Olympicoma

I have spent the past fifty-plus hours in an Olympicoma, defined by Bone-a-pedia as "an extended state of lethargy induced by four channels of nearly non-stop Olympic programming."

But it's a good lethargy.

Whilst watching Todd Rogers and Phil Dalhausser, my hair idol, dispose of another opponent this afternoon in men's beach volleyball, I began to ponder my own Olympic dreams.  Sure, my greatest athletic accomplishments have been documented.  (Note: That becomes a better read the more bored you are.)  But much like most areas of my life, I've always felt there was something missing.

And while I think we all agreed a couple years ago that my best shot was in curling, I've yet to actually throw a stone.  Or even attend a curling game.  So at this point we have to realistically ask: What if curling doesn't work out?

Therefore, I've been scouting these 2012 games for a sport in which I could excel.  At first I thought maybe archery.  After all, I really like the hats.  Then they said it takes fifty pounds of pressure to pull back the bow.  On every shot!?  Good heavens, I can barely do fifty push ups.  Wait, is it barely, or hardly?

So I've decided it would be better to suggest some new events that might be added to the games, any one of which would in all likelihood allow me to realize my Olympic dream.

Co-Ed Water Polo (In Shallow Water) ~ I specify co-ed because I would feel more than a little uncomfortable in a pool having physical contact with fourteen guys all wearing our Speedos.  But throw a few girls in there and I might be OK.  And shallow water because, look, we all know how to swim, no one needs to prove anything.  Plus, it would be much less tiring.  So, either shallow water or we all wear arm floaties.  I'm fine with either.

Words With Friends ~ Since purchasing an iPhone a few weeks ago, I'm like 40-2 in Words With Friends!  Plus, this would make for great TV.  Imagine the drama, as players sat across the table from one another and played on their phones: "Oh no, Jim.  It looks like the Montenegro contestant has lost service!"  "I think you're right, Rowdy.  My Montenegrin is a little spotty, but I believe he just cursed his cell provider.  And quite colorfully, I might add."

NFL Two-Minute Drill ~ This is a football toss game they have at our Chuck E. Cheese.  I can always achieve the Hall Of Fame bonus, which is like fifty tokens.  It also makes an alarm go off, which was a little embarrassing the first few times, what with a couple of kids standing around and their parents already giving me the stink-eye because I'm hogging the game.  But I got over it.

Nerf Free Throw Shooting ~ I once made 42 free throws in a row on my Nerf goal.  And that's without even practicing very much.  I have no idea how that stacks up with the world's greatest Nerf free throw shooters.  And therein lies the tragedy.

Competitive Napping ~ Granted, this wouldn't make for great television.  But are you gonna tell me the steeplechase is winning its time slot every night?  (FYI steeplechasers, the water is in the same place every lap . Go around it to save time.)  I see competitive napping as a program of four or five events, similar to gymnastics.  You would have couch napping, desk napping, the power nap, napping with noise.  Competitors would be judged on length and soundness of nap, speed in getting to sleep, ability to sleep through an alarm, volume of drool, etc.

Wiffle Ball Field Hockey ~ As I assume none of you know what this is, let me explain.  My sister and I would play this using Wiffle ball bats and a tennis ball.  You just hit the ball with your bat and try to get it past your opponent's goal line (which for me was an invisible line running in both directions from the basketball goal in our backyard), all the while trying to keep your opponent from getting the ball past your goal.  I dominated!  Of course, I was like fourteen and my sister was seven.  (What?  I let her win, occasionally.  Had to, or she wouldn't play anymore.)

Paper Football ~ I once scored 128 points in a paper football game against my friend, Archie, during 10th grade biology class.  I might've scored even more, but Mister Whitmore caught us playing and threw our football in the trash.

Scene-It Seinfeld ~ Since getting this for Christmas a few years ago, I'm undefeated.  I'm sure you're surprised.  No one will play me anymore.  I'm not even kidding.  Actually, I'm not entirely undefeated.  That's because sometimes -- and I've never revealed this to anyone before now -- I play against myself.  It's pretty intense.  A lot like that scene in War Games when Matthew Broderick makes the computer play tic-tac-toe against itself.  Except the DEFCON level remains unaffected.

Are you listening IOC?  And if none of those work, I have others:  Putt-putt.  Air hockey.  Boggle, obviously.  Rock-Paper-Scissors.

Just imagine, sitting in your living room, watching a still-good-looking-as-ever Bob Costas covering the 2016 Games in Rio.  And you hear him refer to Bone as the "Michael Phelps of Co-Ed Water Polo - Shallow Water Division."

I think that's a dream we all have.

"There's nothing I know of in Rio / But it's something to do with the night / It's only a whimsical notion / To fly down to Rio tonight / And I probably won't fly down to Rio / But then again, I just might..."

Christmas comes anew

There are several "Christmases" throughout the year enjoyed by the avid college football fan.  Dates, games, and events we all look forward to with near-deranged anticipation.

There's National Signing Day.  There's New Year's Day -- though it has lost a bit of its sacredness in the past several years with the proliferation of the number of bowl games.  And there's the national championship game, if your team is fortunate enough to be in it.  

Then there's the day when the preseason college football magazines hit newsstands.  *rubbing hands together*  (Do they even still have newsstands?  It just flowed so much better than "the day they hit the Kroger shelves," which is where I bought my two.) 

That day was Friday.  The first of June.  At once, I had weekend plans. 

As I hurried out of my friendly hometown grocery store, it was all I could do to keep from giggling.  (There's no way to make that sentence sound manly, is there?)  Anxious to get home and unwrap my new treasures -- the shiny, glossy covers; that "new magazine" smell; and of course, the information!

Four hundred forty-eight pages in all.  Schedules, rosters, rankings, statistics, analysis, predictions.  Because how would I survive without knowing how many returning starters Boise State has (it's nine, if you're curious) or who was rated the 8th best offensive guard in the nation?  You're right, I wouldn't.

I'm giddy as a schoolgirl backstage at a Justin Bieber concert.  And just as vulnerable, by the way.

Hopefully, this will be enough to get me through until the next "Christmas" -- the first Saturday of the college football season, which is exactly 90 days away.

It has been said that football is religion in the South.  I suppose that could be debated.  However, I can testify that our lower-case messiah was once greeted with a not-so-holy kiss.

Mainly, I just try and enjoy each of these special days as they happen.  Because as we all know, Christmas only comes a few times a year.

"So I'm moving to New York / 'Cause I've got issues with my sleep / Looks like Christmas came early / Christmas came early for me..."

All I am saying is, give curling a chance

I was all ready to share at considerable length the story of one man's struggle to survive sports purgatory for yet another year. You may recall sports purgatory is the barren wasteland of the sports year, lasting from the end of college football until the beginning of fantasy baseball, with a couple of oases included in the form of National Signing Day and March Madness.

Highlights were to include, and pretty much be limited to, iTunes adding Eddie Murphy's Party All The Time at long last! Though I know by mentioning that, I risk you rushing to the iTunes store immediately and never coming back.

But something happened on the way to that blog post. A new oasis emerged from the British Columbian countryside. And that something was the Olympics. Perhaps you've heard of them.

Oh, twas a shrewd move by Bob Costas to schedule the Winter Olympics right in the midst of this yearly sports abyss. It's like a get-out-of-purgatory-free card. And more thankful I could not be, as I've been able to add three hours of curling viewing and google-imaging Julia Mancuso to my daily routine of Wii and... breathing.

What? Let he who has never clicked to enlarge an image of Lindsey Vonn throw the first stone.

Speaking of throwing stones, is it just me or does curling seem to be on like five times as much as any other sport? I've watched so much curling that now when I close my eyes, all I can see are those curling rings -- green outer circle, white middle circle, and blue inner circle. They're etched in my brain.

I'm learning curling terms -- the button, the hack, in-turn, out-turn, guard, draw, freeze, peel, biter, in the house, and my favorite: shot-rock. One thing I really like about curling is that it's one of the few Olympic sports I could still possibly medal in at my age. Think about it, if I devoted my entire life to curling for the next four years... who knows? Although I tried playing a curling game I found online last week to help me learn the rules. Didn't help.

I actually had a 45-minute conversation about curling with Axl last night. I'm not sure I've ever had a 45-minute conversation about a single topic other than Alabama football in my entire life. Actually, scratch that. I just remembered my sometimes rather intense discussions about General Hospital with the Darryls.

Something I'm always curious about during the Olympics is where they find some of these announcers. They're experts on all these rather obscure sports, and fairly competent broadcasters as well. My question is, what do they do the other three years and fifty weeks between Olympics? I mean, is curling televised somewhere in the world year-round? And if so, how do I get that channel?

I prefer the sports where there is a tangible way of keeping score or time rather than the sports based on judging. I especially enjoy watching the splits as a skier or luger makes their way down the course, just a few hundredths of a second ahead or behind the leader. But while I enjoy watching the luge, I have no idea what makes one luger better than another. The luge announcer the other night was like, "Oh, he lifted his arm slightly in that turn. That's gonna cost him." What?

Another of the more interesting comments I've heard this Olympics was, "He started luging when he was ten." How does that even happen? Do they luge in gym class? Was the kid outside sledding with his friends one day when the Bela Karolyi of luge was driving by, saw the kid and spotted something special? Or is it like piano lessons, where the parents push the kid to luge even though he doesn't want to? "No, Ma. I don't wanna go down the icy track at eighty miles an hour." (For some reason, I just said that in an Eric Cartman voice.) "You'll luge and you'll like it! Now get in there!" Actually, that might make a good Lifetime movie, or ABC Afterschool Special. That is, if they had made ABC Afterschool Specials after 1996.

Finally, there is ice hockey. For reasons I'm not entirely sure of, ice hockey in the Olympics is the sport that makes me feel the most proud and patriotic. Maybe it's because we're never one of the favorites. And I'm sure it has something to do with the Miracle On Ice. Whatever it is, I was cheering and chanting as the United States skated to a 5-3 upset of Canada last night. "U-S-A! U-S-A!"

But the most inspirational story of these games had to be Wednesday night when Carrot Top -- who after a failed career as an aging comedian decided to take up snowboarding -- brought home gold in the half pipe.

Anyway, just a few more days until the games come to an end. At that point, it'll only be a month or so until baseball, which doesn't do a lot for me except that it also means fantasy baseball. Then at least I'll have my spreadsheets to keep me busy.

"My girl wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time..."

Don't be happy, just worry

Do you know what it's like to have no control over a relationship? You're anxious and sick to your stomach all the time. And even when you have a good day, you worry about what might go wrong the next time. Do you know what that's like?

Well, I sure do. I saw this quote online last week and found it really appropriate for my situation:

"What happens to you when you're like that is that you don't enjoy what you accomplish because you live in a constant state of anxiety with small moments of relief. And that's something that just doesn't change."

The quote is from one, Nicholas Lou Saban, relatively unknown in relationship guru circles but somewhat of an expert on the 3-4 defense and pattern-matching pass defense. Upon reading it, I immediately copied and pasted it in an email to Axl with the subject line "THIS is exactly how I feel...EVERY GAME!" I'm referring, of course, to my relationship with Alabama football.

"A constant state of anxiety with small moments of relief." Nothing could sum up my experience of watching a Bama game better than those ten words. I basically said as much last year, when I wrote that watching a game was "95% anxiety, 5% elation and relief." In hindsight, I may have overestimated the elation and relief percentage.

Saturday's game was an exercise in frustration. We couldn't score a touchdown. By the 4th quarter, I had pretty much stopped cheering. Everyone around me was cheering, but there I stood with arms folded, completely sick about how we had played on offense. I even asked my sister at one point in the 4th quarter if she was ready to leave because, quote, "I'm tired of watching this. This is pitiful." And this was when we were WINNING 12 to 3!

I also invoked a new rule mid-game Saturday, telling my sister I was no longer cheering for field goals. I want touchdowns! Then I forgot and cheered when we hit a 50-yarder in the 4th quarter.

"I thought you weren't gonna cheer for field goals," she asked, ever the observant one. And that is when I, ever the master of making up the rules as I go, wrote and passed the first amendment to the Field Goal Act of 2009.
"Oh... alright, I'm only cheering if they're fifty-plus yards or game-winners."

Why does it always have to be like this for me? Can't I just be happy that we scored at all, that we're ahead in the game? Apparently not. If we're not looking particularly good doing it, then I'm griping about the problems we're having and "well we might beat Tennessee, but if we play like this we'll never beat LSU."

But it's the coach's job to worry, not mine. I'm a fan. I should be enjoying this. So why do I continue to go through the same thing, every game, every season, every year of my life?

Things had been on the verge of turning disastrous Saturday night. Leading 12-10 with seconds to play, our opponents lined up to attempt what would have been the game-winning field goal. Then, as my mother would say (and probably was saying) the Bear looked down on us. Our defense blocked the field goal as time expired and sent everyone in crimson home happy.

Well, maybe not everyone.

All I want is complete and total domination for four quarters and for the other team not to score. Is that too much to ask?

I suppose maybe there's a 12-step program for people like me. The problem is I really have no desire to get better. I wouldn't know how to act without this thing to care about and pour every ounce of my emotion into. Sure it might be unhealthy, but I need this! And let's face it, with my deep-seated mommy issues this is more than likely the only kind of relationship I will ever know.

"And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me. Out of all the hours, thinking somehow I've lost my mind. I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell..."

Let the screaming commence

It has been eight months since I stumbled out of the Superdome and onto those enticing streets of New Orleans in my Julio Jones jersey--naive, distraught, and in search of guidance.

Eight months of work, sleep, golf, sleep, fantasy baseball, sleep.

Eight months. Almost as long as the human gestation period and twice as painful.

But at last, it is here: the start of the college football season.

College football to me is the creme inside a Double Stuff basketball and baseball Oreo. It's like the part of Oprah where she tells you to look under your chair and find out what she's giving you for free. (I don't know what the rest of the show is for anyway.) It's the time in a Dexy's Midnight Runners concert when they sing "Come On Eileen." It's like fast money on Family Feud.

When I was little, I would sit through twenty minutes of face-off questions, bad guesses and Richard Dawson kissing people just for five minutes of pure unadulterated exhilaration. I used to wonder why there wasn't a show that was all fast money. They could call it Just Fast Money. Where have you gone, Mark Goodson?

Let me see if I can explain a bit better.

For eight months out of the year, I am mostly just coasting. Just kind of existing. Some days it's hard to tell if I'm even alive. Sure, I may take a couple of trips to the beach, play countless rounds of golf, and feign interest in socializing with others, but these are really just ways of passing the time until football season.

But for these next four months? I'm happy. I have a life. I'll hear from friends I rarely if ever hear from the other eight months of the year. Because that's what football does. It brings people together. And it gives me something to talk about with people with whom I evidently have nothing else in common.

Allow me to close with one last anecdote.

For me, college football is the roller coaster of the sports amusement park. Sure the ferris wheel, swings, and water rides are nice. But people don't drive a thousand miles to ride the swings. They drive a thousand miles to hop on Kingda Ka.

You scream, you cry, you try not to pee yourself.

That's college football in a nutshell.

"These people 'round here, with beaten down eyes sunken smoke dried faces so resigned to what their fate is. But not us, no never. No, not us, no never. We are far too young and clever..."

The time I boycotted ESPN (for one day)

You know that girl you keep breaking up with? At first, you start to miss her and do anything to get her back. So she takes you back, once maybe twice, but it's never quite the same. Then after a couple of times, you just don't care anymore. The very sight of her makes you nauseous. Her voice makes you want to jab a toothpick into your pupil and see what oozes out. You start to avoid her calls hoping she'll eventually fade out of your life completely. You can't believe you ever thought you loved her in the first place.

Brett Favre is that girl.

Let me tell you a little story. Every day of my life since we first got ESPN on our cable, circa 1981, I have done three things: breathe, sleep, and watch ESPN. (Shower? No, I've skipped a lazy Saturday here and there. Sorry, but it's true. Eat? Nope. See "stomach virus of 2007.")

Today, I can no longer say that. Because yesterday, I boycotted ESPN.

Why? Because I'm sick of hearing about Brett Favre. And I knew that was all they would be talking about. Oh yes, if Favre stubs his toe, ESPN has a reporter at the scene. Brett got a bad peach today at Joe's fruit stand? They're on it. Brett woke up feeling all emotional this morning? It's their top story.

You know what I wish? You know how when you're watching a game and some spirited (and possibly nude) fan runs onto the field, they never show the fan on camera so as not to give them the attention they so crave? I wish they would do that to Favre. Oh, you're coming back? You're not coming back? You're working out shirtless at some high school in Mississippi? We. Don't. Care.

Of course, that'll never happen. Which is why I was reduced last night to watching Nutella commercials, reruns of Married...With Children, and the episode of South Park where Cartman starts a christian rock band. ("It worked for Creed.") Thank goodness I had the forethought to only impose a one-day boycott.

Maybe if my afternoons didn't revolve around ESPN, this wouldn't even be an issue. Oh great, now I'm over-analyzing my own empty life. All because Mister Center-Of-The-Universe can't make up his ever-lovin' mind.

And it's not like I'm not sympathetic to indecisiveness. Au contraire. Heck, this morning I spent five minutes trying to decide whether I should wear this shirt or my other clean shirt. But this has gotten ridiculous. I don't need a play-by-play of every single thought and inclination Brett Favre has and every little thing he does.

That's why there's Twitter.

"Set me free, why don't you, babe? Get out my life, why don't you, babe? Cause you don't really love me. You just keep me hangin' on..."

Great moments in Bone sports history

I believe it was William Shakespeare who wrote: "Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." (Actually, I thought it was Kennedy. But evidently not, according to Google.) But I am here to tell you that deep down, most men measure their own greatness by athletic achievement.

Why else would aging athletes keep hanging on or coming out of retirement for one more year? What else could drive men to bowl in a league every Wednesday morning until they're 80? And why else would Huey Lewis & The News have released an album entitled Sports, when none of the songs on the album have anything to do with sports? (Seriously, I really would like to know this. Wikipedia doesn't say.)

With all that in mind, today I will attempt to countdown the top four moments of Bone's athletic career. I was gonna do a top five or ten, but I didn't want the post to be too long. Plus, I could only really think of four. So come along on a magical journey through some of the greatest sports moments you've never heard of. I have a feeling this post will help explain so much.

4. Scoring 26 points in a basketball game - It was my senior year of high school. And what a way to go out. A career-high 26 points. I was en fuego! OK, so it was a church league basketball game. Actually, a preseason church league game. But still, everyone was trying their best! Also I should get bonus points since I did it in those frighteningly short Larry Bird shorts, which were still somewhat prominent in 1991.

3. The race - As some of you know, I am a bit of a runner. How one determines what classifies "a bit" of a runner, I do not know. But nevertheless. How successful has my running career been? Suffice it to say that I've gotten my name in the paper a few times.... along with everybody else who finished the race.

But it all started in middle school. It was the Presidential Fitness Run. The distance was one mile, which was four laps around the orange cones that Mister Stanley, the PE teacher, had set up on the playground. I was running a solid third the entire race--not showing off, not lagging behind--and was pretty much resigned to finishing there. But as I approached the start/finish line to complete my third lap, I saw the two guys ahead of me inexplicably slow to a walk and then a complete stop.

As I zoomed by, I glanced back at them, wondering if they were tired or if maybe I had miscounted the laps. I could see Mister Stanley say something to them, then they started to run after me. I hadn't miscounted, they had! Buoyed by my unbelievable luck, I could not be caught. I won! And from that day on, a myth began to grow about my speed. OK, not really, but it's a great line.

2. The big mud volleyball tournament - In olden times, my friend Ben would attend church from roughly March through July so that he would be eligible to play on the church softball team. Well, one of those months in one of those years, some people from his church decided to get up a team and enter a local mud volleyball tournament. Needing one more player, he gave me a call and as fate would have it, not only was I home, but I didn't have any plans.

The other teams were about equally made up of guys and girls. But our team was composed of five guys--none of whom had ever played organized volleyball--and one girl, who happened to be the volleyball coach at the local high school. It was kinda like a bad volleyball reality show, but with the attractive scantily clad female aspect of Dog Eat Dog.

We came. We played. We got mud on our face and on our clothes. In our hair and in between our toes. And our team finished second. That was out of four. But finishing second alone would not have made this one of the four greatest moments in Bone sports history. Oh who am I kidding, sure it would have. But what elevates it all the way to number two status is what happened next.

A girl on the team we lost to in the finals was standing there talking smack about their victory. So I crossed under the net and proceeded to tackle her gently in the mud. Then some of the girls led us into the woods to a creek where we all hopped in. I had never played mud volleyball before, and never did again, but to this day that still might be the most fun I have ever had.

1. Bone on ice It was my very first time ice skating. I was in high school. What, I was a late bloomer, OK? Anyway, I wasn't doing so well. The first trip around the rink, I must have fallen at least twenty times. Every time I'd let go of the rail, down I went. About a quarter of the way through my second lap, I had just fallen again. Before I could get up, I heard this angelic voice ask, "Need some help?"

I looked up and saw two girls standing there smiling at me. Or giggling at me, whichever. They helped me up and with one girl taking each arm, proceeded to skate me around for the rest of the night.

Can there be any doubt that was the greatest moment of my athletic career?

I would like to be able to tell you that I got their numbers. But it was not to be, for I did not ask. (This was pre-What Would Brian Boitano Do, so I was lost.) That's what makes this such an inspirational, yet tragic tale. It's kinda like in The Natural when Robert Redford hits the homerun, then dies at home plate. Or am I remembering that wrong?

This concludes our countdown of the greatest moments in Bone sports history. I hope these memories have helped to entertain and inspire each of you. Until next time, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.

Unless you're like in a planetarium. That would just look stupid.

"Glory days, well they'll pass you by. Glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye..."

Now entering sports purgatory

The Super Bowl is over. (How's that for a snazzy opening line to catch your attention, pique your interest, and leave you salivating for more?)

I just couldn't get excited about the game this year. No Brady. No Mannings--even though I root against them. No America's team. No perfect season on the line. No gratuitous luxury box shots of Kim Kardashian. (Even though I prefer Kourtney but she's not currently dating any NFL players that I know of.)

Don't get me wrong, it turned out to be a nice little game. But still, the Cardinals versus the Steelers? Maybe in years like this they should change the name from Super Bowl to the Best We Have To Offer Bowl. Or the As Good As It Gets Bowl. Jack Nicholson could have been a guest commentator. You can't handle the truth, Al Michaels!!

Anyway, returning to the line that titillated your senses to begin this post, the Super Bowl is over. We now enter February, or as I like to call it, sports purgatory. Football is over. Fantasy baseball doesn't start until April. Basketball isn't relevant until March Madness. And... did I mention football is over?

It has been said that in the South there are but two seasons: football and spring football. I understand and appreciate the sentiment. But calling spring football a season is kinda like calling the cute girl who smiled at me at a red light yesterday my girlfriend. It's wishful thinking and in the end leaves you with a hollow feeling. Not to mention some girls get all hostile about it.

I've been trying to fill the empty spaces. Last week, I watched some tennis--the Australian Open. I like tennis. It's probably among my top thirty sports to watch. But there's only so many times I can watch Serena Williams pound another hapless opponent into submission, or Andy Roddick fall short yet again. Plus, apparently Sharapova is injured. Would it kill them to scroll that across the screen continuously instead of letting me watch three hours of Macros Bagdhatis versus Novak Djokovic before mentioning it?

One thing that always amuses me about tennis is the little "sorry about that" gesture that every player gives anytime a ball clips the net cord. The entire match, they're rocketing 120 mph serves at each other, grunting, yelling, occasionally cursing the chair umpire. But let a ball clip the net cord, and suddenly they turn into gentle lambs with that little apologetic wave. Sorry about that. I didn't mean for the ball to trickle over the net. Actually, my original intention was to permanently embed the ball in your eye socket with my ferocious forehand.

Another undertaking that I have... undertaken to fill the current sports abyss is to try and lead the Chicago Bulls to the NBA Championship on Tecmo NBA Basketball. That's right, the ol' Nintendo. That seemed like a perfectly normal way for a 35-year-old male to kill some time.

The season got off to a rocky start with a loss as I had to refamiliarize myself with which button was jump/shoot and which button was pass/change defenders. Since then, I am on a 30-game winning streak, as evidenced in fig. 1.1 below.


(fig. 1.1: Bone rulz)

Our next game is against the Miami Heat. And I think we all know what that means. That's right. The Heat feature the formidable inside/outside combination of Glen Rice and Rony Seikaly. Oh, did I mention it's the 1991-92 NBA season?

I'm helping the Chicago Bulls relive their glory days! Craig Hodges has been raining three's like it's 1991. Oh, right, that's because it is. Just fifty-one games to go in the regular season. I figure I should be able to knock that out by Valentine's Day.

Two days into sports purgatory, and this is what I have been reduced to.

"Time slips away and leaves you with nothing, mister, but boring stories of glory days. Hey, they'll pass you by. Glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye..."

Obligatory Olympics entry

I've never had much of a problem going along with the crowd. When I was four and some neighborhood kids were taking turns throwing bricks at a wall while one person stood against the wall and tried to dodge the bricks, with mortar stained hands I willingly participated. In 1987, I was rolling my jeans so tight and so often I'm surprised I don't have long term chronic circulation problems in my feet.

Tie dye, slap bracelets, talk to the hand, 90210 sideburns, the Rachel haircut, you name it. Whatever the crowd was doing, there I would be, following along and trying not to stand out. Just put a numeric neon green pager in my hand and prepare to be amazed by my upside down spelling abilities. So in the spirit of fitting in and going along with the blogging crowd, I now present my obligatory Olympics post.

I wasn't all that excited about the Olympics before they started. I figured I would watch Misty May and Kerri Walsh, maybe some of the basketball, and not a whole lot else. Then Jason Lezak happened. By the time he had smashed the French and I found myself standing up yelling "(non child friendly word) France" all alone in my bedroom, I was hooked.

The past ten days, my TV has been on something other than the Olympics and General Hospital for maybe two hours. I'm watching NBC, CNBC, MSNBC, and USA. Men's water polo, team handball, women's double skulls, you name it. Morning, afternoon, evening, and late night. I get very sad when I can't find Olympics on any channel.

A few other thoughts...

Why are they taking softball out of the Olympics? How is BMX a more popular sport than Jennie Finch, I mean, softball? A bunch of twenty-something-year-old guys riding around on dirt bikes? Please.

One sport I truly don't understand is the 3000 meter steeplechase. They run around, there's a hurdle every once in awhile, then once a lap they go completely off the track to jump a wall and land in one or two feet of water. It just seems all really bizarre, and I'm not sure what it determines. Maybe if there was a small flood or water heater disaster and you needed to jump out a window and run thru standing water--but not a lot of standing water, just a couple of steps--to safety, these would be the best people for the task?

Anytime I get a little fed up with Bob Costas, Jim Lampley, or Mary Carillo, I just remind myself, "Hey, at least it's not Joe Buck or Chris Berman."

Why is there no 100 meter doggie paddle?

Here's maybe the oddest fact I've learned during the Olympics: Georgia's men's volleyball team is made up of two Brazilians named Geor and Gia. Seriously? That's an onomatological phenomenon! That'd be like if the US team was made up of two Serbs named Bratislav United and Nikolai States.

But of course, our men's beach volleyball team are the dynamic duo of Todd Rogers and Phil Dalhausser, the latter of which George Bush affectionately nicknamed Big Fella. I can only imagine how that came about. I'm guessing it was after several failed attempts to pronounce Dalhausser.

I think if I were a diver, and I was way behind going into my last dive with no hope to medal, I'd have to try a cannonball. Oh come on, like you hadn't thought the same thing.

I love Dara Torres. And here's why. When I watch these teenagers and twentysomethings winning medals and representing their country, inevitably I begin to examine my life and how very little I've done with it. Of course, it doesn't help that as I'm watching, I'm lying on the couch trying to lick the last bit of icing out of a cupcake wrapper. But then I watch Dara Torres and I think, "Eh, I've still got time." She's like the Kenny Rogers of the Olympics.

I love Natalie Coughlin, too, but for entirely different reasons.

"When Brian Boitano was in the Olympics skating for the gold, he did two Salchows and a triple Lutz while wearing a blind fold..."

Go Go Gadget Charger?

It's time for another installment of Sunday Show & Tell. OK, there's not really a Sunday Show & Tell as far as I know, but there could be. For your enjoyment today, I present my car charger:


(Please note that I'm not a professional photographer. I consider myself more of a scene capturer.)

Car charger is a bit of a misnomer. It doesn't actually charge your car. Though it would be really cool if it did. It would also be kinda cool if it played mp3's, or if it at least had a laser pointer on it. But that's neither here nor there.

What I would like to point out today is the relative shortness of my car charger. (Photo is approximately 1/2 actual size.) This has proved quite impractical as far as talking on the phone while it is charging. I either have to end a call to charge my phone for awhile, or I have to put my ear really close to the cigarette lighter, which is located somewhere between the radio and my knee.

Last night, I went to a minor league baseball game with Kywana and some children. (What? I can't be flipping jet skis every single weekend.) We did the usual ballgame stuff. The kids got a hug from some guy dressed in a polecat outfit (who I hope was the mascot). We sang "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" during the seventh inning stretch. And we discussed the correct lyrics to a Britney Spears song. (Which I thought said, "Oops, I did it again. I played with my heart." It really takes on a much deeper meaning that way if you think about it.)

When we got in the car after the game, I asked the female portion of Kywana to plug my phone in to charge. Upon arriving back at Kywana's house, I retrieved my car charger, and it looked like this:



It appeared that the wire had been violently ripped out of the unit! (Notice the flagellum-like extension protruding from the right side. And also the two golf tees near the top of the photo. They're all over the place around here.) What had happened? I wondered if my car charger would ever work again.

Then a few seconds later... Oh! It's like a tape measure or something. The cord is retractable. Oh! I see now. I've only had this phone for nine months. I would have figured that out eventually.

Hey, cut me some slack. I was in a horrific, low speed jet ski accident last weekend.

"I feel stupid, but I know it won't last for long. I've been guessin', and I could've been guessin' wrong..."

Buy me some spreadsheets and Cracker Jack

Nothing signals the impending summertime quite like the beginning of baseball season. Shh, listen... Can you hear the crack of the bat? Of course you can't. That's because I'm talking about fantasy baseball.

For those who may be unfamiliar with it, fantasy baseball combines two of America's greatest pasttimes: baseball and sitting online in your underwear for hours.

Leagues are formed and an online draft is held, in which you pick real major league players to be on your team. (See, when I type things like that, it just doesn't feel like I should be thirty-five years old.) Then your team is ranked against other teams in your league, based on the statistics your players accumulate.

Fantasy baseball gives you--and by you, I mean, me--a reason to follow players you would otherwise care nothing about. Players like Yadier Molina, Angel Pagan, and Tadahito Iguchi. Many nights, I find myself sitting at my computer "watching" the Rockies game online, rooting for Troy Tulowitzki to get a clutch RBI single in the late innings.

Of course trouble can arise. For example, when a player on my fantasy team is playing against my favorite real-life baseball team, it creates a direct conflict of interest. I need my fantasy player to get a hit, yet I want my beloved Reds to win the game. Worlds are colliding. Bone is gettin' frustrated!

Fantasy baseball can be as intensive or as casual as one desires. Some of the more hardcore fantasy baseballers will cut and trade players frequently thoughout the season, and adjust their lineups almost daily. Now, we won't go into how much time I do or don't spend following my fantasy team, because really, what would be the point of that? But I did manage to create a spreadsheet Thursday night which calculates all my players' daily stats.

I worked on it for about two hours. It's probably the best spreadsheet I've ever done:



Basically, I live each day of my life just looking for a reason to create a spreadsheet. I'm fascinated by them. Columns, rows, numbers, what's not to like? And nested IF functions? Are you frickin' kidding me! Is there anything better in life not involving eighteen holes and/or girls in mud? I think not.

Currently, my team is sixth out of ten in my league. Not great, but it's a long season. The league name is "This Is A League With Teams." Guess who came up with that one.

For now, I invite you to grab some fake peanuts or maybe a couple of feigned hot dogs. Breathe in the imaginary scent of dirt and freshly cut grass. Listen to the pretend roar of the crowd. And enjoy the cute virtual bat girls. Fantasy baseball season is here. And there's nothing quite like a simulated day at the ole chimerical ballgame.

What? I ran out of synonyms.

"Summertime is finally here. That old ballpark, man, is back in gear out on forty-nine. Man, I can see the lights..."

Nothing but chicks and basketball

I hope you all had a good Easter. Apparently, the word is out that I like Peeps, as I received no fewer than four packs of marshmallow chicks and bunnies this weekend. That's in addition to the one pack I bought myself before Easter, just in case everyone else forgot. I couldn't risk it.

In other weekend happenings, Jamie and I played golf Saturday, my first time on the links in 2008. I'm proud to say I only lost two balls, which as you may know is how I truly keep score. It's kinda like that peg game at Cracker Barrel. If you leave only one peg, "yore a genius." Well, if I lose only one ball, I'm... whatever the golf equivalent of a genius is, in my mind anyway. I'm not sure what losing zero balls would equal. But as that's pretty much like the three minute mile to me, I probably shouldn't waste a lot of time pondering it.

The highlight of my day, yea, my weekend, was holing a 25-foot par putt from the fringe on the 13th hole. It was a big breaker to the right. And probably the single greatest moment in my life since I hit a homerun in a softball game a few years ago, which didn't end up counting anyway because we'd already reached our alloted home run limit of one for that game.

Should it disturb me that I consider athletic acheivement among the greatest moments in my life, when I've not played any organized sports--other than the occasional softball league--since high school? Tell you what, let's not even analyze it. If we dig too deep, it could just become sad. And who would want that.

After golf, I headed over to Axl's to watch basketball. Ah yes, March Madness. When seeds and brackets aren't just gardening and hardware terms. When Bryant becomes the "other Gumbel brother" for two and a half weeks. And when your wife or girlfriend is babbling on about being upset, and your response to her involves the phrase "five-twelve."

I have Kansas, UCLA, North Carolina, and Texas in my Final Four. Out of curiosity, I was looking back at my March Madness post from a year ago. Oddly enough, two statements I made then are applicable again this year. And I quote: "The good news is, my Final Four all made it thru to the Sweet 16... The bad news is, my Cinderella team, Winthrop, lost in the second round."

The only difference is that Winthrop lost in the first round this year. Note to my 2009 self: Do not pick Winthrop.

I had three different stops to make yesterday for Easter. At Mom's, she of course still boils eggs. And dyes them. And makes us hide them and hunt them. In her living room.

I should probably mention here that there was no one under the age of twenty-seven among those gathered at Mom's. Anyway, you really have to get creative with hiding places, especially by the fourth or fifth go round. I think my best was when I unscrewed the light bulb from the lamp and replaced it with an egg.

Meanwhile at my Aunt's, I got into an existential discussion about the Easter Bunny with my nine-year-old cousin. I asked what seemed like a harmless enough question, "Did the Easter Bunny come to see you?" She replied with, "The Easter Bunny is fake. But my momma came to see me." She's nine! I was driving before I figured out the Easter Bunny.

I decided not to even bring up the Velveteen Rabbit. I know he's real.

"Closer than my peeps you are to me, baby. Shawty, you're my angel, you're my darlin' angel..."

Mulligans for everyone!

This makes me very happy. October 2nd!!!

Well, I finally did it. After a seven year hiatus, I have resumed my golfing career. Sunday afternoon, Little Joe and I "hit the links." That's slang for played golf... on a course, like with sand traps, trees, pitching wedges, golf carts, and stuff. Oh and mulligans. Lots of mulligans.

We "rode nine." That's slang for played nine holes with a golf cart. I don't think it truly hit me that I was back on the golf course until around the third hole. That's when I sailed consecutive tee shots into the same tree.

We're not talking up in the branches, either. We're talking into the trunk, maybe 18 inches across. And I hit it from fifty yards away. Twice. It's good to know all that time and money spent at the driving range was finally paying off.

Little Joe was a blast, as well. It was his first time to ever be on a golf course. Well, legally anyway.

I would stop the cart near his ball then walk to mine, expecting that by the time I got ready to hit, he would've already taken his shot. Yet everytime I got to my ball and turned around, he was either still taking one of his umpteen practice swings, or looking at me like he was waiting for the go ahead or something. I felt like a flagman on a carrier ship trying to give him the signal to "Hit your shot."

Not counting the four mulligans I took off the tee--because by definition, mulligans do not count--I shot a 51. Par was 36. Most importantly, I only lost three balls, which was really only two, because I could see one, I just didn't feel like getting my shoes all muddy to retrieve it.

One question did arise Sunday. I guess it would be a question of golf course etiquette. My cell phone rang three times and I received two text messages during my nine holes. I don't think I had a cell phone the last time I played. So what is proper golf etiquette? Are cell phones allowed on the course?

I kinda hope they are, because I found out yet another thing I like about golf Sunday. When someone calls and asks what I'm doing, I like the coolness factor of being able to say, "I'm on the golf course."

"I think it turned ten o'clock but I don't really know. Then I can't remember caring for an hour or so..."

Joe Namath, Mom, & Existential Questions

28 days until the first Alabama football game!

I suppose I have reached the point in my life where I have begun to ask myself certain questions. What is life? What is real? Who am I? How in the world is Jimmy Kimmel's talk show still on the air?

While we may never know the answer to that last one, today I want to focus on the Who Am I question. Or more precisely, why am I the way I am?

I have written before about my love for Crimson Tide football. And while I know this trait largely comes directly from my mother, I've never known where she got it. So this week I decided to ask her. Why does she love Alabama football, and who did she get it from?

Here, to the best of my recollection, is her answer in her words:

"I don't know. The earliest memory I have is watching them when Joe Namath was quarterback. I remember one year we lost to Tennessee and it tore me up. I was down in the floor crying and I remember Momma saying, 'Child, you don't need to let a football game affect you like that. Win or lose, the sun's gonna come up tomorrow.'

Sunday morning when I woke up, it was pouring down rain. And I knew then the sun doesn't come up when Alabama loses."

Indeed.

Oh, I would have asked her the Jimmy Kimmel question as well, but I'm pretty sure her answer would have been, "Jimmy who?" Mom flips back and forth between Letterman and Leno, and only knows Craig Ferguson as that "crazy man who looks like a gorilla."

Don't ask me. I don't analyze it, I just report it.

"From Carolina down to Georgia, smell the jasmine and magnolia. Sleepy, sweet home Alabama, Roll, Tide, Roll..."

Nine iron over the starboard side

I consider myself to be somewhat athletic. I try and go running at least two or three times a week, I've played on several slow-pitch softball teams over the years, I've bowled my share of 200+ games, etc. I enjoy sports, whether watching or participating. And I feel that with time and practice I've been able to become at least decent at every sport I've tried.

Every sport that is, except one.

An old joke says, "Golf is a four-letter word." Another says, "Golf can best be described as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle."

Truer words have never been spoken. I took up golf several years ago and found it to be by far the most difficult sport I've ever tried to learn. It has, in a sense, become my white whale.

When I was golfing, I measured my progress less by scorecard and more by the number of balls I lost per round. When I began, losing six balls a round in the water, woods, or across the street in someone's front yard was commonplace. By the time I stopped playing, I was finishing most rounds with all my balls present and accounted for.

I haven't been golfing in six or seven years. My clubs, of which I never broke a single one, sit in one corner of my office. Some days they seem to taunt me, reminding me that I never conquered this game.

Also, for some odd reason, I've had an abnormal number of dreams about golf over the years. Even though I was never very good, and never even played that much, I would dream about it. And I would wake up wanting to go golfing. Why? I suck at it. So why do I enjoy it so much? What is the allure of golf?

I may not be able to answer that question, but the simple fact is that for whatever reason, men love golf. Golf and cars. Think about when man walked on the moon. What are two of the things you remember most about that? They hit a golf ball and they drove around in that little car.

I have a feeling the golf thing wasn't even approved by NASA. It probably went something like this:

Buzz: "Dude, you're bringing golf clubs on the space capsule?"
Neil: "Yeah, you know, in case we get bored. Have you seen those moon pictures? It's so barren and gray. Don't mention this to anyone, but honestly, it looks kinda lame."

And that US flag they brought? That wasn't some stake of claim. That was a flagstick so Neil would know where the hole was.

(Yes, I'm aware Alan Shepard is the astronaut who golfed on the moon, but I workshopped this using Alan. Not as funny as Buzz and Neil.)

So this past weekend, I loaded my harpoons in the back of the Pequod and went to the driving range in pursuit yet again of my white whale. After spending roughly an hour spraying a bucketful of dimpled projectiles in a variety of directions and distances, one thing became crystal clear. I suck.

But also, I've got the fever again. I'm back on the wagon, or golf cart, as the case may be. And no water hazard is safe.

Standing there after I shanked my first shot off the tee Sunday, those immortal words from 38 years ago wafted through my mind. Slightly altered, of course.

One small swing for man, one giant slice for Bone.

"Swing, swing, swing, from the tangles of, my heart is crushed by a former love. Can you help me find a way to carry on again?"

Play ball!

Sniff Sniff

Can you smell it? Freshly cut grass, dirt, resin, hot dogs, peanuts... That's the smell of summer, my friends.

Although honestly the only thing I can smell right now is the poison stench of smoke. They've hired this little guy to come in and do some work part-time. He looks to be about 40 and lives with his mama. And when he comes into the room, the stench of smoke off his clothes is stronger than any I've ever tried not to smell. I've affectionately nicknamed him Smokestack. We basically have someone on Lysol duty to just follow him around with a can all day. And by someone, I mean me. He doesn't seem to mind.

But I digress (and hold my breath). Summer is here. Oh sure, maybe not solstice-wise. But now that Pluto is no longer a planet, I figure we can pretty much throw anything we've learned about astronomy over the past thousand years out the window anyway.

Today is Opening Day for major league baseball. Opening Day means a fresh start. Everybody is tied for first. It means my beloved Reds will be on ESPN, for one of the few times all season. It means a brand new season full of possibilities and optimism. Except of course for the Royals. But at least they have a stadium with pretty waterfalls or fountains or something.

Opening Day is about hope. And in that way, isn't it a little metaphor for life. Because really, without hope, what do we have?

You'll notice I've changed my sidebar scoreboard from basketball to el beisbol. That's just Bone's little tribute to the increasing number of Spanish-speaking baseball players.

Welcome, amigos. Vamos Cincinnati!

"Baby, if you've ever wondered, wondered whatever became of me, I'm living on the air in Cincinnati..."

March Madness

*yawn* I feel like I've spent the past four days in an NCAA Tournament-induced state of semi-consciousness. Oh, right, that's because I have! In my opinion, this has become the best weekend of the year in sports. Throw in CSpan constantly showing Valerie Plame reruns, and I saw little reason to leave the house the past four days.

The good news is, my Final Four all made it thru to the Sweet 16: Kansas, Georgetown, Florida, and Ohio State.

The bad news is, my Cinderella team, Winthrop, lost in the second round. I had them making it to the Elite Eight.

How is your bracket looking?

Signs you may be suffering from March Madness:

10. You have at least three brackets on your person right now.

9. You find yourself cheering for Oral Roberts, and you don't even really like televangelists.

8. Greg Gumbel begins appearing in your dreams, or nightmares, as the case may be. (OK, seriously, is he sitting in a booster seat in the studio or what?)

7. You drink yourself into a stupor after Creighton loses, effectively ending any chance you might have had of winning the office pool.

6. You TiVo MTV's My Super Sweet Sixteen, thinking it might include tournament highlights and in-depth analysis.

5. At different times this weekend, you've found yourself rooting for Central Connecticut State, Belmont, and Texas A&M-Corpus Christi.

4. By late Sunday evening, you begin to wonder if you really can get a Hummer with tires that transform into propellers.

3. You've googled "saluki."

2. You're now planning to name your next child Fazekas.

1. You're sleeping on the couch after telling your wife you always kinda considered her your "little 12 seed."

"I feel stupid, but I know it won't last for long. I've been guessing, and I coulda been guessing wrong..."