The PreGame

I’m not going to say it. You’ve seen it before: “Surname — first name, surname.”

My last name has too many syllables for that to be an effective introduction. Besides, there are other ways to show my love for James Bond.

I could gush about his swagger. His cars. His suits. Wit. Hand-to-hand combat skills. Gadgets. Propensity to attract desirable females. Courage. Marksmanship. Accent.

When I was 13 years old, I lost the most important pillow fight of my life.

I had recently moved to a new town and had one entire friend, “Lefty.” The fourth or fifth time we ever hung out, we grew bored with video games and set our sights on another form of simulated violence. We agreed on parameters — 10 rounds, one pillow per person, no shots to the groin — and squared off.

Happy Halloween, everybody. Once again, the doctor is in.

If you don’t remember from last year — or if the character you dressed up as lacks the capacity to remember (many zombies, werewolves and Charlie Sheens have this problem) — I established in this space that what you pick for your Halloween costume sends a message to everyone, inviting them a peek into your subconscious.

I know that given the 24-hour news cycle these days, four days can seem like a generation — the important happenings of our ancestors bearing little importance on the immediacy of the now. But can we revisit what happened four days ago?

I know that the key to this weekend is going to be a water buffalo hat.

I’m just not sure what form that hat will take.

You see, on a classic episode of “The Flintstones,” Fred needs to be in two places at once: one, his daughter Pebbles’ birthday party; the other, a Water Buffalo Lodge function. In a manic rush between the two events, he forgets to remove his water buffalo hat for Pebbles’ party, outing him as a scoundrel and an absent father.

The Beaufort Shrimp Festival is never a particularly cheery time under the sea, but for Detlef Shrimpf, chancellor of the Shellfish League, the increased scrutiny must make it seem like he’s in a pressure cooker.

I wrote this column at the last minute.

(And I’ll save you the the trouble: “Oh, you mean you don’t do that every time?”)

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I must be honest. I’m a procrastinator.

I’ve been in the game for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I just always thought that everything else was more fun than doing my schoolwork, so that’s what I did. The stakes rose in high school, but so did the hormones. When there was studying to be done, I just slept instead, or if I couldn’t, I was moody. Once I got to college there was Facebook, and all bets were off.

What do you bring to a 1-year-old’s birthday party?

It’s a question I’ve found myself asking more often these days, as more friends have reached the age when birthday parties for 1-year-olds are something they throw. For most birthday gifts, I try to place myself in the shoes of the intended recipient, but it’s been so long since I’ve been 1 that I can’t really recall what I enjoyed back then — I figure soft things and noisy things, but that’s hardly a scientific estimation.

The percussion of African drums slowly grows from a faint murmur.

As it gets louder, you think it might just be Jumanji, but the Elton John-penned ballad that starts to play confirms this isn’t the case. Soon, the noise is all around you, and things become clear ... There’s more to be seen, than can ever be seen. … an unavoidable stampede, a media blitz. Get out your remotes, it’s ...

The ciiiiiiiiiiiiiircle of liiiiiiife!

When it comes to watching football, schadenfreude is as welcome on Saturdays and Sundays as an order of chicken wings.

The concept is the root of the best rivalries: It’s almost as much fun to see your enemies fail as it is to see your own team succeed. The Red Sox have their Yankees, the Gamecocks their Tigers, the Lakers their Celtics and vices versa. As a Green Bay Packer fan, I’ve always had plenty of things to root against: the Bears, the Vikings, healthy food.

This year, as the NFL season begins, I’ve found something new: Eli Manning.