About

Born deep within the coal mines of South Jersey, I eschewed the hard hat and tiny light early on to pursue a life in the glamorous world of high stakes pog trading. An unfortunate wrist injury forced me away from in-arena competition so I focused my keen eye on bankrolling an elite team of barnstormers, traveling to elementary school playgrounds over three counties, to collect top of the line pogs for Nationals being held at Raceway Park. Unfortunately, at a qualifying event at New Egypt Speedway one of my top guys pulled up lame. I had no choice but to step into the competition or see my life’s work go up in a flaming pile of yin-yangs and skulls. The doctor said that if I slammed my lucky eightball down one more time, it could be the end of me. You only have one life to live, right? I made it to the finals only to see that my guy had been faking it and sold me out to my biggest rival. He got my whole team to bet all my stacks against me. I trusted him too…maybe I’ll never trust again. I won that day, but at what cost? I was 11 years old, a health risk, and I was broke. Nothing but the pogs in my pocket. I needed a purpose.

I spent the next few months out of control, falling through every two-bit pog joint and cutthroat monopoly game I could find, just trying to feel that rush again. Nothing doing. Finally, I returned to the sweet and loving embrace of my roots…Tuckerton. Some say Tuckerton is a fishing town, others say it’s just for drinking; but the locals, they know it has been a battle ground for the forces of good (Philadelphia) to wage their ever-vigilant fight against the forces of evil (New York) for as long as time itself. Friends are divided, homes split apart, and no one is safe from choosing a side. It was in these conditions of which I was born. Pogs were no longer currency in those days and I left my past behind me. I thought I was free to walk my own path, to look deep within and find my purpose. But the town had other ideas…

In 90’s Tuckerton, packs of wild children roamed like dogs, identified only by the color of their Starter jackets (and the few red headed Mets fans). The blue and white of the hated Giants were the worst and most feral. They attacked and we lost some of our best out there. THEY WERE JUST BOYS!!! It was in a chance meeting that some of the local Philly fans recognized me from my pog-past, impressed with my organizational skills and ability to carry on with jokes that don’t go anywhere. They taught me the ways of the Birds. Just when I thought I was going to have to make a choice, I realized there was no choice at all. The arrogance and general foul odor of the common Giants was something I could I could never identify with. I was a Philly guy, and I smelled amazing.

I won’t bore you with the details of my miraculous escape from that little borough, but finally I was to set out for my fortune in Parts Unknown, maybe even meet The Undertaker there. Along the way I met my wife, had a few kids, and lost 15 years to one of the worst jobs imaginable. Finally, I have found my purpose…talking Philly shit online. Just like Andy Dufresne, I came out the other side still smelling great.

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I care about my family, Philadelphia sports, and I’m sure other stuff too. The problem is that I annoy my family talking about Philly sports quite a bit. Since I want to keep them and keep talking, well that’s where this website comes in. I don’t have much to offer in analyzing sports and I certainly can’t actually play, but I can talk sports contracts and business all day.