My fever had spiked to 102.5 degrees Fahrenheit fewer than twelve hours before and, although I was finally firing on nearly seven of eight cylinders, I thought the constant buzzing sound in my head might be some sort of unanticipated side effect from my medication.

The surfing finger on my right hand had given out about about the time I landed on a TV channel featuring a gaggle of guys in short pants, trying to kick a too small ball down a too long field. A nearly inaudible British announcer was commenting with great gusto about a “cup” but I couldn’t tell for certain whether he was talking about an event on the field or an article of clothing he might have seen in the locker room before the game.

Underlying it all was this incredibly irritating buzz. It was loud. It was ceaseless. By flipping back and forth with another channel, I was able to determine the annoying sound was not in my head but rather must be some sort of defect with that particular broadcast. The sedative effects of soccer made it the perfect sport for my recuperation. It was just monotonous enough to put me out and if I did doze off, I wouldn’t really miss anything … but that incessant buzzing was more than I could endure, even with all its accompanying benefits.

Once I realized it wasn’t going away, I switched over to a NatGeo special on the commercial value of beached whale carcasses, or some such topic. It posted a lower snooze factor than soccer but the mind-numbing buzz was gone … and I managed to nod off just about the time residents of a small coastal community discovered the source of a foul stench that was driving away the tourists.

When I awoke the news was, coincidentally, blaring a story about some Nimrod who got booted out of Yankee Stadium for too often tooting a device called a vuvuzela. Even in my sleepy stupor, I quickly added two plus two and came up with less than five … especially once I heard the sound.

A vuvuzela is a type of two foot plastic horn favored by South African soccer fans … and the cacophonous din that assaulted my senses had been hundreds, maybe thousands of these goofy little ear-splitters being blown in nonstop unison!

I’ve attended ball games where people brought compressed air horns, one guy brought his trumpet to lead the “Charge!” and another clear-headed individual even dragged a large kettle drum to the top of the bleachers to inspire Indian war chants. But never have I witnessed a sporting event, live or in living color, from deep inside a bee hive … nor do I ever intend to.

Three cheers and a big foam finger salute for Yankee management who recognized the potential threat to American sport and, in turn to sports revenues, if vuvuzelas made their irritating presence known on our nation’s shores. What ever happened to the sound of the human voice?

These devilish devices, which can generate up to 120db of noise, may be very effective, even necessary in ‘the bush’ to cut through the lion’s roar or warn of a stampede of run amok rhinos … but they clearly have no place, even in the cheap seats, at a sports venue. This particularly holds true when the game on the field invades the sanctity of the sofa across half the civilized world!

Surely if there is an actual hell, I imagine it is ruled by a leather lunged demon prancing through the coals carrying a white hot poker in one hand, and a vuvuzela horn in the other.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

The name tag read “Charlie” … but the pleasant moonpie face that looked at me through round black rimmed glasses was accompanied by too many contradictions. The short-cropped brushy hair was a little too long, for example. There was the slightest hint of breasts under an oversized white shirt and actual hips holding up the black, man-tailored slacks. Even chunky guys have a more worm-like pelvic ensemble that makes you wonder how their pants bother to stay up!

As the designated ‘pick up butter and egg man’ at our house, I had been through Charlie’s ’15 items or less’ line at the local supermarket before. Each time, I couldn’t help but wonder what the name tag wasn’t telling me. The other day, as I placed my low fat chips, high fiber cereal and something green on my favorite non-stop conveyor belt, I happened to look up and noticed that Charlie’s name tag now read “Charlene.”

“Hi.  What happened to Charlie?” I asked. “Oh-h, it made some of my customers uncomfortable so management requested me to change it.” “You’re kidding … I liked Charlie!” I said, as lightheartedness took a step toward the rear of the line. Charlene flashed a quick, sheepish smile and replied, “What the heck, it doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to make some kind of political statement or anything … I’m only trying to earn a living. I just happen to be one of those people who is stuck in the middle.”

She seemed so well adjusted and in-tune with herself that I almost envied Charlie’s matter-of-factness. Almost. If allegedly adult customers can be made uncomfortable by someone’s name choice, what kind of hell must she have endured growing up in order to reach such a high level of self-acceptance? After all, you know how kind kids are! As cosmopolitan as they may pretend to be, people in our society just don’t seem to handle differences very well.

The affable young person, now packing my pickups, had no way of knowing about my own experience with different. It was while working at a summer job I held during school cleaning mimeograph machines, that I learned you are what people think you are. It was a thankless job dipping heavy, ink-stained printing devices into a dilute, hot acid solution eight hours a day … but it paid $1.10 per hour. The temperature in the shop was nearly 100 degrees, with no air conditioning in those days, and featured three mindless full-time grunts who raised the temperature under my collar even higher.

We didn’t have names for them back then but today Lenny, Al and Junior would be bigots, anti-Semites and racists. Me? I was “The Moishe.” I was “the college boy” who had the gall to invade their world and get sweaty, even dirty. Somewhere, they came up with the idea that I was Jewish … thus my designation as “The Moishe.” “The Moishe” was a “Hebe” and therefore was to be treated like something you’d scrape off your shoe with a stick. They would have been surprised to learn that I was, in fact, Roman Catholic and could have traded them Hail Mary for Hail Mary, but there’s no way I was giving up that little piece of information. Besides, to this day I believe they were incapable of learning much of anything.

I continued to be courteous, took their abuse, marveled at their ignorance and then pulled off my own coups de grâce … I came back again the following summer! It was a unique opportunity to understand first hand, on my own terms, what so many others must experience everyday if they’re not a perfect fit to society’s template. Funny thing is, the contemptible little trio eased off that second summer. Perhaps it was my tenacity or maybe it was the real Jewish kid they discovered down on the first floor. Oh, I was still “The Moishe” but, whatever it was, things changed for the better and I found it a little easier to laugh having my own perspective on things. I also got a raise and was now making $1.20!

Charlene handed back my change and wished me a great day. I told her, “I still like Charlie better.” “Me too!” she said, offering another sheepish smile … and I left, thinking about all the girls named Alex or Andie and all the ‘jerks’ God sprinkled upon planet Earth.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

The Giants led the Eagles 17-14 with fewer than four seconds to go. This was clearly the last play of the game. McNab dropped back and let one fly, fifty-one yards in the air. The ball arched lazily toward his receiver’s outstretched finger tips as he approached the goal line and … three huge guys in front of me stood up!

Yankees-Red Sox, score tied, bottom of the eleventh. There was one out with the bases loaded and Jeter at the plate. He reached for a changeup and dribbled it back to the mound. As the pitcher reached for the ball he stumbled and the crowd went wild. I heard someone yell, “Double play!” as a group of cigar-chomping beer drinkers and a large lady in a large hat with a large feather jumped to their feet … I saw nothing!

Get it? Well, I don’t. Everything came flooding back to me last weekend when Vigi and I went to The Gillette Fusion Proglide 500. It was only our second NASCAR race and the first with a name that long. After the deluge, complete with lightning, thunder and hailstones, the track was dried, the skies cleared and we settled back for an afternoon of thrills and chills … especially chills now that we were soaked to the skin.

As I’ve mentioned in the past, I’m big on photography. In fact if I’m not taking pictures, many activities hold comparatively little meaning for me. On this day, it was not to be … not without a head, hand or waving hat centered in the scene. Instead of breathtaking moments of skillfully piloted vehicles traveling at speeds approaching 200 MPH, I wound up with a collection of body parts and brightly colored clothing.  I’ll never figure how one woman got her leg that high into the air! It turns out racing fans like to stand at critical moments just the same as fans of any other sport … but with a few new wrinkles.

The first thing I discovered was that some folks like being on their feet during the entire race. Just when I thought I had perfected a technique for dealing with ‘the pop-up syndrome’, there on my left was a perpetual stander who also liked to give ‘okay’ signals to the speeding cars and salute them with his beer can every time they went by. In front of me was a pair of ponytailed Mutt ‘n Jeff maidens who seemed to feel the need to wave and point the direction of travel to the drivers.  Now, while not a seasoned veteran of NASCAR, I’ve yet to see any vehicle intentionally traveling in the wrong direction. Mutt was the chubbier of the two, wore the number or garment of nearly every driver in the race, and had “Darrell” tattooed across her ankle. Jeff was more subdued and just swayed a lot.

To the right was an older gentleman with a shaggy white mustache and a stoic look on his face, who stood with arms akimbo throughout the entire event. His eyes were fixed at the exact same point on the track no matter where the cars were. He had risen for “The Star Spangled Banner” and stayed that way for the rest of the race. I believe he was awake most of the time.

The thing I don’t get is, after expensive arenas are carefully crafted to provide graduated seating that allows every spectator a clear view, why do people feel the need to stand up? Even when I was younger, sitting down for three or four hours always felt more comfortable. Funny thing is, those same people not actually using their seats would probably be the first to complain if they encountered a standing room only situation!

Back when I first discovered the Earth didn’t revolve around me, it was a shock … but I’ve grown accustomed to the idea. Don’t get me wrong, the NASCAR crowd was one of the nicest, most pleasant groups of individuals you’d ever want to meet. The operative word here is individuals. After “Gentlemen start your engines,” all awareness of anything that isn’t careening through a series of left turns on the track disappears and they meld into ultimate fans.

Next time maybe I’ll pack a small taser into my camera case instead of a telephoto lens. That would be a show-stopper no matter who gets stuck in the pits!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.