A witness to history

ESPN has been in my doghouse for years. Its messed up every sport I've watched, from baseball to hockey, football to drag racing, basketball to bass fishing.

I've suffered through a laundry list of east coast games that me, as a west coaster, could give two shits and a goat about. When I'd go searching for that crucial Charger highlight at 8:30 p.m. my time, I'd have to wade through bowling and yacthing updates before catching a nine second glimpse of Rivers tossing an 21-yard pass to Antonio Gates that had about as much bearing on the game as the head coach hucking up a loogy on some scrub offensive lineman's shoes. The "leader" believes every blue-state blooded American (and those red-state blooded USAers, too) lives for those Duke-North Carolina, Browns-Steelers and Yankees-Red Sox matchups. Never you mind that there are 418 other teams out there that many of us would like to watch, it's all about those folks in New York, Boston and D.C. It's their world, we just live in it.

And just when I was ready to ask our Cable swindler (provider) if it could swap ESPN for the Oxygen network, Biographychannel or a station that airs monkeys humping footballs, anything but this east coast butt kissing channel known as ESPN, the "leader" comes up with programming that could change the way we watch sports. Just like poker was nothing on TV but five leather-faced chain-smokers winking, smirking and picking their nose until they slapped the lipstick camera to the table, this sport was a forgotten footnote played by kids in lunch lines and couples trying to dole out household chores.

The sport? Roshambo. Better known as Rock, Paper, Scissors. The greatest hand sport. The king of hand sports, if you will. Started during man's prehistoric days and known back then as rock, rock, rock, it evolved from rock, stone tablet, chisel to it's current design, and has captured billions of humans' imagination over the milleniums.

When I heard ESPN would air the 2007 U.S. Rock Paper Scissors Championships I knew I couldn't miss it. I sprinted to the TiVo box, rifled through Saturday's programming and found it. My hands shaking with wild anticipation and nerves for fear of taping a rerun of Blossom on the channel just above the "leader," I struggled to get the recording right, and was relieved when everything came out rock solid.

When I saw (OK watched) the Scrabble championships a while back on the same channel, I thought I'd seen it all. What would it air next, I thought? Monopoly? Operation? Candyland? Etch-and-Sketch timed drawings? There's no way it could top Scrabble, unless it was a pair of kangaroos playing Scrabble. That'd be worth watching. And some midgets, and you have TV gold. Watch out Lost, there's a new sheriff in town.

Then came the RPS championships, and that's when I learned Wife and I were watching history. According to announcer Trey Wingo.

"People here in Las Vegas, and on TV will witness not only Rock, Paper, Scissors history, but American history as well. Two hundred and ninety eight wrist wizards will fist their way toward $50,000."

I rewound the TV six times to make sure I heard that right.

"$50,000!" That's a five, and four zeroes. I could buy the entire Salma Hayek video collection and still have a few bucks left over "special" downloads that cost $somethin'.95.

Wife looked at me. I looked at Wife, and our brains synched with one thought. That money is ours!

I see where I went wrong now. When I was a wee pup with visions of being the next Steve Sax on the Dodgers I thought baseball was my game. Little did I know throwing all those rocks at my neighbor was a missed sign. My sport should have been RPS. Maybe it was the mental game within the game that scared me off, or the nerves of a final throw and not sure if paper or scissors was the way to go. Baseball just seemed like the easier game.

Then we watched these yea-hoos on ESPN, and Wife and I realized this was nothing more than an easy way to earn a year's pay and then some. One dude came in wearing oven mittens (a smart idea in my book. Pitchers protect their arms by icing them down afterwards; why not protect your money makers?) and a boxer's robe. Another would say words that began with R, P or S to subliminally urge his opponent to make that move. It worked about half the time - so really, it did nothing but make that dude appear as though he's a mouth-breathing ass scratcher.

And when we heard what the champion earns by "fisting, papering and slicing his way to the title," Wife and I rushed to the Web site to see where the next event in our glorious state (112 degrees at 3 p.m. is glorious, right?) We're in training now. One of us will scream "1, 2, 3 ... throw," then we'll meet each other in a room and see who won. It's a taxing sports, we're not fooling ourselves, but with the right training and some stamina that 50 grand is ours.

The first thing I'll do when I win the cash? Invest in a pair of oven mitts, adorned, of course with my custom-design logo: A monkey humping a football. These money makers have to remain pretty for my new career.