That stain on the Bengals' 2001 season is not the won/loss record, but the dirty splotch at Paul Brown Stadium where the grass has died.

        Listening to the commentators on last Sunday's broadcast of the game against the Steelers, you would think that this sandy patch of soil is the main reason the team is 5-10 going into their last game. Poor Neil Rackers didn't miss the uprights so many times because he is a bad kicker, but because he has bad sod.

        To the taxpayers, this ugly brown scar is just another scab to be picked. They paid $4 million for the “state of the art” playing surface that includes layers of irrigation pipe, heaters, gravel, sand and, in patches, grass. And now, after less than two full seasons, we have Hamilton County Commissioners suggesting that it may be time to investigate some kind of plastic substitute.

        That horrible grinding you hear is the cartilage in the players' knees.

        Now my playing days never went beyond high school, but I do remember something about the field dynamics of football. For one thing, dirt was good. If your uniform had dirt on it, it meant you had played. Guys who didn't play would reach under the bench for a handful of dirt and swipe it across their numbers just to avoid the ignominy of returning to the locker room with a clean jersey.

        The verdant green the groundskeepers are trying to achieve on the field at PBS is a myth. We have been desensitized to the reality of grass fields by decades of color television and Astro Turf. In real life, football fields aren't supposed to be that color. Grass means dirt. When it rains, it means mud. When it snows, it means frozen brown sludge.

        The people of Hamilton County, many of whom spend fortunes trying to green up their own lawns every summer, know that perfect grass is an impossibility. The commissioners shouldn't even consider spending an extra dime on the field. It is the natural order of things that grass is lush in the spring and early summer, then steadily shrivels and dies as the season wears on. We shouldn't try to fight it.

        But if the Bengals can't get over this dream of playing on a bed of lettuce, I recommend adding poetry and philosophy to the playbook. Emerson, Whitman, Thoreau, Shakespeare — all were Hall-of-Famers who carried on about grass. And there were plenty of others. For instance:

        “Cut grass lies frail:

        Brief is the breath

        Mown stalks exhale”— Philip Larkin (British poet, 1922-1985)

        I think that one really gets to the anguish over brown spots on the field.

        Or how about this?

        “Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life.” — from Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad.

        Think of that incorporated into one of Dick LeBeau's half-time pep talks. Come on, boys, let's get back out there and fight for our holy turf!

        Of course, if it is religion you want, we have a higher source on the value of grass:

        “When the soil is covered with grass, the fiercest whirlwinds will not easily blow it away, even if it is sandy. But when the soil becomes a desert place, it is very easily conquered.” — Pope John Paul II

        Actually, his Holiness was talking about beating communism, not the Steelers, but the sentiment stands.

        Want to be a little more practical and less philosophical about it? Try this one:

        “Grass grows by inches but it's killed by feet.” — George Thoma, groundskeeper for the Kansas City Chiefs

        Kind of makes you wonder why we nurture these little plants into sprouting just so we can send 300-pound behemoths out to trample them with spiked shoes.

        Let's face it, no matter how much we spend on sprinklers and fertilizer, no matter often we re-seed or re-sod, no matter how carefully the linemen mince their steps, those tender green shoots will mock us.

        “It seems to me that the grass hates us when we confess our love for it.” — Friedrich Nietzsche (1844—1900), German philosopher.

        I don't think Nietzsche ever played football, but he sure did know a thing or two about grass.
        Contact David Wells at 768-8310; fax: 768-8610; e-mail: dwells@enquirer.com. Cincinnati.Com keyword: Wells.
       

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