So sorry, everyone. I’ve been away. Perhaps it was the anticipation of the 2008 baseball season that had me fleeing to wetter climes (as in, couldn’t stand to be here with all the fucking pre-season guesswork). I’ll get to the Mets at a later date, though I will mention the fact that they look all shiny and new like students on the first day of school. Everyone’s lost weight, wearing their best faces, sizing up the competition for homecoming, etc.

The subject of this post must be the UK, as that is where I’ve spent the past three weeks(ish) of my life. While in London, I explained the nature of this Popserious column to various Brit friends, and they were particularly amused by my assortment of sporting reactions that can be misconstrued as sexual innuendos. One friend in particular, Ms. Bonnie “GymRat” Jones, was quick to point out that popular British sports offer far more laughable examples of this phenomenon. And so, with her assistance, I bring to you Popserious readers:

THE TOP TEN CRICKET TERMINOLOGIES THAT SOUND DOWNRIGHT FILTHY

10. Bowling a maiden over (bowling six balls in a row without a batsman taking a run).

9. Full toss (a type of bowling delivery).

8. Good length delivery (a ball bowled in the right spot).

7. Fine leg (field position).

6. Stroked through the covers (a shot from the batsman; covers are a part of the pitch).

5. Openers (first two batsman).

4. Middle stump (the middle stick behind the batsman that the bowler is trying to hit. As in, “He’s taken out his middle stump!”).

3. Hooker (batsman who tends to use the risky hook-shot a lot; may also be referred to as “happy hooker”).

2. When a player named Michael Holding was batting and another called Peter Willey was bowling, the commentators gladly announced, “The batsman’s Holding, the bowler’s Willey.”

1. http://www.bbc.co.uk/fivelive/sport/bestcommentary/

Queen of the Indoor Kids (read: Ellen) recently asked me to explain the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry.  I found it a hard challenge to tackle, seeing as all I ever have to say about the Yankees is ummm… I hate them.  However, as a dutiful purveyor of sports-related information, I felt a need to look into the subject and put together a lil abridged explanation.

I’d say the real start to this “heated rivalry” was in 1920, when the Red Sox’s relatively new owner sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees.  You see, the owner was a gambling man.  Not in the traditional sense, per se, but in the sense that he built up a pretty substantial debt through his pursuits as a baseball owner.  Selling the team’s star to the Yankees was a quick way to erase said debt.  After the sale, both teams’ luck changed.  The Red Sox had been a dominant team in the American League since the start of baseball, winning the very first World Series in 1903, and then another four titles between 1912 and 1918.  The Yankees on the other hand, sucked (still do!).  Between the sale of Ruth in 1920 and 2003, the Yankees won 26 World Series and 39 division titles.  The Red Sox won four titles.  Total.  Some of you may have heard the term “The Curse of the Bambino?”  Babe Ruth is that Bambino.  There’s been more to it in recent years, including the Red Sox coming from behind in the 2004 division series (vs. the Yankees, who suck) and going on to win their first World Series in 86 years.

THE BAMBINO (above)

But you know what?  Enough about these teams.  Fuck em. Let’s talk Mets and their impending heated rivalry.  With the Phillies.  Growing up, all I ever heard about was the Mets rivalry with the Braves.  But truth be told, it was never much of a rivalry.  The Braves always won.  And the team they always left behind in the standings was my precious Mets.  But all of a sudden, the Braves have taken a back seat to the Phillies.  Which is fine with me, because there are way more Philly transplants in New York than Atlanta ones, thus giving me far more people to argue with during baseball season (here’s looking at you, Andy Greenwald).

Last year, Phillies star Jimmy Rollins made a pre-season announcement to the press that the Phillies were the team to beat in the NL East.  What’s the problem you ask?  The Phillies are in the same division as the Mets.  As in, Rollins seemed to think he was better than my team.   So, granted, the Mets staged the most astronomical collapse in the history of baseball and thereby ceded their due title to the phucking Phillies, but even so - Rollins is an idiot.  So, in typical awesome New York style, the Mets have hearkened back to the start of last season, sending one of their own to the press with the assertion that this year, with the addition of Johan Santana, WE are in fact the team to beat.  The messenger?  Carlos Beltran.  The message?  Last year is done, bring on the heat.

SANTANA, THE PHILLI-BUSTER (oooh, that’s a good one!  I’m good at nicknames!)

In honor of Rubanomous’ roommate post (in which he toooootally forgot to mention the greeting aroma of perfumed coffee, the sadness of shaving graveyards, and pipe hijacking as perks of having one), I decided to compile the following list. Before he moved out on me (SAD FACE!!!), I used to treat him to inexplicable grunting sounds coming from my bedroom. Now, while the egoist in me would like to claim a rampant sex life, said grunting was actually a product of watching games.

So behold, Karen’s Top Ten Reactions to Sporting Events that can be Misconstrued as Wild Boning:

10. Yes, yes, YESSSSSSS!

9. Get that out of the there!

8. Slow it down, slow it down….

7. That’s a fucking foul.

6. He’s coming! Watch your back!

5. RAM IT IN!!!

4. How did he not see that hole?

3. What are you DOING???

2. Go, go, gooooo!

And, the #1 Karen Reaction to a Sporting Event that can be Misconstrued as Wild Boning?

1. Fuck me, Sean Avery.

To my darling indoor friends - David Tyree is the arguable star of this year’s Superbowl. (Remember that game? Like, two weeks ago? People in NYC were really stoked?). Dude has an interesting life story. In 2004, he was still carrying the weight of a college-age drinking problem, and thus racked up sizeable fines and scorn from the Giants‘ coaching staff. After one-too-many late arrivals at practice, Tyree realized he needed an alternate money-making scheme to make up for all the financial penalties. His answer? Selling mary-jane. Dude even told the New York Times that his reasoning was “I’m smoking the best bud, might as well sell it to others and reap the benefits.” My kinda man, that Tyree. But then he got arrested. And tossed in the slammer. And essentially hit rock bottom. Then he found god and yadda yadda yadda… four years later, he’s making the most incredible game-altering catch of his career. The moral of this story? Weed is good.

Oh wait, actually, that wasn’t the point of this post. Oops. What I meant to do is use Tyree’s reversal of fortune as a metaphor for the rockers, athletes, whatevers I encounter.

Let me submit an example of “the trouble with today’s rockstars.” Last week I went to Bowery Ballroom to check out a hotly tipped UK band. The show was sold out, the music was fun as balls, and the guy from That 70s Show was in attendance. After the gig, the band’s manager (an old friend of mine) invited me to come meet the guys in the dressing room. A number of beers and joints were passed around, and that’s when things went bad. Some hanger-on posed a question regarding the band’s next move. Was there an afterparty? There was a momentary silence. One band member glanced at his watch. “What time is it”, I asked. “Nearly two,” he said. Now, for me, it was fair to leave. I’m old (26). I’ve done my time in the afterparty circuit. But these guys - these guys are all JUST over 21 years of age - they’re JUST finishing their first sell-out headline gig at the premiere indie venue in the premiere rock city (HA!) - they should be partying the fuck out! But no. When I announced to the room that I was gonna head home in time to catch the X-Files on Sci-Fi, I was met with a shower of “that sounds amazing”s. This band of heralded rockstars was gonna retreat to its hotel and watch a show about flying saucers. This is what it’s come to.

Now, thus far, athletes have proven no better. I still have yet to meet my hunky Rangers, but I’ve got a good friend who counts a number of them as text-buddies. The same night that I was at Bowery Ballroom dancing with the dorks, said friend was at a Sports Illustrated swimsuit party in the financial district. Before our respective outings, she had called to say that some of the Rangers were on the party tip-sheet. As in, it might be my night to test their gumption. I instructed her to call me from the party should the potential for anything scandalous arise. I never heard from her. The next day, we got to chatting about our nights and my friend informed me that upon her arrival at the party - at 10 pm - she received a text from a Ranger. They had just left. I repeat - the Rangers left a swimsuit issue party BEFORE TEN PM. What the fuck??? They didn’t even have a game the next day! Or all week for that matter! Oy va voy.

I will leave you with this - Henrik Lundqvist just signed a new six-year contract with the Rangers, making him the highest paid goalie in the league. That means Henrik and I have six years to assure you all that athletes are the new rockstars. Please, Henrik, please.

Mmmmmmm Henrik Lundqvist in a long-sleeved t-shirt.

Shameful self-promotion. Come celebrate the Rangers‘ shut out of the Flyers with me! Tonight! In Billyburg! Free pizza! Free high fives!

Seeing as the Superbowl was nearly a week ago, it would be silly to devote this entire post to it. All I will say on the subject is that it was the best fucking Superbowl I’ve ever seen (but sorry indoor kids, it was definitely NOT the best halftime show I’ve ever seen. No nipples for Tom Petty). It was low-scoring, rife with lead changes, and capped with an underdog victory (and yes, the underdog was conveniently a New York team). And now it’s time to scoff at those proud proud Patriots and their equally obnoxious fans. Sorry folks, but a loss-less season means nothing if you ain’t got that trophy at the end. Your precious team will forever be remembered as the perfect record, lost to the scrappy Giants. At least Tom Brady got to go home and bone Gisele Bundchen. And at least he’s hot. Mmmmm, Tom Brady.

In other news, the Rangers still suck. This is the biggest vag-tease of a team. As mentioned in my very first entry, they were sucking going into the All-Star break. And then Brandon Dubinsky (my future boyfriend) went to the All-Star rookie game and got named MVP or something, and Scott Gomez (my future sex-toy) got an assist in the All-Star not-rookie game and they all came back to real playing on the road and kicked some major ass. Did anyone else see that game where they came back from an 0-3 deficit to win 5-3? That’s the stuff my dreams are made of (there’s a tad more involved in my actual dreams, but I’ll leave that to your imaginations). And then they hit the Garden. WHERE THEY FUCKING SUCK. Seriously, can these guys PLEASE win a game on home turf? I really want to hang out with these dudes, but I can pretty much guarantee that a night out with losers will be a lot less than fun. (I mean losers in the literal sense, don’t get mad, guys). You see, the playoffs are coming up on us hard and fast. And the Rangers are what’s known as “embroiled in a tight division race.” As in, every game counts. Every point counts. If they keep losing, they will be eliminated from the race. Hmmm, though, come to think of it, the sooner the games stop counting, the sooner I can get these mofos on my couch with a bottle of Trader Joes…. decisions, decisions…..

Mmmmmm… who’s that you ask? That’s my team’s saving grace, that’s who. That’s Johan Santana, ace pitcher and all-around turnaround for the Mets, whose outrageous (most literal usage of outrageous EVER) demise at the end of last season had me contemplating a move to the UK. (Alright, said contemplation might also have had a liiiiittle to do with the abundance of gorgeous rocker ass in the UK, but this is meant to be a sports column, ok?).

You see (not)sports-fans, the Mets did something unheard of last season. They were seven games ahead in their division, with 17 games left to play - which essentially translates to being shoe-ins for the playoffs - and somehow managed to LOSE IT ALL and not even make it into the post-season. SO EMBARRASSING. SO LOATHSOME. I nearly put a fist through the wall.

So then in the off-season, it was determined by experts (aka fans) that all the Mets needed to stop the bleeding was an ace pitcher. Someone to fill out the aching line-up. This need was intensified with the departure of Tom Glavine, who, despite being on the older side of hotness, was still pretty crucial to the Mets‘ playing (ignore his last game, you know he wants you to).

And so here we are. With Johan. And his gleaming suit. The trade isn’t 100% finalized, so while this kinda feels like announcing a pregnancy in the first trimester, I’m gonna go ahead and say my kids are real contenders again. Bet it all makes you think of doing something else with your fist, huh? Ewwwwwwwwww.

(*PS - you can click that pic up there to see if it’s truly fist-worthy, thanks!)

The NHL (thats National Hockey League to you indoor types) is on hiatus at the mo… All-Star Break, y’all. And we still have over a week to go to worry about how badly Gisele Bundchen’s boyfriend is gonna kick the Giants’ ass (her boyfriend is the quarterback of the Patriots, you see. They’re in the Superbowl. That’s that thing they wrap around a nostalgia concert every winter. You know, you remember… Janet Jackson’s nipple? That was the Super Bowl).

So I figured now would be as good a time as any to hop back on the baseball interest train and see what my Mets babies have been up to. The answer is… a whole lot of nothing. No trades, all talk; that’s the story of January. Which begs the question - what the hell can I go on about?? So then I realized, I still haven’t quite explained the background of this “column.” See, on the surface, I’m a music chick. Work in music, friends in music, life is music. It’s how it goes. And yet in the past couple of years I’ve been heavily revisiting the passion of my youth - sports. As the wrists in music get limper and limper, the steroid injections in sports have gotten increasingly frequent. I.e., real men hold sticks, and I don’t mean the drumming kind (yes friends, you can insert your relevant comments below).

Let me submit for your approval the following objects of MLB (that’s Major League Baseball, you stupid D&Ders) desire. See for yourself why I missed Art Brut’s gig last April in favor of baseball.

DAVID WRIGHT

The Brad Pitt of baseball. Boyish good looks, covert sexuality. Oh, and according to experts, the second best third-baseman in the league. Who is the best, you ask? None other than…

ALEX RODRIGUEZ

Yes, by nature I should hate this man because he’s returned to the fucking Yankees like a battered wife, but I mean, come ON. Look at those EYES!

SHAWN GREEN

It ain’t lookin’ so good for this guy to be on my Mets next season, which is a real shame, because if not for that whole “wife and kids” thing, we’d have made a really awesome light-eyed Jew couple.

JOSE REYES

That smile. That speed. It’s as dangerous a combination as Pop Rocks and soda.

So yeah, athletes are the new rockstars. Eat me.

Okay, lemme preface this post by saying that I haven’t been watching a ton of hockey lately. The Rangers kinda suck. They had me going there for a bit, and I dunno, they miiight be able to get their mojo back (hey, I sure did! woot woot!), but at the moment, watching a Ranger game is kinda like watching that Spinal Tap performance at the Air Force base. Aka - not hot. Shit foreplay. “Hey Mr Ranger, I’d really like to tell you how great you were on that ice tonight, especially as we lay here in bed together enjoying the afterglow, but I can’t. Because you guys have lost the plot.”

So let this be an open letter to the New York Rangers - GET WELL SOON. Cuz like, as awesome as Sunday was, Eli Manning is kinda wonk. Don’t get me wrong, he did a grand ole job and I was super proud of the Boys in Blue as a whole, but for some reason I feel like football players are slightly less rock n roll than hockey players. And yes, that may be a bit of me swaying from Sean Avery’s black nailpolish habit, but it’s mainly because football players remind me of frat guys and hockey guys remind me of… I dunno, Canada? There are some pretty hot Canadians. Ryan Gosling, for example. Ooh, though actually, I’d really like to grab a drink with Michael Strahan. Someone set that shit up.