OUT OF HIS LEAGUE - WEEKLY AWARDS

By Tello Reál, mraspatello@rivalfish.com

jer·sey cha·ser, n, A person who only pursues, or is receptive to, the advances of athletes. Most commonly women, and most commonly found on or around college campuses or professional sporting contests.

I have a little bit of a dilemma: How can I fawn over the wily George Mason Patriots without aping every sportswriter that’s put his fingers to his dandruff-covered keyboard since GMU’s Sunday evening victory over UCONN? Don’t answer that. We at Rivalfish are averse to suggestions. And hippies. But no need to vent about that bane of my existence when more pressing matters exist. All the hippies are probably sleeping-in anyway.

Gosh-darnit, the dreadlocked, patchouli-oilers have distracted me again! What was I so worried about again? I hope I don’t have Alzheimer’s like alternate-reality Tony Soprano. My parents warned me about paying attention to those vagabonds. Just like they warned me about loose woman. That’s it!! Loose women! They need my help! They need my advice!

The little cartoon image of a paper clip from my Microsoft Word program just popped up and reminded me not to let myself forget about the justified jocking of GMU. Then it made an awkward casket-shutting noise as it saved my document. Seems like I have a lot on my plate this evening. But something’s brewing in my mansion of a mind, about to break the surface like the human byproduct of a breakfast burrito eight hours after consumption. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, GIGGITY! Problem solved! Jersey Chasers of the Beltway, loosen your corsets and unbutton your Mark Shale blouses, because the entire George Mason University Men’s Basketball Team, Student Body, Fanbase, and Alumni are now Rivalfish’s Jersey Chaser Targets of the Week!

Congratulations boys. Can’t say I knew who any of you were before last Wednesday, but that’s a mere detail. Enough of me thinking I’m a comedian, as it’s time for some substance. Jokes may be tasty, but stat manipulation is wicked delicious. During the regular season, the Pats beat two teams (Wichita State and UNC-Wilmington) with an RPI ranking in the top fifty, over the course of thirty-odd games. They beat zero teams in the RPI’s top-25. When it mattered, however, during that whole March Madness thingy, GMU has put together a four-game winning streak against teams with an average RPI ranking of 15. By the way, knowing what “RPI� stands for is not a prerequisite to waxing informatively about its importance. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you stat-junkies that.

All right, back to my one, super-original stat. Regular Season: zero wins against RPI top-25 teams. NCAA Tournament: Four in a row against teams in the RPI top-27 (thank a lot Wichita Stat for making those stats contrast a little less neatly). That’s too much of an improvement for me to even put into proper perspective. So just sleep with these guys and don’t make me get into it any further. And please don’t forget about their support staff. I’m talking coaches, trainers, team managers, the mascot, boosters, ball boys, etc. Heck, they’ll probably appreciate it more anyway. You might even get an accidental “I love you� from a confused and maltreated 9-year-old ball boy. And for once, I commend the female-starved fellas whom have been painting their bodies for Mid-Major ball since their days of dorm food and Kazaa porn. It's about time. Ladies, help them enjoy it while it lasts. Keep them away from their books, cause them to fail, and hope to enjoy each others' company again next year! Mid-major team success is cyclical, so you never know!

Every time I deem an athlete, or entire team, worthy of a cold-sore-coated tongue-bathe, I always rue the selection of its counterpart recipient. Who am I to tell girls not to roger some dude surely more talented than yours truly? The editor of the Rival Room, that’s who punks! Count it. But this time I don’t feel bad. This rimknuckle played so poorly, he made me want to “dook� all over my Tretorns. Pun intended? Yeah, if it makes you think I’m a wittier contributer.

Remember those high school sports award banquets back in, uh, high school? There was one for each athletic season: Fall, winter, and spring. For each season, both a male and female MVP was named. At many schools, there was some Johnny B. Good-Genetics who dominated in a different sport for each season. Whether it were soccer, basketball, and tennis, or football, swimming, and baseball, this prep stud deserved every HJ he got on the bench seat in the back of his folks’ Dodge Caravan. When it was time to give out awards, he was the obvious MVP for all three seasons. Plenty of also-rans bitched about him hogging the spotlight, but they deserved a wallop to their “wah!� muscle, as it was even less fair to penalize a kid for being too talented, and thus deprive him of an MVP sweep.

The NBA always used to make that mistake when they’d give the award to the Clyde Drexler, Karl Malone, and Charles Barkleys of the world, even though Michael “Nearing Fully Transcendent Status� Jordan clearly deserved the award during every pre-Wizards season. I used to hate that crap. So did Jordan. I heard from a girl that used to date my cousin’s neighbor that such slights led to his problems with gambling and infidelity. Nice job Commissioner Stern. Way to ruin a family. Don’t worry Michael, we learned from your hardships. That’s why I won’t hesitate further to cue the broken record that contains my favorite track. Chasers, DO NOT LAY J.J. REDICK! Or should I say, “please continue not laying that teary-eyed toad-licker.�

Ladies, throw on your earmuffs, as I have some less-than-gentlemanly words for the latest college cager to be selling insurance by next Easter. Baby need a bottle? How about a tan and an accurate jump shot you choke-artist. Way to play yourself out of the NBA lottery. Get ready to be picked up late in the first round, spend three months being physically violated by haze-happy NBA veterans during summer workouts, only to end up holding Wojo’s clipboard as you work your way up to being Coach K’s right-hand chump. If I were you, I’d drive head-on into a levy wall and call myself “Hurley 2K6.� Too soon? At least in that case, Duke fans would feel bad enough for you to not totally want to stab you for your 3/18 shooting performance in your last-game-ever-in-which-you’ll-be-one-of-the-top-ten-players-on-the-court. As they’d say in my neighborhood, “Skinnanoonoo yo’ neckass,� while tugging on your acne-sweat-soaked undershirt. In case you aren’t hip to that tale, Redick used to be the subject of arena-wide “Bacne!� chants before he realized he should probably cover up his pustules with a nerdy white undershirt. True story.

So J.J. Clay Redick, no Player of the Year, no scoring title, no Elite 8, no lottery money, and certainly no memory of you by next march. But don’t worry, if you miss seeing your name in print, check back at Rivalfish.com every now and then. I promise I’ll post every picture of your twin sisters that I can get my hands on.

Click Here To Check Out Past Winners of the Jersey-Chaser Target of the Week and Do Not Lay This Man! Awards From Rivalfish.com's Storied and Sordid Past!