2010: The Year of Tewks

I don't make New Year's resolutions. They are for Communists and people with weak constitutions.

I do, however, make New Year's predictions. My prediction for 2010 is that I will take the world by storm (or at least a light drizzle).

Whether it will be in the writing, lifting or performance genre, I'm not sure; but I do know that I am expecting big things from myself in the next 12 months.

I am starting the new year off with a bang. I just finished the first draft of my baseball fiction novel. All that's left to do is to find a publisher and watch millions of dollars flood into my bank account.

As my belated Christmas gift, I am providing you with a new book excerpt. This one is not baseball related, but instead follows a group of minor league teammates out for a night on the town.

Enjoy.

A group of Tigers occupied a back table filled with pitchers of ice cold beer and piping hot wings on the patio of Bobby’s Restaurant and Lounge. Overlooking the Atlantic on Ocean Drive, Bobby’s was a great place for the players to relax in relative anonymity. About a mile north of the Riomar Country Club, the bar catered to upscale clientele looking for a middle class experience.

Joining Tewks and Anderson were Gretzpo, Chris Seaboard and JR Coltrane, a starting pitcher from Thousand Oaks, California. The conversation stuck to baseball while the guys ate, but as the food cleared and the pitchers of beer sunk to dangerously low levels (only to be replenished by their increasingly attractive waitress), they began to take notice of some of the female ‘talent’ around them.

“Oh shit, look at that one,” Gretzpo nodded towards the entrance.

A raven-haired beauty swiveled her shapely hips across the patio towards their table. She wore a tiny pair of denim jean shorts that would make Daisy Duke blush. The shorts were perched atop a statuesque pair of silky smooth, olive skinned legs. Upstairs, she wore a dangerously tight, yellow spaghetti strap shirt which barely concealed her bountiful breasts. Her cup literally runneth over.

Gretzpo stared at Miss Duke with his mouth agape: the rest of the boys used a bit more discretion but there was no denying that she was absolutely gorgeous. She also knew exactly what she was doing. An alluring smile pasted to her face, Miss Duke confidently strode past the Tigers and joined her two friends, also possessing attributes sought by the superficial male, at a nearby table.

Anderson whistled and shook his head. “A broad like that will get you in all kinds of trouble.’

Prying their gazes away from the three Sirens, the guys embarked on a time-honoured tradition and requisite of male bonding: the trading of sex stories. Quickly, the stories devolved into a juvenile game of one-upmanship similar to fisherman telling tales of fish caught. ‘I swear to God, it was this big!’

Gretzpo was the only one not participating in the discussion; not because he didn’t have any stories, but he was completely transfixed by Miss Duke and her friends.

“Jesus, Gretzpo, at least blink. She’ll think you’re a serial killer,” Tewks quipped to his roommate.

“I love this chick,” Gretzpo replied hungrily.

At that moment, the three ladies got up, checked to make sure every pair of male eyes was honed on them, and strutted into the bar to terrorize the dance floor.

Seaboard leaned across the table and smacked Gretzpo in the shoulder. “Hey Bonus Baby, you’re going to have to bring out your wallet to seal this deal.”
"You sure you can handle this?” Coltrane inquired sarcastically.
“Fuck you guys, I’m going in.” With that, Gretzpo jumped up from his seat and bounded into the bar.
Tewks shook his head and smiled. “The kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

Fifteen minutes later, the patio door burst open and Gretzpo stepped through the threshold with a megawatt grin stapled to his boyish face. Miss Duke and her gal pals trailed close behind like he was the Pied Piper leading rats to the river.

The guys exchanged glances in astonished wonder, impressed at the game of their brash teammate. Gretzpo and his new friends joined the Tigers at their table. The sequence of events became clear when their waitress emerged onto the patio, carrying a tray full of shots and set it down in front of the group.

Gretzpo whipped out his credit card in an elaborate gesture and handed it to the waitress. The display of plastic and copious amount of drinks was not lost on the ladies. They had found their meal ticket for the night.

Gretzpo passed out seven shots and kept one for himself; this barely made a dent in the tray. Things were going to get messy.

“What is this, tequila?” asked Coltrane.
“Yeah buddy. Patron.” Gretzpo shot a look to the ladies. “Only the good stuff.”
As the group brought the shots to their lips, Tewks wavered. “Shit I can’t do tequila anymore. It wrecked me in college.”
Gretzpo admonished him. “Come on Tewks, don’t be a pussy. This isn’t your college bullshit tequila; it goes down smooth.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”

Miss Duke, privy to the conversation from her spot across from Tewks, unsteadily rose out of her chair and leaned suggestively over the table. She flashed him her most devastating smile. “Oh just have some shots with us. We’re lots of fun.”

Her chest was directly at Tewks’ eye level. He considered her for a moment, studying the intricate details of her yellow shirt.

Tewks looked at Anderson to his left and said with a conceding shrug, “How can I say no to that face?” He slammed the shot down his throat and signaled Gretzpo to give him another.

I will be back on Monday, as I won't be coherent enough to post anything tomorrow.

Happy New Year!!!

Sherlock Holmes, I Presume

Yesterday’s discussion on the lack of excitement at the World Juniors (which continued last night, with Canada’s 8-2 drubbing of the Slovaks) led Thy Drunken Rookie to weigh in on the feeling of “not having a chance” when competing in various arenas.

He said that he has never “encountered such queasy uneasiness in the sexual arena—best compliment of all time: ‘you could get any girl you want.’”

Thy Drunken Rookie only has the capacity to spout off such egotistical ramblings because I taught him everything he knows about seducing women (that was a short lesson). He was a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed teenager with no discernible game when we first met. In fact, he lacked the courage to even approach girls at the bar. It was quite pathetic.

However, through intense instruction, he learned and developed the necessary skills to become a full-fledged lady killer. And I give credit where credit’s due: guy’s a pimp. But he must not forget where he came from. Hubris is not a good colour on him.

I saw Sherlock Holmes last night.

I had no pre-conceived notions of the characters or the legend of Sherlock Holmes (evidenced by my misuse of a famous quote in the column title), as I’ve never read one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s books.

I went in fresh. That being said, I was thoroughly entertained during the entire movie. The chemistry between Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law was excellent. They played off each other very well and were completely believable in their roles.

Throughout the movie, I couldn’t help feel like I was watching a 1800s British version of an episode of House. The resemblances between Holmes and House (Hugh Laurie) are uncanny.

They are both geniuses with the ability to ‘see’ things an average person cannot. They both derive tremendous deductions from seemingly mundane circumstances. Plus, Holmes and House have wicked senses of humour, terrible bedside manner and enjoy recreational drugs.

I’m convinced that House was inspired by Sherlock Holmes in some way.

Also, Watson and Wilson (Robert Sean Leonard) are strikingly similar. They are the long-suffering best, and only friends, of Holmes and House respectively. They are the only people who can stand H and H’s presence for more than a few minutes.

The scene where Watson returns from injury and Holmes asks how he’s feeling is tremendous. Everything about their relationship and their obvious admiration for each other is said in fifteen seconds of silence.

(Actually, I just checked IMDB and apparently House is, in fact, a tribute to Sherlock Holmes. Right down to having the same apartment number. The lesson: I’m an idiot)

Back to the movie:

The action scenes were very well done and the story had just enough twists and turns to keep you guessing. However, at the end, the plot got way too convoluted and nonsensical for my liking (it was like watching Law Abiding Citizen all over again).

Also, Rachel McAdams was woefully underused. She is fantastic and her role in this film was completely useless. She didn’t need to be in it at all. However, you get to see her naked back which was more than worth the price of admission for me.

I understand and look forward to the inevitable sequel, but I like my movies to be a little more subtle when setting up for a future film. I mean, Robert Downey Junior pretty much turned to the camera and said “Stay tuned for Sherlock Holmes 2”.

We get it. You have a very profitable film franchise on your hands.

Verdict: 4 Rachel McAdams Naked Backs out of 5

World Junior Tourney Losing Its Lustre

It pains me to say this, but I fear that the World Junior Hockey Tournament has jumped the shark. Thus far, the tournament doesn’t seem to resonate as greatly on a national scale of interest as it has in past years.

I have yet to watch one minute of game action. Yes, I’ve had other things to do, but I usually make these games appointment viewing throughout the Christmas season. I am not alone, as the TV ratings have been less than stellar, and there has been a smattering of empty seats in the arena for both of Canada’s games.

The reason for this apathy stems from the widening chasm in talent levels of the have and have nots. Realistically, there are only three countries that have a chance to compete for the gold consistently every year: Canada, Russia and Sweden.

The rest of the countries aren’t even close and the disparity is growing larger every year, evidenced by the 22-0 combined score Canada laid on Latvia and the Swiss.

Does anyone even truly enjoy watching these types of games? They are boring and uneventful and the fact they are taking place at a world class event is embarrassing. As Canadians, we should be concerned for the future of this event if such landslide scores continue to be the norm.

Let me give you an example: does anyone actually take women’s international hockey seriously? Nope. Why not? Because it’s Canada and the US at the top and no one else is even close. Every year at every major event, the Canadians and Americans meet in the final. It’s boring and predictable.

No one else in the world gives two shits about women’s hockey for that reason. If a country can’t field a competitive team, why bother? Their funds earmarked for athletics can be better spent elsewhere.

The same has begun to happen in the men’s game. Not many countries can match our financial contributions to developing hockey talent or match our talent pool for prospective players. Canada has a built-in competitive advantage that cannot be matched by other teams.

The disparity is so great that it’s not worth it to the Latvias and the Switzerlands to attempt make up that advantage. Eventually, their programs and interest level will dry up, they’ll divert funds elsewhere and we’ll be stuck with a three team tournament in the next decade.

How exciting.

Sports are built on unpredictability, drama and excitement. When that disappears, so do the fans. There’s a reason why there’s such a buzz in the air for the Olympics in February. We didn’t even medal in Turin in 2006. No one knows what’s going to happen in six week’s time. Will we redeem our hockey pride? Can anyone stop the Russians?

The only question mark surrounding the Canadian World Junior team is, ‘will they ever break a sweat in the third period?’ Snore.

Hopefully the intensity level picks up when we face the Americans on New Year’s Eve (I don’t hold out hope for Slovakia to give us a challenge tonight).

Undefeated No Longer

Can someone please explain to me how yesterday’s loss to the New York Jets helps the Indianapolis Cots in their pursuit of a Super Bowl victory?

The idiotic move by the Colts management to remove Peyton Manning and their top defensive players midway through the third quarter was made under the guise of ‘resting’ their big guns for the playoffs.

These guys are professional athletes for Christ’s sakes! They should be able to play all sixteen games of the regular season. The New York Jets are fighting for their playoff lives; you didn’t see Rex Ryan giving Dirty Sanchez the fourth quarter off.

What a terrible message this decision sends to Indy fans. Thousands of them spent their hard earned money to come watch the team’s quest for perfection and they were forced to watch the Colts give away a victory.

And that’s all it was. A complete giveaway.

Yesterday’s defeat doesn’t ‘get rid of the pressure of a perfect season’, nor does it ‘alleviate the strain on your first string’; or even ‘give your scrubs some playing time just in case’ (who gives a shit about the playing time of backup players anyway; this isn’t peewee. A disgruntled father isn’t going to pull little Jimmy off the team because he’s not getting any action).

All the loss does is eliminate any momentum the Colts had heading into the New Year. The positive mojo Indianapolis acquired over their impressive regular season win streak has been destroyed with one bone-headed managerial decision.

It would be one thing if the Colts played the scrubs for the entire game and still lost. But Indy was clinging to a tenuous lead when they decided to throw in the towel and, for a lack of a better word, quit (and that’s what they did; you can’t convince me otherwise).

I’m glad Colts fans voiced their displeasure so vehemently. Because I was feeling all warm and fuzzy from the Christmas season, I almost felt bad for the derisive booing fostered upon Indy’s backup quarterback, Curtis Painter.

Then I put myself into the position of a paying customer and realized, ‘Would I want to pay 50 bucks a ticket to watch some guy who should be bagging groceries at Wal-Mart instead of playing quarterback in the NFL?’

Indianapolis was on the precipice of greatness and was feared by every team in the AFC. Now, they’re going to play their second string again next week, have a bye week after that, and then face a hungry opponent on a hot streak in the divisional round.

Peyton Manning and the high-octane Colts offence won’t have another meaningful snap for three weeks. That does not bode well for a team which depends so greatly on the machinations of a well-oiled passing game.

Tis The Season To Lift Heavy

Most people use Christmas Eve as an excuse to drink and eat to excess and sit around on their ass all day. I, on the other hand, have a Christmas Eve tradition that involves me, and a rotating group of friends, throwing some serious iron around.

Every year, I have an impromptu lifting competition on this day against my previous year's self and anyone else who has the huevos to join me.

The competition is a one rep max back squat, a one rep max strict press and a one rep max deadlift. This is better known as the Crossfit Total. You add the three weights together to get your score. If you can achieve a score over 1000, you are a complete badass. Anything above 900 and you are well on your way to having your posterior chain registered as a lethal weapon.

One caveat about the squat. I am talking about a true, deep, below parallel squat. To achieve this depth, the crease of your hip must be below your knees in the bottom of your squat. Anything above that and your lift does not count.

This will come as a complete shock to the globogym meatheads who are partial to inflating their squat totals by restricting range of motion. You know the guys I'm talking about. They load up a barbell with 405, put it on their back, bend their knees five times and say they can squat 405 for five reps. Um, I don't think so, fellas.

A quick tip from Tewks: 95% of the time, when a guy from a big box gym tells you how much he can squat, automatically take off 100-150lbs off of his answer. This rule does not apply for any Crossfitter.

The other part of my tradition involves watching two movies to get myself psyched up: Rocky Balboa and Rambo 4. That's right, Christmas Eve around the Tewks household is a testosterone and carnage fest. I usually tell women to stay at least 50 feet from me at all times today, because the 'eau de man' emanating from my sweat glands is enough to get you pregnant.

Check back around 3pm for my lifting results.

Update:

I had a total score of 900. A 315lb back squat, 155lb shoulder press and a 430lb deadlift. Plus, I got three girls pregnant. 

This is my last post of the week. 

Merry Christmas to all of my readers and I will be back with a vengeance on Monday.

A bientot.

Searching For Six

I just wanted to quickly touch on the comments from Monday’s article. I need that first one translated into English, but I’m slightly concerned that the result will be a recipe for dog burgers.

I’d like to thank Thy Drunken Rookie for his kind words and book suggestion, but I will ask that, in the future, he refrain from using words I don’t know.

What the fuck does ‘epistemological’ mean?

The World Junior Hockey Championships begin on Boxing Day with the best players under the age of 20 vying for hockey supremacy.

The tournament is always one of my favourite traditions of the Christmas season. We rally around these kids, ensconced in a patriotic fervour only surpassed by the Olympics. It also helps that Canada is pretty much a lock to be in the gold medal game every single year.

This year’s team is striving for Canada’s sixth straight gold medal. For some reason, the World Juniors are taking place in Canada again, which hardly seems fair to the other countries, but who really gives a shit?

If you can’t be xenophobic during the holidays, when can you be?

It is this national pride that leads me to today’s column topic. If I’m eligible to play in this tournament, I’m playing no matter what (and judging from my hockey skills on that video I posted a while back, my only detriment in not suiting up for Canada is my age).

This is why I can’t understand that every year Canada fails to dress its top players as there are always a few tournament-eligible players playing their rookie season in the NHL.

I understand that the NHL is ultimate goal of every youngster to lace up a pair of skates in this country, but that doesn’t mean they can’t take two weeks off at Christmas for one more chance at World Junior glory.

A quick and less than thorough search has given me the following list of players who could play for Team Canada on Saturday, but are currently on NHL rosters: Ryan O’Reilly and Matt Duchene of the Colorado Avalanche, Tyler Myers of the Buffalo Sabres, Michael Del Zotto of the New York Rangers and John Tavares of the New York Islanders.

That is quite a bit of firepower that Canada could have at its disposal. That could be your number one power play unit for Christ’s sakes!

Obviously, NHL teams are reticent to loan out their valuable assets for the tournament, but wouldn’t it be prudent for these kids’ development to be the alpha dogs for Team Canada instead of playing ho-hum regular season NHL games at the end of December?

I would think playing in the pressure cooker that is the World Juniors and having the expectations of a nation on your shoulders would be a boon for these players’ progress into bonafide NHL stars.

You can play in the NHL for 20 years; you only have a finite number of chances to represent your country at this tournament.

I would love for one of these guys to stand up and say that they want to suit up for Canada on Saturday. National pride and patriotism seems to be at an all time low in this country. We need to get that back.

Unfortunately, a couple of Russians are leading the way. I love the declaration by Alex Ovechkin and Evgeni Malkin that they will take a break from the NHL to represent Russia at the 2014 Olympics in Sochi (whether NHL players participate or not). Consequences and forfeited salary be damned.

That’s a fantastic precedent set for national pride and hopefully some of our boys follow suit.

Go Canada Go!

I Hate Mike Fisher

Carrie Underwood is engaged.

Really?

This is the news I have to wake up to this morning?

This, after I spent yesterday pouring my heart out in tribute to a beloved pet—not only that, but I spent an entire column two weeks ago professing my love to Ms. Underwood.

Come on!!!!

Call me old-fashioned, but I do not appreciate my future wife getting engaged to someone else. I don’t understand why she would break my heart like this.

What? I’ve never met her before and she has no idea who am I?

Well, be that as it may, I am still a human being with feelings and stalker-like tendencies. I could have at least been consulted before that dickwad Fisher took it public when pressed by reporters yesterday.

I don’t really know who Mike Fisher is, but I suppose he must be a somewhat decent guy if my Carrie has decided to shack up with him.

Unfortunately, I am a small, petty man, so I am going to try a little experiment to see how powerful this World Wide Web truly is.

In this era of sensationalistic journalism, even the most ridiculous and untrue stories can have a brief stay in the mainstream media consciousness. Therefore, I have just been handed a hot little rumour from my spy in Ottawa.

He tells me that “Mike Fisher has been caught cheating with a Kanata-area Tim Horton’s employee.”

I repeat “Mike Fisher has been caught cheating with a Kanata-area Tim Horton’s employee. And she has the texts to prove it.”

There we go. Now, all I have to do is wait for this post to make it onto the gossip websites, have Carrie find out and go all Before He Cheats on Mr. Fisher’s Ford F150.

I love the internet.

I suppose I should at least pretend that I’m following the world of sports, so how about that Marty Brodeur? He has officially established himself as the greatest goaltender to have ever played the game with his record setting 104th career shutout (to go along with the record for wins and games played).

Why is it that Brodeur doesn’t have the same media cache as Patrick Roy? Is it because Roy is an attention-seeking blowhard and Brodeur is a consummate professional who keeps his mouth shut and goes to work everyday?

That, friends, is what is called a rhetorical question.

I actually just looked up some stats (Wikipedia) and Brodeur has completely re-written the goalie record book. The guy is #1 in everything, but he also seems to somehow be slightly underrated.

Also, do you realize that the Vancouver Olympics will be Brodeur’s fourth? And third as an integral part of the team (he didn’t dress in Nagano). Undoubtedly, he will be the number one guy in February because, at 37, he is on pace to have one of his best seasons statistically.

Martin Brodeur. Greatness personified.

I still hate Mike Fisher.

We’ve got a ‘Situation’ On Our Hands

Sometimes, a television show comes along that transcends the entertainment medium and, instead, provides gripping social commentary and a blueprint for how a functional, well-adjusted, human community should operate.

MTV’s Jersey Shore is that show.

For example, I had always been under the impression that life is a complex journey with many twists and turns, highs and lows and infinite possibilities that depend on the myriad of choices you make every day.

I was so wrong. Last night I learned that the only things that truly matter in life are the ability to tan (either the solar or fake variety), regularly get a haircut and do bicep curls until my arms resemble cured hams. Who knew life was so simple?

I also learned that having clothed intercourse on the dance floor, with someone who is not my significant other, doesn’t necessarily constitute cheating because it depends on the type of music playing over the sound system. “House” music appears to offer some sort of diplomatic immunity.

(Tigers Woods could have used this morsel of knowledge. “I know I slept with 14 women, Elin, but we were listening to House music the entire time. It doesn’t count.”)

You are only truly cool if you have a nickname. Bonus points if you give that nickname to yourself.

If I lift my shirt up at the bar, exposing my orange, hairless chest, women will flock to me like bees to honey.

Instead of saying you had sex with a girl, it is more gentlemanly to say that you “smushed” her.

Hair gel is my friend.

Fist-pumping is the only acceptable form of dance.

If you are a girl and have hair extensions, fake eyelashes, fake nails, a fake tan, fake boobs, abhor underwear and have a looseness in both your morals and your, uh, ‘downstairs’ area, then you are deemed a ‘slut’ and or a ‘skank’. If you are a girl and possess all of the above, but live in a house that is filmed by TV cameras, then you are a ‘cool chick.’

Philosophers like Voltaire, Descartes and Rousseau were ignorant compared to the genius of the one, the only, Mike “The Situation.”

I missed the first episode of Jersey Shore, but I believe the Situation refers to his impressively defined abs. But he also calls himself the Situation. So, I think he’s a Situation within a Situation. But he also gets involved in situations where the Situation plays a role in getting the Situation into the situation in the first place.

Make sense?

The Situation (the person) is one of the most fascinating personalities on television. He is so completely and utterly cocky and overconfident that it’s awe-inspiring to watch. However, he’s far from one dimensional.

This confident façade is just a complete overcompensation for rampant insecurity. The guy vacillates back and forth so quickly between cocky and pathetic; it would warrant an acting award was it not so painfully real.

Trying to pick up women is where this dichotomy comes out in full force. The Situation tries to play the suave, cool, “I don’t give a shit” asshole when talking to girls at bars. This is a fantastic game and it works beautifully in the right hands, but he’s too insecure to make it believable.

If the girl exhibits any trepidation in coming back to the house for a ‘Jacuzzi’, he immediately starts whining and begging the girl to go home with him. But in the next instant, he’ll tell the girl he doesn’t care what she does, it’s her loss to not experience the Situation (the person or the abs or the act of sex, I’m not quite sure).

He switches back and forth so quickly and convincingly between both characters, I’m convinced he has bipolar disorder.

All the Situation talks about is how skilled he is at picking up women. True, he’s brought a few girls back to the house, but I think that has more to do with cameras being present than the Situation’s flirting ability. He tries a little too hard to let us know that he’s a ladies man. Methinks he doth protest too much.

The surprise twist I’m betting on for the finale: The Situation will reveal that he enjoys male on male situations.

He made a fan for life when he described the bar scene using a military analogy. When he described he and his douchebag buddies as soldiers and ugly girls as grenades, I lost it. It was like reading Shakespeare for the first time.

Here was his exact quote: “Pauly D. was with the grenade. When you go into battle, you need to have some friends with you, so that just in case a grenade gets thrown at you, one of your buddies takes it first.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

(Also, there’s a Jersey Shore nickname generator. I dare you not to enter your name. Mine was “Hard Hat”)

In Pursuit of Perfection

The Indianapolis Colts play the Jacksonville Jaguars tonight on NBC’s Thursday Night Football. The Colts, having won 22 consecutive regular season games, look to run this season’s record to 14-0.

For the past few weeks, I’ve had to listen to football pundits tirelessly debate the pros and cons of going for a perfect season. I don’t understand why there is even a discussion in the first place. As my good friend Herm Edwards posited, “You play to win the game!”

The entire point of the sport is to have more points than the other team when the clock reads 0:00. It’s that simple.

You don’t play hard for thirteen games and then coast into the playoffs. I don’t care that Indianapolis has already clinched home field advantage throughout the postseason, that doesn’t mean you take your foot off the throttle now.

The case for resting your starters now, in supposedly ‘meaningless’ games, is a classic example of sports people over-thinking an easy decision (luckily, we don’t have that problem here at Talkin’ with Tewks).

The thought process is that you are risking injury by playing your starters in games that have no effect on playoff seeding. Peyton Manning could get hit by a car crossing the street tomorrow; does this mean backup quarterback Jim Sorgi should be doing all of Manning’s walking until Indy’s first playoff game?

There is something to be said for staying sharp and getting game reps right up until the playoffs begin. The Colts went 13-0 in 2005, clinched home field advantage and then rested all of their big guns until the playoffs. What happened? Indy lost 3 of their last 4 games and was eliminated in the divisional playoffs by the Steelers.

Also, why is it that every year some team barely squeaks into the playoffs with stellar late season play and then wreaks havoc on the postseason? Look at the Arizona Cardinals last year. They rode a hot, late December run all the way to the Super Bowl. Why? Because they peaked at the right time.

Is Indianapolis’ coaching staff really so conceited to think that they can turn it back on again once the playoffs roll around?

There’s the magic of history and legendary status at stake here as well. Can you name the last ten Super Bowl winners? Nope? Neither can I.

Can you name the teams who have finished the regular season with unblemished records? The 1972 Miami Dolphins and the 2008 New England Patriots. That’s the list. That’s it. Are you telling me Peyton Manning doesn’t want his Colts to join that list?

Come on Indy, go for the perfect season.

Black Wednesday

I don’t even know what to say. The day has finally arrived. I have been preparing for this moment for the past six months, but it’s still a bitter pill to swallow.

Roy Halladay is no longer a Toronto Blue Jay.

I should have written about this yesterday, but the deal hadn’t yet been confirmed, and I still held a glimmer of hope that Halladay’s agent wouldn’t be able to negotiate a contract extension and the deal would fall through.

Obviously, that was not the case. I don’t want to turn today’s column into a dissection of the deal (although, I am shocked that the Jays were unable to get ONE major league ready player in exchange for the best pitcher in baseball). Instead, this is a tribute to Roy: the greatest pitcher in Toronto Blue Jays history.

What can I say about Roy Halladay? Here’s what I wrote about him back in July:

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.

That’s the thing about Roy. Not only is he a great pitcher, but he is a throwback to a different era, when players were tough and pitchers finished what they started. Pitchers are given a bad rap these days--described as self-absorbed, injury prone, prima donnas who care more about personal stats and money, rather than winning games.

Doc wants to win, period. I can’t wait to see him pitch in meaningful games in September and October. Baseball fans were impressed with the playoff performances of Cliff Lee? They haven’t seen anything yet. Halladay will throw gems on three days rest the entire postseason if he has to.

I have always thought of myself as a Jays fans, but this trade has me seriously questioning my loyalty. Halladay has far and away been my favourite Jay over the last decade. He’s my favourite pitcher to watch in all of baseball. I planned my social calendar around his starts.

Who am I supposed to cheer for now? Vernon Wells? Lyle Overbay? Ricky Romero? Dear God.

Most Toronto fans are glad he’s out of the division. Me, I wish he was still in the American League, so I could watch him pitch more often.

I’ll watch the Jays this year, but I don’t know if I’ll live and die with the games as I’ve done before. However, I guarantee I’ll be constantly checking for Phillies updates all summer long.

Honestly, I think Doc was underappreciated by Toronto baseball fans. He isn’t flashy and didn’t ring up gaudy strikeout totals, and he was always somewhat guarded in interviews. He doesn’t have a sparkling personality and I think some people had a hard time relating to him.

Halladay doesn’t play baseball to provide pithy quotes. He plays because he loves the game and he possesses a mastery of his craft that was truly a treat to watch every fifth day. As a pitcher myself, it was an honour watching Roy attack hitters, make guys hit his pitches and have complete command of the strikezone.

Doc personifies everything a pitcher should strive to be and more.

I have nothing to more say about him, as words cannot accurately describe what Roy Halladay meant to me as a baseball fan. Therefore, once again, allow Tina Turner to take over for me.

Roy Halladay. Simply the best.

Tiger Will Be Back Sooner Than Later

It appears that I have to, once again, be the voice of reason in the ongoing Tiger Woods saga. Before I address his “indefinite leave of absence” from the game of golf, allow me the opportunity to comment on the developments over the past week or so.

The mistress tally is now up to 14 ladies and counting. At this point, does it really matter anymore? Once it became public that he cheated on his wife more than once, the damage was done. One infidelity he could shrug off as an egregious lapse in judgment; multiple women are proof that he’s a serial adulterer.

I will say one thing for Tiger though. If he was going to cheat (ignore the moral and ethical dilemma for a moment), I suppose he might as well get his money’s worth. Go big or go home.

However, I do have a problem with the quality of his mistresses: a litany of cocktail waitresses, porn stars, hookers and other stereotypes typical of white trash. One of the girls is a Perkins waitress for Christ’s sakes!

Are you kidding me, Tiger? I could have sex with a Perkins waitress and I’m a nobody (albeit an extremely handsome one). You’re Tiger Woods. Global Icon. Billionaire athlete. I think you can do a little better than Perkins. Maybe IHOP?

Apparently, Tiger and Elin have run off to Sweden to escape the media circus and to try to repair their relationship. Once Tiger publicly admitted his infidelities, this was the smartest decision he could make. Get out of the country and allow the media maelstrom to blow over (which it will).

I’ve had to listen to a lot of people (mostly women) say that Tiger’s endorsement career is over, he will never recover from this scandal, and, even, he will never play golf again. Wrong, wrong, and unbelievably wrong.

Did Tiger commit a crime? No. Did he do something bad? Yes. Did he do something that dozens of people in the public eye have done before? Absolutely (the former President of the United States to name one!).

Sure, he’s going to lose some endorsements over this (which he already has), but they have been extraneous and have nothing to do with golf. He will be a Nike pitchman for as long as he wants to be. He is too valuable to their golf brand.

Does Tiger even need endorsement money? All told, he made $100 million last year. Let’s say he invested 10 percent ($10 million) into a savings account that provides 1 percent interest each month. That means he receives $100,000 EVERY month for doing absolutely nothing. I don’t think Tiger will need money anytime soon.

Will he recover from the scandal? Kobe Bryant was accused of rape, and also cheated on his wife five years ago. He now has the best selling jersey in the NBA. Michael Vick went to jail for 18 months because he killed dogs. He is back in the NFL and received a standing ovation when he returned to Atlanta to play the Falcons earlier this month.

A lot of women think that Tiger’s “indefinite leave of absence” means that he will play golf again only when Elin gives him the go ahead. Not a chance, but that’s exactly what he wants the general populace to believe.

Tiger was put on this Earth to do one thing: win golf tournaments (and maybe have sex with lots of women). Do you realize there are no tournaments that Tiger regularly plays in until February? He has a self imposed leave of absence every year at this time.

Maybe he’ll push his return back a little bit, but I guarantee he will play in The Masters in April at Augusta. If Tiger doesn’t play in The Masters, I will donate $100 to the Human Fund: Money for People.

In his career, he has only missed a major championship due to injury. If he is physically capable of playing in April, then he will be there. Nothing will stop Tiger on his quest to break Jack Nicklaus’ record of 18 major titles.

Self Promotion at its Finest

A quick addendum to Friday’s column about Jamie Campbell: avid reader, CSzem, commented that we SHOULD be attacking Campbell’s character. CSzem states that if Jamie Campbell “was really a good person, as you suggest, he would have resigned years ago, so I didn’t have to listen to him. So, I’m going to assume he’s as much a jerk as he is an abomination to broadcasting.”

I’m inclined to agree with CSzem’s logic, however, let’s look at this from Jamie Campbell’s perspective. You travel around with the Blue Jays all summer and get to watch baseball for a living. You’re friendly with the players, you fly first class and stay in the best hotels.

You have a dream job for a baseball fan. I don’t care how nice you are, there’s no incentive for you to quit, even if thousands of fans want you gone.

Let me use a personal analogy. Do I know what I’m doing in the bedroom? Not a chance. Do I know how to please a woman? Nope. But I’m still somehow able to sleep with members of the opposite sex.

Even though the girls aren’t getting any pleasure, what’s the incentive for me to stop sleeping with them? Sure, I’m doing the female gender a huge disservice and leaving legions of women disappointed, but I’m not about to quit the romance game. Why would I? I have the dream job.

So, basically I’m the Jamie Campbell of the casual dating scene.

Now, an introduction to today’s self-promotion: my readers know me as Tewks, an immature man-child who enjoys “all you can eat” ribs and pink lemonade. However, that is just my blog persona. My Superman, if you will.

The following clip is an example of my real world, Clark Kent persona. It’s from a segment I host on local television called “Can I Do That?” where I visit different sports teams and clubs to see if I have what it takes to do what they do.

Enjoy.

(Yes, this is just a thinly veiled excuse to not come up with a regular topic today).

Buck is Back!

Buck Martinez has been hired to replace Jamie Campbell as the Toronto Blue Jays play-by-play announcer for the 2010 MLB season. Christmas has come two weeks early this year.

At long last, Blue Jays fans will be saved from the unfunny and generally nonsensical ramblings that Jamie Campbell has forced upon Sportsnet viewers for the past five years.

I don’t want to turn this into an attack on Jamie Campbell the person, as he seems like a genuinely nice guy, but he has no business as a national level baseball announcer for Major League Baseball.

I know most television networks leave the heavy lifting in terms of baseball knowledge to the colour commentators, but viewers at least deserve a play-by-play announcer who has an ounce of familiarity with the game. Some nights, I seriously questioned whether or not Campbell had ever witnessed a game of baseball before. He has zero comprehension of baseball slang and terminology.

And if your play-by-play isn’t a baseball expert, fine, but give us someone with an edgy sense of humour. Tell me some funny stories, anecdotes or interesting quotes. Campbell’s sense of humour can best be described as “nursing home compatible.” The dorkiness and blandness of his “jokes” are something only a grandmother could love.

Baseball fans aren’t getting any younger. Why would you have a guy calling games whose talents are best appreciated by people named Muriel, Ethel, Blanche and Maureen?

However, I am impressed with Campbell’s knowledge of baseball statistics. He knows way more useless statistical information about the game than I could ever dream of remembering. He constantly spouts off a never-ending supply of stats from Blue Jays lore. Unfortunately, does anyone really give a shit how many home runs Doug Ault hit in 1977?

Campbell supporters will claim that it’s not entirely his fault for the lacklustre Jays broadcasts. They’ll point fingers at his rotating band of colour men: Pat Tabler, Darren Fletcher and Rance Mulliniks.

You can be the funniest, most engaging colour man in the world, but if you are asked the following question by your play-by-play guy, “The count’s 0-2; he doesn’t want to take another strike here, does he?” your chance at being witty of insightful just sailed out the window.

(By the way, that actually happened in a game last year)

Don’t get me started on the third man on Blue Jays broadcasts, Sam Cosentino. Hopefully, he’ll be next to follow Jamie Campbell out the door. Everything I said about Jamie Campbell can be repeated verbatim for Sam Cosentino.

True story: I was at a media party last year and Sam Cosentino was in attendance. We both took a liking to the same woman. It was mano a mano for this young lady’s affections.

It was a massacre. Poor Sammy didn’t last five minutes with her before she started looking for a way out of that riveting conversation. I stepped up and did my best Julius Caesar impression: I came, I saw, I saw conquered.

Do you think I could have done the same against a silver fox like Buck Martinez? Absolutely not. This is a guy who made a putout at home plate with a broken leg. He would have slept with her at the party right in front of me.

And that’s why I’m ecstatic for Blue Jays Baseball on Rogers Sportsnet this year. The broadcasts are now in the hands of a true professional.

Tavares Sticking It to His Critics

He Who Hits Bombs is at it again. Check out his comment on yesterday’s Biggest Loser column. Interesting stuff to say the least, although I am impressed he used references to back up his claims—something that is generally frowned upon here at Talkin’ with Tewks.

Also, thanks to HWHB for providing the lady of the day (I’ll bet she does a lot of squats).

The Toronto Maple Leafs defeated the New York Islanders 3-2 last night, despite the best efforts of local boy, John Tavares (Yes, the Leafs are playing well but it’s only been ten games; try not to sprain anything jumping on the bandwagon just yet).

Tavares scored the Islander goals, both with the man advantage, giving him an NHL rookie leading fifteen on the season. His 26 total points lead all first year players and he has New York on the brink of a playoff spot, which is quite a feat for such a moribund franchise.

Of all the accolades Tavares has garnered throughout his junior hockey career, he has surprisingly taken a lot of abuse from critics saying that he doesn’t have what it takes to play at the next level.

The impetus for this outlandish criticism is that Tavares, while supremely gifted offensively, lacks the skating ability to play at a high calibre in the National Hockey League. Correct me if I’m wrong, but do the following accomplishments sound like they belong to a guy who can’t skate very well:

Granted exceptional player status and entered the Ontario Hockey League at 14 years old. A Canadian Hockey League record of 72 goals scored in one season by a 16 year old. A total of 215 goals scored over four seasons to set a CHL all time record (the guy in second place scored 213 and it took him five years). An incredible 15 points in 6 games at the 2009 World Junior Hockey Championships, a tournament in which he was named an All Star, Top Forward and MVP.

I may not be a hockey genius, but I’m pretty sure the point of the game is to put pucks in the back of the net. Therefore, I think it would be prudent to have a guy like Tavares on my team, who seems to have a knack for doing just that.

Is he the fastest player in the league? Of course not. Is he the fastest player on his line? Doubtful. Do I want him on the ice late in the game and my team down by a goal? Absolutely.

Do you know who else wasn’t a very good skater? Wayne Gretzky. I think Johnny Tavares will be just fine.

I have a theory why critics have tried to nitpick Tavares’ game and downplay his tremendous talents. The kid has been in the public eye for so long, it’s inevitable that people will try to find chinks in his armour.

If you stare at anything long enough, you are bound to start looking for flaws, whether real or imagined. Try staring at the picture of Carrie Underwood from Tuesday’s column for thirty minutes.

You’ll start asking questions like “Is she really that attractive?”, “Her chest could be a little bigger”, “She could be in a little better shape”, “Is her face slightly asymmetrical?”

Are the questions ridiculous and stupid? Of course they are. Carrie Underwood is a goddess visiting us from Mount Olympus. She’s perfection personified.

It is just as stupid asking questions like “Is John Tavares a terrible skater?” The kid is a great hockey player.

Case dismissed.

Amanda is My Biggest Loser

Please allow me a few sentences to gloat. Back in October, I extolled the physical virtues of Amanda, one of the contestants on this year’s edition of The Biggest Loser. I predicted she would be a stone cold fox by the finale and, judging from the picture above, I was wholeheartedly correct in that assertion. Girl’s a knockout.

My stream-of-consciousness thoughts on the finale:

Host Ali Sweeny was dipping into some of the The Biggest Loser kool-aid methinks. Not that she wasn’t attractive before, but she looked like she dropped 10-15lbs so she wouldn’t be outdone by the now skinny contestants.

She and Amanda looked like sisters (full disclosure: I may or may not have had a dream where I had a workout-related threesome with both of them. I need help).

Rebecca went from a sweet, wholesome cutie to a domineering vixen with just a little too much skank for my liking. I did not like the blond hair. She also looked somewhat gaunt up top—kind of like a coke addicted fashion model.

Was it just me or did she seem to have a cocky, holier-than-thou attitude all night long with her preening and prancing? Also, I feel for bad for her boyfriend, Daniel. The guy is too young and innocent to be able to keep up with her now. And judging from his facial expressions, I think he knows his time with her is limited.

Fifty bucks says Rebecca went “Tiger Woods” on Daniel at the after party.

Tracey had the biggest transformation of all the women. She went from a roly-poly mound of goo to a tank with biceps Madonna would kill for. She also seemed to have less excess skin than everyone else. I guarantee that’s because she hit the weights hard, while everyone else stuck to cardio and lost primarily muscle and water weight.

However, Tracey may have gone too far because her boobs are history and she looks like she just came off a cycle of HGH.

I’m not sure I like Antoine’s decision to propose to Alexandra. Not to be insensitive, but let’s just say he looks a little more committed to keeping the weight off than she does. Her facial reaction when the scale revealed that she weighs more than he does was priceless.

Also, I understand professing your undying love to someone is an emotional experience, but that proposal was an embarrassing display. Getting choked up and teary-eyed is one thing, but Antoine could barely construct coherent sentences due to his blubbering. Man up.

Both Rudy and Danny set show records by losing over 200lbs and more than 50% of their previous bodyweights. They both looked fantastic—I wouldn’t recognize Danny if I wasn’t told it was him.

However, he looked unhappy and overwhelmed by the entire experience. My bet is that he’s just hungry and dehydrated. And that’s the problem with having a cash prize for the winner. These people get to a point where they are at a healthy bodyweight, but continue trying to lose pounds to win the 250 grand.

There have been rumours of diuretics and other unhealthy methods being used by contestants to lose the last few pounds. Most of them appeared to have lost serious muscle mass in order to get as skinny as possible, which is just moronic.

The prize should go to the person with the largest percentage of FAT lost, not total weight. Or just have the prize awarded once the contestants leave the ranch and then just have the reunion show three months later as an update. I’m sure the fear of appearing fat on national TV will be more than enough incentive for these people to keep losing weight.

Plus, they’ll be more concerned with looking as healthy and strong as possible. They won’t be worrying about getting rid of any excess water in their bodies so they resemble one of the Body Worlds exhibits.

Carrie Gives Me Underwood

I may have to hand in my man card after my television viewing choice last night. I eschewed both the Leafs game and Monday Night Football to spend two consecutive hours watching Carrie Underwood: an All Star Holiday Special.

And you know what? I am not embarrassed at all with my choice. I mean, sure I’m questioning my status as a straight male, but I was thoroughly entertained throughout the entire program.

I have been creepily infatuated with Carrie Underwood since she first appeared on American Idol in 2005. Obviously, she’s beautiful but, I must admit, I’m a fan of her music as well. I have more than a couple of her songs downloaded on my computer as we speak (Jesus, I need to go to a hardware store or something).

I knew going into the special that Carrie would be performing a bunch of her biggest hits, which was the impetus for me tuning in, and she did not disappoint. She rocked Cowboy Casanova and Before He Cheats and then slowed it down with the moving Jesus Take the Wheel (she has the right mix of down to earth sweetness, southern charm and badass sexpot to be completely irresistible).

I even found myself enjoying the comedy skits between musical numbers. In the hands of a lesser performer, these scenes would have fallen flat and, truthfully, they were a little corny. However, Carrie’s personality, surprising comedy chops, and willingness to poke fun at herself made the skits cute and endearing.

I really liked the 60s pop medley with Carrie, Christina Applegate and Kristen Chenoweth dressed in pink dresses and beehive hairdos (there’s a sexual fantasy in there somewhere).

Dolly Parton was a special guest and the only thing I have to say about her is: they look great.

Carrie and Dolly sang a magnificent duet of I Will Always Love You which brought tears streaming down my face throughout the performance.

My only problem with the show is that it was referred to as a ‘Holiday’ special and not a Christmas special. Look, we celebrate Christmas here in North America, always have and always will. Let’s stop trying to please everyone by referring to December as the holiday season. Enough of this PC bullcrap. It’s the Christmas season. If you don’t like it, take the train.

Also, I was somewhat disappointed with the dearth of Christmas songs, but Carrie’s rendition of O, Holy Night was terrific. The single spotlight gave Carrie an almost angelic appearance and me a funny feeling downstairs.

For those of you bemoaning the fact this is supposed to be a sports blog, here you go:

Carrie Underwood is dating Mike Fisher of the Ottawa Senators. My jealousy of him knows no bounds. I hope he gets a puck in the face next game.

I love you Carrie.

Roger Goodell Can Suck It

So, I sat down in my favourite recliner yesterday afternoon prepared to watch an ungodly amount of NFL football.

My rage and frustration from the ‘unpleasantness’ stemming from Friday’s post had slowly dissipated after a nice weekend and I was left content and smiling by the time Sunday rolled around.

Better yet, I was able to toggle between two of the day’s early games which featured the two remaining undefeated teams in the National Football League: the Indianapolis Colts and the New Orleans Saints.

I could not think of a better way to spend my Sunday afternoon than to watch Peyton Manning and Drew Brees lead their teams to victory on their respective marches to a perfect season.

The Colts, after a few lucky breaks and improbable comebacks over the past couple of weeks, returned things to business as usual with a cold, calculated dismantling of the Tennessee Titans. Indy jumped out to a 24-10 lead and never allowed the Titans a chance to get back in the game. This was the Colts’ 21st consecutive regular season victory, which ties the mark set by the New England Patriots two years ago.

With that outcome never really in doubt, I focused my attention to the surprisingly competitive contest between the Saints and the Washington Redskins. New Orleans, possibly suffering the effects of an emotional hangover after their beatdown of the Patriots on Monday night, looked listless throughout the game.

The Saints did not hold the lead at any point and found themselves down by ten late in the fourth quarter. A field goal made it a one possession game. The Redskins began their march downfield. Could New Orleans really lose their perfect season to Washington?

What happened next? How the fuck should I know?

The Fox feed carrying the game switched over to the beginning of the 49ers/Seahawks contest.

Are you kidding me?

I spent the majority of my afternoon emotionally invested in this highly entertaining game and Fox had the audacity to switch to the beginning of a game I wouldn’t watch with a gun pressed to my temple.

I hastily began making plans to bomb Rupert Murdoch’s house in protest, when a few minutes of research told me that Fox is forced by the NFL to abandon the early Sunday games at 4:15pm sharp to show the late games in their entirety.

And you know why the NFL does this? To appease their greedy owners with the promise of full network coverage. Nevermind that thousands of football fans got cheated out of one of the most exciting finishes of the season.

The Skins botched a 23 yard field goal attempt. The Saints ran down the field and Brees bombed a 53 yard touchdown strike to Robert Meachem with 90 seconds left. Washington fumbled on their first possession in OT and New Orleans won the game on a field goal of their own.

Why would I have wanted to watch that?

Instead I got to watch Alex Smith complete more passes to guys on the sidelines in dress clothes than his receiving corps on the field.

I blame you, NFL commissioner Roger Goodell, for being at the helm of a league who doesn’t give a shit about the enjoyment of the fans who put money in your overstuffed pockets. You must be a smart guy. Let’s use a little common sense.

How do you expect to create new fans or keep casual ones by abandoning games at their most pivotal juncture? Oh, the game went on too long? Well, then stop having so many fucking commercials.

Maybe spend a little less time jerking off geriatrics like Al Davis and Jerry Jones and spend a little more time improving your product for public consumption. Jackass.

Now I’m in a bad mood again. My left arm hurts and I’m having radiating waves of pain. That’s your fault, Roger.

You are officially the newest entrant into Tewks’ “People I Hate in Sports” pantheon, joining the likes of Chris Bosh, Vince Carter, JP Ricciardi and Patrick Kane.

The Ultimate Fighter

I hate computers.

I hate them with a passion.

I just wrote a terrific, humourous piece on the UFC and my fat little fingers accidentally deleted the entire thing.

I hate blogger.com, I hate the QWERTY keyboard, I hate everything.

I'm not writing it over again because I am too depressed. Twenty minutes of hard work down the shitter.

Go back and read archived articles to get your Tewks fix today.

I'm going to drink myself into oblivion.

If I'm still alive and have a functioning liver, I'll be back on Monday.

Otherwise, it's been fun.

Fuck.

Ballard Named Marlins New Hitting Coach

What a weird week for the National Hockey League.

A rash of freak injuries has overshadowed a great regular season thus far. Joe Corvo, of the Carolina Hurricanes, had his calf slashed open by an errant skate and is expected to miss 8-12 weeks (oddly enough, this is the same injury suffered by Hurricanes' number one goalie, Cam Ward).

It's surprising lacerations like that don't occur more often, considering every player in the game is skating around on two razor sharp blades. I always cringe when guys are checked ass over tea kettle into the bench and their skate blades fly towards unprotected faces like the guillotine favoured by the Jacobins during their Reign of Terror (where else on the web do you get equal doses of comedy and references to the French Revolution?).

Maple Leafs goaltender Jonas Gustavsson was removed from a game against the Montreal Canadiens on Tuesday due to concerns about his elevated heart rate. The precaution taken by the Leafs organization was understandable considering the ablation procedure Gustavsson underwent during training camp to fix his abnormal heart rate.

What I don't understand is that the concern this time was for his elevated heart rate. I mean, the guy is playing professional hockey--it's not like he's having a spot of tea and playing Internet scrabble. I would expect his heart rate to be elevated throughout the course of the game.

I was stapled to the bench for the majority of my hockey career, so my heart rate rarely got above resting levels, but I would imagine these guys are pushing the outer limits of their aerobic capacity, thus an elevated heart rate should be the norm.

The weirdest injury of the week was undoubtedly Keith Ballard's two handed baseball swing upside the head of Tomas Vokoun, his OWN goaltender. What was he thinking? Check it out here. The amazing thing is that Ballard doesn't even seem fazed that he almost decapitated his goalie. He just skates away like nothing happened.

If he did that to an opposing player, he would be suspended for the rest of the season and would probably face criminal charges. Luckily, Vokoun was not seriously injured. Should the Panthers discipline Ballard internally?

He should at least have to sit out one game for being a moron.

I'd love to hear a conversation between Elin Woods and Keith Ballard discussing proper swing mechanics. They are like the Ted Williams and Joe Dimaggio of assaults with a deadly weapon.

Ballard looks to be more of a line drive, singles type hitter with that flat, downward swing plane. Whereas I'm sure Elin has more of power hitter's uppercut capable of reaching the windshield of a Cadillac Escalade.

And, of course, Ballard is a purist who likes to hit with wood and Elin prefers the sweet ping of metal for added distance and power (not to mention rearranging the facial symmetry of a cheating husband).