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Today, on Thanksgiving Day, I'm thankful for:
Duke football having enough good moments this season to stir up a few ghosts of long-gone glory.
Big ol' athletes talking about their momma and her mac-and-cheese.
Another college basketball season in full bounce and if the old grads are right, everybody has a darn good shot at winning it all.
Dreamers and their dreams. What's life without them?
The Panthers. Without them, what would talk shows and barflies have to talk loud about? Jerry Richardson watching it all from his box and still, in these hard times, the most respected and beloved sports figure this town's ever had.
Kyle Busch running flat out, a ride on the wild side, stirring the pot, the way it was meant to be.
A street musician's plaintive song, the soft rustle of corn fields stirred by a restless breeze, distant thunder on a hot, restless night, orchestras of insects humming and sawing their one-note music, a train whistle in the night, rain slapping against a window, children playing, a church choir, the hiss and rumble of a bus on a downtown street, high school bands blasting out fight songs, wind chimes telling us how the weather is out there. Listen. Listen to the lullaby of life.
Coaches who leave something to chance.
Golf courses, beckoning, promising, whispering sweet lies about birdies waiting for us out there.
Barbra Streisand, quiet for too long, singing to us again, painting the air with her music.
Brett Favre. Like a kid in a candy store, he couldn't make up his mind. That's OK. He's playing and football is better for that.
Christmas lights, reflected in the eyes of little kids, and Christmas songs playing in our heads and our hearts.
Arnie. He made it to his 80th birthday and there's still a lot of golf to be played, even if it is golf like sportswriters play.
Faded family photographs. You know, except for the wrinkles, the gray hair, a few more pounds and the creaky joints, I haven't changed a lot over the years. No, really.
The Bobcats' Larry Brown. Has any man ever loved the act of coaching more?
Beth's way with children. Her love of all living creatures, except bugs. Her caring for an ol' husband who forgets stuff but never forgets one thing - what she means to him.
A houseful of family - one big endless hug, one sweet, happy time.
Infielders and goalies, living in a split-second world and somehow making it all look graceful.
Crab fritters, cheeseburgers, hushpuppies, pasta with clam sauce, fried oysters, barbecue, shrimp and grits, chili, gravy, onion rings and other health foods.
The Checkers and the Knights. They don't draw big crowds but they draw devoted people who love their games, and that's a precious thing.
That weekly column the farmer (Dean Mullis) writes in the Observer on Wednesdays.
The Augusta Masters, where you feel golf is being played to classical music. Pinehurst on a perfect autumn morning when the shadows lie long across the dewy fairways and the golden pine needles. The Quail Hollow Championship, when Tiger's on the prowl.
"Gunsmoke" reruns.
Maestros with arms waving, hair flying, head bobbing, beseeching the orchestra, "Don't play the notes, make music!"
Leftover turkey sandwiches with a side of leftover dressing.
The Head Shop. This is not a paid advertisement, this annual mention of my barber and his cohorts in this space, but in the interest of full disclosure, they did give me a hat with their logo on it last year. It's cool, too.
My golf buddies, poor souls who have never made a putt, never gotten a break. I swear I don't know why they keep playing.
Neighbors waving to us, friends sharing our lives, rounding off the day's sharp edges.
A day at the beach - the romp in the surf, the dozing sunbath, the fish that didn't get away, the battle of the bumper cars, the seafood platter, the waves singing a goodnight lullaby.
Books, opening doors to new worlds.
Another year, another Thanksgiving. Enjoy, and many happy returns.
