Nothing But Iron: Three Yards and a Cloud of Bust by Steven R. Lagman, M.D.,C.A.S.W. August 13, 2007 I watched the first quarter of the Packers-Steelers preseason scrimmage out of curiosity and as a public service to my readers. For your benefit I share this insight: Preseason football, on the universal time wasting scale, ranks slightly higher than lawn mowing (substitute watering or fertilizing or application of lake-choking chemicals, if you like), sorting twist ties by length and color, washing your car in February, and the first 50 games of Major League Baseball. As for the Packers, well, they are not so good right now. The good news is that now doesn’t count. The bad news is that then starts in 24 days. I did see promise in the defensive line and linebackers, but I fear that ineptitude in the secondary could overcome that. I saw no sign that the Packers have improved their dismal return game and I wonder by what mechanism they will generate points on offense, not that points were a problem last year, except in half the games. Back up quarterback, Aaron Rodgers, was reasonably productive against what must have been a dilute version of the Steelers defense, though I had returned to lawn care by then. I predict that this will not be the same defense Rodgers will face when the two teams meet again February 3. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Here is more good news: I don’t know everything. It could be that the Packers, as at least one team does every year, begin to gel by the midpoint of the season to the point where they become a good team, and everyone says, "Didn’t see that coming" and "That Ted Thompson is a genius." I don’t really feel it, but I agree it is possible. I have tickets to next Saturday’s so-called game. If you want them, I will sell them to you at a deep discount. Bear in mind, they are club seats, each bearing the face value of a small Honda, so a deep discount is still going to set you back a couple tires and a set of nice hub caps. I know I say this every year, but I have to say it again: Full-price preseason Packers tickets are the biggest rip-off since reusable toilet paper. By the way, I still have half a roll–no, make that a whole roll–if you want it. I’ll give it to you at a deep discount. . It’s still baseball season and it will be for the next 8 months or so. That’s a good thing for us died-in-the wool (whatever that means) Brewers fans. I’m just messing with you. I have not yet stumbled on or near the band wagon, but I do admit that hearing about the Brewers playing good baseball well into tomato season is pretty cool. I am happy for my friends who care. About a month ago, after a recent 8-0 loss to the Giants the newspaper guy said the Brewers hitters needed to wake up. That was good advice. It is probably hard to hit major league pitching even when you are wide awake, so being asleep can’t possibly help. Maybe the hitters should have gone to bed earlier, that way they wouldn’t feel compelled to sleep during games. Alternatively, the Brewers, through my agent, could sign me. I wake up people for a living so I could probably help. Moving on to other sports . . . I went to the farmers market on Saturday looking for new varieties of heirloom tomatoes. It is hard for me to buy tomatoes, because I have so many of my own, but there are so many interesting varieties to investigate that I can’t resist. My strategy is to buy a few interesting varieties that I don’t have, taste test them, and save the seeds from the ones I like for next year’s roster. In case you don’t know what heirlooms are, they are open-pollinated tomatoes, whose seeds have often been passed on generations. I say open-pollinated for the same reason I say atypical psuedocholinesterase; it makes you think I am an expert. In simple terms, heirloom is the polar opposite of store. If you want to know more, go to the store, buy a tomato and eat it. You will then know what an heirloom is not. The downside of heirlooms is that they command up to $4 per pound at the market. With some hesitance I bought three tomatoes for $6. Still that is a better bargain than preseason football. Two of the fruits–err vegetables–err whatever, passed my tasted test, and will plant them next year, thus reducing the cumulative price to about 15 cents per pound. Next year I may quit anesthesiology and open up a tomato stand. Bet I could still afford my sportswriting career. I went to see my wife play tennis at the USTA State Tournament yesterday. I myself have been to State several times, but only as a clapper, cheerer and sometimes under-qualified critic. Kelly’s team goes pretty much every year with the racquets-required contingent. Her team is serious about its tennis. Serious, but tolerable. At least she and her compatriots are not treading on the fringes of stark raving lunacy like some of their opponents. In Kelly’s last match of the tournament the psychodrama began even before the toss of the first serve. I had just reached the bleachers above the court to bear witness to it. Clearly the opposing doubles team was in trouble. One player, who I will call Invalida, which is possibly not her real name, knelt on the court, in obvious pain. Kelly and her partner Kathy offered sympathetic words of encouragement, and even suggested that they provide a substitute player, as the rules allow. Invalida declined, telling them that she wanted to try to play. She hobbled off the court to get an ice pack, which she tossed into her tennis bag. As play began, I was confident that Kelly and Kathy (The K’s), both experienced players, would be hitting a lot of balls to Invalida, but something unexpected happened. Suddenly Invalida was fine. No limp. No pain. No immobility. In medical terms, it was a total cure. At one point, well before her last tear was even dry, Invalida ran forward from the baseline, jumped, and while still airborne, crushed an overhead down the middle of the opposite court. It was a firetrucking miracle! If you are ever wondering whether or not there is a god, the answer is yes, because he, she or it cured Invalida at the tennis stadium Saturday. There is almost no other explanation. I am pretty sure there is no USTA rule against feigning injury, probably because tennis is, supposedly, an honorable sport and probably because faking is not tangible like a foot fault or a wide volley. In other words, it would be difficult to prove. The K’s know that such shenanigans are best ignored, but that is easier said than done. Even Kelly, who has seen her share of bizarre on-court behavior over the years, admitted that it was a distraction. Every time Invalida made a great shot, Kelly thought about the pre-game flop. The K’s lost in straight sets, but soon got the last laugh, as their team won the overall competition, 3 matches to 2, thus earning the right to play in the sectional tourney next week in Indianapolis. I got the last laugh too, because I am not married to a complete and utter nut job. I offer these strategies for the next case of drama queen syndrome: 1) While the faker is writhing, continue warming up. Casually say, "Let us know when you are ready." 2) Hit a few groundies directly over the fallen opponent. Say, "Oops." Then giggle into your hands. 3) Carry an Oscar replica in your bag. Take it out and admire it while glancing frequently at the supposedly injured player. Set it on the bench and leave it there for the whole match. 4) Offer her the use of the stadium’s portable defibrillator. Apply the patches so she wonders if you are serious. 5) Pretend to call 911. 6) Pat the faker on the back and say, "I know what you’re going through, I just had a C-section on Tuesday, and carrying my quadruplets around is hell on the knees." One unpleasant side-effect of Kelly going to Indy is that she will miss her family reunion. I reminded her that everything will be fine as long as I bring the grandsons and perhaps some potato salad. Kelly’s family comes from a long tradition of athletes. Her dad was a two-sport player in college, who, in the 1960's used to listen to the Brewers on car radio that was barely audible above the static. It may not go over well when Kelly breaks the news of her non-prior commitment, but ultimately her relatives will understand her duty to her team. Michael Vick is in big trouble. Everyone knows it is wrong to put animals in a ring and cheer for them to hurt or kill each other. In fact, we feel so strongly about it, we made it a felony. You would almost think a quarterback should be smarter than that. After all, if he wanted to invest in a sport where animals engage in violent combat, while screaming, wagering fans urge them on, he should have turned to boxing, which is perfectly legal. Let he amongst you, who is not a boxing fan, cast the first stone at Michael. Now what a minute, you protest, boxing is different because the fighters don’t fight to the death. Do you make that argument because boxers never die, or because you are hypocritical? I wasn’t going to go to Las Vegas for the Badgers game, but my brother Bruce said I should and my friend Jeff, who apparently has big time connections, orchestrated a deal with the UNLV ticket office for a block of 640 tickets, so I am taking Bruce’s advice and going. I am also pulling eldest son Patrick out of 1.5 days of school–shame shame shame on me–to take him along. His 17th birthday is that Saturday and his gift will be watching the Badgers accompanied by seven members of the extended Lagman family. Besides the trip out there, I am getting Patrick a motion-W flashlight, but that’s not really a present, but a part of my "Get the Light Out" campaign co-sponsored by Miller and Budweiser, Lite and Light, respectively. If all 20,000 Badgers fans bring their flashlights, the game cannot be truncated because of darkness. Apologies to Brent Feller for recycling a joke I used in his birthday e-mail. Hey, what if it wasn’t funny the first time? I guess it’s just one of the risks of being a sportswriter. In true Vegas style, we will be allowed to bet on how the game ends. Here are the odds. Time expires: 2 to 1 Brat shortage: 3 to 2 Power outage: 7 to 1 Earthquake: 77 to1 Flood: 98 to 1 Massive Made-for-TV-Movie Rattlesnake Attack: 1105 to 1 Patrick and I will be joined by my Ma Gayle, step-dad Kenny, brother Mike, common-law sis-in-law Jami and nephews Alex and Andrew. We will actually be staying in Laughlin, Nevada, which is the mini-Vegas located 90 miles from the stadium. Laughlin, a Colorado River town, is said to be cheaper, less flashy, less trashy and happens to be the site of brother Bruce’s fantasy football draft. That’s the same draft that will occupy his attention while the rest of the family is at the real football game. I see that as a plus because I can taunt him about it. Relentlessly. Incessantly. Respectfully. Well, not really that last one. I have already started practicing the phrases that I will use to tease Bruce: 1) That was the BEST BADGER GAME I HAVE EVER SEEN! 2) They had real players and everything! 3) Boy that Pizzeria Uno Pizza was perfect for the car ride back from the game. Pizzeria Uno of Platteville (not the feeble Madison copycat of the same name) is the best Pizza in all the Midwest that I may acquire, freeze and carry to Laughlin to share with deserving Badgers-dedicated members of my Uno-deprived Arizona family. Lastly, when he is not looking, I will paste a bumper sticker on Bruce’s back that says, "I Fantasize About Football." _______________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column, whose author fantasizes about real football, tennis playing wives (actually, just wife), and perfect, real, heirloom tomatoes that don’t cost $4 per pound because they proliferate in the author’s back yard. The author apologizes to Bruce for his opportunity-sucking contrived existence as a fantasy football owner. Maybe a firetrucking miracle will heal him too and he will choose to join us for our desert/dessert football extravaganza. ©2007 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved.