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.