The Dallas Cowboys had a pretty bad season. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t what Dallas fans were hoping for. The season was capped by a loss to the rival Washington Redskins, a game in which quarterback Tony Romo seemed unable to throw to anyone but the other team.
In Texas, there are two ways of getting out your frustration. You can drink like Randy Travis, or you can fire off some guns. One Cowboys fan chose the latter, but with a bit more spite to it. He loaded up a washing machine with explosives, then set his Romo jersey on it, and shot at it with a rifle.
See you next season, Dallas.
Speaking of quarterbacks, Tony Romo, or “Dull Tony,” as he’s known in the Latin community, is something of a golfer.
Sure, he’s one of those celebrities you see out in the pro-am tournaments, but he’s trying to qualify for the U.S. Open, advancing one round after playing in a local qualifier. True to form, Romo said he plans on getting a bit farther before letting the wheels fall off his game.
We are in the midst of the annual sports dark ages. Football is over, though they keep trying to push that back further and further. Baseball has only just started. Hockey is still hockey: the soundtrack for drinking LeBatt Blue.
What is a sports fan to do when the only big stories on ESPN are trade moves and novelty plastic bowling ball tournaments? What will wake you up in the morning when there’s nothing in the paper for you but your horoscope?
Did we mention that Terrell Owens got fired again?
That’s right: the biggest overpaid media poison-pill got handed his pink slip by the Dallas Cowboys. At this point, his best chances for playing in the league are Oakland, who fills its stands with LARPing nerds, and Washington, who will — and it pains me to say this — overpay for any “name.”
(Although, they should know better about headcase wide receivers since Michael Westbrook.)
So, put on a pot of glorious Schadenfreude and pour one out to our homey, T.O. Maybe in this current economic climate, the self-appointed king of his universe might have to put his resume on Monster.com like the rest of us.
Mm, Schadenfreude: make it every morning’s shameful joy.
Forget college basketball. Forget Roger “I didn’t take no freaking steroids” Clemens, forget the NBA, forget it all. This week we’re tackling romance, but not in that kind of awkward “son, we need to talk” type of way, no, I’m sick of celebrity sports dating. This needs to end.
Honestly, since when has a sports icon’s career been defined by People Magazine or Tiger Beat (is that still around?) covers as opposed to their on field performance. Important figures like completion percentage and assist-to-turnover ratio are being replaced by daily taglines of “what they did on their magical week in Mexico.”
The madness needs to stop. The sports world needs to keep from becoming a mock version of E! Continue reading Eat My Sports: Wherever I may Romo