Ultimate Fighter (Part 2)

Continued from Part 1

His Toughness noticed me looking and put down his weights. Even though he was several paces away, I felt genuinely nervous as he started toward me. As a gym novice, I was unsure if I had violated some "don't look" rule of weight rooms. Men's restrooms had such prohibitions—why shouldn't another enclave of incubated testosterone?

He introduced himself with the name "Tito," and I mumbled my name. He nodded. The pause that followed was awkward—if you graphed a line showing how people handle awkward moments, I would be at the zenith of the line. So I started studying Tito's tattoos.

The tattoo on Tito's right shoulder was an intricate collection of colors and shapes that I couldn't understand. It looked as if a sixth grader had drawn a picture only to have his little sister scribble it out and do something else on the same piece of paper. Perhaps this process was repeated several times. On his left shoulder, a very bold five pointed star in solid black was pasted slightly off center. It looked like he had been inked at a very young age and the skin had floated off center over the years.

Tito must have been at the nadir of the arc, because he looked disgruntled by the pause. I, however, was very gruntled and asked an intelligent question:

"So what line of work are you in, Tito?" This was the question Tito had been waiting for. His whole demeanor changed into that of a proud school boy's and I thought for a brief instant that this might have been what he was like when he got the star tattoo.

"I am an Ultimate Fighter, kid." Tito proceeded to tell me all about ultimate fighting, the sport which had honed his body and which he proclaimed with his body art.

Take the roman gladiators, subtract the sharp objects, blunt weapons and shields, change the venue from the Amphitheater Flavium to a metal cage and add steroids. If you did the math right, you have ultimate fighting. It's a really daring activity that attracts the imaginations of teenagers and gives washed up boxers a way to get back on Pay-Per-View. I was hooked.

The more Tito talked, the more I was amazed that he still had all his teeth. Then he told me a story about how he lost the majority in a single punch and how this happened twice and that the pair he had now was actually his third set of orthodontic stand-ins. His left eye was made of glass, his right leg had so much metal it qualified under some definitions as a prosthetic limb and he was missing a finger. I hadn't noticed the finger until then.

Tito taught me how to punch. Sure, I'd seen people get hit in the Matrix Movies, but when Tito hit the punching bag the bag gave the sort of deflated sound you would expect to hear from an opponent after a knockout blow. I think now that I am an even more dangerous person than Tito, because now I know just enough to start a fight. At least Tito can end a fight.

Tito was like a sports talk radio personality without the standard English vocabulary, but with much more colorful language. He talked about the history, ethics, problems and opportunities of fighting. He billed several upcoming fights and warned me about the dangers of overtraining. And he never talked about anything else. He never asked questions and never deviated from his topic of interest. I thought Tito must be a dream date.

Tito had stopped lifting and was talking to me as I worked the leg press, the bicep curl, the assisted dip and chin up, the pecs pusher, the triceps pull, the hamstring twist and the quadriceps tear. He was even by my side as I cooled down on the treadmill. In fact, with the exception of his punching bag attack, he hadn't done anything that would qualify as an exertion in the entire hour he had followed me around.

When my workout was over, Tito left as well, presumably to go visit another gym and continue his "workout."

UPDATE: Tito was in a fight this weekend. He was knocked out in 35 seconds. His opponent pulled out a tattoo gun and added some marks to Tito's right shoulder while he was out. I understand now why it looks so ugly.

Ultimate Fighter (Part 1)

I went to the gym. I do that sometimes, more to meet women than work out. Calorie burning is a welcome side effect and, ironically enough, can help me meet more women. So I go to the gym.

So I was at the gym. Specifically, I went to the weight room. The weight room is where the jocks and wannabe jocks congregate to flex and admire their own bodies as they strain against dangerously heavy resistance. Jocks like weight rooms because they make them feel superior and stronger. I like weight rooms because I am a jock wannabe.

So I was in the weight room. Specifically, I was at the bench press, getting ready to work my spindly limbs into a sweat. The bench press is the machine of choice for jocks, because it provides a bright-line of achievement. Can you bench your weight? Can you bench five stone? These are questions that are answered in the weight room and lied about outside of it.

I knew a guy once who had a nasty scar across his chest from where the bench press fell while he was trying to out-press another guy. The way I heard it, the injury was the result of an impromptu bench pressing competition before the gym outlawed such gratuitous displays of arm firepower. He had insisted on lifting without a spotter to show the "outstanding strength" of his rotator cuff. Apparently something had failed, and the bar had sunk lower than the lifter expected. The three hundred odd pounds (the number probably gets bigger with each retelling) had nearly crushed the lifter's lung and his rotator cuff was on its third surgery. The scars were pretty cool, though...

Across from me, at the bicep curl, a thin young man sporting a tight white shirt with the name of a rock group pasted over the front quickly moved a light weight up and down before pulling back his shirt to reveal a knotted and very small bicep. Rock Star was not distracting and I returned to the bench press.

That's when I noticed a short, heavily tattooed jock in the far corner of the gym. A stout gentleman, he appeared to be around nine stone and wore his weight with corded muscle over a short frame. His face showed tough features, a cauliflower ear and a Tom Cruise nose. I watched as he hoisted impossibly heavy weights over his head and worked his already bulked shoulder muscles with a common motion but extraordinary resolve. Wow.

To be continued...

That reminds me...

The following is a transcript of the first seven minutes of my upper-division economic theory and research course taught by Professor Dennis O. Doherty (above), a faculty member who has been at the university 35 years. His knowledge about the topic and acumen to discuss economics are unquestioned. His brevity and succinctness are not.

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: I love teaching in this room. The first time I taught a course in this room was in the fall semester of '84. They had just built this building five or so years before after a substantial struggle with the administration to secure funds. The former Department Chair -- actually the chair before him; the one two chairs ago -- felt we should direct our money toward sports -- football specifically. He was a big fan. He thought it would help recruiting. Ironically, after this classroom building was constructed the school did away with the football program, making this the only Division 1A NCAA institution to get rid of a football program in the last century. A real shame, if you ask me.

[DOHERTY PAUSES AND LOOKS AT THE WALL FOR A SECOND, COLLECTING HIS THOUGHTS.]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Actually, it would have been the spring of 1984. I remember because they were putting in the East lawn. Looking out this window, it used to be a mess of shrubbery that the science students would burn back with freshly mixed experimental weed killer. It was all very impromptu. The brass opted for aesthetics over academics and installed the sod. Their work was a major interruption. Every class period, it seemed, we'd be bothered by the sound of their travails. I like that word, travails, did you know it's borrowed from the French? Sometimes I think we ought to return it.

[PAUSE]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: I had cold cereal for breakfast this morning. For years I had a regular breakfast of two eggs and toast. It was the perfect combination, I thought, of carbs and protein and it stuck with me pretty well. I never had any pre-lunch collapse. But my doctor is worried about my dietary cholesterol. Any biology students here? No? Well, the cholesterol you consume in your diet isn't nearly as bad for you as the saturated fat you put in your system. In fact, you can eat a lot of cholesterol and not have a problem as long as the saturated fat is kept to a minimum. But for some reason my doctor is worried about the cholesterol. He wants to put me on a statin drug -- some kind of HMG-CoA reductase inhibitor -- to reduce my risk of heart disease. But I'm concerned about the liver damage. My dad was an alcoholic and died of liver poisoning. Or whatever it's called.

[ANOTHER PAUSE]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Take care of your diet. Take care of your health. Life advice...
[ANOTHER PAUSE]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Oddly enough, they would use a drywall knife to cut the sod and they had to be careful how they placed it because the irrigation system was pre-installed. This was in the early days of low-evaporation sprinklers, when environmental consciousness was just starting to emerge as a dominant consideration. Nowadays it isn't nearly as much of an operation, but back then it was perceived as very innovative. A drywall knife. How many of you guys have seen a drywall knife? It looks like an oversized putty knife with blades that are almost too dull to justify the name "knife." I wonder why they never developed a tool explicitely for cutting sod. I have a buddy who works in the landscaping business -- he actually does design for upscale and bids out installation projects to subcontractors -- I ought to give him a call and ask about that. He's got a couple of kids, wonder how they're doing...

[PAUSE AS A STUDENT ENTERS AND SHEEPISHLY TAKES A SEAT BY THE DOOR]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Miss, you are late. You are fortunate I am so lenient on tardy students. When I was a graduate student at the University of Utah -- that's where all the backslidden Mormons go -- I was tardy for the first day of my statistics methods class. I didn't miss a day all semester and was never again late, but he really drilled me for it in his seminar review. Eugene Billington. That was his name. He specialized in regression analysis of demographics -- a field which is really quite large now, but was just emerging in the 70s. He gave me an A- in his class. I don't think I've ever worked so hard for an A-. I mean, I had classes at the undergraduate level that I just surfed through -- never did the readings, missed class, glossed over the homework -- but not in Billington's statistics methods course. He would grill you for that.

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: So, here's the syllabus...

Thanksgiving Experiences

The following is a post submitted by guest contributor James Remington.

Thanksgiving is a time when relatives come together to argue while eating good food, usually enough good food to keep them exercising regularly until Christmas, when they will eat too much good food again. I used to think this was the only reason for having Thanksgiving; my teachers may have told me some other reasons, but I was probably asleep (I’m a night owl - you know, sleep during school then play Halo all night).

Anyways, until I was about 9 years old this is what I thought, although now that I think about it, I do vaguely remember seeing lots of potbellies lining the couches in front of a TV while I rolled around in pain wishing I hadn’t eaten so much pumpkin pie. As I was saying, when I was nine my stomach finally caught up with my mouth, making me completely unable to fill it. That is when I noticed something new about Thanksgiving, namely, the football game.

Since that fateful day my eyes have been glued to the screen every Thanksgiving afternoon. Not that I enjoy football, but it is a tradition and who am I to break tradition? Besides, it's the only time I can drink six beers in three hours without getting arrested for under-age drinking.

All these fond memories were quickly shaken out of place the other day when I was looking at my sister’s pictures. Somehow, I had stumbled into a folder labeled “Thanksgiving_pics.” As I looked through the pictures moving from one year to the next, I noticed something almost too horrible to speak of: a watermelon had been growing in my gut, getting larger and larger every year. Why hadn’t I noticed this before? Why didn’t my doctor ever tell me about this problem? Surely he had seen this in some of his x-rays? Should I have listened to my mother's warnings about not eating the seeds, after all?

As these questions flooded my mind, I felt a cold, icy hand creep up my neck, slowly gripping me, making it harder and harder to breathe.

“What do you think you're doing, looking through my private pictures?”

Man, I hate sisters. They always seem to break in on the most solemn moments of thought and ruin it all. Then it happened. “What happened?” you ask? Well, I really don’t know, but suddenly I was flying through the air towards the antique piano on the other side of the room. Did I mention that my sister is both a body builder and a karate black belt? I hate that kind of sister even more, especially when I got the short genes and she got the tall ones. All I remember about my subsequent touchdown is that for two minutes all I could hear was very loud ringing, almost as though my head was inside a piano, which it was, then I took my hand off the pedal. What a relief!

The doctors say I only have minor brain damage, but they must be wrong because I have an inexplicable magnetic pull that seems to force me to exercise, a sensation that is very new to me.

Oh, and as for Thanksgiving, from now on, no more watching football games and drinking beer. Instead, I'll watch golf while riding my exercise bike and eating tofu pumpkin pie.

A Six Year Old on Skates

Not every derelict college student has a six-year-old brother. Some do, but those cases are rare, and generally limited to the older brother variety of the derelict species. I am, as befits my variegated and diversely endowed existence, a member of that particular strain.

A six-year-old brother is an uplifting if tedious addition to just about any activity imaginable, particularly in the summertime when classes are out and teachers have relinquished their tyrannical but protective custody over the student's mind. Actually, the custody is never relinquished at all. It is turned over to the brother. This transfer of authority became especially clear to me on a particular day last month, as I watched the brother wobble out onto an ice-skating rink. He was doing a good job, I thought, watching him coast a few feet at a time. He showed excellent coordination for the very brother who had an attention deficit so extreme that he couldn't hold a violin under his chin without forgetting it was there and dropping it to the floor for my mother's special enjoyment, and who was always up at six in the morning, eager to conduct a frenzied chat that would frazzle all impatient nerves.

In fact, he was skating so well that I concluded that there couldn't be much to the feat. If the six-year-old brother could do it, anyone probably could. In fact, if the six-year-old brother could do it I probably could. So I rented a pair of skates.

It wasn't as if I expected to be a virtuoso. I had never worn skates before, and I knew attaining a graceful air would take a bit of practice. So I sat for a while at the edge of the ice, watching the advanced skaters waltz and frisk along the shimmering surface. I observed how one foot would gracefully fall in front of the other as they rounded turns. I noticed how they stepped into their allotted trajectories with forward momentum, not backwards thrust. I even noticed the deft little flicks of the blades that sped the skaters along backwards whenever they wished to speak to their partners behind them without stopping. Now, I just needed to implement my new knowledge.

Soon I felt confident enough to try on the size-fourteen behemoths that had been silently handed to me by a dubious-faced youth behind the counter. I removed my shoes (vulgar things they now seemed!) and began with the laces to ascend a Matterhorn of holes and hooks that seemingly stretched up to heaven, or at least to my knees. Who wouldn't feel a bit overconfident after completing a task like that?

They don't tell you this until you've already burned the bridges, but outside of their intended environs, skates are very awkward things to walk in. They're generally leather and universally rigid, allowing no ankle movement at all, which presents many difficulties to the skater. First, there is the necessity of either goose-stepping or brass-band-marching across the floor before reaching the ice. This is not pleasant in the presence of ruddy-faced gliders and ecstatic waltzers who were apparently born in skates (talk about a painful pregnancy!). Second, balance on the ice can be achieved only by an uncomfortable standing squat, or by bending over backwards and falling on one's tail bone. I am a proponent of the former option, but only in theory.

My brother was finishing his lesson as I stepped onto the glassy circle, but I was glad he still had a few minutes left of watching his teacher instead of me. I grasped the wall for my life, and took one step, one thrust, one stumble at a time. I had wondered why that little boy's legs seemed a bit shaky. Now I understood. But I was determined, and I gradually let go of the wall and began to learn to skate. "It's just like roller-skating," I told myself, which felt like encouragement at the time because I had forgotten how bad I was at roller-skating. I took a few steps, threw my weight forward, and fell on my tailbone. The six-year-old brother came gliding up beside me. "Take little steps," he said, his cherubic face denying my planned retort. I got up, and he showed me how to spread my feet apart: "This is how you stop."

He glowed with energy. "You're doing really good for your first time. When everyone is done, a truck comes out and puts snow all over the ice to make it smooth. Did you know what Nick and I do? We watch the water come out of those little gates. Are you going around again?" Indeed I was. I worked around the rink a few more times until I started to get the hang of it. Once again the brother glided along side of me, slowing down so he wouldn't pass me by. "Put your hands out like you're holding a table," he said. I did, but it didn't help. He sped off.

It was then that I resolved in my heart of hearts to skate faster than he did. His legs were not even half the length of mine, and I put mine to work. I skated doggedly for half an hour. Epic theme songs welled in my head, interrupted only every thirty seconds or so when my brother meandered out in front of me and I had to slow down so he could tell me about the crackers we had waiting for us when we got done, or the teenage Olympic candidates who would come to practice later, or his teacher or his sister or his cousin or his toys.

At the end of the half hour I felt like I was getting pretty regular. My brother was in front of me again, but this time instead of slowing down to talk I stepped around him and started off as fast as I could. He came up beside me, gazed at my feet in his hyper way, and gave me a tip. "Take little steps and glide," he said and demonstrated, shooting far ahead of me. I stopped, panting. "How did you do that?" I asked. He showed me: "Like this." I tried to do it. I could not.

Then, with heavy spirits, I knew that I had to leave the rink. I was defeated, and my pride lay on the field as wounded as my tailbone. But as I turned toward the door, so did everyone else. The open session was over, and the truck was coming to smooth the ice for those Olympic candidates. I was saved by the bell.

Commenting on the Commentators

As an avid sports fan, I get to know famous broadcasters almost as well as the personalities on the court, which is to say I develop a very strong superficial knowledge of their habits and behavior. No time is better for acquainting oneself to the idiosyncrasies of commentators than March Madness, the NCAA basketball tournament when a new broadcaster greets the listening ear for just about every game. Legends like Jim Nantz and Billy Packer join characters like Dick Vitale to provide a stunning ensemble cast.

Unfortunately, sometimes these gentlemen can be difficult to understand. They use a vernacular native to jocks and junkies that is foreign to everyone else. They think, I am sure, that they are easy to understand, but to the untrained ear their gibberish is as comprehensible as the three year old graffiti beneath the Miller bridge. Here at FCN, we took out a pen and paper during the games and jotted down our favorite lines from the various presenters along with an explanation. Here they are, followed by a translation in parenthesis:

"Heeeee's got the triple!" (Three-point basket)
"Stops, pops; it's in." (Pull-up jump shot)
"Rejected!" (Blocked shot)
"Not this time!" (Blocked shot)
"Say goodbye and hello to the second row" (Emphatically blocked shot)
"Woah! That's the strongest weak side help I've seen today" (A Jim Nantz favorite)
"Gentle kiss and in." (Bank shot)
"Double smooch off the glass." (A Dick Vitale favorite, when the ball rolls on the rim and touches backboard before falling into the basket)
"Count it" (Scored shot)
"They've really been struggling from the charity stripe." (Team has a poor free throw percentage)
"Got the step..." (A player is beginning a drive to the basket)
"...found a lane..." (A player has found a lane to the basket)
"...he dishes it out..." (A player passes to another player)
"...he kicks it out..." (A player passes to another player after driving toward the basket)
"Rocks...pops." (Kobe Bryant - or similar ball hog - has the basketball)
"All the way to the hole." (A player completes a drive with close shot)
"What a moment!" (Jim Nantz is amazed by something on the court. This happens often.)
"Trifecta" (Three point basket)
"Super scintillating sensational!" (Dick Vitale is excited by something on the court)
"Slap a lapper." (Dick Vitale is excited by something on the court and wants to put his job at risk)
"Dipsy-doo dunkeroo slam-jam-bam, baby!" (Dick Vitale actually said that)
"...baby" (Dick Vitale is trying to be cute while using the same line he started using in 1979)
"Foam the runway, this guy is on fire!" (A player has been making a high percentage of his shots or otherwise been playing well recently)
"Freeze it." (Used during instant replay to draw audience's attention to a particular detail)
"Send it in to the big fella'" (A color commentator's instructions to consider a low post move)
"Rise and fire." (A jump shot. Use of this line got a commentator fired. Incomprehensible, I know)
"Turn out the lights." (One team has lost any chance of winning the game)
"The party is over." (One team has lost any chance of winning the game)
"Oh my." (A particularly eloquent play-by-play line)
"Boom." (A particularly eloquent play-by-play line often deployed after a dipsy-doo dunkeroo slam-jam-bam)
"'Nuff said." (A particularly eloquent play-by-play line)
"Yesssssssss." (Used late in a game after an important basket is scored)
"He puts the biscuit in the basket." (A player scores)
"Threeee-cola." (Three point basket)
"This freshman has ice in his blood." (The stress of the game is not registering in a young player's behavior)
"He's cooler than the other side of the pillow." (The stress of the game is not registering in a player's behavior)
"As good as it gets." (Jim Nantz after Florida won its first national championship)
"From downtown..." (Three point shot attempted)
"Bang!" (A player scores)
"Sweet sassy molassy." (Contrary to popular opinion, line is actually used in men's games to denote respect in a player's recent move)
"Oh, baby, what a play." (Sometimes used by broadcasters other than Dick Vitale)
"Tickie-Tack." (A player is called for an "unnecessary" or ill-advised foul)
"Right between the eyes." (A player scores)
"That's levitation." (An athletic shot block)

And that's just a sampling. To get the rest, you will have to watch the Sweet 16 round of March Madness this weekend.

Answering a Challenge to an FCN hypothesis

Last week, we published a post hypothesizing that women tend to use treadmills more than guys and that at any given gym, the males will congregate around the weights. Our hypothesis was based on extensive study in the FCN lab, anecdotal observation and results from that odd-shaped beep-beep machine homeless people use on the beach (yes, I do own a Zircon MT6 Electronic Metal Finder. Deal with it).

Despite the overwhelming evidence supporting our conclusion, one conscientious reader referenced anecdotal information that, at first very red blush, seemed contradictory. She argued that women tend to use the ellipticals more and that guys ride the treadmills.

Watch and learn, boys, girls and Roger Clemens, as FCN answers this challenge:

1) Deny, Deny, Deny

FCN categorically, absolutely and without exception, qualification or reserve denies the allegation. We declare untrue, universally contradict and reject any statement or opinion that stands in contradistinction to our earlier position. We do not retract, amend, change or shift our stance, but stand firmly resolute behind our primary findings. We issue no retreat, raise no white flag, surrender no credibility and admit no error. We disclaim, repudiate, contravene, negate, renounce and disavow all objections, stated or otherwise and continue to stand as stalwart and unmovable advocates of our original position.

2) Attack mode

The commenter who raised this allegation identified him/herself as "Kirk," which is a male name of Norse origin meaning "church" which was given to some 975 boys in the year 2002. On closer inspection, however, we realize that the actual commenter's name is Kirsten, which is a female name of Latin origin meaning "follower of Christ" which was given to some 407 girls in the year 2006. Ah hah!

We don't have any more dirt on Kirk/Kirsten, but we will give you the address of his/her blogs so you can criticize everything s/he hypothesizes. She runs The Young Thinker, The Two Sisters and Corantolavolta, which is a male name of indeterminate origin which was given to nobody ever.

If all eleven readers load Kirk/Kirsten's blog at once and try to leave a comment it might shut down her server and keep her from digging up dirt on FCN's hypotheses.

3) Moral Testimony

FCN has long maintained the highest standards of academic and blogging excellence. We do not lie to our readers. Ever. Not once. Not at all. We try to ensure a comforting if not succulent blogging experience, drawing the reader in and providing a cyber-foot cushion for you as you read the latest content. We put our readers first at every turn and as your constant advocate we have never failed.

Given this pristine and untarnished record, it seems foolhardy to value the input of someone who lies about his/her name over the established and reliable moral standards of Funny Class Notes.

4) Misdirection

Still, Kirk/Kirsten's objection is a valuable remonstration in that it draws attention to the dangers of scientific error. We would be remiss if content of FCN were to in any way detract from the credibility of the scientific community and therefore pledge to post a link on our sidebar to a scientific website for the duration of the week. We understand the importance of science and want to do everything in our power to promote free thought and intellectualism.

If we had money to give, we would donate it. If we had time, we would pledge it. But we have a blog, so we'll link.

5) Slyly retool hypothesis

The fact is that women do use the aerobic machines more often then their male counterparts. Whether that machine is the treadmill, the elliptical, the stair stepper or that funky gizmo that spins really fast while making people sweat, women are more likely to ride it.

From this original hypothesis, we do not back down.

18-1

You would have to be socially illiterate to not have heard that the New York Giants upset (meaning narrowly defeated) the New England Patriots on football's grandest stage, Sunday. And you would have to be deaf to miss my screams of pained agony at the demise of my team.

The Patriots, after putting on the best 18 game streak in football history, finally fell prey to a "physical defense and its own gunslinging mentality," or so the sports "experts" tell us. The fact is that there were a lot more factors playing toward a Giants victory than Peyton Manning whispering hints to his brother from the sky box.

Here at FCN, we put together a team of crack sports scientists to investigate the real reasons behind the heartbreaking defeat of football's hottest playboy.

1) Gisele Bundchen

When Tony Romo took a vacation during his playoff bye week with celebrity girlfriend Jessica Simpson down to a hip Mexican vacation spot, Dallas Cowboys fans the nation over commented on what a disastrous move he was making. Then the innocent Jessica attended the"big" game, "distracting" the all-pro quarterback into a sub-par performance. That match ended up a headline grabbing upset, as the top seed in the NFC lost to the wild-card Giants.

Three weeks later, Tom Brady took a vacation during his playoff bye week to go visit celebrity girlfriend Gisele Bundchen in New York City. Patriots fans watched in horror as the entire escapade, yellow flowers and all, was broadcast over TMZ, an acronym standing for "Time Much Zwaisted." Then the innocent Gisele attended the big game, "distracting" the all-pro quarterback into a sub-par performance. That match ended up a headline grabbing upset, as the top seed in the AFC lost to the wild-card Giants.

Sound familiar?

The reality is that this isn't coincidence. The writer's guild ("striking now at a studio near you") is behind the efforts to derail high profile athletes with buxom blonde females. The guild knows that television shows are facing stiff competition for air time from sporting events and it is doing everything in its power to slow the rise of televised athletics (which many commentators view as insidious as reality TV) while the big shows are playing reruns. It's a giant (pun intended) conspiracy to indict celebrity quarterbacks and thereby reduce their star power. And the really scare thing is: It's working.

In case you are really into this sort of gossip mongering, an onling gambling site is inviting wagers on who will break up first: Romo-Simpson or Brady-Bundchen. Before the loss, I would have staked the lives of my unborn children on Romo-Simpson. Now I think it's a toss-up.

2) The Twelfth Man

NFL rules require that no team can have more than eleven players on the field at once. The Giants tried to get away with twelve during one play, but the zebras caught onto their ploy and threw a yellow flag (after Bright Red Hoodie - see below - threw a red flag). By "twelfth man," I am actually referring to the audience members who are watching the game and, presumably, rooting for the Patriots.

I say "presumably," because of the eleven people watching the game at my house (or phoning in their support before the game), five were cheering for New York and six were routing for the Patriots. You couldn't have gotten a more even distribution without a hack saw. Instead of cheering the Pats to victory, our twelfth man contributed nothing and might have even dampened the mood in Arizona for the favored squad.

3) The Ugly Bright Red Hoodie

Bill Belichick has gotten away from some frightful wardrobe decisions in the past (like stuffing his red challenge flag in his white athletic socks and wearing these obscene shorts). He reminds me of me in High School. Heck, he reminds me of me now. Gregg Easterbrook talks about the "gods of football" which determine who will win or lose big games. Well, the gods of football couldn't have shined on such television inappropriate garb as the Ugly Bright Red Hoodie.
In today's age of televised drama, colors are important. And red is out. Also, the head coach and the offensive coordinator (Josh McDaniels, to the left of Belichick in the above photo) have to match. That's a rule the NFL is considering as an addition to the uniform and wardrobe regulations for next year. And, that guy in the back biting his shirt. Not good. Not good at all.

4) The Cheating Giants

I know this is a heavy charge to levy with such little and circumstantial evidence, but, hey, that didn't stop the Patriot's critics. Why should reality stop FCN? Let facts be submitted to a candid world:

FACT: Peyton Eli Manning's miraculous completion to David Tyree was precipitated by a vanishing act in front of the Pat's offensive line. As David Blaine would say: Magic.
FACT: David Tyree caught a ball thrown 40 yards away with nothing but his helmet. Research of the taps is continuing to see whether Tyree used an adhesive or a magnet to complete this "amazing" pass. Either way, both products are banned by the NFL for in-game use.
FACT: Peyton Manning (Eli's older brother, who had never enjoyed the national spotlight before Sunday) placed his head in his hands while the ball was in the air. We don't know for sure how that impacted the ball's flight path, but we know it had something to do with the end result.

Don't think it was cheating? Check out this video documentation and tell us in the comment section how else such a feat could have been accomplished:

Impossible. I wish you could see me shaking my head right now.

5) Bad Ads

It's common knowledge in the sports world that good ads favor the team from the smaller media market. It has to do with NFL conspiracy theories and Budweiser's secret ties to Roger Goodell's sister-in-law's parents and some extortion that happened years ago but is now very well covered up. It's all very boring and nerdy.

New York is a bigger media market than Foxborough. Admit it: If it weren't for the football team, you wouldn't even know that Foxborough existed, much less where it is.

Now take a look at the ads: For a second consecutive year, Salesgenie.com embarrassed itself and its stockholders with a couple of CEO written ads that induced more cringes than chuckles, at least where I was sitting. GoDaddy.com ran another ad that tried to be raunchy, but came just shy. Even the normally reliable Budweiser disappointed.

The only good add that aired was Pepsi Max's and, consistent with FCN's conspiracy theory, the Patriot's scored a touchdown almost immediately after it was played. Here it is again in case you missed it:



6) Massachusetts was sunk before the opening kickoff

What do John Kerry, Mitt Romney and Tom Brady have in common? All three of them are from the Bay state and have failed to meet expectations. Kerry's political nosedive in the 2004 elections and Romney's inability to get traction should have been a heads up to savvy football observers. We should have seen this coming. The Red Sox notwithstanding, Massachusetts teams have been ho-hum this year. Boston College didn't make the national championship after a promising start. Kerry couldn't win against Bush after a whipping up a lot of momentum. And Tom Brady was flat when it really counted.

The jury is still out on Romney - he may yet redeem Massachusetts - but things don't look good for the rich white Mormon (If you really feel that way, go vote! Now, before the polls close).

To extend this logic a bit further, the Boston Celtics will not win an NBA championship this year. That's right folks, the big three will not perform when it really matters. You heard it here first!

Music Video Melange

I detest treadmills. Although I run regularly on rubberized asphalt, packed dirt, turf and, yes, really hard cement, something about putting my full, unrestrained weight on a thin strip of textured plastic while running at speeds in excess of 10 miles per hour is unsettling. I'm afraid I'll fly off the back like a bad Schick Quattro Titanium ad or step on the strip of unmoving platform and twist my ankle. I feel like a spoiled horse on a hot walker, high stepping for my owners beat. I feel like an experiment.

My coaches see treadmill workouts as excellent pace work and the holy grail of cross-training. They advise a liberal dose of machine running, especially when the weather outdoors is not conducive to performance-level athletic training.

The local gym is a friendly place that, at this time of year, is busier than an anthill in the fall. Most guys who work out head straight to the weight rooms after saying "hi" to Shirley, the front desk attendant. Most women go to the cardio equipment (including the treadmills) and start marching. On a good day, there will be more women in the cardio section than on the first life boat off the Titanic. Social and exercise psychologists have tried unsuccessfully for years to determine what draws the female gender so exclusively to treadmills, but the research is as of yet inconclusive.

In an effort to encourage male use of the treadmills (and thus collect a hefty check from the Surgeon General) the gym has kindly placed a bank of televisions in front of the machines presumably so that we can be entertained as we pound off the pounds. Unlike the TVs at BestBuy, these units are tuned to several different channels, designed to reflect the demographics of those watching. That is, they are all tuned to various editions of ESPN.

The other day the gym broke from the unspoken rule and put one of the sets on CMT, Country Music Television. Like most treadmill runners, I listen to my own tunes when I run; something motivating, with a quick beat and a happy disposition. My current running playlist includes Nickelback and Avril Lavigne, but I'll sometimes throw in some 90s dance music like Madonna, Cascada and Whitney Houston. It's music I would never listen to under less calorie intensive circumstances, but that pushes me toward faster times on the otherwise stimulus-free treadmill.

Without sound, music videos are difficult to understand. Why is the attractive blond swinging a bat into a nice car? Why does the fat guy dance around? What's with the old guy?

By far the most disturbing thing to watch is Sugarland's "Stay" a music video commonly thought to be about requited love and a woman who doesn't want her man to leave to see another woman (although I maintain that it's a song about a meddlesome mother-in-law). In the back of the viewers mind is the pervasive thought that any man leaving Jennifer Nettles is an utter buffoon. But if you haven't seen the music video, I don't want to ruin it for you. I have embedded it below for your viewing pleasure:



How can she sing so well while crying so hard? How can anyone produce that many tears to a simple guitar and organ accompaniment?

Imagine watching that muted while running in the fourth mile of a six mile distance workout with Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" playing in your ears. Because that is exactly what happened to me. Lavigne tackles the same moral and social quandary as Sugarland, but from a completely opposite perspective. The conflict causes a stunning confusion.

While tears are flowing on screen and rosary beads clutched tighter for prayer, the sound in my ears tells me to go away. The girl on screen is resigned, the girl in my MP3 player is taking control. The girl on screen is wearing white to Lavigne's black.

Maybe the conflict was a good thing because it got me thinking about something other than how much treadmills scare me. Then someone changed the channel. Arizona was playing Illinois and the Wildcat's star was having a big game. My player started on something from Nickelback and I continued running.

SuperbowlTM Mania

Hype. That's the Kosher (meaning Terry Bradshaw approved) word to describe the rabid entertainment blitz surrounding the biggest football contest of the year. Its "two weeks of hype" or "really hyped." But Webster would turn in his grave if he heard the semantic application "hype" gets near the first Sunday in February. Hype comes from the prefix "hyper" from the Greek "huper," meaning "over" or "beyond." Etymology aside, the word is really sporty (notice I didn't say "sexy?") and gets thrown around a lot on the Entertainment and Sports Programming Network (ESPN), even though it could be considered pejorative. But I like "mania," because, well, because I like being obstinate (or is it abstinent) and I am incorrigible, or so my mother tells me, which is really sweet.

So the SuperbowlTM is almost upon us. In fact, the outcome will be pasted across America's front pages like McCain's wrinkled mug before the Florida Primary before you next hear from FCN. I know, 72 hours can be a long time, especially when all you got was a Life Tip on Wednesday. Here, have another Kleenex.

It may interest you to know that FCN was not idle on Wednesday. Au contraire my doubting amigo. We took the bus down to scenic Arizona (home of McCain and millions of other retirees) and attended one of the New England Patriot's media availability sessions. We wanted to go the SuperbowlTM, but the ticket prices were exhorbitantly high. It will be a miracle if anyone other than a fat rich white male gets into the game. Once at the press conference, C dressed up like a Latina and asked Tom Brady to marry him ("her" in the context of the proposal). Everyone was really impressed with the accent and feminine voice tones that C was able to put together and with the fact that he was able to fit into a wedding dress. While Tommy turned us down, he did compliment C on his good looks and said he would be a "lucky find."

Yes, that really was us down in Arizona.

If you've been listening to any of the SuperbowlTM mania, you have undoubtedly noticed how desperate the sports media are to get a decent interview. It's a well known fact that athletes are not trained to speak. That's why when they do open their mouths they are either immensely boring, incomprehensible or mind bendingly crazy. In order to compensate for what has been dubbed the "Oral Intellectual Deficit," many anchors resort to interviewing members of their own journalistic entourage and talking heads from other channels just so they can fill air time. If you are a little creative with the channel switching, you can actually follow the "experts" as they make their radio and TV rounds. First Fox Sports, then Westwood One radio and back to ESPN for last segment of the hour. The journalists say the same things over and over again, sometimes getting passionate and calling each other names so that audience members won't follow osmosis to a different station.

There is nothing "over" or "beyond" about this mania, but some folks still call it hype.

Well, no discussion of the SuperbowlTM would be complete without a prediction. Plaxico Burress, a player only two of our eleven readers had heard of before this moment, predicted that NY Giants would win 23-17. I agree with Plax in one regard: The final score will be 23-17, but it will be the New England Patriots who emerge victorious, with some extra weight on their championship ring fingers.

Sorry about the "emerge victorious" and "extra weight on their championship ring fingers" verbiage. Maybe the hype is contagious afterall.

Not your father's wristwatch

For the last two years I haven't worn a watch. Not when I drive, not when I walk around, not in class and not when I run.

Most distance runners are chained to their timepiece and wear a watch with such regularity that they tattoo a white band into their wrists. This is called Ghost Watch and can be remedied by inexpensive outpatient plastic surgery and cancer-causing chemicals. Some runners have watches that are so advanced that their piece will measure heart rate or GPS and give the user a minute-per-mile pace calculation. Others just use a basic chronograph or even an analog unit to gage speed.

Not me. After a several years of running with watch, I decided the weight was too cumbersome to bother with on a regular basis. I didn't like the tan line, the itch or the hassle. And I was cheap. So when the last one broke I stopped using a watch.

If I really needed to know my time, on some tempo runs, I would bring a stopwatch, but most of my training was conducted without an accurate time appraisal. I would calculate my speed using a more precise version of the circadian clock, a built-in meter that lets us "feel" the passage of time. Granted, the brain powered watch isn't nearly as accurate as its human made counterpart, but it did the trick. And it was convenient. "That felt like a four-minute mile!"

I survived a career on a collegiate track team and over fifteen races without ever strapping on a digital watch. Sometimes my coach would advise us on the merits of being able to accurately measure our own time, but after each admonishing lecture I returned to running with a naked left wrist.

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago when I ran with a couple friends in a relay race. Both of my friends put up stellar performances (first and third in the field, respectively), but my time was much more pedestrian. We ended up getting fifth place overall, but it was obvious that my time held us back.

One of my friends kindly took me aside and gently advised that, perhaps, a watch might be the necessary addition to improve my training and racing. Maybe, he mused in a kind and gentle way that was insistent yet gave me room to wiggle, my times were suffering because I didn't have an objective standard against which to weigh my progress.

A couple of days later, I was at the watch counter at my sporting goods supplier weighing the merits of various "Running Accessories." Saying these devices are watches is like comparing a space shuttle to a Cessna. More than just tell the time, the products could measure heart rate, communicate with other watches, report altitude and temperature and conduct the kind of analytical mathematic calculations usually reserved for scientific calculators.

The watch technology has advanced significantly in the past two years! I wondered to the salesperson how long it would be before the SAT prohibited watches during the test taking.

I wasn't especially excited about spending two hundred dollars for an athletic wristwatch, so I settled on a less expensive unit that boasted "Tap Start Technology" and "200 Lap Chronometer." Tap Start means that the user can start the chronograph, just by lightly tapping a single button - as long as the watch is in the appropriate mode and of a friendly disposition. The 200 Lap feature allows the user to take 200 individual splits and, conveniently, uses the same tap start technology to begin split measurements.

Next morning I undertook my first run with my new hardware.

I pushed start and ensured that the watch was, indeed, counting. I then didn't look at the screen for the duration of the run. Those of you who are used to running with watches might find this unusual, but if watches aren’t your thing, looking at it during a run is one of the most unnatural motions imaginable. And in the last twenty-four months, I had run over 2,000 miles without a watch.

When I finished my outing (six miles, in case you just had to know), I checked my new watch and was excited to see a new personal record. According to the screen in front of me, I had run six miles in 4:22.89; Four minutes and twenty-three seconds.

My tired, endorphin laden brain interpreted that number with euphoria. But then reality took over and I measured my circadian measurement against the digital contraption in front of me. It really felt as if I'd been out for fifty minutes. I wasn't even pushing. A reality check also told me that a per mile time of less than a minute was fast in a car and humanly impossible.

On investigation, I discovered that this number represented only my latest split time. Apparently my long sleeved shirt kept bumping the tap technology button and, while my cumulative time remained accurate, the splits recent constantly. In all, I had used 142 splits in 46 minutes of running.

Maybe I should have stuck with an 8 lap model.

Screaming in the loot

The other day I attended the season home opener for my school's acclaimed Division I men's basketball team. If you've followed FCN for a while, you may recall that I am one of the most vocal and aggressive fans a team could ever dream of. For me, a team's success is personal; a victory for the boys on the court is an inspiration for the rest of week, a boost better than caffeine and taurine and a loss is an equally effective depressant. In fact, I've been able correlate bad moods to my team's poor performances and some people may even be able to use competitive performance as a predictive barometer of humor.

For all the readers that I didn't lose with two dollar phrases like "competitive performance" and "predictive barometer," the implication of my approach to watching sports is that I do everything in my power to see the team I'm rooting for win. Everything, that is, short of donating money to BALCO laboratories.

It's often said that the "sixth man" in sports is the home crowd. We may look weekend warriors, sitting in the stands like so many Monday morning quarterbacks, chugging down calorie laden drinks and life shortening snacks, but actually lusty cheers are a motivating force for the team. At least that's what we'd like to think. It's also what the media, sports leagues and colleges want us to think, but that's beside the point.

In an effort to encourage louder cheering, many organizations will throw "goodies" like shirts, commemorative balls and coupons into the stands, creating an entertaining frenzy among the audience as we struggle amongst ourselves like poorly raised children for possession. Generally, the louder you cheer, the more goodies get thrown your way, meaning that those who have been naturally blessed with loud voices run away with the most loot.

I scream loudly. That is, I do my vocal best to see my team to victory. I shout so loudly, in fact, that a friend who was listening to one of my team's games on the radio heard my voice and recognized it as mine. I use a handful of prepared taunts, print out the visiting team's roster so I can shout player's first names and join in with the cheerleaders on all their routines.

And my efforts are normally generously rewarded. For instance, I caught a couple of shirts, a few coupons and trinkets and an occasional free hot dog last season. I never got a chance to really dominate with my catches because of the enthusiastic gyrations of my good friend Nick, who always sat next to me and made like Champ Bailey or Asante Samuel as he did his best to disrupt my flow. That's right, Nick was throwing off my groove.

Well, now Nick is in Virginia studying his happy hands off and I got my first chance to make a grab at goody history at the season opener.

I was terribly disappointed when I heard from my inside man (a friend who is employed by the team's "Loud Squad") that no T-shirts would be handed out because of a miscommunication with the textile supplier. Despite the lack of supply, I managed to pull down the following (itemized with estimated resale value):

In N' Out Burger coupons ($2 value) x3 = $6.

PomPom ($3 value) x 1 = $3.

Balloons imprinted with the team logo ($.50 value) x 2 = $1.

Team bumpersticker ($.50 value) x 1 = $.50

Media guide to the conference's athletics ($5 value) x 1 = $5

That's eight items worth an estimated $15.50. And, as a student, game admission was free. Over the course of a two hour game, I got paid better than minimum wage to watch my favorite team sport.

And that's not counting the hot dog that my friend Ally swiped away from me at the last second (sitting where Nick normally would) and the Frisbee that buzzed just over my outstretched arm in the middle of a full leap (it landed three rows above me).

But I'm not writing this post just to brag; of course, that's a solid justification, but I have other, more altruistic reasons, too. I am writing to share a few of my hoarse secrets to other fans. Follow my directions and you may find yourself rolling in the the loot:

1) Sit 5-15 rows from the court. Positioning is key. Objects are generally thrown with little more than arm technology. Sure, air compressors are sometimes used to allow the compliments to reach the rafters, but a good 80-90% of all tosses are made from the court to the rows indicated above. Don't sit too close to the court or you'll be overthrown.

2) Befriend. I learned this tip from the New England Patriots. The best way to win is to bend the rules a little. If you see an employee marching around before the game, introduce yourself and ask to be helped out. Say you are trying to impress your girlfriend or that you'll split the pizza with him later. To the girls: A megawatt smile won't hurt your chances.

3) Scream your head off. Nobody ever caught anything by staying silent (unless of course, we're talking about Nick, but most of his catches were on throws intended for me). The louder you get, the more your inside man will feel justified in throwing your way.

4) Takeaways from kindergarteners do count. I know some people think it looks bad to steal a commemorative goodie from a six-year old attending his first college game, but when we're talking about loot, "you gotta do whatcha gotta do." That six-year old is playing a man's game. Trust me, no one will remember the teary eyed face of the whippersnapper you ripped off. Your T-shirt count will live in infamy.

5) Be ready for anything. Sometimes a ball will be thrown several rows above you and then be deflected down. You need to always have your head in the game and be ready to handle whatever the other fans throw your way. Remember that a juggled catch may mean the difference between another T-shirt and, well, not another T-shirt.

That about covers it. Try it yourself at the next sporting event you attend. If you break my record, write us an email and tell us about your exploits. Be sure to include a picture of the loot and a medical report detailing the damage to your vocal cords. Extra points will be awarded for crying six-year olds.

Pop Quiz #4

Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls please clear your desk of all notebooks, papers and digital assistants and prepare yourselves for an FCN Pop Quiz! You may, of course, keep your computer on, just don't click on the answer hyperlinks until you've answered all the questions. That includes you, Adrialien; you may be outside the country, but it's still no fair clicking on the hyperlinks until after taking the quiz. Simply select the best solution you can, maybe scratch a notation on a pad of paper to signify your decision and force a modicum of honesty and look at the bottom of the post for the answers.

1) Who is Shinzo Abe?

a) Japanese Businessman who committed suicide after a failed business dealing.
b) Japanese Agriculture and Forestry minister who committed suicide after a cabinet shakeup.
c) Former Japanese Prime Minister.
d) Champion Japanese Sumo wrestler.

2) How old is the first Baby Boomer to have filed for Social Security benefits?

a) 60 (born in 1947)
b) 61 (born in 1946)
c) 62 (born in 1945)
d) 63 (born in 1944)

3) Which of the following songs does Leann Rimes perform in her hit album Family?

a) "Nothin' Better to Do"
b) "Stupid Boy"
c) "Fall"
d) "Before He Cheats"

4) Name the two undefeated teams in the National Football League right now.

a) Green Bay Packers and Indianapolis Colts.
b) New England Patriots and Dallas Cowboys.
c) New England Patriots and Green Bay Packers.
d) New England Patriots and Indianapolis Colts.

5) Which of the following products has Greenpeace accused of containing "hazardous products?"

a) Microsoft Zoon.
b) LG Camera Phone.
c) Apple iPhone.
d) Motorola Moto Q9h
e) Greenpeace has accused none of the above of containing "hazardous products."

Ok, have you finished? That took you a long time. Are you sure you don't want to go back and change one of your answers? You can still do so without losing face. That Leann Rimes question really had you going, you might want to rethink it.

Unlike past pop quizzes, the answers were organized in a simple reverse rolling algorithm. If you haven't tried to predict the right response by guessing ahead and using a little math, we are sorry to inconvenience you with the change. If you have treated these little quizzes as math exams, we gotcha. Hah!

Here are the answers, see if you can find the pattern:

1-C
2-B
3-A
4-D
5-C

If you got all the questions right, you did excellently. You are very bright. You may want to start developing Self-Monitoring, Analysis and Reporting Technologies. (That stands for SMART). Or you could humble yourself by taking any of FCN's past Pop Quizzes.

If you got all but one right, don't feel too badly about the one you missed. Think about the ones you did get. And don't, whatever you do, consider your performance a "B."

If you missed 2-4 questions, you may want to consider a course of treatment with a monoamine oxidase inhibitor.

If you missed all the questions, take heart, the quiz was probably a complete fabrication anyway. Be happy in knowing you are more intelligent than everyone else.

News Flash: 10/18/07

Holiday will not play World Series due to injury sustained during postgame celebration

Matt Holiday, who was named Most Valuable Player of Baseball’s National League Championship series will be unable to play in his team’s first ever World Series due to an injury sustained during his team’s wild postgame celebration. Holiday, an outfielder for the Colorado Rockies, was wildly shaking a bottle of champagne and screaming at the top of his lungs when he pulled a key muscle in his lower back.

Team mates and witnesses to the incident say Holiday fell on the ground and began writhing; a move many thought was an unorthodox but acceptable form of celebration. It wasn’t until Holiday began shouting “my back, you fools! My back!” that the injury was attended.

The Rockies, who had been sustaining a Cinderella type playoff run and had won 21 of their last 22 games, will have to find another left fielder for the World Series.

Torre considers run at high political office

In the wake of his team’s elimination from playoff contention, New York Yankees manager Joe Torre says he may throw his hat into the ring of Presidential hopefuls and challenge fellow New Yorkers Rudy Guliani and Hillary Clinton in their bid for the Oval Office.

“I want to try my hand at managing the nation,” Torre told a group of beat journalists outside the Yankee’s front office. “If I can’t lead this team to another World Series, maybe I can balance the budget.”

Torre also said he felt working with the opposition party might be easier than negotiating with Alex Rodriguez.

Halo 3 Easter Eggs Discovered

A significant collection of easter eggs (hidden parts of the game that can be unlocked by strange player behavior) were laid bare yesterday by Cody Miller, the current world record holder for speed-running Halo 2 on Legendary without dying (he pulled it off in 3 and a half hours). Miller's latest discoveries include how Master Chief has used the bathroom without taking off his suit for the last few decades (he holds it), where the pistol from Halo 1 went (to Louis Wu), where the Flood come from (they teleported in from Doom), and why vehicles never run out of ammo (it's complicated). Perhaps most significant, he dug up a rare cut scene showing the true identity of the Chief. It shows a brief tiff between Master Chief and Cortana, in which the Chief removes his helmet to reveal that he is actually Samus Aran.

United States declares war on Qatar

It wasn’t supposed to work out this way, but it did.

US forces “accidentally” fired a high powered missile at an unpopulated farm in the Gulf Arab state of Qatar. Lt. Gen. Carter Ham, director of operations for the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff, responded to inquiry from the Qatar embassy by issuing a declaration of war. No apologies were made for the incident, other than to say that “these things aren’t supposed to happen, but it did, so we’ll have to live with it.” A press release from military brass added that “it’s about time we got Qatar out of the way.”

Arab news source, Al Jazeera responded by broadcasting the exact location of the base where the missile was fired.

President Bush has yet to be informed of the declaration.

All Things Patriots

I am a huge New England Patriots fan. I know Tom Brady, Asante Samuel, Teddy Bruschi, Randy Moss and Lawrence Maroney by name. I regularly watch the highlights of Patriots games and am ecstatic when my team wins. I know players stats by heart and can tell you how many points per game the Pats defense has allowed since 2003 (16.5), how many consecutive seasons the Pats have won in the Playoffs (4) and the number of times Brady has lost on artificial turf (1). I know the nature of Lawrence Maroney's injury and can describe Samuel's lanky stride to a T.

I also cheer on the Patriots no matter what. When head coach Bill Belichick admitted to using illegal field level videotaping to catch opponent signal calling, I compared football to baseball, where such a practice is legal and expected. When Brady left his pregnant supermodel girlfriend to date the world's richest supermodel, I sighed and dug desperately for words of justification. When Rodney Harrison was suspended for taking Human Growth Hormone (HGH), I argued the substance, while illegal, served to help the athlete tackle his knee injury. When NFL bad boy Randy Moss was signed by the Pats, I got to my knees and prayed with all the sincerity of a teenager that Moss would become a choir boy. I am still on my knees.

And don't go thinking that I'm a late blooming band-wagon hopper. I've been rooting for the Pats since they started Brady back in 2000. I liked the mascot and I figured, even at a tender age, that I should decide which sports teams I would support for life and stand consistently by my prognostications through all weather. The fact that my football team has since won three Superbowl titles and has established itself as the class of the league is extra icing. In other sports I've been humiliated. My baseball team, for example, is the San Francisco Giants and my NBA squad is the Sacramento Kings. Neither of those teams are playoff caliber, but that doesn't keep me from ardently cheering them on.

This brings me to the recent past. I was looking around my room the other day and noticed I had no Patriots memorabilia. My wall is adorned with posters for the Sacramento Kings and the Marine Corps, a couple pieces of art, and a few maps, but nothing to commemorate my NFL team.

Using Bruce Willis' internet, I navigated to the Patriots paraphernalia and memorabilia page and looked among the Patriots stuff for what might best reflect my fanaticism. The site looks like an organized dump with all manner of useless items and hokey souvenirs listed in neat rows. The interested fan can purchase a throwback trailer hitch which allows the owner to tow a trailer while advertising his fanaticism, a Brady 16 ounce glass with Brady's number 12 emblazoned on the side or a salt and pepper shaker with the Pats logo. More usefully, you can purchase a padded folding chair, set of four placemats, BBQ set or air freshener, all plastered with the Patriots mascot.

Although not available today, I am sure the competitive market for NFL memorabilia will soon drive sports teams to produce a wider variety of trademarked goods. Anyone who wants to use Vince Willfork's deodorant, brush their teeth with the same paste as Mike Vrabel or shampoo with Troy Brown's hair wash will have a product designed just for them.

I, for one, don't want to drink Randy Moss' Kool Aid.

(Incidentally, Bob Kraft, the owner of the Patriots, also owns Kool Aid, so don't scoff.)

Anyway, all of this is making me wonder why fanaticism is OK in sports but not in religion or politics. I mean, you would have to be flat out, certifiably crazy to max out a credit card buying the emblazoned junk the Pats webpage offers. You would have to be Amy Winehouse about to go on tour in the US. You would have to be Toshikatsu Matsuoka on a Seppuku-free spending spree. But such behavior is normal. People actually wear the Bellicheck hoodie. I've seen it. And it looks awful.

Put a message about your God on your shirt and some circles call you preachie. A bumper sticker for a political candidate means you are inviting conflict and tension. But be a fan of a sports team and all manner of irrational purchases are reasonable.

I just wanted a poster, hat or T-Shirt, not a velvet winebag, steering wheel cover or beverage opener keychain. Oh well, I guess that's what it means to be a fan: put up with all the junk your team sends your way.

Regardless, you know where I'll be Sunday afternoon: Watching as the Patriots take on the NFL's top rated offense and try to remain undefeated. And I'll be wearing an unmarked shirt, sitting in a normal chair and drinking from an unemblazoned cup.

Extreme...Bruise

The other day, for the first time several years, I went roller blading. In an effort to diversify my training regimen and reduce the chance of an overuse injury on key running muscles, I invested in a pair of inline skates and hit the hard cement of my community sidewalk.

As a backdrop to this episode, I should tell you that I told my plans to a good friend and roller blading fanatic. She tried to appear non-plussed by the idea of my picking up the new sport, but I could tell she was excited. I did not know, however, the cause of her excitement, and would not discover it until I laced on my blades and tried for the first time in years to stand up.

For the blissfully unenlightened among the faithful FCN few, a rollerblade is essentially a ski boot with wheels on the bottom. The wheels are small and well oiled, such that they shift quickly and without warning. Almost any pressure is enough to motivate rotation and the first time I contracted my quadriceps and tried to get off the ground, my feet flew out from under my body and landed me firmly on my rump. And when I say firmly, I mean that with all the inherent force of the word; the landing was not pleasant.

My friend laughed and explained that when the shoes are parallel, there is nothing contradicting the force of forward movement and such an awkward display of ill planned physics is a predictable outcome of my mistake. Only she didn't say it quite like that. Outwardly, I laughed with my friend, but inside determination beat out embarrassment and I decided to try again. And again. And again.

The difficulty for me in handling a new sport is balancing my need for speed with a limited skill set. I'm the kind of guy who races full throttle into every new project and the results are generally injurious. For instance, I broke my thumb on my first ever ski trip, I got shin splints in my first two weeks of competitive running and stress fractures in my first month on the track team. That's not to say that the effort hasn't paid off or been worth the pain, but it hasn't been smooth sailing either.

In my first block, I managed to stay on my feet through a series of tap dance like maneuvers. I looked like an inebriated barnyard animal, but I was very proud of myself. My second lap wasn't as fortunate.

Four falls later, my ego was bruised more than my body. Somehow, I'd been able to navigate to soft landing areas or slow down significantly before connecting appendage with ground. Every time I lost traction and fell, images of painful road rash, a common biker and Xtreme sport injury, crossed through my psyche. The pictures were so disturbing and profound that at a couple of moments, I just had to get to stable position and catch my breath. Then the position would become unstable, the images would return and the fun would start again.

I look forward to dominating this sport and becoming master of the wheels. Until then, I'll just be riding along aimlessly on eight small round disks, with little control over my direction. If you see me, wave hi. I'll try to waive back, but if you see me gyrating, I may not actually be waving.

In other news, an old friend contacted me a while back asking if I wanted to go wall climbing. I accepted and will be conquering a fear of heights sometime next week. At least with a wall, you don't get road rash.

Anatomy of a Scandal

Meet Mike. Mike is an amateur wrestler. Mike doesn't do the crazed, pre-determined, "give him an Oscar" type of wrestling that comes on the TV after the FCC regulators go to bed; he competes internationally in referred Grecco-Roman bouts. As a competitor in an amateur sport, Mike doesn't win money for his victories, but he has a couple of small sponsorships that allow him to live comfortably while spending his days lifting weights and training with a coach.

Mike has been blessed with a lot of wrestling success. He wasn't always the fastest or strongest in the ring, but the last couple of years had seen him win some major international competitions. Mike is a strong fundamental wrestler and his work ethic makes him a difficult opponent.

Mike was gaining a following and many people watched his sport, just to see him. A few months ago, Mike did a Nike commercial and put on a cream mustache for full page "Got Milk?" spread in Sports Illustrated. Mike was even in talks with McDonalds to be the franchise's main spokesperson. He was invited to several late night talk shows, including Jay Leno and Bill Maher to crack a few jokes and peddle his next bout. He was recognized as the face of Greco-Roman wrestling.

Then something went wrong.

A blood test showed that Mike had elevated testosterone levels. An investigation by the International Olympic Committee (IOC) revealed a connection between Mike and a Mexican pharmaceutical company - a company who's main product is anabolic steroids. The test was inconclusive and the connection weak, but Nike pulled its commercial and Mike got his name in bold font in a front page story in the New York Times.

Sports radio picked up on the news quickly. Within four hours of the IOC's press conference, commentators were taking sides. Some argued that Mike's predicament was the sad but inevitable result of a sport culture hellbent on performance. Others said that Greco-Roman wrestling needed something like this in the age of WWE. A distinct minority urged caution, noting that the evidence was weak and Mike's innocence was to be presumed until proven otherwise.

At the request of the IOC, Mike submitted more blood samples. The results from those tests would be available within a week.

CNN broadcast an investigatory news piece on the use of steroids by amateur wrestlers at a high school in Washington Park, North Carolina, Mike's hometown. Oversized youths who had really hurt themselves with performance enhancing pills sat down in front of the harsh lights of CNN news crews to tell their sad stories. Wolf Blitzer made a comment about the importance of good role models and CNN received over a thousand emails voicing disapproval against Mike. Some of those emails were read on the air.

George Bedard, the District Attorney of Beaufort County North Carolina issued a statement saying he would not rest until justice was done in the "Wrestling Scandal." His office filed criminal charges against Mike alleging tax evasion and money laundering, both in connection with his steroid use. Bedard admitted that he had "very little" evidence to support his claim, but promised more would surface during the course of the trial.

Jorge Sedano made a disparaging comment about rednecks, in connection with Mike and was suspended from his radio program by Fox.

Katie Couric led off her CBS broadcast with a segment on Mike that showed archive footage of him lifting weights and drinking a protein beverage that looked suspiciously large.

Matt Lauer had a sit down interview with Mike on the Today Show in which Mike categorically denied any knowing steroid use. Matt pressed on the meaning of "knowing," and asked Mike to apologize to his fans, but both requests were denied by Mike "on the advice of his lawyer."

The New York Times, the first print publication to break the steroid scandal news, published an article criticizing all the media attention Mike was getting and urging the media to "let him settle his demons alone."

Tim Montgomery and Floyd Landis were guests on ESPN television to talk about what it feels like to be investigated for steroids. Both had encouraging words for Mike.

George Clooney began a three medium campaign, spanning radio, television and print, against amateur steroid use. Mike never consented to having his image used in the campaign, but Clooney used it anyway.

Micheal J. Fox made a YouTube video calling Mike selfish.

Barack Obama pledged to regulate steroid access more closely if he became President.

Hillary Clinton followed suit, keeping her campaign in step with Obama's. Political observers pointed out the strength of this move to position herself for Vice President.

Press secretary Tony Snow said the White House had no comment on Mike's situation.

Doug Brandow of the Cato Institute warned against government intervention in organized sports.

Jorge Sedano was reinstated, but only after a sincere apology to Mike and the addition of 30 seconds to his broadcast delay.

Though pressed for more evidence in Mike's case, District Attorney Bedard was unable to produce more material.

Phillip Dunhert, the Attorney General of North Carolina, began an investigation into Bedard's handling of Mike's steroid allegations.

Mike's second blood test came back negative, meaning that no trace of steroids were found in his system.

The IOC cleared Mike for competition.

The IOC discovered a cataloging error in its blood lab and noted that the original positive sample actually belonged to Eric, one of Mike's opponents.

Eric was suspended from competition pending an investigation into his positive blood sample.

George Bedard was suspended from his position as District Attorney and the state dropped all charges against Mike.

Mike competed for several more years in Greco-Roman wrestling and he even won a few more international meets. He never failed another drug test, but Nike never offered him back his sponsorship and the talks with McDonald's came to an abrupt end. And while Mike never did take steroids, a Gallup poll reveals that 65% of Americans strongly believe he did.