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Our beaver pelt trader of the week is the University of Tennessee's Chris Lofton who played his senior season shortly after being treated for testicular cancer. What's most amazing about this is that he didn't tell a single person about the illness or make any excuses about his play. It's just as astounding that the few people who knew about the treatment didn't allow the story to get out.
On to All That and a Bag of Mail.
Jeremy Ball writes:
"I think you are spot on regarding adults wearing jerseys. My friends and I also incessantly used a variable derisive remark on this theme; ours went something like 'Man, (insert name of star athlete here) has really let himself go.' This was always funny because the person wearing the jersey was almost invariably the opposite of an athlete. Short, fat, pasty and out-of shape people are vastly overrepresented in the adult jersey-wearing population. Add to this the fact that the most popular jerseys are typically the greatest athletes in the world (wide receivers, tailbacks, basketball players) and you've got a recipe for disaster. Having said that: "It would be tougher to deal with baseball players, particularly corner infielders, of the pre-steroid era; the phrase 'Man, John Kruk/Terry Pendleton has really let himself go,' just doesn't have the same ring to it. "I do, however, think that one exemption is in order. My friends were out in public in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, one night. One of these individuals was a fairly tall, broad shouldered African-American who was wearing a Steve McNair jersey. It should be noted that this individual does not look like Steve McNair at all. At one point, a drunk patron approached him for his autograph. This person would not accept that he was not actually Steve McNair, to the point that he ended up conceding and giving this guy an autograph. I think he should get a pass. Anyone who can legitimately pass for the athlete in question, even to an extremely inebriated person, should be able to wear that jersey again, if for no other reason than for the hope of a repeat performance. "To me, this is even funnier than the original joke, because now this autograph is in one of two places: "1. On the wall of the original drunk, who constantly brags about the night that he partied with Steve McNair in Gatlinburg. "2. On the wall of some poor schmuck who honestly believes he has a legitimate autograph and frequently regales his visitors with: "He got so drunk one night he actually gambled away the McNair autograph to me!"
This e-mail is awesome on so many levels. First, the combination of Steve McNair and Gatlinburg. If you've never been to Gatlinburg before, this won't be as funny to you. But for some reason I'm picturing McNair sifting through a bag of dirt at the gem mine trying to find jewels. That image literally has me crying.
For the record, one of Gatlinburg's top tourist attractions involves putting a bag of dirt in a screen and sifting through mud to look for valuable jewels. When I was a kid, playing hillbilly putt-putt golf (it was on a hill and you had to ride a tractor up to play), sifting through dirt for gems and looking for bears represented the perfect vacation. Welcome to a Tennessee childhood. True story: My wife and I went to Gatlinburg in 2006 and I made her do all these things. She didn't think it was as cool.
Second, that the drunk guy believes Steve McNair would wear his own jersey out to the bar in Gatlinburg. If I were a famous athlete this is probably the one disguise I would feel comfortable in, my own jersey. (As we established a while back in the column, Fred Smoot actually wears his own jersey out all the time). Why didn't your friend just say, how big of a tool would I have to be to wear my own jersey? Screw it, that logic wouldn't have worked with his Gatlinburg stalker.
Third, imagine if your friend in the McNair jersey had taken a woman home by claiming to be McNair while wearing the McNair jersey and then the woman had gotten pregnant. McNair gets served with court papers, the paternity test fails, and some poor kid out there spends the rest of his life hearing his mom say, "If it wasn't Steve McNair then why did he have on his jersey on at the Gatlinburg bar? That paternity test lied."
Brandi writes:
"You can imagine my shock when I was looking up info on the Tin Roof bar in Nashville and your name was featured as a celebrity who frequents the place.
"'Celeb sightings nearly every time I go -- last night was Nick Carter from the Backstreet Boys (OK I didn't say they were always A-list celebs!) and my favorite funny sports writer, Clay Travis. But, I've seen anyone from Keith Urban to Jon Bon Jovi to Carrie Underwood and one of the Allman Brothers there at any given time. They know it's a fun time!'
"Are you a celebrity now?"
I'm speechless.
Among a very small segment of the population that is overly educated, drinks too much, has a fondness for apostrophes, pink dolphins and beards, I'm moderately well known. Me and my boy OHGID -- Andy Jackson are neck and neck on the Nashville bar scene. Honestly, the only thing I can say about being considered a celebrity for a bar I go to is this is an incredible insult to Nick Carter and all that he stands for.
Thomas Meert writes:
"Clay I love the column and the book. My favorite part is your deep interest in the 'bama bangs and as a connoisseur of trends among the younger generation of today, what trend do you consider more concerning between 'bama bangs and this." All trends emanating from New Jersey are infinitely more terrifying. This is where wristbands, sideways hats, white guys who use the word phat, fake tans, Kangol hats, tennis shoes without laces, barbwire tattoos, striped shirts unbuttoned to the navel, and double earrings on men all began. Worst of all, these guys don't have any sense of humor about themselves. Most guys with 'Bama Bangs are aware they look ridiculous, but they're OK with looking ridiculous. That's sort of the story of my life so I can understand that. But guido guys from New Jersey think they're cool. Don't even get me started on the accents.
Rob writes:
"Clay, as a devoted fan who was recently fired from my job, have you ever been fired from any jobs?"
First of all my condolences on the firing. You'll be fine. Keep your head up. From now on no matter what your job was, that job sucked. You have to believe this even if you were being paid six figures to supervise the Laker Girls locker room.
To answer your question, I've been fired twice. In college, when I was 19, I worked at the Abercrombie in Pentagon City Mall. This was just across the Potomac from Washington, D.C., and I had to take Metro's blue line there to work because I didn't have a car in college. This was back when the Metro shut down at midnight and there were several GW kids who worked there. So lots of times we'd be sprinting down to catch the last train back to the city.
Anyway, I clocked about 20-25 hours a week. They paid $9 an hour which, at the time, seemed like highway robbery to stand around and hit on girls. One of my work days was Sunday. The high-tech Abercrombie schedule wasn't made for the week until Saturday night and those of us who worked on Sunday were supposed to call in and find out what our hours were on Saturday night. Only I was always out on Saturday nights, didn't have a cell phone, and never called. Several weeks in a row my bosses woke me up with phone calls on Sunday morning to tell me I was already supposed to be there. Then, one day, I got a check in the mail at my dorm room. That settled it.
Later I heard that one of the managers gathered all the employees around him and made a big show of marking through my name on the employee roster and lecturing people on the need to call in on Saturday night. He said failure to do so meant you weren't "Abercrombie material." I got my revenge, though. The manager was 28 or 29 and later that year he was showing up for a party in a GW dorm room. I was leaving the dorm and he was like, "Clay, bro, can you sign me in?"
I told him no. For all I know he might still be waiting to get into the dorm party. Of course, now he's 37 so this is even more awkward for him.
The other firing came after my first year of law school when I worked on Jim Cooper's congressional campaign. Now Jim Cooper is Congressman Jim Cooper and represents the city of Nashville. He loves me. I'll save that story though so this mailbag doesn't turn into a million-word answer. Suffice it to say my firing involved wrecking his wife's Volvo, colon cancer, and an unauthorized trip to New York City.
Brad LeGrand writes:
"Talk about getting it done!
World Beard Championships
They also have Beard Team USA"
Superb find. Some people dream of covering Super Bowls, I dream of covering the World Beard Championship.
Justin writes:
"Consider yourself cordially invited to my brother's bachelor party. That's right, my brother had the foresight to select me as his best man, therefore giving me free reign of all things bachelor party related. I just thought this might be something that might interest you because it involves gambling, whiskey, baseball, and general tomfoolery. "The bachelor party will take place in Louisville, starting off with a day at Churchill Downs and an evening at Louisville Slugger Field for a minor league baseball game. The next morning will be spent being driven from bourbon distillery to bourbon distillery, on a tour of the Bourbon Trail where the whiskey flows like water. Obviously, the times that I have not already planned for us will be filled with other vices. "I am leaving off vital information, like the name of my brother and date of event, just in case this makes a mailbag."
I appreciate the invite but here's the deal: I have a three-month-old. My bachelor party trips have to be rationed now. Especially if I'm leaving town. Aside from the fact that people in Louisville hate me ever since I revoked their membership in the South, one of my cardinal rules is that bachelor parties have to, in some form or fashion, involve female nudity or shooting at things while drunk. Preferably both (although hopefully not at the same time unless you're in Latvia). I'm hoping these are the other vices of which you speak.
Otherwise a bachelor party becomes very similar to a bachelorette party. I'm sure there are fun bachelorette parties, but I've never seen one. Girls walk around with penis blow-pops, tiaras, large white ribbons draped all over them, and awkwardly dance in large circles to bad songs from the 1980s. It's like the Miss America pageant minus the suspense and plus penis straws. I don't get the purpose of this. Basically bachelorette parties are like the retarded cousins of bachelor parties.
Chris writes:
"Clay, only one operative nostril? Have you and your Dad ever thought you might be caught in a real world Total Recall/Matrix type event? Perhaps you need one of those extraxtors that Arnold had to use in the movie to remove the bug?"
Thanks to the one nostril my wife says I breathe like a freight train. I don't snore, but sometimes we'll be sitting down watching Chelsea Lately (yeah, I know, I suck but she's really funny) and my wife will turn to me and say, "You're breathing too loud." Since breathing is sort of important to life, I can't really moderate this.
The other day I fell asleep with Fox on my chest and my wife walked in and woke me up. "Oh great," she said, "you both breathe like freight trains." So the early read is that three generations of Travis men might have only one operative nostril. Either Fox is genetically cursed or we're all still in the Matrix. Maybe both are true. But Fox is certainly genetically cursed.