The only shining, warming, benevolent sun in North America beams above the crowd in Southern California. Now I remember why people live here. Even better to visit, as long as you don't establish residency. The taxes could kill a goat. Part of the Rose Bowl mythology is that the annual game gives frozen midwesterners a respite to come and enjoy the Pac Ten hospitality, hit Disneyland, see the ocean and watch their guys play a little football. As if those poor hayseed Ohioans, Iowans, Michiganders, Minnesotans would never be sophisticated enough to make the trip to Fantasyland otherwise. The enduring broad-brush stereotype of flyover country never fails to amuse me.

Melbourne. The new wife and I sit and drink in a pub by the train station. We share a table with two young Aussies and an old Irishman, whom everyone simply refers to as "Paddy." It may or may not be his name; we are not able to discern that before the young Aussies give us the slip and leave us with our new friend. Paddy works on construction projects all over the world, or he did anyway. There was a scaffolding accident. Paddy explains:

"Came crashin' down I did. ‘ad a cut on mi head that went from here all ‘round to the back. Sep'rated both mi shoulders. Laid up fer a long stretch..."

The LSU fans prepare the food in heaven. The Texas fans host the parties. The Nebraska fans handle logistics; the Alabama fans make the travel arrangements and the Florida fans bring the liquor. I am certain of these things. I am fairly, but not entirely, confident that the Virginia fans determine the dress code, the Georgia Tech fans fix anything that gets broken, the Stanford fans write your kid a letter of recommendation and the Texas A&M fans look after the family pets.

In hell, the LSU fans are responsible for logistics and everything pretty much deteriorates from there.

Two attractive women sit on a porch drinking beer. They wear sunglasses and Snuggies, the revolutionary new blanket with sleeves; the Snuggie frees the wearer's hands to handle the television remote, read, talk on the phone or drink beer on a crisp November afternoon without giving up the comfort of being wrapped in a blanket. Mrs. Jones Top Ten and her friend, Wendy, have come dangerously close to giving up their babe cards by being seen outdoors wearing Snuggies. However, as December comes upon us, one thing is certain: comfort cannot be overrated.

Texas 49

Texas A&M 39

My house sits on a corner lot, which has no real prestige value, but does afford an extra long expanse of lawn for football games. I have long aspired to own the house where the neighborhood kids play. Mission accomplished. Now I need to talk Mrs. Jones Top Ten into installing the sport court and I will host the basketball games, as well. But today, I have football action. Well, actually, I have organized a "dive into the leaf" pile contest. The kids needed to take a break from bashing each other-the tackling had morphed into hitting and kicking. I assessed personal foul penalties and created a new game. Of course, regardless of the rules of play, boys possess the roughhouse gene. It is who they are. Adults cannot change this. I even went to my local Academy and bought a set of flags and belts. Boys figure out a way to pummel each other in flag football, as well. Running full speed and diving headfirst into a pile of leaves can also produce injuries, but they will be self-inflicted. That takes away the one thing that boys relish most of all: reprisals.

The photographer arrived early. Team picture day for four-year-olds presents a degree of difficulty somewhere between landing a triple salchow and performing open-heart surgery on a Meerkat. Irish weddings are easier to choreograph. We have the 8:10 slot, which means we start promptly at 8:37. I have already dropped Son One off for an 8:00 basketball game. Son Two hit the soccer field at 8:30 and I coach Son Three's kinderhoops game at 9:00.The home team boys play on TV at 11:00 and they are nice enough to drop a 40-point first-half shutout on the opposition, which assuages any guilt I might have about Son Three's 12:45 basketball practice. I could quit doing this to myself, quit coaching all my son's basketball teams, that is, but it is not my nature, as the scorpion would say.

My Uncle Jim Silcott, at 19-years-old, piloted landing craft in the Pacific, one of the more dangerous jobs during World War II. When I was 19, I served as a camp counselor. That’s the big difference between Jim’s generation and mine, but, more to the point, it is the big difference between me and thousands of men and women my own age. They are the ones who guarantee that the rest of us work in air-conditioned buildings and eat out on Friday night and attend our kid’s soccer game, all without a second thought to our personal safety. All of you know people like this; if you don’t, then you need to get out more. We dedicate an entire day each year to remembering those who serve today and those who came before them, certainly a small gesture relative to a great debt. Normally, the dignitaries make speeches, the veterans parade, we salute the flag and everyone goes home. But normal doesn’t live here anymore. A violent act interrupted normal in Fort Hood. The enemy attacked, one of their own, on their home base, where safety used to be guaranteed.