Nothing But Iron: Rewriting Bielema October 19, 2007 Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W. I was going to take the week off, but I realized that Brett Bielema needed my help, so here I am, writing a column during what was to be an NBI bye week. If you ask Bielema, he will not only deny needing my help, but he will most likely deny my existence, or at least my validity. But I am a sportswriter who takes the obligation to share entertaining opinions with his readership seriously, so it doesn’t matter if Bielema realizes he needs my help. This particular offering does not come so much from sportswriting anyway, but from coaching. It would be fair to say that my coaching career is a Lawn Dart compared to the M160 Rocket Launcher of Bielema’s career, but there are concepts that transcend the boundaries between recreational and serious sport. After last week’s blow-out loss to Penn State Bielema was asked a question by professional sportswriter Tom Mulhern that ended with: "What’s left to play for?" Bielema started out well, talking about the importance of focusing on the journey as opposed to the obsessions of the perceived destination, but he then strayed from the high road, criticizing media negativity and the ways in which writers "bait players" during interviews. For me that was a little too defensive, even in a season that will hardly be known for its defensive excesses. I took the liberty of rewriting Bielema’s answer. Maybe he can use it next time. The message parallels advice I have given my basketball players in various forms over the years: What’s left to play for? A fair question, Tom, because it is human nature to ask that whenever we seem to be falling short of expectations, regardless of whether or not the expectations were reasonable in the first place. The answer is easy: We play to prove to ourselves and to our detractors that we don’t quit because of the adversity of two losses, or because we realized we aren’t as good as we thought we were. We play to make ourselves physically and mentally tougher. We play for our fans who support us because they want to be part of something special. We play for our injured teammates who wish they could find a way to be back on the field. More tangibly, we still play for a winning record, a bowl game and the program-building extended practice season that comes with any bowl game. And if all of these motivations were to somehow escape us, we would play for the simple love of the game. The fact that we can run and jump and throw and catch and hit and be hit and get back up again would be all the reason we needed to play. Next question. Reader Scott Escher writes: I am taken aback that a tree hugging, granola eating, tomato growing, sandal-and-sock wearing green guy like you would drive in a 2 mile per gallon green house gas emitting Hummer. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just found it interesting. It’s a fair comment, Scott, because it is human nature to make comments like that whenever we hear of someone riding in a vehicle bigger than the one we ride in. You must consider our use of Hummer limo (HL) in the proper context. First of all, there were six of us, including the driver. If each of us had driven in separate Ford Expeditions, assuming that Elliot could see over the dash board, the equivalent fuel consumption and green house gas emissions would be roughly equivalent to the those of the HL. Second, your assertion that the HL gets two miles per gallon is inaccurate. According to the National Institute for Advancement of Ecological Instability, the highway mileage for the HL is 4.2 mpg. Furthermore, with the engine off, the Hummer’s fuel efficiency approaches that of a similarly idle, fully-charged Toyota hybrid. Third, we tried to be more environmentally responsible by requesting that our vehicle be equipped with solar panels. Engineers estimate that the top of a Hummer limo could accommodate enough solar panels to power a city of 10,000 people. That equates to an adjusted gas mileage of 8.4 mpg. Unfortunately there was not time to order and install the panels. Fourth, we recycled all our beer bottles and plastic water containers when we got back. Almost lastly, as outlandish as it seems, our actions are roughly in line with the absurdity of 72,000 people, some of whom are adorned with deer antlers, colored paint and foam replicas of cheese, gathering in a massive environmentally antithetic arena to watch large men chase after a ball that isn’t even round. The festivities officially commence, of course, with three F18 fighters soaring over the stadium in a fuel-guzzling flyover. I can assure you, Scott, that it won’t happen again, at least not during the bye week. Finally lastly, I see little reason to wear socks and sandals simultaneously, I don’t hug trees because their bark is abrasive and I support trees only under certain circumstances, such as well away from shading my tomato plants. I am no more green than I am gold or red, and I eat granola for the same reason I eat steak, brats and sausage pizza–because it’s there. You remember that my son broke his hand, right? Last week his cast was removed and he graduated to a removable, but necessary splint. On Monday, he went to open gym, supposedly to shoot around, but ended up scrimmaging, knowing full well it was against medical and parental advice. Not only did he scrimmage, he got into a game-long shoving match with a sophomore player. The shoving match ended with Connor being pushed into a wall as he went up for a jump shot. The wall impact caused a dislocation and possibly a small fracture of the middle finger of his (formerly) good hand. The good news is that the new injury may keep him sidelined long enough for the first fracture to fully heal. Live and learn, I guess. I wonder, were we really this short-sighted when we were teenagers? (Don’t answer that, Mom.) Yesterday I got a form in the mail from a company that investigates claims for our insurance provider. Apparently a kid breaking his hand in a football game fits the criteria for review, just in case it is a Workers Comp injury or in case someone else can be made responsible for the coverage. I thought it was silly waste of my time, but I understand the necessity of playing the game even when I don’t get to make the rules, so I dutifully logged on to the web site and completed the form asking for more information about the injury. I saw no reason not to have a little fun with it, so I got a little creative when it came to this question: How did the accident/injury occur? (Describe in detail.) Here is my reply: Injury occurred in a freshman high school football game. Connor, having just intercepted a pass, received a pitch on a sweep that was called on the ensuing offensive play. He ran left, evading the defensive end and corner back. After gaining approximately 15 yards, No. 10, the opponent's strong safety tackled him. We believe the defensive player's helmet struck Connor in the first metacarpal of his right hand causing that bone to fracture. Hey, it asked for detail. The form also asked where the injury occurred, so I was sure to include "about the 25-yard line, on the south end of the football field." I wonder if the reviewer will be amused, though I don’t envision insurance reviewers as amusable people. I wonder if the reviewer will think I am compulsive or recognize me as the smart ass that I really am. I wonder if the reviewer will tap on the cubicle next to hers and say, "Hey, Hal, ya gotta see this." Since we are on the topic of bureaucratic silliness, how about some bureaucratic lunacy? I am trying to help my sister out of a jam with a collection agency, which accuses her of owing money for towing charges on a vehicle that she doesn’t own and has never driven. It all started when Mary purchased a one-dollar, three-day temporary registration on her friend’s car. The friend was in a bind and did not have a debit card. A few days later the towing company traced the transaction to Mary and somehow concluded that she owns the vehicle. They forwarded her name to the collection agency, whose agent has been harassing Mary on a daily basis. Collections wants proof that their determination of ownership is misplaced. That simple-sounding request proves to be easier asked than accomplished. For fifty-three minutes I called the Arizona Department Motor Vehicles seeking documentation that my sister does not own the vehicle. They said they could not give me information about the vehicle’s owner because that would be a violation of privacy laws. Well, could I get a letter stating that my sister is not the owner? No. Why not? Because we can’t do that. Finally I was transferred to a third-level supervisor. I got a sense that the system cannot normally be penetrated that deeply without a court order or the cast of Oceans Eleven. It appears this official might actually have the authority to help me, but she said that the vehicle identification number provided by the collection agency is missing a digit. Thankfully she gave me her direct number so I may actually be able to reach her again when I get the correct VIN. For me such scenarios are the equivalent of a Rubiks Cube; I like the challenge and refuse to be defeated. The fact that I can write about it helps keep it from being a total waste of time. Besides, I like helping my sister. When I finally succeed in proving the obvious there may be a different lesson, but for now we have learned that the DMV is not very good at helping you prove that you don’t own something. __________________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column. For the record, the author has no idea what an M160 rocket launcher is, and his Google search for information on rocket launchers and related assault weaponry is for the sole purpose of metaphorical enhancement. It should be noted by any scrutinizing government authority that persons using words like metaphorical are inherently non-threatening and should not be considered cause for further investigation. The author apologizes to any readers who happen to be in the insurance review industry for his unfair generalization of their non-amusability. Clearly insurance reviewers who read NBI are amusable. This issue is dedicated to the author’s excellent wife, Kelly, who is celebrating, or at least observing while others celebrate, one of her forty-something birthdays this weekend. ©2007 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved.