Against all our better judgment, we headed to the Pink Taco today for Media Day. We had heard from pretty much everyone we know who covers sports for a living that it’s a full platter of ridiculousness and that it wasn’t worth our time. Hearing that made us think we absolutely had to go. We should have listened.
That is to say: Media Day is a waste of time for everyone, and that doesn’t just mean the players and the media. Even the dope gimmick folks, the lady who wanted to marry Brady, or “The Tonight Show”’s Kelly Pickler (an actual collaboration which tells you all you need to know about both Pickler and “The Tonight Show”), or the mock astrologists (as if there were any other kind), seemed generally bored with their schtick. Everyone felt like they were going through the motions; it’s Media Day … we have to do something CRAZY!
Everyone kept telling us beforehand that it was a “circus,” but that’s an insult that would cause P.T. Barnum to turn over in his grave. A circus at least attempts to entertain. Media Day is 40 different press conferences going on at once, with neither the subject nor the interviewer even pretending to stifle their yawns, while an occasional Spanish language reporter shimmies by in something slinky while reports make a mental note to hit the Blue Moon strip club tonight. The whole thing was empty, stale air … and that was the best part. The schtick was the comedic equivalent of 30 separate Jay Leno monologues; it was like watching a public access reality show, punctuated by a vague, “Hey, isn’t that Trent Dilfer?” smidgen of recognition.
We were so discouraged that we couldn’t even make it through the whole thing. Sorry: Trust us, empty space is more entertaining that what we’d have for you here had we stayed.
Now that A.J. has left us, it’s up to others to try and fill his pointy, elfin shoes and feed us some delicious Cultural Oddsmaker pie. And I can think of no better place to start than with Tony Romo’s little black book. Now that Jessica Simpson is apparently out of the picture, who will be the next beauty to take his arm on a trip to Cabo? My bet is already down, but I’m not telling. OK fine, I say that he’s waiting for Dakota Fanning … although as Otter said in Animal House, “That could take years, and cost thousands of lives.” Rumors and Rants runs down the more practical odds.
Let’s see: Kelly Pickler is the favorite here at 5/2, although don’t count out wily veteran Bridget Moynahan (20-1) or the workmanlike Alyssa Milano (50-1). But hey … where’s Rice Girl?
The Mets gave up a lot, but not so much that Metsblog is worried. They’re still trying to figure out a “six-or-seven year contract extension,” which means it’s possible, when this contract is over, we will be on our 46th president, and Citi Field will already be outdated.
We’ve asked a couple excellent writers who are fans of each Super Bowl team to talk about where their team stands going into next week’s “Big” “Game.” Last week brought us Peter Schrager from FoxSports.com opining on his Giants. Today it’s Eric Gillin of Esquire.com on the Patriots. Enjoy.
Being a Patriots fan this season has been like waking up and suddenly discovering your dick is six inches bigger. You went to bed and everything was normal. “Yup, this is my junk,” you think. “Good ol’ cock-and-balls.” You never thought anything of it before, really. And then, overnight: You’ve got a goddamn soup can in your underpants.
The initial reaction is utter disbelief. “This can’t actually be happening, can it?” you think, then giggle, half-embarrassed, half-excited, unsure of what to do next. But the wins pile up, and when the weather gets cold, that dick never shrinks. Not even a little bit. And it dawns on you: I might have the largest cock in the history of professional football. And everyone knows it.
Eventually, you accept this fact, fully aware that your team is undefeated and you’re sporting the kind of wood that could single-handedly boost International Paper’s profit margins. And when you do, there are two possible reactions: You either get quiet and develop the smug grin of a man who looks forward to using the open trough urinal at the ballpark. Or you swear off pants completely and compulsively rub yourself all day, like an eight-year-old after drinking a 164-ounce Coke.
Me? I kinda got shy and acted like I had a regular dick, fearing that overconfidence would jinx the team. As the rest of the country is painfully aware, most people didn’t go down this path. And now, I’m ashamed to admit, the Patriots fanbase is filled with more raging dickheads than Jasmine St. Clair in The World’s Largest Gang Bang II.
I totally understand why you hate the New England Patriots.
What can I say? Our coach is an evil tyrant who cheats during games and laughed during Schindler’s List. Our quarterback is a pretty-boy asshole who knocked up his last girlfriend and collects homosexual kiddie porn. Our best wide-receiver likes to punch women in the face and was the primary cause of the mortgage lending scandal. Whether real or imagined, I’ve heard all the complaints before, just about every day since last year. (Here on Deadspin, I even compared the team to the loathed and misunderstood Communist China — and this was before the cheating scandal.)
People hate the Patriots because they’re boring, win all the time and say the same dull shit after every game. (”It’s a one-game season.” “We have to play a perfect game to win.” “Our injury report is out on Wednesday.”) They hate the Patriots because, as the dominant team, indifference is not an option. (Just imagine someone saying “The Patriots are OK. I guess.”) But mostly sports fans hate the Patriots because they’re sick and tired of hearing about their “quest for perfection” every six seconds.
Hell, I’m sick of hearing about the New England Patriots, too. Especially now, during the build-up to Super Bowl, a two-week-long shit show where pointlessness like Tom Brady’s walking boot gets round-the-clock coverage, complete with lazy sportswriter moniker (namely, “BootGate,” which follows in the proud tradition of “RunUpTheScoreGate” and “SpyGate”). Luckily, we’ve got less than a week of this dog-and-pony show left. I’m sure we’ll see even more incredibly detailed player-by-player breakdowns of both teams (one reason why I’m not even going to discuss about who will win this game), breathless write-ups of computer simulations of the Super Bowl (pure pointlessness wrapped in conjecture) and more of Mercury Morris trying to “rap.”
(An aside: The major reason I want a 19-0 season, outside of the obvious, is my hope that Morris will have a massive coronary after realizing he’ll never appear on TV again. That is, unless American Idol begins allowing elderly contestants.)
Here’s all I care about — the Patriots will play the Giants on Sunday. I don’t want to hear anything unless it’s the sound of a foot kicking a ball to open the game. There’s nothing for me to say here, nothing that someone else hasn’t already said, or will say, or that you would want to read anyway. Hell, I don’t even want to read my own crappy column.
Let’s just play the game already. Then we’ll see whose dick is bigger.
Yes, yes, we know: We’ve hawked the book a bit around here, but we took a day off from it yesterday. (If just because we were in a plane for seven hours.) But don’t worry, folks: Gilbert Arenas has our back.
Yes, we were quite stunned to arrive in Phoenix and learn that Gilbert was encouraging his fans to buy our book.
Have you seen the new book that came out, God Save the Fan? Will Leitch came out with the book. Thank you Will Leitch! Got to give a shout out to Will Leitch and Deadspin for coming out with the book God Save the Fan. I’m just going to tell you guys to go get the book, because I’m in Chapter 2. I mean, the title might be a little hard for some of you to read, especially since me and LeBron James are best friends. It’s about me and LeBron and it’s somewhere along the lines of “Why Gilbert is Better for the Game than LeBron” … it’s somewhere along those lines. I don’t want Cleveland fans to get mad at me, I didn’t write the book, I just read it. It’s kind of funny because me and him have been best friends over the five years since he’s been in this league. I was just grateful being mentioned with him. When I’m done playing and after all is said and done and he’s compared in Jordan likeness, I’m going to show my kids the book and be like, “Look at this here. Y’all see this, kids? Told you I was somebody. Y’all thought I was playing.” LeBron and I are really friends though, the whole free throw thing in the playoffs was just trash talking.
We’re not sure if Gilbert Arenas has a “Gilbert Bump” when it comes to booksales, but even if he’s not the Sports Oprah, we are flattered and honored; we didn’t even send him a free book. Shame he can’t play right now; we could have tried to get him to sign one at courtside. Sure would be more valuable than our dumb signature.
We have arrived in beautiful Phoenix, Arizona, and it’s still raining. What the heck is going on? We thought this was Arizona? Anyway, while looking at this poster online — and we are trying to imagine the sort of fragile, sensitive boy that might put this on their wall — we got to thinking about the top email we received throughout the night: The Patriots already think they’ve won!
We think it’s reasonable, frankly, that some enterprising folks might already be selling Patriots undefeated championship merchandise. Remember when the Red Sox won that first World Series in 2004 and everyone and their brother wrote a book about it? This is going to be like that, except nobody writes books about professional football anymore, so they’re just selling shirts. (And a few books.)
We wouldn’t fire ourselves up too much about it, Giants fans, and start chirping tired tales of “no respect.” After all, you can buy books for your title too.
The NBA Closer is written by Matt McHale, who is in no way related to Kevin McHale and who has taken the necessary legal steps to ensure that it stays that way. When he’s not screaming in soulless rage at the merciless Pagan gods, he can be found making fart jokes at Basketbawful. Enjoy!
• I guess he’s good enough to be an All-Star reserve. With the New Orleans crowd - all 26 of them - chanting “M-V-P,” Chris Paul scored 23 points, grabbed nine rebounds and dished 17 assists, each of which created a tiny parallel universe full of Jessica Albas making out with Scarlett Johanssons in an inflatable pool full of JELL-O brand gelatin. I don’t impress easily, but even I have to admit that’s pretty rad. Paul’s teammate Tyson Chandler wasn’t half bad either, scoring 10 points and grabbing 16 of the Hornets’ 52 rebounds. Denver wasn’t quite as good on the boards (33) or in that whole “putting the ball in the basket” thing (42 percent shooting and 19 turnovers), so the the Hornets stung the Nuggets into a lumpy 117-93 submission. Allen Iverson scored 23 and Kenyon Martin had 18, but most of the other Nuggets were barely able to outscore Carmelo Anthony, who, in case you didn’t know, is still out with a sprained left ankle.
• A Maverick ain’t ‘fraid a no Grizzly. Grizzlies are terrifying creatures. It’s a scientific fact that the only living things that aren’t afraid of them are Bruce Willis and cowboys. A cowboy, he’ll just walk up, stare that grizzly bear in the eye, then lasso that sucker and dress it in his sister’s prom dress. Because that’s how cowboys roll. Anyway, sometimes art (in this case basketball) imitates life (in this case cowboys), and Dallas hogtied Memphis on their way to a 103-84 victory. Josh Howard scored 26 points (and hit his first eight shots!), Dirk Nowitzki had 20 points and 11 rebounds, Erick Dampier added 11 points and 12 rebounds, Jason Terry…you know what? Most of the Mavs played really well, and pretty much everybody on the Grizzlies didn’t. (Okay, Rudy Gay looked pretty good in scoring 18 points, but that’s it.)
• Tim Duncan misses his comfy chair. My grandpa, he loved his comfy chair. And the older he got, the less he wanted to leave that chair. Similarly, the Spurs - considered “very ancient” by most NBA age experts - don’t like leaving their own version of the comfy chair, otherwise known as the Alamodome. Heading into their 9-game “rodeo trip,” San Antonio was only 8-9 on the road. And I hate to ruin the ending for you, but their situation didn’t improve in Utah. Tim Duncan showed up with 26 and 11, but he lost the ball 7 times. Tony Parker shot 1-for-7, Michael Finley was 2-for-8, and I think Robert Horry was actually embalmed at halftime. The somewhat youthier Jazz, meanwhile, showed a shocking lack of respect for their elders. Carlos Boozer and Andre Kirilenko each scored 23 points, and Deron Williams handed out 14 dimes as Utah scored a 97-91 victory that moved them from ninth place in the Western Conference to fourth!
• Where meaningless games happen. The Bobcats versus the Clippers. Let’s face it, unless somebody on these teams can call you “mom,” then chances are you really don’t care about the outcome of this game. If for some bizarre reason you do care - and in that case I pity you - here are the facts: Charlotte won 107-100 behind Gerald Wallace and his 23 points (8-for-11), 6 rebounds, and 8 assists. Tim Thomas arose from his season-long slumber to score 29 points and grab 13 rebounds for the Clips, proving once again that he is at his absolute best when it really doesn’t matter.
By now, you might have seen the bizarre 
We’ve asked a couple excellent writers who are fans of each Super Bowl team to talk about where their team stands going into next week’s “Big” “Game.” Last week brought us 
Yes, yes, we know: We’ve 
We have arrived in beautiful Phoenix, Arizona, and it’s still raining. What the heck is going on? We thought this was Arizona? Anyway, while looking at this poster online — and we are trying to imagine the sort of fragile, sensitive boy that might put this on their wall — we got to thinking about the top email we received throughout the night: The Patriots 
The NBA Closer is written by Matt McHale, who is in no way related to Kevin McHale and who has taken the necessary legal steps to ensure that it stays that way. When he’s not screaming in soulless rage at the merciless Pagan gods, he can be found making fart jokes at 