Crisis at the Urinals (Part I)

The following is Part 1 of a 2-part series on the current urinal crisis ravaging our great nation.

Trigger warning: This post frequently uses words such as "penis" and "urinate,” in addition to other, more colloquial forms of these words. If you are sensitive to such diction (diction, get it?), I advise you to stop reading now.

One of my earliest childhood memories circa 1982 is walking into the men's bathroom at the Philadelphia Eagles game. The line at each urinal was long and I stood awkwardly waiting for my turn. It wasn't weird that I was an unaccompanied 6-year-old in a room full of drunk men with their faces painted green. What was weird is that every guy at the urinal was looking at up the ceiling. At first I thought, "Why is everyone looking up? Is there something cool up there? I can't see it!" But then at some point (maybe then, maybe years later), I realized what was happening: By looking up at the ceiling, Man A was giving Man B a non-verbal cue to indicate that Man A was not, in fact, looking at Man B's penis. It was Man A's way of saying, "I am not a pervert. This is a safe space. You may urinate freely."

Something about this cultural practice rubs me the wrong way, but I'd prefer it to the current situation amongst teenage boys, the cohort with which I am most familiar. Yes, I know it sounds weird that I am intimately familiar with the urinal practices of teenage boys, but I work with young people, drink a lot of water, and pee a lot, so this is, like, totally normal.

There are two very strange things these young men do. The first can be described as "diagonal pissing."

Let me paint a picture: Jacob and Nate have to pee and there are only two urinals. Jacob takes the urinal on the left but stands on the right side of that urinal at a 45 degree angle so his back is facing Nate. He then pees diagonally rather than using the traditional straight-ahead method.

In the meantime, Nate is standing on the left side of the right urinal doing the same thing. While the boys now have their backs turned to one another, their asses, ironically, are practically touching.

What's happening in this scene? Well, both young men are making absolute sure that no one can see their junk. They've turned away from any possible peeper and attempted to create complete privacy in an otherwise public space. 

Right now you're probably thinking, "But what if there are three urinals? The boy using the middle urinal can't turn his back in both directions." Excellent question. Thank you for asking.

You know what these boys do when there are three urinals? They wait. They wait for the urinal on the left or the right to become available rather than taking the open urinal in the middle. I've witnessed such absurdity many times. I initially assumed something was wrong with the middle urinal, but then I realized what was happening, jumped the line, walked right up to the middle urinal, and peed straight ahead.

Hypotenuse pissing is not the strangest part of this crisis, however. 

Back in 1982 at the Eagles game, boys, men, and Boyz II Men (Philly joke, get it?) stood a few inches from the urinal, removed their penis from their pantalones, pointed it forward, and peed. Nowadays, boys walk all the way up to the urinal so they are basically straddling it rather than standing in front of it. They then pee downward.

What's happening in this scene? Well, once again, rather than potentially allowing someone to peep their private parts, these boys have left no space between themselves and the urinal, making it impossible for anyone to see anything. And, yes, there are boys who combine the diagonal pissing with the downward pissing.

So what's really happening in these scenes? I'll tell you exactly what's happening. These boys are so afraid, so private, so insecure that they don't know how to piss in public. Back in the day, we played grab-ass in the locker room, we showered together at camp, and we ran naked through the woods. We weren't afraid of our own bodies, we weren't afraid of each other's bodies, and, to be blunt, we knew what each other's dicks looked like.

Nowadays, there's no grab-ass, no locker room, no shower, and no woods. These boys are in their rooms and on their phones, and when practice is done, they throw on their sweats and they're out the door. No one is ever naked around anyone and that's why they're so damn scared to take a leak. 

Years ago, I was coaching 9th grade boys' basketball and we often practiced in the mornings before school started. I told the kids to bring a towel and soap to shower after practice and one of the kids said to his teammates, "You'll probably want to bring a bathing suit as well." 

I thought, "What in the fuck would you need a bathing suit for? You're not jumping in the pool after practice."

I said, "Thank you for being so thoughtful and for validating the various feelings your teammates may be experiencing at this moment."

Back in the day, by looking up at the ceiling, men conveyed to one another, "I'm not looking." Nowadays, by hiding in the urinals, boys convey to one another, "Stop looking!" Back in the day, there was a fear that one could be perceived as a pervert. Nowadays, there is a fear that everyone around you is a pervert. This is not progress; this is a crisis, and I am certain this generation is in deep trouble, drowning in their own piss-stained anxiety.

Stay tuned for Part II early next week.

The Reverse Layup

The reverse layup is a trick shot. You can watch an entire NBA game and not see a single one. Shit, you can watch 20 high school games and not see one. It looks pretty, but it's basically useless.

So when Panini (my nearly 15-year-old daughter) lost in H-O-R-S-E to some punk kid named Adrian cuz Adrian could shoot a reverse layup and Panini couldn't, I nearly lost my mind.

Adrian is a 13-year-old Canadian Jew whose grandfather, Albert, fled from Libya in the 70s after Gaddafi came to power. Albert made his way to Italy and eventually to Israel. In the 80s, after Egypt and Israel were at peace, he started a cruise line between the two nations. In the 90s, he and his Canadian-Israeli wife immigrated to Toronto where he made his money helping the United Nations transport people and equipment to war zones.

Adrian's father, Evan, is currently one of the richest Jews in Canada. I'm talking Crazy Rich. He invested in weed before it was legal (Albert was not initially supportive of this endeavor) and then, when it became legal, founded a medical marijuana company which recently sold for $3.2 billion. That's right: billion.

So if your name is Evan and you're a billionaire, what do you do with your money? 

Well, first off, you check on your pre-nup and divorce your wife who, according to an anonymous source, is a "money-hungry bitch." You then get a girlfriend about half your age who has most definitely had a nose-job but is not yet in need of a boob job praised be the Lord our God.

Then, you buy an estate on an island in the Caribbean and build a giant house with a pool, pool table, bar, giant flat-screen TV, work-out room, and quick-drying tennis court with basketball hoops on either end. You then hire a personal chef whom you will fly down to the Caribbean in your private jet.

In the meantime, you pay Drake, yes Drake, to perform at Adrian's Bar Mitzvah, pay a private basketball coach tens of thousands of dollars to make Adrian decent at hoops, and pay a videographer seven barrels of Jew gold to make a highlight reel of Adrian playing hoops and of Drake pretending he and Adrian are friends. (I always enjoy when one rich white guy pays another rich white guy for the services of a black man. Happy belated Juneteenth!)

So Albert, Evan, Adrian, the chef, and the rest of the family arrive in the Caribbean for their holiday vacation. Unbeknownst to them, Evan's sister, Deborah, is good friends with the Boss' brother, and it just so happens that the Boss is also on vacation in the Caribbean with her entire family, including yours truly. (Full transparency: We are Rich Jews, but not Crazy Rich Jews.)

We invite ourselves over to the family estate, and Adrian's younger sister (Sarah, age 10) is at the bar making overly alcoholic drinks for the adults. Appetizers are served and Panini thinks the appetizers are dinner so she eats them as if they are dinner. Adrian and Sarah's twin brother, Michael, spend most of dinner playing Madden on the giant TV in the middle of the living room. The rest of the time, they're on their excessively large iPhones. 

When Evan and I meet, he is wearing khaki shorts, a belt, a tucked-in polo, and loafers without socks. I'm wearing thrift shop athletic shorts down to my knees, a ripped t-shirt with a cartoon figure taking a shit, and flip-flops. He shakes my hand, reluctantly.

Adrian is drenched in Nike Dri-FIT and wearing $350 LeBron's. Spoiled rotten Michael is wearing Air Jordan 4's which you know, if you've been on eBay any time in the last 30 years, cost around $800. Panini is wearing a tank-top, shorts that are too short, and flip-flops.

Deborah is getting drunk, Evan's nose-job trophy girlfriend is comparing nose-jobs with some of her nose-job trophy friends who have arrived, and the Boss, in her middle-aged grace, is prettier than all of them.

Now I'd seen Adrian's videos and I knew the kid could play, but I also know that my daughter Panini can shoot the shit out of the ball and I'll be damned if any sl*pe's gonna put their greasy yellow hands on his boy's birthright, I mean I'll be damned if I'm gonna let Adrian think he’s all that and not talk some shit, so I bet sloppy Deborah $20 that Panini will whoop Adrian's ass in H-O-R-S-E, and it's on.

We head out to the basketball court, Panini and Adrian warm up a bit, and I can see that Adrian is overconfident. How could he, the most privileged Jew in the great province of Ontario, lose to some gangly American girl???

Before they begin, Panini says, "Are we playing one game or is it best out of three?" and I shit you not, Adrian responds, "Well, let's see what happens," which is code for, "Shiiiiiit, I assume I'm gonna beat your ass in one game, but just in case I don't, let me hedge." 

The game starts and it takes both of them a few minutes to find their rhythm. Adrian is shooting hero shots because, as previously mentioned, he's a bitch-ass Crazy Rich Jew. Panini is nervous and struggling to find her range. 

But then Panini starts hitting: soft elbow jumpers, silky 16-footers from the wing, buttery 12-footers from the baseline. Banks. Floaters. Lefty layups. You name it. Bratty Michael starts complaining that Panini keeps shooting the same shot, when in fact Panini is moving all over the court. Are most shots between 12 and 17 feet? Yes. Do they look similar? Yes. Are they the same shot? No. Should ignorant little Michael shut his ignorant little mouth? Yes.

Adrian starts missing cuz he's got no heart and cuz he's a choke and cuz he and Drake aren't actually boys. Panini wins.

And sure enough, by the time Adrian's last brick hits the ground, he's like, "Best out of three."

And that's when it happens: Adrian discovers that Panini can't shoot a reverse layup. Her father has most certainly diversified her skill set, but we never bothered with the reverse layup because, like I said before, it's a motherfucking trick shot. 

So let's be clear about one thing: Does Adrian have every right to use the reverse layup to win? Absolutely. Is it a bitch-ass move to do so? Most definitely. Yes, you can "win" H-O-R-S-E by identifying and exploiting that one shot your opponent can't shoot, but you haven't "won" a god damn thing by doing so, and I guarantee Adrian fell asleep that night feeling deep shame and wondering why Drake never texts him back.

As this debacle unfolds, drunk Deborah screams obscenities at any child within 20 feet, Evan stands smugly with his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face, and I feign magnanimity, taking careful mental notes which I will one day use against Adrian, his father, and the entire Canadian medical marijuana industry.

Panini loses the next two games and eight of her ten letters come from the reverse layup. And does piss-ant Michael say anything about Adrian using the same shot over and over? Hell no. He just prances around gleefully, cluelessly scuffing up his Jordan 4's and cheering stupidly for his stupid, immoral brother.

I think Panini cried after the defeat. I took her into my arms, looked straight in her eyes, and said, "Don't worry. We may only be Rich Jews without a private jet and a highlight reel, but at least we're not Crazy Rich Jews who actually lose when they win.”

Cool Sweater, Dad

The whole thing is on film.

The greatest moment of my extraordinarily uneventful childhood is on film. 8mm film, to be exact. Recorded by my dear old mother in 1987 at a YMCA in Denver, Colorado on a Sony Camcorder.

I've watched the video well over 100 times. 100 is not hyperbole. I watched it on repeat with my friends in the days after it all went down, I've watched it a few times a year since, and I watched it endlessly this past week, when my 77-year-old, dear old luddite mother found this particular 8mm tape in a bin of 50 8mm tapes, dusted off and plugged in the Camcorder, pressed play, used her iPhone to take a video of the video, and somehow figured out how to text it to me.

Back in 1987, the second best team in the prestigious South Denver 12-and-under YMCA league was Don Hartman's team. Hartman coached football, baseball, and basketball, wore khaki pants, and voted (and probably still votes) Republican. He was also kind of an asshole. He yelled at his players in a mean, not productive, way, and his son was an athletic underachiever who, and I'm only guessing here, is currently an obese 45-year old who quit playing sports years ago and drinks copious amounts of alcohol to quiet the voices of resentment towards his overbearing dad. 

The best team in the highly acclaimed South Denver 12-and-under YMCA league was our team, coached by a guy named Craig D*****. Craig coached baseball and basketball, usually wore shorts and a Duke sweatshirt, and doesn't vote at all because he is currently in prison. Craig still holds the record in Colorado high school baseball for single-season batting average and is a sports savant. He coached me in baseball and basketball for years and babysat my brothers and me when my parents went out of town. Craig, it would turn out, is also a scumbag. He has been in and out of jail for the last 15 years for sexually abusing multiple under-age girls.

Every year, either Hartman's team or our team won the league, and it was no different in 1987.

With two seconds left in the game and our team up by three points, our best player, a tall, sinewy white kid named Ryan Lidell, is shooting a free throw. If he makes it, game over.

Ryan was, by far, our best player. He rarely spoke and I'm not sure how bright he was, but he had a silky jump shot and would go on to become one of the best shooting guards in the state.

Ryan misses the free-throw and a kid on Hartman's team named Brandon Johnson grabs the rebound.

Brandon was a stocky black kid who would go on to become one of the best running backs in the state and eventually play football at Berkeley. The kid was a beast.

Brandon takes a few dribbles up the court, leaps into the air from behind half-court (remember, this is all on video), and heaves the ball towards the basket.

Swish.

Hartman's team goes crazy because no one has ever seen, let alone made, a shot like that. Craig starts arguing (to no avail) with the refs that the shot shouldn't count because the ball had gone through the basket with such force that the net actually bounced it back up and out through the rim. Yes, this is all on film. 

Normally teams would play a 5-minute overtime, but let's be honest: It was probably a random Thursday evening and moms and dads just wanted to get home, eat dinner, and watch the Cosby show. So the powers-that-be decided that we would play a sudden death overtime, generally unheard of in basketball. First team to score a point would be the champion of the world renowned South Denver 12-and-under YMCA league.

We win the tip-off and immediately give the ball to Ryan who drives right to the basket and gets fouled as he's shooting. Ryan now has two free-throws, and all he has to do is make one of them.

He misses the first.

He misses the second.

Right before Ryan misses the second free-throw, however, some skinny, blonde, clueless kid on Hartman's team moves spots on the lane, which is illegal. So Ryan gets another free throw which, if you're counting, is his fourth opportunity to win the game.

He misses it.

Hartman's team dribbles up the floor, passes it around a few times, and eventually gets the ball to Brandon...

Now if you're watching the video at this point, you can see one player in particular flashing across the court, trying to anticipate where the next pass is going. I was a skinny, weak kid with unshapely legs and a shitty jump-shot, but my athletic IQ was high and my competitiveness (read: desperate desire to win at all costs) was super high because I grew up with two older brothers whom I had to beat in everything all the time.

In addition to witnessing my basketball greatness, you can also hear my dad yelling, "Don't foul! Don't foul!" because he knew that any one of Hartman's players might make a free-throw, unlike Ryan who, and I'm only guessing here, has an altar in his house to yours truly for saving his ass that evening.

My dad never missed a game. He had three sons, all of whom played three sports, but he came to every game he could and, whenever possible, bragged about our occasional athletic successes cuz why the hell wouldn't he; we were his sons. My own daughter recently played in the state tournament for her tennis team, and it occurred to me not to go because I figured she would get her butt kicked so what was the point. As I was vacillating, my wise wife said to me, "What would your dad have done??"

So Brandon has the ball on the left wing outside the three-point line, takes a couple of dribbles towards the free-throw line, and makes an extremely ill-advised decision against a zone defense: a cross-court pass.

When the ball leaves his hand, I am out of the frame. But right as the ball gets to Brandon's teammate, this thin, pale, outstretched arm comes out of nowhere to lunge for it and make what can only be described as the Greatest Basketball Play Ever To Be Made.

The moment I steal the ball and start dribbling up the court, you can hear everyone start screaming and, over the roars, my dad yell, "That's the way, [S]aulie!"

I dribble up the left side of the court as fast as I can as Hartman's little bastards chase me down. I've shot a million left-handed lay-ups because kids with my athletic ability (read: lack of athletic ability) need to be well-rounded, but for some reason I decide to shoot a right-handed finger-roll. As the ball leaves my finger tips, one of Hartman's henchmen pushes me in the back and the referee blows his whistle.

There is no need for free-throws though, as the ball gently caresses the backboard and falls softly through the basket.

Game over.

Championship won.

Hero status attained.

I leap in the air with both hands raised and my teammates mob me as they scream for joy. Some of them start taunting a player on the other team, but Coach Craig the Creeper immediately reprimands them. I break away from the scrum and fix my hair because, well, I didn't want my hair to be messed up.

A figure with his back to the camera momentarily comes into the frame and blocks the rest of the video. It's my dad. He has greying hair, he's wearing a blue and white, cable-knit sweater, and his arms are raised in victory.

The sweater is a cross between an ugly Christmas sweater and a 1970s smoking jacket. It's made of wool and has an awful, mountain-like design. It's also open in the front with big buttons, has a thick collar, and has two big pockets for, and I'm only guessing here, the bars of dark chocolate my dad used to carry around. He wore that atrocious sweater all the time.

In the weeks and years following my act of heroism, I’ve watched different moments of the video in slow-motion countless times: Brandon's ridiculous shot from half-court, my magical steal, the disrespectful taunting, etc.

But in the last six years, ever since my dad died, I pause the video most often on my pops in his moment of paternal pride. I can't see his face, but I know he's beaming.

It took me a while, but I finally discovered who the real hero is.

Just Don't Make Me Cry

My son Broosevelt is a clueless 8-year-old blondini whose hobbies include playing soccer and basketball, reading crap books like Captain Underpants, eating handfuls of Fruit Loops like his svelt father, throwing balls at plants, and getting owned by his twin sister, Boni.

My daughter Boni is a precocious, silky-haired, blue-eyed vixen whose hobbies include swimming fast, drawing in her sketch book while listening to Taylor Swift on the iPad, eating red peppers like most people eat apples, making out with her spoon at the dinner table, and owning her twin brother, Broosevelt.

The other day, Boni brought home some magnets from school. She claims a friend of hers named Mazzie gave them to her, but she has been circumspect regarding how exactly they came into her possession. For context, some of you may remember Boni's Post-it Note stealing spree...

The magnets are black, 1cm thick, donut-shaped, very strong, extremely loud, and super annoying. Kids love them. 

Boni played with them all night and left them on the couch or the kitchen counter or probably the floor cuz she has a tendency to leave her shit everywhere. The next morning before school, Broosevelt spotted the magnets, grabbed them, and took them to school because he has a tendency to make unwise decisions.

Broosevelt reports that he was playing with the magnets at his desk at 9:04am when some little bitch (my words, not his) named Kaaviya (KAH-vee-uh) asked to borrow them. Broosevelt proceeded to make another unwise decision, and said yes. Less than a minute later, Broosevelt saw Kaaviya go to the bathroom and thought to his poor little self, "Please don't break them."

In the bathroom, Kaaviya, she would later report, showed the magnets to Mira. Now, I don’t know this Mira girl but I can tell you with total certainty that she is also a little bitch. Why? Because she has zero dexterity and she dropped the fucking magnets and they broke.

Broosevelt reports that at 9:10am, Kaaviya returned to the classroom and appeared to be hiding something behind her back. Broosevelt asked if Kaaviya had broken the magnets, and Kaaviya said, "Kind of, but it wasn't me."

Kaaviya then handed the broken magnets to Broosevelt who, trembling with fear, thought, "Ohhhh my god. Boni is gonna be so mad at me!"

When school was over, Broosevelt and Boni started walking home, and he showed her the broken magnets.

Boni roared, "You broke them?!? I told you not to bring them to school and you didn't listen and now I'm super mad!" 

Broosevelt told Boni that Mira, not he, had broken the magnets, but his claims of innocence did not pacify her.

Boni: Give me two dollars, and we can forget this terrible incident ever occurred.

Broosevelt: How about $1?

Boni: $2.

Broosevelt: $1.

Boni: $2!

Broosevelt: $1!

And so on and so forth...

After they arrived home and negotiations had stalled, Broosevelt, in his infinite wisdom, made the following suggestion: "How about I give you $1 but you can also slap me in the face?"

Boni agreed.

So Broosevelt went upstairs to his room, grabbed $1 out of his tin lunch-box where he hoards his Jew gold, and came back downstairs.

He handed over the dollar to Boni and said, "Just don’t make me cry."

Personal Tragedy

When my dad died in 2016, I received lots of heartfelt condolences. Yesterday, when Federer announced his retirement, my phone blew up from morning to night with messages from friends and family.

"Saul, are you okay?"

"Saul, I'm so sorry."

"Saul, don't kill yourself."

"Saul, now you can kill yourself!"

To those of you who reached out, thank you for your compassion. To those of you who didn't, go fuck yourself.

Whoever you are, I want you to know one thing: I'm good.

When my dad died, I mourned his death, but mostly I celebrated his life. Yesterday, when Federer announced his retirement, I felt sad his career was ending, but mostly I celebrated his greatness. It is this greatness that allowed me to sleep peacefully last night.

Federer is a pure genius on the tennis court. He is a master of the game. He personifies tennis perfection.

Federer is the greatest of all of time.

The Greatest of All Time. 

The GOAT.

If you don't care about tennis, I suggest you stop reading now. If you do care, prepare for enlightenment.

Don't be confused by big numbers.

Nadal has 22 Grand Slams, Djokovic has 21, and Federer has 20. Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 points in one game, averaged over 50 points per game in the 1961-62 season, and claimed to have had sex with 20,000 women, but no one considers him the GOAT.

Why? Because being the most dominant in your era does not make you the GOAT. Every era has a dominant player, and thus the GOAT conversation demands that we look across eras, and thus that we speculate and discuss hypotheticals, which I will do shortly. But first a little tennis history.

In 2001, Goran Ivanisevic and Patrick Rafter, neither of whom knew much about hitting groundstrokes, played in the finals of Wimbledon. The very next year, in 2002, Lleyton Hewitt and David Nalbandian, neither of whom knew much about hitting volleys, played in the finals of Wimbledon. See what happened was that after the 2001 tournament ended, Wimbledon ripped up all of its courts and installed 100% ryegrass, which yields higher bounces and slows the game down. Before 2001, most players served and volleyed. Today, almost no one does, and man is it boring to watch.

Wimbledon wasn't the only tournament to slow down its courts. The US Open, the Australian Open, and pretty much every other hard court in the world slowed down their surface, once again advantaging baseliners and fucking serve-and-volleyers in the arse.

Even tennis balls themselves have become softer and slower. Remember those tennis balls from the 80s that turned into lacrosse balls after 10 minutes? Now after 10 minutes tennis balls turn into my Saturday morning oatmeal with peanut butter, strawberries, and honey: sloppy mush.

But more important than the courts and the balls is the string.

In 1997, Gustavo Kuerten became the first player to win a Grand Slam using polyester string. Within a few years, everyone was using poly. In case you don't know anything about anything, poly strings give players the ability to put an incredible amount of top spin on the ball and, essentially, hit any shot from anywhere. Picture Nadal or Djokovic or, for that matter, any of today's strong-legged scrubs 20 feet behind the baseline, deep in the corner, on the full run. Somehow, magically, they're still able to hit a winner. That shot did not exist 20 years ago.

In other words, slower surfaces, mushy balls, and poly strings have transformed tennis from a battle between serve-and-volleyers and baseliners (think Edberg v. Chang) to a battle between baseliners and baseliners (think every/any player on the tour today v. every/any player on the tour today). It is not an exaggeration to say that 97%, if not 99%, of professional players today play almost entirely from the baseline, and fuck it's so boring to watch.

Okay so why am I talking about all this and what does this have to do with my dad dying?

Well, nothing. But it has a shit load to do with Federer being the undisputed GOAT.

Federer is a natural serve-and-volleyer. He has a one-handed backhand and a beautiful backhand slice, and he has always loved attacking and coming to net. How did he make a name for himself in the juniors? Serve and volley. How did he beat Sampras in 2001 at Wimbledon? Serve and volley. How did he play for as long as possible until he and everyone else realized that playing that way simply couldn't win matches? Serve and volley. 

In other words, Federer had to adjust his own game to be successful in the era in which he played. He had to stay back more and come to net less. He had to engage in 20-ball ralleys with studs like Nadal and Djokovic when he obviously would have preferred to slice and dice, chip and charge, and serve and volley. That's how good Federer is: He won 20 Grand Slams despite today's courts, balls, and strings. 

Think about that for a second.

If your head didn't just explode, keep reading.

The opposite is true for Nadal and Djokovic, who were born and bred to be ultimate baseliners. Nadal woke up one day, had a delicious paella breakfast, and said to himself, "Hijo de puta! All I have to do is stay 10 feet behind the baseline, put huge amounts of topspin on the ball, and I can win basically every tournament I play in, even Wimbledon?? Vamos!!"

Djokovic woke up one day, masturbated into his Serbian flag, and said to himself, "Срање! All I have to do is become a human Gumbie, move side to side like fucking windshield wipers, and I can win basically every tournament I play in, even Wimbledon? Kill the Bosniaks!!"

To be clear, Nadal and Djokovic are extraordinary champions with not mushy balls. All I'm saying is that they have benefitted tremendously from this era because they can play the exact same way every day at every tournament on every surface. Like I said, don't be fooled by the big numbers.

But let's stay focused: This isn't a comparison of Federer, Nadal, and Djokovic. This is a comparison of all players across time and eras because that's what the GOAT question demands.

Wilt Chamberlain was the best of his era because he was 7'1 and 275 pounds. Everyone else was a foot shorter, 100 pounds lighter, and presumably lacking in penis length and girth. If you put Shaquille O'Neal in that era, he's every bit as great. But if you put Wilt in Shaq's era, he's a good player and maybe a great player but definitely not a 50 points per game player.

If Michael Jordan played in 2022, he'd score 50 every night. If Steph Curry played in 1982, he'd be injured within a week. If Pete Sampras played in 2022, he wouldn't be top 100 in the world. If Carlos Alcaraz (recent US Open champion) played in 1982, he would do really really well......on clay.

If Nadal played in 1982, he still would have won nearly every French Open he played. But that's about it. If Federer had played in 1982, not only would he have played (and, to be fair, lost to Nadal) in every French Open final, but he also would have won every other fucking tournament. The only player before this current era of tennis to dominate on all surfaces was Borg. Federer is Borg 2.0. 

Here's yet another example of what I'm talking about if you're not convinced because you're a total idiot:

Everyone agrees that Sampras was a better player than Agassi, but if Sampras and Agassi had played in today's era with today's courts, balls, and string, Agassi would have won more Grand Slams than Sampras, would have had a winning head-to-head, and would have never gone down the dangerous yet intriguing road of meth.

Time matters. Eras matter. The Greatest of an Era does not equal the Greatest of All Time. Don't be fooled by big numbers.

There is one word to describe Federer which no one uses to describe Nadal or Djokovic (or Sampras or Agassi or anyone else). This word, more than any other, demonstrates his genius. This word, all by itself, captures Federer's greatness.

Transcendent. 

Federer transcends his era. Federer transcends time.

Federer is the GOAT.

And because I have been lucky enough to witness his greatness from start to finish, I am not sad.

Though I do miss my dad sometimes. Love you, dad.

Give Up

My eldest, Panini, is a lost cause. A few months ago, she got her first official boyfriend, some kid with lots of hair theoretically named Mario. The first time Mario came over, I told Panini to make sure he took his shoes off when he came in the house. She claims she told him to, but all I know is that Mario walked right through my front door, kept his stupid-ass Nikes on, barely said hi, and went straight to the basement, where he proceeded to get stains on the carpet and attempt, perhaps successfully, to kiss my daughter. That night, I dreamt of Mario's death.

Mario came over another time and Panini was so absurdly embarrassed about him interacting with anyone in the family that, when he left, she walked him out the basement door and around the side of the house. Turns out that neither Panini nor Mario has any manners.

After her father allegedly threatened to murder Mario, Panini broke up with him and, in less than a week, got herself a new boyfriend, a nice Jewish boy theoretically named Joshua who deferentially looked me in the eye when he shook my hand and said hello. Turns out, however, that Joshua will fail in life because Panini straight beat his ass in H-O-R-S-E. Don't get me wrong; Panini can shoot. But if I were an 8th grade boy and some girl beat me in H-O-R-S-E, I'd end it all right then and there.

Seriously, Joshua. I grew up with two older brothers, and if my 8th grade girlfriend came over and beat me in any athletic competition whatsoever, I literally would not have gone back in the house that night, or ever. I probably would've stayed at a friend's for a night or two and then started walking the dangerous Denver streets and eventually escaped into the Rocky Mountains to find a nice cliff.

Suicide sucks and I'd never suggest it to anyone, but at this point in our lives and, for that matter, the history of the world, I can't and won't encourage anyone to try harder or fight for what's right or struggle for a cause or some clichéd bullshit like that.

My advice is simple: Give up.

Feeling sad or angry about the end of Roe v Wade? Considering signing a change.org petition or calling your local representative? Don't bother. The court is stacked, these legitimately insane judges are going nowhere, and the Democrats are gonna do fuck-all about it. Just don't get pregnant and maybe even stop having sex.

Still trying to find the right job since COVID turned the one you had to shit? Maybe even thinking about switching industries to find some inspiration and purpose? I got a better idea: Retire.

Still trying to lose the weight you gained after turning 40? Stop looking in the mirror.

I've definitely given up on the Boss. She's frustrated with her job, unhappy with the kids' school, annoyed by all the broken shit in our house, no longer entertained by my sense of humor, and generally done being a parent. The other day, she went off on Panini for being a lazy slob and, in a dramatic climax, threw a filthy, half-open Tupperware at Panini's feet which she'd left in her backpack for almost three days. It's no longer a matter of trying to make the Boss happy; I'm just trying to stay out of her way and fart in a different room. Sometimes late at night when I can't watch any more Better Call Saul, I lie on my couch in total darkness and think about how I could put the Boss out of her misery and safely bury her in the backyard because the rats burrowing under our house would slowly decompose her body.

I've given up on OG being cool. OG yells at her parents when they have more than one drink, berates her friends when they curse, and cries on her loveys when, after three fucking hours, we don't allow her to keep working on her school project. Panini is a wanna-be Molly Ringwald from Breakfast Club and OG can't help but be Anthony Michael Hall.

Speaking of Breakfast Club, if only Broosevelt had one ounce, just one tiny sliver of Emilio Estevez in him. Just one little muscle somewhere in his pea-sized body. Just one modicum of athleticism somewhere in his claw-like fingers. Dude loves to play on our indoor hoop and I've tried to teach him how to shoot a real jump-shot, catch a ball, and swing a bat, but my little man just ain't no good, so he ends up on the carpet with his Legos and Harry Potter. Broosevelt, I hereby officially give up on you and our entire relationship. 

I've for sure given up on my teaching career. My students wore masks through the very end of the school year and never took their stupid fucking heads out of their stupid fucking devices. I pass them in the halls and say hi, but really I'm thinking awful, vicious things. On the very last day of school, about an hour before grades were due, this kid G chats me: "Hey Mr. [Saul] I just saw my final grade is an 88 I know it's a long shot but if at all possible could u round it up for me?"

I responded, "Fuck you, your lack of capitalization and punctuation, and your entire life. GIVE UP."

Perhaps you're thinking that I forgot to mention my youngest daughter, Boni. I didn't forget; I gave up on her years ago.

P.S. Hey, Joshua: Panini is currently away at sleep-over camp and probably cheating on you, so I take back what I said before about not killing yourself.

Avocados & Reparations

Please email Saul at saulsfamous@gmail.com if you would like access to this post.

As the great Dave Chappelle said, "It's hard to entertain a country whose ears are so brittle. Motherfuckers are so sensitive."