Syracuse wins lacrosse title, makes front page of NYT, and makes me realize that I forgot that sport still existed.

The other night at karaoke – yes, karaoke – a new friend expressed surprise that I had dated a football player in college. I was talking about sports, I think it was about playing dodgeball – yes, dodgeball – and said I thought that the only people who had fond memories of gym class were jocks. This from a woman who is setting up a kickball league, but there you have it.

I was obsessed with jocks when I was growing up. Probably because I was a nerdy, glasses-wearing girl in middle and high schools, and jocks didn’t even know I existed. If they did, it was because they knew that I always had an extra pen that they could borrow or that I could help them with their math homework in study hall. Growing up as I did, in a John Hughes film kind of way, I dreamed about getting a date with said sporty types. They were impossibly fit, good-looking, outgoing, hot. Did I mention hot?

Since I was a dork, I was also a late bloomer. No one ever really dated me in high school, and I was convinced that I would never rate a popular guy as a boyfriend. NEVER. I was convinced that they were out of my league.

Then, college happened. No one knew that I was a nerdy girl there. I could reinvent myself. And reinvent I did.

The dorm room exactly above mine (co-ed housing) was a football room – two of our college’s football players lived there as roommates. Not that this matters, but they were both defensive linemen, so they were huge. And gorgeous. They were also loud and obnoxious and kept my roommate and I up at all hours with stomping around their room. But did I mention that they were hot?

Anyway, one night I saw Adam – my first ever boyfriend – at a keg party (ah, youth, with its red and blue plastic cups and smelly basements). In a modern, jock knight errant kind of way, he offered to plow through the crowd to get me a beer (what a gentleman). Eventually, he walked me back to our dorm. We went to a state school (aka party school) that was located in a woodsy area. That night there were oodles of rain puddles, and I remember pausing in front of a huge one blocking our path and wondering how I could get through it without ruining my shoes (deep thinker that I was back then). Before I knew it, Adam had hoisted me up over his shoulder (with one arm), and carried me to safety (my hero!). Needless to say, I was hooked from that moment.

I enjoyed my new life as a cool kid. I was dating a football player, and a hot one at that! (And they say that only men are shallow when it comes to sex. PUH-leeze, gentlemen. Don’t buy it when a girl tells you that size doesn’t matter. And of course, I’m talking about height and weight here, people. Get your minds out of the gutter.)

I went to all the ‘cool’ parties. People knew my name.

Then, I started to get a big head.

One night, I saw a guy from my old high school at a party. He was a lacrosse player and he was impossibly popular when I was 16. (You knew there had to be a tie-in to the title, right? Thanks for waiting for it.) I marched right over and told him that we went to the same school (he, predictably, had no idea who I was). By the end of the night, he was carrying me home over his shoulder. (Um, I’m just realizing that I had a former life as a cavewoman, in case you’re wondering about all the over-the-shoulder nonsense.)

And it didn’t stop there. Oh, no. I also dated a hockey player, and another football player. And, oh, who’s counting.

The picture on the front of the NYT reminded me of these halcyon days. Like yesterday, I had another one of those Proustian moments, only not as poignant or comfortable.

Honestly, I had forgotten that lacrosse existed until today. I still follow football and hockey, so go figure. Maybe that lacrosse player just didn’t match up. He was, to put it nicely, a douchebag. Not that other jocks are any more sensitive to women’s needs, but I found lacrosse players were always more aggressive and crazy. Maybe equal only to the football players.

Why am I writing about this? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I had a dream about Adam last night, out of the blue, for no purpose under the sun. Maybe it’s because I am more nostalgic these days. Maybe it’s because it’s funny to look back at how shallow I was when picking mates.

These early dating experiences shape us, though. Which is why that friend let out a long, “Hmmmm”, when I told her that I dated a football player. It tells her something about me that she didn’t know before. That a dorky anthropologist was actually formerly not a dorky anthropologist. That I have had secret lives that look nothing like the one I have now. Which is the point of living, really, isn’t it? To experience new things, to try out different ways of living?

In the end, I decided that hot jocks were not my speed. I decided that hot, funny, intelligent writers were more my speed. Did I mention hot? Some things, my friends, will never change. . . .

The boys. Adam is the one in the back row, pretending to lick his roommate Dave’s ear. What was I thinking????

Well, if that wasn’t the damnedest game. . .

I’m still in shock from Sunday.

I cannot believe that they did it. The Giants actually managed to kick Tom Brady’s ass all over that field.

People can complain all they want about how boring a defensive, low-scoring game is (personally, I think defense is underrated), but it was great to see a montage of Brady getting sacked. Over, and over, and over.

By the end of it, I was giddy.

I still hate Tom Brady so much it makes my nose bleed, but I feel better about it overall. Did you see his face? The second he started getting sacked, he actually pouted himself off the field. Pouted. Then, there was the look of shock mixed with consternation. Not exactly the look of a Stetson man, but then, what do I know?

Here’s a montage of Brady losing. Actually, I think this clip is sincere, but I enjoyed it anyway.

Pats/Giants – The Rematch

OK, here we go.

I’ve got my beer stacked neatly in the fridge, a huge sack of Cheez-its snack mix, and friends coming over to watch me flip out at the screen.

Apart from the half-time show, the ‘bowl’ usually sucks. It’s almost never a real match-up, for some unknowable reason, and watching a 28-3 game is never much fun. This year, I have high hopes for a real game. Some action on the field. Some heart. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? There is a real sports ethic, Virginia, and the American game isn’t just about money and sponsorship.

Ah, a girl can dream, can’t she?

Hailing from a strange background – being an inhabitant of Indiana, New England, and New York for equal lengths of time – I have feelings about both these teams. Usually, I root for New England. But my dad loved the Pats so much, that he actually soured me on them. However, that being said, I have fond memories of Superbowl showdowns.

My dad and my mom divorced when I was less than a year old. She was born and raised in northern Indiana and rooted for the Bears (that being the only game in town before the Hoosier Dome even existed). The year before my mom died in a car crash, I met my father for the first time. That was the same year that the Bears and the Pats met in the bowl.

You remember that year, it was the year of the Superbowl Shuffle and the Fridge. And McMahon. (Actually, McMahon wasn’t half as talented as Tom Brady and was an even bigger ass, so I guess I should stop complaining about Brady so much.)

Anyway, my parents had finally put away their differences and I had plans to visit my father that spring. Camped out in our living room, my mom and I watched the game together as a unit. She was delighted with the Bears’ performance. Each time they scored, my mom leapt off her chair and dialed my dad.

“Did you see that touchdown, Jim?” she gleefully asked. “Well, did you?”

Sadly, my dad didn’t get to make many opposite “in-your-face” calls in return that year. But, it was the first time that I saw clearly that my parents at one time actually liked each other. Up until then, I had started to believe that I might have been an immaculate conception, because I couldn’t picture two more opposite people together than my mother and my father. Apparently, they shared a love of football.

That summer, my mom died and I went to live with my father. I attended Patriots games, back when they weren’t good at all. It was an education in the game, given by a brusque and hard-to-love man.

I used to root against the Patriots just to watch my dad steam up under the collar. Tomorrow, I’ll be thinking of him as I root for Eli Manning and the Giants against his favorite team. Just like when he was alive, I was sixteen, and we were sitting in the stands of Foxborough Stadium.

Love you, dad.

But I still hope that they lose tomorrow. Even if I know they won’t.

The Napoleon Complex and Suicide – a New Weird Study about Birth Length

So, I usually stay up late and get up rather late (one of the benefits of having no children), and I hadn’t yet had my first cup of coffee when I spotted a news story on the BBC about a new study out of Sweden. It’s about birth length and weight in boys, and their propensity for violent suicide attempts later in life. The shorter the baby, the bigger the risk.

Apparently, Napoleon might have just been trying to kill himself the hard way. (Side note: Napoleon was measured at his autopsy, before the metric system had been introduced. He wasn’t 5′2″, but probably more like 5′6″, slightly taller than his French compatriots.)

As someone interested in the culture of scientific knowledge, I find these reports fascinating. First of all, we are consumed by the double notions of risk and prediction. If only, we reason, we could know beforehand the whys and wherefores, we could change the outcome. But, can we? What good does it do to know that your short son might be more depressive than you’d like him to be when he’s a thinking adult? Do you schedule therapy for him now?

In other words, do you believe the science and the hype?

Short men have always been maligned. I wonder why, especially when Hollywood is full of them. What is so wrong with being shorter than average in a world where rough-and-tumble survival (at least in some places) is a relic of a by-gone era? Men no longer have to spear woolly mammoths or stalk their prey. Nor do they usually have to step into an arena to defend themselves against certain death. Soldiers have guns, so I’m not sure hand-to-hand combat skills even count anymore. It’s curious, then, why shorter is now considered inherently ‘badder’.

Two of my favorite sports legends of all time we’re all that ‘big’ compared to the people they played against, and yet they seemed to turn out just fine: Muggsy Bogues (5′2″), and Walter Payton (5′10″). (Walter is a personal god of mine, it still makes me tear up to watch this clip. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore, Charlie.)

But, then, there’s this:

Short babies ‘face suicide risk’

Boys who are short at birth have double the risk of attempting suicide as adults even if their growth “catches up” in childhood, a study suggests. Those under 47cm (18.5 inches) were found to be at highest risk.

The Journal of Epidemiology and Community Health says poor foetal growth may have long-term effects on brain chemistry.

The Swedish researchers said more should be done to help pregnant women and babies who were at risk.

Violent suicides

Researchers from the Karolinska Institute in Stockholm looked at national data on male births between 1973 and 1980 and at suicide attempts up until 1999.

The shortest babies were compared to those with an average length of 50-51cm (19.6 to 20 inches).

Any research that throws light on the reasons why some people are more vulnerable than others is essential Margorie Wallace, Sane

There were 759 violent suicide attempts – defined as hanging, using a gun or a knife jumping from heights or in front of a vehicle or drowning, amongst the whole group.

The link between birth length and suicide risk was strongest, but a birthweight of under 2,500g (5.5lbs) was also linked to an increasing risk of suicide attempts.

The study also found men who were normal length babies, but who were short in adult life, were 56 per cent more likely than tall men to attempt to take their own lives.

Drug misuse

Low levels of the brain chemical serotonin, which have been linked to aggression and suicidal behaviour could be the key, the researchers say.

Dr Ellenor Mittendorfer-Rutz, who led the study, said it was possible poor growth in the womb – caused by maternal drug or alcohol use or a poor diet – affected both birth length and how the baby’s brain processed serotonin.

Both were determined during the second trimester, she suggested.

Dr Mittendorfer-Rutz said more should be done to help pregnant women and babies.

“It is possible to identify at-risk pregnancies and mothers who are in adverse situations, such as those with psycho-social problems, teenage mothers and those with a criminal record.

“There is already some evidence to show intervening with these mothers can have an effect on the child’s long-term outcome.

“We could also think about better pre-natal care for the mothers.”

Marjorie Wallace, chief executive of mental health charity Sane, said: “We believe that when someone’s mental and emotional fragility leads them to take their own life, the causes are like all conditions partly genetic and partly environmental, a mix of inner and outer stresses.

“Any research that throws light on the reasons why some people are more vulnerable than others is essential.

“With suicide rates, particularly among young men, still at a disturbingly high level, research of this kind is urgent to prevent the often unnecessary loss of life.”

Who knows. It’s food for thought, I suppose. But, still, I’m not going to start keeping a close eye out on my shorter friends just yet. My obviously depressed friends, maybe.

You’re not in Mexico anymore, Dorothy.

Suck it, Tony Romo.

I’m always happy to see someone who is a little too cocky bite the dust. Call me an underdog supporter, but unbelievably, I am slowly being turned into a Giants fan. I’m simply ecstatic that Romo was bested, especially after blowing off to Mexico for a “Who cares if I have an important game in a few days?” trip with latest gal pal, Jessica Simpson.

Here they are, caught mid-flagrant relaxation in People Mag:

What’s even better is that the game ended in an interception, adding insult to injury. But, it’s not like Romo didn’t have his chances, he did. And, pissing off the refs with bad ’soon-to-be-a-sore-loser’ behavior probably doesn’t help with the calls going your way.

Now, maybe we’ll get a rematch of the Pats and the Giants. That would be certain to be another record-breaking game, with viewers from all over the nation tuning in to see if Eli Manning and the Giants can keep up the good luck streak. From the looks of the players, and the shot of the defensive coach of the Giants praying on the sidelines during the final Dallas push, even the Giants can’t believe that they’ve come this far in the playoffs. If they made it to the Superbowl, to face off with the Pats, that would be a near miracle.

Go, Giants, go! I’ll be rooting for you next week, even though I love Brett Favre and the Packers. There’s a great QB that I don’t have to hate. Take note, younger stud QBs: You don’t have to be an egomaniac to be a great player.

P.S. I still hate Tom Brady, but have resolved myself to the Pats making it to the final game. Sorry, Chargers fans, there’s almost no way you can touch the Pats in next week’s game. Brady is a superb player, it’s true and I’d never try to argue otherwise, but I still hope that he follows Romo into the sore loser category soon.

Here’s a pic of him that I hate, just for fun:

I hate Tom Brady so much it makes my nose bleed

Well, not quite that much, but almost.

The man is smug. And too pretty. And left his baby-mama for a supermodel (with the mama ‘just’ a gorgeous model/actress, but not famous enough).

I went to school in the Boston area and my father was a die-hard Patriots fan. In my teens, I was on the 50-yard-line at Foxborough watching grown men get piss-drunk and yell at least three times per season. Wrapped in my blanket, clutching my hot cocoa, and mainly watching my dad’s dreams get crushed year after year.

Initially, I was excited about the Sox and the Pats. Now, I’m thinking a few people sold their souls to the devil to get Boston out of the years-long losing slump. If the Bs (the Bruins) and the Cs (the Celtics) start winning cups and going to the finals, I’ll know for sure that something fishy is going on.

Boston fans are great losers. Unfortunately, they are not good winners. I suppose they haven’t yet learned how to be.

I’ve seen so many caps, shirts and just ridiculous, overzealous nonsense since the winning streak started that I’m beginning to hate Boston teams.

Tonight, I tuned in – like everyone else – to watch the undefeated Patriots play the Giants, who barely scraped themselves into the playoffs this year. Much to my delight and surprise, the Giants gave the supposedly “unbeatable” Patriots a good whipping in the first half. Then, much to my chagrin but not to my surprise, the team from New York blew it.

Still, it was a good game. It was, in my opinion, probably better than the Superbowl will be this year. You know, that hyped game that takes forever to play because of commercial breaks and usually ends in a disappointing blowout? Yeah, that one. I prefer games that still have a little heart, with players that worry less about money and sponsorship opportunities and more about playing a great game.

Tonight, the Giants didn’t really have anything to gain and yet they played their hearts out. I don’t even root for the Giants (I’m a Bears fan myself), but I found myself screaming and cheering at them via my television set. If I had one, I would have put on my Giants shirt and run through the streets.

Tom Brady reminds me of Roger Clemens, and will probably end up the same. As he ages, he will continue to play well, but not as well, and will not know enough to bow out gracefully. He’ll end up doing commercials, moving around to whatever team pays him enough money, and trying to stay in the spotlight as long as possible. All the while, he’ll remember his glory days (which no one will argue weren’t great), but greed and ego will keep him in the game too long.

My last Christmas wish is that someone will beat the Patriots, if only to teach New England fans and their team a lesson. No one is unbeatable. And no one should be. Unlimited success doesn’t make for a generous team or a good personality.