PAUL MICHEL

Yes, I'm watching it...sort of. And writing, cooking and doing the Sunday NY Times crossword. At the moment the half-time show is on, the Who giving an anti-lesson in Growing Old Gracefully. One of the true advantages of playing old time fiddle music is that you don't look pathetic doing it in your 60s.
I grew up just outside Columbus Ohio during the reign of Woody Hayes at OSU. I can remember coming home from Sunday Mass to watch the "Woody Hayes Show" on TV, wherein the prior days' game was recapped. Woody, in his trademark white short-sleeved shirt, would appear with a half-dozen of the game's stars; no-necked, toe-headed monsters standing woodenly, hands clasped nervously below their belts, while an unseen sportscaster tossed softball questions ostensibly to the players, which Woody would never allow them to answer, instead stepping in front of them and saying something like "Bluto here was fully expecting the pass rush on that third down because that's something we've practiced a thousand times and Bluto pays very careful attention in practice because he is a true Buckeye." Bluto would nod and blink rapidly. I was long gone from Ohio when Woody cocked the poor kid from Clemson, but I suspect that the effect on morale in central Ohio was akin to how the nation might have reacted had Walter Cronkite dropped an F-bomb during a broadcast about womens' lib.
I went cold-turkey with football for about 25 years. I don't know why I'm slowly taking an interest again. It's always seemed to me the silliest of the big sports--men in armor, hugging each other a lot. Perhaps I begrudgingly like it simply because there is not much sports-wise--especially for a non-athlete like myself--as satisfying as throwing a football well. Which I actually used to be able to. I wonder if I still can. Is there a football in the house?
The press release for Houdini Pie is about ready. We've settled on a photo for the back. The cover is close. April is coming.