God damn it, Mariners. Your manager just quit on you. He quit! That doesn’t fucking happen! This is the major fucking leagues! What the hell are you doing? How on earth can you possibly explain this disaster? What. The. Fuck.
And he isn’t the first. Not at all. Not even the first this decade. Mike Hargrove quit on you in 2007. In the middle of the goddamn season. He just up and left. Got in a pickup truck and literally drove away. He was so aggravated by the crazy shit you pull that he took a road trip through the country and left Major League Baseball altogether.
Do you assholes even understand what is going on here? Major league managers DO NOT QUIT THEIR JOBS. Ever. It doesn’t happen. They’re making ridiculous amounts of money to babysit adults. This is their dream come true. They’re at the pinnacle of their profession. Why the hell would they ever quit? It would be foolish to quit. No one would do it. And yet…and yet…I can hardly believe this…you’ve had TWO managers quit on you in the PAST SIX YEARS! WHAT THE SHIT?!
Imagine you’re a parent and you’re in a bind. You have a kid that you need to get rid of for an hour and there is nobody who can watch him for you. You don’t have a choice, either. You have to go do this thing without your kid, no matter what. You’re stuck, and now you’re sitting here hyperventilating with a child screaming in the backseat of your car, wishing you’d never procreated in the first place.
And then, all of a sudden, you get a call back from a trusted friend who’s willing and able to spend an hour with your kid. Saved! You rejoice. Everything has worked out for the time being. You leave the little one with your friend, go live up to your obligations for sixty minutes, and then return…to find…disaster.
I’ve seen you before. Once upon a time, in a previous life, I was that guy working a middling retail job on the weekends. I was the 21-year-old in a suit standing with my hands clasped at the waist pretending to give a shit about the seasonal sale going on around me, when in reality all I wanted was to be at a football game with my friends. I was that guy who stared you down and silently searched for any semblance of life, any hint of vigor, all while wordlessly pleading with you to GET OUT NOW.
I would have killed to be in your shoes back then. Weekends to myself, the freedom to do whatever I pleased, the ability to park my ass on a couch for eight straight hours and watch grown men beat the living piss out of each other, one quarter at a time. I wanted your life. Until I saw your face. Until I looked in your eyes.
A couple years ago we introduced a segment on the site entitled Around Geoff Baker, a semi-regular column that profiled the video stylings of The Seattle Times’ Mariners beat writer. Geoff had a knack for recording himself doing all sorts of things, including one feature he called Around the Blogosphere. Our counter to ATB was an in-depth look at everything around Geoff in his videos. It was fun, mostly because Geoff is a fun guy to dissect. But the fun was short-lived, as Geoff’s video postings became less and less frequent and AGB died a slow death.
On Thursday, we found out that Geoff was being promoted off the Mariners beat to a role that combines investigate reporting with a look at sports business. First off, congrats to Geoff! Second, we hope this new role brings with it lots of video recordings. And third, this wonderful news prompted a look back at Around Geoff Baker, which in turn inspired us to rekindle a video-related column on the site.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Seahawks fans over the years, it’s that each individual fanatic seems to have a unique chip on his or her shoulder that serves as motivation for the devoted interest in Seattle’s pro football team.
Some fans grew up in the Kingdome and became accustomed to earth-shaking noise reverberating off the stone-grey walls of the now-deceased indoor venue. It’s their personal mission to bring that same cacophony outside, and what better place to do it than CenturyLink Field.
Other fans travel to and from each game in a junker Winnebago they’ve owned for two-plus decades, spending every last dime they earn to fill that gas guzzler with its necessary fuel. They put the team above their own personal well-being and for that they should be rewarded.
11. Frank Gore sucks.
He scored a 6 on the Wonderlic test…out of a possible 50. His showing ranks as one of the worst all-time scores in Wonderlic history.
Rather than calling out coverages, perhaps Seahawks linebackers should pepper San Francisco’s running back with stupid questions before the snap. “Hey Frank! Spell all forms of the word ‘there.’ All forms, Frank! Not just one. And then use each form in a sentence so we know you’re not bullshitting us.”
10. Their mascot sucks.
Did you know that the Niners’ mascot is a cartoonish cowboy named Sourdough Sam? Probably not, since Sourdough Sam is the stupidest name ever. I imagine a cowboy named Sourdough Sam would be the first one to die of dysentery on the Oregon Trail. Or worse, he’d drown in the very first river you forded.
You will spend your Monday reading about the Sunday performances of real-life NFL teams, led by real-life NFL players, coached by real-life NFL coaches. You will consume and digest information about coverage schemes, reads, options, read-options, all of it. You will nod and you will agree with what you’ve taken in, not knowing what it all truly means. And then you will head on over to ESPN or Yahoo or NFL.com or CBS, log in, and check your fantasy team for the seventy-fifth time in the past three days.
This is reality. There was once a time many years ago when fantasy football was the sports equivalent of Dungeons and Dragons, a guilty pleasure that bordered on hidden obsession, the counterpart to viewing porn for hours on end. You played it, sure. But you didn’t talk about it with anyone you knew. Your leagues were limited to random counterparts across the broad spectrum of the world wide web or your very closest friends, no one else. And god forbid you got caught checking your team. Checking your team on any day, at any hour, differed in no way from adjusting your testicles in public. It looked all sorts of weird, awkward, and offensive, simultaneously. So silently, you played.
By my count, I had only ever witnessed nineteen victories in-person at Husky Stadium. Nineteen. Not even twenty. Not even a great number. Not old enough to drink, not even old enough to really be considered an adult as far as society’s concerned. Nineteen, Jay Buhner’s number — Jay was great, but he was no Hall of Famer. Nineteen. Meh.
The first victory I ever witnessed live in that stadium? Idaho. The Vandals. And that was back in 2005, by a team that wouldn’t repeat the feat once more at home that year.
I had only enjoyed occasional flirtations with success in the old stadium. My college tenure kicked off with Keith Gilbertson at the helm of an underwhelming Husky squad; it ended a few years later with a winless 2008 campaign. The whole journey fell far short of what I expected, far short of what I thought the ride would be like when I was a kid. It was just plain bad.
An alarm will wake me at 7:00 a.m. on Saturday. I’ll reach for my phone, likely knock it off its nightstand, then be forced to rustle my body from its abbreviated slumber in searching for the source of my momentary discontent.
Groggy and confused, I’ll look out the window and be forced to think, actually think, before I understand why I’ve chosen to rise so early on — What day is today? Do I have to go to work? Is it…Saturday? — a weekend. The realization will hit me and I’ll be up, sleep washing away from my brain as quickly as the initial bout with irritation set in a minute earlier. And from there, maintenance. Shower, clothes, shoes, stuff.
I’ll pace the apartment checking off a list in my mind, ensuring I’m leaving nothing behind, as my girlfriend does whatever it is girls spend so much time doing in the bathroom. Friends will arrive. We’ll load up the back of the car until it’s weighed down by the excess. We’ll run through the mental checklist once or twice more — tickets, don’t forget the tickets — and then go.
A grocery store first for all the things we don’t need but do need. Because no one needs that much Busch Light, but come on. Water, get lots of water, this is an all-day affair, we’re going to need water. So we’ll get water. And maybe some hot dogs, bread, snacks, things that don’t necessarily correlate but will ultimately satiate, no matter their nutritional relationship — a three-to-one male-to-female ratio does not an efficient shopping trip make. Self-checkout line and at least one person asking the ultimate question: “Oh, you must be going to the game today. What time is that at?” Seven. “Seven?” Seven. And then confusion mixed with intrigue on the part of our interrogator. It will be 8:30 a.m.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Boise is not a state. I don’t know when this geopolitical sham will finally cease, but it needs to. How can we preach “No Child Left Behind,” then mislabel our institutes of higher learning? And not only that, but it leads to a bigger question of how valuable the education at such a disoriented house of academia can possibly be.
Once again we find ourselves in the twilight of August, that special time of year when the weather starts to cool, the leaves begin to turn, and the school year begins anew. For those of you headed off to college, this can be a confusing time. Adapting to college is never easy, and while you could spend your time reading how-to books on the best way to become a functioning member of university society, the best way to learn anything is via experience.
That said, before you consume all that college entails, I’d like to give you just a few tidbits of advice that may improve the overall experience you plan to live. My credentials? I spent six years as an undergraduate and have significant loan debt, so I might just be the ideal how-not-to candidate. I’ve since rebounded to maintain a real-life salaried job (a real, real one!) while occasionally updating this here website in my down time. As such, I can give you all my wrongs and hope you’ll use them to make many, many rights. Or if not all my wrongs, at least five of them.
1. Use your reproductive parts liberally.
The biggest regret non-promiscuous college students have is the fact that they weren’t going around humping like jackrabbits during their school days. If you were committed to monogamy in college like I was, you know all about those regrets. And why do those regrets exist? Three reasons.
A few weeks back, I casually mentioned to a Twitter follower that he should buy a Chone Figgins jersey shirt and set it ablaze. This came shortly after a photo of a pair of misguided individuals wearing Figgins jersey shirts (later dubbed “Figgins Couple”) was released unto the interwebs.
The Twitterer, one @WilliamKHolland, decided to take my offhand comment at face value. Thanks to deep discounts on such Figgins-related items at just about every local fan apparel shop, Will went out and bought a jersey shirt of his own. He then subsequently recorded himself lighting that jersey shirt on fire.
Here’s the result of Will’s pyromania, complete with a wonderful soundtrack.
Twitter, I love you.
A few months back, I wrote up an application for Ryan Divish’s affection which resulted in absolutely no women responding and, to date, still hasn’t netted Divish a dependable girlfriend. Thanks, jerks.
Anyway, my friends still got a kick out of the matchmaking attempt and recently started pressuring me to write up a similar document for our good friend Jayson Jenks. For those of you who don’t know Jenks, he’s the newest (i.e. backup) Seahawks beat writer for The Seattle Times. A year ago, he was the Times’ prep sports reporter, which means if you have a teenage son or daughter who you think will get an NCAA athletic scholarship (they probably won’t, so stop bitching), you probably sent Jenks a nasty email at some point for something he did or didn’t say about your kid.
In addition to all that, Jenks is like 24 years old and looks like he just had his Bar Mitzvah. Needless to say, he’s single, though his Facebook profile lists him as in a “complicated relationship.” Which is a nice way of saying he has carpal tunnel syndrome or something like that, I imagine. Frankly, he could use a nice woman in his life. That’s why we’re here today to help him out.
If you or anyone you know would like to submit an application for Jenks’ affection, please fill out the below document, which you can download by clicking right on the image itself. Once completed, send your app to email@example.com and you might just win a date with Jayson Jenks, himself! Good luck!
“Brady Quinn? What’s he doing in there? Put Russell Wilson in!”
It was the second quarter of the Seahawks’ inaugural foray into what is alleged to be their first championship season. And not one hour down the path of Title Road there was ignorance among us.
“Seriously. Why isn’t Russell playing? Is he okay? Is he hurt?”
Blue Jays fans. What the hell, man. I don’t get you. You make very little sense to me. First of all, your team is in Toronto. And yet you all show up in droves every time this team of yours plays in Seattle. Seattle! Do you know how far it is between Seattle and Toronto?! I do. It’s 2,068 miles, according to the internet. That’s roughly the same distance between Seattle and New Orleans. New Orleans! LOUISIANA!!
Look, I get it. Many of you make the trip south from Vancouver, B.C. to cheer on your favorite team. But shit, Vancouver is no closer to Toronto than Seattle. In fact, it’s farther. As the crow flies, 2,089 miles separate the two cities. Yes, that’s even greater than the distance between Seattle and Toronto. It makes no sense. It’s like if Seattleites became unabashed supporters of the New Orleans Saints, the Pelicans, or…what other teams do they have…the Zephyrs! We would never do that. Because it’s crazy. And not fun crazy, either. Alex Rodriguez crazy.