A Penny for Your Thoughts, and a New Renaissance

          The Baldwin County School System is facing a financial crisis not of its own making. It is a result of what every family in America is suffering from, inflation and a struggling economy. The school system is simply running out of money. There is a solution, and it is a wholly American.  We can vote and solve this crisis. 

            The "Penny Tax", that was passed some years ago as a limited budget measure, expires May 31, 2013. If we do not vote to extend it, the Baldwin County schools will lose $28 million, resulting in drastic reductions. We will lose bus drivers, special education aide positions, janitorial and maintenance staff, along with a good number of administrators, and indespensible teachers.   

            There is an inverse relationship that occurs when teachers are lost. As the numbers of teachers shrink, the number of students per classroom expands. This will result in the high teacher/student ratio to go even higher, further resulting in decreased quality of teaching. There will not be as much time to spend with individual students and struggling, marginal students may be lost.

            It gets worse. For the lack of a few pennies, four schools in the county will have to close, which will exacerbate the crowding situation and again, the teacher to student ratio will rise, and quality will drop. We cannot allow this to happen when it will cost only a few pennies to fix. Our school system has made great strides in the past few years and losing this penny will set us back further than we have gained.

            It is being argued that this penny is a tax increase. It is not. We are currently paying this penny, and the proposal, Baldwin County Amendment 2, will pick up where the former penny leaves off. It is a well-spent penny for our future.

            Whenever there is a proposal to fund schools, there are those who say, "I don't have kids. I shouldn't have to pay the tax." True, but you do have a future, and the professions and trades that you will use in that future are going to have to be educated. If you are looking for a good return on investment, invest in your future. Invest in our children. It is only a penny, and will pay dividends for generations.

            Our schools' superintendent, Alan T. Lee, sent an e-mail to parents of Baldwin County students addressing the question as to how we can afford the put a laptop computer into the hands of every high school student in the county when the system is having a financial crisis. To answer, I quote from that e-mail:

            "Please allow me to put our Digital Renaissance in perspective. Digital Renaissance is one percent of our district budget (computers, software, wireless, etc.). Digital Renaissance is two percent of what we spend to educate a student each year. (Remember, this school system spends $540 per student less than the state average.) The dollars we've invested in laptops would not begin to fill the gap of revenue should the penny not be extended. So how did we pay for the laptops? We've eliminated more than 80 central office jobs and returned those dollars to the classroom to support Digital Renaissance. Also, at my direction, I redirected dollars we were already budgeting for other programs to Digital Renaissance. Some question the timing of Digital Renaissance. As one parent told me, there is never a good time to buy a house or for that matter, to even have a child; conditions will never be "just right" to make sacrifices for our kids. We're empowering students right now to compete for the best college and career opportunities."
            "To put Digital Renaissance in perspective, to place a computer in the hands of a student costs us $202 per year, a small amount when compared to what textbooks cost. Further, our students recognize that the laptops are a tool that will allow them to get the education they need to compete on a global scale. Most assuredly, we cannot continue to educate our students using yesterday's practices if we want them to land the best jobs."

            Pennies add up, and dollars are hard to come by, but the alternative is bleak. For example, when health issues arise, do we as a community want to have a scarcity of doctors because we wouldn't spend the pennies ten years earlier?

            The school system has handled the money we've allowed them to have very responsibly, and have earned the right to continue to provide a competitive education for our young people. You ask, "A penny for future thinkers, and for a renaissance?" I answer, that is cheap when you compare it to the one that took us out of the dark ages and into one of the most creative periods of our history. Let's fund this one on November 6 by voting "Yes" to the County Amendment. I'll pitch in my pennies, and I'll win more than if I pitched them against a wall in a game of chance. 

It Ain't All It's Cracked Up to Be

     "When we were on the boat…" most often elicits comments about how wonderful such a thing must be, living aboard, cruising the high seas, and how that is life's dream come true.  I smile, nod, not wanting to shatter their happy wondering, but I'm telling you, it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

After a little aimless chat about our three-year adventure aboard, the statement is made, "You're a writer," followed by the question, "why don't you write about it?"  I explain that every family who cruises has written about it to the point the market is flooded by such books, but the truth is, it ain't all it's cracked up to be, and folks don't want to hear that.

     I have succumbed.  I am writing about it.  If your dream is to sail away and live forever cruising the blue, calm waters of the Caribbean, or the world's oceans, visiting exotic ports, and even more exotic, secluded anchorages off tiny, uncharted islands, catching your own lobster which are cooked right out of the water, drinking your favorite beverage while dining and watching the sun set on another perfect day, as you listen to Jimmy Buffet, stop right now.  Do not read any further.  That is the dream, but a dream is not reality.  I'm telling you, it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

     Sailing is hard work.  You see these idyllic pictures of a tanned couple standing at the helm of an immaculate sailboat, smiling, and saying something like, "Now, bring me that horizon," a 'la Captain Jack Sparrow.  That is not the reality. 

     A cruising vessel, if it has been to sea longer than a day is not clean and uncluttered.  There is all manner of gear lashed to the deck, all salt encrusted, and all a daily necessity.  The idyllic, smiling couple, after a week at sea, will both look as salty as the gear on deck. 

     If there are only two of you and you are making a several day crossing, you are likely to be sailing in four-hour watches, which do not allow for much sleep, and even basic personal hygiene is abandoned.  Showering on a pitching, rolling boat is almost out of the question even if you have the water on board to take one.

     After four hours of standing watch, the only thing you want to do is lie down, and as soon as you do, you're out…cold until the Admiral hollers, "I need you up here, QUICK!"  It is usually minor, sometimes not, but the adrenalin is surging, and sleep of any sort is now only a wish.

     Put two little girls, a dog, and two frogs into this mix, and there is no way you are ever going to capture the attention of the ad agency that took the idyllic smile photo.  You soon realize why sailors are characterized as surly, unshaven, and ill kept.  It is now embarrassingly clear where, and how, the term "cusses like a sailor" came about. 

     In your cruising dream, if you imagine hours of lounging at anchor reading a book, swimming, or resting, if you are the captain, forget it.  Your time at anchor will be spent repairing all the stuff that broke on the crossing while the Admiral and the Princesses do all the things they dreamed of…washing dishes, doing laundry, re-supplying, and handing me tools.

     As captain of a sailing vessel, you are ultimately responsible for everything.  You are plumber, carpenter, electrician, rigger, painter, mechanic, minister, doctor/nurse, meteorologist, navigator, hydrologist, sail maker, and all around encyclopedia.  Heaven help you if you ever say the words, "I don't know."  If you do, you might as well get off at the next port and give the boat away.  Your credibility with the crew is shot.   

     You have to be all of these things because, in the middle of the big, blue, wet thing, there is no roadside assistance or anyone likely to pass near if you break down.  You are on your own.  At sea, as captain, there is God, then you.  It is all on you.      

     There comes a point when you wear down and instead of settling in some exotic locale that you dreamed of, you end up in Fairhope, Alabama…never a sweeter place on all the globe.  

     "What made you stop here?"  I am asked. 

     "This is where the anchor fouled," I answer.

     "Really?  Tell me about it."

     I smile and will, but the truth is, it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

I Have a New Hero

            This past Sunday night, I found a new hero. It is not for his athletic prowess, although he is a wonderful athlete, it is not for his humility before the glaring lights of national scrutiny where he cried unabashedly, overcome with emotion in the face of terrible loss, and it is not for his displayed faith as he knelt and pointed skyward. All of those qualities contributed to my elevating him to hero status, but they are only hints who he is, and as to why I have placed him on a pedestal.

            James Torrey Smith was born on January 26, 1989, in Colonial Beach, Virginia, and grew up there, and in Fredericksburg with his mother Monica Jenkins. The oldest of seven children, Smith helped his single mother, who attended Rappahannock Community College in the day and worked at night, with household chores and earned honor roll grades in school, but that doesn't begin to tell the story.

            Torrey's father was not in his life, and other men fathered his siblings, but that did not diminish Torrey's sense of obligation to them. At the age of seven, Torrey assumed his role of older brother and became his brothers', and sisters' keeper. At that tender age, when most of us can't find the toilet, he was changing diapers, fixing lunches, and being a man. There are far too many grown men today who will not do either chore.

            As God will do, He gifted Torrey not only with a sense of responsibility, and maturity, but graced him with physical prowess, and intelligence, both of which he used to graduate with honors from a private high school while on scholarship, and to earn scholarships to college as well. He attended the University of Maryland where he set, and holds several Atlantic Coast Conferences records. He chose to forego his senior year and entered the NFL draft where he was the 58th pick by the Baltimore Ravens assuring him of being able to be located near his mother and siblings to provide financially, and be there physically as well. Torrey's assumed responsibility came crashing down on him on Sunday morning at 2:00 AM.

            His younger brother, a product of all that diaper changing and lunches, was killed in a motorcycle accident at the age of nineteen. Torrey, on the day of playing before a national audience on Sunday Night Football, received the phone call that all parents, and he is as much parent as brother, dread, that one of their children has been killed. He called his coach, got permission to leave the team and went to Virginia to attend to family matters.

            Most of us would be grieving to the point that any consideration of work would be a passing thought. We would turn inward, soothe our hurting souls, and let the love of family and friends wash over us to ease our pain. Not Torrey, not this man of responsibility, of loyalty, of commitment, no, he, when things were arranged, and he had taken care of the needs of his family, called his coach and told him he was coming back and wanted to play.

            Coach John Harbaugh told him it was his call, he could play or not. Torrey had already decided. He was going to play in that critical game against the Raven's archrivals, the New England Patriots. Monday morning, after the Ravens one point victory, coach Harbaugh said that he left the decision to play in the hands of Torrey, and, "That if it didn't work out, it didn't, but he had earned the right to play."

            It worked out. Torrey Smith caught six passes for 127 yards, two of those, touchdowns, and was awarded a game ball. It isn't too much of a stretch to say that the Ravens would not have won without him, but Torrey saw it differently. "I didn't want to be out there, just running around, doing nothing. If I was going to be out there, I was going to give it my all. You're on the lines, you just want to make the play."

            "Afterwards is when you can sit back and reflect on things. My teammates, I love them to death, and they helped me get through this."

            Before last Sunday, I didn't know Torrey Smith. Now, I wish I knew him better. I do wonder, did Torrey's teammates help him through this, or was it Torrey helping them?

            A team of men working and playing together is a very close-knit group, they, as Willie Stargel said of the World Series Champion Pittsburg Pirates, "We are family." Torrey Smith knows family.

            It doesn't matter to him if they are not of the same blood as he is, half is good enough. They are family. It doesn't matter to him that 60 men, making millions of dollars and are not reliant on, or related to him, they are close enough, they are family. Torrey Smith has a sense of family. He knows what it is like to provide, to support, to protect, and to defend those he calls family, but I bet that Torrey Smith goes beyond that.

            I bet Torrey Smith would not hesitate to help a traveler who had been beaten and left in a ditch, to pay for his upkeep, and to promise the innkeeper that he would check back the next time he was back that way to see if there was any further reimbursement needed.  Yeah, I don't think my new hero has any problem with knowing who his brother is, or loving his neighbor. Lead on Torrey Smith, I'm chasing you.

Presidential Debates: Reality or Variety Show?

            I watched the presidential debate, but only a little, maybe ten minutes that I caught during commercial breaks as I switched from the final regular season baseball game to the debate. I don't think I missed much. What I heard, and saw in those few minutes was two guys, well coached, using a lot of words to be sure they said nothing.            

            I remember the first nationally televised debate in 1960, which set the precedent for all presidential debates to come, pitting the photogenic John F. Kennedy against the visibly run-down Richard Nixon. Though radio listeners ruled that Nixon won the debates, the 70 million viewers who watched on TV thought that Kennedy won over the weary, recently hospitalized Nixon. The debates played a prominent role in Nixon's eventual loss.  

            What was so shocking was the precedent. It wasn't what the candidates said, it was how they looked when they said it.  That night, politics was dragged from substance to showmanship. Will Rogers would have loved it. The debate stirred the political game so much that it would be 1976 before presidential candidates would agree to another one.

            During that debate President Ford shot himself in the foot while debating Jimmy Carter when he declared, "There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe," a statement that surprised voters and Eastern Europeans alike. Moderator Max Frankel's reaction, "I'm sorry, what?" summed up Ford's stumble.

            President Carter, looking to put Ronald Reagan on the defensive, ended up walking into a trap in 1980. During the campaign's only debate, held just a week before election day, Reagan jumped on an opportunity presented by Carter's persistent attacks on his Medicare policies, laughing off Carter's argument, with the now famous, "There you go again."

            In 1984, at the age of 73, Reagan was up for re-election. The Democrats were questioning if he, at that advanced age, was fit to be president. In one debate with the 56-year-old Walter Mondale, Reagan, ever the showman, said, "I want you to know also I will not make age an issue of this campaign. I am not going to exploit for political purposes my opponent's youth and inexperience." Two quips, two terms.

            Candidate's words and actions are not the only things that can influence the debates. Moderators can alter the course. In the debate between then Vice President George H.W. Bush and Michael Dukakis in 1988, CNN correspondent Bernard Shaw asked Dukakis whether his staunch opposition to the death penalty would be waived were his wife to be raped and killed. Dukakis, calm and without much emotion, said no, and though the former Massachusetts governor stuck by his answer, his response to the atypical question did nothing to help his campaign.

            Vice-presidential candidates get into it too. In 1988, Dan Quayle claimed that he had, "as much experience in the Congress as Jack Kennedy did when he sought the presidency."

            He opened himself up for attack from Democratic Sen. Lloyd Bentsen who said, "Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy. I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you are no Jack Kennedy."

            "That was really uncalled for, Senator," Quayle replied.       

            "You're the one that was making the comparison," Bentsen said.

            There are more, such as when George H.W. Bush in the three-way debate with H. Ross Perot and Bill Clinton where he looked at his watch, then remarked later that he, "was glad when the damned thing was over." Al Gore tried to intimidate George Bush by leaving his podium and going over to stand next to him during their debate, making himself look foolish. 

            The Thursday after this most recent debate, Romney was declared the winner, but not so much for what he said, but for how he appeared while saying it. The critics said the President Obama appeared unprepared. I had to look hard to find out what they said, which when I did, was of little substance.

            I have two questions. The first, do the debates really sway voters? I have known for months how I am going to vote, and what issues made me go that way. I talk to a lot of people and I have not come across one who has said they would wait until the debates to decide. I am certain such are out there, but are there that many, and what are they deciding on, the issues, or the appearance?

            With the debates being more showmanship than substance, I ask my second question, why bother? Is America listening, or watching? I worry that our society has devolved into a state of "entertain me", don't tell me, show me. We want the candidate who looks presidential, is photogenic, and has a beautiful spouse. We want Camelot.

            I think America would rather have a Presidential Variety Show. Instead of being asked questions about unemployment, the economy, taxes, and health care that candidates have no intention of answering, why not assign them songs, dances, or musical instruments to play, and have a panel like American Idol decide who moves on and who doesn't? Maybe we could have a survivor like reality show where candidates could go onto some remote island and debate in tribes then vote each other off by snuffing out their torch.

            I don't watch those kinds of shows either, and if they were opposite the final regular season baseball game, I'd opt for the game, but you have to admit, it would be good entertainment. Entertainment is all we're getting now, but it isn't very good.

And Just Like That, it's Over

            "School starts next week," my parents would inform my sister and me in days of yore, or the Admiral and I to the Princesses modernly.

            "What," we/they exclaim, "summer's over?  Where did it go?"  It is the same every year, and I wonder at the shock.  We/you have known it is coming since May when school let out, but it does seem to come every year as a stunning surprise.

            Perhaps, because we have crammed so much living into three months, and we are shocked that life could go from being so full of doing things we want to do, to doing things we have to do.  The latter is a lot less fun than the former, and I was then, and some argue, still am, more about the fun than the "have to". 

            As the Princesses and Admiral lament their having to go back to work, I think it my duty to clarify the picture.  "It isn't as if you didn't do anything over the summer," I say, looking at the bills, and trying to figure a way to make them fit the budget that the summer's activities have busted.  "You've been on a choir tour, to two family reunions, a major road trip to Memphis with cousins, two major church camps, a drama camp, singing lessons, and when you weren't doing that, you were boxing, swimming, or going to the beach, not to mention, parties, movies, and about a dozen other things that drain the bank."  I am glad summer is over, the credit cards need to cool off, but I don't say that out loud.

            "School starts next week," still brings a shudder to me, but for different reasons.  When I was a kid, it was issued as a warning.  First, that summer was almost over, and second, that I had better get my "do well in school" frame of mind in gear, and whenever I hear it, or say it, my gut involuntarily clenches with dread.  These days I am the declarer of doom for the children, but when I utter those dark words to the Princesses, it is also as a declaration of freedom, as in, things can now get back to a more ordered way.  There will be an added measure of peace in the house, because I know where they will be for at least six hours of the day, and I won't have to drive them all over lower Alabama. 

             "School starts next week," for the kids, declares that not every day is a holiday, as it was during the summer, which makes weekends, starting with Friday, more significant, and jam-packed with energy to get things done.  They are a mini-summer for the next nine months.     "School starts next week", brings to life for them, the adage, "early to bed, early to rise."  I never did get the rest of the saying.  I've always gotten up early, and go to bed at a reasonable hour, but I cannot say that either "early to", "bed", or "rise", has made my health better, my wealth increase, or my wisdom more profound.  It could be that I am maxed out on health, wealth, and wisdom, that this is all I get; in which case, those words of wisdom were not, so I will stick with just the first six of the saying.

            "School starts next week," has a much deeper meaning for us this year.  The Princesses are going to public school for the first time, which means that I, as a parent, who gets sick with the first whiff of a classroom, am going to public school too.  Why do I feel like I am hearing those words rather than speaking them?

            I was a terrible student in my youth, and still am.  I did not, and do not, like school.  I love to learn, and to teach, but not in the confining order of academics.  God bless, and more power to, those who do, but it ain't for me. 

            With the advent of our venture into public schools, I find that I am again subjected to rules and regulations similar to those I was forced, and I do mean forced, to live by for twelve years of my life.  The Admiral informed me, reading out of the handbook, that I cannot take my own child out of school for such events as book releases and signings, or doctor appointments without the principal's permission, and if I do, I, the adult parent, am subject to spending time in Saturday detention.  She probably didn't say that, but being in student-back-to-school mode, it is my interpretation. 

            Whoa, and woe, woe to the principal who ever tries to tell me what I can, and cannot do with my own child, and triple-dog-woe to he, or she, who tries to put me in detention.  The Breakfast Club will seem like a lark in the park compared to what will happen in school that Saturday.  See what I mean about my not being a good student?  It all comes back now.

            "School starts next week," I said to the Princesses with all the emotions listed above, glee, anticipation, and dread, but not fear.  Not until they shouted with bright eyes and beaming smiles, "That means we get to go shopping!"  Oh goodness, will this never end?  And to think, the credit and bank cards had just cooled sufficiently to be handled.  They will surely melt this week.

            Please, excuse me; I have to rise early to work more.  What was it about this wealth thing again?

Bullying Painfully Remembered; Still

           I was small as a child. In the fifth grade, I weighed 45 pounds. In the seventh grade, junior high, I was up to 55 pounds. Because of my size, I was a target. I was the kid with the "Kick Me Hard" sign on his back, and many did, and often.

            In elementary school, it wasn't too bad. I got teased, and pushed around, but I was seldom in fights. In the 6th grade that changed. Boys my age were outgrowing me, and were flexing their muscles. The bullying escalated. I hated recess, and that was the only subject at which I was any good. Walking home was worse. I could always count on a fight, or having to run from one.

            I took my bullying problem to my parents. Their solution was, "Tough it out. Stand up for yourself."

            This was not what I needed.                                                         

            My father said, "Avoid fighting if you can, but if you're pushed or hit, fight back.  You have to defend yourself, and if you do, and get in trouble at school, you won't be in trouble at home. We'll back you, but we, nor your teachers, can fight your fights." 

           I would eventually recognize the wisdom of  those words, but at the moment, I was feeling abandoned.

           "Look," my mother added, "I'm tired of you coming home whining and crying about being roughed up. Next time, the blood on your clothes, had better not be yours."

           "Yes ma'am." You didn't argue with Mama when she got that look in her eye. I knew how to fight, but being small, I didn't. It hurt, but facing my mother would hurt much more.

            She continued, "Anyone who picks on someone because they're smaller, or different, is a bully, and bullies are cowards. Cowards are afraid to be hurt, and if you fight back, you will hurt them, then the bully won't mess with you. When they come at you, and you have to fight, go at them like a banshee from hell, and don't stop until they can't fight.  I promise, you won't be picked on any more."

            I had no idea what a "banshee from hell" was, but I assumed it wasn't any worse than facing Mom when she was mad, so I resolved to stand up to the bullies, and dish out what they served me.

            The chief bully in my life accosted me on the way home from school. I tolerated his knocking my books out of my hands, and the name-calling, but when he kicked me, I turned and charged with fists and feet flailing. He got in a punch or two, but when I kept coming at him, he turned and ran. He ran from little me!

            I was proud, and had some blood on me too.  I thought Mom would be pleased, but when I got in the house, beaming with triumph, she sat me at the kitchen table, and said, "If you ever bully anyone, know that I will be the one doing the beating on you." I had discovered a strength, and was being taught to use it correctly.

            I wasn't bullied anymore that year, and had no fights, but junior high, the next year, was where the problem got out of hand. 

            Over the summer, it seemed that everyone but me grew. On the first day of school, I knew how Jack of beanstalk fame felt in the presence of a giant, except he had only one to deal with. I had hundreds. The older kids looked like grown-ups, and one was. His name was Mike. He was the monster in my nightmare.

            Mike had failed the 9th grade so many times that he was old enough to drive to school. He was what we called a "hood". He was my first encounter with a bad man. He was a bully, and I was his pet hate. Up until now, the bullies in my life had been peers. Mike was no peer. He was a grown man. I was a pre-pubescent boy.

            The abuse at his hands graduated from name-calling, to pushing and punching, to beatings.  It went on for months, and in that time, I lived in terror. I could not make my parents understand that what I was dealing with was not the same as before. Their answer to my pleadings was the same, "Tough it out.  Fight back." How do you fight a monster? I was soon to learn.

            His abuse came to a head one day in the boys' locker room where he accosted me threatening to do horrible things. He had maneuvered me into part of the room that was little used, where my cries for help would go unheard. He backed me into a rack of heavy, wire baskets used to store our clothes. He reached for me, and something snapped. A rage rose in me that I did not know existed. Reaching over my head, I pulled out one of the empty baskets and used it as a weapon.  What I did to him wasn't pretty.

            It happened on a Thursday. Mike didn't come to school on Friday, but he was there on Monday telling all who would listen that he had been in a car wreck. Some believed him, but the truth spread faster, and I wasn't bothered again for a long, long time.

            I was thirteen when that happened, and today, over fifty years later, I am still hurting, not physically, but mentally.  The memories are vivid. 

           If you are in a position to stop, or prevent bullying, do it.  Don't let it go thinking it will resolve itself, or "it's just kids". Bullying leaves wounds that hurt...still. 

The Musings of an Olympics Junky

The Musings of an Olympics Junky

Published August, 2012

            The Olympics have been underway for a week, and I confess, I have watched at least half of NBC's projected 3,500 hours of broadcast.  I'm a sports junky, and the Olympics are the epitome of sport, and I, the junky, am mainlining the event.

            I had planned to work Friday night, but the opening ceremony with the Queen, escorted by James Bond, parachuting into the stadium was too much to miss.  It is so hard to work with the TV on and me in front of it.  What writing I am doing is during commercials, late at night, or early in the morning when there are no broadcasts, but as the week has progressed, even those windows of time have closed due to modern technology that allows me to watch around the clock, or record events when fatigue demands my nightly sacrifice to the sleep gods.

            If you do the math of dividing the broadcast hours by 24, you will find a result of 145.83 days, or 4.8 months.  How can that be?  Easy, there is the broadcast channel, three cable channels, television and cell phone apps, along with live, streaming of events over the internet.  I can watch events live in HD on my phone!  I bet I can get the Olympics over the microwave or refrigerator if I try.  How did I ever think I wouldn't be watching?

            I don't really care about equestrian events, but I watch.  I like the horses, don't care much for the people, but the Royals are in the stands, so that's cool.  Who's the athlete here anyway, the horse, or the rider? 

            Every four years, I swear that I am not going to watch such sports as curling in the Winter Olympics and badminton during the summer games, but when they come on, if there are no other options, I'm watching.  I even watched soccer before the other events started, and as much as it pains me to confess, I enjoyed it.

            We all have our favorites.  Most women and a good number of men love women's gymnastics.  I don't care for it.  I prefer track-and-field because I want an objective outcome as opposed to a subjective one.  I like a clear winner, not a judged one. 

            If you've followed this column, you know that I have written about two sports more than others.  One is in the Olympics, boxing, and one once was, is no longer, but should be, baseball.

            Boxing is subjective, and the scoring is done by people who are either blind, or are selected randomly off the street and are offered ring side seats if they will come in and punch some buttons.  I often wonder if they have ever seen a fight, or are watching the same one I am.  See what I mean about subjective? 

            Would someone please explain to me why air rifle shooting with contraptions that do not even remotely resemble an air rifle, and the shooter who is covered with so much gear you think he might be a Borg from a Star Trek movie, is considered an Olympic sport, and baseball, played by at least half the world, is not?  Really?  Something I did as a kid to break windows and aggravate my parents and neighbors is an Olympic sport, but the other thing that I did all day, breaking windows and aggravating my parents into the night is not in the Olympics?

            Another sport I don't get being in the Olympics is ping-pong, oops, excuse me, table tennis.  Are there more countries in the world that see this as sport rather than baseball?  The game is nothing like we play in the garage unless you have a very large garage, and body armor.  Forest Gump should have run in the Olympics anyway.

            ESPN Sports Science did a piece on table tennis that reported that the ball, when served, arrives at the end of the table in less time than it takes to blink an eye.  To be able to see it, players stand eight feet behind the table to return serve of a tiny, plastic ball that is moving at over a hundred-miles-per-hour.

            I can hear my mother now, "Y'all stop serving that ping-pong ball at over an hundred-miles-per-hour!  You're gonna' put someone's eye out!"  This is the same ball that my dog used to crush in his jaws when we didn't get to it first, and it's going to put my eye out?

            I do believe that doing anything during my childhood, except eating vegetables, was capable of putting out an eye.  Maybe they should have a running with scissors game as part of the Olympics.  It would make as much sense as air rifle shooting with all its fancy visors and mirrors, and scoring would be clear-cut, (get it, scissors, clear-cut), but I am rambling.

            I guess if they had vegetable eating in the Olympics, I'd watch it.  I don't care what the sport is, even team handball which I had never heard of before this year, I want team USA to win, and when we don't, I hurt.  I feel it to be my patriotic duty to cheer our country in every sport, even those that do not make any sense to me.  When I make the sacrifice to watch and cheer, and not work, or stay up too late to work the next day, and get up before dawn to watch more games on four channels, my computer, and my phone, those gals, and guys, had better be winning.

            Oh, excuse me; I must stop.  The commercial is almost over.  Happy obsessive watching to all y'all.