The Sporting Life
Ferrari Sandwich: Against all odds (that is to say, his car was significantly slower than the one Sebastian Vettel, his primary opponent, was driving), Fernando Alonso managed to finish second in the Indian Grand Prix, sandwiched by the Red Bulls of Vettel (1st) and Webber (3rd). As we type we are wearing our red Ferrari baseball cap and keeping hope alive. Three races to go.
Prediction: Vettel wins two of the last three races and, thusly, the drivers' championship.
Tebow Time: There's a limit to the amount of shitty football one man can watch. I hereby announce that I'm gonna tape all future Jets games and watch them the next day, but only if they win. Otherwise the suffering is unbearable. And while I'm not actually wearing a Ferrari hat (how pathetic would that be?), it is true that the Jets are losing to Miami -- MIAMI!!! -- by 24 points in the second half.
Prediction: Jets have next week off. When they come back, it will be the beginning of the Tebow era of Jets football. God save the Queen.
National Anthems: Note to Pia Toscano -- just because you are beautiful (in a kind of a big-haired, gum-snapping, Lee's press-on nails, middle of Long Island kind of a way) does not give you license to completely rearrange the tune of the Star Spangled Banner. Although if you wanted to tie me up and do stuff to me, I'd be perfectly fine with that.
Too much, man. Too much.
Furthermore, since this was one of those stupid games that the NFL plays in England, after Toscano had finished mangling the National Anthem up popped Katherine Jenkins to lay down a pretty nice cover version of God Save the Queen. It was lovely, albeit a bit too warbly in that kind of pop-infused opera singing that is her specialty. Ms. Jenkins is also quite attractive, it should be noted, although she lacks the soft, smokey eyes of Ms. Toscano that make you feel like your heart, lungs and stomach have liquified and are pooling in your lower abdomen.
Prediction: The Patriots (who are playing in the game) are not gonna make it to the Super Bowl this year.
Extended Prediction: Tick-tock. Tom Brady gets older with every passing year (as do we all, friends, except we don't play professional football, so it's not so noticeable), and the Brady/Belichick/Pats era is crashing to a halt as we watch.
World Series: I picked Detroit in five. This was mostly because they kicked the Yankees' asses and I was having residual warm feelings for them. But I've realized that I actually prefer the Giants. Angel Pagan is one of my favorite X-Mets, and who doesn't like Timmy Lincecum coming out of the bullpen? Since I have no money on this event, and since I have no real fundamental allegiance to either of these teams, switching in mid-stream is permissible.
Prediction: Giants in four.
New York Football Giants vs. Dallas: Kicks off in about half an hour. Those of you who follow TYOMP closely will remember the nine month stretch in which I relocated from NYC to Leesburg, Virginia to keep dear old Dad company in his final months. God bless the man -- I still miss him and it's been three, four or five years since he died.
So one evening I was sitting around his condo (I was living in the condo; he was living in the nursing home) and I got a call.
"Geoff," he said. "I've discovered this amazing TV show. Why don't you pop over and watch it with me tonight."
"Sure thing, Dad." etc. etc.
So I walk into his room at the appointed hour and he's watching something called "Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making The Team", which was a reality show about exactly what you'd think it was about. It was fabulous, in it's own cheese-cakey way, and it made the old guy awfully happy. I'll bet we watched a good five or so weeks of the thing before he decided he had better things to do.
Prediction: Note to DCC -- I appreciate all you did, in your little star-spangled outfits, to make my father's last days on earth happy ones, but I'm going with the Giants. 24-14.
In conclusion: If I ever meet Pia Toscano I'm going to say "Aren't you the woman who was recently given the Fulbright?" Which is, of course, a Paul Simon lyric.