It has long been HG’s custom (properly provisioned with vodka, ale and salumi) to watch a few hours of pro football every week. An autumn ritual. Now, HG is having second thoughts. HG has long felt that big time college football was a cynical branch of show business. The impressarios (the coaches) are paid millions. The producers (the colleges) make money and use successful football programs as a mechanism to raise money from alumni. The actors (the players) are exploited. They are paid nothing. They are often injured badly. And, when injured, they usually lose their scholarships. Only a miniscule number go on to a productive career in professional football… Bob Cox is an ex-journalist and publisher. Now he’s a New Mexico horseman and an ornament of the Abiquiu community. Best thing that’s happened there since Georgia O’Keefe. Bob’s witty and balanced view of life in these strange United States (Can one imagine Oxford or the University of Bologna spending millions on a televised sport?) can be found on his blog: anoldgringosgazette.com. Log on and read his observations about pro football — a sport where what would be criminal behavior in everyday life is applauded by fans and well compensated by owners. HG supports Bob’s views. The death of the remarkable Alex Karras highlights the viciousness of the sport. Besides being a talented athlete, Karras was an intelligent man, an original wit and an actor who gave pleasure to many. Pro football left him a physical wreck and, like so many other players, a sufferer from early dementia. The owners of pro football teams are, like most capitalists, dominated by greed. Witness their recent behavior against striking referees which made the game, for a time, a veritable farce. If they truly cared about the game and the players,they would invest some of their millions and invent helmets and other equipment that would keep players safe. If nothing is done, pro football will remain a brutal variation of Roman gladiators doing battle. Entertainment for bloodthirsty viewers and early dementia and wrecked bodies for the gladiators.
Air travel is tedious and tiring these days. There is a whiff of fascism to the utterly nonsensical rules, regulations and procedures demanded in flying from one city to another. Some 13 hours of transit altogether from Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, to a one night stay in Denver. HG and BSK were tired, grumpy and very hungry when they arrived in the Mile High City. Time for comfort food. Off to Little India (the Sixth Avenue location). Great food (a new chef, perhaps?). Chicken Tikka from the tandoori oven was juicy, full of flavor — nestled on thinly slcied sweet onions and peppers on a sizzling platter. Excellent onion kulcha bread. Fluffy saffron rice. Greaseless papadums with two good dipping sauces. Cooling Raita and a bowl of mango chutney. The surprise was the vegetable dishes: an eggplant stew and a bowl of okra. The vegetables retained integrity and were miracles of Indian spicing. The restaurant has a nice wine list and good Indian beers as well as Anchor Steam Ale from San Francisco. Finished with pistachio ice cream. No, not that green crap masquerading under the label pistachio. This was Indian pistachio ice cream that was saffron in color, contained chunks of pistachio and was delicious.
Breakfast the next day (before the 5 and 1/2 hour drive to Santa Fe) was at Racine’s, a Denver landmark. Three-egg omelettes stuffed with green chiles and then smothered in a porky, green chile sauce. Crisp home fries and warm biscuits. Yes, HG and BSK really felt they were back in the great West. Much chatter in the big, handsome restaurant about the coming of the Football Messiah (Peyton Manning). Denver folks have been waiting for the next Messiah since the retirement of the original, John Elway. Lots of Super Bowl dreams. BSK is oblivious. HG will observe with focused interest.
Hey, amigos, Sunday was a day of sheer pleasure. Gave a pork butt a good rubdown with oil, garlic and adobo. Popped it in a 300 degree oven early in the morning (for a five hour roast). Spent the day pig pickin that piggie. Wrapped meat in romaine and butter lettuce leaves. There was kimchi (locally made and bought at Ziggy’s great international food store in Santa Fe) and naan, and sriracha, and Korean chili paste, and scallion/ginger/sesame oil/vinegar sauce. Yes, tequila and cold beer. And, on the TV, football playoff action. The Patriots won (am very fond of stylish Tom Brady even on his very few off days) and HG and SJ’s beloved Giants pulled off a last minute field goal victory. Close, exciting, unpredictable games.
Ray Lewis, the great, bruising Baltimore linebacker, commented on his team’s effort (lost by two last second plays–a dropped pass and a faulty field goal try): “We win as a team. We lose as a team. We will not blame any single player.” Classy comment from a future Hall of Famer.
As noted in a previous post, HG had planned to make inroads in holiday leftovers as he cheered his homies — the Giants (HG has loved them since, at the age of eight, he followed the heroics of Tuffy Leemans and Ward Cuff on the radio) and the Broncos (the object of a love-hate relationship during HG’s 25 years in Colorado). HG devoured BSK’s incomparable chicken soup and the Giants and Broncos beat their foes (the Broncos game was an extraordinary overtime thriller).
Going into this weekend, HG is gloomy about the fate of the Giants and Broncs vs. the Packers and Patriots. Yes, a deep thinker like HG knows that this devotion is quite infantile. Nevertheless………
The Year of the Dragon started with the wonderful holiday leftovers from the Year of the Rabbit. HG and BSK raided the refrigerator for Turkey soup, of course, enriched with kale and noodles. Green chili pork stew. Papardelle ragu. Japanese crabmeat pancakes. Batter for blini. Small amount of red caviar. Sour cream. Spicy hummus. Mozzarella. Feta. Kalamata olives. Bubbie’s pickles. Panettone. Canadian Butter tarts. HG will grab some food from the frig and back to the TV rooting for the HG home teams: Giants and Broncos. Go, Manning and Tebow !!!
Baseball playoffs. World Series. Pro football. Sports and autumn colors are in the air. HG has heard rumors of much improved food at various stadiums. Upscale stuff. Old fogey HG is suspicious. Still believes the best stadium food is the traditional hot dog. A great one was served at the late, lamented Polo Grounds. The Polo Grounds was located in Manhattan’s upper Harlem neighborhood, West 155th Street (Coogan’s Bluff). It was a lovable, rickety place filled with history. It was the home of the New York Football Giants and Baseball Giants. It was where Bobby Thompson of the Giants hit his home run off Ralph Branca of the Brooklyn Dodgers — “The Shot Heard Round The World” — that put the Giants in the World Series. HG had many great Polo Grounds experiences watching Mel Ott, Emlen Tunnel and many other heroic figures.
The busy men’s bathroom had an attendant — Old Sam. HG never forgot his chant: “No matter how you shake and dance the last drop always falls in your
pants. After you’ve had your little pee, don’t forget to remember me — Old Sam.”
