Clinton, South Carolina, Saturday, February 28, 2015, 3:35 p.m.
Today is one in which I haven’t made many decisions. I’ve just taken the paths of least resistance, which isn’t something I recommend but just a frequent vice to which humans succumb.
Today, I sort of wanted to go to the Presbyterian College women’s basketball game, and I sort of wanted to go to the baseball game, but it’s a NASCAR doubleheader, and there it is, pretty as a picture because it is a picture, a moving one, there on my wide, high-definition screen.
The doings at Atlanta Motor Speedway have left me a bit befuddled. Occasionally, I’ve even been discombobulated and stupefied.
A race car got stolen from a motel parking lot, probably by thieves who were not expecting it to be inside the plain white trailer and upscale pickup they stole. They probably figured they were getting a Cub Cadet, complete with leaf blower and various cutting instruments manufactured by Poulan, and when they found a fancy race car, well, they realized this was big trouble indeed and left the car out in the woods somewhere, where it was discovered, none the worse for wear, but having no need for wear since it was too late to qualify.
Okay. That’s the story from Atlanta Motor Speedway, or at least the Greater Atlanta Metropolitan Area. Oh, wait, there was the Sprint Cup qualifying session in which many of the big names couldn’t get through inspection, and then there was the Camping World Truck qualifying in which one driver, Brad Keselowski, won the pole but only one other driver tried.*
Then there were the motor coach and van wrecks in the infield. So far the big news hasn’t been about racing, but, rather, in racing’s extended neighborhood. I could’ve gotten big news that wasn’t about racing over at Presbyterian College this cool afternoon.
With 25 laps remaining in the Hisense 250 – isn’t “high sense” an oxymoron? – the second-place car is within a hundred yards of the first-place car, so, doggone it, there’s a reason to watch for now. Be right back.
New TV standards: (1.) When it’s two wide, it’s three wide, and it’s nose to tail when the distance separating one tail from another’s nose — quit it, dirty minds – is, oh, 30 yards, (2.) a car length is a railroad-car length, and (3.) Kevin Harvick’s Camaro is running away again, so no one wants to talk anymore about lengths and measures.
None of the weekend’s minutiae will be long remembered if the Sprint Cup race is a barnburner or even a stew scorcher.
The Sprint Cup champion won the Xfinity race. Ho hum.
I await the Truck race with optimism.
*Catch that. Turns out Keselowski didn’t get his lap completed in time. “Upon further review,” as they say.
Clinton, South Carolina, Friday, February 27, 2015, 9:59 a.m.
Presbyterian College’s presence in my hometown has been a distinct pleasure for most of my life. I didn’t go there. I went to Furman University because I wanted to be close enough to come home when I wanted but not so close that I’d have to come home every time the hogs got out.
I know. It’s funny. It’s also true. If I had gone to college in my hometown, there would have been no peace from my late, great, larger than life father.
Last night, the Blue Hose men’s basketball team pulled off an upset, defeating Coastal Carolina, 80-69, in the final game at Templeton Center for seniors Jordan Downing and William Truss. The victory lifted Presbyterian to 10-20 overall, 6-12 in the Big South Conference. Coastal Carolina fell to 21-9 and 12-6. The seniors combined for 32 points and 15 rebounds. Downing surpassed 1,500 points for his career.
Head coach Gregg Nibert won for the 400th time in 26 seasons coaching the Blue Hose. I’ve known Gregg since he was an assistant at Furman and I was the sports information director. His young team lost seven straight before finally, Thursday night, in the final home game and penultimate conference game, No. 400 fell, and it was against Cliff Ellis. The Chanticleers’ coach formerly plied his trade at South Alabama, Clemson, and Auburn, and has won 688 games.
The college is worth a lot to our community, not the least of which is just giving us something to do. The Blue Hose kept me occupied when I was six and 56 (that’s not my won-lost record, except maybe in romance). Neither the football nor the basketball team play in the same place they did when I was a kid. The old Bailey Memorial Stadium (at one time known more as Walter Johnson Field, not for “The Big Train” but a PC coaching legend) is now used, I believe, for lacrosse. Leroy Springs Gymnasium is now the student center. When I was a boy, if PC had a women’s basketball team, I never knew it, and I don’t think I knew what lacrosse was. Johnson Field was a great place for kids to play tackle football with wadded-up paper cups on the grass behind the bleachers in one end zone. We kept up with the game by listening to the public-address announcer tell us that Wally Bowen had just hit Lynn Dreger for a 19-yard completion to the 37.
And Springs! The weirdest gym ever. Three quarters of the seats were in a balcony behind one goal, with about five rows of stands on each side of the court and one long bench that ran the length of the floor on side balconies that were little more than walkways.
The Blue Hose have only been playing in their present home, Templeton Center (and Furman Pinson Court) for, oh, close to 40 years now. It has taken PC from the NAIA, to NCAA Division II, to Division I and, in football, the Football Championship Subdivision. After a long dry spell, Harold Nichols led the football team to a 6-5 record last fall, and let the record note that three of the losses were to Northern Illinois, North Carolina State, and Ole Miss, all of which played in bowl games.
I divide my football Saturdays between the Furman Paladins and the Presbyterian Blue Hose. Furman is the alma mater. PC is the hometown school. The worst night of the fall for me was the night PC beat Furman, 17-10. I was all in for the Blue Hose every other week.
On Thursday night, Justin Bethel, the Arizona Cardinals’ cornerback, two-time Pro Bowler, and ex-Blue Hose, was at the basketball game, and he must have shaken hands with half the crowd. When I go to PC games, I do more than watch. I talk football with Coach Nichols and some of his assistants. Both candidates for mayor in Tuesday’s election are at every home game. Last night I joked with Bob McLean, the incumbent, that I had been sitting on the Danny Cook side for most of the season, but it was just a coincidence, and I live just outside the city limits, anyway. I watched the game with the editor and publisher of The Clinton Chronicle, Larry Franklin. Before the game, I had steak teriyaki at Japan, along with two egg rolls, and I realized later that the Blue Hose are 2-0 when I eat there before the game. My bad. I didn’t figure out the superstition until too late.
In the lobby, beforehand and at half, I talk Clinton Red Devils, Clemson Tigers, Carolina Gamecocks, and what in tarnation is going to happen at South Carolina State, with a variety of people similarly inclined to pick up a box of popcorn and a 20-ounce Diet Pepsi (three dollars, can’t afford not to). Getting in the ballgame costs six. A man can’t beat that sitting at home watching ESPN.
Most games, the retired dean of students, Joe Nixon, and I loudly commiserate the inability of modern officials to call walking. Or traveling. Whichever one prefers, the refs prefer neither.
The Blue Hose are off to Winthrop on Saturday, then the Big South Tournament in Conway, which is the home of Coastal Carolina, which, as the name suggests, is near Myrtle Beach. The women’s team, which has won two straight in overtime, is at home against Winthrop on Saturday afternoon. Ronny Fisher, the women’s coach, is another of the nicer fellows in town. Offhand, I can’t think of anyone at PC who isn’t among the nicer fellows in town.
Clinton has lots of nice fellows and similarly nice ladies, and an inordinate amount of them are available for mingling at home football and basketball games. I’m also fond of Blue Hose baseball, and Holy Cross is in for single games on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, weather permitting. Despite a 3-0 setback at Georgia on Tuesday, the Blue Hose enter the weekend 6-3 on the young season. Athletic director Brian Reese has noted that the presence of a brand-new scoreboard has quieted my grumbling at the games. Now, however, I’m grousing about how they need new dugouts, real ones that are “dug out,” and that way they wouldn’t block the view as much.
The optimum fan, of course, spends three quarters of his time staunchly supporting the team and the rest complaining. It’s because we all want things to get better, no matter how they currently are.
Clinton, South Carolina, Wednesday, February 25, 2015, 10:30 a.m.
Understandably, the Daytona 500 dominated my weekend. It wasn’t the whole weekend. I’ve got a new writing gig at Bleacher Report, and late last week all the T’s were crossed and I’s dotted, and then, on race morning, I looked over a contract, signed it, scanned it, and emailed it back to the home office in Winnemucca, Nevada.
Just kidding. I was thinking about the old Letterman routine. Winnemucca may be the home of a media empire, but Bleacher Report is in San Francisco.
Saturday was a marvelous day. I spent all morning writing about NASCAR, then I hustled up to Spartanburg to write 500 words about a women’s basketball game between Florida Gulf Coast and USC Upstate for the Fort Myers News-Press. It was my second assignment for that paper. Someone referred me when FGCU’s men’s team visited USCU earlier in the year. The women’s game carried some significance in that the Eagles were bidding for their 20th consecutive victory and their coach, Karl Smesko, his 400th career win. FGCU was also attempting to clinch the Atlantic Sun Conference regular-season championship, which it did, 75-59.
The Eagles’ red-shirt junior guard, Whitney Knight, was splendid. She is 6-3, which means she both anchors the offense and covers the other team’s biggest player on defense. She swooped up and down the court like some gigantic bird of prey, driving to the basket but also popping 3-pointers with dazzling efficiency. She scored 26 points, hit six of nine from behind the arc, and grabbed eight rebounds while playing all but the final two minutes.
Watching her play was exhilarating.
Smesko is an unassuming man, which contrasted with his spectacular player, of whom he said, “Whit (Knight) is an exceptional talent. She made a lot of big shots for us. Excellent percentage, hit big shots. She played great. Her teammates found her when she was open and she knocked them down.
“It was an exceptional performance on a day when we needed one.”
By the way, the Eagles left Spartanburg 25-2 and got there ranked No. 22 in the nation. That’s Division I.
The game couldn’t have been easier to cover. The Spartans never got hopelessly behind nor did they get closer than 10 points after the first ten minutes. The story wrote itself. Adding quotes was like adding water to instant pudding, then giving it a few minutes to thicken. I was out of there in no time.
When I got back to the car, the Xfinity Series race in Daytona Beach was in its latter stages, so I dropped by a favorite restaurant for dinner. I had chicken-fried steak. When I finished and started heading home, about a half-hour drive, I managed to discern from a distant radio feed that there were sixteen laps remaining in Daytona. Most of the drive home was spent with the race under a red flag. When I got back, I turned on the TV, and there were still nine laps remaining.
Clinton, South Carolina, Monday, February 23, 2015, 12:23 p.m.
Imagine that you and your wife have enjoyed a nice dinner. You walk out into the Daytona International Speedway trioval grass and tell the kid, who’s wearing cargo shorts, a Bob Marley tee shirt, a backwards cap, and jogging shoes he didn’t get on special, to go fetch your yellow Ford.
He doesn’t leave. You try to be polite, wondering why he’s waiting, and, then, all of a sudden, you and your wife realize, much to your alarm, that the parking lot is coming to you at slightly over two hundred miles per hour.
Ah, dinner at the Daytona 500! More exciting than breakfast at Wimbledon!
Every Daytona 500 – and every race of the season – will leave questions in its wake. Why, for instance, did NASCAR officials throw the caution flag after a crash occurred behind the leaders on the final lap, particularly since, one day earlier, they had done the opposite at the end of the Xfinity Series race? Joey Logano probably had the race won, but whether the lead is several car lengths, or the leaders are side by side, shouldn’t really be the reason for a call. It would be like it only being a strike if someone swung at it.
Trying to make sense of NASCAR’s madness would leave Sherlock Holmes befuddled.
One would think NASCAR would prescribe more caution for the less experienced drivers in the Xfinity Series. One would be wrong. NASCAR’s braintrust evaluates each situation on its merits, which is to say, it’s impossible to anticipate what they might do.
But … it’s a footnote. Logano was a deserving winner. Last year trumpeted his arrival at or near the top of the sport. Now he’s perched on the precipice of superstardom, and just wait till all the talk shows get done with him this week. He might be one of the beautiful people by the time he arrives in Hampton, Georgia. He’ll be making cameo appearances in soap operas in no time.
“I love you, Joey!”
“And I you, my dear. But wait! What’s that sound? Is Heathcliff near?”
Logano is 24, and he’s already got all the merit badges. If NASCAR had Eagle Scouts, he’d be one.
Next Sunday, it starts all over. The Daytona 500 is the biggest race, but it’s not much like most of the others. Someone who ran near the front at Daytona will magically disappear from sight. It happens almost every year.
Logano may win the Sprint Cup championship, but not because he won the Daytona 500. It’s just the take-off point. It’s not much different from the fan vote in the NASCAR Hall of Fame selection process. Millions together count for one vote out of 59.
That’s about the same as the Daytona 500 in relation to the Sprint Cup championship. Logano has a leg up, but it’s not his. It’s a chicken leg on a blue whale, and not much good in the water.
Clinton, South Carolina, Saturday, February 21, 2015, 9:53 a.m.
The long arm of the law has hung over Kurt Busch ever since the NASCAR weekend at Dover International Speedway that culminated in the AAA 400 on Sept. 28.
The older Busch brother started 22nd, finished 18th, and apparently experienced a moribund weekend.
But wait …
It was not a boring one, as it turned out. It wasn’t an insignificant one. The Sprint Cup race had nothing to do with its significance. Some sort of altercation (apparently, allegedly, perhaps, and/or in the considered opinion of a judge) occurred between Busch and his former girlfriend, Patricia Driscoll. In November, domestic violence was alleged. On Friday, NASCAR suspended Busch, though he hasn’t been criminally charged. Chevrolet cut off relations. I don’t think I’ve owned a Chevy in thirty years, but it hasn’t cut off relations with me. Chevy wants me back. It shut down the Kurt Busch embassy.
I’ve watched the Driscoll promotional video. I’ve heard the versions of both the Skipper and Gilligan. (Remember how that show would provide one jaded version of an incident, then the screen would flip-flop, and the scene would be depicted in an entirely different light? It was once one of those little mechanisms that popped up in old situation comedies.) I don’t know what happened. It’s lawyer versus lawyer.
The only insight I can provide that isn’t jaded or skewed by one version or another is my knowledge of Kurt Busch. By accident, I was in Las Vegas, researching a book (True to the Roots: Americana Music Revealed), on Kurt Busch Day in 2004, after he had won the first Chase. I was there after Busch and Jimmy Spencer tangled at Michigan. I can still see Spencer, coming out of the NASCAR transporter waggling a cigar, and Busch, wearing sunglasses to hide a shiner, leaving in a golf cart, lips poked out.
I have memories, good and bad, of Kurt Busch, because there is much good and bad in him.
Most of the time, Kurt Busch is an admirable fellow. No one in NASCAR has given more of his time to travel to a track and take part in some ticket-selling promotion. He’s given pep talks, ridden around tracks with lucky fans, and stood in actual ticket offices answering actual phones and selling actual tickets to fans actually lined up.
Most of the time, he is a really good guy, but, when things don’t go to suit him, the brat comes out.
Busch also has this awful tendency to make things worse by behaving boorishly. When he was detained outside Phoenix International Raceway by some of Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s finest, he reportedly did the old “apparently you don’t know who the bleep I am?” routine.
That seldom works.
When Busch was suspended for threatening a reporter (Bob Pockrass), I thought it was wrong. First of all, I’m uncomfortable with NASCAR policing the relations between driver and media. Secondly, if that scene had happened to me, I wouldn’t have been surprised. For twenty years, I expected there to be a time or two during the season when someone – a driver, an owner, an official, a loner, an engineer, a producer, a winner, a loser – would cuss me out. They would take me to task for something I had written.
My favorite way to handle this was to let them have their say, and then reply, “In my defense, it was heartfelt.” Sometimes it took me by surprise, and I could not maintain my calm. With some, maintaining one’s calm was ineffective. Such a man was Dale Earnhardt, but that’s another story.
Now, with all that being said, my chief defense is that I sympathize with people. Being imperfect myself, I recognize that others often have foibles, too. That doesn’t mean Kurt Busch isn’t responsible for his actions, and this is hardly the first time his self-destructive bent has put his career in jeopardy.
His biggest mistake was letting it all go. Where he most needs self-control is in maintaining his future. I expect that, quite possibly, the two words that flit most often through Busch’s cacophonous mind are one that begins with an “F” and another that is an indefinite pronoun.
That simple credo can be constructive in regard to small matters. In anything beyond the matter of putting off mowing the lawn until tomorrow, it can lead to ruination, particularly at the end of a litany of failed attempts.
Clinton, South Carolina, Friday, February 20, 2015, 11:38 a.m.
I’m digesting the results of Thursday night’s Budweiser Duel(s).
And breakfast. The link sausage I bought at Sam’s Club is tasty.
I’m delighted David Ragan made the Daytona 500. His was the good thing that happened as a result of Danica vs. Denny. I’m glad Patrick made it. I found her post-race confrontation with Hamlin wildly amusing. This morning a friend called and remarked that he could see why Hamlin hasn’t gotten married. “Putting your hands on a woman’s shoulder and saying, ‘Now, honey, settle down …’ that never works,” he said.
Perhaps I should now write “all kidding aside,” but, sorry, I can’t.
What have we learned? Well, the front row is made up of Hendrick Motorsports Chevrolets, Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson. Johnson and another Hendrick pilot, Dale Earnhardt Jr., won the 150-milers. It appears to me that Earnhardt’s car is the fastest, but that’s not conclusive because I didn’t have Johnson’s presence in the first race to provide a direct means of comparison.
If someone else wins the Daytona 500, all this apparent gathering dominance will be quickly forgotten.
Jeff Gordon could win because he’s fast and smart. The way he kept Joey Logano’s Ford at bay in the final laps of the former qualifier erased any possible demonstration by Logano that Earnhardt could be had.
Fate runs up front at Daytona like a green-flag pace car. The winner will be the driver who best latches on. Fate will smile on some and scowl at others.
At Daytona International Speedway, Kevin Harvick is a diabolical mastermind in addition to being the reigning Sprint Cup champion. Watch him. He’s sneaky.
Gordon and Matt Kenseth are fast and smart. Tony Stewart is overdue for Fate to smile. Kyle Busch, Denny Hamlin, Clint Bowyer, Carl Edwards, Brad Keselowski and Logano also have the knack of being skillful at Daytona without the 500 victories to prove it to the masses.
Just because they’re overdue, though, doesn’t mean this race will be any different. Each race is its own roll of the dice. They don’t tumble with knowledge of how they earlier tumbled.
In the second duel, Ragan and Patrick made the race after seeming to have no chance with just a few laps remaining. Those races were 150 miles apiece. Imagine how many more Cinderella stories are possible amid the 200 laps/500 miles of Sunday, factoring in the scrutiny, the pressure, the emotions, the slings, the arrows, the miscellaneous other outrageous fortune, “the pomp, the pageantry, the human drama of athletic competition.”
For those who still remember where we once upon a time got our Daytona 500 coverage.
BUH, buh, buh, buh, BUH, buh, buh, buh … THIS is ABC’s Wide World of Sports!
Clinton, South Carolina, Wednesday, February 18, 2015, 8:09 p.m.
I love baseball. That love was sorely tested today when I drove over to Presbyterian College to write about a baseball game between the Blue Hose and the Wofford Terriers.
Both teams were unbeaten. Wofford (4-0) still is, thanks to a 7-4 decision. I offered to cover the game a few days ago, and, when I checked my email this morning, I got the go-ahead “if they play it.”
Oh, they played it. I’m still shivering, and I’ve been home for more than an hour. At the beginning of the game, it was 37 degrees. The wind was whipping a cold front that is forecast to have the temperatures down to 12 by 7 a.m. on Thursday morning. Tomorrow night the estimate is 9.
At game’s end, it was 32, according to my phone, which apparently has a sense of humor. It felt like 2 according to my personal chill factor. Once my scoresheet went flying. It almost went flying again when the wind blew my folder opening when I set it next to me for a moment. The Wofford head coach, Todd Interdonato, got ejected in the seventh inning. I caught him on the bus, and when he walked out to talk to me, he was wearing shorts. I talked to him for 38 seconds. I didn’t have the heart to keep him any longer.
The Blue Hose (now 4-1, having taken four straight from Delaware State to open the campaign) broke on top, 3-0, before the cold reached the point where it must have seemed as if they were invading Russia in winter. Presbyterian used eight pitchers. Wofford got by with five. The Terriers took the lead with a run in the seventh, then busted it open with back-to-back homers by Matthew Pelt and Kody Ruedisili to lead off the ninth. While they were attempting to close, openings doomed the Blue Hose, who gave up consecutive doubles to open the sixth, hit two straight batters to start the seventh, and then came the aforementioned home runs in the ninth.
A baserunning blunder, by a pinchrunner who had subbed for a pinchhitter, who had doubled to lead off the eighth, cost Presbyterian a chance to tie it. The unfortunate Guy Casaceli got himself caught in a rundown between third base and home on a grounder with one out.
Had he scored that tying run, I might have cried. I was already shivering. My fingers had no feeling. I was “live tweeting” somehow. I got home and made coffee. That meant I was jumpy and shivering while I wrote my story.
It’s going to be warmer the next time I have fun at the old ballpark.
Clinton, South Carolina, Monday, February 16, 2015, 10:20 a.m.
NASCAR snuck up on me. I was busy enough that I sort of watched the weekend’s activities fresh. I went out to watch Presbyterian College’s opening baseball game – the Blue Hose beat Delaware State, 13-6, and, subsequently, three more times while I was otherwise occupied – on Friday, and covered a minor league hockey game in Greenville on Saturday afternoon. The Road Warriors won, too, 6-3 over the Evansville IceMen.
The Road Warriors won at home, a harbinger of things to come.
I missed the ARCA race – I’ve been sort of looking for a replay somewhere, and the next opportunity is Tuesday at 9 p.m. on FoxSports2 – and got home with just enough time to prepare two pastrami sandwiches for a race that was allegedly Unlimited. In retrospect, it seems to make more sense for it to be titled the Unlimited Sprint, for that is possible, unlike the Sprint Unlimited, which implied an unlimited field that was, in fact, tightly limited, though not as much as the year before.
What occurred was, like its title, anarchic.
Matt Kenseth won it, and it wasn’t the first race he captured by keeping his wits while, all about him, others were losing theirs.
Kevin Harvick, who once succeeded The Intimidator, should not be nicknamed “Happy.” He is The Instigator, like him for it or not. I rather do, but that’s skewed a bit by the love of any writer for things that help him write.
Daytona 500 pole qualifying? When I was sixteen years old, I played in a donkey softball game that made more sense.
NASCAR claims it wanted to make it more exciting for the fans. I suspect the truth was it wanted to make it more exciting for TV, there not being many fans, at least as classified as wandering about the grounds and sitting in the grandstands. Undoubtedly, some in NASCAR believe the two, fans and TV, are the same. Great transfers of cash contribute to this belief.
Steve O’Donnell, who is Executive Vice President & Chief Racing Development Officer (unless, like Mike Helton, he has been “elevated”), said later that the new format put it back in the drivers’ hands.
Qualifying. At Daytona. So that two drivers, Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson, can know exactly where they will line up, while dozens of others know they will line up somewhere, and a few others know they are in big trouble.
Just another jolly good TV show, old chaps. Watching it made me think of what Sir Winston Churchill famously said of the Royal Air Force: “Never was so much owed by so many to so few.” Pole qualifying was a related, imprecise antithesis: Never was so little accomplished by so many for so little reason.
It took skill, though. Skill to get a good parking spot while all the smart guys mapped strategy. Skill to drive at full speed while weaving between a forest of others independently slowing as if under a yellow flag. The rarest skill was being able to control one’s emotions and toe the NASCAR line in good humor.
Amazingly, the dual winners, and occupiers of the front row next Sunday, Gordon and Johnson, were able to assess the day’s events with good humor, Gordon with his trademark affability and Johnson with knee jerking involuntarily. Such moments do not endear him to his detractors.
Now for a few days to get the bad taste out of our mouths and prepare for the Gatorade Twins, check that, Budweiser Duel, which is actually two duels on Thursday, making them dual.
Clinton, South Carolina, Sunday, February 15, 2015, 2:18 p.m.
Bizarro World is back. Famous people did not say the following:
Just when they thought it was safe enough to go back [near] the water …
I belong to no organized sport. I follow NASCAR.
Never has so much metal been wasted by so many for so few.
For many years, I have judged innovations on the basis of child’s logic. If something cannot be explained in terms a child can understand, it has been infected by the corruption and jaded logic of adulthood.
Kid: “Hey, Dad, why do we have to have weapons that can blow up the world eighteen times.”
Dad: “So that we’ll never have to use them.”
In attempting to make some sense of how NASCAR determines the front row of the Daytona 500, after considerable trial and error, I found comfort in the words of Lewis Carroll in Alice in Wonderland.
“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”
“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.”
“I don’t much care where.”
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go.”
In fact, Alice in Wonderland is to the NASCAR rulebook what the Book of Mormon is to the Bible.
“You used to be much more … ‘muchier.’ You’ve lost your muchness.”
“Have I gone mad?”
“I’m afraid so, but let me tell you something. The best people usually are.”
And, finally, the philosophical basis of the qualifying plan:
“You would have to be half mad to dream me up.”
It was interesting, in case it takes that for you to be interested.
Read my books. You need some relief. http://www.amazon.com/Monte-Dutton/e/B005H3B144/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1416767492&sr=8-1
Clinton, South Carolina, Saturday, February 14, 2015, 9:48 a.m.
If not for the hectic nature of the day, I’d be stoked, or one of those other tragically hip clichés that are now acceptable to indicate an inordinate level of preliminary motivation.
At various times, my feelings for Saturday night’s Sprint Unlimited have been far out, all right, fayuntastic, way cool, gnarly, bad-ass, pumped, fired up, and ready to throw down.
Predating NASCAR, not to mention me, I might have declared it “swell” or even said, for no apparent reason, “Twenty-three skidoo.” Or maybe, “Jumping Jehosaphat!” “Great Caesar’s ghost!”
It’s as long a way from “gee whiz” to “wtf” as from Bons Secours Wellness Arena to Daytona International Speedway.
They were just the Twitter sayings of their day, back before a man (or woman) had character counts with which to contend.
This afternoon I’ve got a minor league hockey match to describe. This is a first. I like hockey. The NHL had a Sunday game of the week on CBS when I was ten. I remember reading tales of Bobby Hull, Gordie Howe, Henri Richard, and Phil Esposito in Sport magazine. I think the greatest ever was Bobby Orr, though not for long enough.
I doubt I’ll see any Bobby Orrs circulating this afternoon for the Greenville Road Warriors, but I’m looking forward to it the same way I was when I first wrote about a dirt track, a mountain climb, American Legion baseball, and a bowl game.
My ardor for Legion ball cooled a bit the time Easley scored eighteen runs in the top of the first inning and wound up losing, 25-23. Most of the bullpens had bolted for the beach.
If all goes well, I should be home in plenty of time for the race, which itself won’t take that much time at all. I expect no icing calls in Daytona Beach.
Just so you know, later today, when I tweet the Road Warriors are being outshot, it won’t mean I’m in the process of defending my home from attack. It just means the alarm system is armed, and, in Greenville, the pucks are flying, not the hot lead.