User talk:Hack-n-sack

Bob Molinaro: American Icon
Whether the grapes were great or not, it's safe to say that 1951 was a very good year.

In February of '51, Robert L. Molinaro worked his way from the womb and whined for the first time. It was a magical moment, and one full of foreshadowing.

On a crisp October afternoon 54 years later, the man now known as "Moli" or "Bitter Bob" walked calmly into his editor's office. The prolific pontificator of print (that's a fancy, writer's way of calling him a crusty columnist for The Virginian-Pilot's sports section) clearly needed to remind his boss of his lifelong mantra.

"I don't ask for much," media magpie Molinaro mumbled, raising tempo, tone and volume with each word. "Just to be LEFT THE HELL ALONE!"

If you don't believe Bob -- a smallish man on a short frame, with a babyface that belies is greying hair and chronic tennis elbow -- test him.

After one particularly trying brainstorming meeting at work, during which Moli sat silently, the legend let loose a tyraid for the ages.

"If everything's so F-CKED UP ... SOOOO F-CKED UP ..." he yelped, standing in his superior's office, "Let's just put the bomb right over there and blow this whole F-CKING place to bits and start over!"

Of the 17 other people in the office that day, none said a single other word the rest of the day. Bob is a quiet man full of deafening rage. Slight, but scary.

And nothing trips this ticking time bomb like traffic.

On assignment one glorious fall day, Bob was headed north to FedEx field outside of Washington, D.C. He was joining a fellow writer to cover the much-anticipated opener of the college football season.

He'd soon see 91,000 people shaking the stadium around Virginia Tech and No. 1 Southern California. Kickoff was set for 7:45 p.m. The drive from Norfolk, Va. to Landover, Md. was approximately 3.5 hours.

By Moli's request, he and his traveling partner started the trek at 9 a.m.

At 9:30 a.m., the duo hit a slight snarl in traffic at a bridge-tunnel known for slight snarls. Bob, a lifelong resident well aware of this information, was nonetheless shaken to his core.

"Let's call the copy desk," said Bob, following a long, exagerated exhale, "and tell them we can't make it. That we're turning around."

Remember, there were still 10 hours and 15 minutes to complete the remaining three hours of the drive. This logic was lost on the fellow who couldn't be bothered to stare another's bumper for more than a moment.

"The whole WORLD is f-cked!" Moli continued. "In 10 years, it won't even be worth leaving your house."

Fortunately for this seething scribe, he has honed his skills in such a way that he has, in fact, created and coined a new niche of his craft:

Couch journalism.

Robert L. Molinaro takes a comfortable seat and proceeds to pen uncomfortable stances.

The Chinese? Among a billion people, Bobby wonders, can't they find ONE who can shoot a basketball.

Moli's take on a baseball great? "Lookalikes: Pete Rose and sex therapist Dr. Ruth Westheimer."

How 'bout Heisman winners? "A good Italian boy like Vinny Testaverde playing quarterback in Dallas is like Tony Soprano joining the rodeo."

Bedroom help: "File this away. About a year from now, the hot name for newborn girls will be Viagra."

What about Mexico? "They send us poor illegal aliens, while the NFL ships the Cardinals and 49ers south of the border. That's called getting even."

Hey, Bob, Boston College has moved to the Atlantic Coast Conference. Thoughts? "If this is ACC Country, then Ted Kennedy is George W. Bush's favorite workout partner."

The Super Bowl in 2003? It's safe to say Robert wasn't impressed: "In the 38 years the NFL has been using Roman numerals, the Super Bowl has never included a team with talents less obvious than those of the Carolina Panthers." The team's "unexpected run to Houston offers grateful inspiration to every dull, unheralded team with a journeyman quarterback, unaccomplished head coach and dubious tradition."

It's important to note that of the above-mentioned lines from Bob's work, only one of them was produced from the actual location or event of which Bob speaks. He cannot be sure what he's saying is true.

He can only be sure that whatever it is, he doesn't like it. His readers? Well, they don't like him, either.

A smattering of letters to Bob's editor:


 * "I cannot believe this man wrote this in a newspaper. I will never buy The Pilot again. He's an idiot."


 * "Molinaro has proven he has no idea the real meaning of sports."


 * "Does Bob need a day off? Could he possibly be any more negative about who is going to the Super Bowl this year?"


 * "Bob Molinaro is the ideal critic grinch."


 * "It is clearly obvious that you are angry and upset, and the only thing that would make you feel better is to lash out with an article written like a child throwing a tantrum."

Yes, Robert L. Molinaro -- delivered to us like mana from heaven 54 years ago -- is a man full of passion (or, at the very least, a passionate distaste for passion). He can frequently be heard explaining his career choice:

"I decided a very long time ago that I didn't want to do a day of real work in my life. This is the closest you can get to such a dream."

And through his work, he inspires a fire in his fellow man -- a feat few accomplish in their lives. He is a rarity, to be sure, a precious gem of a human.

Where so many others have wavered on their paths, Bitter Bob has stayed true to his disagreeable nature -- unrelentingly -- from birth and surely until death.

Molinaro is a man who stands on one principle: Life sucks.

A co-worker offered perhaps the strongest summation of the life and times of Robert L.

"Molinaro could be getting a (sex act) from Julia Roberts, while eating a steak dinner, after having won $5 million ... and he'd still find something to b-tch about."

1951? A very good year, indeed.