Nothing But Iron: Spinach Envy June 10, 2008 by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W. I am writing today so that you don’t get an inferiority complex, which would be unintended, even for those of you who truly are inferior and deserving of such a complex. I figured with any further delay, you would surmise that I favor radishes and spinach over you, which is just not true because I only favor spinach over you. You are totally tied with radishes. And don’t accuse me of writing just because it is raining with all the abandon of a sheared-off upside down fire hydrant way up in the sky. It would take more than this liquified version of the Great Winter of ‘08 to keep me out of the fields. On that note, I recently set a word record for being the dirtiest human being ever. After about ten hours of weeding and picking and digging and planting and wheel barrowing I realized I had become so dirty that my wife would not have recognized me as someone worthy of entering her house and had she been home at the time I would not have done so. Upon seeing my sweat- and mud-stained image in the mirror, I had no choice but to proclaim myself the world record holder of dirty. Though it clashes with all modern-day interpretations of civility, instinct tells me that getting dirty has great therapeutic value. Only those of us who are passionate about dirt understand the pity we have for those who avoid it. Of course summer is not all about gardening. I was playing tennis, or at least a middle-aged version of the game, until my knee became swollen for no apparent reason other than this being my 47th year of running and jumping. I know one is not supposed to jump in middle-aged tennis, but the problem is that it is not cool to not jump. At this point I would expect my 15-year-old to interject: But, Dad, you’re not supposed to be cool. And right he would be, but I forget. I hope to return next week, but I will do so with trepidation, since I have no idea what must have ripped inside the joint to cause it to balloon up. If I do return to tennis for any length of time, the next NBI may be all about Wisconsin’s next Heisman winner. I am also partly consumed by the coordination the summer basketball schedule for my son’s varsity basketball team. This role is only slightly less involved than the practice of medicine, however, my years of coaching and my day-job role as part-time administrator have prepared me well for this task. That is a preliminary assessment based on the premise that I will not have screwed anything up in the coming weeks. This I know for sure: No amount of persuasion would convince me to do this without the technological advantage of e-mail, word processing and spreadsheets. I celebrate these amenities on a daily basis. The beauty of summer sportswriting is that there is nothing pressing to discuss. I am sure the Packers screwed up another draft, but of greater interest to me is that last year’s know-it-all critics seem to have died, chosen other teams or at least shut the hell up. That may be the highlight of the Packers off season. I understand the Celtics and the Lakers are playing each other in the NBA finals, and I heard from an unreliable source (a talking kohlrabi in raised bed No. 3) that the games are being played outside, as most summer sports are. I know this revival of the once-great rivalry has profound meaning and drama and appeal, but my money is on the tomatoes in 6 (weeks). The U.S. Open of golf starts this week. I predict that Tiger Woods will finish second and he will deliver this quote: "It was a great tournament and I am very fortunate to be in the situation I am in. There are countless people who are worse off than me. In fact, it is plausible that everyone else is worse off than me. I am healthy, happy and rich beyond imagination. I have a beautiful wife and my infant daughter won her first tournament last week beating a tearful eleven-year-old boy in a sudden-death playoff, so I guess I’m good with second place. I wanted to win, but [insert winner’s name] played great and he deserved the victory." I predict that the media will then focus its attention on the guy who actually wins the tournament, not the one who lost. You heard it here first. I imagine baseball is pretty much in full swing as approaches the halfway point of the first fourth of its seven-month season. Surely there is a lot going on, and you should read about that elsewhere on the internet. (Go to google.com and type "baseball news".) That is not to suggest that baseball fails to entertain me. On the contrary; I am completely amused, for example, with the notion that adding instant replay will slow the game. LOL. That’s like saying snow flurries will slow a glacier. Baseball is already the slowest game this side of sculpting. I have carrots that grow faster than baseball. I assure you that the trivial delay of instant replay will fail to breach the threshold of human perception. If anything, instant replay will make baseball more efficient, just has it has in tennis because there will be fewer time-sucking tirades. In the minutes it takes to eject a manager for kicking dirt on the trousers of an umpire, officials will be able to verify or correct a call with time left over for six or seven consecutive foul balls. Even if replay did slow the game, as it sometimes does in other sports, it will be worth it to get the calls right. Now that video evidence of blown calls is so widely discussed, the idiot-not-savants who have defeated replay so far will surely implement it, but baseball will likely fail to use the technology to its potential–for example, by limiting it to just foul-home run calls, using the Pole Cam®, whose trademark will have to be purchased from the porn industry. That too was from also from an unreliable source. I recommend the football protocol of a set number of challenges–yes, red flags–allowed each manager, coupled with a comprehensive menu of challenge-eligible scenarios. I would not allow balls and strikes to be reviewable, but out-safe calls and most everything else would be fair territory. _________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column that even sometimes covers baseball. NBI is offered sporadically in the summer and unpredictably during all other seasons. The author is certified by the Male Gardening Sportswriters of America, but nobody knows for what. ©2008 DrTM Enterprises. 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