It's Actually OK if You Call It a Comeback, We Don't Mind

Yeah, yeah, I know. It's been a while in between posts. But I have a good excuse--my favorite team blew into a thousand stinking pieces of suck and I've spent the last two months drinking rye whiskey and stealing my neighbors' mail.



Yet there comes a time when the distillate of American ingenuity is no longer enough. There comes a moment when even the most ardent sports fan has to climb out of bed, change the dressings and nut up for a long off-season of...uh, well, more sports.

There's no fucking offseason, you gang of slack-jawed keyboard apes. The NFL scouting combine starts in 10 days. Basketball is already here, pro and not-quite-as-pro. Pitchers and catchers will soon return to salve our souls, as well as their own inner thighs with undetectable genetic steroidal creams, in an annual ritual that may not have lasted for aeons, but long enough that it started before I was born and that's all that matters, because nothing happened before then anyway.

There will be golf for the guys that own tasseled loafers. There will be the Draft itself, maybe the greatest single weekend on the sporting calendar (and you'll want to shoot a wax dart at the monitor once you see my take-no-goddamn-prisoners preview, coming as soon as I score some opium and the entire second season of Sledge Hammer on DVD) plus a bunch of other shit that I forgot about but couldn't be that important.

Oh, yeah, hockey too. Right.