Dumb Jocks

As if the archetypal 1940's punch-drunk prize fighter didn't provide enough evidence that repeated blows to the head can knock your brain loose, there is now a movement afoot to make everyone aware of the perils of head injuries in sports, even in those supposed non-contact sports, like basketball, as well as games like baseball where a player can get beaned with a fast-moving projectile.

The best team sport for concussion, of course, is football, what with lineman rushing headlong at each other and players at other positions being knocked around so that the heads inside their helmets come into often violent contact with all sorts of hard things, like shoulder pads, shoes, other helmets, and the ground.

Over 3,300 former NFL players are suing the league for not dealing seriously, or at all, with head traumas that have contributed to significant health issues, including dementia.

And yet, whenever a player scores a touchdown, intercepts a pass, or sacks the opposing quarterback, his teammates show their appreciation by giving his helmet a whack or, better yet, banging their helmeted heads together.

Preventing dementia for these guys?  It's too late.  They're there.

October 13, 1912 - a date that should be immortalized in song

My father, Albert James Knez, was born in Chicago 100 years ago today.  In his honor, I will relate one of his favorite stories to tell about himself.

My dad liked music and would have liked to sing, not as a performer, but just be able to sing along with a favorite song on the radio or with Mother and us kids when we sang songs in the car.  But the plain awful truth was he couldn't carry a tune in a suitcase.  Once during the singing of a hymn in church, I heard him join in, very, very softly, and even when he got somewhere near the tune, he was a half tone flat.  It was really rather touching, though, and I was sure that God was pleased by the effort if not the result.

Because he was so widely known to be unable to sing, he loved to tell people how he always got straight A's in music when he was in school.  His music teacher, to keep his off-key warbling from ruining the other students' singing, made a deal with him that as long as he didn't sing with the other children, she would give him an A for the class.  But he loved the singing so much and wanted so badly to take part that sometimes he just couldn't help himself and would begin to sing along, at which point his teacher would remind him to stop by saying, "Albert, you're singing again!" 

Happy birthday, Dad -- I hope wherever you are, you're singing.

Another Date, Another Story

It's 10/11/12.  I cannot pass up mentioning these things, and I am sure everybody is sick to death of hearing me tell how such calendrical phenomena were brought to my attention on 5/5/55 by my third-grade teacher, so I won't bring that up again.

Instead, I'll tell you a story about a young woman I used to work with named Tara.  She was very friendly, extremely generous, rather pretty, and kinda dumb.  One year at Christmas time, all the bosses were arranging to treat their secretaries to a luncheon at an upscale restaurant.  The secretaries, of which Tara was one, were each given a menu listing the courses to be served, and they were asked to mark their choice of entree from among filet mignon, chicken cordon bleu, and some sort of vegetarian offering.

Over the cube walls, I heard Tara say to nobody in particular, "Wow, if I get this fillay migg-non thing, it would cost my boss a lot.  It's the most expensive one."  After a moment's pause, she added, "I won't, though.  I don't really like fish."

Did I mention she was real nice?

Say Cheese

Last night my partner said she has a hankerin' for macaroni and cheese and wondered if we have enough cheese to make some.  I assured her we have cheese enough for anything and began to enumerate:

We have sliced American and sliced Provolone, a block of Colby, bricks of Asiago and Parmesan, plus that grated Parmesan that comes in the green plastic jar, shredded Mozzarella and shredded Colby-Jack, a container of crumbled blue cheese and a jar of Old English cheese spread.  If it counts, there's also at least one can of Cheddar cheese soup.

This morning as I put a stick of string cheese in with her lunch, I realized I'd forgotten to mention that one.

Doesn't everybody have a dozen kinds of cheese on hand at all times?  Or does this have something to do with my loving cheese so much that my mother used to call me "Cheese Face"?

I'll Just Bet

I spent yesterday afternoon at a casino playing single-deck pitch (my favorite) and coming away with $50 more than I started with.  And had fun too, which was the point.

There was a woman playing at my table who appeared to understand the basics of blackjack but was subjected to unsolicited comments and advice from her friends who hovered around her.  One man, probably not her husband, kept thrusting a twenty-dollar bill at her, wanting her to make a bet for him.  Finally she asked the dealer to change the twenty, she bet the four red chips, and lost.  He wanted to do it again, she didn't, he was insistent, and she finally ended it by leaving the table.

I have had people try to give me money to gamble for them, which I agreed to do only once.  A very nice senior citizen friend of ours asked my partner and me to play $20 for her at the blackjack table on one of our gambling trips.  I made a point of designating four five-dollar chips as hers to fulfill my mission.  If I remember right, I lost the whole twenty on five bets.

We felt so bad that when we saw her next, we told her we had doubled her money and gave her $40.

So, I refuse to do that now, because there's something even worse than losing someone's money.  Think of the guilt I'd have to live with if I won $25,000 on their ten bucks.

I don't get this

Five years ago, Gail Boertmann and her son Chris, both of the Detroit area, were coming home from a wedding, he on his motorcycle and she in her car behind him. Another car collided with the motorcycle, and Chris was killed. His mother, quite understandably, was traumatized not just by the death of her child but by having actually watched the fatal accident right before her very eyes.

She was so messed up, in fact, that she could not function, lost her job as a result, and required significant therapy to treat what her psychologists called post-traumatic stress disorder and major depression. She filed a claim with Cincinnati Insurance, the carrier of her automobile insurance policy, for $30,000 in lost wages and medical costs because she was in her car when the trauma occurred.

The insurance company denied her claim, saying that her (mental) injury had nothing to do with her being in her car at the time -- she could have suffered the same effects if she had witnessed the accident while standing on the street corner. Boertmann sued and won. Cincinnati Insurance appealed, and last year the Michigan Court of Appeals upheld the verdict. The case is now going to the Michigan Supreme Court, which should have the last word.

That word ought to be, seriously?

Getting Political

Our neighbor, Frank, had Obama/Biden signs in his yard, and I was jealous.  I wanted a sign too, but I didn't know where to start to try to get one, so I called him and asked him where he got his signs.

He said they were left over from '08 and that he was unable to get any more.  In fact, someone at the local Democratic headquarters told him they are continually running out of signs -- the minute they get some in, people take them right away.

It surprises me a great deal.  In most elections here in Clinton County, Michigan, the candidates for all the county offices are all Republicans running unopposed.  You wouldn't think there were enough Democrats around here to put a demand on yard signs.

Nevertheless, Frank said I was welcome to one of his.  He reasoned that one Obama sign in each of two yards would have a greater impact than two signs in his.  Last evening my partner and I walked over and took one of Frank's signs and planted it smack in the middle of our front yard.

I don't know if it will help Mr. Obama, but it makes me feel better.