Basketball Gods, I Choose Coaching

There’s nothing in basketball that beats making a last second shot to win a game. Nothing. I know. I made one. 1985. Ashland-Greenwood High School gymnasium. Long-time rival Wahoo Warriors lead the good guys by 1. Six seconds on the clock. Timmy Washburn inbounds to Tom Anderson at the far end of the court. Tom brings the ball up the court in a hurry and passes to me on the left side of the lane. I take a step to the basket but there’s not an open lane. I take three hard dribbles to the left toward the baseline and heave up a 30-footer with a hand buried in my face. Sailing out of bounds, I wind up against the stage watching through the back of the glass backboard that beautiful, orange pumpkin spin with perfect rotation touching nothing but the proverbial net. Game over. Why do those six seconds still come through so clearly 30 years later? Because nothing beats making a last-second shot to win a game.

Nothing except coaching. I mean that sincerely. I love coaching. I think I love it even more than I loved playing, and there was a time when I lived to play. I was a decent player, but I'm a better coach. 

Tomorrow, my  team of first-grade girls will play its last game. We don’t keep score, but if we did, I’m confident we haven’t come remotely close to winning all season. We’re shorter than every team, and of the six girls on the team, only three can get the ball to the rim, and that’s on an 8-foot basket. Hell, one squints every time she shoots or passes. When I ask if she wears glasses normally, she says no. I’ve suggested she look into it.

I could care less about our would-be losing record. There’s no other place I’d rather be on Saturday afternoons. They don’t know, and they probably don’t care, but they’ve come so far in so little time, and that’s a beautiful thing to witness. It makes be believe in same area of my life, I’m making a positive difference. That I’m a good influence. That I’m becoming a better person. And I’m truly enjoying myself. I leave the gym every Saturday afternoon feeling so much better than when I walked in.

I've coached boys and girls basketball teams spanning more than a dozen years. Some of those kids are still playing, and it warms my heart watching them. Still, my biggest regret in life is not trying to make coaching basketball a full-time job. Not making the gym my home away from home. Not surrounding myself with basketball. Not following through on the dream I had growing up while shooting all those baskets on the driveway in the snow and rain and triple-digit heat. I just let the dream slip away. Instead of making it squirm out of my cold death-grip, I just let slip away and took another path.

I often wonder how much more of a difference I could have made if I hadn’t. I think a lot about all the relationships and struggles and successes and special moments I cheated myself out of. The thought grows in magnitude every winter when a new season rolls around. It comes to the forefront every time I try to lessen the regret by coaching one of my kid’s teams. That’s why I covet those Saturday afternoons so much. As cheesy, romantic as it may come off, for a short time, I’m reminded why I had the dream in the first place.

I love watching little kids put 2 and 2 together and experience their first success. I love the moment when all the pointless blither blather some adult has been spewing at them for weeks on end finally makes perfect sense—when the fog dissipates and the sunshine smacks them full on. I love the witnessing the twinkle of recognition beaming in a little kid’s eye.

I love seeing a little girl make her first shot ever and immediately spinning around, frantically searching for her mom and dad sitting courtside with the biggest flipping smile possible stretched across her sweaty face and everything in her presence screaming at full volume, “DID YOU JUST SEE WHAT I DID?”  

I love when a kid makes a great pass and I instantly hear every mother, father, grandma, grandpa, uncle, aunt, big sister, big brother, cousin, or simple bystander who is basketball-savvy and appreciates the finer details of the game acknowledge it by collectively letting out a “Nice pass!”

I love yelling “hands up!” and seeing 10 arms shoot skyward in unison.

I love saying “reach for the cookie jar” and a girl shows me perfect follow-through.

I love that in no other place in life do the words “three,” “point,” and “stance” or “box” and “out” make sense to a grade-schooler when used in succession.

I love teaching fundamentals and seeing them used. “Butt in the gut.” “Hands up, tails down.” “Pick and roll.” “Help defense.” “We push, push, push; not slap, slap, slap the dribble.” “Pass to the numbers, not the knees.” “The backboard is our friend. Show him some love.”

I love when a little girl, who on the first day of practice, can barely summon the bravery to squeak out her first name because she’s so shy makes her first layup, slaps me a high five, and realizes she belongs here as much as anyone.

I love when I get to the gym and the kids I’m coaching are already there, practicing the things they’ve been taught without knowing I’m watching.

I love the lessons I receive. The reinforcements. The affirmations. The wisdom. The humility. The pride. The laughs. The patience. Even the frustration. I love being reminded that I don’t know everything. That no kid is the same. That kids are so much smarter than they’re given credit for. That parents mean well, even when they’re a pain in the ass. That words matter. That sports aren’t for everyone. That kids with nothing in common can still be friends. That kids want to be challenged. That they want to be part of something. That they want to contribute to a cause. That they need to goof off. That even if a kid is only playing because her parents are making her, you can make her not regret the experience. That a trophy or medal for participating is fine (I guess), but it’s not what they’ll take away from their time.

Honestly, if the basketball gods came down from the sky and said, “Blaine, sorry, man, but we’ve decided you only get to keep one thing, either that last-second shot or the years of coaching. What’s it going to be?”

It’s not even a tough decision.

The Summer Of A Lifetime

I’ve always felt that every person should be fortunate enough to experience that “summer of a lifetime.” To be so lucky as to get those three months or so when everything comes together in perfect harmony. When the world stops moving and time stands still. When senses are heightened and most aware. When every moment seems monumental and meaningful and defining. When every day and night plays out better than the ones before. When living into the early morning hours exposes all possibilities and actually delivers them. When the nighttime sounds popping and hissing and exploding outside a bedroom window no longer are scary but instead are entirely exhilarating and enticing. When all boundaries and barriers that previously contained and held back youth fade away and cease to exist. When nothing or no one stands in the way of exploration and passion and turmoil and debauchery and insight. When all conversations seem to reveal truth. When you dare and brave and live on the edge like never before and let fate determine the outcome, whatever that may be. When tolerance has never been greater, inhibitions never fewer, and limitations a distant memory. When energy is in full supply, sleep is in no way a factor, and rules and regulations are just cracks in the sidewalk to step over.

I wonder how many people ever receive such a gift. I wonder how many people ever live through such a period of time. I also wonder about the events that define these periods can vary and how these periods themselves can hold such different meanings for people.

The summer of my life was 1983, the year I turned 16 and the walls came down fast and hard. Just like a movie, my summer began like a dream, fittingly kick-started at the party following the last day of school. It was my first such party. It was in the country. And it didn’t disappoint. Just like a lot of movies, that party and my summer were fueled on the power and influence and excitement of alcohol, whose influence on me had yet to be soiled or spoiled or filtered or dirtied by alcohol’s dark side. The sips from the bottle poured bravery down my throat, letting me do things I didn’t know were possible, both in actions and in words. The right level of alcohol consumption let me speak in ways I couldn’t prior and helped me engage with people I’d always wanted to but had been too shy or insecure to before. Namely girls.

The summer of 1983 was the summer I fell really hard for a girl the first time. Head-over-heels hard. Into-the-mystic hard. Puppy-dog hard. Can’t-wait-to-see-you-again hard. You-have-the-most-beautiful-eyes hard. Have-we’ve-really-been-talking-on-the-phone-three-hours hard. Nothing about falling so deep and so fast was disappointing, either. Even when she broke my heart. Even after she shattered the love and lust and craving and yearning and the butterflies and self-confidence to pieces. All that badness was still intoxicating. If anything, being broken so thoroughly only confirmed to me I was never more alive. It confirmed all the possibilities that were within reach. It confirmed there was indeed magic in the air, and if willing and able to grab ahold, the magic could sweep me away and take me places I never wanted to return from. The magic was blinding.

The summer of 1983 was the summer I drank the hardest. Ran the fastest. Strayed the farthest away. The summer I demolished all caution and rode the snake wherever that bad boy wanted to take me. And we traveled to some incredible places. The summer I literally spilled out of car doors, beer cans falling in unison closely behind. The summer I sidestepped the police down backroads with 12-packs in the back. The summer I drank on seemingly every country road. Fell asleep in the park walking home way too late at night and way too out of step. The summer I drank before carnivals and rodeos, at beaches and river banks, in garages and basements, in cars and pickups, in backyards and on doorsteps. The summer I drank for no reason and every reason. It was the summer my friends carried each other to their respective front steps, dumped each other in their respective beds, and managed to wake up each morning unaffected and ready for more. It was the summer we survived and lived to tell about it.

The summer of 1983 was the summer my parents were forced to accept that I was no longer a boy. The summer I threw that fact in their faces, selfishly and (now) regrettably. It was the summer I believed my friends were more important than the confines of home. It was the summer I snuck out at night and didn’t feel guilty afterward. The summer I showed up late and had no regrets upon being caught. It was the summer that “curfew” took on a new meaning and became something to ignore. The summer I started to want more. Need more. Expect more. It was the summer I realized there was more waiting for me out in the great beyond. The summer I spent less time at home and more time away. Independence. Speed. Recklessness. Aggression. Departure.

The summer of 1983 was the summer I grew comfortable being alone. With my thoughts. With my ideas. With my future. It was the summer I started to look ahead and look for ways “to get out.” It was the type of summer I expect not enough kids get to live. The type of summer that should be mandatory. It was the type of summer that deserves to be remembered. Revered. Returned to. Re-examined.  

Has it really been 30 years? Is it possible? How is it I still so vividly recall the details? How is it I still hear the basketball ricocheting off the neighborhood houses like gunshots ripping the air after midnight? Why can I still hear the gruff tones of my old man’s voice so intensely shouting from his bedroom window, “stop pounding the damn ball!”? Why can I still sense the buzz of the carnival coming to life downtown and still marvel in the lights and still smell the popcorn and taste the snow cones and still embrace the possibilities like they’re right under my nose? Why can I still feel the smoothness of her tan fingers slipping in between mine? Still feel the hardness of the faded wood lawn chairs we sat on talking way past the last glimpse of daylight disappeared? Why can I hear the songs of The Police escaping the car radio and circling my head? Every Breath You Take. King Of Pain. Synchronicity. Why can I still taste and feel the dirt on kicked up from car tires tearing down the country roads in my mouth? Why can I still feel the beads of sweat treading down my forehead standing in that decaying barn, throwing up hay bails, swatting away wasps, wondering why I didn’t become a lifeguard? Why can I still feel the murky-warm lake water climbing up past my knees on those late-night swims? Still feel the stinging that water put on my face, arms, legs, and ass falling hard time after time on those damn water skis? Why do I still feel nervous, as if I’m still waiting anxiously in that car outside The Crow’s Nest wondering if she really could score the beer with that impossibly fake license like she said she could? Why can I still remember all the lyrics to those songs we sang riding bikes up and down those lonely streets, bored but somehow entertained? Why do I still feel the loneliness of you heading off to college without saying goodbye because you said it was too hard? Why do I still not believe your reasoning? Why can I still taste those beautifully red tomatoes from my dad’s garden? Why do I still expect my cat Tom to climb on my lap sitting underneath the stars, looking for a friend with a willing petting hand?

30 years on. Why is the summer still as important? Still as meaningful? Still the summer of my life?

I sincerely hope everyone is as fortunate.

Back By Special Request: Inspiration, Doubts & Shout-outs

First things first: I sincerely had no intention of making another blog post here. I set out to do what I wanted. That said, some of you fine people have told yours truly that you miss the good old days. That you need a little positivity in your day. That you want a few words baked up in the dark recess that is my mind. Although I can’t fathom why, who am I to deny your wishes? I only hope I don’t disappoint. So, without further ado, this is for you, friends.

Damn, I wish there was a way to bottle up inspiration when it strikes and save it for another day. How sweet the world would be if only we could dial up The Great Muse on the phone whenever we yearned for a hookup and know that she’d head right over without a hint of hesitation.

But The Muse doesn’t work that way. For whatever reason, Miss Inspiration sprinkles her goodness on our heads when she sees fit, not when we do. But that doesn’t mean we can’t anxiously await her. It doesn’t even mean we can’t seek her out. You only have to keep your eyes open and accept her gifts willingly and wholeheartedly when she does surface.

I’ve been running into inspiration seemingly everywhere of late. Today, if even only for a brief period of time, inspiration swallowed me whole. She dangled a big, fat carrot in front of my face; led me down a path of deep personal fulfillment; and she didn’t disappoint when we arrived. No pain. No doubt. No hesitation. I’ve never felt better. The Muse truly gets around, and that’s a good thing. You just have to recognize her and treat her right.

I’ve been fortunate to have been inspired by countless people through the decades. I only wish I would have paid respect to each one along the way. While it might not be the equivalent of a firm handshake, sincere hug, or words of gratitude delivered face to face, here’s a rap-style shout-out (because I’ve always wanted to deliver a rap-style shout-out) to the peeps I owe a debt of gratitude to for inspiring me in some way. I’m sure I’ll forget a few, but trust that my aim is true.

My Familia   

What up, sweet RJ, my Little Fists of Fury: Your pure smile and unadulterated joy get me out of bed every morning to fight the good fight. Gift from above.  

Easy-E, “you ugly little spitter”: You’re the truth, straight up. No punches pulled, and I respect the hell out of that. Fighter’s fighter.

My Boo: It takes a mighty individual with mighty strength to come correct. You do it consistently, and you’re a damn strong soul for it.  

El-Shayne-yo: You walk the walk and don’t care who follows. I don’t always like where the path leads, but I admire greatly that you embark on journeys few have the guts to. Much respect.

My Misses: You had a rough start, but you dropped haymakers on fools who tried to hold you down. Strength is infectious, and I’m glad I caught your disease.

My Pops: Work ethic. Work ethic. Work ethic. Work ethic. Work ethic. Work ethic. Lessons taught by example, and I learned from the best.

Mamma: Every home needs a foundation that won’t break. You kept the walls upright, and that’s the real deal.

Sis: You spit in the face of convention every day in the name of love. Screw convention. Praise be to love.

Miles: Gone but never far away. A best friend doesn’t have to have hands and feet. Paws and a tail will do just fine. The king of all dogs and the sweetest soul I’ve encountered. Tear in the eye, brother from a furry mother.

My Crew For Life

Super D: Noble. True. Sincere. Devoted. Always striving and never jiving. No bigger compliment I can give.

G-Money: Remember in the trailer court climbing the tree to connect the cable TV because we lacked the dough? You worked from pauper to being the man. Much pride.

C-Keck: The filter. The BS detector. The God of Humor. We’re all recipients. You’re so money, and you don’t even know it.

Key Players

Weiner: Back In the day you let a wanna-be drummer play the Go-Gos on your drum set after school? You don’t know it, but you shared the gift of music early on, and it changed my life.

Della D: What a soul. What a smile. What a beautiful spirit. Never change.

The Linder Bros: You shared your toys. You shared your food. Your shared your booze. You even shared your ma and pa, and it meant the world. Great memories.

Rivermud Doug: You listened to my bad poetry and offered up honest critiques. They may have hurt, but I had it coming. A kindlier, gentler soul I can’t imagine. Much inspiration I’ve drawn.

Clarky: Mountain man. Wild man. Word man. Joke man. Law man. Daughters’ man. Man’s man.

Georgie: The older brother I never had. You gave, gave, and gave. I regret what time and space have done. I’ll never regret a minute shared.

K: You believed. You listened. You trusted. Life’s greatest gifts bestowed.

Scho: My Basketball Jones. RIP.

Brenda K: Your sweet, sweet nature is contagious. More goodness like yours is what this world desperately needs.  

Special K: I’ve never seen you angry. Never seen you down and out. Never seen you quit. If you think I wasn’t paying attention, you’re crazy. Great, great man.

R-Stop: Chairman of The Father’s Club. You’re the real deal, Holyfield. You hate the Yankees, but I’ll forgive you.

Jody Simps: The woman who taught me that birthdays matter. I’ve never forget that lesson.

Mighty Marge: Just thinking of your laugh makes me feel good. What a gift.

Chef Randy: A true shining spirit. Spreader of warmth.

Ginny B: Spreader of love.

Sono: You don’t have to be born in this country to appreciate all it has to offer. You’re proof positive. Long live 2U.

Thomas Martin: You put Plato in my head and Solzhenitsyn in my heart. Much thanks.

Liz Watts and Jill Clafin: You humbled me early. I didn’t like it then, but I damn sure appreciate it now. #Payingdues

Stevie P: Wisdom + virtue = game changer.

Little Jerry: You played basketball with a little kid when you didn’t have to. Thank you.

Jerry V: See above.

Simone: Thanks for The Police and the best summer of my youth. Motivated to be bigger and better.

“Chief”: We painted many a house in the day. Long, miserable days weren’t so long or miserable with you around.  

Mother Agnes and Aunt June, Marianne, Peg & Bernadette: You taught me in-laws are family, too.  

Kay S: A man can never have too many moms looking out for him. Thanks for always looking.

Pam: Thanks for reading, and thanks for the long-time crush I’ve had on your voice. 

Hammers: Happy birthday. Thanks for sharing “The Wizard of Oz.”

Snakeulus: You went back to Cali, and I couldn’t be happier. Living the dream.

Tamra: The darling of all darlings. So fortunate we crossed paths.

Codr: Co-chairman of The Fathers Club. Perpetually searching. Perpetually creating. Embracing life doesn’t take wealth. It takes doing.

Kent T: Co-co-chairman of The Father’s Club. I constantly learn about patience from your teachings.

Brother Ray: Never a dull minute. Never a party unintended. Thanks for sharing.

Duncan: My spiritual beacon. You baptized me in my 30s. You saved me seemingly every day. I can never repay you for the doors you opened. 

Day 366: A Year Absopositively Well Spent

Few of us write great novels; all of us live them. — Mignon McLaughlin

 

I used to have a girlfriend back when I was a teenager who I would spend hours with talking on the phone, talking on the back steps, talking in school, talking while driving around town, talking while we walked, talking while we sat in the park staring at stars, and talking in notes and letters. Often, what we talked about was what we saw for ourselves inour lives. What we wanted to be. What we wanted to do. Where we wanted to live.Who we wanted to surround ourselves with. What we thought would make us happyand fulfilled.

Always, my visions and aspirations of what would mean the most to me circled around writing. I wanted to live in England and wash dishes by day so I could drink myself into oblivion by night with the fuel to write the great, great works of fiction of my time. Or making my way to the big city and landing a job that put me in the same company with rock stars who would come to know me by name, who would request me by name, who would respect my name. Or settling in a nearly abandoned town in the middle of a desert that was populated only with the small lot of fellow loners committed totheir given craft—painters and poets and me, the silent guy who spent his days alone writing great novels that would only be discovered upon his untimelydeath. Or living in an isolated cabin in the woods, writing haunting works about man’s inner workings that were so pioneering and revolutionary that he’d make people forget every notion on the subject that had been considered previously.

I was lucky very early on. I knew withcertainty as a teenager what it was that turned me on most. Writing. I liked to write. I liked writing anything. I liked words. I liked the idea of having a blank page sitting in front of me and being responsible for filling it up with something engaging and meaningful. On many late nights, I’d sit up in my bed deep into the night with a pen in one hand and a notebook of blank pages on my lap with the window wide open to the world coming to life in the darkness outside. The crickets would serenade anyone who bothered to listen. The whistles of the trains off in the distance would moan with all flavors of romanticism. Cars would sneak down the road in front of my house filled with bored kids just like me, all with no particular place to go and in no particular hurry to get there. And I'd write, line after line. Crossing out words and putting new ones in their place. Forging phrases and abandoning them just as quickly. Always writing.

If I close my eyes, I can put myself back in that room and surround myself with those pale-blue walls and my torn posters and the books on the dresser and the stereo in the corner. I love that room now for both for its simplicity and its promise. In so many ways, it’s where I was born and became who I am. It’s certainly where I learned that I loved to write and believed anything was possible due to writing. Therapy. Self-confidence. Expressions of love. Expressions of rage. New worlds. New meanings. Writing was the answer. 

A funny thing happened along the way,though. I went down a completely different path. One I didn’t foresee, and one I didn’t really plan for. The path curved and swerved, but it didn’t lead me overseas or to big cities or the desert or woods. Eventually, I accepted that my chances of being a pioneer or friend to rock stars or being exulted upon my death probably weren’t great. Gradually, I accepted that I wasn’t bound for glory, whether it was to occur while I was living or dead. Living with the reality I’d never bask in waves of glory used to bother me. I guess I talked myself into believing that I was destined for great things and writing was the ticket.

The problem I now realize wasn’t that I believed I could achieve great things; the problem was how I defined “great things” in the first place. It’s taken a while, but I’ve learned that “great things” very often simply come about by doing the simple things. Great things are accomplished every day. I’ve learned that doing great things doesn’t take great abilities or great skills. Instead, doing and accomplishing great things just requires a great deal of caring. Further, I’ve learned that “great things” have little to do with yourself and almost everything to do with others.

This year, the greatest thing I did was open my eyes, and I did it through writing. By writing every day, I learned to see what is real vs. what I thought was real. I learned how very, very lucky I am, and how many “great things” I’m capable of doing on any given day-- just by doing. I’ve learned thatI have much to feel positive about. Much to feel gratitude for. I learned that I'm a very rich man. I possess many treasures, and I’ve become much wealthier than I ever thought possible.

All of this “I’m a better person now”stuff sounds corny, I know. The fact is I’m no “self-help” or “new age” devotee. Not by a long stretch. Ask anyone who really knows me. But damn it if there hasn’t been something remarkable about just being willing to look at the world in a new light. To let go of regret and self-loathing and the pessimism that can sink into your pores by living in this world year after year. In many ways, this is a horrible, disgusting, unforgiving, vile, cruel, and demented planet welive on. That’s undeniable. But damn it if this planet isn’t also populated bycountless people who step up day after day to do great things. That’sundeniable, as well. Great fathers and mothers. Great leaders. Great providers. Great thinkers and doers. Great children. Great planners and achievers. Great protectors. Great builders. Great movers and shakers. Great teachers. Great  sharers. Great people who aim and seek to lift others up. 

Good Lord, if the man who is writing these words now on Dec. 31, 2012 doesn’t feel infinitely more learned and wise than the one who existed on Dec. 31, 2011, if only for really grasping on to the concept of what being positive and being optimistic can do and by accepting and putting that concept into true, meaningful practice.  

I’ve really loved bringing this blog to life. I didn’t know what to expect initially, and I never could have imagined what it gradually morphed into. I love what it helped me accomplish and see. I love how much it taught me about myself and about how I want to approach my years going forward. As strange as it seems, this blog helped me grow and expand in ways I’m still learning about every day, and it’s been worth every second that I’ve poured into it.

I never set out with the intention or the thought that other people would actually make a point to take time out of their days and read the words I wrote, but I’ve been touched and infinitely pleased they did. If you’re someone who read even one post, thank you so much. If you’re someone who inspired me (and there are so many who did) with your actions, words, memories, and how you approach life every day, thank you. I can’t express how much 2012 will continue to mean to me hereafter.

  

Day 365: The Countdown To The End: Part V: Myself

Today and tomorrow. That's all that's left of the year. That means I'm down to my final two posts. I set out way back at the beginning of 2012 to spend some time each day writing about something positive, all in an attempt to change how I tend to perceive life. For the most part, I've done just that. 

I've spent the last few days writing about those things that rose to the surface during the last year and have been most positive to me, including my friends, my foes, my kids, and my marriage. Today, I want to write about myself. 

I've found myself putting today's post off just about as long as I can. I don't want all this to end really. I'm feeling a bit in denial that this project is actually coming to an end. This last month, the last few weeks, and especially these final days have come upon me much quicker than I expected or wanted. In some ways, I feel like I'm just getting started in cutting through the layers and getting to the bottom of what really matters most. I feel like I'm just beginning to understand what it means to look at the world in ways that leave me feeling like I want to act in an effort to make change vs. merely react and point out the flaws. I feel like I've only begun to tap into the potential that lies below the surface. I'm also feeling a little afraid that by not stopping to take the time to write about something positive each day that I'm going to backtrack and resort to my old habits. That I'm going to fade back into my old ways of seeing the negative first. Of seeing the dark before the light. And yet, I also have faith in myself that I won't. 

The other day, I went back and read the first post I made at the beginning of this year. The way I described myself was spot on. Although I feel like I've always been a pretty good person for the most part, I've also been a predominantly pessimistic person. I have been someone who for whatever reason finds it easier to see what's wrong with a situation instead of what's right. I have also been someone who is especially skilled at pointing out what's wrong to anyone who would listen.

In some respects these traits have served me well. In others, leaning toward the dark side hasn't done me any favors at all. Having a tendency to wade in the murky waters leaves you mostly feeling tired, exhausted, and alone. It's definitely a harder road to travel. It's definitely less populated. It's definitely less fulfilling. And being more personally fulfilled is a great part of why I set out at the beginning of 2012 to make a change and attempt to view life in a different way. 

This year, after a great, great deal of introspection and reflection and digging deep and deeper, I can honestly say that I've made some major strides, and I can honestly say I'm proud of myself for doing so. I can honestly say that I had some gigantic doubts that it was possible. I may be even more amazed that I've been able to come as far as I have. 

I'm ending this year in the best physical shape that I've been in in at least 15 years. That in of itself is a small miracle and something I contribute entirely to this blog and forcing myself into having a more positive frame of mind. 

I'm ending this year feeling more confident about the path that I'm traveling on and my desire to want to be on that path. I feel mentally fit and able. I feel able to act upon my beliefs. I feel engaged and committed to my causes, but not out of a sense of anger or resentment primarily but more out of a sense of sincerely just wanting to do what is right. 

I'm ending this year feeling like I understand my kids better than I ever have, but also more confident about my ability and my desire to want to figure out those things I still don't understand. 

I'm ending this year feeling I know more than ever what it means to be a good, giving, patient, compassionate father. And even though I'm not always capable of actually practicing those traits, I feel like I'm better able to recognize when I'm falling short and make the effort right the ship. 

I'm ending the year with a better understanding of the positive influences that my friends are in my life and knowing how valuable they are to me. I'm ending the year knowing what I have to offer to those friendships.

I'm ending the year feeling more enlightened. More in tune. More responsible. More content.  More secure. More confident. 

Throughout most of my life, I've tended to be pretty hard on myself. I don't suspect that will change. I do suspect, however, that I won't let that cripple me. This has been a damn good year. A damn productive year. An exciting year. A fulfilling one. Maybe more than at any time than I can recall, I care more about what I can accomplish than what I haven't. 

Day 364: The Countdown To The End, Part IV: Marriage

Three posts remaining. I can remember when I had written post No. 3 for the year and wondered how I was every going to manage to write something every day. Funny how attitudes can change. In these last few posts I've tried to concentrate on writing about things that have been particularly positive to me this year. Up to today, that's include my friends, foes, and my kids. Today, I'll write about marriage and tomorrow about myself. 

I was lucky. I grew up in a home in which if I was sure of anything, I was sure my parents were always going to be together. They married when they were 17 and 18, and they're still married today. That's an excellent example and motivation. 

There are some marriages you just know by being around them that they are solid and concrete. You know they might shift and budge a little, but they're never going to completely crack. That type of edifice seems to be fewer and farther between these days. It's as if people almost expect that they're going to divorce at some point in there lives. I can remember when divorce was the exception. The big exception. It isn't anymore. It's commonplace. That's good and bad I suppose. It's good, for example, that women don't have to feel beholden to stay in a crappy marriage in which they're regularly beat and/or berated. In which they're belittled and ignored. It's a shame, though, that people get married so young and give up at the first sign of trouble. To get to the gold, you have to trudge through some sludge first. 

Marriage isn't easy, but it's worth the effort. I hope that my kids will walk away with that idea. I hope they find that someone who helps them build something solid and concrete. I hope they find that someone they can lean on and confide in. I hope they all believe in marriage and what it can represent as much as I do. 

Day 363: The Countdown To The End, Part III: Kids

Four posts left until the end. I'm starting to feel a little sad about that realization. But also proud. 

Two days ago I set out to use these final posts to write about the things that have been particularly positive in my life this year. I started with my friends. Yesterday, I wrote about my foes. Today, it's my kids and then my wife and finishing up with myself before I conclude it all for good. On to my kids. 

I sometimes think God or Mother Nature or whoever gifts us with kids does so to let them serve as some kind of barometer for how much sh*t we can endure. Kids are like a never-ending triathlon. A perpetual SAT. Kids are the puzzle that's complete but for that one missing piece that can never be located. 

Some of us can definitely endure more as parents than others. Some of us don't even try. We just run for the hills at the first sight of trouble and are never heard from again. (I hate these people.) Some of us who should run for the hills don't and end up screwing our kids up more than if we had run. Some of us stick around a while before going completely bonkers. Some of us weather the storm like it's nothing at all. Most of us, though, fall somewhere in the middle. We stick it out and remain functional, but we lose a bit of sanity in the process. 

I'm definitely someone who belongs somewhere in the middle. I'm never going to run for the hills, although I have to admit they look pretty inviting and comforting sometimes. I'm also never going to be someone who whistles merrily through each and every day that I spend with my kids, as if I'm top of the world and have all this craziness figured out. I don't and I never will. 

No, I'm solidly somewhere in the middle, and I'm good with that. I have definite strengths and definite weaknesses, and having been in this parenting game for a while now, I think I'm able to recognize both pretty easily. I'd like to say that I've been able to correct all my shortcomings, but I'm not even close. I'm still working on them, and that's what's important. But rather than being a failure as a parent, the weakness I believe just make me normal. 

I think that I weather the storm that is my kids fairly well most of the time, and they do the same of me. It hasn't always been easy. These are complicated and often weird lives we're talking about. These are even weirder times we're living in. We soar together to the highest of highs and then sink to the lowest of lows. Seemingly, we spend less time seeing the sights in the middle. While I crave the sanity that dwelling more often in the "middle" would most likely bring, I also realize there's a hell of lot to gain from seeing the very best and the very worst that a person has to offer, even if it's your kid. 

I think when you travel to the extremes, you form a bond that becomes incredibly strong and resolute. I'm not sure we're even aware of it as that attachment is growing, but I know that bond has been created with my kids and continues to. How? I hear it in the conversations that I have with my kids and the topics we're able to discuss. I see it in the loyalty that surfaces between them. I sense it in the walls that have gone up and then been toppled over. 

My kids are complicated, intelligent, independent, prideful, and stubborn creatures, and while that doesn't make it easy or even enjoyable at times being a father, it does leave me proud feeling confident and secure knowing they're not fools. They're not chumps. They're not suckers. For every instance that they test me and my nerves, they fortify my belief in them by showing me levels of compassion and intuitiveness that surpasses what I ever expected, and I expect a lot from them. My kids are the real deal, right down to the bone. 

Honestly, the people who challenge me most in this world are my children, and I use "challenge" in the most positive way. They challenge my patience. They challenge me intellectually. They challenge me to look within myself and find my own flaws. They force me to confront myself, and I'm not sure that's something that would occur with the same amount of force and importance without them in my life.  

Just as important, the people who keep me grounded and humble and youthful and enthusiastic are my children. The people who help me keep my eyes on the prize are my children. The people who motivate me to live a (mostly) moral and ethical life are my children. I strive to make them proud. Even when I'm not sure they notice, they serve as a reminder as to what this is all about. 

Yeah, sometimes the hills look extremely enticing, what with all the peace and quiet there seems to be up there. What with the lack of responsibilities that all those people meandering about don't seem to have. What with all the disposable income and the freedom to come and go at will. Yeah, it's damn tempting to run for the hills some days. I think any parent who says different isn't being honest. Parenting is by far the damn hardest job I've ever had. It's filled with the most pain and the most worry and stress and tension and fricking toil, day in and day out. 

Those hills also look lonely. They look desolate. They look a bit barren and less than fulfilling. In short, they look incomplete, and I don't want any part of that. 

Day 362: The Countdown To The End, Part II: Foes

Just five posts left. Yesterday, I wrote about the positive influence that my friends have had on my life throughout the past year, as well as throughout all the years of my life. Today, I flip the coin and explore the positive aspects that my foes have brought forth. In coming days, I delve into the topics of my kids, my wife, and myself. 

Upon initial consideration, the idea that a foe could offer something positive might seem kind of odd. Upon further inspection, it makes all the sense in the world. Without a villain, for example, how would we distinguish what constitutes a hero? (Not that I'm equating myself to a hero by any stretch of the imagination.) Without a foil, where is the challenge to battle, fight the good fight, and overcome? 

In many ways, I consider a good foe every bit as important as a friend. In fact, I don't think the two have to be mutually exclusive. I've had plenty of friends who have also served as foes. In many regards, the most formidable foe I have is myself, but more on that later. 

This year, I didn't have to look too high or low to find worthy foes. They were seemingly everywhere. I noticed they started to surface in the strongest numbers starting around early October. Coincidentally, there was a heated presidential election not far off on the horizon. But the foes showed their faces early than that. They were there when Wall Street was being occupied. They were there before and after when guns became the hot topic of the day. They were there when same-sex marriage was grabbing headlines. No matter what side of any issue I leaned toward, there was a foe waiting to face. 

And all that brings me back to the foe I fear the most: myself. My fear, hesitation, reluctance, tentativeness, insecurity, and self-defeating prophecies are the dirty, hairy, gnarly monsters that have too often kept me looking in from the outside. Historically, it's taken me too long to convince myself that I'm able and worthy and can make a difference for me to just get in the game. There's nothing positive in that. If this year has taught me anything, it's that failing to engage is worse than dying. It's taught me that everyone can make a difference. 

So, with all due respect to you foes, detractors, friendly combatants, and haters, f*ck you. Let's get it on. 

Seriously, I've done a lot of of honest introspection and contemplation this year, and I've learned that I'm not so concerned with fighting anymore. I've learned that my commitment to certain causes has never been as strong and unwavering. My devotion to my beliefs has never been as deep. It's never risen to as high of levels as they currently reside at. 

I'm not sure why that it is, but I suspect that as I started taking a longer, more serious look around at the conditions surrounding me, I started to notice that the opposition was arming itself more heavily and with more powerful ammunition. I started to notice those holding opposing beliefs to my own were committed themselves, and while I didn't always approve of their tactics, I did admire the lengths they were ready to go to. In other words, it was time to up my game.

So be it. Moving forward, I'm ready to engage. I'm ready to go to battle with those who hate "fags." Those who want to send the immigrants "back to where they came from." Those who dare me to pry the gun out of their cold, dead hands." Those who beat women. Molest children. Steal from the old and poor. I'm committed to feed the hungry, shelter the poor, reverse the damage done to the climate, and hug every damn tree I can wrap my hippie arms around. I'm committed to fight anyone who questions my loyalty to my country. Who throws inaccuracies my way. Who speaks without truth. 

I'm never been as excited to make change as I am now. With all sincerity, thank you, foes. You fuel the fire. 

Day 361: The Countdown To The End, Part I

As of today, I’m down to my last six posts of this great endeavor to explore all things positive every day for entire year. In the few days that remain, I want to use five of the last six to write about those topics that have been most important and most positive not only this year but throughout all my years: Friends, foes, my kids, my wife, and myself. (That last one isn’t nearly as egotistical as it might seem.)

I’ll start with friends, without whom I’d be nothing and I’d be nowhere. I’ve written about many of them previously, but honestly, there’s too little time and too little space to ever give them the full and due representations they deserve. I’ve been blessed with absolutely unbelievable people in my life, and I’m completely and utterly aware of the great fortune of such.  

I have friends who are family and family who are friends.

I have friends I’ve never met in the flesh and friends I’ve grown up with.

I have friends who live around the world and friends who live right next door.

I have friends who are republicans, democrats, and everything in between.

I have friends who believe in God and who don’t.

I have friends so brilliant that I can’t begin to fathom how their brains work.

I have friends so artistic and creative I’m simultaneously jealous and inspired.

I have friends who have guided me in prayer and who have drank me under the table.

I have friends who put me in precarious situations and friends who have literally pulled me out of the mud.

My friends have fixed my broken-down cars, patched holes in my ceiling, cared for my kids and my pets, repaired the cavities in my teeth, and gave my guitars new life.

I have friends who have lent me their ear, their books, their music, their cars, their movies, their labor, and their advice.

My friends have mowed my lawn, scooped my driveway, dry-walled my basement, and wired my house for electricity.

I have friends who have lent me a dollar when I needed it, bought me a meal when I was hungry, gave me a ride when I was stranded, and gave me a place to sleep when I needed the shelter.  

I’ve played basketball, football, baseball, softball, handball, racquetball, volleyball, and pinball with my friends, not to mention tennis, kick soccer, badminton, and golf.

I have friends who are teachers, professors, doctors, lawyers, writers, editors, mechanics, musicians, filmmakers, artists, marketing gurus, salesmen, nurses, photographers, house painters, plumbers, dentists, software programmers, chefs, daycare owners, physical therapists, firemen, police officers, students, furniture makers, social workers, state workers, city workers, country workers, federal workers, engineers, architects, bartenders, therapists, military veterans, active servicemen, homemakers, preachers, stay-at-home dads, volunteers, business owners, and so much more.

I have friends who are gone but not forgotten.

I have friends who live in big cities and the smallest of small towns.

I have friends who ride motorcycles and who ride skateboards.

I’ve laughed, cried, argued, debated, and fought with my friends. I punched and been punched by my friends.

I’ve cursed and praised my friends.

I’ve admired and worried about my friends.

I very much miss some of my friends this very second.

Throughout this year, I’ve been so blessed to have been in better and more consistent contact with so many more of my friends than was the case in previous years. I could not be more thankful for that. I can’t begin to describe the positive influence so many of them instill in my life on a daily basis. I can’t begin to put a value on those friendships. I’ve learned so much in regards to faith and passion and purity from my friends. I’ve learned so much about parenting and fatherhood. I’ve learned so much about giving back to others. About being true to thyself.

Like anyone I suppose, I have some friends who I especially covet and who I especially draw inspiration from. Some of them might be surprised to learn that. Some of them have long had that kind of influence on me. Some of them I don’t have the opportunity to keep in contact with nearly as much as I’d like, but their influence remains as strong and true as could be.

I’m not always an easy person to be friends with. I like to kid myself into believing that being an “artist” makes me “dark” and “moody” and “somewhat of a loner,” but the truth probably lies closer to the fact that I haven’t always felt all that optimistic about the world I live. Thank God I’ve had smarts enough to surround myself with people who counterbalance those tendencies.

I’m truly a blessed man to have such good people available. When I begin to wonder about the hope this world has to offer, these people are living, breathing reminders of what’s good and what’s possible.

Day 360: Christmas Day

Today, I woke up to the sounds of a four-year-old girl's excited, ecstatic voice. When I crawled out of my bed, opened the door, and came out of my room and walked down the hallway, I could see her sitting at the kitchen table all by herself. Lord knows how long she had been awake and sitting there. But there she was nonetheless, as content as could be, just drawing a picture for Santa Claus and letting the rest of the people in her house sleep away with all those presents just a few feet away. How tempted and enticed she had to have been. How full of fantastic anxiousness she must have been sitting on and trying to contain. But there she sat at that table, talking to herself, giddy, bubbling, and enraptured as she drew that picture. I'm not sure I've ever seen anything so beautiful. 

To me, the vision of that child is what Christmas has become. 

To me, seeing my four children, spanning four to 20 years in age, sitting in the same room, that's what Christmas has become. 

To me, gathering around a table and eating good food and feeling utterly fulfilled is what Christmas has become. 

To me, feeling as if time outside the walls of my house was standing still and there was nothing bad or evil or tainted that could enter them is what Christmas has become. 

To me, Christmas has become an event that seemingly has to have very little to do with me for me to enjoy. Christmas has become a long, steady day of observation. Watching my kids. Watching my wife bask in their company. Watching them interact. Watching this intimate life that I've become part of play out so wonderfully. No complaints. No hidden agendas. No selfishness. Nothing but purity. That's what Christmas has become. 

Never before on Christmas have I opened so few presents, and never before on Christmas can I remember feeling as much joy. 

It's an amazing feeling being able to provide such happiness. To be able to work hard and have the means to let that work make happiness for others possible. And not just the happiness that is buying and giving gifts, but the happiness of being able to create a home in which they can gather. A diverse but intertwined home. Not a house. A home. 

I'm going to carry the vision of my daughter sitting at that kitchen table with me for many years to come. I'm going to let the vision of her innocence and excitement roll through my memory over and over. I'm going to hold on to those fleeting seconds when I just stood there and watched her, and I'm going to remember her childish beauty. What a gift, and what a day. I truly am a lucky man. 

Day 359: The Day Before Christmas

I've been a sucker for those big traditional gatherings. The kind you see on television specials where family comes traveling from all parts to congregate in one, big, warm, cozy house and proceed to have a the merriest damn time of their lives.

My own Christmas Eves have been pretty good for the most part. What they've lacked in tradition, they've made up for in other ways. When I think of Christmas Eve, I think I'll always think first of my mom and dad and our early houses and all those years we ate a big supper before breaking into the gifts. Usually it was my dad who couldn't hold out, and I loved that about him. My parents wrapped those presents way early, so I had weeks to suffer through, temptation biting me right on my big, fat face the entire time. Damn, I miss those years and being that young and innocent and eager and full of curiosity. If I knew then what I do now, I would have made them last as long as I could have.

Christmas Eve also brings me back to my own kids. Nearly 15 years ago, I took my two older kids sledding for several hours on what was a bitterly cold day. They didn't notice the cold a bit. We had a tall hill that was a fast as a hungry cat. We had good sleds, and we had all the time in the world. We explored every inch of that hill that day. Sometimes, I wonder if they even remember that day. If they remember the absolute blast they had piling on top of me and us crashing to the bottom of that hill. If they do remember, I doubt they remember much. They were young and it was many years ago.

Today, I took my youngest daughter sledding. It was just as cold as all those years ago, but she didn't mind a bit. I had to drag her inside, but before I did, we made run after run after run, and if she didn't laugh as hard as I ever seen her. I wish I would have captured it in images or video, but I was too busy having fun to give the event much forethought. I only wish she could hold on to this memory as long as I will.

Tonight, we'll write Santa a letter and leave some cookies for the old man. That I will take photos of..
 

Day 358: Save Your Advice

There are certain people in certain times in certain situations that find their way under my skin and touch the rawest nerve I possess. I wish more than anything I could avoid those people. I wish there was a mechanism I could switch on or off and be rid of those people. I wish I had a time machine in the garage that I could climb in and transport my way to a better time and place. A place free of people who irritate me. Who rub me raw. But I can't. None of us can. We can only hope that we surround ourselves with enough people to balance that out. When it doesn't work, you live through the circumstances as best as possible and move on.

I'd like to believe I could tackle these unavoidable confrontations with such people with calmness and dignity and level-headiness, but it doesn't always work out that way. Sometimes, I let my emotions take over. I have little problem with facing most confrontations. I don't seek them out, but I'm not afraid of them, either. I'm not afraid of tackling issues head on. Some people are. Others avoid confrontation for all it's worth. Some people like confrontation as long as they only have to deal with one aspect of it--the part where they're dealing out all the cards and forcing their views and actions for everyone to follow. I've found, though, that these people don't like to play the shitty cards they've been dealt. They're more apt to fold them than to play the game out.

Take people who like to dole out moral, righteous advice like they're dishing out candy, for example. They're fine with confrontation until it's their turn to be on the receiving end. People who give me advice about raising kids but who don't have kids themselves, for instance, crack me up. And by crack me up, I mean piss me off. Also high on my list of people I could do without are those who preach on and on in a superior, smug tone but don't actually apply any self-realism to the words. Just a lot of hot air. They crack me up, too. And by crack me up, I mean humor me. And people who give me advice about raising kids who not only don't have kids but also don't follow the same advice they're willing to hand out, well, I really don't have much use for them at all. But worse yet are the people who hand out the advice, unsolicited mind you, but don't want to hear advice for them in return, which would be, "Thanks, but keep it to yourself." It's amazing how thin-skinned people who incessantly poke and prod and nitpick and spew their moral indignation really are. People who criticize, it seems, are absolutely incapable of taking criticism. Incapable.

The thing is I should be at a point by now where I can just let matters like that pass through one ear and go out the other without it even making a blimp. For some reason, there are those days when I can't. It's the hypocrisy that sucks me in. I have a hard time swallowing hypocrisy. And seemingly, there's so much to swallow. Some days I choke on it and barely make it back up to the surface. I have a hard time with people who don't live by a code. Who instead live by moving from one self-serving situation to another until they find the one that suits them just swell. Take a little from here. Take a little from there. Give nothing there. Give nothing here. The hypocrisy cripples me. And I should be past it. But it's hard. It's hard when people take and take but contribute little to nothing but want a equal voice. It's hard when people live off the hard work of others but want to pretend we have everything in common. That we stand on equal ground. That our aim is the same. It's not. Never was.

I should be past giving too much attention to too many people who don't deserve it. It's a flaw I need to work on. Not for them. For me. I'm pretty much to the point where I'm concerned with looking forward and not back. Looking ahead and obtaining what I want to obtain. I'm not really interested in dead weight. It's gotten to be too much of a burden to carry, and my back is beginning to hurt.

Carry your own weight.

Make your own way.

Just save your advice.

Day 357: The King Of The Castle

Today, after my daughter and I made a fine snowman to grace our front yard, we set about building a snow castle. I've had a lot years' practice at making snow forts, so I've gotten pretty good at making icy edifices in a hurry. Well, truth be told, there isn't much to it, really. You just grab a shovel and start piling snow upon snow upon snow. Pack it down and dig out a center. Bam! That's it. Then you lay back and relax, staring at the blue sky. 

My daughter, though, expects more than the mundane of minimum. She expects a castle that can hold off the hordes of evil-doers that will embark upon us soon enough. So also expects the walls to be just the right size on all sides. There's no slacking where she and snow castles are concerned. There's also no question who the king of the castle is. She is. Always. And I'm guessing she'll want to be forever. 

That's fine with me. I don't mind being the princess, which I always seem to end up being in any game we play. It's a good distinction to hold. There's merit in being the lady of the land. But what bothers me a little bit is my daughter is under the illusion that to hold real power in this world and gain respect among your fellow humans you have to be a man. I explain this isn't the case, and that there have been very fine queens who have ruled ably and justly throughout the years, but she really doesn't want to hear any of that. She wants to be king. 

And so she is. I have to say, though, that she's a bit of a tyrant. She rules with a iron fist. Bossing her subjects around. Demanding more weapons (snowballs) to fight those who would approach her domain. Ordering the princess to "get busy." I'm not sure where all of this is going, but I guess I'll take solace in the fact she's using her imagination and is shooting her sights high. I'm sure somewhere along the line she'll realize that it's good to be the king, but it can be even better being the princess.