Who's fault is it, anyway?

According to this article in USA Today, the Dolphins' Cam Cameron, was fired from his position as coach. Why? The team finished with one win and fifteen losses. They fired the coach? Don't you think they should have fired the players? Let's see, was it the coach who zigged when he should have zagged? Was it the coach who dropped the ball? Was it the coach who tripped over his shoelaces at a critical moment?

Certainly, the coach has overall responsibility for the players. He directs them where to run and what plays to make. He is the decider. He tells you when to play and when to sit on the bench. He sure does have a measure of responsibility. But if the players stink, they will lose the game matter how good the coach is.

Think of sports as a war. You have the General sitting safely in a tent on friendly territory (the coach). A superior officer (the team captain) directs his men (the players) to carry out the General's orders. If the on-field officer doesn't do a good job of directing his soldiers in the heat of the fight, or if the soldiers are incompetent, they will lose the battle despite that the General shouts orders through the radio. So who is to blame? The General? I think not.

Now, I know that it is the coach's job to properly train his team, motivate them and get them to perform the best they can. If he doesn't do that then he didn't do a good job. I get it. But there is a limit to how much blame you can lump on the coach. If the players lack talent, they should be held accountable.

Hang on, though. If you fire the coach because of bad decision making, then what about the decision to hire the coach? The coach was hired by management, right? Therefore, shouldn't the guy who hired him also get fired? After all, he didn't do a good job of recruiting, either. And who hired him? The President of the club? I mean, didn't he have something to do with this as well? Isn't he ultimately responsible for the entire team? He should go, too. But you know what? I think that we should take it all the way and fire club members, the fans themselves, because if it wasn't for their support of the club, financially and emotionally, then the club wouldn't exist. They are the shareholders of the club. If the fans would shout as one voice and protest the CEO's bad decision to hire someone who made a bad decision to hire someone who makes bad decisions, then maybe the club would win a game or two.

So it stands to reason that if you are a Dolphins fan, you should be ashamed of yourself.

Sweat

When you think of a real man, do you think of a middle-aged professional with graying hair, wearing a power tie and a fancy Rolex, working in a big office building with a doorman and marble floors; or do you think of rough-faced cowboys breaking-in wild horses, or muscled workmen on a rig surrounded by huge pipes and oversized spanners? Does the word “bloke” conjure up images of sophisticated, educated and refined gentlemen smoking long cigars in the club, or of tall, strong, sweaty men doing the jobs only real men can do?

Sport is also manly. I’m talking about well-built blokes with bowling-ball biceps who put their bodies on the line because they only play to win. No pain, no gain. If you aint sweatin’, you aint workin’.*

Let’s face it, there is nothing more manly than doing hard, physical work and getting sweaty. I’m not talking about perspiration – that’s too delicate a term. I’m talking about sweet, salty, gritty, sweat. Men love to sweat. It’s true. Here’s an example: what happens right after a tough football game? The players don’t just shower and go home. No. They go to the locker rooms, get into a huddle, sweat-against-sweat, belt out the team song, slap each other on the back and then, maybe, they’ll go and have a shower before hitting the pub. None of this “Ooh, don’t look! My face is flushed, better go powder my nose” business.

Go into any boxing club and the first thing you will notice is the pungent smell of years of sweat oozing out of the floor-boards. The boxing club is real man-territory. Punching bags, boxing rings, barbells. There’s no room for mercy. You either train until it hurts, and then some, or you get out. Coaches yell insults and instructions, but the boxers obey because they know that the coach’s job is to make them into the leanest and meanest. Leave your Blackberries, MP3s and mobile phones outside because the boxing club isn’t powered by rechargeable lithium-ion, but the raw energy of men being men.

What about the gym? How can you consider yourself a real man if your face isn’t contorted in pain as you conquer that weights machine? How can you show yourself in public if you cannot claim victory over the treadmill? How can you live with yourself if the rowing machine gets the better of you? Push it and work it until you succeed.* That’s what I’m talking about. Real satisfaction.

Even if you are not a well-built muscle-dude, you still understand what I mean. It’s about proving yourself to yourself - showing yourself that you've got what it takes. You can do it. Sweat is the physical symbol of getting a hard job done. That’s why real men don’t run to the shower. Sweat, my friend. Sit in it, revel in it, enjoy it - sweat is your trophy. You deserve it.

*Note: watch it, injured men don’t count!