Nothing But Iron: Change of Seasons by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W. August 22, 2006 Just a reminder for those of you who, in the wake of another writing off season, have forgotten me: I would rather watch Ted Thompson sign papers at his desk, than endure a preseason exhibition football game. As a not-so-proud owner of a fistful of $54 pre-season Packers tickets, I have a paying customer’s right to that opinion. At least these worthless tickets are Packers worthless tickets, which gives them value to a lot of people. Call me if you are those people. I can buy a lot of composted manure with $54, and I will. If you are looking for predictions about the tangible football season, I tell you this: I don’t know. Actually, that is a lie. I do know, but I won’t tell you for free. You can, however, access my credit-card enablable (en-ABE-la-bul) part of the web site (www.ripuoff.nothingbutiron.com) for $19.95 for the first 60 seconds and $19.95 per minute thereafter (ideal for speed readers), and I will enlighten you so you can wager with confidence and populate your fantasy teams with uncommon self assurance. For free I can tell you that I admire Brett Favre’s attitude toward his young, potentially talented team. Faith and persistence are part of Favre’s greatness. I believe him when he says, almost in the same breathe that is about to be knocked out of him by a blitzing 6th-rounder trying to earn a roster spot, that he believes in his team. I also believe State Journal columnist Tom Oates, when he says that success may be slow in coming. In other words, Favre might be a Hall of Fame inductee by the time the organization again reaches prominence. When I look at the details of Thompson’s rebuilding, which I have assimilated far too haphazardly to warrant serious pontificating, I get the feeling that he’s going about it in a sensible, concrete-before-cabinetry manner. As much as I would like to see Favre be the second coming of John Elway, I understand and support the virtues of patience. Even as part of a rebuilding process, this season should be better than the last. Then again, how could it not be? Thankfully college football lacks an exhibition season, though some critics might argue otherwise for UW’s seemingly soft non-conference schedule. That doesn’t mean college is without its preseason stupidity. Ohio State is ranked No. 1 in the nation, which has to be a terrific honor, given that the Buckeyes have yet to play against another team. One astute writer pointed out that the Buckeyes have never "won the national championship" after being ranked No. 1 in preseason polls. Oh. In closely related news, the 15-day forecast on randomcast.com calls for a high temperature of 86 and a 20% chance of precipitation on September 4. Winds could be out of the southwest at 10-15 m.p.h. At least we know for sure there will be some kind of weather in 15 days. The same cannot be said of a college football champion at the end of football season. If you want a better prognostic indicator, you need only look to the west, where the Iowa Hawkeyes are in the midst of renovating Knick Knack Stadium. New construction does not confer an advantage, however, the Hawkeyes have the total package this year, complete with a renewed focus on getting fans up for games–multiple puns intended, as you will see from the photo, courtesy of the ever-observant Eric Evans who noticed this construction sign on the way to work. I am dying to hear the corporate slogan.   What happens when you mix bird feed with Viagra? The big (really big) news is that the Badgers have a big offensive line. That’s a joke, of course, because the offensive line here has been big since about 1848, when Wisconsin first got a star on the United States flag. Don’t you wonder where all these 315-pound kids come from? Don’t you wonder how they make 260-pound kids into 315-pound kids? (Yeah, diet and weight lifting.) Don’t you wonder how a 315-pound kid balances himself on one of those tiny little motor scooters? It is good that the line is really big, because standout senior QB John Stocco, who lost his entire receiving corps to graduation, who has no discernable backfield mates to share the attention of defenses and who, by the way, had knee surgery last week, will need protection. All of these on-paper challenges mean nothing in mid-August, because, in sports things happen that are not expectable (ex-PEK-ta-bul), and, in the case of this year’s on-paper Badgers, that is an encouraging thought. It could be, for example, that defense and special teams will carry the offense until it discovers its identity as a unit contending for a conference title. Yeah, you heard it here first. The good news is that none of you will take the time to remember that silly prediction, unless it comes true and I remind you four or five or six times in November by quoting myself. I get a feeling that we Badgers fans will(perhaps even soon) be very happy with Bret Bielema, as Barry Alvarez’s successor, especially after the latter consents to laser surgery to remove a certain yellow bird tattoo from his butt (at least that’s where I imagine its location). I would be glad to offer him free anesthesia. Tattoos aside, I hear nothing but good commentary from people who know Bielema, which suggests he has already surpassed his predecessor in approachability. Last winter I met the coach in a parking lot. He graciously took a few minutes to talk to me, and I did not get a sense he was annoyed by the intrusion of me having said hello. Maybe I have spent too much time around Bo Ryan, but I think in this business, which is very much the business of convincing good players to enroll in one’s athletic program, personality counts. That is not meant to downplay the historic accomplishments of Alvarez, whose on-field successes made him well worthy of his popularity, but I have to admit it’s a whole lot more fun to cheer for a people person. Perhaps the story of AD Alvarez as Pat Richter’s successor will prove to be even more interesting than the coaching change. (Stay tuned Iowa State AD Jamie Pollard.) Closer to home is the football season of my youngest son Connor. He decided to play tackle this year. Seeing one’s son walk off the field in shoulder pads, helmet in hand, for the first time is a milestone not unlike crawling, walking or riding a bicycle. The image is like a helmet to the chest: he’s not a kid much longer. If I were openly emotional, I would confide to you that this gets me a little, but you’ll have to settle for a dry-eyed, hey, I can take it. Seeing Connor in pads brings back memories of my own football playing days in ancient times when Nike was just a goddess who aspired to be a corporate giant: two-a-day practices in blistering heat, feeling pain where I didn’t even know I had nerves, the smell of stale sweat, bruised shins and forearms, bloody cleat marks on the tops of my hands, a broken nose, seeing stars in broad daylight and the best taste in the whole world–Kool-aid ice cubes after running laps around the back-stop. What I don’t remember was $80 receiver gloves (in fact, we used the skin on our naked hands to catch passes) and $100 football shoes–Click-Clack, goes the glitzy Under Amour ad. Connor knows me well enough that he wouldn’t bother to ask for $80 gloves if it were 50 below zero in January, but he was convinced that Click-Clack was essential to optimal performance (translation: optimal style). The $60 shoes looked just fine to me and I’m sure they made same click-clack, only not capitalized and registered as a trademark. I argued that it was his first year in pads; he didn’t even know if he would like tackle football. He persisted, so, at risk of wounding his confidence, I told him I thought he would be surprised by the hitting. He asked what I meant by that. "I think you’ll be surprised by how much it hurts," I said. My guess is that he’ll get used to the pain like most kids do, and that he will like tackle football just fine, but 13 year-olds these days require tough negotiating strategies. When he realized his out-of-pocket share for the $100 shoes, he settled for a $5 pack of replacement cleats, which he wears on older brother’s shoes from last season. At least for now. Patrick, a sophomore, is not using his cleats because he decided to forego football this year. He made the decision himself, but we were quick to support it. He is strong, leaps well and has good hands, but he is still point-guard sized. In other words, no matter how you pad him, he’s basketball player. As football goes–unless you’re a kicker–body mass makes all the difference. It was a tough decision, with ample second guessing. Even after two weeks of practice has passed him by his friends are telling him he should play. I doubt he will change his mind, even if the coaches allowed it. He loves basketball and has decided to focus instead on this sport, and a little bit of tennis. Moreover, the competition on the football field is nothing compared to that of the classroom. Patrick has some serious studying to do. If I had the kind of competition he does for college admission, I might well be writing sports columns for a living, and rendering people unconscious as an unpaid hobby. Kelly finally got a job in tennis. For years I have been bugging her to teach, but she would just shrug her shoulders and argue that she’s not good enough to teach. I would then remind her that she has had enough lessons to qualify for a tennis PhD at a cost that is slightly below what it will ultimately take to rebuild New Orleans. She would shrug her shoulders. Finally she stopped shrugging her shoulders and volunteered as an assistant coach at Edgewood High School. At first I was a little envious that my wife started in the major leagues of youth coaching, while I spent so many years earning my stripes in the minors of YMCA and grade school basketball leagues played in dimly-lit, closet-sized gyms with hot-lunch-stained tile floors. My envy melted into empathy after she told me about her first practice. Several JV players, including one senior, had never touched a racquet, so the first practice was spent teaching the girls how to touch a racquet. There was a lesson on how to keep score. And one on how to serve. And one on where to stand. And one on when to duck. If you only saw Kelly at traffic lights you might not know this, but she really is a patient person. I can tell she is having a blast, even with the newbies. It was exciting to see her experience what I feel every time I string a whistle around my neck. By the way, I call her Coach K. _____________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column committed to the dissemination of the opinions of the author at unpredictable intervals. This issue is dedicated to Coach K in her inaugural season as a high school tennis coach, and to brother Bruce Lagman who begins a new decade today. ©2006 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved.