Ronda Rousey

Snow Me

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This winter has forced me to confront a disturbing reality that has caused my delicate psyche a crushing blow: Winter in Boston Sucks!

Boston Strong has taken a beating from the unrelenting perseverance of Mother Nature, who is engaged in a vulgar display of vanity: the chance to establish a personal record for snowfall. Boston is inches away from achieving an infamous honor that has inflicted pain, Arctic Blast inspired agoraphobia and nerve-racking tests of driving skill manufactured by snow banks that have narrowed already narrow streets.

Simply put, this winter has been the Tough Mudder of winters.

I can personally attest to the punishment absorbed by my body. My hamstrings are constantly sore and my lower back is tighter than the on street parking situation in the North End. Shoveling one prodigious snowfall after another has forced me into a rigorous workout regimen that has forced me to evolve into a squatting, lifting, bend at the knees and not with your back, throw pounds of snow over ten-feet high existing snow mounds and complete all of this with a single shovel.

I am spent. I am a Ronda Rousey MMA opponent. I submit.

I am weak and powerless against this bitch. Every fiber of my being is attuned to the prospect of any and all types of precipitation falling from the haughty skies above New England. I check the weather forecast like a farmer in Iowa. I tend to the driveway as if it was rich soil capable of sprouting a bounteous harvest of asphalt. Salt is a weapon and an ally. Ice, black ice, icicles equal in size to the ivory tusks of an elephant hang with malice from the gutters, and patiently sitting above our heads is a snow-laden roof injected with the performance-enhancing effects of ice.

Israel is worried about Iran with nuclear weapons. I have a fucking shovel, a snow rake and some salt against this beast called Mother Nature. Yes, I have raked snow from the roof – not once – but twice. Raking the snow off the roof has aggravated a shoulder/clavicle injury caused by a feeble attempt to start the snow blower last winter. I yanked the snow blower’s cord and the cord refused to budge, but my shoulder released a searing pain that almost brought me to my knees.

I can’t take it anymore. Shoveling the little bit that fell last night put me into a fugue this morning. I probably didn’t need to shovel the small amount that fell, but my brain and body are on high alert to oppose snow and ice.

Vikings

I have become a Viking warrior. The shovel is my sword and battle axe. My shovel has been awarded a place of honor and respect on the porch. And don’t think of placing your shitty shovel near mine or describe feats of derring-do by your snow blower. You have a guy that plows your driveway – my shovel and I disdain your bourgeois Barcalounger ass.

Okay, the neighbor has used his Bobcat and snow blower to clear out the front of the driveway and sidewalk a few times. My shovel and I do accept help. And we will work for food.

Pumping Iron: Arnold & Franco

If there is a glimmer of light, my upper body could be a stand-in for Franco Columbo’s chiseled frame in Pumping Iron. My traps and pecs have been forged by an icy crucible that would have made weak the members of The Night’s Watch. The abs are another thing, but trust me on the traps and pecs.

 Typing this long my shoulder is rebelling. My back screams for a reputable chiropractor.

The Iceman Cometh.

The Life of a Youth Soccer Coach (Tick Tick Boom)

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I know ISIS has beheaded two American journalists, and that these fundamentalist fucktards are now a serious threat to America and Europe. Russia’s Vladimir Putin is suffering from a mid-life crisis, which most guys deal with by purchasing a sports car or becoming familiar with a pretty, young Kremlin intern, but Putin scratches his fear of mortality by invading nations.

Obama has a lot to worry about, but I have my own shit to contend with today. I need to develop a practice plan for a Boys U-10 soccer team. U-10 translates into a bunch of easily bored eight- and nine-year-olds, who like to play tag and dodge ball more than they like to play soccer.

When I volunteered to “help out”, I never envisioned that I would have to do research on how to run a practice but soccer has become a tad more complicated than when I played at the same age. I was more concerned about getting the right number of oranges for a team snack than I was about developing a practice plan.

Being conscientious, I started watching videos demonstrating practice drills that had been rehearsed multiple times for our viewing pleasure by suburban white boys with tidy haircuts. And then I strayed into strategy and tactics, where I read posts describing the perfect formation for 6 v. 6 and this got the competitive juices flowing. I had decided on a 3-2 formation, because my team would be able to take advantage of 1 v. 1 match-ups offensively, My central defender would anchor the defense and the two fullbacks would move forward individually, when it was available, to provide support for crosses into the box. The sweet taste of victory hung in the air waiting for Luis Suarez to take a bite out of it.

Luis Suarez

At our first practice, Coach Dave quickly realized that any talk of strategy would have to be tabled. The drills I had researched were going to improve their skills, but none of the boys appeared to be all that jacked to practice two-touch passing or then move on to one-touch passing. Any drill with tag or freeze in its name was preferred to anything resembling a well-researched soccer drill.

Fortunately, I had done further research on “fun games” for the kids, which involved me running around after balls and narrowly avoiding the colossal pile of fresh dog excrement near one of our game targets. If I saw the motherfucker who didn’t pick up his dog’s hazmat pile of shit, I would have thrown it at him and his dog. I’ve always thought that if a person experienced an irate, crazy mofo, who picked up dog shit with his bare hands and threw a Russell Wilson shit spiral into their face, the asshole would never forget his or her doggie doo-doo bag again.

I’m hopping over dog shit. I’m sweating. I’m trying to keep an accurate record of the score. The kids are moving closer and closer to the targets to gain a competitive advantage over their opponents. I’m stressed out, because I have never coached soccer and I suck at the game. I have been a dismal failure at this game for my entire life, which includes being unceremoniously cut from my high school’s freshman soccer team, and now I am the Drew Carey of youth soccer. Come on down!

Ronda Rousey and an admiring Joe Rogan 

The kids then want to scrimmage, so I play for one of the sides who is short a player. A few minutes into the scrimmage, I clock a kid in the right eye with my left hand, as I make a strong Giorgio Chinaglia striker move in the box. The kid goes down like a Ronda Rousey UFC opponent, but I resist the opportunity to trash-talk his weak ass. (Actually, the kid went down briefly and then jumped up and got back into the fray.) As one of the kids said, “The coach hit him.”

Yep, the coach hit him. Maybe I should concentrate on passing the ball to my teammates and staying out of the penalty area with my Giorgio Chinaglia arsenal of offensive moves. My team lost, but I made the winning team run sprints to know the pain required of victory. Nah, I didn’t do that, but it’s not a bad thought for today’s practice.

Giorgio Chinaglia of the New York Cosmos 

Today’s practice is going to feel like playing soccer in a Hawaiian lava field with piles of dog shit scattered all about. I will run off a few pounds. Coach kids on a game that I lack any talent for, but when has talent ever stopped a committed American? I’ll make these boys into a winning juggernaut – not kidding about that – and life will get a little less stressful after tomorrow’s away match.

That’s if we win. If we lose, I’ll be at the computer seeking to find how I create a soccer juggernaut from the fragile minds and bodies of young boys. Uh … no coach was able to do anything with me on a soccer field, but I have a good feeling these boys are a lot more talented than a young, sunburnt Sheridan.