Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Why soccer/metrics won't ever measure up in USA


When I heard this morning that USA had beaten Ghana I didn’t realize it was our national soccer team beating their national soccer team.

I thought it was Seal Team 6 and they’d conquered all of Ghana.

It’s once again time for that quadrennial event that I’ve for the last 40 years been hearing was going to make a soccer lunatic out of me.

It’s once again time for the World Cup.

I feel about soccer the same way I’ve always felt about the metric system.

People have always told me I’d grow to love it, that it was the wave of the future and that soon America would join the rest of the world in embracing it.

“I knew the metric system in America was doomed about 20 years ago when I saw a sign on the Pennsylvania Turnpike that read, ‘Metric System Measurements In Place — Next 10 Miles.’”

That’s what my friend Dave once said when I asked him if he ever thought we’d live to see metric go mainstream.

He was right. Today, the only metric measurement instantly familiar to every American has nothing to do with distance, but everything to do with soda.

It is the two-liter bottle of Coke.

And why that one caught on where all the rest have failed might have more to do with carbonation than convenience.

Has your spouse ever asked you to bring home a two-liter jug of milk? Of course not. That’s because there is no such thing. Milk is mostly sold by the gallon or the half-gallon.

But no one’s ever sold Coke by the gallon. I think that’s because the public and the soda titans labor under the quaint notion a gallon of soda might go flat if left in the fridge too long, something that won’t happen with pasteurized milk.

I believe, given our unquenchable thirsts for these carbonated poisons, these measurements might soon change. Americans of all ages love to guzzle pop.

You could soak your feet in a typical Big Gulp from down at the local convenience mart. The two-liter size could be soon obsolete.

Mark my words: in 20 years soda will in some nutrition-free pockets of America replace milk as the cereal supplement.

Burp!

This is important because unlike soccer, Americans instinctively care about soda.

It’s now safe to judge the great American soccer experiment a failure. We’ve now had four generations of Americans weaned on soccer. Every boy and every girl from ages 4 to 50 has spent at least a few recreational hours kicking a soccer ball.

And World Cup indifference is as rampant as it’s ever been.

Me and the boys at the bar spent a few minutes trying to figure out why that’s so and what could be done to make soccer more interesting to Americans.

Most of the answers involved adding violence.

“They should be allowed to check,” Bill said. “I’d watch that.”
In fact, he wouldn’t. We have a form of that that’s a niche sport ignored by the sports viewing public.

It’s called rugby.

Another guy said he’d watch more if they’d show a split screen of the riots outside the stadium or the inside brawls between rival nations.

This is a promising idea. Soccer’s hampered by near non-existent scoring. The games would be more interesting if fans of, say, Cameroon, could add points for the national team by beating the crap out of fans from maybe Uruguay. 

Soccer viewership suffers from a field that’s too big. The so-called “action” takes place over a prairie-sized field and the cameras need to be so far back it’s like you’re watching a tavern foosball game from the line to get into the men’s room. It’s microscopic.

This could be improved by either shrinking the field or blowing pieces of it to smithereens.

I said the game would be more fun to watch if each team were before the game allowed to plant six or seven land mines where they believe they could cause their opponent the most mayhem. 

As the tournament ground on the bloody fields would become progressively more damaged and the games simultaneously more entertaining. The more challenging and apocalyptic the surface, the more interesting the event becomes. It’s that way with professional golf and a typical Sunday drive along Pennsylvania’s highways.

Of course, these ideas will be ridiculed by the purists so I have a goodwill suggestion that will improve American relations around the world.

Instead of fielding our top soccer athletes — men who washed out of football, basketball, baseball, tennis, swimming, fencing and all the other sports young men play in the hopes it’ll get them laid — we should dress our fat cat CEOs who sponsor the team.

This would appeal to their massive egos and the ratings would surge because we’d all tune in to see them get creamed on the pitch or maybe have an entertaining heart attack as time wound down.

And, best of all, they’d be guaranteed to lose and that should be our paramount ambition regarding U.S. soccer.

Think about it. Today, devoted American soccer fans — and that’s about 28 folks — are rejoicing. Why? Because we beat Ghana.

Ghana! 

I sense you’re not feeling the same euphoria you felt over the 1980 “Miracle on Ice” takedown over the Evil Empire.

Do you know anything about Ghana?
Me neither so I looked it up. It’s a wonderful little nation. We should ask if it’d like to be America’s little brother — like Canada only littler.

Ghana is the world’s largest producer of cocoa. How delightful. I read that and imagined the leading ethnicity among its 24.2 million people is Oompa Loompa. 

It’s considered the 7th best-governed country in all of Africa.

Suck on that, Djbouti!

It’s such a productive and stable democracy we really should consider them next time the neo-cons demand we find another pushover to invade.

And today these humble Ghanas are all devastated, bereft, morose. All because they lost a soccer match neither you or I give a crap about.

Imagine how happy Ghanans would be today if they’d beaten us. They’d be overjoyed. They’d feel immense national pride. The streets would be running with domestic hot chocolate.

Think of the international goodwill we’d score if we let a team like Ghana beat us. 

So if America cares at all about soccer, losing should be our goal, our only goal.

And this being soccer, one goal is usually all it takes.



Related . . .





Monday, June 16, 2014

The Pond's new bartender debut: me!


Well, the Pirates have yet to lose on a night when I’m tending bar.

Coincidence? 

Perhaps. But I thought it might be helpful to let the Bucs know they have a potential slump buster out behind the bar in Latrobe.

I worked my second night in a row Friday and put up with a lot of jokes that it was only the second night I’d ever worked anywhere.

How did it go? Was I nervous? Break anything? Spill schnapps on a customer?

It went fine. The bar was full from about 6 to 11 and we all had fun. I wasn’t nervous and made no major errors.

Understand, I was pouring drinks for mostly happy drunk people and the more drinks I poured them the happier they all got. It’s a very convenient formula for a successful night. My friend Dave asked me to help him out while he looks for a new bartender. So it wasn’t exactly like I’d been thrown into the cockpit and asked to land a crowded jumbo jet on runway Three Zero Niner.

I poured a lot of beer and made a lot of idiot-proof mixed drinks whose recipes are described by their names (Rum and Coke, Gin and Tonic, etc.) Once you figure that out, the only real trick to keeping the customer happy is be snappy with the beers and with the mixed drinks always pouring a little more booze than soda in the glass.

Here’s some of the things I learned being back behind the bar:

• I am capable of being genuinely nice to people I used to prefer ignoring.

There were about 10 of them in Friday night. They’re the ones I’m referring to when I argue that little neighborhood bars like The Pond should have personal seat licenses. They just rub me the wrong way. They talk too loud or are otherwise offensive to my dainty sensibilities.

Now, I have to take care of them.

You know what? It wasn’t that bad. 

I’ve always contended I was a people person when what I really meant was I was a some people person. I liked being nice to the people I liked. Tending bar mostly means you have to be nice to everyone.

And I was. I made friends with some people I’d previously disdained.

• There are a lot of drunken reprobates living right here in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I thought I liked to drink. Man, I’m a piker compared to some of the drunks I served this weekend.

I’ll sit and sip beer and BS most of the night when I’m out and if get really blasted it’s accidental. Maybe an old friend came in or one that needed to celebrate or commiserate over shots.

It’s never once been my intention — well, not in the last 10 years — to go into a bar and get smashed out my mind, so drunk that I’d be incapacitated for the next three days.

But there were about four or five of those guys who came in last night with that very intention.

And they needed me to git ‘r done!

I was duty-bound to oblige within the sensible bounds, of course, of the bar's responsibilities regarding the law.

One guy was practically guzzling Budweisers and Yukon Jack. He told me about his job down at the specialty metal plant, his ex-wives, his multiple DUIs and the times he’s lost fights with cops.

I told him about how Budweiser and other beers with “born on” dates mean each beer has an astrological sign. For example: I told him that because Anheuser-Busch was thoughtful enough include a Feb. 12 “born on” date, it meant his beer was an Aquarius and that the two of them were very compatible.

Turns out he was compatible with a Sagittarius, a Capricorn, two Pieces, and a surprising run of four frosty Leos. He and bottled beer really got along.

Too bad, but I don’t think he remembers a word I said.

Right in the middle of my beer astrology session he stood up and lurched for the door, leaving $15 and a half-full Gemini on the bar.

When he didn’t return for 15 minutes, I asked Dave if that was routine behavior for this pedestrian. He said it was.

“He sometimes just gets up and goes for a stumble. Sometimes he comes back, sometimes he doesn’t.”

After another 15 minutes we stuffed the money in the tip jar and poured the remaining Gemini down the drain.

• I can finally open a twist-off beer bottle.

I for years have resisted this because it hurts hands more suited to typing than twisting. I use a bottle opener I keep on my key chain.

I’ve had other men make fun of me for using it, hinting only a sissy would shy away from using his hands to open a beer bottle.

They play right into my little trap.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Well, would a sissy wrestle alligators, base jump off a 108-story building or lay on a bed of nails with 50-pounds of concrete on his chest and have a circus strongman smash the stones with a sledgehammer?”

In the line of duty, I’ve done plenty of he-man stunts I’m happy to brag about if someone impugns my manhood over a failure to swiftly open a 12-ounce domestic light beer.

But I soon realized prying multiple beers on the mounted opener was inefficient, so I took to twisting. Today, my hand hurts, but I feel more like a man than I did the night before.

Hoo-ahhh …

  • With a little practice, I’ll probably be a better bartender than blogger.

This occurred to me after a Regular Joe — The Pond has seven of them and they’re all conveniently named Joe — shook my hand and said, “Look around, the place hasn’t been this jovial in years. That’s thanks to you.”

His comment alarmed me because he was very drunk on Tequila and Tonic and I feared his next move would be to kiss me and that would cause the jovial atmosphere to dissipate. But I knew what he meant.

Any new face in a place so used to routine brings a happy new dynamic. The bartender who recently left is a good friend of ours and we all miss him. But he was in a real rut. Tending bar for years and years in a place where you come to know everyone as intimately as family can wear an otherwise cheerful soul down to a sorry nub.

Dave’s planning on hiring someone who’ll be the regular bartender, but I think we’ll figure out a way to keep me in the mix and that makes me happy.

It’s a real pleasure for me to enjoy such a high-profile role in such a special little place. Some great friends came in last night to see me and at the end of the night I looked around and everything was perfect.

The Pirates won on a 13th inning home run by new rookie sensation Gregor Palanco. The weekend was off to a splendid start. Everyone was happy to be out with friends in a carefree kind of place that often has a way of making life’s many miseries seem remote.

And now I come to work in the morning upstairs above The Pond and on some nights at the end of the day I’ll be going right downstairs to work at The Pond.

If I can convince my wife to sell the house and move the family in down here I’ll never need to leave the building again.

The trick then for me, as it is for everyone, is always finding a way to make the places we’re obligated to be more playground than prison.


Related . . .





Sunday, June 15, 2014

RRS: Why Father's Day always makes me blue

Gone 10 years, I’m not feeling as blue as I did when I wrote this for Father’s Day ’11. Those are his ashes in the decoupaged wine decanter I crafted for that purposes. I love being a Dad, but I still — on this day especially — really miss being a son.


I’m not sure why Father’s Day always makes me blue.

A writer’s website asked me to compose a short piece about Father’s Day. I know I’m destined to disappoint them.

I think they’d like me to write a literary cheerleader about how much I love the day when I can bask in the affections of my daughters and how that one day keystones the central role of my existence.

I just can’t do it.

It’s odd, I know, because I egotistically believe I am the world’s most exuberant father. As evidentiary proof, I offer my sorry bank account.

It’s impossible to calculate how far behind I am professionally because of the two tiny time bandits for whom I am responsible.

I’ve written about it often and will continue to do so because I can’t forget the time when our oldest was 4 and I overheard her and her little buddies reporting what their daddies did for a living.

One said hers fixed cars. Another said her daddy built homes. The little red-haired neighbor said her dad was a dentist.

What did Josie’s daddy do?

“He plays with me.”

I remember thinking, man, that’s not going to look good on the loan applications.

That’s just what she thought I did. She never saw me doing any work and any time she’d march into my old basement office with her Barbies and her imagination I’d slam the lid on the laptop and the two of us would sail off to Fantasyland.

But I’ll have lived a life fulfilled if the aforementioned anecdote winds up in the first paragraph of my obituary.

I’m always broke, but my daughters know they are my priority. My euphoric love for them dominates my entire existence 364 days a year.

But on Father’s Day I’d rather they go with their mother to visit her father so I can be left alone.

On Father’s Day I like to think about my father.

His 2004 obituary said he was an optician. To reduce a man’s life to a petty occupation is pathetic tribute.

What did he do with his life?

He played with me.

He taught me how to play catch, ride a bicycle and swing a golf club. It was on his lap where I learned my enduring love for simple pleasures like watching a good movie or any baseball game.

He taught me the importance of family and that being a good father was more important than being a good optician, which he, indeed was.

He taught me no man is better than any other merely because of what’s in his wallet. 

It was because of watching him that I learned just how much shoestring fun this world can be and what a difference it makes if when you ask someone, “Hey, how you doing?” you actually care about the answer.

Here’s what we’d do this Father’s Day if he were still around: we’d be sitting in our homes about 50 miles apart watching the U.S. Open -- no hugs, no cakes, no cards.

We’d be calling each other every 20 minutes or so to talk about the golfers, the course and how much we were looking forward to the next time we could golf together.

Golfing with Dad was to me like church is to other people only with beer and fart jokes.

He very well might have been the most fun man who ever lived. I’ll always remember his funeral as his last and best party. It was a carnival of love. He is much missed by many.

Having him for a father is a prevailing blessing of my life.

I didn’t need Father’s Day to remind me of that. We’d didn’t need to make an appointment to see each other for just one day a year when the people who make greeting cards say we should.

So please excuse me if my smile seems forced on Sunday when I unwrap the inevitable “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug. I’ll patiently listen to the girls read the cheerful crayon notes telling me just what makes me so special but, honestly, my heart won’t be in it.

My mind will be elsewhere

Father’s Day is maybe the only day of the entire calendar year when I don’t feel like being a dad.

I guess I just wish I could still be a son.



Interested in reading more about Paul Rodell? Check out the Pittsburgh Magazine story I wrote about him in 2004. They flattered me by headlining it, "The Life and Death of Joe Pittsburgher."

Thursday, June 12, 2014

On unicorns, bartending & Roberto Duran Duran

Tending bar tonight for the first time in 29 years has me feeling like a kid on the night before Christmas, only instead of lots and lots of presents I’ll be getting lots and lots of drunken conversation. So much going on today I thought it might be a good day for a round-up so here goes … 

• One friend said me tending bar at The Pond tonight (and tomorrow) is the most exciting Latrobe bar news since August ’12 when Cindy up at Sharkey’s got her boob job. I thanked him and said I’ll remember that if Dave ever feels the bar could use another jolt of publicity.

• The night after Dave asked me to help him out, I showed up with our 8 year old for dinner demanding the employee discount, before I’d even poured a single beer. Dave said no. His refusal means my agenda is topped with a new priority goal: Union!

• Many friends have expressed their support for my Pond bartending debut by asking if I’ll give them free drinks. That I’ll not do, but there’s a good chance I’ll probably give them the wrong change.

• I extended an invitation, but Arnold Palmer will not be there tonight. My dream was to have an occupational opportunity to ask Arnold Palmer how to make an Arnold Palmer.

• I was real tempted this morning to write about my daughter the unicorn hunter. She’s 13 and armed with sharp shears. And by unicorns I’m not talking about the mythical horned horse. Unicorns are what she and I call the stray gray hairs that randomly beanstalk out of my aging skull. Most of my hair is still what I guess you’d call brown. There’s some gray, but my hairs’ oddest feature is at any one time there maybe half a dozen stiff, course gray hairs standing like tiny pole vaults above the field by a good inch or two. It’s like these rogue hairs are striving to turn my head into my late grandfather’s flattop. I don’t mind, but I believe hair should have some uniformity so I ask Josie to scissor the crop, which she does with the kind of relish that makes Edward Scissorhands look lazy. She’s becoming so overly enthusiastic about the duty I fear I might have to start wearing ball caps to places like church.

• How come unicorns aren’t called unihorns? 

• A friend of mine just texted and said he planned on showing up tonight and making up crazy drink names just to frustrate me. I told him he was shut off before the bar’s even opened.

• I wonder if I’ll get to throw anybody out for obnoxious behavior. I’d love that. It’s a very God-like feeling. I haven’t seen Dave throw many people out. He usually just dismisses them with a deft putdown that lets them know they aren’t welcome. One of our favorites is the time two younger guys came in and were making a silly juvenile ruckus — lots of loud, silly giggling like the kind you hear at the Chuck E. Cheese. They were aware enough to realize their behavior was out of line and asked Dave if there was somewhere they could sit where they wouldn’t annoy the rest of his customers. Dave said, “Racers.” Racers is the bar that’s about a quarter of a mile away.

• I asked Dave if there’d be any drug testing as part of me working for him. He said no and assured me I could get all the drugs I need from the guys in the kitchen.

• I was sorely tempted to wade into the fascinating Eric Cantor primary loss, but remain reluctant to write about politics because I don’t want to spoil what promises to be a good day defending something I really care less about than the people who’ll feel moved to fury over my gentle jokes. But I hope those who enjoy watching conservative heads explode will join me in starting the rumor that Hillary Clinton is definitely going to run for president and is persuading Michelle Obama to become her running mate.

• I can’t believe I’ve never heard of an ‘80s tribute band that calls themselves Robert Duran Duran.

• Had a successful book presentation to the Greater Pittsburgh Rotary Club at the William Penn Hotel yesterday. Sold a dozen books to 39 attendees. At this point, the sales are secondary to me becoming a more able public speaker — and clearly that’s happening. Yesterday went great and for the second time in four days one of the attendees said I should be a national stand-up comic on a show like “America’s Got Talent.” The compliments catch me completely off guard. I’m very pleased that anyone finds my humor talks that funny, but I have zero interest in trying to succeed in those forums. But I am going to keep it in mind if I ever get ambitious to fail spectacularly in yet another field.

• I’ve been invited to speak to about 250 WVU 4-H students next week. The organizer called and said she wanted to order 250 books at $12 each and wanted to pay me a speaker’s fee. She asked how much I charged. I said something I thought was exorbitant. She said yes. I said, “D’oh!” Either way, it’s still “dough!” I hope. The woman hasn’t called back with the logistics and now I’m again left to wonder if I hallucinated the whole thing.

• I hope I’m not hallucinating Dave’s request to have me help him at the bar tonight. That would be embarrassing.

• There’s a chance tonight could be a perfect storm at The Pond — and when was the last time you heard the term “perfect storm” applied to anything meteorological? But I’ll be amateurishly stumbling around back there behind the bar and tonight may be Teacher Inebriation Night. That’s the night when teachers get together to celebrate another year in the books by getting pie-eyed knowing they have about 84 days to sleep it off. If that happens tonight I probably won’t be fit enough to detail the results until next Tuesday.

• If you’re in town, stop by tonight or tomorrow night -- and be sure to bring a cooler with some sandwiches and cold beers!

 I’d much rather see you than serve you.


Related . . .






Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Back behind bars: me

 I’ve hinted before at positive developments regarding my prospects. I’ve been offered my first sizable speaking fee and major corporations are considering bringing me in to share my book’s message.

I’ve never felt this encouraged before. Ever. It’s all coming together.

So wouldn’t you know it, just yesterday a buddy offered me a great job right here in Latrobe. Decent pay, easy hours, and a guarantee I’ll be surrounded by smiling faces.

Yes, when it rains, it pours.

Just one problem: Accepting means I’ll have to switch sides. Not political or sexual orientation. It’s bigger than that.

I’ll be going from one side of the bar to the other.

Due to a tumultuous spasm of bar employee turnover, Dave, the owner of The Pond, is down key people in the kitchen and now behind the bar. He called me last night sounding distraught.

Our stalwart friend quit for reasons that are, for now, none of our business.

But Dave needed help.

“I’m really stuck,” he said. “I don’t know how I’m going to fill all his hours on such short notice. I know you used to tend bar  . . .”

What he was in effect saying was “Rudolph, with your nose so bright . . .”

And, please, I’m sensitive about my budding gin blossoms so let’s right there end all the bright red nose analogies.

But he was correct. I was once, ahem, one of the best bartenders in Athens, Ohio, which means I was one of the best bartenders on the planet and that at the time included stunt bartender Tom Cruise who was starring a popular movie called, “Cocktail.”

And by “one of the best,” I mean I was never fired for not showing up or being too drunk to tug on a tap.

Me and about a dozen good buddies all worked at what was then the biggest bar in Athens, The Nickelodeon, from 1983-85.

Ah, the ‘80s. MTV ruled pop culture, New Coke was just beginning to tickle our fickle taste buds, E.T. was phoning home via old rotary dial, Live Aid promised to end hunger in Africa and the only cultural figure more imposing than the California Cowboy in the White House was the black man on NBC.

I’m talking T.

Mr. T.

Besides starring on “The A-Team,” Mr. T also played an inspirational role in what I remember as the most monumental night of my bartending career.

One of the biggest sellers at the time was the Long Island Iced Tea. It’s a still-popular drink that includes gin, tequila, light rum, vodka, triple sec, a dash of sour mix, all topped with a little jolt of cola.

Having an entrepreneurial bent, my buddy Jim and I decided we’d give America a heady counter-point to the Long Island Iced Tea.

We set out to make the Mr. T.

Like its namesake, it would be big, black and pack a real wallop.

It pains me in hindsight to consider how much good booze we wasted trying to make something even remotely palatable.

The real pity is when we finally found a robust and drinkable mix it was about 1 p.m. and we were too drunk to remember to write down any of the key ingredients. The recipe is today lost to history.

Val’s always wondered why I haven’t sought a job tending bar before. She’d say, “You’re always in there anyway. Might as well get paid instead of just sitting around drinking beer and BSing your life away.”

I tell you, she’s a regular Dr. Phil.

So, of course, I’ll step in and help my friend in his time of need and make sure his thirsty customers don’t go empty.

I can be Dr. Fill, too!

So there’s a chance I’ll be back where many of my old high school teachers predicted I’d eventually wind up all along: behind bars.

I’ll expect my customers to stay within the bounds of established bar decorum. Any questions about exactly what that means regarding levels of drunkenness and potential for inadvertent nudity, just ask your bartender.

That’ll be me. My rule will be absolute.

When I pour, I reign.



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Monday, June 9, 2014

What California Chrome teaches us about race relations

It dismays me once again to be the one to correct the national sporting press for misleading the American public into thinking we’re in the midst of another crisis of bad behavior.

Happened again this weekend when sports pundits declared California Chrome owner Steve Coburn, 61, a sore loser for his post-race explosion after the horse failed to win the Triple Crown.

Coburn didn’t lose. 

The horse did.

Coburn wasn’t even riding the horse!

He’s sore, sure. Who isn’t?

This was looking like the best chance we’ll ever have again for a Triple Crown winner.

One of my greatest boyhood memories was in 1973 with my old man watching the immortal Secretariat race to Belmont Park victory for what remains the most spectacular Triple Crown win in history. 

I’ve been dreaming I’d bestow that same sort of memory to our daughters.

We make a big deal out of the Triple Crown races. The night before we watch a movie about a horse, usually either “Secretariat” or “Seabiscuit.” 

(True fun fact: California Chrome was nearly named Seabisquick.)

Then as post time nears we enjoy the pageantry, handicap the horses — the girls favor the fillies — and make ridiculous wagers involving things like world domination. And as the horses come down the stretch we’re all roaring cheers urging our favorites to get their butts in gear. 

I love horse racing for the way it unites America where sports like football divide it by creating hooligan tribes of drunken fans eager to assault one another for daring to wear different colored overpriced jerseys.

Being progressive on race relations, I also appreciate horse racing because it’s the one sport that doesn’t rile the racists. They heartily cheer the black or brown horse in ways they’d never cheer for, say, LeBron James or dred-headed safety Richard Sherman of the Seattle Seahawks.

I know many racists who hate NBA basketball because it’s dominated by people of color, and as we recently learned this prejudice includes people who actually own NBA teams. Where, they ask, are all the white dudes?

It’s very offensive to enlightened souls like myself.

But even bitter racists love horse racing. This is surprising because I can’t recall ever seeing a single white dude rounding the track — and I’m talking here about white dudes with four legs.

It’s a sport that’s so joyfully colorblind even top race historians would be stumped, I’m sure, when asked to name which horse was the Jackie Robinson of thoroughbred racing.

It seemed with Chrome we were seeing something special.

In everything I’ve read for the past six weeks has said he’s a really great horse, which I’m assuming means he visits the children’s hospitals, signs autographs and makes the sweet old ladies blush when he flirts with them.

To me, those are the hallmarks of a truly great horse.

People are calling Coburn classless for saying entering a horse in the Belmont without previously giving it a go in the Derby or at the Preakness is “cowardly” and “classless.”

I agreed before learning that’s the way it’s always been. It happened to Secretariat, Seattle Slew and Affirmed when they won. Winning the crown is just very difficult.

But I’m giving the old guy a pass here.

His fairytale vaporized down the home stretch and caused him to launch into a memorable meltdown.

Did you see it?

He raged at the other owners and said they’d denied America a dream we all shared. My favorite part was near the end when his nervous looking wife whispered he ought to cool it, a remark that caused him to turn and tell her to buzz off.

Yes, behind every great man is a nervous woman telling him when it’s time to just shut the hell up.

To me, the rant was a perfectly reasonable reaction by a man who’d been thrust into the limelight for which he was unprepared at the very instant his life’s dream was destroyed.

I hope Coburn’s forgiven his graceless lapse and that he comes to appreciate the sweet side of what’s been a really great run.

Me, I’m just happy an angry, begrudged white man didn’t stoop to playing the race card in the one sport where everyone who walks through the front gate is handed a race card.



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