Eight weeks ago, right before Halloween, a six-foot-three-inch, dreadlocked Harry Potter stepped to the podium at the Seattle Seahawks’ practice facility and delivered a weekly press conference on behalf of defensive back Richard Sherman. From the cloak to the spectacles to the wand he carried in his hand, the costume was convincing enough that onlookers couldn’t help but laugh.
How many professional athletes could have this much fun with their obligatory meeting with the press? How many celebrities would subject themselves to the silliness of a holiday for children by dressing up as a character from their favorite fantasy novel? This was Richard Sherman at his most human and his very best – charming, hilarious, witty, and fun.
Continue reading What’s Eating Richard Sherman?
Wanking motion: the act of clasping one’s thumb against the forefinger in a semi-closed fist, raising the fist in the air, and moving it up and down to simulate masturbation. Usually performed as a metaphor for dismissive nonchalance towards an unrelated event of little importance.
There are any number of reasons to dislike The Seattle Times.
Maybe you loathe the fact that their editorial board seemingly fornicates with people who vehemently oppose the thought of the Sonics returning to Seattle.
Maybe you’re less than enthralled with their prep sports coverage, since the deadbeat high school coach who once tutored your child submitted a half-assed misspelling of your family’s weird surname to the paper, thus causing a misprint alongside your kid’s six-point , two-rebound stat line in the Class 1B state consolation game a few years ago.
Continue reading Richard Sherman’s Media Boycott Is Stupid
There are more than a few dozen Golden Tates. He is a type. He is not the prototype. He is not Calvin Johnson. You can replace a Golden Tate with another Tate-type. You cannot replace a Calvin Johnson, a prototype, when only one of his kind, a six-foot-five-inch speedster with hands like cocoa butter, exists.
This is the reality of business in the National Football League. Unless you are a unique breed, amongst the elite in the sport, you are replaceable. You’re an after-market iPhone charger, a USB thumb drive, a pair of Levi’s 501s. We can go to the store and easily get more of you. Or in the case of your average NFL player, browse the open market for a viable successor.
Continue reading Golden Tate and the Conundrum of Replaceable Players
Richard Sherman, meet America. America, Richard Sherman. Try your best to get along, you two.
11. He’s from Compton.
Compton. You’ve heard about this place. It’s a scary, scary little neighborhood. The concrete jungle, they call it. Jungles are frightening. Concrete is also frightening. They shoot people there, supposedly. Gangs run rampant through the alleyways. Wannabe rappers approach you on street corners, Discmans in hand, demanding you listen to their mixtapes. There is nothing more petrifying than that.
And Richard Sherman, he’s from there, he’s from Compton. California! Everyone there smokes marijuana! And carries an AK-47, just like Ice Cube said! How did Sherman escape? He must be some sort of magician, or worse, a wizard. Not the good kind of wizard, either. He’s like Voldemort. The Voldemort of Compton. What do we do? WHAT DO WE DO?!
Continue reading Top 11: Reasons America Hates Richard Sherman