Super Bowl XLIX: New England vs. That Team From Somewhere Out West.

Wait, what? 

Let me get this straight: You’re saying that, down two touchdowns with three minutes to go, the Seattle Seahawks still managed to defeat the storied Packers of Titletown by six points? 

You mean to tell me, after 57 minutes of offensive ineptitude, our boys in blue managed to dig their talons into their ruffled tail feathers and extract a big, jagged “W” from the depths of their musky undercarriages? 

Wow. 

Seriously, I haven’t seen a comeback like that since Bill Cosby erased a 27-accusation deficit to exonerate himself, using nothing but Fat Albert and a complex Illuminati flowchart.

So, yeah, for the second consecutive year, our Hawks are swooping into the sporting world’s brightest spotlight, facing the New England Patriots in Superbowl XLIX. 

Last year, I got a little emotional about the whole thing. A lifelong Seattlite, I wallowed in Seattle’s dismal record as a major league city, whining about the dearth of championships during my half century here at the continental USA’s eleven o’clock. And this time, if I really wanted to, I could double down on the pity. After all, when compared with Boston’s storied past, this image comes to mind:

Well, screw that, because you know what? Who gives a baggy Bill Belichcik boob about the past? So what if the city of Boston has hoisted the chalice 34 times compared to Seattle’s five (including a Stanley Cup won five years after the Titanic went down). 

What matters is this game, and like any other game, it’s all about matchups. So let’s use our heads this time people, because our hearts will inevitably hitch a ride anyway. 

Here’s my take on the most intriguing micro-clashes when the two teams take the field a week from Sunday:

Tom Brady vs. Russell Wilson:

This isn’t Brady’s first rodeo. Married to a supermodel, changing his haircut more frequently than Belichick changes his underwear, the Foxborro Fox is comfortable in the limelight. Russ has his share of endorsements, but he’ll have to spend a little less time at Children’s Hospital and a little more at the Playboy Mansion to catch up with Brady.

Advantage: New England.

Vince Wilfork vs. Michael Bennett:

While both of these interior defenders display freakish athletic prowess, I’m not sure Wilfork could ride a bike in full pads without the aid of ski poles and his new friend, Jenny Craig.

Advantage: Seattle.

LaGarrette Blount vs. Marshawn Lynch:

Interestingly, Blount began the season with the Pittsburgh Steelers. Unhappy over his playing time last November against Tennessee, he left the game early and was promptly released and signed a week later by the Patriots. Marshawn Lynch would rather invite ESPN to brunch than quit on his team.

Advantage: Seattle.

Bill Belichick vs. Pete Carroll:

I guess it depends on what you’re comparing. If we’re talking about who looks more like a smudgy hobbit and smells like a gamy casserole made of burned toast and chickpeas, well then—

Advantage: New England

Overall Team Branding:

Seattle’s isn’t complicated. They’re the Seahawks, a pissed off bird of prey who looks like he hasn’t eaten since this morning. The Patriot looks more like a guy who showed up at the Halloween party with the other white dude who lives on the Raider helmet. 

Plus, a patriot is more of a compliment than a mascot. They may as well be the New England Really Good Landscapers.

Advantage: Seattle.

Finally, here’s the thing. Most New Englanders don’t even know where Seattle is. If you ask, they’d say something like, “I have an aant in Paaatland. Isn’t that neeyah theyah?” 

At least we in the Northwest were able to point to Massachusetts on a map, even prior to the the ascension of its finest patriot—Mitt Romney.

Overall advantage: Seattle. Go Hawks.

The Seattle SuperSeahawks

Start spreading the news. 

The Blue Jerseys are coming to New Jersey—a fortnight for Richard Sherman to gnaw the Big Apple to a mealy sauce.

Or as Ted Suess Geisel might say, "The room is abloom with the Legion of Boom." 

The NFC champion Seattle Seahawks will play the Denver Broncos in Super Bowl XLVIII. 

Holy bastard of Roosevelt! The Super Bowl? Are you kidding me? 

If you don't live in Seattle, trust me on this: championships here are as rare as a Michael Crabtree reception. In the past forty-five years of my Seattle sports fandom, only three teams have held the grail. The '79 Sonics won it all, as did the WNBA Storm, twice. Hell yes, I count the Storm, especially after ten years of watching the greatness of Sue Bird to Lauren Jackson.

We've come close on occasion. The Sonics reached the Finals two other times, including 1996, when they faced a couple of guys named Michael and Scottie—and lost. The NASL Sounders squared off in Soccerbowl 77 against the Pélé-led New York Cosmos—and lost.

But the Hawks' 2006 appearance in Super Bowl XL proved itself to be the greasy-haired step nephew of all Seattle's championship quests. Dropped passes and criminal officiating decided the outcome, delving my City of Moist into a dark, foggy hangover that no amount of breakfast burritos and tater tots could soothe.

Oh, sorry, forgot to mention the Mariners. Wait, no I didn't. Despite a Cinderella trip to the ALCS in 1995 and dominating teams in 2000 and 2001, the Mariners have yet to play in a World Series.

Anyway, so now we're back. By "we," I mean yeah, I'm every bit a part of the squad as Pete Carroll's chinos. I'm convinced that watching movies on Friday nights and wearing the same clothes for the games have contributed to and quite possibly assured victory the past two weekends. Perhaps my daughter's Russell Wilson t-shirt is the difference, who knows? Maybe the mojo comes when my wife puts her hair up like she did yesterday for the game.

If you have superstitious ritual, an outfit or any other weird thing you do to propel the team to our first Super Bowl victory, you bear the same responsibility as the rest of us. Please give, early and often. 

You could be the difference.

These People Need to Be Stopped.

Coaching is a tough gig, no doubt about it.

Whether you're a coach whose biggest challenge is preventing one four-year-old from sustaining irreparable damage to his still-hardening cranial soft spot, resulting from poking his little conk into the arc of another four-year-old's roundhouse t-ball swing, or Vince Freaking Lombardi calling the quarterback sneak on fourth down and goal in weather so frigid your QB can't feel his tongue...

...yeah, not an easy way to spend an afternoon.

Motivating adults is difficult enough. Motivating kids is far more daunting. And motivating kids to endure pain, to sacrifice of themselves in pursuit of an abstract greater good—well, you've probably got more favorable odds at getting your cat to take advantage of those Tic Tacs you left next to his bowl of Fancy Feast.

It's why a good coach occupies such rarefied air, equipping his or her charges with a tool belt that gets scratched and frayed, but lasts a lifetime.

And it's why a bad coach can etch a tattoo that fades, yet lingers forever.

Back in December, Rutgers University men's basketball coach Mike Rice was fined $75,000 and suspended three games after video surfaced showing him berating his players. The abuse was verbal—on several occasions he was shown calling players "faggots"—but it was also physical. In numerous clips, he was recorded jerking his players around by their jerseys and firing basketballs at their heads, feet and shoulders.

The video didn't reach public airspace until April, at which time the national outcry reached such a plateau that Rice was fired along with Rutgers athletic director Tim Pernetti.

It was a dirty house that needed some cleaning, but wouldn't you know it, the dust bunnies are already back. On May 15, hired as the new AD was a woman named Julie Hermann. Her credentials are impressive; she was formerly the senior associate athletic director at Louisville and has now become only the third female to lead the athletic program at a major university.

Prior to that she served as head women's volleyball coach at the University of Tennessee, and that's where she allegedly accumulated so many skeletons that she had to buy a new place with a walk-in closet.

In a letter submitted by all fifteen team members in 1996 and obtained by the New Jersey Star Ledger, the volleyball players said Hermann called them "whores, alcoholics and learning disabled."

Hmm...whores, alcoholics, learning disabled? Wow, I'm thinking her subsequent two words probably weren't group and hug.

Their accounts depict a coach who thought nothing of demeaning them, who would ridicule and laugh at them over their weight and their performances, sometimes forcing players to do a hundred sideline pushups during games, who punished them after losses by making them wear their workout clothes inside out in public or not allowing them to shower or eat, and who pitted them against one another, cutting down particular players with the whole team watching.

In addition, the school settled a 1997 lawsuit brought by a former assistant who Hermann had fired for becoming pregnant. Nice. Always a bonus to have a co-worker with family planning skills.

And all this in the wake of another abusive coach whose athletic director tried to bury the whole moldy enchilada.

The true heroes in these situations are the whistleblowers. Student-athletes risk everything when they expose the individuals who brought them into the program—loss of scholarship, disbelief, ostracism—and they stand in defiance of the very structure to which they've dedicated themselves.

Questioning authority isn't part of the deal. At the expense of recounting another story of past glory, I nonetheless feel slightly haunted by an abusive incident I witnessed back in 1979. As my teammates and I assembled in the locker room during halftime of a high school football game, the head coach entered, completely enraged at a player for making a costly error.

We sat on benches, surrounding him as he ranted. The coach slowly approached the offending player, purple veins bulging from his crimson forehead. He grabbed the player by his shoulder pads and shook him, slamming his head hard against a locker.

The echo of bone against metal was deafening, but even more unbearable was the profound humiliation visited upon a seventeen-year-old boy by a full grown man. My teammate cried so quietly, yet his emotions projected a toxic cloud of rage and shame.

To this day, I regret not having stood up for my friend at that pivotal moment, a moment when no teenage error warrants the wrath and violence of a power-wielding mentor and educator. Consequences be damned.

Sports are riddled with stories of "great" coaches who've straddled the line separating motivation from abuse: Woody Hayes, Mike Leach, Bobby Knight and all the other proponents of the tough love school of discipline, toughness and usually a robust deprivation of both kindness and Gatorade.

But I'd like to think we're a little smarter now. It doesn't work and it needs to stop. Julie Hermann cannot be allowed to inflict any more damage.

Fighting Change Is Possible, But Only If You're Willing to Change.

Throughout our lives, we hear more sage phrases, more ironic parables, more downright clichés, regarding the word "change" than any other lone word I can pry loose from the corroded cast iron that is my brain matter.

Whoa, that was a long sentence.

Our parents begin bludgeoning us with lessons about change almost before our cranial soft spot closes up. My mom and dad were no different in doling out enlightened nuggets.

When I was three:
"Nothing's permanent, little Timmy. That's why your mother accidentally backed over the cat. Rusty felt no pain, especially since the station wagon has a V8 and rear-wheel drive."

When I was thirteen:
"Look, Tim, in the next few years your body is going to experience some changes. You'll get hair under your voice and your arms will get lower. Oops, well you know what I mean, buddy. Anyway, listen. A lot of things you'll want to do are totally normal, which is why your mother and I have decided that now is a good time for you to start doing your own laundry."

When I was twenty-three:
"Hey, listen, Tim, congratulations on graduating from college. Things are going to be a little different now. How do I put this? You need to get a job. That's how people get money to pay for stuff."

So, yeah, we're inundated with advice about how change is part of life, so we'd better be prepared. Here's a photograph of some pennants I've tacked up to the wall in our basement stairwell:

These were my favorite pro sports teams from the 1970s: the Seattle SuperSonics, the Los Angeles Rams and the Baltimore Colts. For those who aren't familiar with the fate of these storied franchises, I'll try to sum it up succinctly—gone, gone and gone.

The Colts bolted for Indianapolis in 1984, the Rams moved to St. Louis in 1995 and I'm not exactly sure where the Sonics ended up. I think it was someplace around Fargo called Mooseknuckle or something.

Not shown, but lined up to the left of these pennants are three others, from my elementary, junior high and high schools. Chances are that they would've eventually flown the coop as well had they not been purchased by a local casino chain.

Throughout all these years of unmitigated flux, however, every blue moon I'm a bit gob smacked by something which, on the surface, wouldn't have seemed like much of a big deal. And it happened again a couple of weeks ago.

Ichiro Suzuki— thirty-eight-year-old all-star right fielder for the Seattle Mariners—was traded to the New York Yankees. The transaction was beneficial to both parties; Ichiro had spent the past thirteen seasons with the Mariners and, after determining he's become slightly more useful than a three-inch floppy disk, requested to be traded to a championship contender before calling it quits.

It's just seeing him in those pinstripes that chafes my sweetbreads. Sure, lots of players have ended their careers on other teams. Here's Joe Namath in a Rams uniform:

By this time, his knees were held together with that old dental floss that always ends up breaking off, so then you have to floss it out, too.













Michael Jordan had a cup of coffee with the Washington Wizards:

He was still pretty good, even though he couldn't do this anymore:


But watching Ichiro in a Yankee uniform is uncomfortable. Maybe it's because his first year with the Mariners was an incredible ride, but culminated with a loss to the Yankees in the American League Championship Series.

Perhaps I'm feeling my own creaking mortality. In the beginning, Ichiro was a wide-eyed greenhorn and I was still thirty-something. Now I'm twenty-one days and a few unplanned naps from hitting fifty.

Whatever the reason is, whichever is the underlying cause, I must meet life's ointment flies with the same resolve as I did upon learning that my wife was pregnant with our first child:

"Oh, my God. That's awesome! You don't think it's a big deal if I go ahead and leave my pennants up in the baby's room, right?"

Title IX Drives Painful Wedge Between Fathers and Daughters.

"Dad, just say the word...any time, any place."

Ever since she learned to dribble a Scooby Doo playground ball, she's enjoyed taking me on. "You were trying your hardest, right?"

"Absolutely," I replied, but by the time she was around fourteen, yes, I really was trying my hardest. Nonetheless, that arrogant, little Limbaugh embedded in my psyche whispered in my ear that my daughter would never defeat me in a game of one-on-one. No freaking way. As long as an iron lung wasn't part of my IKEA bedroom set, I'd handle it.

And then, a couple of months ago, right after her junior year basketball season ended, she challenged me again. "So, big guy, when are we playing?" She peered slightly down at me from her five-foot, ten-inch altitude. I gazed back, my game face betraying the anxiety that yes, the moment had arrived.

I surveyed those wiry arms and spindly legs which had formed over seventeen years of perpetual motion...and gave her my answer:

"Umm, yeah. I don't think I'm available...umm...ever."

Hey, if the Supreme Court can opt not to hear a case, I can opt not to play, right?

It's too bad she's yet to discover premium music, because she forfeited a golden opportunity slap her dad with a lyrical uppercut from Rush, one of his favorite bands:

"If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice."

I had chosen.

This week marks the fortieth anniversary of Title IX, a federal mandate enacted to prohibit sex discrimination in education. Practically speaking, June 23, 1972 signified the beginning of equal resource allocation for male and female athletics at all academic institutions.

Prior to Title IX's ratification, girls' and women's athletics existed predominately on "club" levels. My own alma mater and bastion of progressive thought, the University of Washington, boasted fourteen varsity men's programs in 1972.

How many women's teams would you guess wore the name "Huskies" across their chests back then? Half? Nope. Okay, how about just the big ones, like basketball, softball and volleyball? Sorry.

If you had chosen the most common answer in Trivial Pursuit—zero—you would have been correct.

I suppose 1972 wasn't too far removed from an era when physical exertion was considered dangerous to fragile female constitutions. After all, thirty-six hours of excruciating labor pales in comparison to a nasty floor rash from diving after a loose ball.

Let's see...what else was going on back in '72? As I recall, girls in my fourth grade class had recently been permitted to add pantsuits as appropriate scholarly attire. Although denim hadn't yet been allowed to tightly paint their lower extremities, I vividly recollect several brightly colored polyester outfits leaving my wheezing ass in the dust on field day.

It was akin to watching the backsides of four Carol Bradys and two Shirley Partridges accelerate into the distance, their shag hairdos bouncing in perfect synchronicity to their flopping jacket flaps.

Ironically, had our class decided to form boys' and girls' varsity track teams, the boys would've been pummeled in every event yet would still enjoy the cool uniforms and free blue Gatorade to which the girls weren't entitled.

During the 1972 Munich Olympics, Mark Spitz swam to a record seven gold metals despite the considerable drag of a cumbersome yet totally sweet mustache. American women also competed in swimming events at those games, but only those fortunate enough to attend one of the handful of colleges fielding women's varsity swim teams.

Any other female Olympic hopefuls trained at the Y during the three to five PM lap swim, dodging stray noodles, water wings and octogenarian tortoise people.

Even after the law's passage, equity emerged at a snail's pace. A lot of courageous women filed a lot of unpopular lawsuits, and girls' basketball didn't hit the big time until the socks had grown considerably shorter and the shorts considerably longer.

Forty years later, most young female athletes likely hold no inkling of the dismal state of women's athletics during the reign of Tricky Dick Nixon and before. My seventeen-year-old daughter believes that trotting onto the court through a tunnel of cheerleaders as the band plays and the public address announcer calls out her name is a prima facie birthright, something which has been around since Fred Flinstone shaved with a bumblebee-filled clam shell.

It's my duty to impress upon her the impact of Title IX and the sacrifices others have made which have opened the door...

...for her to school my sorry ass in one-on-one.

Ode to last weekend.

All my teams lost big this weekend,
Every one was beaten.
The Seahawks made
My chest hair fade.
My Huskies took a cleatin'.

All my teams got drubbed this week,
Even the Seattle Storm.
Oh, well, fear not.
Sue Bird's still hot.
And her poster's in my dorm.

All my teams sure sucked this weekend,
I saw them from my couch.
I swore so hard,
My stomach lard
Flew from its protective pouch.

My teams all got just killed this week,
But still I had to see it.
That Mariners squad,
I swear to God,
Looks more like donkey shee-it.

My teams got beaten down this weekend,
UW got screwed bad.
That ref's my pick
For biggest dick
This side of Jalalabad.

All my teams got smoked this weekend,
My girl's team lost eight-nil.
So sad she was screamin',
I took her ice creamin',
And said, "Just wait until..."

All my teams lost all their games,
My wife said, "Get a grip."
Maybe I'll learn to cook
Or change my look
Like Napoleon's brother, Kip.

There's always next week.

Hey! Show some class!

 Is the human male’s instinct to protect its young as voracious as the female’s?

You decide.

Lately, I’ve been prone to exercising my own brand of paternal vigilantism, and I think it may be time to step back, calm down and possibly evaluate pharmaceutical options. 

I’ve been yelling…at children…children I don’t know.

On Tuesday night, my daughter’s high school basketball teams hosted a “quad,” where the boys’ junior varsity, girls’ junior varsity, boys’ varsity and girls’ varsity, play four games against their respective counterparts from another school. It’s an economically prudent measure for a school district that isn’t on sound fiscal footing—one trip, one bus.

My daughter’s team played the evening finale, so the opponents’ squads who had already played were seated in the bleachers, clearly identifying themselves in their matching warm-ups. Two players from the visiting boys’ team were seated apart from their teammates, in folding chairs near my daughter’s team bench and behind the basket.

One of these kids caught my attention almost immediately after the girls’ game tipped off. He did anything possible to distract the home team, standing and waving his arms during free throws, yelling at the players, even booing a referee’s call with which he disagreed. Initially, I tried to ignore the obnoxious, six-and-a-half-foot man-child, but soon, my stomach acid was churning, begging for attention like a bouncing bile puppy.

I felt myself slowly transforming from Bill Bixby into Lou Ferrigno. Sometime during the third quarter, I’m not sure when, I felt my legs lift my body out of the seated position and carry it down the steps toward the corner where the giant jester lie in wait.

“Hey!” I yelled. No response. Again, “Hey!” He looked over at me. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? I’ve been watching you for the past three quarters. You’re harassing our players while they shoot free throws.”

“No I’m not.”

“I saw you.” And this is where I ceased being Lou Ferrigno and became Lionel Haywood, my father. “You’re sitting there, representing your school, wearing your team colors and showing no class whatsoever.”

“F&#k you,” he mumbled, looking away.

“What did you just say?” Back to Ferrigno. “I’ll tell you what. If you want to cheer for your team, that’s fine. But if I hear or see another taunt, your coach is going to hear about it. Got it?”

I felt his eyes bore into me as I turned and ascended the steps to my seat. As I resumed watching the game, we again made eye contact. “Show some class,” I mouthed to him, again channeling my father.

As I rose to leave after the game, my peripheral vision glimpsed his tall figure approaching from the left. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Sir.” He stood next to me but looked down at the top of my head. “I just want to apologize. I behaved badly and I’m sorry.”

“Uh, I appreciate that. Thanks.” I shook his hand, feeling surprised and relieved.

On the drive home, I pondered the evening’s happenings, and decided that, although my actions were justified, I really needed to savor these contests a little more; I should not allow these outside factors to influence my enjoyment of watching my girl play hoops.

Two nights later, in a hotly contested grudge match on the floor of the cross-town rival, my daughter shot an air ball while attempting a three-pointer.

The opposing student section launched into a familiar chant: “Airrrrballlll! Airrrrrballlll!”

Okay, I thought, now’s the time to take my own advice. Just brush it off. No big deal; they’re just kids. I glanced to my left, where two skinny ninth-graders joined in the chant.

“Hey, you guys. Show some class. That’s my kid.”

Backlighting for Maximum Effect, by Brett Favre

Surprise! Another professional athlete does something stupid—allegedly.

But this time it's Brett Favre, a guy who is admired, even worshiped, among football fans across our great land. Over the past eighteen years of his quarterbacking career, he has epitomized grit, character and sheer love for his trade. Sure, he's retired and un-retired more frequently than I discover new skin tags, but his boyish enthusiasm has won him legions of supporters.

And now, it appears he has additional passions.

A woman has come forward, accusing Favre of texting illicit photographs of his "team member" to her cell phone. Although this isn't illegal, it would constitute workplace harassment, since both were employees of the New York Jets at the time of the alleged incident, and the National Football League is investigating.

Let's break this down. The guy is forty-one years old. He's married and is about to become a grandfather. I wonder if, like most parents, he's discussed with his children the potential risk in posting incriminating images of themselves. Or, to spin it differently, maybe Grandpa Brett simply decided to add a "genital geneology" category in the Favre family photo archives.

If not, then why do guys do this in the first place? Do they think it's some EBay-type situation, where the item needs to be viewed prior to bidding? I'd be willing to wager that, if you ask ten women which physical attributes they find attractive in men, they would list eyes, smile, chest, shoulders or bottom. I'm nearly positive that Favre's "little quarterback" wouldn't even be in the top five.

And let's face it—Brett Favre is a wealthy man. He could arrange an entire photo shoot to portray his "flesh flanker" in the best possible light. He could arrange stylists, props, a fuzzy, Barbara Walters-type lens filter and the finest hair and makeup professionals. Unfortunately, when that portion of the anatomy is isolated and highlighted, it's like putting a pig in Prada.

Other athletes have performed dumber stunts—New York Giants wide receiver Plaxico Burress shot himself in the leg in a crowded nightclub after his concealed weapon accidentally fired (A lot of us guys already have that problem; we don't need the gun). Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger nearly killed himself riding a motorcycle with no helmet, and later engaged in his own escapade of sexual impropriety.

But Brett Favre, good old Number Four? Come on, man. Keep your player in the locker room.

What makes a good rivalry? Start with scrunchies.

When I mention the word, "rivalry," what images come to mind?

Ali vs. Frazier? Yankees vs. Red Sox? Sarah Palin vs. Rational Thought?

Although all three are match-ups of considerable renown, our worlds are filled with numerous, smaller rivalries. For instance, when the guy next to you sees that your elliptical trainer is set at level ten, and then, in true Spinal Tap form, turns his up to eleven—that's a rivalry.

When your neighbor one-ups you by buying a weed whacker that he can actually ride—that's a rivalry.

When you've grown to despise a soccer team of ten-year-olds, because they show up to play your team in custom uniforms with matching gear bags, warm-ups, dog sweaters and hair scrunchies—that's a rivalry.

And last night, at West Seattle High School, I witnessed a contest featuring a heaping plate of rivalry with a side of nastiness. My daughter's team , the Chief Sealth International High School Seahawks (or CSIHSSH if you want an easy-to-say acronym), threw down the gauntlet for a little volley to the ball against their bitter adversary, the West Seattle High School Wildcats (formerly known as the "Indians," until 2001, when someone finally learned that all the Indians in West Seattle had been killed by 1893). The two teams represent the only public high schools in West Seattle, a small community separated from Seattle proper by the Duwamish Waterway.

The atmosphere in the gym was electric, as both schools' football teams were in attendance to support the volleyballers. They sat at opposite ends of the court, standing and chanting at each other, with us parents perched squarely in the middle. I'd forgotten how enthusiastic fourteen- to eighteen-year-old humans can be as I sat there in my sciatic-supporting stadium chair.

The game was intense, especially at the beginning. Girls from both teams fought for every point; I constantly recoiled at the unnatural squeaking of adolescent knee skin on wooden floor.

Here's my baby (in the tall, white socks). Well, she's really not a baby. In fact, when we stand face to face, her eyes look at my hairline, which is actually more like an upside down omega than a line.

The two teams competed really hard, making unbelievable blocks, spikes and saves. Occasionally, their "teenageness"surfaced, resulting in a ball dropping to the floor between two or three frozen players, their mouths slightly agape. The student supporters weren't much different. Most of their cheers sounded like dogs barking, and gradually trailed off as each kid became distracted by something shiny.

I love the high school sports atmosphere, especially when it's supercharged by a rivalry game. As a parent, I need to remind myself that this part of life is so fleeting.

That girl wearing Number 11 over there won't be doing this forever.