So I’m not the sportiest guy you’ve ever met.
Maybe that’s why the newsroom — and my Fearless foes on your right — were a smidge surprised to receive their spanking in Week 3.
What they didn’t know was, I’ve got football in my blood.
You see, my dad was a star back on his high school football team, the Alexandria Central Purple Ghosts in Alexandria Bay, N.Y. An injury stopped him short of greatness — or so the 10 year old in me likes to think — but he did manage a stint as a backup hockey goalie in college.
Skip forward a couple of decades. My dad had hopes that I would do justice to the family name on my Pee Wee team in fourth, fifth and sixth grades. I started at guard and center, and it wasn’t pretty. We’re talking I would whine when I got pushed too hard, and I always wanted to play fullback or tight end — the perfect place for the agile fat kid — but in flag football, there was really no need.
By middle school teen angst had taken over, and I was sick of organized sports. All hope of me in a Notre Dame jersey had faded.
That is, until I got an unexpected letter from Swarthmore College during senior year. Academically, I probably didn’t cut it; but they wanted me for my football skills. Apparently someone told them of my large, 6-foot-3 frame.
I never responded to the letter; and as it turned out, the football team was cut from the liberal arts school’s program the following year.
Coincidence? I think not.
Now I sit back on top of the sports world — well, the Daily Sports world. And on this off-week for our own Mildcats, I insisted to my staff that we get the Forecasters together to duke it out on the gridiron — er, gray and white grid.
To ensure I would hand out another ass whoopin’, I got in touch with my roots by calling my old (assistant) ball coach: my dad.
He says home field advantage is key this week, so Andrea’s picks of Purdue and Iowa aren’t wise. I say Andrea’s suck-titude last week was God getting back at her for not showing up for meetings half the time.
My dad says Deputy Jim’s a big fat idiot for picking Lou Holtz’s squad and thinking that Michigan State, our archrivals (we’ve had Michigan tickets since the ’80s) would beat Minnesota. Actually, my dad just helped pick the games. I think Jim’s a big fat idiot.
And poor, poor Amalie. Even my dad knows not to pick on folks while they’re down. Bon chance, Amalie.
And Mr. Lake, all I have to say is, my dad and I both voted Tiffany Berry for SSVP. Sorry.
Think you can beat this father-son team? Read that fine print and join in. Just don’t deny your roots.
