Welcome to Round 9 of HHR's Iron Ref. We've got a tasty batch of goodness for you this week so let's get right in. Remember to vote for one of these dishes in the comments!
This Week's Secret Ingredient: DIVINE INTERVENTION
It was what you would usually suspect for a January Sunday in Green Bay, Wisconsin.
Temps barely holding above zero with winds whipping about.
The type of day where if you're a Packer fan, you expect to stay in and drink PBR watching the Pack unless you had tickets to heaven on earth for any cheesehead.The hallowed grounds where Nitchske, Starr, McGee, White, and most importantly (as a Bears fan I have to hold back my vomit) Brett Favre.
It was on this day in the year of our lord 2003 that the Packers and the Seahawks met up for wild card match-up at Lombardi Stadium. The game ended in a 27-27 tie when the team's captains met at the fifty-yard line to decide the coin flip.Let me be honest here: A: I hate the Packers, and B: I love athletes that exude confidence.
When Matt Hasselbeck uttered the words "We want the ball, were gonna score" I laughed to myself. You better back that up I thought, as the Seahawks readied for their first possession in overtime.
And at this moment I would imagine, God began to get a flood a prayers from northern wisconsin. Some coherent, most not that generally had the same message that they hoped would be answered from a power above.
"Please God, let the Packers win. Let them show up that cocky ball-headed prick from Seattle who thinks they're going to score in the holiest football mecca of the NFL. Nobody says those things in the house of Lombardi".
And while God was too busy laughing at the prayers of the inebriated, green and gold clan Wisconsinites...it happened.
Hasselbeck went to throw a quick out to his receiver when Al Harris immediately jumped the route, picked off the pass and delivered
the hopes and prayers of the thousands in attendance and the thousands around the US who love the packers.
The Green-Bay Press Express felt the same way when they wrote their sports headline: Divine Intervention.
And for this I still hate the Packers.
I'll use this opportunity to discuss divine intervention to tear apart the abomination that was lionized, golden-boy Michael Phelps' performance hosting SNL this past weekend. Here was Phelps playing himself in 'The Charles Barkley Show' skit, with Kenan Thompson mailing it in as Barkley:
Kenan: Hey! Michael Phelps, speak in a jamaicaccent and pretend to be You-Sain Bolt?
Phelps: I really think that's a bad idea
Kenan: Ho! Yeah, me too.
Riveting stuff. To be fair, after Obama canceled, SNL did stick Phelps with a crack team of cameo-stars that included Shatner and Jared Fogle - who he thanked as Jared Foglelynn (who?) in the outro.
Mos people think it was Tina Fey's smashing performance as Sarah Palin that got Mr. "eight this year, 12 total, and a couple of bronzes for shits and giggles" a free pass. My theory as to why: Weezy, baby!
Lil' Wayne had a backing band, wore purple hipster jeans fully off his ass, and he absolutely killed it. Here's 'Got Money', I've got 'Lollipop', and his VMA performance up on Steady Burn too.
A little background on Wayne, he is not well. He drinks codeine cough syrup mixed with cream soda constantly - sounds like a cavity waiting to happen, among other things. Earlier this year, Blender.com tried to predict when he would meet his demise. (And then they ran a cover story on him in their magazine that portrayed him as our greatest living rock star).
Those of us driven enough to bring ourselves to the point of competing at a high level (those of you, actually), know that achieving sports glory has less to do with a higher power, and more with perseverance and a diet of 12,000 calories worth of robot food per day. The gods tend to thrust themselves into less calculated, more crap-shoot life situations - which has made it possible for me to land the occasional piece of trim despite the fact that I haven't gotten a haircut in '08, and my only stratagem is to persuade girls that they do want to hook-up with Jesus.
Or in this case, a too-tall awkward phenom lays an egg on national TV, and gets bailed out by a pathological, volatile maniac who could spontaneously combust any moment. Now, that's what I call divine intervention.
So many things come to mind when you mention the words "divine intervention" and sports in the same sentence. Doug Flutie's Hail Mary, the Immaculate Reception, Lorenzo Charles dunking Dereck Whittenburg's airball, I haven't even made it past 1984; the list could go on forever. All of those things all fine, but they only really prove one thing – one person's miracle is another's screw job. The people in Buffalo feel a lot differently about the Music City Miracle than the people in Nashville do.
True divine intervention is about an inspired event that makes everyone, not just one team, happy. Let's be honest, a good old fashioned press conference meltdown from a coach is really a gift from God.
Angry old men, completely losing their shit in front of TV cameras and reporters while discussing a game that kids play is the true definition of entertainment. However, these wonderful moments of rage do not occur in a vacuum, we need divine intervention to make them happen.
Divine intervention is the moment God inspires a reporter to ask Jim Mora about the playoffs.
Divine intervention, not poor on-field performance, is surely what motivated Jennifer Carlson to write a story about Bobby Reid that gave us this rant:
Divine intervention is what happens when a New York City reporter becomes momentarily stupid enough to ask Herm Edwards if his team can win games:
And surely it was divine intervention that brought Kevin Borseth into our lives. Did any of you honestly think you'd know who the women's basketball coach at the University of Michigan was, until God intervened and gave us this? I didn't think so, and that my friends, is the true definition of divine intervention.