It's occurred to me that maybe I’ve been a little tough on NBC and its past coverage of the Preakness.  And the Derby, and the Belmont, and the Olympics.  And all else.  I should be kinder; at least NBC is broadcasting horseracing nationally, and it has, in its wisdom, brought GARY STEVENS! to his proper place on my television screen, from which he may further command his minions of Jockey Domination Via Sheer Force of Awesome.

I suppose I’m merely experiencing seething remnants of bitterness and hatred towards legacy television in general over this season’s shocking! finale! of CBS’ How I Met Your Mother, the same network which giveth unto us the Official Quarterback of Blonde Champagne, Boomer Esiason.

Did you see this?   People, there’s a reason why I became a nonfiction writer instead of a novelist.  It’s because I’m incredibly plot-stupid.  I was twenty-two years old and on my umpteenth viewing of The Sound of Music before realizing exactly why Julie Andrews was so unduly bitchy to the nice Nazis who just wanted to help start the Captain’s car.  And yet I HAVE KNOWN FOR OVER A YEAR WITHOUT A DOUBT THAT BARNEY MARRIES ROBIN.  It was the entertainment equivalent of hiding a stuffed bunny under a table for a five-month old, and being all “Where’s the bunny?”  and the baby is utterly baffled and concerned, and then you triumphantly produce the bunny, with much fanfare and gasping, and the five-month old is all “HOLY SHIT THERE’S THE BUNNY!  YOU’RE A WIZARD!!!!!” and is delighted until the bunny inexplicitly vanishes again.  That is how the finale of HIMYM was presented.  As unto a five-month-old.  YOU’RE ALL WIZARDS, PEOPLE WHO WRITE HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER!!!

And so NBC shall feel my wrath.  There’s just nowhere else for it to go.  It’s not fair and it’s not right but life sucks and oh look there’s I’ll Have Another refusing to look directly into the camera.

-Randy Moss:  “Tom, the Number One Question for the Preakness is, does Bodemeister have enough gas left in the tank?”  Actually, the Number One Question for the Preakness is “What’s its official fried chicken?” but I’m fairly and sadly certain that Randy hasn’t given a whole lot of thought to that one.

-Mike Battaglia: “I think Bodemeister had a legitimate excuse for losing in the Kentucky Derby.”  What’s particularly hilarious about this is B-roll of Bodemeister hanging out in his stall is unspooling as his legitimate excuses are discussed, and the second Battaglia starts listing them, Bodemeister’s ears prick forward and his head swings to the camera.  That’s right, Bodemeister, all your spinmasters are out here twirlin’ for ya. 

-You can vote for who you think will win the Preakness Stakes via Facebook!  All you’ll have to do is endure a forced profile Borgization to Timeline, offer up your home address and those of all your friends, and denounce your God.  But… Facebook poll!  Totally worth it!

-List of Derby finishers who are also running in the Preakness.  As a horseracing fan, I am relatively happy with this actually useful coverage, which means that as a writer, I’m devastated.

-GARY STEVENS!

-I’ll Have Another owner Paul Reddam “is a wealthy man.”  Well, now we know who’s in the Do Not Root For slot for this particular Triple Crown jewel.

-Donna Brothers in the jockey room: “This is the spot where I would be interviewing Mario Gutierrez!”  Only you’re not, Donna, and it’s either because he agreed to the interview and begged off, or told the producer to take a flying leap to begin with and the director thought we might enjoy staring at the scuzztacular glory which is the interior of Pimlico’s jock room.  Either way… you’ve won this round, Senor Gutierrez.

-There are pimps, there are ho’s, and then there are wholly unnecessary professional athletes.  In the Yes. SKIP INTRO. Please.absence of Lindsey F-ing Vonn, here are some beach volleyball players. 

-“I thought I saw Kegasus there for a minute!... No, maybe not.”  That was not in any way amusing, Tom Hammond.  You DO NOT issue false Kegasus warnings.  It’s like blasting a tsunami evacuation any ol’ time, with the same terrified screaming, mass hysteria, and wild trampling away from the epicenter of the horror. 

-Genuinely interesting segment on Tiger Walk owner Kevin Plank, the creator and owner of Under Armour:  He’s bought and refurbished historic Sagamore Farm, the home of the great racer and stud Native Dancer.  And you know why? His family is from Maryland, he went to college here, he now lives in Baltimore, and didn’t want to lose the Preakness if the local breeding industry continued to circle the drain.  So, with his own money, Kevin Plank invested in the industry and his state.

But you know what, Randy Moss reminds us?  Kevin Planks’s a billionaire.  A billionaire, with his billions, which is more than you have, right?  OCCUPY SAGAMORE!!!!!!!!!!!!  EVERYBODY POOP ON THE MANURE OF THE THOROUGHBRED OPPRESSORS!

-Um, so, we’re like an hour in now, and…

Where’s Bob Costas?

Here’s footage the Woodlawn Vase, THEMOSTVALUABLETROPHYINSPORTS, all alone and valuable in its be-holed Plexiglass case, and under a cupola, and… Bob’s not here to say “cupola” and call it THEMOSTVALUABLETROPHYINSPORTS.  I--- did the world end?

-…But never fear, we have Laffit Pincay The Third!  Bein’ the son of Laffit Pincay, Junior, straight up! 

-We need a backup for the Preakness Antichrist in case utter class warfare isn’t your thing.  Hansen hasn't shown for the Preakness, so in case you were wondering who else to hate this fine Maryland afternoon, here’s Doug O’Neill and his “sixteen test violations in three states over fourteen years.”  O’Neill, who is not stupid, is wearing a baseball cap covered with the autographs of sick children and also a tee shirt which says “I HEART SMALL ORPHANED PUPPIES.”  He says, “Have I run some horses in spots that I shouldn’t have?  Yes, you know, I could do better.  And I’m gonna do better.”  Somebody says something about the increased attention that comes with a Derby win and subsequent Preakness appearance.  Stewart Elliott just emailed all, “Really?  I hadn’t heard.”

-Back to GARY STEVENS!, leaning back in his chair and looking Very Stern.  Uh-oh.

-Here’s Paul Reddam himself, taking a brief break from his usual constant immersion in his Scrooge McDuck-style swimming pool filled to the brim with skillion dollar bills. “To me,” he says of O’Neill, “he runs a very clean shop.”  Well then.

-You guys, do you remember how in the Kentucky Derby, Bode Baffert’s daddy’s horsie which was named after him lost in the last second, right after his daddy almost died, and NBC found it necessary to ram a camera up in Bode’s crumpled little face, AND IT WAS COMPLETELY AMAZING ENTERTAINMENT?  Well, because there’s no footage of kittens being drowned in a dirty sack, here’s a rerun of that, and also a rerun of Bob crying during the walkover, and also a furlong by furlong replay of the race from the Baffert family perspective, including the information that at one point during the race Bob leaned over his little son and said “That’s Bodemeister in front,” to which he said, “I know.”  Please repeat this service for the Preakness, NBC, as we are all eager to lick the tears from his freckled little visage when this happens again.  I need to up my agonized small child salt intake.

-That’s a look at the stable area, dotted by three enormous Budweiser trailers.  Classin' it up, Pimlico.  Steppin' on from the usual dumpings of Wild Irish Rose and Natty Lite.

-And now, ladies and gentlemen, The Greatest Thing in the History Of All Things.

It’s Hall of Fame jockey Jerry Bailey and GARY STEVENS! previewing the stretch race between Bodemeister and I’ll Have Another… in the Pimlico starting gate… on a fake Bodemesiter and a fake I’ll Have Another.  You know the last time these two did this?  In Seabiscuit.  At fake Pimlico on a fake War Admiral and a fake Seabiscuit, as fake Charlie Kurtsinger and fake George Woolf.  

But now… the drama is all too real.  

GARY STEVENS! says, “I’m on Bodemeister in the 7 hole. I wonder what Bailey’s gonna do.”  Oh GARY, don’t we all, don’t we all.

Jerry says, “I’m on I’ll Have Another in the 9. I can’t let him get away too quick.”  But… oh, Jerry, he is THE STEVENS.  He appears and vanishes at will, and he shall do so at his own accord.

They then make their way around the track.  These horses are in no way actually running, btw; they’re sub-breezing.  They’re quasi-trotting.  They’re… a little sideways, actually.

There then follows the following conversation:

GARY STEVENS!:  I got a lot of speed!

Jerry:  I can hear the crowd!  Oh but I got horse, I got a lot of horse.

GARY STEVENS!:  I got a lot of horse too!

They’re both standing in the saddle, hauling on the reins and looking like they are in immense pain. In the case of GARY STEVENS!, of course, it’s the agony of holding back on unleashing the full measure of his mighty self upon this grand event, for were he to do so, he would destroy Jerry Bailey, Fake Bodemeister, and all of Maryland.  And he knows too well the great responsibility he carries with the power that comes from being GARY STEVENS!, and so, just this once, he to retreats behind his occasional guise of being an ordinary mortal man.

-Jockey pictures.  Everybody’s sitting on a CGI bale of hay with various poses of themselves flung up in the background, as though they were posing for  the most LSD-influenced yearbook pages ever, or images of themselves as particularly equine-friendly third world dictators.

-Here’s Cozetti trainer Dale Romans: “Well, he’s never finished a race totally focused.” I am placing my bet RIGHT THIS SECOND on that hot tip. 

-And now, a discussion of Went The Day Well, starring trainer Graham Motion’s British accent. 

-“Donna, let’s go to Laffit Pincay The Third”, who is—oh, incidentally with Mike Smith.

-Jock photo, set grandly against a grey sheet somebody forgot to iron.  Oh, Pimlico, the POST of the Triple Crown tracks… what would we do without your ghettofab POST’in self?

-Kent Desormeaux failed a breathalyzer and has replaced by Ramon Dominegez.  Kent, my friend, you have fallen far from your classy, highbrow days of  "She throws her body down every time I turn her loose!" 

-Meet The Jockeys!  Our good friend Joe Bravo throws in an f-you head bob while introducing himself and Teeth of the Dog.  You are dreamy, Joe Bravo.

-I’ll Have Another has a pretty shaded tail.  Are those highlights?  Did dude get highlights?  Come on, he totally went to Great Clips and got highlights and he’s all Hollywood-Derby-flash and too good for the rest of us now.

-GARY STEVENS! virtually lays out how he thinks the race will unfold.  Crowing moment:  E-Mike Smith, e-whipping in the stretch.

-Professional Horseracing Coverage Blogger Note:  The “Riders up” call is slightly more dramatic when not said at same time it is being announced by the broadcast team

-The post parade begins with Zetterholm totally lifting tail and pooping.  This is going to the best Preakness EVER.

-I’ll Have Another goes by, head bobbing next to Lava Man’s.  You just know Lava Man is all, “Great, kid. Don’t get cocky.  What with your foil highlights and all.”

-Optimizer is pretty much being dragged to gate.  Ah, this bodes well for young Optimizer. Optimizer and Cozetti in a tie at the wire!

- Cozzeti joins the OCCUPY SAGAMORE pooping protest.

-Everybody’s loaded.  Oh, and the horses are also in the gate!  Clink!  Rim shot!

-Zetterholm, that pooping, everything-ruining three year old, bounces around in the gate.  Somewhere in Kentucky, Union Rags, still sulking in his stall after the Derby, hurls a beer bottle against the wall.

-Early fractions are m—u-u-u---uuu—cch slll---ooo-o-o-ooo-ee—eeee—rrrrr—rrrr than the Derby’s. Bodemeister’s got this.

-I’ll Have Another is bearing down at the wire.  Nah, he’s had another pretty wide trip, he’s done.

-So yeah, like I said.  Bodemesiter.  Winning.

-Bob Baffert And His Crying Child.  Bob mouths something not fit for his small child’s ears.  THERAPY FOR LIFE.

-Painting of the winning silks on the weathervane.  I bet the poor guy who gets this job bolts out of bed weeks before the Preakness in utter terror that one of these years, something like this shows up on the entry list.

-Went The Day Well is deemed a “major disappointment” what with his losing and all.  Those tea and crumpets and Mr. Darcys are only going to get you so far in this town, honey.

-The interview with winning trainer O’Neill includes, for the second time and for far longer, an appearance by his son, Daniel.  Lookit, a kid’s a kid.  I’m a proud aunt.  I know this.  But after maybe four seconds of Daniel, I’m quietly marking this down as The Triple Crown of Free Birth Control.  Thanks, NBC!

-“Thank you Laffit! Let’s go back to Tom Hammond!” “All right, Laffit.”  ...Bob?

-The angry roiling masses demanding that these proceedings be properly Costasized are soothed with a mention of “the elusive Triple Crown.”  Ain’t a Triple Crown if it ain’t elusive.  I heart you, horseracing aphorisms.  See you suckas in New York.

This opening montage needs work.  It needs some of this.  Right?  Isn’t this a blank-darned joy?  I mean it.  I’ve downloaded the video as an mp3.  I RUN to it.  I do this even though of all the people featured here, I abhor one-third, cannot identify the other one-third, and am at best mildly amused by the remaining fraction.  Also apparently NBC is keen to celebrate the Super Bowl with the cast of Law & Order:  Special Victims Unit, because nothing says “national party” like “crimes of sexual violence.” AMERICA!

-Bob Costas, Live from the Cupola:  “We’ll spend a lot of time getting you set.”  I really can’t describe the personal terror and despair that follows this statement.  Wait, I can:  Last week, I was babysitting Sam The Baby Nephew, and the doorbell rang, and it was a neighbor, and she leaned down and got right up into his bidness, and he clamped onto my leg and slammed the door in her face.  That’s pretty much how the prospect of “We’ll spend a lot of time getting you set” makes me feel about the upcoming 114 minutes.

-There’s Aaron Rogers.  There’s Eli Manning.  There’s Bob Neumeier, referred to as “Neumie.”  Donna Brothers on horseback.  Mike Battaglia points out that we can bet many different ways, including “exactas… tri’s…”  There’s Millionaire’s Row.  There’s a stupid hat.  There’s an even stupider hat...  You know what, I’ve been doing this for a while now, and maybe I’m just old and tired, or maybe there’s no matching the year the liveblog was interrupted by the cops, but I’m pretty sure this was all shot in 2007 and it’s bounced off some lone asteroid and made its way back down to us and we’re just now seeing it and nobody’s noticed. Or I’m not drunk enough.  Six of one.

-Interview with Andre Agassi and Stefanie Graf.  Stephanie is wearing a hat.  Andre is not.  They have created another human being and named her “Jaz.”  I… what?  I’ve obviously misheard that.  It’s got to be a nickame for “Jasmine.” 

-No.  It’s “Jaz.”  THEY NAMED THEIR CHILD JAZ.  But her middle name, “Elle”, is nice and short, so it’ll fit easily on the marquee down at the Boobie Bungalow in about a decade.  That was very thoughtful on Mom and Dad’s part.

-Commercial for ADT Pulse, which offers house-wide security cameras, so that “Lisa can know when her daughter is home from school.”  So Lisa’s house is not at all creepy.  Book your barside seats now for when Lisa’s daughter Jello-wrestles Jaz.  

-Randy Moss is here in a lilac shirt and a plaid jacket and a tie I don’t even want to talk about. People, there are days when I wear nighties right up to three in the afternoon.  I have no space in which to criticize the sartorial choices of my brothers and sisters in Christ.  But when you’re sitting in front of a television in 2012 and somebody’s wearing something that stirs a primordial knowledge deep within to the realization that in twenty years a generation yet unborn will look upon this and turn to you and say “What were you people thinking?” in exactly in the same accusing tones I fling at my mother whenever I walk past a rerun of The Bob Newhart Show… you need to rethink your look.  

-GARY STEVENS!

-Behold Bodemeister, one of the favorites.  He’s a Baffert horse.  He’s named after Baffert’s son, who in turn is named after Olympic skier Bode Miller.  We’ve met Bode The Child before.  Bode The Horse is fascinated by a rake handle outside his stall. Given what we know of Bode The Skier, this comes as no surprise.

-“Look what happened to Javier.”  Here’s footage of Gemologist jockey Javier Castellano from a prior race, falling right off.  This is referred to as “sort of losing his balance.”

-Let’s meet the horses.  Everybody has a senior yearbook photo.  Bodemeister’s got his mouth open and in general looking like the DMV took the picture before he was ready.  Everybody else has a blowy mane and Norris eyes.  Am I the only one who sees where this is going?

-Enough of useful information-- let’s talk to Debra Messing!  I don’t watch NBC’s KathElectra McDuctTape And America’s Totally Healthy Marilyn Monroe Fetish, or whatever that show is called, so I haven’t seen Debra since Will & Grace ended well over one Obama ago.  She looks about the same, which means that her forehead now contains approximately 45% more Botox.  Debra’s Derby horse is “Gemologist… Gemology?”  

-More celebrities coming up!  Ke$ha! Cyndia Lauper! Ashton Kutcher! Lindsey F-ing Vonn!  Cyndi Lauper!  Tom Brady in a truly idiotic Newsies hat!  Bill Bellicheck, who somehow always looks like he’s wearing a sweatshirt even when he’s wearing a suit!  Cyndi Lauper!  You guys!  This is totally my favorite part! I can get up and refill my SoCo without missing a damn thing!

-Now we’re going to discuss fashion with some person or other from the Style Network.  We are reliably informed that “the fashion is out there!” and that “the bowtie is a very playful look from the 1920’s.”   Also she uses the word “hatmosphere.”  Meanwhile I’ve never felt so alone.

-Let us now go to Jenna Wolf, who immediately endears herself to me by announcing that “I didn’t wear a bowtie or a hat.  I’m 0 for 2.”  Then she loses it all by attempting to “interview” I’ll Have Another, who tries to bite her.  Annnnnnnnnnd I now have my Derby horse.

-Hold all pre-taped idiocy!  Lindsey F-ing Vonn is here!  “You’ve become a bit of a regular.  What draws you back year after year?”  As the answer is no doubt “cameras and microphones,” there’s no need for me to actually listen to her reply, so I depart for further SoCo.

-Here’s pre-Blonde Champagne mention UK basketball coach John Calipari, last seen around these parts stirring up anger an’ such by appearing at a trophy celebration before a Reds game.  This created great consternation since it took place on Ohio soil, even though YOU CAN SEE KENTUCKY FROM THE STADIUM.  But never fear, Ohioans!  “The celebration is gonna end Tuesday.  And then we’re gonna worry about next year.” The riverboat gambler wandering around the background of the shot is mighty impressed.

-On the Grand Scale of FeaturePimping, here are the factors by which NBC ranks airtime:

     1)  Pending Death
     2)  Almost-Death
     3)  Recent Death
     4)  Connection to hit new sitcom Up All Night!
     5)  Death Within Past Five Geologic Ages
     6)  Ovary-having
     7)  Actual Merit

Unfortunately, none of the connections fulfill Category 1, so we must first hit near-rock bottom in the form of… Barbaro.  His trainer Michael Matz is here with Union Rags, who has received a great deal of press.  We are deluged with everyone’s favorite phrase, “Grief on the faces of all concerned," and then there are slow-mo images of Barbaro running, and somewhat incidentally, here's Union Rags.

Of course, Bob Baffert trumps Barbaro by having almost died of a heart attack six weeks ago.  That bumps him up to primetime coverage, closer to the race.  More on Bob’s near-death after the break!

-HORSES:  THEN AND NOW:  Baby pictures.  I’ll Have Another is the cutest.  Gemologist looks like he was born the size of a Paramount Marauder.

-For the first time, a female rider, Rosie Napravnik, has won the Kentucky Oaks .  Rosie, as noted repeatedly and in great detail last year, has breasts.  But she pretty much doesn’t let anybody see them, so that’s all we’re going to hear about her for now.  Bye Rosie!

-Back to Jenna Wolf and an interview with a breeder:  “Are any horse owners coming to you with the hopes of a Kentucky Derby horse?”  No, Jenna, the dream is all about constantly running 8th at Tampa Bay Downs. 

Jenna is then photographed outside the breeding barn as helmeted, flak-jacket wearing assistants help 2010 Derby winner Super Saver do the deed.  And guess what, almost one-third of all Thoroughbred foals never even make it the starting gate!  LULZ! Annnnnnnyway.

-Turf Classic— the lead ponies have roses braided into their tales.  This is far preferable to the real-life, person-sized My Little Pony ad which Facebook for some reason thought I’d be interested in:

Juuuuuuuuuuust a little bit racist.

-Joe Bravo is riding in this one. I like hearing Joe Bravo interviewed because he gives reporters the finger in such a manner that they admire the cut of his fingernails.  In this instance, it is definitively pointed out to him that this race right here, it’s not the Kentucky Derby, but the race before the Kentucky Derby.  So does he still, like, even care?  Joe:  “What race is not good to win? Any time you make it to the winner’s circle, it’s a good day.”  So there.

-5 PM and the coverage resets.  Bob has been in my SoCo.  He has one leg propped up on the brick planter in front of him.  He refers to the “revelry” taking place in the infield, and by “revelry” he totally means “uninterrupted spewing.”

-Let’s go to Laffit Pincay The Third!  What up Laffit Pincay The Third?  You know anybody in racing, Laffit Pincay The Third?  If so, who?

-Because nothing says “Kentucky Derby” like roses, hats, and an armband tat, here’s Mary J. Blige with all three plus the National Anthem.  Previously established melodies:  How do they work?

-NBC has formed a focus group with Bob Costas, Eli Manning and Rhianna, and it determines that tonight’s Saturday Night Live is going to be awesome!  Bob says, “You’re a pretty good actor, but your brother Peyton is one of the all time greats.” Bob is all about the self-esteem and the value of developing a positive sense of accomplishment outside of sibling comparison.  Catch the feel-good rainbow of Costas parenting.

-Kent Desormeaux, how you doin’.   This man simply refuses to age.  We need to breed him up to Tanning Mom to knock her influence out of the gene pool.

-We now have a Facebook poll to check in on.  Nobody’s voting for the favorites.  “America has chosen the field,”  we are told.  Then again, America let Snookie have a book deal, so let’s not go for this particular stroke of chalk just yet.

-Normally, the villain in just about any racing broadcast is Bob Baffert, but he gets a near-death pass this year in favor of the Root-For Slot, so we need another enemy.  This year it’s Hansen’s owner, Dr. Kendall Hansen.  Dude named the horse after himself!  Well, I never!  He’s the Ass Man of Thoroughbred racing!

-And now the question is upon us:  Is Dr. Hansen “disrespecting a good horse” with all this… this… self-naming?  This is how news media people ask, “Exactly how many bags of douche is this guy?”  This is why I did not last as a news media person, because I’d be all like, “18.5 bags of douche, Tom.”

-Can I just ask something?  What is this deep, reflexive connection between wealthy people large, fugly sunglasses?  Is this why I still shop at Dollar Tree?  Because I wear eyewear proportionate to the size of my actual face?

-And now:  Bob Baffert’s Heart Attack. This is delicate business, because I like Bob, I really do, and I’m glad he’s okay, but this feature has him crying and making verklempt faces and this unsettles all the Thoroughbred racing world, which fears change.  This is not the Bob Baffert we know.  The Bob Baffert we know is more carefully phrased as “Bob has such a big personality!” by which people mean “greater than or equal to 18.5 bags of douche.”

-The feature moves on to far more comfortable territory, namely, a specific discussion of Bob Baffert throwing up.

-The great champion Lava Man is lead pony for I'll Have Another.  I really can’t put too fine a point on how much I love this.  Lava Man’s all, “Naw, dude, you gotta be in front of all the other horses at the end.”

-The official fried chicken of the Kentucky Derby is… Kentucky Fried Chicken.  Everybody else out there who didn’t see this coming, drink.  Whatever, I’m drinking anyway.

-Speaking of, I missed my calling in the creation of a drinking game of taking a shot every time somebody unnecessarily calls Laffit Pincay The Third by name.   I’ll Have Another trainer Doug O’Neill slings an arm around him and is all, “Laffit, what up.”

-“Thank you, Laffit!”  Let’s go to the booth!  “All right, Laffit, thank you!”  I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch...

-Kenny Rice with Bob Baffert and Bode The Child.  Bode, how do you like your walk?  “It’s fun.”  Bob Baffert’s wife, what do you think about Bob Baffert?  It’s really too bad this horse has no owner, or jockey anyone has ever heard of.

-Having left Eli Manning in a satisfactory heap of tears and despondency, Bob Costas has moved on to the scale in the jockey’s room.  He’s with Kent Desormeaux and Calvin Borel, face hidden by his baseball cap and in general looking like he was called to the principal’s office for sneaking Natty Lite into the prom and then tweeting about it.

-Here’s Donna Brothers and her horrifying blouse.  Todd Pletcher, is this the most amount of people you’ve ever seen, like, anywhere?  Still losing Triple Crown races, Todd?  Okay, you go sit over there with Rosie.  

-Union Rags’ bangs are looking all Hiterly.  This horse is not winning today.

-GARY STEVENS is still here!

-Today’s Dream Bet Winner is Joel Einhorn of Flushing, New York, who entered the contest in the hopes that he would someday get the hell out of Flushing, New York.  He puts his money on Alpha, who currently stands at 20-1. 

Bob:  “He’ll go home with 2 million dollars!”  My mother:  “No, he’ll just go home.”

-Jockey roll call!  For serious, all these guys have to do is look at the camera and say their names and the name of their horse.  Martin Garcia manages to make this look like a four-second hostage video.  

-Donna Brothers on Barf Blouse patrol.  My mother, a retired schoolteacher, provides commentary far more useful than the whole hatmosphere business: “Do people ever look at themselves?”

-John Calipari with the riders up call. He’s standing there.  And standing there.  And standing there.  And his wife shoves him.  “Riders up!”  Championship!  Season!

-GARY STEVENS! on legging up: “It’s actually a very relaxing feeling, and I knew that I was the one in charge at that point.”  Really, you can either profit by this, or be destroyed.

-Alpha is all up in his lead pony’s grill.  This horse is not winning today.

-El Padrino means “the godfather” in Spanish.  And on Cinco de Mayo!  This horse is not winning today.

-Concerning Hansen:  

“Hansen is very peterbed.”

“He almost looks pink on his chest right now because it’s so hot.”

“This is what we call ‘washy.’”

“Hansen’s not only hot, he’s aggravated.”

“Oh, Hansen’s hard to control early.”

This horse is SO TOTALLY WINNING TODAY.

-On the line and they’re—wait, Union Rags wasn’t ready.  Can we do that again?  Can—can we…?  Never mind.

-Flying off the backstretch!  Is it bad that I checked my Facebook messages right before the start and now have the sudden impulse that I’ve gone too long without checking my Facebook messages?

-35.9 MPH.  I’m scared when I do that in a car.

-Bodemesiter has a 5 length lead.  “Look on my works, ye mockers of the lightly raced, and despair!”    I’ll Have Another does not approve this message.

-I’ll Have Another, now with 1000% more breeding privileges.

-Winning jockey Mario Gutierrez pets I’ll Have Another instead of trying to smack his fluffy mane off. Bold move.

-And now, NBC’s favorite feature, Crying Jockey With Hispanic Accent.  “Even if they gave me the pick of the whole field, I’d still pick him,” he says.  Aw. 

-I’ll Have Another’s little nose is dusty.  Gutierrez hurls a palmfull of water on him. This does not, for some reason, help.

-Let’s check to see if Bob Baffert is still alive.  Yep, still there!

-Doug O’Neill’s kid.  Daniel, what are we getting now?  “A hot tub!”  “He’s been wanting a hot tub forever!” Yeah, first world problems.

-Review of the Start of Woe for Union Rags.  I would list in detail everything that went wrong with this trip, but I have to drive to Columbus on Tuesday.

-Hey, you know what’s real entertainment? The crumpling faces of small children standing next to their dads who almost just died, watching the horsie named after themselves lose in the last 200 yards.  Let’s watch it in slow motion.  Here’s the replay.  Here's the replay of the slo-mo.

-Doug O’Neill: “Laffit, I can’t believe it!” I’m—pretty sure Laffit didn’t ask him anything, and in fact doesn’t even have a live mic at the moment, but… I’m not arguing.  DRINK.

-I’ll Have Another’s eyes are shaded as the roses are laid on his back.  I must say that this detracts from the whole “They know when they win” theory.  On the Great Art Moments in Sport Scale, this ranks somewhere between “World Series MVP Takes Dump On the Infield” and “Physically Challenged Runner in Race Everyone Knew He Would Lose Loses Even Worse Than Expected.”

-Well now we know why Borel was so pissy during the Costas interview, other than the usual Costas-related reasons: He ran 19th.  U mad, bro?

-The Aftershow:  Parade of Pissed-off Losers on NBC Sports.  Thanks, Laffit!

For several weeks now, The Readers have been preparing to say farewell to Jason The Ridiculously Awesome Drum Major as Jason The Ridiculously Awesome Drum Major.  The annual position tryouts are May 8 on the campus of The Ohio State University, marking an end to a two-year term and a lifetime journey. 

Jason will move on.  I mean this in the most literal possible sense:  He has been accepted to an OSU study abroad program in Sydney, and will spend the summer being Ridiculously Awesome in another hemisphere entirely.  He is not packing his baton.  When the time comes, he will take it up once more as an alumni.

Tomorrow, and the next era of drum majoring of TBDBITL, will belong to the winner.  But you've asked for one last crack at Showing The Love, so for today, here's a selection of emails and posts gathered from... wherever it is you people gather when you're not here, I don't want to know.  Thanks to GoBucks!, LocalArtist, buckette, and the ever-lurking but ever-generous Audette The Reader for compiling these.

"I would consider myself extremely blessed if my own son turned out like Jason Stuckert.  I look up to him and I'm twice his age!"

-Austin's Dad

"I remember very well endlessly refreshing Blonde Champagne a year ago waiting to hear if we would have Our Jason with us for another year.  I never rooted so much for someone I'd never met in an event I never even knew existed until a few months before.  When Mary Beth finally updated with the good news, my whole family started screaming.  We knew it would be a lot of fun to follow Jason and TBDBITL for the season and it was."

-Rosslyn

"I've lived in central OH my whole life but have never been to a Skull Session before a football game, I just didn't want to deal with the traffic etc.  But then when Mary Beth started writing about Jason and this band I just had to go see this guy.  I'm so glad I did.  I took my kids.  We were all amazed.  He is a very special talent and I see what she sees."

-Navon The Reader

"I've been reading Mary Beth Ellis for a very long time.  The second I she began to write about this new topic of hers ("The Drum Major has a name, by the way.  It's Jason.")  it was clear that something truly special was going on.  He has led my very favorite author to new ground and for that I will always be grateful.  Two greats."

-mahalo

"Honestly I never cared about Ohio State all that much, but Jason Stuckert made me care.  His passion and creative joy matches that of our Fair Webmistress and from now on whenever I see that big 'O' logo or hear an Ohio State score on ESPN, I willl think fondly of him and TBDBITL."

-Orion

"April 1 will never be the same for me..."

-GottaZenyatta

"Probably my favorite mighty deed of Our Jason's is strutting to dot the i during Script Ohio on ice.  That's when I knew we we dealing with no mere mortal."

-Viola The Reader

-"I, for one, will deeply miss Blonde Champagne's new and forever twirling overlord."

-Haveros

"Mary Beth didn't go looking for Jason but she found him anyway.  We're all the better for it.  His hard work is a stellar inspiration and actually makes me think that, between him and MB, their generation isn't going to lead America straight down the craphole.  That's pretty much the best compliment I can give to two people I haven't met but think are terrific anyway."

-DaveyFromTexas

"His mama, his band, his University, his state, and Blonde Champagne Nation should be very, very proud of what The Formerly Young One has done.  I can't imagine this joint without him now."

-IoTheReader

"I really can't say how much it meant to The Readers that Jason stopped in every now and then to say hi.  That meant a great deal to us and it was always so exciting that he took time out of his busy life to do that.  I hope he keeps stopping in.  No matter who holds the position next Jason Stuckert will always be our Drum Major."

-langrish

"Like Mary Beth says, this is going to be a book about a marching band which really isn't a book about a marching band.  In the same way Our Jason is so much more than the DM to us.  He and the whole DM family mean a lot to all of us, and I'm honestly a little teary over knowing his time as the man out front is over."

-FlatOut

"The real-life person of Jason Stuckert and all the other people we've come to know and love here on Blonde Champagne has made me think twice before stereotyping or hating on a particular "sports enemy."  That's a lesson I can apply to other parts of life."   

-BelleNation

"What an honor it has been to have that man wearing the emblem of my alma mater that I love so much.  Thank you for representing us all so selflessly and well, Jason!"

-CarmenOhio

#TheOhioStateDrumMajorSTILLMakesMeFeelOld

-ParrotheadPete

This post is sponsored by advancing:

The retirement of Discovery and the centennial anniversary of the loss of Titanic were borne to me on images from NASA.com and the National Geographic Channel.  There was a bright blue sky and rusted, rotting pieces.  The sight of Discovery was bittersweet:  This was the workhorse of the fleet, the dependable eldest sister who ascended to the position of matriarch once her elder sisters—first Challenger, then Columbia—fell to Earth.  In both cases, when NASA returned to flight, it was Discovery who was first to the launchpad.

What delighted me about the images of Discovery soaring over Washington Monument and White House were the realization that NASA hadn’t done one damn thing to clean her up.  The silica tiles were scorched, the nose was dinged, the coated underbelly was streaked in the direction of flight.  F-you, says Discovery, I am a working woman and I will not alter myself for my closeup. 

Most people are used to seeing the orbiters in faraway shots on the launchpad, the cameras maintaining a respectful distance.  They seem immaculate.  They are not.  The tiles get gouged and the outer skin is worn.  They are scars, hard-earned.  And the parts of the ship that look smooth—these are covered with ridged silica blankets which  protect the upper body from the heat of re-entry.  The texture is what makes these orbiters real.  Like most things in life, what you think will be pristine and shining are, upon closer inspection, battered and worn and tired.  And… real.

Meanwhile, two and a half miles beneath the same Atlantic by which Discovery used to rest, there sits Titanic, which left its port gleaming and smooth and now, to us, unreal.  It has passed out of living memory.  All we know of its existence are the blueprints, the menus at auction, and grainy black and white pictures.  Her remains are dull, crumbling.  The only color available to Titanic are the occasional flashes of paint still clinging to the keel and the waving sea fluff which has attached to her remains, its bright tendrils waving like the feathers on the hats of the ladies who once strode upon her deck.   

I was a very little girl when the wreck of Titanic was found, just months before Challenger was lost a few latitudes to the south.  I remember the loss of one ship, but not the discovery of the other.  I do recall sitting on the floor, poring over the first images of the Titanic when they were published in National Geographic—murky and fuzzed, haunting and most certainly not high-def.  There were tiny graphical maps and the eerie dotted outline of a mystery ship which may have passed between Titanic and Californian, one which could have offered refuge but sailed silently on. 

Challenger, well... there was no blurring there.  And no mystery.  That was full color and real time.  There was no question of where it was and what went wrong.  We knew.  We didn’t learn.

But Challenger, along with Columbia, had something Titanic did not, which I suppose is part of what fascinates us about her.  Although lost on liftoff, she’d had her mission.  That was what Nick The NASA Poobah said about Columbia as I wept against him when we stood on the runway where she was to have returned:  She had her mission. 

They say the thrusters on Columbia burst wildly in her final moments, desperately attempting to correct the gyrations of a ship disintegrating in the awful burning atmosphere.  When Challenger broke apart, the solid rocket boosters sailed on, without ship, without direction.  And I am told that on Titanic, too, the engineers stayed below deck, the icy water creeping up their legs and chests, fighting the gravitational inclinations of the ship to keep it afloat as long as possible so that the passengers might have a chance to reach the lifeboats which were lowered, half-empty, into the icy sea. They fought, all of them, and Discovery honored the fighting of her sisters by leaving and returning beautifully, messily whole.

That’s what made them human, the products of humans; that’s what made them real.  None of these ships will ever rise into their natural elements ever again, but in Discovery, we can at least see the texture, the ridges, the dings.  The reality.

Most of us English majors are created with a certain Anglophilia baked within.  When we formally study the deployment of our own language, we tend to read a great deal from the culture which originated it, and a certain fondness, perhaps bred in self-defense, tends to follow.

So thanks to a near-lifetime of submersion in BritLit, a great deal of Top Gear consumption, and probably eight to twelve hundred too many Mary Poppins viewings in early childhood, I consider myself slightly more tuned in to English culture than your average American, most of whom, thanks to EPCOT, royal wedding media barfage, and the latest explosion in Pride and Prejudice chick-lit spawn, are pretty much under the impression that our progenitors to the East either spend their days strolling terraced estates on the arm of Colin Firth or passing Buckingham Palace on double-decker busses as Simon Cowell shrieks insults over a loudspeaker.  I therefore felt safe in reading Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch (the book about soccer, a sport with which I am familiar, not the celluloid horror about Drew Barrymore and Curt Schilling, an abomination with which I wish I were not.)

But apparently there's a bit more to soccer and modern life in England beyond knowing which end is the bonnet and which is the boot and what a "cup-tie" is, and I am left with this book in my hand, staring at these scattered bits of notebook paper which are in the process of becoming a manuscript of my own.  These are my notes at the moment. We need to talk.We have several daily conversations, the ripped-up parts of hotel pads and napkin edges and I, about what they want to say and how I want to say it and where the flugelhorns are supposed to go.  Lately we've had to let Fever Pitch in on the negotiations.

Here's the thing about writers when we read:  We can't enjoy it.  We're always stepped back from the page, shredding it the syllables apart.  Every single word we consume teaches us something, even if that lesson stands as "DO NOT EVER MASH WORDS TOGETHER IN THIS PARTICULAR MANNER."   Even when we supposedly read for fun, it's never fun.  It's work.  It's "What a nightmare of a sentence.  I wish I were dead" and "Oh sweet merciful heavens, adverb fail."  Occasionally it's "That's a damn fine verb choice" or "I hate you so much for making me care about the mating habits of flamingos like this."  When it sucks, we mentally file it away so that we know how not to do it and hurl the book into the library donation barrel abyss; when it's good, we stick it on a shelf and glower jealously for a while, then take it down every now and again for a re-read and deconstruction to figure out how the author figured it out, this tug of war with letter arrangement.

And what has Mr. Hornby taught me in Fever Pitch, after his High Fidelity (again, the original, literary unCusacked version) won a place on my shelf for its brilliant structure, hilarious asides, and brutally honest character development?  He has taught me what it must be like for people who don't know English to gaze upon the English language.

Hornby writes earnestly of "Bert Trautmann playing goal with a broken neck in '56" and "Tottenham's Double team in '61" and adds that "Everyone has a soft spot for Peters and Moore and Hurst and Brooking and the West Ham 'Academy', just as everyone loathes and despises Storey and Talbot and Adams and the whole idea and purpose of Arsenal."  And so on and so forth, for many, many paragraphs.

At one point, while discussing a superstitious ritual he and his friends developed, he mentions biting theSugar mouse in the wild. head off something called a "sugar mouse," then tossing it in the road.  This stopped me cold.  "Sugar mouse?"  WTF?  It was almost surely sort of candy treat, maybe like a Peep, but... these people eat something called "spotted dick," which is a custard.  I ran for the nearest Firefox browser. 

And thus was an otherwise effective chapter on the relationship between rituals and control deflated by the necessity of navigating through the usual Internet horrors one might expect when Googling photos using the word "sugar".

Thanks to context, I understand the larger point here, which is about life and sports and the terrible, glorious, telling intersection between the two, and when that point is clear, this book is a terrific one.  But because Hornby's editor didn't how know to tell him to STFU, in order to reach that point, I must first dig through Peters and Moore and Hurst and Brooking and the West Ham "Academy", and unless you know yooge amounts about European soccer, I pretty much lost you at Bert Trautmann, didn't I?

In grad school we discussed "function of the writing following the style," meaning that since Honrby's book is about a clenched-up obsessive, then it's effective for the writing to be maddeningly littered with stats and facts, names and dates.  It allows the reader to enter the mind of a person whose life is pretty much run by professional soccer, thus innately developing the effectiveness of the piece.  The musical equivalent is "text painting" or "word painting."  But, my people, I ask you:  When I inform you in a first-person piece that I am directionally impaired, do you really want to follow me down Glenway Avenue in Cincinnati, to Lawrence, to Bridgetown, back to Glenway, and over to Boudinot via Queen City before realizing that the mysteriously vanished Hair Cuttery I have in mind is in fact located in Virginia?  (You shan't be at all surprised to learn that yes, this actually happened.)

I don't need to know who Jimmy Husband is to appreciate this passage about how the emotional downside of fandom is balanced by the automatic common ground it grants:  "If you can walk into a school full of eight hundred boys, most of the older, all of them bigger, without feeling intimidated, simply because you have a spare Jimmy Husband in your blazer pocket, then it seems like a trade-off worth making."  That's intelligent, accessible writing.  An avalanche of non-essential details on who managed which match on which pitch, however-- you put down the book, gaze upwards, and begin hopefully scanning the skies for large and rapidly approaching meteors.

That is an impulse I do not want to create for my readers when I begin hurling them into this world of sousaphones and baton clinics.  I have an advantage on Hornby with this book of mine on The Ohio State University Marching Band-- I was once in the place of most of my potential readers:  "Well!  A marching band.  That's very nice.  I want pie."  His familiarity, however, has been assimilated and pressed into his being over decades, and he probably can't ever remember not knowing what the referee signal for off-sides is. 

Hornby, knotted in the ecstasy and turmoil of his fandom, can't see past his own Arsenal jersey; he must include clarification about which season yielded which center fielders, because it's so vitally important to him.  But in the process, he often fails to make it about what great literature is always about:  You.  Shakespeare doesn't stand today because people give two craps about what the shipping trade was like in Venice in 1597.  But you stand a good chance of seeing The Merchant of Venice performed somewhere in America in 2012 because everybody everywhere knows what it's like to experience mercy, negotiate cultural clashes, and fight through maddening games with love as the final object.  The Merchant of Venice isn't about Portia and Antonio and Shylock at all, then; it's about you.  You connect with it; you respond to it; and then you want your kids to attend a school which also demands that they read it.

I've already fallen into the same trap Hornby did, speaking the language of those only in my neighborhood to those who live across town, and I did so less than a year after I threw up my hands in one of many attempts to understand the in-culture lingo of OSUMB once I first started researching it without an Obi-Wan to steady my hand on the lightsaber. 

It happened this January, in a Jacksonville hotel after the Gator Bowl.  Two Ohio State fans saw me speaking with some members of the Band in the lobby, flattered me immensely by asking how many years I'd been a member of it, and then, once I issued a hasty correction, wanted to know if women were allowed to dot the i during Script Ohio.  Yes, I said, and had been for quite some time, and in fact some women did so this season.  Well, how does one get to dot the i?  It depends, I said, on seniority, rank, and how many ramps one has marched, and-- 

They stopped me.  "What's 'march a ramp'?"

There:  By lapsing into jargon and closed vocabulary, I'd made a beautiful, important, informing marching band moment just... a marching band moment.  They wanted grand tales of strutting down the field, cap plumes waving and fireworks bursting; I'd tossed the headless body of a sugar mouse into their laps.  I might well have been discussing East Mesopotamian textile production techniques.  I backed up right quick, but the thread of the conversation had frayed.

May that time be the last.  Meanwhile, if anybody needs to know anything about Bert Trautmann, I am... not your girl.

Did you ever thank another human being for doing a job well?  Not just "kthnxby" but one of these:  "I appreciate that, and you, and here's why."  If you did, you stirred the spirits of another human being.  You validated his or her work.  You affirmed a life's calling or you made the day at the cash register shorter.  You made him or her feel useful and competent and clever.  Because of that, you're not alone.

Maybe you've been responsible for placing a hand beneath another's as he carried this wearisome burden of being human, and you did it by brushing that part of the soul which responds to the eternal ethereal nature of art.  Doesn't matter how. You sang, plucked or blew one glorious note, you trailed beauty across the canvas, you spoke life into another's world with a single properly placed adjective, you snapped a photograph that made the subject think "Well, I'm not all that bad, am I?"  Because of that, you're not alone.

Oh, you're left brained?  Then you're the cake which made that icing of an adjective possible.  You're the grammar producing the understandable sentiment.  You're the marvelously, evenly lined bristles of the brush.  You're the structure, the ladder, the framework, the foundation.  You adjust the insurance policies, complete the boxes of the tax returns, square the corners of the TPS reports, and without you nobody can hear our poetry reading over the mad chaos of bouncing checks.  The rest of us totter about on your shoulders.  Because of that, you're not alone.

Or you're a parent.  This little life was held out to you and you opened your arms.  The little life got a runny nose and an attitude.  You braced your back against the wall at 3 AM and closed your eyes and didn't question, just pushed through.  Tangled hair and scattered heaps of Matchbox cars and vacations days given over to rivers of snot in some pediatrician's waiting room.  Sometimes, for all this, there is the wrenching backhand--far, far worse than any physical blow-- of sullen silence or "I hate you."  But it is the most important job any human being can take on.  And because of that, you are not alone.

Are you lost?  All these job interviews that's always that.  All these classes and nothing, nothing strikes at your heart, makes you fizz inside and say "For the rest of my life... this."  Or you're on a path which you thought was all the fizz, and now you're there and it's just syrupy, room temperature, and flat.  Or it that path is suddenly obscured by brick walls and brambles and not a single soft place to rest.  But this is not a cul de sac.  This is a highway, with exits, and tacky truck stops and the world's largest ball of twine.  And it is within your power to alter the route, or, at the very least, change the radio station to clear tones instead of staticy, muddled dreariness.  You have all you need, your fingertips on the dial, your hand on the wheel.  And because of that, you are not alone.

If you have ever, out of absolutely nowhere, tapped the text icon or clicked the "Message" menu or opened a new email to say something, anything, even just "Hi!" or "We haven't talked in too long" or "That thing... I forgive you, " then... oh, you are not alone.  You are not alone because you have reached across this great void, not just the physical or technical space which ever more separates us, and you have said, "I am saying this with a computer or a smartphone, but the human that is you, that is operating this device, I remember that you exist and I love you, miss you, honor you."  It's not a matter of skywriting or laser lights or the penthouse suite.  One of the dearest gifts my best friend ever gave me was to sit and braid my hair as I lay weak and in exhausted pain in the hospital.  It cost her five minutes, and zero dollars, and it made me well again inside.  One of the most cherished, most rescuing Facebook messages I ever got arrived in the middle of the night, as I baked Christmas cookies far from dawn, missing my father and my innocence.  And this is what it said:  "Hey."  It cost him two seconds, and zero dollars, and as we typed at one another about absolutely nothing it made me smile, touch my cheeks in wonder in the darkness. 

If you are of these, if you pick up that phone and type that name and hold out those arms, you are never, never alone.

Even when all the world is foil-wrapped and awash in thorn-clipped roses and you fear you are.

I say this although I gots me a perfectly functional husband who showers regularly, does the laundry, and permits a fair amount of figure skating exhibitions on the DVR.  He is an excellent Valentine.  It doesn't make Valentine's Day any less of a minefield of misery and high-wire angst.

It is the fault of the fake conversation heart.  For the want of a rival candy, Valentine's Day is a wreck of human misery, and such is the case whether you're married, single, or single-but-Facebook-status-yoked.  For in the season, unlike any other, once is presented with the anguish concerning choosing the correct brand of candy hearts for self-consumption.  Choose correctly, and one is rewarded with 60 crunchy calories of vividly tinted, delightfully balanced confection.  Choose unwisely, and the unfortunate soul is doomed to a mouthful of tactically unappealing sugar-mush with the aftertaste of drywall and bitter regret.

Correct

Incorrect

After such a year of intense learning and increased enlightenment on the arts and human nature, I anticipated that my hard-won wisdom would lead to an increased ability to correctly identify the proper form of heart despite new packaging and an increased array of imposters to choose from.  Alas-- I selected a purple heart, and rather than the veritable taste of violets, I instead consumed horror.

You win again, O pastel imposter, O darkness of the soul.

• There's an S Row within The Ohio State Univeristy Marching Band, and it has a Tiggles, and a Frank the Carnivore, and really a delightful sense of whimsy.
• Time passes in Jacksonville, too
• Turn the page, my dear

"Can you write 'Happy Birthday Sharkbait' on it?"

This, then, was where my MFA had led:  Standing in a Dairy Queen in Jacksonville, Florida, with the social leadership of S Row of The Ohio State University Marching Band.  A girl in my position (non-OSU student or alumni, non-Band member, non-tuition payment ability) doesn't go anywhere in this group without first receiving an invitation.   No invitation sporadically meant lunch consumed whilst hiding behind the nearest available stadium pillar because everyone else was quite understandably snug in their rows and I feared their mighty flugelhorns.  But tonight, I was invited. 

I was invited because after months and months of observation and conversation, cookie baking and hand shaking, some members of this tightly coiled group were receiving me into their social lives.  Sometimes these invitations consisted of several insistent texts from Frank The Carnivore, announcing that he and forty-five of his closest friends were in the hotel hot tub and I should come too.  Sometimes I was introduced to the occasional parent on game days ("Mom!  Come here!  This is the book lady!")   Sometimes I was--major step, enormous relationship moment--asked to attend row dinners.  Once I was winding my way to a bookstore with one group, met another row coming the other direction, and was author-jacked to a Caribbean restaurant. 

I'd driven to Jacksonville from Mobile, a nine hour journey I originally assumed would take maybe four.  I discovered this at 1 AM the day I left, this geographical reality that Florida panhandle was slightly longer than originally anticipated, and also, unlike Alabama, in the Eastern time zone.  There has not been so much weeping and cursing at a map since Hitler found out Twitter was down again.

The Band flew from Columbus to Florida, upon which busses unleashed them into a Marriott and where the hotel staff was astonished to discover that some 250 people simultaneously returning from a mulitmile parade might want to, I don't know, take a damn shower.  The water pressure in the entire hotel slowed to an ooze, and as I stared at the drip easing its way out of the bathtub faucet at a far slower pace than the almost-tropical sweat was trickling down my neck, it occurred to me that yes, this Band was a force to be reckoned with.

But now... now some were beginning to trust me.  Also I had a car.

This car ferried an ice cream cake for an S Row rookie known as Sharkbait, up and down A1A from the Dairy Queen to the Walgreen's across the street (Oh! We need candles!  And a lighter.  And plates!  Oh, and forks... and...) then back to the hotel, all part of an intricate multi-faceted surprise party plan involving a side door to the hotel, a Mexican restaurant, and the International Atomic Time Scale.  A year ago I was somewhat dimly aware that this thing called Script Ohio existed somewhere on an enemy's space-time-college football continuum; now, I was in Jacksonville, in Florida, having just wept upon seeing Ohio State's marching band exit the field for the final time, cramming candles onto an ice cream cake in the back seat of a Corolla with a person introduced to me as "Tiggles."

"You're welcome to be part of the singing horde, of course," she said as we darted up and down the hotel lawn, melting cake in tow, in search of a fabled hotel side door that, as it happened, did not, technically, exist.  I paused, savored, and kept door-hunting. 

When the lights went down in the hotel lobby,  I hovered in the background, camera phone at the ready because the batteries on my point and shoot were long since exhausted; he might want evidence of the moment once the pink gel HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHARKBAIT had been consumed.  And yes, Sharkbait was surprised, but no more surprised than those of us who thought the trick candles in a low-ceilinged, closed-in room were a really hilarious idea. 

As the candles sat smoldering in a hastily produced glass of water, I distributed hugs and faded back out of the smoky lobby.  They were a force to be reckoned with.  A beautiful, brassy, once in a lifetime, fire-hazardous force.

“What is that little white building?”  visitors on tour busses would ask as I attempted to divert their attention to the Saturn V Center in the distance.

“Storage,” I’d say, and quickly divert the discussion to the wonders of guidance and telemetry rings.

Last year, there was snow and silence.  This year, there is Kyle.

Kyle is in C Row.  I spoke with him when I was in Jacksonville with The Ohio State University Marching Band on the day of the Gator Bowl.  We boarded a bus; we sat in tension. 

It was the last day. 

Nobody mentioned the fact this was the last day. 

But it was the last day.

I made my way to the center of the bus to sit with Wonder Pam, The Miracle PT. (More on Wonder Pam later.  Wonder Pam should have a book on her own merits.)  As she and I compared notes on the highly dubious marvels of college teaching, members of C Row sitting across the aisle, one of whom was entering the education field, listened with attuned expressions, the slipping moments momentarily replaced with a professional wailing wall on the evils of group projects.  The first stop was a rehearsal-- the final rehearsal. 

Nobody mentioned the fact this was the final rehearsal. 

But it was the final rehearsal. 

Out the windows, Jacksonville and the minutes rolled past. 

At one point I pulled out a notebook to record the shocking fact that Jacksonville and the minutes were rolling past. Kyle, struggling with reception on his phone, saw this happen, and delivered a compliment that only writers and sad women like to hear.

“I like your notebook.”

It was a tiny little memo pad, built for speed and chicken scratch, and he revealed that he, too, was from Cincinnati. That he worked at Kings Island in the summer months. That he liked to write music.  That once he’d lost an entire notebook full of ideas to a flood in the amusement park.   That—oh, he was finally getting a signal, and he needed to get his jam on before rehearsal.  Were we friends on Facebook?  We were not friends on Facebook.  Let's be friends on Facebook!

I returned my attention to the window, to the passing time and the palm trees, and thought again of the plain white building by the side of the road that once stood in this same state, the one that shouldn’t have been there, the one nobody really planned for. 

Sometimes what you see out the window comes without warning.  Sometimes it slides into view despite your best efforts to hold it back.  But what keeps you in your seat is Kyle— the unexpected smile, the light in the eyes when music bends into the conversation, the improvised staff in the wide lines of a notebook.  The turning of one page, the clean, wide field of another.

After standing beneath the seats of Block O for the third quarter of the OSU-Wisconsin game instead of prowling the sidelines by the Band as planned, listening to the thudding echo of the percussion, feeling the concrete heave, and watching the metal brackets bend, I am more apt to learn from the moment I'm experiencing instead of fretting over where I "should" be.

After watching a fifty-seven year old haul a mellophone up and down the hashmarks of a football field with people younger than her grandchildren, I am rethinking what my later years will be like.  They will be stompy.

After hearing a horn player shout my name from across the field just to administer a hello wave, I am reconsidering what the bullies who made my grade school years hell really knew, if they ever knew anything.

After seeing a nineteen year old's entire body heave with sobs after he was cut from the Band, I am grateful I'm not nineteen anymore.

After pouring a single glass of wine in four mintues into an empty digestive system, I am not doing that anymore.

After watching a twenty-one year old Drum Major who had been training for the position half his life walk quietly off the field at the end of his term, I am reconsidering my knowledge of heartbreak.

After watching women smaller, shorter, and slighter than I am chairstep in perfect time with their male counterparts, I am proud to have a uterus. 

After a year of their rituals, their sorrows, their surprises, their anger, their support, their secrets, and their music, I am... fuller.

And I am going to to my best to give them the words their lyricless world deserves.