From our early days as a bloglet living on the site of our birthparent, World Hum, one reader has joined in the conversation more than the rest. If we gave out FoFA badges, Chris Brown would, most certainly, get a gold-plated one. A “faithful FA reader since day one”–his words, not ours–Chris has been to 49 states (he just needs Alaska to complete his collection) and a bunch of other countries. So we thought it fitting to invite the Huntsville, AL-based aerospace engineer, registered patent agent, and paintball field owner in to add his voice to this week’s Three-fer Friday. Oh, he also chose the topic: I went for the sports, stayed for the place.

They're waiting for you in Bemidji.

“Only in college hockey could Alabama-Huntsville and Bemidji State (Minnesota) be bitter rivals. And without college hockey I would never have driven nineteen hours from Huntsville to Bemidji in my 1986 Cutlass Supreme. Fortunately for me, I did get to see beautiful Lake Bemidji and the Headwaters of the Mississippi. I got to see the famous statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the blue ox, who local legend says was made anatomically correct but later neutered at the insistence of offended townspeople. Best of all, I learned the meaning of Minnesota Nice from guys like Millsy and the Beaver faithful at watering holes like the Corner Bar. I really only hate those guys for 60 minutes at a time.”–Chris

West Virginia is cash poor but beauty rich. Photo by Sophia Dembling.

I’m not big on spectator sports; the last team I followed was the Amazin’ Mets. Yeah, I’m that old. But had my first travel-writing assignment not been whitewater rafting on the raucous Gauley River in West Virginia, I might not have visited this exquisitely beautiful state.

West Virginia keeps a low profile, probably because it can’t afford to get our attention; only Mississippi has a lower median household income. But since that first trip, I’ve returned to WV a couple of times, exploring Charles Town, taking the waters in Berkeley Springs, learning a thing of two at Harpers Ferry National Historical Park. West Virginia is our Cinderella state–poor but beautiful.–Sophia

This is Rhett. According to his bio, his "favorite foods include corndogs, hotdogs, chili dogs, and BC Eagles." Photo from goterriers.com.

Another college hockey tale. As an undergrad at Boston University (1988-1992), I preferred watching games from the discomfort of the old Walter A. Brown Arena–now games are played at the fancy schmancy Agganis Arena–but, when away games around town called for it, I went. Looking back, I realize I probably wouldn’t have ventured up to the land of the Boston College (blech) Eagles–Chestnut Hill, MA–or out to Northeastern’s section of Boston all that much. I saw more, experienced more, and expanded my understanding of Boston. (But, seriously, those B.C. kids were trouble–during one game they hurled pennies at our heads. Classy, eh?) Oh, um, cause Terrier pride keeps on keeping on: huzzah for the 2009 NCAA men’s hockey champs!–Jenna

Kane County Cougars. Photo by willowbrookhotels via Flickr (Creative Commons)

The Albuquerque Isotopes. The Clearwater Threshers. The Dayton Dragons.

Ah, minor league baseball. The team names alone are joy. The experience? That much better. While I’ve always found it a bit ho-hum to attend a major league game for a team that wasn’t my hometown favorite, minor league games feel more neutral.

They’re about hanging out eating stuff you shouldn’t eat on a (hopefully) beautiful spring or summer night and (hopefully) getting to see a little magic when some not-so-known player smacks one out or looks like he has the potential to pitch a perfect game. They’re about relaxing. And just kind of being in a place with, mostly, the people who live there.

Minor league games feel out of time. They feel hopeful.

No, not trying to be all Pollyanna-ish about it. Well, maybe a little. (I’ll admit to a bit of MLB overbloated stadium, ticket price, and player news fatigue.) In the minors, the stadiums may have some minor bells and whistles but there are also bouncy castles (at some) , decently priced hot dogs (at most), and, the best bit of the bunch, entire teams of players who still seem to get at least some joy out of playing baseball. Oh, and cheap tickets. And local fans who don’t start bitching about the ticket prices the minute the team falls a few runs behind. Instead, they root for them harder. They will them to win.

And then there are those names. No matter where you’re from, you can’t tell me you don’t want a T-shirt proclaiming your love for the Lehigh Valley IronPigs.

Musher DeeDee Jonrowe's team. Photo by Jenna Schnuer.

For spectators, dog mushing is a hard sport. There’s no loop de loop on a race track. There’s no back and forth on a court. Once the dogs go by…they’re pretty much gone. Dog mushing as spectator sport takes patience, dedication, and a lot of reading (internet and newspaper updates of days-long races are key). But just one dose of a race, one chance to watch it in person, to see the connection between the mushers and the dogs and, quite simply, you’re sunk. It gets in you.

I fell for it in 2006 when I went up to Alaska to do a story about the Iditarod. Really, I didn’t think dog mushing would become an obsession. I figured it’d be an interesting thing to check out and then I would be done with it. I thought it was just another piece of Alaska that I should see. Instead, my interest in the sport keeps growing. It all stems from the connection between the mushers and their teams. We should all be so lucky to have bonds that strong with another living creature. I’m not sure I’ve ever even really seen that between two people. They have to trust each other. The mushers and the dogs know it. I know some will say I’m romanticizing the whole thing; I don’t care—I saw it.

Here’s the moment that got me over and over: as the teams readied to leave the checkpoint, the dogs would go completely hyper. Some would pogo up and down, many would start to pull, almost all would holler and whine. Then, when the checkpoint referee gave the go and the musher gave the “hike” command, the dogs would quiet and, all at once, just start pulling. The only sound coming from the sled runners as it slid on by. It was the most beautiful quiet.

So, you in? The 2009 Iditarod starts March 7. That gives you one week to study up and choose your favorite musher. And then I’ll see you out here.

Update since original posting: Lance Mackey won the 2009 race–his third in a row. The 2010 Iditarod takes off on March 6.