There are several reasons I prefer women’s athletics to men’s. One reason is the simple fact that in post-game interviews, girls can generally form complete sentences. A little over a year ago, I interviewed a player for a game preview I was working on for the local paper. When asked what the team needed to work on, she replied, “We need to work on our defense and taking care of the ball. But we are getting there, progressively.”
Simply adding that word “progressively” changed that from a typical jock sentence into a prime example of what differentiates female athletes from men in most cases. I mean, when is the last time you heard a jock use any word that is more than two syllables? Much less, use it correctly.
Another reason I enjoy women’s athletic is because they are less like to showboat, show off, gloat or any of the other crap that ticks me off. I can’t stand all that extra curricular garbage that guys, for some reason, think makes them look cool. Their team may be down by 20 points, but if one of them dunks the ball they have to tug on their jersey, play to the crowd or make some sort of hand gesture that nobody understands as they perform their various renditions of the “look-at-me” dance.
I will admit that I have seen women do the same thing, but on a much lesser scale. And when women do it, it’s really stupid. But for the most part, the female athletes celebrate with simple high 5s for a teammate, or they just run back and play defense.
The same can be said for injuries. Guys always play it up, looking for sympathy. One of my biggest pet peeves is when an athlete supposedly gets hurt, wallows around on the floor like he is dying, takes an extended period of time getting up and then has to be helped off the floor only to return to the game after a few minutes. I literally told a high school athlete one day after witnessing such an incident that if I ever saw him do that I was going to personally kick his hind quarters. That young man went on to play basketball for Bob Knight at Texas Tech University and to the best my knowledge never did anything like that.
Female athletes typically don’t do that. Unfortunately, I have seen some serious injuries at which time the athlete is lying on the court in pain and has to be carried off. But those were legitimate injuries, not a jammed finger or ingrown toenail. For the most part, female athletes would prefer to get off the floor and deal with the minor injuries somewhere else.
Case in point: Last Saturday our women’s basketball team was playing against the No. 10 ranked team in the country. Our team has been struggling through conference play this year, but the young ladies valiantly took the court.
Midway through the second half, a sophomore guard who had just been reinserted into the game waved at the coaches to take her out. Not understanding why she had tired so quickly the coaches sent a player to check in for her. However, since there was no apparent rush, this player stayed in the game and continued to play hard for another trip down the court.
When the whistle finally blew to stop play, this young lady made her way over the bench, looking at her hand. The pinky finger on her left hand was sticking out sideways at an angle. She looked at her finger, looked at her coach and said, “I think it’s broken.”
On Tuesday, the young lady had surgery to repair the finger that had not only broken, but had twisted. Needless to say, she will miss several weeks while the finger heals. For some reason, healthy hands are key when playing basketball.
But as she played on with a broken finger and then came off the court, there was not a complaint, not a whimper, no wallowing around on the floor or jumping up and down at mid-court wanting everyone in the gymnasium to "look at her" … she just kept playing.
Tough kid, and that’s why I appreciate women’s athletics.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Meme
I stole this from mi hermana, Spooky.
1) When you looked in the mirror first thing this morning, what was the first thing you thought? Huh.
2) How much cash do you have on you? $1.05 all in dimes and nickels – just in case I need a coke at the bookstore later today.
3) What's a word that rhymes with TEST? vest.
4) Planet? Neptune.
5) Who is the fourth person on your missed calls? I don’t miss calls, I just don’t answer the phone.
6) What is your favorite ring on your phone? Whichever one doesn’t sound like everybody else’s.
7) What shirt are you wearing? An off-white polo style with the university logo on it.
8) What do you label yourself as? Right! (as in correct not conservative. Although I am conservative. I’m just not right-wing conservative except on the third Tuesday of every month.)
9) Name the brand of shoes you've recently worn. Ummm... I have no idea. They were brown? (stole the answer from Spooky, also.)
10) Bright room or dark room? Dark or dim. It’s better for doing graphic work on the computer.
11) What were you doing at midnight last night? Sleeping.
12) What did the last text message on your phone say? Oh Please, I have better things to do than type on a telephone keypad.
13) Where is your nearest 7-11? Big Flat City, 45 miles south of here. (Again, same as Spooky’s, but we do have other convenience stores in the area.)
14) What's a saying you say a lot? I have no catch phrases. I try to vary my responses to things.
15) Who told you they loved you last? Wife.
16) Last furry thing you touched? Ghost kitty.
17) How many drugs have you done in the past three days? Let’s see … I shoot up three times a day and take one pill. Throw in that allergy medicine I took last night and I’m all good.
18) How many rolls of film do you need to get developed? Two, although I doubt that they are still good. I think I have had them around since I graduated from college roughly 10 years ago.
20) Your worst enemy? Stupid people … or administrators who are pathetically slow about doing anything other than holding uneventful meetings.
21) What is your current desktop picture? A picture of a small castle in Ireland. The photo was taken by a former student I know who went there on a study tour last summer.
22) What was the last thing you said to someone? "...I’m not sure who is supposed to pay for that pregnancy ad!"
23) If you had to choose between a millions bucks and being able to fly, which would you choose? Flying. If I could fly, I’d make a million bucks as the star of a freak show, or as a professional basketball player, or by saving money on gas.
24) Do you like someone? Yes. (Whew, that was a tough one.)
25) The last song you listened to? Theme music from The Incredibles. I watched it with the 5-year-old last night.
1) When you looked in the mirror first thing this morning, what was the first thing you thought? Huh.
2) How much cash do you have on you? $1.05 all in dimes and nickels – just in case I need a coke at the bookstore later today.
3) What's a word that rhymes with TEST? vest.
4) Planet? Neptune.
5) Who is the fourth person on your missed calls? I don’t miss calls, I just don’t answer the phone.
6) What is your favorite ring on your phone? Whichever one doesn’t sound like everybody else’s.
7) What shirt are you wearing? An off-white polo style with the university logo on it.
8) What do you label yourself as? Right! (as in correct not conservative. Although I am conservative. I’m just not right-wing conservative except on the third Tuesday of every month.)
9) Name the brand of shoes you've recently worn. Ummm... I have no idea. They were brown? (stole the answer from Spooky, also.)
10) Bright room or dark room? Dark or dim. It’s better for doing graphic work on the computer.
11) What were you doing at midnight last night? Sleeping.
12) What did the last text message on your phone say? Oh Please, I have better things to do than type on a telephone keypad.
13) Where is your nearest 7-11? Big Flat City, 45 miles south of here. (Again, same as Spooky’s, but we do have other convenience stores in the area.)
14) What's a saying you say a lot? I have no catch phrases. I try to vary my responses to things.
15) Who told you they loved you last? Wife.
16) Last furry thing you touched? Ghost kitty.
17) How many drugs have you done in the past three days? Let’s see … I shoot up three times a day and take one pill. Throw in that allergy medicine I took last night and I’m all good.
18) How many rolls of film do you need to get developed? Two, although I doubt that they are still good. I think I have had them around since I graduated from college roughly 10 years ago.
20) Your worst enemy? Stupid people … or administrators who are pathetically slow about doing anything other than holding uneventful meetings.
21) What is your current desktop picture? A picture of a small castle in Ireland. The photo was taken by a former student I know who went there on a study tour last summer.
22) What was the last thing you said to someone? "...I’m not sure who is supposed to pay for that pregnancy ad!"
23) If you had to choose between a millions bucks and being able to fly, which would you choose? Flying. If I could fly, I’d make a million bucks as the star of a freak show, or as a professional basketball player, or by saving money on gas.
24) Do you like someone? Yes. (Whew, that was a tough one.)
25) The last song you listened to? Theme music from The Incredibles. I watched it with the 5-year-old last night.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Bless the little cheerleaders
Have you ever caught yourself saying something you never thought you would say?I found myself in this very situation the other day.
I love sports. I played sports in high school. Made a living for several years as a sports editor of various newspapers and currently maintain a close relationship with a few coaches and teams at the university where I work.
Throughout this time, however, I have found one constant in my opinion … cheerleaders are worthless. They don’t really pay attention to the game and very often have to ask the person next to them how to spell G-O for the next chant they are planning. Even as a strapping young lad in high school, I never really paid attention to the cheerleaders. Quite frankly, I thought the athletes had much more going for them.
Needless to say, I have little use for cheerleaders who typically don’t lead cheers anyway. They do their little flips and gyrations during timeouts, but the real cheerleading comes from the athletes on the bench who actually know what’s going on in the game.
And I have no problem telling cheerleaders this. Last year, we had a student worker in our office who was a cheerleader and I constantly made fun of her. She was a good kid, though, and took it well. I did tell her I might have to change my outlook on cheerleaders after dealing with her for year. A current member of our Sunday school class is an ex-cheerleader. I haven’t really made fun of her, though. Her husband still plays for the basketball team. He’s bigger than me and has really sharp elbows. But they are both nice kids, too.
Back to my point … my 5-year-old teenager has stated for several years now that she wants to be a cheerleader. This hurts my heart. I try to get her to hang out with the athletes as much as possible and her babysitter, whom she adores, is even a basketball player. But that doesn’t change the stubborn offspring’s mind when asked what she wants to do.
“I want to be a cheerleader!”
Well, our church started a youth basketball league last year and this year expanded that league to include cheerleading. You know, it’s one of those leagues where people don’t keep score at the games because you just want the kids to have fun. That, my friends, is another huge soap box altogether.
Anyway, my youngster wanted to join the cheerleading along with her other little friends, so my wife and I decided to give it a shot. We paid the fee and collected the little outfit complete with pom-poms, a megaphone and weekly Bible verses that are way too long and have little to do with the day-to-day life a 5-year-old. (Another soap box).
Being the good father, I decided to support my child in this endeavor. Last week, I loaded up my camera and headed out for the games with cheerleader extraordinaire in tow. I snapped away while the little nugget cheered her heart out.
At one point, after a timeout, my daughter leaned over to me and said …
“Da-da, do you like this game?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m just here to watch the cheerleaders.”
Monday, January 09, 2006
KD and the broken nose
I slowly walked into the gym.
I was a little early for my 2 p.m. appointment with the men’s basketball coach, so I decided to watch the women’s team practice for a while. It had been two days since a humiliating beat-down at the hands of a conference opponent and I wanted to see how the young ladies were reacting.
Now you must understand, being a man approaching his mid-30s, 6-foot-2 and 225 pounds, there aren’t many things that make me go “eeewwww!” And certainly, a group of college basketball players running up and down the court generally doesn’t fit into that category, aside from dodging a pair of sweaty socks that were thrown at me one day. But that is another story altogether.
Today, however, was different.
Standing on the sidelines was one of the starting guards still decked out in street clothes as her teammates pounded the hardwood under the scrutiny of their coach. You see, while the team took it on its proverbial chin the preceding Saturday, this young lady took it on the nose – literally. A sophomore, roughly 5-foot-8 and 100-and-nothing pounds dripping wet, this young lady plays much tougher than she looks. She is not afraid to take the ball to the basket among the bigger, stronger players, and has suffered a few injuries.
On Saturday, however, a trip to the backboard landed her in the hospital. As the team was hoping to claw back into the game shortly after halftime, this young lady crashed the boards looking for a rebound. All she found, however, was the heel of her teammates hand as it came crashing down across the bridge of her nose. After the 10-count, play was stopped to attend to the injury.
The coaches and trainers rushed to the court, as the young lady lay on her back clutching her face. Although I knew she had been hit in the nose, it was difficult to really tell what the injury was because there was not a drop of blood anywhere on the court.
She was helped off the court and taken to the training room where a doctor looked at her and diagnosed that she had indeed broken her nose.
Two days later, she stood on the edge of the court cheering her teammates as they worked. I walked across the gym floor to where she was standing. If I hadn’t known better I never would have guessed she had a broken nose. There was a little swelling, but very little bruising or discoloration. Her pettite glasses rested carefully on the bridge of her nose, giving her a rather studious look as she surveyed the court.
“Hey, girl,” I said as she turned toward me. “Way to take a punch.”
She smiled as we began to discuss the injury and her impending treatment. It turns out that she is going to be fitted for a face mask and then play the rest of the season. In her words, she wasn’t even going to miss a game. The coach, however, is going to wait for the doctor’s clearance before he allows her back on the court.
Due to the way her nose was broken, it was impossible for doctor to set it without minor surgery. However, if she plays the rest of the season the nose will heal itself slightly out of position, although no one would notice by looking at her.
She explained that after the season, the doctor will have to break her nose again and set it properly. This, of course, sent shudders down my spine, but she said she could handle it as long as they knock her out first.
As we continued our conversation I told her I was amazed at the lack of bruising and overall appearance. I've seen broken noses before and many times they are accompanied by a pair of black eyes.
“… And I can’t believe it didn’t bleed,” I said.
“I know,” she agreed. “The doctor looked at it and said there was definitely blood in there, but it had been stopped up.”
“That’s kind of weird,” I said, wondering how you stop a major nose bleed without even trying. I mean, I’ve woken up on dry winter mornings and have done little more than sit up in bed and my nose starts bleeding.
As I contemplated the strangeness of the situation and how the blood flow could collect without ever releasing, I wasn't really prepared for what she said next.
“Yeah,” she said. “But this morning I had a really big sneeze ……….
“Eeewwww!”
I was a little early for my 2 p.m. appointment with the men’s basketball coach, so I decided to watch the women’s team practice for a while. It had been two days since a humiliating beat-down at the hands of a conference opponent and I wanted to see how the young ladies were reacting.
Now you must understand, being a man approaching his mid-30s, 6-foot-2 and 225 pounds, there aren’t many things that make me go “eeewwww!” And certainly, a group of college basketball players running up and down the court generally doesn’t fit into that category, aside from dodging a pair of sweaty socks that were thrown at me one day. But that is another story altogether.
Today, however, was different.
Standing on the sidelines was one of the starting guards still decked out in street clothes as her teammates pounded the hardwood under the scrutiny of their coach. You see, while the team took it on its proverbial chin the preceding Saturday, this young lady took it on the nose – literally. A sophomore, roughly 5-foot-8 and 100-and-nothing pounds dripping wet, this young lady plays much tougher than she looks. She is not afraid to take the ball to the basket among the bigger, stronger players, and has suffered a few injuries.
On Saturday, however, a trip to the backboard landed her in the hospital. As the team was hoping to claw back into the game shortly after halftime, this young lady crashed the boards looking for a rebound. All she found, however, was the heel of her teammates hand as it came crashing down across the bridge of her nose. After the 10-count, play was stopped to attend to the injury.
The coaches and trainers rushed to the court, as the young lady lay on her back clutching her face. Although I knew she had been hit in the nose, it was difficult to really tell what the injury was because there was not a drop of blood anywhere on the court.
She was helped off the court and taken to the training room where a doctor looked at her and diagnosed that she had indeed broken her nose.
Two days later, she stood on the edge of the court cheering her teammates as they worked. I walked across the gym floor to where she was standing. If I hadn’t known better I never would have guessed she had a broken nose. There was a little swelling, but very little bruising or discoloration. Her pettite glasses rested carefully on the bridge of her nose, giving her a rather studious look as she surveyed the court.
“Hey, girl,” I said as she turned toward me. “Way to take a punch.”
She smiled as we began to discuss the injury and her impending treatment. It turns out that she is going to be fitted for a face mask and then play the rest of the season. In her words, she wasn’t even going to miss a game. The coach, however, is going to wait for the doctor’s clearance before he allows her back on the court.
Due to the way her nose was broken, it was impossible for doctor to set it without minor surgery. However, if she plays the rest of the season the nose will heal itself slightly out of position, although no one would notice by looking at her.
She explained that after the season, the doctor will have to break her nose again and set it properly. This, of course, sent shudders down my spine, but she said she could handle it as long as they knock her out first.
As we continued our conversation I told her I was amazed at the lack of bruising and overall appearance. I've seen broken noses before and many times they are accompanied by a pair of black eyes.
“… And I can’t believe it didn’t bleed,” I said.
“I know,” she agreed. “The doctor looked at it and said there was definitely blood in there, but it had been stopped up.”
“That’s kind of weird,” I said, wondering how you stop a major nose bleed without even trying. I mean, I’ve woken up on dry winter mornings and have done little more than sit up in bed and my nose starts bleeding.
As I contemplated the strangeness of the situation and how the blood flow could collect without ever releasing, I wasn't really prepared for what she said next.
“Yeah,” she said. “But this morning I had a really big sneeze ……….
“Eeewwww!”
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Over the river and through the woods
The holidays are over and it’s back to work. Surprisingly, I was ready to return to a semblance of normalcy after a rather hectic week in which my wife, child and I visited both sets of grandparents, opened a lot of presents, ate too much food, got too little sleep, circumvented grass fires, drove through a snow storm, crossed the continental divide, dodged a few deer, worked in a round of golf, watched a few basketball games, nearly fell off a mountain, drove 2,189 miles and spent $245 on gas.
Was it worth it? Absolutely … except perhaps the part about nearly falling off a mountain.
After spending Christmas weekend in Norman, Okla., with my in-laws, we loaded the van and headed west for Grand Junction, Colo., where our college basketball team was playing a few games. We apparently got out of the Oklahoma City area just before the fires started on Tuesday.
The drive to Grand Junction was uneventful and gorgeous as we followed highway 50 through Colorado which runs alongside the Arkansas River for several miles. The drive through Gunnison was gorgeous as the snow-covered mountains overlooked the frozen lake.
My daughter kept asking if we were “stuck,” or “driving in circles” since we crossed the lake several times as we wound through the mountains.
We made it to Grand Junction with no trouble at all where we watched the basketball team play a couple of games. The team played really well even though it lost one of the two games.
My favorite player played great. I didn’t really get to tell her that prior to leaving Friday, because we were in a hurry to get on the road, but I’ll make it a priority to point out to her that I thought she played great over the weekend. She boosted her scoring average by more than a point and played solid defense. She also didn't make any big mistakes which has always been one of her strengths as a player.
The final game finished around 8 p.m. (Texas time) on Friday night. I knew the bus was returning home that night, so I had made plans to leave after the game as well. We were heading different directions because the family and I had to drive farther south and decided to cut across New Mexico.
While the bus had a rather uneventful return trip, aside from the stench of a loaded restroom tank and one player’s illness, our trip was far more taxing.
We had to dodge a herd of deer on a two-lane highway at one point. We came through unscathed, although a little rattled, but that was nothing compared to what we were about to face.
When a mountain pass becomes treacherous, highway departments should really consider posting signs that read “Stupid flatlanders must stop now!” There were plenty of signs reading “Chains required on all commercial vehicles.” But what the heck does that mean for me?
At one point as we trudged along in the snow and ice, we passed a sign that said the summit is 13 miles. “Good,” I think to myself. “If we can reach the top, we should be OK.” It took us an hour to reach the top of the mountain from that point.
And just to add anxiety to the already harrowing trip, as we reached a flat area on top of the mountain, we passed a sign that read “Chains or snow tires required on all vehicles beyond this point.”
Great! Here we are at the top of the mountain in a vehicle ill-equipped to continue the journey. My options are to turn around and go back down the way we came or break the law – and it was pointed out that proceeding without the proper equipment was unlawful – and go down the mountain by continuing forward.
I decided that if I had to go down the mountain one way or another, I was going to continue going forward.
The minutes passed into hours and the anxiety never lessened as we continued down the mountain only to discover that we had to reach the summit two more times before truly beginning the trek down. But our trusty van and its front-wheel drive, never slipped and never skidded on the ice, for which we gave much thanks to God. We were also lucky enough to fall in behind a snow plow and follow the freshly plowed highway much of the way down.
We were fortunate that after a long, hard day of cheering for her favorite team, my 5-year-old was asleep the entire trip. Had she been awake, I’m sure she would have constantly been asking … “Da-da, are we going to boom?” You see, the word “crash” has been outlawed in our van after we bumped bumpers with another vehicle backing out of a driveway one day a year or so ago.
After several days of hearing our 5-year-old repeat the story and reprimand us for “crashing,” my wife finally told her that the word “crash” is a bad word and must not be repeated in the van. She has stuck with that rule, occasionally correcting us if we use the word in casual conversation.
But we didn’t crash or boom.
By my calculations, it is approximately 170 miles from Grand Junction to Durango. For a West Texas boy, 170 miles means about 2 and a half hours of road time. But on the fateful night in the driving snow, it took us more than five hours to make that trip.
We eventually stopped about an hour south of Durango, in Bloomfield, N.M., where we stayed at a Super 8. Our room smelled as if it had housed someone’s hunting dogs the night before. The smell was probably similar to what the team was experiencing on their bus ride home with the loaded sewer tank. But at 3 a.m. and completely exhausted from the tense travel, what else were we going to do? If we passed up this motel, it was another two hours until we reached civilization.
We decided to sleep for four hours before returning to the road. After all, we still had roughly 11 hours of road time ahead of us before reaching my parents house on New Year’s Eve.
Needless to say, that 11 hours was nothing. We even killed an hour in Albuquerque eating a late breakfast. We traded our 10 to 20-mile per hour drive the night before for a pleasant 80-mile per hour pace on Saturday and finally came to a stop at 5 p.m.
The next day we took communion at my father’s church, dug into a big pile of world famous steak fingers then drove the final 2 and a half hours home. It was nice to get home and see that our cats were still alive and hadn’t destroyed the house. It was nice to finally sleep in our own beds, and it was nice to look around and see nothing but flat land, albeit burning out of control in several places.
After 2,189 miles in eight days, one gets a little road weary. But it won’t last long. After all, I have to get back on the road this Saturday if I’m going to watch the team play in Oklahoma City.
Was it worth it? Absolutely … except perhaps the part about nearly falling off a mountain.
After spending Christmas weekend in Norman, Okla., with my in-laws, we loaded the van and headed west for Grand Junction, Colo., where our college basketball team was playing a few games. We apparently got out of the Oklahoma City area just before the fires started on Tuesday.
The drive to Grand Junction was uneventful and gorgeous as we followed highway 50 through Colorado which runs alongside the Arkansas River for several miles. The drive through Gunnison was gorgeous as the snow-covered mountains overlooked the frozen lake.
My daughter kept asking if we were “stuck,” or “driving in circles” since we crossed the lake several times as we wound through the mountains.
We made it to Grand Junction with no trouble at all where we watched the basketball team play a couple of games. The team played really well even though it lost one of the two games.
My favorite player played great. I didn’t really get to tell her that prior to leaving Friday, because we were in a hurry to get on the road, but I’ll make it a priority to point out to her that I thought she played great over the weekend. She boosted her scoring average by more than a point and played solid defense. She also didn't make any big mistakes which has always been one of her strengths as a player.
The final game finished around 8 p.m. (Texas time) on Friday night. I knew the bus was returning home that night, so I had made plans to leave after the game as well. We were heading different directions because the family and I had to drive farther south and decided to cut across New Mexico.
While the bus had a rather uneventful return trip, aside from the stench of a loaded restroom tank and one player’s illness, our trip was far more taxing.
We had to dodge a herd of deer on a two-lane highway at one point. We came through unscathed, although a little rattled, but that was nothing compared to what we were about to face.
When a mountain pass becomes treacherous, highway departments should really consider posting signs that read “Stupid flatlanders must stop now!” There were plenty of signs reading “Chains required on all commercial vehicles.” But what the heck does that mean for me?
At one point as we trudged along in the snow and ice, we passed a sign that said the summit is 13 miles. “Good,” I think to myself. “If we can reach the top, we should be OK.” It took us an hour to reach the top of the mountain from that point.
And just to add anxiety to the already harrowing trip, as we reached a flat area on top of the mountain, we passed a sign that read “Chains or snow tires required on all vehicles beyond this point.”
Great! Here we are at the top of the mountain in a vehicle ill-equipped to continue the journey. My options are to turn around and go back down the way we came or break the law – and it was pointed out that proceeding without the proper equipment was unlawful – and go down the mountain by continuing forward.
I decided that if I had to go down the mountain one way or another, I was going to continue going forward.
The minutes passed into hours and the anxiety never lessened as we continued down the mountain only to discover that we had to reach the summit two more times before truly beginning the trek down. But our trusty van and its front-wheel drive, never slipped and never skidded on the ice, for which we gave much thanks to God. We were also lucky enough to fall in behind a snow plow and follow the freshly plowed highway much of the way down.
We were fortunate that after a long, hard day of cheering for her favorite team, my 5-year-old was asleep the entire trip. Had she been awake, I’m sure she would have constantly been asking … “Da-da, are we going to boom?” You see, the word “crash” has been outlawed in our van after we bumped bumpers with another vehicle backing out of a driveway one day a year or so ago.
After several days of hearing our 5-year-old repeat the story and reprimand us for “crashing,” my wife finally told her that the word “crash” is a bad word and must not be repeated in the van. She has stuck with that rule, occasionally correcting us if we use the word in casual conversation.
But we didn’t crash or boom.
By my calculations, it is approximately 170 miles from Grand Junction to Durango. For a West Texas boy, 170 miles means about 2 and a half hours of road time. But on the fateful night in the driving snow, it took us more than five hours to make that trip.
We eventually stopped about an hour south of Durango, in Bloomfield, N.M., where we stayed at a Super 8. Our room smelled as if it had housed someone’s hunting dogs the night before. The smell was probably similar to what the team was experiencing on their bus ride home with the loaded sewer tank. But at 3 a.m. and completely exhausted from the tense travel, what else were we going to do? If we passed up this motel, it was another two hours until we reached civilization.
We decided to sleep for four hours before returning to the road. After all, we still had roughly 11 hours of road time ahead of us before reaching my parents house on New Year’s Eve.
Needless to say, that 11 hours was nothing. We even killed an hour in Albuquerque eating a late breakfast. We traded our 10 to 20-mile per hour drive the night before for a pleasant 80-mile per hour pace on Saturday and finally came to a stop at 5 p.m.
The next day we took communion at my father’s church, dug into a big pile of world famous steak fingers then drove the final 2 and a half hours home. It was nice to get home and see that our cats were still alive and hadn’t destroyed the house. It was nice to finally sleep in our own beds, and it was nice to look around and see nothing but flat land, albeit burning out of control in several places.
After 2,189 miles in eight days, one gets a little road weary. But it won’t last long. After all, I have to get back on the road this Saturday if I’m going to watch the team play in Oklahoma City.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Happy Holy-days
‘Tis the season to be jolly … Fa, la, la, la, la, la ‘freakin’ la’
I have been accused of being a “crotchety old man” by certain family members. That’s OK. It really doesn’t bother me all that much because I am a bit more conservative than some of the flaming liberals in our clan.
However, in my crotchetiness, I must say that I am not a big fan of the Christmas season. Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with family and friends and I love working at a job where we get two weeks off. I love giving gifts to those people I care for.
What I don’t necessarily care for is getting "nickel-and-dimed" to death by every group, class and organization I am affiliated with that suddenly feels like they should do their part to help out the less fortunate. I also don’t like being accosted by bell ringers at every store front and intersection in town who are supposedly raising money for a “good cause.” Where is that money really going, and why do they not need to raise it in June?
Not only that, but you have to bring a Christmas ornament to this gathering or a gag gift to that. Your child is expected to bring a gift for a gift exchange in her ballet class. You have to cook brownies for this group or a cake for that group … and don’t forget the green bean casserole. You buy presents for kids in families you have never seen. You donate to special interest groups who are trying to pass out some Christmas cheer. You do all this and suddenly you realize you haven’t bought your own child a Christmas present.
Don’t get me wrong, my family has been greatly blessed and we are very fortunate to be in the situation we are in. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for all He has given us, be it money, food, family or friends who make our lives easier and more enjoyable. And furthermore, I love helping people out, but I would rather do it when it is least expected, not when everybody is telling me to do it and looking down on me if I don’t. And don't get me started on the over-commercialization of Christmas.
I really don’t know how to end this post. I really don’t have anything else to say. But I suspect there are more people out there who feel the way I do, and I hope they all get to stop at some point, relax and enjoy the people and places around them.
Merry Christmas!
I have been accused of being a “crotchety old man” by certain family members. That’s OK. It really doesn’t bother me all that much because I am a bit more conservative than some of the flaming liberals in our clan.
However, in my crotchetiness, I must say that I am not a big fan of the Christmas season. Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with family and friends and I love working at a job where we get two weeks off. I love giving gifts to those people I care for.
What I don’t necessarily care for is getting "nickel-and-dimed" to death by every group, class and organization I am affiliated with that suddenly feels like they should do their part to help out the less fortunate. I also don’t like being accosted by bell ringers at every store front and intersection in town who are supposedly raising money for a “good cause.” Where is that money really going, and why do they not need to raise it in June?
Not only that, but you have to bring a Christmas ornament to this gathering or a gag gift to that. Your child is expected to bring a gift for a gift exchange in her ballet class. You have to cook brownies for this group or a cake for that group … and don’t forget the green bean casserole. You buy presents for kids in families you have never seen. You donate to special interest groups who are trying to pass out some Christmas cheer. You do all this and suddenly you realize you haven’t bought your own child a Christmas present.
Don’t get me wrong, my family has been greatly blessed and we are very fortunate to be in the situation we are in. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for all He has given us, be it money, food, family or friends who make our lives easier and more enjoyable. And furthermore, I love helping people out, but I would rather do it when it is least expected, not when everybody is telling me to do it and looking down on me if I don’t. And don't get me started on the over-commercialization of Christmas.
I really don’t know how to end this post. I really don’t have anything else to say. But I suspect there are more people out there who feel the way I do, and I hope they all get to stop at some point, relax and enjoy the people and places around them.
Merry Christmas!
Friday, December 09, 2005
Fun for the whole family ... or not
I am obligated by the laws that govern web logs to post the following comment after participating in other events.
Please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME. It can be anything you want--good or bad--BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. When you're finished, post this paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T ACTUALLY remember about you.
Please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME. It can be anything you want--good or bad--BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. When you're finished, post this paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T ACTUALLY remember about you.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Rice, Burritos and Dessert
I must hand it to my little 5-year-old teenager, her brain is always working.
Last night was like many other nights in our household; we went out to eat. Like most people we have our favorite haunts for a quick mid-week dinner and on this night we chose a little Mexican food restaurant that we like to frequent.
As is the custom, my wife ordered her quesadillas, “cheese only.” I order from the menu and our child asked for her typical side order of rice and flour tortillas. We ate a few chips and guacamole while waiting for our food. The kid loves guacamole. She has eaten it since a friend of ours decided to feed it to her when she was a baby. She hated baby food, but she loved guacamole.
Our food came out and we enjoyed the dinner. As usual, our child didn’t eat much of her rice an managed only half of a tortilla. This is the same 5-year-old who polished off two homemade bean burritos and three fruit rollups for supper the night before. She has gotten in the habit of not eating much when we eat out, then asking for food as soon as we get home.
“I’m full,” she said as she began flattening out the remainder of her rice to make a pancake.
At this point I gave her my stern fatherly look and told her that I did not want to go home and immediately hear her asking for food to eat … she needed to eat her supper.
“But I’m full,” she said again.
We finished eating then had to run over to the store to pick up some items for one of the seemingly endless list of Christmas parties we have to attend each year.
We spend a few minutes trying to complete the self check-out line because the other line we were in was having trouble with the debit-card machine. Needless to say, checking out took longer than it should have, but we weren’t in the store too long.
We returned home and got comfortable. No sooner had I sat down to watch a little TV than my child saunters into the living room.
“Da-da,” she says looking at me.
I know what is coming. The three grains of rice she ate for supper have worn off and she wants jelly sandwich or macaroni and cheese. Remembering what I told her at supper, I am prepared to tell her no and send her off to bed hungry because she didn’t eat her supper.
She looks at me with her big blue eyes … “I’m ready for dessert.”
A slow grin spreads across her face because she knows she has caught me.
“That’s what you eat after supper, right?” She asks smiling.
What can I do? I have just been out-witted by a pint-sized kindergartener. And she knows it.
My next plan of attack was simple. “Ok.” I thought to myself. “She is going to ask for a brownie or a cookie and I can tell her that she didn’t eat enough supper to warrant a tasty treat for dessert.”
“What do you want for dessert?” I ask, trying to set my trap.
She looks at me, grins and says … “Cheese!”
Game, set, match! I lose.
Last night was like many other nights in our household; we went out to eat. Like most people we have our favorite haunts for a quick mid-week dinner and on this night we chose a little Mexican food restaurant that we like to frequent.
As is the custom, my wife ordered her quesadillas, “cheese only.” I order from the menu and our child asked for her typical side order of rice and flour tortillas. We ate a few chips and guacamole while waiting for our food. The kid loves guacamole. She has eaten it since a friend of ours decided to feed it to her when she was a baby. She hated baby food, but she loved guacamole.
Our food came out and we enjoyed the dinner. As usual, our child didn’t eat much of her rice an managed only half of a tortilla. This is the same 5-year-old who polished off two homemade bean burritos and three fruit rollups for supper the night before. She has gotten in the habit of not eating much when we eat out, then asking for food as soon as we get home.
“I’m full,” she said as she began flattening out the remainder of her rice to make a pancake.
At this point I gave her my stern fatherly look and told her that I did not want to go home and immediately hear her asking for food to eat … she needed to eat her supper.
“But I’m full,” she said again.
We finished eating then had to run over to the store to pick up some items for one of the seemingly endless list of Christmas parties we have to attend each year.
We spend a few minutes trying to complete the self check-out line because the other line we were in was having trouble with the debit-card machine. Needless to say, checking out took longer than it should have, but we weren’t in the store too long.
We returned home and got comfortable. No sooner had I sat down to watch a little TV than my child saunters into the living room.
“Da-da,” she says looking at me.
I know what is coming. The three grains of rice she ate for supper have worn off and she wants jelly sandwich or macaroni and cheese. Remembering what I told her at supper, I am prepared to tell her no and send her off to bed hungry because she didn’t eat her supper.
She looks at me with her big blue eyes … “I’m ready for dessert.”
A slow grin spreads across her face because she knows she has caught me.
“That’s what you eat after supper, right?” She asks smiling.
What can I do? I have just been out-witted by a pint-sized kindergartener. And she knows it.
My next plan of attack was simple. “Ok.” I thought to myself. “She is going to ask for a brownie or a cookie and I can tell her that she didn’t eat enough supper to warrant a tasty treat for dessert.”
“What do you want for dessert?” I ask, trying to set my trap.
She looks at me, grins and says … “Cheese!”
Game, set, match! I lose.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Place in this World
Last weekend proved to be interesting for me. Our university was hosting a combined basketball tournament that featured both college and high school teams. I usually make plans to attend a number of the games, but this tournament was a little different.
One of the high school teams hailed from my former stomping grounds where I spent five years as the sports editor of the local paper. This particular town was known for high school basketball; not only the astounding success the team has had throughout the years, but the style of basketball which it has made famous in high school circles. This high school team is probably the only team in the Southwest that is allowed to run the score up on its opponents without opposing coaches getting upset. In fact, if the team ever stopped running its full-court press, the coach would be on the next bus out of town.
As I was sitting in my office on Wednesday afternoon I received a phone call from a old college buddy. He was instrumental in bringing me to the paper where we worked together for several years. I moved on, but he stayed there and in a few short years took over as managing editor. Anyway, he said his sports staff was a bit shorthanded and he needed someone to string for him. In laymen’s terms “string” means write stories about the games.
It has only been four years since I left that paper, and the coaches that I had become very familiar with were still in place. I said I would be happy to cover the games, provided he caughed up some cash. After 10 seconds of hard negotiations, we agreed on the terms of my contract labor and I went to work.
I spent the next three days covering the team and talking to people I had known in my previous life. It was nice to see them. We talked about old times and they all told me they wished I was still at the paper.
“The guy they have now is real green …”
“The sports section has really gone down hill since you left …”
“I wish you’d come back and save the paper …”
… were a few of the comments I heard.
The accolades were nice and a definite stroke to the old ego. Let’s face it, we all like to hear that we are better at something than the other guy. But I have to admit, hearing comments like that always makes me wonder … “What did these same people tell the guy that I replaced?”
One of the high school teams hailed from my former stomping grounds where I spent five years as the sports editor of the local paper. This particular town was known for high school basketball; not only the astounding success the team has had throughout the years, but the style of basketball which it has made famous in high school circles. This high school team is probably the only team in the Southwest that is allowed to run the score up on its opponents without opposing coaches getting upset. In fact, if the team ever stopped running its full-court press, the coach would be on the next bus out of town.
As I was sitting in my office on Wednesday afternoon I received a phone call from a old college buddy. He was instrumental in bringing me to the paper where we worked together for several years. I moved on, but he stayed there and in a few short years took over as managing editor. Anyway, he said his sports staff was a bit shorthanded and he needed someone to string for him. In laymen’s terms “string” means write stories about the games.
It has only been four years since I left that paper, and the coaches that I had become very familiar with were still in place. I said I would be happy to cover the games, provided he caughed up some cash. After 10 seconds of hard negotiations, we agreed on the terms of my contract labor and I went to work.
I spent the next three days covering the team and talking to people I had known in my previous life. It was nice to see them. We talked about old times and they all told me they wished I was still at the paper.
“The guy they have now is real green …”
“The sports section has really gone down hill since you left …”
“I wish you’d come back and save the paper …”
… were a few of the comments I heard.
The accolades were nice and a definite stroke to the old ego. Let’s face it, we all like to hear that we are better at something than the other guy. But I have to admit, hearing comments like that always makes me wonder … “What did these same people tell the guy that I replaced?”
A Testing We Shall Go
I heard from a lady who works at the university that my sister, the probation officer, attended a Rotary luncheon on campus a few weeks ago. My sister of course, is morally and fundamentally opposed to any and all types of social organizations.
So, it made me wonder what she was doing there. Had she been invited? Was she a guest speaker? Did she just crash the party for the food? Or was she there to administer drug tests to all our civic leaders?
“Excuse me high-powered attorney, would you mind peeing in this cup?”
So, it made me wonder what she was doing there. Had she been invited? Was she a guest speaker? Did she just crash the party for the food? Or was she there to administer drug tests to all our civic leaders?
“Excuse me high-powered attorney, would you mind peeing in this cup?”
Merry Crotchmas
So, I haven’t written in awhile. I’ve been a little busy. Just today (well, yesterday actually) I was working on a Christmas card for our admissions office to send out to prospective students. No big deal, right? Well, it is when you are contacted at the last possible minute and have only limited time to dig up some festive photos to use on said card.
Anyway, I can’t really blame the people in the office. The boss just quit to accept a position elsewhere and they have kind of been left in limbo for the time being. And furthermore, it gave me something creative to work on which is always enjoyable.
However, you must be careful in choosing pictures to use on promotional material. For instance, in one of the photos I wanted to use, a student was wearing a Harvard sweatshirt. That’s all well and good, but we ain’t Harvard.
A few quick keystrokes in Photoshop and Harvard suddenly disappeared. Unethical? Maybe, but I’m a PR flack. What does ethics have to do with it? But just for the record, we ended up using a different photo anyway.
However, I was contacted today shortly before the card had to be sent to the printer. Let’s just say the VP in charge wanted to switch out a photo. To avoid going into all the gory Santa details, I will summarize by saying that in my return email I signed off … “Wishing you ‘Happy Holidays’ and may all your Christmas cards be crotch free.”
Anyway, I can’t really blame the people in the office. The boss just quit to accept a position elsewhere and they have kind of been left in limbo for the time being. And furthermore, it gave me something creative to work on which is always enjoyable.
However, you must be careful in choosing pictures to use on promotional material. For instance, in one of the photos I wanted to use, a student was wearing a Harvard sweatshirt. That’s all well and good, but we ain’t Harvard.
A few quick keystrokes in Photoshop and Harvard suddenly disappeared. Unethical? Maybe, but I’m a PR flack. What does ethics have to do with it? But just for the record, we ended up using a different photo anyway.
However, I was contacted today shortly before the card had to be sent to the printer. Let’s just say the VP in charge wanted to switch out a photo. To avoid going into all the gory Santa details, I will summarize by saying that in my return email I signed off … “Wishing you ‘Happy Holidays’ and may all your Christmas cards be crotch free.”
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
From the Mind of ...
It would be nice to have the imagination of a 5-year-old. I guess we all did at one time, but too much television and too many bills to pay quickly erode your connection to the land of fantasy. Fortunately, some of us have jobs in which we occasionally get to be somewhat creative and can reconnect with our imaginary friends every once in awhile.
As I was sitting in the living room floor trying desperately to recover from my limited time on the old treadmill (but that’s another story all-together), my 5-year-old teenager strutted into the room.
“Da-da,” she said, “I’m a cowgirl.”
I looked at her. A princess crown lined in pink down-like feathers was nestled snuggly in her golden locks. Her small, slender fingers clung tightly to a “magic wand” shaped like a purple star. On her feet were pink Croc-like, aerated sandals and she wore a hot pink/orangish fleece hoody. In fact the only thing she had on that kind of resembled a modern-day cowgirls’ attire were her jeans. Of course they were emblazoned with beaded flower patterns down outer seam of each leg.
She was quite the picture of a Wild West heroine. Of course, no one in their adult mind would ever guess that she was a cowgirl, but that's OK. No adults were allowed to play.
“I’m pretending this is my hat,” she said as she pointed to the crown. “These are my black cowgirl boots and this is my rope.” She twirled the starry wand as she struck a pose that would make any runway model proud.
“I’m pretending.”
I could only watch as she hopped on her stick horse and road off into the sunset.
As I was sitting in the living room floor trying desperately to recover from my limited time on the old treadmill (but that’s another story all-together), my 5-year-old teenager strutted into the room.
“Da-da,” she said, “I’m a cowgirl.”
I looked at her. A princess crown lined in pink down-like feathers was nestled snuggly in her golden locks. Her small, slender fingers clung tightly to a “magic wand” shaped like a purple star. On her feet were pink Croc-like, aerated sandals and she wore a hot pink/orangish fleece hoody. In fact the only thing she had on that kind of resembled a modern-day cowgirls’ attire were her jeans. Of course they were emblazoned with beaded flower patterns down outer seam of each leg.
She was quite the picture of a Wild West heroine. Of course, no one in their adult mind would ever guess that she was a cowgirl, but that's OK. No adults were allowed to play.
“I’m pretending this is my hat,” she said as she pointed to the crown. “These are my black cowgirl boots and this is my rope.” She twirled the starry wand as she struck a pose that would make any runway model proud.
“I’m pretending.”
I could only watch as she hopped on her stick horse and road off into the sunset.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
And all the World Wore White
Loaded in the Jeep, the family and I were heading out for a quick supper and trip to Wal-Mart this evening. It was a typical exciting night out in the “big town.”
Now one must keep in mind before asking what we had to eat that I have been working hard on the treadmill and stationary bike, trying to shed a few pounds. I’m not excessively overweight, but would love to drop about 20 lbs. I like to tell people that if I lost 20 pounds, I could be playing free safety somewhere in the NFL (6-3, 200). Of course, with my latest comments on my feelings about the state of football in our fair country, I think I’ll sit safely behind my desk and pound away on the keyboard.
Anyway, I am having little success in the weight loss department. Although I have been exercising, something tells me that eating pizza for the last three days tends to counteract the weight-loss activities.
Tonight was no different … A nice pizza buffet and off to the store. Of course, I ate spinach alfredo pizza, and drank diet Dr. Pepper, so that has to count for something.
We were headed to the store to stock up on snacks and junk for our weekend trip. Our Sunday school class, made up of kids who have been married for less than a year, along with us (the old fogies) and another couple just a few years younger than us, is taking its yearly weekend excursion to the mountains of New Mexico. Each fall, our class heads to Glorietta New Mexico for a weekend of sin and debauchery. We drink, smoke, dance and basically thumb our noses at the rules of the Baptist encampment where we stay.
OK. There is not drinking or smoking, but occasionally we have been known to cut a rug well after midnight which is woefully against the rules. And there are of course the stories of the cabin across the road that each year become increasingly unbelievable.
Anyway, after stocking up on junk that isn’t good for us … ie, there goes the already non-existent diet that I haven’t been following anyway … we piled back in the Jeep for the ride home. This is when my 5-year-old teenager began to dominate the conversation.
She has recently started making up her own songs. This is a trait she undoubtedly inherited from her dear old dad who is famous for his rendition of “Don’t Smell My Fart,” a parody of the classic Billy Ray Cyrus (back when mullets were cool) song. And that Irish women’s group’s song “Breathless,” which I changed to … Oh well, you get the idea.
My child, however, is on a much more ethereal plane when it comes to her compositions. I must admit it was quite cute as she made up songs about creation, encompassing all the colors of the rainbow and then some.
All you Biblical scholars out there might find it interesting to know the world was completely white until Jesus created the colors. And just to set the creation story straight, Jesus created the colors before, creating mankind.
Now one must keep in mind before asking what we had to eat that I have been working hard on the treadmill and stationary bike, trying to shed a few pounds. I’m not excessively overweight, but would love to drop about 20 lbs. I like to tell people that if I lost 20 pounds, I could be playing free safety somewhere in the NFL (6-3, 200). Of course, with my latest comments on my feelings about the state of football in our fair country, I think I’ll sit safely behind my desk and pound away on the keyboard.
Anyway, I am having little success in the weight loss department. Although I have been exercising, something tells me that eating pizza for the last three days tends to counteract the weight-loss activities.
Tonight was no different … A nice pizza buffet and off to the store. Of course, I ate spinach alfredo pizza, and drank diet Dr. Pepper, so that has to count for something.
We were headed to the store to stock up on snacks and junk for our weekend trip. Our Sunday school class, made up of kids who have been married for less than a year, along with us (the old fogies) and another couple just a few years younger than us, is taking its yearly weekend excursion to the mountains of New Mexico. Each fall, our class heads to Glorietta New Mexico for a weekend of sin and debauchery. We drink, smoke, dance and basically thumb our noses at the rules of the Baptist encampment where we stay.
OK. There is not drinking or smoking, but occasionally we have been known to cut a rug well after midnight which is woefully against the rules. And there are of course the stories of the cabin across the road that each year become increasingly unbelievable.
Anyway, after stocking up on junk that isn’t good for us … ie, there goes the already non-existent diet that I haven’t been following anyway … we piled back in the Jeep for the ride home. This is when my 5-year-old teenager began to dominate the conversation.
She has recently started making up her own songs. This is a trait she undoubtedly inherited from her dear old dad who is famous for his rendition of “Don’t Smell My Fart,” a parody of the classic Billy Ray Cyrus (back when mullets were cool) song. And that Irish women’s group’s song “Breathless,” which I changed to … Oh well, you get the idea.
My child, however, is on a much more ethereal plane when it comes to her compositions. I must admit it was quite cute as she made up songs about creation, encompassing all the colors of the rainbow and then some.
All you Biblical scholars out there might find it interesting to know the world was completely white until Jesus created the colors. And just to set the creation story straight, Jesus created the colors before, creating mankind.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
No football, no problem
2nd grade teacher recently left a comment on one of my posts saying they don’t play football in her neck of the woods. Instead they play soccer and lacrosse. That’s a little hard to swallow for a West Texas boy. Around here, if you don’t play football, you don’t play anything.
Things are different in our neighbor states. Soccer is big in New Mexico and in rural Oklahoma (eastern Oklahoma) baseball is the big thing. They play fall and spring baseball.
Of course, I work at a university that doesn’t have a football team. We used to … the fighting Jackrabbits. But that was a long time ago. We recently tried soccer. We fielded a women’s soccer team for three years before giving it the boot – or should I say giving it the cleat.
Oh well, basketball (scrimmage) starts tonight, so I’m happy.
Things are different in our neighbor states. Soccer is big in New Mexico and in rural Oklahoma (eastern Oklahoma) baseball is the big thing. They play fall and spring baseball.
Of course, I work at a university that doesn’t have a football team. We used to … the fighting Jackrabbits. But that was a long time ago. We recently tried soccer. We fielded a women’s soccer team for three years before giving it the boot – or should I say giving it the cleat.
Oh well, basketball (scrimmage) starts tonight, so I’m happy.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Behold, the power of ...
Like gossamer wings floating gently on the breeze, their indelible image dots the distant horizon. A calling card, crying out to the perpetually young, drawing children of all shapes and sizes in mythical proportions. It’s something we as adults cannot comprehend, but never should we underestimate the power of the Golden Arches.
My 5-year-old teenager lay bleary eyed amid the covers on her bed. It was time to arise and prepare for another taxing day of Kindergarten. This week the youngsters are studying the color gray, the letter “P” and the number 7.
“Dada, close the door,” she grumbles as she pulls her Dora comforter over her head. “It is too bright.”
Quietly I pick my way to her bedside, dodging a wasteland that once was lorded over by the diminutive Polly Pockets. I lean down beside her bed.
“If you get up,” I gently whisper, “we will get McDonald’s for breakfast.”
My words did not go unheeded for I invoked the name of the almighty. My daughter generally falls under the category of “high-maintenance” as she prepares for her day, demanding assistance in choosing her clothes and shoes while being forced to brush her hair and teeth.
But today was different. Today was McDonald’s. For obvious reasons, my daughter chose to be in Mrs. McDonald’s kindergarten class at her school. A wise choice which my wife, who also teaches at the school, agreed with. But the power of the arches far exceeds the question of finding qualified educators.
I had only left my child’s room when she zipped past me holding a pair of jeans and a shirt. As I, still clad in my bath robe, walked into my room in order to prepare for my work day, I glanced over to see that my child was already wearing her shirt and was in the midst of pulling on her favorite pair of jeans.
Before I had the chance to pull my clothes from the closet, she had her socks and shoes in hand and was asking for assistance in brushing her hair. I had no choice. After all, my child was answering to a higher calling.
This story tends to lose its luster as my child finished getting ready then waited patiently for her father to complete his morning routine. But the brilliant shine of the arches was written all over her face. We were going to McDonald’s.
I’m not sure what it is about the joint that intrigues kids so. The food is barely tolerable, the bathrooms are dirty and the playground is eerily reminiscent to feed lot in mid-summer temperatures. But somehow … some way … the marketing genius that is McDonald’s has tapped into the psyche of the American offspring.
My 5-year-old teenager lay bleary eyed amid the covers on her bed. It was time to arise and prepare for another taxing day of Kindergarten. This week the youngsters are studying the color gray, the letter “P” and the number 7.
“Dada, close the door,” she grumbles as she pulls her Dora comforter over her head. “It is too bright.”
Quietly I pick my way to her bedside, dodging a wasteland that once was lorded over by the diminutive Polly Pockets. I lean down beside her bed.
“If you get up,” I gently whisper, “we will get McDonald’s for breakfast.”
My words did not go unheeded for I invoked the name of the almighty. My daughter generally falls under the category of “high-maintenance” as she prepares for her day, demanding assistance in choosing her clothes and shoes while being forced to brush her hair and teeth.
But today was different. Today was McDonald’s. For obvious reasons, my daughter chose to be in Mrs. McDonald’s kindergarten class at her school. A wise choice which my wife, who also teaches at the school, agreed with. But the power of the arches far exceeds the question of finding qualified educators.
I had only left my child’s room when she zipped past me holding a pair of jeans and a shirt. As I, still clad in my bath robe, walked into my room in order to prepare for my work day, I glanced over to see that my child was already wearing her shirt and was in the midst of pulling on her favorite pair of jeans.
Before I had the chance to pull my clothes from the closet, she had her socks and shoes in hand and was asking for assistance in brushing her hair. I had no choice. After all, my child was answering to a higher calling.
This story tends to lose its luster as my child finished getting ready then waited patiently for her father to complete his morning routine. But the brilliant shine of the arches was written all over her face. We were going to McDonald’s.
I’m not sure what it is about the joint that intrigues kids so. The food is barely tolerable, the bathrooms are dirty and the playground is eerily reminiscent to feed lot in mid-summer temperatures. But somehow … some way … the marketing genius that is McDonald’s has tapped into the psyche of the American offspring.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Friday night curse
It’s me again … suffering from the doldrums that are a Monday in the early fall. The afternoon consisted of menial tasks at the office while trying to battle the evil forces that are also known laziness and lack of focus.
The reality of my situation was that I had press releases to write and bills to requisition, but I’d rather be taking a nap or playing golf … or playing basketball. Once basketball season rolls around, you will probably tire of reading about the exploits of our teams, but the fact remains that I love basketball season.
Of course, that doesn’t quite fit with the status quo in West Texas where football is god. Last Friday was a big football day around here. The local team, holding onto an undefeated record, was scheduled to play their chief rival which was also undefeated and ranked higher in the state. The two teams are split by roughly 60 miles of highway, not nearly enough to keep rabid fans from flocking to enemy turf when the mighty pigskin is in action.
My brother-in-law went to the game. I thought about going, but decided I didn’t want to mess with the overcrowded high school stadium. The stadium was built to accommodate 7,500 fans. According to reports, there were more than 12,000 people at the game.
I spent nearly 10 years working as a sports reporter for a few small, daily newspapers in the area. I have seen my fare share of Friday night football games. I have dealt with dense coaches and brain dead fans. I have written glowing stories about egotistical athletes whose antics would make me want to puke. I have been there when riots broke out in the stadiums, fights broke out on the field and the rules of sportsmanship and fair play have been scoffed at like a bologna sandwich at a $100 a plate Junior Service League fund raiser.
I have seen and dealt with the basest of human behavior. I have dealt with athletes who needlessly showboat to draw attention to themselves. I have listened to armchair quarterbacks gripe and complain about the ignorance of the current coaching staff, all the while basing their arguments on game situation in which they have no concept of the actual rules. I have listened to parents who complain about coaches not playing their kids. I have taken phone calls early on Sunday morning from parents who gripe because the local sports reporter didn’t herald their baby as the basketball superstar that he so obviously was. (The following week said “superstar” scored only four points and was non-existent in a big game. Guess whose baby was mentioned early in the story for his lack of participation. The little punk and one of his buddies generally took the court either high or drunk, maybe both, so he wasn't very high on my list of favorite people to begin with.)
And according to my brother-in-law, Friday’s big game was no different. Fans and parents booing the opposition as the young men took the field. Dirty players making dirty plays through the contest. Trash talking … cheap shots … and at least one coach who has been known to run up the score whenever he gets a chance.
I’m glad I didn’t go to that game. I’ve seen so much of that garbage that it makes my stomach turn. There have been times in the past that I have actually hoped the local team that I was covering at the time would actually get beat bad just because the kids and coaches were getting too cocky, and forgetting about sportsmanship.
After hearing my brother-in-law tell his story I quickly pointed out to those listening … “that’s why I have become such a big fan of women’s basketball.” Not that women can’t suffer from these same issues, but there are fewer of them who harbor such delusions of grandeur and complete self idolization. Especially locally.
Our women’s basketball team held a gathering at the coach’s house several weeks ago at which time the players could get to know each other and the coaches could hand out team rules for the season. The following day, I asked the assistant coach how the meeting went. She said that of the 15 young women on the team, eight of them gave a brief testimony of how God and their faith played a part in choosing to attend this school. That’s pretty amazing.
They may not be perfect, but that is definitely a step in the right direction.
As my daughter would say, “Go Queens!”
The reality of my situation was that I had press releases to write and bills to requisition, but I’d rather be taking a nap or playing golf … or playing basketball. Once basketball season rolls around, you will probably tire of reading about the exploits of our teams, but the fact remains that I love basketball season.
Of course, that doesn’t quite fit with the status quo in West Texas where football is god. Last Friday was a big football day around here. The local team, holding onto an undefeated record, was scheduled to play their chief rival which was also undefeated and ranked higher in the state. The two teams are split by roughly 60 miles of highway, not nearly enough to keep rabid fans from flocking to enemy turf when the mighty pigskin is in action.
My brother-in-law went to the game. I thought about going, but decided I didn’t want to mess with the overcrowded high school stadium. The stadium was built to accommodate 7,500 fans. According to reports, there were more than 12,000 people at the game.
I spent nearly 10 years working as a sports reporter for a few small, daily newspapers in the area. I have seen my fare share of Friday night football games. I have dealt with dense coaches and brain dead fans. I have written glowing stories about egotistical athletes whose antics would make me want to puke. I have been there when riots broke out in the stadiums, fights broke out on the field and the rules of sportsmanship and fair play have been scoffed at like a bologna sandwich at a $100 a plate Junior Service League fund raiser.
I have seen and dealt with the basest of human behavior. I have dealt with athletes who needlessly showboat to draw attention to themselves. I have listened to armchair quarterbacks gripe and complain about the ignorance of the current coaching staff, all the while basing their arguments on game situation in which they have no concept of the actual rules. I have listened to parents who complain about coaches not playing their kids. I have taken phone calls early on Sunday morning from parents who gripe because the local sports reporter didn’t herald their baby as the basketball superstar that he so obviously was. (The following week said “superstar” scored only four points and was non-existent in a big game. Guess whose baby was mentioned early in the story for his lack of participation. The little punk and one of his buddies generally took the court either high or drunk, maybe both, so he wasn't very high on my list of favorite people to begin with.)
And according to my brother-in-law, Friday’s big game was no different. Fans and parents booing the opposition as the young men took the field. Dirty players making dirty plays through the contest. Trash talking … cheap shots … and at least one coach who has been known to run up the score whenever he gets a chance.
I’m glad I didn’t go to that game. I’ve seen so much of that garbage that it makes my stomach turn. There have been times in the past that I have actually hoped the local team that I was covering at the time would actually get beat bad just because the kids and coaches were getting too cocky, and forgetting about sportsmanship.
After hearing my brother-in-law tell his story I quickly pointed out to those listening … “that’s why I have become such a big fan of women’s basketball.” Not that women can’t suffer from these same issues, but there are fewer of them who harbor such delusions of grandeur and complete self idolization. Especially locally.
Our women’s basketball team held a gathering at the coach’s house several weeks ago at which time the players could get to know each other and the coaches could hand out team rules for the season. The following day, I asked the assistant coach how the meeting went. She said that of the 15 young women on the team, eight of them gave a brief testimony of how God and their faith played a part in choosing to attend this school. That’s pretty amazing.
They may not be perfect, but that is definitely a step in the right direction.
As my daughter would say, “Go Queens!”
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
What advanced degree is right for me
| You Should Get a MFA (Masters of Fine Arts) |
 You're a blooming artistic talent, even if you aren't quite convinced. You'd make an incredible artist, photographer, or film maker. |
Interesting, huh. I guess I am sort of on the right track.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Sissa and the Band
It’s somewhat of a ritual.
On the days I take Rae to kindergarten we always have to listen carefully as we leave the house. You see, the high school band practices just a few blocks away from our house and when more than 300 horn blowers are doing their thing, the sound easily travels the short distance.
As the melodic sounds of the warm-up scale drift our way Rae quickly points out that we have to drive by the band on our way to school.
This particular morning was a chilly one, but we still lower the windows and listen as we drive that way.
“Are they wearing coats?” Rae asks.
“I bet some of them are,” I respond.
“Do you think T--- is wearing her coat?”
“I don’t know. But I bet she is.”
T--- is the younger sister of E---- (see previous posts). Rae adores both of them and I can’t say that I blame her because they are both good kids.
As we slowly drive by the band's practice lot, Rae listens intently. Just before we lose sight of the band Rae sticks are hand out the window and waves.
“What are you doing,” I ask.
Rae grins. “Waving and T---.”
On the days I take Rae to kindergarten we always have to listen carefully as we leave the house. You see, the high school band practices just a few blocks away from our house and when more than 300 horn blowers are doing their thing, the sound easily travels the short distance.
As the melodic sounds of the warm-up scale drift our way Rae quickly points out that we have to drive by the band on our way to school.
This particular morning was a chilly one, but we still lower the windows and listen as we drive that way.
“Are they wearing coats?” Rae asks.
“I bet some of them are,” I respond.
“Do you think T--- is wearing her coat?”
“I don’t know. But I bet she is.”
T--- is the younger sister of E---- (see previous posts). Rae adores both of them and I can’t say that I blame her because they are both good kids.
As we slowly drive by the band's practice lot, Rae listens intently. Just before we lose sight of the band Rae sticks are hand out the window and waves.
“What are you doing,” I ask.
Rae grins. “Waving and T---.”
For Whom the Megaphone Cheers
Rae and I were heading to McDonalds to pick up a Happy Meal. She has spent a few hours with me at work and we knew we were on our own for supper.
As we drove, my child, who is 5-years old, continued her cheering, “Go, Queens! Go, E----!” (see previous post)
She suddenly stopped and looked at me.
“Da-Da,” she said, because that’s what she calls me. “When I get older and when E---- is playing baksetball (that’s how she says basketball), and I’m a cheerleader, can I be a big cheerleader for E----?”
It was then that I had to explain to her that E----, who is a junior in college, only has a few years left to play basketball. Rae pondered this for a moment as a sad, thoughtful look crossed her face.
“But,” I said. “E---- might be a coach. Maybe you could be a cheerleader for the team she is coaching.”
“No,” Rae replied. “I want her to be a baksetball player and I will be her cheerleader..."
As we drove, my child, who is 5-years old, continued her cheering, “Go, Queens! Go, E----!” (see previous post)
She suddenly stopped and looked at me.
“Da-Da,” she said, because that’s what she calls me. “When I get older and when E---- is playing baksetball (that’s how she says basketball), and I’m a cheerleader, can I be a big cheerleader for E----?”
It was then that I had to explain to her that E----, who is a junior in college, only has a few years left to play basketball. Rae pondered this for a moment as a sad, thoughtful look crossed her face.
“But,” I said. “E---- might be a coach. Maybe you could be a cheerleader for the team she is coaching.”
“No,” Rae replied. “I want her to be a baksetball player and I will be her cheerleader..."
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