoria Beckham’s one hour reality special this coming Monday night. Regardless of what you think you know from the millions of pictures of her snapped at one event or the other – she is not just some skinny, pouting rich bitch. Victoria is actually a hoot. She is completely self deprecating, well spoken, has a fabulous sense of humor, and is nothing like one would imagine her to be based solely on pics. But I digress...)

The LA Galaxy press conference is one I’m going to watch.

No, not just because David is a handsome young man – he is – but because of what his arrival may finally mean for the sport of soccer in this country.

Soccer is, undisputedly, the world’s sport.

It is played around this globe on fields, pitches, in stadiums, and back alleys. It is played on grass, field turf, gravel, and dirt.  It is played professionally in almost every country, large and small, on this planet. That World Cup I mentioned? Estimates are that nearly a quarter of all humanity watched the final game between Italy and France.

We Yanks may like to throw words like World Champs around in terms of our football and baseball teams, but honestly?, how many teams from around the world have the Steelers played to earn that title in the past?

Um...none.

Soccer is a big deal. And soccer is as demanding a sport as any we revere here in the states.

But, as with so many things, we Americans are truly late to the party. And really have little to no concept of the sport we choose to look down our noses at.

Do they wear pads? No. Does that mean that it is not physical? No. It means when a person is running at top speed down the field and someone whips their feet out from under them from behind, the only thing between them and the impact is a Clima-cool jersey. In fact, the only pieces of "equipment" a soccer player wears are shin guards.

That’s it.

Are they not athletic? Give me a break. Take a look at the thighs of a professional soccer player – they are like tree trunks. And when they trade jerseys at the end of the game? Get your laundry ready because you could definitely scrub grass stains out of a pair of jeans on their abs.

And I’m not just talking about the men.

Women soccer players, currently gearing up for the Women’s World Cup in September, are every bit as talented, athletic, focused, and strong.

But back to Beckham.

Much has been made of the number $250 million in terms of what he is getting to cross the pond and play in the MLS (Major League Soccer). In actuality, his salary for the five year contract he signed is only $32.5 million. The rest of that $250 mill number will come through endorsements, percentage of jerseys sold, etc.

Believe me, Beckham knows he is more than just a pretty face with an amazing right foot. He is a brand. And a powerful one at that.

(And before you get your knickers in a twist about the money – I’d like to point out that just yesterday, the Orlando Magic basketball team signed 21 year old, Dwight Howard, to a five-year contract extension worth approximately $80 million. And the day before that they signed free agent All-Star Rashard Lewis from Seattle to a six-year contract worth more than $110 million. So you see, Becks is not the only athlete to make obscene wads of cash.)

Hopefully, jersey sales and Hollywood neighbors TomKat aside, Beckham’s high profile status will kick American soccer in its ass and get it going in the direction of truly competitive international level play.

Yes, we compete in the World Cup and our national teams are getting stronger each year, but toe to toe against a Spain, France or Germany national?  We're just not there yet.  And even the few American players who reach that level of skill and play tend to be sucked across the Atlantic to play for international clubs.  (Boning up on your Spanish or French yet, Freddie Adu?  It's just a matter of time.)

There is a reason it is called "the beautiful game". There is artistry, precision, athleticism, character, and pride involved. It is a game where 22 people can run their asses off for 90+ minutes and leave the field, limping, bruised, battered, and exhausted, with a 0-0 score...and be happy about it.

It is a game that is defined by the heart and dedication of a team, be they from a tiny area like The Ivory Coast or from a raucous, soccer swilling nation like Brazil.

A game in which heroes emerge from obscurity to score the single goal that advances their country to the next level of play.

Ronaldinho. Thierry Henry (no, not just the friend of Tony Parker and Eva Longoria), Lionel Messi, Decco, Ruud van Nistelrooy – the list of incredible athletes goes on and on. Yet few in this country recognize a single name.

Because so few in this have ever watched a single game.

But the tide is turning. Soccer is an increasingly popular sport for this nation’s youth as they discover a game where size is a nonissue. Soccer, unlike some sports, is not limited to those who are 7 feet tall or weigh 300 pounds. It is about training, technique, skills, ability to "see" where a game is going. Four feet tall or six feet four – it doesn’t matter.

Yet so many in the United States still view it as a "faggy game" (I’m quoting.) – one that is not truly demanding.

Ha.

My current favorite commercial is an extended one by Adidas. Running nearly three minutes long, it doesn't sell shoes.  It shows David Beckham attempting to teach New Orleans Saints running back Reggie Bush some of the finer points of futbol, and then Reggie attempts to do the same and teach David how to play football.

There are a lot of laughs, but at the end of the day, let’s just say Reggie comes away a lot more humbled and beaten by the experience than does David.

Which is why I hope Beckham’s arrival will encourage more people to give the sport a look.

He will be joining MLS superstar Landon Donavan on The Galaxy team, and heading out on the road for many of the remainder of the season’s games. They come to Frisco, Texas on July 31 st to take on my boys, FC Dallas, and I already have my front row seats.

And judging by how the stadiums are selling out – I’m not the only one opening my closet door, grabbing our golden balls, and coming forward.

My name is Linda Sharp, and I am a flaming soccer fan.

Take Him OUT Of The Ballgame

THIS.

THIS is why I hold sports figures in such high regard.

Apparently fed up with the umpires calling the game, out he flew from the dugout and proceeded to pitch the mother of all tantrums - digging in the dirt, flinging bases across the field, crawling commando-style towards the mound, and flinging a rosin bag at an umpire.

Granted, this a-hole (Phillip Wellman) is just a minor league manager (Mississippi Braves), but he still represents a major league team (Atlanta Braves).

And I would hope that by Monday, he represents himself in the unemployment line.

I present to you, his MAJOR LEAGUE hissy fit.

Soccer Is My World Cup Of Tea

Something very serious has happened to me in the past four days and I fear I am losing control.

Addiction.

The word itself is simple, the meaning behind it, crippling.

I would never have believed it was possible to go from being a casual dabbler to a heavy user in less than a week, but here I sit, itchy, twitchy, counting the hours till my supplier shows up in the morning.

My home is getting dirty - cleaning just doesn't seem a priority.  Food?  Feh.  While in the throes of a solid high I go hours without even a trace thought to physical nourishment.  My email is backing up, I know I have bills I need to pay, errands I must run, and my dog reminded me she needed fed last night by throwing her bowl at my head.

Help.

I mean is there any scientific data available to help me understand the power of stimulant addiction and just how one faces the inevitability of having to go cold turkey once the main supply has run dry?

Don't answer that. I don't think I could possibly give this up - it feels too good, it makes my blood race faster through my veins, in fact, I find myself screaming, pacing, cheering, kicking, and exulting as the high kicks in...

But...addiction is WRONG, right? I should get help. I should go on the offensive and fight harder to overcome these foul demons.

Alas, I do not believe there is any 12 step program available with the goal of overcoming this particular addiction, so perhaps I should start one for my fellow sufferers (and I know there are millions...)

Here goes...

Hello, my name is Linda Sharp, and I am a World Cupaholic.

That's right - it's June 2006 - meaning the World Cup is once again runnething over, this time in Germany, where teams have come from all over the world to participate in what is truly the globe's game: SOCCER.

Sure, we Americans may slobber over football, but it is futball that makes the world go round. Soccer is an international language, with followers more faithful and dedicated than those found in most religions. The "beautiful game" has been played for centuries, with America coming to the soccer party late, and we are still dribbling full speed to catch up with the international clubs that turn players like Beckham and Ronaldinho into rock stars.

I admit, my own invitation to the soccer world must have gotten lost in the mail because I have only discovered the joy and the artistry of the game since my own children began playing roughly four years ago.

They play at the recreational level, and as they have learned, so have I. As they have grown proficient in their skills, I, too, have embraced this sport which often times only produces a single digit score at the end of each game.

To those who don't "get it" - and I completely admit, I used to be one of them (not good for someone married to a man who attended college on a soccer scholarship), a 1 - 0 score isn't exactly thrilling. Those 78-23 basketball scores and 38-15 football finals seem to hold more excitement.

That couldn't be more wrong.

And watching these World Cup participants - some of the world's most fit athletes - is to come away humbled by the stamina, endurance, and years of practice that go into being able to pull off a 1 - 0 win.

That single point - and rarely do professional level soccer game scores go higher than the number 3 or 4 - is the result of 90+ minutes of constant running, timing, accuracy, teamwork, footwork, forethought, speed, patience, and oftentimes, plain old luck.

When a game goes 0 - 0, it is easy to think, "Oh big whoop. You mean no one even scored?"

Such was the case with the 0 - 0 game I watched today between France and Switzerland. The score may be boring on paper, but the watching was anything but. These two teams played with every fiber of their being, suffering injuries, frustrations, sweating gallons of fluid that drenched their bright new uniforms.

And for what? To score nada?

Yes.

In tournament play, that gets them one point - added towards what they can knock out in the next two games they play.  And that one point may make the difference between moving out of their group and having to wait for the next World Cup in 2010.

Watching the games is a quick way to discover just how geographically ignorant you are.  Again, these teams come from everywhere, countries large and small, remote and easily accessible, industrial and highly millenniumized.  For instance, most people can find England or Spain, but can you point to Trinidad and Tobago on a map?  How about Togo?  Probably not, which means, like me, you'd be surprised to also learn these countries play soccer at such a high level.

I think what has addicted me the quickest is not just the skill level and the good looking hard bodies from every country, no, rather it is the amazing sportsmanship being displayed by all these men. Sure, there are fouls, in a soccer game those are inevitable. There have even been a couple men red carded (ejected) from the games for dangerous plays or abysmal behavior, but those are far and few between.

The overriding thing I see are hundreds of men who respect the heck out of one another and the skills they bring to the pitch. They pat each other on the backs, check on opposing team members when they train wreck into one another to make sure they are OK, and at the end of these hard fought battles, exchange jerseys with their position rivals as a sign of respect and admiration for a game well played.

My daughters - budding soccer stars both - have been glued to the TV with me. They study the footwork, plays, passing, artistry and positioning (and the hot guys), learning more they are now eager to take into their next season of play.

But they, too, have also noted the way the players behave towards one another - whether the outcome is victory, defeat, or a seemingly boring 0-0 draw, and I know they will take that with them as well the next time they take the field.

Today I witnessed the reigning World Cup champs - Brazil, favored to again emerge victorious in July and arguably comprised of the finest players in the world - in their first 2006 World Cup game - this one against underdog Croatia. (To Croatia's credit, they played spectacularly, losing by that single point, 1-0)

While much has been written and trumpeted about Brazil's artistry, skill and level of play on the field, and it is all true - to watch Ronaldinho, Ronaldo, Emerson and Kaka is to watch a gorgeously choreographed (albeit sweaty) Swan Lake - what struck me the most is that they play with joy. They play with verve. They play like my daughters - because they love the game.

Sure, they love their millions of dollars in salary and endorsements too, but I daresay, were the cars, money and babes taken away? They would play anyway.

And that is why I am now firmly in the grips of this addiction. Yes, my ability to watch owes a great deal to my actual understanding of the game itself, but my enjoyment - my high, if you will, comes from watching a bunch of highly skilled, full grown men who welcome their inner children onto the field to play with them.

Now, you'll have to excuse me ... there are three games tomorrow and I need to go set my TiVo...

My name is Linda Sharp...and I am a World Cupaholic. Someone pass the soccer bong, please...

Inside The Box

Francisco Valle-Victorino died yesterday.

And his death gives me pause.

Just who is Valle-Victorino, you ask? Some famed painter? Sure his name sounds artistic, but no, Francisco was not an artist. Was he a heroic figure in the ERA in Spain? Not quite. Francisco was a champion, but not on foreign soil. OK, so who is Francisco Valle-Victorino and why should I have heard of him? you are now asking.

Actually there is no reason you should know who he is. Maybe you would have heard of him sometime in the future, but not now, for all his promise, potential and possibilities have gone with him.

You see, Francisco Valle-Victorino was a 17 year old soccer player in Louisville, Kentucky, who died yesterday morning after taking a direct ball hit while goalieing for his school team during a Monday game.

Perhaps, like you, I would have looked right past any news tidbit about him too, but I have two daughters - avid soccer players, both. And one of them is a goalie. That is why his death caught my attention.

Soccer is an exciting sport. And no, I am not even thinking about the kind played on Spanish television where the announcer lives only to scream, “Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!“

Frankly, that’s stupid. So stop.

Rather I am referring to the level of soccer played around the world by children as young as 4, up through high school. For me I love watching my kids become stronger players from one season to the next - growing more confident, fearless and intelligent about the game.

My twelve year old has played for six seasons now and has morphed from a frightened rabbit on the field (I don’t blame her - she is very small for her age - I would be afraid of some of these two ton 12 year olds barreling down the field) to a decisive, unafraid, unrelenting force. So committed to “sticking” (not backing down when advancing on the ball in the face of opposition) that one coach nicknamed her “The Little Ball of Hate”. The worst thing the other team can do is write her off because of her size. The second they do that, they are done for.

And while I am incredibly proud of her and excited to watch her play each game, it is my nine year old who sprang directly to mind when I read of Francisco’s death.

Carson is a goalie. No, scratch that. Carson is a born goalie. For while one can learn the technical pieces of the goalie puzzle, no one can teach the fearlessness and recklessness one truly needs to play the box.

As my husband, a collegiate soccer player in his youth, has told me, Goalies are a little bit crazy.

And he’s right. Carson is more than a bit crazy in her daily life - she is spontaneous, energetic, a kook. On the field, it serves her well. Whatever “crazy” switch gets flipped in her head, she rocks. Throwing her body across the goal, making spilt second decisions, and diving for the ball - even when a foot is coming straight at it, and her head.

It is in those moments that I find myself doing an odd combination of things: Cheering with pride (That’s MY daughter!) holding my breath (will she, won’t she save it?), and fervently praying (Dear God, PLEASE don’t let her get kicked in the head.)

As any soccer parent knows, it is rare for a game to be completed in which someone hasn‘t stopped the ball with their face or groin or hasn’t had a train wreck with another player, resulting in everyone else on the field “taking a knee” while the referee and coach assess the possible injuries.

It happens. It’s essentially a game in which the sub-game of chicken is played repeatedly - who can get to the ball first? Who will pull back before impacting someone else head-on? Who is standing in the wrong place when someone boots the ball with all their might...right into that person's stomach or head?

Francisco, at 17, had played the game for enough years to have become accustomed to the bumps and bruises of his position. His parents had adjusted to the terminal sense of stress during each one hour game.

After all - how bad could an injury be anyway?

Sadly, Francisco dove for a ball at the same moment an opposing team player gave it a solid kick - it slammed into his throat and he collapsed - Francisco died at the hospital.

At his funeral he will trade playing in one box for a permanent resting place in another.

Yes, I know these occurrences are rare. Yes, I know that 17 year olds kick harder than 9 year olds. And yes, I know that I cannot shield my children from every possible accident in life. 

I know these things as much as I know that after today, we will probably never hear of Francisco again.

Francisco Valle-Victorino was not a hero, a renowned artist or even a famous sports figure.  But from this day forward, for as many years as she chooses to play, every time my daughter dons her jersey and gloves to enter the box, I will pause to think of him and say a prayer for them both.

In memory of Francisco Valle-Victorino.

T-Ball Coach Strikes Out As A Human Being

This one left me speechless...

It’s no secret that in the world of kids sports, adults often act more immature than the players.

These days no one is surprised by fistfights among the parents, grown-ups who push their children to practice every waking moment or overzealous coaches who have a winning-is-absolutely- positively-completely-and-without-question-everything attitude.

The Bravo Channel even has a show dedicated to those pathetic parents who are hellbent to live their unfulfilled sporting dreams through their poor, trapped children. Sports Kids’ Moms and Dads showcases beer gutted fathers who have their eight year old son's football careers completely mapped out from Pee Wee player to Heisman trophy winner, mothers who vomit when their child competes on the ice, and other parents who force their child to play basketball with 102 degree fever and who financially jeopardize the rest of the family in order to buy an insanely expensive horse.

My favorite (favorite being a term to define who I revile the most) is the Texas Mom whose young daughter is taxied from one cheerleading competition to another, braking only for stops at dance and additional cheerleading classes. The poor child is trapped not only in an insane world of slut dancing (she is 7), but her pores haven’t breathed fresh air in years because of the mountain of make-up and glitter. Her Mom, a lard ass who could use a dance class or fifty herself, sits on the sidelines and shouts insults over the teensiest of missteps.

Happy children all.

Yet these wackjobs pale in comparison to the one I read about today.

Meet Mark R.(stands for repulsive) Downs, Jr. of Dunbar, Pennsylvania and coach of a T-ball team.

For the uneducated, T-ball is a sport played by preschool and young elementary school aged kids, much like softball, only the children hit the ball off a stationary "tee". Think golf, two feet in the air.

Coach of the Year Downs, apparently of the winning-is-absolutely-positively-completely- and-without question-everything school of thought I mentioned, REALLY wanted to win his games. Unfortunately for him there is this pesky little rule that states all players will participate in at least three innings each game.

Reasonable enough, after all, these are kids who are barely able to pee by themselves, let them have some fun. They are there to be learning sportsmanship, gaining some athletic experience and making friends. This is not the World Series.

But poor Coach Downs, not only had to contend with the players’ age related butterfly chasing tendencies, he was also saddled with a player, age 8, who happens to be mentally disabled.

So on this team of Baby Ruths, he had a Forrest Gump and that just would not do. Not when Forrest had to play three innings each game.

So what’s a coach to do? Nurture him? Give him extra practice time and attention? Stand back and just enjoy watching him revel in being part of a team?

Nah.

Coach Downs paid another kid $25 to hit Forrest in the head with a baseball before a game.

That’s right. He paid another child to injure this mentally challenged little boy so he could not play in the game. And the hitman took his task so seriously, he did not stop at the headshot, but took aim at Forrest’s groin as well.

Needless to say, Gump’s Mom, even though she had not seen what took place, was suspicious immediately, having wondered about other injuries her son had mysteriously suffered earlier in the season. The police were called, the scheme was discovered and Coach Downs was arrested.

He was arraigned on charges including criminal solicitation to commit aggravated assault and corruption of minors. He was released from jail on an unsecured bond.

Someone please tell me what gets into the minds of coaches like this? I see them at my kids’ soccer games. Screaming, berating, pacing, basically Bobby Knighting it up and down the sidelines like money and a trip to Disneyland are at stake. Where is the spirit of fun, of camaraderie, where is the desire to build these kids up? And honestly? Where the hell are the parents who should be stepping in to have these coaches removed?

Any parent who sits idly by while their 8 year old is treated with manners fit for a prison movie, or their 10 year old is ridiculed for missing a play are just as bad as the coaches who spew the garbage. They deserve to be banned from the fields and courts of play for life.

But back to our T-ball coach, now facing that very punishment, in addition to the other charges. One can only hope he is sent back to prison where one of the "team players" there can introduce his "bat" and "balls" up Coach Downs' ass.

Robby Gordon Shifts Gears In Danica Complaints

As predictable as a yellow flag when two cars collide on the track, is the backpeddling of a person who has loudly pissed and moaned and found little support for their cause.

So it goes that Robby Gordon has thrown his big chASSis in reverse and is trying to do more spin control than an Indy driver on an oil patch.

Gordon is the NASCAR driver who held a public hissy fit over Danica Patrick's weight prior to last Sunday's Indy 500 - a race she went on to lead for over 20 laps, completing the race with a respectable 4th place finish.

Loudly telling anyone who would listen that her feminine stature and petite poundage was an unfair advantage against other male drivers, Robby even went on record as saying, "I won't race against her until the IRL does something to take that advantage away."

Other words followed, but they were drowned out by the Twinkie he was shoving in his 205 pound mouth.

But here we are, three days past the race, three days after Danica Patrick brought more attention and press to any Indy race since its Andretti-Unser-Rahal glory days, three days since she just about handed every male driver on that track their asses to wear as hats, three days since anyone has done much more than ridicule Robby and tell him to try Atkins, and now he is trying to do some damage control - downshifting his complaints.

His new spin? 

"The only thing I was saying was that I have a problem with the rule, not any particular driver. I've been impressed with Danica from the first time she got in an IRL car earlier this year, and I certainly did not mean to disrespect her or any other driver."

Well, Robby you did. 

You pointed your Cheeto stained finger at Danica, singling her out of a field filled with men who all weigh less than you.  You had no problem with the weight of pole sitter Tony Kanaan, who is a full 60 pounds lighter than you.  And what about race winner Dan Weldon?  At 157 pounds, isn't he cheating with his near 50 pound advantage?  (Wheldon himself admits that he works at his weight constantly in order to not only stay fit, but fit in the claustrophobic confines of an Indy car.) 

No one disputes that when it comes to qualifying, a less beefy driver, alone on the track, can clock a bit faster speed than someone with considerably more junk in the trunk - that's just physics.  The Penske racing team even invested time in figuring out the probable speed advantage Danica might have since she wasn't trailing orange side flags and a WIDE LOAD sign: .8 mile an hour.

That fractional speed advantage comes into little play when the track is full of other cars - talent, determination, car performance and may I repeat, talent are the factors that take over.

Completing the Indy 500 is no mean feat, any driver can tell you that.  It is one of the most difficult races to finish due to the extreme number of variables covered under the terms "mechanical failure" and "human error".

Danica not only overcame her own rookie human errors - spinning out on the track and needing her entire front wing replaced to mechanical ones like stalling out in pit row - to take her place in history.  And anyone who watched the race can tell you, she lost by a mere fraction when Dan Wheldon managed to pass her, just barely, a split second before the race again went under a yellow flag, meaning all drivers had to hold their places.

I would imagine watching those last 25 laps, which Danica led 90% of, old Robby damned neared choked on his KFC.

And with the world paying more attention to her success and only noting his excess, Robby quickly released the comments, "Indy is one of the toughest races in the world to finish, let alone win, and the fact that she ran up front for most of the 200 laps proved her ability to drive," he said. "Given that she is so young, I would be amazed if she didn't win at least one Indy 500."

I think rotund Robby needs to reconsider his career choice.  With spin like that, perhaps politics?

No wait - better idea - go with your real strength Robby.  Sumo.

Hey! Weight For Me!

It never fails - place a woman in what is typically, generationally, or irrationally believed to be a man’s domain and before you can say “penis”, the men begin to protest as loudly as a female at a Size 6 Only Shoe Sale.

Whether it's corporate America, combat in the Middle East or high level politics, there are still far too many three legged creatures out there who believe women to be the “weaker sex”, incapable of financial prowess, true grit, or important decision making.

Yeah, like we could screw up the world anymore than it already is.

Even a cursory drive through the history books will tell you that the world did not arrive at its present day, screwed up, pockmarked, dysfunctional, battle scarred, paranoid, disease ridden, riding on fumes self, at the hands of women.

We simple weren’t allowed at the wheel.

Slowly, however, more and more women have been sliding into the driver’s seat and mapping out their own successes, creating paved inroads for others to follow, where there used to be only dirt.

Today’s object lesson is Danica Patrick, the 23 year old female racing phenom, who is starting in 4th position at this afternoon's Indy 500, racing for the Rahal-Letterman (yes, as in David) team. She is traveling a road which only three other women have tread upon before.

Ever since 1977 when Janet Guthrie dared to hit the Brickyard, qualify for the race, and post a 29th place finish, good and bad ol’ boys alike have grumbled that “this is a man’s race”, “it’s too dangerous for women” and my all-time favorite “women can’t drive”.

May I just pause to inject, while I freely admit that 99.9% of the folks you see applying mascara while cruising through rush hour, are women, according to a 1999 National Safety Council (NSC) study, 72% of the vehicle fatalities, were caused by male drivers.

Maybe more men should wear mascara?

But I digress...

Danica Patrick, pardon the pun, has an excellent track record, having earned her way into the Indy 500 the same way her fellow racers have - through dedication, determination and talent on the track. With a record that includes being the only female to have earned a pole position and podium finish in Toyota Atlantic, a 2002 first place finish in the Long Beach Grand Prix (from the pole position no less) and 10 top five finishes in 2004 alone, Danica has a beefy resume that belies her diminutive stature.

Unfortunately, it is her diminutive female stature that some of her opponents have a beef with.

Weighing in at a slight 100 pounds, Danica is not exactly built like the brickyard, or the men, around her. And so, her female status is being held against her.

Racer Robby Gordon, by his own admission, easily twice as heavy as Danica, is crying foul because as a woman, her weight gives her a built in advantage on the track. "The lighter the car, the faster it goes," Gordon said, "do the math. I won't race against her until the IRL does something to take that advantage away."

The rest of his words were muffled as he was stuffing another handful of Fritos and bean dip into his mouth.

I will give him this: all Indy cars must weigh in, without gas and driver, at 1,525 pounds, minimum. However, the ass size that follows is up to the racing team.

Does her 100 pound difference truly make her a more formidable foe? Sure, when on the track alone, she can conceivably clock an extra 1 mph faster than someone like Gordon, but as anyone who has ever watched these races can attest, when the track is cluttered with 32 other cars, averaging 160 mph, driving prowess, not breakneck speed, is the key.

Gordon is not the only racer voicing his male vs female complaints. Pole sitter Tony Kanaan, weighing in at 145 pounds, “would like the IRL to look into the issue.”

Psst, Tony, you may want to rethink that comment. Gordon obviously hasn’t noticed your 60 pound advantage yet.

I have news for Gordon and all those Y bearers who think Patrick’s feminine status is an unfair advantage. It is. It certainly is unfair that she has the willpower to keep her 5’2” frame that fit and fine while you wash down another bucket of Hooter’s wings with a case of Coors.

Just like horse racing, smaller, slighter jockies have a built in advantage. The less the horse has to carry, the faster it can trot around the track. That mindset should carry over to horsepower too, but for some reason it does not. Perhaps, in a profession where the "bucket" - the container the driver sits within - is snug for even a slightly overweight sardine, perhaps Robby should rethink either his line of work or his diet?

And oddly, in all the years Emerson Fittipaldi, the Oompa Loompa of Indy drivers, was racing (and winning), I never once heard the beefy Mario Andretti or the Fabio-like Arie Luyendyk, whine about Emerson's smaller waistband and inseam.

But Danica Patrick has boobs and is a babe, so she’s cheating.

Ah well, time will tell, and by this afternoon we will all know the results. The proof, as they say, will be in the pudding.

Just be sure to look before Robby Gordon eats it.

What Can Brown Do For YOU? Just Ask London Marathon Winner Patricia Radcliffe

I'm not a sports buff.  Let's get that straight.  I don't care who is in the playoffs - any playoffs, I don't know who was in the last Super Bowl, and I could give a rip about stats, scores, and associated trivia. 

It just doesn't interest me.

But that being said, sometimes something happens in the Wide World of Sports that makes even me sit up and take notice.

It could be Armstrong winning another Tour de Lance, or another basketball player making his Mama proud by shooting someone outside a bar, or an update on poor Scott Hamilton and his continued cancer-tumor-illness saga.  (Come on God, that man truly deserves a break.)

This time, however, it was a sporting event, across the pond as it were, that got my bowels in an uproar.  The yearly running of the London Marathon.  An event as reknowned as our own New York and Boston jogs.

Olympian and two time winner of the London run, Patricia Radcliffe, was the odds-on favorite to post her third victory in the 26 mile jaunt.

She started well, quickly increasing the distance between herself and the rest of the pack.  Unfortunately, somewhere around mile 19-20, she began to develop stomach cramps that she estimates were costing her about 10 seconds per mile. 

Editorial Note: "Stomach cramps": delicate way of describing what you or I would associate with too many burritos and tequila. Your lower stomach... 

But I digress.

Uncertain just how much of a lead she actually had, she knew that should she attempt to use one of the portaloos set up for spectators, she would run the risk of coming in second.  Plus, she would probably have to wait in line.   

No, best not risk the lead.

So on she trudged.  However, in mile 22, the situation became, how shall I put it?, acute.  With her sphincter on high alert, she decided she had to make the time to ease her pain and trotted to the gutter.  Then, in front of thousands of spectators lined up along the road, and millions of TV viewers across the land, she dropped trou, squatted and set a new record for one of the fastest "runs" in history - 10 seconds flat.

I guess it's true - if ya gotta go, ya gotta go.

Amazing what jettisoning some fuel can do for speed - she felt great and went on to win, besting the second place finisher by over five minutes.

Of course she was publicly repentant for her barnyard etiquette, owing it to having eaten too much, too close to the start of the race.  Whatever the reason, most athletes at her level receive endorsement deals, and I predict a call from the Charmin On-The-Go people any day now.

I admire her tenacity, applaud her resolve and focus, even find myself cheering at her new record, but there is something else about this against-all-odds story that gets my juices flowing...Maybe it's the heightened brotherhood we are all feeling in the midst of Pope-apalooza, our renewed spirit of oneness.

Whatever it is, I am proud to say, not one person has yet tried to hock her poo on eBay.

There is hope for us yet.