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WHO IS CHARLIE?
On an episode of TV's "South
Park," role model Cartman once warned everyone to "Watch
out for Charlie in the Trees."
And I like to think that'll set the tone for my Outsports.com
column. I like to think of myself as somewhat dangerous, or cunning,
but above the fray, watching down upon the sports scene like a
slimmed-down version of the Slice Blimp. Or the Fuji Film Blimp. Or
the Shamu the Killer Whale for Seaworld Blimp.
Only I'm not in a blimp. Nor am I a blimp. I'm not even in the
trees, in actuality. I'm just above it all.
You may be wondering: what's up with him? Why is he qualified to
write a sports column for the premier Web site for gay athletes and
athletic supporters? (Cheap pun, I know, but there are some thing's
that I'm just not above.)
Why am I qualified? Well, I will have you know that I am
experienced with all facets of the sports scene due to the fact that
I share my house with a dark, muscular, good-looking retired
athlete.
OK, so the retired athlete is a ex-racing greyhound that I adopted.
Greyhound racing is a sport. And he is cute as a button.
And to protect the reputation of my retired athlete life-partner,
you know, for the sake of all those potential endorsements, I write
about the sports scene under a nom de gay, Charlie - in the Trees.
E-mail
Charlie
Past Columns
I'm
in love with a hot Spanish gymnast.
Can't
get enough of those shaved armpits.
Why
I hate the Redskins
Give
me Jeter over Cruise
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THE BEST TIME OF THE
YEAR By
Charlie In The Trees
Special to Outsports.com
It's the most wonderful time
of the year
It's the hap - happiest season of all
With those holiday greetings and gay happy meetings
When friends come to call
It's the hap - happiest season of all.
(from "It's the
Most Wonderful Time of the Year," by Eddie Pola and George Wyle)
LAS VEGAS--October, sports fans, is truly the most wonderful
time of the year.
All four of the major sports are in action for this brief window.
The baseball playoffs are in full swing. Tackle football – pro and
college – is hitting stride. Hockey is in action. And Allen
Iverson has released his faux Eminem rap record, signaling the start
of yet another NBA campaign. Enjoy.
The baseball divisional series games were worth racing home from
work to watch. And, I must point out that my predictions for the
first round were uniformly perfect. Perfectly awful. I got every
series wrong. 0-4. Yow. Contrary to my prediction, the Cardinals
absolutely pounded the Braves unmercifully. The Braves unilaterally
surrendered after Maddux was bombed in the first inning of Game 1.
The White Sox were gone before most people even noticed the playoffs
began. The Mets seemed incapable of playing a boring post-season
game. But they must be punished for dispatching the San Francisco
Giants, and removing the beautiful J.T. Snow, Bobby Estalella and
Shawn Estes from our TV screens this last season of the 20th
Century. (My reference up top, quoting the carol lyric about
"gay happy meetings" was not a comment about Mike Piazza.)
And the verdict is now in: Barry Bonds will never come through in
October. Too many times with too many teams, the spotlight has shone
on him and he has shrunk from the occasion. Bonds kept ending
innings and killing rallies.
Batting right after Bonds in the four hole, the Giants' other
superstar, Jeff Kent, was left without RBI opportunities because he
was leading off every second or third inning.
The best series was the Yankees and the A's. This was one of those
rare times where the reputation of both teams came out enhanced. The
Yankees aren't yet old and finished. The young A's weren't
over-matched by their big budget brethren. They kept fighting.
Winning Game 4, 11-1 to send the series back to Oakland. Coming from
six runs down to make a game of the finale. The A's hung
tough.
I was reminded in this series about what Rudy Tomjanovich said when,
during the Michael Jordan interregnum, the Houston Rockets won an
NBA title as a six-seed: "Don't ever underestimate the heart of
a champion."
Here's my new rule for picking baseball winners: I'm not picking
against the Yankees ever again until they've lost a series. Of
course, all of this wonderfulness can be spoiled with the evil
specter of a "Subway Series." The Yankees do have the
heart of a champion.
My beloved Cardinals are injured and do not match up well against
the Mets. If the Cards do make the Series, and play the Yankees,
there is an interesting history that would come into play. The last
time they met, in 1964, was an historic series, and the Cardinals'
victory signaled the end of the Mantle era. Would that happen again?
Fan interest would be high, especially with Mark McGwire back on the
field DH'ing for the Cards. However, an all-New York, single media
market World Series, should get the ratings of a tape-delayed
heart-warming profile of a rhythmic gymnastics heroine.
Don't like baseball? Hey, tackle football is in full swing. This
year's Rams offense is even more potent, more spectacular than last.
We've never before seen anything like this, so potent. The Raiders
keep stringing exciting games together. The disintegration of the
Cowboys continues. (And, yes, my reference up top, quoting the carol
lyric about "gay happy meetings" was not a comment about
Troy Aikman.)
The Jags, Bucs and Skins are not on the express train to the Super
Bowl and, instead, are on the ropes. This week's Monday night game
featured two of the hottest players in this or any football season:
Mike Alstott of the Bucs and Daunte Culpepper of the Vikes.
I'm sorry, but if you can't enjoy watching the sight of Alstott and
Culpepper on the same TV screen, then why the heck have you even
surfed onto this website?
Don't like the pros, then check out the colleges. Hokie Michael Vick
is something special. Wouldn't you love to see him coached by the
Rams' Mike Martz? The Big 10 and the Pac-10 are stacked, with
quality teams top to (almost) bottom. (I still don't recognize the
down Penn State program as part of the Big 10. If the Nittany Lions
really belonged in a Midwestern conference with Iowa and Wisconsin,
don'tcha think they'd rename it the "Big 11"?).
And in between baseball and four nights of broadcast football, find
room on your buffet plate for ice hockey. The Blues' Chris Pronger.
The Sharks' Jeff Friesen. The Predators' Drake Berehowsky (who has
dated Dean Cain's ex – an ex-girlfriend, that is – I guess I
should specify). The Devils' Martin Brodeur. Heck, all of the
Devils. When did the Ford Agency start stocking the rosters of the
NHL franchise? I don't ever recall so many hot looking guys playing
pro hockey.
What are we up to now? 175 NHL franchises, now that they've expanded
to Baton Rouge, Spokane and Kingman, Arizona. (Oops, I'm sounding
like a presidential candidate with my serial exaggerations.) I guess
the players had to come from somewhere. (And, of course, my
reference up top, quoting the carol lyric about "gay happy
meetings" was not a comment about Eric Lindros. Couldn't be.
Lindros is AWOL this season.)
Even basketball is revving up. Of course, in the post-Jordan era,
the NBA continues to spiral downward into the sewer of disinterest.
When the Allen Iverson rap CD is the most talked-about feature of
the upcoming NBA season, you know folks aren't focusing on
b-ball.
And, best of all, sports fans, the tape-delayed broadcast of the
Olympics is finally over. Some guys have actually criticized my
celebration of the ethos of the shaved armpit. Someone even
criticized me for going ga-ga over the clean-shaven gymnasts while
criticizing the overall girlishness of NBC's gymnastics commentator.
Here's the rule: Shaved
armpits on a male gymnast: HOT. Shaved armpits on a male
swimmer in a sleeveless bodysuit: womenly. Shaved armpits on a
women's softball player: highly unlikely.
So much male flesh on display those Olympics. So inspirational. For
years, I have been exercising, watching my diet. I wanted the
physique of an Olympic champion. And now, I am happy to report, I
have indeed reached that point. I too have the body of an Olympic medallist.
Unfortunately, it's Rulon
Gardner. It's all those years of eating at Las Vegas
buffets. I'm well on my way to the Olympian physique of the gold
medal wrestler. I'm off to the Cheesecake Factory and I am not
skipping dessert. Thank you, Rulon.
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