I'm experiencing title block. Thus the lack of titles on these weblog entries.
Seattle sports weekend. Yankees-Mariners game on Friday night. Rocket Roger Clemens shut the Mariners down. I found a baseball under my seat at the game. I've never caught a foul ball at a game. This will have to do, I suppose. Once at Wrigley Field I rushed out into the aisle in pursuit of a high pop foul, my eyes aimed skyward, locked on the ball, while my legs carried me on the shortest path towards its landing point. Unfortunately, this meant I didn't spot the very man with the "body by Budweiser and ballpark franks" heading towards that same location with a baseball glove. Whammo. He deposited me several rows back and probably gave me a minor concussion. The moral of the story is that any weenie over the age of 7 who brings a baseball glove to a baseball game to catch a foul ball is a weenie. You can be sure he doesn't know how to play baseball.
Afterwards, a quick pitstop at Temple billiards to grab a drink. Some random schmo tried to pick up on Nik, and she gracefully and sweetly sent him on his way (as she has to do about three time a night whenever she is out). That is a very Seattle convention, the kinder, gentler rebuff. In NYC most women don't even bother responding. Which is fine, too. Clarity in communications is underrated. Oh, where was I? Oh yeah, sports.
Saturday I saw the San Antonio Spurs demolish the Sonics. The most impressive thing about the game was that Tony Parker stepped up to give Tim Duncan and the Spurs their needed second scoring option. Parker is 19 years old. Some of the Sonics dance team girls could be his mother. He crossed over Payton about five times in the game and made the Glove look silly.
Danny Ferry has one of the ugliest jump shots of any professional basketball player. Ferry and Cherokee Parks should warm the hearts of Duke-haters everywhere. Parks job is to do whatever Tim Duncan tells him to do, and to pray that no one ever asks him to justify his spot on the Spurs payroll through any demonstration of actual basketball skill.
Last Thursday was Teatro Zinzanni. Is that a sport? I've seen it twice in Seattle now, and both times the heart of the show has been the male ringmaster/host who dresses up as a woman and pulls random men out of the crowd to embarrass them with tawdry humor and lighthearted innuendo. The crowd, mostly older, ate it up. The older you get, the funnier everything must seem. Maybe I'll be a hearty laugher in twenty years as well instead of a grumpy critic.
Basketball Saturday morning, biking this afternoon, and some frisbee. I can't feel my legs.
There you go--managed to bring it back to sports in the end. Probably could have given this entry a title related to sports.