The Sporting Life

Random thoughts

· Beano still full of gas: As far as my brother and I are concerned, Beano Cook will never live down a prediction he made in the early to mid '90s that Rutgers would win the national championship in football before the year 2000. So I'm not really sure why I was so surprised to hear him last weekend propose something as outlandish as moving the Sugar Bowl to Seattle.

Unless I'm remembering incorrectly, the Sugar Bowl hosts the national championship on a rotating basis. Otherwise, it hosts a game pitting the winner of the SEC against the winner of the ACC every year. So I'm trying to get a good idea of why the two biggest conferences from the South would want to move this contest to the opposite end of the continental United States during its rainy season.

Whether he meant temporarily, until New Orleans can repair the Superdome or build a new stadium, or permanently, I just don't see his rationale. Any ideas? I'm drawing a blank.

· Astronomical feat: Yep, I'm aware I've said almost nothing about the Astros' down-to-the-wire battle with the Marlins and Phillies for the NL wild card. I guess I have some irrational fear that I'm going to jinx the situation. The preceding two series have not been a good sign, coupled with the Braves' collapse vs. the Phillies, but I'm not giving up. Last year taught me that conceding defeat before things are a mathematical impossibility is something I can never again do.

On a related note, how much of a stud of an athlete is Roger Clemens? Last night was remarkable. Apologies on behalf of our offense to The Rocket for all the games they've blown for him this season. It was good to see them come through for him during such a difficult time.

· From the people who brought us I-75's "Georgia Peach's" signs?: This week I saw an anti-Bush sticker on an SUV (as opposed to a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac) in a parking lot downtown that made me smile: "Somewhere in Texas a village is missing its' idiot." I'll readily admit that people have created some clever jokes about the president and his policies. But it wasn't originality that made this one stand out. It was the punctuation.

Everybody makes mistakes in writing, and punctuation and grammar errors, in my opinion, are rarely a reflection of intelligence. But I've always thought that, if you're going to be bold and call someone a moron, an idiot or some other barb implying stupidity, you'd better be pretty certain you've consulted a good editor. Case in point: How many times have you seen the phrases "Your stupid!" and "Your a moron!" uttered in a chat room or on a message board?

· Picture perfect: A co-worker of mine who's a big Cincinnati fan shared these links to blog posts from Red Hot Mama and Reds (and Blues) featuring Major League Baseball's take on those inspirational posters you can't get away from in mall frame shops. Good stuff.

· "But we're a national paper": Another sign the local paper doesn't understand its readership for its sports section: Today's edition features a huge, above-the-fold photo of USC to accompany a massive story about the Trojans not from a wire service but from a staffer.

Tech's 2-0, Georgia's 2-0, Florida-Tennessee is on the horizon, the Falcons are coming off a big win on Monday Night Football, the Braves are looking to wrap up another trip to the postseason and the Thrashers are gaining attention for assembling a roster that could not only put them in the playoffs for the first time but also put them in position to make some serious noise. So I can see why the editors assigned someone a story about a Pac-10 team and played it as the day's biggest feature. I'll await next week's article entitled "The case for Notre Dame at No. 1."

Three is a magic number

I'm not sure how much time I'll have this week for more original posts, with the new job and a trip to see the Astros in Busch Stadium this weekend, so I'm stealing this survey (meme, is it?) from Deliverance.

Three Names You Go By:  Steve, Stephen and (from an ex) Alabama

Three Screen Names You Have: I'd have to kill you if I told you

Three Things You Like About Yourself: I'm loyal, considerate and understanding (wow, I sound like a wuss)

Three Things You Dislike About Yourself:  I procrastinate, I'm easily distracted these days and I have a passive streak

Three Parts of Your Heritage:  Welsh, English and Scottish

Three Things That Scare You:  Islamist extremists, so-called "pro-family" nutjobs and Americans' obsession with celebrities' lives/opinions

Three Everyday Essentials:  My Palm, my ever-expanding list of things to remember and breakfast

Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now:  T-shirt, sweatpants and briefs

Three Favorite Bands/Artists:  Alison Krauss + Union Station, U2 and anything involving Neil Finn

Bidding farewell

Packrat? Your mental disorder is ready to pay off

If I told you the alarm on my 15-year-old, Wal-Mart-variety digital clock began bleating at 2:15 in the morning, you'd probably assume one of two things: (1) The electricity had flickered sometime during the night and reset the timepiece, throwing it off from the hour I had intended to arise, or (2) I was taking a disco nap, to rest up for a fashionably late arrival to a warehouse party.

But my neighborhood hadn't suffered a power outage, and anyone who knows me could attest that you'd probably spot me in a police line-up before you'd find me on a dance floor.

Nonetheless, there I was, stumbling out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and plodding back to my desk to sit in front of my computer — yes, at 2:15 a.m. I had only five or 10 minutes to spare.

I was awake because of a poster. More specifically, a gargantuan black-and-white Johnny Cash promotional poster.

The guy I was dating at the time had stumbled across this oversized portrait of the Man in Black almost by accident.

Though my ex was certainly no stranger to the Internet — he had a DSL Internet connection and maintained his own blog — he had yet to join the ranks on eBay. But one afternoon he had browsed the site on a whim and came across this representation of Cash, and he wanted it, bad.

The seller was restricting first-time eBayers from the auction, and my ex was slightly uncertain about the whole process anyway, so I offered to bid on his behalf.

At that time, I wasn't aware of the software that automates sniping (bidding at the last minute of an auction).

That's why I wound up waiting and watching, bleary-eyed, in the closing seconds of the auction shortly before 2:30 a.m.

I won Johnny for around $50.

Wardrobe malfunction

All I could think was, Get the hell away from me.

Already the room had begun spinning and my fists had clinched because I feared making a grave error in this oh-so-important decision in every man's life.

Now, right in the middle of my dilemma, someone also with XY chromosomes — someone who should know to give a guy his space in this touchstone moment — wanted to interfere. But I knew I had to choose.

V-necked, crew-necked, polo-styled or what the—? zip-necked? And what color?

My first cashmere sweater.

In Details, Men's Health and Esquire, I had read on more than one occasion that I should own at least one, and the last thing I needed was an already stressful predicament aggravated by some other male shopper who had hopes of wrangling me into the nearest fitting room.

What this Don Juan-wannabe couldn't know is, when it comes to buying clothes, I'm as uncomfortable and out of my element as a husband in the feminine hygiene aisle of a pharmacy.

In this environment, only my anger could be aroused.

To give you some idea of not only my antipathy toward the ins and outs of fashion but also the wardrobe that offers supporting evidence, for six years I'd been trying to pass off some type of "barn jacket" as a winter coat suitable for the office. Nothing tells a man he's failed in this effort like the moment he reaches for something in a pocket and realizes he's un-sticking Velcro to do so.

So there I was, forcing myself to find attire for work that would be considered more appropriate — more specifically, clothes that would match the ol' "dress for the job you want" adage.

I'd been putting it off for about six weeks, in favor of more pleasant activities, like an annual physical and a regular teeth-cleaning at my dentist's. I'd even promised (to no avail) $100 to two different female friends if they would lead me by the hand in the direction of the proper shoes, proper pants and proper navy blazer.

Now, not more than 15 minutes into my second evening of trying to figure it out on my own, as any grown man should, someone was in no-so-subtle romantic pursuit of me.   

"Can I help the two of you with anything in particular?"

For crying out loud, I thought. I wasn't paranoid. The cruiser was following me so closely that the Bloomingdale's sales associate thought we were together.

"I'm just looking, thanks," I answered, with an I-can't-speak-for-the-stalker tone in my voice.

Orange? No. Black? No. Yellow? No. I had a tough time picturing myself wearing anything in front of me on the table. I was lost.

Finally, frustrated that nothing jumped out at me enough to fork over for woven goat hairs at 50-percent off the $130 the store was asking, I fled from Perimeter Mall. And from the man who wanted my, uh, phone number.

The great Walls

My friend Steve began to wonder whether I thought I was the primary beneficiary of his life insurance policy. He was convinced I was trying to kill him.

Though the hike took a lot longer and was much more strenuous than either of us had expected, in the end, Steve agreed with me that our trip to the Walls of Jericho on Saturday was worth it. The 3.5-mile trail down Cumberland Mountain and along Turkey Creek into Tennessee led us to a natural wonder hidden for so many years to most people because it was, until late last year, on private property.

We started atop Cumberland Mountain around 1 p.m. CDT and encountered probably about 40 other people on the entire trip, among them a Cub Scouts troop and their leaders, five or six couples, a family of five, a young couple with their infant child, a father and son, two guys hiking separately by themselves and a grandfather, father and son.

The trail was mostly leaf-covered as it meandered down the side of the mountain but switched to muddy and slick once it crossed Hurricane Creek and began following Turkey Creek. When we encountered the Cub Scouts just before the trail's end, their leaders recommended that we make use of a rope they had, to ease our way down to the edge of the creek rather than finish the final 30 yards. They knew first hand: They had all fallen or slid through the mud in trying to reach the end earlier.

Once we were in the amphitheatre, we had to be even more careful with our footing, as the limestone rocks were unbelievably slippery from moss and water. I almost fell three or four times but, luckily, never ended up in the water. We stayed probably 20-30 minutes, soaking in the surroundings, and then Steve reminded me that we needed to get out as soon as we could to avoid wandering back in total darkness.

More than four hours after we started, at about 5:15 p.m., we finally returned to the parking lot, tired and thirsty. When we arrived at my parents' house in another 45 minutes or so, I think I ate three barbecue sandwiches, drank three glasses of tea and had three helpings of baked beans and potato chips. I never even broke pace enough to notice how much Steve had shoveled in, too.

My photos hardly do it justice, but, wow, the striking images these guys captured show Turkey Creek when the water's at a good level. Their full report of kayaking is here.

Now that I know what to expect, I fully intend to go back again. Next time, however, I plan to be more prepared and hope to go when the water is higher.

  · Photo album from Saturday
  · Topographic map of Walls of Jericho protected area

Misc.

Man of courage? Revolutionary artist? Try marketing genius. Eminem certainly knows his target market, exploiting anti-Bush sentiment to further boost his popularity and sales. P. Diddy must be ticked that he's been one-upped in self-promotion by means of the 2004 presidential race.

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I’ve been listening to U2 for more than 20 years, and Bono is one of the only celebrities for whom I hold any admiration. But after my 218th viewing of the Vertigo iPod commercial, I can’t help but wince as I get flashbacks of the Rolling Stones when they began myriad product endorsements.

I don’t know any 15-year-olds, but I suspect they’re today viewing the Irish band as my generation once viewed the Beach Boys — as a band that desperately needed to let it go. (Seriously, how sad was “Kokomo”?) And why does the actual video for “Vertigo,” which I saw today on AOL (exclusive! world! premiere!), make me think of not only “Beautiful Day” but also Donnie Osmond’s “Soldier of Love”?

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It never ceases to make me feel uncomfortable, no matter the context, when a man age 25 or older replies to me via instant message or e-mail with “kewl.” He might as well have mentioned his panties or told me he had to go tinkle.

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Like a Red Sox fan with only one World Series victory to go, I’m not sure I’ll even believe it until it officially happens on Friday: I’m leaving the land of cubicles for an office. And not just any abode — I’ll actually have a window that faces west-northwest toward my house.

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Speaking of the BoSox, if you’re not aware of it (which would mean you’re also unaware that, I dunno, a presidential election will soon take place or that scientists have disproved the flat-Earth theory), they’re one win away from their first championship since 1918.

Thank God. That means we’re one win closer to media outlets no longer having license to obsess over “the curse.” Now they, along with all casual sports fans, will be free to focus their anger solely on the mean ol’ Cardinals and mean ol’ Astros for preventing the lovable, snuggable Cubs from doing the same.

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My friend Kevin and I kept the roads hot this weekend, but we didn’t have enough time to visit the now-state-maintained Walls of Jericho. I hope to make that journey this Saturday. The leaves will probably be more colorful this weekend, anyway, as many of the trees were still green when we traveled through the area last Sunday to visit the U.S. Space and Rocket Center.

Wait a minute, that's ...

As if I really needed more evidence that I'm middle-aged, the Jello Snack Pack commercial's use of "It Must Be Love" by Madness confirmed it for me.

Kids across the country will hear that song one of these days on some retro show to which their mom or dad is listening and announce, "I didn't realize that's an actual song. Wow."

Philosophies on chrome

These explanations of bumper stickers made me chuckle. Thanks to The Conjecturer for providing the link.

More Bass questions

Continuing in the tradition of previous posts, I scribbled down the Bass questions on 790 one day this week (Wednesday’s, I think). These aren’t as exciting as some in the past, but please feel free to add your own contributions.

Make a prediction for the second half of the baseball season.
Some guy said the Astros not only will make the playoffs but also win the NL Central. I almost choked on my own saliva. I’m an Astros fan, and I’m barely able to keep hope for the wild-card race. Win the division? At more than 10 games out? It would have to be a collapse on the part of the Cards and the Cubs of monumental proportions. I predict the Cubs will win the wild card and defeat the Cards in the NLCS. (The Cubs down the Braves and the Cards down the Dodgers to make it happen.)

Who’s the best all-around football player right now?
I agree with one of the callers: Peyton Manning. It all depends on what your definition of “best all-around” is. I think of a guy who seems to totally understand every aspect of the game on top of his enormous talent. From what I’ve seen, Manning fits that description. I could see him easily making the transition into coaching once his playing days are done.

Is there a player (any sport) who’s untouchable — one who you just flat-out do not trade?
I can’t think of a player who I’d say, from start to finish of his career, he should never be even considered. But I do agree with what one caller pointed out: Teams go through eras, however small they may be, in which a trade of a particular guy should never be considered. I’d say his example, Mike Vick, is a perfect one. Will Vick continue to perform at an amazing level throughout his career? Who knows. But I do know that, right now, he defines the Falcons. He’s keeping the fragile fan base faithful, and he’s keeping national media attention on his team. Furthermore, he’s one of the few current players I can think of who could carry an entire team in a game.

Have you ever dated anyone who resembled someone famous? If so, who?
One caller said Drew Barrymore, which led one of the show hosts to say, “Uhh, Drew on a really good day?” The response: “Nah, on an average day.” The host cringed and said, “That, my friend, isn’t necessarily something to be proud of.” Friends of mine thought one of my former significant others looked like Jeff Bagwell, but I think it was just the goatee, build and hair color. Funnily enough, that same ex thought one of those friends resembled Tom Arnold (no, I never shared that information).

Who’s your dumbest friend? You love 'em, but they're still dumb.
The responses on this one were hilarious. One caller said a friend of his was living in Australia temporarily, and another friend of theirs had no idea they’re a day ahead Down Under. Upon learning this, he called their friend in Australia and asked if he’d call and let him know who won the Super Bowl. One of the hosts said he has a friend who, when they were watching an old World War II movie, said, “I had no idea the Germans could speak English so well.” The only guy I could think of was one of my old roomies from when I first moved to Atlanta. During the Clinton-Monica scandal, he, a George Wallace Democrat, said nothing would come of it because of the weather. “The weather?” I asked. Yeah, he said, since it’s so hot and humid during the summer, people are distracted by it and aren’t really going to make anything of what's going on with the president. He also said I was much more susceptible to illness than he was because I'm leaner than he is. The 24-hour virus I defeated in a day but later had him in the hospital proved otherwise.

Recommend a good independent film that didn’t make it onto most people’s radar.
I never heard a caller respond to this one, and I’ll admit I no longer know what defines an indie film. I was going to list my obvious choice of The Lawless Heart or Good Bye Lenin!, but aren’t those just limited-release and foreign films, respectively, and not really independents? I don’t know that I know of a truly independent film I could recommend.

Random thoughts, observations

This Sunday, back in my hometown in rural Alabama, the stillness of a summer evening, normally disturbed only by insects buzzing around porch lights, crickets’ soft creaking, the distant barks of a dog treeing a squirrel or chasing a rabbit or the engine noise of a passing car, will surrender to children celebrating with fireworks.

Stand outside my parents’ house on any July 4 and, every couple of minutes or so after dusk, you’ll hear the muffled thumps of Roman candles firing, the scattered cracks of a package of cherry bombs or red-and-blue Black Cats as well as the soaring whistles of bottle rockets ascending one by one.

Here in one of Atlanta’s sketchy neighborhoods, we have our own soundtrack — almost pastoral, really — associated with Independence Day: the click of red, spiked heels against crumbling sidewalks complementing the jangle of red, white and blue hoop earrings hanging from the lobes of prostitutes, of both the transvestite and crack-whore variety; the pounding bass and rhythmic chants about, coincidentally, said hoes and bitches, pulsing from a get-together of drunken revelers; and, my personal favorite, the staccato pops of ghetto fireworks (gunfire, from both automatic and semi-automatic weapons) repeatedly splitting the night sky.

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I don’t think it rained at my house yesterday until 10:30 p.m., but that would, of course, mean it still counts as precipitation. The reason that’s important? An old Southern wives’ tale contends that, if it rains the first day of a month, it will rain at least 15 days of that month.

If only it can hold true. I’m all for rainfall when it can keep our summer temperatures from soaring anywhere beyond 90F.

One other wives’ tale, just for fun: If it rains while the sun is shining, it means (1) it will rain the same time the next day and (2) the devil is beating his wife.

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The Fulton County District Attorney’s office intends to seek an indictment for Dany Heatley, according to reports. It will be interesting to see what a grand jury will find.

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Carlos Beltran appears to be trying to strap the Astros to his back. Yesterday, in Houston’s 5-4 loss to Chicago, Beltran hit a solo home run and, after a 4-1 deficit, hit a three-run homer to send the game into extra innings. On Wednesday, despite the bullpen coughing up the one-run lead that Clemens left after seven innings, the Astros defeated the Cubs when Beltran hit a solo home run in the top of the ninth inning.

Unfortunately, his efforts may not be enough. Houston is six games out of first place in the NL Central and three games out of the wild-card spot.