The "Hall of Fame" opening preseason game last Sunday marked the end of the NFL offseason, and it's a welcome end for those of us who have been scratching our pigskin track-marks since the draft. The game itself is meaningless, of course, but even a short glimpse of first-string football is enough to blunt the edge of the stone junkie's withdrawal.




And we sure are NFL junkies in this country, aren't we? If the sports-media are any indication of the common fan's addiction, we're Tyrone Biggums, Eddie Dean, and Kurt Cobain combined. Four months without any substanative football action have left most of us so frazzled, we're easily tricked into avidly watching three and a half quarters of pointless punt-fests, whose few exciting plays are nullified by the men in striped suits.




And then there's the offseason's so-called drama of training-camp holdouts, QB controversies, and, of course, the neverending waffle saga of Brett Favre. Personally, I wasn't the least bit surprised when #4 proclaimed his return to the game, but I was shocked, however, by the accuracy of ESPN's infinitely anonymous sources on the story. Seriously, what happened to transparency in journalism?





Now, I know that most sports fans are fat, stupid sheep. [Sorry, fellas, but it's a fact. Most of us are dumber than preschoolers at naptime. And seriously, how cut can you be if you don't leave the couch during the entirety of the 18-day Olympic games?] But even we have no trouble detecting the laziness in the Worldwide Leader's reporting when roughly two-thirds of its "Breaking News" elements are credited to unnamed sources. It doesn't take much to see through this nonsense.


But I'll hold off on the detailed [read: boring] journalistic critique for today. Thank me later. The success of professional football in this country is on par with European soccer -- hell, we don't even have a problem staying up til midnight and shelling out 60 bucks just to play the latest version of computer-generated football on our XBOXes and PS3s. [Maddenites, you know who you are.]



And that's not even counting our growing obsession with Fantasy Football. And I'm no innocent there either -- our Raytonia Beach League is in its third season, we're holding our live draft Sunday at the 65TPT World Headquarters/Secret Lair. I'll do my best to keep you updated.

Tiger vs Rocco: At the Turn

Tiger's first grimace -- first show of possible humanity -- came on his tee shot at the Par 5 9th. He's protecting a one-shot lead after nine, and you have to wonder how much that left knee will effect his play on the back nine.
Rocco Mediate is playing solid golf at +1, and I think he's the perfect guy to face Tiger in this type of situation. He's utterly unfazed by the mystique surrounding the World's #1: He's playing his game, chatting. fidgeting, and hitting it close.
There's no doubt Tiger's got his putter going -- everything he's put in so far has been dead center -- but the outcome here is certainly still in question. He has hit a couple of shots that no other man alive could even attempt -- a lazer beam 8-iron from 190 yards setting up an easy five-footer for his second-consecutive birdie on the front.
Thank God for the switch to NBC at 1pm here, and we just got to see Rocco chunk an easy four-footer for par on the 9th in HD. Golf is a completely different sport to watch in High Def, and as the professional couch surfer I am, you can trust my opinion on that. Mediate will make the turn down two shots -- a seemingly sufficient lead for even an ailing Tiger.
The difficulty of this course really precludes any precise predictions, so I won't venture any.
But my money's on Tiger, if you can believe it.

Tiger vs Rocco: Golf in the Morning

Tiger Woods is, without question, the most dominant athlete of the modern era.
Master of the most confounding of games, Woods' physical perfection and mental tenacity defy explanation.
Golf is a ruthless, unforgiving game. I've probably played nine total holes in my life, and while I can't claim to be a stellar or even above-average athlete, my ineptitude with a crooked-stick in my hands is unbelievably laughable. [During that sole unfinished round, my clubs flew twice as far as any ball I struck with them. Pitiful.]
And this morning, after rolling home a 12-foot birdie on the 72nd hole of the US Open, Tiger will play an 18-hole playoff round against Rocco Mediate, who looks about as athletic as the paper-pusher in the cubicle next to yours.
But that's golf.
Tiger was clearly in pain all week, gritting through what he called a "shooting pain" in his left knee, which underwent arthroscopic surgery more than two months ago.
"It's just pain," he said with a shrug after an unbelievable back nine on Friday -- the kind of statement you'd expect from the smartest and most mentally tough athlete on the planet.
But despite all Tiger's greatness, it's just impossible not to like Rocco Mediate. He reminds me of the favorite uncle who'd sneak you into that R-rated movie your parents would never let you see.
He plays with a peace-sign belt-buckle and a constant smile. And his game, like his personality, isn't the least bit intimidating. The 158th-ranked player in the world coming into the Open, Rocco's drives top out at 285, but his golf philosophy is sound:
"It doesn't matter how you get it in, you just gotta get it in," he said Sunday night.
And that, too, is golf.
Watching the press conferences following Tiger's playoff-forcing birdie, it's clear that Mediate is giddy to have a shot at the King. He's not hesitant or scared like many of his colleagues would be facing a head-to-head round with Woods. Hell, most of them can't even stomach being paired with the man, much less squaring up with him for a single round with a major on the line.
Now, Tiger ain't scurred, either -- that's for sure.
"I'd rather go now, but that's just me," he said with a smile and both hands squeezing the bill of his cap.
So these polar opposites will face off this morning: The man who stands for what golf truly is, and the one who is the face of what it wants to be.
There may be a day when the Tour is filled with Woods-like athletes, who run sub-five 40s and bench press 350 pounds, but Ima go out on a limb and say it won't be any time soon.
No, truth is, Mediate is more of a golfer than Tiger. I know, that sounds like saying someone's more conservative than Pat Robertson or sexier than Angie Harmon, but it's true.
If Tiger had picked basketball or baseball -- hell, he coulda picked hockey -- there's no doubt he'd be pro-caliber. Mediate might have made it as a curler, or maybe an Olympic archer or something, but other than that, the man was destined for golf.
His lighthearted temperment and utter humility suit him perfectly to make the most of a good walk spoiled.
Does any of that mean I'm picking him to upset Woods, gimpy knee and all, in the playoff round this morning?
I may be crazy, folks, but stupid I can't claim.
[Hopefully, I'll be back at the turn for an update. Read: potential retraction...]

Lakers/Celts: Over before it started?

So, I'm sitting here in the middle of the second quarter of Game 5 of the NBA Finals, and the Lakers have let yet another double-digit lead ooze out their grasp. The question that comes to mind, of course, is: Why?
The answer, I think, is equally simple: Defense.
The Celtics just finished a 15-0 run, much of which came on easy drives for layups and wide open jump shots. Phil Jackson has to know that the interior of his defense is weak -- at times, Pau Gasol looks softer than a recently-tranquilized giraffe. Lamar Odom is a decent defender, but Kevin Garnett makes him look silly when they're one-on-one, and Odom's real assets lie with the ball in his hands.
The defense of the men in Green has been lauded appropriately since the season began, and Boston is the best defensive team I've seen since the Spurs were young.
Paul Pierce and KG are the best guard-forward defensive tandem since [blasphemy alert] Jordan and Pippen, and even though Pip was a 3 and Garnett a 4, the comparison is apt. These two-thirds of the Big Three have stretches where their men simply do not score, much like MJ and Scottie displayed during their six trips to the Finals.
Pierce may be the most underrated player in the League -- and you have no idea how hard that is for this MU grad to print. I guess the blasphemy is coming easy this evening.
Halftime is here, and the Laker lead is down to three. There's really no telling which way this one will go. If the Celtics can deny Kobe the ball and double-team him as perfectly as they did in the late stages of Game 4, there's no doubt in my mind that the city of Boston will take home yet another Major Championship this year. But, honestly, there's no accounting for what Kobe can do in the right situation, and in an elimination scenario, attempting to predict a loss for his team would be like picking Big Brown to finish last at Belmont or Tiger Woods to need an 18-hole playoff to win the U.S. Open.
Tiger's Father's Day performance, of course, brings Dad to mind, and I can't help but think about how lucky I've been to grow up in a house with two supportive parents. The worst handicap a young man can have in this country is to grow up without a male role-model, and I was blessed enough to have about five. Where else would I have picked up this undeniable masculinity and sheer machismo?
Thanks, Dad.

Ali: The Greatest, in Ways Innumerable

This past weekend, 65TPT made an eastbound trip to Louisville, Ky., to celebrate the HS Graduation of its author's second-youngest cousin on Dad's side -- not that the educational outcome was ever in doubt, mind you. This kid's so resourceful, he took apart two broken NES systems and wired the working parts together, purely by trial and error, giving birth to a jerry-rigged FrankenTendo, which we used to burn many of the post-midnight hours of the National Memorial Holiday. I guess its tough to relay the importance and sheer heft the celebration had on your humble scribe, but I can't believe the kid is even driving, much less leaving High School in his dust, and looking up at an English Ed. degree at UK.

My, my, don't they grow up fast? I must be getting old.

Anyway, we accomplished more last weekend than downing free food and beer, dominating Contra and River City Ransom, and spilling college-days beans to inquisitive relatives.

We had the good fortune to spend Saturday afternoon at the Ali Center in downtown Luhvul, a five-story shrine to the city's most spectacular athletic product and likely the most influential sports figure these Fifty States have ever seen.

The museum itself, with its intimacy of detail and grandeur of scale, pays fitting tribute to a man who was so much more than fists and feet -- a man whose tenacity, fearlessness, and quick tongue helped amass an aura of invincibility around his undeniably human weaknesses: womanizing, racism, and unabashed pride. Unshakable pride.

Now, there's no doubt that his missteps were highly publicized, and that they were made in the thick midst [and mist] of young stardom. Obviously, Ali suffered more racism than he promoted, but I'm of the opinion that ignorance can't be cured or tempered with more of its kind. Call me a romantic, or a slow-witted and thick-tongued idealist, but those are my sentiments.

In a society that would have just as quickly lynched a flamboyant black man as accepted him, Ali ran his mouth as if he were paid by the word. [History would prove, of course, that prize-fighters are paid by the word -- by every ear that hears them, in fact. Pay-Per-View is a beautiful racket, no? ]

Ever since Mike Tyson's Punch Out first ran on my beloved 8-Bit world-changer, I've appreciated boxing for its beauty and sheer duality. [Unfortunately, the boxing classic was the only game I tried that wouldn't run on Zach's FrankenTendo. The ironies never cease.] The sport's base, carnal nature has always been balanced by the grace and precision necessary to practice the sweet science at its highest level. Heavyweight boxing, despite its recent devolution into a hugfest/slugfest dichotomy, represents the pinnacle of athletic achievement to me, because the "game" itself lends no distinct advantage to one party or the other. It's purely adversarial -- aside from weight restrictions, it's man vs. man.

Forgive my chauvinism of terms, but I'm learning. On the museum's third level, I saw a video of Laila Ali [to scale, no less] that made me gulp hard -- twice. Let's just say I came away with a greater appreciation of the female athlete. Not that the WNBA and it's "Expect Great" ads will totally escape this publication's ire, but that's another post entirely. [Apparently, we in the sports media have pummeled the word "great" into absolute meaninglessness. But that's all I'll say on the subject for now.]

What astounded me most at the Ali Center was the sheer personal depth of the Greatest -- his perspective, and ability to spit his ideals in terms as efficient and biting as lead-eating acid. Plainly put, the man was a poet.

Regardless of the ideals and intentions of the white majority that surrounded and supported him, Ali used the mainstream media to his own ends, and his back-and-forth with Howard Cosell will hopefully live on for decades as television at its best.

Even in his latter years, as Parkinson's robbed him of his razor-sharp tongue, Ali supplied a final immortal sports moment to the posterity of the 20th Century. The nobility and resolve he showed when he willed his visibly trembling hand to light the Olympic torch in Atlanta seem to make his Parkinson's contagious. To this day, the footage of that night renders me speechless and gives me the shakes.

In the end, though, the museum stood for more than Ali's sporting greatness. It was a testament to the man's principles and adherence thereto.

The quote that summed it up, for me, was this.

"I wish people would love everybody else the way they love me. It would be a better world."

Summertime Riffs at 3:05 AM: Homemade Ice Cream, The Flying Tongue, Tim Donaghy, and More Bitching about Congress

You can believe it or not, ladies and gentlemen, but Summer is here.

That means a lot of things: half-days wasted [and spent wasted] on the deck, nights indulging in ridiculous nocturnal tendencies. It means constant consumption of various grilled red meats, homemade ice cream, and lots of beer. Not that the latter is much of a developing trend around here, I suppose. The stunner shades get a hell of a lot more mileage these days, as does the old Honda -- sunroof open, of course, and windows all the way down.

Who doesn't love Summer? Find us that asshole, so we can knock some sense into him.

One of my favorite parts of Summer is, and always has been, the NBA Playoffs. 40 Games in 40 Nights, or so the slogan goes. And that's just on good old TNT. These days, ESPN even gets a cut since the first round was inexplicably extended to seven games. But, I digress.

See, I was raised in Jordan's heyday, and the Bulls were the closest team to KC in geographical terms. I've also been told that I spent the first year and a half or so of my existence living in the Windy City, though I have no recollections to confirm my parents' claims. Let's just say I'm skeptical.

Anyway, I had a tailor made excuse to root for the greatest basketball team to put shoe-marks on hardwood. And lordy, did I. At my house, we spent summer nights laid out on the basement carpet, screaming at the refs from hundreds of miles away [unfortunately, it's a family malady -- I once got thrown out of a high school ball game for mouthing off from the stands, but that's another post entirely] and patiently awaiting His Airness' next feat of legend. We shot baskets at halftime and everything. It was fairytale stuff, and I miss those days dearly.

Yet again, I digress. The NBA floundered in the years following Jordan's second retirement, and during his blasphemous time with the Wizards, which Bulls fans have selectively deleted from their memories.

But as I sit here, and the Summer night rolls by outside, I'm watching ESPN's replay of Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Finals [Thank you, Worldwide Leader -- at least someone understands my sleep schedule]. Boston v. Detroit is looking like a potentially great series, and it's nice to see the League back on the upswing. Aside from the absence of The Flying Tongue, the NBA suffered from publicized character deficits among its players, and the media's overplay of the whole "thuggishness" notion, but most of all, the popularity of the League dipped at the hands of the San Antonio Snores, who won four championships featuring the World's Most Boring Brand of Basketball.

The Spurs/Cavs Finals last year featured more pick and rolls than a bitty-ball tournament, and fewer fast breaks than a game of wheelchair basketball.

I'm not too worried about this year, though, 'cause Kobe and his ridiculously stacked Lakers squad are going to handle the aging Spurs in six, and Lakers/Celts is a dream final for the League.

All is not dreamy in the land of roundball, however, and recent developments in this whole Tim Donaghy mess may spoil the NBA's Summer in the Sun. Donaghy, a former NBA ref now facing felony gambling charges and up to 25 years in prison, recently admitted to betting on over 100 games he called from 2003 to 2007 -- 14 in that final season before he was caught. Surely I need not explain to you, faithful readers of 65TPT, how much influence a basketball official can have on the outcome of a game if he so chooses [that blind bastard who called the district finals my senior year proved the case singlehandedly], and 100 games over four seasons is one hell of a resume.

My question is, where's Congress and its high and mighty ass now? Where the hell is Arlen Specter? Mr. Waxman, to the floor? If our most trusted legislative body is truly interested in investigating cheating in American pro sports, this is the conspiracy to be nosing around in. This isn't the marginal advantages of stealing signals (SpyGate) or using steroids (MLB). And this isn't a situaton where our elected officials are baiting athletes into purjuring themselves, seemingly just for the fun of it. We're talking about one man deciding games here, in order to profit from betting on the outcome. We're talking about actual felonies, too, not some cockamamie perjury charge about whether or not Roger Clemens attended a party in 1976.

Truth is, commish David Stern and the NBA have done such an unbelievable job of downplaying the Donaghy situation that there's no headlines in it for our leeches in office to slurp up. Some of you have probably never heard of this story, but it had far more impact on pro sports in our country than SpyGate and steroids combined. Personally, I'm shocked no suspicious coaches have come out to demand reviews of playoff games they thought might have been decided by Donaghy -- perhaps its just an indication of how tightly Stern runs his ship.

Call me crazy for expecting consistency from Congress, but its sudden interest in the sports world sort of demands an investigation, doesn't it? At least a press conference. Maybe just a shameless pork-barrel amendment to a completely unrelated piece of legislation. They seem to be pretty damned good at that.

OJ Mayo and the hipocracy of the NCAA

Recently, a former friend of USC roundball star OJ Mayo [and former cocaine dealer] levelled accusations of improper gifts and payments at the player and an employee of a sports agency which Mayo recently chose to represent him before the upcoming NBA draft. Mayo has waived his amateur eligibility by hiring an agent, and will likely be a lottery pick after fulfilling his mandatory one-year sentence in college hoops.
We're facing another distinctly un-American racket here, folks, 'cause if Mayo had been allowed, the young man would most likely have come straight to the pros out of High School, and been paid most hansomely for it. Now, I'm no lawyer, but about 12.654 seconds [and just three lucky clicks] on Google found me a quote from our own United States Supreme Court [you know, like, the highest legal authority we got] which seems to leave this whole notion of mandatory college attendence in the legal dust of involuntary servitude [also known as "slavery"]. Straight up Fourteenth Amendment, y'all. Check it:
"The liberty mentioned in that [Fourteenth] Amendment means not only the right of the citizen to be free from the mere physical restraint of his person, as by incarceration, but the term is deemed to embrace the right of the citizen to be free in the enjoyment of all his faculties, to be free to use them in all lawful ways; to live and work where he will; to earn his livelihood by any lawful calling; to pursue any livelihood or avocation, and for that purpose to enter into all contracts which may be proper, necessary and essential to his carrying out to a successful conclusion the purposes above mentioned." (165 US at 589: Allgeyer v. Louisiana -- a UNANIMOUS decision, if you were wondering.)
Shouldn't a young man of legal standing -- 18 years old, and in possession of one of our country's most lucrative talents -- be allowed to offer his services to whichever team owns his draft rights? Now, granted, there are provisions which set professional sports apart from your everyday contract situation, but at its heart, this requirement is first-day-of-law-school, flat-out unConsitutional. And if it ain't, [my legal research skills are shoddy at best] it damn well should be. if not illegal, it's blatantly unAmerican.
Unfortunately, this is the point in the argument where sports journalists and the rest of our media friends jump in with another steaming helping of age-old bullshit: "it's for the best," we like to say. "These kids [make note of the term, if you would] have no idea what it's like in the pros. They'd get eaten alive without that experience of a higher level of play."
Now the problem with this argument [not that there's just one] is that if it were true, no high school player would have ever been drafted in the first place. Obviously, there are as many [or more] failures as successes when it comes to 18-year old draftees, but that question is irrelevant. Regardless of whether or not a single given player is equipped to make the decision, we have no choice but to assume he's capable. Simply put: it's the law, and his right to do so if he chooses.
Let's put aside the legal issues associated with curtailing a player's rights to go pro after high school. For a moment, we'll live in the fantasy world constructed by the NCAA which preserves the ridiuclous notion of amateurism. The motivations behind this requirement are as shady as its legal underpinnings, and deserve a bit of exploration.
Now, the NCAA is always quick to spout the same nonsense as most sports journalists out there on this topic: that the provision is designed to protect young men from the awful realities and potential ill-effects of professional sports. ['Cause, you know, millions of dollars and thousands of adoring -- however doltish -- fans are terrible burdens for an 18 year old].
Truth is, the provision is designed to protect the NCAA and its market, plain and simple. The amount of money made on the backs of "amateur" collegiate athletes is staggering these days, and like any multi-billion dollar market, those sums must be protected from any and all potential threats. The threat of losing your top-tier, butts-in-seats superstars is one that College Basketball can't afford to risk. In fact, you might as well call this the LeBron James rule. If LeBron had been a year younger, and forced to attend Ohio State or Duke for a year, think about the millions of dollars those schools would have made off of national television contracts with Disney (which owns ABC and ESPN) and CBS -- just a couple of the monster corporations who employ our narrow-minded sports-reporter friends. Now, let's imagine that, like Greg Oden, LeBron got injured in the year between college-ball sentence and pro-opener. Tore his ACL, let's say, and lost out on a year's worth of game-checks-- which for him, would be more dull-green ducketts than my high school class will see in our collective lifetimes.
He'd have a clear suit against both the NCAA and the NBA, in my opinion, for squashing his 14th Amendment rights and placing undue regulations on his personal rights of contract. Like I said, I'm no lawyer, but it seems pretty damned obvious.
What I'm getting to, I suppose, is that I really don't care whether or not Mayo took money from an agent. Hell, somebody should have been compensating him for the hours he spent filling the arenas he played in and pumping up the TV ratings of a second-rate Pac-10 team. Lord knows USC wasn't.
And I don't wanna hear any horseshit about the value of a college education. How much can one year of a four-year degree be worth? [And I'm not talking retail, here, either. Damn. Talk about a racket] I've sat through freshman year at a massive state school, and I didn't find the forced memorization of roughly 6,000 powerpoint slides and twenty-five mandatory, 150-question Scantron tests to be of much tangible value.
From what I can tell, Mayo is an intelligent young man -- the quotes I've read of his make him sound like a grounded, humble guy. He says he rode his bike to class all year, which is a claim my lazy ass could never make.
The question is, why do the NBA and NCAA think they can so blatantly collude against the constitutional rights of an American citizen? If anybody can clear this up for me, I'm all ears.

Clemens and the demise of ACTUAL JOURNALISM in the sports media

If you haven't heard, Congress and the ever-vigilant (read: blood sucking) sports media have delved deeply into the personal and professional life of pitching legend Roger Clemens. Questions about steroid use and marital impropriety have been at the forefront of the allegations and investigations, and Clemens has been quick to deny all suggestions of his wrongdoing.
We're all about journalistic integrity here at 65TPT, and as Missouri journalism students studying and reporting on sports, we feel like we have at least a basic understanding of the role of the sports media and its importance to fans and even casual consumers.
For years innumerable, the media have jumped at the juicy, sexy stories involving criminal activity or marital infidelity -- such is the food for newspaper headlines and news-stand sales -- and as far as we're concerned, it's time to take a step back and really evaluate the direction in which things are headed.
When our do-nothing, finger-pointing, partisan Congress started investigating steroids in baseball [supposedly justified by the sport's anti-trust exemption and its grassroots importance to Americans from coast to coast] many ball players from Rafi Palmeiro to Mark McGwire, and most recently Clemens, were forced to face questions under oath about their activities, which, at the time, weren't even against the MLB's own rules.
The discussion about whether or not Congress should be spending its precious, tax-endowed time investigating organized games instead of organized crime and terrorism should be a short one. The idea that United States Senators [there's only 100 of them for goodness' sake] have nothing more important to do than determine whether or not a few professional athletes used performance-enhancers to prolong their careers and continue to rake in big bucks is ludicrous at best.
We're a country at war. The socio-economic divide in this country is so wide you could drive a whole fleet of Congressional limos through the damn thing. And health insurance is the biggest racket since, well, there's probably never been one as big or dangerous.
So why the hell are our elected officials diddling away their time investigating baseball players? [Aside from the blatant grandstanding and press-mongering, that is?] It makes me sick to think that these men and women can't find a better use for the time we buy as American taxpayers.
And the sports-media is no better. When did it become kosher to publish unsubstantiated allegations about the marital infidelity and personal life decisions of athletes? When did these stories even become important? Frankly, I couldn’t care less whether or not Roger Clemens cheated on his wife. He certainly wouldn’t be the first or most prominent man to do so.
Reporters and editors will always defend themselves with the same age-old bullshit: athletes are role models, and should be scrutinized as such. The truth is that sex and scandal sell papers: always have, always will. So we’re likely in for more, not less, of this irrelevant crap as time goes on.
Let’s take a minute to explore this idea of athletes as modern male role models, ’cause like Charles says, 'dat's turrible, man. It's sickening to think that parents actually rely on and expect these people to provide examples for their children -- and blame them when kids start to emulate their risky or disrespectful behaviors. Fact is, parents are the ones who should be providing these good examples, and on a daily basis.
This line of reasoning is just a copout by all the second-rate, selfish parents in this country who think the television is a babysitter, and that the content it spews is anything resembling reality.
It's true: athletes are role models, but not for moral fiber or wholesomeness. They're role models for success in athletics and competition, self-reliance, work ethic, and more. But not for young children who desperately need to learn right from wrong. In that arena, athletes are no better than the rest of us.
So let's see if we can't lay off the questions about old girlfriends and drug use. If we dig hard enough, there's dirt on just about all of us, so why can't we acknowledge the fact and get back to discussing the sports themselves, and not the personal failings of the men and women who play them?

So it begins: KC roots, Chiefs talk, Allen talk...

Welcome to the inaugural post of 65 Toss Power Trap. Enjoy.
It’s harder than you’d believe to relate to people what it’s like being a sports fan in Kansas City these days. If they’ve never spent any time there, or didn’t have the pleasure of growing up amongst the sounds of jazz and smells and tastes of the World’s Best Barbecue (Gates', if you‘re wondering), it's damn near impossible to make them feel our collective pain.
Fleeting stories of 1985 and 1970, the town’s last championship years of any merit, are all we have to tie us to the historic successes of our now-mediocre pro franchises.
That’s part of the reason we established this little ditty, you know, to vent some of those frustrations and, hopefully, stimulate some discussion about the state of sports and fandom in the Second City of Fountains. It’s a split city, of course, with its majority lying on the Missouri side, and a thin slice suffering the unfortunate fate of geography which locates it in the third-world territory known as “Kansas”. The split is reflected in the city’s politics, its music, and its social life as well -- a reality which has more influence on the lives of its citizens than an outsider would ever believe.
The title of the blog, like its authors, is reminiscent of a fairer time. Sixty-five toss power trap, as any true Chiefs fan or avid NFL Films consumer would tell you, was the play that won our beloved Chiefs their first and only Super Bowl, one that KC legend and head-coaching statesman Hank Stram called joyously from the sideline again and again, pounding a then-weak Minnesota Vikings defense en route to a 7-3 victory. 65TPT was also the play that scored the game’s only TD.
So, yeah, we’re nostalgic. What choice do we have? The Chiefs haven’t won a playoff game in 15 years, and last week, the team topped off its worst season in the past 30 by drafting LSU defensive tackle Glenn Dorsey with the No. 5 overall pick.


By public consensus, the Chiefs got a steal in Dorsey. But, as usual, minor success was tempered by monumental failure, as the Chiefs’ front-office succeeded in pissing off and trading the team’s best player and fan favorite, former DE and NFL sack leader Jared Allen, a week before the draft commenced.
For those of you unfamiliar with his background, Allen was a PERFECT star for KC -- the one player fans would have identified, if asked, as untouchable. Drafted in the fourth round as a potential long-snapper, this beer-guzzling, handlebar-mustached honkey ascended [don‘t panic: we’re honkeys, too, and are qualified to use the term] -- apparently by sheer balls and endless thirst for the quarterback’s blood alone -- to the starting slot at right DE for the Chiefs. He wore #69 for Stram’s sake, and we loved him. Two DUI’s and a two-game suspension later [neither of which threatened his demigod status in the 816], GM Carl Peterson called Allen a “young man at risk” -- a presumptuous assertion from the greasiest front-office man in sports. And so, the fallout began.
Long story short, Allen claimed he’d never sign a long-term deal with the Chiefs, and implied that his supernatural self-motivation, likely supplied by all the beer and that mustasche, would disappear like a thin fart in high wind. The Chiefs traded Allen in that week before the draft -- to the Vikings, ironically [or fittingly, for our fellow cynics] -- in exchange for first- and third-round picks in the ‘08 Pickstravaganza.
Don’t get us wrong, we’re not upset with the outcome of the trade. The Chiefs got fair value for Allen’s production on the field, but, as usual, the team failed to account for his popularity amongst its unbelievably faithful fan-base. Allen likely sold thousands of tickets [and innumerable twelve-dollar stadium beers] at every Chiefs home game, and that’s a void Glenn Dorsey will likely never be able to fill.
Stay in your seats, Chiefs fans -- we LOVE Dorsey, don’t get us wrong. When Al Davis’ senile ass drafted McFadden at four, we just about soiled our Arrowhead-covered undies. He’s a once-an-era player and, hopefully, he’ll anchor a D-line that will sorely miss Mr. Allen. How-ev-ah, Dorsey will never touch our inner honkey like Allen did. And if that’s racist, Jason, you can call us Bull Connor. At least we can admit it...