What's cooking? Character. (My Turn).

I don't know why they call August the "dog days of summer." If you ask me, dogs live a pretty charmed life. All the dogs I saw growing up spent their hot Oklahoma summer days lazing under a shade tree, lapping up cool water and scratching themselves. If an old mutt got really ambitious or bored, he might wander down to the creek for a quick dip. Not a bad life.

But for countless thousands of high school and college young men across this great land of ours, August can mean only one thing.

Torture.

What would possess an otherwise normal, healthy, happy young man to sacrifice the last couple of weeks of his summer vacation and subject himself to screaming coaches, wind sprints in 100degree heat and the physical abuse of two-a-day football practices?

I did it, and now that I'm 45 I often wonder why.

Think about it. If you're a fairly typical high school kid, you've spent every day since late May cruising Main Street at night and sleeping in the next day. Your biggest decisions were which movie to see and what girl to ask out. Your physical exertion consisted of finally mowing the lawn after your father bugged you for the third time to do it.

I didn't have it quite that easy. I spent my summers preparing for the torture of fall practice by hauling hay for my daddy. Nothing could prepare a young man better for fall practice than laboring for Buddy Watts. By the time coach Bell blew that first whistle, I was ready for a break. But it wasn't much of a break.