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!!!
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
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).
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.
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