If I was leading The Masters…

This is not a post about golf. This is a story about pressure.

For golf and non-golf fans alike, this week is the SuperBowl of the Sport; The Masters. The 79th edition where the world’s greatest players converge on Augusta, Georgia with the willingness to sacrifice their first born child (Tiger Woods will never know which one on this earth was his first, but pretty sure he would give them up to the golf Gods) in hopes of winning a bright green dinner jacket – yes really.

This week the world has been not-so-surprised by the incredible play of Jordan Speith, a 21 year old phenom from Texas that clearly appears to be the next legend in the sport. He has broken several records over these last 3 days of competition and looks like the clear favorite to finish it off on Sunday for his first Major Championship.

As young Mr. Speith walked off the 18th green last evening with a commanding lead, I started thinking about how he would manage the next 30 hours until he hit his next golf shot. The pressure. The mind games you must play on yourself. The media examining every word, action and emotion.

Clearly this “kid” is not phased and likely will handle the situation beautifully. BUT, what would I do if I were in his silly white golf shoes?

Here is a frame by frame of how athletes like Jordan handle the pressure in the hours before the biggest round/match/game/etc of their lives looming versus how folks like me would bide their time.

8:00PM Saturday:

Jordan Speith: Sign his card, shake a few hands, give a few hugs and visit the practice green to fine tune a few points of his game.

FM: High five EVERY member of the gallery. Do a few funnels of beer and sign autographs of hot females ONLY. Practice, schmactice.

9:30PM Saturday:

JS: Discuss a game plan for Sunday. Eat a light dinner with family

FM: Straight to the bar. I’m buying shots, y’all. Line em up. Anyone want a steak? Yup, I’m buying those suckers, too.

11:00PM Saturday

JS: Lights out. Night night

FM: ‘Hey Tiger, any good strip joints in Augusta?’

2:00AM Sunday

JS: Zzzzzzzzz

FM: Smoking weed with 4 University of Georgia sophomores and Arnold Palmer in back of an Uber limo.

5:00AM Sunday

JS: Alarm goes off – its game day.

FM: ‘Can I get a wake up call for 10? Oh, and can you send up some nachos?’

8:00AM Sunday

JS: Finish breakfast, off to the practice tee

FM: Zzzzzzzz

10:30AM Sunday

JS: Already had an hour on practice tee. Time to chip and putt.

FM: Open eyes. Realize the pressure in front of me. Throw up nachos and sit in bathtub while shower pummels my sad, hungover body. And I’m crying.

12:00PM Sunday

JS: Final equipment check. Lunch. Take a little time to rest up.

FM: Still trying to catch a cab to the course from the Waffle House Hotel I somehow managed to end up in. Where are my clubs?

1:30PM Sunday

JS: Start to loosen up. Stretch. Chip and putt.

FM: I really need to find a bathroom, some Advil and a maybe a cheeseburger

2:00PM Sunday

JS: Final prep. Stay loose. Hydrate.

ME: I am so tired. Where is my wallet? Oh, there are my clubs. I don’t even have a caddy. I need a beer.

2:30PM Sunday

JS: Mental prep and head for the 1st tee to make history. I got this.

FM: Hide in the coat room of the clubhouse. I can’t do this. Throw up again and need new underwear.

2:45PM Sunday

JS: It is finally here and I am ready! Let’s do this!

FM: Tournament officials find me in the coatroom. Drag me toward first tee. I haven’t swung club. I am going to literally die of heart failure. Oops, and need more underwear gentlemen. Stat.

2:55PM Sunday TEE TIME

JS: Stripes his first shot down the middle the roaring applause of the fans.

The first shot toward history.

FM: Rip a hook shot dead left into the gallery and kill a 58 year old woman. Almost simultaneously I puke, shit and faint. Dragged off course and forced to withdraw from The Masters without completing a hole.

The first shot is whiskey.

Best of luck today, Mr. Speith! I’ll be watching and eating nachos from the safety of my couch.

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe, Uncategorized

Breaking down Journey’s ‘Faithfully’ video

(If there has ever been a more random blog topic, challenge me)

“Hi, my name is Frank and I ~~love~~ like ‘Journey’“.

Be honest, they rocked it. I would dare to say that they did not have one bad song. Yeah, I said it.

Don’t Stop Believin? Don’t worry, I won’t.

Wheel in the Sky? Where??

Anyway you Want It? I’ll tell you exactly how I want it Steve Perry…right in the…

Open Arms? Bring it in for the real thing, fellas?

Sorry…

But, as great as their music was, they will certainly go down in the Hall of Fame of stupid/lame/fruity video makers.

The other day while at work I broke out some You Tube (I just call it ‘the Tube’) videos and landed on a sweet Journey playlist. Suddenly, along comes their classic pussy tune – ‘Faithfully‘ – which I regretfully love – and I decided to watch the MTV (when there used to actually be a MTV) video of this massacre. I quickly learned something.

Every single second of this video is unintentially funny.

Take a look and I’ll brealk down the hilarity for you….

I’ll wait for you…go ahead….

0:01 – Check the stupid Journey window sticker being held up by the lowest-man-on-the-totem-pole-of-life-ever has to adhere to the tour bus.

0:06 – He actually sticks it on the bus!

0:11 – Their bus has a following of other buses? Come on guys? Cut the shit.

0:18 – “Midnight sun“. Ha ha. So clever.

0:28 – Fog on window wipe off. So deep.

0:37 – Sleeping on bus? I sincerely doubt it with all of that dynamite 80s blow flowing about…

0:41 – Sweet mustache, you sensitive douchebag!

0:54 – Yeah, that car seat should be perfectly safe on that prop jet plane headed for Boise.

1:00 – Why so sad Mullet McMullerson? Maybe because you and your fake girlfriend have same haircut?

1:04 – What time are you wrestling Superfly Snuka, Steve?

1:11 – Still have that Guido caterpillar on your face, dude?

1:18 – “Shit, these jeans are tight”

1:24 – Oh look, a lighter…how inventive! Just take off your shirt, groupie.

1:36 – “Yep, I am a child molester…with half a guitar”

1:48 – “Christ, I am uglier than my molester friend.”

1:53 – “I am only laughing cause they are filming me, dipshit.”

1:58 – “I am just so in to this article in Rolling Stone about VD as we fly over the Rockies”

2:05 – “Why would I ever wear a yellow t-shirt? I am not Charlie Fucking Brown”

2:07 – “Time for me and this badboy to go our ‘Separate Ways’. Are we still filming?”

2:16 – “Anyone else hot?”

2:25 – Gratuitous slow motion footage. Ah, remember the 80s?

2:32 – “Look, I am dancing with the wife I am about to cheat on after the Topeka show!”

2:38 – Sluts with bad haurcuts.

2:49 – Fake wind

2:55-3:20 – Gratuitous bus footage. We get it – you live on a bus.

3:30 – “That’s right girls, no sleeves”

3:36 – “Dude you look so gay!” ” Dude, you do too!”

3:41 – Wow, now a PINK shirt with no sleeves? Jesus H….

4:07 – Hey look its the stupid Journey sticker again!

4:18 – Wow, a shimmering sybol. Again, so damn deep boys.

The End.

P.S. – The ony thing more insulting than their videos was when they made a worldwide search to find the Philipino twin of Steve Perry to be the new front man.

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe, Uncategorized

Blizzard Juno Post-Mortem & Confessions

Well, we made it. We are all alive. The world did not end. I actually think I still have some bread and milk in the house. It’s a Super Bowl week miracle! As we continue to dig out and dust away the close to 3 feet of snow (“Do you realize the street value of this mountain?”) dropped on us by Juno (oh, yeah, we now apparently name blizzards now like freaking hurricanes! Oh and we couldn’t do any better that Juno? How about something cool and powerful…like Herb or Norm? I digress) I came to some realizations about myself, my family, and my manhood during this hizzy of a blizzy; none of which are that encouraging from where I sit.

NO SCHOOL. ALL SCHOOLS!

Sure, the knee jerk reaction is YIPPIE! No school! What could be better? I am thrilled for my 3 little cherubs. Enjoy a relaxing day of snow bound leisure, kids. Sleep in, stay in your PJs, watch too much TV and of course, play in this winter wonderland. The excitement for a parent is far less. By about 9AM I wanted to get out of dodge. Have a great day, suckas! Dad is off to work. However, when that diabolical bitch Mother Nature hammers 3 feet on your ass, nobody is going anywhere. We are in Snow Prison. Get back in your cells. Outside of the shoveling, (which I dread, hate and suck at – see below) I was trapped. Being stuck inside for more than 24 hours straight on Tuesday was perhaps the greatest deterrent to ever land myself in the joint. Well, that and the man rape.

SHOVELING & SAUSAGES

Shoveling PERIOD Snow PERIOD Sucks PERIOD It’s cold. It’s windy. It’s cold and it’s cold. And that bomb we got this week was just.too.much. Open my back door to this…

Holy Sweet Mother of Crap. OK, I need a game plan. And so, I determined I would pace myself and my friggin’ diggin’ schedule would go a little something like this…

Shovel for 12 minutes
Beer break
Lite grill (after nearly a whole 1/4 hour of grueling, back breaking slave labor I would surely need some sustenance to survive the elements) BOOM. Like Frozen Fenway baby!

Yeah, that bad boy meat-heater resides 4 feet from the door in the photo above. I basically shoveled just enough so I could spark up some sausages. (By the way, under that blue tarp you see? Yeah, that is an un-used, un-tested, un-gased, un-oiled generator in case the power went out. I’m always ahead of the game)

On with the schedule…

Cook meat
Eat meat
Go inside and whine and…yup…beer break
Shovel for 6 more minutes
QUIT

Pathetic you say? That’s nothing…read on.

I SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF MYSELF!

So, after said pathetic shoveling attempt as described above, the real ‘pants-wearer’ in the family stepped up; the Mrs. Unlike her ill-skilled spouse, she is a bit of a gamer. Once she saw me throw up the white snowflake flag of defeat (and threw me a condescending and disappointing glare), she informed me she was going out to continue the excavation effort…and that I had a piece of sausage on my face. DOH! Grabbed her tin of Skoal and made her way into the wild to ensure our family would be able to safely exit the premises if needed…

…while I made chicken soup watching her out the window. Winning the shame game. Holla!

Each month is gay…

Each season nice…

When eating chicken soup with rice…

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe, Sports

THIS JUST IN: The Patriots are ACTUAL Superheroes

Vince Wilfork pulls woman from overturned SUV

(Associated Press)

As he drove home from the AFC Championship Game, Patriots defensive tackle Vince Wilfork came upon an overturned SUV, and he’s now being praised by the state police for coming to assistance.

According to the Massachusetts State Police, when troopers responded to a call about the overturned SUV, they found that Wilfork was already there, standing beside the vehicle and asking the driver if she was OK.

The driver wasn’t able to get out, so a trooper held the driver’s side door open while Wilfork reached in and pulled her out. The troopers thanked him for their assistance and said they’d take it from there, so he went on his way home.

The woman Wilfork pulled to safety was charged with operating under the influence of alcohol and negligent operation of a motor vehicle.

————————————————————————————————-

So, let me get this all straight in my head because, to be honest, I am shaking off the cobwebs (and by ‘cobwebs I mean ’16 Bud Lights’) from last night’s Patriots’ AFC Championship winning effort; Vince Wilfork helped save a broad…on his ride home? So basically, the big fella played in almost every defensive snap as he and the Hometown 11 beat the living horseshoes off the highly outmatched Indianapolis Colts 45-7, and then decided to play Superman on the ride home?

While I have never played defensive line at the professional football level (mostly because of disciplinary issues, mind you) I have to believe your body is a bit tired and sore after rubbing against other 900 lb dudes for 3 hours in the rain? No? Maybe I am a pussy, but Vinny is pretty awe inspiring and a fan favorite. And now….

Picture this; you just won one of the biggest games of your pro football career. You are headed to the Super Bowl (again, yawn). All you want to do is crush that XXXL steak and cheese sitting on your lap and get home for a much deserved massage from your old lady, when all of a sudden he thinks…

“Ah, shit, another dumb ass honkey Pats fan got shit hammered and flipped their car while texting their friends ‘Superbowl, baby! LOL! OMG! BLAH BLAH BLAH‘ (CRASH). Big Vin to the rescue “

What’s a Pro Bowler to do? Another day in the life of a Patriot.

VW (ironically, he has the same initials as a car he weighs MORE than) pulls over, puts the sandwich on the passenger’s seat and saves the day.

What do you think that big-mouthed Lil John look-alike Seattle Seahawk Richard Sherman did on his way home?

Probably tightened his braids, tweeted some trash talk and grabbed a gold tooth at the Jerk Store? YEAHHHH!

That’s why, Seattle, you should be starting to form that proverbial dump in your rain-soaked pants right about now. This is not Indy or Denver converging on Glendale, AZ in 13 days…this is the New England Effin Patriots. 6 SuperBowls with the Hall of Fame Sunday brunch combo of Brady and Belicheck coming at ya…full speed.

I hope that handsome playboy, Pete Carroll, has more than high 5s and a loose stance on morals to back you all up. Loud talk, gold cleats and the Space Needle won’t help you here. Your ’12th man’ will be back at home wishing they lived in some other American geography and mumbling about Steve Largent.

Here we come and we are packing Super Heroes for the Super Bowl.

YEAHHHH!

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe, Uncategorized

Red Sox great Wade Boggs drank 107 beers…in a row

As a kid growing up in the 80s in Boston, Wade Boggs was pretty much as great as they come in your sport universe. Right up there with Larry, Mosi and Cam. Outside of his disgusting move to the New York Yankees late in his career, the Boggs man was great at four things: baseball, eating chicken, philandering and, as you will see in this clip, drinking brew.

The rumor has always been Boggs based 64 Miller Lite beers in a day/flight….but Wado told the hilarious Charlie Day during a taping of ‘It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia’ the number is actually 107.

Repeat: 107

I want to call bullshit here…but hey…I don’t know? Guy was a bigger than life sports star. He had a bigger than life mustache (we’re talking Wyatt Earp/Doc Holiday league mustache). Those 2 factors alone lead me to believe he could pull this off.

I have a buddy named “Brian” who I have seen whack back a 30 pack with relative ease…and he is just an idiot…not some highly skilled, highly trained, highly testosterone-ized, highly paid Hall of Fame Red Sox. He’s a regular dude with way to much time on his bladder.

So, before you dismiss Sir Wade’s claim, digest this information for a few moments. Better yet, see if you are as much a man as he? Grow a mustache. Go out and grab yourself 4 1/2 cases of Miller Lite and show ’em who’s boss? My guess is your mustache will be grown sooner that you finish the 107.

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe, Uncategorized

Rocky 7: The Rocky Road to Dementia

Rocky 7? Really? Say it isn’t so!

What once was considered one of the greatest stories of sport and spirit has truly (well, for the 3rd or 4th time actually) spit in its own aging face. Now, without having read or viewed anything except this nebulous trailer, I can only assume that Rocky only plays the role of manager/trainer in this film to some young spawn that wants to enter the fight game (appears to be of the Apollo Creed lineage).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pi6lxm9x3ik

I really don’t want to know the sure-to-be pathetic plot. Rather I want to imagine this next installment in the storied series with Rocky, circa age 70, actually entering the ring to do battle. More so, I would like to see the Southpaw battle the demons of growing old.

Rocky with early onset Alzheimer’s…

Picture the Champ running up those infamous City of Brotherly Love stairs wearing only his ugly wool cap, taped up hands and his championship belt. I imagine all those kids would be running in the opposite direction as Philadelphia’s finest receive the call over the radio, “We have a naked and confused old man running toward City Hall. Please proceed with caution.”

Rocky with a prostate issue…

Round 1. Ding ding.

“As the Medicaid-elible former champion makes his way to the center of the ring, he is met by a challenger 50 years his junior. A stiff jab to Rocky’s face followed by a left hook to the body and, oh my goodness, Stu, what has happened?”

“It appears as if Rocky has lost control of his bodily functions and urinated all over the ring. 127 year old referee Lou Phillipo is going to have to stop this one before somebody slips in this tremendous puddle of Italian piss.”

Rocky with Type 1 diabetes…

149 year old Trainer Mickey Goldmill has miraculously risen from the dead (why not, right?) after being murdered more than 30 years ago by Mr. T. He is back in the Tough Gym training the aging Italian Stallion. A rigorous session ensues when the Champ faces the ultimate adversity; keep training or get his insulin. His no-quit attitude, and incredibly low IQ, inspire Rocky to fight through the pain and delusions. After a grueling 6 minutes of the workout, Balboa hits the canvass and sends longtime gym gofer, Mike, to get his medicine from his locker. A newly-alive Mickey reminds Rock that he gave his locker away to contender, Dipper, since Rocky is a no good lousy bum. Rocky goes in to diabetic shock and enters the hospital in a coma. In an ironic twist, he is assigned to the same room where Adrian delivered that ~~monkey~~ baby 40 years before.

Rocky with osteoporosis…

Rocky has lost everything. His beloved trainer, wife and son. He has lost his money, his wits, his cognition. Yeah, like I said, everything. Everything EXCEPT his will to box. In a truly unimaginable scenario, he is challenged by the heavy weight world champion. Rocky decides resting his old bones (wait for it) is the best training strategy and forgoes the gym. Come fight day, he laces up the gloves, dusts off those red, white and blue Larry Bird -esque boxing trunks and slaps on (the now defunct business) Shamrock Meats robe.

Enters the ring full of confidence to do battle with the new champ. The bells sounds and Rocky charges the across the ring. Throws a right jab – breaks his hand. Throws the famous left hook – breaks the other hand. In a sad and pathetic twist, Rocky tries to the kick his opponent and breaks his leg. The fight is stopped and they put Rocky out of his misery like any true stallion; by a gunshot to the head in the middle of Madison Square Garden (strangely they asked Father Carmine to do the honors)

Now, those are some story lines I could get on board with. Otherwise, I am afraid I will continue to consider Clubber Lang your “final” fight, Rock….and simply look the other way.