Monday, June 18, 2007

I got a 12—on one hole!

Someone recently informed me her golf handicap was a 4. My golf handicap is my entire game. Frustration increases with each passing round. Even Jennifer Foster, a reporter here, could whip me blindfolded—and she’s big-time pregnant. Heard she shot a 42 on the back nine the other day.
I shot a 12.
On the last hole.
Really.
Jennifer texted me, proud of her feat on the links somewhere down in Florida. It inspired me. If a pregnant woman can break 90, I can break 100, right?
Almost.
Through 17 holes at Auburn Links, my scorecard revealed a 92. I took more mulligans than golf balls have dimples, but I don’t care. I paid to play, so I’m gonna do it my way. Bad karma caught up with me on No. 18.
Needing only a 7 to break 100, my tee shot was a thing of beauty—a towering drive that came to rest only 15 yards short of a large gully. It was my best shot of the day. Roughly 120 yards shy of the hole, I grabbed my trusty 8 iron from the bag. I’m great with that club. The shot felt great. The ball lofted high and had the look of a keeper. Almost was. Shoulda been.
The ball bounced at the front of the green, then rolled backward—into the sand trap.
Not bad. Two shots and I’m at the edge of the green. So I’m in the sand, big deal.
Originally from Daytona Beach, you’d think sand flowed through my blood. Not this sand. It was the trap from hell. Once you get in, you never get out. Hack one. Hack two. Hack three. Hack four. Cuss word. Hack five. Bad cuss word. And on and on.
In a matter of two minutes, my promising hole and best-ever round except for my rampant cheating, was gone.
Violently angry, I threw my clubs in the bag, jumped into the golf cart and raced back to the clubhouse. Just another relaxing day at the golf course.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Electricity is America’s top invention

We Americans are pretty innovative. We’re always coming up with new things. In today’s blog, I list our nation’s top-five inventions/discoveries.
1. Electricity—So what if Ben Franklin flew his darn kite before the Revolution. He was a patriot, a real American, so he qualifies. Without electricity, many of the luxuries we have come to enjoy would not exist. When the power cuts out, our lives are on hold.
2. Automobile—Driving around town in an automobile sure beats the old horse and buggy routine. How different would our lives be if automobiles were never invented? Then there would be no NASCAR, and life as I know it would cease to exist.
3. Telecommunications—I’ve got to include the telephone and Internet here. We can communicate with practically anyone anywhere. Plus, the Internet gives us the world at our fingertips.
4. Television—Can’t say it’s the most important discovery, but we Americans sure have gotten addicted to it. We use televisions for entertainment and information and have become essential parts of our daily lives.
5. Aeronautics—I would say “flight,” but aeronautics sounds cooler. What Orville and Wilbur did on that North Carolina beach eventually took us to the moon and across the globe. Thanks to them, we can be in Europe in several hours and maybe one day to Mars.
Next week’s top five list: Most influential Americans not to become president.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Singin’ in the John with the Prez

This week’s archived column comes from summer of 2005. I still wonder if that was President Bush in the bathroom at Daytona.

I think I shared the bathroom with President Bush. I don’t know for sure, but I’ve often wondered.
President Bush was at the 2004 Daytona 500. So was I.
President Bush was in the press box that day. So was I.
Surely, President Bush had to go to the bathroom at some point. So did I.
Did our paths cross in the men’s room inside Daytona International Speedway’s press box during a mid-race caution period? Was that the president’s black shoes dangling from the toilet in the stall? If so, was he OK?
Who were those men in sunglasses and earpieces standing outside the bathroom? Why did they give me dirty looks when I walked out the door? Surely, real Secret Service agents wouldn’t let anyone else inside, right?
And why on earth did it take me five minutes after the fact for my lame brain to register—to even entertain the possibility—that I may have shared the men’s room with our Commander-in-Chief, the world’s most powerful man other than Bill Gates, and the leader of the free world?
What would you do if you really were in the bathroom with the president, current or future? Do you strike up a conversation? If so, what do you say? Do you offer an extra roll of toilet paper? Do you shake his hand afterward and risk catching presidential bacteria? Do you not say anything at all and forever go through life wondering where the conversation would have gone if initiated? Do you ask him if he’s dropped any bombs lately? Do you strike up a song and see if he’ll join in?
Less than an hour later, Air Force One zoomed into the sky and took the president with it. I was left not knowing who the person in the bathroom really was.
Two weeks ago, I stood outside the White House gates shortly before midnight. I’d never been there, so I thought it was pretty cool. A few lights were still on inside. I wondered if the president was watching Leno, or maybe SportsCenter.
I wondered why the front of the White House seemingly had so little security. I was reminded that I’d probably been walking through an infrared zone for the last 50 yards and that I’d been on camera for some time. Should I wave? Yeah, that’s it. All I need is an FBI file. Moments later, I left.
President Bush probably peered out the window that night and gave a puzzled look. The First Lady came over to his window and asked, “what’s wrong, honey?” “I’m not sure, but I think I shared the bathroom at the race track in Daytona with that freak outside. It was awful. He was singing the Laverne and Shirley jingle and now I can’t get it out of my mind.
‘Give us any chance we’ll take it. Leave us any rule we’ll break it. We’re gonna make our dreams come true, doin’ it our way.’”
“George, please stop.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Nothing’s gonna turn us back now (snapping his fingers and tapping his toes). Straight ahead and on a track now. We’re gonna make our dreams come true. Doin’ it our way.
“Hey, I think we’re on to something …
“There’s nothing we won’t try. Never heard the word impossible. This time there’s no stopping us. We’re gonna do it. On your marks, get set and go now. Got a dream and we just know now. We’re gonna make our dreams come true.”
“Yes, that’s it. Call in the speech writer. I’ll use this in my upcoming address. That’s right, America, we’re going to make our dreams come true. At least that’s what I’ll tell them.
“Laura, let’s go thank that guy. No wait, he’s gone.”
President Bush will forever wonder if he shared the bathroom at Daytona with Joe McAdory. And if you’ve got the Laverne and Shirley song stuck in your head for the rest of the day, I’m sorry.

Joe McAdory is editorial page editor for the Opelika-Auburn News. He can be reached at 737-2549 or

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Junior gives himself best chance to win

Associated Press Photo

I’m proud of Dale Earnhardt Jr. Sure, he’s the most popular driver in NASCAR, and brings home the sport’s largest paycheck. But I’ve seen him grow over the years from a young dude just looking to have some fun (who doesn’t?), to a man truly wanting to make a mark for himself not by his namesake, but rather his ability.
He doesn’t want to go down in history just being Dale Earnhardt Jr. He wants to go down in history as a champion race car driver. He’s willing to jump from his father’s massive shadow to be his own man. Granted, he can remain secure in the security blanket his father’s shadow will always offer, but his desire to prove to the world that he can drive a race car because of skill rather than last name shows a boldness and bravery. I respect that.
In his current situation with DEI, Junior isn’t given the chance to compete with the best. Frankly, DEI isn’t in the same league with Hendrick, Roush or Gibbs. By signing with Hendrick Motorsports, Junior has given himself the best chance to be successful and race for championships. If he fails driving for the best organization in the business, he has no one to blame but himself. You’ve got to applaud him for taking that chance.
Another question Wednesday revolves around Budweiser, Junior’s sponsor since entering the big leagues in 2000. Will Bud go with him? If the beer company does not follow Earnhardt, I believe that’s a larger story than Junior’s swap to Hendrick. The red Budweiser car is Junior’s brand. When we think of Junior, we think of that car. Anything else is unimaginable. Driving for Hendrick in a red Budweiser car is easy to see. Driving for Hendrick in a Kellogg’s car isn’t. More than likely Junior will drive the No. 5 Budweiser car next season. Maybe Kellogg’s will follow Kyle Busch to DEI. Remember, Kellogg’s has had a long association with Hendrick since the days of Terry Labonte.
These days, drivers aren’t necessarily known by what teams they drive for. Instead, they’re known by what industry’s colors adorn the sides of their automobiles. Which brings about the question, who really is really a driver’s puppet master – his sponsor or car owner?
One thing that’s clear, Junior cares less. He just wants to win, just like his father and grandfather. Dale Sr. left Bud Moore to give himself a better chance to win with RCR. His son’s move was no different.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Senate smackdown

I don’t get it. If I walk up to Sen. Lowell Barron, D-Fyffe, and punch the dude in the face I’d probably be arrested and charged with assault. But Sen. Charles Bishop, R-Jasper, can punch his colleague in the face and get away with it. Bishop smacked Barron on the Senate floor last week—a blow that was captured on video and shown across the nation.
Again, Alabama has reason for embarrassment. Thanks guys.
Bishop claims Barron called him an S.O.B. and did the noble thing by defending his mother’s honor. How chivalrous. Now both look hideous.
Barron should press charges. Assault is a crime. If he does not press charges, then he is sending the message that assault is ok. Maybe he’s just saying assault between senators is ok. I don’t suppose I’ll smack Barron anytime soon, even if he does call me an S.O.B. I’m not in the Senate and I don’t want to serve time.
The next time state senators want to fight, let’s get fight promoter Don King involved. We can make it a Pay-per-view, or at least have it televised live on Alabama Public Television. We’ll call it the Statehouse Smackdown. Who needs Wrestlmania?
Barron. Bishop. This time ... it’s war.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Saturday afternoon history lesson

We studied U.S. History and World History in school, but it’s really special to have the opportunity to be schooled in family history. I got that opportunity Saturday by members of the West Jefferson Historical Society, Louise Ayer Tommie and Dr. Bill Gresham, when I pulled into the McAdory House in Bessemer.
The structure, built in the early 1840s by Thomas McAdory. Jr., is in need of repair, but it was encouraging for me to know that members of the Society are doing what they can to refurbish the old homestead. My great-granddad, Joseph McAdory I, was born there. So was my grandfather. So was Isaac Wellington McAdory, a member of the state Legislature (I don’t reckon the state Senate had childish fist fights back then). So was Dr. Thomas McAdory Owen, founder of the Alabama State Archives. So was Robert McAdory, the first mayor of Bessemer. Pretty neat.
The home is a history book unto itself.
Inside are old mattresses, cedar chests full of quilts and trinkets, documents, Bibles, a pump organ, dining room table with China, sewing machine, chairs, desk, bookcase, etc. It was like walking into a McAdory History Book. I could look at the dining room table and see images of the past having supper and talking about their day—days filled with raising crops and raising a family. Evidently, they did a good job. For that, I am thankful.

Friday, June 08, 2007

Revolution was greatest event in American history

Today begins the first in a series of Top 5s. I’ll offer a number of lists ranging anywhere from our great nation to food to sports, etc.
My first installment is the five greatest events in American history.
1. Revolution: Can any single event in our nation be greater than this? Our separation from Great Britain included the Declaration of Independence, which in itself expressed the attitude of our nation. If the American Revolution had never taken place, we wouldn’t be talking about great events in American history in the first place.
2. The end of World War II: I wasn’t around back then, but what a great relief it had to have been for the mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, husbands and wives to see their men and women return from such an epic war that played out to our east and west. The end of the war began with events such as our troops storming the beaches at Normandy, soldiers twice raising the flag at Iwo Jima (once for a pretty picture) and ultimate surrender by our enemies. The war was over and an era of American prosperity and happiness was at our doorstep.
3. One giant leap: The fact that America was the first nation to safely land men on the moon is arguably the greatest feat of mankind, period.
4. First flight: Orville and Wilbur Wright’s short, but successful flight on the North Carolina beaches instituted the great age of avionics and transcended the means by which people would later travel. If these dudes hadn’t flown over a few sand dunes, we may never have made it to the moon.
5. Industrial Revolution: Though the industrial revolution actually began in Europe, the spread of manufacturing plants and steam-powered engines on our soil changed the American workforce forever.

Next week: America’s top five discoveries.

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Remorse in the case of pulp friction

This week’s archived column from 2006 recalls a time childhood friends and I routinely pelted a young girl with oranges. I still haven’t forgiven myself.

I never knew her name. Still, I harassed a young South Daytona, Fla., girl in an almost nightly occurrence. As she slowly pedaled her old-school three-wheel adult bicycle along Citrus Avenue, I brandished a stash of oranges, prepared for the assault.

What better place to be pelted with citrus than Citrus Avenue? Oranges and tangerines grew there like kudzu in the summertime.

Young boys can be devilish, you know. I wasn’t alone in this Vitamin C assault. We could see her coming for yards, giving us ample time to collect our firepower. Rotten oranges were soft. We may have thrown a few tangerines in there too. If we wanted to truly hurt this poor girl, we’d found something made of stone, or perhaps a grapefruit.

Instead, our assault wasn’t aimed on physical harm. Like many swords used today, our attack was on another person’s psyche.

She pedaled through this pulp-laden gauntlet in a deliberate, slow manner, taking the punishment.

Sometimes she cried.

What sick pleasure does it give an individual to bring another to tears? Do we persecute others for our own enjoyment just to make us feel better about our own shortcomings? Does striking someone down - even someone completely defenseless - somehow lift us up and make us feel mighty? Instead of lashing out against others, why not focus our attention toward something positive? Doesn’t reaching out to help another create warm heart more than anything?

To the weak-minded, it does not.

You’ve got to wonder what went through this girl’s mind each evening she chose to take her treacherous ride. Wasn’t she afraid, knowing what was coming? She could have chosen a different route and avoided her personal Waterloo. Perhaps a pack of Doberman pinschers awaited elsewhere and the citrus beatdown was less threatening.

She could have stayed home under the security we often find within our walls. Harm rarely comes to those who live within a shell. Obviously, she wasn’t that type.

Instead, she boldly stayed the course, pedaling through the firing squad, over and over again. She knew what was going to happen, yet she put on an armor of bravery and weathered the storm.

I can’t help but admire this girl’s resiliency. I wonder if such treatment thickened her skin and made her a tougher person. Tough times often create tough people. I wonder if she thinks about those days on her bicycle with a vengeful heart. I wouldn’t blame her.

She could have stopped, gotten off of her bicycle and asked the question, “Just what have I done to you?”

That’s an excellent point. Just what did she do to us? What crime did she commit to warrant such unprovoked persecution by boys looking for someone to tear down?

Obviously nothing. Yet we chose to bully the innocent.

Why is it that so many people, who mean only good, are the victims of hate? What causes our hearts to blacken and punish those who mean no ill will?

I don’t know what became of this girl and I often wondered if such childhood persecution affected her future.

Does she stay away from bicycles?

Did she become a chief prosecutor who throws the book at folks who attack the innocent?

Does she cringe at the site or smell of citrus?

I am ashamed of my actions. If I saw her today, I’d beg for forgiveness. I am truly sorry.

Then I’d let her throw oranges at me.

Joe McAdory is editorial page editor for the Opelika-Auburn News. He can be reached at 749-6271 ext. 2549 or

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Some things never change

Check out these song lyrics:

People moving out,
People moving in,
Why, because of the color of their skin,
Run, run, run, but you just can’t hide.

Great googamooga,
Can’t you hear me talking to you,
Just a ball of confusion,
That’s what the world is today, yea-yea,
Just a ball of confusion,
Tell ya that’s what the world is today, yea-yea,
Just a ball of confusion, oh!

The Temptations’ song, Ball of Confusion, was about our great planet—in 1970. Things haven’t changed. Confusion and strife still reigns. Guess it always will.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

I stuffed Vince Carter

It’s neat to have rubbed shoulders with some of the wealthiest athletes in the world for 2006. I even stuffed one of them in a game of pick-up basketball back in 1989. I wonder if any of them could spare a dime for this reporter I’m sure they don’t remember.
Sports Illustrated recently listed the 50-highest paid athletes in the world. Topping the list was Tiger Woods with a staggering $112 million payday last year, most of which earned through endorsements. I never met that dude, but I’ve played his video game. Rounding out the top five on SI’s list are Oscar De La Hoya at $55 million, Phil Mickelson at $51 million, Shaquille O’Neal, who once served as Chris Brandt’s personal punching bag at $35 million, and Kobe Bryant at $34 million.
I never spoke one-on-one with any of those guys. But four in the top 25 I have.
Chatted a time or two with Dale Earnhardt Jr., who ranks No. 10 on the list at $27 million. Covering NASCAR in my former life facilitated that opportunity. Good guy. Free spirit. I remember the time President Bush called him on his cell phone after winning the 2004 Daytona 500. After the congratulatory call, Junior looked at his phone and said, “Cool, I got the president’s number.”
Keeping with the NASCAR theme, I talked with Jeff Gordon, a couple of times at Daytona and Talladega. My first interview with Gordon was actually over the phone while he was in his beachside hotel room in 1992. Car-owner Bill Davis gave me his room number, so I called for a story. Rumor had it, the young Busch Series driver had a chance to make it big. He did—and then he left Davis Racing for greener pastures. Gordon ranked No. 16 in 2006 at $22 million.
Barry Bonds is on the brink of breaking Hank’s record. But 16 years ago, a leaner, less pumped Barry, led the Pirates into the NLCS to face the Braves. Covering the Series, I did a feature on Bonds one afternoon regarding his postseason struggles. Very defensive man. Angry. That day, he blew up at TV reporter Jim Gray in the clubhouse. A few days later, Sid slid and the Braves won the pennant. Bonds’ 2006 paycheck was $23 million, ranking 14th.
In 1986, I photographed an 8-year-old basketball star who scored 46 points in a Port Orange, Fla., youth league game. The kid was incredible. I published the photo and wrote a story about his performance. A few days later, a young Vince Carter, wrote me a letter saying the picture and story appeared on his birthday and it apparently was the highlight of the day. Hopefully, that little story in the Port Orange Observer still ranks up there with Sports Illustrated. You can see the picture above.
Three years later, Vince appeared at a local basketball court where a few friends and I were playing hoops. We needed an extra and he more than filled the void. He was great for 11, though I stuffed him under the boards. Not in my house, Vince! If he wants a rematch, I’m up for it.
Vince made $20 million last year, ranking him No. 23. If he could find it in his heart to buy me a new car that would be great. I might settle, however, for a new mailbox.

Monday, June 04, 2007

Smoke in south Georgia unbearable

If you thought the smoke here was bad last week, you should spend a few hours in south Georgia.

Smoke in Lee County was pretty thick late Friday afternoon. It was like a thick fog that smelled really bad. But we’re fortunate. The smoke we’ve endured from the Florida/Georgia fires comes and goes. Guess it all depends on wind patterns. Friday it was bad. Saturday it was not. Monday it was beautiful. But the folks who live in south Georgia, namely the area between Valdosta and Waycross, have to endure this pollution every day.

En route to Tampa recently, I drove through Valdosta. It was the middle of the day, but you’d think it was close to sunset. The sky was overcast with smoke, not clouds. Ashes fell from the sky as if a nearby volcano erupted. The 50-yard walk through a Wal-Mart parking lot was unbearable. Eyes burned. Lungs were not happy. You look up at the sun and see a tiny pink dot. You’d think it was a different planet. And this was still 50 miles or so away from the main blaze.

You can’t help but feel sorry for the people who live in that area and realize just how much their lives have been affected. Though the smoke here is an inconsistent inconvenience, we’re awful lucky.

Friday, June 01, 2007

We can’t thank them enough

Once a week, I’ll post an archived column. Here’s a column published back in 2005. Considering Monday was Memorial Day, I figured it was fitting.
Here we go ...

I don’t know Ronald Hogbin. Never met him. Never will. Ronald lost his life May 15, 1969, in Vietnam. I’m not sure how this 29-year-old Special Forces soldier died. Maybe his unit was ambushed in a rice field. Maybe he was killed in a firefight, still pulling his trigger as he lay on the ground. Maybe he died trying to save the life of a fellow soldier.

Regardless, he died serving his country.

Kneeling in the shade beneath the sycamore trees, I visited his grave. His tombstone was modest, white with concise information. Name. Rank. Branch of service. Home state. Religion. Date of birth. Date of death. Theatre of war.

But Hogbin wasn’t alone. He has friends, comrades. Lots of them. Lined in precise military fashion, tombstone after tombstone is placed. Row after row. Stone after stone. Beside the streams. Beneath the trees. Some in the shade. Some in the sunshine. Across the rolling hills they rest. More than 300,000 of them.

All Americans.

Arlington National Cemetery, spread out over 200 acres beside the Pentagon and Potomac in northern Virginia, is a testament to the sacrifices American servicemen and women have made throughout the years. From the American Revolution, the War of 1812, Mexican War, Civil War, Spanish-American War, World War I, World War II, Korean Conflict, Vietnam, Grenada, Gulf War, Iraq to the hundreds of men and women lost in training exercises or terrorist attacks, the evolution of the American soldier is represented.

Though wars, firearms, battlefields, strategies and purposes have grossly changed throughout the years, one thing that has stood firm is the purpose of the American soldier. They fight for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. They fight for the very freedoms we enjoy every day, the very freedoms so many of us take for granted.

Cemeteries are quiet, somber places filled with respect and Arlington National is no different. Whether the grave is that of a private killed on Midway Island or a president martyred by assassins on the streets of Dallas, there is little talking. Kennedy’s grand tomb may be extravagant, but the peaceful mood surrounding his grave is no different than that of every other fallen American. Folks quietly mill around Kennedy’s flaming grave, take a few snapshots and walk away. Respect is eternal.

What sets this cemetery apart from most others are the tombstones. Other than a few special exceptions, a majority of the stones appear strikingly alike. No wild artwork. No sculptures. Nothing that makes any soldier appear greater than the other. Instead, you’ll find the soldiers lying together in uniform fashion, a sense of American solidarity. Men of the Revolution lie arm-in-arm with soldiers lost in Afghanistan.

A Graveyard of One.

You won’t find a no-vacancy sign outside Arlington National Cemetery anytime soon. There’s still room for 100,000 or so. More sacrifices will be made. More lives will be lost.

Thousands will pay tribute today to those who lost their lives fighting for freedom and American values. But we should always continue to honor those still among us who proudly served our nation, who watched their friends die in battle, who braved the dangers of combat, and who endured extended tours of duty away from their families. Thank them. Tell them how much you appreciate their personal sacrifice to fight for your freedoms.

Thanks, Ronald. Though I never met you, I can’t thank you enough for what you did for our country. We’ll play taps for you one more time.

Rest in peace.

Joe McAdory is editorial page editor. He can be reached at 749-6271 ext. 2549 or

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

My mailbox was mail-napped

Someone stole my mailbox. They stole the box, the flag, the post, the whole darn thing. It’s not an attractive mailbox. It’s rotted, cracked wood with mold spores growing on the sides.
I drove to the end of my driveway, and like a missing tooth, it was absent. Uprooted. Swiped without a trace. They didn’t even leave a ransom note.
I didn’t find it trashed on the side of the road or anything, so evidently the perpetrators desperately wanted this ugly piece of wood with numbers on the side of it. I’ve got to thank them. They could have busted the poor thing up and laid the smashed wood scattered all over my driveway. Now I don’t have to clean the mess, so I’ve got that going for me.
Why would somebody steal my mailbox? Isn’t it much more fashionable for today’s academically-challenged idiots to simply vandalize something and then leave it at the victim’s yard so they could weep over their demolished property?
Perhaps my mailbox is in a better place. Perhaps it prefers to be tossed into the woods, to be used as shelter for rabbits or squirrels. Perhaps it prefers to be tossed into the bottom of a creek. Maybe it grew weary of a steady diet of junk mail. You are what you eat, you know.
Stealing or mutilating mailboxes is a federal offense. Tomorrow I’ll have a new mailbox in its place. Go ahead and try to steal it. Smile pretty—I’ve got you on camera.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

All subjects fair game for my musings

For some reason, I was told my views and bizarre life were too interesting to be limited to a column once a week on news print you’ll just wrap your fish in. I won’t just be found most Fridays on page A4. Nope. They gave me one of those high-tech Internet blogs and told me to write at least three times per week.
I’ve got a blog. Sounds communicable. Hope I don’t infect anybody.
So what am I going to blog about? Anything and everything. I’ll blog about local issues, national issues, movies, the editorial page, sports (I believe I’m qualified), and personal issues that may range from drawing blood when I’m shaving to not wanting to pay for valet parking to dealing with an overactive 7-year-old to car problems on a weekly basis.
We all have something to talk about. We all have opinions, unexpected circumstances, challenges, and musings.
Folks here have given me the means by which to express myself electronically. Sure beats the old days when I scribbled drivel on notebook paper at school for no apparent reason.
I’ve got a blog. I guess it beats having a wart.