Summer is in full sweaty swing. Teens are gearing up for the annual job transfer from strip malls to school halls, the Rays can't hit the ball (yet the team is still in the wild card hunt — thanks 162 games!), it’s raining like, every day (how are people in Seattle not all 400 pounds?) and … wait for it … it’s totally almost football season!!!
It’s just two weeks until our 2012 Tampa Bay Buccaneers take the field down in Miami for a preseason full-make-up dress rehearsal against the Dolphins in front of literally tens of people wearing Heat jerseys. Hard to imagine it was 10 years ago the Bucs sent Tony One-and-Done-gy packing and welcomed hotshot ex-Raider and eventual Super Bowl-winning coach Jon Gruden, who had suddenly become available thanks to the “tuck rule.” You see kids, if the refs had called a fumble when Tom Brady, ahem, threw an incomplete pass, it would have been the Raiders instead of the Patriots moving on to Pittsburgh and possibly the Super Bowl — keeping Gruden in Oakland, Bucs fans still searching and Tom Brady lucky to get a spot on Dancing with the Stars cutting the rug with Chaz Bono. She was so adorable in the ’70s before that radioactive bee stung her. That’s what happened, right?
Now here we are a decade later, again with a new coach (Rutgers’ Greg Schiano) ready to reboot the franchise and right the ship. Meanwhile, the Glazers have finally decided to at least pretend to give a frog’s fat ass if any of us show up to watch. I’ve taken my share of shots at the family jewels of Brian and Joel for feeble and obvious attempts at rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic year after year. So to be fair, I must give credit where credit is due. They’ve adjusted the blackout rules down from 100 to 85 percent of a sellout, offered free parking and reduced concession prices in some cases, and most importantly, removed their checkbook from the bear-trap between their butt-cheeks and made some decent moves in the off-season. Will it be another polished turd? We’ll find out on Sept. 9 against the Panthers. But I must admit, so far that’s a mighty fine-looking turd you got there, boys. I can see myself!
Speaking of turds, the Eagles game on Dec. 9 has been appropriately chosen to officially celebrate the 10-year anniversary of the 2002 world champions. Some people, myself included, regarded the NFC Championship game in the City of Brotherly Shove to have been more exciting than the actual Super Bowl. Bucs fans remember the square foot where they were standing when Ronde Barber (the only active player still on the team) suddenly and drastically halted an all but certain touchdown drive by snagging a Donovan McNabb pass deep in Bucs territory and running it back … all the way back … all by himself … for a touchdown that sent his team to San Diego and Philly fans back home to jam the 911 switchboard with domestic dispute calls (it helps lowlifes keep warm). Ronde makes his 200th start opening day. Thanks for the memories, #20.
Speaking of 911, the NCAA symbolically traveled back to 1998 when a call should have been made to authorities immediately, and erased every Penn State win since. The verdict wasn’t the death penalty, but nevertheless, the football program now resembles the knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail that Arthur reduces to a bloody torso. (“Come back here! I’ll bite your legs off!”) Some say it was too much, citing the inevitable collateral damage of non-participants. Bottom line is this, folks: There was a cover-up to save a football program over the safety of a group of children. And if the program were not severely damaged as a result, it would have only gone to prove that the cover-up was the right decision. Opinions may vary on just how directly JoePa was involved, but you can’t argue this: In the best-case scenario, it wasn’t that Paterno did nothing; it was that he didn’t do everything. If a graduate assistant walked into his office and said he saw Sanduski playing a perverted game of slip’n’slide in the showers with one of Joe’s grandkids, you think he might have acted differently?
Quicker Hits: The Rays are playing like re-fried poop, the trade deadline is less than a week away and fans are still hoping Evan Longoria swoops in like Batman at the last minute to save the season. (You heard it here, folks: Evan is not coming back this year. Batman is a movie. In real life, it takes more to heal an injury than a Rocky-style, push-up/pull-up montage). … The Summer Olympics begin this week, kicking off two weeks of being glued to the TV reacting with the attitude of a puppy (Who’s that guy? I love that guy!) … Finally, Miami re(tread)ceiver Chad Ochocinco officially changed his name back to Chad Johnson, garnering the collective shoulder-shrug of NFL Nation. (Ironic, too, since he’s finally in a city where the fans know what “ochocinco” means.)
This article appears in Jul 26 – Aug 1, 2012.