Wisdom and Folly

I love football, particularly of the NFL variety.  So for fans like me, this is the most exciting time of the year, as the playoffs begin next week.  Of course, post-season play is the most exciting time in any sport at any level, but in the NFL it’s especially thrilling, because it’s a single elimination tournament culminating in the single most viewed sporting event of the year—the Super Bowl.

I follow the NFL closely—well, at least as closely as one can without the benefit of television or lots of free time.  I do manage to watch a few regular season games, usually those featuring one of my favorite teams—the Colts and the Saints (a great regular season for both of these teams, and their fans, by the way).  And I’ll be sure to watch all of their playoff games in the coming weeks.

Yesterday, while playing fetch with my dog, my thoughts drifted off to football.  Not random daydreams, my thoughts were inspired by the fact that my dog is quite a nimble beast—fleet of paw and amazingly elusive.  Watching him romp in the yard is a treat, as he can stop and start on a dime and instantly accelerate to a full sprint.  As a young, 50-pound standard poodle, he might be rather ordinary, but compared to humans his athleticism is impressive.

So the thought occurred to me that has occurred to many football-loving dog-owners:  How would an NFL team fare against my dog, or any dog for that matter, if they had to run him down on the field?  Of course, this premise has been the subject of a few silly films over the years.  But consider this:  If dogs were allowed to play in the NFL and if a dog such as my standard poodle could be given the IQ of, say, a human 7-year-old, then that dog would be the MVP of the league.  In fact, he would easily be a Hall-of-Fame player.  How so?  Well, no one could catch him.  Even the best NFL defenders would look inept trying to tackle him.

What position would he play?  Clearly you wouldn’t want to play the dog at quarterback or wide-receiver, where good hands are a must.  Nor would you want to give a dog the task of blocking or kicking, for obvious reasons.  So, granting our canine friend the right to carry the ball in his mouth (which isn’t illegal by NFL rules, as far as I know), the position of running back becomes an obvious choice.  Also, kick or punt return duties would be a possibility.  In any of these positions, once the dog gets possession of the ball, forget it.  He’s gone—leaving a trail of flailing defenders in his wake.

Yes, it’s a silly suggestion that conjures funny mental images.  But it also raises some interesting questions, both about football and athletics generally.  First, what does it say about football as a sport that a dog with the IQ of a first-grader would be a dominant player, probably the greatest the game has ever seen?  I don’t have any answers to proffer here—at least not yet.  I simply pose the question for your consideration.

Second, this is a good reminder that much of human athletic achievement, as impressive as it is in so many sports contexts, is a species-centric thing.  True, only humans can play tennis, golf, baseball, hockey, and many other sports.  But when it comes to running, jumping, swimming, and some other basic athletic skills, the animal kingdom puts us to shame.  It isn’t just cheetahs, horses, and greyhounds that can outrun Olympic gold-medal sprinters, but even cats, raccoons, and squirrels can do so.  And I suppose there are thousands of species of fish who can swim faster than Michael Phelps.

So the next time you’re blown away by the speed, power, or agility of a professional athlete, you might want to put his or her ability in broader zoological context.  And when you’re watching your favorite team in the NFL playoffs in the coming weeks, just consider how much better they would be if they had my dog returning kickoffs.

Reflections by Jim of different sorts—on music, nature, books, and sports

In the last few weeks I have attended two excellent concerts.  On September 12 I saw U2 in Chicago, as they commenced their 360° tour—a predictably fine show by the beloved Irish foursome. This was my fifth time to see them live, and while falling short of the magic of the Joshua Tree tour (what could live up to that?), they remain the greatest live band on the planet.  Also, last week I attended my first Kings of Leon show—at the Verizon Center in Noblesville, Indiana.  Lead singer Caleb Followill said it was the biggest crowd they’d ever played for.  Indeed, it was a sprawling sea of humanity, half of us slip-sliding in the muddy lawn area.  K.O.L. played a strong 20-song set, living up to their reputation as the heir-apparent to U2’s throne.  We’ll see about that.

Last week Amy and I were back in Chicago, this time for her best friend’s wedding.  We stayed high atop the downtown Holiday Inn overlooking the Chicago River.  Just outside our 17^th story window an Orb Weaver spider (Araneidae family) was perched in the middle of a giant web, which we measured at 3 x 2.5 feet.  Judging by the spider’s bulky appearance, s/he had managed to catch plenty of bugs way up there.  Early the next morning I marveled at the massive buildings in downtown Chicago.  In doing so, I looked through that Orb Weaver’s giant web, and then it struck me.  Both were magnificent feats of engineering, and they shared some of the same structural features: footings, girders, and symmetrical design.  And both ultimately testify to the genius of our common Creator.

I recently posted a review on David Kinnaman’s book unChristian, which has generated a lot of conversation in the last year or so.  Among the authors responding to this book is Russell Rathbun, who has recently authored unChristian: Finding Faith in a New Generation.  (Judson Press).  I have been invited to participate in Rathbun’s blog tour, so I will comment on the book and interact with him the week of October 12.  Rathbun is an emergent church pastor and author, so I’m very curious to see his response to unChristian.  Stay tuned.

Finally, the major league baseball season is drawing to a close, and as I write this my Detroit Tigers’ lead in the American League central division has dwindled to one game, with two games left in the season for both the Tigers and the Minnesota Twins, who have been hotly pursuing them the last three weeks.  Having had my baseball heart twice broken by the Twins—in ’87 when they drubbed Detroit in the ALCS and in ’91 when they squeaked by the Braves (also a rooting interest of mine)—I am quite keen on seeing the Tigers return the favor, if just for this season.  Will they do it?  Time, as they say, will tell.

Having lived in Indiana for some eleven years now, one might think that some knowledge regarding Indy Car racing would have made its way into my databank by now. Sadly, this is not the case. Every Memorial Day, I am surprised by the Indy 500. It’s like having some distant relative that shows up every year for Thanksgiving and you say “Oh, right! Cousin Fred!” and then you forget about him until the next Thanksgiving.  I have learned to embrace, or at least accept, many aspects of Indiana culture—the town-wide rummage sales, the obsessive corn watching, the mind-blowing lack of topographical diversity. But racing is just not one of them. The closest I have come is some rather spirited (okay, more like cutthroat) video game sessions with my husband. 

This past Memorial Day I was just as disinterested when somehow the topic of Danica Patrick came up in a conversation with Jim. I innocently raised the question of whether she was really that good and how much her looks had to do with her status in the racing community. It seemed fairly self-evident to me that her appearance (and her willingness to exploit her “assets”) had to have played a part in her prominence. I was rather surprised when Jim quickly came to her defense, touting statistics regarding her accomplishments, etc. After making a mental note to suggest he cut back a bit on his ESPN talk radio (stats about football, hockey, baseball—all acceptable, but what will come next? Men’s water polo?), I retorted that though I didn’t doubt Patrick’s talent, I just couldn’t buy that there weren’t plenty of other women out there just as talented who would never be given a chance simply because they looked better with the helmet on than off. Surely she had been given opportunities and advantages that others had been denied. Perhaps this is unfair of me, both to Patrick who is obviously skilled (though I would feel less sorry for her if she would wear that driving suit all the time rather than some of the other less modest apparel I have seen her wearing) and unfair to those who are as talented if not as attractive. But as the saying goes, “life’s not fair.”

As a woman, and now especially as my daughter’s mom, I often wrestle with the issue of appearance and the role it plays in our crooked and crazy world. When Maggie was born, I was shocked at how instinctive it was to praise her appearance. I find Jim and I both struggle to balance our compliments, following up on a “You look so pretty!” with a quick “And you are so smart!” Why is it that we can praise the Grand Canyon but blushingly we praise our daughter’s outward form which comes from the same source, the eternal outpouring of God’s own beauty? Should I feel pangs of guilt when I mull over which outfit choice to make in front of my ever-impressionable girl? 

I remember when Maggie was about a year and a half old and suffered an injury to her mouth. There was a part of me that grieved over the change of her adorable smile which, while still adorable, now included a few chipped teeth. Another part of me was glad to have her not quite so cute. Which was the right response? Knowing what a moral handicap good looks can be, should I suppress my desire to see my daughter grow up to be beautiful? It seems as if you are torn between teaching your child that her body is bad and she should consider wearing a burlap sack all the time or fostering a value for the superficial that is unhealthy and destructive. 

Whenever I find myself faced with questions such as these, I refer back to the deep wisdom of Christian kitsch—WWJD? Okay, maybe not exactly what would Jesus do, but still our lives as Christians should always come back to Him, right? The Word made flesh. And that’s the thing—the Word didn’t come down as a misty form but as flesh and bone and though we are told “he had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him” (Isaiah 53:2), He did have a body and it was suited to his purpose here on earth. So I guess that is our answer, at least in part. Our bodies are for His purposes, not our own. They can be enjoyed and even admired but only in the right context. Simple enough, right? Now all I have to do is figure out what the heck that means when the rubber hits the road…so to speak.

I just saw the video of today’s Kentucky Derby.  Wow.

If you’re a fan of the underdog (or the underhorse, in this case), then this is a story for you.  Heck, if you just appreciate anything spectacular, you need to check this out.  Coming into the race at 51-1 odds, no one predicted that Mine that Bird would even be in contention at the Derby, much less take home the roses.  The horse’s trainer, Chip Woolley, confessed afterwards, “To be honest, I didn’t have any real feeling that I could win the Derby.”  And co-owner Mark Allen said, “I would’ve been happy just to have lit the board with this horse.”

As you watch the video, note the horse lagging at the rear for the first half of the race, some twenty lengths behind the leader.  Well, that’s Mine that Bird, mounted by jockey Calvin Borel.  His strategy was to lay back, hug the rail, and push hard at the end.  By hugging the rail, of course, the horse has a shorter distance to run overall.  But the challenge is finding a path through the tangle of horses in the homestretch.  Well, Borel brilliantly guided his diminutive colt through the equine mass and finished first.  Not only that, but he won handily—by almost seven lengths, the largest margin of victory in the Kentucky Derby in over sixty years! 

So many lessons here—even for us humans.