To me, our National Anthem is many things: It’s the song that uniquely represents America, just as our flag is our enduring national symbol. It’ s supposed to be presented in a way that is inspiring, respectful and reverent … not rewritten as part of some here today-gone tomorrow entertainment act. If really well done, The Star Spangle Banner may bring a lump to your throat and even a tear to your eye. It is the embodiment of pride and persistence!

Last Sunday I settled down in front of my sixty inch hi-def widescreen T.V. for an evening of ear splitting, mind thumping commercials when, suddenly, a football game broke out! The exercise in excess, billed as the halftime show, featured a group of electronically wired people that resembled a short circuited pinball machine on steroids. They were named after a variety of ‘pea’, which may provide some insight as to why a lot of kids refuse to eat their vegetables.

But before any of this began, an awkward slightly bow-legged young lady perched herself in the middle of the field on a platform, and proceeded with an acoustical assault upon the above-mentioned composition by Francis Scott Key. The announcer said she had won five Grammy Awards for previous attempts at conjugating musical notes, which instantly rekindled a flood of memories about why I haven’t bothered to watch those presentations in more than twenty-five years.

I can’t imagine a bigger moment or better venue for a performer than singing our Nation Anthem in front of a worldwide audience at The Super Bowl. Nevertheless, here was this Christina Aguilera person not only messing up the melody, but focusing so hard on doing so, that she screwed up the words as well. “What so proudly we watched, at the twilight’s last streaming” was, to my knowledge, not one of the visions beheld by Mr. Key as he sat in his precariously positioned prison cell. Do they audition people for such a multi-million dollar extravaganza or simply ask for a show of hands as to who wants to do the Star Spangled Banner this year, and just pick somebody? By the way, why doesn’t EVERYONE know the words and the history behind this song?

Older folks often find fault with a lot of things that just aren’t the same anymore and I’m no exception. Change, you know? It may be the only constant we can count on but, sometimes, it’s not easy to make certain adjustments. I can put up with bigger wrappers and smaller chocolate bars, tooth jell instead of tooth paste, and cars that measure power in  liters instead of cubic inches [I'm still working on those new, curly-fry light bulbs]. But when it comes to disappearing traditions, especially those affecting the texture and fabric of my country, about the best I can do is dig my heels in and say, “Enough already. Look behind you … the line is back there.”

A few years ago, I saw an old baseball movie about the minor leagues called “Long Gone”. It opened with a sort of flashy femme fatale who removed her chewing gum just before singing a nearly on-key version of our National Anthem … then placed the gum back into her mouth when she was finished and jiggled her way off the field. End act one, scene one. Even the tootsie’s rendition was more respectful. I liked it better.

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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 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.