Ben Roethlisberger is NOT like my baby

                                           Obviously not Roethlisberger. The new champ, Aaron Rodgers.

Any parent can tell you about a not fun game we all play called "Is my baby breathing?"

It starts the moment the baby pops out as you wait for the lungs to fill with air and that first cry that lets you know the little guy gets the whole breathing thing. Hours later as exhaustion kicks in on that first night, most parents still have trouble falling asleep, fearing that if they take their eyes off that newborn for just one second he may forget about the whole breathing thing.

As far as I can tell, the fear never really stops. (Sorry this post is such a bummer so far. I blame Ben Roethlisberger.)

One of my favourite times to worry about choking out my baby is when I'm out walking with him strapped to my chest in our baby carrier. On Super Bowl Sunday I took him out for a pregame stroll. My baby usually likes to take in all of the scenery on these walks, only falling asleep after I cover his head with a hood like a falconer putting away his peregrine.

Feeling my baby warm against my chest is one of my favourite things in the world. I always ruin it, however, by imagining that I've put him in wrong or the straps are too tight and I'm slowly choking him out. Is he breathing? Is that him or me that's moving? Should I poke him? What if I fall and smush him? What if a wolf attacks? What if I cut off a nerve and his legs fall off. Oh my God I'm hyperventilating! Brown bag, breathe in, breathe out. For the love of God, somebody get me a beer!

Sorry again, I got carried away. That's what it's like to have a baby.

Eventually the kid shifts around in the carrier, sighs, or just wakes up and tells me to stop being such a puss.

Anyway, on to Ben Roethlisberger.

I thought of following my normal convention with the title of this post but if I actually finished the sentence "Ben Roethlisberger is like my . . . " I would either be immediately put in jail for child abuse or my son would grow up, read it and then come hunt me down and thrash me like a Boy Named Sue.

This all because of Big Ben's well-documented penchant for getting accused of sexual assault and other acts of general dirt-baggery. His misdeeds earned him a four-game suspension to start this season but he returned with a vengeance (for football opponents, not college girls), leading the Pittsburgh Steelers all the way to Sunday's Super Bowl. And as the Onion Sports Network pointed out, his team's success coupled with his string of no sexual assault charges for almost one year seemed to place him just one Super Bowl win away from earning a complete pardon for all of his sins.

But alas, Green Bay's defenders locked Big Ben in the proverbial gridiron bathroom and had their way with him while their buddies stood guard to keep Ben's friends from saving him. Ick — this post really is getting gross. Thanks a lot, Ben.

Anyway, Roethlisberger did get his comeuppance, throwing two interceptions — including one that was returned for a touchdown — and missing an easy touchdown pass before failing to finish off a late comeback attempt. With two Super Bowls already to his credit, Roethlisberger had the chance to cement his status as one of the best big-game quarterbacks ever and to further rebuild his image. Instead he opened the door to questions about whether it was his play that led Pittsburgh to their recent titles or whether he was just a good player blessed with a great team. In other words, he choked.

Let's sum up.

Big Ben: Former dirt bag who is either a reformed dirt bag or still a dirt bag but pretending not to be one; cost his team the Super Bowl; eye-opener; choker.

My baby: respects women; never lost a Super Bowl; can chew on own toes; not a choker. 

Photo Perry Knotts/NFL 

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Super Bowl parties are like my baby

The Super Bowl is this weekend and so I thought I'd post a column I wrote a couple of years ago for the North Shore News about the different levels of parties there are surrounding the big game.

Sorry to those of you who read this blog solely to keep tabs on the wee Sports Baby himself (Hi Nana!), there's no baby info in the column. But here's a quick update: Sports Baby likes to party too. All day. Thankfully he doesn't rock and roll all night.

No, our little guy bangs out nighttime sleeps like a coal miner after 14 hours of hammer and 13 shots of Jack. But in the daytime he fights sleep like Captain Kirk (slowly) fights boulder throwing green hissing monsters.

We've tried everything to get him to nap: baby hypnotism, baby-strength valium, Matchbox 20 music (note to social services: we haven't actually tried any of those things. We're not monsters).

He just seems to be so darn curious with the world that he never gets tired of looking at stuff. Any suggestions in the comment section would be greatly appreciated (ridiculous ones only please — I don't want to hear any of that "start a routine and stick to it" crap).

Enjoy the game!

Some of the references in this article are a bit dated but I've chosen to leave them as is for the sake of posterity and to open old wounds for my friend Bone.

Don't be a super jerk at super party

North Shore News

Sunday, Feb. 1 2009

Andy Prest

Last year my friend Bone threw a Super Bowl party that was heavy on the party and light on the bowl.

For some odd reason Bone is a New England Patriots fan and so for the entire game he was glued to the TV trying to focus on the field while more and more revelers kibitzed, canoodled and keg-tapped just inches away from him. A miracle play by quarterback Eli Manning and receiver David Tyree gave the New York Giants the Super Bowl and, to the joy of everyone not named Bone, ruined New England's perfect season.

Bone's problem, aside from being a Patriots fan, was that he was on a different game-watching level than the people around him who were eating his cheesy poofs and spilling on his carpet. My recollection is hazy but Bone may have punched someone in the spleen.

With today being Super Sunday -- and with other big-ticket events like the Stanley Cup playoffs on the horizon -- it's time to review the different game-watching levels. If you're throwing a party, make sure everyone knows what level they should be on. If you're going to a party, try to gauge the level before you arrive -- nobody wants to be the only guy in full body paint.

Level 1: There's a game on?

This is the type of party where half the guests don't know or don't care that two teams are playing their hearts out for the chance to pour expensive champagne on a reporter. At some point in the evening the game could be pre-empted as two drunk girls the host has never met stumble through Willie Nelson's On the Road Again on Guitar Hero. If you are a die-hard fan, or a die-hard gambler with a C-note on the game, DO NOT go to this party -- it's 50/50 that you will stab someone in the neck with an especially pointy nacho. How do you like those odds?

Level 2: Family fun time

At this type of party lots of people are enjoying the game in a festive atmosphere with lots of food and root beer. Mom is in and out with trays of brownies, there are kids flying around and screaming and probably at least one dog eating candy corn off the floor and then barfing behind a plant. Dad is really into the game before he falls asleep with his head tilted back and mouth open.

Attend this party if you're into the game but don't mind missing some plays and not hearing the play-by-play all the time. The only time it will be completely quiet is at halftime when grandma makes everyone shut up so she can watch that dreamy Neil Diamond sing Forever in Blue Jeans.

Level 3: Down in front

When the game is on at this party, everybody is watching.

Don't go to this party if you can't go 15 minutes without blabbing about some crap like how convincing Clint Eastwood is as a racist bastard, how the new Greek place down the street tastes like every other Greek place, or how your third marriage is crumbling.

Conversation is not encouraged but if it occurs it is to talk about the game, make fun of John Madden, or to tease Bone about cheering for a team of big cheaters.

Level 4: Official apparel dress code strictly enforced

At this game there is no talking, only screaming, fist-shaking, wall-punching or, hopefully, high-fiving. In Vancouver you'll most likely find a party like this for a Canucks game. If you are not a die-hard fan these parties suck because the die-hards will scream at you if you block their view and are likely to kick a table, spilling vodka and coke all over your cat.

Plus, if the favoured team loses everyone will be bummed and the party dies a horrible death. If it's a Canucks party during an important game this is guaranteed to happen.

Those, sports fans, are the party levels. As the gamblers say, know your limit, stay within it. And for God's sake wake dad up, it's the fourth quarter and time to shine for Eli Manning.


Photo Getty
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