Ah, the CandleLight. Where the Schlitz flows like wine
Looking back on my Saturday, I knew there was a lesson buried deep within the events that had transpired. It just took 24 hours and two conference championship games for that lesson to reveal itself.
Let me set the scene... I'm at the Candlelight in suburban Denver -- three beers, two heated Pete Rose debates and one pound of fried cheese appetizer into the night. This is the kind of bar where Schlitz is the standard, the jukebox has everything from Abba to Zevon Warren (you shouldn't be allowed to manufacture a jukebox that doesn't have "Werewolves of London" in it, you really shouldn't), and if you walk in with your shirt tucked in, you're likely to get the same reaction the Delta boys got when they stopped in to see their man Otis Day.
More importantly, it's one of the few places where everyone from the Middle-Upper-Lower class to the Lower-Upper-Middle class can come together to destroy the bathroom, make clumsy, unwanted advances, and feel better about themselves by beating the tar out of some drunken Irishmen in Foosball.
This night, Max and I are dominating the table and we've just finished off our third straight shellacking of some Radio Shack employee-of-the month candidates and the line of quarters of potential victims is growing by the moment. Just then, Max gives me a tap on the shoulder, a head nod to the front door, and a "check this out" look. Walking through the front door is the kind of guy that you will inevitably find at any cover-less locals bar.
He's alone. He's wearing a suit. On a Saturday night. At midnight.
But not just any suit -- this suit couldn't have been manufactured any later than the Reagan administration. If I'm not mistaken, it was the same suit Eric Stoltz wore on his big date with Lea Thompson in the John Hughes classic "Some Kind of Wonderful." It gets better... He's got hair like Barry Melrose, and around his waist is a Fanny Pack. I swear I'm not making this up. A Fanny Pack. And boots. Big, Timberland style boots. I know this shouldn't be funny to me, but hey, neither should "Full House."
We can't help but stare as he saunters over to the Foosball table -- prior to even ordering a drink -- and places down three quarters. As he turns and walks away, bets are immediately taken as to the nature of the event that necessitated the wearing of the suit and with much more potentially disturbing possibilities, the contents of the Fanny Pack.
Our laughter quelled and our egos lifted, Max and I go back to the methodical dispatching of our opponents. Two beers later, it's you-know-who's time to step up and take his medicine. Still flying solo, he grabs one of the stiffs we've just beaten, and proceeds to do something I've never seen before.
He takes off his boots... to play Foosball.
Max and I are speechless, not to mention partially blinded by the glare emanating from the white tube socks that are now his only means of traction. As my teammate and I share a "lets get this over with before he reaches into that Fanny Pack" look, the first ball is dropped. Before we're three quarters of the way through the Johnny Cash "Nine Inch Nails" cover, Suit Man has taken us behind the woodshed with what was easily the most impressive performance in the annals of the great game of Foos. 10-to-freaking-3!
He was magical. I swear, if it's possible for 11 guys adhered to steel rods to look like the 1978 Dutch soccer team, he made it happen. I take solace solely in the fact that Suit Man will not leave that table the entire night, and he will remain bootless until 2 a.m.
As I slink away from the table, I suspect there is knowledge to be gained from the experience, and it has nothing to do with the contents of one very shady Fanny Pack.
Fast forward to Sunday... I'm aware that I wrote in my last post that New England was a "must bet," but that was credited to a strict adherence to the rules of gambling. In my heart, I look at the two teams in warm-ups and simply can't find a way that the Patriots will represent the AFC in Super Bowl XVIII.
Seriously... would you rather have Marvin Harrison and Edgerrin James or David Givens and Kevin Faulk? Peyton Manning, the golden-armed heir to the Hall of Fame legacy of his father Archie, or Tom Brady, who even his most ardent supporters can only seem to laud as "efficient" and "methodical" and who I let sit on my bench the entire season in Fantasy Football? Sorry, but this is a no-brainer from an aesthetic perspective.
Even a look at their coaches makes you a Colts fan. While Patriots coach Bill Belichick looks resplendent in his gray hooded Old Navy sweatshirt, he doesn't quite scream "class" and instill the same sense of confidence as Colts coach Tony Dungy.
Credibility on this web site be damned, I LOVE THE COLTS IN THIS GAME!
Until it starts.
A beauty to behold during warm-ups, the Colts are apparently the beneficiaries of the football equivalent of what we like to call the Candle-LIGHT, a remarkable phenomenon in which seemingly beautiful objects take on a much less appealing appearance upon closer inspection. Manning is dead set on undoing his two week run of brilliance just as quickly as humanly possible-throwing balls into the ground, taking sack after sack, and single-handedly renegotiating Ty Law's contract. Harrison, it seems, has decided to take the day off. Somewhere Keyshawn Johnson feels vindicated.
The Colts defense looks like it hit the Chiefs up for advice before catching their flight out of K.C. (Wasn't Tony Dungy a defensive coordinator? Did he get all his plays stolen by John Gruden when he left Tampa Bay like the Fonz in "The Waterboy?")
The Patriots, on the other hand, are breathtaking. (Did I just write breathtaking?) Brady stands back there -- surveying receivers, winking at groupies, thanking God he's not Drew Bledsoe -- and when the mood strikes him, throwing to one of his five open receivers. He is, no question about it, a brilliant quarterback. I am still waiting for him to make one, just one, of those Brett Favre "what the hell were you thinking?" decisions.
Despite ramblings to the contrary from my roommate, the lone Patriots fan that thinks Brady "isn't much of a leader," he is the closest thing to Joe Montana I have ever seen. Antowain Smith runs for 100 yards, or roughly 96 more than his entire regular season. The Patriots defense is everywhere, intercepting Manning four times. They nearly decapitate Reggie Wayne. Brandon Stokely makes like Leon from the Bud Light commercial and takes a seat on the bench, lest he get killed.
As the final seconds click away, I find myself hoping that fans all across the country have had the same moment of clarity that I have. This Patriots team, despite their lack of stars and a coach who looks like a runway model for Mugatu's Derelicte ensemble, are the greatest team the NFL has seen since the Cowboy dynasty of the early '90s.
Forty-five minutes and one Chipoltle Burrito later... I strap in to watch Carolina-Philadelphia.
I feel the urge to go online and throw everything I have on the early line for the Super Bowl. After watching New England, it really doesn't matter which of these two teams move on. Remembering that I haven't worked in nearly ninve months, I think better of it, and decide I'll just pick the Pats on this web site. I get the same satisfaction of being right without the threat of defaulting on my student loans.
The Linc is going crazy, but I know right away the Eagles are done, and not just because I told the world to play Carolina in my last post. The Panthers, even more bland and nameless than the Patriots, are pushing Philly all over the field. The Eagles can't run on the Carolina front four, their wideouts quit halfway through their routes more often then Terry Glenn, and Donovan McNabb just got drilled by Mike Rucker, Kris Jenkins, Julius Peppers, and I think Sam Mills on the last play. This leads to what have to be the most depressing words uttered over a home stadiums loudspeaker during the course of a conference championship game... "Now entering the game for Philadelphia, No. 10, Koy Detmer."
At halftime, even though it's 7-3 Carolina, it is all over but the shouting. Even the "Peoples Champion," Freddie Mitchell, can't seem to spark the Philly offense. (Question: How can you call yourself the "Peoples Champion" when, during your press conference last Monday, you stressed the need to "stay humble" while wearing a mink coat so lavish it can also be seen on Huggy Bear in the new Ben Stiller-Owen Wilson "Starsky and Hutch" flick?)
One McNabb pick and Deshaun Foster TD run later, all that remains is for Detmer to remind the world which Detmer won the Heisman. (Hint: It wasn't Koy.) Jake Delhomme. Mushin Muhammed. Steve Smith. It may not be Kurt Warner, Marshall Faulk and Issac Bruce, but they're moving on to meet their doppelganger in what has to be the only Super Bowl where they may just skip the pre-game introductions. The rumors begin immediately that the game may not be televised, but rather replaced by a stirring episode of "The Simple Life" -- you know, the one where Paris and Nicole act like spoiled, obnoxious brats and feel like everything they're asked to do is beneath them.
As the clock winds down on the Eagles season, and the hopes of dreams of my girlfriend's family are put on hold for another year, one image reverberates in my mind.
Suit Man.
You see, Suit Man is the Patriots and the Panthers wrapped up into one hilariously coifed bar patron. He didn't look pretty. He didn't command respect or concern himself with what everyone else thought about him. He just went about his business and kicked the living crap out of whoever got in his way.
Max and I fooled ourselves into believing that because we walked into the bar looking like Abercrombie and Fitch, we somehow had an inherent advantage over the guy in the tube socks and Fanny Pack. However, just like Manning and the Colts and McNabb and the Eagles found out against the Pats and the Panthers, appearances and style points don't mean a thing.
Once again, the bar has taught us what the library never could.
A Random Thought... On Saturday, I had the luxury of watching NCAA basketball. First, Duke-Wake Forest in the morning, immediately followed by NC-Connecticut. (Best game of the early season by the way) In the first game, Duke freshman Loul Deng was the best player on the floor. In the late game, UConn freshman Charlie Villaneuva blew me away with his length and athleticism. They were easily two of the top five freshmen I have seen this year, but that is not all they have in common. Seems they both graduated from the Blair Academy in my home state of New Jersey last year.
Now here's what I don't get. Despite having two of the top five players in the country last year, they didn't even win the PREP SCHOOL STATE CHAMPIONSHIP, losing the final 55-53 to the Hun School. Now the Hun School, while a leader in generating future white-collar criminals, is not exactly known for its basketball program. My question is this -- How freaking bad were the other three guys on that Blair team?
Seriously... Lebron James won a NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP with a bunch of guys that couldn't get recruited by Ursinus last year! You saw Hoosiers, right? Jimmy Chitwood led the tiny Hickory Huskers to an all-class Indiana state championship in 1954, and all he had to pass to were Buddy, Strap, Merle and Ollie. Ollie shot foul shots underhanded for Pete's sake! How can you have two of the five best high school players in the country on your team and lose three games against teams unranked in their state? Somebody please answer this for me.
Let me set the scene... I'm at the Candlelight in suburban Denver -- three beers, two heated Pete Rose debates and one pound of fried cheese appetizer into the night. This is the kind of bar where Schlitz is the standard, the jukebox has everything from Abba to Zevon Warren (you shouldn't be allowed to manufacture a jukebox that doesn't have "Werewolves of London" in it, you really shouldn't), and if you walk in with your shirt tucked in, you're likely to get the same reaction the Delta boys got when they stopped in to see their man Otis Day.
More importantly, it's one of the few places where everyone from the Middle-Upper-Lower class to the Lower-Upper-Middle class can come together to destroy the bathroom, make clumsy, unwanted advances, and feel better about themselves by beating the tar out of some drunken Irishmen in Foosball.
This night, Max and I are dominating the table and we've just finished off our third straight shellacking of some Radio Shack employee-of-the month candidates and the line of quarters of potential victims is growing by the moment. Just then, Max gives me a tap on the shoulder, a head nod to the front door, and a "check this out" look. Walking through the front door is the kind of guy that you will inevitably find at any cover-less locals bar.
He's alone. He's wearing a suit. On a Saturday night. At midnight.
But not just any suit -- this suit couldn't have been manufactured any later than the Reagan administration. If I'm not mistaken, it was the same suit Eric Stoltz wore on his big date with Lea Thompson in the John Hughes classic "Some Kind of Wonderful." It gets better... He's got hair like Barry Melrose, and around his waist is a Fanny Pack. I swear I'm not making this up. A Fanny Pack. And boots. Big, Timberland style boots. I know this shouldn't be funny to me, but hey, neither should "Full House."
We can't help but stare as he saunters over to the Foosball table -- prior to even ordering a drink -- and places down three quarters. As he turns and walks away, bets are immediately taken as to the nature of the event that necessitated the wearing of the suit and with much more potentially disturbing possibilities, the contents of the Fanny Pack.
Our laughter quelled and our egos lifted, Max and I go back to the methodical dispatching of our opponents. Two beers later, it's you-know-who's time to step up and take his medicine. Still flying solo, he grabs one of the stiffs we've just beaten, and proceeds to do something I've never seen before.
He takes off his boots... to play Foosball.
Max and I are speechless, not to mention partially blinded by the glare emanating from the white tube socks that are now his only means of traction. As my teammate and I share a "lets get this over with before he reaches into that Fanny Pack" look, the first ball is dropped. Before we're three quarters of the way through the Johnny Cash "Nine Inch Nails" cover, Suit Man has taken us behind the woodshed with what was easily the most impressive performance in the annals of the great game of Foos. 10-to-freaking-3!
He was magical. I swear, if it's possible for 11 guys adhered to steel rods to look like the 1978 Dutch soccer team, he made it happen. I take solace solely in the fact that Suit Man will not leave that table the entire night, and he will remain bootless until 2 a.m.
As I slink away from the table, I suspect there is knowledge to be gained from the experience, and it has nothing to do with the contents of one very shady Fanny Pack.
Fast forward to Sunday... I'm aware that I wrote in my last post that New England was a "must bet," but that was credited to a strict adherence to the rules of gambling. In my heart, I look at the two teams in warm-ups and simply can't find a way that the Patriots will represent the AFC in Super Bowl XVIII.
Seriously... would you rather have Marvin Harrison and Edgerrin James or David Givens and Kevin Faulk? Peyton Manning, the golden-armed heir to the Hall of Fame legacy of his father Archie, or Tom Brady, who even his most ardent supporters can only seem to laud as "efficient" and "methodical" and who I let sit on my bench the entire season in Fantasy Football? Sorry, but this is a no-brainer from an aesthetic perspective.
Even a look at their coaches makes you a Colts fan. While Patriots coach Bill Belichick looks resplendent in his gray hooded Old Navy sweatshirt, he doesn't quite scream "class" and instill the same sense of confidence as Colts coach Tony Dungy.
Credibility on this web site be damned, I LOVE THE COLTS IN THIS GAME!
Until it starts.
A beauty to behold during warm-ups, the Colts are apparently the beneficiaries of the football equivalent of what we like to call the Candle-LIGHT, a remarkable phenomenon in which seemingly beautiful objects take on a much less appealing appearance upon closer inspection. Manning is dead set on undoing his two week run of brilliance just as quickly as humanly possible-throwing balls into the ground, taking sack after sack, and single-handedly renegotiating Ty Law's contract. Harrison, it seems, has decided to take the day off. Somewhere Keyshawn Johnson feels vindicated.
The Colts defense looks like it hit the Chiefs up for advice before catching their flight out of K.C. (Wasn't Tony Dungy a defensive coordinator? Did he get all his plays stolen by John Gruden when he left Tampa Bay like the Fonz in "The Waterboy?")
The Patriots, on the other hand, are breathtaking. (Did I just write breathtaking?) Brady stands back there -- surveying receivers, winking at groupies, thanking God he's not Drew Bledsoe -- and when the mood strikes him, throwing to one of his five open receivers. He is, no question about it, a brilliant quarterback. I am still waiting for him to make one, just one, of those Brett Favre "what the hell were you thinking?" decisions.
Despite ramblings to the contrary from my roommate, the lone Patriots fan that thinks Brady "isn't much of a leader," he is the closest thing to Joe Montana I have ever seen. Antowain Smith runs for 100 yards, or roughly 96 more than his entire regular season. The Patriots defense is everywhere, intercepting Manning four times. They nearly decapitate Reggie Wayne. Brandon Stokely makes like Leon from the Bud Light commercial and takes a seat on the bench, lest he get killed.
As the final seconds click away, I find myself hoping that fans all across the country have had the same moment of clarity that I have. This Patriots team, despite their lack of stars and a coach who looks like a runway model for Mugatu's Derelicte ensemble, are the greatest team the NFL has seen since the Cowboy dynasty of the early '90s.
Forty-five minutes and one Chipoltle Burrito later... I strap in to watch Carolina-Philadelphia.
I feel the urge to go online and throw everything I have on the early line for the Super Bowl. After watching New England, it really doesn't matter which of these two teams move on. Remembering that I haven't worked in nearly ninve months, I think better of it, and decide I'll just pick the Pats on this web site. I get the same satisfaction of being right without the threat of defaulting on my student loans.
The Linc is going crazy, but I know right away the Eagles are done, and not just because I told the world to play Carolina in my last post. The Panthers, even more bland and nameless than the Patriots, are pushing Philly all over the field. The Eagles can't run on the Carolina front four, their wideouts quit halfway through their routes more often then Terry Glenn, and Donovan McNabb just got drilled by Mike Rucker, Kris Jenkins, Julius Peppers, and I think Sam Mills on the last play. This leads to what have to be the most depressing words uttered over a home stadiums loudspeaker during the course of a conference championship game... "Now entering the game for Philadelphia, No. 10, Koy Detmer."
At halftime, even though it's 7-3 Carolina, it is all over but the shouting. Even the "Peoples Champion," Freddie Mitchell, can't seem to spark the Philly offense. (Question: How can you call yourself the "Peoples Champion" when, during your press conference last Monday, you stressed the need to "stay humble" while wearing a mink coat so lavish it can also be seen on Huggy Bear in the new Ben Stiller-Owen Wilson "Starsky and Hutch" flick?)
One McNabb pick and Deshaun Foster TD run later, all that remains is for Detmer to remind the world which Detmer won the Heisman. (Hint: It wasn't Koy.) Jake Delhomme. Mushin Muhammed. Steve Smith. It may not be Kurt Warner, Marshall Faulk and Issac Bruce, but they're moving on to meet their doppelganger in what has to be the only Super Bowl where they may just skip the pre-game introductions. The rumors begin immediately that the game may not be televised, but rather replaced by a stirring episode of "The Simple Life" -- you know, the one where Paris and Nicole act like spoiled, obnoxious brats and feel like everything they're asked to do is beneath them.
As the clock winds down on the Eagles season, and the hopes of dreams of my girlfriend's family are put on hold for another year, one image reverberates in my mind.
Suit Man.
You see, Suit Man is the Patriots and the Panthers wrapped up into one hilariously coifed bar patron. He didn't look pretty. He didn't command respect or concern himself with what everyone else thought about him. He just went about his business and kicked the living crap out of whoever got in his way.
Max and I fooled ourselves into believing that because we walked into the bar looking like Abercrombie and Fitch, we somehow had an inherent advantage over the guy in the tube socks and Fanny Pack. However, just like Manning and the Colts and McNabb and the Eagles found out against the Pats and the Panthers, appearances and style points don't mean a thing.
Once again, the bar has taught us what the library never could.
A Random Thought... On Saturday, I had the luxury of watching NCAA basketball. First, Duke-Wake Forest in the morning, immediately followed by NC-Connecticut. (Best game of the early season by the way) In the first game, Duke freshman Loul Deng was the best player on the floor. In the late game, UConn freshman Charlie Villaneuva blew me away with his length and athleticism. They were easily two of the top five freshmen I have seen this year, but that is not all they have in common. Seems they both graduated from the Blair Academy in my home state of New Jersey last year.
Now here's what I don't get. Despite having two of the top five players in the country last year, they didn't even win the PREP SCHOOL STATE CHAMPIONSHIP, losing the final 55-53 to the Hun School. Now the Hun School, while a leader in generating future white-collar criminals, is not exactly known for its basketball program. My question is this -- How freaking bad were the other three guys on that Blair team?
Seriously... Lebron James won a NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP with a bunch of guys that couldn't get recruited by Ursinus last year! You saw Hoosiers, right? Jimmy Chitwood led the tiny Hickory Huskers to an all-class Indiana state championship in 1954, and all he had to pass to were Buddy, Strap, Merle and Ollie. Ollie shot foul shots underhanded for Pete's sake! How can you have two of the five best high school players in the country on your team and lose three games against teams unranked in their state? Somebody please answer this for me.
posted by Tony at 11:46 AM
1 Comments:
I stumbled onto your blog via ST - and that bit about ST was hilarious! and so true but I will continue to lurk there all in the name of good laughs and an occasional bit of good info.
Even better is Suit Man - you have given him the makings of filmstardom on the order of Napoleon Dynamite! Excellent read!!
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