Wallace T. Cornwallace, T. Bone Wallace and the confederacy of Wallaces, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers




The Feds are investigating if a crooked financier used laundered money to pay off Chris Christie and a Donald Trump lawyer. Trump has to be worried. The last thing anyone wants is Chris Christie rolling over on them.

In France, a dolphin caused a beach to be closed because it tried to mate with swimmers. The dolphin sexually harassed so many people, it was hired by Nike.




In HBO's "Hard Knocks," the Cleveland Browns have a large trailer home for napping. Much better idea for the 0-16 Browns than napping during the games.






Give comedian Louis CK credit for his comeback attempt. Now he is trying to be a jerk onstage, but a nice guy off. Before he was a nice guy onstage, but a jerk off.





Man, I was so worried when I saw Aaron Rodgers was trending on Twitter, but it is because he signed a deal with the Packers. Because anyone who broke up with Olivia Munn who was charged with sexual harassment, I could never forgive.

Aaron Rodgers signs a six-rear, $174 mil. deal with the Packers. In a related story, the rest of the Packers will be payed in bitcoins and groupons. And cheese and cheese by-product. 

Donald Trump is threatening to sue Google because when you Google Donald Trump, negative things come up. "Can we make this a class action lawsuit?" Asked Bill Cosby and Harvey Weinstein.




Since you asked:

The Sixth Grade Championship 220-Yard Race

When I was in sixth grade, the school championship race at Skokie School was a 220-yard straight race on the block-long grass between Skokie School to the east, which had sixth graders, and Carlton Washburn Junior High to the west, which had seventh and eighth graders. 

We had no track, so the race was just a straight line on the grass for 220 yards. And it was as big deal. The winners of the last 20 years had their name engraved on a big plaque hanging on the brick wall between the boys and girls gyms. 

This race was timed during all the PE classes on the Friday two weeks before the end of school. The winner had the best time of the day. 

At the end of the day, yours truly had the fastest time, but just barely ahead of Bruce Rockwell and Pat Hayes, both long considered the two fastest kids in all of Winnetka. 

Look out, kids, there's a new sheriff in town.

To say I was ecstatic does not describe it. This was my proudest moment in sports to date. The coveted Skokie School 220 Championship race was mine. My name was going on the plaque on the wall for posterity and eternity.

The was a crowning achievement in my transition from fourth grade dork to sixth grade jock.  

But, alas, it was not to be.

Because the three of us had such close times, some genius decided to change protocol and hold a championship race at the Field Day, one week later, which was one week before the last day of school. And, as always, they would proclaim the champion at the awards assembly held in the afternoon after the last day of school.

Angry bitterness does not begin to describe my resentment. Since I had the fastest time, I should have been given the championship. But I put on my big-boy pants, swallowed my disappointment and prepared for the big race on Field Day.

It turns out the decision to hold a championship race on Field Day was decided by the head gym teacher, Mr. Anderson, a white-haired athletic man who called everyone “Tiger” rather than learn their name. 

Mr. Anderson used to hold a private wrestling class in the wrestling gym above the basketball gym after school. It was invitation only and he would invite a select group of the most muscular young boys to wrestle against him, with their shirts off. Once I was invited, but I politely declined. Mr. Anderson seemed to hold that against me. (Glad that was the only thing he held against me)

How Mr. Anderson did not go to prison for his pervy wrestling sessions, I do not understand. But I digress.

So Field Day finally rolls around. 

How adorable, a bunch of 11-year-olds getting excited about running on the grass, you’re probably thinking. Pure Norman Rockwell, right? No, this was the Olympics as far as we were concerned. There were colorful streamers, balloons, the smell of popcorn. It was a festive carnival, but a deadly serious race.

And Bruce Rockwell and my rivalry was really taking shape. Bruce came in earlier that fall from fifth grade as close to a rock star as a sixth grader could be. He was handsome, blond, the best at football, baseball and track. And he played drums in a band. And he was quite the lady’s man. But I had caught up to him in both football and now track. 

My friendly but serious rivalry with Bruce would extend through high school and eventually extend over the favors of a beautiful cheerleader. Now, I won’t tell you who won. (I did, I won) 

Bruce and I are still friends. He still plays the drums and I am sure is still a lady’s man. But again, I digress.

Because they had to run three heats, they somehow came up with this brilliant decision: instead of having the three fastest runners in the last heat like all normal races, they decided to divide the three fasted kids, me, Bruce Rockwell and Pat Hayes, into three different heats. That way, they could dramatically announce the winner as a surprise at the awards assembly.

In track terms, this is beyond idiotic. But as drama, it was pretty good.

So Bruce wins his heat by five yards. Pat wins his heat by six yards.

My turn. 

No lie, I pull a Secretariat-at-Belmont and win my heat by 20 yards. Second in my heat was my good friend, Steve Lewis, a great big kid and a strong athlete, maybe the best athlete, but a tad slow of hoof.

The last day of school before the awards assembly, there is a knot in my stomach the size of a shot put the entire day. But I was 95% sure I had won. Make that 96%.

At the hot and muggy assembly, the announcement of the race results was torturously the last award. With much drama, the boys-wrestler, Mr Anderson, since he had done everything else ass-backwards, instead of announcing third to first, announces the winner first:

It was Bruce Rockwell.

The entire assembly went crazy, because, as I mentioned, Bruce was the most popular kid in school. 

My heart sunk. Bruce walks up and collects his medal and returns to his seat. Just when I felt I could not feel worse, Mr. “Wrestler” Anderson announced second place was Pat Hayes. 

In shock, but furious, I stood up and started walking out of my row to speed up and get over with the agony of collecting my lousy third place medal, angrily and rudely knocking against the knees of the seated people in my way, I quickly made my way down the aisle toward the stage when Mr. Anderson announced, 

"And third place goes to Steve Lewis."  

The entire assembly laughed at me as I stopped dead in my tracks, frozen, I had to turn around and slink my way back to my seat. My face was on fire. 

From having won the championship time in gym class to having won my heat on Field Day by 20 yards, somehow I had not even placed. 

My only source of pride that day was I did not break out sobbing like I so desperately wanted to. 


My embarrassment and anger was so overwhelming, to try and comfort myself, I made a vow to train hard that entire summer. This humiliation would not stand.

And I did. Workout.  

Almost every day that summer, I would ride my bike to the high school track a two-mile workout on it's own - and run one mile as fast as a I could, and ride the two miles back. 

And in doing so, I fell in love with these summer training sessions. They were character developing. They were therapeutic. It was the first time I fell in love with running just for the sake of running. And I learned I liked being alone and working out. Looking back, it was a key turning point in my life.  

Two years later, at the Junior High Track Championships, which was not just the championship of my Carlton Washburn Junior High, but all of the juniors highs in the New Trier high school district, comprising six schools representing the towns of Winnetka, Glencoe, Wilmette and Kenilworth, I won the 220, the 440, the long jump and the high jump.

Nobody had ever won more than two events before. I won a record four.   

There is no doubt seeking revenge from my humiliation at the sixth grade awards assembly and losing the 220 Sixth Grade Championship caused that to happen.

Four years later, I ran into an old friend from elementary school, Bob Long, who went to our sister high school, New Trier West, so I had not seen him for years. 

Bob told me he was one of the timers of 220 on Field Day. In keeping with the theme of the worst organized race in history, they had assigned a timer to each runner instead of timers for first second and third. 

Bob told me that the guy who timed, me, Jim Swenson, had forgotten to start his watch. 

The guy who got third overall got second in my heat, Steve Lewis, the guy I beat by 20 yards.  How could I have not figured out that if the guy who finished second to me by 20 yards was third overall. 

Of course I really won by ten yards.

But I didn’t figure it out. And I got mad. And I got even. Revenge is for suckers. But working hard for a reckoning? That is spiritually uplifting.  

Thank god Jim Swenson ruined my time. 




Another 2,000 words written today with another 1,000 sent on Twitter, Facebook, and emails. Back-to-back 3,000 word days.

And the money is flowing in as a result... 






One would think all the brilliant minds in the NFL would start to notice the discrepancy between successful NFL QB’s picked relatively late, like Aaron Rodgers the last one in the green room picked at #21, to Bart Starr and Tom Brady picked in the very last rounds, versus all the top picks who were busts. Too many top pick busts to mention, but team-destroying picks like Ryan Leaf, JaMarcus Russell, Johnny Manziel and Matt Leinhart spring to mind. 

There is something about being a hardworking underdog versus a spoiled diva that is the difference between success and failure in the NFL. Talent is never enough in the NFL. If you don’t have talent and work hard, you are toast.

Speaking of disproving my point, this Baker Mayfield dude looks like the real deal. Part of me wants to say he reminds me of a healthy Joe Namath without a drinking problem. (That is a scary thought) Good looks, charisma, funny, born leader, would rather die than lose. 

Now that I think about it, Baker Mayfield is like Namath with a scooch of Dan Fouts.  

For the rest of the NFL, that is a scary combination.