Chip Shots

Like any good camp counselor I was doing my best to be sociable. Sitting among a crowd at a large wooden table during lunch I spied a quiet girl. She was aloof and substantially overweight. Feeling sorry for her, I tried to initiate a conversation. "Are you enjoying camp?" I innocently asked. "Yes," she said in an oddly squeaky voice. We exchanged a few pleasantries. She didn't seem too bright. "Too bad," I thought. "When fat kids are smart, at least they've got something going for them." One of my duties at camp was to lead worship around the campfire each evening. This was in the days when we thought nothing of combining camp songs with worship songs. Anything to get the kids involved! Since this was the last night of camp, emotions were high and we had a great time of worship. I sat on the corner of the stage feeling rather pleased with myself. The speaker got on the stage. "All week I've been introducing you to people wh...

There’s no question about it: Jose Canseco is a money-grubbing sleaze ball. He’s an embarrassment to the game of baseball -- the very game which made his name a household word. He has broken the athlete’s honor code: don’t rat out a teammate. It serves baseball right that someone with Canseco’s dubious pedigree finally forced players and managers to talk honestly about steroid use. After all, management could have pushed the issue in the past, but kept their mouths shut for fear of the player’s union and their love of money. And the player’s union, which in my view is the main culprit in this sordid affair, has never taken the issue seriously. The recent steroid agreement, in response to government pressure, is only a bad joke. It’s pathetic. The integrity of the game has been compromised, as has the health of the players. My goodness! Three former MVPs are now admitted steroid users (four, if you don’t believe that lame story about Cream). Older players who gave their lives to achieve...

We'd been on the road nearly five hours. It was a beautiful night but we were tired and anxious to make it home before 11:00 p.m. After all, I had to preach in the morning. The weekend had been miserably chilly and wet. It was a lonely desert road, the kind where the speed limit is merely a suggestion. I'd set the cruise control on 79 hours before. As we neared civilization the speed limit changed for no apparent reason. An uncharacteristic thought entered my head. "Slow down." Usually it's just my guilty conscience and I treat it as a reminder to look carefully for lurking highway patrol cars. This time, however, it seemed more like a prompting than a warning. I stewed on it for a moment, doubting that a cop was nearby. Maybe I should slow down, at least a little. I began to coast downward. Suddenly, I found myself crashing into standing water. As is common in our state, water was on the road even after the rain had passed. I hit it like a load of bricks, nearly ...