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NBA players in their playoff games and NHL players pucking around the ice rink competing to put the Stanley Cup in their kitchen cupboards have one thing in common: Money.

            They are doing what we do, but getting paid lots of money to play the game. When Dr. James Naismith invented basketball or Hans Christian Andersen invented ice hockey they probably didn’t have any idea what their game was worth, they just wanted to strap on some skates or put a ball through a hoop. But, then it caught on. Other people began to see the worth of skating after a puck or bouncing an orange colored ball. Most likely, neither Andersen or Naismith benefited financially from their inventions, but chances are they had a lot of fun just knowing they created something that someone else wanted to play. And that alone is worth a lot of money.

            Being an inventor or early adopter is worth so much more than being a follower. When Naismith created the rules of basketball, it probably would have been difficult to field a team of 10 players. However, if you offered the players one or two hundred dollars to play the game they would have realized, “Wait a second! We’ve created something of value.” Now basketball and hockey players are worth millions of dollar, but if you wanted them to play your game when it was first invented, they probably would have played for as little as five thousand dollars. Naismith might have invented his game on accident, but once people wanted to play, it grew in value.

            Sweeten the pot and that’s how you get the players to play your game.

            And, right now you can be an early adopter, the game of (Insert your favorite beverage here) Frisbee is on the cusp of doing for PVC pipe and empty bottles what ice, wood and skates did for hockey.

            It’s been called Beer Frisbee, Coke Frisbee and (my favorite) Fresca Frisbee. With simple items lying around your household you too can create America’s Future in Sports and you heard it here first (perhaps) at Sportsterhub.com.

            To begin assembling the game you’ll need 8ft of PVC pipe, an empty bottle of your favorite beverage and a Frisbee. As for players, four are recommended by two will do in a pinch.

            Unlike professional sports and all of their regulations, the beauty of (Insert your favorite beverage here) Frisbee is there aren’t set regulations on the size of your playing field. Beginners can start on a short course and the better you get the larger your playing field can become.

            Cut the 8ft of PVC pipe into two 4ft pieces and stick them in the ground on opposite sides of your backyard. Then, place your favorite beverage bottle on top of the PVC pipe.

            The object of Team #1 is to throw the Frisbee and knock off the bottle. The object of Team #2 is to catch the Frisbee and bottle. If Team #1 hits the bottle off the PVC pipe, that is worth 2 points—only if Team #2 does not catch the bottle before it hits the ground. Team #1 also gets a point if the Frisbee lands on the ground. Once the bottle has been replaced on the PVC pipe Team #2 tries to hit the bottle off of Team #1’s PVC pipe.

            Since their aren’t any rules, you can play to 11, 15, 21 or 4 points.

            So, hurry up to Home Depot, because even though this game will only set you back a few dollars right now, there may be a time in the future you’ll wish you bought the makings to (Insert your favorite beverage here) Frisbee first, because it could cost you nearly 50 times more in the future.

When I was working at the fire department my friends wanted to know what it was like? I would ask, “Have you ever seen the movie Back Draft? Being a fire fighter is just like that—minus the sex on the fire truck and all the huge fires.”

            Mostly, it was a lot of drills, painting fire hydrants and looking good in a sweet uniform. Just as every kid dreams of being a fire fighter (politically correct term), I dreamed of fighting a real fire. I had been on a few grass fires, a chimney fire and taken illegal fireworks from people on the Fourth of July, but I had never been to “the Big One.”

            One hot summer night that all changed. The call came in as a house fire, the alarms went off and the adrenalin kicked in. We were 10-39 (lights and siren) and cars parted out of the way in our Red Sea of floodlights. We arrived at the scene; Some firefighters hit the hydrants; The brave went inside. Bob and I were packed up and ready to go. We went in.

            The chief wanted us to ventilate the house. It’s important to open windows or cut a hole in the roof to let the heat and the smoke out. Up the stairs we went into the pitch black, smoke filled house. We knew all the residents had made it out but I kept hoping we would run across a cat or a dog or something where we could walk out as heroes having saved a precious life. No luck. Nothing was dying. Nothing to rescue.

            We continued opening windows and clearing the smoke. The fire was supposed to be on the main level so we didn’t have anything to worry about. After opening the windows in two rooms, we came around a corner into the bathroom where the smoke was thick and the temperature was heating up. Bob was right behind me when flames suddenly surrounded us. It was so much like the movie Back Draft that actually I looked out the window to see if the chief was having sex on top of the fire truck. No. Wait. That was a movie. This was reality and it was getting hot.

            The fire had started on the main floor from a rag that had been sent down the laundry chute from the bathroom we were in. The fire had come back up the shoot, this was it and the moment I had dreamed of. One problem, though, we didn’t have a hose.

            As the fire grew around us I had to make a decision: Be a hero and try to put this fire out without water. Or run.

            I turned around to Bob and yelled, “Lets get the hell out of here, Bob.” But I was yelling at no one. Bob was already halfway down the stairs. We raced and stumbled down the stairs as two other fire fighters raced up the stairs with the hose. The fire was put out and so was my dream.

            I was working at UPS at the same time. That year the UPS delivery guys were voted the Sexiest Men in America. I was at a crossroads in my life and a choice had to be made: Should I live out the dreams of every boy’s childhood and become a firefighter? Or live up to the reputation of my other profession and be one of the Sexiest Men in America. Every boy’s hero or every woman’s fantasy? I stood in front of the mirror, looked deep inside and knew there was only one choice to make.

            Today, I wear a uniform. I traded in my boyhood dreams and firefighter badge for the brown and gold shield of UPS. Sexy it is.

When you walk into a person’s home you get a glimpse of what they are like. Most homes have a nice front room for entertaining guests. Paintings, trinkets, plants, nice furniture, etc. Front and center of our front room our house has a ping pong table with a crocheted sign hanging above it that reads, “God bless this ping pong table”.

            Walk in the door, grab a racket, quote some Forest Gump, get your game face on and ping it up. “Don’t let this ball go past this paddle.”

            I’ve made a standing offer to my kids: beat me and you get $20. I can always tell when the latest video game comes out or someone’s cell phone bill is due because the trash talk starts flying and the ping pong balls start bouncing.

            “I’m not a smart man, but I do know what love is” I’m not Forest Gump and I don’t love Jenny, but I do love ping pong. Forest runs; we pong.

            If you need a quick $20 come on over but beware of the “House Rules.” They are as follows: If you double the other persons score you say “I’m double you DW you”. If the score is 2-2 you have to spin around like a ballerina. At 6-0 you start sniffing and mention the smell of a skunk. 10-4 is the truck driver point. 10-8 is the birthday point. 9-11 is in loving memory to September 11 where you tap your heart twice with your paddle before the next serve. 7-11 is Slurpee time. If you lose that point, you owe the other player a Slurpee. Depending on who calls what first you can lose on a serve, you can’t lose on a serve or you’re limited to three serves only. And most importantly, don’t beat your dad, because, even though I’m called ‘King Pong,’ times are tight and sometimes, I lose. Keep it a secret, but sometimes (shhhhhh)…. “It happens”.

WARNING: The following story is rated “R” for Really scary and just not Right

People don’t know what it’s like to have the open road as your job and the windshield as the window of your office. I’m often thanked for being a truck driver, because truck drivers move America, and I’m often asked, “Driving all night must have some frightening moments. What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever seen?

            I’ve slid sideways down a mountain pass and seen Fed-Ex trucks lying overturned in a ditch. I’ve had smokey on my tail and seen car accidents where there weren’t any survivors.

            But nothing can compare to the four words I heard one night.

            It was a cold dark foggy night on a deserted highway, Highway 6, also known as The Death Highway. At one time there were more fatalities on this stretch of road than any other in the United States. I had just started up Spanish Fork Canyon on my way to Price Utah and I was pulling two trailers (truck drivers call this “Pulling Doubles”) when nature called.

            About halfway up the canyon there is a nice scenic rest area nestled in the mountains with a little creek running in between the parking area and the facilities. I was running behind that night and was in a hurry. I pulled into the parking area and shut down the engine. There weren’t any other vehicles in the parking lot and even though this seemed strange, it also meant I’d be able to turn my giant rig around without a problem. When you’re pulling doubles, you’ve got to have an exit strategy.

             I put on my coat, climbed out of the cab and started walking. I noticed there were no crickets chirping and thought it was a little strange when suddenly I heard footsteps behind me. I knew I was the only one at the rest area and I started to get the chills with each footstep.

            I slowly turned my head around and looked back. There was a man who seemed to appear out of the mist following me. All of the different horror movies I’ve seen started playing in my head. None of these movies have a happy ending. Was I going to get robbed or stabbed or worse? I picked up my pace and entered the restroom. I tried to pee but we were both scared.

            I kept saying please don’t come in here please don’t come in here. I stepped back from the stall and there he was, blocking the doorway. I put my hand in my coat pocket and kept it there hoping this guy might wonder what I had in my hand. He said he was chopping wood all day and that he needed fluid for his car. There were no other cars out there. I told him I was running late and that they probably had people out looking for me.

            He kept making comments about wood and fluids. I started to pass him expecting the worst. It happened, those four haunting words, he said, “I’m bisexual and horny.”

            He smiled a toothless grin. I threw up in my mouth and started running back to my truck. Thoughts of deliverance and squealing pigs filled my mind. I flew into my tractor and locked the door expecting him to appear at any second. I turned the key, started my truck and left. The rest area slowly disappeared from sight in my side view-mirrors, but the scariest-haunting memory of my truck driving career still remains.

While attending BYU you must do three things. #1. Obey the Ten Commandments #2 Obey the honor code #3. Find a spouse to multiply and replenish the earth. Seems easy enough, right? I thought so to until one bitter cold January morning as I was making my way across campus.

My hands were red, dry and cracking so I decided to cut through the bookstore and put a squirt of sample lotion on my hands, I needed some instant relief in a bad way. I went over to the lotions, took a squirt, rubbed my hands together and presto, good as new. I continued on my way and just as I was exiting the bookstore I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see who was interested in becoming my rule #3, but instead of a beautiful woman with child bearing hips it was a guy resembling Barney Fife.

“Excuse me sir,” he said. But did you just squirt this lotion on your hands?”

“Yes,” I said. “And they feel much better now, thanks for asking.”

“Sir,” Barney said, “do you plan on buying this bottle of lotion?”

“No, I’m running late for class I’ve got to go.”

“Sir, you need to come with me, I’m undercover security and you’ve been caught stealing lotion.” Barney Fife was so mean.

Up the stairs we went. He seated me at a table and walked away, leaving me to wonder Am I being punked? Barney came back, took my backpack and started ruffling though my stuff. He got to the outside pocket, took out a half empty bottle of Visine and asked, “Where did you get this? It looks new.”

“It’s not new and what is going on here?”

Just then I saw a Provo city police officer walking towards us and he looked serious. I suddenly realized I wasn’t in Mayberry any more. I was passed from Barney to Jack Bauer. We proceeded to his police car and I was transported downtown and deposited into a small room with signs everywhere informing me I was being monitored. Jack appeared and started reading me my rights. After 30 minutes of explaining what happened I was free to go. As I was walking home my head started to spin, did this really just happen? Turns out the honor code and the 8th commandment go hand in hand. I received a letter that said, “Kent Smedley. Please proceed directly to the standard’s office.”

There I was taken under the wing of a Brother Andersen. I slowly proceeded into his office and had a seat. He looked deep into my eyes and informed me that as a returned missionary I should know better then to steal a bottle of lotion.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” I said, “but I didn’t steal a bottle of lotion. I put a squirt of lotion on my red hands.”

He sat up in his chair and looked over the notes in front of him for the first time.

“Still, it’s still stealing,” he said.  “If you would like to being the repentance process begins, I will put you on six months probation and I want you to go talk to your Bishop. Come back in a week and tell me what kind of a program he puts you on.”

As I entered the Bishop’s office I thought of the different programs I might be placed on. Disfellowship? Excommunication? Roadshow? I wasn’t sure which would be worse. I told the Bishop what happened, he asked me if I needed some money and told me not to do it again.

As I relayed this to Brother Andersen a disappointed look came over his face: I suppose he would have been happier if I had to play Johnny Lingo?

“The next step,” he said as though he was making this all up as he went along, “I want you to write a four page report on honesty using your scriptures as a reference, come see me in a week.”

After I turned in the report Brother Andersen informed there was a Step Three.

“I need you to make an appointment with the head of the bookstore and apologize to him.”

As I humbly entered his office I explained what happened I told him I was sorry and wanted to buy the bottle of lotion realizing they couldn’t sell it. He told me it takes a big person to do what I was doing. He sent his secretary to retrieve to bottle. Fifteen minutes later she returned empty handed. The sold it.

Step four: I had to do the Hokey Pokey.

Step five: the following week I returned to Brother Andersen’s office and reported what had taken place. It was time to end this once and for all.

“You know Brother Andersen,” I said. “This experience has really changed my life, you have helped me realize just how important honesty really is. Just the other day I was at the grocery store and I was about to taste a grape to see if I wanted to buy some. My arm stopped half way to my mouth as I realized what I was about to do. Thank you Brother Andersen. I was eating lunch before our appointment I went to McDonald’s, because I love their fries. I received my order and proceeded to the condiments where I grabbed a handful of ketchup. As I was about to drop them on my tray I realized I would only need three packs and I put the extras back.”

Brother Andersen leaned back in his chair, took his glasses off, closed his eyes and smiled. “Please,” he said, “leave my office and go find a wife.” His job was done here. I had let go of the rod and he had guided me back. So let it be written, so let it be done.

I was hiking with the dogs up Holbrook Canyon today and as I crossed the creek over a bridge, that was once just a log; I had to sit down and reminisce. As a boy scout this was the spot we used to hike to for our weekend camping trips. Hundreds of memories flooded my head. First, if you crush up pine needles and try to smoke them through snake grass you will get sick. I remembered the time Mark M was crossing the creek on a slippery, moss covered log and his backpack was top heavy, down he went. Brett S crawling through poison ivy while we were playing steal the flag and Greg D packed in two six-packs of coke and three bags of assorted candy bars. I think he made about 20 bucks selling his goods. Now to my story:

It was the fall of ‘78, I was walking home from Jr. high looking at a catalog they had just passed out for us to go around and sell things door to door. I was about to throw this catalogue as far as possible when a shinny picture caught my eye: A Space Age Technology Emergency Blanket that only weighed two ounces. Two ounces? That’s incredible! I bet Neil Armstrong had one of these when he went to the moon. If he could stay warm on the moon with this thing surely I could stay warm up Holbrook Canyon on my next scout camping trip.

I went home and broke into the piggy bank where I had been hiding all of my summer tomato patch money and ordered my new NASA blanket. Every day was like Christmas as I ran to the mailbox. I was getting nervous as our last trip of the year was right around the corner. Finally a little—and I mean little—package arrived, it was my blanket. As I held it in my hand I smiled bigger than I imagined I would on my first kiss. It was perfect! So small and light, it had to be I mean how much room was there on a rocket anyway?

All week I looked forward to what would be my greatest scouting trip of all time, I was going to be the envy of all the guys. Friday came, I hid my blanket in the bottom of my pack so no one else would see and off we went. I threw my incredibly light pack over my shoulders and like the rocket that carried Neil Armstrong—I was off. This was the trip where Mark fell into the water and I couldn’t help but think, if only he had a space blanket this would have never happened. I was the first to reach the camp. I hurried and chose the perfect sleeping spot next to the river. Sure it might be a little cooler there but that was even better, a chance to showoff and to put my blanket to the test.

The rest of the night went on without a hitch, I caught a 7-inch brook trout for dinner, put my jacket on because it was getting cold and bought a coke on credit from Greg. Night came and as the stories and the fire died out it was time for bed. It was time to break out the secret weapon. I reached into the bottom of my pack, pulled out my blanket and opened the packaging. I slowly unfolded my Space Blanket thinking, this looks a lot like aluminum foil. My scoutmaster asked, “What’s that thing?” I said, “You must not be a rocket scientist, because if you were, you would know that this 3ft by 5ft—2 oz piece of tinfoil was better than any sleeping bag in existence and way lighter.” I expected him to stand back in awe and tell me how smart I was, instead, he just shook his head and walked off. Jealous, I thought.

That night as I huddled in a fetal position trying not to lose any fillings from my chattering teeth I cursed the space program and decided to become a truck driver instead of an astronaut. Five dollars, two candy bars and a coke later I was snuggled up in a warm cramped sleeping bag with Greg.

Did your putter get caught in your skirt? Worm burner. Hey Lawrence of Arabia, can’t you get out of that sand trap? You can fish with a hook like that. Is my putter hot or is it me? NASA is going to track that satellite. Are you golfing or planning to re-sod your lawn with that divot? Quack Quack. Going fishing? Put on your swim fins. Do you have an axe in your bag? Next time, bring your wife to putt. Play the course. Swing and a miss. That counted. It’s the middle of summer, Winter rules don’t count. You’ve got to have a lot of balls to golf like you do. Even Rodney Dangefield wouldn’t wear that outfit. Care for some butter and jam with your slice? You golf just like Tiger Woods—you cheat. You golf just like Tiger Woods—you hit that tree like an SUV. You golf just like Tiger Woods—you want me to delete your numbers. You golf just like Tiger Woods—you leave your shaft at every hole. You golf just like Tiger Woods—if there’s hole, you’ll play it. You golf just like Tiger Woods—you should make a public apology. You golf just like Tiger Woods—you score a lot. You golf just like Tiger Woods—nice shot. I like your fairway better. I had so much fun playing this hole, I thought I’d play it again. Did you leave any good shots out there for me today? It’s not bowling, the object is to get a low score. Watch out for the windmill. That shot was good, but we’re not playing that hole. Next time club up—as in—go to the clubhouse and give up. Got a pool stick? You golf like Payne Stewart—you suck the oxygen out of this sport. You golf like Payne Stewart—he’s dead. You golf like Payne Stewart—unconscious. You golf like Payne Stewart—heading for disaster. You golf like a dog, you love the rough. Looking forward to St. Patrick’s Day, Mulligan? TWO! Which means, nobody should watch out for your shot. Drop your pants if you can’t hit past the ladies tee. You hit that ball just like the ladies you date, “Fat.” Looking at your scorecard, I didn’t know there could be that many snowmen in the summertime. You got a birdie!, unfortunately it was a turkey. Tiger Woods wife hits a 4-iron better than that. Golf is a four-lettered word. Sally. Suzy. Pussy. You read that putt just like Ulysses—you didn’t read it. Is your favorite animal a giraffe? Because that shot was high and stinky. Don’t tell Peter Pan, but I think I have found Captain Hook. Look! Up in the ! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s a really bad shot! You hit that shot like your cock. Short. You made a mistake that was a good shot. Did your boobs get in the way? I don’t think even Obama’s Health Care could help that sick shot. If you put one more ball in the water this course will flood.

We kicked about…

You kicked aboot…

We will continue to kick your butt.

Even though the game is called “hock-aye,” the Candians found out they can’t play their own national game.

What do you say to that, aye?

Thievery on Ice?

Did America deserve a Gold Medal in last nights figure skating? Landing a quadruple should be worth the gold. Go Russia.

If it’s Oval this week: it’s broke

The ice at the Olympics causes a delay

USA Today


The pothole at Daytona Causes a delay:

USA Today