“Hello folks, and welcome to another addition of American Sportsman. I’m your host Curt Gowdy, and today we will be fishing the Upper North Platte river with my guest and the new sports writer for the Saratoga Sun, Brian Trautwein.”

Well, the world is still here. This development has caught me off guard and I had prepared nothing new in the way of “entertainment” for you to read.
Fortunately for me this world- continuing thing has fallen squarely during the “week between Christmas” and it has been tradition for the two previous years now that I print my sad attempt at poetry.

In 1642, John Donne wrote the following words: “No man is an island, entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main ... Each man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”

Apocalypses have been predicted pretty much since there have been civilizations to cower in fear of them. Since one of the “biggies” is just around the corner I thought this week timely to explore some earlier world-shattering (or not) prophesies.1

For the last couple summers, my girlfriend, Sheila, and I have been putting up cyclists in our home thanks to a website called WarmShowers.org that connects people riding around the world with people who think that sounds like an amazing adventure.

I was 16 years old before I could beat my grandmother in an arm wrestling match.
We were at her kitchen counter, seated on opposite stools. It wasn’t a quick match, and afterwards I was confused. I expected to have to go gentle on her knuckles when I pinned her arm down. Instead, after two minutes of struggle, I just got them to touch the counter and claimed victory.
It was a hollow victory. It was my grandmother, after all.