Bleacher Report - Articles by Carl Wiezak

Emile Heskey: What a Man (Humor)

Carl Wiezak — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 03:50:54 -0400

Emile Heskey stood and watched. England weren’t going to compete in the 2008 European Championship finals. He stared at his television with such anger it turned itself off. He then stormed into the kitchen and beat his wife and kids.

He retired to his lavish bedroom and sat down at a desk. His hand still shaking, he took out a quill and penned a letter. Emile Heskey then posted it. Emile Heskey then waited.

It was two days later that his phone rang.

"I’ve been expecting you," the voice on the other end said. "It’s time."

Emile Heskey’s letter was to Fabio Capello. The striker asked Fabio that if he recalled himself to the team, would Fabio consider the toughest job in football.

Fabio said yes.

Emile Heskey laughed so loudly the birds fell from the sky. He hung up the phone and then skipped into his lounge and kissed his wife and kids.

Heskey then rode, in a horse and cart, to Darren Bent’s house.

Never has a beating been more severe. Never has black-on-black violence been so one-sided. Emile Heskey then left, stopping at KFC on the way back. While he was in the queue for a couple of buckets, a young boy with an autograph book approached the giant man.

"Please Sir, can I have your autograph?"

Emile Heskey smiled a gentle smile, picked the boy up and placed him in the palm of his hand.

"I’ve always loved Lenny Henry," said the boy.

The gentle smile turned into a look of disapproval. Emile crushed the boy while the boy’s mother looked on. The boy’s body went limp, lifeless, and was then launched into a statue of Colonel Sanders. No one else asked for Lenny’s autograph.

Back in his throne, Emile watched his children play with balls of wool while his wife served him hot Horlicks.

"I’m back," he said.

Lewis Hamilton: Diary Entry 19.10.08 (Humor)

Carl Wiezak — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 01:09:36 -0400

It’s Sunday 19th October 2008. I’ve woken up, and its Saturday 2200 GMT. I flick on the TV in my hotel room; I just want to chill for a bit so I put on a music channel. My pussycat doll is on there, she’s alright. I have a quick shower; it lasted 3:35.630, I can hear Heikki in the room next door, and he’s been in the shower for ages.

I get changed; I never wear the same things twice, by the way. I go downstairs to the reception. I have a quick chat with the receptionist, she’s quite hot. Nicole would kill me, for saying that, but I’m just a regular guy.

I pick up a newspaper and just look at the pictures. I can’t read Chinese but I’m learning; I must learn.

Heikki comes down stairs half an hour later and we meet Ron and Martin for breakfast. I’m not sure what I’m eating but it’s tasty. I notice a board that say’s something about Poodle sausages. I’m not really into that but I wolfed mine down.

We get to the track and, after a few formalities, I’m in the seat of my MP-23. I qualified second. I swear Fernando blocked me on my final lap; He’s a jerk. People say he’s the complete package. He’s not, I am.

The grid empties and we complete our formation lap. I can’t see Hekki, he qualified 15th. Felipe’s in front of me and Kimi is in third. My stomach starts to ache. That ^*^* Poodle sausage. Oh my god. The lights go out. Heck my stomach kills, I’m in agony.

I go straight for Felipe; screw him. I can here Ron screaming on the radio about the Poodle. "F&^*&^* the Poodle. %^$*& the world championship." Kimi smashes into the back of me. My world is falling apart.

Now in my hotel room it’s easy to reflect. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, oh well, off to Brazil.

I’ve heard they do a mean cat soup.

This is complete fiction. Come on Lewis.

What’s Wrong with English Sports Fans?

Carl Wiezak — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 04:46:28 -0400

This piece could just as easily have been titled "What’s wrong with me?"—half the time I would like to say I’m an English sports fan myself.

Half of us would rather see a Brazilian, or rather anyone other than Lewis Hamilton, win the Formula One World Championship this year. Some of us openly booed Ashley Cole when his misplaced pass let Kazakhstan score; a few of us, dare I add, even wanted the Kazakh’s to win—High five! (One to us.)

I do want Hamilton to win this year, just as I wanted Damon Hill and Nigel Mansell to win before him. I was heartbroken when England lost to Germany on penalties in Euro '96; yes, that’s how long it’s been since I felt any emotion there. I desperately wished for Tim Henman to make a Wimbledon final. Not a semi, even though that’s fairly hard to achieve, and I felt proud when team GB did so well in Beijing.

But when Amir Khan got knocked out earlier this year, I cried—with laughter.

Back in the good old days, people would rally to support our national teams—flags would hang from windows, car horns would signal every goal of a football tournament, and people would dance in the street. What has happened to the passion we once shared?

Where has it all gone?

It could be that we’ve fell out of love. It could be we feel a bit cheated. It could be we put so much into a relationship and got so little out we had no choice other than to call it quits. It might just be that if one of the "Mr. Men" was an England supporter, his name would me "Mr. Fickle."

Why is this, and what’s wrong with English sports fans?

Lewis Hamilton, Felipe Massa Strive for Ayrton Senna's Crown

Carl Wiezak — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 05:02:46 -0400

He was an ideal: a flag bearer for a poor country who was able to show his great talent and gratify his obsession with success in a rough and unforgiving world. He was light years from every day reality.

A living legend, loved by those even uninterested in Formula 1, Ayrton Senna was a hero in every sense of the word.

Next weekend in China, two young men who both idolized this man will both try and take one step closer to achieving what he did three times: a world championship.

To think that anyone could take Ayrton Senna’s crown is impossible. This is a man who instantly became even more immortalized after the tragic weekend in Imola. No one like him has been seen since, nor will anyone like him be seen again.

The fact that the two world championship contenders both wear yellow helmets in tribute to their hero further strengthens that opinion. There are only imitations on the grid nowadays.

Even Michael Schumacher, arguably the greatest there ever was, does not command an audience like Senna did. Why? He’s too human and too accessible. People love a tragic hero; unimagined success will always beat real success. There will always be a "what if" attached to Senna because of his premature death?

Senna was to motor racing what Kurt Cobain was to music or what Martin Luther king was to black America. He was both wonderful and tragic, and I'm afraid no matter what any other racer achieves, they can't beat that.