I guarantee performers in uniform are ‘real’ athletes

I was talking to Cape cheerleading assistant coach Molly Lingo at a practice last Wednesday night, and she said a point of emphasis at summer camps was Barbie hands. I looked at my own hands and thought of a lyric by “They Might Be Giants.” “Mammals, their names are called, they raise a paw, the cat, the bat, Koala bear and hog.” I had to ask the question, “What are Barbie hands?” and thought of those gymnastic-looking dudes on the Delaware squad, and if it was Barbie hands all around or Ken hands. Speaking of hands, those dudes get away with some marginally inappropriate touching, but I’m an old lineman wrapped in dirty old hand pads.

Once a year the question, “Are cheerleaders real athletes,” comes to the front, which is ridiculous because no one asks the question of other performers in uniforms who may simply run from one point to another, maybe kick or whack at a goal, or protect a cage. In football there are nonskilled positions, and just imagine a bunch of linemen building a pyramid or doing a coordinated choreographed dance to “The Horse” song. I’ll guarantee you they would be smacking themselves on the butt and braying like a big old plow horse.

Zero tolerance - I have no tolerance for the intolerant. Diversity is what energizes my life. Last Sunday there were gay jokes here and there at the Sundance 5K and Sashay, which in part raised more fun than funds for CAMP Rehoboth, an organization that promotes understanding and acceptance among divergent groups who may share Baltimore Avenue in the summer. Kicking it on Poodle Beach on a hot summer day may be a stretch for a straight, but it would be fun, I’m sure of that. I taught high school and I guess it wasn’t my job to promote tolerance of any particular group - if you ask me why I don’t like tea-baggers I will tell you I don’t know, I just don’t like them - so I would ask probing questions which were revealing of my own attitudes. Once a student asked me, “What would you do if your son Dave came home and told you he was gay?” I did not hesitate; I said, “I’d tell him to go decorate the living room.” You see, I do jokes; it’s just who I am, and if everyone did jokes none of us would be funny. We just can’t all be the same.

Country ‘cane - This storm has a country name, and as I sit here on Thursday polishing off this column, I admit to wanting a direct category 4 Earl hit, just no trees on my house is all I ask. I’m not smart enough to evacuate, and if you go hide at the new high school like I did for Gloria in 1985, realize the ocean is just a mile away and winds over 150 and storm surge of 40 feet may claim your wrong-decision self. One thing missing from all the “let’s remember Katrina on the fifth anniversary coverage”: Does any one person take responsibility for themselves not getting out of the concrete soup tureen as a monster Category 5 bore down on the ill-conceived city? How many rich people were anywhere near the trendy French Quarter? Sports teaches athletes to make good decisions, and when the expensive cars start rolling out of town, you better figure something is seriously up - like the water level.

Snippets - High school sports begin competing for real the weekend of Sept. 10, which means the season is already 33 percent over before the first game. The YMCA flag football season is much longer and has the advantage of no practices. Now is the best time to join a gym or start a diet; just don’t tell anyone about it until people notice, then deny it. Here’s a word to all the teachers who may be reading this sports column. If you go to a game, make sure your athletes know you were there. It just makes you more human and likable and makes you job easier. I require my grandchildren to write it down when I go to one of their games. I want the credit; I admit it! It’s time for a surge of foodstuffs. Earl could last a few hours.