Sunburnt in February: Chronicles of an absent blogger

It's like Corona and SC made a baby.

Because this place could use a shot of positivity (and/or tequila).

So I returned from my five-night, something-day cruise to Mexico this morning and immediately began thinking of my little bastard child that some of you know better as Sports Casualties.

A few days of 78-degree weather, poolside reggae and fish-bowl margaritas will change a man. Unlike most cruises I had been on, this one wasn’t loaded with 19-year-old eye candy or fellow college kids icing each other at dinner or me yelling “God Bless the U.S.A.” at full blast on karaoke night after 12 hours of beer and whiskey drinks.

No, besides the occasional 60-year-old SC groupie or night at the piano bar with my senior citizen comrades, this was a pretty relaxing endeavor. A weekday cruise in February draws a little older of a demographic. Who knew?

But anyways, if there’s anything worse than someone else going on vacation, it’s listening to that person talk about his or her vacation. So that’s not what I’m here for.

Maybe it was the weather or the abnormally copious hours of sleep or the fact that I’m coming home to an internship that I really look forward to starting. Or maybe it’s my renewed appreciation for the visual of Gainesville coeds after hanging out with Archie and Edith Bunker look-a-likes for a few days.

But whatever it is, life is pretty damn good right now, and I’m excited about it.

When I arrived back at the terminal this morning, I immediately jumped on the iPhone and tweeted this:

Thumbing through SC in the waiting lounge. ANGRY HILSON ON THE LOOSE. #Emo

This wasn’t true. In fact, I actually woke up at 4:30 this morning and couldn’t go back to sleep for about a hour and a half. I went out on my balcony, watched the Radiance of the Seas approach the lights of downtown Tampa, read SC and thought about this very post. [I also checked to see who had been named the host of Wrestlemania 27, but we'll get to that awesome factoid in a moment.]

For some reason, Angry Hilson is slightly difficult to digest when you’re accustomed to the “hey brah, bring me another Sol” way of life. The dog post was a nice touch, though. Sometimes we have to remind our loyal readers that we do have hearts.

So for the first time in the history of SC, the Internet and post-Nixon society, this post is dedicated to all of the positive things that happened in the world of both real sport and fake sport this week. Let’s take a look.

FINALLYYY, THE ROCK HAS COME BACK TO ANAHEIM

Seriously, any week that starts with the MOST ELECTRIFYING MAN IN ENTERTAINMENT (yes, I will continue to write like I am making a Rock promo) returning to “Monday Night Raw” is going to be a great week.

Sorry, couldn’t get the link to the first half of this promo to work. Stop reading and look it up now. It’s worth it.

Everything about it was awesome. The just right amount of pre-show hype, the dramatic lights-out introduction, hearing the best wrestling promo of all time for the first time in seven years. At least until Wrestlemania, The Rock is back and its taken the build to April 3 in the Georgia Dome to an unprecedented level.

Is it slightly dangerous from a WWE standpoint? Sure it is. Having The Rock around for a month or so is only going to magnify the fact that they don’t have anyone near his caliber on their roster right now, especially on the mic.

But it definitely turns the “Road to Wrestlemania” in a totally different direction and should draw the best out of everyone. I know I say this all the time, but seriously, if you are ever going to start watching wrestling, this is the time to do it. If you need the cliff-notes to catch up on what’s going on, just let me know. Just don’t expect it to be this good all year long.

It’s spring freakin’ training

Baseball, baseball, baseball. For those of you who read us, you already know that spring training is one of my most favoritest times of the year.

Man Ram is still trying to find the clubhouse, Johnny Damon is pushing 40 with a mohawk and Evan Longoria is a greaser. It’s a great time to be a Rays fan besides, you know, the whole not having a bullpen thing. I can count the days until I’m road tripping to Port Charlotte or heckling A-Rod at Legends Field.

Uh, yeah.

I love spring training so very much. Plus, Miguel Cabrera is still an alcoholic and that’s funny.

NASCAR is back

Daytona is repaved, they changed the cars again and drivers are adopting a drafting pattern that makes them all look like lovebugs. In short, the Great American Race is on ice and ready to be consumed in its finest form.

Plus, Michael Waltrip got a truck race win Friday night ten years after winning his first Daytona race on the same day that his car owner and friend hit the wall in turn four and lost his life. Oh, and Kyle Busch didn’t win the Nationwide race.

America.

NBA Saturday Night

The best thing that the NBA does all season. Hands down.

However, one year they’re going to look back on tapes of this all-star weekend and be like “yeah, Blake Griffin was awesome, but what the hell was up with those shoes everyone was wearing?”

Gator baseball is No. 1

Because Gainesville is thirsty for a title of some kind, any kind.

-Bryan

Blake Griffin is taking over my entire existence

I woke up this morning thinking about Blake Griffin. When I stumbled out of bed for coffee, Blake Griffin. On the bus to campus, Blake Griffin. On the walk to class, Blake Griffin. My brain’s default home page is set to Blake Griffin and all the bookmarks read BLAKE. I am now sketching “BLAKE GRIFFIN” on my folders, on my hands, on the back of six Post-Its jammed three at a time into my front pockets. I have managed a stick figure with red hair hitting his head on a rim-like sphere. I can think clearly only of Blake Griffin – everything else is a blur, a whiz of periphery, a jumble of white lines and black dots of which I can only make out the following: these things are not Blake Griffin. I am singular in existence. I am a Griffinite, a Griffophile, a Griffter. And I am starting to fear that things are not okay.

At approximately 11:47 in the evening, just a night ago, I stated aloud – with nobody in earshot, possessed by some otherworldy hubris – that Blake Griffin is going to the Hall of Fame. I am sure of this. I am sure of this like Tyler Hansbrough is sure that if he was 30 pounds heavier, five years younger, born with springs in his leg, and the hands-down most riveting player in professional basketball, he too would be Blake Griffin. I am consumed with Blake Griffin. I am consumed with Blake Griffin like a fat man is consumed with a 20-piece McNugget meal with extra barbecue sauce and a honey packet for good measure. The L.A. Clippers are my 20-piece McNuggets. Blake Griffin is my McDonald’s. Blake Griffin is my Wal-Mart. Blake Griffin is all things to me.

And so my thoughts are few. I think only of 47 points. Only of 14 rebounds. Only of 19 for 24. Only of a 21-year-old’s pinpoint bank shot. Only of 27 straight double-doubles. I think of what Charles Barkley might’ve been like with the body of LeBron. I think of what God might’ve been like if he’d played at Oklahoma. I think how the Clippers will be good. I pause. I wait. Then I think again, yes, the Clippers will be good. I am not certain where this goes. I am not sure how this ends. I am not positive of anything other than Blake Griffin.

I am positive of Blake Griffin. And because Blake Griffin has boxed-out the rest of my non-Blake Griffin existence, there is but a lone musing left in my exceedingly reductionist, Griffin-throttled mind: what on earth will this young madman do next?

- Robbie