American Pentathlon

With the London Olympics underway, the time's arrived to send our sportsmen and sportswomen into pitched battle and bring the hardware back to the good ol' U.S. of A.  Now that Baseball and Softball have been swift-kicked out of the Olympics, the better to avoid all that spittin' and cussin', that's at least thirty well-trained athletes, plus a couple of designated hitters, who won't get to hang a shiny, gold object on the moosehead over their fireplace.  As Americans, you and me and Ethel, we desperately need a new sport to dominate so we can once again feel good about our drive-through cheese fries.

We at My Two Innings have considered various possibilities for a new Olympic competition at a recent offsite retreat.  We have brainstormed, conceptualized, and imagineered.  We have used Kaizen techniques and Powerpoint slides.  And flipcharts.  Don't ever forget the flipcharts.  We have come up with ideas and suggestions and thought about them for about eight minutes, tops.  We have tested the final recommendation with our focus group, and she agrees with us.

The new Olympic sport: American Pentathlon.  Five days, five events:

• Day 1: Punt.
• Day 2: Pass.
• Day 3: Kick.
• Day 4: Home Run Derby.
• Day 5: NASCAR.

Brilliant, right?

I hear what you're saying: the stodgy, old-guard Europeans may balk at this innovation.  But never forget, my friends, we have the U.S. Dollar, God, and Liberty on our side.  And the Penske racing team.

I think you'll agree, it's imperative that we get American Pentathlon approved by the IOC as an Olympic sport in time for the 2020 Summer Games.  A strong proposal and a few key bribes should do it.  We can vote in one of their favorite sports at the same time: Rescuing Greece.

It's the least we can do in the Olympic Spirit.

Ghost Racers of the Ninja Apocalypse

That distinctive screaming, whirring, movie-sound-effects noise filling the air this weekend emanates from the Milwaukee Mile at State Fair Park, where the Milwaukee 225 IndyCar Series race is being run. It's kind of cool, actually, and so is the knowledge that it will go away later today.

Running errands yesterday in The Silver Zloty -- there was an old radio ad in which a happy-go-lucky doofus said, "We were just looking for some throw pillows for the loveseat in the breezeway," and my noble quest was about that important -- I meandered up National Avenue in West Allis, within livestock-sniffing distance of the State Fairgrounds, and found myself in sudden peril, chased by a pack of black-hooded ninjas on black racing bikes holding small, laser-guided handweapons, their black helmets of the latest curved design concealing their eyes as they bore down on me with extreme intent, as if in the opening sequence of a Japanese action comic. No? Well, that's what it sounded like yesterday in the vicinity of the Milwaukee Mile.

The funny part is, I was listening to golf on the car radio while being chased by the invisible ninjas. Sportscaster Sean McDonough hosted ESPN Radio's coverage of the U.S. Open from Congressional Country Club, at which young Jedi knight Rory McIlroy seeks to redeem himself in the eyes of the August Master. At the time, it seemed like a better listening option than weekend infomercials for living trusts.

Now, I've been known to give the radio medium its due. Baseball on the radio is a continuing joy. I've listened to Matt LePay's countless calls of "Touchdown, Wisconsin!" on Saturday afternoons (probably while shopping for curtain rods). I've listened to the Indy 500 on the radio in fascinated amazement at the tight broadcast production. I've even been involved in offbeat radio sports in a small way myself; back in the day, for example, I wore a highly attractive orange life preserver in a small powerboat as the remote engineer for college radio broadcasts of crew races, hanging on for dear life. (Pro tip: position yourself and your puffy vest as a noise baffle between the guy with the microphone and the outboard motor. Pro tip 2: if he falls overboard, immediately yell, "Let go of the mike!")

But, it's hard to do golf on the radio. Exactly how fascinating can the basic arithmetic of the leaderboard possibly be? How many times can McDonough & Co. describe Phil Mickelson's booming, errant drives into the next zip code and his wedge shots to 18 inches from 85 feet, and sound surprised? How critical is it whether McIlroy's proficient game stacks up to that of Tiger Woods, whose absence looms over this tournament like a ghostly apparition? Why do golf announcers whisper during the putts when they're probably sitting in a studio in Bristol, watching on the big screen like everyone else?

Yet on this day, the broadcast team provided an informative, workmanlike depiction of the sights and action from Congressional, never letting the audience wonder for a moment what Mickelson or McIlroy or their caddies might be thinking -- it seems that, according to all golf announcers throughout history, all pro golfers have "the courage of champions" -- as I sped through West Allis intersections and took hard corners trying to shake the racing ninjas in hot pursuit.

It suddenly occurred to me that I could slow down; I was not in mortal peril. The ninjas meant me no harm. It was merely Tiger and his entourage, trying to get close enough to The Silver Zloty to hear the latest updates on the leaderboard.

Goin' to Indiana in My Mind

Larry Bird and Reggie Miller aside, I don't really get the point of Indiana. Ur-Hoosier Bobby Knight registers lower on the Wait Scale of Admirable Americans than geeks in chemistry labs. Tom Crean, Knight's latest successor as Chief Chairthrower at IU, should never have left Marquette. Peyton Manning's a great quarterback, but he's not really a son of the state. For that matter, the entire Colts franchise isn't really of the state. Once I had a job interview in East Chicago, Indiana; thirty years later, I can't remember if they turned me down or if I ran away screaming.

In fairness, Indiana has Notre Dame, as well as two Big 10 universities and a school that's actually called Oo-ie-poo-ie. The price for diesel fuel is lower in Indiana than in Illinois. The phrase "Gary, Indiana" has a lovely, trochaic meter; it's even musical, you might say. Breaking Away (1979) is a fine little coming-of-age movie depicting the aimlessness of four Indiana high school buddies. My point is this: weren't the four of them all trying to break away?

Some may say I don't know the real Indiana because I never saw the movie Hoosiers (1986). What I do know about Hoosiers is that former Vice President Dan Quayle is one in real life. I rest my case!

Once a year, however, my fatuously judgmental attitude toward the Hoosier State, like a muddy snowbank along I-90/I-94, melts away. Apparently, I care a bit more than it's cool to admit about a certain little annual road rally.

I almost missed it this year. For some reason, I thought the Indianapolis 500 was on Monday (Memorial Day) instead of Sunday. I was tooling around town in The Silver Zloty, aimlessly punching car radio buttons, and came across a radio broadcast of the race. Although I'd missed "Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines!", the classic cry to start each year's race, I was tuned in from Lap 83 onward.

The radio announcers were great! Their crisp call of the race was as colorful and exciting as any sports broadcast that I've heard; I was able to visualize the race clearly. Naturally, I spent the rest of my errand run curbing the instinct to perform lane changes Mario Andretti-style!

Kudos to the radio team, and especially to the audio and technical directors; from the perfect mix of screaming engines and crowd noise to the seamless segues among the several enthusiastic announcers, the whole production was terrific. Their impeccable teamwork would have won applause from the finest pit crew. Listening, I once again fell in love with radio as a sports broadcast medium and the Indianapolis 500 as an annual sports tradition. I'm hopeful both will survive long into the future.

Whoops, hold on -- INCOMIIIIIIIIING!!! [KL-KLUNK!] DAMMIT, COACH!!!