The Holy Spirit Indwells the Big 10

From an article on AOL:

In South Bend, Ind., plans should be underway to replace the mural of Jesus on the south wall of the Hesburgh Library with one of Job.

Right on. This was after the delightful overtime win over Notre Dame by Michigan State on a fake field goal. We all know Jesus does NOT cheer for independent NCAA programs. Or the SEC, for that matter.

The View From The Top

I have flown to Virginia a few times lately for work. Some great scenery, some disappointing cloudy days, lots of good time for thoughts, not enough time to collect them. One thing that is interesting to note is how much of our landscape is occupied by fields for athletics. All manner can be found, but primarily football, soccer, and baseball. One thing is clear, though: baseball is king.

Prior to making these flights, I would have hypothesized our nation's societal passion from a community investment standpoint would be soccer for our youth, with football holding reign for adult entertainment. Soccer draws in bazillions of youth whose parents want them to play a sport that requires virtually no training to get started, hardly anybody gets their self-esteem ruffled; while fields require grass, a few pipes, and not much seating because nobody watches the games. Football probably draws the biggest revenues and biggest crowds for its less frequent games, but not everybody can play, and few can play for long or beyond a certain age. Basketball is ubiquitous, as every city park, suburban driveway, and barn have a hoop hanging. But for number of sanctioned playing fields, where communities show where their hearts lie by slapping down funds, nothing comes close to baseball fields. Of course, from thousands of feet one cannot differentiate between baseball and softball fields, but since they are just gender-specific cousins of the same sport, I'm grouping them together. It is clear, as one surveys our countryside that for all our talk of other endeavors, from team-based battle simulators like football and basketball to the more recent, individual-is-king interlopers such as skate parks, that the position of baseball as our nation's pastime remains concrete.

Let's hope that some of baseball's virtues that develop patience, decisive-almost-reflexive response, and a respect for the archaic (oh, those rules are more perplexing than the English language!) can continue to develop our youth. It is a blessing in a society where our activities are timed to the nearest minute a game thrives that only acknowledges the number of 'outs', not the clock.

Multilateral Arms Race

I may have overstepped my strength this time. Being accustomed to being one of the strongest of the geeks in my engineering group for some years, I challenged some of my younger colleagues to a quest of sorts. We are in a competition to see who can be the first one to bench press 135 pounds (easy) 40 repetitions at one go (much tougher). It's great motivation for all of us to work hard to stay/get in shape. I started with a decent lead, based mostly on gristle and Old Man Strength. However, the race has really tightened up, with my two competitors hitting the gym daily at the obscene time of 5:30 A.M. It's tough for me to match that schedule. Now my lead is slim, 35 reps to 32 and 29 for my opposition. I love doing these sorts of meaningless, yet committed guy things. I do not love losing.

Young Turks

I recently filled in as a substitute pitcher for a softball team that a few of my co-workers put together (not the same ones who have the 4 miles/dozen doughnuts race from my previous post). We got a few lucky breaks and ended up doing really well. The team was basically me and 10 22-23 year old engineers. Afterwards, they went to the pizza joint that is sponsoring the team, while I hopped on my bicycle and pedaled the 2 miles home. One of the team, who I do not know well at all, asked Joe, who I'm pretty familiar with, where I was.
Joe: "Oh, he went home to see his wife"
Other Guy: "He's married?"
Joe: "Yeah. I mean, he's got 2 kids and is expecting a third."
Other Guy: "He's got kids? How old is that guy."
Joe: "Thirty."
Other Guy: "THIRTY!!!??? You've got to be kidding."
It could be a long season as Father Time on that team.

Coolest. Race. Ever

A few of my co-workers shared an absolutely inspired idea with me. A half-dozen or so of them are going to run a four mile race. This race will consist of two equal segments separated by a dozen doughnuts that must be consumed before running the second segment. What an ingenious idea! I don't even know if I can eat a dozen doughnuts. I think a competitor's best bet is to come as close as possible to sprinting the first two miles, eat the fat pills, then walk/jog the second segment of the race as best as possible. I'm not stupid enough to try my idea, I declined to participate. Maybe next year.

Featherbuster

Went for a walk with the family recently to enjoy the improving weather. I heard a flurry of wing beats, and across my vision I saw a mourning dove dart, frantically accelerating against the measured, yet lethal, pursuit of a hawk. The erratic gyrations of the dove succeeded in sending the hawk on a bad bearing, allowing the dove to reach top speed and find cover. On our next lap through the neighborhood, I saw a clump of dove feathers on the ground where the strike presumably occurred. The lesson, as always: Be the hawk.

Not Even Disappointed

At least the MSU Spartan b-ball team were gracious hosts, allowing the UNC Tar Heels to put up 55 points in the first half. After about 10 minutes, the Spartan players looked like extras from the Omaha Beach scene of Saving Private Ryan. UNC deserved it, what a juggernaut!

Now it's time to contemplate the overrated, overhyped, yet still intriguing NFL draft and the beginning of the church softball season.

Men Of Sparta!

I live in UConn Huskie turf, no doubt about it. But tonight, compliments of the Michigan State Spartans basketball team, there is no doubt who is top dog. No, I did not attend MSU, and I do not regret that decision. But I did get accepted there during high school to study chemical engineering, and I watched many Spartan games as a child to cheer them on, so I can claim a connection. Bravo, Spartans, bravo.

Did Somebody Leave The Parking Brake On?

I recently completed the second and final run of the 2008 I Tell You What race circuit. The EBAC Fall Challenge provided a little bit more challenge than the previous weekend's Tarzan Brown run. While the course was shorter, I had a stomach ache so did not eat much breakfast. Also, I am optimized for cold weather running, so low 60's and humid causes me to struggle a little bit. As a result, my pace was notceably slower (6:57 per mile) than the previous weekend. It was still a very nice outing for the family, as the girls were able to play by the beach and were gracious enough to cheer for me as I sputtered my way across the finish line. My time was still OK, better than any year I've participated in the Fall Challenge. Having Wifey prepare me breakfast and being consistent with my training runs (with a 22 year old to pace me) certainly helped. Now that I've had time to recover and rest, my overworked knees are feeling much better, to boot. Here are a few photographs of the morning:

A little time with my ladeez
Relaxed/fatalistic beforehand

My fans, minus Wifey

Gratuitous submarine picture from race morning at Ocean Beach, because that's how we get down on I Tell You What

Wheezing my way across the finish line, ending the 2008 race season

The Pain Train

This week has been tough at work. My supervisor is on vacation, so that requires me to field an awful lot of questions from the other engineers in our group. I basically just try to keep the wheels spinning until the boss gets back, which is very different from actually being in charge.
While the long days have been tough, they have not been nearly so painful as Sunday's second annual (for me) running of the Tarzan Brown Mystic River Run. The weather was gorgeous, and Wifey and Sweetness accompanied me to the starting area to cheer for me at both ends of the race. I even knew a few people who were running as well. Talking while running is not the most efficient way to conduct oneself during a race, but those who know me know that I have been blessed with the gift of gab, so I chat with those I recognize. And a few I don't.
After a gradual start, I picked up the pace a bit to keep stride with my coworker Nick. At mile 1 I heard the watch holder call 7 minutes, which was not bad. After 3 miles I was around 20 minutes 30 seconds, which was even better and made me realize I should coast for a little bit. Sure enough, after cruising to mile 5 I heard that watch holder call just shy of 35 minutes. That was good, because my goal was to beat 40 minutes (7:14/mile pace). It was also a bit agonizing, because I was starting to feel bad. Actually, awful. Actually, thinking death might be a sweet release. I mean, I'm kind of a tractor when it comes to running, a big load, full diesel, pouring out black smoke on the hills, all that jazz. Nonetheless, as I approached the last corner, there was a small group of runners about 20 yards ahead that I just knew I could pass. So I poured it on, black smoke and all, and ripped right by them! No joke, they were actually cursing me as I went by. And then... I realized it wasn't the last corner, and I had about 3 blocks to go. I did make it to the finish line, but my mis-estimation was written all over my face in discomfort, according to Wifey. It was great to see her and Sweetness waving and cheering, but I needed a minute to regain my strength and focus on not puking and stuff.
After that passed I was able to enjoy the fact that I beat my goal. Five and a half miles in 37 minutes, 24 seconds, for a 6:48/mile pace. Huzzah! I've never beaten 7:00 in a race before, so that was nice. Strangely, having handily beaten the goal I set for myself, and facing long hours this week at work, I have not so much as put running shoes on my feet in preparation of next week's EBAC Fall Challenge. I figure my body needs the rest, and let the 4.75 mile chips fall where they may.

A'Maize & Blue

On October 18, I had the fantastic opportunity to watch some Big Ten (11) college football in State College, PA. For this year only, the Penn State football stadium is the largest in the nation, with a capacity over 110,000. After this season, the University of Michigan's home field will be restored to its usual place as America's largest football stadium. Which is coincidental, because the reason I put special emphasis on this particular game is that Penn State was hosting Michigan. To those who are not familiar, Michigan is in the middle of the most precipitous drop in prestige of any college football program in the 25 years that I have been watching the sport. This is at the hands of the slimy new coach, Rich (C'mon & get ethical, ethical!) Rodriguez. Nonetheless, you don't just bail on your team because of the coach. Disclaimer: I do also cheer for Michigan State, but when UM and MSU meet I root for the Wolverines. On the drive to the game, we saw an early morning hot air balloon.

There were, ummm, how do you say, a LOT of people there. This is the pregame student section, all in white.

Let us not forget a fundamental point: F-18 Hornets are always cool.

The band and cheerleaders flanked the Nittany Lions' route onto the field, lest they get confused and wander.

Michigan promptly located Penn State's ass and commenced kicking it. Driving in for an early touchdown.

YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT!

Michigan ran off to a 17-7 lead and was up 17-14 at halftime. Joe, who graciously provided my ticket and was a kicker for Penn State, felt like this:

All of Penn State's fans were terrified of Michigan. Despite UM's poor record, they have always had Penn State's number, so the PSU fans were like an already kicked puppy. I lived up the first half while I could, knowing that Michigan's control of the game was likely to fade. In fact, while cheering loudly and putting an entire section of PSU fans through agony, I was acknowledging the whole time that Michigan was not likely to hold up. Therefore, I didn't get it too bad from the fans around me when the tables turned. Penn State won soundly by the end of the game. What a show, either way!

Free Association Friday

• I was in a meeting where a well-meaning engineer used the words "erroneous modes". I felt a little bit naughty.
• (OK, so the phrase really just refers to a computer model falsely showing how a part bends under loading, which I am well aware of... stop judging me!)
• At work, I also saw a recently made presentation advertising the construction of the Astute Class submarines in the U.K. It featured this little computer image of a guy in coveralls and a hard hat strutting his way through the gigantic hangar containing the shipbuilding ways while (no joke) 1000 ton hull cylinders zip by at about 50 m.p.h. as a nuclear submarine is constructed in fast-forward. It was OK, as far as these things go. The coup de grace, though, was the fact that Hall and Oates's Maneater was the soundtrack. And you thought early '80's music was dead! The best part is imagining the this-is-so-HOT smirk of the guy dubbing the soundtrack in.
• I'm preparing for the annual 5.5 mile run, which is fast approaching at Nov. 2. I clocked in around 7min. 45 sec. a mile for about 5 miles this morning in a practice trial, which I feel good about since it was 6:00 A.M., cold, and dark. And part of it is up a hill I like to call "El Capitan".
• Bravo to the Detroit Lions for getting a dime on the nickel for offloading a disgruntled Roy Williams for 3 draft picks next year. Apparently Matt Millen really is gone.
• Me: "Sweetness, you are the most beautiful girl in God's creation." Sweetness: "Daddy, you smell like coleslaw."
• Wifey prepared steak, squash w/ brown sugar & honey, coleslaw (see above bullet), sauteed onions/mushrooms, and battered fried onions that were 100% awesome for dinner tonight.
• Oh, how my co-workers howled when I shifted 1/4 of my 401(k) portfolio to fixed income about a year ago. At least something I have is still making money.

Incomplete Sentience

Sarah Joy has made remarkable strides in development in the past few weeks. She is pulling up to a standing position, making attempts to speak, and making waving and clapping hand gestures. This is exciting stuff, from a parenting perspective. She is also, as pictured above, showing a trait fundamental to the ability to reason intelligently: being drawn to the game of football. Of course, her path to awareness is not complete, because she hasn't figured out that she can't hold the ball that far from her body for very long without fumbling. I'm excited, as usual, for the start of football this year. As I write, most NFL games from the season's first Sunday have been completed, and NCAA football is 2 weeks into its season. This season holds less promise for me personally for the following reasons:

• The University of Michigan offense is about as consistent as coach Rich Rodriguez's sense of ethics. All I can say to this point is that we are 2 games closer to the end of his tenure.
• The Detroit Lions. In general. Pick your reason. I will cheer because I am beholden by honor, but I am not deceived.

In the meantime, there is a Sunday night game about to get going. I need to watch.

Missed Chan(ce)

I watched much of the Beijing Olympics in disgust. Not just because diving and beach volleyball are not even on the top 10 list of most watchable international sports. But because these olympic games were missing something so real, so attainable, so AWESOME. China, for all its storied history and legacy, particularly in science, that has contributed greatly to Western Civilization, does not have much in the way of an ambassador to the world. You know, a diplomat recognized the world over for his good will, winning smile, charisma, and intellect (or gumption, if not intellect). The man Who Could (nay, Should) Have Been the Beijing Olympic ambassador, the je ne sais quoi that was missing in '08, is Jackie Chan. FULL DISCLOSURE: I am aware Mr. Chan was born in Hong Kong, which was not part of China per se at the time, but as of '97 Hong Kong the British gave it to the Chinese as part of the British effort to be the Empire On Which The Sun Has Set).
Imagine the mileage one could get out of Jackie Chan as your ambassador! In addition to the usual photo ops and VIP treatment during ceremonial moments, think about the shenanigans Mr. Chan would be up to. In the middle of the fencing tournament, Jackie bursts in, 3 hoodlums in hot pursuit. A fencing squad attempts to diffuse the situation, and a melee ensues. A three-way battle between Jackie, hoodlums, and fencers breaks out, Jackie being armed with a table leg and a turkey leg. During archery, Jackie swings on a rope across the range to rescue a damsel who has been covered by a large paper target, only to realize the rope is on fire just before the rope snaps and he and damsel are deposited unceremoniously 15 feet down onto a few bales of hay. And, of course, the Chinese Communist Party Leadership insists that Jackie be prominently featured busting up a sinister plot for world domination by the evil falun gong. Everybody goes home a winner, by any measure.
And that is the olympic games as they should have been. Just like John Wayne would darned well have been the ambassador of the 1984 Los Angeles games if only he had been with us a few more years. Rest well, Duke.
Hopefully I'll have a review of Running Critical in a few days.

CSI-Tell-You-What

I arose at 6:00 for a 3 mile run before work this morning, and things were proceeding normally. Feet hitting the pavement at 6:10. About a half-mile from my house, I noticed some awfully strange marks on the sidewalk. Awfully, indeed, as it turns out. I shook it off and kept running, thinking it was just the incomplete light of morning. On the return trip about 15 minutes later, though, it was pretty clear. There were about 15 bloody footprints on the sidewalk. Barefoot footprints of fully dried blood. Not just like somebody had sliced their foot on glass like Bruce Willis in Die Hard, because there were some pretty big splatters, too. It was bad enough that I called the police as soon as I got back to the house. The dispatcher thanked me and said they were actively working the case. I was glad that they were already on it, and that I hadn't just left somebody bleeding in the bushes for an extra 15 minutes while I finished my run, but I also wonder if "actively working" means they haven't caught the perpetrator in our area.
The lesson, as always: Snitches get cut.

Every Time I Get Wicket

Played shortstop again in our church softball league a few days ago. Everybody was feeling the full swelt of the sweltering late afternoon air. The opposing team's shortstop was flawless, which definitely made my light shine a bit duller, but shine on it did. I have a mediocre arm but a good glove, and both were on display. I made some nice grabs, and put what zip I had into my throws. Of course, my arm now feels like it's going to fall off at the elbow any minute. I mean really, even playing well I could barely keep pace with him. Until... I let a sharply hit ball go by me. This happens on poorly maintained infields, but there was no excuse for a ball to go through the wickets. If you don't know, it means you let a ball go right... between... your legs. It's the worst thing possible for a fielder. Just ask Bill Buckner. You can over or under run a ball in the outfield, or have it ricochet off your body in the infield, or have it go off your glove anywhere and people will have some sympathy for you. But there is no redemption for the guy who gets five-holed and has to turn around to watch the ball hop into the outfield. Maybe next time.

It's Obvious, Really

Recently overheard at our house:

Sweetness (coming upon her father, ITYW, lifting weights to capitalize on Old Man Strength): "Daddy, are those weights heavy?"

ITYW: "They're a little heavy."

Sweetness: "You should use smaller ones"

Old Man Strength

As I round the last corner on my race to 30 Years Old, I have to acknowledge that my body isn't as robust as it once was. My joints show wear and tear beyond my college and early professional years, and I haven't been able to maintain the muscle mass I used to carry. This isn't a strictly biological issue. In fact, I don't think biology has much to do with it, yet. Perhaps when I'm 35, but not now. Reorientation of priorities toward family caused me to cancel the gym membership, then slowly whittle away the time that I spend running or lifting weights or whatever at home. This is, I am sure, a healthy thing for all of us, spending over an hour a day working out is kind of an obscene thought and both I and the girls certainly benefit from my time. The unhealthy part of physical decay comes from lack of sleep due to the recent arrival of our young daughter, as well as the desk-jockey nature of my job. Since I'm no longer the new guy, it is increasingly rare that I'm scrambling up & down ladders, or squeezing my way behind pipes, or walking a mile to a meeting in some obscure corner of the property. To add injury to insult, Sweetness inadvertently busted my lower lip opent the other day. Almost getting KO'd by a young child does not boost one's toughness quotient. Fortunately, as I lose actual strength, I can fall back on my reserve of Old Man Strength (OMS). This concept was discussed recently at work (including some involved in the Battle For Domination at the End of the Earth), and we have refined the phenomenon somewhat. It is still difficult to describe. Imagine mixing Old Spice with anabolic steroids, putting it in a shot glass, and taking it down warm with a beer chaser. OMS is the means by which you are certain, as a child and eventually young man, that it is not worth it to mess with your elders. No mere personal feat of strength can convince one that he is ready to take on OMS and come out unscathed. I Tell You What did not overcome OMS until inadvertently almost breaking the basement door with my father during a playful wrestling match. Mind you, though, that this was after falling to countless arm-bars and wrist-locks. The Official Father of I Tell You What was experienced in law enforcement, and extensive knowledge of submission moves is a particularly devilish form of OMS. This life-altering tipping point occurred when I was almost 17 years old, even though I had been for some time bigger, better conditioned, and stronger than the Old Man. At work (motto: We occasionally work) we found a few fundamental forms of OMS that manifest themselves in various fashions:
OMS-E for experience. The aforementioned submission moves, prior exposure to gross pain, and having experienced genuine fear in real circumstances gives one enough perspective to keep cool when whooping on the next generation
OMS-C for confidence. If you haven't been beat up by a teenager since you yourself turned 20, what's to worry about?
OMS-CL for clutch performance. As you age, your ability to perform a feat of strength routinly degrades far more quickly than your ability to dip to the bottom of the well and unleash all you are worth. Therefore, OMS must still be respected, even if the Old Man will need help to get out of bed the following morning.
OMS-F for fear. While OMS-E allows one to keep his head, OMS-F provides an almost subliminal motivation to not fail, BECAUSE YOU WILL LOOK OLD. I think OMS-F is similar to TSS, Toddler Spazz Strength, which is how the little ones move remarkably quickly and strongly with an almost animal strength to weight ratio when they are scared or otherwise excited. It was TSS that my busted lower lip fell victim to.

Fantasy Turned Nightmare

I played football in high school. I was decent, somewhere in the iron triangle formed by "has-been", "also-ran", and "never was". I at least had the chance to decide for myself whether to go play for a small college, or ride the pine at a slightly larger school. Doing neither was a good call. I've also studied the game a bit, and understand some of the fundamentals that go into coaching. In fact, I'd like the opportunity to do that some day. None of that prevents Wifey from destroying me at fantasy football.

What is her secret? Primarily, her strategery consists of:

1. Drafting Tom Brady
2. Drafting Randy Moss

How can I compete against that? I'll tell you: I didn't, suffering a 137-56 shellacking in last week's tilt. No knowledge of the 2-Man Under defense vs. Cover 2 defense, or the minutiae of the 4-wide singleback set vs. the 2-tight, 2-wide singleback set can keep me afloat. If Roy Williams decides to only catch a single pass for 15 yards while his teammate, Calvin Johnson, picks up over 80 yards receiving with a touchdown, then that's that. If you can't beat'em, join'em. I'm not converting to a Patriots fan, but I'll cheer for her fantasy juggernaut when I'm not directly facing her. And I stole Wes Welker for my own roster. Go Peugeots.

Victory, Thy Name is Jingleheimer Schmidt

I ran the second race of the 2007 Stew Circuit today. That is, second and final. My pace was a healthy 7:14 through 4.75 miles on a very blustery day. The run was nice, scenery magnificent along the river, just like last Sunday. It was a smaller crowd, though, so there was not the same satisfaction of passing as many people. It seems as though the nasty wind kept the more casual types home, because I only had 52 people beat me to the finish line. I give a lot of credit to Kevin G. for getting right back on the Pain Train for a second race in 7 days to compete with me. The best part by far was being able to kick it along the home stretch and cruise by Wifey and Sweetness. The chief organizer of the race plays narrator at the finish line, and remarked at my enthusiasm. Of course, I had my fan club welcoming me!

One thing you learn about parenting: children's tunes are surely more addictive to your brain than any narcotic. During the run, John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt was rolling along like a freight train. Of course, our daughter is so enamored with the tune (I suspect Grandma is an accomplice), that when I ask her what we should name her soon-to-be-unveiled sister, the answer is "Jingleheimer Schmidt". I'm sure she wouldn't be teased in school at all.