Bloachin' in Denver?

For those who just joined us--which is no one because our only readers have been with us from the start, thanks to a few well placed Susan B. Anthony dollars--this here internet web log was very nearly called the Black Coaches Blog and the focus was very nearly black coaches, i.e. bloaches.

But then the Amyl Nitrate wore off, we came to what passes for our collective senses and made it a general ongoing argument between fans of the Denver Broncos and Kansas City Chiefs, with special emphasis on The Tradition. Which needs no explanation. Even if it might, since I'm talking to you who supposedly just showed up and haven't a clue what kind of snappy foundations this here House is built on. But hey, too fucking bad, Chachi. You'll just have to scroll back a bit, or click on one of our helpful tags (seen below).

I bring it up because, as you might have heard, Mike Shanahan killed a family of five in Eads with his bare hands and thus lost his job as Head Coach of YOUR Denver Broncos. And news today suggests that this far-flung outpost of liberalism, this verdant urban oasis in a sea of lumpen intolerance and automatic rifle ownership we call Denver, might finally boast a bloach in its midst.

But there's a problem. I think we have already heard this story.

Because the candidate in question is a 32 year-old gentleman named Raheem Morris who found employ with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers as their coach of Defensive Backs (before being promoted to defensive coordinator following the departure of Monte Kiffin at the end of the season). He's thought to be a natural leader of men, the kind of guy that, as one news story put it, "people just naturally gravitate to." A rising star in NFL coaching circles, to be sure, but one with no experience as a game-day coordinator in the bigs.

Sound familiar?

Morris could turn out to be an inspired choice. He's worked with Jeremy Bates in Tampa, so he probably wouldn't mess up that side of the ball too much. He's a Tampa 2 guy, so he has a system that he believes in and will stick to and that the current front office can draft players to fit. All of which would lessen the institutional change the Broncos would endure, which could only be to their, and our, benefit. He worked his way up through the ranks and his unit ended up second in the NFL defending the pass last season.

But the similarity in circumstance is just too much to ignore. I mean, really. It would be like if we went after Dallas' Offensive Coordinator, a guy who'd been with that organization for a long time, had the blessing of ownership and legitimate reasons to think he could run the whole kaboom. This guy--Oh, shit, sorry, this guy.
Read more

All Herman All The Time

Here back about one year ago the guys that write on this site got together. We wanted to start a sports blog, but we had no idea what we'd focus on or anything. In the wake of the historic Colts-Bears Super Bowl and the complete lack of media attention on the race of the two head coaches (similar to the press' egregious oversight of the fact that Jerome Bettis is from Detroit), we thought about calling it the Black Coaches' Blog (or Bloachog for short). Instead you ended up with the House of Georges. Sorry.

While the Bloachog would have examined the black coach in minute and glorious detail, its true purpose would have been to chronicle the wisdom of Herman Edwards every single day. The man is like a father to me, a fountain of verbal kung fu that inspires me to better myself. I ask, actually demand that Bankmeister install Herman on our own little Mount Rushmore of icons on the right side of this page. And by the way, what ever happened to Bear Grylls?

Speaking of beefs I have with our site administrator, Banky did throw this post up over the weekend. Of course he did it while I was drunk and off duty, which is a pretty Jap move if you ask me. No disrespect to the Orientals.

While Bank did inform us that his Chiefs will select with the fifth pick in the upcoming draft, he withheld a key piece of comedic evidence from you the reader. Namely, the reaction of his head coach to the coin toss that gave KC the pick. Feel free to advance past the jump for the daily Hermanism...

After losing a coin toss and dropping to five, Herman tried to explain that five is better than three:

“I didn’t want a chance to flip,” Edwards said. “I wanted to be five. That was a good number for us. Five is good. I just felt all along we were going to be five. I thought Atlanta would win the coin toss.”

Of course you did, Herman. Just for good measure, here's another Hermanism, courtesy of Arrowhead Addict, concerning KC's free agency wish list:

"We might have champagne taste, but we’ve got beer money."

AA rightfully points out that the Chiefs are $20 million under the cap. That's a lot of beer.

We'll try and stay on top of the Herman beat, with no help from our correspondent in Kansas City.

Update: Since I was already mocking our Administrator and attempting to shame him into making site changes, I was about to coerce him into adding this link. Then I went to the site and looked at the counter. Jesus. When I first checked that place out it was around 1.4 million hits. That was two weeks ago. Last week it was at 2.2, today it's 3.4. White people really, really like that place. So check it out, but make sure you do so with the understanding that it's now way too popular and it's no longer edgy or cool.

Read more

Cleaning Up Cough Syrup; or, Why I Am Moving to Houston

The Tradition was everything you imagined it was gonna be, fervent follower of the most infrequently updated blog in the new media sportiverse. There were guests from afar, there was snow on the ground, there was a 16-hour journey through each of Hell's nine levels, there was a domi-fucking-nating victory by the home team. There were ribs, friends. There were ribs.

Let's look at some of the highlights of the weekend. The ones I can remember, anyway--and I don't mean that as a joke. I totally blacked out large sections of the last few days.



(I've arranged them, ala an Aspy Peter King, in ascending alphabetical order for no particular reason other than my own Rain Manliness. Uh oh fart.)

Z. The hastily constructed meal at the--ugh--Blue Bonnet that happened after the wife and I panicked and cancelled our 8 p.m. dinner reservations at 4, because we thought Ol' No. 7 and his bride's misadventures would result in their pullin' into Denver concurrently with the entrees. A slight misjudgment on both our parts. But mostly hers. (Kidding! Kidding! In the name of all that I hold dear, namely my genitalia, kidding. Please don't hurt me. I swear I'll be good.) Seriously, though, it was.

Y. The pitchers of margaritas at said meal which resulted in my repeated assertion to Bankmeister's sister-in-law that the second inning of a baseball game is really later than the fourth. By that point I was in extras and Brian Fuentes was taking the hill after drinking a mason jar of mushroom tea.

X. Somehow collecting Waveland from the bar by accident on Sunday night, a condition which unfortunately resulted in both Ol' No. 7 and his mate "sleeping" on a couch big enough for one small dog to stretch out comfortably. If this Christianity thing people talk about is for the reals, that might be the deed that puts me in the eternal red. My back is seizing up just thinking about it.

W. Getting to the parking lot at 8:45 sharp in the a.m., before the guys were even there to collect our dough. There were only two other trucks in the lot for the next three hours. It was somewhere south of 10 degrees and had snowed multiple inches the previous evening. We ate breakfast burritos with chorizo and bacon and drank beer so cold it froze in the neck. Nirvana.

V. The bourbon. Salt-soaked Jesus in a wax tophat, the bourbon.

U. Selvin Mothergoddamn Fucking Young. A try-hard kid with speed and a Rod Smithian attitude. Gimme a double Selvin with extra Hall and no Travis.

T. The sheer vastness of 7's tailgate repertoire. The guy could fry a turkey in an Antarctic blizzard. And the fact that, even though he got in an accident on a snowbound mountain pass hauling a small trailer, the only item of substance that he lost was--drum roll, Jimbo--some Eddie McCaffrey mustard. Jagpot.

S. Bankmeister's choice of footwear, a pair of hiking boots he rescued from a dumpster back in the college days, which it pains me to say was like 14 fucking years ago. At one point they had to be dried on the grill in an aluminum pan.

R. Elvis Dumervil. 11 sacks on the year and the best game(s) of his young career against our biggest rivals. He's also named Elvis.

Q. 7, Bank and I traversing the wilds of Invesco's upper level concourse in search of tamales. Hell to the fuck yes, tamales. Gorgeous, husk-sheltered tubes of masa and carne. They even stayed hot until we got back to our seats; which some might say was because of the insulated foam boxes, but which I prefer to think of it as a kind of pre-Hannukah miracle. And I'm not even Jewish.

P. Downing--upon the beer, blended Canadian whiskey, American bourbon, carbombs and who knows what else--a good shot or two of Nyquil to end Sunday. You lika the good decisions? I make you some good decisions. Felt like I left a party at Terrence Kiel's crib. Does Lil' Flip regularly hork like I did that night? Because that's murder on a grill, I'm sure.

O. I think I already mentioned the bourbon, but if I didn't, I'll quote myself on Saturday evening: "Bourbon is good!" (delivered in a cartoonishly high sing-song.)

N. The cornhole. The cornhole was wet, and heavy, and kinda measty. The cornhole was tougher than Andre the Giant's personal bodyguard. Despite my loosest-limbed efforts to the contrary, I simply couldn't penetrate.

M. Breakfast on Monday at the incomparable Lucile's Creole Cafe...a breakfast I could only watch congeal on my plate while I weighed the relative merits of shitting my pants versus standing up and convulsively vomiting. But the gravy looked delicious.

L-A. The whole durned affair. It'll be a long year waiting for the next installment.
Read more