Remove That Chicken Wing, Slapnuts

	Downloads Bookmark this site Set as homepage Andrew W Scott

After returning from Lorne and punching out the virile words that are required by The Big Boys at Punting Ace, I slept for the better part of a week. It was a mighty rest, one that would have impressed even old Rip Van Winkle. But he may have had a penchant for opium so the respect of old Rip may not be all that desirable. But be that as it may because I know many who’d give up all the salt in Siberia and probably more to get the rest he had. Ah, we slip slide away. The point is this: the only way to recover from the kind of high octane grandeur of New Year is darkness, solitude, continual ocean sounds and a whole freezer-load of Zooper Dooper’s.

And so it was. Short of a visit from a man running with the moniker Rex who came knocking heavily last Thursday morning, yelling abuse and threats, I managed to achieve that solitude. And even Rex wasn’t there too long. When I opened up, he stood there, arms folded, mustachioed, leather-bound, surly. After a brief exchange relating to my sluggish attitude to opening doors, he demanded to know where Andrea was. “How the hell should I know…I haven’t seen that strumpet since winter…she left the Buffalo Club in chaos…letters piled high and weird lesbians calling…she sullied my name and made it impossible for me to find a decent personal assistant in three Australian cities and probably many more…” I rattled on, to nobody but the wind I guess as Rex seemed most disinterested.

“That skank is in a lot of trouble…I’m in the business of bounty hunting and my next cheque comes when I get a decent hold of her…the last time she surfaced was with you…she is a mad lesbian with a penchant for the good life these days…” he solemnly informed, more downcast than I would imagine a bounty hunter could get.

When that scene came to an end, I decided it was time to resume life. I prepared heavily for the NFL Wildcard weekend. Though, on the whole, I was correct, I was not ready for the mind-blowing finale to the Seahawks-Cowboys game…

The Cowboys, simply, choked. In the last quarter, they threw it all away. It was an amazing capitulation in terms of manner and irony. Terry Glenn dropped a catch on his own 1-yard line that resulted in a safety. The Hawks then scored off the ensuing drive to take the lead. The Cowboys then rallied, driving the ball down to the Seattle 1 ½. With less than 1:30 on the clock, the Cowboys had a 19-yard gimme field goal to hit the front. Then, it really fell apart. Rookie quarterback and Dallas holder Tony Romo dropped the snap and in the process, went down in football lore as one of the greatest goats in NFL history. It was a choke of the highest order. In NFL terms, it was up there with Trey Junkin’s horrible snap, Leon Lett’s arrogant fumble and Jackie Smith’s open drop in the 1979 Super Bowl- “Bless his heart, he’s got to be the sickest man in America!”

It was a horrible capitulation. But it was a choke that could not be foreseen. Gamblers could not have factored in that kind of maddening finale that would have been like a giant stomp to the groin to anybody with a financial stake in a Dallas win or an emotional attachment to the blue and white of America’s Team. God only knows how Debbie would have reacted.

Romo’s giant fuck up wasn’t the only choke of the weekend. Far from it. And unlike Romo’s, this one could be factored into all prices and certainly was by those who are half decent at handicapping football matches. Tony Romo may turn into a perennial choker. Only time will sort that nut out. But Peyton Manning…well, time and experience have already marked this man with the old choker tag.

Peyton Manning, through an unenviable record of playoff failure and big game misery, has become known, quite rightly, as a choker. Despite a Colts win, Manning was at his January best against the Chiefs, throwing three picks in another dastardly performance. The win reflected more on the inept Chiefs than it did the Manning Colts. And any half-intelligent handicapper factored “The Manning Choke Factor” into their prices for last week and this.

Manning isn’t the first choker. In the context of the NFL, greats like Fran Tarkenton and Dan Fouts have carried the moniker. As have teams like the San Diego Chargers of the eighties and the Buffalo Bills of the nineties, who managed to lose four straight Super Bowls (admittedly, thrice as outsiders). Even coach Marty Schottenheimer, current head coach at San Diego, has the tag of big time screw-up plastered in neon over his every move. In Australia, Collingwood were referred to as the Collywobbles for a decent part of the latter 20th century. Geelong lost so many Big One’s that they still have the reputation for choking. St Kilda are not much better in these modern times. Parramatta still screw up in the finals. So do Cronulla. Most Cronulla fans have so many tales of woe and blame against names like Aaron Raper and Stuart Raper and God knows who else, that it is a little surprising that most Sharks fans can shed their manic depression to the point where they can get out of bed in the morning. Greg Norman was the great choker of the gold game before Phil Mickelson took the title. Jana Novotna and Tim Henman fulfilled the role in world tennis.

Come playoff time or Big Game time, the choke factor needs to be applied when relevant. Choking is a very real concept, not some made up tale to justify results, add to the gloating slate of victors and give losers something to hang their losing hat on. It is real. Damned real. There are chokers and there are clutch players.

And if you have any interest in a match-up, you want to be riding the clutch star and hoping like hell you aren’t on a renowned choker. I’ll take Tiger over Phil ten out of ten and more if I could. And you won’t see me laying down anything on a Cronulla victory in September. Or a Peyton Manning performance in January against any team half capable. That is just common sense and good handicapping.

And that is probably that. Avoid the choke. Avoid the heat. Avoid lesbian-inclined personal assistants who may, at some point, be hunted down by a bounty hunter in the low hours of a Thursday morning.