Ames Progressive

The benefits and downfalls of living in New York stump me in friendly conversation as I can never quickly and eloquently place my Gotham residence in perspective. Despite holding on proudly to that indestructible and self-boosting title as everyday observer/writer/commentator/future author of several award-winning masterpieces, I don’t log my everyday occurrences. However, even the most vacant of individuals cannot resist mentally studying passengers on the famed New York subway system. A trip anywhere across the four boroughs (other than producing Wu-Tang, Staten Island serves no purpose) provides an opportunity to passively untangle the mystery of man. A perplexing puzzling that incorporates a skin-deep image to allow my mind to sink into quick, assumptive judgments. And that’s where the humor begins.

I’m riding on the 7 Train the other night with the sun setting on a humid early summer day on the clustered and ethnically diverse sections of Queens (Jackson Heights, Sunnyside and Flushing, for the record) and without a companion to share the experience or my MP3 player for rhythmic sustenance, I glance over the back portion of the cart to notice a couple of good lookers, unfortunately sitting breathing distance away from two meatheads spitting out misogynistic, monosyllabic utterances that would fail too woo a 21-yeard old virgin jonesing for a first crack at unadulterated fucking. See I wanted to go the graceful Shakespearian route but watching George Carlin over the past couple of days has heightened my appreciation of such a dynamic and to the point word that censors slam on like Shaq on Kobe. Fuck’s a fucking great word and I do wonder if Kobe knows how Shaq’s ass really tastes like? Mine, if you were wondering, tastes like Cookie Crisps. So I’ve been told.

Damn mind and its insistent interruptions, well this one rugged individual with his trophy girlfriend began to rip on the sport he, and myself, were about to view in person. Instead, this warrior rambled on with out much of an attentive audience, about a true sport in all facets of the word - RUGBY! Insert retarded Tim Allen man grunts from that whack ass show that at least paved the way for Pamela to become Borat’s love interest.

First, I entered the wrestling subculture in high school where dropping weight and sincere dedication to overall fitness pumps the ego with pure testosterone. Then I tore shit up on the rugby pitch where once again stamina and a desire for an adrenaline rush that numbs the physical pain becomes the calling card of a lesser known sport in the States.

“Rugby’s the best, man,” says some otherworld brain-dead dude wearing a rugby shirt just in case those cannon-sized thighs were not enough of a tip-off. “It’s the only sport where you can just…um, you know run someone over. Yeah, because you know that’s what a sport should really be about.’

Here’s where your sports enthusiastic and clear-headed blogger steps in to disengage those immersed in their own discovery and devotion to one particular sport that they fallaciously castigate 99% of the other athletes celebrating the overall wonder of sports as a whole. I could list every sport I have ever played and given you, the reader, a firsthand account of why I loved, no hyperbole on that one, that sport.

Maybe my organizational route dilutes my purpose so I’ll break it down point by point or instance by instance.

1. The main reason for this blog is to vent for my spiritual equilibrium. Without a steady job over the past month, I have had the fortune of watching almost every match of UEFA’s Euro Cup ‘08. With nearly half the goals from the tourny coming after the 75th minute thus far, and a German team first upsetting a top-seeded Portugal crew led by arguably the best player in the world, Cristiano Ronaldo and then holding off an upstart and persistent Turkish squad, the entertainment level matches any past international tourny in recent memory. The Spaniards, of course, could ruin the German’s attempted conquest and win their first Euro Cup in over 40 years as Spain has been branded as underachievers of late. We’re hours away from what could be a gripping final but always influenced and agitated by the haters of the world, I marvel in disregard at how those Americans, blind and ignorant on their own self-infatuation, could knock the most popular sport in the world! Hypocrisies and paradoxes abound when examining the infrastructure of our country, I just wanted the sports world to grow an immunity to stupidity. But Americans shed the underdog status soon after Lexington and Concord and will never chart the long-winding road to success. If Scarface and the Great Gatsby doesn’t say enough about the warped American Dream then our denial of soccer as a major, if not the most popular sport, surely says plenty on how Americans view the world as of today.

2. As much time as I have spent watching Euro ‘08 I still have not played soccer in over a decade, hopefully an excursion to Brazil will change that and I will return as the Jewish Pele. Since graduating college and giving up rugby as a formal pursuit, I usually apply my golden athletic skills to basketball, stickball and, not living far from the U.S. Open, tennis. My buddy Micah, who is currently home from the Netherlands where he studies, and I have run down some pretty exciting points over the past couple of weeks on the hard courts of Forest Park. Micah, however, with his travels and open-minded, carefree spirit, contrasts with some of my more insulated friends abiding by a script written by predecessors who have been passing on outdated social norms for generations. Take my stubborn and plump friend that dons the badge of the NYPD. Let’s call him officer Oink. The piggy called me up recently to talk fantasy baseball - always a riveting topic. But before spewing out his one-sided trade offer he chimed in with an irritating and patented laugh after hearing I was about to play tennis. Yeah, I know I cannot lend merit to a voice backed by a gun and some blubber. But his insolence surely allows me to further mock the sports fan who thinks every accomplishment should be measured in 10-yard increments.

3. Finally, I send this message out to those with influence in the media as I have hung up my pen and seek to exhaust other possibilities with or without accepting failure as an option. As a child I recall watching a show on ESPN devoted to intriguing games from around the world. For example, ESPN the magazine featured an article on some esteemed mud-wrestling tournament in Turkey. I cannot remember the exact name of the show but predict that one made of the same cloth would keep me tuned in on a weekly or monthly basis.

Now go! Don’t read another word. Pick up a ball or a remote and dig into the international cuisine known as sports.