The Weekly Meat

Long Night on Ocracoke

Despite my history of playing hockey — during which I have been in my share of scrums — I have never actually punched another human being in the face. Nor have I (sans helmet and cage) ever been punched in the face.

One night about 15 years ago on Ocracoke Island, I was fairly certain this fact would change.

I was on the island with my friend Spider to visit a few friends who were living there — with a few of their friends (respectable, year-rounders, at that) — for the summer. It was July 4th weekend, and as it turned out, our hosts (the friends of our friends) had invited a gaggle of their own college buddies. So it came to pass that 8 to 10 of us would be bunked down on the first floor of this house.

I was in my mid-20s, and pretty well done with college-level partying, and sleeping on floors. The other houseguests, not so much. So, around 11 PM, while they were out at the bars getting hammered, Spider and I retreated back to the house with our friends to hang out. Afterward, we each laid claim to a couch and tried to get some sleep before the horde returned, loud and successfully liquored.

Sleeping was fitful that night, and I tried in vain to snooze through the sounds from the dining room of a head-to-head drinking game in which one of the women was putting a serious hurt on a loutish guy named Todd, while they each drank a shot of beer every minute for a full hour. As one might suspect, it was noisy, there was much trash talking, and Todd was slurringly drunk.

Eventually, things settled down, and I fell back to sleep.

A few hours later, in the still-dark morning and among the snoring masses, I awoke to hear from the other room a woman's urgent, pleading voice: "Todd, stop. Please... Todd."

Todd said nothing, but was clearly belligerent and insistent. And the woman's pleas continued, more strained: "Todd, you have to stop. Todd. Stop." Adrenaline surged, and I swung my legs off the couch to help. Spider, too, had woken up and was piecing together an ugly picture.

In addition to having never punched someone in the face, I have thankfully never seen, experienced, or been touched by rape of any kind. But what was going through my head — as I stood up and started into the other room — was that if this drunken idiot was in any way mistreating the woman (and it sure as hell sounded like he was), he was going to be the first guy I punched in the face. And very hard.

Let me be clear. I'm 5'6" when I'm not slouching, and if I boxed, I'd do so as a lightweight. I can be hot-headed, but I'm not an idiot, and I understand my limits. This guy Todd had a few inches and 30 pounds on me, but he was drunk, and I was going to beat his ass. Badly.

As I strode purposefully toward the other room, the woman shed more light on what was happening. "Todd," she said. "STOP." And then: "You're peeing in the refrigerator."

And at that, I turned around — the hero in me, admittedly, somewhat disappointed — walked back, and sat down on my couch. I looked over at Spider and said, "Fuck it, they're on their own." Then, I laid back down and closed my eyes.

::::::::::::::::::

When I woke for good later that morning, the hungover horde slept on. Spider and I went out for some breakfast, then packed our gear, and said goodbye to our friends upstairs. Then, we gingerly peeked inside the fridge. Todd had taken a substantial leak in the vegetable crisper.

We laughed, and shook our heads in pity and disbelief. And we left, more than a bit saddened by the fact that I had still never punched another person in the face.

For a moment there, I'd had the perfect candidate.

Recipe for a Stanley Cup

When mud season passes and even the northerly hotbeds of hockey drift into Spring's brightening wheelhouse, the urge for fishing and golf is strong — yes — but for many, nothing less than a Stanley Cup will do. To those diehards among us for whom this is the case, I offer the following recipe (serves 20, plus coaches and GM).

Gently fold in all ingredients, then beat well:

• 10–12 Canadians
  Note: Not necessarily Canadiens. The exact number varies, but Canadians have hockey in their blood. And hockey blood is much needed in the triage ward that is the NHL playoffs.

• >1 rock-solid shutdown defensemen
  Because you need to neutralize not just the other team's best line, but their power play too. See Robinson, Larry; Stevens, Scott; Lidström, Nicklas.

• 1 well-respected captain
  to rally the troops and lead by example. See Messier, Mark; again, Stevens, Scott; Crosby, Sidney.

• 1 smart coach
  with nerves of steel and a system that the team has bought into wholesale. See Shero, Fred; Bowman, Scotty; Lemaire, Jacques.

• 1 pure shooter
  You need goals in the playoffs, not guys holding their sticks too tightly. Somebody's gotta snipe. See Leach, Reggie; Bossy, Mike; Kurri, Jari;

• 1 faceoff specialist
  Gotta win key draws during crunch time. So I don't see Boston winning it all this year unless Patrice Bergeron comes back healthy (pretty big if).

• 1 great goalie
  Hot/streaky unestablished guys like last year's Antti Niemi are the exception, not the rule (unless, of course, young Niemi continues to improve and rounds into a great goalie for the next decade). The list of Cup-winning goalies over the past 40 years is long on Hall of Famers (Parent, Dryden, Smith, Fuhr, Roy, Brodeur) and very short on guys who didn't pan out quite so well. Of the four goalies left this year (Roloson, Thomas, Luongo, and Niemi again), the bias slants heavily toward Luongo.

• 1 player on the verge of stardom
  Either guys have the stones to compete at the highest level, or they don't. And there are few things more exciting for coaches and fans alike than to watch a player discover they have both the stones and the skill, and permanently raise up their game a notch. See 1993: John LeClair; 2002: Pavel Datsyuk; 2008: Johan Franzen.

• 1 gray beard
  A little gray doesn't just add color to a playoff beard, it brings palpable bench experience and maybe even grudging respect from the opposing team. See Andreychuk, Dave; Niedermayer, Scott, Bourque, Raymond.

• Grit
  Toughness enough to not just to play up to an additional 28 games, but to win 16 of them. The hockey playoffs are a brutal, two-month long slog (think military SERE training, but with skates). The tests are physical, mental, and emotional all at once. You need to show your grit in the following ways:
  
  • Win at least one game in overtime
  • Win at least one game in which your team is facing elimination
  • Overcome the loss of one or more key players to injury

• Luck
  Half of life is showing up; the other half is getting lucky. You need a call, a bounce, an injury to go your way.

 

Optional:

• 1 average player, not on the verge of stardom, but playing completely out of his head. See Pisani, Fernando; Druce, John; Umberger, R.J.

• "The best fans in the world"
  Sometimes, not even something this right can win a Cup; but it sure as hell doesn't hurt.

Kentucky Derby 137

This Saturday afternoon we all get to turn on our TVs and hear Stephen Foster's classic "My Old Kentucky Home" sung thousands of times worse than this Gordon Gano rendition (best I've ever heard; well worth a listen). As for the horses, well, most of this year's field looks like something you might buy from Walmart.

Still, I'll tune in, because I will watch a horserace anytime, anywhere. And this is the daddy of them all.

Anything can happen at Churchill Downs on the first Saturday of May, so anyone who tells you they know what will happen this Saturday is off their nut. Excepting, of course, bold general-interest bloggers presently marinating in equal parts Daily Racing Form and Kentucky bourbon.

Official post positions have been announced, and this year, only one thing is for sure — Calvin Borel cannot possibly win this thing again.

As has been the case in recent years, the field consists of at least a half dozen with absolutely no business being here (mind you, just such a nag actually won the damn thing two years back at 50-1), a half dozen talented enough contenders, and a few so-so stretch runners hoping to get lucky. There is nothing close to super-horse this year, no one with a chance at the Triple Crown.

Below are the few horses with a legit shot to win:

I see a lot to like in the redundantly-named ARCHARCHARCH. The horse is a talented gamer, peaking at exactly the right time, and the sort of horse I love to pick: in the top five, but not the top two (so nicer betting odds), good speed with some ability to close, decent breeding, and has shown steady improvement over increasing distance.Can he overcome a post position on the rail against a crowded field? We'll see. More surprising things have certainly happened in the Derby.

 

I also like — despite my innate distrust of horses with long, shitty names — MUCHO MACHO MAN. He's well raced, has consistent and decent speed, a good post position, and should be able to handle the mile and a quarter distance.

 

 

As for the would-be favorites, UNCLE MO has class, real speed, and has four wins and a show in five starts. But he's fighting an infection and is questionable for Saturday. Questionable is not what we want.

So... DIALED IN will be the clear betting favorite, with, to my mind, a story similar to that of Uncle Mo, above. He could win with only four previous starts, and it wouldn't shock me if he did, but I wouldn't bet him at odds less than 4-1, and I just don't see him winning in this big field.

Some smart handicapping money will be plunked down on SOLDAT (and less-smart money on NEHRO), and he may well overcome his bad last race, but I can't get excited about him.

Where's that leave me?

Well, hell, I'll simplify things this year. It's a historically meh field and a crapshoot race. Screw the exotic wagers, I'll take ARCHARCHARCH at decent enough odds and on the nose.

If you want to pick a longshot to root for, take COMMA TO THE TOP.

There it is, people. Tune in this Saturday on NBC from 5:00 on (post time is ~6:20 EDT). And remember to make your simple syrup early enough to chill it before mixing those Mint Juleps.

 

*The Daily Racing Form, America's Turf Authority since 1894, neither endorses nor is affiliated in any way with the views and ramblings of BK, America's Dirt Authority Since 1968.

Brief Notes on the Death of a Punk-Ass Bitch

Call me unconflicted, but as details of Sunday's successful raid against Osama bin Laden come out, I have to say, I'm hella impressed with the Entebbe-like precision of the U.S. special ops folks. After the disastrous fiascoes of Mogadishu and the aborted Iran hostage rescue, it's nice to see both supreme competency from our military forces and nearly unanimous support for their mission.

This is not to be naive about the continuing threat of terrorism. Whether it goes by the name of al qaeda or not, we still live in a world in which terrorism exists and in which the U.S. holds no special status. We must accept the fact that bad things will happen here as in the rest of the world, and we must learn to deal with it, in terms of mind-set, response, and recovery.

But it's nice for the face of the U.S. "war on terror" to have suddenly gone away (and with some fore-thought toward lessening the effects of OBL as a martyr), as it will force us to not oversimplify the issues with blind patriotism.

P.S. Of note:

• The Special Ops squad's workman-like adherence to Zombieland rule #2 — the double tap
• It would make me unspeakably happy if, after bin Laden's death in Abbottabad, al qaeda's number two, Ayman al-Zawahiri would soon meet a similar fate in a place called Costellobad.
• This "typo" (yes, it's real), from the FOX "news" affiliate in Sacramento.
• Pakistan says what?