‘If you’re not watching him, you don’t know Dick!’
I could reach and say that there’s a male UCONN cheerleader in the sixteenth video and there’s probably a shot of Jimmy Calhoun Superhero{Not the Austrian doppelganger.} somewhere. Alright, I’ll go ahead and do that.
But set aside ten minutes and bask in the awesomeness that is the real Robert Goulet. Thong song.
Coach Mason said that more times than I can count at Minnesota. It’s one of countless coaching catchphrases that is etched on my brain no matter how hard I try to forget. In essence it’s a coachspeak plea to trick yourself into thinking that practice or lifting or running or whatever task was immediately in front of us that we had little particular interest in accomplishing and turn it into a productive session. Convince yourself it will be fun. And more often than not when the players just said, ‘Screw it, let’s act like little kids in the backyard’, the practice turned out to be more enjoyable. And usually more productive.
On Saturday Djurgården came up short again this weekend, 21-7. Again it’s the same refrain of missed opportunities and allowing big plays, but more than that we didn’t have fun in the first half. We were outscored 21-0. The second half was fun. The score that half was 7-0 and by putting ourselves in a hole we had to chase a bit. Football is a game of emotion and having fun at it’s primal level. Well, and violence. Lots and lots of {usually} controlled violence.
I only mention it because whatever we do, we do it either because we have to or we want to. If we want to do whatever activity, there’s probably a bit of fun inherent in it. If we have to, we must do it anyway, so may as well make it fun, right?
Either way it can’t hurt for you to lie to yourself in order to make it more fun, can it?
A psychotic feminine shriek from a neighboring apartment after Sweden scored it’s second goal against England in the under 21 soccer Championships. They have since equalized {Accompanied by frenzied dancing on the floor above.} after going down 3-0 in the first half.
For the 99% of people who don’t care, the Swedish word for nipple is bröstvårtan - which translates to ‘breast wart’. And the areola is ‘breast wart field’.
Enjoy your weekend and entertain your friends with your new Swedish vocabulary.
This reinforces why I should not have a Twitter account {Or maybe I should? I see it as a Frankensteinian conglomeration of texting, blogging and emailing. I could be spot on or way off. I’m also not real concerned about this ambiguity. And the 140 character limit seems so constricting.}.
A buddy showed up to practice wearing this yesterday. Yes, that is a salmon tee, shorts that are in fact incredibly short and not boxers - they have pockets and everything, hot pink old school Nikes and an old-school Nike pullover. He is a bit understated when considering the collective get-up of the entire Swedish male population.
The Russian Rocket said that shorts this summer should not come down to the knee {A piece of fashion advice I will likely be avoiding.} and he wanted to err on the side of caution. Methinks you’re solid on that front. He also probably assembled this eclectic ensemble in the absence of light. But it provided a visual train wreck to gawk at and fodder for today’s post.
In spite of my better judgment, I will continue to remain friends with him. I will, however, refrain from taking fashion advice.
Today is the day when I will be threatened with execution by firing squad should I ever become a centenarian.
Let me explain.
Instead of the typical happy birthday song, Swedes sing “Ja, må du leva (uti hundrade år)” which translates to “Yes, may you live (to a hundred years old)”. And instead of the “cha, cha, cha” or what have you, the cheeky Swedes add another verse threatening to put the celebratee on a stump and shoot them if they do, in fact, reach triple digits.
A bit morbid, but it amuses me. Although depending on how the last three-quarters of that quest goes, I may have to find someone to carry out a Denny Crane - Alan Shore arrangement:
Denny Crane: I don’t fear death - never have. But I do fear being hooked up to a machine … would you want to live like that? Alan Shore: No, Denny, if it came to that, I’d pull the plug. Denny Crane: Pull the plug? That’s no way to die. I want you to shoot me!
For the record, if you can hear me speaking that’s not the time. Thanks in advance.
Facebook message from Rob Lunn to CJ Marck Dated June 18th at 11:53 pm: “CJ how the hell are you man? Are you even alive? If so, would you like to be a guest blogger on my website and talk about what it is like to transfer schools and talk a little bit about your summer training?”
Well Lunn, I am alive, and barring contract negotiation I would be honored to write a little blurb. Please forgive in advance any of my attempts to be humorous, as I can not match Rob’s level of intelligence with the keyboard.
For those of you who don’t know me, I played with FWG during the 2007 and 2008 seasons at Connecticut. He has moved on to play professional in Europe (not be to be confused with Massachusetts High School Football) and I have transferred to Miami University, which is in Oxford, Ohio (yes people frequently ask me how I’m enjoying the sunny weather in Florida). My transfer was made prior to the International Bowl and I landed at Miami University in January.Before I start talking about some of the similarities and differences between the two programs, I just want to say that I have the utmost respect for UConn Football and the University of Connecticut. I am thankful for the opportunity Coach Edsall gave me to be a part of the Husky football program and I still have many close friends from the team who I will be cheering for every Saturday this fall.
Since I am from Pennsylvania, and Rob is from, of course, Upstate New York (throw up your U’s), it wasn’t uncommon for us to have the “better high school football state” discussion every now and then. After already being challenged to similar arguments in Ohio, I have determined that this banter must occur in most college locker rooms. There is absolutely nothing to gain from proving your state is better, besides pride, but nonetheless, I will never turn down a good challenge to defend Pennsylvania HS football.
In addition to locker room talk, the off-season training programs at Miami and UConn are pretty comparable. There are some small differences, like at Miami we can listen to music while we work out and our strength training incorporates more power lifts like power cleans, hang cleans, and that sort of stuff. One major difference is that Miami does not have an indoor practice field. Getting up four days a week in February in Ohio at 5:30 to run for an hour is not exactly ideal (no wonder we are lacking recruits from Florida). Our strength coach insures us that it could always be worse, as he has worn shorts to every single workout so far. God bless him. However, these workouts, just like UConn (although indoors), are necessary to succeed in Division 1 Football, as you either work for it or you don’t.
Since I transferred from D1 to D1, NCAA rules force me to sit out a season (ladies I’m single and have some free time…). I won’t get into this too much, but in my opinion when a 17-year-old commits to a college in June after his junior year in high school, he shouldn’t be punished if the situation doesn’t work out in his favor after two years.
Thankfully, I find myself coming in with a brand new coaching staff and being able to play on the same team again with my younger brother Steve. Also, my easy-on-the-eyes older sister, an ex-super star athlete at UNC will be living nearby in Ohio for the next year. Oh and did I mention that Miami is known for “its beautiful campus, business school, and attractive women with questionable morals.” Most of the girls seem to spend more time getting ready for class in the morning than I do studying for a semester’s worth of exams. Me, still rocking the sweats and Davy Crocket winter hats. Miami actually has a campus. A street with restaurants, bars, you name it; very unfamiliar territory up in Storrs.
That’s all I got. We play Northwestern, Cincinnati, Boise State, and open up with Kentucky this year so we definitely have our hands full. I’m sure you will be able to catch a game of ours on some random Tuesday night in the fall. That’s how it goes down in the MAC baby. And who knows, maybe International Bowl 2010, UConn v Miami. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Cue Alanis Morissette.
Well, apparently, that’s done. Or not. Since it’s the guy who originally broke the story citing another media person and it hasn’t been corroborrated by anyone within the Viking camp. I apparently had a much better handle on the situation than I thought when he originally retired from the Packers over a year ago.
What I wrote then, and still think now. It’s like dating someone, knowing that it’s best for both parties involved. You reminisce about the good times but ultimately realize that it was the right choice. And the way things have shook out Brett seems like the girl who becomes rather promiscuous. You’re sad to see him sully himself in the eyes of others, you know that they’re special, but ultimately glad that it’s no longer your problem.
I’m looking forward to the Viking fans who ripped him when he played for the Pack breaking down when they have to cheer for him to have their team be successful. Schaedenfreude. Good times. This will be the only Brett Favre post coming from yours truly, because I’m as sick of the whole song and dance as you are.
March 5, 2008
Brett Favre is retiring today. Supposedly. I’ve heard the talk before. He’ll be back. Or so I and millions of others hope. I try not to be partial to the point of abandoning reality or selfish as a fan, but with Favre there was always something. It could be great or it could be terrible, but there was always something to watch.
I didn’t think that it would affect me. He’s an old professional football player. That’s what they do. They retire. We knew it was coming. Or possibly coming. I laughed at my buddy when he was talking about how stunned he was when there was a false alarm on SportSCenter, and he just sat there and couldn’t function.
That couldn’t happen to me. I’m a fan, yes, but up until the point where I invest an unusual, unhealthy or mildly psychotic amount of interest or emotion. Apparently I forgot that fan is short for fanatic. No matter how far I try to keep it hidden under the façade of a responsible, respectable human being.
One of the ladies I work with just casually walked by and said, “Brett’s retiring”. It didn’t hit me at first. What is she talking about? We don’t work with a Bre…wait a minute… It can’t be…He can’t… He did. And it did. Affect me, that is. Not to the point of the lady who said there were no dry eyes in the plant when they heard. I can’t do that. Not for someone I’ve never met. Not yet. Maybe later. During Favre 4Ever. That usually gets me.
I don’t want to say that I didn’t appreciate him while he was playing. I did. But I’d like to think I had a more balanced view of his play than most Packer fans. Too many times he would force a ball or make a dumb play and announcers and fans would fall into the ‘gunslinger’ trap. I wouldn’t fall into it, I’d say, I’m a knowledgeable fan. Or so I like to think. A fan of the game, of playing the right way, of not playing dumb. That throw was terrible, stupid and indefensible. (Essentially like me writing.) But that’s what you get with Brett, they say, you have to take those for all the plays he does make.
And he would make those plays. Oh boy, would he make those freaking plays. The ones that defy description, that are pure improvisation, that are the result of competitive enjoyment that make you look to your dad, your family, your buddies, the random people you’re sitting next to at Lambeau and all you can do is shake your head and laugh and high five and bang on the drum all day.
He would make ridiculous back-handed flips while scrambling to his left. He would wrap the ball all the way around on a draw to the running back. He would fake a throw after handing the ball off. He would fake a throw fifteen yard past the line of scrimmage and make defenders look ridiculous. He would get up after being sacked and get in the D-Lineman’s face. He would play entire series without buckling his chinstrap. He would thread the ball into ridiculously small places with incredible velocity. He would take off his helmet and run around like someone’s little brother in the backyard. In the Super Bowl. He would throw a snowball after he threw a touchdown and give a ref a high-five. He would play.
I’m sure people wanted him to grow up. And he did. Just the right amount. He became a husband, father and elder statesman of the green and gold with the grizzled gray beard. He became more responsible. Got over his share of demons. But he never lost the fun of playing. Never became stuffy or preachy. When he was mic’d up he always came up with some gems:
-What, you think God never farted? -This ain’t the damn Ice Capades. -Yip cabbage. -Mr. Miyagi. -Whoa Nelly, Keith Jackson. … Take back some of them flapjacks, I gotta stay HUNGRAAY for the Crimson Tide. -Put ‘er in the ol’ vice. Put ‘er in the ol’ vice. Put ‘er in the ol’ vice.
I’d buy a DVD collection with all of the mic’d up footage on it.
In all likelihood, I am still in the denial phase of grief, against my better judgment, thinking that there can be no other Packer quarterback. Starr and Majik and all the others were a logical progression to Favre. I’m sure I’m not alone. But there will be another, and people will love him, too. Just not in the same way. Well, maybe, but it’s too soon, and I feel blasphemous even mentioning the possibility.
I feel like I lost something and I can’t verbalize what was lost and therefore cannot come any closer to accepting it. But you can’t describe him accurately with words you needed to see him. He was both ends of the spectrum, sometimes at once. The one who waffled and held the Packers hostage personnel-wise in previous off-seasons. The one who then brought the NFC Championship Game back to Green Bay. The one who started and ended his NFL career with an interception, the one who threw more of them than anyone else in the history of the league. But also the one who threw more touchdowns than anyone else in the history of the league. The one who was Four.
I love the way he is as all boys are. Or at least in their mind. You don’t think I can play anymore? Watch. I’ll show you. What, now you want me to stick around because now you think I can play? I’m done. I want to be done, so I’m through. But, I told you so. {Now you think I’m washed up? Give me my pads. I’ll show you.}
And I can see the boyish Cheshire grin peeking out from underneath a ragged red hat. {Even though I want spectacular train wreck plays against the Pack this year.}
He has an excellent chance to grow up to be a blogger on this site. HT: Various blogs - At this point I had switched to the USA - Egypt tilt hoping they could tack on another goal to advance. They did.
Who says soccer is boring? Stocky little fella from every Disney sports movie ever made does. Kid, if you had topped it off with the truffle shuffle my head may have exploded. If only you were born a decade earlier, you would have killed in The Big Green.
To be fair, I apparently sucked on plastic bags instead of my thumb when I was a toddler. Which explains quite a bit actually. Luckily I had parents who made sure I didn’t make a punchline out of myself on international television. That and there was no YouTube.
The Regents are scheduled to vote tomorrow on whether or not they are going to allow alcohol sales for the inaugural season of Not The Metrodome*. I don’t see what the big issue is with allowing liquor sales in the entire stadium. Arbitrarily placing restrictions on something that is legal is absurd straight away, but the enormous amount of revenue that is lost also seems a bit shortsighted. Underage students will imbibe and people will overindulge, but there is security and police present - wouldn’t it be easier to curtail unruly behavior inside the stadium confines rather than the pre- and post-game tailgate and house party expanse? And it’s a college freaking football game, not a kindergarten dance recital. There’s nothing more American than sitting on your ass eating and drinking body damaging substances while watching other people exert themselves.
However, if the Regents do want to shun ‘logic’ and ‘making money’ and do decide to ban sales, well then go ahead. I don’t necessarily think that because the vast majority of other collegiate on-campus stadiums ban alcohol sales then the U should blindly follow suit. I understand trying to avoid the potential liability and problems that may arise because of in-stadium alcohol sales. But is the message an institution of higher learning wants to send students {Because undeniably that is who the restrictions are primarily aimed at. And of course they won’t succeed in bringing in libations of their own, right? If all the brain power and effort that college students used engineering drinking supplies and games went to benefit humanity, we could wipe out hunger, disease, and be well on our way to living in a veritable utopia in two years. Alas.}: ‘You aren’t mature enough to handle this, so we’re going to take it away from you.’ I mean, the most famous drunken incident at the Metrodome last year had nothing to do with Minnesota students.
Why the State Legislature decided to make a new law because allowing liquor sales in premium seating areas “struck some lawmakers as elitist” is beyond me. Of course it is elitist. Any place of business that inflates prices to exclude a certain demographic is elitist. The elitism doesn’t bother me; people with money have greater access to more places and services. The state government stepping in doesn’t exactly bother me. The politicians are trying to come up with something tangible {beer sales at Gopher games} or the perceived effort of doing something for the greater good; they’re politicians - hell, too many of them are worried about a college football playoff or steroids in baseball than more pressing issues facing the country. What bothers me the most is the University high-ups wringing their collective hands rather than making a decision.
Give the thumbs up or thumbs down and let’s move on, shall we? {But you’d be a lot cooler if you went with the thumbs up.}
* I refuse to call it by its proper name because of a run-in with the omitted entity. I deposited a check, purchased about four/five things after the aforementioned transaction. After taking up issue with the overdraft fees, I was informed that it was company policy for all deposits to be processed the following business day and that there was no way they could reverse the charges incurred {about $150 for roughly $30 worth of purchases}. I know this to be blatantly untrue because a year or two earlier on a legitimate overdraft, I was prepared to pay the fee and was told by the teller that he would just erase the charge. He may have been gay and doing it to hit on me, but that’s not really the point. I hate you unnamed bank.
Dear Austria,
Thanks for the memories. No seriously, thank you. Whether it was discovering a Nazi-sympathizer landlord or swimming in the Worteresee: you never cease to impress. Not to mention all the delicious Murauer that I drank; Yes, in excess on occasion. Thank you for sparking heated debates on team buses: For the official record, I still believe you could take the best rugby players in the world, and they would get their asses handed to them on a Rugby pitch versus NFL Guys with no training. I mean, Ray Lewis? C’mon—he killed a man. But, I digress. This is my official goodbye to you, with your scenic mountain and even nicer population. My time here had so little to do with football, and so much to do with discovering Europe, it’s people, and myself.
Yes, a metaphoric tear comes to my eye, when I think about the early struggles in the grocery store—oh and your keen sense of humor; “American Sandwich.” Well played, Austria. Well played. Or was it the cultural saturation that was your best joke, I hate to admit it, but in month two I was considering buying skinny jeans, and shaping my receding hairline into a soccer mullet, and changing my name to Jahn (or was it Johan…).
Not to mention your coffee—it has meth-addicts and crack smokers jealous. That stuff is so good it should be illegal. So as I prepare for my Euro-Trip, I want to say thank you. Thanks for having me. I’ll be back soon.
Yours Truly,
Rob
"....consistently one of the best written pieces of sports media on the Interweb."-SportsIllustrated.com
"Can we give Rob Lunn a siren, please? Gold Frontz? Self-deprecating humor? Notably engaging writing?...I just found a reason to root for UConn Football." -Burnt Orange Nation
"Chris Cooley (TE Redskins) and Rob Lunn discuss the trials and tribulations of drug testing..." -Maxim.com
"...a refreshingly candid look at a BCS-conference team from the inside...." - With Leather
"[FWG] will answer your questions and make you laugh." - USA Today
