Day 202: carry on

Carry on. That's what you have to do sometimes. Hold tight to what you believe. See the big picture and carry on. Sometimes the best view and the truest is yours. Believe in it.

Day 201: Waging War On Senseless Violence

Yesterday I wrote about being less serious and more frivolous. That pretty damn hard to do on a day like this. Sadly, days like this seem to becoming increasingly too common. I’ve seen some shitty, despicable events go down in my years on the planet, and honestly they never get any easier to swallow. There was a time after 9/11 when I was standing with my young kids among my fellow Lincoln citizens, singing songs and joining hands, when I thought things were going to forever change for the better. As much as I realized then that my kids would be growing up in a far different world than the one I did, I sincerely had hope that we’d arrived collectively as human beings and citizens at a place we could make long-lasting positive changes. Now, however, they’re just seems to be a hell of lot more shitty events than ever to swallow, and that pisses me off.

When people die, it without question deserves reflection. When people die so needlessly and so often as has unfortunately become the case, something deserves to be done. The problem is that those things that need to be done never get done. If I piss you off by what I’m about to write, I apologize, but frankly, pissing you or your senses off are the least of my concerns right now. This shit has to stop. It’s time to stop merely “keeping those who have suffered in my thoughts and prayers.” It’s time to prevent the damn madness from happening in the first place.

This doesn’t mean putting a metal detector at every damn entrance to a movie theater or school door or airport gate, either. It means changing the way we treat people. It means paying attention to our neighbors. It means stop obsessing about ourselves and our wealth and incessant need to feel good every second of every day and instead start taking a seriously long, hard look around. It means making the process of obtaining weapons that no fucking man off the street should every need in the first place a near damn impossible one. It means creating so many hoops to jump through that only the most credible and legitimate among us can jump through them all. It means getting the fucking guns off the street, out of the god damn Wal-Marts, out of the underground online black markets, and out of the back of publicly sold and privately distributed magazine and newsletters born from the likes of “Soldier of Fortune.” It means taking the power away from those who can’t handle or deserve it and putting it back in the hands of the responsible collective. There have been any number of responsible, reasonable gun control plans offered up over the years, going back decades to when I was a kid and school was dismissed early because our President had been gunned down in the god damn street. These plans deserve a chance to prove themselves. We’ve proven the right to bear arms doesn’t. Which leads me to our leadership.

President Obama and Mitt Romney have both today called for us to come together. To reflect on the lives lost. To put those who have died and been injured in our prayers. To put politics aside. Well, yeah, OK. That’s all fine and good. I’d expect you both to say as much. But now show us how, god damn it. Show us by example. Run clean campaigns. Run clean administrations. Practice what you preach, not just today while the nation collectively mourns but tomorrow and the day after and every day after that. Show us when everything is seemingly fine in the world. The same goes for Congress. Stop talking about the moral high ground your party walks on and just pass the laws we instruct you to. Represent our beliefs and desires. Stop telling us what those should be. Stop showing us on a daily basis that your primary objective is to cut the opposition’s throat. Conduct your business with respect and professionalism. Work toward your individual and respective beliefs, but do it above the belt.

As for you, talk show host, fuck you. Fuck you for telling me even today that it isn’t your fault when these acts of violence occur. Fuck you for telling me how much you love this country. How much you love this country more than anyone else. Stop telling me what a piece of shit I am because I don’t agree with you. Stop making your arguments with insults. Just fucking stop. Fuck you for telling me that politics doesn’t matter on a day like this while the whole time you practice those politics from out the other side of your mouth.

If our leadership and so-called educated and the so-called patriots of our country can’t conduct themselves without petty attacks and backstabbing and the most ill of intentions, how do they expect their nation’s citizens to do the same. When our leadership splits the country so deeply in two sections and with such conviction and extreme force, how are our citizens, particularly those who are young and entirely influential, not supposed to notice?

Attack, attack, attack. This country is obsessed with aggression. Obsessed with dominance. This country’s citizens have become so obsessed with pounding its beliefs on anyone who doesn’t agree with them, on anyone who hails from a different background, it’s like living in a battlefield. Conflict is what we do best. The population has become so single-minded in getting individual opinions across as being morally and legally and ethically correct that there’s no room for dissention. Absolutely none. The possibility of resolution seems incredibly remote. Common ground has disappeared. Pick or side or else. . . .

Bullshit. I’m sick of my kids knowing so much about division. So much about opposition. So much about judgments and hate and superiority as it relate to class and race and religion. I’m sick of bombs being dropped on their heads every day in the form of example after example of senseless and needless violence. I’m sick of every day of their existence seemingly being tainted in one way or another with mass exposure to threat, including terroristic attacks stemming from abroad and from within. I’m sick of their lives being filled with adults passing judgments on their gay friends or friends of different ethnicities or religious backgrounds. Filled with peers passing judgments on their tastes, their likes, and their dislikes. I’m sick of the snide remarks. I’m sick of racists and homophobes. Sick of political party bashers. Sick of the pursuit of power and wealth. And if you tell me, “Well, if you don’t like, move to another country,” I’ll tell you to “fuck off.” You move. I’ll stick it out and do what I can to make the country I was born to and the country my children live in one that won’t chew them up and leave them laying.

Sweet Jesus, what has been gained for any of that power? The citizens of our country hate one another. Our children believe there’s no future for them. They resolve their despondence by eliminating those they believe made them despondent.

The world is a mean, ugly place. I get it. But does it have to be this ugly and mean? Here’s an idea. Let’s focus on the reality of the situation: Our country is fucked up. It’s become hostile. It’s become unforgiving. It’s become violent. It’s become manipulative and demeaning. The hostility is being fueled in part by so many living in society filled with so much disparity, a lack of acceptance, and sense of entitlement. Those problems must be rectified and healed. There’s enough to go around. There’s work for everyone to do. Everyone must be held responsible. Everyone. You, me, billionaires, homeless on the street, and everyone in between. These events are no longer ones that can be passed off as “some psycho went nuts.” We’re growing the breeding ground, people. This world is serving as the breeding ground.

There is no appropriate justice we can place on someone who kills 12 people and injures 50 others. There’s no equity there. Take his life, OK. Does that make us equal? Hell no. It’s not a matter of justice anymore. It’s a matter of prevention. We must change the system. We must change the mindset of what it means to be American and on a larger and more important scale, what it means to be human. We must stop talking about how sorry we are when people lose their lives to senseless acts of violence and actually instead do something concrete and formidable about it. We must use our sorrow to create something positive in exchange. It’s not a coincidence that this event in Denver and the one in Columbine and the one in Arizona and the one at Virginia Tech and the one in Omaha and so many others involved youth.

Here’s the deal, you and I can rant and rave or profess and pray about our sorrow all we want, but unless we’re willing to start doing something, we’ve accomplished nothing. For now, start by reassessing your beliefs. Reassess what you stand for. If you stand for nothing, get in the god damn game already and change something for the better. Ask if your beliefs unite or divide? Ask if they leave someone in a better position than before. Then, turn your attention toward being a better parent. Give your kid hope. Reinforce your love. Reinforce your support. Reinforce their faith in family and community. Give them reasons to believe instead of to give up.

Look, I’m no source of great wisdom. I’m just pissed off. I’m likely misguided in some areas and speaking out of a place of rage in others. But fuck, my eyes are open, and I’m ready to do what it takes. It's time to stop wondering why these things happen and reacting when they do. It's time to care enough to change what we can. Now. 

Day 200: Less Serious, More Frivolous

There’s something utterly satisfying about having friends who you can communicate with so comfortably and in such great depth about such inane and essentially meaningless topics that makes life so satisfying.

Today, I had conservations with two different sets of friends concerning movies. In no way at all will these conversations advance society, or even myself, in any conceivable manner. Still, it’s amazing how much joy I take away from these kinds of simple exchanges.

Does this make me a simpleton? Does is it mean I have a limited scope of the world? Does it mean I lack vision? Does it mean I need to stir my attention in other directions? Hell, I don’t know. I don’t really care. What I know and care about is that I’m a lucky bastard for having outlets for such meaningless.

Man, life is way too complicated and way too serious the majority of the time. By the time you enter your 30s, it seems the pulling and tugging on your time never ceases. I firmly believe we waste a hell of a lot of time worrying about most of the things related to that pulling and tugging. I mean, really, pertinent is it long-term how our hair looks or if the curtains we’re eying match the color of the carpet. Even the amount of time we collectively spend career-wise deflates me. So much is lost in the chase.

Having friends to distract you from the day-to-day crap is priceless. Having people who help you forget that you need to get the brakes on your car fixed or your cell phone bill is late or that the latest project isn’t coming together at all or that your brother is still pissed at you or blah, blah, blah is beyond a treasure.

I’ve never been one for mindless blither blabber. If there’s one thing I don’t excel at it is small talk. What I do find especially gratifying, though, pointed, specific blither blabber. Ask me what my Top 5 favorite songs are and I’ll blither blabber until the sun goes down. Want to debate the treatment of dogs in Wes Anderson movies like my friends and I did today, and I’m all in. Want to pick out the influences that the original “Total Recall” had on later sci-fi movies like I also did today, man, I’m onboard. I’d go insane without that outlet. 

Day 199: If I Had My Way

If I had my way, I'd be in the mountains right now, hiking my way to some hidden lake that only I knew about, alone with only my thoughts to keep me company. 

If I had my way, I'd have a room filled with my favorite candy, so whenever I opened the door, thousands of pieces would come rushing out. 

If I had my way, I'd be on a motorcycle riding on a winding, long road situated next to the ocean with the sun going ever-slowly down over the horizon. 

If I had my way, I'd be walking barefoot on the softest, greenest grass imaginable in Ireland with a pitching wedge in my hand. 

If I had my way, I'd be getting my bangs trimmed up as I chatted up my favorite barber for the latest gossip. 

If I had my way, I'd be dialing up my eye doctor on the phone right now to tell him his services will no longer be needed. 

If I had my way, my entire wardrobe would consist of only shorts, tennis shoes, and T-shirts. 

If I had my way, George Carlin would be my neighbor to the left and Willie Nelson to the right. 

If I had my way, my house would reside directly beside the tee box to the first hole on my own private course. 

If I had my way, my friends and I would meet every Friday night for another round of demolition derby in my backyard. 

If I had my way, my band would be taking the stage in Madison Square Garden. 

If I had my way, my yacht would be at about the halfway point toward taking me to my own private island. 

If I had my way, the popcorn would be hot, fresh, buttered, and sitting on my lap right now as I got set to watch the new Batman flick. 

If I had my way, I'd soon be walking in the Olympics opening ceremonies representing my country in the decathlon. 

If I had my way, my pet dolphin would be taking me for a ride around my private cove. 

If I had my way, my personal chef would be finishing up my supper just about now and bringing it to me in my XXXXL-sized bathtub. 

If I had my way, I'd be playing a pickup game with the President on my home court. 

If I had my way, I'd have a fleet of clowns at my beck and call. 

Day 198: What It Means To Be A Yankees Fan

As of today, the New York Yankees are 55-34, giving them the best record in Major League Baseball. Owning the sport’s best record isn’t unfamiliar territory for the Yankees. In fact, dare I say, it’s common ground. It’s ground the Yankees have worn out because seemingly, the Yankees are always in first place.

You’d think being a fan of a team that perpetually stands on such familiar terra firma would be easy, but it’s not. To change up Spiderman’s Uncle Ben’s sage quote a bit, “With great success comes great torment.” Or should I say jealousy? Envy? Bitterness and resentment are also fitting, I guess. Animosity. Acrimony. Those definitely fit. Let’s just say that non-Yankees fans are the worst fans and leave it at that. Personally, I choose to ignore these bitter little pills who spread their nastiness like a bad smell emitting from my dog, but sometimes it’s impossible. The stink is just to putrid to escape. But my tolerance for these fools only goes so far. Instead of holding up the greatest sports franchise ever erected, these gluttons for punishment try to tear the House That Babe Built to the ground, bit by bit by bit. Sadly for them, this house is made of bricks.

Being a Yankees fan means having thick skin. It’s means being able to take the heat. It means you’re going to hear a steady stream of complaints. You’re going to hear whining. You’re going to hear cries of “it’s unfair” or “if they didn’t spend so much money. . . .” or “they buy their success.” Well, welcome to America, suckers.

Being a Yankees fan means enduring the weak-sauce alternative names that the jealous pool of sorry dreamers come up with for those who deck themselves out in pinstripes, names like “Spankmees” or as my friend Randy likes to say, “Yankmees.”

Being a Yankees fan means possessing the discipline and fortitude to endure the gloating and “in your face” carrying on during those rare occasions when your friends’ favorite team happens to find a bit of blind luck in his/her pockets and uses it to win an important game.

Being a Yankees fan means having to share the planet with Red Sox fans and hoping your immune system is strong enough that you don’t come away with some sort of horrible affliction, like chronic losing or excuse making.

Being a Yankees fan means having to humor pitiful Cubs fans who have fooled themselves into believing that despite having never won a damn thing their team is “iconic” or an “institution.” Harry Carey and Mark Grace an institution do not make, woeful ones.

More importantly, being a Yankees fan means you grieve still for Thurmon Munson and Billy Martin.

It means you bow down twice daily in the direction of The Bronx.

It means you consider Catfish Hunter and Ron Guidry gods.

It means October is your favorite month.

It means you think of Reggie Jackson every time you stir a drink with a straw.

It means you’ve look upon Daryl Strawberry, Doc Gooden, and Roger Clemmons as misguided children who made a mistake but whom you’ve forgiven.

It means you say “Aaron F*cking Boone” in your sleep.

It means your two favorite words are “Bucky” and “Dent.”

It means you want your son to grow up to be just like Don Mattingly.

It means George Brett = pine tar = “you’re out!”

Being a Yankees fan means you’ve chosen to associate yourself with greatness.

Being a Yankees fan means you know all the words to “Enter Sandman.”

Being a Yankees fan means “Sweet Lou” makes you think of Pinella and Reed.

Being a Yankees fan means you happily stare for hours at the painting of the old stadium that you bought in Midtown from a street artist years ago.

Being a Yankees fan means you can do a 180 and spend a few more hours staring at the original drawing of Yogi and Lou that hangs on your wall.

Being a Yankees fan means that no matter what else should happen in your life, you can rest assured that you’ll not only know what it feels like to be a perennial contender, you’ll know what it means to be a champion, um, 27 times and counting.

Day 197: Stop Bitching & Moaning

Sometimes, I have a tendency to bitch and moan too much. Sometimes, I wonder how much that bitching and moaning bothers those I subject it to. Sometimes, I wonder if the things I’m bitching and moaning about are even worth bitching and moaning about. Sometimes, I wonder what I could do that would be a better alternative to the bitching and moaning. Sometimes, I wonder how much of what I consider to be “constructive criticism” is actually bitching and moaning. Sometimes, I think I bitch and moan because I just like to bitch and moan. Sometimes, I think the bitching and moaning leaves me feeling worse.  

Without a doubt, I don’t believe all the bitching and moaning I do is over frivolous, inconsequential matters. In fact, I like to think a good percentage of the things I voice my disapproval about are worth the effort and deserve the attention. I realize there are things I should let go and probably don’t need to offer up my 2 cents about, but more often than not I hope I bitch and moan about worthwhile things. I’m not the kind of guy who is going to go on and on about the bad service he just got in a restaurant. I’ve got bigger worries. Plus, I’m eating food. A lot of people don’t have that basic luxury. I’m not the kind of guy who is going to ask to see a manager or supervisor. I’m not someone who is going on for days about how much the weather sucks or how I got shortchanged at Christmas or any other crap that reeks of entitlement. We live in a privileged country that by birthright grants most of us incredible advantages. Why bitch about annoyances and nuisances. It only perpetuates that which annoyed you in the first place.

No, what I like to bitch and moan about is those who bitch and moan about the annoyances and nuisances. I like to bitch and moan about those who can’t recognize the entitlement they’ve been born into. I have a feeling I take such pleasure because it gives me a sense of superiority, which in its own right is a complete crock and reprehensible. This is a weakness I know, yet take joy nevertheless.

Take yesterday, for example, when I crossed paths with a family arriving at the same ice cream shop as were at but in a big, fat, gas-guzzling SUV. Bad enough they were traveling via environmental deathtrap. That I could look past. What was impossible to not notice was the fact that they left the fricking big rig running, with the air conditioner on, with no one inside, while they all piled out into a FLIPPIN’ ICE CREAM SHOP! Are you kidding me! Did they not see the obvious joke they were making themselves the punch line for? I guess braving the elements upon existing the ICE CREAM SHOP armed with a fat hunk of ICE CREAM scooped up in a fat bowl was too strenuous. It’s this kind of moronic crap that sets me off and sets my mouth into motion, only to leave me wondering later, does anyone even care? Did I accomplish anything other than bugging the people around me? “Oh great, there he goes again.” Maybe I care, but does anyone else give a crap that these people are likely the same who bitch and moan about gas prices?

Maybe I’m just bitter? Am I just too good at spotting stupid stuff? Am I too sensitive? Do I seek this stuff out? I honestly don’t know. Sometimes, I think this stuff finds me just to torment me. Like later in the day, for example, when I randomly picked a seat in the bleachers at the gym my daughter was playing basketball in. I was waiting for her game to start, so I sat and watched the one being played before hers. Fate could have opened up a seat anywhere, but it didn’t. It made the only available seat right in the middle of a pack of wild mother-dogs way too eager to bite and snarl and bitch and moan about every call that didn’t go in favor of their little momma’s boys on the court. Worse was the conduct they saved for a girl playing on one of the two boys teams on the court made up of eighth graders. The girl was good. In fact, she was damn good. She was smart and smooth. She played with composure. She knew where to be and what to do. She made her teammates better. Everything you’d want in a player, she provided. You’d think these women being women would have been thrilled. Here’s a girl more than holding her own among bigger and taller boys. Here’s a girl performing with grace and dignity and doing it with terrific results. Here’s a girl taking all the borderline cheap shots these insecure, petty momma boys on the court were doling out and ignored them to just continue producing at the highest level. But no. These women bath-mouthed this girl at every turn. They derided her. They questioned her femininity. They took delight when she was knocked down. They bitched and moaned when she bested their precious little boys. “How dare she!”

Enter my mouth. First subtly, but then progressively with more vitriol and condemnation, to the point that by the end of the game I was opening quarreling with said wolf pack, holding them back with a stick and swatting them on the end of the nose. I took tremendous pleasure in it all—until later when I was left alone with only my thoughts. I had lowered myself. I had reduced myself to levels I didn’t need to go. I took the lower road when the higher road would have been better to conduct myself on. I welcomed the confrontation and took joy in participating in it. That girl didn’t need me to defend her from these attackers. She had already moved beyond them long, long ago. She had already elevated herself to a place where they didn’t affect her. She was far more mature and focused than any of us. She didn’t bitch and moan. She just lived in the moment she was in.

Christ, anyone who says you can’t learn by just observing something or someone is crazy. Anyone who says you can’t learn from children is blind. Anyone who doesn’t believe in chance encounters isn't paying attention.

I probably won’t stop bitching and moaning anytime soon about those who bitch and moan. But this girl, whose name I don’t know and whose background I’m clueless about, taught me more about bitching and moaning through her actions and conduct and spirit than I could have ever hoped for. Something is at work in this world. Something helped me pay attention and recognize the affect a perfect stranger can have. Somehow, someway, this girl inspired me to be a better person. To stop bitching and moaning and instead influence change through personal conduct, not condemnation. I have a feeling I won’t be the only one to witness the same type of dignity and class and perseverance from this girl and walk away better for it.

Day 196: Deja Vu

I love deja vu. Always have. I seem to experience it a lot, too. Like I'm living in "The Matrix" a lot. Take my youngest daughter, for instance. Right now, she's crying in her bed, as she has just about every night for seemingly a month straight. She doesn't want to be in bed, so she goes through the usual laundry list of activities to prolong the inevitable until finally she resorts to crying. At that point, she can cry anywhere from five minutes to a good hour. It takes a lot of will power and focus to just ignore it. Just let it play out. Otherwise, you're just feeding the beast responding to each and every request that comes from her bedroom. "Daddy! I want a XX." "Mommy! I need XX." "Daddy, I XX." It's a vicious cycle that just goes on and on until the crying turns into whimpering and the whimpering turns into talking and the talking finally turns into snoring. Fortunately, these periods don't seem to last long and come in short periods. But each time it has happened recently, it seems like the same set of occurrences also play out. Sunday night. I'll tell my wife, "This is getting old." She'll respond by saying, "She never used to do this." And then I have a feeling of deja vu.

I've always been fascinated by the experience and concept of deja vu. I'd like to know who the first man or woman was who able to articulate the feeling. When was that? What brought the topic up? How did the other person respond. Cave man time? "Hey Unk, me swear me see that tree before." "Me know what you mean, Onk. Me feel me been here before." 

What I really wish is I was able to experience episodes of deja vu with other people. Like a group deja vu thing. We'd get together once in a week in some room in a church basement, hold hands, and experience the same moment together that we'd already experienced. 

What I'd like more is having the feeling that I had gotten smarter since the last time I experience deja vu, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Seemingly, I experience the same moments over and over again with the inability to know what I've learned since last time.

At any rate, the ability to feel different sensations and emotions than those that typically pollute a typical day is a positive. Fear. Euphoria. Exhaustion. Being overwhelmed. Being surprised. Feeling as if I've lived this moment before. I guess recognizing as much is occurring mean I'm paying attention. 

Day 195: Jens Pulver

I don't make any secret about my love for MMA. I've written about that love before, trying to explain what it is I see in the kicks, punches, and knees. I'm starting to think people either get it or they don't. Some people never get past the "violence." Those that do understand there's more going on than just two guys beating each other senseless inside a cage. I could spent the next five years trying to describe what exactly it is that's going on, at least the way I see it, but I really believe if someone is even really remotely interested in understand Mixed Martial Arts, and martial arts in general, they're better off doing some research and reading first. Read a few biographies of some of the legends. Watch a few documentaries about the sport. Go beyond the posters and movies featuring Bruce Lee and read his writings, listen to his lectures. Put on your philosophical hat for a few hours and listen to their words. Consider their life journeys. View where they came from, where they are, and where they want to be. Martial arts isn't about the violence or kicking someone's ass. It's about honor. Discipline. Focus. Insight. Integrity. For some individuals, it's an avenue out of a horrible situation.

Jens Pulver is someone who belongs in the latter camp. Read his about his background and you'll know how martial arts more or less saved his life. How wrestling first was his savior and then striking, kickboxing, Jiu-Jitsu, and other disciplines saved him later. I've always admired Jens Pulver, for being a world champion and pioneer in the sport, but more so for the straight-forward manner in which he discussed his "childhood from hell" and the daily beatings his alcoholic father put on him and his mother and brothers. I always admired the strength and tenacity he demonstrated in not letting that past swallow him up. I admired his willingness to also show weakness and vulnerability. To not just utter a big "F*ck you!" to a father who was never there in any way but a monster, but to admit it hurt not having his father there as a father. To admit how much it would have meant, and admit that even today he would have cared for such a relationship.

But reading about someone's history and hearing them tell it in first person are two different things. The other week I watched a documentary called "Driven" that centered on Pulver and his past, present, and future. I shed tears several times. I felt some agony, too. I also became inspired and motivated to find someone stronger within myself. The truth is, Jens Pulver has had to fight on way too long and has probably taken on way too much damage to his body and spirit. He can't afford to quit, and he's not good enough anymore to keep going on. His life is shaping up to be a tragic beginning and tragic ending. Still, I can't help to think that someone martial arts will somehow enable him to find a pleasant ending, whether it's teaching the benefits of combat sports to others or helping him find peace of mind.

At any rate, my love of martial arts has only grown more and more over the years. I wish more people understand the truth behind the violence, but that's their journey and responsibility to take on if they desire. There's much to find, however, if the effort is there.

Day 194: The Color Run

 I’ve run more races this summer than I have in the 10 summers previous combined. That’s a good and bad thing. Good in that I’ve gotten my arse off the couch and into gear. I’m healthier. I’m leaner. I’m of better mind and spirit. I feel just a little bit better about myself. Bad in that I let my arse sit on that couch all those years and let the time slip away. Still, it’s a good awakening, this fitness phase I’m currently in. I guess “fitness” is being a little generous. It’s not like I’m tearing up the roadways running my way to lofty heights by any means, but I have to say, the scenery on what little of the roadways I’ve managed to make my way down is a far better than the one I had from the couch.

That’s not to say I was a complete bum over the years. I worked hard for a living and hopefully gave my family a good way of life. I played ball some of those years. I golfed, and I did some bike riding on and off. Plus, I’m an active dad. When my kids were still of the age, I played with them for what I consider to be more than the average dad does. I gave of my time pretty willingly and pretty liberally. With my four-year-old, I think I’ve carried that on. Still, I’ll be the first to admit that playing five innings of softball a week isn’t anything like running several miles at a time several times a week. Not anywhere close. My affection for running hasn’t really grown any over the summer months, and most times I still find it a struggle to stay focused and keep putting one foot in front of the other, but I have to say, my affection for not feeling like a piece of washed-up crap day in and day out fuels me to keep the running up, and I’m grateful for that.

Tomorrow, it’s off to The Color Run in Omaha. Upon completing each 1K of 5K total, I’ll be rewarded by having complete strangers throw environmentally safe paint all over me. By race’s end, me and everyone else taking part will look like human equivalents of a Jackson Pollack painting. Better than that though is the opportunity to just get out and do something different and novel. Day to day life can be so mundane and repetitive. A venue to get a little crazy is definitely welcome. Plus, the ability to even get up off the couch and put one foot in front of the other isn’t lost on me. I’ve grown to really value of the ability to work toward being physical fit, to create some personal goals and challenges, and then have the focus to go out and make them happen. Not everyone has that ability.

Life is short. Kooky events like The Color Run make life stretch a little longer. They give you something to look forward to. They give you some strange moments to share with others. I love strange. Looking forward to seeing my friends and family get kooky, too.

Day 193: Not Every Pet Is Created Equal

In some ways, I think comparing pets is sort of like comparing kids. You shouldn’t do it. A pet is a pet, after all. Sure, some are easier to care for than others. Some might be more affectionate. Some might be more protective. Some might even be a bigger pain in the neck. Still, a pet is a pet, and if you really care for each equally and invest the same amount of time and give of yourself with the same enthusiasm, shouldn’t the love you provide each also be the same?

Well, no, actually. It would be nice, but it doesn’t work that way usually. It’s a hell of a lot easier to love a good dog than a hermit crab. It’s a hell of a lot easier to cozy up with a cat than a turtle. It’s a hell of a lot easier to get instant feedback from a faithful companion that a damn goldfish that is only looking for its next meal to come magically falling from the sky. At least in my experience with pets, that’s the way it’s been, and we’ve had a few pets roll through our house over the years. Dogs, cats, fish, birds. A ferret. A rabbit. Hermit crabs and rats. Frogs. Flipping zoo.  

That said, I still hate to compare one dog that has been part of my life to another. I always feel bad when I do it. I feel worse when I badmouth one of my pets, but I can’t say it stops me from doing it. Take our current dog Slim, for example. He’s a purebred chocolate lab that is beautiful and the picture of grace when he’s out in the wild running to and fro. In our house, though, he’s a complete tool and dofus. The biggest part of the day is hoping that some morsels will fall from my daughter’s plate into his wide-open waiting mouth. Sincerely. That’s all he lives for. If those morsels don’t come, he’ll just adlib and snatch up whatever else isn’t tied down. And when I write “whatever else,” I mean it. Pans of bacon grease. Entire tubs of bubblegum, wrappers and all. Ears of corn from my garden. Loaves of bread. Cat extract. Jars of Vaseline. You name it, he’s eaten it. I love Slim, and he’s a good protector, and I value his dopiness on some level, but he tests my patience each and every day, and he without a doubt makes life harder than it has to be.

Our current cats are much the same. They’re both male, and they’re both weird. I like them, and occasionally they’ll even put aside the quirky ways long enough to sit on my lap and watch a little television, but for the most part they keep to themselves and engage only on their terms. That’s pretty much true of all cats, I suppose, so it doesn’t upset me too much. Like Slim, our cats, Lou and Beck, are good pets, but there seems to be a ceiling to which our relationship will never extend beyond not matter how much time and energy we spend together.

This kind of distance between a pet and its owner seems to become so much more obvious when the owner has previously had that once-in-a-lifetime pet that transcended the obvious human-animal barrier. Miles and Scout were those kinds of pets. Miles I miss every day. There are reminders of him all around our house in the form of photos and old dog collars and even his paw prints permanently etched on paper, but more often than not, those reminders make it only harder to accept he’s not following me around from room to room and that I won’t ever hear his booming snore deep in the night again. He was a friend’s friend in every sense that a human is a friend. The only difference is we couldn’t speak actual words. We didn’t really need to, though. There was an understanding still.

Loyal and reliable. Protective and dependable. Loving and caring. Affectionate and pure. Miles was there when you needed him but never seemed to ask for anything but a bowl of food once in a while in return. He watched over my kids and my house. He played with my daughters and tolerated their tugging and pulling. He made friends easily and was loved by pretty much anyone who crossed paths with him. He got into trouble, but it wasn’t hard to forgive him.

When Miles got sick and his future days were numbered, it broke my heart in ways that I didn’t know possible. He wasn’t my first pet by any means, but he was the most difficult to let go of by far. I’d literally take years off my own life if it were possible to bring him back, he meant that much. He unified my family in ways we didn’t know when he was alive, and I couldn’t be more thankful for his presence. People who discount the importance of pets or belittle animals’ importance in general are morons. Straight-up morons.

Scout we had for 15 years. We got her, along with Cleo, the same year my daughter was one. We watched all three grow up together, and Scout became my buddy. We watched TV together, we read books together, and we tolerated the chaos and madness that was at work in my house together. We snuck off to quiet spots together and when time would allow, took naps together in the peace and quiet. Scout was a beauty, and just like the little girl in “To Kill A Mockingbird” that she was named after, Scout was independent and could hold her own. Watching television late at night hasn’t been the same since she has gone.

Day 192: This Machine Kills Facists

On July 14, Woody Guthrie would have been 100 years old if still alive. If alive, you can be damn sure he’d still be kicking ass and taking names. You can be guaranteed he’d be fighting for the poor and disenfranchised. You can be guaranteed he be appalled and disheartened, as well.

I love my country, and I believe Woody firmly did, as well. But it’s hard to dispute there’s much that could not be made better, and it’s hard to dispute that there’s a great many people who could use lifted up. That’s what Woody Guthrie spent his life attempting to do: lift up those who needed it. God knows, he went about in his own unique, slap-to-the-face manner, but God knows, he inspired a hell of a lot of people along the way to do the same for others who needed the helping hand.  

My first exposure to Woody Guthrie was the same as most people’s—singing “This Land Is Your Land” in grade school. That just so happens to be one of the first songs I learned on guitar, primarily because it’s easy to play, but also because it’s a beautiful protest song full of controlled rage and anger. Better, it’s a song written for and to be sung by every American. Not just the rich. Not just the land owners. Not just the privileged. EVERY AMERICAN. Read the lyrics. Recognize the “fog.” It still exists, and it still needs lifting.

When the sun came shining, and I was strolling

And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling

A voice was chanting, As the fog was lifting,

This land was made for you and me.

My real education into Woody came through Bob Dylan. You can’t admire and be a follower of Dylan without admiring and being a follower of Woody. Dylan’s story of meeting Woody is a famous and well-known one, but for those who don’t know it, Dylan bummed rides from Minnesota to New York City while still just a kid with the primary objective of meeting his hero, Guthrie. When he got there, he learned Woody was holed up in a hospital getting ready to die, so he made his way there instead. They met, Dylan sang for him, and the rest is history.

I admire Woody’s travels.

I admire “Bound For Glory.”

I admire Woody’s friendships.

I admire the way he played guitar.

I admire the influence he had on Ramblin’ Jack Elliott.

I admire that Billy Bragg has spent years carrying on Woody’s efforts.

My favorite Woody Guthrie song is “Do Re Mi”  

For years, a poster hung in the apartments I lived in and then the house I shared with my wife and kids that bore the words listed below. I’ve always wondered how many of my kids’s friends, or even if my kids read the words and if they got any meaning from them over the years. I look at my kids and the way they carry themselves and how they treat and regard people less fortunate than themselves and I believe they did.

"I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard traveling.

I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built.

I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work.”

Woody Guthrie

Day 191: Giant Silva

As I type this, I'm watching a 7' 2" inch man called Giant Silva lumber around a boxing ring, trying his damnedest to fight a guy roughly a foot smaller than himself in an MMA fight. It's a sad sight really. The poor man can barely walk two steps in a row let around dance around the ring gracefully. Hell, he looks like a cartoon, and I don't mean that to be demeaning; it's just the truth. 

It makes me wonder why we are born the way we are. Why are some of us tall, others small? Some born one color and others different altogether? Why are some of us born without sight or hearing and others without limbs? Why are some born intelligent and others without any wits at all. Is it the luck of the draw. Is it genetics? Is it God's will. A combination of all?

Truth be told, I'm thankful I'm not Giant Silva. I'm grateful I'm just a run of the mill guy with average looks and average intelligence. It's not so bad being average. It leaves you room to work your way up. It leaves room to fall a bit, too. No one is gawking at me because of my height. No one places any stereotypes or expectations on me based on appearances alone. It's a good life being normal, whatever that means.

But who am I to pity Giant Silva? I don't know the man. Maybe he's happy being a giant. Maybe it's brought joy and happiness to his life. Maybe being tall has brought him opportunities that he'd have otherwise never experienced. Hell, Giant Silva has probably traveled and seen things I never will, and all because he's a giant. He's probably met more interesting people than I'll ever know. Maybe he thrilled with his natural born fortune. I don't know. 

Still, based on what I do know, I'll stick with what nature gave me. It's served me well. I've seen my own share of things. This average body and average abilities has shown me tremendous beauty, filled my ears with tremendous sounds, taken my mind on tremendous journeys. I guess I don't envy Giant Silva, but I guess I shouldn't pity him either. 

Day 190: Doing Battle With The Beast

Some days you find out what you’re made of, or at least you find out what you can tolerate. Today was one of those days. I took a vacation day Friday, which pretty much guaranteed that Monday would be hell.

My job isn’t one in which the guy sitting next to me is able to just pick up the pieces when I’m gone and cover me for. Nope, everything I leave behind is waiting for me when I get back. Either I do it before I go or I better be prepared to weather the storm when I return. Both options are tricky to navigate sometimes, and both options present their own unique snags.

So, I knew what I was in for this morning upon returning to my desk. What I didn’t know was that I’d be tackling it with a killer headache that would last all day, and I didn’t know how many more little morsels would fall on my plate throughout the day to tackle. Such is the nature of the beast.

Still, despite everything I was staring down, I managed to pull away long enough at lunch to get in a run (with headache in tow), return to the battlefield, and finish everything I needed to--plus some.

I set my expectations fairly high where some things are concerned. Others not so much. Where work is related, though, I don’t like to turn in crap. The words I write represent me, and I like to be well-represented. The people who I consider good at the same job I do don’t turn in crap, either. That’s a good trait to have. It’s also one that requires commitment. That’s not bad, either. But that doesn’t mean that obtaining such a level of commitment isn’t taxing at times, and it sure doesn’t mean it isn’t challenging. Meet the various challenges that the day throws at you, however, and you’ll walk out the door feeling better than you did walking in, no matter how mentally fatigued or physically exhausted you are. That’s the nature of that beast.

So in summation, beast, we met again today. You lost. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon, though, and you can take your best shot again. I’m not hard to find, sucka.

Day 189: Digging Deeper

Things are never as bleak ad they seem, but that doesn't mean it is easy looking past that. This is one of those days, but you just keep walking.

Day 188: Convictions

Some days crappy days happen because you have to stand for something that isn't popular or maybe not everyone is on board with. Still, if you don't stand for certain things, you're just wallpaper. You're just blending in. If you're not doing the right thing at the right time, you're not really there. You're just blending in with the rest of the sheep following the flock. And what's the point of that? Mistakes happen. Everyone makes them. But not everyone owns up to the mistake. Some people, in fact, work harder makes excuses for the mistake or working to persuade anyone who will listen that they never made a mistake in a first place. That's fine I suppose for some mistakes that aren't really harmful at the end of the day or change the course of our lives. But some mistakes do cause a wrinkle to occur. If you don't take the effort to iron it out, it's still a wrinkle. You can try to cover it up, distract attention from it, or pretend it doesn't exist, but the wrinkle hasn't disappeared. You're just pretending it did. Some mistakes and errors in judgement have to be addressed, and they have to be addressed in the correct manner. If the person who made the mistake isn't capable or willing to do that, then I truly believe it's the duty of those who are guiding and teaching that person to do it, even if that's not comfortable or easy. Even if that causes a few wrinkles itself. I'm not a fan of sweeping dirt under the rug. Sure, things look neater and cleaner, but they're not. They've just been neatly rearranged. All the same elements are still there, and it's only a matter of time before the dirt resurfaces. Today, was a day when the dirt surfaced, and I wasn't about to sweep it in a tidy hiding place and pretend it didn't exist. I wasn't about to pretend everything was cool. That the shortcut, and people who take shortcut don't get the full view, and they don't get the full experience. Shortcuts are lazy, and they're carved out by the people who aren't strong enough to take the scenic route. 

Day 187: Traveling

Pack five people in a hotel room and what do you get? A messy, smelly good time. Such is my life and I wouldn't change it.

Day 186: Perky People, I Owe You An Apology

Since I can remember, I’ve had a problem with overly cheerful people, the kind of bubbly, effervescent individuals who are seemingly capable of only forming one facial expression: a big, fat, wide smile. These people who bounce into a room and leave it the very same way, who speak with the same twinkly enthusiasm about cleaning the toilet as they do about that gosh darn dog next door that keep them up all night barking, and who find each and every meal as tasty and scrumptious as the last have always grinded painfully on my nerves.

For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why this was so. “It shouldn’t be this way,” I’ve reasoned. “What’s so wrong with finding delight in so many things?” “What’s the harm in finding brightness in every corner of the world?” “What’s so objectionable to being seemingly peppy and perky and on top of the world all day every day?”

Slowly, I started to form hypotheses about why these people, of which I’ve run across many over the years, seemed to be in such conflict with my own personality. My first conclusion was these people aren’t really as joyous as they let on. They’re overcompensating. They’re deceiving. They’re masking something. They’re faking it to make it. They’re doing the happy dance to trick themselves into believing that they really are that happy when the fact is they're deeply dissatisfied with the lemons that life has handed them but they don't want to admit. Maybe their parents didn't allow them to feel sorry for themselves. Maybe they're just not capable of seeing below the surface. Maybe they don't see any merit or feel there's anything to learn from feeling miserable. 

Another of my all-too wise conclusions has been that these people really don’t stand for anything important. They’re too busy concentrating on the trivial aspects of life to notice things are kind of crappy all over. Oh, they’re seemingly always the first to volunteer and lend a hand and do it with an eager smile, but when it comes to taking a side on real life-altering and possibly conflicting issues, they don't seem eager to. In fact, they never seem to state anything controversial. Why? Because that would mean upsetting someone, and upsetting people isn’t happy.

I've also surmised that these glowing, endlessly enthusiastic souls have seemed to me to  actually be lonely deep down under all that perceived rapture. They seem to be on a solo journey in their happiness. Most of these people, I’ve found, aren’t married or involved in deep, meaningful relationships. Why? Because no one can stand being around that type of a unbridled joy full-time. Or perhaps it’s because that behind closed doors, these perpetual smilers are really a pain in the ass and attempting to live with that type of phoniness isn’t worth it in the end.

These days, I’m pretty much convinced that it hasn’t really been these people that I’ve been in conflict with all along but rather it was me I was conflicted with. In other words, there has been sizable case of jealously at work on my part where these individuals are concerned. I've been bitter that some people are so damn happy. I'm resentful. I envious. I want to know they're damn secrets. 

Maybe they really are that happy and there are perfectly good reasons they’ve seized on to that happiness. Maybe they realize that life is a gift and a treasure, and they don’t squander that gift. Maybe they have a deep and utter conviction in something that’s more powerful then themselves and that realization is a source of endless sunshine and I’m too narrow-minded and blind to see it myself. Maybe these people I’ve judged as being phony are indeed real and it’s me who is the fake. Maybe they’re the smart ones for letting themselves feel things I never made myself available to. Maybe they’re introspective and contemplative and learned in the sense that they know something is afoot that I don’t have the vision to pick up on. Or maybe, they just refuse to be affected by those things that shouldn’t affect us. Their armor is stronger than mine. I’ve found that people who say they don’t a damn what anyone else things, after all, really do.

In any case, I’ve changed my tune somewhat I believe. The reality is that the bubbly ones still aggravate me to a certain extent but I’m willing to investigate if that feeling is really aggravation or really self-loathing. I still have my lingering doubts about these happy souls who have annoyed me over the years, but at least I’m starting to rethink my position and am willing to investigate if there’s a possibility that they indeed are the ones that have it together and I’m the sorry sack that could use some retooling.

Day 185: Boom!

Short post today. I've things to blow up. Well, I don't really, but my kids do, and I don't trust them to do it alone. I've seen their work and I've seen the look they get in their eyes.

I really like this holiday. I don't know too many people who don't. Well, other than those who value their sleep at night and grow tired quickly of the incessant banging and booming and cracking that goes on long after midnight. That doesn't bother me much, though. It's a couple nights of the year. I find it curious though humans' fascination with things that go bang. The amount of money they'll shell out to make that possible is hilarious, in a sad way.

I have some really good memories of the Fourth. Everything from the big family picnics back in the day at my uncle Gene's to a girl beating the crap out of me in Wiggenhorn Park. That's not such a good memory, I guess, but I had it coming. I threw a firecracker far too close to the kid she was babysitting. She didn't appreciate it, and she commenced to wail on me with both hands, slapping me to and fro. I ran pretty fast, but it seemed as if she hounded my every step all the way home until I could escape for good. A better memory was the year I spent the day at Lake McConaughy, swimming, cooking, laughing, and drinking. That night we caught the fireworks, and it was pretty much a perfect day. There have been a lot of years like that. The years as kid watching the fireworks in Omaha, complete with skydivers starting the night off right.

These  years, it seems my wife has to work about every other year, and it's more difficult to create that same feeling as when I was a kid. It was a simpler time then. Easier to get people together, it seems. But we do our best. We still gather around at night and point our heads upward waiting for the sky to light up. We still oh and ah. We still laugh and partake in good food. These are still good days.

Day 184: A Half Year Absopositively Well Spent

If my math is correct (and that’s an iffy proposition), I’ve officially passed the half-year mark for the year with this blog and my effort to be positive about at least one thing for at least for period of time each day, no how fleeting that period of time may be. Yep, each and every day in 2012 I set out to explore something positive by writing a post about it, and thus far, I’ve done that. Hell yeah!

Truth be told, while I’d like to say each and every post has been truly filled with positivity, that’s probably not been the case entirely. Every so often, a post has crept in that was probably borderline angry or snarky or entered the realm of being perturbed or annoyed. But the vast majority of the entries, however, I’d say I’ve stuck to my word and written about something that made me feel positive, that I’m positive about, or that I have positive memories or feelings about. And with all sincerity, the experience has been a great one, and I’m honestly looking forward to carrying the effort on through the next half of 2012.

I’d like to believe all the entries were equally good and had something relevant to say, but I know that’s not the case. There have been some days, particularly on the weekends, when just writing, let along writing something specifically that was positive seemed like a burden hanging over my head. Once I got around to doing it though, I can say I’ve honestly put thought into every post I’ve created, even if some of those thoughts have been lazy and some of the posts have sucked. But that’s the nature of writing, or anything else that requires an effort for that matter, not everything you turn out is gold. Some of it is just crap, even when the very best of intentions are behind it. Still, making an effort far outweighs doing nothing at all in my opinion. So, there’s that.

What have I learned halfway through “My Year of Positivity”? For one, I’ve learned that being positive, even if only for a select period of time during a day, definitely has its short-term and long-term benefits. I think, for example, I’m starting to lean toward trying to take the positive route in any given situation vs. the easier “I’m so pissed off right now and I’m going to tell everyone exactly why” road. That isn’t to say that I’m not still capable of being an impetuous ass or a shortsighted hothead or someone who is still prone to stray to the Dark Side. I have been and I do. Still, I think at least I’m learning there isn’t nearly as much merit to be found on that dark side of the road. The view is much nicer over here where patience and reason and understanding are virtues and the glass tends to be half full vs. empty. I’ve also learned that even on those occasions when I don’t react to situations in a positive manner, I at least contemplate after the fact how I could have acted more positively and how that would have looked, and I try to learn from that.

Perhaps the most beneficial aspect of writing posts every day has been the realization that I’ve had a pretty good life really that’s been mostly enjoyable and satisfying. I have a truckload of good memories that I seem to have held onto with a good deal of passion. I don’t think you do that unless you covet your past and you’re thankful for it. I’ve been pretty fortunate really. I’ve been blessed with many good friends and a great family. I think I always knew that, but sometimes it takes slowing down and concentrating on that fact to see really how good you have it. And I have it good in that regard.

Maybe not as important but still satisfying is that by forcing myself to write every day—for myself and not professionally—I’ve relearned how much I love writing and how much it means to me and how much it can do for me. I don’t know how well I execute it, but just having the will to write is a tremendous gift, and I’m beyond thankful for it. A person can work through a lot of angst and pain through words. A person can also document a lot of joy and reverence and devotion and commitment and respect by stringing words together. Some people build furniture. Some people paint. Some people sew. Some people cook. I write to feel good. Man, I’m so thankful to have found that outlet.

If I learn as much in the next six months or so as I did in the first half of 2012 from thinking positive, this is going to be a year very well spent. 

Day 183: Thoughts On Select Sports

My kid plays on a select basketball team. She has for a few years. For the uninitiated, “select” means she had to try out, live through a cut or two, and then be named to the team. But not the school team, mind you. A summer team. A team of other kids her age who also had to try out and then commit to dedicating the late spring months and then pretty much all summer to practicing and playing basketball anywhere from two to six days a week, every week.

Over the years, I’ve noticed some things and made some observations about select sports. Some things I like; some I don’t. Like a lot of things I set my mind to thinking about, I’m probably accurate in some areas and completely off base in others.

Beyond the considerable hours this commitment requires, there are other prices to pay, including what can amount to a significant chunk lot of change both in terms of helping offset team costs (tournament fees, practice facilities, uniforms, etc.) and gas money driving from tournament to tournament and back and forth to practices. Costs also include paying for hotel rooms and food and everything that goes with traveling across or out of the state for a weekend tournament. Perhaps more important, however, is the cost that the rest of the family has to pay, because when mom and dad travel to watch their kid play, that means the other kids in the family who are too young to stay home have to go, too. Further, it means access to mom and dad for those kids is diminished. For mom and dad, it means another obstacle keeping them away from whatever hobby it was they gave up a long time ago anyway to de-stress and stay sane. On those weekends when one parent has to work or it’s not feasible for everyone in the family to pack up and travel along, it means the family is split apart. In other words, we’re talking a lot of sacrifice that’s specifically made for one or two kids to play a game.

Why do it? There are a number of reasons. The hope of eventually obtaining a college scholarship is one. The reality is that this won’t happen for the vast majority of kids, but it’s still a hope. Another reason, and one that I find sad, is that if the kid wants to even play on his or her school team, it’s almost a given these days that playing on a select sport team is a must. It’s a must to spend the summer playing dozens of games and spending dozens and dozens of hours practicing that game and honing skills. There’s no choice because it’s the summer months when you make the team or not; it’s not the tryouts. It’s the summer months when you play against the kind of competition that will make you good enough to make the team. It’s the summer months when you literally go to work pretty much every day carving yourself into a good enough player to hopefully be noticed and actually make the school team later on. Don’t play select sports in the summer and you’re not just putting yourself behind the eight ball, you’re not even putting the pool cue in your hands to get a sniff of the game--unless you’re the rare exception who is so athletically gifted you don’t need the hours and hours of competition and practice. Those kids are getting rarer and rarer.

I’ve resigned myself to these realities, but I don’t really like them. I’m pretty old school, I guess, and there’s just a feeling that I can’t get over that by focusing so intently on one thing at such an early age, kids aren't as well-rounded and diverse in their thinking and likes and dislikes as could be. I have no evidence to back this up, but I know I’m not the only person who feels the same. And this comes from someone who has played sports himself since literally I can remember. My earliest (and many of my best) memories are centered around sports. I always have been and always will be a sports fan—a big one. But while I’m a fan of sports, I’m not always a fan of the culture of sports, including the cultural aspects of select sports. Today, from my perhaps limited and skewed perspective, where athletics are concerned, we’re turning kids into specialists. Trained assassins. They train and train at one sport, developing one set of skills, one mindset, one perspective, and one sense of being.

Worse for me is the false sense of importance that gets heaped on some kids. There’s a sense of elitism that bothers me. “Hey, son, the whole family is going to put their life on hold again this weekend, and it’s all so we can watch you play a game.” Walk around a few tournaments and you’ll see plenty of signs of kids with over-inflated egos and a demented sense of self. The strutting and posturing is embarrassing at times. Most of the kids I see are good and fine, but those that I see leading their parents around by the nose makes me cringe. Watching parents going so overboard to placate and dote on their kids makes me hurt a little inside. It makes me laugh when I  hear adults say, “Kids today feel like they’re entitled to everything.” Really? Where do you think they got that sense? We fork out thousands of dollars and clothe them with the most expensive gear and roll them onto the court to do battle like little warriors. We make them the center of the universe and then penalize them for acting like they are. Worse are the parents living out some kind of fantasy through their kids, pushing them down avenues the kid might not have chosen herself if given the chance.  

Even worse is watching the self-importance and grandstanding that some coaches conduct themselves in. Talk about the center of the universe. It’s brutal, to be honest, watching grown man stomp their feet and sneer obscenities and care seemingly more about seeking justice in the name of “horrible referees” than actually seeking justice in the name of something noble and truly meaningful. Without a doubt, there are those coaches who are wonderful influences and do commit their time to teaching kids life lessons. I appreciate and admire those men and women. The ones on an endless power trip who define their life’s worth on whether they win or loss, however, make me sick, and they’re not too hard to spot. I’ve seen enough of them to know the difference.

All that said, not everything about select sports rubs me the wrong way. Far from it. There are those families that love watching their kids play but don’t make the experience the end all be all of their lives. They have perspective. They introduce balance. There are those families they do love the travel, and some families actually love traveling together and experiencing new surrounding in a way that's educational and fun.

Elsewhere, personally knowing that my kid is working toward something she wants and is developing a stronger worth ethic while doing it vs. being on the street or anywhere else where she could be doing far worse things is extremely comforting to me. She’s being pushed. She’s facing challenges on almost a daily basis. She’s learning a great deal about herself. She finding out what’s she’s capable of. She’s having her desire questioned and answering the bell when she gets knocked down. If you don’t think that’s not going to pay off down the road, you’re crazy.

She’s also having a hell of a lot of fun hanging around other girls who love something as much as she does. She’s making new friends and being forced to develop new relationships, and that’s a very good thing. She forging bonds and learning to work collectively. She’s having to communicate in new ways. She’s hearing things about herself that are flattering and not so flattering. She’s developing thicker skin. She’s discovering her weaknesses and strengths both in terms of the game and in terms of her courage and will power and inner strength. Her mental acumen is being tested every bit as much as her skills. And I’m learning all types of new things about her as well, which I’m delighted about. I’m proud when I watch. I feel pain when she struggles. I feel joy. I feel a sense of accomplishment. I feel a million emotions that have nothing to do with me. I also like the examples she’s setting now for her younger sibling and the opportunity she has to continue doing so in coming years.

Believe me, I’m never hesitant to tell my kid when I think her ego is running out of check. And I’m never hesitant to tell her she needs to say some “thank yous” to those who are sacrificing their time and energy and resources to help make possible what she’s enjoying. I hope she’ll always remain aware of being well-balanced in her interests, but I'm also grateful for the associated lessons she’s learning by focusing so strongly on one area.