American History Se-X

You are sick. You are twisted. But you are not unique in this sense as we all have contemplated what you will soon ponder, be it the sheer logistics of what I'm about to dispel or even the actuality that what you're about to learn is, indeed, actual.

Hopefully this is the first, last and only encounter with said information you will ever need. If not, may you soon find religion, for to pursue these ordinances further would undoubtedly lead you behind bars - and I'm not even joking.

Here we go.

In the state of Washington it is perfectly legal for a man to have sex with an animal. Of course, to stay within those legal boundaries, that animal must weigh less than 40 pounds.

Jesus Christ.

Our dear neighbors to the left apparently have it worse off than Idaho. In the past, when friends set off to Spokane in hopes of "chasing tail," I simply assumed they were trying to get laid - by a female human, no doubt. I never considered they were chasing literal tail: the kind that wagged. Or barked.

Or had sex?

At times I find myself in sheer awe of the majestic wordplay that encompasses our legal jargon. Nevertheless, we must always understand that certain laws were enacted in the course of American history for our safety. When the courtroom sharks over in Olympia debated where to set the weight limit in this little doosey of a decree, I can only hope they did not speak from experience.

There's more. Minnesota's government went beyond just a weight limit for bestiality: It is illegal for a man to have intimate sexual relations with a live fish.

Can intimacy secretly be code for foreplay? Thus, if men in Minnesota (of course, women aren't even mentioned in this law; equal rights, my ass) skip the fooling around, can they legally go straight to the nookie sans getting said fish in the "mood?"

Yet, what concerns me further is they injected the most key remark in this declaration, "live." What about dead fish? Are they fair game?

Jackpot! Washingtonians unite. How many fish weigh more than 40 pounds? Now I didn't go looking for these laws; they seriously found me. And I don't mean that the cops caught me serenading Flipper.

Seriously, I swear!

I was actually directed to an article penned by Yvonne Fulbright of Fox News, where she shared these many other disturbing and sexual legal trends. She discerned that the United States bans more activity concerning our genitalia than all the European nations - combined!

Of course, low and behold, after a bit more research on my part, I found dear ole' Coeur d'Alene among the nation's oddest sex laws.

Now, the animal kingdom isn't as involved with The City by the Lake as it is in Washington and Minnesota. (Quick side-note: Some U.S. laws don't even involve humans. In Ventura County, Calif., cats and dogs are not allowed to have sex without a permit. Even worse, in Fairbanks, Alaska, moose cannot fornicate on city streets.)

Anyway, as far as the cops in Coeur d'Alene are concerned, they must abide by the following regulation: When an officer stumbles upon a couple "doing it like they do on the Discovery Channel" in their car, he must pull his vehicle behind , honk three times and wait two minutes before investigating further.

It could be worse, I guess.

Back to that mesmerizing legal jargon I so affectionately admire. Washington once again takes the cake. There literally exists a law prohibiting sex involving a virgin under any circumstance. Reproduction be damned; everybody must die with their "V-card" un-punched. (Perhaps this is why they're allowed to diddle the family dog?)

In Bakersfield, Calif., anyone having sex with Satan (yes, Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness, Mr. 666 himself) must use a condom. The State of Nevada goes further, proclaiming sex without a condom illegal in any case - I assume this means whether boinking the devil or the Holy son.

Needless to say, let me reiterate how sick and twisted you are, how ungodly disgusting you should feel at this very moment, and why you suddenly noticed you're having heat flashes.

In the preceding 700 words of this column, you intrinsically imagined, in vivid detail no less, a man making love to a fish in Minnesota, you pictured a guy poking a pork in the Evergreen State and who knows what you daydreamed about those moose in Alaska.

I dare not dream of your warped delusions involving man's best friend in Ventura County.

But have solace, my friend, for now you know there's a two-minute window for you to finish up in your car whilst parked in Coeur d'Alene. And, suffice it to say, you know what not to do when visiting Minneapolis.

NIC wrongly fired Bryan, says AAUP

In a landmark decision by the American Association of University Professors, NIC wrongly dismissed part-time English instructor Jessica Bryan after the 2007 fall semester. The non-reappointment of Bryan was found to violate AAUP policy.

Although she taught for 13 straight semesters, even being nominated for the 2007 Part-Time Faculty of the Year Award, Bryan was informed via e-mail that she would be teaching no classes in 2008. According to the AAUP report, courses she previously held were given to less experienced instructors and the college hired new faculty the following fall.

After a lengthy investigation, the AAUP found NIC in disregard of the provisions on part-time faculty appointments set forth in Regulation 13 of the Association's Recommended Institutional Regulations on Academic Freedom and Tenure.

Under Regulation 13, Bryan was entitled to notice of her non-reappointment at least a month before the end of the fall 2007 semester, a statement of reasons for her termination and an opportunity for faculty review of the decision.

"We have no job security," said Bryan on being a part-time instructor, "no benefits and, most importantly, no rights or safeguards of academic due process. However, most of us have the same degree and do the same amount of work."

She added, "Moreover, I felt vulnerable and, obviously, what I came to discover is this: No matter how long or how well I served my college, I was ultimately only a part-time instructor who served on a semester-by-semester basis."

According to the AAUP, NIC is the first college to be found in violation of Regulation 13, which was put in place during 2006. The regulation lays out policies and standard accepted practices involving renewal or nonrenewal of part-time instructors.

NIC, meanwhile, is sticking to its steadfast response: "Ms. Bryan was an adjunct instructor whose contract was to teach a specific course for a specific semester," said John Martin, vice president for Community Relations and Marketing. "Due to the need for flexibility to address changing student needs, the college cannot commit to any future employment opportunities for any individual non-tenured, adjunct instructors. In the case of Ms. Bryan, she was neither tenured nor full time."

This is true even though Bryan has taught part time as well as full time via special appointment twice for six years, she said.

Associate Secretary for the AAUP, Robert Kreisler, said earlier: "This is an abject lesson in how not to treat someone who has given long-standing service to an institution."

The decision to discontinue Bryan's employment came a semester after one of her students went public concerning some political dialogue in her English class. An anti-Republican remark upset the student enough to request a refund from the college.

What's more, the AAUP report also recognizes that her relationship with the school weakened after a dispute between administrators and her husband, Keith Hunter, a tenured English instructor and former director of The Writing Center.

"What began as my husband's troubles with North Idaho College," Bryan said, "ended with my non-reappointment. But the college and its attorney would have me believe that it was simply 'business as usual.'"

In June the AAUP will decide whether to add the college to a list of censured administrations, a list that has included nearly 50 schools since 1963.

How to start your very own blog (for free!)

I have never been known to keep what I ponder a secret. Since I believe that recycling paper is the most retarded, idiotic, detrimental action a human may inflict upon society, then I'm going to let you know how dimwitted, idealistic friggin' little hippies are doing more harm to this planet than good.

Much like I did on a page not dissimilar to this one last semester.

Few things bring me greater joy than sharing my opinion with others; although my greatest solace comes in knowing when those same individuals disagree with me. The excitement I boast when hearing the public actually agrees with me remains minimal -- as I am always right -- and simply expect the masses to understand this.

So I am blessed to have this newspaper as my personal forum -- my own little niche at NIC to force my opinion down unsuspecting readers' throats. Assuming they haphazardly finish reading the sometimes incoherent ramblings that make up my opinion, I am happy.

You, however, are not so lucky. You are left rebutting what you read aloud to only yourself.

It sucks, doesn't it?

But fret not, my opinionated young dumplings. Imagine a place where you could rant and rave, reflect on your life and all around it, share stories, photos, videos and experiences from all that you have to offer.

All in one place. In one website.

It's as simple as creating your own blog. And the undoubtedly best part is that you can start right now. For free. From any computer in the world.

There is no excuse not to begin your very own weblog, save for sheer laziness. I'm going to make this so simple for you that to not follow my advice is worse than recycling paper.

And you're not a hippy, are you?

WHERE TO START

There are many choices in hosting your blog, and the best all begin for free. Be sure to check out blogger.com and wordpress.com first.

Both offer pretty much the same tools. The only difference is whether you want .blogspot.com or .wordpress.com following the title of your website. (For a few bucks more, you can chop their tagline off the website altogether).

There are also blogging options through MySpace and Facebook, however, if you plan on being taken seriously in the blogosphere, I highly recommend avoiding these forums at all cost (and since I just gave you two free options, listen to me.)

WHAT TO WRITE

This is all on your shoulders. But I would definitely not oblige to you starting an anti-hippy site. But that's just my opinion. And remember, this blog is your opinion. If your heart so desires, you don't even have to write on your blog. Just share all your favorite photos. You can even upload videos.

The best part about using Blogger is you can have multiple blogs. I personally have four. You can have one for photos, one for a writing portfolio, the list is simply endless.

MAINTAIN IT

But don't forget why blogging started. (Aside from hippies trying to kill the newspaper industry with this little attraction called the "internet" to save paper).

Your blog is your own corner of the internet to say whatever your mind and heart desire. Whether it's bashing hippies or politicians, sharing family recipes and photos or even just making your diary available to the world, it's yours to have fun with. But never forget that once you get people reading it regularly, they expect you to update it accordingly.

Source: Marijuana incident led to ASNIC president’s resignation

A marijuana incident in Oregon forced former ASNIC Pres. Austin Folnagy to resign Oct. 21, a source close to the college's student government stated. Although he cited "personal reasons" during his resignation, a judicial board gave Folnagy the option to name those involved or lose his job, according to the source, who requested anonymity due to being so close with ASNIC.

Folnagy, who is sticking to his "personal reasons" excuse, will neither confirm nor deny the allegations that led to his resignation.

The ASNIC senate accompanied Folnagy and former vice president Jude de Tar on the trip to Portland Oct. 14, but no others have admitted to any wrongdoing while on the school-sponsored trip. Both the ASNIC executive board and its senators, as well as the NIC administration, cannot comment due to student privacy laws.

"This is the same thing as with Sarah Palin's records," said Eric Murray, vice president for Student Services. "Until she gives NIC the OK to release her records, we cannot. This also protects Austin Folnagy."

Because of the Family Educational Rights Privacy Act, the administration cannot say a word; FERPA supersedes all other disclosure laws, Murray said.

According to ASNIC's Bushido (board responsibilities), "it is essential that student leaders merit confidence of their constituents, endeavoring to be models of honesty and integrity. ASNIC officers shall use integrity regarding their actions, through and outside the college atmosphere, that may reflect the image of the students, (i.e. computer usage, public interactions, college engagements)."

Another source close to the organization stated that Folnagy was not maintaining the credit load required by ASNIC.

"At one point I was a credit shy," Folnagy said. "When I discovered that, I quickly added one to maintain the required level."

Folnagy was elected to the presidency in April of spring term this year as the only presidential nominee, and took office early May. After Folnagy's resignation in October, de Tar was appointed to the presidency as ASNIC vice president.

However, de Tar announced he would resign Tuesday in an e-mail sent Friday.

"I would like to inform everyone that I am resigning my position as ASNIC president for personal reasons, effective Tuesday," he said.

After Folnagy's resignation in October, Dean Bennett, director of Student Activities, said the ASNIC constitution states that the position will be filled by the ASNIC vice president.

When de Tar was bumped from VP to president, Jack Vanderlinden was appointed to the open vice presidency. Now, he looks to be the third ASNIC president in less than two months. Vanderlinden did not return phone messages over the weekend. If Vanderlinden does take the open presidency, he will appoint the new vice president.

Recycling Dilemma: Reduce, reuse, retarded

I may have lived in Oregon, but I am not a hippy. Nor do I agree with anything that has ever stemmed from their little tree-hugging thoughts. In fact, suffice it to say, I would venture a speculation that hippies may cause cancer: cancerous, drum circle, pot-smoking sores on society.

Indeed, their idyllic philosophies on all things American are in sharp contrast to what any educated human being would - and should - believe. But there remains one breadth of their tie-dyed spectrum in which the general population has been duped: paper recycling.

I admit that I turn the lights off when I leave a room. Hell, I'll even recycle a beer can or two. But when it comes to recycling paper, I simply must cease.

It's not that I'm against reusing things to save our environment. I'll reuse a Styrofoam container for leftovers, and plastic cups for beer pong to make them last much more than just a few rounds. If something can be reused in the form it was produced, then by all means, we should reuse it.

But recycling paper? Mother of God, why?

Paper comes from trees, which are one of everybody's favorite things. They give us oxygen, forests, homes for wildlife and something for hippies to hug. Undoubtedly, everything concerning trees is grandiose. Except for the myths.

Hippies want you to believe that we are losing huge forests for the sole purpose of making paper. That we have far less wooded area than we did 100 years ago. And worst of all, it is much better for people, animals and the environment to simply recycle paper.

Sure thing, Cheech, just like it's good for your lungs to smoke weed.

You see, most people believe that when trees are cut down to make paper products, a logging company starts plowing through a forest with no regard for wildlife habitat or the surroundings in general. They believe that beauteous red oaks, maples and oak trees that stood the test of Mother Nature's fury over the past century are being decimated simply for card board boxes.

Like their patchouli oil stinging your nostrils, once more the flower children have clouded your mind with fallacious decay.

Rather than just blindly clear-cutting forests, did you realize that paper companies have specific plots of land where they grow their own trees for the sole fact of harvesting them to make paper? These are called tree farms. Much like pumpkin farms. And nobody complains about pumpkin farms. Moreover, North America has more trees now than we did a century ago; two trees were planted every time one was cut - you do the math.

Ultimately, the hippies praise how recycling paper is so much better for the environment.

I wonder if they factor in the sole process of recycling paper: huge diesel trucks driving all over to pick up the paper, consequently emitting toxic emissions and just adding to the greenhouse effect. Not to mention, the process by which they boil down the paper with huge vats of chemicals, emitting more toxic fumes. And where do all the chemicals go when it's been used? The hippies never seem to mention that part.

So if recycling paper does nothing in the way of saving trees and is potentially worse for the environment than just tossing it in the old landfill, it surely must be cheaper, right?

Damn hippy logic, wrong again.

The only reason that recycled paper is sometimes cheaper for the consumer is because the companies who sell it are given monumental tax breaks. Think about the costs associated with collecting, separating and boiling down all that recycled paper. In all actuality, recycled paper costs well more than using virgin tree pulp.

Oh, dear hippies. All that marijuana may have seeped a little too deep. Do me a favor, please. The only recycling that should involve this newspaper is by handing it to somebody else.

And when all have read what needs to be read, toss it in the trash.

Outdoor Pursuits exercises students’ body, mind

From surfing on the Oregon Coast to snowboarding in Jackson Hole, Wyo., the Outdoor Pursuits program indeed "fosters educational growth through self-awareness, teamwork and risk-taking" as their mission statement boasts. Their low-cost adventures and equipment rentals offer students a healthy contrast to the mundane school week of textbooks, essays and midterms.

Not to mention, taking those who might not otherwise enjoy the warm waters of Stanley Hot Springs -- which they did this past weekend.

Their trips remain extremely affordable due to the program's break-even policy. They're not in it for profit as all money goes toward simply covering costs of the trip.

And with the price of traveling at an all-time high lately, the choice of trips reflects the change.

"In the past we've done these big, epic trips," said Jacob Rothrock, assistant coordinator. "That was great when gas was $2 a gallon, but now transportation costs are so high we're focusing more on local adventures."

The hugely popular trips, however, will remain on the schedule: surfing the Oregon Coast and skiing Jackson Hole. Nevertheless, Outdoor Pursuits remains committed to helping the beginner.

"We're a program that is designed for people that have no experience to go out and learn things," Rothrock said, "because outdoor adventure sports can be intimidating."

The weathered outdoorsman isn't forgotten either. While trips are designed to be easy enough for beginners, they are still challenging for those with experience. Chalk up just one broken finger as the worst injury Rothrock has seen in recent years, and safety is obviously a practiced concern.

Still, as prices force the program to look closer to home, head coordinator John Totten's experience in the area helps keep the program moving. Their budget comes from ASNIC, and although salaried and not paid to go on trips, Rothrock admits that's not why he does it.

When extra money is made, however, it is simply poured right back into the program, be it a challenge course on campus or maintaining rental equipment. Since not everybody can make the trips, Outdoor Pursuits still encourages the community to get outside with their rental shop. Offering anything from backpacks to cross-country skis, snowboards to kayaks, prices are kept exceptionally low, especially when compared to rental rates at local ski resorts.

For a list of rental products and prices, see www.nic.edu/op.

For those seeking adventure a lot closer to home, Outdoor Pursuits constructed the Challenge Course behind the SUB. A series of ropes traversing between platforms and trees culminates to a zip line, all above a series of ground-level activities.

Jessica Thompson, assistant coordinator, has worked on the project since its inception this Spring.

"It's going to be an ever-growing thing," she said. "We're hoping for one new element each year in the ropes course, but we're constantly adding to the low-element activity."

Built in May, the course has catered to sports teams, faculty groups, birthday parties and the National Guard. With varying package sizes and options, they all focus on team-building exercises. For more info, including pricing, see the Outdoor Pursuits website.

"Because we're part of Outdoor Pursuits," Thompson adds, "we can take any activity they offer - be it kayaking, backpacking or snowshoeing -- and put a team-building emphasis on it."

While the fall term is coming to a close, Rothrock is preparing for the final two trips of the year: backpacking through the Utah Desert over Thanksgiving break and avalanche Level 1 training in early December.

The spring schedule will not be released until next semester, and only one trip will be available over winter break -- the hugely popular Jackson Hole. There are 20 spots available for that trip, although Rothrock admits "We can always add."

With the mercury dropping further each day, Rothrock's favorite trips are approaching with fervor: backcountry skiing.

"I love the skiing trips because of the work it takes to get up hill," he said. "It makes it more rewarding when you come back down the hill. I like to work for it."

To sign up for the Jackson Hole trip, visit www.moguls.com/nictrip09.

En Garde: Students poking, prodding through newest PE class

Christianson Gym is starting to resemble the closing scenes of Shakespeare's Hamlet as much as it is a wrestling showcase. Amid cutlery long associated with epic battles of the storied rich and famous, students are wielding sabers, masks and protective vests whilst sword-fighting under basketball hoops.

Indeed, fencing isn't North Idaho's stereotypical PE class, but its popularity is growing, thanks to the efforts of instructor Noah Buntain.

In a school obsessed with wrestling and a town with football, Buntain's class of 16 is proving that even nontraditional sports can succeed.

"A lot of kids come to fencing because they're not attracted to other sports," he said. "Traditional sports just didn't do it for them so they find fencing attractive."

Born in Kansas and raised in Iowa - not exactly hotspots for the sport - it wasn't until his sophomore year at Northwestern University that he garnered the craft. A bachelor's degree in English and three years on the club team later, Buntain and his girlfriend packed up and headed west.

Much to his chagrin, however, an English degree wasn't enough to land the type of job that he desired. Either overqualified or under, he spent one year working a mundane job before returning to college and building his portfolio.

Meanwhile, his yearn for fencing grew. Fencing clubs at the time were sporadic, to say the least, but during Art on the Green one year he stumbled upon two fencers in the park.

After learning about Coeur d'Alene's fencing club, Coeur d'Escrime (means "heart of fencing"), Buntain expanded the organization from five members meeting once a week to 30 meeting three.

Once the club was set up, a class at NIC would follow. But it wasn't easy.

"I thought about getting a course here for a couple of years," he said. "People had suggested it to me, but I knew it was a long process, and I just dragged my feet for a while."

Then he talked with Paul Monzarto, division chair of the physical education department.

"It's not a hard process," adds Buntain. "It's just a long one. Paul and I got it started last October, and it came to fruition this fall."

Sixteen people jam-packed the class instantly when fall registration opened last spring. There was a waiting list over the summer, and the current roster lies at 14.

Pre-nursing major Beth de Tar, 23, Post Falls, underestimated the rigors of the course before signing up: "It's very aggressive," she said, "so it's taken a while to get used to. It's a lot faster and more athletic than I thought it would be."

Many still think of fencing as an elitist sport. Yet Buntain, while at Northwestern, watched the sport grow from the East Coast through Ohio State, Notre Dame, Northwestern and onto the Midwest.

There are even club teams at UI, WSU, Montana and most Seattle-area schools.

"That was the old stereotype, this private school kind of thing," Buntain said. "But it's moving down into public schools and into the high schools."

And finally, NIC.

Sophomore Rachel Waldo, pre-med, was excited for the chance to sword fight.

"I just wanted to take a fun class to get all the stress out," she said. "And what better way to do that then to stab people. I'm a killing machine now."

The class has proven so popular that next semester will have two sections for Buntain to teach twice as many people. For information on the club: coeurdescrime.com

EDITORIAL: Younger drinking age not the answer

Not since 1984 has debating over the minimum drinking age been so heavily questioned, thanks largely to the recently popularized Amethyst Initiative. More than 130 college presidents and officials have signed the statement, urging a public forum concerning the drinking age limit and proclaiming "21 is not working," referencing the extreme amounts of binge-drinking on college campuses.

As of now, NIC will not be on that list of schools backing the initiative. Pres. Priscilla Bell and the Board of Trustees are more concerned with the procurement of land for the Education Corridor, as well they should be, and are not prepared to sign the document.

While Mothers Against Drunk Driving vehemently argues the drinking age actually is saving lives, the signers of the Amethyst Initiative insist that a lower drinking age would create a more unified university structure, one where underage drinkers would not be forced to binge-drink illegally and design fake IDs.

But if lowering the drinking age solves alcohol-related issues at college campuses, assuming M.A.D.D. is wrong about the lives saved since the Minimum Drinking Age Act of 1984 was passed (though statistics prove otherwise), all we are doing is forcing the drinking dilemma to a younger audience: high schools.

It may be true that 18-year-olds can vote, serve on a jury, fight in Iraq and decide to get married, but they certainly are not physically or emotionally mature enough to handle the pressures and hassles of alcohol.

It is entirely different to be trained on how to shoot a gun than to learn the rigors of drinking controllably.

If high schools are already having problems with students text-messaging in the hallways, they would be completely incapable of preventing seniors from downing vodka Red Bulls in the parking lot.

The last thing universities need is incoming freshmen already skilled in binge drinking.

College avoids lower drinking age movement

Pres. Priscilla Bell and the Board of Trustees are working rigorously to attain the necessary land next to NIC and set up the infamous and heavily-debated Education Corridor. With such a heated topic already on their agenda, Bell and the Board are not prepared to sign the Amethyst Initiative as many other schools have done.

"It's an interesting idea," Bell said. "I know there are a lot of big-time university presidents that have signed this."

More than 130 other presidents have signed on, debating the minimum drinking age is not working.

"(The drinking age)is not a simple question," said Richard H. Brodhead of Duke University. "But the current answer is also not an effective solution to the problem."

Meanwhile, Bell is not as sure the initiative is a guaranteed end-all to binge drinking and drunk driving.

"Whether lowering the drinking age would change that is highly problematic in my view," she said. "You go to Europe, where people start drinking early in life. It's just a very different kind of culture, where alcohol and wine are more respected. They're not misused in the way we tend to do. That seems to be part of the fabric of our culture, perhaps more than it is a product of the drinking age."

Even if the drinking age were to be lowered, however, the residence hall would stay completely dry.

"I certainly wouldn't want drinking in our dorms in any event," she said. "Almost everything that happens in a college dorm that's bad has alcohol or drugs connected. Even if the drinking age were 18 or 19, it would not be in the dorms; not on college trips, either; it's just not going to happen."

Yet, on the Amethyst Initiative, itself: "I don't have a position on this, and I wouldn't take one without the board being behind it in any event. I don't think it's going to be a high priority."

BOING: Farewell Cardinals (part 1)

For anyone outside of my nimble little world, it is simply impossible to misconstrue the madness that composes my young self. For anyone to walk through the personification of my wistful mind would be to conjure up the most vivid nightmares of your past.

Indeed, I am a freak.

The things that enter my mind are not for the weak-hearted, mild-mannered or polite - I'm about as politically correct as slavery.

So it is with a heavy heart that I bid NIC's great newspaper goodbye. I have spent the past five semesters on The Sentinel, serving as sports editor the past four.

Perhaps the greatest benefit of this lustrous position is the "sports column."

Thanks to "Boing," I've made a few enemies, lost a few friends, built some bridges while undoubtedly burning even more. However, when I look back, I don't regret a single article.

We've examined my incredibly lackluster coaching career over the past two years.

My downright awful all-time record of 19-32 (covering baseball, basketball and soccer) is at the same time a trademark to my coaching philosophy: "Conditioning is something you do after you shampoo."

In reality, I wish they didn't keep score for youth athletics - and not just because my teams lose.

We learned more than most other teams, and one of the greatest pieces of advice I was ever christened with was that 10 years from now, the kids I have coached won't remember whether they won a certain game or not, but they will remember whether they sat on the bench or not and how much fun they had. Long story short: We have fun.

In the spring of 2005, you went with me to "the almighty perennial powerhouse of a basketball cathedral" to witness Ronny Turiaf's last home game as a Gonzaga Bulldog before getting drafted by the Lakers. Thanks to my younger sister, I received a student "ticket" and posed as a Gonzagian to enter the game.

That fall, we met Geno, and I was introduced to the wide world of hunting.

Driving around the mountains just outside town, with a shotgun in one hand a beer in the other, I was taught the rituals of road hunting, where I dropped my first bird from a moving vehicle:
"I've never scored the winning touchdown in a football game, but I have played co-ed recreational softball ? Yet all those pale in comparison to shooting a grouse. Worst yet, I bought a deer tag this year, too. If they're at all like shooting a grouse, than may God have mercy on the whitetails of North Idaho. Bambi, prepare to die."

Little did I know, Bambi would prove harder to drop than originally thought.

So I may have finished my first deer season with an empty tag, the same wouldn't be said for this season: "I may not have butchered Bambi, but I murdered his mom," I wrote in last issue's column.
Yet there was so much more than just coaching and killing.

I became a student in the religion of Pong, Ping Pong. I witnessed the University of Oregon's football team come from behind in one of the most controversial comebacks of our time when they beat Oklahoma in Eugene this fall.

I had a press pass to last season's Mariners-Tigers game in Seattle, and actually stepped on Safeco Field - a childhood dream-come-true!
Speaking of baseball, I was just outside the gates of Busch Stadium this fall when the Cardinals beat those same Detroit Tigers in St. Louis, winning the World Series and bestowing upon me the necessity to riot with the city.

Indeed, the past two-and-a-half years have been quite overwhelming.
I will remember The College By The Lake for some great sporting moments: I was here when the wrestling team finished second in the nation; I was there when both men's and women's basketball teams held their respective district tournaments in Christianson Gym; and this year, our volleyball team placed fourth at nationals - a school first!

NIC has a lustrous athletic department. and I feel privileged to have worked with them.

BOING: Death to Bambi

AH, THE FRAGRANCE of death is permeating throughout North Idaho. It seems the further you get from downtown Coeur d’Alene it feels more and more like the bad side of Detroit.

Gunshots, killings – and that’s just in the mountains past Lake Fernan.

It is deer season, baby, and I’m getting ready to assassinate the kingpin of the forest. Bambi, once my childhood friend, is about to meet his maker (and I’m not talking about Walt Disney).

Oh how I yearn to bathe in the blood of the dead.

Sure, I have shot a grouse, caught a salmon and dropkicked a squirrel, but to bring down a beast as big as myself makes me shudder just imagining the sheer possibilities – the gallons of blood, yards of entrails and unholy smells are worth the 22-year wait.

I got my first deer tag this year, and I’ll be dammed if I chalk up a goose egg.

ON SATURDAY MORNING, I made a decision: I called in sick to work because I was going to hunt. I was unwavering in my mission (though I did watch the first half of the Michigan-Ohio State game), and prepared for the hunt of a lifetime.

Rifle? Check.

Camo jacket and Carhartts? Check.

Lawn chair, pillow to sit on, peanut butter sandwich and deer call? Check, check, check and check.

Indeed, it was to be a glorious day.

I nestled into my lawn chair under my Grandparent’s deck, tossed a few marshmallows into my hot cocoa and leaned back as gunshots echoed throughout the mountain like Independence Day. I’m the first one to admit that some people don’t call what I do “hunting.”

These are the same people who don’t shoot grouse from moving vehicles or hunt by the light of the moon. They also follow the “laws.”

But my hunting guide (my cousin Geno) told me long ago that we write the rule book as we go. So what if we sat in lawn chairs next to the dryer vent at our grandparent’s house? At least we keep warm.

WE SET UP a decoy up on the hill, complete with a two-way radio next to it. We sprayed deer piss liberally across the meadow. Then we sat under the deck.

Most people wait hours, sometimes days before seeing a deer on their hunt. We waited 15 minutes. But as a massive buck approached and we grabbed our guns, an ear-splitting screech pierced the still air – it was the sliding door to the deck.

We like to consider ourselves great hunters – real men of the wild – yet we often times forget we are sitting next to a house; it was time for Grandpa’s cigarette.

Thus, the deer ran for its life.

So between the door sliding open and close every so often, the occasional sound of cars driving by and the ever-present noise from the washer and dryer on the other side of the wall, we simply waited.

This time, unlike numerous other hunting trips under the deck, we had a radio next to the decoy. That enabled us to use a deer call from the house, through the radio, and it sounded like it came from the decoy!

Illegal? Most likely. But that’s the only way to get the big deer.

After watching one tiny buck cower away from our daunting decoy (the rut was approaching, and thus bucks will attack each other for first dibs at the most beautiful babes of the backcountry), we waited a little while longer.

Being the impatient imbecile I’ve been dubbed, I decided to no longer wait. I’m not missing out on a deer this year, so as it got darker I concluded the next deer to walk out was going …

Boom-shakka-lakka!

I dropped that monster of a doe so quick I heard the valley shake when she hit the mud. So what if it didn’t have antlers, it was a big deer and it was now dead – by my own hands!

Nevertheless, my cousin was the one who gutted, skinned and hung the bloody carcass from the rafters in our garage. Long story short, I basically just pulled the trigger and then watched Geno slaughter the slain beast.

But already, I cannot wait until next season. I have the urge to ungulate anther, a passion to kill again. There is a dead deer in my grandpa’s garage right now waiting to be cut up, but I’m already contemplating my next kill.

I may not have butchered Bambi, but I murdered his mom.

Anything that Moves

The sun is nearly setting on a crisp October afternoon. The mountain leaves have changed color, and the wind seizes a sharper bite. Big-game hunting seasons are still a few days premature, and thus traffic on the mountains past Lake Fernan is minimal. One blue truck barrels into the wilderness with the eagerness of a young child.

The windows down, freshman education major John Monnier can hear everything in the brush. He just turned off the main road and quietly prowls toward his base camp 18 gravel-encrusted miles away.

It’s a short trip for this outdoors addict, even though he’s driving most of the way. Normally, he says, “I’d rather find a trail and walk.”

Suddenly, the truck comes to a screeching, gravel-tossing halt. The driver’s-side door explodes open, and Monnier erupts from the truck to the bush in one bounding leap.

The forest is now eerily quiet. No more birds are chirping, the squirrels have all but silenced. Even the rustle of wind over the tops of trees has vanished. If it was a horror movie, the monster would attack … now.

Somewhere, Monnier is in the brush tracking something he spotted from the …

Boom!

A gunshot. A crackle. A broken branch. A dead bird cascades in front of the idling truck.

Then a blood-curdling shriek from the 24-year-old former Hawaiian yielding a shotgun.

“Hoorah!” he bellows from behind the bush. “How’s that for a Hawaiian punch?”

An audacious Monnier hurdles down the embankment and leaps next to his fresh kill. With a swift thrust of his hands, a stomp of his foot and a sudden yank, the bird is gutted and breasted in one fell swoop.

“I just learned that move a few days ago,” he chuckles, tossing the curiously clean bird into his cooler. “Sure as hell beats plucking the damn thing.”

Back in the truck, the smallest of tears transcends his cheekbone.

“It’s not that I’m sad,” he says, swerving around a fallen tree. “I assure you this is no tear of sorrow. I think it’s because I’m so happy that I ended the life of something. It’s like a power trip. An overwhelming power trip.”

* * *

Monnier grew up in California before moving to Maui, Hawaii, with his family. It was there, in the lush, green rainforests, that hunting became a steadfast element in his young life. He honed his skill by tracking wild boar and mountain goat.

“I’ve killed one of everything you can kill in Hawaii,” says a deadpan Monnier.

He slams his hands down on the wheel, Apparently he missed a rabbit.

“Anything that moves,” he says. “It’s a motto I live by, whether hunting or picking up women. When the bear is hungry, he will eat.”

For the next 14 miles, Monnier decides to put the pedal to the metal and rally his ’94 Dodge along the steep embankment. He shares tales of his four-year stint in the Navy and how he learned two important things: Drink fast and drive hard – in that order.

He talks of other loves besides hunting – hiking, rock-climbing, ultimate Frisbee, acting and writing. In what appears to be a legitimately brash and extreme move, he swerves his truck straight into an upcoming bush in mid-sentence.

Alas, there is a trail.

“I cover that up so no one finds my spot,” he says.

As the trees fade away, a small expanse of dirt opens up to a magnificent view of the entire valley. The sky meshes a whirlwind of bright reds, deep purples and a never-ending array of blue.

“This spot reminds me of Guam,” Monnier says.

Four years ago, the super-typhoon Pongsona hit the tiny island of Guam, home of America’s largest re-fueling stations in the Pacific Ocean, and the Navy sent Monnier to the island. Even though he was a member of the search and rescue squadron HSC25, he was far from the bloody mess that made up most of the region. Instead, he was fixing the electrical systems of helicopters, a daunting task in and of itself, the aviation electrician admits.

“When I wasn’t fixing choppers,” Monnier says as he unpacks the truck, “I was chasing those bastard boars across the island.”

He shows a scar where he was tusked from a wild boar, a nasty groove extending from his upper calf to his knee.

“It looks bad now,” he admits. “But you should have seen what I did to that damn pig.”

The sun is fading fast. With the upcoming night comes lower temperatures, and Monnier unravels his sleeping bag. He tears apart sheets of paper to start a fire, and within minutes he’s setting large chunks of wood atop the growing blaze.

The dead grouse from earlier is all that he has to eat.

“I guess if I didn’t shoot anything, I’d go hungry,” he says.

If he didn’t bring a gallon jug of water he would have nothing to wash down the game bird.

“I would have liked to get a hike in this afternoon,” he says with a mouthful. “But there’s always tomorrow morning. Besides, the birds will be used to my smell by morning. They will think of me as safe.

“And that is when I will take them down.”

It is 5:30 in the morning, and a lingering fog covers the entire valley. Monnier awakes to a deer eating from a bush nearby. Smoke is streaming from the dissipating embers inside the makeshift fire pit.

Within minutes, he has eaten the leftover grouse and cleaned up camp: sleeping bag back in the trunk (no tent, he always sleeps under the stars), and fire put out.

“If I keep my standards low when hunting,” he says, “then I can never be disappointed. And so when that magical day comes that I drop a Sasquatch or massive elk,” he pauses, looks across the valley, and continues: “then I will have truly outdone even myself.”

With his shotgun over his back, he looks over the valley before trouncing through the bush like a madman. Within minutes, the sound of a shot fired echoes throughout the valley.

Bushes are ravaged again as Monnier undoubtedly searches for his kill.

Once more, the valley is filled with the echoing reverberations of mankind, as Monnier roars again:

“Hoorah!”

BOING: You don’t have to win to succeed

When it comes to sports, I like to consider myself an all-knowing, well-versed mastermind. I may not know all there is to know, but I tell myself I do.

It is also true that I have an uncanny way with children - this may be because that we're on the same wavelength, as far as maturity is concerned, at least. We understand each other more than we probably should.

So when you mix the two together, youth sports is right up my alley, right?

Indeed it is, but with an overall coaching record of just 14-27 (that includes two stints at Little League and one season apiece for soccer and basketball), my "winning" percentage is far from winning - only a stingy .341.

And while I now consider success to be in the eye of the beholder (the trophy-holder, in my early days), I always remember the greatest piece of advice I have ever heard: "You don't need to win to succeed."

Anyway, I absorbed that morsel of knowledge into my coaching repertoire and eventually buried it in the wide abyss that is my conscious.

There it lay, dormant in my mind this year, until I was pondering whether I had time to coach another basketball team. But when I relished the possibility of another 1-9 season, maybe I wasn't as good a basketball coach as I originally thought.

The John Wooden of Coeur d'Alene Park and Rec, I think not.

Yes, I love the sport, and I claim to know a great deal about it. I've always taken pride that teams under my coaching umbrella may not be the best in the league, but my kids always agree that they have more fun "playing" the game instead of just learning the rules.
However, last year's third grade basketball squad seemed aloof.
I enjoyed the season tremendously, but watching certain players transform from awkward ball-handlers to confident point guards made me love the sport even more. Alas, it wasn't to be. Save for our 4-2 manhandling of only one team, we lost every game.

"You do not need to win to succeed," I repeated to myself all throughout the year.

Our pizza party came and went, and the parents all thanked me for volunteering. I figured they would all look forward to another year, another coach.

Ten months later, that all changed. For upon my arrival at Black Sheep last week (my former place of employment), I was confronted by one of the cashiers.

"Jake, two women were looking for you today," she said.

Mother of God, what did I do now?

"They said you coached their sons' basketball team last year," she continued. "And they wanted to make sure you signed up again this year so you can coach their kids."

Mother of God, I almost cried. Tears of joy, mind you, for this was the greatest thing I'd heard all day? all week? all month? heck, this was the nicest thing I truly think has been said about me in my entire life.

While I ate myself up for the past 10 months thinking I did a horrible job, two players' moms sought me out to make sure I would coach again.

There is no greater compliment on Planet Earth.

So I sauntered on down to the Park and Recreation office at City Hall and promptly signed up. To make the whole deal sweeter, they even remembered my name when I walked in.

We won't win every game this year; that much is certain. If we finish at .500, I will be impressed. But if we lose every game and still finish with smiles on our faces, then I will be ecstatic.

Remember, you don't have to win to succeed.

BOING: Weed, Vodka – Oregon college football

Undoubtedly, the greatest moment in any sport is when the fans storm a field after their home team emerges from a tight game victoriously.

That puts NIC in a predicament: Seeing as how our great “college” (rather, high school with ash trays, if you will…) is so small, it resembles more of a high school experience around this neck of the woods than a monumental moment in collegiate history.

Sure, watching the Cardinals beat CSI makes me happy. As it should every fan in Cd’A.

But witnessing the most controversial come-back in the past 15 years with 60,000 other fans may have transformed a former hater like me into the newest, biggest Duck fan Coeur d’Alene has to offer.

Now don’t get me wrong: There is no hatred on earth greater than the passion for which I detest the University of Oregon.

The Sporting News calls it the most intimidating place to play in college football, however, I have always considered Autzen Stadium the personification of everything I loathe. Though much to my detest, “The Autzen Zoo” is truly a beacon of the college football world – a true fan’s venue above all others.

Nonetheless, did you witness the football monstrosity that was last week’s Oklahoma-Oregon contest? The most shocking, epic, colossally catastrophic game of the year, indeed!

And I absorbed every minute of each quarter with a fervor reminiscent of a small child at Disneyland for the first time – from the raging, ear-splitting, wild (while at times violently awesome) mosh pit that is the University of Oregon student section.

(I must give thanks to my younger sister Abby for coughing up her ticket, and Ian for letting me use his ID to get in the game, as well…)

The smell of vodka, marijuana and stale nachos permeated the air, as would be expected at any collegiate sporting event, let alone the largest gathering of people in Hippyville, USA, history. There were more beer cans strewed about the aisles amid the “section that never sits” than at a Seahawk game – and they don’t even sell beer in college venues.

The Quack Attack was back, Jack.

With a higher nationally ranked opponent in the Sooners (Oklahoma was ranked at 15 while the Ducks flapped right behind at 18), the magic men in Vegas predicted the would-be upset by favoring the Ducks with roughly 4 points.

How sweet it would be if in the only rematch of a bowl game from last season, the mallards won Round 3 – at home.

Heading down to Eugene, I was in a dilemma: While my buddy, Ben, expected me to root against his mighty Ducks, I would surely be booted from the student section if I bore any red and white attire. Last year, I saw a girl get punched in the face for wearing gold shoes to the USC game!

Not to mention, his diehard roommates might even evict me from the couch and boot me on the street for four days.

Much to Ben’s chagrin – as well as all his UO roommates – however, I stumbled towards the stadium in a green and yellow shirt, a green foam finger, green and yellow wig and an old-school leather helmet.

A boisterous visual schmuck? In not so many words, you could say that.

Yet amid my many chants and Heisman poses with the inebriated masses among me, I was looking forward to this game of all games with an anticipation never reached during my blurry days at OSU.

This posed a problem. For I am a legitimate “Beaver Believer,” and if anyone sniffed that out during the game, I was a goner. Alas, I took a shot from Ben’s flask and entered the collegiate cathedral that is Autzen Stadium.

The next few hours are a greenish-yellow blur. I don’t remember the first half, so thank God for pictures; not to mention the fact that I got lost at halftime. But football euphoria was among us, and the smell of an upset was stagnant – until the end.

One thing students will never see in their days at NIC is the two-minute drill executed in perfection (well, almost perfect, thanks to the referees!).

With his team down by 13, less than two minutes left, Ducks QB Dennis Dixon marched up and down the field, taking the lead by one before coughing up the ball to OU with awesome field position and two seconds left.

It wasn’t going down like this. It just couldn’t.

Sure, half the stadium had already emptied anticipating a crushing defeat with still five minutes left, but now Oklahoma was preparing to demoralize Oregon’s comeback that even Hollywood couldn’t concoct with a flippin’ field goal!

Then, the outlandishly tall Asian we all called Alex proclaiming: “I better record the last two seconds of this game! I got a feeling we’re going to block this kick!”

We blocked it. We won. We stormed the field.

I reached football nirvana.

And now, I can officially say that I’ve jumped the bandwagon. My only dilemma now is this year’s Civil War, the annual grudge match between Oregon’s two football teams.

Talk about a predicament: My mom’s one of the biggest Beaver fans I know.

I may be painted orange and black for this November’s rivalry and I’ll probably even bet 10 bucks on my Beavers to cover the spread (like I do every year).

This time, however, I may hope to lose that bet.

Just don’t tell my mom.

Cardinals destroy 4-year program

It could have been a blowout.

On paper, it may have been easily touted as the perennial varsity-JV match-up: a four-year school from Oregon coming to face North Idaho’s two year soccer program.

On paper, the romping that NIC laid upon the defenseless Northwest Christian College may not have seen feasible.

However, this is the first year that NWCC has boasted a men’s soccer program, according to the Beacon’s head coach Chris Bolton, former Oregon High School Coach of the Year.

NIC, on the other hand, won the SWAC championship last season and made it to the Region 18 Finals. They were nationally ranked last year and the team won numerous individual awards over the off-season.

Thus, the 5-0 spanking the Cardinals bequeathed to Northwest Christian seems justified in the end.

“I liked how we played,” said Scott Moorcroft, head soccer coach. “Even though it wasn’t a game that mattered for our conference, we got involved in the game and possessed the ball well.”

Possessed the ball, indeed.

Much of the game it seemed NIC lacked a defense – for they didn’t need one. The Beacons spent more time defending NIC’s cutthroat offense than manning the ball themselves. One thing NWCC had going for them was the Card’s overanxious zeal for breaking away from the pack, leading to countless offsides penalties.

With 9:25 left on the clock and an injured Beacon waiting for a substitute, Bolton yelled from the sideline: “We’re done.”

While the score could have been higher, freshman forward Jared Bork’s long-range goal from nearly mid-field highlighted the day.

“A longer goal makes you look a little bit better,” a mild-mannered Bork said after the game.

Shortly after, NIC and NWCC got into a scuffle near midfield, with a Beacon defenseman, Nathan Adams, Junction City, Ore., being ejected from the game with a red card.

“You wanna punch me again?” yelled the freshman as he walked off the field in a cussing fury.

With the SWAC only boasting a trifecta of teams this season, much of NIC’s schedule is chock full of non-league games, as well as four-year schools.

“The league is what it is,” Moorcroft said. “We’re hoping the league will expand, and there are a few colleges hoping to get in. The good comes with the bad, though. You miss league games, but we get to play tougher four-year schools.”

When they beat the four-year Whitworth, 1-0, the Pirates were ranked third in the nation – a true assertion of the talent on Moorcroft’s squad.

After Saturday’s victory, the Cards improved to 5-2-1 on the season.

Earlier this season, the team beat Laramie County Community College in Salt Lake City, 2-0; tied Salt Lake Community College, 1-1; beat Whitman College, 1-0; lost to Walla Walla Community College, 2-1; crushed Western Wyoming Community College, 5-0; all after opening the season with a 3-0 loss to the four-year school Albertson College.

BOING: Safeco Field Magic

I waited 21 years, four months and 13 days for the greatest moment of my entire life: To step on the grass at Safeco Field.

Believe you me, the wait was well worth it.

Indeed, quite a lot has happened between November 9, 1984 – the day I came crying into this world – and April 22, 2006 – the day I walked onto the Safeco grass with a press pass around my neck and a tear in my eye (OK, more like a shower of joyous water spewing from my eyes).

Thank God I had sunglasses on.

You see, over the past 21 years I have amassed a cornucopia of Mariners memories.

I have endured 1,742 wins, 1,683 losses, nine different managers, three division titles, a wild card play-off berth and two separate ballparks.

I’ve seen superstars raise the roof in the King Dome only to be traded or wanting to leave the Emerald City faster than a Randy Johnson fastball.

Speaking of which, I’ve seen RJ dominate the game in a fashion that only Nolan Ryan once boasted, not to mention his once tell-tale reddish mullet gleaming over his shoulders, while standing six inches over the rest of the players.

There was A-Rod, the player worth a quarter of a billion dollars (according to Texas), who took in a salary worth more than that of the whole Minnesota Twins.

The greatest shortstop, indeed!

We’ll never forget Joey Cora crying into a white towel after the crushing ALCS defeat to the Cleveland Indians; Jay “The Bone” Buhner’s luminous bald head, and the droves of fans who shaved their own for free tickets.

There was Dan “The Man” Wilson, Mike Blowers, Tino Martinez and as I like to call him, Butch “My mamma calls me” Husky. Now we have Richie Sexson, Raul Ibanez and the man Japan idolizes more than the god of Sumo, Ichiro.

Seattle also produced the greatest designated hitter of all-time… literally!

In Edgar Martinez’s last week as a Mariner, Commissioner Bud Selig announced the DH of the year award would forever be deemed the “Edgar Martinez Award.”

That’s an honor you cannot outdo, even if you built lampshades out of baseball bats on Ace Hardware commercials.

But then there was the grandest of them all, the most prolific center fielder of the 20^th century, “The Kid,” the human highlight reel, the personification of the definition of baseball: Ken Griffey Jr.

Long story short (because I could write non-stop about him…), I named my dog Griffey.

The now-second greatest moment in my life was watching him score – from first base! – the winning run against the New York Yankees in the 1995 ALDS, after Edgar hit that left field double that scored Cora to tie it.

Even watching reruns, to this day, gives me a chill. Woo-eee, I love it!

Yes, stepping onto the field where the Seattle Mariners call home was one of the most immense memories I will ever recall.

The dugout, the on-deck circle and the media (which I never really felt apart of, even though my press pass denounced me as such) – it was as overwhelming as it was memorable.

And I realized that sports writers take it for granted.

They show no emotion, no fanfare, basically no love for the game in which they are covering. The only excitement I witnessed from the Asian photographers in the booth was when Ichiro leaned over to tie his shoes.

There were more camera clicks in those five seconds than I could possibly make by myself during the entire game!

I decided right then and there, that if you ever see the name “Jake Donahue” as a byline for any story in any newspaper, magazine or other media outlet, Seattle will be a word you won’t see.

Thus, it was in the last place I could ever expect – Safeco-freaking-Field! – that all the luster of a sports writer suddenly vaporized.

No longer will I yearn to be a beat writer for the Seattle Times, covering every single Mariner game, home and away, east coast and west. Those free hotdogs in the press box are nice, but they just aren’t worth more than a sheer obsession with Seattle sports.

Besides, the press box is alcohol-free.

So I think I’ll just stick with the Cardinals for now.

BOING: Stupid is as stupid does

“Terrell Owens is the Jesus Christ of the NFL.”

“Mark McGuire never did steroids.”

“Can I get an enchilada without cheese?”

Indeed, there have been some instances where I may have muttered a word or two slightly below the academic norm – stupid, if you will.

According to Emily Donahue: “Every word that comes out of your mouth.”

Considering she graduated high school a year after I did, went to Gonzaga and will graduate with her bachelor’s degree around the same I’ll walk away with my associates, once again my younger sister is probably right.

OK, she’s definitely right. How do I know this? Because when I take a deep, long look at my published past, I cringe when I see the printed text my high school allowed me to publicly proclaim four years ago:

“Female-athlete is an oxymoron.”

Oh, God.

I still remember that basketball chick hurling a women’s-sized ball towards my head (which, upon impact, really didn’t hurt that bad – after all, women use smaller balls…).

But honestly, I truly do appreciate the game of women’s basketball. And I’m not going to lie; I’ve been updating my ever-growing women’s basketball repertoire almost daily these days.

After what’s-her-name dunked for that one school in the women’s NCAA bracket last month, I must admit I took a step back and absorbed the SportsCenter highlight more than once (names and schools need not matter – they just take away from the fact that a woman “dunked”).

How could this be? How could a woman do something that was once considered a man-only feat?

Upon asking myself that very question, I was taken aback as a blood rush to the head caused me to sit while I pondered of memories past:

How could Amelia Earhardt fly across the ocean? Why, in all of God’s green earth, would the PGA allow a woman to golf in a man’s tournament?

The answer is simple: Because women are capable of everything a man can do (save for whiz standing up or throw down a 22-second keg stand. Then again, if you’ve ever seen a sorority bachelorette party… never mind).

So, really, the greatest thing a woman possibly could do for the sport of basketball is, well, dunk!

It brings new life to a lackluster sport, where the stadiums were hardly full before and network sponsors were minimal. This newer, younger generation of the WNBA is going to throw more high-profile women on the court and more fans in the stands.

And I’m not being facetious: I really do wish well for women’s hoops. In fact, I can wholeheartedly admit that after my uncle forced me to watch the women’s Final Four a few weeks ago, I was somewhat perplexed.

Yes, women’s basketball is a far cry from anything like the men – it reminded me of a high school game where there’s more passing and most shots bounce off the back of the rim – yet calling it more fundamentally sound is dead on.

Not to mention they play with more passion than men.

If you agree with the rest of America that there is more heart in the NCAA than there is money in the NBA, remember that women have far less to look forward to in the pros than do men – where even though they’re going to be playing with the best women in the world, they won’t even make a quarter of the money their male counterparts will make.

So to say women have more heart than men is incredibly justified – more women than men will play their last games in college.

Needless to say, when Tennessee’s Candace Parker twice soared toward the hoop against Army in the first round of this year’s women’s NCAA tournament for the first “slam dunk” in collegiate women’s history (mostly dunk, not so much slam…), it didn’t just bring new life to a once pitiful sport, it threw the WNBA draft into the national spotlight last week.

And once people get excited about the draft, they’ll be stoked as soon as the season starts – I know that I’ve already circled May 23 to see LSU’s Seimone Augustus (the first player picked in the WNBA draft by the Minnesota Lynx) take on the pretty good-looking Debbie Merrill (Ohio State University) and her Connecticut Sun on ESPN2.

But I’m not just in it for good-looking women. Lord knows they’re few and far between in the WNBA.

When I want to see sexy women battle, that’s what women’s tennis is for.

Damn, that was stupid, wasn’t it? Chalk one up for Emily.

Can I get that cheeseless enchilada now?

Playing with Fire

As an artist, Terry Brinton is a freak. In every sense of the word, he is a freak of nature – an outlier, one who transcends the definition of normal. He is a freak in the same light as those who break free from social configuration by defining their own sense of normal.

But no one would know that after just talking with the 24-year-old NIC graduate who continues taking classes at the college. Brinton fits every accepted collegiate stereotype

known to man, dawning a hooded sweatshirt emblazed with an average college logo (West Virginia, in his case), shaggy hair, torn jeans and an old pair of sneakers.

Indeed, there is nothing freaky at all about that. But when a person takes a gander at his artwork, however, it doesn’t take long before he realizes that Brinton flourishes at a level of which most collegiate artists only dream.

His pieces are more reminiscent of the Australian outback than the Guggenheim. Rightfully so, for while other student-artists are busy copying famous artists from past and present, Brinton derives his inspiration from cultures rather than icons.

“I like pieces that look like artifacts,” he said. “Everybody’s work is going to be influenced by the artists they admire. There’s artists I admire, too, but I try to build on my philosophies instead of copying.”

Those philosophies are ever-present throughout his Tubbs Hillside home, where he lives with fiancée Lindsey Schoonover. On the living room wall, sharp copper poles protrude upward just enough to hang a piece of silk over a molten mass of metal that oddly resembles a mask from ancient Africa. Not to mention the back room, where his metalwork seemingly sprawls from every corner. In a glorious glow of red (the lamp is covered with fabric), sketches, paintings and sculptures fill the room where the couple keeps their home theater.

“Some of them are scary and give me nightmares,” Schoonover said. “I’ve made him hide some a few times, but I absolutely love them.”

And it’s that same philosophy – whether inspired from Africa, Oceana or Native America – that can be found on Brinton’s latest endeavor: a heaping mass of copper and stainless steel twisted and welded and cut in so many ways, it’s the most dangerous-looking fountain most people are likely to see.

That’s right, a fountain.

Though dangerous-looking, it was made to help. Brinton was hired by the Coeur d’Alene Community Art Project’s Fountain of Wishes fundraiser to design and sculpt a fountain with a budget of $5,000.

Much like the Moose on the Loose program two years ago – where painted moose statues were strewn about the city in hopes of raising money for local schools – Brinton’s fountain will accompany 13 others along Sherman Avenue. Each fountain will collect change for charity, and at the end of the summer all the fountains will be auctioned. The Coeur d’Alene Fire Department will benefit from Brinton’s fountain.

“If we raise enough money,” Brinton said, “the fire department will be able to buy infrared cameras to locate bodies in burning buildings. Right now they just have to walk around and feel in the smoke.”

Last Monday he won first place at the student art show and even sold a piece for $350. On May 3, from 4- 7 p.m. in the Driftwood Bay upstairs at the SUB, Brinton will be holding his own art show.

BOING: What coaching taught a coach

Few things engulf the entire human species as the notion of sport. And for as long as I can remember, the wide world of athletics has consumed my entire being, as well. Aside from actually sponsoring a team, I have been involved with every aspect associated with sports for my entire life.

As a toddler growing up in Seattle, I was clothed in the respective colors of the Seahawks, Mariners, Huskies, Thunderbirds and Super Sonics. With age came coordination (I’m still working on that), and thus my introduction into the perennial world of instructed exercise. However, It didn’t take long to realize I was not destined for athletic stardom.

Fast-forward to now, and few things have changed. I’m still immensely obsessed with sports, though what has changed is monumental: Where I once read the newspaper looking up stats of my favorite players, nowadays I spend more time compiling those same stats for this paper.

Most importantly, where I once played the sports I love so much, I have now undergone a life-changing role-reversal. As I look back on my sporting career, it doesn’t take long to realize that no aspect of the athletic community has been half as fulfilling as coaching.

Few things make a man appreciate the game as being a coach, whether that game is baseball, basketball, football, soccer, hockey, swimming, golf or bowling.

The rush you get when your own team executes a play for the first time is simply unrivaled. You just stand back and revel in the pure awesomeness of youth athletics, and suddenly the sheer joy of the sport overwhelms you. Soon you realize that you would rather help a sixth-grader get on base for the first time than hit a game-winning homerun yourself.

In only three seasons of coaching youth sports (two stints at Little League and my current third-grade basketball team), I have learned from three teams more than I ever learned from playing on 20-plus teams myself.

First and foremost, never underestimate the power of post-game snacks. Mother of God, if all you remember to do is make sure someone brings snacks, you’re a success. You would rather be hustled by the mafia than face the sad-yet-wicked face of a thirsty, Capri Sun-less 8-year-old.

It’s simply frightening, and will haunt your dreams forever.

“Conditioning is something you do after you shampoo.”

I said it. I stand by it. I’ll say it again – at least concerning youth sports. A 10-year-old boy has more energy than a Kentucky Derby champ. Never worry about them running out of juice, so you don’t need to run them ragged in practice.

Sure, they’ll need a break for water and maybe a quick time-out, but while the rest of us are worried about tearing an ACL or rupturing a hernia after 10 minutes of three-on-three, these kids would play six games in a row if they could.

Yet perhaps the most important thing is dealing with parents. I was instructed early on to just nod and smile when taking their advice or criticism – yet I’ve been so lucky, all I’ve received are constructive comments and obvious advice. Most of the time, they’re right, too.

Eventually, though, I’ll have to deal with the dad who’s re-living the glory days through his son. And that’s one of the reasons I choose to coach at a younger level: The vast majority of parents don’t – and physically cannot – expect their children to perform at such a high level if they’re still learning the game.

Yet parents are integral to the entire process. They’re the single greatest element in the whole equation. Because of them, the greatest joy I get from coaching is helping parents coach their kids. It should be the parents helping to inspire their children to play, not just a coach.

However, I still live to inspire. So, if because of me, a child decides that he likes the game that his parents forced him into and decides to play again, than I accomplished my biggest goal.

Thus I will always remember those who inspired me.

Larry Brown, when coaching the NBA’s Detroit Pistons last year, “wasted” a timeout late in a sure-win to extend the standing ovation for opponent Reggie Miller’s final career game. Not only was that the classiest move I’ve ever witnessed, I can duly assure you there was nary a dry eye after witnessing a tear-jerker such as that. For I imagine an elite mountaintop known as coaching’s upper pantheon, where Brown sits with Penn State’s Joe Paterno, UCLA’s John Wooden and every coach who changed a child’s life.

Yet speaking of classy, no one tops the classiest coach of coaches in my life: my mother.

The single mom, who worked as much as she could, still came to every single soccer practice, every single basketball game and every single baseball jamboree when I was younger. Carting around my three little sisters wasn’t easy, I know, and she still made time to keep score or work the snack booth.

It’s because of her I’ve become the coach I am today. Learning that respect in the sport is key, but respect for life is the greatest goal one can score.

So if there’s one thing I want to reiterate after playing sports, writing sports, photographing sports and most importantly, coaching sports, it is simply to respect the game.

Hopefully I can pass that on to just one 9-year-old like me.

BOING: They call me TNT, Dyn-o-mite

Breaking up the monotony of my newly-dawned 21-year-old life may seem challenging until you realize that my life is far from that.

Amidst the madness that makes up me, lies the most important aspect that I feel I truly represent: Surrounding myself with those who match my maturity level – thus explaining why I love coaching third grade basketball for Coeur d’Alene Park and Rec.

Indeed, this age group is solely playing for the sheer enjoyment of the game. Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself after respective losing scores of 17-3, 16-4 and 20-0. And true, while all is fun, I must gloat about our sole W on the score sheet: a 4-2 romping we barely held on to in the final minutes.

For, to say the least, that’s all I can hold on to. Until my cousin Geno calls me up, of course.

That’s when I set aside my copy of “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Coaching Youth Basketball,” which I really do own, and absorb all that Geno has to offer.

(By the way, this is the same dude who got me hooked on North Idaho’s claim to fame: That redneck’s national pastime of the ever-amazing sport known as road hunting. He taught me that few things rival the feeling an exploding grouse leaves you with. Especially when you shot with one hand from a moving truck, while not spilling your beer in the other.)

But today, he just got done watching Rob Zombie’s movie “Devil’s Rejecets,” and enlightened me with some of his self-proclaimed wisdom he boisterously dubs ‘Geneglish.’

“Even though Rob Zombie’s wife kills people in the movie, I think I’d still date her,” he said. “She’s so freaking hot; I guess I’m just a sucker for danger!”

And this is the guy I’m supposed to hunt big game with the next morning. The same guy who asked me to hunt with him that night (illegal) from his truck (illegal) on private property (also illegal).

“Didn’t you know that a full moon is God’s natural spot light?”

May God have mercy on my virgin-hunting soul.

True, I once vowed to kill Bambi, and while I didn’t share Geno’s gut-wrenching, mind-bending, twisted enthusiasm, I was going to get a deer in my first season, that much is certain.

So before leaving the house last Wednesday morning, I grabbed my boots, Carhartts, hand warmers and camo jacket – no safe hunter’s orange for us, apparently that stuff’s for “pansies.”

“Those deer are just frolicking down there and eating their morning grub,” Geno said. “Little do they know, there is gonna be bloodshed in theat peaceful little village.”

Once in the truck, I felt it necessary to call a friend back in Oregon about my upcoming experience, and share with him my love for deer hunting (lackluster at this point, to say the least). After cussing me out for waking him up at 5 a.m., I was belittled once more: “You’re hunting!?” he blasted. “Since when do they sell Carhartts at the Gap, you preppy little mountain-man wannabe.”

Screw him, I had deer on the mind, and deer piss on my clothes. Welcome to Idaho, where the men are men and the deer are scared, where buttering yourself up in deer urine and huddling around other men in the woods is considered bonding – not bondage!

However, one major problem surfaced during our first legal outing: We both re-learned how big of a klutz I am.

“From now on, Jake, I’m going to call you TNT,” he said. “Because when you walk through the woods it sounds like a bomb is going off.”

That meant only thing, we were back in the old Toyota and headed further into the wilderness, where I couldn’t scare the deer away and Gene could stun them with the brights. Why use deer decoys when the front headlights of a pickup will stop any deer in its tracks.

Illegal? I thought so, too.

“If we go down,” he says, “we go down hard.”

Long story short, day one was filled everything but deer. So the next morning after we camped atop a local mountain, we barreled through the snow-encrusted hills with a ferocious fervor – the first legitimately legal outing we had experienced together.

We used a deer decoy, with no luck. We tried deer urine all over the place, with nothing to show but a God-awful-smelling tent, and then we even tried deer calls.

You guessed it, nadda.

“I think I use the deer call too much,” Geno said. “Just like with women, I call so much I scare them away."

Two more days went the exact same. Sure, I heard deer in the brush, but I’m sure they were bouncing around back there making fun of me, saying to other deer how funny I smelled.

I know I wouldn’t go anywhere near a deer covered in human piss.

The experience as a whole turned bittersweet. While hunting, legally, leaves a morally clean slate, I think I may stick to the warmer climates offered by an elementary school gym. Indeed, there is no greater joy than coaching youth sports, but I’ve still got a vengeance for venison.

Bambi is still numero uno on my list, but we’ll see if I tag him.

As we left the camp, I came to the conclusion I may never hunt with Geno again, for the sole reason he mentioned this demented musing after, noticeably, much thought: “I wonder how bad a deer’s butt stinks when it’s in heat.”

Mother of God.

Chasing Pre

With the shaggy brown hair reminiscent of his lifetime idol, Adam Oster epitomizes the stereotypical appearance of the modern cross-country runner: yellow Livestrong band, Nike shoes, short shorts, flat stomach and shaved legs.

Rightfully so, for the Oregon native lives, breathes and ultimately bleeds green and yellow – the collegiate colors long associated with one of cross-country’s greatest: Steve Prefontaine. This year marked the 30^th anniversary of the legendary runner’s death, and all one needs to do is visit Oster’s apartment to gain a sense of appreciation he feels for the University of Oregon runner affectionately known as Pre.

A poster-sized portrait adorns the living room. Magazine clippings fill counter tops. Banners hang from the ceiling. A feature from The Oregonian hangs in a frame on the wall. The same article is pinned in his bedroom. Another copy rests on the wall of his roommate’s wall.

His mother mailed four total copies, “just in case one of them gets ruined,” Oster said.

“It’s a good article about rockstar runners,” he added. “My favorite quote is: ‘Pre wasn’t a runner. He was a rebel who happened to run,’ because Pre totally revolutionized the sport of running in terms of where it is today.”

However, the 19-year-old freshman engineering major, is no wannabe.

He finished in the top one-half percent of the 48,000 who ran Bloomsday this year, second in his age group and 188^th overall. He won first place in 5K Kootenai County Substance Abuse Fun Run earlier this year.

Then there was the Bloomsday Road Runners Club Ultimate Runner Championship race. Oster ran five races (5K, 400-m, 100-m, 1600-m, 10K, respectively) in less than two and a half hours, holding first place until the final three minutes when he took second to a sponsored runner from Spokane Falls Community College.

He also won the 8K Spring Dash this year for his age group and took third in the Sherman Mile with a personal record of 4 minutes, 46 seconds.

“What drives me to run is mental sanity,” Oster said. “When I get pissed off, I run hard. When I want to think, I run slow and long. It helps me bring clarity to a lot of things; it’s really taught me a lot about myself and what I can do physically.”

When he learned the hard way in seventh grade that he was too small for football (“I was a puny linebacker against a bunch of refrigerators”), he took up track. Yet when running laps proved too boring, he branched into the longer distances that cross country offered. He wrestled until he tore a muscle in his back and has since become a runner for life.

Even at work, Oster finds times to run – during his lunch break. No matter the weather, when lunchtime lingers, so do Oster’s running shoes.

“He really is a freak of nature,” said a former co-worker. “I’ve never seen a guy run through the snow day after day, let alone the rain. He puts himself through workouts I couldn’t even imagine.”

As far as workouts go, Oster gets help from former NIC track coach Lewis Watkins.

“We don’t get together a lot,” Oster said, “but he basically gives me workouts. I manipulate them and know how to tweak them to specifically work on what I need.”

He’s not much of an early morning runner, so save for the lunchtime sprints, his big runs come between school and work, and then after work before attempting homework. A good workout provides just enough strenuous activity to clear his mind for school then drains his body for a long night’s sleep.

Said Oster’s roommate, fellow Oregon native and NIC student, David Brejule: “What Adam does for the sport of running is phenomenal. He goes balls to the walls and simply has a passion for running that very few people can understand.”

And when school, work and running are done for the day, it’s that passion that keeps Oster looking for the next race to run.

Local magazines, such as The Race Rag, provide information on area races and running competitions. Yet Oster also keeps in touch with the track coach from Spokane Falls Community College, who also informs him of running events.

“I go through the schedules of local community colleges and find any invitationals,” Oster said. “I’m counted as a collegiate athlete because I’m in college. I can enter in the “open” division, obviously unattatched as NIC has no running program.”

Yet Oster’s ultimate goal – other than growing a Fu Manchu mustache and long sideburns to match his shaggy mop top and mimic his hero, Pre – is to form a Cardinal running club. While he’s already asked around, the interest level isn’t where he wants it.

“If it’s only two or three of us out there, there’s really no point,” Oster said. “I’d feel good if I had about 10 people who got together once a week and ran together. I’d like it to be more than that, though, and have enough to form a cross country team and enter races as a team.”

Generally, a cross country team has seven runners in a race, and the top five are scored. Yet if 10 runners competed, scoring becomes easier.

“If I can get a good turnout,” he said, “I would be more than happy to spearhead damn near anything I possibly can.”

The same passion that long ago inhibited a skinny kid from Coos Bay, Ore., to redefine the definition of a cross-country runner is easily identifiable in another Oregon native. While Pre ran through the streets of Track Town, USA (aka the University of Oregon in Eugene), Oster is running through the streets, trails, mountains and campus of the “college by the lake.”

“It’s always fun when someone walks into my apartment and asks if that’s me in the poster on my wall.”

BOING: Birds, Beer Cans and Bullets

I recently experienced the most North Idahoan tradition that I am sure exists: road hunting. Because of this truly redneck ritual, I have ultimately realized how skewed my interpretation of this sport was – nay, how skewed was my perspective of all sports.

Indeed, I may have once deemed any “sport” boasting the use of animals or wheels (such as rodeo and big game hunting, or NASCAR and BMX racing) was as far away from the wide world of sports as one could reach. If baseball was the sun in our solar system of sports, NASCAR was a black hole in a different universe.

I even proclaimed they were simply reasons for rednecks to congregate and drink themselves into oblivion – much like St. Patrick’s Day for us Irish folk, or college for guys like me.

However, after a close friend of mine took me on this life-altering journey through the woods, with a rifle in one hand, a Natty Light in the other, and his knees on the steering wheel, I now understand why rednecks road hunt: It’s like shooting fish in a barrel!

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve been around hunters my whole life: my dad, my grandpa, my uncles and my cousins. Oh sure, I went camping and fishing and I’ll be the last one to turn down a venison dinner; I even work for Black Sheep Sporting Goods – the leading vendor of all things fishing- and hunting-related in the Northwest.

But let’s face it: I’m a city kid. While my cousin wears camouflage, I shop at the Gap; when they’re up four in the morning before daylight, I wake up in time for the 1 p.m. Seahawks’ game. While I’m at parties chasing tail, they’re in the woods chasing whitetail.

Needless to say, I’m the last one you’d expect with a gun. Yet all it took was $30.50 at the mighty ‘Sheep, and now I’m an official card-carrying resident hunter/fisher.

And that’s all it took for my cousin to throw me in the pickup with a rifle and 12-pack. The walking, talking, human quote-machine of a cousin of mine has been like my big brother; so if he says it’s legal, I simply assume it is.

“Laws? What laws?” he once said. “I write the rule book as I go.”

We embarked on our journey slowly but steady, a stop for gas, a stop for beer, and a quick pep talk before heading up the mountain to slay the bird locals know as “grouse.”

“In town I may be the biggest loser around,” he said, staring off into the wilderness. After a momentary pause, as a devilish grin slowly spread across his face and the twinkle all but vanished from his eyes, he added: “But up here on the mountain, out in the woods, I am God – I decide what lives and what dies.”

He reared his head back, bellowed a satanic chuckle and peeled up the swerving dirt roads.

I have no other worldly experiences to justly compare the following two hours of my life. In short, I flat-out don’t remember the most of it, simply quick images of the sky clouding up for a rainstorm (“If this weather was a pizza,” said Gene, “than it would be extra-saucey!”).

I remember answering a phone call from my girlfriend – to his complete and utter disgust, as women apparently do not belong in the world of hunting, or even on the minds of men in the “hunting zone.” Yet as quickly as he was to denounce my answering of the call, he yielded one more bit of advice from his ever-growing repertoire: “Tell her that she has the body of a supermodel and the brains of an astronaut.”

At one point, I’m pretty sure we were knee-deep in elk feces searching for a fallen grouse carcass.

All in all, we didn’t end up with a single bird in the bag. In fact, the journey in which I speak of lasted only 25 minutes – that’s all it took before we reached the real hunter’s plateau: a monstrous grass field where grouse are aplenty, the deer and the elk roam, and beer cans and shotgun shells can be seen for miles.

It was indeed a true redneck’s paradise; worse yet, I found myself awe-struck when I quietly muttered one solitary word in this land of animal solitude: “Glorious.”

Apparently road-hunting is illegal, some rule about being 200 feet or so from any roadway. Yet what I considered road-hunting was actually legal: riding to the prairie with guns behind the seat.

Consequently, I have now budged from a position that many felt was impossible: I will be the first to admit hunting is a sport. The adrenaline rush you get when ending the life of another living creature is simply unparalleled.

I’ve never scored the winning touchdown in a football game, but I have played co-ed recreational softball. I’ve coached two Little League teams and I’ve sunk a hole-in-one on the third hole of Seattle’s most notorious mini-golf course.

Yet all those pale in comparison to shooting a grouse. Worst yet, I bought a deer tag this year, too. If they’re at all like shooting a grouse, than may God have mercy on the whitetails of North Idaho.

Bambi, prepare to die.

Sailing with Speed

North Idaho College already boasts a wrestling dynasty. Both men and women’s soccer teams are on a rampage through their new conferences and the Lady Cards are nationally ranked ninth in the NJCAA volleyball poll.

However, there exists one more realm for the Cardinals to rein supreme and dominate the national playing field with a severe upper hand.

“NIC could have a nationally ranked sailing team!” said Craig McBurney, of The Catamaran Club, a sailboat dealership/club that has found a new home on Lake Coeur d’Alene.

With the enrollment of NIC increasing each and every term, it seems fitting that the population of Coeur d’Alene is rapidly rising, as well.

And for a city defined by its lake, the increase in boats is only to be expected.

Thus, it was simply a matter of time before sailing found its niche in what National Geographic has proclaimed one of the five most beautiful alpine lakes on the planet.

“When I first visited North Idaho,” he said, “I quickly realized that this area has some of the best sailing in the world.”

Miles Moore of sail-s.com, the local Hobie Cat and MacGregor yacht dealer, is also the sailing instructor for NIC. Once he contacted McBurney at Reynolds Sailing and his role as r33.com dealer territory manager, he sought to bring in the Reynolds Sailing line of performance sport racing and cruising catamarans.

The catamaran procured by Moore, a 33-foot double-hull with a 14-foot beam, stands nearly 50-feet out of the water and can catch even the slightest breeze.

“The funny part,” said McBurney, “is that Idaho was actually one of the last states on my list to prospect for dealers! Miles quickly convinced me otherwise.”

The addition of Lake Coeur d’Alene to the Catamaran Club adds a new home to four of the West’s most premier sailing waterways: San Francisco, Long Beach, Los Cabos, Mexico, and now Coeur d’Alene.

Lake Coeur d’Alene is a beautiful lake to sail on and produces some amazing winds to sail with, said Moore. The deepest point is 187 feet, which, combined with the warm summer months, tends to produce smaller waves ideal for sailing.

For students who can’t fit a sailing class into their schedule via the PE department, they can still join the local sailing club and/or the Catamaran Club, related to the Reynolds 33 Catamaran. Or, by simply heading down to the NIC beach, the boat is ready and waiting on the dock.

“Walk down the dock and meet me on the boat, the Lake Cat,” says McBurney. “We will take students out for free; and for those who dream of sailing the world, we’ll shanghai them into being first mates, as we are always seeking a good crew for our charter operations.”

What makes the Lake Cat an ideal sailboat for this lake is its incredible bulk: Once a big cat begins moving, it creates some of its own wind and then converts that into sail power, called apparent wind. Another reason this area attracted McBurney is the occasional shift in those same winds.

“On light days, with puffs and shifts, one quickly develops real sailing skills by necessity,” he said. “Big, steady air, like the Caribbean trade winds, for example, makes it easy to get a boat moving.

“Lake Coeur d’Alene, with its many protected and phenomenally gorgeous anchorages, and no rough wave conditions, combine for the perfect environment for beginners to seasoned ocean sailors.”

Indeed, McBurney and crew have sailed all over the world, professionally and commercially. With their expertise and knowledge of all aspects in this sport, a strong endorsement and commitment to NIC, as well as the surrounding area is quite the accomplishment.

While NIC currently offers sailing classes and dawns an active group of sailors off the college-owned beach, the catamaran that Moore has brought in is an added bonus few can claim.

“NIC is the only college in the country that has this kind of high-tech racing multi-hull available to introduce state-of-the-art gear, carbon fiber sails, high apparent wind and extreme sailing techniques; as well as seamanship skills in general,” McBurney said.

Now it simply remains a matter of time, and a matter of will, before a competitive sailing team will represent the Cardinals of NIC. Athletic funding aside, the possibilities are sky high for a future sailing team: The necessities are available, now all that’s needed is a team.

“Sailing is truly a life-long sport that can be enjoyed by all persons, regardless of ability or disability,” said Moore. “How many sports do you know that can be done from the age of six to 106?”

For more, contact 888-LAKE-CAT, or visit www.r33.com.

Iron Man hopeful perseveres

The Iron Man Triathlon has proven one of the most grueling, vigorous displays of human agility in modern athletics.

Indeed a feat in itself, just attempting the monstrous tribulation is the life-long dream of many athletes: Some train for years, spend tens of thousands of dollars and travel across the globe to practice in perfect conditions.

Yet to qualify as a finisher in the physically demanding 17-hour race, which spans from Higgins Point on Lake Coeur d’Alene to Liberty Lake, Wash., participants must cross the finish line by midnight of race day.

For student Tony Parks, a Coeur d’Alene resident registered in this year’s Iron Man, one year is all he took to prepare for the race.

“I was inspired by the late-night finishers last year,” said the 26-year-old Parks, who witnessed the racers struggling to make the midnight deadline. “Then I registered the day after it ended, the very first day you could.”

And so began the oftentimes torturous training of an Iron Man.

With the help and support of his loving wife, Tiffany, as well as his son Logan and daughter Hailey, Parks invested in a brand new wetsuit, a specialized bike and initiated a healthy, nutritious diet to prepare for the world-famous event next month.

However, training sometimes takes a backburner to the rest of Park’s life: He is the Dockmaster of the Boardwalk Marina for the Coeur d’Alene Resort, requiring 50 hours of his time a week, he is taking 14 credits at both North Idaho College and Lewis-Clark State College, and he teaches portions of communication classes at NIC, not to mention, having two young children and a wife taking up the rest of his time.

“It’s go-time from the second I wake up until the time I go to bed,” Parks said. “Some days I don’t even get to see my kids they’re asleep when I leave for work, and they’re asleep when I get home.”

Because of the hectic schedule, he sometimes trains partly before work or school and then trains partly afterward.

Consequently, Parks was recently diagnosed with a stress fracture in his left tibia near the ankle. So far, the doctor has required Parks to stay immobilized for six to eight weeks, although he has been cleared for bicycling and swim-training.

“The doctor says I shouldn’t run at all,” Parks said. “But I have a brace on it now, and I’ll leave it on until I have to run in the race. That will be the first time I run since the doctor told me I couldn’t.”

Because of the nature of his injury, his training regime will now consist of only biking and swimming. Although, it does give him the opportunity to emphasize heavily in both of those areas.

“I’m hoping to finish the swim and bike portions in a fast time,” Parks said. “That way, I’ll have a lot more time for the 26-mile run. I just don’t want to look like the guy in the Gatorade Iron Man commercial.”

In that commercial, Gatorade reveals footage of an Iron Man competitor losing complete and total control of his entire body, crumbling to the ground in the final home stretch of the race.

But Parks has a different prediction for his race.

“I’m going to do whatever I need to do so I can cross the finish line before midnight,” Parks said.

BOING: Johnny Damon to play Jesus in “Passion” sequel

By now, the haze over Boston should just be settling.

The red and white confetti, which has rendered useless for 86 years, is no doubt swept back up again. The streets may be clean, the fields may be empty, and true, some of the citizens may be sober by now, but Red Sox fans are still mesmerized in New England, my friend, for the curse has finally been broken!

So eat your heart out, Mel Gibson, the sequel to your most captivating movie has been written: “The Passion of the Christ 2: The Curse of the Great Bambino.”

Indeed, if there were ever an athlete to represent the Holy Son in such a movie, without a question it would be the longhaired, goateed, and white-clad Johnny “Jesus” Damon.

Sure, Jesus walked on water.

Two homeruns from Johnny “King of Kings” Damon in the seventh game of the ALCS (against the Yankees, no less!) sent the beloved BoSox to the Series, and his leadoff homer in Game 4 on Wednesday was all they needed to abominate the looming curse of the babe.

Just try and write a script more poignant than that, Mel Gibson, I dare ya!

Sure, Jesus had his 12 disciples. Johnny Damon, however, had Derek Lowe, Curt Schilling and Pedro Martinez. He had Orlando Cabrero, David Ortiz and Jason Varitek. Keith Foulke, Bill Muellar and Trot Nixon.

But then there was the savior himself, the ALCS Most Valuable Player, and the MVP of the World Series. While in the Catholic Church there stands a replica of Jesus Christ hanging from the cross, in New England they have begun to render posters and statues of

Boston’s savior: Manny Ramirez.

After nearly being traded this year, Ramirez relinquished himself by ultimately blowing out the candle on “the curse.”

Though some people say the Cardinals were not an admirable foe, that Boston just manhandled a weaker team. Well, perhaps those people didn’t watch St. Louis rape every team they faced this year and finish with the best record Major League Baseball.

A more dignified opponent, there doesn’t exist!

Not to mention that God, himself, played first base for the Cards. The most angelic player on the field, Albert Pujols personifies baseball, for when he comes to the plate, pitchers shudder, the infield doesn’t know what to do and angels sing from the heavens.

There is no other player as divine as the mighty Pujols.

Yet the Boston Red Sox pulled a Pontius Pilot and shut him down. Not to mention all the other members of the Cardinals, for the mighty, mighty BoSox never lost the lead in their final eight-game winning streak – from coming back in Game 4 against the Yankees all the way through Game 4 of the World Series, the Red Sox kept the lead the entire time!

A more grandiose story has yet to be penned, let alone be turned into a movie. But if Mel Gibson wants to follow up on the greatest story of our time, it is my advice that he makes it the greatest story of ALL time.

Sure, women cried after “The Passion of the Christ.” Children shuddered in their chairs, trying to comprehend the story.

Yet after the 2004 World Series, grown men fell to the floor in hysteria all across the United States and wept. They were awe-struck, amazed, astounded, with lips quivering and legs shaking, they simply wept.

Boston broke the curse, baby.

God Bless the Red Sox.