Lombardi. Wooden. Rockne. All of these names are synonymous with greatness. These are some of the greatest minds in the history of sport. Minds that paved the way for how modern athletics are played to this very day. And after tonight, another name will be added to this hallowed brotherhood. Snodgrass.

Yes, never in my 15 year Tencap career have I been privy to the inner workings of greatness. Managing a Tencap team requires a keen eye for finding the hidden value in undervalued talent. It’s the ultimate test in sabermetric aptitude. And Kent Snodgrass is the Brad Pitt in Tencap’s Moneyball storyline.

Kent Snodgrass to Travis Grate prior to his match vs. Milburn

Tonight, we band together to compete in one of the most difficult tests in all of sport—the Tencap Finals. An event so prestigious they hold it in the middle of July, in Kansas City, on a random Wednesday evening. Hot dogs and Bud Light (the caviar and Dom Perignon of the Midwest) will be served. Legions of adoring fans will pile in by the half-dozens to half-heartedly watch their Homestead Country Club brethren compete for one of the most coveted prizes in any sport: the Tencap Championship Jacket.

I know most of you younglings view me as little more than a crusty old blowhard. But hear you me, my friends, I know what it takes to get to this point. I have been there on five different occasions. And never once have I been denied once I reach the finals. I have five…yes, count ‘em, five Tencap jackets sitting in a box somewhere. Each one more ill-fitting than the next. Some too small, some too large, and some even in women’s sizes. But I digress. The cut of such a distinguished trophy is irrelevant. It’s a symbol. A symbol straight from a clearance rack in an Asian warehouse that represents something bigger than you or me. It represents the combined efforts of a collection of men who overcame whatever personal obstacles they have in their respective lives. They came together under the tutelage of Kent Snodgrass to do one thing, and one thing alone: to bring home the jacket. And bring home the jacket we will.

Big League Chew of Hubba Bubba?

The missing link. All we can do is sit and wonder how much easier this season would have been. David played in the first match of the season before being sidelined with some sort of skin condition that doctors haven’t been able to identify. Since then, David has supported the rest of us via email. Once they fly that special ointment in from Russia, David has assured us that he will be ready for the Fall season.

Darren is a real trooper. He flies in from Lee’s Summit each week to take on whatever opponent stands in his way. Darren thinks he’s the best player on this team because his racquet weighs as much as a bar stool and he has a one-handed backhand. The reality is that…well, yeah, he’s probably the best player.

The walking forehand. When you warm up with Travis all he wants to do is hit backhands. He’s been playing tennis for 30 years and he’s determined to figure out that damn backhand 20 minutes before the match starts. Then, when the match starts, he runs around his backhand to hit forehand winners. Go figure.

Raise your hand if you think you can hit the ball harder than Brad. Okay, now put your hand down because I’m here to tell you that you can’t. Brad plays tennis 5 times per year. His racquets are at least 15 years old. He still has an old friend from college string them with the cheapest shit he can find. His favorite musician is Eddie Money.

The other half of the Brothers Martin, LLC. How are these two guys even related? Scott, the southpaw, plays tennis almost as much as his brother. So, when asked what his strategy was for tonight’s match, his response was, “We will just hit balls super hard during the warm up to intimidate the other team.” Sound strategy.

Dan “The Missile” Mason. Scrappy, unorthodox, and competitive. The strategy is the same regardless of the opponent: return serve, bull-rush net, hit overhead at net guy. He truly is the “Conan” of Team Snodgrass. “Crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women."

“The Magician.” Hatch is one part cunning, and two parts WTF? Hatch employs a mindset that is rarely seen on a tennis court. One, hit heavy slice forehands 100% of the time. Two, implement the quick serve to keep your opponents off-balance. Yeah…it works.

How many shoulder surgeries does it take for Greg to screw in a lightbulb? Give up? Six. The answer is six. And despite that very real number of shoulder surgeries, Greg manages to win the majority of his matches. Little known fact: Greg is in talks with NBC to consult on the Six Million Dollar Man reboot.

Drew is a professional beard grower and expert video game playing person. Makes sense since every time I see him play it looks like a game of Wii Tennis. However, to make a living, he teaches the rest of us how to play tennis properly. In the winter, he plays Wii Platform Tennis.

Bryce, I think, is only about 14 years old. I think Kent saw him at Grand Prix tourney at Homestead and recruited him to our team. And to his credit, I don’t think Bryce has lost this season. It’s odd, every time I look over, Bryce is losing a point. Every. Single. Time. Then I find out he won like 2 and 2. I guess his opponents are intimidated by high school sophomores.

Doug is injured. Doug is always injured.

I have the worst rating on this team. It’s a testament to Kent’s prowess that he can find ways to win with me on the court. I actually think the only person I can play with is Doug…and he’s injured. He’s always injured. Doug and I won our court a few years ago in the Fall Tencap Finals. We won pretty easily. Pretty sure Doug was injured too. He’s always injured.

Anyway, I will leave you with this, fellow comrades…

“When some wild-eyed, eight-foot-tall maniac grabs your neck, taps the back of your favorite head up against the barroom wall, and he looks you crooked in the eye and he asks you if ya paid your dues, you just stare that big sucker right back in the eye, and you remember what ol' Jack Burton always says at a time like that: 'Have ya paid your dues, Jack?' 'Yessir...the check is in the mail.' – Jack Burton