Note to Ray Lewis' God: You're a Numbnuts

After nearly two weeks of coverage, Lewis, others make you want more 'Harbowl'

Shortly after it was all but official that the Baltimore Ravens were headed to the Super Bowl and the world knew that Ravens' Head Coach John Harbaugh would face his older brother and 49ers' Head Coach Jim Harbaugh, I tweeted the following:

Media has to be salivating over this #Ravens #49ers likely matchup. Harbowl, Ray Lewis, Kaepernick. I'm already tired of the coverage.
— Jeremy Shermak (@JeremyShermak) January 21, 2013

(Please note the handle: @JeremyShermak - follow me)

It was a quick reaction to a story line that had been brewing since the preseason. The questions that would be asked were too easy, too obvious: How would a parent deal with this? What do you say to the kid that lost? How do you celebrate fairly, perhaps even respectively to the kid that won?

Everything seemed overdone before it was thrown on the grill.

And then everyone went to New Orleans and a whirlwind of rather disheartening, annoying, and downright idiotic b.s swept through the Big Easy, including:

• Somber yet necessary discussion of NFL safety, headlined by President Obama's admission that if he had a son, he would think "long and hard" about allowing him to play football. 
• Ravens' safety Bernard Pollard's best Miss Cleo impression, stating that the NFL may not exist in 30 years because fans will turn away from a game depleted by safety rules.
• ESPN's Chris Berman mentioned how he covered the 49ers during the 80's.  Enough already.  
• 49ers' cornerback Chris Culliver's homophobic, anti-gay remarks, stating, "I don't do the gay guys, man...we don't got no gay people on the team. They got to get up out of here if they do."  
• Ravens' safety Ed Reed, who I really love, complaining about a season tally of over $100K in fines for violent hits from the "suits" in the NFL office.

And as I write this, it is Friday morning. There is plenty of time for DUI's, hookers, and whatever else NOLA has to offer.

Tears of a clown

And then there is Ray Lewis.

The outgoing Ravens' linebacker, who announced his retirement prior to the playoffs, has been a lead story line as he tries to pull an Elway and "go out on top". In many respects, Lewis deserves the attention. He is likely the greatest middle linebacker to ever play the game. He is wrapping up a surefire Hall of Fame career. But these are not the headlines.  

On Tuesday, an article released by Sports Illustrated linked Lewis to an Alabama-based sports science company that used deer antler extract to create a performance-enhancing substance. On that same day, the Super Bowl put on its annual media day, giving credentialed reporters and "reporters", some dressed costumes that make them look like jackasses, to grill players at mini-press conferences around the stadium.  Ray Lewis, and the latest allegations, of course took center stage.  

Lewis, when pressed on the controversy, told the assembled media that "no one here is qualified to ask those questions." He later called the PED accusations a "trick of the devil". On his murder accusations in 2000 that were later cleared, he said it was "God's time".    

Ray, your god is an asshole. He sort of makes this devil dude look like Andy Williams.

Lewis, like so many athletes, is quick to praise god after victories. It has become as cliche and, therefore, empty as the post game sugar packet of "we will just take it one day at a time".  But it is worse that than.  It is used as a shield by many athletes, but none more prolific and dramatic as Ray Lewis.

Following the Ravens' win over New England to clinch their spot in the Super Bowl, Lewis broke down midfield, burying his head in the turf as he cried.  Every camera in the building was hovered over him, getting a nice long shot of his hind-end as the charade continued. He told ESPN's Sal Palantonio, "Whenever you sacrifice your heart for God, he will give you anything your heart desires."

Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.

I bought a lottery ticket yesterday for the PowerBall jackpot.  I "desire" that $176 million jackpot. What do I need to sacrifice, Ray?  I mean, your god is kind of an ass punch, but I'll take it. Do I need to murder people at a club in Atlanta? If your god could use his "time", I would get "off" on the charges, right? Or could I fill my bathtub with deer antler extract, light some candles, sip some spumonte, and wait until god comes to hand over that winning PowerBall ticket? (Note to RL's God: I'll take the cash value, $111.4 million. Thank you).  Do I need to paint triangles under my eyes? I would so do that.

I've always believed that god, any god, be it my god, your god, or Ray Lewis' god has no vested interest in the outcome of any sporting event. Aren't there other things going on where a god is needed? Right here in my city, Chicago, there have been double-digit murders over the past two nights. Is some god up there saying, "ok, I will get to those murders, but let me finish my Super Bowl squares" as he texts Moses to see if he or any of his co-workers are interested. $5 a square.

When you turn to god after a sporting event, to thank him, and that makes it fulfilling to you, knock yourself out. But as for Ray Lewis, draping yourself in god, using him as a shield, as your go-to man, and damn near fall guy, it isn't just b.s. It's narcissistic, overly dramatic, and barf-bag worthy hogwash. Thank the deer antlers.

Ray Lewis' god is a Grade A tool. I hope he is busy this Sunday. I hope he misses Ray's calls.

Now, tell me more about those Harbaugh boys.

This is my blog

This is my blog.  My name is Jeremy Shermak and I like to write.  This is just going to be my little outlet for random things.  Perhaps I will keep it up; perhaps it will be a burn out mess after two posts.  No matter what, ain’t techno neat?

The name “Better Than Stinky”, if you are wondering, comes from my nickname, Fresh.  I have been called Fresh since the fifth grade.  My great friends and even my family members call me Fresh.  I am often introduced to new people as “Fresh”, who then think that I am either a pimp, rapper, or ladies man.  I’m none of the above.  I am, however, clean.  That’s how the nickname came to be.  Fifth grade, at least at my school, was the point where you moved from the elementary school to the middle school.  This was a big deal of course.  One major part of that was gym class because we got to wear uniforms, shower after class, and do seemingly grown up things.  Of course, that is terrible timing for such a threshold.  We are getting hair in weird places, everyone is afraid to look at each other’s dong – you get really good at eye contact.  Of course, me, I was chubby, sweat-fearing, and always on swamp-ass patrol.  I never wanted to stink.  I could be chubby, shop the husky section, but heaven help me if I became stinky.  To combat the stank, I wore deodorant.  Ok, I lathered myself in deodorant.  The night before the first gym class, my mom took my brother and me to Hooks’ Drugstore to purchase some hygiene products for the big day.  I found myself this giant can of Brut spray-on deodorant.  It had to weigh about three pounds.  The next day, after gym class, I proceeded to fumigate the entire locker room with Brut.  My peers were choking, their eyes watering, pleading for breath, but damn I smelled good.  That was of course when Mr. Finch, the gym teacher, called me into his office.

“You need to stop with the aerosol deodorant,” he said, very simply, but stern.

“Yes sir.”

That night I found myself back at Hooks’ with my mom.  I bought the standard stick deodorant, likely Speed Stick or something I had seen on my dad’s nightstand.  I don’t remember the particular brand, but I do remember the scent: it was called “Fresh”.

The next day, following sweating in gym class, I entered the locker room primed to leave there smelling great.  I took the “fresh” stick and applied it as if my armpits were drywall with scattered holes that needed to be filled.  With each swipe, up and down, a white, creamy film covered my pits, a wall of aluminum-zirconium compound.

I placed the deodorant stick back in my locker when an unassuming kid by the name of Nate Hora walked by.  He looked at me and then his eyes gazed to the deodorant.  He picked it up in my locker, looked at it, and said, “wow, you must be really fresh.”

A nickname was born.

My mom always told me, "well, it's better than stinky."  

A blog name was born.

Over twenty-two years later, I wear about the same amount of deodorant.  I’m still Fresh and this is my blog.