So just what are they thinking away?

The other day, I heard Sammy Davis' song "Talk to the Animals" on the radio. The song is nonsense, of course. But I found myself wondering if they could talk, what would animals say?

Take this morning, for example. The Happy Dog and I were taking our usual stroll through the neighborhood. The colors are turning quickly this week. That means leaves are falling, too. When that happens, The Happy Dog's nose goes into overdrive. He was sniffing, pooping and peeing up a storm this morning. I found myself wondering just what the hell is going on in that mind of his anyway. At one point, he suddenly veered off the sidewalk into the street to smell what looked like a tiny leaf. The Happy Dog checked it out from all angles before he was satisfied. We resumed walking for about 10 feet when he suddenly stopped and headed back to the leaf. After sniffing it again, he fired and scored a direct hit.

Question: Why did he return?

Answer: He didn't say. But he sure looked happy about it.

As we continued enjoying the sun, I was suddenly aware of a noise in front of me. It was a squirrel chattering excitedly. Nobody else was around. I saw no nests anywhere. The Happy Dog looked up in surprise and growled under his breath. I had the impression they were having some type of conversation about something. But it reminded me of high school Latin class. I had no idea what the hell was going on.

I would have liked to ask The Happy Dog to explain himself a bit when he does such things. There are other curiosities I wish I understood. One of my favorites is the Phantom Pee. In the winter (when there is snow on the ground), he gets busted on this. Now I can only suspect why he stopped, lifted his leg and nothing appears to come out.

There were other oddities today. We have a small woodpecker who makes cameo appearances in the neighborhood. This morning, he was perched on a telephone pole. But he wasn't pecking. He seemed to be staring at something. When I went a little farther, I saw it was a squirrel in a nearby tree. I can't imagine he envisioned this as his breakfast. I wish I knew what was going on there.

As we were finishing our stroll, I was suddenly aware of rustling in a nearby yard. I looked in surprise to see a rabbit (at least I THINK it was a rabbit) in hot pursuit of a cat. I had never seen such a thing before. I wondered whether the cat grabbed something the rabbit had found because (in my brief glance) it seemed like something was sticking out of the edge of his mouth. The cat streaked past us and shot across Grotto St. at warp speed. The rabbit suddenly stopped on the sidewalk as if to watch out for cars. By the time (s) he looked up again, the cat was long gone. At this juncture, The Happy Dog suddenly spotted the rabbit and was interested in joining the chase. I grabbed the leash as hard as I could to stop this idea and received a nasty, angry look in return. The rabbit, not taking any chances, bolted into a nearby yard and was gone in a flash. The Happy Dog was not thrilled with me and promptly sat down on the sidewalk. He needed a solid reminder to get moving again.

Once home, he didn't even stay for his customary treat. Instead, he zipped to the back door and wanted to get back outside. Again, I would have loved to ask him what was the problem.

Like kids, our animals seem to forget their woes easily. The Happy Dog returned to form an hour later when out friend Steph came by to drop some stuff off. The Happy Dog knows Steph loves him but doesn't like dog kisses. Still, he tries to sneak one in when he can. Normally, it doesn't work. Today, however, he slipped one in and then romped happily into the back yard. I suspect he was quite pleased with himself.

Sammy had it right. I wish we could converse with our animals. I suspect we might not like everything we hear. But we would learn some things.

Farewell to summer

It was so cold Sunday morning that I was forced to turn on the heat for a couple of hours. By mid-day, however, the sun was shining brightly and it was time to open all the windows. Unfortunately, I couldn't do that. I was in the midst of my final battle of the summer with a longtime foe/rival/comrade -- the golf course.

For reasons I can't exactly say, I enjoy playing golf. It is a mysterious game in many ways. I know some guys who look very unathletic but can hit a ball 300 yards and not break a sweat. I also know some folks who are superb athletes who couldn't make a three-foot putt if their life depended on it.

I am basically in the latter category ... minus the superb athlete part.

If I break 100 for 18 holes (or 50 for nine), it is a terrific day in North America. Most days start out like yesterday. I was playing in a tournament organized by my neighbor. The format is unique. He makes four level of players. The A level are the guys with the lowest handicaps, followed by B, C and D players. Us 30 handicapper types take out seats at the back of the bus. Then he does a draw to make sure each four-player team has one guy from each level.

Out we go to do battle. Unlike a lot of tournaments where it is either a scramble (everybody hits shots but you only keep one score) or a best-ball format, we keep the top three scores on each hold here. What inevitably happens is that a hack like me will find water in the desert at some point. After several holes of miserable drives, horrendous chips and laughably bad putts, I suddenly found a rhythm.

Okay, it wasn't exactly the type of stuff you see on network TV. It was only a bogey instead of a double bogey. Later, I strung together a hot run of bogey-par-bogey-par-bogey. My timing was good. One of the pars came on a hole when our A player dumped a ball into a forest. My rare moment of mediocrity saved the score for the hole. (Unable to stand prosperity, I reverted to form and contributed a snowman -- that's an 8 for non-golfers -- down the stretch. Fortunately, my partners were up to the cause on that hole and my score -- complete with a four putt effort from 10 feet away -- was dutifully ignored.)

When all was said and done, we had managed to team up at the right time and ended up winning the tournament. My final score of 102 was perfectly within my usual standards. There were a lot of people who scored better and even a few who scored worse.

In the end, I have to remind myself that scoring isn't the most important thing when on the golf course. Oh, we all have out competitive moments. Yesterday, I stared disgustedly and muttered "Sacre bleu" (or some such thing) after a second consecutive two-foot putt curved away from the hole. My mood improved considerably on the next hole when I rolled in a nifty 15-footer to save a par. It's that kind of game.

No, what golf is to me is simply an extension of summer. I am not a fan of winter play. I don't have a desire to wear a parka when I am putting. I am simply not good enough to put up with trying to hit a drive 200 yards while wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Golf is spending time away from your troubles. It is blanking out cell phones and not worrying about when you are going to cut the lawn. It is walking and chatting with friends and enjoying sunshine. It is a spa without the hot water circling around you.

As we head towards October here in the heartland, the time has come to put the clubs in their winter home. If we lived in Las Vegas, I might be a better golfer because I would probably play more. But I don't necessarily know if I would enjoy it more.

When I got up yesterday morning and saw frost on the windshield, I wasn't at all sure that playing golf was a good idea. My first three or four holes were dreadful and extremely unfun to play. Then I remembered why I was there. I simply relaxed, enjoyed making jokes and telling stories with my partners, and (not uncoincidentally) played a little better. I began to enjoy what may be the last great weather Sunday of the year around these parts. I couldn't imagine a better way to spend it.

But now that it is done, I am okay with putting the weapons away and moving on. The memory of the sunny Sunday is enough to get me through the next six months.

At least I hope so.

I meet myself

I write what is supposed to be the sports column for the Villager newspaper in St. Paul. Most of the time, I deal with games and the people who play them. Every now and then, however, my editor gives me a little leeway to veer off base a bit. This is one of those times.

This is the column I will be running next week. It was one of the most extraordinary experiences I have ever had.

One of Rod Serling’s best efforts in the old “Twilight Zone” series was a tale about a fellow returning to the city where he grew up. In the show, Gig Young played an unhappy New York City ad executive who said he just needed to get away from the hubbub of the big city and return to the town where he grew up. He finds himself at a gas station about a mile away and decides to walk to his old town. As only Serling could present it, Young finds himself transported back in time to when he was a boy. At one point, he sees himself as a 10-year old carving his name into a post.

It has long been considered one of Serling’s top literary efforts but it clearly was intended as a fantasy. At least I thought so until the other day. Now I am not so sure.

Read on and decide for yourself.

It started on a sunny Saturday in Stillwater. I was there for a booksigning of my tome “162-0”, the historical fantasy of how the Minnesota Twins mange a perfect season. A young fellow sat down on the chair opposite me with a book in hand.

“Would you like to me autograph that for you?” I asked.

He nodded his head shyly.

“What’s your name?” I asked.“Ari,” he replied softly. After a couple of hard seconds of thought, he added, “I am a baseball fan.”

Turned out Ari was slightly more than a baseball fan. He is a pitcher and a first baseman for a team called the Minneapolis Millers. “I’m better at pitching, though,” he said. “I’m not that good of a hitter.”

“Do you want to be a ballplayer when you grow up?” I asked. “Either that or an announcer. That’s where some guys go when they aren’t good enough to play anymore,” he said.

“Do you have a favorite pitcher?” I asked, expecting to hear him say Francisco Liriano, Nick Blackburn or some other members of the Twins’ staff.

“Jon Lester,” came the reply. “I’m lefthanded like he is. But the real reason I like him is because he has beaten back cancer.” The idea that a young boy knew would even use the term “beaten back cancer” threw me a bit. The fact that this fellow knew this was even more surprising. Ari, however, was just warming up. “I’m a Red Sox fan,” he said proudly. “I like the way they play the game.”

And so it went for the next half hour or so. Ari allowed that he also liked the way the Twins play. “They’re ahead 4-2 today,” he informed me. “Valencia hit a home run.” That particular fact had occurred roughly five minutes before I entered the store.

There was only one way Ari could have known this. “So your mom lets you listen to ballgames on the radio in the car,” I said.
Ari nodded. “We have a deal,” he explained. “When my sister and I are in the car with mom, I get to listen to the ball game one way and she gets to hear her music the other way.”

“How is it you got to listen to the game coming out here today?” I asked.

“My sister didn’t realize the game will be over by the time we get back to the car,” Ari replied.

Later in the conversation, Ari showed himself to be a true Red Sox fan. “I don’t like the way the Yankees always buy their players,” he said. “But what about (Derek) Jeter, (Jorge) Posada and (Mariano) Rivera?” I protested. “They came up through their system.”Ari fixed an evil eye in return. “That was a long time ago,” he replied. “They stopped doing that.”

The conversation continued. “What do you think of the Twins’ playoff chances this year?” I asked. Ari pondered this for a minute. “They’ll do fine if they can get a lead into the seventh innings. They have enough closers to take them home from there. I’m not sure about some of those starters, though. They got enough hitting, though.”

Now it was Ari’s turn to ask questions. “Do you think Gonzalez will win the Triple Crown?” he asked. I looked up in surprise. There may not be 500 people in Minnesota who know who the hell Carlos Gonzalez is or the fact he plays for the Colorado Rockies. But this kid not only knew that but he was aware he has an outside chance to become the first National League in 73 years to win the batting, home run and RBI titles.

“I don’t think he can catch (Albert) Pujols for the home run lead,” I said. (At the time, Pujols led him by six.) Ari conceded the point. “Probably not,” he said. “He is striking out more than before.”

I looked it up. Gonzalez already 25 more whiffs than last year. This kid is pretty good.

I decided to try one last gambit. “My wife and her sister are going to Las Vegas next week,” I said. “Who should they bet on?”
The reply came back rapidfire. “The Phillies probably have the best club (in the National League) but Cincinnati is a good bet,” my new-found sage said.

“Who do you like in the American League?” I asked. Ari made a face. “Well, the Yankees have the most talent,” he sighed. Looking directly at my sister-in-law, he added, “But you’ll get better odds on the Twins. And they could win it if their pitching holds up.”

I wondered how in the world this boy, who said he was 10, showed more wisdom than some adults I know. I resolved to find out why. “Ari, when I was a kid, I used to scan the boxscores in the paper for all the games,” I said. “Do you do that?”
“No,” he said. “I go online to mlb.com every day.” (Silently, I thought to myself it was a good thing the internet and cable TV wasn’t around when I was his age. My mother might have lost her mind.)

A tall woman suddenly stood behind Ari’s chair. It was his mother, who signaled it was time to move on. “You have a terrific son,” I said to her. “We’ve been having a lot of fun talking baseball.” Ari’s mom smiled, “He has a lot of passion.”

I told her that my wife once asked me how was it that I could name the starting lineup of the 1961 Detroit Tigers but would forget to take out the trash. My reply wasn’t very helpful: “I don’t have a passion for the trash.”

Ari said his goodbyes. I told him if he ever wrote a book to let me know. I wanted an autographed copy. His mother smiled again. “He’ll remember,” she said. “He remembers everything about baseball.” As Ari walked out the door, I found myself flashing back to the memory of a young boy who once patiently explained to his mother why the Detroit Tigers were nuts to trade away Charley Maxwell for a guy named Bob Farley.

I turned to my sister-in-law, who had watched this conversation with appropriate bemusement. “I think I just met myself at age 10,” I said, somewhat in awe.

My sister-in-law smiled, “I hope you were that polite. Did you notice how he looked you in the eye when he talked?” I sighed in response, “My mother used to tell me to do that. Come to think of it, your sister tells me to do that now. Glad to see I’m getting better at it.”

Lion legacy lives on

I was attending an afternoon dinner at Mancini's when I got a text from my friend Steph.

"Your team just got robbed."

I wandered out to the bar where the NFL games were being shown. The poor Detroit Lions -- my longtime, long-suffering home team had been putting up a stiff fight in their season opener at Chicago, a game that was being shown on local television. Something awful must have happened to them at the end to cause somebody to send me a text like that.

But the TV showed the Packers playing at Philadelphia. I approached the bartender. "How did the Lion game end up?", I asked. The bartender made a face. "It was awful - maybe the worst thing I have ever seen."

Back story:

In their history, the Lions have lost games in just about every way possible. There was a game when Errol Mann missed seven field goals in a three-point loss to the Vikings. On another occasion, the Lions seemed poised to record a rare win at Met Stadium against the Vikings. All Mann had to do was hit a short field goal on the last play of the game. Instead, the kick was blocked.

Another loss on the books.

There was that dreary day in New Orleans in 1970 when Tom Dempsey -- he of the half right foot, kicked a NFL record 63-yard field goal on the last play of the game. Curses. Foiled again.

(Somehow, that Lion team made the playoffs. They held a very good Dallas team to one field goal all game. Unfortunately, they never scored themselves and gave up a safety for a weird 5-0 loss.)

The next year, real tragedy struck. Chuck Hughes, a rarely used wide receiver, had caught a pass as part of a late rally against the Bears. Then, he ran a pattern on a play he wasn't involved in. He suddenly fell at the feet of Dick Butkus, the monster linebacker for the Bears.

Dead. Heart attack at age 26. The doctor who did the autopsy said he had the heart of a 70-year old man. Unbelievable.

So what could have possibly happened this time? Nobody could quite describe it at Mancini's. The best I got was Detroit had a TD taken away in the final minute.

An hour later, my wife and I headed to out favorite local saloon to meet friends.

"You better sit down first," Steph said.

"You're not going to believe this one," said Billy Leitner, the genial proprietor of the place.

"You're going to need a Grand Marnier," said Sharon Kelly, the best waitserver in town who works at O'Gara's and Billy's place and is my partner in a weekly pool.

Slowly, the story began to emerge. Turns out Matthew Stafford, the QB who was given a ton of cash and was starting to show stuff, went out with an injury in the first half. Despite that (and being outgained by nearly 300 yards), it appeared Detroit had finally stole a game on the road when Calvin Johnson made a terrific catch in the corner of the end zone with seconds remaining.

Alas, after falling to the ground, Johnson rolled over and the ball came out of his hand. After a lengthy review, it was decided this really was not a catch because, the referee said " He didn't finish the process."

What the hell did that mean? Steph, Billy and Sharon tried mightily to explain it to me. As one of only two Lions fans they know, they did their best to comfort me. After three drinks, however, the explanations made less and less sense. The only logical thing seemed to me to go home and find this play on line somewhere.

We did just that. After viewing it a few dozen times, I have decided the following:

1) The referee's explanation was (at the time, and still is) utter nonsense. Johnson caught the ball. After doing so, he falls on his butt and his knees. It was roughly 3-4 seconds later that the ball did come out of Johnson's hand. Had this play happened at midfield, nobody would have ever said a word.

2) The NFL simply doesn't give a rip about teams that don't help them much. This is a league based on marketing first and foremost. That means the glamor teams get the spotlight and the majority of the calls. This isn't a conspiracy rant. It is a simple fact. The NFL is only interested in the teams that will get them big ratings on TV and, hence, more money down the line from the networks. Clubs like the Lions are simply collateral material to the league.

3) Had this play occurred to, say, the Cowboys or Patriots, the league would have simply gulped hard and moved on. Yes, the NFL knows the Cowboys will lose occasionally as happened last night. (Yes, there was a key penalty at the end of last night's game on Dallas. But the foul was so flagrant that Ray Charles would have called it.)

4) The Lions are definitely the most cursed team in the NFL. This play simply couldn't have occurred to anybody else.

A day later, all a fellow can do is shake his head, sigh and move on. The word today is that Stafford has a shoulder injury and may be out of action for several weeks.

Can't imagine what will happen to them next week.

Doing battle with a weedwhacker

It sounded like a simple task. My wife asked to go get a line installed for our weedwhacker. Instead of getting down on my hands and knees and clipping the loose grass strains, I would simply install the line into something we already had (but rarely used) and let nature take its course.

Our friend Steph reported great success using it when she stayed at our house a while back.

What could be simpler?

Getting right kind of wire for the Black and Decker Grass Hog Type 3 (its formal name) was no problem. The thing uses something that is slightly stronger and a little thicker than fishing line. Price was okay ($4.99) and the nice man at the hardware store showed how to unscrew the lid and install the wire.

Alas, I didn't get around to actually doing it until some 21 hours later. By then, I had forgotten a few things.

First, the good news. I did manage to get the lid off.

Then, it was a matter of placing the wire through a tiny slot and then wrapping it around the small wheel. I remembered the guy at the hardware store said not to use too much wire - just enough for 3 or 4 rotations. Only problem was that was a little hard to gauge. I ended up with enough wire for five or six rotations. But since I didn't want to waste any wire, I used it all.

When you have big fingers, threading a wire through a narrow hole isn't easy to do. After about a dozen false tries, however, success was achieved. The next problem was wrapping the wire around the spool. Easier said than done. Seems the wire is pretty stiff and simply wouldn't stay in place.

No problem, I thought. I would simply bend it under the first trip around the dial. Well, that worked wonderfully until ... I discovered I had wrapped the wire so tight that I could not place it through the tiny eyesocket so it actually could whack grass.

One broken fingernail later, I had undone what my first effort. I repeated the procedure but left enough wire to easily get through the eyesocket.

I went to work clipping grass at a glorious, brisk pace ... for about 15 seconds. That is all it took for the line to evaporate into thin air.

You see, the line was simply supposed to basically let itself out when needed -- much like what happens with a fishing reel.. But it can't do that when the guy who put it together wrapped the line tightly under another strand. When I unscrewed the cap to check this problem out, the whole thing - line, wheel and the mechanism holding it all together -- popped out. This surprised me so much I also dropped the whacker. Pete, the Happy Dog, was watching closely.

Damn near too closely.

Whacker missed him by about a foot. (Granted, the thing is made out of plastic. Still, that would have hurt.) Pete wisely bolted for the back of the yard and stayed there for 10 minutes or so.

Fortunately, plastic doesn't break easily. I was able to put everything back together. Cut some more line, gave it enough slack around the wheel and confidently place a new line in the eyesocket. Started things up and went back to work.

We have a series of rocks that line our backyard. Getting between them to extinguish strands of grass the mower missed requires deft, patience and agility. On this day, I was only lacking three of those qualities. The line kept bouncing off the rocks and missing its target. In an attempt to get closer and hit just the right angle, I stepped on the long cord that had been plugged in to get my whacker its needed juice. (it's an electric thing)

Cord went one way. I went another and the whacker headed in a third direction. Fortunately, Pete had retreated to a different corner to watch the proceedings.

We gathered everything up and tried to restart. Only I had stepped on the cord so hard that I bent the plug. Couldn't bend it back with my hands so I tried a pliers. That helped but it still couldn't fit the hole. So I went in the garage and got a hammer. One good whack later, the plug was as straight as ever and we proceeded back to work.

This time, things fared better. The line worked like a charm. I stayed away from stepping on the cord. Shortly thereafter, mission accomplished.

All in all, I spent about 75 minutes on this project. Roughly 10 of those minutes were used to do the actual cutting of the loose grass.

Can't wait until I try to use the snow blower.