Yo, Adrian!

Indentured servant?

Adrian Peterson is one of the shiniest pennies to plop into the Minnesota Vikings' lap in a long time.  He seemed immaculately untarnished.  He had never been pulled from circulation, reinstalled, pulled, reinstalled--you get the idea.

When his legs pound and he clings to the ball, he makes defenses look silly.  Not Barry Sanders, but one of the finest to ever wear purple.

Then he opened his mouth.

As if the NFL strike wasn't already the hands down winner for the Worst-Timed Power Play in the last three hundred years, AP compares working for NFL honors to slavery and thereby wins Most Over-the-Top Hyperbole of All Time.

'Squeeze me?  Does that young man not have a processor or some filter to strain what proceeds from his brain to his mouth?  Slavery?!

Let's try a little NFL vs. SLAVERY one-on-one:

• Salary:  Gajillion dollars above the national average vs. zero (just enough food to get you out of bed the next day.
• Work hours:  Two-a-days during the pre-season (maybe even three-a-days), a couple hours in the weightroom, and the grueling film review and playbook study vs. backbreaking pre-dawn to post-dusk field work so that someone else will be blessed by the fruit of your labor.
• Punishments:  During practice there might be sprints and for really nasty, mid-season infractions there's a tiny fine fileted off their gajillion dollar salary vs. whippings, rapings, and lynchings.
• Dangers inherent in the workplace:  Concussions, broken bones, destroyed knees vs. concussions, broken bones, destroyed knees, severed limbs, flayed backs, burned skin, gouged eyes, lost teeth, emasculation, rape.
• OVERALL:  Playing a child's game for a gajillion dollars because you chose to vs. toiling from the time you could walk until they laid you in the grave for just enough food to subsist upon because other human beings considered you their property.

Perhaps we should set aside the chaos in the Middle East, the fact that our state governments can't pay their debts (much less the country), the inflated gas prices, and that tiny crisis in East Asia and focus our attention on those poor, maligned NFL players and owners.  If this keeps up, I will be disappointed if the two sides ever come to terms.

No, he's not

Ladies, you just might want to skip this post.  I know that merely saying that will pique your curiosity.  Trust me.  This ones for guys who've played football or hockey or baseball.

If you've worn a cup, this one's for you.

When my family and I traveled to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving, my brother and I commiserated over the darkness of the Minnesota Vikings' season.  Brad Childress had yet to be canned.  We got to talking about when we played football as kids when I mentioned to him that I was amazed that so many of the pros no longer wore knee pads or thigh pads.


"No way!" he countered.

"Oh, yes," I maintained.  "And it gets worse.  A lot of them have stopped wearing cups."

He looked at me like I had just declared the earth to be flat, like I'd just revealed that I'd lived an alternate life in an alternate universe with Rosie O'Donnell, or like I believed Bud Grant to be a closet Packer fan.


Oomph....ommm...breath...

A brief trip to the internet and a peek at the pics from the previous weeks' games, and my brother shook his head in utter dismay.

Do knee pads and thigh pads restrict speed and agility so much as to aschew them altogether?  We could see cornerbacks getting away without them.  Maybe the safeties.  But most linemen and running backs still wear them. 

But--take a deep breath and think on this--most do not protect their ability to procreate. 

I remember hitting an opposing player during a hockey game, and as he flew off his feet, his knee came straight north into Mason and Dixon.  I dropped like a sack of potatoes and that while wearing a cup!  I horror to think on what might have been.

In trying to prove my story to my brother, I came across this gem on ESPN (btw, the ESPN blog is titled "Page 2."  The article starts right there).  David Fleming tries to come to terms with the collective insanity that has overcome NFL players.  He summed it up nicely.  "If you ask me, they're all nuts."

Purple agony

On this, the threshold of another gloomy Sunday, I can't help but share these Q&A's I got from my brother, another long let down Viking fan...

Brett and the grass:  Old friends



Q. What do you call 47 millionaires around a TV watching the Super Bowl?

A. The Minnesota Vikings

Q. What do the Vikings and Billy Graham have in common?
A. They both can make 70,000 people stand up and yell "Jesus Christ".


Q. How do you keep a Minnesota Viking out of your yard?
A. Put up a goal post.

Q. What do you call a Minnesota Viking with a Super Bowl ring?
A. An Imposter.


Q. What's the difference between the Minnesota Viking and a dollar bill?
A. You can still get four quarters out of a dollar bill.


Q. How many Minnesota Vikings does it take to win a Super Bowl?
A. Nobody Knows

Q. What do the Vikings and possums have in common?
A. Both play dead at home and get killed on the road!

And in case you're thinking of heading to Minneapolis to attend a game, The Minnesota Highway Patrol is cracking down on speeders heading into the downtown area.  For the first offense, they give you 2 Vikings tickets. If you get stopped a second time, they make you use them.

Matt Treanor

I've mentioned before, much to the consternation of my brethren (and sisteren) from Minnesota, that I have adopted the Texas Rangers as a fill-in for my beloved Twins.  Why?  One, in north Texas, Minnesota games are hard to come by.  When the Rangers play the Twins, I'm guaranteed to finally catch a couple of Twins games and then you'll find me on the couch in my knickers singing, "We're gonna win Twins, we're gonna score!"  I might hope that the Twins don't decimate Rangers ace CJ Wilson as badly as they would CC Sabathia, but win they must!  Number two, Drew Pearson never played for the Rangers.  From stem to stern, the Texas Rangers are a hard team not to like.

Last night I tuned into the Rangers/Marlins game (in Miami) which I think three or four dozen Floridans saw live.  After eking a run out of Florida in the first, all remained quiet for a while.  Come the sixth, Ranger starter CJ Wilson started getting a bit errant to the tune of two runs and was yanked.  It remained 2-1 Marlins until the top of the 9th.

With two out and Josh Hamilton on third and speedy Julio Borbon on first, Ranger Manager Ron Washington (ex-Twin, btw) decides to pinch hit for the pitcher (good call) with Matt Treanor. 

Hmm...Matt Treanor.  Not as bad as Charlie Brown, mind you, but Joe Mauer he's not.  The catchers that started the year for the Rangers got sent down to triple-A for some, shall we say, honing, so to fill out the battery, Texas acquired Max Ramirez (batting a Mendoza-esque .218) and Matt Treanor. 

You've not heard of Treanor (pronounced "trainer")?  He's married to Misty May Treanor, one half of the beach volleyball duo of Treanor and Walsh that has dominated that sport at the last two Olympics.  Gold twice.  Here we have a professional baseball player who is known as "the husband of Misty May Treanor."  Ah.

Let's round out the picture.  He's batting .224, a vanilla wafer higher than Ramirez.  He's having a career season in that he's hit five (5) homeruns, more homers than he'd hit in any other season.  Okay, but the guy on third, Josh Hamilton, he has 15.  Behind the plate, he's fundamentally sound, but he'll not likely see a Gold Glove upon his mantle.

Shall we scatter a bit of lemon juice on this papercut?  He'd broken into the Big League with Florida.  Whenever you play against your old friends, you want to show them that they never should have gotten rid of you.  Ron Washington started Ramirez.

Oh, yeah, Misty May was in the stadium to watch yesterday's game, too.  So were other family and friends.  They all got to watch Ramirez play eight adequate innings behind the plate and whiff three-of-three times to the plate.  Ol' Matty warmed the pine.

So with the Marlins closer on the mound and the game all but in the bag for the Fish, out walks an ice-cold Matt Treanor to the batter's box.  It was almost like the end of "Rudy," but at the end of the movie, Rudy didn't decide the game.  Quiet, shy Matt Treanor did.

I wish I could figure out how to upload the video.  Please take a moment and go to the following link and listen to Texas Rangers announcers, Josh Lewin and Tom Grieve, celebrate an amazing first-pitch hit by Mr. Treanor.  (Once there, you'll have to click on the video to get it to play.)  Turn up the volume.  They were as stunned (as you'll hear) by the hit as I was.

No, it wasn't the World Series.  And he'll get no trophy or extra money for what he did.  But it's the stuff that little kids' dreams are made of...even when they're full grown.

The link:  Are you kidding?!  Go to the site and click the video.  It's a minute and a half of delicious play-by-play.

By the way, the Rangers held on in the ninth to win 3-2.  Well done, Mr. Treanor!

(the pic is of a pleased as punch, Ron Washington, high-fiving the jubilant Treanor who caught the ninth)

Historic character, II: A motor city miracle

Imagine being Jim Joyce. 

In case you missed it, he's the ump that cost Detroit Tiger Armando Galarraga a perfect game with a blown call on the very last out.  And it wasn't a close call.  But he's also the ump that upon seeing the replay recognized the gravity of what he had done and apologized to Galarraga and his manager for something that could not be undone (my thoughts here).

Imagine being that guy, but it gets worse.  A team of umpires stays with two baseball teams for as many games as they play.  The umpires rotate positions from game to game.  Jim Joyce had first base, the location of the blown call, on Wednesday night.  Thursday he had homeplate.  What must it have been like for him to stand in the tunnel and steel himself for what he would received from the Detroit fans when he took the field.  Only the little old lady from Kalamazoo who would be attending her first baseball game ever would have no clue.  Surely, the bitterness in the bellies of the tens of thousands would have soured to a boil.

Au contraire!  When Joyce took the field, the Detroit faithful stood and applauded him.  Yes, you read that right, they clapped for the man.  No, they weren't tickled over the missed call.  They stood to honor the man for his humility in admitting a horrifying call AND for apologizing to those he'd wronged.

Can you imagine such a thing in Boston?  Howzabout the Bronx?  Not me.  Frankly, I would not have imagined it in Detroit. 

The fairy tale continued.  Tiger manager Jim Leyland would typically deliver his team's lineup to the homeplate umpire at homeplate before the start of the game along with the opposing team's manager.  Rather than go himself, Leyland sent the lineup in the hand of Galarraga.  Joyce wept at the dignity shown him by so many.  Who wouldn't?

Who'd-a-thunk that from the worst call in major league baseball history would come three of the most striking examples of character in sport.  The grace and forgiveness of Armando Galarraga.  The contrition and humility of Jim Joyce.  And the grace and mercy of the Detroit Tigers, fans in attendance last night, team, and manager.

Makes you want to head out to the ball park.

Historic game. Historic character

If you're not a baseball fan, would you hang with me for a couple of paragraphs?  Something--somethings--incredible happened yesterday and you should hear about them.

A perfect game in baseball.  Do you know what it is?  No, it's not the same as a no-hitter.  As phenomenal an accomplishment as a no-hitter is, a batter for the opposing team might get on base through a walk or by getting hit by an errant pitch.  You'll see pitchers toss no-hitters every year.  Not so much the perfect game.

In a perfect game, twenty-seven batters (three per inning) come to the plate and twenty-seven batters return to the dugout after striking out, grounding out, or flying out. 

Still don't get it?  Prior to the kickoff of the 2010 season, only eighteen pitchers have pitched a perfect game at the major league level.  Ever!  In fact, between 1968 and 1981, no MLB pitcher recorded a perfect game.  This year, heads swam because in the short span of three weeks, Major League Baseball saw two more perfect games thrown, one by Oakland A, Dallas Braden and one by Philadelphia Phillie phenom, Roy Halladay.  Two in one year?!  Wow.  What a season and we're just a third into it.

Then came last night.

Detroit Tiger, Armando Galarraga, tried to make it a trifecta.  Through eight innings, he sat down the twenty-four Indians that faced him (not a racist comment, by the way.  We do still have some sane organizations that understand Native American references are honoring and not insulting (i.e. the NHL and the Chicago Blackhawks.  The NCAA, on the other hand...). 

Then came the ninth inning. 

Indian veteran Mark Grudzielanek crushed Galarraga's first pitch into the gap in deep left center.  As baseball officianados say, you can't have a perfect game without a key defensive play.  The defender that came through for Galarraga was centerfielder Austin Jackson.  Mr. Jackson covered an uncoverable distance and made an uncatchable catch to salvage the perfect game through 25 of 27 outs.  Galarraga said afterward that seeing a teammate pour it all out to make such a play steeled him toward perfection.

Veteran catcher and batter #8 in the lineup, Mike Redmond, grounded out for out #26.  Up comes batter #9, rookie Jason Donald.  Understand, you don't want to be the team that has a perfect game thrown against you.  You want to be the one to break up the perfect game.  After watching a strike and a ball go by, Donald swung at pitch #3 and bounced it toward first base.  First baseman Miguel Cabrera slid to his right and, like any good fielding pitcher, Galarraga tore toward first to cover the bag.  Cabrera tosses, Galarraga catches (with his foot on the bag), and Donald arrives at the bag a bit more than a half-step late.  Perfect game!

Not.

Veteran umpire Jim Joyce stationed at first base called Donald safe, but I believe he was the only man on the planet who missed the call.  Even Donald, upon seeing that Joyce had ruled him safe, put his hands on his head in stunned disbelief.  Miguel Cabrera's hands were in the same you-gotta-be-kidding-me position.  The manager, Jim Leyland, protested rightly, longly, and loudly.  (If you haven't seen the play, here you go.)

The most surreal thing about the scene?  Armando Galarraga stood there and smiled.  Granted, the smile was in shock, but unlike 97% of athletes, he did not get in the face of the umpire and protest like a child forbidden to play his seventeenth consecutive hour of Wii.  He returned to the mound and got the 28th batter to ground out.

To his credit, Jim Joyce reviewed the video after the game and admitted he got the call wrong (a great take by Hall of Fame pitcher Curt Shilling here).  "I thought he beat the throw. I was convinced he beat the throw, until I saw the replay...It was the biggest call of my career, and I (blew) it."  He recognized the depth of his error, "I just cost the kid a perfect game."  He went on to apologize to Leyland and to Galarraga.  The latter noted the depth of Joyce's grief when he recognized that the umpire hadn't even yet showered before he came to apologize.

Jim Joyce said he deserved everything that was said about him on the field.  "I would have been the first person in my face," he said.  Then he noted, "He (Galarraga) did not say a word to me (on the field)."

Surely Galarraga harbored bitterness.  "No, nobody's perfect," he shrugged.

I beg to differ.  Armando Galarraga was perfect last night.  Twice.

-----------------------------------
NOTE:  Commissioner Bud Selig, who would have the authority to overturn such a call, said he would not.  Of all the people in MLB that would like to see the call overturned, my bet is that none would love to see it overturned more than umpire Jim Joyce.

The flip side

Yesterday, penning an ode to Phil Mickleson came as easily as savoring this evening's sunset.  How can you not stand back, drink in the cool breeze, and glory in the wonder crafted by Almighty God?  No, no, no.  I'm not equating Phil with deity but tipping my hat to the colorer of sunsets and the maker of man.

I watched with wonder each time they cut to Phil, but at the same time, when the camera caught hold of Tiger, I winced.  Triumph and Tragedy.  Each one achieved through the purposed choices of the men who walked the same fairways yesterday but with far different expressions and emotional burdens.

Two camps greeted Mr. Woods this week.  The first camp encompassed CBS and most of the folks at Augusta National.  They just wanted to see good golf.  What happened to Tiger the man does not affect my impression at all of Tiger the golfer.  They wanted to see their hero ascend back to his throne as the Titan of the Tee.  Let's not talk about the past months except to note what he has overcome to get to where he is.

And that is true.  It is a testimony to his focus and his work ethic on the course that Mr. Woods could come off the bench after sitting out the first quarter of the season and nearly take the crowned jewel of golf.  Amazing. 

But that takes us to the second camp.  Camp Two loathes Mr. Woods.  Sure, there were a few Woods detractors before his philandering came to light, but many who once held their breath with wide-eyed wonder at his every waggle now spit in his general direction.  They lusted for his demise.  They shrieked with glee for every shanked tee shot. They bubbled-up over every bunker found.  They thrilled his every three-putt.

I found myself in the haters' camp.  I couldn't believe the coddling he got from the announcers at CBS.  Not a single comment of disdain for what he had done to soil himself, his family, his comrades, and his game?

My loathing for what Mr. Woods had become turned to profound sadness for him when he rushed his par-putt on 14 after missing a six-foot birdie and made bogie.  No, I wasn't sad that he missed his putt.  I was sad for him.

He is the best to play the game.  Amazing.  Gretzky.  Jordan.  Woods.  None better in their era.  Nowhere close.  None better ever?  Arguable.  Probable.  But we can't just focus on the game.  Behind him is a wake of devastation.  Tiger Woods soiled his father's name and his heritage.  He dragged the investments made in him by his parents, his trainers, his caddies, his wife and his children through the sewage ditch.  And from his "I only enter tournaments to win" interviews to his inability to discipline his antics and his tongue in front of kids who idolize him when he fails to meet perfection off the tee, it would seem Mr. Woods still doesn't get it.  The measure of a man extends much further than tee to green and much deeper than the pot bunkers of Scotland.

I wonder if he saw Phil clench Amy in the aftermath as though she meant far more to him than any major championship.  Did he see the single-tear run down Phil's cheek as he held in his arms the most precious thing to him in the whole world, and it wasn't a claret jug nor a green jacket?

My prayer tonight for a man I have never met (and will never meet) is that he will turn his focus and his passion to that which will last when he's no longer able to hoist his putter, his bride, the one chosen especially for him, that he would come to know her better than the intricacies of his swing and read her better than the greens at Augusta, and that he would become the kind of man he would like his children to emulate, not perfect, but a man of honor and character nonetheless.  Nuts to the short game.

More than that, though, along with Brit Hume, I pray for his redemption, not on the course (though no longer wish him ill), and not in his marriage (though I pray that healing will come), but from the only One who can forgive his sin and the One who has provided for him that which will wash him white as snow.
---------------------------
(NOTE:  After writing the above post, I came across this article noting the displeasure of CBS announcer Jim Nantz  toward the conduct of Eldrick T. Woods.  Refreshing to see someone (with a microphone) call him on it.  Nantz makes great points.  Many in positions of prominence today try to argue that they are not role models.  That's a pile of fertilizer!  Each one of us is a role model to everyone we meet.  You never know how far the ripples will extend.)

Phil, again. Naturally.

Phil Mickleson won the Masters yesterday.  If you don't know golfer Phil from Dr. Phil, you can skip this post.  In this context, if you think the Masters is just another degree you can get for studying for another year or two, you can pass this by, too.

Some thoughts as I watched Mr. Mickleson dissect Augusta National on his way to a third green jacket.

• Jim Nance and Nick Faldo spoke often about what Phil and his wife had been through this past year.  They spoke about Amy Mickleson's fight against breast cancer.  And Phil's mom's, too.  Nance and Faldo also spoke of Tiger Woods' struggles these past few months but spoke of it in shadowy language.  And no mention of Tiger's wife.
  .
• Phil didn't play perfect golf.  No golfer ever does.  At the same time, when Phil's shots erred, he focused upon his next shot.  No outbursts.  No religious invectives contrary to his religious persuasion.  Just kept his cool and carried out his business.  Tiger, on the other  hand, had a CBS boom mic trained upon him throughout the tournament.  With his many Christian references, he didn't sound like a Buddhist.
  .
• Phil looks nothing like an athletic champion.  He carries thirty to forty more pounds than he probably should.  His portly shape looks more like the folks behind the ropes than the folks walking the fairways.  We look at him and think, "He's just like me."  He doesn't seem terribly coordinated, kind of an "aw, shucks" amble down the fairway.  No, he doesn't have the look, but he does have three green jackets.
  .
• He proved his cast-iron fortitude when out of the pine straw on the thirteenth hole he dropped a six-iron a half-dozen feet from the hole.  Could have laid up, but he wasn't playing it safe.  He wanted to win.  He missed his eagle putt but made birdie.  Had he laid up, chipped on, and made the birdie putt, it wouldn't have been nearly so intimidating as the shot from out of the woods.
  .
• Did you ever notice that Phil smiles on the golf course?  He smiles like he really enjoys what he's doing.  He smiles in appreciation for those fans who support him and cheer him on each week.  His smile reveals the hint of embarassment at the recognition he receives.
  .
• Did you notice that Phil talks?  No, not just with his caddy.  In the heat of the final round, I noticed him chatting with playing partner, Lee Westwood, who struggled mightily during the round.  S-p-o-r-t-s-m-a-n-s-h-i-p.  Pronounced, "Mickleson." 
  .
• When he won, he hugged his caddie in a manner deeper than an I-won-the-tournament hug.  He seemed deeply appreciative for what his caddie meant to him and had done for him.
  .
• After hugging his caddy, he found Amy.  She had not been with him on the course since diagnosed with cancer eleven months earlier.  He held her and wept.  And then he held her some more.  No regrets.  Best friends.  Lovers.  Side-by-side through the dark days and through this very bright, very green, very clear-blue-sky kind of day.

After the tournament, Peter Costas had the unfortunate task of interviewing Mr. Woods.  Despite finishing tied for fourth, a position to be envied by 44 of the 48 other golfers on Sunday and an extraordinary showing for your first competitive tournament in four months, Mr. Woods pettied and groused about not having his game.  He didn't apologize for his religious invectives, rather he said, "You can't expect me to be humming a tune after shots like that."  Ah.  Got it.

Costas then interviewed Lee Westwood, the British golfer who has finished in the top three of the last three major tournaments and who was paired with and lost to Mickleson Sunday.  "Disappointed?" queried Costas.  "There is always a bit of disappointment," the gracious Westwood answered, "but that will pass.  Phil (Mickleson) encouraged me in the scoring tent saying that he couldn't break into the winner's circle for years, always the also-ran.  He told me to just persevere and the wins would come."

That's Phil.  Encouraging his fellow golfers and helping them handle the difficulties they face with grace and character.

Nice to see a guy like Phil, a man already a winner, succeed from tee to green once again.  While Phil might not have the raw talent or honed talent of Mr. Woods, while he doesn't have the overwhelming endorsements of Mr. Woods, he has learned life's lessons well, and he is an outstanding champion. 

Meanwhile, Tiger heads to the practice tee to ponder what's wrong with his game.  And with his life.

Immunity and Tiger Woods

A few days ago, I railed against Adam Lambert and his irresponsibility as a celebrity where he believes he has no responsibility but to "art."  I vented,

You are a role model. You are an example to everyone you meet every day. If God gives you the opportunity to have an extraordinary stage upon which to play, then your responsibility to your fellow man increases manifold. You have responsibilities to your coworkers and your bosses. You have responsibility to the staff that supports you. If you are a celebrity (athletic, "arts," politics), you have a responsibility to those who appreciate your work. And what about the responsibility to the God who created you?

You can read the rest of it here if you are so inclined.

On the heels of "Mr." Lambert's public irresponsibility, Tiger Woods wraps not a nine iron but himself around a tree.  At 2 a.m. (I harken back to a Golden Earing song).  In the middle of the night after Thanksgiving.  Going 30 mph.  With no alcohol involved.

Had Mr. Woods been drinking, that would have come to light, he would have been charged, he would have released some form of apology be it the typical leftist non-apology or a man-up, I-blew-it apology, and life would press on.

But there was no booze.  Perhaps yesterday's press release would offer insight (here).  Nope.  "The situation is my fault."  That's a good start.  So what happened, El Tigre?  "This is a private matter and I want to keep it that way."  He hooked that response badly out of bounds.  Here's where that sticky issue called responsibility comes into play.

His non-answer that hints at some "private matter" would not have been necessary had he stayed inside his palatial Windemere estate.  Were he and Elin having issues like millions of American husbands and wives, it would have remained a "private matter" had his SUV remained parked.  Had he been frustrated and upset about some business dealing and had he needed to vent some steam, if he entered his private fitness center and driving range as opposed to going tree-wheeling, it would have remained a "private matter."

But Tiger drove it into the woods.

Many believe that what you do in private (or behind the closed doors of the Oval Office) does not affect who you are in public.  That is a lie.  You are not a machine and you cannot compartmentalize like that.  You're not that good.  Neither is Tiger.  Privacy, a concept inherent in property ownership, does indeed extend into your domicile until what you have done in your domicile spills onto boulevard and up against an oak.

His image hangs in the balance because young and old, duffer and scratch golfer, player and not, look up to him.  Endorsements hang in the balance because corporations use his face to hock their goods.  His respect as an athletic icon hangs in the balance because he reflects on his sport, all other golfers and sport in general because he represents them.  That is the price--and the responsibility--of fame.

A pastor has a responsibility to his church (and to God).

A president has a responsibility to his nation (and to his God).

Al the American has a responsibility to his family, his neighbors, his church, his community, his bosses, his employees...

You get the idea.  No man is an island.

If Tiger would man-up and admit what he did, a forgiving public would move on and the issue would fade.  "I blew up at my wife and stormed out of the house like a child."  Sounds pretty normal.  Too bad he hit the tree.  "We ran out of diapers and on the way out the driveway, I dropped my iPod (or was busy texting Michael Jordan who happened to be golfing in Dubai) and shwacked the tree."  I've heard about people texting and driving.  Really, any answer would calm the masses.  His non-answer hints at scandal.

As jackals have the unpleasant job of scouring the Serengeti of its carrion, so the media must root out the truth of what went down.  As distasteful as that might seem, the Tiger has left them no other choice.
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AP Photo

Thursday night lights...on Friday

Driving north out of Vernon, Texas on US 283, you can't help but be a bit surprised passing the Wilbarger County Airport amidst a sea of mesquite and wide-open plains. It's an airfield that supports the local crop dusters or air tractors as they are called in these parts. After passing that island of life, you drive back into the sea.

A full ten miles north of Vernon, you come to this little island (picture from Google):


Yes, that rectangle of green in the center is a football field of the six-man variety. Vernon fields a full-up eleven-man team. Folks on the ranches between Vernon and the Red River send their kids to Northside to attend school. They play six-man, and that's where we found ourselves last night.

I'll start out by telling you we lost. On the last play of the game. Crushing considering the kids had battled to a 19-19 tie until that point. Neither team dominated.

Here's what stirred my soul. Some of those kids played nearly every play of the game. Crunching hits you can hear in the stands. Heaving chests between plays as these young man attempt to cover the acres of turf. Heart. Sweat. Blood. Agony. They poured all they had into the game, battling the foe across the line.

And then...and then...this:


My son is in this picture, and I could not be more proud of what he gave of himself last night. More than that, I could not be more blessed that my son has a coach that seeks to honor God through football, that he plows the ferocity and passion of Christ into the boys as he trains boys to be men and not merely gridiron giants.

And then when all is said and done, Coach Tommy Sugg invites the other team to join them, win or lose, on the fifty yard line to honor and give glory to the God who has given us sport, the God who has given us life, and to thank Him for His protection of our sons on the field of friendly strife.

All of this, ten miles of Vernon, Texas, somewhere next to nowhere.

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(Full disclosure: The photo was taken the previous week after their battle against Denton Christian but the same scene took place last night in Northside, Texas, too.)

Thursday night lights

Highway 277 out of Wichita Falls, Texas deviates little from a straight line enroute to the southwestern horizon. The scrub mesquite that mottles both sides of the highway does little to obstruct the view to the earth’s edge. Civilization is sparse, too, with towns blossoming in the middle of nowhere every two to three dozen miles.

In these hinterlands, six-man football thrives.

Six-man football is to sport what George Gobel was to Johnny Carson, the pair of brown shoes amidst a sea of tuxedoes. If a town’s high school fields a six-man team, it has already submitted to the fact that it doesn’t have the population to put up an eleven-man team. No pretense. No arrogance. No flash. The townsfolk are thrilled just to have a team of their own to cheer for. The kids delight at being able to play.

Private schools play this game, too. Often situated in towns and cities permeated by eleven-man teams, the private schools will travel one hundred miles to find and play another six-man team. Thursday night, our journey was just shy of that.

This is what sport is meant to be. No colossal stadiums like those which dot Texas’ major metropolitan areas. Few lads are vying for scholarships at UT or Tech. No marching bands with choreographed displays that would wow USC. Six rows of aluminum bleachers for the visitors, always facing into the setting sun. Two extra rows provided for the home team and crowned with a plywood press box that fits three observers on metal folding chairs. A six button push-pad controls the scoreboard, and a microphone that’s 50-50 keeps you apprised of what you just saw. And since the season has just begun, most of the stadium lights are still in working order.

Knox City’s football field sits on the east end of town. Its water tower could be seen from ten miles away, and despite the fact that the sun had an hour and a half left before its 100-degree presence would no longer be felt, the stadium lights twinkled above the Mesquite-line just north of the highway.

As I pulled into the visitor’s parking lot, my six-year old daughter exclaimed, “Look at the animals!” On the side of the lot away from the field was a home, and between the home and the lot, the family kept their critters. Goats. Dozens of them, all ear-tagged as though ready for showing at the county fair. They shared their pen with a handful of chickens and a donkey that delighted in chasing the goats around their enclosure.

Six-man football is a wide-open game played on a field 20 yards shorter and only 13 yards less wide than a traditional field. While the penalties for the most part remain the same, the actual play takes most of its cues from backyards and playgrounds. Everyone is eligible to catch the ball. The running holes are massive. Quickness and agility are a must. Size, while nice, is not nearly so important.

Both teams, Knox City and Christ Academy from Wichita Falls, sported new uniforms and looked sharp and proud on the sidelines as their captains measured one another during the pregame coin-toss.

From our perch at midfield, the brambled plains stretched out to touch the sky to the north and the south. Towering thunderstorms miles away circled the stadium and stoodd as massive gray sentinels to the game. As the sun set, they provided an awesome canvas on which maroons and oranges and indigos complemented the navies and the crimsons on the field.

Few ticks have dropped off the eight-minute first quarter before the scoreboard portended the coming touchdown torrent for Christ Academy. We munched homemade sandwiches. Others dipped into gloppy nacho dip from the snack bar. The cheerleaders belted out their script on both sides of the field often oblivious to what was going on between the sidelines. The American flag stood out with pride and pleasure in a place of prominence at the north end of the field for young men were cutting their teeth on the fields of friendly conflict while real men gave their all in fields of battle thousands of miles away.

At the end of three quarters, the game was mercifully called. The equivalence of Little League’s ten-run rule had been met. The teams shook hands at midfield, after which Christ Academy gathered in a circle, arms around shoulder pads, and thanked God for safety and for sport, for esprit and for His Spirit.

As we drove through the darkness to get my little girls home and into bed, I wondered if this game would even find its way into the next day’s paper. It’s football season, and eleven-man rules the night in Wichita Falls. No matter, really. Few who were there will forget the splendor and beauty of the first game of the season, and it had little to do with the score. The specifics of the game will soon fade for both teams and for all the fans, but the character and experience honed on that sun-scorched gridiron will last a lifetime.

Such is the glory of six-man football in north Texas.

This ain't t-ball!

Kudos to new San Francisco 49er football coach Mike Singletary for planting his Hall of Fame cleats in the posterior of a couple of his new players.

Singletary anchored the Chicago Bears defense from the middle linebacker position from 1981-1992. He instilled fear in the heart of any offense (including his own) with his beady-eyed scowl and the Mack truck hits that backed it up.

His ferocity on the field is matched only by his passion for Christ on and off the field. He's a classic example of "Whatever you do in word or deed, do all to the glory of God." That's why it's no surprise that as a coach, he will not tolerate the prima donna behavior exhibited by so many players and tolerated by so many coaches, GM's, and owners (Jerry Jones, anyone?).

Said the coach,

"I'd rather play with 10 people and just get penalized all the way until we have to do something else rather than play with 11 when I know that right now that person is not sold out to be a part of this team," Singletary said. "It is more about them than it is about the team. Cannot play with them, cannot win with them, cannot coach with them. Can't do it."

When's the last time you heard about a player actually getting sent to the showers? Literally? Yep. You can read about it here.

You just might see the abysmal 'Niners back in the playoffs next year.

Photo from CNN/SI

Wow!

Okay, you're not going to care about this, but it's my blog.

My Twins swept the White Sox. Two days ago, they were two and a half games out of first. Now, with three games to play, the Twins are atop the AL Central, vying for the last spot in the playoffs.

Tonight, they were getting hammered 6-1, but as Yogi Berra used to say, "It ain't over 'til it's over." Well, now it's over. The Twinkies won 7-6 in the bottom of the 10th. How I'd have loved being in the Dome on a night like this. Instead, I'm glued to ESPN's on-line GameCast like some computer/baseball junkie. Hmmm...

Three more against the Royals and that'll wrap the season. If you've been following this insanity with me since June (who follows the AL Central??), I don't think there's been more than four games separating the Twins and the ChiSox all summer.

Anyway, for me and the land of 10,000 lakes and 10 jillion mosquitoes, we're tickled!

America's past time

About half the folks I come across hate baseball.

A few years ago, I attended an Arizona Diamondbacks game in their outstanding ballpark. I don't even remember who they played. It didn't matter. A sweet ballpark and a ballgame are unbeatable.

My German friend hated it. B-O-R-I-N-G! I just smiled.

As we approach the homestretch for the 2008 season, my Twins cannot get around the Chicago White Sox. A Sox fan will cry that they can't shake the tenacious Twins off their tail. Touche. If you take a look at the standings, after 136 games, the Twins have won a mere 16 more games than they have lost! The best teams in all of baseball, after 130+ games, have won 30 more than they lost, but that means they lose more than once every three times they play.

Defeat is part of baseball. It's a significant part of baseball especially when you consider the best hitters make an out two out of every three times they come to the plate. They fail 66% of the time!

Herein lies one of the beauties of the game. It's a long season. One hundred and sixty-two games. Hundreds of at bats. Lots of failure. How do you handle that failure? Who will get that one extra hit that powers his team to win that one extra game that at the end of September will kick them into the playoffs.

You may go 0-for-24. Your team might be in the heart of a seven-game losing streak within a fifteen-game roadtrip. But that next game, that next hit might make all the difference.

Do we quit? Do we throw in the towel?

Naw. Get on the bus, get on the plane because we get to go to another park. By God's good grace, I've got another chance to get in the batter's box and take my swings.

Maybe this time...

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(A point of note: To emphasize how "slightly better than average" can equal success in baseball, the Arizona D-backs are on top of their division with a whopping three (3) more wins than they have losses out of 135 games. Who wants it bad enough?)

Sport?

Both dictionary.com and the American Heritage Dictionary suggest two key aspects when defining sport. One, physical exertion. The other, abiding by a set of rules.

So as I sit (note the verb) watching the Olympics, I pondered the oddity of sport. Especially Olympic sport.

You can break them into two categories: the objective and the subjective.

The objective sports are easy. The strongest, fastest, longest, highest, farthest, or most points wins. No problemo. Clear the bar in your allotted tries and you win. Knock the bar off? Loser. Touch the wall first, even if by .01 second (!?!), gold medal. Half a fingertip behind at 30 mph? Silver (a classy way to say you didn't win).

I watched the women's marathon Saturday (from the sofa). Awesome. Especially considering this 38 year old Romanian finished her 26.4 mile race in a wee bit more than 30 minutes more than it takes me to finish my 12.4 mile canyon run every year. That's nearly twice as fast twice as far. Ouch. But there was no doubt about who won. She completed her lap in the "Bird's Nest" as her nearest competitors had entered the arena.

Which segues into the blur that exists within the subjective sports. What makes a sport "subjective"? The line of "impartial" judges from "impartial" nations who likely have as much experience on the ten-meter platform as I do determining the quality of the dive, vault, dismount, sow-cow or jab. Who wins? Does performance matter. Yes, yes, without qualification, yes!

But...

What if the judging isn't as impartial as we'd like to hope? What if it's just bad? Inconsistent? Who's best? Is beauty in the eye of the beholder? Do the punches connect for one boxer but not the other? The wacky nature of subjective sport was as obvious as an Ali knockout in women's gymnastics, especially regarding Nastia Liukin's silver medal. I've read about why she got second place though she had the same score as the gold-medal winner (you can read it here), but I did not understand the judges gymnastics. I guess that makes me uniquely qualified to subjectively critique their subjectivity.

Here's the deal: I love them both, objective and subjective! These folks are monsters. Michael Phelps and his 24-pack abs. Sixteen year old pixies doing things I could only do if I were computer-generated. Usain Bolt blasting the 100m record to pieces while relaxing during the final 30m. The men's gymnasts have muscles overlapping muscles to do the surreal things they do on the rings. As a former hockey player, I've done some of the things I've seen from figure skaters but usually it occurred after I was clocked by an opposing defenseman. Then I usually ended on my can and not my blades. And I'm even a sucker for curling and badminton, too (pseudosports? Chess, anyone?).

I just wish there was someway to objectively quantify the subjective sports.

Kill all the lawyers.

A game of inches

Michael Phelps, left, touching the wall. Milorad Cavic, right, still reaching.
(Photo by Sports Illustrated)

"Never, never, never give up!"

Winston Churchill during the Battle of Britain

If you ever thought, "There's just no way..."

If you ever felt, "It's not worth the effort..."

If the muscles in your body cried, "We're going to explode..."

If your brain has concrete argumentation for why you will not win...

Remember Michael Phelps' final lunge during the 100 meter Butterfly during the 2008 Olympics. Or remember the body length lead that Jason Lezak overcame to during the 4x100 meter Freestyle Relay.

It's worth gold!

Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like a man running aimlessly; I do not fight like a man beating the air. No, I beat my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize.

1 Corinthians 9:25-27

Georgia on my mind

Kumbaya...

We are the world...

I love you, you love me...

I'd like to teach the world to sing...

Yes, indeed, the Olympics are kicking off again. If it's Tuesday, this must be Belgium.

During the opening ceremonies Beijing's Olympics, NBC had an interesting shot of President Bush leaning back and chatting with Czar Vladimir Putin of Russia who was sitting just behind him and to his right. Do presidents and emperors just chat?

It seemed odd to me that Mr. Putin would be sharing a quiet evening at the Olympiad while his nation's fighter jets were waylaying Georgia, a territory that was formerly a Soviet Socialist Republic. Tanks and MiGs are not intended to win friends but to influence people. And Mr. Putin sips his chai.

When we think Georgia, we think peaches, the Braves, and the Masters. When Mr. Putin thinks Georgia, he thinks buffer zone and access to the Middle East. Georgia (not ours) sits just the east of the Black Sea with Russia to the north and Turkey to the south. What else is within 100 miles? Iran. Hmmm...

Georgia, Georgia
No peace, no peace I find
Just this old, sweet song
Keeps Georgia on my mind.

Ray Charles

Laying up short, part 2

When you think of Olympic Superpowers, you'll not likely consider Austria or Switzerland. If your mind turns to skiing the two alpine nations will vault to the top of your list. And these two nations are to skiing what the Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees are to baseball: they are the bitterest of rivals.

During the winter of 1976, the eyes of the world turned to Innsbruck, Austria. The Cold War was at its most frigid. Vietnam was behind us and Afghanistan was ahead of the Soviets. This was before Jimmy Carter and after Richard Nixon. The specter of Munich lay four years past in sportsman's memories. Bragging rights were at stake, and all nations were present.

I can only remember one thing from Innsbruck, 1976, but it remains chiseled in my mind with indelible detail.

Bernhard Russi of Switzerland had mastered the Alpine downhill for years. He owned the Olympic gold medal in the event from 1972 in Sapporo, Japan. Russi's time at Innsbruck locked him in for another gold medal.

At the top of the mountain stood Franz Klammer, an Austrian, bedecked in taxi cab yellow skiing tights, red boots and red helmet. The hometown hero. But there he stood facing the insurmountable time set by the Switzerlander and a mountain with no sympathy for his heritage.

When downhill skiers race, they'll top 90 mph as they careen down the slopes, their only protection a helmet that might prevent the crushing of the skull but will do little to deter the smashing of their brain inside said skull. No pads elsewhere; too much drag. Achieving championship speed, earning world-class victory requires speeds that dance the athlete on the edge of disaster. Many a skier has retired himself from the sport when the mountain scoffed at such ludicrous speeds.

And there stood Klammer. Three...two...one...

From the moment the Austrian cleared the starting gate, it was clear to this then thirteen-year old Minnesotan, Klammer didn't consider what the mountain thought. Most skiers slow before the tightest turns, hoping to keep their bodies from becoming one with the towering pines. Not so the brightly spandexed Klammer. He cared not a lick about completing the run. He skied to win.

The only drag he created occurred in digging his skis into the snow, just enough to get himself turned some other direction. When skiers would go over a hill, they try to tuck themselves, providing as small a target as possible for demon air to slow them down. When the skier's velocity gets away from him, the tuck deteriorates as he does everything in his power to maintain his balance. A Klammer released himself, velocity was no problem. Control was his issue and very few tucks were seen as he hurtled over ridges and around tight corners.

It was breathtaking.

The commentators didn't think he could keep up enough speed to get close to the Swiss giant coming out of his aerodynamic crouch. Klammer couldn't hear the commentators.

Had the young Austrian concerned himself with his life's peril, broken femur bones, or sloshed gray matter, he'd either have slowed to avoid such disaster or he'd have kept his speed and wrapped himself around an aspen. He did neither and the cameras pivoted trying to keep the speeding lemon drop framed for the network.

Over one of the final hills flew Klammer contorting himself like some twisted X to keep his weight over at least one ski and then somehow, back into his tuck for the race to the wire.

Thirty three one hundredths of a second, the bat of an eyelash, and Franz Klammer wrenched the gold from Russi. Had he throttled back or taken any turn or any hill with certain conservatism, he would not have clipped that whisper of time to dethrone the Swiss giant.

What if I crash? So? My body will heal. I'll never have such an opportunity again. The time is now. Tomorrow may never come.

I have only one life. God has set me atop the mountain and He has given me one run. Only one. Do I play it safe or do I fly like Klammer?

Not that I have already attained, or am already perfected; but I press on, that I may lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus has also laid hold of me. Brethren, I do not count myself to have apprehended; but one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 3:12-14)

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like a man running aimlessly; I do not fight like a man beating the air. No, I beat my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize. (1 Corinthians 9:24-27)

May my eyes rivet themselves upon Christ alone. It's long past time to point the ski tips down the slope and press on for the Gold.
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An aside: As we near the Olympics, I recommend a trip down memory lane with the movie "Miracle." Disney did a superb job recreating the magic of the 1980 story of David and Goliath. The first time I heard Kurt Russell master the Minnesota "Iron Range" accent, I laughed my head off. Besides, you just gotta love a movie about hockey! "AGAIN!"

Klammer photo by Steve Sutton

Josh Hamilton

Last night in baseball, something very special happened precisely because it was not about baseball. If you follow America's pastime at all, you know full well what happened during his superhuman first round of the All-Star Game Home Run Derby. Iron Man, Hulk and even Batman all take a back seat because this is a true story. It's a story of a man's demise, and God's overwhelming grace.

For those who do know it, for those who don't know it, I encourage you to visit this link here and read ESPN's Jayson Stark's first hand account of his astonishment and wonder. Josh Hamilton hit nearly three miles worth of baseballs!!

Though it might not make you a baseball fan, it will surely pique your interest in the Texas Rangers, and it will definitely make you a fan of Josh Hamilton, Texas Ranger, potential MLB MVP, Home Run Derby record exploder, and son of the King.

Photo from MLB.com

Cal and Brett

Iron Man. It was the first comic book hit of the summer but the name has become synonymous with those who endure. The triathlon which pushes man beyond what he can give demanding a 2.4 miles swim, an 100 mile bike ride, and the whipped cream to top it off --- a marathon --- that triathlon has earned the descriptor, Iron Man.

Two professional athletes earned the Iron Man nickname for their sturdiness in their respective sports, Cal Ripken in baseball and Brett Favre in football. Both of these men hold records unlikely to be beaten for consecutive games played, 2632 for the baseball's legend and 253 for quarterbacks for football's legend (275 if you include the playoff games).

Despite the commonality for consistency, these men achieved greatness with far different styles. Mr. Ripken went about his business with might be described as blandness, but his tenacious work ethic and focus on excellence garnered Gold Gloves, Rookie of the Year, All-Star MVP, League MVP, and Baseball All-Century Team, to name a few of the accolades.

Mr. Favre is the NFL's perennial child. From throwing snowballs to picking up teammates to the biggest dimpled smile behind a facemask, Favre's child-like joy could never be deemed child-ish or flippant. He loved the game and could not contain that joy. His passion and discipline earned the NFL MVP (three times), nine-time Pro-Bowl selection, seven time All-Pro, Super Bowl champ and just about every record for quarterback in the NFL.

And both men remained with the same team throughout their heroics (Favre began a Falcon, but did not earn a starting position until going to Green Bay)

Two men. Both Hall of Famers (Ripken is, Favre will be). Vastly different but effective styles.

Then came retirement...maybe. When Cal Ripken retired, he retired. Sure he kept his hand in baseball (front office, PR, etc.), but when he hung up his cleats, he hung them out of reach, never to be donned again as a player.

Brett Favre has begun to soil his pristine reputation with the recently in vogue game played by professional athletes called "I'm retired, I'm not retired." Favre has been toying with retirement for the past three or four years. His body has taken shots that would crumble my body like saltines. He has dealt with his wife's breast cancer battle. He's faced his skill's deterioration. And so after taking great pains to weigh all the factors, he announced his retirement last March.

By May and the start of the NFL mini-camps, Favre had begun expressing an interest in still playing but at the same time making plain to all that he was in fact retired. As the opening day of training camp grew closer and closer, Favre began to talk louder and louder about coming back to play another season.

And now the Packer's are faced with a dilemma: trade the greatest quarterback ever to some colors other than green and gold or let him comeback and serve as a $12 million backup QB.

Green Bay needs to begin a new era just as San Francisco did post-Joe Montana (rather than retire, Montana spent an inglorious year or two in Kansas City). To do so, the Pack drafted promising QB Aaron Rogers in 2005. He has sat under the tutelage of the finest mentor a man could ask for. Now it is his turn to carry the mantle, but the mentor keeps coming back and wanting to handle the project himself. To give Favre the ball for one more season, Rogers will surely bolt.

For a man who has earned a gigantic reputation for selflessness and being a team player, this epitomizes selfishness.

Despite the glory of the 2007 season, Favre's ability has plainly ebbed. Moments of brilliance were interspersed by more and more situations that left the fan scratching their head wondering, "What was that?!?"

Brett dishonors himself, his former team and the game of football by wanting to play another season. It's time to move on. It's time to enjoy his family and pursue the next phase of his life with the same zeal and giddiness with which he hit the gridiron every Sunday. It would be tragic to see him end like Montana (or Emmit Smith. Was anything more tragic than Emmit Smith in Arizona???).

Brett Favre should exit with the same dignity and poise with which Ripken departed. His already legendary stock will go through the roof.