Now that we have had two televised meetings between Democrat(s) and Republicans, I'm starting to believe they should do this all the time.
When President Obama met with House Republicans on January 29th in Baltimore, no one knew what to expect. Hell, Republicans never even expected Obama to take them up on their invitation. Once the meeting began, it was clear that something unusual was afoot.
Given the opportunity to have a transparent, televised back and forth, both sides came off (mostly) as serious individuals. The Republicans were able to ask substantive questions, and the President was able to respond in kind. Of course, there were moments of the usual political nonsense. Such as Tom Price of Oklahoma suggesting he had a way to bring health care to everyone without spending one new dime. Or, when the President deftly side stepped a question from rising Republican star, Paul Ryan of Wisconsin. But for the most part, the give and take was respectful and stuck to the issues. There was no sign of "birthers," "deathers," or any discussion about the President being a Nazi or the Republicans being "Tea Baggers." In a word, refreshing.
There are a lot of bad things that can be said about television. The programming at Fox News, MTV, the Lifetime Network, and so on are just a few prime examples. However, what television can do that no other medium can, is put people on the record in a way that is both visual and permanent. It forces people to either reveal themselves in a fashion they may not like, or it puts them on their best behavior. And for the most part, on that day in Baltimore, both sides behaved like statesmen.
It really shouldn't be this difficult. Our country is facing big problems. A slow economy, two wars, a health care crisis, the threat of terrorism and so forth. However, in the age of 24 hour media coverage, when every word you say and seemingly everything in your past is pored over like it's the antidote to cancer, we have come to expect the least from our public officials. Too many times you find politicians from both sides bringing out the worst in themselves in an effort to provide a pithy sound bite that cuts down their opponent in ways that are terribly demonizing. Neither side has the right to call patriotism their own. While I am an unabashed liberal, I have many friends who have voted for or consider themselves to be Republicans. Just because we have different political beliefs does not mean we can't talk. However, it seems that in Washington it means exactly that.
Obviously, the 24 hour news cycle can expose the ugly in those being covered, and often in the ones doing the covering. So, that's the bad side of television. However, the good side is that it's awfully hard to call someone names when they are sitting in front of you and there's a camera recording the moment.
Which is again, what we had yesterday at the Health Care Summit. Yesterday, with many of the most significant members of both parties in the same room, sitting at the same table we were able to see who's serious about the issue of health care. And except for a few notable moments, both sides came off fairly well. Oh sure, there was some grandstanding by Dem's Pelosi, Reid, and Republican's Boehner and Cantor, and in the end there was very little movement on either side, but the meeting was instructive for the American people. A frank exchange by both sides on camera allowed us to see where both groups are coming from. Democrats believe that everyone needs to have access to affordable health care, and Republicans don't believe this plan is financially responsible. While I may not agree with the right side of the aisle on this issue, I did find that Paul Ryan and Tom Coburn of Oklahoma had useful ideas and legitimate concerns. Ideas and concerns that I genuinely hope are addressed in any forthcoming legislation.
These two meetings have been treated as unprecedented events. Which is both true and unfortunate. In Great Britain they do this sort of thing all the time. Over there, it's called "Question Time." And if you've never seen it in action, it's quite a sight. Often, the level of civility that we saw in yesterday's meeting is nowhere to be found during Great Britain's Question Time. They will shout each other down and let one another have it. It's really pretty amazing. And while I think we have too many raised voices in our country right now, I would welcome these types of meetings on say, a monthly basis. That way we could get people on the record, out in the open, and start figuring out which of our elected leaders are grown ups and which are just here for the "show."
Now I'm not naive enough to think that after this meeting that both sides aren't going to return to their respective corners and come back out slinging the "politics as usual" mud that gets tossed around so often in Washington. But I do think events like yesterday's make it harder for them to do so. Because as my mama once said, "if you can't say it to my face..."
Sumo-Pop
February 26, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Joannie Rochette
Anyone who knows me can probably guess what I think of figure skating. However, to relieve the suspense, let me just say I hate it. I don't mean that I hate it just a little bit, I mean with big fat capital letters.
I don't even think it's a sport (although I will concede that it is athletic). In fact, I would say its more of a pageant on ice. And don't even get me started on pairs figure skating or ice dancing. Both of which are more like Dancing With The Stars on skates minus the third rate, over the hill, has-been celebrities that add a veneer of quasi-charm (or is it smarm?).
As a competition, it's a complete and utter flipping mystery. Even people who are die-hard fans can't explain the scoring system. And as for my own lying eyes, I could watch hundreds of routines, and unless someone falls on their ass, I would be at a total loss as to why one performance is better than another.
Having said all of that, no one is more surprised than me that I sat on my couch watching ladies figure skating last night with my eyes glued to the screen. Did I have some sort of conversion? Did I suddenly realize the error of my ways? No, on both counts.
The reason I sat with rapt attention is because of the story of Canadian figure skater Joannie Rochette, whom I had never heard of in my life until last evening. You see, Rochette's mother had made the trip to Vancouver to watch her daughter skate for their home country, and two days before her girl was to take the ice, she died of an apparent heart attack. After what had to be some terribly deep soul searching, Rochette decided to skate, to compete for her country, and I'm quite sure her suddenly departed mother.
I was paying the TV little mind when they began relaying her story on NBC. I was reading a magazine while waiting for a more interesting event, like curling--don't get me started on that either. I don't know how something can be considered a sport when a push broom is involved. In fact, if curling is an Olympic sport then why not bocci ball or jarts? But I digress. As the announcers were telling of Rochette's miserable misfortune, I actually began to look up and take note. What I saw was a stunningly beautiful young woman who was about to take the ice and was clearly holding on by the most slender of threads.
Then she did indeed take the ice. And with what must have been a Herculean effort, she somehow composed herself. Next, some ridiculous music started and she began to skate. As I said before, unless someone takes a header, I have no clue whether an ice skating performance is good or bad. I do know this: That bereaved girl completed jump after jump, contorted her body into extraordinary positions while balancing on one skate, and she never came close to falling. But as soon as the music stopped, she cracked. While the cheers of her country, her grieving father, and anyone else in the stadium who had even half a heart rained down on her, she broke down into sobs. It seemed it was all she could do to even make it off the ice. Once she did, she was as shaky as a newborn fawn and practically had to be helped to the area where the competitors wait for the judge's scores.
Rochette was (and is) in no way considered a favorite to medal, let alone win the gold. But when her results came up on the scoreboard, she was in bronze medal position with the highest score of her life.
Tomorrow night, she skates in the second half of the figure skating competition known as the long program. Which I'm guessing is more of the same--- except, you know, longer. And here's the upset, I will be watching. I want to see this young woman facing down what must be the absolute depths of despair. I don't care if she wins a medal or not (although it would be nice). I just want her to stay up on her skates and finish. But even if she falls flat on her face, I will be cheering for her.
This is what I love about the Olympics. These athletes train their hearts out for three years and 49 weeks to compete in a contest that may only last a few moments. Their whole lives poured into a blink of an eye. And then sometimes, that moment is threatened by an injury (usually), or in this case, much worse.
During the 1992 summer Olympics in Barcelona, there was a competitor hailing from England by the name of Derek Redmond. Redmond was a contender in the 400 meter sprint. As the race began, Redmond was in a good position to medal. Then the unthinkable happened, he completely tore his hamstring. As he pulled up lame, he began to cry from a pain that was more in his heart than in his leg. Then, he began to hop on one leg. And he kept hopping. Not off the course, but around the turn and into the straight away toward the finish line. His father stormed onto the track and with his one-legged son leaning on his shoulder, they completed the race together.
That young man may not have medaled, but he epitomized the Olympic spirit as well as anyone ever has. Only two years ago, in one of those fine Olympic promotional advertisements--featuring the mellifluous voice of Morgan Freeman--was Redmond's moment immortalized.
So, tomorrow night a woman that I had never heard of, competing in a sport that I can't stand is going to garner my undivided attention. And when she finishes, I imagine it won't be long before the folks at NBC call up Morgan Freeman and ask him to start warming up his wonderful pipes. Hell, they probably already have.
Sumo-Pop
February 24, 2010
I don't even think it's a sport (although I will concede that it is athletic). In fact, I would say its more of a pageant on ice. And don't even get me started on pairs figure skating or ice dancing. Both of which are more like Dancing With The Stars on skates minus the third rate, over the hill, has-been celebrities that add a veneer of quasi-charm (or is it smarm?).
As a competition, it's a complete and utter flipping mystery. Even people who are die-hard fans can't explain the scoring system. And as for my own lying eyes, I could watch hundreds of routines, and unless someone falls on their ass, I would be at a total loss as to why one performance is better than another.
Having said all of that, no one is more surprised than me that I sat on my couch watching ladies figure skating last night with my eyes glued to the screen. Did I have some sort of conversion? Did I suddenly realize the error of my ways? No, on both counts.
The reason I sat with rapt attention is because of the story of Canadian figure skater Joannie Rochette, whom I had never heard of in my life until last evening. You see, Rochette's mother had made the trip to Vancouver to watch her daughter skate for their home country, and two days before her girl was to take the ice, she died of an apparent heart attack. After what had to be some terribly deep soul searching, Rochette decided to skate, to compete for her country, and I'm quite sure her suddenly departed mother.
I was paying the TV little mind when they began relaying her story on NBC. I was reading a magazine while waiting for a more interesting event, like curling--don't get me started on that either. I don't know how something can be considered a sport when a push broom is involved. In fact, if curling is an Olympic sport then why not bocci ball or jarts? But I digress. As the announcers were telling of Rochette's miserable misfortune, I actually began to look up and take note. What I saw was a stunningly beautiful young woman who was about to take the ice and was clearly holding on by the most slender of threads.
Then she did indeed take the ice. And with what must have been a Herculean effort, she somehow composed herself. Next, some ridiculous music started and she began to skate. As I said before, unless someone takes a header, I have no clue whether an ice skating performance is good or bad. I do know this: That bereaved girl completed jump after jump, contorted her body into extraordinary positions while balancing on one skate, and she never came close to falling. But as soon as the music stopped, she cracked. While the cheers of her country, her grieving father, and anyone else in the stadium who had even half a heart rained down on her, she broke down into sobs. It seemed it was all she could do to even make it off the ice. Once she did, she was as shaky as a newborn fawn and practically had to be helped to the area where the competitors wait for the judge's scores.
Rochette was (and is) in no way considered a favorite to medal, let alone win the gold. But when her results came up on the scoreboard, she was in bronze medal position with the highest score of her life.
Tomorrow night, she skates in the second half of the figure skating competition known as the long program. Which I'm guessing is more of the same--- except, you know, longer. And here's the upset, I will be watching. I want to see this young woman facing down what must be the absolute depths of despair. I don't care if she wins a medal or not (although it would be nice). I just want her to stay up on her skates and finish. But even if she falls flat on her face, I will be cheering for her.
This is what I love about the Olympics. These athletes train their hearts out for three years and 49 weeks to compete in a contest that may only last a few moments. Their whole lives poured into a blink of an eye. And then sometimes, that moment is threatened by an injury (usually), or in this case, much worse.
During the 1992 summer Olympics in Barcelona, there was a competitor hailing from England by the name of Derek Redmond. Redmond was a contender in the 400 meter sprint. As the race began, Redmond was in a good position to medal. Then the unthinkable happened, he completely tore his hamstring. As he pulled up lame, he began to cry from a pain that was more in his heart than in his leg. Then, he began to hop on one leg. And he kept hopping. Not off the course, but around the turn and into the straight away toward the finish line. His father stormed onto the track and with his one-legged son leaning on his shoulder, they completed the race together.
That young man may not have medaled, but he epitomized the Olympic spirit as well as anyone ever has. Only two years ago, in one of those fine Olympic promotional advertisements--featuring the mellifluous voice of Morgan Freeman--was Redmond's moment immortalized.
So, tomorrow night a woman that I had never heard of, competing in a sport that I can't stand is going to garner my undivided attention. And when she finishes, I imagine it won't be long before the folks at NBC call up Morgan Freeman and ask him to start warming up his wonderful pipes. Hell, they probably already have.
Sumo-Pop
February 24, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
John Mayer Is The Devil
John Mayer is the Devil.
I had long believed this to be true even before the risible quotes from his forthcoming Playboy interview (link:http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1631667/20100210/mayer_john.jhtml) were made public. The evidence of his Lucifuge could be found in his 70's lite rock well before he referred to Jessica Simpson as "sexual napalm," casually called homosexuals "fags," and said his penis was a "white-supremacist" (dear God!).
If you look at his biggest hits, it becomes awfully clear that this guy is pitching to the lowest denominator. He has recorded a succession of songs that seem inoffensive on the surface, but when you dig deeper, it doesn't take long to realize that these tunes--delivered in Mayer's trademark, breathy, gauzy, vocal style--are pretty damn wicked. And not in the good way.
Let me run through three songs in particular:
Take his first hit, "No Such Thing." What is the difference between that shite-fest and "How Do You Talk To An Angel?" The vocals are painfully similar, the music safe and weak, and when he breaks into the high note on the chorus: "I want to run through the halls in high school/I want to scream at the top of my lungs." Well, I agree with the second part.
And how about "Daughters?" This tune sounds like the worst of the AM gold that I had to suffer through at the laundromat in the 1970's. The first notes of that rather ironic (see his Jessica Simpson quote) tribute to women instantly brings the fragrance of detergent to my nostrils, the whirring buzz of the spin cycle to my ears, and the words of Seals and Croft's "Summer Breeze" to my mind. The feeling evoked is damn near suicidal.
However, the worst and most evil of all Mayer songs has to be "Waiting On The World To Change." Given a cursory listen, the tune actually sounds like a breakthrough for Mayer. The track's soulful, Stax-like groove brings to mind an Otis Redding cut, or even the Memphis soul of Al Green. But if you look at the point of "Waiting," what you find is an anthem of apathy. Mayer essentially states that his generation can't be bothered to get involved until the world changes on its own.
Take the third verse:
"It's hard to beat the system/When we're standing at a distance/So we keep waiting Waiting on the world to change"
So don't stand at a distance you freakin' moron!
Or, how about this verse:
"It's not that we don't care/We just know that the fight ain't fair/So we keep on waiting/Waiting on the world to change"
So why fight at all? Why get involved? Let's just wait and see what happens? Bitch, please.
I'm real glad Susan B. Anthony, Martin Luther King Jr., and Harvey Milk didn't subscribe to this philosophy. Because while apathy might not be the root of all evil, it certainly is one of its sturdiest branches. Apathy allowed Jim Crow laws to exist, it kept women from voting until the 20th century, and it prevents homosexuals from experiencing equal rights to this day. It is one of the worst sins imaginable, and John Mayer has written its theme song. Congratulations, douche bag.
Maybe now that Mayer has revealed himself through his sexist, racist, and homophobic comments (what a trifecta!), the world will re-evaluate his useless music and confine it to the dust bins of history along side Air Supply, Jefferson Starship, and Gerry Rafferty. Maybe the guy who said he isn't "open" to having sex with a black woman because while he may have a "Benetton heart," he has a "David Duke cock," will just go away. However, if we can't get rid of R. Kelly, I'm not betting on our chances of pushing this ass clown to the side.
The shame of it all is that Mayer is not untalented. He's a fine and resourceful guitarist, and he has a way with a hook. Of course, I'm quite sure that Satan is good at a number of things too.
Sumo-Pop
February 20, 2010
I had long believed this to be true even before the risible quotes from his forthcoming Playboy interview (link:http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1631667/20100210/mayer_john.jhtml) were made public. The evidence of his Lucifuge could be found in his 70's lite rock well before he referred to Jessica Simpson as "sexual napalm," casually called homosexuals "fags," and said his penis was a "white-supremacist" (dear God!).
If you look at his biggest hits, it becomes awfully clear that this guy is pitching to the lowest denominator. He has recorded a succession of songs that seem inoffensive on the surface, but when you dig deeper, it doesn't take long to realize that these tunes--delivered in Mayer's trademark, breathy, gauzy, vocal style--are pretty damn wicked. And not in the good way.
Let me run through three songs in particular:
Take his first hit, "No Such Thing." What is the difference between that shite-fest and "How Do You Talk To An Angel?" The vocals are painfully similar, the music safe and weak, and when he breaks into the high note on the chorus: "I want to run through the halls in high school/I want to scream at the top of my lungs." Well, I agree with the second part.
And how about "Daughters?" This tune sounds like the worst of the AM gold that I had to suffer through at the laundromat in the 1970's. The first notes of that rather ironic (see his Jessica Simpson quote) tribute to women instantly brings the fragrance of detergent to my nostrils, the whirring buzz of the spin cycle to my ears, and the words of Seals and Croft's "Summer Breeze" to my mind. The feeling evoked is damn near suicidal.
However, the worst and most evil of all Mayer songs has to be "Waiting On The World To Change." Given a cursory listen, the tune actually sounds like a breakthrough for Mayer. The track's soulful, Stax-like groove brings to mind an Otis Redding cut, or even the Memphis soul of Al Green. But if you look at the point of "Waiting," what you find is an anthem of apathy. Mayer essentially states that his generation can't be bothered to get involved until the world changes on its own.
Take the third verse:
"It's hard to beat the system/When we're standing at a distance/So we keep waiting Waiting on the world to change"
So don't stand at a distance you freakin' moron!
Or, how about this verse:
"It's not that we don't care/We just know that the fight ain't fair/So we keep on waiting/Waiting on the world to change"
So why fight at all? Why get involved? Let's just wait and see what happens? Bitch, please.
I'm real glad Susan B. Anthony, Martin Luther King Jr., and Harvey Milk didn't subscribe to this philosophy. Because while apathy might not be the root of all evil, it certainly is one of its sturdiest branches. Apathy allowed Jim Crow laws to exist, it kept women from voting until the 20th century, and it prevents homosexuals from experiencing equal rights to this day. It is one of the worst sins imaginable, and John Mayer has written its theme song. Congratulations, douche bag.
Maybe now that Mayer has revealed himself through his sexist, racist, and homophobic comments (what a trifecta!), the world will re-evaluate his useless music and confine it to the dust bins of history along side Air Supply, Jefferson Starship, and Gerry Rafferty. Maybe the guy who said he isn't "open" to having sex with a black woman because while he may have a "Benetton heart," he has a "David Duke cock," will just go away. However, if we can't get rid of R. Kelly, I'm not betting on our chances of pushing this ass clown to the side.
The shame of it all is that Mayer is not untalented. He's a fine and resourceful guitarist, and he has a way with a hook. Of course, I'm quite sure that Satan is good at a number of things too.
Sumo-Pop
February 20, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Jennifer
In the great John Cusack movie High Fidelity, there is a voice over midway through the film where Cusack states that when it comes to dating, "You have to punch your own weight." A theory that essentially says that you can go up a level, but if you go too far up in class, disaster will ensue.
On October 13, 2001, I married Jennifer Erin Zent. And she is way out of my league.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a pretty good person. My wife however, is a great person. I have three basic standards for kindness: How do you treat the elderly, children, and animals. My wife is aces at all three.
While still in college, Jennifer's grandmother was stricken with lung cancer. She practically moved into her grandparent's house taking care of her busia (polish for grandmother). She helped her to the bathroom, fixed meals, and cleaned up her vomit. A few years ago, my own grandmother was hospitalized after suffering from a heart attack. I watched my wife feed my grandmother when she could not do it for herself. And when my grandmother died while I was out of town, she went straight to my mother's side and stayed with her through those first horrible hours. My mom might have been lost without her on that awful day.
Jennifer also volunteered at the drastically underfunded local Head Start program for under-privileged children, and did so with a glad heart. For years she ran the children's department at Barnes & Noble where she read stories to children with gusto and created crafts for the kids who attended her events. She has something I don't have--the facility to find a child's mind fascinating. She can reach down to their level without pandering, because she doesn't have to feign interest.
Her love of the furry and four legged should not be overlooked either. When my precious 16 year old Australian Shepherd died, she left work to be with me and my family. And she cried too. She insists on getting our animals from no-kill shelters. She didn't blink an eye at the expensive cancer treatment required for our beloved Shar Pei-Beagle mix, Sarah, which gained us one more joyful year with that sweet dog. After that nasty disease finally claimed her and we finished crying buckets, we went to Pet Refuge and picked out the saddest dog at the shelter to take home with us, a gangly, broken-hearted coon hound named Lily. You see, she believes that all of us deserve a chance, canine, feline, or human.
Her loyalty to her friends should be the stuff of legend. She remains close to those she grew up with, and when her oldest and dearest friend lost her mother, it was Jennifer who held her hand and walked her up to the casket to say the hardest of goodbye's. I watched from afar in complete and total awe.
She's never been drunk or even tried drugs. She rarely swears, is unfailingly honest, and has a faith that puts mine to shame. Yet somehow, this beautiful creature (inside and out) took a look at a bald, misanthropic smart ass with a checkered past and chose to be with him, to be with me.
Now, she will read this and think I'm silly. Which both delights and bemuses me. The fact that she finds me worthy of her love--while bewildering--is the greatest compliment I have ever been paid. In response, I can only try to love her back. A skill that on occasion, I could be better at.
I do very much love the movie High Fidelity. There is great truth and wisdom in it. And the advice about "punching your own weight" makes a lot of sense. However, I have spent the better part of the last eleven years with the finest person I have ever met. So to hell with punching my own weight. Because for over a decade now, I wake up every morning feeling the way Buster Douglas must have felt the day after knocking out Mike Tyson--champion of the world, baby. Anybody want to guess why?
Sumo-Pop
February 14, 2010
On October 13, 2001, I married Jennifer Erin Zent. And she is way out of my league.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a pretty good person. My wife however, is a great person. I have three basic standards for kindness: How do you treat the elderly, children, and animals. My wife is aces at all three.
While still in college, Jennifer's grandmother was stricken with lung cancer. She practically moved into her grandparent's house taking care of her busia (polish for grandmother). She helped her to the bathroom, fixed meals, and cleaned up her vomit. A few years ago, my own grandmother was hospitalized after suffering from a heart attack. I watched my wife feed my grandmother when she could not do it for herself. And when my grandmother died while I was out of town, she went straight to my mother's side and stayed with her through those first horrible hours. My mom might have been lost without her on that awful day.
Jennifer also volunteered at the drastically underfunded local Head Start program for under-privileged children, and did so with a glad heart. For years she ran the children's department at Barnes & Noble where she read stories to children with gusto and created crafts for the kids who attended her events. She has something I don't have--the facility to find a child's mind fascinating. She can reach down to their level without pandering, because she doesn't have to feign interest.
Her love of the furry and four legged should not be overlooked either. When my precious 16 year old Australian Shepherd died, she left work to be with me and my family. And she cried too. She insists on getting our animals from no-kill shelters. She didn't blink an eye at the expensive cancer treatment required for our beloved Shar Pei-Beagle mix, Sarah, which gained us one more joyful year with that sweet dog. After that nasty disease finally claimed her and we finished crying buckets, we went to Pet Refuge and picked out the saddest dog at the shelter to take home with us, a gangly, broken-hearted coon hound named Lily. You see, she believes that all of us deserve a chance, canine, feline, or human.
Her loyalty to her friends should be the stuff of legend. She remains close to those she grew up with, and when her oldest and dearest friend lost her mother, it was Jennifer who held her hand and walked her up to the casket to say the hardest of goodbye's. I watched from afar in complete and total awe.
She's never been drunk or even tried drugs. She rarely swears, is unfailingly honest, and has a faith that puts mine to shame. Yet somehow, this beautiful creature (inside and out) took a look at a bald, misanthropic smart ass with a checkered past and chose to be with him, to be with me.
Now, she will read this and think I'm silly. Which both delights and bemuses me. The fact that she finds me worthy of her love--while bewildering--is the greatest compliment I have ever been paid. In response, I can only try to love her back. A skill that on occasion, I could be better at.
I do very much love the movie High Fidelity. There is great truth and wisdom in it. And the advice about "punching your own weight" makes a lot of sense. However, I have spent the better part of the last eleven years with the finest person I have ever met. So to hell with punching my own weight. Because for over a decade now, I wake up every morning feeling the way Buster Douglas must have felt the day after knocking out Mike Tyson--champion of the world, baby. Anybody want to guess why?
Sumo-Pop
February 14, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Saints Are Coming
Sometimes, you just gotta root for the story. That's my advice to football fans like myself who have no "dog in the hunt" for tonight's Super Bowl. If you're not a Colts backer or a member of "Who Dat?" nation, the story is all you have.
The tale of the Saints is a highly improbable one. The Saints became an NFL expansion team in 1967. The 43 years that followed have established the Saints as one of the worst franchises in the history of sports.
It took the Saints twelve years to have a non-losing season (8-8 in 1979). The hope and promise of that season was quickly dashed by one of the most embarrassing years that any sports team has ever experienced. The 1980 version of of the Saints went 1-15, and it's hard to figure out how they won the one (a 21-20 squeaker over the poor New York Jets in the next to last game of the season). The team was re-christened the Ain'ts by the media (as in ain't gonna win), and fans took to the stadium with bags over their heads. I was only ten years old that year, but even I knew the Saints were dreadful. When we were chucking the pig skin around the playground, you didn't want to be on the losing side when you came back in from recess, because the losers were referred to as the Saints. And nobody wanted to be a Saint.
Eight more years (and 20 since their inception) had to pass before the Saints even made the playoffs. 1987 kicked off a seven year stretch where the Jim Mora led Saints finished .500 or better every year and made the playoffs four times. Still, it was another seven years before the Saints won their first playoff game in 2000. 33 years without a single playoff win--mind boggling.
However, little did the franchise and their fans know that the worst was yet to come. On August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina made landfall, leaving the city of New Orleans underwater. The city was decimated by faulty levees built by the Army Corps of Engineers, piss-poor planning by local officials (Mayor Nagin--dear God), and a pathetic post disaster response by the state and federal government.
In the aftermath of the worst national disaster in the history of the United States, much of the remaining local population made their way to the only shelter they could find--the New Orleans Super Dome, the home of the Saints. There, the refugees (and that's what they were) waited days for food, for water, and for rescue. They were left to their own devices in a roofless football stadium with no working plumbing or basic necessities. Surrounded by the stench of dead bodies baking in the summer sun and overrun toilets, it had to have been hell on Earth.
After the recovery began, there was much discussion over where the Saints would play. With the stadium in a state of dis-repair, and a displaced population, there was even a question of whether the Saints would ever return to New Orleans. Owner Tom Benson was in serious negotiations to move the team to San Antonio. While it's difficult to blame Benson for considering a viable opportunity for his franchise, one had to wonder how much more the city of New Orleans had to lose.
The Saints spent the 2005 season playing the bulk of their home games at Tiger Stadium in Baton Rouge. After considerable hand wringing, and significant support from the NFL, the Saints returned to New Orleans for the 2006 season.
Led by new coach Sean Payton, and free agent quarterback Drew Brees, the Saints enjoyed a near storybook season that ended with a loss in the NFC championship against the Chicago Bears. Many thought the Saints were headed for a new era of prosperity, but the next two years that followed brought 7-9 and 8-8 seasons. The Saints were mediocre once again. However, this year, the promise of the 2006 season has been fulfilled. The 2009 Saints roared through the regular season and squeezed by the Minnesota Vikings in an overtime thriller to win the NFC championship.
If you contrast the Saints history with that of the Colts, it's a no-contest. The Colts are among the most storied franchises in the history of professional football.
Beginning in 1953 until their move to Indianapolis in 1984, the Baltimore Colts were the franchise of Hall of Fame coaches Weeb Ewbank and Don Shula. Led by Johnny Unitas--the best quarterback of his era--the Colts won two NFL championships (in the pre-Super Bowl era). They lost the 1968 Super Bowl to Joe Namath and the New York Jets, but returned two years later to defeat the Dallas Cowboys in Super Bowl 5.
The Colts had a long fallow period after the Unitas years, and a scabrous relationship between owner Robert Irsay and the city of Baltimore facilitated the exodus of the team to Indianapolis under the cover of darkness in 1984.
The Indianapolis Colts were a mediocre franchise until coach Tony Dungy joined quarterback Peyton Manning in 2002. The Colts have won 10 games or more every season since, peaking with a Super Bowl victory over the Bears in 2006.
This year's Colts team won 14 consecutive games before giving away the last two games of the regular season while resting their starters. In typical workmanlike fashion, the Colts took out the Ravens and the Jets in the playoffs to reach their second Super Bowl in four years.
These two franchises couldn't be more dis-similar. The oft-wretched Saints and the legendary Colts. The wild-eyed colorful fans of New Orleans, and the mid-western, vanilla fans of Indianapolis. The Colts have won 4 championships to the Saints none, and have 11 Hall of Famers to the Saints one (congrats, Rickey Jackson!). One team has history, experience, and one of the greatest quarterbacks ever. The other has Drew Brees, the "Who Dat?" nation, and a background of failure.
But here's what you also have: A team who's city had drowned, who's fans had scattered across the country, and who's government nearly forgot them while they fended for themselves in a damaged football stadium. A stadium that was once a house of horrors is now a symbol of pride. Only four short years later in a city still recovering from disaster and neglect, has come a team of unlikely heroes who rose out of filth infested waters to carry the hopes of an entire city on their backs.
So tonight, I'm rooting for the story, I'm rooting for the Saints. And to my own surprise, I'll be rooting quite hard. Who Dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?! Who Dat?!
Sumo-Pop
February 7, 2010
The tale of the Saints is a highly improbable one. The Saints became an NFL expansion team in 1967. The 43 years that followed have established the Saints as one of the worst franchises in the history of sports.
It took the Saints twelve years to have a non-losing season (8-8 in 1979). The hope and promise of that season was quickly dashed by one of the most embarrassing years that any sports team has ever experienced. The 1980 version of of the Saints went 1-15, and it's hard to figure out how they won the one (a 21-20 squeaker over the poor New York Jets in the next to last game of the season). The team was re-christened the Ain'ts by the media (as in ain't gonna win), and fans took to the stadium with bags over their heads. I was only ten years old that year, but even I knew the Saints were dreadful. When we were chucking the pig skin around the playground, you didn't want to be on the losing side when you came back in from recess, because the losers were referred to as the Saints. And nobody wanted to be a Saint.
Eight more years (and 20 since their inception) had to pass before the Saints even made the playoffs. 1987 kicked off a seven year stretch where the Jim Mora led Saints finished .500 or better every year and made the playoffs four times. Still, it was another seven years before the Saints won their first playoff game in 2000. 33 years without a single playoff win--mind boggling.
However, little did the franchise and their fans know that the worst was yet to come. On August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina made landfall, leaving the city of New Orleans underwater. The city was decimated by faulty levees built by the Army Corps of Engineers, piss-poor planning by local officials (Mayor Nagin--dear God), and a pathetic post disaster response by the state and federal government.
In the aftermath of the worst national disaster in the history of the United States, much of the remaining local population made their way to the only shelter they could find--the New Orleans Super Dome, the home of the Saints. There, the refugees (and that's what they were) waited days for food, for water, and for rescue. They were left to their own devices in a roofless football stadium with no working plumbing or basic necessities. Surrounded by the stench of dead bodies baking in the summer sun and overrun toilets, it had to have been hell on Earth.
After the recovery began, there was much discussion over where the Saints would play. With the stadium in a state of dis-repair, and a displaced population, there was even a question of whether the Saints would ever return to New Orleans. Owner Tom Benson was in serious negotiations to move the team to San Antonio. While it's difficult to blame Benson for considering a viable opportunity for his franchise, one had to wonder how much more the city of New Orleans had to lose.
The Saints spent the 2005 season playing the bulk of their home games at Tiger Stadium in Baton Rouge. After considerable hand wringing, and significant support from the NFL, the Saints returned to New Orleans for the 2006 season.
Led by new coach Sean Payton, and free agent quarterback Drew Brees, the Saints enjoyed a near storybook season that ended with a loss in the NFC championship against the Chicago Bears. Many thought the Saints were headed for a new era of prosperity, but the next two years that followed brought 7-9 and 8-8 seasons. The Saints were mediocre once again. However, this year, the promise of the 2006 season has been fulfilled. The 2009 Saints roared through the regular season and squeezed by the Minnesota Vikings in an overtime thriller to win the NFC championship.
If you contrast the Saints history with that of the Colts, it's a no-contest. The Colts are among the most storied franchises in the history of professional football.
Beginning in 1953 until their move to Indianapolis in 1984, the Baltimore Colts were the franchise of Hall of Fame coaches Weeb Ewbank and Don Shula. Led by Johnny Unitas--the best quarterback of his era--the Colts won two NFL championships (in the pre-Super Bowl era). They lost the 1968 Super Bowl to Joe Namath and the New York Jets, but returned two years later to defeat the Dallas Cowboys in Super Bowl 5.
The Colts had a long fallow period after the Unitas years, and a scabrous relationship between owner Robert Irsay and the city of Baltimore facilitated the exodus of the team to Indianapolis under the cover of darkness in 1984.
The Indianapolis Colts were a mediocre franchise until coach Tony Dungy joined quarterback Peyton Manning in 2002. The Colts have won 10 games or more every season since, peaking with a Super Bowl victory over the Bears in 2006.
This year's Colts team won 14 consecutive games before giving away the last two games of the regular season while resting their starters. In typical workmanlike fashion, the Colts took out the Ravens and the Jets in the playoffs to reach their second Super Bowl in four years.
These two franchises couldn't be more dis-similar. The oft-wretched Saints and the legendary Colts. The wild-eyed colorful fans of New Orleans, and the mid-western, vanilla fans of Indianapolis. The Colts have won 4 championships to the Saints none, and have 11 Hall of Famers to the Saints one (congrats, Rickey Jackson!). One team has history, experience, and one of the greatest quarterbacks ever. The other has Drew Brees, the "Who Dat?" nation, and a background of failure.
But here's what you also have: A team who's city had drowned, who's fans had scattered across the country, and who's government nearly forgot them while they fended for themselves in a damaged football stadium. A stadium that was once a house of horrors is now a symbol of pride. Only four short years later in a city still recovering from disaster and neglect, has come a team of unlikely heroes who rose out of filth infested waters to carry the hopes of an entire city on their backs.
So tonight, I'm rooting for the story, I'm rooting for the Saints. And to my own surprise, I'll be rooting quite hard. Who Dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?! Who Dat?!
Sumo-Pop
February 7, 2010
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