Unhealthy Man Love

Editor’s note: This column also appears on my other site.

“What a day this has been.
What a rare mood I’m in.
Why, it’s almost like being in love.”
-Nat King Cole

He’s not just another player to you. Not just another cog in the success of your favorite team. His stats mean something, and you root hard for him, no matter what the team does around him. Just the mention of his name brings a smile to your face and arouses memories of past greatness. You know he’s destined for immortality, even if you’re the only one who thinks so. Trade rumors stop your heart. You don’t understand why he hasn’t been offered the 15-year extension he so richly deserves. If he’s a college athlete, you follow his pro career like he’s your progeny. Might as well face it, you’re in unhealthy man love.

Unhealthy man love is a more advanced version of a condition some have termed the “non-sexual man crush.” It is the deepest devotion a fan can have to an athlete. While not necessarily monogamous, unhealthy man love is as rare (and occasionally fickle) as romantic love. Some fans will feel it more often than others, just like some people fall in love at the drop of a hat. But the real thing will only come along a handful of times over any sports-consuming lifetime.

You can’t maintain this level of affection for two players on the same team at the same time. It’s just not possible. Even if feelings get to crush level, only one player will rise to claim unhealthy man love. The funny thing is that on any given team, a handful of players will earn this status from different groups of fans. Take my two favorite single season teams – the 2005 White Sox and 2001-2002 Indiana Basketball. In just those two seasons, different people could claim unhealthy man love for Aaron Rowand (Rowand’s Rowdies), Joe Crede (the perpetually shirtless “Crede’s Crew”), Jon Garland, Paul Konerko, and Mark Buehrle (my guy) from the Sox, and Tom Coverdale, A.J. Moye (my friend peanut still calls him her “baby daddy”), and Kyle Hornsby (who inspired the classic sorority t-shirt slogan, “Kyle makes me Hornsby”) from the Hoosiers.

So what do players like this – fan devotions like this – have in common?

Anyone who’s fallen in any sort of love can point to a moment of realization. In most cases, this is a completely emotional shift, only sometimes caused by the object of the affection. In sports, though, there is a moment. A game. A play. Something the athlete did to vault himself in your heart from mere member of the team to veritable demi-god. Of course, I can’t begin to guess about anybody else’s moments. I can give you three of mine, only two of which turned out to be for real.

The first moment came in October of 2002. Indiana was playing a home football game against a Wisconsin team ranked in the top 25 (although a Wisco fan before the game told me they had no business being ranked). Buddies and I watched the Badgers jump out to a 29-10 third quarter lead, and slowly let it eek away. Down three points with under 4 minutes left to play, the Hoosiers faced third down and 17. The ruggedly handsome (and almost completely devoid of talent) Gibran Hamdan found Courtney Roby open some five yards shy of the first down marker. Roby shook a defender and dove over another to make the first down by the length of his arm. That play led me to the point where I’m demanding Steve McNair throw Roby the damn ball on every play.

One important thing to note about this moment: I was there. Seeing a play like that live has a profound impact on any fan’s feelings about an athlete. Maybe I wouldn’t feel this way if I hadn’t been in Memorial Stadium that afternoon. Maybe a different fan saw another game, another play, in person and felt connected to a different athlete.

The second moment – stretched out over two hours or so – came a mere two months later. A group of us got baseline tickets to see IU play Vandy at Assembly Hall (the best seats I’ve ever had for any basketball game). The Hoosiers handled Vanderbilt, thanks mostly to freshman prodigy Bracey Wright dropping 31 points. He had it all that night, nailing threes, floating in little 10-foot teardrops, even hammering a breakaway dunk in the second half. That night, he was still the best recruit from The Colony, TX. He was replacing the scoring we had lost from the Final Four team. And I was unhealthily smitten.

This, as anybody who knows IU buckets has guessed by now, is the case that never developed into real unhealthy man love. Part of it wasn’t Bracey’s fault. Back problems nagged him throughout his Hoosier career, keeping him from developing into the superstar he was expected to be. But it was obvious that Bracey wasn’t quite what you’d call a “team” guy, either. My soon-to-be brother-in-law once described him as college basketball Kobe, and it changed the way I watched Indiana games. Bracey sulked if he didn’t get his shots, forced the issue entirely to often, and rarely made his teammates better. Hard to blame that on an achy back. Whatever the reason, this case proves the delicacy of unhealthy man love. Even the most promising emotion can be erased.

The third moment is the strongest for me for a few reasons. It is the most recent, and therefore the most vivid in my memory. It involves the White Sox, unquestionably my favorite team in sports. And it contributed directly to a championship, which is, after all, what we as sports fans are after. I’m talking about game 2 of the ALCS. Mark Buehrle spent just a few minutes more than a literal moment on the mound in his nine-inning, 99-pitch complete game victory over the Angels. I had always loved his tendency to work quickly and pound the strike zone, and he reached the peak of both that night. More impressive (and more endearing) was his desire to go out and pitch the tenth. Anything for a victory. Combine that performance, that attitude, and the circumstances . . . how could I not fall head over heels?

We are more inclined to shower unhealthy man love on a home-grown player or student from our alma mater than on a free agent or transfer. Quite simply, getting to know someone over time inspires deeper affection and devotion. Seeing a player overcome struggles early in his career creates a deeper bond between himself and we the fans, who can identify with the effort it takes to triumph over workplace adversity.

This is probably why most unhealthy man love is reserved for good-but-not-quite-great players instead of superstars. Looking at the three teams that have given me flashes of unhealthy man love, it is worth noting that the best players to grace those teams in the years I’ve rooted for them (Antwaan Randle El, Jared Jeffries, and Frank Thomas) ever inspired anything more than run of the mill insane fandom. We admire the supremely talented. We may even wish to be them. But our kinship with them is limited by the fact that most of us aren’t that good at anything. Rooting for someone like Aaron Rowand, a “blue-collar” player who squeezes every last drop of production out of his talent, is like rooting for ourselves. We may never be as skilled as the superstars, but at our best, we can aspire to match the work ethic of solid athletes everywhere.

Watching a player from the infancy of his career also gives us a chance to get to know his personality. Does he have a sense of humor? Is he a good teammate? How does he handle pressure? Is he loyal? (See the preceding paragraph. There’s no unhealthy man love available to a hired gun) In essence, is he a good guy? We would rather adore players we imagine would be our friends in private life. For example, Mark Buehrle is a millionaire athlete who has enough little kid in him to spend a rain delay running and sliding on the tarp with the bullpen catcher. Tell me you wouldn’t want to toss a few back with a guy like that.

One of the great things about sports is that even though millions of fans share common loyalties, each fan’s rooting experience is completely unique. Our general loyalties are shaped early in our lives, but opinions, emotions, and ties to players are in a constant state of flux, depending on which games we saw, where we saw them, and who was there with us. Unhealthy man love is special because one fan gets to share a genuine, exclusive bond with an athlete. Even if it’s just in a corner of his own mind.

(Now if you’ll excuse me, I have nine more Mark Buehrle posters to hang.)

Dave Van Der Laan is (among other gigs) a freelance writer. To offer questions, comments, criticism or praise, send an email to davevdl@gmail.com.

Odds and Ends

Why doesn't the NFL Network just go ahead with a season of "Big Man Dance Competition"? They've teased me with two years of great fake commercials. I can't be the only one who would tivo this show.

Jason Lee has reached the echelon of artists where I'll give anything he does a chance, along with Bill Murray, Chris Guest, Wes Anderson, and the entire cast of Sports Night. Just the sight of his moustache in My Name is Earl is enough to double me over. Without him, Kevin Smith would barely be famous.

I think there's a reason that Donyell Marshall and Ludacris have never been photographed together. Nobody can convince me that they're not the same guy.

Who's had the most retirements: Keith Jackson, Sugar Ray Leonard, or the Rolling Stones? This is why I need to hire a stat geek.

As I watch the new Wendy's commercials, all I can think is "there's no way Mini Me can finish an entire double cheeseburger."

Speaking of Mini Me, do you think he's made enough scratch yet to furnish his house with little-people-sized toilets?

Would somebody please explain to me the difference between Andy Rooney and Tom Green? Both have tried to make a career out of saying and doing things to annoy their audience. Why is Andy still around while Tom languishes in obscurity?

I wonder if the Sports Guy can sue me for using too many of his column formats, especially when David Letterman was gracious when Simmons ripped off his ideas. If Bill ever reads this, I hope he's not feeling litigious.

If someone accuses you of having "a case of the Mondays," you shouldn't be held responsible for whatever you do next.

What is it about college football that makes people root as hard against the teams they hate as they do for the teams they love, even if the former has no effect on the latter? A Notre Dame loss makes my Saturday worthwhile.

Whatever happened to Craig Kilborn? He had an amazing decade-long run, hosting the Feelgood Edition of SportsCenter, then moving on to front the only talk shows I went out of my way to watch (The Daily Show and the Late Late Show) after Letterman's fastball started losing velocity in the mid 1990's. Suddenly, Craiggers quit the Late Late Show last year. To do what? Ranch work? Where is he now? Somebody needs to get me in touch with Kilby, if only so I can find out if he's always been Dennis Miller's vocal twin, or if one of them is just doing an impression of the other.

If you don't know anybody running a marathon and go more than four blocks out of your way to spend a few hours standing around in 50 degree weather cheering on emaciated strangers who may or may not be completely nuts . . . well, you need more to do.

If I were ever to go into the adult film industry - a moral and physiological impossiblilty - my name would definitely be Nook Logan.

Will Ferrell could start a media empire with just his SNL celebrity impersonations. Tell me you wouldn't buy/watch the following:
-Robert Goulet ringtones (dinkle, donkle, dinkle, donkle, someone's calling you, GOULET!)
-The Coconut Bangers' Ball CD, featuring covers of Who Let the Dogs Out and Thong Song. Ferrell could release 8 of these albums and they'd all go platinum
-Celebrity Jeopardy! hosted by Ferrell as an embattled Alex Trebek. Guest impersonators must include Norm MacDonald as Burt Reynolds, although the peak of comedy here would be the real Sean Connery as a contestant.
-A frat pack movie tracing W's college years and ownership of the Texas Rangers. Yes, I know this could never be made, but the protests alone would give it Jurassic Park-level publicity.
-Finally, the coup de grace . . . an entire season if Inside the Actors' Studio, with Ferrell never breaking the James Lipton character. Just imagine him saying things like "You are a blinding, brilliant light from heaven," and "I am born anew in your genius," to somebody like Paul Walker. Appointment TV.

My dad has started taping Lovie Smith's press conferences, just in case he's ever battling insomnia.

What's more pathetic: that the dad from "Clarissa Explains it All" has been reduced to being the straight man in Cars.com commercials, or that I recognize the dad from "Clarissa Explains it All"? Do you think Melissa Joan Hart even returns his phone calls?

Just a word of advice: if you go to a bachelor party, don't be the guy that drinks more than the bachelor. Nobody likes that guy.

Tiger Woods' van dyke (remember kids, a van dyke is the real term for the moustache/goatee combo) is the newest inductee in the "Bad Sports Facial Hair Choices Hall of Fame." Fellow members include Dave Wanstedt's half moustache, Rod Beck's fu manchu, and that time the East German Women's Swim Team forgot to wax.

Here's a mini-PSA for female readers: even the smartest man you know is sophomoric at heart. The word "poop" makes all of us laugh. We will not grow out of this.

My favorite Val Kilmer performance of the last few years has to be as the Geico caveman who lost his appetite.

Hardcore Bears fans weren't upset about Kyle Orton getting trashed on the bye week; they were upset that he managed to spill half a bottle of Jack down the front of his shirt. Drinking isn't a game, rook . . . it's a skill.

As his body of work grows, there's an argument to be made for Peter Griffin passing Homer Simpson for "funniest cartoon dad of all time" status. I'm not saying he's there yet. Just that he's making it a ballgame.

Whatever happened to Nelson de la Rosa, Pedro Martinez's little buddy from last year's World Series run? Is he walking around the Dominican Republic, dejectedly wearing a Mets jersey and wondering why Pedro would take him around that clubhouse too? Or did he just assume that he would be on the Red Sox payroll after Pedro left? Since everybody last year was calling him "Pedro's Little Buddy," would it have been too much to ask to put him in a tiny Gilligan hat? I'm brimming with questions about this.

I can't be the only man of my generation who learned a quarter of what he knows about football from the Madden games.

Okay, I'll be the first one to admit it . . . whenever I hear somebody say "Alright, stop," I have to say "Collaborate and listen." Even if it's just under my breath.

I'd rather eat an actual hockey puck than an overcooked burger (overcooked being anything past medium rare). At least I'd know that's what the puck should taste like.

Speaking of hockey - and this is probably the last time I will - who's in worse shape right now, the NHL or the WNBA? I live in Chicago and love sports, but even if my life depended on it I could only name one Blackhawk.

Bill Romanowski taking steroids surprised me, in a "Wow, Paris Hilton is easy?" kind of way.

When will we finally get a Sportscentury episode on Placido Piolanco's head? Why is it shaped like that? Is he self-conscious? His public needs answers.

Why am I always the only one in the room laughing at those "World's Weakest Man" commercials? Not only does the spot feature scrawny, aging men in wrestling doublets, it also skewers an already unintentionally hilarious and oddly entertaining show (the HGH, I mean Met-Rx Strongest Man Competition) that has been screaming out to be parodied. The only way they could top themselves is with the American Gladiators fanfare accompanying a Mike Adamle voiceover, as we watch the Festivus feats of strength performed by a Bill Gates lookalike in Nitro's sweat-soaked, sequined singlet. Best. Commercial. Ever.

The Harmful Side-Effects of Genius

Early in the summer of 2000, Kathleen Battle took a dozen bottles of wine from the Grant Park Music Festival. I helped her. Before you notify the authorities, or John Walsh makes Kathy and me two of America's most wanted, let me give you some background: Battle is a supremely talented lyric soprano, but was asked to leave the Metropolitan Opera because she couldn't get along with pretty much everybody. Over the years, she has developed a reputation akin to a raving lunatic. She is reported to have two distinct personalities. One is a meek, shy, reticent seven-year-old girl. The other is "diva" in the worst sense of the word, thundering at anyone if her the tiniest part of her will is crossed or ignored.

Our paths crossed while I was a concert production intern at Grant Park. Battle was paid an exorbitant amount of money to sing at the season-opening gala. Two rehearsals. One concert. Nice work if you can get it. I was in charge of setting her dressing room, and followed her contract to the letter. Upon her arrival, the entire staff fell deathly silent. What will she do? How can we keep her happy? Who will feel her wrath? She made it to her dressing room without incident, but was displeased when the honey for her tea was unopened. She made my boss remove it from the room and open it. He came out white as a sheet. Later, I was charged with a peculiar duty while she rehearsed. It seemed that she could not rehearse if there were people in the audience. At an indoor venue, this wouldn't have presented a problem. That day, though, I had the pleasure of walking around Grant Park and asking people to please enjoy their lunch outside of Ms. Battle's line of sight. I wasn't a popular kid.

Finally, the gala night arrived, and Battle sang as beautifully as expected. After the performance, as she was getting ready to take her limo back to the Four Seasons (other artists stayed at the Sheridan), the director of the festival asked if she would like a bottle of wine left over from the gala. She thanked him, and asked for a bottle of red and a bottle of white. I hustled to the basement to fulfill her request. When I ascended, she said, "Well, maybe another bottle of white." Back down to the basement, then back up again. "Maybe a bottle of red to go with it." Back down to the basement, then back up again. This continued until the trunk contained 12 bottles of wine. It wasn't stealing, but it was all kinds of rude, and it capped off an unpleasant experience for everybody on the staff.

Why would one of the most talented and successful opera singers in the world act this way? If it's any consolation to Kathy and the lives she's touched, she's far from alone. In fact, social dysfunction intersects with immense talent and genius often enough to create a genuine phenomenon. Why was Ernest Hemingway a raging alcoholic? Why did Beethoven's temper make Bobby Knight seem like a post-lobotomy R.P. McMurphy? What drove Vincent van Gogh to the point where he thought his own earlobe made for an acceptable token of his affection?

I believe (and belief is all I have here, due to my steadfast refusal to do any actual research) that there are two major, interlocking factors that contribute to this phenomenon. First, even people of exceptional intelligence and talent generally rise to prominence through an intense focus on their gifts. This single-mindedness, while ultimately to the beneifit of their professional endeavours, often consumes an inordinate amount of their energy and attention during their formative years. Parents encourage this, in the best case because they want their children to be happy and fulfilled by making the most of their talent, and in the worst case because Mom and Dad look at junior as a way to achieve vicarious success after a lifetime of disappointment. More often than anything else, this focus takes away from what Mrs. Boucher would call "the social skills." Centering all of their attention on enhancing their abilities leads quite naturally to full-on self-centeredness.

Of course, it's nothing even approaching uncommon for children and adolescents to be self-focused when they start to come of age. As they start to encounter the harsh realities of life outside the home, though, they learn that a large part of maturity is realizing that life is not centered around them. Compromise is necessary. Gratification must occasionally be deferred.

The second factor precludes this developmental stage in the prodigy. Just as the parents "encouraged" the talent in its youth to the exclusion of other lessons, now the budding talent/genius is in great demand from a public that is more than willing suffer in pursuit of either diversion or enlightenment. So long as they are willing to share with us what we are unable to create ourselves, we are willing to let them get away with murder (in the case of Ty Cobb's transcendent athletic greatness, the last sentence is tragically literal). Miscreant behavior among the great minds and voices of humanity has been tolerated for so long, we have begun to expect it. A friendly, well-adjusted prodigy is practically an oxymoron.

Let me make one thing clear before I move on. I do not begrudge for an instant the compensation these people receive for their work, both financially and through the accolades of the masses. They are often entertainers, and they are paid what the market will bear. The fact that they can supply in rarity what is in great demand fully justifies their great reward. In no way does that rarity justify any person holding others hostage through abhorrent behavior.

A closing question: is this tradeoff worth it? These geniuses make artistic and intellectual contributions than unquestionably further the progress of all mankind. The cost is paid in their own lives and in the lives of those around them. For the most part, they are internally tormented, some to the point of suicide.

The pragmatist in me shouts that the answer is obvious. Since the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, we should always be willing to sacrifice the happiness, and even the sanity, of a handful of prodigies since it is only through that sacrifice that humanity can be improved by their accomplishments. Even the strain they put on their immediate surroundings is overshadowed by their place in posterity.

I'm not entirely convinced, though. When I become a father, would I choose to make such a sacrifice of one of my offspring? Hardly. I would rather see great potential never achieved than doom a son or daughter to a lifetime of misery.

Ultimately, of course, our answer to this question is irrelevant. The vicious circle will continue to go around long after we leave this life. Genius will continue to spring up as an accident of nature (or, as I believe, through the hand of God) and be nurtured into the paradox of high-minded success and social failure. And the malevolent, Beethoven-esque beat goes on.

IU's Homecoming Game

I have seen the future of IU Football, and his name is James Hardy. He'll have some value to the hoops team off the bench, but his most important role in IU sports is as a security blanket for sophomore quarterback Blake Powers over the next 2 1/2 years. He's a 6'7" redshirt freshman who already has as much field awareness as anybody else on the offense. Along with Terry Heoppner's new spread offense, he's a huge reason why Powers just set the single-season touchdown pass record in the Hoosiers' fifth game.

Can the Hoosiers go to their first bowl in 12 years? All they need is two more wins, but they'll be underdogs in each of their next six games. Their best chances are at MSU and hosting Minnesota. Let's face it, though . . . the most likely outcome is six straight losses, a 4-7 season, and another offseason spent searching for moral victories.

There are encouraging signs for the future. Hoeppner's reputation and new offense have created a buzz around the program, much like the one Cowboy Joe Tiller created at the beginning of his Purdue tenure. Powers, Hardy, and other members of the receiving corps are underclassmen who will only get better as they get more familiar with the offense. The defensive front seven features six seniors this year, and while next year may bring a lack of experience, it also gives Coach Hep an opportunity to plug in his own guys.

Is all this enough to overcome the massive recruiting edge enjoyed by in-state and neighboring state programs like Notre Dame, Michigan, Ohio State, and the aforementioned Boilermakers? Probably not, and nobody should expect Indiana to find itself near the top of the Big 10 every season. But Heoppner is the real deal, as he proved at Miami of Ohio, and he'll make the most of the talent he brings in. Don't be surprised if IU is bowl-competitive on a year-to-year basis within the next five years.

Before all that, though, there are six (and maybe seven) Indiana football games left. Upsets happen, especailly if they can catch a team at less than 100% health. And the Old Oaken Bucket game against Purdue is always fun, even if the rivalry is one-sided enough to make the Yankees and Red Sox seem like Ali-Frazier.

Hoosier fans should pay attention, because this is certainly the most exciting team since Antwaan Randle El graduated, and may end up being the best team since Trent Green was under center. Who am I kidding? They could win the national championship and still be nothing more than statewide filler until Mike Davis' squad tips off against Nicholls State on November 18th. They didn't even sell out today's homecoming game! Have fun at midnight madness this Friday, Hoosier fans. But until the final minutes of the Bucket game (which I'm fired up to attend in person), I'll be keeping an eye on the Bloomington gridiron.

Am I Draft Worthy?

I took the Wonderlic Test yesterday at a job interview. A brief explanation for the uninitiated: the Wonderlic is an intelligence test that consists of 50 increasingly difficult questions. The challenge is that you're only given 12 minutes to take the test. This is the same test given to NFL prospects at the draft combine.

The questions were basic word associations, and I would have gotten through more than 35 if my mind hadn't wandered for the first couple of minutes . . . Am I smarter than an Ivy League kicker? Does my knowing the difference between idea and ideal -- an actual question --have any bearing on whether or not I can read a cover 2 defense? (I throw too many interceptions in Madden 2006, so I guess not) What would it cost a company to get Mel Kiper, Jr. to grade the test and talk about my draft stock? And how would Mel do if he had to take it?

The big question, though, was this: how would I do on other standard draft tests? Not well. I can't bench press 225 pounds more than once. I would finish a 40-yard dash stride for stride with linemen who outweigh me by 90 pounds. And I would definitely sprain both ankles on any and all agility drills. I once sprained my ankle while walking down the street. I wish I was kidding.

OK, so I've established that I don't have a future in the NFL. My boy Mel would absolutely agree. What does this have to do with a job I may or may not get offered? Nothing at all. As usual, I have no point.

Nickname Reference Page

Since I won't be referring to people by name, here are relevant nicknames of my friends along with brief descriptions. This page will be updated as new folks are included in posts/stories.

Bogus - Friend since high school and Mormon convert. Once inspired the funniest question my mother ever asked: "Dave, Bogus likes girls . . . right?" Now happily married. To a woman.

Buddies - College roommate and fraternity brother. My football tutor. Alternate nickname: Uncle Fuzzy

Coco - A good friend from IU. My age, but married with three kids. Surreal.

Don Juan - High school buddy. Parlayed band geekdom into a teaching career. Pays rent to his mom.

The HCN - Short for the Hot Canadian Nurse. She's my girlfriend, and you can't have any details. It's one of the rules.

JB - College roommate. Former boss. Former landlord. Cub fan. And yet, we still get along.

Mayor - Kalamazoo Kid and a literal redheaded stepchild. Takes video games too seriously. Way too seriously. Two things on his body are larger than normal. It wouldn't be polite to mention what they are. But they're real, and they're spectacular.

Nappy - Appropriately named Kalamazoo Kid. Has a penchant for less than classy women. Alternate nickname: Beer Goggles Fabio, because drunk girls won't leave him alone.

P$ - Current roommate. Shares my love of two-dollar words. I'm openly jealous of his hair.

Pookie - 5'5" and round. The elder statesman of the Kalamazoo Kids. Any mention of him as "my Kraut-Mick friend" is a Godfather reference, and not an ethnic slur. I promise.

Scarface - Kalamazoo Kid. The best-looking man I know. It's a little disturbing. Completely deaf in his left ear. You can shout into it and he won't even flinch. I know because I try it almost every time I see him. I'm easily amused.

Solid - Former coworker and old roommate. Likes the sauce, loves the ladies. Especially the ladies who love the sauce.

Church, Huxley, and the Communist Manifesto

Did Marx have a point? Is religion the opiate of the masses?

The answer, as is often the case, depends on the interpretation of the question. But before we delve into that, just a few words on what led me to the question. My church here in Chicago has been renovating the evening service, and the worship director chose to name it "Soma." A fine choice, since soma is the Greek word for "body." My initial thought, though, wasn't the Greek association (and not just because I don't know the first bit of Greek). Instead, as any fan of Aldous Huxley knows, soma was the name of the sedative given to the citizenry in "Brave New World." Religion as sedative. That's just how my mind works.

Now, in an effort to relieve myself of these thoughts, I'm going to explore the question in some depth. If by "religion," one means all organized systems of belief, then my answer is a qualified yes. Religion tends to alter our consciousness and view of the world. It placates the downtrodden. And in many cases, it can give comfort by numbing the pain of this world with promises of future enlightenment or paradise.

There is a fly in the ointment, though. Marx's famous statement only holds true if, as he believed, religion is nonsense. What happens, though, if one religion is true? I am a Christian, and Christianity is nothing like an opiate. An opiate dulls the senses and induces relaxation to the point of apathy. Christianity, on the other hand, calls believers to act boldly out of love for everyone. It goes without saying that some bold Christian actions have been indefensible; however, we are not discussing the actions of sinful people. We are focusing on what should happen in the Christian life. As C.S. Lewis puts it, people who mature in their Christian faith become "more fully themselves." They are humble, kind, good, generous, and joyful. Hardly the characteristics of the denizens of a steepled opium den.

OK, but that's Christianity in high-minded theory. Does Christianity in practice act as an opiate? My friend Coco once quipped, "just because somebody's a Christian, that doesn't give them an excuse to detach their frontal lobe." Sometimes, even people who believe in the Truth use it to relieve themselves of the pressures of critical thought. This intellectual laziness is often couched in euphemisms like "feeling God's presence" and "making an emotional connection." While these are important aspects of faith, they don't exist exclusive of knowledge. What's more, a lack of knowledge of the Truth often leads to beliefs that run contrary to the Bible. But is that truly the religion acting as an opiate? I say no. Rather, sinful nature rears its ugly head in the form of laziness.

I've never put much stock in Marx. I'm happy to conclude here that his thoughts on religion were just as flawed as his economic system.

12-step Program Introductions

My name is Dave, and I'm . . .

a Christian man

an obsessive White Sox fan. Really. There are only 16 of us left. We should start an actual support group. 12 steps might not be enough. In fact, this is enough to warrant its own blog.

a slightly less obsessive IU Hoops fan. At least I have rabid, state-wide fan base with me on this one.

a Bears/IU Football/Bulls fan, but only on "healthy" levels. When I say "healthy," I mean the feminine definition. I can miss a few games without breaking out in hives, and the games don't affect the quality of my day. Plenty of men would say that means I'm not much of a fan, and I'd agree with them. But let's not split hairs.

a sports radio addict.

an undiscovered jazz singer. Yep, I croon. If you're reading this and happen to own a jazz club, please pay me to sing.

a rageaholoic. I just can't live without rageahol! OK, that's not true. But I do love The Simpsons. And Family Guy. And Bugs Bunny. And the Cartoon Network show with the talking meatball and goateed french fries. I have no shame about being 26 and liking cartoons.

a grammar dork. Dangling prepositions bug the hell out of me. My family hates this.

overqualified for unemployment, but underqualified for really good (read: high-paying) jobs.

funnier than this post probably makes me seem.

If you're wondering why you should care about any of these things, I can't really blame you. This is really just a first brief foray into writing, and I'm not sure if any of these things will come up again in this blog. Except sports. Count on reading about sports again. I'll try to post relatively regularly, but mostly I'll just be using this forum to jot down thoughts, opinions, rants, and funny stories. Here's hoping that this is interesting and fun, even if it's just for me.