"Take good care of my...bay-bee"

I’ve decided to embark on an exciting new career. Though I might not be completely qualified, recent developments have given me the inspiration to go for it. I mean, if Charlie Weis can become the greatest coach in college football history despite never having played college football and Harriet Miers can almost become a Supreme Court justice without ever having actually argued in a court of law, there’s no reason why I can’t be a NASCAR driver. After all, I have driven a muscle car for the past eight years.

The idea came to me during my drive home from selling the Miata. Yes, that sound you hear is my heart breaking. It seems like just yesterday that I made the impulse purchase on a cold, sleeting day in South Bend; the automotive equivalent of Jimmy Buffett singing, “I gotta fly to Saint Somewhere.” I’ll never forget the stares of envy Michael Flynn and I got while cruising to buy beer with the top down – parkas, hats and gloves on, heat cranked. But I hadn’t treated my baby very well since moving to LA, where some narrow minded folk deem Miatas to be too macho. So she sat sad and lonely, collecting dust and rust like it was her j-o-b. Insult to injury, the neighborhood cats turned her into a feline four-plex.

So I decided to do the right thing and send her to a farm where she could run and play to her heart’s content (check out www.gaycarranch.com). I listed her on eBay and got more dough than I expected, though the guy haggled me down a couple of hundred due to some “bubbling” of paint on the hood. I felt like a mother being told by a modeling scout that her daughter’s acne was a deal breaker. The buyer, Russ, brought his son, Ross, a senior in high school (good thing they didn’t have any more boys). Ross got on his cell phone and excitedly told the person on the other end, “It’s a really cool color.” Uh, that’d be “Montego Blue,” named after the deep shades of the famous Jamaican Bay. I asked him, “Is your dad buying this for you?” Ross shook his head.

“It’s for my sister.”

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, seeing that it’s the 21st century. Women drive pick-up trucks and Hummers; it was only a matter of time till they got around to Miatas.

The horror, the horror

My voice is AWOL, my heart forever shattered. I am inconsolable. The criminal activity that took place in front of thousands sitting inside hallowed Notre Dame Stadium this weekend left me an exhausted, jaded mess of a man. It is a helpless feeling to know that my complaints fall on deaf ears, as the damage has been irreversibly done.

What a coincidence that a Pac-10 officiating crew somehow managed to miss a blatant penalty on the final play of the greatest college football game of the past decade. Even the most biased Trojan fan admits that USC's star running back, Superman, I mean, Reggie Bush illegally shoved QB Matt Leinart across the goal line. Alas, no yellow flag floated down from heaven. And that is truly a shame. But this injustice pales in comparison to the one that occurred on that same field less than 24 hours earlier when - despite information from several SOLID sources - no Garden State Gods of rock jammed during the Friday night pep rally. Two sleepless nights later, I find myself questioning what it means to be a Catholic, a Notre Dame grad and a guy who went to high school in Jersey.

My friends had heard the rumors before I did: Springsteen was going to be at the pep rally. As unlikely as this sounded, it was a good story because The Boss played the United Center in Chicago on Thursday night. 100 miles from South Bend was clearly doable. Now, the obvious question: why would Springsteen want to go hang out at Notre Dame? Before we answer that, children, we must address another rumor that had students buzzing: Ritchie Sambora was on campus. Actually, this was true. A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless because she should be sentenced to an eternity of Britney tunes as punishment for her pulling one of the all-time dorkiest mom moves ever: she asked the guitarist for Bon Jovi if he was, in fact, Bruce Springsteen. Regardless, this source confirmed that one of the only two members of New Jersey's biggest hard rock band whose names people actually know was on campus. Understandably, then, I swallowed the rumor whole. I mean, if Ritchie is here, then Jon can't be far behind, and if Jon is here, then maybe he called Bruce and invited him to a little jam in support of another Jersey guy: ND head coach Charlie Weis.

And this is where I really fell off the deep end. Maybe they all know each other! Maybe Charlie hangs out backstage when Bruce plays Giants Stadium! Maybe Charlie gives the offensive coordinator for the Philadelphia Soul – Jon’s Arena Football League team – advice and Jon owes him a favor! Additionally, Jon is already friends with Charlie’s old boss, Patriots head coach Bill Bellichick, so maybe the latter placed the call to JBJ that got the whole thing going. What? It could happen.

But I am not so stupid to attend my first pep rally in 17 years based on only one solid confirmation. No, sir. I placed two other calls to “connected people” at ND and they each said the same thing: “Don’t miss the pep rally tonight. It’s going to be special.” On my way to the on-campus bar for a pre-concert, I mean, pep rally tune-up, I got one last bit of proof (as if I needed it): the band of the Fighting Irish was practicing “Livin' on a prayer.”

So many people wanted to attend this pep rally – after all, teams with 27 game winning streaks don’t come to town often – that it was moved from the basketball arena into the football stadium to accommodate the throngs. 40,000 easy. Besides, being outside would make it even awesomer when Jon and Bruce took the stage.

It was a no brainer that they’d take that order: Bon Jovi opening for The Boss. I figured each band would get one song, maybe two for Bruce. Both have huge catalogs, but there wasn’t much doubt as to what they’d play: the aforementioned anthem about Tommy and Gina followed by “Born to Run,” the greatest two-fer in live rock history. Roll over, Beethoven! After hearing those songs played at ND stadium, me and ten friends could have beaten the Trojans. It did occur to me, however, that my khaki pants (I had gotten a little dressed up for my book signing at the school bookstore earlier in the day, the highlight of which was an adoring fan asking me, “Do you know who the authors will be tomorrow?”) would not provide me with adequate camouflage should I “explode” with excitement.

As we sat down in the upper deck, I scanned the field to see where the bands would play. Impressive job, I thought, of hiding the stage. They’ve thought of everything. Then, a large wooden horse – yes, a Trojan horse – was wheeled in. Bingo! My friends – having been infected by my enthusiasm – and I nodded knowingly to one another. And who emerged first? The leprechaun. It was hard to stifle the boo.

25 minutes later, I was beginning to sweat a bit. Charlie Weis had introduced Rudy, like, the squat, ugly guy upon whom Sean Astin’s character in the movie was based. He, meaning Rudy, not Sam Sawise Gamgee, then introduced Tim Brown and Joe Montana, Irish legends, sure, but they weren't going to get us jacked up like Jon or Bruce. 40 minutes in, I remembered that Springsteen is touring solo this time. Who is gonna back him up on “Born to Run?” He can’t get us pumped up acoustically! Armed with this knowledge, I gave up on half the dream. Bruce was simply not going to play the pep rally. It was too good to be true, too much to ask for. But I still had Bon Jovi.

Charlie Weis thanked the guest speakers and eventually concluded by reminding the crowd to cheer like crazy only when the bad guys have the ball and to remain silent when we have it. Then he walked off and boom! Fireworks exploded in the empty section of the stadium! Boom, boom! “This is it!” I yelled. And I was right. That was it: the end of the pep rally. No Jon, no Tommy and Gina. Not even a Ritchie sighting, and to think he might have had Heather with him! I trudged out of the stadium with less excitement than I’d had prior to any event in my life, including my Calculus final senior year of high school. Go Irish. Rah, rah.

My “sources” denied ever confirming the Bon Jovi rumors. The “special” thing they mentioned meant Rudy. Seriously. But I did finally get my “Livin’ on a prayer” fix. When the marching band played it at halftime.

October thoughts

A-Rod and Matsui are so cold right now, they'd strike out at a Viking's booze cruise.

Whatever happened to the "wife" shot in baseball telecasts? One of the many perks to being a pro athlete is you're supposed to marry above your level, a la Phil Mickelson, Jeff Gordon, Randy Johnson (no idea what his wife looks like, but c'mon, this 6' 10" guy with the mullet and pockmarked face somehow managed to get married!). Show us the wife section, dammit. We saw Jeter's parents a dozen times. I know Derek isn't married, but he has dated Mariah Carey, Jessica Alba and a Ms. Universe! Give us a peek, would ya, Fox?

Irony: Joe Torre starts Bubba Crosby in center field because he is a defensive upgrade from Bernie Williams. Had Bernie played, the old geezer NEVER would have gotten to the fly ball in right center that caused the crash between Sheffield and Crosby and the Yanks would have escaped the inning down two runs less. Doh!

The #1 ranked Southern Cal (they hate that) Trojans invade Notre Dame Stadium this weekend to put their 27-game winning streak on the line against the Irish. As the saying goes, "No one leaves Notre Dame #1." For the "investors" out there, the Irish + 11.5 is looking very good.

If forced, would you rather watch a World Cup soccer game or a WNBA game? Oh, and Sue Bird is not playing in the hoop game.

Whatever happened to Michael and Jennifer?

Los Angeles - Oscar winner Nicolas Cage and his wife, Alice Kim Cage, gave birth Monday to a boy, Kal-el Coppola Cage, in New York City, said Cage's Los Angeles-based publicist, Annett Wolf. No other details were available.

Well, I can give you some other details. Nic Cage is the latest in a long line of celebrities who have cursed their children with idiotic names. Kal-el is Superman's name when he was a baby on Krypton. A kid better know karate with a name like that, or he'll never get through recess. "Where's your super strength?" Just because Hollywood is making a movie based on every comic book ever written (drawn?) doesn't mean we need to lift names from them, too. A.K. (After Kal-el), how long before the world welcomes Wolverine Kutcher?

By bestowing this moniker on his son, Jor-el, I mean, Nic has done the impossible: Apple's parents, Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin, now seem almost normal. Though no amount of kryptonite could possibly knock Kal-el Cage from the top of the most-ridiculous-name-ever list, I am curious about the rest of the top 5. Clearly, Scout Willis is up there. Maybe Deionne Sanders, Prime Time's daughter.

What say you?