Time to indulge in a male fantasy.
Sorry, this one does not involve Jennifer Lopez.
It’s another kind. One of those inane trains of thought that makes us proud to be male.
Warning: this is strictly for the high-testosterone crowd. That, of course, includes most guys, and the Chinese women’s swim team.
From the gender that brought you, “So, How Much Ya Bench?” we proudly present, “So, Who Could Ya Take?”
It’s simple really. Just like us. Name an athlete you think you could pummel.
Our inspiration comes from the increasing number of altercations between athletes and fans. Remember Chris Falcone? Didn’t think so. Well, he was that Cheesesteak from Philadelphia who tried to go at it with Tie Domi in the penalty box late last season. In Philly, that’s Purple Heart material. He’ll likely get a statue right next to Rocky’s.
Sure he’s a cement-head (he actually is a concrete worker, and I’ve heard it does tend to get in your ear), but he does have guts.
And maybe in this age when the relationship between Pro Jock and Joe Fan is more bitter than sweet, that Philly Fanatic was just acting out a new kind of fantasy. We used to dream about going one on one with Curtis Joseph. The WWE Generation dreams about going one on one with Matthew Barnaby. In a cage match.
So join me. Abandon your good sense and high moral ground for a few minutes. Find your inner-Edward Norton, and join this little fantasy Fight Club.
Consider it like a video game. Sony Playstation Jock Pounder.
Since there’s no one else around, I’ll go first. Feel free to play along at home.
Tale of the Tape
I’m 5-10, 170. In a soaked parka. I’ve been in three full-fledged fights in my life. Two before grade five, and the other against a cat. I don’t plan on anymore until I’m at least 80, grumpy, and in a nursing home. At that point, if you steal my remote, or my one daily allotted cookie, I will wail on you.
So, who could ya take?
Frankly, hardly anyone. I’m a realist. And perhaps of more relevance, I’m sober. Put a six-pack in most males, and they will inevitably try to convince you they could go the distance with Roy Jones Jr.
“Seriously, man! I’d just juke and jive him. Juuuke…And Jiiiiive. He couldn’t touch me!”
Still, there are a few guys I figure I could handle. Like goalies. Maybe not all goalies, but some. I’ve seen Ron Tugnutt shirtless in the dressing room. He looks like Ghandi. I might be able to take Tugger (Of course, because he’s about the nicest guy in the NHL, he’d probably let me. I could live with that).
As far as position players, it’s grim, though I do like my chances against either of the Bure brothers. I’d play headgames with them. Make ’em cry.
“Hey, Pav… wonder what Sergei’s doing right now? Could have been you, Pav, could have been you.”
Football? Again, position players are essentially a write-off. Flutie’s smaller than me, but I couldn’t catch him. I could probably hurt Rob Johnson. Apparently, anyone can do that.
Besides that, it’s tough. Even the kickers are into the creatine these days. But unless he booted me in the shin, I know I could take the Bucs’ Martin Gramatica. He looks like Gazoo.
I figure I could probably take a few of those portly baseball pitchers too, though they are crafty. I hear Tim Wakefield punches really slow…it looks like its coming at your head then drops to your gut at the last minute.
The arms are just too long in the NBA. I’d have a shot against that human twig Shawn Bradley. But I’d have to use the Van Gundy technique, and bite his ankles.
That’s about it for the big He-man sports, unless you count golf. All these guys wearing slacks, whose names end with “The 3rd”. Them, I could take.
And jockeys. I believe if they put the whips down, I could take every living jockey.
That’s about it.
Ron Tugnutt, The Bures, Martin Gramatica, Davis Love and friends, and jockeys. Against anybody else, I’m turtling.
You do any better, tough guy?
By the way, you can also play Celebrity, “So, Who Can Ya Take?”
Van Damme? No chance.
Van Der Beek? Yes.
Now, we’re not advocating more Falconian acts here, so please remain in your seats. This is pure ‘lunch in the cafeteria’ conversational machismo. Real fighting is for hockey goons and morons. It hurts way too much. I still have nightmares about the cat.
Though I must admit, there have been times, when interviewing some monster-ego superstar, that I wished I’d responded to one of their snippy comments with a more suitable follow-up question:
“You wanna go???”