General

I Have a Mancrush on Cole Hamels

Oct 23, 2008, 5:00 PM UTC

I’m serious. I’m completely gone on the guy. This morning, Mottram (a.k.a. Hater) wondered what Hamels is thinking with his hairstyle. In my opinion, he’s thinking this: “I’m already ridiculously hot, what with my tall, lanky but sturdy physique and my sculpted, Nordic cheekbones. Nothing I could ever do with my hair would reduce my Hot Quotient by a single hot point. Nevertheless, I want to wear my hair in a way that makes me so unbelievably, unfathomably hot that not only women but completely straight men who are married and have children will want to be my secret lover.”â†µâ†µI’m trying to think back to my first sporting mancrush. I felt deep love for several members of the 1980 Phils, but it was more like the devoted affection of a child for his parents. Steve Carlton, for instance. When Lefty was on the mound, I felt the same warm feeling in my stomach that I had laying down in the backseat of the station wagon on a night-time drive back from the Jersey shore with my parents in the front seat. Like I was utterly safe and everything would be just fine forever and always.â†µ

â†µâ†µPat Rafter was probably the most serious mancrush of my adult sporting life. The guy was just so ... manly. I loved how when he used to interrupt his serve because of a bad toss he would put his hand up and give a big Aussie, “sorry mate.” He had that raffish tennis samurai look going for a while that just drove me crazy. There was no debating the fact that he was a delicious hunk of man and he pushed all my mancrush buttons.â†µ

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â†µIn the past few years, I have to say I haven’t really caught the manbug. I flirted with Dwyane Wade a little during his rookie season, but then he got overexposed and ... I don’t know. It just went nowhere. Until this postseason, I was a lonely, mancrushless kind of sports fan, but Hamels has brought sexy back in a BIG way. I love his delivery. I love his name -- “Cole Hamels” -- so euphonious and yet slightly nefarious too, like the corrupt but heroic detective in a 70’s porn movie known for his questionable interrogation techniques. â†µ

â†µâ†µI love his boyish little “I’m from San Diego” surfer Boy Scout voice. I love his deep soulful stares in the dugout like he’s not pitching the Phils to a win in Game 1 of the World Series but more like he’s listening to Feist on his iPod and really feeling her pain. And I LOVE his hair. You hear me, Hater Mottram? The way it falls out of the back of his cap and curlicues out into those little points on both sides of his neck? Oh yeah. I’m telling you, the brother is giving me a whole new understanding of the term “city of brotherly love.”â†µ

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This post originally appeared on the Sporting Blog. For more, see The Sporting Blog Archives.

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