Talkin' with Tewks: I Love Playoff Baseball

Well Brett Favre really shoved it up my ass with that performance on Monday night; three touchdown passes, zero picks and a victory over his former team to lead the Vikings to a 4-0 start.

Papa Tewks was positively giddy during the entire game. I seriously think he would marry Brett Favre if bigamy were socially acceptable. He’s not alone in his devotion; any middle-aged man loves Brett Favre for what he represents: a gigantic middle finger to the ravages of Father Time. Favre shows that he is still capable of hanging with twenty-something punks like me in athletic pursuits. Old guys are drawn to that, even though the only athletic endeavour Papa Tewks embarks on these days is an 8 metre sprint from the couch to the fridge for another beer.

Enough about Favre. It’s time to talk about my favourite time of the year: postseason baseball.
Instead of a typical column, I wanted to try something different and preview the division series’ and give my predictions for the rest of the playoffs. Some of you may be thinking well Tewks, the playoffs have already started; shouldn’t you have made these predictions a week ago?

Sure, most baseball prognosticators look deep into the numbers and try to find meaning in a plethora of statistics; they talk to scouts and people “in the know” to get a read on the mood in each clubhouse. Then, taking all these variables into account, they attempt to predict the winner of each series well in advance of the first pitch of Game 1.

To me this is just stupid. I like my approach much better. Sit in my underwear and do nothing. Prank call Gretzpo at work. Watch Maury Povich paternity test episodes. Wait until two games have already been played in each series and then pick a winner.

Some may say this undermines what little journalistic integrity I have remaining, but if you’re visiting Gretzpo’s Sports Blog searching for good journalism then that’s your own fault for being an idiot.

I’ll take a look at the National League first because it’s the ugly stepsister of Major League Baseball. It’s full of crappy players who couldn’t hack it in the AL. There is no chance the winner of the World Series will come from the senior circuit, so I’ll gloss over these rather quickly.

Dodgers vs. Cardinals

What have we learned from this series? Albert Pujols makes Joe Torre poop his pant and without Pujol’s bat, the Cardinals offence is toothless. Also, Matt Holliday can’t catch a flyball.

With a 2-0 series lead, Los Angeles only has to win one game out of three and they’ve already beaten St. Louis’ two best pitchers.

The Pick: Dodgers (see it’s so much easier this way)

Rockies vs. Phillies

Series is tied 1-1. Cliff Lee is a stud. I have never heard of anyone on the Rockie’s pitching staff. Ordinarily, I would side with the defending champions but Cole Hamels has angered the baseball Gods with his actions in last night’s game. He actually left the game early because his wife (former Survivor contestant Heidi something—she was the one who got naked for peanut butter a few seasons back) went into labour with their first child.

Plus, he was planning on staying behind in Philadelphia while his teammates travelled to Colorado for Games 3 and 4. Now I understand the birth of a child is a joyous occasion, but playoffs start at the same time every year. Cole, next time you’re giving the wife the Hamels Express, maybe count ahead nine months and see if it interferes with your pursuit of a championship. And remember: Coitus interruptus is your friend.

The Pick: Rockies

Yankees vs. Twins

All is well in the universe as the Yankees are back in the playoffs after a one year hiatus. New York possesses an offensive juggernaut and can outslug any of the remaining seven teams. Plus I think their middle infield makes more money than the entire Twins roster combined. All signs point towards a Yankee steamroll of Minnesota.

However, the formula for success has always been: pitching + defense = championships

I do not trust the Yankees starting rotation at all (besides Andy Pettitte who is a playoff warrior). They are depending on CC Sabbathia (who, before his Game 1 victory, had been terrible in his previous playoff experience), AJ Burnett (the Marlins won the titles in 2003 when he was injured) and Joba Chamberlain (he sucks).

I like the Twins because they have a little magic on their side. Their relentless pursuit of Detroit in the final fortnight of the season was spectacular. Minnesota had tremendous momentum coming into the first round but I think they are a tad hungover from Tuesday’s one game playoff.

The X factor in this series will be perennial playoff chump Alex Rodriguez. Since he started dating Kate Hudson, he has the mojo going and with two hits and two RBIs in Game 1, he is poised for the breakout postseason New York has been banking on since they acquired him.

The Pick: Yankees

Red Sox vs. Angels

History tells me that this series should be a three game cakewalk for Beantown. This will be the fourth time in the last five years that these teams have squared off in the playoffs. The Red Sox have won 12 of their last 13 postseason games against the Angels and most pundits believed that trend will continue.

However, there is one glaring reason why this line of thinking is fraudulent: Anaheim whitewashed Boston 5-0 last night (I told you my procrastination would make me look like a genius).

I like the Angels in this series because of how their offence matches up against the Red Sox pitching (which is extremely thin). Los Angeles had all nine of their regulars hit better than .290 this year. That is a telling statistic; there are no weaknesses in their batting order. Plus these are not the small ball Angels of yore; they can mash dingers better than any AL team besides the Yankees.

Why do I think the Red Sox have a questionable staff? Josh Beckett, their de facto ace, is one of the top big game pitchers in baseball. The fact he wasn’t starting Game 1 tells me he is not healthy enough to start two games in this series. When Beckett’s on, he’s lights out. When he’s not 100%, he gets lit up. Beckett may need to add whiplash to his list of maladies once the Angels get a chance to tee off on his subpar stuff.

More evidence of Boston’s thin pitching? Their Game 3 starter, Clay Buchholz’s claim to fame is that he was once arrested for stealing computers from a middle school (I shit you not; look it up). And he looks like a rodent.

The Pick: Angels

World Series: Yankees vs. Dodgers

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' with Tewks: Brett Favre Brett Favre Brett Favre

This is a column I did not want to write. I find the incessant media coverage of the Brett Favre saga to be completely ridiculous and the fawning appreciation thrust upon Favre by legions of white middle-aged sportswriters is akin to thousands of tween girls screaming hysterically at a Miley Cyrus concert.

Unfortunately, his tremendous comeback against San Francisco last weekend (it truly was spectacular and made for riveting television), plus the Vikings upcoming grudge match against the Packers on Monday night has forced me to join the Favre hype machine.

Some of my newer readers may not be familiar with my feelings for Brett Favre, so allow me to repost my comments from my 2007 NFL Playoff Preview:

The Packers are led by their peerless quarterback, the Right and Honourable Brett Favre. There’s something about Favre that I dislike; I think it has to do with pretentious way he pronounces his name. I mean its spelled F-A-V-R-E: it should be pronounced "fave-er" or "fav-re", not "farve." To me, he’s the Derek Jeter of the NFL.

Before all of my Wisconsin readers throw down their wheels of cheese to write harshly worded emails with their fat little fingers, I will say this: Brett Favre is a great quarterback. He is a surefire Hall of Famer and has two of the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen.

Unfortunately, Favre is also hideously overrated. To hear football pundits talk about him, you would think he’s the Second Coming of Christ, but with a stronger right arm. He is the all-time leader in touchdown passes with 436, but also the all-time leader in interceptions thrown with 283.

Here’s a free tip from Tewks: if you fling enough crap against a wall, some of it is bound to stick. This is how Brett Favre runs an NFL offense.

Yes, Favre led the Packers to a Super Bowl Title in 1997, but he was so strung out on prescription painkillers that there’s an excellent chance he doesn’t remember anything from the past 10 years.

Wow. I forgot how good of a writer I am. How have I not won a Pulitzer Prize by now?

Favre’s actions over the past two years have just added to my dislike. The way he has jerked around three different organizations (Packers, Jets and Vikings) and millions of football fans with his narcissistic waffling over playing or retiring is despicable. He presents himself like a down home country boy with an ‘aw shucks’ personality but he is just as much a media whore as Terrell Owens.

If you want to play, then play. If you want to retire, retire. We don’t need press conferences where you tell us you haven’t made your decision yet. He still has the talent to play the game at a high level; evidenced by his superb play in the first three months of last season and his undefeated record so far this year.

So why does he take so long to make a choice? It’s really quite simple.

Brett Favre hates training camp. He abhors it. He would rather show up on Week 1 and start flinging bullets all over the field. Favre feels he’s too experienced to need weeks of prep time or hundreds of hours of play memorization and video study.

No one in the media seems to be bothered by this at all. They breathlessly sing Favre’s praises and exult that he ‘looks like a kid out there’, plays with ‘reckless abandon’ and he ‘really loves the game.’

Well Christ, if you gave me $10 million a year, I’d pick up garbage with reckless abandon and throw it in my truck with the smile and carefree attitude of a young child.

Also, anytime Favre makes a mistake or tosses an errant throw, his misdeeds are forgiven with the argument that it’s ok because ‘he’s a gunslinger.’ He’s supposed to engage in risky activity and laugh in the face of danger.

What the fuck?

How is that a reasonable excuse? I wish the gunslinger defence worked in real life.

Groupie: Tewks, wait. I want you to wear a condom; I don’t want to get pregnant.
Tewks: Don’t worry baby, I’m a gunslinger.
Groupie: Oh, well nevermind then.

Judge: Tewks, you are hereby charged with the sexual assault of Jane Doe at the Taylor Swift concert. How do you plead?
Tewks: Your honour, if it please the court, may I bring it to your attention that I am a gunslinger.
Judge: You are? My mistake. Case dismissed.

Police Officer: Tewks I had you clocked at 200km/h in a 50km/h zone. Plus I can smell alcohol on your breath and you have an open 40 of rye in your lap. Please step out of the car.
Tewks: I’m a gunslinger.
Police Officer: Sorry sir. Have a good night.

Back to Favre’s amazing last second touchdown pass to the back of the end zone last Sunday. The pundits shouted that it was just another chapter in the novel that is the legend of Brett Favre. He is the ‘king of comebacks.’

Do you know why he has so many come from behind victories?

Because he sucks so much during the first part of the game: forcing passes into coverage, chucking boneheaded interceptions and doing other gunslinger-y things. Therefore he has ample opportunity afterwards to get his head out of his ass and, you know, win some football games.

However, I will definitely be watching on Monday evening as what he’s doing at the age of 40 is incredible. I wish the media would recognize that he is just a plain old quarterback who wears Wrangler jeans and not the Messiah in human form (although I bet he has the ability to turn water into Vicodin).

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Fantasy Sports - Not Just for Nerds Anymore (But Nerds Still Needed)

Tewks and I see eye to eye on many things: the fact that we write for the same blog can speak to that. However, his recent diatribe on fantasy sports has compelled me to write a rebuttal.

Only one of Tewks' arguments is salient: I do spend an inordinate amount of time working on my fantasy teams – time that after the end of an 8-8 season would probably have been better spent doing other things – but that's where the validity of his arguments end.

The average sports fan does not play fantasy sports for money – I'm currently in two leagues: one that I play in for free, and one where the winner will take home a whopping $60. Now, I realize that this represents a whole week's salary to a small percentage of the populace (an eight year old running a lemonade stand, and Tewks, for example) but to me an extra $60 would mean buying Labatt Blue over Lucky Lager for one week.

Also, the notion that people play fantasy sports because they think that they're smarter than the front offices of professional teams is equally fallible. I know for a fact I am smarter than JP Ricciardi, Al Davis and Matt Millen – because they're all idiots who don't/didn't have a clue how to run a franchise, not because I have any sort of eye for discernible talent.

So why do I (and almost everyone I know) play fantasy sports?

It's a chance to test your sports knowledge against that of your peers. It goes beyond the trivial aspect and digs deep into the game, forcing you to take the same considerations in starting your team as a real professional coach would – albeit at a much more simplified level. I don't want to try and prove that I'm a better manager than Cito Gaston, I want to prove that I'm a better manager than the jackasses I work with (sorry Duja).

In an ironic way, fantasy sports mimics life: if you work hard, do your homework and stay up to date on a sport that you like anyway, you'll have success – and have fun. You engineer something from its infancy, modify it based on how the season is transpiring, and hope that your knowledge and intelligence is enough to make you successful.

Tewks still lives with his parents and doesn't have a real job. When he's 35 the only thing he'll be engineering is a daily trip to the food bank with the rest of the squalor – burning copies of his unpublished manuscript in an industrial drum to keep himself warm during another frosty winter.

Too much? Nah... we're good friends.

Talkin' with Tewks: Hey Poindexter, I Play Real Sports Not Fantasy Sports

Fantasy sports are gay.

Truthfully, I could end the column there and my thoughts on the subject would be perfectly encapsulated, but I owe it to my legions of fans to continue my march to an 800 word column.

I am most likely in the minority with my sentiments on fantasy sports, evidenced by the fact it’s a multi billion dollar a year industry. I’ve been stuck in situations where conversation inevitably turns into a discussion on my friends’ fantasy team success and I tune out faster than when a woman wants to talk to me about her feelings.

Since I’ve never been harassed to join a fantasy sports league (I just figured that people correctly assumed that I was too cool to get involved), I’ve never felt the need to express my disdain for fantasy sports because it’s not really something people try to force on you. Like religion.

That all changed this year when I was asked to join three different fantasy leagues. I will never understand the draw of playing fantasy sports; spending hours poring over mundane statistics and picking different combinations of players in the hopes of defeating my jackass friends to earn the infantile glory of winning a fantasy sports championship.

It all seems like a colossal waste of time; the internet was created for nobler pursuits than fantasy football. Now I know some of you will say that I have certain proclivities consistent with wasteful internet use and that’s true; but at least my activities culminate with a happy ending and a satisfied smile on my face.

Most fantasy players will tell you that they join leagues for two reasons: to win money or for the camaraderie, bragging rights and ability bust the chops of their friends. Reason #1 is complete bullshit. You have better odds of winning big at the casino playing penny slots or playing online poker than you do playing fantasy sports.

The true monetary incentive of fantasy sports is (be forewarned, this is truly pathetic) that most players think themselves smarter than the majority of professional sports general managers. They think fantasy sports success would translate to real world on field success if only given the chance to be at the helm of a professional team. And with enough fantasy sports championships under their belt, they will have the necessary curriculum vitae to apply for such a job.

I sincerely wish I was kidding; this is the epitome of delusional thinking.

Reason #2 (camaraderie, bragging rights etc.) is just as ridiculous. Men do not need fantasy sports to fulfill such needs. Take Gretzpo and me for example. We bond just fine without the benefit of fantasy football. I have bragging rights over him in a number of areas: lifting ability, writing ability, trivia knowledge, prowess with the ladies; I could go on but we’d be here all day.

And I certainly don’t need a fantasy league to make fun of him. Just watch:

Gretzpo is an avid fantasy football player. He can’t watch the NFL on Sunday without checking his computer every five minutes to see how his “team” is doing. Now reread the first sentence of the article and the last piece of the puzzle on Gretzpo’s sexuality finally falls into place.

I find the term fantasy sports especially grating. Fantasy is a beautiful word that means imagination, especially when extravagant and unrestrained; I don’t want it sullied by 30 year old virgins jacking off to Albert Pujol’s on base percentage.

Mainstream society insults and ridicules those who devote their lives to role playing games like Dungeons and Dragons, Magic: The Gathering and World of Warcraft. I don’t see how fantasy sports are any different. To me, fantasy sports players are just as weird and sad.

Lastly, the only time I want to hear the word fantasy is if it involves a pair of 20 year old twins, a goalie mask, a riding crop and a pulled pork sandwich.

(If I have any readers left at this point, I will see you all next week)

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' with Tewks: In Memoriam

(Check out the comment from last week’s column about God and Sports; kudos to whoever posted that as it may be the first time Gretzpo’s Sports Blog has ever produced intelligent discourse)

My dear readers, all is not well in the land of Tewks this week. The sun doesn’t seem to shine as bright, the sky doesn’t seem quite so blue and the vibrant colours typical of late summer have been cast aside with the dreary realization that we have lost one of Hollywood’s pre-eminent leading men of the past 25 years.

The news that Patrick Swayze lost his courageous fight (would you expect anything less from Dalton?) with pancreatic cancer late Monday evening left me despondent and in a depressive haze.

I called to inform Gretzpo of the news; his dejected greeting upon answering the phone told me that he already knew. We proceeded to have a fifteen minute conversation reminiscing on the joy Swayze has given us over the years with his cinematic exploits. This impromptu eulogizing of the man was therapeutic and gave me the ability to sleep that night.

I waited until now to express my thoughts on his life, as I wanted to make sure I could accurately capture the profound impact he had on so many lives. This is a huge story; evidenced by the fact Gretzpo actually took his finger out of his butt long enough to pay his own tribute in a surprisingly well-written piece. I’m just as shocked as you are. I feel like I just saw a unicorn.

Also, I don’t think I was prepared emotionally to write this memoriam earlier in the week. I would have gotten two paragraphs in and been reduced to a quivering, emotional mess. Even now, a salty discharge from my tear ducts is flooding the keyboard and making this near impossible to type.

(Should I have watched a tribute to Patrick’s life on Youtube set to “I’ve Had the Time of My Life” twenty five minutes ago? Probably not.)

The essence of Swayze’s career and impact on popular culture can be distilled into a three year period, 1987-1990, and consists of four projects.

Gretzpo has already covered Road House (which might be the greatest guy’s movie of all time; it really does have everything and shows Swayze could play the tough guy with great aplomb) and the SNL Chippendales sketch with Chris Farley (which shows he had a sense of humour and could poke fun at himself), so I will discuss the other two: Dirty Dancing and Ghost.

I have no reservations saying that he single-handedly made it ok for males to watch a chick flick and completely enjoy it without feeling like less of a man. My one requirement of any chick flick or romantic comedy is for the leading man to be exceedingly likeable and just an all around cool guy. Swayze took both of these films, one a movie about dancing and first love and the other about eternal love, and made them enjoyable for men. That is no easy feat.

(If any guy says he doesn’t like either movie because they are too ‘girly’ is probably hiding some repressed feelings of latent homosexuality and is trying to overcompensate)

I saw Dirty Dancing on stage in Toronto last year and thought it was just terrible. I think the movie’s great but the actor playing Johnny Castle had zero charm, charisma or likeability. Patrick Swayze made the movie; without him cast in the leading role, Dirty Dancing becomes a two hour punishment ladies can unleash on their boyfriends for leaving the toilet seat up.

In Ghost, Swayze’s performance is an absolute tour de force. The premise is completely ridiculous but he makes you care about the outcome. In Patrick’s final goodbye to Molly (Demi Moore), after he has vanquished that weasel Carl to the underworld, I will admit a lump develops in my throat not seen since Rudy was finally allowed into his last game by Coach Dan Devine.

Ghost also deserves the honour of greatest romantic sex scene of all time for Patrick and Demi’s work at the pottery wheel. I implore you to watch this scene and not get an erection (or gender equivalent). It’s physically impossible.

Patrick Swayze can be summarized thusly: women wanted to be with him and men wanted to be him (although I might throw myself in the former category as well).

One of my biggest regrets is not including Swayze on my original mancrush list. It was an egregious oversight for which I have absolutely no excuse. The only thing I could think of to rectify such an omission was to include a picture of Patrick at the beginning of this article and eschew my promise of a hot babe at the start of each column.

Patrick Swayze, you will be missed greatly by millions all over the world, but you will forever live on in our DVD players and on our television screens.

Ditto.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

A Tribute- To a Dancer, Ghost, Hockey Player, and Bouncer

There are four movies I will watch in a continuous cycle for the rest of my life – in no particular order:

Rocky IV – For the training montages
A Few Good Men – For the brilliant acting and tense court room scenes
The Karate Kid – For the comedic over-acting of Ralph Macchio (about a minute in)
Road House – Because it's the most re-watchable movie of all time

Now – I know what you're thinking: your love for Road House is heightened due to the recent death of Patrick Swayze, and you're absolutely right. But if you were to make a list of characteristics that make a movie extraordinary, what would they be?

Gratuitous sex scene? Check. Swayze gets a gorgeous blond doctor back to his place, (credited only in the film as “Doc” - which shows you important women were in 80's films) throws on “These Arms of Mine” by Otis Redding, and engages in some hot fire place love. I once tried that with a woman – we ended up at the emergency ward to treat her third degree burns - but I digress.

Evil villain? Check. Brad Wesley is so awesome he is able to have two first names. He sleeps with every hot chick in the movie, has the best parties in town and drives with reckless abandon on the roads (sha-boom). His only crimes are extortion, assault, ruining that guy's Ford Dealership and murder. I still think he's a pretty likeable guy.

Great action? Check. There are 786 fight scenes in this movie – many of which involve Terry Funk. The best part about it is that Swayze doesn't use a gun. Atticus Finch taught me that “courage was more than just a man with a gun in his hand.” But Patrick Swayze taught me that that shouldn't stop you from kicking ass.

Likeable Lead Character? Check. Swayze gets the girl, usurps power from a local tyrant through lethal force, is kind to old people ... well... I guess that's about it. Can you believe in 1990 he was nominated for a Razzie for worst actor for the portrayal of Dalton? Check out this clip to see just how cool he was on Road House ... although the guy aggressively ripping the napkin almost steals the scene...

I am aware of Swayze's other works – I've seen Dirty Dancing, Youngblood, Ghost, Point Break and that SNL skit with Chris Farley. Isn't that the true testament of acting? Diversity? He was a dance instructor, a ghost, a surfer, a bouncer, and a Chippendale dancer. He even played a woman in that cross dressing movie “To Wong Foo” - there's a good chance I'll never see that one.

So here's to you, Patrick Swayze: “She's Like the Wind” rivals anything MJ ever did, and you managed to do it without molesting any children – while there won't be an abundance of people three miles deep trying to get into your funeral, you were truly a multi-gifted entertainer whose works have made my life a little bit happier.

Talkin' with Tewks: God Doesn't Care About Sports

The melding of religion and sports has long been a point of contention with me and a source of highly spirited debate.

In fact, in my younger days I harboured desires of being a stand-up comedian and even wrote a bit on the inclusion of God in sports. That dream died quickly when I realized that I am too good looking to do stand-up, as all funny comedians are differing degrees of ugly.

But Dane Cook is a handsome comedian you say? This is true, but note that I used the qualifying adjective ‘funny’ and Cook does not get within 500 feet of funny during his routine.

The catalyst for today’s column was Allen Iverson’s Twitter post earlier this week declaring his intention to play for the Memphis Grizzlies in the upcoming NBA season.

(Don’t get me started on Twitter; it is quite possibly one of the dumbest advances in social networking in human history. I don’t care what you had for breakfast or what club you’re hitting tonight. Shut the fuck up. I will never use it. I would rather give myself a vasectomy with a letter opener and a tube of A535 than open a Twitter account)

This is Iverson’s post verbatim: God Chose Memphis as the place that I will continue my career.

Really Allen? God took time out of His busy schedule to tell you to play for the Memphis Grizzlies next season. I need more information on just how God came to such a decision. Did He pick Memphis out of a hat? Did He and Iverson write down a pro/con list of every team in the league over a bottle of Cristal? Maybe AI and the Lord were at a strip club making it rain and one of the ladies God was infatuated with told Him she was from Memphis?

Since we now know that God and Allen Iverson are such good buddies, we can all infer just how the Lord feels about practice.

With all the problems going on in the world, I sincerely doubt that Jesus Christ gives two shits about where Allen Iverson suits up this year. Maybe I’m wrong, but if I was in charge of the creation of the universe and all that contains, I’d find it difficult to make time every morning to log on to ESPN.com for my professional sports fix.

When did it become cool for athletes to point to the sky after making a great play or thank God in a press conference for their success on the field? The worst part is that no one in the mainstream media has the testicular fortitude to point out how ridiculous all of this is; luckily I’m not even in the tributary streams of the media so I can make fun of these ignorant jackasses all I want.

Professional athletes are not the only celebrities to feel the need to shout their religious affirmations at all times. Rap stars are probably the biggest perpetrators of this syndrome; I love music award shows for the following sequence:

The winner of best rap video saunters on stage thugged out in baggy clothes and dripping with diamonds; his entourage stands behind him alongside his flavour of the week prostitute/groupie girlfriend. He points to the sky and the first words out of his mouth are: “I’d like to thank my Lord and personal saviour Jesus Christ.”

Disregard the fact the song he just won the award for extols the virtues of raping women, murdering snitches and rampant drug use. What’s more is that he’s too stupid to even understand such a blatant hypocrisy.

Also, why does everyone only audibly worship the Christian God? I’d love to hear an awards show acceptance speech from someone who believes in an obscure polytheistic religion. How about Greek Mythology:

“I’d like to thank Zeus, Hera, Artemis, Apollo, Aphrodite, Hades, Dionysus . . . . Oh, I hope I’m not forgetting anyone . . . Poseidon, uh, Hermes.”

Back to the athlete realm for a moment, quarterback Kurt Warner is the most visible sportsman publicly devoted to his religion. I have nothing against people who are devout believers; I just think it’s egotistical to believe that God cares about the outcome of a football game.

When Warner won the Super Bowl with the St. Louis Rams earlier this decade, he stated that he owed his win to his belief in Jesus Christ. Not once did he mention the hard work and efforts of his teammates over the past 8 months, just that God was responsible for the team’s victory.

Warner, now with the Arizona Cardinals, lost last year’s Super Bowl to the Pittsburgh Steelers. If I’m to correctly understand Kurt’s logic, if God was solely responsible for the win in 2001, shouldn’t God be blamed for last year’s loss?

Now there’s a press conference I’d like to see:

“You know, I think we played great and did everything we could but God dropped the ball. He let us down. I mean the guy can create the Earth in seven days but He can’t stop us from taking 12 penalties in the second half or missing that onside kick? Jesus Christ, I thought He was better than that.”
For those of you wanting to accuse me of blasphemy for writing this column, I would like to think God is on my side, as He doesn’t want to be associated with these ignorant, prima donna jerkoffs in the first place.

Amen.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' with Tewks: Bettman Determined to Block Balsillie's Bid to 'Make it Seven'

Can we all just take a moment to marvel at the genius of today’s column title? I usually bring the goods when it comes to cleverness and wit, but my use of alliteration and the incorporation of Jim Balsillie’s ad campaign to bring a seventh NHL team to Canada is nothing short of spectacular.

Unfortunately it took me 45 minutes to come up with said title, so there’s a very good chance the rest of the column will be incoherent drivel.

“Well maybe some parts.”
“Which parts?”
“The, uh, drivel parts.”

(Bonus points to any reader who knows what I’m referring to; post guesses to comments)

Much like Team Canada’s orientation camp, another hockey story is dominating the end of summer airwaves and forcing me to wait in vain for my baseball highlights. Mercifully the orientation camp was over in 5 days, but the bankruptcy and possible relocation of the Phoenix Coyotes has dragged on and on since the beginning of May.

I was sick of this story back then and I continue to not care about the plight of multimillionaires and what they can and cannot do with their money.

Once again I am going to blame the media for the incessant coverage of this, truthfully, boring courtroom drama. I can do this because I don’t consider myself to be a member of said media since I don’t do any actual reporting and I don’t have any sources (except for Papa Tewks; he has to explain terms like ‘hung jury’ to me. Surprisingly it does not mean that certain court members are well-endowed).

The media coverage is, to put it simply, the equivalent of flogging a dead horse. Reporters just try to think up new ways to say the same thing over and over again. Everything that is written and said about the impending sale of the Coyotes can be boiled down to a singular issue.

Jim Balsillie wants to buy the Phoenix Coyotes and move them to Hamilton. The NHL believes his conduct in attempting to make said deal is unprofessional and a direct affront to what the NHL deems ‘good business practice’.

Speaking of flogging a dead horse, has anyone seen TSN’s coverage of this story? Every time they report on a new aspect of the trial, they use the same 15 seconds of Balsillie stock footage.

I’m not even watching it right now and I can describe it to you frame by frame. Balsillie, clad in a tuxedo, enters what looks to be a hotel ballroom or convention centre with his wife, who is sporting the Kate Gosselin haircut (from Jon and Kate Plus 8 for those not in the know), a black dress and a pink shawl thing (I think it might be called a pashmina).

Jim walks well ahead of his wife, shakes a couple of hands and then it cuts to a side shot of Balsillie at a microphone stand addressing the media.

I have literally watched this same sequence over 100 times this summer; I’m starting to have psychopathic thoughts after each viewing.

How lazy is the Sportscentre video team? Come on fellas, let’s mix it up a little. There must be some footage of Balsillie walking into the courtroom or watching a sporting event? I know Jimmy has season tix for the Leafs. Christ, I’d settle for a shot of Balsillie taking a dump at this point.

I do like how Balsillie has stayed out the limelight during the court case and let his legal team address the media. This must be a calculated decision. I have no doubt that Balsillie is an extremely smart man and has done great things with RIM, but he is absolutely terrible in front of the cameras. Ron Mclean interviewed him on Hockey Night in Canada last year and Balsillie was an absolute trainwreck.

No discernable personality, inarticulate and completely devoid of any charm or charisma. Other than that, he did a great job.

The head honchos at the NHL haven’t fared much better during this ordeal. They’ve come across as petulant children, unwilling to play ball with Balsillie because he’s not following their rules.

Here’s what I don’t understand: Balsillie has offered over $70 million more than what the Coyotes are worth to move them to Hamilton and the NHL brain trust and the team owners have steadfastly refused the offer.

Now correct me if I’m wrong, but wouldn’t that monetary surplus go straight into the pockets of the owners, divided up equally? That’s an extra 2 million bucks and change per team just for giving Balsillie their blessing. Why are they voting against this? It does not make sense to me at all.

Let’s pretend this is a sandlot baseball game. Jim Balsillie, the new kid on the block, wants to join the neighbourhood game. Instead of proving himself on the field, he automatically wants to bat cleanup and be the starting pitcher. The neighbourhood kids, the NHL, are against the cocky new kid coming in and taking over their game. The new kid offers to bring brand new equipment and uniforms for every player provided he bats cleanup and gets to pitch.

For some insane reason, the neighbourhood kids are wholeheartedly against letting the new guy and would prefer to continue playing their pickup games with shoddy equipment and sweatpants and T-shirts as uniforms.

Would this decision ever take place in real life? Of course not. If I was one of the neighbourhood kids, I’d let the little shit play. Who cares if he’s a huge douche. I just got a free uniform and a brand new glove and spikes. Plus, I’d probably dust the new kid in the ribs when it was his turn to bat.

So how can the NHL say thanks but no thanks to Balsillie’s $212 million offer? There are rumours that a move to Hamilton will draw the ire and a hefty lawsuit from the MLSE. I don’t buy this angle; have you seen how the Leafs have been run over the past 15 years? I wouldn’t trust the MLSE executive board to make a dinner reservation let alone bring a lawsuit against the NHL.

If this situation isn’t resolved by the time baseball playoffs start, I will not be held accountable for my actions.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

The Airing of Grievances

First off, did anyone else find Tewks' picture a little odd this week? It looks as if he hired some 18 year old to strip down at a Holiday Inn, have her put on a Canadian Bikini and then take pictures of her from behind his hotel window. A little move called "The Wizard of Oz" ...

... "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!"

Secondly, Tewks' recount of blackjack at the bachelor party weekend was 100% true - big crowds, big money getting thrown around, pit bosses who were becoming extremely agitated after we'd ask for a free breakfast after every hand...

The night was truly immortalized though when we were recognized the next morning by a Korean couple that were around our table during our high rolling:

"BJ Kids! BJ Kids!"

(Numerous families look up from their breakfast and stare up at Tewks and I)

"Sir... please lower your voice."

And now onto the airing of grievances - I've got a lot of problems with you people, and now you're going to hear about them...

Patrick Kane - There is nothing I can add to Tewks' irate diatribe. Again, how Plaxico Burress gets jail time for shooting himself in the leg and Patrick Kane gets nothing for assaulting a cab driver isn't logical. Oh... wait... Kane has to write a letter of apology to the victim - which is tantamount to a bully having to shake the kid's hand who he beat up in the third grade.

Michael Vick Protesters - The man paid his debt to society and continues to be remorseful for the awful things that he's done. I know someone who's been in prison, and it's horrible: I'm sure if you watch this clip he'll scare you straight.

Fantasy Football Naysayers - When I started playing fantasy sports 7 years ago people mocked me for my nerdiness and disconnect from reality. Now, fantasy football is a multi-billion dollar industry with millions of new players every year. So who's the nerd now for spending an hour on Sunday deciding who he should start in his RB2 spot? Oh... it's still me? Okay...

The Toronto Blue Jays - Everyone except for Aaron Hill, Adam Lind, Roy Halladay and Rod Barajas is just terrible. We've gotten rid of one of JP Ricciardi's bloated, illogical contracts - now there's just Vernon Wells left - which no one will ever take on. We're also still paying BJ Ryan to not pitch. To me it would just be easier to get rid of the one person who is handing out these terrible contracts - JP Ricciardi. That's not to say that all of those in the Jays office is bad - an account manager recently gave me free tickets to a game, and despite several tirades directed at Vernon Wells (and vociferously cheering Gregg Zaun) she has offered to take me to another game. Now if only I could parlay this sweet deal I have into scoring some free beer...

Gary Bettman - Here's something a lot of people forget about Bettman: while the Canadian NHL teams were struggling in the late 90's because of the $0.60 Canadian Dollar, it was Bettman who created the economic equalization plan that helped save the Canadian west coast teams from bankruptcy. However, his current stance against Jim Balsillie's attempt at relocating the Phoenix Coyotes to Hamilton - citing Balsillie's "questionable character" - is baffling. Especially since Bettman approved-owner Boots del Baggio is currently serving six to eight years in prison for defrauding investors in a series of Ponzi Schemes.

People that end all of their sentences with a half dozen extra letterssssss ... and then throw in exclamation markssssss... !!!!!!!!!

Much like my parents lived threw the Cold War, and my grandparents lived through WWII, the battle against poor grammar and idiocy will be the ultimate struggle of my generation.

Special Update on Michael Vick - he has declared bankruptcy.

Talkin' with Tewks: I Love Team Canada, but . . .

Fresh off a glorious bachelor party weekend, I am refreshed and ready to write. Gretzpo and I completely dominated the blackjack tables at Casino Niagara; we were riffing, cracking jokes, making friends with dealers, pit bosses and other casino patrons; we actually had a crowd around us watching us play.

At one point, we were on such a hot streak (three blackjacks in a row) that we dubbed ourselves the BJ kids. For some reason, that nickname garnered quite a bit of attention from a couple of flamboyant fellas. They kept buying us apple martinis; nice guys.

A few of you expressed some anger in not getting your weekly Tewks fix and for that I apologize. The surgeon general should really put a disclaimer on the home page indicating the addictive properties of such journalistic excellence.

Before I dive in today’s topic, let me begin by saying that I am a huge supporter of Canadian athletes. I love all things Canada and will fiercely cheer on Canadian content in international competitions no matter how mundane or silly the sport. I have spent Olympic years transfixed by Canadian medal hopefuls in rhythmic gymnastics, skeleton and synchronized swimming.

That being said, I consider the hoopla surrounding Hockey Canada’s orientation camp for the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver to be nothing short of ridiculous. As a proud Canadian, I may be committing blasphemy with this next statement, but I do not give two shits about four days of practice in August for a tournament that is six months away.

I completely understand and agree with the necessity of creating team chemistry and unity among Canada’s top players; what I can’t fathom is the incessant and, more often that not, inane media coverage of the event.

All of Canada’s sports networks are equally guilty; TSN, Sportsnet and The Score have devoted dozens of minutes of their highlight shows to reporting on the mind-numbing minutiae of each practice.

All of these talking heads keep telling viewers that the team will made during the first three months of the regular season and to ‘not read too much into what goes on at camp.’ Ten seconds after that sentence escapes their lips, they excitedly make wild predictions that so and so might be on the bubble due to a lacklustre practice session.

Let’s use our brains here guys. Do you really think Mike Babcock will leave Rick Nash off the Olympic roster because he messed up a three man weave?

Not only do they report on the mood and efficacy of each practice session, but they discuss and dissect the off day team building activities. I actually had Pierre McGuire and his crack reporting tell me that Sidney Crosby sucks at fly fishing and Jarome Iginla is really good at golf.

In the words of Alex Rios, who gives a fuck?

I don’t care if Crosby clubs baby seals in his spare time; as long as he brings home the gold, I could not care less about his off ice exploits.

The main reason I’m so upset about the coverage of orientation week is the adverse effect it is having on my consumption of baseball highlights. We are nearing the first week of September, the pennant and wildcard races are heating up and I have to waste ten minutes of my morning listening to James Duthie breathlessly examine the possibility of Eric Staal playing right wing.

The nightly baseball recap should be the lead story on every highlight show, not some glorified shinny session which contained exactly zero hits and was just an excuse for Hockey Canada to make a few bucks off 16,000 gullible Calgarians.

Do I think Canada has a shot at the gold? Absolutely. I think we will have the most depth of any country in the tournament. Also, never underestimate the power of the home crowd. The only team that scares me are the Russians; they might have one of the best offences in IIHF history. Imagine this power play unit: Ovechkin, Malkin, Datsyuk, Gonchar and Kovalchuk. If I was a goaltender, those five names would keep me up at night.

I propose a moratorium on Olympic hockey talk until the first of February; or at least until a World Series champion is crowned.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: Hiatus

I will not be posting a column this week as Gretzpo and I are headed to Niagara Falls for a Bachelor Party. Needless to say, my mind is on things other than writing at this moment.

We're going to make The Hangover look like the Dead Poets Society.

If any of our valued readers would like to electronically send bail money on our behalf, please email me.

Tewks is already drunk.

Talkin' with Tewks: The Jerkstore Called and They're Running Out of You

Buckle your seatbelts ladies and gentlemen the acerbic and nasty sign has been turned on in Gretzpo’s Sports Blog, so expect to feel some major turbulence at your computer screen at a cruising altitude of great writing.

Disclaimer: if you are Patrick Kane’s mother, grandmother, or any member of his immediate or extended family I would stop reading immediately. My rage over young Patty’s cab incident is palpable and I just washed down a fifth of Jack Daniels. Plus I’m writing in my underwear so literally anything might happen.

It may seem like I’ve waited a week to weigh in on the issue, so I could gather all the facts and then comment in a carefully prepared, well thought out manner. That would be wrong. I’m on a very tight schedule: Monday to Thursday I watch Youporn videos, Fridays I write for the blog and the weekends are reserved for partying and getting rejected sexually by members of the opposite sex.

Also, I’ve never let little things like facts and journalistic accuracy get in my way before so I am not about to start now.

The Patrick Kane incident struck a chord with me because there is nothing I hate more than punk kids with a warped sense of entitlement who think they can treat people they deem inferior like crap.

Let’s be honest: no matter what the extenuating circumstances of the incident are, the issue can be summarized thusly: Patrick Kane, because he is a professional hockey player, is an arrogant, little twerp who thinks he can play by different rules than the rest of us. Rules of social morality and basic human decency do not apply to him.

If he got into a barfight because of the above (say he propositioned some guys’ girlfriend) then that would be a separate issue. Hell, if I was in the NHL I’d have the big wheels on whenever I went out drinking as well.

But Patrick Kane couldn’t try to start something with someone his own age. First, that would require him to not be a huge pussy, which, evidently, is asking a lot. No, he had to pick on an elderly cab driver. Did he start something with this cab driver one on one?

Of course not. He needed the help of his cousin to choke and punch the poor guy because of a fare dispute. Fighting mano a mano, even against a senior citizen, necessitates at least an ounce of testosterone flowing through one’s veins. Obviously little Patty doesn’t have any of that in his system; if he did, then he would probably be able to grow facial hair and weigh more than 150lbs.

The origin of the skirmish is what I find most vexing. Apparently, the two parties squabbled over the change for a payment of fifteen bucks for a $13.80 cab ride.

WHAT??????

Patrick Kane makes $850,000 a year and he’s willing to fight a cab driver for failing to come up with a dollar and twenty cents change? I am not a good enough writer to describe such frugality. That is just fucking ridiculous.

I don’t make any money and I would have let the cabbie keep the change.

What’s the matter Patty? Been spending too much of that entry level contract on convincing drunk teenagers to give you a handjob in the back of your Escalade? Is the extra DOLLAR AND TWENTY CENTS going to make or break this month’s budget? Or are Mommy and Daddy still looking after your finances and they’d be upset knowing you were out drinking underage?

You seem like a White Zinfandel or Bacardi Breezer guy to me. Am I right?

I recall from my university days that you are supposed to make your thesis identifiable in the beginning of your essay. I’m not sure if I did that, so let me do so now.

PATRICK KANE IS A SCRAWNY, LITTLE BITCH.

As I did with my lambasting of Chris Bosh, on the off chance that little Patrick reads this I am laying down the following challenge. Because I have ripped you mercilessly with never having met you, you deserve a chance at retribution. Email me (the link can be found in the Contributor section) and show me that you’re not everything I described above. Christ, you made it to the NHL there has to be a man inside of you somewhere (and your regular Friday night activities don’t count).

And for those readers who will call me a pussy for picking on two guys much scrawnier than me, with no discernible fighting ability, you are absolutely correct. I’m not going to call out someone like Kimbo Slice. Despite evidence to the contrary, I am not an idiot.

Plus I can’t risk having my face disfigured. It’s really all I have.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' with Tewks: US Legal System Going to the Dogs

In a continuing effort to increase publicity and readership to the blog, check out the picture of the hot bitch above.

The news of Michael Vick’s conditional reinstatement to the National Football League, along with questionable off field behaviour of other football stars has forced me to comment on the never-ending legal woes of NFL players. Furthermore, these legal cases have illustrated glaring disparities and misplaced priorities within the US justice system.

Let’s tackle the Michael Vick issue first. Let me begin by saying the accusations levelled against Vick for his part in the dog fighting ring were sickening, reprehensible and inexcusable. Executing underperforming dogs by electrocution, drowning or simply by slamming their heads repeatedly into the ground is absolutely despicable.

This doesn’t even include dogs killed or irreparably harmed in the dogfights themselves. Vick, along with his hometown minions, forced female dogs into ‘rape stands’ to be impregnated by the most aggressive, physically dominant males to ensure selective breeding. Reading excerpts of the court documents makes me hope that Vick himself was propped up into a ‘rape stand’ during his prison sentence and brutalized by a lonely 300lb inmate named Bubba.

The hot topic concerning Vick these days is whether or not he should be allowed to continue his professional football career. I am in the camp that is for reinstatement. He served his time and deserves a chance to regain his livelihood at his chosen profession. The fact his chosen profession pays multi million dollar salaries is beside the point.

The entire point of incarcerating prisoners is to rehabilitate them in the hopes that they can once again become functioning members of society. No one has the right to deny Vick this chance if he has served his mandated sentence, is considered rehabilitated and expresses remorse at his transgressions.

I think the real question is whether Vick can still play the game of football at a high level; it will be tough. He’s two years removed from training and all that forced sodomy while in the clink can’t be good for the legs. Vick’s farts probably sound like air escaping from a punctured bike tire. WHOOOOOSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!

The second malcontent I want to discuss is quite possibly one of the dumbest human beings on the planet: Plaxico Burress. He was charged with second degree criminal possession of a weapon and third degree possession for carrying ammunition. How he was found to be in possession of a Glock semiautomatic is the best part of the story.

The jackass shot himself in the thigh at a nightclub!!

Let’s try to get into Plaxico’s brain to understand his thought process on the night in question:

I’m the star wide receiver on the New York Football Giants. I feel like getting my freak on at the club tonight. What should I wear? I think I’m going to go with sweatpants; I love a nice elastic waistband. Besides, nothing says mature, rich, young professional like wearing sweatpants in public (who is he, George Costanza?). How can I best accentuate my ensemble? I know, I’ll shove my loaded Glock pistol down my waistband in case I need it (I know the first thing I shove down my pants before I go out is a double barrelled shotgun; but that’s only because I want the hotties on the dance floor to think I have big junk).

I don’t know much about weapons, cars or anything manly but I do know it’s probably not a good idea to have a loaded handgun down your pants in a busy nightclub.

Also, why wasn’t the safety on? If a loaded gun is in close proximity to my penis, I want the assurance that said gun will not let fly with a bullet into my urethra. I’ve become quite fond of my manhood and I would to keep it in working order for some years to come.

Now the penalties for his charges are quite severe; the District Attorney wants to put Burress behind bars for two years, while Plaxico’s defense team has countered with one year. There’s an excellent chance this case will go to trial.

I understand why the penalties are severe for having a loaded weapon in public; to act as a deterrent so others don’t start packing heat while out to dinner at the Olive Garden. However, I don’t understand how Burress’ crimes warrant the same punishment as Vick’s. All Burress should be punished for is being an idiot; I think the shame and embarrassment, not to mention the excruciating pain, of shooting oneself in the thigh is punishment enough. Burress should have to pay a huge fine, do some community service and probation and be educated on gun safety.

The illogical sentencing of Burress compared to Michael Vick brings me to my last case study: Dante Stallworth. There aren’t any male rape or penis shooting jokes in this section; the entire story is just too sad and incomprehensible.

In March, Stallworth was driving drunk in Miami after a heavy night of partying in South Beach. His blood alcohol content was nearly twice the legal limit. During his bumper car ride home, Stallworth struck and killed pedestrian Mario Reyes.

What was Stallwoth’s jail sentence? 24 days.

What the fuck?

He killed another human being with a car while under the influence of alcohol and spends just over three weeks in jail. How is that justice? Michael Vick killed some dogs, which is tragic, but he didn't murder another person. Vick got two years. Plaxico Burress is looking at two years in prison and his only crime is being a moron and socially retarded.

What kind of legal code punishes dog killers and those in possession of firearms more severely than someone who has extinguished the life of another human? There is something seriously wrong with the United States justice system.

I have to stop talking about this as I’m getting too upset. I’m going to Wakestock in Collingwood this weekend to party with scantily clad, sexually adventurous coeds so I need to mentally prepare myself.

Have a great weekend.

Tewks is frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: Every Rose Has Its Thorn

My last few columns have been entirely too manly in tone and purely focused on sports; discussions meandering from the greatness of Roger Federer, Lance Armstrong’s comeback, the incredible story of Tom Watson’s quest for an Open Title and the possible trading of Roy Halladay.

It’s time I got back to my roots of writing superfluous pop culture pieces so fluffy that a new visitor to the site would be unsure of my sexual preference. That being said, I’m sure most of my veteran readers still aren’t convinced I’m straight.

That’s right sports fans it’s time to discuss the culmination of the current season of The Bachelorette. I’ve never actually watched a season of this before because the entire premise of finding a spouse on national television in two months is just so mind-numbingly stupid and insane. But I digress.

The only reason I started watching this season (and only halfway through) is due solely to the cohesion and success of our beach volleyball team, Team Top Gun. You need one girl on the court at all times and our girl, let’s call her Red, is the best female player in the league. Needless to say, it is in our best interests to keep her happy; which is also why I play shirtless so she can ogle my impressive musculature glisten in the setting sun.

We play Monday nights so our games always coincide with The Bachelorette; Red, being a female, is a huge fan of trashy reality television and it got to the point where her desire to play volleyball was waning due to her trash TV obsession.

Fearing the downward spiral of Team Top Gun into the bottom half of the standings, Gretzpo and I capitulated to Red’s demands and PVR’d each episode with the promise to watch it immediately after our games commenced.

We grudgingly prepared ourselves for our Monday nights to be filled be with crying, overwrought emotion and conniving backstabbing. Then we would watch The Bachelorette. Ba-dum-cha!

However, once we started watching, we became hooked. It is a fantastic show: polarizing characters, excessive drinking, questionable morality, great one-liners and a bachelorette who vacillates between hideous and hot in a matter of frames. Really it’s remarkable. Sometimes she looks like a Peregrine falcon and others times, the gorgeous girl next door.

What made this season great was a fellow by the name of Wes. A Texas country singer, he had no qualms that he was on the show solely for the purpose of garnering publicity for his career. Plus he has a face that you just want to hit with a baseball bat. If you looked up douchebag in the dictionary, Wes and his smarmy shit-eating grin would be staring back at you.

I have to give the guy credit; he preyed on Jillian’s insecurities and horrible decision making and parlayed it into a top four finish.

Here’s what I can’t stand about women and why they are crazy. Everyone could see that Wes was not there to fall in love, except for Jillian. She kept saying that she liked his bad boy persona and that he was misunderstood. Here’s a tip: if you allow guys to treat you like shit, they will treat you like shit. Plain and simple.

Wes even told the other guys he had a girlfriend back home and when they tried to tell Jillian she refused to listen. Jake, aka Mr. Perfect, even returned to the show after being eliminated to out Wes for the colossal prick he is. Did Jillian listen and make a reasonable, logical decision? Of course not.

She said and I quote: “I don’t know who to trust, the All American good guy or the Texas bad boy?”

Your answer is in the fucking question!!!!! What a moron. I would love for a woman to explain this thought process to me because I am at a loss for words. The she sent Jake home and kept Wes around for another a week.
And she wonders why guys have hurt her in the past.

I’m getting too upset, let’s move on.

The final two guys up for Jillian’s affection were Kiptyn and Ed. Kiptyn is way too good looking for her and Ed has just the right amount of goofy everyman in him to be a good fit for Two Face.

I really think Kiptyn dodged a bullet; he has every woman in America thinking he’s a great guy, he’s famous and lives in San Diego; he’ll spend the next 3 months preying on every B and C list actress and model with a 50 mile radius. Good for him.

Ed was the underdog going into the finale but came out on top. A couple episodes earlier he had a bout of erectile dysfunction and had Jillian worried that the physical connection wasn’t there.

Ol’ Ed got right back on the horse and must have embraced his inner Sting with a marathon sex session in the finale because Jillian was starstruck after their second opportunity to ‘make love’.

Congratulations Ed and Jillian. You’ll be broken up by Christmas.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: Should He Stay or Should He Go?

I write this column with a deep-seated malaise welling up at the bottom of my heart and the acidic taste of bile in my throat (no, I did not just see Gretzpo without a shirt on).

The reason for my melancholy is the very real possibility that my idol, Roy Halladay, will be traded by the MLB trade deadline next Friday (if that happens, I will not be writing a column next week; instead I will attempt to cheer myself up with a healthy selection of Youporn videos).

Tonight, Doc Halladay goes up against the Tampa Bay Rays in what could be his last start in a Blue Jays uniform. I hope Rogers Centre is packed to the hilt with 40,000 strong clamouring to pay tribute to the greatest pitcher in franchise history (and that’s not even up for debate; Dave Steib is a distant second).

The entire trade situation has been handled worse than a hot potato at a birthday party for epileptic kids. 100% of the blame should be placed squarely on the shoulders of Toronto’s smarmy general manager, JP “Falcon Nose” Ricciardi. He has used misdirection and flat out lies to convince the Rogers conglomerate and the Jays’ fan base that he is committed to bringing a third championship to Canada’s team.

Now, Ricciardi has done a great job in stockpiling young arms and the Jays have an abundance of talent in their farm system, but we’re on, what, year 8 of his supposed five year plan to make the team a contender?

Even Stalin didn’t take this long to transform Russian socioeconomics and do, uh, some other stuff.

Before this season even got underway, Ricciardi had the audacity to say that 2009 would be a “transition” year because of the season ending injuries to Shawn Marcum and Dustin McGowan, and 2010 would be Toronto’s ‘year.’

I have a question: how the fuck are we supposed to contend for a World Series by trading arguably the best pitcher in baseball? Call me crazy, but if pitching and defense wins championships, then having Doc on the staff might be a prerequisite for a deep playoff run.

Unfortunately, because Ricciardi has the Toronto media in his back pocket (I don’t think I’d be able to recognize Mike Wilner without his finger up JP’s butt), there seems to be a lack of outrage among the Jays’ beat writers.

There is an appropriate amount of consternation in the blogosphere, as that is the arena where true fans have a voice and don’t just spend their time grazing at the buffet in the media room while periodically glancing at the play on the field.

If Roy wants a trade, then I say more power to him. He has been nothing short of amazing during his 10 or so years with the Jays’ organization. Halladay is a consummate professional, a warrior on the mound and has been a terrific ambassador for city of Toronto.

He has taken the ball every five days, pitched in front of shit teams, mediocre teams and decent teams without ever once complaining about a lack of run support. The guy throws over 200 innings a year and has been invaluable in showing Jays’ prospects how to properly prepare for a start and hone their craft.

He is the only active major leaguer with at least 100 career wins and zero playoff appearances. That’s not fair. A talent like Doc deserves to pitch in October.

Furthermore, Roy deserves nothing but adulation and respect from the city of Toronto. If, in fact, this is his last start, the cheers should ring long and loud, deep into the night. And, when Roy returns with his new team, I will be at the game and be the first one to give Doc a standing ovation for the years of greatness he provided the Blue Jays organization. And I hope every other fan in attendance will do the same.

In fact, if I hear one boo mixed in among the multitude of cheers, I will personally find that person and beat the living shit out of him (well not me, but one of my friends who is, you know, not a pussy).

Back to Falcon Nose: he wants to trade Vernon Wells. I, for one, think this is great idea but unfortunately there is only one general manager dumb enough to pay Wells $20 million a year. Oops.

Also, there are rumblings that he’s shopping Scotty Rolen around as well. If that happens, I am done with this team until Ricciardi’s reign of terror is over. How can you trade a player like Scott Rolen? He’s the heart and soul of that clubhouse. Gretzpo and I are such big fans of Rolen that we contemplated heading down to the Rogers Centre, with homemade signs and shirts declaring ourselves ‘Scotty’s Hotties”. Unfortunately, the idea fell through when we realized there is no way to make that seem less gay.

Please do yourself a favour and watch the Jays game tonight. It could be one of your last chances to pitching as an art form. Here’s to you Doc; the greatest pitcher in Blue Jays history.

I’m starting to get a little misty right now. I’ll let Tina Turner express how I feel about Roy. Enjoy.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: Elementary, My Dear Watson

Similar themes are permeating throughout the sports world recently. After last week’s discourse on the incredulity surrounding Lance Armstrong’s comeback in the Tour de France, sports fans have been treated to another old lion attempting to recapture past glory in Tom Watson’s march to the top of the leaderboard in the British Open (or Open Championship for all you insufferably pretentious Brits).

I consider myself to be a student of golf history, but I am embarrassed to admit that, until this week, I was not that familiar with the career of Mr. Watson. I think this is due in large part to the fact he played the majority of his career in Jack Nicklaus’ shadow (I think Phil Mickelson will share a similar historical fate due to his time in the Tiger Woods era).

After a quick perusal of the most reputable source on the Web (Wikipedia), I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to Tom Watson. The guy had an incredible career: 39 PGA Tour victories, 6 Player of the Year awards and 8 major championships, including a phenomenal 5 British Opens.

His most memorable victory came at the 1977 British Open, which coincidentally also took place at Turnberry, in a classic confrontation with Jack Nicklaus that came to be known as the Duel in the Sun (that sounds like an Antonio Banderas/Selma Hayek straight to DVD release).

They were lovers on the run from the law. Their crime: Passion. With a heat hot enough to melt ice. Sex, sweat and salsa dancing. Banderas, Hayek and Steve Buscemi star in Duel in the Sun.

I’m pretty sure I would rent that movie; I gave myself an erection just writing that tagline.

Back to Turnberry 1977: after two rounds and identical scores, Watson and Nicklaus were paired for the third round one shot off the lead. After a pair of 65s, Tom and Jack found themselves alone at the top in the hunt for the title.

What followed was probably the greatest final round in major championship history as both guys came out swinging. After 16 holes, both legends were tied: ten shots clear of the rest of the field. Watson birdied 17, Nicklaus sank a 50 foot bomb for birdie on 18, but Watson followed with his second birdie in a row for the win and his second Claret Jug.

Watson shot 65 on Sunday and Nicklaus shot 66. Can you imagine that final round taking place in today’s 24 hour sports news cycle? My God, all those creaky, old school golf writers would have heart attacks from the excitement and Johnny Miller would have an orgasm live on air.

During his prime, Watson’s playing style was described thusly: he had abundant length coupled with sufficient accuracy, played aggressively, developed a superlative short game, and was skilled and confident with the flat stick.

That also accurately describes my bedroom performance.

Yesterday, Watson was able to give Father Time a swift kick in the groin with a virtuoso 65 that left him one shot out of the lead at the age of 59. Can you believe that? I hope I’m still above ground at that age and Tom Watson is in contention for a major title.

Most pundits believe that Watson is just a feel good story and he can’t possibly keep up his stellar play. However, his game is suited to links golf and he has more Open Championship experience than anyone else in the field, so look for Tom to acclimate nicely once the nastiness of Mother Nature rears her ugly head and turns Turnberry into a battle of attrition.

Not only is Watson a great golfer but he is also the consummate professional. I love how he’s paired with Sergio for the first two days; there’s such a great juxtaposition between the two. Sergio gets all huffy and bitchy if someones farts within a 200 yard radius of him on a golf course. The guy is a basket case and always blames external influences for his poor play instead of looking inward. Probably the biggest reason why he has yet to win a major. That and he can’t putt worth shit.

Contrast that demeanour with the calm, even-keeled approach of Tommy Watson. He never gets down on himself, always keeps plugging away and doesn’t let bad luck or poor shots affect the rest of his round.

Case in point: Watson’s second round. He bogeyed four holes in a row at one point, clawed all the way back and capped off his day with a bomb from the fringe to go into the weekend tied for the lead and looking for his sixth British Open title.

Here’s hoping Watson can continue on this magical run and become the oldest winner in major championship history.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

My Favorite Swedish Gang and a Johnny Lawrence Tribute

Your pal Gretzpo, after awaking from his slumber this morning, made his way down to the parking garage to begin his daily commute.

However, his driver side front window was smashed in, and his GPS stolen. The ruffians who stole my GPS though will not need directions for where they're going: because they're all going straight to hell.

I can only assume that it was a group of punks who stole from me and vandalized my car: what if I had caught the perp in the act? Surely he'd need backup in order to take care of me. Or some kind of weapon. Or some form of martial arts training. Or the ability to throw a punch. But I digress...

Because of my ordeal today we will be saluting the greatest gang leader of all time: Johnny Lawrence. If I have to provide any sort of backdrop for who that is, you're definitely on the wrong site.

With every additional viewing of the Karate Kid I start to secretly root for Johnny Lawrence more and more and Daniel LaRusso less and none.

Let's start with one of the opening scenes at the beach: school's about to start, Johnny is ready to re-invent himself in order to win back the affections of Ali, and she's already being playful with some punk from New Jersey. He rides down on his motorbike, and says that he "wants to talk" to Ali. And in order to hear her, he tries to turn down the volume on her 1980's freakishly oversized boombox. Ali and Daniel both flip out, Johnny tries to hand the boombox to Daniel, and because he's so weak he falls over.

Daniel then takes a wild running swing at Johnny, which he easily evades, and does some leg sweeps before finally finishing him off with a roundhouse kick to the stomach. He then asks Daniel if he's "had enough", clearly believing the fight has reached its conclusion. Daniel then proceeds to throw the biggest sucker punch of all time. "Now we're even!" Johnny sets him down one more time, even though Daniel's actions warranted a much more gruesome beating. The whole fight can be seen here.

And that's just the beginning: later Daniel is riding his bike down the street and is approached from behind by Johnny and the rest of the Cobra Kai on motor bikes. Instead of moving to the right like slower traffic should, he tries to speed up to avoid them. So the Cobra Kai do what I want to do to every cyclist who gets in my way: run him off the road. Then he goes and gets pissed off at his mother. Nah... "A GOOD SCHOOL!".

Here's another note: every time the Cobra Kai are involved in a scene the music turns dark and evil. Music can be such a strong device: this is why I try and avoid hitting on women to songs like "Psycho Killer" by the Talking Heads. Yeah... I'm going through a real David Byrne phase. You see that canary-coloured polo and tight khakis? That's been me for the past 3 months. And do you see the creepy way he leers at his bassist at the beginning of the song? That's actually still a staple in my "game" with the ladies.

Back to Lawrence and Russo. There's a respite in the deserved beatings Daniel receives, but Daniel breaks the unofficial armistice by hosing down Johnny when he was rolling a joint - kind of like Hitler broke the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact between the Nazis and Soviets in 1941. Am I saying that Daniel LaRusso is Hitler? No ... I'm just saying they both broke Non-Aggression Pacts.

Where else are you going to get 1980 movies paralleled with World War II references? Our readership should be in the millions...

So after Miyagi agrees to train Daniel we don't see Lawrence for a while: unti he's kicking ass in the tournament. Because of injury, it appears as though Lawrence will win the tournament by default: but then they stop the trophy presentation when Daniel says he's going to fight after Mr. Miyagi molests him with his warm hand technique.

I know athletes are supposed to be tough: but what amount of damage do you think this did to Lawrence's confidence before the fight? Can you imagine being awarded the Stanley Cup and then having to play a 5th Overtime after it was found that the game winning goal was high sticked in? I think the All Valley Karate tournament was conspiring against him.

So here's to you, Johnny Lawrence. YouTube has paid you the homage you deserve.

Talkin' with Tewks: Lance Romance

Fresh off Roger Federer’s historic Wimbledon victory, outlasting Andy Roddick in the most fascinating fifth set in Grand Slam lore, the sports world has another incredible story taking place across the Atlantic.

Lance Armstrong, he of the record seven consecutive Tour de France titles and countless conquests of Hollywood starlets (I’m not sure which is more impressive), finds himself a fraction of a second behind the leader after the first week of the 2009 tour.

Unlike most North Americans, I was subjected to the exhausting beauty of the Tour de France from a young age; Papa Tewks is an avid cycling fan. I remember watching Miguel Indurain in the mid 90s win five Tours in a row; pundits said Indurain was like no other and the cycling world would never see another talent like him. There were rumours that the guy’s VO2 max was the highest ever recorded; or that his heart was equine in size (although I’d rather have a different organ bring similarities to a horse).

And then Lance showed up and turned the cycling world on its ear. I know stories about Armstrong have been written ad nauseam over the past decade but let’s quickly summarize his career path because it really is incredulous to fathom.

Diagnosed with testicular cancer, lost a nut, and given a 40% chance to live. Not only does he recover from the horrible ravages of chemotherapy to become a healthy, functional human being again, but he is able to race in arguably sport’s most gruelling test of endurance, the Tour de France.

Extraordinarily, he is able to win, not one, not two, not three, but SEVEN Tour titles in a row! The guy went from having the Last Rites read to him during his darkest hour to being the greatest cyclist the world has ever seen.
This is where all the Frogs in France get their panty hose in a twist and say that Armstrong must have been doping; there’s no way he could have beaten their Euro trash fruitcakes without succumbing to the wonders of modern chemistry. Of course they forget to mention that Armstrong has never failed a drug test, the International Cycling Union has the strictest drug testing protocol in sports and legions of great riders have found themselves mired in doping scandals.

Let’s take a look at his personal life during this time period as well. After beating cancer, he gets married and pops out a couple of kids to ensure the bloodline of his progeny. At the height of his popularity, Lance realizes American chicks now think the bike is sexy; so he dumps his wife, becomes best friends with Matthew McConaughey (who cannot be spoken more highly of on Gretzpo’s Sports Blog) and embarks on a shirtless workout/casual sex odyssey that cuts a swath of female orgasm (which I do not believe exists) induced destruction all over the United States.

Two of his conquests were Sheryl Crow and one of the Olsen Twins. I’m not ecstatic about the second one. Is it weird or creepy that I think the Olsen Twins were cuter on Full House than their present form (don’t answer that)? Having sex with one of the Olsen Twins would be like trying to make sweet love a broomstick. And that’s not fun. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Plus he gave one of the best athlete movie cameos in film history with his performance in Dodgeball (Watch it here).

Tired of the above, Armstrong decides, at the age of 38, to re-enter the world of competitive cycling. Critics, mostly European, lambasted this decision saying Lance would tarnish his legacy and risk making a fool of himself.

Once again, the good ol’ Texas boy is making those journalists choke on their camembert and sauvignon blanc. As the riders begin their assault on the hellish climbs consistent with every Tour, Armstrong is poised to capture the maillot jaune (yellow jersey) for the first time since 2005.

How great is the maillot jaune as the indicator for the leader of the tour? I want this to catch on in real life. Say Gretzpo and I go to the bar and I pick up and he doesn’t (not a very big stretch I know). I should get to wear a maillot jaune until Gretzpo is able to match or surpass me. That way everyone knows who the Alpha Dog is; or if I deadlift more than Gretzpo at the gym, I should get to wear the maillot jaune past the hotties in spinning class.

If Lance wins it will be the most improbable victory since Jack Nicklaus won the Masters in 1986. Armstrong might even be able to get a date with Megan Fox if he wins; and I will buy a replica maillot jaune.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.