Today is Apple Cup day in the state of Washington. To the uninitiated, that means the annual college football game between the University of Washington Huskies and the Washington State Cougars.

On this side of the Cascade Mountains, the Washington State side, this is the one time of the year when it is not only politically correct to mercilessly beat the Dawgs, it's positively encouraged. Celebrated. Cheered. Relished. You get the picture.

It ranks up there, among college rivalries, with Harvard-Yale, Army-Navy, Texas-Texas Tech, Michigan-Ohio State, Oregon-Oregon State, Florida-Florida State and USC-UCLA. And, of course, there the annual rivalry jokes to accompany the game.

One of my new favorites: Why did the Washington Husky cross the road? To get to the Seattle Bowl.

Now, for the non-college football fan, that won't seem like much. But I won't explain unless you ask.

In Eastern Washington, where I grew up and now live, after a all-too-brief sojourn to Maui (any sojourn to Maui is, by definition, too brief), Washington State football is an annual passion and a test of moral fiber. Compared to most of the schools in the Pac-8 and later, the Pac-10 Conference, Wazzu, as we call it, ranks as the Little Sisters of the Poor. The conference posts schools in Seattle, Greater San Francisco, Los Angeles, Phoenix. And Pullman, Washington.

Pullman, Washington. It bears repeating. I now pause for you to remark, inevitably `Where in the hell is Pullman, Washington?'

Hence a favorite joke of one of my former editors at The Seattle Times: How do you find Wazzu? You drive east until you smell it, then drive south until you step in it. (It must be noted that this particular editor, who shall remain nameless, graduated from the University of Idaho, which resides about two stones throws away from Pullman, across the Idaho border. For the several years, Idaho played its home football games in Martin Stadium, at WSU.) (It also should be noted that I said he was a former editor, not a favorite former editor)

When it comes to futility, thy name is Cougar. One of my colleagues coined the term 'To Coug,' which means to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. All that has changed over the past few years, under Coach Mike Price.

Washington State is a land grant university. You don't find them just anywhere. And no where else in the Pac-10. Pullman is the antithesis of Seattle. It's small. It's thoroughly dominated by the University. It's located over several of the rolling hills of the Palouse country -- countryside that would be ideal for a roller coaster. It's all wheat fields. Water towers dominate the landscape.

And when the WSU quarterback was publicized as a Heisman Trophy candidate, they plastered his picture on a grain silo in a neighboring small town, aptly named Dusty. The joke, and it's definitely an in-joke, is that last year, when Oregon touted its quarterback, Joey Harrington, for the Heisman, they plastered his picture on a building in Times Square. Ha ha.

The University of Washington, on the other hand, is just off of Downtown Seattle, across the Montlake cut, where the school holds its annual crew regatta.The real estate value of the school is enough to cover our national debt.

I enjoy covering football games at WSU, although I'm not working this one. The coach is about as classy as they come -- the perfect fit for the school, which had a number of high profile coaches bolt for bigger schools (Dennis Erickson, Warren Powers and Jackie Sherrill to name a few).

Covering football at UW, however, is a bit more of a chore. The atmosphere is much less fun and much more proper. And of course, the school draws twice as many fans to its home games as WSU -- so the nightmare of getting to and from the game is intense.

By the way, as the UW has struggled with a long running series of legal trouble with members of its football team, my favorite Husky joke runs as follows: What do you say to a Husky football player wearing a three-piece suit? Will the defendant please rise.

The fuel that makes the Apple Cup burn is the contrast in attitudes between alums. Cougar alums are your basic, laid-back, rural-yet-rabid college football fans. Husky fans are arrogant (one of their favorite bumper stickers is: On the Eighth Day, God Created Huskies). Husky fans are elitists. They are Urban/Suburban snobs. And they've been spoiled by success.

Cougar fans tailgate in their motor homes; Husky fans tailgate on their yachts. Cougar fans grill up brats and toast the home team with a few brewskies; Husky fans have catered affairs, with vintage wine. Cougar fans appreciate the team's success and buy season tickets to support the athletic program; Husky fans expect success and expect a return on their investment in season tickets.

Today, Washington State comes in ranked higher than any time in school history -- No. 3 in the national polls. And the hoopla has gone up considerably because of it. The Rose Bowl is on the line -- a rarity in Pullman.

So, I will watch the game on television while listening to the radio broadcast. The radio voice of Washington State is Bob Robertson. He's been there for as long as I can remember -- which makes listening to the radio broadcast almost institutional for Couger football fans. After I get back from covering a hockey game, I may update with the final score.

Thus endeth the most I will write about sports for quite a while.

More soon

Today started out as a typical Friday -- lots of loose ends to tie up. Being the start of the winter sports season there are always rosters to chase down, coaches to talk to, players to interview.

It wasn't until I sat down with a latte late in the morning that it occured to me that it was November 22nd.

I can now understand what the generation before me went through every December 7th, remembering their shock and horror at the news that Pearl Harbor had been attacked. We can all project through the years at what our reactions to September 11th will be.

November 22, 1963 is the first day in my life that I remember in specific detail. I was six years old and, for whatever reason, I was home from school that day. The television was on with a daytime rerun of the show Pete and Gladys starring Harry Morgan. I can still remember Walter Cronkite's voice coming on, interrupting the program, to announce that three shots had been fired at President John F. Kennedy's motorcade. At six years old, the President wasn't exactly a big deal to me -- I remember listening to the funny way he had of talking -- at least to my young ears. I remember the pictures of Caroline and John-John, and being envious of Macaroni the Pony.

For reasons I didn't understand then, Walter's news bulletin struck me as something extremely serious and I tore off to find my mother. I found her in the bathroom and told her, breathlessly, that President Kennedy had been shot. That was my first news report.

I was on her heels as she raced back to the black-and-white set in time to see Walter Cronkite, in shirt sleeves, begin to piece together details of what had happen, up to and including the tragic announcement that President Kennedy was dead.

Walter Cronkite was the voice of authority in our household. Not only was he the voice of CBS News, he was the voice of the Sunday staple, The 20th Century. I knew this -- whatever this man had to say, it was always important. So when I saw Walter Cronkite stop -- take a moment to get his emotions under control -- it was something completely out of character. It was that moment that I knew something serious had happened. Something tragic.

I remember my mother crying. I remember people in the neighborhood crying -- something I had not seen before.

Everything stopped after that. It felt to me as if the world had come to a complete stop as we watched the aftermath on television. I remember hearing from a young Texan report from Dallas named Dan Rather. I remember the usually somber Eric Sevaried sounding extra somber.

On Saturday morning, there were a few minutes when I didn't quite grasp why my favorite cartoons were preempted. Didn't everyone need a good laugh? Couldn't Sky King and Roy Rogers come to the rescue?

There were stark moments that are as fresh in my mind today as they were then. Jack Ruby shooting Lee Harvey Oswald. The riding boots backwards in the stirrups of the funeral cortege. John-John saluting as his father's casket passed.

That was the day I stopped feeling invulnerable. There was a knowledge of mortality after that. The night Martin Luther King was shot only deepened that knowledge. The day Bobby Kennedy was killed twisted the knife.

I've reported on death in my career. I wrote the story for the 11 o'clock news the night John Lennon was gunned down. I delivered the morning news break the day Anwar Sadat was gunned down by his own troops. I remember standing at the teletype machine and reading about Natalie Wood's body being found in the waters off Catalina Island.

But that first news report, that President Kennedy had been shot, was the pivitol point in my consciousness. I was still a child after that day, of course, but the was a deep understanding on the importance of delivering the news.

There are days now when I am embarrassed to be a reporter. I cringe when I remember hearing another reporter ask Washington quarterback Doug Williams if he had always been a black quarterback. What was he expecting for an answer? No, I started out as a Jewish halfback? I want to throw a brick through the television when I see what passes for news coverage today.

Because I know what journalism is supposed to be. I know, because I saw it that morning in November.

More soon.

Yes, I'm a sports writer. I sit in the press box at games and stand around in steamy, hot locker rooms afterward trying to coax an intelligent quote out of someone who can't say two words without swearing, shrugging or stammering. I like what I do. The hours suck, the pay ain't what you think it is, and the deadlines are tighter than Tom DeLay at a Planned Parenthood fundraiser. But, God help me, I love it. Newspaper ink doesn't just rub off on your hands. It gets in your blood.

But if you're reading this hoping for more sports writing, click on to the next site. Oh sure, I'll occasionally muse on about sports. More often, however, this site will be reserved for other thoughts. Thoughts directed toward my friends, toward my other interests and my other pursuits.

You'll find occasional posts about writing and journalists. More often than not I'll write about books, television and movies -- all aspects of media. I'll write about divorce and other comedies. About friends and finding gray hair. About dogs and why they're such good companions. You'll find my thoughts about Maui -- where I lived for almost two years and still think about daily -- and other places I love and have visited. You'll find talks about food -- one of my passions -- and about how sensual the kitchen can be.

You're welcome to respond, or to drop me a line.

More soon.