Frustrated Fans By: Jim Gandolf

Frustrated fans while the NFL 

Officials messed up at Lucas oil Stadium  11/30/2025

By: Jim Gandolf 

WMA

Bonded & Assured 

Fan of any Indiana sports team. 

Author, and Writer 

IndyCar is the fastest racing! 

It was a frustrating day for Colts fans at Lucas Oil Stadium. While the Houston Texans won 20-16, the story of the game was arguably defined by a sequence of officiating decisions in the fourth quarter that many—including analysts and former players—believe "blew it" for Indianapolis.

Here is a breakdown of the key controversial calls and missed calls that are driving the outrage today:

1. The "Double Whammy" on the Texans' Go-Ahead Drive

The most critical sequence occurred early in the 4th quarter with the game tied 13-13. The Texans faced a daunting 3rd & 15, but two controversial officiating moments bailed them out:

 * The Missed Delay of Game: Before the snap, the play clock clearly hit 0:00. The back judge did not blow the whistle, allowing C.J. Stroud to snap the ball late. If called, this would have made it 3rd & 20.

 * The Phantom Pass Interference: On that very same play (which shouldn't have happened), Colts defensive back Kenny Moore II was flagged for defensive pass interference on receiver Xavier Hutchinson. Replays showed minimal contact that looked like standard hand-fighting.

   * The Reaction: Even former Texan J.J. Watt criticized the call on the broadcast, calling it "barely handfighting at best" and noting the "double hit" of the missed delay of game followed by the bad penalty.

   * The Impact: Instead of punting from deep in their own territory, the Texans were gifted a fresh set of downs and eventually scored the go-ahead touchdown.

2. The "Missed" Facemask on the Final Drive

Trailing 20-16 with under two minutes left, the Colts were driving to try and win the game. On a run by Jonathan Taylor, replays appeared to show a Texans defender (Calen Bullock) grasping Taylor's facemask/earhole to make the tackle.

 * The Call: No flag was thrown.

 * The Impact: A facemask penalty would have moved the Colts into the red zone with a fresh set of downs, drastically increasing their chances of a game-winning touchdown. Instead, the drive stalled, and the Colts turned it over on downs.

3. The "Good" Extra Point

After the Texans' go-ahead touchdown, kicker Ka'imi Fairbairn's extra point attempt looked like it might have sailed over the upright rather than through it.

 * The Call: The officials ruled it good. (You cannot make that up).

 * The Impact: This point forced the Colts to hunt for a touchdown on their final drive (down 20-16) rather than having the option to kick a field goal to tie (which would have been possible if the score was 19-16). Referee Clay Martin stated afterward that because the ball was above the upright, the call was not reviewable.

The Aftermath

Referee Clay Martin defended the crew in the post-game pool report, stating that the back judge has a "process" for checking the clock and ball that accounts for the delay of game no-call. However, that explanation has done little to quell the anger of fans who watched the Colts lose first place in the AFC South largely due to these swing moments.

NFL should do better here. Or does this infraction of major league mistakes that cost the Indianapolis Colts the game with no accountability to the major league mistakes from the NFL Referees and the visible effects of misconduct while selling commercials to gambling sites? Was this NFL game fixed, prove to the fans that it wasn’t? 

The UCc-1 (Universal commercial code) which is the government body overseeing all financial transactions through out the world, should find the NFL guilty of fixing games,  or an agency association with the NFL over here. Could set the matter to rest. 

There needs to be an investigation into this blatant accident of tragic events of officiating abuse, or misconduct. 

Jim Gandolf 

WMA

Bonded & Assured

I am Thankful By: Jim Gandolf

I am Thankful

Poem

By: Jim Gandolf 

©️11272025

The Grateful Road of Jim Gandolf

The story starts with a page torn out,

A divide at nine months, a shadow of doubt.

I walked the early years not knowing the face,

Of the father whose blood ran through my veins in this place.

But the calendar turned, and at four years old,

I met him at last—a memory to hold.

Yet the house held storms that a child shouldn’t know,

With a stepfather lost to the bottle's dark glow.

Abuse was the language, the air heavy and thick,

A lesson in survival I had to learn quick.

Then came the second, with a heart cold and gray,

bound for the prison, locking kindness away.

But look at the light that broke through the seams,

The abundance of family filling my dreams.

To the Uncles and Aunts who stood like a wall,

Who caught me with love when I started to fall.

And the friends who remained when the waters got rough,

Who taught me that friendship is more than enough.

I found my ignition, a fire to chase,

In the roar of the engines, the thrill of the race.

The industry held me, it kept me on track,

Motivated to move, never looking back.

For the lessons were hard, but they polished the soul,

Making me grateful, making me whole.

Then came the blessing that healed every scar,

Meeting my wife, my life’s brightest star.

To the gift of my children, the legacy grown,

The greatest compassion that I’ve ever known.

For the safety provided, for the peace now restored,

I bow up my head and I thank you, oh Lord.

For the beautiful moments, for the struggles and strife,

I am Jim Gandolf, and I am thankful for life. 

Jim Gandolf 

I am thankful for everyone who I have met,the good, and the hateful. 

What got me through the bad days  was writing and strong friendships that are even greater today. 

Grateful for my brothers and sisters. 

Thank you Mom.

Thank you stepmothers.

The Iron Cure By: Jim Gandolf

The Iron Cure

Poem

By:Jim Gandolf 

©️11212025

The Circle City faded in a gray and heavy mist,

I left behind a phantom life, a mouth I used to kiss.

The ghost of a wedding band, the sting of her betrayal,

Was beaten into rhythm by the grinding of the rail.

From Indianapolis pavement to a seat of velvet blue,

I bought a ticket for the West to find a point of view.

The engine pulled us westward, a needle through the thread,

Unstitching all the memories that rattled in my head.

We hit the Mississippi, that wide and muddy vein,

The spine of this great nation washing up against the train.

And as we crossed that water, churning dark and deep,

I felt the anger soften, I felt the sorrow sleep.

Then came the endless flatlands, the horizon stretched and taut,

Where the sky is big enough to hold a single, quiet thought.

The high and dusty desert, the sagebrush and the sand,

The medicine of motion across an unmapped land.

I sat within the viewing car, the glass a moving frame,

Where no one knew my history, and no one knew her name.

Up into the Rockies, where the air is thin and cold,

The mountains stood like giants, indifferent and old.

The snow upon the granite peaks, the eagle on the wing,

Made my broken heart appear a small and fragile thing.

I shared a drink with strangers as the sun began to sink,

We laughed about the future, clinking glass against the glass.

In the kindness of a traveler, I let the shadows pass.

We wound down through the canyons where the pine trees pierce the clouds,

Far from empty houses and the loneliness of crowds.

The Columbia River Gorge, a cut of green and gray,

Where waterfalls like ribbons washed the dust of miles away.

The river marched beside us, a guide to ocean shores,

Closing out the chapter on the life I lived before.

When Portland rose to meet me, in a coat of rain and moss,

I finally counted up the gain, and not just distinct loss.

I stepped onto the platform, a stranger to this ground,

The man who left was lost back East; the man arrived is found.

Jim Gandolf 

I went to live in Portland Oregon in a very difficult time in my life. I took an Amtrak Train from Indianapolis Indiana across the country. The people I met along the way were extremely friendly and welcoming to talk to. I wrote this poem and it was underlined beautiful by the views of our country.

The Compass in the Unexpected Place By: Jim Gandolf

“ORGANIZE”

The Compass in the Unexpected Place 

By:Jim Gandolf

©️11192025

Poem

In Milwaukee's heart, where neon signs ignite,

A stranger sought the solace of the night.

A bar, a town, a compass spinning wild,

A life unmoored, an unread, open file.

Then, by the wood, a handshake warm and true,

A kindred soul saw past the weary view.

Jimbo Struebing , a name like solid ground,

A friend you never thought could yet be found.

He spoke not of the past, nor future's dread,

But showed the power in the steps ahead.

He taught that order isn't carved in stone,

But built by choices you can call your own.

 * The first small goal, a flicker in the haze,

 * The chart you draw across the coming days.

 * A clean slate offered, free from old regret,

 * A debt of kindness you could not forget.

For organizing life is not a lock and key,

But seeing patterns where confusion used to be.

It's taking scattered thoughts, like stars astray,

And setting them to light a clearer way.

He was the map, the unexpected guide,

Who showed you where your inner strength could hide.

A stranger's gift, a friendship forged in fire,

To honor him, you must pursue your highest desire.

So let the memory of that chance meet hold,

The power of a story to unfold.

Take Jimbo's kindness, make it your own code—

To build the road on which your dreams are owed.

Jim Gandolf 

I was sitting in a bar in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in 1998. I did not know the strength of meeting someone like Jimbo Struebing, to which was one of the most strongest meetings of a new friendship. 

Jimbo is not with us anymore, he was amazing, and the structured word “organize!” I wrote this poem long ago, but I found it the other day to remind myself to organize what I am in at all times. 

Having friends, and meeting new friends, are very important. 

I knew no one in that city, and yet I met a person who didn’t know a stranger at all.

The Sunday Start By: Jim Gandolf

☀️ The Sunday Start ☀️

       Poem

       Jim Gandolf 

       ©️11162025

The calendar decrees, with quiet grace,

That Sunday claims the precedent place.

Not just a pause, a closing curtain call,

But the fresh foundation, the start of it all.

The world still sleeps, the horns are yet to blare,

A silver hush hangs in the morning air.

A sacred quiet, time to slow the pace,

The first day granted for the soul's embrace.

Why wait until the rush has taken hold?

Why save the peace until the tale is told?

Let calm preside upon the brand-new page,

To set the tone and wisdom for the age.

We build a bulwark of serenity now,

A gentle spirit, furrowed on the brow,

To gather strength, to let the mind unbend,

Before the six-day journey must extend.

Then comes the call, the sharp, insistent chime,

Of Monday's promise, Monday's steep climb.

The brief reprieve is happily resigned,

The week is waiting, tasks are close behind.

So thank the Sunday, golden, soft, and deep,

The peaceful vigil that we vow to keep.

The start that rests, the calm that clears the way,

Before we rise and meet the working day.

Jim Gandolf

A Grateful Heart on Veterans Day By:Jim Gandolf

A Grateful Heart on Veterans Day 

Poem

USA

By:Jim Gandolf

©️11112025

The eleventh day of the eleventh month returns,

A time to pause, a time where deep gratitude burns.

It isn't just a date upon the page,

But hallowed ground upon the world's great stage.

I think of those I hold so very dear,

Who faced the duty, conquering all fear;

My own beloved kin, my trusted friends,

Whose service story never truly ends.

From distant lands beneath a foreign sun,

To quiet posts when the day's work is done,

They stood for freedoms that we freely keep,

While others watch and while the weary sleep.

I see the discipline, the steadfast grace,

The willingness to stand within the breach and face

Whatever came—the challenge, pain, or strife,

To guard the precious, fragile gift of life.

The uniforms they wore, now folded neat,

Hold memories of marching, dust, and heat.

But more than fabric, they hold lessons learned:

Of honor given, and of respect well earned.

So today, I look at each of you and smile,

Knowing the cost of every hard-won mile.

Your sacrifice is felt in all we do,

In every joy and peace that sees us through.

This Veterans Day, the flag flies high and true, United States of America.

A simple, yet profound, "Thank You" for all you do, and have done.

Jim Gandolf 

Note:

For my Grandfather’s, Father, Uncles, Sisters, Brothers, and friends of my family & your family.

For the unknown soldiers that have kept us free. 



The Echo of the Years By: Jim Gandolf

The Echo of the Years

Poem 

By: Jim Gandolf 

©️11092025

The breath is drawn, the first faint cry is heard,

A fragile vessel in a boundless sea,

And life begins, with every spoken word,

And every choice that sets the spirit free.

The deeds are sown, like seeds in fertile ground,

A tapestry of moments, fine and coarse,

In every silence, every joyous sound,

A river finding its eternal course.

The Forge and the Shadow

He builds his towers, stone by stubborn stone,

He battles shadows only he can see,

He loves with strength, and he can stand alone,

Or falter where true courage ought to be.

The promises he kept, the vows he broke,

The kindness lent without a thought of gain,

The heavy burden that he bravely took,

The solace offered in another's pain.

The River Flows to Sea

No moment vanishes, no act is lost,

Though time may blur the edges of the day;

The gain that came at what unmeasured cost,

The path not taken that still lights the way.

For in the quiet chambers of the soul,

Where final reckoning must finally meet,

These actions rise to make the spirit whole,

Or leave the memory incomplete.

Eternity's Archive

The flesh may fade, the earthly name grow dim,

The works of hand return to dust and air,

But what he was, held in the cosmic hymn,

Remains a constant presence, deep and rare.

For what a man does in his fleeting time,

The character he forged, the love he gave,

Ascends beyond the measure and the clime,

And echoes on beyond the final wave.

Jim Gandolf 

Note: In Milwaukee, Wisconsin; I was sitting on a park bench in the year of 2004, while my young son was playing at a park along the Lake Michigan shoreline. A older man sat down next to me on the bench, and we had a  conversation (Most people that know me, also know I talk to everyone. Some people call it the gift gabbing or, I call it, I love conversation).This man name was Frank, and he said something to me that was so profound, “What a man does in his lifetime, stays with him for eternity!” I wrote a poem on that phrase. 



The Unyielding Climb By Jim Gandolf

The Unyielding Climb 

Poem 

By: Jim Gandolf 

©️11082025

From the moment the first breath was drawn, a shadow fell,

The whispers started, tales they loved to tell.

Your rising tide they could not understand,

They watched your striving with a jealous hand.

For every success, a sidelong glance they threw,

Wishing the sunlight would not shine on you.

Small Victories, Hard-Won Ground

The road ahead is paved with stones you've turned,

Each tiny stride a lesson fiercely learned.

You stumbled hard, you felt the bitter sting,

A skirmish lost, the weary bells would ring.

You counted losses, nursed the aching soul,

And thought perhaps you'd never reach the goal.

But in that dust, beneath the weight of doubt,

A stubborn ember would not be put out

   The battle lost is not the final score,

  The war is waged until you close the door.

The Breath of Persistence

They wait to see you fall, to watch you yield,

To claim the barren, unproductive field.

But look within, where fire still resides,

Where quiet, iron-willed resolve abides.

Each rising sun presents the chance anew,

To mend the broken, see the vision through.

The critics fade when action takes the lead,

You plant the future with the present seed.

So stand up tall, though weary from the fray,

Though setbacks steal the comfort of the day.

For as long as life still pulses in your chest,

Your truest, grandest purpose stands the test.

Keep moving forward, don't accept defeat,

The taste of triumph will be truly sweet.

Jim Gandolf

Seven at the Speedway ‘72 By: Jim Gandolf

Seven at the Speedway, '72

Poem

11052025

The sun hung warm, a perfect summer haze,

Above the track in those bright, long-gone days.

I stood at seven, small beside my kin,

The roar of '72 was pouring in.

The Grandstands rose, a concrete, patient tide,

Behind the pits where all the magic hide.

My brother, two years older, stood my guard,

While Dad went down to Gasoline Alley, hard

At work, with owners, drivers, in the fray,

Handling the business that would make the day.

We were alone, a temporary break,

With all the sights a young heart could take.

The Practice sessions buzzed with heavy sound,

The different shapes of metal all around.

In screaming reds and blues and golds they flew,

A spectrum bright, exciting, fresh, and new.

We had our feast, no worry in the air,

Just easy trust and helpful folks everywhere.

But what I loved, that voice that filled the space,

The Announcer's call, setting the pace!

Each shift of gear, each slowing for the turn,

Each vital lap the drivers had to learn.

His words cut through the engine's mighty drone,

A narrative just for us, and us alone.

Then came the sight, a sight so strange and grand,

Hotdog wrappers dancing on the sand!

A silver army, whisked by sudden breeze,

They tumbled 'round the asphalt, quite at ease.

We watched them drift, a funny, fleeting show,

A little chaos where the great cars go.

That scent of fuel, the heat upon my skin,

The thrilling sense of where my Dad had been.

That day remains, cemented, clear, and true,

An unforgettable practice day view in 1972!

Jim Gandolf

1969 at the Brickyard Gate Poem By Jim Gandolf

“Indianapolis Motor Speedway Museum in 1969 as a four-year-old boy. I was known as Jimmy Gandolf, some people in the family called me “Jamie” LOL 

I wrote this a long time ago in Port Washington  Wisconsin in 1982 in a notebook that I had kept  today I trademarked it.” A  note on this poem. 

——————————————————

1969 at the Brickyard Gate

Poem 

By Jim Gandolf 

©️11032025

The summer sun, a 1969 gold,

Shone bright above the tales about to unfold.

A small hand gripped, beneath a grown-up's might,

We stood beside the road in morning light.

Not yet the roar, the track's vast, churning sound,

But 16th Street was consecrated ground.

And there it stood, near Crawfordsville Road's wide sweep,

A place where history's great secrets sleep.

The Museum's Door

The IMS Museum, a temple grand and tall,

We stepped inside, escaping summer's thrall.

My world, so new, where every sight was vast,

Held moments from the speedway's glorious past.

The air was cool, a hush before the storm,

My four-year-old attention kept me warm.

And then I saw them, lined up, row on row,

The chariots of speed from long ago.

The Silver Legends

Race cars gleaming, polished, sharp, and lean,

The mightiest machines I'd ever seen.

Their bodies curved, a metal, silver grace,

Each one had known that legendary pace.

I gazed upon the ghosts of triumph past,

The 500 winners, built to hold and last.

The Borg-Warner trophy, shining bright,

Reflected wonder in a child's wide sight.

The tiny fins, the engines big and deep,

While grown-ups spoke of records they would keep,

I simply stared, too young for lore or name,

Just captivated by the racing flame.

A Fascination Born

That day, the wonder took a solid hold,

A story in my young heart to be told.

The Greatest Spectacle, though seen from far,

Was captured in the form of a metal star.

A quiet magic on that sunlit day,

Where racing legends seemed to come and play.

My heart was stolen in 1969

Jim Gandolf

The Ledger of the Moment By: Jim Gandolf

The Ledger of the Moment 

Poem 

By: Jim Gandolf 

©️11032025

I stand upon the edge of now, a point unseen,

Where past and future meet, a razor-thin demesne.

A scale suspended in the void, no anchor, no known base,

This balance of all time, held only in this space.

The left pan holds the Echoes:

The empires dust, the lover's sigh,

The countless ages flashing by.

A weight of what has been and gone,

From first faint light to setting sun.

It groans beneath the pressure vast,

Of every moment that has passed.

The right pan waits for what is Coming:

The unspent breath, the yet-to-be,

The seed that struggles to be free.

The unknown futures, bright or dim,

A calculation on a whim.

It shivers with the potential deep,

Of promises the ages keep.

And I, the fulcrum, feel the sway,

As yesterdays give way to day.

No one perceives this subtle lean,

The constant shift, the in-between.

They measure seconds, swift and small,

But miss the tipping point of all.

They see the hands upon the clock,

But not the granite where I rock.

Is one grain heavier, or light?

Does memory outweigh the sight

Of what the morrow has in store?

The answer stays behind the door.

I hold the tension, taut and true,

The imbalance only known to few.

For in this perfect, fragile poise,

Lies all of history's faint noise,

And all the silence yet to rise.

Jim Gandolf

The River’s Everlasting Journey By Jim Gandolf

The River's Everlasting Journey 

Poem

From: Jim Gandolf 

©️11012025

From heights unseen, where glacial tears descend,

A silver thread begins, where mountains bend.

A tiny whisper, trickling, cool, and clear,

A newborn brooklet, banishing all fear.

It gathers strength from springs and sudden rains,

And rushes down the slopes and rocky lanes,

Gaining a voice, a vibrant, rushing sound,

As the mountain stream leaps over solid ground.

It leaves the stone, the shadowed, craggy peak,

To thread the valley, humble, mild, and meek.

It slows and deepens, widening its span,

Now a true river, flowing as it can.

Upon its banks, the willows softly lean,

Reflecting skies of blue and mossy green.

The kingfisher darts, a flash of sapphire bright,

The otters play in morning's gentle light.

Beneath the surface, silent, swift, and cold,

The trout and salmon tell their stories old,

Pushing upstream against the current's might,

Driven by ancient instinct, day and night.

It winds past fields where farming folk reside,

A working mirror, where their hopes abide.

It turns the mill wheel, aids the thirsty crops,

Before it meets the towns, where its pace drops.

The bridges arch, where daily traffic flows,

And from its docks, the steady barges go.

It carries whispers of the shores it's passed,

A tireless traveler, ever built to last.

At last, it feels the tide's mysterious pull,

The air grows salty, rich, and beautiful.

Its fresh and mighty waters start to blend,

The long, long journey coming to an end.

Into the estuary, wide and vast,

Its separate identity is overpast.

It pours itself into the boundless sea,

Completing its great cycle, wild and free.

A living pulse from mountain unto shore,

The river flows, and will forevermore.

Jim Gandolf