By MONTE DUTTON

Every single kid who announces he is going to college to play a sport cites academics.

They mention what they want to be (assuming it’s not a pro ballplayer). Many disclose a planned academic major and cite it as an important reason for their decision.

Then some of them go to four separate schools over the next four years. What happened to caring about an education?

What happened to going to a school they like? What happened to liking a school in general?

One cannot avoid the suspicion that America’s finest athletes don’t give a damn about the school, its academics and what it can do to prepare him (or her) for a career that doesn’t involve throwing, catching, hitting, blocking, tackling, shots, serves, saves and tee shots.

Longtime NASCAR mechanic and car owner Travis Carter died this week. I talked to him many times over the years, but one incident comes to mind.

Richmond International Raceway is located on the Virginia State Fairgrounds. Near the track is a small concert venue, and I attended a racing-related media conference there one time. I think Darrell Waltrip’s last ride was with Carter. I was hanging out with Carter and Junior Johnson there.

“I tell you what to do,” Johnson said to Carter. “Go on the radio and tell Darrell, “Can’t you go no faster, Cale?”

Waltrip and Cale Yarborough had their greatest years driving for Johnson.

“’This ain’t no damn Cale Yarborough,’ Darrell would say,” Johnson recalled. “That was worth a half a second a lap. If I was you, I’d call him Harry (Gant).”

Handsome Harry’s best years were with Carter.

Brian Wilson had almost nothing in common with Junior Johnson, and I grew up as a country-music fan, but the Beach Boys always boggled my mind. Wilson was the group’s creative centerpiece. He wrote almost all those songs with their intricate harmonies.

I like to fool around with writing songs. My songs aren’t anywhere near as good as those written by Kris Kristofferson, Hank Williams or, for that matter, Carole King, Bob Dylan and the Beatles. They didn’t blow my mind. Wilson did. He was a genius. Other songwriters were merely great.

The only Beach Boy who ever spent much time at the beach was Brian’s brother Dennis, and he drowned.

Rest in peace, Brian Wilson. God only knows how I feel about you.

I wonder if there’s a basketball team in America whose crowd doesn’t chant “DEE-fense!”

PC, maybe?

You see that old guy pacing in front of the Indiana Pacers bench? I remember when Rick Carlisle played for Virginia.

That makes me old, too.

The best way to be a country star is to be named Hank.

Hank Williams (and Jr.), Hank Cochran, Hank Locklin, Hank Snow, Hank Thompson, Hank Garland …

Hanks were adept at baseball: Aaron, Greenberg, Aguirre, O’Day, Sauer, Bauer, Allen, Gowdy, Severeid, Small … Hank Stram coached football. And don’t forget Tom Hanks.

The most appropriate thing in the NBA is that the team from Oklahoma City has a Love’s Truck Stops patch on every uniform.

The main character in my baseball novel, The Latter Days, is scout Clyde Kinlaw. It’s available at Amazon, along with most of my other books.

The star of my two stock-car racing novels, Lightning in a Bottle and Life Gets Complicated, is Barrie Jarman.

The cowboys in Cowboys Come Home are Ennis Middlebrooks and Harry Byerly. The musician in The Audacity of Dope is Riley Mansfield. One of the central characters in Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is Mickey Statler.

The bad guy in Forgive Us Our Trespasses is Denny Frawley. The (mostly) good guy in Crazy of Natural Causes is Chance Benford.