How the United States is a lock to win the World Cup (of Food)

I selected one of the most popular edible dishes, drinks, or ingredients from each World Cup nation and simulated a World Cup (of Food).


Group A


South Africa-Potjiekos- a meat and vegetable stew
Mexico-tacos (corn tortillas)
Uruguay-dulce de leche- thick fruit paste
France-wine


Results: France advances with bourgeois booze. Mexico shells through bottom half of bracket with traditional taco.


Group B


South Korea-Rice (cakes)
Argentina-red meat
Nigeria-Suya (meat kabob)
Greece-gyros


Results: 'Greece'y gyros guide Greeks to the top. Nigeria rides carnival wave into the round of 16 with beef on a stick.


Group C


Slovenia-dandelion
United States-everything
England-tea
Algeria- pita bread


Results: Doing what it does best, the U.S. eats through the early competition. England and Algeria finish in a tie, but England politely insists Algeria move on.


Group D


Germany-beer
Ghana-fried plantains
Serbia-baklava (sweet pastry)
Australia- meat pie


Results: Beer may be the biggest moneymaker in collegiate competition. Germany bongs Group D. Serbia squeaks through with Backlava.


Group E


Netherlands-cheese
Japan-sushi
Cameroon-ndole (nut, goat meat, and leaf stew)
Denmark-danishes


Results: 'Aged' Netherlands squad takes the group with cheese. Japan plays the trendy card to advance with sushi.


Group F


Paraguay-coffee
Italy-pizza
New Zealand-pavlova (meringue cake)
Slovakia-kielbasa


Results: Everyone likes pizza, and there is nothing like watching Slovak's eat their kielbasa. Italy and Slovakia move on.


Group G


Brazil-exotic fruits
Ivory Coast-aloko (banana in palm oil)
Portugal-rice pudding
North Korea-we aren't really allowed to know, and we may not want to.


Results: The group of death upholds its name with questionable dishes. Brazil and Ivory Coast advance. Kim Jong Il tells his people they beat everyone.


Group H


Spain-potato omelette
Switzerland-chocolate
Honduras- carne asada (roasted beef)
Chile-sea bass


Results: Chocolate drowns Chilean sea bass while Spain's 'patatas' surprise the field and advance.




Group of 16:


France (wine) vs. Nigeria (beef on stick): Carnival style beef stick no match for Classy Wine. France wins.


US (name a food) vs. Serbia (baklava): Om nom nom. United States goes through.


Netherlands (cheese) vs. Slovakia (kielbasa): Have you ever been to a Slovakian festival? Just add kraut, and it's an instant win. Slovaks move on.


Brazil (exotic fruit) vs. Spain (potatoe omelettes): This would be a great soccer match. It's an iffy food match. Spain lives on.


Greece (gyros) vs. Mexico (tacos): $2 meal deal? Charles Barkley? Yea, Taco Bell gets Mexico a win.


Germany (beer) vs. Algeria (pita bread): Is this a joke? Chug on Germans.


Italy (pizza) vs. Japan (sushi): Pizza is too good. Closer than you think, but Italy prevails.


Switzerland (Chocolate) vs. Ivory Coast (banana in palm oil): Remember when I said pizza was too good? Try chocolate. Swiss aren't neutral on this one.


Round of Eight


France (wine) vs. United States (insert edible entity): U.S. does what it does best--eat. France does what it does best--lose.


Slovakia (kielbasa) vs. Spain (patatas): Cinderella story of the tournament. There is something about those Slovaks!


Mexico (tacos) vs. Germany (beer): Both can serve as poor life decisions. Tacos take the fall. Germany to the Final Four.


Italy (pizza) vs. Switzerland (Chocolate): Pizza adapts better from region to region. Barely, Italy wins.


Final Four


United States (Jillian Michaels can't save us all) vs. Slovakia (Kielbasa): Americans eat all the kielbasa before judgement is made. Land of Liberty to the finals.


Italy (pizzza) vs. Germany (beer): Ahhh. Isn't this a fitting pair? Pizza can't get you drunk. Germany takes it.


FINALS


GERMANY (Beer) vs. United States (the belt busters): The United States simply takes Germany's beer. U.S. wins the World Cup (of Food)!

Finding the 'reality' in Reality TV: The Bachelorette

I am still trying to gather why but I just spent the past two hours of my god forsaken life watching The Bachelorette on ABC. For those of you who don't know what the show entails this is the best I can give you off the top of my head (quote me on this one):

The Bachelorette is a nauseating tale of several men in love with the same beautifully naive woman that obliterates most conventional (and often times realistic) portrayals of the mystery, majesty, and steadfast intimacy of a romantic partnership.

There is something unsettling about a dozen masculine looking men tossing testosterone aside and engaging in competitive compassion. Don't get me wrong this would be great, if it were real. Just as unsettling might be the fact that the show's resident strong, independent and beautiful star is vulnerable enough to be seen kissing multiple men in one evening. Perhaps the most sickening aspect of the program to the socially destitute viewer (i.e. me) is the absurdity of the dates the men go on with the "bachelorette."

During the two hour special, here are some of the things you could find the men doing:

-leisurely pacing the streets of New York City

-sipping on champagne in their ridiculous NYC suite

-physically acting in an actual Broadway production of The Lion King

-Eating at a closed down high class NYC club and dancing to live music from Joshua Radin

During the two hour special, here are some of the things you could find me doing:

-mindlessly gnawing on pretzels

-wiping off my used coffee pot

-itching the back of my calf

-watching people act in musicals, sip champagne, and dance to live music from a top class musician

Say what you want about reality TV, but tonight it gave me a rude awakening--one that had "reality" written all over it.

Opening Weekend of my summer in White Plains, NY: Bathroom Breakdown

At 6:10 a.m on Saturday, my parents and I set off on an eight hour trip (without stops) to White Plains, NY to move me in for the summer. Here are some astute observations/thoughts from the opening weekend of my summer.

BATHROOMS

Ah, the porcelain palace. On a trip of such length, encounters with the realm of relief are inevitable. But in my situation it was impregnable. You don't just spend nineteen straight summers in Ohio then not get a little anxious about leaving. You don't just attend two years of college in rural Southeast Ohio then not expect a little culture shock on the East Coast. And most importantly, you don't go three years battling Irritable Bowel Syndrome and not expect to go to the bathroom.

At home the bathroom is a safe zone. It is comforting. Strategically placed candles and periodic potpourri exude homey fragrances. Hygienically reassuring sinks linger within an arms length. Towels, floor mats, and fans are engrained in our day-to-day restroom routine. On the road, however, such amenities are rather scarce.

Here is a breakdown of the weekends vaunting vinyl voyages.

Goasis Ashland, Ohio: Well, this was a solid four and a half minutes into the trip. It was also 6:15 a.m. so I was already reevaluating my life. The facility was impressive as it showed no signs of messy overnight visits. I also surveyed the family restroom to get a comprehensive idea of the accommodations. It contained a toilet that was somewhere in between a portable training toilet and a "big boy" john. It was short enough that I could trip over it. I entertained the thought of using it, but my accuracy is already dreadful before 9 a.m. My emotions jolted back and forth between endeared and betrayed. I felt slighted by society because I remember the post-training adjustment struggle. The stage where a kid could more easily spit into a urinal than pee is a challenging one, and I was denied the opportunity to ever use a family friendly facility.

Grade: A-.

McDonald's Ravenna, Ohio: If going to the bathroom were a competition, this one would be my home arena. Conveniently located at the junction of I-76 and Route 5 in Northeast Ohio, it epitomizes the saying "location, location, location." Because I spent much of my childhood traveling both of these roads to visit family, I have been a regular at this bathroom. I'm on a first name basis with the toilet paper dispensers. The sinks practically turn on for me. As far as quality of the facility, the bathroom offers everything you would expect from a McDonald's bathroom. So, it doesn't offer much.

Grade: B+. It holds a special place in my heart.

McDonalds Somewhere in Central Pennsylvania: Maybe I am just partial to the Ravenna one, but this was poorly mopped. I prefer the floors of my fast food bathrooms to be moist from the last mopping at all times. These floors were drier than George W. Bush's refrigerator. The rest was stellar. It had one hell of a firm "pull" handle on the inside of the bathroom door. It was the kind of door handle that cemented the legacy of your visit to the bathroom. It was the kind that gave you closure. It was the kind that reminded you that you came with a goal and, by all means, you left without one.

Grade: B-. Not impressed.

Exxon Mobil in Eastern PA: This was a disaster. After "holding it" for a record eighteen exits, I urged my dad to pull over here. It was at this Exxon that I discovered the biggest crisis in Exxon's rich and innovative crisis history, their east Pennsylvania bathroom. Dead insects? Check. Torn up walls? You bet. A lingering, putrid scent? Sure. Toilet paper? Not a chance. I was a dead man. Stranded in the stall. I felt like a toilet. I was like Tom Hanks in Castaway. I started talking to the plunger. I named it "Barry." And that was only 30 seconds in. After five patient minutes, I was rescued by my dad. He was my knight in Docker's armor, overcoming the perils of the bathroom door to haplessly toss a roll of government toilet paper over the stall door.

Also, just to kick me while I was down, there was no soap. So, I spent the next 70 miles trying not to touch anything.

Grade: F. This is as bad as it gets.

Dunkin Donuts in NJ: They had soap, and now that soap is a luxury I am giving them an "A."

Grade: A++

Crown Royal White Plains room 1203: Hotel bathrooms are glorious. I found myself using every travel sized bottle of everything. I did so ravenously. For all I know, I could have been moisturizing my hair in the shower or lathering myself in shaving scream. But hey, "it's all deadly."

Grade: A. Coffee maker in bathroom? That'll work.

Outback Steakhouse White Plains: The Outback Steakhouse bathroom dilemma is an interesting one. In an attempt to be creative and parallel their Australian theme, they name their bathrooms in a way that Americans (their customers) may have considerable trouble discerning. Men are supposed to go in the room entitled "Blokes," and women are intended to enter the one that says "Sheilas." Watching people stutter step, frantically whip their head from door to door, and even seek help from restaurant employees makes the whole visit worth it.

Grade: B for entertainment.

Gannat Dorm Hall (Pace University): I clogged a toilet in here within three minutes of being officially on my own in New York, and quite frankly I am headed there again right now...

Grade: C. I feel bad.

Taking a Seat: Hardwood Heroes Column

It is safe to say that countless American men complete a strenuous day of full time work and are more than content with retiring to a big, cushiony recliner. I mean we are talking the kind of recliner that’s so big it makes you look like the gingerbread man. You know, the one sitting right in front of the TV and right behind tomorrow. Randy Dillinger is the same way. He loves the prospect of getting off work and just sitting down, getting off his feet. As for his seat, well, that is what makes Randy a little different.

Randy’s choice of seating has led him down paths that virtually no one would expect a 57-year-old, lifetime Alexander resident that recently retired from Kroger to go. He has met several people while sitting in his chair. He has shaken hands with legendary coach Tubby Smith, sat next to Kentucky Hall of Fame center Sam Bowie, seen NBA champion LA Lakers’ forward Lamar Odom grow before his eyes, and even engaged in small talk with recently retired coaching immortal Bobby Bowden.

Yea, that guy you saw at the grocery store for 38 years is kind of a big deal. So, what kind of chair is it?

“A folding chair.” Folding chair? I would rather get off work and sit on a tuffet. Randy wouldn’t trade his chair for the world. It sits behind the scorer’s table at Alexander High School and Ohio University basketball games, a place that Randy has made his home.

Home might even be an understatement. Randy keeps the “book” for seven teams. There are seven days in a week. A slate of JV and varsity games on a typical night occupy Randy for up to seven hours. By some miracle, he still manages to spend time with his nine grandchildren, walk two to three miles a day, and serve as secretary of the local Lion’s Club. I felt like Moses for getting an interview with him.

This is all pretty exhausting until you find out that Randy scored his first game in 1965. He has not missed an Alexander boy’s varsity game in over 35 years and has been in charge of scoring all Alexander basketball games for 31 of those years. Last year, he calculated that he has scored more than 2,500 games.

“That’s a lot of sitting,” he said. No kidding. This guy could sit longer than Mona Lisa. He makes the Lincoln Memorial look like it is standing. Districts should elect guys like Randy just to sit through filibusters.

Perhaps all that experience plays into one of his most impressive ventures. A published book. He has his own scorebook and making it was not a task he took lightly. He reviewed numerous old scorebooks and came up with a system that was as multifaceted as the Constitution. It is as foolproof as the Dewey Decimal System. It is more complex than the Da Vinci Code. He uses checks and balances to ensure accuracy. Everything is written twice. Everything is color-coded. If a coach has a dispute, Randy’s scorebook clears it up instantly. It has caught on so well that it is being used for games across Eastern, Central, and Southern Ohio.

So, I started to think. There has to be a catch to this. This guy is probably making money faster than ponzi schemers. Alexander probably has to print money just to pay him. Not so fast. Dillinger doesn’t make a penny for doing this, and he certainly doesn’t want to. “It takes money from the kids,” he insisted. That is why he does it, for the kids. He loves sports, loves the kids, and loves Alexander. For Randy, it is a no-brainer.

Plus, Randy will be the first to tell you that he has the best seat in the house. People often ask him why he doesn’t just take a game off and enjoy one from the stands. Because he sleeps like an Egyptian mummy. He passes out faster than post-apple Snow White on a Serta after taking a Benadryl. The scorer’s chair is the best place and way to watch a game. It makes him focus on it more and as a result he enjoys it more.

So, just how much does this guy do this in a typical week? Here is an actual late January schedule of his:

Monday- Alexander Girls @ Wellston

Tuesday- Alexander Boys @ Home

Wednesday- Ohio U Women @ Home

Thursday- Alexander Girls @ Home

Friday- Alexander Boys @ Meigs

Saturday- Ohio U Women @ Home

Sunday- Ohio U Men @ Home

Upon viewing this, there was only one thing to ask him: Do you sleep? “Very Little,” he replied, “ I normally fall asleep watching the news on my recliner.”

Hmm, maybe he’s not so different after all.

The Little Things: The Story of a mother's struggle, a son's miracle, and a community's kindness.

He paces ardently at the end of his players’ bench. His gaze is stern with an underlying focus showing through his stiffened cheeks. He barks out commands to his team with vigor, unrestrained by his ailing throat. It is a Tuesday night at McInturf Gymnasium, and Federal Hocking is facing conference rival Eastern. The man I speak of is not the Lancers’ head coach. He is their team manager. He is Billy Porter. He is developmentally disabled. He is lucky to be alive.

*

It was September 8, 1981, and Sharon Porter was a mother of two in her second marriage. Her son, 10-year old Billy, was an active kid and a promising athlete. Billy was a little league all-star in baseball and was one of the leaders of his basketball squad. Billy’s birthday had been celebrated one week before, and he had received a new dirt bike. After a tiff with his mother on that morning, Billy found himself in a rebellious state of mind as he joined his cousin and sister for a dirt bike ride. The rules had always been clear. They were to ride in one specific direction on the path allotted for them and wear a fastened helmet whenever on the bikes. This time, Billy broke both the rules.

He tossed on his helmet without buckling it and took off on the bike going the “wrong way.” He eventually collided with the bike ridden by his sister and cousin. Billy fell off the bike, and the bike’s motor flew into the air and landed, tragically, on his face. When Sharon Porter came to the scene, what she saw was a mother’s worst nightmare.

*

Between the junior varsity and varsity games (at which time the girls play—Billy is not manager for the girls team) Billy walks up to the referees of the next game and greets them jubilantly. He jokes and talks with them. As the game begins, he heckles them. He constantly refers to one as “baldy” and assures him every time he makes a call that it is the wrong one. The official turns to Billy, points at him playfully, and laughs. What on earth did Billy say to them before the game? I think. This guy is like some kind of referee wind talker. Billy Porter just broke a social barrier that fans, coaches, and players across the world can never seem to figure out.

Then, we walk out into the lobby. Walking with Billy outside the gymnasium on game day is like walking next to Giorgio Armani on the Red Carpet. He knows everybody. He knows all the referees, coaches, and cops in the area. One of those very cops, Jimmy Childs, predicts that someday they will have a statue of Billy outside the school.

*

Sharon was horrified at the sight of Billy after the accident. “It looked like he had no face,” she explains. Her father instantly got his pickup truck and rushed them to the nearest hospital. When they got there emergency room doctors, angered that Sharon had not called 911, informed Sharon that Billy would likely not live through the drive to Columbus and they would prefer that she not go in the ambulance.

“They must have thought I was crazy,” Sharon says to me. “That’s cuz’ you are crazy mom!” Billy fires back. They laugh. Unrivaled sense of humor, check.

Sharon, drenched in the blood of her own son and living through utter hell, refused to be away from Billy. She hopped in the ambulance shaking wildly and praying frantically. Things would only get worse from there.

*

Now we sit in Athletic Director John Murphy’s office. Murphy and Billy share old stories, talk about the night’s referees, and argue about who they consider Federal Hocking’s biggest rival. Amidst conversation is uproarious laughter. John Murphy looks relaxed talking to Billy right now. Relaxed? I thought. The man is hosting three basketball games on a Tuesday night.

This speaks to what I have seen out of Billy. Everyone he approaches smiles, laughs, and just seems to be taken away from their daily burdens for the short time Billy is with them. McDonalds may want to make you smile, but Billy Porter does it. Billy’s the kind of guy that generates more smiles than a Colgate commercial. He could cheer up Mark McGwire in a confessional. He could make Eeyore look like Elmo.

Murphy turns to Billy and asks what is in his water bottle. Billy jokingly proclaims, “Whiskey!” More laughter. More Smiles. Even a high five.

McDonalds doesn’t stand a chance.

*

The ambulance trudged up the road toward Columbus. No speed could have been fast enough for Sharon, not with her son dying in the back. When they reached Logan, around halfway to Columbus, Billy stopped breathing. For a daunting three minutes, Sharon Porter’s worst nightmare was becoming more and more of a fatal reality. The EMS workers frenetically resuscitated him. They were in the clear but not for long. A mere five minutes further up the road a tie rod end broke on the ambulance. They were stuck. Sharon sat in the front seat hysterically, screaming and praying.

Another ambulance bolted over to get them, the next thing Sharon knew she was in Columbus and her son was about to go into surgery. Billy had two blood clots on his brain and broke every facial bone except his nose. They did emergency surgery. A dentist did his facial surgery by looking at an old photograph of Billy. Remarkably, he was able to restore Billy’s face to look strikingly ordinary. After surgery Billy laid in a coma.

Sometimes in sports we label injuries as day-to-day as far as when a player will be able to play again. Billy Porter was listed as day-to-day as far as whether he would be able to live again.

*

Billy takes me into the Federal Hocking coach’s office at halftime of the girl’s game. He brings in a black duffel bag. I open it. It is a collection of Billy’s accomplishments. His old baseball and basketball pictures are included along with some yearbooks. As we review the items together, one thing in particular strikes me. Billy was a member of the Athens County 1989 Special Olympics basketball team. The team won the Special Olympics state championship. Talk about overcoming adversity to fulfill your life goals. Billy was so close to dying and still managed to find a way to go back to playing the game he loved. I sat in that office and looked up at Billy as he explained his team picture. I thought about how we tend to idolize celebrities and people with wealth. Billy Porter measures success in a different way. Perhaps, we all can take a lesson.

*

After a while, Billy began moving limbs. He would move an arm then gain movement in a leg and so on. The hospital had told them to institutionalize him because he would never talk and never walk. Sharon would work with him every day during the coma. After six months in it, he woke up. His first words were “mama.” This brought Sharon to tears.

Sharon and Billy’s stepfather worked to stretch Billy’s muscles. They had to start from scratch. Teach him to crawl, teach him to eat, and potty train him. Sharon quit her job and gave up her life for Billy. She took him to speech and physical therapy every day.

Two and a half years after the accident, Billy Porter was walking and talking. The only signs of the accident were a scar on his throat from a tracheal tube and his developmental disability. The accident came full circle for Sharon in an unusual manner. Billy, for the first time in three years, peed standing up. The pride in Billy’s eyes touched Sharon. She was touched the same way when he first put on pants. “It’s the little things you take for granted,” she said reflectively.

Billy’s stepfather, though a vital part of his post-accident recovery, would grow to be verbally abusive to Billy, ultimately causing Sharon to divorce him. Sharon has given up everything to raise Billy, and she would not have it any other way.

*

Billy is standing with the team during warm-ups dribbling the basketball with both hands. He does it mindlessly and fluently. He surely hasn’t lost his knack for the game. He goes into the locker room with the players and leads the coaches out. The game goes on and Billy grows tired. After all, this is the third game he has presided over this evening. He turns to me and informs me that his throat is hurting, but that does not even come close to stopping him from yelling to support his Lancers.

Federal Hocking has been just as good to Billy as he has been to them. Sharon Porter is infinitely thankful for how accepting they have been to him. Billy Porter has missed only a few games in the past 23 years. Murphy and Billy share a friendship that has lasted throughout his days at Federal Hocking. It dates back to when he used to drive the baseball bus to games, and Billy would be in the back seats joking around. Sharon says she would do anything for the school.

It is truly amazing that in a story with so many heroes, a story with so many people doing extraordinary things to help one individual, we can throw in an entire community. The whole TVC community from everyone at Federal Hocking, to opposing coaches and athletic directors, to referees, to radio announcers, to fans, and the list goes on. Sharon and Billy are humbled by their kindness.

Somewhere in the world a man stands before a toilet, does his business, washes his hands, and walks out of a bathroom. Somewhere else a man wakes up and gets dressed.

Stories like these make Billy Porter smile. Stories like these send shivers down Sharon Porter’s spine.

It’s the little things.

Behind the Stripes: An evening in the life of a referee crew.

Their jet black, Nike basketball shoes are laced tightly. Their mouths are dry with excitement. They jump up and down eagerly in the hallway outside Alexander High School’s gymnasium. Anticipatory beads of sweat reel down their cheeks. The lighthearted demeanor of a half hour ago has gradually escaped them. It is ten minutes from the start of Saturday night’s basketball game, and they are the officials.

These guys are as beloved as the IRS. They are more invisible than Adam Smith’s hand. They are lonelier than a salad fork in India. As fans, we batter them and bruise them. We heckle them and harass them. We tease them and taunt them. Sometimes we refuse to even acknowledge them as human. That’s why I sought to find the story behind these Martians. That’s right. Instead of taking in Saturday night’s basketball game, I shadowed the men in stripes. I went for a stroll in their shoes and found the real stories of these robotic referees.

“It’s one referee and two umpires,” Ed Caudill corrects me. We have just settled into the official’s locker room, which is in all actuality a large classroom with murals of past presidents lining the walls. “Umpire” Neil Knight and Caudill tease their partner Brent Billings about his pre game ritual that begins with an instant trip to the bathroom upon arrival to the arena. As they change out of their street clothes into their ironed black slacks and fabled striped top, they continue to banter and recall old officiating stories.

They are laughing. Hmm, that is kind of human, right?

Seeing what appeared to be a notion of emotion in them, I request to learn more about them.

Ed is 53 years old. He has been married for 28 years. He also is sure to point out that he has been officiating for 28 years. Amidst a roomful of chuckles, he insists it is merely a coincidence. He enjoys what he calls “man stuff“ such as hunting, fishing, and golf. Brent is 49 and married twenty years. He golfs, shops, and yells at his son. Neil is 52 and widowed. He has officiated 24 years. He loves sports and plays guitar.

Their human level is rising rampantly. They are no different than the average fan. Brent’s son even plays high school basketball himself making him, at times, one of the fans.

“What is the number one reason you ref?” I inquire. All three answer within ten seconds. All answers are the same. They do it because they love the game of basketball. This is striking to me. They are not out there conspiring against teams. They are not trying to take over games. They simply yearn to be a part of the game they love, the game they all played when they were younger.

Now, all Shrek aside, whenever I hear the word love it just screams human to me. In fact, officiating basketball games makes them even more human. Brent tells me it serves as a stress reliever at the end of long workdays. That speaks volumes to his passion for the game. I am guessing you will find only a select few people who consider leaving work and going to get publicly scrutinized for two hours straight a stress reliever.

It is an escape for Neil Knight. Six years ago his wife passed away. In a period of mourning, what was the thing that served as an escape, giving him a much-needed opportunity to be around something he loved? You guessed it, officiating high school basketball.

Now the transformation begins. As they enter the court, they turn from their exuberant, talkative selves to the machines we perceive them to be. Why? Because they have to. They refuse to be partial, and quite frankly, they tell me, they like it that way.

As they waltz onto the floor they are as apathetic as Alexander’s water coolers. They are more neutral than Switzerland. They stand alone, blending in to their surroundings as pre game warm-ups take place. The game begins and moves quickly. The game is played cleanly throughout the first half. In less than a half hour, halftime arrives.

I follow the officials into the locker room and ask what such a quiet first half means. They adamantly proclaim that it is an overwhelming good sign. Neil tells me that not hearing anything from fans or coaches is the biggest compliment a referee can get.

In the locker room, three chilled Gatorades await the officials. Alexander Athletic Director, Josh Merckle, waits with a pen and piece of paper to take the officials’ orders for a post game meal. Wow, I thought, this is not so bad.

Merckle is a regular Martha Stewart when it comes to hosting officials. He provides them a meal, their game paycheck, and even offers them a place to shower after the game. It is like a Holiday Inn Express with a Continental dinner. He constantly thanks the refs, which is magnified in their eyes because officiating is generally a thankless job. He takes welcoming to an entirely new level. He jokes with them, caters to them, and makes certain that they know their work is appreciated. I decide if I ever would ever win the lottery, I would hire Josh Merckle to bring me a Gatorade and talk to me when I am having a bad day.

The second half comes quickly. The officials told me things tend to get more intense late in the game, and their suggestion proved true. A late third quarter foul call results in grief for Ed. A player lays out for the ball and takes out an opponent’s knees. Unhappy with the call, fans roar in disapproval. Ed’s rebuttal is, well, not to rebuttal. He is irreversibly indifferent. The next play contact is made and none of the officials made a call. The crowd erupts again. The officials are utterly unaffected. They remain rigorous in their duties. Their ability to block out their surroundings is superior. For the fans, it is like yelling at a coffee table. For the officials, it is like doing their job.

After the two outbursts, the game ends with very few whimpers of appeal. They come into the locker room sweating like oil executives on Capitol Hill. They are human again. They congratulate each other on a well-officiated game and partake in their respective meals. They converse about the game and speak highly of the teams. “We’re all a fan of the kids,” Ed insisted referring to all officials.

They change back into their street clothes and return to their everyday lives. As they walk out of the gym no one notices them, no one makes eye contact with them, and no one says anything to them. Neil Knight, Ed Caudill, and Brent Billings are free to release a grin, for now they know they have done their job.

THE ANSWER: A BCS MANIFESTO

In light of tonight’s BCS leftover bowl, I thought it would be appropriate to release my personal solution to the BCS bonanza that has engulfed college football’s postseason. If President Obama’s goal is to overhaul health care, mine is to overhaul the national championship. And when I say overhaul, I mean it. I will leave few details behind.

What I propose seems preposterous, and in all reality, it probably is. However, it would be an injustice for me not to share my views. What is the answer? A 65 team March Madness style tournament. Too many games for such a grueling sport? Try not enough. Here is how it works.

At the end of a full football season, we take the top 65 teams in the newly expanded BCS computer rankings. We seed them from 1-16 according to their finish. Then, the fun begins.

Each team will be represented by its nickname/mascot in its wildest, most native form. The team’s “mascots” will duel in a no holds bar fight. Why play the season, then? Because your ranking gives you home field advantage. The higher ranked “mascot” will hold the duel in its natural habitat.

Point of clarification: By duel I’m not talking early 19^th century. This isn’t Aaron Burr vs. Alexander Hamilton. This is wilder. This is better.

The matches will be structured similar to boxing. Fifteen rounds at three minutes per round. All games will air on the Discovery Channel or Animal Planet. They will be announced by the glorious combination of Gus Johnson and James Earl Jones. The sideline reporter will be Mike Rowe who will be wearing his generic, logo-less hat from the Ford commercials. Ed Hochulee and Tim Donaghy will officiate every bout. There will be a seven person panel of judges in the event of a 15-round match. The judges will be as follows:

-Mike Tyson

-Tonya Harding

-Bruce Lee

-Sylvester Stallone

-Ron Artest

-LeGarrette Blount

-Chris Brown

The alternate judge will be Charlie Sheen, who will end up judging since Bruce Lee is dead.

Michael Vick will be the BCS president (his advice would make for an easy transition into the animal competition industry). Billy Joel will play every halftime show--drunk. Kelly Clarkson will scream a National Anthem Remix before every match that features T-Pain repeating the words she sings, and Lil Wayne doing whatever he wants--whenever he wants. It will also technically feature Lil Jon, but he will actually just be yelling “hey” the entire time. The cast of The View will do pre and post game shows, so no one will watch them. The only ads that will air through the entire game will be Allstate’s commercials that feature their token reassuring black man, Dennis Haysbert. And all duels hosted by Texas Tech’s Red Raider will be in a solitary electrical closet.

That is my vision. That is my dream. That is and will always be no one's reality.