Here’s Drew Magary on how homophobes are speaking in code these days, or as he put it, “a shithead’s guide to bragging about how much you don’t care about Jason Collins.”
Stirrups, saggy pants, eye black: There hasn’t been much worth borrowing, stylewise, from America’s pastime. Until now. Fashion’s heavy hitters have stolen the classic baseball jacket from the diamond and redesigned it for the street. So we asked six of the game’s brightest all-stars to show you how to swing it.
For those who aren’t following March Madness, the darling of this year’s tournament is Florida Gulf Coast University, the first 15-seed to ever make the Sweet Sixteen. And from their chicken-dance celebrations to their newfound “Dunk City” moniker, FGCU is also the most charming Cinderella team in recent memory. With the national stage, however, comes a prime opportunity to win hearts and minds. So to that end, here are some ways for the Eagles to win more style points.
Some of his friends and teammates remember Anthony Wayne Smith as a strange and volatile guy, prone to paranoia and outrageous lies. Others recall a gentle giant who gave to charity and mentored kids. None would have predicted that he’d retire from football to a life of arson, torture, and murder—but that’s exactly what prosecutors allege. As the former defensive end (57 1/2 career sacks) waits trial for four killings over a nine-year span, Kathy Dobie unravels a life that made his violence on the field seem like child’s play:
On a cool, drizzly February night in 2003, at one thirty or so in the morning, a police officer cruising down Lincoln Boulevard in Santa Monica spotted flames shooting horizontally out a window of the Simply Sofas furniture showroom. From overhead he could hear popping sounds as the fire leapt up to eat at the power lines in the street outside. Inside, the blaze spread quickly, engulfing upholstery and wood, roaring up through the roof and melting the metal skin right off the loading dock door.
The fire was almost immediately deemed suspicious. Firefighters reported the strong smell of gasoline, and when investigators were able to get inside the building the next day, they found three “firebombs”—five-gallon plastic water jugs cut off at the neck, stuffed with paper and filled with gasoline. The evidence was gathered and sent to the lab.
Five months later, Sergeant Robert Almada, the police investigator for Santa Monica’s Arson Squad Task Force, walked into the interview room at the police station on Main Street with every reason to believe things were going his way. He had motive—revenge—and he had the kind of physical evidence almost never left behind in a fire: thirty pieces of gasoline-soaked mail, each addressed to the suspect or his wife. (In the heat of the blaze, the firebombs had caved in on themselves, preserving the magazines and catalogs and envelopes inside.) That suspect, one Anthony Smith, six feet four inches and over 320 pounds, a 36-year-old former defensive end for the L.A./Oakland Raiders, dwarfed the little table in the room.
Someone is gonna wise up and open up an independent, competing Baseball Museum that’s located somewhere convenient and includes EVERYONE. No judgments. No morality plays. Just the history of the sport as it ought to be told, without Joe Asshole walking around bitching that his favorite Texas Ranger didn’t make the cut. That’s a Hall of Fame I’d visit.
Drew Magary, Make it Stop: Baseball Hall of Fame Edition
Late last year, we at GQ compiled a list of the eighteen dumbest decisions in sports and, if we had to do it all over again, Drew Magary is betting that Redskins head tanner Mike Shanahan’s decision to leave a handicapped Robert Griffin III in a playoff game just long enough to have his knee blown apart would rank pretty high on the list.
They paint their faces, they grunt and swear and down Jell-O shots before 10 A.M., and they never go a Sunday without their team jerseys. GQ’s Lauren Bans spends game day with one of the NFL’s fastest-growing fan bases—female superfans. Here’s an excerpt:
At the count of three, we all slam back tequila—Patrón, the good stuff—out of Dixie cups. I’m looking for a place to discard my empty when, by way of introduction, a Snooki-sized older woman wearing a huge Raiders jersey as a makeshift dress, plus shoulder pads and false eyelashes, jabs her finger directly into my left breast. This is Raider Gloria.
“What is going on here? I liiiike this.” She’s referring to my rather unremarkable gray crewneck T-shirt, not my left breast. “Only it should go”—and now she begins to make light-saber noises (“phhhshu! phhhshu! phhhshu!”) to indicate where she would make cuts in the fabric, which is basically from the neck down in a big swoop to the middle of my stomach.
Before I can respond, a man squeezes in between us and accidentally grazes Gloria’s chest in what can only be some kind of karmic molestation payback. Only, Gloria is delighted. She calls out to the man’s son, who’s leaning on the bumper of a Ford SUV and looking bored: “Hey, take a picture of your dad touching my titties!”