Way to go, TWWL

So, when ESPN isn't making grammatical gaffes, they're plain reporting the outcomes of games wrong.

True story. I was watching this game with my buddy, a Sharks fan. At the start of OT I said, "the only way this can really end is with the Avs losing on a fluke goal."

He countered, "or we just score on ourselves."

Five seconds later - BAM.

Crazy.

Madam, I'm Adam

Aside from the obvious problems that most people have with Pacman Jones -- the enormous waste of talent; the blatant "I-don't-give-a-FUCK" attitude; the profession of feeling guilty about doing the things he does, even though he obviously relishes in being a bit of a badass -- I've got another one: his first name.

True, nobody really even calls him "Adam" anymore. (He's listed as Pacman Jones over on the league's site, but, curiously, he's no longer listed over at the WWL -- and neither is Tank Johnson, although Chris Henry still is. Pretty interesting, if you ask me.) But it's my name, dammit, and the name "Adam" has a long, sad history in the world of sports. Recently, anyway. We'll start with Pacman and work towards the (gulp) winners.

Adam "Pacman" Jones
Where do you start with this guy? The waste of talent? The modification of the old dollar-bill-on-a-string trick (instead of one dollar bill and a piece of string, just throw $81,000 around and then ask for it back)? The fact that in that clip they've shown about four million times on tWWL, it looks as if he's chewing on the little plastic thing that's attached to price tags? I'm going to go to great lengths to find out if there's any possible way I can legally get you to remove "Adam" from your name. Once and for all.

Why he's like me: We both like watching women get naked. Oh, and I'm black.
Why he's like the first man: That apple/strip club looks good.

Adam Archuleta
I was going to let my boy (and resident 'Skins fan) Business or Leisure? take this one, but he bailed on me. Jerk. Here's what I'm assuming he'd say: "Adam Archuleta should have his vital organs removed through his nostrils. Then he should be beaten with a bag of oranges, to be followed by a bag of rocks, to be followed by a bag of locks, to be followed by a bag of land mines. And he can only thrive in the Cover-Two."

Why he's like me: He's currently dating Playmate Jennifer Walcott. I'm currently masturbating to Playmate Jennifer Walcott (right).
Why he's like the first man: Association with serpents (or agents) telling them what to do (eat some forbidden fruit, sign with Washington).

Adams Eaton, Everett, Hyzdu, Kennedy, Loewen, Melhuse and Wainwright (the baseball bunch)
Adam Eaton pitched well for the Padres in 2005. Kennedy won the 2002 ALCS MVP after going yard three times in Game 5. Wainwright was pretty filthy in the playoffs last year.

You wouldn't recognize any of them if they didn't have their names on the back of their jerseys.

Adam Scott
He's Australian. He plays golf. He wins here and there.

He's here to break up the team sports monotony. And that's it.

Why he's like me: I like shrimp. And Barbie.
Why he's like the first man: Australia was originally a colony of prisoners, and could you imagine being stuck in a garden with just one chick? "Honey, when are you going to mow the lawn? Should we put some tomatoes over here? Do you like daffodils?" That, my friends, is a prison.

Adam LaRoche
Had a breakout year in 2006 with Atlanta, belting 32 homers and driving in 90. Subsequently got shipped to Pittsburgh for Mike Gonzalez, and that trade hasn't really worked for either team. On the plus side, his last name makes me think of MXC's Guy LeDouche, and thinking of anything related to MXC makes me smile.

Why he's like me: He suffers from ADD. I do, too, until I smoke weed.
Whe he's like the first man: According to Wikipedia, he likes fishing and hunting. Those are things I'd imagine you'd have to enjoy if there were no 7-11's around.Adam Dunn
Bigger than a recently broken-up Eastern Bloc nation. Stronger than a shot of kerosene and walrus piss.

Misses more often than your three-year-old niece at Wiffle ball.

Here's his ten similar batters at baseball-reference.org: Ron Kittle, Pat Burrell, Jim Gentile, Henry Rodriguez, Nate Colbert, Tony Conigliaro, John Jaha, J.D. Drew, Nick Esasky, Bo Jackson.

If there's one rule in baseball, it's that you don't want to be on any list with John Jaha and J.D. Drew.

Why he's like me: We're both about six-and-a-half feet tall, throw right and bat left.
Why he's like the first man: Both were nicknamed "Big Donkey."

Adams Deadmarsh, Foote, Graves and Oates (the hockey bunch)
Deadmarsh and Foote helped my Avalanche to the Stanley Cup in the '95-'96 season, their first in Colorado. They were crowd favorites, and even though they declined (Deadmarsh got concussions with the Kings, Foote got old with the Blue Jackets) they were still quality, championship players. Graves was a solid left winger for the Rangers for over a decade (he also played for the Red Wings, Oilers and Sharks), and was by all accounts one of the good guys. Oates -- aside from having one of the steeliest stares in all of sports -- was probably one of the most creative centers of the last twenty years.

Adam Vinatieri
Four championship rings. Three game-deciding field goals on the biggest sporting stage (at least one that's held more often than once every four years). That title that hangs above an athlete's head like a gold, diamond-encrusted halo: clutch. When you make Peyton Manning a champion, you deserve to be at the top of some sort of list.

Why he's like me: We both know how to split the uprights.
Why he's like the first man: Fig leaves, field goals -- same thing.

So that's it. A bunch of hockey players and a kicker. Oh, and this guy. I mean, I'm happy for him and all, and I wish him luck in his future endeavors, but ... c'mon.

Thanks for cementing my athletic failures, mom and dad.

Beauty, blood, Buck-less. What's not to love?

Growing up, there were two sports I didn't play: soccer, because I was lazy; and hockey, because I was poor (and tall, and not very good on the slippery stuff). If we were ever forced to play soccer or floor hockey in gym, I usually gravitated toward goalie. I didn't like running around, and I was usually good at stopping things from getting past me.

Then, in 1995, the Quebec Nordiques moved to Denver and became the Colorado Avalanche. All of a sudden, I was hooked on hockey. It probably didn't hurt that they gave Colorado its first professional championship that year. If a putrid team like the Blackhawks had relocated, or Denver had gotten an expansion team and put together a squad like the Blue Jackets, would I have been so quick to jump on the bandwagon? I actually think so. Even though I never really played it, I hadn't ever seen it regularly played at the highest level. When you're exposed to it constantly, you begin to appreciate it.

I still don't like soccer. That's just me - I remember waking up at two in the morning or whatever it was to watch the United States in the 2002 World Cup. That was special. That made me a fan - for a few weeks. Hockey, for better or worse, has made me a fan for life.

What I don't understand is why it can't do that for other American sports fans who, I believe, are just like me.

So, as a guy who, admittedly, has never been face-washed; never laced 'em up at the break of dawn to skate around the pond; hell, someone who's never even been to Canada - here are the reasons Americans should embrace hockey.

You like football, right? And what do you like about it? The off-tackle run on second-and-seven? The check down to the fullback for five yards? Those 36-yard field goals to make it 20-13? No, you like the violence. The hits. The sticks. The bone-crunching, helmet-cracking, snot-spilling, ball-breaking, tendon-twisting, teeth-clacking, skull-crushing blows. The carnal bloodlust oozing from deep within our DNA, the barbarian instinct to stand toe-to-toe with that fucking guy and hit him so CODDAMNED hard that his bowels forget where they are and his mother regrets giving birth to him. The wanton disregard for human safety, the passion to hate a complete stranger's very soul because he had the fuckin' nerve to wear something different than you and your fellow gladiators. Well, guess what? Hockey's got that - in spades. They're swinging wooden weapons of destruction at each other and skating on Ginsu knives. What's the football equivalent of this? Joe Theismann breaking his leg? Gimme a life-threatening, several-people-including-fellow-players-vomiting, blood-spewing-everywhere break.

But there's gotta be some skill, though. We're not Neanderthals - oh, heaven's no! When not running it at full speed into large, immovable humans, most of us actually like to use our brains. We see wonderful, beautiful things - like, perhaps, Michael Jordan or Dr. J resisting the natural pull of gravity, gliding through the invisible blanket of air in ways that we're just not accustomed to, and then, lo! Behold! As if defying the laws of physics weren't enough, they are gracefully manipulating that spherical orange orb, moving it betwixt hands, around limbs, tantalizingly teasing their over-matched foes, moving in a wondrous, congruent arc, splitting the figurative lane of our hopes and our dreams - and the literal lane, widened at first by their swooshing ascent, and later by their glorious descent - before finally, mercifully, finishing at the hole, the ball through the rim signifying Cupid's arrow through our smitten heart. For a game played on a reflexive surface, hockey has its moments of young love, too.

Sometimes, however, you just want a dominating performance. No two positions in different sports are quite as similar as the goaltender in hockey and the starting pitcher in baseball. Sure, the goalie plays a bit more, but they follow parallel paths. If you're having an off-night, you get pulled. But if you're on - and I mean on - then you can steal a win for your team, even if everybody else is playing like recycled Spam.

If you can't invade them, beat them. Wait, we're America, right? Go in, wherever we want, whenever we want, punch your wife in the face, fart on the dog, take some Hot Pockets and the last Hawaiian Punch and then just fucking roll? That's us, right? So why not get behind the one sport where not only can we beat teams from another country, but we can do so with jaw-dropping regularity? And in their pride-and-pig-fucking-joy sport? I mean, it's one thing to go North and beat up on the Raptors and Blue Jays, but damn if it don't mean a whole bunch more when it's the Maple Leafs. (And, lest we forget, four of the Original Six were from the good ol' US of A.)

Buck-Cherry. We've got Joe Buck for damn-near everything, and hockey's got Don Cherry. One gets offended by everything, the other offends everything. Which one would you rather have? That's what I thought. And since we're talking about announcers, when was the last time you actually listened to an entire hockey game? Hockey play-by-play announcers should be paid thrice their PRO sports counterparts. Since something is usually always happening, there's really no time for that loathsome, grating, "So, when you played, did you ever eat the same meal before games?" blabber. There's just ... sports. And it is wonderful. Besides, have you ever tried to do even thirty seconds of hockey play-by-play? "Niedermayer centers, back to Kofulwicz, to Pedersen on the point, and it's off his stick, poked away by Stillfredsen, OH! and a crushing blindside hit by Barker on McDonald along the center boards, a quick change by the Ducks, and Milfredveckivichensteinassonajakkenrikkervic straddles it near the left circle..." I mean, that was only about ten seconds. And I think I need a cigarette after it. In fact, to help them out and make it more appealing to us lowly Yanks, let's just American-ize all the names. Valtteri Filppula, you’re now Vinny Filpo. Andrej Meszaros? Andy Marsh. Say goodbye to Keith Tkachuk and hello to Keith Kachuck!

Rick Tocchet is the exception, and he's been retired for five years. I mean, all we do is bitch and moan and complain and whine and whimper and preach and gasp and feign fainting when (insert pro athlete here) (insert felony here). "It's the end of civilization!" "Why do I let my kids watch this nonsense?" "Yes they deserve to [be convicted] and I hope they burn in hell!" Well, guess what happens, you harbingers of moral standing? These guys come back, win a game or two for you, and then you're right back in front of the tube, wearing their replica jerseys and bidding for their bobbleheads on eBay. But what do hockey players ever do? I mean, besides make very little money (compared to baseball, basketball, and football players, and most golfers and NASCAR drivers; I'm not stupid) and work ridiculously hard to play the game they love? Could you even fathom what Pacman Jones or Ron Artest or Elijah Dukes would do with the Stanley Cup if they had it for one day? (I'm thinking: filling it with stripper piss, drinking clown's blood out of it, and clubbing his wife to death with it, respectively.)

And finally, the Stanley Cup itself. Blind kids won't even touch the Cup because they don't think they're worthy. Blind kids. That's pretty much it right there.