Friday, March 25, 2011

Things are crazy

Whenever I hear someone point out the disparity between a man and a woman’s emotional palette, I find myself agreeing and disagreeing at the same time. I agree because more often than not, women are out of the freaking gourds. Combine their psychotic I-can-have-a-nuclear-meltdown-in-.0003-seconds with their twenty-eight day cycle and… and I do not know why I am even trying to explain this—you can follow the math. Scientist and mathematicians discovered the formula centuries ago:

Psycho(ICHANMI + .0003) x 28-DC = bat shit crazy

For the women reading this column; do not hate. I am not a sexiest or a bigot, okay. I am just terrified of you. Men everywhere are. It is like co-existing with dinosaurs. We act and think as if, “Hey, if I do not make any sudden physical movements and pretend everything is kosher, this T-Rex will not gobble me up for a light snack.” I am not kidding. The women to dinosaur contrast is quite stark, more so than most probably realize. Check it out, both women and dinosaurs meet the following criteria:

- exotic looking creatures
- beautiful lines
- nice to photograph
- deceptively strong
- more dangerous when working as a pack
- movies about them killing people
- sharp teeth

I could go on and on, but my human instinct for survival is telling me to shut my yap unless I want my new sleeping quarters to be the same place I take baths.

I disagree with the emotional disparity between men and women because I realize men release just as much emotional broo-haha as women do. We just do it in more compact and compartmentalized way.

Men experience their emotions in three to four amplitudes; their jobs, their friends/family and their sports. You could argue video games too but it is too overwhelmingly apparent with our sports. With sports we experience the highs, the lows and every emotional variation in between. I think that is why men are observed to be emotionally inept in other areas. It is because we release so much of our emotional fuel within our world of sport that we hardly have any energy left for the other parts. It is not that we are more rational than our women counterparts; we are exhausted and cannot properly freak out.

Some of the most calm, easygoing people I have ever met are avid golfers. These people are not this way because they were born as such, but because they golf. The game will bring out the absolute worst in you. Any demon, hiding deep inside the recess of your soul, will show itself out in the roughs, sand traps and most certainly on the greens. Happy Gilmore is a perfect example.

This is why the calm, easygoing, golfing men you know do not flip out when they get cut in the grocery store line. All they have to do is remind themselves that earlier in the day, when they short-putted a birdie attempt, they almost impaled a camera operator with the flag from the 17th green because of a two or three putt. They are lucky they are not going to prison for manslaughter. So why should they care if this yokel with 50 items jumped in front of them at the local Albertsons?

According to the Pew 2006 News Consumption Survey, men comprise the overwhelming majority of sports television audiences—a whooping 74 percent in fact. We do not just freak out when golfing. Seventy-four percent of us have the entire realm of sports at our disposal, whether it be in our home or out at the sports bars with our buddies, to release our inner crazy. Three-fourths of women do not have this luxury.

If you had to label the tidiness of a females emotional plane, on a scale of obsessive compulsively in order to a Jackson Pollock painting… you would need this YouTube video to describe it. It is true. I have met, and you may know a couple yourself, some of the women from the 24 percent of the Pew Survey.

Take for example this person I know. With no real attempt to hide her identity we shall call her Breski. Breski is everything you expect a woman to be, minus the NASCAR crashes of emotional crazy. She is not butch in anyway, nor does she have any man-isms. She is a chick, but super calm, easy to get along with. Well guess what? Homegirl golfs. A lot. Coincidence? I think not. It should come to no surprise that one of Breski’s good friends, who we will call Darmikey-motorcykey, is ridiculously athletic. Her children will definitely compete in the Olympics someday. Darmikey is also way laid back. Except when it comes to road rage, but road rage is a whole other column and ballgame in itself.

My point is that both of these women are cool and avoid Old Faithful proportioned flip-outs and I credit it to golf and sports. The only other females I know who are chill like them smoke a ton of weed… and that ought to be self-explanatory right there.

Anyhow, now that I am literally 900 words off my intended topic. I came on to put a quick message and be out. What I really wanted to talk about was the end of BYUs Men’s Basketball season and the emotions I felt after yesterday’s loss to Florida.

There was definite sadness. I cannot deny it was there because it was. Clearly you want your team to move forward and claim the ultimate championship, but you also have to keep in mind the amount of success and joys you had along the way. Then weigh them against a defeat. Yes, I felt sadness, but the taste of bitterness was strongly masked by the sweetness of everything that happened this season. This entire season will be something I will hold close and remember long in to my old age. Every passing year will, I think, make my memories and experiences all the more special.

I honestly and truly believe Jimmer Fredette will succeed in the NBA. Is it possible he could “bust”… I must acknowledge percentages, however slight. I do not think he will. It is that belief that makes this season so special. I cannot wait to tell my kids about the players—at every level—who were the names before they were born. When I was little, my dad told me all about the great players in the NFL, MLB and NBA. I remember hearing him say, “Brady, I wish you could have seen these guys play” and he would close his eyes to recall the memories to the front of his conscious. Almost like one would savor a bite of filet mignon or soufflĂ©. I now have one more person I can add when I say something like that.

I can tell my kids,

“I wish you could have seen Michael Jordan play. The bulls were unstoppable. They went 72-10 in the regular season one year.”

“I wish you could have seen Kobe Bryant. Nobody has ever matched that level of determination.”

“In 2004 the Red Sox were down 0-3 in the series with Yankees and came back to win 4-3. Cherry on top was a World Series Win.”

“The 2010-11 season, your mom and I were still somewhat newly married and the nation was in Jimmermania. You couldn’t turn your head without hearing something about it. You should have seen this guy shoot. He took and made shots NBA guys never attempted. Scored in ways you never thought possible. Best college scorer since Pistol Pete Maravich.” And then my kid will ask, “Who was Pistol Pete?” and I’ll say, “I do not really know, I never got to see him play but my dad said he was incredible.” Then some day my kid will tell his kids, “I wish you could have seen blah blah blah, best scorer since Jimmer Fredette.” And then they will go through the same conversation I went through.

I witnessed first-hand, a legacy. Written in permanent ink in my mind. It will never be taken away from me.

And that is why I feel gladness less than 24-hours after the end of BYUs incredible run. Any person who feels different than I do, was never really a fan in the first place. The good thing about people hopping on the bandwagon is that they hop off just as fast. Good riddance. Major League Baseball’s Spring Training is about to end, perhaps some of BYUs hanger-ons will have enough time to go out and buy a Giants hat before the season starts.

I will end and leave this message to the entire BYU Men’s Basketball staff, coaches, players and Athletic Department:

Thank you.

Friday, March 11, 2011

The readers have (not yet) spoken!

Every time I sit down and write an article, I never really know what it the column is going to be about. More often than not, I do not typically have a set topic in mind that I need to get out to the web.

We all have our favorite authors, or movie directors, or whatever—and we like them for pretty particular and specific reasons. I enjoy reads, which relate with the audience. I feel like the person writing, in ways, is trying to talk to me directly. It is like we are friends and if we admit it or not, when you crack it down the basics, it is true. With today’s technologies we are all kind of voyeurs and stalkers. We like having these feelings for complete strangers. Let’s face it we are creepy. I am getting off topic.

My favorite articles to read are mailbags. It is real interaction and not perceived interaction between the author and their audience. To write one would be a dream. And easy.

Basically people are like, “talk about this” and all you got to do is say OK. It fits nicely in to my do-and-as-little-as-possible lazy lifestyle. You could say I was born for it. The issue I face is I only have a small following. I could probably count all of my followers on one hand—maybe two hands if I was only allowed to use one digit on the second hand—and more than half of them are women. Before you get offended, lady readers, let me clarify that the women who are reading these HITS columns, are not your diehard sports nuts. If this is your first time coming to this blog, I bet there is a thirty to ninety-nine percent chance you came across it from surfing a cooking, crafting or couples blog. Tell me I am wrong. I am not, am I?

BUT—if I am, and you are a sports following enthusiast, and you do read this on a semi-regular basis… then what would you like to read? I try to cover pretty much everything. The only sports I have yet to write about are MMA/UFC fighting and hockey; the latter I know practically nothing about besides who are Kobe’s and LeBron’s of the sport. Learning the game of hockey is on my bucket list.

Anyhow, I implore you to write in, comment, or e-mail me with topics you would like to read about. They can be pretty much about anything; even cooking or crafts if that is all you are in to.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

On Deck

There are a couple of declarations I would like to get out this week. Most are trivial and of minor importance, practically all of them have nothing to do with sports (ok, some of them do), half of them are not even interesting, and all of them will not help you lead a better life. In other words, get ready for another, typical, Hang in there Sports column.


I love Red Bull. It is delicious. The joy I feel, when I hear the crack of an 8oz and get that first sip of caffeine nectar, is… pathetic. It really is. I do not even kid myself anymore. Red Bull is my first energy drink love. We broke up for a bit, but have since worked things out and now we are back together. Things are different this time around. There was a 10-month period where I cheating behind Red’s back with Rockstar. She found out about the coo and kicked me to the curb. Rockstar and I went on a bender of rock star proportions. It did not end well. Rockstar was starting to give me crazy panic attacks when I drank them. I had left one in the refrigerator at work the day before caught a terrible weeklong flu. I do not know if it was because I was still sick or if someone tampered with it, but when I got back to work and cracked that Rockstar, it tasted like carbonated Robitussen. I took a two week hiatus from energy drinks altogether, before I ran in to Red at the supermarket. She had taken care of herself during the breakup was looking really good. One thing led to another and now we are going steady.

You see, Red Bull was the first hottie on the scene that had real staying power. There were a couple of one hit wonders to precede her. I remember the days at Drum Intermediate School and the drink that was the crazy drink to drink was Jolt—followed by Surge.

Back then; if you drank Jolt, then you were the rebel of rebels. A tough kid by any means. You were intimidating. Take in to account that this assessment of what a rebel and intimidating person was, is coming from a kid that parted his hair—with nothing but water—every morning. Why I thought that water would hold longer than 15 minutes is beyond me…

There was a kid named Charlie who was known school wide for drinking them. To paint a picture for you, he was also known for listening to Nine Inch Nails and dying his hair with Kool-Aid. He also wore big baggy pants which draped over his black Airwalks, and was someone whose hand you did not want to touch because he did something called ‘masturbating’ with it—a word with unknown meaning to probably 90 percent of the school; especially me. Of course Charlie drank Jolts. And of course I was terrified of him.

Anyways, Jolt was a thing of naught by the time I hit junior high. It was practically forgotten. It was in ninth grade when I tasted my first Red Bull. My brother had come up to Washington to visit and like every Saturday morning growing up, my dad had volunteered our entire family—sans the girls—to wake up at the butt-crack of dawn and go help some person move or do yard work for the elderly.

That morning we piled in the family van and hit the local 7-11 where I got my usual pack of Bubblicous and my brother bought some drinks I never heard of before. I asked him what it was and what it tasted like and he said he’d let me try one, but only if I promised to drink the entire can. The older-brother-making-a-deal-with-the-younger-one-on-limited-and-unknown-information light should have been flashing in my mind, but curiosity won over and I agreed.

It was disgusting. Why did adults drink things like this? I hated every second of it, but I made my bed and sure as hell, my brother was going to make me sleep in it. I was able to power through the canned poison and finish by the time we arrived to the service project.

Lift off.

High levels of caffeine and taurine that have never been in my body, pulsed through my bloodstream. Five minutes in to the yard work I was like a 1900s factory foreman or a pirate ship’s First Mate, laboring at a mile a minute and telling everybody to “GET TAA WERRRK YA MAGGOTS!”

OK, so I did not say things like that but I did feel the effects big time. Soon I was buying Red Bulls for the rush and had worked passed the taste of them. After a while, one can did not cut it anymore and I had to down two. By the time I hit my sophomore year I was purchasing the 4-packs. Any major effects possible derived from energy drinks, I killed off by my senior year. Now, I drink them because I love the way they taste. Especially you, Red Bull.


The whole Charlie Sheen monstrosity kind of rubs me the wrong way. I think in total I have watched one YouTube video and read one article relating to it. Granted one YouTube clip and article is plenty enough to get an understanding of that

A) This man has literally and irretrievably lost his mind and;
B) He will be dead within 18-months

It is the B I think that troubles me the most. Not because I have some bleeding heart for people that have hardcore drug addictions or anything like that. It bugs me because of the way people are trying to put themselves in the spotlight and further their popularity, by putting out clever one-liners about his downfall.

BUT, as soon as he overdoses, or jumps off a building, or attacks a federal building… then boom. All of these people who have been poking fun at him, will come together and make him out be this martyr and victim and how sad it is—and they will be doing it for the same exact reasons they berated him: to sap as many slivers of the spotlight as they can, to further their own campaign to be noticed and liked. People like that, are more distressing than someone with a coke addiction and jumbled self-image.


I am over the whole “BYU’s Honor Code” which has been the debate of many different subjects these past two weeks. The same things are being said over and over again. It is a really simple breakdown; why so much chit-chat?

1) People who are baffled at the cause of the suspension, have different viewpoints and positions on conduct of ones lifestyle, compared with those who do get the suspension. They are entitled to their standpoint with as much total equality that people of the LDS faith have on theirs. Both sides will voice their opinion. Who cares if Amare Stoudemire thinks it dumb? Let the man say what he wants. Should those who are in support of the HC suspension, release a public statement for those who might be offended by their Pro-HC stance? It should be a two-way street. Moving on.
2) People who are in support of the Honor Code, but are against the publicity of the punishment need to shut up. Brandon Davies is a public figure. He is not some obscure person nobody knows about, being brought before the country to be crucified. Wake up.
- He is/was a starter for a Top-10 NCAA Division I basketball team
- Out of the 4152 D-I players, only 49 other players can say that
- Besides Brandon, only three others can say they start along side The Jimmer
- Jimmer Fredette owns college basketball
- Over 150,000,000 people tune in to the NCAA Tournament every year
- This HC suspension came out right as the hype of BYU being a one-seed hit
How do you enforce the Honor Code privately for someone who meets all of the above criteria? Short answer: it is impossible. The incident was handled in the only capacity that it could.
3) I love Brandon Davies playing basketball for BYU. The thought of him playing for Arizona State next season makes me sick to my stomach. I cannot imagine how he feels, nor would I want to. I think I speak for 99% of the BYU fans—the 1% of morons can defend for themselves—and can safely say, “All is forgiven.” He’ll be back for BYU next season.


Referees have the hardest job in the world. I do not feel sorry for them. It is beyond me why anyone would want to subject themselves to rabid fans, and potential situations where they could muff up the outcome a game—let alone an important one. The only thing that I love about a referee, is that I get to yell whatever I feel like at them in public and it is socially acceptable. Beyond their necessity in sports, I do not care for them. It is hard to. Go to YouTube and type in ‘Joey Crawford’. You will get video after video of terrible calls. The worst one is where he gives Tim Duncan two technical fouls in the span of 30 seconds… all while Tim Duncan is setting on the bench. Atrocious.

Another example of bad decision making on behalf of an official, came recently in a low-level soccer match in the United Kingdom that had playoff implications. Ashley Vickers was given a red card after tackling a streaker who came on to the field wearing a thong. In the official’s defense, there is a rule that requires ejection if you attack someone on the field… but come on. The fan was trespassing. Who is to say he did not have a knife in his wig? Would not be the first time a player has been stabbed by a fan.

Watch the video by clicking here.

I am sure you noticed the policeman responsible for ridding the thong-wearing dude, was leisurely walking on the field, and putting zero effort in actually doing something to get the guy. The other policeman was slightly jogging. Do your freaking job instead of just walking about. Had they actually been making an attempt to catch him, I am confident Vickers would not have tackled the man. You can see the disgust he shows with his arms in the air like, “Why didn’t you do what I just did, 20 seconds ago?” The official should have congratulated him. Instead he handed out a red card.


The winter is lovely and I enjoy it. But now the weather needs to get warmer so I can ride my bike. Living vicariously through motorcycle internet videos is not cutting it anymore.