Thanks to our friends at WCBU on the Bradley campus, I've had a remote camera set up for the past several weeks monitoring the deconstruction process on the east side of the Field House. The result has been a slew of boring frames where little has happened for days on end, punctuated by large sections suddenly disappearing in between shots. I missed the big collapse Tuesday morning by less than a hour, reminding me that I can't always be everywhere at once. Kirk Wessler has some first-hand accounts of the big event.

For those curious, I'm using a spare D1x with a 10.5mm fisheye lens, driven by a PocketWizard set to trigger the camera every 15 minutes. I'll be posting a time-lapse video later this week.

So much to write about, so much to remember, so much to do. A moment, please.

[Over a cup of coffee] BY STEPHEN DOBYNS

Over a cup of coffee or sitting on a park bench or
walking the dog, he would recall some incident
from his youth--nothing significant--climbing a tree
in his backyard, waiting in left field for a batter's
swing, sitting in a parked car with a girl whose face
he no longer remembered, his hand on her breast
and his body electric; memories to look at with
curiosity, the harmless behavior of a stranger, with
nothing to regret or elicit particular joy. And
although he had no sense of being on a journey,
such memories made him realize how far he had
traveled, which, in turn, made him ask how he
would look back on the person he was now, this
person who seemed so substantial. These images, it
was like looking at a book of old photographs,
recognizing a forehead, the narrow chin, and
perhaps recalling the story of an older second
cousin, how he had left long ago to try his luck in
Argentina or Australia. And he saw that he was
becoming like such a person, that the day might
arrive when he would look back on his present self
as on a distant relative who had drifted off into
uncharted lands.

Source: Poetry (December 2001).

Just call me Rip Van Winkle.

I've somehow managed to sleep through a 5.2 magnitude earthquake at around 4:30am this morning. All the other "Princess and the Pea" sleepers across Illinois were roused from bed, most believing they were being robbed. But that doesn't mean I'm sleeping soundly; no no, I wake at 5:30am and fitfully wrestle with the sandman for the next three hours. I missed the big show and would have to live with it.

I wake again at 11am, check the Internet and proceed to weep quietly into my pillow. A 4.6 aftershock at 10:15am failed to do much at all in my house; I had just made a very unconscious decision to sleep through TWO earthquakes in one morning. I'm left living vicariously through comments on various news articles:

"The quake moved my bed across my room. I woke up and I was awake. I went into the kitchen and got a chocolate chunk cookie. I ate it. I then went pee. After that I washed my hands. Then I got ready for work. I forgot shoes. What was I talking about..."
Posted by SHE---RAHHHHH

"I was asleep during this supposed 'first quake' and in the bathroom at work during the second one. I felt nothing either time. This is all an elaborate hoax by you people to make me lose my mind. Yes that's right - I felt nothing in the bathroom. It was business as usual..."
Posted by Hip Young Gunslinger

"Sorry, It was my new car stereo. I installed eight 40 inch woofers. I needed 2 additional alternaters to keep the battery alive, but it rocks! Again, sorry about all the cracked masonary..."
Posted by Kev

"I was totally playing the original 'QUAKE' when it happened."
Posted by Jeffrey

"When the quake happened, I thought I must be hallucinating. But the unicorns seemed to notice it as well, so I guess I wasn't."
Posted by Chicagoan

I'm feeling sickly today; is there a golf ball of phlegm stuck in the back of my throat? I'm nearly incapacitated at the moment, my brain farting around as those damn pink and white antihistamine pills do their worst. Better than the alternative of a snotty nose? You decide.

Last week heralded the birthday of Walter Hunt, an ingenious man prone to inventing really important items out of midair when he needed the cash. On April 10, 1849, he sold a patent for a bent piece of wire to repay a $15 debt. And thus the safety pin was born. Safely.

Lambchop - N.O.

Erinn, my co-worker, just moved into a new place across the street from work and had a few of us over. Hit board game Apples to Apples was busted out and we listened to Beatles albums quietly on her record player (she doesn't have a phono pre-amp, for those in the know.) It was a lovely first evening, an appropriate house warming. The night took a turn for the weird when we started discussing home invasions and how common they are...

"Should we be worried with four of us?" I asked.

"Did you hear that?" Dave joked. Laughter from all!

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG! Someone is trying to break down the front door.

**simultaneous heart attacks**

It was her neighbor above her, stark raging mad at our loudness. Sure, this sort of scene has happened to most of us... volume often escalates with fun times, sometimes needing a friendly reminder to tone it down. But this was far beyond friendly, bordering more on a "will he hurt us?" level. Forget three strikes and you're out, this is one and done. Erinn groveled her best, an amount that could even appease Stalin... but he wouldn't have any of it. Background checks on neighbors, anyone?

"Rock Chalk Jayhawk!"

That's my dad, answering the home phone as I call at 11pm last night. No "hello" this time. The University of Kansas had just won their first NCAA basketball championship in 20 years and even a sports greenhorn like my dad was in on the action.

But let me back up a bit... instead of glued to the television like millions of Americans, I was spending my Monday night at O'Brien Field. The Peoria Chiefs had their home opener against the Beloit Snappers under a cloudy sky and chilly wind, with Tom and I stuck covering the game. Only 2300 fans deemed it important enough, barely making a dent in the 6500 capacity.

To borrow a cliché, the deck was stacked against us. Bundled baseball spectators and yawning fans were our obsession, each of us working hopelessly to capture some sort of "opening day" sentiment. A ghastly seven errors committed by the Chiefs and a 8-0 shutout final score spelled doom for us. As Chiefs skipper Ryne Sandberg said after the game, "We have to improve on the fundamentals of throwing the ball and catching the ball." Genious.

I missed an incredible 8th inning, three outs filled with comedic plays rivaling a Three Stooges or Marx Brothers sketch. Instead of gunning the camera, I typed out names in my BlackBerry and watched with my mouth agape. My actual notebook filled with cutline information disappeared around the 5th inning, and the absolutely wonderful evening was finished: we may or may not have even made deadline.

What about those Jayhawks, though? Seconds after the last photo was placed on the page, I heard a tremendous sound emanating from the newsroom. "WhoooOOOOAAAAAA!!!!" doesn't quite cut it; a closer approximation would be "ohhhhmygodhhhhhooolySHIT!" I looked across the computer screen at Tom, checking to see if I wasn't the only one hearing things, and I bolted for the newsroom.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Never underestimate the power of a Frank Capra movie to resurrect an otherwise poor day.

I had the pleasure of listening to Frank Deford speak at Bradley University last night... the man is a natural, a wordsmith of so much more than sports. Even though his primary gig has been writing about bats, balls and rackets for Sports Illustrated, I overheard a man next to me call him "a Renaissance man." It's a true statement, a compliment to his intense interest in all things around him. He's been awarded National Sportswriter of the Year six times, an Emmy and a Peabody. His thin mustache and lanky stature reminded me of John Waters.

The room was full and attentive; mostly journalists and wannabes, students and faculty. The Journal Star covered the event, with reporter Wes Huett writing a story for today's edition:

"Think sports are not important? Deford says success and popularity merge more in sports than any other medium. The best films and music? Far from the most popular. Only in sports are the best celebrated universally."

Now that's an incredible observation. The competitive spirit of sports is so naked, so central to the rules. Personal bests only go so far; how can an athlete be THE best without pitting himself or herself against another warrior? An artist, though, can see criticism as subjective, something measured against the metric of creativity.

Deford also touched on the decline of reading, the widening gap between those who do and those who don't. He predicted newspapers would one day be as elite as opera or Shakespeare, making special note that players of a certain baseball team early in the 20th century gave a complete set of Shakespeare to their departing teammate. The irony didn't escape him as he bemoaned the rise of television despite contributing to HBO's Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel. He also had sour things to say about his current employer, Sports Illustrated, belittling their decisions to cover the popular, boring athletes instead of bringing mind-boggling stories of the athlete down the street to light.

Afterwards he signed books, including his latest novel about baseball, "The Entitled." I waited in line, marveling at how gracious he was to each person. Not only did he sign and write something in every book, he was also the guy sitting next to you in the bar, debating and jabbing with anyone who wanted. He never flaunted his decades of experience, always showing a genuine interest in others' opinions.

Inspiring, even for a sports neophyte.

Sports Illustrated's archive of Frank Deford