Step 1: Pick a Team, Step 2: Bite the Curb

I've got a problem. A big problem. A colossal friggin' chip is precariously teeter-tottering on my proverbial shoulder blade.

HONESTLY, who do these people think they are? You all bloody well know who I'm talking about; those foul, despicable mongrels who say things like, "My goodness, I've been a Scouser my entire life, but, GOLLY, if that John Terry isn't a classy fellow" or "I swear, I've always like 'Dinho, so looks like I'm a Milan man now." You've no business buying a ticket to anything, you hack. Leave the seats for the fans. I'm not sticking with the ticking timebomb of anguish and disappointment I call Liverpool Football Club so that you can flit from team to team just to keep a winning record.

I've had it with these "fans" who have more than one team in any sport. What is this, sports bigamy? Maybe if you're Joseph Smith, but, for everyone else, LISTEN UP because these are THE RULES:

1. If you live in/are from a city or state that has had a team since you were young (we'll put the cut-off at age 13; after you have become a man, all bets are off), you have to support that team.
-Exception: If your city/state didn't get a team until later, and you already had a team, this is totally acceptable. No one is going to get mad if you're from Oklahoma City and you're a Mavericks fan.
-Also, if you're from a geographic area that has very few sports team (i.e., North/South
Dakota), get out a map, you get the closest team in each sport. So you're from Omaha;
sorry, but you get the Royals. Take up piano if sports are too tough.

2. Once you pick a team, you're stuck with them for life. I'm sorry if Martha Stewart makes more baskets than the Knicks, they're your team, get a friggin' helmet. A few exceptions:
-One of your immediate family members begins playing for another team (Note: If this team plays your original team or their outcomes directly affects your original team, it is strictly out of bounds to root for your relative's team.)
-If your team moves to a different city; in the event of this happening, you either a)move away from that sport entirely or b)find a legitimate reason to support a new team (and none of this "I like their jerseys" crap)

3. Following a college star from college to pro is only a reason to support his team if you have no home state/city team. If he is traded or changes teams for any reason, you stick to him. The fact that Tim Couch is no longer playing for the Browns but used to is not a reason to support them.
-NOTE: This has to be a ONCE IN A LIFETIME athlete. I.E., You cannot support the Magic because you're a Duke fan and JJ plays for them now. If you tried this, no one respects you (Get over JJ, he's gone, get a tissue, and promptly kill yourself).
-This rule also applies to (real) football. Let's say you're a Leverkusen fan; just because Ballack came up through your academy does NOT mean you get to be a Chelsea fan. I sincerely hope no one did this; if you did, consider yourself the indisputed worst person in the world. And I certainly shouldn't have to say anything about Bayern München. By all means, have a soft spot in your heart for the player; wish him success, please, do. But, if you ever buy a club scarf, you've officially sold your soul for USD $19.95.

4. If you're from a city with more than one team in a sport (Mets/Yankees, Dodgers/Angels, United/City, etc), you get ONE. Repeat: ONE. If you're a Lakers' fan, and the Clippers win the NBA Finals, I expect severe disappointment, possibly even thoughts of suicide and/or self-mutilation. These are the rules, if you're not prepared to participate, DON'T FOLLOW SPORTS. This is rivalry, folks.

5. If you're a soccer fan, YOU GET ONE TEAM! No matter what country, no matter what level of play, you get ONE. Champions' League is there for a reason, as are the comparable tournaments for the other continents. And relegation is ABSOLUTELY NOT a reason to turn off from the game unless, of course, you never return to it.

6. If you like the Red Sox and are from south of Connecticut, rethink your loyalty. And life in general. You man-bitch.

7. You cannot support a team, halt your allegiance during a slump, and then resume your support. You '98 Falcons "fans" who are waiting in the wings, find something else to do with your time, and certainly steer clear of the Dome. Your privilege of leaving the house is at risk.

8. Picking up a team from a close friend or through familial ties IS legitimate, but it must have been done early on in your development (prior to age 13). Furthermore, the ties of the people you've gotten yours from must adhere to all other rules.

9. If you move to a country with a sport that is not mainstream or even played in your previous one and you choose to begin following it, you can either a) remain neutral, b) pick up the local or closest team geographically to where you live, or c) begin supporting the team of those you live with given you live with people who have been there longer than you (i.e., native) and their ties are legitimate according to the aforementioned rules.
-NOTE: If you leave this country, you must continue your support to the point of feasibility. Beware, foreign exchange students!

That's the rant. Until next time, walk softly, ye who would follow sport. Coram non judice, until it will have been entirely too late, for titles and glory are only the nectar of those with souls intact.

To getting angry, JW dunzo.

Steven Gerrard likes his Phil Collins. Seriously.

I'm going to get this out of the way: I love Steven Gerrard. And I know how that sounds, but, sure, think what you want. I'm not a homosexual; not that there's anything wrong with that- they're really great people, I'm sure. I'm just not, but I love Steven Gerrard in a manner that actually transcends homosexuality. I love him in a way that makes me want to whisker-rub the guy or maybe even compare our individual crops of chest/back hair. Manly shit.

The character of Stevie is absolutely magnanimous. Imagine Gerrard in a more literary sense; he is Gallahad. Silently he prowls, constantly vigilant, ever lurking for his opportunity to do the noble, yet difficult, tasks for those who are less able than himself (which is pretty much friggin' everybody). The perfect leader Steven is, and he seldom fails to deliver. If you doubt this, I refer you to 06 FA Cup final. Extraordinarily quiet, though, is Gerrard's style; he stays out of the tabloids as much as possible, rarely does he jaw with the opponents, and his postmatch comments are usually about as controversial as the missionary position. Point being, Stevie G is the perfect player, and he is universally liked for his good sported nature.

In view of all this, I was astounded to see the Stevester in the news for, ALLEGEDLY, beating up a night club DJ. This is certainly not what I will call a Steveism. Ever the stoic, G-star is not the plucky buckaroo to be punching anyone, and certainly not off the pitch. Not that Stevie wouldn't; as Captain Augustus McCrae would say, sometimes there's just no "tolerating a surly bartender," but, with #8, to warrant violence, let's say you gotta be cruisin' for a bruisin', and you've gotta be cruisin' hard. Beating someone up in public and keeping a low profile simply are not two things often associated with one another, so the sitch certainly had to be a peculiar one.

I picture the incident like this: Stevie and his mates, along with that foxy wife of his (Stevette), are out for a drink after an emphatic devastation of Newcastle 5-1, when, suddenly, things turn sour. Imagine Phil Collins' "One More Night" is playing, and the vibe is good. The conversation is about some heavy stuff, but the laughs are coming easy. Let's just say they're talking about the problem of landmines in Vietnam and Paul McCartney is there. Steve's mates are liberal with the cracks on John Lennon to keep things light enough, and everyone is have a merry ole time. But the clouds are beginning to move in; the lights are turned low, the neon paints come out, and Moby abruptly comes out over the house speakers. Things are not well for such a jubilant gathering. Stevie, being The Steven Gerrard, puts on The Steven Gerrard Face, stands up from the table, saying, "Don't worry, lads, this one's mine."

Here it can only happen one way: Steve walks up to the DJ's booth, but the DJ can't really see who is approaching because he is wearing a gas mask for the ensuing techno rave. And Steven Gerrard takes no prisoners, punching that hipster bozo right in his vibe-ruining kisser, breaking his tooth and sending him to the hospital.

Now this all sounds like fiction, I know. I must confess, I took a few liberties with the actual events; the truth is, only Stevie, Stevette, and his mates know what actually happened there. That mongoloid gorilla of a DJ certainly doesn't remember, and the other people in the club ain't snitchin' on Steve-o. But the point is, Stevie hit a guy in the face over music. HIT a PERSON in the FACE over MUSIC. HIT FACE MUSIC. FACE. Hitting home? The most calm and cool demeanor in the game did this. Adding up? I know, not at all, I'm sure. But, just wait, I'll feed you, baby birds.

This is the best example of a Steveism I can think of. Steve calmly stood up, calmly strode to the DJ's booth, and calmly opened up a can of whup ass on McCrae's 2008 version of the "surly bartender." Steve stoicly took matters into his own hands. And, knowing Steve, he can only be accused of letting the punishment fit the crime. If he thought DJ Pablo was going to jive with a pleasant request, I can only expect the Reds' man-in-armband to do this. Hell, Stevie would have given the dude a swirly if it was the scratch for the itch, but that squeeze would have yielded no juice. And Steve wasn't walking away without at least one serving of Vitamin C for the day, so he pummeled that ass. And that's truth.

Punching a guy in the face rarely seems an appropriate response for much of anything; however, if you're an obstinate record tosser, the precedent has been set. Don't muck about with Phil Collins' fans, and perhaps you'll go through life without ever needing a gold tooth.

And, so, "rap, rap" goes the gavel on Merseyside; Stevie's innocent, and I'll take that before God Almighty himself (And I'm sure Mr. Fowler will oblige).

Fight the Powers, JW out.

Onward Quirky Soldiers!

Victory on Merseyside with a 2-0 triumph over the mighty Lillywhites of the North End! Indeed, as the pencil-pushers predicted so perfectly, the Prestoners picked a perhaps too potent party with which to ply their powers. The 'Puddlians pushed through on goals from the winging wonderboy Alberto Riera and the always promising, yet equally prodigal Fernando Torres. It's weeks like this that make it easy to run with the Reds, yet, as my dearest and closest friends on Merseyside know all too well, this is rarely the case.

As I write, Liverpool are currently top of the table, but, if the Premiership were a room full of film directors, they've got to be the Mel Brooks of the league: awkwardly do they stumble through the season, yet the results keep coming. The points are more often than not humorous (not to mention altogether ironic), but the only people laughing are completely detached from the fixtures. Really, though, I can't complain; at the top of the table, "it's good to be the King," eh?

Frankly, that which best describes my current state as a Liverpool fan has to be the image of a Dirk Kuyt smile. Disheveled, misshapen, and framed by one serious mullet, the face only a mother could love appears to have once been intentionally deformed, yet something in the eyes (and the mullet) indicates a happiness rarely attained. It's been as rough and scary as sex with Jamie Carragher but the suffering is part of being a Scouser; without the stress, it's no different than supporting Chelsea (which would be about as cool as a bath with my dad). It's been up and down and my “fanship” has been tested, but I'm happy and no worse for the wear.

And, so, onward do my beloved Red soldiers march, yet whimsical is their gait. As long as Xabi plays schoolyard ball, as long as Kuyt keeps smiling like Sloth from the Goonies, as long as Rafa continues growing that sweet goatee, they'll never look like true pros, which is the best thing about loving this team. By this, I mean that I could play for Liverpool. I mean, not because I'm good at footie (I'm not), but because I don't look like I should play the game. Bono could play for Liverpool; Danny Devito could play for Liverpool; Foghorn Leghorn, for Chrissake, could play. If Peter Crouch can take the field, then, by God, I'm going to continue the fantasy. What's more is that these backwards scalawags are staking their claim. Our squad full of mutts has taken the field each week over the past five months and played the hardest, fastest, and roughest, and right now this scarred-up outsider stands on top of the heap. He's a mix between Gladiator's Maximus mixed with George Costanza and he's currently sitting atop Europe's most competitive league. And I'll walk with that until I am no longer able. YNWA!

There's your mother-flippin' "season in review" post.

My weekend prediction: To make the game actually challenging for Torres, Rafa benches him for the first 45, threatens to cut him if he fails to post a hat trick, and sends him out for the last half in bowling shoes. Reds take all three points, 4-1 (Gerrard decides to take it easy on Stoke by refusing to score, but he accidently sneezes with the ball inside the center circle and hits it upper 90).

Being completely serious, JW signing off.

Poppin' The Cherry

Here it is, fresh out of the box, perfect shiny and new, still reeking of new car: A new blog.

Yes, it seems hipster, it seems low, sad, and altogether trivial, all of these things. But it's mine, and, like an unwanted pregnancy, I am forced to either love it or just abort it entirely, and, when it comes to blogs, I am staunchly pro-life. I guess I can sit on the right if the survival of my blog is at stake.

In crafting a blog about sports, I've questioned myself as to why I rest the well-being of my livelihood on the outcomes of sporting events. Why do I care which eleven dudes is best at controlling the path of an inflated piece of leather? Why do I care which team of big, hairy, possibly malodorous men is better at pushing an oblong ball across a line? Why do people at large partake in the very stressful and usually disappointing endeavor of following a sports team? To take a very Cormac McCarthy view on this issue, we could just as easily be "dead in the ground" with the issue of football matches having been tossed aside. The scores have no effect on our survival, we find no higher truths in the rises and falls of franchises, and happiness is seldom attained and extraordinarily transient. When our teams do win titles, we celebrate as if we've done something, but many seasons go by when we don't even attend one single game, much less play a down, score a goal, or sink a single basket. Yet at the outset of each season, I always find myself saying something greatly arrogant and hopeful to my friends ("If Matthew Stafford and the 2008 Georgia football team got into a Greyhound bus, and Mark Richt was driving, they'd win the Nextel Cup") because I fall in love with the sport all over again, just to have it later curbstomp my happiness.

The answer to this question lies in grandiose delusion. It's the same reason I sing at the top of my lungs in the car as if I've actually got a good voice; it's the same reason I continue to try to improve my golf game, despite the fact that I suck (I'm the guy who sunk a hole in one and kept the scorecard proving it despite the disappointing 101 finish). I want to be able to picture myself being cool. Like, more than just sitting-at-my-computer-writing-a-blog cool. More like, George-Michael-during-the-height-of-Wham! cool. When Stevie G puts a screamer into the upper 90 and I celebrate harder in my living room than he does on the field, it's because I want to think that I actually could have scored that goal. I want to go to bed at night and have a dream about chipping it just beyond the flailing mitts of Petr Cech or winning the '95 NBA finals on a buzzer beating three-ball. When Peter Crouch headed beyond Van Der Sar in the '05 FA Cup semis and I kissed the badge on my shirt (which I purchased so that I could turn this insanity into a dress-up game), I suddenly felt like I was 6'9" with knobby knees and a tendency to use the word "obviously" too often in my post-match press conferences. The "man-tasy" is so divine.

Or maybe when your team wins, it just feels warm deep in the core of your humanity and the inexplicability engenders satisfaction. That's the thing about mania; if I really knew the cause, it wouldn't be fun anymore.

I sign off with one last thought: "Sometimes it takes turning into a beast to endure the pain of being a man."

JW, over and out.