By MONTE DUTTON

It occurred to me that two of my favorite things are the Clinton-Laurens football game and the Southern 500 stock car race. One was Friday night and the other was Sunday night.

Not that the week was perfection. Furman and Presbyterian lost by 76 and 53 points, respectively.

No big surprise, given the opposition, but I was hoping for, oh, 56 and 42, maybe.

I reckon an inch is as good as a mile, and vice-versa.

Clinton-Laurens and Darlington were not on the same weekend in my youth, but they were etched in my memory. I never got to go to the Southern 500 because it was run on Monday (actual Labor Day because the preachers frowned on Sunday racing in those days). Two practices were run on the Clinton High practice fields.

At that time, I hated Labor Day because of the labor while my heroes were racing.

It’s interesting to me when I hear kids now talk about how much they enjoy practice.

Say what?

I enjoyed playing football. I wanted to be on the team. I wanted to win the state championship. I never looked forward to trudging down the field. It made me nauseous, though it disappeared the first time I got popped, which was quite often. It was a treatment better than drinking a beer to cure a hangover.

A coach I knew had to be rushed to the hospital because his appendix ruptured, and he thought he could get rid of the pain by running it off.

Even the greatest were nuts. The worst had nothing on them.

When in doubt, I almost always root for the underdog. That being the case, the only satisfying aspect of Saturday was watching Vanderbilt upset Virginia Tech in overtime. Nothing against the Hokies. One stunning upset is worth 10 games that go as expected.

To me. The hopeless romantic.

The Furman and PC games had me feeling like the late Rodney Dangerfield. (As I get older, I find myself increasingly using “the late.”)

I was an ugly kid. You kidding me? I asked my father why he never took me to the zoo. He said if they wanted me, they could come get me.

Not to be confused with … My dad took me to the zoo. At the gate, a guy thanked him for bringing me back.

What happens at Darlington is often inexplicable, such as Martin Truex Jr., a proficient veteran and former champion, losing control early in Sunday’s race and wrecking himself and Ryan Blaney.

A pit reporter asked him about using the word “idiot” in a radio transmission. He said he was talking about himself. Truex is a stand-up guy.

NASCAR announcers are diligently trained. Imagine watching a football game and the announcer saying, “Mahomes perfectly arches his fresh Rawlings Firm Grip football and hits Kelce right in the middle of his Nike Form Fit jersey … and Kelce digs into the end zone thanks to his Turf Dog Pro’s Choice cleats.”

More often than at any other track, Darlington, particularly, still favors the best drivers more than any other track because it’s hard. It didn’t surprise me at all that the race came down to fine drivers. I’ve long thought Chase Briscoe was underrated.

Kyle Larson was dominant. Right now, I think he’s the best driver out there. If he has a weakness, it’s that he has too much fun for his own good sometimes. Kyle Busch didn’t make the race-offs. Here’s a prediction. He won’t just get out of way down the stretch.

This is Larson’s time. He’s in his prime while generations are changing all around him. It doesn’t mean he’s going to win the title. The title format promotes the few, the proud, the fortunate.

I also sympathize with Larson because he was stigmatized and suspended during COVID, when virtual races were nationally televised. He blurted out a slur that was heard nationally. He was sitting in a makeshift cockpit in the basement, virtually driving 200 mph and cracking wise with his buddy.

A few years ago, Larson’s name came up when I was talking to a young colleague, who said, “Oh, yeah, he’s the racist, right?”

I explained what happened, and he couldn’t believe Larson had been punished “for that?” My friend could relate to a fellow “gamer.” It would be like me being punished for what I yelled when I dropped a jar of pickles on my big toe.

The last five weeks have found Saturday as the most popular day for this site. It’s that high-school football, sports fans.

As Merle Haggard sang, “If we can make it through December, everything’s gonna be all right, I know.”

Advertising alone will not keep me going, but there’s room for a few more. Every ad is inset in every story.

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Thanks for putting up with me.