Clarence Clemons

I often see strange and wonderful things out my window at work. I sit at the front of the office behind a big window with a view of the street. The window's shades prevent passerbys from seeing me, but I see them and all their weirdness. Our office is located in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago across the street from a Guitar Center and a Home Depot. The area sports a complete cast of characters: yuppies, stay-at-home moms (and dads), musicians, dog walkers, mental patients, etc. Though they cannot be simply be characterized simply be the aforementioned stereotypes, it gives you idea of what I'm working with.

Usually once a day I see something that makes me look twice. From where I sit, I've seen a gay hipster couple engage in a heated lover's quarrel, a man galavanting around with a full ninja sword, a thirty-something woman with hair down to her caboose sporting complete medieval garb, and a muscle-clad musician heading into Guitar Center built like a NFL running back wearing a full African dress and Ugs.

I echoed some of the awesome oddities I've seen to my coworkers, and they suggested I begin writing them down. I thought it over for awhile and concluded that it's highly unlikely that I ever secure a people-watching perch like the one I'm currently occupying, so why not try to occasionally capture it in prose. Who knows? Tomorrow my seat might be moved and this will be all for not, but I thought I'd take advantage of my window to the world while I can.

Today I saw...a dude crossing the street that looked like a ghetto pirate. He sauntered his way to the other side of the street like sailor still getting his barring on land after many anight at sea. It's possible that this was just his pimp walk, but the character was devoid of any said pimp cane. His pants were neon orange and I believe had cargo pockets, while he wore an ill-fitting summer sportcoat. Donning black shades and two different multi-colored bandanas, this man's life story quickly became apparent.

From what I could gather he was obviously a former buccaneer who had retired from chasing salty wenches, took a spell working construction on the highway, had auditioned as a keyboard player in Clarence Clemons' band, and now had finally dusted off his only suit jacket and stepped out into the cruel, cold world - like the millions of the nation's unemployed - to look for work. Godspeed my friend. Godspeed.

There are no words...

You know what’s awesome? Music. And boobs, of course. But I’m gonna go ahead and talk about music in this post. Pop music, folk music, even classical (as long as it’s got some feeling) is, without a doubt, the fucking shit.  I don’t know how I’d get through the day without it. Most of my days involve less than three hours of meetings, conference calls and actual human interaction. The rest is filled with research and writing – awesome, but at times boring. The answer? Pandora, iTunes, last.fm and the plethora of other places you can go in this glorious digital age to access literally any piece of music ever made.

Music, more than any other art form or form of expression is universal. You show me someone who says they’ve never been moved by a piece of music, I’ll show you a fucking liar. Everyone can relate to the songs we hear, it’s why we sing along in the car, it’s why no matter where we go, one of the three or four things we pretty much always have on us is a music player of some kind.

About a week ago I was having a shitty day – just broke, bored, whatever you have to be for a few days to really get bummed – I was there. So I’m leaving work late and I get in my car, which is shitty and I get ready to sit in a bunch of LA(suckmycock)traffic on my way home to my shitty apartment. Sounds awesome right? Then all of a sudden – bam: THREE LITTLE BIRDS comes on the radio. Instant fucking smile baby! You know why? Because Bob’s right. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

Nothing about my situation had changed. I was still sitting there, late at night, broke, bored, in my shitty car, stuck in traffic on my way back to my shitty domicile and that was fucking great. Why? Because if Bob Marley could be so damn positive about everything, why couldn’t I? As the Nappy Roots told us: “Another day above ground and that’s a reason to pray.” See? More answers in music!

Music can sympathize (or empathize?) with us (don’t lie, you have a mixtape that includes FAIRYTALE OF NEW YORK, FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES,  and the entire first side of JAGGED LITTLE PILL). It can rationalize the way we’re feeling. Feeling shitty with that hangover? Uncle Johnny’ll take care of that with a portrait of SUNDAY MORNING COMING DOWN. Music gives us a glimpse of what’s possible. Whether we’re envisioning a vacation in PARADISE CITY or a roadtrip featuring ME AND BOBBY MAGEE, anything can happen as long as you’ve got some good tunes. Perhaps most importantly, while music accomplishes all these (and a number of other) things, it makes us feel great. We connect with strangers because of a shared experience or feeling evoked by a piece of music. We see the world differently through music and as long as music is played, reinvented and shared, it’s something we’ll all have in common.

I watched a replay of last year’s Hall of Fame Show on HBO last night and as acts like Metallica and Lou Reed took to the same stage as Paul Simon, Sam Cooke and Buddy Guy, it occurred to me that we get too wrapped up in what kinds of fans we are. Whether you get down to death metal, pop, classic rock, bluegrass, Motown, or anything in between, it all stems from the same melting pot of ideas, sounds and influences. The show closes with what I consider to be one of the greatest rock and roll songs ever written: Jackie Wilson’s HIGHER AND HIGHER. I defy anyone to listen to that song and not smile from ear to fucking ear. The same can be said for Stevie Wonder’s FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE and just about anything Darlene Love belts out. The moral of the 4 hour epic is that you can’t put labels or restraints on music – it’s rock and roll. Deal with it.

Music enhances everything we do, without us even noticing. It affects our moods, helps us celebrate, helps us forget. One minute, you’re running around stressed out by this or that – and the next, you’re William Miller, being put at ease by a groupie singing Elton John on a tour bus somewhere in Kansas. Think about it – is Forrest Gump as compelling without its 3 decade spanning soundtrack? Are Hawks games as intense without the blaring of GNR and The Dropkick Murphys between the whistles? No. And your life would be dull and bland without the constant bombardment of sound, sex, love and emotion that is rock and roll. So whether your iPod is sporting The Boss, The Pogues, The Beatles or The Killers this month, don’t forget to take the time to celebrate and appreciate the great gift that is rock and roll.

I could go on for days about my favorite acts and bands that changed my life, but that could take years, and cost thousands of lives. I’m so musically schizophrenic that any attempt to break down why I like the music I like would be an exercise in futility. What I do know, without a doubt is how music makes me feel. Rock and Roll kicks us in the dick and reminds us we’re alive. It reminds us we’re not alone and it reminds us that life is short so we might as well rock while we can. In lieu of trying to break down my musical tastes, below is a list of my top 5 moments in live rock. Not top 5 shows or favorite bands, or even songs, but moments in time when rock and roll slapped me in the face and went “Life is good!”

5. Summer, 2000, The New World Music Theater, Tinley Park, IL: The Who, including John Entwistle (who would pass away just two years later) played BABA O'REILLEY. It trumped even my wildest expectations. Pure energy. Pure rock and roll. Pure magic.

4: Spring, 2004, Eagles Ballroom @ The Rave, Milwaukee, WI: OAR, joined by Robert Randolph and the Family Band (who by the way, stole the show from the headlining Maryland band with a set that included I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU CAME TO DO, I NEED MORE LOVE, BILLIE JEAN and PURPLE HAZE) performed their now famous rendition of Led Zeppelin’s FOOL IN THE RAIN. This rock classic lends itself perfectly to the jam band sound and Randolph’s absolute shredding of the slide guitar was showcased beautifully. This has become commonplace at OAR shows, but I’d never heard anything like it at the time.  In fact, I'd never heard Robert Randolph except through the tiny computer speakers in Sean_Hef's room.  Hearing him play that laptop for the first time I felt the way people must've felt when Hendrix took the stage at Woodstock and Altamont.

3: June 12th, 2004, Bonnaroo, Manchester, TN: The Dead played THE WEIGHT. Most of this weekend is “hazy” but hearing Weir and Lesh rock out such an iconic song with Warren Haynes filling in for Jerry stands out as the most memorable part of a weekend filled with great music and great moments.

2: September 25th, 2002, United Center, Chicago, IL: Sean_Hef and I went to see Bruce Springsteen and the E. Street Band and The Boss closed the show with BORN TO RUN and LAND OF HOPE AND DREAMS. Life doesn’t get much better when you’re 17.

1: November 30th, 2001, Chicago Theater, Chicago, IL: Coldplay closes the show with a cover of HERE COMES THE SUN in tribute to George Harrison, who had passed away the day before. I don’t think I fully understood the significance of this until later. It was pretty clear at the time that the band was on the rise, but nobody knew they’d be another U2 and I don’t think I could yet comprehend George’s importance as both a member of the Beatles and as a solo artist (although he was always my favorite Beatle). But I knew it was special and important and I knew it would be an experience I’d never forget.

Reading through this list, it occurs to me that all of these moments (along with countless others) took place before my 20th birthday. Mick said he’d rather be dead than sing SATISFACTION at 50. He’s 66. He’s still singing it. You’re never too old for rock and roll because ROCK AND ROLL NEVER FORGETS.

Hef – If you’re reading this, DO YOUR BEST JAGGER!

RIP Malcolm MacLaren

Got a killer rock story?  Sound off in the comments.

-Wild

UPDATE:  Everything that guys said is bullshit.  Thank you.

As Tiger Woods gears up to return to competitive golf, and in the wake of the most open, uncontrolled and public forum he has spoken to the media in since his car accident, it seems we may see a new, more mature Tiger at Amen Corner on Thursday.  I didn't drink the Kool-aid after that half baked "apology" in February and I laughed off his first two interviews, but as he threw himself on the mercy of the press corps, it was clear that something about Tiger Woods is different.

So all it took was the biggest scandal in sports in the last ten years for Tiger Woods to actually enjoy the game of golf. Today’s press conference, I thought was extremely telling of the tortured existence of a misunderstood hero. The whole Tiger Woods phenomenon began with the best of intentions.

A military man who lived his life by discipline recognized serious raw talent in a young man and did everything in his power – including instilling strict, military values in him to help him become the greatest golfer the world has ever seen. Earl Woods could handle the regimented, disciplined lifestyle he set up for himself – balancing discipline with success, family and just a few vices. A military hero and Vietnam veteran, Earl was just wired differently than his son who spent most of his young life on California’s golf courses.

There’s no debating that Earl and Tiger had a great relationship or that he loved his son. He wanted what was best for Tiger, but perhaps Earl’s greatest sin was sucking the joy out of a game that most of us use as an escape. Golf, instead of being a fun, relaxing thing, became a pressure packed, disciplined, joyless endeavor. Tiger looked at a golf the way a stock broker looked at a trading floor, the way an M&A manager looks at a boardroom, or how a lawyer looks at a courtroom. For the first time today, we saw a Tiger Woods who looks at a golf course the way the rest of us do, the way Arnold Palmer did – as a place to enjoy playing a game.

Today, for the first time, we saw Tiger as an adult, speaking about his emotions, choosing to answer the way he wanted and saying what he wanted to say, rather than as the arrested development pre-teen who only knew his job was to stay focused on golf and win. What’s different about Tiger? He’s been de-programmed.

The very personality traits that made him believe he could stick it wherever he wanted were the same ones that made him kurt with the media, impatient and ungrateful with fans and blinded to anything but winning – winning at golf, winning at chasing skirt. We saw his guard down, we saw him realize that no matter how much you have, you can still lose everything and that if he doesn’t play his cards right with those whose opinions matter in the sport (media, fans, sponsors) he will do just that.

Yet, as the press conference went on and questions about Ambien, PED’s and his family and private life became more and more prying, we began to see Tiger back in his old, aloof form – flashes of aloofness peppered in between what I believe to be genuine humility, embarrassment and a sense of calm and satisfaction that a guy who has been striving to be the best from the time he was 6 has never felt in his life.

It remains to be seen which side will win out (the supposed “aloofness” could have just been a grown-ass man handling his shit, having the balls to tell someone, even a reporter “you just crossed a line”). For the most part though, Tiger’s answers were well thought out, but not staged, the questions were respectful, but not pre-secreened.

Tiger classily side stepped the opportunity to lash out at fellow players who took shots at him while he was away, saying he was surprised by how graciously his peers had welcomed him back to the sport. This is kind of a big deal – this would be like if tomorrow AIG was just back on the finance scene, fully bankrolled and ready to tear other I-Banks and insurance companies a new one and Aon, Goldman’s and Chase were just like “What up! Welcome back AIG!”

Not to get all Jimmy Nantz about it here, but if what Tiger said is true about the field welcoming back their single biggest threat with open arms, it really does speak volumes about the bond between PGA golfers and the overall level of class that exists in the sport. Honestly, if that’s me (especially if I'm a contender to win majors) and the one guy who has the ability to fuck my entire existence just announced that he’s coming back with a full head of steam for the sport’s single most prestigious tournament, I’m going on an old Tiger inspired rant (GODDAMN MOTHA FUCKIN PRICK!). But it’s nice that all those guys get along though.

Tiger’s smiles, his honesty, his acknowledgement of the fans and (supposed) willingness to interact with fans during practice rounds all point to the potential that this is the best thing that could have happened to Tiger Woods. Every man should be allowed to enjoy his life as it’s happening to him.

At the end of the day, Tiger accomplished more than most people ever will, so if it takes a tragedy like this to get him to appreciate his fans, treasure his kids, value his wife and enjoy his time on earth, maybe it really was the best thing for him. Whether this is good for golf however, remains to be seen.

I would submit that the best thing for golf (the ratings, the apparel, the ad dollars) and for the old Tiger (just win, make the money, pass Jack) would be continued solitude and misery for Tiger. Could you imagine if he had skipped rehab, said “Fuck it,” given Elin $100 million and packed her divorced ass off to Sweden with the kids? His entire life would have been pussy, money and winning – and boy would he have won. No distractions. No commitments. The ultimate outlet for stress. He would have been a one-man wrecking crew with nothing to lose. But the Buddhist, re-habbed Tiger seems to get the point that you can’t take it with you – that all the money, jackets, trophies and fine pieces of trim don’t mean dick if you don’t leave behind a legacy, if you can’t help people – and as Earl now famously tired to tell him – if you can’t help yourself.

I’m a Mickelson fan*, but I’ve always hoped to see Tiger break every record there is – he’s exciting to watch and any time you have the opportunity to witness history, you hope to. I’m still pulling for Tiger on the course, especially in majors (as long as breaks one off for Lefty every year or two) but somewhat surprisingly; I’m pulling for him in life now. I’m not saying he needs to fix his marriage or be father of the year. I just hope he can find and keep some peace.

He needs to decide who he wants to be like. He could be like his buddy Michael Jordan, who most decidedly said “fuck it” and proceeded to live the type of lifestyle that Tiger was headed towards (and MJ seems, for the most part to enjoy it). Or he could be like his hero Jack Nicklaus, who made his fair share of mistakes, but lived his life honestly and enjoyed things other than golf.

It seems like either choice would be great, except when you stop to think what motivated Michael versus Jack. Jack Nicklaus loved golfing and he was good at it – so that made sense for him. Michael, on the other hand had to win. He didn’t just love ball, he wasn’t just a gifted player – he had to win. He had to win to silence any critic he had ever encountered, any player who had ever talked trash or taken him to the hole in a pick-up game.

I’m not passing judgment on which way of winning is better, but I will say that Jack seems to be enjoying his life a lot more than MJ. When Jack talks, you don’t get the impression that he has anything to prove, while Michael was still trying to silence the haters even as he was being inducted into the Hall of Fame. Hopefully this whole experience will remind Tiger that he’s got nothing to prove on the course, that he has a place in history with the Hogans, Nelsons, Nicklauses and Palmers of the game. Hopefully the sense of calm, gratitude and humility we saw streaks of today will replace the brash, aloof, focused intensity we bemoaned so much before he ever ran over that hydrant.

Good luck at Augusta Tiger – and fuck everyone in the blogosphere who want to kick you while you’re down.

*When I was 12 or 13, I was in a two or three day a week golf camp at the local muni. One of the perks of being a camper was a trip to a practice round of the Western Open at Cog Hill. I filled a Burner Bubble hat with autographs that day, including greats like Ernie Els and Billy Mayfair. I even shot the shit for a minute with Payne Stewart while he broke me off with his John Hancock.

Fun was had all around – until I approached Tiger between holes. Whereas every other player in the field had happily signed autographs and chilled with fans between holes, Tiger cut through the masses like Moses through the Red Sea, eyes fixed on the ground in front of him, black Nike cap pulled over low over his brow, not acknowledging a single person – during a practice round with his old man and Ernie Banks. It was then that I decided Tiger would never be my favorite golfer.

Having said that, I wish him no ill will and hope that maybe the silver ling here is that if Tiger really has changed his attitude, maybe some 12 year old kid won’t get his heart shit on at Augusta this week when he approaches his hero for a signature.

-Wild

As spring practice draws near, the Domer nation has an excuse to talk incessantly about the state of the Notre Dame football program. Despite the fact that ND hasn’t been in serious contention for a National Championship since 1993, hope springs eternal in South Bend.  Traditionally, the six week period between National Signing Day and the first of 15 spring practices, is when the Irish faithful lick their wounds from the previous fall. That time has come and gone, and Rockne’s wayward sons are daring to dream again...

The fact that Notre Dame hasn’t hired a proven collegiate winner since Lou Holtz has been well documented. Still, Fighting Irish fans have gotten behind each successive coach (Davie, Willingham, O’Leary—whoops, and Weis), if only for a short time. And with every coach since Lispy Lou, the gulf between expectation (National Championship) and reality (.583, .583, .565) has grown.

Knowing the blind, wilful nature of many Notre Dame blowhards sitting on the message boards all day at work, it serves to point out that the blowout losses to Oregon State and LSU, as well as the 14-point loss (which wasn’t nearly as close as 34-20 would suggest) to Ohio State in BCS games do more to strengthen the previous point than refute it.

Calling Notre Dame a ‘finesse’ team the past two seasons is, at best, a euphemistic way of saying they’ve been soft. Chock full of talent on paper, and paper-thin on defense, the Irish underwhelmed everyone in college football except ESPN analyst Mark May.

Enter Brian Kelly, the man who took Cincinnati to its first undefeated regular season, Big East Championship, and BCS berth last year with players ND might have taken as preferred walk-ons out of high school. With a history of winning and a clarity of purpose—National Championships—Kelly is embarking on a journey to restore the Fighting Irish to their long-abdicated throne atop the college football world.

Kelly is known for his grueling off-season workouts, complete with ‘puke buckets’ lined up around the practice facilities. Coupled with new Strength-and-Conditioning Coach Paul Longo’s unconventional methods—including a giant sand pit—that have proved highly effective in developing players, Irish fans can expect a toughness that was consistently lacking during the Weis regime.

Many have speculated about the cause of Notre Dame’s lack of grit and toughness over the past few seasons.  Most look to Weis in one form or another. Some questioned his lack of leadership and head-coaching experience. Still others attribute it to a difference in the way professional and college football players are motivated, and Charlie’s inability to recognize that difference. Yet, a simpler, almost childish explanation has been overlooked entirely:

A young man can only take so much Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen.

Charlie Weis’ love-affair with these 1980s rockers is a secret to none in the Notre Dame community.  In order to simulate stadium noise, Weis would play hits like “It’s My Life,” “Glory Days,” and “Living on A Prayer” over the PA system during practice in the days before away games.  The past two seasons, Notre Dame’s road record is 3-7.

In addition, Bon Jovi’s “Slippery When Wet,” and Springsteen’s “Nebraska,” and “The River” albums could be heard in the weight room almost every day during the off-season. One player, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said: “I mean, I get that they’re great musicians, well, Springsteen at least. But ‘Nebraska’? Do you know what that song is about? And have you ever tried to rep 365 listening to ‘The River’? It’s just depressing, man.”

It seems that playing these Jersey rockers’ inspirational tunes backfired badly on Coach Weis.  Another player said: “I heard so much of those guys, I started to have nightmares. The night before the UCONN game last year, I had a dream that Jon Bon Jovi was playing at my wedding, and Richie Sambora was my best man. How am I supposed to play after something like that?  You think I wanted to get that penalty? It’s hard to focus when you got that stuff goin’ on. Richie Sambora. Fuckin’ Richie Sambora. Why do I even know that guy’s name?”

There are mixed emotions in and around the Fighting Irish community about Charlie Weis’ departure. His supporters talk about his undying love for and understanding of everything Notre Dame stands for. They talk about how he did things the right way, how he emphasized the University and not his three Super Bowl rings when pitching recruits. His naysayers all point to the bottom line: 35-27.

Moving forward, it’s apparent that Brian Kelly has his work cut out for him and the eyes of the Irish nation watching his every move. They’ll talk about the shift back to a 3-4 base defense, and whether players like Kapron Lewis-Moore, Darius Fleming, and Steve Filer can realize their potential within the scheme. They’ll talk about the spread offense he’s implementing, and which receivers will step up to complement Michael Floyd and TE Kyle Rudolph. They’ll second-guess his personnel changes, like Theo Riddick to slot receiver, instead of Cierre Wood to safety, and they’ll question his ability to recruit nationally. And if the Irish win fewer than 8 games this year, some will revert back to their Urban Meyer and Bob Stoops pipe dreams.

Many Irish fans walk around with a sense of entitlement that hasn’t been warranted for about 15 years. Looking at his track record, Coach Kelly might just be the man to justify that air of privilege once again. If Kelly is the man to lead the Irish out of exile, the fans will be there to quote his pre-game speeches like scripture, and name their first-born sons Brian. Any way about it, I hope somebody told him to check his ‘Jovi at the door.

-Jim March

The United States is a country obsessed with sports. That being said, there are really only a few annual sporting events that truly take over the public’s viewing interests. Football might be the United States’ #1 sport, but from mid-March to early April, the nation throws itself head-over-heels into in to a college basketball frenzy.

For months leading up to the NCAA Tournament fans hang on experts’ every last word, regardless of the fact that no matter how well versed people are in “Bracketology” chances are their bracket is going to suck. People might even enjoy lamenting how awful their brackets are during the tourney as much as they do watching the games Alumni gather all over the country to root on their alma maters and reminisce about their glory days. Dips of every kind are made in households across all 50 states, as families and friends meet to talk trash and watch the games.

The interactivity of March Madness cannot be rivalled anywhere else in the American sports landscape. People who have absolutely no day-to-day interest in college basketball fill out brackets. Everyone puts in five dollars for tournament pools with their coworkers, family members, or friends. Facebook and ESPN run huge campaigns encouraging people to fill out brackets online.

Las Vegas comes alive during the NCAA Tournament with sports fans coming in from all over to lay down some cash on the games. I have buddy who goes to Vegas with all the men in his family for the first two rounds of the tournament every year. If you can’t make it to Sin City, you can always do your college basketball betting over the Internet.

The tournament has become so successful largely because of upsets. Any team on any given day has a chance to win. It seems like every year a team that no one’s ever heard of makes a “Cinderella” run in the tournament, captivating the general public’s interest in the process. The story of the underdog never gets old. People want to see the Kansas’ and Kentucky’s of the Top 25 get upset by Mid-Majors like George Mason and Northern Iowa.

The idea of the underdog fits the American dream like a glove. Everyone loves the story of someone making something big out of something little. All it takes is some key free throws down the stretch of a ball game or one lucky three point shot and the impossible becomes reality. Almost nothing is impossible in the Big Dance. Sure a #1 seed has never lost in the first round, but it’ll happen eventually.

In the NBA you can almost predict before the season starts what four or five teams have a realistic shot of winning a NBA title. Look at the final scores in the NBA during the regular season. You’re lucky if there are one or two close games. When two teams step out on the court and lay it all the line for forty minutes people will watch. That’s what happens in the NCAA Tournament and for a solid month the public can’t turn away from the T.V.

When you watch the tournament this year, don’t spend the whole time worrying about if this will be the year you win your office pool. Don’t obsess over why you think your buddy is an idiot for picking all #1 seeds to make the Final Four or Wofford to upset Wisconsin. Just admire the way the intensity and unbridled emotion on the court. The game of basketball was meant to be played the way it’s played in March Madness. So just enjoy it.

-Sean Heffernan

As pitchers and catchers report and I buy tickets for my annual pilgrimage to Mesa, AZ, it’s hard to escape the feeling that this year could be ours. With the young, revitalized Hawks on top of the division, one has to wonder if it’s time for Chicago to end another drought. As the trade deadline looms in the NBA, we are offered a glimmer of hope towards a Bulls playoff run. Throughout all the trials and tribulations, ups and downs, living and dying with our teams, expecting nothing less than perfection, coping with disappointment and finally rejoicing when a team does it, rooting for Chicago teams is a truly unique experience…

“I hear that Cali never rains and New York’s all the Way”. I’ll let Pac keep cali and Hov can stay in that Empire State of Mind. Give me an Old Style, a hot dog with everything and 10 great songs from one great year. Give me 75 MPH on lakeshore drive…speeding towards The Drake and the Hancock with the water to your left, taking an “s” curve to reveal Navy Pier in all its glory. Give me wide open express lanes on the Kennedy barreling towards the greatest skyline on earth, emerging from Hubbard’s Cave in the middle of a glass and steel canopy that is the West Loop.

You can have your Coliseum, your Garden, your palatial new Stadium. Give me bricks and ivy, the Madhouse on Madison and a stadium that’s a living monument. Give me the Irish an hour away on I-80 and the Golden Eagles and hour north on 294.

Keep your models, actresses and PoweR Girls. Give me a chick who can drink me under the table, wake up in time Sunday NFL Countdown and really get what I mean when I say “I hate the fucking Packers”.(Holy shit! You’re wearing an Urlacher jersey and you made chili? What’s your name, soul-mate?)

Skip the ultra-lounges, nightclubs, bars with lines and doormen. I’ll take a Lakeview pub, a Jeff Park dive or a backyard. Give me a grill, a pong table (yes, it’s called “beer pong”) and a game of bags*.

I’ve seen most of the “coast” and a lot of the Atlantic Seaboard. I’d rather cruise the bizarre corridor of the Illinois Tollroad from Chicago to Milwaukee featuring such gems as a gold plated pyramid, that “study natural law house”, Apple Holler, The Brat Stop, Mars Cheese Castle and culminates in our neighbor to the north – which is only good for eating yourself into a coma or drinking yourself to death (also not a bad place to catch a ballgame).

When it comes to sports, don’t even fuck with us. This is a city with a sports following so rabid that fights break out between fans baseball teams that play in the same town. If pitchers and catchers haven’t reported yet, we don’t even waste time on our divisional rivals (but since we’re on the subject, FUCK the Cardinals.) Sports figures and fans can be made or broken in Chicago. Won the Superbowl in ’85? Take my first born! Snatched up 6 rings in the 90’s? You should run for Mayor! Try to catch a foul ball? Pay attention asshole! Bam! Death threats! Beat the Packers this week? You’re a future Hall of Famer! Lose to the Vikes next week? Bench that asshole! Being a Chicago sports fan goes beyond loving our teams, idolizing our heroes and vilifying the failures, it’s about hating (with a vengeance) our rivals. “Get the fuck out of here with that Donald Driver jersey! And look at this asshole! A Favre Vikings jersey!?!?! Do I really have to explain to you all the things wrong with that!?!”

Chicago sports is all encompassing. It covers every major sport, starting on the high school level and reaching all the way up through college to the pros and for every team we love, there’s even more teams we hate. It starts with where you went to high school. If you were blessed enough to come up in the Chicago Catholic League, then all suburban leagues are a joke and the Chicago Public League is a glorified basketball conference. Rivalries run deep in the CCL/GCAC and loyalties are not split. From basketball and baseball to hockey, wrestling, football even volleyball and soccer you won’t find too many fans of the Loyola Ramblers and the Mount Carmel Caravan or The Providence Celtics and Joliet Catholic Hilltoppers. Nobody in the history of Chicago has ever rooted for Regina and Resurrection or Loyola and Mother MacAuley. Whether it’s football, basketball or girls’ soccer, communities live and dies with their high school teams.

When it comes to collegiate athletics, the Chicagoland area is a hotbed of competition. To the South, you’ve got The Chief, to the east, The Irish, to the north, The Golden Eagles and to the west, The Wolfpack. You’ve got the Wildcats on the North Shore and the Ramblers and Blue Demons on the North Side with the Flames representing the South Side. Everyone in Chicago has their own allegiances and they stick by their team through good and bad. In Chicago it’s not who you root for or how you root, but that you root.

Chicago’s five major professional sports teams are the proud owners of a combined 23 titles as well as some of the longest title droughts in sports. Luckily, they also have some of the world’s most dedicated, bloodthirsty and absolutely insane fans. Fans who singlehandedly demolished disco in the 70’s, Superbowl Shuffled in the 80’s, rioted in the 90’s and who every year, without fail believe that this could be the year – for all of our teams, whether they last won it all in 2005, 1998, 1985, 1961 or 1908. It’s not about what happened last year, last month, last week, last game or last inning. In Chicago, we live in the now, we expect the miraculous, even the impossible. We know greatness, we know winning and we expect nothing less from our athletes.

Chicago has no casual fans. There’s no room for divided loyalties. We raise our sons and daughters not just to love the Bears, but to hate the Packers and the Vikings (more especially, any quarterback who’s played for both). It’s not enough just to love the Cubs. You must loathe the Sox and the Cards. The Knicks haven’t been relevant in 15 years? Yeah, well Ewing was still an asshole! And don’t even get me started in the mother fucking Pistons. Speaking of Detroit, Hawks fans of all ages will tell you that the most important fact you can know about hockey (more important than the Hawks all-time leading scorer, more important than any stat) is that DETROIT SUCKS!

So let me root, root, root for the home team – and only the home team. Let me down an a Hamms (or a Goose Island if we’re being fancy). Turn up “Saturday in the Park” and break me off a slice of Lou’s deep dish, toss me a fresh Cubbie Blue New Era cap, because there’s no city on Earth I’d rather put on for than Sweet Home Chicago.

*Ever try to describe a game of “bags” to someone not from the Midwest? “So, what’s the point?” “What? You try to get the bags in the hole and the first team to 21 wins.” “Yeah, but when do you drink?” “The whole time.”

-Wild

Garret Hartley being canonized in New Orleans

The NFC Championship for a moment seemed destined to be decided by the right boot of Minnesota Vikings place kicker Ryan Longwell. The broadcast kept cutting to the 35-year-old former Green Bay Packers kicker warming up as his teammates were moving the ball into field goal range with the score tied 28-28 with the New Orleans Saints in the final moments of the fourth quarter. 

This is what Longwell worked all year for: the chance to kick the game-winning field goal that would send his team to the Super Bowl. Former Packers team mate and living legend Brett Farve had gotten the Vikings down the field to where Longwell would have to kick a 50+ yarder to win the game. Not ideal conditions for Longwell, but he had done it before with his career long being 54 yards. Time was running down and head coach Brad Childress wanted to see if he could get a few more yards to make the kick a little easier. Longwell waited on the sidelines preparing himself for what would be one of the most important kicks of his career.

The trouble is that Longwell never got the chance. The next play Brett Farve rolled out to his right and rifled the football across his body spiraling into the arms of Saints’ defensive back Tracy Porter. On the other sideline 23-year-old Garret Hartley celebrated with his team mates at their team’s good fortune. The Saints had won a number of games this season in odd fashion and Farve’s folly only furthered the idea that they were a team of destiny.

Cajun luck continued to the joy of the 70,000 Saints fans in the Superdome as New Orleans won the coin toss giving them the ball first in overtime. Hartley began taking his warm up kicks as QB Drew Brees (a Farve-like folk legend in the making in New Orleans) led the offense onto the field. The young kicker had called his father the night before the game in the middle of the night to tell him he just had a feeling he would kick the game-winning field goal from 40 yards away on the right hash mark. Hartley was only two yards off. The Saints strung together a few passes aided by a crucial pass interference call against the Vikings setting up the Texas-born kicker for a 42 yard kick to win the game.

The New Orleans Saints had never been to a Super Bowl in their 43 year existence as Hartley lined up for the kick. The entire city hung in the balance as long snapper Jason Kyle snapped the ball back to holder Mark Brunell with the young kicker waiting to strike. Brunell set the snap down perfectly and just as Hartley envisioned the night before he drilled the pigskin right through the goal posts sending the Big Easy into ecstasy. Hartley will forever be remembered for that kick and beloved in New Orleans while Longwell will always wonder about the kick he never got to take. So goes the life of a NFL placekicker.

The Bears future is unclear

The news that former Bears defensive back coach Perry Fewell will be the next defensive coordinator of New York Giants solidifies the fact the Bears seem to be lost in their search for coordinators on both sides of the ball.

GM Jerry Angelo called these decisions the most important of his career since he first hired Lovie Smith in 2004. Perry Fuel seemed to be the perfect fit being that he was a sought after coach who Lovie was comfortable with bringing back to Chicago.

You can't blame Fewell for not wanting to come into situation in which if the team didn't make the playoffs then he'd likely be out of job again in a year. New York likely outbid Chicago as I can't see the McCaskey's sinking too much money into a coach who might only be there for a year.

Chicago's defensive talent also doesn't stack out to the potential that New York has so by all means Fewell probably made the right decision. But where does that leave the Bears? Lost.

The Bears did however hire former Minnesota Vikings head coach Mike Tice as the offensive line coach for the 2010 season. The hire left some people scratching there heads as it might of been premature to hire an assistant coach before you hire a coordinator, but one cannot underestimate the importance of an offensive line coach.

The last few games of the season were a tell-tale sign of how important the big guys up front were to the Bears success. Jay Cutler is a different quarterback when properly protected. Look at the success Brett Farve has had this season behind the offensive line he has in Minnesota. It also appears that center Olin Kreutz will be back next year as Tice met with the former pro bowler as a part of his interviewing process.

Despite the addition of Tice the Bears are still without an offensive coordinator and there are little clues in what direction the organization will go with the coaching vacancy. The position will most likely go to a promising NFL position coach willing to take the risks that go along with joining a coaching staff on the rocks.

Some names that have been mentioned as candidates for the job include Colts wide receivers coach Clyde Christensen and San Diego assistant head coach Rob Chudzinski. Whomever Jerry Angelo and Lovie Smith hire it will no doubt be a pivotal move for the Bears organization.
Who should the Bears hire? Any ideas? Can Lovie save his job in 2010? Share your thoughts below.

-Sean Heffernan