We told the kids about Kerri's passing Wednesday night as they were going to bed. Thursday morning at breakfast, we discussed it again. They asked some questions, reminded me that Kerri was in heaven, and ate quietly for maybe 90 seconds. Then commenced with the business of being 9, 7, and about to be 4.
I was not impressed with their grieving. I wanted them to be more somber, maudlin. I would've settled for pensive. Goofy was not what I had in mind.
They have no idea of what lies ahead for Carlee and Jolee, Kerri's daughters who are roughly the same ages as the oldest two of them. Of what it will be like to grow up without the mother who's raised them, been everything for them all their lives. They just know Kerri's where she's always wanted to be. That's enough for them.
Ignorance. Bliss.
Then I thought about how I respond to the news of genocide, the worldwide AIDS epidemic, entire cities being wiped out by natural disasters, widespread poverty, corruption, evil. About the only difference between my reaction to those things and the kids' response to Kerri's passing is how long I eat quietly before commencing the business of being 36. I rarely wait 90 seconds. It's not that I don't care. It's more like a feeling that God will ultimately sort everything out.
Ignorance. Bliss.
Selah...
Monday, February 27, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Sucker Punched
I've been had. All those preachers. All those sermons. All that nonsense about asking, knocking, believing, supplicating, persisting, petitioning, praying, pleading, anointing with oil, jumping through hoops in hopes that God would do what you begged Him to do.
It's a bill of goods. They were selling. I was buying.
I bought the crock about getting what you asked for. So I prayed and begged and pleaded and pounded on my neighbor's door at midnight for my friend, Kerri Lane, to be healed of her cancer. She died tonight. At 44. She leaves two daughters, 9 and 6. And a giant crater in the heart of the Highland Church in Abilene, Texas.
I'm fine with God being omnipotent, omniscient, all the omnis. I'm fine with Him knowing what's best and having ways that aren't my ways. I'm fine with the fact that there's a time to die and that all things work together for good for those who love Him. I'm fine with all of that. I believe He still knows what He's doing. And that He's still good. And that Kerri's with Him right now.
But don't trot out those texts about mustard seeds and moving mountains any more. They're not true. Jesus must've meant something else. Something more mysterious. Something. But definitely not that you'll get what you ask for.
It's my fault for believing it. It's absurd to think that God would alter the course of human events because I want something. Half the time I don't even know what I want. In this case, I did know. I wanted Kerri healed and to live to an old age and to raise her daughters and serve us Communion and keep feeding the hungry and reminding us by her example that our job is to live out the mission of Christ.
That's how she lived. And died. To my knowledge, she never asked God to heal her if it meant superseding His will. She wanted what He wanted.
Right now, I can't fathom how a mother being taken from her daughters - ostensibly what He wanted or at least allowed - accomplishes anything remotely equivalent to her being miraculously healed and permitted to continue being Christ incarnate to everyone she touched. But I even understand the idea that I can't understand it.
What I can't understand is how all those preachers could tell me with a straight face that all I had to do was ask. If it's true that there's a sucker born every minute, then I've truly been born again. No more.
It's a bill of goods. They were selling. I was buying.
I bought the crock about getting what you asked for. So I prayed and begged and pleaded and pounded on my neighbor's door at midnight for my friend, Kerri Lane, to be healed of her cancer. She died tonight. At 44. She leaves two daughters, 9 and 6. And a giant crater in the heart of the Highland Church in Abilene, Texas.
I'm fine with God being omnipotent, omniscient, all the omnis. I'm fine with Him knowing what's best and having ways that aren't my ways. I'm fine with the fact that there's a time to die and that all things work together for good for those who love Him. I'm fine with all of that. I believe He still knows what He's doing. And that He's still good. And that Kerri's with Him right now.
But don't trot out those texts about mustard seeds and moving mountains any more. They're not true. Jesus must've meant something else. Something more mysterious. Something. But definitely not that you'll get what you ask for.
It's my fault for believing it. It's absurd to think that God would alter the course of human events because I want something. Half the time I don't even know what I want. In this case, I did know. I wanted Kerri healed and to live to an old age and to raise her daughters and serve us Communion and keep feeding the hungry and reminding us by her example that our job is to live out the mission of Christ.
That's how she lived. And died. To my knowledge, she never asked God to heal her if it meant superseding His will. She wanted what He wanted.
Right now, I can't fathom how a mother being taken from her daughters - ostensibly what He wanted or at least allowed - accomplishes anything remotely equivalent to her being miraculously healed and permitted to continue being Christ incarnate to everyone she touched. But I even understand the idea that I can't understand it.
What I can't understand is how all those preachers could tell me with a straight face that all I had to do was ask. If it's true that there's a sucker born every minute, then I've truly been born again. No more.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Steal City: Officiating The Pitts, Gives Steelers Super Edge
Okay, I was wrong. Make it 21-10 Steelers. I was never good with math. But these numbers tell the sad story of the game: Seattle had 86 yards of offense and a touchdown nullified by referees' whistles in its Super Bowl XL loss to Pittsburgh. An Xtra Large number when you consider that in addition to the 86 positive yards taken away, the penalties moved the Seahawks backward another 70. More than 150 yards difference in the biggest game of the year.
The men in Black and Gold weren't nearly as formidable as the ones in black and white.
It wasn't just that Seattle was whistled 7 times to Pittsburgh's 3 (or 70 yards to 20). It was when the flags flew. A couple of 18-yard completions deep into Steeler territory (one at the 1 and the other at the 23) were wiped out, as was a 34-yard punt return across midfield. Throw in the highly questionable ruling on Ben Roethlisberger's (pronounced "'s") end zone dive - which from no camera angle showed the ball ever crossing the goal line - and the ridiculous 15-yard penalty on Matt Hasselbeck for the unconscionable act of tackling Ike Taylor following Taylor's 4th quarter interception, and you have all the makings of a Let's-Don't-Ruin-This-Jerome-Bettis-Homecoming/Retirement-Love-Fest-By-Letting-The-Other-Team-Up-And-Win-This-Thing conspiracy theory that'll have Seahawk fans sleepless in Seattle all summer.
I can't remember a meaningful game decided by 11 points that seemed like it could have gone the other way by at least that many.
I'm happy for Bill Cowher. He's won me over through the years with his passion, his system, and his love for his wife and three daughters. He deserved a championship. Ditto for Bettis. The Steelers certainly made some big plays, none more so than Antwaan Randle El's reverse heave to Hines Ward with 9 minutes left to provide the final margin of victory.
Seattle kicker Josh Brown didn't help by Vanderjagting two long, but makeable field goals. And Seahawks' coach Mike Holmgren - while getting big ups for his taste in spouses (his wife, Kathy, and their oldest daughter missed the game because they were on a medical mission trip to the Congo) - is anything but a sympathetic figure in the aftermath thanks to a shockingly uninspired coaching performance. Seattle ran its hurry-up offense at the end of each half with all the efficiency of an Edsel, blowing precious opportunities to score in each case. And if you're a Seahawks fan, can you really spend the offseason satisfied with Holmgren's decision to punt from his own 48 on 4th and 13 with 6:28 to play and Seattle down 11? At that point, your hopes are hanging by the last thin thread on the Go Daddy girl's spaghetti strap. If you make it, you've got plenty of time to score, kick off, force a punt, and get the ball back with a chance to tie or win the game. Even if you don't get a first, you either force a field goal or a punt, and you're still within two scores. Punting in that situation seemed so...decaf. And 'Hawks fans will have a latte time to wonder "What if?" If that's Seattle's Best, I'll pass.
Still, the Seahawks weren't their own worst enemy in their maiden Super Bowl voyage. The refs played that role. Even if a couple of the calls were technically correct, the infractions were nothing worse than you see on nearly every play of every NFL game. Worse yet, this crew breached the fraternal order of referees' one and only rule:
Call Such A Good Game That No One Notices You're There. Instead, head ref Bill Leavy is now to Seahawks fans persona non grata. And make that a Venti with extra foam at the mouth.
Actually, Pittsburgh probably had some good fortune coming after nearly having its checkered flag at Indianapolis taken by one of the worst rulings in NFL history. Kind of like trebled damages. You get the win plus two more. And it was in Detroit that another official used a single coin to take the Bus for a ride. On Thanksgiving Day 1998, Bettis called tails at the overtime coin flip, only to have referee Phil Luckett rule that he said heads. It was tails, the Lions got the ball to begin OT and promptly went downfield for the game-winning score.
An official can sleep off a Turkey Day blunder. (That particular fowl, after all, is known for its natural sedative.) But blowing the biggest game of the year by constantly interrupting the flow of the game and sucking the life out of one of the contestants by overofficiating is an entirely different animal: a goat. One that will no doubt be roasted over the open spit of Seahawks fans forever.
The men in Black and Gold weren't nearly as formidable as the ones in black and white.
It wasn't just that Seattle was whistled 7 times to Pittsburgh's 3 (or 70 yards to 20). It was when the flags flew. A couple of 18-yard completions deep into Steeler territory (one at the 1 and the other at the 23) were wiped out, as was a 34-yard punt return across midfield. Throw in the highly questionable ruling on Ben Roethlisberger's (pronounced "'s") end zone dive - which from no camera angle showed the ball ever crossing the goal line - and the ridiculous 15-yard penalty on Matt Hasselbeck for the unconscionable act of tackling Ike Taylor following Taylor's 4th quarter interception, and you have all the makings of a Let's-Don't-Ruin-This-Jerome-Bettis-Homecoming/Retirement-Love-Fest-By-Letting-The-Other-Team-Up-And-Win-This-Thing conspiracy theory that'll have Seahawk fans sleepless in Seattle all summer.
I can't remember a meaningful game decided by 11 points that seemed like it could have gone the other way by at least that many.
I'm happy for Bill Cowher. He's won me over through the years with his passion, his system, and his love for his wife and three daughters. He deserved a championship. Ditto for Bettis. The Steelers certainly made some big plays, none more so than Antwaan Randle El's reverse heave to Hines Ward with 9 minutes left to provide the final margin of victory.
Seattle kicker Josh Brown didn't help by Vanderjagting two long, but makeable field goals. And Seahawks' coach Mike Holmgren - while getting big ups for his taste in spouses (his wife, Kathy, and their oldest daughter missed the game because they were on a medical mission trip to the Congo) - is anything but a sympathetic figure in the aftermath thanks to a shockingly uninspired coaching performance. Seattle ran its hurry-up offense at the end of each half with all the efficiency of an Edsel, blowing precious opportunities to score in each case. And if you're a Seahawks fan, can you really spend the offseason satisfied with Holmgren's decision to punt from his own 48 on 4th and 13 with 6:28 to play and Seattle down 11? At that point, your hopes are hanging by the last thin thread on the Go Daddy girl's spaghetti strap. If you make it, you've got plenty of time to score, kick off, force a punt, and get the ball back with a chance to tie or win the game. Even if you don't get a first, you either force a field goal or a punt, and you're still within two scores. Punting in that situation seemed so...decaf. And 'Hawks fans will have a latte time to wonder "What if?" If that's Seattle's Best, I'll pass.
Still, the Seahawks weren't their own worst enemy in their maiden Super Bowl voyage. The refs played that role. Even if a couple of the calls were technically correct, the infractions were nothing worse than you see on nearly every play of every NFL game. Worse yet, this crew breached the fraternal order of referees' one and only rule:
Call Such A Good Game That No One Notices You're There. Instead, head ref Bill Leavy is now to Seahawks fans persona non grata. And make that a Venti with extra foam at the mouth.
Actually, Pittsburgh probably had some good fortune coming after nearly having its checkered flag at Indianapolis taken by one of the worst rulings in NFL history. Kind of like trebled damages. You get the win plus two more. And it was in Detroit that another official used a single coin to take the Bus for a ride. On Thanksgiving Day 1998, Bettis called tails at the overtime coin flip, only to have referee Phil Luckett rule that he said heads. It was tails, the Lions got the ball to begin OT and promptly went downfield for the game-winning score.
An official can sleep off a Turkey Day blunder. (That particular fowl, after all, is known for its natural sedative.) But blowing the biggest game of the year by constantly interrupting the flow of the game and sucking the life out of one of the contestants by overofficiating is an entirely different animal: a goat. One that will no doubt be roasted over the open spit of Seahawks fans forever.
Monday, January 16, 2006
After Further Review...I Love Lamp
This weekend's NFL playoff games answered a number of important questions, not the least of which was: What would it look like if Brick Tamland, weatherman for the Channel 4 News Team, was the league's head of officiating? ("I ate fiberglass insulation. It wasn't cotton candy like the guy said...my tummy itches.")In a stunning series of incompetence that amounted to their own version of a three-team parlay, NFL refs gave Denver a touchdown on a bogus pass interference call against New England's Asante Samuel; took a legitimate interception away from Pittsburgh's hirsute hitman Troy Polamalu (pronounced "polamalu"); and failed to penalize Chicago for delay of game, thus penalizing the Bears when Rex Grossman (pronounced "polamalu") was intercepted on a play that should've never happened. Good work, men.
In a statement that appeared to have been written by Colts' QB Peyton Manning, the league's real head of officiating, Mike Pereira, fessed up...that someone else made a mistake. Pereira acknowledged that referee Pete Morelli botched the Polamalu play and announced that all four officiating teams from this weekend will be reassigned to the Memoir Research Division at Random House Publishers where they will edit all of James Frey's future manuscripts.
As for Manning, his psyche must be in a million little pieces today. And his big game failure is anything but random. With Manning ruling the roost, Indy laid an egg in an embarrassing 21-18 loss to Pittsburgh, wasting a 13-0 start to the season, home-field advantage throughout the playoffs, and another team (Denver) doing their dirty work by ousting their nemesis, New England.
Worse than underachieving on another postseason stage, the two-time NFL MVP threw his offensive line under the B-U-S, this after the Steelers' "Bus," Jerome Bettis, fumbled on the goal line, nearly giving the Colts an undeserved victory. In the postgame presser, Manning said he was trying to be a "good teammate" by not going into detail but only saying his line had "protection problems." Well, at least he tried. That's like the captain of the Titanic saying in his Purgatorial press conference, "I want to be a good crew member here. Let's just say we had some water control issues."
I'm a huge Peyton Manning fan. Have been since he played for Tennessee. But even the most shameless apologist can't ignore his stunning inability to beat the best opponents. I may've sneaked a glimpse into Manning's makeup during an ESPN profile Sunday morning. They showed some home video of the three Manning boys playing football in their backyard. Peyton's the middle of the three and was probably 7 in this particular footage. He was running with the ball when his older brother, Cooper, grabbed him by the collar trying to make a tackle. Peyton started whining, "You grabbed me like this! You can't do that!" From that five-second piece of video, I just got the sneaking suspicion he was one of those kids who was such a sore loser that he'd do whatever it took, like complaining about an illegal tackle, to make sure he won. I could see him playing basketball in the driveway and pretending he was taking the last shot to win a game, "3...2...1..." He'd miss but keep counting, "1..." and miss again and keep counting, "1..." until he made it. I'm not sure he's grown out of that.
Maybe it was being the middle kid and having an older brother who was a great athlete as Cooper was. Like he's always been trying to prove something but never quite can. So when he'd win, he'd happily share the glory with teammates because he was inwardly fulfilled. But losing made him feel like such a failure inside, he couldn't stand the double whammy of others thinking he was to blame, so he'd find a scapegoat. Of course, the grown up Manning is media savvy enough to know you can't blatantly call out your teammates, so he gave the "good teammate" line. But in reality, he was being exactly the opposite. And those O-lineman won't forget it.
That psychoanalysis was free of charge. Now back to the sarcasm.
Almost as spoiled a sport as Manning was Patriots' coach Bill Belichick in the aftermath of his team's bid for a third straight Super Bowl being derailed by the Broncos, 27-13. Granted, he's not Tony Robbins in the best of times. But that sour puss series of one-word, p.o.'d, smart alecky answers was an embarrassment to the otherwise classy dynasty he's helped create.
Then there's Tony Dungy. How many truly gentle men have coached Super Bowl champions? Tom Landry (1972) comes to mind and maybe...Tom Landry (1978). Seems like more often, the best coaches are the spaz (see Jon Gruden and Brian Billick) or the cold-blooded dictators (Bill Parcells, Jimmy Johnson, et al). I hope Dungy gets a ring someday. He's everything good about sports in a day when so much isn't. But I'm beginning to wonder if that style resonates in such a violent sport.
Goofiest Postgame Quote of the weekend goes to Colts' kicker Mike Vanderjagt, whose last-minute attempt to tie the game went further right than Jesse Helms (who actually couldn't have done any worse): "From the Polamalu interception reversal to Jerome's fumble, everything seemed to be lined up in our favor. I guess the Lord forgot about the football team." Just a suggestion, Mike: next time, try giving Him a little something to work with. He has a pretty good track record of widening the otherwise impassable, but that banana ball wouldn't have hit the Red Sea if you were standing next to Moses. The only bright spot for Vanderjagt was that his kick was so off-target, conspiracy theorists had no ammunition to suggest he threw the game.
So it's Panthers-Seahawks and Steelers-Broncos this weekend with the Super Bowl awaiting the winners. Brick Tamland's referees won't be doing the game, but he would like to extend to everyone an invitation to the pants party.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Right Of Passage
I was 10 when my blood turned Tennessee orange. My cousins from Jackson came to Nashville for Thanksgiving, bringing with them tickets to the Vols' "home" game at Vanderbilt. (Contrary to folk legend, Miles Standish did not offer the Wampanoag Indians that same bounty at the first Thanksgiving. The Vols were away that week.)
It was just one UT game, but I was hook-and-laddered. I'd been an Oakland Raiders fan my whole life, fulfilling every mother's dream of having her precious little lamb tack a Jack "The Assassin" Tatum poster up above Curious George. But suddenly, my Silver and Black Sundays were following Big Orange Saturdays. I'd rooted for both teams, through good times (three Super Bowls and a national championship) and bad (there aren't parentheses large enough to encompass just the Joe Bugel era alone), ever since.
Until now.
One weekend this past September, after staying up late on back-to-back nights watching my beloved teams lose to their archrivals while my true beloved went to bed without getting from me so much as a kiss goodnight, I decided I'd let my passion for pigskin override what really mattered: The Texas Rangers. Seriously, I couldn't justify the involuntary, physiological reactions to my teams' wins and losses any longer. The most common side effect was what my wife calls "getting splotchy." Sounds like something 50 Cent might do with one of his shorties, but it's actually the matching red patches that form on either side of my neck during especially tense moments - like the coin toss and TV timeouts - of Vols and Raiders games.
So, 26 years after that first Thanksgiving as a Tennessee fan, I made the decision to go cold turkey. Or at least lukewarm as far as the Vols were concerned. I would no longer watch games unless there was nothing else going on. And I'd quit rooting for the Raiders - whom my wife detests - all together. It was time to grow up.
That's when I got religion, specifically Catholicism. Kind of. On September 24, in a game against Washington, the game stats will show Notre Dame's first play from scrimmage was a 13-yard completion. What the numbers won't show is why the head coach of the Fighting Irish, Charlie Weis, chose to call a pass play from his own 1-yard line. The week before, Weis went to the home of Montana Mazurkiewicz (pronounced ma-zur-kie-wicz), a 10-year-old Notre Dame fan whom doctors said would never be an 11-year-old fan of the Irish because of an inoperable brain tumor.
Weis told the boy about his old college roommate at Notre Dame, Joe Montana, for whom Mazurkiewicz was named. The two talked football until the pain became too much for the boy. Before he left, Weis signed a football for young Montana and asked him if there was anything he could do for him. The two agreed that the boy could call Notre Dame's first offensive play that Saturday against Washington, which he did: "pass right."
Charlie Weis has one of the most brilliant minds in all of football, having served as offensive coordinator for the New England Patriots as they won three of the last four Super Bowls. But the greatest play he ever called wasn't a complex code of numbers and football mumbo jumbo. It was the simple request of a terminally-ill 10-year-old, "pass right."
Montana died the day before the game, but Weis kept his word. Yea, though his team walked in the shadow of its own end zone, Weis feared no evil. While conventional wisdom was screaming, "Run it up the gut!" Weis instead listened to his heart and called Montana's play.
Quarterback Brady Quinn rolled right and hit tight end Anthony Fasano for a 13-yard gain. The Irish won going away, 36-17, and afterward Weis had his players sign the game ball, which he later presented to the Mazurkiewicz family.
I felt like Michael Corleone in The Godfather III: "Just when I thought that I was out, they pull me back in!"
Stories like that one (the "pass right" thing, not The Godfather) remind me why I've always gotten so worked up over sporting events. The final score may not matter in the broader scope of world history, but how people get to those results often represent the best human beings have to offer one another.
Remember the scene from City Slickers when the guys are discussing baseball minutiae and Bonnie incredulously says, "I like baseball. I just don't memorize who played...third base for...Pittsburgh...in 1960", to which the guys immediately and in unison say, "Don Hoak!" She thinks that proves her point and proceeds to tell them that her friends and she talk about important things like relationships. Then Phil says, "All I know is that when I was 15 and my dad and I couldn't talk about anything, we could always talk about baseball."
It's true. For every tantrum I've thrown over my team losing a game, there've been a hundred tears spilled over something heart-wrenching like the time Waverly (Ohio) High School abandoned what should've been a shutout of Northwest High and let Jake Porter score a touchdown.
Why do I still remember where I was (at our house on Starsdale Road in Memphis), what I was wearing (my Oakland A's pajamas), and how old I was (4) the night I watched Brian's Song and bawled like a...well, like a 4-year-old when Billy Dee Williams-as-Gale Sayers said about his dying teammate and friend, "I love Brian Piccolo...and tonight, when you hit your knees, please ask God to love him." And why do I still tear up when I read that line?
I think it's because sports aren't inherently anything. They're merely a vehicle by which we see the best and worst in ourselves and each other.
So now, as the NFL playoffs begin, I'm wondering if giving up my favorite teams was a bit extreme. Maybe I should just wash down a chill pill with some decaf and try watching games like a kid again, enjoying them for what they are instead of making them a matter of life-and-death. Death is what happened to Indianapolis Colts' coach Tony Dungy's eldest son three days before Christmas. No victory in and of itself - not even a Super Bowl title - can stanch Dungy's grief. What might be meaningful, though, is the relationship he has with his players and coaches and the journey they take together.
And that idea's worth cheering for. No matter how old you are or what color your blood runs.
It was just one UT game, but I was hook-and-laddered. I'd been an Oakland Raiders fan my whole life, fulfilling every mother's dream of having her precious little lamb tack a Jack "The Assassin" Tatum poster up above Curious George. But suddenly, my Silver and Black Sundays were following Big Orange Saturdays. I'd rooted for both teams, through good times (three Super Bowls and a national championship) and bad (there aren't parentheses large enough to encompass just the Joe Bugel era alone), ever since.
Until now.
One weekend this past September, after staying up late on back-to-back nights watching my beloved teams lose to their archrivals while my true beloved went to bed without getting from me so much as a kiss goodnight, I decided I'd let my passion for pigskin override what really mattered: The Texas Rangers. Seriously, I couldn't justify the involuntary, physiological reactions to my teams' wins and losses any longer. The most common side effect was what my wife calls "getting splotchy." Sounds like something 50 Cent might do with one of his shorties, but it's actually the matching red patches that form on either side of my neck during especially tense moments - like the coin toss and TV timeouts - of Vols and Raiders games.
So, 26 years after that first Thanksgiving as a Tennessee fan, I made the decision to go cold turkey. Or at least lukewarm as far as the Vols were concerned. I would no longer watch games unless there was nothing else going on. And I'd quit rooting for the Raiders - whom my wife detests - all together. It was time to grow up.
That's when I got religion, specifically Catholicism. Kind of. On September 24, in a game against Washington, the game stats will show Notre Dame's first play from scrimmage was a 13-yard completion. What the numbers won't show is why the head coach of the Fighting Irish, Charlie Weis, chose to call a pass play from his own 1-yard line. The week before, Weis went to the home of Montana Mazurkiewicz (pronounced ma-zur-kie-wicz), a 10-year-old Notre Dame fan whom doctors said would never be an 11-year-old fan of the Irish because of an inoperable brain tumor.
Weis told the boy about his old college roommate at Notre Dame, Joe Montana, for whom Mazurkiewicz was named. The two talked football until the pain became too much for the boy. Before he left, Weis signed a football for young Montana and asked him if there was anything he could do for him. The two agreed that the boy could call Notre Dame's first offensive play that Saturday against Washington, which he did: "pass right."
Charlie Weis has one of the most brilliant minds in all of football, having served as offensive coordinator for the New England Patriots as they won three of the last four Super Bowls. But the greatest play he ever called wasn't a complex code of numbers and football mumbo jumbo. It was the simple request of a terminally-ill 10-year-old, "pass right."
Montana died the day before the game, but Weis kept his word. Yea, though his team walked in the shadow of its own end zone, Weis feared no evil. While conventional wisdom was screaming, "Run it up the gut!" Weis instead listened to his heart and called Montana's play.
Quarterback Brady Quinn rolled right and hit tight end Anthony Fasano for a 13-yard gain. The Irish won going away, 36-17, and afterward Weis had his players sign the game ball, which he later presented to the Mazurkiewicz family.
I felt like Michael Corleone in The Godfather III: "Just when I thought that I was out, they pull me back in!"
Stories like that one (the "pass right" thing, not The Godfather) remind me why I've always gotten so worked up over sporting events. The final score may not matter in the broader scope of world history, but how people get to those results often represent the best human beings have to offer one another.
Remember the scene from City Slickers when the guys are discussing baseball minutiae and Bonnie incredulously says, "I like baseball. I just don't memorize who played...third base for...Pittsburgh...in 1960", to which the guys immediately and in unison say, "Don Hoak!" She thinks that proves her point and proceeds to tell them that her friends and she talk about important things like relationships. Then Phil says, "All I know is that when I was 15 and my dad and I couldn't talk about anything, we could always talk about baseball."
It's true. For every tantrum I've thrown over my team losing a game, there've been a hundred tears spilled over something heart-wrenching like the time Waverly (Ohio) High School abandoned what should've been a shutout of Northwest High and let Jake Porter score a touchdown.
Why do I still remember where I was (at our house on Starsdale Road in Memphis), what I was wearing (my Oakland A's pajamas), and how old I was (4) the night I watched Brian's Song and bawled like a...well, like a 4-year-old when Billy Dee Williams-as-Gale Sayers said about his dying teammate and friend, "I love Brian Piccolo...and tonight, when you hit your knees, please ask God to love him." And why do I still tear up when I read that line?I think it's because sports aren't inherently anything. They're merely a vehicle by which we see the best and worst in ourselves and each other.
So now, as the NFL playoffs begin, I'm wondering if giving up my favorite teams was a bit extreme. Maybe I should just wash down a chill pill with some decaf and try watching games like a kid again, enjoying them for what they are instead of making them a matter of life-and-death. Death is what happened to Indianapolis Colts' coach Tony Dungy's eldest son three days before Christmas. No victory in and of itself - not even a Super Bowl title - can stanch Dungy's grief. What might be meaningful, though, is the relationship he has with his players and coaches and the journey they take together.
And that idea's worth cheering for. No matter how old you are or what color your blood runs.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
'Tis The Season...For A Good Chainsaw Massacre
The Christmas spirit is alive and well at your local Sonic restaurants. When a carhop brought my lunch yesterday, I greeted him with a hearty "How's it goin'?" To which he replied,
"Oh, I'm here...course I'd rather be home...watching a scary movie...lying in bed..."
(Students of literature will instantly recognize this line as the original ending to Clement Moore's Twas the Night Before Christmas.)
I gave him an awkward retort about having a happy holiday, bid him farewell, and immediately checked to see what "extra toppings" he may have added to my burger. I'm pretty sure those were mushrooms.
It truly is the most wonderful time of the year.
"Oh, I'm here...course I'd rather be home...watching a scary movie...lying in bed..."
(Students of literature will instantly recognize this line as the original ending to Clement Moore's Twas the Night Before Christmas.)
I gave him an awkward retort about having a happy holiday, bid him farewell, and immediately checked to see what "extra toppings" he may have added to my burger. I'm pretty sure those were mushrooms.
It truly is the most wonderful time of the year.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Shop of Fools
To those of you who got up in the middle of the night to hit the stores for the best after-Thanksgiving-Day deals, I say,
You greedy, materialistic fools!
And also,
Stop shoving! I was here first!
Okay, so I was among the heathen venturing out this morning at 0-dark-30. But I was on assignment for the boone box. Make that Mrs. boone box and the boone box estate.
I pulled up to Best Buy at 4:55 a.m., five minutes prior to the doors opening. It was 40 degrees outside. I can't give you an exact count of how many people were already in line, but I can report that toward the back they had collected precious metals, melted them, and fashioned the bullion into a golden calf. (If you hurry, you can get the calf now for 75% off.)
From inside my truck, I waited the line out a good five minutes before searching for a bit of sanity, namely Starbucks, which had mercifully opened a half-hour early to caffeinate the living dead. From there, it was off to Wal-Mart where the rest of Abilene had surfaced.
Let me pause for a moment to recap the sartorial state of affairs. Most folks hadn't bothered to make themselves especially presentable. In their defense, it's tough to find clothes that match in the dark. There were a few of the female persuasion, however, that clearly had put some effort into their look. Which means they would've had to get up around dinner time the night before to get ready.
I should use this occasion to point out that no article of clothing signifies the give-up more than the visor, which yours truly was jocularly sporting. Wearing no headgear would indicate a lack of interest in what anyone thought of my appearance. The visor was actually flaunting my indifference. My hair - as I discovered from the reflection off a car window en route to join the Israelites - had a disturbing likeness to an electrocuted Chia pet. But somehow, in my pre-dawn cognition, I'd come to believe the visor was propitiation, covering over a multitude of misplaced hair, like a pated panacea. Not only was no one impressed with my effort, one lady actually gave me a quarter and wished me happy holidays.
Having finally gained entry into Best Buy, the salesman struggled to suppress his laughter when I asked if they still had any of the items I was after. They had just sold out...about 2 hours before.
Me: That's 4:30. I thought you weren't open 'til 5.
Sales guy: We weren't. But we handed out tickets to people in line who wanted that item.
Me: Were people here early?
Sales guy: The line began forming at 7 o'clock last night.
It's one of those tender Thanksgiving traditions that hearkens back to the original meal. After sharing their bounty with the Indians, Miles Standish led the pilgrims to the doorstep of Looms N' Things where they waited all night for the New World's first clearance sale.
As I walked out, I looked at the other customers and couldn't help but think again of Harry and Lloyd...
Harry: So you got fired again, eh?
Lloyd: Yeah...
Harry: I lost my job today, too.
Lloyd: Man, you are one pathetic loser.
I was dumb to get up that early. But dumber if I do it again.
You greedy, materialistic fools!
And also,
Stop shoving! I was here first!
Okay, so I was among the heathen venturing out this morning at 0-dark-30. But I was on assignment for the boone box. Make that Mrs. boone box and the boone box estate.
I pulled up to Best Buy at 4:55 a.m., five minutes prior to the doors opening. It was 40 degrees outside. I can't give you an exact count of how many people were already in line, but I can report that toward the back they had collected precious metals, melted them, and fashioned the bullion into a golden calf. (If you hurry, you can get the calf now for 75% off.)
From inside my truck, I waited the line out a good five minutes before searching for a bit of sanity, namely Starbucks, which had mercifully opened a half-hour early to caffeinate the living dead. From there, it was off to Wal-Mart where the rest of Abilene had surfaced.
Let me pause for a moment to recap the sartorial state of affairs. Most folks hadn't bothered to make themselves especially presentable. In their defense, it's tough to find clothes that match in the dark. There were a few of the female persuasion, however, that clearly had put some effort into their look. Which means they would've had to get up around dinner time the night before to get ready.
I should use this occasion to point out that no article of clothing signifies the give-up more than the visor, which yours truly was jocularly sporting. Wearing no headgear would indicate a lack of interest in what anyone thought of my appearance. The visor was actually flaunting my indifference. My hair - as I discovered from the reflection off a car window en route to join the Israelites - had a disturbing likeness to an electrocuted Chia pet. But somehow, in my pre-dawn cognition, I'd come to believe the visor was propitiation, covering over a multitude of misplaced hair, like a pated panacea. Not only was no one impressed with my effort, one lady actually gave me a quarter and wished me happy holidays.
Having finally gained entry into Best Buy, the salesman struggled to suppress his laughter when I asked if they still had any of the items I was after. They had just sold out...about 2 hours before.
Me: That's 4:30. I thought you weren't open 'til 5.
Sales guy: We weren't. But we handed out tickets to people in line who wanted that item.
Me: Were people here early?
Sales guy: The line began forming at 7 o'clock last night.
It's one of those tender Thanksgiving traditions that hearkens back to the original meal. After sharing their bounty with the Indians, Miles Standish led the pilgrims to the doorstep of Looms N' Things where they waited all night for the New World's first clearance sale.
As I walked out, I looked at the other customers and couldn't help but think again of Harry and Lloyd...
Harry: So you got fired again, eh?
Lloyd: Yeah...
Harry: I lost my job today, too.
Lloyd: Man, you are one pathetic loser.
I was dumb to get up that early. But dumber if I do it again.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
The sign outside the church down the street from us reads:
Tell the truth. Then you don't have to worry about what you said.
See, I disagree. For example, if a wife asks her husband,
"Do these jeans make my hips look big?"
and he replies,
"I can't really see your hips because of your massive hiney,"
even if he's telling the truth, I think he'll still have something to worry about.
Tell the truth. Then you don't have to worry about what you said.
See, I disagree. For example, if a wife asks her husband,
"Do these jeans make my hips look big?"
and he replies,
"I can't really see your hips because of your massive hiney,"
even if he's telling the truth, I think he'll still have something to worry about.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Desperate 'Haus-Wife
The marriage between Terrell Owens and the Philadelphia Eagles has - as you may have heard - gone the way of Chesney-Zellweger. After several months of petulant behavior and publicly dissing teammates and coaches, most recently saying in an interview that the Eagles would be undefeated if Brett Favre was their quarterback instead of Donovan McNabb, the team - surprise! - finally had enough and suspended their star receiver, telling Owens and the world that he wouldn't play again this season.
Harry: So you got fired today?
Lloyd: Yeah, they always freak out when you leave the scene of an accident, you know?
Tuesday, the NFL's version of Dumb and Dumber - Owens and his agent, Drew Rosenhaus, a man with all the sincerity of a felonious televangelist - appeared at a press conference to express remorse (Owens) and outrage (Rosenhaus) that T.O. now stood for Time Out. Owens "just wants to play football"...now that he can't.
How ironic that this comes the week of a Monday Night Football game between the Eagles and Cowboys. I'm trying to remember what happened the last time these two met on a Monday night, but the FCC has erased it from my memory. Oh, yes! The infamous locker room teat-a-teat with an ostensibly naked Nicolette Sheridan of Desperate Housewives, which ends with Sheridan dropping her sopping wet towel and Owens telling the Eagles they'll have to do without him for that game.
Turns out, the idea of Owens bailing on his team wasn't sketch comedy but merely portents of things to come. In fact, had it been a woman for whom he had betrayed his team, he may have had a few more sympathizers. But T.O. is apparently in love with himself. And this time, his coach, Andy Reid, is the one throwing in the towel.
(Good luck today trying to ctrl + alt + del the mental jpeg of Andy Reid naked...)
Harry: So you got fired today?
Lloyd: Yeah, they always freak out when you leave the scene of an accident, you know?
Tuesday, the NFL's version of Dumb and Dumber - Owens and his agent, Drew Rosenhaus, a man with all the sincerity of a felonious televangelist - appeared at a press conference to express remorse (Owens) and outrage (Rosenhaus) that T.O. now stood for Time Out. Owens "just wants to play football"...now that he can't.
How ironic that this comes the week of a Monday Night Football game between the Eagles and Cowboys. I'm trying to remember what happened the last time these two met on a Monday night, but the FCC has erased it from my memory. Oh, yes! The infamous locker room teat-a-teat with an ostensibly naked Nicolette Sheridan of Desperate Housewives, which ends with Sheridan dropping her sopping wet towel and Owens telling the Eagles they'll have to do without him for that game.
Turns out, the idea of Owens bailing on his team wasn't sketch comedy but merely portents of things to come. In fact, had it been a woman for whom he had betrayed his team, he may have had a few more sympathizers. But T.O. is apparently in love with himself. And this time, his coach, Andy Reid, is the one throwing in the towel.
(Good luck today trying to ctrl + alt + del the mental jpeg of Andy Reid naked...)
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Regarding Sodom: Who's Sane?
When I was broadcasting tournaments for The Golf Channel, we used to giggle at the prospect of Brian Gay, Dicky Pride, and Glen Day playing in the same group, thus giving us the Gay-Pride-Day threesome. Something tells me the gag would be lost on Fred Phelps.
He's the pastor of the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas, and I use all of the aforementioned terms - he, pastor, and Westboro Baptist Church - loosely. That's the "church" which, under Phelps' direction, has understood the mission of Christ to mean picketing at the funerals of people like Matthew Shepard, the young man from Wyoming who was fatally beaten many years ago primarily because he was gay. Phelps and company used the funeral as an opportunity to inform grieving family members that Shepard was now in hell and that he had an eternity of suffering to look forward to. In fact, you can find a jaunty memorial to Shepard's entry into hell - complete with a running total of how many days he's been there and a sound file of someone pretending to be Shepard screaming in torment - on the church website, the address of which is www.godhatesfags.com.
(Editor's Note: "Fag" is a favorite term of Phelps and his churchfolk, who are quick to note that these reprobates are not living a lifestyle that honors God, as laid forth in Scripture. What's interesting to me is that both "Matthew" and a variation of "Shepard" are found in my Bible. "Fag" is not.)
At that website, you'll also discover that Billy Graham is a modern-day Judas; find out that God is America's terrorist now, using natural disasters and other means to punish the U.S. for its collective sin; and learn of opportunities where you can join the church in picketing at the funerals of fallen U.S. soldiers to inform those families that their loved ones have also begun a slow burn. Mainly, though, the site and apparently Phelps, himself, are dedicated to the notion that homosexuality is the one sin that really gets God's dander up.
Phelps doesn't care what you or anyone else thinks about him. His mission is to "preach the gospel" at whatever cost.
Let me say this to those readers who already had a bad taste in their mouths about religion: please don't lump us in with people such as Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church who twist Scripture into whatever they want it to be and then use it as a weapon. We're not all like them. Some of us are worse.
He's the pastor of the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas, and I use all of the aforementioned terms - he, pastor, and Westboro Baptist Church - loosely. That's the "church" which, under Phelps' direction, has understood the mission of Christ to mean picketing at the funerals of people like Matthew Shepard, the young man from Wyoming who was fatally beaten many years ago primarily because he was gay. Phelps and company used the funeral as an opportunity to inform grieving family members that Shepard was now in hell and that he had an eternity of suffering to look forward to. In fact, you can find a jaunty memorial to Shepard's entry into hell - complete with a running total of how many days he's been there and a sound file of someone pretending to be Shepard screaming in torment - on the church website, the address of which is www.godhatesfags.com.
(Editor's Note: "Fag" is a favorite term of Phelps and his churchfolk, who are quick to note that these reprobates are not living a lifestyle that honors God, as laid forth in Scripture. What's interesting to me is that both "Matthew" and a variation of "Shepard" are found in my Bible. "Fag" is not.)
At that website, you'll also discover that Billy Graham is a modern-day Judas; find out that God is America's terrorist now, using natural disasters and other means to punish the U.S. for its collective sin; and learn of opportunities where you can join the church in picketing at the funerals of fallen U.S. soldiers to inform those families that their loved ones have also begun a slow burn. Mainly, though, the site and apparently Phelps, himself, are dedicated to the notion that homosexuality is the one sin that really gets God's dander up.
Phelps doesn't care what you or anyone else thinks about him. His mission is to "preach the gospel" at whatever cost.
Let me say this to those readers who already had a bad taste in their mouths about religion: please don't lump us in with people such as Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church who twist Scripture into whatever they want it to be and then use it as a weapon. We're not all like them. Some of us are worse.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Inquiring Minds Want To Know
The magazine cover featured two subjects, arm in arm and surrounded by water as the headline screamed,
"What Went Wrong?"
In times of national crisis, it is incumbent on America's journalists to ask the tough questions and discover the truth. Our forefathers died for the freedom of an investigative press. That and a dependable Best and Worst Dressed List.
That's why I salute People Magazine for getting to the bottom of the Kenny Chesney-Renee Zellweger marriage annulment. America thanks you.
Here's another question: did anyone really expect these nuptials to survive Daylight Savings Time? What went wrong? How 'bout Zellweger saying "yes" when Chesney first asked her out?
And did you see the reason given for the divorce? Fraud! Really? You mean these performers might have pretended to be people they really aren't? Didn't see that one coming. Whatever you do, though, please don't tell my wife that fraud is a legitimate cause for divorce. The judge would have his decision made before his robe wrinkled.
As we collectively mourn this national tragedy, we would all do well to remember the words of Patrick Henry, who once said, "Give me Liberty or give me death...or at the very least give me The 50 Most Beautiful People Latin Edition..."
---
When Obi met Barbie...
She's learned Bionicles and baseball by following her big brothers; she's learned pink and pretty by following her heart. Here's how Anna Claire resolves the two:
Amy: Anna Claire, what do you think you could be for Halloween?
AC (age 3): A princess!
Amy: What could the boys be?
AC: Um, maybe my bodyguards?
---
You may have read where several members of the New York Yankees questioned the Texas Rangers for taking their best players out early so they could get standing ovations from the home fans in the last game of the year against the L.A. Angels, a game the Angels won and, in so doing, clinched home-field advantage against the Yanks in the first round of the playoffs. Had the Rangers won, New York would've had home-field.
Memo to the Yankees: Your payroll is roughly the GDP of Belgium. Try mixing in an extra win here and there rather than asking a bottom feeder to do your dirty work.
---
Basic math tells me the difference between 6 and 36 is 30. But conversations like this one between a 6-year-old boy and his 36-year-old dad lead me to believe the distance is much greater.
Nicholas: We talked about things that are green today at school, and I said the Green Bay Packers.
Me (as I made a left turn): What else did you all come up with? A green light?
Nicholas: No.
Me: How about money?
Nicholas: No.
Me: What then?
Nicholas: Grass, leaves, a bush, and a frog.
Isn't jade a shade of green? I like his list better.
"What Went Wrong?"
In times of national crisis, it is incumbent on America's journalists to ask the tough questions and discover the truth. Our forefathers died for the freedom of an investigative press. That and a dependable Best and Worst Dressed List.
That's why I salute People Magazine for getting to the bottom of the Kenny Chesney-Renee Zellweger marriage annulment. America thanks you.
Here's another question: did anyone really expect these nuptials to survive Daylight Savings Time? What went wrong? How 'bout Zellweger saying "yes" when Chesney first asked her out?
And did you see the reason given for the divorce? Fraud! Really? You mean these performers might have pretended to be people they really aren't? Didn't see that one coming. Whatever you do, though, please don't tell my wife that fraud is a legitimate cause for divorce. The judge would have his decision made before his robe wrinkled.
As we collectively mourn this national tragedy, we would all do well to remember the words of Patrick Henry, who once said, "Give me Liberty or give me death...or at the very least give me The 50 Most Beautiful People Latin Edition..."
---
When Obi met Barbie...
She's learned Bionicles and baseball by following her big brothers; she's learned pink and pretty by following her heart. Here's how Anna Claire resolves the two:
Amy: Anna Claire, what do you think you could be for Halloween?
AC (age 3): A princess!
Amy: What could the boys be?
AC: Um, maybe my bodyguards?
---
You may have read where several members of the New York Yankees questioned the Texas Rangers for taking their best players out early so they could get standing ovations from the home fans in the last game of the year against the L.A. Angels, a game the Angels won and, in so doing, clinched home-field advantage against the Yanks in the first round of the playoffs. Had the Rangers won, New York would've had home-field.
Memo to the Yankees: Your payroll is roughly the GDP of Belgium. Try mixing in an extra win here and there rather than asking a bottom feeder to do your dirty work.
---
Basic math tells me the difference between 6 and 36 is 30. But conversations like this one between a 6-year-old boy and his 36-year-old dad lead me to believe the distance is much greater.
Nicholas: We talked about things that are green today at school, and I said the Green Bay Packers.
Me (as I made a left turn): What else did you all come up with? A green light?
Nicholas: No.
Me: How about money?
Nicholas: No.
Me: What then?
Nicholas: Grass, leaves, a bush, and a frog.
Isn't jade a shade of green? I like his list better.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Gno Chiled Lepht Beehined
Jodie Foster stars in a new thriller called Flightplan, which according to the trailer is about a woman who can't find her kid on an airplane.
Here's a nugget the major entertainment outlets won't give you: this film was inspired by the time my family drove to Florida and left my sister at an Exxon. The working title of the film was Urinal, but I think they thought Flightplan sounded a little more, I don't know, antiseptic.
---
Kinky Friedman, the self-proclaimed Jewish cowboy who is running for governor of Texas in 2006, truly puts the guber in gubernatorial candidate. And if the election were held today, he'd get my vote. Some of my favorite quotes from his website, www.kinkyfriedman.com:
I’m a Jew, I’ll hire good people.
If elected, I would ask Willie Nelson to be the head of the Texas Rangers and Energy Czar and Laura Bush to take charge of the Texas Peace Corps to improve education in the state.
I’d ask my Palestinian hairdresser, Farouk Shami, to be Texas’ ambassador to Israel. We’ve worked together to create Farouk & Friedman olive oil. The oil comes from the Holy land and all of the profits go to benefit Israeli and Palestinian children.
Our icons are being demeaned. Cowboys are no longer heroes for our children, but subject to derision. We are being laughed at instead of respected in the rest of the country. What has happened to our glorious heritage? This is the great state of Texas! We are not wusses, we are Texans. We will beat back the wussification of Texas if we have to do it one wuss at a time!
The professionals gave us the Titanic, amateurs gave us the Ark.
My new mantra is "Go Kinky in 2006!"
---
Saw something on a plane the other day that you almost never see: an elderly man with a goatee.
---
It was poetic justice that Jason Gore won the 84 Lumber Classic the other day. That was the same number he shot in the final round of the U.S. Open to fall from second place to 49th. At the time, he was a journeyman pro who became the people's choice to win at Pinehurst with a grin as wide as the Open fairways. Since then, he's won three times on the Nationwide Tour - which earned him an instant promotion to the PGA TOUR - and now his first PGA TOUR event.
On Sunday at Pinehurst, the darkhorse spit the bit. Last week at the 84 Lumber, Gore brought the wood.
---
It's a toss-up as to which has had a more deleterious effect on church growth: the people inside the church or the signs out front.
I've seen the following "marquees de sade" near our house in the last week:
Fight like a real man...
Down on your knee's in prayer
On your knee's? Your knee's what? Your knee's cap?
At least that church got its message out in a timely manner, thus parrying the thrust of this purl uv wizdum from another congregation:
Procrastion is the thief of time
Come again? A better question might be, "What thief stole the rest of the letters needed to spell procrastination?" They left out "t-i-n-a." Where's tina? Poor girl. Maybe she's with Jodie Foster's kid. Or maybe they know they misspelled the word and just haven't gotten around to correcting it.
Where were these people trained? Quayle Theological Simminairy?
And after 2,000 years are signs really the best we can do as the people of God? It seems a lot like Seinfeld's observation that men, as a species, have found nothing more creative over the last several millenia than whistling at women, vis-a-vis va-va-voom, if you know what I mean.
If you must resort to signage as a tool for evangelism, how about something like,
Can we have a mulligan?
or
For the record, we neither advocate Pat Robertson nor the assassination of the President of Venezuela.
Even Outback's catchphrase would work,
No rules. Just right.
And then maybe serve up free steak and a Bloomin' Onion as a peace offering. Just promise me you'll mix in a quick spellcheck and some decent punctuation. Call me crazy, but I don't think poor grammar and butchering the king's English are what Paul had in mind when he suggested we be fools for Christ.
Here's a nugget the major entertainment outlets won't give you: this film was inspired by the time my family drove to Florida and left my sister at an Exxon. The working title of the film was Urinal, but I think they thought Flightplan sounded a little more, I don't know, antiseptic.
---
Kinky Friedman, the self-proclaimed Jewish cowboy who is running for governor of Texas in 2006, truly puts the guber in gubernatorial candidate. And if the election were held today, he'd get my vote. Some of my favorite quotes from his website, www.kinkyfriedman.com:I’m a Jew, I’ll hire good people.
If elected, I would ask Willie Nelson to be the head of the Texas Rangers and Energy Czar and Laura Bush to take charge of the Texas Peace Corps to improve education in the state.
I’d ask my Palestinian hairdresser, Farouk Shami, to be Texas’ ambassador to Israel. We’ve worked together to create Farouk & Friedman olive oil. The oil comes from the Holy land and all of the profits go to benefit Israeli and Palestinian children.
Our icons are being demeaned. Cowboys are no longer heroes for our children, but subject to derision. We are being laughed at instead of respected in the rest of the country. What has happened to our glorious heritage? This is the great state of Texas! We are not wusses, we are Texans. We will beat back the wussification of Texas if we have to do it one wuss at a time!
The professionals gave us the Titanic, amateurs gave us the Ark.
My new mantra is "Go Kinky in 2006!"
---
Saw something on a plane the other day that you almost never see: an elderly man with a goatee.
---
It was poetic justice that Jason Gore won the 84 Lumber Classic the other day. That was the same number he shot in the final round of the U.S. Open to fall from second place to 49th. At the time, he was a journeyman pro who became the people's choice to win at Pinehurst with a grin as wide as the Open fairways. Since then, he's won three times on the Nationwide Tour - which earned him an instant promotion to the PGA TOUR - and now his first PGA TOUR event.
On Sunday at Pinehurst, the darkhorse spit the bit. Last week at the 84 Lumber, Gore brought the wood.
---
It's a toss-up as to which has had a more deleterious effect on church growth: the people inside the church or the signs out front.
I've seen the following "marquees de sade" near our house in the last week:
Fight like a real man...
Down on your knee's in prayer
On your knee's? Your knee's what? Your knee's cap?
At least that church got its message out in a timely manner, thus parrying the thrust of this purl uv wizdum from another congregation:
Procrastion is the thief of time
Come again? A better question might be, "What thief stole the rest of the letters needed to spell procrastination?" They left out "t-i-n-a." Where's tina? Poor girl. Maybe she's with Jodie Foster's kid. Or maybe they know they misspelled the word and just haven't gotten around to correcting it.
Where were these people trained? Quayle Theological Simminairy?
And after 2,000 years are signs really the best we can do as the people of God? It seems a lot like Seinfeld's observation that men, as a species, have found nothing more creative over the last several millenia than whistling at women, vis-a-vis va-va-voom, if you know what I mean.
If you must resort to signage as a tool for evangelism, how about something like,
Can we have a mulligan?
or
For the record, we neither advocate Pat Robertson nor the assassination of the President of Venezuela.
Even Outback's catchphrase would work,
No rules. Just right.
And then maybe serve up free steak and a Bloomin' Onion as a peace offering. Just promise me you'll mix in a quick spellcheck and some decent punctuation. Call me crazy, but I don't think poor grammar and butchering the king's English are what Paul had in mind when he suggested we be fools for Christ.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Just Wince, Baby
Heading into the home stretch of the NFL season, my beloved Oakland Raiders have positioned themselves for an exciting playoff run. With just 15 games to go, the Silver and Black have moved to within a half game of first place in the AFC West.
They lost a tough one Thursday night to the two-time defending Super Bowl champion Patriots, 30-20. On the bright side, Randy Moss didn't smoke a single joint or fake moon anyone in the crowd. He's obviously matured a lot since two weeks ago when he said he was still, as the youngsters like to say, "burning lettuce."
---
Every time I'm in an airport, I'm reminded of how relatively few people in the world I really know. Today at DFW, for instance, the only people who looked even vaguely familiar were a guy wearing a fluorescent, lime green suit (just his face, I don't know any suits like that) and possibly either Siegfried or Roy. I can never keep those two straight. The one I think I saw is the effeminate one.
---
Again proving how much pull I have among golf's movers and shakers, Nancy Lopez heard my call to select teenage sensations Michelle Wie and Morgan Pressel as her captain's picks for the United States Solheim Cup team against Europe...and instead chose Beth Daniel and Wendy Ward. Both of those ladies are friends of mine and great players, but neither unfortunately will make anyone want to watch that wasn't already planning to. Which begs the question, if Europe falls on the golf course Sunday and no one sees it, will it make a sound? And this, if the two pregnant players in the competition - Laura Diaz for the U.S. and Iben Tinning for Europe - play each other, is it singles or doubles?
---
Like most of us, I'm always looking for ways to have fun at the expense of others. My latest diversion is actually just that. When a really attractive woman walks by, rather than going all Jimmy Carter on her, I instead focus on how other men in the room respond. Their reactions are as varied as the men, themselves...actually, there's not much variety there. Most guys are pervs.
Nonetheless, some have no shame and blatantly go "full ogle." Others attempt to be a bit more surreptitious and sneak their peeks. (These are usually your otherwise more upstanding citizens.) For me, it's the best of both worlds: not only do I stay clean, I get to see how stupid I used to look.
So, fellas, next time Lady Lust comes calling, keep your eyes on the guys. You might just spot a celebrity like Siegfried...or is it Roy?
They lost a tough one Thursday night to the two-time defending Super Bowl champion Patriots, 30-20. On the bright side, Randy Moss didn't smoke a single joint or fake moon anyone in the crowd. He's obviously matured a lot since two weeks ago when he said he was still, as the youngsters like to say, "burning lettuce."
---
Every time I'm in an airport, I'm reminded of how relatively few people in the world I really know. Today at DFW, for instance, the only people who looked even vaguely familiar were a guy wearing a fluorescent, lime green suit (just his face, I don't know any suits like that) and possibly either Siegfried or Roy. I can never keep those two straight. The one I think I saw is the effeminate one.---
Again proving how much pull I have among golf's movers and shakers, Nancy Lopez heard my call to select teenage sensations Michelle Wie and Morgan Pressel as her captain's picks for the United States Solheim Cup team against Europe...and instead chose Beth Daniel and Wendy Ward. Both of those ladies are friends of mine and great players, but neither unfortunately will make anyone want to watch that wasn't already planning to. Which begs the question, if Europe falls on the golf course Sunday and no one sees it, will it make a sound? And this, if the two pregnant players in the competition - Laura Diaz for the U.S. and Iben Tinning for Europe - play each other, is it singles or doubles?
---
Like most of us, I'm always looking for ways to have fun at the expense of others. My latest diversion is actually just that. When a really attractive woman walks by, rather than going all Jimmy Carter on her, I instead focus on how other men in the room respond. Their reactions are as varied as the men, themselves...actually, there's not much variety there. Most guys are pervs.
Nonetheless, some have no shame and blatantly go "full ogle." Others attempt to be a bit more surreptitious and sneak their peeks. (These are usually your otherwise more upstanding citizens.) For me, it's the best of both worlds: not only do I stay clean, I get to see how stupid I used to look.
So, fellas, next time Lady Lust comes calling, keep your eyes on the guys. You might just spot a celebrity like Siegfried...or is it Roy?
Monday, September 05, 2005
Domino Effect
I keep waking up hoping to discover everything I've seen on TV the last seven days was a dream, like the ones where I'm in a musical and don't know any of the songs (as if that would be the only obstacle to my being in a musical) or where I'm sitting in a radio control room ready to read a sportscast, only to realize I have no copy so I make it up. (Many who used to listen me in real life had the suspicion I was doing just that.)
And I must admit some of what I've witnessed is no less weird than the stuff of my dreams. Fats Domino alights at the home of LSU quarterback JaMarcus Russell? What?! The Fats Domino? He hasn't been dead for like 30 years? How have I not known he's been alive all this time? And how does he not have his own reality show? This sounds exactly like one of my sportscasting nightmares...
"With the latest sports, I'm Grant Boone. The LSU Tigers moved their game to Blueberry Hill today where quarterback JaMarcus Russell - usually called on to pass - found his thrill when he caught pop music legend Fats Domino...
...also I'm not wearing pants."
That surreal moment was topped only by Fox News reporter Molly Henneberg's interview Sunday night with Baton Rouge Mayor Kip Holden.
Henneberg: "I understand you have a VIP coming here to Baton Rouge tomorrow!"
Holden: "Yes, John Travolta will be here to help with some of the relief efforts..."
Henneberg, interrupting: "No, I meant the big visitor..."
Holden, realizing his mistake: "Oh, I'm sorry, Oprah's coming to do a show..."
Almost defeated, Henneberg: "Isn't the President coming tomorrow?"
Holden: "You're right, yes, Mr. Bush will be here..."
Hey, who's W compared to Vinnie Barbarino?
Here's hoping those left in the wake of Katrina and the Waves have sweet dreams tonight.
---
You've heard it a million times, but the old cliche is worth repeating: "Never relieve yourself in a friend's backyard unless you're sure he still lives there."
---
I don't know about you, but there is enough stress in my life without my electronic gas pump admonishing me to "Remove Card Quickly." Is it really that desperate?
---
I congratulate the creator of the automated hand dryer, but give me paper towels any ol' day. Except for the revolving cloth diaper gizmo. I just threw up in my mouth thinking about it.
---
I know what you're asking yourself, and the answer is yes: I do get a little teary whenever I hear "House at Pooh Corner" by Loggins & Messina.
---
Saw where the turf at Fenway Park was torn up by a recent Rolling Stones concert. Shouldn't we expect large quantities of grass to be consumed at such events?
---
Finally, I think some people take too seriously the metaphor of the church as a body. I met a guy Sunday whose behavior bore an unmistakable resemblance to a certain gluteal part of the anatomy. Ain't that a shame?
And I must admit some of what I've witnessed is no less weird than the stuff of my dreams. Fats Domino alights at the home of LSU quarterback JaMarcus Russell? What?! The Fats Domino? He hasn't been dead for like 30 years? How have I not known he's been alive all this time? And how does he not have his own reality show? This sounds exactly like one of my sportscasting nightmares...
"With the latest sports, I'm Grant Boone. The LSU Tigers moved their game to Blueberry Hill today where quarterback JaMarcus Russell - usually called on to pass - found his thrill when he caught pop music legend Fats Domino...
...also I'm not wearing pants."
That surreal moment was topped only by Fox News reporter Molly Henneberg's interview Sunday night with Baton Rouge Mayor Kip Holden.
Henneberg: "I understand you have a VIP coming here to Baton Rouge tomorrow!"
Holden: "Yes, John Travolta will be here to help with some of the relief efforts..."
Henneberg, interrupting: "No, I meant the big visitor..."
Holden, realizing his mistake: "Oh, I'm sorry, Oprah's coming to do a show..."
Almost defeated, Henneberg: "Isn't the President coming tomorrow?"
Holden: "You're right, yes, Mr. Bush will be here..."
Hey, who's W compared to Vinnie Barbarino?
Here's hoping those left in the wake of Katrina and the Waves have sweet dreams tonight.
---
You've heard it a million times, but the old cliche is worth repeating: "Never relieve yourself in a friend's backyard unless you're sure he still lives there."
---
I don't know about you, but there is enough stress in my life without my electronic gas pump admonishing me to "Remove Card Quickly." Is it really that desperate?
---
I congratulate the creator of the automated hand dryer, but give me paper towels any ol' day. Except for the revolving cloth diaper gizmo. I just threw up in my mouth thinking about it.
---
I know what you're asking yourself, and the answer is yes: I do get a little teary whenever I hear "House at Pooh Corner" by Loggins & Messina.
---
Saw where the turf at Fenway Park was torn up by a recent Rolling Stones concert. Shouldn't we expect large quantities of grass to be consumed at such events?
---
Finally, I think some people take too seriously the metaphor of the church as a body. I met a guy Sunday whose behavior bore an unmistakable resemblance to a certain gluteal part of the anatomy. Ain't that a shame?
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Safe Bet
Like most of you, I've been searching for that one, foolproof system for guaranteed gambling success. Today, in an exclusive to the boone box, I, Grant "Split Ace" Boone, am going all in to announce I've found it. (By the way, you've never experienced pain until you've had your aces split.) Discovered by yours truly one year ago Wednesday and developed over the past 12 months, this is the system the casinos don't want you to learn. The one that threatens to turn the world of gaming bandits on its one arm...
Abstinence. No, it's not one of those exercise machines to give you a flat tummy. Nor will Abstinence make your heart grow fonder for the felt-topped tables. You simply don't play. It's my own unique spin on Texas Hold 'Em. I hold 'em and don't ever let go of 'em.
The wee hours of August 31st, 2004 was the last time I tithed to any place of prayer, online or otherwise. Since that time, my gambling record is perfect: 361-0. No bets, no losses. But I haven't merely broken even, I'm actually way ahead when I consider the time and money spent on more nobler pursuits, such as watching Anchorman.
(A quick aside: whenever someone tells you he/she is "about even" for the night in a casino, that usually means "about even...since I lost that first $300." Lying about gambling losses is, for some reason, as common as someone answering the phone from stage 4 of non-REM sleep but pretending to be awake.
"Did I wake you?"
(in an exponentially faster and louder voice than normal) "NO! I WAS JUST CLEANING OUT THE GARAGE..."
"At 3 in the morning?"
If they sound asleep when they answer the phone, they were asleep. And when people say they're even for the night, they're down. Probably big. Luxury gambling hotels don't keep going up every other day because we're all breaking even. Casinos are not non-profit operations...except for you.)
---
Fans of the boone box have clamored for more golf coverage, and I'm happy to deliver. Lots of my media brethren and sistren have squawked about Tiger Woods' revelation that he was not at Baltusrol for the conclusion of the PGA Championship Monday morning despite the fact that he was the clubhouse leader at 2 under par. Most have decried his decision, but I haven't heard anyone say what you're about to read here.
I'm calling BS: a Baltusrol Snooker, if you will. I think the Striped One is pulling a fast one. He claims he split Sunday night to go back to Florida because he knew the guys who were 3 or 4 under with a few holes to play wouldn't all fall back to 2 under. And that he was practicing Monday morning at his home club in suburban Orlando when play resumed. I wouldn't buy that story with Tiger's own American Express card. For two reasons.
First, no one leaves New Jersey that quickly. For one thing, you can't turn left. Seriously. You have to execute what the locals call jug-handle turns in which you veer right onto a side street and loop around until you eventually get where you want to go. If Tiger left the golf course Sunday night at, say 8 p.m., after his final round was finished, the earliest he could've made it to the airport would've been approximately November.
Second, and more important, there is no way that a player whose only measure of success these days is the number of major championships won isn't there if 2 under plays off. As it turns out, the overnight rain and calm conditions Monday morning softened the course and proved Tiger's prediction correct that 2 under wouldn't be good enough. But had the rain not come and the winds howled, that course could've been so hard that 2 under might've won outright. Tiger knew that, which is why he would've been standing on the 16th tee for a playoff had there been one Monday.
I know for a fact that Tiger has felt as if the media has, by breaching confidentiality and overblowing the occasional downturn in his play, sent him up the river. Maybe he floated this whopper to give scribes a return trip.
---
Sunday night, Nancy Lopez will announce her two captain's picks to join the 10 others who earned enough points to make the United States Solheim Cup team. Publicly and privately, Lopez has said she won't consider 15-year-old Michelle Wie or 17-year-old U.S. Women's Amateur champ Morgan Pressel or anyone not currently a member of the LPGA. I applaud Nancy's decision. Unless of course the objective is winning.
I'm not sure how many American players are better right now than Wie or Pressel, but I am 100 percent certain there aren't 12. And while the European Ryder Cup team has proven anything can happen in match play, the Euro Solheimers are on paper the prohibitive favorite, if not for Annika Sorenstam alone.
Nancy is one of the greatest players in women's golf history and an even better person. She's trying to be true to the Tour she loves. But ignoring Wie and Pressel will ultimately penalize the LPGA. The Solheim Cup will be played Sept. 9-11, concluding on the first Sunday of the NFL season. (Note to self: send LPGA officials a calendar for Christmas.) Even if the teeny boppers played, it's not as if they'd pull Joe Beercan away from his pigskin. Or is it Joe Pigskin away from his beercan? Whatever. At least you'd have more people going picture-in-picture or wearing out their remotes to sneak a peek at how the two teenies were bopping.
It's too late for the LPGA to reschedule to, say, this weekend, prior to the start of the college and pro football seasons. (As a fan of both football and women's golf, my reaction to the LPGA's Solheim scheduling is pretty much the pronunciation of ACU's now-scrubbed homecoming musical.)
But Nancy, it's not too late for you to pick the two players who'll not only attract the most viewers but who just so happen to be the two most talented options, as well. In so doing, you might steal some of the NFL's thunder and catch for yourself a little lightning in a bottle. And maybe even a Cup.
Abstinence. No, it's not one of those exercise machines to give you a flat tummy. Nor will Abstinence make your heart grow fonder for the felt-topped tables. You simply don't play. It's my own unique spin on Texas Hold 'Em. I hold 'em and don't ever let go of 'em.
The wee hours of August 31st, 2004 was the last time I tithed to any place of prayer, online or otherwise. Since that time, my gambling record is perfect: 361-0. No bets, no losses. But I haven't merely broken even, I'm actually way ahead when I consider the time and money spent on more nobler pursuits, such as watching Anchorman.
(A quick aside: whenever someone tells you he/she is "about even" for the night in a casino, that usually means "about even...since I lost that first $300." Lying about gambling losses is, for some reason, as common as someone answering the phone from stage 4 of non-REM sleep but pretending to be awake.
"Did I wake you?"
(in an exponentially faster and louder voice than normal) "NO! I WAS JUST CLEANING OUT THE GARAGE..."
"At 3 in the morning?"
If they sound asleep when they answer the phone, they were asleep. And when people say they're even for the night, they're down. Probably big. Luxury gambling hotels don't keep going up every other day because we're all breaking even. Casinos are not non-profit operations...except for you.)
---
Fans of the boone box have clamored for more golf coverage, and I'm happy to deliver. Lots of my media brethren and sistren have squawked about Tiger Woods' revelation that he was not at Baltusrol for the conclusion of the PGA Championship Monday morning despite the fact that he was the clubhouse leader at 2 under par. Most have decried his decision, but I haven't heard anyone say what you're about to read here.
I'm calling BS: a Baltusrol Snooker, if you will. I think the Striped One is pulling a fast one. He claims he split Sunday night to go back to Florida because he knew the guys who were 3 or 4 under with a few holes to play wouldn't all fall back to 2 under. And that he was practicing Monday morning at his home club in suburban Orlando when play resumed. I wouldn't buy that story with Tiger's own American Express card. For two reasons.
First, no one leaves New Jersey that quickly. For one thing, you can't turn left. Seriously. You have to execute what the locals call jug-handle turns in which you veer right onto a side street and loop around until you eventually get where you want to go. If Tiger left the golf course Sunday night at, say 8 p.m., after his final round was finished, the earliest he could've made it to the airport would've been approximately November.
Second, and more important, there is no way that a player whose only measure of success these days is the number of major championships won isn't there if 2 under plays off. As it turns out, the overnight rain and calm conditions Monday morning softened the course and proved Tiger's prediction correct that 2 under wouldn't be good enough. But had the rain not come and the winds howled, that course could've been so hard that 2 under might've won outright. Tiger knew that, which is why he would've been standing on the 16th tee for a playoff had there been one Monday.
I know for a fact that Tiger has felt as if the media has, by breaching confidentiality and overblowing the occasional downturn in his play, sent him up the river. Maybe he floated this whopper to give scribes a return trip.
---
Sunday night, Nancy Lopez will announce her two captain's picks to join the 10 others who earned enough points to make the United States Solheim Cup team. Publicly and privately, Lopez has said she won't consider 15-year-old Michelle Wie or 17-year-old U.S. Women's Amateur champ Morgan Pressel or anyone not currently a member of the LPGA. I applaud Nancy's decision. Unless of course the objective is winning.
I'm not sure how many American players are better right now than Wie or Pressel, but I am 100 percent certain there aren't 12. And while the European Ryder Cup team has proven anything can happen in match play, the Euro Solheimers are on paper the prohibitive favorite, if not for Annika Sorenstam alone.
Nancy is one of the greatest players in women's golf history and an even better person. She's trying to be true to the Tour she loves. But ignoring Wie and Pressel will ultimately penalize the LPGA. The Solheim Cup will be played Sept. 9-11, concluding on the first Sunday of the NFL season. (Note to self: send LPGA officials a calendar for Christmas.) Even if the teeny boppers played, it's not as if they'd pull Joe Beercan away from his pigskin. Or is it Joe Pigskin away from his beercan? Whatever. At least you'd have more people going picture-in-picture or wearing out their remotes to sneak a peek at how the two teenies were bopping.
It's too late for the LPGA to reschedule to, say, this weekend, prior to the start of the college and pro football seasons. (As a fan of both football and women's golf, my reaction to the LPGA's Solheim scheduling is pretty much the pronunciation of ACU's now-scrubbed homecoming musical.)
But Nancy, it's not too late for you to pick the two players who'll not only attract the most viewers but who just so happen to be the two most talented options, as well. In so doing, you might steal some of the NFL's thunder and catch for yourself a little lightning in a bottle. And maybe even a Cup.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Aida (ahh! eee! duh!): Casting Stones And Common Sense On The College Stage
In Adam McKay's epic motion picture, Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy, the members of the Channel 4 News Team vociferously protest to their news director the hiring of female reporter Veronica Corningstone. Weatherman Brick Tamland, whom we find out later will be told he has an IQ of 46, pounds his fist and screams, "Loud noises!"
I can relate to Brick - and not just in IQ - in the wake of the recent and incendiary developments at two Christian universities: Abilene Christian's scrapping of its much-anticipated production of the Elton John/Tim Rice version of Aida (see headline for pronunciation) and Harding's announcement that Ann Coulter will be a featured speaker in this school year's Distinguished Lecture Series. Somewhere, Brick is pounding his fists again and screaming. There are a lot of loud noises coming from seemingly every side.
ACU (my alma mater, for the record) pulled Aida because of pressure from minority groups and individuals who essentially branded the university and (implicitly) the leaders within the theater department as racists for casting a white student, Lara Seibert, in the titular role, one often played worldwide by a woman of color. The only black student who auditioned for the role, Jessica Owens, was one of those casting stones. Owens acknowledged she wasn't as good a singer as Seibert but was quoted in the Abilene Reporter-News as saying, "I don't think the ACU theater department is at a place where it can do colorblind casting on black shows. They need to recognize the problem." Apparently, the department has no problem being colorblind in casting white shows. Owens herself played the role (magnificently, I might add) of Julius Caesar's Caucasian wife, Calpurnia, in ACU's summer Shakespeare festival. Concerned that the cast and crew would be put in an unfair position, however, the theater department ditched Aida in favor of a musical based on the works of Dr. Seuss. Any full-blooded Zizzer Zazzer Zuzz is asked to contact the department immediately to audition.
(A final thought on the talented Ms. Owens: history doesn't typically identify heroes in any movement as those who demand double standards and preferential treatment but rather ones who endure hardship to gain equality. Rosa Parks didn't ask to ride the bus for free.)
Meanwhile, Harding University is taking some heat for its decision to bring Coulter to campus next March. The ubiquitous author and pundit is ultra-conservative in her politics but ultra-liberal in dispensing vitriol. Most disturbing to me is not Coulter's presence but rather the absence of anyone on the Distinguished Lecture Series who might approach politics from a different angle. If Molly Ivins or Michael Moore were brought in for the same series, for example, the university would have an opportunity to put divergent opinions under the microscope of Christ and see if there's a molecule of truth in either. Instead, Harding's definition of divergent is Zell Miller, the erstwhile Democrat last seen roasting his former party members over an open spit at the Republican National Cookout, who'll follow Coulter next spring. (Perhaps now that he's publicly called for the assassination of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez, Pat Robertson will be forgiven for promoting instrumental worship and cleared to kick off next year's series.)
Two decisions. Two schools.
ACU. Harding.
One correct answer in my book. (Hint: It's not the one on the Right.)
Many good things have happened at Harding. (Some of my best friends are Bison.) And ACU, like any of us individually, has botched its share of situations through the years. This is more about the choices of the individual decision makers at each place than one institution being greater than the other.
ACU could have, with a squeaky clean conscience and a preponderence of evidence proving its casting impartiality, proceeded with Aida; Harding was and remains free to bring to campus whomever it so chooses. But the way of Christ seems to point us away from demanding our rights and toward the service of our enemies, even political ones.
Do you know your ABCs?
Do you, do you? Tell me please!
Start with A and end with Z!
Tickets are, for both nights, free!
Listen first to Ann, then Zell!
That's the way to sidestep Hell!
Which starts with H like Heaven, you C?
There's a party up there, and it's G-O-P!
A-C-U and H-U, each
Big decisions did they reach!
A-C chose, not Elton, Seuss;
H plucked two from off Fox News!
There's no I in Green Eggs and Ham.
Nor should there when we serve the Lamb.
So when God, speech, and arts collide,
Seuss or Fox News? U decide!
I can relate to Brick - and not just in IQ - in the wake of the recent and incendiary developments at two Christian universities: Abilene Christian's scrapping of its much-anticipated production of the Elton John/Tim Rice version of Aida (see headline for pronunciation) and Harding's announcement that Ann Coulter will be a featured speaker in this school year's Distinguished Lecture Series. Somewhere, Brick is pounding his fists again and screaming. There are a lot of loud noises coming from seemingly every side.
ACU (my alma mater, for the record) pulled Aida because of pressure from minority groups and individuals who essentially branded the university and (implicitly) the leaders within the theater department as racists for casting a white student, Lara Seibert, in the titular role, one often played worldwide by a woman of color. The only black student who auditioned for the role, Jessica Owens, was one of those casting stones. Owens acknowledged she wasn't as good a singer as Seibert but was quoted in the Abilene Reporter-News as saying, "I don't think the ACU theater department is at a place where it can do colorblind casting on black shows. They need to recognize the problem." Apparently, the department has no problem being colorblind in casting white shows. Owens herself played the role (magnificently, I might add) of Julius Caesar's Caucasian wife, Calpurnia, in ACU's summer Shakespeare festival. Concerned that the cast and crew would be put in an unfair position, however, the theater department ditched Aida in favor of a musical based on the works of Dr. Seuss. Any full-blooded Zizzer Zazzer Zuzz is asked to contact the department immediately to audition.
(A final thought on the talented Ms. Owens: history doesn't typically identify heroes in any movement as those who demand double standards and preferential treatment but rather ones who endure hardship to gain equality. Rosa Parks didn't ask to ride the bus for free.)
Meanwhile, Harding University is taking some heat for its decision to bring Coulter to campus next March. The ubiquitous author and pundit is ultra-conservative in her politics but ultra-liberal in dispensing vitriol. Most disturbing to me is not Coulter's presence but rather the absence of anyone on the Distinguished Lecture Series who might approach politics from a different angle. If Molly Ivins or Michael Moore were brought in for the same series, for example, the university would have an opportunity to put divergent opinions under the microscope of Christ and see if there's a molecule of truth in either. Instead, Harding's definition of divergent is Zell Miller, the erstwhile Democrat last seen roasting his former party members over an open spit at the Republican National Cookout, who'll follow Coulter next spring. (Perhaps now that he's publicly called for the assassination of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez, Pat Robertson will be forgiven for promoting instrumental worship and cleared to kick off next year's series.)
Two decisions. Two schools.
ACU. Harding.
One correct answer in my book. (Hint: It's not the one on the Right.)
Many good things have happened at Harding. (Some of my best friends are Bison.) And ACU, like any of us individually, has botched its share of situations through the years. This is more about the choices of the individual decision makers at each place than one institution being greater than the other.
ACU could have, with a squeaky clean conscience and a preponderence of evidence proving its casting impartiality, proceeded with Aida; Harding was and remains free to bring to campus whomever it so chooses. But the way of Christ seems to point us away from demanding our rights and toward the service of our enemies, even political ones.
Do you know your ABCs?
Do you, do you? Tell me please!
Start with A and end with Z!
Tickets are, for both nights, free!
Listen first to Ann, then Zell!
That's the way to sidestep Hell!
Which starts with H like Heaven, you C?
There's a party up there, and it's G-O-P!
A-C-U and H-U, each
Big decisions did they reach!
A-C chose, not Elton, Seuss;
H plucked two from off Fox News!
There's no I in Green Eggs and Ham.
Nor should there when we serve the Lamb.
So when God, speech, and arts collide,
Seuss or Fox News? U decide!
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Early Service
I woke up Sunday morning in Reno, Nevada (pronounced Nevada, not Nevada) in search of a church service. Not finding one anywhere near my hotel, I grabbed my Bible and made my way over to the most popular place of prayer in town, Harrah's Hotel and Casino. I wasn't there for the ceremony, just the sacraments; Harrah's housed the only Starbucks I knew of within walking distance. (En route, I saw a bumper sticker that read "My Boss Is Bruce Springsteen." Good stuff. I wouldn't try it on Judgment Day, but for now you get a tip of my cap. Clever.)
As I filed in with the other congregants a little past 8 a.m., I was struck by the similarities between the house of cards and many of the houses of God I've attended.
Both feature otherwise disparate people communing around a table.
Both rather shamelessly ask for your money, usually for the next building program.
In neither place do the people look remotely as attractive or interested as they do in the promotional material. (I've missed the church and casino billboards featuring people in wheelchairs, on oxygen tanks, and missing random limbs.)
Both are always looking for the latest technological or cultural innovation to draw people in.
You can usually get breakfast comped in the bigger, more upscale versions of each.
Both strongly encourage evangelism.
Both have promised fulfillment, failed to deliver, and driven people away in despair.
I could only discern three major differences, call it separation of church and casino:
1) at church, you have to go outside to smoke;
2) at the casino, people surrender their money sacrificially; and
3) most people at casinos are both happy to be there and hooked for life.
Perhaps the greatest irony is that casinos pretend they don't want to addict you but do, while churches promote a lifelong commitment but rarely get it.
As for my pilgrimage, I placed a single $2 bet that I'd get a cup of Gold Coast in return for my ante. And - cha-ching! - I won a 16 ounce share of the pot. Amen.
As I filed in with the other congregants a little past 8 a.m., I was struck by the similarities between the house of cards and many of the houses of God I've attended.
Both feature otherwise disparate people communing around a table.
Both rather shamelessly ask for your money, usually for the next building program.
In neither place do the people look remotely as attractive or interested as they do in the promotional material. (I've missed the church and casino billboards featuring people in wheelchairs, on oxygen tanks, and missing random limbs.)
Both are always looking for the latest technological or cultural innovation to draw people in.
You can usually get breakfast comped in the bigger, more upscale versions of each.
Both strongly encourage evangelism.
Both have promised fulfillment, failed to deliver, and driven people away in despair.
I could only discern three major differences, call it separation of church and casino:
1) at church, you have to go outside to smoke;
2) at the casino, people surrender their money sacrificially; and
3) most people at casinos are both happy to be there and hooked for life.
Perhaps the greatest irony is that casinos pretend they don't want to addict you but do, while churches promote a lifelong commitment but rarely get it.
As for my pilgrimage, I placed a single $2 bet that I'd get a cup of Gold Coast in return for my ante. And - cha-ching! - I won a 16 ounce share of the pot. Amen.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Birdie Boom, Birdie Bing: Mickelson Makes Good In Jersey
Glory's last shot, as the PGA of America melodramatically dubs its major championship, was a day late but not a dollar short. After threatening weather suspended play Sunday afternoon, Phil Mickelson returned to Baltusrol Golf Club in Springfield, New Jersey Monday morning to win the 87th PGA Championship.
That they couldn't finish on time had less to do with the Almighty than the Almighty Dollar. The networks that air golf's U.S. major championships (and pay the big bucks to do so) - CBS for The Masters and PGA and NBC for the U.S. Open - want those events to end as their Sunday night prime time programming begins. So the organizations which run those respective tournaments and get rich off rights fees happily schedule the tee times to end at 7 p.m. Eastern, which they usually do. Except when dangerous weather butts in, as it did twice Sunday in Springfield.
Mark Twain was right when he said everyone complains about the weather but no one does anything about it. In this case, championship officials could've done something. Like move the tee times up a couple of hours to account for the forecast storms. Instead, they left the schedule as it was and kept its Sugar Daddy - in this case, CBS - fat and happy. (I do applaud the PGA for rebuffing network requests for "King of Queens" star Kevin James to play with Mickelson and Davis Love in the final group.)
The irony is that the PGA actually shortsighted itself. Every tournament organizer in the world and every network executive - no matter what they say publicly - wants Tiger Woods to win their event. For tournaments, it means the opportunity to put the world's most popular athlete on all of its promotional material for next year's championship. For TV execs, it's about the ratings, which are exponentially higher when Tiger's in contention than when he's not.
Tiger finished just ahead of the second weather delay Sunday, the one that ultimately suspended play 'til Monday. A furious final nine flurry that saw him birdie three of the last five holes and nearly birdie the other two left Tiger at 2 under par. Had tee times been moved up and the leaders been forced to play the last four holes in those brutally tough conditions, 2 under might've been good enough for at least a playoff instead of a tie for fourth. What would CBS have given to lead into its Sunday night lineup with a Tiger/Mickelson duel 'til the dark, if not death?
The notion that Woods would even figure in the final outcome seemed as unlikely as a self-serve Garden State gas station for most of the week. Tiger, whose voice is baritone at best, spent the first three days of the championship mimicking a Soprano, specifically Tony. Like New Jersey's most famous fictional citizen, Tiger specialized in Waste Management.
Thursday, he botched Baltusrol's only easy hole, the reachable-in-two par five 18th, when he jerked his tee shot into a hazard and made bogey. An opening 75 (par 70) left his place on the leaderboard at roughly the heat index: 113. Friday, he got greedy with a front pin at 4 and splashed his tee shot with a short iron en route to a scrambling bogey. Only a two-putt birdie at 18 allowed Tiger to make the cut and prolong his agony. Beginning Saturday a dozen off the lead, he played brilliantly through 16 but couldn't birdie either of the closing par fives - thanks to a three-putt from 25 feet at the last - and settled for a solid but wanting 66. Needing a fast start Sunday, he instead bogeyed 1 and 3. And only his unparalleled penchant for the impossible got him back into some semblance of contention.
So Tiger went 1st-2nd-1st-T4th in the major championships this year, the best cumulative finishes since (who else?) Nicklaus more than three decades prior. Unthinkable for anyone else. But if Tiger never realizes his dream of winning all four in the same year, it's hard to imagine him having a better chance than in 2005.
Meanwhile, Mickelson turned the tables on his season, going from major disappointment (10th Masters, T33 U.S. Open, T60 British) to major champion for a second consecutive year. In so doing, he turned back two past PGA champs - Steve Elkington ('95) and Love ('97) - and one Great Dane, the doggedly determined Thomas Bjorn of Denmark, whose Saturday 63 matched the low round in Baltusrol and major championship history and whose play late Sunday and early Monday reversed a trend of recent major meltdowns.
Nearly everyone had melted by Sunday afternoon from the weeklong steambath. Yet somehow, the guy previously voted Most Likely to Have His Gym Membership Lapse, kept lapping the field. Mickelson slept on at least a share of the lead not three nights but four because of the Monday finish. And he couldn't have cared less about the sleepover.
Because while he may not be a gym rat, Phil Mickelson knows his way around the Wait Room. He was 0 for his first 46 majors. One more day wasn't too much to ask to make him 2 for his last 8.
That they couldn't finish on time had less to do with the Almighty than the Almighty Dollar. The networks that air golf's U.S. major championships (and pay the big bucks to do so) - CBS for The Masters and PGA and NBC for the U.S. Open - want those events to end as their Sunday night prime time programming begins. So the organizations which run those respective tournaments and get rich off rights fees happily schedule the tee times to end at 7 p.m. Eastern, which they usually do. Except when dangerous weather butts in, as it did twice Sunday in Springfield.
Mark Twain was right when he said everyone complains about the weather but no one does anything about it. In this case, championship officials could've done something. Like move the tee times up a couple of hours to account for the forecast storms. Instead, they left the schedule as it was and kept its Sugar Daddy - in this case, CBS - fat and happy. (I do applaud the PGA for rebuffing network requests for "King of Queens" star Kevin James to play with Mickelson and Davis Love in the final group.)
The irony is that the PGA actually shortsighted itself. Every tournament organizer in the world and every network executive - no matter what they say publicly - wants Tiger Woods to win their event. For tournaments, it means the opportunity to put the world's most popular athlete on all of its promotional material for next year's championship. For TV execs, it's about the ratings, which are exponentially higher when Tiger's in contention than when he's not.
Tiger finished just ahead of the second weather delay Sunday, the one that ultimately suspended play 'til Monday. A furious final nine flurry that saw him birdie three of the last five holes and nearly birdie the other two left Tiger at 2 under par. Had tee times been moved up and the leaders been forced to play the last four holes in those brutally tough conditions, 2 under might've been good enough for at least a playoff instead of a tie for fourth. What would CBS have given to lead into its Sunday night lineup with a Tiger/Mickelson duel 'til the dark, if not death?
The notion that Woods would even figure in the final outcome seemed as unlikely as a self-serve Garden State gas station for most of the week. Tiger, whose voice is baritone at best, spent the first three days of the championship mimicking a Soprano, specifically Tony. Like New Jersey's most famous fictional citizen, Tiger specialized in Waste Management.
Thursday, he botched Baltusrol's only easy hole, the reachable-in-two par five 18th, when he jerked his tee shot into a hazard and made bogey. An opening 75 (par 70) left his place on the leaderboard at roughly the heat index: 113. Friday, he got greedy with a front pin at 4 and splashed his tee shot with a short iron en route to a scrambling bogey. Only a two-putt birdie at 18 allowed Tiger to make the cut and prolong his agony. Beginning Saturday a dozen off the lead, he played brilliantly through 16 but couldn't birdie either of the closing par fives - thanks to a three-putt from 25 feet at the last - and settled for a solid but wanting 66. Needing a fast start Sunday, he instead bogeyed 1 and 3. And only his unparalleled penchant for the impossible got him back into some semblance of contention.
So Tiger went 1st-2nd-1st-T4th in the major championships this year, the best cumulative finishes since (who else?) Nicklaus more than three decades prior. Unthinkable for anyone else. But if Tiger never realizes his dream of winning all four in the same year, it's hard to imagine him having a better chance than in 2005.
Meanwhile, Mickelson turned the tables on his season, going from major disappointment (10th Masters, T33 U.S. Open, T60 British) to major champion for a second consecutive year. In so doing, he turned back two past PGA champs - Steve Elkington ('95) and Love ('97) - and one Great Dane, the doggedly determined Thomas Bjorn of Denmark, whose Saturday 63 matched the low round in Baltusrol and major championship history and whose play late Sunday and early Monday reversed a trend of recent major meltdowns.
Nearly everyone had melted by Sunday afternoon from the weeklong steambath. Yet somehow, the guy previously voted Most Likely to Have His Gym Membership Lapse, kept lapping the field. Mickelson slept on at least a share of the lead not three nights but four because of the Monday finish. And he couldn't have cared less about the sleepover.
Because while he may not be a gym rat, Phil Mickelson knows his way around the Wait Room. He was 0 for his first 46 majors. One more day wasn't too much to ask to make him 2 for his last 8.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
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