Michele Bachmann In Overdrive

Michele Bachmann. With one l. And two n's. Spell her right, because she's right on the issues  — so much so, we're looking at a President Bachmann on Jan. 20, 2013. Hope she remembers me after her swearing-in. We met a couple of years ago at my newspaper's office, and I've been swooning since.

The Mess. You might know them as the Mets, short for Metropolitans, New York's National League baseball contingent. Once we called them the Amazins, although the only amazing feat with 2011's version was first place in the first week. Sad to say, my faves are headed for last place in the last week.

Libya. Bet you never thought we'd relive the Marines' Hymn's coolest line  — "To the shores of Tripoli." Let's hope this Obama War Prize entry doesn't so escalate. After these ment Muslim massacres in Afghanistan — all over a burned book — let's go the Pat Buchanan route: Get out.

Buttler. Yes, add that t to the Indiana college. It was all behind in the title-game loss for a basketball team that shot like the Dogs they are. And too bad. America had to be rooting for this little university to school the Huskies of UConns.

Run, fat folks, run. That's exactly my solution to America's fake medical problem. Here's another one: Quit that fifth trip to the buffet trough. The only presidential contender who had the guts to share such truth was Mike Huckabee a couple of years ago. He's bulked up since, so never mind.

Lakers land. Right on their third straight bull's-eye. This time they'll do it by beating the Chicago Bulls. And what a way for Phil Jackson to end the greatest coaching run in history. Six championships with the Bulls, six with the Lakers — with a farewell shot vs. his old team in the NBA Finals.

Walker, Wisconsin Ranger. When the Republicans run the table in 2012 — cashing in with the House, Senate and White House — they'll thank the governor who stood tall in the Wisconsin winter of 2011: Scott Walker. His face-off with unions woke Americans to the budget-busting scam: jack taxes so government employees could rake in triple the salaries and benefits of civilian workers. What's really stunning is these labor-group goons haven't gunned down the Ranger.

Better make other plans. Because the NFL and NBA will sit out next season. Guaranteed. Whenever leagues bog down in labor strife, no Hail Mary, no half-court bucket can win it for the fans. For reference, check 1981, 1982, 1987, 1994, 1998, 2004.

Happy days. We're in the middle of them. For all our grousing, come on. This is the greatest country, and we should constantly celebrate that. Just got into a terrific book "Young Stalin" by Simon Montefiore, and the grime and crime that stuck to the future Soviet slaughterer should wake any American to this reality: We have it good, baby.


Bucky Fox is an editor and author in Southern California.

Sex And The Sound Of Music

When did the 1965 Best Picture Oscar champ turn up The Sound of Sex? Right after intermission in the gazebo.

Julie Andrews’ Maria, a millimeter from Christopher Plummer’s Georg: “The Reverend Mother always says: 'When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.' "

At this point of near kissing, the only thing Georg wants to open is the back of Maria’s flimsy dress.

So he says with a smirk: “What else does the Reverend Mother say?”

Welcome to the salty side, exactly what Plummer demanded upon taking the Capt. von Trapp role. The Canadian wasn’t about to sing through a saccharin script, so Ernie Lehman pulled back on the spoonful of sugar, not to mention the crisp apple strudels.

Lehman was probably the most valuable contributor to the smash musical whom nobody remembers. We know all about Andrews, Plummer and Rodgers & Hammerstein, the duo who wrote the classics: My Favorite Things, Do-Re-Mi, Edelweis, Sixteen Going on Seventeen. And my favorite, The Lonely Goatherd, which my niece Kristina Dazo sings with merry zest.

Lehman? He wrote the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’s 1959 film North by Northwest. Half a decade later he further proved his brilliance by adding such edge to this love story amid the Alps.

Watch The Sound of Music for the 50th time, and you hear that the thrills are alive. Georg wants to take Maria right there in the hut. Maria, breathy and eye-rolling, wouldn’t resist if the cameras were turned off. So all that tension is worth the price of the DVD – until the Nazis take the fun off the screen. Thanks to Lehman’s lines, Maria and Georg do the love dance. Even when they seem to be sparring. And it’s funny stuff.

Maria: “When we enter the abbey, our worldly clothes go to the poor.”

Georg, inspecting her outfit fit for the anschluss: “What about this one?”

Maria: “The poor didn't want it.”

Moments later, they’re at it again at the dinner table.

Georg: “You intend leading us through this rare and wonderful new world . . . of indigestion?”

Georg again, whistling Maria into marching his way: “Is it also possible you remember the first rule in this house is discipline? Then I trust that before I return . . . you'll have acquired some?”

Really, Georg is the one who needs a whuppin, and Maria delivers.

Maria: “You've got to hear! You're never home!”

Georg: “I don't want to hear more!”

Maria: “I know you don't, but you've got to!”

And he does. As Maria muscles in, Georg weakens.

Maria: “If I could be of any help.”

Georg: “You have already. More than you know.”

They’re not the only ones who feel the heat. Also in the mix is Liesl, the captain’s ripe teen. When Dad pretends he doesn’t know his kids tried to rope Maria back into the fold, the daughter says, “Where do you think we were, Father?” The kid is plugged in.

As is Maria. She might be a nun candidate, but she’s also a fine babe — with a rich, castle-dwelling Georg (in the drop-dead-gorgeous shape of Plummer) in her sights.

If there’s any doubt, a steely-eyed Maria sheds it in this exchange:

Georg: “You are back to stay?”

Maria: “Only until arrangements can be made for another governess.”

Like hell. She’s just hours from steamrolling the competition, Baroness Schraeder, and feels it.

When Maria’s back in the abbey, it’s as a shuffling bride. No black outfit and stuck behind the gate — safe from prying priests — for her. It’s all white as she aims for the knight shining at the altar.

And no listening to the head nun on this night.


Bucky Fox is an author of baseball books and an editor in Southern California.

Jets Devour The Brady Brunch

Something about New York puts the old before England, the y after Pats.

The Giants had that thing. Erased the un from unbeaten Patriots in the 2008 Super Bowl.

The Jets have it right now. Mugged old England Sunday. And are on a flight pattern to Pittsburgh, then Dallas for the Feb. 6 Super Bowl.

I saw it coming. Got up Sunday with an awakening: The Jets are helmet and shoulder pads above Belichick's bunch.

Braylon Edwards. Santonio Holmes. Those are stratospheric receivers. Who catches for the Patsies? Crumpler, Gronkowski, Hernandez. Please.

We were brainwashed into idolizing old England because of three NFL titles in the first half of the 2000s. And Jet fans were led to fear the Belichicks after that 45-3 bombing 24 hours before Pearl Harbor Day.

Good for Rex Ryan that he told all to get a grip. He said the Jets had the talent to win in Foxsorrow. They had more: a superior roster. Mark Sanchez wasn't about to pass that up.

Pete Carroll didn't roll after all. I thought he would after Seattle's Saint slapping. Then came Chicago's wizard-ending blizzard. Carroll looked stone-cold out of his league.

As you recall, that's what the coach told Sanchez he would face if he left Southern Cal after his 2008 junior season. The QB simply took his cue and headed for millions. Now he's in a second straight AFC title match. And Carroll's in an off-season.

All it took was shedding those baby blues. As soon as LaDainian Tomlinson donned Jet green, he turned into a winner. No more sulking on Diego's bench during another playoff meltdown. Dude is rushing, catching and scoring like he knows what time it is: clutch.

Speaking of green. Amazing the Jets won with green pants Sunday. Always seemed like it took all whites to scrub the best into them. Like in Miami in January 1969. All whites all the way in the Super Bowl. Shocked the Baltimore Colts, thanks to a delta force D and Joe Namath. Now D and Sanchise spell title No. 2.

As for the Bowl. The Jets will have matching Supe colors in the form of Green Bay. Brother, did the Packers flex their stuff Saturday in Atlanta. Aaron Rodgers showed exactly why they were dying to see Brett Favre go in 2008. With Rodgers' receivers and that secondary, Bay is a beast.

The Brady hunch. You see teetering Tom and Jolly Rodgers, and the NFL horizon is clear. Your quarterback better move it or he's done.

Brady's stock sank vs. the Jet strafing. Much more of that, and he'll make way for the son of my old high school pal Axel Hoyer: Brian Hoyer.

I had Brady fifth on the all-time QB lists, but he's slipped to sixth behind John Elway. The guys on top are Johnny Unitas, Joe Montana, Bart Starr and Terry Bradshaw.

Then there's Ben Roethlisberger. He could pass Brady if the Steelers win a third title under him. Will Big Ben pull that off this season? No.

The call. My Steeler zealot buddy Derrick Jones says his beloved will win 31-17 Sunday. Gotta break it to Derrick and the rest of Steeler Support.

With Rex Ryan calling the shots and cheering with his boys in the end zone after a limp that Deion Sanders hilariously imitates on NFL Network, the Jets win 24-21.


Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

The Golden Player Mine Since 1999

Now that the first decade of the 2000s is in a two-minute drill, it's time to write about what life was like before the turn of the century.
 
People looked starkly different.

For one, we stared ahead. Look around now. Everyone’s locked on their smart phone — eyes straight down.

For two, we followed muscular teams that today are pipsqueaks: the Rams, Broncos, Bills, Vikings in the NFL; the Orioles, Indians, Diamondbacks in baseball; the Knicks and Timberwolves in the NBA.

For three, we spotted the ragged that now are rugged: the Jets, Pats, Steelers, Bears, Falcons, Saints in the NFL; the Rays, Twins, Angels, Cards, Rockies in baseball; the Celtics, Mavs, Nuggets in the NBA.

For four, we tracked only big men on campus 11 years ago: UConn in basketball, Florida State in football. Butler back then was the punch line of a murder mystery. Now it’s in the national basketball conversation. As is Boise State on the gridiron.

What about sportsmen? Eleven years are eons in athlete lives. So many stars weren’t even in our conscious universe in 1999. Such as these 11:

Tom Brady. Sure, he started at quarterback for Michigan in 1999. But after he wallowed on the New England bench his rookie season of 2000 and took Drew Bledsoe’s job early in the 2001 season, a pile of fans said Tom who? His answer was an NFL title, then two more in the decade. Now he’s fifth on the list of greatest NFL QBs after Johnny Unitas, Joe Montana, Bart Starr and Terry Bradshaw. Then again, the way he's darting toward Lombardi Trophy No. 4, he could rank No. 1.

LeBron James. What, we had sports without the man who would be king? ESPN lived before endless footage of James Jams? The NBA sold jerseys before Cav 23 and Heat 6? Yes, yes and yes. Eleven years ago, he was about to turn 15. OK, he could've made the Ohio State starting five. As it was, he skipped college, or kindergartren for him, and flexed right off in the pros. Yet talk about the emperor who wore no shorts. Millions put him on a throne, but what crown has ever won? None. He could turn out to be the Ted Williams of basketball. All underwear, no hardware.

Tim Lincecum. He was 15 in 1999, no doubt into grunge and video games. Just like at 26. Only now he’s rich and just about the best pitcher in baseball. Proof? He won the Cy Young Award in 2008 and ’09. And this year his clutch arm helped wing the Giants to their first world title since moving to San Francisco in 1958. Lincecame, all right.

Roger Federer. He’s dominated courts for so long, you can’t recall tennis without the Swiss Swoosh. Yet in 1999 about the only folks who knew him were Basel boosters. He didn’t start gripping the sport until 2003. Now he owns 16 Grand Slam trophies, the most of any man in history. Is that record untouchable? Hmmm, maybe by the next fellow.

Rafa Nadal. In 1999 he was a 13-year-old twerp living at home. So he’s still crashing with Mom and Dad in Majorca. At least he’s 24 and all man — muscular and mashing out Grand Slam tennis titles that add up to nine, already one more than Andre Agassi amassed in his two-decade run. As Henry Higgins would put it, the reign in Spain falls only when the forehand wanes.

Manny Pacquiao. In 1999 he was a Filipino Fly. The few fans who knew him were hanging around his hometown in the meat of Mindanao, way in the Philippine south. Good for PacMan that he chomped his way out of that Muslim haven toward one of the great careers in boxing history. Now he’s the Filipino Fist, full of 10 titles in eight divisions. Only this Fighter of the Decade could draw 42,000 to Cowboys Stadium to see him bloody Tony Margarito last month.

Sarah Hughes. In 1999 she was 14 and unknown. Now she's 25 and pretty much still foggy. Think great figure skaters and whom do you list? Peggy Fleming, Dorothy Hamill, Michelle Kwan. And that last one didn't even win Olympic gold. Hughes did. When she was done with that magnificent final at the 2002 Salt Lake City Games, the New Yorker was the Ice Queen, and California Kwan had melted in yet another Olympic competition. I'm no skating nut, but Hughes’ big-Game routine is my frozen-in-time moment of the past 11 years.




Ichiro Suzuki. Sure, he was huge in 1999. In Japan. And real American fans know that if the action isn’t here, it might as well be on one of Mars’ moons. In Ichiro’s case, he was swinging and sprinting for something called the Orix Blue Wave in 1990s. Then he took his baseball to Seattle and, man, did we wake up to more than a major leaguer. He was a general leaguer from the get-go, catching every shot in right field, pounding pitchers and vacuuming the 2001 MVP/Rookie of the Year trophies. The dude is a streak, swatting 200 hits in 10 straight seasons. No wonder he goes by the tag of a true star: his first name.


Ben Roethlisberger. Big Ben. The Man of Steelers. You can’t miss that 6-foot-5 Berg in Pittsburgh’s backfield. Or his two NFL championships. But you couldn’t find him in 1999. He was 17, about to pass into Miami, and not even the Florida version. He was bound for the college in Oxford, and not the one in England. No, the guy with the marathon name went to Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Seven pro seasons later, he’s rising toward the Hall of Fame.


Usain Bolt. The coolest name this side of Thabeet, which sounds like what you hear in downtown Memphis and is really the last name of the Grizzlies' 7-3 center. Back to Bolt, exactly what the Jamaican does to drive enemy sprinters Usain. What was he doing in 1999? Running around his Caribbean hometown like a fast 13-year-old. By 2008, Bolt was living up to his name something fierce. If you blinked from the Peking smog, you missed him Bolting to Olympic golds in the 100 and 200 meters and in sports' most exciting 37 seconds, the 400-meter relay. If not for Michael Phelps, this Usainity would've left the greatest mark on China since the wall.

Michael Phelps. In 1999 he was a Baltimore bass, 14 and hardly making waves. The only people watching him were parents and fellow teens. By 2004 he was a swimming shark, gulping six golds at the Athens Olympics. Then came Peking and his chance to lap the Spitz Seven. He did, winning 8 in ’08. The seventh gold, in the 100-meter butterfly, stopped the clock and every American heart. Phelps fished it out by 0.01 second. You get any closer, you push the timer to infinity. As it is, Phelps floats forever in Olympic lore.


Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern Califlornia who at the moment is euphoric over Mizzou and about to take the gaspipe with the Jets.

Sack Football's Replay; Quit The Homilitary Charade; Pacquiao's Pow

Under review.

Under review.

Under review.

Bored yet?

Zzzzzzzzebras aren't. They're out to review more plays than Randy Moss teams.

Sideline catch? Review. End zone rush? Review. Cheerleader shake? Review. I wish.

Really, can we hit the kill button?

Tell it like it is. Pro and college football reviews exist for bettors. I mean, who else really cares if a cleat lands a millimeter out of bounds? I want the game to move it, not take a siesta every other down.

The NFL is supposed to spell entertainment, not PBS. If I want a dead screen, I'll turn to Charlie Rose.

As it is, games last longer than "Ben-Hur" while refs go through marathon research every other play.


Since we're stuck with this malarkey, I say kiss the turf for three other letters: DVR.

Don't ask, don't dwell. Notice Obummer's contortions as homosexuals try to come out of the military closet?

The prez indicates he's perfectly OK with a homilitary. Yet he sends his lawyers to court to keep homos stuffed in a duffle bag while he ponders whether he should give his brass the order to let them out in public.

What? Seriously, if Obummer twisted more dramatically, he'd make the rhythmic gymnastic team.

Contrast him with Harry Truman. He wanted to integrate the armed forces in 1948, so he ordered it. Period. No focus groups. No Capitol questions. He told the generals to mix blacks and whites in the barracks. Dismissed.

The man in charge now acts more like the commander in chef. If he were a true chief, he'd open the officers club dance floor to straights, detours, who cares and worry about the true enemy: Muslim terror.

As a lez pal tells me, what the hell; the uniforms would sure look snappier.

Speaking of rear echelon: Can we do away with the pandering gay tag? Homos are as blah as anyone, and 20% of Americans are even ment, as some survey figured. I don't buy that, but for damn sure hardly anyone is really upbeat.

As for unis. Please, NFL, trash these old school outfit. The Bears and Steelers show up in colors so foreign, you'd think NFL Europe is back.

Word to Commish Goodell: They're really uglier than a Favre sext shot.

I'm not a bitch. I'm certainly not you. What I want as I play off Christine O'Donnell's recent campaign ad is a lard-free government. That means cut the fat and the crap.

Cut government salaries 25%.

Cut drug laws and the billions in DEA waste.

Cut the Cuban embargo.

Cut D.C.'s education, energy and commerce departments.

Cut anti-gambling edicts.

Cut troops from South Korea and A-bomb the North if it trip-wires the DMZ.

Pac's the Man. If Manny Pacquiao had made Tony Margarito any redder Saturday, they'd have had a Bloody Mary. "Margarita shaken, stirred," came a friend's text.

Yet there was the Mexican after the raw rout spouting arrogance about not quitting. How about a dish of praise for the Filipino Fist? Call Jimmy Buffett and order some "Margaritaville" humility.

W. Great to see George Bush again. And not just in book tour interviews. Also on the mound, where he lasered that first pitch in the World Series. The Rangers could've used a giant like him.

Makes you go to YouTube for other Bush zingers, such as his 2002 anti-terror spiel to the press on the golf course followed by "Now watch this drive." Natch, perfect swing.

Now that's a replay worth watching.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

You Gotta Love Julie Banderas, Colt Helmets, 'Dr. No' And Other Hot Threes

Thoughts of threes while idling at the DMV before football’s kickoff.


Top helmets: Colts, Giants, Browns.


Snappiest baseball cap logos: Nats’ W, Bucs’ P, Mets’ NY.


Sharpest uniforms: Braves, Dodgers, Yankees.


DVR magnets: "Dark Blue," “White Collar,” “Justified.”


Screen dudes: Sean Connery, Matt Damon, Logan Marshall-Green, the "Dark Blue" slick draw.


Sexiest TV hosts: Julie Banderas of my namesake network, Elizabeth “The Best View” Hasselbeck, Dina Gusovsky of RT.


Automatic reads: Ann Coulter, Ralph Peters, Mark Steyn.


Leaders with pop: Paul Ryan, Marco Rubio, Dale Peterson.


Best chance to beat obummer: Rick Perry, Tim Pawlenty, Mitt Romney.


Car I’d love to buy right now: Accord CR-Z, Mustang, Nissan GT-R.


On the way to watching 50 times: “Dr. No,” “The Bourne Identity,” “Kill Bill.”


Before I die: Korea unites, we recognize Cuba, we get bin Laden.


Hottest politicians: Sarah Palin, Michele Bachmann, Nikki Haley.


Dem faces: Christina Romer, Janet Reno, Janet Napolitano.


Days I treasure: boating to Corregidor, sailing in Miami, marrying my lovely Filipino wife, Maria, in the Catholic Church.


White lefty cares nothing about: terrorists, deficits, Christianity.


Delish: Lasagna, filet mignon, picadillo.


Turn ’em up: The Beatles, Cream, Zeppelin.


Tune out: Sting, the Who, Creedence Clearwater Revival.


Top TV channels: USA, Travel, Military.


Far-out feats: Michael Phelps’ eight golds, Steffi Graf’s Golden Slam, UCLA’s 88-game winning streak.


Break up: ESPNESPNESPN. Enough with the monopoly.


YouTube bookmarks: “Lawrence of Arabia” theme music, Peter Nero’s “It’s Alright With Me,” “Rule Britannia” at the Proms.


Who watches: MSNBC, NBC, PBS.


Cities calling me: Heidelberg, Barcelona, Paris.


Greatest Americans in my lifetime: Eisenhower, MacArthur, Neil Armstrong.


Tech that works: Cell phone, DVR, radio.


Actresses who have it: Marsha Thomason, the “White Collar” babe who should be Jane Bond; Nicki Aycox, the "Dark Blue" bad-ass blonde; Beth Riesgraf, the “Leverage” pouter.


I could listen for hours: Pat Buchanan, Chris Hitchens, Liz Cheney.


Top structures: Hearst Castle, Heidelberg Castle, Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square.


Dialed in: Rush Limbaugh, Fox radio’s Stephen Smith and Vic the Brick.


Studs: Kobe, Manny Pacquiao, Brett Favre.


Electric events: Heavyweight title fight, Olympic track 400-meter relay, Game 7 of the NBA Finals.


Movie villains to vilify: The Joker in “The Dark Knight,” Oddjob in “Goldfinger,” the scum Hans Landa in “Inglourious Basterds.”


Books atop the stack: “The Spy Who Came in From the Cold” by John le Carre, “Before the Fall” by William Safire, “The Silence of the Lambs” by Thomas Harris.


If I had an iPod: Billy Idol’s “White Wedding,” the Doors’ “L.A. Woman,” Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 1.


Super screen lines: James Bond: “That's a Smith & Wesson, and you've had your six.” T.E. Lawrence: “No prisoners!” Charlie Harper: “My weirdness bar for chicks is pretty high, but you are clearing it in street shoes.”


My zippiest interviewees: Pete Rose, coach George Allen, Roger Goodell years before he was NFL commish.


Speeches for the ages: Nixon’s 1968 nomination acceptance, W after 9/11 at the National Cathedral, Reagan's Pointe du Hoc classic in 1984.


Radio static: The Angels’ station has a corner on this one. Baseball? Lacking. Too much programming on AM 830 is paid shilling for pills. When sports finds its way on the station, you don’t hear Rex Hudler; he was dumped. You hardly hear Jeff Biggs and sidekick Jason Brennan; their drive-time hours were squeezed into minutes. What’s left? A losing team.


Love: jogging, tennis, steering clear of the DMV.


But hey, they just called my number. Who said it stands for Don’t Move Velociously?


Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

The OC Flyers Cook Up Fun

Finally a hot, happy summer.

Nothing like a sizzling night of minor league baseball to stretch my smile.

For too long, dis and content were teammates this season.

My brother-in-law, Charley Bogdonoff, died, taking his convincing laugh and Redskin loyalty with him.

Then my father-in-law, Procopio Dazo, died, and there went 85 years of wisdom.

The air was just as cold. Hey, this is California. Supposed to be dreamin' weather here, isn't it? This wasn't just June swoon, but more like summer bummer.

Then came Saturday night. If you were at the Orange County Flyers' game in the warmth of Fullerton, you grasped what keeps most Californians from leaving. Jarring taxes and traffic? They can't blot out year-round sun, palms and waves. All without mosquitoes.

Did I mention baseball? The state has five major league teams, two a short toss from my house. But to see the game at its grandest, I like cruisin' to Fullerton — between Dodger and Angel stadiums.

There sits The Station, where the choo-choo Flyers are on track with Golden Baseball League games.

For this double-header that would even the Flyers' record at 23-23, a crowd of 700 had a ball.

The sun-setting aura had the perfection of 1965 Sandy Koufax. Still, the plays weren't exactly that. This is farm ball, replete with shaky fielding.

So when the home side's Eric Pringle grounded to first (1) with the bases full (2) in a 4-4 tie and (3) in extra innings, you felt it was over.

By George, it was. The first baseman for the visitors — the St. George RoadRunners — fired something aimed at home but headed more toward the I-5, and the Flyers were 5-4 winners.

The OC nine sent St. George packing with a 10-2 smokin' in the nightcap, making the fans feel victorious.

Most, anyway. St. George is a town smack at the southern tip of Utah. The ride to Fullerton takes six hours. Yet plenty of RoadRunner fans sounded off on this mid-July eve.

Two were David and Roberta Salazar. They didn't need to drive 375 miles. Just a ways from their Pasadena area home. Why root for the visitors? Relatives. The St. George manager is nephew Darrell Evans, the former Brave, Giant and Tiger great who belted 414 homers. And the RoadRunners' first base coach is son-in-law Dan DiPace.

The Salazars were glad to catch their boys in Fullerton. The shorter trip, yes. And the utopian clime. As they pointed out, St. George is baking at 118 degrees.

Then there was Tyrone Richardson, another fan who trekked in to see the RoadRunners. Really, one Runner: center fielder Victor Butler.

Richardson, a college kid sporting a cap with the coolest logo in sports — the W of the Nationals — and 20 of his pals veered from the L.A.-Vegas pit stop of Victorville to cheer on their hero Butler.

Alas, Victor of his namesake ville couldn't do it. He popped up the first pitch he saw in Game 2 and came to a screeching halt with the rest of the RoadRunners.

As for the Flyer fans, this was party time. Their team won twice, yes. But minor league ball is so much more.

Seats are so close to the field, you sense the players and umps hear your advice.

A mascot — in this case, goofy Coal Train — makes the rounds, hamming it up to the music and PA exhortations.

And does the Flyers' public address guy ever deliver the hits. He's Chris Albaugh, who boosts his PA racket learned from years with the Raiders, Clippers, Angels and Dodgers to a wild level.

Albaugh said between games that when he took this job in the 2005 inaugural season, "I wanted to jack up the energy and have fun."

So he downloads movie sound bites and spits them out through the sound system.

When the Flyers get a man on, Albaugh punches in Tom Cruise from "Top Gun": "I feel the need ... the need for speed."

When a RoadRunner strikes out, the voice of Joe Pesci in "My Cousin Vinny" sneers, "I got no more use for this guy."

After another St. George player fans, out comes the "Top Gun" bald boss balling out Cruise: "Son, your ego's writing checks your body can't cash."

After one of a pile of St. George errors in Game 2, the voice of Tim Allen in "Toy Story" says: "There seems to be no sign of intelligent life anywhere."

And when a helicopter flies by, Cruise's voice blares: "Requesting a flyby."

Another "Top Gun" moment. Just as Manny Ayala's was. The Flyer righty from East L.A. College outgunned the RoadRunners in Game 2 and stands 7-0.

Maybe Ayala will follow other Golden Baseball League players who hopped to the majors — namely outfielder Daniel Nava this year in Boston, where he jacked a grand slam on the first pitch he faced in the bigs.

He can look up to the GBL managing lineup: Flyer skipper Paul Abbott, who pitched for the Twins and other MLB teams. Abbott's Flyer predecessor, Phil Nevin, the ex-Padre slugger now managing in the Tigers' system. And Nevin's predecessor, Gary Carter, the star Met who led the Flyers to the 2008 championship.

For now, Ayala and the other GBL players toil for squat, as one Flyer season-ticket fan put it. They keep at it for the joy of baseball and hopes of reaching The Show.

Reaping the rewards? The fans in this summer of sudden contentment.


Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com



St. George manager Darrell Evans and I flank big RoadRunner fan David Salazar.