Day 276: Autumn, A Time For Baseball

If I had my way, I’d park my arse in a comfy chair starting Friday for the first Major League Baseball playoff game and not get up unless it was to feed my face or pay a visit the little boys room until the final out was made in Game 7 of the World Series. Of course, I don’t have my way, and odds are I won’t get to watch even a good chunk of the playoffs, but someday . . . someday I will make the wish a reality. You mark my words. Baseball is my favorite sport. The baseball playoff season is my favorite time of year sporting-wise. Yes, dear family, it’s that time of year ago, when the leaves turn fabulous colors, the air gets nippy, winter clothes come out of storage, and dad/spouse stays up way too late way too often watching inning after glorious inning.

Look, I’m not stupid and I’m certainly not a baseball evangelist. I’ll be the first to admit that the baseball season does stretch on too long, and baseball probably is a boring sport to the casual fan. I understand why football wins out as American’s pastime these days. I understand why the Super Bowl is a national holiday. I understand that baseball will never again reach such heights. It’s destined to be the little brother that no one pays quite enough attention to or bothers to pick first. Baseball is a slow-moving game. There are too many meaningless games. Managers in their retirement years do look silly dressed in uniforms. Players are overpaid. Tickets are too expensive. Yet, I’m a believer in baseball. And here’s why:

• -        Baseball played on autumn-fueled nights are not only brilliant in their visual presentation, they’re full of the most enjoyable stress and pressure that’s ever been cooked up. “On-the-edge-of-my-seat” originated during a baseball game, or at least I envision it did.
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• -        Baseball playoffs are all about matchups, and matchups matter. It’s chess played out in a team format. It’s manipulation. It’s tricks and treats. It’s preparation and intelligence. It’s two generals plotting out a game plan and using their armies to execute it. There are no ties. No sudden playoffs. No overtimes. We’ll play all night if we have to.

• -        Baseball playoffs are all about surprises. The unexpected does occur. The home run no one saw coming does leave the yard. The base that could never be stolen does get snatched. Dominate pitchers do make mistakes. Overpowering hitters do come through. Stars are born before our eyes. Goats are, too. Heroes rise to the occasion, and they just as often fall short of their mark. Players do carry their teams to victory.

• -        Baseball has a universal audience. Mothers, daughters, sons, fathers, grandfathers, uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, acquaintances, and strangers unite to root for the home team. They rise in the middle of the seventh together. They sing together, too. They pass each other’s beers and peanuts down the line. Community.

• -        Baseball is tradition, and no other sport possesses and enjoys as much. It’s the unspoken. It’s the situations. It’s the records. It’s the statistics. It’s the Green Wall, the Ivy, the Cove, the Bronx, the Subway, the hotdogs, peanuts, foul pole, and white chalk. It’s the double play and put out and K. It’s the sacrifice bunt. It’s the hit and run. The playoffs only make each all the more calculated and important.   

• -        Baseball playoffs are all about leisure. Hours to bask in the competition. There is no clock governing time. There’s no time out on the field for review. There’s no flag. No whistle. No penalty box. There’s no technical foul. No jump ball. The most difficult task and skill that baseball requires of its fans is recognizing a balk.

Baseball playoffs have been a major part of my life since I was a grade schooler when my dad let me stay up late on school nights to watch the Royals and Yankees battle deep into the night. When George Brett was a warrior. When Billy Martin became my hero. When I dreamed of playing in the show one day. When I fell off to sleep peacefully and happily when the Yanks won and despondent and angry when they didn’t. Baseball playoffs has been on my car radio via AM stations. They’ve been on my television and computer screens, too. They’ve been in my head and heart, and they always will be. 

In truth, I wished I loved all aspects of my life as much as I love baseball and the playoffs. I’d probably be a better person. 

Day 275: Half The Sky

Sometimes, fate intervenes in such a way that it not only has a profound effect on your life, it changes it, and sometimes, fate changes your life dramatically. I'm not positive, but I think last night was one of those times. As I played Candyland with my daughter, I was trying my best to also watch a U.S. Senate debate between Bob Kerry and Deb Fischer on the local PBS station. After it concluded, a teaser ran for the show coming up next. 

In it, George Clooney spoke about the numerous atrocities committed against women and girls around the world, and in some cases, very, very young girls. These atrocities include everything from sex trafficking, rape, physical and mental abuse to outright murder of babies unfortunate enough to be born females and not males, who hold more "value." As a father of three girls ranging in age from four to 17, I was naturally intrigued. 

The documentary turned out to be entitled "Half The Sky" and was presented through PBS's fantastic "Independent Lens" series. Within minutes I was enthralled, horrified, crying, mystified, demoralized, uplifted, inspired, and incensed. Those feeling haven't altered much in the hours since. 

I won't pretend to be an expert about "Half The Sky," but here's what I can relay. The documentary is based on a book of the same name written by journalist Nicholas Kristof and his wife Sheryl WuDunn, both Pulitzer Prize winners. In the book, the pair tell of their travels and experiences through Africa and Asia and their meetings with "extraordinary women struggling there, among them a Cambodian teenager sold into sex slavery and an Ethiopian woman who suffered devastating injuries in childbirth. Drawing on the breadth of their combined reporting experience, Kristof and WuDunn depict our world with anger, sadness, clarity, and, ultimately, hope. "

The documentary essentially tells those stories from 10 countries, but it does so by involving the help of several female actresses, including America Ferrera, Diane Lane, Eva Mendes, Meg Ryan, Gabrielle Union, and Olivia Wilde. Brilliantly, their celebrity statuses are used to draw attention to issues that need the attention and so much more. You'd be better served by me just letting PBS describe the film: 

Across the globe oppression is being confronted, and real meaningful solutions are being fashioned through health care, education, and economic empowerment for women and girls. The linked problems of sex trafficking and forced prostitution, gender-based violence, and maternal mortality — which needlessly claim one woman every 90 seconds — present to us the single most vital opportunity of our time: the opportunity to make a change. All over the world women are seizing this opportunity.

I've written before about my general appreciation of women. I admire the obstacles that even the most successful of women have to deal with on a daily basis. I admire that despite women still being placed on a different status level than men just because of gender, they continue to battle and make their way. But within the gender, there are women who battle and then there are women who scrap, claw, and literally hold unto for dear life. The women featured in "Half The Sky" fall into the latter camp. These are women who have survived being sold by their own mothers to brothels at the age of three and younger. These are women who have been raped, beaten, left with a sexually transmitted disease, and banished from their families in shame, only to watch the man who did it all to them walk free, if he's ever even arrested in the first place, which most aren't. These are women who are forced to quit school in the first, second, or third grade to stay home and run households, all the while being treated no better than dogs. 

It takes a lot to make me cry. It doesn't happen very often, but when it does, it really does. Last night I cried. I cried hardest for the heroic women who not only survived but now live solely to nurture and better the lives of those girls who have experienced the same evils as they did. I can't say that I've come across more inspiring, magnificent women before. 

In all, the documentary has motivated me to take action. What they means, I don't know exactly yet. But as one women so wisely pointed out, all I need to do is look within my heart to find the answer. We can all do something. We just have to act. Just take the first step. 

I believe my first step is learning more about the Half The Sky Movement. I believe ultimately I'll turn my attention and resources to Room To Read, a program featured in the documentary that works to help educate children who otherwise wouldn't receive one. This includes girls in impoverished countries who have typically been forced to settle for a life sans education and opportunities. 

For those interested, Room To Read was started by John Wood, "an overworked Microsoft executive" who "escaped to Nepal for a much-needed backpacking getaway. While hiking in the Himalayas, John met a Nepalese “Education Resource Officer” who invited him to visit a school in a neighboring village. Little did John know that this short detour would change his life forever. At the school, John saw the harsh reality confronting not only this village, but millions of Nepalese children–a dilapidated schoolroom and a severe shortage of books. John was stunned to discover that the few books this school had had–a Danielle Steele romance, the Lonely Planet Guide to Mongolia, and a few other backpacker castoffs–were so precious that they were kept under lock and key...to protect them from the children!

As John left the village, the headmaster made a simple request: "Perhaps, Sir, you will someday come back with books." His request would not go unheard. John emailed friends asking for help collecting children's books, and within two months had collected over 3,000 books. The following year, John and his father, accompanied by a train of eight book-bearing donkeys, returned to the village in Nepal. Seeing the faces of the children with the books convinced John to leave the corporate world and devote himself to becoming the Andrew Carnegie of the developing world. In late 1999, John quit his executive position with Microsoft and started Room to Read."

Thank you, fate. I owe you one. 

Day 274: Leaves & Wind

There are few things to me more romantic for some reason than leaves and wind coming together in unison. The sounds, the smells, the visions they create are entirely unique, and they have never failed to lift my spirits each fall. Make no mistake about it, I'm completely a summer person. I live for the temperature rising above 80 and staying there. But the fall has it merits. Even a cynical, snow hater like me can admit that. The leaves may signal winter is soon to rear it's ugly face, but that doesn't mean I don't love their beauty. That doesn't mean I can't appreciate the dance they do with the wind sweeping them up. That doesn't mean I can see the leaves for the simple but endlessly joyful gift they are. 

This morning, the combination of wind and leaf infinitely brightened up my otherwise mundane ride to school and then work. As I drove down the roadways of Lincoln, that combination circled my cars windows. They passed in front and under me. They kicked up excitement. They motivated me to take to the woods to see and feel more. It was pretty much all I could do not to open the door and reach out to let my hands scoop up a handful of brown, rusted leaves just to feel them crunch in my grasp. 

The swirling and twirling and whirling of leaves are pretty much the essence of fall. They represent death, but they also represent chaos and hysteria. They present utter change. The leaves and wind present the old being ushered out in anticipation of the new. The dark before the storm. The labor before the birth. 

Nature puts it all right there in front of our eyes, if only we look. A different gift every day. Different interpretations. Different meanings. Different representations. What the leaves me to me probably aren't what they mean to you. The power of the mind. The power of nature to influence the mind. The power of being an individual. 

Day 273: The Week That Was

As a friend pointed out so wisely the other day, these weeks have been so busy and are going by so quickly, it will be Christmas before we know it. I hate that. Really hate it. I hate when time goes too fast to even contemplate. We're too busy trying to keep up with the next minute to appreciate the previous minute that just went by. That's a shame, but it doesn't have to be that way.

At first passing, if asked, I'd say this past week was just about like all the rest. But that's not true. Upon further examination, it was a hell of a week, actually. This past week:

1. I taught my daughter how to play hopscotch, and she was good, and we had a blast. 
2. I roadtripped to Minneapolis with a good friend, saw the Yankees play in a beautiful ballpark, sat about seven rows from the field, and can't wait to do it all over again. 
3. Watched a horrible movie with my wife, missed seeing another movie because we couldn't find a parking place, and couldn't think of anyone I would have rather done each with. 
4. Had a great piece of cheesecake. 
5. Cut my hand on a glass doing dishes and had seven stitches after sitting in the waiting room for four hours. 
6. Went on two walks with my daughter. 
7. Ate a very fine Mexican lunch with two of my three daughters and my wife. Many chips and salsa were consumed. 
8. Watched a very good football game. 
9. Watched "The Avengers" with my very own little, budding superhero. 
10. Ran roughly nine miles.

And that just scratches the surface. I live a pretty good life, but sometimes it takes some reflection to see that through the million and one responsibilities that this life brings. I'm glad I have the sense to see the joys, big and small. That's the whole damn point to begin with. 

Day 272: Earth, Wind & Fire

Just saying that this band was the shieeeet. Every time I hear them I want to move, as in shake the goods. What a gift. Takes me back to the good ole days of rolling skating and making the laps to the groove sounds of Earth , Wind, and Fire and the like. Kids today don't know the glory of a funky bass line backed by a dynamite horn section all serving as the foundation for impossibly tight harmonies. Just saying.

Day 271: One Moment In Time

Some weeks, the days seemingly run into one another like a stream of water pouring out of a facet and flowing down the drain. One minute the water is in your hands, the next minute it's gone. Poof. Vanished. Never coming back. You can reach as far as you want down that drain, but you aren't going to pull anything back up. That's what days can feel like. Here one minute, gone the next. Unless. . . .  

Unless you focus on the small things that might not matter but somehow still do--like the guy standing on the street corner this morning wearing an old farmer's hat and sweet-ass bib overalls. He was waiting for the bus, I assume, and he was holding what looked to be a bag of groceries. All these hours later, I'm still wondering what was in that bag. 

Or the short, middle-aged man hitting golf balls back and forth at the park during lunch. Hit and retrieve. Hit and retrieve. His back swing was atrocious. His follow-through was even worse. But damn if his ball didn't fly straight and true, and better, he looked like he was having fun. Whatever it takes, man.  

Or the guy dressed all in black who flew by me doing a million miles an hour on his Harley, engine roaring, hair blowing in the wind, sunglasses on tight reflecting the sun like a face in a mirror. Man, I wanted to switch places with him so badly. Wanted to hear that roar up close and personal. 

Or the sunflower seeds I popped in my mouth during my 3 o'clock walk this afternoon. Seed after seed after glorious, salty seed, Crack, shovel, spit, chew. Repeat. Sunflower seeds practically define "simplicity." 

Or the funky, faded tattoos on the man standing in front of me at the gas station. I see him there pretty much every morning, yet he's still a mystery. I like to make up different histories and realities for him. Give him a different name depending on my mood, how he's dressed, and how much beer he's buying already at 8 a.m. I like to think he's taking that beer home to sit on a lawn chair in his garage and watch cars pass all day with no place to go himself. No responsibilities. No worries. Just beer and sun. Chuckling at all the monkeys coming and going. That's what I would do if I was Jonesy. Or should I call him Dusty or Fred or Mac? 

I hear people say all the time, "I'm so bored" or "there's nothing to do." Drives me mad each time. Your life, my friend, has reached a mundane state because you're mundane. It doesn't take much to change that. 

Day 270: Replacement Refs

The whole topic of the NFL's replacement refs is both beyond sad and funny to me. 

It takes a good ole' replacement ref-like situation to come along every few years to remind me just insane of a time I live in, not to mention how insane of a world. As much as the reality of replacement refs entertains me, it's also a bit depressing when you think of it.  

It's both saddening and humorous, for example, how quickly people (including myself more often than I'd like to admit) flip-flop to suit their needs. In terms of the NFL's replacement refs, for example, you have a group of men who belong to a union, didn't like what was being offered to them, and choose to walk away until they got what they wanted. Now, you say the word "union" in some quarters and you'll be smacked upside the head or worse. You definitely won't be in the camp of the majority for supporting unions. 

Take Wisconsin, for example. As a friend pointed out so brilliantly on Facebook last week following the Great Packers v. Seahawks Debacle Of 2012, suddenly after the Monday Night travesty occurred, legions of union-bashing Wisconsinites, including that noted "union buster" Gov. Scott Walker, were flooding the social networking airwaves demanding the reinstatement of . . . you guessed it, union members. Yep, the same people who not so long ago were denouncing unions for all they are worth.  

What's less funny and more sad is the incredible number of people who became so outraged and horrified and incensed and filled with anger at the present conditions of the officiating on the playing field. Somehow they found the motivation to speak out publicly with their strong, brave voices. They stated up and down  just how piss poor the quality of the replacement refs was that was ruining America's favorite game. They demanded change. They formed a collective voice. They took to Twitter and Facebook and their sports radio airwaves in throngs, and damn it if they didn't get exactly what they asked for. The NFL backed down and put the "real" refs back in. 

I wonder how many members of those throngs are business owners, small and large. I wonder how many would have agreed to give their employees a roughly $50,000 raise over eight years to essentially work one day a week to do what they're really paid to do. 

What's sadder is thinking about all the things that people could accomplish with that same collective, strong, energized, angry voice if so motivated. If we can end a referee holdout, for example, isn't putting a dent in homelessness or ending poverty, hunger or child abuse or building a neighborhood park where our kids could congregate and play their own games of football within our reach? 

Day 269: Home

No matter where you've been or how good of time you've had, it's always good to come home. It's good to realize what you have. I realize and I'm glad.

Day 268: Crosscountry Driving

It's been a long time since I've just sat in a car and watched the landscape pass by out the window. Thinking time. Deep thinking time, but also downtime. Time for just staring. Time to recharge. Remember. Recall. Retrace. Time to project. Predict. Time to just be. As complicated as life is, farmland and sunshine and long roads and cows standing still in contentment remind me how easy life can also be.

I always wanted to take a bus across the country, just to watch and let go of the responsibilities of the road. Being behind the wheel is different. I'm grateful for this time in the passenger seat. Sometimes it's good to be the one being carried.

Sat 267: Hospital Waiting Room Blues (But Not Really)

I'm sitting in a packed waiting room because I cut my finger on a glass doing dishes. It's packed here, but guess what? There's a computer provided that's running Facebook. I love this country. I love my fellow man, some of whom are dropping the fbomb next to me for my pleasure. I love all this built in entertainment. The world I live in is a beaut.

But damn, come on. There's a gunshot victim here. There are little kids who are sick. There are parents scared and restless. My cut finger has me feeling pretty stupid and insignificant.

Beyond that, I live in a country and a time where a cushy seat in a waiting room is my reality. A seat with HDTV overhead. A seat with a coffee pot nearby. A seat with Facebook at the ready for good ole Ben who says his pain is an 8 but is still updating his status. You rock, Ben. You rock.

I really am thankful, and putting up with teenaged Ben and his doting momma is the least I can do. Hell, my wife does this everyday. But really, could we change the channel from Dora and Dancing With The Stars.

Day 266: Sunday Work

I consider "Sunday work" to be mowing the lawn or raking or cleaning the garage. I don't like mixing real, job work, though. Today was a real job work day. Despite that, it was also productive, so I'll take that. 

Day 265: Grownup Time

I love my kids, but man, it's good to have some grownup time in which they're not  around. Ha. That sounds a lot worse than it's intended to. The opportunities that my wife and I get to get away together alone are rare and rarer. So, when those times do manage to come along, like it did yesterday, I savor them for all they're worth.

The thing is that despite how freeing and wonderful it is to walk through a store without the persistent wailing of "Can I get this? Can I get this? Hey, Can I get this?" or how magnificent it is to get through a meal in which nothing is spilled on me, it's always good to come back home and see those faces.

Still, grownup time is so, so good. We've had kids around for roughly 21 years. Whereas most of my friends are at the age where they can go out on the town for a dinner and date without worrying about babysitters or the sniffles or stepping on toys in the middle of the night, we're not. Sometimes, I forget what it's like to sit across the table with a women and just be able to bask in the beauty without having a crayon in my hand connecting dots on a kids' menu. Sometimes, I forget what it's like not having to share my food or cut someone's meat. Sometimes, I forget what it's like not having to get home by 9 p.m. because someone's bed time is coming on fast.

But again, like previously mentioned, it's always good to come back home when adult time is over.I have a feeling that having too much adult time on my hands would ruin me. Besides, the day will come when I have nothing but adult time to spend, and I know I'll long for the days when I didn't. 

Day 264: 16 Years Of Marriage & Counting

Today is my wedding anniversary. I’ve been married to the same woman for 16 years. I’d be lying if I said it’s been all smooth sailing, but can anyone who has been married say that in complete honesty? I can say without a bit a hesitation that for every rut my wife and I have had to dig ourselves out of, it’s only strengthened the bond for the long haul.

Are there things I’d change? Well, hell yes, there are. But I’m not one of those people who says, “Oh no, I wouldn’t change a thing.” Christ, if I’m not learning from my past and could have eased the burden I put on someone else through better judgment, why wouldn’t I change them?

Now, do I regret having gone through anything that’s gone down during these 16 years? Hell no. I lived a hundred lifetimes in that span. I’ve seen my family expand, morph, twist, turn, rise, fall, spread apart, and come back together. I witnessed children come into the world, become part of the world, take on the world, and create their own worlds. I’ve found out more about myself through my wife and kids during these years than would have ever been possible without them, and that includes a whole lot of things I’m really pleased about. I’ve felt emotions I never knew existed. I’ve accomplished things I never knew were possible. Hell, I was still a boy when I got married. I’ve grown into a man during these 16 years. For that alone, what could I possible regret?

I’ve been lucky. I realize that—even on those occasions when I’ve flat-out questioned the cosmic forces at work by asking, “What the hell, man? Can’t you pick on someone else awhile?” I think back to my wedding day and all the people who made a presence, and it’s remarkable how many of those people are still in my life. My closest friends then are still among my closest friends now. My parents are still a presence in my existence. My wife’s family is, too, and I’ve only grown closer with many of them. My children still speak to me (most of the time). I (along with my wife) was able to provide good, decent lives for them growing up. We’ve had a good roof over our heads for 16 years. We’ve had food in the fridge. We’ve gone on vacations. We’ve celebrated birthdays. We’ve played in dozens of parks. We’ve put air into a lot of bike tires, balls, and balloons. We’ve eaten a lot of cakes and a lot of bowls of ice cream. We’ve paid a lot of medical bills but we are all still intact. We’ve enjoyed a lot of meals together and broken a lot of bread. We’ve had a lot of arguments that we’ve survived. I’ve had discussions and conversations with my kids that I guarantee a good amount of parents never come close to with theirs. We've loved pets and lost pets. We listened to, shared, and watched music being played together. We’ve shed tears belly laughing and crying in pain. It wasn’t always easy, but it was always real and honest and intimate.

The best thing about these 16 years? Without a doubt, it’s the inside information, the inside jokes, the impersonations, the secrets, the details, the goods that only five other people walking the planet will ever truly appreciate besides myself. To me, that’s the definition of family, and family was made possible by marriage. 

Day 263: A Dream About Uncle Gene's

Last night, for whatever reason, I had a dream that took place in my Uncle Gene’s house. A really strange dream. Basketball. Babies. Diapers. People I didn’t know. Who knows what the hell it was about? I rarely make sense of my dreams, as hard as I try.

The great aspect about my dreams, though, is that they’re usually extremely vivid and extremely specific. Typically, the detail is pretty amazing, and my ability to remember it later on is usually equally so. The great aspect about last night’s dream was being back in Uncle Gene’s house again.

From the time I was eight until I went off to college, we lived next to Uncle Gene’s house, a house that he still lives in today. Arguably, other than my own house, I spent more time there than any other building on the planet. I was there before school each morning to catch a ride. I was there on weekends while being babysat. I was there on late Saturday nights while my aunts and uncles played cards and the kids watched “Create Feature.” I was there on the Fourth of July, Christmas, birthdays, and more. I was there on many a night in high school and later drinking beer after Uncle Gene went off to work. I played my first video game there. I saw my very first MTV video there when I was 15 one morning before school. I climbed the tree in the back yard about every chance I got. I played “bloody bucket” and “tackle the man with the ball” in the front yard. And I spent countless hours playing basketball on Uncle Gene’s driveway. Countless hours.

To this day, sometimes when I’m shooting baskets on my own hoop, I stop and say a “thank you” to Uncle Gene for putting up with that bouncing ball against the pavement, year after year after year. Despite endlessly banging airballs galore off his car, off his garage doors windows, off his lawn mower, and off the side of his house, he never once asked me to quit. He never once told me what a pain in the ass I must have been. He never once yelled at me or even hinted at being bothered by the racket. Not once. And this was a guy who spent years working nights, meaning all those morning and afternoons I was slamming a ball against the pavement outside his house, he was trying to sleep.

One of my favorite and probably oddest pastimes as a kid was sitting on the back steps of our deck and watching Uncle Gene mow his lawn. He was a magician with grass. Easily, he could have worked at any baseball stadium he wanted performing his magic. The way he perfectly criss-crossed the rows so effortlessly, forming these perfect Xs in his yard, would leave me in awe. Time after time I’d try to pattern what he did in our lawn when I mowed, but time after time I’d fail miserably.

I haven’t been in Uncle Gene’s house in probably more than 10 years. I’m not sure why. My parents moved away years ago, and I can’t remember the last time I was even in that old neighborhood, let alone at his house. But thanks to the magic of dreams, I was back in that kitchen and living room and in that basement again last night, standing next to that old pool table sitting next to his work bench; banging my thigh yet again against the ping pong table made out of card tables; looking out of that small, square window, the same one that I swore I saw Santa Clause peeking in on that Christmas Eve night decades and decades ago; and sitting again on that old, green couch that I always loved. At least I remember it being green, and at least it’s still green in my dreams.

The only thing seemingly missing from that dream last night was the pit stop I always made to the freezer in the kitchen every time I was in the house. That’s where Uncle Gene kept the steady stream of Drumsticks, which he pretty much bought for me to stuff in my fat face. Damn, I loved those, as much as I loved the Hostess Ho Hos and Ding Dongs he stowed away in the third cabinet drawer.

It’s funny how some places never stop existing. 

Day 262: Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini

Today, I was feeling a little crappy about things. Nothing major. Nothing life-altering. Just crappy. Had a crappy time getting out of bed this morning. Had a crappy run over the lunch hour. Followed that up with a crappy lunch. I just had a crappy feeling hanging over my head most of the day. It happens to everyone now and again. But then something  intervened, as things often will if you're paying attention. I heard an interview on the radio on the way back to work with a sports writer named Mark Kriegel, a guy who has written a book called "The Good Son: The Life of Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini ." I like Kriegel's stuff. I like his style and approach. He previously wrote a book I read and like a great deal about  Pistol Pete Maravich, who next to Dr. J, is probably my favorite all-time basketball player. Kriegel also hosts a show for Fox Sports called Barfly that I like a lot. Maybe because I like bars and sports, and I really like when those two things come together. So, I'm expecting big things from his book on Mancini. 

For the uninitiated, Mancini was a great, great boxer in the early 1980s, probably the golden era of boxing in this country. Back then you could see nearly all the big fights on network television, including a lot of live fights featuring the greats like Ali, Foreman, Frazier, Norton, Duran, Hearns, Hagler, Sugar Ray, etc. Those you didn't see live, you could likely catch the following week or sometime after on Wide World of Sports with Howard Cosell calling the action. Back then, boxing was full of characters, guys like Randall "Tex" Cobb. Guys like James Scott, a contender who would fight from within Rahway Prison where he was incarcerated. You could see the great Earnie Shavers, a scary as hell puncher who was the precursor to Mike Tyson. Hell, arguably the greatest fight I ever witnessed was Aaron Pryor vs. Alexis Arguello, which took place on a hot Miami night and which I watched on my TV as a kid without shelling out $65 for the pay per view right to do so. 

Mancini wasn't my favorite fighter, but I watched him fight many times. He was a continual underdog, and he was famous for his big and mighty heart in the ring. He was also noted because of his relationship with his father, who was a contender in his own day and was in his son's corner. My favorite Mancini fight was with Arguello, which Mancini lost. He later won the lightweight title from Arturo Frias, who pummeled Mancini early on but who couldn't put him away. 

Despite becoming a world champion when few people ever expected as much, Mancini later became most moted for his fight with Duk Koo Kim, whom died in the ring. The fight was a war. Literally, a war between two men. I remember watching the rounds unfold, and I remember thinking at the time, "this is scary brutal." In the next to last round, Kim went unconscious and never would wake. Eventually, his family took him off of life support. Kriegel's book picks up the story all these years later, detailing what has occurred in Mancini's life since, but just as importantly, what has occurred with Kim's family, including his son, wife, and mother. 

As I listened to Kriegel on the radio describe how the Mancini family and Kim family came together recently to share time, including sharing a meal to honor Kim, suddenly, my crappy day didn't seem so crappy. 

Imagine killing another man in the name of sport. Imagine living with that the rest of your days. Imagine being a son having to grow up without a father, knowing how he died. Why he died. Knowing there's a possibility it could have been prevented. Knowing that millions of people had watched his father literally beaten to death. Knowing that his father might have died needlessly, but he died doing what he most likely loved. Imagine the baggage those people carry around each day. Real baggage. Really pain and hurt. Real loss. Yeah, suddenly, my crappy little run and crappy little lunch felt and tasted pretty good. 

Sometimes, I get a little pissed at myself for bemoaning the trivial. I am thankful, however, that when something pops up to remind me that in actuality I'm pretty lucky, I recognize it and let it take hold. 

Day 261: Whew!

Today, I thought I had lost this blog. I thought all the posts that I written every day of this year had somehow been deleted. Gone. Poof. Vanished. In the ether. I legitimately was worried. After all, it's not unprecedented; people lose digital work all the time. Massive amounts of it. And my faith in Google to help me restore my lost posts wasn't all that great, to be honest. Multiple-billion dollar companies have better things to do than help a schmo retrieve his silly little daily musings. 

There's nothing better than the relief of knowing that something you thought you'd lost really isn't gone. Nothing better than finding that certain something you'd feared was gone forever really isn't. 

It's a lesson and a tremendous reminder to take nothing for granted. Don't assume anything. Be thankful for the here and now. Take notice of what's right in front of your face before it's gone. 

Man, if you know me at all, you know how little regard I hold for cliches or touchy feely goodness echoed in the sentenced above. It's just not my personality. But I think maybe, just maybe, the ice is melting a little bit, and I have to thank these silly little daily musings for that. Maybe I'm realizing the worth of a good cliche. 

It's a funny thing being a writer. You're happy when people read your stuff. Your unhappy when they don't. But ultimately you write for yourself. Oh, you very well may be writing for an audience with a certain piece, but if you're really practicing the art of writing, you're doing it for your soul. You're filling some need. You're tapping into something that you can't otherwise tap into without the use of words. Writing provides some kind of satisfaction that's not available by other means. It provides some kind of learning process. Writing takes you places, dumps you in the middle of it, and relies on your skills to get you out. I love that about writing. 

Truth is, I would have been really, really disappointed if I'd had lost these posts to the digital graveyard never to be seen again. I might have even been devastated temporarily. But at the end of the day, I would have carried on, because really, there isn't any other option. More importantly, though, I'm not writing these silly little daily musing to compile some collection of daily entries at the end of it all, although that will be a nice benefit. I'm writing them to learn something about myself along the way and learn how I view the world around me and my place in it. That's the point. 

That said, whewwwwwwwwwwwww!! 

Day 260: Billy Jack

For some reason as I lay awake in bed last night staring at the ceiling deep into the morning hours, my mind turned to "Billy Jack," one of my favorite movies for all times. Such is the way my mind works. Some men dream of making their first million. Some dream of what they will cross off their bucket list next. I think about "Billy Jack."

I've seen "Billy Jack" 10 times if I've seen it once. It's been many a year since my last viewing, but each time I take that flick in, it only gets better and more compelling. "Billy Jack" is in no way the best movie ever written, directed, or acted, not by a long shot, but man if it doesn't resonate with me for some reason. Tom Laughlin, I don't know how you did it, but you made me a believer in Billy. Maybe it was the bad-ass beaded hat he wore. Maybe it was the way he ever so coolly took his cowboy boots off before doling out an ass whipping. Maybe it was the whole package, but I was enthralled with the essence that was one Billy Jack. 

I've always been a sucker for a movie that presents a strong, bad-ass hero who carries himself in an unconventional manner, who is a solitary figure, and who is broken and flawed but ultimately unquestionably good. Billy Jack's primary flaws are his anger and his act-before-thinking demeanor, which causes him to write checks his fists and feet can't completely cash. Billy acts in violence first and leaves reason as a possibility sometime down the road. But that trait is also the very one I loved about BJ. He didn't flinch. He didn't hesitant. He took on all comers, no matter the odds. Such is the hero in the movies. 

Each time I watched "Billy Jack," I was left with the question, "How would have I acted if in Billy's position?" Would I have handled myself in the same manner that Billy does when it came time to put the snot-nosed Bernard Posner and his pack of flunkies in their place? I'm not sure it's a positive trait, but I was always left believing I'd most likely act with fists before reason. That's probably my inflated ego at work, though. I'm guessing in reality, I'd try reason before letting my fists of fury fly. We can't all be Billy Jacks, after all.  

As a kid when I watched "Billy Jack," I vehemently thought, "Jean, would you please shut the hell up and just let Billy do what Billy does best, kick ass." I wasn't much in favor of Jean's voice of reason, no matter how much sense and dignity it might of held in comparison to a karate chop to the nose. As I got older, I better understood ole' Jean's footing and how sometimes to make progress, you have to take the long route and not the one that necessarily offers instant gratification.  

During my first few viewings,"Billy Jack" appealed to me pretty much only for the violence. The movie played out very much like a western, only set in modern time. That I loved the fighting scenes in which Billy dealt out bone-crunching punishment wasn't too surprising considering my age in the late 1970s and how impressionable I was. It didn't hurt that I grew up in a house where John Wayne, Lee Marvin, and the like were worshiped. I was drawn in by Billy's manly man persona. He possessed what I thought were the best traits of Bruce Lee (a mastery of martial arts) and Dirty Harry (oozing machismo). I still get chills picturing the scene in which Billy confronts old man Posner and defiantly proclaims, "You know what I think I'm gonna do then? Just for the hell of it?" After old man Posner answers, "Tell me," Billy matter-of-fact says, "I'm gonna take this right foot, and I'm gonna whop you on that side of your face, and you wanna know something? There's not a damn thing you're gonna be able to do about it." 

Whop!! 

After viewing four or five or so, "Billy Jack" started to leave me saddened and hollow as the credits rolled and "One Tin Soldier" played in the background. This was about the time in my life when the scenes portraying racial bigotry and abuse toward women, although undeniably  presented heavy-handed, had an extremely painful and eye-opening impact on me as a kid watching. One one hand, the scene of a woman being physically held against her will and raped turned my stomach. On the other hand, the scenes in which the town's elders actively led the discrimination left me confused and bitter. The scene in which the kids from the Freedom School head to town, decide to get some ice cream in a local shop, only to be demeaned and battered simultaneously brought tears to my eyes and made my blood boil . When I was younger, it could sometimes take days to get the image out of my head of the little Native American girl having flour poured over her head to make her "white." Even the gratification of Billy coming to the rescue and going "berserk" on Posner did little to offer relief. 

It's funny to me which movies from my childhood have stuck with me and why. If I watched "Billy Jack" for the first time today as a grown,  middle-aged man, I'm fairly certain the inner critic in me would take over and focus on the film's weaknesses, of which there are probably many. The movie, after all, sends a pretty mixed message by putting the Freedom School,  populated by peace-loving pacifists and hippies, at its core only for the protagonist to be a walking, talking ass-kicking machine who uses violence to right pretty much every wrong. I think that's the beauty of a young mind, though. You don't tend to view everything as a cynic. You tend to view with your emotions, which isn't such a bad thing. 

Day 259: Cutting The Cord

Last Friday marked an monumental day in my household, well at least for my kids. It was on  that day that we (meaning my wife and I) cut the cord. Not in the metaphorical sense of releasing another child to the wild (although that is coming), but in the sense of cutting the cable television cord in two. Ah, the power rush that came shortly afterward was indescribable. I may live to regret the decision later this winter on those cold days when Mother Nature has forced me inside to stay, but for now, I'm pretty well satisfied with myself. 

To say that the decision (one that was made due to a combination of economic, time-management, and simple value vs. cost assessment reasons--was met with the same enthusiasm and acceptance by my children would be a flat-out lie. To the contrary. A near mutiny almost immediately erupted upon spreading the glorious news. Riots. Chaos. Threats. One daughter openly (and with complete sincerity) questioned the sanity of her parents. Another daughter, the youngest in our brood of children, keeps pointing the remote at the television in an attempt to Pause the live programming. Apparently, today's  technologically savvy youth can't comfortably make a trip to the bathroom without temporary halting what's onscreen. Admittedly, even I have felt the absence of those hundreds of channels accessible at my fingertips. On at least one occasion, I found myself  looking forward all day to watching something that night, only to be reminded with a seemingly mocking reply of "No Signal!" on the blackened TV screen that the channel no longer exists in my household. 

Now, to say that those living in my abode are completely without ample viewing options would be misleading. We aren't. Not by any stretch of the imagination. In addition to having an Internet-connected DVD player that's capable of streaming movies and television programs from Netflix, Hulu, Vudu, and other services, we still have access to 18 or so digital stations thanks to a pair of HD-quality antennae I picked up for $20 total. So, beyond PBS, NBC, CBS, and ABC stations all in HD, we have a surprisingly healthy supply of church-, Latino- and ad-supported stations to sit back and enjoy. 

But the hits keep on coming. Anyone with a bit of Internet intelligence knows there are all kinds of free content available online, including movies, documentaries, kids programs, videos, and more. So, with a simple cable connection from one of the notebooks present in the house to the HDTV, we're in business for watching anything from "Sanford & Son" re-runs via Crackle to the local news in Honduras if we so desire. And have I mentioned the vast amounts of goodness waiting at the ole' public library?  

Personally, I'm hoping life sans cable television helps gets my butt in gear to do more reading and writing. More guitar playing and learning. Take a college course or two. Do more building and creating. Do more exploring, hiking, home improvement. See more art. Hear more music. 

I suspect once my kids get over the culture shock, they'll do the same. They'll adjust. I believe they'll be better for it. At least that's the plan. 

Day 258: Observations

Today, I observed how much I like cooking shows. So much that I don't even care what's being cooked. I don't care that I don't particularly like what's being cooked or have any interest in actually eating it. I just like the process. 

I observed that I can feel just as close with my daughter while we're playing together but not saying a single word as we are playing and blabbering on endlessly. 

I observed how much I love to paint, despite the fact that I suck. 

I observed how little I miss TV when it's not available. 

I observed how damn good an egg sandwich can be if it has just the right amount of pepper sprinkled on top. 

I observed how many glasses five people can go through in one day. 

I observed I love the word "miggie," as in pirate miggie, as in what my daughter has come to call a pirate "mattie." 

I observed that I'm convinced that my guitar is a gift from god. 

I observed there is nothing quite as beautiful as a blue sky. 

I observed that kid channels on Internet radio stations really love songs about ducks. 

I observed there are a lot of ways a duck can quack. 

I observed there's a time and place for everything. 

I observed Internet access is not to be taken for granted. 

I observed that toast, quite possibly the simplest of foods, is also among the best tasting when accompanying a cup of coffee. 

I observed that my favorite days are those on which not a whole lot happens. 

Too bad there isn't a job that pays a person to just observe, because I'm good at it. I could just blend into the woodwork and watch the world pass by and be perfectly content. You learn a lot by just watching. Just shutting your mouth and letting the moments pass by in thought. You see more. You sense more. You learn to predict and anticipate. You learn to know where the moment is traveling, and that's important. You become more of a moment when you're not trying to dictate it. Not trying to pursue it. Not trying to make it last. You become bigger than yourself when you're not trying to make the moment about yourself. 

Day 257: Rock Star

Today, my kid told me I was an old man and couldn't be a rock star. I suppose she's right, but man that one cut to the bone. Worse, when I asked which was better, being a rock star or being a dad, she said, "Definitely a rock star, and it's not even close." I guess at four, the world had gotten to her already. She wouldn't get an argument from too may people, either. What stings more is that there's a part of me that agrees with the little urchin. I'd love to be a rock star, even an old one. I'd love to travel the world with my six string on my back. I'd love to have a groupie or two to do my laundrey at beck and call. I'd love to have Lemmy's cell # in my contacts or know that my summer European tour was sold out. I'd love to rock Cleveland. But it ain't happening.

Someday, my kid will know what's really important, but who am I to shatter the illusion now? Let her view the world big for now. Let her believe there's glit and glammer waiting out there. Maybe she'll believe so much she'll want to be a rock star herself, and god knows if she really wants to she can. Then I can live through her.