MAKING THE DAYS COUNT

 

By Chris Hobson

 

 

It’s been 360 days.

 

360 days?  Since what, you ask? 

 

A lot. I finally graduated from college.  I came home to find my beloved dog dead on my front porch on a chilly Friday evening.  I celebrated watching one of my best friends get married.  And I broke up with a girlfriend, and bid her goodbye. 

 

A lot can happen to a person in 360 days, both good and bad.  For me, there were events that happened in that time that are sure to never leave my memory. 

But as a sports fan, only one memory refuses to go away.  It was the moment when Georgetown overtook UNC’s lead in the final minutes of that Elite Eight game, when elation became confidence, confidence turned into uneasiness, uneasiness blended into worry, and worry sank into outright disaster. 

 

It’s been 360 days since North Carolina collapsed against Georgetown, and I’m just now beginning to open my eyes to that fact, once unwilling to see the horror that even now I’m reluctant to admit ever happened.  The aftermath of that rainy March afternoon is a complete blur for me, and I’m willing to admit I don’t remember much of the details once the buzzer sounded.

 

What I do recall is sitting outside after the game in staggered silence, bombarded by the sound of my phone’s incessant ringing, refusing to answer it each painful second it chimed.  For every friend calling to empathize, I knew there was another calling to revel in the stunned misery of a Tar Heel fan. 

 

To me, those 50/50 odds weren’t good enough to pick up the phone.  And so I let it ring.  And ring.  And ring.

 

360 days later, the phone may have stopped ringing, but the misery and questions have yet to subside.

 

And that’s what this Tar Heel team is left with.

 

As basketball followers, we’ve all felt losses that cut to the core of our fanaticism.  The last second buzzer beater, the blowout by a rival team, and the unexpected defeat by an upstart Cinderella all immediately come to mind.  But something was different about this one.  Something much more painful.

 

Up 10 with just over 11 minutes to play, North Carolina looked dominant.  They had out scrapped and outplayed Georgetown at every turn, until it seemed only a matter of time before the Final Four tickets would be punched and the celebration could begin.

 

And then, something inexplicable happened.

 

The shots that had once seemed so effortless abruptly began to bounce off the rim.  The rebounds started to fatefully fall Georgetown’s way.  Suddenly no Tar Heel player could score, the clock moved meticulously slow and the lead, along with my confidence, vanished.

 

As it happened, the only syllable I was able to utter aloud was “no”.  Over and over again, each version I spoke became more desperate sounding than the last.  It was a feeling of helplessness I’ll never forget, one that may never be matched again for me as a sports fan.  It was like watching a car accident from two hundred yards away; no matter how loud you screamed, there was no way to prevent it from happening.

 

To this day, the statistics of Georgetown’s comeback seem almost scripted and false.  A 31-9 run.  Outscored 15-2 in overtime. 2 for 21 shooting to end the game for Carolina.  Maybe that’s why I’ve had such a hard time accepting the reality of this particular defeat. 

 

I still have the game saved on my Tivo for some bizarre reason.  I keep waiting for the day that I can sit and watch it without suffering the feeling of being repeatedly punched in the stomach.  For now it mockingly sits as a constant reminder, both of what could have been and what actually was. 

 

Obviously, I wasn’t the only one who took the loss hard.  As Georgetown players celebrated on the court, a somber Roy Williams sat in the media room doing his best to explain the unexplainable.  “Life doesn’t always go like you want it to,” Williams said.  “It’s never as sweet as you think it could possibly be.” 

 

I wish I could have taken those words to heart that afternoon.  It may have saved me 359 days of heartache, and maybe then I could have understood that sometimes things just, well….happen.  The fact is, no matter how much you want something to turn out well, there are times when even your best effort isn’t enough.  Those Carolina players wanted to win that game more than I ever could have wanted it.  As a fan, that’s all we could ever ask of our athletes.  And sometimes you just have to accept the hand you’ve been dealt, both in sports and in life. 

 

I’ve learned in these last 360 days a valuable lesson that I may not have completely understood or accepted before: you can’t live in the past.  I can’t bring my dog back, I don’t want my old girlfriend back, and there’s no way I can change what happened in that Georgetown game, no matter how hard I try.

 

But for now, the team I live and die with is 32-2, clicking on all cylinders, and prepared to make another exhausting and exhilarating run towards a National Championship.

 

There’s a new NCAA Tournament upon us today.  And while this one may end the same way for me as it did last year, filled with questions, confusion, and misery, I’m excited to have another chance. 

 

A chance at redemption, a chance to witness another National Championship, and a hope that the despair and pain Tar Heel fans felt last year as they watched Georgetown celebrate will soon be rewarded with a much different outcome. 

 

For that, I’m counting down the days.  Go Heels.       

 

 

 

 

MY FANTASTIC FANTASY NIGHTMARE

 

By Chris Hobson

 

 

 

I’m conflicted and confused.

 

I’ve spent the last seven years or so despising the Patriots.  Hating the way they somehow miraculously benefited from the “Tuck Rule” game in 2002.  Disgusted by the narcissistic smugness of Coach Bill Belichick and the striking resemblance he bears to my last boss, a grinch that was recently arrested for possession of child pornography.  And absolutely sick of Tom Brady, the golden boy with the supermodel girlfriend, the Super Bowl rings, and the super hair that stays perfectly coiffed at all times.  (Seriously, how does he do that?  Even after he takes his helmet off on the sidelines, it looks like a stylist has been primping him for a GQ ad or something.  I don’t get it.)

 

Anyway, fall arrived and another season was upon us.  And with the addition of Randy “Straight cash, homey” Moss, I was more than geared up to viciously root against the Pats.

 

And then my fantasy football draft happened. 

 

For the 15 million Americans who play it, fantasy football can significantly alter the way a game, and the sport as a whole, is watched.  As in, “Oh, please score a touchdown here.  But don’t run the ball, definitely pass it.  But don’t pass it to that guy, pass it to my guy.  And then please go for two instead of kicking the field goal.  My opponent has this team’s kicker.” 

 

See what I mean?

 

It also has a way of turning some of sport’s least desirable figures into players we cheer for on a daily and weekly basis.  When Terrell Owens was being sent home by the Philadelphia Eagles two years ago for detrimental misconduct, he was also on my fantasy team.  I defended him relentlessly and unapologetically, even going so far as to also defend his agent Drew Rosenhaus, a man whom after the ordeal I deemed a rat and a terrible human being.  I’ve felt that way about him ever since, until I saw his moving and clearly sincere speech about Sean Taylor at Monday’s funeral.  Now I’m not so sure.  Like I said, I’m conflicted and confused.

 

So when my league’s fantasy draft date arrived, I was far more concerned with picking up great players than avoiding those I dislike.  When hundreds of dollars are on the line, subjectivity abruptly gets thrown out the window.  I mean, I like Jake Delhomme.  Just not enough to let him ruin my fantasy team.  Again. 

 

As a result, I ended up with about half of the New England Patriots, including the golden god himself, Tom Brady.  “Hey, no big deal”, I naively reasoned.  “I’ll just pull for them to play well but still lose.  It’s perfect.”

 

But something happened on my way to the fantasy football playoffs.  After 14 weeks and one nail-biting Monday Night Football game, I think I’ve come to a crossroads as a Patriots hater. 

 

Somewhere along the way, I actually started liking Brady and Co.  I began to enjoy watching them pick apart defenses like a well oiled machine, and I marveled at how methodically they bullied their opponents, like some oversized 6th grader walking around the playground randomly punching kindergarteners.  You know someone should probably step in and stop it at some point, but part of you can’t help but be impressed. 

 

“Wow, did you see the way that last kid went down?!  I think that was the hardest punch yet.  I’m pretty sure little Timmy won’t have to worry about eating his vegetables for a while….well, unless it’s through a straw.”  

 

On top of it all, I’ve enjoyed the way the Patriots have ripped opposing teams’ proverbial hearts out this season, by piling on points and showing no sense of mercy or sportsmanship.  Too often, college and professional sports are diluted with this politically correct idealism that all competitors must play to win, but not by too much.  After all, winning by a large margin may ruin the post game activities, where both teams sit together at midfield sipping hot chocolate and singing Kumbaya.  And we wouldn’t want to mess that up, would we?

 

The Patriots could care less about how losing 52-7 or 56-10 makes the players on another team “feel”.  And I like that about them.  What’s more, fans across the country have worked themselves into a malicious revulsion for the Patriots, giving me even more pleasure in rooting for players on a team that bring so much grief to so many others. 

 

Doesn’t that sound like something a Yankees fan would say during the 1990’s?  Ugh.  The very comparison sends shivers down my spine.

 

I knew I was beginning to appreciate what the Patriots have done this season.  But never was there a moment when I considered myself a fan of the team as a whole.  So when the Baltimore Ravens had the Patriots on the ropes facing certain defeat Monday night, it was the quintessential David versus Goliath storyline in the making.  And what did I do? 

 

I cheered for Goliath. 

 

Not only did I cheer, I stood inches away from my television, agonizing over every incomplete pass and fist-pumping every Brady first down in that emotionally draining 4th quarter.  And as I exhaled in relief after the game, it dawned on me that I was no longer simply pulling for the New England players on my fantasy team.  I was pulling for the New England Patriots.

 

Once again, ugh.

 

My rooting for the Patriots this season is what many would call the very definition of “jumping on the bandwagon”.  I prefer to think that I was blindfolded, kidnapped against my will, and forced to drive the bandwagon in some Speed-like movie sequence.  If only Keanu Reeves could hop on board and save me with a Peyton Manning jersey or something.

 

So for now, I'm uncertain as to what my future NFL fandom holds.  Maybe after the fantasy football season is over in week 16, I’ll go back to hating the Patriots just as I’ve enjoyed doing in so many previous years.  Perhaps by the playoffs I’ll be angrily shaking my fist at Bill Belichick and once again calling Tom Brady names I probably shouldn’t repeat here.  One can only hope.

 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go send Terrell Owens a Christmas card.     

    

THE GUMBEL STUMBLE

 

By Chris Hobson

 

 

 

For the millions who found themselves stuck in the middle of this past Thursday’s absurd battle between the cable and satellite companies and were unable to see the NFL Network game, let me offer you some comfort and reassurance.

 

Be thankful you missed it.

 

Sure, it featured the 10-1 Packers facing the 10-1 Cowboys.  And with the new HD availability, there were some interesting reasons to watch, such as trying to figure out how Brett Favre manages to keep his stubble looking so cool all the time, or getting a close up look at Tony Romo and wondering aloud, “Wait, that’s the guy who’s hooked up with Carrie Underwood and Jessica Simpson?  Him?  Are you sure?" 

 

So while we patiently wait on the Devil to collect on his deal with Romo, allow me to describe the NFL Network to those who have yet to experience it.

 

Aside from the excellent picture offered by the HD version, the NFL Network provides flashy graphics, great NFL-related commercials (especially the one where Bill Cowher nearly sobs on camera), and NFL Replay, a 90-minute fast paced version of last week’s games, complete with different camera angles that weren’t seen in the original broadcast.  It truly is impressive.

 

Oh, and one more thing: every NFL Network game is called by Bryant Gumbel, the absolute worst announcer to ever call a sporting event in the history of television.  Ever.

 

I’m not being too hard on the guy, trust me.  He’s not just a terrible play-by-play announcer; he’s the worst to ever sit in front of a microphone.  Sorry, Bill Walton.  Your position has been usurped.

 

In fact, the games might be somewhat tolerable if Gumbel were only doing the color commentary, simply so it would relegate him to a smaller speaking role.  But while current color analyst Chris Collinsworth is competent and at times insightful, it isn’t nearly enough to stop the train wreck created by his booth partner.

 

Gumbel sputtered along again on Thursday, setting the bar even lower for himself and making one mistake after another.  Between all of the miscalled first downs and confusion over players’ names, apparently a football game took place.  I was too damn irritated to notice.

 

At one point Gumbel quoted Packers coach Mike McCarthy as saying Cowboys running back Marion Barber was the heartbeat of Green Bay’s offense.  Really?  How does that work?  Does Barber give a pep talk to the Packers offense over the phone each week?  Later, he referred to Tony Romo as “Rick Romo”.  Let’s be honest, if you don’t know the kid’s name by now, you don’t belong on a football telecast.

 

And the voice.  Oh, the terrible, horrible, monotone voice.  Ever wonder what Kermit the Frog has been up to since Jim Henson died?  Apparently he’s calling football games now.  And possibly taking large amounts of sedatives.

 

It’s not like the rest of the NFL Network crew is much better.  Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t really enjoy seeing sideline reporter Deion Sanders looking into the wrong camera and breathing into his microphone like two teenagers in the backseat of a car on date night.  But these are things I can overlook.  It’s not like Tony Siragusa’s “reporting” has ever ruined a game for me.  In fact, being able to laugh at the sideline reporters a couple of times a game is a part of what makes football great.

 

It’s when it’s right in your face, a constant barrage of incompetence and ineptitude that affects the viewer’s enjoyment of a sporting event.  And that’s exactly what Bryant Gumbel has managed to become. 

 

I hate it when people suggest using the mute button to avoid the problem.  Should it really ever need to come to that?  It’s like saying, “Hey, I despise this sitcom, but if I watch it without sound and make up my own dialogue, it’s really not that crappy.”  A mute button can be good for many situations.  Avoiding a sports broadcaster shouldn’t have to be one of them.

 

Look, it’s not like my standards are that high when it comes to broadcasting.  I’ve grown up with BLEEP Vitale and John Madden for God’s sake.  In fact, I’ve grown so used to Vitale’s over-excitement and Madden’s meaningless blabbering that it’s become somewhat endearing over the years.  Say what you will about Vitale, but at least he shows some enthusiasm about the game he’s calling.  If I were Collinsworth, I’d be checking Gumbel for a pulse during commercial breaks.

 

For those of you clamoring for your respective cable companies to offer the NFL Network, be warned.  While the rest of the channel has some great programming to offer, the games themselves are a true test of a viewer’s patience. 

 

So what’s the good news for those already planning to watch next week’s NFL Network game?  It’s doubtful that Bryant Gumbel’s play-by-play ability can get much worse than he’s already shown so far.

 

The bad news?  I don’t think it’s going to get much better either.       

  

DAVID: 34, GOLIATH: 32

 

by Chris Hobson

 

 

Man, this one was special.

 

After watching colossal underdogs Appalachian State upset #5 Michigan on Saturday, my initial thought was whether the rest of the country would understand the magnitude of this win.

 

I had no idea how much they would.

 

Within minutes after the victory, the faces of Armanti Edwards, Kevin Richardson, and game winning field goal kicker Julian Rauch were plastered across every sports show and website across America. 

 

For many, this was the greatest upset in the history of college football, a shocker of ultimate proportions, one that broke the hearts of Michigan fans across the country and crushed the dreams of a team that planned on competing for a national championship this year.

 

For me, the upset hit closer to home.  Literally.

 

I’ve lived in Boone, NC for the last decade, where the Appalachian State Mountaineers reside.  To those who have never visited Boone, it’s a small mountain town, despite what its 15,000 plus student population may lead you to believe.

 

It’s beautiful and peaceful.  Very peaceful, especially when the snow begins to quietly blanket the city streets from at least December to March.  The best way to give directions to someone entering this little town is to point them toward the two-story Wendy’s, which over the years has become a landmark in this area.  Honestly, there’s just not that much else to guide a visitor around here.

 

Put it this way:  this town is not full of 109,000 screaming, rabid fans.  But then again, neither is Ann Arbor, Michigan right about now, is it? 

 

That landmark Wendy’s may need to be changed to local Kidd Brewer Stadium if things keep progressing this way, however.  And on this pace, Mountaineers coach Jerry Moore may soon have a statue that stands as the shining beacon of this small town.  Step aside, Dave Thomas.

 

You’ve likely heard far too often this week that ASU won the last two Division I-AA National Championships, a fact that quickly gave us newfound credibility with the suddenly interested media.

 

And while it’s true that we’ve relished the attention up here of course, all of the publicity still feels a bit surreal to locals like me.  Sure, it’s nice to see our town featured on the news constantly.  It’s just humorous to us that all of a sudden, every member of the media acts like they “know” Boone, despite their ongoing inability to pronounce it correctly (it’s Appa-latch-in, by the way). 

 

I know Boone.  It’s my home.  I was here for both of those I-AA championships.  And as wonderful as they were for this small town and the trophy case that’s housing those two medals of honor, both of them were a disappointment to me.

 

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not Appalachian State’s fault.  It was great to see my local team win back-to-back national championships.  I watched students and fans of our team celebrating just like any other school, tearing goalposts down and burning dirty apartment couches in the city streets.  But beyond that, something still seemed like it was missing.

 

After working so hard to get to the national championship game, what was the reward for this team?  A spot on ESPN2 and a minute or two on Sportscenter after commercials and NFL highlights?  It was an accomplishment for the town, but heartbreaking for me.  This was it?  That’s what winning the Div. I-AA championship gets you?  It was such a letdown.  What would it take to be the talk of the nation?  This team deserves more, I thought. 

 

On Saturday, they finally got it.

 

It took a trip into the Big House against a top 5 nationally ranked supposed powerhouse to cast aside any doubt that this team from Boone, NC can compete on the biggest of stages.     

 

My close friend and Appalachian State alum, who received tickets as a wedding gift, called me on the way back from the Big House to the hotel.  “You can hear a pin drop out here”, she said after the game.  I told her it might be a good idea to be just as quiet on her way back.  I mean, it is Michigan, and besides the expectations Wolverines fans may have had, Ann Arbor’s still in close enough proximity to Detroit to probably still hear a gunshot or two.

 

Regardless, I hope she held her head up high while she walked back to the room.  After all, we Mountaineers have a right to. 

 

To college football fans, it was an epic upset.  To those of us who live in Boone, we may not have seen it coming, but I’m not sure anyone here was as shocked as the rest of the nation. We’ve personally watched this team grow into our own little powerhouse, and we know it will stay that way as long as quarterback Armanti Edwards is running the show.

 

Shhhhhh……don’t let that get out though.  We’re trying to keep it our little secret. 

 

Besides, this town is quiet and peaceful…..and we like it that way.

 

 

REDEMPTION

 

By Chris Hobson 

 

It’s not often a man gets a second chance in life to correct a mistake, to redeem himself and exorcize the haunting demons of his past.  On Sunday, Peyton Manning got what may have been his final chance.  And in the bright lights of the RCA Dome, with the world watching, he made the most of his opportunity.

 

He may not be willing to publicly admit the personal magnitude of Sunday’s game, but this playoff game against the Patriots was going to be the defining moment of Manning’s career, no matter the outcome. 

 

Lose, and he’d be forced to come to terms with the real possibility of never winning a championship despite a likely guaranteed Hall of Fame career, and the painful acceptance that Bill Belichick and the Patriots were truly the mountain he could never climb.  Win, and the proverbial BLEEP could finally leave the shoulders it had been clinging to for so long. 

During the Patriots last minute drive, Manning sat alone on the sidelines, his head bowed and hands clasped together, admitting later that he spent the time praying.  During the few brief moments that curiosity forced him to glance towards the field, it was impossible not to see the anguish upon Manning’s face as Tom Brady took the ball for one last chance at the end zone. 

It wasn’t a fear of losing; it was the feeling of helplessness.  After coming this far, Peyton was forced to leave his destiny in the hands of the quarterback and the team that had destroyed his Super Bowl aspirations time and time again. 

We’ve all seen this story play out before.  Brady and the Patriots have made a living out of last minute comebacks, of game winning kicks and touchdown drives that ripped out the souls of the opposition and their fans. 

Even the Indianapolis faithful had to sense a feeling that the hammer was going to drop eventually.  After all, isn’t this what Brady lives for?

This time was different.  With the seconds dwindling in the final quarter, Marlin Jackson intercepted a Brady pass to seal the Colts win.  And with that, the weight was lifted.  For all the talk, deservedly so, that Tom Brady receives for his three Super Bowl championships, it’s impossible to get there without a little help.  

For Brady, it was the superb kicking of Adam Vinatieri over past seasons that propelled him to legendary status.  And while it’s highly unlikely that Jackson will have the same impact in defining Manning’s career, it may just be the break he needed to prove he belongs in that elite group with the greatest quarterbacks of all time.

There’s still one hurdle that Peyton and the Colts must face in Miami against a gritty Chicago Bears defense.  And a loss in the Super Bowl could very well revive the criticism among NFL circles that Manning folds in pressure situations. 

But any allegation that he can’t win a big game can certainly be put to rest once and for all.  This was indeed a big game.  And for now at least, the demons are vanquished, the critics are silenced, and redemption has been found. 

Enjoy it Peyton; your prayers have finally been answered.