The 83rd Annual Academy Awards are Sunday, which means the Kodak Theatre will host the biggest collection of white people since NHL All-Star weekend. It also means you’ll either spend the last hours of your weekend with a Redenbacher-stained copy of Entertainment Weekly across your lap or flipping between Carmelo and LeBron, the PGA’s Mayakoba Classic or anything else that doesn’t involve red carpets and strapless bras.
I’ll be sitting through the Oscars for the first time in forever since I actually caught most of the flicks competing for 8 1/2 pounds of gold-plated glory. Several Best Picture nominees have sports connections, from the blue-collar boxers of "The Fighter" to the unflinching athleticism of "Black Swan" to the backcountry biopic "127 Hours."
Of course, I also watched "The King’s Speech," but that’s because Colin Firth would be charming even if he were reading a belt sander's instruction manual.
If I were a voting member of the Academy — which won't happen since I don’t even qualify for Amazon Prime — I would have taken this year's actor and athlete connection even further by introducing a few more awards categories.
Don’t think about playing me off, orchestra, because we’re about to tear into my stack of envelopes:
The Johnny Depp High-Profile Disappointment Award: If Depp’s last movie was a college basketball team, it would play in the Atlantic Coast Conference this season. Overhyped and underperforming, the usually reliable ACC has been sloppy, disjointed and, at times, unwatchable. It’s essentially The Tourist with sweat-wicking costumes and a less attractive cast.
According to Beyond the Arc’s NCAA tournament projections, the ACC will only have at most four schools in the Big Dance. Other than defending champion Duke, North Carolina, Florida State and maaaaybe Boston College, the other nine schools will be either feigning interest in the NIT or tweeting excuses for why they lost to Stetson. Compare that to 2009 and 2010, when seven and six teams, respectively, got in.
The most surprising freefall belongs to Wake Forest whose 8-20 (1-12 ACC) record is their worst since 1985-'86. Also, with that November misstep against Stetson they became the first ACC team to lose to a hat style.
Best Actor: Former Wake star and current New Orleans Hornet Chris Paul, who willingly crumples like a discarded burger wrapper whenever a defender gets close enough to rustle the hairs on his forearms. To his credit, his flopping is still more believable than Jennifer Lopez as Anyone.
The Black Swan Batsh*t Crazy Award: And the Oscar goes to Harvey Almorn Updyke, Jr., the alleged Auburn University tree poisoner. With a name like a Hee Haw character and a mugshot that looks like a meth lab’s Employee of the Month, it shouldn’t be surprising that Updyke incriminated himself by calling a syndicated radio show to brag about poisoning the famous Toomer’s Corner oaks.
The most dedicated fans can do stupid things — I once bought an Eric Crouch St. Louis Rams jersey — but there’s a difference between being passionate and being reckless. This isn’t what rivalries are about, this isn’t what being a fan is about, and this sure as hell shouldn’t happen again. I'd appreciate if someone could read those sentences to Mr. Updyke.
The Speaking of Dead Wood Award: Oh hey, Jake Delhomme.
The Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss Celebration of Close Calls: It was sometimes hard to pinpoint the victim(s) in "The Social Network," other than the future productivity of American workers. The Winklevoss twins almost beat Mark Zuckerburg to the idea and implementation of Facebook but couldn’t quite make it work. Their unscripted NFL counterpart? Atlanta Falcons QB Matt Ryan, who spent the regular season writing the code for what looked like a sure-thing Super Bowl run. Instead, he spent one disappointing NFC divisional playoff game looking like he’d been unfriended by his throwing arm.
The Francis Ford Coppola Lifetime Achievement Award: This one should be etched and delivered to Dick Vitale’s vocal cords which, after thirty-one years of shouting from the broadcast booth, have to be as snarled and ropey as an Exxon shelf full of Slim Jims. (Runners Up: Geno Auriemma’s hair products; the fraying threads of CC Sabathia’s uniform pants)
The Aron Ralston ‘Willing to Remove His Own Arm’ Commemorative Multi-Tool: Brett Favre, who could’ve sawed through tendons, severed ligaments and snapped several bones but still would have been listed as “Probable” for the next game.
The 'Willing to Remove Aron Ralston’s Arm For Him' Award: Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker James Harrison, who would’ve gladly hit Ralston hard enough that his 127 Hours would’ve been condensed into two of three infinitely more painful seconds.
The Twilight Oversaturation Award: After four books, three movies and a disturbing amount of cardboard cutouts, you couldn’t swing a sullen teenager without hitting something vampire-y. Now that we’re on the verge of another NCAA tournament, it’ll be easier to outrun those prepubescent werewolves than to get through 24 hours without hearing the words “bubble”, “baby”, or “diaper dandy”. Oddly enough, I think those are also Justin Bieber songs.
The American Pie Direct-to-Video Award: Last year, the seventh installment of American Pie showed up on Netflix, in Redbox and everywhere other than a theatre, since there’s no Stifler, no Band Camp girl and none of that kid who dry-humped a pastry in Part 1. Trying to keep track of the cast of unknowns is a lot like watching the PGA Tour this season, where it’s hard for the casual fan to find a recognizable face. (Note: Remembering Colin Montgomerie from his role as Mrs. Doubtfire doesn’t count).
I was thrilled when Freddie Couples defected from the Senior Tour long enough to make a run at last weekend’s Northern Trust Open, just because I knew his game, his swing, his personality. This time last year, Tiger Woods was counting the penalty strokes in his personal life and we waited for someone to step into his spikeless Nikes. Now, Tiger’s back signing scorecards but even he can’t fill his own footprints ... so maybe it’s ridiculous to think that someone else can.
The Rooster Cogburn Memorial Hip Flask: To Detroit Tigers first baseman Miguel Cabrera, who should probably hope his batting average stays higher than his blood alcohol level.
That does it. I’m out of envelopes, out of statues and the orchestra is throwing their instruments in my direction. Thank you, good night and please, someone pick Chris Paul up off the carpet.
Jelisa Castrodale has learned a lot about life by making a mess of her own. Read more at jelisacastrodale.com , follow her on twitter at twitter.com/gordonshumway, or contact her at
Source:
No comments:
Post a Comment