Hit Me with Your Best (Head) Shot

Once again, the hockey cognoscenti is bending to the will of the public and they are promising to do due diligence in eradicating head shots from the game. The public uproar stems from the serious skull and facial injuries suffered by OHL player Ben Fanelli in a ferocious hit two weeks ago.

The entire situation is eerily similar to all of the hot air blown by NHL general managers about cracking down on fighting after a senior player died when he hit his head on the ice in a fight. I covered the topic of fighting in hockey back in March. They said all the right things but has anything really changed? Of course not. Staged fights between two lunkheads with zero hockey skill still occur on a nightly basis.

However, something needs to be done about head shots as NHL players have been dropping like flies with concussions in this fledgling season. The safety of players is paramount, along with their intelligence. Concussions have been proven to have adverse effects on mental acuity and, let’s be honest, hockey players can’t afford to be any dumber.

The hit on 16 year old Ben Fanelli by over-ager Michael Liambis was brutally vicious, but it was also clean. Liambis never left his feet, he hit Fanelli with his shoulder and he didn’t the kid from behind. Unfortunately, Fanelli turned his back as the last second to make a pass, which caused his face to rocket into the glass when he was walloped by Liambis’ bulk.

Should Liambis have been suspended for the rest of the year? Absolutely not. But, OHL commissioner David Branch had to take a strong stance to show parents he is committed to keeping their kids in Canada’s top junior league.

In my opinion, the Fanelli incident could have been avoided, but not in the way Branch thinks. Have you seen the press pictures of Liambis and Fanelli? Liambis looks like a 20 year old man; Fanelli doesn’t look like he can grow facial hair yet.

That’s the biggest safety issue in junior hockey: having boys as young as fifteen face off against men five years older. The differences in strength, power and testosterone production at those ages is astounding.

Teenage boys can’t compete physically with twenty year olds. It’s physiologically impossible. And it’s also why I beat up high school kids on weekends. It makes me feel like a big shot.

To fix the problem in the NHL, forget about making the game less violent. To quote my buddy Brian Burke, “this isn’t ringette.” I think you have to look at the equipment. Players are ensconced in heavy duty plastic from head to toe: it offers too much protection. Guys race around the ice throwing their bodies at opponents with reckless abandon. Not to mention today’s players are so big and fast – it’s a recipe for disaster.

If you soften the equipment (especially shoulder pads), players will think twice about turning themselves into human battering rams. Less vicious hits, fewer concussions, safer playing conditions, better hockey.

Voila.

MJ Reincarnated as Disgraced, Former Slugger?

(Note: I don’t really find Kristen Stewart all that attractive and I think the Twilight saga is unbelievably boring and stupid, but I needed a picture of a pale actress to fit in with today’s column motif and she’s the only one I could think of)

It didn’t take Michael Jackson long to embrace his inner Elvis and make appearances from beyond the grave in an attempt to stay socially relevant and to make the list of top earning dead celebrities.

While Elvis sticks to backwater outposts in rural Mississippi taking the form of old, random fat guys, MJ has stepped it up a notch by inhabiting the body of former Chicago Cubs home run king Sammy Sosa.

Have you seen the picture of Sosa circulating on the internet? My God, it’s absolutely terrifying. He looks like Powder. I would have included the picture here but in case anyone under the age of thirteen reads this I chose not to post it lest the photo haunt their dreams.

Apparently, he is not suffering from the same “I hate being black” disease which inflicted the King of Pop. Instead, he is undergoing an elective rejuvenating, cleansing process that is usually the bailiwick of rich, vain women.

Yeah, that’s much more normal.

I need some more information on this rejuvenation process. Do they just dip your body in paint thinner? Do they scrape layer upon layer of skin off with a cheese grater? It all sounds like some torture device devised by Jigsaw from Saw fame.

I love that Sosa is trying to downplay his freakish appearance by saying that his “whiteness” is due to the lighting in the photo. Umm, I don’t think so, Sammy.

I’ve never seen a picture of Denzel Washington taken under harsh lighting conditions that makes him look like Tom Hanks. Sosa looks like a character out of an old Dave Chapelle sketch.

This entire situation pretty much solidifies the assumption that Sosa was on extreme doses of steroids during his assault on the home run record book in the late 1990s. I’m fairly confident anyone willing to play both sides of the Paul McCartney/Stevie Wonder classic Ebony and Ivory would have no qualms about ingesting truckloads of performance enhancers.

Here’s a question: since Sosa was black when he forgot how to speak English when questioned about steroid use by Congress, does this mean he would forget how to speak Spanish when asked about this cleansing process now that he’s whiter than Wonderbread?

Unforgivable Oversight

I had originally planned on making Monday’s posts all about the NFL. Today, I wanted to discuss the respective greatness of the two remaining undefeated teams, the Indianapolis Colts and New Orleans Saints. I pictured a faux Super Bowl preview of the two juggernauts while discussing their contrasting styles: the Saints’ razzle dazzle offensive explosions compared to the cold, calculated precision of Indy’s attack.

However, that plan went out the window when I discovered that one of the most influential people of our time celebrated his 40th birthday last Wednesday and I knew nothing about it until the weekend. Who am I talking about? The one, the only: Matthew McConaughey.

How was this not a national holiday (and I mean all nations)? And how was this not a bigger story in the mainstream media? Kids should have been taken out of school, government offices should have been closed, and marijuana should have been legalized for one day.

I follow pop culture and celebrity gossip way more than any straight male should and I had no idea Wooderson turned forty. That, in itself, is an absolute tragedy. The women’s network couldn’t have strung together a romantic comedy marathon showing only McConaughey fare? How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Failure to Launch, Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, Fool’s Gold should have been playing on an endless loop for 24 hours.

Obviously, I am a huge McConaughey fan. He procured a spot on my Top 10 Mancrush list (there’s no way he should be ranked at #5; that’s my fault as he should have been the questionable number one as my mancrush has only grown in the past 18 months).

Sure, he makes some crappy movies but he is exceedingly likeable on screen. I mean, did anyone see Surfer, Dude? It was one of the worst films I have ever seen but I made it through the entire 85 minutes because McConaughey was in it and there are a lot of scenes with naked chicks (an addition I’m attributing to Matty in his role as producer).

I did a little research on his big day and found an article on the People magazine website, which has a video showing 28 shirtless photos of Matthew in fifty-three seconds. I got way too excited when the site told me I could get “Matthew McConaughey Sexy and Shirtless 28 Ways.”

My fascination with the Texan isn’t sexual (I don’t think), but I can’t help but be impressed with the man. McConaughey’s commitment to physical fitness and positive outlook on life is something to admire. Upon turning 40, McConaughey said he plans to “spend some more time with my family and friends today, grillin' steaks and sippin' beers, celebratin' more to live for.”

Who wouldn’t want to hang out with the guy?

To mark the occasion (albeit belatedly), I played half an hour of shirtless football yesterday afternoon in the glorious sunshine channelling my inner McConaughey.

(Then I hit on some high school girls to channel my inner Wooderson)

Flu Shot Kerfuffle

As an athlete, normally I am in favour of athletes receiving special treatment in a variety of circumstances. For example, at university I was able to bypass the line at some bars and not have to pay cover due to my status as a varsity athlete.

Also, some professors would be lenient on grades and due dates if they knew you played on a sports team (I also showed up to some classes shirtless, which may have helped with some of the female instructors, but that’s a story for a different day).

However, I cannot in good conscience support NHL players receiving the swine flu vaccine ahead of members of priority groups that are at high risk for severe complications from H1N1. This morning, I saw several players try to explain, with a straight face, that they possessed the same risk factor as children under five, pregnant women, and those with chronic conditions.

How pathetic is that? These are probably the same guys who don’t give up their seat on the subway for old people and can’t fathom the ‘women and children’ first evacuation plan on the Titanic.

Their reasons for being considered priority are as follows: they spend a lot of time together in close quarters and they travel a lot.

Big Fucking Deal.

I’m pretty sure schoolchildren spend just as much time in tightly knit groups as hockey players. And, being adults, hockey players should know better than to go to work sick or to share water bottles. The travel thing is equally ridiculous. Thousands of businessmen travel all the time and I don’t see Health Ministries telling CEOs they are part of a priority group.

In fact, professional athletes should be the last people receiving the swine flu vaccinations. One of the main benefits of being an athlete (and training like one) is superior physical conditioning over the general population. Not only are athletes stronger, faster, more agile, and in better cardiovascular health, they also have stronger and more efficient immune systems.

I have never gotten a flu shot in my life and, since I started doing Crossfit, I’ve never been out of commission for days at a time with the flu. At time, have I shown symptoms and been under the weather? Absolutely.

But I have a foolproof sickness prevention plan. When I start feeling less than optimal, I get my ass to the gym and lift some heavy iron. If necessary, I will then stand in front of a full length mirror and flex until I drive the germs, microbes, virus etc. out of my body.

It never fails. Even my red and white blood cells are intimidating.

What pisses me off the most about NHL players receiving their vaccines with the priority groups is the fact they’re jumping the queues as well. Even if hockey players were deemed to be at a high risk for contracting H1N1, there’s no logical reason for them to be put at the front of the line while thousands of regular people have to wait for hours to get their flu shots.

Karma is going to come back and bite the Calgary Flames in the ass; I guarantee they won’t make the playoffs this year. I’d say the same thing about the Leafs but they weren’t going to make the playoffs in the first place.
My favourite person in this scandal is Ontario Health Minister Deb Matthews (and the gal pictured above). In an interview yesterday about the queue jumping, she looked straight into the camera and barked, “I don’t care who you are, how rich you are, how famous you are. If you’re not in the priority group, get out of the line and let the people who are in the priority groups get their vaccination.”

Yes ma’am. I must admit I got a little turned on when I heard this. I’ll bet she’s an absolute dynamo in the boudoir.

Yankee Fans Born After 2000 Can Now Die in Peace

Am I happy the Yankees won their 27th World Series title last night? Yes and no. I’m happy for Alex Rodriguez; this has been a season of redemption for him and to see A-Rod finally get a chance to taste World Series victory after sixteen years in the big leagues was great to watch.

The talk today is that finally getting a ring truly cements Rodriguez’s legacy as one of the greatest players in baseball history. Um, no. He has always been one of the best to ever play the game. The acquisition of a world championship just legitimizes A-Rod’s transcendence to heroic levels in the eyes of insufferable Yankee fans who don’t fully embrace or respect players until they’ve won a ring in pinstripes.

That is complete bullshit by the way. Before last night, I implored anyone to try this exercise. Listen to a Yankee fan discuss how guys like Scott Brosius and Tino Martinez are better overall players than A-Rod because Martinez and Brosius have multiple rings. Then try not to punch them in the face for being so idiotic. It’s impossible.

This brings me to my point about not being happy New York won the World Series: it’s because of their fans (I made my feelings clear on Yankee fans and New Yorkers during my trip to NYC in the summer of 2008). Now the baseball world has to listen to these idiots preen on and on about how “all is right in the world” and the “World Series is back where it belongs.” Yeah, we’re all very impressed. You spent $200 million on a team with only three starting pitchers you can trust (one of whom is AJ “Choke Artist” Burnett). You have no chance of repeating; enjoy another 10 years of World Series futility.

When Pedro came out throwing his fastball at 85, you knew he was going to have to bite and nibble at the corners to be successful. Unfortunately, umpire Joe West was squeezing Pedro big time, which forced him to throw too many pitches over the middle of the plate and a 38 year old Pedro Martinez can’t afford to do that anymore. What happened? Godzilla jacked him up.

How does Hideki Matsui win the World Series MVP? I know he single-handedly won Game 6 with a historic performance and hit over .600 in the Series, but that number belies his true worth to the Yankees victory. He only played in three games! Matsui was stapled to the bench for Games 3-5 in Philadelphia because Girardi felt he was not one of the top nine guys on the squad offensively and defensively. How can the MVP of the Series be someone who isn’t trusted to play in 50% of the games? If you take away his Game 6 performance, he is a marginal contributor at best.

Also, as one of my astute readers pointed out to me, why does Hideki Matsui still need a translator after spending the better part of a decade living in the United States? (And did you get a look at Matsui’s translator? I’m pretty sure he was Italian). I mean, come on Hideki, let’s put in a little effort. Tom Selleck had to learn to speak Japanese in Mr. Baseball and he was only there for a few months. Absorbing your host country’s culture is a two way street.

Actually, I think Matsui can probably speak English fluently. If you watch his interview with Chris Rose, he nods along to Rose’s questions as though he understands. He probably just didn’t want to speak to Chris Rose directly and for that, I can’t blame him. Rose is just terrible — I mean cringingly bad to watch.

Mark Grace was the best interviewer on TV last night. He was calm, relaxed, asked good questions, and made some jokes. Grace was like the anti Chris Rose. Also, did you know Mark Grace coined the term ‘slumpbuster’, which is code for a ballplayer having sex with a fat girl to get out of a hitting slump?

Truthfully, I think Mark Grace just loves fat girls:

Mark Grace – Hey man, what about that one? She must be pushing 240. I want her bad; need to get out of this slump.

Teammate – Mark you’re hitting .500 the last month. You don’t need a slumpbuster.

Mark Grace – Nah, I could be hitting better. I don’t feel comfortable at the plate. I should probably sleep with her just to be safe.

Where else on the Internet can you get a World Series recap that somehow ends with a discussion of Mark Grace and his love of fat women? That’s it for baseball posts until spring training, unless the Blue Jays do something stupid and trade Roy Halladay in the meantime. Then I will be on suicide watch.

Mouthguards Belong in the Mouth

Allow me to channel my inner curmudgeon (think a drunken Andy Rooney) and discuss something in the NHL that has become more and more prevalent over the last couple of years and drives me absolutely bonkers: the inappropriate and disgusting use of mouthguards by young NHL players.

Next time you watch an NHL highlight package, watch what happens after a player scores a goal. Invariably and without fail, the first thing he will do, even before raising his arms in celebration, is spit his mouth guard out into a gloved hand.

Why do they do this? Does a mouthguard-free jaw make it more enjoyable to celebrate with your teammates? I’ve played hockey and I agree that mouthguards are kind of a pain in the ass, but I never felt the need to expel the safety device out of my head after bulging the twine (I also never scored very many goals, but that’s beside the point). It looks so stupid for a player to care that much about such a minor nuisance.

And these are professional hockey players; they can afford expensive mouthguards, which fit perfectly around the teeth and are moulded to perfection. They aren’t using the one size fits all mouthguards from Canadian Tire that you had to boil in hot water and were probably made from the same plastic used on Hot Wheels race tracks in the 1970s.

The most glaring perpetrators of this ridiculous ritual are players under the age of 25. I think I’ve figured out why guys are doing this but the logic is so pathetic and narcissistic, it makes me concerned for society as a whole (and if I think its narcissistic then it must be bad).

It’s common knowledge that a mouthguard forces your cheeks and jaw into an unusual position, so there is just something “off” about your appearance when wearing one. It’s also common knowledge that goal scorers get close-ups on the television feed after they score. Now, I think players are so cognizant and egotistical about their media images that they consciously remove the mouthguards upon scoring so they can present their “best” to the viewing public.

Sure this logic is flawed because most hockey players have no teeth and are as ugly as sin, but they are also contenders for the dumbest athletes on the planet.

Also, it dumbfounds me when players sit on the bench and chew their mouthguards. This morning I saw Vinny Lecavalier clamp down on his mouthpiece like he was Hannibal Lecter snacking on a census taker’s liver. It didn’t even look like a mouthguard dangling from his lips; it looked like he was chewing a piece of bubble wrap. How is that going to protect against concussions?

Lastly, I wanted to write about this topic because it gives me an opportunity to link to one of my favourite comedy bits of all time (and also gives my female readers a taste of what sex with Tewks is like).

I Am a Genius

Q: Tewks, how have you not been hired by a major sports network yet? I mean you have absolutely crushed your predictions thus far for the World Series and given your readers valuable insight from the perspective of a star athlete.
- Tewks

A: You’re a no talent hack who thinks his clever witticisms and sophomoric humour are on the cutting edge of comedy when, in reality, they make Dane Cook’s standup act look like the Second Coming of George Carlin. Here are three words you CAN say on the Internet: You suck, douchebag.

Wow. Sorry about that folks. Somehow AJ Burnett’s mom hacked into my blogger account and answered that question for me. It’s nice to know someone in the Burnett family has some testosterone.

Let’s rundown the major points from my last few columns to see how I’ve become the Nostradamus of independent sports blogs:

- Last Thursday, I waxed poetic about the excellence of Cliff Lee. What did he do last night? Only shut down the Yankees for seven innings without his best stuff. Sure he got roughed up a bit in the eighth, but that brings me to my next bragging point.

- On Friday, I remarked how a noticeably absent Kate Hudson was wreaking havoc on A-Rod’s game through the first two games at Yankee Stadium. Since requesting Kate show her pretty little bone structure at Citizens Bank Park, A-Rod has gone off in the last two games and been the best hitter in the Series not named Chase Utley. Plus, he hit two doubles and had three RBIs versus my new BFF Cliff Lee.

- Yesterday was my piece de resistance. Not only did I correctly predict a Phillies victory but I guaranteed an abysmal performance by Burnett and boy, did that ever come to fruition. AJ was just terrible last night. It had nothing to do with how much rest he had but everything to do with him being terrible on the road where he can’t suckle at the teat of his home fans.

There was great news from the post game press conferences, as well. After I upbraided Major League pitchers for being pussies, Cliff Lee said he would be available to pitch in Game 7 (on two days rest). Now that is what a man does. He wants the ball on the biggest stage in sports: Game 7 of the World Series. Circumstances be damned. Here’s hoping he gets that chance.

(For my non baseball readers, since there is no game tonight I promise tomorrow’s column will have nothing to do with America’s pastime)

I Pleasure Myself on Three Days Rest

(How about that Halloween costume: White Goodman from Dodgeball. The resemblance is uncanny. I had to walk around downtown Toronto dressed like that; people were concerned for my safety but, let’s be honest, who’s going to mess with biceps like that?)

The Yankees won Game 4 of the World Series last night on the strength of clutch hitting by Mr. Kate Hudson. The results of the game seemed almost secondary as the only topics people wanted to discuss this morning were the Yankees’ decision to start CC Sabathia on three days rest and Philadelphia’s decision to rest Cliff Lee for Game 5 tonight.

As a pitcher, I feel that it is my responsibility to weigh in on this matter to educate the masses as opposed to fat, middle-aged sportswriters whose athletic exploits ended in grade 9 gym class.

The media makes it seem like pitching on three days rest is the most physically demanding activity in all of sports. Pitchers who throw on short rest are lionized as gritty throwbacks to a different era when men were men.

First off, pitching on three days rest isn’t that impressive. I’ve thrown on zero days rest plenty of times in my career. Hell, I threw on thirty minutes rest twice this year (pitched both ends of a doubleheader). Now Tewks, you say, you couldn’t touch 90 miles an hour unless you were driving in a car; these guys throw mid 90s gas, which puts much more torque and strain on their bodies than your “fastball.”

Fine, I’ll concede that point. I have worse stuff than Josh Towers (seeing that typed out makes me want to quit the game forever). However, I also don’t have access to all the cutting edge advances in athletic therapy and massage. Major League pitchers get massaged everyday, and they have access to cold and hot tubs and other devices designed to help them recover after a start.

What does my recovery regimen look like? I take two Ibuprofen, ice for 10 minutes and drink beer until my arm doesn’t hurt anymore. And I still have the testicular fortitude to get back on the mound and throw gems.

Pitchers are molly-coddled too much these days. There’s a reason why pitchers are thought to be limp-wristed prima donnas with fragile egos. No one expects them to be tough, so when a guy like CC goes on short rest, poems are written about his “warrior” mentality. Look at Nolan Ryan: he pitched for over 20 years, threw well over 130 pitches per start, and regularly threw on three days rest. The human body can adapt to extraordinary stresses, but it needs to be given the chance to be tested.

In this era of pitch counts and million dollar contracts, everyone is so damn scared of hurting a young arm. Hundreds of pitchers are never given the chance to reach their true potential.

If AJ Burnett gets lit up tonight (which he will), the media will crow that it was due to his pitching on three days rest. Sorry, wrong answer. Burnett will get demolished tonight because he will not be throwing in the cozy confines of Yankee Stadium with 50,000 people supporting his every move.

Philadelphia fans are historically brutal on opposing pitchers and AJ can’t pitch in hostile environments because he is mentally weak. He shrinks from the face of adversity and, when the going gets tough, he folds like a cheap suit.

Cliff Lee will send the World Series back to New York and Pedro will get his revenge in Game 6.

AJ Burnett Doesn't Completely Suck

I’ve never been an AJ Burnett fan, even when he was with the Jays, but I have to admit that he threw a great game last night. Sending the Series to Philadelphia tied at one game apiece is monumental for the Yankees’ confidence heading into Game 3.

However, I still think Burnett is a douchebag. It starts with that idiotic piece of rope he has tied around his neck during each start. What the hell is that?

Every time I see it I want to reach through the TV screen and strangle him with it. Also, the pretentious way he celebrates strikeouts, with that cocky little pirouette, makes me want to barf. Have a little class, AJ. You’re a strikeout pitcher—act like you’ve been there before. Take a cue from Bobby Orr: no celebration necessary. After each punchout, just wait to get the ball back from A-Rod and move onto the next guy. No histrionics, no defiant strut.

Let’s see, what else do I hate about Burnett? Oh, I hate that he has the career statistics of a middling talent with average stuff when, in reality, he might have the best repertoire in all of Major League Baseball. His fastball threatens triple digits with late life and his curveball is just filthy; it looks like it falls down an elevator shaft when it crosses the plate.

The reason his career has been so mediocre is that he is a complete head case. Figure it out, AJ. With your talent, you should be in the express lane to 300 wins; instead, you’ll be lucky to get half that once all is said and done.

How about Joe Girardi last night? Obviously he read yesterday’s post as he went straight to Mariano Rivera in the eighth and watched the greatest closer in playoff history lock down a two inning save. See Joe? It’s so much easier to let your players win the game for you, rather than try to prove your baseball IQ to the world.

What’s happened to A-Rod? Six strikeouts in two games? Do we have confirmation that Kate Hudson has been in attendance thus far? I don’t remember seeing her at all the last two games. Maybe she’s off filming another romantic comedy with Matthew McConaughey (one can only hope). Whatever she’s doing, Rodriguez better get her on a plane to Philadelphia pronto if he harbours any desires for a World Series ring this fall.

Joe Girardi Is an Idiot; Charlie Manuel Is a Genius

Obviously, Cliff Lee was the story in Game 1 of the World Series; what an incredible pitching performance. Any true baseball fan would rather watch a guy like Lee attack the strikezone with surgical precision and keep hitters off balance by changing speeds than watch some meathead throw 100 miles per hour right down the cock.


I almost consulted my physician as Lee’s mastery of his craft gave me an erection that lasted perilously close to four hours last night.

There will be a litany of words written about Cliff Lee today – most of it gushing prose by respected members of the baseball establishment who get paid a lot more than I do to espouse their opinions. There’s no need for me to add any kindling to that burgeoning fire.

Instead, I want to talk about the very real possibility that Joe Girardi will over-manage the Yankees to a second place finish. To be fair, it’s not just Girardi who deserves to be subjected to the unholy firestorm of unrelenting verbosity I’m about to unleash.

It’s all 21st century stat geek managers who think starting pitchers can only throw 100 pitches an outing and rely on completely outlandish mathematical evidence: “So and so is hitting .280 against Pitcher A on odd numbered Thursday nights” and “Pitcher B’s effectiveness against left-handed hitters falls by 15% depending on the current phase of the moon.”

Last night was a prime example: with his team down 2-0, Girardi brings in Phil Hughes from the bullpen to start the eighth. Hughes continued his downward spiral and walked the first two hitters. Girardi gets him out of there and brings in Damaso Marte. Good move. Marte gets Utley (two bombs at that point) and Howard on seven pitches. Great move.

Then Girardi brings in David Robertson. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, WHY???????

I have no idea who Damaso Marte is but I’m pretty sure his arm isn’t going to fall off after seven pitches; plus, he just retired the two top hitters in the Phillies’ lineup. It’s almost like Girardi thinks he’s managing in Little League and he’s trying to get everyone into the game so some drunken baseball Dad doesn’t follow him into the parking lot to complain that little Timmy never got off the bench.

So, what happened? Robertson comes in and promptly walks Werth and then gives up a two run single to Raul Ibanez. 4-0. Game over. Nice job Joe.

Conversely, Charlie Manuel managed last night’s game perfectly. How? By not doing a thing.

He sent Lee back out to the mound inning after inning; pitchers are in the bullpen for a reason. They are not good enough to be starters. Why would you take your best pitcher out of the game for some plug who only throws an inning at a time before the wheels come off?

I was ecstatic when Lee sprinted out of the bullpen for the ninth. When Jeter sent a duck snort to centre and Johnny Damon followed with a humpback liner to left, Joe Buck and Tim McCarver hollered for Lee to be taken out. Why? The Phillies had a six run lead and the Yankees had been stymied by Lee all night long. You let Lee try to finish that game until the tying run comes to the plate. Manuel, being a genius, agreed with me.

Was Lee fazed by two cheap little singles? The next three batters went fielder’s choice, strikeout and strikeout. I had picked the Yankees to win it all, but if their starting pitchers can’t hand the ball off to Mariano Rivera then Joe Girardi’s micromanaging trying to bridge that gap with his bullpen will end up killing the Yankees.

What Have You Done Today to Make You Feel Proud?

The NBA season started last night and while I’d love to say that I tuned in to watch LeBron and the Cavaliers take on the Celtics’ Big Three, the truth is I watched The Biggest Loser instead (as I have every Tuesday night for the past two months).

I do like basketball and follow the league through TSN highlight packages, but I don’t start paying earnest attention until the playoffs roll around. Why? The team I am forced to watch on a nightly basis is the Toronto Raptors led by one of the worst “franchise” players in the league: Chris Bosh.

I’ve expressed my feelings on Chris Bosh before, so I won’t go swimming in that pool again. However, I do need to illustrate how ridiculous the sports media is in heaping praise upon Bosh for putting on 15lbs of muscle in the offseason. First of all, the guy didn’t do it for the team; he did it for himself. Bosh is in a contract year; you’re telling me it’s a magical coincidence that this is the summer he finally decided to get into shape?

Second, he’s a PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE!!! All he has to do in the offseason is workout and try not get arrested. That’s it. That’s all we expect from these guys. I’m supposed to be impressed that Bosh learned to do a pushup in between Twitter posts? Go to the gym when you’re not being paid millions of dollars and then come talk to me.

Back to The Biggest Loser . . .

Some of you may be wondering why the girl in the picture is a tad more rotund than the usual fare here at Talkin’ With Tewks. Amanda is currently a contestant on this year’s show. Cute face, right? Every week, as the pounds melt off, she gets more and more attractive. By the finale, I guarantee she will be a complete fox. Think of this like buying futures stock in oil. You’re buying at a low price now (jumping on the bandwagon when she’s still chubby), but when the price goes up in a few months (she’s now a babe), you will still be locked in at the original price (you’ve been digging her all along).

Actually I’m not sure if I completely understand how futures work; I still keep my money under my mattress.

Here is what’s bugging me about this season’s instalment of The Biggest Loser:

- Jillian’s personality. I don’t understand why she feels the need to completely break every competitor’s spirit while they are trying to workout. I’m all for pushing people past their comfort zones, but she isn’t satisfied until tears are shed and the contestants are quivering, emotional messes.

- Jillian’s appearance. She’s got a rocking body, but her face terrifies me. She’s like Fergie’s more masculine, older sister; and that’s saying something, because Fergie looks like a post-op transvestite (I wouldn’t be surprised if they both turned out to have a penis).

- “The Game”. This isn’t Survivor dickheads. Your only concern should be about losing weight; not weaselling yourself into alliances. It’s worrying about such extraneous crap that led you to weigh 9,000lbs in the first place.

- The “Stories.” Blah, blah, blah, I had no friends in high school so I decided to eat myself into an early grave. I’m fat because of medical problems. Shut up; you are fat because you didn’t exercise and couldn’t stop shoving food down your throat.

Now, hearing Abby’s story about losing her entire family in a car crash was absolutely heart-wrenching to watch. But have you noticed how it is rarely mentioned? She never uses it as an excuse; Abby is awesome.

On the other hand, how many times do we have to hear that Shay is all alone and she “has no one?” I’m sure growing up with a heroin addict mother was terrible, but we don’t need to hear about it every ten minutes.

Plus, two weeks ago we found out she has a family at home? What the fuck? Her “woe is me” act is starting to wear pretty thin; she needs to take some accountability for her actions or she will be HUGE when she returns for the finale.

Leafs Win, Leafs Win, Leafs Win!!!

Truthfully I couldn’t care less that the Maple Leafs became the last NHL club to win a game in the fledgling 2009-10 hockey season.

(Quick aside: do you notice how I correctly used the phrase “couldn’t care less”? One of my biggest pet peeves is people who say “could care less” when they mean “couldn’t care less”. The aim of the term is to illustrate that you don’t give two shits about something; to say you could care less means that it doesn’t bother you that much and you still have some caring in reserve.

To say you couldn’t care less means that you are truly ambivalent towards the situation. For example, here is an appropriate usage of the phrase: Tewks, I couldn’t care less about your egotistical desire to give us a grammar lesson; shut your mouth and get back to the Leafs)

The only reason I am writing about the Leafs today is that there was literally nothing to watch on TV last night: I had hoped for a Game 7 but A-Rod and the Yankees took care of that; I sat down to enjoy a new episode of House only to find out it was a repeat; and the Monday Night Football game involved a team that won’t even let it’s head coach call offensive plays.

Unfortunately, now I’m going to have to listen to moronic Leaf fans believing that the “team turned a corner” and a march towards a playoff spot is inevitable because they were able to score more than two goals in a game. Sorry folks, but one win in nine games does not a playoff contender make.

Brian Burke is going to have some explaining to do when the Leafs have a chance at the first overall selection in the draft next June but then have to give that pick to Boston because Burke wanted to sign a guy with one nut.

The majority of Leaf fans are functionally retarded (how else could you support such a poorly run organization?) so I admire Burke for attempting to expand their vocabulary and introduce the words pugnacity, belligerence and truculence to Leaf fans’ lexicon.

Are the Leafs tougher? Yes. They were a couple of tutus away from entering a girl’s ballet recital last year. Is it productive? I don’t think so. True toughness on the ice means fighting tooth and nail for every square inch of ice, finishing your checks and punishing opponents down low. It’s not filling your lineup with unskilled goons who engage in staged fights so their buddies back in Red Deer can watch them on Sportscentre. Watching meatheads like Colton Orr and Jay Rosehill stickhandle is like watching Gomer Pyle juggle hand grenades.

Could they both beat the living shit out of me? Of course. However, there’s more talent and heart on Battle of the Blades than in the Maple Leafs’ dressing room.

New Format: Scandals and Animals

How great is this new layout and format? I needed to break free from the stifled creativity I felt under the iron-fisted rule of the nefarious Gretzpo. He made Idi Amin look like Mr. Rogers.

Also, doesn’t the new colour scheme look so much cleaner and sharper than the previous incarnation? I talked to one of my more “daintier” male friends and we basically put the site through an episode of Queer Eye for the Blog Guy.

As I’ve mentioned in the title header, I will now be posting new entries every weekday. I’ve shown over the past 12 months that I have mastered the art of writing weekly columns. You give me a central theme and 800-1000 words to stretch my journalistic muscle and I can poop out something more entertaining than 85% of the internet.

Now I’m going to try my hand at shorter, more stream-of-consciousness type pieces chock full of my usual fare of sophomoric humour and sexual ambiguity. Be forewarned daily sports blogs: Tewks is coming for you. I will not rest until I have stolen all of your readers. Or another Gossip Girl marathon comes on.

What do I want to talk about today? Well in an ironic little twist, I want to cover the same topic I tackled in my first weekly column back in late 2007: the greatness of Alex Rodriguez.

Finally A-Rod is reaching his true potential as a clutch hitter with his 2009 playoff performance (even though his playoffs stats have always been comparable with Derek Jeter’s and eerily mimicked Reggie Jackson’s, the media-anointed Mr. October, stats through the first 40 games of their postseason careers).

What has A-Rod done so far this month? Literally put the Yankees on his back and carried the rest of the anemic New York offence (Where have you gone Mark Teixeira? A Nation turns its lonely eyes to you) into the World Series for the first time since 2003. He hit .455 with two jacks against the Twins and .429 with three bombs in the LCS. Plus, Rodriguez was on base FIVE times in the clinching game last night.

Does the Yankee fan base owe his prodigious playoff exploits entirely to his nailing of Kate Hudson? Has a sexual dalliance ever been more profitable for a professional athlete (in terms of on field performance)?

(Full disclosure: I started sleeping with Kate Hudson back in August which is why my book excerpts have been so freaking good thus far)

Therefore how does A-Rod not win the LCS MVP? As a pitcher this may be considered blasphemy for me to say, but CC Sabathia did not deserve to win that award. Sure he threw two gems but the Yankees still won two games in the series while CC sat and devoured the entire clubhouse spread before the seventh inning stretch.

Without question, the Yankees do not win that series without A-Rod. His game tying shot in extra innings in Game 2 changed the entire complexity of the series.

Now if the Angels had forced a Game 7 and Sabathia won THAT game to run his record to 3-0 in the series, then not only would the ALCS MVP trophy deserve to be named after him, but I would start sending CC love letters in the hopes that he would show me how to throw a slider.

Talkin' with Tewks: Opening Some Mail

Kudos to all my readers who posted questions; I was very impressed with the breadth and depth of the comments. This is how it’s going to work: the question will be posted in bold and my answer will follow in normal type.

(Also, expect some format and layout changes coming to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog in the next week or so. They will make for a more enjoyable reading experience; the content will still be shit but you get what you pay for)

Q: The airwaves and print media were filled with opinions on the awarding of the Noble Peace Prize to Barack Obama during the past week - I thought your readers might enjoy a look at the serious side of Tewks. What is your opinion?
- Dwight

A: Allow my good friend Colonel Nathan R. Jessep to pinch hit for me on this one: My answer is I don’t have the first damn clue. Maybe the left wing nitwits on the Nobel committee wanted to suckle at the teat of the most powerful man in the world. And maybe the other nominees didn’t have the same media cache as Obama. I’m an educated man, but I’m afraid I can’t speak intelligently about the thought processes of a bunch of self-aggrandizing, pompous, Norwegian jerkoffs. What I do know is that the Peace Prize nominations were due only 12 days after Obama came to office.

Now are these the questions I was really called here to answer: Politics and Peace Prizes? Please tell me you have something more, readers. People depend on this blog for sports and pop culture humour. Please tell me their entertainment value isn’t pinned to the hopes of serious questions.

Q: Partial discrepancy among friends has arisen due to the Major League Baseball League Championship Series. Dodgers and Phillies, decent ballgame last night, but a slightly more imposing question was pondered during the game. Of the Cardinals lineup in the Division Series, what players would say were counted on for consistency, please elaborate towards players on Phillies and Dodgers as well, since the AL is a joke anyway.
-HeWhoLiftsHousesAndCrushesBrews

A: There are so many things wrong with this question I’m not sure where to begin. For future reference, when posting a question, please have a remedial grasp of grammar and command of the English language. Also, I know the true identity of this reader and I’ve seen him workout; the only way he’s ‘lifting houses’ is if Barbie’s Dream House is in the vicinity.

I’d love to take this question seriously and talk some baseball, but you referred to the American League as a joke. This tells me that any intelligent discourse I attempt to provide will be completely lost on you.

Cardinals – Pujols is the only guy in the lineup who would garner an invite to spring training with an American League team.

Phillies – Rollins, Victorino, Howard, Utley and Werth are absolute studs. That part of the lineup is like the Bermuda Triangle to pitchers: they get lost in there, never to return.

Dodgers – This postseason we learned that Manny can no longer hit an inside fastball going faster than 85 miles per hour. I guess Ethier is pretty dependable.

Q: Dilemma. So you go to a party, and get absolutely polluted; at this point you are talking to anything with legs, even the end table has something interesting to say. You end up speaking with a young harlot who wants nothing more than to sink her teeth into your meat; however, somehow in place deeply hidden in your brain, your conscience wakes up and tells you your buddy, nay, your roommate has hooked up with this girl. At this point in time, and level of poison in your bloodstream, you try and pick up scraps at said establishment, and because you are Tewks, you are successful in capturing a whale of a fish. Here's your dilemma. The Whale you just picked up is roommates with the first girl. You wake up and are walking down the hallway. What do you do? (This is a choose your own adventure)
- Sir Geoffrey Von Deuchenstein

A: Ok now we’re discussing some important issues. I can identify with a portion of this scenario; the ‘speaking with a young harlot who wants nothing more than to sink her teeth into your meat’ rings especially true. That happens to me at Wal-Mart all the time.

You said your buddy just hooked up with her? There was no relationship? Therefore there is no violation of the man code. However, if you hook up with the first girl, your buddy has complete authority to make ‘sloppy seconds’ comments to you for all eternity. But if you sleep with the whale, you can be teased mercilessly for sleeping with a whale.

You need to decide what option is the lesser of two evils. I’d go with the first girl, because when your buddy makes the sloppy seconds comments, just tell him she said you were better in bed and had a bigger package. Check and mate.

Q: What do we have to do to breed an elite athlete that actually cares about the world?When Derek Jeter endorses sprite, Manhattan in its entirety descends upon the nearest corner store in obedience of the man that tells them to obey their thirst. Yet we see a dearth of athletes, Canada’s beloved Steve Nash notwithstanding, who appear to give two monkey shits about the fact that the world that watches them chase a disk of rubber around a sheet of ice is, well, going to monkey shit.Sure, many athletes do knightly deeds and speak out about shortcomings in their sport or in the world at large after their retirement, but who cares about the ramblings of anyone removed from the game? One example of this would be Bill Romanowski, formerly the most terrifying man in the world, giving his two cents about the well-being of the (albeit marginally functional) brains rattling around in today's football helmets. Romanowski speaks from experience as possibly the most concussed person in the world and his advice should be valued, but his sphere of influence is a mere lesion on the oft-licked sack of today's top athletes. Those on top of their game are as quiet, reserved and clueless about what to do as Tewk's doctor might be upon seeing the results of his...well you know...tests. The reason they are that way is simple – why shit on the hand that wipes your ass?
- Thy Drunken Rookie

A: I had to shorten and edit this question due to space considerations; it was quite good (although it could benefit from slight revision stylistically) and I’d like to offer the person who wrote it an opportunity to write a full guest column exploring this issue as he is obviously very passionate about it.

I would love to construct an equally passionate, in-depth reply but I don’t need to because the answer is so simple. Michael Jordan answered this question best when he was asked why he didn’t use his influence to fight for social issues in the early 90s: “Because Republicans buy sneakers too.” There is no incentive for athletes to speak out in today’s culture because they risk alienating a portion of their consumer base.

You need to look internally Thy Drunken Rookie and picture what you would do in the same situation. Honestly, I think I would keep my mouth shut and enjoy my millions of dollars. Also, let’s be honest, do we really need athletes and celebrities (who aren’t the brightest bulbs on the Christmas tree) giving their opinions on such hot button issues? I want to see Manny Ramirez hit dingers; not wax philosophically on the situation in Darfur.

Q: A British Study released this year entitled ‘Violence and delayed social independence among young adult British men’ concluded that young men aged 20-24 who stay at home with their parents are more violent than those who live independently. Since it is a known fact that you still live with your parents, what is your opinion on these findings? Any connection to your own behaviour?
- Rambo

A: Rambo posted a link to the article as well. It made me feel like I was back in school again researching a paper. It was horrible; now I have visions of confidence intervals and p-values swirling around in my head.

My opinion on these findings is they are not complete. The authors forgot to add a facial attractiveness category to their variables. I mean sure it makes sense for ugly kids to engage in unnecessary violence; no one will know the difference if they are scarred permanently in a fight.

But for someone possessing perfect facial symmetry like myself, I can’t risk getting punched in the face. That would be stupid. I specifically steer clear of violence for that reason (unless my opponent is smaller than me, under the age of 12 or a strict no face shots policy has been instituted).

As for delayed social independence that is completely true. I didn’t learn how to pump gas until I was 22 and to this day, I don’t know how to turn on an oven.

Q: As someone who knows both you and Gretzpo, I applaud you for the realism depicted in your book excerpt - Gretzpo sure is an asshole. I want your top five Seinfeld episodes, in order, with full justification. This might have to be its own column(s).
- CSzem

A: First off, yes Gretzpo sucks. Second, I cannot rank my top five Seinfeld episodes in order as that is like picking a favourite child. However, I can tell you the episodes I hate the most. In fact, I will change the channel if I see them on in syndication: anything with Kathy Griffin as Susan’s college roommate.

As one of the greatest Seinfeld fans in existence (and a Seinfeld trivia master) I don’t have to provide justification for choosing my favourite episodes. Any true Seinfeld fan will understand my choices without question. If you’re not a Seinfeld fan, I want you to stop reading immediately. Seriously. Just leave. Nobody wants you here.

Top 5 Episodes (with relevant quotes)

- The Boyfriend
“Who does this guy think he is?”
“I’m Keith Hernandez”

- The Contest
“It’s much easier for a woman not to do it than a man. We have to do it, it’s part of our lifestyle. It’s like shaving.”
“Oh that is such baloney. I shave my legs.”
“Not everyday.”

- The Visa
“So I’m pitching and really throwing some smoke. Joe Pepitone comes up and he’s crowding the plate.”
“Wow, Joe Pepitone.”
“Yeah well Joe Pepitone or not, I own the inside of that plate. So I throw one inside, you know a little chin music; put him right on his can. Next pitch, he’s right back in the same spot. So I plunked him."

- The Outing
“I have many gay friends.”
“My father’s gay.”
“I know what I heard.”
“Do you want to have sex with me right now? Come on!! Let’s go baby!!”

- The Opposite
“I want the exact opposite of tuna on toast. I want chicken salad, on rye, untoasted, with a side of potato salad and a cup of tea.”

Bonus quote for Rambo: “Hi, my name’s George. I’m unemployed and I live with my parents.”

Q: I think we need to get some serious juices flowing (that's what she said) as opposed to the comedy that you usually provide in your much anticipated - by some - columns. I don't have a direct question, because I want you to be at liberty with whatever you'd like to say. So, what is your take on the Christian religion? I don't care what denomination of Christianity, but I want to know how you feel about their convictions, about what the Bible advocates, and about how you feel it affects the judgements and lifestyles of the Christians and non-Christians in society. And please, answer seriously. We all know that you don't advocate abstaining from sex before marriage, but maybe you could delve a little deeper and really give us something to think about.
- Bella

A: I usually don’t like to discuss religion on here (besides my awesome God and Sports column), but you made an excellent ‘that’s what she said joke’ so here we go.

I have no problem with people who are religious; it’s fantastic to believe in something so strongly. Also, people who are devout just seem like happier people in general. I would like to think there’s something more to life; that a higher power is out there and responsible for creating the universe. To think that once you die, you’re dead and that’s it, is just too depressing.

I have a problem with those who fundamentally believe in the Bible and think that the words in there are direct from God. Umm, no. The Bible is a collection of stories made up by a bunch of dudes who couldn’t get laid hundreds of years ago.

Creation meet evolution. Game, set match.

Also, I don’t want to be a part of something that demonizes premarital sex and alcohol consumption. I like to think my God is happy for me when I hop on the good foot and do the bad thing; plus I don’t think he has a problem with the odd rye and ginger or twelve now and then.

Q: Do we have any female characters is this novel of yours or will be treated to locker room male interaction only?
- Anonymous

A: I know I said I wasn’t going post questions from anonymous sources, but this one is about my book. Are you referring to female characters who are not groupies? That is, women who are not included in the book purely for the sexual satisfaction of immature ballplayers?

The answer is a surprising yes. In fact, the main climax (Hi-yoooo!!!!!) of the novel revolves around the pursuit of lost and unrequited love. The main protagonist learns that there is perhaps more to life than just playing baseball for a living. True happiness requires more than just a glove and a ball (that would look great on a book jacket).

Q: iPhone or Blackberry? Mac or PC? MLB Umpires or instant replay? Facebook or Twitter? Winter or Summer Olympics?
- Patty

A: Short and to the point (much like sex with Gretzpo).

Blackberry: Fuck off Steve Jobs; I don’t need an app for that.

PC: Macs are for sensitive, thoughtful, emotional pansies who hated high school because they sucked at gym. PCs are for real men.

Umpires: Don’t take the human element out of the game. With instant replay, we would never be treated to something like this.

Facebook: Twitter is the most egotistical creation of all time. Oh you like ice cream and puppies? So does everyone else in the world. Shut up.

Summer Olympics: Women’s beach volleyball. ‘Nuff said.

Q: What was your most epic Halloween costume to date and why? Also, please rank your Halloween costumes of recent years based on how successful they were at getting you laid.
- Sally

A: My top costume hands down was Ron Burgundy in 2005 (pictured above). I looked exactly like him and stayed in character the entire night. I also won $300 for best costume at the Alehouse in Kingston.

Actually, I have never gotten laid on Halloween. I think it has to do with the fact I usually have a real mustache for the evening and who wants to have sex with someone with a mustache?

2003: Superman. Pretty boring.
2004: The Nature Boy Ric Flair. Girls had no idea who I was, but I was a big hit with the men. I had mini wrestling matches in the bar all night.
2005: Ron Burgundy. People were coming up to me wanting their picture taken with me. My closest experience to true celebrity.
2006: David Hasselhoff from Baywatch. I was in decent shape but didn’t have my Crossfit body back then. Also, I coerced two ladies to go as my Baywatch babes.
2007: Coach Hines from Mad TV. Mustache and short shorts; need I say more?
2008: Wooderson from Dazed and Confused. I even pretended I was attracted to high school girls for the night.
2009: ???

Q: Knowing you have a slight obsession with your physique and also with trying to get laid, I ask this dilly of a pickle: if you had to choose between being morbidly obese or never having sex again, which would you choose and why?
- Mrs. Crash Davis

A: This is quite the conundrum. I can never have sex again, but what about the other bases? I think I could be satisfied with a copious amount of extra base hits. Also, if I’m morbidly obese, there’s a pretty good chance I’m not having sex anyway; I might as well be as healthy as possible.

On the other hand, I might pick morbidly obese. That way I could go on the Biggest Loser, get in shape, be famous and still get to have sex.

Yes that’s my decision: morbidly obese but with the stipulation I get to go on the Biggest Loser (if my career doesn’t work out the conventional way, I’m going to seriously consider this option; or maybe porn).

Q: Are you sure you're not gay?
- Caitlin

A: You mean besides the time I had sex with that guy? Yes, despite all evidence to the contrary, I am fairly certain I prefer the company of women.

I think.

Tewks is frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' with Tewks: Mail Call plus Book Excerpt

As you aware, I am hard at work at writing a fictional book about baseball. Here is another excerpt to tide all of you over until I finally get around to finishing this thing:

The highlight of Tewks’ junior year, and probably his life at that point, came in the Division I sectional playdowns. Huron High was pitted against a powerhouse school from Flint. The River Rats clung to a tenuous 5-4 lead heading into the bottom of the seventh when Tewks was called in from the bullpen.

A leadoff single, sacrifice bunt, flyout and walk had runners on first and second with two out and Flint’s cleanup hitter striding to the plate. A deep pit of despair formed in Tewks’ gut as he watched the batter ready himself in the box. This slugger was someone from Tewks’ baseball past; a vestigial reminder of all the disappointment he had felt at the hands of the game he loved.

Gretzpo grinned out at Tewks from the batter’s box. The Gretzpo family had moved to Flint eighteen months earlier; the change in scenery did little to quell his prodigious talent. Gretzpo led the state in RBIs and was fifth in home runs. The change in scenery also did little to change the fact Gretzpo was still an asshole.

Gretzpo hocked a glob of spit towards the mound and mouthed the words, “You’re fucking dead”, to a visibly shaken Tewks.

Tewks, his confidence dropping, stepped off the mound and wiped his brow with the back of his left hand. How do I pitch him, Tewks thought to himself. As visions of Gretzpo walk off home runs swirled around in his head, Tewks realized two things:

First, Gretzpo hadn’t seen him pitch in over two years. To him, Tewks was still the doughy coach’s son with no semblance of talent. He had no idea of the work Tewks had put in over the offseason to transform himself into a bonafide closer. He’s expecting me to throw slop at him, if I get it near the plate at all, Tewks reasoned.

Second, Tewks could use Gretzpo’s massive ego to his advantage. It was obvious there was no doubt in Gretzpo’s mind that he was going to break Tewks’ heart and win the game for his team; he didn’t want to just get on base, Gretzpo wanted to deposit Tewks’ offering about 400 feet away in left center. He looked way too comfortable standing in the batter’s box. Tewks decided to shake him up a bit; make Gretzpo move his feet. There was only one way to do that.

Tewks took the sign from his catcher, reared back and let fly with the hardest fastball he could muster. The ball shot towards Gretzpo’s jugular vein, forcing him to pirouette wildly out of the way of the incoming heat seeker, his feet kicking up dust in the process.

Gretzpo, his chest heaving, stared incredulously at Tewks, shocked at the velocity of the pitch. He quickly regained his composure and once again readied himself in the box. However, this time Gretzpo’s feet weren’t quite so steady. There was an imperceptible shift in his balance, which marked his unease.

Tewks smiled inwardly. His ploy had worked. Gretzpo’s focus was not one hundred percent on hitting; he was now concerned about taking a pitch in the chops.

Tewks took the sign and steamed in another inside fastball but this one caught the edge of the plate, which froze a flinching Gretzpo. The count was even up. 1-1.

Huron High’s catcher flashed the sign for a changeup, but Tewks shook him off emphatically. He’s looking change, let’s stick with the heat.

Tewks came set, checked the runners and sent another fastball screaming over the outer half. Once again, Gretzpo watched it go by; he was looking for the local and got the express. 1-2.

The count in his favour, Tewks didn’t want to fool around with a waste pitch. He wanted to wipe that smug smile off Gretzpo’s face right here. The River Rat’s catcher signalled for another off speed pitch and once again, Tewks shook him off.

The catcher, suddenly cognizant of what Tewks was trying to do, threw down his index finger, the universal signal for the ol’ Number 1. But this time, he swirled his finger around in a circular motion as if to say, throw it harder than before.

Tewks took a step off the mound and inhaled deeply. He was completely focused, drowning out the sound of the swelling crowd and the atmosphere around him. He shook his left arm vigourously, pumping himself up for this next pitch.

Completely ignoring the runners and lifting his right leg high, Tewks ripped a fastball right down the cock. The ball barrelled toward the plate, just above Gretzpo’s belt buckle. Gretzpo had started his swing early, but the ball got on him too quick. His bat sailed beneath the ball, which smacked into the catcher’s mitt with the sweetest sound Tewks had ever heard.


Strrrriiiiikkkkkkkkeeeeeeee Three!!!!!!!!! Game over.

Tewks pumped his fist in victory and was immediately swallowed into a victory huddle with the rest of his jubilant teammates. Tewks was so caught up in the commotion that he didn’t notice Gretzpo, ever the sportsman, fling his bat with disgust, nearly braining a spectator, and stalk dejectedly back the dugout embarrassed by his former teammate and favourite target of ridicule.

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.