If you're ever flying through Minneapolis and have a 6-hour mid-day layover, I can hook you up with a guy who just might take you geocaching if you buy him a pulled-pork lunch.

Until that happens, maybe you can come out with me (and/or whoever I'm sponging off of for GPS access). I went out geocaching today, and Justin wrote up a thing about it here.

In a related note: I realized that I could stand to own some water-proof gloves.

A week-ago Monday, as I was entering a supermarket, a random dude wearing a St. Louis Cardinals cap was walking out. I was wearing my Detroit Tigers cap.

He says to me, "See you in the World Series!"

I say, "Looking forward to it!"

This episode was just after the Tigers defeated the Yankees in 4 games and before they started playing the A’s. St. Louis was playing, um... someone. It was presumptive on Random Dude’s part to confidently declare the World Series participants even before the LCSes began. But at least he was clairvoyant about the Tigers. :)

The Tigers defeated the A’s this weekend in the American League Championship Series to advance to the World Series. The Tigers haven’t been there since 1984; the last time they were in the playoffs was 1987; they haven’t had an above-.500 winning percentage since 1993.

AND NOW THEY’RE IN THE WORLD SERIES

If you need me, I’ll be at the zoo tending to my family. I am now a monkey’s uncle.

My house is a Sunday football house, and I have an open door policy.

You wanna watch football? You come to my house. It’s not the fanciest TV, but it’s about the football, not the gear. It’s football we watch, football we talk about, or a football we throw around in the back yard. Lesser moments of life are allowed but not necessarily encouraged. We may exchange pleasantries as you arrive, but after I point out the chips-and-salsa and give directions to the bathroom, we’re back to our pre-ordained football focus.

Many times, it’s just I and the remote. And this can be fine, especially on the days when all I want to do is spend a rainy autumn afternoon falling into and out of sleep while the football plays on.

Today was no such day.

First of all, it wasn’t raining.

Second of all, it was a full house. Lunch with house guests expanded to include a fellow fantasy football player. Husband-temporarily-without-wife showed up after lunch. Friends-with-cool-parents came towards the end of the first half of the late games to re-energize the place. The 2- and almost-4-year-old kids laughed and had fun and kept everyone on their best and sweetest behaviors.

Folks slowly filed out over time, getting on with their lives. Not everyone came for the football, and that was ok. One hung back while the place went silent, and we played guitars. (I should play my guitar more, seeing as how I love it so much when I’m playing. But that’s another post.)

I had a couple invites for other goings-on in the evening, but I was bushed. I was just all people-ed out. I guess I’m one of those that needs a little time away from the crowds.

And this is a perfect segue to today’s required reading: Caring for your Inner Introvert by Jonathan Rauch of The Atlantic online. Read it. Know me.

And then when you come to my house for football, and you think I may have gone missing midway through the third quarter, you’ll know why. But don’t worry, I’ll be back. If there’s one thing stronger than my periodic need to find a quiet room, it’s my desire to see the end of the game.

Did anyone else witness the can of whoop-buttocks that the Tigers opened up on the Yankees last night? How sweet was that?

And a cool thing ESPN did, I thought: they invited Ernie Harwell to join the announcers for a few innings. Harwell left after the third inning, but it was great. They let him reminisce a little about past Tigers teams (playoffs in 1987, 1984, 1972, 1968), and then he starts mentioning very specific stats about a particular Tiger team from 1921 or some such date. Good times.

I love football.

No, really. It’s a game I really love. I’ve skipped church for it; I’ve cut phone calls short because of it. I once held back my bladder's natural urges for nearly an entire half because the game was not worth leaving (but that was before TiVo).

I never played it, though, except in backyards. And I still have a hard time with some of the football-ese. But the grit, determination, and perseverance it requires to win a game in the NFL or even in the college ranks is amazing. You can’t just show up and win. You need to prepare, practice, and execute. <donald-miller-mode>It’s a metaphor for life, really.</donald-miller-mode>

Because of my admiration for this game, I can instantly connect with any other football geek/fantasy football player if ever our paths meet. Start with the ice breaker, “So who went first in your draft?” and I’ve got a friend for life.

Sometimes, though, even I can’t take some of the goofiness. The rest of this is an open letter to that guy at the pub who was constantly using first person plural pronouns when referring to the Seahawks:

Hey, dude. You’re a pretty excited fan, huh? Yeah, the team looks pretty good this year. Hope those receivers can hold up. Yup, the first game is at Detroit. I’ll put 5 bucks on that, sure, even though the Lions are starting Kitna.

Oh, what was that? Did you say “we”? “We drove down and scored...”? “We pulled that game out at the end...”? “And when we went to the Super Bowl...”?

You own season tickets, huh? Oh, right... your dad does... riiiiight. So I can see that this game is important to you. You get excited, you cheer the team on, you rejoice when they score, you complain when something goes wrong. Cool. Do that. All that.

But, dude... Puh-lease. You don’t play. You don't coach. You don't clean out the lockers of the cut players. You don’t get tackled, you don’t commit penalties, you don’t score touchdowns. You watch. You. Don’t. Play.

Do not think for one minute that you can assume that you’re part of the team. The city doesn’t own the team, your daddy doesn’t own the team, and you don’t know any of the players. Hasselbeck does not send you Christmas cards. You don’t go to church with Alexander. You didn’t even send flowers to Jackson after his last surgery. You are an outsider. A stranger. They don’t know you. And if it weren’t for your credit card, the team wouldn’t care about you.
 
They are them. You are you. “We” is a term best left to Green Bay Packer fan. If you continue to use it injudiciously, the next thing you know you’re going to blame the refs, the other team, and/or the other team’s public address announcer for the crummy things that your stinky team commits on or off the field.

So here’s your charge in a nutshell: Don’t act like you’re from Wisconsin.

And if you are, Bummer. We all have our own cross to bear.

We performed our fantasy football league’s double-blind draft order picking the other day. Out of 10 teams in the league, I pick last. Yippee.

We even shot video (3 minutes, 3.33MB, wmv) so that we could show that it was all on the up-and-up.

I promise not to turn this blog in to a “Why my fantasy football team stinks this year” blog. No, I wouldn't do that to my (now 3!) readers.

This year, it’ll be a “Why my fantasy football team crushes everyone else who thinks they can beat me” blog. Yeah, that’s what it’ll be.

An ideal water experience for me is when I find myself sitting on a quiet, unoccupied Lake Michigan beach listening to the water snap and fizz as the sun sets over the waves. Or standing on a bluff at West Beach on Whidbey Island while a winter storm comes ashore--the water slams the rocks down below with thundering crashes, and the spray fills the air and dampens everything you thought was still dry.

The calm and power of the sea... both things I crave.

From shore.

I’m not really a water guy. Never have been. I rarely hang out on your typical beach. I’m not even sure I could swim if I had to. It’s not something I learned to do well and/or at all. (Reason #17 why I’m suited to computers. But I digress.)

The weather this past Sunday afternoon was perfect: Sunny, high clouds (if any), 72 degrees. After the Sunday morning service (Today’s you-should-know-this-already-but-you-always-need-a-reminder message is from $verse(Phil 2:3-10): It’s not about you; It’s about Jesus), Fosteronomo and family invited me to meet them at Lake Whatcom for a sail.

After Cap’n Dan’s wife and kids got some sailing time in, they headed home for naps and left two old (are we that old?) friends to keel, come about, tack, and move that thing... and the other thing. We'd been out 30 minutes or so when he placed his own life in my hands by giving me the helm. I must have been fiddling with the rudder and stuff (he's the sailing genius, not me) for next 20-ish minutes. I even maneuvered us hard alee a couple times. “Jibing would be our best chance of getting wet,” said Dan, lounging at the bow.

We didn’t have too much wind, and that suited me just fine. Being out in the middle of the water in what amounts to a shallow, masted, fiberglass bathtub is a far, far, different experience than sitting on dry ground near the water’s edge. And I don’t mean that in a negative way... it really is a great thing. What a kick. I can see why people like it.

Justin, Tim, Ben and I did our first ever international disc golf tour on Saturday. It made for a long day, but, as the kids used to say, it was way cool.

We left before 8 am. On a Saturday. That’s all I’ll say about that.

Our first stop was the Little Mountain 9-hole course at Queen Elizabeth Park in Vancouver, B.C. Justin won the course by 2 strokes; Ben held on to Tim’s belt as Tim fished his disc out of the duck pond. I was doing well until the 8th hole when I threw the disc into the only real hazard on that hole—a 10-foot wide wall of cedar bushes that I nailed smack in the middle. For the rest of the day I was extracting my disc from trees.

The next stop was Tim Horton’s. They didn’t take Visa. Weird.

The next disc golf stop was Passive Park in Langley, B.C. It’s an 18-hole course with lots of brush, thick trees, and blind lines of sight. Justin and I tried this course a few weeks ago, and I lost my (then only) disc on the 14th hole. We all put $5 on the line for this tour, and it was obviously all Justin’s by the end of this round.

Next stop: U.S.-Canada Border. The digital read-out on the approach to the Pacific Highway truck crossing estimated the wait time at 50 minutes. Peach Arch’s estimate was 120 minutes, so we took our chances. Our actual time was closer to 75 minutes. Sure, it was a nice and sunny day and everything, but seriously, don’t any Canadians ever want to stay in Canada? (Jacquie says, “we are a people with cabin fever at all times.” I guess that explains that... now what about those funny accents?)

The last stop on our tour was our ‘home’ 9-hole course at Cornwall Park in Bellingham. Tim confidently says, “This is my home” just before launching his first disc 10 feet into a tree. “Welcome home,” I say. Both Ben and Justin parred this course; I stopped keeping track of my overall score, except that I knew that I had last place wrapped up midway through Passive Park.

Final Finish: Justin (+6), Tim (+10), Ben (+16), James (+22).

Yep, I got my disc handed to me. Despite that, I’m hooked. See you on the course.

I live in Washington, but I’m from Michigan. I do often enjoy games for the sake of the game, but I will always root for, and have strong support for, the Tigers, Lions, Red Wings, and Wolverines. (In my mind, pro basketball stinks.)

As a Tigers fan, this year is much more fun, seeing has how they can win and everything.

I went to see the game Friday with one friend’s church group (Tigers win!) and then again Saturday with another friend’s church group (Tigers win again!). I even bought a cap for the second game. Being tired, slightly under the weather, and running out of church groups, I passed on the third game (when the Mariners finally win). Now, at the All-Star break, the Tigers have the best record in baseball.

This year’s success is exciting, sure, but it’s hard to forget the recent past: 12 consecutive years with a losing record; poor players; bad management. Everyone thought that when Mike Illich (the Little Ceaser’s Pizza guy who also owns the Red Wings) bought the team from Tom Monahan (the Dominoes Pizza guy) Tiger Stadium would be saved and the Tigers would return to their 1945/1968/1984/1987 glory. Eventually, the Tigers moved to Comerica Park and routinely lost games. And Tiger Stadium is now slated for demolition.

I have some very strong memories about the Tigers from when I was young. My first memories were from 1983 when the Tigers made a run at the end of the season, but finished in second place in the Eastern Division. That late-season streak foreshadowed the events of the following year.

It was 1984, and I was in Mrs. Greene’s fourth grade class. Those were the days of Chet Lemon, Sweet Lou Whitaker, Alan Trammell, Lance Parish, Kirk Gibson, Darrell Evans, Larry Herndon, Tom Brookens, Dave Bergman, Jack Morris, Dan Petry, Milt Wilcox, Willie (Guillermo) Hernandez, Roger Craig, Sparky Anderson. The list goes on, but these are the names I remember. :) George Kell and Al Kaline did the TV play-by-play and color commentary, respectively; Ernie Harwell and Paul Carey were the radio guys. Ernie Harwell says, "There's a looong fly ball, deep... and that ball is.... looooooong gone!"

The Tigers started 35-5 (and then departed Seattle 35-8). Jack Morris threw a no-hitter on national television against the White Sox the first Saturday of the season. In about the 6th or 7th inning, he walked the bases loaded, got a 1-2-3 double play, and then a strikeout (or something) to close that inning. I was pumped.

The Tigers owned the Eastern Division that year--they pretty much had it wrapped up by the All-Star break and clinched in early September (I think). They beat the Royals in the ALCS to win the American League Pennant, and then went on to win the World Series by defeating the Padres in 5 games, losing only the second game.  Alan Trammell was awarded the World Series MVP.

That was also the first year I went to see a Tigers game in person. Much of my mom’s extended family banded together to go see a game August 20, 1984. I saved that ticket stub for-stinkin’-ever. Jack Morris was the starting pitcher, and the Tigers totally smoked the Oakland A’s 14-1 (the A’s only run coming on a wild pitch). We sat in the upper deck at Tigers Stadium along the third base line looking at left field. At one point, there were 3 waves circulating the upper deck at once.

More random memories about the event: We caravanned from Ionia to Detroit and stopped to eat in Brighton. As I recall, that was also when McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets was a new product. I think I got a 6-piece.

 [update 12:10 pm: fixed spelling. Sorry, Larry!]