I was up way too early this morning, the insomnia calling out to me like the cock’s crow.

But as I made my way through the hall and toward the coffee pot, I noticed that the doors to all three of the boy’s rooms were shut, meaning that they were all home (Number One is visiting from T-town this weekend to attend Big Spring Jam).

I must say, knowing that all of us were under one roof for the first time in a while left me with the deepest sense of satisfaction and joy.

Home! Sweet home!

I’m just wondering what Fusioneers think about the whole McChurch thing. You know, churches these days using the same glitz and glam that secular businesses use to market themselves as purveyors of goods and services.

Sell-out to our materialistic age, necessary accommodation to the times, or something in between? What say ye?

Is it just me or does anyone else think that French President Nicolas Sarkozy resembles Sylvester Stallone?

If this is life imitating art, then I guess the real question becomes: Which Sylvester Stallone persona will Sarkozy assume?

Eyegal has just started doing some substitute teaching at a local, K-12 prep school that has the reputation (well-earned, I believe) of providing the finest academic training in North Alabama. There the sons and daughters of the area’s doctors, lawyers and corporate heads begin their long odyssey of learning which will someday lead to them taking their rightful place on top of the socioeconomic pile.

And there are others too who are not quite so well off, the sons and daughters of faculty plus those who are there on scholarship, trying to rise above bad starts and bad situations. She’s been teaching first and second graders, and overall, she’s found the kids to be bright, polite and charming to a fault and eager to learn.

But there have been some stereotypical moments filled with precocious and not-so-average snippets of conversation.

Such as one girl responding to the question of a classmate: “Well, of course my swimming pool has a diving board!”

And another fast-tracking, future mover and shaker leaning toward his classmate at the lunch table: “So, are you going to try to get into Harvard?”

Ivy League or bust at age seven.

People cross this world
Over and then back again
Never even one time lift their eyes
Or think of what they say

But I hear it in your voice, love
Like someone sweetly willing
The hope of all these years,
the prayer of a time
that we don’t even know

But it’s a hard road that we follow
The saddest cities, and the darkest hollows

But I hear it in your voice, love
The strongest sound
I’ve ever heard
Like water from a well
so deep in the ground
I’ll never thirst again

–”Hollow” from Hem’s “Eveningland”

And if God doesn’t get your attention with a good joke, them maybe some music will do the trick.

Saturday afternoon, I noticed that the new Liberty Mutual Insurance commercial seemed to be running in a continual loop during the football games. I had written on the first one a while back in my post “Evidence of Humanity on Planet Earth,” and I was pleased to see another one had been produced.

That led met to investigate the indie folk/progressive group Hem a little further, which in turn led me to their official site, unofficial site and their MySpace page. The latter contains full-length cuts from the commercials, “Half an Acre” and “The Part Where You Let Go.”

It’s funny how this works, but sometimes I see the love of God spreading like wildfire more in an insurance commercial–of all places–than I do at church. And there are times when I hear His voice more clearly in the ethereal, angelic strains of a pop singer from Brooklyn, New York than I do in your typical “you’re still not doing enough” sermon.

But don’t get me wrong; I’m glad God isn’t stingy when it comes to scattering His Grace among the creation. I’ll take encouragement anyway I can get it.

Thank God for incarnation–and iPods.

–Bunny Hoest and John Reiner

I know it’s probably not that funny, but for some reason it struck me so. The laugh that ensued–a soul-cleansing guffaw– sprang from a deep, wounded place, and the tears flowed freely like a baptism of mirth, washing away my weekend woes (and no, they had nothing to do with football).

Sometimes God uses a burning bush, and sometime He just comes along and whacks you up side the head with a good joke.

In case you don’t recognize me, I’m the dog on the right. And yes, I do occasionally play dead. But I tell you one thing–under no circumstances will I ever roll over.

With the resurging Tide catapulting back into the Top 25 for the first time since 2005, ESPN College Gameday will be broadcasting live from Tuscaloosa tomorrow morning. That should give Number One Son a good reason to roll out of the sack long before his usual Saturday wake-up time of twelve noon. It’s my understanding that many will be camping out tonight in the hopes of getting some face time with Chris, Corso and Herbie, but Number One says he will not be among them. As a result, he will likely be more toward the back unless he gets up really early (highly unlikely), and that means he’s going to need a large-print, creative acronym sign in order to leave his mark on a national TV audience.

Here was Number One’s initial brainstorming idea:

Entire
State
Prefers
Saban

That one would be great, except for the little problem of the last letter of the acronym being the wrong one. Nice try, son. I hope English 102 is going a little better than that.

Next up, Number One’s roommate Zack:

Even
Saban
Pis-es
Nitrogen

This is very creative and frankly one that I would have never thought of. I like the inherent humility, what with some Tide faithful already stumbling drunk from a little too much of the Saban Koolaid. But the “P” word remains on George Carlin’s “Seven Words You Can Never Say on TV” list and as such, I’m guessing that reading it on a sign is off limits too.

Number One, never fear, your dear old Dad is here. Behold, an acronym sure to capture the attention of the ESPN cameras:

Eventually
Saban
Provides
National Title

Everyone already thinks Alabama fans are crazy and will only be sated with a National Title anyway (when in fact, 9-3, a win over Auburn and a nice bowl would suffice for now), so why not go ahead and play up the stereotype? There’s no way Herbie and Corso would pass that one over without yapping about it.

Number One told me that another of his friends was thinking along the same lines as me, but instead used the word “eminently.” That’s a little too much hubris for my blood. I’m afraid UGA is going to roll into T-town with a couple of busloads of blue-chip talent tomorrow and play the speed bump to the Crimson Tide Express. Las Vegas has us at +3 1/2 (and they were very right last week), but unless we reestablish our running game some, cut down the turnovers, take care of the ball better so our defense can get a little more rest and not miss key defensive assignments like last week (here’s hoping that Darren Mustin is well enough to call the defensive signals tomorrow), then we may be in for a long evening. I don’t see UGA winning by more than 6 or so, but I do see UGA winning. But I could certainly live with myself if I’m wrong.

But ESPN’s appearance in T-town was exactly the kind of intangible that Number One felt Bama could offer when he made that very difficult college decision last spring. And so far, that, along with the resurging Tide, decent classes, a large quad for Ultimate Frisbee plus playing beach volleyball well past midnight have made the college experience a pleasant one indeed.

Of course, a National Title in football sometime over the next four years would cap off his Capstone experience quite nicely. And that may happen–eventually, but probably not eminently.

Apparently it’s not just baseball managers who fret over stolen signals and suffer video angst. In the wake of the New England Patriot/Bill Belichick imbroglio over sideline videotaping, the Georgia Bulldogs have closed their football practices for the first time in seven years.

Why now, you ask? Well, as the Atlanta Journal and Constitution reports, Crimson Tide HC Nick Saban used to work as (are you ready for this?) the defensive coordinator for Bill Belichick during his Cleveland Browns days. And to top it off, Saban and the Dolphins were accused of stealing signals last year from none other than the New England Patriots (the NFL investigated and found the accusation to be baseless).

If that’s not rock-solid evidence of hanky-panky then frankly I wouldn’t know it if I rolled over one morning and found it sleeping next to me. Good for the Dawgs. I mean, we want this contest to be fair and square, right?

In case you haven’t noticed, I try to remain fundamentally cheerful and optimistic on this blog. I figure that the world is full of enough overwrought, rant-filled, spiteful fare, so I aim to provide a little counterweight. Plus, it’s an exercise in self-discipline, for I am by nature fundamentally pessimistic and sometimes downright morose.

So, this morning, I pause to take in a lungful of crisp, autumn-tinged air and give thanks for the following:

• My wife, who rather than committing me to the local mental hospital, playfully joined in my craziness last night and helped me track down and destroy that nasty wood roach (the mere sight of which caused me to go apopleptic) which managed to slip inside when I opened the door to the garage

• Number One, who, despite being involved in two, count’em, TWO car wrecks (plus a close encounter as a pedestrian with another car which he has not seen fit to tell me about yet–I have my sources) since arriving in Tuscaloosa, is nonetheless in good health. I think.

• Number Two, who, despite engaging in various envelope-pushing activities such as climbing and caving without proper gear and instruction and apparently wearing a bacteria-laden shin guard in last weekend’s soccer tournament in Memphis, merely has an infection in his right leg which can be treated with antibiotics at home rather than requiring hospitalization. We hope.

• Number Three, who, because it his nature to go all out under even the most trivial circumstances, made a goal-saving slide tackle in the box in a match that didn’t matter one wit last night and came away with only a deep muscle bruise rather than another broken leg. Or at least that’s the way it looked when he went to bed last night.

And if that little exercise doesn’t do it, all I have to do is scan the morning headlines to realize how full my life is.

When you get right down to it, I’m an optimist–I just have to work at it.

JRB and I recently found ourselves in a discussion over the willingness of Alabama Coach Nick Saban to go for two points during the Vanderbilt game a couple weeks ago. He felt like St. Nick was “piling on” the points, and I felt that he wasn’t. One of the points I brought up was my memory of Alabama’s thrashing of the Virginia Tech Hokies when they came to Blacksburg in 1973. That final was 77-6 even after The Bear had gone through the entire 3rd string, the waterboys and a couple of tuba players.

As I pointed to JRB, 77-6 is something to complain about, not a measly 2-point conversion in a relatively low-scoring game in which your QB has had trouble finding his mark inside the Red Zone and simply needs the practice. I argued that the ability to throw under extreme pressure in short yardage situations might be critical in future weeks, and lo and behold, it turned out to be just that. But like any good lawyer worth his salt, JRB argued his point passionately and to the nth degree, even in the face of inexorable logic.

That discussion triggered a few memories of my own, of days when I had to make the decision: Do I call off the dogs or not?

Over my years of coaching soccer, I’ve been fortunate to have been able to coach many good players and winning teams, some of which were real juggernauts. On many occasions, after getting up several goals and gaining a comfortable lead (more a problem in rec play than at the club level where teams are usually more evenly matched), I was faced with the decision of how to hold down the score so as not to totally embarrass the opposing team.

In soccer this can be accomplished in a variety of ways, such as requiring your team to make a certain number of consecutive passes prior to taking a shot, moving players into different positions or focusing on shooting only with a certain part of the body, such as the head or the player’s weaker (usually left) foot. This allows your team to practice a specific skill, holds down the scoring in a mismatch and allows the other team to save face and have more fun while feeling that they were more “in the game.” In most cases, it is the most rational and sporting thing to do.

In most cases. There’s always the exception.

A few years ago, I was coaching a match in which the opposing players were mouthy brats who complained to the ref at every turn while at the same time taking every opportunity to take a cheap shot at one of my players. Their sharply-dressed and well-coiffed parents were loud and preachy too, and they were coached by a British chap who just wouldn’t leave well enough alone (these things often flow from the top) and who kept crossing the midline and walking into my coaching area to complain about my players and what awful soccer I had taught them. It didn’t help matters that they hailed from one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Huntsville. They also weren’t very good.

At halftime, we were up 6-0 even though they had intimidated the young teenage center ref into calling everything their way. As the lads gathered around my feet for halftime instructions, my leading scorer, who had already notched four goals at that point, looked up at me and asked, “Are you going to call off the dogs, Coach?”

I thought about that for about one second. Then, calmly, and with great emphasis on each word, I issued the following charge:

“Fire at will, boys. Fire. At. Will.”

“Stars Fell on Alabama” late Saturday night under the Tuscaloosa lights. Just in case you missed it the first time, here it is again. If you’re a Razorback fan, that one may not be safe for work.

Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer! And here’s a sight for sore eyes if there ever was one. Meanwhile, back at The Barn, the smell of smoke lingered in the air.

In Montgomery, the Faulkner Eagles made their home debut, and JRB was there, passing on his love of Southern Game Day Tradition to his young daughter. And by the way, congrats to the Montgomery Biscuits who came through in dramatic fashion.

Yeah, I’m strung out and exhausted after a long road trip, but Monday morning blues? Not on your life.

Roll Tide, Roll.

I know some of you may have been expecting Mike the Redneck to weigh in on tomorrow’s Alabama-Arkansas match-up. Sorry to disappoint, but he went to the dentist yesterday (he actually still has two teeth left) and got one of those numbing shots and just isn’t able to talk very well right now. Nevertheless, he sends his “REE-guards.”

I spent four years of my life dwelling in The Natural State and have more readers there than in any other state besides Alabama. I hold no grudge against the Hogs. In fact, I rather like the Razorback Nation.

Why, you ask? It’s really very simple. You see, just when we thought we might buckle under the scrutiny and scorn of ESPN in the wake of Shula’s firing and the subsequent coaching search, along came the Razorback Nation with their own little soap opera– “As the Hawg Squeals.” Oh sure, our hopeless infatuation with The Bear borders on necrophilia, and we even hocked his statue in order to pay Saban, but you guys broke new ground.

Yes, we monitored flight plans, tracked flight paths, and staked out small, private airports all over the country, but you guys, oh my, you guys used the Freedom of Information Act to peer into Houston Nutt’s cell phone records. That’s so, so, very far out there. We doff our houndstooth fedoras to you. The Crimson Nation owes you all a debt that we will never be able to repay.

As to the game, we all remember what happened in Fayetteville last year. Alabama was poised to win, only to offer the game to the Hogs on a silver platter with the worse place-kicking meltdown in Crimson Tide history, one so bad that it even got Jesus’ attention. That game was a season-breaker for the Tide and was the start of an impressive run to Atlanta for the Hogs. I maintain to this day that had the Tide pulled that one out, and had Tyrone Prothro not suffered a career-ending injury the season before in that shellacking of the Gators, Mike Shula would still be the Head Coach at The Capstone.

But, in many ways, that day seems like ancient history. Alabama will lose this year–several times–but there is a strong feeling that there will be no more 4th quarter meltdowns, no more gift-wrapped games handed over to the opposing team in the closing minutes. No, if you beat Bama this year it will be because you outplayed them, fair and square. Shula was the “deer caught in the headlamps.” Saban is The Hunter.

These are two very closely-matched teams, and this one will be a close one, folks. We all know what Jones and DMac can do, and they’ll for sure get their licks in before the day is done. But they won’t run completely roughshod over a Tide defense anchored by senior corner Simeon Castille and true freshman middle linebacker Rolando McClain, a bona fide future All-American and NFL headhunter if there ever was one. Nor will the Hog secondary, which by all accounts was a leaky sieve against Troy, be riddled to bits by Tide QB John Parker Wilson who has yet to dial it in from long distance.

No, this one will be a relatively low-scoring affair, dominated by the dynamic duo from Arkansas and the artful dodging Bama tailback Terry Grant. In the end, it will come down to–and it pains me to say it–kicking. But the sports psychologists at Bama have been working overtime to rid Tiffin of that painful nightmare, and rumor has it that his Daddy and Granddaddy had him aligning those Allegros over at the plant in Red Bay this past summer just to drive home the point.

This time, late on Saturday night under the Tuscaloosa lights, with the heat on and surrounded by a undulating sea of Crimson, Tiffin comes through, just like his father before him.

Final Score: Bama 27, Arkansas 24.

Of course, it could just as easily go the other way. Just remember: You heard it hear first.

And a word to my expatriate Bama brethren languishing in The Natural State: Stay strong and be of good courage. Keep a low profile today, and let them do all the talking. Come Saturday night, be ready to make your move. Listen for the signal: The sound of a hawg squealing.

Roll Tide, Roll.

Barbara died a few days ago. She lived two doors down and had been sick for about a year. It wasn’t Alzheimer’s, but something similar, another heartless, wasting disease that took her away, bit by bit, to the horror and disappointment of her husband and family who could do little but simply love her and try to ease her passage to the other side. It was not an easy death.

I did not know her well, beyond an occasional casual conversation on the sidewalk or a friendly wave as she made her way out to retrieve her morning paper while I stumbled by at the conclusion of one of my morning runs. Eyegal knew her better, and even before the two of them met, Barbara knew her.

She and her husband Sydney were no doubt watching along with the other 60ish neighbors as we moved into her our present home in 1995 when the boys were 6, 4 and 2-years-old. They had raised two boys of their own, and unlike another neighbor who immediately went on guard and has eyed our sons suspiciously ever since, Barbara and Sydney were thrilled at the new blood–a live-giving transfusion of big-wheeled trikes, plastic swords, soccer balls and the colorful detritus of a day’s play, fortified with a loud, “barbaric yawp.”

Barbara and Sydney never seemed to be too bothered by all our hustle and bustle. To them, it seemed comfortable and natural, like an old familiar rhythm, a catchy tune that you just can’t get out of your head (nor should you). Besides, it’s not like they had the neatest yard either, what with all the Halloween props and the large, inflatable Homer Simpson Santa that they trotted out every year.

One day before they had ever been introduced, Barbara spied Eyegal in a local store. It may have been one of those days when nothing seemed to be going right, when you question your own ability, even right, to parent, when the temptation is to simply walk away and leave them, right there, screaming and yammering, while you seek some peace and solace over in Aisle Two by the Rice Krispies and Corn Flakes. Barbara approached her and gently spoke the words that must sound like the soothing whispers of angels to young mothers dashing against the rocky shoals of a very bad day: “Your boys are beautiful, and I think you’re doing a great job.”

Barbara lived her life that way–encouraging everyone in her path and leaving a long string of fast, lifelong friends strewn in her wake. She was a devout Catholic who had a reputation as a holy woman. If fact, her sister was a nun. People always said Barbara was a nun too, just one who had never taken her vows, opting instead to share her life with both God and Sydney.

As Barbara lay dying the other day, Eyegal prepared a basket of fruit and fresh bread and dropped them by their house. Sydney was busy tending to Barbara and their oldest son answered the door, his young adopted daughter watching and smiling brightly in the background. He thanked her and offered for her to come in, but seeing the large number of cars parked out front and hearing the noise and commotion inside, Eyegal declined. She asked him instead to simply let Sydney and Barbara know that we were praying for them and that we loved them.

Have you ever been near a household of love when someone is crossing over to the other side? Invariably, there are lots of cars parked out front, just like the Fourth of July. It’s a noisy place too, and if you listen closely, you can hear singing in the background, a melodious serenade of sadness and joy blended with a resounding refrain of sweet, sweet reminiscence. It’s hard to tell whether it be the tongues of angels or mere mortals–not that it really matters. And the food–oh my! Why, if you live in The South, the smell of fresh rolls and fried chicken mingled with baked beans nearly knocks you over as you step in the door!

Sydney stopped by yesterday to thank us for the bread and fruit. No one was home except Number Two Son, who answered the door. I suspect it took Sydney a second or two to recognize him and figure out which one he was. He is no longer the terminally cute, curly-headed munchkin who stumbled about in an oversized suit of plastic armor back in 1995. Number Two is nearly six feet tall now, lean and strong with the broad shoulders of a man, gentle and kind, with a place in his heart for small children, not unlike Sydney.

“I just wanted to stop by and thank you for the bread and fruit. Out of all the food we received, I enjoyed it the most. In fact, if I ever see another piece of fried chicken in my life, I think I’ll be sick!”

They both laughed, but things turned serious in a hurry. Grief rushes in on sudden waves, rudely intruding on moments of normalcy, and it can happen that fast. Sydney’s eyes began to well with tears, and as he hung his head, he said:

“I just don’t know what I’m going to do without her.”

And then just as quickly, perhaps sensing that he may be placing Number Two in a difficult spot, he looked at him and in a stronger voice now, he went on:

“I want you to know how much Barbara and I have enjoyed watching you and your brothers grow up. Your hustle and bustle have been the song of our neighborhood.”

When you get right down to it, I don’t know how much money Barbara had when she died, or whether or not she ever appeared on television or was quoted in the paper. I don’t know how many degrees she had or if she even went to college at all. I don’t know, really, whether she ever did any one of the things that this world values and deems a “significant accomplishment.” But I do know this: she was loved and cherished by a good and decent man.

And I know this too: On the day that she died, her house was filled to overflowing with love, and there were so many cars parked out front, that there was barely enough room to pass down the street.

These, gentle readers, are the measures of a good life.

I was at work doing an eye exam, where else would I be? And by the time my first patient’s eyes were fully dilated, mine were too–only for a different reason.

As I finished his exam, I told him what was unfolding, that we were apparently under attack and no one was quite sure where it was going to stop.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he replied, the blood draining ever so slightly from his face.

To this day, I will occasionally call up a patient’s records on the computer and there it will be in bold relief–9/11/01, 8:00AM. And during the course of the exam, he will always ask, “Do you remember where you were on 9/11?”

“Yes,” I will always reply, “right here with you.”

There exists a sacred bond between doctor and patient.

And God said, “Let the land produce living creatures according to their kinds: livestock, creatures that move along the ground, and wild animals, each according to its kind.” And it was so. God made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good.

–Genesis 1:24-25

We had all wondered if Amazing Gracie the Wonderdog would remember Number One Son when he came home from college for the first time. On Friday evening, that question was answered in dramatic fashion.

Around 5:00 PM, Gracie was staring out the dining room window when she began to emit her characteristic high-pitched, “I GOTTA HAVE IT, I GOTTA HAVE IT!” whine, the one normally reserved for the chipmunks and squirrels that she routinely spots and gives chase to in our backyard. She then began to shake and quiver from nose to tail, and we didn’t even have to look out the window to know that Number One must be standing in the driveway.

She did a couple of quick warm-up laps around the circuit leading from the dining room to the kitchen through the family room into the entry hall and back to the dining room window. As Number One began to turn the knob to the front door, Gracie stretched out her long frame and peeked out the side window for a better look at her beloved boy. When he stepped into the entry hall, she immediately jumped up, placed her paws on his shoulders and gave him the first of many sloppy, wet “kisses” that she would slather him with over the next few minutes. Taking the hint, Number One dropped to his knees, whereupon Gracie tackled him and began to nibble at his hands and face as if to say, “Where in the world have you been, boy?”

This went on for quite a while, and for the remainder of the time that he was home, she followed him around like, well, a puppy dog, and wouldn’t let him out of her sight.

Man’s best friend–it’s not just a phrase.