Howdy, kids, and welcome back to a very special episode of Ask Uncle Crappy.
The rules: 1) You ask me a question, via the comments. 2) I answer.
The last time we played Ask Uncle Crappy, we were in the midst of Michigan week, and I had pretty much one thing on my mind. This time, our topic is: Entirely Up To You! Any subject is fair game. Think you can stump Uncle Crappy? Give it a shot.
I’m listening to tonight’s Pens game on AM radio. I can’t really complain; we are without Versus — and the rest of the cable company’s digital package — by choice, and I still love listening to Mike Lange call these games.
There was a discussion on Twitter during Sunday’s game that started with Woy saying he hadn’t actually seen a goal this series; once the notion of superstition was introduced that eventually turned into a decree that people with a particular first name — which happened to be my first name — weren’t allowed to watch the Penguins on TV through the rest of the playoffs.
Someone eventually gave us a break, but it was an interesting discussion about superstition and sports. A couple of my other Twitter friends mentioned that they don’t have any Penguins gear to wear for playoff games — others suggested that adding some to the wardrobe at this juncture might upset the mojo.
I try to resist allowing too much superstition into my sports consumption — mostly because if I gave in completely, I’d make myself and everyone around me utterly nuts.
I have some. I won’t be allowed to attend an Ohio State football game without wearing shorts for the rest of my days, thanks to the fact that I wore them to the 2002 Michigan game, despite 25-degree temperatures when we showed up in the parking lot to start tailgating. Our tailgating group also started a group shot — usually of Irish whiskey — before we head inside for every game; I now get uncomfortable if we don’t do one even before the start of games we’re watching on TV.
But superstitions based on whether you’re watching on TV or not? Rubbish.
Unless.
Unless it’s the 1989 game Ohio State played at Minnesota, a game I watched at my parents’ house in Columbus. The first half was one of the most pathetic displays of “football” I’ve ever seen, and Ohio State trailed 31-0 just a few minutes before halftime. I was disgusted, and walked out of the family room and into the kitchen to stand and glare at the little TV on the counter.
And then we scored and converted a two-point conversion.
We relaxed a little bit at halftime, mostly to get accustomed to the fact that we were going to get waxed. When the game resumed, I stayed in the kitchen, leaning on the counter in front of the little TV. Minnesota scored a field goal on its opening possession, but then things changed. We kept scoring. Converting two-point tries. Stopping Minnesota again and again. And only when we won 41-37 did I look back at the rest of my family — and the big TV — in the family room.
Sports hinging on whether or not you’re watching — or which TV you’re watching on? That’s crazy — right?
(Flickr photo: “Live transmission,” by bricolage.108)
The unofficial-but-deeply-ingrained protocol among print folks is to be a little bit blase about journalism awards. But this one has eluded me for so long that it’s a little tough not to be excited about it.
Here’s the details: We won for spot news coverage, specifically of the flash flood that swept through Aliquippa last July. I share this with two other writers — Bob and Larissa — for the work we did the day of the flood. And though this was a writing award, everyone involved — three photographers, my friend Jacki who does all the video work for out website and the copy editors who put it all together — kicked ass that day. For all the problems that seem to be torturing my profession, results like that — and recognition like this — make the angst worthwhile.
Now if I can just get my hands on one of those Pulitzer things…
Despite my previous whining about my persistent inability to win a Pulitzer, I have to admit: That’s not the journalistic prize I covet over all others.
That honor, boys and girls, goes to the Golden Quill, the annual awards presented by the Press Club of Western Pennsylvania. They’re not the most prestigious award I’m eligible to receive, but they are the most frustrating: I’m nominated as a finalist nearly every year, and I have yet to actually win one of the goddamn things.
I do OK with the award stuff; I have a few state-level awards, including 2007 Keystone awarded a couple weeks ago. It’s nice to have the recognition, and the plaques are kind of cool.
But with the Quills, I’m starting to feel a little like Susan Lucci.
That could change tonight. As soon as work is done, I’ll head to the Hilton downtown, have a couple drinks and see what happens. And maybe, just maybe, tonight will be the night.
I finished writing a post related to the Stanley Cup playoffs, my inability to watch most of the games and how that’s driving me nuts.
But then I found something else to be irritated about: the refusal of WordPress to upload a freaking photograph. This was a problem last night, when I initially tried to upload that gorgeous picture of my softball-ravaged hands; I dismissed that as having to do with me having just finished a very nice bomber of Duvel.
But there’s no delicious Belgian beer involved tonight. WordPress is just being bitchy.
Regular posting will resume sometime. I hope soon.
UPDATE, 12:05 a.m.: And. AANND — I just noticed that WordPress has stripped a bunch of photos out of old posts. Grrr.
What I learned at softball practice:
1) I need to spend some time in the batting cage.
2) When I do, I need to wear batting gloves.
Crappyesque.
