When you hear that two nuclear submarines collide, it is perfectly understandable for the initial reaction to be one of shocked disbelief. The prospect of submarines armed with enough nuclear warheads to carry out 1,246 Hiroshima bombings is one of enormous gravity. The earth’s inhabitants should in unison breath a sigh of relief, thankful that a global catastrophe had been narrowly averted. As CNN led their Monday morning broadcast with this news, I was shocked. But not with wary trepidation, it was incredulousness that caused my stupor.
Not one, but two different naval commanders from different countries could simultaneously come down with a case of the stupids. Slack-jawed, I stared at the television screen, and listened to the anchorwomen, in a voice normally saved for assassinations of heads of state, the passing of a pope, and declarations of war; inform the viewers of this tragedy in the North Atlantic. How did she do that and keep a straight face? Sure, two nuclear submarines crashing into each other is serious. But once she got beyond that, didn’t it cross her mind, “How the hell did that happen?”
Let’s first take a look at the players in this bizarre performance of a David Lynch screenplay. The British sub HMS Vanguard was launched in 1992, and refitted in 2007 as part of a $7 billion contract. The sub is not due to be replaced until 2024, unless someone sails off the edge of the earth first. It stands to reason after spending that kind of cash, every available piece of new technology was installed aboard this pride of the British fleet. It’s safe to assume that it would include sonar and radar.
The same goes for the French vessel Le Triomphant, sonar and radar have just got to be onboard, don’t they? A closer look at the details of this incident reveals that one sub is British, and the other French. You may think that’s stating the obvious, but under the circumstances one can’t be too sure.
The military past of the French has been distinguished by the incredible amount of money spent yielding little positive results. Napoleon’s march into Russia didn’t turn out so hot. The French foray in Viet Nam was a disaster. And the French should be thankful the United States entered World War II, or German would be the spoken language. Granted, the French came to the aid of the colonies versus the Brits, and we know how that turned out. One good turn deserves another.
The British and the French faltered during the battle over the Suez, and it was up to the U.S. again to set things straight. Sure America has had it’s setbacks as well, but they aren’t driving their subs into other folks. As a matter of fact, in 1992, a surfacing Russian submarine struck the USS Baton Rouge in the Barents Sea. If any countries subs should be slamming into other countries it should be the U.S. They’ve got submarines patrolling most of the world’s major bodies of water.
Speaking of major bodies of water; 70.8% of the earth is covered by water, about 139,000,000 square miles. 20.8%, or 27,800,000 of that 139,000,000 is the Atlantic Ocean. This recent freak incident occurred in the North Atlantic. For the sake of argument, let’s say the North Atlantic covers 13,900,000 square miles of varying depths. Two submarines, on routine maneuvers, both running stealthily at the same time so as not to be picked up on sonar, run into each other in those nearly 14 million square miles at the same depth. Who woulda’ thunk? If Vegas only took bets on that happening!
The powers that be, which include British Admiral Sir Jonathon Band, the First Sea Lord, (swear to god) quickly allayed any fears as to whether a nuclear strike could be launched if the situation arose at this very moment; “We can confirm that the capability remained unaffected and there has been no compromise to nuclear safety.” Well, that’s good to know! We can rest easy knowing there was no nuclear accident, but we can still kill people on purpose if necessary. Whew! That’s certainly a load off. There are more astounding real life quotes from esteemed and learned individuals; all said with an air of utmost seriousness, I shit you not.
Stephen Saunders, a retired British Royal Navy commodore and the editor of the prestigious Jane’s Fighting Ships, said “This really shouldn’t have happened at all…I find it quite extraordinary.” How’s that for expert insight. Mr. Saunders doesn’t quit while he’s ahead. He further states “The modus operandi of most submarines, particularly ballistic-missile submarines, is to operate stealthily and to proceed undetected. This means operating passively, by not transmitting on sonar, and making as little noise as possible.” Well, it looks like both subs achieved their goal. These statements fall under the heading of “No shit, really?”
Complex, long-winded excuses, or explanations, depending on your personal sentiment, included that France being situated outside of NATO’s command structure, so it does not provide information on the location of its mobile nuclear arms. Why pray tell? Well, “France considers its nuclear arsenal the most vital element in its defense capabilities,” said Jerome Erulin, a spokesman for the French Navy. Remember, this is coming from the folks who felt the Maginot Line was their best defense against the Germans.
Consider this nugget; it took six years to draw up the U.K.-French Bilateral Defense Cooperation Agreement, which called for regular exchanges on nuclear policy between navies. And we think the U.S. government gets bogged down in bureaucratic red tape. After this recent incident, Hans Kristensen, who monitors NATO’s weapons for the Federation of American Scientists stated “The fact that the collision occurred at all indicates that the two allies need to talk more.” Chalk another one up for the “no shit” column. I haven’t seen a picture of Mr. Kristensen, but the image of the scientist on The Simpsons comes to mind. Mr. Kristensen is not alone on “the big brain squad.”
Liberal Democrat defense spokesman Nick Harvey, said “While the British nuclear fleet has a good safety record…the people of Britain, France and the rest of the world need to be reassured this can never happen again.” I wouldn’t hold my breath. The HMS Trafalger in November of 2002 ran aground off the coast of Scotland. The British sub HMS Tireless, in 2003, crashed into “possibly an iceberg” while on patrol in the Artic. In May 2003 Pippa Dunlop, a reporter for the Telegraph News referred to this accident involving the Tireless, as “the latest in a series of mishaps to befall the British fleet.” This very same sub witnessed an onboard explosion that killed two sailors in March 2007. Mr. Harvey, I don’t think “good” is good enough when you’re talking about vessels that are nuclear powered and are armed with nuclear weapons.
Lastly, did you know that if this collision had been worse according to nuclear physicist Frank Barnaby, there could have been dire consequences? Really? Where do you want to start? He stated that “if the warheads were exposed to the sea, plutonium and highly-enriched Uranium could go into the water and be absorbed by marine life.” Sorry Frank, that’s doesn’t rank high on the import list with the earth blowing up and all.
The British Ministry of Defense issued this statement “because of the secret nature of these weapons. I think a degree of secrecy is necessary but the Ministry of Defense is, by nature, very secretive.” Huh?
Not one of these cerebral giants ever mentioned the word “radar.” I don’t give a rat’s ass about sonar. The last time ocean liners ran into each other was 1956, when the Andrea Doria was struck in dense fog by the Stockholm. Radar didn’t exist yet. For Christ’s sake, couldn’t somebody see a 500 foot long, 3 stories high, 16,000 ton blip on a screen? Let’s also keep in mind that 79% of France’s electricity is generated by nuclear energy. I sure hope none of the guys that run their utilities command a sub in their Navy. If so, Jon Stewart, SNL and the Harvard Lampoon are going to have a field day. I certainly hope the media keeps this story in the news. There so much more to make fun of than tired, old, boring, steroids.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
This Week's News
A bevy of news stories seem to be garnering a lot of attention, whether these items are deserving of such overblown coverage or not. However, America’s “slow down to gawk at the care wreck” mentality of the majority of our population will never be sated. Our televisions are cluttered with dozens of channels devoted to covering the cornucopia of carnival-like diversions. Eyes were glued to the endless coverage that Anna Nicole Smith provided ad nauseum. While we should be analyzing things such as why gas prices are going up though oil prices remain moderately low; and what exactly is in the government stimulus package, and how it will effect us,; and why are Wall Street bankers crying about their bonuses being less than last year; many of us are riveted to the Michael Phelps saga, Alex Rodriguez and steroids (still), and………..
Fourteen children. 14 Children. F-O-U-R-T-E-E-N children. Nadya Suleman decided that six kids wasn’t enough, she had to have eight more. The more time has elapsed, the more bizarre this story becomes. Unlike other forms of media, some who have declared they will not pass judgment until all the facts are in; I hold not such reservations.
My feelings are rooted in a conservative attitude toward population growth, a limited amount of global resources, and a gratifying and fulfilling experience as a single parent of one child. Let’s see if I can find anything remotely redeeming in having eight kids in one pop when you already have six…without a husband…without any source of income…when your parents are already helping raise the other six…after they’ve lost a home…after they’ve filed for bankruptcy…while you’re receiving government assistance.
Oh, that’s right Ms. Suleman, you don’t think you’re receiving government assistance. You believe the $490 per month in food stamps, and the disability checks three of your kids get are not government assistance, but they are part of programs designed to help people in need. Oh. Like you needed eight more kids. Did you really need six kids to begin with, without any viable means of supporting them. There’s a room full of cuckoo clocks chiming at this very moment.
A dear friend of mine has eight children. Thankfully, she had them at various intervals. After hearing this nugget of information from one of my colleagues, I was initially appalled. What about the planet being overpopulated I railed? What about the dwindling open spaces I mourned? Who’s going to pay for these kids and their needs I chided? And then I got to know this woman. She is easily one of the finest, kindest, most compassionate individuals I have ever known, and am privileged to call her my friend. I quickly reversed my snap judgments. I surmised that if any human being existed on this planet that should have eight kids, and the world would be a better place because of it, it is this woman. Each of her children is bright, more pleasant, more respectful, and better behaved than the next. Did I mention these children are all home schooled either by my friend or her husband? Did I mention my friend is a PhD. candidate? These feelings of mine do not extend to Ms. Suleman.
She has had “work done” though she denies it. Her lips and nose are quite different now then they appeared in earlier photographs. She is one of the growing population of persons who holds others accountable for what happens to them, and has filed lawsuits to prove it. And now she is holding various forms of media for ransom so the public can hear what she has to say. She has hired publicists to handle the offers, and insulate her from anyone who may expose her for what she is. Publicist Joann Killeen states that “My job is to protect my client.” That’s something a lawyer or agent would say, not a publicist. The amount of damage control for a lunatic must be overwhelming.
Ms. Suleman stated that she plans to support her children by the employment she’ll gain from completing her college education. In the very next breath she stated that she will be there to nurture and care for all her children, a quality she believes many parents lack today. How does she plan on doing both, particularly when eight of your kids are in diapers, and it’s still undetermined whether any of them will have prolonged medical issues? I am aghast at this height of egocentricity. I weep for the children.
I am ashamed that this “news story” has so irked me. I am upset that I’ve succumbed to my sense of morbid curiosity. I suggest that we should give Ms. Suleman virtually no media attention. Let her and her idiocy languish in the middle pages of various print forms. Hopefully, her fifteen minutes will be over. This is one case where if we ignore her maybe she will just go away.
Likewise with the Michael Phelps tale. Leave him alone, let’s move on. Our President smoked pot and we are not obsessed with the fact. Michael Phelps is a swimmer, not someone recently nominated for sainthood. Same goes for A-Rod and steroids; he’s a baseball player, not John Gotti incarnate. It’s funny how some folks want to pass judgment on a decorated Olympian, and the baseball stars of the era, but not on an obviously disturbed, misguided, selfish, burden to society……or…..
those Wall Street bankers from the first paragraph, remember them. Am I the only one who’s pissed because the men running an industry that lost $34 billion dollars in 2008 “only” got an average bonus that exceeded inflation by 406%? Who else in America gets rewarded for not doing their job states Rick Newman of U.S. News and World Report? How did you miss that little news item? Right, we’re busy paying attention to a woman in California who could profit by not having a job at all, and exceeding the average household population by 700%. We should bail on the coverage of Phelps and A-Rod, and take a closer look at those who are getting your tax dollars to bail them out.
Fourteen children. 14 Children. F-O-U-R-T-E-E-N children. Nadya Suleman decided that six kids wasn’t enough, she had to have eight more. The more time has elapsed, the more bizarre this story becomes. Unlike other forms of media, some who have declared they will not pass judgment until all the facts are in; I hold not such reservations.
My feelings are rooted in a conservative attitude toward population growth, a limited amount of global resources, and a gratifying and fulfilling experience as a single parent of one child. Let’s see if I can find anything remotely redeeming in having eight kids in one pop when you already have six…without a husband…without any source of income…when your parents are already helping raise the other six…after they’ve lost a home…after they’ve filed for bankruptcy…while you’re receiving government assistance.
Oh, that’s right Ms. Suleman, you don’t think you’re receiving government assistance. You believe the $490 per month in food stamps, and the disability checks three of your kids get are not government assistance, but they are part of programs designed to help people in need. Oh. Like you needed eight more kids. Did you really need six kids to begin with, without any viable means of supporting them. There’s a room full of cuckoo clocks chiming at this very moment.
A dear friend of mine has eight children. Thankfully, she had them at various intervals. After hearing this nugget of information from one of my colleagues, I was initially appalled. What about the planet being overpopulated I railed? What about the dwindling open spaces I mourned? Who’s going to pay for these kids and their needs I chided? And then I got to know this woman. She is easily one of the finest, kindest, most compassionate individuals I have ever known, and am privileged to call her my friend. I quickly reversed my snap judgments. I surmised that if any human being existed on this planet that should have eight kids, and the world would be a better place because of it, it is this woman. Each of her children is bright, more pleasant, more respectful, and better behaved than the next. Did I mention these children are all home schooled either by my friend or her husband? Did I mention my friend is a PhD. candidate? These feelings of mine do not extend to Ms. Suleman.
She has had “work done” though she denies it. Her lips and nose are quite different now then they appeared in earlier photographs. She is one of the growing population of persons who holds others accountable for what happens to them, and has filed lawsuits to prove it. And now she is holding various forms of media for ransom so the public can hear what she has to say. She has hired publicists to handle the offers, and insulate her from anyone who may expose her for what she is. Publicist Joann Killeen states that “My job is to protect my client.” That’s something a lawyer or agent would say, not a publicist. The amount of damage control for a lunatic must be overwhelming.
Ms. Suleman stated that she plans to support her children by the employment she’ll gain from completing her college education. In the very next breath she stated that she will be there to nurture and care for all her children, a quality she believes many parents lack today. How does she plan on doing both, particularly when eight of your kids are in diapers, and it’s still undetermined whether any of them will have prolonged medical issues? I am aghast at this height of egocentricity. I weep for the children.
I am ashamed that this “news story” has so irked me. I am upset that I’ve succumbed to my sense of morbid curiosity. I suggest that we should give Ms. Suleman virtually no media attention. Let her and her idiocy languish in the middle pages of various print forms. Hopefully, her fifteen minutes will be over. This is one case where if we ignore her maybe she will just go away.
Likewise with the Michael Phelps tale. Leave him alone, let’s move on. Our President smoked pot and we are not obsessed with the fact. Michael Phelps is a swimmer, not someone recently nominated for sainthood. Same goes for A-Rod and steroids; he’s a baseball player, not John Gotti incarnate. It’s funny how some folks want to pass judgment on a decorated Olympian, and the baseball stars of the era, but not on an obviously disturbed, misguided, selfish, burden to society……or…..
those Wall Street bankers from the first paragraph, remember them. Am I the only one who’s pissed because the men running an industry that lost $34 billion dollars in 2008 “only” got an average bonus that exceeded inflation by 406%? Who else in America gets rewarded for not doing their job states Rick Newman of U.S. News and World Report? How did you miss that little news item? Right, we’re busy paying attention to a woman in California who could profit by not having a job at all, and exceeding the average household population by 700%. We should bail on the coverage of Phelps and A-Rod, and take a closer look at those who are getting your tax dollars to bail them out.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Beating a Dead Horse
Raise your hand if you’re as sick of reading the never ending saga of steroids in baseball. It no longer has an appeal or redeeming qualities. We were once intrigued wondering which names the web of suspicion would ensnare. Once the stars were aligned, so to speak, there was nothing left to hold our attention.
A Congressional committee has been formed, the hearings televised, and testimony from the Snidely Whiplash’s of baseball was heard, or tuned out if you will. After a short period of relative dormancy, a new baseball season is now upon us, and with it comes tremors of discussion dotting the sports pages. On an interest scale, the steroids issue falls somewhere between pocket lint and Paris Hilton; and if it doesn’t, it should.
Drugs use in baseball is not new. Tim Keefe, a pitcher who played prior to the turn of the twentieth century. His illustrious career had five seasons of more than 30 wins. In two of those seasons Keefe had over 40 wins. In one of those remarkable years Keefe pitched 619 innings, in the other he registered 535 innings. Alas, Keefe’s playing days were cut short by injury. Keefe had once admitted that if he felt fatigued, he would pick up some “elixir” from the local pharmacy. Keefe pitched from 1880 to 1893, before the Pure Food and Drug Act was passed in 1906; long before the passage of the Harrison Drug Act in 1914. This is notable because prior to the passing of these two acts of governmental legislation opium, heroin, morphine, and cocaine were over-the counter drugs. Anyone could walk into a drugstore and purchase themselves these marvelous wonder drugs.
Please keep in mind most ballplayers during this period were not necessarily pillars of the community. The profession of ball playing had not yet gained complete social acceptance. The game itself was rife with gambling, and its step-brother cheating. The mind doesn’t have to make such a giant leap of faith to surmise ballplayers stooping to drug use to cure their ills; particularly if it meant collecting a paycheck.Notable personalities of the era were part of, not hiding underground, the drug culture. The famed psychiatrist Sigmund Freud wrote about the stimulant cocaine, and the talented but tormented writer Edgar Allen Poe, often used a variety of drugs; why would anybody think the ballplaying population would be exempt from sampling the narcotic wares of the day?
The next wave of drug use in baseball came shortly after the conclusion of World War II. Amphetamines were used extensively by soldiers to combat battle fatigue. “Next stop, the civilian population, all aboard!” In the ground breaking book Ball Four published in 1971, former New York Yankee Jim Bouton, took a candid behind the scenes look at baseball; he revealed that many notable players took these illegal narcotics in order to gain a perceived edge over their peers. Exposing this darker side of America’s game irked the fraternal hierarchy no end, prompting commissioner Bowie Kuhn to take a position of plausible deniability; denouncing Bouton’s book as a form of baseball blasphemy. Now we see that what Bouton wrote was tame, and exposed players for what they were; regular human beings with shortcomings just like the rest of us.
In the ‘70s and ‘80s cocaine made another appearance on the baseball landscape, in a new and improved form. Most Valuable Players Dave Parker and Keith Hernandez found themselves at the center of that firestorm of scandal. Tim Raines, the perennial all-star of the Montreal Expos was once asked why he slid head first so often when he stole a base. He replied that he didn’t want to break the cocaine vial in his back pocket. All these players went on with their superb careers. Again, baseball was reflecting the societal condition of the time.
And now we have steroids. But we also have smaller ballparks, and bigger salaries, and many players have personal trainers. We have weaker pitching, and we have a voyeuristic society with an insatiable desire to know the most personal details of its celebrities. If you combine those things with a “holier than thou” 21st century version of the Victorian mindset, it spells trouble; trouble for ballplayers, and trouble for our culture that loves to point fingers though the finger-pointers are far from chaste. We really needed a congressional committee to investigate steroid use? This is our government at work paid by our tax dollars? Doesn’t the government have bigger fish to fry? Christ! They can’t even police themselves, and their going to police baseball? Give me a break.
Twice before has government gotten involved with baseball, and both times it failed miserably. The first concerned baseball’s reserve clause. First challenged in 1885, it would take another 90 years for the judicial branch of the government to rule that baseball was indeed a business. The second had to do with the Black Sox scandal of 1919, when Chicago ballplayers were accused of throwing the World Series. Again our judicial system dropped the ball, pun intended, and cleared all players of any wrong doing. It took newly anointed baseball commissioner Kennesaw Mountain Landis to clean baseball’s house. He suspended the suspected players for life. Strike two federal government. And now they’re going to get to the bottom of the steroids scandal. I can’t wait to see how this one turns out. Oh, wait a minute, I can wait. As a matter of fact, I don’t care.
Sports writers and news journalists, the embodiment of all that is good in the world, have taken a stance against any player suspected of steroid use. Mark McGuire falls into this category. A point has been made to show how steroid rumors hurt his chances for the Hall of Fame. It couldn’t possibly be because he was a lifetime .263 hitter who struck out frequently could it? No, let’s make steroid the reason, voters will show him.
When did sportswriters become the moral entrepreneurs for America? They call the records set during this period tainted. No more tainted than the records set before integration. No more tainted than the records that were set before night baseball. No more tainted than the records set when ballparks had foul lines less than 270 feet from home plate, or pitchers regularly doctored the ball, or when only one umpire was used, I could go on but I’m not as pompous as those throwing the stones these days. Asterisks my ass, it’s just another turbulent time in baseball; disappointing yes, the decline of our civilization as we know it, not hardly. Sadly, something will come along to take steroids place. It's the way our society works if you haven't noticed for the last two hundred years or so.
The games stars implicated in this mess haven’t fallen, they’ve just moved with baseball’s celestial sky.
Did you ever notice how cumulus clouds occasionally can resemble bellybutton lint, now that’s fascinating!
A Congressional committee has been formed, the hearings televised, and testimony from the Snidely Whiplash’s of baseball was heard, or tuned out if you will. After a short period of relative dormancy, a new baseball season is now upon us, and with it comes tremors of discussion dotting the sports pages. On an interest scale, the steroids issue falls somewhere between pocket lint and Paris Hilton; and if it doesn’t, it should.
Drugs use in baseball is not new. Tim Keefe, a pitcher who played prior to the turn of the twentieth century. His illustrious career had five seasons of more than 30 wins. In two of those seasons Keefe had over 40 wins. In one of those remarkable years Keefe pitched 619 innings, in the other he registered 535 innings. Alas, Keefe’s playing days were cut short by injury. Keefe had once admitted that if he felt fatigued, he would pick up some “elixir” from the local pharmacy. Keefe pitched from 1880 to 1893, before the Pure Food and Drug Act was passed in 1906; long before the passage of the Harrison Drug Act in 1914. This is notable because prior to the passing of these two acts of governmental legislation opium, heroin, morphine, and cocaine were over-the counter drugs. Anyone could walk into a drugstore and purchase themselves these marvelous wonder drugs.
Please keep in mind most ballplayers during this period were not necessarily pillars of the community. The profession of ball playing had not yet gained complete social acceptance. The game itself was rife with gambling, and its step-brother cheating. The mind doesn’t have to make such a giant leap of faith to surmise ballplayers stooping to drug use to cure their ills; particularly if it meant collecting a paycheck.Notable personalities of the era were part of, not hiding underground, the drug culture. The famed psychiatrist Sigmund Freud wrote about the stimulant cocaine, and the talented but tormented writer Edgar Allen Poe, often used a variety of drugs; why would anybody think the ballplaying population would be exempt from sampling the narcotic wares of the day?
The next wave of drug use in baseball came shortly after the conclusion of World War II. Amphetamines were used extensively by soldiers to combat battle fatigue. “Next stop, the civilian population, all aboard!” In the ground breaking book Ball Four published in 1971, former New York Yankee Jim Bouton, took a candid behind the scenes look at baseball; he revealed that many notable players took these illegal narcotics in order to gain a perceived edge over their peers. Exposing this darker side of America’s game irked the fraternal hierarchy no end, prompting commissioner Bowie Kuhn to take a position of plausible deniability; denouncing Bouton’s book as a form of baseball blasphemy. Now we see that what Bouton wrote was tame, and exposed players for what they were; regular human beings with shortcomings just like the rest of us.
In the ‘70s and ‘80s cocaine made another appearance on the baseball landscape, in a new and improved form. Most Valuable Players Dave Parker and Keith Hernandez found themselves at the center of that firestorm of scandal. Tim Raines, the perennial all-star of the Montreal Expos was once asked why he slid head first so often when he stole a base. He replied that he didn’t want to break the cocaine vial in his back pocket. All these players went on with their superb careers. Again, baseball was reflecting the societal condition of the time.
And now we have steroids. But we also have smaller ballparks, and bigger salaries, and many players have personal trainers. We have weaker pitching, and we have a voyeuristic society with an insatiable desire to know the most personal details of its celebrities. If you combine those things with a “holier than thou” 21st century version of the Victorian mindset, it spells trouble; trouble for ballplayers, and trouble for our culture that loves to point fingers though the finger-pointers are far from chaste. We really needed a congressional committee to investigate steroid use? This is our government at work paid by our tax dollars? Doesn’t the government have bigger fish to fry? Christ! They can’t even police themselves, and their going to police baseball? Give me a break.
Twice before has government gotten involved with baseball, and both times it failed miserably. The first concerned baseball’s reserve clause. First challenged in 1885, it would take another 90 years for the judicial branch of the government to rule that baseball was indeed a business. The second had to do with the Black Sox scandal of 1919, when Chicago ballplayers were accused of throwing the World Series. Again our judicial system dropped the ball, pun intended, and cleared all players of any wrong doing. It took newly anointed baseball commissioner Kennesaw Mountain Landis to clean baseball’s house. He suspended the suspected players for life. Strike two federal government. And now they’re going to get to the bottom of the steroids scandal. I can’t wait to see how this one turns out. Oh, wait a minute, I can wait. As a matter of fact, I don’t care.
Sports writers and news journalists, the embodiment of all that is good in the world, have taken a stance against any player suspected of steroid use. Mark McGuire falls into this category. A point has been made to show how steroid rumors hurt his chances for the Hall of Fame. It couldn’t possibly be because he was a lifetime .263 hitter who struck out frequently could it? No, let’s make steroid the reason, voters will show him.
When did sportswriters become the moral entrepreneurs for America? They call the records set during this period tainted. No more tainted than the records set before integration. No more tainted than the records that were set before night baseball. No more tainted than the records set when ballparks had foul lines less than 270 feet from home plate, or pitchers regularly doctored the ball, or when only one umpire was used, I could go on but I’m not as pompous as those throwing the stones these days. Asterisks my ass, it’s just another turbulent time in baseball; disappointing yes, the decline of our civilization as we know it, not hardly. Sadly, something will come along to take steroids place. It's the way our society works if you haven't noticed for the last two hundred years or so.
The games stars implicated in this mess haven’t fallen, they’ve just moved with baseball’s celestial sky.
Did you ever notice how cumulus clouds occasionally can resemble bellybutton lint, now that’s fascinating!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
“Fragile, this must be America”- Apologies to A Christmas Story
The Super Droll is upon us, and I should probably be focusing on the hoopla that surrounds this coveted championship. After the thrilling BCS championship, this game to me is second tier. However, a recent series of events have occurred that stirred the embers of distain within my moral fiber. There has been a growing concern among some parents regarding the well being of current and future generations. Some of this concern is well founded, some is detrimental not only to the children which they so adamantly defend, but it eats away at the societal foundation.
This week, a basketball coach has been fired, and a football coach indicted, and teachers have been cited for assigning too much homework. The basketball coach taught his team to do the very best they could at all times. The football coach taught disciplining oneself to strive to achieve against all odds, both honorable characteristics to instill in any young person. Yet, both men have been publicly castigated for their results.
Micah Grimes, the coach of Covenant School in Dallas, Texas was unrepentant for his team beating Dallas Academy 100-0. (Who did the scheduling for the two schools?) Grimes should not have to apologize for his girls doing the best they can. They “played the game the way it was meant to be played. My values and beliefs would not allow me to run up the score on any opponent…my girls played with honor and integrity,” Grimes stated in an e-mail. Grimes was hired to coach girls basketball to the best of his ability. He is supposed to teach the lesson of hard work and application of a set of principles when properly executed, bring desired results. In the words of Philip Dormer Stanhope, the Earl of Chesterfield, “Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well.” There isn’t a disclaimer that states “only under certain circumstances.”
Administrators of the Covenant School issued a statement which read “It is shameful and an embarrassment that this happened (the game, not the firing). This clearly does not reflect a Christlike and honorable approach to competition.” Really? I didn’t know Christ played basketball, or engaged in any sport at all. I didn't know he had an opinion on sports; where is that in The Bible? What were the girls supposed to do, quit? Make baskets for the other team to keep the score closer? I know! Maybe Covenant should’ve forfeited when things got out of hand. What a lesson that would have taught both teams. Thank goodness the Dallas Academy never gave up according to spectators. They tried their very best until the end. I think both teams learned a lesson from that alone.
It’s a good thing Covenant’s decision makers weren’t alive in 1916 when John Heisman’s Ramblin’ Wrecks of Georgia Tech beat the Cumberland College football team 222-0. I’m sure they’d have seen to it that there wouldn’t be a trophy named after him.
David Stinson, the head football coach of Pleasure Ridge Park High School in Kentucky, faces a lot more than dismissal. Stinson was recently indicted and charged with the reckless homicide, (is there responsible homicide?) of 15 year old Max Gilpin, a sophomore linema. The parents, Jeff Gilpin and his ex-wife Michele Crockett, brought the charges against Stinson.
Civil suits are what normally come out of these sorts of circumstances. The most notable case was that of Korey Stringer, the former Minnesota Viking who also died from heat related illness. But Max’s parents aren’t satisfied with financial compensation for death which occurred while Max was doing something he loved. Max so loved the game he took the over-the-counter supplement Creatine, to increase muscle strength to better compete. However, the side effects from taking Creatine can be cramps, heat intolerance, and electrolyte imbalances. It also can cause dehydration. In a statement, Ms. Crockett stated that Max had stopped taking Creatine prior to football practice commencing. Yet Creatine can remain in one’s system for up to thirty days. Also, Max was also taking Adderall to combat his ADHD. (Is this something every kid has now?) Adderall can raise ones blood pressure, and cause severe dry mouth. Dehydration, high blood pressure, and dry mouth are a bad combination in hot weather.
The attorney for Jefferson Commonwealth Dave Stengel stated, “This is not about football, this is not about coaches. This is about an adult person who was responsible for the health and welfare of a child.” Take note all you football coaches, don’t tell your players to tackle too hard, exert too much effort, or give 100%, because you never know what can happen. Don’t ask for their maximum effort until you’ve interviewed their parents, and family doctor. Remember to administer a urine analysis to find out what these kids put in their system. Mr. Stengel also stated that “a reasonable man should have realized that something like this could have occurred.” What an astute declaration. Is he aware that a reasonable man also realizes paralysis can occur playing football, broken bones, lacerated spleens, bruised kidneys? These are some of the inherent risks of giving forth maximum effort in a field of athletic endeavor. Reasonable people are aware of the risks of flying, driving too fast, and many other day to day activities. Reasonable people consult their physicians, but still tragedies befall them, such is life.
Mr. Gilpin hopes “something good will come out of this.” “Good” meaning coaches unwilling to coach because of what may happen? “Good” meaning schools doing away with football programs, or canceling games if the weather is too hot? Mr. Gilpin is also considering suing Riddell, the makers of the helmets and shoulder pads used by the players. As if no one knows the person that does this equipment will get hot when they put them on. Mr. Gilpin also “expects anyone responsible for Max’s death to be held accountable.” Does that list include him and his ex-wife? They signed the permission slip knowing what Max was ingesting?
The last issue of parental micromanaging kids happened in South Florida. Irate parents are complaining their kids are getting too much homework. This workload interferes with the students extra-curricular activities and takes away from family time. One woman cited her child averages 5-6 hours of homework per evening. Her child is in the 6th grade. Are you kidding me? Who else isn’t buying into this line of shit? It’d take me 5 hours too if I spent 3 of them texting, instant messaging, farting around with my Facebook page, and playing Xbox.
“Family time,” wasn’t that the excuse parents gave when they toiled too much on the job? Well then, there’d be more family time if both parents weren’t busy at their careers. There’d be more family time if parents didn’t encourage their children to sign up for everything short of military duty. There’d be more family time if parents weren’t so certain that their child won’t get into the right college without getting top notch grades and participating in a laundry list of extra-curricular activities. These are the same parents who’ve decided schools are not just institutions of learning, but glorified babysitters. Maybe if parents parented, schools could get back to the business of instruction, and spend less time disciplining and maintaining order. These are also the first parents that who are up in arms that their child didn’t learn what they should due to lack of instruction.
Have all of these well-meaning adults spilled McDonald’s coffee in their collective laps? Why is it everybody else’s fault? Why is everyone pointing fingers instead of assuming some responsibility? Why are we as a nation installing so many restrictions in an attempt to insulate kids, that the only lesson parents are teaching them is “there’s always someone else to blame.” Is that what the Miami father told his kid whom he’d just bought a brand new Corvette after the kid wrecked the previous one? Well, the kid went out and wrecked the second one too. This time he killed somebody. The kid was 15, too young to obtain a driver’s license. Dad was seen on television wailing “my poor boy!” What lesson did that parent teach his kid? When will parents realize they need to learn some lessons too? They want excellence from, and for their children but without the sacrifice. If this mentality doesn’t change we’re going to wind up with a generation of pussies with wet crotches.
This week, a basketball coach has been fired, and a football coach indicted, and teachers have been cited for assigning too much homework. The basketball coach taught his team to do the very best they could at all times. The football coach taught disciplining oneself to strive to achieve against all odds, both honorable characteristics to instill in any young person. Yet, both men have been publicly castigated for their results.
Micah Grimes, the coach of Covenant School in Dallas, Texas was unrepentant for his team beating Dallas Academy 100-0. (Who did the scheduling for the two schools?) Grimes should not have to apologize for his girls doing the best they can. They “played the game the way it was meant to be played. My values and beliefs would not allow me to run up the score on any opponent…my girls played with honor and integrity,” Grimes stated in an e-mail. Grimes was hired to coach girls basketball to the best of his ability. He is supposed to teach the lesson of hard work and application of a set of principles when properly executed, bring desired results. In the words of Philip Dormer Stanhope, the Earl of Chesterfield, “Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well.” There isn’t a disclaimer that states “only under certain circumstances.”
Administrators of the Covenant School issued a statement which read “It is shameful and an embarrassment that this happened (the game, not the firing). This clearly does not reflect a Christlike and honorable approach to competition.” Really? I didn’t know Christ played basketball, or engaged in any sport at all. I didn't know he had an opinion on sports; where is that in The Bible? What were the girls supposed to do, quit? Make baskets for the other team to keep the score closer? I know! Maybe Covenant should’ve forfeited when things got out of hand. What a lesson that would have taught both teams. Thank goodness the Dallas Academy never gave up according to spectators. They tried their very best until the end. I think both teams learned a lesson from that alone.
It’s a good thing Covenant’s decision makers weren’t alive in 1916 when John Heisman’s Ramblin’ Wrecks of Georgia Tech beat the Cumberland College football team 222-0. I’m sure they’d have seen to it that there wouldn’t be a trophy named after him.
David Stinson, the head football coach of Pleasure Ridge Park High School in Kentucky, faces a lot more than dismissal. Stinson was recently indicted and charged with the reckless homicide, (is there responsible homicide?) of 15 year old Max Gilpin, a sophomore linema. The parents, Jeff Gilpin and his ex-wife Michele Crockett, brought the charges against Stinson.
Civil suits are what normally come out of these sorts of circumstances. The most notable case was that of Korey Stringer, the former Minnesota Viking who also died from heat related illness. But Max’s parents aren’t satisfied with financial compensation for death which occurred while Max was doing something he loved. Max so loved the game he took the over-the-counter supplement Creatine, to increase muscle strength to better compete. However, the side effects from taking Creatine can be cramps, heat intolerance, and electrolyte imbalances. It also can cause dehydration. In a statement, Ms. Crockett stated that Max had stopped taking Creatine prior to football practice commencing. Yet Creatine can remain in one’s system for up to thirty days. Also, Max was also taking Adderall to combat his ADHD. (Is this something every kid has now?) Adderall can raise ones blood pressure, and cause severe dry mouth. Dehydration, high blood pressure, and dry mouth are a bad combination in hot weather.
The attorney for Jefferson Commonwealth Dave Stengel stated, “This is not about football, this is not about coaches. This is about an adult person who was responsible for the health and welfare of a child.” Take note all you football coaches, don’t tell your players to tackle too hard, exert too much effort, or give 100%, because you never know what can happen. Don’t ask for their maximum effort until you’ve interviewed their parents, and family doctor. Remember to administer a urine analysis to find out what these kids put in their system. Mr. Stengel also stated that “a reasonable man should have realized that something like this could have occurred.” What an astute declaration. Is he aware that a reasonable man also realizes paralysis can occur playing football, broken bones, lacerated spleens, bruised kidneys? These are some of the inherent risks of giving forth maximum effort in a field of athletic endeavor. Reasonable people are aware of the risks of flying, driving too fast, and many other day to day activities. Reasonable people consult their physicians, but still tragedies befall them, such is life.
Mr. Gilpin hopes “something good will come out of this.” “Good” meaning coaches unwilling to coach because of what may happen? “Good” meaning schools doing away with football programs, or canceling games if the weather is too hot? Mr. Gilpin is also considering suing Riddell, the makers of the helmets and shoulder pads used by the players. As if no one knows the person that does this equipment will get hot when they put them on. Mr. Gilpin also “expects anyone responsible for Max’s death to be held accountable.” Does that list include him and his ex-wife? They signed the permission slip knowing what Max was ingesting?
The last issue of parental micromanaging kids happened in South Florida. Irate parents are complaining their kids are getting too much homework. This workload interferes with the students extra-curricular activities and takes away from family time. One woman cited her child averages 5-6 hours of homework per evening. Her child is in the 6th grade. Are you kidding me? Who else isn’t buying into this line of shit? It’d take me 5 hours too if I spent 3 of them texting, instant messaging, farting around with my Facebook page, and playing Xbox.
“Family time,” wasn’t that the excuse parents gave when they toiled too much on the job? Well then, there’d be more family time if both parents weren’t busy at their careers. There’d be more family time if parents didn’t encourage their children to sign up for everything short of military duty. There’d be more family time if parents weren’t so certain that their child won’t get into the right college without getting top notch grades and participating in a laundry list of extra-curricular activities. These are the same parents who’ve decided schools are not just institutions of learning, but glorified babysitters. Maybe if parents parented, schools could get back to the business of instruction, and spend less time disciplining and maintaining order. These are also the first parents that who are up in arms that their child didn’t learn what they should due to lack of instruction.
Have all of these well-meaning adults spilled McDonald’s coffee in their collective laps? Why is it everybody else’s fault? Why is everyone pointing fingers instead of assuming some responsibility? Why are we as a nation installing so many restrictions in an attempt to insulate kids, that the only lesson parents are teaching them is “there’s always someone else to blame.” Is that what the Miami father told his kid whom he’d just bought a brand new Corvette after the kid wrecked the previous one? Well, the kid went out and wrecked the second one too. This time he killed somebody. The kid was 15, too young to obtain a driver’s license. Dad was seen on television wailing “my poor boy!” What lesson did that parent teach his kid? When will parents realize they need to learn some lessons too? They want excellence from, and for their children but without the sacrifice. If this mentality doesn’t change we’re going to wind up with a generation of pussies with wet crotches.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
A Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins with a Single Step
The United States of America inaugurated it’s forty-forth President yesterday. For the first time in many years this event was significant to scores of humans who otherwise would have changed the channel, gone someplace warm for vacation, or found something better to do, like read Tolstoy. Instead, citizens traveled thousands of miles to brave frigid temperatures, gathered in auditoriums, took leave of their desks at work, or found their familiar spot on the couch to witness the historic affair. I’d venture a guess they were all seeking something.
Did they gather because of the renewed sense of hope our new President exudes? Was it because not since John F. Kennedy has a politician achieved such rock star status (Clinton playing sax on MTV on New Years Eve doesn’t count)? Was it because America was inaugurating its first-contrary to what you may read or hear- bi-racial President. Or was it because of all these things and then some?
It’s a very difficult task indeed to get so many Americans on the same page. Franklin Delano Roosevelt did it when he was inaugurated, so did JFK. Eisenhower didn’t, neither did Johnson, or Nixon. Carter couldn’t rally the troops. Reagan came close, but no cigar. Bush and Clinton generated about as much excitement as tapioca pudding; my apologies to those of you who love tapioca pudding.
Roosevelt was able to accomplish this monumental task because America was in the throws of its worst financial disaster ever. Hope was all those folks had who endured that dark chapter or two in America’s history. Anything just had to be better than the status quo. Christ! Here was a guy with polio, so conscious of the collective fragile mental state of Americans, that he coerced the press to never publish a photograph of him in his wheelchair. FDR never wanted the public to see anything that could be perceived as weakness, in so doing, he gave everyone his strength.
Kennedy broke tradition. He was young, he was Catholic (the first, what a commotion that caused in 1960), he had a bold vision for the direction of United States, and he was unwilling to rest on America’s laurels of prosperity. JFK spoke to every man, woman, and child; not just the puppeteers of government when he uttered, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”
Was our new President evoking the specter of both these icons when he declared “What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility-a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.” He is quite a student of our Presidential history, and draws from it frequently. It’s too bad those words fell on some deaf ears that really needed to hear them.
Those who could have most benefited by what our new President had to say probably either weren’t listening or didn’t give a shit. Those cynics who mumbled “whatever” when queried by those rapt by yesterday’s events. Those who have insulated themselves with their golden parachutes and bailouts from the harsh realities of everyday living that face the rest of us. The 1%ers who have used their money as a shield against the economic and global crisis’s. Those individuals who for quite some time have used the middle class and lower, as their personal Kleenex. They are the ones who needed to hear the words of our newest President. It is they that should step forward and be held accountable for causing much of the financial misery this country finds itself embroiled in. It is they that should be the first in line to say “What can we do to help. We pushed and lobbied for legislation that would benefit only us privileged few. How can we rectify the situation” But they won’t. They were the first to have their hands out for government dollars. “Screw those we screwed, doesn’t anybody realize it’s all about us.” Any wonder we’re so self-absorbed, we’re just following the example set before us. But maybe that’ll change soon.
The first bi-racial President stood on the steps of a building erected by slaves. He stood before a crowd situated on an expanse of land that was formerly a site where human flesh was bought and sold. “Yes We Can” does not have an exclusive application to a specific group of our society as some may think; it applies to all of us. Our new President stated yesterday “On this day, we come to proclaim an end to petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.”
Several members of my gym misinterpreted yesterday’s address saying the message they got was “everything is going to be okay.” Obviously they have selective hearing. We need to understand Barack Obama is not going to lead the country to the Promised Land. He is not a cure-all, neither was FDR, but you’ve got to like their attitudes. This is coming from a lifelong Republican, but right now party affiliation is negligible.
One of the jobs of a leader is to inspire, and instill confidence in those he or she leads. If yesterday’s inaugural address is any indication, we’re in good hands. What Obama’s legacy will be, time will tell. Let him and his wife go dancing at the inaugural ball, because the next four years certainly aren’t going to be one.
Did they gather because of the renewed sense of hope our new President exudes? Was it because not since John F. Kennedy has a politician achieved such rock star status (Clinton playing sax on MTV on New Years Eve doesn’t count)? Was it because America was inaugurating its first-contrary to what you may read or hear- bi-racial President. Or was it because of all these things and then some?
It’s a very difficult task indeed to get so many Americans on the same page. Franklin Delano Roosevelt did it when he was inaugurated, so did JFK. Eisenhower didn’t, neither did Johnson, or Nixon. Carter couldn’t rally the troops. Reagan came close, but no cigar. Bush and Clinton generated about as much excitement as tapioca pudding; my apologies to those of you who love tapioca pudding.
Roosevelt was able to accomplish this monumental task because America was in the throws of its worst financial disaster ever. Hope was all those folks had who endured that dark chapter or two in America’s history. Anything just had to be better than the status quo. Christ! Here was a guy with polio, so conscious of the collective fragile mental state of Americans, that he coerced the press to never publish a photograph of him in his wheelchair. FDR never wanted the public to see anything that could be perceived as weakness, in so doing, he gave everyone his strength.
Kennedy broke tradition. He was young, he was Catholic (the first, what a commotion that caused in 1960), he had a bold vision for the direction of United States, and he was unwilling to rest on America’s laurels of prosperity. JFK spoke to every man, woman, and child; not just the puppeteers of government when he uttered, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”
Was our new President evoking the specter of both these icons when he declared “What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility-a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.” He is quite a student of our Presidential history, and draws from it frequently. It’s too bad those words fell on some deaf ears that really needed to hear them.
Those who could have most benefited by what our new President had to say probably either weren’t listening or didn’t give a shit. Those cynics who mumbled “whatever” when queried by those rapt by yesterday’s events. Those who have insulated themselves with their golden parachutes and bailouts from the harsh realities of everyday living that face the rest of us. The 1%ers who have used their money as a shield against the economic and global crisis’s. Those individuals who for quite some time have used the middle class and lower, as their personal Kleenex. They are the ones who needed to hear the words of our newest President. It is they that should step forward and be held accountable for causing much of the financial misery this country finds itself embroiled in. It is they that should be the first in line to say “What can we do to help. We pushed and lobbied for legislation that would benefit only us privileged few. How can we rectify the situation” But they won’t. They were the first to have their hands out for government dollars. “Screw those we screwed, doesn’t anybody realize it’s all about us.” Any wonder we’re so self-absorbed, we’re just following the example set before us. But maybe that’ll change soon.
The first bi-racial President stood on the steps of a building erected by slaves. He stood before a crowd situated on an expanse of land that was formerly a site where human flesh was bought and sold. “Yes We Can” does not have an exclusive application to a specific group of our society as some may think; it applies to all of us. Our new President stated yesterday “On this day, we come to proclaim an end to petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.”
Several members of my gym misinterpreted yesterday’s address saying the message they got was “everything is going to be okay.” Obviously they have selective hearing. We need to understand Barack Obama is not going to lead the country to the Promised Land. He is not a cure-all, neither was FDR, but you’ve got to like their attitudes. This is coming from a lifelong Republican, but right now party affiliation is negligible.
One of the jobs of a leader is to inspire, and instill confidence in those he or she leads. If yesterday’s inaugural address is any indication, we’re in good hands. What Obama’s legacy will be, time will tell. Let him and his wife go dancing at the inaugural ball, because the next four years certainly aren’t going to be one.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
You Can’t Quell the Tide
The sun’s a little brighter, the sky’s a little bluer, and the air smells a little sweeter today. I’m a little giddy. It’s Friday morning, January 9, 2009, and the University of Florida football team are the National Champions for the second time in three years.
I’m kinda glad my voice is gone, that way I have to write what I saw, felt, and experienced yesterday with the rest of the Gator faithful.
The number of hearty souls at Dolphins Stadium in Carol City, Florida was guesstimated to be in the neighborhood of 120,000, of which 79,000 held tickets granting them admission to witness the game first hand. The rest were left in the surrounding parking lots to carry on with their revelry, and watch the titanic contest via satellite for those who brought televisions.
The five mile journey to football country began early yesterday morning, 9:00AM to be precise. After some minor preparations were taken care of prior to our departing from our homestead; Cory and I made our way to pick up two Gator brethren, P. Scott and Dan, the latter who had flown in from NYC for the game. The vehicle now carried all Gator alumni save me, though I’m still an active member, through association, of the Gator Nation. We headed off to the nearby Publix supermarket to purchase libations. As we made our way up and down the aisles, periodically we’d espy other UF faithful. We’d exchange goofy half-assed grins, like we were in on the same secret. However, several employees were completely oblivious to the game and its magnitude. One even inquired where the game was being played. I owed this to her recent arrival from the planet Zoog, and obvious unfamiliarity with the ways of our society. I found myself silently pitying all of these poor lost souls. We completed our purchases, and headed to the car, acknowledging all those wearing orange and blue.
You could feel the tension in the vehicle. Conversations seemed stifled, as if the wrong word would trigger some sort of synaptic catastrophe, thereby rendering further discussion unrecognizable. I urged my son to stop by Aficionado’s Cigar Shop to pick up celebratory stogies just in case. That request dashed what little serenity was left in the vehicle. Cory was wound pretty tight at that point, I feared for his emotional well being. It was ten hours till game time. The gates wouldn’t open for another hour. Cory yielded to my wishes, I was grateful. My gratitude mattered little. There was places to go, people to meet, partying to coordinate.
Other friends, and friends of friends were gathering at a local Wal-Mart parking lot, the rendezvous point. On our arrival we were greeted with the sight of no fewer than four congregations of Gator fans. We headed toward one, realized it wasn’t whom we sought, corrected our mistake, and backtracked. Once everyone was assembled, the caravan was off to Dolphins Stadium. It was nearing 11:00AM.
Signs ominously foretold of the upcoming traffic conditions that were anticipated. We encountered them the moment we entered the stadium facility. Unbeknownst to us, Gate 6, our intended entrance was closed; we were rerouted much to everyone’s chagrin. We began to lament such a travesty, tempers were rising, and they were exacerbated by the behavior of the pseudo-authority parking Nazis.
For some bizarre and unknown reason, it seemed as if there was some sort of master parking plan from which, under penalty of death, they were not to deviate. Countless man hours were undoubtedly devoted to this strategy. What resulted was a situation that went FUBAR almost immediately. Imagine putting ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. All passengers tried calmly to assist Cory in his quest to negotiate the labyrinth parking area. Amid the constant phone requests for guidance, and our well meaning prodding, Cory understandably short circuited, albeit for a brief moment. Once parked, and while unloading the afternoons supplies, Cory’s mental equilibrium returned.
Weather-wise, it was a Chamber of Commerce Day, clear skies with a high around 80. The game was afoot! Vehicles emptied as if from a clown car. The Gator Nation had descended en masse and oh what a glorious sight indeed. Gator tents, Inflatable Gators, Gator flags, Gator chairs, Gator coolers, and Gator tablecloths for the more civilized. Oh yeah, there were a couple of Oklahoma Sooner fans. The partying had commenced, a controlled chaos would ensue, and continue for the next eight hours. It brought back fond memories of a time when I considered intoxication a sport, but this was of epic proportions. The picture postcard day faded into a moonlit mid-50s night. It was time to take our places.
As you may or may not already know, I was one of the fortunate few who possessed a ticket to this extraordinary event thanks to my son Cory, and his friends, who I now also consider my friends, Danny and Sara. I would enter shortly after 8:00PM, head to my seat, and not once from there on out would you find my ass in it.
Four bodies occupied the space allocated for the three seats where I was. I knew not a soul standing in my general vicinity. That point was moot; we shared a kinship that collectively would be the driving force behind a Gator victory.
I “Gator Chomped” with them, I waved my hat shaming a Sooner penalty. When the band broke into “Call Me Al,” I kept time as Dolphin Stadium physically rocked. I felt a tear roll down my cheek when we threw are arms around each other and swayed to and fro for the 3rd quarter rendition of “We Are The Boys From Old Florida.” When a late Gator touchdown iced the outcome I buried my face in my hands to try and grasp what I had been fortunate enough to observe. I raised my head in time to see my son lift up his splayed arms toward the sky in exultation. A vision that we be forever etched in my memory. We made eye contact and I felt for a brief moment what he was feeling, albeit on a lesser scale.
I stayed by my seat long enough to see the awards presentation. More significantly, I stayed long enough to hear the playing of Florida’s alma mater, the importance of which my son has conveyed to me on more than one occasion. When the echoes of the word “victorious” reverberated throughout the ¾ full stadium, the hairs stood erect on my arms. It was time for me to get back to the car and the victory cigars.
As I made my way through the ground zero of refuse, my back and legs protested in agony that I would request my 50 year old body to stay in lockstep with those 30 years my junior. But for this night, emotionally I felt 25, and that washed away my physical pain. Because on this night of nights the Florida Gators were victorious, just like the song declares. On this night, I was magically transformed, I somehow had cheated time. Thank you all who sat around me and made me feel like I was one of you. Thank you Cory. Thank you Danny and Sara. Can we do it again next year please?
I’m kinda glad my voice is gone, that way I have to write what I saw, felt, and experienced yesterday with the rest of the Gator faithful.
The number of hearty souls at Dolphins Stadium in Carol City, Florida was guesstimated to be in the neighborhood of 120,000, of which 79,000 held tickets granting them admission to witness the game first hand. The rest were left in the surrounding parking lots to carry on with their revelry, and watch the titanic contest via satellite for those who brought televisions.
The five mile journey to football country began early yesterday morning, 9:00AM to be precise. After some minor preparations were taken care of prior to our departing from our homestead; Cory and I made our way to pick up two Gator brethren, P. Scott and Dan, the latter who had flown in from NYC for the game. The vehicle now carried all Gator alumni save me, though I’m still an active member, through association, of the Gator Nation. We headed off to the nearby Publix supermarket to purchase libations. As we made our way up and down the aisles, periodically we’d espy other UF faithful. We’d exchange goofy half-assed grins, like we were in on the same secret. However, several employees were completely oblivious to the game and its magnitude. One even inquired where the game was being played. I owed this to her recent arrival from the planet Zoog, and obvious unfamiliarity with the ways of our society. I found myself silently pitying all of these poor lost souls. We completed our purchases, and headed to the car, acknowledging all those wearing orange and blue.
You could feel the tension in the vehicle. Conversations seemed stifled, as if the wrong word would trigger some sort of synaptic catastrophe, thereby rendering further discussion unrecognizable. I urged my son to stop by Aficionado’s Cigar Shop to pick up celebratory stogies just in case. That request dashed what little serenity was left in the vehicle. Cory was wound pretty tight at that point, I feared for his emotional well being. It was ten hours till game time. The gates wouldn’t open for another hour. Cory yielded to my wishes, I was grateful. My gratitude mattered little. There was places to go, people to meet, partying to coordinate.
Other friends, and friends of friends were gathering at a local Wal-Mart parking lot, the rendezvous point. On our arrival we were greeted with the sight of no fewer than four congregations of Gator fans. We headed toward one, realized it wasn’t whom we sought, corrected our mistake, and backtracked. Once everyone was assembled, the caravan was off to Dolphins Stadium. It was nearing 11:00AM.
Signs ominously foretold of the upcoming traffic conditions that were anticipated. We encountered them the moment we entered the stadium facility. Unbeknownst to us, Gate 6, our intended entrance was closed; we were rerouted much to everyone’s chagrin. We began to lament such a travesty, tempers were rising, and they were exacerbated by the behavior of the pseudo-authority parking Nazis.
For some bizarre and unknown reason, it seemed as if there was some sort of master parking plan from which, under penalty of death, they were not to deviate. Countless man hours were undoubtedly devoted to this strategy. What resulted was a situation that went FUBAR almost immediately. Imagine putting ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. All passengers tried calmly to assist Cory in his quest to negotiate the labyrinth parking area. Amid the constant phone requests for guidance, and our well meaning prodding, Cory understandably short circuited, albeit for a brief moment. Once parked, and while unloading the afternoons supplies, Cory’s mental equilibrium returned.
Weather-wise, it was a Chamber of Commerce Day, clear skies with a high around 80. The game was afoot! Vehicles emptied as if from a clown car. The Gator Nation had descended en masse and oh what a glorious sight indeed. Gator tents, Inflatable Gators, Gator flags, Gator chairs, Gator coolers, and Gator tablecloths for the more civilized. Oh yeah, there were a couple of Oklahoma Sooner fans. The partying had commenced, a controlled chaos would ensue, and continue for the next eight hours. It brought back fond memories of a time when I considered intoxication a sport, but this was of epic proportions. The picture postcard day faded into a moonlit mid-50s night. It was time to take our places.
As you may or may not already know, I was one of the fortunate few who possessed a ticket to this extraordinary event thanks to my son Cory, and his friends, who I now also consider my friends, Danny and Sara. I would enter shortly after 8:00PM, head to my seat, and not once from there on out would you find my ass in it.
Four bodies occupied the space allocated for the three seats where I was. I knew not a soul standing in my general vicinity. That point was moot; we shared a kinship that collectively would be the driving force behind a Gator victory.
I “Gator Chomped” with them, I waved my hat shaming a Sooner penalty. When the band broke into “Call Me Al,” I kept time as Dolphin Stadium physically rocked. I felt a tear roll down my cheek when we threw are arms around each other and swayed to and fro for the 3rd quarter rendition of “We Are The Boys From Old Florida.” When a late Gator touchdown iced the outcome I buried my face in my hands to try and grasp what I had been fortunate enough to observe. I raised my head in time to see my son lift up his splayed arms toward the sky in exultation. A vision that we be forever etched in my memory. We made eye contact and I felt for a brief moment what he was feeling, albeit on a lesser scale.
I stayed by my seat long enough to see the awards presentation. More significantly, I stayed long enough to hear the playing of Florida’s alma mater, the importance of which my son has conveyed to me on more than one occasion. When the echoes of the word “victorious” reverberated throughout the ¾ full stadium, the hairs stood erect on my arms. It was time for me to get back to the car and the victory cigars.
As I made my way through the ground zero of refuse, my back and legs protested in agony that I would request my 50 year old body to stay in lockstep with those 30 years my junior. But for this night, emotionally I felt 25, and that washed away my physical pain. Because on this night of nights the Florida Gators were victorious, just like the song declares. On this night, I was magically transformed, I somehow had cheated time. Thank you all who sat around me and made me feel like I was one of you. Thank you Cory. Thank you Danny and Sara. Can we do it again next year please?
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Check off one from the Bucket List
This week’s blog allows me the opportunity to amalgamate several points that have appeared in postings from previous weeks. The cause for this convergence is the NCAA FBS BCS Championship game (that’s a mouthful of abbrs.). The game is being played just a couple of miles from my front door at Joe Robbie Stadium, sorry, Dolphins Stadium. There are some name changes I’ll never get used to, and that’s one of them.
The contest pits the University of Oklahoma Sooners against my son’s alma mater, The University of Florida Gators, daaa-da-da-da…Gator fans respond here.
I know there are more pressing and topical issues that warrant attention. Bernard Madoff the jerkoff, who bilked millionaires out of many of their millions, and poorer schmoes out of their, in some cases, life savings. I guess you can say he’s an equal opportunity douche bag. Unlike Robin Hood, Madoof robbed from the rich AND the poor, and gave to himself. The wealthy may have cause to lament like Walt Kelly’s Pogo, “I have seen the enemy and it is us.” That’s the hot topic I should be writing about, expressing my outrage via my venomous keyboard. But I’m a sports guy. And if sports guys have to choose between sports and something else…well, something else will just have to wait. Also, I’m going to the National Championship Game tomorrow…really…no shit! My joy knows no bounds.
The Bucket List is a recent film starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman as two terminally ill men who make a pact to accomplish a series of goals prior to departing to the hereafter: things to do before they kick the bucket. The wealthy Nicholson character derides Freeman’s blue collar character for the philosophical nature of his meager desires. Nicholson entices, with a few suggestions of his own, Freeman to go big if you’re going to go.
My list is not devoid of things that will bring me personal spiritual enlightenment. However, all of them, no matter their nature, will take some serious coin to accomplish.
I want to walk the same stairs in Jerusalem where Christ carried his cross for crucifixion.
I want to stand at Khyber Pass where Alexander the not so Great (if you studied your history) stood surveying the conquered lands.
For you who have been reading for these past weeks know, I want to go to The Daytona 500 as well(see “Life in the Slow Lane”). Not as spiritual, but an event of relative importance as far as I’m concerned.
Just once I’d like to experience The Kentucky Derby.
I want own one more Corvette before I die; preferably, a ’67 Big Block convertible with auto and air.
Another item on my list is attending a Super Bowl. However, this has a proviso; the Cincinnati Bengals must be a participant. There are age and futility factors to be considered here, so I’m not going to hold my breath over that one.
I’d also like to be in attendance for a New York Mets World Series game. The odds for that one are considerably better.
College sporting events also made the list. Again, the likelihood of my alma mater Florida Atlantic University being in the National Championship before I depart is remote. The next best thing would be to see the University of Florida play in their stead. So tomorrow I can cross that one off my list. What makes this so special is with whom I’m to witness said event, and how this came to pass.
My son and I have gone to many significant, and many not so significant (aside from the company), sporting events. We went to New Orleans to see Florida Atlantic win its first ever bowl game in only their eighth season and third at the FSB level. We drove 14 hours each way, stopping in Gainesville on the way to, and returning from New Orleans. A magical experience for me.
We saw my beloved Bengals play at home in their first playoff game in 16 years. We saw the New York Mets in the playoffs in 1988. We saw the Florida Marlins twice, in 1997 and 2003; take part in World Series games. The less significant are too numerous to mention them all here. For the most part, I was the instigator, making sure we didn’t miss out. For tomorrow’s game, it’s all Cory.
I thought it would be hard to top going to “The Swamp” to see the Gators dismantle LSU back in October(see “The Event”). What the hell did I know? I received a phone call from Cory at the conclusion of the SEC Championship game. Amid his euphoria, and the pandemonium which surrounded him, I heard the words “Dad you’re going.” I knew what he meant, but I didn’t get my hopes up.
Cory was not one of the fortunate few who “won” the ticket lottery instituted by the University of Florida for the distribution of student tickets. Priority was supposedly given to those who had accrued the most credit hours. Bullshit! My son with 145 credits, and his friend Dan, with 309, did not merit a ticket voucher. The wheels were set in motion for an all out ticket harvest. This did not mean I was any closer to going than I was prior to the phone call I received from Atlanta.
There were Cory’s friends to consider, some of them alumni who would sell their collective souls to watch their Gators in this most momentous of games. I would bide my time to see what transpired. If it was meant to be, it was meant to be. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, let the chips fall where they may, no harm, no foul. Enough metaphors for you?
As luck would have it (how about a cliché then), a ticket did turn up. I would be attending the game with my son’s inner circle of Gator faithful. Most of them seem to tolerate my presence without complaint. They even make me feel as though I’m a welcome addition to their troupe. For this I am grateful.
Tomorrow night the collegiate football season comes to a close. A new National Champion will be crowned despite the protests from the USC camp, and someone who has brought an anti-trust lawsuit against the BCS on behalf of the undefeated University of Utah(see “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year”). Gates to parking will open at 10:00 for the 8:30 game time. Tailgating will commence almost immediately. I’ll be there with the Brothers McCoy, P. Scott, Brooks, Meredith, Fera, John Dom, 309 credit hour Dan(see “The Event” comments),and Dan as in Linden; all of whom are there for all the right reasons. Unlike the many “football fans” there to be seen, or because they are guests of some corporation, or they have too much money and they think they’re supposed to be there(see “What if They Held a Sporting Event and Nobody Cared?”).
Andrew Jackson might have it possible for the hoi polloi to enjoy sports (see “In Praise of Sport”). For me, Cory has made them more memorable.
The contest pits the University of Oklahoma Sooners against my son’s alma mater, The University of Florida Gators, daaa-da-da-da…Gator fans respond here.
I know there are more pressing and topical issues that warrant attention. Bernard Madoff the jerkoff, who bilked millionaires out of many of their millions, and poorer schmoes out of their, in some cases, life savings. I guess you can say he’s an equal opportunity douche bag. Unlike Robin Hood, Madoof robbed from the rich AND the poor, and gave to himself. The wealthy may have cause to lament like Walt Kelly’s Pogo, “I have seen the enemy and it is us.” That’s the hot topic I should be writing about, expressing my outrage via my venomous keyboard. But I’m a sports guy. And if sports guys have to choose between sports and something else…well, something else will just have to wait. Also, I’m going to the National Championship Game tomorrow…really…no shit! My joy knows no bounds.
The Bucket List is a recent film starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman as two terminally ill men who make a pact to accomplish a series of goals prior to departing to the hereafter: things to do before they kick the bucket. The wealthy Nicholson character derides Freeman’s blue collar character for the philosophical nature of his meager desires. Nicholson entices, with a few suggestions of his own, Freeman to go big if you’re going to go.
My list is not devoid of things that will bring me personal spiritual enlightenment. However, all of them, no matter their nature, will take some serious coin to accomplish.
I want to walk the same stairs in Jerusalem where Christ carried his cross for crucifixion.
I want to stand at Khyber Pass where Alexander the not so Great (if you studied your history) stood surveying the conquered lands.
For you who have been reading for these past weeks know, I want to go to The Daytona 500 as well(see “Life in the Slow Lane”). Not as spiritual, but an event of relative importance as far as I’m concerned.
Just once I’d like to experience The Kentucky Derby.
I want own one more Corvette before I die; preferably, a ’67 Big Block convertible with auto and air.
Another item on my list is attending a Super Bowl. However, this has a proviso; the Cincinnati Bengals must be a participant. There are age and futility factors to be considered here, so I’m not going to hold my breath over that one.
I’d also like to be in attendance for a New York Mets World Series game. The odds for that one are considerably better.
College sporting events also made the list. Again, the likelihood of my alma mater Florida Atlantic University being in the National Championship before I depart is remote. The next best thing would be to see the University of Florida play in their stead. So tomorrow I can cross that one off my list. What makes this so special is with whom I’m to witness said event, and how this came to pass.
My son and I have gone to many significant, and many not so significant (aside from the company), sporting events. We went to New Orleans to see Florida Atlantic win its first ever bowl game in only their eighth season and third at the FSB level. We drove 14 hours each way, stopping in Gainesville on the way to, and returning from New Orleans. A magical experience for me.
We saw my beloved Bengals play at home in their first playoff game in 16 years. We saw the New York Mets in the playoffs in 1988. We saw the Florida Marlins twice, in 1997 and 2003; take part in World Series games. The less significant are too numerous to mention them all here. For the most part, I was the instigator, making sure we didn’t miss out. For tomorrow’s game, it’s all Cory.
I thought it would be hard to top going to “The Swamp” to see the Gators dismantle LSU back in October(see “The Event”). What the hell did I know? I received a phone call from Cory at the conclusion of the SEC Championship game. Amid his euphoria, and the pandemonium which surrounded him, I heard the words “Dad you’re going.” I knew what he meant, but I didn’t get my hopes up.
Cory was not one of the fortunate few who “won” the ticket lottery instituted by the University of Florida for the distribution of student tickets. Priority was supposedly given to those who had accrued the most credit hours. Bullshit! My son with 145 credits, and his friend Dan, with 309, did not merit a ticket voucher. The wheels were set in motion for an all out ticket harvest. This did not mean I was any closer to going than I was prior to the phone call I received from Atlanta.
There were Cory’s friends to consider, some of them alumni who would sell their collective souls to watch their Gators in this most momentous of games. I would bide my time to see what transpired. If it was meant to be, it was meant to be. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, let the chips fall where they may, no harm, no foul. Enough metaphors for you?
As luck would have it (how about a cliché then), a ticket did turn up. I would be attending the game with my son’s inner circle of Gator faithful. Most of them seem to tolerate my presence without complaint. They even make me feel as though I’m a welcome addition to their troupe. For this I am grateful.
Tomorrow night the collegiate football season comes to a close. A new National Champion will be crowned despite the protests from the USC camp, and someone who has brought an anti-trust lawsuit against the BCS on behalf of the undefeated University of Utah(see “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year”). Gates to parking will open at 10:00 for the 8:30 game time. Tailgating will commence almost immediately. I’ll be there with the Brothers McCoy, P. Scott, Brooks, Meredith, Fera, John Dom, 309 credit hour Dan(see “The Event” comments),and Dan as in Linden; all of whom are there for all the right reasons. Unlike the many “football fans” there to be seen, or because they are guests of some corporation, or they have too much money and they think they’re supposed to be there(see “What if They Held a Sporting Event and Nobody Cared?”).
Andrew Jackson might have it possible for the hoi polloi to enjoy sports (see “In Praise of Sport”). For me, Cory has made them more memorable.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
