Editor's note: This is a story for the more "culturally elite" - grin. Robert emails:

In June of 2004 our family took a trip to the United Kingdom. We were visiting my older son, who had just finished up at Oxford University. We had secured a country villa in the county of Cornwall on the southwestern corner of the big island. Cornwall is semi-tropical because the Gulf Stream brings warm Caribbean waters to the area.

 

Gardens full of flowers and shrubbery of all types flourish there, and some grow to surreal sizes, nurtured as they are by the healthful climate. To walk and hobnob in those gardens is special and, in many ways, reminds me of walking onto the field to officiate a youth lacrosse game.

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Our society does have its publicized principles and traditionally will not dramatically respond unless attacked first. Why, then, do coaches (even the legends) sometimes explode? What jerks!

On the other hand, could it be that the real jerk is running around in black and white stripes, pretending to maintain the princely elegance of a zebra when all along he has been looking more like a jackass?

Sports officials are not independent, per se; we are, however, objective, and we are interested in checks and balances to support our game management. At the end of the first and third quarters of a lacrosse game, the referee and umpire each get to play supreme court justices.

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As hometown fans, we eagerly waited seeing our dynamic trio of Princeton's super attack line: Jesse "The Shot" Hubbard, Chris "Mr. Long Island" Massey, and John "The Man" Hess. The place was rocking, and my mind was marinating in the juices of so many wonderful lacrosse memories.

I rubbed my eyes. I couldn't believe it. Was I hallucinating? Out came Hubbard, Massey, and Hess in orange tutus and black leotard tights. They were prancing like gazelles ....

Editor's note: You'll have to click the title to see what was up in Bob's life. And you have to be a subscriber to do that – with or without tights.

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