Week 17: Our Inevitable March to 7-9

If the MJD can post a Smorgasbord on Wednesday, we can post our Week 17 thoughts on a Wednesday night.

SportsBrethren: Godspeed, Vinny.


Brethren: I believe I read something before Sunday's game that said if we won and finished 7-9, it would be the 6th time in the Carolina Panthers' 13 year history that we vanquished a season with that record.

Boom, bitches.

7-9. Pretty sweet fuckin record if you ask me. Think about all the sweet shit you get with a 7-9 record:

- A midrange first round draft pick, probably somewhere from #13 to 16. Pretty sure we can pick up a fast linebacker from Miami or an SEC school. Aaaaand we will.
- Just enough optimism to think about how, man, if two games had gone our way, we'd be sitting pretty in a wild card spot.
- The knowledge that the Panthers went 7-9 in John Fox's first year; we went to the Super Bowl the next year.

Like I said, boom, bitches. More general cogitations on Week 17, including Nacho's crazy antics and my patented bulleted thoughts:

Brethren (cont'd): My patented bulleted thoughts:

- This week, instead of the usual bar we attend, I instead went with two of my buddies who are twins at ESPNZone. That's right; it was the twins' birthdays and they had Mommy's credit card. High priced cheap beer and appetizers: fuck yea.

- The Panthers were on a tiny screen in the top left corner; in the sea of meaningless Week 17 games, ESPN in NYC considered ours to be one of the least deserving of a prime real estate TV. Sweet.

- Is our QB situation kinda figured out? With a season like this where Chris Weineke is starting games, a healthy Jake is certainly one of the top 10-15 starters out there. Young guns Matt Moore and Brett Basanez certainly can be serviceable in back-up roles. And after watching Colt Brennan shit the bed, if he's the best college has to offer, I'll stick with Jake, Doc Holliday, and BB Gunz.

- BB Gunz. Yea, I just made up a nickname for Brett Basanez. Canuck would be proud.

- Well besides the beauty of the 7-9 finish, there's not much memorable about this game. Tampa didn't really play their good players; when they did earlier this year, they dominated us. So I can't really conclude we're better than them. But like I said, time has proven that 7-9 fits the Panthers franchise just fine.

Nacho: First things last: how the fuck have we had commercial air travel for nigh over half a century, and there's still no "sick bays"? Ships have 'em, I'm pretty trains have 'em (if I remember Under Seige 2: Dark Territory correctly.) Hell, I bet stagecoaches had 'em. But we let some woman carrying some strain of Bavarian Bubonic Plague just sit there in seat 18D on the 8am cross-country flight from Charlotte to San Francisco. Just sit there and cough. A lot. And give me the plague. Thanks, dipshit industry.

Now, onto the Panthers. Despite me earlier feelings I'm ok with us barely missing the playoffs with a bunch of fourth stringers. I think we should give Foxy one more year with a healthy starting QB en route to a career year again, then see how interested Cowher is.

Julius, congratulations, you're the Antoine Walker of the NFL: you got paid, then took the year off. On the bright side, you won't have to spend a week in Hawaii this spring, unlike some people

Mr. Steve Smith, I have but one thing to say to you:



I look forward to a healthy team with fresher biscuit, in 2008. If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to get healthy too.
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A Modest Proposal: Catman 2.0

Nacho: If you're a fan of the Panthers, then you know all about our boy Greg Good, better known as Catman to his fans. Catman was at the Bobcats game, being his joyful, boisterous self, causing a ruckus and distracting free-throw shooting Hornets. He's great for the fans, and always gets himself on tv.

In the spirit of good sportsmanship, I'll put forth a modest proposal: Greg needs to stick to football, and let someone else be the Catman for the Bobcats. And that person, should be me.

For the night the Bobcats found their Permanent Fan of the Game, click on...

Nacho cont'd: Brethren had scored some sweet tickets for the Bobcats/Knicks game last week, and through a series of wacky, well-connected events, I ended up in the halftime show. This halftime show played to my strengths: rather than attempting a half court shot or scooting around on a tricycle, all I had to do was select one of five oversized presents and hope I didn't get the one with Rufus and his silly string in it.

I ended up getting two tickets situated directly beneath the basket. As Brethren had already headed back up to New Yawk City, Mammy joined me in a night of revelry. We were told we were given access to the Hardwood Club, an ultra-exclusive dining room with free food and free hooch. There was some confusion about whether or not this access was, in fact, granted, but they let us in anyway. At the end of our delicious, free meal, we made our way to our seats and were informed that we were, in fact, not granted said privilege, and would not be allowed back in at halftime. This suited us just fine.

Mammy & I got to our seats and I started giggling. A lot. I mean, you would to if you were this close to the game.

We ordered beers, and the game began. About halfway through the first quarter a Lady Cat turned around and asked, "Weren't you the one who won the tickets?" I gleefully responded affirmatively. I mean, even for a stud like me, it's not every day a professional cheerleader remembers you. She was even kind enough to take a picture with me as I stammered out some garbled mix of "Merry Holiday New Years Boobs." Yeah, I let her down gently.

The Lady Cats endorse me as Catman 2.0

The Hornets got out to an early lead and never looked back, so I decided to make the most of the seats. Every time there was a free-throw situation, I ceaselessly talked shit to Peja Stojakovic about his inability to grow a real man's beard (beard seen here.) Coming out of a time out, I started cheering, rather obnoxiously, and the badass camera guy seated in front of us turned his magnificent machine on me, and suddenly my howling, screaming, crazed countenance was splattered across the Jumbotron and pumping up the fans. It's quite mind-melting to be flapping one's arms and, out of the corner of your eye, see yourself flapping 30 feet tall. This set a precedent and the camera guy and I became comrades.

At one point, I caught the game ball as it errantly flew out of bounds. Wait, it gets more impressive: I snagged it with my right hand, and didn't spill a drop of the beer that was in my left. Game balls feel nice....I said game, right?

A few minutes later, Gerald Wallace shot down the floor on a fast break, and ended up getting fouled and careening our way. He stopped just short of slapping me in the face with his dong, but did make eye contact and give me a low five. I can now die happy. (Side note: despite how close you are to the floor, you really have no idea how tall pro ball players are until you're junk-high.)

The crowning moment came in middle of the fourth quarter: The Bobcats had cut the lead to single digits and the Rocky theme came on the PA system. Naturally, I started shadowboxing and the cameraman rewarded me. The entire arena feared my wikid quick jabs and I turned around and did the whole Sly Stallone arms-raised thing. It thoroughly pumped up the crowd and further cemented my legend.

The rest of the night, I stalked from bar to bar in downtown Charlotte and folks kept recognizing me. The most common refrain was "Hey! Fan of the Game, right? HEY GUYS, IT'S THE GUY! THE BEARD! DUDE YOU GOTTA TAKE THIS!"
< /proceeds to take shot>

All in all, I feel I ran a great campaign to become Catman 2.0. Alas, I live in Hollywood and rarely get to see our boys play live. When I am home, however, you can bet your sweet ass, I'm going to as many games as possible. Now, I'm off to go purchase the rest of my Bobcat outfit for the Clippers game.

Also, if you're reading this, Adam Morrison, I promise I'm not stalking you. Yes, the bearded fellow who talked to you at the Panther game was the same guy on the Jumbotron, but I have no ulterior motives, I'm just a fan.

A fan, with a free hat.

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Week 16: Cowboys Barely Beat Fourth Stringers

Nacho: Sorry for the hiatus, but the Brethren were too busy nursing holiday hangovers to post. We've got a slew of stories from our vacation, the first up being the night Beason hurt the Cowboys Super Bowl hopes.

The day was crisp, last Saturday. We'd seen Neon Deion at the Bobcats' game the night before, and the unmistakable air of Double J was in the air.

The Sports Parents had invited me down to the Club section, a place usually reserved for the well-to-do of Charlotte. We found our seats, the weather was delectable and excitement brewed. As the Rents found their seats Cap'n Pappy let us know that The Great Mustachio himself, Adam Morrison, was sitting just a few rows up. I immediately walked up, we talked for a bit, and I let him know he'd be seeing me again in LA when the Bobcats played the Clippers.

The game happened, some asshole stole my Jessica Simpson mask, Matt Moore looked ok, the offense continued to be uninspired, and Panthers seemed to never get any pressure on Romo. Good, now that that's out of the way, lets get down to the Awesome, after...



Turns out the milquetoast bankers in front of us started jawing to one another during halftime, leading to an altercation. Security was beckoned, tempers flared, but nothing came of it. This all happened while I was getting more hooch at the bar. Long about ten minutes later, Bland Man #1 turned to Bland Man #2 and started in again with several variations on the phrase "You're an asshole." Apparently creativity isn't necessary to file data for Wachovia.

Voices were raised, security was again beckoned but this time, he brought the Fuzz with him. Mammy was on pins and needles, just waiting for me to throw myself into the scuffle and get booted from the stadium. I decided, in my drunken stupor, to let the Large Vaginas in front of us take the heat this night, and we got front row seats to some well-executed beding-over and handcuffing. It was beyond badass. The rest of the game we had lounge-a-licious seats where we could prop our feet up with no one hasslin' us. In that respect, the game was an unabashed victory. I got to come home, see a Panther game, and see idiots get arrested. A+ in my book.

On last note, Jimmy Cross aka Friend Who Fears Nash, noted that Wade Phillips looks an awful lot like Marla Hooch's dad from "A League of Their Own."

Now I'll pass it along to Brethren to give you the perspective from the nosebleeds.

Brethren: Yes, the report from the nosebleed was not quite as awesome in that I didn't see any handcuffs brung out. But that didn't stop me from talking shit to any and all Cowgirl fans.

As most friends know, I suffer from somewhat of a Napoleonic Complex when I get the drunk. I mean, shit, I'm bigger than Napoleon, and he nearly conquered all of Europe. Surely, I can take down men much larger than me! I have wit!

So whether it's over a friendly beer pong game, some asshole at a bar, or certainly a redneck Cowgirls fan, I start talking lots of shit (only if I have large friends with me though). I choose us being down 10-0 to start it, and it doesn't end until we lose 17-10. And in the end, my Cowgirl brethren and I ended up wishing each other a merry Christmas and going on our way. It was cute.

So the Panthers move to 6-9, I get to feed my inner Napoleonic desires, and I was able to take some friends to the game who wouldn't have been able to go. It was a grand old time all around.

Onwards to Tampa!
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Steve Nash, A True Wild West Outlaw

Brethren: Back in November, we wrote a post about how we think Soccer Is Ruining Basketball and pointed to the dirty play that Steve Nash tried to pull on our Bobcat, Ray Ray.

Later that weekend, a buddy of mine sidled up to the bar next to me and told me quite possibly the greatest dirty play story he had ever heard second-hand. So while we sorta havefta stress it's rumor; after reading it, you tell me: How can it not be true??

Buddy who fears Steve Nash: The Ghost And The Darknes, a late 90s creature-feature about killer lions in Africa, ran the marketing tagline, “Only the most amazing parts of the story are true.” Although this ivory-tower assertion was incorrect with regards to the film—years later I was disappointed to learn that Michael Douglas is not, in fact, a rogue Sub-Saharan game hunter—I hope it applies to the hearsay detailed below. I’m sure it doesn’t, but I wish it would.

The narrative itself is simple. Out on the town, an attractive young woman spots a certain star Phoenix Suns point guard/mulleteer trying to make the most of his waning road trip. With the sort of go-getter determination we often associate with veteran car buyers and Yankees upper management, she decides that her night will not end until she negotiates a liaison with the hot-handed heartthrob.

“Hot-handed” takes on new meaning, however, as the young woman succeeds in her quest and lures the ball handler to her boudoir. After fine, rather unliterary hooking up, she falls into a deep slumber, only to be awakened by a dull but sure rectal pressure. Surprised and undeniably curious, she rolls over to find the point guard gazing at her with ambivalent professionalism.

In an adult reprise of connect-the-dots, she links the location of his hot hand to the source of the pressure. Oh my god. Really? Yes, really. And then she shrieks. Seeing that the game is officially up, he shrugs and says, “I’m Steve Nash.”



Buddy: NOW. Because this account has undergone a considerable trek through the grapevine, we should examine it less as historical record than as instructive moral fable, particularly regarding reader response to superficially shocking incidents. You likely read this story and are repulsed by the arrogance of the male protagonist, skilled passer but deficient gentleman, a baller so stuck on himself that he believes that he can justify deviant intrusions simply by stating his name.

To that I say, “Assume not!” Although we cannot rule out the perverse interpretation, can we at least admit the possibility of alternative readings? Maybe the pick-and-roller’s wayward fingers were simply the consequence of muscle memory stemming from a dream of cowboys and Indians. The pistol’s holster just happened to be a girl’s ass. And “I’m Steve Nash” was simply a slick way of signing off—the sheriff, in a sense, telling the town that the bandits have been dealt with. Or maybe our hero has a sense-of-humor only Dutch filmmaker Paul Verhoeven can appreciate. Maybe we don’t find this funny for the same reason we don’t find Starship Troopers funny (i.e. we’re not smart enough).

But in the spirit of the holiday season, when we are all inclined to minor, piddling acts of forgiveness, I prefer a gentler fable: what if he just didn’t know what else to say? What if he was just shy? I mean, good lord. We are who we are. A deer in the headlights can aspire to nothing more than being a deer. An aging pitcher can do nothing more than take HGH in the butt. Falcons QBs cannot resist the urge to pit other species in battle, and, in times of crisis, elite point guards cannot resist the urge to state their names as acts of atonement. Who can shun the healing power of brutal honesty?

This Christmas, why don’t you try it on for size? Sticking your fingers in someone else’s pie may be gross, but no one cares as long as you admit that you are you.

I’m Steve Nash. You’re Steve Nash. Santa Claus is Steve Nash.

We’re all Steve Nash.

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Week 15: The Classic John Fox Game

Brethren: John Fox loves this situation. Underdog at home to a team that had won 5 in a row? Bring it. Taking on a team that brought a fierce pass rush against our very inconsistent offensive line? We got it. An embarrassingly bad QB situation? Not a problem.

John Fox loves being the underdog and having no one believe in him. His playoff teams all came out of nowhere. Even his 7-9 and 8-8 teams had December winning streaks. As mad as I sometimes get at him, he's a far better coach than people give him credit for, and we're in a better shape than most below-.500 teams.

Note: I'm far too lazy to actually verify those facts, just going on memory, but believe me, John Fox seems to get his teams to play better when people on the outside think we're going nowhere:

More Kool-Aid drankin' after:

Brethren (cont'd): My patented bulleted thoughts:

- Matt Moore, The Gunslinger, leading the Carolina Panther to victory: oddly enough, he reminds me of a less-animated Jake. If you remember the old gameplan with Jake, it was run the ball, control the clock, hang around, win it in the 4th quarter with defense and some big plays. That formula was on full display today. Welcome back, John Fox football.

- My buddy Steve mentioned how The Gunslinger plays like Jake, but Vinny looks like Jake in a uniform, so if we could combine the two, we'd have Jake. It has come to this.

- We also nicknamed The Gunslinger, "Doc Holliday." It was fun.

- Good to see the recent draft picks playing well. Thomas Davis with the forced fumble. DeAngelo Williams with the oddly-needed touchdown run. Maybe there is some hope for this Hurney/Fox thing.

God, I'm helpless. I love this team.

Nacho: On Saturday I left Burbank and headed back to my place in Hollywood to do some light laundry (read = if I try to wear these socks once more before washing them, I swear I'll end up like Dede) when my Oil and Check Engine lights came on. Long story short, my car had crapped out on the 101 freeway and there was oil splattered everywhere. Needless to say, I took this as a bad omen for the Panthers/Seahawks.

As the first half ended in a scoreless tie, I felt an old familiar tingle. Like a tuning fork going off in my loins, I realized we could actually win this game. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed: This was our 4th starting QB this season, and going into yesterday's game Jake, Asshat, and Vinny had all won their first starts. On top of that, the Panthers were 3-0 against the NFC West. So, my drunk logic led me to loudly proclaim that the third-best team in the NFC South could beat any team in the NFC West, any time, any place. Luckily the fiercest looking Seahawk fan would rather sip lattes and wear flannel than tussle with a boy from the Carolinas. Preach!

We're, apparently, not out of the playoff picture entirely, but I'd almost rather get another great draft pick than get embarassed by Green Bay again. For now, my main goal is to spend the rest of the week brainstorming new and inappropriate ways to insult Cowboys fans. That's right, Nacho's headin' home!

One last note: let's all give it up for Big Bad Brezec.



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Goodbye My Loooooooove!

Brethren: Update that just broke on NBA All Access: Charlotte: The Bobcats have traded Walter Herrmann and Primoz Brecez to Detroit for center Nazr Mohammad.



The SportsBrethren are noted lovers of the Argentine, but neither of us really cared for The Big Duck, Primoz. And honestly, I think I like Nazr Mohammad as a big defender to take some pressure of Mek in the post.

But part of me is a little stunned we're losing Herrmann.

More gut reactions after:


Brethren (cont'd): Bill Walton got pretty excited about our starting five now with The Nazr at the 5, Mek at the 4, GForce and JRich on the wings, and Ray Ray running the show. I see how on paper that team looks better than with Primoz tipping off.

Off the bench, we've now got Jeff "Playground Brethren" McInnis, Jared Dudley, Matt Carroll, DAnderson, Ryan Hollins, Othella Harrington, and Jamareo Davidson.

So we lose Fabio, gain some good size, and that's where we stand. Sigh.

Herrmann, you were loved by these two. As a Detroit Piston, you will still be loved. In the words of the greatest comedy ever, "Goodbye, my looooove! "



And scene.

PS: Oh, and my Lord, Morrison looks fantastically white trash. I love him.




Nacho: And now, in honor of the best player on the Magic., here's some shitty poetry...

Walt.
Herrmann.
Whatever we were calling you,
Rest assured,
That name will be shouted out from the rooftops of Charlotte tonight.
As evening falls and you take the floor
one,
final
time;
resplendent in your orange and blue,
I'll host a party in your honor, and raise a glass to all we've been through.

Walter, sweet Walter
You had to spread your wings.
You've left us with a Nazi prophet
Which is just fine by me.
Bill Walton thinks the trade is fair,
And he might be right at that,
But I'd give up all the Primoz in the world,
Just to have you back.

I'd like to point out that Walter Herrmann had the best sports quote I've read in a while. From this video:

Lady, if you can't take a death threat, you shouldn't be in the NBA.

Godspeed, you magnificent bastard. Godspeed indeed.

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Things To Do In Charlotte When You're Dead: A Guide For ESPN's All Access

Nacho: I like to think of myself as a pretty decent ambassador for Charlotte, North Carolina. I represent my city and region well, bringing my gentlemanly etiquette to new denizens every day. Also, I kill hookers and pretend I have diplomatic immunity.

That's why today's a special day. ESPN has slipped the Queen City a roofie, and they've been granted All Access to all holes that is The Banking Capital Of The SouthEast.

I'm not exactly sure what all this All Access grants, and if you search for "All Access" on the WWL's website, the top response is the 2008 Florida Bass Calendar, so maybe this whole day will be less about Bobcats and Magic, and more about bass. Sounds about right.

Anyway, since we're such good guys, the SportsBrethren feel like we should give a few helpful hints to the ESPN crew on what attractions and distractions there are in our fine hometown. Follow us, after...



Nacho cont'd: First things first, you're gonna wanna get some food. The cuisine in Charlotte's top notch, thanks in no small part to the mecca that is Harris Teeter.

Luckily for Stephen A Smith, Harris Teeter carries Wise products. Why is this important? Because it's the holidays, and WHITE CHEDDAR CHEEZ DOODLES ARE BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND!!!

There are five convenient Boston Market locations in and around Charlotte, if you need to hug it out. The cell service in Charlotte is immaculate despite it's hilly terrain. This could come in handy, were Sean Salsbury to suddenly get the urge to show how similar his gentalia look, in regards to the Bank of America building, via picture mail:

[insert dick joke here]
[hehe]

Today's All Access should also give Bill Simmons a chance to catch those elusive Bobcats fans he so desperately wishes didn't exist. I say "desperately wishes" because Bill has one joke/insight about the Bobcats: They have no fans. Well, Bill, I hope you're not too busy being elbow deep in infant dookie, because the WWL will be proving you wrong all day. And if they don't, you can bet your ass you'll meet one on January 28th. I'll be the one in the Adam Morrison jersey with the sweet stache. That's a gaurantee, Shooter McGavin style (see I can make extremely dated references, too.):



Brethren: I can't resist but jump in here as well, even if it's to chide Nacho.

First, how can you talk about food in Charlotte and not mention BOJANGLES'!? We have the defenders of the Biscuit living right in Charlotte and while that might be more football related, I don't see how the WWL could resist goodness that Jake and Smitty so heartily endorse.

Second, don't go to the mall. If you must, watch out for the old ladies trying to back up.

Thirdly, Charlotte Bobcats Arena -- fuck yea, we don't have a corporate sponsor. Yet. -- has these badass murals of the history of North Carolina basketball on the walls. I can easily see Bill Walton eating some shrooms, seeing the magnificent basketball creatures elevating out of the walls and telling their beautiful and real stories to all those with the power to listen and the love in their hearts to sympathize.

And of course, CBA has a side gym that's visible to fans where Bobcat employee Dell Curry can challenge Tim Legler to a 3 Point Shooting Contest. You're going down, Legler!

(Note to the daily readers (ha!): some of you might have been wondering what happened to me round these parts, as I have been auspiciously MIA over the last week. I'm a-ok, just working hard and playing host to Mammy 'n the Cap'n Pappy as they visited my Island. Pappy was at a medical conference, exploring new surgeries that involve no incisions (they just use their minds!) on pigs. In his words, they "made a lot of bacon" that day. Gotta love docs. Oh, and I had the office holiday party. And in case you were wondering, yes, it was at an "upscale karoake bar" and yes, I sang "I'll Make Love to You" (Boyz II Men) with Phil Jackson (no, not the Zen one, ).
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