In a stunning development that will likely leave Lee Corso and Herb Herbstreit looking like tiny ants waving their itsy-bitty antennae in a desperate bid for attention, the Lord God Himself has broken His silence and declared His allegiance to the University of Alabama and picked the Crimson Tide to repeat as 2010 BCS National Champions.

Long suspected of rocking the Houndstooth beneath the dense billows of smoke and pillar of fire which conceal Him wherever He goes, God came out of the cloud yesterday and ended all speculation as to His true colors (Crimson and White) before the season even started.

In an Ocular Fusion exclusive, special correspondent Mike the Redneck caught up with The Rock of Ages over a few slabs of ribs at Dreamland BBQ in Tuscaloosa last night following His press conference at The Walk of Champions which featured a spectacular bolt of lightening that simultaneously struck the statues of Bear Bryant, Gene Stallings and the spot reserved for the new monument to current Head Coach, Nick Saban.

The Creator of All Things was incognito, sporting a low-slung Bama cap, Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses and a #22 Crimson Tide jersey, and was doing His best to kick back and blend in with the regulars–a difficult task considering His retina-burning luminosity which kept seeping out of His armpits and eye sockets and shooting corona-like laser beams onto the party of four from Eutaw at the next table. [...]

All across the country, parents are reluctantly cutting the umbilical cord and launching their youngin’s into the cold, cruel world.

Of kindergarten and college, that is. I’ve seen the evidence on Facebook: “Oh, ever since (insert beloved child’s name here) was born, I’ve been dreading the day we would send him/her off to kindergarten/college. I can’t believe how time flies!”

The New York Times has weighed in as well, documenting the rise of “parting ceremonies” on college campuses designed to give parents the not-so-subtle hint that it’s time to “hit the road” rather than hang around for a week at a local hotel and show up on campus each morning to escort Little Junior to class to check out the suitability of his professors, not to mention the laundry room to make sure he knows how to insert his “Action Card” into the slot and separate whites from darks.

And if you don’t believe me, listen to this Tweet from a college professor friend of mine at my own alma mater (Hail!): “HU freshmen parents: I know it’s great to be at Harding but please go home. We’ve got it from here.”

For the record, Eyegal and I are not known for being “helicopter parents.” Number One Son has nominated us for the “The Least Involved Parents in the World” award which I’m guessing he meant as a compliment although it looks a little funny at first glance. That translates roughly to “Find your own way, boys, but whatever you do, don’t wake us up at 2:00AM to bail you out of jail.”

So far, we’ve only had one relatively mild violation of that rule.

Two of ours are out of the house and off to college and only boomerang back occasionally to pet the dog and ask for money. Number Three Son is starting to pick up on the hint–probably best conveyed by his parents’ passionate embraces in the kitchen while he begs for dinner–that “ya know we love ya to pieces and all, but this whole ‘empty nest’ thing is sounding better and better so could you step it up please, because your mother and I got plans.” Completely on his own, he decided to enroll in a program that will enable him to take classes at a local community college while finishing up his senior year of high school. If all goes well, he’ll have around 20 hours of credit and a diploma come next May.

Seriously, though, sometimes our kids do need a little help navigating The Road of Life and Eyegal and I are glad to help out and play the parental GPS–from a distance, by cell, text or Skype, and before 10:00PM.

But every now and then, you gotta go all Special Forces and break bad on some heads. [...]

Many people talk–a lot–about their personal faith and how “things ought to be.”

Dr. Tom Little was one of those rare breeds who actually lived what he believed, putting flesh and bones–and blood–to all those words. Rather than yammering on and on until eyes glaze over in “here we go again” ennui, he looked around at the things that were askew and out of balance in the world and then went forth and actually did something about it.

Dr. Little was an optometrist and the leader of a group of medical relief workers in Afghanistan that was mercilessly ambushed and executed in a remote valley north of Kabul recently. The team was working with the Christian relief organization International Assistance Mission and had just completed an eye care clinic for indigent Afghans.

They were a motley crew: Christians of various stripes, local Muslims who were serving as guides and trying to earn extra money for their families, and one unaffiliated “secular humanist,” general surgeon Dr. Karen Woo, who had left behind a cushy job in Great Britain and whose winsome humor, adventuresome spirit and penchant for colorful headscarves were the talk of Kabul–especially among eligible bachelors.

They were returning from their trip when they were tracked down and confronted by one of the armed bands of militants so common in that area of the world. According to Tom’s widow Libby, it wasn’t the first time that had happened. In past instances, Tom and his teams had been able to negotiate, perhaps offering their AK-47-carrying interlocutors some artificial tears to remove the specks of dust from their eyes and conducting an eye clinic right there on the spot.

This time they were not as fortunate. Except for one survivor who successfully begged for his life, each was executed, either by bullet or grenade, one by one.  The Taliban claimed responsibility (though no one can be sure), accusing the group of “proselytizing” and “spying,” citing Bibles and “spy gadgets” found in their possession.

I had never really thought of an ophthalmoscope that way before, but I guess there is some truth in it.

Tom Little was no naive idealist or pampered professional out on a little foreign jaunt to relieve his guilt and boredom. He and his wife had moved to Afghanistan in 1970s following seminary training and raised their three daughters there, surviving the Soviet occupation and rise of the Taliban along the way. He became an optometrist in a roundabout, back door sort of way. The son of an ophthalmologist in New York, Little had worked as an optician and learned basic exam techniques in his father’s practice and was naturally drawn to the work at Noor Eye Hospital in Kabul. Over the years, he learned rough and rugged third-world optometry by the seat of his pants. Even without a professional degree, he ironically became a leading “authority” for eye care in Afghanistan.

In his late 50s, Tom Little returned to the United States and enrolled at the New England College of Optometry’s accelerated Advanced Standing International Program in Boston, which is designed to get foreign-trained medical doctors, optometrists and overseas workers “up to speed” with U.S. standards of care. Little received his Doctor of Optometry from NECO in just two years, graduating in 2008, and returned to Afghanistan hoping to use his training to further the breadth and quality of eye care available in that country. He had always been “Dr. Tom” to his grateful patients, but now it was official.

I think it is important to remember Dr. Tom Little, Dr. Karen Woo and the other Westerners and Afghans who together died a lonely and gruesome death, their only “crime” being that they cared for people who could neither see nor attain the even the most basic medical care. They were not all on the same page in matters of religious faith, but they shared a common goal–a love for hurting people and a burning desire to set the world to rights. When their blood spilled, it was all the same color.

Yes, remember them, and consider well this story as we near the end of our long, hot summer of discontent when so many preachers, politicians and pundits, from the comfort of their air-conditioned caves, weigh in on the propriety of an Islamic community center housing a small area of worship, open to all, designed to promote understanding and good will among various faiths, being built near Ground Zero in lower Manhattan.

And know this: There is not a single one of those preachers, politicians and pundits–no not one!–who is worthy enough to kneel and lick the dust and blood from Dr. Tom Little’s boots.

Huntsville police and SWAT teams are currently at the scene of a hostage situation in the Medical District.

An optometrist (OD) employed at an ObamaCare-affiliated medical clinic (the one with the new Death Panel drive-thru window) is apparently fed-up to his eyeballs with all the incessant yik-yak from his patients, the constant sniping and backstabbing from co-workers and the drowning deluge of mind-numbing emails, bureaucratic buzzwords and meaningless acronyms (MNEMBBMA) raining down from his overlords on Mt. Olympus.

The OD–OMe! OMy!–has apparently quit his job and gone optical.

Police will identify him only as “Mike the Eyeguy.” According to a department spokesperson, Dr. Eyeguy has apparently been showing several signs of cracking recently. Area opticians have told police that over the past few weeks he has been transposing “minus” signs for “plus” signs, and vice versa, resulting in blurry eyeglasses and a spike in Huntsville metro area traffic accidents. In addition, other local eye doctors and health department officials have noted a recent epidemic of permanently-crossed “googly eyes” resulting from Coke-bottle lenses allegedly prescribed by Dr. Eyeguy.

One patient even said that when he complained about the blinding brightness of the light on the examining scope, the rogue OD, who was frothing at the mouth and quietly humming nursery rhymes to himself, turned the illumination dial all the way up to “11″ and suddenly erupted into peals of “BWAHAHAHA” evil scientist laughter.

Early reports indicate that when this morning’s first patient, who already had crystal clear, better-than-perfect 20/10 X-ray vision in both eyes to begin with, complained to the OD in a small, grating voice which sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard that his vision “still just wasn’t quiiite good enough” and commanded him to fix it “NOW!”, something snapped.  The OD has now taken several hostages and is reportedly threatening to use industrial-strength dilating drops and send them out into the bright sunlight without those little cheap, flimsy paper sunglasses.

In a rambling manifesto posted on Youtube, “Mike the Eyeguy” aired his grievances. The following is a portion of the transcript from that broadcast: [...]

I’ve noticed a certain online phenomenon which seems to be on the rise along with the afternoon’s triple digit mercury: temperature taunting.

Temperature taunting occurs when friends in more moderate summer climes such as Seattle, New Hampshire, Michigan or Malibu post some ironic and sarcastic taunt on their blogs, Facebook or Twitter pages about how “godawful” their high-70s/low 80s/low humidity weather is and “However are we going to survive this heat wave?” or some such nonsense. If it were football season (and yes, Roll Tide, our boys reported for practice yesterday), these so-called “friends” would be flagged for a 15 yard penalty and loss of down.

I can think of several two-word retorts in reply to such contemptuous and gratuitous provocations, none of which I can publish here since this is a PG-13 blog (most of the time). But suffice it to say, we Southerners accept, even embrace, being slowly roasted like overcooked beef left too long in a crock pot.  It toughens us up and tempers our souls, burnishing us into a lively and colorful people who serve as rich grist for gritty, gothic stories that become instant New York Times bestsellers. Yankees may not wish to get drunk, sweat, shack-up, make love, marry, divorce, murder and remarry–all the while praying fervently to Jesus–at the same rate as we Southerners, but they do seem to enjoy lining up and paying big bucks to read all about it.

As our young men don their pads and helmets, an older man rolls up the sleeves of his white, long sleeve, pinpoint cotton dress shirt and loosens his skinny black tie at the end of his work day. From time to time, he has glanced out his window and watched the Hispanic landscape workers, their sinewy, well-muscled arms quivering from the violent rattle of mowers and gas-powered trimmers. Occasionally, they reach up and wipe the beads of summer sweat that glisten like small diamonds on their brows and merge into rivulets of rain that run down the creases of their leathery, brown jaws. They never seem to grimace or complain, and he admires their strength and endurance in the face of such hard labor. He reaches up and wipes his fingers across his own brow, finding it to be clean and dry like usual. He wonders if all the doctoring he does in the air-conditioned comfort of his office can truly be considered an “honest day’s work.”

He stands at the back door to the parking lot and hesitates to cross the threshold, knowing full well that when he turns the handle and tugs it will be like dipping his head into a steaming hot tub and drawing a deep breath; the first inhalation of liquid hot air will fill and sear his lungs, nearly drowning him. With a sigh of resignation, he steps into the sultry sauna, head bowed and braced against the brow-beating sun, and scurries quickly across the sizzling asphalt toward his car. It occurs to him during this short walk that perhaps his so-called life is a mere cosmic prank, that he is not really a rational, upright man, but instead a lowly, crawling ant fleeing the intense scrutiny of a mischievous 12-year-old boy with a very large magnifying glass. He parked in the long, morning shade of a large building, but the shadows have long since burned away, and despite leaving the windows and sunroof cracked, the car’s interior is a broiling inferno. The tan, leather upholstery is sun-baked, cracked like a parched desert floor in several places from years of exposure, and he wishes he could roll back the clock to 2002 and opt for the much-cooler cloth.

He sits on the hot seat just long enough to turn the ignition key. After he starts the AC, he steps back outside as the first wave of cooler air begins to push and disperse the heated gas through the open door and windows. A minute or so passes, and he sits back down, feeling the burning leather hermetically seal his back against the bucket seat, and quickly closes the windows and door to trap the cooling atmosphere for the drive home.  Off he goes, turning the car by gingerly touching the scalding, tightly-stretched leather of the steering wheel with the tips of his fingers, hoping it will cool off soon so he can grab onto it like he’s supposed to.

Once home, he parks in the garage and quickly closes the door. He slowly peels his sweat-soaked back from the seat and enters the house. The 25-year-old air conditioning unit is struggling to keep up, but it is still soothingly cool inside. You would think after surviving the drive home that he would quickly strip to his shorts and put on a fresh, white t-shirt, pour himself a cool drink, sit back in his recliner with the remote and call it a day.

But no, our man is not done yet. [...]

They say our stretch of beach was named for the Satsuma oranges that used to grow meekly there until the two consecutive winters of 1927-28 when massive frosts killed them off for good. Now long stretches of the formerly-white sands, which could reflect the sun so brightly they would burn your corneas if you weren’t careful, are marinated in oil. The orange-tinged granules spread like spilled Tang from the entrance of Perdido Bay, ringed off with long lines of floating boom, through Gulf State Park, past Gulf Shores and the stacked rows of new condos and beach homes rebuilt defiantly in the aftermath of Ivan and Katrina’s twin ravagings, and on to Fort Morgan.

And so, to this day, Orange Beach, Alabama remains appropriately named.

Many have hesitated to make their annual pilgrimages to the Gulf Coast in the wake of BP’s Deepwater Horizon oil spill. That much is evident on the first day as we cruise down a practically deserted Perdido Beach Boulevard around 4:00PM and gaze slack-jawed at the nearly-empty condominium and restaurant parking lots, normally overflowing in the middle of July. The missing masses are like the reluctant captains of Admiral David Farragut’s Union fleet as they encountered Confederate mines near Fort Morgan during the Battle of Mobile Bay in 1864. “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead,” Farragut purportedly yelled, urging his frightened flotilla on to victory.

The quote is most likely apocryphal, but we decide to co-opt it anyway. “Darn the oil, full speed ahead!” is our motto, toned down and euphemized a bit to conform to our more clean-cut Church of Christ proclivities. We could have called and threatened to cancel, and they would have immediately offered us a 30% discount. But that didn’t seem fair to mess with those decent, hard-working, put-upon people like that, given the troubles they already had. It would have felt a little like the kind of price gouging that often occurs after a natural disaster, only in reverse.

No, an annual beach trip is like a marriage; it’s on, for better or for worse, through patches of thick, metallic sheen and thin, non-metallic slicks, in both streaming, “rainbow” ribbons and frothy, sunset-red mousse.

Those are the types of descriptors coined by the pilots and crews of the helicopters and blimps that fly in grid-like patterns a few hundred yards off the coast and used in the “Oil Spill Updates” posted daily on the Orange Beach city website. But as I walk out onto my balcony on the first morning, coffee in hand, and scan up and down the coast while squinting against the rising sun, I don’t make those kind of distinctions right away. Oil blends covertly with blue-green surf, and the only thing I know for sure is that “something ain’t right.”

But as my eyes adjust to the light (a good pair of polarized sunglasses helps considerably) and start to observe the morning ritual of “skimming,” I quickly become an expert “spotter” myself.  [...]

When it comes to a sporting event as storied and grand as a World Cup Final played between The Netherlands and Spain, soccer connoisseurs hope for a masterpiece, a Van Gogh or a Picasso, a shimmering jewel of a match to which they can proudly point and proclaim “Behold, tis truly ‘The Beautiful Game!’”

Instead, sometimes all you get is crude, Crayola caveman stick figures sketched on scraps of refrigerator art that are piled on top of one another and held together by kitschy, “See Rock City”-style magnets and always seem to slip and fall into that difficult-to-reach crevice between the counter and the fridge whenever you open the door to get some 1% milk for your morning cereal, only to find that one of your teenage sons has finished off the last of it a few hours before as a 2:00 AM snack. And not only that, the dude ate the last of the brownies.

But that’s okay. Soccer aficionados are used to being disappointed like that. We hope for the best but are always prepared to accept the worst.

And it could have been worse, believe me. It could have gone to penalty kicks.

But fortunately, quiet, understated Spanish attacking center-midfielder Andrés Iniesta waited patiently for 119 minutes–steady, steady–and finally found a sliver of time and space courtesy of substitute Cesc Fábregas’ little laser of a pass. It was a canvas large enough for Iniesta to create his own everlasting piece of art and add some much-needed color to an otherwise drab, ugly affair that at times resembled a pay-per-view mixed martial arts fight more than it did a gallery exhibition.

Holland’s apparent match plan was so crude, even Dutch great Johann Cryuff, creator of that wonderful Houdini two-step that nearly always works even when the defender knows it’s coming, disowned his own country.

I saw one friend comment on Facebook, cogently I thought, that it takes a lot of yellow and red to make orange. Or in this case, Oranje. The Flying Dutchmen knew going in that they would have to play physically in order to interrupt the Spain’s stingy possession. They did so in spades. They will, for a while at least, be known as “The Dirty Dutch.” A mixture of criminal challenges and diving theatrics had center referee Howard Webb, a full-time police sergeant, wishing that he had brought along his cuffs and nightstick to complement his pocketful of yellow and red cards.

Still, Webb was loathe to send off Netherland’s Nigel de Jong with a straight red following his horrible challenge, a stud-filled Kung Fu kick into the chest of Xabi Alonso, and no doubt cool to the idea of making the call that would have decided the match so early. A man-up, Spain would have piled it on at that point.

So when Webb finally finally did show the red to Dutch center-back and defensive stalwart John Heitinga after his light touch on the shoulder of David Villa (¡Bravo!, David, ¡Bravo!), justice was served. It took little time for La Roja to probe and discover the leaky holes in the Holland’s defensive dike, and there weren’t enough Dutch boys left on the pitch at that point to stem the oncoming flood.

Justice. At the end of the day, we soccer aficionados, those of us who wax rapturously, even orgasmically, about “The Beautiful Game,” care deeply about it. Spain, recognized far and wide as the best team in the world in recent years and a pre-tournament favorite, survived a tortuous gauntlet to emerge as rightful Campeones of the World.  ¡Enhorabuena España!, and well done.

We care about justice off the pitch as well. We would prefer that host country South Africa, whose own team played so joyfully and freely that they slew soccer giant and former champion France, who stepped up to the challenge of hosting the World’s Largest Party when many thought it too big a task for its people and resources, be given its appropriate due.

Its right and just reward, unsullied by sons of Hell who would massacre innocents gathered to watch something as benign as a World Cup Final. Yes, we would prefer that cowardly bastards like that receive their just deserts. But we may have to wait until extra time, and then some, before that finally happens.

I can’t help but reflect on a messy, choppy, sometimes artful, sometimes awful affair like this past World Cup Final and consider how it mirrors and tracks my own life. I know that my own 119th minute is coming in some form or fashion. When it does, I hope I can hold the ball–steady, steady–and keep my head about me half as well as Iniesta.

Joga Bonito (“Play Beautiful”), good people.

The following is a talk I gave at the Health Talents International Breakfast, Lipscomb University, Nashville, TN on 7/2/10.

———————————————————————————————————————————-

Thank you for your introduction, Marie.

I’m a little of a Johnny-come-lately when it comes to direct involvement with Health Talents International, but it’s certainly been on my radar for many years. We came to know Marie and Carl Agee through Cahaba Valley Church of Christ during my student days at the UAB School of Optometry in the late 80s. We were a mac & cheese, beans & weenies poor student family back then, especially after Sandy retired from being a full time CPA to take care of our newborn son. So Marie took pity on us and asked her to do a “little accounting” for HTI. A “little” turned into a “lot”—about 16 years worth. Marie has a way of getting the most out of people.

Marie also asked me many times to consider going to Guatemala on an eye care trip, and I kept putting her off.  I felt I had my own mission in Huntsville, which was certainly true, but I finally realized that it is possible to juggle two things at once, and the time came in my life and in my professional career to “shake things up” a bit, so I finally said yes. Remember that woman in the parable who kept knocking on the judge’s door demanding justice? Marie is that woman. Those of you who know Marie know that she is nothing if not persistent. Thanks for being my friend, Marie, and for not giving up on me.

You may have noticed there’s a little soccer tournament going on over in South Africa. In fact, later this morning, I’ll be searching for a tall cup of coffee and a big screen TV so that I can pull for the Netherlands, aka “Oranje,” aka “The Flying Dutchmen” as they take on Brazil. When you’re a fan of the US National Team, it’s very prudent to have a Plan B.

Oh no, some of you are thinking, he’s one of those soccer people. He’s probably going to pull out one of those little plastic horns and start torturing us with it! Relax, don’t worry, Marie made me leave my vuvuzuela in the car. But yes, I am a soccer person. If you go to my Facebook page you’ll see a profile picture of me dressed in my red, white and blue Nike National Team jersey, blue Nike soccer shorts, Nike shoes, an American flag bandanna on my head, holding the Stars and Stripes in my right hand, my right foot atop a soccer ball, flashing my best “Don’t Tread on Me” scowl. Not that it did that much good against Ghana.

I didn’t grow up playing, but when my sons started back in the 90s, I caught football fever–real football–and fell in love with what we aficionados call, “The Beautiful Game.”

Wait a minute, hold the phone, don’t you mean “The Boring Game?” Don’t you mean that game where they kick the ball around for 90 minutes, sometimes more, often with little or no scoring and everybody gets all excited and acts like the they won the Super Bowl or something when there’s a tie (or in soccer parlance, a draw)?

Don’t you mean “The Wimpy Game?” That game where a histrionic player flops on the field (it’s actually called the pitch) at the slightest contact, the one where the trainers rush on, carry the writhing player off to the sideline on a stretcher where they proceed to spritz his boo-boo with magic water, and lo and behold, seconds later the player springs to his feet completely healed and ready to reenter the match? Don’t you mean that game?

I’m not sure what’s in that magic water, but I know one thing—Oral Roberts was never that good! [...]

So much for another “stouuury book endin’.” Instead, another World Cup, another loss to a more organized, powerful and faster Ghanan team. The “Great Equalizer” strikes again.

I can’t say I’m shocked given the fine players Ghana has (and two of their best weren’t even on the pitch), but I am disappointed that the US National Team squandered a fine chance to equal and perhaps surpass their best finish ever in World Cup play. Poor possession and defensive organization led to the first goal (even US keeper Tim Howard, one of the world’s best, was about a step off in cutting down the angle and protecting that near post), but the overtime game winner by Asamoah “Baby Jet” Gyan was pure soccer artistry.

First touch is everything. A world-class soccer player must be able to “catch” the ball with his foot or some other legal part of the body, even in tight space and under tremendous defensive pressure, and bring it under control the first time he touches it. Then he must be able to do something intelligent and productive with it, like finding the back of the net or a teammate who can.

For many, including young and inexperienced US strikers such as Jozy Altidore, the ball often rolls away into the possession of a defender after the first touch. Or perhaps he is so discombobulated from the tight space and the defensive pressure and the pressing need of the moment that he hangs a cleat in the turf and trips over his own feet.

Others take their first touch and proceed to write their own history.

“Baby Jet” took a high, looping ball on a dead run with his chest and set it in motion just a couple of feet in front of him, maintaining that relative distance even at full speed. He then struck the ball, still bouncing, with such authority that even Howard, with his catlike reflexes, couldn’t collar it. I cannot even begin to describe how hard that is, even though it looks commonplace on TV. Of course, great players always make it look easy.

If I had scored a goal like that, I would have danced too. But having grown up Church of Christ, I would have probably been issued a straight red card for illegal motion and woeful lack of soul.

So, how does US soccer get from here to there? Soccer in the United States is for the most part an affluent and suburban sport–unlike the rest of the world. Most serious players and their parents have payed mounds of money to play in a club system with the hopes of merely making varsity in high school or maybe snagging some hard-to-come-by college scholarship money.

Even those who make it and play in college often don’t play all four years. They become distracted and lose interest or the injuries mount and they finally hang up their boots. The best player that Huntsville has ever produced played briefly on the US Under-20 team a few years ago and went to UNC-Chapel Hill where he led the team in scoring for a couple of seasons. But he was injured during his junior year and sat out, and by the time he came back as a senior, he suddenly found that he had been replaced by the latest and greatest 18-year-old sensation. Fortunately, he’s a smart guy and has medical school to fall back on.

Somewhere in the barrios and ghettos of America, there are young kids who possess the gift of the “first touch.” Yet even here in my part of Huntsville, players like that wouldn’t be able to afford the fees to play high school varsity soccer.

US Soccer must find a way to change all that. Otherwise, our “first touch” will continue to be our last.

“We were watching the soccer match,” Eyegal explained to the desk clerk at the historic Park View Guest House in the Garden District of New Orleans last Friday morning.

The US v. Slovenia match had ended just a few minutes before the 11:00 AM checkout time, but we had planned ahead and had our bags packed and ready to go. The “good” US National Team had taken the pitch in the 2nd half after the “bad” one, the U-10 squad that had showed up by mistake, had gone down 0-2 in the first.

Yet the 2-2 draw to stay alive in Group C play had left both of us a bit frustrated. Center Referee Koman Coulibaly, a native of Mali, had called back Maurice Edu’s apparent go-ahead goal on a “mystery call”, and the moaning and wailing that emanated from Room D on the first floor rivaled that of the spirits and specters who endlessly roam the grounds of Lafayette Cemetary No. 1 a few blocks away on St. Charles Avenue.

“That’s what the noise was,” Eyegal added helpfully.

“Yes, we were down 0-2 and came back and tied it and then hit the go-ahead goal but it was called back. Terrible call. Terrible, terrible call,” I blurted out.

The clerk turned his head to the right, gazing out on the hazy, green expanse of Audubon Park, already a sauna in the rising heat and humidity.  “So that’s what that noise was,” he said, smiling wryly. “I thought it was coming from out there.”

I’m not sure he believed our explanation. I think he thought we were…“you know.” But really, who could possibly think about “you know” at a time like that, you know? Right Capello? [...]

Just to show you what kind of marriage Eyegal and I have, when it came to planning our 25th anniversary trip to New Orleans, one of the most discussed points on our itinerary was where we would watch the US v. Slovenia match on Friday morning.

The answer is our room at the Park View Guest House in the Garden District over a traditional Southern breakfast. Not exactly fish and chips at Wembley, but it’ll have to do.

I jest of course (slightly), but you know you’re made for each other when you can sort through your priorities like that and still stay married. Twenty-five years ago today, we both said “I do” at the Creve Coeur Church of Christ, promised to stay with each other, walked back down the aisle to a grainy recording of Ronnie Milsap’s “What a Difference You’ve Made In My Life” (apparently all the chamber music quartets were already booked that weekend) and then went out and “Just Did It.”

You know, stayed together. And produced three soccer players. And bought enough Nikes to insure that Phil Knight’s great-great grandchildren get a college education.

But despite the rather inauspicious start of getting married in a second-ring suburb of St. Louis whose name is derived from the French for “heartbreak” (which is what Les Bleus seem determined to do to their partisans in the 2010 World Cup) we’ve stuck it out. Oh sure, we’ve both made our share of “howlers” (thanks to Robert Green and the Brits for bringing that little gem back into the lexicon), but when the preacher said “for better or for worse,” we were young and dumb enough to believe the man actually meant what he said.

So this week, we’ll be leaving the Zeta Theta Theta (ZΘΘ) House unattended for a few days (May God have mercy) and starting our 25th anniversary tour which will take us first through Oxford, Mississippi to satisfy our inner literary geek at Square Books, on to Greenwood for some blues, fine food and dear friends, and finally to “N’awlins” where it will reach its zenith on Friday morning when the Stars and Stripes take on Slovenia, a country so small that its national soccer team doesn’t even have a nickname.

I’m kidding. Sort of. About the zenith. But not about the nickname.

Soccer in New Orleans? It could happen. And maybe even a little more. But since “what happens in N’awlins stays in N’awlins,” don’t be expecting to read about it here.

The opening match of World Cup 2010 is underway, and in a desperate attempt to bring “The Beautiful Game” to the attention of my more unwashed American readers, I played the sex card and came up with a splashy, tabloid headline.

So tell me, did it work?

Four years ago, I tried my best to explain to one of my All-American, baseball-loving friends “Why the World Cup Matters.”

The following quote from that post is a true today as it was then:

It’s an acquired taste, and when it comes to taste, most Americans don’t have very much.

The rarity of the goals is what makes them special. Unless you have played or coached, it’s difficult to understand just how hard it is to score a goal against a well-organized defense and a smart, athletic keeper.

Unless you have ever experienced the tantalizing frustration of near-goals, the ballet of a ball well-possessed from back to front to back and up top again, unless you have ever seen a sliver of space appear for an instant inside the 18, like heaven itself opening up before you, and unless you’ve witnessed the beauty of a well-struck ball slipping through the left upper 90 like a thread through the eye of a needle, and then the explosion, the pure release of raw energy that is a goal (some have compared it to…you know), then, my friend, you have not experienced true joy.

It is the common language of the world. This week in Honduras, 6 American teenagers took on 6 Honduran youths in their own version of World Cup, played on a field made of donkey dung (USA won). There wasn’t a lot of Spanish or English being spoken, but they all understood each other quite well.

This is boring? Compared to what? A game where we all sit around staring at nine guys with grass growing up between their toes waiting for something to happen?

Ole.

Since that time, my sons have played in Mexico and Guatemala as well, and even though they’re no longer playing competitively and have moved on to other adventures, they’re still fluent in “futbol.”

In fact, it’s really hard to talk about our family tapestry without referencing soccer. If you tried to remove the soccer thread, the whole thing would unravel. We’ve been involved with the game since that day in 1993 when Eyegal called me at work at told me that she had signed up Number One Son, then 4-years-old, for soccer.

“You did what?” I asked. I had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.

We spent many hours and dollars participating in youth soccer, and along the way experienced many thrilling victories, the agony of “de feet,” titan struggles, various futbol “Boo-Boos,” and even one broken leg.  We traveled as a family, and Eyegal and I had opportunities to travel with each son separately, resulting in many memorable conversations about life and…”you know.”

It was exhausting at times, and when it came time to let go, it hurt a little. But we’ve adjusted to life without soccer and are finding ways to enjoy the extra time we now have. You mean, people actually stay home on weekends and watch college football? Wow, I never knew…

But you know what? If we had it to do over again, we’d do it exactly the same way.

I probably won’t be posting as much on here as I did four years ago, saving most of my enthusiastic outbursts for Facebook and Twitter. But I will try to post a few thoughts on the USA v. England match on Monday.

Yo, you bunch of Limeys–Don’t Tread on Me.

People look at you kind of strange when you tell them that you shelled out good money to attend something called a “Christian Scholars’ Conference” and that you actually enjoyed it. Reactions can range from “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like that?” to “Well, la-de-da!” But believe me, after a long season of Tim James political TV ads and rootin’ tootin’ “Ag Commish” wannabe viral videos, I was ready for a little more “la-de-da” in my life.

You know Eyegal and me–liberal arts geeks to the core. An itch like that doesn’t always get scratched sufficiently in a high tech town like Huntsville, Alabama. To get to those places that rocket science and computer chips can’t touch, we make an annual pilgrimage to The Christian Scholars’ Conference (CSC) at Lipscomb University in Nashville.

The CSC is a place where scholars (and poseurs like Eyegal and me) from Church of Christ-affiliated colleges and universities, as well as many other schools and denominations, meet and greet and explore new ways to integrate their faith with their various academic disciplines. Nashville is traditionally referred to as “The Athens of the South,” and Lipscomb’s commitment to academic freedom and to hosting a world-class event like CSC is rapidly raising her stock and placing her in the same league as her neighbors and longstanding paragons of academic excellence, Vanderbilt and Belmont.

This year’s theme was “Beauty in the Academy: Faith, Scholarship & The Arts.” What’s so special about a bunch of professors, writers, artists, musicians, poets and playwrights convening for some sort of “Campbellite Woodstock,” you ask? After all, didn’t we switch to a Fortune 500 model faith and chase weird-looking and funny-talking people like that out of the Church of Christ a long time ago and replace them with lawyers, engineers, doctors and “bizness men?”

Glad you asked. Well, when was the last time you heard a world-renowned poet and critic like Dana Gioia, devout Roman Catholic and former Chair of the Endowment for the Arts, issue a stirring and urgent plea for Christian writers to rise up and produce another Flannery O’Connor or Walker Percy who will inject a much-needed pulse of the transcendent into modern art and culture to satisfy man’s unconscious spiritual longings, followed by a public reading of his own work? Hmmm?

I thought so. Or how about sitting in on an intimate creative session with musicians like Sarah Masen and songwriters/performers Linford Detweiler and Karin Bergquist of the alternative/folk duo Over the Rhine?

Never heard of them? Neither had I. But now my iPhone is full of their soulful, sacramental songs, including Over the Rhine’s haunting, eschatological jazz piece, “The Trumpet Child,” a true fusion of faith and art that left the flood-weary crowd at the Friday evening “Tokens Show” leaning into the instrumental riff at the end and looking toward the sky for some soul-saving satisfaction and deliverance. [...]

School’s out for summer, and that means fraternity life at the Zeta Theta Theta (ZΘΘ) House is in full swing. Personally, I have no problem believing we humans share 99% of our DNA with the apes.

Rush Week in the primate cage is what you get when you throw together 17, 19 and 21 year-old territorial, testosterone-saturated brothers who aren’t used to sharing the same living space. They screech, pound their chests, burp, practice various olfactory assault techniques on innocent passersby, trash the kitchen and endlessly debate the age-old question, “Who da man?”

So far, they haven’t flung any dung at each other, but it’s only early June.

Eyegal thinks this is all wonderful, that her boys are still “cute” and “adorable,” just like those early 90s urchins in the VHS tapes that’s she’s been busy transferring to DVD the past few weeks. Oh sure, I was right in there with her  back then, holding each of them up to the heavens “Lion King” style like they were God’s gift to the savanna and dishing out more corny first birthday party banter than Iowa has silos, but that was then and this is now.

I love Eyegal to pieces, and I’m really looking forward to celebrating our 25th anniversary in a couple of weeks, but honestly, I think the old girl is starting to lose it.

It is not the early 90s, and they are no longer cute. We are a full decade into the 21st century, and they are smelly, farty thieves. There is nothing of mine they won’t pilfer and “borrow”: clothes (including my new US National Soccer Team jersey), shampoo, razors, nail clippers, the candy I have hidden in my sock drawer (not well enough, apparently), and Mexican leftovers clearly marked “DAD!!”

You’ve heard of The Rule of Benedict that they use to keep order and harmony in monasteries? Well, this is sort of like its evil, antithetical twin. Instead of ora et labora (“pray and work”) it’s more like holla et sonora (“yell and sleep”).

Oh sure, they have a few redeeming qualities. Numbers Two and Three Sons can actually cook a little (although they have yet to master the art of kitchen cleanup), and when Eyegal skipped town last week and R-U-N-N-O-F-T on one of her Ya Ya Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants trips, I didn’t starve. And if my iPhone ever needs jail-broken or I need to know the aerodynamic specs on the latest Frisbee golf disc, then Number One Son is most definitely “da man.”

Yeah, yeah, I know, I’ll miss the “pitter patter of little feet” when they’re gone for good, yada yada. But what exactly does “gone for good” really mean these days? Should I be concerned that they’ve taken to throwing boomerangs in the backyard and that they’re actually getting quite good at it?

Recently I heard someone ask a group of parents of mostly elementary and middle school children: Which is more important, “nature” or “nurture?” A large majority raised their hands for “nurture.” I leaned over to Eyegal and said, “They’re still suffering from the illusion of control.”

You see, one thing I have noticed from watching some of those old videos is that the die was cast pretty early on. The same personality quirks and charms that were evident in all that footage of first steps and first birthday parties are still pretty much in place, just like the dimples and hair color. You can try to trim the edges and shape things as much as you can, but you’re still stuck with the same bolt of cloth that you started out with.

Which, relatively speaking, isn’t all that bad. As I’ve often been told, “Dad, you don’t know how good you got it.”

I try to repeat that phrase over and over every morning when I have to move their fleet of cars from the driveway so I can get to work.

In the most stunning political turn since Fort Sumter, University of Alabama football fans have ringed the State Capital Building in Montgomery with a barricade of RVs and double-wide mobile homes in an attempt to seize control of the state government.

They are demanding that Republican gubernatorial candidate Tim James cease and desist from his campaign and that Governor Bob Riley establish a new executive office, Beloved Athletic Ruler (B’AR), which would be co-equal with Governor and occupied by Alabama Head Coach Nick Saban.  Riley, an Alabama alumnus, is reported to be seriously considering the ultimatum.

The movement began suddenly this past week after James, an Auburn grad, allegedly made intemperate and ill-advised remarks regarding Saban in which he questioned the coach’s maternal bloodline and threatened to reduce his salary or even outright “fahr his a**!” if he was elected governor in the fall.

These alleged remarks were brought to light on a radio talk show hosted by Paul Finebaum, a humble and low-key man who has never been known to repeat a half-baked rumor just to provoke a reaction among his rabid listeners or boost his ratings. The resultant apoplectic meltdown and firestorm spread quickly throughout the Yellowhammer State, producing a mixture of bile and BS so profoundly dense that BP scientists are said to be considering using it for “top kill” to plug the Deepwater Horizon oil leak.

Predictably, James immediately blamed opponent Bradley Byrne and used his official Twitter account to issue a denial, thereby lending credence to the rumor in the first place and spreading it even further.

He is reportedly hold up in the clock tower of Samford Hall on the Auburn University campus where he vows to continue his campaign and lead a secessionist movement which will include most, but not all, of Lee County and a small band of Auburn-trained engineers who comprise what is left of the Huntsville Chapter of the War Eagle Club that meets for wings and beer once a month at the Chili’s on University Avenue and reminisces about “the good ol’ days.”

In response to reports of rednecks raisin’ a ruckus and burnin’ stuff near a government building, former-Alaska Governor and now TV host Sarah Palin, who had been scheduled to appear at a fundraiser at Faulkner University anyway, decided to come on down ahead of schedule in a show of support.

And as if all that wasn’t odd enough, now several thousand Hispanic immigrants, both legal and otherwise, have joined Alabama fans at the barricades. When asked how such strange bedfellows were possible, one movement leader, who wished to be identified only as “Mike the Redneck,” explained:  “Lookit, tweren’t that hard. All we had to do wuz tell ‘em that we wuz out to save ‘Alabama futbol’ and they came a’runnin’ from evra’ which way. Maybe it’s the kommon man in me, but sometimes it jist makes sense to speak a little Spanish–duz it to you, Tim?”

When reached for comment, Saban denied that he had been contacted about the “B’AR” position, said that he had no interest in the “B’AR” position, and repeated over and over that he would be the Head Coach at Alabama for a long, long time, a’ight?

A’iiiiight.

In a related story, Republican candidate for State Treasurer Young Boozer promised that if elected that he would immediately commandeer the Alabama State Alcoholic Beverage Control Board and once again legalize the previously “Banned in Alabama” wine label, Cycles Gladiator.

Finally, some real progress.