Roger That

Roger Federer beat Andy Murray soundly in the U.S. Open final. The Great Scottish Hope will return, people. Fear not.

Scotland in the Finals!

The missus and I (and the missus' father) are very excited about the official arrival of Andy Murray to the international tennis stage. Yesterday, he completed a shocking upset over #1 seed Rafael Nadal at the U.S. Open to go to the first Grand Slam Final of his young career.

Now, followers of tennis have been vaguely aware of the temperamental Scot for some time. After all, he is the current #6 player in the world (and will be #4 after the U.S. Open).

But Andy's not what one would call a "crowd favorite" (unless you're a Scot or married to a Scot). His early matches at the Open were played in the Grandstand, since they save Arthur Ashe and Louis Armstrong (who was one hell of a tennis player) Stadiums for the popular kids.

He's a cocky S.O.B., but that's part of the charm. He'll flex his biceps after victories. He's moody as hell, and gets very angry with himself, something those of us who are hard on ourselves appreciate. He states unabashedly that he only plays for himself (and perhaps the Royal Bank of Scotland, his sponsor).

Much to the chagrin of the Wimbledon crowd (especially the well-mannered English, who like their heroes polite), Andy flatly states that the U.S. Open is his favorite tournament. After all, where else do you get to play in front of the stars of your favorite television program (Entourage) and your favorite comedian (Will Ferrell)?

He's not going to feel the pressure of being the first Brit with a legitimate chance at winning Wimbledon in 750 years (or however long it's been). He plays for himself, not for the country. He's not falling into the Tim Henman trap.

The missus and I watched him play at the Open last year, when he was coming back from an injury. He really didn't look good, but the worst part of his game was his head. He muttered "fuckwit" to himself when he'd back bad shots and wallow in the points that could've been. (We had our front-row Grandstand seats and could hear the mutterings.)

And that's been the biggest turnaround in his game. Not only is he 100% physically, but he's also much cooler. He's calm under pressure.

Alas, whether he likes it or not, this evening, Andy plays for the Scots. He may think he plays only for himself, but try telling the missus' father, who speaks to his daughter after every match. We're actually a little concerned about the missus' father's health.

The U.S. Open Final begins at 5:00 p.m. EST. You better believe that I'm rushing home from work to watch Andy take on Roger Federer in the final. This Roger fella is sort of like the Yankees of tennis. So maybe this will be his year to fall.

A Tennis Interlude

We interrupt the politically-dominated B&E coverage for a report on Preppies in Queens, or as some like to call it, the U.S. Open Tennis Championship.

Early in the week, I knew the tournament had started, for I came face-to-face with that elusive pairing one just doesn't see on the #7 train at any other time of year: the rich WASP.

This couple stereotypified everything about tennis-loving prepsters. The man was head-to-toe in Polo (except maybe his top-siders), and to hide his clear discomfort among the Plebeians, the kept his face buried in The Wall Street Journal. The woman wore perfectly-pressed white pants and a white sweater-set. But her real kicker was the pink-with-white-stripes sweater that she had tied around her neck. Really, I thought that was such a stereotype that the preppies stopped doing it years ago. She plugged away on her Blackberry, looking up nervously at every stop along the way. Once she was finished with her Blackberrying, she flipped through a high-end catalog.

If my balls were only a little bigger, I'd have whipped out my camera and taken a photo of this couple. It was difficult to believe they were real.

Still, as I've explained before, the missus and I do enjoy good tennis. So as we did last year, we sacrificed our sleep on one weekend morning and got in line for day-of grounds admission passes. The missus knows just where to go and isn't afraid to run, so I took her stuff and let her go into the short "no bags" line to save us seats.

This year, a twelve-year-old boy out-ran her and we had to settle for second-row seats in the grandstand. Still. A perfectly swell place to see tennis. Too bad about the family around us.

They were polite enough, I guess, but at no point did they actually need all six seats they were saving. And they were talking about the financial markets and their second homes in Greenwich (with tennis courts, of course) and "family budgets" (which I suspect has a different meaning than the missus and my "family budget"). The matriarch spent almost no time watching tennis, but spent a great deal of time eating food from Citarella. I also caught a glimpse of a Spence sweatshirt. Apparently, the biggest argument in the family is whether they'll keep living full-time in NYC once their Greenwich home is finished. Matriarch says yes; Patriarch says no. Gee, I hope their marriage survives.

But the U.S. Open is occasionally about tennis, and our first match of the day was a doozy: Qualifier Gilles Muller squeaked out a victory against 18th-seeded Nicolas Almagro in five sets. Here's Gilles Muller serving...

And here's Almagro serving...

They were both excellent servers.

One boy in this family was vocally rooting for Almagro. He is, after all, the 18th seed in the world and had a two-set lead early on. So in the fifth set, when Muller had a chance to break Almagro to win the match (which he did) and the boy said, "Come on, Muller!" his father said, "I thought you were rooting for Almagro." The boy answered quite honestly, "But now Muller is winning."

That made a lot of sense. And no, I'm not being sarcastic. It helped gel a few things in my mind because that sort of clarity is what we judgmental pricks really look for when we're judging.

You see, it's because we make so much more money than the rest of our fellow citizens that we deserve those tax breaks.

So where was I? Right. Tennis. It was a long day in the heat. We didn't stay for the completion of the next match. There was less fire and less passion in the players. But we got our money's worth with Almagro and Muller.

And the U.S. Open really does make for great people-watching, especially when you want to feel morally superior.

Roger Clark Is Having a Heart Attack! On Live TV!

There's some sort of beach volleyball tournament happening in Coney Island this weekend, and Roger Clark of NY1 is covering the story. He's bumping, setting, and "spiking" with a couple of Olympic beach volleyballers (beach volleyball is an Olympic sport, but softball isn't anymore?), while giving his report.

He can't speak. He's out of breath. I'm seriously concerned for his health. Especially in this heat.

I hope NY1 sends an EMT along with Roger for his more physical reporting. Roger, be careful. The missus and I love you tremendously. Don't die on us, please.

My Adopted College Team

Because I went to... well, let's face it... a gay school, I've always been a Kansas University Jayhawks fan in college sports.

So a special shout-out this morning to KU, which took violent abolitionists, turned them into a fictional bird, and won the NCAA Tournament for the first time since 1988.

Seriously, it was a hell of a game. The Memphis Tigers were up by nine with two minutes left, and I started getting ready for bed. I only kept it on the TV because I'd accepted that Kansas was going to lose yet another NCAA Tournament Final, something they've done on numerous occasions in the past two decades.

Torch Trouble in Europe

There hasn't been a great deal of press surrounding the many protests in the direct vicinity of the Olympic torch, but that doesn't mean they're not happening.

As you probably know, the Olympic torch circles the globe en route to being lit for the Olympic games, which this summer occur in China. Usually, this is a peaceful, ceremonial relay with a few cheering people celebrating the local celebrity athletes who get selected to run a portion of the thing.

Protesters in London and Paris have been less impressed with this year's torch relay.

What are they protesting? China, apparently. Something about human rights violations, an occupied Tibet, and the Chinese plan in 2012 to colonize America. OK, so that last one is actually just a random paranoid theory I heard about over a brunch a while back. The short of it is that the Chinese outgrow China and head east, taking over America, and there are just too damned many of them to stop it.

So that's something to look forward to. In the meantime we'll enjoy the Olympics.

Vote!

Tomorrow is Super Tuesday, B&E readers. Don't let your excitement over the Giants' Super Bowl victory and subsequent Super Tuesday ticker-tape parade cause you to forget to participate in our democracy.

I love voting, and if I've explained why before you'll have to forgive me.

Shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I went to vote in my first primary in Kansas. While I was there, one of our neighbors walked in: Mrs. Landon. She had no first name; she was merely Mrs. Landon, widow of Alf Landon, the biggest loser (to FDR in '36) in presidential history (and former Governor of Kansas, too, of course). Alf and Mrs. Landon had a daughter, one Nancy Kassebaum who was a moderately reasonable Republican Senator from Kansas from '78 until '96.

So anyway, Mrs. Landon walked in to vote, escorted by her daughter Nancy. It gave the whole experience a heft that I'll probably never forget. This woman was freakin' old, and nothing would keep her from the polls. And there was my Senator, too, not that I ever once voted for her.

But yes, I do love to vote.

And how about that Super Bowl? Man, was that a great game or what?

Maybe the Scots Know Better Than Trump

I'd like to give a special shout out to the missus' home country (that would be Scotland, in case you're not aware), which rejected a $2.1 billion golf resort development proposed by Donald Trump, a man famous for his exquisite taste. So his proposed golf resort was sure to be subtle, with little or no effect on the natural beauty of Scotland, pictured here for your reference.

During the whole ordeal there was one holdout who refused to sell 55 acres to The Donald. Upon the failure of the golf resort scheme, the fella, Michael Forbes, gave this tasty tidbit (as quoted in The Telegraph):

Hopefully, Trump has now got the message that we're not a bunch of cabbages up here. We've managed fine without him up to now and we'll get on just as well without him.

Those of us in New York are unable to say the same thing. We are, in fact, cabbages.

Up Close at the US Open

The missus and I spent a good chunk of our Saturday at the US Open Tennis Tournament. With a Grounds Admissions pass, you can wander from court-to-court (except at Arthur Ashe Stadium, where the popular kids play) and watch as many matches as your heart desires.

As I may have mentioned, the missus has become quite the fan of Andy Murray, her fellow Scotsman, and next tennis hope for a UK victory at Wimbledon. He is but 20 years old, and his ranking is currently #19. Andy was scheduled to play match #4 in the Grandstand.

When the gates open for the day at the Billie Jean King USTA Tennis Center, a mad rush occurs. Grown men and women sprinting in their Fila and Ralph Lauren outfits to the various courts to get prime seats for the matches of their choice, in spite of the staff people shouting, "Do not run!"

I was wearing flip-flops, but the missus, who had already spent a day at the US Open and knew what to expect, had on her trainers. We had a plan. Look for her in section 15 of the Grandstand. The gates open and off she went.

Pre-teens handing out free samples of Polo cologne cleared the fuck out of the way of the sprinting adults.

The missus survived several preppie elbows to get what must have been the best seats in the Grandstand. And even though our tickets allowed us to wander at will, we opted to stay put. Once you get seats like these, you don't move.

Preppie vultures waited to pounce on our seats, anytime one of us went for food or bathroom visits.

Hats off to the missus, who decided that she liked me better than famed tennis coach Brad Gilbert (currently offering his expertise to the Great Scottish Hope Andy Murray), and rejected his kind request to sit next to her for Andy's upcoming match. Brad Gilbert. Crafty bastard using his coaching as an excuse to horn in on my wife. Nice try, buster. Here's Brad Gilbert (in the white cap), having failed to seduce my wife.


We saw some great tennis. Nadia Petrova, current #7 seed, was upset by a Hungarian teen called Agnes. I can't remember her last name, but Hungarians were chanting, "Aggie! Aggie! Aggie!" throughout. She looked pretty good, this Agnes.


And a woman who must've been Nadia Petrova's coach scared the living daylights out of us, when she suddenly hunkered down in the aisle next to me and muttered advice in Russian to Nadia during the match. This is, officially, against the rules, and one of the lines judges gave her a glare that would've melted a human. This woman was not human. She was way too intense to be human. Still, she couldn't scare Nadia into winning.


We also saw a five-set nail-biter between #10 Tommy Haas and Frenchman Sebastian Grosjean. Haas was ultimately victorious. But we were really impressed with the sportsmanship of both these guys. Both conceded points to the other when they thought the lines judge and umpire blew calls to the other's detriment. They applauded each other's nice shots. It was the kind of match that reminds you why John McEnroe was so shocking when he played.

We were also so close, we could see that Tommy had, at some point, arthroscopic knee surgery. But I didn't get a picture. Instead, here's a totally mediocre picture of Grosjean, about to wipe the sweat off his face within a couple feet of us.



We saw another women's upset after that: #11 Patty Schnyder lost to Another Woman I've Never Heard Of. That woman could hit like hell, but might be a bit of a head case. She kept looking to her father for approval. He rarely gave it. Except when she won.

We had evening plans we were already late for by the time Andy Murray came out for his match. So we watched him lose the first set (of a match he ultimately lost) to a Korean player called Lee. Lee really had the vociferous support, as the Asians just cheer differently than the preppie Americans.

Murray's a bit of a head case, too, methinks. He called himself a fuckwit under his breath a few times after blown shots. And he always seemed to be thinking of the previous bad shot, blown call, poor service instead of concentrating on the current point. Ah, well, he's just a kid. Give him time.


I also caught a ball in the stands during the Haas/Grosjean match. I waited for them to ask for it back, but then the umpire announced it was time for a ball change. We gave the ball to our friend's girlfriend, whom we'd never met and who prepared this delicious meal we arrived nearly two hours late for. It was only fair.

Tennis Time

Yes, dear B&E readers, Queens says hello to the world's finest tennis players. In the words of Martin Luther, "What does this mean?"

It means the transformation of our local number 7 train. That's right. It's the Ugly Train (if you're a local), the International Express (if you admire multiculturalism from the outside), the Green-Haired Faggots Who Can't Speak a Word of English (if you're John Rocker).

But if yesterday's first day of the US Open is any indication, it means that the 7 train is 60% more attractive, 180% less international, 90% less green-haired, 10% more faggy, and 230% more English-speaking.

Thankfully, our 7 train is overrun by white preppies for just a few short weeks every year.

Naturally, though, the missus and I likes us some tennis. We're hoping to see the Great Scottish Hope, Andy Murray, win the sucker.

A Sporting Time in Kansas City

It is decidedly awkward to use the term "negro" in front of someone of the African-American persuasion.

I went to Kansas City this weekend. The missus had a music therapy conference, and I thought I'd use it as an excuse to see ma. And while there, I went to the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum.

As I hopped in a taxi, I noticed the cab driver was black. "I'd like to go to the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, please" I mumbled awkwardly.

"EXCUSE ME??"

"The, uh, Baseball Museum?" I asked meekly.

He sort of stared at me in the rearview mirror.

"I think it's at 18th and Vine?" I said, as I rolled onto my back to show my submissiveness.

"Oh, OK," Black Cab Driver said, finally understanding where it was I wanted to go. My lack of assertiveness, I suspect, kept him from hearing me.

But seriously, you try saying, "negro," even in a totally innocent context, to the face of a black man, and you'll understand the anxiety. Black Cab Driver was perfectly nice, and we chatted the rest of the way to the museum.

And the museum is great. Don't go to Kansas City without seeing it.

That didn't end our sports excitement. Ma, ma's man, the missus, and I went to a fancy-pants steak place that happened to be in our hotel (the Hotel Phillips), and seated at a long table in the middle of everything was Larry Brown.

Larry Brown was, of course, the Knicks coach that got canned after last season, but I still think of him more as the last coach to lead Kansas University basketball to a national championship. Next to Larry was legendary North Carolina coach (and Kansas native) Dean Smith. Then there were a bunch of people I didn't recognize. Then at the end of the table were the longest legs I'd ever seen in my life. Even with his back to us, I immediately recognized him as Bill Russell. A couple seats from Bill was Oscar Robertson.

The following day, Dean, Bill, and Oscar were being inducted into the NCAA Basketball Hall of Fame, and Larry was introducing Dean. So they were eating some steaks to celebrate.

Bill Russell has the greatest high-pitched, joyful laugh you'll ever hear.

Khmer United FC

angkor wat
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

The missus has a brother who founded and runs a school in Cambodia. Cambodia is one of those places well off most people's radar. Before learning more from my brother-in-law, all I knew about it is that the US fought there illegally during the Vietnam War, and that Spalding Gray wrote a one-man show (and movie) called Swimming to Cambodia, which I neither read nor saw.

But now I know that of the five poorest countries in the world, Cambodia is the only one not in Africa.

Football (that's soccer to us Americans) is very popular in Cambodia, and kids play in the streets everywhere you go. And yet, Cambodia is one of the few countries in the world with no national team, i.e. they don't compete for the World Cup.

(Those that don't know, by the way, the World Cup is actually a two-year-long tournament. What we enjoyed for a month earlier in the summer that ended with Zizou head-butting an Italian was just the final 32 teams. But before that, nearly two hundred countries compete in the overall tournament. And there are only, like, 206 countries. Or is it 206 bones in the body? Anyway...)

A couple of the kids at my brother-in-law's school decided to start a real team. They went all around and found the best possible players. Cambodia-being-Cambodia, the kids have only ever played barefoot, so the best players tend to have Hobbit feet. When they got equipment for the team, the players were terrible. They were getting tangled in their shirts. Balls were flying in all directions off the shoes. The lack of bruising on their shins threw off their timing.

Then one day, things suddenly gelled for the best player on the team. He dribbled his way through everyone, like Pele or Zidane-before-the-headbutt, and fired a shot into the upper corner of the goal. The place went crazy.

The secret of his success? He took off his shoes.

So the team's still getting used to playing with gear. But for the kids, this is the first step toward having a Cambodian national team. They are the Khmer United Football Club.

They're in need of a real coach, by the way. Someone who really knows how to train football/soccer teams. So if you know anyone qualified who wants to spend three-to-six months working with raw talent in Cambodia, contact the team via the website. There'd be no pay, but all expenses would be covered. And it would be a hell of an experience. I'd totally do it if I'd ever coached soccer before.

Bruce Arena just got canned as coach of the US national team. Maybe it could be his next project...

GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLL!

More Basketball Autistry

Seriously, if you can watch this and not cry, you've got no soul.

A Little Basketball Autistry

This is one of those stories that local news programs like to cover at the end of their broadcasts -- to leave you feeling good in spite of the previous half-hour of pure terror.

This autistic kid in upstate New York worked as the equipment manager for his high school basketball team, and for the final game of the season, the coach let him suit up. Then, in the final four minutes, the coach put him in the game. After missing his first couple shots horribly, he made seven consecutive baskets, including six three-pointers (one at the buzzer) for a total of 20 points in four minutes. (A bit of video here.)

As the story says, he was carried off on the shoulders of his teammates. My question: How terrifying must have it been for the poor autistic kid to have every single person in that gym charging him to celebrate?

They Make an Interesting Point

Over at everyone's favorite snarky sports commentating website, they were discussing the Shani Davis/Chad Hedrick speed skating feud at the Olympics. And who doesn't love a good speed skating feud? I mean, come on. Even the short-trackers are getting in on the action. Apolo Anton Ohno and the South Koreans? Oh, the drama...

Anyway, at some press conference both men were forced to attend, some of Shani's fans from the Dutch curling team came to heckle Chad Hedrick. Deadspin punctuates the story with this: "Regardless of whose side you’re taking in the Hedrick/Davis feud, I think you’d have to agree: When the Dutch curling team shows up to heckle someone, it is awesome."

Indeed, Deadspin. Indeed.

What They Call Football

rockinclouds
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

While I was overseas enjoying such sites as the one shown on the right, there were some very important British football matches taking place.

Celtic gave away the league cup to the Rangers in the final minute of a seemingly sure match. But then Celtic went on to win the Scottish Cup 1-0, defeating Dundee United. Celtic, by the way, is the Catholic team, while the Rangers are the Protestants. Not sure why they've been embraced in this way, but that's also why a Scottish football team like Celtic is embraced so wholeheartedly in my Irish neighborhood.

Arsenal defeated Manchester United for the FA Cup. ManU is British football's equivalent to the New York Yankees (even going so far as to forge an official retail partnership). Lots of money spent on superstars that sometimes don't live up to expectations. Arsenal won in a shoot-out. The only English football match I've ever seen live was at Arsenal's stadium in London, so I was happy to see them win.

The most dramatic match of them all was the Champions' League Final, in which Liverpool came back from 3-0 at halftime to tie AC Milan at the end of regulation, and ultimately win in a shoot-out. A comeback from three-nil at halftime is sort of like coming back with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, down by seven runs. Good stuff.

But shoot-outs. For those of you not familiar, the shoot-out is what occurs at the end of two overtime periods, should the match remain tied. Each team gets five shots at the goal and whoever scores the most wins.

I say play 'til you drop, boys. Eventually someone will score. As happy as I was with the Arsenal victory, ManU out-played them, then lost on shoot-outs. Lame. The Liverpool match was one of the greatest of all-time. To allow them to finish the match in sudden-death overtime would've only made it better.

Shoot-outs are tense and dramatic, sure, but they're a cop-out means of ending a great match. And I know better because I'm American, and we call it soccer.