The Twelve Days of Gheorghe-mas: Day Seven

On the Seventh Day of Gheorghe-mas, Big Gheorghe gave to me:


A Seven Point Loss;
Six games worth watching (and picking)
Five Combined Wins;
Four Compliments For T.J.;
Three French Hens;
Two Dope-ass Rhymes (and a whole mess of sub-par ones as well);
And a Doofus Dancing (Amidst a Really Long and Grumpy Analysis of the New Kanye West Album).

  
Because of the seven point loss the Giants suffered at the hands of the Philadelphia Eagles yesterday, I have decided to retire from watching professional sports. I will not rehash the collapse, as it is to painful for me to recount, but if you watched the game you will agree that mistakes were made (Matt Dodge!) and that Michael Vick heroically persisted in leading his team, against all odds, back from a 21 point fourth quarter deficit. The Eagles scored 28 points in eight minutes. I am not retiring from watching professional sports because of the pain of the loss or the play-off ramifications of the loss. That would be immature and selfish. And the Giants still control their own destiny because they play Green Bay next week.

The reason I am retiring from watching professional sports because the outcomes of the games are meaningless. Whenever I have the desire to watch an NFL game, I am instead going to watch a sports movie. Why? First of all, a sports movie is shorter than an actual NFL game, so I won't ever again feel like I wasted three mid-day hours on the couch (unless I watch Braveheart-- which I have never seen . . . good information for the OBFT over/under game-- but Braveheart is not exactly a sports movie). More important, however, is the fact that if I watch a sports movie then I will be assured of a satisfying resolution. Either the team I am rooting for will win the big game, or-- if they lost the big game-- a valuable lesson will be learned. 

Yes, The Bad News Bears lose, but they learn a more valuable lesson-- that winning isn't everything. Buttermaker (Walter Matthau) realizes he has become a competitive monster like the coach he despised, and so plays the bench warmers and then lets the kids get drunk after the game. That is the true meaning of sports; having some fun and a reason to celebrate and drink under-age (to quote our friend Shelliott when he was on Phil Donahue: "When I played varsity lacrosse, I drank less." Donahue looked at him and said, "You said, "Less.") 

Rocky loses to Apollo Creed, but he wins the respect of the world. And the movies with meaningful losses are the exception. Generally, the scrub makes the foul shot (Hoosiers) or Braden strips for victory (Slap Shot). And I get teary eyed in the way only a sports movie can move me-- I can watch single moms with cancer die by the dozen and not weep, but show me Rudy and I need tissues. So why should I suffer? Life is too short.  There will never be a sports movie so dissatisfying and profane, a film where a dog-torturer comes back from prison and leads his team to a miraculous last second victory against the team I am rooting for (unless Todd Solondz is the director). I refuse to participate in a world where the likes of this guy experience any sort of happiness, and I'm sure he was the happiest guy in Philly yesterday, celebrating in his own unique and explosive manner.


So now you know what to get me for Gheorghe-mas. The Longest Yard. Blu-Ray, so I can really analyze Burt Reynolds' mustache.