Call Me Rod Tidwell

First off, a round of applause for the Knicks after getting swept this weekend. Wow, it was torturous. Watching the Knicks the last few years, and especially in these last few games, is like running into that hot older girl from high school a few years later. You remember that time, when you were at the mall or maybe in a bar with your friends? She walks in, her face like some kind of middle-aged alcoholic housewife, the pounds packed on from too many 3am pizzas and cup o' noodles. You see her and think to yourself, "That's her? That’s what we used to gawk at?" You try to say hi, but it’s just too awkward. She used to be untouchable, now she's just worn out, and out of shape.

I was trying to refrain from any mention of sports in this weekly diatribe. Obviously there are others whose bread and butter comes from making glib comments about the tri-state squads; but when famous sports figures inject themselves into the situations that make up my life, the bars, the women, the lack of self-esteem, the unsanitary habit of rarely brushing one’s teeth, the abject despair and shame you feel each and every day as you wake up, barely able to open your eyes much less pick your face up off the pillow, the sense of... you know what, never mind, I’m getting carried away with myself.

Let me put it very simply. As I walked into the bar Saturday night, angered once again by some bitchy, Hispanic money collector taking my ten dollars, who stood to my right, both a full foot taller than me, wearing surprisingly cheap suits and staring at the ladies much the same way I often do? The brothers Manning! That’s the fuck who! For any of you ladies that might need further explanation, or a boy named Shaun, I’m talking about the number one pick in the NFL draft on Saturday, and his goofy older brother, the highest paid player in pro football.

A few things struck me immediately as my state of shock began to settle into a mood of serene awe. One; why the hell did they come to this bar? Chetty Red, on 23 rd and Madison is not the kind of place pro athletes or entertainers, or basically anyone with the class or means to go someplace nicer should end up. It’s a small, narrow bar; always way too hot from the crush of bodies trying to get a bartender’s attention, or grinding it out on the very small dance area. There’s even a stage at the front of the bar, taken over each time I’ve been there by Reggie’s and LaToya’s. I was hoping to see Eli jump up there, or maybe see Peyton command one last rendition of Rocky Top, but alas, nothing.

Show me the money! And the toothless broads...

If I can understand the Saturday’s chronology, Eli was drafted at noon, traded about 45 minutes later, at the Meadowlands for most of the afternoon, then more interviews and photo-ops, dinner, and finally Chetty Red’s? Who decided on that? That’s the equivalent of the presidential inaugural ball being held at Outback Steakhouse. Even so, at least at Outback you can get a bloomin’ onion and a 21-ounce beer.

Secondly, Eli looks like a 17-year-old farm hand. Here is the future of the New York Giants, and he can’t grow facial hair. He’s a kid with the face and demeanor of someone just interviewed on 60 Minutes about where Father O’Donnelly touched him, replacing a gray and haggard, alcoholic tough guy as the Giants quarterback. I’m wary. Lastly, Peyton has no chin. Nothing. His face goes straight from mouth to neck. I swear, its straight out of one of those anti-tobacco movies we saw in high school. He’s the guy that had his lower jaw removed because of too much dipping. Peyton, I would pass on the Skoal, for your health man.

All day long, you heard all this talk about pedigree, and the Manning family tradition, a long line of successful quarterbacks. I wouldn’t so much call it a pedigree as I would inbreeding. These two are hillbillies to the highest degree. Their girlfriends weren’t even anything special. I mean, sure, they were tall and blonde, but looking at the four of them, I just kept thinking of that scene in The Waltons where they’re all laying in the same bed. “Good night Peyton. Good night Eli. Good night John Boy.”

I wasn’t sure how to proceed when I saw Eli. I was angry when the trade went down, feeling that the Giants gave up too much for Eli, and also gave up on the present? My friend suggested that we should get into a fight with the Mannings, but I couldn’t do it. First off, I’m a giant pussy. The only time you’ll hear fighting words from me is when I’m speeding by in a cab, or they’re written down. Also, I wasn’t sure what the public’s reaction would be. “Local Hooligan Beats Up Eli, then Urinates on Him.” Would I go down as some cult anti-elite hero? Or would I be the next Steve Bartman? Or even worse, misconstrued as just another severely retarded Jets fan.

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