Shoot me, Please!

I came into Draft Day 2009 hoping Michael Crabtree would become an Oakland Raider.

Looking back, I've been targeting him since the beginning of last season's college football season.

Breaking news : the Raiders just selected Darrius Heyward-Bey of Maryland with the 7th pick of the draft.

The Raiders have become a fixture in the top seven picks of the NFL draft. It is a status earned by sucking year in and year out.

.Drafting a guy with bad hands but with a quick 40-time over Crabtree or Jeremy Maclin is just plain STUPID and SENILE.

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My day is ruined.

I'm turning off the draft. No further draft analysis is coming, the Raiders don't deserve my time.

Being a Raider Fan is hell.

With the 7th Pick of the NFL Draft..........

.......the Oakland Raiders select Michael Crabtree, Wide Receiver, Texas Tech University.
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That would get my Saturday off to a rousing start.

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Big play WR for JaMarcus Russell is a perfect fit.

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Others who'd make me a happy camper:

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B.J. Raji, DT, Boston College

Michael Oher, OT, Mississippi

Trade down, acquire more picks and get WR at that point like Hakeem Nicks or Brian Robiske.

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Who would ruin my day:

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Andre Smith, OT, Alabama

Darrius Heyward-Bey, WR, Maryland (If not Crabtree, I'd want a WR in Round 2)

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Bust of the Draft:

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Josh Freeman, QB, Kansas State

The Worst Fans in Sports

New York City? Nope.

Philadelphia? They did boo Santa Claus after all, but they don’t top the list.
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Chicago? Not even close.

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English Soccer Hooligans? ummmm, no.

Full disclosure time – Yeah, I’m a lifelong Bruin’s fan and my hostility toward the Montreal Canadien organization and fans is no secret. That, however, is not why I’m unloading today.

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You see, I’m an American. And I’ve been insulted. More to the point, my favorite song was insulted last night in Montreal’s Belle Center.

Monday evening’s game three of the Boston/Montreal series isn’t the first time my good friends from the north have booed the American National Anthem.

Today, I address those people.

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How to do it? That, is the question of the day. .

Hmmm….take the high road? Or, Option 2…..reduce myself to the level of sheer idiocy.
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Sorry Amy, sorry Mom……..but I think you can guess where this one is going. .

Sometimes you have to do what you have to do and some people are too ignorant to rise UP to another’s level of thinking. Those same people are only capable of understanding narrow points of view, and I am blessed with the ability to do both. .

Call it a gift.

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After reading a few reports from folks who were at the game, not all of the fans in attendance were howling the boo-birds during the Star Spangled Banner.

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My words are intended on the morons who were booing.

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I am ultra-patriotic, hence the striking of a nerve. I’ve been to Montreal, and Toronto, and have sung along with “O, Canada” has been played. It is a beautiful song with a 98% (my number) favorable rating for the quality of its people.

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However, and I’m talking to you jackasses who cannot differentiate sports from reality. A national anthem and subsequent flag of a country are sacred symbols.

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Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for free speech, which is what I’m doing right now.

You want to boo something? Boo that horrific hockey team that wears that uniform that you fawn over with that undeserved arrogant, entitled attitude of yours ----for stereotyping purposes, I call it French Canadien-itis.

I know, you’re not France, but you are linked by your language and your arrogance as a society so deal with it. You'll get the connection in a few paragraphs if you smart enough to read these words.

Men and women have fought and are fighting abroad for what that song symbolizes. You boo my national anthem and you tarnish their efforts.

That may not be the intent, but that is the result.

Do I need to bring up the World War I & II? Huh? Wanna go there? Thank you, I think I will.
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If it wasn’t for our boys, French-speaking language would be spoken in one fewer country (i.e.-France) as German would be the preferred tongue and Schnapps would be the beverage of choice.

That happens when you drop your weapons and raise your arms at the mere sight of an opposing army. If it wasn’t for the Allied Forces, you’d be German-Canadiens. How’s that sound, idiots?

And………….if it wasn’t the Germans, the cold-war juggernaut formerly known as the Soviet Union might have been knocking on the western boarder of your fine country during its run as a world power.

Boo us? How ‘bout thanking us, you ungrateful bastards?

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Found this on the internet, kudos to the folks at the “Stanley Cup of Chowder” blog.

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Truer words were never spoken.

On the ice, the Bruins are whipping Montreal’s ass. It has been a long time coming and I’m enjoying every moment.

Seeing how the Montreal fans emptied that out-house of an arena last night brings me great joy.

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As does the anticipation of Wednesday evening’s game four, otherwise known as the Montreal funeral.

I’ll be wearing black tomorrow, with a little gold trim to support the Bruins as the 100th season in Montreal Canadien history is soon to end.

Les Canadiens sont morts (The Canadiens are dead for my English speaking audience).
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Happy 100th Montreal fans, glad we could ruin it for you. I couldn't have planned it better. I hope the next 100 end up just like this one.

Hopefully, you’ll get a shred of class during that time. .

As I search for my broom to celebrate the series sweep, I’ll be humming along to the 1960’s tune from the band, Steam. It goes something like this…….

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Na Na Na Na, Na Na Na Na, hey hey hey, au revoir!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A Special Weekend - A Tribute to my Grandfather

The best thing about memories is that they can never be taken from you.

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My grandfather taught me to love the game of golf. He taught me to appreciate it.

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I learned the hard way as I used to haul his golf clubs up and down a hilly country club course when I was a kid. Yes, the life as a golf caddy.

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Fun? No.

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Unless you consider carrying the bag under the blazing hot sun for a sum of 56 cents - $10 for the loop- per hole, fun. I had plenty of time to do the math while sweating a ton each Saturday and Sunday morning during my formative summers.
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Would I do it again? In a second.
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He wasn't a big guy, probably 5-foot-6, maybe 160 pounds and was a three-handicap. As his playing partners would be searching for their shots in the woods and the rough, we'd be casually strolling down the fairway toward another well-placed shot.

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I'll never forget the Walter Matthau-like voice giving me golf tips, a few of them I even practice, - others I'm not so good at - as we bonded.

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I think of him every time I golf. I still, and always will, use his old golf bag when I play.

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His favorite tournament? The Masters.

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His favorite golfer? Who else, Jack Nicklaus.

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As I got older, I made it a point each year to call during the Masters tournament. Each Saturday morning as it was "moving day" at Augusta and it was time for the phone call.

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Who was going to win? Who was going to falter ?

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We spoke on the Saturday morning of the 1996 tourney, one year before a young golfer named Tiger burst on the scene. My grandmother was ill and not doing well at the time, I was hoping our Masters-chat would help him take a few minutes away that reality.

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Greg Norman was never one of his favorites but was having a good tournament. Similar in appearance to the great Nicklaus and, at the time, a threat to join Jack's legacy among golfing elite, he viewed Norman with disdain.

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I don't know why he didn't favor Norman, he just didn't. I can understand that, I suppose, it happens in sports.

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At the conclusion of the third round, Norman held a commanding six-shot lead and the tournament was his for the taking. No golfer had ever gagged such a lead at Augusta.

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I was going to make the extra call that afternoon, give him hope that his nemesis would blow it on Sunday.

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I didn't make the call although I wish I had.

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My grandfather passed away that night.

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Perhaps it was fitting that Norman posted a 78 the next day and lost the Masters to Nick Faldo.

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I remember my buddy Mike - the future best man in my wedding - saying to me that night that he could've sworn he saw my grandfather kicking Norman's ball into the woods on his way to the Pearly Gates.

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He was trying to make me feel better, and he did. I knew that somewhere, my grandfather was in a better place. My grandmother joined him six weeks later, to the day.

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This will be the 13th time I view The Masters without having the privilege to make "the call". I believe his spirit is with me, and that has to be good enough.

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Now, I watch the tournament each spring, with a heavy heart and over-active tear ducts, but with the ability to reflect on my memories of what The Masters means to me -a prized possession that will always be inside me.

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Rest in peace, ole buddy.