I’m grateful to Full Professor Elrod for reminding me that we have our own version of “Touchdown Jesus” right here in Huntsville. “Eggbeater Jesus” is a 43 feet tall mosaic Messiah consisting of approximately 14 million pieces of the very finest Italian tile. This culinary Christ is located on the side of the First Baptist Church on Governors Drive near downtown Huntsville, just a few steps from where I work.

The name should be self-explanatory, but given the performance of Alabama place kicker Leigh Tiffin (3 missed FGs and 1 missed PAT) last Saturday against Arkansas, I would propose we give Him a new title– “Wide Right Jesus.”

But hope springs eternal in the Church of Football. Should the Crimson Tide manage to get by the Florida Gators in “The Swamp” this weekend (Miracle #1), and should I be driving down Governors Drive on Monday morning and look over and see that “Wide Right Jesus” has now raised his arms to signal a score (Miracle #2), then I hereby promise that I will make a hard left into the parking lot and immediately convert to the Baptist Church.

…but if it was, what embarrassing and humiliating story would he write about you for all the world to read?

No, really, go ahead, you first. I was such a straight arrow (ahem), that I just can’t think of a single thing.

The confession booth is open.

It was half past midnight, and I had just started to dream. About what, I don’t remember. I just know that moments before, I had passed through the that warm and hazy tunnel connecting reality to reverie. Shapes and voices were emerging and the jumbled nightly narrative had begun–instructing, soothing or tormenting–it was anybody’s guess what shape the storyline would take tonight. And then came the knock.

And then the creak of our bedroom door opening. “H. just got pulled over by the police. He’s in front of the house,” informed Number Three Son.

H. is a college student, a good friend and a youth ministry major. As I fought my way through the cobwebs and back to the land of the living, I seemed to recall that Number Two Son and his buddy G. had arrived home from a downtown concert a short time before. They are both good friends with H., so he must have stopped by to hang out. Maybe H. had been driving a little fast on his way to our house, I thought.

It was actually a little more complicated than that. Number Two and G. had arrived home, and Eyegal (who is the night owl in the family and is more adept at the late shift) had been satisfied that everyone was in for the night and had gone to bed. But unbeknownst to either of us, H. had stopped by and the three of them had driven a few blocks away to another friend’s house to pick up some electronic gizmo or thing-a-ma-jig. It was on their way back that they had run into the long arm of the law. [...]

I’m not sure if this is in the Official Roman Catholic Catechism, but the following search string did lead to my blog:

“Notre Dame football is the 8th sacrament of the Catholic Church.”

Catechism or not, I’m pretty sure “Touchdown Jesus” would approve.

Katie, you’re kute and you’re perky, but you kan’t touch this:

Before she was Eyegal, she was Cheergal.

If I had known her in 1977, I would never have made salutatorian.

Today marks the introduction of a new service from Ocular Fusion 2.0: Financial advising.

Hot stock tip of the day: If you own shares of Walgreens or CVS, SELL FAST!

Oops, too late.

I am not a prude. Nor am I a teetotaler. Not even close. I believe God made the body– “and it was good.” I would have made a horrible Gnostic.

Still, some of this made me blush (be sure to watch the video clips and Joe Beam’s interview with MSNBC’s Lester Holt–who, by the way, attends the Manhattan Church of Christ).

A necessary and overdue corrective to the church’s longstanding “bury thy head in the sand” approach to human sexuality or just a little too much information, thank you very much?

Like a lot of things, I guess, it depends on who you talk to. Personally, I dig the poetry, mystery and metaphor of Song of Solomon more than the nuts and bolts, buck-naked “lay it all out in the open for the world to see” approach. But then again, I’m not a family therapist trying to save marriages.

Maybe there’s room (and need) for both. [...]

When two soccer players go up to head the ball at the same time, usually somebody wins the ball and somebody loses. Sometimes they both miss the ball and instead hit each other. As long as both players get up and play on, the standard sideline parent joke goes something like this: “Well, somebody just lost a few SAT points,” followed by peals of riotous laughter. It’s an old joke which for some reason never seems to lose it’s punch.

Having been thoroughly traumatized by the last soccer boo-boo in Atlanta, I gladly allowed Eyegal to handle the most recent tournament in Nashville. On her way home, she called to inform me that Number Two son had knocked noggins with an opposing player near the end of his last U16 match. He had appeared a little wobbly and had come out of the match for a few minutes, but reentered a bit later. After the match, he was complaining of a pretty bad headache and had taken a couple of ibuprofen. He was riding home with a teammate and would probably arrive home before her, and would I mind checking on him, she asked.

A short time later, Number Two arrived at the front door. I immediately went into doctor mode and examined his boo-boo. [...]

Well, the kritics have spoken. Among them: Kronkite himself. His konklusion? Katie is OK.

But still, kurious minds want to know–does anybody really kare?

(Note: I’m not anti-Katie. I think she’s kinda kute–and perky. I’m just asking).

The South is a curious amalgam of fried food and sweet tea, trashy trailer park tragedy, dark gothic tales, hell, fire and brimstone and, of course, the ever-present, all-consuming, life-giving Church of Football.

Oh sure, there’s football in other parts of the country, but does anyone else come close to matching the faithful fanaticism of a Deep South Game Day? The Church of Football has it’s own liturgy–the parking lot fellowship meal, the processional to the house of worship, the gathering of the congregation, colorful vestments and the common chants and cheers. Touchdowns, of course, are the holiest sacrament, and in the ecstasy of celebrating another six points, congregants, if only for a few transcendent moments, forget their troubles and woes and are transported into high, heavenly places.

For better or worse, The Church of Football predominates the magnolia-dotted Southern landscape during this time of year. Even at real church, football analogy-filled sermons and pigskin banter fill the air, and if one is not careful, talk of yesterday’s big game can sometimes overshadow the Savior himself. And as the recent uproar over the MTV reality show “Two-a-Days” amply shows, there is a dark side to football fever that threatens to skew priorities to the point that First Things such as education take a backseat to backfields in motion.

But it’s not easy to dismiss the Church of Football as a mere “distraction” or designate it as the source of all of the South’s woes and cellar-dweller rankings. [...]

Landing in the top 5 Google hits for the search term “bushy haired nerd” was a little unnerving.

But getting a hit for the term “straight college studs” is a little more like it.

I’m sure Eyegal is nodding in agreement.

As most regular readers know, Ocular Fusion 2.0 tends to be a non-controversial blog. Eyegal tells me that I need more “edge,” and that she would like to see me post on more “hot topics.” Well, she of all people should know that when you get down to my core, “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

Still, I’m up for a good scrap now and then, especially if one comes knocking at my door. My recent post on the MTV reality show “Two-a-Days” featuring Hoover High School’s football team didn’t stir up much trouble when I originally posted it, aside from the interesting discussion that Jon and I had on the pros and cons of allowing cuss words to be heard in one’s house.

But low and behold, weeks later another discussion breaks out as PIttster, a self-described “educational activist,” happens along and posts his opinion that Hoover High football is a microcosm of all that is bad about the emphasis on sports in the nation’s high schools and representative of the cancer lying at the root of America’s education woes. If you scroll down a bit and watch the repartee unfold, you’ll learn a couple of scandalous tidbits about me: a) I can get a little cussed and sarcastic when someone takes a swipe at my beloved Southland, and b) Unlike most Christians in Alabama, I am not reflexively anti-lottery.

We went back and forth a little, and while PIttster and I disagree about the significance of MTV’s show and whether it truly represents “reality,” I think at the end of the day we both realized that we’re pretty much on the same team when it comes to valuing education. I appreciated his stopping by and stirring the pot. In fact, as yet another fine Game Day approaches in the Southland, it has stimulated my thoughts on the Church of Football and the role it plays, for better or worse, in Southern culture.

More on that tomorrow. And I promise that I’ll reveal at least one more scandalous tidbit.

This morning, the National Merit Scholarship Corporation is releasing the names of the 2007 National Merit Scholarship Semifinalists. If you were to dig deeply enough into the Alabama list, you would find the name of Number Three One Son, one of 28 National Merit Semifinalists from Virgil I. Grissom High School in Huntsville. He’s the one smack dab in the middle, with the large, no-orthodontia-thank-you-very-much grin.

Sixteen thousand out of the more than 1.4 million students who took the PSAT last year were named Semifinalists. Grissom usually produces more National Merit Scholars than any other high school in Alabama, and that’s the case again this year. For Number Three One, it’s the proud payoff for the prep he put in last summer before the 2005 Fall PSAT. I made sure he was aware of the fact that doing well on the PSAT was the key to some possible scholarship money, and he put in the work and took it the rest of the way. Should he progress on to Finalist (about 90% of Semifinalists do), then he will likely be offered some nice scholarships by the three colleges on his short list.

Well done Number One! Your Mom and I are beaming with pride and breathing a little sigh of forthcoming financial relief.

Now, having said all that, please be sure to do the following: take out the trash, straighten up your room, remember your Creator and, as always, go easy on the gas pedal.

After all, smart is as smart does.

A while back, I posted on Torrance “Tank” Daniels, a Harding University grad who was attempting to make the final roster with the Philadelphia Eagles.

Despite having played well in preseason games and practices, Tank didn’t quite make the final cut, but he was signed to the Eagles practice squad. This means he practices with the team each week and doesn’t dress out for games, but he still retains his free agent status and could be signed by the Eagles or some other team at a later date. He’ll receive a salary of $64,000 per season (pretty decent money for a guy straight out of undergrad), and the miminum NFL rookie salary of $225,000 per season if he’s picked up and signed to a regular roster. In other words, he’s still “in the game” and looking good at this point.

“Tank” is a great name for an NFL linebacker. But what about this guy Colt McCoy, the freshman quarterback of the defending national champion Texas Longhorns? Talk about a gunslinger straight from central casting! Incidently, McCoy is a member of the Church of Christ, and his dad played at Abilene Christian University.

That Church of Christ mafioso thing reaches far and wide. Maybe someday we’ll get our own TV show.

Three thousand voices cry out in shock and awe at the mournful moment
A crisp, clear morning is shattered by fire and fury.
Frantic chatter from little wireless boxes fills the air,
And only the essentials matter now:
“I don’t want to die.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Take care of the kids.”
“I’ll be with you always.”
“I just want you to know I love you.”

I hear them even now, phantoms flitting about my head as the daily grind Halts on yet another Black Tuesday.
Each gently asks, “Remember me?”
They gather round and tell their stories of life and love:
John, who loved soccer and coached his kids,
Suzanne, who loved her little sister with Downs,
Mario, who considered fine wine with a good meal and the company of Friends a sacrament,
Max*, who loved tinkering with old Mustangs and playing the trombone.

Thousands more come, they who loved family and friends, cold lemonade On a hot summer’s day, the “good tired” coming at the end of a hard Day’s work, the view of a sultry sun setting from a front porch swing.
They crowd around, pleading, “Remember…remember us!”

They are angry now, and together they cry “Patriot!”
And from the main streets others come, from backwoods, bayous and the Bronx they answer the call, a nation’s sons and daughters coming to their Mother’s aid,
Fledglings forsaking spring for a season of sacrifice.
Around a flag and a cross-shaped piece of steel they make their stand,
Learning the old, hard truth; “Where freedom is found, blood has been Shed.”

I push on now, as a drudge who watches epic battles raging ‘round
And wonders what he would do should the fight come to his front door Tomorrow.
My companions whisper words of comfort in my ear as they fade away:
“Brother, to remember is to fight,
To remember is to raise us from the dead.”

—————————–

I composed this poem on the morning of the first anniversary of 9/11. Max Hammond*was a Huntsville native and a 1982 graduate of Grissom High School where my oldest son currently attends. He was a National Merit Scholar, an accomplished trombonist and earned a PhD in physics from UCLA. He was on a business trip to California aboard United Airlines Flight 175, the second plane hijacked and subsequently flown into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. He was 37-years-old.

More stories of Max can be found here and here.

And finally: Peggy Noonan on “The sounds of 9/11.”