february

By February New Years Resolutions have been broken, Christmas debts have been paid off and the overdose of family time has finally remissed.  And as some are just recovering from the holiday hangover I am rejoicing at what has yet to come.

February is the steps leading up to the white house, the appetizer before the main dish, it’s the opening act before the headliner. February is the hopes and the dreams and the anticipation before the big game. February is to March and April what stuffed mushrooms are to a steak dinner or what Hunter Hayes is to Reba McEntire.

February’s real purpose is two-fold: a) to show us that spelling and pronunciation have no correlation to eachother and b) to tease our athletic appetite until the main coarses arrive: the draft, opening day, and the madness that is March.

February gives us the combine. And with the combine comes the draft. And the draft day predictions, and Mel’s big board, and failed wonderlic tests. The NFL Draft is like one big game of dodgeball minus the dodging, ducking, diving, dipping, and dodging and only having the drafting. Its 3^rd grade picking teams taken to the next level.

It’s suits and ties and hopes and dreams all knotted into one night. It’s friends and family and girlfriends and fake girlfriends all in one spot. It’s photo ops and ill-fitting flat brim hats. It’s first round duds and sixth round studs. Its undrafted free agents and fans who think they know better. It’s everything you can hope for in an event that has no score.

And before you can overestimate potential and underestimate willpower you get the combine. 200-400 lb men in womens sized spandex running 40s and shuffling throught cones, catching passes and throwing bombs. And it all adds up to the number you see on your future wikipedia page. So we have the combine, where seconds equal millions of dollars in endorsements and practice throws can turn into Madden covers, and it all starts here, in February.

Next comes spring training. My favorite child baseball is almost in the forefront of ESPN’s homepage. America’s past time is waiting in the wing to wrap us up again with the smell of fresh cut grass and the taste of $8 beers. The Rockies have taken their talents to Arizona and with each twitter update or webpage reload I reinvest myself in the Colorado Rockies.

The past year was filled with too many untimely strikeouts and unphotogenic DUIs. So with the season upon us it is time to open our heart to the chance that this year could be more. Perfectly timed hits and seamlessly fielded groundballs. Big smiles and bigger wins. Perfectly breaking breaking balls and deliciously curvy curve balls. It all lies ahead of us, and it started here, in February.

The college basketball regular season is coming to an end and that means one thing: things are about to get mad. (Think mad hatter mad). Men will count wins and losses, and RPIs and SOSs and pick their teams: their 64 (ish) teams that represent the best in the country. And then comes the bracket: A simple piece of paper filled with names and lines. A simple piece of paper that causes nightmares and arguments. A simple piece of paper that makes you feel like a king or a pauper. The bracket. Teams play their final games of the season and their conference championships to end up on this nationally printed piece of paper. You can choose teams by names or the small numbers in front of their names or mascots or syllables, but no matter what that simple piece of paper will haunt your March, and it all starts here, in February.

So here’s a toast to the month that gave us Abe, and the Bus, and Wynne Brantlinger. There are only good things to come. 

"It ain't intramurals, brother"

I imagine you all thought I would have some pretty strong opinions (and witty comments) about the recent firing of Dan Hawkins. Or the event that preceded this firing (aka the straw that broke the buffaloes back, and that is a lot more straw than you need to break a camel’s back, for those of you who don’t know your animal-deadlift stats). The final straw? The fact that the awful Kansas Jayhawks scored 35, yes 35 unanswered points on my Colorado Buffaloes in under 14 minutes, yes under 14 minutes. I’m not talking about a basketball game, because as my March Madness bracket from last year will tell you, I believe Kansas has a good basketball team (thanks for nothing Jayhawks, I had you going to the final).

Anyway, this was their football team. Yes, the football team with a brand new coach who lost 6-3 in their opener to North Dakota State (sometimes, I forget North Dakota is even a state. Bravo, Kansas, bravo). And just a reminder after seeing that score, first, as previously stated, I’m not talking basketball, and now I will let you know I am not talking soccer, or baseball either, still talking football: 6-3 final score.

Did you know, that before beating my Buffs 52-45 they had scored a total of 40 points in the 4 games preceding it? The opposing teams…. had scored 187 points. So when I use the word “awful” to describe the Jayhawks, I don’t mean to offend them or you, if you're one of the 7.2 Jayhawk football fans. I’m just here to state the facts. If nothing has been obvious to you through this blog I hope you see that I am a neutral party when it comes to all sports. (Yes, that was complete BS). But, my oh my, if the Jayhawks are awful, what does that make the Buffs? I don’t think a thesaurus will help me with that; there isn’t a word that has been created in the English language to describe what they have become. If I were creative enough to make a witty word that combines horrendous, awful, embarrassing, painful, piss-poor, and craptastic…that’s what the Buffs would be. So there is my non-opinion on that.

But like I said earlier, I am practically numb to the pain they cause me when they lose. For a regular fan, or perhaps someone who isn’t a complete sports cynic, this was probably a sucker punch loss, yes the kind that feels like a donkey, possibly a bucking bronco has rammed its hoof into your chest and you have no arms to protect yourself (because you are so excited that you are about to win that your arms are raised above your head because you are 28 points ahead in the 4th quarter and there is no possible way that you can lose, oh wait…). Anyway, piss off Buffaloes, you suck and anger me but cause me no pain. Dan Hawkins, I have no opinion on this, I saw this coming, I’m just surprised it took so long. The Hawk seems like a good coach he just couldn’t handle the wild west (since there are Buffaloes in the wild west?). Anywho, there you go, my opinion-less opinions on the Hawk and the Buffaloes.

So Dan, I will leave you with a great intramural team name for the flag football team you’ll be coaching next year: the Stepfathers you hate us because we beat you. Because ask Cody or the rest of the Big 12, the real father ain't doing no beating.

Then, the clouds opened up and God said, "I hate you Alfalfa"

The last time I wrote, I spoke of love, the kind of love that can happen between a small-town girl and a big league team. I’m going to pull a 180 and go in a different direction. There are some things that I hate. I used to say that you can’t hate something unless at one point you cared about it. I was naïve, I was young, I was wrong. I hate the San Francisco Giants. I hate that they pretend they are a team of mis-fits. Last time I checked “mis-fits” don’t make millions of dollars a year. Last I checked a team of “mis-fits” doesn’t have a rookie of the year candidate, and a 2-year Cy Young Award winner. In case you forgot, the Giants won their division, they won MY division, no group of rejects has ever done that in my recollection. And “mis-fits” don’t win the World Series.

I hate bandwagon fans. Being a sports fan means dealing with the pain and the losses, and never losing faith. This past weekend the Buffs, the Broncos, and the Steelers lost. So what do I do come Monday? I become a fan of the Oregon Ducks, the New England Patriots, and the Baltimore Ravens. Oh, and also, those San Francisco Giants are sure looking good these days. WRONG. My emotional well-being is connected to my teams. Is this ridiculous? Of course it is. But like any boyfriend, I will not dump them for the newer model simply because they were a loser that weekend (at least I think that is how those bf/gf relationships work). If you jump on the bandwagon you sure as heck better hold on, because once you’re on, there should be no letting go. If you decide to be a Giants fan tomorrow, you better be one for the rest of your life. When they win 80 games next year and don’t get over .500, you better be wearing that black and orange, because that is what fans do. They hold on, they tighten their grip, and they buckle their seatbelt when they open the door of the bandwagon. Let this be a warning to all of those considering catching the bandwagon.

I hate losing. Oh boy do I hate losing. It’s like they don’t even care how I feel. My teams, my loves, my boys: they just keep losing. I will not dump them, I will not let go, but I hate losing. There are many types of losses. Recently, my teams have been, how do I put this nicely, been getting completely and utterly dominated. The sucker-punch phase is over, its just a pure beating now. (A sucker-punch loss is the one where you have a chance, there is an opportunity to win, so you raise your hands above your head in jubilation….and bam, a punch right to the stomach, you bend over in pain, it hurts, you are pretty sure you can’t breathe. That’s what a sucker-punch loss feels like.) It’s to that point where my body is so calloused from the beatings that they almost stop hurting, I’ve lost all emotional affect. But I still hate losing and I hope I never see the day when the losses completely stop causing pain (ask any Cubs fan how that feels). So there you go, I hate the Giants, I hate bandwagon fans, and I hate losing. I also hate cilantro, and I hate cats, but I'll save that rant for another day.

Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me.