Tom E. Curran • E-mail

I’ve kissed the kids on the tops of their heads and told them to please put down the seat, put out the trash, take care of the recycling, make their beds, read a little and keep their *&*&#^ hands to themselves.

I’ve neutered the pug and told it to stop snoring.

I didn’t tell my wife anything. I informed her I loved her, assured her I’d miss her and promised I’d behave.

Between April and July, I spent more time on baseball fields with my kids than I really should have, threw over 10,000 pitches and took line drives in the shin, chin, thigh and – impossibly – the left armpit.

I didn’t change the oil on the minivan. Or the car. I didn’t get my eyes checked or heart tested. I didn’t visit my aunt and uncle in Vermont or play golf with Dolf, Steveo and Mick. I didn’t reinvent my swing. My driveway remains unsealed, the mulch never got put down and I think the Japanese Beetles are going to do untold damage in the next few weeks.

I failed to get a savage tan for the 40th consecutive year.

No matter. My football season has begun. I am rested. I am ready.

Between July 24 and Aug. 22, I will take the Patriots emotional temperature, assess the feasibility of a Giants repeat, figure out if the Eagles are headed north or south in the NFC East, get a read on the Colts, reconnoiter with the Redskins and watch the Hall of Fame induction ceremonies.

Then I will put eyes on Big Ben and the Steelers, double-check to make sure the Cowboys are still rudderless under Wade Phillips, see if Matt Leinart put any time into getting better at football for the Cardinals, get an eyeful of Mike Holmgren’s final training camp with the Seahawks, measure the dysfunction in Oakland and – finally – see if there’s anything shaking in Green Bay.

I will drive to the first six stops on my junket and will be forced to pull over and take a nap when pounding myself in the thigh and screaming the lyrics to “Radar Love” won’t keep me awake. I will turn dirty underwear inside out and wear it anyway. I will eat bacon and eggs via room service in the middle of the afternoon. I will find a batting cage near one of my hotels and see if I can foul off a few in the “very fast” cage. I will send in a few stories I really like. I will write a few that (in the parlance of the NFL), I’d like to have back. I will leave my cell phone charger somewhere.

I will wonder why “Redskins” is still an OK nickname for an NFL team when I know that “Brownskins” or “Yellowskins” or “Pale Irishskins” wouldn’t make the cut. I will interview players that, though covered with grass, sweat and fatigue after a practice in 90-degree heat, will patiently take the time to answer questions they’ve already fielded. I will interview players who wouldn’t pee on me if I were on fire. I will interrupt a player in the middle of a good answer with an inane observation. And I will pledge to stop doing that when I listen to myself on tape.

Special feature Darkhorses Tom Curran looks at which teams may shock you in 2008

I will talk to the beat writers at every stop and thank them being patient with my dumb questions. I will be helped immeasurably by media relations people from every team I visit and will get 1-on-1 access with stretched-to-the-limit coaches who are good enough to take the time even though I might write that their team has as much chance of making the playoffs as I do of dunking over Yao Ming. 

I will monitor the movements of the other people lucky enough to have jobs like mine – national NFL writers bopping from camp to camp. And I will love every minute of my odyssey except for the minutes when I am wishing I could just be at Ted Williams Camp in Lakeville, Mass., throwing batting practice to my kids until we can’t see the ball and hearing them say, “Thanks, Dad,” when we get into the minivan.

Which needs an oil change.