Archive for the ‘Rants’ Category

Batting .500 in The D.

Saturday, May 10th, 2008

By Joe Moskwa

I’ve written some things on this site – I’d say maybe ten articles. (Uh, more like almost twenty.) However, I don’t think I’ve mentioned where I’m from. Most of you probably know me personally and, like me, live in and around Detroit. I’ve never revealed this because sometimes I can’t handle the cracks about the “D”. Outsiders I’ve never met will say things like, “Have you ever been shot?” or “Do you live by a crackhouse?” Gimme a break. While I typically roll my eyes at these comments, the REAL conversations I prefer to avoid are those that associate me with the Detroit Lions and Detroit Tigers. I’m born-and-raised in the D, but I’ll just lay it out there now. If you wanna hit me where it hurts, disrespect the Red Wings or Pistons. But if you wanna talk about a waste of space near Greektown or the Elwood, then I’ll get right in there and tell you ALLLL about how the two monuments of disappointment we call Ford Field and Comerica Park stand side-by-side and would be better off if they were sold to other cities. But that’s a conversation for another time.

Okay, I’m sure I’ve upset some Lions fan who still holds onto hope; probably the same guy who sat next to me and drafted Verlander, Sheffield, and Bonderman at my fantasy baseball draft. (How are those picks workin’ out for you, dude?) But the point of today’s article isn’t to annoy Lions and Tigers fans, but to broach another subject that I’m hearing on my favorite local radio shows these days.

I keep hearing about how The Joe isn’t filled to the rafters for playoff games like it used to be. Folks blame the economy. I disagree. I say its because the Red Wings have just torn up the regular season for so long, but have consistently fallen short of a championship in years when the team was an overwhelming favorite. If the Wings make the finals again in ‘08, expect the house to be packed. (I’ve already have my seats lined up.) I recently had the pleasure of spending an afternoon with a player who’s a year or two away from being called up to the Wings. He told me that no one can stop any of those Europeans and Detroiters will be drinking from Lord Stanley’s cup this summer.

As for the Detroit Pistons…

While you can get under my skin by knocking the winged wheel, you can dig a whole lot deeper by downing the red, white, and blue. I’ll be heartbroken (again) if the five-man machine falls to another one- or two-man show, but I’ll stick by ‘em. And if Sid the Kid clips the Wings? Fine. I won’t desert them either. Why? Because we Detroiters are blessed to have two organizations that are well-run. Two outta four ain’t bad. (Ironically, one of the “good” teams and one of the “bad” teams share the same owner. It’s comical to think one organization is considered the Cadillac of their sport, while the other is a bit of a laughingstock.)

Is there a point to today’s ramblings? Well, they are two-fold. Now you know how to get me riled by criticizing our hockey and hoops teams. Secondly, carving up the Lions and Tigers will roll right off my back. What are some of the other teams on my most-hated list? The New York Yankees, New England Patriots, New Jersey Nets, Indianapolis Pacers, Colorado Avalanche, Miami Heat… and most hated of all, Michigan Wolverines football. That’s right, I just put Michigan football on the evil side of the ledger. Eat it Ann Arbor wannabes!

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TSwusBMkt2A[/youtube]

Go Wings. Go Pistons. Happy 50th Birthday mom! (And happy b-day Steve Yzerman too!)

And can the local radio guys please stop talking about the Tigers’ woes. It’s already old and it’s only the second week of May.

Please continue taking the time to stop by Canon Fodder each week for more sports commentary and humor from our staff of writers. If you like what you’ve read, link it to friends and coworkers.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

Monday, March 10th, 2008

By Craig Dumas

Though I typically prattle on about hunting, a recent article by Joe prompted me to take some time out to pay respects to my children and what they say and do. Along with that goes what you say and do to them in return. Joe briefly touched on telling them some things to pacify them so I wanted to expand on the time-honored tradition of parent fibbing.

I think it all starts when they reach the age of five – maybe earlier for a few depending on how “precocious” they are. I would like to think this fibbing goes without saying and is a pre-requisite to all new and existing parents, growing stronger with the number of children you have and their maturity. So basically, the older they get, the more elaborate the lie.

My son, Jack, has the worst tendency to ask so many questions that it drives me insane. He’s six now and thinks he knows it all. Now that he can read, it’s a question about what everything means, does, sells, and operates. It’s starting to get hard coming up with excuses or fibs to satisfy his curiosities. Whatever comes to the top of my head is what he gets. A Chia Pet commercial comes on and guess what? “How does it do that? Where do the seeds go? How do they get to grow? Why do you need to soak the pot first?” He’s like a four-foot tall question machine gun. The seeds just disappear and the darkness makes the plant grow. Two minutes later it’s, “Where are you going?” Taking the mail to the box. “Who’s it for?” A friend of mine. Sometimes the questions are in a barrage and require a double-barreled response. “What’s his name? Where does he live? Does he live by us? How many days until he gets the letter?” His name is the ‘boogeyman’, he lives under your bed, and he’ll get the letter after dark when he drags himself out of the pond.

The Clapper is a good one. “Why does it do that? How can the old woman turn off the light from bed? Does it work the other way? Does she die if they don’t go back on?” Yes, she dies because she doesn’t get enough exercise getting out of bed to shut off the light.

One of my favorites is when he sees or hears of something or someone that has no teeth, or a dentures commercial, I tell him, “that’s what happens when you don’t brush your teeth.” (There are those things that we tell our kids like, “If you keep wiping your nose like that, it’s going to stay there,” and, “If you swallow those seeds, watermelon will grow in your stomach.”)

What annoys me the most is his inability to speak softly at stores about other people. “Did you see that girl? She had blue hair.” “That guy back there is pretty fat. He jiggles like Jell-O when he walks.” “Did you see that big mole on her face?” “That guy has a funny voice.”

He is hugely into Star Wars right now and can’t understand how there weren’t six movies back when I was a kid (let alone why I didn’t have DVD’s or cable as a kid. “How many channels did you have as a kid?” Seven.) “Did you know Anakin when you were a kid? Did you know Obi Wan Kenobi as a kid? Did Obi Wan have a beard when he was little? Was Jabba the Hutt not as fat when you were little? Where was Darth Vader when you were little?” And Oh My God, the questions about the ‘Force’ are never ending. “How do you get it? Is it like a disease? Can they do anything with it? Can we buy it at the store? Does it make them as strong as Spiderman and the Hulk? Is it something you can buy at Wal-Mart?” I checked with the manager last time we were there. Wal-Mart was fresh out of the ‘Force’. Then he’ll pause for a second to contemplate my answer before asking, “How come the Emperor, Darth Sidious, and the Chancellor Palpatine are all the same person?”

Jack is very intuitive to say the least. (My wife and I both feel he is too smart for his own good and will be bored when attending first grade. Plus, he has kind of a photographic memory so words and other things come up easily when repeated or seen). He has seen all the movies so many times not only does he narrate them to me and my wife, but can mime the lines as they come up and asks, “Did I sound like him?” This is a trick question because if you tell him ‘no’, he’ll continue practicing. On the other hand, if you say ‘yes’, Jack will choose to show off his new talent for the rest of the movie. Threats are your only recourse. Don’t make me turn this off.

Since his mind is soooo busy we needed to keep him occupied or active during the non-school season, last year I had the pleasure of signing him up for t-ball. I thought I would be able to sit back and relax for while but no, not this hard headed ball freak. None of the other parents offered to help the coach since he lost his assistant (and showed little interest other than when we could go home) so I offered to help out until he was replaced but turned into a full-time job with a request to return this coming season. And since I had 20 years under my belt in softball, he thought it only fit that I stay on. With that said, trying to explain the game of baseball to a bunch of five and six year olds is like pulling teeth. Catching and throwing is not too terribly hard because it comes with time and practice. “Why do you have to step, point and throw? Why can’t I just sit and throw?” The professionals won’t let you sit on first base to catch and throw. “Why can’t I sit on the bench and throw from there?” You don’t make millions sitting on the bench. “What are millions? Is that how fast the Millenium Falcon goes?”

Double plays are the bane of my coaching existence. Since most practices were stopping the ball and throwing to first you can see the impending confusion. “I thought you said to throw it to first.” Yes but now we are doing two bases at a time. “What’s a base again? You mean the rebel base on Star Wars?” Catch the ball, tag the base and throw it to first. Not hard to comprehend but then think of a six year old. “Dad, can you hold all these rocks until we get home?” Stop picking up rocks and pay attention to the game. “I need to kick up as much dust as I can so we can fog the field and hide from the enemy.” We don’t need to do that now, just catch the ball and throw it home. “I thought you said throw it to first.”

If you are thinking of having kids this is just a little taste of what’s coming and if you already have kids, you know what to expect already and are in the same boat as myself. It’s just a never-ending circle of encouragement, learning, and enthusiastic creative tale telling. If you’re lucky and blessed, your children will be smarter, quicker thinking, and progressively challenged in life making the right decisions and taking care of you. And if they give you a hard time in your latter years, just tell them the truth about how rotten they were as kids. There’s no use lying to ‘em at that point.

If you enjoy The Grizzly Woodsman, please check in regularly with Canon Fodder and sample some of our other writers. And remember to pass CF on to friends, family and coworkers.

Hating on Sports Guys

Tuesday, February 26th, 2008

Jeffrey Petts

Do you play recreational sports? Softball, hockey, flag football? Maybe curling or racketball is your game of choice. Regardless of the sport, you’re probably familiar with “that guy”. He’s on every team. He’s your linemate, your first baseman and the guy you throw back a few beers with at the bar after the game. Though he permeates every aspect of team sports, we secretly hate “that guy”. Here are ten examples of just some of the guys we hate.

Coach shorts guy – Do you remember your old high school gym coach? Are those horrible too-tight shorts burned into your memory? Well those awful garments live on to this day. That guy loves squeezing into them. He believes they are “slimming”. They also have the added benefit of pockets so everyone can see the tin of chew pressed against his buttock.

$200 hockey stick guy – If you’re an NHL-caliber player, I’m sure spending triple-digit dollars on a hockey stick is a sound business investment. When you’re a beer league hockey player, it’s a recipe for disappointment. For those of you that don’t play the sport, hockey sticks break. In the NHL, players run through sticks like a diner serving overcooked pot roast goes through toothpicks. When Joe NHL breaks a stick, the hockey stick producer gives him a dozen more. When Bob the beer league guy busts his timber, he’s out a couple of Ben Franklins.

$450 softball bat guy – An even bigger tool is the softball player that drops a ton of money on one of those super does-all-the-work-for-you softball bats. No, you can’t use it and don’t even think about touching his precious wand in the dugout. As a matter of fact, don’t even look at it except to admire it. Then watch him waddle up to the plate and take a couple cuts at an underhanded ball gently arcing at a speed barely fast enough to keep it airborne. Try not to snicker when Mr. Big Bat pops a harmless fly to right field.

Skip the bar guy – He’s a teammate to the core. He plays hard, in a scrap, he’s got your back, he doesn’t miss a game and he always gives his best. And when you want to buy him a beer after the game… he’s nowhere to be found. Nobody can go for post-game beverages every week, but this guy has never gone with the team to the bar. It’s almost like you’re good enough for him to play with, but share a couple beers? No thanks.

Hothead guy – Every team has this guy. He’s the one that gets slightly fouled or bumped the wrong way and flies off the handle. It’s as if the most minor slight were a challenge to his manhood. This guy’s “competitive edge” is so sharp that his teammates constantly worry when the game gets tight. “It’s close, but I think we’ll pull it out as long as Bob doesn’t lose his head and get us penalized.” And when this guy eventually gets tossed and the team loses, he blames the officiating rather than his lack of control.

Flashy finesse guy – A close cousin of the hothead, flashy finesse guy is the little wiry 140-lb dude on the basketball court that drives the lane, or the young hockey player that weaves dangerously through defensemen in non-checking leagues. They leave themselves exposed to physical peril as they glide through traffic and embarrass slower, less agile opponents. In hockey, these guys are treated to vicious crosschecks and slashing. In basketball, flashy finesse guy is neutralized by the hard foul. “Why did you hit me?” they say. Because you deserved it for being disrespectful. Show-up people that can hurt you and they will. I’ll take two minutes in the penalty box and you can have that bruise as a reminder for the next two weeks.

Too old to play SS guy – He’s probably the saddest of this lot. He played shortstop in high school and wasn’t bad. His arm was accurate though underpowered. He always played the toughest position with heart. What he couldn’t do with talent, he got by on moxie and raw effort. Then his knees started to go and he became more of a pylon than a roving fielder. When his shoulder began having problems, his throws became wildly erratic. Once opposing teams figured out TOTPS guy was the weak link on the infield, the losses started to mount. Unfortunately, everyone on the team knows it but this guy. When a new season starts, this guy organizes the roster and plugs himself back in at short. Denial is an ugly thing.

Ten cent mind guy – He’s the tallest, most athletic guy on the team. He’s handsome and always has a hot chick on his arm. He can run faster, longer, jump higher and throw a ball harder than you. He’s the perfect athlete in everyway but one – he’s dumb as a box of rocks. This guy gets the deer-in-the-headlights look when facing a new blitz package. Backdoor slider? Never saw it coming. Triangle offense and zone defense? Can’t grasp ‘em at all. He is irony personified; the million dollar body with the ten cent mind.

I just play for fun guy – He’s the antithesis of the clichéd ultra-competitive guy. When push comes to shove, he’s just happy to be there. Whether you won a hard-fought championship or went down in heartbreaking defeat, this guy is equilibrium epitomized. He’ll sit in the locker room with the same stupid grin plastered on his face when the team is celebrating or ready to burn officials in effigy. He’s a great guy otherwise, but when emotions are running high, you want to punch him in the face for not caring enough.

#69 guy – This guy is the worst offender on the list. When the team purchases jerseys, this guy fights to have “his number”. In softball, he’s the guy sporting the cutoff jersey and the beer gut. He sweats too much and does too little. In basketball, he’s the short forward with no inside game, or the dreadful guard without a lick of ball-handling skills or shooting prowess. His lack of skill translates to the hockey rink as this guy is best suited for checking – especially in non-checking leagues. An inevitable result of wearing #69 is leading the league in penalty minutes. The one thing all 69s have in common is their unnatural ability to consume massive amounts of watered-down beer and the silly grin they have whenever they put on their teenage joke jersey.

Have any more sports guys to hate? Send them my way at: jeff@canon-fodder.com and maybe we’ll use them when we update our list.

Is this your first visit to Canon Fodder? Have you enjoyed what you’ve read? If so, pass it on to friends and coworkers. If not… pass it on to your non-favorite friends and family. We appreciate the traffic either way.