Hardtbreaking

I have been beyond lucky to attend pretty much every sporting event I could've ever hoped for.

Ok, I have not been to Wimbledon.

Or the Kentucky Derby.

Or the Masters.

But aside from that I am good.

Very good, thanks.

Olympics.

Super Bowls.

World Series.

All-Star Games.

Been there.

Done that.

And I would gladly do that again.

More than anything, the thing I love about sports is that fact that you never know.

And to see it in person.

There is nothing like it.

I’ve been asked several times to name THE favorite event I’ve been to as a spectator.

And that’s not an easy question.

But for me it is a pretty easy answer.

It’s the Daytona 500.

Actually, the 1998 Daytona 500.

To be exact.

Now I didn’t grow up a big racing fan.

Not a racing fan at all.

Sure I knew who Richard Petty was.

And I went to college with a great guy named Jeff Gordon.

Not the racer.

And I always thought Lake Speed was a cool name for a driver.

But in 1995, when I was assigned to cover motor sports, full-time, I knew pretty much nothing about cars.

After all, I’m a Jewish guy from LA.

Who can’t change his own oil.

But since that’s what my boss wanted me to do.

Dag-gummit, that’s what I’m going to do.

I’m good like dat.

Seven years later, I was still covering NASCAR.

And loving it.

Really.

By that point, I had been to about 20 tracks around the country.

Darlington to Dover.

Rockingham to Talladega.

Of course, I didn’t tell them I was Jewish.

Duh.

But getting back to the Daytona 500.

In 1996, I attended the event for the first time.

With about 200,000 others.

That’s nearly five times the population of Kannapolis, North Carolina.

I went back again the next year.

Actually the next five years.

But 1998 was something special.

It was the 50th season of NASCAR.

The 40th Daytona 500.

And the 20th attempt by The Great Dale Earnhardt to win The Great American Race.

The Kannapolis native entered that year 0-for-19.

Now Dale Earnhardt was no ordinary race car driver.

He was “The Intimidator.”

He could see the air move around him.

Or so they said.

By 1998, he had seven NASCAR Championships.

Tied for the most with Petty, “The King.”

But unlike “The King”, who had seven Daytona 500 victories.

“The Intimidator” had never won the sport’s biggest race.

Sure Earnhardt had enjoyed plenty of success in Daytona.

With an amazing 30 wins on that track.

But exactly none of them came in the Daytona 500.

NASCAR’s Super Bowl.

So when Earnhardt, driving his #3 car, crossed the finish line before anyone in 1998, it was a big deal.

A big deal for him.

And his team.

And his millions of fans.

And the millions of racing fans who couldn’t stand him.

But most of all, it was a big deal for the sport.

And as he drove down pit road, heading towards victory lane for the first time as a Daytona 500 champ, he was greeted.

Greeted by the fans who loved him.

Greeted by the fans who hated him.

And greeted by every single member of every single pit crew.

That’s something that just doesn’t happen.

The people, who had been trying to intimidate the Intimidator, were paying their respects.

To a man who had changed their sport.

And their life.

Now I’ve always loved the exchange of handshakes at the end of a hockey playoff series.

But even that has become a little cliche.

And somewhat forced.

But in 1998, when hundreds of men, representing 43 teams, created a human red carpet.

For a man they had always battled.

And sometimes didn’t like.

It was really special.

And really unexpected.

It’s why we watch sports.

And to be standing on that asphalt road, as it was happening, was a moment I will never forget.

As I will never forget being on that same asphalt road exactly three years and three days later.

The 2001 Daytona 500.

That is a race nobody in NASCAR will ever forget.

That is the day the music died.

The day Dale Earnhardt died.

It happened on the last turn of the last lap of what turned out to be his last race.

Everyone watching knew right away that it was bad.

But it wasn’t until a couple of hours later that we knew how bad.

Plenty of people tried to sum it up by saying that the man died doing what he loved.

And maybe that’s true.

But for me, the bottom line is that the man had died.

It was an event I will never forget.

The same track.

The same race.

Two completely different results.

I guess that’s why we watch sports.

You never know.

Text Support

Falling snow is a beautiful thing.

Driving in the snow?

Not so much.

I was reminded of that again last week.

During one of the nastiest storms we have seen in a while, I was on my way to meet my family at a dance competition.

They hitched a ride with someone else, so I was taking my wife’s car there.

She has the four-wheel drive.

On the way I noticed she was getting low on gas.

So I stopped to fill ‘er up.

That’s what nice guys do.

As I got to the station, I made the left.

But my car went straight.

Straight into a pole.

You know that they say about nice guys.

Thankfully I wasn’t going very fast.

And thankfully the air bags did not go off.

And thankfully no one was hurt.

Not in that order.

But the collision was strong enough to do some damage.

$2,600 worth.

And that was before I filled up the tank.

The good news is we have a deductible that makes this a little easier to swallow.

And the better news is our rates are not going to go up because of this little bout of man vs mother nature.

Or so we are told.

Moments after the crash, I called my wife to let her know what had happened.

She quickly checked to make sure I was ok.

Which I was.

Then she went all Barbara Walters on me.

“Were you on a call when it happened?”

“No.”

“Were you surfing the ‘net on your phone?”

“No.”

“Were you texting someone?”

“No.”

One of my single friends told me that the secret to a good marriage is...

Deny, Deny, Deny.

I’m not sure that I totally subscribe to that philosophy.

But in this case my deny, deny, deny was all true.

I was not talking, not surfing and not texting.

Just me vs black ice.

And the black ice won.

I really wish I could say that I never text while I drive.

But I would by lying.

And so would most of you.

According to one stat I just read, 1 out of 5 “experienced adult drivers” in the US send text messages while driving.

That would mean that close to 80% of the people polled were not telling the truth.

This disgusting addiction is not only awful, but it is incredibly dangerous.

If you don’t believe me, google “text” and “accident”.

Set aside a lot of time, and a box of kleenex, if you want to read all of the stories.

Unfortunately I can’t sit here and say that I am perfect and that I never text while driving.

But I can say, with all honesty, that I have made a very conscious effort to completely stop this pathetic habit.

And it’s a work in progress.

But it’s working.

When my kids are in the car, I have them dial for me.

Or text for me.

Or look up NBA Box Scores for me.

I have hooked up hands free calling, for both my wife and I.

I put my phone in a closed compartment to limit its availability.

I would like to say I am a success 100% of the time.

But I can definitely say that percent is growing every day.

My daughter even had me sign the Oprah form.

And you can’t lie to Oprah.

Many of my friends say they try not to text while driving.

But they still do.

Just today I was on the phone with a friend and we were talking about this very subject.

This friend shared a story that hit him hard.

Literally.

Last year he was stopping by work with his teenage son to get some things done.

They were traveling down a road at about 20 miles per hour.

The next thing he remembers is his car flipping over.

Apparently a driver of another car was moving down the same road at 35-40 mph.

35-40, while texting.

Well that driver slammed into one car.

And that car slammed into my friend’s car, totaling it.

The accident turned my friend and his son upside down.

They were both wearing seat belts, which left my friend suspended in the air on top of his son.

Fortunately the only pain the boy felt was when his dad unlatched his seat belt without thinking and landed on him.

They can laugh about it now.

Unfortunately my friend wasn’t quite as lucky.

In fact, since the accident, he has had three epidurals to deal with serious back pain.

And he’s not even pregnant.

I’m hopeful that a full recovery is not far away.

But when you think about what could’ve been it is downright scary.

Hopefully scary enough to stop you from texting while you drive.

And me too.

Waist Management

Mario Mendoza is not in the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame.

And he never will be.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not a legend.

Nine years in the majors.

And he left with a cliche named after him.

The Mendoza Line.

It’s very simple.

Hit under .200 and you are below “The Mendoza Line”.

Many have been there.

Nobody likes being there. 

Kinda like being overweight.

Many of us are living there.

But nobody likes living there.

After eating everything in sight for three months in NYC, it’s been quite the struggle to get back to the old belt loop.

But enough is enough.

A few weeks ago I decided it was time to get back to my version of the Mendoza Line.

200 pounds.

And elastic ties call for desperate measures.

Enter The Atkins Diet.

Actually, re-enter The Atkins Diet.

Well not THE Atkins Diet.

It’s more like the third cousin of the Atkins Diet.

(Flashback Music)

In 2001, I spent nearly six months on the road.

It was a job that came with lots of benefits.

Including a gold membership to the craft services truck.

In those six months, I must’ve eaten 36 million M&Ms.

Really.

I don’t think I ever walked past that table without grabbing a handful.

Or two.

But did you know if you eat just one handful....

at a time....

M&Ms are really not that bad for you.

At least that’s what I must’ve been thinking.

By the end of that job, I had ballooned to 250 on the richter scale.

Now .250 in the Major Leagues gets you about five mill a year.

But 250 on the scale gets you a trip to the cardiologist.

Enter Senor Atkins.

Well sorta.

The Atkins Diet was the bomb-dizzle back then.

Thanks to the new fad, people were dropping more pounds than the London Stock Exchange.

But when I put this diet under my microscope, something smelled a little funny.

I had a hard time believing you could get “healthy” by eating as much bacon and cheese as you wanted.

So I made up my own rules.

Working off the premise of low to no carbs.

I eliminated four main ingredients from my daily life:

Bread

Potatoes

Rice 

Pasta.

Eliminated.

Gonzo.

Vamoose.

And NO CHEATING.

Well I saw results immediately.

Thanks to the new diet and doing yoga four days a week, three months later I had lost 30 pounds.  

Six months later I had lost 50 pounds.

All the way from about 250 to about 200.

At one point I think I got to 198.

But I was so excited, I down’d a pint of Haagen Dazs faster than you could spell Schmendoza Line.

I kept most of the weight off for several years but little-by-little I creeped back up that scale.

215.  218.  224.  230ish.

I probably made it 235 at one point.

Which at six feet tall is nothing to be bragging about.

But thanks to a steady diet of the elliptical machine the last few years, I made it back to the low 2’s.

Until I got to New York.

A city built on concrete.

And carbs.

Honestly I was lucky to get out of there alive.

And I was even luckier to get out of there under 300 pounds.

But the damage had been done.

A couple of weeks ago I jumped on a scale and saw something you’d rather see at a poker table.

Three of a kind.

2-2-2.

That’s when I decided it was time for an Atkins Reunion Tour.

And I was going to kick this baby off on February 7.

The day AFTER the Super Bowl.

Let’s give ourself a fighting chance.

Sure this diet presents some challenges.

But nothing I can’t handle.

For example, night one.

A school function at a local Italian restaurant.

Oh, I love Italian Food.

Who doesn’t.

The hot bread.

Angel Hair.

Uh-oh.

No problem.

While my family feasted on the never-ending bowls of pasta.

I dabbled in an antipasto salad.

The size of Texas.

And about 11 glasses of ice, cold, refreshing water.

Stay focused on the prize people.

The Mendoza Line.

Math By Chocolate

My wife asked me to buy three bags of Hershey Chocolate Kisses for her yesterday.

She wanted to make sure her first grade students remembered Valentine’s Day.

And that they never forget their first kiss.

So I headed over to the local supermarket.

Like Toucan Sam, I followed my nose.

To Aisle 16.

And when I got there, I had more choices than a Chinese buffet.

The small bag of kisses was on sale.

Two for $5.

The medium size bag was not.

One for $5.

And then there was the giant bag.

One for $9.

Now this was not my first rodeo.

Or my first trip down Aisle 16.

When my wife asks for three bags of kisses.

She means three bags of kisses.

But if there is something she loves, it’s a good deal.

Me too.

With all those options, I counted on my 11th Grade Geometry to find a solution.

I quickly figured out that for $10, I could get four of the 9.5 ounce bags of Hershey Kisses that are on sale.

38 ounces for $10.

Or for $10, I could get two of the 19.75 ounce bags that were not on sale.

39.5 ounces for $10.

Or for $9, I could get one 40 ounce bag.

40 ounces for $9.

Let’s see here.... 

Yep, 40 beats 39.5.

Every time.

Unless you are playing golf.

Plus I’m taking home an extra buck.

Such a deal.

It’s not everyday I get to use those math skills of mine.

Actually, I should say...

It’s not everyday the problems are that simple.

I figured out a long time before Jeff Foxworthy that I am no longer smarter than a fifth grader.

I am reminded of that every night when I watch my kids do their homework.

My sixth grade son asked me for a little help last week with his math homework.

On page six of the parent handbook, it says, “never let them see you sweat”.

Well, the person who wrote that never saw my kids’ homework.

You thought Egypt had problems.

These are problems.

At least for me.

Thankfully, I’ve got an ace in the hole.

My high school buddy and still best pal Phil moonlights as a math tutor.

Convincing unmotivated high school students how to add.

Probably a little subtraction too.

So when my son asked me how to figure out question #21, I did what any good father would do.

I took a picture of the problem with my iPhone and emailed it to Phil.

Within a few minutes, Phil and my son were speaking jibberish.

Or Calculus.

Or something that was more over my head than the Space Shuttle.

Thankfully, when their conversation ended, my son had an answer to #21.

And #25.

Now I’m not nearly as dumb as I sound.

Or as I look.

I got a 700 on the SAT.

Let’s try that again.

I got a 700 on the SAT Math.

And that comes in real handy when I’m helping my second grader with her math homework.

Martha had a half-dozen hair ribbons.  She lost one.  How many hair ribbons does Martha have left?

I love those problems.

But it has been a LONG time since I spent five seconds thinking about the commutative property of multiplication.

Or the Pythagorean Theorem.

You want to know what Steve Garvey hit in 1978.

.316.

That’s math, right?

Now I love it that the kids are being challenged.

And I love it that they think they know more than me.

Even if it’s true.

But what I really love is saving that dollar on the extra half ounce of chocolate kisses.

That's a skill you just can't teach.