THE (BUZZED) SET-UP:

O.K. - some of you know I'm moving from Indy to Seattle.  I'm in temporary housing in downtown Seattle now, waiting for our housing deal to finalize.  In the mean time, Mrs. in Indy is back in Indianapolis doing her consulting thing.

So I'm stuck apart from her this weekend in Seattle - a great city with absolutely SPECTACULAR weather now.  Woke up this morning and felt The Mountain beckoning.  Threw on my hiking duds and drove to the Sunrise Visitor Center on the flanks of Mt. Rainier & put in about 6 hours of simply terrific hiking in one of America's great National Parks.

Despite hydrating pretty well throughout, I was pretty parched after 12 miles of pretty vertical hiking.  Upon arriving back in the temp condo in Seattle, I decided to get a nice meal & headed out to 94 Stewart - one of Seattle's many independent and outstanding restaurants.  In addition to the very fine food, I had only a beer and two Manhattans.  Normally, not enough to get much of a buzz.  However, I must not have hydrated as well as I thought, as the buzz became rather pronounced - I was doing well to walk the four blocks back to the condo, at least in my mind I was doing well ....

So, I'm back in my condo now and what should be on T.V. but the NASCAR race in Chicago.  GREAT!    I figure I'm in the appropriate frame of mind to appreciate an extended viewing of a Sprint Cup event.  Seattle doesn't believe in air conditioning - so I'm in totally authentic NASCAR viewing garb (stripped to my u-trou and a polo shirt, ... o.k. the polo shirt doesn't really pass muster, but I don't have a wife beater; likely TMI, eh? - sorry for those of you with sensitive stomachs).

NEXT MORNING NOTE:  The following has been left untouched, despite it's poor coherence and construction.  At the time, it seemed very well constructed and quite coherent, and it would be inappropriate to edit it (despite the embarrassing quality) as such editing would destroy the "buzzed blogging" perspective.

THE BUZZED STREAM-OF-QUASI-CONSCIOUSNESS BODY OF THIS POST:

Kyle Busch has been running away with the race to this point.  Larry McReynolds and the other dudes on the TNT Broadcast Team are saying things about stuff that really doesn't register with me, although their enthusiasm does.  O.K. - right there - despite the obvious enthusiasm, they missed Carl Edwards passing Kyle Busch until about 30 seconds afterwards. I guess it didn't fit in with whatever the hell they'd been talking about as Carl approached and passed Kyle for the lead.  No problem, ...  still an enjoyable video experience.  During a commercial break, Carl apparently came in for a green flag pitstop & his car then went all to hell.  But we don't really learn why (note:  much later, Larry McReynolds actually showed us why the spoiler damage was a problem - VERY helpful, even a u-trou wearing, buzzed dude sitting on a couch in Seattle had already figured THAT out).  The enthusiastic patter from the TNT booth focuses on the front spoiler of Mr. Edward's car; they continue to focus on Carl even after the next commercial break - despite the fact he's 1+ laps down.  Buzz or no buzz, even I know it's kinda weird that they're focused on Carl still ...  I'm starting to wonder, ... how many beers does it take before the broadcast makes sense and the race seems interesting enough to prevent channel surfing?  Well, I'm commited to my buzzed blogging/viewing experiment and will stick with it.

Fortunately, there have been some pretty funny commercials.  The Geico commercial with the racing kid always makes me laugh.  And the kids with remote control of the Sprint cars was also pretty funny (not sure who the advertisement was for in that one) - seeing Tony bail from his possessed car, telling others to "run for your lives" was decently amusing.

And of course, it's always amusing to imagine Hyrty or Hwerty or whatever the guy who goes apoplectic every time Busch does well - even moreso in a mildly altered state.  Busch still leads, as we get closer and closer to another Kyle Busch victory my level of anticipation of the weekly Hwrty meltdown makes it somewhat worthwhile to continue watching.  Maybe Kyle won't win - - somebody keeps throwing debris onto the track - - can't have a driver run away with a NASCAR event, afterall.

Unfortunately, we're now not only back into the routine TNT patter describing bizarre aspects of the race and more routine commercials that we've all seen for a couple dozen times, but the race has become terribly routine (Kyle drives to a 2 second lead - more debris, another caution, a bunch of commercials, Larry McReynolds talks about something, Kyle Busch drives to a 2 second lead - more debris, etc. ...). 

TNT has now officially declared a debris caution to be the "moment of the race".  Sheez ...

Naaah.  Even buzzed, I don't get how anyone can watch a NASCAR event for more than about 20 minutes.

THE KILLED-BUZZ CONCLUSION:

Maybe I wasn't buzzed enough.

Or maybe another network is broadcasting Ferris Buehler or The Godfather (any part), or maybe Peter Popoff is healing again ...  maybe I'll check back once in awhile to see if the race will end before midnight.

THE SURPRISINGLY SELF-AWARE BUT STILL BUZZED SELF-REALIZATION:

I'm sure I'll be too embarrassed to keep this up after viewing it in a sober state of mind tomorrow.  For any of you to mke it to the bottom of the post, you guys must be buzzed (or worse) too.

 

Ryan Briscoe has demonstrated how drivers should handle situations where they are subject to some measure of scorn/ridicule/or other form of enmity following an accident caused largely by their own error.  Many of you may recall either witnessing or hearing reports of  another popular driver being peeved at Ryan's lack of traction upon exiting his pits - resulting in a collision that took them both out of the closing stages of their most important races of the year (the Indy 500). 

Here's pretty much how it goes:

1.  Stay in your car until the initial heat blows over.  If another racer is exhibiting threatening behavior, ... say, marching down pit lane towards your pit with fire in his/her eyes, stay in the cockpit and make sure your tire changers and fuel men are between your car and said "fire-in-the-eyes" marching driver;

2.  Be handsome, good humored, and engaging.  People rarely hold a grudge against disarmingly handsome/beautiful drivers who readily engage the press.  The good humor thing helps too, but only as a supplement to the disarmingly handsome thing.  Briscoe's laughing yet mildly sel####eprecating statements during the Indy 500's Victory Banquet were PERFECT.  A foreign accent helps in this regard, particularly a British, Aussie, or New Zealander accent.  If not a native of one of these countries, you may want to quickly brush-up on such an accent and employ it liberally.

3.  Pay NO attention to the stone cold faces and lack of supportive comments regarding your freshman year with the top team in the series when asked by interviewers about just how frustrated they may be with your performance to-date.  Just keep your chin up and refer to "2." above.

4.  WIN the next race on the schedule.  Yes, Ryan won the next race on the IndyCar schedule (Milwaukee).   A mile long track with 28 open-wheel cars racing around it for a couple of hours ...  A race where nearly every other driver had a shunt of one form or another, he stayed clean and finished first.

Simple strategy, perfectly executed.

There's probably a best-selling business book in there somewhere.

I've lived in Indianapolis, Indiana most of my life. Part of the ritual of living here is visiting the track sometime during the Month of May. I've been traveling a great deal over the past 8 months or so, and was fearing I might not get the opportunity to make the spring pilgrimage while the cars were running. But my afternoon opened up, the weather was great, and there were 22 spots still open in the 33 car field for this years Indy 500. I figured the practice action would be great. So I closed up my computer, left the office, and headed for 16th & Georgetown Road - the Capital of Auto Racing - The Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

The scream of the cars reached out and clawed at my brain more than 1 mile from the track - grabbing the deepest recesses of my memories and pulling me as though I was on autopilot into the infield of the 2 1/2 mile race complex. Each time I pull into the Speedway, memories flood back into me: of my father taking me to the fourth turn of the track and showing me A.J.'s line through the turn - about 6 inches between the tires of his front engined roadster and the white concrete wall at the exit of the turn each and every lap, of the thrill of seeing Jimmy Clark pace the field in his British racing green Lotus, of the nearly silent punch of the STP red turbines of the early 70's, of the horrible fireball at the beginning of the '64 race, the thrill of seeing Tom Sneva break the 200 mph barrier, and so much more. This time was no exception.

For well over an hour, I just wandered around on my own - watching cars practice from the start/finish line, heading back out to the garage area to take in the mass of fans milling around, listening to the (very good) band "Psycho Dots" playing on the plaza, then moving south to the wide sweeping vista available of the first turn from the inside of the track. I could spend days walking around, listening & observing.

After a short while, I headed back from the first turn to meet my brother at his suite on the main straight. As I walked there, I got a call from work. A minor glitch with travel arrangements for an upcoming visit by corporate dignitaries. As I chatted on the cell phone and walked towards the Hulman Terrace Suites, I noticed I was about to walk through Gasoline Alley, the road from the pits to the garage area. There are always a swarm of "yellow shirts" stationed along the alley.

Yellow shirts are those volunteers who direct traffic at the track. They wear, ... yes, ... yellow button-down type shirts and gold safari helmets. There are HUNDREDS of yellow shirts arrayed around the massive complex at any given moment in May: at the car and pedestrian entrances to the track, along all in-track roadways, at all controlled access gates, at each ramp up into a grandstand, outside each concession stand, etc. They are EVERYWHERE. The ones who've been there for over a decade or two get some of the more cherished assignments. Among these is the "Gasoline Alley" station. Yellow shirts who have roadway assignments are given whistles. Most use the whistles much the same way Kelly Scott uses exclamation points. A yellow shirt will blast a whistle and give a wild arm signal to a pregnant woman with a youngster in a stroller just the same as he or she would a menacing beer truck. It's just a fact of life that must be endured by those choosing to visit the track during the Month of May. There is simply no getting away from the whistle of the yellow shirts, PARTICULARLY when walking near or through the pedestrian pass-thru area of Gasoline Alley.

It was a relatively calm appearing moment in the Gasoline Alley area, I quickly deduced while walking and chatting with my colleague from work. Nonetheless, I scanned the area, accounting for as many yellow shirts as possible and giving them a wide berth, along with the gaggles of autograph-seeking youths waiting for drivers to happen by. Having quickly sized up the area and charting my path through it, I set about to make the thirty foot journey across Gasoline Alley. About 3 to 5 seconds into my journey - and now focused back on my cell phone conversation - it happened.

A painful acoustic blast ripped into the left side of my face, exploding through my ear drum like an F-18 on afterburners. Instinctively, my subconscious nerve center turns my head and upper body to face the source of this violent attack. At about the same time as the visual image of the red-faced yellow shirt still exploding his hoary breath into the still shrieking "whistle" registers in my visual cortex, I feel my right shoulder and back come into mildly heavy contact with something. The whistle flies out of the yellow shirts spittle spewing face as he further contorts and bellows "did you not hear my whistle?!". With the yellow-shirt induced stimuli and the as yet unidentified contact to my rear still fighting for attention in my increasingly overwhelmed brain, I manage a "Holy Christ, YES". At this time, just moments into the event, I'm mostly focused on assessing the intentions of the apparently enraged yellow shirt, but I'm also recoiling from the contact to my rear. As the moment progresses, I notice the yellow shirt and others around me are NOT focused on me, but behind me. As this continues to register with me, the part of my brain that wants to know what I came into contact with begins to win over the part of the brain that wants to know what the yellow shirt and the other onlookers are looking at - so I cautiously turn to see what I can see.

And there my eyes and brain finds Danica Patrick and some guy with a Motorola hat on, looking surprised and adopting a defensive posture - as though something was about to fall on them (or, as actually happened, had just hit them). I now have MANY more stimuli screaming for attention in my brain - far more than I can initially process. As the fog clears a bit over the course of a couple of seconds, I see that she is mildly amused but is quickly returning to signing autographs for the amorphous gaggle of shapes gathered around her. The guy in the Motorola hat continues to size me up, and looks at least a little bit annoyed. I'm totally confused as to what to do, but manage to chuckle uncomfortably - unable to come up with anything more than "oh, EXCUSE me" and then return my gaze to the yellow shirt who is now standing with both hands outstretched and upwards - non-verbally saying "what the F#@*, AS*HOLE". Several realizations hit me nearly at once. I'm amused that the yellow shirt had surprised me so much, I'm concerned that I was, indeed, an as*hole walking and talking on the cellphone, but I was mostly astounded at her size - Danica Patrick is tiny. Not just tiny, microscopically tiny - not even chest high. She wouldn't be admitted to drive the Dodge 'Em Cars at your local amusement park, not being any taller than Barney Rubble. And she's young. Younger than my daughter, seemingly not even 20 years of age. Yet she is genuinely pretty and has an engaging and confident aura about her (quite the contrast from the off-putting personality described by many in the media). As she grabbed the pencil from a young hand to sign another autograph, she looked at me and shook her head. Was it "no problem"? Was it "what a ####"? Was it just shifting her long locks of beautiful black hair? I have no idea.

Yes I do. It was "that was a moment of reality in my otherwise surreal life - thank-you for piercing, however awkwardly, the numbness of my non-driving life at the track".

And I'm sticking with that.

Oh, ... "#$*& off and die" Mr. Yellow Shirt, I've got me a new memory.

Lot's of tears on the Fox Sports blogs recently (many truly moving moments that caused bloggers to say they had cried).

Well, ... here's some things that don't make me cry:

1. The Patriots cadre of comedians talking about Tom Brady's ankle. Almost as bad as the Super Bowl Shuffle - keep it up boys, ... you guys are hilarious. Let's see some more smugness (all while the Giants dig in and get into a testosterone groove). And has ESPN done anything as UNFUNNY as the Tom Brady as the "missing Brady" bit? How close to being moved to tears? - as close as I am to buying a Fathead of Bill Belichick.

2. The college basketball season in full swing. My favorite time of the sports year - in part due to my passion for college basketball and in part due to the fact that the conclusion of college basketball means SPRING! Go to watch my Butler Bulldogs whenever I have the time - the greatest basketball watching experience ANYWHERE for the price - if you're in Indy during college basketball season, stop by Hinkle Fieldhouse for a dip into the soul of Hoosier basketball. How close to being moved to tears? - damn, ... wait a minute ..., there, ... o.k. now - NOT crying.

3. The Indiana Pacers. They just make me angry. How close to being moved to tears? - How far is totally far, incredibly far, unbelievably far? How can there be such a difference between college basketball and bad professional basketball? Really, totally, incredibly, unbelievably far.

4. The ongoing writer's strike. No new episodes of 30 Rock. No new Saturday Night Live. No new funny. How close to being moved to tears? - about three more reality T.V. episodes away from the first tear.

5. David Letterman ripping forward at full speed. Sometimes things do come full circle. Leno is a funny, funny man. But Letterman is THE man in late night comedy (with Conan dutifully waiting in the wings). How close to being moved to tears? - truly emotional for this proud Hoosier to see Letterman hitting his stride again after having settled with the Writers Guild in an honorable and generous fashion, but not quite enough to produce a tear.

6. A real race among presidential contenders. Good to see people spending at least a little more time parsing through the field of candidates. At least a couple of genuine statesmen/women types seem to be on the bill. How close to being moved to tears? - only will be moved to tears if we veer towards another GW type (tears of sadness - can you say Huckabee or Romney?) or towards someone who emerges as a great statesperson on the world's stage (tears of joy - can you say ... nah - not gonna do that here).

7. Saying something almost made me cry, or made me cry. This does not make me cry. I sometimes say this to express an emotion or a belief, but rarely does it actually mean I cried - I just think it will help make a point or ingratiate myself with someone else. How close to being moved to tears? - just making me think about my insincerity when saying "it made me cry" makes me well up.

8. Only listing 8 things in a list, rather than the customary 10. I'm not the obsessive/compulsive type. How close to being moved to tears? - actually, I never cry - and this definitely also does not make me cry.

I'm sorry - I have to stop now - sorry, ... I'm, ... I'm, ... , ... ,

I suspect many of us who witnessed it will agree with John Madden's statement that Darrell Reid'#### during the late game kick return on Chris Henry was maybe the most vicious hit we've ever seen.

THE ULTIMATE BONECRUSHING HIT

At the moment of impact, I thought we'd witnessed another severe injury - not expecting to see the kick returner get up. Fortunately, not only did he get up - he got up rather quickly and trotted off (yes, ... to the correct sideline).

However, we dodged another bullet with this hit. And it was preventable. At the last moment, immediately before the impending impact, the 288 pound defensive lineman running at fult tilt towards the oncoming kick returner lowered his head and drove it into the returners helmet. Henry's head, and entire body, immediately and quite forcefully changed direction - slamming backwards into the turf with Reid continuing through and over him as he sprawled out.

Awesome and frightening at the same time. Yet no penalty. Further, Reid - on the Pro Bowl roster as a special teams squad player - seemed to celebrate the fact he'd clobbered the guy with the top of his head by prancing around and pointing to the top of his helmet.

I'm a passionate Colts fan. But this hit was deserving of a league fine. And we all should be glad we're not dealing with a severe neurological or spinal injury-related tragedy this morning. Serious injuries can happen during normal plays in the NFL. But plays like this are preventable - and should be punished heavily as a disincentive to any and all who might consider lowering their head in such a manner again.

Credits:  YouTube  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=srUo2MDngJE 

It happens all the time.  A great blog is published - someone is in a really creative frame of mind and whips out a piece that gets you to thinking in some new way, opens you to new perspectives, or simply amuses you or touches your heart.  It may be about a topic-of-the-day, or something seemingly completely out of thin air - but you find it refreshing, illustrative, humorous, emotional, ... whatever - you take notice.

After re-reading and pondering, you decide to comment.  You scroll down, and there it is ...

Try as you might, you simply can't resist noticing that some cantaloupe has spammed the blog with 3, 4, 5, maybe more inane comments and all of the sudden you're out-of-the-moment.  The wave of enthusiasm you felt towards the piece is drained away from you not by ANYTHING the original writer said or did, but by the sheer inane mass of that black hole in the blogosphere:  the Blog Killer.

Sometimes it's predictable - you know who you are ... well, ... no, ... you likely don't.  But we do. 

Sometimes it's not.  The Blog Killer may well be a very good blogger who simply temporarily morphed into an energy sapping dullard - it's happened to most of us, I'd hazard to guess.

Regardless, the blog simply dies.  Sure, it may be read by many people.  But the rich discussion that should ensue - or the well-deserved kudos that should come the way of the original writer - simply remain untyped in the heads of the now-drained, confused, or simply not-so-passionate reader.  And it slips into the ether ........ farewell, good blog.

Blog Killers.  They lurk out there, ... just waiting, ... waiting ...!

 

Well, it' s good to be back here in Gasoline Alley with the auto racing fans.  The as yet unexplained multi-week forced hiatus has ended. 

While Robby got to experience a certain devious joy in doing his dualing victory donuts in Montreal after receiving the terminal black flag for his interaction with Mr. Ambrose, I've had to just sit and wonder "WTF?" after mine.

Regardless, it's good to have my old account back.  I'll likely change to "Dave in Seattle" whenever we make the move out there - probably in about two months.  Nonetheless, I feel whole again, if not slightly bemused by whatever it was that prompted somebody to feel the need to gag me (and so many others over the past couple of weeks).

All laps after the flag now ...

- NOT SPORTS/RACING RELATED -

 

I'm sitting in Philly's airport, waiting for my thrice delayed flight home to Indy, typing very awkwardly on my clunky Treo, to relay my utter horror at what I'm witnessing on CNN. Veteran financial anchor turned "talking curmudgeon/anchor" and real life incarnation of Howard Beale - Lou Dobbs - HAS BEEN GIVEN A PRIME TIME "NEWS SHOW" on CNN.

What #### ratings-#### #### of an executive gave the go-ahead to this? Has there been a worse broadcast personnel decision in the past five years? O.K., except for Nancy Grace.

A harbinger of The End Times? A statement of the slumping will/intelligence of the people? Or just one more abomination foisted on this country by my generation, "The Suckiest Generation"?

My flight has now been delayed a fourth time, and Lou has said "incredibly outrageous" and made that "I just #### Mr. Hankey" face at least ten times.

I'm sure as hell mad and I'm taking it just fine. ... no, ... Hell! I'm mad, and I'm gonna suck it up plenty more! Nahh, ... I'm madly taking it up the tailpipe and sure as hell won't , uh, won't be happy about it. ... that's not it, ... I'm in hell and I can't get up. ... whatever, ... I'm sticking my head out the window and raging about SOMETHING. Won't you join me?

U.S. Coach Gary Ryan has kicked star goalkeeper Hope Solo off the team, citing her critical comments regarding his starting of Briana Scurry in the Brazil semi-final game of the Womens' World Cup in China. In comments published just this morning, Abby Wambach and Kristine Lilly have spoken out in favor of Ryan's decision. Both indicated it was the right move in their minds to restore some semblance of good chemistry on the team.

_____

They may be right. It was indelicate of Solo to publicly criticize the decision to bench her (despite her incredible performance to that date in the WWC and the highly questionable nature of Coach Ryan's decision). In the emotion of such a heart-wrenching loss, I'm sure the team struggled to keep it together in the 24 to 48 hours after the match. Whether Wambach's and Lilly's comments were simply their best efforts to make good of a troubling decision, or revealed a deep seated need for conformity, I certainly don't know. Personally, I think it's a classic sign of the "Stockholm Syndrome". Both are great performers, and they seem to be rallying around their coach, despite his boneheaded decision to bench Solo for the Brazil game (come on, there can be no denying it was at the very least a highly risky move - the comment made by another blogger comparing it to leaving Pedro Martinez in game seven after he was clearly spent was spot-on, and to have sprung it on the team hours before the match - ... stupifyingly stupid).

So out o####ame characterized by at least two glaring instances of incompetence, the person suffering the greatest (only?) penalty is the indelicate and spurned US goalkeeper. The fact that FIFA had once again placed grotesquely incompetent Swiss referee Petignat in one more high profile tournament game skates by without any real penalty. And, at least so far, Coach Ryan's decision to bench Solo only has contributed to the outcome of a US loss to Brazil and the dismissal from the team and humiliation of their best goalkeeper, he has not yet been held accountable for his poor performance as coach of the team for this game.

_____

Indisputably incompetent referee Petignat is free to continue to ruin every match she touches (which FIFA exec is she sleeping with? she has ruined nearly every match she has refereed in the last World Cup, the last Olympics, and now this World Cup - yet she continues to draw top assignments - how does this continue to happen? - there is simply NO excuse for such continued blindness to her inability to properly adjudicate big matches). And Coach Ryan is left to continue to coach the women's team (will he pull Scurry this Sunday and place Michelle Akers in goal?). Maybe it was the right decision, in the context of preparing his team for the upcoming consolation match, to remove Solo from the team. But it also has the appearance of making her the sacrificial lamb. What a waste.

Life don't make sense some times.

p.s. - Brazil's play in the WC pretty much solidifies the ruination of the game. Although highly skilled, they are bringing that most disgusting of soccer antics to top levels of the women's game: DIVING. The Brazilians took a number of dives in this match, with the Boxx red-card incident the most costly (as incompetent as she is, Petignat actually caught a penalty area dive early in the first half, although let Cristiane skate by motioning her to get up - NOT giving her a YC). Although not unknown in the women's game, it has not become the plague that has tainted men's world soccer until now. If this indeed marks a sea change in women's soccer, it's a sad day - they will have lost their primary redeeming quality - the relatively pure nature of their game, the focus on the display of skills vs. the panty-waisted theatrics/cheating so common in the men's game).

Six feet tall and 150 pounds of confused muscle and rock hard brains, I crouched down into my three point stance opposite six foot two, 230 pound left tackle Dennis Brouhard in our first full contact reserve scrimmage. In what I now recognize as a combination of manic homicide and a profoundly funny joke, Coach Pesavento had judged me to be a perfect specimen of a defensive end. And here came the punch line, in the form of "27 offtackle, FB lead".

_______________________________________

I'd never played organized football in my life to that point. Other than the previous ten days of three-a-day practices, I'd never worn pads, had never experienced the raunch of a team locker room, ... had never been so profoundly tired in my life.

Throughout latter elementary school and junior high school, the old neighborhood buddies would play tackle football, usually on Mr. Munshower's huge front lawn, for hours at a time. Some were strong athletes, many of us weren't. One went on to start for two years as a cornerback for the Wisconsin Badgers. Strong athlete or not, in the neighborhood, you played hard yet stopped short of cleaning a guys clock - no one wanted to hurt or scare off anyone. We needed the dudes.

I wasn't a total loser; ... I was FAST. I could outrun anybody. I was the fastest guy in the neighborhood and, now, the fastest guy on the team. Yet I was a pathetically lanky lightweight, clueless as to proper blocking & tackling (or any other football related) techniques. All I was, was fast.

Add to that the fact my family had changed school districts in the summer prior to my freshman year. These guys on the football team were the first people I'd met in our new location. None of them seemed terribly interested in tolerating a new glasses wearing splinter who didn't know where to put his hip pads. But I was terribly desperate to learn to play the game, to be a part of a real football team, to show that I had the ability to play the game. I just needed some serious learning. It's amazing what kids can tolerate when motivated; in retrospect, I now realize it was painfully, painfully lonely. But I also know that loneliness didn't seem to matter much to me - it was never hard to climb into the car to go to another practice. I loved the idea of playing football that much.

Coach Pesavento ("Pez" of course, but never ... NEVER within earshot, as Brouhard found out later that season) was not much into teaching. What he was, was into yelling. And almost never by a persons proper name. Early on, he adopted for me the proud name "Stooge" - after a particularly badly blown play during an early practice where the quarterback saw fit to throw the ball so it got stuck in my facemask. Pez used language not much recognized these days for its educational potential. "G*d d@mn it, Stooge, what the f#ck kinda joker are you, ... you ever hit a sled before?" NO, ... I had never hit a blocking sled before. Despite the fact I had exceptionally strong legs, it was only after a week of three-a-days flopping myself against the sled that our starting halfback kindly showed me how to properly hit the sled - with my shoulder, lowering my back and butt, and driving forward with my legs - that what had become the comic interlude in sled drills stopped. The road to acceptance on the team was going to be longer than I'd hoped. But I was going to do whatever I could to make it.

_______________________________________

So, ... it's "27 offtackle, FB lead"; but I don't know it yet. "Ready, ... set, ... B1, ... B2" and the ball was snapped. I did my best to drive into the massive offensive tackle and then move around him to my right to seal off the left side of the line. Dennis had other ideas. At least that's what I gathered after about ten seconds. I remember a blur, a bunch of greyness, grass, a loud rumbling sound, a louder whistle, and then quiet. ... nothing.

It was only about four seconds, maybe five, but it seemed to be a much longer period of time. I had no sensation of playing football, of being anywhere, I just WAS. Then the unmistakable shrill shriek of Pez cut partially through the greyness: "Moose (Brouhard), what the f#ck are you doing?" Then arms under my shoulders - they were Dave Palmer's, our best halfback - he pulled me up, looked at me and asked "alright?".

I just stared, at the time, I couldn't comprehend what he'd said; he clearly took this blank stare as "yep, I'm fine, let's go" as he turned and trotted to his offensive huddle. Brouhard was walking back to the huddle too, just shaking his head. Pez was staring at the Stooge, no look of sympathy, just staring at me. I learned only in the locker room after practice that Moose had hit me so hard I'd flown backwards a couple of yards and landed on my head. It was so violent that some players had stopped mid-play, prior to the whistle. Yet somehow, Palmer, the ball carrier, had tripped over the tangle of arms and legs that was me on the ground. I'D GOTTEN THE TACKLE, despite my semi-conscious and inanimate state. All thanks to Brouhard. Fortunately, they ran plays to the other side of the line for the next several plays, and then put another tackle in place of Brouhard. While at the time I didn't know exactly what had happened, I knew from the laughs and looks of disdain that it couldn't have been flattering.

Embarrassment is a powerful motivator. The Stooge kept rushing with reckless, underpowered, and unskilled abandon. Within a couple of plays they called a screen pass in my direction. Of course, they let the less-than-massive defensive end into the backfield, and then the starting QB tossed a screen pass high over my head towards Dave Palmer, who had streaked by me to the left flat. Wait a second! This is right up my alley, and UP I jumped. I know I mentioned I was fast. But I could jump too. I was dunking a volleyball (couldn't yet palm a basketball) in eighth grade, ... anyways ... Up I went ... please Lord, ... I can get this. SMACK! I hit the ball up ... it's sailing straight in front of me ... I can get this, ... I GOT this! I catch the ball and NO ONE was gonna catch me, ... 25 yards to paydirt and six points. I'm nearly as numb as I was after Brouhard'####. I just turned and stood in the end zone for a moment, and waited - for what I wasn't sure.

Nobody was rushing towards me, other than the QB who seemed intent on hitting me despite the fact I was in the end zone and the whistle had blown (he ran past me, in a show of some discipline, as I was sure he was horribly embarrassed to have been intercepted by such a joke of a player). So I just trotted back to where the players were. They were looking at me much the same way they did after Brouhard's shotput of me just a half a dozen plays earlier.

Pez finally broke the ice, "Nice play, Stooge". ... thanks, coach.

I didn't play the next series, and when I finally played again, it was as wide receiver. I didn't have any balls thrown my way, but it was a statement that registered with me and my teammates. Guys started talking to me a little, more like they were including me in conversations rather than talking directly to me. And I'm getting called by my real name, not Stooge. I got more advice from teammates regarding blocking and tackling. The coach moved me from back-up defensive end to safety. I liked the position, although I had a lot to learn about coverages - and I learned from my teammates and from the various yellings of Pez ("Stooge, what the f#ck are you doing covering the wideout on that play?, your man was either the wingback or doubling up on the f#cking halfback out of the backfield - get your f#cking head outta your ####!", ... yep, he likes me).

I was never good enough to start a game at wide receiver or safety that season. And he stuck me in at defensive end every once in awhile just for giggles I guess. But I got better, and played more and more as the season progressed. I learned that you gain some measure of respect when others see you trying hard, working through obstacles and persevering. I never became a good HS football player, and I never ran around with many of the strong players on that team - although my best friend to this day was a guy I met that first summer of organized football. But I had the respect of most of those guys. It felt great to be included, to laugh as one of them after coach lifted Moose up by his neck with one hand when he called Pez "Pez" to his face (instead of "hey coach", ... to Moose's terror, out came "hey Pez").

This is the point where the author is supposed to say "these were the life lessons of sports that propelled me to become U.S. Senator" or "CEO of Boeing" or "Ambassador to France" or whatever ... Nahhh. Just Dave in Indy, writing in a sports blog to a handful of readers. Nonetheless, I came to love football even more as a result of this experience. And I DID gain great life lessons that I suspect I never would have otherwise picked-up, at least not so early in my life.

Nothing profound, ... just a memory I thought I'd share.

The Nextel Cup has drivers and cars out the ying-yang, fans galore, 193 races per year, television outlets haggling for rights to broadcast each seven hour race, and a championship formula - The Chase - that's been modified, tweaked, and retro-fitted to produce a championship race that is as artificially close & exciting as their superspeedway races. It'll take the twelve best, and hopefully most popular drivers/car combinations, and over the final forty or so races of the season pit them in a heated, almost-from-scratch (see aforementioned tweaking & retro-fitting) race to the season championship. It was unacceptable to get to the last couple dozen races and already have the championship decided. So NASCAR stuck its fat little fingers into its racing once again, in an effort to manufacture greater suspense, and came up with the aforementioned Chase. Now NO ONE can run away with the race to the championship. Superiority throughout the regular season is barely acknowledged, and the top twelve racers are lumped together and considered nearly equal (I know, ... the bonus points ...). It didn't QUITE work perfectly last year - as Tony Stewart didn't make the Chase. So a little tweaking here, a little tweaking there, ... THERE, now we have it. Surely THIS time we'll get it right, and not exclude a fan favorite ...

... whoops ...

Meanwhile, the IndyCar series motors along uncomfortably. They typically field only 18 cars per race, and week in and week out there are three race teams competing for the win (the two Penske drivers , two Ganassi/Target drivers, and the four Andretti/Green drivers). But the finishes between them are very close week-in and week-out. Their season championship formula is the old fashioned one - win a race and you get more points (50) than the second place driver (40), who gets more points than the third place driver (35) & so on down to 10 "participation points" for all bottom finishers. They throw in 3 points for leading the most laps. The driver with the most points at the conclusion of the final race of the season IS THE CHAMPION. My DOG understands that formula.

Guess which series has boiled down to having the most exciting season ending? and guess which series has once again seen one of its most popular drivers excluded from a championship run?

There are three drivers with a chance to win the IndyCar season championship this coming weekend in Chicago: Scott Dixon, Indy 500 winner Dario Franchitti, and Tony Kanaan. Last weekend the series leader crashed near the conclusion of the race and in the process (intentionally?) took out his closest competitor for the championship, giving Tony Kanaan the win and enough points to also have a chance to win the championship this coming weekend. The points lead has ebbed and flowed throughout the season. The drama producing the ebbs and flows has been significant - points leaders getting crashed or crashing themselves out of races, different drivers/cars have seemed unbeatably superior at different times during the season - and you never know who Danica Patrick will take out in a given race, OR who Michael Andretti will be ranting about after the conclusion of another race during which his son DNF'd.

You can try all you want to engineer an exciting conclusion to a race or a championship season. You can add restrictor plates to cars, you can create body and engine formulas so tight that it takes half a day to complete inspection, you can throw yellows every time a spotter sees a dandelion spew dangerous seeds onto the track, and you can create a complex championship points systems that will befuddle a chess master - but such controls don't guarantee superior racing. To excess, they can (and DO) actually DETRACT from superior racing.

Human skill, bravado, and luck produce superior racing.

Whether by hook or by crook, IndyCar produced and FEATURED superior racing this season.

The superior racing (which was abundant once again) in NASCAR was BURIED underneath all of the pulleys, cogs, and filters by which and through which it attempts to produce tight finishes.

I enjoy the flash and spectacle that surround Cup races. But give me the good ol' fashioned racing of IndyCar, or late model stock car racing, or any of the formulas which feature RACING, and not the fabulously popular but highly processed Cheese Whiz that is Nextel Cup racing.

It's being reported this morning (by WGCL TV out of Atlanta, GA) "federal prosecutors are offering Falcons quarterback Michael Vick a plea deal on dogfighting charges that would require Vick to serve at least one year in prison. Sources have told CBS 46 that Vick has until 9 a.m. Friday to accept a deal or face new charges in a superseding indictment".

What is our fascination with sending people to prison? In what way has that been shown to be the best method of preventing a person from repeating their crime, or to discourage others to not engage in such behavior?

Per capita crime in the U.S. has increased only marginally over the past several decades. Yet our incarceration rates have skyrocketed over the same period, putting us in the ugly position of leading the world in per capita incarcerations. We have five to ten times as many inmates per citizen as most other developed countries around the world.

WTF?

The greatest nation on the face of the earth? We incarcerate more than 5.6 million of our citizens (# of citizens who have been incarcerated at some point during a given year)? That's an incarceration rate of one in thirty-seven (about 3% of our adult population). And this rate has been streaking upwards for several decades. Our prisons are estimated to be constructed to handle just over one-half of that number. The over-crowding conditions are making prisons no better than the gulags of the old Soviet Union, where basic human standards of care are not being met - let alone efforts to genuinely rehabilitate offenders.

THIS IS A NATIONAL DISGRACE, one that we the people perpetuate.

Prosecutors get elected to lucrative local offices based largely upon their ability to market their "toughness on crime" - which almost always means their conviction rate and their ability to boast of long sentences for cases they've prosecuted. Judges, in many locales, are elected in much the same way. That's what the electorate want to hear, that criminals are being put into jail, and often.

And now folks are likely feeling good that Michael Vick faces more than a trivial stint in jail.

What is this INCREDIBLE investment in one method of punishment/rehab buying us? Little if anything that I can see. From 1987 to 1995, state government expenditures on prisons increased by 30% while spending on higher education decreased by 18%. Worse, it may well be hardening criminals - moving them to a point where a life of crime is all that seems feasible for them. Even WORSE, it may be moving us further from a nation deserving of respect, and to a nation characterized by shallowness, impulsiveness, a convenient blindness to the suffering of others.

Just one more thing deserving of your increased attention and action (at the very least, pay attention to who you elect to the offices of Prosecutor and Judge - typically Superior Court Judge, although ANY elected judge - and see what your mayoral and gubernatorial candidates track records are on this issue too).

How will sending Vick to prison help society? How will it impact Vick? How does sentencing marijuana smokers, or vandals, etc. to stout prison terms help society or impact the violators? Is yours a gut reaction to those questions, or a decently well thought out response, based on a review of available literature?

Start scratching the surface:

Christian Science Monitor Article

An Admittedly Left Leaning Article by Human Rights Watch

Bi-Partisan Report, including other interesting links

Well, the 14th has come and gone. Anyone have an idea why we don't yet know who's made it through to the next round? I can't imagine an easier process: whichever writer in a pairing scored the highest moves on.

Let's go guys, tell us who moves on!

DUDE! Did you see that !?

NASCAR has found well-rounded success in the most unlikely of places - a ROAD COURSE. This weekends Cup race at Watkins Glen was everything a race should be. You had the close racing NASCAR and its fans prefer, many "quality passes" (in this case, they were TRULY quality passes), and as much drama as I can remember in an auto race.

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Just the sequence in the last 20 laps with Stewart, Hamlin, and Edwards deliberately taking their cars across the grass in a complex series of turns in order to preserve their side by side positions was absolutely INCREDIBLE. That was racing in the old world meaning of the word. The 'shiners would have been most proud.

On top of that, the track was clearly a significant challenge to drive. The best drivers in NASCAR (some of the best drivers in the world) had trouble negotiating the course at speed without losing control of their massively heavy machines - both Tony Stewart and Jeff Gordon totally lost control while leading the race. And you had strong road racers trying to bring their substandard rides up through the field, and largely succeeding (Fellows and Gordon), including an incredible sequence where Robby Gordon GAVE WAY to the faster Ron Fellows - probation clearly has produced its intended result. Both of these great road racers were spectacular, gaining nearly 20 positions (well, Gordon did this twice) during the race.

Of course, you had the Montoya vs. Harvick drama which, accentuated by a long red flag period to clean up the fluids left on the track after their wreck, added even more emotion to an already intense race. As funny as it was to see two guys in giant helmets, colorful driving shoes, and funny looking jumpsuits pushing, slapping, and dancing with one another, it definitely added another dimension to the event. Would the young bully engage the less-than-svelte former CART champion and Monaco G.P. winner in a one round full blown street fight? Thankfully, we were spared that excitement. Save something for the next race, I always say ...

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3M PERFORMANCE/MICHIGAN 400 CAGED DEATH MATCH

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----------===---"J.P. Libre" Montoya----------------------------Kevin "Mr. Furious" Harvick

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And then, the most unlikely drama of all: while leading with just two laps to go, NASCAR's finest driver spins out with a sure victory in his sights. Jeff Gordon will see that one in his sleep for a few weeks. Such an event would NEVER have happened on the relatively easy to navigate, repetitive oval courses they typically run, but a complex road course - another story altogether. Amazing stuff! Absolutely GREAT racing.

I would LOVE to see a road race added to The Chase (as already mentioned in these blogs by other contributors). The best racing so far this year has occurred on road courses, and as Tez has already pointed out, the road courses have let the truly superior drivers separate themselves from the pack (vs. the randomization that seems to occur on the ovals, particularly the restrictor plate tracks).

As you get more and more drivers becoming accustomed to driving on road courses, these races will get better and better. It's hard to imagine how much better a race could be than this weekends race at The Glen, but I'm betting we'll see it happen over the coming years. Great stuff NASCAR!

RAIN OUT ?

The declared "rain-out" of Cup qualifications at Watkins Glen reinforces the notion that either NASCAR is lazy, or that they view maintenance of the status quo as their priority.

Despite the near certainty they could have qualified the Cup cars today (Saturday), NASCAR chose to declare qualifications to be "rained-out" yesterday and assigned starting positions based upon Cup point standings. Smaller teams and road race specialists brought in for races such as this one, drivers/teams who would have to compete for the eight non-guaranteed starting spots under normal conditions, are in the haulers and on the way home today. "Drivers had sponsor appearances to make" is the most often quoted response to the question "why can't you just qualify on Saturday?". Total face ####.

NASCAR finds itself a bit backwards with regard to their approach to qualifications, and would do well in the eyes of race fans to revisit the notion that qualifications are a mere formality leading up to a predetermined showcase of familiar drivers and sponsors competiting for the win in this weeks show.

I believe the common race fan finds this quite distasteful, and would be most satisfied to see NASCAR restore qualifying to its full glory, ... or more (see F1, and how they reinvented qualifications - you think NASCAR couldn't one-up F1 in this regard if they put their minds to it?).