Whew. OK
So perhaps I can go through the week without having to do another hurricane blog. Perhaps that damn storm will fall apart somewhere in the Gulf before it hits Mobile, Ala. For the sake of the Mobilians, I hope it happens that way.

Bringing an end to a month's worth of hurricane panic forces me to resume the focus on what we so loosely call "normal life." You know, that thing that involves a morning routine, then work, then an evening routine, followed by sleep, lather, rinse, repeat as necessary. That cycle seems refreshing now that "hurricane panic" isn't in the mix anywhere, at least for the moment.

It's September, which means it's time for football. Up until this year, it was the kind of football that kept my ass firmly planted on the couch on Sundays -- you know, the 1 p.m. game, then the 4 p.m. game, then, if my long-suffering wife had finally given up, the 8:30 p.m. game. This is followed, of course, by Monday Night Football, for which I probably won't last past halftime, now that I'm a member of the Real World, that World which is at work by 8:30 each morning.

But that routine has been shaken up a bit by Saturday morning football -- football of the flag variety, featuring kids ages 5 to 7. Mine is No. 14, the one on the bench checking out the cheerleaders.

The Boy's team suffered its first loss on Saturday, leaving them 2-1. They pretty much took it in stride, however; at least, the players did. All they knew was that when the game was over, it was time for Laffy Taffy and juice boxes. The coaches, of course, were deeply disappointed, and grumbled and mumbled about lack of execution and concentration to a bunch of boys who can't read, much less have any idea what "execution" means.

These coaches held the game up for nearly five minutes disputing a fumble call at the goal line -- in a game involving 5-year-olds. Talk about needing to get a grip.

But: These coaches had spent much of the week at their real jobs. One owns a construction company; he's been working his ass off helping people in Punta Gorda and Port Charlotte recover after Charley and Frances. One is a deputy sheriff; he spends his days dealing with "crapbags," as he puts it, and loves nothing more than to hang out with a bunch of innocent kids, hoping to play some part in keeping them from growing up to be crapbags. They can be forgiven if they want to win a football game a little too much. As important as their real jobs are, it's heartening to know that a little boys' game can be that important to them, too. If it helps them stay sane, I'm all for it.

As for me: I'm back on the road next week. Two days in Minnesota, three days in Illinois, in the never-ending pursuit of deploying better software. Thankfully, the hurricane threat in Minnesota is minimal. I'll miss next Saturday's game, most likely; unless we make dramatic improvements in the software in Illinois between now and then, I'll be landing at my home airfield just about the time the final horn blows. But that's OK; I'll still have Sunday, and I'll be able to explain to The Boy once again that guys in the NFL don't wear flags.