By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
I was scrolling through my DVR listings last week, dutifully recording Top Chef and Escape to Chimp Eden — yes, I know I could do a series recording and save time, but I hate series recording, because your box always picks up every episode aired, and just like that, 40 percent of your space is taken up with The Hills — when I was seized by a seasonal tremor. "Champions League!" a voice bellowed from within. Time to get my euro on. Sure enough, I scrolled down to the old ESPN 2 — the deuce, as closeted frat boys like to call it — and two semi-final games, Barcelona vs. Manchester United and Chelsea vs. Liverpool, were waiting there for my viewing pleasure. Gadzooks, I thought to myself as I recorded both, what a great time to be sports fan! Because while most Americans exist right now in a truly pathetic, somnambulant state of longing for the return of football, trashily devouring the draft as though it were stuffed with nacho cheese, others, like me, appreciate this as the best sports time of the year. Baseball starting up, NBA playoffs, NHL playoffs and the motherfucking Champions League? That's good eating.
But then I was forced to regurgitate that savory sports dish, because last week may have been the worst week ever in Colorado sports history.
The beginning of the end of a great sports era for this city slapped me across the face with all the strength of a bulimic as I sat in attendance at the Pepsi Center on April 26, watching your Denver Nuggets roll over and get fucked in the ass by the Lakers. Never have I seen a more lackluster effort. There was no intensity, no desire, just a bunch of ball hogs limping to the end of a season characterized by greed and George Karl's utter ineptitude. And the crowd matched the performance. I've been fortunate enough to attend many professional playoff games, and this one might as well have been a pre-season match-up. With both game and atmosphere a total bust, my friend and I resorted to watching the trashy trash-fucks around our nosebleed seats with an almost anthropological curiosity: Trash-fuck one had a throwback Nuggets jersey, trash-fuck two had a Kobe jersey. Needless to say, charming and witty banter ensued. When the Nuggets got swept a couple of days later after losing four in a row, anyone in Denver paying even remote attention realized that this experiment has gone dreadfully awry. Time to blow up the Nuggets and start over.
In the meantime, why don't you have another drink, Melo, you big hero, you?
Denver's next big blow came at the hands of the Detroit Red Wings, a team that I'm told plays a sport on ice that's called hockey. Apparently, Colorado has a team that does this, too, but that team will do this no more, as it lost four in a row to the crimson-winged lotharios from Michigan. Truth be told, I could give a shit about hockey, but my friend Jim was 'bout it, 'bout it, and whenever a buddy is excited about something, you sort of take an interest. Plus, the fact that Peter Forsberg and Joe Sakic are playing at ages 83 and 86, respectively, is nothing short of miraculous. Still, hockey is now over for Denver, and scores of white people bow their heads in opulent disappointment.
But by far the most disappointing effort of any sporting team — and solely because this is the team I care most about — was the Rockies'. Bats were dead, bullpen was shit, and every time Franklin Morales got the ball, a bitter rival from his days in Venezuela would mysteriously appear in the stands behind home plate, forcing Morales to throw at him. That's the only explanation I can come up with. This forced Clint Hurdle to send Morales to Colorado Springs, but the problems persisted, culminating in an injury to Tulo — to fucking Tulo! — that could keep him on the disabled list all the way until July. Yeah, he was slumping, but Tulo's the lifeblood of this team. At least now he'll have time to work on his acting chops — which, if you've seen the commercial for Honda of Greeley, in which he stammers "Tell 'em Tulo sent ya" with all the intensity of a lobotomized Mormon, you know he could use. I recommend calling Ed McCaffrey, Tulo. Not only has he honed his spokesman style to a T, but you both seem to have a propensity for hawking baffling products. With Eddie's help, people will be lining up for Accords in no time.
Right now the Rockies are a mess, trying to make it, but coming up short every time. The visionaries at FSN keep telling us that the team is too talented for this to last all season; let us pray. As it stands, the Rockies' miserable efforts serve only as the fetid, compost icing on the all-you-can-eat dogshit cake that has been this past week in Colorado sports.
If you need me, I'll be gearing up for Euro 2008.