Nothing But Iron: My Other Computer is a Hammock by Steven R. Lagman, M.D. C.A.S.W. July 4, 2005 Writer’s block, in its familiar form, insidiously disrupts the neural pathways between the brain’s motivational centers and its creativity centers. The writer has no difficulty sitting down at his desk, but the proper word combinations just won’t come out. The movies best typify this pathetic state in the typewriter era, with wastebaskets overflowing with crumpled balls of paper, ash trays full of half-smoked cigarettes and keys tapping out classic phrases like, "The night was ... humid." (Sultry.) My own form of writer’s block is not so agonizing or malignant as the word constipation that plagues the once-successful professional author living off the dwindling remains of a six-figure cash advance under the threat of a looming deadline. My afflication (affliction really, but afflication is too cool an accidental word to decimate with an unfeeling stroke of the Delete key) has its origins in the work place, the garden and on the courts of basketball, tennis and fatherhood. It’s more an overload syndrome–and intentional at that–given that all of my competing pursuits are labors of love or at least, in the case of tennis, a labor of like it enough to want to decipher the mysterious code that keeps me from mastering it. Thankfully, I leave the undecipherable code of golf to the aggravation of others. (See Dan Brown’s next cryptological thriller: Angels and Divots). Ironically, I overcome the inertia of writing this issue from the lake-side deck of the most leisurely place this side of Hawaii, at the cottage of my in-laws, Rick and Sandy. In doing so, I resist the temptations of a quick sun bath (3 minutes is my record for "laying out"), hiking through Nicolet National Forest, navigating the 362.5-acre Boulder Lake in a canoe or sailboat and a shady nap in the hammock suspended between two nearby birch trees. Of course no cottage would be complete without basketball, and, yes, this one is complete. I can get my hoops fix, as I did yesterday, by jogging up the hill to the 35x35 concrete court we installed several years ago as a joint family venture. Some things are just meant to be ubiquitous. Even so, I overcome the lure of basketball and lesser avocations in order to entertain or at least sustain you until crappy weather and the tangible sportswriting season returns. I suffered through other distractions too, and I realize, after dropping off your radar screens for weeks and weeks, the obligation to divulge these double-secret creative projects. I do so with the usual request that you don’t tell anyone, or try to make money off my ideas, at least before I do. I seek to branch out into television by developing a two new pilots, which I expect to be aired during sweeps week. The first is a spinoff of a cult-popular before-and-after fantasy show called Pimp My Ride, where the host seeks out downtrodden owners of rusted-out, duct-taped beater cars to tell them their vehicles are about to undergo life-changing (especially if you consider the risk of subwoofer-induced hearing loss) overhauls, all for free. My variation is called Pimp My Minivan. The premise is self explanatory, but if you are an unsuspecting shuttle mom (formerly housewife or stay-at-home mom), be alert for this possible windfall. Did I mention that I drive the minivan in our family? I am trying to convert it into a pick-up truck by leaving the seats down and throwing a lot of junk in the back. Should PMM choose to modify my ride, I know just where to cut. My other program was inspired by the ever-inspiring I Want to Be a Hilton, which is the same as Pimp My Ride, except that the owners themselves–and not their vehicles–get the garish renovations. My version is called I Want to be Jim Smith, where a group of wealthy, high-profile celebrities compete for the chance to be uncouth, impoverished and anonymous, just like Jim, whom you’ve never heard of. There is one other project, a business prospect that could be the means to a golden retirement nest egg if the practice of medicine fails to provide me the financial security necessary to continue my career as a sportswriter. I got the idea on Mother’s Day, when I heard on the radio that I could honor my mother by naming a star after her. No kidding. For about 50 bucks and a visit to starregistry.com I could pick a star and name it after my mom. It would be the perfect gift for the mother who has everything, or for the mother who could really use something useful, but has a son who is too stupid to realize that. Star Registry has its downside, which is not disclosed in the ads, but I figured it out on my own. There are only so many stars in the universe, and there are lots of moms and when they run out of stars, if they haven’t already, the folks at Starregistry will be forced to double- or triple-name stars. This practice will cause a landslide of suits in small claims court like the one where the plaintiff will allege that star 42563166553 is actually Loretta and not Suzette. Suzette will be asked to describe her star, which will be portrayed as a twinkling pinpoint of light in the sky. Mass confusion will ensue. That’s why I have started carregistry.com, where for the low low price of $49.99 I will name a unique car after your mom. That’s how the Gayle Lagman midnight blue Honda Accord with power sunroof and Idaho license AWZ 431 came to be. Happy belated Mothers Day, Mom. There are far more cars than stars–just drive around Los Angeles for ten miles (55 minutes) if you don’t believe me–so the likelihood of ever running out of unnamed cars and clogging our courts with feuding mothers is low. It would be impossible to smoothly transition from carregistry.com to sports, so rather than kid myself, I’ll just move on. Let’s talk baseball, but let’s do so in another column, which I already wrote. Yes, I devoted an entire column to the single topic of a sport that I have not previously liked a much, until the Brewers, under new ownership, have become sensationally mediocre. Idea for new slogan: If you brew it, they will come. Or maybe Starbucks will want it. (See Sitting for the Cycle, June 26). It is hard to believe, given that the stench of last years season-ending UW collapse still clings to my motion-W sweatshirt, that football season is upon us. First a final word about the stench: 9-3. You can keep your asterisks. When my grandchildren ask about 2004 I will say, simply, 9-3. If they want to know the details, I will tap on my hearing aid, as if it has suddenly gone dead. As for the future, well, the future has never looked brighter. I cannot support that with objective data, so you’ll just have to wait for it all to unfold. Objective data suggests the following: 1) Almost every team in the Big Ten is improved on paper, except for Wisconsin. 2) No playing field in the conference uses paper as a playing surface because of durability issues. I wonder if they ever tried that Tyvek stuff. It’s really strong. 3) Speaking of really strong, Iowa is scary; best coach, and best QB, tons of returning talent and recruiting off the charts. 4) According to credible NBI sources, Iowa head coach, Kirk Ferentz, is a finalist on the new hit show, I Want to Be Bill Belichick. But really, does anyone think that Ferentz would make the jump to hyperspace? He seems much too sensible for that. The best we non-Iowans could hope for is that Ferentz’s staff of assistants will soon be decimated by defections to irresistible head coaching jobs, and we all know what trouble Ferentz has getting good production out of back-ups. We might even take a former Iowa assistant or two here in Madison. That is not a slam on Barry Alvarez, who I vowed to never ever not like when he got us all that Rose Bowl hardware. Alvarez is no less capable a coach than he has ever been, but let’s face it, there’s a reason he wanted the AD job, and it wasn’t because he needed a new challenge. The other problem Alvarez faces, is the same one Joe Paterno faces (to a much lesser degree than Joe Pa’s), and it has nothing to do with coaching ability. The best players want either a dynasty (Michigan, OSU) or the latest great coach (Ferentz). 5) Wisconsin player to watch: Tony Wampole, not to be confused with Jim Smith. I work with Tony’s mom, Alice, so I get the inside scoop on a weekly basis. Tony played his high school ball here in Madison, got hurt with an unspecifiable lower extremity injury and has now rehab’d back to the point of kicking a 55-yard field goal in the practice facility. The bad news is that Tony, near as we can tell, has yet to get a foot on the bottom rung of the kicking depth charts. The good news if that Tony is walking on at Wisconsin, whose thirst for a reliable kicker might not be quenched with currently available personnel. Nevermind 55. If Tony can hit from 35 on a consistent basis, he could be the guy. You heard it here first. 6) Incumbent John Stocco is the frontrunner for quarterback. Rumor he is running unopposed. The spring game revealed nothing to the contrary. My hope, in fact, is that this particular spring game revealed nothing at all. We will know immediately if Stocco intends to shake off the 2004's late-season demons to become the quarterback everyone covets (Drew Tate). Remember, 2004 was only Stocco’s second playing year. He could be just fine, if the mostly new offensive (returning starters at key positions, center and left tackle) line reloads with 300 pounders like it usually does. 7) Running back Booker Stanley’s suspension was commuted to a wrist slap. If I were passing sentence, I would make him watch Herman Boone’s speech in Remember the Titans: "You got anger. That's good. You’re gonna need it. You got aggression. That's even better; you're gonna need that, too. But any little two year old child can throw a fit! Football is about controlling that anger, harnessing that aggression into a team effort to achieve perfection!" 7) Returning back to watch: FB Matt Bernstein, a bruiser with a lot of heart. 8) Defense lost a lot. Linebackers could be the bright spot, but it’s a lot easier to look good at backer with a dominating d-line. UW’s dominating d-line will be playing on Sundays. Quick thoughts on the NBA: 1) I have to admit, I actually have some. 2) What I watched was good basketball. I was pleasantly shocked to see passing, pick setting and believable defense. The Pistons had a few runs that were downright beautiful. Downright basketball. They made me forget that pro basketball is an individual sport. 3) Though I was pulling for Detroit, it was fun to see Tim Duncan take control of Game 7 and the MVP trophy, after Bill Walton, who has about a third the insight one might expect from a former player, raked him over the pregame coals. 4) Most remarkable, after the Sox’s World Series and Patriots’s Super Bowl wins is that the title was not won by the Celtics. 5) Seemingly good No. 1 pick by the Bucks in Andrew Bogut. International players are the hot stock of the decade. (I’m thinking of getting one in my portfolio.) My biggest question: Can (will) the Bucks afford Bogut? 6) Can Mike Wilkinson play in the NBA? Sure. Why not? Will he? If they can afford him. I got more stuff, but you should really get off the computer now and get out there and enjoy this 80 degree day. I recommend watering and fertilizing your lawns so that you can waste precious hours cutting fields of rapidly-growing, useless nonedible plants. Me? I’m selling my mower and installing synthetic turf. I would have done it sooner, but I didn’t want to blow out my ACL while gardening. The new turfs should all but eliminate that risk. Speaking of lawns, did you see Wimbledon? The picture on the cottage television was fuzzy, also known as extra low definition, but I was able to see enough to appreciate the main difference between me and Roger Federer: He can beat Andy Roddick in straight sets and I can’t. The state of men’s professional tennis could be summed up like this: Roddick is getting better; Federer is getting betterer. What really fascinates me about Wimbledon is that it is played on grass, which means that grass is not completely useless after all. Tennis on grass is kind of weird, isn’t it? Not only that, but the French Open is played on clay, the stuff used to make pots, right? So I was thinking, maybe the USTA ought to get together with the PGA and come up with some different surfaces for some of golf’s major tournaments. I would start with the U.S. Open sponsored by Sam’s Club and played in the parking lot of a Sam’s Club. I would definitely water the greens before each round. Later on, the Masters, at appropriately-named Cobblestone Acres, then the PGA at Daytona Beach, on Daytona Beach. On second thought, scratch that; there is nothing novel about sand in golf, especially as I remember playing the sport. Other surfaces worthy of consideration: ice (hockey’s timely demise noted), shredded bark mulch, hardwood, pea gravel and Tyvek. A greater diversity of playing surfaces could revitalize the game. Really done now. I’ll get back to you in a few weeks when the leaves start to turn. ______________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column, written at wholly unreliable intervals, for select readers who crave excellence in sportswriting, but are willing to settle for less as long as it’s free. The author apologizes to the fictional Jim Smith, portrayed above, for his parents giving him such a plain name, and to the real, wealthy, debonaire, Havard Law School-trained Jim Smiths, whose names do not appear anywhere in this issue, for any confusion that might lead to a costly lawsuit which can never be won by the plaintiff because of this disclaimer which is carefully disguised, yet legally (nothing but) iron clad. The author receives no financial, material or emotional support from DuPont®, the maker of Tyvek and future manufacturer of Bite! Me® granite fairways and putting surfaces. This Independence Day issue is dedicated to the men and women serving in our armed forces, with wishes for strength of minds and bodies, successes of missions and for safe returns to the land of freedoms that we too often take for granted. ©2005 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved.