The Sporting Life

Bowl me over

It's the new year, but college football is rumblin', stumblin' on

Late-night sports are gonna be the death of me. Today I had to practically pull myself up a staircase at work as a result of yet another post-midnight finish to a ballgame. Early in the fall, it was the baseball playoffs. Now, college bowls are to blame. Whether a chemical imbalance or the efforts of some tiny outpost in my mind, something won't allow me to give up on a good game and simply go to bed.

As the Orange Bowl entered the fourth quarter last night, I knew I was most likely in it until Paterno and Bowden shook hands at midfield. I was right.

Not all the bowls have been nail-biters, however.

Sometime late in the first quarter of the Capital One Bowl on Monday, I text-messaged a cousin of mine to find out which station was carrying the game. I thought I'd been watching it, but I began to think I'd clicked over to a replay of Auburn-Georgia Tech from the first of the season.

It had to be, right? DBs occasionally nowhere near receivers, costly turnovers, dropped passes, overthrown balls — I know the Tech game when I see it. But, strangely, the opposing team wore red and white.

A top-five finish and another 10-win season would've been nice, but Auburn fans shouldn't let the dismal performance vs. the Badgers destroy their enthusiasm about the 2005 season or hopes for 2006. As for me, I can't wait. No matter how it pans out, it's a great schedule, including home games vs. Washington State, Arkansas, Florida, LSU and Georgia.

But as a friend of mine said, it's over, and there's no sense in analyzing and bemoaning it. Our season is done, and it's time to turn to basketball and baseball.

As for that game tonight, I'm at a point where I no longer care. Sportswriters and analysts have slobbered so much over these two teams and this Rose Bowl that it's robbed the event of something for me.

I'm going to bed at the half. I mean it. Really. Leave me alone!

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Fair and balanced: To Lynnette Ruby, the woman who spoke with CNN's Anderson Cooper about the awful revelation that the report of 12 survivors of the West Virginia mining disaster was false: Thanks.

Thanks for talking with a reporter. Thanks also to the three or four unnamed people I've seen who likewise gave good interviews. Rural folks with (as my mom would put it) walking-around sense usually steer clear of somebody with a microphone or a camera, which means the face of smalltown America — and particularly the smalltown South — is often left to the it-sounded-like-a-train, still-on-probation bystanders without whom Fox's Cops probably wouldn't exist. Your appearances on camera were the only positive moments in a story of absolute anguish.

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Your source for Auburn football? Hardly: This blog has to be a helluva big disappointment for the football-rabid visitors who arrive here from the list of blogs at CNNsi and at fanblogs.com. I'm not exactly sure how I made their lists since Auburn football is just one of many random things I ramble on about. My apologies.

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Countdown to first pitch now in days rather than months: No matter how it pans out, somebody please assure me the No. 4-ranked Cornhuskers won't return to Omaha. Their appearance last year was the only blemish on an other wise awesome trip to the College World Series, and I already have a hotel lined up for 2006. With Nebraska fans making it especially competitive to get seats, I think I used enough sunscreen for four people while standing in lines that turned back and forth outside the outfield like a queue at Six Flags.

Only one SEC team in the Top 10 and barely two in the Top 15? And why in the world is North Carolina overrated year after year after year? At least Georgia Tech has a more realistic ranking for a change. How many times have they started out Nos. 1, 2 or 3 and (as usual) not made it out of their own regional? Peruse all 40 of the teams in Collegiate Baseball's preseason poll and judge it for yourself.

On alert for Linus, Sally and Snoopy
The guy who's been renting the field behind my parents' house chose to grow pumpkins this year. Previously it's always been corn, soybeans, sorghum or potatoes. I took this photo early in the morning of Oct. 23, after the harvest. The pumpkins you see are some of the leftovers, and I brought 10 back to Atlanta.

On football, bathrooms and Doves

· Auburn graduates are everywhere, it seems. The latest example: a journalist at USA Today. How else do you explain this story mentioning LSU fans breaking windows on the UT team buses? After all, it has to be yet another example of one of those tall tales wussy Auburn fans tell about bad experiences in Baton Rouge.

9/28 UPDATE: My attempt at humor here was apparently unclear to fellow Auburn fans, judging by e-mails and visits I'm getting from Rivals. My sarcasm is weaker than I thought. Carry on.

· Like Courtney Love in the first five minutes after a 12-step program, Auburn and Alabama fans already are falling into familiar patterns only four games into the season.

After facing Middle Tennessee State, Southern Miss, South Carolina and Arkansas, the Tide finds itself undefeated and many of its faithful in a state of delusion. I kid you not: "Rose Bowl," "Heisman Trophy" and "back on top" are phrases that are being bandied about by some within the Cult of the Bear.

On the opposite end of the spectrum we find many in the sometimes dysfunctional Auburn family on suicide watch because of the Tigers' season-opening loss to Georgia Tech. You'd think 13-0 would mean something, but it didn't take long before it gave way to stereotypical woe-is-weism once the final second ticked off the clock vs. the ‘Jackets. Some who had been saying "9-2" are now moaning "maybe 6-5."

Something to watch for: The reactions on both sides of the rivalry to Auburn's performance vs. the Gamecocks on Saturday. If Auburn doesn't win as decisively as Alabama did or (God forbid) loses, untold numbers of fans from both camps will be convinced they know who will win the Iron Bowl at season's end.

Meanwhile, the rest of the country doesn't care. They consider it an argument between a has-been and a never-was in a state they know not by the Louvin Brothers, the RTJ Trail or Harper Lee but by Bull Connor, George Wallace and My Cousin Vinny.

· I turned the corner to the restrooms at work just as a member of the cleaning crew pushed her cart away from the door to the men's. That meant bleached tile, sanitized air and quiet awaited.

But seconds after I unzipped at a urinal, someone appeared at my side, separated only by a pressboard partition. And then he spoke.

"There's nothing like a freshly cleaned bathroom."

Huh. Really? Of all the things you could say to a co-worker you don't know while he's spraying urine into a porcelain bowl mounted to the wall, that's your choice?

But let's put that aside for a sec. Don't people usually mean "nothing quite as nice as" when they say "nothing like"? So I'm supposed to agree that there's nothing better than this moment the two of us are sharing? It's better than fried catfish? Ranks right up there with watching the sunset on the Gulf of St. Lawrence? As satisfying as the birth of your firstborn?

Don't get me wrong: A clean public bathroom is something to be thankful for. But if I ever give you a list of a few of my favorite things, a freshly cleaned bathroom won't be among them. Maybe I'd feel differently if I regularly attended games at Turner Field.

· If you were at the Doves' show in Atlanta last Tuesday night, then rest easy that the guy who spent the entire evening leaning against the back wall wasn't a narc. He was yours truly. Coldplay wannabes, my ass. Martin and crew, though I enjoy them, don't hold a candle.

 

Flushing queens

Finding myself in a New York state of mind

In 1989's "When Harry Met Sally," Sally's friend Marie quoted a magazine article, stating, "Restaurants are to people in the eighties what theater was to people in the sixties."  Little did she know it was written by Harry's friend Jess, who was sitting across the table from her. Jess was amazed and said it was the first time anyone had ever quoted his work back to him.

Today Paul Katcher should be similarly flattered. I think.

On Saturday, while in downtown Chattanooga with two friends of mine, nature called — urgently. I wasn't sure whether to blame Friday night's Six Feet Under, Saturday morning's Chick-fil-A or Saturday afternoon's Sticky Fingers. But in that moment, it was far from my greatest concern.

As I picked up the pace to almost a sprint, trying desperately to weave through the throngs of tourists to reach the men's restroom at the visitor center next door to the aquarium, words of the (semi) renowned blogger flashed across my mind: "Every time I see people in line for stalls at Yankee Stadium I think, 'This has to be the worst day of your life.'"

So congratulations, Paul. We've shared a moment. Considering the circumstances, I'm not any happier about it than you'll be.

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In Katcher fashion, here's a list of links I found interesting and you may, too:

• If I had a million dollars, I'd wager it all that you the artists chosen to set Shakespeare to music for "As You Like It" wouldn't have been your first guess. Or second. Or third. And I'd be rich.
• Maybe I'm stating the obvious, but travel writing is at its finest when it entertains you and makes you interested in a place you previously hadn't given much thought. Cynthia Barnes has done so for me with Timbuktu. "The patio at the Amanar is clean and attractive, but what the rest of the town needs is my mother. I imagine her standing in the sand-swept streets, broom in hand. 'You, put on some pants and pick up that garbage. You, bring me some bleach. And for God's sake, someone bury that cat.'"
• Speaking of travel, if you're ready for a road trip to Labrador, I'm your man.
• Am I the only one who, on seeing John Bolton, recalls that sketch of Teddy Roosevelt releasing a captured black bear back into the wild?

Shorts

When I was 17, listening to my cassette of Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me in my bedroom or in my silver '79 Cutlass Supreme, I never imagined I'd one day stand at the deli counter in an Atlanta-area Publix and hear the track "The Perfect Girl" piped throughout the store. It reminded me of when I heard "Anarchy in the UK" on a retro show three or four years ago and, at the song's conclusion, the DJ said, "I can remember that song sounding so violent and offensive when it first came out, and now it sounds like just another rock song. Things have certainly changed."

During that same visit last night, I was startled to see twin packs of Trojan condoms hanging next to the Trident gum and the Weekly World News in the checkout line. I'm thinking, "Am I in a grocery store or a dimly lit Chevron off Bankhead Highway?" Good luck in explaining those to the kids, mom. Yes, things have indeed changed.

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Before I talk about Omaha, Rosenblatt Stadium, Lincoln and the College World Series, I owe it to a couple of people to admit to arguably the most boneheaded thing I've ever done.

The night before we depart, I'm digging around for information on our hotel. And digging. And digging. And then I finally have to admit it to myself: I have absolutely no idea what the name of the hotel is.

I'm pretty sure it's one of those chains that sounds new and small, like Jameson Inns. I thought I had a printout of the details. I thought I had a receipt. But then I remember I'd written the details down on a sheet of paper. The reservation was made over the phone.

I finally find the confirmation number, but I've entered it on a to-do list with only the words "Omaha hotel."

It's now 1 a.m. I have to call and wake my friend Steve.

"You're going to kill me, but I can't find the name of our hotel," I said. "Any chance you could look in your e-mail for anything I maybe sent you about it?"

He does.

Nothing. It appears we only surfed sites while talking on the phone when trying to locate a cheap, clean place to stay. So I make a few phone calls to hotels, since we know we found it on a travel site and know it's not far from the airport.

And I still come up empty. It's 2 a.m. I have to be up in three hours, to shower, shave and swing by Steve's house en route to Hartsfield. So I do what any 35-year-old man would do: I e-mail my mom.

"I might need to beg you and Dad to let me use some of his reward points for a hotel in Omaha, if there's even a room to be found," I wrote.

She calls before we even depart from Atlanta and asks for details on what exactly I've done. So she starts calling around to hotels as I did earlier, trying to find where we're staying.

While waiting for a connecting flight in Minneapolis, we get the news: She's found our hotel. It turns out they underwent a change in ownership (and name) since I made the reservation, so I would've probably had a slight problem even if I had located the original hotel name.

It was a humbling experience, to say the least. I appreciate my friend Steve's patience and my mom's willingness to sacrifice her time to help us out.

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I'll admit that Over the Rhine's latest album, Drunkard's Prayer, had struck me as somewhat of a letdown. Considering how highly I regard the previous release, Ohio, it shouldn't have surprised me.

But seeing the band last month at Smith's Olde Bar here in Atlanta made me reconsider the new material. Recorded, the songs had sounded too subdued, too stylistically similar, to me. But live? Much, much better. I almost didn't attend because I was going stag, and playing the role of confirmed bachelor sometimes gets old. I'm glad I didn't let it deter me, as it was at least as memorable and enjoyable as the better shows I've seen in the last couple of years.

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I can't say with absolute certainty, but I'm pretty sure that none of the following athletes are gay:

Brandon Backe
Dany Heatley
Jeff Bagwell
Craig Biggio
Roger Clemens
Laird Hamilton

I thought I'd go ahead and address the subject for the many visitors who continue to arrive here via a Google search pairing each of those names with the word "gay."

I realize that deer sightings near people's homes are no longer unusual, with news stories frequently telling of the trouble these animals are causing in suburban neighborhoods as a result of stricter no-hunting laws in certain areas.

But I took this photo at my parents' house yesterday because it was the first time I'd ever seen deer there, including all my growing-up years. In rural Alabama, we don't have many anti-hunting ordinances, so I doubted I'd ever see deer bold enough or comfortable enough to wander into someone's yard.

Wait 'til he discovers shaved ice ...

"I take it all back. The Nationals-Phillies game was great fun at RFK last night. Vile but irresistible hot dogs; a new foodstuff known as dippin' dots; occasional flashes of excitement interrupted by really hot guys with guts spitting into the grass; and, the piece de resistance, Karl Rove down front, chatting on his cell-phone. We had a blast." (Andrew Sullivan, italics added)

Sully, you need to get out more.

St. Louis blues

Cards sweep Astros, work week awaits

It's always tough for me on the first few days back from a vacation, no matter how short or the miles traveled. This week will be no different.

I told my brother I didn't think we should travel to another city together to see Houston play, since we're now 0-4 in three different stadiums. But as I told someone last night, it's not like we were playing the dregs of MLB on those trips. Those games were against the Yankees, Red Sox and Cardinals.

I didn't take a lot of photos, but the few I did are in a photo album at the right.

Shorts

Random thoughts from the week

I'm pretty certain, before today, I'd never purchased hot chocolate during the spring. Fortunately, the feeling is finally returning to my toes, fingers and ears after watching the Astros' extra-inning loss to St. Louis today without proper attire.

I had on jeans, a fleece pullover and a long-sleeve henley, but it wasn't enough for sitting in Busch Stadium when the wind was blowing hard enough to send almost every hot dog wrapper and napkin in the stadium swirling over the players and occasionally onto the field.  More importantly, the temperature never rose above 51. It probably didn't help that we spent part of the morning standing in line for the Arch when the temperature was closer to 37.

Despite the disappointing loss — when will our offense reward Clemens for his work? — my brother, my nephew and I are having a good time. At the moment, the two of them are outside tossing the ball around (my nephew has begun pitching occasionally for his team), so I figured I'd kill a few minutes by wrapping up some random thoughts I threw together and saved in draft at the end of the week.

We're hoping Houston will win tomorrow. Otherwise, I'll start to suspect my brother and I should never attend a road game together again. Two years ago, when we traveled to Yankee Stadium and Fenway, the Astros lost both games, one day after putting together a no-hitter against New York.

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It had been ages since an album juiced my body’s adrenaline production and led me to crank the stereo in my truck like a 16-year-old with ground effects and fluorescent wiper blades. But then along came Some Cities by Doves. I’m having fun with it and will likely drive the CD into the ground, abusing it like some sort of aural cocaine.

Have you seen the computer commercial featuring a husband who’s wielding a pair of drumsticks and thrashing around to grinding guitars while paying bills online? That’s all I’m sayin’.

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"We used to flush and pray. Now we use Rid-X."

That's a direct quote from a commercial I saw on CNN for a chemical that keeps septic tanks operating smoothly. It's about time advertisers began to notice the buying power of the Focus on the Family crowd.

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Supercuts had an ad in today's USA Today (Why do I feel as if I just owned up to watching goat porn?) showcasing a sweepstakes in which the winner will meet Terry Bradshaw and the Supercuts NASCAR racing team. I realize Bradshaw owns or runs the car, but am I the only one who finds it odd that Bradshaw is part of the prize for a contest run by a place that cuts hair?

If I won, the first order of business would be to get the racing crew to hold down Louisiana Tech's most famous athlete while I fired up the clippers, set at No. 1 or No. 2, to trim that stole he keeps wrapped around his ears and the back of his head.

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Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

Please, God, let it snow.

That's because, if I'm going to be trapped in my house all weekend, I'd prefer that my electricity remain on. Ice anywhere above a quarter-inch on trees, according to Georgia Power, means the branches have a good chance at coming down. And that sometimes means they crash onto power lines.