In college football West Virginia vs Louisville in Papa John’s Stadium Thursday (#3 BCS vs #5 BCS) and the Breeder’s Cup at Churchill Downs Saturday.

It’s not often the sporting world focuses on us, but we’re enjoying it.

The following is a short work of fiction:

It’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday.

I’m sitting at a back table in a piano bar where my father, Bill Stephens, is about to start his first set of the night. The regular crowd is shuffling in.

I’m his son Will, and I haven’t seen him since I was 12, which was 15 years ago. Since that time, I realized that I was gay.

Do the math.

I’m 27. I have a great relationship that I’m currently enjoying, but I have one major problem. My relationship with my dad.

When I was 12, my dad left my mom in a messy divorce. Both were failed recovering alcoholics. Both blamed the other for their problems, and I was merely an afterthought in the proceedings. I ended up with my mom, since she got the house and most of the money. Once Bill was out of the picture, my mom Barbara, settled down and kicked her booze problems. Eventually, she managed to get into a nice job as an office manager for a optometry practice. It paid the bills, and with the occasional alimony checks coming in from dad, we muddled through.

My dad drifted out of the picture over the years. When he left, he was in negotiations for a record contract with Columbia, but after a year long courtship, the deal fell through. He went back to what he knew and the piano bar gigs kept him employed. He even sold a song or two and managed to almost make it to the big time, but his coke habit in the early 90s and his continual boozing doomed him to failure, at least on that level.

After he left, I received 2 birthday cards, 3 Christmas cards and then nothing. He went his way, and my mom and myself went ours. I told my mom about my sexuality when I turned 18. To her credit, she embraced me with open arms and accepted it. I can only assume that she told my father because the letter I received shortly thereafter was short and to the point. Essentially, it said “Don’t ever contact me, no son of mine is a fag.”

So here I am, with much water under the bridge.

I’ve no idea why I want closure, but the ties that bind us the closest are the ones where blood is involved. I barely knew my dad growing up, but I still looked up to him. He never raised a hand or voice to me, and when I did get to see him, he always tried to engage me in some way. Usually, it was at the piano, or he’d tell me stories about people at work.

He was good friends with the bartender John, and the regulars always interested him, but those stories were lost on me as a child.

Mom, God rest her soul, had chronic high blood pressure, and thanks to the stress of her job combined with the complications of alcoholism, died of a heart attack at the ripe old age of 49. She dropped dead in our kitchen while on the phone with her office. I was 19 and still living at home while I tried to attend college and keep a part time job as a salesman at a local outdoors outfitter.

Dad never showed for the funeral services, and never called either. It hurt a lot, but I got through it.

So here I am, looking at my dad as he warms up for the evening with a few chords and some banter, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, I’m Bill Stephens. Let’s have a little fun. I hope you enjoy the show.” He’s a natural in front of a crowd, and they respond as he opens with Springsteen’s New York City Serenade. It’s an obscure piece, but the intro sounds almost like a classical symphony before the ballad portion of the song takes over. They lap it up.

Dad looks so old to me now. I know he’s only 58, but his features like his hair have turned grey with age. His fingers seem nimble on the keyboard, but his demeanor and visage bely an age beyond his years. A weariness of sorts, like he’s just hiked many miles and needs a sleep, but the show must go on. His voice is in fine form though, as the first drink of the evening arrives for him. It looks like a scotch from my vantage point, which was always his poison. As the smattering of applause dies down for his first number, he hoists his tumbler in a slight salute,”Thank you folks, I’m glad you liked that one.”

“Here’s one I know that YOU know”, and he breaks into Billy Joel’s Only a Woman.

As the evening progressed, my dad played some great tunes. I really enjoyed his repertoire. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the show, despite my slight resentment of the past. I mean, he was good, and the songs he played were diverse and really well done. Some instrumentals, some Elton John, a smidgen of Billy Joel, a dash of Phil Collins and Genesis, even a send up of Pink Floyd’s Great Gig in the Sky. His old school tunes dipped into Sinatra and Dean Martin, his contemporary selections included Seal and Sting. And as he played, his brandy snifter on the piano top, a nice custom Steinway, filled gradually with bills. His voice, as I remembered was a little smoky and gravelly, but for the song selections, it was just perfect.

He understood his craft.

And I was pleased to be an anonymous witness to my father’s skill. The crowd, who were predominantly aver 40, adored the music and the musician. As his first set came to an end, dad finished his most recent drink, “Thank you ladies and gents, I’ll be back in 15 minutes. Be sure to tip your waiters.” With a slight bow and flourish, he made his way toward a door not 4 feet from where I sat. Our eyes met, but he didn’t recognize me as he continued on into the kitchen of the bar.

I never really moved to intercept him, but I wanted to. I went to the restroom instead and afterward decided to wait until he came back out of the kitchen door and then I would say hello. About 10 minutes later, the kitchen door swung open and my father walked out. From my chair, I hailed him hesitantly, “Hey dad!”. At first, he didn’t turn and I had to repeat myself a little louder as he started toward his piano, “HEY DAD!”

Bill turned slowly to my voice and then spotted me in my chair against the wall. I did a small finger wave and said “Hi Dad”. With a visible shudder, he acknowledged me with the slightest of arm gestures, like saying “hey” to a stranger on the street. But his eyes grew wide as he realized who I was, and he stumbled slightly as he turned back toward his piano and proceeded to his place to sit.

Arriving at the piano bench, my dad shot me another look and our eyes met again. As he tucked himself into the keyboard, he seemed lost for words as he tried a few chords to warm up again for his second set.

Without a word of introduction, I recognized his first tune. He casually stroked the ivory keys as the first few bars of Harry Chapin’s Cat’s in the Cradle became clear and I knew. My dad had seen me, and recognized who I was. All I could hope was that he would accept me when we got a chance to talk.

Because Bill I believe this is killing me, as the smile ran away from my face…

Fall in the Ohio Valley can occasionally be really something. Today was one of those days.

The crimsons, yellows, golds, browns, magentas and purples where swirling around amid startlingly clear sunny skies and 20 mile per hour winds. Throw in almost 60 degree weather, and you have damn near perfection.

I love having 4 actual seasons here. 

I re-read that last post about reality TV in the morning and I totally forgot what pissed me off.

I think it was Tyra Banks and her titanic forehead.

I DESPISE REALITY TV.

It is neither REAL, nor TV. It is essentially media whores being televised.

Why does the American public suckle on this teat?

I’ve no idea, but it is upsetting. In fact, it is representative of the downfall of American “culture”.

American Idol: Sub-standard audio fluff.

Survivor: fame hungry idiots with a steep price

Cable Reality: Wannabes with no standards

Reality viewers: Complete lack of self respect.

If you’re a fan, I pity you. It is the media of the least common denominator.

I really have grown to hate this word. It’s like road-kill along the information superhighway. Let’s stop using these outdated and annoying pseudonyms for the online world.

I  submit, for your approval, a new term:

The Digital Arena

I can get behind that. So long as we change it again in the next few years.

If you don’t know the name, please Google Tom Lehrer. A wonderful politcal songwriter/satirist.

Check out his Wikipedia page 

I once loved the Dallas Cowboys.

Before you tune me out, let me explain. When I was about 6 or 7, I remember watching Dallas play the Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl V. They lost, but they became MY team that day.

Why?

I’m not even sure myself, but Roger “The Dodger” Staubach was cool, Calvin Hill (Grant’s Dad) was awesome and Bob Lilly was downright frightening. And the Coach was the ever calm Tom Landry with his signature fedora. I had no local pro team, and the Cowboys of this era were an underdog expansion team. So I adopted them.

And the the very next year, in Super Bowl VI, they CRUSHED Miami 24-3. Roger Staubach rushed for 252 yards in that game. Bob Lilly sacked Bob Griese for a 30+ yard loss. Just incredible stuff. I was completely hooked.

Obviously, I hate the Steelers. They OWNED us in every Super Bowl. And eventually, I had to watch the Danny White era drag my beloved franchise into mediocrity.

And then came Jerry Jones.

February 25th, 1989. The day he bought the Cowboys.

In three short years, he traded incredibly well (the Hershell Walker trade would land Emmitt Smith in a roundabout way), hired Jimmy Johnson, and drafted like a wizard.

And in 1992, they DISEMBOWELD the Bills in Super Bowl XXVII 52-17. They would win 2 more Super Bowls in the next three seasons, putting their stamp on the decade of the 90s.

And gradually, things went South.

When Jones sold his soul to the Devil, he must not have read the fine print. Things always go well early, but in the long run, be prepared for an experience much like Job.

Now I have to Watch Bill Parcells coaching Drew Motherf***ing Bledsoe and Terrell Owens?

Seriously, it can’t get any worse. Unless Jake Plummer is looking for a job next year, or maybe Aaron Brooks.

Good lord.

Good lord. You have to read Bill Simmons’ column to glean this nugget of pure gold.

The explanation of a “Milton Berle Win” is about 1/4th of the way down in the article.