Den Cotton

In the last episode of Sportsman, our super hero was perilously dangling from a cliff, as he continued to tell fans that they clearly know much more than he does about sports. But unfortunately, the angry mob did not believe him, even as he persisted that they are smarter, better looking, and more knowledgeable about most sports — especially hockey, which he does not truly understand. And suddenly, springing from the bushes, Captain Spiffo came to his rescue!!

Sportsman: Captain Spiffo, are you here to save the day?

Captain Spiffo: No you silly sports boy, I am here to say funny things to your captors, and incite a riot.

Sportsman: Gee thanks Spiffo, how is that going to help me?

Captain Spiffo: Well, I’m hoping it will distract them and perhaps you can sneak away quietly — or maybe they will just kill you, making my job here much easier.

Sportsman: I don’t think it is going to work.

Captain Spiffo: Why not?

Sportsman: Well, my name is not Sportsman.

Captain Spiffo: Oh dear Sporty Spice, this could be trouble.

Sportsman: As recently as this week, it was revealed in a Superblog on the Internet, that I am a moron, and once had the “lame-o cover name” of one Den Cotton.

Captain Spiffo: This is very dangerous and could affect your non-sports super powers — like running out of HGH. You cannot be linked to Den Cotton. He is not trustworthy nor likable in the least. This spells trouble for Sports Land.

Sportsman: I know. What do you think I should do? I need to save Sports Land.

Captain Spiffo: You must call Token Girl. She is the smartest player on the Stumptown All-Stars B-league soccer team, and has the answer to everything.

(Sportsman summons Token Girl with his sports telepathy)

Sportsman: Hello Token Girl, I need your help, right away. My past identity of Den Cotton has been revealed.

Token Girl: I told you this was going to happen knucklehead. You don’t cover your tracks well. But I can help you.

Sportsman: I’m in big trouble T.K. People think I know something about football, baseball, hockey, water polo, ultimate fighting and badminton; and now everyone knows my past “lame-o cover name”…

Token Girl: That is definitely not a good situation and you are still a dope. However, I can make sure that everyone realizes you don’t know squat about those sports like a die hard fan would know. But unfortunately, you do know a few things about soccer — even though you totally suck and have the groin of a 70-year-old man. So stop crying like the little soccer boy that you are —- and get yourself together!! I have a plan.

Sportsman: O.K. What do we do T.K.?

Token Girl: First of all, you need to get rid of that sissy-looking soccer uniform and take off that hideous cape.

Sportsman: That’s not a cape T.K. It’s part of the All-Star jersey. Anyway … Good idea, I guess. What next?

Token Girl: You must show the world your manliness and accept a new name: Pseudoman, ruler of the alias!

Sportsman: Wow Token Girl, that is super cool and will get lots of chicks. I can fight sports crimes now and no one will think that I know anything about sports.

Token Girl: Well, you don’t know much about sports dorkbag. You know that, and I know that, but they don’t know that. And you can continue to write for the National Sports Review, pretending to know a lot about something that you clearly don’t, while mischievously saying ridiculous things with hidden messages and double meanings. But you must use your new name wisely, because you still know something about the pansy sport of soccer, which cannot be revealed to the masses, for they will realize your masculinity has been lost, and begin to think you have detailed sports analysis.

Sportsman: Thanks Token Girl. You are my hero.

And scene…

(In the next episode of Sportsman, it is revealed that Pseudoman once was a play-by-play announcer for the Evansville Otters of the Frontier League. Den Cotton … errr Sportsman … errrr Pseudoman begins to reminisce and wonder how he ever got the job in the booth as a bona fide announcer, while never playing the game of baseball, and not really knowing that much about the game at all — except listening to Harry Caray spell words backwards after school. Once, Pseudoman — then known as Denny — almost got hit in the gonads by a comebacker when he was 10, vowing to never play the game of baseball again, forever declaring his love for the wussy game of soccer. Indeed, he is a sports super hero!

This has been The Adventures of Sportsman…

A priest, a dentist, and a doctor walk onto a soccer field …

So it’s not the makings of the best joke you’ll ever here, but there is no questioning the assorted punchlines tossed around — on and off the field — since I began playing with (the) All-Stars in the Asheville Buncombe Adult Soccer Association.

I like to think of our team as the Little Engine That Could I guess, since there is always such a colorful lineup each season, much like a lot of the other teams featuring players of scattered nationalities and ages. When I took the pitch for the first time in more than 15 years last spring, I learned we had a priest in goal, which was reassuring since we needed God’s help to play with only 9 players most of the season — if we were that lucky.

There are also two gents over 60, and Julie, the thirty-something defender and cheap shot specialist. (My cheap shot to her.) We later added Candace to the offense, who eventually left us for our bitter (bittersweet) rivals to play with her husband, a crafty midfielder and wrecker of the All-Star marriage.

After just a handful of games, it was apparent I was in no shape to be playing soccer or walking up and down stairs for that matter. I managed to get two seasons in — spring and fall — while scoring a couple goals, and suffering somewhere in the neighborhood of 27 different injuries I think, before succumbing to the final blow, the dreaded sports hernia, a groin injury which is the kiss of death in soccer and hockey — at least until you can afford a doctor to cut you open. The upside is that I picked up a couple of awards at season’s end, including the ‘Ole Snappy Award, for most injuries in a season, complemented by an uncontested vote of “Least Likely to Play Two Consecutive Games”. There weren’t really any prestigious awards handed out since we strive to a level of amusement and dysfunction that other teams can only dream of Sunday afternoons. No plaques for top goal scorers or MVP trophy, just The Crimson Boot for the worst soccer “move” of the year, which I think was a bicycle kick that crashed, morphing into a flopcycle.

Despite the fact that I’ve been on the bench for the past eight months, it’s still highly entertaining to see my former team mix it up. A lot of milestones this year: First victory in All-Star history and first tournament win.

So I learned a hard lesson in that adult soccer is much more competitive than I thought, and certainly harder on the body when you haven’t played in so long. But in the end, it was well worth it, since I’ll have plenty of jokes to last a lifetime — or at least until I can get back on the field again to humor everyone I’ve met.

Well, as usual, I have some really bad advice for any of the loyal lima bean disciples out there who have been following along. Just depending on how twisted of an individual you are at heart, this could be really important knowledge to carry with you in the quest of the perfect party.

I just thought I would offer up some ideas, actually dos and don’ts — well only don’ts — for your next throwdown.

If you decide to have a soirée, it is quite clear you should refrain from bringing any of the following : Rich Rodriguez, Bill O’ Reilly, Keith Olbermann, a soccer ball, and a six pack of illegal immigrants. These are all the things that can ruin a good time, and ultimately cause people to think your party stinks.

You can bring Bill O’ or K.O., but not both. That would be the worst party in the world.

You can maybe bring a soccer ball — if you get the ok from the host ahead of time — but you can’t invite disgruntled American soccer fan, who clearly has a chip on his shoulder about loving a sport, which is still second class in the U.S. It’s ok soccer fan. I’ve accepted that not everyone is going to like soccer as much as I do either. I just feel very European inside, and it makes me feel more worldly.

Do not show up with former West Virginia head football coach Rich Rodriguez unless the party is in Ann Arbor. Personally, I would party with him like no tomorrow because he got something like $4 million — well, not exactly I guess — for doing nothing, except winning a lot of games. He just kinda left the party early ya know, and didn’t even help clean up the mess. West Virginia fan, I know you say you are “over” RR. I just don’t believe you. Look, I know I sound like a jerk, but it hurts. I still haven’t completely gotten over the breakup with my last girlfriend — and that was over two years ago. I’m doing much better now and it gets easier every day, especially if you have an awesome new girlfriend or excellent head coach — which I have neither. It’s barely been a few months for you. It is better just to accept that it didn’t work out the way you wanted — despite the breach of contract — and everything will heal in time.

Under no circumstances can you bring illegal immigrants to the party — even if they pick all the fruit and vegetables for the shindig. If the party gets really hot and the roof catches fire, they might even fix it for you the next morning if you buy the shingles. Hell, they might even put in a new floor if the party gets really crazy. Seriously though, it’s better to not be a hypocrite, and just never let them in the back door for all the fun. They can cook good food, sing, dance, and probably clean up after the party is over. You won’t have to lift a finger. But they will probably just mooch off of you for the rest of your life, because they are total parasites — from what I hear — and will ruin a good party if you let them. Next thing you know, there are 30 million of ‘em running around unannounced, kicking soccer balls all over the lawn they just fixed up for you.

Personally, I think it would be a fun party if you brought everybody, but I like a good sideshow.

“They’re selling postcards of the hanging
They’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless
They need somewhere to go
As lady and I look out tonight
From desolation row”

– Bob Dylan

Dear Soccer/Fútbol:

I just wanted to apologize from the bottom of my heart for all of the horrible things I said about you when I wrote the headline “If Illegal immigration is such a huge problem, why does soccer still suck in America?”

I know you don’t suck in America even though there are more popular sports like baseball, basketball, and football. You are very talented, and still popular among the people who really count, just like the indie bands I listen to over the Top 40 garbage I hear on the radio every day. MLS — while getting better each and every day — is not as exciting as the Premier League, but I don’t care. Soccer, I just want you. I’ll do anything to get you back. You are as sexy as ever, and I can’t live without you.

The truth is that I used you; used you in the worst way. I was trying to be cutely poignant in displaying my radical viewpoint that we, as a country, are taking the easy way out in turning our backs on a hard-working race of people by wanting to kick them out, while putting a lock on our borders, instead of creating better initiatives as well as programs to support a more logical way of ensuring that all residents can be productive and contribute culturally to a nation of immigrants, eliminating the idea of illegal human being status. Even though we stole their land in the 1800s, they still want to come over and teach us to play your wonderful game of fútbol. I think that says a lot about a group that could forgive so easily, and still want to mingle with us imperialists. Even though I said those nasty things about you, I hope you can see now that I didn’t mean to hurt you with my bizarre behavior.

I realize now that I shouldn’t have made a fool of you for my own political gain. If it makes you feel any better, there are a lot of people who think that I’m a total nutjob because of all the outlandish things I said.

Anyway, I still think you are beautiful — the most beautiful game — even in America. I’ve loved you since I was 6 years old. I think you have raised some of the most talented players in the world, in any sport — despite the fact that there are still a lot of prima donna crybabies and divers. I can even accept Cristiano Ronaldo since he has such skill and mastery of the ball. I know that you can’t parent every player to be perfect, and they will all have some flaws.

The next time I need to make a point, I surely will choose something else to exploit. I will also try to be less vague, although I can’t promise it won’t be politically charged, no matter how silly or nonsensical my analogies, figurative speech, and allusion happen to be.

If you take me back, I will try to support you better — in good times and in bad — even though I don’t think you will ever be loved as much in America as in Europe. But that’s ok. You still make my heart flutter and that’s all that matters. We could even renew our vows — that is, if you want …

I know I don’t always say and do the right things — being the silly and sometimes insensitive person that I am — but I’m hoping you can see the beauty that’s in me too, even when I act downright stupid. Don’t let this ruin our marriage.

So let’s grow old together and raise lots of fans. What do you say? Maybe together, we can win the World Cup in America one day.

Love,

Den

“I’m coming through the door
but they’re expecting more
of an interesting man
sometimes I think I can
but how much can I fake
I’ll speak until I break
with every word I say
offend in every way”

jack white III