his week in beautiful Melbourne, Australia (where I live), the Homeless World Cup is taking place.  Homeless people from all over the world, 56 teams of 8 players to be exact, have gathered to play “street soccer” rules for your viewing pleasure.

If you’re like me, then you cannot wait to watch these bearded crackheads with crotch crickets and mange square off like pit bulls for food scraps.

Lordy, Lordy!  This is entertainment! [Read Column]

I make no bones about it.  I’m a geek.  I have been playing role playing games since I was six years old.  It started around the dinner table with my entire family (after singing from the Glory & Praise songbook of course).

I happily continue to do so to this very day … though my wife believes it to be a poor use of time. And moronic, did I mention that?

I’ve been converting characters from the Masters of the Universe (MotU) over to Marvel as a hobby … and because there are other nerds that might find it useful.  Here is Battle Cat. [Read Column]

ylvester Stallone gave us the greatest underdog and best boxing movie ever in 1976.  It characterized the enormous heart of a lifetime loser finally getting his chance and putting it all on the line.  In a famous scene, Rocky commands his trainer, “Cut Me, Mick” after his eyes are so swollen that he can no longer see.  He wants to continue to fight at any cost because, “no one has ever gone the distance with Apollo.”

It makes me think – have I ever sold out so whole heartedly to a cause?  Have I ever thrown caution to the wind in the pursuit of eternal glory?

Yes, I have.

Before I go into my own montage of old school training scenes in Siberia with full beard and KGB attendants, I want to first espouse the virtues of Sylvester Gardenzio Stallone.  Somehow Sly is not considered in the pantheon of the great Italian actors, but I contend that he should be held in the same breath as Brando, DeNiro, Pacino, Valentino, and the others.

Find me a greater span of movies from 1976 to 1989.  Rocky.  F.I.S.T.  First Blood.  Rocky II.  Victory.  Nighthawks.  Rocky III.  Rhinestone.  Rocky IV.  Rambo: First Blood Part II.  Cobra.  Rambo III.  Over the Top.  Tango & Cash.  Legendary – right up there with Will Smith’s current run.

For example, if you didn’t cry your eyes out when Apollo Creed died, then you’re inhuman and, quite frankly, I’m not sure that we could be friends.  If you didn’t think that Col. Trautman was the coolest wingman ever, then you’re clearly a eunuch.  The staredown between Mr. T and Rocky still gives me chills.  “Go for it.”

So the scene I was referring to in the lead-in was in Rocky (1976).  Forgive the terrible quality of this video, but it puts the rest of the column into context.

I’m 32 years old.  I’m not famous.  I’m not a veteran of any branch of the armed services.  I’ve never played beyond high school soccer.  I’ve never been in child labor.  But I know in my heart that I’ve cast aside my own fears, pain, and exhaustion for the dream – that moment of glory that will never escape you despite the trials and pitfalls that may come after.

It was a short period in my life.  Really, just a snapshot in the long, dull march of modern existence.  For a period of about six months my junior year in college, the year I pledged my fraternity, my life’s mission crystalized and I had that rare opportunity of focus, mission, and resolve.  For that moment, I was a king.  I was an icon.

I’m talking of course of my dedication to Warcraft II: Tides of Darkness.

I was put into a room on the third floor of our fraternity house, 3 Eta, with Jeremy Weir and Kyle McNitt.  Pledge brother McShitt lasted all of 17 hours before our class president, Glock, fragged him like Gomer Pile in Full Metal Jacket.  Next, moved in BJ Roberts.  BJ had a MacIntosh of all things and he bought a Mac-version of WCII.  While the third roommate would shift and change from Weir to Jasko to Devin, there was a bond between me and that god forsaken MacIntosh.  That one click mouse and moronic menus.

Cut me, Mick.

I developed severe pain in my mouse hand.  Because there was only one button, I found that my clicks per battle map were approximately 45% higher than with a two button mouse.  It took its toll with a burning running up the back of my hand through my tendons.  But it made no difference.  To this day, I still develop Monkey Paw whenever I use my mouse hand for more than 2 hours.  Crippling, but oh sweet agony, how it reminds me of those days of awesomeness.

Cut me, Mick.

Even worse, I had to play on a high stool with no back, hunched over the computer like Quasimodo.  After four hours of play, my neck and back muscles would begin to explode with agony.  I had trouble sleeping, trouble standing, trouble peeing in a straight line.  To help calm the excruciating pain, I literally took a icy can of Coke from the refridgerator and wrapped it to my neck and back using the 17 foot long scarf my brother’s wife made for me during my one year in Marquette (aka Planet Hoth, but with more cheese).

Cut me, Mick.

While others were focusing on their book learning and attending class, I was resting for the next round of battle with the humans and their elven allies.  While others were sleeping, I was planning the team battle strategy with my other loyalists on the dry erase board mounted on my room door with color-coded markers.  While others were meeting chicks and practicing Freshman Follies, I was building a farm wall supported with cannon towers.

Cut me, Mick.

OK, so its true.  I slept through a computer science final.  That would have been disastrous – second semester freshman year all over again.  But this time I learned.  Just like the velociraptors systematically testing the fence for weaknesses – “they remember …”

I have an honest face and convinced my professor to let me take the make-up final because I had a 24-hour bout of Ebola virus, a dead aunt, and jury duty.  I went to approximately 13% of the classes for the semester and still pulled a B minus for the year.

And to think our chapter president thought I would never amount to anything.  How do you like me now, Grimes?  I have a blog.  With dozens of readers a week.  In your face.

Of course, all things must end.  The year ended, BJ and BJ’s computer left, and I defeated the game.  Summer came and went and next year arrived.  But it was different.  I tried to recapture the glory with Starcraft and later with Warcraft III, but it just never clicked like it did those magical months in 3 Eta.

It’d be like the Beatles trying to get back together.  Somehow the rotting corpses of Harrison and Lennon would ruin the magic.  Sometimes, you just can’t go back.

So to those magical hours spent click click clicking away to destiny while building a Lumber Mill or a Barracks, watching my peons pour forth from my gold mines like ants on ecstasy, and creating an army of death knights … I quote an immortal line that still rings true in my heart:

“Ready to work.”

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hen it came to scoring with the ladies, I was amazingly ill equipped.  Regardless, my formula was surprisingly simple.  I was never the most handsome, richest, smoothest, best groomed, most sensitive, or even marginally interested in conversation, but … I could dance.  Hip hop.

They called me White Chocolate.  Here is my story. [Read Column]