And now me. Yep, most people don’t know it, but I went to Oxford. I walked those same hallowed streets as some of the world’s best and brightest. I strode through the same gateways; pushed on the same doors. Heck, I even have a coffee mug that has the coat of arms of every college associated with Oxford.

Okay, so I wasn’t exactly a student there, unless you count reading all the historical markers around town and a brief walk through the Oxford University bookstore. I guess you could probably list my official Oxford classification as…tourist. I would like to study there and it has always been a desire to at least visit Oxford. It didn’t disappoint. In fact, it was nearly too much. Come to think of it, it was sensory overload caused by historical and architectural gluttony. I devoured the reality of 700-year-old buildings constructed from the cut stone of the Cotswolds and shaped to classic perfection, only to turn and face another as old and as historic.

And if these buildings could talk they’d bear witness to so many significant events. Think what Oxford Castle would say of its nearly 1,000 years of life and how it was established to remind the conquered Saxons of their resounding defeat at the hands of Normans. Or how about something much more “contemporary” as the 1555 martyrdom of Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley, two English reformers burned on Oxford’s Broad Street by order of Queen Mary I (Bloody Mary) for their refusal to renounce their Protestant beliefs.

Oxford is so much more than punting (and as my experience dictates I’m glad it is!), and as I’ve scanned through the pictures I took I think it will take some time to digest the magnitude of such a place. Pictures aren’t worth a 1,000 words because some need that many words of explanation, but I’ve posted a couple here and you can find more at my Flickr photo page. They still don’t do Oxford justice so if you want a better experience you just have to go to Oxford.

I did.

Ah, Venice. Yep. I love Venice; or actually I guess I should say I love the idea of Venice. I’ve never actually been to Venice, unless you count watching somebody else’s YouTube clip from their vacation of them drifting romantically along Venice’s watery corridors listening to a piloto regale them with O sole mia.

But I have been to Oxford, England. And I have drifted along the River Cherwell. However, there were no Rudolph Valentino looking dudes in striped shirts with voices like Pavarotti serenading us with O sole mia, or any other song. There was no Piazza and no gondolas. There were, however, a number of misdirections that ended with the bow of the punt – or flat-bottom boat propelled by a long pole (operated by yours truly) – ramming the narrow river’s bank like an ill-fated beach landing. There was also the pole getting hung in low hanging trees or stuck in the gray, oozy mud – or both. Instead of the lilting sounds of a perfect tenor, my family nearly got the incoherent rantings of a West Tennessean. I would have snapped the pole across my knee in a fit of frustrated rage, but where do you snap a 16-foot pole? And even if I’d figured that out I’m reasonably certain the thick aluminum would not have yielded to my belligerence.

But it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

When a friend (yes, she’s still a friend – mostly) recommended we give it a try it sounded like a good idea. And once I read the description on the Website it was an absolute must do.

At Magdalen Bridge Boathouse you have the opportunity to spend the day enjoying the beautiful River Cherwell as it passes historic oxford colleges, the botanic gardens and tranquil English countryside. Set off from the boathouse and glide past the famous Botanic Gardens. Drift quietly through Christ Church Meadows, where Lewis Carroll was inspired to write Alice Through the Looking Glass. Pass St Hilda’s College gardens, Magdalen College Tower, traveling through English countryside down to the river Thames.

Now do you see from whence came visions of Venice – UK style? The exception being that I half expected to see Cheshire Cat grinning from the river bank, or when asking which direction I was to navigate, having the King of Hearts tell me, “Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” But it wasn’t like that at all. I banged us under the bridge, against parked punts and into others who were no more qualified than I to punt; and some who I felt reasonably sure could very well have been chasing Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit instead of Lewis Carroll’s.

Once clear of all obstacles other than the persistent river bank which kept navigating itself directly at the punt’s bow, I propelled our boat (sort of) forward with confident uncertainty. My daughter wanted to help, so she floated a dwarfed-size paddle through the current in the water alongside. Of course I did what any self-respecting man would do: I blamed our constant misdirection on her paddle serving as a rudder forcing us to the river’s edge (Totally absurd, I know, but since I’ve already invoked the absurdity of Lewis Carroll I feel I can throw myself on the absurdity of absurdity to rescue even a shred of seamanship here). At $26/30 minutes, a brief glance at my watch solidified my mission: circumnavigate the small island in the river and return the boat within the 30 minutes to limit the financial disaster meandering and unscheduled beach landings would cause.

I forged ahead, fought the trees and willed the punt to it’s resting place. As I was handing the pole back to the guy who launched us I asked, “So how many times out before I navigate it like you guys?” “At least twice,” he said, without so much as a respectful pause. “Well that’ll never happen,” I thought to myself, as he added, “But actually, you did quite well for a first timer. Most people can’t get it around that quickly.”

Okay, so maybe that could bring me back, I thought; and let’s face it, the girls had fun despite my constant mumbling. But, the truth? I’ll take a punt on punting. Next time I think we’d try the paddle boats.

Or better yet, just go to Venice and let the Valentino-Pavarotti dudes do all the rowing and singing.

The Dome of the Rock is an Islamic shrine and major landmark located on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. It was completed in 691-692, making it the oldest existing Islamic building in the world. The site's significance stems from the religious beliefs regarding the rock, known as the Foundation Stone, at its heart.

There is something ironic about Old City Jerusalem being called, “The Holy City.” It isn’t.

Jerusalem is a city where stress runs high and the strain of so many people practicing so many religions in such a small area makes the tension palatable. Young Muslim men spitefully mock an elderly Jewish man as he winds his way through the Muslim quarter on his way to morning prayers. Devout Jews press their faces against the Western Wall, crying out to God to hear their prayers while harboring contempt in their hearts toward Muslims whose Dome of the Rock located on the other side of the wall is anathema (it is built on the site where the Jewish temple once stood thousands of years ago). People of traditional religions press their icons and rosaries against the slab of rock within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre believed to be the stone upon which Jesus was laid after being crucified. Tears streaming down their faces, they seek a blessing or a healing or some connection with God through well meaning, but mistaken, devotion.

The Western Wall is located in the Old City of Jerusalem at the foot of the western side of the Temple Mount. It is a remnant of the ancient wall that surrounded the Jewish Temple and is one of the most sacred sites in Judaism.

Bitter schism resides just below the surface and there isn’t any one of these factions that would be disappointed if the other two would exit the city walls. Money is the unifying denominator. Remove the tourist dollar – take away the thousands of global residents who push their way through the throng along the cobblestone streets leaving a significant amount of money with the hundreds of gift shops – and it would boil over.

My task during my eight days of wandering through the Jerusalem maze was to find out what Jerusalem means to the people who live there. Through several interviews and probing questions it quickly became obvious that the romantic notions people I know have of Jerusalem are not shared by the people who live within Old City’s walls. As objective as inhabitants say they are or try to be it all goes pear shaped with one question: What do you think it will take for there to be peace in Jerusalem?

Palestinian Muslims clamor for Jewish building and resettlement to cease in the West Bank and for Jews to reinstate boundary lines as they were in 1948 or 1967. Then, they say, there will be peace. Jews wail at the Western Wall over the defilement they believe the Muslim’s mosque and monument bring to the Temple Mount. Remove the Dome and Mosque and then, they say, there will be peace. Both groups harbor contempt toward “Christians” (the word they associate with those practicing Catholic and Orthodox traditions) for the Crusades and mock them for their idol worship.

Looking into the Eastern side of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, a view very similar to what Jesus might have had.

I recognize these are generalizations and not everyone in Jerusalem feels this way, but I talked with enough people in each group to get a sense that a significant number of people in Jerusalem believe the most lasting solution for peace rests upon the total expulsion or annihilation of his or her neighbor. As one devout Jew said, “There will never be peace as long as that dome sits on the Temple site.”

The Bible records Jesus approaching Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives and looking across the narrow valley and into the city. The temple would have been plainly visible to Him since its location sat near the wall on that eastern side. His perspective was slightly elevated from the hillside so He was looking down into Jerusalem. “Jesus looked over the city and wept,” Luke wrote of the occasion.

Why was Jesus weeping? Wasn’t Jerusalem a holy city? It was not. It was a religious city – much as it is today – and that is why he wept. The religious leaders of the day brought such bondage on the people that there was no joy in serving and worshiping God. They were so busy ritual keeping that they failed to rightly interpret Scripture and recognize Christ as the fulfillment of thousands of years of prophecy. Jesus wept precisely because there was no holiness, only ritual.

In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a devout Catholic, rosary in hand, kisses the stone slab upon which it is believed that Jesus was laid after the crucifixion.

I am convinced after walking the streets myself and talking to devout and secular Jews, Muslims and “Christians” that Jesus would weep because nothing has changed. If anything I’d say it has become more complicated and contentious. The bondage of religion is heavier now than it ever has been. Reconciliation to God through the Son brings peace with God and produces holiness. Holiness before God produces peace within oneself that radiates outward to bring peace among other people. As Paul wrote, “as much as it is within you, live at peace with all men.”

Jerusalem needs your prayers. In fact the Bible commands us to pray for the peace of Jerusalem. Peace will not come through religion, mostly because religion is divisive and some of the great atrocities in the history of the world have come because of religion. Jerusalem is rife with religion.

Don’t call Jerusalem the Holy City. It is not a Holy City; it is a religious city and the difference is the difference between war and peace.

Nearly 70 years too late.

I thought going to the Yad Vesham Holocaust Remembrance Museum in Jerusalem sounded like a good idea. I knew enough about the atrocities perpetrated against Jews by Germans in  collaboration with many other guilty nations that I felt reasonably sure I wouldn’t be introduced to much new. What I learned is that I had an extremely superficial understanding of the cruelty and suffering; the hate and helplessness; the evil and desperation.

I froze when I walked into the room where the picture hung. It seemed so….real; like I was there. I wanted to yell, “Run!”; or “Stop!”; or “No!” I wanted to have a gun aimed squarely at that cowardly bastard and blow his head off before he could do what history records he did. How can someone’s soul be so shriveled – so dead – that it would allow someone to coldly kill a helpless mother and her child?

Thousands of binders in the Holocaust Museum hold the names and stories of Jews who died during the Holocaust.

“Dear God, how could this have happened?” I asked over and over as I roamed – sometimes in shock – as image after image presented itself and begged from me an answer to the same question: “How could the world have allowed this to happen?” I wanted to deny the truth of what I saw yet the evidence forced my admission of it. It was real. And it did happen. And the world was slow to respond throughout World War II and when it did it acted surprised by what it found. Maybe it is better to describe it as shocked by what it found since reality proved much more horrific than nearly five years of previous eyewitness testimony indicated. All the world bears the shame of that episode of history.

And what of the world today? Not much has changed. We’ve stood by and watched Cambodians suffer similar genocide at the hands of the Khmer Rouge, or Tutsi and politically moderate Hutu Rwandans at the hands of militant Hutus, or the innocent of Darfur at the hands of extremists.

The Bible asks “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9). Standing looking at the image of a cowardly soldier murdering a helpless mother confirms the depths of our depravity and presents us with the reality of who we are.

God’s response to the question is in the next verse: “I the Lord search the heart and test the mind, to give every man according to his ways, according to the fruit of his deeds.”

What are the fruits of my deeds? What are the fruits of your deeds? Will we be guilty of the deceit in our own hearts? Will we be guilty of waiting until it is too late before we deal with it?

Landing the big fish is about feel. You have to feel the lure sliding through the water. You have to feel the nibble on the bait so you know when it’s time to set the hook. You have to feel the strain on the line so it doesn’t break as the fish is running for its life.

TV screen picture of my virtual bass harvested on virtual Lake Amistad.

So I relaxed as much as I could, but remained vigilant…and it happened. A massive fish hit my bait with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball crashing into the side of a condemned building, Within a breath, it had run more than 150 feet from the boat. The pounding of my heart sounded like a kettle drum in my ears but I was screaming in my mind, “Be patient!” Slowly I started to crank the reel, dragging what felt like a truck tire toward the boat. After what seem like hours (probably more like 5 minutes) my avatar reached into the water and hoisted from the water an exhausted 36.8 pound stripped bass.

I say “avatar” because I was fishing as a virtual person, on a virtual lake, using virtual bait, driving a virtual boat and landing a virtual fish. But it was a BIG virtual fish…and it didn’t get away. (An avatar is not really like the movie, but is a digitally generated image that sorta looks like you – or looks like you wish you looked). My virtual me went on to harvest 83 pounds of virtual bass to win the virtual tournament on virtual Lake Amistad, Texas. I won a virtual crank bait and a virtual $25 gift certificate to a virtual Bass Pro Shops.

This virtual world is contained inside the Bass Pro Shops’ “The Strike” video game my dad has for his XBox. It comes with a stubby little fishing pole with a spinning reel. You push a button, draw the pole back and fling it like a real cast. I had so many “perfect casts” I lost track. I was a fish-catching machine. I could tell my virtual me even enjoyed riding in the boat.

My real bass harvested on the real Tennessee River near Pickwick Landing. He may be small but shoulda seen the fight he put up.

And that is about where the similarities ended between the virtual experience and the real-life experience my dad and I had drifting along the bank of the Tennessee River near Pickwick Landing. I for the most part cast my line to within about 30 feet of where I was actually trying to land it. I caught one little bass that a friend of mine said in response to the picture he saw of my prize: “We don’t want to see the live bait we want to see the fish!” (A good line, crushing, but a really good line.)

But the virtual game isn’t perfect. It can simulate a lake, a fish, a boat, a catch but it can’t simulate actually being on a real lake in a real boat and catching a real fish. It can’t simulate spitting sunflower seed hulls, jabbing your finger on a hook or getting worm poop on your hands when you thread the squirmy things as bait. It can’t simulate sunburn, the serenity of drifting along or the suspension of time.

It’s biggest shortcoming? It can’t simulate real time together with your dad, which I wouldn’t trade for even 83 pounds of real fish and that was the best part of having gone fishin’ – for real.

Me at Leith Hill, Surrey, UK

I sat on a wooden railing smacking at a ham sandwich, my mountain bike leaning against the other side. A friend of mine and I had just finished an arduous climb up the steep side of Leith Hill and were enjoying the view across the South Downs with about a dozen other mountain bikers.

And that’s when they sauntered through. Two horse riders, strolling up one side of the hill, through the throng of bikers and casually down the other side, casting a pseudo-regal persona over messy and muddy bikes and riders. While in our midst they tossed condescending glances down from their high horses as if to say, “What boorish, common little people.”

Since becoming a mountain biker I’ve come to realize there is a culture clash here in the UK between five distinct groups of people: Horseback riders, mountain bikers, street bikers, walkers and runners.

Horses and horseback riding here in Surrey goes beyond the casual pasture horse whose back is slightly swayed with age. No,  horses here are posh, and posh people ride posh horses, and posh horses graze in posh pastures. (Maybe posh horses don’t actually graze. That sounds too…..common. Maybe posh horses “snip succulent pasturage”). No western saddles here. Riders use proper saddles and wear polyester stretchy pants covered with knee-high boots. Atop, I’ve seen supple brown leather gloves, tweed jackets and of course all don black helmets. There is many an equestrian training facility in the area and when the horses roam beyond paddocks they take to bridleways. These happen to be the same byways on which mountain bikers are allowed to ride. When the two cultures meet along secluded pathways there is a real sense that the desire expressed by equine people is that the bike people yield, submit, be cast aside….just simply go somewhere else, preferably France. If horseback riders were music they’d most certainly be one of Mozart’s finer concertos.

I mentioned France. France has its own variation of posh horse riders called “road bikers.” These are they who spend thousands of dollars on bicycles that are the equivalent of a Ferrari. They spend nearly as much on the tight little singlets and tight little shorts like the Tour de France guys wear. In fact, I’m convinced these Lance Armstrong wannabes truly believe they are in perpetual preparation for the next year’s event. Here in the UK, the pompous glances these velocipede drivers cast toward auto drivers – for whom the roads were actually made – seem to communicate, “Did you have permission to bring your auto onto this very wide, paved bicycle carriageway?” If road bikers were music they’d be Top 40 pop for sure: a lot of fluff, glitz, glam but very little substance. Can somebody say Lady Gaga?

Scampering along the sides of narrow roads and sidewalks are runners. Now I want to be careful here. Until just a few years ago and a hip surgery I was churning out about 35-40 miles a week so my heart beats this people group. Let’s face it; runners are cool. They glide through pedestrians and dart across roads. Admittedly this gliding and darting annoys pedestrians and motorists, but who cares. By the time the profanity forms in the mind and transfers to the lips, the runner is out of range. (Another reason runners are cool is the shoes. I love the shoes). Runners are classic rock, no doubt about it, and that’s cool too.

I mentioned pedestrians, which is a fancy way of saying, “walkers.” I admit, even though I’m excited to see people out exercising I was pretty condescending to walkers. “Runner wannabees” I’d call ‘em. There is a sense of superiority when as a runner you blow past a walker and think in the most patronizing tone possible, “walker.” I wanted little to do with walkers….until that hip surgery I mentioned…and now I is one. I don’t know, maybe God’s way of humbling me – by making me a walker. Anyway, I don’t really walk when I walk, I trek, and trekking for some reason makes me think of John Denver, and since I like John Denver….trekking is cool.

The bane of all these people groups seems to be mountain bikers. Mountain bikers are mongrels; creatures not legitimately created to share bridleways but certainly not pedigree enough to classify themselves as true bikers. They terrorize walkers and the dogs who walk with walkers. The irony is mountain bikers really could not care less. In fact, many would probably embrace the rebel without a cause (clue?) mantra. Mountain bikers really aren’t supposed to be on footpaths so I asked a guy who owns a mountain bike shop whose cheapest bike is about $700, “So where do you ride.” His response: “Wherever the hell we want.”

Alrighty then. The guy was definitely thrash metal. Addicted to Pain comes to mind.

I will have to say, I’m a kinder, gentler mountain biker. I yield to posh horses and their posh riders, I don’t terrorize the walkers (too much), and I try not to call road bikers in their little stretchy outfits sissies (mostly because I don’t want to get beat up by a dude in tight shorts). In fact, I spend most of my time just trying to keep from hitting a tree root and launching myself over the handle bars and into the woods where injury awaits.

Or worse: landing in posh horse poop.

Those immortal words of Johnny Rambo reveal my current state of mind. One look at my yard and you’d understand why I’ve decided to seek a more terminal solution to eradicating the moles that have decided my yard is now their yard. As they are discovering, they’ve made a fatal mistake in judgment. Unfortunately lethal solutions are hard to come by in the UK. I can smoke them out with Castor oil bombs (worked for three days but I think in the end just made them mad), or use an organic, ecofriendly mole repellent that disolves in water and that you apply through a sprayer (useless, moles rutted right under it an hour after application).

I could try the sonar option where I drive this probe in the ground, feed it four D-sized batteries and the frequency supposedly drives them crazy then drives them to the neighbors yard. What a waste. Thing costs $30 and word is the moles become used to the frequency and return – possibly deaf, but more determined than ever to turn my yard into a subterranean freeway.

So, I’ve opted for a more lethal solution, but for effective application of lethal strategies, I sought advice from someone experienced in these matters. Someone who has proven his prowess in dealing with subterranean rodents. Someone, who has the mind…of an animal.

Carl Spackler.

I’ve taken Carl’s advice and stepped up my attempt to crush my enemy. I struck a blow last week when I patiently stood sipping a cup of coffee as the waning light began to dip beyond North Downs. Suddenly, I saw the ground twitching about 15 feet in front of me. I calmly placed my mug on the deck box, slipped quietly in the shed and grabbed my spade. I stalked the spot, squatted on one knee and rehearsed the thrusting action I intended to use. Finally, and with adrenaline surging through my body, I raised the shovel and thrust it into the ground with the determination Queequeg would have thrust a harpoon into the side of Moby Dick.

And it worked! I struck a fatal blow. The sense of satisfaction at my kill left me feeling more as if I’d gone on safari and killed a lion with my bare hands. I was tempted to pull a Henry VIII and put the carcass of my enemy on a pike and publicly display it as an example to other moles as to whose dominion this really is, but decided not to gloat until I was certain the problem was solved.

Unfortunately, it isn’t. I hear moles travel in pairs and unfortunately I believe the bereaving mole remaining in my yard has decided to make my life – or at least my yard – one big rut. Frankly the challenge is not the mole. The challenge is finding a terminal solution in the bleeding heart country of England. When asking at garden centers for something lethal, I’ve gotten shocked expressions. “You barbaric Colonist!” I can practically hear blurting from their minds. “How can you be so cruel to such a tiny creature.”

Easy. Look at my yard.

After a significant amount of searching I opted for the only terminal trap I can find.A claw trap. (There are a number of lethal options in the states and I’ve used the harpoon trap with GREAT result, but unfortunately is not available in the UK). So far it has been useless. I stand a better chance of waiting for the mole to emerge and chasing it around the yard flailing at it with a shovel.

So, the war rages on and when the growing number of people ask me how I’m making it against my yard rodents, like Rambo I respond, “day by day.”

At the end of nine holes and at the end of my rope. Tilgate Golf Course was cut into a forrest, and swallowed 10 of my balls in nine holes. I cut my losses and called it a day. Didn't figure my five remaining balls would get me through the back.

Golf can be a frustrating game…..but it can also be a game of amazing satisfaction. The pendulum swings between frustration and satisfaction from shot to shot for some of us. But when you catch that one shot just perfect, when the ball clicks off the club face and explodes through the air, reaches its apex then drops softly near its intended target, THAT’S the shot that prevents the clubs from getting tossed into the pond and leaves me checking my calendar for my next possible round.

Not sure where the below caddy comments originated but gladly pass them along. I’m not opposed to caddies at all – in fact I love the idea – but since I’d probably hear a handful of these nearly every time out, why subject myself to the deserved humiliation. Easier to use a pull cart.

The 10 Best Caddy Replies

# 10 — Golfer: “Think I’m going to drown myself in the lake.”
Caddy:  ”Think you can keep your head down that long?”

# 9 — Golfer: “I’d move heaven and earth to break 100 on this course.”
Caddy: “Try heaven, you’ve already moved most of the earth.”

# 8 — Golfer: “Do you think my game is improving?”
Caddy: “Yes sir, you miss the ball much closer now.”

# 7 — Golfer: “Do you think I can get there with a 5 iron?”
Caddy: “Eventually.”

# 6 — Golfer: “You’ve got to be the worst caddy in the world.”
Caddy: “I don’t think so sir. That would be too much of a coincidence.

# 5 — Golfer: “Please stop checking your watch all the time. It’s too
much of A distraction.”
Caddy: “It’s not a watch – it’s a compass.”

# 4 — Golfer: “How do you like my game?”
Caddy: “Very good sir, but personally, I prefer golf.

# 3 — Golfer: “Do you think it’s a sin to play on Sunday?”
Caddy: “The way you play, sir, it’s a sin on any day.”

# 2 — Golfer: “This is the worst course I’ve ever played on.”
Caddy: “This isn’t the golf course. We left that an hour ago.”

# 1 — Best Caddy Comment……………..
Golfer: “That can’t be my ball, it’s too old.”
Caddy: “It’s been a long time since we teed off, sir.”

“Why is she skipping and water sipping and visiting with friends?” I asked myself, exasperated by her lack of a competitive killer spirit on her first Sports Day here in the UK. Sports Days are common place in schools here and consist of beanbag tosses, and rope skipping, egg and spoon relays and other such intensive contests. “Why isn’t she focusing on the next toss?”

And that is when the subtle thought entered my mind that my daughter may simply be content to have fun sometimes and not be competitive all the time (if that is even possible!). I quickly chased the idea from my mind and began helping her understand that if she tossed the beanbags instead of throwing them she’d have more control and possibly score three out of three. I got that, “Whatever, dad” look.

Now let me just state I’m NOT one of those parents. You know the type, they shout through the backstop at the umpire during a T-ball game, or shadow the coach constantly telling him why their kid ought to be moved to a more strategic position. I set out three years ago when my daughter played on her first soccer team to encourage participation and fun.  It never crossed my mind that there are people in this world who somehow have managed to separate competition/winning and fun, so imagine my surprise when my kiddo didn’t particularly like the games, but simply loved being at practice with her teammates.

“My name is Chris,” I could just see myself meekly say with lowered head to an ex-jock, win-at-all costs Competitive Dad’s Anonymous support group. “I have a great kid, exceptional in math and reading, respectful to her mom and I and to other adults, who enjoys music and art and friends and dress-up and butterflies and strawberries and trampolines, but most times when it comes to competition is content to….participate.”

Funny thing is, my daughter is competitive. She hates losing at board games and loves nothing more than to beat her daddy at, well anything and everything. The smallest thing is a competition. Backgammon is a Battle Royal. Beating me is fun. Losing brings on the waterworks. I’ve tried to tell her, “There’s no crying in Backgammon!” I’ve even heard myself say, “Try your best and if you lose that’s okay. It’s about having fun competing.”

And come to find out that is what Sports Day in the UK is about. Teachers spent most of their time encouraging five, six and seven year old boys and girls to stick with it, keep trying, “keep chin up.” Enjoy the competition. And fortunately these fine teachers weren’t interrupted by any of those parents. I don’t think there was a child who will look back on this day and say they didn’t have any fun, including my daughter, who gave Sports Day two thumbs up.

She’ll never remember that third beanbag that skipped through the hoop, and I need to learn to celebrate the two she landed.

There, I said it. No remorse. No shame, and actually it feels quite liberating. Saying you hate soccer is almost as politically incorrect these days as saying you think people migrating to America ought to enter the country legally; or that one of the most noble purposes bovines serve is being slow roasted to medium rare and served with a large baked potato. Seems like there has been such a push over the past few years for good ol’ red-blooded, American sports fans to become more tolerant of a game that requires incredible skill, yet features world class whiners.

And therein lies the contempt I have for the sport. Just when I’m seduced by the exploits of Wayne Rooney and actually endure a full 90 minutes of a Premier League game, or find myself talking to my neighbor about the nuances of Manchester United vs. Manchester City, the World Cup came around and reminded me all over again that I hate soccer.

It’s the floppers, whiners and drama queen prima donnas that for me so totally hijack any ounce of interest I may have been lured to invest. I scream at the television, things like, “get up you sissy;” or, “real men don’t get hurt by imaginary people,” or, “Even Reese Witherspoon can act better than that” (albeit not by much).

“It’s part of the game,” I’ve been told by many an aficionado with an international perspective. However, I am certain these same fanatical groupies would see Mike Tyson biting off Evander Holyfield’s ear as part of boxing. “Hey, hey!,” an offended and snobbish soccer fan may retort. “Not the same. Biting is cheating.” Well, I see flopping and diving as cheating. It totally undermines the spirit of competition at the least and at worst – which it usually is – manipulates the rules of the game to seize an unfair advantage. That’s cheating, and I hate it.

Makes me wonder where along the way these stars picked up this dastardly flopping habit. I’ve helped coach four-year-old girls soccer at the Y and it never crossed the minds of our girls to act like, well, four-year old girls. They were too busy talking with friends on other teams, watching planes fly over the field or chasing the ball around in a pack with about 10 other girls. No flopping, even though there were low velocity impacts with the ground due to lack of coordination. We did have crying, but it was because somebody got vanilla icing on a cupcake instead of chocolate. You know, legitimate stuff. Come to think of it, I’d have more respect for the world’s elite players if they cried and whined about stuff like not getting chocolate icing rather than mysteriously being tripped by an opponent who happened to be within about five yards of the flopper about the time he goofed and lost possession of the ball. (Notice next time, floppers usually grab an ankle and virtually all writhe with the same pained expression while their closest teammate kneels to console him and the second closest teammate pleads an animated case with the hapless official.)

Having one official doesn’t help the sport whose boys cry wolf seemingly every trip down field. The officials I’ve observed throughout the World Cup are either smack in the middle of play and in the way, or they  offer their best guess on a flop from 30 meters away. Why not have a three-man official rotation like NBA basketball (speaking of whiners…)? Better yet, why not flash some of those red cards above the heads of the whiners instead of above the heads of the guys being called for a foul and whose mere proximity to the whiner surprisingly was enough to throw them to the ground, causing life threatening injuries (and from which the whiner miraculously recovers in time to kick the penalty or jump up and reposition in the event a call is not made in his favor.)

Yep, I hate soccer and its floppers and whiners. You don’t see flopping in rugby. Flop in rugby and even the guys on your own team will pummel you. You don’t see flopping in cricket either. Flop in cricket and you stand a good chance of being denied a hot cup of tea. Maybe I was a little too hard in my evaluation of cricket. At least cricketers act like gentlemen.

Soccer players are floppers. And whiners. And act like four-year old girls who got the wrong icing on a cupcake.

I hate soccer.