I was rummaging through my MP3 collection a while ago, which although handy will never replace rifling through stacks of LPs or CDs, and ran across something I hadn't listened to in quite a while, namely the version of Smile (or to be correct SMiLE) some über-devoted Beach Boys fans assembled some time back out of assorted bits from commercially released and bootleg records, laying the tracks out in the same order as on Brian Wilson's solo recording of SMiLE a few years ago.  Listening to it again gave pause for thought.

The level of dedication required to put together something like this knowing you can never -- as in never because the moment you even thought about it the RIAA would be all over you like Jayski on a false rumor -- make a dime off of it is impressive to say the least.  You do it to share; you do it for the love.  Mostly, you do it for yourself.  This is what I want to listen to.  This is what I want to hear.  It doesn't exist?  SMiLE remains the Holy Grail of unreleased albums?  Guessing conservatively, you're about seven hundred times more likely to see "Rambo" win multiple Oscars as you are to ever see an actual authentic authorized just the way it was intended to be released in 1967 copy of this album on the shelves of your local department store's music section (I'd say record store, but very few exist anymore)?  Fine, I'll do it myself.

This dovetails nicely into the whole realm of blogging.  I hear rumors of people who make a living at blogging, which as I've often said automatically disqualifies them from being called bloggers.  Try casual format columnists, since this is in fact what they are.  Can't say I know any personally.  I do know people who pick up the occasional check from ads on their site, which is something I can't criticize anyone for although I hasten to note the ads at the top and right hand side of this blog are SBN's property.  You've got to pay the bills all us game thread-weavers run up somehow.  As opposed to dreamweavers, on which Gary Wright is probably still collecting royalties.  But I digress.

Sports blogging is its own unique world, some parts more unique than others.  I still chuckle when I contemplate the comment someone left on Fear The Fin in response to yours truly noting just a wee bit of excessive melodrama in a fanpost bewailing the Sharks losing in the playoffs this past season, said comment berating me most fiercely for not being a "real" fan.  More like my having a "real" life.  I can get as up or down depending on how my team and/or driver is doing as anyone.  But when you're talking to your Mom on her birthday as I was today, with two thousand miles separating the two of you and her sick which given the already quite fragile state of health she's in provides ample legitimate concern for worry and its accompanying dread of what one day will come to pass, it tends to put Jeff Gordon getting punted from second to thirtieth by Carl Edwards (to be fair, Jeff wasn't entirely without fault in the matter) in the closing laps of last night's race at Daytona in its proper place.  Aggravating; certainly I would relish his winning the race far more than yet another disappointing finish, savoring the respite from reality that comes when a sporting event turns out the way you'd like.  But it's only sports.  Make it more than that, and it stops being fun.  And if it's no longer fun, what's the point?

There are more important things to write about than sports.  The book I'm currently moving toward completion definitely outweighs where and for whom Tony Stewart will be driving next year.  At least to me.  Still, it's good to have the outlet of sports blogging, as it is to have the outlet of sports itself.  For one, it's a pleasant change of pace having an venue for writing without the constrictions of, say, doing anything at the office.  Which as I am constantly reminded every time I create anything there, for doing so is my job, positively overflows with Pulitzer Prize winning authors and art critics the Louvre consults before every purchase.  No, really, it's true.  Just ask them.  (Sarcastic?  Me?  Oh p'shaw.)

It's all part of this process so aptly described by rock's street level poet Lou Reed back in his Velvet Underground days:

Jesus, help me find my proper place
Jesus, help me find my proper place
Help me in my weakness
'cos I'm falling out of grace
Jesus
Jesus

Sooner or later, preferably sooner, all of the seemingly disconnected elements that together form this entity called living come together.  We cheer and boo; we argue and agree.  We're fans.  Some of us write about it, others read.  We watch the games and races together; coming together for them, coming together even more when the words of John Donne echo down through the centuries and become a blazing reality.  No man is an island.  We live, love, laugh and cry together.  Sometimes we pray together.  Which is the best together of all, the support that comes through shared faith in a risen Lord.

It is one of NASCAR's mysteries hidden to those who aren't aware of its truths how the sport's very nature encourages its fans to become friends.  The relationship between a NASCAR fan and the sport is intensely personal.  That's my driver.  That's my team.  So much of the basis for fandom is individual response to another individual -- the driver, the team owner.  Is it any wonder its fans bond so well?  We're used to the personal touch.  No surprise we bring it to the genuinely personal.

So yes.  Even when my driver gets punted from second to thirtieth, there's still cause to smile.

It's the love.  Always the love.