Hail And Farewell; Death Of An Android

Today we memorialize my first, late Android phone (2010-2014) with a selection of photographs which were taken in the days and weeks leading up to its tragic demise.

Upon returning home to The Ranch from the Fault In Our Reds Stars evening (the swingset scene always gets me), I uploaded that evening's photos to my desktop computer (yes, I still have one of those) and tucked snugly into bed.  I awoke the next morning to find my Android experiencing a reboot seizure that was continuous, lasting for several uninterrupted hours.  I did try to give my little 'Droid CPR by rhythmically sliding its keyboard in and out, to no avail.  The Android's condition ultimately proved to be fatal later in the afternoon.

I blame Tony Cingrani.

Herewith, my Android's final photos.

Above, Great American Ball Park post post-game fireworks on May 23rd, 2014.  The lights of Newport, Kentucky seen at distance beyond the mighty Ohio River. 

I do not now recall what images were being displayed upon the ballpark scoreboards but my Android captured them - and the ballyard - in full U2 PopMart brilliance.

I believe it was James Watt - or perhaps James May - who said "Boredom is the mother of invention." Hence, the photo below of a desolate Fiat-Chrysler service department waiting room:

The chairs are comfy, Cardinal Fang.

Shopping excursions to Jungle Jim's International Market are always adventurous.  One never knows just what one will find:

Who could resist the siren song of toxic-green Bug Barf?  Particularly when it is sold by the bottle?  It has a picture of a barfing bug on the label (as you can see).  It's SODAsgusting.  My true aim for perusing the soft drink precinct at Jungle Jim's was to stock up on Mexican Coca-Cola.  I picked up a six-pack:

OK.  You got me.  I cannot tell a tall tale, as was said by George Washington.  Or was it Richard Hammond?  I grabbed two.....

From the Dog Bites Man school of journalism:

Wow!  No Kidding!  There's a shocking headline.  Similarly:

Notify Jeremy Clarkson.  There may be some considerable dispute as to this quoted assertion.

*********

In other news, The Fault In Our Reds Stars was a smashing success!

Nearly 70 page views in one day alone.  That might have set a Heavy Artillery record.  Usually, postings that feature The Incomparable Joe Wilhelm are wildly popular.  This time, it must have been due to the inclusion of Mr's & Mrs' Kuertz & Boo.

Roll the credits!

The Fault In Our Reds Stars

The following assemblage rendezvoused for the Monday June 9, 2014 7:10 pm showing of the summer blockbuster The Fault In Our Reds Stars:

From left to right;  Mr Heavy Artillery, Kuertz's better half The Lady Cassandra making her Heavy Artillery debut (congratulations, and welcome!), the aforementioned Kuertz, Boo, Ashley Ashleigh Ashlee we only just met and I don't yet know the correct spelling of her name but she's really wonderful Mizz Boo and The Incomparable Joe Wilhelm.

The Fault In Our Reds Stars SPOILER:  They don't hit with RISP.

Later in the evening we were graced by the presence of one of my sources from deep within the Reds organization, codenamed BOSS (unpictured).  Also unpictured is my other source deep within the Reds organization, codenamed CAMPBELL, whose duties prevented him from stopping by to chill for a few.  Well, one out of two ain't bad.  Unless it comes to Scoreboard Stumpers, in which case the mighty THS grads you see here.....

.....perform at a superlative 80% clip [Hey, Joe!  Look there at the far left.  Is that a Mila Kunis photo bomb?!]:

Since 1990, 5 Major League pitchers have had seasons in which they pitched at least 150 innings and had an ERA under 2.

Roger Clemens (1.93 in 1990 & 1.87 in 2005), Clayton Kershaw (1.83 in 2013), Greg Maddux (1.56 in 1994 & 1.63 in 1995), Pedro Martinez (1.90 in 1997 & 1.74 in 2000) were the four we nailed, rapid-fire.  Kevin Brown (1.89 in 1996) was the one we didn't get.  Upon having the correct answers revealed, I said to Boo, "Hey!  We batted .800!" to which Boo responded, "I'd take that any season."  

Quite [credit: Jonathan Quayle Higgins].

Unlike those halcyon days of 1980s yesteryear when we were regular denizens of the Top Six seats at old Riverfront Stadium ($3 a seat with a view of everything, including West Virginia), these days we infiltrate - with considerable assistance from covert operatives - the exclusive echelons of Cincinnati's elite patrons of Redleg baseball:

Here's the view from the Club (but not from our seats):

The Toddfather stands in the batters' box, above, that familiar knock-kneed stance shared by so many non-athletic Little Leaguers unmistakable.

The Reds batting was typically anemic (as I said via text the next night to western North Carolina's foremost expert in all things paleological; If the Reds hitters were fixing games ala the 1919 Black Sox... how could anybody tell?).  The hurling of Tony Cingrani was hurl-errific.  Resultingly, the Fox Sports Ohio Champions Club was approaching ghost town levels of population density by the 8th inning:

That evacuation left more frozen sweet treats for the faithful who remained until the bitter end:

The bitter end was made just that much less bitter thanks to the multiple ice cream bars I murdered.

Roll the credits!

Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi Oi Oi! Epsom Derby 2014

Falling on the same calender day, June 7th, as the Belmont Stakes (see below: "Rise Of The Machines; Belmont 2014"), thoroughbred racing fans in England and Europe turned their attention to the 235th running of the Epsom Derby.  The Epsom Derby (named for Lord Derby who hosted the first iteration of the event) is the English equivalent to the Kentucky Derby, that being the most prestigious race for three-year old thoroughbreds in its host country.  Our English cousins might take exception to my characterization as the Epsom Derby long pre-dates the Kentucky Derby, the Epsom variant of the Derby was first run in 1780 whereas our Kentucky Derby was inaugurated in 1875, and also because the Kentucky Derby acquired its name as an homage to the Epsom Derby - a race for which the Kentucky Derby was consciously modeled after.

Similar to the Belmont Stakes, the Epsom Derby is also run at a mile and one-half, but on grass.  And at a mile and one-half and ten yards (show offs!).

The first winner of the Epsom Derby (1780) was Diomed.  Diomed was foaled in 1777 and, later in life, was sold to a Virginian for stud duties where he became one of the foundations for American horse racing bloodstock.  Some internet sources report that Diomed also sired saddlehorses for Thomas Jefferson.

Sir Thomas won the Epsom Derby in 1788.  Sir Thomas was then owned by His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.  Presumably, Sir Thomas was a horse and not an unfortunate human subject of His Royal Highness.  Then again, the 1787 Derby was won by the 12th Earl of Derby's Sir Peter Teazle so one cannot be too certain can one, Mum?

A colt named Skyscraper won the 1789 edition of the Epsom Derby.  Lest you think this horse's name was somehow influenced by the activities of a certain well-known time traveling alien in a blue police box, Skyscraper's sire was Highflyer.

In 1797 the Epsom Derby was won by an unnamed colt.

The Derby champ in 1800 was named Champion, a great name - even if a bit presumptuous.

The Pope won in 1809, or at least a colt named Pope.

Scanning the list of all-time Epsom Derby winners for names both great and silly, one finds:

Sam in 1818

Lap-dog in 1826

Dangerous in 1833

Plenipotentiary in 1834

The Flying Dutchman in 1849

Macaroni in 1863

Pretender in 1869

Iroquois in 1881

Common in 1891

Flying Fox in 1899 (anything named "Flying" is great)

Sunstar in 1911

Mid-day Sun in 1937

Ocean Swell in 1944

Airborne in 1946

Never Say Die in 1954

Santa Claus in 1964

Commander in Chief in 1993

Motivator in 2005

Workforce in 2010

In 1930 a colt named Blenheim won the Epsom Derby.  Later, Blenheim was purchased by an American syndicate for stud duties in in the United States (where there'd already been a Jockey Club-recognized thoroughbred named Blenheim, so in the U.S. this "new" Blenheim became known as Blenheim II).  One member of this syndicate was Calumet Farm for which farm Blenheim II sired 1941 Triple Crown winner Whirlaway.

The roll of Epsom Derby winning owners is filthy with assorted Lords and Dukes and Earls and Barons and Viscounts and which real live nephew of our Uncle Sam really cares if I got those titles in anything resembling a correct order of hierarchy?  Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge.  His Royal Highness appears often, but I think the Brits just let them win so that probably doesn't count:

HRH Prince of Wales in 1788, 1896, 1900.

HRH Duke of York in 1816, 1822.

Scions of His Highness the Aga Khan have cleaned up, and cleaned the clocks of the British royalty:

HH Aga Kahn III in 1930

HH Aga Kahn III in 1935

HH Aga Kahn III in 1936

HH Aga Kahn III in 1948

HH Aga Kahn III in 1952

HH Aga Kahn IV in 1981

HH Aga Kahn IV in 1985

HH Aga Kahn IV in 1988

HH Aga Kahn IV in 2000

In recent years, our oil-rich Arabian pals with their various royal titles have occupied the winners' circle as owners, too, but we don't have all day and this posting is actually about me.  

So let's move on to me.

My own working knowledge of English (and European) thoroughbreds (and of English/European races, jockeys, trainers, etc) is directly a product of learning about those which have had an impact on North American breeding/bloodlines and also of those which have actually raced in the U.S. (almost exclusively in the Breeders' Cup).  Well, that and following the career of the greatest jockey on the planet; the Italian-born Lanfranco "Frankie" Dettori.

In handicapping for the Belmont last week, I stumbled across a note abut this year's Epsom Derby.  Curious, I spent a few minutes looking into the Epsom Derby - seeing who the jockeys and trainers may have been and, most importantly, the sires and dams of the Derby entrants.  My scanning eyes ran aground when I learned of the bloodlines of an entrant named Australia.  Australia is out of a dam named Ouija Board, and sired by Galileo.

When handicapping various Breeders' Cups after the turn of the 21st century, the name Galileo often appeared (usually as the winner) in the past performances of horses entered in Breeders' Cup turf races.  At the end of his own three-year old campaign, Galileo shipped to Belmont to race in that year's 2001 Breeders' Cup Classic.  He lost, as do so many great European turf horses who foolishly enter our dirt races when they should run in the turf races and blow up our Yankee representatives. Following that BC Classic defeat, Galileo was retired to stud duty where he has sired some great animals, notably Red Rocks (who I cashed a massive Win ticket on in the 2006 Breeders Cup Turf at Churchill Downs; the jockey that day was Frankie Dettori) and Frankel.  Frankel retired in 2012 undefeated, a perfect 14 victories in 14 starts and Frankel never ducked any horse or any big race, winning nine Group 1 races consecutively.

The English filly Ouija Board earned over $6 million dollars during her career, and twice won the Breeders' Cup Filly & Mare Turf (in 2004 & 2006, I cashed tickets on her both years).

Having spied both the names of Galileo and Ouija Board, I knew instantly that there wasn't a horse in the Epsom Derby field that could beat Australia.  The crowd at Epsom Downs knew that, too.  They sent Australia off from the gate at odds of 11/8.

On Friday I sent the following text to two loyal subscribers to Heavy Artillery, followers of the Sport of Kings, who I thought might have a passing interest in what I'd discovered about the Epsom Derby:

For what it's worth; tomorrow is also the Epsom Derby.  Horse named Australia bred to destroy turf fields - sired by Galileo, out of Ouija Board.

True to form;

Australia won.  

By the way; the breeder of Epsom Derby winner Australia?  Lord Derby.

Rise Of The Machines; Belmont 2014

Quoting the song "Helpless Dancer" from THE WHO magnum opus Quadrophenia:

And in the battle on the streets, You fight computers and receipts.

Modern sensitivities prevent me from quoting more lyrics from this song as some might find it shockingly offensive to certain non-white segments of the human race, as well as those with amorous preferences which are generally frowned upon by the Catholic Church.  To be fair, the song is less Pete Townshend anthem and more concept album programmatic set piece.

On Belmont Saturday, I would fight a protracted battle with a race track computer and its receipt.  I would ultimately win the battle but lose the war, as you shall see.

But first.....

Following the Preakness Stakes win by California Chrome, predicted here, below, in the May 15 posting titled "All Kentucky, All Of The Time" wherein I wrote:

I fully expect CC to win this Saturday in the Preakness... and then get clobbered in the Belmont three weeks from now.

The handicapping task came into sharp focus, that being determining which Belmont entrant not named California Chrome would be victorious in the third jewel of the Triple Crown and thus deny CC his chance at immortality.  It's been said by many more than me - and by many before me - that the Triple Crown is too rigorous a test for the modern thoroughbred which has been bred less for stamina and more for speed.  Winning the Triple Crown, today, remains possible and I think probable but will take an inordinate amount of luck.  Much more so than that which is usually required to win a horse race.  

Once the pieces to this year's Belmont Stakes puzzle fell into place - intentions announced, entries closed, post position draw, etc - there were two horses toward which immediately I was drawn:  Commissioner and Medal Count.  Commissioner was an early favorite on the Derby Trail before a minor injury caused him to miss the Kentucky Derby and Medal Count was a horse that I included in my Derby exotics but ran into serious traffic turning for home that First Saturday in May.  Medal Count's bloodlines skew somewhat more towards being a turf horse, and not a dirt horse, but the Belmont racing surface - known as "Big Sandy" - is softer/deeper than more typical dirt courses and, most significantly, both Commissioner and Medal Count have been bred to, as we like to say, "run all day."  A.P. Indy, the sire of Commissioner, and Dynaformer, the sire of Medal Count, were themselves thoroughbreds of exceptional stamina.  To any one who would listen To anyone who asked me, and here I'm referencing solely The Incomparable Wilhelm Cousins, I gave them my selections; Commissioner-Medal Count.

As an aside, each horse was assigned Morning Line odds of 20/1.  Back on Derby Day, The Incomparable Joe Wilhelm asked me which three horses I liked (you will recall that I didn't really like anything, but was compelled to pick something).  One the horses I gave him was the #17 Commanding Curve.  Joe Joe replied sometime later;

#17 is 50-1?!  WTF you thinking?

You might remember that Commanding Curve finished second in the Derby, paying an amount equivalent to 4 years of out-of-state college tuition.  Today, there was nary a peep about my liking two horses who went to the Belmont Stakes post with odds of 28-1 and 25-1.  The young grasshopper is learning.

The Thursday before the Belmont, The Old Master Of The Turf and I made preliminary Belmont Day plans.  Work demands prevented Lou from participating.  I spent a couple of hours scanning the past performances that were emailed to me, unsolicited and gratis (now there's a true pal!), by a fellow follower of the Sport of Kings.  You can imagine my level of shock when Mr B - the man who likes to arrive hours in advance of any event - suggested we arrive at Miami Valley Gaming (I-75 Exit 29 in Monroe, OH, across the freeway from Joe Morgan Honda) around 2pm.  2pm?!  We'd miss the first 5 races!  And there were, in fact, wagers I'd intended to make on races 3, 4 and 5.  I was stunned, but what can you do?  When Mr B gives you an order, you obey.  My disappointment was compounded by the need for me to be back at the Ranch by 3:30pm or 4pm to look after the Disney XD Girls for a few hours.  As such, The B Team plan was to make our bets and get out of there.

If only.....

On the drive to the undisclosed location of Mr B's top secret bunker, I engaged in a little zen 1980's countdown meditation courtesy of the Jeep Main Battle Tank's satcomm.

The Old Master and I rolled into MVG at 2:14pm on the button.  Mr B grabbed a seat at a table in the grandstand to do some final handicapping and I headed for the Race Book to find a wagering terminal (aka a "machine."  One might refer to it as a computer, vis a vis the WHO lyric quoted above).  I carried with me into the Race Book my cheat sheet upon which I had written out all of my wagers for the afternoon, amounting to $151.  I began feeding $20 bills into the machine when a loud, profane groan erupted simultaneously throughout the Race Book.  I looked up to my machine's touchscreen display to see, startlingly, an ominous error message:

"Host Not Available."

I've never experienced this before, not even in the earliest days of the automated wagering terminals that were introduced so many decades ago, now.

Every machine in the Race Book, maybe 50 or 60 terminals, displayed the same error message.  After a few minutes of waiting, I began to suspect that we were not experiencing a temporary glitch but that, rather, the whole system had crashed.  This suspicion led me to a more fearful conclusion; that the network was going to have to be rebooted and that, as with any computer system, "any unsaved work would be lost."  Including the recorded balance of $20's I had been feeding so vigorously into the machine to the tune of $140.  And so, I pulled out my Android and took photos of the terminals display in order to document the unfolding events (including the photo above), just in case.

The photo above, displaying my $140 balance, would later prove to be critically important.

Note;  The following events, and timeline, may be somewhat misplaced due to the seething rage which gradually washed over me and may have led me to, intermittently, lose a firm grip on the time-space continuum.

All the terminals in the Race Book and, as we soon discovered from fellow patrons, all the betting machines at MVG (excluding the ubiquitous casino slot machines but including the race track grandstand, where Mr B was stationed) were frozen.  Nobody at MVG could place a single wager, whether through a machine or via the handful of (traditional) human tellers.  Of course, all of us were chained to our machines.  In the event that the glitch resolved itself, no one could risk walking away and having someone else saunter up, cash out your balance and abscond with your hard-earned greenbacks.  

And so I waited at my machine.  Patiently at first.  With less patience as the minutes bled away.  One Belmont race came and went, and with it any opportunity to play the Pick Six.  I observed that money was still pouring into the wagering pools at Belmont (and presumably at all the other tracks being simulcast, but I was focused only on Belmont).

After about 20 minutes of inaction, an MVG employee circulated the Race Book announcing - utterly unconvincingly - that it wasn't the fault of MVG, it was a nationwide system failure and that it would only be another 5 or 10 minutes before the problem was resolved.  In what form the resolution would materialize was left uncommitted.  A minute or two later, the same unconvincing announcement was made over the MVG public address system.  By this point, the universal mood in the Race Book was murderous hostility.  The fact that now, some 24 hours after the fact, the interwebz doesn't turn up a single news item about a nationwide system/network crash that prevented untold millions of dollars from being wagered on Belmont Day only further solidifies the conviction that it was an MVG-specific failure.

About 30 minutes after the system crashed, terminal screens throughout the Race Book flickered and every display changed:

"Terminal Not Available."

I knew, at this moment, that when (if) the machines rebooted that the balance would be erased.  I suspect my fellow patrons may have divined the same conclusion.  I cannot verify this, but - upon seeing the above message - in some corners of the Race Book the common bonds of civilization may have dissolved and unfathomable acts of mayhem, anarchy and cannibalization (of betting terminals) may have occurred.

The "Terminal Not Available" screen above was static for several interminable minutes.

Two pleasant, professional young women who work for MVG in some indeterminate capacity were thrown to the wolves by their superiors.  They were tasked with acquiring from all the affected patrons our names and addresses as an unclear means to provide refunds.  When they arrived at my terminal, having made their way around their designated sector of the Race Book, as cheerfully as they could muster under the circumstances and asked for my contact information, I first asked them, "Are you going to make a cash refund today or is the plan to mail refunds at a later date?"  They looked blankly at one another.  It was obvious that no patron had thought to ask them this question, nor was it made clear to them by their superiors.  One of the helpful young women, trying to be as efficient as possible, said, "Let me go find out."

She wasn't gone for 1 minute before some of the terminals across the room came back online.  From my vantage point, and from the vantage point of those patrons near me, it wasn't clear if their balances had been restored.  At a glacial pace, more terminals came back to life.  Evidently I picked the wrong corner of the Race Book as the 7 or 8 machines in my vicinity were still dead.  The remaining MVG employee asked me and my neighbors if we wanted to give her our contact information or wait and see if our machines would begin working just as before the crash.  

We're gamblers, we said we'd take our chances and just wait it out.

45, 50 minutes into the ordeal my screen went black.  A reboot began taking effect.  It was the second-to-last terminal in the Race Book to come back online.  My touchscreen roared back to life.

Sans my $140 balance.  

My compatriots also had their balances erased.  The loud, drunk, obnoxious jerk next to me, on my left (natch), who ranted about his $20 - and whom I nearly smited with righteous cause and two knuckle sammiches - finally shut the [expletive deleted] up when I told him I had seven times as much lost in digital purgatory.

An MVGer higher up the food chain - "Jeff," he had a walkie talkie - drifted over to see if we'd gotten our balances back.  Discovering that we hadn't, he radioed for technicians to open up the machines for diagnostic investigation.  While this charade unfolded, and another Belmont race had come and gone, the walkie talkie MVGer was in contact with "the hub."  Down (or up?) in central control - aka "the hub" - the white lab coat brigade was trying to determine from their end of the network, independently from we patrons, how much money each of us was due.  One can objectively appreciate the position MVG was in at this moment; the mere claims of patrons would have been, largely, unverifiable.

Except, that is, for one irresistibly handsome, clever Heavy Artillerist from Reily Township who had the foresight to photograph his terminal's display.  And who shared said photographic evidence with walkie talkie dude.

After almost exactly 1 hour into this torturous ordeal, whether through the efforts of "the hub," the technicians exploring the guts of our terminals or some conjunction of the two - my two fellow compatriots had their machines spit out vouchers (as is the normal function of the wagering terminals) making them whole ($20 and $25, respectively).  My terminal spit out a voucher (or perhaps a receipt, vis a vis the WHO lyric above) in the amount of $110.  

$30 short.

I looked at walkie talkie guy, "Jeff," who was forthright and as helpful as circumstances could allow.  This unfortunate situation was not his fault, and he was not to blame for any of it.  I showed him the $110 voucher.  He cautiously looked back into my penetrating glare and saw that he was facing an imminent thermonuclear detonation.  "Jeff" walkie talkied for backup; his own superior.  "Helen" materialized nearly instantly.  She was not on a walkie talkie.  She was on a smartphone.  Also talking to "the hub."  

They ["the hub"] say they're only reading $110, said "Helen."

"Helen" was nice. "Helen" was only doing her job.  "Helen" was relaying the information from the cowards in "the hub" who didn't dare confront me personally.  I could read "Helen;" MVG was prepared to draw the line at $110.  At this juncture, I mixed gambling metaphors and played my ace card on "Helen" - the Android photographic evidence.  "Helen" looked at my Android, gritted her teeth, handed her phone to "Jeff" telling him Don't hang up, it's "the hub," don't do anything else until we resolve this and then "Helen" asked me to follow her.  She escorted me out of the Race Book, through the grandstand, and into the areas which are routinely off-limits to the general public.  In professional wrasslin' parlance, we went into the back.  "Helen" disappeared for an instant and reappeared with $30 cash muney [sic].

Had I not the foresight to anticipate the essential events as they unfolded, and had I not photographed my terminal's display, I would have been out $30. 

"Helen" was genuinely apologetic and I appreciated that, telling her as much.  Everyone I dealt with personally (which by definition excludes the IT and/or administrative gerbils in "the hub") conducted themselves professionally and respectfully.  But that Belmont Day experience, on what will be the third- or fourth-busiest simulcast wagering day all year for Miami Valley Gaming, was an unqualified disaster.  And sincere apology aside, I was as angry as could be.

Having taken more than 1 hour simply to get my money back, having made not one single wager and needing to get back to The Ranch and the Disney XD Girls, Mr B and I exited MVG.  

The Old Master Of The Turf had an opportunity to make his bets with a human teller once the system came back online.  Thanks only to his being persuaded by me on Commissioner, his day was profitable.  On Derby Day, having discovered that - once the Turf Classic was over, and - I'd cashed a $100 straight Win bet on Wise Dan in a race that came down to the wire, yet I hadn't uttered a peep (confident as I was in The Free Money Express), he said to me "I'm really proud of you.  You didn't make a sound when so many others  would've been making fools of themselves rooting for their horse with so much money on the line.  You were just as calm and cool as could be."  It's always nice to receive praise from a parent, but that's just how The B Team Syndicate operates.  As former Miamian Paul Brown was famous for saying, Act like you've been there before.  In the aftermath of the Belmont, I spoke with Mr B on the phone about the race - and specifically about the race run by Commissioner - and The Old Master said, "You're a great handicapper." Awww, shucks, Dad.  Everything I know about horse racing I learned from the best - from him.

Driving back to The Ranch, the following musical reinforcement was not lost on me:

Looking forward to some quality time with the Disney XD Girls, this sight (below) greeted me upon my return to The Ranch:

They were both zonked out.  Tap City.  Boy, summer vacation is rough.

When my youngest niece finally stirred from her nap, we talked about all that she'd done so far that day.  "Watched Magnum P.I.," she cheerfully said.  She then proceeded, unprompted by me, to do a Jonathan Quayle Higgins imitation; "Oh my God, Magnum!"  I have the greatest family.

By now you all know that CC lost the Belmont Stakes (finished in a dead heat for fourth).  By now you may have read the - I think correct - analysis that CC's jockey succumbed to the pressure of history, became too anxious and sealed CC's fate when swinging wide around the final turn... the longest, most sweeping turn in all of North America.  By now some of you may have seen the disgraceful, sour grapes, major case of the goo [credit: Marty Brennaman] post-race comments expressed by CC's co-owner.  Hey pal, welcome to horse racing.  What you don't know is that for the Belmont Stakes this year, I sported under my Izod golf shirt (too bad I don't have any Ocean Pacific shorts these days, otherwise - harkening back to my zen 1980s countdown meditation - I would have looked something like my old 1986-era self) the blue and white "Go Smarty Go" Smarty Jones t-shirt I picked up for Smarty's own attempt at Triple Crown glory.  It was my way of putting the jinx on California Chrome.  Never underestimate the power of a lucky, or unlucky, t-shirt.  Or lucky boxer shorts.

Commissioner led every step of the way, at odds of 28/1, and was caught at the wire, losing by a head as his official margin of defeat.  In a race that lasted 2:28.52, Commissioner led for 2:28.25 (or thereabouts).  Commissioner paid $23.20 to Place.  Medal Count finished 3rd, a length back, and paid $13.20 to Show.

And so I had won the battle against the computer, its receipt and Miami Valley Gaming - I'd gotten my bankroll returned intact.  Yet I'd lost the war because the prolonged struggle ran out the clock on my available time to place any bets.  Hitting just the back half of the $20 Win and Place wager I'd have placed on Commissioner would have had me up for the day even assuming every other wager I'd intended to make turned out to be a misfire.

Roll the credits!

D-Day Plus 70 Years

General Dwight D. Eisenhower

Broadcast on D-Day

"People of Western Europe:  A landing was made this morning on the coast of France by troops of the Allied Expeditionary Force.  This landing is part of the concerted United Nations plan for the liberation of Europe... I call upon all who love freedom to stand with us now.  Together we shall achieve victory."

*********

D-Day in Colour from the folks at World War 2 Colour Films.

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Ernie's War

Ernie Pyle

Normandy Beachhead, June 17, 1944 - In the preceding column we told about the D-Day wreckage among our machines of war that were expended in taking one of the Normandy beaches.

But there is another and more human litter.  It extends in a thin little line, just like a high-water mark, for miles along the beach.  This is the strewn personal gear, gear that will never be needed again, of those who fought and died to give us our entrance into Europe.

Here in a jumbled row for mile on mile are soldiers' packs.  Here are the socks and shoe polish, sewing kits, diaries, Bibles and hand grenades.  Here are the latest letters from home, with the address on each one neatly razored out - one of the security precautions enforced before the boys embarked.

Here are the toothbrushes and razors, and snapshots of families back home staring up at you from the sand.  Here are the pocketbooks, metal mirrors, extra trousers, and bloody, abandoned shoes.  Here are broken-handled shovels, and portable radios smashed almost beyond recognition, and mine detectors twisted and ruined.

Here are torn pistol belts and canvas water buckets, first-aid kits and jumbled heaps of lifebelts.  I picked up a pocket Bible with a soldier's name on it, and put it in my jacket.  I carried it half a mile or so and then put it back down on the beach.  I don't know why I picked it up, or why I put it back down.

Soldiers carry strange things ashore with them.  In every invasion you'll find at least one soldier hitting the beach at H-hour with a banjo slung over his shoulder.  The most ironic piece of equipment marking our beach - this beach of first despair, then victory - is a tennis racket that some soldier had brought along.  It lies lonesomely on the sand, clamped in its rack, not a string broken.

Two of the most dominant items in the beach refuse are cigarettes and writing paper.  Each soldier was issued a carton of cigarettes just before he started.  Today these cartons by the thousands, water-soaked and spilled out, mark the line of our first savage blow.  Writing paper and air-mail envelopes came second.  The boys had intended to do a lot of writing in France.  Letters that would have filled those blank, abandoned pages.

Always there are dogs in every invasion.  There is still a dog on the beach today, still pitifully looking for his masters.  He stays at the water's edge, near a boat that lies twisted and half sunk at the water line.  He barks appealingly to every soldier who approaches, trots eagerly along with him for a few feet, and then, sensing himself unwanted in all this haste, runs back to wait in vain for his own people at his own empty boat.

Over and around this long thin line of personal anguish, fresh men today are rushing vast supplies to keep our armies pushing on into France.  Other squads of men pick amidst the wreckage to salvage ammunition and equipment that are still usable.

Men worked and slept on the beach for days before the last D-Day victim was taken away for burial.

I stepped over the form of one youngster whom I thought dead.  But when I looked down I saw he was only sleeping.  He was very young, and very tired.  He lay on one elbow, his hand suspended in air about six inches from the ground.  And in the palm of his hand he held a large, smooth rock.  I stood and looked at him a long time.  He seemed in his sleep to hold that rock lovingly, as though it were his last link with a vanishing world.  I have no idea at all why he went to sleep with the rock in his hand, or what kept him from dropping it once he was asleep.  It was just one of those little things without explanation that a person remembers for a long time.

The strong, swirling tides of the Normandy coastline shift the contours of the sandy beach as they move in and out.  They carry soldiers' bodies out to sea, and later they return them.  They cover the corpses of heroes with sand, and then in their whims they uncover them.

As I plowed out over the wet sand of the beach on that first day ashore, I walked around what seemed to be a couple of pieces of driftwood sticking out of the sand.  But they weren't driftwood.  They were a soldier's two feet.  He was completely covered by the shifting sands excepts for his feet.  The toes of his GI shoes pointed toward the land he had come so far to see, and which he saw so briefly.

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These Hallowed Grounds (PBS).

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