10 Count

I've always had favorites in every sport I watched. And out of all the favorites, I assumed my favorite of all favorites was the New York Yankees. I'd bask in the glory when the Pinstripes would snatch another pennant and have my Braves fan buddies waiting for the next year. People would roll their eyes and claim I was merely rooting for the team that would win and provide me flase vicarious glory, and then I'd show the cap I got from Yankee Stadium when I was a kid, or my framed card collection of the 1958 World Series champs. I thought the Yankees were my favorite of favorites.

I figured out a few weeks ago that I was wrong. I realized that in fact, the Florida Gators were my favorite of favorites. Rooting for them in a Seminole-dominated city, then attending the university and watching over 15 games in the greatest college football stadium in the world. From the pre-parties to the "It's great... to be... a Florida Gator!" chants, I discovered that the Florida Gators were my favorite of favorites.

But tonight I see that I've been wrong. I've overlooked my true favorite of favorites all along. I knew I was as big a fan as there could be, but we think of football, basketball, baseball when compiling lists in the world of sports. Sometimes it takes a devastating loss, the worst and most painful of defeats, to test your loyalty and fondness. And tonight I figured it out.

When it comes to sports, I can't imagine anyone I've followed and admired more than Roy Jones, Jr.

Roy was the hometown boy, the kid wonder who showed a talent in boxing like no other. You could drive down Quintette Road and catch Roy jogging down the street like a real life Balboa. He had a genuine smile, an awesomely approachable presence that allowed you to easily walk up to him and go, "Hey, Champ!" He'd say hey back, maybe chat for a bit. I saw him fight at the local Fairgrounds 10 years before he was filling Madison Square Garden. There's a signed glove hanging in my bedroom. My dad and I have played him in games of basketball. I've seen the myth, and I've seen the man.

For every Roy fight my family and friends would gather in a room to watch him display an unexplainable greatness. The uncomparable speed of his fists, the "swoosh" as his glove swirled through his opponent's jawline, the cocky flexing he would incorporate into actual boxing strategy. And after he'd throw the final hook that compelled the referee to spare his opponent from further punishment, we'd hoot and holler and then get quiet, because we knew it was coming. Before Roy would answer questions, he always paid 2 tributes. First to God, and then to the city of Pensacola. And then we'd shout in jubilation.

I honestly thought Roy would never lose a fight. I couldn't fathom someone being able to overcome his skill, speed, and elusiveness. But there is a reason I have been telling tales of Roy in the past tense (I didn't realize I was doing so). Not even Roy could escape the grip of Father Time. He creeps on all of us eventually, but it's never so obivious as in the case of an athlete who just can't reach to the heights he had once climbed.

I no longer have HBO and was unable to watch his fight tonight. It was the first Roy fight I can think of that I've missed since he moved beyond fighting at the Fairgrounds. But I feverishly refreshed boxing sites until I could read about the outcome. When I read who had won and who had lost, I thought I read a typo. But as I continued to read the words got worse and worse. Descriptions of my fighter looking suddenly stripped of his speed, struggling to fend off an opponent he would have been dancing around in his hey day, and finally receiving a punch to the head that sent his 35-year-old body down to the ground. He didn't get up. He couldn't get up.

I don't have children, but I honestly felt as though I had just heard that my child had been knocked out. I've rambled here now for over an hour because I just can't fathom that this incredible ride has reached a setting point. Roy has been an entity that united all of Pensacola. I feel a personal connection to his accomplishments. I sincerely care about the man. This is the second time he's been knocked out this year (and second time ever), and tonight will be the second night that I wake up in the middle of the night with an inescable vision of my hero, Pensacola's hero, crippled on the ground, his invincibility gone.

It took a horrible defeat like this to confirm how Roy is, and will most likely always be, my favorite of favorites in sports. I personally care about him, and that's why I can only hope Roy's career and legacy have reached their final count of 10.

Wonderings Only a Few Will Understand

Who scores higher on the Unintentional Comedy Scale: Flavor Flav or Charo?

At this point, you've gotta wonder if Dallas Baker beat up that referee's kid.

When did Troy Aikman lose his Elvis Voice?

I personally believe Dave Chapelle is more Wayne Brady (very good within his niche) than Eddie Murphy (all-around comedic genius).

All You Can Eat Wings is the most underrated meal ever.

I've always been fine with any nickname people call me, but that was before Last Comic Standing.

When I heard some MTV guy say, "I'm sure we all wish Britney the best with her new marriage," I couldn't help but do a half eye-roll, half chuckle.

There's no emotion to describe the feeling when you hear The Late Show band's choice of music for John Kerry, and it's "Sunglasses at Night".

The Ivan Emmys

The Taco Bell Award (for making me feel like I would vomit or crap my pants): CNN, for waking me up to an erroneuos report that my dad's hospital (and where my dad was during the hurricane) had been hit by a tornado.

The Nyquil Award (for helping put me to sleep): My dad, for calling me at 11 am with, "Yeah Ant, I just got back from home. Everybody's ok."

The W. Award (for helping me laugh with a mispronounciation): Orange Raincoat Guy, for reporting major damage in "Pensaloca."

The Amelia Earhart Award (for new milestones in travel): Ivan himself, for managing to flood schools from Florida to Pennsylvania (seriously, Penn State is closed tomorrow because of flooding!).

Hurricane Ivan Haiku

Humbling how quickly
nature's wrath, wind, and waters
hurt yet unite us.

Weekend Highlights

Getting out of the apartment and finding cool girls to hang out with.

Returning home after failing to find a bar in another town, only to discover we were a half block from the bar.

Hearing the musical entertainment at Chick's play "Hey Joe," and having my friend comment, "Oh I love Jethro Tull."

Having a girl clean my kitchen at 3 am while I go into the other room to check the FSU-Miami score.

Confirming that Miami, FSU, and Georgia, individually and collectively, suck.

Two words: Free. Dinner.

Finding Italians who refer to tomato sauce as "gravy."

Boxing until I thought I gave myself a hernia.

Three more words: Dave. Attell. Album.

Realizing I can-- and will-- be just as big a Gator fan 1,000 miles away from the best stadium on Earth.

Discovering that Penn State students get free Napster.

Using free Napster to play the new Jimmy Eat World over and over and over.

Finally killing the kitty litter funk from my apartment.

Anniversary

It feels different this time. There aren't any feelings to shout patriotic cliches or sing a song or shed a tear. Now the reminders bring ill feelings, reminders not only of what happened three years ago, but also reminders of the reality that we are participants in a war, of the mystery of what happened to our quest to take revenge on Osama, reminders that this election has caused us to fight as much with each other as with our enemy. I'm sick of George W., I'm sick of John Kerry, sick of Michael Moore, Swift Boaters, Chris Matthews, Zell "Pistols at Dawn" Miller, and this whole election season.

What happened to the cliche, "United We Stand"?

I Now Know What a Nittany Lion Is

To say life in Pennsylvania is different than my time in Florida would be a gross understatement. In Gainesville, seeing anyone above the age of 35 or below the age of 16 made you do a double take. Now I live in a building that until this year was reserved as a retirement community. I have neighbors with names like Ethel and "Old Bill" who walk together through the parking lot, if you consider the snail's pace they keep walking. You could cast Adam Sandler to do one of his fish-out-of-water comedies circling around my change in scenery, and it would top out at $100 million. Unless the movie sucked, which it most certainly would.

It's not just that I'm dangerously outnumbered by senior citizens. Gone are the sports bars, Ford F-150's, and Baptist churches. They've been replaced by pizzerias, barber shops, and cemeteries. In the three weeks since I left Gainesville, my home state has been hit by TWO biggin hurricanes. Harrisburg has no worries about hurricanes, but we have instructions on how to find out if the blizzard has cancelled classes for the day. The buses I'm accustomed to from UF would have little value here; for Harrisburg, it's either by foot or by highway.

The hardest part of this transition has definitely been my sudden change in social life. I don't yet have friends to just come over whenever I feel like. I return from a long day on campus to a single person apartment, make meals for one, and go to sleep at a reasonable hour. Did this ever happen in Gainesville? Of course not. Here it will be much harder to maintain a social life close to what I had in Gainesville (and I wasn't exactly a Hilton brother in Gainesville, either). Fewer people my age, fewer opportunities to meet these people, and fewer outlets for sophomoric fun with these people.

But that's a poor reflection of the opportunities I expect to have here. I'm fortunate enough to be getting paid to get my master's and avoid sliding into the red for a few more years. I'm studying stuff that I absolutely love-- real issues-- and am getting the chance to join something at the ground floor. I'm meeting different kinds of people: people from different backgrounds, people in different stages of life, people living different stories than I'm used to. And I've already been on a quasi-date, though I confirmed she had a boyfriend around the time dessert came.

This move is much different than when leaving home for college. In many ways it is similar: I moved to a place I was unfamiliar with but eager to see, and I left all my friends in another city. But while I'm making a similar journey, nobody else is, and that's the key difference. Moving into East Hall in Gainesville, we were all in the same boat. We all had left our homes simultaneously and were grouped together, meeting people from all over the state making the same leap. Now, I'm meeting people whose lives are already established. They have jobs to attend to during the day, and they go home early to spend time with their spouses and fiances. And the people I've left behind, they're not making the same jump either. I won't be going home on Thanksgiving to a round-robin reunion, all of us sharing tales from our first months in this new, strange place. The other guys are either still completing the undergrad step, or they've already found their comfort zone.

My friends can listen and empathize with me, but they're not doing what I'm doing at this moment. I've made this move without them, walking face-forward, carrying my own bags. It's something that needed to be done. This is what I wanted: a journey to call my own.