Any number of you regular readers have sent inquiries, questioning the sanity and intelligence of a regular — dare I say, loyal — reader, one J G Joyner.

“Does this dude actually read your stuff? Why would he think you’re a UK fan?’

“Is that J G idiot mental, or what?”

“What’s this guy’s problem. If he could read, he’d know you’re not a big Kentucky booster.”

Having seen neither the results of his IQ test, nor a clean bill of health from the Mental Inquest department, I feel uncomfortable commenting on either.

I do know that he is more than somewhat obsessed with the Cats. And, as you know if you’ve been paying attention, not in a positive way.

I admit to lunching with him, and another old associate, on occasion. Once, by coincidence when I showed up with a blue shirt on, he threatened to sit at another table.

And, in a comment, to a blog earlier this week, he simply commented, “You should move to Lexington . . .”

Hmmmm . . .

So, in the interests of hopefully coming to some resolution to what I’ve considered an egregious breach in internet ethics, I met him and that other associate, who also happens to be my attorney.

Or, so I thought. Continue reading A Loyal Reader’s Valentine Gift: One I Shan’t Easily Forget →

What strikes me most about U of L’s steady as she goes 20-13 victory over Houston is how practical it was.

On the season, Louisville’s ratio of rushing attempts to passing attempts has been just about even. 343 ground assaults vs. 321 air attacks. Last night, when it became obvious that the Cougars’ defensive schemes had Teddy B in too much peril when looking down field for an air lift, Sean Watson obviously decided to keep it on the ground more.

Forty one rushing attempts vs. only 29 passes.

The strategy obviously worked. Louisville won, and, bottom line, that’s why they play the game.

It was also effective in more subtle ways. Louisville had possession of the ball for 37:49 vs 22:11 for the visitors from Texas. If not impossible, a football team is less likely to score when it doesn’t have the ball than when it does. Continue reading Louisville Card File: Houston (Boffo Music Video Included) →

Omne trium perfectum.

If we are lucky as we slip into our dotage, if more synapses stay connected than not, we’ll remember salient moments, significant snippets of dialog from yesteryear.

A cunning retort. A pithy aside. Legit advice that resonates.

A life changing admonition. A homily to guide. A comforting whisper, such as the one that really should begin this piece, But first, as if to illustrate, a moment of insight into celebrity.

Jerry Lee Lewis sometime in the early to mid 70s played a Monday night gig at a dinner theater in, I believe, Simpsonville. Maybe Shelbyville. As best I knew at the time, he was still in exile for marrying his 13 year old cousin Myra at the apotheosis of his rock & roll ascendency. Truth is he had fashioned somewhat of a career, singing what was then called Country & Western. All I was looking forward to as I drove out to the show was “Great Balls of Fire.” (He called Pee Wee King out of the audience and sang “Tennessee Waltz” with him. Which was pretty sweet.)

The current run of “Camelot” at the beef and boards joint was taking the night off, but the set, still in place, hadn’t been struck for the concert.

Jerry Lee took the stage in fighting trim, chest puffed, like a banty rooster. He was wearing a suit. Wearing on his head, a prop crown from the musical. Hmm, Jerry Lee as King Arthur . . . it’s an interesting contemplation for another time.

He took a few steps across the proscenium, when someone in a crowd ready to party shouted out, “The Killer is back.” Continue reading Cardinals’ Championship, Sense of Fulfilllment, Rule of Threes →

Personal insecurity and a will to win in overdrive make strange bedfellows.

It is a combination of personality traits fraught with peril.

Consider Lance Armstrong. Consider Manti Te’o.

Which I shall, but first some perspective.

I was a roly-poly kid, fat, truth be told. Always a little slower on the ball field than my pals. Not as deft at picking up grounders, or putting the ball in the hoop. Relegated to the line in touch football.

Our gang dubbed ourselves the “Bonnycastle Bearcats.” Even though the only opponent we ever played was Jimmy Bevers’ Gang.

Sitting around one afternoon in the corner of the park which was our home field, I told the group my uncle was going to get us uniforms. My standing escalated immediately.

Truth. There was no uncle. There were no uniforms. Out of the blue, based on a desire to be well-liked, some need to feel worthy, I made it up. Consequences never entered my mind.

Weeks passed. The others started wondering, “Where are our uniforms?” Continue reading Te’o Armstrong Syndrome: The Amends Process →

For most hoopaholics around here, when their teams meet, the blur begins at tip-off.

For the victor’s rooters, it doesn’t end until the triumphant euphoria ebbs somewhat and they can relax, switch on the replay to see the details in a state of calm. The defeated eventually shake it off — more or less — deal with their grief, and move on to what normal people call real life. They could not care less about the stats. The big plays, even those that were valiant but not enough, couldn’t mean less.

I’m speaking here of the true believers, the acolytes. The gal in Cherokee Triangle pulling her No. 31 Unseld throwback off the shelf, making sure it’s laundered and ironed for the game. The plumber in Somerset who spent hours at a paint store making sure he was buying the exact shade of Big Blue for his man cave. The fellow in PRP who has been flying Cardinal flags for a month on his red F-150. The grandmother in Maysville who places good luck candles — blue, of course — in front of her cherished photo on the mantle, the one of Baron Adolph Rupp in his brown suit with Dan Issel. Continue reading A Contemplation of Acolytic Fandom →