Day 132: Dinner Well Done

It's been a long day. Best way to top it off? Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and rolls all made by me. It doesn't get better than that. Well maybe it does but not tonight.

Day 131: Basketball, I Heart You, Part II*

* (To read Part I, go here.) 

I've been thinking a lot about basketball lately and how much the game has meant to me and how much it has done for me. And I'm not talking about winning and losing games or putting on a uniform or filling my ego by proving I'm better than the guy guarding me. I'm not talking about the challenges or the thrill of winning or agony of losing or trying to relive glory days in some rec league with a bunch of other guys who smell like Ben-Gay. Those days are long, long past for me. 

I'm talking about all the late nights that basketball gave me a platform on which to just think, just be alone, and just contemplate my last move or the move I needed to make next. 

I'm talking about all those late summer nights I spent in my isolated small town on the driveway, dribbling away countless hours with my friends, talking about girls, talking about  dreams, talking about where we'd rather be, and who we wanted to be with. 

I'm talking about hour after hour of shooting free throws and jump shots, retrieving ball after ball that found its way into a bush or rolled down the street and doing it all over again gladly and willingly. 

I'm talking about night after night having a safe haven to go to when no other place in the world seemed nearly inviting. 

Basketball has always been my safe haven, my sanctuary. A court, any court, has always been my temple. I've literally prayed on the driveway while banking layup after layup off the bank board. I cursed life doing the same. I've thanked the spirits for the fortune I was afforded and questioned out loud "why me?" 

As recently as last night, I stood in the dark all alone on the court outside my house, listening to the ricochets of my dribbling ball shoot off the houses surrounding the circle. I'm fairly confident I routinely piss my neighbors off by pounding the ball of the pavement as the clock approaches and then passes their bedtimes. I'm quite certain they feel the exact annoyance and frustration my mom and dad felt all those years ago when the clock would hit midnight and I was still banging shots off the rim. I would have kept on going if not for my dad yelling out the bedroom window, "God damn it, stop with the ball already!" 

I guess I'm willing to live with the scorn of those I'm pissing off in return for some alone time under the stars. I don't like to run (although I've begrudgingly started up again in the past months), and I don't know anything about cars or carpentry or anything else that could   preoccupy my mind and time. I know how to dribble and shoot, and I know that doing it helps me put things in perspective. It's cleansing and it somehow repairs and strengthens my faith and resolve. I've given up trying to understand how or why; I just thank God for the gift. 

Beyond returning me my sanity more times than I count, basketball has also given me relationships with people a lot older and younger and different than me. The basketball court is the one place I know of where my daughter and I can meet and everything is perfect. The court is where on many occasions I laughed until my stomach hurt while the late, great Kevin Kitrell cracked joke after joke. It's where I opened my ears and was rewarded with endless life lessons from the late, great Dave Schofield. It's where I coached boys and girls and watched them grow as players and people, watched them compete, and witnessed them take pride in themselves and take pleasure in their big and small successes. The court is where I learned humility and what hard work can give you. It's where I experience the greatest of joys and the worst rejections. 

I love the fact that when I meet a "basketball" person, I instantly know it. I love that I've played basketball with people of numerous races, cultural backgrounds, religious beliefs, musical interests, etc., and none of that mattered in the least. I love that I've walked onto courts and instantly started playing a game with nine strangers and we all were somehow on the same page without a word being spoken. There's an unspoken language that basketball people share that instinctual and fascinating and I'd argue that's important.

Basketball gave me a way to earn my dad's pride. It gave me way to connect with my older cousins, with my sister. It gave me a way to pass on knowledge to my daughter who plays. It gave me the time to get in a few games of "PIG" while sharing random thoughts with my other kids who don't play. 

I guess I've been thinking about basketball so much lately because my daughter shows the same love of the game when I watch her practice with her team. I've also been thinking about all the guys I spent so many summer nights with traveling to Council Bluffs to play in summer leagues and get in fights and get drunk and then get back on with life. I've been thinking about the guys I used to play with that aren't around anymore and how I know they loved the game just as much, if not more than me. I've been thinking about Coach Thorell and hard lessons he taught and how they served me well. I've been thinking about the coaches who couldn't teach or lend encouragement and how that made me just as strong. I've been thinking about the Lakers and the Celtics and the 76ers and if I'll ever feel the way about another man as I did about Dr. J. 

I'm guessing that as long as my knees hold out and as long as I can afford to have a basketball hoop, I'll always retreat to the court when I need to do some soul searching. I can't remember a time in my life when I  didn't have a basketball around, and I can't imagine a day ahead when the same won't be true. 

So much more than a game. 

Day 130, Thanks, RJ

Man, there’s something magical watching your kid from the outside in, witnessing her so full of life and so full of joy. Today, I did just that, just observing my little girl from outside her pre-school classroom, seeing her sitting there along with all the other little ones in her class, all cute and happy and absorbed in their little lives.

There’s something indescribable about knowing without question that your child is floating in her own little universe where nothing dark or foreboding or sinister is at work and nothing detrimental can reach her. There’s no danger looming. There aren’t threats imminent. She just exists in this glorious and enthusiastic and enthralling place.

I wish more than anything I could wrap that security and safety up and stow it away in her little backpack so that she could take it wherever she went. She could whip it out when she felt frightened or scared of the dark or lonely or overwhelmed and revel in instant pleasure.

I also wish more than anything I had more time to just watch and observe, just let that joy consume me. When I went into her classroom today after school was over and she so proudly showed me the Mother’s Day card she painted all by herself, I pretty much melted into a pool of pride and contentment. Watching her trying to contain her eagerness to give her mom the card, along with a little plant she potted in a Dixie cup, was about as much fun and pleasure as I’ve felt in months.

Life introduces a lot of obstacles and difficulties and challenges throughout the day. Some days, in fact, it seems that is all fills the hours. But man, if you just slow things down and live within the minute without looking back at the last one or looking forward to the next one, you’ll witness things that can brighten you. You’ll witness occurrences that ooze beauty. Some days play out as being mundane and ordinary and anything but special, but I’m recognizing it doesn’t take a once-a-year event or special day like a wedding or birthday or holiday to induce happiness. Turn yourself over to the possibilities and make yourself available to the opportunities and you can have that goodness a hell of a lot more often than may seem possible.

My daughter teaching me something every day without ever realizing it.  

Day 129: The Worst Job I Ever Had

I get paid to write for a living. I literally write five days a week every week. That means I spend most of my waking hours with multiple deadlines hanging over my head. That used to bother me, but I don’t really even think about it anymore. I write about technology, and good chunk of the material is really complicated and really on the cutting edge. For some topics, like new hardware or software, for example, there’s literally no background or reference material from which to work from. You’re it. Many of the interviews I do are with engineers and software developers and IT and CEOs and CIOs and others with advanced degrees, advanced vocabularies, and advanced IQs. Keeping up is a struggle some days.

Still, I’m beyond thankful to be a writer and do what I do. I get to string words together and get paid for it. I get to construct ideas into new shapes. I get to learn about new advances, sometimes years before the general public takes an interest. I get to interact with people with brilliant minds and ideas and visions. I get a glimpse on almost a daily basis at the near and distant future. It’s often fascinating, and it’s sometimes mind-blowing. Moreover, I’m thankful to be a writer because I’ve had plenty of jobs that were anything but personally gratifying and that didn’t motivate me and that didn’t serve any other purpose but to make a buck.

Over the years, I’ve laid sod hour after hour on hot summer days, landscaped yards, painted houses, stocked books for next to nothing, dug hole after hole down long city streets to plant trees, and more. In the landscaping job, I worked with the same lazy, piece of crap owner of the business every single day. He did 10% of the work and took 100% of the credit. While working for a nursery, I also worked with the same guy every day, except he didn’t have an off button. His motor never stopped, and because he was hell-bent on making his superiors notice his effort in an attempt to be promoted, he didn’t want me dragging him down. I’m eternally grateful for my boss while painting houses, but he, too, was a workaholic, and there was no keeping up with him, even if I wanted to. Besides that, shutting every window in a new house when it’s 100 degrees outside spending the next eight hours with no air conditioning just so bugs don’t make their way on a fresh coat of wall paint gets old really fast.

The worst job I had, though, was working in an industrial plant that manufactured “tanks and containment solutions for the bulk storage, processing and transportation of a wide variety of liquid, solid, and dry materials.” Think those big, green tanks you see on farms or tanks used to house industrial waste. I spent two summers of my life while making my way through college working there, and I count them as the two most depressing summers of my life.

The first summer, my job was to repair the fiberglass fuel tanks that the company made and sold to the military, which used them in their own tanks of the blowing up kind. After the guys who built the tank were done, I tested them by plugging up all the valves, piping air in, slopping on a watery-soap solution, and looked for bubbles to form. If a bubble popped up, that meant leak, so I then took a power sander, sanded away layer after layer of fiberglass, and set about filling the hole with layer after layer of new fiberglass. Sounds easy enough, but it wasn’t.

First, fiberglass is itchy. Really itchy. Second, to hold the fiberglass layers together, we used coats of resin in between. If you don’t keep resin cooled at a certain temperature, it begins smoking and gets hot really damn fast. Flames ensue. Resin also stains the skin yellow, stinks, and leaves a bad taste in the mouth from the fumes.

Second, I worked with a guy named Bob. He claimed to be a Vietnam vet (he literally took cover when helicopters would fly overhead), claimed to be an ex-Triple AAA baseball player (he did wear a decrepit White Sox hat), and was basically full of crap in just about everything he said. Despite having amassed three DWIs, being a hopeless alcoholic, being on work release from jail, and having his paychecks immediately taken by the county to pay his back child support, I was fond of Bob. He was funny, he was a good worker, and his stories (whether true or not) kept me going until quitting time. I was glad to drive Bob around during the lunch hour and buy him a Little Debbie now and again.

Beyond Bob stories, the only other saving grace of that summer was I was one of only a handful of people who didn’t have to work inside, and being outdoors was a godsend. The next summer that changed. I moved indoors but basically did the same job. Bob was no longer there, though. One day the previous summer toward the end of my stay, he carried out a plot he’d been scheming all summer long. It involved a self-inflicted wound. Bob was tired of not seeing any money for his toil, so he decided it was time to pull checks without having to work for them. This meant that one afternoon while we both were carrying a 200-pound or so fuel tank from one end of the plant to the other, he dropped his end straight on his knee. I was told he spent the next few weeks in a hospital bed drawing worker’s comp. He pulled off the plan to perfection.

Instead of Bob, that next summer I was surrounded by a dozen or so literal bad-asses who left me scared virtually every second of the day. Even as the summer progressed and they warmed up to me a little, I was terrified. Why? I have no statistics to back this up, but through word of mouth, listening, and observation, I estimate roughly 90% of these guys were either on work release or had served prison time. The countless prison and jailhouse stories they told backed up my estimate. And I’ll assure you that the stories they told weren’t of the “prison food is so bad” or “I lifted weights all day” variety. They were of the violence and defiling your manhood type, and my teenaged-mind believed every last word.

Beyond the constant dread of being shived for saying something stupid, over my two summers there I counted maybe four or five other people out of dozens who didn’t smoke. Thus, on the days I could find the lunchroom through the thick cloud of cigarette smoke floating from it, I immediately bolted right back out after entering in a raging coughing fit. To top all this off, me and about everyone else there whose clothes weren’t dirty were paid peanuts to do dirty, grimy, thankless work day in and day out. I knew I wouldn’t be there forever, so it wasn’t too difficult for me to keep my eye on the prize. Others, though, weren’t so lucky.

I think about that job from time to time when I think something is too difficult or I can see an end in sight. I know firsthand many people who never get out of such situations, whether they lack the drive to get themselves out or the cards are such hopelessly stacked against them. Would I rather be a retired professional baseball player or getting set to take the stage with my bandmates at Madison Square Garden? Hell yeah. But I’m smart enough to know how fortunate I am to be where I’m at. I worked hard to get here, and I work hard to stay here, but it pay to reflect from time to time upon where you’ve been and how easily everything could change tomorrow. 

Day 128: Goodbye, Maurice

Seems like the death train for people I really admire and respect just keeps on rolling. Without trying to sound flippant, such is life. It gives and it takes away. With Maurice Sendak, life took away a man who literally brought joy to millions of children throughout the world. Think about that. This isn't some fictional character like Santa Clause or the Easter Bunny we're talking about. This was a living, breathing, walking, talking, and drawing man who gave children of all ages the gift of wonder and adventure and possibilities. More importantly, he gave them a love of books, opening up the idea that books can spring open countless possibilities and magic and worlds.

Even if you don't read a single word of "Where The Wild Things Are," you know you're in the depths of something fantastically beautiful as you turn the pages. As scary as the monsters might seem initially, and as gruff as Max might seem upon your first encounter, the book is utterly engrossing visually. It connects in a way that's indescribable. It destroys boundaries and limitations for children. It makes the impossible possible.

One of the reason I've always loved Sendak and particularly "Where The Wild Things Are" is because he and the book seemingly put all the power in the hands of children, as well as the responsibility of making decisions. Max is held accountable primarily because he is loved. He knows he is loved by the monsters. They beg him not to leave. He knows what the sadness of having to depart from loved ones means, but he also learns what unconditional love can bring. In the end, when Max's mother has left him a plate of supper in his room, Max knows what unconditional love is, and so do children reading the book. Sendak, in a single image, has captured what being a child who is loved by loving parents is truly about.

I wrote about "Where The Wild Things Are" and what it has meant to me and my relationship with my own children way back on Day 50. Today, all those words only carry more weight for me.

With utter sincerity, thank you, Maurice Sendak for the gifts of imagination and love and wonder and adventure. 

Day 127: Give Me Your Money; You Won't Regret It

Today, I signed up for the People's City Mission Run For The Homeless event. This is the event's fourth year but the second that I'll participate. I couldn't be happier and more proud to do so. 


By far, participating last year was one of the most gratifying and positive things I've done in many, many years that had nothing to do at all with me. With the help of the two adults in the photo above (my beautiful wife and my partner in crime/best friend), we raised more than $1,600 for the homeless population of Lincoln, NE. Alone, my friends and families and co-workers and so many others helped me raise $1,000-plus. It was more than I ever expected, and honestly, it opened my mind and heart to how positive and giving not only people in general can be but the people that I've surrounded myself with specifically. I've done well in my life picking and choosing those who I've let in. They're good, decent, kindhearted individuals who take generosity and compassion seriously. 


There's something inherently good about giving. It's just right. It's warming and soothing and endearing. It's spiritual. It is the essence of life and being human and humane. There really is something special about looking those you're helping right in the eyes and knowing why the effort is worth it and knowing why there's no thanks needed after the deed has been done. 


Over the years, I've given to a lot of causes that I believe in and that I am proud to support, but my giving was always done on a somewhat impersonal level. Write a check. Make an online donation. Pay my annual dues to a given organization and let the group's leaders decide where the donation should go. In recent years, though, I think I've realized that just opening up the pocketbook isn't enough. Giving and forgetting isn't enough. Giving has to be more. It has to be about participating. At least for me, giving has to involve effort. Whether it's serving meals, ringing a bell at Christmas, or putting on the running shoes, giving through action is a gift that I'm learning I'm actually giving myself. It tying me to something so much bigger and so much more important than myself. 


The absolute best part of getting participating in last year's Run For The Homeless event was days after the run was over and I visited the mission, I saw firsthand where the donations my friends and family made were going and, more importantly, saw the people who that money would be directly helping. 


Through the work ethic and love and devotion of my parents, I never went without a bed to sleep in growing up, and through the love of friends and family, I've never faced the prospect of having to wonder even one night that if needed, could I find a place to lay my head? Through the ability to make a living and afford a home, my children have never had to face that prospect, either, and I'm beyond thankful for that. 


Life is just too short not to do for others. It's too short and we're too fortunate not to get off our asses and get into gear. If you're in a position of privilege, there's just no excuse not to put your talents and resources back into a bad situation that you can help offer some relief toward. I know fully well that I'm not going to solve Lincoln's homeless problem, but the through the money my friends and family generously parted with last year, we collectively helped provide hundreds of meals to men and women and children that otherwise wouldn't have had the means. 


I'm thankful for the life I have and the luxuries I've been able to afford. I've worked hard for them, but I've also been blessed and privileged in countless ways through the years that had nothing to do with me that made as much possible. I'm thankful to help be able pass some of that fortune on to others, if even in a small way. 


If you'd like to donate, do so by clicking here. 

Day 126: Superheroes

The same weekend that "The Avengers" made mad, mad money at the box office in it's opening weekend (sadly, not from me), my four-year-old got herself some spanking new boxers featuring the X-Men, Spider-Man, The Incredible Hulk, Superman, and The Green Lantern. I love little kids' fascination with superheroes and their powers. I love that dream big and often of what it might be like to have the same powers. I love also that they can distinguish the "good" guys vs. the "bad" guys at such an early age. We've been playing various versions of superheroes all weekend, and it really doesn't ever get old. With each game she adds a new power and becomes completely absorbed with it. I wish my imagination could keep up with hers, but I'm afraid it can't. I just want to fly. She wants it all, and in her imagination she can do it all. Awesome.