Pole Position
So, Danica Patrick will be sitting in the cat bird's seat for the running of the Daytona 500.
Good for her.
I am not much of a racing fan. I find the Daytona 500 very interesting and each year, after the race, I tell myself that I'm gonna' pay more attention to who's winning, but soon enough I don't understand what the hell they're talking about, why the races look different and who is in the lead in the standings.
It's not like they print the box scores in the paper and I certainly ain't gonna' search for them.
Yet Danica makes it interesting, doesn't she?
In what other sport are their females competing with males for supremacy?
None.
And believe me, I'm not getting into any discussion of why men and women don't compete on the same field more often, I'm writing this entire blog just to bust on the guys who love NASCAR.
"They have to be great athletes," my brothers and my brother-in-law have told me time and again.
"I can drive a car," I'd respond.
"Not very well," they'd answer.
But it all came about as an argument because during the months of February and March and April and May we'd fight over the television as the pasta was being prepared.
"Put on basketball!" was usually followed by:
"Put on the race!"
And then the fighting would start.
And it all peaked years ago when we would bet on the winner of the Daytona 500. I picked Jeff Gordon to win during the year when you needed to know only one thing about racing:
Jeff Gordon was gonna' win.
And I took home the prize.
The next year I read up on it a bit and when Corinne called to tell me of the pool, as the winner, I chose Dale Jarrett.
He won.
So as the collector of the big prize two years in a row I was first in line for choice #3. I took a guy named Sterling Marlin because people on ESPN told me that he had the fastest car.
Good old Sterling would have won that race too had Dale Earnhardt Sr. not cut him off at every turn so that his son could win.
My sister called me as the race wore down.
"The streak is over!" she cried. "Marlin won't win!"
"He would've if that %&*$NG Earnhardt hadn't cheated!" I yelled.
"Oh boy, he's in a crash," Corinne said.
"I hope it kills him," I answered.
Of course, of course, of course I didn't mean it. I couldn't even open the paper the next day. I cry a little inside whenever I see a big 3 on the back of someone's window.
I've never made a bet on a race since.
But I did have to rattle my brother-in-law Chuck's cage a little.
"The best guy in the sport is a woman?" I asked. "Not sure I'll live long enough to watch a woman in a MLB game."
"You won't either," Chuck answered. "To play that game you have to stand in one spot for long periods of time, scratching your...
Ah, the love of sports.
Good for her.
I am not much of a racing fan. I find the Daytona 500 very interesting and each year, after the race, I tell myself that I'm gonna' pay more attention to who's winning, but soon enough I don't understand what the hell they're talking about, why the races look different and who is in the lead in the standings.
It's not like they print the box scores in the paper and I certainly ain't gonna' search for them.
Yet Danica makes it interesting, doesn't she?
In what other sport are their females competing with males for supremacy?
None.
And believe me, I'm not getting into any discussion of why men and women don't compete on the same field more often, I'm writing this entire blog just to bust on the guys who love NASCAR.
"They have to be great athletes," my brothers and my brother-in-law have told me time and again.
"I can drive a car," I'd respond.
"Not very well," they'd answer.
But it all came about as an argument because during the months of February and March and April and May we'd fight over the television as the pasta was being prepared.
"Put on basketball!" was usually followed by:
"Put on the race!"
And then the fighting would start.
And it all peaked years ago when we would bet on the winner of the Daytona 500. I picked Jeff Gordon to win during the year when you needed to know only one thing about racing:
Jeff Gordon was gonna' win.
And I took home the prize.
The next year I read up on it a bit and when Corinne called to tell me of the pool, as the winner, I chose Dale Jarrett.
He won.
So as the collector of the big prize two years in a row I was first in line for choice #3. I took a guy named Sterling Marlin because people on ESPN told me that he had the fastest car.
Good old Sterling would have won that race too had Dale Earnhardt Sr. not cut him off at every turn so that his son could win.
My sister called me as the race wore down.
"The streak is over!" she cried. "Marlin won't win!"
"He would've if that %&*$NG Earnhardt hadn't cheated!" I yelled.
"Oh boy, he's in a crash," Corinne said.
"I hope it kills him," I answered.
Of course, of course, of course I didn't mean it. I couldn't even open the paper the next day. I cry a little inside whenever I see a big 3 on the back of someone's window.
I've never made a bet on a race since.
But I did have to rattle my brother-in-law Chuck's cage a little.
"The best guy in the sport is a woman?" I asked. "Not sure I'll live long enough to watch a woman in a MLB game."
"You won't either," Chuck answered. "To play that game you have to stand in one spot for long periods of time, scratching your...
Ah, the love of sports.
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