I’m hardly in a position to criticize other people’s voting habits. Before the 2004 Presidential election I had never cast a ballot in an election more significant than college class president. I might have voted once on the color of a new M&M, but I can’t be sure. In any case, I have yet to see any polka dot M&Ms.
I can’t defend my voting record. It’s not that I felt my vote wouldn’t matter. It’s more that I could never quite motivate myself to really get to know something about the candidates and thus didn’t qualified to involve myself in the process. At least that’s what I told myself when it was time to get off the couch on Election Day.
I’m not sure what could have convinced me to get more involved in the process, but a measure currently being promoted in Arizona might have made a difference. According to the New York Times, an Arizona man named Mark Osterloh, whom the Times describes as “a political gadfly,” and a “semiretired opthamologist,” would like to include a measure on the November ballot that would, if approved, establish a kind of voter lottery that would award $1 million to a randomly selected voter following every general election.
Osterloh’s slogan for the proposed measure is, “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Vote!” But awful slogans aside, Osterloh makes some fair points. Voter turnout in recent years has been as low in Arizona as it has been, well, everywhere else in the United States. Anything that can increase that number, Osterloh reasons, is a good thing.
The money from the prize would come from unclaimed state lottery money. Which, of course, raises another interesting question: If people in Arizona are too lazy to claim a collective $1 million worth of lottery winnings, can we really expect them to take the time to vote? In their defense, though, it’s pretty hot in Arizona.
According to the Times, 2 million people voted in Arizona’s 2004 general election. If Osterloh’s measure had been in place then each voter would have had a 1 in 2 million chance of winning. That is significantly better than the roughly 1 in 146 million chance people currently have of winning the Powerball but, as the Times helpfully points out, not nearly as good as the 1 in 55,928 chance they have of dying from a lightning strike at some point during their life.
For further comparison, according to the national safety council, a person’s lifetime odds of being accidentally poisoned or exposed to “noxious substances” are 1 in 212 and the odds of dying in a streetcar accident are 1 in 931,246. According to my father, the odds of finding a typo in this column are roughly even.
Osterloh’s plan is not perfect, of course. Some critics have complained that turning the electoral process into one massive $1 scratcher somehow cheapens the idea of democracy. People, they say, should vote because they feel a sense of civic responsibility, not because there is a small chance they will hit the jackpot and finally be able to get those gold teeth they’ve been thinking about.
Also, it’s probably illegal.
According to the Times, one federal statute calls for a one-year prison term for anyone who “makes or offers to make an expenditure to any person, either to vote or withhold his vote, or to vote for or against any candidate; and whoever solicits, accepts, or receives any such expenditure in consideration of his vote or the withholding of his vote.”
Osterloh, though, is undeterred. The lawyer who helped him draft the proposal told the times he didn’t think “federal law would cover this kind of situation,” though he declined to say why, exactly.
I’m torn on this issue. I don’t think people should be bribed to vote, and I don’t think it would lead to people getting more informed before they went to the polls.
I am, however, in favor of winning $1 million.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Superstalker?
Dear Superman,
Can I be honest for a second? You can take it, right? You’re the Man of Steel after all.
It’s just, well, I’ve never really liked you. I guess that sounds a little strange, you standing for Truth, Justice and the American Way, and all. It’s just never really worked for me.
I’m not sure what it is, exactly. It’s just, you’re too … perfect isn’t the word. Nobody with that fashion sense can really be described as perfect. I’ll never be a Vogue model, but even I know the underwear goes on the inside. And knee-high leather boots? What kind of kinky things do you get up to in that Fortress of Solitude? America’s ultimate Boy Scout? I don’t think so.
I guess you’re just a little too much to take. Spider-Man has to live with the belief he’s responsible for his uncle’s death. The X-Men are persecuted by an entire society. And you? As far as I can tell your biggest problem is making sure nobody figures out that when Clark Kent takes off his glasses he looks a whole lot like you. You don’t have any weaknesses. Nobody can even hurt you unless they happen to find some rocks from your home planet that happened to cross the Universe and end up on Earth. I mean, how many of those can there really be lying around.
You’ve even got that cool forehead-curl thing in your hair. Do you know how much I’d give to be able to make my hair curl like that? Actually, not all that much. But it’s still pretty cool.
Anyway, now you’ve got this new movie. And it’s pretty decent. We get to see you flying around and catching a falling airplane and it’s pretty great to see how people react when they realize you’ve come back to them after five years away. Even though nobody seems to put together the fact that you and Clark disappeared and reappeared at the same time. First the glasses thing and now this? There was a survey recently that showed Minneapolis residents were among the most educated in the country. I’m not sure anybody in Metropolis even finished high school.
But, like I said, the movie’s pretty good. Lex Luthor’s one of the best villains around even if it’s never entirely clear how he’s going to stop people from just taking the land on this new continent he’s creating. Or why they’d even want to live someplace that looks like the surface of the moon would look if it were slightly less hospitable. The movie was worth the price of admission, is what I’m saying.
But it raised certain uncomfortable questions. What, I have to ask, is the deal with all the stalking?
I realize you missed Lois Lane. Love of your life and all. And it probably got pretty lonely in those five years you were flying around looking for the remains of your homeworld. But hiding in the trees outside Lois’ house and using your x-ray vision to check out what’s going on inside? That’s just creepy. The movie never shows you looking in on anything inappropriate, but come on — what’s the point of having x-ray vision if you’re not going to put it to good use. Am I right?
Seriously, get over it. There must be tons of Super-groupies out there.
And sneaking into the kid’s room at the end? I know Lois seemed OK with it, but come on. That’s a Michael Jackson move. You’re better than that.
While we’re on the subject, I have some other issues related to your relationship with this kid. But some people probably haven’t seen the movie yet and I don’t want to give anything away. I just hope saving the world pays well because I think you’re going to have some checks to write.
So, where does this leave us, Superman? I know it probably hurt to hear some of these things. I know we’ll probably never be friends. But I hope you understand where I’m coming from. I hope you lay off the stalking thing. And maybe ditch the cape, too. I mean, what does that thing even do?
Regards,
Nathan Hansen
Can I be honest for a second? You can take it, right? You’re the Man of Steel after all.
It’s just, well, I’ve never really liked you. I guess that sounds a little strange, you standing for Truth, Justice and the American Way, and all. It’s just never really worked for me.
I’m not sure what it is, exactly. It’s just, you’re too … perfect isn’t the word. Nobody with that fashion sense can really be described as perfect. I’ll never be a Vogue model, but even I know the underwear goes on the inside. And knee-high leather boots? What kind of kinky things do you get up to in that Fortress of Solitude? America’s ultimate Boy Scout? I don’t think so.
I guess you’re just a little too much to take. Spider-Man has to live with the belief he’s responsible for his uncle’s death. The X-Men are persecuted by an entire society. And you? As far as I can tell your biggest problem is making sure nobody figures out that when Clark Kent takes off his glasses he looks a whole lot like you. You don’t have any weaknesses. Nobody can even hurt you unless they happen to find some rocks from your home planet that happened to cross the Universe and end up on Earth. I mean, how many of those can there really be lying around.
You’ve even got that cool forehead-curl thing in your hair. Do you know how much I’d give to be able to make my hair curl like that? Actually, not all that much. But it’s still pretty cool.
Anyway, now you’ve got this new movie. And it’s pretty decent. We get to see you flying around and catching a falling airplane and it’s pretty great to see how people react when they realize you’ve come back to them after five years away. Even though nobody seems to put together the fact that you and Clark disappeared and reappeared at the same time. First the glasses thing and now this? There was a survey recently that showed Minneapolis residents were among the most educated in the country. I’m not sure anybody in Metropolis even finished high school.
But, like I said, the movie’s pretty good. Lex Luthor’s one of the best villains around even if it’s never entirely clear how he’s going to stop people from just taking the land on this new continent he’s creating. Or why they’d even want to live someplace that looks like the surface of the moon would look if it were slightly less hospitable. The movie was worth the price of admission, is what I’m saying.
But it raised certain uncomfortable questions. What, I have to ask, is the deal with all the stalking?
I realize you missed Lois Lane. Love of your life and all. And it probably got pretty lonely in those five years you were flying around looking for the remains of your homeworld. But hiding in the trees outside Lois’ house and using your x-ray vision to check out what’s going on inside? That’s just creepy. The movie never shows you looking in on anything inappropriate, but come on — what’s the point of having x-ray vision if you’re not going to put it to good use. Am I right?
Seriously, get over it. There must be tons of Super-groupies out there.
And sneaking into the kid’s room at the end? I know Lois seemed OK with it, but come on. That’s a Michael Jackson move. You’re better than that.
While we’re on the subject, I have some other issues related to your relationship with this kid. But some people probably haven’t seen the movie yet and I don’t want to give anything away. I just hope saving the world pays well because I think you’re going to have some checks to write.
So, where does this leave us, Superman? I know it probably hurt to hear some of these things. I know we’ll probably never be friends. But I hope you understand where I’m coming from. I hope you lay off the stalking thing. And maybe ditch the cape, too. I mean, what does that thing even do?
Regards,
Nathan Hansen
Monday, July 03, 2006
Tall tales
I am six feet, six inches tall.
This is significantly taller than average.
I understand this.
There are certain advantages to being tall. I can usually reach things on the high shelves, for example. And I hardly ever have to worry about someone sitting in front of me in a movie theater.
There are also certain disadvantages. Like having to search the Twin Cities to find pants that fit. Or having to find a car with enough headroom. Or always having people ask me to get things off of high shelves for them.
Many tall people get asked by complete strangers if they play basketball. I used to get annoyed when this happened to me, but it seems to happen less often these days. Maybe it’s because I’m starting to look old enough that even if I had once played basketball bringing up the subject no would at best cause me to tell long-winded stories about the time I made the winning shot at the section tournament. Or maybe people have finally realized that typical basketball player has a physique that’s a little more Charles Atlas and a little less Charles Darwin. (I write this, obviously, assuming the man who popularized the theory of evolution is not particularly buff and that he couldn’t even dunk on a nine-foot rim. Although I hear he had a quick first step and a great crossover.)
Whatever reason, the basketball questions have for the most part gone by the wayside. In their place, however, is a conversational tactic that I find perhaps even more confounding. More and more, people I have just met feel the need to make conversation by explaining that they have a friend (or a relative or a dentist) who is also very tall.
I’m honestly not sure how I’m supposed to react. Should I feel better about myself if they know someone who is very tall but not quite as tall as me? Should I feel threatened if they know someone who is, say, six-eight? Should I simply feel better knowing I am not the only unusually tall person in the world? And if that’s the case are those comments really necessary considering the existence of the National Basketball Association?
Do people do this in other conversations? When they meet someone who is especially short, do they say, “Oh, I know a guy who’s a jockey”? When they meet someone who is heavyset do they say, “I know a guy who’s on a diet”? When they meet someone unattractive do they say, “I know former Minnesota Timberwolf Sam Cassell”?
Do people who tell me about their uncle with a glandular problem expect me to say, “Oh, sure. Chuck. I saw him the other day at the tall guy’s club.”?
I don’t have any answers to these questions. I never know where a conversation should go after a comment like this. But I will tell you this much: I really like the idea of a tall person’s club. We will have high doorways and extra long couches for when we want to take naps. We will give each other extra-high fives and laugh dismissively at guys who are shorter than five-eight.
And maybe, with enough thought, we’ll figure out what to say the next time someone tells us their podiatrist is six-nine.
This is significantly taller than average.
I understand this.
There are certain advantages to being tall. I can usually reach things on the high shelves, for example. And I hardly ever have to worry about someone sitting in front of me in a movie theater.
There are also certain disadvantages. Like having to search the Twin Cities to find pants that fit. Or having to find a car with enough headroom. Or always having people ask me to get things off of high shelves for them.
Many tall people get asked by complete strangers if they play basketball. I used to get annoyed when this happened to me, but it seems to happen less often these days. Maybe it’s because I’m starting to look old enough that even if I had once played basketball bringing up the subject no would at best cause me to tell long-winded stories about the time I made the winning shot at the section tournament. Or maybe people have finally realized that typical basketball player has a physique that’s a little more Charles Atlas and a little less Charles Darwin. (I write this, obviously, assuming the man who popularized the theory of evolution is not particularly buff and that he couldn’t even dunk on a nine-foot rim. Although I hear he had a quick first step and a great crossover.)
Whatever reason, the basketball questions have for the most part gone by the wayside. In their place, however, is a conversational tactic that I find perhaps even more confounding. More and more, people I have just met feel the need to make conversation by explaining that they have a friend (or a relative or a dentist) who is also very tall.
I’m honestly not sure how I’m supposed to react. Should I feel better about myself if they know someone who is very tall but not quite as tall as me? Should I feel threatened if they know someone who is, say, six-eight? Should I simply feel better knowing I am not the only unusually tall person in the world? And if that’s the case are those comments really necessary considering the existence of the National Basketball Association?
Do people do this in other conversations? When they meet someone who is especially short, do they say, “Oh, I know a guy who’s a jockey”? When they meet someone who is heavyset do they say, “I know a guy who’s on a diet”? When they meet someone unattractive do they say, “I know former Minnesota Timberwolf Sam Cassell”?
Do people who tell me about their uncle with a glandular problem expect me to say, “Oh, sure. Chuck. I saw him the other day at the tall guy’s club.”?
I don’t have any answers to these questions. I never know where a conversation should go after a comment like this. But I will tell you this much: I really like the idea of a tall person’s club. We will have high doorways and extra long couches for when we want to take naps. We will give each other extra-high fives and laugh dismissively at guys who are shorter than five-eight.
And maybe, with enough thought, we’ll figure out what to say the next time someone tells us their podiatrist is six-nine.
The sharp, glassy edges of reality
A few weeks ago I used this space to assert my theoretical superiority to every other bicyclist on the road. As long as I am safe in my car, I argued, I believe I am faster than anyone I see riding.
In the absence of objective proof, why should I give some other sucker the benefit of the doubt? Sometimes, though, reality rears back and smacks you down like broken glass puncturing a tire.
For me, one of those broken glass moments came last weekend.
On Sunday afternoon I drove out to Stillwater to watch the final stage of the Nature Valley Grand Prix, a five-day bike race that also had stages in St. Paul, Cannon Falls, Minneapolis and Mankato. The final stage was roughly 25 miles and the leading riders finished it in about an hour. So, you have a pretty good idea what kind of speed they were going.
The race course one short, very steep hill. According to the race’s web site the hill is a 24 percent grade. By way of comparison, the site explains, federal law does not allow highways to have a grade steeper than 6 percent. In other words, this particular hill is at least four times as steep as any highway you’ve ever driven on. At just a couple of blocks long it’s the next best thing to a wall.
The course also has a long downhill, this one several blocks in length, that runs from down the bluff into downtown Stillwater. It’s not as steep, but racers approach 50 miles per hour on the way down, then immediately whip into a 90 degree corner, never appearing to slow down or even consider that they are one slick spot from ending up stuck to the side of a building.
These racers are not the best of the best. They’re professionals, but they’re like minor league baseball players or golfers on the Hooters tour. They travel around the country, put in hours of practice and make very little money but they’re doing something they love to do. They are trying to earn their way to bigger things and some of them make it, but most have reached their highest level of competition. They can dream all they want about becoming the next Lance Armstrong, but they’re more likely to be the cycling equivalent of a star player for the St. Paul Saints.
They don’t even get to compete in events with cool names like “The Hooters Tour.”
Every one of them could kick my butt.
It’s not easy for me to say that, but while I haven’t actually raced the course these guys competed on, I can’t argue against what I saw. Mostly, that was a blur of brightly-colored jerseys whipping past me on both sides.
I’m not the greatest hill climber in the world. At six feet, six inches tall I carry too much weight to make riding up mountains a sensible thing to do. I’m pretty sure, though, that the racers who competed Sunday would gain more time on me on the downhill part of the Stillwater hill than they would on the up. To put bike handling ability in automotive terms, they are exotic, highly-tuned Italian sports cars while I am more like a school bus.
Fully loaded.
Pulling a semi.
With flat tires.
In other words, while they were zipping around the corner and heading back toward the uphill, I would be somewhere in the middle of the downhill, squeezing my brakes in a death grip and rethinking my decision to save a few bucks on discount tires. I don’t want to sound like I don’t trust my bike to hold up, but I weigh somewhere around 210 pounds and my bike weighs between 15 and 20. I’m just saying it seems like a lot to ask. It’s not a bet I’m willing to make with the good health of my skeletal structure.
So, yes. I’ll give these guys the benefit of the doubt. I will admit the professional bike racers who dedicate hours to their sport are faster than me. It hurts, but it’s the truth.
I’m still pretty sure I’m faster than everyone else, though.
In the absence of objective proof, why should I give some other sucker the benefit of the doubt? Sometimes, though, reality rears back and smacks you down like broken glass puncturing a tire.
For me, one of those broken glass moments came last weekend.
On Sunday afternoon I drove out to Stillwater to watch the final stage of the Nature Valley Grand Prix, a five-day bike race that also had stages in St. Paul, Cannon Falls, Minneapolis and Mankato. The final stage was roughly 25 miles and the leading riders finished it in about an hour. So, you have a pretty good idea what kind of speed they were going.
The race course one short, very steep hill. According to the race’s web site the hill is a 24 percent grade. By way of comparison, the site explains, federal law does not allow highways to have a grade steeper than 6 percent. In other words, this particular hill is at least four times as steep as any highway you’ve ever driven on. At just a couple of blocks long it’s the next best thing to a wall.
The course also has a long downhill, this one several blocks in length, that runs from down the bluff into downtown Stillwater. It’s not as steep, but racers approach 50 miles per hour on the way down, then immediately whip into a 90 degree corner, never appearing to slow down or even consider that they are one slick spot from ending up stuck to the side of a building.
These racers are not the best of the best. They’re professionals, but they’re like minor league baseball players or golfers on the Hooters tour. They travel around the country, put in hours of practice and make very little money but they’re doing something they love to do. They are trying to earn their way to bigger things and some of them make it, but most have reached their highest level of competition. They can dream all they want about becoming the next Lance Armstrong, but they’re more likely to be the cycling equivalent of a star player for the St. Paul Saints.
They don’t even get to compete in events with cool names like “The Hooters Tour.”
Every one of them could kick my butt.
It’s not easy for me to say that, but while I haven’t actually raced the course these guys competed on, I can’t argue against what I saw. Mostly, that was a blur of brightly-colored jerseys whipping past me on both sides.
I’m not the greatest hill climber in the world. At six feet, six inches tall I carry too much weight to make riding up mountains a sensible thing to do. I’m pretty sure, though, that the racers who competed Sunday would gain more time on me on the downhill part of the Stillwater hill than they would on the up. To put bike handling ability in automotive terms, they are exotic, highly-tuned Italian sports cars while I am more like a school bus.
Fully loaded.
Pulling a semi.
With flat tires.
In other words, while they were zipping around the corner and heading back toward the uphill, I would be somewhere in the middle of the downhill, squeezing my brakes in a death grip and rethinking my decision to save a few bucks on discount tires. I don’t want to sound like I don’t trust my bike to hold up, but I weigh somewhere around 210 pounds and my bike weighs between 15 and 20. I’m just saying it seems like a lot to ask. It’s not a bet I’m willing to make with the good health of my skeletal structure.
So, yes. I’ll give these guys the benefit of the doubt. I will admit the professional bike racers who dedicate hours to their sport are faster than me. It hurts, but it’s the truth.
I’m still pretty sure I’m faster than everyone else, though.
Improving the world's game
The World Cup started last week. Around the world, soccer fans are on edge as they follow their team’s fortunes. Countries are declaring national holidays so their citizens can stay home and watch their team’s games.
Meanwhile, in the United States, people are wondering why it’s taking so long this month to the golf highlights on SportsCenter.
It’s no secret soccer’s in the United States has a popularity that ranks it somewhere in the vicinity of lawn bowling and dwarf tossing. Every time the subject comes up — essentially every four years during the World Cup — Twin Cities newspaper columnists renew an argument against the game that has been going on at least since I played soccer in high school. This time around, one actually suggested liking soccer was just a few steps removed from burning the flag. “We’re Americans,” the message seemed to be. “We know better than to like that silly no-hands game.”
Ask them and Americans will give several reason for their dislike of soccer. A nation raised on the thrill-a-minute pacing of baseball does not believe the game is exciting enough. A country where fans frequently celebrate sports championships by turning over cars and starting fires tut-tut over the soccer hooligans who celebrate their team by fighting with the hooligan fans of rival teams.
Admittedly, there have been reports of Polish fans trying to schedule fights against rival fans. I don’t condone the violence, but it’s nice to know it’s so well scheduled. Although presumably the Poles would be wary of an planned brawl German fans, though.
Granted, soccer is not the easiest game to watch on TV. It’s hard to appreciate the individual work players do without seeing them up close, but it’s hard to appreciate the tactical aspect of the game — the reasons a team would pass the ball all the way back to its own goalkeeper when the goal is to get the ball in the net at the other end of the field — without a wide view.
Our sports do not lend themselves to moving backward, and it’s not a notion we accept readily. A runner would never voluntarily move back a base in baseball and a football team would never give up a sack just because it gave them more plays to choose from. About the closest we come in this country is a center in basketball passing the ball out for a three-pointer. But in Minnesota, home of the Timberwolves, even that must seem like a foreign concept.
I could argue the merits of soccer as a game, but that has been done before. Americans have their arguments and there isn’t much soccer fans will ever be able to do to convince them the game the rest of the world adores might be at least as entertaining as a rerun of According to Jim. Maybe what we need to do is find ways to make the world’s most popular game more appealing to the American public. With that in mind, I propose the following:
• At halftime, the team that is behind has to eat a tub of cow intestines.
• Two words: alligator pits.
• Every 15 minutes, someone gets voted off the team.
• Replace referees with women in striped bikinis.
• Speaking of scantily-clad women: where are the cheerleaders? How are we supposed to take a sport seriously when there are no dance squads? Come on, Sweden. Bring out the bikini team!
• Miss a shot, do a shot.
• Come on, you can use your hands just a little bit, can’t you?
• Is it too much to ask to have an occasional fight? And how about some kind of car crash?
• Two more words: exploding ball.
• No more letting goals decide the results of games. From now on, America votes. Think South Korea played the better game? Text your vote to 3845. Think Togo deserves the win? Text 3846.
I’m not sure any of this would actually be enough to make soccer appealing to the average American fan, but I’m pretty sure it’s a step in the right direction. If you disagree and would like to fight about it, please call to schedule a time.
Meanwhile, in the United States, people are wondering why it’s taking so long this month to the golf highlights on SportsCenter.
It’s no secret soccer’s in the United States has a popularity that ranks it somewhere in the vicinity of lawn bowling and dwarf tossing. Every time the subject comes up — essentially every four years during the World Cup — Twin Cities newspaper columnists renew an argument against the game that has been going on at least since I played soccer in high school. This time around, one actually suggested liking soccer was just a few steps removed from burning the flag. “We’re Americans,” the message seemed to be. “We know better than to like that silly no-hands game.”
Ask them and Americans will give several reason for their dislike of soccer. A nation raised on the thrill-a-minute pacing of baseball does not believe the game is exciting enough. A country where fans frequently celebrate sports championships by turning over cars and starting fires tut-tut over the soccer hooligans who celebrate their team by fighting with the hooligan fans of rival teams.
Admittedly, there have been reports of Polish fans trying to schedule fights against rival fans. I don’t condone the violence, but it’s nice to know it’s so well scheduled. Although presumably the Poles would be wary of an planned brawl German fans, though.
Granted, soccer is not the easiest game to watch on TV. It’s hard to appreciate the individual work players do without seeing them up close, but it’s hard to appreciate the tactical aspect of the game — the reasons a team would pass the ball all the way back to its own goalkeeper when the goal is to get the ball in the net at the other end of the field — without a wide view.
Our sports do not lend themselves to moving backward, and it’s not a notion we accept readily. A runner would never voluntarily move back a base in baseball and a football team would never give up a sack just because it gave them more plays to choose from. About the closest we come in this country is a center in basketball passing the ball out for a three-pointer. But in Minnesota, home of the Timberwolves, even that must seem like a foreign concept.
I could argue the merits of soccer as a game, but that has been done before. Americans have their arguments and there isn’t much soccer fans will ever be able to do to convince them the game the rest of the world adores might be at least as entertaining as a rerun of According to Jim. Maybe what we need to do is find ways to make the world’s most popular game more appealing to the American public. With that in mind, I propose the following:
• At halftime, the team that is behind has to eat a tub of cow intestines.
• Two words: alligator pits.
• Every 15 minutes, someone gets voted off the team.
• Replace referees with women in striped bikinis.
• Speaking of scantily-clad women: where are the cheerleaders? How are we supposed to take a sport seriously when there are no dance squads? Come on, Sweden. Bring out the bikini team!
• Miss a shot, do a shot.
• Come on, you can use your hands just a little bit, can’t you?
• Is it too much to ask to have an occasional fight? And how about some kind of car crash?
• Two more words: exploding ball.
• No more letting goals decide the results of games. From now on, America votes. Think South Korea played the better game? Text your vote to 3845. Think Togo deserves the win? Text 3846.
I’m not sure any of this would actually be enough to make soccer appealing to the average American fan, but I’m pretty sure it’s a step in the right direction. If you disagree and would like to fight about it, please call to schedule a time.
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