Yes, Minnesota Vikings, We Can

I can’t believe I’m late to this youtube party.

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Favre throws another crucial interception.

:-)

Your 1998

I had mixed emotions watching the Packers lose yesterday–I really thought I wanted the epic Brady-Favre match-up (figured Moss could get his ring at the Pack’s expense). But watching the game at Chammp’s Eden Prairie last night, watching some Packer fan freak out inappropriately while his nice, blonde, probably-Minnesota-raised wife and their two little girls sat there praying for the game to end, praying for daddy to stop being so angry; as I sat there thinking about all my insufferable Packer-fan friends in Uptown and how horrible Super Bowl week was going to be, to say nothing about the inevitable trash talk I would suffer through all of next season, and god forbid, what if they fucking beat the Pats? Well, I just couldn’t help it, you know? Watching Al Harris get used, watching Ryan Grant get stonewalled, watching the Mr. Hyde Brett Favre throw a fairy-tale-killing OT pick that will be on ESPN Classic for all eternity…delightful.

And then The Strib’s Michael Rand nailed it this morning: “Oh, Packers fans. Now you know what it’s like. This is your 1998. Drink it in. Enjoy that bitter taste. It lasts a lifetime.”

Delicious.

The Sports Guy on Juno

From Bill Simmons’ espn.com column today:

Q: Do you think the Jags are like “The Shawshank Redemption”? They seemed to be a sleeper team of destiny but picked the wrong year to win the Super Bowl (because of the Patriots). “Shawshank” was a sleeper movie destined to win Best Picture and picked the wrong year to do it (because of “Forrest Gump”).
— Pat C., New York

SG: I don’t know. I’d compare the Jags more to “Juno” — a very cute, extremely well-done movie that received a little too much acclaim and couldn’t compete with the big horses during awards season. And by the way, if we’re comparing 2007 movies to 2007 NFL teams, “Margot at the Wedding” would definitely be Kansas City — a promising start followed by everything going straight to hell, to the point that fans/customers were staring at each other in disbelief wondering what was happening. Bonus points here for the fact careers were ruined in the process. Herm Edwards as an NFL coach, Jack Black as a serious actor. I’d like my $10 back, please.

Gimme More 84!

Bought a bottle of wine at Lowry-Hill liquor store last night and discovered the most compelling grassroots campaign since Ron Paul was derailed by the Diebold machines in New Hampshire.

Bringmossback.blogspot.com is run by one of Lowry Hill’s employees, and it includes “Moss-Tastic videos” and there’s supposed to be a petition that you can sign to support 84’s return, but I couldn’t find it. Also, it hasn’t really been updated since Week 5 of the NFL season, but I’m not really in a position to call anybody out for lazy blogging.

Look, I’m realistic–there’s little chance the Super Freak will ever wear purple again especially, after the way he was run out of Minnesota (by the same casually racist “progressives” who are pushing Hillary Clinton on us right now, btw), but he is on a one-year contract with the Patriots, and who knows, if he wins a ring in a few weeks in New England, he might consider a ton of free agent $$$$$. Zygi’s got it, and we need a receiver….

The Great Gatsby of WBL

First, KG: When I came into the office this morning, my editor told me that Glen Taylor was on ‘CCO this morning talking about how the trade was a complete fantasy. “The invention of some sportswriters.” I love the crazy rich. A tycoon’s self-assurance. Reality pending royal decree.

But I like the trade. I mean of course we must dutifully mourn the end of an era. The kurse of KG: McHale was never able to acquire the perfect compliment to The Big Ticket’s unique skill set, but $127 million contracts can make kismet hard to come by. Remember, we couldn’t even afford to keep Googs after paying KG’s tab. And then when some lawyer read the collective bargaining agreement’s fine print aloud to Stephon, Marbury’s ego started clawing itself out from the inside–it realized that its host would never make The Most. And while we salvaged the loss of Starbury with Terrell Brandon for a couple of years, we never had enough money to attract the top free agents, and our bitter winters scared away most midlevel exception possibilities–the 6’9″, yeomen veterans that are the difference between 50-win teams and 60-win teams. So we panicked and signed Joe Smith to a dirty deal and David Stern punished us. The death sentence. No payroll wiggle room. No draft picks. No chance in a conference with Shaq and Duncan. KG gave you 48 minutes of sweat and heart and pain every night. The richman’s Ben Wallace; a passionate grinder making more money than anybody in NBA history. He filled stat sheets with points, assists, rebounds, blocks, steals. Grind. Grind. Grind. A millstone of consistency. KG, the blackbeardedMoses, able to see the promised land but never gain entry. The Sissyphus of ‘Sota. Cut to today’s trade: now we have a 22-year-old stud on the low post in Big Al, some athleticism on the wings with Brewer and Foye, some room under the salary cap for the first time since the late 90s, and another lottery pick coming up next summer. Yes, we’re in the conference of Amare, Oden, and Durant, but who knows if any of those guys blossom into a ShaqDuncan. There is hope.

Oh, and speaking of hope: when I was a kid, growing up in WBL, I used to walk out to the island on Bald Eagle in the wintertime with my friend Matt Whitehill. Based on the Whitehills, people living on Bald Eagle were weird. Their entire house was a child’s fort. Matt had a rope hanging over his stairs on which his big brother Darby would Tarzan down to his room. They had expensive Haro BMX bikes in grade school and radio controlled boats and cars. There was adventuring. But then in 1986, when I was 10-years-old, the island was bought by some eccentric rich people. Not rope over the staircase and harobikerich, but there were rumors of a hovercraft, a hovercraft right out of G.I. Joe. But real. The islandhouse started going up. Black behind the trees. Forbidden now. Private. Later, I heard rumors of West Egg theme parties. This morning, I read about it in the Strib. All real. A boy’s imagination, for $3.5 million.

Sweet Wild Jersey

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Three quarters of the way through Bill Simmons’ superb but unexpected NHL Draft diary he mentions how much he loves the Wild’s “variant” (little dorky comics lingo there for my peeps) red jerseys. I hate the regular Wild home and away jerseys, maybe because I thought the North Stars jerseys were so cool. So B.S. made me feel a little better about myself as a Minnesotan today. That’s sad. But how hot would this jersey look with something like this?