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.
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.