I am a former Yankees fan who has long since seen the light (the light being that the Yankees epitomize pretty much everything that is wrong and horrible about New York City.) Men in sports that I would like to sleep with, in order, if I were not previously occupied, include: Ben Roethlisberger (oh c'mon, as if you don't expect some man on man phone sex lines to show up in the phone records-seizing discovery period of his rape lawsuit!); little tennis critter Mike Bryan BUT NOT his evil twin Bob; YES Network yes-man and former Yankee d-bag Paul O'Neill (totally grudgey); and of course Caster Semenya. (Hayyy.) Oh and Shawne Merriman. If it's good enough for a not at all drunk Tila Tequila, it's good enough for me. NOW LET'S GET TO THE SPORTS.

We have Peter King actually getting testy with Favre but still steadfastly refusing to believe he lied to him. We have all that, and we've only just gotten started.

Jesus.

The signing of Brett Favre marks an end to the incessant media speculation over his plans to join the Vikings, and it marks the beginning of the incessant media coverage of his actual time playing with the Vikings. By the end of this year, you will be sick to death of the Vikings (the Eagles too, but mostly the Vikings). You'll hate their guts with a fervor that may not have known you possess. And I may join you in hating them so fervently. Which is odd, given that they're my favorite team.

I've done the angry rant thing about this signing already. But, on a more rational level, I'm not sure there has ever been a situation more confusing for one set of sports fans in history. (OW-UH IDENTITY CRISIS IS GREATAH THAN YOUR-AHS!) This whole Favre thing is easy for Packer fans. YOU STABBED US IN THE BACK, YOU FUCK! That's a pretty simple emotion to get a handle on. In a way, I envy them for their situation.

I, on the other hand, have no fucking clue how I'm supposed to feel when I turn on the TV this fall and see Brett Favre throw a touchdown pass for the Vikings, and then do that fucking thing he does where he runs around in a circle and the analysts laugh joyously at his playful antics. Oh, I know how I'll react when he throws one of his inevitable 28 picks. Vitriol is easy like that.

But support? Adoration? I have a hard time reconciling the fact that my happiness with the Vikings will now be directly tied to Brett Favre's success as a quarterback. I have grown, over the years, to dislike Favre on a level that far exceeds my hatred for other star athletes. Don't get me wrong. I hate plenty of other athletes. Like Bryan Cox. Man, did I fucking hate Bryan Cox. What a loser. But I don't hate any of those guys like I hate Favre. I've spent most of the past hour praying that Favre blows out his knee Friday night and that Sage Rosenfels somehow morphs into an All-Pro. That's the BEST CASE SCENARIO of how this season will play out for me. A commenter at KSK named spilly put it best:

spilly Says:
August 18th, 2009 at 12:14 pm edit

And if the Vikings win the Super Bowl? Do you want the lasting image of your franchise to be Brett Favre holding up a trophy? Did you just spontaneously vomit upon hearing that? Your year is assfucked either way, BDD.

And he's right. Obviously, I'd be elated to see my favorite team win it all (not that they will with Favre at the helm). I've waited my whole life for that. But for them to win it thanks to THAT ASSHOLE? I'm sorry, but that's just fucking weird. Nothing anyone says will change that fact. If there are Viking fans who can put aside history and welcome Favre with open arms, more power to them. I don't know how they can do it, because I can't. It would be like hugging your rapist, and I'm no Jezebel writer.

I said it before: this signing represents just how singularly idiotic and irrational a pursuit it is to be a sports fan. If I don't like Brett Favre, and I don't, why root for him now? He's still the same asshole, he just happened to want to play for my team. It doesn't change the fact that I think he's an attention-whoring cumguzzler. And what does it mean to cheer for your favorite team and egg on rivalries when you know that, a year or two down the line, they may all switch places? We're not talking about Johnny Damon going to the Yankees here. We're talking about Brett Favre, the very soul of a rival team. It would be like Coach K deciding to become the head coach at UNC. Fucking bizarre.

Then there's the matter of the endless Favre coverage. If you're like me, you're always pissed that some other team is getting undue media attention over your team, with the Cowboys heading to the top of the list. Well, that's MY team now. And that makes my dick itch.

There's also the fact that the Vikings are still coached by a moron in Brad Childress, and that this season will almost certainly not end in ultimate success. What we have here, then, is a year in cheering purgatory. I'm gonna root for this team, but I'm not gonna be all that jazzed about it. I mean, look at that still from the Vikings' website (via KOGOD). Fucking look at it. It makes me wants to heave out my insides. So thanks for the identity crisis, Brett Favre. Thanks for making me question the unconditional love I've always had for my team, a love that's been a bedrock of my existence for the better part of three decades. I've enjoyed that.

You cocktaster.

So read his excerpt and ask him Beckham related questions in the thread below. He'll respond. If this goes reasonably well (or horribly awry) we plan on doing more of these. So have fun with it. Mr. Wahl will take your questions in the thread below. He'll be here for, oh, 20-30 minutes until something else happens. And, if you haven't done so already, do buy his book. It's an incredible read. Have at it, monsters.

If you stood inside the velvet-roped VIP section in Toronto's Ultra Supper Club just before midnight on August 5, 2007, you would have thought you'd stepped into a time warp back to 1977, to the days when the New York Cosmos of Pelé and Giorgio Chinaglia partied with Andy Warhol and Bianca Jagger and the gang at Studio 54 in Manhattan. For the Galaxy players, that night in the Supper Club-the hottest nightclub in downtown Toronto-was the first time they felt like a SuperClub. On the team's opening road trip with David Beckham, L.A. (now 3–5–5) had tied Toronto FC 0–0 earlier in the evening, an ugly game that was now being redeemed by the packs of pretty young things packing the open-air dance floor, waiting in block-long lines outside the club, and flashing eye-popping amounts of skin at the Galaxy players, all in the hope of being invited with one crook of an index finger inside the velvet rope.

Joe Cannon took a sip of his drink and surveyed the scene. For nine years the Galaxy's All-Pro goalkeeper had waited for this, waited for MLS to feel like the spectacle of the NBA and the NFL, waited for gorgeous women in skintight sequined tops to flash come-hither looks his way just because of the team he played on. Cannon knew this would happen once Beckham arrived. Wasn't that what he'd said at Cobi Jones's birthday party in June when one of the players' girlfriends had asked if Cannon was dating anyone?

"Nah," he replied. "I'm kind of waiting for David to get here."

"What does that mean?" Alan Gordon asked.

"You know, all the girls."

Gordon couldn't take it. "Joe, what do you think is going to change?" he asked. "Seriously. You're still the same person. Like a girl is going to want to get with you just because David Beckham is on the team. What are you gonna do, pull a little Beckham out of your pocket and say, ‘See, look! Here I am!' No, dude."

Now look. For one night, at least, Cannon had sweet vindication. Who knew if it would happen again? This was a team function, after all, and Beckham was obligated to be here. But for now Cannon couldn't let go of the thought: Everyone wants to be inside this VIP section because we are the Los Angeles Galaxy. It was an intoxicating feeling, due only partly to the free bottles of Patrón and Grey Goose being passed around like water jugs on the practice field. For it wasn't just the women who were trying to get in, lying to bouncers and snatching VIP passes. Men were pleading with Galaxy players too. I know Ante! I know Joe! Can you get me up there?

Yet Cannon was also fully aware that none of this-the VIP section, the free drinks, the women-would be happening if it weren't for one individual, the global icon who was talking quietly with some teammates at a corner table behind the velvet rope. Every once in a while,

Beckham's hulking bodyguard Shane, who everyone said was once an Ultimate Fighter, would let in a fan for an autograph or a picture. As the music thumped and the VIP section filled and the clock struck 1 A.M., Galaxy midfielder Peter Vagenas tried to wrap his mind around the strangeness of it all. How does Beckham deal with it, he wondered, the notion that if he were to get up and walk to the other side of this club, everyone else would suddenly migrate to that section as well? How would the other players deal with it too? For his part, Gavin Glinton wanted to keep things in perspective ("We know why it's that scene, you know what I mean?"), but the dreadlocked reserve forward was too busy chatting up some runway-model types to worry about what was going on in everyone else's heads.

If these were the perks that came with being David Beckham's teammates, then playing the real-life versions of Turtle from HBO's Entourage wasn't so bad a deal. The road trip had plenty of other benefits, too. All the players had been given new Hugo Boss suits for official events, courtesy of an agreement the team had made with the clothing designer for the rest of the season. Instead of staying in the usual MLS-mandated (read: mediocre) hotel, the Galaxy was using one of its two exceptions for the season to lodge at the fancy Le Meridien King Edward downtown. What's more, the hotel stay was free, the result of a deal the Galaxy had reached with a Toronto promoter. As part of the pact, the Galaxy players also got a free shopping spree at the Roots clothing store and free meals and drinks at the Ultra Supper Club. In return, those outfits publicized their connection to David Beckham and the suddenly sexy L.A. Galaxy, leading to the mob scene at the dance club. "We were riding David's coattails," Lalas said. "The welcome mat was laid out wherever we went."

Perhaps, but Beckham's handlers were hardly thrilled that he was being used so nakedly for free hotel stays and shopping sprees; they made sure no such "local promoter deals" ever happened again. Even Lalas was uncomfortable with what he had witnessed from the Galaxy's players in Toronto, most of all the 0–0 result against a terrible expansion team. "You guys have to understand," Lalas announced to the team at dinner one night. "All of this comes with a price. And don't for a second think that if this guy"-he pointed to Beckham-"wasn't on our team that we'd be getting this. It's all because of him. Thank you, David, it's been wonderful. But at least David understands this comes with a price, and you pay that price on the field."

Beckham had opened an entirely new world for the Galaxy. For the first time in its history, the team was flying charters instead of using commercial airlines on this ten-day, three-city road trip to Toronto, Washington, D.C., and New England. MLS had always forbidden charter flights, claiming they provided a competitive advantage, although the players reasoned that the ban was the result of the league's cheaper owners not wanting to be pressured into an arms race. ("Don't you want to have a competitive advantage in everything that you do?" Donovan asked.) MLS had relented somewhat upon Beckham's arrival, allowing the Galaxy to charter on his first road trip due to security concerns, and AEG had sprung for the expense. For most of the players the flight from LAX to Toronto was their first noncommercial trip. When the flight attendant came to offer Alan Gordon a pretakeoff cocktail, he looked around at the first-class leather seating, the lie-flat beds, and the fully stocked bar up front.

"Let me tell you something, ma'am," Gordon said, turning on the charm. "This is nicer than my apartment."

The flight attendant laughed.

"No," he replied. "I'm serious."

It was a not-so-subtle reminder that it was too late to be up watching basketball. Yet, for everybody involved it was also too late to turn back. Yes, both teams would likely be going to the NCAA Tournament no matter the outcome and the victor would probably have little energy or interest in playing two more games to try to win the Big East tournament, but they kept playing anyway and I kept watching and it may not have meant anything but it meant everything. There may be better games before this college basketball season is over, but few will be quite as memorable.

And to think it all could have ended in regulation if Eric Devendorf's fingers were just a touch shorter. (Or if Arinze Onuaku wasn't the worst free throw shooter on the planet.) Even if it had ended that way it still would have gone down as a legendary finish. But it couldn't end that way. It had to keep going. Every missed free throw, every player who fouled out after playing an extra half of basketball, even every one of Paul Harris' misadventures near the rim had to happen for that game to become what it was. I just hope your body and your cable box held out long enough to see it.

Syracuse and UConn put on a show for the ages [ESPN]
'Cuse, UConn stage instant classic [Fox Sports]
A Final Tally (and Exhale) After 6 OTs [New York Times]
UConn gets deep-sixed [Boston Globe]
Syracuse Orange/Connecticut Huskies Box Score [Yahoo]

This is a cautionary tale on how to survive in the wilderness when attacked by a deadly and ferocious fox, and we thank Michelle for stepping forward and, perhaps, saving lives. Key quote: "Be aware of your surroundings, and be prepared or have a plan set up on how you are going to deal with it."

Whenever I go hiking, I have action plans in place for rabbit, chipmunk, hawk, deer and prairie dog attacks. Now fox will be added to the list.

Arizona Jogger, Fox Latched To Ar, Runs For Help [Arizona Republic]

"I'm not going to confirm or deny this. Were we there? Yes. But I'm not going to tell you who it is," Hall said.

The call came in just after midnight. A police dispatcher mentioned a 46-year-old male at the Azalea Circle home but did not indicate whether drugs or alcohol were involved. Thomas is 47.

A woman who answered an intercom at his Purchase home today refused to comment on Thomas' well-being, whereabouts or anything else.

When reached this afternoon, Barry Watkins, vice president of communications for Madison Square Garden, said, "Isiah is fine."

He declined further comment, saying it was a family matter.

ABC News is supposedly saying it was a "sleeping pill overdose".

More updates when more news comes up....

UPDATE: CBS says it was Thomas

I received many, many submissions from all across the country, detailing some of the worst-of-the-worst of Philadelphia's long-established cretinism. For the purpose of editorial balance, I decided that it would make sense to do the same for the American League representative. Boston, obviously, did not come through, so publishing America's annoying experiences with Sawx Nation will have to wait another year. Instead, I'm asking for submissions from readers about their worst experiences with...Tampa Bay fans. Most people probably haven't had first-hand experiences with Rayhawk Nation but, for now, any kind of anti-Tampa bashing will do. Maybe you had a bad experience at their aquarium. Or the University of Tampa. Or bad bachelor party experience at a strip club. Just gimme your worst Tampa bay-related experiences so we can run it tomorrow before the World Series.

Submit here: ajd@deadspin.com

After the jump, read some amusing stories about Philadelphia's notoriously obnoxious sports fans. Tampa fans headed to Citizens Bank Park this weekend — consider this your warning.

PHOTO: Courtesy of TheFightins

This should only help with the campaigning

I thought twice about writing because I am a candidate for office in the City, but then remembered that getting caught throwing a snowball at an Eagles - Dallas Game did wonders for our former Mayor and now Governor's career.

Not surprisingly because of our Championship drought the post-season usually brings out the best of the City of Brotherly Shove. So here are my two favorites —

* Eagles v. Detroit 1996 NFC Wildcard Game

The tone was set early when Detroit lineman Lomas Brown guaranteed a win and Eagles' coach (the late) Ray Rhodes compared Detroit coming to town to sodomy with players wives. On top of that it a snow storm had the City scrambling to remove snow from the Vet to avoid another Snowball Bowl and national embarrassment. Typically, there were friendly Detroit fans in attendance. I say typically because opposing fans — usually from the Midwest or the South — are under the mistaken assumption that they can charm their way around drunken Eagles fans. The game gets rapidly out of hand and the Birds are killing Detroit adding fuel to the drunken fire. These two sap Lions fan decide to leave and receive the general Philly goodbye replete with f-bombers. Two diehards take it up and notch and basically try to bait these gentleman into a fight. These friendly Lions' fans try to defuse the situation with a "just beat Dallas for us" comment and then inexplicably walk into a port-a-pot. That was all she wrote. Eagles fans surrounded the port of pot — which was inside the Vet mind you — and just dumped it. The one portly Lions fan just rolled out pants undone in 30 degree weather with a look of utter bewilderment covered in crap, piss, and blue port a pot water.. Welcome to Philly.

* Flyers v. Panthers Game 6 Eastern Conference Semis

I believe this was the last game that counted at the old Spectrum. The Flyers were heavy favorites in the series having reached the Conference Finals the year prior only to lose in a close series to rival New Jersey. The last game at the 1970's Spectrum ended with in 1970's fashion with several chairs thrown on the ice. But the real fun was outside where one fans frustration with Eric Lindros was taken out on an innocent fan in a Lindros Jersey. The attack was initiated by a man in a classic black "Members Only" jacket, who we simply refer to as "black jacket." Black jacket beat fan Lindros for no apparent reason, to make matters worse Black Jackets wife/mistress/hooker joined in the beat down of fan Lindros. This all happened as fans walked to their cars saying "Go Eagles!"

Ah, the City of Brotherlylove.

Wally Zimolong, Esquire

There are worse reasons to boo somebody....

My Philly experience is a pretty simple one. I was at a Phillies game once as a fan and the four guys sitting behind me were booing everything they could get their eyes on.

When someone would buy a Diet Coke: “Booo Diet Coke! Pepsi’s better.”

When someone walked by wearing sandals: “Sandals suck! Next time wear shoes.”

When someone got a hit: “Boo single! We want a friggin’ double.”

But the topping on this cake was when a guy arrived in our section during the second inning wearing a Roberto Clemente throwback jersey. So screamed the four Philly faithful: “Boooo Roberto Clemente. He’s dead.”

Wayne Drehs, Senior Writer, ESPN.com

Our D is tough

Redskins at Eagles, 2005:

During Eagles games, I like to tailgate next to the Wachovia Center. There is high shrubbery that most men go to relieve themselves jutting up next to the building (maybe you've frequented this spot). Anyway, the shrubbery gets loaded with piss prior to every game by every fan in the vicinity.

I saunter up, rocking my Buddy-Ryan era kelly green knit Eagles sweater (old school Eagles insignia, good stuff) and out of the corner of my eye I see a group of Eagles fans, both men and women in their thirties congregating about 30 feet away. I am calmly peeing away the 12 pack of Stones that I had downed that morning when all of a sudden one of these dudes gets into a three point stance, he Starter jacket lifting up around the waist to reveal his Lee-jeans-with-no-belt. Then he comes seemingly at me on a dead sprint while I am behind the tall bush peeing. As a Philly guy, this isn't enough to disturb my pee, in my drunken haze I knew there was something else going on here out of my sight line.

All of a sudden WHOOOOOOOSSHHHHHH!!!!! The shrubbery cannot withstand the impact as the sprinter and another unseen body disappear into the pee zone and the shrubbery collapses into itself. The Eagles guy that had been on a sprint jumps out and throws his hands up in the air, in victory. I clamber out to see what the hell just happened and stuck in the shrub is a Redskins fan in a Patrick Ramsey jersey trying to dig his way out, surely awash with fresh pee from the previous 85 gentleman who had used said shrub as a urinal. He is flustered and has the Cole Hamels beet-red face going, but really has no choice but to walk away in shame as the Eagles group do the E-A-G-L-E-S chant as their buddy rolls back up.

Good times.

Jordan Stuart

Hey, some people drink it for nutritional value

So I was at a sports bar with one of my teammates who happens to be from Philadelphia. He likes to instigate fights and messes with people. He's the guy you think of when people mention Philly fans. We were hanging out by the bar when he says to me "I'm gonna set a land mine". I had no idea what he was talking about. He turns around so he's facing the wall and starts pissing in his half empty beer cup. The bar was dark enough so nobody could see what was going on. After he filled up the cup, he leaves it sitting on the bar where we could all see it. We waited about a half hour until some unsuspecting drunk picked up the stray beer and drank it. The poor guy drank the whole thing. I'm not gonna lie...I thought it was hilarious. Only somebody from Philadelphia would do something like that.

Jim Prentice

"Typical Philly"

Typical Philly stuff I'm sure, but when I attended the Eagles/Lions ass-handing in the first round of the playoffs when I was 13ish, I guess, I was with my father (who never turns down an opportunity to tell me that he was at the infamous santa-booing game) and someone else from his job who had also brought his son who was 11. Anyway, long story short the kid shows up to Veterans Stadium, in the playoffs, wearing a Dallas Cowboys starter jacket (which were all the rage at the time) Queue 3 hours of profanity and throwing full cups of beer at this 11 year old kid.

Also I was once told by some friends who attended American University in Washington DC that some Philly transplant Eagles fans in his dorm threw pizza at a girl in a Redskins jersey until she cried

love this stuff
go phils

Stephen Farley

We love to fly and it shows

December of 2003, the Eagles are playing the Dolphins at Joe Robbie Stadium on a Monday night. I get a bunch of Phins fans (and two Eagles fans) to fly down for the weekend, take in the sites, hit the game on Monday night, and get back to Jersey.

Apparently some radio station in Philly had the same idea, and they bought the last 5 rows of the entire stadium. When I got to Newark airport for my flight, all I saw was wall to wall Eagles fans.

There were 10 of them on the flight with me. They drank the plane dry. Even those faggy bottles of wine...GONE. Did I mention the plane left at 8:30 am?

There was a guy passed out in the seat next to me blowing the most vile farts I have ever smelled. The
stewardess puked in her mouth from them. He may have shit himself, or, come to think of it, maybe he died in the seat.

Eagle fans travel light for their weekend trips. No one checked bags. They carried on a small bag with them. They slept on the beach and on benches.

They pissed in the storm water grates on the stadium concourse. Just whipped out their cocks and pussies and let 'er rip right out in the open.

On a positive note, I gotta hand it to them. They were loud from pre-game to final gun. They travel strong (musta been 10,000 of them). They love their team more than any other fanbase.

Jeffrey Camp

The art of the middle finger

A couple friends and I went to the Bills/Eagles game at Lincoln Financial last year. I think it was Week 17. We're all Bills fans and didn't hide this fact from anybody, so we were immediately greeted with chants of "Asshole, asshole" when we pulled into the parking lot. Once we entered the stadium, the fans in our section informed us that we were homosexuals and that all of our mothers accepted money in return for sex. But really, the guy who was most upset with us was one who wouldn't stop complaining that guy who normally occupied our seats (a season ticket holder) had sold them to Bills fans, for well under face value.

During the game, we had three things thrown at us: an empty plastic cup, a half-eaten soft pretzel, and a red blanket from Pier One, which was still in its original packaging. The pretzel wasn't worth salvaging, but we kept the blanket.

All in all, a pretty disappointing display. We've also attended a few Syracuse/Villanova games at the Wachovia Center, but the people there never really seemed to give a damn about anything.

The saving grace from the Eagles game was the picture I've attached to this email.

Mike Phelps

The playoffs are here! The excitement is palpable, except in New York, and soon, Chicago. We asked our writers to give their impressions on the playoffs, tell us who they're rooting for, who they hate, and what pickup lines work best at the Stadium Club. One of our ladies is even a descendant of a famous major league slugger (not Barry Bonds). Let's play seven!

By the way, if you'd like to be part of the Waxing Off writing staff, email myself at Rick@Deadspin.com, or Mr. Daulerio at AJD@Deadspin.com.

Metschick:

What do the playoffs mean? They mean that it's time for another Mets collapse. Seems like it's turning into a yearly event. I should be used to this, but it hurts all over again, as if for the first time. I guess I only have one person to blame for this — my late husband. Sure, I caught the occasional game before we started dating. But it was usually just background noise, on as I read my book. After we started dating, I noticed he'd come over to visit me, and end up engrossed in the game, chatting with my dad. Not to be ignored, I started paying attention, asking questions. Soon, I was devouring book after book about baseball. That's why I was drawn to it. It's a not terribly complicated game, and its play is eloquent, poetic almost. Few things to me are as beautiful as a double play (preferably turned by my team) or a walk-off victory.

I love the game because an unknown can come out of nowhere and capture our hearts. I love the game because attractive, fit men (mostly) wear uniforms that make them look good. I love the game because it knocks down Goliaths. I love the game because during any given game, David can win. I love the game because, when we're discussing the game, it's one of the rare moments my dad and I are equals. I love the game because of the emotions felt — at any given moment, I can click on over to Faith and Fear in Flushing and have Greg and Jason more cogently write out exactly what I'm feeling. Mostly I love the game because it was shared with someone I loved. I hope to carry that forward with my own little one now.

Metschick is recovering from the Mets' latest heartbreaker in Kaua'i. She'll be back to Ladies... next week.

————-

Melanie Greenberg:

For me, it was never a matter of choice. My grandfather was Hank Greenberg, so cultivating an interest in baseball was necessary in order to avoid bringing shame upon my family. Or my people, for that matter. But it wasn’t a challenge. I grew up, of course, in a household completely obsessed. There were trips to Florida for spring training, epic drives to the ballpark, batting practice before school. I can’t remember a time when my existence didn’t center around the game.

While I’m not exclusively a baseball fan, my interest in other sports is primarily a crutch to get me through the offseason. And, as a Yankees fan, the offseason is going to be longer than usual this year. Yeah, I know the season isn’t technically over, but, for me, October isn’t the same without the Bombers. (Hell, I would have even settled for the Mets.) But October ball is October ball, and as long as it doesn’t end up — oh, I don’t know — a Brewers-Red Sox World Series, I’ll stay interested.

I’m a Torre loyalist, so when it comes to the NL, I have to go with Big Blue. Warts and all. (And by warts, I mean Manny.) The Cubs? Well, they confuse me. Part of me loves the lovable losers because, well, they’re lovable. Another part of me thinks that they’re lovable to the point that it makes you feel gross. I mean, I get that they’re in the Midwest and get carried away with being adorable. This is baseball, though. Not a cute contest. That said, if it came down to it, I would back the LL’s in the LCS. I have always had a soft sport in my heart for Soriano. Not to mention good old Lou Piniella. But my real Chicago loyalty lies with the ChiSox. Ozzie G. and his special brand of crazy, the compulsively likable Griffey Jr. and Nick Swisher, that power lineup. Not to mention that, unlike the lovable losers, the Sox have found a way to exist in the Midwest without being light and fluffy. For that reason alone, they’d get my support if the impossible happened — Crosstown Classic. But I wouldn’t hold your breath. Not unless you’re holding it for a Freeway Series.

Melanie Greenberg is a freelance writer in New York. If you want to read her thoughts on sports, the Bombers, and why Brett Favre should change either the spelling or pronunciation of his last name, go to yousuckcococrisp.blogspot.com.

————-

The Steezer:

The baseball playoffs are here! Hooray? I’m not by any stretch of the imagination a “baseball fan.” I get the gist of the game, but I can’t tell you anything about strategy, what teams are in the AL or NL, or (since I live in DC) even what a good baseball team looks like. First, the season is like 13 months long, and teams can lose like 60 games and still make the playoffs. In a real sport (college football) you can’t lose one game and expect to have the same head coach next year. Second, there are like 45 rounds in the draft. No lie, me AND my dog were both drafted by the Cubs two rounds before a guy I went to high school with was picked up by the Nationals (and he is a presently starting in the Nats outfield). And finally, despite the fact that they play 400 games a year, each of those games is about seven hours long, and generally features a lower score than Sarah Palin’s IQ. So to summarize, baseball in the regular season is pretty much a waste of time.

(Okay, caveat to that…unless you’re watching it in person, of course. Then it’s a glorious drunk affair in the blazing sun where eating an amalgamation of meat often referred to as a “hot dog” is not only accepted but encouraged. But I digress.)

And then October comes. Finally it means something. Baseball has a leg up on most other playoff sports because, even though the regular season lasts two years, the playoffs move fast and furiously. Generally games are shown on Fox meaning no good TV is pre-empted, and games shown on TBS mean you get to see Frank TV commercials every five minutes! MAN, does that guy know how to impersonate Donald Trump or what. Word! I hate baseball, but in October, I’m all over it. Cheering for the underdog! Cheering for the evil empire! Just cheering for offense! It’s a magical time of year. I actually will go so far as to say that October is the greatest month of the year for sports. And most importantly…baseball players wear tight pants that make their butts look good, and protective cups that make their crotches look big. I fully support both of those.

The Steezer is a Texas Longhorn fan living in Washington, D.C. who wonders why the candidates aren’t talking about the most dire issue facing America: Why no one watches “30 Rock”

————-

Claire Zulkey:

If you ask any Chicago White Sox fan whether she expected the team would appear in the playoffs and she says absolutely, she's lying. We hoped they'd be here. We thought they COULD do it. But we were ready for the worst, so we feel as thankful and lucky as we feel deserving to appear in the postseason. The combination of just being happy to be here and the relaxation that comes from knowing that we have won a World Series within the last century (which is not a dig at Cubs fans — it could have very well happened to us) makes this playoff run a little extra fun. It's like we took a random route on the way home and accidentally came upon an amusement park. Whee! Why the hell not? "If we don't win this year, I don't know when we'll ever win," is what my Dad said in 2005 when the Sox were on the verge of blowing their season. This postseason? I'm feeling a little more relaxed, not quite as ready to rip my hair out.

Maybe I'm alone however in my mellowness, but I've also got other things on my mind — I'm getting married a week from Saturday. It's quite possible that the Sox will be out of the playoffs by then. But that didn't stop my Dad from calling me at work two weeks ago to share his prognostications on if and when the Sox would be playing that day (it would be going on during the reception). I certainly wouldn't mind the distraction, as long as somebody kept the bride up to speed on the score. The real reason I want the Sox to be in contention as of October 11 though is that of all the songs I requested from the band, I want to hear the Sox's unofficial theme, "Kiss Him Goodbye," and be excited about RIGHT NOW, not reminiscing about the previous season. My mom hates the idea of us hollering "NA NA NA NA HEY HEY HEY GOODBYE" at my wedding reception but I have a feeling she probably would be singing right along with the rest of us if we're still in it (who knew?) to win it.

————-

Meghan:

Every March as baseball season approaches I start getting excited. Opening Day is a holiday. (It also marks the start of outdoor drinking season.) I look forward watching and caring about baseball all summer and beyond September. But then I remember that I am a Baltimore Orioles fan.

Baseball reels me in during the April and May and by mid-June I'm usually pretty smitten. The weather, the ballpark atmosphere and the enthusiasm for the game make it so easy to overlook any major flaws. By August, the honeymoon is over and the flaws are more glaring. Even though they've pretty much called it quits by mid-September, I feel like I'm cheating on my team by cheering for someone else in the playoffs. It's like hooking up with your ex's friend when you know you'll get back together soon. During the off season I'll forgive the flaws and come back.

That doesn't stop me from flirting. Since I now live in Philadelphia, the Phillies are the logical rebound. They're even in a different league. But as attractive as they are, they have a solid reputation as heartbreakers. I'm not ready to get hurt again. The other team I'm eyeing is the Rays. Yeah, they're in the same division as the O's, but they're not really rivals. Next year the Rays will be another bully I can't believed I crushed on, but right now I'm partially blinded my pain and partially impressed by the Rays surprising ascent from neighborly cellar dweller to AL East champ. Maybe they could fulfill me the way my team hasn't. But I'm just checking them out, I can't really follow through because my heart still belongs to the Orioles.

So as baseball playoffs start, I turn my attention to my other love interests, the Ravens and the Terps. I keep hoping that next year the O's will make our relationship stronger with a winning season or maybe even a playoff run to build on. But until then, my love affair with baseball will have to remain a short, albeit yearly, summer fling.

Meghan is a third year law student from Baltimore currently living in Philadelphia. To avoid studying and looking for a job she spends too much time obsessing and blogging about Baltimore area sports at http://girlsdontknowsports.blogspot.com

————-

Tara Crawford:

I've been a baseball fan since my dad took me to my first game when I was 12 years old. I had always rooted for the New York Mets because all my friends did, but that one trip to the ballpark is what really made me a fan. It was just me and my dad, and it's my favorite memory of him (so far). My love of the game started right there – I didn't even care that they lost.

Because that day I saw Kevin Elster drive a home run out to center field, Dwight Gooden pitch a monster game, and two drunk fans behind us get kicked out for mooning the crowd. A typical day at Shea in the 80s. Now I look forward to seeing David Wright hit home runs over the Citi Field wall and cheering along with Cowbell Man at games I attend with my husband. But it all started back in 1989 with my dad.

It was rough watching my old favorite Mike Piazza close the doors on Shea for the last time. I wish my Mets could have sent Shea Stadium out with a World Series win. It sucks pretty bad watching your team make it to first place only to fritter it away in September – twice. But I'll still be there when April rolls around, giddy with excitement for another long summer yelling at my television for three hours of every night.

I guess that makes me a baseball chick. I get excited about extra innings. I believe pink team jerseys are an abomination (wear your team colors or don't bother!). I think no hot dog tastes better than a ballpark hot dog, and stadium food never counts toward a diet. And I'm pretty sure that when I sit on my couch and tell Carlos Delgado I'll never make "Just For Men" cracks about his greying beard ever again if he'll just drive in a run or two, that he really can hear me.

OK, that last part probably just makes me crazy. But you get my point.

So who am I rooting for now that my Mets bit the big one? It's a tough call. As much as I'd love to see the Cubs finally get the World Series win that's eluded them for so long, it would be pretty delicious to see Joe Torre tell the Steinbrenner Empire where to stick it by taking home the trophy on a new team with a former Red Sox player. I guess it's a tossup. Mostly I just want TBS to take down that huge post-season billboard with David Wright on it – it wounds my soul.

Tara Crawford is an aspiring writer currently working as a print production artist. She is a die-hard New York Mets fan currently in mourning. When not rooting on her team she can be found whittling away her hours online and/or indulging mildly manic obsessions with Anderson Cooper, Tim Gunn, and "Lost;" or posting to her personal blog at: http://sassette726.livejournal.com

————-

Cari Gervin:

This is not our year. Look, I know we're in the playoffs, and I know I should be all excited, and hell, I'm not saying that I won't watch every single game wearing my lucky hat (until the hat inevitably proves unlucky, and I throw it across the room), but I'm telling you, this is not our year.

Of course, I say that every year. After 2003, I knew there was no way 2004 was our year. After Game 3 of the ALCS in 2004, I was really glad I hadn't gotten my hopes up like I had in 2003. I knew we were going to lose again. When we didn't — when after what seemed like the longest, most intense games ever we managed to come back and win, and win, and win, and win — it was just that much sweeter, even if one of my favorite players had been traded in a last-minute blockbuster deadline.

In 2005, I knew we had no chance to do it again, and we didn't. And last year, yeah, I watched the playoffs, but I knew we were going to lose to Cleveland. When we didn't, I stayed up until 4 a.m. playing "Tessie" on repeat and booked a plane ticket for Boston the next day so I could watch the World Series in the bars on Lansdowne Street.

But I'm sorry, this really isn't our year, and not just because Jason Bay, sir, is no Manny Ramirez. There are too many injuries, and too many expectations. Hell, John McCain is rooting for us. We are not the Yankees, goddammit, whatever people critical (or jealous) of our success say. We will never win back-to-back titles.

I suppose I'm still not comfortable rooting for a winning team after so many years of being an underdog. I suppose I'm afraid of success (that's what my therapist says, anyway). Yet I'm firmly convinced that 2008 belongs to Tampa - or maybe that slate of ex-Idiots over in Los Angeles. This knowledge will not make the upcoming losses hurt any less. But this is not our year.

Cari Gervin is a freelance writer in the South. She blogs about her misadventures in life, love and sports fandom at unwelcomereturn.blogspot.com. She will be throwing her lucky hat against the wall sometime next week — everyone knows the Angels are still toast.