"I NEVER FINISHED MOBY DICK"

but I like whales. This one on the left is breaching. In California. Now, I've also seen seals in California, and they are awesome, but that can't touch the big boys.

But watching them, waiting for them to surface and blow and fluke is the best. Reading about them is another thing. Even though I like "The Old Man and the Sea," it's just not the same as deep sea fishing. I'd suppose. I haven't been. A friend of mine, Mike Hicks, recently snagged a nine-pound white fish. Now that may not seem like much to some, but to me, well I'd have wanted him mounted.

The biggest fish I ever caught was a 3/4 crappie in Minnesota. And you know what? Even that was on my wife's line. He was a fighting little guy, so I got to bring him in. All less than one-pound of him.

The problem is that I used to do quite a bit of fishing. Mostly on shore, a few times at night, sometimes in a boat, but it didn't much matter: if I was in the water, the fish weren't. Greg Backes was my main fishing buddy and we fished all through college. Sometimes instead of college. He even talked me into blowing off studying for a second year Spanish final so we could fish in a family member's pond. "Bring your book along," he said. And I did. Yet, I don't recall opening it.

So maybe that's why I love the whales. Not that I'd want to catch one. They are just so cool. As long as you don't make me read about them.

1. 
   GAME TWO

Into the night the line drive buried itself over the left field wall and on top of a tent. And quicker than a New York minute, the hopes of a Met NLCS sweep was over. Two more runs were tacked on by Pujols, Spezio, Encarnacion, and Molina. But the damage was done by an Oriental named So.

Mr. Taguchi now has hit two home runs in the playoffs. In two at bats. It was only fitting, you know. In Game One the biggest play was made by a cat named Endy. He entered the game only because of an injury to one of the Mets players. He had two first names. Cliff Floyd or Floyd Cliff. I'm not sure. But I think he's one that stands for the National Anthem. But that's the way with this Mets' team. They're all so indeciferable.

In the past, Mookie was Mookie, Dykstra was Nails, Gooden was Doc. They had their share of undesirable characters led by nasty Wally Backman, D-a-r-r-e-l=l, and Hernandez, but at least you knew who was who.

When this year's lineup appears, I have trouble figuring out which Carlos is up, who's older--their second baseman or Franco, and who makes up that great bullpen I keep hearing about?

I don't know what Shawn Green and David Wright are doing with this bunch of interchangeables. And LoDuca or is it LowDookey?

I quit. The Pond Scummers of 1986 become The Unknowners of 2006. Maybe they're better than I think. I hope not. I hope that shot into the night in Game Two turns the tide. To Cardinal Red.

JUST WATCH--DON'T TAKE MY WORD

You've heard this before. I've pounded this horse. He's not dead yet, but he's wheezing. Joe Buck is a jerk. So is Tim McCarver.

"He was a 3-10 pitcher this year."
"He's been in a terrible slump since September."
"He has a big hole in his swing."
"If he just pitches him high, there's no way he can hit him."
"He played terrible when he came over from Cleveland."
"You don't hit .216 and play everyday if you're not a good defensive player."

All comments about the Cardinal players as reported last night by the "Shills of New York"--Buck and McCarver. We're they inaccurate? Not at all.

Now for the negative truths about their New York opponents. _______. That's right. None. Nil. Zilch. At least none that I caught. Even when Billy Wagner is getting wild in the ninth, all McCarver could do was to point out how hard he was throwing. "That pitch was 99 (mph.)" "And that one was 98."

Etc., etc., all night long. With plenty of St. Louis background and history, both Buck and McCarver, and even Joe Garagiola manage to forget their roots when presented on the national stage.

Joe' not his dad and never will be. In his last year of broadcasting Jack sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," during the 7th inning stretch in Chicago. Of course, he took off the Cubs' hat he started with, whipped out his Cardinal cap and placed it on his head while singing, "root, root, root for the Cardinals." It was classic.

If Joe's ever afforded that opportunity, he won't change hats. Or maybe he will, but it will be a big market team hat, not the Cardinals. As my wife says, "Jack loved baseball and the Cardinals. He promoted them both. Joe only promotes himself."

And I thought she didn't know much about sports.

''THEN GIVE ME SOMETHING ELSE TO LOOK AT" .....

Sawyer told Kate in a recent Lost episode. "Look" is one of those words that demands action. (Oh, no, another blog on syntax, word origins/deviations, onamastics.)

From "monkeys always look," to "Look! It's a bird; it's a plane; it's Superman," we seem required to follow that command.

There's "The Look" when someone is quite interested in another. It can begin with a glance that lasts just a little longer than necessary. It can advance to that longing look preceeding a kiss. I guess it's "The Look of Love" at that point.

Then there's "The Look" perfected over years by teachers that means "Watch out!" Some make use of granny glasses peering over the tops of them. Many times no words are necessary to convey meaning.

Another of "The Looks" is one of disgust. It can be accented by rolling of the eyes. For another effect the person can cross his arms over his chest. Additionally, upon closer inspection one can observe a slight flaring of the nostrils.

Another of "The Looks" might more accurately be called "The Glare," and I think mostly men have this one that they use openly. It's the look back, sometimes, at a woman they find attractive. It can be performed head on as it must be by thousands on Sunday afternoons at NFL games. It's directed at cheerleaders such as the Buffalo Jills. The Rams dropped the best nickname for their cheerleaders, the Embraceable Ewes, when they relocated to St. Louis.

A pastor friend of mine told me once that you can look at a beautiful woman one time, but don't let it linger. We never discussed the time period allowed, but I think I got the gist.

SO ARE THERE MAGPIE CRICKETS?

I don't think I've ever seen a magpie. Maybe at some zoo bird house. But it didn't make much of an impression on me. I knew a guy in high school they called Magpie. Ditto.
But I think I have a magpie cricket in a bookcase.

We have several geckos who adorn our back porch at night. I'll check about twice a week, nightly when the grandkids are here. One time we counted 11 on the underbelly of our back porch ceiling. Lately I've been finding some on our small covering, I wouldn't call it a front porch, outside our front door.

Some just sit there, hiding in the light. Some are scared and dart out of sight. Still others start to run until they stop and see no harm. I get more in the garage. Sometimes I'll find a little guy in the house. And I need one now.

You see they are supposed to feast on crickets. But a huge one has gotten by. And took up residence in one of my bookcases. He is so loud at night. When I first heard him I thought it was a smoke detector going off. No, that's not right. That's too loud. Maybe an alarm clock going off.

I turned on a hall light and he stopped immediately. It happened for a few nights the same way. Genius that I am, no that's not right either. Creatively, I thought, "Leave the light on." Didn't work. So now I have to tap the side of the bookcase to let him know I know where he is, but can't figure out what to do about him yet.

I have plenty of books. And I'd probably let him eat some. Had I not thrown away The daVinci Code, I'd have him start there. Somebody once gave my wife a Geraldine Ferraro book. That'd be number 2. But I'd take him outside to eat. His noise wouldn't be the main reason--I think either of those might just give the little gecko avoider indigestion.

THE OILERS RULED
At least in the uniform department.

"Feet. Shoulder length apart."
"Elbows on knees."
"Cup hands"
"Look 'em in the eyeball."

At least that's the way I taught taking a three-point stance to 4th through 6th graders in YMCA flag football. Then I'd have them repeat it, chant-like, so they'd know how to get in that stance.

I wasn't a great coach by any means. In fact three games had passed when one of the parents told me his big son lineman didn't know what to do once he'd gotten past his man. I'd assumed he knew to go after the ball carrier, but he didn't. His father told him, I saw the light go off in his fourth grade face, and I felt bad.

Maybe that's why we didn't win a lot of games. I'd guess we finished 2-4, though it could have been 4-6, I don't remember how many games we played. The Y didn't like football of any kind and they didn't promote it. "Too many kids get hurt," I was told by the director, whom I never saw at any of the games.

"I've had more kids hurt coaching soccer," I replied. I mean a couple of sharp kicks to the shin, in the same game, does hurt. But to no avail. Soccer was to take over the Y program in Mt. Vernon and most of the rest of the country. And if I didn't know much about football, I sure didn't know much about soccer.

So all the Oilers were known for was their unis. Sponsored by my wife's boss' Oil Co. (thus the name) we had jerseys with Oilers spelled out on the front with their last names and numbers on back. We looked good even if we weren't. While other teams were envious, you know they enjoyed whipping us. Oh, once in awhile it's fun to be the bad guys.

COLOR ME JEALOUS

I missed out on art and music. Not that we didn't have them in grade school: I just wasn't too advanced in either. I've always appreciated them
but I wanted to be able to produce rather than spectate.

My turkeys and Columbus ships and Valentine hearts always looked ok, but nothing to brag about. My singing got me into grade school chorus, but not the school operetta or any solos.

Musical instruments never made it to my home. I liked the flutophones we used to play in music class, but I don't think I could distinguish much between an f sharp and g. In fact, I never could tell much of a difference between a half and quarter note.

So I've been destined to an appreciator of the arts. I still don't understand a lot of what they call art. I still don't know why most classical musical seems depressing to me. And I sure can't understand today's current music.