In the first contest, the 2 combatants were too close to call; such a brutal back and forth that when the final whistle sounded nothing was resolved. It wasn’t until after the bell that one of the parties finally was awarded the narrowest of victories.

After the contest, loud voices complained about the outcome – they didn’t feel like it really resolved anything. One of the parties had disappointed – not performed to their ability. A re-match would truly resolve who is better.

After a rancorous argument, it was finally agreed that the two would meet again.

The coach of the losing side from the first match– a small, unlikeable man that is beloved by his athletes but isn’t liked by many others – spent the time leading to the re-match scheming and coming up with a new strategy to surprise his superior opponent.

Once the re-match began it was as hard-hitting and brutal as the first contest. In the end, the loser of the first bout rose and was able to out-last and emerge victorious.

If we had all just thought about it a little more, we would have realized that Rocky Two had already shown us the script of this year’s BCS title game.

The invite arrives in the mail and you can’t decide if you really want to attend. You tend to find these parties a little dull and full of people you either don’t particularly like or don’t know.

But you have two buddies that have agreed to attend and they talk you into joining them.

One of your pals, ‘Hawk’ doesn’t get out of the house much these days and is always thankful for any invite.

Your other buddy ‘Soo’ is more of a globetrotter; always hanging with the cool people at the coolest parties. You were even surprised he agreed to come to this party; you assumed he had better options available.

Arriving at the party it initially seems like most other parties: a big crowd right inside the door, noisy, mediocre food and drink options. After making it through the scrum at the entrance, you, Hawk and Soo head to the main room.

As soon as you make it in the main room, both Hawk and Soo notice a really cute girl in the corner. Nice smile, great body, seems friendly and approachable – she is a real trophy.

She also notices both of them and gives them a little smile. Hawk is definitely more interested in her than Soo, who appears as indifferent as a blackjack dealer at an Indian casino and seems to wish he were somewhere else. Maybe New Orleans, South Beach or L.A.

Around 8 or 9 pm, the party really gets going, Hawk starts talking to the trophy and she smiles and chats, but keeps looking over his shoulder at Soo. Soo still seems a little disinterested in the party as a whole, but he isn’t one to turn down a trophy like that and gives her a smile and wink back which makes her blush. It seems pretty obvious early that despite his lack of interest, the trophy has eyes for Soo.

The clock begins creeping closer to midnight and a strange thing occurs. The combination of Soo’s indifference and Hawk’s attention has started to have an impact on the trophy. Rather than fighting for the guy who seems to be almost insulted to be here with this group of people, she has really engaged with Hawk and they appear to really be getting along. They are beginning to look like they have known each other for ages. It really seems like there might be something serious brewing between them.

Distracted by all of the revelry – strange hook-ups, embarrassing drunken failures, people passing out right on top of you, you lose track of Hawk, Soo and the trophy.

As the countdown to twelve changes from minutes to seconds, you find Soo and the trophy cuddling in the corner while Hawk glares at them from across the room. How and when Soo swept in and took the trophy back you aren’t really sure – it is all a blur after hours of drinks – but it seems pretty apparent that after most of an evening acting resigned to a fate he didn’t want, he decided that he could at least get something out of it. Namely her.

As the clock strikes midnight, Soo and the trophy lock in a kiss that is slightly inappropriate for the public setting.

Hawk is out the door, heading home, before the first note of Auld Lang Syne is struck.

I don’t make a habit of writing previews for the myriad of meaningless bowl games that dot the calendar like piles of dog poop in your backyard. They really only matter to each player’s mother who is inevitably given the uniform with the bowl game patch to wear to each game the following season as they yell “My baby! That’s my baby!” after each good play.

But today I make an exception for the Beef O’Brady’s Bowl.

People outside of Florida may not be familiar with B O’B’s so let me provide 2 stories to explain B O’B’s itself and by extension the essence of the Beef O’Brady’s Bowl.

Note: henceforth I will not type out the full name of Beef O’Brady’s and instead refer to it as B O’B’s mostly because I like to picture Rivers Cuomo and B.o.B. hunched over a basket of chicken wings writing ‘Magic’.

When I lived in Tallahassee, I had a good friend (born and raised in Leon County, for the record) Shafer, who introduced me to B O’B’s and, not so coincidentally the joys of morning beers while driving an aluminum john boat around a lake scouting hunting locations. Shafer’s sole rationale for regularly visiting B O’B’s was that it had the ‘coldest beer in Tallahassee’. Not best. Not cheapest. Coldest.

Second, I once dragged the Mrs. to B O’B’s to share some of the ‘coldest beer in Tallahassee’ and a bucket of their ‘Award Winning Wings’. The wings – award winning, remember – are really the signature item on B O’B’s menu.  Naturally, they were so undercooked that the Mrs. spent the remainder of the evening hunched over in the bathroom.

And that is, in essence, all you need to know about tonight’s game. B O’B’s can’t get their signature item right so why would you think they could create a football game worth watching?

P.S. – all they do is freeze their mugs.

For me, the question of nature versus nurture was settled long ago. Some things only become of interest because of the surroundings where you live.

I am not a long time NBA guy. Yes, I watched the showtime Lakers in the 80’s and the Jordan-led Bulls in the 90’s but it wasn’t until I moved back to Denver and Carmelo followed me shortly after did I really engage with the NBA. Each year since Melo’s rookie year, when the Nuggets made it to the playoffs, my enjoyment of and interest in the NBA has grown like the Grinch’s heart. Now I am season ticket holder for the Nuggets, just in time for a season that almost didn’t happen.

Likewise, I grew up in a bi-partisan home that never really cared about or discussed politics. Like a lot of those Occupy ____ people living in tents it was at college where I first started paying attention to politics and, even then, only to the few issues of interest (go hug a tree and thank it for your oxygen, bitch).

But after school I moved to D.C. for work and, immersed in the belly of the beast, I woke up and started caring. Yes, there were issues of importance but also a level of gamesmanship in politics to satisfy my dormant competitive streak. I like when people I like win. And I hate when people I hate win (looking at you, Saxby Chambliss you spineless, witless, brain-sucking jackass), though I always try to keep it respectful.

So, the long journey of my life, from a non-NBA fan with no political interests to NBA die-hard and politics geek has led to me a strange epiphany.

The NBA is the most backward political arena in the world.

Only in the NBA, do you have owners (made up of billionaire capitalists, who are predominantly staunchly conservative), seeking regulations. As every other industry in the country spends millions of their profits to keep the ‘socialist’ agenda of the government out of their businesses, NBA owners are legitimately begging for an impartial governing organization to put limits on what they can do.

Wall Street is doing everything in the power (and most likely things that aren’t in their power) to keep regulations from being imposed on them to reduce the risk of a global financial meltdown.

Energy companies are so intent on short term profits, they are appalled at being asked to conform to regulations that may cost them some of their record profits in the short term but would maybe allow our grandchildren the ability to walk outside without dressing like an actor in Contagion in the long term.

But the lockout we just completed was due in part to the owners saying: “You know what, I am not smart enough to understand a cost-benefit analysis and can’t be trusted to figure out an appropriate salary for my employees, so please put limits on the risks coming from my idiocy.” I don’ remember too many hedge funds asking the Fed to place restrictions on the risks they can take in search of profits. The NBA owners are pleading with the NBA to limit the decisions they make, the exact opposite of every other business in the country.

In contrast, the NBA Players’ Union flew in the face of unions everywhere that are typically home to staunchly progressive groups seeking equal opportunities and shared profits. The NBA Players’ Union was out to make the most possible money for its members, common sense be damned.

Rather than seeking equitable wages that ensure prosperity for all and continued health of the entire industry, the Union was seeking maximum money, ignoring the reality that the more money the Union brings in, the less financially viable several of the teams become. Would most Unions rather have a slightly reduced salary pool or a smaller union because several teams shutter and there are fewer jobs for players in the NBA?

The typically liberal NBAPA (full of stereotypically liberal black players) took the conservative ‘let us make all that we can without interference’, while the conservative owners (full ofstereotypically conservative old, rich, white men) took the liberal “let’s regulate this industry for the good of all of us”.

Up is down and night is day in the NBA.

And now by  stepping in and halting the Chris Paul trade to the Lakers, the owners have gone from liberal to nearly communist.

No longer, can an individual exercise free will – whether they are a General Manager or a player. Now, a central authority dictates what is in the best interest of the community as a whole. All ‘workers’ are the same and should be fairly distributed.

Would NBA owners accept this level of top-down authoritarian control in whatever industry they earned their billions? Of course not.

But this is the NBA, where political ideals and political realities aren’t just disconnected. They are exactly opposed.

I find it interesting that all of this occurs soon after Mikhail Prokhorov purchased the New Jersey Nets.

A Russian Oligarch, Prokhorov is very familiar with a political system where a central authority dictates who will be winners and who will be losers and what is in the best interest of everyone involved.

He will fit right in the new NBA.

Thursday, December 8, 2011 will go down as one of the strangest days in the history of sports. From the moment we woke up (at least those of us here out west) to the moment we went to bed, bombshells were dropping like we were in 1941 London.

We start with a superstar baseball player who may or may not be 31 years old signing a 10-year contract with a new team in L.A.. My favorite part of this is the catch-22 it puts Angels fans in. The only way a 10-year contract (ending when Pujols is at least 41 – that’s right at least) is worth this much is if Albert starts borrowing some of Barry Bonds training secrets. But then if Pujols borrows Bonds training secrets, the Angels become a laughingstock and it is totally not worth it.

Then a bunch of pitchers traded teams but none of them are life changing, so as a non-baseball fan I will cover them all thusly: fast forward to May, I switch on a <insert name of baseball team> game and say to myself: “Oh yeah, I forgot <insert name of pitcher traded yesterday> went to <insert name of baseball team>. Wow, he already gave up 5 runs and it is only the 3^rd inning? Good signing.”

By lunch time, the NBA had kicked into high gear as the Mavs pulled a Marlins “post-championship fire sale” for secondary players – Caron Butler to the Clippers and (possibly) Tyson Chandler to the Knicks.

But these moves were immediately eclipsed by Chris Paul’s knee brace….I mean Chris Paul trade rumors.

As the sun began to kiss the mountains here in Denver, it became confirmed that the Hornets were trading Paul to the Lakers in a 3 team trade that would send Pau Gasol to Houston and Lamar Kardashian to New Orleans – along with several former Rockets and Bruce Jenner’s left-over face skin.

At that point, the day has been fun, interesting and somewhat logical (even if the Angels overpaid by 4 years and $50 million). But like some sort of horror movie, as night descended, so did the insanity.

I would have thought it was a bad joke or the fever induced delirium of a bitter Gator fan when the first rumors of Charlie Weis becoming head coach at Kansas materialized. But then it actually happened.

A team desperate to be even relevant in the college football landscape went out and hired a proven loser. An arrogant, lazy coach living on an undeserved reputation who has done nothing but fail since he left the cold embrace of Lord Belichick. Rather than gain respect and attention by actually trying to build a real program through hard work, KU leadership decided to go for the sex tape approach to grabbing attention. Yes, releasing a sex tape is a good way to get attention, but then you are famous for all the wrong reasons. Let’s stop this analogy right here, because the words ‘Charlie Weis’ and ‘sex tape’ in the same paragraph are starting to make my eyes bleed.

KU will undoubtedly be mentioned more frequently on College GameDay next season with Charlie scooting around the sidelines – but most of that attention will be of the ‘what is wrong with KU under Weis?’ variety.

A long time Weis loather, I am thrilled with the jokes that this affords me but, as a FSU fan, saddened by the years of dominating UF that we have lost.

As we were still laughing at KU, David Stern took it as a personal affront and said “Oh, you think that was short-sighted and misguided? Well, take a look at this!” before disallowing the Paul trade.

Apparently some whiny owners complained about competitive balance. Which is an interesting argument, so I hope one of those idiots answer one question for me:

How does Paul signing with a big market team next summer as a free agent, netting the Hornets absolutely nothing in return, help them compete better than the 4 players and draft pick they would have gotten in this deal?

Apparently Dan Gilbert, owner and Chief Idiot on Charge of the Cavaliers would prefer every other team sit through their own Decision each summer as their superstars head to (literally) sunnier destinations.

What a long, strange day it has been.

In honor of the Trading Places Thursday we just witnessed, this week, we pick two games that involved some sort of swap. So which team won that ‘trade’?

Indianapolis @ Baltimore

SD: In the middle of a cold winter night nearly 20 years ago, the Colts snuck out the door and left Baltimore like Cal Ripken’s wife leaving Kevin Costner’s house. Allegedly. It took another decade but when Cleveland wouldn’t give Art Modell a new stadium for his crappy Browns, Baltimore finally had a team to root for again. Since both moves were completed each team has won a Super Bowl. Each team has produced one of the best players of the last fifteen years (Peyton Manning, Ray Lewis). Each team has a key contributor accused of murder (Marvin Harrison, Ray Lewis – again). In the end, the city of Baltimore got all of the same things that Indianapolis took from them, outside of an original scroll of On The Road, without having to move to Indianapolis. That sounds like a win to me.

Chicago @ Denver

A little less than 3 years ago, the Broncos sent a whiny Jay Cutler to the Bears in exchange for Kyle Orton’s neck beard and some draft picks. A year ago, this question would have looked like a no-brainer as the Broncos were headed to the #2 overall pick and the Bears to the NFC title game. But now, Cutler’s inability to stay healthy (or fight through injuries), his tabloid relationship with professional attention whore Kristen Cavalleri and the Bears perennial mediocrity must leave Bears fans scratching their moustaches and drowning their sorrows in Old Style. The Broncos are riding the high of the Tebow phenomenon, winning inexplicable games every week and becoming America’s (if not God’s) Team. Bronco country tried a time period in which we had a good, but not great team and a good but not great quarterback that we rode to early round playoff exits every year (see: 2000-2005). It wasn’t fun. Give me the lunacy and ridiculousness of the Tebow era any day, even if it doesn’t last any longer than his famous speech.

 When it comes to NFL disappointment, I live by the motto: It is better to burn out than fade away.

It’s the eyes.

The big, pleading eyes of a sea lion. The cold, black pearl eyes of a shark that not only seem lifeless but appear to actually actively repel light rather than absorb it.

You may look at the flippers and amorphous blob of a sea lion but you don’t see them. You see the precious eyes that immediately start a Sarah McLachlan song playing on a loop in your head and your hand instinctively reaching for the checkbook where you will pledge your life savings to the ASPCA.

Just to save that precious face that anthropologists say affects us so much because of the similarity to human babies. Never mind that if I saw a baby that actually looked like a sea lion, that toddler would be off to join the traveling circus faster than you can say ‘watch out for the elephant droppings.’

But seeing those eyes you can’t help but feel your heart warm and grow like the Grinch when little Suzy Who down in Whoville is nice to him.

Until you see that ripple in the water and those soulless black bullet eyes of an eating machine.

That’s when you know that the inevitable and the unthinkable are on a collision course like Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan.

That sea lion may outwardly seem to have as many concerns in this world as Hugh Hefner; a permanent look of “Do you think I f***ing care?” plastered on that hairy little face. But inside that tub of jelly he calls a body, his heart pounds knowing that there are things out there plotting his demise.

The shark’s eyes are impenetrable. They show nothing and convey nothing. They simply are. They have an objective and simply march toward it without reflection or concern.

The ripples get closer and the sea lions face shifts from ‘George Wendt after Thanksgiving dinner’ contentment to the concern of a father watching his 16-year old daughter get in the convertible BMW owned by a boy in her school, because we all know what a high school boy with a convertible BMW is really like.

The water explodes and the massive grey head comes popping out. As if to re-iterate is inhumanity, the already dead eyes actively roll back in its head. Where the sea lions eyes grow to convey fear and helplessness, the shark’s eyes literally disappear because it doesn’t need to see or feel, it just needs to eat.

Multiple sets of teeth snap at the sea lion, trying to simultaneously, grab, crush and shred him.

Sometimes the sea lion miraculously escapes. An unseen force motivates the sea lion a moment before those jaws can turn it into sea lion tartare and he glides away untouched.

Sometimes the shark grips him momentarily, before the sea lion finds the most unlikely of escape hatches and wriggles free.

Sometimes it is over before it even begins and the sea lion is like a raven of yore. Nevermore.

Such is life as a wide-eyed sea lion amongst the angry swells of the ocean and such is the life of a gambler floating upon the white-caps of Vegas battling the heartless, soulless casino corporations.

You MAY win sometimes. You WILL lose sometimes. But it will NEVER be easy.

At least sea lions don’t have to worry about sharks force-feeding them free alcohol.