Curtain Up

Who says there are no second acts in American life?

Barack Obama can draw inspiration from, of all people, Michael Vick, the quarterback of the Philadelphia Eagles, and the New York football Giants. Having paid his debt for harming man’s best friend, Mr. Vick eviscerated the Washington foes last night in a performance that would draw ecstatic raves from the toughest critic at Variety or Hollywood Reporter.

His ruthlessness evinced against the animal kingdom in the past has now been transferred to the gridiron against his fellow man in pads. The strategists of the New York football Giants must be gnashing teeth and rubbing furrowed brows to figure a way to stop him next Sunday night. Our answer: keep him off the field. Run the game clock down. Run more than pass. Run for your life.

Mr. Vick proved himself to be Nietzsche’s ubermensch, beyond good and evil, launching deep passes with the accuracy of cruise missiles or waltzing through bewildered defenses as if at a debutante ball. The U.S.A. could have used him in Afghanistan and Iraq. And he could have danced all night.

In the meantime, like the New York football Giants, Mr. Obama must be spending nights watching game film of the Republican ascendancy and plotting his own comeback. Unless the recovering economy starts producing jobs as well as gobs of cash for the well-heeled, he could be doomed.

Or he could take a page from Donovan McNabb, the once Eagles quarterback, now with the Redskins vanquished by Mr. Vick. Mr. McNabb signed a five-year extension on his contract and picked up a fresh load of cash, despite cardiovascular issues. Talk about second acts. We who are wheezing salute you.

As for “amateur” football, as played in the farm system for the NFL known as institutions of higher learning, Ohio at Temple is a tough call tonight. But if we were a speculating sort, for entertainment purposes only, we would take Temple and give 7 ½ points. This is based on the analysis that Owls are predators but wise and Bobcats are vicious but simple.

Spectrum Analysis

I don’t wish that I had Jesse’s girl. I wish I had the Philadelphia Eagles’ Michael Vick’s legs. The son of a gun can still gallop like a Labrador, with memories of dangling pit bulls dancing in his head. Got to hand it to him. He’ll start next week. Andy Reid knew what he was doing when he hired the guy.

And forget about the blind side, Alex Barron, the right tackle for America’s team, all but strangles a defender and ends the game as time expires, nullifying a seemingly winning touchdown pass and enriching those of us who took the Redskins for entertainment purposes only.

Which brings us to a new thesis – the color kingdom. Taking the color of passion – red – seems to work. You’ve given roses to your significant other to express your undying love. The football REDskins of the NFL and the REDbirds of the senior circuit of the MLB worked in tandem last night, for entertainment purposes only. Why don’t they walk Pujols whenever he shows up in the batter’s box?

Greens and blues are out. From now on, we are taking Boston and St. Louis of the MLB, San Francisco, Arizona, and Kansas City of the NFL , OU, Nebraska, Stanford of the scholar athlete football league (can’t take Ohio State – scarlet isn’t red). Jets and Giants are cast into the darkness, unless they make it to the Super Bowl and a decision must be made.

Am I abandoning the animal kingdom? But no! From out of nowhere comes the Canadian Football league, which features 12 men, numerous moving parts and ways to score. Keep an eye on these hosers.

In other words, life is random and we must have a code to live by and not be deterred by the girl who throws us over or the putt that goes awry. After all, Dustin Johnson won the BMW Championship yesterday after losing the PGA Championship by grounding his club in a bunker that he didn’t know was a bunker.

Wear crimson and cream on Saturday and flee the stock market. Y'all are doomed except for those who accept the color kingdom.

The Better Part of Valor

Football genius Bill Belichick took the road less traveled and it meant all the difference. Instead of punting on fourth down with 2 minutes and change left in the game, ahead by 6, he ordered his troops to go for it on 4th and 2 at their own 28-yard line. They failed. Kevin Faulk took the pass beyond the first down marker but juggled it and was driven back, giving Peyton Manning and his horseshoe helmeted heroes a short field for the victory.

As a young friend wise beyond his years pointed out to me the other day, in Frost’s poem, the narrator sighs, wondering what might have been had he followed Yogi’s advice that when you come to a fork in the road, take it. And all along I thought Frost’s protagonist was smugly patting himself on the back for turning his back on the crowd.

This hubris seems to be spreading. On Saturday, in The Game, Yale’s young coach called for a fake punt on 4th and 22 deep in the Bulldogs’ own territory. The ensuing run came up 7 yards short and Harvard took over to score the winning touchdown.

Also on Saturday, Les Miles, the coach at LSU inexplicably failed to call a time-out until 9 seconds remained. His Tigers pulled off a remarkable screen pass to cover 40-plus yards and a first down at the Ole Miss 6-yard line with 1 second remaining. Then, even more inexplicably, the LSU quarterback spiked the ball to end the game.

To coin a phrase, sometimes we cut off our noses to spite our faces. The same is true of this sporting life. Instead of punching an errant tee shot into the fairway from the lie between imposing oaks, we try the heroic 7-iron over the expansive canopy in an attempt to reach the green. But the Titleist smacks into a trunk and ricochets with the speed of a gunshot and returns to fracture the hero’s fibula, ending his golf season prematurely. You can look it up.

Sometimes the road less traveled is that way for a reason.

Keep them doggies movin'...

To gamble is to lead a self-examined life, which is good, the philosophers say. Jesus himself tells us "And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?"

The beam in my case was taking underdog Baltimore and six points against Pittsburgh yesterday. The first two games in the regular season gave me confidence the Ravens could cover, and I was looking pretty smart well into the fourth quarter with Baltimore trailing by two and driving. I was also counting on Troy Polamalo at less than top speed. This 'possum, though, sprang like a gazelle to snare Joe Flacco's pass and zig-zag to the endzone, putting old Kev nine points down.

Still one more chance until Ryan Clark clocked Willie McGahee over the middle. Helmet met helmet and McGahee was out, the ball fumbled to the Steelers. Whether it was a good football play or not, I've come to the conclusion that referees choose to ignore the rules all the time. Spearing is prohibited. The rules don't account for looking into men's souls to determine intent. Oh well, as we all know, holding occurs on virtually every play, too. No use complaining. Good vittles, love and kissin' are waitin' at the end of my ride.

The first dog barked much better for me. Arizona, continued its Cinderella run and won outright on the shoulders of Kurt Warner and the uber-receiver Larry Fitzgerald (his father was a sportswriter, I understand. We scribes must have athletic genes after all).

So, I chased my tail, ending up in the same spot, which is reward enough for making a sporting event interesting if you don't have a rooting interest as a fan. I refuse to wager on OU games. My passion is more than stoked without begging for an extra touchdown or two to cover.

The early Super Bowl line makes Pittsburgh a 7-point favorite. In the two weeks to come, I will strive to ignore the mote in my brother's eye and remove the beam in my own, as I will in my golf game this year. I think it's my putter stuck solidly in the window to my soul.