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.

Thursday Night in Gettysbu...I mean Eugene

Chip Kelly should take a lesson from history going into tomorrow nights battle with rival Oregon State. It would be irresponsible not to. There was World War I then there was World War II. Napoleon invaded Russia and froze his way to defeat, and Adolf Hitler self destructed the same way. Flanel. Aviators. Skinny ties. Pop stars in rehab. Cincinnati Bengals in court. Sluggers on steroids. Tragic coastal hurricanes. The French surrendering. American governors and extra marital affairs. If you aren't careful, history always repeats itself. 

Why would this apply to Chip Kelly? Three words, American Civil War. There has not been another one in the United States, and Kelly is leading his Oregon Ducks into a high-stakes, competitive "battle" that just so happens to be called the Civil War. And guess what---it's in America. 

So, why must Chip Kelly beware? After all, his team is the favorite and the North (the clear favorite in 1861) did win the war. It did not come without a scare though, and in football once the contest is close there's no telling what happens next. 

In fact, the easiest option may be to not name the game so aggressively. Perhaps, the Civil Town Hall Forum or the Civil Beer Summit (brought to you by Barack Obama) would be a milder name. 

But no one is looking for the easy way out. In all reality, the game deserves to be called the Civil War. I brainstormed the top things America should break out into Civil War over, and it came out looking something like this:

3. To save the Union

2. Slavery

1. The Rose Bowl

So, it looks like the Ducks and Beavers have it right on. As for Kelly's concerns, they should lie with the result of America's first major Civil War. Let me draw a few comparisons. The North struggled early to find a consistent general. The first was a passed his prime Winfield Scott. He was a great general, but it was time to hang it up. Oregon's version is current AD Mike Bellotti, a solid coach that just moved on. Then there was General George McClellan. He had the credentials, but he just underperformed. Sounds like one Jeremiah Masoli in a hideous early season loss to Boise State. Next, there was General Henry Halleck who showed a general lack of discipline in leading. Enter Lagarrette Blount. The star (more like a black hole now) running back lost his temper after that tough week one loss and struck a member of the Boise State team. 

This is where you have stepped in General Ulysse....I mean Chip Kelly. I'm not saying your counterpart Mike Reilly is Robert E. Lee. I am saying you better treat him like he is. In American Civil War history the upset has been prevalent on the battlefield, and in American football history the upset has been rampant on the playing field. All signs point to trouble for your Ducks tomorrow night. 

Don't be surprised at all if the spirit of Stonewall Jackson takes the form of a Beaver Thursday night. Just play your game and before you know it the spirit of William Tecumseh Sherman may come back to "march" you and your Ducks to Pasadena.

Girl's Basketball preview column

Friday I ventured to Alexander High School for a notoriously sloppy experience. I traveled to the land where optimism is unreasonably high and athleticism is unjustifiably low.  The land where mid range jump shots are as accurate as Dick Cheney birdshots. The land where 2-3 trapping zones are thinner than the Earth’s o-zone (that’s all you, Al Gore).  The place I speak of is the land of preseason basketball. In any form and at any level, it has its share of good, its share of bad, and most assuredly its share of ugly.

This time I found myself watching the TVC preview, an amalgamation of half games showcasing the ladies basketball teams in the Tri Valley Conference. I sat in on 100 minutes of the action and logged my experience from start to finish:

4:59- I scurry into the gym a minute before tip off. As I take a seat I noticed the evening’s officials simultaneously removing their matching OHSAA jackets and engaging in a brief period of uncoordinated calisthenics. Two things about this strike me:

1.     It is literally sunny and 65 degrees outside and at or above room temperature in the gym, so the refs needed jackets about as much as Billy Mays needed a microphone.

2.     This is preseason for the officials as well. They aren’t joking around. I’ll keep an eye on them from here on out.

5:00- The public address announcer halts tip off because we are waiting for “Randy.” Unless there is supposed to be an “i” on the end of that, and it’s a girl on one of the teams, I don’t see the need.

5:02- And we’re off. Trimble vs. Alexander. Trimble takes the tip and sinks a mid range jump shot. Dick Cheney? More like Annie Oakley.

5:05- We are a few minutes into this one, and I have heard no audible cheers from the crowd.

5:06- The first audible cheer I hear coming from a few feet away is, and I quote, “Kill that girl!” That might be a little heavy, especially for preseason. I begin to fear for my personal security.

5:07- Trimble hits their second three pointer of the game. Scoreless Alexander empties its entire bench. The only thing uglier than a basketball team playing its first exhibition game is a basketball team’s reserves playing its first exhibition game.

5:10- Alexander is down 9-0. The Trimble zone is eating at Alexander Coach Denton Guthrie. The imminent threat of the woman that yelled “Kill that girl!” is still eating at me.

5:12- The referees’ motions are crisp, unwarranted, and theatrical. At least someone is in midseason form.

5:13- Alexander lights up the scoreboard with a single made free throw with just over a minute remaining in the first of two quarters.

5:17- The first quarter tragically withers away with Trimble leading 13-1.

5:18 – While both teams strategize in their respective huddle the far side referee repeatedly murmurs “white ball” as if someone is listening to him.

5:18:30- I realize that, sadly, I am listening to him.

5:19- Perhaps struggling with transition from soccer season, a Trimble girl deliberately kicks the ball out of an opponent’s hand. I survey my surroundings hoping to make socially awkward eye contact with a fellow spectator and possibly even slightly raise my eyebrows in disapproval, but everyone seems to have just simply looked past the kick.

5:20- While looking for their first field goal of the game, an Alexander shot gets swatted like a domestic housefly.

5:22- Baffled by the Trimble zone, the Alexander point guard passes the ball to the back wall. It respectfully returns it.

5:23- The official assertively swings his elbow through a charging call. Phenomenal form.

5:25- Alexander has its first field goal………………midway through the second quarter.

5:32- While a Spartan is at the line shooting free throws, a Trimble girl trips over what appears to be nothing and falls flat on her back. As she gets up she is greeted with the loudest ovation of the night.

5:33- The girl’s face is beat red. This could be one of two things, I cheerfully conclude:

1.     1. The fluorescent lighting in the gym is emitting harmful UV rays, and she has acquired unnaturally quick sunburn.

2.     2. She’s simply embarrassed.

I’m stumped.

5:35- The ref playfully banters with a fan. If I were a ref I would stay as neutral as Switzerland.

5:39- Trimble wins 23-16. An inspirational mix of techno and rock serves as our interlude between games.

5:40- A fresh batch of jacket-clad referees saunter onto the court to officiate the second game. I guess in the preseason ref’s can only go half the game as well.

5:42- I use the lavatory.  The automatic sink sprays off my hands and into my face.

5:45- A woman enters the gym clutching a polka dot pillow.

5:46- The woman with the pillow exits the gym. All speculation regarding a conference-wide postgame slumber party abruptly ends.

5:48- Still mindful of my personal security I make the executive decision to stand in the vicinity of the event cop.

5:54- Belpre and Nelsonville York are locked up at 2 early. The refs look sluggish.

5:57- Federal Hocking coach Joe Butcher uncomfortably converses with a coach from Southern.

5:58- Conversation pauses.

5:59- After a painstaking minute, Butcher offers a relevant and witty conversation starter, and it resumes.

6:01- Nelsonville York coach Amanda Dalton calls a rare preseason timeout.

6:09- At the end of the first quarter, it is 9-7 Buckeyes. It has been a physical, scrappy game. The cop beside me has received about forty high fives.

6:10- 41. I’m now officially jealous.

6:18- After a couple Maria Martinez baskets, I decide to take a break from basketball and go outside for fresh air.

6:19- The first thing I encounter upon walking outside is a team of middle school girls playing basketball.

6:23- Back inside the gym, I partake in introductory small talk with a recent graduate of Alexander high school.

6:25- As my newly attained friend exits he initiates a mutual high five. Take that officer.

6:34- As I stand awkwardly in the middle of a conversation between two Federal Hocking coaches, the buckeyes ice the game at the free throw line winning 26-22.

6:36 - I decide that the real winners of the evening were the astute officials of the first game and the law enforcement agent that was more popular than a pot of coffee at an overnight pharmacy.

6:39- Thankfully unscathed and understandably indifferent, I depart Alexander.

Gridiron Glory West Muskingum Column

As time waned away in West Muskingum’s first round playoff loss Friday night, tears were rampant on the home sideline. What had been an utterly magical season was coming to an abrupt halt, and it was the end of an era for Tornado football. This is precisely why, amidst a slew of sobs, I did not expect to see a smile from anyone wearing blue with a futile minute left on the clock. In fact the scene was so morose (and rightfully so), that I considered stopping at Walmart on the way home and staring at the “rollback man” on the savings racks just to cheer myself up.

Todd Rhinehart has played football since the fifth grade. He has grown up in the West Muskingum system and maintained a close relationship with all the team’s seniors. The tight-knit group has a lot in common on and off the field, but there has been one glaring difference between Todd and many of his teammates—playing time.

Todd has participated in the same rigorous offseason workouts and brought an indelible work ethic to daily practices just like the rest of his teammates. The opportunities for his work to culminate on the grandest stage in high school sports have been minimal. While guys like Cade McCullough can hardly read a newspaper without finding their names, Rhinehart would be happy just to find his in the program.

Rhinehart spent his underclass years on the teams JV squad where he was as expendable as the Euro. “I played anywhere they wanted me to,” Rhinehart explained. He played everywhere from cornerback to quarterback and never thought twice about it. When his senior year rolled around, it became clear to him that he would see very limited action.

When he told me this, my mind instantly reverted to quitting. If I knew I had no chance of starting, I thought, I’d be out like than Sarah Palin in Alaska. I’d be gone like Richard Nixon after Watergate. I’d hit the road like Paula Abdul with a 30% raise.

That’s not what Todd Rhinehart is made of though. When some people hear that they immediately think: ‘replacement’ or ‘towel waiver’ or ‘benchwarmer.’ Todd Rhinehart thought: competitor, contributor, and champion.

I briefly inquired as to why he didn’t just hang up the spikes. He asserted that he knew the team was going to be special and he had to be a part of it. As we continued to converse he proclaimed, “I knew I wasn’t the best player on the team, but I knew I was on it (the team) for a reason whether for moral support or for making plays.”

Moral support? I thought. Cheerleaders give moral support.

He was ecstatic that his team made the playoffs and only heightened his commitment in week eleven practices. He epitomized diligence as he played on the scout team to give his team the best look possible for Friday night’s game. He knew it wasn’t likely that he would be called on Friday night, so he went out of his way to do his part during the week.

When Friday night came around, he found himself in a familiar place—the sideline. He was overwhelmed with various emotions throughout a raucous first half that found his team down three touchdowns after two quarters of unbridled scoring. As the fourth quarter winded down, he began crying the same tears as his teammates. These were the last moments he would spend with them as his quiet high school football career was coming to a dreary end.

Down 55-27, head coach Paul Perry inserted Rhinehart into the game for their final drive. It was an honorable gesture, but Rhinehart still found himself preoccupied with the heartache of the moment. The Tornadoes drove down the field easily and pulled star running back Cade McCullough in favor of senior starting linebacker Dakota Gutridge at the goal line. Gutridge would eventually plunge into the end zone from a yard out. Rhinehart watched from the slot with genuine appreciation for the moment that his senior teammate got his first high school touchdown, but sadness still overcame him.

It was when Rhinehart began jogging off the field that he realized they were going to attempt a two-point conversion. In the huddle, senior quarterback Austin Brock, a close friend of Rhinehart, instructed him to cut to the inside on the snap and informed him that he would throw the ball to him. Eight years of football. Gallons of sweat. No glory. Rhinehart had always dreamed of having a varsity catch. His team had always dreamed of making the playoffs. It was almost too perfect.

Rhinehart waited tensely as it seemed like it took hours for Brock to go through the snap count. The ball was snapped. He cut sharply behind the linebacker. Brock rocketed a pass right to Rhinehart’s chest. He grasped it and held tightly. A group of his senior teammates congregated around him, and for a brief, bittersweet moment he let out an authentic smile.

He later told me that the smile barely came out. He was still crushed for his team’s loss and focused on finishing the game strong.

Most people wouldn’t even think of the team in that situation. Most people would be smiling like a four year old at a Tickle Me Elmo factory. Most people would look happier than Barney after Botox.

Not Rhinehart. He stuck with football for the team, and the team was all he thought about.

So, Todd Rhinehart laid his body on the line day in and day out through four years of high school football. He watched encouragingly from the sideline as his friends led West Muskingum to a dream season. He worked tirelessly in practice to ensure the starters would be prepared for Friday nights. And in the last possible moment of his high school career, he made every ounce of work he put in come full circle.

Ha, I’d like to see a cheerleader do that.

Taste of the Town N-Ville York

I took my ingestive itinerary to Nelsonville Friday night to enjoy the Buckeye’s Senior Night festivities. I ambled up to the concession stand a full hour before kickoff and was astonished at its surroundings. The stand was cramped between the souvenir t-shirt shop and the Dippin’ Dots stand. I casually inspected the premises to see if the Garmin had accidentally steered me to Cedar Point or if I had simply ended up at the amusement park that Southeast Ohio doesn’t have. It was then that I realized that Nelsonville York was selling Dippin’ Dots and souvenirs at a division five high school football game, and no one was laughing about it.

Perplexed to find out that the elaborate vending setting was indeed not a joke, I turned my attention to the concession stand. What I walked in on would in some circles be considered sheer pandemonium. Band parents were hustling around fervently with an underlying diligence in preparing the night’s entrees. As I stood dumbfounded in the middle, I realized I was interrupting the flow of preparation. I proceeded to attempt to find a place where I would be out of the line of fire. I tried the front window and almost got leveled by a plate of nachos. I tried the back door by the grill and almost joined the hot dogs on the grill. I tried the corner of the storage room next to the reserve microwave and almost got jolted by a wayward elbow. It was impossible. I was like a middle-aged man at Macy’s on Black Friday. I was like an Enron executive at the New York Stock Exchange. I was like Kanye West at the VMAs. I was just in the way.

I managed to find the head of the stand, Angie Thompson, and she informed me that it would be a while until my food would be ready. So, I was at a stand still until I noticed that I didn’t fit in. I was the only person in the entire room not wearing tremendously practical and dreadfully unattractive plastic gloves. Obviously, I reached into the box and put on a pair. I was like a chameleon. I was finally fitting in. Four hours before October 31^st, I had discovered the most realistic Halloween costume. Just as I was championing my disguise, I was abruptly informed that my concealment had failed. I may have fit in physically, but I stuck out more than I had before. It was because I wasn’t working. Of course, Thompson put me to work. I was legitimately excited to lend a hand.

Apparently in the concession world you start at the bottom and work your way to the top because my task was unforgiving. I was given an onion. I was given a knife. What started as enticing took a turn toward dicing and it was not a pretty scene. I was bawling. The onion was Dr. Phil, and I was a broken relationship between two weathered workaholics. The onion was an Oscar, and I was Halle Berry. The onion was Katherine Heigl in 27 Dresses, and I was, well, myself.

By some miracle I got through it. There was a collective puddle below me. I was half an onion away from having to install a sump pump in the concession stand. I was a few slices away from taking in every animal two by two. It got so wet at one point that I took precautionary measures and called FEMA. They should be in Nelsonville in about four months.

After extensive recovery procedures, I was rewarded with an opportunity to eat:

Buckeyes- Their mascot is a buckeye so this was a fitting treat. They were provided in milk and white chocolate. Got to love diversity.

Hamburger- I ate this American classic like it was my job. In fact, this Friday night it was my job.

Bratwurst- I cremated the bratwurst. I was sitting in the back corner of the storage room hanging out with my friend from earlier (the reserve microwave) and ate this in about 30 seconds. The microwave congratulated me by doing absolutely nothing.

Sloppy Joe- A local favorite. It came in a frozen hunk and took forever to cook in the crock-pot. After I was done weeping from the onion, I actually did a considerable amount of work to prepare the sloppy joe. I also did a considerable amount of work to eat it.

After my marathon of eating, the fabulous people of Nelsonville were gracious enough to provide me with a bottle of water. And I was clumsy enough to spill it all over my shorts. That’s right. Whether I was mentally affected by everything I had eaten or simply still suffering from the onion slicing, I made a fool of myself. I looked like an untrained toddler who forgot to put on his pull-ups. I was Nelsonville’s unofficial Huggies representative. It looked like I had defied the depths of domestication. As I scurried out of Nelsonville, I drew an array of inquisitive looks. I am now likely known around town as the resident twenty-year-old who still isn’t housebroken.

It is tough to match the excitement that surrounded Senior Night in Nelsonville. It is even tougher to match the excitement of Senior Night in the concession stand. I ate an insane amount of food, got put to work, and even got choked up a little bit. So, from souvenirs to onion tears Nelsonville gave me a good taste of the spirit of Friday night.

Taste of the Town Sheridan and a little bit more Fed Hock

With another grueling week of high school football on tap, I departed on a rigorous ruminative rendezvous to Sheridan. It was there that I found myself standing mundanely and glaring at the concession stand’s menu. I have shaken a few eight balls, read my fair share of horoscopes, and even peaked at the lines on my palm before. But when I was posted up in front of the stand, I realized I have never been able to simply read an accurate account of my fate. Of course it just laid out the available foods accompanied with their respective prices, but I, in all my delirium, saw it a little differently. At first glance, this is honestly what I read (or what I thought I did):

Dear Robert Guliano,

You will try our three best dishes and love them. They will linger on your tongue and leave you in a temporary and unrivaled state of bliss. Later, you’re stomach will begin releasing bizarre noises that are complemented by an assortment of irregular bodily dysfunctions including but not limited to: irregular heartbeat, irregular body temperature, and irregular behavior in standard social settings. Also, your next three meals will consist of a generous helping of Pepcid Complete with a side of Tums washed down with a refreshing Alka Seltzer littered glass of water. Just thought I’d run that by you, big guy.

Regards,

Life

Naturally, I started reevaluating my basic outlook on life and genuinely revising my purpose in the world. Just as I was finalizing my elaborate escape plan, I was summoned by a jovial group of volunteer concession workers. I was introduced to the head of concessions, Nancy Fox. She gave me a generic synopsis of the operations and had three fabulous foods in front of me within five minutes. I could tell already that we were going to get along well.

Shredded Chicken Sandwich- I’m in college. I don’t just get homemade food. I have been living off Apple Jacks and Spaghettios for two months. Real food doesn’t exist to me. My stomach has a periodic table of preservatives in it. So, this was outstanding. It lasted all of 20 seconds.

Ribeye Sandwich- If there is one thing I see less than homemade food it’s steak. It was so tender it melted in my mouth. If only it could melt in my stomach.

Nachos and Meat- I’ve become somewhat of an authority on concession stand nachos over the past few weeks.

FUN FACT #1: 3 out of my last 4 Taste of the Town trips have served me nachos.

FUN FACT #2: 3 out of those 3 times I have experienced inchestinal discomfort (a word I recently developed to explain the anguish and uneasiness I experience from my heart down to my stomach before, during, and after eating and/or being associated with someone eating nachos).

These ones had sloppy Joe meat on them. This combated the spicy nature of nachos and created a sweet variation of this marvelous treat.

I learned two valuable lessons from my trip to Sheridan.

1.     1. Eighteen inches. That is approximately what separates my brain from my stomach. However, when it comes to their functional rationale they are miles away. My brain thinks my stomach is a black hole. My stomach thinks my brain is an idiot.

2.     2.  The people I met were tremendous. When I go to these games I am a nobody. I’m as popular as Tom Cruise at the Vatican. My best friend is a microphone. I’m a sycamore fig tree away from being a modern day Zacchaeus the tax collector. So, the fact that these people take me in and feed me says a lot. Fox and I legitimately developed a friendship. She even introduced me to her daughter, who actually engaged in nonchalant banter about concession food with me. I felt at home.

As I meandered around the stand aimlessly reflecting on my consumption, a few ladies offered me some popcorn. I accepted with minimal hesitation. The popcorn was good, but the way they gave it to me was hilarious. They had me hold out two hands and dumped a meager portion into them. I felt like Oliver Twist. Not only did this show a general disregard for my dignity, it showed a disregard for my safety as well. The popcorn was scalding hot. Instantly, I suffered minor lacerations in my hand. The ladies were good about it though. We shared several laughs over the incident, and they apologized and gave me a whole box of popcorn. My hands hurt so bad that I couldn’t hold it.

I packed up and left, but the adventure wasn’t done yet. When I visited Federal Hocking in week 8, they invited me back for a special dish in week 9. I had a full stomach, but I still decided to go because I’m insane. The special dish was chili. Nothing solidifies the notion that my stomach hates my brain like chili. It was homemade and excellent. It had pinto beans, black beans, navy beans, kidney beans, and everything short of Mr. Beans.

Whether it was through laughing with the ladies of Sheridan’s concession stand, meeting Nancy Fox’s family, or being invited back to Fed Hock for more homemade food, I would have to be blind not to have seen the spirit of Friday night.

 

 

Taste Of The Town Federal Hocking

With my torso bellowing, I took off on another of my infamous esophageal excursions through the Gridiron Glory coverage area. I found myself in the heart of Stewart, Ohio at Federal Hocking’s week seven clash against Trimble. For some ungodly reason, I felt like a super hero.

            It may seem and/or be exceptionally unreasonable, but it still managed to dominate my thoughts and actions Friday leading up to my Taste of the Town trip. I developed a brief list of stark parallels between my caloric contingencies and the exhilarating adventures of your generic superhero. When called to duty, superheroes put on capes. I put on a wrinkled, black long sleeve tee. Superheroes have technologically superlative transportation devices. I have my operative rear wheel drive Buick LeSabre. Superheroes have ardent and cunning sidekicks. I have a durable and perverse appetite. The only place we really differ is our reason. Superheroes fight for a noble and redeeming cause. I fight for a pompous and ravenous meal.

            Armed with a growing misconception of my fundamental role in society, I arrived in Federal Hocking to a civilian’s welcoming. I instantly eyed the concession stand inside. Little to my knowledge I would not only be leaving the stadium with a full stomach but would enter with one as well.

            I was in the midst of ambling up to the ticket booth when I spotted a substantial assembly of perceptible loiterers hovering around the tailgate of a red pickup truck. As Gridiron Glory’s resident food expert, I sensed that this gathering involved a meal. Tossing my amateur status aside, I detoured abruptly over to the truck. I found a man. I found a grill. I found food. The story of the group was straightforward but cutting-edge. It was a peaceful pregame amalgamation of football parents. Each family contributed a dish, and they merged two of the most influential factors in my nutrient dependent life: tailgating and a potluck. A mere twenty feet from the truck was a table occupied with main dishes, side dishes, desserts, and assorted plastic cutlery. I felt like a pilgrim at the first Thanksgiving. I mumbled a few inarticulate sentences proclaiming everything I was thankful for and started eating like I was in Plymouth in 1621.

Potato Medley- I’m 25% Irish. Let’s just say there was no famine in Federal Hocking Friday night.

Macaroni Salad- A smorgasbord of macaroni, dressing, ham, shredded cheese, and likely a few other undisclosed items. I wouldn’t write home about it. Maybe call. Definitely not write.

Goat Milk Fudge- The moment I saw the word goat I was alarmed. I am generally uncomfortable with the notion that my milk is derived from a cow let alone a goat. In fact, I am unaware of how one would acquire “goat milk.” I must have missed that aisle on my last trip to Kroger. When I began eating it, however, I was made extremely comfortable. It was sensational.

Butterscotch Dessert Apparatus- It had marshmallow, caramel, chocolate, and butterscotch. It was an overwhelming sensation. I also got to taste it about five hours later because most of my slice stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Pumpkin Roll- It was a seasonal favorite. I felt like I was a participant of the autumn period. You could be a scarecrow wearing flannel while mindlessly assembling a cornucopia and sipping lightly on apple cider and you still wouldn’t be as festive as I was.

Jalapeno Sausage with Hot Garlic Butter Sauce- There’s the magic word again: jalapeno. It benched me in Ironton. It parked me in Trimble. And it would bury me in Fed Hock.

Pumpkin Roll- In the spirit of the season, I had another.

 

And THEN, I went to the concession stand.

Nachos Supreme- Ground Beef+cheese+nachos+salsa-self respect= a stomachache.

Breadsticks- From the cold weather, I lost feeling in my extremities. From the food, I lost feeling in my mid section. After a few rounds with the breadsticks, I effectively lost feeling in my taste buds.

Hot Chocolate- Don’t ask me how it tasted.

I came into Federal Hocking with a superhero’s mentality. I left marred by my massive mastication. I stumbled upon new ground nonetheless. In a late season conference game for their kid’s faltering football squad, the parents of Fed Hock’s players still relish the fellowship of high school football. That is precisely how they showed me the spirit of Friday night.

 

Taste of the Town: Jackson, Ohio

My digestive digression continued Friday night as I traveled to Alumni Stadium in Jackson in pursuit of further fantastic football foods. I was instantly besieged with a sense of vast discouragement. It had been raining all day and was still persistently precipitating as I pulled up to the stadium. How would I be able to enjoy the food if I was stranded in the pouring down rain? I would be wetter than Michael Phelps in Beijing. I would be wetter than an earthworm in Seattle. I would be wetter than a bootlegger in the 1920’s. I would be wetter than R. Kelly’s sheets.

 I finally had to decide to dig deep. After all if I wanted to emerge as one of the premier eaters in Southeast Ohio, I would have to learn to overcome adversity. In a wave of good fortune, I discovered a tent located outside the stadium that appeared to contain some variation of a cooking device. I keenly approached the tent and was greeted by three diligent gentlemen and four intimidating deep fryers. Yes, it was that time of the week again. It was the time where my colon shudders in fear. It was the time my arteries begin voluntarily clogging in anticipation of what they are about to be exposed to. It was the time where I swallow my dignity and make a public spectacle of myself as I ravage through an assortment of unhealthful cuisine.

I spent an hour shooting the breeze with concession cookers Jerry Post and Steve Lorbach. Post and Lorbach seemed to have it made at their station. They were surrounded by good food, blaring old-fashioned rock-n-roll on a nearby stereo, and raving about Jackson’s 6-0 record. As I was bobbing my head to Springsteen’s “Glory Days,” I was introduced to a man named Dave Delay. Delay was wearing a wrinkled blue apron with his nickname embroidered on the front. His nickname is derived from the main dish that he prepares Friday nights for Jackson fans. I fully expected the nickname to be “Steak Man” or “Chicken Man” or even “Pork Man.” But contrary to my stubborn speculation, Dave Delay is frequently referred to as “Veal Man.”

 Yes, you read it correctly, veal. I just couldn’t get my mind across the concept of veal. I get a certain feeling about me when I eat meat. The meat I’m eating becomes an unwarranted determinant of my personality and self-image. When I’m in front of a steak I feel brute and manly. I often envision myself gritting my teeth, chopping down trees, and trimming a mane of chest hair. When I eat fish or chicken I feel elegant and classy. I see myself as an esteemed philanthropist, a charismatic businessman, and, at times, a mannerly 18th century duchess. However, as I stood in front of veal I felt wildly irrelevant and moderately monotonous. I envisioned myself crocheting scarves, regularly viewing C-SPAN, and examining ant colonies. It was new territory for me. Nevertheless, I started to eat.

Deep Fried Jackson County Veal Sandwich- This was a massive slice of veal teetering helplessly on a bun that fell dreadfully short of accommodating the meat. I plowed through the sandwich mindlessly. The breading was outstanding. I had gone from generally uncomfortable and passively unstable to mysteriously confident and undoubtedly nourished. I regretted ever harboring negative thoughts about veal. It had won me over. In fact, by the time I finished the sandwich (which was a very swift process) I had developed what I perceived to be the initial stages of an intimate relationship with veal.

EATING TIP- Put ketchup and pickles on it. I would highly recommend you eat this with your eyes close. It simply enhances the bliss.

Pizza- It was gone in 20 seconds. I actually don’t really recall tasting it. I’m sure it was good. Ultimately, it is pizza.

EATING TIP- Show no regard for your surroundings. Devour it. Pizza is amazing. You have every right to just demolish it.

Pizza Rolls- These were your typical snack-like pizza rolls. They did have a twist, though. Instead of the conventional oven baking, they just toss them in the deep fryer. This was awesome for my taste buds but devastating for my esophagus. I methodically finished these off in well under a minute.

EATING TIP- If you need guidance in eating pizza rolls, seek immediate psychological assistance.

Deep Fried Jackson County Veal Sandwich- It was so good I had to have it twice. Only this time there were upward to twelve people watching me put the sandwich away. I felt like Tiger woods on the first tee. I had a following, a gallery. Periodically, I would hear a cheer. People were in awe. You would have thought it was the penguin feeding at your local zoo. The “Veal Man” stood alongside me and offered a running commentary of my excursion. For the couple minutes I was eating that sandwich, I sensed an extraordinary time of fellowship around me. It was almost as if there was a collective bond over my improper eating habits. It was a genuine moment.

In the end, the “Veal Man” lauded me. He constantly exclaimed that I was a professional, and I started to believe it. I had separated myself from other eaters. For that short amount of time, I was the king of consumption. I was the duke of digestion. I was the emperor of eating. I was the chairman of chewing. I was the sultan of swallowing. I was the monarch of munching.  I was the god of gorging. And most importantly I was the viceroy of veal.

From jamming to ‘80s rock under the tent to feasting on fried veal sandwiches, I had been associated with some of the biggest traditions in Jackson. Lorbach, Post, and the “Veal Man” truly showed me a good time at Alumni Stadium, and you can bet your bottom dollar that they also showed me the spirit of Friday night.

TASTE OF THE TOWN NUMBER 3

Friday night it was time again to continue my coronary cruise through the concession stands of Southeast Ohio. Assignment number three would be a trip to Glouster Stadium for Trimble’s homecoming game against Eastern. The playing field was blanketed with an eerie evening fog, and my arteries would soon be blanketed with an eerie chain of fatty acids.

I sauntered up to the band concession stand which was a diminutive trailer sitting to the left of the visitor side of the stands. I promptly peaked in the concession stand and was met with a sight that turned my heart upside down. It was my opponent, a daunting row of six deep fryers that were merely taunting me with their unyielding heat and bubbling oil. My Friday night expeditions have gone from an innocent, mindless consumption to a rigorous, gruesome battle. It is my indelible intestines, consistent colon, and adamant arteries squaring off against spiteful saturated fats, cruel calories, and ferocious fibers. So, I found myself face to face with my newest foe. It was the pregame handshake. It was the coin toss. It was game time.

I teamed up with Gary and Laverne Humphrey as well as Angie Strock. The Humphrey’s, a happily married pair, and Strock take their concession role seriously, and well they should. After school funding was cut from their children’s band program, the now extracurricular band is funded by their concession stand and their concession stand only. The Humphrey’s daughter directs the band, so they know just how crucial the sales of the stand is. In a candid conversation about how passionate the people of the concession stand were about carrying the financial burden of the band (which includes funding trips to away games), Gary Humphrey told me exactly why they need to keep the band afloat, “Music is something you can do you’re entire life.”

While the words of Humphrey were compelling and true, I quickly realized that touring high school football stadiums and devouring their fan’s favorite foods isn’t something you can do you’re entire life. The talk was over. It was time to eat:

Chili Cheese Fries- This was a hefty half-pound plate of French fries doused with nacho cheese and warm chili. I had heartburn just looking at it. Gary had advised me to take this one on with my hands and finish it with a fork. I proceeded accordingly. Shockingly, this dish had little to no immediate detriments when it came to my digestive tract. I began to fantasize possibilities that I had finally defied the odds of indigestion. Perhaps, I had developed iron intestines, a steel stomach, and a copper colon. For that blissful moment of wishful thinking, I was invincible, a statue of a man. It was after I finally attempted to breathe at the end of the dish that I realized the reason my system felt so unconquerable. All I had just eaten, had not reached my GI tract yet. It was simply lodged in my already ailing chest. It wouldn’t be until my next dish began occupying this region that it would push through my system and render my seemingly untouchable system helplessly fragile.

CHILI CHEESE FRY EATING TIP- Try to consume this one inside or in close proximity to a shower. There is no neat way to eat these. I looked like a four year old eating a rack of ribs. It was embarrassing.

Jalapeno Poppers- There was the magic word again, jalapenos. Obviously, I was overwhelmed with a rush of nervousness. I was sweating like John Rocker in Times Square. I just plowed through these ones. They tasted phenomenal.

FUN FACT: There is cheese in jalapeno poppers. This was a pleasant surprise for my throat, but an unpleasant surprise for my dignity. It took away from the spiciness, but it added yet another splash of cheese to dump into my system.

Mozzarella Sticks- As if I hadn’t already had enough cheese, I was presented with these. And they were fantastic. In fact, next time you go to a football game get these. It’s an incredible combination. If your concession stand doesn’t have them, it may even be a marketable idea to order them as take out at your local steakhouse and bring them to the game with you. Okay, maybe that’s a little extreme, but the point is they’re good, real good.

The grub guzzling was over, and I, once again, had several clinical symptoms. The most notable of these was my body temperature. I was inordinately cold. I was colder than Walt Disney. I was colder than Napoleon in Russia. As I waddled out of the stadium, I was a documentary film crew away from March of the Penguins. There was no explaining it. I began eating at a comfortable body temperature, and I ended my meal chilled to the bone.

Friday night I realized just how crazy my voyages have been. They get more enjoyable and subsequently more dangerous each time. My immense indulgences are as dangerous as hunting with Dick Cheney but as enjoyable as New Year’s with Dick Clark. After a weekend of repeatedly reading Dan Marino Nutri-System testimonials, I realized that each time I travel to a concession stand on Friday night I walk away humbled. I walk away not humbled by my ever expanding mid-section but by the people I meet. The dedication of Angie Strock, the Humphrey’s, and all the other workers of the stand to keep their beloved band alive had once again shown me the spirit of Friday night.

 

A Special Top Five!

 

Prominent public figures with Chicago roots (Barack and Michelle Obama and Oprah Winfrey) made a trip to Copenhagen to lobby for their hometown to host the 2016 Summer Olympics. In the build up to their trip, there was a bit of a controversy about another emblematic Chicago figure's refusal to go. This figure was championship athlete and tow-time Olympic gold medalist Michael Jordan. Jordan, who has been under recent scrutiny for a narrow-minded Hall of Fame acceptance speech, refused to tag along on the trip to sell Chicago to the highly critical Olympic Committee.

In light of this, I decided to create a list of alternative Chicago athletes that could have been sent to Copenhagen. Here are the Top 5 athletes that Chicago was wise NOT to send in front of the Olympic Committee:

5. Cedric Benson- Benson used to be the feature running back for the Chicago Bears. His lofty resume includes a DUI and a BUI (Boating Under the Influence). The unique thing about these instances is that they occurred in the same offseason. I would just hope he wouldn't try to fly himself to Copenhagen, or we could be looking at the first misdemeanor hat trick in Chicago sports history.

4. Lou Piniella- "Sweet Lou" is the animated manager of the wayward Cubs. Piniella is notorious for his abusive and oppressive treatments of umpires. He often resorts to catapulting bases, kicking dirt, and engaging in saliva discharging arguments with no regard for the umpire's or his own personal space. I would just hate to see what would happen if he was in attendance for a decision that doesn't go Chicago's way.

3. Dennis Rodman- Rodman was a versatile defender and extraordinary rebounder. His hustle play and no holds bar approach to the game of basketball truly captured the Olympic spirit. If his several body piercings, an intoxicated marriage with an American sex goddess, and the on-court assault of an innocent camera man captured that same spirit, Rodman would be the perfect man to send.

2. Rex Grossman- Grossman was the quarterback of a Bear's team that made it all the way to the Super Bowl. However, something tells me that when trying to sell Chicago to the Olympic Committee he'd find a way to "drop the ball."

1. Steve Bartman- I think he's done enough damage in the Windy City.

Gridiron Glory Taste of the Town Round Two

Another Friday arrived and I knew what was in store. As Gridiron Glory’s resident food expert, it was time to depart on another pancreatic pursuit to discover the tastiest tailgate treats in Southeast Ohio. This week’s assignment was a quest to “The Tank” in Ironton where the Tigers took on SEOAL powerhouse Logan.

            I began the day with an open mind. I finished the day with a closed stomach. I began the day at a comfortable body temperature. I finished the day in a cold sweat. I began the day with a general disregard for my personal well-being. I finished the day with a two-year subscription to Men’s Health. Needless to say, it was a successful trip.

            Naturally, when I arrived I sniffed out the concession stand. I went around to the back and assertively asked for an interview and sampling of their unique foods. The reaction I got was startling. My inquiry was met with laughter. The workers of the Band Booster concession stand harmoniously cackled. I briefly surveyed the area to see if Dane Cook or Will Ferrell were behind me telling jokes. It was at this time that I realized that they were laughing at my ambitious request. For a painstaking moment I felt about as awkward as Kim Jong-Il in front of the U.N. Security Council. Finally, the lively concession workers warmed up to me and offered a few of their most distinct dishes.

            Band Booster president Dru Pack was agonizingly short of shy about her intentions. She jokingly (I think) told me that if I didn’t like her food there would be consequences to pay. She proceeded to briefly outline the consequences, but I did not understand what she was saying because my thoughts were drowned in fear of my personal security. From her facial expressions and gestures I gathered that it would be a morally debatable form of corporal punishment that would require me to seek urgent counseling and vigorous physical rehabilitation. Little did I know, liking her food would not be an issue.

So, feeling about as safe as a share of K-Mart stock, I moved on to the eating.  Dru had four treats for me to try:

Hot Dog doused in Nacho Cheese- This one is pretty self explanatory. Your everyday hot dog just smothered in rich nacho cheese. This one is a fan favorite at Ironton. And I’ll tell you first hand it definitely isn’t an intestine favorite. Nevertheless, I absolutely parked it and enjoyed every bite.

Tiger in a Bag- This is Ironton’s version of a walking taco. It is taco meat, jalapenos, lettuce, tomatoes, Fritos, and sour cream all stuffed into a Frito bag.. This was outstanding. It also benched me. After I took a hearty bite of it, Dru cordially informed me that she thought it would be cute to sneak an inordinate amount of jalapeno sauce in it. I had heard of slipping drugs or laxatives in drinks as a practical (well, not very practical) joke. I had even heard of putting a small child’s pill in one of their favorite foods to get them to take it. But sneaking jalapeno sauce in my Frito bag? This was unprecedented. My larynx was trembling. My large intestine was quivering. My colon was shuddering. I instantly lost all fundamental feeling and sensation in the majority of my respiratory organs.

Sauce on a Bun- Still not over the jalapeno massacre, I pressed on to what Dru called the “redneck sloppy joe.” It was a unique sauce and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

GASTROINTESTINAL UPDATE: Remember earlier in the story when I was concerned for my personal safety? At this point my vital organs were concerned for their personal safety.

Pickle on a Stick- What a phenomenal idea. After indulging in an assortment of heavy and spicy foods, this pickle was a refreshing change of pace. We aren’t talking about your little dainty Vlasic pickles that you sprinkle on your hamburger either. These are monstrosities. These are juicy. These are crisp. These are delicious.

            I had eaten all these foods in less than three minutes. The rest of my Friday night was bittersweet. The extraordinary taste of the evening’s treats lingered on my tongue for hours. However, the extraordinary contents of what I ate lingered in my G.I. tract. On Friday nights in Athens many students can be found chugging beers. This Friday I could be found chugging Pepto Bismol. My trip to Ironton was overall rewarding. After joking around with Dru Pack and watching a rowdy group of band parents truly enjoy serving their community, I had realized that through their unbelievable cuisine and incredible attitude the Ironton band parent’s have embraced the spirit of Friday night.