True friends hurt one another whenever possible

By now you have probably heard about New York Jets head coach Rex Ryan and the foot fetish videos that he and his wife have posted to the Internet.  When asked about them, Ryan has indicated that this is a personal matter that he would prefer not discuss. In talking about the situation on ESPN radio, former NFL offensive lineman turned sportscaster Mark Schlereth was asked about how a football team might handle a situation like this in terms of the coach’s feelings.

To paraphrase, Schlereth said that the players would first determine if the coach’s marriage was potentially in trouble or if he was simply caught in an incredibly embarrassing situation. If the situation proved to be the latter, the entire team would most assuredly attend the next meeting barefoot, and the torment that the coach would receive for something like this could last for months.

“We would bring it up at every opportunity,” said Schlereth.

He went on to describe a prank in which a rookie was served falsified court documents indicating that he was being sued for sexual harassment after he  had been seen flirting with a sound engineer on the sidelines during a game.  The coach allowed that prank to continue for an entire day before letting the rookie off with a warning.

“There are no rules in an NFL locker room when it comes to this stuff,” Schlereth explained. “And the best defense is a good offense. So you nail the low-hanging fruit whenever you can.”

I like this philosophy a lot.

In my own life, my friends fall into two categories:

Those who believe that the world should operate like an NFL locker room and those who do not.

And in almost every case, there is no middle ground. Either you’re someone who is willing to engage in this kind of cruelty or you avoid it at all costs. You learn very quickly who can take it and who cannot.

Unfortunately, a majority of my friends (and perhaps people in general) cannot. For whatever reason, they tend to be (in my mind) overly sensitive to this kind of behavior. For these people, pranks end up being watered-down excuses for what could have been or are avoided altogether.

I cherish my friends who share my no-holds-barred philosophy. I admire their willingness to suffer embarrassment for the amusement of others. I respect their ability to laugh at their own foibles, regardless of how personal in nature they may be. And I readily accept their desire to do the same to me.

In my most treasured friendships, there is little room for hurt feelings. We give no quarter to one another of the battlefield. We show no mercy.

In the words of Mark Schlereth, we nail the low hanging fruit at every opportunity.

I never had the opportunity to play organized football (one of my three greatest regrets in life). My high school did not field a team and by the time I finally made it to college, I was working more than forty hours a week in order to pay the bills. Red-shirting as a freshman was not an option.

But I wish I had. I think I would’ve fit in well with a football team.

I tend to do a lot of stupid, prank-worthy things.

And my mind is constantly filled with hurtful comments and ideas for acts of supreme cruelty.

I fear that my talents are often going to waste.

Topless, frigid and amusing

As a season ticket holder, I sit in the same seats at every Patriots game. As a new season ticket holder, those seats are far from the field. My friend, Shep, and I sit on the 45 yard line, four rows from the very top of the stadium.

To be honest, we like the seats a lot. It can get windy up there, but we have a good view of the action at all times, regardless of where on the field the ball may be. It’s actually a view similar to the one I see on television except I can see the entire field at one time.

The guys who usually sit to my right are police officers, and throughout the season, I have heard them tell one another stories that make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and cause me to wonder about the sanctity of their profession.

I’m quite certain that many of the tactics that they describe are not legal, and they always make me a little nervous.

I already have good reason not to trust all police officers.

The cops were not at the most recent Patriots-Green Bay contest. It was a Sunday night game, so perhaps they were busy conducing illegal searches or smacking around prisoners in handcuffs or racially profiling motorists at stop lights.

All actions described during previous games.

Instead, I found myself sitting beside two Asian men whose enthusiasm for the game was sadly not matched by their understanding of the lexicon of the game. Though supportive of the team, many of the things that they shouted weren’t quite right, and as a result, I laughed throughout much of the night.

A few of their more memorable remarks included:

C’mon defense! Interfere the ball!

Drop them on the bomb, defense!

Crack that punt!

C’mon Pats! Win me a touchdown!

Pass that skin, Brady!

Tackle their legs into a little ball!

Midway through the third quarter, three guys off to my left decided to remove their shirts despite the sub-freezing temperatures. This bizarre ritual typically occurs in inverse proportion the outside temperature:

The colder the temperature, the greater the likelihood that guys will remove their shirts.

I am mystified as to why grown men choose to inflict this kind of suffering upon themselves and then pretend that the freezing temperatures don’t bother them. If asked, they might say that they are expressing support for their team, but I suspect that Tom Brady (who literally wears a scuba suit in cold weather) and his teammates would be less than impressed by this demonstration of stupidity.

Instead, I suspect that these morons require more attention than their clothing-clad bodies can provide. And while I’ll admit that removing your clothing on a 10 degree night will garner you attention, but not the kind of attention that most people desire.

After watching these fools remove their clothing, the Asian man directly to my right decided that he would do the same and began stripping off the layers covering his torso. Eventually he got down to just his tee-shirt, at which point he stood up, gripped the shirt around its bottom, and prepared to lift it over his head. He held it there for about a minute before releasing the shirt and standing with his hands by his side. He remained this way for another two minutes, seeming to ponder his next move, and then finally he began putting his sweatshirts and coat back on.

Smart move.

“There’s hope for you!” I said to him.

He smiled and thanked me as he pulled his hat down over his head.

No accident

Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. – Seneca

For those of you attuned to the intricacies of the NFL, you may be aware of the 70 yard kickoff return by offensive lineman Dan Connolly in the recent Patriots-Packers game. 

The longest return for the lineman in NFL history.

While some may attribute this seeming impossibility to blind luck, it turns out that Bill Belichick, the Patriots’ head coach, had prepared his team for this eventuality, and that practice was even caught on tape. 

Belichick prepared his team for this seemingly impossible, one-in-a-million play, and it worked to perfection. 

This is why the New England Patriots have the best record in football and why Belichick is the most valuable member of that team.

Luck favors the prepared. – Louis Pasteur   

More classless New York Jets behavior

Look.  Another New York Jet jackass. This unidentified New York Jets staffer tripped Miami Dolphins player Nolan Carroll as he was running out of bounds during a kickoff in today’s game.

Video footage of the incident can be seen here, though the NFL may have the clip taken down soon:

This is coming from the same organization that lied about offering a Virginia train conductor Keith Fitzhugh a position on the team earlier this week after Fitzhugh rejected their offer.

Classless times two.

Jets handle rejection like a spurned teenage snob

Is it wrong for me to take great pleasure in the fact that Keith Fitzhugh, a free-agent safety who has played in the NFL as recently as last year, turned down the New York Jets offer to join the team in order to keep his job as a train conductor? Fitzhugh said that with the precarious state of the economy and his financial responsibility to his disabled parents, he opted for the job security that his current position offered rather than the uncertainty of an NFL roster spot.

It makes sense, and you have to admire the guy for placing his family before his pigskin dreams, but there is something poetic in the fact that he turned down the Jets, a team that I despise.

Making the story even better was the Jets denial that a contract offer had been made to Fitzhugh, even though The Associated Press, The Newark Star-Ledger, ESPN and Fitzhugh himself reported otherwise.

Is the New York Jets organization too proud to admit to being rejected by a Virginia train conductor?

Are they too high and mighty to acknowledge that someone would choose the Norfolk Southern Transit Corporation over them?

This strikes me as similar to Kim Jong-Il’s claim that he scored eleven hole-in-ones the first time he played golf.

Both are too proud to admit that they are not infallible.

As my friend, Shep, points out, the Jets should have countered Fitzhugh’s rejection with the offer of a permanent position in their public relations department when and if he was cut from the team, thus spinning this into a feel-good story for the organization and giving Fitzhugh another shot at the game he loves.

Instead, the Jets end up looking like a bunch of holier-than-thou jackasses and liars, which is what I would have expected from an organization that places someone like Rex Ryan in charge.

Flip-flop throwing and pending nuptials

I just love this note from Mike Reiss on the ESPN Patriots blog:

The Titans will start rookie quarterback Rusty Smith, a sixth-round draft choice out of Florida Atlantic, today in Houston. Bill Belichick privately worked out Smith before the draft, and it just so happened the workout was one day before Smith’s wedding. Smith’s groomsmen were his receivers at the workout and Belichick was firing his flip-flops at Smith in an attempt to distract him. Classic.

Sometimes a few simple sentences can offer so much by way of story and characterization.  

The tranquility of a cheeseburger

I am off to the Patriots game today, an almost all-day affair in which we will spend the afternoon watching the first game on a television mounted in the back of my friend’s car followed by three hours screaming and cheering inside Gillette Stadium. Food, poker and the tossing of the pigskin will fill much of the afternoon as well.

My friend, Shep, can get quite emotional in the midst of a Patriots game, particularly if a referee, a pass interference call on either side of the ball or a gain of two yards on a running play is involved. While I tend to be more cerebral in my analysis of the game, Shep is pure emotion while watching a game, capable of firing off a string of curses that would embarrass Rex Ryan. When there are kids around, I sometimes need to remind him of his language.

But I think I’ve found a much better way to help Shep manage his emotions:

Meat.

Researchers at McGill University in Canada have found that merely looking at a photograph of cooked meat has a calming effect on men.

The results were published earlier this week.

Researchers explain that this effect probably has an evolutionary basis.  While the acquisition of meat in our earlier hunter/gatherer days might have been a stressful endeavor, the moment of consumption likely had the opposite effect on men.

"It wouldn't be advantageous to be aggressive anymore, because you would've already used your aggression to acquire the meat, and furthermore, you'd be surrounded by people who share ... your DNA," lead researcher Frank Kachanoff told the Montreal Gazette. "One of the basic principles in evolution is to want to preserve not only your DNA but also that of your next of kin."

I could offer the same rationale to Shep, explaining that there is no advantage in being aggressive in regards to the referees or the play calling when when your seats are adjacent to the press box and 60,000 screaming fans are sitting between you and the field. But perhaps I’ll simply take a photograph of the sirloin that will be cooking prior to the game and flash the image to him from my iPhone from time to time.

Especially if there are little kids around.

Possible black sheep of the family?

Three of the five Gronkowski brothers are currently playing in the NFL. All three scored touchdowns today. Rob Gronkowski, the Patriot tight end, scored three.

All three won today.

A fourth Gronkowski brother, Gordon, was selected in the 49th round of the 2006 Major League Baseball draft by the Los Angeles Angels. He is currently playing in their minor league organization.

Bully for the four boys who made it to the professional sporting ranks, but can you imagine the pressure on the youngest boy, Glenn, who is currently playing high school football?

Sucks to be him. Huh?

Large organizations with large problems

Over the past three days:

Three Pittsburg Steelers players emerged from their Monday night game with concussions. 

This is becoming a serious problem for the NFL. 

The Dallas Cowboys website went down for more than a day when they failed to renew their online registration with Network Solutions.

Let me repeat that:  The Dallas Cowboys, an organization valued at 1.1 billion dollars, failed to renew its online registration with Network Solutions. 

Are we surprised that they are 1-7?

Rhetorical blunder

I said it a week ago when I saw this ad for the first time (and foolishly failed to record my prescience here): In the age of the mash-up, there is no room for rhetorical questions in advertising.

You’re just asking for trouble.

Stupid move, Nike.

Great move, Cleveland.

This is insane

I’m not sure which one of these is more impressive:

Pouty Sanchez

Tim Graham of ESPN writes:

The Jets want Mark Sanchez to stop pouting. To force Sanchez into acting as regal as a franchise quarterback should, offensive coordinator Brian Schottenheimer and backup quarterback Mark Brunell have been fining Sanchez for undesirable body language. This sounds like "Romper Room" stuff. Remember when the Jets color-coded Sanchez's play-call wristband last year? Schottenheimer suggested the fines are enacted for fun, but the team obviously felt something needed to be done. Perhaps the fines will help Sanchez refrain from whining to officials, gesturing to his receivers over drops or haggling with pizzeria employees over 59-cent dipping sauces.

Three initial thoughts:

1. I’m glad the quarterback of my favorite football team doesn’t need to be fined for whining.

2. Being fined for whining sucks. Having news of the fines reported in the national media is downright humiliating.

3. Can you imagine what defensive linemen are going to be saying to this guy on Sunday when they line up against him? I hope NFL films have enough microphones on hand to catch what promises to be a relentless wave of trash-talking and insults.

But more importantly, imagine how wonderful the world would be if people could be fined for whining in real life.

Fines for those who complain that life isn’t fair.

Fines for those who whine about their job being too hard.

Fines for whining about the weather or the wife or the rotten children.

As someone who has been known to whine on what I hope is a very rare occasion, I would fully support a national whining policy, complete with monetary fines and optional community service, if only to make the world a more productive and palatable place. Not only is whining uninteresting and stupid, but it is also counter-productive and often a signal of cowardly passive-aggressive behavior.

Whining about your job, for example, does not make it better. And the energy invested in whining could have been used to improve the state of your career.

Whining about your boss or your spouse is usually an indication of an unwillingness to be forthright, direct and honest with that person, which all but guarantees that things will not change for the better.

And whining about things that are beyond your control (like the weather) amounts to little more than noise pollution.

In fact, the only whining that I support is the whining done by immature New York Jets quarterbacks in the midst of a game, and only because it hurts their team.

I hate the Jets.

The language of pole vaulting

I was a pole vaulter in high school, and a pretty good on until a car accident ended my chances at a senior season. There were three pole vaulters on my school’s track team:

James Dean. Jack Daniels, and me, Matthew Dicks.

Quite an assemblage of names.

Jack and I only became pole vaulters after Coach Cronin decided that he needed two other vaulters to clear the 7’6’’ opening height so that Jimmy, a possible state champion, could compete in the relays, a series of meets that required the team field three competitors for each event.

If we did not have three vaulters clear opening height at a relay, Jimmy’s vaults would be meaningless and the team would not receive any points for his efforts.

So Coach turned Jack and me into pole vaulters.

If you’ve never been to a track meet, it can be pretty boring. Lots of waiting around  until it’s your turn to run, jump, vault, throw, etc. Track meet officials let you know when it’s your turn to vault by announcing the next three vaulters like this:

Smith up. Jones on deck. Davidson in the hole.

So when my turn to vault was approaching, I would hear this:

Dicks up. Dicks on deck. Dicks in the hole.

As you might imagine, it was challenging to focus amongst the eruptions of laughter that often ensued.

It was also pretty awesome. I won’t lie.

I didn’t join my buddy at Foxboro Stadium yesterday, and therefore I missed a great football game, won by my beloved Patriots. Since it was Halloween, I sold my season ticket and spent the day at with my family. Late last night, I received a text from my friend:

Dude, it was pretty awesome. I won’t lie.

Yeah, but I already knew it was pretty awesome. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy attending Patriots games. I have a friend who prefers to watch the games at home, and I think he’s absolutely insane. Even my wife, who attends one game a season and does not brave the harsh elements well, acknowledges that watching a game on television pales in comparison to sitting in the stadium. And the NFL season is short. We only get eight opportunities a year to attend a game, so missing even one hurts.

So after receiving my friend’s text message, I sat and reflected on my day:

I opened the day with a much-needed workout at the gym.

I spent much of the morning working on my manuscript, polishing the previous six chapters and nearly finishing a new one.

Around noon, my wife and I brought Clara to her first play, an adaptation of If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, a book that she adores. She loved the show, sitting in rapt attention for the entire time.

I watched the Packers defeat the sports team I despise most in the world, the New York Jets. It was a great game, a 9-0 defeat for Gang Green, and one I would have missed had I been on the road to Foxboro.

I watched the Patriots game, time-shifting the second half in order to go trick-or-treating. And while watching it on television is decidedly less fun, it’s still the NFL and the Patriots.

I took my daughter trick-or-treating for the first time in her life, and she loved it. Listening to her say “Twikootweet” and “Thank you” was simply divine. And for a girl who often is slow to warm up, she loved the whole process, smiling and laughing and nearly running from house to house. Several of our neighbors, knowing that Clara is allergic to nuts, has special treats set aside for her. We brought Elysha’s parents along with us as well, and overall we had a great time.

By the end of the day, I had finished writing my student’s report cards, one full week ahead of schedule.

It was a hell of a day. When my buddy asked if it was worth missing the game, my text answer response was easy:

It was a push.

And that’s saying something.

  

Old men quitting on their teams

I have a friend who will not be watching the Celtics or NBA basketball in general this year. He’s older than me and has become disillusioned by the involvement of agents in the sport, the inability of small market teams to land free agents, the creation of supposed super teams like the Miami Heat and more. All of this is nonsense, of course.

In the past thirty years, only eight different teams have won NBA championships, including the Celtics and the Heat.

The domination of certain markets is nothing new.

But his newfound attitude is not surprising. I have a number of friends who have abandoned baseball, basketball and even football because of a variety of reasons, mostly related to the way the games are played, the ways the teams are assembled and the attitudes of today’s ballplayers.

All of these friends are older than me, and all are over fifty years old.

I do not think their age is a coincidence.

I would argue that quitting on a sport has more to do with becoming old, nostalgic and intractable and less to do with the fundamentals of the game.  My friends may believe in their hearts that they have abandoned these teams and sports as a result of their passion for the way the game used to be structured and played, but the truth is that all sports evolve over time, and these guys have found themselves at an age when they can no longer adapt to these changes.

How many twenty or even thirty year old guys have you met who once loved a sport with all their hearts but have now given it up?

Any?

No, it’s around forty, and perhaps closer to fifty, when the game no longer resembles the game of a man’s youth and these old men no longer want to adapt to the changes. While I understand the sentiment, I find it a little sad and tragic.

I cannot imagine quitting on basketball because three possibly incompatible players decided to join forces in Miami or because agents may have helped to facilitate the move.

The NBA has a bad guy once again (something it hasn’t had since the Detroit Pistons of the 1990s), and it makes Celtics victories even more sweet.

It’s basketball. No matter how the teams were put together and who had their hands in the decision-making pie, it’s basketball.

If I ever get to the point that I sound like an old man, complaining about free agency, league balance or a lack of fundamentals in today’s game, smack me on the head with my cane, stuff my AARP card down my throat and remind me of the greatness of these games, regardless of how they may evolve over the years.

Forever young

Last week I went to the doctor’s office for a routine visit. Prior to seeing the doctor, a nurse took my blood pressure and pulse. “Wow,” she said, staring at me in near disbelief.

“Good?”

“Great,” she said. “And your pulse too. I’m surprised!”

“Alright,” I said, becoming uncomfortable with her level of astonishment. “It’s not that amazing. I know I don’t look like I’m in the best shape of my life, but I’m doing okay.”

“I guess,” she said, smiling.

I get this reaction from nurses all the time. They take one look at me and assume from my fire hydrant shape that my blood pressure will be off the charts, when it is usually around 100/80. And my resting heart rate tends to be around 60, which it was last week. Both of these numbers are very good.

Incidents like this make me realize how people’s perceptions of me change as I get older while the perception that I have of myself do not. I still think of myself as a young, athletic man, and though I have a rotator cuff problem and a bad knee, I’ve had the knee trouble since high school and the rotator cuff tore while I was diving for a ball, so it was hardly an issue of age. And while I also would like to lose some more weight (I’ve lost about 25 pounds in the last year but would like to lose another fifteen), I am still able to run 2-3 miles with relative ease, spend an hour or more on the elliptical machine, and play hoops with kids half my age.

In fact, the same day of my appointment, I stopped by the basketball courts near my home and joined a pickup game with some kids of high school and college age. We played two on two for about an hour when four other guys showed up, forcing us to reconstitute the teams. It was quite a scene, a 39-year old white guy playing alongside six young, black guys and a young white guy who carried himself like Eminem.

Captains were chosen, and as the choosing began, the first captain, one of the new arrivals, asked the second captain, a guy who I had been playing with, about me. “What’s up with the old guy?” the kid asked.

“Well, he’s not too fast and he can’t jump, but he knows how to pass and when to shoot, and you can’t move him once he’s under the basket.  And he fouls hard.”

I was still picked last, but I didn’t mind the assessment of my skills, and I managed to hold my own that morning.

Nurse Judgmental can go to hell.

But it’s just Bram

I told my buddy that I’ll be spending my afternoon watching football with my friend, Bram. “Who’s Bram?” he asked.

“Oh, Bram Weinstein,” I said. “He works for ESPN. He's a SportsCenter anchor. And other stuff, too. College football. Radio. He was the Redskins beat reporter for a while. Lots of stuff.”

“You’re watching the game with an ESPN SportsCenter anchor?” my friend asked, his voice filled with awe and reverence. “A guy who works on-air for ESPN?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess. But it’s just Bram.”

It’s remarkable how the celebrity luster fades once you actually get to know a person.

Killing pigeons and swimming in sync are both dumb

With the Olympics less than a year away, I have a couple complaints that I would like the IOC to consider:

First, I do not support the inclusion of any sport that is not played in childhood. Synchronized swimming is a good example. No kid jumps into the pool, hoping to find a friend who will swim around “Just like me!” while accompanied by music.

Children who might want to do something like this invariably have no friends to swim with anyway.

Sports like synchronized swimming also require the use of judges to determine a winner, another practice that I abhor. If your sport utilizes a judge as the sole means of deciding the gold, silver and bronze medal winners, it is no longer a sport. It is a performance.

We might as well include break dancing, poetry slams, and magic shows as Olympic events if we’re going to rely on judges to decide a competitors fate.

I also do not like it when Olympic sports are removed from the games. In 2012 baseball and softball are being removed from the list of events.

Why?

Have these sports become so unpopular that nations can no longer field teams? With the amount of baseball talent coming out of the Caribbean, South America, and Japan, I hardly think so.

So what gives?

Golf was once an Olympic sport as well, more than a hundred years ago but not since. It will reappear in 2012 but only on a trial basis.  Yet the PGA tour is full of international players, and Europe has its own version of the PGA tour across the pond, not to mention the international Ryder Cup competition each year.  So why not include a sport as popular as golf as an Olympic event?  If sports like judo and badminton remain on the schedule, why not genuinely popular sports like golf and baseball?  It would seem to me that the more events, the better. Right?

Of course, I guess removing the occasional event isn’t all bad. In 1900 live pigeon shooting made its first and only appearance in the Olympic Games. The object of this event was to shoot and kill as many birds as possible. The birds were released in front of a participant and the winner was the competitor who shot down the most birds from the sky.

I know it’s wrong to assume that people living a hundred years ago were stupid and barbaric, but an event like live pigeon shooting make it difficult to think otherwise.

My wife kissed a strange man in exchange for fruit and alcohol

Elysha and I spent Sunday at the Patriots game, a glorious 38-24 defeat over the Cincinnati Bengals that featured a kickoff return for a touchdown and an interception returned for a touchdown. A great way to start the season.

While tailgating, we were approached by a large man with a container full of strawberries soaking in grape-flavored stoli. He shared a strawberry with my friend, Shep and his father and his cousin-in-law, but he demanded a kiss from my wife before he would agree to give her one.

She complied with a peck on the cheek.

I was feeling uncertain about her decision, especially in light of how quickly she agreed, but then the man donned his costume, and I learned that he has been featured in LIFE magazine twice as the greatest of all Patriot fans.

I recognized him immediately.

And just like that, the man possessed a lot more credibility and the peck on the cheek didn’t seem like such a big deal.

Peeing into your golf club is not a solution to not a problem.

There’s so much to say about this product. So much.

Let’s begin with the fact that someone thought that this was a good idea.

A golf club designed to hold a player’s urine.

The ad copy reads:

How many times has this happened? You’re playing 18 holes with your best buddies, drinking sport-“ades”, water, beer, etc. You’re coming up to the 3rd hole with no rest room in sight. There are no trees or bushes around and you just have to go, what are you going to do?

Actually, this has never happened to me, because I play at golf courses that are littered with trees and bushes. Too many in fact. When was the last time anyone played at a golf course devoid of trees or bushes? Where is this Floridian urologist playing? Death Valley?

The UroClub™ is the discrete, sanitary way for your urgent relief. Created by a Board Certified Urologist, it looks like an ordinary golf club, but contains a reservoir built into the grip to relieve yourself. The UroClub™ is leak proof, easy to clean and no more embarrassing moments.

What embarrassing moments? Are we to believe that golfers all around the world are wetting their pants on the course? And if so, why not just wear an adult diaper. It has to be more discreet than this:

Here’s a few more gems from the website:

This may sound like a joke, but it’s not. I am a Board Certified Urologist, practicing in Florida, a place where Golf is played year round.

Since when do we capitalize the names of sports, Mr. Board Certified Urologist?

A camouflaged portable urinal, designed to be discrete, sanitary and create an air of privacy! It looks like an ordinary golf club and comes equipped with a unique removable golf towel clipped to the shaft that functions as a privacy shield!

Did someone actually write the words “clipped to the shaft” in relation to this product?

Imagine, giving the appearance of taking a practice swing, while both privately and confidentially, you are able to relieve yourself without any embarrassment!

I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t take a practice swing and pee at the same time if I was the only golfer on the course and it was midnight on an overcast night.  These two activities, swinging and urinating, do not coincide in any way, even if the world, and not just a thin, golf club, was my toilet.

I fear that thousand years from now, archaeologists will excavate a UroClub, along with a recording of the Macarena and a pair of sweatpants with the word Juicy splayed across the butt and assume that they have stumbled upon a hitherto unknown species of primates.