Everything wrong is right again. Welcome back NFL!

-FUPPETS- can finally relax. The NFL season is about to begin. Life is beautiful again.

Pro Football Hall Of Fame 2010 - The New Members

Listed below are the seven 2010 inductees into the Pro Football Hall Of Fame. It is quite the illustrious group, and should make for a very exciting ceremony. Click on the names for a short video clip of each player.

RUSS GRIMM - Washington Redskins

RICKEY JACKSON - New Orleans Saints, San Francisco 49'ers

DICK LeBEAU - Detroit Lions

FLOYD LITTLE - Denver Broncos

JOHN RANDLE - Minnesota Vikings, Seattle Seahawks

JERRY RICE - San Francisco 49'ers, Oakland Raiders, Seattle Seahawks

EMMITT SMITH - Dallas Cowboys, Arizona Cardinals

PRO FOOTBALL HALL OF FAME 2010

The heat of summer is building to a crescendo. The national boredom with the meaningless middle-portion of the Major League Baseball season has reached it's peak. The smell of professional football training camps is in the air. This can only mean one thing, the Pro Football Hall Of Fame Induction Ceremony is soon to arrive! -FUPPETS- is always ecstatic about this august event. Between the football history on display, the small-town celebrations in Canton Ohio, the always long, but always heartfelt and meaningful acceptance speeches, and the official start of the new season with the Hall Of Fame Game which ends the ceremonies, it is truly a wonderful weekend for the football fanatic.

While all the major and even minor sports have their own Halls of Fame, with their own respective ceremony and pomp, the Pro Football Hall Of Fame (HOF from now on) is in a class all it's own. -FUPPETS- has thought long and hard about why this is so for the Football HOF, as opposed to the boring presentations for the baseball hall in Cooperstown, or the basketball ceremonies which seem more like a press conference. The answer may lie in that everything, and -FUPPETS- means EVERYTHING, about the Football HOF weekend is run by the good people of Canton Ohio, a small town on the periphery of Akron.

These volunteers plan so many events, and run them with a love and efficiency that shames the corporate circle jerk of the basketball and baseball HOF ceremonies. The event last for an entire week. So many of the enshrined players from years past come back to support the new entrants into their exclusive fraternity. They all bring their families and are treated with the type of thoughtful and loving care that only family can provide, for the people of Canton do their utmost every year to make certain that the Hall of Famers never forget their moment in the sun. There are events for the kids of HOF members. Volunteers prepare events for the wives of the Hall Of Famers. There is a morning parade which effectively shuts down Canton, for over 100,000 people (in a town of around 78,000) line the Main Street of Canton. At the actual site of the HOF there is a midway and carnival and food stands set up for visitors to enjoy. There is the official Member's Only dinner where the new entrants are presented their gold jackets, and everyone shares stories of their lives in football, going back to some of the oldest HOF members describing the way professional football was when they played, 50, 60, or in rare cases 70 years ago.

Visiting the HOF Ceremonies is a treat that no football fan should miss. Wandering the exhibits of the HOF alone is magnificent, and then you reach THE ROOM. The very heart of the HOF is the room where all the busts of every enshrinee are arranged in the chronological order in which the individuals were inducted. Arranged throughout the room are video monitors where one can watch highlights of every member, as well as learn their history and backgrounds. It is overwhelmingly fantastic. (click images to enlarge)

One other fabulous thing about a trip to the HOF Induction Ceremony is that you never know who you will see, or run into, for football players from all the NFL's history come by to visit, support teammates or coaches who are being honored, etc. -FUPPETS- was flabbergasted to eat breakfast at the Cracker Barrell one table away from Packers legend Bart Starr and his wife.
Super Bowl rings are EVERYWHERE! If you are a football fanatic, and I know there are many out there, you owe it to yourself, and your family, to take the trip to Canton Ohio at least once in your life. -FUPPETS- was there to support the induction of Warren Moon, as well as the inductions of John Madden, Troy Aikman, Reggie White, and others. It will never be forgotten.

-FUPPETS- will be watching the ceremony this weekend on ESPN. A post containing bios of every 2010 inductee is coming shortly.

The Bleak Sports Winter is Upon -FUPPETS-

Every year, around this time, the elation of the Super Bowl gives way to the stomach-twisting realization that the greatest of all sports, American Football, has ended it's season.
( Congratulations New Orleans Saints! )

No longer will the adrenaline rush feed -FUPPETS- . Now, all that is left is the pathetic crawl towards the NBA playoffs, and the resurgence of that most pastoral and ridiculously obsolete "sport", baseball.
The only consolation to be found is in the imminent start of the 2010 Winter Olympics, which, sadly enough, are taking place in Vancouver, a city which has had multiple weeks of above freezing weather, and no snow. The Olympic officials in Vancouver are working overtime not just trucking in snow, but using helicopters to air-lift and drop tons and tons of snow. This might be the first completely "artificial" Winter Olympics on record! The mountains are nearly bare!

The world will have images of these Olympic Games with lush, green backdrops, with muddy spectators slogging through the marshy thaw to try and see their favorite events. This could easily be the most pathetic Winter Olympics yet. Maybe a gigantic volcanic eruption will warm things up even more! Or, the giant stone-man on the Vancouver Olympic Logo will come to life and terrorize the inhabitants of the Olympic Village!

That sculpture is an INUKSHUK, a traditional stone sculpture used by Canada's Inuit native peoples. The name of the one above is called Ilanaaq and local Vancouver graphic designers Elena Rivera MacGregor and Gonzalo Alatorre.

-FUPPETS- For Readers XXXIII: SUPER BOWL EDITION

-FUPPETS- loves the sport of American Football. American Football is a collision chess match between coaches, the Offensive coach on one side versus the Defensive coach on the other and vice versa. It is at the same time, the most violent and most cerebral of team sports. Because of this, it has sparked the imaginations of sportswriters for over a hundred years, from the days of coal-town's fielding teams from the different coal companies to Ivy League college teams gaining national glory to today, where the National Football League is the single most popular and profitable sports league in the USA. With the Super Bowl about to take place in Miami this Sunday, -FUPPETS- brings you some reading material regarding the greatest sport there is. HOW NFL FILMS TRANSFORMED FOOTBALL - ( Joe Posnanski - Sports Illustrated ) THE LOST NFL CHAMPIONSHIP: 1925 Pottsville Maroons - ( Daniel Klaback - Bleacher Report ) THE TEN MOST PASSIONATE FAN BASES IN THE NFL - ( Bryn Swartz - Bleacher Report ) SAINTHOOD: New Orleans never hides it's passion for it's pro football team. - ( Tim Layden - Sports Illustrated ) THE POWER OF PEYTON: The Saints must fear what the Jets found out—that for the Colts' quarterback, the will to win is indomitable. - ( Lee Jenkins - Sports Illustrated )

HUNTER S. THOMPSON & HOUSTON, TX (Part 12)

After a lengthy dissertation on the subtleties of betting on football and accounting for the various injuries that players may or may not have, the Good Doctor wonders why he is cursed to have such pristine clairvoyance when it comes to the eventual Super Bowl VIII winner, in Houston TX.

It is hard to say, even now, exactly why I was so certain of an easy Dolphin victory. The only reason I didn't get extremely rich on the game was my inability to overcome the logistical problems of betting heavily, on credit, by means of frantic long-distance phone calls from a hotel room in Houston. None of the people I met in that violent, water-logged town were inclined to introduce me to a reliable book-maker - and the people I called on both coasts, several hours before the game on Sunday morning, seemed unnaturally nervous when I asked them to use their own credit to guarantee my bets with their local bookies.
Looking back on it now, after talking with some of these people and cursing them savagely, I see that the problem had something to do with my frenzied speech-pattern that morning. I was still in the grip of whatever fiery syndrome had caused me to deliver that sermon off the balcony a few hours earlier - and the hint of mad tremor in my voice, despite my attempts to disguise it, was apparently communicated very clearly to all those I spoke with on the long-distance telephone.
How long, O lord, how long? This is the second year in a row that I have gone to the Super Bowl and been absolutely certain - at least 48 hours before gametime - of the outcome. It is also the second year in a row that I have failed to capitalize, financially, on this certainty. Last year, betting mainly with wealthy cocaine addicts, I switched all my bets from Washington to Miami on Friday night - and in the resulting confusion my net winnings were almost entirely canceled by widespread rancor and personal bitterness.

This year, in order to side-step that problem, I waited until the last moment to make my bets - despite the fact that I knew the Vikings were doomed after watching them perform for the press at their star-crossed practice field on Monday afternoon before the game. It was clear, even then, that they were spooked and very uncertain about what they were getting into - but it was not until I drove about 20 miles around the beltway to the other side of town for a look at the Dolphins that I knew, for sure, how to bet.
There area lot of factors intrinsic to the nature of the Super Bowl that make it far more predictable that regular season games, or even playoffs - but they are not the kind of factors that can be sensed or understood at a distance of 2000 or even 20 miles, on the basis of any wisdom or information that filters out from the site through the rose-colored, booze-bent media-filter that passes for "world-wide overage" at these spectacles.
There is a progression of understanding vis-a-vis pro football that varies drastically with the factor of distance - physical, emotional, intellectual, and every other way . . . Which is exactly the way it should be, in the eyes of the amazingly small number of people who own and control the game, because it is this finely managed distance factor that accounts for the high-profit mystique that blew the sacred institution of baseball off it's "national pastime" pedestal in less than 15 years.
There were other reasons for baseball's precipitous loss of popularity among everybody except old men and middle-aged sportswriters between 1959 and now - just as there will be a variety of reasons to explain the certain decline of pro football between now and 1984 - but if sporting historians ever look back on all this and try to explain it, there will be no avoiding the argument that pro football's meteoric success in the 1960's was directly attributable to it's early marriage with network TV and a huge, coast-to-coast audience of armchair fans who "grew up" - in terms of their personal relationships to The Game - with the idea that pro football was something that happened every Sunday on the tube. The notion of driving eight miles along a crowded freeway and then paying $3 to park the car in order to pay another $10 to watch the game from the vantage point of a damp redwood bench 55 rows above the 19-yard line in a crowd of noisy drunks was repugnant to them.
And they were absolutely right. After ten years of trying it both ways - and especially after watching this last wretched Super Bowl game from a choice seat in the "press section" very high above the 50-yard line - I hope to christ I never again succumb to whatever kind of weakness or madness it is that causes a person to endure the incoherent hell that comes with going out to a cold and rainy stadium for three hours on a Sunday afternoon and trying to get involved with whatever seems to be happening down there on that far-below field.
At the Super Bowl I had the benefit of my usual game-day aids: powerful binoculars, a tiny portable radio for the blizzard of audio-details that nobody ever thinks to mention on TV, and a seat on the good left arm of my friend, Mr. Natural . . . But even with all these aids and a seat on the 50-yard line, I would rather have stayed in my hotel room and watched the goddamn thing on TV; or maybe in some howling-drunk bar full of heavy bettors - the kind of people who like to bet on every play: pass or run, three to one against a first down, twenty to one on a turnover . . .
This is a very fast and active style of betting, because you have to make a decision about every 25 seconds. The only thing more intense is betting yes or no on the next shot in something like a pro basketball game between the Celtics and the Knicks, where you might get five or six shots every 24 seconds . . . or maybe only one, but in any case the betting is almost as exhausting as being out there on the floor.

Barrel Man is Dead. Long Live Barrel Man

One of the very entertaining aspects of National Football League fandom are the fanatics who become famous in football circles for their die-hard loyalty to their teams, especially when it involves a creative or unusual costume to wear to every home game.
There are many such fans, and they usually come in bunches, like the insane members of the Oakland Raiders' infamous BLACK HOLE. These guys dress in evil costumes and are a threat to throw a full, cold beer, on any opposing player that dares come near their section of seats. The hilarious thing is that their costumes all got started when the Raiders hosted a game on Halloween one Sunday in the 80's, and fans showed up in these silver and black freakout costumes!

Another group of famous fans are the Cleveland Browns DOG POUND. These guys wear dog masks, and bark loudly anytime the Browns do anything of note.

Originally, the Dog Pound was a flat area, with no seats, with a chain link fence separating it from the playing field, at the old Cleveland Browns Municipal stadium. It was standing room only, and insane.

When they built their new stadium they christened the area by the end zone as the new Dog Pound.

The really interesting cats are the ones who dress up by themselves, just to dress up crazy, and who are dedicated season-ticket holders, there every game, win or lose. One of these men, was the Denver Bronco's BARREL MAN.

Barrel Man was a fixture at Denver Broncos games for over three decades. This past Saturday he died. It is strange how the passing of someone whom one never knew can make one feel sadness and regret. It is these weird characters, these Uber-fanatics, that first ingrained the NFL into the -FUPPETS- memory-core. His real name was Tim McKernan and he was 69 years old. The man loved to dress in nothing but his hat, his boots, and that aluminum Bronco's barrel, even in the coldest of cold winter days at Mile High Stadium. This all started as a $10 bet with his brother, that he would not wear the barrel to a game. His passion was inspiring the home crowd to a fever pitch, to support their Denver Broncos.
The guy was so beloved he even got his own bobble-head doll.

Barrel Man will be missed by -FUPPETS- and by all true NFL football fanatics out there.

HUNTER S. THOMPSON & HOUSTON, TX (Part 11)

When we last visited with Gonzo-King himself, Hunter S. Thompson, he regaled -FUPPETS- with the truth about sportswriters covering Super Bowl VIII, held at the Rice University Stadium in Houston, Texas. Let's see what he is up to now, as the big game approaches.

The bus ride to the stadium for the game on Sunday took more than an hour, due to heavy traffic. I had made the same six-mile drive the night before in just under five minutes . . . but that was under very different circumstances; Rice Stadium is on South Main Street, along the same route that led from the Hyatt Regency to the Dolphin headquarters at the Marriott, and also to the Blue Fox.
There was not much to do on the bus except drink, smoke and maintain a keen ear on the babble of conversations behind me for any talk that might signal the presence of some late-blooming Vikings fan with money to waste. It is hard to stay calm and casual in a crowd of potential bettors when you feel absolutely certain of wining any bet you can make. At that point, anybody with even a hint of partisan enthusiasm in his voice becomes a possible mark - a doomed and ignorant creature to be lured, as carefully as possible, into some disastrous last-minute wager that could cost him every dollar he owns.
There is no room for mercy or the milk of human kindness in football vetting - at least not when you're prepared to get up on the edge with every dollar you own. One-on-one betting is a lot more interesting than dealing with bookies, because it involves it involves strong elements of personality and psychic leverage. Betting against the point spread is a relatively mechanical trip, but betting against another individual can be very complex, if you're serious about it - because you want to know, for starters, whether you're betting against a fool or a wizard, or maybe against somebody who's just playing the fool.
Making a large bet on a bus full of sportswriters on the way to the Super Bowl, for instance, can be a very dangerous thing: because you might be dealing with somebody who was in the same fraternity at Penn State with one of the team doctors, and who learned the night before - while drinking heavily with his old buddy - that the quarterback you're basing your bet on has four cracked ribs and can barely raise his passing arm to shoulder level.
Situations like these are not common. Unreported injuries can lead to heavy fines against any team that fails to report one - especially in a Super Bowl - but what is a $10,000 fine, compared to the amount of money that kind of crucial knowledge is worth against a big-time bookie?
The other side of that coin is a situation where a shrewd coach turns the League's "report all injuries" rule into a psychological advantage for his own team - and coincidentally for any bettor who knows what's happening - by scrupulously reporting an injury to a star player just before a big game, then calling a press-conference to explain that the just-reported injury is of such a nature - a pulled muscle, for instance - that it might or might not heal entirely by game time.
This was what happened in Houston with the Dolphin's Paul Warfield, widely regarded as "the most dangerous pass receiver in pro football." Warfield is a game-breaker, a man who commands double-coverage at all times because of his antelope running style, twin magnets for hands, and a weird kind of adrenaline instinct that feeds on tension and high pressure. There is no more beautiful sight in football that watching Paul Warfield float out of the backfield in a sort of angle-streak pattern right into the heart of a "perfect" zone defense and take a softly thrown pass on his hip, without even seeming to notice the arrival of the ball, and then float another 60 yards into the end zone, with none of the frustrated defensive backs ever touching him.
There is an eerie kind of certainty about Warfield's style that is far more demoralizing than just another six points on the scoreboard. About half the time he looks bored and lazy - but even the best pass defenders in the league know, in some nervous corner of their hearts, that when the deal goes down Warfield is capable of streaking right past them like they didn't exist . . .
Unless he's hurt; playing with some kind of injury that might or might not be serious enough to either slow him down or gimp the fiendish concentration that makes him so dangerous . . . and this was the possibility that Dolphin coach Don Shula raised on Wednesday when he announced hat Warfield had pulled a leg muscle in practice that afternoon and might not play on Sunday.
This news caused instant action in gambling circles. Even big-time bookies, whose underground information on these things is usually as good as Pete Rozelle's, took Shula's announcement seriously enough to cut the spread down from seven to six - a decision worth many millions of betting dollars if the game turned out to be close.
Even the rumor of an injury to Warfield was worth one point (and even two, with some bookies I was never able to locate) . . . and if Shula had announced on Saturday that Paul was definitely not going to play, the spread would probably have dropped to four, or even three . . . Because the guaranteed absence of Warfield would have taken a great psychological load off the minds of Minnesota's defensive backs.
Without the ever-present likelihood of a game-breaking "bomb" at any moment, they could focus down much tighter on stopping Miami's brutal running game - which eventually destroyed them, just as it had destroyed Oakland's nut-cutting defense two weeks earlier, and one of the main reasons why the Vikings failed to stop the Dolphins on the ground was the constant presence of Paul Warfield in his customary wide-receiver's spot.
He played almost the whole game, never showing any sign of injury; and although he caught only one pass, he neutralized two Minnesota defensive backs on every play . . . and two extra tacklers on the line of scrimmage might have made a hell of a difference in that embarrassingly decisive first quarter when Miami twice drove what might as well have been the whole length of the field to score 14 quick points and crack the Vikings' confidence just as harshly as they had cracked the Redskins out in Los Angeles a year earlier.

NFL

The heat of summer appears to be decreasing. The days are getting a little bit shorter. The rainy season will soon be upon us. The signs all point to one of the most blessed events in the sports calendar, the start of the National Football League 2009 season! Yay!
It has been 6 long months of darkness, of desultory awakenings and obligatory excursions into the world outside. The palpable dread that hangs over the air will soon be lifted. The joy of life will soon return and all will be well, for we are about to enter the "manic" part of the year, and soon to leave the "depressive" part. Who needs brain altering medications when we have the love of American Football to spur us along and give us fleeting joy while on our grim march towards inevitable death?
The collisions are coming. The athletic ballet of pain is coming. The bull rush of giant monster men exploding towards each other in a controlled chaos is soon to arrive. Lock up the mentally feeble and the emotionally wrecked, for this is the time when the vicious reign supreme.
-FUPPETS- cannot wait.
Pictured above are last year's NFL champions, the Super Bowl winning Pittsburgh Steelers.
Below, check out a video clip of Jerron Gilbert, of the Chicago Bears, jumping out of a swimming pool. The man can squat 635 lbs and dead lift 655 lbs. He is a defensive lineman. Amazing!

Pro Football Hall Of Fame: 2009 Inductees

-FUPPETS- would like to showcase the great players and owner about to be inducted into the Pro Football Hall Of Fame in Canton, Ohio this weekend.


Bob Hayes (WR) - Cowboys, 49er's : The only man ever to win an Olympic Gold Medal and a Super Bowl, Mr. Hayes was truly a gifted speedster. In the Olympics he medaled Gold in the 100 meter dash and the 4 X 100 meter relay, earning the nickname World's Fastest Human, for all his records. The Cowboys drafted him to be a Wide receiver and to this day, Hayes holds ten regular-season receiving records, four punt return records and twenty-two overall franchise marks. On September 18, 2002 Bob Hayes died of kidney failure after battling prostrate cancer and liver ailments.

Randall McDaniel (G) - Vikings, Buccaneers : One of the greatest offensive linemen to ever play the game, Mr. McDaniel was not just chosen, but started 12 consecutive Pro Bowls, and started 202 consecutive games in his career. Offensive linemen are not very glamorous, and they never get headlines and media praise, but his teammates and his opponents knew what they had to contend with when Randall McDaniel stepped up to play.

Bruce Smith (DE) - Bills, Redskins : Mr Smith was one of the truly scary and great defenders in the history of the NFL. He led his team's defensive attack, helping take them to 4 consecutive Super Bowls. He was twice named the AP Defensive Player Of The Year, and was a near perennial Pro Bowl pick. He retired with many team records as well as the NFL's record for most career sacks (200).

Derrick Thomas (LB) - Chiefs : A monster blitzing linebacker, Mr. Thomas was drafted in 1989 by the Kansas City Chiefs and remained with them for all 11 of his NFL seasons. He retired holding the Chiefs records for sacks, safeties, fumble recoveries, and forced fumbles. He holds the NFL record for forced fumbles in a career (45), and most sacks in a game (7). Derrick Thomas died on February 8, 2000 as a result of a massive blood clot which lodged in his lungs a couple of weeks after he was paralyzed from the neck down in a terrible automobile accident.

Ralph Wilson Jr. (Owner) - Bills : Originally a minority owner of the Detroit Lions, he jumped at the chance to own his own franchise when Lamar Hunt tossed around the idea of starting a new football league, the AFL. He is one of only two original AFL owners to still own his team, the other being the hateful and hated Bud Adams. His Jim Kelly-led Bills reached 4 consecutive Super Bowls, a feat never before achieved, but lost all of them.

Rod Woodson (CB/SS) - Raiders, Steelers, 49'ers, Ravens : Mr. Woodson holds the records for career interception return yardage (1,483), interception returns for touchdowns (12), as well as having the 3rd most career interceptions (71). He was voted NFL Defensive Player of The Year in 1993. His 2000 Ravens team won Super Bowl XXXV.

PRO FOOTBALL HALL OF FAME INDUCTION CEREMONY - 2009

This Saturday is the 46th Pro Football Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony. For die-hard football fans it is the most grand and emotional event in the "football calendar." The ceremonies are the Alpha and the Super Bowl is the Omega, bookending the NFL season. Each year up to 6 enshrinees are elected to enter the HoF. This year's batch is stellar as always, includes a Gold Medalist, and heavy on defense, much to -FUPPETS- delight!

Bob Hayes (WR) - Cowboys, 49er's
Randall McDaniel (G) - Vikings, Buccaneers
Bruce Smith (DE) - Bills, Redskins
Derrick Thomas (LB) - Chiefs
Ralph Wilson Jr. (Owner) - Bills
Rod Woodson (CB/SS) - Raiders, Steelers, 49'ers, Ravens

The Pro Football Hall of Fame is located in Canton, Ohio and is a mecca for the giridon faithful. The emphasis is strictly on FOOTBALL and not on flash or the ridiculously sensational. The exhibits are right in your face: Dick Butkus' jersey, Earl Campbell's helmet, legendary items from the early years, Coach Lombardi's hat. It is truly awesome and respectful, and respected. The people visiting the HoF are truly fans, and venerate the items for the memories they bring back as well as the connection that is made to the men who once played the game, and did it better than anyone else in the game.

HUNTER S. THOMPSON & HOUSTON, TEXAS (Part 6)

The last time we visited with the good Doctor, he had abruptly finished his balcony sermon, and was holed up inside his Houston hotel room, the morning of Super Bowl VIII.

It had been a dull week, even by sportswriter's standards, and now the day of the Big game was finally on us. Just one more free breakfast, one more ride, and by nightfall the thing would be over.
The first media bus was scheduled to leave the hotel bat 10:30, four hours before kick-off, so I figured that gave me some time to relax and act human. I filled the bathtub with hot water, plugged the tape recorder with both speakers into a socket right next to the tub, and spent the next two hours in a steam stupor, listening to Rosalie Sorrels and Doug Sahm, chewing idly on a small slice of Mr. Natural, and reading the cocaine papers of Sigmund Freud.
Around noon I went downstairs to the Imperial Ballroom to read the morning papers over the limp dregs of NFL's free breakfast, then I stopped at the free bar for a few bloody marys before wandering outside to catch the last bus for the stadium - The CBS special - complete with more bloody marys, screwdrivers and a roving wagon-meister who seemed to have everything under control.
On the bus to the stadium I made a few more bets on Miami. At that point I was picking up everything I could get, regardless of the points. It had been a long and jangled night, but the two things that needed to be done before game-time - my sermon and my lead - were already done, and the rest of the day looked easy: Just try to keep out of trouble and stay straight enough to collect on all my bets.
The consensus among the 1600 or so sportswriters in town favored Miami by almost two to one . . . but there are only a handful of sportswriters in this country with enough sense to pour piss out of their own boots, and by Saturday night there was an obvious drift among the few "smart" ones to Minnesota, with a seven point cushion. Paul Zimmerman of the New York Post, author of A Thinking man's Guide to Pro Football and the sportswriting fraternity's scaled-down answer to the Washington Post's political guru David Broeder, had organized his traditional pressroom betting pool - where any sportswriter who felt up to it could put a dollar in the pot and predict the final score (in writing, on the pressroom bulletin board, for all the world to see) . . . and whoever came closest would pick up a thousand or so dollars.
Or at least that was the theory. But in reality there were only about 400 writers wiling to risk a public prediction on the outcome of a game that - even to an amateur like me - was so obvious that I took every bet I could get against the Vikings, regardless of the spread. As late as 10:30 on Sunday morning I was calling bookies on both coasts, doubling and tripling my bets with every point I could get from five to seven . . . and by 2:35 on Sunday afternoon, five minutes after the kick-off, I knew I was home free.
Moments later, when the Dolphins drove the length of the field for another touchdown, I began collecting money. The final outcome was painfully clear less than halfway through the first quarter - and shortly after that, Sport Magazine editor Dick Shapp reached over my shoulder in the press section and dropped two bills - a five and a twenty - in my lap.
I smiled back at him, "Jesus," I said, "Are you giving up already? This game is far from over, my man. Your people are only 21 points down, and we still have a whole half to go."
He shook his head sadly.
"You're not counting on a second-half rally?" I asked, pocketing his money.
He stared at me, saying nothing . . . then he rolled his eyes up toward the soupy mist above the stadium where the Goodyear Blimp was hovering, almost invisible in the fog.

SUPER BOWL & Two Beers

The SUPER BOWL is nearly upon us once again. -FUPPETS- avidly supports the beauty and mayhem of professional football, and this year the Championship Game is poised to be one for the ages. One of the most decorated and praised teams ever, the Pittsburgh Steelers, are facing off against the perennial loser team of the NFL, The Arizona Cardinals.
For many people, the Super Bowl is a day to feast and party, to hang with friends watching the big game. For many others the Super Bowl is an occasion to witness spectacle at it's most hyped, to watch the commercials and to discuss the halftime show. For US soldiers/seamen/airmen stationed overseas however, the Super Bowl is a special time.
Many bases work on skeleton crews to allow as many soldiers to watch the game as possible. There are satellite feeds and impromptu celebrations throughout all military bases worldwide. This year, in Iraq, the soldiers have been promised two beers each to enjoy with the Super Bowl, and they are righteously looking forward to them!.
ESPN has filed a great story about this, and about the men and women serving overseas.

TWO BEERS IN THE DESERT: On Super Bowl Sunday, American Military Personnel Stationed in Iraq Will Enjoy A Couple Of Historic Cold Ones. - ( Wright Thompson - ESPN )

HUNTER S. THOMPSON & HOUSTON, TEXAS (Part 5)

* When last we visited with the good Doctor, he had begun ranting and raving about "discipline" from the 20th floor balcony of his Houston Hyatt Regency hotel.

Nobody down in the lobby seemed to catch that one, although I sensed the first stirrings of action on the balconies just below me. It was almost time for the Free Breakfast in the Imperial Ballroom downstairs, and some of the early-rising sportswriters seemed to be up and about. Somewhere behind me a phone was ringing, but I paid no attention.It was time, I felt, to bring it all together... my voice was giving out, but despite the occasional dead spots and bursts of high-pitched wavering, I grasped the railing of the balcony and got braced for some flat-out raving:
"Revelations, Twenty-fifteen!" I screamed. "Say Hallelujah! Yes! Say Hallelujah!"
People were definitely responding now. I could hear their voices, full of excitement - but the acoustics of the place made it impossible to get a good fix on the cries that were bounding back and forth across the lobby. Were they saying "Hallelujah"?
"Four more years!" I shouted. "My friend General Haig has told us that the Forces of Darkness are now in control of the Nation - and they will rule for four more years!" I paused to sip my drink, then I hit it again: "And Al Davis has told us that whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire!"
I reached around behind me with my free hand, slapping at a spot between my shoulder blades to slow the thing down.
"How many of you will be cast into a lake of fire in the next four years? How many will survive? I have spoken with general Haig, and - "
At this point I was seized by both arms and jerked backwards, spilling my drink and interrupting the climax of my sermon. "You crazy bastard!" a voice screamed. "Look what you've done! The manager just called. Get back in the room and lock the fucking door! He's going to bust us!"
It was the TV man from Pittsburgh, trying to drag me back from my pulpit. I slipped out of his grasp and returned to the balcony. "This is Super Sunday!" I screamed. "I want everyone of you worthless bastards down in the lobby in ten minutes so we can praise God and sing the national anthem!"
At this point I noticed the TV man sprinting down the hall towards the elevators, and the sight of him running caused something to snap in my brain. "There he goes!" I shouted. "He's headed for the lobby! Watch out! It's Al Davis. He has a knife!"
I could see people moving on all the balconies now, and also down in the lobby. Then, just before I ducked back in my room, I saw one of the glass-walled elevators starting down, with a single figure inside it. . . he was the most visible man in the building; a trapped and crazy animal descending slowly - in full view of everybody from the busboys in the ground-floor coffee shop to Jimmy the Greek on the balcony above me - to certain captivity by that ugly crowd at the bottom.
I watched for a moment, then hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on my doorknob and double-locked the door. That elevator, I knew, would be empty when it got to the lobby. There were at least five floors, on the way down, where he could jump out and bang on a friendly door for safe refuge . . . and the crowd in the lobby had not seen him clearly enough, through the tinted-glass wall of the elevator, to recognize him later on.
And there was not much time for vengeance, anyway, on the odd chance that anyone cared.

HUNTER S. THOMPSON & HOUSTON, TEXAS (Part 4)

* When last we left the good Doctor, someone was beating at his hotel door, the night/morning before Super Bowl VIII in Houston, Texas.

...It was a TV reporter from Pittsburgh, raving drunk and demanding to take a shower. I jerked him into the room. "Nevermind the goddamn shower," I said. "Do you realize what I have on my spine?" He stared at me, unable to speak. "A giant leech," I said. "It's been there for eight days, getting fatter and fatter with blood."
He nodded slowly as I led him over to the phone. "I hate leeches," he muttered.
'That's the least of our problems," I said. "Room service won't send any beer until noon, and all the bars are closed. . . I have this Wild Turkey, but I think it's too heavy for the situation we're in."
"You're right," he said. "I got work to do. The goddamn game's about to start. I need a shower."
"Me too," I said. "But I have some work to do first, so you'll have to make the call."
"Call?" He slumped into a chair in front of the window, staring down at the thick grey mist that had hung on the town for eight days - except now, as Super Sunday dawned, it was thicker and wetter than ever.
I gave him the phone: "Call the manager," I said. "Tell him you're Howard Cossell and you're visiting up here with a minister in 2003; we're having a private prayer breakfast and we need two fifths of his best red wine, with a box of saltine crackers."
He nodded unhappily. "Hell, I came here for a shower. Who needs the wine?"
"It's important," I said. "You make the call while I go outside and get started."
He shrugged and dialed "0" while I hurried out to the balcony, clearing my throat for an opening run at James 2:19:
"Beware!" I shouted, "for the Devils also believe and tremble!"
I waited for a moment, but there was no reply from the lobby, 20 floors down - so I tried Ephesians 6:12, which seemed more appropriate:
"For we wrestle not," I screamed, "against flesh and blood - but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world - and, yes - against spiritual wickedness in high places!"
Still there was no response except the booming echoes of my own voice . . . but the thing on my spine was moving with renewed vigor now, and I sensed there was not much time. All movement in the lobby had ceased. They were all standing still down there - maybe 20 or 30 people . . . but were they listening? Could they hear?
I couldn't be sure. The acoustics of these massive lobbies are not predictable. I knew, for instance, that a person sitting in a room on the 11th floor, with the door open, could hear - with unnerving clarity - the sound of a cocktail glass shattering on the floor of the lobby. It was also true that almost every word of Gregg Allman's "Multi-Colored Lady" played a top volume on a dual-speaker Sony TC-126 in an open-door room on the 20th floor could be heard in the NFL press room on the hotel mezzanine . . . but it was hard to be sure of the timbre and carrying power of my own voice in this cavern; it sounded, to me, like the deep screaming of a bull elk in the rut . . . but there was no way to know, for sure, if I was really getting through.
"Discipline!" I bellowed. "Remember Vince Lombardi!" I paused to let that one sink in - waiting for applause, but none came. "Remember George Metesky!^" I shouted. "He had discipline!"

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^ - George P. Metesky (November 2, 1903 – May 23, 1994), better known as the Mad Bomber, terrorized New York City for 16 years in the 1940s and 1950s with explosives that he planted in theaters, terminals, libraries and offices. Bombs were left in phone booths, storage lockers and restrooms in public buildings, including Grand Central Terminal, Pennsylvania Station, Radio City Music Hall, the New York Public Library, the Port Authority Bus Terminal and the RCA Building, as well as in the New York City Subway. Perhaps most notably, Metesky bombed movie theaters, where he cut into seat upholstery and slipped his explosive devices inside.
Angry and resentful about events surrounding a workplace injury suffered years earlier, Metesky planted at least 33 bombs, of which 22 exploded, injuring 15 people. He was apprehended based on an early use of offender profiling and clues given in letters he wrote to a newspaper. He was found legally insane and committed to a state mental hospital. (wikipedia)

NFL FILMS Presents SAMMY BAUGH

My man Sammy Baugh liked to cuss. What a bad-ass.

Sam "Slingin' Sammy" Baugh (3/17/1914 - 12/17/2008) - R.I.P.

Samuel Adrian Baugh, or "Slingin' Sammy" Baugh as he was known to all those who follow and love professional football, has passed away at the age of 94. Sam Baugh was the last surviving member of the Inaugural Class of the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1963.
A two-time All-American as a student at Texas Christian University, Sammy Baugh played for the Washington Redskins from 1937 to 1952. When he was drafted he signed an $8,000 contract to become the highest paid player on the team. That money was well-spent, as he led the Redskins to the NFL title in his rookie year and again in 1942.

Baugh was the best all-around player in an era when such versatility was essential. In 1943, he led the league in passing, punting and defensive interceptions. In one game, he threw four touchdown passes and intercepted four as well. He threw six touchdowns passes in a game twice. His 51.4-yard punting average in 1940 is still the NFL record. (AP)

Sam Baugh is often rightly credited with bringing the forward pass to the forefront of the NFL team's offenses.

Baugh still holds Redskins records for career touchdown passes (187) and completion percentage in a season (70.3). His 31 interceptions on defense are third on the team's career list.

He played his entire career without a face mask, and his number 33 is the only number the Redskins have ever retired. Until his last day Sam remained a huge fan of the NFL Football.

"I'll watch it all damn day long," Baugh, who often sprinkled his conversation with mild obscenities, told The Associated Press in a 2002 interview. "I like the football they play. They got bigger boys, and they've also got these damn speed merchants that we didn't have in those days. I'd love to be quarterback this day and time."

The list of records and accomplishments goes on and on. His bust resides in the Pro Football Hall of Fame along with the other greats, and his impact on professional football was immeasurable. Here is a link to his Hall Of Fame Enshrinement speech.

HUNTER S. THOMPSON & HOUSTON, TEXAS (Part 3)

(Continuing saga of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson in Houston, Texas, reporting on the Miami Dolphins and the Minnessota Vikings duking it out in Super Bowl VIII (1974). Read Part 1 here. Read Part 2 here. Excerpted from The Great Shark Hunt - Ballantine Books)

Back in the room I filled a glass full of ice and Wild Turkey, then began flipping through the pages of "A Demon's Nightmare" for some kind of spiritual springboard to get the sermon moving. I had already decided - about midway in the ice-run - that I had adequate time to address the sleeping crowd and also crank out a lead before that goddamn blood-sucking slug reached the base of my brain - or even worse, if a sharp dose of Wild Turkey happened to slow the thing down long enough to rob me of my final excuse for missing the game entirely, like last year . . .
What? Did my tongue slip there? My fingers? Or did I just get a fine professional hint from my old buddy, Mr. Natural?
Indeed. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. John Mitchell said that - shortly before he quit his job and left Washington at 90 miles an hour in a chauffeur-driven limousine.
I have never felt close to John Mitchell, but on that rotten morning in Houston I came as close as I ever will: because he was, after all, a pro . . . and so, alas, was I. Or at least I had a fistful of press badges that said I was.
And it was this bedrock sense of professionalism, I think, that quickly solved my problem . . . which, until that moment when I recalled the foul spectre of Mitchell, had seemed to require a frantic decision between either delivering my sermon or writing my lead, in the space of an impossibly short time.
When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.
Who said that?
I suspect it was somebody from the Columbia Journalism Review, but I have no proof . . . and it makes no difference anyway. There is a bond, among pros, that needs no definition. Or at least it didn't on that Sunday morning in Houston, for reasons that require no further discussion at this point in time . . . because it suddenly occurred to me that I had already written the lead for this year's Super Bowl game; I wrote it last year in Los Angeles, and a quick rip through my fat manila folder of clips labeled "Football '73" turned it up as if by magic.
I jerked it out of the file, and retyped it on a fresh page slugged: "Super Bowl/Houston '74." The only change necessary was the substitution of "Minnesota Vikings" for "Washington Redskins." Except for that, the lead seemed just as adequate for the game that would begin in about six hours as it was for the one that I missed in Los Angeles in January of '73.
"The precision-jackhammer attack of the Miami Dolphins stomped the balls off of the Minnesota Vikings today by stomping and hammering with one precise jack-thrust after another up the middle, mixed with pinpoint-precision passes into the flat and numerous hammer-jack stops around both ends . . . "

The jangling of the telephone caused me to interrupt my work. I jerked it off the hook, saying nothing to whoever was on the other end, and began flashing the hotel operator. When she finally cut in I spoke very calmly. "Look," I said. "I'm a very friendly person and a minister of the gospel, to boot - but I thought I left instructions down there to put no calls - NO CALLS. GODDAMNIT! - through to this room, and especially not now in the middle of this orgy . . . I've been here eight days and nobody's called me yet. Why in the hell would they start now? . . . What? Well, I simply can't accept that kind of flimsy reasoning, operator. Do you believe in Hell? Are you ready to speak with Saint Peter? . . . Wait a minute now, calm down . . . I want to be sure you understand one thing before I get back to my business; I have some people here who need help . . . But I want you to know God is Holy! He will not allow sin in his presence! The Bible says" 'There is none righteous. No, not one . . . for all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.' That's from the book of Romans, young lady . . . "
The silence at the other end of the line was beginning to make me nervous. But I could feel the sap rising, so I decided to continue my sermon from the balcony . . . and suddenly I realized that somebody was beating on my door. Jesus god, I thought, it's the manager; they've come for me at last.

Stellar Omens Fuel TEXANS Victory

In a very rare and beautiful display, the planets Venus and Jupiter have sidled up to the crescent Moon, in a pattern that will not repeat until the year 2052. It was a beautiful sight as the sun went down last night and should be so for the coming week. Take the time to go outside and look, for it is a rare and gorgeous thing to see.
It is a rare thing for Jupiter, Venus, and the Moon to be within two degrees of each other. They are so close in the sky that you could put your thumb out and cover all three stellar bodies.

This was taken to mean great tidings for the Houston Texans who played last night in their first ever Monday Night Football appearance. It was a glorious victory over the rival Jacksonville Jaguars.

HUNTER S. THOMPSON & HOUSTON, TEXAS (PART 2)

(Continuing saga of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson in Houston, Texas, reporting on the Miami Dolphins and the Minnessota Vikings duking it out in Super Bowl VIII. Read Part 1 here. Excerpted from The Great Shark Hunt - Ballantine Books )

I howled at the top of my lungs for almost 30 minutes, raving and screeching about all those who would soon be cast into the lake of fire, for a variety of low crimes, misdemeanors, and general ugliness that amounted to a sweeping indictment of almost everybody in the hotel at that hour.
Most of them were asleep when I began speaking, but as a Doctor of Divinity and an ordained minister in the Church of the New Truth, I knew in my heart that I was merely a vessel - a tool as it were - of some higher and more powerful voice.
For eight long and degrading days I had skulked around Houston with all the other professionals, doing our jobs - which was actually to do nothing at all except drink all the free booze we could pour into our bodies, courtesy of the National Football League, and listen to an endless barrage of some of the lamest and silliest swill ever uttered by man or beast . . . and finally, on Sunday morning about six hours before the opening kickoff, I was racked to the point of hysteria by a hellish interior conflict.I was sitting by myself in the room, watching the wind and the weather clock on the TV set, when I felt a sudden and extremely powerful movement at the base of my spine. Mother of Sweating Jesus! I thought. What is it - a leech? Are there leeches in this goddamn hotel, along with everything else? I jumped off the bed and began clawing at the small of my back with both hands. The thing felt huge, maybe eight or nine pounds, moving slowly up my spine to the base of my neck.
I'd been wondering all week, why I was feeling so low and out of sorts . . . but it never occurred to me that a giant leech had been sucking blood out of the base of my spine all that time: and now the goddamn thing was moving up towards the base of my brain, going straight for the medulla . . . and as a professional sportswriter I knew that if the bugger ever reached my medulla I was done for.
It was at this point that serious conflict set in, because I realized - given the nature of what was coming up my spine and the drastic effect I knew it would have, very soon, on my sense of journalistic responsibility - that I would have to do two things immediately: First, deliver the sermon that had been brewing in my brain all week long, and then rush back into the room to write my lead for the Super Bowl story . . .
Or maybe write my lead first, and then deliver the sermon. In any case, there was no time to lose. The thing was about a third of the way up my spine now, and still moving at good speed. I jerked on a pair of L.L.Bean stalking shorts and ran out on the balcony to a nearby ice machine.