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I won't waste time discussing Friday night's presidential debate, because I have a strong inkling it didn't change anybody's mind.

Let's talk about Sarah Sweetheart (as in America's newest sweetheart). She was conspicuous in her absence from the debate. Everyone, including Average Joe Biden, put in an appearance. Of course, GOP'ers immediately smelled conspiracy and contacted CNN to ask why Palin wasn't interviewed. Wolf Blitzer noted that CNN asked but was rebuffed.

The McCain campaign pretty much keeps its veep nominee in a bubble. When she ventures out, she's scripted to the gills, which doesn't inspire confidence in her ability to have an original thought about the pressing matters facing the country. The campaign's protective shield is understandable because, to put it delicately, their candidate is not exactly hitting it out of the ballpark when she has to speak off-the-cuff. I don't like speaking publicly, either---which is why I didn't select a career and job that depends on my (in)ability to speak for my supper.

The ability to handle Katie Couric in an interview doesn't equate with whether McCain's running mate can run a country, if called on to do so. But it does give insight into whether she has a clue, even if she can't articulate it. Candidly, my fellow Americans, the newest Sweetheart isn't looking good on either front.

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I'm not an MLB fan. But everyone is paying tribute to the House that Ruth built, and I felt we here at In the Flow should put in our two cents.

Have you ever been to Yankee Stadium? What are your memories? If you never had the opportunity to go there, do you have a favorite Yankee/Yankee Stadium story via catching a game on the tube?

About the closest I can come is standing in my living room SCREAMING with delight the night the Arizona Diamondbacks defeated the Yankees in the 2001 World Series. To understand why, read on:

GOD BLESS AMERICA - BUT CAN HE HOLD OFF ON THE YANKEES?
PULLING FOR THE UNDERDOG OVER THE SENTIMENTAL FAVORITE

Date: Monday, October 29, 2001

Byline: SHANNA FLOWERS EDITORIAL WRITER

Damn Yankees!

You know, the Bronx Bombers. The Boys in Pinstripes.

If baseball's New York Yankees weren't in the World Series this week, I wouldn't be in the position of defending my patriotism, trying to show that I, too, love America - even as I root against the Yankees.

Certainly, after the collapse of Manhattan's World Trade Center on Sept. 11, it's no surprise that the Yankees are the sentimental favorite to win the Fall Classic against those battling Arizona Diamondbacks.

Who?

Anyway, as I endure snipes from Yankees fans - and nonfans viewing the Series through a prism of pure emotionalism - I'm compelled as a sports fan to say: It's OK to pull for the citizens of New York but not for their baseball team.

Look, I'm no ogre. I feel human suffering. I wept in my living room as I watched the televised memorial service, at Yankee Stadium nonetheless, for nearly 5,000 of my compatriots killed several days earlier when two hijacked airliners crashed into the twin towers.

I can't shake the jarring image in USA Today of a young boy, clutching his stoic mother's side and crying uncontrollably at the funeral of his dad, a Port Authority police officer killed in the attacks.

Doomed airplane passengers mutinying against their fanatical captors, New York firefighters covered with dust and grime - collectively, they have become my lasting mental collage of a hero. What happened six weeks ago was not a rip at New York but at all Americans, and everything our nation stands for. So, yes, my heart is with New York.

But not its baseball team.

Rallying against sentiment, with a backdrop of national tragedy, is not a popular position to publicly embrace, I've learned. My colleague, feisty by nature, has reminded me on more than one occasion during the past week that "New York needs this."

Even my doctor's nurse, during my office visit last week, gave me good-natured guff about pulling for the Diamondbacks over the Yankees.

What people don't understand is that I don't necessarily dislike the Yankees. I'm just tired of them. They've won four of the last five World Series, the last three in a row. Enough already. How many rings does Derek Jeter need, at least at this point in his young career?

My sentiment, and that of those sports fans still in the closet on this thorny issue, is much the way it was with Michael Jordan in his glory days with the Chicago Bulls. At first, the team's ascension as a basketball dynasty was way cool. But after the Bulls' first few championships, sports fans grew weary of them and wanted to cheer a new champion.

Admittedly, the Yankees reflect the strengths of America: power, excellence, cool confidence, precision and skill.

As Americans, we relish the ideal of a level, competitive playing field, where anyone - with adequate preparation - has a shot at victory, a chance at success. Right now, though, the playing field seems tilted in favor of the Yankees.

But another side of the American psyche likes to pull for the underdog because it gives us hope that one day, we, too, can overcome the Goliaths in our lives. In the case of the World Series, the Arizona Diamondbacks are the underdogs, the upstarts, only four years in existence.

My colleague had never heard of them. "The Arizona who?" she queried. My friend, Gene, a baseball purist and a student of the game, only vaguely remembered that the Diamondbacks were in the National League. Arizona plays out West, in a different time zone, so Easterners don't follow them.

No, we don't know much about the D'backs. But they, too, represent what's good about America: Tenacity, scrappiness.

And hope.

In these uncertain times, those are pretty good traits to cheer for.

So for those who question my allegiance, I am buoyed by the humanitarian spirit shown New York. And I want God to smile on America.

But can he hold off on the Yankees until after the Series?

Curtis Blair (left) and fellow referee Monty McCutchen work an NBA preseason game last year. | Courtesy of Curtis Blair

The phone rang about 3:30 p.m. Monday at Curtis Blair's Richmond home.

The former Patrick Henry High School basketball standout saw the 212 area code on caller ID. He answered, assuming it was a telemarketer.

It wasn't.

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If you watched CNN last evening during Hillary Clinton's speech, you undoubtedly caught a fleeting glimpse of former Roanoke City Councilwoman Linda Wyatt. It was nice to see a homegirl, if only for a nanosecond.

In typical fashion, Linda was about business. She wasn't mugging for the camera or waving a placard. In fact, I'm pretty sure she didn't know she was on television. She was sitting there listening to the speech when the camera did a quick closeup of her. I enjoyed seeing a familiar face in the crowd, other than the rich and famous.

I'll try to get up with Linda on Wednesday and will post any reaction she received from adoring former constituents who saw her on the tube.

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Some of you may be familiar with the tragic death of 89-year-old George Rogers, whom I've written about in the preceding column (Violence: when is enough, enough?)

Mr. Rogers lie dead in his home for four days before his body was discovered. Someone raised a legitimate point: Why did it take so long for somebody to notice something awry? Why have we gotten away from looking out for each other?

Let's start a dialogue about neighbors. Sure, we say cynically that "good fences make good neighbors." But what happened to the days of the fictional Gladys Kravitzes, who kept an eye out?

I'm not suggesting that we should always be in someone's face, constantly on their doorstep borrowing the proverbial cup of sugar. But we don't even see our neighbors anymore, let alone be at least familiar with their daily pattern. I'm as guilty as most.

What have we as a society lost as a result of our lack of "neighborliness"?

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Sometimes, we need the tragedy of death to wake us up.

I never had the pleasure of knowing George Rogers, the 89-year-old Roanoker who was a local institution. He was found dead in his Northwest home last week.

But Rogers was someone I should have known. That was evident from the outpouring of palpable shock, grief and reverence shown him in death.

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In the gimmicky world of car sales, screaming pitchmen and garish ads hawk zero-percent financing! and REBATES! -- anything to increase traffic on lots decorated with cheesy inflatable figures or flapping plastic.

But over the past few days, tiny Vinton Motors has garnered attention for a modest, low-key ad in this newspaper that brought home the cold reality of the flagging American auto industry.

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As I reached for my bottle of smell-good the other morning, I inadvertently rubbed the perfume container.

When I popped off the top, a billowy smoke filled my bathroom.

As it cleared, a genie, eerily reminiscent of Denzel Washington, emerged from the bottle.

"Mistress," he asked, "what is your wish?"

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Congratulations to NFL Hall of Fame inductees Darrell Green and Art Monk. I attended college in D.C. in the early 1980s during the days of the Hogs. Like many D.C. transients, I was a bandwagon fan.

Green was immensely talented and seemed a genuinely decent guy, which as time has proved he was and is. Fans will kill me for saying this, but my recollection of Monk is that he was good, but I was a little surprised that he made the Hall. (Of course, you have to realize that coming off the 1970s, I was a big fan of the graceful Swann in Pittsburgh, so in my mind, he was the standard-bearer for all NFL wide receivers.)

As an aside, if you ever get a chance to go to the Hall of Fame in Canton, don't hesitate. I went when I was about 12 (always been a fan of the game). It was so rich and alive with history, and I'll never forget the experience. In fact, I need to make a return visit.

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Walter Williams prepares a service order for Catherine Hagan-Aylor at Boxy Swedish Cars. Her Volvo has 128,000 miles on it.

Today's column is about the Invisible Everyman.

The dry cleaners, the cleaning ladies, the baby sitters, the plumbers, the alteration guys -- in-the-background folks who perform jobs that keep our lives clicking along smoothly.

Walter Williams is one of the mechanics.

Without the Walter Williamses of the world, we'd be broken down on the side of the road somewhere, unable to get to work or pick up the kids.

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