Outside Features

Anybody seen that new Thor movie? Yeah, neither have I.
But from the previews, I've gleaned one thing and that's the fact that Thor looks and probably acts almost exactly like Dirk Nowitzki. And judging from the way the lanky German is dominating the Thunder in the Western Conference Finals, maybe he is some sort of demigod. Right, I know, Thor is from the Norse tradition and Dirk is German, but wasn't Thor the god (or part god or whatever) of thunder? If that's the case, chalk a point up for Dirk, would ya pal, because he's definitely in charge of the Thunder right now.
And if you're slamming down your horn-adorned helmet and angrily stroking your massive blond and/or red beard at the effrontery that is my lack of Norse mythological knowledge, I'm sorry. But shouldn't you really be in line to see Thor again instead of reading this stupid sports column? Thor never reads sports columns, but you'd know that because you're an expert, right?

One time, I took a golf ball to the neck. True story. I wish I could say that the ball was merely bouncing along the cart path and caromed harmlessly my way, nicking the top of my back. But no. This was a 125-yard shank job that nearly knocked me from my perch atop the diesel-powered industrial lawn mower on which I spent most of the summer of 2002. Son of a bitch hit me square in the side of the neck, an inch below my ear, almost prematurely ending my career in golf course maintenance.
I brought the mower to a halt and turned to see in the distance, at an adjacent hole, a sunburned man in a Hawaiian shirt giving me a half-assed and seemingly apologetic wave. I leapt from the mower, picked up the offending golf ball and hurled it toward my assailant. It fell a good 75 yards short, so I also chucked my neon hard hat – the design flaw of which turned out to be its lack of neck coverage – for extra effect, before realizing that my neck was slowly swelling to a near-immobile state. That bastard stood there with his hands on his hips, shaking his head disapprovingly at the behavior of the minimum-wage employee he almost erased from the face of the earth.

Well, L.A. Lakers, you win some and you lose some. And when you lose some, you apparently start body-slamming people in an attempt to embarrass your soon-to-retire coach.
Rarely has such a hyped team of reality television stars and veteran players flamed out so badly in the NBA playoffs. The Seattle Sonics (they don't exist anymore) did it back in 1994. The Spurs kind of did it this year against Memphis. But the Lakers' four-loss flameout to the Mavericks was perhaps the most unglamorous playoff series loss and it came from the NBA's most glamorous team – and one that many thought might be on its way to a third consecutive world championship.

Here's something you should know, especially if you plan on visiting Portland any time soon. They have a soccer team. And a real soccer team, at that. Not the jive-ass minor league, playing-on-Astroturf-with-baseball-dugouts-in-the-background sort of team, but an actual MLS squad with a big-name corporate sponsor emblazoned across the chests of its players and a real-life mascot who actually cuts logs in half on the sideline with a chainsaw.
They're called the Timbers and Portlanders love them. A lot. And unlike in other U.S. cities equipped with MLS teams, Portland fans actually watch their team. The games are sold out and last Saturday I couldn't find a bar that wasn't equipped with an audience of beer-in-hand, eyes-on-the-screen fans, many of whom were draped in the Timbers' yellow-on-green jerseys. Given that Portland is essentially a European city masquerading as a well-read mid-market American settlement, this enthusiasm fits well with their bicycle lanes and efficient mass transit.

I don't watch much hockey. During a standard non-Olympic year, which we happen to be in presently, I would guess that I take in a culmination of about three full games, maybe more if you add in the amount of hockey I watch at bars during the commercial breaks of college basketball games.
But last week, I ended up viewing at least a half hour of a Stanley Cup Playoffs match up between the Vancouver Canucks and the Chicago Blackhawks on Thursday, and then almost another full period of a game between Buffalo and Philadelphia later in the weekend. And I realized something about hockey players: These guys kind of look like hell. I mean, in the same way I typically look like hell – eyes in need of a nap, teeth that could use some work, hair terribly unkempt and a beard that's completely out of control. This was when I remembered one of the few things that I like about hockey, other than the fancy backward skating: “playoff beards.”