Magic fish

One victory, however emphatic, can't completely transform a poor team into a Super Bowl contender.

However, one emphatic victory over a Super Bowl contender can completely transform a poor team.

And so, after my rant about their recent form last week, the Miami Dolphins did the unthinkable on Sunday night: thumping perennial Vince Lombardi trophy candidates the New England Patriots 38-13 and instantly giving their long-suffering fans hope that maybe this isn't just another false dawn. Maybe, maybe the Phins are back.

The crucial thing is that while Ronnie Brown quite rightly earned the plaudits – scoring four touchdowns on the ground, as well as slinging a perfect six-point pass to getting-better-by-the-week tight end Anthony Fasano - this was very much a team win. Offensive co-ordinator Dan Henning's gameplan worked to perfection, with Chad Pennington's game management behind center near flawless and all of his receivers (is Greg Camarillo the next Wes Welker?) standing up to be counted. Quarterback coach David Lee's single wing formation – something he used to the full using Darren McFadden and Felix Jones at Arkansas – was a masterstroke, and the defense, so horrific last week in the Arizona desert, suddenly remembered how to play.

It was terrific.

And of course, I missed it all.

I'd been at an engagement party in London for two close friends and, en route back to my home town of Bath, had – expecting it to be the Pats doing the thumping - decided against getting any score updates. Then another mate texted 'Presume you know the Phins score' and, of course, I had to look. I pulled up the ESPN website while the missus used the loo at Paddington, expecting it to read MIA 0 NWE 40. Instead it read MIA 14 NWE 6. We boarded the train and I dared look again. MIA 21 NWE 6. The train departed and I was back on my phone. MIA 28 NWE 6.

!!!

Carriage windows were gloriously (semi-silently) pounded. “Fuckyesyesyescomeon” was mouthed at the wife on more than one occasion. She didn't know whether to laugh or act terrified, and so went for a little bit of both. I tried reading my book – Michael Lewis's outstanding The Blind Side – but all the sentences seemed to read 'miami new england miami. ronnie brown ricky williams miami miami new england' And so I kept checking my phone, and we kept on scoring. Until finally: MIA 38 NWE 13 – F appeared.

Astonishing.

And although I missed the greatest shock of the decade, and my team was in it, I've no regrets. Because I know that had I rushed home to catch it live on the internet it just wouldn't have panned out the way it did. I never goes to plan when the Dolphins are playing and I'm watching. Which is why when Tony Sparano takes us back to the Super Bowl in five years time I'll be at home, with the lights off, cowering under the table, trying not to think of the letters E, S, P, and N.

As for texting me? Don't even think about it.

A fellow Fin writes...

I'm still too delirious about yesterday's Dolphins result to make any sort of sense of it, so I've invited a guest speaker for the day. Step forward my fellow Fin friend Tony, AKA Strathclyde Eagle, for his thoughts on the shock of the decade...

(Mine to come tomorrow.)

'The 2007 Miami Dolphins might have been the most scarring sporting season I have ever experienced. The 1-15 disaster was week after week of torment, with repeated three-point defeats (Washington, Houston, etc.) giving way to humiliations (the game at Buffalo possibly being the worst). Even the sole win against Baltimore was gut-wrenching, as Matt Stover pulled an overtime kick wide-left that would have left us staring down the barrel of an 0-16 season.

With rebuilding now being the only option I decided to take the smart decision and emotionally detach myself from this season. It worked for the inevitable week one defeat to the Favre-led Jets, but slightly less so for the week two shocker in Arizona where the Cardinals ran the lead to 31-3 against a team which couldn't even get a stop when it put twelve men on the field.

So needless to say I wasn't particularly optimistic about our visit to Gillette Stadium yesterday, even with downright smug Patriots having Matt Cassel taking the snaps meant for Tom Brady. It might not be a blowout, but I still suspected they would win handily, probably covering the thirteen-point spread. I could live with that, just keep them under 30 and let us put some points on the board. That'll do. Just get it done, get on with the bye week and let me reflect upon the fact that the Cowboys drafted Marion Barber a whole hundred places below Ronnie Brown in the 2005 draft.

And so I carried on with one of my Sunday nights in my 2008 NFL season plan. No Sky Sports, just chilling out, planning to walk the dog and avoid any sight of Strictly Come Dancing. Then the cpfc.org NFL thread let me in on something - the Fins were leading in Foxborough. Nothing to get excited about, early days.

Only the lead stayed, and then grew. Fifteen points up at the break, three touchdowns for Ronnie Brown. Not a lot of yards, but a lot of points. Then the editor of this blog sent me a text message from his frustrated position on a train, asking for updates. I was going to be unpopular with my dog. When I only wanted to stare at a laptop screen a friend with no fondness for the NFL phoned - arrggh!

When the call finished half-an-hour later I went to look for another update. We didn't just still have the lead, we had extended it. NFL.com gamecenter confirmed it, as did the fact that Finheaven had threads crashing left, right and center centre. Good grief, could this really be happening? Were we really going to win a meaningful game in New England of all places? Just before 9pm UK time the final score was confirmed, 38-13 to the Fins. A feeling of happy disbelief stayed with me for the rest of the night.

I'm still not all the way back with this team. The only good memories in recent years have been a few wins against the Patriots when we've been underdogs, and I'm consequently about as guarded with the Fins as I was with women in my teens, but for the moment there is something to smile about. More than that there is a result to be proud of, and finally signs of things going in the right direction.'

Miami 38, New England 13

Somebody pinch me.

No, wait, don't!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

London calling

I'm off to Londinium for the weekend to watch my footy team, Crystal Palace, get thumped by the mighty Plymouth Argyle.

The good news is that the lovely lovely lovely Charissa Thompson from Fox Sports has agreed to keep you company while I'm away.



Keep her sweet, boys and girls!

NFL final word: Week two

I know, I know... it’s already pretty much week three. So instead of recapping last Sunday’s games I’ll have a quick breeze through the five young players I’ve enjoyed watching most through week two, in reverse order. Ready? Let’s do this...

5. Chansi Stuckey (New York Jets): Frankly I couldn’t care less who wins the AFC East given that there’s zero hope of Miami doing so, although if forced I’ll go for the Bills. (The Jets are from New York, enough said, while the New England Patriots are the New England Patriots.) But I will hold my hands up and say fair play to Stuckey, a player who missed the whole of his rookie season in 2007 thanks to a busted foot. He’s quickly turned himself into one of Brett Favre’s favourite targets, is great at finding holes in zone defenses and catches the ball beautifully. A long career (probably, and hopefully, at a better side three or four years down the line) beckons.

4. Matt Forte (Chicago): Can this guy run or can this guy run? The Bears are back, and he’s the catalyst. Chi-towners had better hope he stays in shape for the next 14 weeks – they might get an extended season if he does.

3. Darren Sproles (San Diego): The very first thing I did on Monday morning was log into Yahoo and drop Vincent Jackson from my fantasy team to make room for his pint-sized, dynamite-assed team-mate. Many scoffed at the Chargers’ decision to let Michael Turner, LT’s number 2 since forever, walk away during the offseason, but Sproles has shut the critics up within two games. The quickness with which he reaches full speed will be terrifying defenses (and special teams units) for the rest of this season. He has ridiculous burst at the line of scrimmage and dances around opposition players for fun.

2. Jay Cutler (Denver): Alright, he’s already pretty much there, but the worried faces which met the revelation that he is diabetic only serve to make his sensational start all the more impressive. Last minute fumbles rescued by incompetent officiating aside, he’s making it look like his receivers are wearing metal gloves and he’s throwing a magnetic ball – Eddie Royal, Tony Scheffler and Brandon Marshall are clocking up insane fantasy numbers. As long as he plays like this, the Broncos aren’t just dark horses – they’re genuine Super Bowl contenders.

1. Aaron Rodgers (Green Bay): Brett who?: This guy might be the most fun player to watch in the NFL right now. He’s making a mockery of the fans’ clamour to hang onto Favre, and his forever upbeat body language suggests he’s really enjoying it. And he deserves to. The smiles might become frowns once he hits a bad pitch – it happens to everyone – but for now my eyes are glued on number 12. Hot tip of the week: Packers to beat Dallas Sunday.

Five more on the bubble:
Davone Bess (Miami) – about the only positive I can find in South Florida right now; Eddie Royal (Denver) – see Jay Cutler entry, above; DeSean Jackson (Philadelphia) – Monday night’s clanger was stupid stupid stupid but it was also funny funny funny; JT O’Sullivan (San Francisco) – when did this guy suddenly learn to play?; Chris Horton (Washington) – whoooooo? I thought the same before his out-of-nowhere performance against the Saints on Sunday.

Oh, Miami

When Bill Parcells took over as executive VP of football operations of the long-suffering Miami Dolphins late last season, expectations were, quite rightly, kept as low as possible. Whether or not he retained then coach Cam Cameron on the back of a 1-15 season, it was clear that there could be no quick turnaround for the hapless, hopeless Phins - particularly in a campaign where only Brian Billick's conservative playcalling stopped us becoming the first team ever to go 0-16. And so throughout the last nine months the words 'transitional season', 'nothing to lose' and 'blood the youngsters' have essentially become the team mottos down in South Florida.

One description that wasn't supposed to apply, however, was 'laughing stock'.

But that's where Miami is now, after a capitulation in the Arizona desert on Sunday that was arguably worse than anything Cam's young team served up last season. The 10-31 scoreline seriously flattered us; but it wasn't just the secondary's inability to follow assignments, read plays and, you know, tackle the opposition players than rankled most. Nor was it our frail, inexperienced wide receiving corps' pathetic attempts to get some separation and catch some balls. Nope, the worst failure in the abominable showing was the lack of professional pride on show: too many sloppy penalties, too many casual mistakes, too many moments when the players just didn't seem all that fussed.

Before he set foot in Miami I hated Parcells with relish, partly because of his connections to the Jets, Patriots and Cowboys – three teams I delight in seeing take a walloping – and partly because, quite simply, he always seemed such a sour, nasty football coach. Yet the latter is precisely the reason I begrudgingly welcomed him to Miami last December; because it had become clear that the franchise needed someone to take a deep bite into its soft, all-too-tender underbelly; someone who would make these players passionate, wiling and, yes, nasty.

We haven't seen any of that yet. 53 real dolphins would have been of more use on Sunday as Kurt Warner, allowed out of the retirement home for three hours, completed 55 of 55 passes for something like 17,000 yards and Anquan Boldin made it look as if he were playing in the park with a bunch of schoolkids. Actually, scrap that - even schoolkids occasionally get near the opposition when on defense.

Instead of being able to admire our determination where ability might be lacking, we're watching a team that appears desperately short of both – and is perhaps even worse than it was last season, what with Jason Taylor and Zach Thomas gone. And while its still way too early to pass judgment on the Parcells/Ireland/Sparano era, it's clear that expectations need to be taken down yet another notch, if that's even possible. This isn't going to be a transitional season; more like a transitional half-decade. And while that might be a tough thing to accept from fans wanting a quicker turnaround, it has to be that way; five coaches in five years and some terrible drafting from Randy Mueller tells its own story.

I'm still on board with the Trifecta. I'm just not sure I can watch them go about business for another 14 games. In fact, right now, I'll take 1-15 all over again...

DuhSean, welcome to the NFL

Given that I’ve never actually played american football in any form whatsoever, and that my hand-eye co-ordination is roughly equal to that of a three-legged, blind goat, it’d be rich of me to offer current college prospects who are hoping to make a career in the NFL any advice whatsoever.

But I’m about to do it anyway.

Kids, on the off chance that you get drafted to the NFL with the 18th pick of the second round, and you immediately make an impact on the depth chart, and your second game is against the bitter divisional rivals of the franchise who drafted you, and at a key moment in the first half when trailing by a single point your quarterback slings you an inch-perfect long pass which you catch without breaking stride... don’t start celebrating your first touchdown until you’re, you know, in the endzone.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Philadelphia Eagles rookie, DeSean Jackson.

My new Monday motto

DON'T. MENTION. THE. PHINS.



:(

Anti-PC words

I am – and I hope you'll forgive me for using the technical term here – a massive, massive donut.

The start of a new NFL season has seen me rediscover a game called Front Office Football, which is basically the gridiron equivalent of the surely-needs-no-introduction Football Manager series. When I first got the game a couple of years back I began a Miami Dolphins dynasty which, over time, I've had some success with – a couple of divisional championships and even a Super Bowl appearance, albeit a losing one. I managed to turn Matt Roth and Derek Hagan into Pro Bowlers, and make superstars of fictional rookies like safety Frank Basnight (an undreafted free agent in 2009, no less) and defensive tackle Richard McGarigle (my 2012 first rounder) – legends nowhere but my own mind. So when I booted up the game last Wednesday at the outset of the 2016 season, it was with a view to spending this entire weekend trying to guide the Fins towards that elusive virtual Vince Lombardi trophy.

Such was my excitement that during Friday lunchtime I logged onto the FOF forums and downloaded a graphics pack which promised to give the game's somewhat spartan visuals a sprucing up. Arriving home that evening I set about trying to apply this patch to the game, but lovely Windows Vista wouldn't have it. I fiddled with the permissions in every possible way, but no dice.

So I tried another tactic: I downloaded the latest patch for the game itself, thinking perhaps that only this version would be able to utilise the updated graphics pack. I installed it, but that didn't work either.

Finally, after three hours of exhaustively scouring the internet, I found the root of the problem: I had to run the graphics auto-patcher as an administrator (rather than the current user) by going into its Properties menu and fiddling with the Compatibility settings. Having spat a colourful array of curses at Vista, all sorted, and about bloody time.

Except it wasn't.

I loaded up the game and whaddya know? No save file. Turns out that when I installed the latest patch for FOF it had automatically created a new saved games folder, overwriting the old one. Typically – I am a massive donut, as I said at the outset - I hadn't thought to back-up the data. And so the 2016 Miami Dolphins were gone, just like that. All those many, many, many hours and late nights gone to waste, with not even a single 'career stats' screen to show for it.

I was, to put it mildly, gutted.

I've started a new game as the Chicago Bears but even with Kyle Orton showing some early promise and a monster D, it just isn't the same yet. I'll stick with it for now and hope that next year I can find a new McGarigle or Basnight to draw me back in once again, but playing now only reminds me what could have been. Brady Quinn was doing brilliantly as my veteran leader. Danny Carmack was just establishing himself as a top-notch running back. Vinny Cinkovsky had spent two years just trying to stay on the 53-man roster. Now, after a great pre-season, the young wide receiver was finally going to get a shot at starting. It was going to be amazing. Until Vista, and my idiocy, came a-calling.

And the worst bit? The graphics pack turned out to be so naff that I removed it within half an hour of starting my new Bears 'chise.

Typical.

Fashionable injury

As I predicted just t'other day (see 'The Brady Crunch'), not everyone’s sad about New England QB Tom Brady (who wears number 12, important for a reason you’ll see very shortly) going down for the season after being nobbled by the Chiefs’ Bernard Pollard last Sunday.

Behold:

http://www.believemerch.com/products



I now love the Steelers approximately 2.375% more than I did one hour ago. Although in fairness, that’s still not very much.

NFL final word: Week one

For me, there’s no event on the sporting calendar more exciting than the first weekend of the NFL season. Partly that’s because I’ve been to England games at European Championships, to cup finals, to live baseball/basketball/ice hockey and atmosphere wise, nothing comes close to being inside FedEx Field on opening day of last year and hearing 90,000 braying fans roar on their Skins. (My Fins lost, but it was still incredible.) More importantly, it’s because in no other sport does the opening game mean so much. Lose your first baseball game of the season and you have 161 more to put things right. In English football’s Premiership, that magic number is 37.

In the NFL, it’s 15.

A win to begin their season has a team’s fans dreaming of Play-Offs, Championships, and Super Bowls, even in a quarterbackless city like Chicago. A defeat means you’re already on the backfoot and need to turn things around quickly. It’s why sports psychology plays such a huge role in American football, and why scouts and coaches take so much time to investigate a college player’s mindset before the annual NFL draft. Can they stand the instant, must-win pressure of the big league? Sometimes not, and that’s why even first round picks can amount to zip.

And what did we learn from 2008’s opening weekend?

That anyone can win the Super Bowl this year, particularly with Tom Brady knee-knacked. Don’t write the Pats off yet though; Bill Belicheck ALWAYS has a plan. Usually an underhand but successful one. Pennsylvania might be the next best bet to supply a Super Bowl team – Philly and Pittsburgh both looked sensational. Brett Favre starred for a dangerous Jets team against a much-improved Miami (yay! Except for the result), Jason Witten and Tony Romo had all sorts of fun against a Cleveland side who aren’t going to live up to the expectations they set themselves last year, and hell, Aaron Rodgers can play, can’t he? Get Green Bay near the top of that contenders list.

That being without Jeff Saturday and with a ring-rusty Peyton Manning isn’t conducive to success down Indianapolis way. The Colts better shape up, sharpish.

That the Giants still deserve the title of best team in the NFL. For now. And Brandon Jacobs? Wow.

That DeAngelo Hall, formerly an Atlanta Falcons cornerback with a ludicrously overinflated view of his own value, is now an Oakland Raiders cornerback with a ludicrously overinflated view of his own value.

Oh, and that the Raiders still absolutely suck.

That rookie running backs are the hot commodity right now. Felix Jones, Chris Johnson, Matt Forte – the boys done good.

That Eddie Royal is a little livewire, Jay Cutler a potential star, and the Denver Broncos a real dark horse. (SWIDT?)

That Seattle really, REALLY need some special teamers.

That the Bills don’t.

That Matt Ryan and Joe Flacco have some skillzzzz. Great to see the two rookies win in week one. Unless you live in Michigan or Cinci.

That the Redskins are, right now, the most overrated side in the NFL. Their playcalling, time management, commitment and execution was laughable in NY. Those 90,000 fans I mentioned earlier deserve better when the Saints come to visit this Sunday.

Bring on week two and (pleeeeease) a Miami victory in the desert.

Parrish visit

First rule of blogging, as I've just discovered:

Never spend a late night hour scrawling your next day's entry on scraps of paper while in bed, only to leave the most important scrap (containing all the key components of said update) on the floor when you leave the house the next day.

Lesson learned.

So my Weekly NFL Thoughts And Update Thingumy (I'm yet to decide on the proper title) will have to wait until tomorrow, which I'm sure the 'thousands' of you reading this (just you again Tony? Thanks anyway!) will be saddened to hear.

For now, here's my favourite play of the week. He's got some moves, has Roscoe Parrish.



He also plays in the same division as Miami. Argh!

Why ESPN rules, part one

This is Erin Andrews, sideline reporter for ESPN.



Not pining for Gabby Logan anymore, are we?

The Brady crunch

A quirky rule of being an NFL franchise is that on every Thursday before a game you’re made to file an injury report with the league’s head office, declaring the status of any player of your 53-man roster who may be unable to play in the upcoming weekend’s games. (The bands of status are Probable, Questionable, Doubtful, and Out.)

31 of the NFL’s 32 teams have always followed this rule pretty much to the letter. The 32nd, the New England Patroits, have brazenly made a mockery of it for as long as anyone can remember, listing fit players as crocked in order to throw off their opponents’ gameplan for the week. The most high profile example is that of their star quarterback, Tom Brady. Brady hasn’t missed an NFL start since 30 September 2001, yet for every game in the last FOUR YEARS he’s been listed as probable with a sore right shoulder. It’s almost become an in-joke between head coach Bill Belichick and the league’s front office. Just one that the other 31 teams don’t find very amusing.

Well, the Pats aren’t laughing anymore. For the first time in half a decade, Belichick will file a legitimate injury report this coming Thursday. And it will read: TOM BRADY – OUT. New England lost its star player on Sunday when he tore an ACL in his left leg as he was caught by Kansas City safety Bernard Pollard, and those close to the Pats say he’s done for the year.

As a result, a lot of column inches and internets talk over the next few days and weeks is going to centre upon Brady’s injury being bad for the game. Fans will be told that essentially, they can’t enjoy their gridiron if its biggest star isn’t playing. Late Sunday, coaching legend John Madden said that “the entire NFL was devastated by this tonight”.

In reply to that, let me be the first to call ‘bullshit’.

Not as a personal thing, because while he’s a nasty, whinging baby at the best of times, he’s also a sportsman (by name, if not in morals). And no-one who loves his sport and makes a living playing it deserves to have their career and their livelihood threatened by serious injury, although if Frank Lampard ever has his leg broken you might have to remind me that I wrote that.

Nope, the reason I’ll admit to not feeling the slightest sympathy over the Pats’ plight is because injuries happen in pro sport. They’re a great leveller. For years fans have hoped that their opponents’ best players will have to ‘sit this one out’, and right now 31 head coaches and a whole load of cornerbacks are secretly rejoicing, whatever John Madden may tell you. Switching to English sport for a second, if Cristiano Ronaldo suffered a season-ending injury tomorrow, do you think Chelsea and Man City fans would cry into their pints over it being “bad for the game”? Do you think Arsene Wenger and Rafa Benitez would shed a little tear about the odds of their clubs winning the Premiership suddenly shortening and declare that “all of football is devastated”?

Of course they wouldn’t, because in pro sports you gleefully make the most of any edge you can get.

I wish Tom Brady a speedy recovery.

But even more, I wish to see the Dolphins smash the Patriots without him.

Mummy beerest

I live in a sleepy corner of the UK which happens to be one of the few areas where there are less than 38000 people to a postage stamp’s worth of land, where shop assistants and bar staff understand the phrase ‘service without a tsssssssssssssk’, and where you’re actually allowed to breathe on public transport. (Speak? Not so much.) It’s nice.

My mother, however, lives 100 miles away, in a place called That London, which for the first 25 years of my life I knew as Home but I now do my best to disown in the same manner that I’ll forever disown my firstborn if he (or she) ever lets the mere thought of supporting the New England Patriots cross his (or her) mind.

As a result, my mother coming to visit is a big occasion. It only happens once every three or four months. She’s on the way here right now, as a matter of fact. Yay! Except it’s not all yay.

Because mother is coming to visit ON THE FIRST SUNDAY OF THE NFL SEASON.

A day where I’ve long planned to mong in front of the TV for nine hours straight while wolfing down my own body weight in pizza, knocking back an ocean of Peroni and unleashing a river of tears upon our sofa/curtains/ArgosrugwhichIfuckinghateanyway when all the hope I’ve mustered that the Fins will have a decent season comes crashing down around Chad Pennington’s creaking OAP ankles inside the first quarter.

Clearly, I don’t want mother to see any of this.

Which basically leaves me with two options.

The first is to be totally truthful about it, welcome her into the world of pain that is Dolphin Fandom, and try to teach her the rules of American Football on the fly. This won’t be the first time I’ve had a crack at the latter, as it goes, although all previous attempts have hit a Brandon Jacobs sized wall as soon as I’ve muttered the words “right: the opening kick-off”. Combine that with the wince-inducing thought of Brett Favre guiding intricate passes past the flailing arms of Jason Allen and you’ll understand this is simply not a viable choice. So...

Option two it is.

It’s My Mother, The Queen night in my sleepy corner of Britain this evening. I (alright, the wife) have given the spare room such a thorough dust and springclean that even Her Maj herself would feel right at home. There’s a pile of eight Drew Barrymore films, of which I clearly own eight too many, by the DVD player and a stack of boy band CDs (I’m not saying which although Boyz II Men might be there) on top of the stereo. A selection of chocolates has been provided along with books about sealife, the uselessless of men and the history of Fenway Park. (She’ll pretend to read this as a nod of courtesy to my Red Sox obsession, bless her.) A poster of Take That, torn from a fifteen year old issue of the now defunct pop magazine Smash Hits, may or may not have made its way onto the wall above her bed. And pizza and wine will be hand delivered by her eldest son in between trips to the bathroom to weep over the Dolphins’ sorry start.

Plan perfected.

It’s going to be great great GREAT.

Until Chad throws his first pick, anyway.

Brilliant fake?

I spent six and a bit years watching Chris Chambers in Miami and I can tell you that even if you strapped him to a gurney and injected the most virulent strain of bird flu (for argument’s sake we’ll say H5N1) into every main vein and artery, he’d still struggle to catch so much as a cold.

But apparently, since moving to San Diego last season, he’s learned to do this:



It can’t be genuine. Can it?

Meet the rookie

Hello.

I’m NFLBabus.

The Babus part comes from my being a seven-year-old child locked inside a 28-year-old man’s body.

The NFL part comes from my total infatuation with not just the National Football League, but every American sport going.

I live in the UK. I dream of living in the States.

In Chicago, home of the Bulls. I like them because Chi-town was the first American city I visited. I don’t pretend otherwise.

Or Boston, the home of my beloved Red Sox. I adore them because Boston is the greatest city on the planet, and they the greatest sporting franchise. It’s not astrophysics.

Or in Miami, where the hapless, laughing stock NFL franchise I’ve followed since I was a kid are based.

They’re called the Dolphins.

They used to be a Gridiron force.

They’re now a bit shit.

The Yanks think us Brits know naff all about US sports.

The Yanks don’t know me.

Every month I spend money I can’t really afford on subscriptions to NASN and MLB.TV. The first thing I do when I get home every night is watch Pardon The Interruption. Then NFL Total Access. Then Baseball Tonight. From the night before. When my games industry colleagues are banging on about the greatness of Call Of Duty 4 and Grand Theft Auto IV, I’m too busy evangelising MLB 08: The Show and Madden NFL 09 to listen. I go to bed at night stressing about how to upgrade my Yahoo fantasy teams, the Benson Red Sox (baseball) and Odd Down Dolphins (football). I see player news items from rotoworld.com in my sleep. I develop an instant, irreversible hatred for anyone I see wearing a MFY (that's Motherfuckingyankees, mother, and I'm sorry) cap while walking down the high street. I worry about fans giving John Beck stick when he goes out at night. I fantasise about kissing Kevin Youkilis on his big, shiny cue ball head and never washing my lips again. I’m basically a US sports maniac. And I’m proud of it.

And this my blog, where I plan to spend the coming weeks, months and years proving that us Brits (well, me at least) do know a fair bit about America’s favourite pastimes. And like to be massively opinionated over them, too.

And if that fails?

I’ll just post photos of players’ wives and girlfriends in a desperate attempt to keep people coming back.



Cheers, Mr Romo.