Superbowls and Athletic Addictions

“This was a night when you try to keep everything in perspective by going through the checklist of reasons why you shouldn't be depressed — "Are my kids healthy?" (CHECK) "Do I love my significant other?" (CHECK) "Are my parents still alive and healthy?" (CHECK) "Do I like my job?" (CHECK) "Do I have a good group of friends?" (CHECK) — and just by doing that, you feel like the biggest moron on the planet.
I have never been able to answer the question, "Why does this matter to me so much?" That's just the way it's always been. Ever since I can remember. You get older, your life changes, your friends change, your house changes, family members start dying, your kids start morphing into miniature people … and yet, one thing never changes for anyone who truly cares about sports. See, there's no feeling quite like watching your team blowing a big game. It's devastating. It's paralyzing. It's the only feeling that a 6-year-old, a 42-year-old and a 64-year-old can share exactly. You never get over it. You never stop thinking about the three or four plays that could have swung the game. It becomes something of a sports tattoo. You live with it forever, and then you die.”

Bill Simmons, devoted fan of the major Bostonian athletic teams penned these paragraphs following the defeat of the Patriots at hands of the Giants, a New York rival who had eviscerated their souls in perhaps an even more excruciating manner four years previously.  I too have grappled with this issue, of emotionally disproportionate reactions to events that lack any legitimate economic, physical, or geopolitical meaning.  I have felt the pangs of anguish typically reserved for tyrannical injustice as a direct consequence of the divergent chaos-mathematics of impacts of various curved surfaces.  Furthermore, despite visceral overreactions befitting of one suited for a straitjacket, padded walls, and electro-convulsion therapy, I know that my symptoms are quite typical amongst the populace.
I could begin some discourse on commonly-held societal delusions, oddities, idiosyncrasies, and follow up with pretentious explanations of local civic pride, the bonds amongst otherwise unconnected plebes, or the beatific experience of receiving the desired outcome to a seemingly uncontrollable event.  I will not.

One morning, after the game’s outcome had relocated from the portion of my consciousness reserved for immediate, all-compassing current events to the section devoted to old news of historical note but limited present relevance, I found myself driving the roads of my Midwestern town.  After a moisture-filled night with temperatures that briefly fell below freezing, I awoke of a world of grey skies, lightly dusted grasses, barren corn fields, and the assorted shrubbery and leafless vegetation all caked in white, frozen coatings.  It looking stunningly abiotic, like the ashen precursor to a dystopian description of some post-apocalyptic world.  Everything seemed utterly dead.  Four lane roads tracing Cartesian grids, monotonous scenery, pick-up trucks with religious bumper-stickers, workmen waist deep in the frozen ground presumably tending to piping on what must be an unimaginably brutal work day causing guilt as my climate controlled ass rests comfortably upon a seat-warmer.  Everyone has work to accomplish – and given the thoroughly dispiriting panorama of dull colors and that general post-solstice malaise from too many weeks of cold winds and dry skin, diversions are not only beneficial, not only merited, but crucial sentinels of sanity.

So, given the banal, regurgitated, reproduced, predictable plots and characters of sit-coms, the déclassé, overly-edited, inarticulate dialogues of reality television, so very many of us choose sporting events as the ultimate unscripted, unrehearsed, unsanitary form of entertainment. Everyone chooses their intoxicant, that which is imbibed to cleanse the mental and emotional detritus of another day.  Why not sports?  Minimal risk of systemic organ dysfunction, addictive and habit-forming behaviors to be sure, but with limited deleterious effects on productivity and professional stability, perceptive warping of reality (see first paragraph), of course, but no worse than any other escapism, and probably far better than many.

Children, often unencumbered by the trials of what DFW refers to as “the day to day trenches of adult life,” play the sports in schoolyards we now affix our eyeballs to blinking screens to witness.  Perhaps it is that innocence, that freedom of thought, freedom from responsibilities and stressors, the liberating, placating logic of rules, and scores, and purely merit-based success we so covet.

I’ll pick my poison, and consume it gladly.
   

The Temporary Nature of Greatness

I awoke at 6AM in the Midwest, in time to catch the 4^th and 5^th sets of a tennis match which ultimately represented an epic struggle that no longer required the context of chalk-white lines and furry green spheres.   Brian Phillips, a writer from grantland.com framed the greater meaning of this record-setting affair more eloquently than I could have hoped to manage myself.  Nonetheless, I feel compelled to respond to chosen bits of his truly beautiful prose.

“Until this tournament, I never fully realized how much Nadal means to tennis. I knew he was a great player, obviously. But I'm a goner for Federer, and Nadal has often felt to me like an infuriating obstacle, a berserk dervish with the demonic power to out-frenzy Roger's grace and lucidity. His tennis was a bludgeoning adrenaline rush, a Ramones song that lasted four hours. Had he never been born, Federer would have won the 20 majors he seemed destined for in 2007. I admired what Nadal had done, and I loved the insanity at the top of the men's bracket. But deep down, in some atavistic corner of my sports fan's heart, I kind of wanted him gone.”

There comes an odd moment of recognition when another writer’s capacity to articulate a sentiment eclipses your own aptitude for expressing your inner monologue.  This paragraph accomplished just that, but in this case, delivered a stomach-punch of guilt and shame as the maraschino cherry atop the whipped-cream of my own insecure fandom.   Federer, as a metaphor, is who I aspire to be.  Nadal, likewise, is who I know damned well I never will be.  Federer is older than me, albeit by a scant 34 months.  Nadal, is my junior, theoretically my inferior in maturity and wisdom – and in reality, light-years ahead of the destination of my biological journey.

Federer is supremely talented, the ultimate in innate gift refined and polished to scintillating, lustrous perfection.  I too wish for the pinnacle of my profession, for superior aptitude to light my path, if in reality, like most of us, I lack the dedication to achieve it.  His air is one of smooth, quasi-arrogant elegance.  He glides between the lines, riding the undulations of ephemeral currents of athletic intuition.

 “He plays like he's fighting giants. It's not just the sneer, or the muscles, or the hair, or that forehand — you know, the one where he swoops the racket all the way around his head like he's whipping the team pulling his chariot. It's also that frantic tenacity that used to drive me so nuts. Federer seems devastated when he loses but he also seems to sense losses coming and accept them before they arrive. When Nadal falls behind, he turns the match into life and death. He gets mad. He hesitates less. He hits the ball harder. He doesn't look sad or scared. He looks defiant, and he plays like he's possessed.”

 Nadal is, by his very nature, more than talented, more than brilliant.  He is the internal fortitude, the unwavering resolve, the sheer obstinate defiance of an unbreakable mind.  He’s right-handed…but somewhere along the line, forged himself into the most formidable lefty since Rod Laver.  He has sculpted his body as a soldier might sharpen his bayonet, as a lethal, hemophilic weapon.  Vicious, powerful, bloodthirsty…yet the human being is gracious, measured, well-adjusted, multi-lingual, and thoroughly humble.   

“But is that any consolation? How does it feel to die at the end of the book, this many times in a row? I mean, think about it. You spend years in the shadow of your rival. You never stop working or believing. Finally it all comes together: you surpass him. For a year, maybe two, you win everything. You turn the game upside down, and your bottomless reserve of will makes you seem unstoppable. All the records are going to fall. Then, more or less suddenly, a guy you used to beat comfortably surpasses you. Long before your reign was supposed to end, you find yourself overshadowed again. You lose five straight, six straight, seven straight to the new champion, all in finals, three of them in majors. You're 25, in what should be the peak of your prime as an athlete, and you're right back where you started. It turns out that your relentlessness isn't an unstoppable force. But — precisely because you have it — you keep going as if it is.”

 The harshest reminder of all lies in his age.  25.  At a point in my life where considerably less devastating disappointments would almost surely be sufficiently discouraging as to force a strong reconsideration of my current course, Nadal plows forward inexorably once again, because, after all, his personality knows no other gear.  I rarely place myself within the psychological space of the athletes whose exploits I follow on television.  Whether it is my own perception of scholastic superiority or moral self-righteousness after one too many stories of abuse, adultery, self-indulgence, bravado, inarticulate post-game platitudes, etc, I do not emulate these physical specimens.  I do not truly envy Nadal’s forehand or even his chiseled physique.  I envy his unflappable demeanor.  

This brings us to Nadal’s foil, version 2.0; the seemingly invincible Novak Djokovic.  His court-coverage is better than Roger Federer.  The ethereal lateral movement propelled by celestial powers is replaced by an equally sculpted body that slides across a baseline as a predatory snake seemingly snaps and extends its musculature to ensnare victims before they perceive the threat.  The one-handed backhand, vulnerable above the shoulders like some inaccessible Achilles heel to all but Nadal…replaced by Novak’s two-handed demonstration of abdominal torque without equal.  As he rises at the point of impact, not even the violent kick of Nadal’s gyroscopic forehand pierces the defense.  Federer’s shot-making?...Replaced by a consistency more reminiscent of a wall than flesh.  

He too will be surpassed, but by whom?

Unaccountable

            A few days ago, the owner of the Philadelphia Eagles (Jeffrey Laurie) held his regularly-scheduled end-of-season press conference.  Though the timing of this ritual suggested nothing out of the ordinary, the dismal season that preceded it might have led the fanatics who follow the Eagles to conclude that Andy Reid, the longest-tenured coach in the NFL, might finally have worn out his welcome.  After fourteen seasons in which winning was considerably more common than losing, six division crowns, five trips to the NFC championship game and one superbowl appearance after having replaced such coaching also-rans as Ray Rhodes and Rich Kotite, and a return to contention from the 3-13 team he inherited, one must conclude that his stay had been, on balance, a net positive. 

            Of course, one juxtaposes these favorable points with the inability to win a superbowl despite nine trips to the playoffs, the 1-4 record in NFC championship games despite being at home for three of them and the favorite in four, countless failures to demonstrate even marginally competent clock management, teams with the infuriating ability to raise hopes before dashing them in a plethora of ever more grotesque disappointments, an inability to address his obdurate insistence on a pass-heavy offense even when it seems ineffective, and a borderline sociopathic refusal to answer even the most innocuous questions from the media.  Finally, following one of the most opulent of many free agent classes to arrive in Philly, the team began 4-8, looking at times discombobulated, at times distracted, and at times, downright disinterested.  A defensive coordinator with no defensive coordinating experience (appointed at the behest of one Andy Reid) looked overmatched from the first game onward.  The Eagles turned the football over 38 times – 31^st of 32 teams in the NFL, ahead only of a team which lost its final 10 contests…some of them quite badly.  When the Eagles won their final four, largely meaningless games against inferior and in one case, indifferent competition, fans regarded the oasis as the mirage it obviously was.  Case in point, after averaging 2.4 turnovers per game in the first 12 games, during their four-game climb to mediocrity, they averaged 2.25 per game…a rousing improvement indeed.* 

            When Mr. Laurie began addressing the media and those following with rapt attention in front of televisions and radios throughout the greater Philadelphia area, he began by acknowledging the frustration of his fans, decrying the season as “unacceptable” along with a variety of other unmistakable words constructed carefully beforehand to portray an image of frustration, anger, and the sense that despite his wealth and power, he too was as irritated and disgusted as the fans who buy tickets.  Of course, he did not fire his coach.

I'm not surprised that Reid was not fired.  However, there is unmistakable disappointment when no one is truly accountable for undesired results.  We live in an era of spin, plausible denials of responsibility, and bulletproof figures of wealth and power, whom are seemingly never truly at fault.

            When a financial system collapses, and the powers that be argue that they made rational decisions despite previous warnings to the contrary, the masses are rightly enraged…then they write the next check to their mutual funds and financial planners.  When politicians unfailingly point fingers across the aisle, despite generally lacking the courage, statesmanship, and savvy to address the work of the nation, we gripe…then re-elect them.  When socialites and celebrities blame everything from the media to their mothers to the pressure on them that the rest of us mere mortals fail to comprehend for their every indiscretion, we criticize…then attend their next movie.

            Recently, an independently wealthy group of owners in two separate sports locked their players out of their jobs for want of a more usurious split of billions during a time in which most Americans struggle to feed, clothe, and house themselves, ignoring the tens of thousands of low-wage employees that their industries support.  We complained, we allowed pundits to decry their greed…then promptly returned to following their sports.

            Why do we continue to expect different behaviors?  This is the world we inhabit - a world in which people are blamed, but never held accountable.  This occurs from elementary school, where failing to master basic concepts might yield red ink from a teacher but still results in promotion, and permeates the culture in countless ways thereafter. 

            The only part of this that angers me is that we are still surprised and outraged.  We get what we pay for.

*It is essentially indisputable that the largest single reason for the Eagles’ failure this season stems from their inability to maintain possession of the football.  After finishing 3^rd in the NFL in total offense and 8^th in total defense (no other team in the NFL placed in the top-10 on both sides of the football), the 31^st place finish in terms of total giveaways (also tied for 30^th in terms of giveaways – takeaways) thoroughly torpedoed an otherwise talented team.  Quarterback Michael Vick, in his end-of-season press conference, discussed his turnovers (19 of the 38 total turnovers could be directly attributed to Vick, though he started only 13 games and completed only 11), yet insisted that the team’s poor showing was not the result of them.  He believes he has erred, but not that his errors wrought any deleterious effect.  This ought to be incredible…yet it is both credible, and predictable. 

Unawairness

            Verification of one’s lucidity generally involves the battery of straightforward questions, generally designed to ascertain whether the person in question has at least a perfunctory awareness of their current situation.  Though these questions often vary, once one has successfully answered the old saw, “how many fingers am I holding up?” the typical follow-up involves some form of the question, “where are we now?”  This seems fair, as without much thinking a functional brain can deliver an answer to that question.  Currently, I am on the second floor of a building in the Philadelphia suburbs.  Were a greater level of specificity required, details such as the neighborhood, street name, and numerical address would come to mind easily and supplement an already fairly specific description of location. 

            However, as human beings, we often deprive ourselves of such seemingly constant states of awareness.  Consider the example of a person who falls asleep as a passenger in a moving automobile – upon awakening, were they to be asked “where are you?” though they could, of course, describe that they were inside a moving vehicle, immediately, they would not be able to place themselves.  That said, scenery offers contextual clues, which often allow for repositioning, whether a mile marker on a highway, or a familiar building.  One location is unlike these others, it is near total deprivation of positioning. 

            Recall the last time you have fallen asleep while aboard an aircraft in flight.  If you are anything like me, your first reaction upon awakening has nothing whatsoever to do with location analysis, but rather, with the glance at your wristwatch to determine how many minutes of otherwise mind-numbing thumbing of the in-flight magazine you have spared yourself.  Despite this piece of information, if you have ever bothered to ponder this notion, your personal knowledge of your whereabouts is shockingly uncertain.  Consider the proverbial flight from New York to Los Angeles.  While most of us possess some perfunctory understanding over American geography, the plane neither flies at a constant velocity (climbing and descending are indeterminately faster or slower than cruising altitude), nor follows a linear path between the point of departure and the destination.  Given the geodesic patterns traversed by commercial airliners (I never fail to be amazed at how little time geometry teachers spend discussing the limitations of Euclidian geometry upon a globe which is anything but flat), even the flight path is unknown.  At best, upon awakening somewhere in the middle of a trans-continental flight, I could vaguely speculate which state might be lingering miles beneath the plane.  

            What was disconcerting that this did not, in any way, feel disconcerting.  Were I to have awakened from a protracted slumber in any other context and found myself unable to discern my location, even to the level of specificity of which of the fifty states currently housed my body, the sensation of disorientation would have been profound and unsettling.  In this case, despite being housed in a metallic cylinder hurtling through the troposphere at six hundred miles per hour with windows that reveal clouds that obscure any salient geographic detail, my information deprivation is thoroughly uninteresting. 

            Thus, allow me to posit that the concept of a handful of necessary factoids, which are necessary for lucidity and functional awareness, is actually context dependent.  Were pseudo-concussed football players to be similarly incapacitated on airplanes, their trainers would be forced to ask tremendously different questions…

An Illogical Horror

            Recently, I arrived at long-term parking at the Central Illinois Regional Airport.  Given the abundance of open, flat space in Bloomington, Illinois, this lot is free to all travelers.  For a young man whose most frequented airports lie are Philadelphia, O’Hare, and Newark (NJ), this is a financial boon that never ceases to amaze.  Of course, the price paid for such a fiscal convenience is that one often has limited flexibility regarding the times of flights.  Having purchased a ticket on a 6:45 AM flight, my day began at 4AM in Champaign, replete with fog-covered highways without streetlights and a check-engine light which appeared at the ideal moment to induce maximum terror.  The prospect of immobility in a place where literally, “no one can hear you scream,” at an hour during which the number of cars passed on the roadways could be counted using only my carpal and tarsal digits had one fringe benefit.  While typically, 60 miles through nowhere would induce a level of boredom demanding the most engaging of music and conversation (even without a passenger…yes…I have spoken to myself for extended periods in a car to stave off Midwestern-scenery-induced hypnosis), the adrenaline-soaked concern for missing my flight or worse was sufficient to fix my attention.

            Upon parking my car, now borderline delirious with some amalgam of relief and early-morning stupor, as this was still an hour before sunrise, I began to walk towards the airport.  Roughly forty yards from my car, as is my routine, I touch my hands to the outside of my jean pockets, to verify that they contain my wallet, my keys, and my cellular phone.  They do not.  My phone is unaccounted for.  I am now almost as terrified and helpless as I had been in the car minutes before despite the distinct difference between the two situations.  Firstly, let us note that I had placed a cell-phone call from my automobile en route.  At worst, my phone is located in my car.  Secondly, my car is a mere thirty-seconds of walking away from my current location.  Despite this, my brain processes the possibility of a two-flight journey followed by a car ride without the opportunity to communicate with my fiancée or my parents.  How will they know to pick me up?  How will they know if I have made my flight?  How can I possibly prevent their inevitable angst at my perceived inconsideration and irresponsibility followed by their crippling concern about my welfare?  How will I find sufficient pay phones – are there even pay phones to be found?  I have no quarters on me!  I don’t carry a calling card anymore!  Surely someone at the desk at an airport will know what I can do…

            The proximity of my phone (which was sitting between the seat and the door in the car) notwithstanding, the true comedy here is that I received my first cellular phone within the last dozen years, and it has only been within the last six years that it has become my sole means of communication.  My generation has come to view the world differently.  One evening, standing before perhaps twenty of my students at a review session, I asked, via a show of hands, if any of them had a land-line telephone in their dorm or apartment.  Zero hands were raised.  I, and another teaching assistant were also present, both of us in our twenties, and neither of us in possession of a landline.  I have been a financially-independent adult for five or six years.  I have paid rent in five apartment buildings.  I have never owned a landline phone since my collegiate dorm room.  Thus, to me, to my contemporaries, to my generation as a whole, the ability to contact and be contacted by anyone and everyone in our lives is fully decoupled from the state of “being home.”  They are as unrelated as hunting and cooking – two activities that once seemed inextricably linked.  The fact is, life is wholly livable in a modern society without cellular phones.  In 1995, boarding airplanes and traveling around the USA was no less ubiquitous than it is today…and only the very, very wealthy were carrying cell phones.  Now, the notion of lacking communication capacity is foreign, and as is often the case with foreign states of being, terrifying.

            Thus, in the darkened, foggy, Midwestern parking lot, I stood, like Kurtz on his death bed, left to hear the voice in my own idiotic head, “the horror, the horror!”

50 Hours in Academia

            I have recently returned from the delightful academic ritual that is the scholarly conference.  Between my arrival at the airport in my small university town and my subsequent return nearly fifty hours later to the minute, there were four flights totaling roughly twelve hours on airplanes, an additional five or six hours awaiting departures, two to three hours in rental cars, and twelve to fourteen hours sleeping on an air mattress furnished by collegiate friends who understand all too well the academic lifestyle to which we have all become accustomed.  For those of you scoring at home, this would account for all but fifteen to nineteen hours of the journey.  Given that my host is a dear friend of mine whom I had seen in person a whopping total of three times since the day we graduated from college, the notion of traveling 2,000 miles and indulging his substantial hospitality while failing to at least interact face-to-face for a few hours is abhorrent and depressing.

            Thus, the whirlwind begins.  Amidst the valet baggage left on jet-ways, airline magazine crossword puzzles, a book full of Malcolm Gladwell essays,  and a well-taped sprained-ankle which expands just to the point of wrap-induced agony in a pressurized cabin, the journey begins.  I schlep, I make connections, I locate my overpriced rental car, pay for the GPS-navigation system knowing damned well that such an expense is non-reimbursable, and reject their offers of gasoline and additional insurance, which incidentally, costs more per day than my personal car insurance demands per month…and that includes my renter’s insurance policy as well.  I exit the rental car center, adjust to a new vehicle that would better suit a senior citizen than the under thirty set.  Of course, being aware that such conferences are not exactly bastions of the suave, debonair, and socially gifted, I suppose the vehicle suits the occasion.  In any event, after an uneventful trip down “the 101,” I arrive at my final destination around the hour at which my body begins to wonder why it has not received sleep in roughly 20 hours nor food in roughly 10.  After a happy reunion with my hosts, I bed down for the evening. 

            The following morning, despite my intellectual knowledge to the contrary, my jet-lagged brain still believes 7AM is 9AM…and jars me from my peaceful slumber.  After a delightful breakfast involving a plate of eggs Benedict in which the Canadian bacon was swapped out for its greasier, crispier, and utterly delectable American equivalent, I drove north.  My GPS adroitly navigates me to a parking garage a couple blocks from the conference, and of course, in my infinite wisdom, I have forgotten to determine the cardinal direction of those two blocks.  After some awkward phone calls and wandering, I arrive at the conferences and begin accomplishing the tasks for which I came.

            Posters are visited, one of which bears some of my previous work – I smile, nod and converse in its vicinity.  I answer questions gamely, concerned that my demeanor and charisma may ultimately prove as relevant as my hydrological acumen.  I skip lunch, finalize the slides for my oral presentation, and settle in to listen to a handful of talks.  For those unfamiliar with the genre, the standard-issue academic talk consists of 10-12 minutes of speaking, 2-3 minutes of questions, and a modicum of extra time to round out each 15-minute session and allow one speaker to exit the stage while his or her successor is introduced.  This afternoon, one particular individual failed to adhere to such constraints in a spectacular, bordering on awkward, uncomfortable, and comical manner.  Allow me to preface the description by noting that the stage was a equipped with a 12-minute, countdown timer, replete with flashing lights directly in front of the presenter.  Short of being fully blind, it was impossible to miss.  Several presenters exceeded their time in a manner that prohibited questions, leaving me to wonder if this was by design on their parts.  However, more brazenly, one man motored on for 14+ minutes, obliterating any time for a transition between presenters, let alone questions, before a moderator mercifully interrupted him…but the shenanigans were just beginning.  When he asked for “one more minute?” his request was granted, if only to avoid the non-sequitur of a yanking a man from the stage who seemed nowhere remotely close to a conclusion.  When after a minute, rather than wrapping up his speech, he blithely continued, undeterred by the circumstances, the moderator mounted the stage, stood behind him, and spoke over his right shoulder (clearly audible to the audience), “you need to stop now.”  He did not.  At this point, the audience began the uncomfortable laugher of those who bear witness to a socially sensitive situation, unable to discern what they themselves would do – much like watching the scene in evening sit-coms in which a relationship under wraps is unintentionally revealed to the previously oblivious ex.  It was evident that this man was absolutely not planning on leaving the stage because an affable moderator requests it.  Given that the use of physical force on small, frail, thick-glasses-wearing, foreign-accent sporting academics would seem as implausible as a porn star in a convent, the options were limited.  Perhaps the best description is that of the overly-theological academy awards acceptance speech in which every actor, director, make-up assistant and coffee-delivery person is praised ad nauseum until the music begins and the actor is not-so-delicately ushered off stage.  In this case, not only was there no music, but not even the giant cartoon-like hook of loony toons fame.  We waited, he finished.

            When it came my turn to present, my primary goal became to avoid the ignominious spectacle that had occurred in the room within the past hour.  When I delivered my presentation, after roughly nine minutes and forty seconds, I had finished speaking.  Upon asking the audience for questions, the overwhelming expression on faces was of surprise.  As I am neither the world’s most captivating researcher, nor grievously impaired with respect to public speaking, I presume their expressions stemmed from the fact that unlike any other academic who had presented, I had completed with sufficient time to allow for a grilling.  Nonetheless, I was eager to be grilled, and the process was rather uneventful.

            Returning to the gentleman whose presentation became easily the most noteworthy even of my 50 hours, I noticed, as he closed his presentation, that he had brought with him over 20 slides.  If one’s number of slides is equal to the number of minutes one is allotted for presentation, one walks the razor’s edge.  If one’s number of slides exceeds that number of minutes, the circumstances demand auctioneer-speed oration.  If one’s number of slides doubles the number of minutes allotted for presentation, the task becomes akin to fitting a sumo wrestler into a Porsche…

            Of course, these slides are submitted hours in advance to the officials at the conference.  Perhaps one of them enjoys sporting drives on the autobahns in his 2003 Boxster and has also obtained Yokozuna status.