On most Saturdays during college basketball season, I can be found beside by TV set wearing my Duke Blue Devil shirt and hat. Yeah, I know it’s silly, but I’m firmly convinced they can’t win without me. You see, Coach K is really channeling for me during those time outs when he lays down the law and the Blue Devils return to the floor guns a’blazing.

Until recently, I’d never had cause on game day to don my circa 1980s gray Harding sweatshirt with the frayed, black and gold stitched letters. But last Saturday I had the opportunity to wear two different shirts on the same day as the Harding Bisons defeated longtime rival Henderson State 72-59 before a packed Rhodes Fieldhouse and a national audience on CSTV.

I was proud of the way they played, spreading the floor and sharing the ball with some good old fashioned back door cuts and give and gos, and most especially of the way my alma mater (and the Rowdies) got all gussied up for the occasion. The announcers were basically going ga-ga over the first class job the Rowdies and the entire university community did in making it a great experience for all. Well, all except the Reddies that is.

And as this picture of the Rowdies by Alumni Director Liz Howell clearly shows, there is a senior thesis for some enterprising psychology major at Harding just begging to be written.

Many thanks to the folks at CSTV for taking a chance on little ol’ Harding University–we may be small, but we pack a wallop. Let’s just make this a tradition, shall we?

I’ll even keep pulling out the circa 1980s gray Harding sweatshirt with the frayed, black and gold stitched letters.

Number One Son roadtripped to Auburn this past weekend to visit with some friends and to watch the Bama v. Auburn basketball game. The visit with friends went well. The game? Not so much.

Yesterday morning, Number One was driving to church when he stopped at an intersection with a crosswalk. He looked both ways, halfway expecting a herd of cattle to come ambling by about that time. Instead a lone figure in a suit was walking down the sidewalk to his right and starting into the intersection.

Number One stayed stopped and yielded like he was supposed to. He looked down to fiddle with something in the car, and when he looked back up, the man in the suit was directly in front of him and staring straight at him. Number One recognized him immediately and took in a sudden breath.

It was Tommy Tuberville.

Coach Tuberville smiled at Number One and waved as if to say, “Thanks and good morning!” Perhaps he didn’t see the Bama student parking tag hanging from his rearview mirror. Perhaps he didn’t see Number One’s scowl. Or perhaps he did, and he was just doing what he needed to do to survive.

Later that afternoon, Coach Tuberville spoke at halftime of the basketball game. He was receiving some kind of recognition and was talking about how Auburn has won six Iron Bowls in a row now and that they were working hard on number seven. The Barners in attendance hooted and hollered and stomped their feet, creating quite a racket. You would have thought it was feeding time the way they carried on.

As Number One listened to Tuberville and then watched the Crimson Tide hoopsters conduct one of the patented second half meltdowns (really, nobody does it better), he reflected on that moment earlier in the day when he’d had The Smug One in his sights. He could have ended Tuberville’s streak right then and there.

Oh sure, he would have been arrested and gone to jail for a little while. But his lawyers would have likely made the case for temporary insanity, and Number One would have gotten off the hook. Outside of Auburn, Opelika and Montgomery, who wouldn’t have believed that?

Of course, his lawyers would have likely had to file for a change in venue. Red Bay would have been nice, Tuscaloosa even better.

He would have largely been considered a hero, the latest addition to Bama’s storied pantheon of gridiron greats. He could have been famous, a 21st century Bama 12th man, erasing the memories of Tommy Lewis’ sprint from the sideline and his bareheaded tackle of Rice halfback Dickey Moegle in the 1954 Cotton Bowl. Just like Lewis, Number One could have always said in his own defense, “I was just so full of Alabama.”

He reflected on all of that, and that moment when he had taken his foot ever so slightly off the brake pedal and started moving it toward the accelerator, only to set it back down again.

And frankly, he was having second thoughts.

Okay, so I’ve written my March column for The Huntsville Times, and I do a word count and find out that I’m pushing the maximum limit of 680 words.

No problem. I relentlessly self-edit (a skill that all of you–some more than others–should practice each and every day), and I whittle it down. I redo the word count. I stare in horror:

666.

I’m thinking: better add a few words.

Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?

Predictions anyone?

BTW, I like Memphis HC John Calipari more and more. He helped defuse a pretty tense situation last weekend at UAB when he gave their students the benefit of the doubt after a controversial ending. Very classy. Speaking of which, he dresses to the nines too. Kinda the opposite of Rick Pitino, who looked like Colonel Sanders (or would that be John Travolta?) in that white suit. Calipari is always good for some choice soundbites and gives a great interview. He makes me laugh till I cry–which is a good thing.

Have a great weekend. And Go Duke (please?)!

A tip o’ the hat to fellow optometrist and nation’s servant Lt. Col Hal who passed on this fine article, “The Vision Thing,” from Christianity Today.

Artificial tears are the workhorse of eye care. I’ll tell you what I tell my students and patients–when all else fails, lubricate, lubricate, lubricate. It’s really not a question of if you have dry eyes, but how dry are they and how much do they bother you? Our modern lifestyle, especially all the time we spend in front of computer screens, contributes greatly to the surge of dry eye that I’ve seen over the past 20 years.

Here’s a tip, free of charge: all eye drops are not created equal. It can be confusing with the dozens of OTC drops available at your local Wal-Mart or Target. Ask your eye doctor, or take my word for it: Try Systane. It’s my personal favorite. Use it 3-4 times daily. It’s good for what ails ya.

Of course, natural tears are the best of all. Especially the ones associated with laughter and sadness. I can usually tell after spending a few minutes with someone whether or not they’ve cried tears of sadness in the past–they are the ones who bear themselves with great humility and don’t claim to have all the answers. I can also tell the ones who’ve cried tears of joy too–they have a palpable mirth about them and don’t take themselves, or anything, too seriously.

Artificial tears are good. Natural tears are better.

Whether you agree with it or not, you have to admit it was a nice shot.

As someone who briefly held the high score on the Space Invaders machine at University Mall in Blacksburg, Virginia in early 1985, my hat’s off to you, Navy. Somewhere, Wernher von Braun is smiling. And I suspect, so are many of my top-secret rocket scientist friends in Huntsville.

Maybe you guys could help Duke find the basket too. Or at least a little earlier in the game anyway.

It was a crisp, fall evening in October, 2000. My U-10 soccer team, The Blue Vipers, were up against the perennial city champs, the Boys Club Hardrollers. They were a juggernaut–I swear some of their players had stubble and drove themselves to the match. I could go on and on about how they illegally recruited by grabbing up the best players from across the city, but that would make me seem small and petty. After all, it’s only a game, right? Right.

We took it to them, though, and at the half, we were leading 2-1. The lads were a little shocked at their success and so was I. But I didn’t tell them that. Everything was going according to my well-conceived match plan as I started my half time pep talk. Knute Rockne would have been proud.

“You see?” I exhorted. “They put their boots on one foot at time just like you do. Nobody thought you had a chance against this team–especially them. Now they’re scared and on the run. Let’s keep doing what we’re doing and go out there and finish the job!”

And then the kicker: “Can we beat this team? I said, can we beat this team?”

Everyone is unison: “YES. WE. CAN!”

Well, actually we couldn’t. They came back and beat us 4-2. But that’s not the point.

The point is: Senator Obama, it’s time to come clean.

Talk about an interesting turn of events.

Yesterday, Eyegal, Number One and I made our way down to our favorite beautiful old downtown church for a Lenten liturgy fix. I had not adhered very well to my promises this year, and I was eager to make amends. Lent, after all, is not merely the stuff that you must brush off your clothes.

The rain poured hard as the service started, and the sound of it pelting furiously against the roof lent an air of drama to the lectionary readings. The music soared, drawing us away from our selfish, petty concerns and upward and outward toward Higher and Holier Things. The homily was short and sweet and very encouraging, like a long, slow draft of cool water on a very hot day.

We recited The Creed, confessed our sins, passed the peace and made ready to receive the The Body and Blood of Christ, “The Gifts of God for the People of God.” Everyone went forward, including small children whose parents led them by their hands or even carried them toward the altar. The parents eagerly showed their small ones how to kneel, cross their arms, and ask for their blessing from the priest, who gladly obliged with kind words and a gentle touch to their little heads.

As I made my way toward the front, I saw a man, about 6’10”, ahead of me in line. Even though I didn’t see his face, I knew immediately who he was. And where he was, she had to be nearby.

He was one of my long-time patients, and walking beside him was his wife, the same woman who had apparently not thought too much of my most recent newspaper column and called it–interesting.

As we made our way back to our seats, he spotted me, smiled and stuck out his hand. She saw me too, looked a little confused at first, but finally smiled.

After the service, they both made a beeline toward us. They were genuinely glad to see us and even invited us to coffee in the fellowship hall (regretfully, we had another obligation and had to decline). But we promised we would come back again sometime and take them up on their offer.

I wondered as we stood there talking if she was thinking about that column of mine that she had found so interesting and if she would mention it again. But she never did.

And you know what? It didn’t matter.

I stand corrected. Number One is hanging out with us this morning and pointed out to me that my recollections of Duke’s stunning win over Kentucky in 1992 were a bit blurred.

It actually went more like this.

And that’s the way it happened–well, almost.

A patient’s wife whom I’ve known for years saw me poke my head out into the waiting room the other day and ran over to give me some feedback on my recent newspaper column.

She cocked her head to one side, tilting it slightly forward, raised a single brow, and without so much as a hint of a smile said, “I saw your column. Now that was interesting.”

Not “Great column.” Not “Nice.” Not “Oh how sweet.” But interesting, very, very interesting.

“Well thank you very much,” I replied, not quite sure whether I had just been complimented or not. What else could I do?

I found the whole incident, well, interesting.

Guys, it’s not too late. If you need an emergency STAT consult, you know where to find me.

There’s only thing that makes my heart gladder than a Duke win, and that would be a Kentucky loss. In this case, the major whuppin’ at the hands of the Vanderbilt Commodores last night.

Whence comes my ire? Oh, the general cockiness–and the 1978 NCAA final didn’t help. But the biggest reason is related to eyes.

In the summer of 1990, I was a resident in ocular disease at a large clinic in Nashville. I wasn’t sure where I would go after that, so I was in the process of obtaining several state licenses to broaden my options. I thought at the time that Kentucky sounded kinda nice and wasn’t far and that I might be able to find a post-residency position somewhere in The Bluegrass State. So off I went to Lexington to take the test.

For those of you (that would be most) unfamiliar with optometry licensing laws, at that time the large majority of states still required candidates to take their own “special” board exam rather than recognizing the National Board. This allowed the state boards, which are typically dominated by “good ol’ boys” with large, successful private practices, to “screen” prospective doctors for those who might be deemed a threat to their special interests. In other words, no use allowing some young turk in who might set up shop nearby and start siphoning off your patients.

In the case of Kentucky, this consisted of a pretest “interview” with me in a very small chair, looking and feeling very young, puny and powerless. Towering above me on an elevated platform sat 8 “good ol’ boys” with frosty hair sprouting from numerous orifices who interrogated me as to my origins, current whereabouts and future plans. I got the distinct impression that my answers weren’t satisfactory to them, and I recall telling Eyegal that night that I was afraid “the fix was on.”

The following day, I made my way through the written portion of the exam (no problems) and most of the patient care section (again, no problems) and finally came to the last station of the exam–refraction. I walked into the room, and in my chair sat an 80-year-old grandmother with itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny pupils and dense cataracts.

For those of you (that would be most) who have never done a refraction before, let me just tell you–that spells major bad news. To make matters worse, she barely talked (she had either been coached to be non-responsive or else had Alzheimers). I fumbled around and did my best, but as time expired, she was still only seeing 20/200. I found out later from questioning the other candidates that no one else had been required to refract Granny and that she had apparently been aimed just at me.

Welcome to Kentucky–boy.

I failed the refraction section, lowering my overall grade exactly one point below the passing mark. I thought about fighting it, but what could I do? I was young, poor and powerless. I swore that I would never have anything to do with that state again.

A year later, I traveled to Raleigh, NC and took what was arguably the toughest optometry state board exam in the country (6 hours of patient care and oral exams). I dazzled my interlocutors–it was a Jesus-in-the-temple moment. I received an overall mark of 99.

Almost 2 years later, Duke stunned Kentucky on Christian Laettner’s buzzer beater en route to their second National Championship in a row. To this day, I feel that they won that for me.

And that, dear readers, is why I hate Kentucky. Caveat: If you’re from there, it’s nothing personal.

As promised, here’s the link to my second community column for The Huntsville Times.

And, once again, they left off the first paragraph in the online edition. For the record, here it is:

“Another Valentine’s Day rolls around, and my mind is drawn back to 1976–and Annie. I sang her song, and it didn’t matter that she was John Denver’s wife because it wasn’t really about her.”

I don’t know why they keep leaving off the first paragraph. I’ll have to ask the editor about that. Fortunately, the print edition was fine, and they even used one of the pictures they had taken instead of the first one I sent in, the one Eyegal calls my “terrorist” passport photo.

The newspaper reserves the right to edit at will, so I always hold my breath a little until I see the final product. Aside from a few small edits, most of which I agree with, it’s pretty much what I sent in.

I drew upon ideas from two previous blog posts (here and here) to create this Valentine Day’s special. Some of you may be wondering if I surprised Eyegal with this one. The answer is “no.” I let her read it before I sent it in. That whole “surprise” thing can work against you too if you’re not careful, know what I mean?

I think she was pleased. In fact, I’m figuring that this ought to be worth, oh, about 5 years worth of those $5 cards with the pop-out inserts.

But don’t worry–I won’t forget the flowers.

Just a reminder for those of you in the Huntsville area, my 2nd Sunday column will appear in the Forum section of The Huntsville Times this week. I’ll post a link to the online edition as soon as it’s available.

This one will contain many embarrassing tidbits from my past (and present), flashes of 1970s nostalgia, sexual innuendo galore, the usual soaring prose laced with biting humor, Eyegal in all her beauty, glorious, never-before-seen metaphors along with a salute (sort of) to a certain upcoming holiday. All kinds of scandalous stuff, really.

Now that I have your attention, I hope you’ll read it. Have a great weekend!

I understand that there is much debate over which Democrat won Super Tuesday.

But there is no debate as to who got Julio.

And there is certainly no debate as to who won The Tangle in the Triangle.

Barners, better check that broken fence gate before more of ‘em get away. And if anyone out there knows any Tarheel fans (I know, I know, but I understand they do exist), please link them to this post so that I may taunt them mercilessly. Thank you.

Roll Tide. Go Duke. Two great tastes that go great together.