Do You Believe In Magic?

David Freese's walk-off home run in the 11th inning was
pretty magical. But even more magical was the tribute
broadcaster Joe Buck paid to his late father with the call.

Something magical happened in Thursday's Game 6 of the World Series between the Texas Rangers and the St. Louis Cardinals. And if you weren't paying much attention, you might have missed it.

No, I'm not talking about the Rangers' epic bullpen collapse, or even the hometown hero hitting a walk-off home run to force a Game 7. Not even Josh Hamilton hearing God's voice before delivering a Kirk Gibson-like homer in the 10th inning, or the fact that the rally squirrel struck again.

St. Louis has seen plenty of magic this postseason, but what I'm talking about happened in the press box.

Throughout the course of the night, broadcaster Joe Buck kept eluding to the day before being the 20th anniversary of Kirby Puckett's walk-off against Atlanta on October 26, 1991 — a game called by his father, the late Jack Buck. Little did he know this would be the only game in World Series history that could rival that.

When David Freese's home run landed softly on the grass between the centerfield bleachers, Joe Buck uttered a familiar phrase, "We will see you.... tomorrow night." The phrase was made popular by Jack Buck, as seen in this video.

I admit that I've always been a fan of Joe Buck. I enjoy his monotone voice — how he doesn't get overly excited even in a moment like that. He has remarkable timing, knowing that at some moments silence is golden — allowing the fans to focus on the images flashing across their television screens.

But to do it like that was nothing short of extraordinary.

Everyone dreams of following in the footsteps of their hero. Joe Buck, a longtime Cardinal fan, got to live that dream. Not only did he get to call a World Series game for his beloved Cardinals, but in doing so he also got to give a nod to one of the greatest broadcasters of all time — and a man dear to his heart.

If the world were to end today before Friday's Game 7, it's safe to say Joe Buck would die a happy man. I'm not sure if it was intentional or not, but I do know that somewhere a proud Jack Buck was beaming with pride when he heard those words come out of his son's mouth.

Weird, Wacky Stuff

Michigan State's Keith Nichol (7) and B.J.
Cunningham (3) celebrate after the Spartans beat
Wisconsin 37-31 on a hail mary pass. Mid-October
games like that are only part of the reason Americans
love college football.

If you didn't catch any college football last week, I regret to inform you but your fan card has just been revoked.

From fake refs and the ensuing brawl in the Arizona-UCLA game to Michigan State's hail mary victory upon further review this weekend had just about everything a college football fan could want. Then again, doesn't October always bring out the best in college football?

Think about it for a second. Usually right around Halloween we start to see the major upsets. Teams that once had dreams of national championships and undefeated seasons suddenly show their true colors and become pretenders. Why is that?

The obvious reason is that desperation starts to sink in for everyone. Teams on the bubble for a bowl began to step their game up against the country's top teams, resulting in some of the best games of the season.

It can get messy sometimes — see the brouhaha at Arizona — but it can also be fun. In a matter of hours, we saw two top 10 teams fall on Saturday night — effectively changing not only the BCS scene but also the national championship picture.

This is why we love college football. It isn't just the tailgates, the homecomings and the love for the ol' alma mater that draws us to these games week after week. It's the upsets — knowing that on any given Saturday dreams are crushed, while other live on.

In a couple weeks, LSU will face Alabama. Assuming all goes well, it should be No. 1 against No. 2. And I, for one, can't wait to see how the rest of the season plays out.

Fighting For His Life

Dewey Bozella spent 26 years behind bars after wrongfully being accused
of murder. On Saturday night, his dream came true when he fought Larry
Hopkins and won. He retired with a 1-0 record and will now open a gym to
help keep kids off the streets in Brooklyn.

Imagine spending 26 years behind bars for a crime you didn't commit. You sit in your cell day after day and watch all your hopes and dreams pass you by.

Dewey Bozella could have easily called it a life and packed it in. He could have became just another Average Joe trying to make his way in the world. Instead through anger and frustration of wrongful imprisonment in the Sing Sing prison, Bozella kept his dreams alive.

After being accused of killing 92-year-old Emma Craspar in 1983, Bozella spent his time in Sing Sing earning two college degrees. He also became the light heavyweight champion of Sing Sing before being exonerated in 2009.

Dreaming night after night of fighting in front of a crowd, Bozella finally got his wish on Saturday night. Not only did he fight, he beat Larry Hopkins by a unanimous decision, allowing the 52-year-old to retire with a 1-0 record.

"I used to lay in my cell and dream about this happening," Bozella said. "It was all worth it. It was my dream come true."

Many of us go through our entire lives and watch dreams fade away. Not Bozella. He watched his father beat his pregnant mother to death when he was 9 years old. Two of his brothers were murdered on the streets of Brooklyn.

Perhaps that's why he kept fighting — fighting for life and fighting for freedom.

After his release from prison, he managed to catch the eye of Oscar De La Hoya's Golden Boy Productions — earning his license and fighting his way to the top. Now that his fight is over, Bozella said he plans to open a gym to help get kids off the streets.

Bozella is the epitome of having that never-give-up attitude. Its what helped him in the ring and its what will continue to help him as he tries to put the pieces of his life back together.

A Labor Of Love

Amber Miller put all marathon runners to shame when she
completed the Chicago Marathon while she was 39 weeks
pregnant. Somewhere London Marathon runner Rob Sloan
is currently hiding his head in shame after taking a bus to
finish his marathon.

Let it be known that I am by no means a marathon runner. My daily exercise routine usually consists of a 100 yard walk to the mailbox to check the mail.

So I can't say I blame Rob Sloan for taking a bus during the London Marathon.

Apparently exhausted after 20 miles, the 31-year-old former army mechanic flagged down a bus and took a jaunt through the woods to finish third with a time of 2 hours, 51 minutes. The time beat his personal best by 21 minutes.

When asked about the race afterward he said the marathon was "unbelievably tough" and that speculations that he cheated were "laughable." As it turns out, race organizers had the last laugh when they stripped Sloan of his medal.

But while Sloan was criticized by fellow competitors for tainting "Britain's most beautiful marathon," no doubt he's going to catch even more flack from his buddies because of what happened in the Chicago Marathon.

Amber Miller — and to some degree June Miller — completed the Chicago Marathon on Sunday. Nothing to special about that, right? Wrong.

Amber Miller was 39 weeks pregnant with June, but still managed to complete the race in 6 hours, 25 minutes. Sure it was a little slower than Sloan, but at least she did it without the assistance of a motorized vehicle.

Miller fought off labor contractions near the end of the race to finish. Seven hours later, she gave birth to June — a healthy 7-pound, 13-ounce baby girl — proving to the world that she's about as close as they come to Superwoman.

Or perhaps with Chicago traffic, her bus just had a hard time getting to the finish line.

Time To Kill The Rally (Towel)

Phillies fans twirl imitation Terrible Towels during home
games. What is it with the people in Pennsylvania and their
fascination with twirling towels over their heads?

An epidemic has spread across the country in baseball stadiums everywhere and it isn't pretty.

That's right, folks. I'm talking about the imitation of the Terrible Towel.

Once only reserved for those hardcore Steeler fans of the 1970s, it appears every John Q. Fan with an oversized washcloth has shown up at the ballpark this postseason. The result? Thousands of fans twirling these scraps of cloth, making fans at home have seizures with each passing movement. It's almost as bad as the vuvuzelas of the World Cup.

Unlike its football counterpart — which is where the Terrible Towel was invented — baseball is a calmer game. It is meant to be enjoyed in the comfort of seats — or as comfortable as sitting on plastic for four hours can be. It isn't a game that relies on emotion.

Nobody is quite sure when the Terrible Towel knockoffs started in baseball, and believe me, I've asked. My only guess is that some Pittsburgh fan from the 1970s somehow figured out how to travel through time and ended up at a Phillies game — because we all know he or she would never travel through time for a Pirates game.

Either way, the country is in dire need of something else to rally around besides the rally towels. Remember the Rally Monkey? Or the phrase "Cowboy Up?"

True, baseball fans did have those awful balloonstix — which sounded like clapping a pair of beer cans together and consequently giving off the worst sound known to man until the vuvuzelas made their way to pop culture — but generally baseball has some great celebrations and rally igniters. Just look at the "We Are Family" Pittsburgh Pirates of the late 70s.

Anybody can twirl a towel around their head. Let's hope that one team will figure out a new promotion that baseball fans — who are known to be thinkers — to use their gigantic, stat-filled brains and apparently strong shoulders for something other than looking like a helicopter that's about ready to take off but never will.

That way, those of us who choose not to partake in looking like an idiot on cable television can at least watch the game without worrying about being slapped in the face.