Look at me, for example. On St. Patrick’s Day in 2011, I was in Scottsdale Stadium, happily seated a few rows off of the left field foul line, watching the defending World Champion San Francisco Giants play a spring training game. In stark contrast, on St. Patrick’s Day in 2013, I was in Scottsdale Stadium, happily seated a few rows off of the right field foul line, watching the defending World Champion San Francisco Giants play a spring training game. Talk about your major metamorphoses!

They say that the first step toward overcoming a dependency is admitting that you have a problem. So here goes: I am addicted to the Cactus League. So much so that I will endure cloudless skies, 80 degree temperatures, and reasonably-priced tickets in order to watch Major League Baseball games that don’t actually count.

Bird, Tamar and Kels, suffering gamely along with me

The worst part about all of this is the all-consuming guilt I feel about introducing this addiction to others. In 2011, I had lured my buddy Kels to Scottsdale. By 2013, both of our wives had become ensnared as well. I guess it’s true—you always hurt the ones you love most.

While on the topic of mistreating those that deeply care about you, it seems appropriate that the first stop on this trip was an Angel’s game. Once again an off-season spending binge has created a magnificent Halos team…on paper. This has cruelly raised hopes that my badly-faded 2002 World Series Champions tee-shirt will have a successor before becoming completely threadbare.

A’s pitcher Evan Scribner works on tips provided from my second row seat

Ace Jared Weaver was on the mound against the Oakland A’s, and Albert Pujols was in the lineup after off-season knee surgery. From seats so close to the field I thought we were going to be asked to help warm up A’s pitchers, I watched as Pujols popped out meekly three times, and Weaver fell victim to a wind-aided lazy fly ball that somehow turned into a 450-foot home run. Three different times. In two innings of work. In spite of two jumbo-sized cans of Bud Lime, it was a sobering experience.

No worries—I did mention that the games don’t count, didn’t I? It was on to Phoenix’ west side to see the Indians host the Giants in a fairly rare night game.

A couple of things about Goodyear Ballpark, the nearly-new facility that houses both the Indians and the Reds. Built in 2009, it’s a beautifully-designed stadium, with amenities that put most major ballparks to shame. The sight lines from almost everywhere are fantastic, and there is a wide assortment of seating options—including little parks-within-the-park for kids to romp around in.

Oh, and one more little thing that I wanted to tell you about Goodyear Ballpark. Don’t go there. Unless, of course, you have the better part of a weekend available to travel the 2.8 miles that separates I-10 from the ballpark entrance. Evidently, nobody involved with running the facility ever took a “Traffic Management 101” course. City of Goodyear, meet the Cleveland Indians. Indians, this is the City of Goodyear. You two obviously have a lot to catch up on.

I’d say that they were trying to fit 5,000 or so cars through a small pasta strainer to get into the parking lot, but that would be an exaggeration. They were actually trying to fit 5,000 or so cars through just one of the holes in a small pasta strainer. We set out for Goodyear Ballpark almost two hours before game time, thinking we’d catch a good bit of batting practice, an assumption that looked highly likely when we were met with sparse traffic on the interstate. By the time we got to our seats, the fourth inning of the game was underway.

Thankfully, we saw a good six-inning game. The Giants, playing only two regulars, took a 3–2 lead into the bottom of the ninth, on the strength of a bunch of guys whose names were absent from uniforms bearing numbers that ranged from 70 to 90. A big strapping kid named Mitch Lively quickly recorded the first two outs. With Giants fans standing in anticipation of the win however, Mitch Lively began to pitch much more like Blake Lively. A walk, a single, and a resounding triple by somebody named Delvi Cid ended the game in a 4–3 Indians walk-off. A scheduled fireworks display then followed quickly on the heels of the unscheduled ones. All in all, it was quite the evening. And if you leave now, you can probably be in Goodyear Ballpark in time for next year’s Cactus League opener.

Tim Lincecum & Buster Posey get ready for a “pivotal” Cactus League game

All of the above merely set the stage for the Big One—the aforementioned St. Paddy’s Day pilgrimage to Scottsdale Stadium, where the sun was shining, a light breeze was blowing, and everybody was Irish for the day.

A back-and-forth contest was winding to a close, with the Giants prepared to absorb a 7-5 loss to the Rockies. This was becoming too much to bear for Kels, a devoted San Francisco fan. Enter Cole Gillespie, a real, live Irishman, whose surname means “servant of the bishop”. On this day though, Gillespie meant “he who hits three-run home-run with two outs in the bottom of the ninth.” The career minor-leaguer sent Kels and his Giant-loving ilk home (or in our case, to a sumptuous Old Town Scottsdale dinner) with a wide, winning smile.

See what I mean about this stuff becoming addictive? Maybe I don’t actually want to kick this habit…

I tell you that to tell you this: this past Saturday afternoon I had another deeply satisfying transistor-radio-esque experience, courtesy of Ithaca College men’s basketball assistant coach Jon Tanous.

See, for some time now, Jon has been emailing me with updates on how the Bombers have been navigating the 2012-13 Empire 8 Conference season. Actually, I’m beginning to suspect that Jon isn’t emailing me personally. The greeting line, “Timothy” is what tipped me off. The last time I was called “Timothy” it was while being grounded for failing to do my chores.

Nevertheless, as the season progressed, I looked forward to Jon’s emails, mostly because they told of one big Bomber win after another. Jon ushered me through the regular season, through Ithaca’s dramatic Empire 8 tournament championship, and into the NCAA’s Division III version of March Madness. And last Thursday, his email contained an extra goodie—a link to a webcast of the Bomber’s weekend game against the nationally-ranked University of Rochester.

As a result of my insider relationship with Jon, I had begun to buy into the concept that the Bombers were pretty good—even from a nationwide perspective. This was a revolutionary thought to me, given the following point of reference: I used to play basketball for Ithaca College (if I may use the term “play” loosely).

But there it was, in black and white: a win over Rochester would put Ithaca in its first-ever Sweet 16. I’ll say that again: first…ever…Sweet 16. Naturally, I was intrigued. I cleared my calendar for the 4:00 PM tip-off, and when the magic hour arrived I clicked on the link that Jon had graciously provided (to me specifically).

What greeted me was the 2013 version of a transistor radio broadcast. The picture did odd things. The sound was, at full volume, barely above a whisper. There were no graphics, no replays—instant or otherwise. No stats. Just the game. You could sort of make out the scoreboard when play was on that end of the court, and during timeouts, the single camera in use would zoom in on it to update you. In general though, you were on your own to keep track. It was awesome.

The game itself was a throwback as well. I mean, these teams were actually running plays. I detected countless give-and-go’s, more than a handful of back-door cuts, an endless series of picks and screens, and get this—unashamed, gratuitous passing of the basketball. I got all nostalgic. Even a little weepy.

Well-played and closely contested throughout, the game was tied at 68 when Ithaca snagged a rebound and called time-out with 27 seconds left. The Bombers set up for the last shot, and with 3 seconds left…  ~ SPOILER ALERT ~ …Travis Warech put up an off-balance shot that caromed high off the rim. Overtime. But wait! Out of nowhere, Ithaca guard Eli Maravich (yes, the nephew of that Maravich) slashed down the lane and tipped the ball after its second bounce on the rim. Nothing but net. And on my grainy feed, I could clearly make out the ref on the far side of the floor emphatically signaling that the tip-in had come just before the buzzer.

Pandemonium erupted. Hugging, high-fiving, more hugging. And that was just in my kitchen—on the court the euphoria was even more pronounced.

Like the trained laboratory rat that I am, I trained my eyes back on my computer screen, waiting for the inevitable coach’s challenge, and the 47 replays from 73 different angles (each one sponsored by a different Fortune 500 company). But nope—one and done. The ref saw it, the ref called it, and the game was over. Everybody shook hands and Ithaca retreated to their locker room to finish celebrating. Welcome to Division III sports.

This Saturday, the Bombers travel to Vermont to take on Middlebury College. In the D3hoops.com final regular season Top 25, Middlebury was ranked #7. Ithaca was…not. In fact, the Bombers didn’t even appear in the “Others Receiving Votes” section. I smell history in the making.

For those of you who plan on passing through central Vermont this weekend, I have it on good faith that you can score a ticket to the game for $7 ($4 if you’re a student or a senior citizen). It’s a bargain’s bargain. Speaking for myself though, I’m hoping there’s another webcast. Maybe if we all get a groundswell of demand going, Jon Tanous can make it happen. At least I can ask—Jon and I are tight, you know. And I don’t know about you, but just in case, I’m stocking up on Ray-O-Vacs.

IGTS Tour Flashback…

On a miserably night filled with rain, sleet and snow during the IGTS Tour’s Great Winter Sports Swing, I made a pilgrimage to Ithaca’s Ben Light Gymnasium to see the Bombers host Utica College. Curiously enough, my dispatch on that game was a little transistor-y itself. Check it out…

Sure, I was a little skeptical at first. You don’t mess with success. I mean, how much more iconic of a look can you get than a picture of me staring back at you from an empty set of bleachers? Don’t answer that.

Ahhh! Memories…

But if I were in the least bit hesitant about the makeover, all doubts vanished when Nicole, my Web Diva, presented me with a concept whose colors were eerily similar to those of the mighty Ithaca College Bombers! Coincidence? It had to be…but there they were: PMS 116 Yellow and 286 Blue. How, you might ask, did I become such an expert on the Pantone Matching System for colors? Well, I had a lot of time on my hands back in the days when I was securing the end of the IC Bomber bench. Hey, I wrote my senior thesis down there. Composed a rock opera. Invented spandex. Given one more year of eligibility, I could’ve teased out a cure for cancer. But I digress.

What I really mean to say is, welcome to the new home of all things IGTS. On behalf of the entire staff and management of this crazy enterprise, it’s great to have you here. If you take a quick glance at the Gallery page, you’ll note that we have some new friends. The ongoing process of promoting this book has enabled me to meet some really talented, interesting people, and they’ve been kind enough to share my story with their audiences. Which, in turn, helps me to relive some of these fantastic experiences over again. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

In fact, one of the best discoveries made as a result of my sports walkabout is the timeless cyclicality of sports. I remember thinking at one time that my year in the bleachers would be a self-contained twelve-month period that would fade in relevance as time passed. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Every year there is another rendition of almost every event that I attended. Each one is completely different in the way it plays out—but strikingly similar in its setting. Athletes that I saw play at one level move on to the next, only to be replaced by different athletes with different stories. Common threads are endless.

The beauty of all of this is that each one of the events that I attended during the IGTS Tour was merely an episode within a much longer, more dynamic story. Thus, any time I want to refresh a great memory, all I have to do is revisit the newest edition of any of my original 100 events. The common thread will no doubt be patiently waiting there for me to pick up and follow.

As you may have figured out by now, that’s exactly what I intend to do in this space; to, whenever possible, discover and share the next episodes—the sequels, if you will. I hope you’ll join me.

This day was 11 months and 13 days in the making. So there was no such thing as being too early for the game.

As enjoyable as watching opening round coverage of the NCAA Tournament is, Kels and I had no remorse about leaving March Madness behind in Scottsdale’s Fox Sports Grill at 3:45 PM for the 7:05 PM first pitch that would begin Event #100 – a Spring Training game between the Los Angeles Angels and the San Francisco Giants. After all, we had almost ten miles to travel.

Twenty minutes later we pulled into a free parking lot adjacent to Scottsdale Stadium – an absolute gem of an old-fashioned downtown ballpark. And we were by no means alone in our eagerness. It would be another 45 minutes until the gates would even open, but already there were hundreds of people milling around, even though all 11,622 tickets had long since been sold. These people, like us, just wanted to get inside and drink up the atmosphere as soon as possible.

Scottsdale Stadium is one of the original Cactus League venues, serving since 1992 as the Spring Training home of the Giants. It’s an environment that already screams authenticity, but this year it was augmented by the unmistakable swagger that goes with being the reigning World Series Champions. It wasn’t a puffed chest, “yes, we’re all that” bluster though; it was more an air of quiet confidence.

Giants fans greeted each other as if they were part of an ancient secret society. I wouldn’t have been surprised in the least to learn that a special handshake or code word was being exchanged surreptitiously all around me. If that was the case, Kels was dialed into it. As the undisputed biggest Giants fan in New York’s Upper Hudson Valley, he had earned his stripes.

For San Francisco fans, this Cactus League season was one of both anticipation and revelry in the final remnants of last October’s championship run. While media “experts” have thus far been universally underwhelmed by this year’s team, ask any Giants fan and they’ll tell you that this edition is even better than the last. Which made this the perfect opportunity to size up my 2011 Angels against a high-quality opponent.

When the gates opened, Kels peeled off to join the full-scale assault on the team merchandise store. I took the opportunity to peruse the starting lineups that had been posted on a humble erasable whiteboard on the concourse.

It took a couple of minutes to fully register, but under the heading of “Visitors” was a long list of names that I didn’t recognize. I initially thought that a mistake had been made. Maybe nobody had updated the board from the previous day’s game? But then I saw “Angels” written at the top and “Haren” in the starting pitcher’s spot and I knew that for whatever the reason, the team had chosen to field a squad of rookies and minor-leaguers for this game. 

What The...?

Of course I understand that Spring Training is equal parts getting the regulars ready and giving the up-and-comers a good look, but seriously…one “real” starter in the lineup? Four guys who I’d never even heard of? On this, the historic occasion of Event #100? I’m not going to lie – it hurt.

But I got over it. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale on tap will help with that.

It was a fairly rare Spring Training night game, and when combined with St. Patrick’s Day, a unique vibe was in the air. You got the feeling that you might see just about anything. And sure enough, as we rounded the concourse onto the third base side of the stadium, “just about anything” took the form of Bill Buckner, who was there as part of a group of retired baseball stars who were populating an autograph signing booth.

There is probably no baseball player in history whose name is more closely linked to disaster and heartbreak than Bill Buckner. The over/under on the number of times the ball going through his legs in the 1986 World Series has been replayed is probably somewhere around 7.2 bajillion. This man was literally hounded out of New England, and only two World Series titles in four years softened hardcore Red Sox fans enough to forgive him. This is a man who has experienced the absolute worst side of baseball. Yet here he was, relaxed and engaging as he chatted with fans and contemporaries such as Rollie Fingers and Gaylord Perry. Have I mentioned that Spring Training is all about renewal?

We wandered down the concourse until we reached a little oasis which offered us a great view of right field and the players warming up. There we met Pam, who was in her second night of staffing a standalone beer concession. Pam had recently relocated from Spokane to Phoenix in search of – surprise! – a fresh start, and she knew her sports. She asked if we had any scores for the late afternoon NCAA games, and a lively discussion about college basketball ensued. It turned out that she was wearing her team allegiance on her sleeve – or something akin to that. When she took off a shoe to reveal Gonzaga University socks, she forever cemented her status as a fan.

 As for the game…well, I’d love to tell you all about how a scrappy bunch of Angel unknowns came out and blistered the pitching of the World Champs – I really would. But I’d be lying. The game was every bit as devoid of offense from the Halos as I had anticipated. Fortunately though, the Angels pitching staff managed to contain the Giants nicely, and despite mustering just one infield single, we were in a scoreless tie in the fourth inning. Could the Halos perhaps scratch out a run and win this thing?

Just about the time that thought started to percolate, they showed up – a large contingent of Dodgers fans on a singular mission to annoy their San Francisco counterparts. Clad in matching Dodger Blue t-shirts, they began a slow procession around the stadium’s inner concourse, waving to the stands like beauty queens on a Tournament of Roses Parade float. They were not, umm…“well-received”.

And a funny thing happened during their procession. As the boos rained down, the Giants started to hit. A single. A double. Another double…and by the time the instigators had finished their tour, it was 3-0. Thanks guys – there went my “stealing a 1-0 win” scenario.

Giants Closer Brian Wilson Didn't Help Matters For Halos Fans

While the prospects for an Angels win (or even an extra-base hit) were becoming more remote with each inning, the social situation in Section 213 was hitting full stride. It was like the neighborhoods depicted in beer commercials – full of smart, funny people watching sports together. And friendly? I’ve seen Up With People productions that were more standoffish. Had it been a double-header, Kels might have wound up on the ballot for San Francisco’s next Board of Supervisors election.  

As informal group conversation began to reveal to others the IGTS quest – and the place that this game occupied within the Tour – new friends began to offer congratulations, share similar stories, and provide suggestions for future endeavors. I had gone to a baseball game and a focus group had sprung up. That’s baseball though, and especially Cactus League baseball.

Spring Training uniform numbers exhibit a basic pecking order – the higher the number, the more likely the player wearing it will be plying his trade in the minor leagues come Opening Day. Thus, in the bottom of the eighth inning when the Angels sent out a trio of outfielders whose uniform numbers averaged 83.3, any hope I had of a spirited comeback quickly deflated.

At 9:14 PM, an anonymous Angel wearing number 81 flied out to center field, and it was official – the “It’s Game Time Somewhere” Tour was over. The Halos had mustered just two measly hits in a 4-0 loss. On the bright side however, Kels and I had received invitations to two weddings, a Bar Mitzvah celebration, and a half-dozen backyard barbeques.

To pin the Surreal-O-Meter firmly in the red, in the street outside the stadium I ran into Ashley (nee) Gomes, a former professional golfer with whom I’d had the pleasure of working for three tour seasons. “What are you doing here?” she asked innocently. So I told her. I think she was still processing my answer when the taxi carrying her and her new husband pulled away.

To tell you the truth, I’m still processing it all myself.

Turn Out The Lights, The Party's Over

Next Up:  In Retrospect – A Year In The Bleachers

Ask any sports fan when Spring really begins and they’ll reply without hesitation:  The day that pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training. No matter where you live, from the snowiest of Frost Belt towns to the warmest Sun Belt city, the day that baseball’s pre-season camps open is always the most reliable harbinger of hope. And what is Spring anyway, if not the Official Sponsor of Hope?

When Spring Training begins, every team is a potential World Series champ. Yes, even the Pittsburgh Pirates! OK, that’s patently ridiculous, but see how easily the concept can sweep you away?

With that in mind, what better place to end my journey than at the home office of Renewal?

I bounced that very concept off of my buddy Kels, and he was completely on board with it. Literally, in fact – as in on board USAirways flight # 245 from Newark to Phoenix. And as luck would have it, his beloved San Francisco Giants were scheduled to play my Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim in a “pivotal” Cactus League contest. On St. Patrick’s Day. Which happened to be the first day of the NCAA basketball tournament.

That flash you may have just seen was that of stars aligning themselves perfectly.

The 100^th and final event of the “It’s Game Time Somewhere” Tour positively dictated that I go the extra mile in preparation. I’m sure you’ll agree that I couldn’t just blindly wander into such a momentous occasion. I needed a dress rehearsal.

So on the day before The Day, I rose at 4:30 AM and poured myself into the car for the 6 ½ hour drive to Phoenix’s Sky Harbor Airport, where I was to collect the equally sleep-deprived and giddy Kels. From there it was a short drive to Glendale, the Spring Training complex shared by the L.A. Dodgers and the Chicago White Sox, the latter of whom were hosting Kels’ Giants that afternoon.

Giants Fans Of All Ages Strain For A Closer Look

The game had already started by the time we entered the centerfield gate, and even from a distance it was easy to see that San Francisco’s star pitcher and cult hero Tim “The Freak” Lincecum was pitching. Much to the delight of Giants fans, he remained there longer than expected. After completing the fifth inning, he left the mound to a standing ovation of appreciation for his day’s work. Except that his day wasn’t exactly done, for when the bottom of the sixth inning began he was out there again. Oops. Hey, it was Spring Training for the fans too.

There’s a unique strand in the male DNA that researchers have found responsible for the irresistible Road Trip urge. Curiously enough, it’s right near the strand labeled simply “Beer”. The Bird has found the whole topic to be fascinating. “What do you guys actually do on road trips?” she once asked. The answer is simple:  (a) Play games; (b) Watch games; and (c) Make fun of each other. Is there anything else?

Sure enough, like moths to a flame, Kels and I soon made the acquaintance of three fellow grandstand residents who had come down from North Dakota for some desert biking and some baseball. It was the last day of their trip and they were in need of some visual keepsakes. Naturally we were happy to help out; as were they to reciprocate.

Over the course of the next 48 hours, that scenario replayed itself repeatedly. “Where are you in from?  How long you here for?” And of course, “How’s your team looking this year?”

Everywhere we went, we were greeted by a bright visual mix of shirts and hats bearing the logos of the Cubs, the Reds, the A’s…and well, pretty much every one of the 15 teams that call Arizona their Spring Training home. It was like a political convention – minus the nasty name-calling.

Brandon Belt Connects On A Single

We were all scouting the opposition, some of us more seriously than others. We were also on the lookout for Baseball’s Next Big Thing, so that on that future date when he was inducted into the Hall of Fame we could say “I saw him in Spring Training, before anybody else had heard of him.” A strong candidate to fill that role was the Giant’s rookie first baseman Brandon Belt, whose name is a perfect description of what he does to a baseball. In his first four times up, he walked, singled, doubled and launched a 400-foot opposite-field home run. I thought I was going to have to wipe the saliva off of Kels’ face.

Belt’s batting heroics and Lincecum’s seven strikeout performance were the catalysts for a 5-3 San Francisco win, which put a warm smile on the faces of Giants fans. The game had clocked in at 2 hours and 28 minutes, and we were left wanting more. We hadn’t even finished our bag of peanuts when the final out was recorded. So we lingered in our seats for several minutes before slowly meandering toward the exit. And that bit of loitering exposed us to an extra bit of entertainment:  The Senior Stroll.

If there is one single thing I would pick to personify the difference between Spring Training and the regular season, it would be the Senior Stroll. It’s pretty much a universal promotion at major and minor league ballparks across the country to offer kids the chance to line up and run around the bases after the pro game is over – and there is never a shortage of takers. Here in Glendale there was a new twist on the concept.

The line of men and women “of a certain age” waiting their turn to Stroll began at first base and snaked all the way up the grandstand aisle, spilling out onto the concourse above. And the event was every bit as festive and euphoric as those involving their grandchildren. As they toured the base paths, they laughed and joked, hamming it up for pictures that documented this distinctively American activity. The musical accompaniment wafting through the P.A. system? A Sinatra medley, followed by Wayne Newton singing Danke Schoen (“Bueller?…Bueller?). There was just one rule:  No sliding.

They were still at it as we slowly wound our way through the meticulously landscaped complex to the parking lot, passing signs all along the way that bore the official Cactus League mantra:  “Beware of Flying Bats and Balls”.

Yes indeed, for every ending there is a beginning. When one wonderful thing reaches its conclusion, there is always something else to look forward to. Becoming eligible for your first Senior Stroll, for example. 

To be concluded in next post…

Of course I’m not talking about the MVC, the WCC, or the MAAC – or any of those conferences for which there is but one invitation to The Big Dance. These tournaments mean everything –perhaps too much, as a team that dominates its conference during regular season play can have one bad night and see its season go down the drain. Certainly there is drama of the highest kind in the alphabet soup conferences.

No, I’m talking here about the glamour conferences. The ones that dominate media coverage of college basketball. The ones that are amateur in name only. The home of “one and done” players putting in their time before heading to the NBA. The Big East, the Big Ten, the ACC. These conferences have traditionally sent at least four teams to the NCAA tournament each year, and as they’ve grown in size by engulfing major media market teams from smaller conferences, they’ve gained even more at-large bids.

One could argue that the drama for these conference tournaments has been usurped; pretty much every team with a decent record is going to the NCAAs. When you really get down to it, you could actually make the case that winning one of these tournaments is detrimental to a team’s chances for March Madness success. For example, no Big East team has won the NCAA title since the conference expanded to 16 teams and instituted a conference tournament that brings to mind the Bataan Death March. Coincidence?

I do not bring this up merely to watch myself type. I had a decision to make.

Some time ago I committed to an IGTS Tour schedule that included a college basketball conference championship game as Event #99…but since then have waffled spectacularly on which one. Should I attend the high-profile Pac-10 finale, played in L.A.’s Staples Center, or the high-drama, winner-takes-all Big West title game at the Honda Center in Anaheim? Madonna or Cinderella?

Dim All The Lights: Player Intros

Fortunately, Goldstar rode to the rescue, as they’ve done many times in the past. The folks at Goldstar are committed to providing a service that helps people have fun without going broke, and as such have become a kindred spirit to “It’s Game Time Somewhere”. If IGTS had a Board of Directors, Goldstar would certainly have a place at the table. And this time they outdid themselves, arranging not only for complimentary tickets to the Pac-10 Championship, but placing yours truly in premium, lower bowl seating.

Sorry Cinderella, but you’re on your own.

Right from the start it was evident that this game would be a little…non-standard. As you can imagine, I’ve heard the Star-Spangled Banner played waaaaaay more often than the average citizen, and I have to say that the University of Arizona band wins hands-down in terms of “stylistic interpretation” of our national anthem. For those brave enough to try, singing along was a best-efforts endeavor, to be sure.

Washington Defense Collapses On Arizona's Jesse Perry

Once the game began it reaffirmed my opinion that there is no substitution for seeing a game like this in person, despite all of the advances in home entertainment technology. No screen or monitor can adequately capture the vividness of the colors, or convey the towering physical presence of the players. On television, defense looks like an afterthought. In person, defense looks ferocious.

Even before learning of Goldstar’s largesse, my buddy The C.O. had volunteered to forecaddie for me at this penultimate event, adding perspective and schlepping my small stable of multi-media equipment. Early on, his own patent-still-pending Crowd-O-Meter indicated a pretty even split of fan enthusiasm, despite the disproportionate number of Arizona fans in attendance. This didn’t surprise me, as I had learned at the Holiday Bowl in December that U-Dub fans possess significant expertise in raising a ruckus.

They’re also creative about voicing an opinion. I hadn’t noticed it, but apparently the team foul situation had become somewhat lopsided in favor of Arizona in the first half. The Huskie fans had noticed though, and when the first foul of the game called on Arizona was assessed nearly twelve minutes into the game, they gave a lengthy standing ovation to the refs. They were just sayin’…

Washington guard Isaiah Thomas is one of those players that seems like he’s been around well past his four years of eligibility – even though he’s just a junior. I don’t know if it’s because of his famous name (no relation, BTW), or because I’ve just come to expect good players to turn pro at the first feasible instant, but I’ve actually grown to identify the Huskies with Thomas. Just like in the old days, before revolving doors were installed in college basketball locker rooms.

And in this championship game, Isaiah was having a day. He had a hand in almost every one of the 33 points scored by Washington in the first half, scoring 19 and handing out a half-dozen assists. He literally carried the team and kept them alive, heading into halftime down just 36-33.

Pac-10 POY Derrick Williams Contests Shot

On the other hand, Arizona’s best player (and Pac-10 Player of the Year) Derrick Williams had been surprisingly quiet.

For most of the second half though, it was a different story. Williams came to life for the Wildcats – as did many of Thomas’s Washington teammates. Somehow without Thomas scoring a single point, the Huskies clawed their way into the lead. Even the Washington fans contributed, if you’re willing to believe that their sarcastic applause in the first half enhanced the ref’s ability to spot Arizona fouls after the break:  With 11:30 still remaining in the game, the Wildcats were whistled for a foul that would put Washington into the bonus foul-shooting position for the remainder of the festivities.

From that point on, it was anybody’s ballgame.

Instead of feeling like we were hurtling toward a thrilling conclusion though, the game felt more like a trudge to the finish, thanks to that old bugaboo, the television timeout. The combination of actual timeouts that the teams used down the stretch and those of the TV variety served to suck the life out of an otherwise great game.

On the bright side, we did have so much down time there were not one, not two, not three…but four occasions on which promotional items were tossed into the stands during a break in play. My favorite – the Pacific Life Whale Toss. And just in case you were concerned, these were of the furry stuffed variety, not the full 100 tons of slimy blubber.

With 6:55 left in the game, Isaiah Thomas finally broke his scoring drought with a slicing drive to the basket that put Washington up 57-54. He added another acrobatic basket on the next possession and it started to look like impending victory for the underdog Huskies (sorry – last house pet joke of the Tour, I promise). Then things started to unravel for Thomas and U-Dub. Two missed free throws. An airball from way downtown. An offensive foul.

Derrick Williams made two foul shots with 2:55 remaining to put Arizona back on top, 60-59. Moments later he added a three-pointer the old-fashioned way (basket and foul shot) to extend the lead to four points. The Wildcat faithful went…well, wild. Win or lose this game, Arizona was headed to the NCAA tournament. But that didn’t matter – these fans desperately wanted to win their first Pac-10 Tournament Championship since 2002. 

As the clock ticked off the final seconds, they started edging toward the court…

Staggered by having victory in regulation time snatched away, the Wildcats recovered nicely in overtime. But those pesky Huskies refused to go away, eventually taking a 75-72 lead with time running down. Now it was Washington’s turn to revel, and their fans, while fewer in number, shared every bit of the passion for the Pac-10 title.

So now back to the question I previously posed. After an exhaustive couple of hours of field research, I submit to you that YES, college basketball’s conference tournaments mean as much now as they ever did. And even if the NCAA tournament eventually expands to include every last Division I team, winning the conference title will still bring the thrill.

Need proof? Take a look at the reactions to how this game ended…

Isaiah Thomas’s shot at the overtime buzzer may have clinched the Pac-10 title for Washington, but the real winners were the fans. The only downside? The noise level shattered The C.O.’s Crowd-O-Meter, perhaps delaying permanently its new product launch.

Evidently The Pac-10 Championship Matters: To Isaiah Thomas, Anyway

Next Up:  Cracking The Century Mark With Cactus League Baseball

The University of Delaware

It was the end of an era. Assuming of course, that a time span of just over three months qualifies as an “era”.

On this day, the U.S. Synchronized Team Skating Championships would proudly round out the winter sports portion of the “It’s Game Time Somewhere” Tour.

I have to admit that, once actually onsite I’ve enjoyed each and every one of my Ice & Snow events. It was the process of getting to each venue that provided a steady stream of…how do I put this…“opportunities to exhibit problem-solving skills”. Yeah, that’s it – opportunities. Two feet of opportunity one day. Negative 29 wind-chilled degrees of opportunity the next.   

So I reveled in the irony that the last Ice & Snow event would take place in the winter wonderland of Ontario. Ontario, California, that is, with its 80 degrees of sunshine bathing at least the outer confines of Citizens Business Bank Arena. Granted, it felt a little odd wearing two layers of clothing (and carrying a third) as I crossed the parking lot, but at least I could be sure that here the ice and chill would be confined to the arena.

The University of Western Michigan

Having arrived early for the Collegiate Nationals, The Bird and I took our seats during the latter stages of the Adult Nationals. And in so doing, were welcomed to the confusing lexicon of competition that lives under the umbrella of the U.S. Synchronized Team Skating Championships. In consulting the rudimentary program schedule, we learned that in addition to the divisions listed above, a national title would be awarded in both a Masters and a Senior division.

But here’s the thing – as the day progressed, the skaters in all the divisions looked to be the same age. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if one team each from the Collegiate, Adult, Senior and Masters divisions were lined up, you would be hard-pressed to match team to division.

Intrigued by this, I did some asking around at one of the breaks. Normally the process of acquiring onsite expertise is a bit of a crapshoot. On this day however, information gathering was like shooting fish in a barrel, for wandering all over the concourses, both inside and out, were women bearing medals won earlier in the Championships. And who would know the rules better than one of the competitors?

The University of New Hampshire

What I learned from a conversation with a particularly accommodating group of athletes was that in order to be in the Collegiate Nationals you must be an enrolled student. For a team to compete in the Adult Nationals, it must be made up entirely of skaters that are at least 21 years old – with the majority of the team over the age of 25. For teams in the Masters Nationals, the minimum age is 25, with a majority of skaters over 35 years of age.

OK, so far so good. But then this – a skater in the Senior Nationals can be as young as 14, as long as they have passed “novice” status in a field test.  And here’s the kicker:  The top two teams in the Senior Nationals represent the U.S. in the ISU World Championships – the pinnacle of competition in the sport. Huh?

This struck me as AARP lobbying taken to an extreme. But who was I to argue with the gold medal hanging from around the necks of my semi-captive panel of experts?

The one thing that was clearly shared by all divisions in the Championships was a palpable love of competing as a team. Synchronized skating is not an NCAA-sanctioned sport, even though it carries varsity status at a number of universities. And while the sport does fall under the umbrella of U.S. Figure Skating, the national governing body that is part of the U.S. Olympic Committee consortium, it is not yet included in the Winter Olympics – and therefore not heavily funded.

Net/net – these athletes pay to play, for the most part. And ice time is not cheap. On top of that is the commitment of time required for the pursuit of excellence in skating, both individually and as part of a large choreographed team. It is impossible to oversell the importance of the latter, and not just from a purely competitive standpoint.

The University of Michigan

These women skate in tight formations, in both directions. Often, one athlete is skating backward, directly on course for a teammate who is also skating backward at her. It must take a lot of trust to know that your teammate isn’t going to take that one extra step or spin. And that kind of trust only comes from a lot of practice, during which more than a few unintentional body checks are no doubt delivered. Particularly chilling to consider as I watched, was the potential consequences of one skater’s face being in the wrong place at the wrong time when a teammate lifted her skate into the air.

Yet in spite of the cost, the sacrifice of time, the risk of injury and the assumption of step-sister status within both the NCAA and the U.S. Figure Skating Association, these women were all simply thrilled to be here. The looks on their faces at the completion of their performance was priceless, as was their reaction on the podium when their scores came in – no matter where in the standings that score placed them.

It was authentic. And it was heart-warming to watch.

SUNY Oswego Does Upstate Proud

For the most part, the schools that had proceeded through regional qualification to earn a spot in the Collegiate Nationals were those that you would expect to see. The lineup was dominated by large universities from Frost Belt locations. But one qualifier drew more than its share of “Huh? Where’s that?” from the crowd – the Ice Effects from Oswego State.

Known more precisely as the State University of New York at Oswego, this small Upstate institution sits directly on the shore of Lake Ontario. I have been to Oswego State. I have been to Oswego State in the winter. I still have nightmares about eight-foot walls of snow and winds so strong that sidewalks at the school are outfitted with rope handrails to help people remain upright while negotiating their way across campus.

Needless to say, I was pulling hard for the Ice Effects. They were dressed in pink and black (actually fuchsia and black, according to The Bird), and much to my delight, they performed to an upbeat mix of U2 songs.  And bless their hearts – in this strange foreign land of sunshine, warmth, and dry pavement, they…well, they didn’t finish last.

The University of Wisconsin

The University of Wisconsin sent a talented group of athletes. Unfortunately, they also sent a choreographer who was a refugee from Off Off Broadway. Thus the team’s routine was inexplicably done to a medley of songs and soliloquies, obviously taken from a dramatic play. It must have been hard to impress an audience and a panel of judges while trying to skate to someone angrily reciting poetry. Sure enough, two girls fell, and as they scrambled to get back into the team’s rhythm, they had to have felt a little bit like they were being yelled at by Vincent Price.

Miami University Prepares To Dazzle

When Miami University took the ice, we didn’t have to be told that they were the defending champion – or that they had won 12 previous national titles. It was clear in the way that they carried themselves. And it didn’t matter that in a twelve-team competition they had drawn the tenth performance slot – one not normally known for its high recall value. They brought down the house.

They were crisp. They were athletic. They exuded fun.

And they clearly did everything that judges like to see done (whatever that is), because when it was over, their score of 96.16 was nearly 11 points higher than that of second-place Michigan State.

Medalist Teams (l to r): Michigan State (2nd), Miami (1st), Michigan (3rd), Western Michigan (4th)

As I peeled off clothing in preparation for heading outside, I felt a wonderful pang of regret that has grown familiar over the past year. This was the last event on the IGTS Tour that would serve as my introduction to a new sport. The last time I would be delighted by yet another unique and fascinating way that people seek to test their skills and compete for the sheer love of competing.

I’m going to miss being clueless about little things like…well, like the rules of the game I’m watching. But mostly I’m going to miss asking an informed observer to explain them to me, and sensing the passion that they feel for their sport when they do so.

Next Up:  The Pre-Madness of College Basketball’s Conference Championship Week 

Even the best of Sports Fans struggle at times. We can’t always bring our “A” spectating game, and when presented with a complex multi-faceted event like the USA Track & Field Indoor Championships…well let’s just say I wasn’t proud of my Day One performance.

Over breakfast the next day, I called a Sports Fans-only meeting with myself to hash it out. After some clearing of the air, I/we embraced the difficult realization that no matter how hard one tries, it’s impossible to see everything at a track and field meet. The entire “It’s Game Time Somewhere” Tour crew agreed to put the previous day behind us, and to arrive at the Albuquerque Convention Center committed to a New Plan.

The New Plan had two key components. One, my reserved seat ticket had to be traded in for what I like to call a Custom VIP SRO Package. This essentially meant that I would spend the day pretty much anywhere in the venue other than in the reserved seat I had purchased in advance. And if that meant loitering in areas otherwise designated for coaches, friends and families, well so be it. I was willing to make that sacrifice.

The second component was a sincere vow to not get distracted. I would immerse myself in a select group of particularly compelling, accessible events, and intersperse drive-by’s or look-ins at other events only when opportunities presented themselves.

Long-Jumper Chaz Thomas

The New Plan was easy at first. One of the first fans to arrive, I staked out a comfortable, if not exactly sanctioned position along the far rail of the track. This afforded me a great view of the Men’s Long Jump competition. While unfortunately most of the country’s top male long jumpers, including LSU’s Damar Forbes (of the as-yet-undiscovered Jamaican branch of the Sports Fan family tree), were not present at the Indoor Nationals, the event did have one undeniable spectating advantage – it was the only one going on at the time.

And in all seriousness, I find the long jump compelling for the almost mystical place that it occupies in sports history. I had vague recollections as a kid of the utter amazement that accompanied delivery of the news that Bob Beamon had long-jumped 29’ 2 ½” at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics.

In a sport of inches, he had shattered the world record by nearly two feet, out jumping even the limits of the optical measurement device in place at the Games. One of my earliest enduring memories of the Olympics is the replay of Beamon collapsing to his knees when an official translated meters to feet for him and he realized the enormity of his achievement. That memory ran through my head as I gazed out to the landing pit and realized just how far 29’ 2 ½” is.

JaRod Tobler Clears 25 Feet

I became hypnotized by the rhythm of the long jump competition, as I often do at track and field events. Watching one superbly trained athlete after another effortlessly do things that would put me in traction is fascinating by itself, but what is mesmerizing is watching them in turn strain for that extra inch or two that becomes the difference between winning and losing. It’s a little like watching successive waves crest on the beach.

JaRod Tobler was the first wave to break, at 24’ 8”, followed by Chaz Thomas at 24’ 9”. No sooner did that wave recede, then Jeremy Hicks set a new high-water mark of 24’ 9 ¾”. Into the fifth round we went, where Tobler became the first to jump 25’, only to see that distance eclipsed again by Hicks’ winning jump of 25’ 2”.

Jeremy Hicks Closes Out The Field At 25′ 2″

Throughout all of this I had remained rooted to my quasi-legal viewing spot, even though action had started to pick up all over the venue. “This is The New Plan,” I had reminded myself. “You’re enjoying this immensely, so why get distracted?”

Then of course, came word came over the P.A. system that Jillian Camarena-Williams had just broken a 24-year old American record in the Women’s Shot Put. This slice of history happened just 100 yards from me, but out of my line of sight. Doh! Stupid “New Plan”.

Despite that disappointment, I reminded myself that my current position offered a double bonus – an unobstructed view of the entire runway and pit for the Women’s Pole Vault event. This was important because in crafting The New Plan, I had vowed to see as much as possible of track and field’s marquee names. And warming up less than 20 feet away from me was American record-holder and undisputed pole vault queen, Jenn Suhr.

Of all of the sports that I’ve witnessed that I couldn’t possibly succeed at, pole-vaulting is way up there on the list. The more you watch, the more you realize how many individual discrete actions there are in the performance of a vault – and how easily the whole thing can come apart in the absence of perfect execution of each. But the payoff! That feeling of knowing that you just pulled off a successful vault has got to be one of the big adrenaline rushes in sports.

Jenn Suhr (in green) and Becky Holliday Sit One Out

Early in the competition, there were no adrenaline rushes for Jenn Suhr. Because to get the thrill of clearing the bar, she would’ve had to have taken off her warm-ups and given it a try.

The first height of the competition was 13’ 7 ¼”. Like several others, Suhr passed at that level. No use wasting your efforts at a height you know you’ll clear with ease. She liked that strategy so much, she used it when the bar was set at 13’ 11 ¼”. And 14’ 3 ¼”. And 14’ 5 ¼”. Etc, etc, etc.

2010 Champion Lacy Jansen

By the time Suhr made her first attempt, half the field had been eliminated. She took her first vault at 14’ 11”, and cleared it easily. The warm-ups went back on. Her next jump was at 15’ 3”, which she made look easy. And in doing so, she won the event. Every other competitor had failed to clear that height in their allotted three attempts. In sum, Suhr’s day to that point consisted of two vaults, two easy clears and a victory – over an elite American field that included 2010 champion Lacy Janson.

But now the fun was just getting started.

Suhr requested that the bar be nudged up to 15’ 7”. And at that height the unthinkable happened. She actually knocked the bar down. Twice. I think she was just toying with us at that point though, because on her third and final attempt at that height, it looked like there was a whole lot of air between her and the bar. What do you think?

The next height increment was 15’ 9”. Suhr passed. She was thinking about her own American record of 15’ 10”. She asked for the bar to be set at 15’ 11 ¼”, which appeared to cause the meet officials some considerable indigestion. They talked it over. They set the bar. They talked it over again. And finally they cleared Suhr to jump…and miss.

At this point in the story another unthinkable likelihood was beginning to emerge – namely, that I was going to miss my plane. The drama of this competition had gone on for quite some time. Enough time in fact, for me to have wandered around and grazed a bit on other events.

From the one small section of bleachers which was actually well-oriented for bird’s eye viewing, I saw Kellie Wells run the year’s 8^th fastest Women’s 60 Meter Hurdles time in the world – much to her own amazement and delight.

Sprinter Kellie Wells Reacts To Her Time In The 60 Meter Hurdles

I witnessed at ground level the blazing speed of the Men’s 60 Meter Dash and the effortless grace of the runners in the Women’s 400 Meter Run as they glided by.

Unfortunately, I also witnessed my watch, telling me that I had to go – because Southwest Airlines doesn’t care much if you’re enthralled by track and field. They were going wheels-up in just about an hour, and I was still inside the Albuquerque Convention Center, unable to pull myself away from Suhr’s drama.

I shouldn’t have even stayed to see her first attempt and miss, but now I was contemplating hanging around for another try. The officials were convening again, and I really, really had to get going. But this I had to see.

By the time the bar hit the pit on Suhr’s second attempt, I was already jogging toward the exit. I turned that into a full sprint up the street to my car. Fortunately I’d picked up some tips on maximizing automotive speed at the NHRA Winternationals, which I employed on the way to the airport. No time to gas up the rental…I paid Budget’s quite reasonable $78.94 per gallon refueling charge. I made my flight.

And wouldn’t you know it…after I had waited as long as I possibly could, sometime shortly after I left the building, Jenn Suhr cleared 5’11 ¼”, setting a new American record and winning the event by over a foot. Which pretty well sums up my relationship with track and field – no matter what I get a chance to see, I’m always left wanting more.

Next Up:  Synchronized Skating’s Musical Shapes

“Excuse me sir, but before I can let you in, I need to know that you possess the multi-tasking capacity necessary to fully assimilate this meet.”

Then again, I’m glad they don’t test. Because based upon my early performance at the USA Indoor Track & Field Championships, I would flunk.

Walking in the door at the Albuquerque Convention Center, I was reminded of opening weekend of the fantasy football season, when each year without fail, I would freeze immediately upon entering my local sports bar – and then meander around aimlessly in search of the ideal seat for simultaneous viewing of every game in which one of “my guys” was playing. An aerial shot of me would look like one of those Family Circus cartoons with the big dotted line showing where Jeffy or P.J. had scampered off to that day, bless their annoying little hearts.

I’m not ashamed to admit it – the Indoor Championships overwhelmed me. What to look at…what to look at…what to look at? Everywhere there were people running, jumping over bars, throwing things. And that was just the event production team.

Fortunately I had purchased a ticket in advance. And thankfully it was one with a specified section, row and seat number on it, because left to my own devices I’d probably still be wandering around. I quieted my synapses just long enough to locate my assigned seat, and spent the next several minutes hoping that my head wouldn’t involuntarily start doing an Exorcist 360 degree thing.

Then, out of nowhere, SHE appeared:  The Angel of Programs. Little did the girl working the grandstand that day know that she could have charged me $4,780 for the simple 18-page viewer’s guide. Or that she saved my brain from exploding. Because now I had coherent information on what, where and when.

Which dovetailed nicely with my other secret weapon.

I highly recommend that everyone with either a genuine love of sports or a neurotic need to see 50 different sports in one year go out and get themselves a track and field consultant. Mine is the RV Goddess, who has been on the IGTS “payroll” (I use the term loosely here) since the Pac-10 Combineds, aka Event # 11. In the days leading up to these Indoor Championships, she fed me a steady stream of informational tidbits – one of which was that the legendary Bernard Lagat would be competing. A few days later, another missive clued me in that Lagat would be joined and challenged by young Olympian distance-running sensation (and Oregon Duck alum) Galen Rupp. “Expect a new US 3000m by Lagat,” came the advisory.

Now I knew what to look for, and where to find it. And as luck would have it, it would play out right in front of me.

Jenny Berringer Approaches Finish Line in Women’s 3000 Meter Race

Lo and behold, I had arrived in town just in time for a stretch of prime events. And I was seated in the heart of the home stretch of the track, just 50 yards from the finish line. Warming up just in front of me were the athletes about to compete in the Women’s 3,000 Meter race – the first “final” of the Championships.

So despite multiple events being contested all over the venue, I managed to focus exclusively on what was expected to be a spirited duel between Sara Hall and Jenny Barringer Simpson. At the Boston Indoors earlier in the month, both women had posted times that were within the top ten of American performances thus far this year. The reality of the race matched the expectation, as Simpson called on a strong closing kick to win by just 1.7 seconds over Hall.

That just warmed up the track though, as the next event was the much-anticipated Men’s 3000 Meter race – and my first exposure to American track royalty.

Originally from Kenya, but now a naturalized U.S. citizen, Bernard Lagat holds somewhere between 6 and 1,238 indoor and outdoor American distance running records. That’s in addition to a record eight victories in the legendary Wanamaker Mile. And he had come to Albuquerque specifically to be a part of the “It’s Game Time Somewhere” Tour. At least that’s what the RV Goddess told me.

Even if I had no prior idea of who Lagat was, I would’ve known that something big was about to happen, because the buzz in the building ratcheted itself up a couple dozen notches when the large field for the Men’s 3000 appeared and began loosening up. By the time the starting gun went off, everyone was on their feet – and nothing else in the building mattered.

As expected, Lagat and Rupp went out strong, joined by Aaron Braun from neighboring Colorado. Before long it was a three-man race, which it remained for several laps, as the noise level mounted. Here’s how it ended…

It wasn’t the new U.S. record that everyone had hoped for, but it was great theatre – as was the manner in which Lagat greeted and interacted with his fans and the media following the race. After an engaging interview on the awards platform (which appeared to charm even runner-up Rupp), Lagat gave an autograph and a few words to each and every person who asked.

As for me, I was all revved up and ready for more action. But there was just one little thing. From where I sat there wasn’t a whole lot of action to be readily had. For the first time since my arrival, I sat back and took a long look at my surroundings.

The event’s production was much different than I had envisioned when I first put an indoor track & field event on the IGTS schedule. Had I stopped to think about it previously, I would have reached the obvious conclusion that no sports arena in existence would enable organizers to stage an event of this complexity without a heavily customized build-out. And the fact that it was being conducted in a convention center hall meant that virtually everything had to be specially configured – including the seating. There were no bleachers to pull out – no permanent or semi-permanent seating in place upon which to build.

So they started from scratch, and for reasons that I’m sure were germane to this particular facility, the main grandstand consisted of bleachers that were more “deep” than “steep”. This low-rise angle put more seats at or very near ground level, which doesn’t translate well into bird’s eye or distance viewing. As I sat there contemplating this, I was looking out beyond the track’s home stretch at – in successive order of distance from me – the awards ceremony platform, the high jump pit, the sprint race lanes, the triple jump lane and pit, and the pole vault area. All of which were at just about the same viewing angle.

It was time to go mobile.

I abandoned my cushy reserved seat and went exploring. And in doing so found a remote area that had been set up to facilitate competition in the shot put and the “weight throw” – the women’s version of which just happened to be taking place when I came by.

I could swear that what they were calling the weight throw used to be called the “hammer throw”, and if so, it’s really too bad that they changed the name. For had they not done so, I could’ve made at least one bad joke about “hammer” rhyming with “glamour”, given the Superwoman-esque costume worn by Loree Smith of the New York Athletic Club.

After watching this event to its completion, I took in some of the Men’s Triple Jump as a nightcap. But I left the building thinking that I had missed something – like I had had “clicker control” of the television remote all evening and had been constantly on the wrong channel at the wrong time.

I vowed to do better during the next day’s festivities.

Even the best of Sports Fans struggle at times. We can’t always bring our “A” spectating game, and when presented with a complex multi-faceted event like the USA Track & Field Indoor Championships…well let’s just say I wasn’t proud of my Day One performance.

Over breakfast the next day, I called a Sports Fans-only meeting with myself to hash it out. After some clearing of the air, I/we embraced the difficult realization that no matter how hard one tries, it’s impossible to see everything at a track and field meet. The entire “It’s Game Time Somewhere” Tour crew agreed to put the previous day behind us, and to arrive at the Albuquerque Convention Center committed to a New Plan.

The New Plan had two key components. One, my reserved seat ticket had to be traded in for what I like to call a Custom VIP SRO Package. This essentially meant that I would spend the day pretty much anywhere in the venue other than in the reserved seat I had purchased in advance. And if that meant loitering in areas otherwise designated for coaches, friends and families, well so be it. I was willing to make that sacrifice.

The second component was a sincere vow to not get distracted. I would immerse myself in a select group of particularly compelling, accessible events, and intersperse drive-by’s or look-ins at other events only when opportunities presented themselves.

The New Plan was easy at first. One of the first fans to arrive, I staked out a comfortable, if not exactly sanctioned position along the far rail of the track. This afforded me a great view of the Men’s Long Jump competition. While unfortunately most of the country’s top male long jumpers, including LSU’s Damar Forbes (of the as-yet-undiscovered Jamaican branch of the Sports Fan family tree), were not present at the Indoor Nationals, the event did have one undeniable spectating advantage – it was the only one going on at the time.

And in all seriousness, I find the long jump compelling for the almost mystical place that it occupies in sports history. I had vague recollections as a kid of the utter amazement that accompanied delivery of the news that Bob Beamon had long-jumped 29’ 2 ½” at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics.

In a sport of inches, he had shattered the world record by nearly two feet, out jumping even the limits of the optical measurement device in place at the Games. One of my earliest enduring memories of the Olympics is the replay of Beamon collapsing to his knees when an official translated meters to feet for him and he realized the enormity of his achievement. That memory ran through my head as I gazed out to the landing pit and realized just how far 29’ 2 ½” is.

I became hypnotized by the rhythm of the long jump competition, as I often do at track and field events. Watching one superbly trained athlete after another effortlessly do things that would put me in traction is fascinating by itself, but what is mesmerizing is watching them in turn strain for that extra inch or two that becomes the difference between winning and losing. It’s a little like watching successive waves crest on the beach.

JaRod Tobler was the first wave to break, at 24’ 8”, followed by Chaz Thomas at 24’ 9”. No sooner did that wave recede, then Jeremy Hicks set a new high-water mark of 24’ 9 ¾”. Into the fifth round we went, where Tobler became the first to jump 25’, only to see that distance eclipsed again by Hicks’ winning jump of 25’ 2”.

Throughout all of this I had remained rooted to my quasi-legal viewing spot, even though action had started to pick up all over the venue. “This is The New Plan,” I had reminded myself. “You’re enjoying this immensely, so why get distracted?”

Then of course, came word came over the P.A. system that Jillian Camarena-Williams had just broken a 24-year old American record in the Women’s Shot Put. This slice of history happened just 100 yards from me, but out of my line of sight. Doh! Stupid “New Plan”.

Despite that disappointment, I reminded myself that my current position offered a double bonus – an unobstructed view of the entire runway and pit for the Women’s Pole Vault event. This was important because in crafting The New Plan, I had vowed to see as much as possible of track and field’s marquee names. And warming up less than 20 feet away from me was American record-holder and undisputed pole vault queen, Jenn Suhr.

Of all of the sports that I’ve witnessed that I couldn’t possibly succeed at, pole-vaulting is way up there on the list. The more you watch, the more you realize how many individual discrete actions there are in the performance of a vault – and how easily the whole thing can come apart in the absence of perfect execution of each. But the payoff! That feeling of knowing that you just pulled off a successful vault has got to be one of the big adrenaline rushes in sports.

Early in the competition, there were no adrenaline rushes for Jenn Suhr. Because to get the thrill of clearing the bar, she would’ve had to have taken off her warm-ups and given it a try.

The first height of the competition was 13’ 7 ¼”. Like several others, Suhr passed at that level. No use wasting your efforts at a height you know you’ll clear with ease. She liked that strategy so much, she used it when the bar was set at 13’ 11 ¼”. And 14’ 3 ¼”. And 14’ 5 ¼”. Etc, etc, etc.

By the time Suhr made her first attempt, half the field had been eliminated. She took her first vault at 14’ 11”, and cleared it easily. The warm-ups went back on. Her next jump was at 15’ 3”, which she made look easy. And in doing so, she won the event. Every other competitor had failed to clear that height in their allotted three attempts. In sum, Suhr’s day to that point consisted of two vaults, two easy clears and a victory – over an elite American field that included 2010 champion Lacy Janson.

But now the fun was just getting started.

Suhr requested that the bar be nudged up to 15’ 7”. And at that height the unthinkable happened. She actually knocked the bar down. Twice. I think she was just toying with us at that point though, because on her third and final attempt at that height, it looked like there was a whole lot of air between her and the bar. What do you think?

The next height increment was 15’ 9”. Suhr passed. She was thinking about her own American record of 15’ 10”. She asked for the bar to be set at 15’ 11 ¼”, which appeared to cause the meet officials some considerable indigestion. They talked it over. They set the bar. They talked it over again. And finally they cleared Suhr to jump…and miss.

At this point in the story another unthinkable likelihood was beginning to emerge – namely, that I was going to miss my plane. The drama of this competition had gone on for quite some time. Enough time in fact, for me to have wandered around and grazed a bit on other events.

From the one small section of bleachers which was actually well-oriented for bird’s eye viewing, I saw Kellie Wells run the year’s 8^th fastest Women’s 60 Meter Hurdles time in the world – much to her own amazement and delight.

I witnessed at ground level the blazing speed of the Men’s 60 Meter Dash and the effortless grace of the runners in the Women’s 400 Meter Run as they glided by.

Unfortunately, I also witnessed my watch, telling me that I had to go – because Southwest Airlines doesn’t care much if you’re enthralled by track and field. They were going wheels-up in just about an hour, and I was still inside the Albuquerque Convention Center, unable to pull myself away from Suhr’s drama.

I shouldn’t have even stayed to see her first attempt and miss, but now I was contemplating hanging around for another try. The officials were convening again, and I really, really had to get going. But this I had to see.

By the time the bar hit the pit on Suhr’s second attempt, I was already jogging toward the exit. I turned that into a full sprint up the street to my car. Fortunately I’d picked up some tips on maximizing automotive speed at the NHRA Winternationals, which I employed on the way to the airport. No time to gas up the rental…I paid Budget’s quite reasonable $78.94 per gallon refueling charge. I made my flight.

And wouldn’t you know it…after I had waited as long as I possibly could, sometime shortly after I left the building, Jenn Suhr cleared 5’11 ¼”, setting a new American record and winning the event by over a foot. Which pretty well sums up my relationship with track and field – no matter what I get a chance to see, I’m always left wanting more.

Vintage Hot Rods at the Winternationals Festival

Click and Clack won’t take my calls on their Car Talk radio show. They think my lack of mechanical know-how has to be an act. Nobody knows that little about cars.

When I was growing up, my Dad introduced me to two of his passions:  sports and engines. Guess which one stuck.

Of course there’s always been an intersection of the two, and motor sports have been wildly popular ever since the first guy said to his buddy, “I’ll bet my Model T can get to the end of that road faster than yours.” But until the advent of the “It’s Game Time Somewhere” Tour, I had never really ventured outside of the stick and ball world to check it out.

The avid reader will recognize that earlier in these proceedings, I attended both a NASCAR race and a BMX Motocross competition, both of which quality as motor sports. But here’s the thing – in both of those events, everything revolves around the drivers. Sure the cars and bikes get a little ink, but at the end of the day, they’re just…well, just the vehicles for success. So to speak.

Drag racing is different. A NASCAR race is won by a driver. A National Hod Rod Association race is won by a car.

I know I’m being overly simplistic (a special talent of mine), but think about it. The operator of a Top Fuel dragster must have great reflexes in order to get their car off the line as close as possible to the appearance of the green light on the “Christmas tree” starting line apparatus. But after that, they drive in a straight line for about four seconds. That’s a little different than the day’s work put in by a stock car racer.

I brought this keen insight and detailed knowledge of the sport with me to Auto Club Raceway in Pomona for the 51^st annual NHRA Winternationals – the first Full Throttle Series event of the year. Although there had been cars on the dragstrip for the previous couple of days, this was the actual “opening day” of the season, with heats taking place in the Nitro Qualifying Sessions –Funny Cars first, followed by the Top Fuel Dragsters.

So as I entered the tunnel underneath the grandstands and heard the P.A. system boom “…and the 2011 NHRA season is just about ready to start!” I was like an over-eager Labrador. I could not believe what great timing I had. And look at that – an empty spot on the rail! I had loved being on the rail for a NASCAR race. I picked up my pace.

“This is so cool! This is gonna be…what the hell was THAT?!?!?!?!?”

You’ve probably seen the iconic Bose print ad, where the guy is sitting in an armchair, pinned against the back cushion, with hair flying horizontally behind him. He’s being blown away by his new Bose speakers, which is obviously a good thing. There is a yang to the pleasurable ying conjured up by that image however.

Any veteran drag racing fan that happened to glimpse my indoctrination was no doubt amused by it. In the split second that it took the cars to pass by me, I was literally blown back from the rail, staggering as I fully experienced the concept of “shock and awe”. I distinctly remember seriously wondering if my eardrums were about to explode.

I can’t even describe the noise, because none of the usual standards for loud, screeching, or otherwise horrifically annoying sounds quite compared. Not airplanes taking off. Not a group of jackhammers at work. Not a rock band at full volume with bad speakers. Not even Joan and Melissa Rivers reporting from the red carpet.  

The noise of a full NASCAR field of cars racing by is impressive to be sure, but it has a higher-pitched sound that I’m more familiar with. I had spent an entire race at trackside in June and never felt the overwhelming urge to seek earplugs, or to otherwise cover my ears. That was more “fun loud”. This new noise…was not.

A uniquely deep-throated rumble that shakes you to your core, it redefines the word “ominous” – like the Gates of Hell were in the process of erupting up through the ground. I had a fleeting thought that this was my retribution for sneaking a Flip Video camcorder into a PGA Tour event the previous month.

I was caught between a rock and a hard spot. In no way, shape or form did I feel it beneath me to clamp my hands firmly over my ears for the duration of each heat. But I soon realized that to do so I was going to have to forego capturing any visual material for this post. Which would never do. I have an obligation to bring you as close as possible to the action, and at event #96, I was not about to abdicate that responsibility.

Funny Car Racer Cruz Pedregon Qualifies Second

So once again employing a tried and true strategy for enhancing the Sports Fan experience, I went up. This time though, self-preservation was the consideration. Because once I was perched high in the grandstand, it was somewhat easier to gauge when the next round of sheer terror was to be visited upon my ears.

I was back in the saddle, if I may mix my sports metaphors.

In the Funny Car trials, I noticed after a while that a speed of 300 mph seemed to be the threshold for defining a good run. Ultimately though, that appeared to be simply an indicator of performance. What really mattered was Elapsed Time – how long it took the car to travel the quarter-mile from Point A to Point B. One’s top speed while hurtling down the track was window-dressing.

Ironically, it was Johnny Gray, the guy who rearranged my cochlear reality in the very first heat of the day that wound up these trials with the best time at 4:079 seconds, even though his speed of 306.33 mph was the fourth best of the Funny Cars.

The final Funny Car heat of the day featured John Force, who is a…well, a force in this sport. He had won this event in 2010, on his way to his 15^th Funny Car season championship. His John Force Racing Team includes three drag racers that just happen to be his daughters:  Ashley, Brittany and Courtney. And this may come as a shock to you, but the whole brood was once featured in their own reality TV show, Driving Force – which was cancelled after just one season. Fortunately he hadn’t quit his day job. Which goes something like this…

That heat was good enough for Force to qualify third, at 4.093 seconds.

It was on to the Top Fuel Dragsters. Interestingly enough, the Funny Cars aren’t necessarily so Funny-looking to me. Many look like smaller versions of some of the more exotic sports cars you might conceivably see on the road. In actuality, I thought that the Top Fuel cars looked funnier.

T.J. Zizzo & His Top Fuel Dragster

These are the ones that most people envision when you say the phrase “dragster”. While a Funny Car evokes comparisons to stock cars, Top Fuel cars have more of a family resemblance to an Indy car, with a long thin nose tapering in front and massive rear tires and spoiler framing an engine that actually sits behind the driver.

If Funny Cars are fast, Top Fuel dragsters are “holy #$%!” fast. If you can travel a quarter-mile in about four seconds in a Funny Car, you’re a champion. In a Top Fuel dragster, an Elapsed Time of four seconds won’t get you in the top ten.

When qualifying had been completed for the Top Fuel cars, the difference between #1 and #10 was about two-tenths of a second. Amazingly enough, the top three cars posted the exact same qualifying time of 3.804 seconds. Of the three, Antron Brown was given the top qualifying position because his top speed of 319.98 mph was faster than the 319.90 mph and 316.38 mph speeds posted by Spencer Massey and Tony Schumacher, respectively.

Inspired by what I’d seen, I nudged the ’02 Mazda Tribute up a notch on the drive home. And it was nice to see how responsive she was. In negotiating the on-ramp to the 605, I was able to reach peak daytime L.A. freeway speed of 19.4 mph in that very same 3.804 seconds that Brown had posted.

I ask you – what were the chances?  

Next Up:  The Sensory Overload That Is The U.S. Track & Field Indoor Championships