PARIS—I don’t wear a watch anymore. Stopped sometime in 2002, I think. In the entire time I’ve been with my wife, she’s never once seen me with a timepiece around my wrist.
I don’t wear a watch when I run, either, which seems odd even to me. I mean, I’ve spent a lot of time training for a marathon, running, trying to get faster and stronger. But I’m not really going to be able to measure my progress — I’m not going to go out there and lose a race one week and win a race against the same competitor the next. All I have to measure my speed against is the ticking of a clock. And yet I can’t be bothered to strap a Timex to my wrist. I’m stubborn like that. (more…)
PARIS—In 490 BC, a Greek military leader entrusted the messenger Pheidippides with an important communiqué: the Greek army had triumphed over the Persians in the Battle of Marathon. Pheidippides travelled 38 kilometres on foot from a battlefield near the coastal village of Marathon to Athens, maintaining a brisk running pace. Upon delivering the good news, the messenger promptly dropped dead.
And now, two-and-a-half millennia later, people do this sort of thing for fun?
Sorry, sorry guys. I know that’s not how I’m supposed to start one of these sessions. Here goes: Hello, everybody. My name’s Andrew, and I’m a distance runner. I haven’t run a full marathon in 17 months, but I’m scheduled for a relapse ten days from now, in Dublin. So consider this the first in a trilogy of columns on my destructive, enthralling 42.2 kilometre mistress. (more…)
PARIS—Sports and music make strange bedfellows. When they agree to jump in the sack at all, that is.
How strange can it get? Last week, hot-stuff rapper Lil Wayne started blogging about sports for ESPN.com. I should have noticed this, seeing as I spend upwards of 8 hours (equivalent to a 21-overtime hockey playoff game) surfing the Worldwide Leader’s archives.
But embarrassingly, it was actually pointed out to me by a friend of mine, Dave, the music editor at Eye Weekly in Toronto, who emailed me to get my take on the depth of Wayne’s sporting chops for his weekly web-music column, Totally Wired.
(The joke that got away, i.e. the one that came to me after Dave’s deadline: “Seriously, Lil Wayne? Dumping Ben Roethlisberger for Kurt Warner, just because Ben looks like he’s not going to turn it around, is like ditching Rihanna for Queen Latifah because Rihanna threw up on your shoes at the Grammys afterparty.”) (more…)
PARIS—Hola, Sportstrotter amigos. How’s it hanging? I know it’s been a long time since I rapped at ya, but the lines on the field don’t paint themselves here at Sportstrotter-MGD Stadium.
I’ll tell you where I’ve been the last couple weeks: holed up in my tiny apartment, with the heat on (winter starts early here in Paris), half-dressed and huddled under a desk with my laptop, obsessively reading the news and trying not to piss myself. With a virulent mixture of abject, tremble-inducing terror and maniacal, Joker-esque amusement, I’ve been following along at home as the world self-destructs. Economics, politics, society, science, culinary, environment — you name the topic, and one undeniable truth pervades: we’re fucked.
Worse still: a Cubs pitcher recently threw a no-hitter; the Buffalo Bills are 3-0; even the Yankees, ever-fueled by Steinbrenner’s billions, missed the playoffs this month. If that’s not a sign of the apocalypse, I don’t know what is. (more…)
CAGLIARI, SARDINIA—This honeymoon is lasting forever. Can I get back to watching sports soon, please?
I promised I wouldn’t write any dispatches these last four weeks, while I was off in B.C. getting married and then traipsing across Italy with my new wife, Mlle. Trotter.
But then, the NFL season kicked off Sunday, so I was just going to jot down my predicted order of finish in each division, partly because I haven’t done a lick of research or paid any attention to the off-season moves (Brett Favre is still retired, right?); and partly because this is still my honeymoon, at least until I arrive home in Paris and can finally use the interweb again. It takes brevity to make a marriage last, after all.
But then the Mlle., who adores football (a big reason I married her) and who still hasn’t decided whether she’s changing her name to Mme. Trotter in this space (unlikely—she thinks “Madame” makes her sound old, and she didn’t change her actual name either, much to my grandmother’s passive-aggressive consternation), played the “half card.” As in, “half of what’s yours is now mine, including the digital soapbox The Walrus so foolishly provides you.”
So I’ll do my “what I did on my summer vacation” report once everything is unpacked, but for the time being, here are my predicted orders of finish for the 2008 NFL season, and Mlle. Trotter’s team-by-team analysis. Think of her as the Tony Kornheiser of this column’s Monday Night Football booth: all irrelevant commentary and virtually no substance (too bad she doesn’t have a fantasy team to talk about). (more…)
PARIS—Now that the biggest, most important sports story of this summer (and possibly of ANY summer, ever) has been tidily wrapped up with Brett “The One” Favre’s trade to the J–E–T–S Jets Jets Jets (seriously, how was this guy not lumped in with the celeb-triumvirate of Brit, Paris and Barack?), we are free to concentrate on the second-biggest sports story of the year.
The Games of the twenty-ninth Olympiad begin today, a crazy eights sort of day in Beijing, China. Here in France, where a recent poll in La Tribune noted that only forty-five percent of French claim to be “excited” about the games, they still call the host city “Pékin.”
In all the newspapers and television programs, it’s Pékin this and Pékin that. This always strikes me as a little anachronistic, for some reason. Linguo-geography buffs, you have the floor. (more…)
PARIS—It’s not fair. I followed the rules. So why am I the one who feels cheated?
Tour de France director Christian Prudhomme, at the outset of this year’s race, was doing and saying all the right things to convince the casual sports fan that this was the year that the Tour would break free of the doping scandals that have diminished its reputation over the past ten years.
And then, the Italian star-in-the-making Riccardo Ricco, winner of two stages, holder of the Tour’s polka dot jersey (top-ranked climber) and white jersey (top-ranked rider under 25), a popular rider with a decent chance of finding himself on the podium next weekend in Paris, flunked a drug test. He was later charged by the French gendarmerie with possession of a controlled substance.
And so here we go again. Guess we know why Ricco was so fast in the Pyrenees. (more…)
PARIS—The withdrawal symptoms have graciously abated. It’s been twelve days since I went cold turkey on international football. I’ve been following the advice of my doctor, taking each day as it comes, and keeping in mind that—however strong I might feel in the weeks and months and years to come—it would take me just a careless channel-flick past an ESPN Classic broadcast of the 1970 West Germany-Italy match to fall off the wagon.
Like a smoker who succeeds in quitting, only to find himself addicted to a replacement crutch, Diet Coke or chewing gum or coffee, I’ve found a new fix: the Tour de France. I’ve never been much of a cycling fan, but then again I’ve never lived in France until this year. When I mentioned the other day to an old friend that I was excited for this year’s Tour and he replied, “Oh, yeah, you always loved watching that back in the day” (not true), I realized that my sports obsessions are fertile ground for all kinds of dangerous revisionist history.
For the record, I’ve never:
1. Bet an unborn child of mine on the result of a Kansas City Royals spring training baseball game.
2. Won the New York marathon by cleverly riding the entire race in a yellow taxi cab to within twenty metres of the finish line (as if I’d have the kind of money to pay for a scheme like that—twenty-six miles is a hell of a fare!). (more…)
BARCELONA—As I awoke this morning from uneasy dreams, it took me a couple of minutes to figure out exactly where I was, and how I’d gotten here. Turns out I was on the couch of my man in Barca, Lizou.
“David, I’ve just had the strangest dream. I dreamed that Spain beat the Germans, and we partied in the streets of Barcelona till dawn.”?
For only the second time, Spain are champions of Europe. But judging from the wild celebrations that followed Sunday’s 1-0 victory over the Germans in Vienna, the victory songs somehow haven’t gathered too much dust in the intervening 44 years. They sang them all, and then sang a few more, and are probably still singing them out there somewhere, though I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave the apartment to find them with this pounding headache I’m nursing. (more…)
PARIS—And then there were dos. Or zwei.
Spain beat Russia 3-0 last night to reach their first major final since 1984. They’ll play Germany on Sunday in Vienna, at the Ernst Happel Stadium, for the title of Champions of Europe 2008.
A pretty sexy match-up, no? And beyond that, there’s the fact that, quite improbably, the two betting favourites heading into the tournament are the two last teams standing.
Seriously, the punters knew it all along? Why, exactly, were we wasting our time these last three weeks, playing all these meaningless games, if some lout in Brixton with twenty quid to burn already knew what was going to happen? (more…)
PARIS—What a finish in Basel last night, a wild ending to one of the most exciting Euro semifinals ever played! Or so we’ve been told.
Didn’t see Miroslav Klose’s go-ahead goal in the 79th minute? Missed Turkey’s last-gasp injury-time charge, and the final whistle? Yeah, you and me both.
Apparently I was wrong to diss the copyright zealots over at UEFA. They so desperately need us to wire them money to watch those oh-so-precious match highlights on my tiny laptop screen, because they’re clearly too broke to disseminate live images directly from Basel. The entire world (save Swiss viewers in Zurich and anyone watching on al-Jazeera – wha?) missed two or three significant chunks of the second half due to what UEFA’s calling electrical storm interruptions in Vienna, some 800km away from the stadium itself. My suspicion is that UEFA conked its signal out purposely, so that we’d all have to go online and pay to see the Klose goal. Nice try, UEFA, but TF1 showed me the replay during the third blackout! (more…)
PARIS—So what the hell am I supposed to do with myself tonight?
For the first time in 17 days, this evening’s slate of high-drama international football matches is empty. I’ve really enjoyed the last two-and-a-half weeks for not having to decide what to do to entertain myself on a given evening. The answer was automatic: I’ll watch the Euro.
Now? I don’t know, maybe I’ll go for a bike ride, or plant a tree, or hug a homeless man. What is it that people do to fill the hours of the day when they’re not watching football? Sometimes I feel like I just wasn’t made for these times. (more…)
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