Sports Briefs: The Best of Fanstop's Christopher Wilson

By Christopher Wilson

Huh-huh.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Funny.

If youre familiar with the
writings of Christopher Wilson, you have, no doubt, elicited a similar
response. If youve never had the
pleasure of reading Wilson, then you are fickinta be in for a treat.

Sports Briefsstyle='font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;mso-font-kerning:14.0pt'> is
a collection of Wilsons 68 best columns from FanStop.com.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Youll revisit Wilsons problems he had
keeping his football pants up (The camera would then focus on me running to
the sidelines, never letting go of my belt, to where I found a peaceful spot
beside the water cooler where I could sip and pull, simultaneously.), along
with hearing J.R. Rider tell the Thanksgiving story, in a way only Uncle J.R.
can (I say uncle, but sum of yall could prolly call me Daddy.).style="mso-spacerun: yes"> The initial column from the highly-praised
Suzy, Jaws and Merril series is included, as well as the moving account of
the last days Wilsons father spent in Hospice battling cancer.

Wilsons unique style of
humor, sarcasm and storytelling is evident throughout, sure to draw numerous
guffaws. For those who try on a new
pair every week, or for those who have never worn them before, try on a pair of
Sports Briefs today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 2, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410769039

Christopher Wilson

Christopher Wilson is a Senior Research Fellow at the Centre on Governance and a retired faculty member at the Telfer School of Management at the University of Ottawa where he taught courses on collaboration, partnership and e-governance. Mr. Wilson is also the principal consultant of Christopher Wilson & Associates, which specializes in issues of organizational development, governance, stewardship, and multi-stakeholder collaboration, where he has worked with a variety of public, private and civic partnerships.

Book preview

© 2003 by Christopher Wilson All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4107-6902-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4107-6901-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4107-6903-9 (e)

1stBooks-rev. 08/04/03

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Boxer-Briefs

Vanilla Sky (April 1, 2003) • The First One • Pickup Lines (November 1, 2002) • Pitcher Perfect (May 22, 2003) • Marketing Yourself (April 29, 2003) • Good Work, If You Can Get It (January 28, 2003) • Inside the Huddles (January 17, 2003) • Value of the Game (January 7, 2003) • Something in my Pants" (March 7, 2003)

Chapter 2: Full-Briefs

Uno All-Star Balota (November 19, 2002) • Pop Goes the Weasel (December 6, 2002) • The British Aren’t Coming?! (September 2, 2002) • Put Me In, Coach (October 4, 2002) • Horseplay (April 15, 2003) • My Cup Runneth Over (July 9, 2002) • Shooting for the Stars (February 18, 2003) • Sick of it All (February 13, 2002) • Malcontents Without Chicken (December 3, 2002) • To Quit or Not to Quit? (September 13, 2002) • One Year Ago (October 29, 2002) • How Bud Selig and Brian Billick Can Save the Day (August 23, 2002) • Romance in the Air (February 4, 2003)

Chapter 3: Hip-Briefs

Let Me See Her, Or I’ll Take Off My Head! (November 6, 2002) • Tee Ball (May 14, 2003) • Love Stronger Than Iron (February 6, 2002) • Arvydas Sabbatical (May 6, 2003) • Thunderstruck (May 2, 2003) • May I Call You Charles? (November 12, 2002) • Touchdown Jesus (April 18, 2003) • On the Mark (April 22, 2003) • The Power and the Glory (May 9, 2003)

Chapter 4: High-cut Briefs

Happy Father’s Day, Son (June 20, 2001) • Alz Not Well (April 4, 2003) • Rollin’ in Hospice (February 28, 2003) • How I Won the War (April 11, 2003) • Lesson Learned (December 24, 2002) • Hully-Gully Football (March 14, 2003)

Chapter 5: Bikini-Briefs

Eating Free Hotdogs (September 10, 2002) • Spelling for Dummys XXX Dummies (October 11, 2002) • Shopping for Fun (October 15, 2002) • Column Writing 101 (January 3, 2003) • Home Movies with the Denver Nuggets (August 26, 2002) • May I Borrow Your Sweater? (December 27, 2002) • Welcome to the Barbershop (September 17, 2002) • Home Sweet Home (January 10, 2003) • Calling All Solicitors (April 8, 2003)

CHAPTER 6: DRAWZ

My Big Fat Greek Problem (March 11, 2003) • Groundhog Day…Again (January 31, 2003) • A Letter For Unequal Opportunity (February 7, 2003) • The Thanksgiving Story with J.R. Rider (November 26, 2002) • It’s Time to Get Things Started! (September 26, 2002) • Monkey Business (March 4, 2003) • Bob Barker Brigade (December 12, 2002-December 20, 2002) • $40 a Day with Rachael Ray (January 21, 2003) • Fact or Fiction (November 15, 2002) • Dear Diary (March 21, 2002) • Fun with Suzy, Jaws and Merril! (September 10, 2002) • Kicked Up a Notch (May 13, 2003) • Workout Warriors (February 21, 2003)

Chapter 7: Knickers

Dancing Machine (October 18, 2002) • The Evolution of Sneakers (December 31, 2002) • Tradition! (November 29, 2002) • Football Folly Frauds (May 23, 2003) • Old Folks Home (January 14, 2003) • Halftime Extravaganza (October 25, 2002) • Potato Salad with Karl Malone (September 24, 2002) • Tecmo Mongers (May 16, 2003) • So You Want to be a Referee? (November 22, 2002)

Introduction

Suzy: Hi, everybody, and welcome to Sports Briefs—

Ron: Whoa, whoa, whoa, Suzy!

Suzy: Jaws, you could at least let me get through with the introduction before you interrupt me.

Ron: Yeah, I know, Suzy, but what are we introducing this book for?!

Merril: Because Christopher asked us to, that’s why! He needed a celebrity endorsement, and who better to ask than me? I mean us!

Suzy: Okay, guys, back to the intro. Sports Briefs is a collection of 68 of the best columns Christopher Wilson has written—

Ron: Whoa, whoa, whoa, Suzy! I totally disagree with that! Wilson has probably only written 68 columns in his life! How can these be classified as—

Merril: You bonehead! Suzy, I completely disagree with him! Wilson has written about me on numerous occasions! Every week throughout the 2002-2003 NFL season, all the way to the Pro Bowl! And I only managed to make it into this book for one column! Week 1, the initial column! That is atrocsical!

Ron: I utterly disagree with that statement, Suzy! Dopey makes it sound as if the columns were specifically written about him!

Merril: And so they should have been!

Ron: What does atrocsical mean, Suzy?!

Suzy: Jaws, relax. Merril was the only one to actually receive some fan mail during the season. A girl who had previously dated Merril really did contact Christopher, thinking that he was Merril!

Ron: Christopher got confused with Merril?! Outstanding, Suzy! All I can say is poor Christopher!

Merril: Jaws, how would you like me to take a football and shove it up your nose?!

Suzy: Guys, guys!

Merril: Sorry, Suzy! So why 68 columns in this book!?

Suzy: Well, this book is dedicated to Christopher’s dad, Carroll Wilson, who passed away from cancer and never got to see this book. And since Carroll lived 68 years—

Ron: There is sap running all over the place, Suzy!

Merril: I completely disagree with that, Suzy! I think it’s kinda’ neat! So who’s gonna’ read this book, Suzy?! Are there any glistening generalities!?

Ron: What did you just call me?!

Suzy: No, Jaws. Merril meant if there had been any celebrity endorsements for this book.

Ron: Yeah…us!

Suzy: Well, Jaws, besides us, Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban made a brief comment about the column On the Mark.

Ron: Did you just say Cuban commented while he was in his briefs?!

Merril: No, you idiot! He made a BRIEF comment! Flush his ears, Suzy! So, what’d he say?! What’d he say?!

Suzy: Cuban’s only comment was :).

Ron: A colon and a closed parenthesis sign?! I would’ve just assumed he commented with a dollar sign, instead! He could sure afford that, Suzy! Get it, dollar sign?! Haha!

Suzy: Yeah, thank you for that, Jaws. Well, guys, we are out of time for our introduction. Anything else you’d like to add before we go?

Merril: Yeah, Suzy, the keys to this book will be avoiding turnovers and playing tough defense! And I’d also like to say factor back one time! Just so we can have it in print!

Suzy: How about you, Jaws?

Ron: Uh.how about congratulations to the Super Bowl champion Philadelphia Eagles!

Suzy: That’s enough, Jaws. Enjoy the book.

Chapter 1: Boxer-Briefs

Chapter 1: Boxer-Briefs

Vanilla Sky

April 1, 2003-Yo, VIP, let’s kick it!

And with that, I made my appearance.

Hesitantly getting up off the eighth grade bench, wide-eyed as a hoot owl, I paid heed to Coach’s summon and sheepishly made my way over to the scorer’s table, where I was told to kneel down because I was standing in the scorekeeper’s way.

Then, the music came.

Ice, ice, Baby.

The horn sounded, the referee signaled for me to come in and I kept kneeling, staring at the floor, wondering when someone was going to come along to serve me communion because I had been kneeling for so long.

The referee signaled for me again, this time using an agitated tone and two raised eyebrows. He was either upset that I hadn’t heard him the first time or was tired of waiting for his communion, too.

If you frequent junior high games, or even real sporting events, you know there are songs that accentuate the moment each player comes into the game. Every arena employs a DJ to capture the mood of each game. Why, the Knicks even employed a full symphony orchestra at one time, before every musician but the organist quit, many in protest of Rick Brunson being waived, the rest because Patrick Ewing’s sweat rusted their instruments. This is controversial, so I choose not to elaborate.

Nevertheless, what would the introduction of the Chicago Bulls’ starting lineup be like without Sirius by the Alan Parsons Project? What would Lakers games be like without the Superman theme whenever Shaquille O’Neal woke up? What would Cavaliers games be like without the Beatles’ I’m a Loser? All quite sad, frankly.

My song was half over by this time, and the fans were at a fever pitch, as opposed to a normal body temperature pitch. They were, no doubt, frenzious that The Hair was in the game. Our D J, Randolf, was doing a good job at keeping the fans at the edge of their seat, in between working on his calculus. Randolf was a man of many talents, although calculus was not one of them.

One of my teammates once compared my hair to that of one Lumpy Addams. Who? I questioned. Lumpy Addams, distant cousin to Gomez and Fester, of course. Looking back at old home movies, my hair was more comparable to that of Vanilla Ice, though.

I was 6-foot-tall, and half of it was hair. And Vanilla’s music was much more appropriate than The Addams Family theme. Fans who attend eighth grade games are encouraged to yell, stomp their feet, clap their hands, and, generally, do anything other than snap to make noise. I don’t remember the last time Lurch snapping his fingers caused any youngert to miss a free throw. Although, the sight of Lurch alone might.

Not that we, the players, weren’t scary enough on our own right. We pranced around the court in jerseys that were tighter than Donald Sterling’s pockets, shorts the size of BVDs and thermal underwear made out of spandex.

Many of my teammates tried compensating for the disparaging length of shorts by wearing the long drawers, known in some circles as really tight bicycle shorts. But the circles that refer to them by that name are usually taller, full-grown, adult circles, as opposed to our junior high circles, in which our voices changed faster than we could get around the circle.

Short of fake mustaches, nothing could have made it more obvious that we were a team of dorks. Sometimes, there was an adventurous soul that tried untucking his jersey. This was a sign of coolness, of rebellion, of a desire to be seen in a dress. Our jerseys, although straight from the back of Lamont Sanford’s closet, were long as a boring lecture. Untuck them and you are a cross-dresser who wears long johns.

In other words, your song suddenly becomes the theme to Peter Pan. So, in all actuality, there was really nothing degrading about being compared to Vanilla Ice in the first place. I wasn’t under pressure at all.

At least until I started playing.

The First One

November 1, 2002-For others, it was Jerry Rice, Brett Favre, Emmitt Smith or Dan Marino. My first was Drew Bledsoe. It took me awhile, too. I mean, was already a junior in high school. Another year, and I would’ve been called a prude. (I just said prude.)

But when I finally decided to hand over my hard-earned $45 for the replica New England Patriots’ Drew Bledsoe jersey, it was well worth it. Part of the motivation for mowing all those accursed lawns was knowing that Bledsoe’s name would soon be stitched to my back. Not literally, of course, because that would hurt.

As I continued, week after week, to mow lawns for the Bledsoe jersey, the accumulated grass clippings began taking their toll on me. As John Facenda once said, Each week met a brand new challenge, rich with opportunities and allergies.

As if through some supernatural force, grass clippings were drawn to my nose and legs. And because I have more hair on my legs than all three Seattle Seahawks quarterbacks have on their heads, grass clippings accumulated on my legs faster than Randy Moss fleeing a cop. All I could think about was I hope no one confuses me for a descendent of the Jolly Green Giant.

When I finally purchased the Bledsoe jersey, all my friends congratulated me like I had finally decided to fit in. They all had jerseys three, four, even five years before I did. It was like someone having a Bar Mitzvah when they turned 20.

With guys, jerseys are like cars; you either had one at the earliest age possible, or you suddenly became as cool as Charlie Brown on a date.

What was your first one?

A Dallas Cowboys’ Tony Dorsett. Number 33. It was a hand-me-down from my cousin. And it was blue, with silver numbers!

Boy, that was a beauty.

Yeah, a real classic. I still have it, too, in the back of my closet, even though there are, uh, about 20 moths that live in it.

Coaches, though, see jerseys as a way to make fun of the students who wear them. If you wear a Marshall Faulk jersey, you better be prepared to play like Faulk. If you wear a Ray Lewis jersey, you better be prepared to have coaches following you home from practice everyday. If you wear a Peter Warrick jersey, you better be prepared to show your receipt. Luckily for me, the coaches decided to merely throw insults my way, mainly because they didn’t know who I was.

Aren’t you that boy who quit football back in junior high who only plays basketball now? the coaches questioned, as if they recognized my face, but yet did not remember my name, even though I was one of only 20 boys in the athletic program.

No! was my retort. I am Drew Bledsoe, famous quarterback for the New England Patriots!

On the days I wore that jersey, I strode the halls with confidence, not worried about a zit on my nose that had some people wondering why I wore a casaba melon to school. Knowing how Bledsoe barked out the plays in his huddle, I, too, could raise my hand and answer questions in class, unafraid of my voice, even though it had a bigger crack in it than the Liberty Bell.

Occasionally, one of the coaches would comment about my choice of attire:

Bledsoe, huh? He’s a pretty good young quarterback. Strong arm, good presence in the pocket. I think he’ll be pretty good one day. Uh, why are you wearing his jersey?

In time, as Bledsoe’s number 11 began to peel away, I decided to buy another jersey. Finally hearing the news last spring, Bledsoe decided it was time for him to move on, as well. As you all know, Bledsoe moved on to Buffalo where he eventually hopes to lead the Bills to another loss in the Super Bowl.

At least he will have the support of Blake Taylor. THE Blake Taylor who bought my old Bledsoe jersey at our garage sale. Fortunately for Blake, he was the first one on his block to have a jersey. Unfortunately for Blake, he still thinks Bledsoe plays for the Patriots.

Pickup Lines

May 20, 2003-Let me introduce you to my teammates.

There was a group of guys who looked like they could jump over cars, a couple of guys who weighed as much as a car, one guy who wanted to jump over a car and myself, who just got out of the car.

I was approached by one of the guys who weighed as much as a Jaguar, although he looked more like a 7-foot, 300-pound gorilla dribbling a basketball. He commented he had just busted out and was wanting to know if I’d like to play some hoops with them. I should have been warned by the orange jump suit he was clad