Week 4: The Game Plan

In Which Our Hero Becomes A Sexual Predator, An Inept Lothario, A Crime
Victim, And Ultimately Finds Redemption

With a race looming on Sunday, I skipped my usual Saturday morning long run
in favor of a swim at a nearby pool followed by a short run. I don’t
normally go to the Washington & Lee High School pool on the weekends, and,
upon trying it for the first time, realized the wisdom of my usual routine.
Six lanes had been trimmed to three, half having been co-opted for some sort
of water-robics class for twenty-odd yam-shaped women. Meanwhile, the
bleachers teemed with solo parents clutching the wrist of a proximal
toddler, all of whom presumably played some part in the class to follow.

After a couple thousand meters, I changed, went for a short run, and came
back to shower. In the interim, the children’s swimming class had started
and finished, and I returned to a locker room overrun with parents
struggling to towel and clothe their children, who, having been
disenfranchised of the right to stay dry, were exercising varying degrees of
nonviolent resistance.

My shower having ended, I stood in the locker room, drying myself off. I
was daydreaming, I guess, lost in my own thoughts, and I was standing there,
in a good-morning,-world! stance, sawing the towel across my back when my
animal radar picked up the blip of something unnaturally close to my knee.
I looked down, frozen in mid-wipe. Not more than a foot away was a
(fully-clothed) little girl. She was staring up at me.

All of me.

First reaction: panic. Visions of Chris Hansen leaping out of the practice
pool in a frogman suit flashed in my head.
But I calmly reexamined the situation. I was toweling off in front of the
showers in the men’s locker room. How was I in the wrong?

(It reminds me of a stand-up routine I saw a while ago. The local news did
a segment about a man who was filling up at a gas station late at night when
he was killed during a random drive-by shooting. ‘They said he was in the
‘wrong place at the wrong time,’” recalled the comedian. Crowd titters.
“‘Wrong place’? Wrong place? He was at a gas station! Where the hell else
are you supposed to put gas in your car?”)

I felt bad for her dad, though. She may have lost any interest in ever
dating a white dude after that.

* * *



Later that afternoon I went to the Clarendon Day festival. See attached
pic. What street fair is complete without the popular
Crawl-Through-A-Mexican’s-Crotch ride?

* * *

That night, I attended a Congressional Black Caucus reception at the French
Embassy. As an African-American Congressman, it’s important for me to
attend these things.

Naturally, I gravitated to the lone blonde in the room. (In that group, she
stood out more than vitiligo.) She was a sales rep for Heineken, which had
apparently sponsored some CBC events earlier that day. Her name was Liesl.

“L-I-E-S-L ‘Liesl’?” It was loud, and I had to shout to be heard over the
crowd.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Yes! No one can ever spell my name, how did
you know that?”

For no good reason, I felt the need to lie, to chalk it all up to some crazy
happenstance. How do you explain to someone you just met that you can spell
almost anything?

“Oh,” I said, waving my hand with what I hoped was nonchalance as I laughed
nervously. “I’ve seen ‘Sound of Music’ six times.”

Let’s examine the ways I could have gone with that answer.

A. I’ve actually lived in Holland.
B. I could have pretended to know someone with that name.
C. I could have attributed it to a lucky guess.

Instead I went with “Sound of Music”? Forget the fact that I don’t even
_like_ “Sound of Music” (I can’t sit through more than half an hour before I
get bored with the singing). I took advantage of an opening by professing a
love for musicals?

I may as well have told her I used to skate competitively.

* * *

Sunday morning, I ran the Capitol Classic 20-miler. For distances that
long, I usually eat a caffeine-laden gel right before the start and carry a
second one in my shorts for the mid-way point. Just as I was taking the gel
out of my gear bag, I saw the course map taped to a wall. I set my bag down
and set the gel on the ground next to it, so that I wouldn’t forget to take
it with me. After studying the course map for a few minutes, I went back to
get my bag.

The gel was nowhere to be found.

What is the world coming to when people start stealing from attractive
people?

* * *

Sunday after the race, I had just brought my gear up to my apartment when I
realized I’d left my phone in my car. Returning to the elevator banks, I
press the ‘Down’ button and wait for the next car. As the door slides open,
I step in and immediately turn back around. I was daydreaming, I guess,
lost in my own thoughts, when from behind me:

“Oh my God, you are an insane runner!”

I turn around, and find a very attractive young woman staring at me with
what looks like recognition.

“Uh. . .”

“I’m sorry, I meant that as a compliment. How much do you run every day?”

Actually, I hadn’t taken it badly at all. I was just standing there trying
to avoid another “Sound of Music” incident. Although at this point, my
inability to engage in ordinary human interaction was in danger of being
mistaken for autism.

By floor six, I find out she’s training for her first marathon. At floor
five, we specify that it’s the Richmond Marathon, and no I don’t know much
about that one. Upon reaching floor four, I discover that seeing me coming
back from my runs as she’s leaving for work in the morning inspires her.

The elevator stops at the third floor, and I step out. The doors of
opportunity begin to rumble closed. I give her my apartment number and tell
her to slip a note under my door. She tells me her name is Katie.

There are other places I could live besides Arlington, but I can’t imagine
why.

* * *

Well, that’s about all I have, so you know what this means.
“So long/Farewell/Auf wiederschen goodbye. . .”

Onto the game. . .

Few teams can boast the blood rivalry of the Panthers-Bucs. Defensive juggernauts, they play a game of field goals and traffic in violence. In 2004, the Panthers lost DE Kavika Pittman for the season to a torn ACL and MCL, suffered after a devious chop-block from Buc WR Keenan McCardell. The Panthers reciprocated in 2006 by pureeing Chris Simms’ spleen, ending his season, possibly his career, nearly his life.

Fresh off of breaking three of Rams QB Marc Bulger’s ribs on opening day, the most feared defensive unit in NFL history, the Big Cat D of YOUR CAROLINA PANTHERS was game-ready. Were the Bucs? Heading into Week 4, the game between 2-1 division foes would yield control of the volatile NFC South division, and featured a showdown between the number 5 quarterback in the league (Jeff Garcia) vs. the number 3 (Jake Delhomme).

(“Yes,” said my Tampa friend Eric, “but one of these quarterbacks isn’t 35 years old.” That’s okay, I told him. Gay men are in notoriously good shape.)

The Bucs gave it their best effort, but the noble savagery of the Big Cat D, awesome to behold, was nothing short of devastating. “O brave new world, that has such people in it!” marveled Aldous Huxley’s Savage. Barely up 7-0, the Bucs were midway through the first quarter, running on the legs of “Cadillac” Williams. “A devil, a born devil, on whose nature/nurture never can stick. . .” said Prospero of Caliban, yet equally well it applied to one of the Horsemen of God’s Country, S Chris Harris, who delivered the crushing hit on Williams that tore his patellar tendon and ended his season.

“But I don’t want comfort,” said the Savage. “I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.”

“In fact,” said Mustapha Mond, “you’re claiming the right to be unhappy.”

“All right then,” said the Savage defiantly, “I’m claiming the right to be unhappy.”

In the second half, the field was strewn again with the body of crushed corsairs. Buccaneer Luke Petitgout was taken out of the game with a season-ending cracked knee, courtesy of DT Kris Jenkins.

At halftime, the Bucs were clinging to a tenuous 17-0 lead, and Coach John Fox’s masterful strategy was playing itself out brilliantly. It is not enough to beat your opponent. To see their spirit crushed – that is victory. Fox is one of those rare visionaries who doesn’t just play game-to-game; he was playing for the season. And the long-term game plan to ensure division dominance involved wholesale genocide of the Bucs’ offense.

Yet where was the Carolina offense?

Were they still in the locker room, watching replays of Brett Favre’s record-breaking TD throw? At this point, I’m convinced that nothing will jar sportswriters from this season’s script that Brett Favre is “playing like a kid again.” He could pull out a gun out and shoot a defensive lineman, and Chris Berman would still lead with: “And look at Favre, 38 years young, still murdering people like a kid in a Columbine schoolyard!” (And then do that ‘WHOO-OP!’ sound effect.) Seriously, what exactly are we celebrating anyway? The fact that a 38-year-old finally shows up to work on time, not hung over, doesn’t fall asleep in meetings, pays attention to his bosses and makes intelligent decisions in a job he gets paid millions for in order to better his team’s chances of success? Honestly, this makes him some sort of hero?

Were they debating the old Chris Simms haircut (which made him look like prison candy) versus the new Chris Simms haircut (which makes him look like the creepy monk from “Da Vinci Code”)?

Were they predicting how thoroughly the Giants defense would stop the Eagles later that night? (I thought it would have been funny to have a 24-hour camera on Donovan McNabb all this week, showing him going about his daily business, like going to the ATM or picking up his dry cleaning, and then showing him get sacked every couple of hours by Osi Umenyiora. The only thing funnier would have been Osi standing up, looking into the camera, and saying, “I’m not nearly this hard on white quarterbacks!”)

None of the above. Sadly, the General, Jake Delhomme, was out with an injured elbow, and the offense had been turned over to the disquietingly androgynous David Carr. Carr, whose halting decision-making frequently results in Pompeii-like tableaus prior to being sacked, never got in sync with the Carolina receivers, despite the fact that there was a Dwayne Jarrett sighting! Yes, first round draft pick/bust WR Dwayne Jarrett made a few cameo plays! The man who was supposed to take double coverage off of WR Steve Smith was playing off of what I heard referred to as a “limited playbook,” which is code language for the fact that he’s only been able to learn a few of his plays. The 2007 Dwayne Jarrett “limited playbook” is like the games they have in the Special Ed classroom: the Chutes & Ladders with only a “Start” and “Finish” square; the “Clue” where all the cards say “Colonel Mustard did it.”; the “Taboo” where all the answers are “Daaaah” and the buzzer is edible.

After halftime, the Growling Wall grew even stingier, permitting only a single field goal for the entire second half. And in the final minutes of the fourth quarter, the Appalachian Express came alive! The Bucs had pulled their defensive starters, and no one runs a hurry-up offense against second-stringers like David Carr! Touchdown, Panthers! Panthers lose, 20-7.

Next week:

With Delhomme sidelined for another week, along with the always bizarrely-injured LB Dan Morgan (“slight” Achilles tear), Il Davide di Carolina leads the Panthers against the winless New Orleans Saints.

Until next time.

RROWRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

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