Ron Kantowski on the Pred-Heads, blaring rock music, some unpopular barbecue pork and the track-meet score of ArenaBowl XX at the Thomas & Mack Center

Monday, June 12, 2006 | 7:24 a.m.

When it comes to tackle football, I'm what you would call a Red Grange-type. I've never been able to get my leather helmet around the concept of playing the game in a humidor, which is one way to describe the Arena Football League.

I mean, if you're going to go fly fishing, shouldn't it be on a river in Idaho, not in the upstairs bathroom?

If you're going to run with bulls, shouldn't it be in the streets of Pamplona, (or at least on a basketball court in Chicago), not in a parking lot in Omaha?

If you're going to read Tolstoy, shouldn't it be from cover to cover, not CliffsNotes?

(OK, bad analogy on the last one. But you get the idea.)

After spending most of Sunday at the Thomas & Mack Center, where the Chicago Rush defeated the Orlando Predators in ArenaBowl XX by the Penn Relays score of 69-61, I still think Arena football is only slightly less wacky than your crazy Uncle Leo.

But I am willing to concede that football played between dasher boards instead of the 20s is like a trip to your mother-in-law's: If you approach it with an open mind, you can survive.

Provided, of course, you invest in a good set of earplugs.

It was 9:45 a.m. when I arrived at the House That Tark Built. But the loud music - a pulsating techno anthem called "Take Me Out" by Franz Ferdinand - was already racing up the decibel chart at the ArenaBowl Fan Fest out front.

The guy next to me was reinventing the Watusi. He didn't seem to mind the volume being turned up to "11."

It might have had something to do with those green foam things protruding from his ear canals.

9:46 a.m.

I duck inside the Aaron Rent's tent just before my eardrums liquify. Loud music: None. But the "Dream Team" Arena Football League cheerleading squad is autographing posters for lonely - er, appreciative - male fans.

Next to the queue at the Budweiser stand and the one forming at the port-a-pottys nearby, it is the longest line on the midway.

10:05 a.m.

Music blaring in foreground: "Highway to Hell," by AC-DC.

It's as if I have stumbled into a jersey convention on Neptune. Most fans are strolling around Fan Fest wearing shirts of what I assume to be their favorite Arena football teams. Most look more foreign to me than Canadian money.

Finally, I spot a young man wearing a white baseball jersey with yellow trim and "Chico's Bail Bonds" emblazoned on the back.

Alex Mendibles, who recently moved from Tucson to Las Vegas, says he is looking forward to seeing his first Arena Football League game. But he isn't too familiar with the players.

So I ask him who's No. 12, the number on the back of his "Bad News Bears" jersey.

"Tanner Boyle," he says without hesitating. "The shortstop."

10:11 a.m.

Music blaring in foreground: "Won't Get Fooled Again" by the Who.

I notice a pork sandwich booth on the midway. There's not a single person standing in line.

These can't be real Chicago fans, I think. If they were, there would be at least three dozen guys with bad mustaches dressed up like Chris Farley and George Wendt standing in line for breakfast.

10:20 a.m.

Music blaring in foreground: "Round and Round," by Ratt.

Three guys from Long Island sporting $150 custom hard hats adorned with flames and New York Dragons decals are standing in line at the U.S. Army booth. Two are wearing Dragons jerseys with the names "Biscuit" and "BBQ" on back. The other, "Beans," is wearing one of Jerome Bettis' old Steelers jerseys because the Dragons' ones apparently don't come in size 3XL.

"How long you guys gonna be out here?" I ask.

"Until we melt," Beans says with a Gabe Kotter accent.

I tell Bisquit, BBQ and Beans there's absolutely no waiting at the pork sandwich line.

10:30 a.m.

Music blaring in foreground. One of those Lenny Kravitz songs.

A 40-something couple emerges from the climate-controlled Aaron's tent. At first blush, it appears they've been together for a while, other than they are smiling and seem totally content with each other's company.

Over the years, Bruce and Christine Merevick of Round Lake Beach, Ill., have followed the Rush to Detroit, Indianapolis, Grand Rapids, Denver, Phoenix and now, to somewhere where they don't roll up the sidewalks at 9 o'clock.

The highlight of their Las Vegas trip? Bumping into Mike Ditka, co-owner of Da Rush, at breakfast Sunday morning.

"Did you talk to him?" I ask Bruce, a computer programmer.

"Nope," he says. "He was doing an interview at ESPNZone. I didn't want to bother him."

I told Merevick that was probably a good idea, given he was wearing a Chicago jersey with a big No. 9 on it, the number that Ditka nemesis Jim McMahon wore for the Super Bowl Bears.

"No, no, no," Merevick corrects me. "That's (Rush WR/LB) Bobby Sippio's number."

11:45 a.m.

Music blaring in foreground: "Shout It Out Loud" by Kiss.

Four grown men and one pint-sized lad wearing Gothic-looking Predators headgear and body armor are scaring the bejeezus out of passers-by on the concourse.

They look as if they just stepped off the set of Rob Zombie's latest video. But they are a lot more approachable than they appear.

Richard Grabe, who works for the city of Orlando, said the "Pred Heads," as the group calls itself, are actually lambs in warlock clothing. They even bowl on the same team.

"Actually, we're more like a drinking team that likes to bowl," said one of the Pred Heads, explaining a lot of things that mystify and amaze with that one simple sentence.

12:11-3 p.m.

Loud music blaring in background: Jock Jams, Volumes I, II, III, IV, V, etc.

ArenaBowl XX is played. Most of the ... let's just call them "interesting" ... fans I talked to before the game are now semi-paying attention to it. But at least there a lot of them in the seats (13,476) this year.

Guys in football uniforms representing dots on the college football map such as Otterbein and Illinois Benedictine and C.W. Post and Colorado School of Mines slam one another into the boards.

They kick and sometimes even throw the khaki-colored football, which looks like a giant walnut, off the big fishing nets that are strung up on each side of the hockey rink to keep the game moving.

They score a lot of touchdowns.

The guy on the public address system yells a lot.

Then the game ends.

Afterward, the losing coach blames the loss on that "dang iron shot."

The winning coach says it was a good thing the other team got penalized for standing too close to the fishing net.

I write it all down, like I know what they're talking about.

Then the winning coach reaches out to lovingly tap his quarterback on the arm. Either the lights in the media room are too bright or he becomes emotional, because there are tears in his eyes.

"We're all in Arena football for a reason," says the winning coach. "A lot of guys here were told they weren't good enough by somebody. So they had to pick their pride off the floor and do it the hard way."

I don't think he meant without earplugs.

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