Carolina continued to win last weekend against Notre Dame, but this time they won amid two controversial calls. The Brooks Foster overturned reception actually was a reception as the field officials initially called. The replay officials did not look at any angles that you cannot see in this video, which clearly shows Foster putting down two feet before the ground caused the fumble.
I cannot understand how the replay officials called this an incomplete pass. If you do, tell me so I will stop shaking when I watch it. The subsequent Irish drive and second bunchy-underwear review would not have happened if they got Foster's catch right.
Notre Dame receiver Michael Floyd fumbled the ball before he touched the ground because a Tar Heel was underneath him when he fell on his back. This was also evident from a highlight video; click on the game highlights feature. You will have to pause the video at the point of the fumble to convince yourself that Floyd was not down.
Go Tar Heels. Beat Wahoos.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Knock knock
My boys arrived two weeks later than I predicted, but they arrived. Say hello to the No. 22 Carolina Tar Heels. Say what's up to all-time NCAA career return yards leader Brandon Tate. Say hola to Bruce Carter, who blocked four consecutive punts against Miami and ranked Connecticut. Take a look at a defensive secondary that leads the NCAA in interceptions and a Shaun Draughn running game that balances the most talented receiving trio in the nation. Heed our three-headed quarterback that has proven perseverance in a time of doubt. Beware our sense of humor . . .
Knock knock.
Who's there?
The bell.
We've been waiting for you to call again. We're here.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
The bell.
We've been waiting for you to call again. We're here.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Two stories of a grain
I struggled to eat my dinner as a 6-year-old. I didn't like vegetables, and Looney Tunes distracted me a room and a half away. I didn't sit on my butt, preferring instead to fold my legs underneath a restless, skinny body. I took several trips to the bathroom, but I doubt I peed each time.
I anxiously awaited a call from athletic Patrick, gorgeous Lindsay, dorky Doug or even punk Nick from across the street. He took MC Hammer dance classes. Even as 6-year-olds we knew that was a plea for attention.
"Come out and play baseball," the caller would say, and I'd ask my parents if I could without waiting for an answer. Off I went to smack a tennis ball around a suburban backyard until one of us got pissed off enough to call it off.
"Go home!" Doug would say after Nick knocked off his spectacles. We would scatter back to our parents and anxiously await the next night's call to action.
____________________________________________________________________
I got home last night after a long week of work. I had plenty of cleaning to do around the house since my parents would arrive in a few days. I couldn't focus on the task at hand. I browsed Internet news and read a random page from The Catcher in the Rye. I took a shower. I heard my phone buzzing in my bedroom while I dried myself. It was a voicemail from Ryan. He wanted to talk football and drink with the boys.
I called Daniel. He told me he was already throwing a football at the field. I left the house 30 seconds later and sped to campus.
We threw until Daniel and Ryan wore sweat stains and I messed up my pants. Then it was off to Franklin Street for sports, girl and family talk over $2 well drinks at Carolina Coffee Shop.
"Let's go home," I said a little after 1 a.m. We went back to our places and anxiously awaited the next day's festivities: family, hot dogs, beer and Carolina vs. Connecticut on a sunny, crisp October Saturday.
I anxiously awaited a call from athletic Patrick, gorgeous Lindsay, dorky Doug or even punk Nick from across the street. He took MC Hammer dance classes. Even as 6-year-olds we knew that was a plea for attention.
"Come out and play baseball," the caller would say, and I'd ask my parents if I could without waiting for an answer. Off I went to smack a tennis ball around a suburban backyard until one of us got pissed off enough to call it off.
"Go home!" Doug would say after Nick knocked off his spectacles. We would scatter back to our parents and anxiously await the next night's call to action.
____________________________________________________________________
I got home last night after a long week of work. I had plenty of cleaning to do around the house since my parents would arrive in a few days. I couldn't focus on the task at hand. I browsed Internet news and read a random page from The Catcher in the Rye. I took a shower. I heard my phone buzzing in my bedroom while I dried myself. It was a voicemail from Ryan. He wanted to talk football and drink with the boys.
I called Daniel. He told me he was already throwing a football at the field. I left the house 30 seconds later and sped to campus.
We threw until Daniel and Ryan wore sweat stains and I messed up my pants. Then it was off to Franklin Street for sports, girl and family talk over $2 well drinks at Carolina Coffee Shop.
"Let's go home," I said a little after 1 a.m. We went back to our places and anxiously awaited the next day's festivities: family, hot dogs, beer and Carolina vs. Connecticut on a sunny, crisp October Saturday.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Routine physical
The Old North State requires all its public servants, including me, to pass a physical examination. This initiation should not worry a healthy person like me. I brush, floss and rinse with Listerine. I apply Neosporin to razor lacerations. I drink in moderation. I eat what is convenient. I skip staircase steps with my left leg to keep it as bulky as my right. I once (or thrice) waxed my overgrown eyebrows. I used to benchpress my body weight.
My appearance at work does not represent this healthy lifestyle. I am usually hungry. My ever-present baseball cap is left at home to expose thinning hair to adolescent masses. My tie hangs loose from an undone button. Dry erase marker powder discolors my hands and shirt, smudges my face and darkens my eyes. I am a business-casual soldier of the trenches who fights the enemy with inky knowledge. From one of these daily battles, I arrived at the doctor's office 10 minutes late.
"Are you stressed?" my new doctor asked me.
"No," I whispered. "I love my new job. You should have seen the last one I had." The week's laryngitis had reduced my voice to a car-start wheeze, the kind that suddenly alternates between inefficiently soft and offensively loud without apology.
"Are you a smoker?" he asked.
"I've had one cigarette my whole life," I mustered.
"Was it big and nasty?" he asked.
"It was Black and Mild," I said. "I swear the pack said mild."
"You look like a coal miner," he said.
He looked like a Duke doctor, but I didn't say anything.
My appearance at work does not represent this healthy lifestyle. I am usually hungry. My ever-present baseball cap is left at home to expose thinning hair to adolescent masses. My tie hangs loose from an undone button. Dry erase marker powder discolors my hands and shirt, smudges my face and darkens my eyes. I am a business-casual soldier of the trenches who fights the enemy with inky knowledge. From one of these daily battles, I arrived at the doctor's office 10 minutes late.
"Are you stressed?" my new doctor asked me.
"No," I whispered. "I love my new job. You should have seen the last one I had." The week's laryngitis had reduced my voice to a car-start wheeze, the kind that suddenly alternates between inefficiently soft and offensively loud without apology.
"Are you a smoker?" he asked.
"I've had one cigarette my whole life," I mustered.
"Was it big and nasty?" he asked.
"It was Black and Mild," I said. "I swear the pack said mild."
"You look like a coal miner," he said.
He looked like a Duke doctor, but I didn't say anything.
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