Friday, July 17, 2009
Here's to the best summer ever
Ray Cox covers recreational, high school and college sports in the New River Valley. If you have information you’d like featured,
e-mail ray.cox@roanoke.com or call 381-1672
Ray Cox
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So this is how you find out you're dead.
That's what I was thinking the other night when I awoke to the sensation of being stone cold. Nobody reaches for the heaviest quilt in the house in the middle of steamy July.
Therefore, I thought, in surprisingly mild fashion for one having such a startling revelation, I'm deceased.
Unless there's another explanation.
A walk (that was the first hopeful sign) to the screen door confirmed it. A brisk puff of cool to cold night air zinged the last traces of sleep away. That's when I knew.
This is the best summer ever.
It's great to know you aren't history yet.
Much better to be witness to history. Historians give last year's Wimbledon final between the champion Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer the highest marks. The sentiment here is this year's epic contest with Andy Roddick, that returned the Swiss to the tennis top, was the one that will be most vivid in memory.
Closer to home, the most wonderful Spring Jubilee of all unfolded across court, track, field and pitch at Radford University in June. Day after day of the most sublimely gentle weather brought forth competition of the highest level on both boys and girls sides.
Those who turn wrenches, pump floor jacks and mash gas pedals at Motor Mile Speedway have done so for the most part in luxurious cool. Rubber and some stray drops of oil are all that's been burning.
At Calfee Park, not a game ends with many patrons still in shirtsleeves. Jackets are on and caps are pulled low. On second thought, the chill might better be broken if the home Mariners' bats might finally catch fire.
Speaking of catching: Lots of fish but not the swine flu. Blessings abound.
Be happy to know there's not a body of water around, still or moving, that's been livelier than usual from an angling standpoint this summer. Hot tip for such a cool season: The cloudier the day, the more bloodthirsty the bass.
Fresh water doesn't have the only big bite. A buddy of mine spent a couple of choppy recent days out in the gulf stream off North Carolina in his own boat and came back with 14 dolphins, a couple of king mackerel, and a picture of an 80-foot sailfish, released back into the depths after capture.
Now if they'd just quit generating juice every blessed day down at Philpott Powerhouse. Missed the famous sulphur hatch entirely this year because the Smith River has been running wide-open pretty much nonstop during prime fishing hours.
Probably 16 turkeys walked past the edge of the yard the other morning. Farther over in the trees down the hill, a couple of clumsy fawns have been stumbling all over themselves the last couple of weeks as they go to and fro with their larger brethren.
A hawk, the resident blue heron, and their neighbors (some Canada geese) compete regularly among themselves for the honor of being recognized as owner of the most-discordant singing voice.
Let us then sing praise to Major League Baseball, which miraculously staged an All-Star game that required a mere 2 hours, 31 minutes to complete.
Throw that horse shoe. Shoot a basket. Heave a football. Toe that rubber. Balance on a sliding surfboard. Sing a hymn. Tip your cap. Go for a ride. Kiss your bride.
It's summertime and the living's easy.
This is the best one ever.
