Day 181: home

Home at last. Long days are brutal. They are worse when traveling with a brood. That's why it feels so good to make it home. See your bed. Feel your pillow. Dream a sweet dream. Too tired to write.

Day 180: I Don't Fish Anymore, But . . .

Sometimes, I wish I did. I don't hunt, either, but I have no desire to do that. Honestly, I can't foresee myself ever picking up a gun again, let alone squeezing the trigger. It's a personal choice. You're free to make up your mind. I won't go into why I've made my choice, but a lot of reasons are the same as those that others who don't appreciate the merits of guns would cite. But a fishing pole, that's different. Not sure why, but it just is to me. Maybe, it's because I don't read all that many stories of someone arming themselves with a fishing pole to rob a bank or commit a drive-by shooting or hold a country's worth of citizens prisoners. I don't recall too many news stories that read "Disgruntled Employee Kills 12 With Fishing Pole" or "Man Arms Self With Rod & Reel To Kill President." Nah, a fishing pole is a leisurely device, well, at least for the fisherman. I think the fish would offer a different opinion.


Which brings me to why I stopped fishing. It happened sometime when I was around 16. I just couldn't stand the thought anymore of yanking a hook through a fish's mouth. Pretty much the same thing happened with the first bird I plugged with lead or the day I watched my dad do in a beaver he'd caught in one of his traps. The lust for animal blood never ran deep in me, and I'm more than fine with that. Oddly, I have no problem with putting the dukes up and letting them fly man-to-man if need by, but guns, eh, that's another story. 


I'm know my tune would change if someone was threatening my family, but owning guns just for the sake of owning them has never appealed to me. I have no idea where the guns I did have as a kid even are. I suppose they're tucked safely somewhere in my parents' house. I don't miss them, and I haven't thought about them in, well, ever. But my fishing pole. I do miss it. 


I had a great one, too. It had a green, foam-cushioned handle that fit my hand perfectly, and it was just the right weight. I wasn't a great fisherman, but I knew what I was doing. I had that pole for years and years, and I loved picking it back up every spring and practicing my casts. I wished I had gotten a chance to use it more often down along the Wahoo and Silver Creeks. I wish I had made more trips down that stretch of railroad out near the Guard Camp in Ashland, underneath that train bridge, casting a line, and sitting and waiting. Some days, the thought of sitting once again on the old concrete landing at Memphis Lake under those overhanging trees really appeals to me. When I've taken my own kids there over the years to camp, it seems so much smaller than it did years ago when my dad and I would sit there and watch our bobbers dance in the waves. We didn't bother with bobbers when we fished  behind my grandfather's house, sitting on that dirt where the creeks converged on either side. There we just loaded a hooked sponge up with stink bait and waited for the catfish to nibble. 


I can't remember exactly which was the last time I ever fished. I know it was when I was 16 or so. I'm pretty sure I was with my cousin. I remember there had been storms in our part of the state off and on for weeks, including one that morning. The water keep rising and rising, faster and faster, and we keep moving further and further up the bank until there wasn't much of a bank left. We were in awe, and a little bit scared. We didn't catch anything, either, but we rarely did. It wasn't really about how many fish we caught, though. It was about getting away from town. Away from responsibilities. Away from all the chatter. It was about just being there. 


Over the years, all of my children have fished, including my four-year-old daughter who fished for the first time this summer at day camp, and by all accounts, she did incredibly well. For months, she'd been asking me to take her, and all those times I tried to explain to her why I could go with her but it would probably be her grandpa who actually did the fishing with her. She doesn't really understand why this so, but she will one day. In the meantime, I want to let her fish all she wants, and later on when she can, I want her to make up her own mind about whether it's something she wants to do or not the rest of her life. Just like with the other kids, I don't want to say a word to try to influence her not to. I don't want to tell her what she should do. 


Fishing gave me a lot of good times, including a lot I shared with my dad, mom, sister, friends, and other family. I don't plan on doing anything to not make the same possible for my daughter. But fishing also helped me rethink a few of my own ethics and ideas, and I have to say, fishing was responsible for making me see things differently, and I'm just as thankful for that. But, man, some days, the thought of sitting along some serene stream or corner of a lake and feeling the anticipation of wanting the tip of that rod to dip downward toward the water has a definite pull. The thought of just sitting and listening and partaking in life without any need for words along a bank of water is pretty damn appealing. 

Day 179: "Louie" Teaches Me A Lesson

When I run across something I really like, I have a tendency to barrage anyone who will listen or is unfortunate to be in my immediate vicinity at the time with a multitude of reasons why they should like that thing, as well. It doesn’t matter if that said thing is a song, movie, TV show, book, pair of shoes, beer, potato chip, or person. As sorry as I am to say it, if I like something, I have a habit of attempting to persuade other people to like it, too. Worse, I have a habit of passing unfair judgment upon people when they don’t like what I do.

A prime example of this is Louis C.K. Tonight is the season premiere of the third season of his show, “Louie.” I was a fan of his standup routine well before he got his most excellent show on the FX Network, but I became a diehard fan after the first episode of the first season aired two summers ago. And I immediately went to work convincing anyone who would listen why they should be watching too, and if they didn’t watch they would missing out on the greatest joy of their life, and if they missed out on the greatest joy of their life they wouldn’t be living up to their duties as a human being, and by not living up to their duties as a human being I could no longer be associated with them. Well, I didn’t take my admiration and adoration of Louis C.K. quite that far, but I did push the boundaries a bit I’m afraid by obnoxiously and annoyingly pushing C.K. down the proverbial throat of others.

I did ultimately convince my wife to watch “Louie,” mostly by telling her it was quite possibly the greatest show to ever make the airwaves (something that I’m not entirely not convince of). When she found some of his material and scenes offensive (something perfectly within her rights) and didn’t make it a point to firmly block out the 9: 30 to 10 p.m. timeframe each and every Thursday night, however, I started doubting whether we were really right for each other. Well, again, I didn’t take my disappointment to those levels, but I was in fact disappointed that she didn’t instantly gravitate to the genius that I so obviously saw in Louis C.K.

I remember the same thing happening years ago when rap first starting infiltrating the popular music world with force. I instantly jumped onboard. Most of my friends didn’t. I deemed them shortsighted and incapable of recognizing “art” in all forms. The same thing happened decades ago when I attempted to point out the comedic genius of “The Blues Brothers” to my girlfriend at the time, who didn’t find Jake and Elwood nearly as amusing as I did. (“I’ll’ have four friend chickens and coke.” Come on!) And I can’t count the number of times or the number of people I’ve tried to hip to the real-world value of professional wrestling and why the dirty backstage goings-on and politics are every bit as enticing and oddly entertaining in a dirty, backstabbing, underhanded, dark, and power-hungry way as Tony Soprano or Michael Corleone or George Bush Jr.

A funny thing happened to me this morning, though, that made me rethink my position (as if it needed much rethinking; I know how full of crap I am). When a discussion between a friend and I turned to abstract art and its merit, I essentially said abstract art doesn’t have any merit (at least to me). I don’t get it. More or less, I crapped all over something that someone else found value in by denouncing it. Why? Well, merely because it doesn’t “speak” to me. Hmm. That’s pretty much like how Louis C.K. doesn’t really speak to some people I know, or how some people don’t consider rap to be music, and some people (gasp) don’t perceive Jake and Elwood to be on the same level as Abbott and Costello.

Lesson learned. We like what we like.  

Day 178: Thoughts On Wimbledon, Independence Day & My Mom

Ever year as the opening matches of Wimbledon get under way, I can’t help but think back to those years when I was a kid and my friends and I shared a mutual love of tennis, a love that seemed to equal that of baseball or any other sport we played. Among that group of friends who played often, I ranked somewhere near the lower end of the upper tier of players. I was capable of upsetting those better than me and more than capable of blowing matches I should have won. As much as anyone, though, I loved the game. That love continued well into college and beyond, and even though I haven’t played in years, my every intention is to take the game up again somewhere down the line when free time becomes less difficult to locate.  

As difficult as it might be for kids today to believe, 30 years ago or so, American youth not only loved to play tennis, they played it with gusto and followed it avidly. Even living in a small Nebraska town of barely 2,000 people, my running mates and I were full aware of the world of global tennis, and we hit the courts at least three or four times a week during the summer months trying to better our game. We held our own double-elimination tournaments, served as our own umpires, and fiercely competed against each other. Sometimes, those matches got heated and words were exchanged. More often, though, we knew who was likely to win but just loved to play anyway. 

We might have had one decent ball among us, but we still played. We might have a broken string or two in our racket, but we still played. We might have a crack in our wooden racket that we patched up with a half roll of tape, but we played on. We played before, during, and after it rained. We played in the morning, in the dead of the afternoon, and until the lights turned off at night. We played singles, doubles, and if there wasn't enough players for doubles, we played one-on-two. We played among ourselves and with the older people who were flooding the courts, which had just been built in my town and were becoming a progressively more popular destination. Everyone it seemed took up the game. We did more than that, though. We took up the game with passion. We saved our money to buy a new can of balls at Gamble’s. We hoped, prayed, begged, and pleaded for new rackets for our birthdays. And we mimicked our favorite players right down to their serving style, the way they wore their socks, and the headbands they donned around their foreheads. It was a grand, grand era for tennis filled with the likes of Connors, Borg, McEnroe, Lendl, Becker, Noah, Gerulaitis, Wilander, Evert, Navratilova, and Austin. We reveled in it. 

As much as Wimbledon reminds me of those days and playing with the likes of Timmy and David and the Paars and so many others, it reminds me of watching Wimbledon men’s singles championship year after year on early Fourth of July mornings with my mom, who was as avid and knowledgeable fan herself. I lived for McEnroe. She was a Borg follower, and I’ll never forget the encounters the pair had or how the stress and tension of their matches would gradually rise in our living room to unbearable levels the deeper the battled on. My mom and I seemed to live on every point. We spent hours glued to the television watching every point, yelling at every break point, going berserk at every double-fault, and feeling exhausted ourselves when the match was over.

These days, I glance at Wimbledon results each day online, but I don’t devote hours to watching finals matches. Somewhere along the way, I lost the love I once held for the game. My interests turned elsewhere, which is OK. But what I haven’t lost is the appreciation for traditions like Wimbledon or the grandeur or what those tradition and grandeur mean to certain people. Who knows, maybe this Fourth of July I’ll make a point of tuning in. Hopefully, Dick Enberg is still making the calls. 

Day 177: Upon First Encounter With Memorial Stadium

A couple of things today got me thinking about sports and more specifically, about stadiums and fields and arenas and the impressions and influences they can have on a person upon the first time he encounters one on a really big stage. My first experience on a big, crowded, frenzied stage was Memorial Stadium in Lincoln Nebraska in 1978.

It’s funny that with so many years sitting between 1978 and now, I can still remember so many details about that day and so much about the experience as a whole. Even better is how none of the specialness of that day has been lost during the years that have passed. In a word, that day and the experience were transcending, and it only cemented everything that I had already come to love about sports before that day.

The date specifically was Nov. 18, and the opponent was the Missouri Tigers. Nebraska was ranked #2 in the country. The previous week the Huskers had beaten the #1 ranked Oklahoma Sooners, sending the state into chaos. To say there was a significant buzz in the air Nov. 18 would be a tremendous understatement. Win the game against Missouri, the prevailing feeling among fans, sports writers, and anyone else in Nebraska who could form an opinion, and Nebraska would be playing for the national championship.

I couldn’t have been more elated when my dad told me he was taking me. Honestly, I’ve experienced few things since that have caused the same kind of anticipation and eagerness to swell up inside me. Among the many memories I have of that day is the sight and feel of the snow that was falling, the wind that was blowing, and the chill that was in the air. We parked many blocks away and had to cross the bridge leading to the stadium along with scores of other fans. I was intimidated and in wonder at the number of people on the streets, so much so that I didn’t notice that I had forgotten my gloves back in the car until we had nearly reached the stadium. My dad was understandably peeved, but he didn’t let it show (too much). I still remember him graciously giving me his own gloves and how warm they made my hands feel immediately.

As we made our way up the steps to enter the stadium, my eyes were darting everywhere. Even at a young age, it was impossible not to feel reverence for the history the building exuded. It was also impossible not to pay heed to the raft of voices filling the air. Men. Women. Old and young. Boys and girls. All decked in red and all full of life. Cheerleaders outside. The sound of the band coming from inside. The swarm of people filling the tunnels. All of it was amazing. I held on to my dad’s coat for dear life and let him pull me along the way, trying to find some light among the masses.

To this day, I can’t think of too many visions that are as firmly burned in my memory as the one of seeing the field for the first time. Even speckled with snow, the magnificence of the green field was blinding to my eyes. It was surreal. And the rows and rows of people collectively forming a sea of red? Incredible. Our seats were at about the 40 yard line, smack dab in the middle of what I soon figured out were longtime ticket holders. They were elderly and fiercely loyal. They were also incredible kind and couldn’t have been happier to have a youngster in their midst. They shared their binoculars and hot chocolate and observations. They told me what to look for and showed by example when I should stand, what cheers to participate in, and when to pay respect. It was like attending church.

The overall experience of witnessing the field and the stadium in all of its splendor would have been enough to make a deep, lasting impression, but the game only enhanced all the emotions I was feeling. Rick Berns took the opening kickoff and returned it for a touchdown, producing what is still to this day the loudest roar I can remember ever hearing. Later, after Nebraska would eventually lose the game 31-35, the result produced what would be perhaps the greatest collectively sense of dejection I’ve witnessed. As big of an impression as the cheers and joy and happiness of that touchdown made on me, the grumblings after the game ended were just as heavy and influential.

I completely and utterly realize how fortunate I am to have had such a memorable game and atmosphere be the center of my first encounter with a major sporting venue. I completely realize how lucky I am to be able to hold onto those memories in such an endearing way. I have such fond recollections of that day and how I got to share it all with my dad. I vividly remember how he took care to look after me and make the day special. I still remember the car rides to and from the stadium, and how drastically different the anticipation of the game felt from the contemplation of sorting through what I had actually experienced after.

Every time I’ve entered Memorial Stadium since, I’ve remembered that day with great joy and made a point to give that day the just due that it deserves. God made me a sports fan for whatever reason he did, but he made me a fan for life by gifting me that day. I learned on my first encounter on the big stage how special sports can be. 

Day 176: "Ah, Made You Look"

One of my favorite all-time songs is "Made You Look" from Nas. If you're not familiar, Nas is a rapper. He's a good one. One of the best. He also uses language in his songs that I can't let my little kid go anywhere near, which is just being a good parent but also a case of one day if she's interested, I want her to discover the music herself and make up her own mind about what is offensive and not. I don't want to force those judgments on her. Further, the world she'll be living in as she grows up will continue to be much different than the one I grew up in. Whose to say the words that cause me to flinch or reflect on now will even carry the same power later when she's ready to take them on. 


Nas lyrics specifically  use the "N" word, which for me brings up another interesting question, one that my other family members have been discussing lately. Honestly, I like a lot of rappers and a lot of rap songs that also use that word liberally. Very liberally. And while I understand the context in which it's being used, and most often I don't even necessarily object to the use, I can't bring myself to actually sing the word as I would the other words contained in the song, not even when I'm by myself and no one would no the difference. The few times that I have were weird and awkward, mixed with doses of guilt. The use of that word has been debated many times by many people in many types of different settings. I know where I come out, but I guess I don't have a firm grasp on why it seems offensive to me for me to sing the word. I do know that I won't stop listening to songs that contain the word, so just how far does my hypocrisy go? At any rate, this is just another reason why I love music as much as I do and argue its importance whenever I get a chance. 

Day 175: Losing Is Better Than Winning (Sometimes)

You won't find too many people who like winning more than me. When the situation requires as much, as I'm as competitive of person as you'll run across. But I know I've learned just as many lessons from losing as I have from winning. The lessons might sting a little more, but I'm convinced they're more valuable and longer lasting.

This weekend, my daughter's basketball teams went 0-5. They could have easily won two or three of those games but didn't. Now, there could be a lot of excuses made, and maybe even a few could be justified, but what would the point be. The excuse might make her feel better temporarily, but it isn't going to change the result. What's more important to me, and hopefully her, is that rather than look for reasons her team lost, she look for lessons she can learn from losing.

Losing often hurts, which is good. The more it hurts, the more you care. The more you care, generally the more effort you've put in preparing. The more you prepare, the more you've dedicated and gave of yourself. Giving and dedication are amazing traits to acquire and build upon.

Losing doesn't carry with it elation or instant joy. It does carry "what ifs." What's ifs mean contemplation. What ifs can propel redirection. Redirection can build character. If there's one trait I want my daughter to have, it's character. I want her to have to scrap and toil and fight. I want her to smacked in the mouth, feel the jolt, and decide if getting up and getting back in the fight is worth it. If she answers yes, I know she'll be likely to answer yes when there are bigger things at stake than a basketball game. I'll know she'll be more likely to take on bigger fights and opponents than the kind she'll find on a basketball court.

Overall, my attitude regarding losing is that there is nothing wrong with feeling pain. There's nothing wrong with being defeated. There's absolutely nothing wrong with being humbled. Nothing wrong with having witnessed first hand there's someone better than you. Personally, I want to know if the people I'm choosing to surround myself can man up when needed and keep coming forward. I want to know they aren't going to wilt at the first sight of trouble. I want to know they're not going to hide in a corner or find someone to take on their burdens for them. I want to know they can carry the weight. Not everyone can. Those who do are typically those who have lost something along the way.