Uncivil War

 In 1894 Oregon Agriculture College (OAC) played the University of Oregon (UO) in the new game of football.  With little in the way of protective gear it was no activity for sissies and on that November day the farm boys took their cross-state cousins to the woodshed, 16-0.  That meeting (in Corvallis in even number years and Eugene in the odd numbered) became one of the nation's most celebrated football rivalries.  With the loss in Corvallis in 2020, the Ducks lead with 66 wins to OSU's 48.  There have been 10 ties, including the infamous 0 to 0 "Toilet Bowl" in 1983.  An NCAA rule change later that year put an end to most ties. 

For players, coaches, and fans, losing at home is a double twisting of the knife in the wound.  And to lose when your team plays badly is one more twist.  As in 1961 at old Hayward field where the Beavers won with a total of 6 points while the Ducks had a pathetic 2.  The Len Casanova staff had a tradition of meeting, win or lose, at one of the coaches' homes after the games.  Adult beverages were served and wives were part of the celebrating/healing process.  When the gathering broke up that night Max Coley pulled me aside and said a couple of the guys were going downtown for a nightcap and that he would drop me at my home afterwards.  

Late that night we were leaving the bar and as we passed a booth of four guys one of them called out a taunting slur about the game.  We had passed the booth but Max stopped and turned back, the fire-water surging up in that Cherokee Indian warrior as he grabbed the first guy he came to and with one blow released all the frustration of an awful day. We quickly hustled Coley out the door in a tactical retreat.  Later, in the car on the way to my place,  Max said, "I probably shouldn't have done that."  I said, "Probably not."

In Tuesday's mail Max received a letter from a Eugene law firm.  The man who sent the letter was the one Max struck and he informed Max that he had hit the only Duck at the table as well as the only lawyer. He apologised for the inappropriate remark of his Beaver friend and he wished Max and the rest of the staff good fortune in the coming months of recruiting.

Whew! Thank God Max didn't punch the Beaver.

Yikes

 Do you like books that scare the living you-know-what out of you?  Don't reach for Stephen King's latest yarn, grab Bill Bryson's new volume titled The Body.  It's 383 pages devoted to the individual cells and juices and bones and muscles and endless other fibers that are wrapped up in the skin we love to touch. The research Bryson has done finding out what makes all these parts tick and the  million-plus horrendous things that can go wrong with our creator's masterpiece will keep you flipping the pages and screaming, "No, no, no."

Take the human heart, the super-star performer in this human comedy.  It is not shaped like a valentine or hung over there where you put your hand when the flag goes by.  It's four muscle-wrapped pouches that weigh about a pound and attach in the middle of your chest. Two of them power blood out through the tube network designed to bring oxygen to individual parts and two of which receive the used blood for reconditioning for the next  round.

Here is how I envision the birthing room in LaGrande, Oregon, occupied by Eunice Landers on the 4th day of February, 1930.  EL to her doctor: "I want to make certain Billy has your premium quality heart because it will have to beat about every second, 24 hours a day without missing a beat for probably 3.5 billion times during his life and you'll agree that is a lot of freaking beating."

What is more interesting than reading about our favorite subject; ourselves?  I won't spoil the ending of the book for you but I will tell you this: if you sense your number of heart beats is anywhere close to 3.4999999 billion, go ahead and pig out on the bacon and cheese omelette topped off by a gallon of ice cream. And cancel your newspaper.