Last week’s Daytona 500 was both exceptional and extremely ordinary. As the premier event on the NASCAR calendar, every Daytona 500 is exceptional, as this race is considered the “Great American Race”. Some of the things that made last weekend’s race exceptional:

The 50th. Last weekends race was the fiftieth Daytona 500. The fiftieth of anything is special, whether it’s a birthday, a wedding anniversary, or a stock car race. If you don’t think the fiftieth is special, check back with me in eight years when the NFL holds it’s fiftieth Super Bowl. They will make a HUGE deal out of that one football game, so this race was special just for that reason alone.

The introduction of past winners. The tribute NASCAR paid to past winners was special. Cale Yarborough, Darrell Waltrip, and Richard Petty were among the legends recognized by NASCAR before the race. It was even cool to see Richard Petty wave the green flag to start the race.

The pre-race concert. OK, Maybe the concert didn’t seem exceptional, I mean, so what if Chubby Checker was lip syncing, he’s what, 75, 80? I’m surprised he wasn’t singing from a prescription motorized scooter. What else could we expect from NASCAR’s version of the Super Bowl? Did you think they wouldn’t have a special pre-race event?

Ryan Newman winning the race. Newman’s win automatically makes him the answer to a trivia question. When anyone asks who won the 50th Daytona 500, you won’t have to think very hard to answer them. It does seem strange, I must admit, to think that his name will be mentioned in the same breath as that of Waltrip, Yarborough, Petty and Earnhardt.

Here, also, are some of the things that made the Daytona 500 extremely ordinary, and some of these things should never happen again, as far as I’m concerned.

Jeff Hammond and Chris Meyers should never, never ever, sing on my TV again. Neither of them could carry a tune in a dump truck, and that song from “Grease” was only sang because of the racing element in the lyrics. I wish they had been lip syncing instead of Chubby.

The Gopher-cam. If you’re going to have an infield, ground level camera, someone should be assigned to come out and clean the lens every other lap or so. I personally would rather see an elevated camera put at the inside of the turns to get a “birds eye view” if you will, of the field as they make the turn. The NFL and NBA have been using elevated cameras for several years now, and it has made the television experience of their games better. I think NASCAR would definitely enhance their telecasts with a similar positioned camera.

The Gopher-cam graphics. Every time the director asked for the gopher-cam shot a cartoon gopher popped up and made some cheesy face gesture. The first time it was kind of cute and funny, but after the fourth or fifth time it was just irritating.

Uneventful racing. The whole first half of the race there were no cautions, not that cautions are good, but it does make for interesting race scenarios, what with the “lucky dog” and all. Maybe it’s because Daytona is a Super Speedway where the cars can run 3 and 4 wide, or maybe it’s due to the “car of tomorrow” and with it’s similar setups from one race team to another there’s just not much of an advantage to be had and it makes all the drivers equal to a certain extent. For whatever reason, the first half of the race is best described, in my opinion as boring.

Jeff Burton losing the lead. OK, This is more personal for me as Burton is my NASCAR favorite. His lead of nine laps vanished on the restart after the last caution with 5 laps to go. On the restart Burton was pulled into the middle of the pack like a swimmer pulled into the undertow at the beach. Of course, as the only RCR driver in the top 5 at the time, he had no teammate close to help him out.

So, there are my reasons why the Daytona 500 was both exceptional and ordinary, both exciting and boring, both an adrenaline rush and a deep letdown (see #5 above). However, that’s the nature of every sport, and NASCAR is no different in that respect, and that also is why NASCAR is the great sport it is, and we’ll all witness these things again as the schedule moves from Daytona to California.

With the Super Bowl on Sunday, the NFL season will come to an end (oh sure, there's the Pro Bowl, but even the most novice fan knows that that's not REAL football),  the NBA is amost to the All Star break, and there's NASCAR in a few weeks, so there's a lot going on in sports right now.   With the new year though, we also have the PGA season going on, and that has put me, at least for the moment, in a golf state of mind.  Tiger is tearing up the course in Dubai, and then there's the FBR in Scottsdale.  Regarding golf, here is a post I put on another site a few months ago.  Every word is true.  No names were changed because there are no innocent.  After reading this you'll know why my fantasy golf team (on another site) is named "1More3WoodTreed".

It was a blustery fall day, with the wind varying between a soft cool breeze to the occasional gusts that would take the hat off your head. It’s been said that we only have two seasons in South Texas, summer and February, but that particular October day there was a definite chill in the air.

Cedar Creek golf course is one of the more challenging municipal courses in the San Antonio area. The regulars know to rent a cart because the hilly terrain can be physically draining, especially if your walking.

Me and three business associates had agreed to play eighteen holes on that Saturday morning, so I had secured a tee time and two carts the day before.

We met at the clubhouse around noon, which would give us ample time to visit the driving range as our tee time was not until 1:18.

Now, what I am about to relate to you, much to my embarrassment, actually happened.

None of our foursome are any threat to the PGA, although my friend Billy did attend Texas State (Southwest Texas State as it was known then) on a golf scholarship. Billy is a great guy, quite simply goodness personified. In fact I’ve only seen him mad once, and that was at himself on a golf course, for hitting what he considered a bad shot, but one the other three of us would have gladly claimed as our own.

Cedar Creek’s number nine is a par five, 515 yards from the whites, and features several small bunkers and a slightly elevated tee box. About 90-100 yards from the green the hole crosses a small babbling brook, about 2-3 feet wide.

Number eight had seen me reach the green and hole out ahead of my buddies so the number 9 honors were mine. I calmly eyed the hole from the back of the tee box. Walked up to my teed Spalding ball, took my stance, and after a practice swing, pulled my driver back slowly.

Now, every round of golf, as far as I’m concerned, features at least one, sometimes two shots that, when you strike the ball, it just feels right. You know before you lift your head that Tiger Woods himself would be glad to put his name on that stroke. My number 9 tee shot was just that way. The club hitting the ball made a sharp cracking sound that resonated off the adjacent canyon walls like a rifle shot. I lifted my head slowly to find my ball in mid-flight at the apex of a trajectory that dropped in the absolute middle of the fairway about 230 yards down hole. After a heavy sigh that I’m sure must have seemed thick with arrogance, I stated after compliments from the other three, “I’ll take it”.

After the other three players hit their tee shots we each found our golf  balls, and agreed on the hitting order for the second shots. My drive was farthest, so my second shot would be made after the other three attempted theirs.

My second shot would not be quite as impressive as my first. I chose my fairway wood, a black Spalding #3 (I would later describe this over the after round beers as ‘Flying too close to the sun’) for this shot. When I brought the 3 wood down to meet the ball it sounded like a melon being smashed by a claw hammer. I had topped the ball, causing it to travel about 15 yards to the right and land with a thud in one of the small bunkers to the right of the fairway. Here’s the mother of all humbling moments for any golfer. My third shot. Still with my 3 wood in hand (I know, the WRONG club), I stood proudly over my ball in that bunker and took my third swing. I topped the ball again and it trickled out just over the lip of the bunker and came to an abrupt halt. The ball seemed to look back at me and laugh. Totally disgusted with myself by this point, I threw my hands up. Now remember, this is October, and the trees had very few leaves on them. After I threw my hands up, I heard a distinct clack, clackity, clack sound. I looked up to see my 3 wood perched across the limbs of a small post oak tree that stood sentry over the bunker I had tried to hit from.

My buddies are rolling with laughter. This is not the worst part yet. Like I had good sense, I took my putter and tried to knock the 3 wood out of the tree. You guessed it. I now have 2 golf clubs treed.

I don’t get to play a lot of golf, what with family responsibilities, work, and other things, not to mention the cost involved. So I play golf more like Tony or even Martha Stewart than Payne Stewart. More like Ickey Woods than Tiger Woods. But that won’t stop me from playing.

I don't remember what my score was that day, or which of us "won", but they say the goal in golf is to shoot your age. If that’s true I’ll be hell on wheels when I’m 106.