All posts by Matthew Callan

Football, Rocky Rhodes

Rocky Rhodes: Everything Old Is New Again

Grant “Rocky” Rhodes is America’s oldest living sportswriter. He first rose to prominence in 1921, when he struck an early blow for civil rights with his groundbreaking article on the Negro Leagues (“Colored Players Not Totally Inhuman”). His weekly sports column, “The Cat’s Pajamas”, appears in 7000 newspapers nationwide when not bumped for “Hints from Heloise” or “Gardening Weekly”. Today, he graces Scratchbomb with his nine decades of sports wisdom to talk about Sunday’s NFC Championship game.

rocky.jpg

We got this one attendant at the home, Frankie. A little stupid, but a good kid. So this morning he tells me that the Giants are playing the Packers in the NFC championship game. “That probably reminds you of old times, huh?” he says. “Back in the days of Vince Lombardi and stuff like that. I bet Lambeau Field was a pretty exciting place to be back then.”

Sure, it was exciting, if your idea of exciting is freezing your nuts off in the middle of Ass-Nowheresville. Ask a sportswriter his idea of hell, and he’ll say “Green Bay.” That place makes Amish country look like Weimar Berlin. I knew a guy who cut off his pinky rather than go there for the ’61 NFL Championship. A week of eating nothing but cheese and brats and I 0couldn’t get unblocked if I stuck a stick of dynamite up my rear end.

It was nothing like the championship games of the real old NFL. I mean, the real Paleolithic days, when there were no helmets, cheerleaders, or common sense. Guys sacrificed their bodies and minds every Sunday, for little money and even less notoriety. But I’m sure all of them would do it all over again if they could, and if their softened brains could still grasp the concept of decision making.

You wanna talk about a championship game? In 1937, I saw the Providence Steamroller beat the Chicago Cardinals 2-0 in the parking lot of a Studebaker dealership in Davenport, Iowa. It was definitely the best damn football game I’ve ever seen, and I’m sure my fellow spectators, all three dozen or so, would agree.

1937 was the year the NFL tried to increase scoring by changing the ball’s shape to oblong. Before that, it was angular, metallic and sharp. Of course, the old shape was totally impractical, but the league held on to it for a long time because they paid a lot of money to some fella named Calder to design it.

Of course, they hadn’t started filling the balls with air yet. No siree, they still filled ’em up with good ol’ fashioned concrete. The only score in the game came when the Cardinals’ quarterback dropped dead from exhaustion in his own end zone. A linebacker tripped on his corpse and fell on it to record the safety. He was the championship’s only casualty, which was quite rare in those days. Most every game back then would end with at least three guys in the morgue.

Providence’s star player was Stan “Running Back” Wisniewski. He was the perfect man for the team’s patented “run straight up the middle” offense. Stan only averaged 1.2 yards per carry, but he still led the league in yardage every year–mostly because they handed him the ball on every single play.

Back then, you were allowed to  call one play in your first game of the year, and you had to stick with that same play all season. It would be another few years before Weeb Ewbank invented something called “strategy”.

“Yup, you really missed out by being born so late,” I told Frankie. “Those were the days where men were men, and football was football. You’ll never get to see something like that in your life so long as you live.”

“Yeah, but I also don’t have to pee in a bag,” he said.

Touché, Frankie.

Boob Tubery

If You Have a Heart-Tugging Infirmity, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition Wants You!

typennington.jpgThanks for tuning in to this week’s edition Extreme Makeover: Home Edition . Boy, that sure was an inspiring story. I bet that little girl’s plucky
battle against diabetes, arthritis, and attention deficit disorder totally made you feel like crap. If so, we’re always looking for needy families to help out. If you think you fit the bill, drop us a line or send us an email.

But don’t bother to contact us if you’re just poor. We don’t build houses for people just because they can’t afford them. Who do you think we are, Jimmy Carter? We can’t build an hour-long narrative around poverty! Plus, you probably deserve to be homeless anyway.

We’re looking for families full of heart-tugging tragedy. But make sure you haven’t lost your upbeat spirit. We don’t put people on TV who are all mopey just because they’ve been struck with a fatal disease.

Cancer’s good. Leukemia’s even better, ’cause it sounds scary. If you have cancer and are a veteran, that’s great; not a Vietnam vet, though, ’cause we assume they’re all drug addicts. If you have a child with a disease that confines him or her to a wheelchair, that’s fantastic, especially if the wheelchair has wacky flags and bumper stickers all over it.

You know what’d be great? If we had recently separated Siamese twins! Yeah, and then we’d totally have to build more rooms, ’cause it’s like the family just got a new kid. Hey, one of you interns, call up all the hospitals in the state. See if there’s any recently conjoined twins out there! C’mon, let’s make this happen!

Oh, and while you’re at it, call up the maternity wards and see if there’s been any kids who were born with a major organ on the outside of their bodies. That shit would be gold!

We’d also like to ask people to stop trying to acquire debilitating illnesses in order to get on the show. We’ve received reports of people ingesting mercury in the hopes of acquiring a neurological disease. We don’t tolerate cheaters on Extreme Makeover , folks. You’ll just have to pray and hope the Good Lord sees fit to blight you with a horrible medical condition.

Next week, we build a house for family with a little boy so sick that just hearing about his disease could kill you!

Politics Schmolitics

Hillary Clinton: To Be Young, Campaigning, and Black

hilbot.jpgIt’s unfortunate that my esteemed opponent, Barack Obama, is trying to make race an issue in this campaign. Every time I accuse him of making race an issue, he brings up race! It’s almost as
if he’s defensive about the whole race thing.

I’m used to these types of reactions. There are people in this world who see me and think that I can’t be President. Well, I have never listened to what the naysayers said, and I am here to tell America that yes, a
black woman can be President.

Maybe the thought of a black woman President scares Senator Obama. Maybe he thinks our place is in the kitchen–the black kitchen. But as a famous black singer whose name escapes me once said, “I will survive as a black woman candidate.”

My husband was proud to be our nation’s first black President. He had a hard road to walk, like so many of our black forefathers. But he walked that road, with his own two black feet, and I am ready to walk that black, black path he forged for me–for all of us!

And by “us”, I mean all of us black people.

Of course, it’s not just Senator Obama who oppresses us. At times, we are our own worst black enemy. There are some who say I’m not “black” enough, that I’m an “Uncle Tom”. This is nothing new for me. When I left the tough streets of my black, inner city, black neighborhood, there were people who said I was turning my back on my black ‘hood.

I didn’t listen, because I knew that my black achievements could reflect well on my black roots, and allow me to one day give back to the black community that gave so much to my black self. And I say that now is not the time for black divisiveness. This is a time for black unity. With that unity, we should all come together blackly for one common black
goal.

And that goal should be to elect me, the only true black candidate, no matter what Barack “Simon Legree” Obama might say.

I don’t get angry at people like Senator Obama, because deep down, they’re afraid–afraid of our blackness. To their fear, I counter with my black hope. To their anger, I counter with my black love. To their hate, I counter with my black friendship.

So say it loud, people: we’re black and we’re black proud!

Wow, this outpouring of affection from you supporters is enough to make me shed a single, black tear of black emotion.