Closet party animals

When Martina Hingis recently tested positive for cocaine, we didn’t scoff or admonish the tennis star. In fact, we were actually kind of turned on. Who knew the Swiss Miss was a party girl? Still, it came as a big surprise. Martina Hingis? Of course, the news made us wonder – what other athletes are closet partiers? This isn’t a list of the biggest party animals in sports; you won’t find Charles Barkley here, even though he’s probably drunk at this very moment. Rather, we’ve compiled a list of sports personalities who don’t seem like partiers at first glance but like to get down behind closed doors.

Andy Reid, Philadelphia Eagles: When you live in a drug emporium, how can you not be a bit of a party animal? No, Andy Reid probably doesn’t get all messed up on goofballs like his kids. But we don’t doubt he has a good chuckle when his munchie-afflicted children eat the last bag of Lays. Or that once in a while, when Garrett and Britt’s friends are over, they con a chortling “Big Andyyyy” into a couple of bong hits, resulting in the rotund coach spending two days hung over and three days in Mrs. Reid’s doghouse.

Michelle Tafoya, ESPN reporter: You’d think the troll-like Tafoya would be hard-pressed to find a date or party invite, but that’s exactly our point. Trying to keep up with the Kolbers and Bernsteins of the world, Tafoya downs a few too many whisky sours at ESPN’s Christmas party. With dishevelled hair and a low-cut top that’s a few sizes too small, Tafoya stumbles from one potential suitor to the next, making a complete ass of herself. Adjusting a run in her stocking, Tafoya musters the best sexy, husky voice she can manage: “Can Erin Andrews do this?” she queries before deep-throating a stapler.

Eric Wedge, Cleveland Indians: Look at him. Pure party rage. After suffering a humiliating loss the to Boston Red Sox in the ALCS, Wedge undoubtedly spent a couple of hours warming up at the local pub, cursing at passersby under his whisky-filled breath and making inappropriate passes at shooter girls. The fun doesn’t stop there, though. Wedge eschews a cab ride home, instead walking down the freeway with a six-pack of Busch hanging by his side. The highlight of the night? The John Wayne special on TBS he inadvertently caught after his wife, Kate, forced him to sleep on the couch after he pissed in the kitchen sink.

Jaromir Jagr, New York Rangers: Just because he hates everyone and everyone hates him doesn’t mean he doesn’t party. He probably gets crazy, but with no New York Rangers in sight. We picture Jags in the VIP room of a swanky nightclub surrounded by hulking Eurotrash bodyguards sporting sunglasses and earpieces. The entertainment: Czech models with names like “Svetlana” who look like vampires, dress in leather and play kinky games with knives as techno beats pulsate in the background.

Tom Gordon, Philadelphia Phillies: Those sudden eruptions of cheers you’re hearing at the back of bar on a sweltering summer night in the American South? They’re from Tom Gordon’s table. He just took down his fourth opponent of the night in a shot-for-shot Bourbon drinking contest. He sits quietly in the corner, ballcap pulled down over his eyes, while his crazed fans break pool cues over each others backs and scream in jubilation every time Flash downs another glass. Drinking not your forte? He’ll beat you in a jalapeño eating match too.

Paul Maurice, Toronto Maple Leafs: After a 7-1 drubbing at the hands of the Washington Capitals, Maurice tiptoes through the door of his house at 11:30 p.m., praying his wife isn’t awake. He gets his wish when he spots a plate of cold Shake ‘n’ Bake chicken and a note on the kitchen table. He kicks off his designer shoes, pops on his favourite Rolling Stones LP and pours himself a glass of brandy. He downs it in five seconds and stares blankly at the wall. He pours another round. His hand shakes and the neck of the bottle clatters against the glass. He empties it into his throat and buries his face in his hands.

Jeff Saturday, Indianapolis Colts: So what if his party consists of a Halo 3 tournament, sleeping bags, plastic cups and big bottles of Pepsi? It still counts.

Fred Funk, golfer: A nice Friday night dinner with the Funks’ favourite couple, the Martins, turns into dessert and a third bottle of wine, which gives way to Fred wearing his blazer inside out as he sings “Born to be Wild” at the karaoke bar. Interestingly, Fred finds himself looking into Jan Martin’s eyes as he stands on a table and belts out the wrong lyrics. The next thing you know, he’s getting freaky with Jan on his living room sofa while his wife heads for the hot tub with Mr. Martin.

Jeff Van Gundy, television commentator: If you knew what Jeff Van Gundy did behind closed doors, you’d think Pacman Jones was a Saint. Think high-class strip clubs, a pair of leggy, busty blondes twice his height on each knee, and doing lines out of their cleavage while yelling “I’m Jeff fucking Van Gundy!” He also makes the strippers play weird sex games, like one in which Van Gundy dangles $100 bills from a string and rides on the girls’ backs, spanking them while they crawl around on all fours.

Rex Grossman, Chicago Bears: Despite plenty of raw talent, Grossman’s failure to materialize into even a decent NFL pivot is perplexing – unless you factor in countless nights of Prairie Fire shots and unprotected sex. It would certainly explain a lot, wouldn’t it? He shows up for work unprepared, his decision making is impaired, and he appears unco-ordinated and inexplicably drops stuff all the time. Sounds like the morning after downing a 26er of cheap whiskey and picking up a cougar named Tammy, no?

Matt Millen, Detroit Lions: After leading the Lions to numerous horrific seasons, a guy needs to unwind. And nothing says “unwind” like a $10 bottle of wine and a $20 prostitute named “Skyler.” Are those strobe lights in the rear view window? Fuck yeah, this is a helluva party! What? Police lights? Next time, Matt will spring for the $50 motel room.

Joe Buck, FOX announcer: Of course, Buck wouldn’t engage in traditional party activities. The glasses-and-Docker-clad commentator would rather lean against a wall while occasionally pointing out “What a disgusting act” that last keg stand was, or how “classless, ignorant and embarrassing” it was when those two co-eds made out.

Michelle Wie, golfer: She’s not quite old enough to get into bars with a fake ID yet, but Michelle Wie has to be a party girl. How else can you explain the so-called phenom’s horrific LPGA season? Some nights it’ll be joyriding in the back of some frat guy’s pickup, cramming her tongue down “Dean from Illinois’” throat; other nights it’s toiletpapering her neighbour’s house and screaming obscenities at the 7/11 owner as she vomits in the adjacent alley after too many Wildberry coolers; she also hosts huge bashes in her massive house when mom and dad go out of town and cries when someone spills wine on the carpet and her 52-inch plasma TV gets stolen.

Peyton Manning, Indianapolis Colts: Don’t let his appearance or “aw-shucks” demeanor fool you. For $250k, Peyton would dance at your bachelor party.

Joffrey Lupul, Philadelphia Flyers: Not that we really had reason to think he didn’t tie one on now and then, but now we know for sure. Filled the net while playing in California, clearly filled lots of Hollywood vagina at the same time and had added spring in his step as a result. Shipped to barren Edmonton, spent too much time shovelling snow and not enough time shoving his penis into people, couldn’t put the puck in the ocean. Now he’s back in a big city and potting goals. Coincidence? Naw.

Tiki Barber, NBC commentator: He’s not an “athlete,” he’s a broadcaster and author. But he does get on the town for the odd high-society soiree, consisting of three-piece suits, Martinis, hour-long chats about The New Yorker and jazz beats. Don’t bother showing up if your car isn’t a hybrid.

Joey Harrington, Atlanta Falcons: Everyone’s favourite cultured, intellectual NFL quarterback wouldn’t fit in with drunken, blue-collar Lions fans. But we certainly envision the emotional jazz piano player (yeah, he plays piano) smoking a joint with his fellow philosophy TAs before sneaking upstairs with Autumn to show her his sketches.

Cam Cameron, Miami Dolphins: The Fish are 0-8. It’s not like he has to worry about being hung over for film on Monday morning.

Steve Young, ESPN commentator: No, the straight-laced Mormon wouldn’t throw back beers like Koren Robinson or bong hits like Ricky Williams. But while all the boys – and the ladies, more importantly – get more discombobulated than Gary Busey trying to solve a puzzle, Sly Steve waits in the grass. Finally, his patience pays off. “Who are you?” giggles Jess, as she seductively arches her back and gently presses her finger against his chest. “I’m Steve Young, I used to play quarterback,” he replies. “Would you like to come back to my place and see my Super Bowl ring?”