GBC '09

Zoogle has begun his official winter training regime as a sponsored contestant in the Great Baby Crawl, 2009. No one actually expected him to begin preparing so soon, but it is beginning to seem that the only thing that could be more surprising about this boy is if he failed to delivered his steady stream of developmental surprises. Here he is, at the ripe age of three months and change, and already he's got those great piggy thighs in fighting form, grinding into the ruana at first contact, digging desperately for a toe hole in the llama hair, his back arched, his rump high, his face clenched in furious concentration, churning and pumping and grinding in heroic pursuit of forward motion until, at last, the body exhausted, he dissolves, a quivering, shrieking mass of tears and sailor talk.

One of our crack surveillance agents caught this barbarous spectacle on camera, and you can watch it here . The sounds track is as interesting as the footage: listen as the Crawling Coach showers the lad with just the right mixture of irony, ridicule, and encouragement. What soul could fail to flourish under these conditions? The stock holders are still waiting to see if the coach will prove her salt and lead this little guy to victory, but early signs are promising. The boy has a natural sense of form. He has the drive. Grit, talent, and a coach who's hard as nails: what more goes into the makings of a champion? True, there are few wrinkles. The hand part still needs a little work (right now he's just driving his nose into the carpet) and he needs to improve his psychological game (ending every practice session in tears is hard on both the athlete and the coach.) But most observers agree that Z. has a very real shot at the title.

In every venture of heroic dimensions, of course, there is a cynic. Some guy who stands in the corner of the room and mumbles out the reasons the plan might fail. In Z.'s case, two troublesome questions have been posed: the first is whether or not, in purely Newtonian terms, his body mass invalidates the possibility of self-propelled physical motion. Mostly people point to the NFL and say bah, but others aren't so sure. The second question is whether Z. will be able to make the transition from his Greek-style nudist training regime to the onerous but unavoidable clothing regime of the public games. At the moment, when the diapers come off, the legs get going, but while the diapers are on, he is a rag doll, limp as my spinach souffle. There may be something of a Ferdinand in that boy (Ferdinand being the wonderful bull who preferred to smell daisies than fight picadores, and was retired to blissful pasture after enraging an arena of bloodthirsty sportsfans.) But these are the chances we take. Who invited the cynic, anyway? Take it from me: the smart money for GBC '09 is on Z. Pigglesworth Toews. (See www.madoffspigglefund.com for betting opportunities.)