Okay, I'll admit to being a sports geek. (Although I am still not as bad my husband. Case in point: he refused to pay $5 a month for hi-def until the Golf Channel made the technological leap. I ask you - are the dimples on the ball that important?)
Anyway.
I have been known to get up at 2 a.m. to watch America's Cup live. And don't ever bug me the second Monday and Tuesday of February 'cuz I'm going to be busy watching the Pooch Parade that is Westminster. And I am a devotee of epic proportion to the Tour de France. It started when Testicle Boy made his recovery and I've been addicted (pardon the pun) ever since. Even law school couldn't detour me from the Tour: the laptop went to class so that I could watch the lifetime racing feed. I am a tool, I know.
Which is way I want Riccardo Ricco's head (both of them) on a platter. This little bastard boy had won my heart with dashing victories in climbing stages. He blew past another rider on his way up a Category 1 climb like the other guy's wheels had melted to the French roadway. That should have been my tip-off. Last year, my heart was broken by Vino, who dusted off his road-rashed ass after a nasty crash to decimate the field the next day. (But, in my defense, I always thought Floyd Landis was a lying sneak cheat. It was something about his close-set beady little rat eyes. But I digress.)
I want to know when someone soars above the peloton, when someone rides on the wings of the wind in a sprint or crunches out a climb to touch the face of the gods that it's all him. Not steroids. Not EPO. Not someone else's blood.
I want to believe that once in a generation, Fate gives to us a god in every sport, a man or woman who will change the way the game is played and make the next generation strive to achieve even greater feats.
But mostly, right now, I want to remind Ricco that he is a pezzo di merda and that he has shaken the faith of all who love the sport he used to claim as his own.
Anyway.
I have been known to get up at 2 a.m. to watch America's Cup live. And don't ever bug me the second Monday and Tuesday of February 'cuz I'm going to be busy watching the Pooch Parade that is Westminster. And I am a devotee of epic proportion to the Tour de France. It started when Testicle Boy made his recovery and I've been addicted (pardon the pun) ever since. Even law school couldn't detour me from the Tour: the laptop went to class so that I could watch the lifetime racing feed. I am a tool, I know.
Which is way I want Riccardo Ricco's head (both of them) on a platter. This little bastard boy had won my heart with dashing victories in climbing stages. He blew past another rider on his way up a Category 1 climb like the other guy's wheels had melted to the French roadway. That should have been my tip-off. Last year, my heart was broken by Vino, who dusted off his road-rashed ass after a nasty crash to decimate the field the next day. (But, in my defense, I always thought Floyd Landis was a lying sneak cheat. It was something about his close-set beady little rat eyes. But I digress.)
I want to know when someone soars above the peloton, when someone rides on the wings of the wind in a sprint or crunches out a climb to touch the face of the gods that it's all him. Not steroids. Not EPO. Not someone else's blood.
I want to believe that once in a generation, Fate gives to us a god in every sport, a man or woman who will change the way the game is played and make the next generation strive to achieve even greater feats.
But mostly, right now, I want to remind Ricco that he is a pezzo di merda and that he has shaken the faith of all who love the sport he used to claim as his own.
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