Perambulating through my mind tonight--I think its the coffee

If they started today, but they don’t, I’d pick the Packers, but don’t yet quote me on that. Though on a better note, I am 9-3 straight up on my picks this week!

I caught myself doing it; playing that tricky game. Like a body blow to the chest we never saw coming, the fact that the NFL regular season is almost half over struck me with a desire to be sick and keel over. How can something so good, so enjoyable, something we all waited oh so long for almost be on its way out?

If it is almost over, isn’t it prudent to look over who may or may not be playing for the Lombardi Trophy come February. I took a gander at the current NFL standings after the Sunday games for Week 8. I thought the thought we all think: if the playoffs started today, who would win?

First thing to strike you: not only would both the Houston Texans and the Cincinnati Bengals both make it to the playoffs, if the playoffs were determined today, as of this writing, they would play each other (most likely Saturday afternoon) in the Wild Card Playoffs, meaning one of them would advance to the Divisional Playoffs. The other Wild Card game would be between the erratic San Diego Chargers and the number six seeded New England Patriots.

Even in San Diego, one would assume Tom Brady and company would be favored, meaning its likely Mr. Bundchen would travel back to Pittsburgh against the current top seed in the AFC, the Steelers. While two perennial playoff teams meeting is no shock, the thought that one-half of the AFC Championship Game would be up for grabs between the Bills, Texans, and Bengals (all who would host New England, should the Pats advance—they would.) Notably missing the playoffs would be (so far, of course) the Ravens, Jets, Raiders, and Chiefs.

Besides the revelation the San Francisco 49ers would qualify for a first round bye, the NFC seems quite stable and almost chalk. The Packers are practically laminated at the number one seed, and the Giants have a precarious two game lead over the rest of their division. The weakened Saints would host the dirty Lions, while the G-Men would get last season’s number one in Chicago. Those games would be total crapshoots, but tending toward experience and home field, New York and New Orleans would seem fit to advance. (Note: we said the same thing about the Saints last year—being locked into a Wild Card victory. Note: we’ve said many, many times the Giants were practically guaranteed a playoff berth—before they wilted like a fern in a shut-in’s house.)

The Packers would be a prohibitive favorite to win the whole thing, besides being my choice, and I foresee the Niners being knocked out by whomever is lucky enough to stumble into that cupcake victory, much like the Bears lucked into playing the Seahawks and not the Saints in the playoffs last season. C’mon, the final four NFC quarterbacks could be Aaron Rodgers, Drew Brees, Eli Manning (all Super Bowl MVPs) and Alex “Yes, I am still starting for an NFL team and not blowing it” Smith. Which one of these things don’t belong? You don’t need Grover to figure this out.

Though picking the Patriots in the AFC isn’t picking the chalk number one, it sure feels like it, but perhaps that’s the Jets homer in me. They’d play the Packers, who’ll probably repeat. BWB has mentioned it previously; the Packers are the best team who have ever taken the field, this season anyway. They can air it out when it is to their advantage, but they can also have a great small game they can use to exploit the opposing defenses. Considering I am a gambler, perhaps I should put some money on this now. Faithful readers, I shall let you know.

In other nonfootball news

Ok look, I have quite a lot of interests, football is merely one of them. I also am aware this blog is called Brett Without Borders and I’ve been quite light on non-football related blogs of late, but frankly, who wants to write about a Presidential election when none of the Republican candidates including (but not limited to) Ron Paul, Herman Cain (my two favorites), Mitt Romney and the rest don’t have a snowball’s chance in DC—I mean hell—of beating our incumbent.

That’s not to say the President has done a remarkable job thus far. Anyone who knows me knows I am not a fan of him. The economy sucks. Really sucks. So bad I’m considering man-whoring on 4th Street bad. Not only do I sense his victory, I am almost positive it will happen. This nation seems to be on the brink, and we, as a whole people, seem to be reaching our boiling point, as evidenced by Tea Parties and Occupy “Insert City or Group or Whatever other noun will make a funny joke or pun.” These are the days people flock to demagogues, charlatans, and devils in disguise to solve every problem they encounter. While that would seem to lean towards an upstart Republican, you must remember we already have a demagogue charlatan in the White House who is already clenching his executive powers tighter than a nursing home resident after her prune juice.

And who wants to write about that?

(Except me, who not only just wrote about it briefly, but is also using this general theme in my upcoming manuscript, which should be ready in the coming weeks.)

Hey, guess what? Celebrities are people too—and they love the pipe! (allegedly)

Lindsay Lohan has become the most recent survivor of the affliction generally referred to as “meth tooth.” While BWB would never accuse anybody of sucking their career, friends, life, money, sanity and looks down the tube and through their discolored and dying front teeth, Miss Lohan certainly seemed willing to rock that part of her Halloween costume for quite a long time. Upon being notified she was a few weeks early in her dress-up, she now has a new set of pearly whites, to go along with her pale and gaunt skin. Now, Lindsay, just introduce yourself to the sun and you will be all set!

In news concerning actors who, you know, actually act

Should the world end in December of 2012, I will be okay with it. After all, Batman will be coming to the big screen one last time, as will the Avengers. This past decade of being a comic book fan and an extreme movie buff and obsessive fan has been nothing short of a dream come true. And though I am an Emma Stone fan (okay, for the interests of full disclosure, I’m one step below obsessed—whatever that step is.) Normally, I attempt not to rant like this, or if I do, at least provide some amount of news and information. I have none today, I just wanted to say how much I’m looking forward to seeing Batman’s back broken and seeing Tommy from 3rd Rock from the Sun become a bona fide movie star.

BWB NFL Picks Week 8: Rhyme Tyme

As clever as I think I may be
The NFL future I clearly can’t see…
No, wait! It’s coming, it just wasn’t on time
But now, I’ll be perfect, because they are all in rhyme.

A paltry six picks is all that I won.
Hell, the Chiefs had that when all was said and done.
But will I chose them Monday night?
Todd Haley’s beard is quite a fright.

Plus they say the Chargers are done,
And it’s true I believe in Norv none.
But in All Hollow’s fashion, we will get a trick
The CHARGERS in the (non) upset pick.

Foster and the TEXANS are on the hunt
This time the playoffs aren’t a publicity stunt.
They’ll run down and capture every cat they can
As the Jaguars are chasing the LA moving van.

The Desperation Dolphins head to New York
Which is like saying a hamburger is pork.
Jersey or Pluto, no matter where the GIANTS play
Miami is already fixing for draft day.

The TITANS weren’t so mighty during Week 7
But hosting Painter and the Colts is close to heaven.
Even starting a senior citizen and CJ the bust
They will grind the Colts to dust.

Battle of the birds in Baltimore, as the Cards fly in
But Pujols and Freese aren’t playing, since their Game 7 win.
Their inept O makes a comes all the way back
And the RAVENS destroy Kolb via the sack.

Cam or Christian? The choice is clear.
Newton’s future is already here.
The Vikings are a disturbing mess
And the PANTHERS are Ponder-less.

The SAINTS are ready to continue to surf
To the title of “The New Greatest Show on Turf?”
Again, they’ll win, and they’ll have a ball
But will the Rams offense show up at all?

The Seahawks suck, and they I will never pick
Watching Whitehurst makes me sick
But don’t buy the BENGALS, thinking they’ll be great
Screwing up in the draft is their fate.

Harbaugh’s NINERS are for real, and already playoff bound
They’re the true meaning of ground and pound.
The Browns are feisty and will play them stiff
Planning for Smith to revert back to Smith.

Brady must own stock in US Steel
He trounces over Pittsburgh, making them heel
The PATRIOTS are masters of pre-game tape
Big Ben is only a master of forceful…

The Redskins travel to Canada, to visit the upstart BILLS
Seeing Washington in Toronto must give the Mounties chills.
Not only is it joyous to see DC on a crippled knee,
They know the Leafs and Senators will outscore them on CBC.

Will the real LIONS finally show?
Will Tebow Time go to two and oh?
I do know what he’ll be praying for on gameday.
“For the love of God, will someone get in Suh’s way?!”

I’ve never ever believed in that Romo guy
Watching all his gaffes never made me wonder why
And I always loved watching Vick with joy
He plays with the wonder and hope of a teenage boy

Sunday night, both need the win
Both teams’ turnarounds need to begin
But neither will play error-free games
Fans will shout out “Effin” plus names.

So the question, who to pick?
Who makes the turnover that makes you sick?
Though the Cowboys are better, I will go with Andy Reid
His EAGLES stock up post-bye wins with greed.

Hopefully, I will be better than last week
That weird, wild Sunday was a fluke, a freak.
But no matter what, I will have a laughing sigh
For the Manic Jets are on a bye.

In Memoriam

How can it be so?

I'm lost, incomplete, and full of remorse. We had so much time together. We could have been great. We were great once, weren't we? We lived, loved, laughed, cried. When I was successful, you were right there by my side, as if you were attached to my left hip. When I was down and out more times than I can count, still you stayed. We had something. Now, you are gone, and I don't know what I'll do without you.

Wallet, dear sweet wallet, you may have been my best friend. As I attempted to scrape together every solitary George Washington I could encounter during my bleak and arduous high school years, where did I put them? We more often than not wasted those stark singles on frivolous expenditures, but hell, wasn't it one fun ride though?

In college, where did I keep my never-ceasing supply of condoms? In you, of course. Never mind the fact that the supply never dwindled because the demand was non-existent. That doesn't matter, because you had my back while in my pocket throughout the star-crossed journey.

When Iworked two jobs, running from one place to another in a frantic attempt to make ends meet, you were my office. I shoved, stored, and stapled items into you, shoehorning more and more stuff into you to the point you finally burst. I'm sure it hurt, but you never once complained, did you?

Those last few weeks were the toughest, weren't they? We both knew you were on your last legs. Your soft, single-fold frame made out of sturdy leather is just as tough and gruff as it always has been, but your seams, like my own creaky ankles could only take so much stress. Even as I braced the damage with a green butterfly clip, closing your gaping right side, nothing could stop the inevitable. We briefly thought about a second clip, a blue one, for the left side, remember? Ah, it is just as well.

Now, what am I to do? Where am I going to throw useless business cards for Dawn C. Hammond, Medical Ethobotanist, Washoe Legal Service's Mark Ashley, Esquire, the Great Basin Brewing Company, and a two-week old bus pass now? I mean, besides the trash can.

So here I am, sitting in this lonely, squalid hellhole of the JCSU on a day which is apparently a holiday. Even though it is Nevada Day, I don't feel like celebrating. How can I? I am now forced to carry my essentials around like this:

So, my Barnes & Noble Membership, ID, Social Security Card, Jimmy John's Repeater Eater card (only need one more punch before I earn a free sandwich!!!) my assorted bank cards, and a two-dollar bill (for good luck) with a few stamps and movie stubs tucked in its folds are being held together by the green clip which once held you together.

What am I going to do now? Before I left my house, I always dida quick check, while patting my respective pockets back and forth, starting with my right--"Keys, wallet, phone, pen, chapstick." Now, that will be replaced with--"Keys, butterfly clip, phone, pen, chapstick." Shoot me now.

Thank God Christmas is coming!

Hint, hint.

Happy Nevada Day everybody!

Why Relegation Matters. No, really, I Swear

Recently, a huge hullabaloo has hit England. No, I am not talking about the massive protests and riots amongst the agitated classes which has burned, maimed and destroyed millions of pounds of the once-sterling island. I’m not even referring to the crumbling of the European Union and the financial tsunami currently rumbling through the English Channel (and soon to flow across the Atlantic—again.) Hell, I’m not even talking about the freshest gossip concerning Princess Kate.

Of course, I am talking about sports, specifically relegation.

What??

In America, in the baseball world, players move up and down a system of minor league affiliates based on the whims and motivations of the Major League teams they are contracted to, as the players, owners, and management fight for their own personal glory, financial gain, and their place in the record books. In baseball, it is you against the system; every player must fight for their place, even with their teammates. Major League teams will stay Major no matter what; there is no chance the Toledo Mud Hens or the Columbus Clippers will attain World Series glory. The only guarantee is that greed, no matter how ideal the system is, will only corrupt the system. (See: steroids. See also: $7 beers.) European soccer is far more socialized than American rugged individualistic sports society, but so is their society, at-large.


Relegation and promotion are two amazing features in English soccer (football, as I call it, soccer.) The English Premier League the top-flight soccer league in England, if not all of the world, consists of twenty teams. At the end of the season, the bottom three teams are relegated (demoted) to the second-tier league, and the top three from the Championship League (the aforementioned second-tier) are promoted. This promotion occurs between every level of professional soccer in England, giving even the last place Plymouth Argyle FC of League Two a legitimate dream of one day winning the Champions League. The clubs work together to attain a goal, even if it takes years. In theory, working together pays dividends. However, the only guarantee is that greed, no matter how ideal the system is, will only corrupt the system. (See: £80m transfer fees and 920% price inflation.)

The relegation system, in place for generations, is an integral part of the soccer landscape, which is an integral part of English society. So, of course, relegation is under attack from American and other foreign-based owners of English soccer clubs, desperate to avoid being relegated, and thus have their product devalued. There is a huge outcry against such talk in England, but considering their societal and historical weakness (not to mention their paranoia) against foreign invasion (World War II excluded because they never were actually invaded. Bombed to shit? Yes. Invaded? No,) they will eventually cave-in, at least until they stop allowing foreigners to buy their nation right from under them. And it is a pity, because I think relegation should be brought over to the American sports—right away.

Think about it, it could solve the NBA’s lockout overnight. If you broke up the league into two flights, between the playoff teams and non-playoff teams from last season, you’d have one super-competitive league of the best markets in the game: Chicago, Miami, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Los Angeles (the good one), Dallas, and even Oklahoma City all playing to sold-out arenas. The quality of the games would be immense, every night would be must-see television. Granted, some of those teams would have bad records (being the worst of the best means they never would win the title anyway, but at least they’d have the Lakers and Celtics come to town.)

The Golden States and the Clevelands of the world would be playing against each other, creating more competitive games, generating more and more interest in the sport. Vying against each other, the bottom fourteen in two conferences of seven would compete for their conference championships, the winner getting promoted. The bottom team in each conference of the top-tier NBA would be demoted. Imagine, for a moment, if Memphis, last season’s number eight seed in the West, would have been demoted. On a mission to redeem themselves, they’d tear through the NBA Championship League in order to regain their status amongst the NBA Premier League Teams.


Wholesale societal changes in sports might sound extreme now; abolishing the status quo is tough for many people, especially with institutions we hold dear, and how many men hold sports teams tighter than their family? Thousands? Millions?

Why stop at sports? Why not health care? What about in finance? Or government?

Or, maybe, Americans can stop intervening in the domestic affairs of other nations.

The Bets Part II. Or, why I can't stand Tim Tebow

My knee continued to swell with each broken step. The pain had vanished the night before in a blend of remedies not normally blended together. Soreness, as if I had just finished a two hour workout focused entirely on my right leg, had crept in overnight; constant standing and walking behind the bar at the Lobsta made it unbearable.

And though my leg was aching to be chopped off at the hip, I paid it little attention. My thoughts were squarely centered on my picks for the week: Bears, Jets, Dolphins, Raiders, Steelers, Cowboys, Packers. It was nearly one o’clock on the west coast and I was sitting pretty. The Bears and Matt Forte were running all over the overvalued and seemingly undersized Tampa Bay Buccaneers in London, and the Jets were in the midst of holding on to a game in which the San Diego Chargers gave up.

The Desperation Dolphins were up 15-0 when my co-worker Sam, who helped me with my locked keys saga two nights previous walked into Tha Lobsta. “How my Dolphins doing?” he asked with a fair amount of foreboding.

“Don’t worry, they are up 15-0. They have the game in the bag,” I replied. He looked worried, anguished even. He was naturally a jovial sort; I wondered aloud often whether he let anything bother him at all.

“I picked the Broncos today,” he admitted. “The first time I picked against my team and they are going to win.”

“Just goes to show you,” I admonished him with a wink in my eye. “Perhaps you can bet against them for the rest of the year and they will win out and make the playoffs.”

We both got a good chuckle and I looked up at the television screen, still showing the remaining minutes of the Falcons-Lions game. Tebow was making a comeback, so said the ticker at the bottom of the screen. Dolphins 15, Broncos 7. Uh oh.

I dusted, wiped and cleaned every square centimeter of the bar, and awaited the second half of the doubleheader and attempted to take my mind off of Tim Tebow and his offensive line consisting of his heart, his guts, his faith, his desire never to give up, and his fan base (oh wait, they weren’t playing, my bad. From all their Tebow talk these past two weeks, it was easy to forget.)

All of a sudden, it was 15-15 and overtime. What?!

Tim Tebow, as great a man as he may be, has no business on an NFL football field being a starting quarterback, that much was clear to me. And granted, the Desperation Dolphins are the leaders in the clubhouse concerning the Andrew Luck Sweepstakes, but how was it even possible the Chosen One had tied the game?

To look for a sign, a clue, or even a whimper of what was happening in South Florida, I turned my attention to the other television in the bar: it was showing the Raiders and the Chiefs. Kyle Boller was starting for the Raiders because Carson Palmer was not yet ready; nor was he, it seems. The first play I watched happened it slow motion, at least it seemed it was because even I read the defense quicker than poor Mr. Boller did. Interception returned for a touchdown. The game was over before it began; it was all the Chiefs needed. I went from an easy 3-0 to start my seven team parlay to a quick 2-2 and an early exit for my BWB picks.

Lessons learned: don’t ever take Kyle Boller, ever and don’t pick a team when even their fans know it is a lost cause.

The Steelers came through, as I knew they would. Still, the Cardinals made it closer than it should have been, which would worry me, if I cared anything about the health and long-term quality of Steelers football. The Cowboys didn’t let me down either. Next, they get to go to Philadelphia Sunday night. Everybody, go to Mo’s! And the damn Packers won, but didn’t cover. Green Bay seemed as shocked as
everyone, besides Mama Ponder, that Christian kept his Vikings team competitive.

On my official seven team ticket, I was 4-3 overall, 5-2 straight up. As of this writing, I’m still hoping for a Raven win to pad my stats, but as it stands, I am officially 6-6 (not counting my ten team parlays I compulsively created.) Go Ravens!

The Official As It Stands Now Super Bowl XLVI Prediction Courtesy of BWB is Packers 35, Ravens 14

The First Ever BWB NFL Bets, Part I

At last!

Yes, an actual blog post.  Guess what folks, I made the first ever BWB NFL Picks, and not a moment too soon.

Friday Afternoon

I arrive at the Club Cal-Neva Sports book and am completely overwhelmed.  I have been in the cavernous top floor many times, but never to bet.  Where once I saw desperate men chatting, pouring over games of no real meaning save for their spot on the big board.  The men drank too much scotch, smoked the good kind of cigars and, frankly, frightened me.  The locals played here; the casino was the trashy one on the strip, and the tourists knew it.

It was the day I ceased being a tourist, and became a Reno-ite.

…at least, that was the plan.

Instead of hobnobbing with the locals, attempting to pick up any sure bets, bad beats, or crooked lines, I realized I hadn’t budgeted enough time to place my bets and make it to work on time.  So, in a frazzled dash from the parking garage through the skyway, past the oddly-placed restaurant, and into said Sports Book, I hastily grabbed four parlay cards and vowed to fill them in before kickoff Sunday.

Friday Evening—Work

Insanely busy night at work with a great co-worker who has the ability to be fantastic, though seemed a little to overwhelmed behind the bar.  Insane money was made, football never factored in.  But, she’s a Dolphins fan.

Friday Night—After Work

I have my sister’s car.  True fans of BWB will know this is a (largely) a bipedal and bus institution run on trail mix and peppermint mochas.  BWB continues to save money by not paying for gasoline, car insurance, general upkeep and loan payments and simply paying bus fare.

I walk out of Tha Lobsta with C; I like her.  She has the best cynical sense of humor.  It fits her sometimes; sometimes it seems too contrived, like she’s desperately cynical and it’s not an acts.  I like her a lot.

I pay attention to nothing but her as I open the trunk, place my apron and assorted work-related tools in their carrying case, toss it gently back into the trunk and slam the trunk shut, along with my keys.  C drives away and smiles, at least I think she does.  She looks like a Raiders fan.

With the help of two other coworkers, one of which I may or may not have felt up while attempting to find a cigar cutter, I was able to use a metal pipe through the passenger’s window to unlock the door and enter the cabin, where I was able to retrieve the keys.  She’s a Steelers fan, and he is a Dolphins fan too.  Damn, these Dolphins must be desperate.

Saturday Morning—Spanish Springs

I return my sister’s car, and am promptly served with karma.  I knock on the door and am met quickly by Jules’ dogs.  In attempt to protect my sister, their queen, Champ and Boo-Boo attack.  Boo-Boo bit me twice, once in the ankle, one just above the knee.  I got the message.  I’m taking Chicago in London.  

My sister is a Jets fan, mostly because I’m a Jets fan.  Meh, good enough for me.  

Saturday Evening—The Couch

I drift in and out of consciousness during World Series Game Three.  The game is good enough, and it was amazing to see Albert Pujols hit those three home runs.  Though I might have been asleep for the first one.  If you watched it, you just knew he was going to hit that last one in the ninth.  Not only was he locked in, he was smiling between pitches, knowing the sacrificial lamb was coming.  All of Arlington knew it, it was fated.  Cardinals in 6.  But, there’s no chance the Bradford-less Rams can outscore the Cardinals, let alone the Cowboys.  Plus, one of my best friends is a Cowboys fan, and I can’t go against my bro.
And his fiancé is a Packers fan, and they are absolutely the best team on the planet.  Aaron Rodgers is less leading a team than the Conductor of the Boston Pops, leading a masterpiece in motion where no fluid motion is unaccounted for.  They are the perfect team.

Sunday Morning—Placing the Bets

I hastily threw my seven teamer together: Bears, Jets, Dolphins, Raiders, Steelers, Cowboys, Packers.  Five dollar bet would win $520.  Damn it, why did I have to bet on the Jets?

I picked the other six games too, putting them on a separate ticket of their own: Panthers, Browns, Titans, Lions, Colts (taking the points) Sunday Night and the Ravens on Monday.  My strategy: pick all home teams unless someone is getting over two touchdowns.  I know the Colts suck without Peyton Manning and the Saints are supposedly still superior, but I have to gamble a little, right?  That’s a six-teamer that could win me $260.

I consider myself lucky I only spent ten dollars in the casino, and resolve to leave, but as it stands, I left for the casino early and now have more than forty minutes to kill before my bus departs.  While I’m here, I think about other parlays.  I ball up my ten biggest sure-fire wins: Bears, Jets, Dolphins, Raiders, Steelers, Cowboys, Packers, Lions, Ravens, and Saints (I think this is considered hedging my bets, and though this was the way the stock market crashed in 2008, I do it anyway and hope nobody sees me.)

I  throw a fit with myself about my complete lack of faith in Curtis Painter, Dallas Clark, and the legally blind and disabled Kerry Collins and their winless bunch of Ponies.  They do seem to be very, very good at sucking for a sure-fire number one pick, however and I furiously fight against every instinct in my furthest reaches to rip up my six-teamer.  Figuring, rightly, that even Jim Caldwell has a mother, I resolve to give them one more chance and quickly produce another ten teamer of teams I originally picked against: Bucs, Redskins, Chargers, Seahawks, Texans, Broncos, Falcons, Chiefs, Cardinals, and the Colts.

I left after that, fortunately for me.  Stay tuned for the results Monday and Tuesday!

POEM: Untying the Nots

Holy smokes. May? I can hardly believe it has been five months since I've posted on this blog. I have excuses, but they are just that. So, to my few friends and followers of this webpage, I apologize. I promise to post far more often than never. And, as a show of good faith, I post this poem I have just finished. Please, read it and post any and all feedback you have. More after the poem.

I’m a big ball of yarn, sad but true
Twisted and tangled, a faded blue
Against this wall, I quietly lay
Waiting for my time to be used some day.

One thing I can plainly see
Is a bright blue sweater, sewn from me
Either hand-knitted or faux-Cardigan form
Ready to tackle the elements, wintery warm.

On Thanksgiving Day, I could easily be
An Afghan blanket snuggling you with glee
Ensconced in joy, Grandma’s couch we sit
Basking in the aromas love and turkey care to emit.

But really the thing I most wish I could be
Is a toy for a kitten who’d love to play with me
She’d playfully paw, not caring I’m frayed
Prancing and pouncing, not seeing I’m staid.

But dust and doubt most decidedly cling
Perpetual potential is trapped in my string
You can imagine it now, but can you see
All of those wonderful things I can be?

Give me a chance to put in the work
Clean myself up, get out of the murk
Fixing the frays, finding the spots
One day soon, I will untie all the nots.

Tune in this weekend, where we will make the first official BWB NFL bets, and chronicle how we do.