A Night at the Races

So, last weekend, I took my kids down to my parents house in the small river town of Martins Ferry, Ohio.

To them, it's a Shangri-La land of milk and honey where they can swim in an above-ground pool, eat sweets to their hearts content and watch endless reruns of SpongeBob Squarepants--with little or no nagging on my part. Hey, it's a vacation.

To me, my parent's house is a place where I grew up for 18 years before leaving for college. It's a place where I've made many memories - both good and bad - around every corner in almost every nook and cranny of the valley. It's a place I love to visit for nostalgia and leave due to the nostalgia.

So, what do I do when all of this nefarious gluttony is going on at my parent's house? Well, I visit my only little island of decadence, the Wheeling Downs Race Track.

I wrote about my Mother's Day visit to the track a long long time ago. One of the only other times I've visited the track was when my brother and I took my then 4-year old niece to the track to see the cute dogs (and of course gamble and drink beer on our end).

Of course, I've been to the casino, which is connected to the race track, numerous times and lost plenty of money. But never the dog track. For some strange reason, I stayed away. I'm not really sure why.

But, like the sirens to the dizzy, horny seafarers in Homer's Odyssey, the track has beckoned me time and time again .. to my demise. In fact, I've visited the race track on my last three visits to the Valley. And I've proceeded to lose money every single time as well ... including this last visit.

But, I'm learning. Oh, am I learning.

Upon entering the Downs, I bought an evening program from the cordial lady at the entrance for a small sum of $1.50. I then proceeded to the bar area and purchased a draft beer of Bud Light for $3.25.

Two minutes in and I was already $4.75 in the hole.

I glanced out to the Wheeling Downs 'scoreboard' in the middle of the track (see above picture for reference) and noticed only 9 minutes remained until the first race.

I best be getting busy.

I opened up program to Race #1 and scanned the dogs. For each race, the program has the name of each of the dog which corresponds to their official number, or placing, in the race. The #1 dog is closest to the inside of the track, while the #7 is farthest way.

Additionally, you can view details of the dogs' last six races including where they placed at each turn as well as final finish with time.

Next to those particular numbers, you can read a small recap of how the dog performed in each race (e.g. No Threat, Clipped 2nd Turn, Steady Gain, No Contender, etc).

You can also read a little bit about the owner, the kennel and what level of race said dog has raced (e.g. Grade A is a pretty good race with lots of great dogs while Grade D is not so great. At least this is what I've gleaned from watching said races. I'm probably wrong).

Whew!

I won't bore you on the details of betting, but on this first race, I surmised that dogs 1, 3 and 8 were going to finish somewhere in the top.

So, I bet the 3-6 Quinella (which means if the dogs finish 1st and 2nd in any order, I win), #3 to Win and a 1, 3, 8 boxed Trifecta (which means that I'm betting 1, 3 and 8 will finish first, second or third in any order).

Total price for first race: $10

I made my bets, and with five minutes left before the race, I walked outside to get a good view of the dogs and enjoy my beer around my fellow gamblers...all eight of them.

You see, most of the gamblers were hanging out inside, smoking, drinking and jotting down endless amounts of numbers on notepads. And pretty much no one looked exactly happy because, well, this is probably their job.

And, the rest of the people? Well, they were blowing their money at the Casino.

“Racing is 10 percent of our business, and the casino is 90 percent," said Mike Meastle, Vice President of Operations at the Wheeling Casino in an article I found on Observer-Reporter.com, which is a sad, sad state of affairs for the track.

So, the dogs were placed in their respective bins. If you've ever seen a horse race, the bins are similar, but smaller, dog-size.

Then, the announcer shouted "Here comes spunky!"

Spunky is a white clump that's attached to metal bar that moves around the track. It's supposed to mimic a rabbit, which serves as the stimulus for the dogs to run, like Pavlov's experiments.

Back in the day when I was in high school, Spunky was actually a stuffed animal rabbit (see image above) tied onto the bar. Now it's more weather-proof and doesn't really resemble a rabbit at all ... it's shaped more like a bone than anything else. But, alas, the name still remains

In any event, as spunky comes around the metal track on the bar, you can hear the dogs barking crazily in their boxes. Then, as the rabbit rounds the final turn and gets closer to the bin, the dogs get silent. It's showtime. Time for the dogs' to earn their paycheck.

Then, they're off!

In a flash, the sleek greyhounds whizz by the grandstand. Another ten or so seconds, and they round the final turn - running approximately 548 yards (the equivalent of running around a high school track once plus an 100 extra yards) and finishing in an astonishing 30 seconds or less (depending on the conditions).

During the race, people were yelling and screaming. "C'mon, you sunnuvabitch," one older gentleman yelled. "Get in there, get in there," another lady yelled behind me. Myself? Well, I was looking at my tickets, trying to remember my bets and concentrating on which dogs were in the lead.

In the first race, the winner was #8 (Treasure Island) followed by #2 (Braska Cam) and #7 (Mulberry Adam). If you remember I picked 1, 3, 8 and 3-6 and 3 to win.

Sigh. Out 10 bucks. Plus, I spent another $3.50 on a fresh Bud Light.

I tried to look at the stats of the winning dogs and find some sort of 'tip-off' to why they won and placed the way they did. I couldn't find a rhyme or reason.

For instance the winning dog, Treasure Island (#8 dog) finished fourth, eighth, seventh, seventh, fifth and first place, respectively, in her past six races. However it's lowest grade race was an A and it's hi-grade race was a AA - which was the highest of all dogs, with the exception of the #1 dog. Food for thought as I made my next bet.

The second race, I didn't fare much better. I spent $4 on a quinella and a dog to win. And came up short. Completely missing the boat on all dogs.

The third race I blew another $10 on a quinella, a win and a trifecta box and didn't win a goddamn thing.

Finally in the fourth race, I hit paydirt. I spent $2 on a quinella, $2 for the #3 dog to win and a $2 super (which is you pick four dogs to finish in the order you picked them, high risk vs. great reward). I won on the #3 dog who finished first. He took the lead and never looked back.

I won a whopping $25. Time for another $3.50 beer.

In race five, I lost another another $8 on two separate quinellas and a $4 win ticket. "One more race," I cursed to myself.

But I wasn't really angry.

I was energized. Even though I was losing more money than winning...this was fun. More fun than sitting at a bar and watching sports, pushing a button on a slot machine or tossing some money down on a roulette table. But not more fun than hunting for Bigfoot. This was something tangible. Sure, there were odds, but it felt different. It felt like it was possible that you could win big at any time. If you did your research, anything was possible.

That said, I placed my final bet on the sixth race. I chose a $2 super, a $2 quinella and a $2 bet for the #6 dog to win. I also bought another, final Bud Light for another $3.50.

As I was waiting for the dogs to commence their race, an african-american family walked down the racing area--a husband and wife and their two older children, I would say late teens, early 20's. The lady, who looked to be in her 50's, said a nice hello to me as she stood next to me. She proceeded to pull out her schedule as her husband walked up to her.

"What do you think, honey?" he asked looking over her should and scanning the race schedule.

"I think 1,8,4,2," she said quickly and matter-of-factly.

"Mmm, hmmm," the husband nodded in agreement. "Looks good."

They took their seats in front of me on a picnic table. Just for shits and giggles, part of me wanted to run up and make her bet immediately. The other part of me scoffed. "Pfffft," I said to myself. "Wishful thinking."

Then, I glanced at my tickets and daydreamed about what I was going to do with all my winnings.

So, the race commenced. People were yelling and screaming even louder during this race. Even I yelled a couple "C'mons" and "Go's" before it was over. I believe the liquid courage was finally settling into my bones.

After the race finished, my mouth dropped at the results. The winning dogs, in order, were #1, #8, #2 and #4. If she, or myself, would have bet the boxed super at $24, we/she would have won almost $6,000.

"Damn," she cackled to her husband. "I should've played that."

"You should've honey," the husband said to her shaking his head.

I was dumbfounded. I glanced at the schedule. I glanced at the dogs. But nothing, nothing popped out that these four dogs were going to win this race as evident by my picks of 2,6,5,7, #6 to win and a 2,5 quinella.

I sighed, guzzled down my beer and shuffled over to the casino where I tried my luck on video poker--
which according to some crappy websites is noted as the third-best odds of winning behind blackjack and baccarat.

Must not be true, because I lost $10 in less than five minutes.

So, my night's GRAND TOTAL: 

4 Beers:             -$14

Program:           -$1.25

Bets:                  -$44

Video Poker:     -$10

Winnings:          +$25

TOTAL:             -$44.25

But, you know what? I didn't care. Just like hiking, going to the movies, eating a great dinner or going to an Ohio State football game ... the experience was worth every penny.

Christmas Eimertoons - Dec. 17

(click image to enlarge)

A newfound toy villain - circa 1982.

The year was 1982. Give or take a year.

I'm pretty sure it was late June. Because school was out and the heat and humidity was starting to rise in the hills of Martins Ferry.

No homework. No sports practices. No rules.

My brother and I had complete control of the woods that towered over of our hillside home. We were, in a sense, the masters of our domain.

It was during this particular time that my neighbors were scheduled to partake on a month-long trip to Israel.

Lucky them.

They asked our family to watch after their house. Which, in kid speak, means to walk through every crevice of the house, explore every single nook and cranny and - of course - check out the contents of the refrigerator.

So, the day after my neighbors said "Shalom" and headed to the Holy Land, my brother and I snagged the keys from my mom’s purse, tip-toed over to their house and unlocked the door.

It was exploring time.

First off, being a 10-year old kid, it feels very weird to infiltrate a house that you’ve been accustomed to at least one person always inhabiting. Secondly, it’s amazing how every house you walk into has a very distinct smell. This house smelled like a mix of fried rice and bleach. Very odd.

Our neighbor's made a tiny bit more money than my family. Not much, but enough to own a VCR. Back in the early 80’s, if you owned a VCR, you were like royalty. Those suckers were expensive. During this time, I think most families in the Valley were waiting to find out the clear winner of the ongoing VCR/Beta battle before making this important family purchase.

They had a number of VCR tapes including Superman, Star Trek: The Motion Picture and, of course,  Fiddler on the Roof - a Jewish mainstay. My brother and I made a mental note to take Superman for a test drive. After peering around the kitchen, the living room and finally the dank, dark basement, my brother and I decided to creep up the stairs to check out the good stuff...the bedrooms.

The first place we explored was my best friend Tony's bedroom.

Tony and I had been friends since pre-kindergarten. We did everything together. Took the same bus. Shot our BB guns with the same accuracy. Killed snakes with the same slicing motion. Played kickball like Beckham - pre-Beckham.

So, suffice to say, when we entered his room, it was pretty underwhelming. That's because Tony and I had the exact same toys that every 10-year old owned - save his Mouse Trap board game and the awesome Star Wars Remote Control Jawa Sand Crawler. To add to that, I played and borrowed most of his toys at one time or another including Star Wars, He-Man, Lawn Jarts, Rock Em Sock Em Robots, Comic Books, Hot Wheels, Matchbox tracks and more.

My brother, on the other hand, was very intrigued by the extensive LP collection that Tony had obtained from his soon-to-be-Rabbi father. He glanced at a number of crazy-looking album covers from bands such as CREAM, The Beatles, Neil Diamond, AC/DC, Meat Loaf, Blood, Sweat & Tears and much, much more. He pulled out a Creedance Clearwater Revival 'Live' album and turned on the record player. ‘Down on the Corner’ started to play.

We then ventured into the main living room of Jim and Cathy, the parents. The bed was crisp and adorned with nicely folded blankets and puffy pillows. It was a well-kept room. There was a huge assortment of Star of David’s aligning the wall. Also, there was portrait of Jesus. Seems odd  now, but at the time, not really.

Oh yeah, there was also a nice family portrait of the two parents and the two kids – all in their frizzy haired, 80’s looking glory. To be honest. The parent’s bedroom was a bit boring. And we really, honestly, didn’t open up any of their drawers. I swear.

Next was the pool room. And by pool, I mean billiards. Tony and his family had this bad-ass pool table, which was another sign of higher tax bracket through this 10-year old's mind.

My brother racked the mult-colored balls and we played a couple games. He won one. I won the other.

As my brother prepared to rack up a third, and possibly final, game - I caught myself glancing into the room of Tony's younger sister, Kristy.

That's when something caught my eye.

Were my eyes deceiving me?

Could it really be?

Was it the entire enchanted land of Strawberrry Shortcake flashing before my very eyes?

Intrigued, I walked into the pink room, complete with pretty princess hats and fairy wings and the like and examined the Strawberry Shortcake collection.

All of the action figures were there. (Please note: I like to say action figures because it sounds less gay than dolls) Huckleberry Pie. Blueberry Muffin. Raspberry Tart. Apple Dumplin’ not to mention the red-headed ringleader herself Strawberry Shortcake.

I remember overhearing a fellow female classmate talking to a friend in school about how each each character had a very unique smell.

Boy, was she was right.

As I whiffed each figure, the fruity, heavenly aromas filled my nostrils. Blueberries. Apples. Raspberry. Even Huckleberry Pie seemed like the perfect smell, even though I'd never smelled Huckleberry Pie before.

Now, a lot of people are going to read this post and think I’m a bit fruity (pun intended) for smelling the heads of Strawberry Shortcake dolls. However, my best defense is that at age 10, I was a true toy aficionado. Not just of boys’ toys, but girls’ toys too.

Heck, when I was on my random toy browsing adventures at our local department stores, I would always make a point to venture down the pink-laden girl’s aisle just to see what all my counterparts were playing with.

Know your enemy they say.

Truth be told, most of the girl’s toys were very feminine. But, a handful of the girl’s toys were pretty cool as well. Holly Hobby, The EZ Bake Oven and Little Kitty come to the top of my mind. I would put Strawberry Shortcake at pretty girly girl fare. Except, of course, for one key character that I’ll reveal in three sentences.

“C’mon, man. It’s your shot,” my brother shrieked in his very annoying voice from the pool room.

Scared of being caught, I threw the Shortcake dolls onto the floor and went to take my turn.

That’s when I saw him.

There he was staring back at me on Kristy's bed.

The mother lode of Strawberry Shortcake land figures.

One of the meanest nastiest villains in cartoon lore.

The Peculiar Purple Pie Man of Porcupine Peak.

Or Purple Pie Man for short.

Like an addict finding a vial of his choice drug, I quickly snagged the Purple Pie fellow.

“Are you coming or not?” my brother yelled again.

“I’ll be right back,” I screamed. “I, uh, have to go to the bathroom.”

“You have to go home to go to the restroom?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Why don’t you just go here?”

“I just. I just can’t,” I screamed as I bolted out of our neighbor’s front door, back to my house, opened the door to my room, tossed Kristy’s Purple Pie Man into my lair of toys and high-tailed back to my very important game of billiards.

As we played a couple more games of pool, the only thing on my mind was the Purple Pie Man and the serious toy battles that were going take place during that hot and balmy summer afternoon.

After lunch, I excused myself from my bologna and ketchup sandwich and headed straight to my room. My brother was in a cartoon coma viewing a couple repeat episodes of Tom and Jerry not to mention the Mighty Mouse cartoons.

I would be safe for at least an hour.

I closed the door, pulled out my Masters of the Universe characters and discreetly tossed the Purple Pie Man into the fray.

Time zoomed by as the Purple Pie Man joined forces with Skeletor to vanquish He-Man and his precious sidekick Man at Arms.

Purple Pie Man then enslaved Teela. Had I been older, I would’ve used my imagination a bit more in the 'enslaved' department, but c’est la vie. She was simply enslaved.

The Purple Dictator pulled a Judas and proceeded to stab Skeletor in the back, take his part of the Sword of Power and toss him out of Castle Grayskull with He-Man and the rest of the crew.

Then, Purple Pie Man convinced Beast-Man and Merman to stay aboard and laid out his shrewd plans for Master of the Universe immortality and world domination.

But, first he needed to get He-Man’s sword.

However, outside the castle, Skeletor and He-Man were cooking up their own plans. With a very angry Man-At-Arms and hungry-for-battle Stratos and Zodac, the newly titled League of Destruction slipped through a secret entrance in Castle Grayskull, easily killed Beast Man and Merman, freed Teela from her shackles and proceeded to defeat the Purple Pie Man and claim victory for…

“Hey there, little girl.”

I looked up and it was my brother standing in the doorway with two of his buddies.

One of the guys walked over and snatched Purple Pie Man from my grasp. He smelled the top of Purple Pie Man’s head and started to laugh.

“You playing with little girl toys?” Buddy #1 said.

“Yeah, girl toys,” said Buddy #2.

“No,” I huffed. “It’s only Purple Pie Man. It’s not like I’m playing with Strawberry Shortcake, Apple Dumplin and Blueberry Muffin, or something.”

“Ha! Ha! He knows their names,” said Buddy #2.

“Well, since you know their names, you know what that makes you?” Buddy #1 asked.

I shyly shrugged.

“A LITTLE SISSY GIRL!” they all yelled in unison and continued to verbally slash me with their venomous tongues.

After about 15 minutes of catcalls, whistles and attacks on my manlihood. The crew finally got bored and left the room.

I cursed Purple Pie Man who lay there in a heap in front of me like an abused stepchild.

Defeated, I grabbed the keys from my mom’s purse, walked over to my neighbor’s house and placed Purple Pie Man atop his throne on Kristy’s bed where he would sit for the rest of the month overlooking the land of StrawberryVille (or whatever it’s called).

As evil as he may be, the Pie Man would forever be a fixture in the land of Strawberry Shortcake. He would never fraternize with my toys ever again.

But, for that one hour, for a fantastical 60 minutes, The Peculiar Purple Pie Man of Porcupine Peak was a true evil Master of the Universe in my world.

Bravo, Pie Man. Bravo.

A Winning One-Word Presidential Campaign Speech.

I was in sixth grade history class and our teacher Ms. Myers (a dinosaur of a woman who always wore these big, flowery sundresses) was discussing the various American wars of the world.

As I scanned the room, you could just tell that no one was paying any attention to her.

Some were doodling. Some were drooling. Others were picking their nose. Some were even flicking their nose. I, however, was scrawling EIMER FOR PRESIDENT on my brown paper grocery bag history book cover.

No, no one was paying attention to her stupid presentation. Because all thoughts (at least my own) were firmly focused on the upcoming class presidential elections scheduled to occur right after history class.

The three candidates (myself included) were going to read campaign speeches in front of the class in hopes of persuading potential suckers to vote for us.

I practiced my speech all night and couldn't wait to take the stage. It was funny, yet sublime. Poignant, yet loosey-goosey. It was perfect.

Without being too cocky, I knew that after my speech was over, I was destined to be President of Steeple Valley.

My thoughts of conquering the world were rudely interrupted by Ms. Myers' scraggily voice.

"My oh my," she said in a high octave that woke up the class. "I've been through a lot of wars."

Then she looked up in the air, deep in thought, and started counting the various wars on her fingers.

"Vietnam...World War 1...World War 2....Korean," she put a finger to her mouth and started tapping her lip. "Mmmmm?"

Suddenly this kid Jason (who was also running for class president) yelled from the back row.

"Civil."

The class started to laugh.

Ms. Myers, however, got pissed.

She gave Jason one of those Marty Feldman, angry teacher glares. Then, without saying a word, held out her skeleton-like finger and pointed towards the door.

With a big shit-eating grin on his face, Jason shuffled off to the principal's office; an inevitable detention was in his foreseeable future.

More importantly, he wouldn't be able to deliver his campaign speech to the masses.

Oh yeah!

But, it really didn't matter.

Much to Ms. Myers chagrin (and my own), his one-word pre-election campaign speech cemented his legacy as our Sixth-Grade Class President.

It was a landslide victory.

Kudos to you Jason. Kudos to you.

As they say in the news; there's no such thing as bad publicity. Especially if it's funny.

________

Click here for another childhood story involving Jason.

A Six Packs of Sixlets Story

Memory is a funny thing.

One second you're thinking about your upcoming wedding.

The next second you're thinking about some great water slide you rode at Wet N' Wild Water Park back in the early 80's.

The next second you're thinking about how artistically cool of a movie There Will Be Blood was.

The next second you're thinking about something that happened to you at a football game involving six packs of Sixlets.

It was a Friday night. I was eight or nine years old. And my mom, dad and I were at the high school football game in Martins Ferry, Ohio, to see my brother perform in the junior high marching band.

Anyhow, we were sitting up in the bleachers and I felt a gurgling in my stomach.

It was candy time.

"Mom, can I have some money for some candy?"

"Sure," she said as she reached into her purse and handed me a couple bucks. "Can you get a Pepsi for me?"

"I'll take a Pepsi too," my dad said staring intently at the game.

Pepsi. Pepsi. Candy. Check.

I hightailed it through the throngs of people - Some young. Some old. Some dirty. Some smelling like alcohol - and reached the band booster's concession stand in no time flat.

A lady at the counter returned my smile and calmly asked "May I help you?"

"Sure, I'll take two Pepsis and...."

I glanced up at the candy section and found myself at a loss for words. There was so much candy to choose from that I simply couldn't decide.

Kit-Kat. Snickers. Hershey Bar. Mr. Goodbar. Lik 'Em Aid. Sweet Tarts. Candy Fish. Sixlets.

Mmmm, Sixlets. Not exactly M & M's. Not even close to Reese's Pieces. But somewhat tasty in its own special way.

Chocolate balls with a crispy candy shell and deep chocolate inside. Wrapped in a plastic cellophane wrapper.

I loved popping off the top of the wrapper with my teeth then shoving as many colored pebbles as I could fit into my mouth.

Sweet, sweet, tasty goodness dipped in a chocolate shell....

"And?" the lady at the counter awoke me from my chocolate daydream.

"Uh, sorry," I said as I shoved my jaw back into my mouth. "And I'll take six packs of Sixlets. The long pack. Please."

"Okay, two Pepsis and six packs of Sixlets. The looooong pack," she said rather mockingly.

The lady brought my merchandise to the counter and I paid my fee. Which was under three dollars by the way.

I grabbed the two cups of Pepsi with both of my hands.

And, I remember this like it was yesterday.

Three packs of sixlets were wrapped tightly around the Pepsi in my left hand.

While three packs of sixlets were wrapped tightly around the Pepsi in my right hand.

As I walked back to the bleachers, I focused my attention on the six packs of Sixlets dangling over my hands like chocolate vines.

The Sixlets looked so good that I couldn't wait to get up to the bleachers, rip the plastic open with my teeth and taste the chocolatey goodness inside.

Mmmmmm, tasty, tasty Sixlets.

Suddenly, these three skinny little black girls popped out of the crowd and blocked my path to the bleachers. They looked about 11 or 12 years old.

"Uh, hi," I said awkwardly as I tried to walk around them.

With these big, wide grins on their faces, they silently surrouned me like a pack of Jurassic Park raptors.

My chocolate Spidey Sense began to tingle. I could feel all the hairs on the back of my head expand. Something just didn't feel quite right.

Then they started to tickle me.

I shit you not.

All three dug their hands into my stomach and started wiggling their little fingers into my ribcage.

"Hey stop it," I started to yell. While juggling the two Pepsis in my hand, I attempted to fight off their tickling advances with my elbows. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it."

I think I may have even yelled for help.

Then, while one of the girls continued the tickle attack, the other two girls started yanking at the packs of sixlets.

"Hey," I screamed. "No. No. No. Don't."

The packets of sixlets came loose. Then I lost my grip on one of the Pepsis.

You could hear the slow-motion "Nooooooooooooooooo" as the drink plummeted to the ground. It exploded into a brown sludge as it mixed with the track slate below.

Then as quickly as they arrived. The three girls shot off in three different directions and disappeared into the crowd.

There I stood. Violated. Defeated. Exasperated. And a little bit pissed.

I just got mugged for six packs of Sixlets.

With tears rolling down my eyes, I returned to the bleachers and told my mom and dad the fantastical story. My dad shrugged it off like it was normal. My mom gave me a hug.

"Don't worry," she said. "We'll go down at halftime after your brother gets finished playing and get you some more candy."

As the football game continued on the field, my thoughts reverted back to my terrifying tickling attack. I just couldn't shake it.

True to their word, my parents and I went back to the counter at halftime and ordered another Pepsi. They also ordered me a couple packs of sixlets.

However, as I bit into my first pack of sixlets on the way back to the bleachers, I kept my eyes peeled for another onslaught from the tickling bandits.

To be honest, the sixlets didn't taste that great at all either.

It must have been the bad taste in my mouth from the mugging.

We're Talking Sports....Again!

Below are some quick reactions to the past week and upcoming week in sports:

NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS
This team seems a little bit pissed off about getting busted for stealing opposing team's defensive signals. And it seems like they're taking out their frustration on every team in the NFL. And I'm talking everyone. The Patriots are 6-0 and they've outscored opponents by a 230-92 margin. Before each game, I picture everyone in the Patriots locker room stone silent and pissed. No one is talking. No one is making jokes. Everyone is just focused on the game at hand - and did I mention they're pissed. Heck, I betcha that Bill Belichick hasn't had to give the team a pre-game pep talk all season long. He just opens up the door and they run out and go to work. Wouldn't it be funny if they made the playoffs and lost in the first round to a wild card team? Well, I think it would be.

FANTASY FOOTBALL
Speaking of Tom Brady and Randy Moss. If you had these two guys on your roster, you could opt not to play the rest of your Fantasy team and still have a good chance of winning . Seriously. These guys are racking up a combined 60-70 fantasy points each week. By the way, I'm dead last in my Fantasy Football league. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing. By the end of the season, more than likely, I'll have zero players that I started with from Week One. Plus, I'm getting beat by two women who basically chose their players based on the player's good looks, favorite mascots and pretty team colors. Flush another $20 down the toilet.

OHIO STATE
Like I said before, I truly thought this was going to be a down year for the Buckeyes. Then again I thought the same thing about the 2002 National Champion Buckeyes as well. The amazing thing is - with the exception of the first half against Washington - there hasn't been a close game yet. The defense is stunning - even without Laurinaitis at linebacker. But after Michigan State this week, Ohio State is traveling to Penn State (remember the white out?) and has games against Illinois, Wisconsin and - of course - on the road at Michigan. Remember what I said about Michigan? Right now, they're undefeated in the Big Ten. But that was before Mike Hart screwed up his ankle. And, although Hart's said he's going to play this week, I'm curious how they'll do on the road against Illinois.

COLORADO ROCKIES & OLD PEOPLE
After seeing the old, retiree codgers root on the Diamondbacks by sitting on their hands during game one of NLCS not to mention almost 4,000 tickets going unsold for that particular game in Arizona, I'm happy the Colorado Rockies (21-1 in their last 22 games) are going to the World Series. Which leads me to believe they should have some sort of senior citizen seating at all sporting events - in particular for the big games (i.e. Michigan/Ohio State, Yankeees/Red Sox etc.). From college football and basketball to the NBA, NHL and NFL even high school sports - if you're old and you don't want to stand up and cheer for your team, you get sequestered to the 'senior section' where you can sit on your ass with like-minded people and bitch about the noise all game long.

CLEVELAND INDIANS & CLEVELAND BROWNS
I wasn't really a fan of either team before I moved to Cleveland. But I've watched every Indians game since the playoffs begun. And it's been a blast. Plus, on Sunday, I never thought the phrase "How did the Browns do?" would ever be uttered from my mouth. Of course, it's after I ask "Did the Steelers win?". With the Cavs making the championship last year, the underdog Indians up 2-1 against the Red Sox in ALCS and the Browns at 3-3 heading into their bye week, this is as good as time as any to be a sports fan who happens to live in Cleveland.

MARTINS FERRY PURPLE RIDERS VS. BELLAIRE BIG REDS
My family still lives in Martins Ferry, Ohio. And this game is like Ohio State vs. Michigan or Yankees vs. Red Sox for the Ohio Valley. Both towns literally shut down when this game is being played. What's equally amazing is how much hatred my brother has for the city of Bellaire. A couple years ago I went to this game with my brother. Before the band came out he started heckling the other team's fans and kept it going through haltime and all the way to final buzzer. If a Bellaire fan would walk by, he'd start to spit venom:"Get out of our fucking stadium!", "That's right. Keep walking." and "Bellaire fucking sucks!" All the while he's holding up his middle finger to anyone in a red and black jersey - even grade school kids. He didn't care. I haven't seen that much passion since my best friend spit in the face of some Gulf War protestors in college back in 1991. That said, this year's matchup (on Oct. 27) is going to be more for bragging rights. Martins Ferry just got shellacked by St. Clairsville and Indian Creek and are definitely out of postseason contention. On the flip side, the Big Reds are an embarrasing 0-8.

You know, I can't wait to make take my kids to the Ferry/Bellaire football game when they're a little bit older. Heck, if anything, my brother will teach them how to give the middle finger to Bellaire fans..

Questions? Comments? Remarks? Tell me what you think?

The Mystery of The Turd

From birth to four-years old, I really have no memories . None. Zip. Nada. Nothing.

It was either science-fiction author Isaac Asimov or comic book artist John Byrne who claimed to remember being born. He even gave a detailed description of the operating room, people in the room, the colors of the wall and what exactly transpired after he came out of the womb.

Pretty crazy. I'm not really sure if that's the norm or not. But, I can't remember a single thing, until 1976 when I started kindergarten at Hilltop Elementary School on Colerain Pike.

In fact, I can remember this one Kinder-story like it just happened yesterday:

It was recess and I was hanging out with my classmates on the playground. I really wouldn’t call them friends yet because I barely knew them. (And what the hell would we talk about anyway? Probably jibberish.)

Anyhow, this one kid - Russell - started dancing around and holding his butt. "I gotta go." he screamed to no one in particular. Then, without warning, he unbuttoned his cord pants, pulled them down around his ankles and plopped out a turd right on the playground cement.

The kids around him started laughing. I was pretty shocked. I looked around for teachers. They didn’t notice. Even so, I got nervous.

Suddenly one of the giggling kids, Jason, went over to the turd, picked it up and dropped it into an open classroom window. Not our kindergarten classroom, mind you. But a grown-up classroom on the other side of the school. First Grade.

All the kids scattered like they just threw a grenade into a foxhole. I took off as well. (I wasn't stupid). But, for the remainder of recess, I just stared intently at the turd window. "Did I do something wrong?" my guilt-ridden mind asked myself over and over as the recess bell rang and we entered the building.

It was music time and we were getting ready to sing a hearty rendition of BINGO. When, all of a sudden, Hilltop's first-grade teacher burst into the room. This old bag of bones looked like she passed up on retirement and was heading straight to death. She wore these nylon stockings that would roll down her boney ankles. And she would always wear those 1950’s housemother dresses you see on Leave it To Beaver or The Andy Griffith Show. They were pastel green and always dirty. It looked like she hand-washed all of her clothes.

But right at the moment, I wasn't focusing on our first-grade teacher's dress habits. The thing that caught my attention on this particular day was the sloppy, brown turd dangling in her hand. It was Russell's turd.

And she wasn't holding it with a paper towel or a rag? No, that would be too sanitary. Instead, she held the turd in her bare hand for all the world to see

"Who did this? Who threw this into my classroom?" She screamed at the top of her lungs as she waved the brown bomb into the air like the Statue of Liberty. I noticed the brown turd juice running down her fingers.

A couple kids in the class started to cry. I thought I was going to barf.

My heart started racing. I remember thinking. "I know I was there. And I remember Russell taking a dump. But maybe, I made it all up? Maybe, in fact, I did the dirty doody."

Her eyes locked with mine. "You!" she screamed. "I saw you standing outside the window, did you do this?" Spit was flying. And her hair was bobbing in the wind as she thrust the turd within inches of my face.

I gave her a "Who me?" look. Shook my head and began to scan the room for Russell and Jason. They were looking straight ahead with the most innocent look on their faces. The bastards. How could they be so cool, calm and collected at a time like this?

"Can we please talk about this in the hall," our kindergarten teacher, Ms. Barrisford, said to the first-grade teacher as she grabbed her by the arm and escorted her out of the classroom.

Before she exited the room, the first-grade teacher extended her hand and dropped Russell's juicy turd into the metal trash container next to the door.

It landed with a KABLOMB! that echoed throughout the halls.

When the door slammed, all the other kid’s giggled…even Russell and Jason. I breathed a sigh of relief. The mystery of the turd would remain unsolved.

That is, until now.