Boris
03-23-2004, 03:47 AM
Hilarious article on EPNS's page 2. Any guy that can do this is 110% stud and will have my eternal admiration.
On a related note, I could give a rat's ass about the NCAA basketball tournament. Just more made for TV corporate crap.
I can't wait for opening day. Steroids, nine figure salaries, labor disputes. I don't care. I'll be at the Coliseum on opening day. I'm addicted to baseball.
A Man's man (http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=murphy/040322)
The dream: 9 dogs, 9 beers, 9 innings
By Brian Murphy
Special to Page 2
I consider it almost a moral obligation to prop up the auld Water Cooler again on this holiest of Mondays -- the post-Dream Trip Monday.
You know the drill: Aging thirtysomethings grappling with the mortal coil pull a Statue-of-Liberty play on domestic responsibilities and head to the Arizona desert for baseball, bacchanalia and the two burns -- heart and sun. Annual Cooler recaps of this journey have inspired mail that can be filed under both "Fan" and "Hate" so why deny readers the chance to either relish or revile? After all, the Cooler traffics in equal opportunity, above all else.
Spring training is more refreshing when doused by the Cooler.
Besides, there was no question The Cooler was coming back today after last Friday's Mariners-Giants game at Scottsdale Stadium. There, on the grassy outfield berm, we witnessed what Dream Trip emodies: Springtime hope, vernal optimism and the sense that all is possible. Translation: We met Charlie the Cub Fan, who riveted hundreds on the grassy berm with his open proclamation of his attempt to conquer "The Nine Nine Nine."
Nine beers. Nine hot dogs. Nine innings.
Was it Tom Browning, or Robert Browning, who once penned: "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a Dream Trip for?"
After witnessing the heroic run by Charlie the Cub Fan, there was no question that a batch of Pepcid AC should be within both Charlie's reach AND his grasp -- or what's an acid reflux attack for?
The word spread across the grassy outfield berm like word of the bad acid at Woodstock. It couldn't be true, could it?
Four innings in, he was on target. It was the opposite of a no-hitter. Everyone knew it, and everyone spoke of it, the hope being that the stout lad would feel the love.
After five innings though, it became apparent that the only thing Charlie felt was a heinous wave of nausea, and utter despair at the task he had taken on.
Two unexpected factors had created Everest-sized obstacles for Charlie. One, the Arizona day was a veritable microwave, with mercury at 91 degrees. Two, the beer sold at Scottsdale Stadium came in 16-ounce bottles -- not 12.
Taken individually, each factor was a nuisance. Taken collectively, they had a cumulative effect of devastation akin to the emotion a Red Sox fan felt the day A-Rod was traded to the Yanks.
Clearly, it was no accident that the "The 999", viewed upside down, read "The 666."
A fan tried to encourage Charlie by pointing out that the guy who wins the Coney Island contest every year couldn't weigh more than 118 pounds. Charlie, a wide-body, had space in his gut to choke down, it was pointed out. Charlie's response was curt. "That guy gets to puke 'em up when he's done!" he barked. In his right hand was a half-eaten dog, representing 5.5 dogs consumed. He swayed, glassy-eyed. He removed his shirt, and let his gut pour over his belt.
It was a powerful scene of human drama.
His mood would swing from states of catatonia, then to instant rage. It was as if, in the five stages of acceptance, his engine had stalled on "Anger." Who could blame him? The task demanded total concentration, and if his genius would be tempered with fits of pique -- well, certainly Picasso had torn up a canvas or two in his day, no?
As the innings got later, the Kryptonite in the equation became apparent: The bun.
When the tiny hot dog plays the role of Goliath.
When Charlie would snap out of glass-eyed indigestion into moments of lucidity, he shouted what became his signature line: "The bun matters, man! The bun matters!"
Surely, an Atkins-approved "999" would be no problem.
But Charlie was a purist.
There would be no Atkins-approved "999."
This was a man's task.
No trendy diets welcome.
This was Spring Training, dammit.
"You do not understand how much the bun matters!" Charlie roared.
Sensing he needed help, the crowd surged forward with an emotional life-jacket. Chants and claps poured forth. The rally was stirring. No one or nothing had received such an outpouring of adoration and support since the 1980 Olympic hockey team.
Alas, it was not to be.
The game ended with Charlie stuck in the middle of his eighth dog.
Nine innings. Nine beers. Seven-point-five dogs.
No matter. The message had been delivered. As Charlie draped his arms around his pals and was carried off like the Willis Reed of the Cactus League, we had all been made larger by his quest. Yes, his stumble to the finish line was not unlike that Swiss chick who noodled her way to the end of the marathon at the '84 Olympic Games, but excuse me if I wiped away a solitary tear of pride at the end of the "999."
Baseball season begins in a fortnight, and already the tone has been set, in Spring Training, where it always is, where greatness is born, and where the seeds of dreams are planted.
Now, quick. Somebody give Charlie a supply of Tums that will last him till October.
On a related note, I could give a rat's ass about the NCAA basketball tournament. Just more made for TV corporate crap.
I can't wait for opening day. Steroids, nine figure salaries, labor disputes. I don't care. I'll be at the Coliseum on opening day. I'm addicted to baseball.
A Man's man (http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=murphy/040322)
The dream: 9 dogs, 9 beers, 9 innings
By Brian Murphy
Special to Page 2
I consider it almost a moral obligation to prop up the auld Water Cooler again on this holiest of Mondays -- the post-Dream Trip Monday.
You know the drill: Aging thirtysomethings grappling with the mortal coil pull a Statue-of-Liberty play on domestic responsibilities and head to the Arizona desert for baseball, bacchanalia and the two burns -- heart and sun. Annual Cooler recaps of this journey have inspired mail that can be filed under both "Fan" and "Hate" so why deny readers the chance to either relish or revile? After all, the Cooler traffics in equal opportunity, above all else.
Spring training is more refreshing when doused by the Cooler.
Besides, there was no question The Cooler was coming back today after last Friday's Mariners-Giants game at Scottsdale Stadium. There, on the grassy outfield berm, we witnessed what Dream Trip emodies: Springtime hope, vernal optimism and the sense that all is possible. Translation: We met Charlie the Cub Fan, who riveted hundreds on the grassy berm with his open proclamation of his attempt to conquer "The Nine Nine Nine."
Nine beers. Nine hot dogs. Nine innings.
Was it Tom Browning, or Robert Browning, who once penned: "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a Dream Trip for?"
After witnessing the heroic run by Charlie the Cub Fan, there was no question that a batch of Pepcid AC should be within both Charlie's reach AND his grasp -- or what's an acid reflux attack for?
The word spread across the grassy outfield berm like word of the bad acid at Woodstock. It couldn't be true, could it?
Four innings in, he was on target. It was the opposite of a no-hitter. Everyone knew it, and everyone spoke of it, the hope being that the stout lad would feel the love.
After five innings though, it became apparent that the only thing Charlie felt was a heinous wave of nausea, and utter despair at the task he had taken on.
Two unexpected factors had created Everest-sized obstacles for Charlie. One, the Arizona day was a veritable microwave, with mercury at 91 degrees. Two, the beer sold at Scottsdale Stadium came in 16-ounce bottles -- not 12.
Taken individually, each factor was a nuisance. Taken collectively, they had a cumulative effect of devastation akin to the emotion a Red Sox fan felt the day A-Rod was traded to the Yanks.
Clearly, it was no accident that the "The 999", viewed upside down, read "The 666."
A fan tried to encourage Charlie by pointing out that the guy who wins the Coney Island contest every year couldn't weigh more than 118 pounds. Charlie, a wide-body, had space in his gut to choke down, it was pointed out. Charlie's response was curt. "That guy gets to puke 'em up when he's done!" he barked. In his right hand was a half-eaten dog, representing 5.5 dogs consumed. He swayed, glassy-eyed. He removed his shirt, and let his gut pour over his belt.
It was a powerful scene of human drama.
His mood would swing from states of catatonia, then to instant rage. It was as if, in the five stages of acceptance, his engine had stalled on "Anger." Who could blame him? The task demanded total concentration, and if his genius would be tempered with fits of pique -- well, certainly Picasso had torn up a canvas or two in his day, no?
As the innings got later, the Kryptonite in the equation became apparent: The bun.
When the tiny hot dog plays the role of Goliath.
When Charlie would snap out of glass-eyed indigestion into moments of lucidity, he shouted what became his signature line: "The bun matters, man! The bun matters!"
Surely, an Atkins-approved "999" would be no problem.
But Charlie was a purist.
There would be no Atkins-approved "999."
This was a man's task.
No trendy diets welcome.
This was Spring Training, dammit.
"You do not understand how much the bun matters!" Charlie roared.
Sensing he needed help, the crowd surged forward with an emotional life-jacket. Chants and claps poured forth. The rally was stirring. No one or nothing had received such an outpouring of adoration and support since the 1980 Olympic hockey team.
Alas, it was not to be.
The game ended with Charlie stuck in the middle of his eighth dog.
Nine innings. Nine beers. Seven-point-five dogs.
No matter. The message had been delivered. As Charlie draped his arms around his pals and was carried off like the Willis Reed of the Cactus League, we had all been made larger by his quest. Yes, his stumble to the finish line was not unlike that Swiss chick who noodled her way to the end of the marathon at the '84 Olympic Games, but excuse me if I wiped away a solitary tear of pride at the end of the "999."
Baseball season begins in a fortnight, and already the tone has been set, in Spring Training, where it always is, where greatness is born, and where the seeds of dreams are planted.
Now, quick. Somebody give Charlie a supply of Tums that will last him till October.