This season in the NFL poor tackling has become an epidemic. Need proof, after 8 weeks this season, there were 81 touchdowns over 50 yards in the NFL, the most since 1970. While the networks and the league may love these numbers, it is due more to horrible tackling than any great influx of game breakers.
There are great athletes on both side of the ball. However, proper tackling requires three things that can't be measured with a stopwatch; technique, effort and attitude. Simply put, you have to know what to do, be willing to do it, and be willing to not just inflict punishment, but to receive it.
There is an easy way to recognize a poor tackle. The most common is when guys just go too high and compound that error with failing to wrap their arms up. Defensive backs are the most frequent types to make this mistake. At times, they do it because they are looking for the highlight film hit. The problem is, a hit that ends up on Sportscenter is like a knockout punch. When timed perfectly, it works great. But if you are a split second off, you end up on your ass and your opponent is dancing in the endzone.
Another reason why DBs and other players fail to tackle properly is a fear of injury. When you are consistently blasting into a runners legs and torso and wrapping you arms up, your own head, shoulders,arms and even fingers take a beating.
Need proof, look no further than Bob Sanders, arguably one of the finest tacklers to come into the league in the past 20 years.
Sanders comes up and forces on the run like a missile. His technique is flawless, head up, great arm wrap and most important, he runs through his opponent, not into him. The fact that unless Sanders is hitting a slot receiver he is typically outweighed by his opponent by anywhere from 20-40 pounds tells you all you need to know about his willingness to take punishment.
The problem is, all of these shots have taken a toll, as evidenced by Sanders missing about half of his team's games due to injury since he came into the league in 2006.
Other players in the league aren't stupid, they know Sanders, and I am sure that they admire and respect him, but they also care about self preservation. With the average career span for an NFL player being about 3 and a half seasons, most players want to be able to earn as much money as possible during that brief window of opportunity.
You might be saying, then why aren't the other aspects of the game suffering due to this fear of injury? i.e. blocking, running, etc. I figure is has to do with the nature of the position that you play. For linemen, they can't avoid contact, it is necessary on every play, so if they shy away, they are benched or cut. Running backs and receivers can avoid or at least lessen contact with their speed, quickness and ending the play by hopping out of bounds. They can do this and still be effective players for a long time. Think about it, when was the last time you saw Randy Moss take a huge hit.
Unfortunately, now safeties, corners and even some linebackers and taking this cautious approach to playing. They figure, why throw my head in to Brandon Jacobs' gut and risk a concussion, let me see if I can just get some shirt and try to drag him down while the cavalry arrives.
Sometimes it works, but over 81 times so far this year, it hasn't.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Being a displaced football fan
Fans choose their team for a variety of reasons. The two most popular would be geography and familial loyalty. I grew up in a small town on the south shore of Long Island called Point Lookout. Most of my friends were either Giants or Jets fans. Since I grew up in late 70’s and early 80’s, a few of them were Cowboy and Steeler fans, and for good reason, they always won. The kids who rooted for those two teams always seemed a bit richer, more brash, because lets face it, to root for the Giants and Jets year after year with perpetual disappointment took a true fan, not those bandwagon jumpers who claimed they like the Steelers since before Bradshaw took over.
So since the age of nine I have had to answer the inevitable question “Why the hell are you a Seahawks fan?” I can understand their surprise; Steelers sure, Cowboys, maybe even the Dolphins, but a team barely out of expansion located 3,000 miles away? I will admit, it is a bit strange.
I guess I can describe what drew me to the hawks best in three words, “Zorn to Largent.” This was pre-cable so the hawks were never on television, but one time Cossell put one of their games on the Halftime Highlights on Monday Night Football. I saw Jim Zorn scramble around like Tarkenton, then launch a strike to Steve Largent as he dove into the end zone, one play and I was a fan forever.
Largent was easy to root for once I learned more about him. This guy was a nobody coming out of Tulsa, not the city but the University, hardly a powerhouse. He was supposed to be too small and too slow to make the NFL, a perpetual underdog, and he turned out to become one of the greatest receivers who ever lived. A master at running routes with absolute precision, with incredible hands and just an innate ability to get himself open for the big catches.
The problem was that for a long time Largent was the only great player the hawks ever had. Things got a little better in the mid eighties, when some good drafts finally turned up some Pro Bowl level talent like Ken Easley, Jacob Green and Curt Warner. They even made it all the way to the AFC championship in 1985, then they ran into the Raiders on their way to their third Super Bowl victory. It wasn’t so bad; at least my Dad’s team got to win it all.
Even though they didn’t win all that much, they were still a fun team to root for. The best part about it was that they were MY team, no one else in New York seemed to like them, some never even heard of them. It was a very personal relationship, almost like a friendship. In my mind, only I could feel the joy when they won a big upset, or could gloat during a run here they beat the Jets every year they played.
That was the other thing about rooting for an out of town team not from Pittsburgh or Dallas, you rarely got to see your team play. Remember this is pre-internet and pre-satellite, It really sucked back then because they were rarely good enough to be on Monday Night, and because of those stupid NFL rules we only got the Jet and Giant game on Sunday no matter how bad they sucked, or how late in the year it was. Seattle and Oakland could be playing in the last week of the season for a playoff spot and the Jets may be 3-12 fighting for a draft pick with the 4-11 Colts, you were stuck with the Jet game.
Rarely seeing you team wasn’t all bad though, it made those few times you got to see them all that more special. A hawk game on Monday Night was practically a holiday in my house, one of the few times I would actually stay up for the entire game. They would also play the Giants and Jets every once in a while, and after a few years cable TV finally reached our little town and with that, ESPN, the greatest thing to happen to fans of out of state teams until Directv arrived with the Sunday Ticket Package.
As wonderful as it was to be able to catch every game on TV, nothing equated the feeling of travelling to Seattle and seeing my team play in person at Qwest field. I had seen them before at the Meadowlands, but enemy territory doesn't compare to the greatest home field in the NFL.
If you are a displaced fan like myself, make the trip to see a home game, there is nothing like it. Surrounded by nothing but your team's colors and jerseys, hearing local fans on the radio, being able to be a part of the crowd when they come out of the tunnel, it is as if you have finally found your second home and long lost family.
So since the age of nine I have had to answer the inevitable question “Why the hell are you a Seahawks fan?” I can understand their surprise; Steelers sure, Cowboys, maybe even the Dolphins, but a team barely out of expansion located 3,000 miles away? I will admit, it is a bit strange.
I guess I can describe what drew me to the hawks best in three words, “Zorn to Largent.” This was pre-cable so the hawks were never on television, but one time Cossell put one of their games on the Halftime Highlights on Monday Night Football. I saw Jim Zorn scramble around like Tarkenton, then launch a strike to Steve Largent as he dove into the end zone, one play and I was a fan forever.
Largent was easy to root for once I learned more about him. This guy was a nobody coming out of Tulsa, not the city but the University, hardly a powerhouse. He was supposed to be too small and too slow to make the NFL, a perpetual underdog, and he turned out to become one of the greatest receivers who ever lived. A master at running routes with absolute precision, with incredible hands and just an innate ability to get himself open for the big catches.
The problem was that for a long time Largent was the only great player the hawks ever had. Things got a little better in the mid eighties, when some good drafts finally turned up some Pro Bowl level talent like Ken Easley, Jacob Green and Curt Warner. They even made it all the way to the AFC championship in 1985, then they ran into the Raiders on their way to their third Super Bowl victory. It wasn’t so bad; at least my Dad’s team got to win it all.
Even though they didn’t win all that much, they were still a fun team to root for. The best part about it was that they were MY team, no one else in New York seemed to like them, some never even heard of them. It was a very personal relationship, almost like a friendship. In my mind, only I could feel the joy when they won a big upset, or could gloat during a run here they beat the Jets every year they played.
That was the other thing about rooting for an out of town team not from Pittsburgh or Dallas, you rarely got to see your team play. Remember this is pre-internet and pre-satellite, It really sucked back then because they were rarely good enough to be on Monday Night, and because of those stupid NFL rules we only got the Jet and Giant game on Sunday no matter how bad they sucked, or how late in the year it was. Seattle and Oakland could be playing in the last week of the season for a playoff spot and the Jets may be 3-12 fighting for a draft pick with the 4-11 Colts, you were stuck with the Jet game.
Rarely seeing you team wasn’t all bad though, it made those few times you got to see them all that more special. A hawk game on Monday Night was practically a holiday in my house, one of the few times I would actually stay up for the entire game. They would also play the Giants and Jets every once in a while, and after a few years cable TV finally reached our little town and with that, ESPN, the greatest thing to happen to fans of out of state teams until Directv arrived with the Sunday Ticket Package.
As wonderful as it was to be able to catch every game on TV, nothing equated the feeling of travelling to Seattle and seeing my team play in person at Qwest field. I had seen them before at the Meadowlands, but enemy territory doesn't compare to the greatest home field in the NFL.
If you are a displaced fan like myself, make the trip to see a home game, there is nothing like it. Surrounded by nothing but your team's colors and jerseys, hearing local fans on the radio, being able to be a part of the crowd when they come out of the tunnel, it is as if you have finally found your second home and long lost family.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
The Moment
For every married man there is “The Moment:.” It may happen early on, perhaps when you say “I do”, or it may occur later, such as when you stay out just a bit too late with the guys and you get that look of disgust from your wife when you wake up at noon smelling like a distillery.
It is the moment where you say to yourself, “My life has truly changed, and it will never be the same again.”
My moment happened about a month after I got married. I was driving at about 85 mph on the Ocean Parkway. My destination was a laboratory in the middle of Suffolk County that needed to perform a fertility test on the small specimen cup of my own semen that was now being kept warm between my legs as I squeezed them together like some bastardized mother hen protecting her eggs, or in my case, semen.
A little background is in order here. I married at the age of 40, my beautiful wife is 39. There are two reasons why I must say she is beautiful. One, I truly believe that she is, and two, god forbid she ever reads about this story, I want her to see something positive.
Prior to getting married I was a devout bachelor. Many a time when confronted by a friend or family member who would inevitably ask “Why don’t you want to get married?” I would gleefully reply “ I do what I want, when I want, and how I want.” Personal freedom was my mantra, independence my religion.
But like a lot of guys who thrive in this life, the drinking got a little crazy, the hangovers a bit too prolonged, and yes, the trashy women I met at clubs and bars became far too tiresome. I wanted something meaningful, I wanted kids, blah, blah, blah, you get the point.
So, I meet my future wife on a blind date, we fall in love, and in a little more than a year we are married. Now, I should have realized how different my life was when I agreed to get married on a Football Sunday. But again, I was stubborn to accept when “The Moment” had occurred.
As I said before, I want to have at least one child of my own. I have a wonderful step-daughter, but any guy who tells you that he doesn’t want to take at least one shot at having a child of his own is a liar.
So being 40, and with my wife approaching that magical number, our chances aren’t as good as couples in their 20’s, they aren’t bad, just not as good. After trying for only a couple of months with no success my wife ordered, I mean convinced me, to see a urologist just to make sure that my boys could swim.
My wife, of course, like most women, is a planner. She is organized, meticulous, and unfortunately for me, a bit of a worrier. I say unfortunate because in contrast I am lazy, a habitual procrastinator, and laid back to the point of indifference on many issues. Opposites do in fact attract.
Reluctantly, I made the appointment. My doctor takes a quick look at my equipment, ultra-sounds my kidneys and hands me a sterile specimen cup and a prescription for a fertility test. He then leaves me half naked in the examining room, in full turtle mode with instructions “You can’t leave us a specimen, find a lab, then you have to bring it to them, they will call me with the results.” Thanks Doc. Thanks for the freezing fucking hands too.
So I contact my insurance company, one of the largest in the country, aren’t they all? And try to find a lab that performs fertility tests. After dealing with an automated voice that offers no help, I find a list of labs on my insurers’ web site and begin a task that sounds so simple, but alas is surely not.
First of all, labs do not answer the phone. Not sure why, maybe they are all very scientific anti-contact types, maybe the budget can’t pay for a receptionist, but for some reason they all have answering machines with info on the location of the lab, how to get results, everything it seems except the answers to two simple questions. Will you take my sperm? Do you take my insurance?.
After days of phone calls I can find one, that’s right one lab that will do a fertility test that is within an hour’s drive of my house. Why an hour you ask? Because after one hour, I have learned, the little guys die off.
But I have to repeat this. One lab, in all of Long Island, that would take insurance from the second largest insurer in the country. Quickly I am changing from a conservative republican to a whiny liberal that demands a public option and affordable health care for all.
The receptionist, incredibly they had one, then gives me the rules, which are: 1. No sex for 72 hours prior (I have had many a drought while single, piece of cake), 2. Sperm and sperm only (No lubricants or other bodily fluids), 3. Sample must be delivered within one hour of “collection” ( The lab is a forty-five minute drive), and 4. Keep the sample at body temperature.
The last rule prompted this exchange.
Me: Well, my body temperature is 98 degrees.
Reception: I am aware of that
Me: It’s November in New York
Reception: Uh huh
Me: To “collect” it, it has to leave my body. I am not putting it back in. How am I supposed to keep it at 98 degrees.
Reception: (Sassy): I don’t know, put it between your legs I guess.
Which brings me to “The Moment.” After producing a very average shot, done through my first unselfish act of self-gratification, I am driving down the Ocean Parkway at about 85 mph. The plastic specimen cup secreted in my underwear, resting uncomfortably between my legs and below my scrotum, bare skin produces more heat I figured.
Why driving so fast you ask? even though the lab is 45 minutes away. I will answer that question with this one. If you were delivering your slowly dying seeds to a lab just off the LIE in the middle of Long Island, would you count on no sudden traffic jams to hold you up? I didn’t think so.
As I am driving I can hear the clock from "24" ticking away in my head, Jack Bauer never faced pressure like this. As I hit the Robert Moses Bridge, I spot a crew of about 30 highway workers doing the work of 3 as they paint the lines on the bridge for the hundredth time this year. Some clueless assshole with a coffee in one hand and a “SLOW DOWN” sign in the other one is getting pissed when he realizes that there is no way I am slowing down for anyone. "Step aside and take your eighth coffee break of the day fellas, my manhood is about to be tested and I am not going to be deterred!"
Right about now I am waiting to hear the sirens, and for once I want to get pulled over. I have the ultimate excuse, potential life is literally clinging to existence between my legs. Maybe I will get lucky and get a cop that is Pro Life, I could get an escort the rest of the trip.
Come to think of it, some sort of siren should have been provided, maybe in pink, or better yet, put a giant pacifier on top of my car, let the world know of my precious cargo.
I arrive at the lab with about 10 minutes to spare, rush in, pulling the cup from my crotch. I am expecting a full team of specialists, like those guys with a heart or kidney sitting in a “Lil Playmate” cooler, rushing out of a helicopter to bring an organ to a transplant.
But, as I enter the lab, 24 clock ticking away, this is what I get. Nothing.
No team, no cooler, not even a receptionist. A sign in sheet and a few empty chairs, that’s it.
Before I could go into a full panic, an employee walks by from behind the glass to tell me those ever-comforting words “Sign in, sit down, and we’ll be with you in a minute.” I freeze. Are they fucking kidding me?! Ok, here is a rule. If you are a lab that collects sperm samples you have to ready to take the sample the second I walk in the door. No “Sign in” nonsense, no “take a seat and wait” bullshit. I just beat off, stuck the result between my legs and broke about twenty traffic laws to get this to you on time and in compliance with your precious fucking rules. Take my sample and test it you sassy bitch!
Since I don’t move, she walks by a second time. “Have a seat, someone will be with you in a minute.”
“This stuff has a short shelf life”, I reply.
Fortunate for me, my spawn, and her general health, the tech came out right about that time. A few questions, some brief pedigree, and I was on my way. I said good bye to my swimmers, might have been a Nobel Laureate in there, maybe an NFL All Pro, then again, I might be getting rid of future sociopath or a daughter that resorts to stripping due to her hatred for me, it is a crap shoot after all.
Being that it was now about noon, and needing not only nourishment in the form of buffalo wings and a cheeseburger, but also needing to reclaim some semblance of manhood, I drove off to Hooters.
I may have finally reached “The Moment”, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy some greasy wings and an overcooked burger while admiring some beautiful women as they take out their anger at Daddy and hit stage one on the path to the stripper pole.
It is the moment where you say to yourself, “My life has truly changed, and it will never be the same again.”
My moment happened about a month after I got married. I was driving at about 85 mph on the Ocean Parkway. My destination was a laboratory in the middle of Suffolk County that needed to perform a fertility test on the small specimen cup of my own semen that was now being kept warm between my legs as I squeezed them together like some bastardized mother hen protecting her eggs, or in my case, semen.
A little background is in order here. I married at the age of 40, my beautiful wife is 39. There are two reasons why I must say she is beautiful. One, I truly believe that she is, and two, god forbid she ever reads about this story, I want her to see something positive.
Prior to getting married I was a devout bachelor. Many a time when confronted by a friend or family member who would inevitably ask “Why don’t you want to get married?” I would gleefully reply “ I do what I want, when I want, and how I want.” Personal freedom was my mantra, independence my religion.
But like a lot of guys who thrive in this life, the drinking got a little crazy, the hangovers a bit too prolonged, and yes, the trashy women I met at clubs and bars became far too tiresome. I wanted something meaningful, I wanted kids, blah, blah, blah, you get the point.
So, I meet my future wife on a blind date, we fall in love, and in a little more than a year we are married. Now, I should have realized how different my life was when I agreed to get married on a Football Sunday. But again, I was stubborn to accept when “The Moment” had occurred.
As I said before, I want to have at least one child of my own. I have a wonderful step-daughter, but any guy who tells you that he doesn’t want to take at least one shot at having a child of his own is a liar.
So being 40, and with my wife approaching that magical number, our chances aren’t as good as couples in their 20’s, they aren’t bad, just not as good. After trying for only a couple of months with no success my wife ordered, I mean convinced me, to see a urologist just to make sure that my boys could swim.
My wife, of course, like most women, is a planner. She is organized, meticulous, and unfortunately for me, a bit of a worrier. I say unfortunate because in contrast I am lazy, a habitual procrastinator, and laid back to the point of indifference on many issues. Opposites do in fact attract.
Reluctantly, I made the appointment. My doctor takes a quick look at my equipment, ultra-sounds my kidneys and hands me a sterile specimen cup and a prescription for a fertility test. He then leaves me half naked in the examining room, in full turtle mode with instructions “You can’t leave us a specimen, find a lab, then you have to bring it to them, they will call me with the results.” Thanks Doc. Thanks for the freezing fucking hands too.
So I contact my insurance company, one of the largest in the country, aren’t they all? And try to find a lab that performs fertility tests. After dealing with an automated voice that offers no help, I find a list of labs on my insurers’ web site and begin a task that sounds so simple, but alas is surely not.
First of all, labs do not answer the phone. Not sure why, maybe they are all very scientific anti-contact types, maybe the budget can’t pay for a receptionist, but for some reason they all have answering machines with info on the location of the lab, how to get results, everything it seems except the answers to two simple questions. Will you take my sperm? Do you take my insurance?.
After days of phone calls I can find one, that’s right one lab that will do a fertility test that is within an hour’s drive of my house. Why an hour you ask? Because after one hour, I have learned, the little guys die off.
But I have to repeat this. One lab, in all of Long Island, that would take insurance from the second largest insurer in the country. Quickly I am changing from a conservative republican to a whiny liberal that demands a public option and affordable health care for all.
The receptionist, incredibly they had one, then gives me the rules, which are: 1. No sex for 72 hours prior (I have had many a drought while single, piece of cake), 2. Sperm and sperm only (No lubricants or other bodily fluids), 3. Sample must be delivered within one hour of “collection” ( The lab is a forty-five minute drive), and 4. Keep the sample at body temperature.
The last rule prompted this exchange.
Me: Well, my body temperature is 98 degrees.
Reception: I am aware of that
Me: It’s November in New York
Reception: Uh huh
Me: To “collect” it, it has to leave my body. I am not putting it back in. How am I supposed to keep it at 98 degrees.
Reception: (Sassy): I don’t know, put it between your legs I guess.
Which brings me to “The Moment.” After producing a very average shot, done through my first unselfish act of self-gratification, I am driving down the Ocean Parkway at about 85 mph. The plastic specimen cup secreted in my underwear, resting uncomfortably between my legs and below my scrotum, bare skin produces more heat I figured.
Why driving so fast you ask? even though the lab is 45 minutes away. I will answer that question with this one. If you were delivering your slowly dying seeds to a lab just off the LIE in the middle of Long Island, would you count on no sudden traffic jams to hold you up? I didn’t think so.
As I am driving I can hear the clock from "24" ticking away in my head, Jack Bauer never faced pressure like this. As I hit the Robert Moses Bridge, I spot a crew of about 30 highway workers doing the work of 3 as they paint the lines on the bridge for the hundredth time this year. Some clueless assshole with a coffee in one hand and a “SLOW DOWN” sign in the other one is getting pissed when he realizes that there is no way I am slowing down for anyone. "Step aside and take your eighth coffee break of the day fellas, my manhood is about to be tested and I am not going to be deterred!"
Right about now I am waiting to hear the sirens, and for once I want to get pulled over. I have the ultimate excuse, potential life is literally clinging to existence between my legs. Maybe I will get lucky and get a cop that is Pro Life, I could get an escort the rest of the trip.
Come to think of it, some sort of siren should have been provided, maybe in pink, or better yet, put a giant pacifier on top of my car, let the world know of my precious cargo.
I arrive at the lab with about 10 minutes to spare, rush in, pulling the cup from my crotch. I am expecting a full team of specialists, like those guys with a heart or kidney sitting in a “Lil Playmate” cooler, rushing out of a helicopter to bring an organ to a transplant.
But, as I enter the lab, 24 clock ticking away, this is what I get. Nothing.
No team, no cooler, not even a receptionist. A sign in sheet and a few empty chairs, that’s it.
Before I could go into a full panic, an employee walks by from behind the glass to tell me those ever-comforting words “Sign in, sit down, and we’ll be with you in a minute.” I freeze. Are they fucking kidding me?! Ok, here is a rule. If you are a lab that collects sperm samples you have to ready to take the sample the second I walk in the door. No “Sign in” nonsense, no “take a seat and wait” bullshit. I just beat off, stuck the result between my legs and broke about twenty traffic laws to get this to you on time and in compliance with your precious fucking rules. Take my sample and test it you sassy bitch!
Since I don’t move, she walks by a second time. “Have a seat, someone will be with you in a minute.”
“This stuff has a short shelf life”, I reply.
Fortunate for me, my spawn, and her general health, the tech came out right about that time. A few questions, some brief pedigree, and I was on my way. I said good bye to my swimmers, might have been a Nobel Laureate in there, maybe an NFL All Pro, then again, I might be getting rid of future sociopath or a daughter that resorts to stripping due to her hatred for me, it is a crap shoot after all.
Being that it was now about noon, and needing not only nourishment in the form of buffalo wings and a cheeseburger, but also needing to reclaim some semblance of manhood, I drove off to Hooters.
I may have finally reached “The Moment”, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy some greasy wings and an overcooked burger while admiring some beautiful women as they take out their anger at Daddy and hit stage one on the path to the stripper pole.
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