DEDICATING 'TOUGHMAN' TO THE TOUGHEST MAN I NEVER KNEW.

When I plunge into the less-than-pure waters of the Hudson River on Sunday morning at 7:20am,
it will mark the beginning of the 70.3 mile Toughman Triathlon. Over the next six hours while
in the water, on a bike, and running the open roads of suburban New York, a million things are
sure to go through my mind as I try to complete this brutal test of endurance. But there will be one
person who will occupy most of my thoughts.

Brian Bill was a Navy SEAL who was killed on August 6th while on a mission in Afghanistan. He
was part of the elite, SEAL team 6, the unit that hunted down and killed Osama Bin Laden. Bill, a
Stamford, CT. native, was well-aware of the dangers and possible outcome when he signed up to
be in the military. He accepted it because the opportunity to defend our country and protect its freedom
was vitally important to him.

Many of us say we love our country, but how many of us would really put our lives on the line to
protect it? Not many. Brian  Bill did, and he paid the ultimate price for it. I never knew Brian Bill,
but he is my hero. We grew up in bordering towns and our high schools were part of the same
athletic conference. But I had graduated long before he was even a freshman at Trinity Catholic High School. When word came down that Navy SEAL team 6 had killed Bin Laden, I read everything
I could about SEAL's and their mental, physical, and emotional toughness. I wrote about them
in one of my blogs, proclaiming them to be the "greatest team ever."

When I found out that Bill was one of the Navy SEAL's killed when the helicopter they were in during
a mission was shot down by a rocket-propelled grenade, I was floored. This 31-year old man had
his whole life ahead of him. I studied his pictures and one of them showed Bill smiling, as if he knew
the world was his oyster and he could accomplish anything he wanted to. Bill had already received
his commercial pilot's license, was an accomplished mountaineer, spoke French, and wanted to be
an astronaut. I also read where he was a triathlete, completing several tough and grueling events.

Despite not knowing Bill, he has inspired me. He is pushing me to achieve all my goals. I'm doing
this Toughman Triathlon to honor him and his memory. Bill didn't get into the military or become
a Navy  SEAL for the personal glory. He was so unselfish, so brave, so pure, and so courageous.
He fought others, so we didn't have to. He put  his life on the line, so the people back home didn't
have to. He gave up his security and freedom, to make sure we didn't surrender ours.

I have the freedom to test my endurance and will in the Toughman  Triathlon on Sunday, September
11th, arguably the most significant day in our country's history. I'm dedicating it to Brian Bill, the
toughest  man I never knew.

THE RE-BIRTH OF BILL BUCKNER

That life-saving catch by Bill Buckner in Sunday night's episode of
"Curb Your Enthusian" did more than just keep a baby from dying. In a
way, it gave new life to a tourtured soul who had part of himself killed
off during a reality show in 1986.

When Mookie Wilson's painfully slow dribbler went through Buckner's
legs in the 1986 World Series, he became the biggest goat in the, then-
bitter and painful  history of Boston sports. Even though it was only Game 6
and the rest of the team botched a 3-0 lead to the Mets in Game 7,
Buckner's fate was sealed.

Fans in New England blamed Buckner for losing the World Series,
the weather, and the reason they never got laid in a bar filled with
naked girls at Sonsie's on Newbury Street. It was "Buckner Sucks,"
"He pulled a Buckner" and "I hate Billy Effin Buckner". Ernest Byner
never caught as much heat for fumbling away the Cleveland Browns
chance at going to the Super Bowl. Jackie Smith never had to endure
the shame and pain like Buckner after he dropped a sure TD pass
for the Cowboys in the Super Bowl XIII loss to the Steelers. Donnie
Moore didn't bother stick around very long after giving up that home run
to Dave Henderson of the Red Sox with two strikes and two outs
in the '86 ALCS. Instead of sending the Angels to the World Series,
Moore sent himself to an early grave, committing suicide a short
time later.

Bucker carried the pain and embarrassment from that chilly night
in New York 25 years ago. As much as he denied it, the mental
anguish had to be eating him up. People forget that Buckner was
a really, really good player. Over the course of 22 seasons, Billy
Buck hit .287 and accumulated 2,715 hits. 285 more and he's a
lead-pipe lock for the Hall of Fame. However, that was all washed
away when Buckner made that Big Error in the Big Apple.

But after last Sunday's performance with Larry David on "Curb
Your Enthusiam" don't we look at Buckner a little differently?
He was a good sport, getting abused once again by Boston
fans who couldn't forget that error in '86. A Jewish ritual wasn't
allowed to proceed until Bucker left. He missed a soft-toss
and watched an autographed ball from Mookie Wilson go
out the window and onto Madison Avenue. And finally, when he
came out of the hotel, he had to endure taunts from fans who
screamed, "Buckner sucks!". Oh, I know it  was only made-for-tv,
but that is what Buckner was forced to endure for many, many
years of his real life.

Boston fans softened up on Buckner a few years ago, after winning
its second World Series in four years, Buckner was asked to throw
out the first pitch on Opening Day. He delivered a strike and an
entire region seemed to exhale and give Buckner the pass they refused
to give for what seemed like forever. I guess when you reside in a sports
town with champions like the Sox, Celtics, Patriots, and Bruins, it's a little
easier to forgive.

Buckner had to endure more than any man should after making that
real-life blunder, it's kind of ironic that a life-saving catching in the world
of make believe, made us see Buckner in a whole new light.

WHEN LIFE CHANGES FOREVER IN BLINK OF AN EYE

Life is sometimes so good, we often forget how precious it really is.
We can be living the life one second, then, in the blink of an eye, it
can be changed forever. On August 28th, Tyler Hoog, a 17-year old
junior in high school was enjoying a sun-splashed afternoon in the
mountains of Colorado. He was four-wheeling with two of his high
school buddies, his father Michael, was in a Jeep ahead of him.

Tyler went off the road, flipped his Jeep, and it came crashing down
on its roof. Tyler's friends escaped with minor injuries, he wasn't
so lucky. Tyler suffered three fractured vertebrae and is paralyzed
from the shoulders down. In the time it takes you to snap your fingers,
Hoog's life has been changed forever. The lives of his family have been
forever altered. One second they were enjoying one of their
favorite pastimes, four-wheeling in the mountains, the next second,
the oldest son of Michael and Trenka Hoog, is struggling for his life.

"There's no way that anyone could ever prepare you for this," Michael
told a local paper. "The first 24 hours, you're really slammed by these
waves of anguish. You think about how life-changing it is for an entire
family and that's  devastating to consider. You kind of don't know what
to do."

If there is anyone who can figure out what to do, it's Michael Hoog.
I remember when he arrived on the campus of UNC in 1985 as one
of the cockiest freshman Carolina baseball has ever seen. He was
brash and had no fear. Hoog drove his Z28 from Colorado and arrived
with 1001 dimples on his car, having endured a hail-storm. The only
thing missing from car was a Titleist logo across the hood. Hoog didn't
care. As long as he had a tin of Skoal in his backpocket and boots on
his feet, it was all good.

As a pitcher, Hoog, a left-hander, didn't possess the talent of Josh
Beckett, but he was a gamer. I remember catching him when Hoog
was just freshman taking on the University of Miami. As a freshman, he
didn't care about Miami's mystique or anything else. Hoog battled and
battled and got a complete-game victory against the Hurricanes.

Hoog is using that same drive and determination to give his son, Tyler,
the best help he can get. He's already traveled across the country to
visit rehab centers in Baltimore and Atlanta.

"There's no telling what happens with rehab," he said. "The great thing
going for him, there's been incredible advances in spinal cord research
 in the past 10 years. He's only 17. In the next 10 years, who knows
what advancements will be made. He may come out of this thing."

Tyler idolizes his dad, who played in the Atlanta Braves organization.
He played first base like his father did in high school and wore number
17, the number his father donned at UNC. Tyler will most likely, never
play baseball again, much less even walk. His life changed forever in
the blink of an eye, which is so sad and so tragic. It just doesn't seem
fair.

Tyler is truly loved by so many of his classmates in high school and they are
rallying around him. They are raising money for his rehabilitation care which
is going to be long, arduous, and grueling. Kids at school are selling
"Hope 4 Hoog" wristbands for $3 and plan on conducting fundraisers
throughout the year. My former teammate is heading for the toughest time
of his life. Pray for him, pray for Tyler.

For information on how to support Hoog and his family, contact Travis
O'Hair at ohair_michael@svvsd.org or 602-410-6021.

To follow Hoog's progress, visit http://www.bit.ly/hopeforhoogie.

NEW CANAAN'S MARK REARICK: AN APPRECIATION.

Last January, when the digital numbers on my scale slowly and painfully turned over
from 249 to the perfectly round number of 250, I texted my good friend and former
teammate Steve Tonra, who was an excellent baseball player in high school. I wrote:
T-Man, I'M NOW THE SECOND MOST FAMOUS 2-5-0 FROM NEW CANAAN.
Truth be told, there is only one, and there will always be only one 2-5-0 in that ritzy town
of Connecticut, no matter what anybody's scale says.

2-5-0 is the nickname of Mark Rearick. He was extra large coming out of the womb and grew
 to be a mountain of a man. He put the barrel in barrel-chested, and even though he is light
on his feet for a man his size, 2-5-0 is like the dinasours in Jurassic Park, you can hear him
coming from a mile a way.

2-5-0. Rearick hit that magic number as offensive lineman as a senior in high school. Even by
today's standards, any 18-year old kid tippin' the scales at 250 is large, especially when he's
6'3. That  nickname stuck to Rearick like the tattoo on  Mike Tyson's face. It's on, and it's
never coming off. He was never Mark, Mr. Rearick, Coach, or  Dude. It's always been 2-5-0,
even when the scale spit out a number that was much greater than that.

But there's more to 2-5-0 than a perfectly suited nickname. 2-5-0 is Mr. New Canaan baseball.
He was teaching kids how to play the game going back to the mid-1970's. 2-5-0 was the
president of Babe Ruth baseball and coached every kid who came through the program. A well-spoken, intelligent man, 2-5-0 had more knowledge about the game in his right pinky, than
most of us will ever know.

2-5-0 has worked at New Canaan High School for so long, he's seen the kids of some of the
kids he used to coach, graduate. The man is an instution like IBM, Harvard, and Budweiser,
although 2-5-0 has never even sipped an alcoholic drink. He is "old school" and a straight-
shooter who arrived long before the Rubix Cube, Internet, Facebook, and Twitter. In this day
and age of "look at me" and "what can you do for thee", 2-5-0 is unselfish, genuinely caring
about his players, and always doing what was best for the team.

For many years, 2-5-0 was the varsity baseball coach at New Canaan High School. His teams,
as you might've expected, were intelligent and well-coached. He helped make average teams,
good and good teams, great. 2-5-0 was never one to keep track of his records and he probably
couldn't tell you the exact numbers of years he even coached. He just coached for the pure love
of the game. Oh, that may seem like a glitzky cliche in this day and age, but 2-5-0 lived and
breathed the game. It was his true passion.

A few years ago, the game was wrongfully taken away from him. He coached in a town where
every CEO thought they could manage better than Tony LaRussa and coach bettter than Bill Belichick. His assistant coach threw him under the bus and the new athletic director wanted
to have "his guy" running the team. If was the "perfect storm" that led the Rams to make a change atop the baseball program.

After all his hard work, dedication, and loyalty, 2-5-0 was no longer the baseball coach at
New Canaan High School. Baseball in New Canaan would never be the same. Legends
like 2-5-0, and he is a  legend, should decide when they are leaving, not some buttoned-up
adminstrator who uses too much starch in his shirts and doesn't have a pulse of the town.

But life isn't fair, after all, even Tom Landry, who built the Dallas Cowboys from scratch
and turned them into "America's Team," was unceremoniously dumped by Jerry Jones
when  he took over the team. That's sports, and that's life.

2-5-0's former players, coaches, and even umpires in the area, honored him a couple of
years ago, celebrating his contributions to the game. 2-5-0 is truly loved, admired, and
respected, and the number of people who turned out for the event supported that.
My friends reading this like Tonra, Timmis, Burke, Stevens, and Nanai all know what I'm
talking about.

We all go through school learning from a thousand different teachers and getting  instructions
from a hundred different coaches. There are only a handful that we really remember, and
perhaps just a couple you can say actually had an impact on your life. 2-5-0 is one of those
people and coaches that you never forget. He is a true legend of the game and a great friend.

Thanks, 2-5-0.

A GORILLA WEEKEND AND THE FAT GUY NEEDS A GPS.

Last Sunday, I interviewed a runner who had just won the woman's
division of a 10-mile road race. She told me she would've had a
better time except that she "made a wrong turn and went out of
(my) way a bit."  I chuckled to myself and wondered how anyone
could make a wrong turn on a course that is marked with other runners
ahead of you.

Three hours later, I wasn't laughing. I had gone down to the site
of the triathlon I will be competing in on September 11th. I wanted
to test the bike course and get my "strategery" down, as George
Bush famously said. I wanted to know where I could cruise down
hills, the pot holes to avoid, and locate the best fast food joints
in case I get famished, which there is a good chance I will. Extra
value meal to go, please.

As I followed the directions on my printout of the course which
were barely visible to this 47-year old dude, I came to a turn I wasn't
sure of. I stopped a motorist as he was coming out of a 7-Eleven
and he told me there were two ways to get to where I wanted to go.
I, of course, took the wrong route. I went two miles out of the way,
which meant I had to come back two miles to return to the course.
A great way to start a 56-mile journey.

Pounding my way through the rolling hills of Hudson Valley, New
York, I was on a pretty good pace, or so I thought. Another cyclist
blew past me as if I was standing still. Getting passed like that is
demoralizing, but when I noticed the perfectly-defined diamond
shaped calves of the rider, I didn't feel so bad. That guy rides his
bike as often as Bruce Pearl lies, a lot. Last summer, during a
triathlon I was competing in, I was climbing a steep hill when this
woman on a pink bike peddled furiously by me. The big numbers
stained on her arm gave her age away and when I noticed a 6
and a 2  side-by-side, I almost quit right there. Big guys aren't
built for speed on a bike. I sometimes think the department of
transportation is going to tag me with a red flag and put a sign
on my back that reads, "Over size load".

There was no quiting on my Sunday ride which got supersized
to 60-miles after my earlier mistake. It was a pretty comfortable
ride until I got to the 58-mile mark. I had cotton mouth and was out
of water. I thought for sure I'd pass a convenient store, but there
were none, making them not so convenient. I spotted a pizza
joint who's name I could not pronounce or even understand.

But I'm smart enough to know when that neon sign is glowing
and says "open", that's the only thing that really matters. I
dismounted my  bike and the pain strangled my body like G.I
Joe's Kung Fu grip. I let out a primal scream as if an alien was
stapled to the bottom of my stomach while pumping napalm through
my intestines. Yeah, I know. Don't tell you about the pain, just show
you the baby. This is the second consecutive week that I stopped for
a slice. It's become a tradition unlike any other for me. When I got
my slice of Sicilian pizza and 32 ounces of Gatorade, I was relieved
and in heaven.

I still had a few miles to go, but after completing the required
56 that I'll need for the race, I put it on cruise control. With the
finish to the ride in a park by the Hudson River, I envisioned
what I was going to do when I was done. Strip down to my biking
shorts and sprint for that big body of water and take the Nestea
plunge.

When I got there, it sure seemed like a Cinco de mayo after, after
party. I was in the minority and when I approached the water
I could of sworn I heard people saying, "El pez grande! El pez
grande!"  Interesting. When I got home I went on to Google translate
to figure out what they were saying. "The Big Fish, The Big Fish!"
is what they were saying.

Less than 21 days to go. I'm down to 234lbs and feeling a bit better
about my chances of finishing the half-ironman

FAT MAN COMETH: LESS THAN A MONTH TIL RACE DAY.

Three weeks into my Gorilla Fitness program, I hit the proverbial wall.
I've grown tired of salads, steamed vegetables, and endless gallons of
water laced with lemon. (Dr. Oz says the citrus is a good fat-burning
accelerant).

My long, lonely jogs have turned into battles between me and my knees.
Those days of catching in bullpens along Tobacco road and in the
Carolina League finally caught up with me. When my feet hit the pavement
with the grace of a Water Buffalo, it feels like 100 daggers are piercing
what's left of the cartilage around my patella.

As I cringe, my knees look up at me and scream, "Hey, lard ass.
When you were eating all those Krispy Kreme donuts, did you have to
eat the entire box?!" But I endure, even though my knees are whining and
running is my least favorite activity in life. My pace is somewhere between
Fred Sanford and Re-Run (hey, hey, hey!).

I'm pretty much resigned to the fact, that on September 11th, the
tournament organizers of the triathlon are going to "Motel 6" me. They
are definitely going to keep a light on for me as I try to complete a
13.1 mile run, which comes after a 56-mile bike ride, which comes
after a 1.2 mile swim.

I signed up for this brutal test of endurance because my weight had
gotten out of control. I needed a goal and something to help push
me away from the dinner table and toward a weight that didn't begin
with a 2 and a 5.

Through my Gorilla Fitness program and  strict diet, (wink,wink)
I've slimmed down to 238 lbs. I still find it hard to believe that I weighed
in at 208 just three years ago. Losing 30 more pounds seems as realistic
as Reuben Stoddard becoming a Chippendale.

There have been a couple of days where I had the "screw its", times
where I ignored my good conscious that was telling me to work out.
I even cheated on my diet once, ok, maybe twice. I helped a friend
move from her mansion in New Canaan to a regular-sized home
in Old Greenwich. I helped unpack the thousands of boxes littered
across her homestead. After I  worked non-stop for almost 8 hours,
I crashed on the couch and woke up famished at 3am. I definitely
could eat a cow.

I went to the refrigerator and really wasn't expecting much because,
after all, nobody has a stocked fridge when they just move in. I opened
the freezer and there it was, in all her glory. A box of "Skinny Cow" ice
cream cones. It was like finding two, $20 dollar bills in the pocket of
a pair of pants you haven't worn in awhile. My face must have looked
like Indiana Jones' after discovering the Holy Grail. I hit the jackpot.
A Skinny Cow for a hungry fat guy. As that beer commercial once
stated, "it doesn't get much better than this."

Guilt ridden and in need of a work out, I went for a 60-mile bike
ride the following day. It was only 85 degrees but the humidity was
close to 90 percent. I was sweating like Phil Mickelson on the final
day of a major. (No man-boob jokes, please)  Unlike my last
long-distance ride, I brought a lot of energy-boosters, including
fruit and GU, those mini-packets filled with some type of gel that taste
like Elmer's glue and chalk.

With four miles to go in my journey, I stopped off at a pizza place
to get a drink. God, that slice of pepperoni sure was enticing.
Hmmm. Discipline or instant gratification? I said yes to the latter
and ordered up what seemed like half the pie. I justified it by
saying that I had already burned about 5,000 calories and remembered
somebody had told me the metabolism rate keeps churning after
a long ride like that. And I basically said because I had endured
so much pain during the ride, I deserved to have some pleasure.

While sitting on a bench outside the pizzeria, a little man resembling
Larry David of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" got out of his large Mercedes
and walked by me with a quizzical look. He said, "Are you going
to eat that whole thing." Ever the wise-ass, I refrained from firing
off a suitable comeback. After all, I was in the midst of eating one
of the best slices of pizza's I had ever tasted.

26 days to race day. Am I ready? Not right now. But while time
is winding down, so is my weight, and that's a really good thing.

BRIAN BILL: A NAVY SEAL REMEMBERED

I never knew Brian Bill and unless you were a member of his family or went to school with
him, chances are you didn't know him, either. Bill was one of the 30 American troops killed
when the helicopter they  were traveling in, was shot down by the Taliban with a rocket-propelled
grenade in Afghanistan. The Stamford, CT. native was a Navy SEAL and just 31 years old.

When I saw his picture which was accompanied by a story about his funeral,  I couldn't help
but notice how young, happy, and vibrant he  looked. It was as if Bill knew the world was
his oyster and he could  accomplish anything he wanted to.

Bill accomplished a lot during his short life. He played soccer and hockey  at Trinity Catholic
High School in Stamford, home of the great Bobby Valentine. He earned a college degree and
went to military school. Bill also earned a commercial pilots license, spoke French fluently,
and was an accomplished mountaineer who climbed Mount Elbus in Russia

As a precocious teenager, Bill, according to his friends was hell-bent on serving his county.
And he did, with the same passion, commitment, and dedication  that he showed when he played hockey and soccer in high school.

Bill then became a Navy SEAL, perhaps the toughest and most respected soldiers in our military.
He earned three Bronze stars, among his many other decorations. Bill was a member of SEAL
Team 6, the unit responsible  responsible for hunting down and killing Osama Bin Laden. The
government doesn't release information on the specifics of who did whatfor SEAL Team 6 for security purposes, but after those SEAL's  turned the lights out on Bin Laden, they shined brightly 
in our country, didn't they?

Seemingly, every news organization was doing features on just how tough, brave, smart,
courageous, and physically fit these SEAL's are. Even though we didn't know exactly know
who they were or what dangerous  places they went into, the SEAL's became like cult heroes
in our country.

It's just sad and unfortunate that SEAL's only really get recognized when they die. Sounds
harsh, but its true. Nobody on the vaunted SEAL Team 6 was  honored for the bravery they
showed in taking down Bin  Laden. They never will, either, because of security purposes.

I sometimes get annoyed when sportscasters, analysts, and other journalists use all the
euphemisms and metaphors when describing teams and players. They say a team is "battle
tested" because it goes up against top 10 teams every week. Really? Try going on foreign
soil to battle a faceless enemy where every kid who walks up to you on the street could have explosives strapped to himself to kill you and your entire platoon. How's that for battle
tested?

I remember hearing Joe Buck calling Brett Favre a "warrior" because he got driven into the
turf by a 300lb lineman, then got up to throw a 50-yard touchdown pass on the next play.
Warrior? Brian Bill was a warrior. He parachuted behind enemy lines under the cover of only darkness  and battled against soldiers with bazookas and bayonets.

Ray Lewis has been described as so tough, he eats nails for breakfast. Bill was so tough, he
was trained to eat maggots, cockroaches, and just about anything that moved in the desert,
ocean, and snake-infested swamps to survive.

The eccentric reliever of the San Francisco Giants has been fawned over because he has
"the guts of a burglar".  How bout having the guts of a Navy SEAL like Brian Bill. Fighting
for your country and your life every single day.

And one of my favorites when teams face off in Game 7 of the playoffs or championship.
"There is no tomorrow", the broadcaster will say. In sports, there always is a tomorrow. Even
for guys like Bill Buckner and Jean Van de Velde.

There will be no tomorrow for Brian Bill, and that is really a sad, sad thing. People will soon
forget about Bill because unfortunately, that's how life works. We mourn and move on. But
people like Bill, who fought to help our country slow down terrorism, while experiencing a
great amount of terror himself, should never be forgotten.