TWELFTH MAN

Aside from injuries to Jack Clark and Terry Pendleton, the Cardinals were hamstrung in their attempt to win another World Series in the 80's because of a twelfth man--the HH Dome. The noise in the hankie dome was so loud that pitcher Joe Magrane wore ear plugs in his lone start in Minnesota.

It was a series where the home team won every game. Unfortunately, the Twinkies had yet another home field advantage for the junior circuit and took the series 4-3. The twelfth man was responsible for the difference.

I've seen the twelfth man at South Seven basketball be responsible for so many victories that none particularly stand out. Vernois, later Chagnon Gym was a great example with Chaos Corner. Orphan Town in Centralia held a similar advantage. The Benton Rangers in their old band box also benefitted from home court advantage.

In colleges the scene is played out over and over. The Cameron Crazies are the best examples, although I'll never figure out the standing and bouncing up and down throughout the whole game. For what purpose? But they're loyal as are a host of other college fans.

So don't think the C-attle CHawk fans have any hold on the 12th man thing. And in an outdoor stadium? No way. A dome will always be louder because of acoustics. Ricky Proehl's catch in the St. Louis game vs. Tampa at the ED was the loudest I've ever witnessed. The catch that put the Rams in the Super Bowl brought out a thunderous noise, a din that lasted so long at fervor pitch.

The twelfth man has ruled for a long time. That's why they play home and away games. And why home is so sweet at home.

WINTER BLAHS

My friend Jim Rippy always sends me pictures when it snows. Beautiful, white fluffy snow hanging from boughs of trees and sitting like unopened boxes on tops of shrubs. The pictures are truly beautiful to look at. From the comfort of my Arizona home.

Three inches of Illinois snow or 85 degrees of Scottsdale sun? Believe me, there's no choice.

Besides frozen fingers, by the way, was I the only kid ever to get bleedy sores on his hands from playing basketball outside in the cold? They formed every winter on the tips of my fingers and thumb from dribbling. They seemed to take forever to heal. Now I simply get cracks near my fingernails when even Arizona cold requires a fireplace for winter warmth. The cracks simply split open like a stretch mark. Then they burst into a full fledged slice. Even more sore than a papercut, they're another badge of hated winter.

But maybe the worst part of winter in the Midwest was footwear. Galoshes were so ugly and cumbersome. Those buckles were tiresome to snap on; it seemed there were twenty per galosh. If you could get away with rubbers or slickers or what we called boots, you were better off. But it only took one slip up or snowball that got down the side and your foot was soaked all day. Wet leather or tennis shoes were also a poor answer. Unless you liked iced feet. And it didn't matter how many layers of socks you had on, the wet stuff would find you. In addition, you would have a blister to go with cold feet.

Winter was brutal for a sun lover who froze at temps below 45. Even the most decked out winter kid, fashionable in Snoopy footwear, was still miserable in the Midwest.

COYOTE UGLY

The recent gambling probe into Phoenix Coyote coach(es), wife, general manager will likely get uglier soon. Things like that usually do.

So why would I be writing about hockey? I'm not.

I'm writing about golf.

A few years back at Green Hills Golf Club we had a foursome. That included about 12-14 guys. Oh, we didn't play in the same group, but the same group of guys would consider themselves part of the foursome. And that was fine. We had some of the best times ever on the golf course with the greatest greens I've ever played on.

One day one of the Club's best players asked me if he could play in our foursome. He said we looked like we had so much fun. And we did. I couldn't say no to him.

He told another member of our foursome who wasn't so supportive. He told the good player, "Well, there are three things you need to know about our foursome. We don't drink beer, we don't gamble, and we move (jockey) the ball around to improve our lie."

His response: "Two of the three I don't like. I'll find another foursome." And he did. That ended it.

Moral of the story: I've told and re-told that story probably 100 times when someone wants to gamble a little bit playing golf. And it works. It shuts them up. I've played competitive golf on a small scale: tournaments, men's league, couples' league, the Quinn Open, and a few other venues. None of them ever made me play better or worse. I can still miss a 2-footer with no pressure on me.

Feel free to use my story when you don't want to gamble. Modify it for other sports.

A MT. VERNON CONNECTION TO A WORLD FAMOUS SIGN

Somehow, somewhere I heard that a Mt. Vernon, Illinois man was responsible for the huge HOLLYWOOD sign high above the San Joaquin Valley in California. But that's all I know. My research and resources have garnered me no more than that bit of info.

Actually, I'm not sure I even have the valley right, but I know they like to refer to it as "The World's Most Famous Sign." Perhaps as long ago as the 1930's, it's been a fixture in California. It has been duplicated and patterned and distorted-- Hollyweed for a movie, but it remains. And it bothers me that I can't find out the Mt. Vernon connection. Perhaps John Howard or Lucy Baker would know, or if anyone gets to the Jefferson County Historical Society's Museum on North 27th, please check it out for me.

Other old timers like me might remember Mt. Vernon's famous sign, the Pepsi sign that sat high above the old Susan Shop on the roof of Farrar Oil Company on North 10th Street. Caroline seems to remember that sign on Mr. Farrar's building when she began working there in the early 1970's.

As a child in the late 50's when I believe it went up, the only thing comparable to it to me was the flying Cardinal at Sportsman's Park in St. Louis who flew around the advertising sign after a Cardinal home run.

HOW SEINFELD RUINED TV COMEDY

I know. Great show. Great characters. Great idea. Great story lines. Yet, it was a show about nothing happening. And they pulled it off week after week for several years. Only one season did I think they slipped somewhat, but they bounced back.

So how did it ruin television comedy? By imitation. Too many tried to replicate Seinfeld. They didn't have a Jerry (Malcolm wasn't close), or a Newman (Drew wasn't either), or an Elaine (Frannie, uh, no), and the inimitable Kramer.

In addition, there were no Soup Nazis, no drakes ( "I hate the drake,") and no special quests like Keith Hernandez.

So what's left? Sexual innuendo. And that's what tv comedy has been reduced to. When George claims, "Shrinkage," because he just got out of the pool, it was original and funny. When the new shows try for shock value they fail badly. I'm reminded of junior high jokes and feel pretty insulted. And disgusted.

TV comedy today is like the Whoopee Cushion--not very funny even when it works. Now if we can get Seinfeld out of syndication. Never mind, then there would be no tv comedy at all.

RELATING AN ARTICLE IN YESTERDAY'S PAPER

There's no picture(s) is today's blog because there was nothing worthy. Not about the article I'm reporting on. And while I would have never allowed such shabbiness in my research class, I don't know the author or publication, other than it appeared in the Arizona Republic on Feb 6, 2006.

It seems an idiot rapper kaenya west or kenya west or krapthinking west is pictured this week on the cover of a magazine that has gone south for many years now, rolling stone. He is pictured with a crown of thorns on his head in a Jesus-like pose. He says that's what he's all about--a brash rapper. He claims he works hard at his craft.

The author quotes a scene from Don Quixote where a man comes to a small town to put on a show. He gathers a crowd. He proceeds to take a small dog and stick a tube up his butt. He begins to blow into the tube. The dog gets bigger and rounder. He pulls the tube out, and the poor dog runs away. The crowd doesn't react at all. He states, " Well, do you think it's easy to inflate a dog?"

The point is that just because you work hard at something doesn't make it art. Or right.

HAIL TO THE CHAMPIONS

What am I going to write about today that will be different than 1000's of other entries after the Super Bowl? Will it be about the perfect ending for the Bus? How about butterfingers Jeramy Stevens? Maybe the questionable officiating? The Stones in Motown? The trick or gadget play?

No. I think I'll take on steve young. Was he blatantly biased in his comments or what? He, and a few others such as michael "inside voice" irvin, were bashing the Steelers at halftime and lauding the CHawks who had put up a big 3 at the time. "That was not pass interference--that was a touchdown." Well, maybe from an offensive quarterback who seemed to get more than his share of calls as a 49-er, it was, but he did push off and cause separation. (I don't think the ref would have called it if the d-back hadn't got in his face, which teaches others to disrespect officials. And I know it's part of the game. You do whatever it takes to win. Ok, lying adam everett, then you must see nothing wrong with the new orleans looters who are doing what it takes to put food or sound systems on the table, right?) What a digression!

Yet Young doesn't mention the Steeler touchdown where Big Ben is stopped short. He had a chance to tout his favored CHawks on their defense, but again it was an offensivive play so he chose to ignore it. Any Arena League teams looking for a coach?

Anyway(s), like most, it wasn't a super bowl game. Just average. Kinda like the season. But thank goodness there was no new england team there.