A little over a year ago, I found myself bemoaning the Bears future after an abysmal loss to the insufferable Green Bay Packers. (see Da Bums.) As this season drew ever closer, I had desired to attempt a similar ‘Bottom Ten’ list concerning my outlook for the two-aught-ten season. I mulled over the few ideas I had, but each successive week I found something more interesting to rave about. With time, the pre-season had come and gone and my list remained unpublished, even unwritten. It was but a half-thought in my mind, something to the effect of:
Top Ten Reasons to be Excited about the Bears this year
1) Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh . . . . . Ummmmm . . . . . . . . there’s . . . no . . . . well, there’s always . . . . not that either . . . . . . uuuuummaaaahhhhhhhhhh . . . . .
2 -10) See number 1.
Three weeks later, three games have come and gone. None of them have quite silenced the little man inside my head, you know the one, the guy wearing the black shirt with white letters across the chest reading ‘doubter.’ But despite my still unanswered questions about my favorite team, all three games have been eternally etched in the record book as wins.
Now I’m not one to rashly paint my face orange, jump on the next passing wagon and scream loudly about my team’s destiny, indestructibility and inevitable Super Bowl win, I’m a Southside Bears fan after all. And if there’s anything we Bears/Sox fans know, it’s how to temper our excitement amid unexplained success. Even during the 2010 White Sox spectacular 25 and 5 midseason run, I wasn’t anticipating our World Series berth, I was quietly enjoying the ride while wondering if we’d even make the playoffs.
While I’m on the baseball tangent, I’d like to congratulate a certain National League Central team whose logo is a red ‘C’ on their first pennant in fifteen years. You all know the team I’m talking about . . . and if you don’t, you probably know who I’m not talking about!
Three and 0. The only undefeated team in the NFC. There isn’t much more an early season football fan can ask for. History shows that most teams who start the season with three wins will make the playoffs. Call me jaded, but I’m not spending my waking hours anticipating our deep playoff run. I’m enjoying each game’s success. I’m looking forward to next week’s game, anxiously wondering if or when the ball will drop. Will Martz’s high power offense be spectacular once more, or did I catch a glimpse of the ‘Old Cutler’ in the last game (and how many picks did he throw last year)? Will the defense again bend but not break, or will they simply break? Uncertainty amidst success is an anticipation I can revel in.
It was the final game of the 2005 baseball playoffs. With three wins under their belt, the White Sox were winning game 5 of the World Series 1-0 and there were two out in the ninth inning. Even in that euphoric state, Mr. Doubter still held sway. My mind was swarmed with a thousand ways it could all fall apart. One bad pitch, one bad throw. Doubt and fear mingled uneasily with tempered joy until the very - last - moment.
So it is, though with a rationed zeal, that I will watch this week’s game. I will revel in the uncertainty of a team I’m not quite sure about. My muscles will tense with each snap. I will hold my breath as every lofted pass follows its perilous path back towards the Earth. Every play could be spectacular. Every play could spell our doom! There can be no greater way to watch a game!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Childhood Fears
My parents may be the most devious, conniving, manipulative parents that ever graced God’s green Earth. Perhaps that is a little too harsh an opening statement, but if you only knew what they have put me through. If there were some way for me to recount the “the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to,” all of which they set loose upon my young mind. If only there was a way . . .
Yes, I do suppose there is a way to share my sordid tale, for the medium before me lends itself to such recounts.
Imagine a young Mike enjoying the early morning glow given off by Sesame Street. The colors, the characters, it is truly bliss for one such youth. The hours would pass, for back in my day Sesame Street seemed to broadcast unending mirth. One episode would end and another would quickly follow.
Yet for me, the gentle tranquility of Big Bird’s back yard was broken for that short time between shows. For in my mind, my parents had planted a seed of unrest. There was this show that would follow the last Sesame Street episode of the day; it was a bad show. It was not the kind of show a little boy wanted to watch. It was bad. I had been told as much and I believed it whole heartedly!
Sesame Street would end and the giant, floppy dog would trod off down the street. But before the last credit rolled across the screen, my joy had been replaced by a state of anticipatory fear. What was coming on next? Was it another Sesame Street? Or was it that horrible show that I wasn’t allowed to watch? I never knew, I couldn’t even tell time. I would run out of the room and hide. With my fingers dug deeply into my ears, I would cautiously peer around the corner, trying to shield my self of the verbal onslaught I so feared. I didn’t know the show, but I definitely knew how it started. The show’s vile cast would scream, a scream filled with hatred and terror, “Hey you Guyysss!”
It was less than three years ago that I finally learned the name of that dreaded show, ‘The Electric Company.’ The opening caught me by surprise and I had to watch. What was this show that had once filled my mind with such wretched abhorrence? To my surprise (as if I should have expected something different from PBS), the show was fairly entertaining and educational.
Which brings me back to my scheming parents. Not too long ago, I broached the subject in their presence. I was taken aback by my mother’s response. “Oh, that was how we got you away from the TV for nap time.”
Nap Time?!? Was she kidding me? The horrible, disreputable, lying, torturing, . . . , of all the no good, filthy, . . . . . . rather inventive and ingenious thing a parent could do to their child.
Looking back through the lens of someone who now has their own child to pry away from life’s excitement for a much needed nap, the permanent mental scarring I have to endure was probably a reasonable trade-off for my parents. Plus, I can now hope that I am old enough and intelligent enough to have moved beyond such silly fears. If I lacked the required sophistication and mental capacity, how then would you explain my genius plan to make chocolate chip cookie dough, roll it into balls and freeze them for later baking and consumption? I mean, someone who is intelligent enough to have ‘cookies on demand’ (TM, Patent Pending, et. al.) has to be mature enough to watch a children’s show without fear, right?
Saturday morning, my convictions were put to the test. For the first time in over 25 years, I caught the beginning of “The Electric Company” while already knowing it was the show I once feared. While I didn’t run crying out of the room, a tiny angst returned to haunt my mind. When was it coming? I tried to act uninterested, diverting my attention to the computer instead. But I couldn’t keep away. I found myself nervously glancing over at the television, wondering when that once terrible shout would come. There was a girl who had lost a contest. A guy was being hypnotized. Now he thought he was a dog. This was kind of funny. He was barking and scratching at his ear. I laughed to myself and relaxed. Perhaps they didn’t use that opening anymore. The dog-man responded to a question, “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I remember a watch . . . and a man . . . and . . . it was that girl’s uncle. He must have hypnotized me . . .” He tipped his head back as if though his canine urges were prompting him to howl at the moon. “HEY YOU GUYYSSS!”
I honestly don’t remember anything after that moment. I thought I had taken it rather well, but thinking back, I’m pretty sure the TV was off a few seconds later.
I find it strange that something so minor, from so long ago, can still evoke emotion. I’m not saying that I was facing the same juvenile fears, but there was definitely an edge there, an underlying tension that taunted my mind. Was it really as bad as I remember? My mind was steeling itself against what I knew was coming, all the while trying to figure out how it would react to something it once feared, but now knew to be benign. That was the true edge, the knowledge that something that had once evoked powerful reactions was coming, but being unsure how a more reasoned mind would react.
That should suffice for this week’s story time. However, there are a few administrative loose ends that must be tied up. Nobody was able to earn the full bonus points from last week’s question, though two people did request and receive a couple points because they claimed they knew ‘the person in question’ before the final line.
“Is that all the points a dog can give? No. What time is it? Bonus points!!”
This week, there are two opportunities to earn yourself some bonus points. First, you can place the quote from the a few lines up. What show is it from? The second query is a little more sophisticated than last bit of early morning PBS trivia. Five bonus points to the first person to tell the source of the ‘thousand natural shocks’ quote from paragraph one.
Oh, and as for my mom and dad? Unnecessarily torturing, scaring and scarring their child aside, they did a pretty good job raising me! Thanks.
Yes, I do suppose there is a way to share my sordid tale, for the medium before me lends itself to such recounts.
Imagine a young Mike enjoying the early morning glow given off by Sesame Street. The colors, the characters, it is truly bliss for one such youth. The hours would pass, for back in my day Sesame Street seemed to broadcast unending mirth. One episode would end and another would quickly follow.
Yet for me, the gentle tranquility of Big Bird’s back yard was broken for that short time between shows. For in my mind, my parents had planted a seed of unrest. There was this show that would follow the last Sesame Street episode of the day; it was a bad show. It was not the kind of show a little boy wanted to watch. It was bad. I had been told as much and I believed it whole heartedly!
Sesame Street would end and the giant, floppy dog would trod off down the street. But before the last credit rolled across the screen, my joy had been replaced by a state of anticipatory fear. What was coming on next? Was it another Sesame Street? Or was it that horrible show that I wasn’t allowed to watch? I never knew, I couldn’t even tell time. I would run out of the room and hide. With my fingers dug deeply into my ears, I would cautiously peer around the corner, trying to shield my self of the verbal onslaught I so feared. I didn’t know the show, but I definitely knew how it started. The show’s vile cast would scream, a scream filled with hatred and terror, “Hey you Guyysss!”
It was less than three years ago that I finally learned the name of that dreaded show, ‘The Electric Company.’ The opening caught me by surprise and I had to watch. What was this show that had once filled my mind with such wretched abhorrence? To my surprise (as if I should have expected something different from PBS), the show was fairly entertaining and educational.
Which brings me back to my scheming parents. Not too long ago, I broached the subject in their presence. I was taken aback by my mother’s response. “Oh, that was how we got you away from the TV for nap time.”
Nap Time?!? Was she kidding me? The horrible, disreputable, lying, torturing, . . . , of all the no good, filthy, . . . . . . rather inventive and ingenious thing a parent could do to their child.
Looking back through the lens of someone who now has their own child to pry away from life’s excitement for a much needed nap, the permanent mental scarring I have to endure was probably a reasonable trade-off for my parents. Plus, I can now hope that I am old enough and intelligent enough to have moved beyond such silly fears. If I lacked the required sophistication and mental capacity, how then would you explain my genius plan to make chocolate chip cookie dough, roll it into balls and freeze them for later baking and consumption? I mean, someone who is intelligent enough to have ‘cookies on demand’ (TM, Patent Pending, et. al.) has to be mature enough to watch a children’s show without fear, right?
Saturday morning, my convictions were put to the test. For the first time in over 25 years, I caught the beginning of “The Electric Company” while already knowing it was the show I once feared. While I didn’t run crying out of the room, a tiny angst returned to haunt my mind. When was it coming? I tried to act uninterested, diverting my attention to the computer instead. But I couldn’t keep away. I found myself nervously glancing over at the television, wondering when that once terrible shout would come. There was a girl who had lost a contest. A guy was being hypnotized. Now he thought he was a dog. This was kind of funny. He was barking and scratching at his ear. I laughed to myself and relaxed. Perhaps they didn’t use that opening anymore. The dog-man responded to a question, “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I remember a watch . . . and a man . . . and . . . it was that girl’s uncle. He must have hypnotized me . . .” He tipped his head back as if though his canine urges were prompting him to howl at the moon. “HEY YOU GUYYSSS!”
I honestly don’t remember anything after that moment. I thought I had taken it rather well, but thinking back, I’m pretty sure the TV was off a few seconds later.
I find it strange that something so minor, from so long ago, can still evoke emotion. I’m not saying that I was facing the same juvenile fears, but there was definitely an edge there, an underlying tension that taunted my mind. Was it really as bad as I remember? My mind was steeling itself against what I knew was coming, all the while trying to figure out how it would react to something it once feared, but now knew to be benign. That was the true edge, the knowledge that something that had once evoked powerful reactions was coming, but being unsure how a more reasoned mind would react.
That should suffice for this week’s story time. However, there are a few administrative loose ends that must be tied up. Nobody was able to earn the full bonus points from last week’s question, though two people did request and receive a couple points because they claimed they knew ‘the person in question’ before the final line.
“Is that all the points a dog can give? No. What time is it? Bonus points!!”
This week, there are two opportunities to earn yourself some bonus points. First, you can place the quote from the a few lines up. What show is it from? The second query is a little more sophisticated than last bit of early morning PBS trivia. Five bonus points to the first person to tell the source of the ‘thousand natural shocks’ quote from paragraph one.
Oh, and as for my mom and dad? Unnecessarily torturing, scaring and scarring their child aside, they did a pretty good job raising me! Thanks.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho . . .
Tomorrow is the big day! Well, I guess from your perspective of reading this one day into my future, today is the big day!!!
Those who have spent part of the last year spying on my family through the lens of my blog know that I haven’t had much work of late. Between staying home to raise two children and the spotty work provided by substitute teaching, I’ve had a lot of time to sit at home doing nothing.
That life is coming to an end. At 8:30 Thursday morning, I will reclaim my place among America’s working elite as a Revenue Tax Specialist Trainee for the State of Illinois.
I have not yet decided exactly how early I intend to awake tomorrow. There is a slight possibility I will be up before six with every intention of putting my treadmill to good use before dressing the kids and myself. It is a lofty goal, to take a short jog every morning before work, but all too often I keep the snooze button too close. I had short success running mid-mornings while successfully winning a ‘biggest loser’ competition, but like most workout regiments I’ve undertaken, a few missed days leads to total collapse of the will.
Tuesday, I saved one of those install-a-pull-up-bar-in-your-doorway thingeys from certain the certain doom of a trash pile. While it is still hiding in the trunk of my car, I’ve toyed with the idea of hanging it in the hallway with the goal of doing 3-5 pull-ups every time I pass that way. After my weight loss successes, it should be a much easier task; these day’s I’m pulling-up about 35 less pounds as compared to a year ago. But once again there is the matter of a consistent will. I can foresee myself holding to the task the first few passes, but once a three minute span takes me to my study to check e-mail, to the kitchen for a drink, into Andrew’s room to put a book away, into the living room to watch a little TV, back into the bedroom to put a away toy I just stepped on, then finally back into the living room, the ‘every time’ mantra may find itself quickly discarded. Of course, I might as well hang it up. (On the wall, not quit entirely – I had to clarify because I read it the wrong way twice!) It’s not doing me any good in the trunk. (It’s not quite heavy enough to aid with traction during the upcoming icy winter, so I’m out of excuses.)
Of course, with real employment fast approaching, I will be spending much less time wandering aimlessly about the house. That means less passes under the looming pull-up bar. It also means I should be faced with some sort of a mental challenge every day.
Sitting around the house can be fairly monotonous. I cannot count the number of times I’ve finished a task on one computer, only to flitter about briefly before alighting in front of the other computer. I do not know exactly what to expect from my new job, but I anticipate it will exercise my mental capacities, at least a little. The first two weeks should be a fairly intensive lesson in retaining a majority of the Illinois tax code. After that, I believe I will be answering questions from inquiring minds via a newfangled device that is known as a ‘telephone.’
Another blogging milestone has just been reached, and with it a fading dream seems even more unreachable. Since day one, I’ve been keeping all my writings in a Word document. The thought of losing every shared thought to a website’s demise was too much; I needed my own back-up. I had hoped to someday print a hard copy of these ramblings, but it quickly added up to an overwhelming stack of to-be-printed paper. Today’s milestone sets my printing need at exactly 1/5 of a ream. That’s right, I just crossed onto my 100th page of the written word. (I am quick to wonder, has anyone actually read every posting?)
With that random divergence into irrelevant blogosphere factoids, I shall wrap it up for this week. I suppose I shall end where today’s title left off.
. . . it’s off to work I go.
Those who have spent part of the last year spying on my family through the lens of my blog know that I haven’t had much work of late. Between staying home to raise two children and the spotty work provided by substitute teaching, I’ve had a lot of time to sit at home doing nothing.
That life is coming to an end. At 8:30 Thursday morning, I will reclaim my place among America’s working elite as a Revenue Tax Specialist Trainee for the State of Illinois.
I have not yet decided exactly how early I intend to awake tomorrow. There is a slight possibility I will be up before six with every intention of putting my treadmill to good use before dressing the kids and myself. It is a lofty goal, to take a short jog every morning before work, but all too often I keep the snooze button too close. I had short success running mid-mornings while successfully winning a ‘biggest loser’ competition, but like most workout regiments I’ve undertaken, a few missed days leads to total collapse of the will.
Tuesday, I saved one of those install-a-pull-up-bar-in-your-doorway thingeys from certain the certain doom of a trash pile. While it is still hiding in the trunk of my car, I’ve toyed with the idea of hanging it in the hallway with the goal of doing 3-5 pull-ups every time I pass that way. After my weight loss successes, it should be a much easier task; these day’s I’m pulling-up about 35 less pounds as compared to a year ago. But once again there is the matter of a consistent will. I can foresee myself holding to the task the first few passes, but once a three minute span takes me to my study to check e-mail, to the kitchen for a drink, into Andrew’s room to put a book away, into the living room to watch a little TV, back into the bedroom to put a away toy I just stepped on, then finally back into the living room, the ‘every time’ mantra may find itself quickly discarded. Of course, I might as well hang it up. (On the wall, not quit entirely – I had to clarify because I read it the wrong way twice!) It’s not doing me any good in the trunk. (It’s not quite heavy enough to aid with traction during the upcoming icy winter, so I’m out of excuses.)
Of course, with real employment fast approaching, I will be spending much less time wandering aimlessly about the house. That means less passes under the looming pull-up bar. It also means I should be faced with some sort of a mental challenge every day.
Sitting around the house can be fairly monotonous. I cannot count the number of times I’ve finished a task on one computer, only to flitter about briefly before alighting in front of the other computer. I do not know exactly what to expect from my new job, but I anticipate it will exercise my mental capacities, at least a little. The first two weeks should be a fairly intensive lesson in retaining a majority of the Illinois tax code. After that, I believe I will be answering questions from inquiring minds via a newfangled device that is known as a ‘telephone.’
Another blogging milestone has just been reached, and with it a fading dream seems even more unreachable. Since day one, I’ve been keeping all my writings in a Word document. The thought of losing every shared thought to a website’s demise was too much; I needed my own back-up. I had hoped to someday print a hard copy of these ramblings, but it quickly added up to an overwhelming stack of to-be-printed paper. Today’s milestone sets my printing need at exactly 1/5 of a ream. That’s right, I just crossed onto my 100th page of the written word. (I am quick to wonder, has anyone actually read every posting?)
With that random divergence into irrelevant blogosphere factoids, I shall wrap it up for this week. I suppose I shall end where today’s title left off.
. . . it’s off to work I go.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
. . . Is Hard to Find
In this high pressure world of the insignificant creator of specks upon the World Wide Web that is the personal blog, time is the bailiff, ideas are innocent until proven guilty and the fast approaching deadline is judge and jury. If that were so, this week I’d be found in contempt and guilty on all charges.
As I watch the imaginary second hand on my digital clock give expression to the passage of time, I find myself at the end of a week that has been filled with inspiration. There have been countless times over the last seven days that I’ve thought to myself, “I should blog about that,” only to quickly realize an interesting recounting of the event might hardly fill a paragraph. And in an effort to keep my blog from reading like a modern car commercial (i.e. quick, change the shot before we lose the viewer’s attention – watch one, you’ll see what I mean), I have done my best to avoid giving you a ‘weekly minutes’ version of a blog.
I spoke with an old friend today. Not old in the sense of aged and decrepit, but rather old as in ‘gee, I’ve known him for quite some time now.’ At the end of a random and roving conversation, my phone clock (oddly devoid of an imaginary second hand) had counted off thirty-some minutes. We had covered all the basics: family, work, Monty Python and I had even squeezed in the ever necessary Billy Cosby quote.
I’ve never been quick to open up to people. Perhaps it stems from a childhood in which most of my friends moved away from our small town (often to a smaller one), or perhaps I hold myself close on account of years spent scraping by at the bottom of the social food chain. Yes, I managed to find the occasional less-awkward social activity, what with scouts, sports and Godparents (high school youth group), but most of my life has been a losing struggle to fit in.
It took a concerted effort to open up in college. Early on, perhaps week one, I decided I was going to talk to everybody. It was a task I managed with fair success. I can recall sitting in the cafeteria, boisterously making an inane comment to the table (something about ‘not saying anything legible.’) It was enough to get me temporarily and playfully banished. I took my lumps and another seat at the table behind me. If memory serves, I had a short conversation with the Coe College golf team, before returning to my rightful place as table comedian.
Amongst the banter of my half-hour phone call, it was mentioned that this friend didn’t “follow blogs during the school year.” He cited a lack of time as his excuse and I will accept his statement as permission to freely talk about him.
I mentioned the call to Mollie at dinner tonight (a true dining adventure, what with ‘the boy’ yacking not once, but twice). Somehow, it came to mind how rare good friends have been in my life. I made the statement that apart from her, he was the only friend with whom I’ve had a truly deep and meaningful conversation. I find that sharing a room with someone for four years or a house with another for just short of a decade gives ample time to partake in such discussions. I’ve talked about God, life, movies, love, hate, food, most everything I can imagine with both this friend and my wife. There was even an all too short time in life when these conversations were shared by the three of us; sort of a joint commission to discover the secrets of the universe, to work through life and faith or to challenge the limits of the English language in its efficacy at communicating nonsense.
Like with most my friends, time has moved us to different parts of the known world. College could not last forever and I, at least, had no desire to weld strange letters before or after my name. But unlike others who have moved and often been easily dismissed as ‘not here anymore,’ this is a friendship I cannot shake. If you ask my wife, she will confirm that I find myself missing his company. Today’s phone call was a rare treat. It is nice to be able to pick up in the same (often silly) place we last parted ways. (I believe it is a small town called ‘North Brebenheimer.’ – Uber bonus points if you can place that one!!!)
I’ve often found the middle of the night to be a pleasant muse. She seems to bring forth ideas that elude my sun-clad self. As I have often basked in her pale-moon glow, what I write seems more honest, more lucid and occasionally more unfit for the world’s consumption. But she carries with her a double edged sword; illuminating my thoughts, all the while clouding my mind as the night wanes and my eyes grow heavy. How many stories have I made such a start upon, only to lose the muse ere the end? How then shall I finish this outpouring as I slowly fade past the two hour mark? Am I too far gone, have I faded too fast? Perhaps not. This should suffice.
If you ever happen to read this, Mr. Guffey, thanks for the call!
As I watch the imaginary second hand on my digital clock give expression to the passage of time, I find myself at the end of a week that has been filled with inspiration. There have been countless times over the last seven days that I’ve thought to myself, “I should blog about that,” only to quickly realize an interesting recounting of the event might hardly fill a paragraph. And in an effort to keep my blog from reading like a modern car commercial (i.e. quick, change the shot before we lose the viewer’s attention – watch one, you’ll see what I mean), I have done my best to avoid giving you a ‘weekly minutes’ version of a blog.
I spoke with an old friend today. Not old in the sense of aged and decrepit, but rather old as in ‘gee, I’ve known him for quite some time now.’ At the end of a random and roving conversation, my phone clock (oddly devoid of an imaginary second hand) had counted off thirty-some minutes. We had covered all the basics: family, work, Monty Python and I had even squeezed in the ever necessary Billy Cosby quote.
I’ve never been quick to open up to people. Perhaps it stems from a childhood in which most of my friends moved away from our small town (often to a smaller one), or perhaps I hold myself close on account of years spent scraping by at the bottom of the social food chain. Yes, I managed to find the occasional less-awkward social activity, what with scouts, sports and Godparents (high school youth group), but most of my life has been a losing struggle to fit in.
It took a concerted effort to open up in college. Early on, perhaps week one, I decided I was going to talk to everybody. It was a task I managed with fair success. I can recall sitting in the cafeteria, boisterously making an inane comment to the table (something about ‘not saying anything legible.’) It was enough to get me temporarily and playfully banished. I took my lumps and another seat at the table behind me. If memory serves, I had a short conversation with the Coe College golf team, before returning to my rightful place as table comedian.
Amongst the banter of my half-hour phone call, it was mentioned that this friend didn’t “follow blogs during the school year.” He cited a lack of time as his excuse and I will accept his statement as permission to freely talk about him.
I mentioned the call to Mollie at dinner tonight (a true dining adventure, what with ‘the boy’ yacking not once, but twice). Somehow, it came to mind how rare good friends have been in my life. I made the statement that apart from her, he was the only friend with whom I’ve had a truly deep and meaningful conversation. I find that sharing a room with someone for four years or a house with another for just short of a decade gives ample time to partake in such discussions. I’ve talked about God, life, movies, love, hate, food, most everything I can imagine with both this friend and my wife. There was even an all too short time in life when these conversations were shared by the three of us; sort of a joint commission to discover the secrets of the universe, to work through life and faith or to challenge the limits of the English language in its efficacy at communicating nonsense.
Like with most my friends, time has moved us to different parts of the known world. College could not last forever and I, at least, had no desire to weld strange letters before or after my name. But unlike others who have moved and often been easily dismissed as ‘not here anymore,’ this is a friendship I cannot shake. If you ask my wife, she will confirm that I find myself missing his company. Today’s phone call was a rare treat. It is nice to be able to pick up in the same (often silly) place we last parted ways. (I believe it is a small town called ‘North Brebenheimer.’ – Uber bonus points if you can place that one!!!)
I’ve often found the middle of the night to be a pleasant muse. She seems to bring forth ideas that elude my sun-clad self. As I have often basked in her pale-moon glow, what I write seems more honest, more lucid and occasionally more unfit for the world’s consumption. But she carries with her a double edged sword; illuminating my thoughts, all the while clouding my mind as the night wanes and my eyes grow heavy. How many stories have I made such a start upon, only to lose the muse ere the end? How then shall I finish this outpouring as I slowly fade past the two hour mark? Am I too far gone, have I faded too fast? Perhaps not. This should suffice.
If you ever happen to read this, Mr. Guffey, thanks for the call!
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
So What Are You Good At?
Have you ever had the opportunity to feel you were really good at something? Not just a ‘Meh, I’m pretty good.’ kind of good. I mean a ‘Hey, if you put me out there with the best of them, I can hold my own!’ kind of good!
I’ve been there. I’ve felt that way.
I think most who know me would expect me to say that I felt that way about wrestling. While it’s true that by the end of my high school wrestling career I did not approach a known adversary with fear or intrepidation, I knew I had a limited skill set. I practiced with all intensity and pushed myself to that limit, but I understood that despite my best effort, there were people out there who were simply better than me. (To my credit, opportunities to face such challengers became a welcome occurrence!)
I feel (at least in retrospect) that I was truly good at Ultimate Frisbee. There wasn’t a throw I couldn’t make. There wasn’t an opponent I couldn’t guard. If a disc was in the air, I was going to get to it before you.
So what have you felt you were especially good at? A sport? Art? Cooking?
Now imagine taking a ten year break. Ten years without picking up a ball, handling a brush or stirring a boiling pot. How do you think you would fare the day you decided to pick it up again? Would your work someday hang in a museum, or would your cake fall flat and your buns burn? (You can take that last statement in reference to cooking or to your sport, whichever is appropriate.) Picking up where I left off is a task I attempted last Thursday.
I’ve done a little running here and there, but the maximum exercise my body has gotten in recent months (or years) is rapid finger movement across a set of labeled keys. Yet, despite my aged body, I mostly held up under the strains of running, diving and throwing. I’m not as fast as I once was and my legs often fail me when I attempt to launch myself after a disc, but everything worked, if in a diminished fashion.
The mental part was the toughest to accept. Every time I held the disc, my brain told my arm, “You can make that throw!” My arm would willingly accept my brain’s encouragement and with an agile flick of my wrist, send the disc sailing straight into the ground . . . or well over my target’s head . . . or nowhere near the vicinity of where I had hoped the disc would go.
For the first twenty minutes of the game, ‘hoped’ was an appropriately descriptive word. As the game progressed, it gradually turned to ‘anticipated,’ with wild misses being replaced by discs glancing off my target’s fingertips. I can remember a teammate cutting towards the corner of the end zone as I released the disc. I can see him dragging his toes along the boundary line, stretching his long arms to their fullest, only to have my throw tease his flesh before flittering away. A few short minutes later, I was again holding the disc in the same place with the same player making the same cut. In my mind, I knew the throw, a low, rising, outside backhand with a slight outside-in curve that would lead its target within inches of the line, all while avoiding the swat of the trailing defender. It was just like I’d made it a hundred times before. It was just like I had intended to do only minutes earlier. And as my teammate’s toes planted themselves back upon terra firma, disc in hand, my mind couldn’t help but chiming in. “That’s how I can make the throw!”
Now a few throws from an aging man have not reinstilled any illusions of grandeur that are quite obviously lurking within my mind. And while I did have fleeting visions of myself somehow competing at the national level, I am content with the mere opportunity to compete again. Now if only I didn’t hurt so much . . .
I’ve been there. I’ve felt that way.
I think most who know me would expect me to say that I felt that way about wrestling. While it’s true that by the end of my high school wrestling career I did not approach a known adversary with fear or intrepidation, I knew I had a limited skill set. I practiced with all intensity and pushed myself to that limit, but I understood that despite my best effort, there were people out there who were simply better than me. (To my credit, opportunities to face such challengers became a welcome occurrence!)
I feel (at least in retrospect) that I was truly good at Ultimate Frisbee. There wasn’t a throw I couldn’t make. There wasn’t an opponent I couldn’t guard. If a disc was in the air, I was going to get to it before you.
So what have you felt you were especially good at? A sport? Art? Cooking?
Now imagine taking a ten year break. Ten years without picking up a ball, handling a brush or stirring a boiling pot. How do you think you would fare the day you decided to pick it up again? Would your work someday hang in a museum, or would your cake fall flat and your buns burn? (You can take that last statement in reference to cooking or to your sport, whichever is appropriate.) Picking up where I left off is a task I attempted last Thursday.
I’ve done a little running here and there, but the maximum exercise my body has gotten in recent months (or years) is rapid finger movement across a set of labeled keys. Yet, despite my aged body, I mostly held up under the strains of running, diving and throwing. I’m not as fast as I once was and my legs often fail me when I attempt to launch myself after a disc, but everything worked, if in a diminished fashion.
The mental part was the toughest to accept. Every time I held the disc, my brain told my arm, “You can make that throw!” My arm would willingly accept my brain’s encouragement and with an agile flick of my wrist, send the disc sailing straight into the ground . . . or well over my target’s head . . . or nowhere near the vicinity of where I had hoped the disc would go.
For the first twenty minutes of the game, ‘hoped’ was an appropriately descriptive word. As the game progressed, it gradually turned to ‘anticipated,’ with wild misses being replaced by discs glancing off my target’s fingertips. I can remember a teammate cutting towards the corner of the end zone as I released the disc. I can see him dragging his toes along the boundary line, stretching his long arms to their fullest, only to have my throw tease his flesh before flittering away. A few short minutes later, I was again holding the disc in the same place with the same player making the same cut. In my mind, I knew the throw, a low, rising, outside backhand with a slight outside-in curve that would lead its target within inches of the line, all while avoiding the swat of the trailing defender. It was just like I’d made it a hundred times before. It was just like I had intended to do only minutes earlier. And as my teammate’s toes planted themselves back upon terra firma, disc in hand, my mind couldn’t help but chiming in. “That’s how I can make the throw!”
Now a few throws from an aging man have not reinstilled any illusions of grandeur that are quite obviously lurking within my mind. And while I did have fleeting visions of myself somehow competing at the national level, I am content with the mere opportunity to compete again. Now if only I didn’t hurt so much . . .
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