Still fuming about the end to the Chargers/Broncos game last night. Yes, I know, mistakes happen, and yes, I know, calls get blown all the time. But when not one but TWO calls go horribly awry in the same game, against the same team, you start to feel as though the refs have a personal vendetta against your team. I remember back to my college days. The refs in the old Western Athletic Conference were notoriously TERRIBLE. We had regular chants for such occasions, such as "THE REF BEATS HIS WIFE! THE REF BEATS HIS WIFE!" and "WHEN I GET OLD AND CANNOT SEE, I WANT TO BE A REFEREE!" and of course the classic "ZEBRA ZEBRA, SHORT AND STOUT, FIND YOUR HEAD AND PULL IT OUT!" which I still employ at hockey games. Heck, I even remember one game where the calls were so bad the refs had to be rescued by football players from a barrage of snowballs coming from the stands. We had deadly aim back then. What I wouldn't have given for a long-distance snowball last night to peg Ed Hochuli in the back of the head for blowing his damn whistle early.

I drove past a fire station today. Spread out on the grass in front of the building were three hundred and forty-three American flags. Big letters amidst the flags read FDNY.

Tears flowed as I drove on. It's been seven years, and as a country we are still frightened, heartsick, and angry. And so very, very proud. Most of us do not know the names of the firemen, the police officers, the first responders who lost their lives at Ground Zero. We have not memorized the names of the dead at the World Trade Center or Pentagon. We can't recite the names of the heroes who fought and died on United Airlines Flight 93.

And yet their names are written forever in our hearts.

God bless America, land that I love.

Amen.