Curtis Dahlgren
Close Encounters: the shortest yard and a pass too far; Seahawks go green
By Curtis Dahlgren
"The absurdity of reality is worse than fiction because it doesn't have to hold to the limits of plausibility . . . If we accept that miracles sometimes happen in football, you ain't seen nothin' yet." – my column last week (didn't know it was referring to the Super Bowl too)
THEY CAME TO PLAY. But people in the Northwest know now how little kids in the Frozen Tundra felt. I mean Alaska. Out in the cold (and it was 21 below zero at my house this morning). A game for the Ages. No timeouts. No further reviews needed. But here's mine anyway:
An NFL city was once accused of piping in recorded crowd noise. Phoenix could have piped in a laugh track. Seattle's ball park – what's its name – was dark and silent Sunday night. The Patriots got the last ball and last laugh. Another miracle. What goes around comes around. Right or wrong, the Pats had to fight the media too. Like Scott Walker.
To their credit, there was no finger-pointing by the Seahawks. The coach said that the buck stops here and the quarterback said the buck stops here (unlike some people). And this Packer fan was pulling for the Hawks. The weather kept me home, but I was so excited I slept through the half-time and the second half. Was very rudely awakened by an announcer screaming. Using the Lord's name in vain. "OMG! Intercepted! OMG!"
In a daze, I said to myself, "Whaddaya mean, Brady in victory formation? Seattle is ahead 24-14 at least"! I must have been dreaming. The Gods must have been kidding. Or trying to tell us something:
"On any given (Super) Sunday" . . "One play at a time" . . "And in the Real World, don't count your chickens (or "free" stuff) before the eggs are laid (or the Feds actually have the money; 'free' is a 4-letter word)."
Anyway, some practical lessons: Lucy jerks the ball away from Charlie Brown again. Don't count your cow chips while you're sittin' at the table. The hand you were dealt isn't necessarily "unfair." Mr. Wilson, mature for his age, will be even more mature. He coulda woulda shoulda changed the play at the line. He might have pulled a Bart Starr in the valley of the sun. Maybe, but there's no cryin' in football. No scapegoats. It's not over 'til the fat lady sings the fifth quarter. Nothing is harder to predict than the future, Yogi.
My only regret is that Jim Murray (1919-1998) didn't live long enough to see this one. Who writes this stuff anyway? I grew up on his stuff; too bad most of our young people have never heard of him – and have little familiarity with our heritage of classical writing. High school English taught satire even in the olden days, but I came late to the table on the classics of Western Civ. These days, Mark Twain and Tom Paine is out. "Everybody Poops" – or any other "new thing" – is IN. The sexier the better. But:
"O how the son degenerates from the sire." – Homer (800 BC)
"Golden lads and golden girls must, like chimney sweeps, return to the dust." – Shakespeare (paraphrased)
"'When Jim Murray put his hands on the keyboard it was like Babe Ruth stepping in the batter's box or Charlie Parker putting a saxophone to his lips.' If that seems like a pale imitation of Jim Murray's writing, that's because it is." – J.A. Adande, fellow L.A. Times employee (August 18, 1998)
Dittoes the column above.
P.S. Just for the record, last week saw some news items besides gladiators and circuses: Floggings, beheadings (21 so far this year in Saudi Arabia, not counting ISIS) occasional crucifixion of Christians, people buried alive, pilots burned alive (i.e., "workplace violence" or "man-made disaster." The devil didn't go down to Georgia, but he's trying to sucker the race (human race) into "the war to end all wars" AGAIN. While our celebs and hipsters kick over the traces, the Barbarians are chomping at the bit.
ARE THE GODS CRAZY OR IS IT US?
© Curtis Dahlgren
February 7, 2015
"The absurdity of reality is worse than fiction because it doesn't have to hold to the limits of plausibility . . . If we accept that miracles sometimes happen in football, you ain't seen nothin' yet." – my column last week (didn't know it was referring to the Super Bowl too)
THEY CAME TO PLAY. But people in the Northwest know now how little kids in the Frozen Tundra felt. I mean Alaska. Out in the cold (and it was 21 below zero at my house this morning). A game for the Ages. No timeouts. No further reviews needed. But here's mine anyway:
An NFL city was once accused of piping in recorded crowd noise. Phoenix could have piped in a laugh track. Seattle's ball park – what's its name – was dark and silent Sunday night. The Patriots got the last ball and last laugh. Another miracle. What goes around comes around. Right or wrong, the Pats had to fight the media too. Like Scott Walker.
To their credit, there was no finger-pointing by the Seahawks. The coach said that the buck stops here and the quarterback said the buck stops here (unlike some people). And this Packer fan was pulling for the Hawks. The weather kept me home, but I was so excited I slept through the half-time and the second half. Was very rudely awakened by an announcer screaming. Using the Lord's name in vain. "OMG! Intercepted! OMG!"
In a daze, I said to myself, "Whaddaya mean, Brady in victory formation? Seattle is ahead 24-14 at least"! I must have been dreaming. The Gods must have been kidding. Or trying to tell us something:
"On any given (Super) Sunday" . . "One play at a time" . . "And in the Real World, don't count your chickens (or "free" stuff) before the eggs are laid (or the Feds actually have the money; 'free' is a 4-letter word)."
Anyway, some practical lessons: Lucy jerks the ball away from Charlie Brown again. Don't count your cow chips while you're sittin' at the table. The hand you were dealt isn't necessarily "unfair." Mr. Wilson, mature for his age, will be even more mature. He coulda woulda shoulda changed the play at the line. He might have pulled a Bart Starr in the valley of the sun. Maybe, but there's no cryin' in football. No scapegoats. It's not over 'til the fat lady sings the fifth quarter. Nothing is harder to predict than the future, Yogi.
My only regret is that Jim Murray (1919-1998) didn't live long enough to see this one. Who writes this stuff anyway? I grew up on his stuff; too bad most of our young people have never heard of him – and have little familiarity with our heritage of classical writing. High school English taught satire even in the olden days, but I came late to the table on the classics of Western Civ. These days, Mark Twain and Tom Paine is out. "Everybody Poops" – or any other "new thing" – is IN. The sexier the better. But:
"O how the son degenerates from the sire." – Homer (800 BC)
"Golden lads and golden girls must, like chimney sweeps, return to the dust." – Shakespeare (paraphrased)
"'When Jim Murray put his hands on the keyboard it was like Babe Ruth stepping in the batter's box or Charlie Parker putting a saxophone to his lips.' If that seems like a pale imitation of Jim Murray's writing, that's because it is." – J.A. Adande, fellow L.A. Times employee (August 18, 1998)
Dittoes the column above.
P.S. Just for the record, last week saw some news items besides gladiators and circuses: Floggings, beheadings (21 so far this year in Saudi Arabia, not counting ISIS) occasional crucifixion of Christians, people buried alive, pilots burned alive (i.e., "workplace violence" or "man-made disaster." The devil didn't go down to Georgia, but he's trying to sucker the race (human race) into "the war to end all wars" AGAIN. While our celebs and hipsters kick over the traces, the Barbarians are chomping at the bit.
ARE THE GODS CRAZY OR IS IT US?
© Curtis Dahlgren
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