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Ron Clements/Omnisport

Perhaps you are already aware of the exchange between certified manbaby mediocre Carolina Panthers quarterback (who is mostly terrible at actually throwing the ball) Cam Newton and Jourdan Rodrique (Name All-Star, by the way). Just in the event that you are not, here’s what happened:

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I had about 300 words down for why I love the Super Bowl (and Peyton Manning and the Panthers), and why the Panthers were going to win 35-13Pretty glad I didn't publish that sucker, now that I think about it. So, we're not quite 48 hours past the end of Super Bowl 50, and I think I'm about 85% recovered from the loss. I was convinced that the Panthers would win. I thought that their play throughout the season, coupled with a declining Peyton Manning, would result in a fairly easy win. I ignored the fact that this was Cam Newton's first SB, and I covered my ears when smart people talked about the likelihood of Von Miller and Demarcus Ware shredding the tackles for Carolina. Of course, the latter happened to a degree that we've never seen before, and the Panthers seemingly were overmatched from the first drive on. At the end of the night, I end up sitting through my third-toughest sports experience ever, I think (In case you were wondering, I actually wrote down my other awful sports experiences). Read More

Super Bowl 50 - Carolina Panthers v Denver Broncos

(via Getty Images)

I had a dream the Friday before Super Bowl Sunday. It was one of those lucid episodes where you remember everything so vividly to the point where there’s no question that what you’re experiencing isn’t real. I was in a bar, and it was the week after the Super Bowl. I ran into one of my friends, and, in the midst of our conversation, he pointed up at the television screen with feigned indifference. “Welp,” he said. “Can’t believe the dab’s over.” I looked up and read Super Bowl 50’s final score in glowing gold type: Denver Broncos 29 – Carolina Panthers 13.

In the dream I was livid. I began to yell and gnash my teeth and scream at anyone around me about the stupidity of the NFL. Then, before I could finish a coherent sentence, I woke up. It was Saturday morning and the sun started peaking through the blinds. There were no think pieces about the loss, no crying Jordan memes and no odes to the “everyman” brilliance of Peyton Manning. There was just the sound of a dog barking in the apartment over. I would have to wait another day to wake up again.

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On Sunday in Charlotte, a quarterback led his team to a 31-0 first half lead, one that team nearly squandered entirely, before securing a victory. The quarterback is his league’s MVP, and his team has been consistently – and rather quietly – the best in the league this season by no small margin. His celebrations have prompted equal parts resounding support and agitated ire, the latter of which hounds the player for his childlike enthusiasm, charisma-as-arrogance and, mostly, his stellar play, the likes of which the sport has never seen previously.

Meanwhile, on Monday night in Cleveland, a joyous band of star shooters thoroughly tore down the greatest basketball player of his generation in the arena in which they celebrated their championship seven short months ago. The centerpiece of that squad, a point guard from Charlotte, is his league’s MVP and, barring something unforeseen, will be again. Aside from a small pocket of rage which seemingly only comes from contrarian people with a noticeably absent agenda otherwise, the American public and media have resoundingly accepted this team for its childlike enthusiasm, charisma-as-arrogance and, mostly, its stellar play, the likes of which the sport has never seen previously.

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Saturday Night Live/NBCUniversal

For some of us, 2015 was a year of fulfillment, consistency and hope. For the rest, it served unpredictable dishes with sides of indifferent mediocrity, crushing despair and lukewarm-bordering-on-cold broccoli. That’s not to say that lukewarm-bordering-on-cold broccoli is necessarily bad, but it definitely could’ve been better.

No matter the feeling of leaving 2015 in the cracked rear view, a new calendar is upon us. With it comes so many more opportunities for change, inspiring moments in sports, reasons to believe, heartbreaking losses and chances to leave your friends hanging by staying in on a weekend night because you don’t want to deal with it. We at TwH get that. In that spirit, we gathered around our digital campfire and threw darts into our brains trying to pinpoint some of what we think may come to fruition in the coming year. Don’t quote us on this.

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It is 6:21am on Sunday and as I type this sentence and I have not yet slept. This is due to many problems I have; my tendency to procrastinate has led me here, along with my belief that excuses to my readers in any way helps justify the things I’m writing. But we’re here now. Maybe there’s some sort of odd clairvoyance that a man on the edge of consciousness can tap into. We’ll find out. What follows are my sleepy thoughts unfiltered: I will not use backspace to fix any spelling/syntax error from now on, as in the process of writing these three sentences I have yet to get through four consecutive words without a misplaced keystroke. This is the price you pay for sleepy clarity.

Here’s goes nothing.

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