There are many reasons why I hate college football. The 4-hour games drone on longer than Steve Lyons during the American League playoffs. The ever-expanding season threatens to creep into early July. Boise, Idaho, hosts a bowl game. And it's played on blue artificial turf.
I was a classic attention deficit disorder kid, always bored and mouthing off at school.
Lance Armstrong has a 17th-century, 15-foot Spanish fresco of the crucifixion hanging on the wall of his Austin mansion. This doesn't mean - and some of you Armstrong acolytes might want to sit down for this - that Lance is Jesus.
James Salter has been a fighter pilot, a rogue, and a climber. He counts Robert Redford as a friend.
The everybody-loves-Jeff Bridges home base is, of course, 'The Big Lebowski.'
Some historians trace the start of the War on Terror to November 4, 1979, the day the hostages were taken in Tehran.
A colleague once nicknamed me - half mocking - the 'magical stranger' because I get people to tell me things.
The only reason baseball's numerical touchstones have any significance is that most players - even the game's greats - peter out just barely before they reach them.
Occasionally, a young catcher is born with a backup's soul. Bob Montgomery was on the Red Sox opening day roster for the entire 1970s, yet he never had more than 254 at-bats in a season.
Think about it: You're trying to raise cash to save an endangered animal. You've got orphaned pandas getting 3 trillion YouTube hits, and you've got seals being clubbed over the head by roughnecks. The money flows in. But what about the poor shark?
All backups take their cue from Elrod Hendricks, the patron saint of erstwhile catchers.
The Smithsonian should box and preserve Tim McGraw's Nashville den for a future exhibit entitled 'Early 21st Century American Man Cave.'
Ever since Mike Tyson was champ, twenty-something dudes have microwaved nachos, popped opened Natty Lights, watched sharks do unspeakable things on TV, and whispered a billion 'Whoa, dudes.'
