I am not going to give
I've made some pretty good calls -- I mean, I knew
You know the one. "
So take your shots now, folks, while you still can, because I promise you, in the future there will only be a vision of me as a fleeting creature of the night.
• First up,
OK, I don't know how much they liked
I'll give you this -- I might have been too hasty in judging top draft pick, OT
• Next ripper, step right up, don't be bashful.
Sorry you don't like what I wrote. I'm quoting from my piece in Sports Illustrated now, under the heading of Drafting For Need, And What's Wrong With That? "To beat the Colts, you have to get at
• OK, have you finished? No? You over there, lounging in the doorway, let's hear what you have to say for yourself. "How can you, staunch defender of men in the trenches that you are," writes
Again, I'll indulge in a practice that's always bothered me, quoting myself, and I swear, this is the last time I'll do it. My capsule on Denver on our Web site: "
Yo Dave! The Olympic flame is on its way to China, and what will they call the guy who has to transport it down the Yangtsee River? The Chinese Water Torcher. I made that one up myself.
"It reads like it," says the
• OK, bring on your worst,
OK, so far so good. How about you, yeah you, with the porkpie hat and the toothpick between your teeth. Your name is what?
"Why are you such an idiot?"
A fair question. You see, when my mother was eight months pregnant, there was this electrical storm, and...
"Oh, for God's sake, it's not a question to be answered," says the Flaming Redhead, rudely interrupting this elevating dialogue. "It's rhetorical, see, rhe-tor-i-cal."
Oh, an idiot, huh? Think that's funny, do you, Ryan? Who you calling an idiot? Do you know that in grade school I was so smart they called me Bright Paul? Huh? Do you? DO YOU?
• OK, Linda, I'll move on. Who's the next reader to misinterpret my remarks. I see
Congratulations, Scott, you hit it right on the nose. Here's what I wrote. "The deal is that if he catches on in an NFL camp, he doesn't have to report to active service, which most likely includes Iraq. Tell me, please, the coach who would be evil enough to cut him?"
"I thought you weren't going to quote yourself anymore?" my loyal wife reminds me. Just this one time, OK? Once, when I was starting out in this business, I was told by an old timer, "Two topics you don't mess with. Religion and the military." And I messed with the military, made a kind of joke of it, played it light, and look what happened. Scott, a taxpayer and solid citizen, is sacrificing his hypothetical son (they're the worst kind) so Caleb can bust wedges on Sunday. I can't begin to tell you how ashamed I am. So I won't.
• Dominic, my new selector of e-mail entries, you really have outdone yourself in your attempt to drive SI.com's faithful narrator insane. I need one more to push me over the edge, and you've found it.
• You know something, I think that does it. Dominic's Gallery of Rippers has departed, seeking new tortures, and calm has returned.
• Not exactly a draft question, but
"Why so many haters of the Bears' draft?" asks
• You know something? I think we've finally broken free from draft questions. And I feel like kissing the ground, like a coal miner who finally lands a job topside.
If you're the organizer, you'll have to be the recorder as well. Have them tell you, in advance, what wine, or two if they can afford it, they'll be bringing, and check them off against a master sheet, so two people won't bring the same thing. If you do it right, and you can find a store or stores with wide varieties, and if you round up, say, 10 people, then you'll have a tasting of 10 or 20 wines of the same variety, and you've got a real event going.
Make sure everyone takes notes. Try to train yourself to spit the wines, rather than swallowing each one. There are no taste buds in your throat, and afterward you can socialize and drink a glass or two. Discuss the wines. Write down the various comments. Now you're into record keeping, and you'd be surprised at how valuable all this will be in the future, especially when you're reading all the bullsh....uh, all the hokum fed to you by the various experts.
• I'm saving my e-mailer of the week for last.
Oh man, does this bring back memories. Midnight, and exams loom for the following day, and all of a sudden I've got to try to fix the clock that's been broken for two years. Or compile a list of every state I've been in, and how I rate them. Mikil, do your parents know that right now instead of cramming in the knowledge, you're pestering some unbalanced writer about the number of men on a team?
OK, brother, I feel for you. Let's get this out of the way quickly. In the murky past they played a brutal game called Mob Football, which could have any number of participants. Early American football was played with 15 on a side, rugby style, and then in 1878,