Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

When an entire game swivels on a phantom illegal contact penalty, it’s not your year.

When their fumbles always go out of bounds, are always uncalled, are never recovered, it’s not your year.

When the drops bounce into opposing D-backs, it’s not your year.

When third-downs are improbably converted against you, and weirdly fail for you, it’s not your year.

When Kyle Orton and Kerry Collins look like fucking Pro Bowlers, it’s not your year.

When the offense absolutely cannot stay on the field, it’s not your year.

When failure strangely keeps occurring, where success used to happen, maybe it’s not your year.

When a team clad in ghastly all-pale blue defeats you, with a final score making the game look like a rout (for the third time in four losses), it’s not your year.

And maybe, the injuries, the timing, the staccato lack of repetitions, and the lack of continuity prevents it from being your year.

Maybe it’s all the games adding up, maybe it’s a schedule with few breaks, maybe it’s a bye week improbably in Week 3, maybe it’s just luck, maybe it’s poor execution.

But it’s not your year, and though it’s never quite over, you already know.  It’s just not your year.

That’s why there’s next year. Or next week. I guess.

Perhaps most sadly, for three quarters, the Colts, up until a third-down stop was negated by a phantom penalty called on Marlin Jackson (Don’t worry, your crack MNF crew failed to mention this), played their best game of the year. From that point on, the offense failed to execute, and soon all was lost, and soon the score looked ridiculous. The Titans have a great O-Line, but they’re not exactly a juggernaut. A frustrating game for the Colts to drop, in a year full of frustrations. In a year which isn’t theirs, for whatever reason.

And finally, no one on Earth is as incompetent in their job as Mike Tirico, Ron Jaworski and Tony Kornheiser are at theirs. No one.

One of the delicious ironies of moonlighting as an advertising director is the severe distaste MFG possesses for nearly all advertising combined with the admiration for the discipline’s effectiveness. (I know, Jimmy, I’m sorry. Please don’t shout at me.) As a professional – and no matter how unclean it may seem – I’m unable to actually detest annoyances like Frank Caliendo, five-dollar-footlongs, or Viva Viagra. Instead, I grudgingly compliment their persistence, resonance, ubiquity, product placement, or intent.

However, it is with absolutely zero irony that I compliment or pay minor tribute to the greatest ad I’ve ever seen. An advertisement so brilliant in its simplicity, so majestic in its story arc, so exquisite in its execution, so inspiring in its motive that I can’t let it go unseen or unsaid. You know the ad. It’s Nike’s new, musical football spot (Entitled “Fate”), set to The Ecstasy of Gold. Featuring LaDainian Tomlinson and Troy Polamalu, the spot  traces the stars’ backgrounds and athletic prowess through southern California.

The cinematography, storyline, plot, and visual elements are nicely done – but the operatic chords of  the song give me goosebumps. Seriously, the only way the spot could be more chilling, inspiring, or forceful would be the inclusion of Bob Sanders. In fact, each time I see the spot I crank up the TV, crouch into a track position, and practically launch my head into the brick mantle, jacked beyond belief. I’m ready to suit up and play, for crying out loud. I just did 700 crunches. Franklin the Cat doesn’t know what to think.

Lest you think I can’t be positive, or not tongue-in-cheek, I assure you, I speak the truth. The ad is mesmerizing. Nicely done, Nike.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go take a shower. And rebuild my living room.

Sarah Palin’s not-so-surprise appearance on Saturday Night Live is certainly no longer news, or fresh, or particularly relevant – all it does is vault our favorite elderly man’s dimly-lit pinup girl into the limelight further – but I can’t stop laughing at this Saturday’s sketches. Amy Poehler’s rap, in particular, may actually have been the stuff of legend.

Still, the episode leaves a bizarre taste in the mouth. The VP nominee’s cameo was hardly the quick-strike surprise of Barack Obama, the smiling acceptance of Hilary Clinton’s, or the creepy full-fledged hosting turn of John McCain. In fact, SNL trotted out Tina Fey in top form and a derisive Alec Baldwin to poke fun at Palin, and even Lorne Michaels smugly nodded amid the Alaska governor’s presence. When she bobbed her head along with Poehler’s jabs, it was not only sidesplitting, but even a little sad. Was she really in on the joke?

Probably to be expected, however. Palin inspires extreme visceral bipolar reactions, no matter the substance, and her cameo is no different. Slate wonders alternately if she aced some phantom test, if she appeared so mum as to avoid serious misstep or was simply tough enough to take typical Hollywood abuse. Well, maybe. She looked like the kid in high school you hate, the idiot so dumb you’ve given up on him/her. Yet the kid still wanders by the cool table, stumbling into conversations snidely making fun of them, eviscerating them right to their face, with them none the wiser. (It’s also possible she confused Alec Baldwin’s liberal tendencies with Jack Donaghy’s hard-core conservatism. Acting!)

Surely Palin’s (mostly moron) supporters thought her “playing along with the joke” was simply evidence of the brass cojones Palin has. Fuck you, liberal Hollywood/Manhattan elite, they surely saw Sarah say.

Still a third surreal possibility exists, however. Maybe Palin’s moved on. With the election only a few weeks away, maybe she’s decided to get in on her own ridiculous joke. It’s possible she knows she’s an idiot, it’s even more possible she doesn’t care. Maybe, perhaps, she suspects her fledgling national political career careens toward an inglorious November end, hitched to the wagon of the biggest flip-flopping two-faced shill to grace our stage in a long time. Maybe she’s setting herself – and all of us – up, prepping us for a next wave of Palinmania.

It’s possible she’s going to ride this pseudo-sexy Tina Fey impression into a burgeoning career of celebreality. Imagine the Palins, hockey players, pregnant kids, and all, on an MTV reality show. Imagine the Flailin’ Palins as the third team on “The Island.” (Johnny Bananas, quite possibly, would be driven further chauvinistically mad). Imagine them on their own reality show. Imagine the possibilities – she’s hip! She’s cool! She’s on SNL! And soon, her talk show follows Chelsea Handler on E!.

She never wanted this stupid VP job; she just wants to live in the limelight, to occupy a weekly seat next to Britney Spears in Best Week Ever. A role on the GOP ticket just happened to be a temporary stop. From sports anchor all the way to blatant celebrity icon, stopping on covers of InStyle and Vogue and Elle and People and unable to leave the public consciousness from here on out. She’s done with the campaign, instead, she’s eyeing a role as president on 24, a starring role in Fargo 2, a feud with Donald Trump, tryst with Alec Baldwin, and impending tenure as the object of legions of repressed GOP sexual frustrations. Whose December check will be larger, Maxim’s or Playboy’s? Perhaps she’s a skewed step ahead of all of us?

OK, probably not. But it’s worth noting, right? Right? Oh, whatever.

This – this post – is why I need Mail Goggles for blogging. Till later.

Or the Bears. Or even the Lions, I suppose. But only because of the eerie officiating at Lambeau Field, not necessarily the smackdown. Just an abysmal game by the Colts, one which looked completely off-kilter at the start, when the Keystone Cops officiating crew called a bogus personal foul on a defensive sideline hit by the Colts (not quite) after the Pack’s second play from scrimmage.

Sure, the Colts’ bend-but-don’t break defense survived that miscall, but they didn’t survive further third-down conversions. And just as in the first game of the season, nearly everything looked off for the Colts. Drives stalled, Manning launched into flailing audibles, chicken dances, and incessant whining; the stretch play repeatedly failed; the defense couldn’t get off the field, and the Pack looked like worldbeaters, just like Chicago did in Game 1 this season. Not to channel Gregg Easterbrook, but after the Packers went up 10-7 on their first touchdown, the Colts’ machinelike offense faced a fourth-and-one from midfield. They punted, for maybe a twenty-yard field position gain. A ridiculous punt; one which would have been uncharacteristic in 2005, 2006 or 2007. Manning threw a hissy.

And the converse occurred only a few plays later – the skittish Colts’ D held the Pack to 4th and 1 at midfield. The Packers didn’t blink, went for it, and soon the Colts derailed spectacularly, the less aggressive, less confident, and less physical team, culminating with a holy-shit INT return off Reggie Wayne’s fingertips – eerily akin to Lance Briggs’ fumble return in game 1. And after that bad luck, it was too late.

The Colts were not helped, of course, by typically awful Lambeau referees, reminiscent of the horrific officiating in game one this year at Lambeau. I swear the zebras made shit up to amuse a holier-than-thou fanbase, the result was a grinding, awful, plodding laundry-fest of a game. Phantom unnecessary roughness, personal fouls, formations, and defensive hands to the faces haunted the sloppy Colts, contributing to the excruciating 34-14 loss – the worst game the Colts have played since 2002, a 41-0 playoff stomp at the hands of the Jets.

But in fact, that’s who these Colts are. The 2002 upstart Colts were typically feast-or-famine. The defense failed against teams adhering to a physical game plan based on screens, rushes, and solid offensive line play. Despite a high-octane offense, Manning and Co. continually trotted off the field, forced into repeated 3-and-outs, forced to become one-dimensional in an effort to come back. In turn, Manning finger-points, flails, panics, and turns into the very young QB who often failed the Colts – audibling directly into defenses, prompting false starts, and generally morphing into a big baby on the field, a disinterested coach powerless to stop him.

So here we are. The running game missing, the offensive line in shambles, the game plans discarded, the only safeguards against short passes and counteroptions out indefinitely (Bob Sanders; Kelvin Hayden; the D-tackles). The Colts may reap some luck and race to some easy wins against one-dimensional teams, but entering fourth-quarters repeatedly down double-digits doesn’t bode well.

This is not the window closing; this is a team that’s somehow lost its way. Forget this worthless game, the pieces are still here to survive the regular season. On Monday, the ridiculous Tennessee Titans provide a great opportunity for the Colts to rebound, forget weird penalties, shocking turnovers, and miscues abound. Let’s see if they can take it.

In a word: HELL YES.

It’s fairly catty and hopelessly unoriginal to pile on Deadspin, the supposed king of all snide sports blogs. But, honestly, didn’t its self-congratulatory former editor leave months ago?

Remember, sometime this summer? That week full of nonsensical farewell posts? That convoluted, sneering fraternity of sports bloggers’ weird feud? The insipid and interminable Buzz Bissinger saga Leitch KEPT BRINGING UP as though it was the Kennedy assassination? (Minor point: Deadspin’s content has improved by leaps and bounds with Daulerio.)

So why is he still here, like, repeatedly? Also, why is he pilfering pithy, introspective birthday posts?

The coincidence is either downright eerie, or I’m actually more self-congratulatory than he. Uh. You know what? Never mind.

TO: The NFL

FROM: The Indianapolis Colts

RE: Sunday

Dear National Football League,

We’re back.

All the best,

The Colts

No wonder I like Wings and Quantum Leap so much (and, to a much, much lesser extent – Quick Change and Necessary Roughness). Not only is today the official birthday of Mr. Faded Glory, but it’s also the birthdays of Tony Shalhoub and the inimitable Scott Bakula. And here I thought sharing a birthday with John Lennon was impressive. And Charles Walgreen - no wonder I use that dreadful chain as my pharmacy. Not only that, John Entwistle and Jackson Browne also were born October 9, and I like The Who and Running on Empty. And down by the water, it’s also P.J. Harvey’s birthday. Weird, I know. (The coincidence, not the singer. Well, actually, both.)

Finally, of course, the Baltimore Orioles’ Brian Roberts is exactly the same age as me. Perhaps even to the minute. I don’t think I need to illustrate the implications here – it’s now imperative the Cubs trade for Roberts, my exact double. Instant karma’s gonna get you, indeed.

Tomorrow Mister Faded Glory turns 31. Not the blog, but John, its actual author. (The blog surprisingly has been around for more than five years. Stunning. Gaining readers, one at a time.)

Probably surreptitious to suggest that at this point, all novelty of birthdays has worn off, but that presupposes that turning 30 was a monumental event, big deal, or shape-shifter – when actually, leaving my 20s wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. In fact, at 31 – like most baseball players, including pitchers – I’ve finally reached the personality that likely will hold until my inevitable decline. That is, I’m sort of who I am. If that makes sense. Not that you can’t improve, or change, but, well – life’s only gotten better since turning 27, 28, 29, 30 – and now. Who’s to say that trend doesn’t continue.

(Coming soon: Chicken Soup for the Narcissistic, Self-congratulatory Soul – written by Mister Faded Glory.)

In any case, turning 31 is hardly a somber occasion. Or even an occasion of itself. Sure, it’s novelty evidence that I’m getting older, but that facebook quiz I just took told me my real age was 28. But it is proof of further wisdom or adulthood, even though I haven’t fully left childish tendencies behind. Take last night, for example.

As you know, Mister Faded Glory often travels to seminars and other super-fun, professional, corporate work-related events. On Tuesday, I was overnight in a small town in Kansas, at a leadership-focused retreat with 25 other colleagues. Some whom I knew, some I didn’t, and none well. The two-day event was crammed full of stuff, the sorts of draining activities only tiring when strung together. Of course, in the midst of it all the hosts featured a cocktail hour and a free dinner.

Now, normally this would be MFG’s element. A free dinner, low-priced drinks, and a chance to really get to know colleagues, friends and others. Usually I’m somewhat reserved at most of these things, finally cutting loose once the beers are in hand and shoveled down throat and the sarcasm is flowing. Normally, I take pride in the shared hangovers at these events and the security that I’ve opened up only because now a lawyer and another mortgage lender know about my unhealthy obsession with either Pearl Jam or Chicago.

But that didn’t happen. Everyone else stayed out; or at least, mostly everyone. But I didn’t.

I drank water at happy hour. Ice water, free of charge. I laughed, I mingled, and even mentioned my novel, which I’m proud of, assholes, even if it’s never published. I enjoyed myself, and I didn’t even bitch incessantly about the AmericInn or the seminars.

The next morning, a friend asked, “you guys had a wild night, huh.” And some did – but not me. Excuse me that I’m a shade proud – usually I would have navigated today with a hangover, hopeful my drunken exploits actually advanced my character. Maybe they would have, maybe not. As I get older, it’s much easier to chill by myself at 9 p.m. in a hotel room, wait to talk to my wife, and not be certain any downtime is akin to missing out on something. It’s not. And this is quite an admission for someone who wrote a novel about the majesty of three self-destructive cynics bent only on chasing each night’s bender.

I’m still in awe of the maturity, I know. But this is me, now. I’m 31, and almost a bastion of adultedness. Or at least moving closer. Still, happy birthday to me – the same person who uses too much profanity and quotes too much 1990s music. And to close, here’s the current song that’s swirled through my head for days. It’s Oasis‘ breakthrough song – Supersonic, and as you’ve guessed, it’s totally fucking relevant.

I need to be myself
I can’t be no one else
I’m feeling supersonic
Give me gin and tonic
You can have it all but how much do you want it?

You make me laugh
Give me your autograph
Can I ride with you in your B.M.W?
You can sail with me in my yellow submarine

You need to find out
‘Cause no one’s gonna tell you what I’m all about

Back on the wagon, talking football as early as Monday. I know you’re shocked, but try and cope. (Maybe that’s what we’re doing.)

The Indianapolis Colts pulled out a bittersweet, improbable win on Sunday – ralling from 17 down in the final five minutes to shock the Houston Texans, winning 31-27. During the last decade, the Colts have had a knack for these enthralling comebacks, including a 2003 shocker in Tampa Bay, ralling from double-digits within the last two minutes to defeat the defending champion Bucs. (You might also remember this game for Keyshawn Johnson, peeved at Marvin Harrison’s record-setting season, lampooned No. 88 by chortling “That’s how he get his catches” after Harrison caught a short out-route. Presumably he didn’t talk as much shit when Harrison caught a 40-yard touchdown to tie the game. Yes, I’m talking trash five years later. I’m still distraught, leave me alone.)

In 2004, the Colts rallied against a high-flying Chargers team for a late-season win, and of course, the mother of all comebacks – down 21-3 against New England in 2007, the Colts came back and won the AFC Championship. And three weeks ago, our boys in blue miraculously pulled out a shocker against Minnesota, down 15-0 in the fourth quarter.

So, to recap, they’re 2-2 with two wins they shouldn’t have. Maybe the Jax loss shouldn’t have been a loss – but realistically, the Colts have played ten solid minutes of football all year. And while you love it when your favorite team can come back from sobering deficits – you don’t like to see them make a habit of it. Perhaps the Colts turned a corner on Sunday.

But probably not. After four games, generally, teams have separated into the good, the bad, and the questionable – and the Colts squarely fall into the questionable. A schedule that looked daunting at season’s beginning has become even more difficult, with the ascendancy of Chicago, Baltimore and Tennessee. Currently, the Colts face a murderer’s row of road games, hungry opponents, and will be lucky to host New England at .500.

After four games, the balance of power in the NFL clearly has shifted. New England and Indianapolis are somewhat down, the Chargers still poke around aimlessly until about week 9, and the NFC East actually features the four best teams of football. Should the Colts squeak out a 9-7 or 10-6 record – they may actually be just fine.

Really? you ask.

Sure. It’s taken four weeks, and the Colts have yet to round into form. I chuckled today, watching PTI, after Tony Kornheiser suggested the Colts might be old – that the window may have shut. This is ridiculous – the Colts are one of the youngest teams in the NFL. Marvin Harrison is old. Jeff Saturday is old. That’s it – that’s the list.

The Colts struggle because of a rash of injuries beginning in Week 10 last season and continuing unabated. First Freeney, then Mathis, then Morris, then Keiaho, then Clark, then Harrison, then Jake Scott left, then Diem, then Manning, then Lilja, then Hagler, then Saturday, and now the brittle Bob Sanders, defensive player of the year. With nearly no one in form, sync or proper shape – neither the offense or defense has gelled. The rushing defense is less-than-stout without Sanders, sure – but they’re even more brittle because Freeney, Mathis and Keiaho haven’t exactly been worldbeaters coming off of injury. The last few drives yesterday showed spark – the same, swarming, turnover-inducing defense we’re used to.

The offense has been hit-and-miss, as Manning struggles to regain timing, Harrison struggles, the line incorporates the B- and C-teamers, and Anthony Gonzalez drops pass after pass. Right now, the line still hasn’t progressed enough to run the stretch play – and with only two starters currently in the fold, the play-action built on the stretch is a joke. Still, good teams win badly, just as bad teams lose badly (Houston), and here the Colts are.

Next week the Ravens come to town and it’s an interesting test for Indianapolis. Joe Flacco is the liveliest quarterback Baltimore’s employed in years, no longer do the Colts need just to force the QB to beat them, they need to be somewhat conscious of the rookie. Baltimore features a bruising running attack, and the defense still is the same; Ray Lewis, Chris McAlister and Ed Reed may not be as all-world as they used to be – but they still captain a fearsome defense, featuring Bart Scott and Terrell Suggs (who may actually be all-world). Will the Colts handle Baltimore as calmly as they did in 2006’s season opener and 2007 playoff opener? Our guess is no.

But they’ll win, finally scoring a victory in the crypt-like Luke. And maybe, they’ll be off. Maybe, the front seven is finally taking shape, and maybe the passing timing is returning – enough to open holes for three running backs who may form the deepest tandem in the league. And maybe, after that, the Colts can squirm and claw and fight their way into a playoff picture. Maybe they’ll deal Tennessee the Titans’ first loss.

Maybe the best is yet to come. Maybe the power hasn’t shifted totally, and playoff experience is king. Maybe the Colts actually play better when they’re forced to finish out the season with urgency, battling for position and/or inclusion.

But that’s a long way ahead. First comes Baltimore. And maybe, we’ll see their first good game of the season.