I am my own Delilah
Here's a new post about my one time fanatasicm. Enjoy!
This is from Wickapedia: A playoff beard is the superstitious practice of a National Hokey League player not shaving his beard during the Stanley Cup playoffs. The player stops shaving when his team enters the playoffs and does not shave until his team is eliminated or wins the Stanley Cup. It is believed that the tradition was started in the 1980s by the New York Islanders. The practice still remains the same, with the players(s) not shaving until they either win the championship or are eliminated from the post season. One may only trim the beard after a loss in an effort to change the teams luck.
Never, never, never cross the fates. I had a sports beard at one point and time in my life. Unfortunately I crossed the fates, and now I am doomed, doomed and damned just like Judas.
It all started early one day in mid-May. I was about to go on a two-week vacation from work. I was burnt out, and really looking forward to getting away from the job, the apartment, the town. I was going to see Texas in all its splendor. It was just going to be Theater Guy, the open road, and me. We’d stop at all the great food joints, we’d drink beer, we’d talk to strangers, we might even talk to girls. The possibilities were endless. I no longer had to be Jeff: bookstore worker/frustrated artist, I could now be Jeff: vacationer. It sounds way more exotic. Vacationer. In italic lettering even. Vacationer. “Where was he from? What did he do? I don’t know, do you? I don’t know. All I know is that he’s on Vacation!” That’s what people would say about me. The people from the small towns would say that about me in hushed whispers as I walked through their towns. They would look at me in awe. The women would secretly swoon behind my back, making their men jealous of me. The swooning women’s men would try to fight me for making their women swoon, but I would have none of it, why? Because I was a cool cucumber on vacation, and I would simply end up having a drink with the guy, and the swooning girl, because I was relaxed, and on vacation. Just say it. It sounds as if a never before heard word had escaped from God’s lips. As if there was an animal somewhere, some mystical, magical animal, with shimmering fur, strong legs, soulful eyes, that had yet to be named, and God decides to name this animal, “Vacation.”
So, how was I to perpetuate this mystique, this magical vacation mythos? I stopped shaving. Who did I have to impress with a clean cut? I have no girlfriend who likes her man to be clean-shaven so she can cuddle and nuzzle him in the early morning hours. And I would soon have two weeks without dealing with the general public, two weeks without a boss. I wouldn’t have to feel their judgmental eyes being cast down upon me. “Too busy to shave? Is he on drugs? Why is that homeless man working here?” They may not say it out loud, but I can read behind sideway glances. But I no longer had to listen. No, for now it was just my beard and I, out to see the world, and discover its mysteries.
Something else was going on at this exact same time. The hometown team, The Dallas Mavericks, were playing in the NBA playoffs. They weren’t the exact favorites to win the whole thing. Most people had the San Antonio Spurs winning the Western Conference, going on to challenge the Detroit Pistons for the NBA title this year. The Mavericks beat the Memphis Grizzlies pretty handily in the first round of the playoffs. Then came San Antonio. If we (the Mavericks) could just get by San Antonio, then, who knows what could happen? The Phoenix Suns (the third best team in the Western Conference, and another contender for the overall title) was having a difficult time getting past the Los Angeles Lakers. What if we beat the Spurs, and the Lakers beat the Suns? It’s a cake-walk to the NBA finals! This could be our year! I was in Austin, TX for the Spurs V. Mavericks series. Dallas is about 200 miles from Austin. San Antonio is about 70 miles from Austin. I was in Spurs territory. There I was, in the bar, every game night, mixing it up with the enemy. Cheering, crying, shouting, yelling, leaning left and right, as if my body’s motions could will the orange ball in, or out of the basket.
Then, at some point and time in the third quarter of game three, I had a thought. It may have been the alcohol talking, it may have been sheer joyful emotion, it may have been insanity, but I had a thought. I’ve already got a vacation beard. Why don’t I make it a playoff beard? The beard would have started roughly about the same time the Mavericks/ Spurs series started. And while, yes, I didn’t start the beard at the beginning of the playoff run, I figured the Mavericks handled the Grizzlies so easily, that they didn’t need any superstitious mojo until now. Yes, yes, I would indeed turn my vacation beard, into a playoff beard.
And when all was said and done, the Dallas Mavericks had beaten the mighty San Antonio Spurs in 7 games, and I believed, I truly believed my beard was the deciding factor in that happening.
A few days passed. I found myself traveling up I-35, back home to Dallas, wallet empty, but with bags full of bounty from my trip. The Mavericks next opponent was to be the Phoenix Suns. The series had more than it’s fair share of nail biting moments, but in the end, the Mavericks won, and were on their way to their first ever NBA Championship, where they would face the Miami Heat. The Mavericks won the first two games with relative ease, and they still hadn’t played their best basketball. It was almost ridiculous, as if the best team in the NBA was playing the some random high school team, and the Miami Heat were really going to be in trouble should the Mavericks start playing on all cylinders. The Mavericks were about to take the circus to Miami, where they would no doubt win two of the next three games. Yes the Mavericks were on their way to hoisting up the Championship trophy over their heads. I, along with everyone else from the Dallas metroplex had very little to worry about, and a whole lot to be happy about. The city of Dallas was so confident in the Mavericks that a victory parade route and date had been planned after the game 2 win. I heard several people baulk at this notion. “What is the city of Dallas thinking? Why would they anger the sports gods by planning a victory parade before the series is over?” I didn’t have an answer to the question that the radio personality was asking, but I figured, what does it matter? Did you see the first two games?
I woke up one morning, took a shower, brushed my teeth, and took a good long hard look at myself in the mirror. By now my sports beard was wild, and wooly. I was Grizzly Addams, a shorter, browner version, without the bear in tow. So, without really thinking, and with no consultation, I decided to take a pair of scissors, and trim my sports beard. Just a bit. Not so much that anyone would notice, but enough so I wouldn’t have squirrels or birds trying to roost in my beard. A little clip here, a tiny cut there.
Game three. Again, the Mavericks had the game won. It was the third quarter of game three when the clouds started to gather. Someone had alerted the sports gods to all of our wrong doings. The gods knew about the parade route. They knew about Josh Howard’s questioning of Dwayne Wade’s shooting abilities. And worse, they saw how I trimmed my sports beard. The Mavericks would loose game three. There goes the sweep. They would loose game four. Miami is protecting their home court, it’s what’s supposed to happen. At least the Mavericks will win the Championship at home. The Mavericks would loose game five. What the hell is happening? I tossed and turned in my bed after game five. I couldn’t sleep. Why couldn’t they stop Dwayne Wade? Where’s Dirk? Why are our shots not falling? Where have we gone wrong? Game six. A must win game for us. In an almost ironic twist the game fell within a day (and may have even been on the same day) the city of Dallas was to hold the victory parade for the NBA Champions the Dallas Mavericks. And I guess because of the parade, the comment, the clipped beard, and poor basketball playing, the Mavericks loose the NBA title to the Miami Heat in six games. Who knew that my beard hair had the same powers as Sampson’s head hair, and even worse, I was my own Delilah.
Something else was going on at this particular time. A world sporting event unlike any other: The World Cup. I know very, very, very little about soccer, and I used to play it as a kid. Here’s the one highlight, or low light, depending on how you look at it, of my soccer short lived soccer career. One time, during practice, I sat on a fire-ant pile and got ant bites all over my ass. It hurt for days and days. That’s the only thing I remember from my soccer playing days. Well, that, and I know you can’t use your hands, and I’d seen parts of the movie “Bend It Like Beckham.”
Now my friend Neens is a terrific fan of the World Cup. She’d been ranting on and on about it for days. At first I thought she was kidding, but it turns out she is indeed a superfan. She had the listing for when all the games were to be played, the rankings of each country, she knew about some of the players from each team. I knew that none of the players could use their hands (except the goalie). I told Neens, “I’ll watch a World Cup game with you.”
“You will?” she said with shock and excitement.
“I will.” I answered, not knowing that I would break her cute little heart by going back on that promise. (In my defense there was never time. I was always working, or watching the not as yet doomed Mavericks. I wanted to watch the World Cup games during the day, and Neens wanted to tape them and watch them at night. Plus she lives way up in Denton, TX, which is 40-minute drive for me, she might as well have been living in Portland, Oregon at the time).
I don’t have cable, so I had to watch all the games on the Spanish channel, which I will say is infinitely more exciting than watching the games on American television. The announcers are so much more into the action, which in turn meant that I was so much more into the action.
Once again, I am swept up in the tempest that is the passion of sports. This is where I have my second sports beard infraction. I decide: I’ve already got a vacation beard, turned sports playoff beard for the Mavericks. Why don’t I make the beard a World Cup beard as well? I can keep growing it for the team that I want to win most in the World Cup. Here was the problem. I don’t know anything about any of the teams in the World Cup. I don’t want to pick just one team, and have that team be a sucky team that gets eliminated in the first round. But I don’t want to be one of those guys that just picks the favorite to win. So, I decide to pick my home teams, The United States (The country I live in), Mexico (the country my great-great grandparents lived in), and Spain (the country my great-great-great-great grandparents might have come from… I’m not sure, I haven’t actually looked much into my family tree, although I hear someone else has, and that person said we came from Spain, so I’m just going to take his word for it). So there it is. I didn’t know the playoff beard rule. I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to cut it (Although I thought about it for a half second, but then thought- what difference could it make really?), and now that I’m thinking about it, maybe it’s not such a good idea to split the playoff beard between four teams.
The first to fall were the Mavericks. Then came team U.S.A. a few days later. Then Mexico fell. Then there was Spain. Then there was nothing but the blade and my chin. I have since looked up the rules of the playoff beard. Thank you Wickapedia. Yes, I am now once more clean-shaven. A young pup of a man, making his way in the world, but just wait, 10 months from now. Now that I have the rules at my disposal, things are definitely looking up.
This is from Wickapedia: A playoff beard is the superstitious practice of a National Hokey League player not shaving his beard during the Stanley Cup playoffs. The player stops shaving when his team enters the playoffs and does not shave until his team is eliminated or wins the Stanley Cup. It is believed that the tradition was started in the 1980s by the New York Islanders. The practice still remains the same, with the players(s) not shaving until they either win the championship or are eliminated from the post season. One may only trim the beard after a loss in an effort to change the teams luck.
Never, never, never cross the fates. I had a sports beard at one point and time in my life. Unfortunately I crossed the fates, and now I am doomed, doomed and damned just like Judas.
It all started early one day in mid-May. I was about to go on a two-week vacation from work. I was burnt out, and really looking forward to getting away from the job, the apartment, the town. I was going to see Texas in all its splendor. It was just going to be Theater Guy, the open road, and me. We’d stop at all the great food joints, we’d drink beer, we’d talk to strangers, we might even talk to girls. The possibilities were endless. I no longer had to be Jeff: bookstore worker/frustrated artist, I could now be Jeff: vacationer. It sounds way more exotic. Vacationer. In italic lettering even. Vacationer. “Where was he from? What did he do? I don’t know, do you? I don’t know. All I know is that he’s on Vacation!” That’s what people would say about me. The people from the small towns would say that about me in hushed whispers as I walked through their towns. They would look at me in awe. The women would secretly swoon behind my back, making their men jealous of me. The swooning women’s men would try to fight me for making their women swoon, but I would have none of it, why? Because I was a cool cucumber on vacation, and I would simply end up having a drink with the guy, and the swooning girl, because I was relaxed, and on vacation. Just say it. It sounds as if a never before heard word had escaped from God’s lips. As if there was an animal somewhere, some mystical, magical animal, with shimmering fur, strong legs, soulful eyes, that had yet to be named, and God decides to name this animal, “Vacation.”
So, how was I to perpetuate this mystique, this magical vacation mythos? I stopped shaving. Who did I have to impress with a clean cut? I have no girlfriend who likes her man to be clean-shaven so she can cuddle and nuzzle him in the early morning hours. And I would soon have two weeks without dealing with the general public, two weeks without a boss. I wouldn’t have to feel their judgmental eyes being cast down upon me. “Too busy to shave? Is he on drugs? Why is that homeless man working here?” They may not say it out loud, but I can read behind sideway glances. But I no longer had to listen. No, for now it was just my beard and I, out to see the world, and discover its mysteries.
Something else was going on at this exact same time. The hometown team, The Dallas Mavericks, were playing in the NBA playoffs. They weren’t the exact favorites to win the whole thing. Most people had the San Antonio Spurs winning the Western Conference, going on to challenge the Detroit Pistons for the NBA title this year. The Mavericks beat the Memphis Grizzlies pretty handily in the first round of the playoffs. Then came San Antonio. If we (the Mavericks) could just get by San Antonio, then, who knows what could happen? The Phoenix Suns (the third best team in the Western Conference, and another contender for the overall title) was having a difficult time getting past the Los Angeles Lakers. What if we beat the Spurs, and the Lakers beat the Suns? It’s a cake-walk to the NBA finals! This could be our year! I was in Austin, TX for the Spurs V. Mavericks series. Dallas is about 200 miles from Austin. San Antonio is about 70 miles from Austin. I was in Spurs territory. There I was, in the bar, every game night, mixing it up with the enemy. Cheering, crying, shouting, yelling, leaning left and right, as if my body’s motions could will the orange ball in, or out of the basket.
Then, at some point and time in the third quarter of game three, I had a thought. It may have been the alcohol talking, it may have been sheer joyful emotion, it may have been insanity, but I had a thought. I’ve already got a vacation beard. Why don’t I make it a playoff beard? The beard would have started roughly about the same time the Mavericks/ Spurs series started. And while, yes, I didn’t start the beard at the beginning of the playoff run, I figured the Mavericks handled the Grizzlies so easily, that they didn’t need any superstitious mojo until now. Yes, yes, I would indeed turn my vacation beard, into a playoff beard.
And when all was said and done, the Dallas Mavericks had beaten the mighty San Antonio Spurs in 7 games, and I believed, I truly believed my beard was the deciding factor in that happening.
A few days passed. I found myself traveling up I-35, back home to Dallas, wallet empty, but with bags full of bounty from my trip. The Mavericks next opponent was to be the Phoenix Suns. The series had more than it’s fair share of nail biting moments, but in the end, the Mavericks won, and were on their way to their first ever NBA Championship, where they would face the Miami Heat. The Mavericks won the first two games with relative ease, and they still hadn’t played their best basketball. It was almost ridiculous, as if the best team in the NBA was playing the some random high school team, and the Miami Heat were really going to be in trouble should the Mavericks start playing on all cylinders. The Mavericks were about to take the circus to Miami, where they would no doubt win two of the next three games. Yes the Mavericks were on their way to hoisting up the Championship trophy over their heads. I, along with everyone else from the Dallas metroplex had very little to worry about, and a whole lot to be happy about. The city of Dallas was so confident in the Mavericks that a victory parade route and date had been planned after the game 2 win. I heard several people baulk at this notion. “What is the city of Dallas thinking? Why would they anger the sports gods by planning a victory parade before the series is over?” I didn’t have an answer to the question that the radio personality was asking, but I figured, what does it matter? Did you see the first two games?
I woke up one morning, took a shower, brushed my teeth, and took a good long hard look at myself in the mirror. By now my sports beard was wild, and wooly. I was Grizzly Addams, a shorter, browner version, without the bear in tow. So, without really thinking, and with no consultation, I decided to take a pair of scissors, and trim my sports beard. Just a bit. Not so much that anyone would notice, but enough so I wouldn’t have squirrels or birds trying to roost in my beard. A little clip here, a tiny cut there.
Game three. Again, the Mavericks had the game won. It was the third quarter of game three when the clouds started to gather. Someone had alerted the sports gods to all of our wrong doings. The gods knew about the parade route. They knew about Josh Howard’s questioning of Dwayne Wade’s shooting abilities. And worse, they saw how I trimmed my sports beard. The Mavericks would loose game three. There goes the sweep. They would loose game four. Miami is protecting their home court, it’s what’s supposed to happen. At least the Mavericks will win the Championship at home. The Mavericks would loose game five. What the hell is happening? I tossed and turned in my bed after game five. I couldn’t sleep. Why couldn’t they stop Dwayne Wade? Where’s Dirk? Why are our shots not falling? Where have we gone wrong? Game six. A must win game for us. In an almost ironic twist the game fell within a day (and may have even been on the same day) the city of Dallas was to hold the victory parade for the NBA Champions the Dallas Mavericks. And I guess because of the parade, the comment, the clipped beard, and poor basketball playing, the Mavericks loose the NBA title to the Miami Heat in six games. Who knew that my beard hair had the same powers as Sampson’s head hair, and even worse, I was my own Delilah.
Something else was going on at this particular time. A world sporting event unlike any other: The World Cup. I know very, very, very little about soccer, and I used to play it as a kid. Here’s the one highlight, or low light, depending on how you look at it, of my soccer short lived soccer career. One time, during practice, I sat on a fire-ant pile and got ant bites all over my ass. It hurt for days and days. That’s the only thing I remember from my soccer playing days. Well, that, and I know you can’t use your hands, and I’d seen parts of the movie “Bend It Like Beckham.”
Now my friend Neens is a terrific fan of the World Cup. She’d been ranting on and on about it for days. At first I thought she was kidding, but it turns out she is indeed a superfan. She had the listing for when all the games were to be played, the rankings of each country, she knew about some of the players from each team. I knew that none of the players could use their hands (except the goalie). I told Neens, “I’ll watch a World Cup game with you.”
“You will?” she said with shock and excitement.
“I will.” I answered, not knowing that I would break her cute little heart by going back on that promise. (In my defense there was never time. I was always working, or watching the not as yet doomed Mavericks. I wanted to watch the World Cup games during the day, and Neens wanted to tape them and watch them at night. Plus she lives way up in Denton, TX, which is 40-minute drive for me, she might as well have been living in Portland, Oregon at the time).
I don’t have cable, so I had to watch all the games on the Spanish channel, which I will say is infinitely more exciting than watching the games on American television. The announcers are so much more into the action, which in turn meant that I was so much more into the action.
Once again, I am swept up in the tempest that is the passion of sports. This is where I have my second sports beard infraction. I decide: I’ve already got a vacation beard, turned sports playoff beard for the Mavericks. Why don’t I make the beard a World Cup beard as well? I can keep growing it for the team that I want to win most in the World Cup. Here was the problem. I don’t know anything about any of the teams in the World Cup. I don’t want to pick just one team, and have that team be a sucky team that gets eliminated in the first round. But I don’t want to be one of those guys that just picks the favorite to win. So, I decide to pick my home teams, The United States (The country I live in), Mexico (the country my great-great grandparents lived in), and Spain (the country my great-great-great-great grandparents might have come from… I’m not sure, I haven’t actually looked much into my family tree, although I hear someone else has, and that person said we came from Spain, so I’m just going to take his word for it). So there it is. I didn’t know the playoff beard rule. I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to cut it (Although I thought about it for a half second, but then thought- what difference could it make really?), and now that I’m thinking about it, maybe it’s not such a good idea to split the playoff beard between four teams.
The first to fall were the Mavericks. Then came team U.S.A. a few days later. Then Mexico fell. Then there was Spain. Then there was nothing but the blade and my chin. I have since looked up the rules of the playoff beard. Thank you Wickapedia. Yes, I am now once more clean-shaven. A young pup of a man, making his way in the world, but just wait, 10 months from now. Now that I have the rules at my disposal, things are definitely looking up.