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Tampa Bay, Obama, and Doritos: An Interview with Josh Spilker

Since Thanksgiving I feel like all I've read are high school research papers, in class writing prompts, exam essays, and high school research papers, and the only conclusion I've come to about the grading process is that teenagers write in dog years: every page read about lowering the drinking age is the equivalent of seven pages by anyone else. However, this post is not about high school papers; sometime in between grading shifts I interviewed writer Josh Spilker about his book Ambient Florida Position, which can be found here. The following are excerpts from the conversation: 


Me: What sparked the idea for the book?

Josh: I actually set out to write a story about Detroit [the book takes place in Tampa].

The Amazingly Awful: A Response to the Vanderbilt Basketball Team Thus Far

Editor's Note: The Vanderbilt men’s basketball team began the season ranked as the #7 team
in the country and were mentioned in the same breath for the first time ever with contending teams like North Carolina, Kentucky and Ohio State. The Vanderbilt Commodores are now 6-3, and have lost two games in a row to ranked opponents (Xavier and Lousville), not to mention one game to an unranked opponent (Cleveland State).


Josh Spilker, the author of the piece below, is somewhat concerned about Vanderbilt basketball considering more “tough” nonconference games still must be played (Marquette) as well as “tough” conference games (2x Kentucky/ Florida, 1x Alabama). Due to these circumstances, he is left to wonder about the value of his Vanderbilt season tickets.

Fries and Ketchup: Things to Peruse This Weekend

Links
-Over at The Faster Times, Jason Diamond did a nice write up on the current state of the hockey goon. Reading it made my head hurt (just joking): "Who Will Protect the Hockey Goons?"

When Belief Becomes Bankable: The Rays Uprising

Carlos Pulido

Josh Spilker is a Tampa Bay Rays fan, and he's written here before about that and other things. He also has a novella out now (digital), which you should definitely check out (hard copy...scroll to bottom), but he's here today to talk about baseball, money, and miracles. Enjoy:

At this dinner meeting with people from church, with a small smoky fire, bratwursts and italian sausage, pumpkin bread, it was fall, near the end of September and the whispers of October hum on the horizon. Things turn inside and then wrap up, and the St. Louis Cardinal fan/homeowner turns on the television. St. Louis taking care of business, Braves stumbling, Boston in a rain delay and the Rays left for dead. A Red Sox fan looks at the TV-- “Call the game,” he says and “Yankees killing the Rays.” There may/

may not have been a high-five and I fell back into a recliner. The recliner sunk and sighed; relieving itself.

Everything That Dunks Must Converge: Act One

LCB's first publishing endeavor is underway by way of Deckfight Press.
In it you will find a collection of NBA inspired vignettes and short stories.

The Passing of Carl Crawford: A Retrospective

Josh Spilker has been here before, writing about the Vandy pipeline that gushes onto Soldier Field, basketball vignettes, and SEC picks. He also is the proprietor of the indie music blog Deckfight and writes an indie lit. column for Impose magazine, but all that is neither here nor there because, right now, Josh just needs to contemplate what the loss of Carl Crawford to the Boston Red Sox means to him and his fellow Tampa Bay fans:

Michael Hipster Runoff Beasley

Josh Spilker of Deckfight is back with us to share some words on a man who was booted from the fiesta in Miami before it even got going.  He's crediting the style of the piece to the blog Hipster Runoff, so if you like it, check that out as well.  


Michael Beasley, feels like we barely knew you.

Milwaukee Bucks Preview: "Groundswell"

Josh Spilker is back once more to help us finish off these (now belated) Ed Hopper NBA previews. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Bucks in our comments section. "Not going in the boat, man, not going in the boat." It was Jennings, in the barbershop. He had to watch his words, literally. If his jaw moved too much, it would mess up his barber's skilled hands, or at least he was told they were skilled. He had wanted a perfect image etched into his hair for opening night. He was in Milwaukee and he knew his place in Milwaukee. The barber had done a few of these before, usually as a joke for bachelors before their wedding, guys in the industry who wore it for a week and then shed it on the morning of the big day. The barber didn't know this kid, he had only seen him, heard him, and trusted he had the cash. So as Jennings talked, the barber was trying to steady his hand on the faint outline of the beer can, with the words "Milwaukee's Best" barely visible.

Redd stood in the corner, all-knowing, all-seeing. He had seen this act before actually when some other hotshot rode into town, thinking he could beat the Wisconsin winters. Charlie V did the same thing, hell even Ray said he tried a Milwaukee's Best when he first got here, full of new hope and new promise in a place where there was none. He also listened to Joe Alexander's pleadings for Jennings to join them. He knew it was a stretch for Joe to try and convince Brandon, but he didn't really nowhere else to turn. He wanted someone outside of Jennings immediate circle of friends to provide some outside perspective, but someone young enough to try and talk some sense in him. Jennings, in his bravado and many preseason profiles was a bit lost in the spectacle right now. Redd had that feeling before he walked in, but was hoping Brandon could still be saved.

"You just don't know, you just don't..." Joe went on.
"Joe, it's cool man, it's cool. Brandon is his own man. He'll be alright," Redd said. "Come on, we'll find somebody else. See ya'll."
"See ya Redd. See ya Joe," Jennings said, running his fingers over his hair.

Redd knew the history of the boat. At first, he was skeptical, seeing Ray going out there every night. But it worked for Ray, and Redd knew it was only chance. The way it started was Ray got a phone call in the middle of the night, 2 am or so. The caller identified himself as "Lew" and that he had a secret for him. Lew told Ray about the lake, the boat, the time of day, everything. Lew said Ray could go by himself, but it could be no more than three. Lew said the lake was fickle, very fickle, but he didn't know anyone who got out without doing. So Ray did it, and did it, and finally he was picked. So Ray started going year, after year, after year, until finally Seattle then Boston. Course it took several years to get out.

Redd was like Brandon once, he didn't understand why Ray wanted to go in the boat so bad. But once Redd saw, once he realized, he knew it was his only option. Once Yi got in town, Redd knew it was a bad situation from the start. Redd mentioned it to Yi, and he was intrigued. Once Michael explained the concept, the mystic power of the lake, Yi had to be held back. He wanted to go immediately. The interpreter was even more excited than Yi was.

Last year, Redd thought it was his year. Richard saw what had happened to Yi and Charlie V. wanted in too. They went on the windiest night of the year, the lake had waves, large ones and the three men paddled out. Redd guided, navigated, threatened Charlie V. to put on the life jacket that saved his butt when he flew overboard. They found the buoy, circled it like Ray always instructed and made their way back. In that short time, a new calmness had come over Redd, and he thought he was getting out. But no dice. V found a great deal and Richard's dream came true.
"Timmy D! I'm with Timmy D and Tony P!" Richard galloped around Redd's house, unknowingly slandering everything Redd had built. Redd couldn't believe what was happening, what his career had become.

Michael didn't understand why he was never picked.

"Who else should we get? Who else we gonna get?" Joe asked eagerly, wanting the adventure to begin. Andrew? No, Andrew had no fire and limited skills to get out. Luke and Jodie were just lucky to have jobs. Carlos and Kurt had been here, been there, they didn't believe in any mumbojumbo, just cashed the check and honed opportunities for second careers as a chef and car wash magnate. Their minds had moved on. They needed someone savvy.

"Luc? Would Luc come you think?" Redd asked.

"Yeah, yeah, Luc most definitely would," Joe said. Luc was young, Joe was young. It was the next generation he was trying to save. That's all he had left. Better them than the other Luke or Francisco or Charlie Bell or Gadz.

"Go get 'em. Go get 'im now," Redd said. "Meet you at the marina."

"Yes, we're going, we're going!" Joe sped off in the opposite direction, not wanting to find Redd changing his mind.

That was a problem for Redd these days. He's never sure if he's okay with the anonymity or desires to be the second (and god-forbid third) banana on a championship team. He sees Ron in LA, Vince now in Orlando, Marion in Dallas, even Sheed in Boston and a part of him wants to do the same. Just go down the Hornets on the cheap, put them over the top with some ace shooting and dependable defense. Or maybe the Wizards. Provide a comforting hand to Gil and Caron, while making plans for a parade with Antawn. It all seemed like glamor and glitz, like making the jump from community theater to Broadway. Milwaukee was comfortable and he lived a better life than most. He was uncertain. Maybe that's why he hadn't been picked.

At the marina, Redd found a kayak, slid into the water. He sat down, counted the life jackets, found the oars tucked inside. Everything was in place. Redd was ready to be chosen.

Oklahoma City Thunder Preview: "New York Movie"

Josh Spilker is back to help us finish off these (now belated) Ed Hopper NBA previews. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Thunder in our comments section.It's dark, except for the screen. Its glow glints from bright to mauve to Oklahoma brown. In the audience darkness, a bounce, always bouncing, he can't stop it, can't control it, no, he doesn't have restless leg syndrome, or so he's been told from three different specialists. He is just energetic, excited, anxious even. He prefers anxious. Specifically, anxious tonight, the big screen in the big city. He prefers flat Oklahoma, the skies of Texas. Moving west from the Maryland hood was the best move he ever made. Sure, he could've followed Melo to a big time school, but he preferred to be overshadowed by other pursuits in Texas and Oklahoma. Gave him time for his craft. Time to develop. Time to shine on his terms. Everyone just thinks he's a tall dude. They have no idea what a Thunder is, anyway.

"Excuse me, excuse me, pardon me." He has to move out.

Always so polite, so his mom tells everyone who asks about Kevin. "Sweet Kev, sweet sweet Kev," she says, showing off the five diamond rings on her fingers. "Sweet Kev knows how to take care of his momma," she says. What she doesn't know, what he doesn't tell her, is how those are bribes to stay far, far away. He is a silent assassin. A cat burglar who knows all the back alleys and backways. He just gets nervous in the spotlight, such as here in New York.

"Yo, Kev, where you going man, the big show is just starting." It's James. Kevin loves James. The guy who has enough suave and panache to persuade Kevin, to move Kevin, both in silliness and in seriousness. James is older, but Kevin is richer. James is serious, but Kevin is more talented. James is funnier, but Kevin is goofier. They get along. Not like Russell always trying to fit in. Not like Green, burdened by the weight of falling short. James, Kevin feels, is like himself. Deeply underrated, out to prove the world different with sly grins and a whimsical personality that belies a deep desire to succeed. James too, Kevin reckons, is a silent assassin. Kevin is glad James is here.

"I know," Kevin says, "I know." Kevin is afraid to admit he's a little scared. He doesn't like to see himself as part of the big event, the big premiere. He saw the starring roles by Kobe, by LeBron, even Dwight last year. He doesn't know how they did it, how they put up with it. The movie posters, the trailers, the magazine covers, the early nods as an awards winner before the movie has even been shown. Kevin plays it cool, he laughs it off, he doesn't like being on the coastal towns, they know so much and are so smart with so many questions. He likes Oklahoma, where Kevin can be Kevin and no one knows he's a big-time star.

Out in the lobby, he can hear the first waves of sound. The feature film starring Kevin Durant has started. And all he wants to do is bite a nail. Just let him bite one glorious nail. He deserves that much, right? Just one bad habit?

Utah Jazz Preview: "Early Sunday"

Josh Spilker of Deckfight gives us the 2010 Jazz. Feel free to add your thoughts in our comments section and check out the other NBA previews we've done so far.

The truck has to be unloaded. Goods, cargo, consumer products, bulk freight. Brown boxes with netting to hold them in place. Pallets draped in a sheet of plastic. Inside the truck, he reaches for a box maneuvering around the pallets. He sometimes uses the forklift when the chance arises, but he doesn't mind the physical labor. It's what got him here in the first place.

"You have the knowledge, the ability, the talent, you can operate it," Brewer tells Paul.

"No, no thanks, sir. I'm happy where I am."

"Paul, I'm your bro, you don't have to call me sir," Brewer responds.

"Sir, yessir," Paul says.

Once Paul and Brewer are out of the way, Carlos fingers the joystick on the forklift with smooth confidence, like Billy Mays behind Donkey Kong controls. In the forklift, Carlos glides to the side of the truck. Up and over, its sleek steel slides underneath a large palette of Thelonius Monk records. "More of these? In Utah?" Boozer mutters. His knit cap fits snug over his glassy head, capturing the easy sweat of this labor. He drops the palette in the middle of the factory floor, the third in a row, so neatly arranged. Many are surprised that Boozer is still here. But he tells them that the money is good, the air is fresh. He is from Alaska, after all.

Down below, Paul has pulled no less than twenty-five boxes off the truck, in five stacks, five boxes high. Ronnie only has two stacks, Deron is doing fine work, three stacks while making time to chat with Carlos and Mehmet, who is also behind his own forklift. Everyone understands that part of Deron's job is to seemingly waste time, to talk with everyone, ask how they're doing, how they're families are going. His job is to know where everyone is at--physically, emotionally, spiritually. Even with these extra sometimes mentally trying duties, he still outpaces Ronnie and most of the other guys on a regular basis.

The P.A. clicks on. "Paul, that's enough, take a seat." The bossman peers out from a window overlooking the factory floor. A tall man with a trucker's hat sits behind him, though Paul can't make out the face. "Andrei, you're in."

Paul raises his right hand while staring up at the cased-in box. "Sir yessir, Mr. Sloan," Paul yells and runs to the breakroom. Andrei is on his way out, yawning with a Snickers bar in his hand. "God, I hate working mornings," Andrei says. "For that matter, I hate working nights too, ha!" And slaps Paul on his back. Andrei jogs to the truck and proceeds to open a box, first lifting individual bottles of detergent out one by one, before moving to another box and lifting out individual bars of Ivory soap. Andrei stacks the bars one on top of another.
"Well, look at that!" Andrei exclaims. He then texts his wife about all his accomplishments at work and in the midst of doing so knocks over the soap with his gangly knee.

"And so much promise," Deron says to Mehmet, jogging over to clean up Andrei's mess.

Back in the breakroom, Paul takes a seat on a hard plastic chair and closes his eyes. Two deep breaths. These fifteen minutes is the only time in his day for meditation, the same prayer and routine that he's done since he was 12. With his eyes still closed, he reaches around to his backpocket and pulls out his wallet. By memory, he flips it open, and his index and thumb split open a hidden pocket. He pulls out the card and opens his eyes. It's a card of man with a beard, in a purple Jazz jersey and short shorts. A loopy "K" and maudlin "M" are all that's decipherable from the signature across the front.

Paul closes his eyes, flips the card over and repeats the stats. With no pause he rattles off 85-86, 87-88. His voice quivers with a great year, 88-89. .519 FG. 10.70 RPG. .88 BPG 27.7 PPG. The card vibrates in his nervous fingers as he begins the the best: 89-90. .562 11.10 RPG .61 BPG 31.0 PPG. If that's not the Holy Spirit then Paul doesn't want to know it. He finishes the remaining years, finding comfort in the rhythmic blur of the numbers. He looks up, sees if he is right. He is, of course he is. Paul knows the bio by heart, because, essentially it is his own. His thumb glosses over the worn veneer of the card. Paul lays the card on the table, and hunches over, tears welling in his eyes. Sometimes the weight is too much.

The phone rings in the breakroom. Paul looks up, knows he's the only one there and picks up.

"Paul." It's the bossman. "Come on up here, there's someone I want you to meet."

"Sir, yessir." He hangs up the receiver.

Paul takes a deep breath. He didn't want to go up there. He preferred to deal with the boss down here, on the floor, where the only thing discussed was proper stacking technique, speed and quizzes about the forklift manual, if there was ever a full-time opening. Which after this summer, seems more and more unlikely. He hoped against hope that things would work out here, here in the anonymous mountains of Utah.

Paul takes another deep breath, turns toward the stairs off the breakroom and jogged the two flights upstairs. He presses the buzzer and is immediately let in. There was bossman Sloan, lounging on a couch. The tall man in the trucker hat seated next to him. They both stand.

"Paul," Sloan says. "This is Karl."

"K-k," Paul stutters.

"That's right, Karl Malone."

"Paul. I've heard a lot about you. It's a pleasure," Karl said reaching for Paul's hand.

The whites of Paul's eyes were large, rotund. His mouth wide open. Paul feels faint.

"Keep working. One day, you'll move up, maybe get your own truck line someday. I know it," Karl continues.

With that, Karl and Sloan can only watch as Paul's body grows lithe and sinks to the ground.

New Orleans Hornets Preview: "Mansard Roof"

Josh Spilker of Deckfight gives us the 2010 Hornets. Getting these out is quickly becoming a testament of will. Feel free to add your thoughts in our comments section and check out the other NBA previews we've done so far.Carrollton, Magazine, St. Charles. Emeka had always heard of these homes, he never expected to make one of them into his own. Chris had tentatively offered him a place in his building on Poydras and another one in the CBD, some high-rise with multiple penthouses filled with the Saints and Lenny Kravitz. But those were industrial, not comfortable; sterile, not homely. The wine collection would not fit in those apartments, several hundred bottles scattered on a concrete floor. Nothing brought out the wrath of Okafor more than a broken bottle of vintage merlot.

"This one is very nice, very suitable for a man of your size and stature," said Emeka's real estate agent, a sixty-ish woman with short maroon hair, multiple gold rings on her fingers, a flowing yellow dress. They were approaching the front door.

brrrrbrrrr. Emeka checked his phone. A text from his agent. "Not in TPA. Not in B'more 4 sure."

The entryway was small, the stairs immediately on the right, seemingly going nowhere. The dining room had a large oak table, vaulted ceilings, at least 11 feet high.

"And this room, great views of the rolling yard and the manicured gardens," she said.

brrrbrrr. Another text from his agent. "No go in STL. Nothing in Nashville."

Emeka glanced at the yard. The garden, lilacs and tulips. A high fence. All of this was good, but he turned back into the house. The walls, Emeka wanted to see the walls. "Show me the dining room," he said.

brrrbrrr. Yet another. "Possible KC. Possible SD."

He was fascinated with the walls. Their cream voluptuousness soaring above, their expanse so wide. Slight cracks underneath the crown molding enhanced their charm.

He stretched out his arms, the full length of his wingspan not quite great enough to encapture it. There would be plenty of room, plenty.

brrrbrrr. Now an email. His agent moved to email. "Definitely not Seattle. People aren't ready. Not considering Alberquerque. That's like thinking of a team on the moon. Why would that happen? You're losing your mind..." He clicked the Blackberry off.

"Have you seen the clawed-foot tubs. They're..." the maroon-haired lady started. "And the master... "

"I'll take it, I'll take it," Emeka said. "Will you accept a check?"

***

The next day, Emeka lays silently on the wooden floors, the beams radiating the length of his body. The Mayflower trucks were on their way from Charlotte, making the drive down I-40 and through the great American south.

On the wall was a gigantic map, a map of epic proportions of the continental United States. A thick Magik Marker drew the path from Charlotte to New Orleans. Darts were scattered all over the floor. Only one stuck on the map.

RING.....RING. Emeka tilted his head up off the floor, dug the phone out of his pocket. The real estate agent.
"Mr. Okafor?"

"Yes."
"I checked on those two requests for you, sir."
"Great."
"Well, you were right...I couldn't find the phone or house number for a uh, Mr. George Shinn anywhere in town. He might live in Metairie, but I doubt it. Maybe Old Metairie."
"Okay."
"And yes, all my sources tell me now IS the absolute, the most absolute best time to buy in Las Vegas."
"Great. Do it. I'll hold onto it for a few years."

Atlanta Hawks Preview: "Road in Maine"

Okay, I've been chugging along on these Ed Hopper NBA previews, but I decided I needed some outside help; so here's Josh Spilker of Deckfight to give us the 2010 Hawks. Feel free to add your thoughts in our comments section and check out the other NBA previews we've done so far.

The meadow is alive at dusk, as the sun waves goodbye with a shower of blue and pink and orange. The blanket is spread out, like it always is. The cracker, the cheese, all have found their place. Joe shuffles the ice, a wine bottle tucked in between the cold shaved bits.

Joe waits. Joe waits not with longing, not with worry, but with a quiet assuredness.

Just then, just as always, a branch breaks behind Joe in the meadow. He hears the footsteps that started with a snap and a bounce slow into flat, low thuds.

“Made it,” Joe says.

“Always do,” Mike says, running his fingers over the quilt and taking a seat on the blanket.

Joe uncorks the wine. The western sky makes its slow turn from the brilliance of light into a despairing darkness that will soon grasp the east.

“It’s your turn to ask,” Joe says.

“Thought it was yours,” Mike replies.

“Don’t matter,” Joe says. His gaze goes from the sky to the ground, his head falters as if in prayer. “We both ask it everyday, anyway.”

“How did we get here?” Mike whispers, as the wind throws the corners of the blanket into the air.

The Chicago Bears and the Bloody Knee of the SEC

LCB is pleased to announce its first ever keynote speaker. His name is Josh Spilker, and he writes for the music and lit blog Deckfight. He is also a Vanderbilt graduate, which provides him with his vantage point for today's topic:

If the SEC is a body, then Vanderbilt is the bloody knee. Everyone keeps telling the SEC to stop their bleeding, but they can't; they don't see it as an emergency. And so from this beat-up knee the Vandy football program flows. Vandy thinks they belong in the SEC, even though they are staining everyone else's program.

And if Vandy is a bloody knee, then Jay Cutler and Earl Bennett were the thin, overwhelmed gauze that tried to keep everything together.

Most know Jay Cutler because of his own indecisiveness at Denver, saddled with his unique quality of being "a good quarterback coming from Vanderbilt." He grew up about three hours from Nashville, everybody wanted to make him something else--we were just happy that a quarterback wanted to play for us.

Our measure of a "good" quarterback was pretty easy to reach, Cutler somehow made the passes--accurate and on-time and that's all it took for us to swoon. We didn't know how good he was until the scouts told us, because, well, we don't know a lot about football. But it seems more likely with the learning curve and the talent already present, that if the Titans would have selected Cutler instead of Vince Young, he would be an All-Pro several times over and have more wins to his name.

But then we wouldn't have this--five Vanderbilt players on the same roster. The Chicago Bears, of all the teams have five Vanderbilt players, not some expansion pansy like the Texans or Jaguars. A team with history, a team with passionate fans...a team with fans. Something the Vandy guys aren't used to at all.

To find five Vanderbilt players in the league is miraculous, that five are on the same team is a Jesus coming again, rapture-type occurrence. To find five Vanderbilt players in Chicago is like five homeless men getting elected to the City Council...it could happen, but it's not likely.

How Jay Cutler, Earl Bennett and D.J. Moore all ended up on the same Chicago Bears team is more than a coincidence--everyone who put those guys on the same team knew what they were doing. No team, especially not the Bears (or maybe especially the Bears) could be that stupid. So the most overlooked story arc in all of the Jay Cutler saga that unfolded the past 6 months was the fact that Earl Bennet was on the Bears team. It's no joke that Cutler had his best season with Earl Bennett catching the ball. Their learning curve will be light and easy.

While the wound that is the Vandy football program was oozing all around them, these guys were the only bandages--making plays, catching passes, actually bringing excitement to the meager 20,000 or so that usually show up for a Vandy football game. That we went 5-6 with Cutler and Bennett one year is amazing, that we started that year 4-0 has become a mere footnote. With solid wins against Wake Forest and Arkansas on the road, we couldn't pull out two more wins. Losses included a two-point loss to down-the-road mid-conference rival Middle Tennessee State and a 49-42 OT loss to the Florida Gators. Those four glorious weeks were filled with the dreaming and scheming to make a bowl game in Hawaii, forget that we hadn't achieved that in 50 years. The fact that with the two best players ever in Vanderbilt football's history we still couldn't do it shows just how easily this knee bleeds. Bennett went on to finish his career at Vandy as the SEC's all-time leading receiver and was drafted by the Bears in 2008, setting the stage for D.J. Moore.

If Bennett and Cutler were the most accomplished skill players in the history of Vanderbilt, somehow we also grabbed D.J. Moore, perhaps the all-around most exciting player in recent memory. A threat on both sides of the ball and on special teams, D.J. was the ultimate showstopper--we would all stop catching up about law school or med school or macroeconomics to watch him play. Not that I really ever discussed any of that, I just made fun of the people that did and then I stopped and watched also. I couldn't help it. D.J. would catch, intercept and return balls for touchdowns. If the program was all bloody and beat-up, D.J. Moore at least poured out effusively, rather than the slow trickle of fatigue that usually enwraps the whole team in the 4th quarter. Somehow, we made a bowl game last year, our own Nashville Music City Bowl as we finished out the year 7-6. Again, it was ugly, but they made it. God bless 'em.
And now here's a rant: Most say that we don't have enough "athletes" to compete in the SEC, meaning that brains and brawn don't go together. I don't think that's really the case, but I will say that we "give up" on games, quite often as a matter of fact. It's true we may not have the best athletes, but we sure know when to quit. Logically, the football ethos doesn't make sense. The odds are often against comebacks, the mantra to keep going and keep trying rings hollow to the sanest of minds. It's not that Vandy lacks "athletes," it's that the players think about how to use their athleticism...and think that it doesn't make sense to sacrifice their bodies for concussions in the fourth quarter of meaningless games.

The same goes for us, the fans. It's true at a Vanderbilt football game there will be more opposing fans tailgating than home team fans. Once, my wife's parents, die-hard University of Georgia fans asked me the best place to tailgate on campus, and I had no answer. I don't know. Most people go to frat parties, go out to eat, stop playing Halo or just roll out of bed and then head to the game at the end of the first quarter. Then and only then does it depend on whom they're playing. Chances are, most fans are likely to attend a game if a team from their home state is playing. Alabama natives attend the Alabama or Auburn game and so it goes. Or maybe we'll go to catch Tim Tebow, just because we see him on ESPN and hear he was God or something like that. But even then, God gets very few Vandy students away from Halo. We also refuse to sacrifice our bodies or solid Halo time for Vanderbilt football or the Almighty.

"I was told many years ago, by a true giant in this business, that when kids come out of those schools, they also take a quantum step in the league," said Bears general manager Jerry Angelo in a Sports Illustrated article in May about the fact that the Bears had five Vandy players. "They were more prepared to come into the league because they were more grounded, understood how to balance academic load with football load, needed less structure, meaning they could handle time and money better, because they had to balance football and school 50-50, vs. maybe 80-20 at some football-first programs."

In other words, they knew how to balance sense with sensibility compared to the other cheating, lying, no-good stupid lugheads in the SEC (One of our chants involves something with an SAT score in it, but now I forgot what it was). At least that's what us Vandy fans have to tell ourselves about players on other teams, to keep ignoring how we are the bloody knee of the SEC.

But now, Jay Cutler, Earl Bennett, Hunter Hillenmeyer, D.J. Moore and Chris Williams will play harder than they ever thought they could--it now makes sense for them too. They are getting paid to sacrifice their bodies--the risk now makes sense compared to the reward.

I know there are other "academic" schools in the same predicament as Vandy: Wake Forest, Tulane, Georgia Tech, Duke, Northwestern, even BYU. But all of those teams have had some consolation of some sort (except Duke). A solid double digit winning season in recent years. A possible Heisman candidate. High rankings. And Duke, well, Duke has the freakin' basketball program (which is supposed to be Vandy's 'good' sport though they've been sharing it with baseball here lately).

I hope these five Vandy guys find success at Chicago. I think I'm actually, kind of sort of a Bears fan as they are every Vandy fans' one hope at football glory, albeit by proxy. At least there is a rooting interest with a real sense that maybe, yes, maybe the Vandy-led Chicago Bears can find a way to victory. Which is more than I can say for the actual Vanderbilt football team.