Now you have the opportunity to keep making history - by voting for one of the submissions for this week's Iron Ref. Cast your vote in the comments for who best used the secret ingredient:
Evan from Stanley Cup of Chowder
We have all seen the NFL Films about the bloody and bruised gladiators of the gridiron or the clips of World Series heroes limping to the plate, but for every Kirk Gibson there are a thousand athletes that will never get to be in a commercial with Spanish from Old School or have their DNA-soaked sock enshrined in Cooperstown.
2008 Beijing Olympics Racewalking Competitor
She was walking so fast, she was almost jogging. Then disaster struck. You could see it in her eyes. She was going to lose it. She pulled over to the side of the track and stuck two fingers down her throat. All she could muster was a dry heave. Undaunted, she continued walking. Moments later she accomplished what she set out to achieve. No, she didn’t win the race but she did finally pull the trigger. She would go on finish 11th, destroying her dreams of pseudo sport glory.
D-3 College Baseball Player
There was a long-standing tradition that the freshman initiation party for the baseball team was on the eve of their first early Saturday morning practice (don’t worry, there was no elephant walk involved). Adam woke up feeling like he had swallowed a boxing kangaroo and reeking like a Mexican brewery. As he finished up his light pre-practice jog, Adam proceeded to unload a nasty concoction of red Gatorade, cheap beer, tequila, and bile, much to the chagrin of his coach whose new sneakers were no longer so shiny and new. Adam’s perseverance proved to be all for not, but you have to respect his desire to play through the pain.
Sarah “Barracuda” Heath
1982 Alaska State Girl’s Basketball Champion Wasilla Warriors
Young Sarah was a fearless defender and by all accounts a pain in the ass on the hardwood. Some even described her as a pit bull with lipstick. Sarah and a scrappy bunch of underdogs from her tiny little town in
We've suffered through 34 losses in the last 43 games and a 3-22 record in the Big East -- yet each home game we venture out into increasingly empty parking lots in crappy weather and we play on.
We attempt to numb our pain by eating massive amounts of Fritos, hot dogs and chili and we fight through the heartburn that accompanies it. We guzzle Mad Dog 20/20 so the impending Greg Robinson lead beating won't feel so bad. Knowing SU is going to lose, we end up debating important issues like who would have a better overall record - Robinson or coach Klein from the Waterboy?
Once inside the Dome, we chase our cheap liquor with warm beer, soggy hot dogs and get hit right in the face with truly horrendous football. The pain doesn't end when the game is over, as we get to suffer through Greg's increasingly insane press conferences.
So to you athletes who may have been injured on the field and played through the pain, I quote Artie Lange and say Waaaaaaaaaaah. Physical pain goes away -- the pain Greg Robinson inflicts lives forever. Don't believe me? We were all gearing up for a "Greg gets fired" press conference on Sunday, but the bastard went out and beat Louisville Saturday night. The pain will not end - pass the Mad Dog....or a Schlitz.
This Iron Chef event comes at a terrible time for me. See, I had to put my dog down. Here’s a picture of him the night before he died.
But I’m writing anyway, because I’m just that freaking tough. I play through the pain. Funny thing about pain. It’s entirely dependent on context. If the picture is from last night, you feel bad for me. I mean, I had that dog for 15 years. My kids, especially the youngest, just keep asking about him. It’s terrible.
If the photo is from five years ago, you feel a little uneasy. Turn the page, dude. And if it’s not my dog at all, it means nothing, and you feel really screwed over. Pain is a story. Whether the story is true or false, it’s still… just a story.
So the dog isn’t doing it for you -- well, how about a dying parent? After all, we all felt sorry for Barry Bonds for nearly a full weekend when we heard his dad was terminal. Bonds, of course, kept playing, because that's what Real Men do. Even Jerk Men.
OK, fine, let’s talk Real Pain. Nah, not that phony childbirth thing the Shooter Wife did. I was there, and she wimped out and took the meds, killing any of their chances to be go to an Ivy League school. I'm sorry, Shooter Kids, for your future failures in life. Mom just didn't want it enough.
No, I'm talking about Real Pain. Ath-Ah-Leet Pain. Playing through pain only happens for them, you see. Everyone else either takes the comp time or just, you know, does their freaking job without expecting words like "courage", "gritty" or “role model” to be attached to it. Some, like Five Tool Tool Obsession Allen Iverson, clearly get off on it, because it adds to that Tupacian "Me Against The World" vibe.
Ya see, Playing Through Pain goes both ways. Unless you, the audience, know about it, there's no drama. Without drama, Brett Favre would melt like the Wicked Witch of the West engaging in water sports (Either kind, but for the record, I mean the kind that gets me more sports blog votes. You sick, sick bastards.).So, here's the quick and easy answer for all of the media mouth jobs you will hear for the rest of your life as a consumer of sports-like products.
Unless someone knows about your pain, you can't play through it.
If you are truly tough, no one ever knows you are hurt, because you don’t want to cop to some crappy excuse if you lose. Real men win or lose and get over it.
Besides, if the pain is really so bad, you can always go take a pill or needle for it.
You big girl.
I'd say more about this, but since we've just established that Pain Is Bullshit, Brett Favre (allegedly) enjoys getting peed on, Barry Bonds' dad died for our sins and my wife is waiting for me with a claw hammer, let's wrap this up with the coup de grace for my opponents in this sausage fest.
Taste the pain, bitches!