tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-93375152024-03-23T11:23:05.244-07:00The ObituariumPoker, Prose and Puerile PunditryJoe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.comBlogger861125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-48856204706297134532016-03-22T12:45:00.002-07:002016-03-22T12:45:20.888-07:00Make America Great Again<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I enjoy politics. I like following it. I like reading as much as I can about it. I suppose I even like the theater of it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hate politics. I hate arguing about it (with some exceptions). I hate the vitriol with which politics are wielded. I hate the way it divides people on ideological lines.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The last, of course, is the problem. Because the issues in this county are not party dependent. The problem is the system. And what too many people don't realize, or care to acknowledge, is The System is a private club. You are not in it (this assumes there are no billionaires or Senators reading this). You will never be in it. Furthermore, the primary way The System ensures you are not in it is by pushing your buttons and inducing your froth to attack "The Other Side." As long as The Other Side is the enemy, those in charge of administering the country are safe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That and the ridiculous sums of money people give them to do their bidding.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You live in an oligarchy. Not officially acknowledged, but that is the case. The side you support is propped up by billionaires, who are also propping up the other side. They, unlike you, do not discriminate. They do not want to pay taxes. There are armies of accountants gaming the (absurd) tax code to protect those billions, the savings of which they use to buy politicians and write policy. There are people charged with spending your tax money whose sole goal is to curry favor with the moneyed interests--Defense Industry, Wall St.--for the purpose of securing a high-paying gig in those private sectors. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mexican immigrants are not the problem. Married gays are not the problem. Obamacare is not the problem.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pride, greed, gluttony...now you're talking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some people don't want their tax dollars going to the poor. Others would prefer not to foot the bill for illegal wars. Most would not choose to contribute to a $2.7 billion dollar surveillance blimp program that still doesn't work. We can all pick the things that irk us. Freedom! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">More often, the candidates set the agenda, legions of campaign operatives looking for the hot button, the soft underbelly of the opposition, all in the name of winning. Americans love a winner. One must grasp the idea that none of these people are working for you. They are out for themselves. And the billionaires.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have no personal preference for any of the candidates. I find some more odious than others. Their issues are not mine. Theirs is a performance of obfuscation and false promise. Division over inclusion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's my deal: inclusion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's God's too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"The most important one," answered Jesus, "is this:'Hear O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your sould and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this" 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."</i> (Mark 12:29-31)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You want to be a Christian Nation? Then you love and take care of everybody. Mexican immigrants, Syrian refugees, poverty-stricken citizens, Obama...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You want to do God's will on Earth? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Give freely without begrudging it, and the Lord your God will bless you in everything you do.</i> Deuteronomy 10:15</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You want to live a Kingdom-driven life, be "in this world" but not "of this world?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>The the King will say to those on His right 'Come, you who are blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepare for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited Me in; naked, and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me.' Then the righteous will answer Him, 'Lord, when did we see You hungry, and feed You, or thirsty, and gave you something to drink?' And when did we see You a stranger, and invite You in, or naked, and clothe You? When did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You? "The King will answer and say to them, 'Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the lease of them, you did it to me.'</i> Matthew 25:34-40</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is such a disconnect between compassion and politics. Helping the needy (and the helpless and the humble) is not politics. It is one of the two most fundamental tenets of the Bible. America lacks a compassionate heart. America's heart is too easily turned to anger and exclusion. It's Us against Them. And Them. And Them. Anyone who doesn't look, act or think like us. Those are exactly the people you are charged to bless.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The System has hardened our hearts against those that are broken. Winner takes all. Mandates. Walls. That is what has to change. The heart and soul and spirit of America. A full transplant. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Repealing Citizens United wouldn't be bad, either.</span>Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-21743023447583089712015-05-23T14:16:00.001-07:002015-05-23T14:20:07.447-07:00AllThe tears were unexpected.<br />
<br />
We're talking about 8th
grade graduation--pardon me, "promotion"--here. A milestone, a signpost,
sure, but not exactly the greatest of all accomplishments. Even the
school sought to tamp down on the celebration, ripping through the
ceremony with minimal pomp. They advised parents to treat the ceremony
as a beginning, rather than an ending, and while seeking not to
de-emphasize its importance, to remind us parents that we should expect
our kids to be able to make it past the 8th grade.<br />
<br />
So,
at the end of a tidy 35 minutes ("thank you," say the parents trying to
keep a three-year-old from spazzing out in a large crowd), a whoop went
up and AJ came over to us. He hugged us each in turn, his step-father,
his Mom, Emet, Caleb and me. I had no inkling I was about to start
sobbing uncontrollably. But I did. That's not the unexpected part. No,
what surprised me, all of us, was when I saw the tears in AJ's eyes.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
When
my marriage broke up nine years ago, I could not have imagined this
day. I couldn't imagine anything. AJ was four and every time I looked at
him, thought of him, innocent and all-trusting, I hurt exponentially
worse for him than I did for myself. Which saved me a long, drawn-out
healing process. Because I knew I had to protect him from whatever was
happening between his mother and I. And that, more than anything else,
moved me past my own self-pity. It was necessary for him to know where
he stood in my life and I kept him front and center.<br />
<br />
Now,
all these years later, he knows this. Maybe he doesn't articulate it,
but it shows in his actions. He knows, without a doubt, I have his back.
Even when I have to discipline him, he knows it's not adversarial, that
I'm on his side.<br />
<br />
He's a very loving kid, a fact which
manifests itself in a curious physical way. He's always touching me. It
used to kind of annoy me, personal space and all that. Like, whenever we
walk from the car, through a parking lot, into the store, to the park,
he grabs on to my arm. As the years have gone by, I've not only expected
him to do that, but looked forward to it. He's growing up, moving
closer to leaving the nest, so I take comfort in him still being there,
not yet burdened by cynicism. Lately, I've taken to wrapping my arm
around him, pulling him close as we walk. <br />
<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
I
asked him later why he was crying. I wanted to make sure he wasn't sad.
He assured me he wasn't and said he didn't know why. I laughed and said
I didn't know why, either. I suppose he's like his Dad in this way,
sensitive to his surroundings, finding meaning in important events, in
touch with how he feels. He admitted he'd really enjoyed his two years
in junior high, the friends he made, and he'll no longer live inside
that school setting. Of course I understood and emphasized he'll have
the same friends next year, albeit in a much larger high school setting,
and he'll be surprised how many memories he'll make there.<br />
<br />
He's
lucky. I tell him this all the time. He's lucky he has a step-father
and a step-mother who really care about him. That's not the case
everywhere. Some of his friends are even examples of that. Divorce is a
tough, adversarial deal. Unless you choose for it not to be.<br />
<br />
To
be sure, a lot of the credit goes to him. I've asked him frequently
over the years if it bothers him that his parents are divorced. That he
has to shuttle back and forth a couple times a week to different houses.
He's never complained. We've had some bumpy times, no doubt. When he
went from the only child at two homes to having a baby at one and a
step-brother at the other. He acted out to get attention. But that was
fleeting. Because he's always had our attention. All of us.<br />
<br />
We
all went out to dinner last night. Parents, step- and otherwise, his
brother (hurling forks at the wait staff) and step-brother. We laughed
and toasted and did our best to tell embarrassing AJ stories. It was
really fun and made me just stop to remember a bunch of amazing days in
the last nine, the last 13, years.<br />
<br />
One, in particular
encapsulates AJ. When Emet and I told him we were getting married, he
told her, excitedly "You're going to be a Mom for the first time!" This
is not a child who is inflexible, who needs to cast people in defined
role. He has love for everyone.<br />
<br />
So maybe that's what the tears were after the ceremony. He hugged us all in turn. And it hit him.<br />
<br />
They all have my back. Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-62175579150356934622014-06-06T11:35:00.000-07:002014-06-06T13:32:24.040-07:00Game One<i>"I'm just happy to be in the building."</i><br />
<br />
In my four decades of rabid, obsessive sports fandom, I had never--EVER--been in the stands when one of my teams played for a championship. I've been to A's playoff games, like the 2000 ALDS, where I saw Gil Heredia--of all people--out-duel Roger Clemens at the Coliseum. I've seen the Kings during early Stanley Cup rounds and felt the intensity, the increased buzz, that one doesn't get during the regular season. But never a Final.<br />
<br />
Until last Wednesday.<br />
<br />
Thanks to the good graces of former soccer teammate and Times colleague AC Ligamente, that gaping hole in my experience was filled at Staples Center for Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Final. And oh man, it better than I could have imagined.<br />
<br />
That feeling is at least 50% results-oriented, thanks to the Kings' OT win, but even prior to that, even when they stumbled their way to an early deficit, the pure energy and depth of emotion was a new experience. We sat in the very last row, which was absolutely fine, because, for one, the 300s at Staples Center are great seats for hockey, the level is really steep so you're looking right down on the ice. Also because we paid face value (a kind season-ticket holder provided AC the tickets), which was nearly four times less what the kids sitting a row in front of us paid on Stub Hub. We joked a bit about being up against the wall (A.C. and WAG had been to one other Stanley Cup Final game, in 1993, and also sat in the last row), but as I settled into my seat, I uttered the sentence at the top of this post. "Yep," said one of the kids in front of us. "Bucket List."<br />
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*<br />
<br />
These playoffs have taken a lot out of me. That is not hyperbole. I imagine most Kings fans feel the same. Three Game 7s on the road. The 3-0 deficit against the Sharks. OT in Games 5 and 7 against the nemesis Blackhawks. All seven games against the hated Ducks (I mean, Kings fans hate other teams more than the Ducks--Vancouver and Phoenix--but the idea of LOSING to the Ducks in the playoffs was a reality none of us would ever come to grips with). Twenty-one games of madness, sprinkled with moments of sheer terror, and, at the end of it all, the most honest and reliable group of professionals I've ever had the pleasure to follow.<br />
<br />
I don't want to get all Lovey Dovey on you, but dang, there is so much to admire with this club. Hockey players always talk about "The Room" and you know the Kings are as tight-knit and focused as a team can be. Full of belief, as they say, which shows not only in their worst moments but in every moment.<br />
<br />
All the more remarkable when you consider the Kings history, littered with, well, almost nothing in the way of success. There is no way ANY Kings fan could have ever envisioned having this type of team (which makes it hilarious when I see them criticized on Twitter, etc; don't you people know how lucky you are?). <br />
<br />
Back when Salk and I used to have 10-game plans for the Kings (before he moved away and left me bereft of a hockey buddy until Emet came along), we sat in the 300s. There were some glimmers of hope back in those days (Palffy, Deadmarsh, Allison) that didn't come to full fruition (concussions), but the upper deck was populated with die-hards who mostly just sighed and criticized the players on the ice. And it was funny the way they did it. It wasn't screaming and vitriol. It was resignation. I'll never forget the guy who used to say, matter of factly, "You're terrible, Modry" five or six times a game, as if he was simply muttering to himself.<br />
<br />
I like to think those same people are as deliriously mystified by the current success as I am. That they cried like I did in 2012. That they stuck it out and have cell phone videos from Game 6 that they'll never erase. And that they don't call anyone terrible any more. Except Regehr.<br />
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*<br />
<br />
AJ was at my Mom's house during Game 1. Mom and my brother have gotten caught up in the excitement and watched some of the Kings playoff games. "I don't know how you can handle it," my Mom said after Game 7 of the Conference Final. "It's so nerve-wracking." She said AJ couldn't sit during the game. He stood in the middle of the living room with his arms crossed, dipping and weaving and jumping with the bounces of the puck. Occasionally, he'd disappear down the hallway. "I can't watch this," he'd say.<br />
<br />
"He's your son," Mom would say.<br />
<br />
Surprisingly, I found my nerves were tempered for Game 1. Plenty of butterflies and mad anticipation since I was going. But no need for breathing exercises or Xanax. I theorized that, even in the top row, being able to see the whole ice left less room for guessing during those times when the puck slides out of the frame and I scream "WHERE ARE WE?!" at the TV. That's part of it, I guess. The other part is there were 18K-plus in the room with me, a shared psychosis evenly distributed amongst all of us, one we could combat with cheering, releasing the tension in us.<br />
<br />
It was the shortest three hours of my life. All blurred. The only part I can recall with any real clarity is the winner, which happened at our end, right below us. The turnover, the pass and the entire section standing as Williams turned toward the net. When it went in, the noise was deafening. I couldn't scream any louder. I could hear myself over the goal horn. There was a roughly 25-foot ledge between me and the next section and I sprinted across it--and back--pumping my fists, shouting, smacking proffered high fives from strangers. I stopped to see the celebration on the ice. Again, I screamed. I would do so a few other times on the way out of Staples. And on the street. And on the subway platform.<br />
<br />
It was a long train ride home, but I was buzzed the whole way. I got home and watched the highlights, saw Doughty's stunner in slo-mo, Stick's celebration, happy fans screaming in the background of the NHL Network set. Too amped to sleep.<br />
<br />
I finally crawled into bed an hour later. A sleepy Emet asked, "Did you have fun?"<br />
<br />
I did. I was happy to be in the building.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-33546018504453905252014-05-19T12:04:00.003-07:002014-05-19T13:09:29.179-07:00Be Quiet<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IUwtXrDC2os/U3pWnCfGYuI/AAAAAAAAAiA/57Jcm1JRGK8/s1600/calebca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IUwtXrDC2os/U3pWnCfGYuI/AAAAAAAAAiA/57Jcm1JRGK8/s1600/calebca.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>Our Little Blessing turned two last weekend, which is like <i>WHOOOOOOOOOSH</i> where did the time go and how did he get so big and talkative and hilarious and loving and a daily joy in our lives. As people do when events such as this arise, we spent time reflecting on his life and what he means to us and just why we call him our Little Blessing. It's hard sometimes, in the day-in, day-out speed of life to pause, to be appreciative and grateful, when you're running around with myriad tasks and worries. I struggle constantly with this. I have a 100 mph brain and I get lost in it.<br />
<br />
Caleb can bring me back. Slow me down.<br />
<br />
Do you all know the origin of the name Caleb? He is a biblical figure, famous for his trust in God. When Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, he sent 12 spies into the Promised Land to scout the territory. Ten came back and said, "Yeah, it's pretty sweet over there, milk and honey and all that, but there are these big dudes--Giants, basically--and we can't take 'em, so we should probably just stay here in the desert."<br />
<br />
I paraphrased that.<br />
<br />
The other two spies, Caleb and Joshua, had faith in God's promise and, while verifying the presence of Giants, also said they would be no match for God's power.<br />
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*<br />
<br />
When we were deciding whether or not to have a child at our somewhat advanced parental age, Emet and I prayed a lot. To try to know if this was the right thing to do, for ourselves and for the child. We believe God gave us his blessing, but he also asked for a few things in return. One of those was for Emet to contribute to the children's ministry at church, a request I believed was two-fold, both to prepare her for who was to come and also so that she shared her gifts (as a person, as a teacher) to others. So, she did exactly that. And upon hearing her story, a superior at the church asked her to record a video, a recruitment pitch, if you will.<br />
<br />
You can watch it <a href="http://vimeo.com/35929510">here</a>.<br />
<br />
I mean watch it now. It's relevent to the rest. <br />
<br />
Of course, Emet is a little bit mortified by her face/voice/word choices on the video and they played it one time when we were in church, which we didn't totally expect. When it came on, she went "OHMYGOD!" but not in the reverent way you're supposed to do in church and she turned bright red, which got an even brighter shade when Pastor Dan remarked, "See ladies! If you want to get pregnant, serve in Empowered Kids!" at it's conclusion.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Our church is building a new sanctuary and ground-breaking is starting this week. Construction is taking place in what was previously the main parking lot, so, beginning this past Sunday, we had to park off-site and shuttle to campus. Caleb was very excited at the prospect of getting on a bus and was smiling ear-to-ear when we sat down in the front row, me beneath a video screen and he and Emet across the aisle. We weren't seated for more than 15 seconds when Emet's head snapped up and said, "It's me."<br />
<br />
So it was. On the video screen, talking about Empowered Kids and how she was six months pregnant. We both got emotional right quick. And when the camera panned down to her stomach, we both said (or tried to say, in choking voice), "That's you, Caleb."<br />
<br />
We kind of sat there dumbfounded, looking at each other.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
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Once we dropped Caleb off at the nursery, I said something like, "What an inspiring start to a Sunday." I was reminded (yet again, but not often enough) of our good fortune. Our happy and healthy and inquisitive boy. How God kept his promise when we came to him and asked for guidance.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We
sat in the sanctuary and I pulled out the Sermon Notes, as I often do,
to see what we were covering today. I could not hardly believe what I
saw when I looked at it.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QlnM9A0PNaU/U3pMadLYIcI/AAAAAAAAAh0/w7cO9nRorkQ/s1600/caleb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QlnM9A0PNaU/U3pMadLYIcI/AAAAAAAAAh0/w7cO9nRorkQ/s1600/caleb.jpg" height="104" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
I showed Emet. And for the second time in about 15 minutes, we just stared, robbed of anything to say. But we both knew.<br />
<br />
"Okay, God. You have our attention. What do you want to tell us."<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Forty-five years after Caleb came back from his spying mission, he was given what the Lord had promised him, land in Hebron. Forty-five years, he kept his faith, even in the midst of battle, of wandering in the desert. He always said, "God will bring us into the land and we will possess it" even when all tangible evidence appeared contrary.<br />
<br />
I know many of you reading this don't share my belief. I know many of you are also suspicious of religion, of its hypocrisy, of acts committed in God's name that are inconsistent with a Loving God. What I love about my church is that the focus is on how the Bible informs my life, my decisions, with the goal of growing into my destiny (as opposed to judging others). The Lord says he has known me since before I was born and that there is a plan for my life. To grasp that plan is frequently difficult. It is beyond my understanding and I struggle (that word again) with trying to connect with God, fostering that relationship.<br />
<br />
Here's the rub, though. Why does God want that relationship with me (with everybody, actually, but let's just keep this all about me for a moment if we could)?<br />
<br />
It's pretty simple. To help others.<br />
<br />
Because once God has your heart, he uses it for good. He uses it to change lives, to mend people who are broken. With me as his instrument.<br />
<br />
I don't know how anybody can't get behind that idea. <br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
I fell a long way away from God. That's no secret. And I suffered because of it. I did make one good decision, however. At the bottom of it all, I came back to Him. He did not berate me. He did not point his finger and say, "You got what you deserved." He opened his arms and brought me into Him. He took away my anger and my regret and my sadness.<br />
<br />
And then he sent people into my life to heal me. He gave me Emet and Caleb.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
I listened to yesterday's message after I got over the initial shock. Listened hard. Because I knew it was for me. Pastor Dan emphasized a regular theme, to Be Quiet. To take time away from life, from my 100 mph brain, and just Be Quiet so I don't miss what I need to hear, so I can believe beyond what I can see. Calmness in the struggle.<br />
<br />
Like Caleb.<br />
<br />
There was negativity and danger and unbelief all around him, but he stayed tight in his heart and "finished well." Caleb was 85 years old when he finally entered Hebron. It takes that long sometimes. God always keeps his promises, but you can't really get too impatient with him, because he does it in his own time.<br />
<br />
We promised to raise our Little Blessing to love Him. The only way to do that is to behave in a manner consistent with what He teaches us. That's what God told me yesterday.<br />
<br />
He is probably thinking that he's told me that a hundred times before and he has, but I just wasn't quiet enough to get it or feel its full impact, so he had to get all overt on me yesterday.<br />
<br />
And then he told me to tell you.<br />
<br />
So I did. Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-91479880733135895252013-05-10T12:29:00.000-07:002013-05-10T13:22:24.793-07:00OneI wasn't sure about you in the beginning, Caleb. Before you were born, I mean. Because even though your father doesn't look it, I am, in fact, 45 years old, which is pretty old to be procreating in my opinion (one not shared by Tony Randall) and I'm going to be REALLY old when you're in say, high school and Mom and Dad are counting the seconds to retirement or when you're in college and we're rolling around the country in a Winnebago and wearing bifocals on chains around our necks. So yeah, your Mom had to kinda talk me into you. Which brings me, on this, your first birthday, to a crucial lesson:<br />
<br />
Your Mom is always right.<br />
<br />
When I first saw you, the doctor had you by a single, skinny leg and was trying to yank you out of your mother. Except you wouldn't come out all the way. Your head got stuck and I was like, "Oh my god, he's going to have a giant head" and for what seemed like long minutes all I saw was your body, and you apparently weren't too jazzed about this situation either because you started peeing and pooping while suspended upside down by a single, skinny leg. The doctor finally sprung your head free and there you were, ten fingers and ten toes, screaming and red and angry and peeing and pooping and the most beautiful thing in the world.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uDpTXQNsjRo/UY0whxg8QII/AAAAAAAAAc8/HYkgeHKO-DQ/s1600/baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uDpTXQNsjRo/UY0whxg8QII/AAAAAAAAAc8/HYkgeHKO-DQ/s320/baby.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
You had a full head of awesome, dark hair (like your Dad, who, despite his age, has managed to stay follicley relevant) and you looked like a bird with your alert eyes. At only three days old, you were trying to lift your head because you wanted to know what was going on in the world, a trait you've shown this entire year, whether it's looking out the back window at the trees and flowers or chasing after other kids at the park.<br />
<br />
We didn't quite know how to react to you, awash as we were in wonder. Your Mom had spent the previous few years thinking Motherhood wasn't going to happen for her and was busy making her peace with that when I kinda jumped into her life with both feet. As I said, she had to convince me that you would be more fun than golf vacations and rock and roll shows and getting blackout drunk in San Diego boutique hotels (as a theoretical example) and if there was even a shred of skepticism left in me, it all went away on the day we brought you home from the hospital last year. It was a Sunday and I went to get the car while they wheeled your Mother and you downstairs. When I pulled up next to you guys, I saw your mother was crying. Not crying softly but full-on bawling her eyes out and I ran over in a mild panic and asked what was wrong.<br />
<br />
"Everybody keeps wishing me a Happy Mother's Day," she said (barely, I mean, there was a whole bunch of snot going on there with the tears and all, so it's a good thing we had all those baby wipes on hand).<br />
<br />
And that, son, that feeling your Mom felt right then, that is the one you give us every day. Gratitude and joy and happiness. You are our Little Blessing. The way your whole face smiles when you're happy. The way you lower your forehead to mine to give "love." The way you laugh when AJ and I chase you up the stairs. The mornings when you lay in your crib talking before we even come to get you. It's even okay that your first word was "dog" and not "Mama" or "Dada" (though thanks for getting to the latter before the former).<br />
<br />
I know this is supposed to be All About You, but you've also had this unforeseen side effect. Having a baby around the house again, made me remember a lot about your big brother when he was your age. You both have some similar behaviors, but it wasn't just that. A moment or a trait of AJ's would come to me while I rocked you and I'd get to reflect on that and appreciate it more because...well..this doesn't concern you...but so many of my memories of that time were tainted. You could even say I blacked them out or locked them away, which I'm willing to admit isn't the best response ever, but it was less painful that way and I've gotten to re-live a lot of that time thanks to you and I've enjoyed "seeing" AJ as a baby again and I wanted to thank you so much for that gift.<br />
<br />
You've got a lot of living to do yet and yes, your parents are kind of exhausted most of the time, not to mention the last six weeks where we've been trading sickness back and forth, some kind of super-resistant Death Germ which is trapped somewhere in the home, so we'll have a little shindig for you this weekend, congratulate you for making it to the one-year mark with an acceptable number of concussions and poop disasters. But after that, it's time to get back to the business of growing up. I see walking is right around the corner and within a couple months I expect some subject-verb-predicate sentences out of you. You've given us so many wonderful moments this past year and that's both good and bad. You've set the bar pretty high there, buddy, so it's not going to be easy to keep up those standards. I don't want to be writing this next year and having to tell these nice people that you've sloughed off.<br />
<br />
Like I always tell you and your brother, you two are the best things in life. Be good to your mother. Listen to her. Always tell her you love her. She's the reason you're here. And the reason you're awesome. Happy Birthday, buddy.<br />
<br />
Love, Daddy<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VG8rGWpEWpY/UY1Jc1dJNXI/AAAAAAAAAdM/cVvvOfOBYBk/s1600/caleb1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VG8rGWpEWpY/UY1Jc1dJNXI/AAAAAAAAAdM/cVvvOfOBYBk/s320/caleb1.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<br />Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-31799573051193988762013-01-24T11:53:00.000-08:002013-01-24T12:16:48.824-08:00ErrataA few spare notes about my recent posts, which didn't make it in thanks to non-relevance or forgetfulness on my part or, mostly, space. Honestly, thanks to everyone who read the running post. I know it wasn't easy. It took Emet three days to get through it and she likes me more than you guys (most days). I had another 800 or so words in there that I took out, too. So, you're welcome for that.<br />
<br />
I figured one thing out a few days later about the running and that is that I was not prepared for the mental aspect of it. The discipline, I got, but more in the manner of "doing" the run, rather than "running" the run. By that I mean I didn't have any problem doing each of my runs. I did have a problem varying them, both in the way I ran them and where I ran them. Too much of it was the same and that contributed to a less enjoying experience--as I alluded to. The experience of actually running was less enjoyable because I didn't have a plan most of the time, aside from, "Hey! I have to run 2.5 miles tomorrow."<br />
<br />
What illuminated this was the way I attacked the actual race. I had a plan. And I ended up way better than that plan. Because I kept my brain focused on what I was doing--pace, form, positive thinking. Beyond that, there's the mental strength to overcome the pain, which I also talked about. So yeah, I think that will help going forward.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
I had mentioned on Twitter (and shown a pic on Facebook) that the results showed I finished in 3rd place in my age group and 38th overall. I found both of those statistics to be shocking and somewhat ridiculous and it turns out I was right. They had some issues with the timing and when the official results were posted a few days later, I was listed <a href="http://results.active.com/events/ontario-mills-5k-and-10k/5k-age-group" target="_blank">8th amongst the 40-49 males of the Inland Empire</a> (and 62nd overall), which is fine and appropriate and doesn't bother me at all. Except for missing 7th by eight-tenths of a second. I could have totally caught that guy.<br />
<br />
* <br />
<br />
The <a href="http://www.ocelotsports.com/2013/01/for-his-next-trick.html" target="_blank">Magic Baby</a> post over at <a href="http://www.ocelotsports.com/" target="_blank">Ocelot Sports</a> is probably my favorite thing I've written in I don't know how long. It just ran out of me and was mostly done in 15 minutes and ready to post with a couple tweaks here and there which is really fun when it happens to a writer but also terrible if one forgets to even think of including a couple salient facts, which is what I did by not mentioning that the very idea of a Magic Baby was first given voice by <a href="http://www.clareified.com/" target="_blank">Dawn</a>, who asked to rent him out for a Yale/Harvard game and then became an Early Adopter of his Gospel and I should have noted that, since she is the sole reason he's become a worldwide phenomenon and also so she wouldn't have sub-tweeted the ever-loving shit out of me.<br />
<br />
Having said that, I don't think she became a True Believer until the Magic Baby whooped up on Tawmmy and Giselle's ugly ass kid.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
The Rooster was trolling me the other day, because he likes to do that (randomly, inexplicably). Here's what he said:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Light the candles...pull out the old pen and paper...and write </i></div>
<div class="_38 direction_ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<i>bleed on the paper again, Speaker.</i></div>
<div class="_1yr" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span class="_2oy"></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>go to that dark place</i></div>
<br />
I can dig that. I know everybody liked my train wreck of a life and I did too, in a way. If I wasn't able to throw all of that shit out there, get it into the light of day, so I could a) deal with it and b) figure out a bunch of it didn't matter so I wouldn't have to deal with it, I would not have been able to get to where I am now which is such a gift (just like life! So wrap yourself carefully!). But nobody wants to hear that happy crappy shit. And I certainly don't want to write it. Partly because I'm not a big fan of bringing the sappy, but also because I like having it for me and those close to me. So, you know, The Rooster can go fuck himself.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Me: (Screaming at the TV with the sports people running fast)<br />
Emet: Are you calling him 'La-Mike?'"<br />
Me: Yeah. His name is LaMichael James.<br />
Emet: (Pause...beleaguered look) You're an idiot.<br />
<br />
<br />Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-62565511873776113922013-01-21T12:16:00.003-08:002013-01-21T12:16:44.394-08:00Five Thousand Words on Five Thousand Meters<div class="MsoNormal">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was 14, I ran a 10k race with my friend John. It was
the Devil Mountain Run circa 1982, a very popular race up in the Bay Area, lotta people--aging hippies mostly--dressed in short shorts and headbands and Sauconys. As John and I waded through
the mass of humanity prior to the start, I grabbed at his shirt. “Why we behind
all these people?” I asked. “Why don’t we start up front?” He waited a beat
before asking, “Why? Do you think you’re going to win?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His question seemed ludicrous to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose I didn’t think I was going to win,
but I certainly never thought about anything other than wanting to win, TRYING
to win. Why else was I out there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
fun? Don’t make me laugh. It’s a race. It’s not…bleh…exercise. Is it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyways…all I have to say is….</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://pokingandpeaking.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Jerks</a>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We used to just get drunk and gamble
together and then you all had to go get all "fit" and "healthy"
and start talking about PRs instead of Pai Gows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Fine. I ran a 5k this weekend. <a href="http://badbloodonpoker.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">I</a> <a href="http://www.rapideyereality.com/" target="_blank">hate</a> <a href="http://pokerdoctor.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">you</a> <a href="http://nickleanddimes.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">all</a>.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->Now, I am not a complete newbie when it comes to running, racing
being one of the many indulgences I entertained in the brief windows between
soccer seasons. The first, when I was 10 years old, was an AAU cross-country
competition. I saw a newspaper ad, pestered my Mom into taking me. The race was two days away. Not a problem. I was plenty fit from soccer. So
we went. I finished 10<sup>th</sup>, posting a mile-and-a-half time of 8:51.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pretty quick, right? I was a full minute behind the winner,
but left another 30 or so kids weeping in their tube socks. The upshot of
finishing 10<sup>th </sup>was that I advanced to the next round. It turns out
the AAU meet I attended was a sectional qualifier for the National Junior
Olympics. I was on to the regionals.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finished 13<sup>th</sup> there, despite the fact that I
fell down. My time was slower, though I do not remember exactly what it was. Falling
down certainly didn’t help my cause and the course was much tougher, multiple changes-of-elevation,
part of it on a hillside trail, a hillside made muddy by frequent rains where I
took a mis-step and slid 15-feet down, before scrambling up and back into the
race. Regardless, 13<sup>th</sup> qualified me for the National Seminfinals. In
Vegas!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is where my racing career ended for a time. We did not
go to Vegas. My parents, who already spent money they did not always have to
send me to socccer tournaments all over the continent (including Vegas) put
down their collective feet, while also trying to assuage my competitive fire
(inferno?) by correctly stating that 13<sup>th</sup> at the regionals didn’t
exactly make me a favorite going forward.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Emet went back to work right after Thanksgiving. A difficult time for her, but also for me, because I had been skating since May 10th. I no longer had to get up at an ungodly hour to walk the dog every morning. Since Emet was home, she took both baby and dog on long sojourns and also to the dog park, where she joined something of a daily coffee klatch with other perople without jobs.<br />
<br />
With her return to the classroom, the task—care of Reggie, The Dog Who Must Be Walked—returned to me. At
5:30 a.m. Every day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided to compound my new misery by doing some running in
the morning, ostensibly to get Reggie his required exercise, but also because…well…I
didn’t really artuclate it at the time, but walking him bored me. I needed some
motivation to get out of bed. In the dead of winter. And all that rabble about
running must have permeated my brain. “Hey! I have an idea!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fuckers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ran track in junior high, both for my school and for the club
sponsored by the local Catholic Church. I ran the mile, though I filled in in
the 880 (screw you, metric system!) on occasion. The entire distance running
contingent at junior high was made up of guys on my soccer team. Five of us
(although only four got to race in meets), all of whom could go under six
minutes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before that first season began, our coach showed us all the
“school records” and the one for the mile seemed well within reach. I took that
opportunity to mention, perhaps a little brashly and loudly, that I was going
to break that record. Which I did. In the first race. Except I finished second
behind one of my teammates, Steve, who now held the new record. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t feel particularly bad about that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hahahahahaha. Totally lying. I was furious. And then I went
to school the next day and saw "Way to break the record, fag" written on my
locker.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently someone didn’t like my braggadocio. I know who that
person was (not Steve), but hey, technically I did break the record I said I
was gonna break. Just that it wasn’t the record any more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nor was it the record after the next race, which I won,
out-sprinting Steve in the last 220 (yards, bitches!) and beating him by a
couple feet. 5:29.4. Will never forget that number or the race. When we came
around the last bend, we were flying, as fast as we could possibly go at that
point, and we were stride for stride and the effort, the sheer will, pushed our
inertia wide and down there at the finish line, 80 or so yards away, they had
to stretch the tape out. And Steve and I watched them do it, pull the string
from the first couple lanes all the way to the outside lane and that was the
goal, that was where we were headed and I can’t even say when I edged ahead,
because all I was looking at was the tape.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the defining moments of my youth. I am not joking
when I tell you that race repaired at least two fractured relationships, which
is a long story(ies) best reserved for never. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyways, when I was 12, I could run a mile in 5:29.4. Which became something of a frustration for me as I started this particular journey.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked over the Couch to 5k schedule and scoffed. Heh. I’m
an athlete. Sure, I’m out of shape, but this heart and these lungs have been
built up over a lifetime. They are not the vital body organs of a sloth. So, naturally, I started off at Week 3. And cut the
walking time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reggie didn’t quite know what to make of this strange new
ritual. No more stopping at every smell and tree? Thankfully, he caught on quickly, after a few days of jumping at me and playing tug o' war with the leash. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jxR2uVZW6Oo/UP2fulCTreI/AAAAAAAAAYE/Llu0ahwuc9I/s1600/race.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jxR2uVZW6Oo/UP2fulCTreI/AAAAAAAAAYE/Llu0ahwuc9I/s320/race.jpg" width="233" /></a></div>
I found I no longer dreaded 5:30 a.m. I hopped out of bed and got to it.
I also did this on the non-running days, when we "briskly" walked for 30 minutes, while, at the same time, thinking “I
could probably run today and feel fine,” but I resisted, owing to my last two
attempts at Operation Return to Fitness, when I’d over-extended myself in the
first weeks and then couldn’t continue due to soreness, strains, defeatism and
humiliation.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was going well for a couple of weeks. Legs felt heavy but
not sore, wind was solid most days. I felt refreshed and energetic and
remembered to stretch after the workout. It was going so well I bought a
long-sleeve shirt to run in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s when you know I’m getting serious, when I start with
the wardrobe.</div>
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*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was the summer before my freshman year when I asked my
parents if I could run a 10k. My mom was a little concerned, what with soccer
season coming up and the fact that I’d never run that far. “You have to prove
to me you can make it, first,” she said. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Fine, let’s go."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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We mapped a 6.2 mile trek in the car, using the back roads
near our house and off I went. I finished the trail twice, running it in
consecutive weeks (this is probably not how one trains for a 10k, I’m guessing)
and then signed up for the race.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went out too fast, adrenaline pumping, blood on fire
(inferno?), nearly died during the fourth mile, shuffled for a while, but
finished strong. I do not remember enjoying it. Of course, I didn’t win. In
fact, an older guy (I was 14, so when I say “older” that means he was anywhere
from 25 to 50, but I’m guessing mid-30s) jumped in front of me, nearly
toppling us both, right at the finish line chute, I assume because he didn’t
want to lose to a 10-year-old (I was still very small for my age, so he
probably thought I was 10) and it PISSED ME OFF. If I’d known he was gaining,
I’d have put a hip in his way.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thing about it is, I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>did not have a good time. I didn’t like running. To my mind, running was punishment.
At the start of the soccer season, we had “Hell Week.” All
conditioning—running—all the time. When we screwed around at practice, we had
to run "Grand Tours," which were full laps up and down hills around huge Kellman Fields. Punishment. Bad connotations. And so that 10k was the point where running
and I parted ways as a source of fun or pride or anything. Like Jerry Seinfeld,
“I choose not to run!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a few days before Christmas where I felt I was going
to face the first real test of the program: doing two miles without walking.
Well, let me take that somewhat back. I knew I could run two miles. I just
wasn’t entirely sure I could run it quickly. I was pushing myself at a pretty
good pace previously, but that was always knowing that I had a 3-to-5 minute
walk coming to me. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not this day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was 32 degrees when Reggie and I stepped out of the house
that day. It was the first time in his entire dog-life he hesitated prior to a "walk." He sniffed the air, raised his eyebrows at me and looked up, "You sure
about this, man?" </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heck yeah. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t overly enthusiastic about my time, but I did take
solace in the fact I ran the second mile as fast as I ran the first. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t cold once I got going, except for my hands, so I
made a mental note to get some running gloves (a mental note I passed on to AJ
just in time for Christmas).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously, you shoulda seen me. My family fed my new
obsession at Christmas. Black racing tights. Bright red Nike half-zip Dri-Fit
running jacket. Gloves! No more walking. We dress like a runner now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was a little more than three weeks out from the race
and…well…I had to admit a couple things to myself.<br />
<br />
1. I look pretty awesome in racing tights<br />
2. I was going to hate my race time </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t going to be over 10 minutes per mile (roughly
the pace the Couch to 5K plan advocates). Or at least I hadn’t been at any
point during training. But there was no real time to work on speed. Maybe if
I’d started a month earlier. No time for <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>intervals (training term!) or the like. I was
just going to be able to get my lungs, heart and legs ready to carry me over
3.1.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose that was the idea, but I guess I didn’t feel like
I was “accomplishing” anything. I felt like I was training for something, which
is different, and it held all manner of positive factors, discipline being
Number One, but did I feel pride? I don’t think so. It’s something else and
darned if I can put my finger on it right now.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was cold and dark outside when Reggie and I hit the trail
a couple days before the New Year. My suburban hamlet is lousy with
running/walking/biking/horse trails and the one a block up from my house is
popular. My neighborhood is hilly, but the trail is more flat, so I go back and
forth. It’s not the most exciting scenery in the world, though as dawn creeps
during Mile Two, I notice the leaves have changed color to golden red. It’s
like fall, deep in the recesses of winter. They won’t last long that color, not
when the rain starts after the turn of the year. That’s when the San Bernardino
mountain range, hard to the north of where I’m running, will get dusted with
snow and the wind that careens down their slopes will pick up the chill and
give Reggie and I more incentive to get back into the warmth of the house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On this particular day, I scared the crap out of three ladies
speed-walking on the trail. It’s still dark and they’re talking loudly to each
other and don’t hear us approach from behind, try as I might to make myself
known with thunderous man-strides. They recover from their fright and let us
by, cooing when they notice Reggie, whom I have to drag behind me me for 100
yards or so as he looks back at them flirting and wondering if he’d have gotten
a scruff scratch had I let him stop to say "hello."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even though he knows we don’t stop any more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We hit the main street running perpendicular to the trail
and turn around, moving across the street to keep Reg from gawking at the loud
ladies who I now see are running and…hey…we are the same, we are legion, we are "Runners." I thrust a fist of solidarity at them as we pass.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trail going east has a slight, if steady incline and I
drop my pace. I no longer feel the cold; my hands are warmed by my fresh new
gloves and Reggie is keeping good time, has yet to dart in front of me because
of some far off rabbit sniffing at scrub on the hillside or a daring coyote
slipping into the open field between tracts hoping to find a field mouse or an
outdoor cat. I’m not listening to music. I decided not to when I started. Not
sure why, but I prefer it this way. Something about trying to be one with my
breath, void of distractions, concentrating on stride, letting peaceful thoughts into my quiet head, centering my motherfucking <i>chi</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I run across the second main street, which is much quieter,
and I think about what it all means and it’s strange because I’m not yet sure
if I’m enjoying this. I’m feeling challenged and fight to keep my form, but
it’s not actually fun. Perhaps when I reach a certain level when the run is longer--more
of a journey, not just back and forth on the same trail--it will make more
sense in that aspect. Yet, I look forward to doing it. I much prefer the
mornings when we run to the ones when we recover and walk. I’m perusing running
websites for clothes and gear. And, afterward, when Reggie and I are back in
the house and it’s too too warm because the heat is on and I stretch and groan
and peel off the layers and get into the shower, I can’t help but enjoy it
then, because I’ve done it. I’ve finished the day’s task, the one I may or may
not have had anxiety dreams about at 2 a.m. I’m gassed, but also cleansed, and
it feels like I’ve taken the lead on the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, the physical act of running, the pleasure I would
like to find in the endeavor itself, remains lacking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time I woke up not wanting to run was New Year’s
Day. I ascribed this to the previous night’s activities. Only AJ and I made it
to midnight and of the two of us, I was the only one drinking Templeton Rye
when the ball dropped, so raising my head from the pillow was a difficult
chore. At the same time, there was never a question in my mind that I would get
up (eventually…c’mon….just give me a few more minutes) and tackle that day’s
miles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is a victory in and of itself. And when I decided on a
new route just to change things up and sweated out a few ounces of small batch
whiskey, I decided to get cute and tackle a hill at about the two-mile mark and
dadgum it if I didn’t surmount that hill and—after a brief period of slowed
pace on flat ground—finished strong with Reggie behind me having to be hustled
along (it can skew your time when you are dragging 40 lbs. of mutt behind you).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That run felt like a victory for discipline and only added
to my buzz for the Rose Bowl, which was won by my beloved Stanford Cardinal in
a flurry of defense (them) and bloody marys (me). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That New Year’s week, I decided to further tweak the program
upon which I’d embarked. As I’ve said, I felt a little silly doing the program, just
because I don't live an idle life. I'm active and though I wouldn’t have said I was "in shape," when I began this, I could’ve pulled useful shifts in a soccer match if called upon and
not done great disservice to my body or to the beautiful game. What I wanted was to feel more challenged, so I went ahead and sped up my "sensible" pace and that was fine, but what I really wanted to do was get the
distance under my belt earlier, a couple weeks before the gun goes off. So I passed
over the week of 2.75-mile runs and went <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>straight from 2.5 miles to 3 miles. So I can
maybe go to 3.5 or 4 miles before the race. Maybe not. We race in 16 days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, did I mentioned I signed up to race?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I will be tackling the Ontario
Mills 5k/10k,<b> </b>sponsored by The Christian Okoye Foundation. That’s right,
baby. The Nigerian Nightmare! Proceeds go to children’s sports programs in the
area, which is really the only thing to recommend this particular race (that
and it was scheduled on the weekend after I finished the program and it’s five
miles from my house) because the course is flat and boring, as in, it’s two
laps around the parking lot of the outlet mall. Not any nature or sights to
see. “Hey cool! There’s the Bed, Bath and Beyond!”</div>
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Still, The Nigerian Nightmare!</div>
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*</div>
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As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve been writing this as it
happened, journaling, if you will, with the grand idea that the final
paragraphs will include the race and my feeling of triumph and accomplishment
and the awed hugs of my wife and kids, but most importantly—I thought—my time,
which would be impressive despite it all, or a mild disappointment (likely
scenario) or neither one of those things. And what I’ve come to realize is that
the race doesn’t matter in the larger implications of the undertaking. </div>
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Nope, not about the race at all (even though I am looking
forward to it and my family is excited to go and support me). We are, after
all, talking about a mere 3.1 miles. This is not Hannibal giddyuping a bunch of
elephants over the Alps. If hard-pressed before doing the training, say for
$100, I could have probably jogged my way for 3.1 miles without stopping as
long as time wasn’t a factor. No, it’s no great accomplishment. It is, however,
a sign-post. It’s the thing that got me to the starting line. And it is most
definitely not the finish.</div>
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I got into pretty good shape a few years ago, right before
the time I met Emet (who was undoubtedly impressed by my slender, yet powerful,
physique). But I didn’t make those workouts a lifestyle choice. It was a finite
program that I finished and just sort of stopped doing (because it was boring
and because I then pulled a quad playing soccer). It ended and so did I and it
did not leave the lasting import of a change, a change in attitude and
lifestyle. </div>
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I’m kind of hoping that’s what this is. I have an
eight-month-old son, you know, and at 45, one begins to question mortality on a
larger scale. I’d like to have another 40 years to hang out with my wife and
boys and not just as a presence but a participant. And that’s what has be amped
and excited. Not the race.</div>
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*</div>
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I’ve said countless times, even to a few of you
cultists/runners, that you’d never ensnare me. That I love competition above
all. That I’ll happily and readily enter into a contest of will or strength or
skill for the opportunity to compete and win. But exercise? Not my bag, baby.</div>
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And even now, as mentioned earlier, I don’t know what it is
that has me inspired to get out of bed on those running days. I like the fact
that I have more energy (never a bad thing with an 8-month-old in the house). I
like sweating when it’s cold outside. I like the way I look in this gray Nike
shirt (I didn’t tell you I bought a gray Nike half-zip Dri-Fit racing jacket? I
did). I like saying "Good morning" to others I see on the trail. I like bonding with my dog. Let me extrapolate on that a little. Is this
silly or common thing? I love having Reggie with me. He was feeling a little
under the weather last week (eating raw bratwurst off the kitchen counter will
do that to you) and when I went to bed, I had him listed as doubtful. But the
alarm went off and there he was, paws on the bed, tongue in my face, tail
slapping the air. And I was happy! Happy he was good to go. But back to the
point, what is the thing? I don’t know. And if you think I’m building up to
some big reveal, where I have my Road to Damascus moment, I’m not. I’m truly
bewildered.</div>
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I have begun to train like a race horse. The race is eight
days away. I have the distance under my belt. More, even. I’ve taken a couple
long (four mile) leisurely jogs. I’ve run the 5k distance at a targeted pace
for each mile, trying to go progressively faster. I’m obsessed with my
statistics--no surprise to anyone who knows me--at the end, animatedly relaying them to Emet.</div>
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Oddly, I don’t care what my race time is going to be. I’d
like it to be under 26 minutes. That doesn’t seem unreasonable. </div>
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But I don’t really give that much of a shit.</div>
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Not like I will next time.</div>
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I think I’m getting the competition part of this now.</div>
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*</div>
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Have I ever shown you my pinkie? The one on my right hand?
It’s deformed ("like an injured bird," I once wrote, hackily), thick to the
first knuckle, skinny and slightly bent from there. I broke it playing
basketball in college. To be precise, I broke it in warmups for a fraternity
intramural game reaching up for a rebound and it went wrong and snapped.</div>
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I taped it to my ring finger and played the game. </div>
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This is not an isolated incident. I walked around for three
months with a broken bone in my wrist because I didn’t want to get it casted
until after soccer season was over. About a year ago, I injured my right elbow
(probably repetitive stress syndrome from hitting 400 balls a week at the
range). I just put a brace on it and take some Advil before I play golf.</div>
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I have zero issues with pain. I think this may be the thing.
Because when I get that stitch in my side, or my legs start to get a little
heavy or I’m heaving a bit while trying to snag a full breath, I get mad. I
fight it. I push through. I finish the run with as much speed as I can muster.</div>
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And that is what fires me up. That’s what makes me throw in
a Darryl Sutter Fist Pump at the end of the run. That’s "the thing." Or one of the the things.</div>
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I like that it hurts. I finished my third-to-last run before
the race today. I “sprinted” the last quarter-mile, by which I mean I ran as
fast as I could. My stomach muscles were barking. It was awesome.</div>
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In retrospect, it probably wasn't the greatest idea I've ever had to play 32 holes of golf three days before the race, especially after I ran that very same morning. My right hammy is barking (the one I use to drive my hips forward on downswing) and my right achilles has seen better moments. Damn it.</div>
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I was feeling pretty good after the morning run, too. I took a page from the horseman's notebook and decided to run a "tightener" for my last training before the race, somewhat akin to a horse going a quick four furlongs the week before taking to the track and going six.</div>
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You know, when I write that down, it makes much less sense than it did in my head.</div>
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Regardless, I wanted to do two miles, relatively quickly, at a faster pace than I'd be able to do 3.1 anyway. I managed it, coming home in 15:33, which was quicker than I'd intended. but also would have made me puff out my chest if wasn't bend over at the waist gasping and trying to get enough saliva in my mouth to spit.</div>
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Now it's a day later and I'm hoping the tweaks I've done to my body will ease in the next 48 hours. I don't want any excuses. I'm starting to fire myself up and, though the time really doesn't matter. Crap, I say that, and, let's be honest, it's a defense mechanism for the feeling that I'm so.....so......so.......slow, like an-elderly-man-driving-a-car-in-the-rain-slow, like a hobbled-snail slow, like a homeless-person-at-an-ATM slow. Of course the time matters, but it matters in a way where I want to finish just a little bit faster than my estimate/plan. I'm trying not to let it matter in the grand scheme of things (SO SLOW) and remember that it's only been a couple months.</div>
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When I crossed the finish line, I didn't really feel it. When I saw Emet and AJ and Caleb, I didn't really feel it. After I stretched and cooled down a little, I felt it.<br />
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Pride.<br />
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Race day was a beautiful one, sunny and blue and clear and quiet and I hardly needed the cap or race shirt, but I wore them anyway because, in my mind's eye, that is what I saw when I raced. Two laps around the mall.<br />
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I had a plan, of course. First two miles at and 8:20 pace and the rest at 8:00 or faster, if I could manage it. I knew the biggest issue would be reining in the adrenaline at the start, not chasing after the hotshots or being embarrassed by the 12-year-olds leaving me in the dust. Just sticking with the pace. It worked, sort of. Based on my app, I did run the first mile in a reasonable 8:14, but the chart also shows that I was up and down like an EKG around that median number. Not exactly smooth and simple.<br />
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But I was enjoying it. I really was. Again, I wasn't listening to music. It was just me and the rhythm of my breath and strides and as folks pulled away in front of me and fell behind me, it was almost like I was alone and I thought about all those mornings and my dog and it brought a smile to my face. In truth, I felt like I was hardly running at all. I was simply enjoying the moment.<br />
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I was much more consistent during the second mile, which I ran in 8:31. I passed Emet and the boys during that one and was so happy to see them there, cheering for me, even if AJ did scream out, "You're losing to Colby!"<br />
<br />
I had no idea who the hell Colby was (AJ's soccer teammate, who beat me by about 45 seconds) and I didn't care. I had my pace going and I had another quarter-mile to go before I had to pick it up for the last 1.1 (actually, the course was officially marked at 3.13 miles). I felt I had plenty of energy, but that I still had to restrain myself, lest I come limping home. I wanted to be going my quickest at the end, at the finish line.<br />
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I quickly started picking up runners in the third mile. One woman didn't like it, at least that was my assumption, since she grunted and tried to stay with me when I hit her hip. Even faced with direct competition, I stuck with my gait, trying to be as smooth as possible. I wove my way through a throng of walkers. I dusted a couple high schoolers. And then I could see the finish line and I knew I was going to make it and I strode out a little further and checked my pace and time and yes, I was going to make it.<br />
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*<br />
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I broke my goal by more than 21 seconds, coming in at 25:38.7. It's the fastest I've run at any point during the program and whether that has to do with adrenaline or running at 8 a.m. as opposed to 5:30 a.m. or not having to sometimes keep a four-legged running companion on pace, I didn't care. The pride came to me and it came in a rush and it was two-fold. One, I made it. Two, I don't always get to win. Sometimes I plan for things and they don't come together or I fall short of a task. Not this time. The race was a tangible success. Eight weeks of work and a single goal, which I didn't just achieve, but achieved beyond what I'd hoped.<br />
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Which is the way I felt, too. I felt so much better about it than I imagined I would, a feeling which came upon me surprisingly. And I just.....<br />
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I was so grateful that I got to experience it. <br />
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*</div>
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So, Running Boy, what now? Well, I don’t think I’ll be joining any of you in your marathons.
I salute you all for having that as a goal, but I can't see myself being intrigued enough to do that much running. Halfs? I would guess no, but I won't rule it out entirely.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xK1jQbwDdis/UP2f4PGzJBI/AAAAAAAAAYM/rbgwsuUWg4E/s1600/race2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xK1jQbwDdis/UP2f4PGzJBI/AAAAAAAAAYM/rbgwsuUWg4E/s320/race2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
What I want to do in the immediate aftermath is to get some other type of fitness work into the routine, add a couple days a week of strength training, a session of flexibility training/yoga and two or three days of running. I'll have to mix and match and figure it out and see how my body responds, which is the biggest part of it. I've put this body through a lot of things over the last 45 years, both good and bad, and I need it to be functional for 40 more so I can grow old with the people I love.<br />
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One last anecdote from the journey (wrap it up already, will ya?). On that day I played 32 holes of golf, I took a break after the first 18 and had a couple wonderful IPAs and a burger in the clubhouse and when I finished them, I had an overwhelming urge to smoke a cigarette. Now, I've been quit long enough to be over the physical cravings, but I swear this was a physical craving and I sat there shaking and trying to fight it off with my brain, when I thought, "Wait, there's no way I can smoke, not with the race coming up."<br />
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And it went away. Like poof.<br />
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*<br />
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So, the journey continues and we'll see what's in store. I am still kind of figuring when we're going to race again. Am I hooked? We'll see. I did do an easy 3.5 miles this morning with Reggie, and when I say "easy," I mean "hungover," thanks to the 49ers and the 38--approximately--Racer 5 IPAs I had yesterday. That's a good sign, right? Yes, it is, so....</div>
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On your marks.</div>
Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-56603429588894931832012-12-17T11:49:00.000-08:002012-12-17T11:49:28.955-08:00NamesMy primary role at work in the aftermath of 9/11 was to compile the names of the victims. List after growing list, which we published every Friday for months. It got so I could recite a whole block of names from memory, having ran my eyes over them repeatedly, and I kept reminding myself that this was not just a running tally; the list was fathers and sons and mothers and daughters and people who were loved and needed.<br />
<br />
A newsroom is a tough place to be on days like 9/11, like Friday. On both of those days, the only thing I wanted to do was go home and be with my babies. But you put your head down, try to do the job well, and block out the implications. On those days, it's nigh impossible.<br />
<br />
As impossible as it is to imagine yourself caught in the middle of these tragedies. I had a split-second on Friday. My boss came to me and said there was a shooting at a school. And he immediately said, "In Connecticut." But there was a beat. So brief as to not even be measurable, but in that moment, every slow-motion fear came rushing at me. Every synapse seized. Emet is at school. AJ is at school. The baby.<br />
<br />
I e-mailed Emet. I pulled up the website of the newspaper near our home. Just to reach out. Flailing. Tears and aching in my heart. A hundred times on Friday and then a hundred more on Saturday.<br />
<br />
I was back in the newsroom early on Saturday, unscheduled but necessary. More names. This time, I had to find them. We need quotes, insight. Who, what, when where, why, how? Constant. And the list of the victims, the children, and I wanted to stop and pause and pray on them and hold those names, not let them just go on a list.<br />
<br />
At the end of the shift, I met Emet and the baby at a sushi bar. When he hears my voice, my youngest son, Caleb is his name, he snaps his head around, smiles, and holds his arms out. I pull him into me.<br />
<br />
AJ was at his Mom's this weekend, but I called him Friday night. "Did your Mom talk to you about what happened?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
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"Are you scared?"<br />
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"No."<br />
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And I told him that was good, he should rightfully feel safe at school and we were both sad and I missed him. <span class="SS_L3"><span class="verdana">When he asks me why, I'll tell
him I don't know. I'll also tell him that there's more of us than there
are of them, more good than bad, and that's how we can make it
better, by being better. To ourselves, to others, to everyone. </span></span><br />
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*<br />
<br />
<span class="SS_L3"><span class="verdana">Charlotte. Daniel. Olivia.
Josephine. Ana. Dylan. Madeleine. Catherine. Chase. Jesse. James. Grace.
Emilie. Jack. Noah. Caroline. Jessica. Benjamin. Avielle. Allison.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="SS_L3"><span class="verdana">Dawn. Victoria. Mary. Rachel. Anne Marie. Nancy. Lauren.</span></span><br />
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<span class="SS_L3"><span class="verdana">*</span></span><br />
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<span class="SS_L3"><span class="verdana">Another list. Another day where we shake our heads and wonder how this has happened again, rage and helplessness in equal parts and there's no easing of either. So you just put your head down, plow through it and honor them with works. Honor them by remembering. Honor them with extra moments in the arms of your loved ones and laughter and compassion and generosity for all people. </span></span>Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-3255987810419499472012-12-02T15:52:00.002-08:002012-12-02T15:52:16.710-08:00WantedOur pastor told a story during this morning's service that just wrecked me. He said a girl walked up to the alter a few weeks ago and handed him a letter. Then she simply walked off. He read it and immediately set about trying to find her, without luck.<br />
<br />
He read us the letter today. The girl is 13 and has lived in foster homes for much of her life. She's been separated from her sisters, her mother is in jail, her oldest sister is in juve. It was a litany of places, this letter. A list of cities where she'd been shuttled, residences she'd hoped would provide solace, peace, only to be moved elsewhere, five times in five years, sometimes with her little sister, sometimes not. And she wondered, at the end of the letter, if our pastor would pray for her, if he would help her find a place where she was wanted.<br />
<br />
Because, how can you have any hope when there's nobody around who wants you?<br />
<br />
The story itself was bad enough. The sadness of it came right into me. And I thought of AJ, how I never wanted him to feel that way when X split. How I never wanted him to feel unwanted, how I feared the fallout of our divorce would visit him.<br />
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*<br />
<br />
I ran into Tony after the service. He's a friend, a sometime golf partner. He fawned over the baby and ruffled AJ's hair. In the midst of the conversation I tried to say something that I feel, something I am so blessed to have, and that's a new chance. I get to experience that love and joy and purpose all over with Caleb and I can appreciate and embrace it like I didn't get to with AJ. But I couldn't tell Tony that, because of the tears in my throat and that 13-year-old girl. I got out a bit of it, and he put his arm around me and we smiled at the baby and ruffled AJ's hair.<br />
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Walking out to the car AJ said, "Daddy, did you start to cry?" And I told him yes, and about the girl and that I was sad, but also thankful--so very thankful--for him and Emet and Caleb and that I'm blessed to always feel loved and--way more than that--that he has never felt the pain of what that girl wrote.<br />
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*<br />
<br />
The pastor said the girl showed up again last night. Her situation isn't any better. But she has hope. And now she has an entire church to try to lift her up. I hope for my boys, but I can't guarantee happiness for them. Life is tribulation. There will be pain. But they will always have us, a place to feel wanted.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-8289952097937487512012-10-12T11:50:00.001-07:002012-10-12T11:50:21.668-07:00The Twenty-FiveI had a paper route for much of my childhood. Five days a week, I delivered the Valley Times, a free newspaper, to 70-odd families in my neighborhood. At the end of each month, I'd go door-to-door and ask if families wanted to "subscribe" to this free paper. It was $2.50. I'd usually get about 10, at least half of them from people I knew pretty well who I assume took pity on the kid asking them to pay for something they didn't have to pay for.<br />
<br />
It was an annoying piece of business for me. I've never been much of a salesman. But there were incentives, monthly prizes offered by the newspaper to carriers who exceeded the prior month's subscriptions. The more you got, the bigger the prize. Sometimes, the prize was a ticket to an Oakland A's game.<br />
<br />
Thanks to the Valley Times, and some particularly industrious collection work by yours truly, I ended up at the Coliseum one June night in 1982 watching my new favorite team.<br />
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*<br />
<br />
I grew up in a house full of Giants fans and all my earliest baseball memories are of black and orange and freezing my butt off at Candlestick. But Oakland was closer to where we lived, so I got to see the A's more as I got older, as I cottoned to baseball. The old stone bowl off Hegenberger was where we went for Little League Day. I badgered my Dad into taking me when the Red Sox were in town so I could see Yastzremski play. I was simply a baseball fan and not one of a particular team.<br />
<br />
That changed when Billy Martin was hired to manage the A's. In 1980, they surprised everyone by finishing over .500 a year after losing 108 games(!). By the time Opening Day 1981 rolled around, I was impossibly giddy. When they ran off 11 straight wins to begin the year, I was handed a lifetime sentence. I was an A's fan. They made the cover of Sports Illustrated, rare validation in those days. There was the A's starting rotation--Norris, Langford, Keough, McCatty and Kingman--under the header, "The Amazing A's and Their Five Aces."<br />
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*<br />
<br />
The Amazing-ness didn't last too long. There was a strike that year and oh how cruel that was. Nearly a third of the season lost while the A's were in first place. I was having enough problems with puberty and preparing to enter high school, it's not like I needed my primary fixation taken away from me that summer. Looking back, it's pretty much a microcosm of what it means to be an A's fan. No matter how good things get, there's always something.<br />
<br />
Yes, they won the "first half" AL West title and beat the Royals in the post-season before succumbing to the Yankees, predictably, in three straight. No matter. I was giddy for Opening Day 1982.<br />
<br />
The pattern was set.<br />
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*<br />
<br />
It's a strange thing to be at a ballgame by yourself. For me anyway. I have a comment for everything, which is as true now, at 45, as it was then, at 14. On the buss headed to that 1982 game, I tried to engage others in A's conversation. "Can we turn this losing streak around?" "What do you think of the Dan Meyer trade?" I got no takers. So I watched my heroes take on the Royals in silent agony.<br />
<br />
I had a sense of entitlement. This was my team. I am at the game. They can't possibly let me down.<br />
<br />
Trailing 2-1 in the 9th, with the great Quisenberry on the mound to save it for KC, Jeff Newman stepped to the plate. Great beard on Jeff Newman. He hit one hard, crack of the bat, horsehide in flight, and I exploded out of my seat. I knew they would do it! I knew it.<br />
<br />
Amos Otis caught it, comfortably, on the center field warning track and what I felt then was despair. Abject, irrevocable despair. It's a feeling I can conjure to this day, can easily transport myself into that second deck seat. Even as I write--and feel--this, I know it sounds silly. It was not. It was loss.<br />
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*<br />
<br />
My buddy Kool Breeze is a Reds fan. A couple years ago, when they stunk up the NLDS against the Phillies, I called to offer my condolences. His reaction was something I didn't expect, but recognized. "They don't care about me," he said. Meaning, his fandom, his despair, his loss, was not anything the team and players ever considered.<br />
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*<br />
<br />
Since that night in 1982, I've stored countless memories of my A's experiences. My mood has risen and fallen with their success and failures. Some players have been moved into my personal Pantheon--Dave Stewart, Carney Lansford, Tim Hudson, Matt Stairs, Mark Ellis, Mike Heath, Eck. Some have angered me to a point nobody would be proud to admit. There have been 20-game win streaks, playoff debacles, waves of injuries, promises unfulfilled, surprises beyond any prognostication.<br />
<br />
It's different now. Not my passion for the team, but the way in which I consume the sport. I remember the hilarious and obsessive way I used to hunt for the score, back before the internet and Extra Innings and mlb.com. I remember missing the first couple innings of Game 1 of the ALCS in 1988 because I had to pick up Donny at the bus station. The antennae on my car was busted off, so, in order to hear the game on the radio, Donny had to ride with the window down, sticking his finger where the antennae used to be so we could get reception.<br />
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Now, I can get A's news 24/7. I can express my (numerous) opinions on Twitter and message boards. I can read every beat writer. I can read every blog. I can get statistical analysis I don't understand, but still use to make my point. There is no mystery any longer. There is no unique honor like an SI cover. And what this all accomplishes is that I feel more attached to the team than ever. Even if that's a mirage of impersonal interactions via electronics, it feels as if the relationship is more stable and equal, as opposed to the one-sided hero worship of my youth. We're in this together.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
"They don't care about me," Kool Breeze said. Not like we care about them, he means. That's probably true. But last night...last night.<br />
<br />
I spent the last two innings watching their faces. Coco, Yoenis, Brandon, Josh, Cliff, Jarrod. I saw how they felt. Everybody could. Sadness, yes. A feeling of things unfinished? Sure. But also pride. Not a single face in that dugout betrayed the idea that they had done all they could.<br />
<br />
That's exactly how I felt. Exactly how 36K in the Coliseum felt. When it ended, they booed a bit, offense at the Tigers jumping around on our mound. But then, remarkably, the cheers got as loud as they'd been all year. They chanted "Let's go Oakland!" and slowly, the players came out of the dugout. They raised their caps to the crowd, turned the full radius of the stadium. The whole team. Milling around, sheepish, but also proud. They hugged. They clapped. And the crowd kept going.<br />
<br />
None of us wanted it to end. Winning the World Series would have been awesome. Seeing this A's team get to play more games would have been just as good. The crowd kept cheering and you could see the A's wanting to give them more.<br />
<br />
Not necessary, gentlemen. We were just saying, "Thank you." We're in this together. We know you care.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
I'm bummed out this morning. Not gonna lie. But I'm not unfulfilled. I'm lucky to have gotten on this particular roller coaster. And if I ever feel any differently, I'll remember this team. Every last one of these players is in the Pantheon. And despair? Not remotely.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-76780720379926746812012-10-04T11:08:00.001-07:002012-10-04T11:11:30.492-07:00UnfairMy lovely wife has looked at me strangely quite a bit these past few weeks, all my pacing and hand-wringing while I watched a baseball game. "Fan" comes from "fanatic" and while she likes sports a lot, she's not one who is emotionally invested in any team, does not let her mood become affected by wins or losses. Over sushi last week, I tried to explain to her why I was behaving the way I was.<br />
<br />
"I love this team," I said. "I love every last one of 'em. And I want them to win because they deserve it. They're defying everything and everybody with this run and if they fall short, I won't love them any less, but it will be unfair."<br />
<br />
Well, they didn't fall short. They staged another remarkable run this last week, another win streak, and an electric finale to win the AL West.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
The A's are a team of improbable stories. They have a converted catcher at third, a former sweet-swinging first baseman who is now a key cog out of the bullpen, an outfielder at first base, himself a minor-league free-agent who posted a .954 OPS, the Cuban Bo Jackson (I joked when we signed Cespedes that he was the rare FA to sign in Oakland, because Cuba is one place where Oakland seems an upgrade in locale) and a 180 lb. right-fielder who muscled up for 32 home runs.<br />
<br />
Stories everywhere. Another is Pat Neshek.<br />
<br />
The A's plucked him from the Orioles' AAA club in August and added him to their mix-and-match bullpen. He's a side-winding righty with goofy mechanics and a humorous follow-thru that ends with him looking like a slightly-buzzed flamingo. Once a regular in the Twins 'pen, he'd undergone Tommy John surgery and bounced between AAA and the Bigs the last three years. He did well for us, a good option to get an out or two against right-handers. He gave up a couple big homers but you couldn't get down on him for that. He is Pat Neshek. You don't expect him to be Dennis Eckersley. He contributed to this magical season. He's a member of my favorite A's team ever.<br />
<br />
I'm sure you've all heard the story by now. After the A's clinched their playoff spot on Monday night, Neshek's wife went into labor. He flew to Florida to be there for the birth. He tweeted his joy at both his personal and professional luck and his wife gave birth to a son on Tuesday. Less than a day later, the baby died for unknown reasons.<br />
<br />
I can't even...<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
In the booze-soaked A's locker room yesterday, A's reliever Ryan Cook gave an eloquent interview. "I can't describe anyone in here as other than 'resilient,'" he said. After being used in his fifth straight game, he talked about how he felt. "I woke up this morning, feeling like crap and I had to look at myself in the mirror and say, 'You gotta figure it out, bud, have to figure out how to get up today,' and as soon as we got out here and saw the crowd and the electricity, that's all it took. These fans are something else."<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
I love this team. I know all A's fans feel the same way. And along with the ecstasy of triumph yesterday, I know they are all hurting for the Neshek family, as well. Twenty-five (plus) brothers in that clubhouse and every one of us who wore green and gold to work today are praying for their comfort and an easing of this terrible burden. I know it's not much, can't even begin to touch their pain and loss, but we're here. <br />
<br />
This is not in any way an attempt to make this about me, but I am reminded of something a friend told me six years ago when I was in my own time of heartbreak and despair. He said, "You have friends who are here to help you up when you fall. Some of us will even carry you for a while. Never forget that."<br />
<br />
I never have. I hope the crowd and the cheers and the electricity can carry the Nesheks, even if only for a moment. We love this team. <br />
<br />
<br />Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-51275328871134801982012-10-02T11:55:00.002-07:002012-10-02T12:04:54.853-07:00Pie'd PipersAJ woke up this morning like he always does, twisting away with a grimace from the dog's excited licking. He quickly focused, however.<br />
<br />
"Did the A's win?" he asked, staring at me.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Before this season started, I figured the A's for about 70 wins. In fact, I made a wager with my son on that exact number. If they won more than that, he would collect $5. This was my calculated way to make sure AJ rooted for my team, instead of falling to the peer pressure around him in a region chock full of Angels fans, classmates and friends who were crowing all off-season about the local team's addition of Albert Pujols and C.J. Wilson. The Angels were certain to be contenders and nothing sways a young boy's fancy more than a winning team. I should know. I broke from my own parents--Giants fans--at the age of 12 when Billy Martin came to manage the A's. I've been the green and gold sheep of the family ever since.<br />
<br />
I paid AJ off three weeks ago, after the A's flew by the 70-win mark. He used his bounty for an ice cream sandwich at the ballpark. The A's beat the Angels that night, 6-5.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
It was not an auspicious off-season. Still saddled with the crumbling eyesore of the Oakland Coliseum, all attempts at a new venue filibustered into oblivion by Bud Selig and the Giants, Billy Beane traded away three All-Star pitchers, all but admitting to the press that he was thinking three or four years down the road when it was more conceivable that a) the A's would be playing somewhere else, with a 21st century revenue stream and b) they might again be able to compete with the free-spending and talented Rangers and Angels.<br />
<br />
In spring training, the A's starting third baseman ruptured his ACL. His replacement was a converted catcher.* They had a black hole at first base, manned by powerless, rudderless former prospect Daric Barton and AAA fillers like Kila Ka'aihue. Question marks in the corner outfield slots with untested Josh Reddick and wild card Yoenis Cespedes. And a re-made rotation featuring fragile Brandon McCarthy, robust--to put it mildly--Bartolo Colon, a couple truly awful and non-descript guys and a rookie.<br />
<br />
<i>*More, much more on Josh Donaldson to come</i><br />
<br />
Yes, they added some interesting players. Jonny Gomes and Seth Smith have been useful parts during their careers. Ryan Cook came over with a live bullpen arm. Rookie starters Tommy Milone and Jarrod Parker showed flashes in Arizona, with the former making the club out of spring training and the latter coming up in late-April.<br />
<br />
Still, a couple months into the season, the A's were 22-30, right about where I--and every other rational human--expected them to be. I kept one eye on them as the Kings pummeled their way to the Stanley Cup and didn't even bat that single eyelash when they called up a fella named Brandon Moss, a 29-year-old off-season acquisition, who proceeded to bash six homers in his first nine games and is currently sporting a .947 OPS. Or when they added Brandon Inge to provide some leadership and timely hits at third, in lieu of the hapless Josh Donaldson (Donaldson was rocking a slash line of .153/.160/.235 at the time).<br />
<br />
A decent June was no cause for too much attention, but then they won six of seven going into the All-Star break to reach .500. It was then that my ears perked. And it was for no rational reason at all.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
AJ was born in 2001. That year, the A's were expected to be World Series contenders. They were coming off an AL West title and added Johnny Damon. Well, they stumbled out of the gate, the Mariners went freaking bonkers and it looked like another lost season until they provided a glimmer of hope. They swept the Diamondbacks and got to .500 at the break. They never did catch the M's, but went 57-19 in the second half to grab the wild card (at which point Jeremy Giambi didn't slide and let's not talk about that any further).<br />
<br />
As you all know, Caleb, my second child and son, was born this year and the A's again made a mini-run to get to the break at .500. The symmetry could not have been more perfect. I even joked about it on Twitter. And the seeds of belief were sown.<br />
<br />
They came roaring out of the break, winning 10 of 11, manager Bob Melvin expertly mixing and matching his lineup. That streak included a four-game sweep of the Yankees, two of them in dramatic, walk-off fashion. In fact, that became their m.o., punctuating each victory with a pie to the face of the player that produced the game-winner. They were not just winning, but they became fun. After years of painful offensive ineptness, they started banging dingers like nobody's business, led by Reddick, Cespedes, Moss and another call-up, Chris Carter, the perpetual prospect who finally--mostly--figured out which pitches to swing at (Moss and Carter, playing primarily as a first-base platoon, have combined for 37 HRs). <br />
<br />
The pies, the walk-offs, the success of the rookie pitchers...it all seemed possible.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Inge got injured somewhere around in there and Donaldson got called back up to take over third again. He had hit well back at AAA, but...ugh...that slash line again: .153/.160/.235. I again took to Twitter and made the following joke:<br />
<br />
"I'm sure Josh Donaldson is excited to be back with the #Athletics. At least until he sees his stats on major league scoreboards."<br />
<br />
To my surprise (and AJ's uncontrollable delight), Donaldson saw the tweet. He responded:<br />
<br />
@JoeSpeaker That was funny. I lol'd. I'm just gonna try to help the team, bro.<br />
<br />
I can't be entirely sure if he was being sarcastic, or if he really did think it was funny. AJ is certain he was peeved and that he "called me out." Regardless, Josh Donaldson's slash line since his re-call is .286./355/.494. Silly. AJ would remind me of the tweet every time Donaldson came to bat and took to calling him "Bringer of Rain," which is Donaldson's Twitter handle. He found some other nicknames, too, referring to Moss as "That Guy," because an Angel fan asked me "Who is that guy?" after Moss hit an absolute bomb in Anaheim.<br />
<br />
<br />
* <br />
<br />
They ran off nine in a row in late August to put themselves firmly in the picture. One would almost think they were in control. Then they got swept--demolished, really--at home by the loaded Angels and every pessimistic thought I ever had surged right back to my frontal cortex. Colon had recently been banned for PEDs and, in the final game of that Angels series, McCarthy was hit in the head with a line drive off the bat of Erick Aybar (serious talk here, I hate the Angels almost as much as I love the A's, but Aybar was all class in this episode, so good on him). When we found out McCarthy had surgery due to bleeding/swelling in his brain (as well as a cracked skull), it was deflating. Not at all in a baseball sense, but in a human sense. As I said, this team became fun and that is in large part to its personalities. McCarthy is probably first among equals in that regard and we are all thankful he is well and hopeful he will be back with us next season.<br />
<br />
So that series proved to be a real bummer and the A's remaining schedule was nothing short of a minefield. Seventeen of the next 20 on the road. But for a three-game set in Seattle, all of their opponents were in the playoff hunt (Angels, Tigers, Texas, Yankees, Orioles). A 10-game road trip to the east coast and Texas. Seventeen straight games to finish the season with no days off, a fact which became amplified when the A's bullpen got completely cashed in a brutal 14-inning loss to the Yankees.<br />
<br />
That game drained me of all energy and a considerable portion of belief. It left them 1-4 at that point on the trip and brought the Angels back within 2 1/2. Brett Anderson, who had returned from Tommy John surgery pitching remarkably hurt himself again and the A's were suddenly trotting out a rotation of five rookies, two of whom were pitching in A-ball last year. I could see it all falling apart and it wasn't fair. This team deserved to get to the post-season. For all the hurdles in their way, the ballpark, the payroll, the injuries, the rookie starters, they persevered. They earned their way here. They didn't buy their way here.<br />
<br />
They hung on, winning a gut-wrenching three of the next gut-wrenching five, made it home with a two-game cushion. I was beside myself. I could not string together a non-A's related thought. I drove Emet upstairs with my psychosis, mood hinged on every pitch.<br />
<br />
Four straight wins later--one thanks to a game-tying 9th-inning home run from Josh Donaldson--they're in. Two more wins and they'll--improbably--win the division.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
I'm satisfied. I will always and forever look back on this season as one of total joy, regardless of what happens from here on out. This is a great team to root for, an easy team to love, and I'm so thankful to have gotten to be along for the ride. <br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
"Did the A's win?" he asked, as he stared at me.<br />
<br />
I laughed. "Yes, they won. Remember? I let you stay up until it was over."<br />
<br />
AJ blinked, wiped the sleep out of his eyes. "Oh yeah. Balfour struck out the side in the 9th."<br />
<br />
"Yep. Then Reddick pie'd Bob Melvin."<br />
<br />
"He did?"<br />
<br />
"Yep."<br />
<br />
"Daddy?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, AJ."<br />
<br />
"Can I wear my Reddick jersey to school today?"<br />
<br />
<br />Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-36783416410892223392012-09-24T11:11:00.001-07:002012-09-24T11:12:10.103-07:00My Guy"Daddy, why do coaches always look so angry?"<br />
<br />
AJ
asked me this while watching Kings' coach Daryl Sutter a few months
back. I could have pointed out how Sutter always has the same expression
or launched into a hilarious impression of his mumbling sarcasm.
Instead, I said,<br />
<br />
"No matter what the score or situation, coaches always know there's something the team or player can do better."<br />
<br />
This goes for fathers, too.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
The word is "dingo." It's the safe word I gave Emet to use if I get to riled up at AJ's soccer games. I'm not coaching--having an infant in your house pretty much exhausts all time and energy for such an endeavor--and I promised myself that I would be nothing but positive at his games and stick to cheering, rather than coaching.<br />
<br />
Oh man. So difficult. Though, in two games, I've only heard "dingo" once and I called it on myself.<br />
<br />
Look, I know the game. I also know players. I look out at AJ's team and see myriad problems and solutions. None more than when I look at my own son and the aspects of the game he could do better. But I also see--finally--a child who is playing. He is at play. He is not analyzing his teammates' positioning. He is not grumbling to himself over his coach's inane tactical decision to play a high defensive line. He is out there trying to kick the ball. He wants to be involved. He is playing.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Growing up, I also did a lot of playing. But sports? No, sports were not a game to me. Sports is competition. To be sure, the youth sports environment was a different one than today. Participation trophies, equal playing time regardless of ability (or even coming to practice). I'm not saying these things are bad. It's just the way games are governed these days. I'm all for teaching important lessons though sports. Teamwork, grace, humility, sportsmanship. For me, it was different. I was taught how to win.<br />
<br />
I remember an important soccer game when I was nine. We'd faced our opponents many times previously, kids against whom I'd play 50 more times over the course of my youth, and we'd already fermented a rivalry. We knew them as well as they knew us, were equally talented on the pitch. And our coaches--of eight and nine-year-olds, mind you--tried to give us a psychological edge going into the game. We were instructed to go in hard on tackles in the first few minutes of the game, and, as we did so, to greet the opposition, let them know we're there, so to speak. So, we were running around screaming "Hello Kevin!" as we kicked the ball away.<br />
<br />
This is not something that would be acceptable in our local AYSO league in 2012. However, this sort of attitude is part of my DNA. With the passing of my youth, I've remained intensely competitive. I have needed an outlet for that every day of my life. It's taken different forms. In college, I played every intramural sport, I played pick-up basketball four times a week. After graduation, I played adult baseball, then 12 years of rec league soccer. That was followed by poker and now, golf. (Yes, I am acutely aware that my pursuits have become less demanding physically.) Not to mention my behavior as a fan of professional sports, which is rabid, perhaps even borderline psychotic (poor Emet having to first go through the Kings' Stanley Cup run, followed by the A's in playoff contention. The woman is a saint). I have to have something in my life that satisfies this urge to compete. To win.<br />
<br />
Though I am loathe to admit it, coaching soccer was also one of those pursuits. The three years I coached him were not entirely pleasant, for either of us. Like Daryl Sutter, I kept asking for more from him and he wasn't willing (or able) to give it.<br />
<br />
Here is where I erred. Yes, my child is competitive, like me. Yes, he burns to win, like me. It's not something I've told him was important. No. But he definitely learned it by watching me. That winning is the goal.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Except, he's not wired like I am. When I was intrigued by the poker boom, I spent six months reading poker blogs and poker books before I ever played a single hand. I watch golf videos for hours on end to refine my swing. I am intrigued by the process and know that preparation and practice are integral to results.<br />
<br />
He doesn't yet get that correlation, that being successful is not just showing up and running around. It's repetition and study and analysis and having a store of knowledge to predict outcomes, to hone instinct, to recognize patterns. Each of which gives one the ability to react quicker, more decisively, correctly.<br />
<br />
You know without me telling you that I've tried to impart this lesson. He's just not interested (sports-wise; academically, he doesn't get a choice whether to be interested or not). Maybe he never will be. It just might be that he wants to play. Except, he also wants to win. Therein lies the disconnect. Therein lies my problem.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
His soccer team is not going to win much. It's not an athletic bunch. I didn't need to tell him this. "I'm never going to win a championship," he said to me after Saturday's drubbing.<br />
<br />
Where am I supposed to go with that? Do I break out a "keep working hard" speech? Do I wrap my arms around him and tell him I love him and that he played great and three months from now he'll have a shiny new participation trophy? Can I tell him to just keep his head up and have fun out there?<br />
<br />
That's the point really. After all he's learned by watching ultra-competitve me (screaming at umpires, criticizing A's infielders, the occasional medium-to-deep depression when the A's blow a four-run lead in The Bronx), can I truly default to "have fun" and not have it ring his bullshit bell?<br />
<br />
I guess we're going to find out. <br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
I'll never be able to stop asking more from him. That's my role as his father. There are areas where I can push him. And ones where I can't. The key is knowing what he can handle and when I am asking for too much, whether or not I am unfairly demanding something from him that he is unable to give. <br />
<br />
We had a little talk the other night, nothing serious. It was more like a State of the Union deal. How's it going in class? Are you understanding the lessons? Anything Daddy can do to help?<br />
<br />
I'm always prodding him to open up to me. He's a sensitive kid that sometimes holds his disappointments inside and I want him to know that nothing is off-limits between he and I. And at some point in this talk I said, "Look, I'm on your team. I'm on your side. You are 'MY GUY' and there's nothing that you can ever do to change that."<br />
<br />
He liked that. He trusted that. It's something I can do better.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-70812362594396769092012-08-07T13:15:00.000-07:002012-08-07T13:15:12.745-07:00On Bad CallsLet's just get this part right out of the way: that call on the Canadian goalkeeper yesterday was <strike>horseshit</strike>...er...equine stuff (I'm trying not to cuss so much). Just a horrible example of an official injecting her influence into the match, the exact opposite of what referees should do. This was not a close call that she missed. It was a call she conjured out of thin air.<br />
<br />
Shame on her.<br />
<br />
That said, I have no doubt the U.S. women would have found a way to equalise anyway. That's what they do. There was plenty of time left. Canada was not interested in attacking. Down a goal, inside ten minutes (plus Fergie Time!), they would have found a goal. How could you possibly doubt it?<br />
<br />
Also, Alex Morgan. <br />
<br />
Anyways, I thought I'd write about the worst calls I've ever had happen while on a soccer pitch. That's fun, right? Everyone else is trotting out Jim Joyce and Don Denkinger and that jerkoff who denied the U.S. the winner against Slovenia two years ago in the World Cup, so you don't want those rehashed again, do you? Of course not. I am far more interesting.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
The worst call, in terms of results, I ever had to deal with was while I was coaching a high school boys team (I was the assistant coach). It was a down year for us, but were playing a local rival, so big stakes. I'd had a few comments for the ref during the game (he stunk; or he was crooked; one of the two), but nothing that would incur his wrath. Scoreless game in the second half and our left winger was dribbling down the sideline right in front of me at midfield, when the ref--far away and at a bad angle--called the ball out. It was not out. I didn't say a word, merely swung my foot, hard, which caused me to spin around away from the field.<br />
<br />
Whistle.<br />
<br />
The ref runs over to me, all redpuffyfaced, and gives me a yellow card for dissent. "I didn't say anything!" was my response. He said, "You were inciting the crowd."<br />
<br />
There were like 8 people in the stands.<br />
<br />
He awards a free kick to the opposition (which I'm pretty sure is a breach of the rules; they should have just had their throw-in, since the ball was "out" and play dead when I incited eight people). Naturally, they scored off the dead ball and we lost 1-0.<br />
<br />
Pretty sure that was unfair. Regardless, I felt like a complete ass.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Another officiating mistake I recall mainly because my coach failed to back me up and that was the end of any respect I had for the man, though there was precious little of that in the first place since he took over a Rolls Royce of a team that had won two State Championships and turned it into a Yugo before bailing mid-season for a high school gig.<br />
<br />
I was playing goalie that year and rushed out to meet a long ball (sweeper-keeper!). I was well out of the box and chested the ball down to control it. As soon as I made contact with the ball, the ref blew the whistle for hand ball.<br />
<br />
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!<br />
<br />
Now, clearly, as the play unfolded, he was under the assumption that I was unaware I was out of the box and fully expected me to handle it illegally, so much so that he had already set his phaser to "Blow." It would have been very simple for him to admit his error--for he surely realized he was wrong--wave off the call and just let me re-start play from where I was. He did not do that. And, in the throes of his embarrassment at being the worst/one of those typical ref needs to never admit mistakes, he allowed the free kick to stand.<br />
<br />
I protested vehemently, as did my teammates. The coach? Nothing. When I stormed off at half, I was all like "WTF?" and he was all like, "Well, you did have your hands up to where it looked like you were going to catch it." And I was all like "Have another donut you fat muzzachunka."<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
My absolute favorite ridiculous call, however, came in one of my adult rec league games. I soared into a small crowd of players to win a head ball, gliding by on air that others could not see, before landing softly and continuing my assault forward.<br />
<br />
Or something like that.<br />
<br />
Before I could maraud the opposition goal with malice aforethought, the ref called me for a foul on the header. When I <strike>clamly</strike> shrilly asked him what transgression I had committed, he responded, "Jumping too high."<br />
<br />
Points for that one, sir. His explanation was that this was a rec league and "We all have to go to work tomorrow," meaning, I suppose, that we should not play with any physicality or passion or, you know, skill. And we most assuredly would not be allowed to jump past a reasonable height.<br />
<br />
This did, however, provide much hilarity for the remainder of the game as every positive move by our team was announced by our sweeper as a potential foul, ie "running too fast" or "being too good."<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
In closing, I can't, for the life of me, recall an egregious refereeing error that went my way. Funny how that goes.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-46011206692964548622012-04-20T12:30:00.000-07:002012-04-20T12:34:02.672-07:00Ten Years AfterOf all the memories I have of AJ as a baby, the one that's most vivid is of he and I in the rocker. It's 2 a.m. and the apartment is quiet and dark. I'm singing to him barely above a whisper. His eyes are open, staring straight up at me and he is, for the moment, still and silent. We rocked for a long time and I ran through pretty much the entire playlist of songs I'd sing him (they were not lullabies; they were a mixture of power ballads and mid-tempo grunge songs) while I was alternately annoyed--because he wouldn't go back to sleep--and awed by this little human looking at me with such curiosity and wonder, this helpless son of mine whose future was boundless and dependent on me.<br />
<br />
Which is where I find myself again more than a decade later, roughly three weeks out from meeting my son, whom I will no doubt soothe with many midnight renditions of Pearl Jam's "Black."<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Emet has had a relatively routine pregnancy. Light on the morning sickness and she hasn't blown up like she feared she might. Her body is strained, however, and the past couple weeks have magnified her discomfort. She's tiny and the little guy is growing rapidly. She's joked that she has swallowed a basketball, so firm is her belly, so crowded her womb has become. When he moves the slightest bit, she feels it. When he moves a lot, kicking elbows and heels, she says it feels like a wet dog violently shaking water from its fur. We laid in bed last night, my hand resting on her stomach when I felt a flutter. "That's where his hands are," she said. The basketball is more like a medicine ball now.<br />
<br />
May 16th is the due date and he is still a dream to us. How can we know him? How will we feel? Questions that remain to be answered, no matter how many birthing classes we take or how many onesies we fold. We catch ourselves wondering, predicting. We are blind-sided by emotion, like when Emet received a gift from one of her students. A blanket. And crocheted booties, in baby blue. So tiny and so infinite. Her tears came from nowhere.<br />
<br />
He has a name. We don't know it yet, but he has one. We add to the list of possibles, but we'll have to see him first.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
AJ asks, "Daddy, will you still have time for me when my baby brother comes?" and Emet and I fall to pieces. "Of course," I say. "No matter what, you will always be my baby boy." But it's going to be hard. AJ loves the idea of his brother. The reality of him will be different.<br />
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"You can always talk to us about these issues," Emet tells him. "You're going to be a great big brother."<br />
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And he will be.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
This child is a blessing. We say that all the time. He is that, but he's more. Both Emet and I spent years doubting we'd ever have this chance. Again, for me. This opportunity for such profound love and meaning. I tease her that she doesn't know what she's in for, that all her plans and rigors will melt when she see's his face. The truth is, I don't know either, despite having been through this before. It was a long time ago. As much as I do remember, there is assuredly more that I've forgotten, a sad realization, though perhaps a beneficial one. Somebody once said the reason people have more than one kid is because they don't recall how hard the first one was.<br />
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Yes, it will be hard. Perhaps more than we realize, thanks to our age. Raising this boy together will also be rewarding beyond all measure. "I've known you since before you were born," I like to say, echoing the words of Our Savior.<br />
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But it will be a few weeks yet, before we get to meet. And I get to sing to you.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-14353407915282221062012-04-19T10:40:00.002-07:002012-04-19T11:32:04.476-07:00One BallI'd figured out all the possible permutations in my head before the bottom of the 6th even began. AJ would be up 7th in the inning; his team trailed by two. One possibility was that he would get to the plate with the bases loaded, two outs and down by one. In all the others, he didn't get to hit or came up with the game at least tied. So, chances were good the game wouldn't fall on his sometimes-nervous shoulders.<br /><br />It was the first time all game that I was happy he'd been dropped in the batting order. Because I was pretty irritated about that for the first five-and-a-half innings.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Yes, we're back to baseball, my love-hate relationship with Little League and the people who coach it. We missed a year, so frustrating was AJ's 2010 coach and season. He didn't want to play, ran around in Spring Soccer instead, and I was totally fine with the decision. He was miserable that last baseball year, ignored and belittled by his coach, annoyed by his Dad's constant pointers. His year off was a relief in many ways, for both of us.<br /><br />When he said he wanted to play again this season, however, I was guardedly pleased. He loves baseball as much as I do. LOVES IT. Watches it with me all the time. Asks me first thing in the morning if the A's won. Comments--loudly--on the plays and umpires. But this Little League thing is tough. It's cliquish. It's "Who You Know." It's macho. But he wanted to play, so I gave him a speech:<br /><br />"Blah blah blah most important thing is you have fun blah blah blah no matter where you hit or what position you play blah blah blah be a good teammate and support your team blah blah blah and no getting upset win or lose blah blah blah do your best and that's enough blah blah blah it's SUPPOSED TO BE FUN!"<br /><br />AJ, totally and fully getting the message, "I'll be mad if I don't get to play second base."<br /><br />(For those of you who did not follow my Little League travails two years ago, read <a href="http://obituarium.blogspot.com/2010_06_01_archive.html">this</a> or let me sum up: His asshole coach always played him in the OF, no matter the score or the situation, when all he ever wanted to do was play 2nd base, not all the time, just once in a while, a token gesture that he a) more than deserved--his ability was not appreciably different from others who played second base--and b) would have kept him more interested/invested in the Little League experience. Also, he was 8, so, do results really matter?)<br /><br />Anyways...<br /><br />He hasn't played second base this year, either but we are eight games in and he has gotten to play all over the field. This past game, he spent two innings at 1st, two at 3rd and one in center. Invested.<br /><br />There is, of course, the matter of him hitting at the bottom of the order. Which is weird, but understandable, to a point.<br /><br />He began the season hitting 6th, which is about right for his ability (I'd say 5th, but I'm biased) and stayed there for the first five games. He only managed one hit in that time--10 ABs--but was putting the ball in play, only striking out twice. Then, in Game Six, he was inexplicably dropped to the bottom. Like, last.<br /><br />I was pretty upset. Yes, there was a kid hitting lower than him who had been knocking the snot out of the ball and absolutely deserved a promotion. That kid went to 6th. AJ went to 10th (they use a continuous batting order). Not deserved. And it affected him. He had his two worst ABs of the season, the team got smoked (by a team that was winless until that point) and scored only one run.<br /><br />Of course, I didn't say anything to the coaches. Not my style. I've coached plenty and meddling from parents is the worst. Even though I feel like I have a case, maybe I don't, maybe they saw something at practice they didn't like. Plus, his coaches this season are excellent. They are positive. They teach, instead of hammering only on wins and losses. They have moved the kids around to various positions and even sat their own sons on the bench from time to time (that NEVER happens). So, they get a pass on this score. I gave AJ the speech again, keep focused on playing defense and your ABs and supporting your teammates and we went on from there.<br /><br />The next game, AJ was back up to 7th in the order and responded by going 3-for-3 and being smack in the middle of two rallies that led his Dodgers to a 6-4 win over the Yankees, a team that boasts a few players the size of cattle and that had beaten us 15-3 in our first meeting. So...joy. Happy AJ, happy Daddy. He was slightly bummed he didn't get the game ball, a prize he covets so completely that he can't even stand it, but it went to another deserving kid, the not-so-great player that got the game-winning hit, the kid all his teammates are happy for when he succeeds.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Alas, AJ was back in the 10th spot for the game on Tuesday (who's managing this team? Bob Geren?). No explanation that I could think of since he hadn't had a practice in between. The game ball kid got promoted after his big hit on Saturday, which was perfectly fine with me. Reward kids when they do well. I'm all for it. But why did AJ get dropped?<br /><br />Who knows? I'm guessing the thought process to making out the order is pretty thin. And AJ wasn't nearly as flummoxed as last time since he started the game playing 1st base, his new favorite position because he gets to throw practice grounders before the inning starts. He is a boy of simple pleasures.<br /><br />*<br /><br />So the pitcher for the Giants is throwing heat and he's working on a no-hitter when we get to the bottom of the 3rd and AJ finally gets his first AB. He promptly doubles down the right field line. He eventually comes around to score the first run of the game when a teammate grounds out to drive him in. After touching home plate, he makes a left-hand turn toward the pitcher's mound where he intercepts the teammate jogging back to the dugout. AJ greets him with a high-five and pats him on the back as they jog back together.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Which brings us to the bottom of the 6th. There's one run in for the Dodgers, who still trail 6-5. Runners on are second and third with two outs, the count is 3-1 on the hitter, who is not AJ, but the most uncoordinated kid on the team. Still, we are a single ball away from my nightmare scenario coming true: AJ in the position of hero or goat.<br /><br />We never get there. Two straight strikes end the game and I watch my son for his reaction. He pounds his right fist into his open hand, but then takes his helmet off gently and puts in in the rack. He lines up with the rest of the team for the handshake and his face betrays no sadness. I'd ask him later, "Were you nervous?" and he said, <br /><br />"Yeah, but I really wanted to hit." <br /><br />I tell him that's the right answer and that I'm proud of him. I'm glad he's having fun. I know he is because of the big ol' smile on his face.<br /><br />That's probably the result of the game ball he's tossing in the air as we walk to the car.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-15922296263399354392011-09-27T10:51:00.001-07:002011-09-27T11:39:53.057-07:00Too Many Words for TwitterI have an irrational set of expectations for other people and I often have to remind myself that these random individuals with whom I cross paths have both a) their own expectations and b) a total ignorance of my peculiar set of rules. This expresses it self frequently on mass transit, which I have now used daily for more than seven years, a fact which is nigh unthinkable in the vast metropolis of Los Angeles, as well as a constant reminder to me that I have escaped the ritualistic Car Culture of my city and its inherent rudeness.*<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(*I am often asked why I never use my blinker when changing lanes on the freeways and it is because, as soon as one signals intent, the nearest driver in the intended lane will attempt to block any and all attempts at movement, by speeding up/slowing down/honking horns/spitting. It's a Darwinian culture of Fuck You-ness that I've never encountered anywhere else.)</span><br /><br />I find myself grumbling at others. The folks who sit across from me on the train--thereby inhibiting my leg room, which must be substantial for my comfort because I'm a tall drink of water--when there are other seats available nearby that would be more apt for them an me. The people on the subway who stand right in front of the doors so they can be first off at Union Station, but who also refuse to move--even the slightest--when I am trying to board. I liken these offenders to people who christen a pristine row of theater seats by sitting on the end, making others crawl over them. And the worst, those who stand on the left side of the escalator/people mover, when the right is for standing and the left is for walking.<br /><br />All of these things annoy the living ish out of me. To my mind, they are unwritten rules of behavior, of accommodation to your fellow man/woman. However, if you think about it, my expectations are borne of my own frame of reference and have no relation to that of others, like back-to-back spins on the roulette wheel. Sure, I'd like to think we're all in this together, it takes a village and all that hunky dorey crap, but the truth is, it's every man/woman for themself. <br /><br />This is called The Gap. The space between our own expectations and the reality of others. It's what you fill that gap with that determines the success or failure of any relationship, as well as one's own sanity. If you fill that gap with patience and understanding, then ta-da! life is good. If you (I) fill it with "get your stupid elbow off my arm-rest!" the days can be long and frustrating.<br /><br />I guess what I'm saying is you should do what I say and we won't have a problem.<br /><br />Actually, here's my advice: Mind the Gap.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Here's another rule I've recently learned. Say you're visiting friends out of town. Say this hypothetical town is Chicago. And you go to one of their favorite restaurants. Say it's called The Publican. You do not--DO NOT--want to mention, even in passing, how very much you enjoy the experience and you especially do not want to compliment a single dish--say it's the Country Rib--no matter how delicious and savory and downright otherworldly the dish might be, because every single time these "friends" of yours return to said Publican restaurant in Chicago and order themselves a Country Rib or three, they will mercilessly and gleefully taunt you with tweets, texts, pictures and this will be especially hurtful if all you've eaten that day is a hot dog at the turn and a frozen pizza.<br /><br />I hate you all.<br /><br />*<br /><br />My cat is a genius. Normally, I'd never write that sentence since I'm an adult male and enjoy my standing as such, but this kind of blew my mind. Unlike the dog, whose most fervent desire is to stay indoors, preferably within licking distance of at least one of the three humans in the house, the kitty wants to go tomcatting outside as often as possible. Due to the fact that our house is close to the mountains and we have an open field nearby, we restrict her playtime to daylight hours, lest she be eaten by the coyotes which sometimes sneak into the tract for food. <br /><br />To aid our ability to find her at nightfall, she has a collar with a bell (and her info). A few days ago, she lost the collar on her adventures (it's a breakaway deal so she doesn't hang herself by it). So, all day Saturday, she whined at the back door since we wouldn't let her out without a collar. We procured a replacement on Sunday and duly allowed her back into the wild, from which she returned a couple hours later with the lost collar in her mouth.<br /><br />She screeched to get our attention, pointedly dropped it on the kitchen floor and stomped right back outside.<br /><br />*<br /><br />I'd like to recommend a book to you all. It's "Let the Great World Spin" by Colum McCann. You New Yorkers will especially like it. The setting is 1974 and the common thread running through the novel is the famous tightrope walk between the Twin Towers by Philippe Petit, immortalized in the excellent documentary "Man on Wire." It's basically a love letter to NYC and a metaphor for 9/11. It's exquisite. The prose is so smooth and velvety. Just a wonderful experience. <br /><br />*<br /><br />We're fine. Great, in fact. How are y'all?<br /><br />Mind the Gap.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-76151701420187246272011-08-10T12:03:00.000-07:002011-08-10T12:08:39.705-07:00Revenge is a Dish Best Served Studs UpAlright, since The Rooster keeps sending me racist, jinoistic messages about El Tri and their crop of young studs who play a lovely brand of futbol, I thought I'd offer a retort, something beyond the usual "Go Back to Mexico!" and "Mow My Lawn!"
<br />
<br />I was once on a team that lined up opposite a bunch of Jamaicans, real Jamaicans, black and everything, not white suburban kids who liked Bob Marley. They had this dude in the middle of the park who absolutely dominated us with his quickness, vision and skill. We lost 4-1, but it was far worse than that. the next time we played them, we game-planned specifically for that guy, switching to a 4-5-1 and having a usual left back in the center to man-mark their play-maker. In addition, we put out the call to chop him down physically.
<br />
<br />That's exactly what should happen tonight. Dos Santos and Barrera should go down hard (at least) once early. Real hard. Then often. With multiple subs, you can get the yellow cards out of the way and bring on someone else. It's like having a bunch of Brian Scalabrines on the team. Back them off a little, slow the pace of the game with multiple re-starts, raise some fucking welts.
<br />
<br />Surely, Klinsi knows this, probably, in fact, remembers when Germany did this exact thing to the US in 2002 World Cup. Jens Jeremies annihilated Yank play-maker Claudio Reyna--who is also in camp!--within the first five minutes, rendering him impotent for the remainder of the match. We have guys like Heath Pearce and Zach Loyd in the team. What else are they going to offer but a little thuggery?
<br />
<br />So there is the game plan. Get Gio rolling around on the turf like he's trying to put out a fire on his person. And yeah, we beat the Jamaicans in that second game. Completely reversed the scoreline. Took them out physically, which led to them disintegrating mentally. Same thing can happen tonight, though probably not much chance of El Tri sparking fatties at halftime.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-22453177952050984672011-06-07T14:22:00.000-07:002011-06-07T15:34:10.077-07:00Puppy LoveSo there's this new entity in my house who has worms and shits on the floor. Shat. It was just once and I cleaned it up post-haste, remembering the time AJ was potty training and had a failure which jump-started his two-year-old's sense of shame, so he tried to clean the mess himself and ended up dragging his soiled bottom and clothing all over the upstairs hallway. And I thought, I've done this before, no big deal.<br /><br />Reggie, the mutt, the maybe part-terrier, maybe part-pit bull, maybe part-doberman, all-thunderous energy, has been with us for a week and we've had to devise an intricate system of levers and pulleys to prevent more accidents (there have been two of the liquid variety), unsupervised interactions with the kitty--who is up in all kinds of arms over this feisty interloper and is taking it out on each of us in unique ways--and various other attacks on our home furnishings and possessions, up to and including AJ's stuffed animals, one of which was subjected to a brief, but no less hilarious and disturbing, quasi-pornographic act.<br /><br />He treats our couch as if it merely something to hurdle. He has attempted to eat a dozen snails. He keenly disrupts any and all plans to go outside when we are home. He broke the screen door within 12 hours. He eats with the ferocity of a pack of hyenas and with more speed. He's tried to bury his chew bone in the middle of the living room. He is 23 lbs. of whirling, jumping, tugging, galloping fury.<br /><br />Of course, we love him to death.<br /><br />I do not speak for the poor kitty, however. The Princess. Her run of Speaker Manor has come to an ignominious end. She's furious with us. Was a time when Emet's morning alarm would be her call to jump up on our bed and lay next to her for one, two slaps at the snooze button. Now, she won't even enter the room. She reserves her hiss mostly for Reggie, but we've all been subject to a swiped fore paw or bared teeth. He is most unwelcome and perhaps her biggest issue is that her forays into the backyard have been curtailed, while we try to get the two of them to co-exist without the chasing. Ironic. The dog always wants in and the cat always wants out.<br /><br />When we got Reggie last week, he seemed bewildered. We'd prepared for his arrival with all manner of research and purchases of essentials and doggie toys, yet he was disinterested, as if he didn't know how to play. We knew virtually nothing of his background. He came from one of Emet's students. Her family had just moved and they couldn't keep the dog, who they had only had for a brief time after another family member gave him up. So you could say Reggie's five months of life have been unsettled. <br /><br />He's a little meek with men. Ducks his head in submission; a sign, perhaps, of abuse, but he's shown no outward symptoms of fear or severe mistreatment. We're crate training him and it's going great. Sleeps in the crate in our room with less and less resistance, though Emet says he snores and I have to take her word for it, 'cause how would I hear over the sound of my own Warthoggery. He's caught on to the fact that going bathroom outside will result in a treat and makes a beeline for the back door as soon as he's un-crated in the morning (and then makes a similar beeline to the pantry after emission, since that's where the treats are). <br /><br />It's been a long time since I've had a dog in the house and that was a house that barely needed to be protected from the behavior of a dog. Sixteen years. I suppose I'm getting used to him just as much as he's getting used to us. I'm up 45 minutes earlier in the morning for a walk and it's quickly become something I look forward to, a quiet, relaxing start to the day, with the added benefit of getting the blood pumping. He's remembered how to fetch a ball and play tug-of-war with...oh...anything and I can get him sprinting around the backyard at frightening speed as he somehow avoids running into the fences or flower boxes. My typical evening of sprawling on the couch watching sports is no longer an option since his energy needs a watchful eye. "He's your dog," Emet says, while sipping wine.<br /><br />He is, but I want him to be AJ's dog, too. Right now, Reggie favors the adults, who feed and walk him and who are there all the time, as opposed to the half-time kid with the short attention span and fiery desire for the dog to sleep in his bed. AJ's talked about having a dog for so long that the reality might be a little too overwhelming for him, too different from the idea he had in his head about ownership. Goodness knows he's not too happy about having to wash his hands all the time now after playing with Reggie.<br /><br />So we're integrating this lovable beast into the family. We walk the neighborhood, give him deworming medicine, bounce the ball, higher the better, pretend he's too strong and we can't get the sock out of his mouth. He foils a handful of attempts to get him in the yard when it's time for work, sits there at the back door with those ears, huge and alert, saying "don't go." <br /><br />And we don't want to.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Fl60A46QEJs/Te6nTPGS-JI/AAAAAAAAARs/RzXEYLsY6Xw/s1600/reggie.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Fl60A46QEJs/Te6nTPGS-JI/AAAAAAAAARs/RzXEYLsY6Xw/s320/reggie.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615609734289881234" /></a>Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-22076335832296654922011-05-23T09:41:00.001-07:002011-05-23T11:27:44.829-07:00PureI didn't say anything until after a routine par on #5, the number one handicap hole, a long par-4 with an uphill second shot. Nor had Emet remarked on the round I had going. "Are you aware I'm one-under right now?" I said.<br /><br />"Don't talk about it," she said, like she was watching a perfect game.<br /><br />Sage advice. But the round is over now and I can't stop talking about it.<br /><br />*<br /><br />It's not like I've been knocking on the door of breaking 80. In fact, I'd been golfing at the same plateau the entire year with outlier results being on the higher scale rather than the lower. My handicap, after hitting a low of 14.5 in March, has risen to 15.1. My scores--and goals--were still bogey golf and the majority of rounds were within a shot or two of 90. The scores were fine, but I was getting frustrated. <br /><br />This isn't news to golfers. Frustration is ever present. The primary reason for mine was a swing that seemed to come and go, sometimes in the same round. Again, no news to golfers. The only way to find that consistency, I figured, was to keep playing. More experience, the better one can replicate the good swings.<br /><br />So, of course, I broke 80 in the first round I'd played in a month.<br /><br />*<br /><br />This past weekend was the first I'd had off in a while. I've been taking a lot of weekend shifts because I needed to bank some comp days for a summer chock full o' vacation goodness. Because I'd spent so much time away from my wife, I dubbed the past two days Angeliquend, 48 hours of wifely attention and festivities. Fortunately, she's a selfless person and allowed a round of golf as part of the fun.<br /><br />We took a trip to the driving range on Thursday after work to get out some kinks, but spent most of our time chipping and putting, as I gave her pointers on those pesky chips that she struggles with (and I could say to her many times on Saturday that the shot she was about to attempt was "the same ones we practiced"). I had mixed results on the range, hitting two balls square then duffing the third. Same as it ever was. Didn't walk away feeling like anything was different.<br /><br />Then, on Saturday morning, we did some yard work. We let the kitty out into the backyard to play while we did so and I took a short break to play with her. She likes me to whack plastic golf balls at her. It was then that I had a revelation.<br /><br />*<br /><br />The sixth hole is a 178-yard par three over water. It's tough because the hole is open and unprotected from the wind, which blows left-to-right and both knocks balls down and pushes them into the bunker at the right front of the green. I've used as much as a 5-iron on this hole when the wind is howling, but on Saturday it was a strong 7. I found the green off the tee and two-putted for par.<br /><br />Still one-under.<br /><br />*<br /><br />It has been those iron shots that have been the biggest hole in my game lately. I've honestly had no idea where they have been headed the last three months. I've tried a few changes, mostly in my grip, which is on the weak side, partially owing to the wrist surgery I had, but also because it feels most comfortable that way. Nothing's really worked.<br /><br />So, there I am with the kitty in the back yard, hitting nice, easy seven irons at her as she tries to catch the plastic balls in the air. I'm not really paying attention to my swing until one shot where my hands brush against my right thigh on approach to the ball.<br /><br />Holy shit! Total lightbulb. That's it!<br /><br />*<br /><br />The seventh hole is a bad one for me and my baby fade. Right-to-left dogleg with water left and a big bunker guarding the corner. That bunker is 235 to carry and it rises about three feet above the fairway. I can clear it. I have. Maybe one out of ten. So, I tend to play away from it. I drove it well, staying right all the way, but it ran out of the fairway. This course is fairly easy if you drive it in the generous fairways (I hit 9 of 14 on the day), but if you're in the rough, it's never a flat lie.<br /><br />In this instance, I had a hook lie and though I hit it pretty well, it landed hard and carried to the back left of the green, 40 feet and a deep swale away from the pin. I figured my best option was to go high, around the swale, but I didn't hit it hard enough and left myself 12-feet for par.<br /><br />I missed. "First blemish on the card," I said to Emet, while also noting the hilarity of me calling a bogey a "blemish."<br /><br />Even after seven.<br /><br />*<br /><br />I'm no golf expert. I've never taken a lesson. But I watch a lot of golf. I pay close attention to those slo-mo swing analysis features on the tee-vee. Most of it goes over my head. I'd rather not stand over the ball and think about swing plane and hip tilt. But I do get certain aspects and one thing I've really struggled with is releasing my hands after contact. I've never been able to get extension on my follow through with my irons (driver is different, for some reason that I don't want to delve into because I hit my driver fine thankyouverymuch). I'm certain that explains my fade and I've tried more changes to get my body and hands around more completely.<br /><br />It never occurred to me that the problem was in my address.<br /><br />*<br /><br />The 8th is the longest par-5 on the course and very difficult off the tee. A strand of trees guards the left side of the fairway, which narrows at 230-yards. Bunkers on the right and a hill that's driveable but which slopes sharply right to left. Anything center or left rolls into deep rough and a shot where the ball will be at least a foot above your feet. I'm always in trouble on this hole. The solution would be to hit 3-wood and stay short of the trouble, but I can't hit my 3-wood to save my life (guess that's the next thing to work on). <br /><br />Alas, on this day, to this point, everything was working, so I just dialed back the driver a bit and landed it short of the hill, in the fairway. A smoked 5-iron left me 128 and uphill to the pin and it was here I got a great break. I thought I was hitting an easy 9, but I got more of it than I thought and it flew the green with malice. Until it hit that tree and caromed dead right, leaving me just a few yards off the back of the green, from where I got up and down for par.<br /><br />Even after 8.<br /><br />*<br /><br />The kitty sat there waiting for me to hit another ball, but I was in no hurry to do so. One practice swing. Two. Eleven. Every single one of them feeling absolutely perfect.<br /><br />*<br /><br />The 9th is a gimme. 308 yard par-4, downhill. I've never actually driven it, but I've been awfully close. There's a lake front and left of the green, but my fade takes it out of play for me. The driving range and a buttload of trees are right, so if you don't hit it straight you might be looking at a big number. <br /><br />I hit it straight, about 280, and it settled just past where the cart path bisects the fairway. I had my distance right with the wedge, but pulled it, leaving me 15-feet for birdie. I missed it--just--on the low side and tapped in for a front-nine score of 36.<br /><br />Even par.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Emet and I hit a bucket before the round. I was anxious to try out my new "fix" with full swings and actual balls. <br /><br />Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. <br /><br />Every single one of them came pure off the club face. 9-iron to 4-iron. All the way down the line.<br /><br />*<br /><br />I still hit the ball great on the back-9. Had a bit of trouble with distance control as the wind kicked up. I left my approaches short on both 10 (bogey) and 11 (up and down for par). I found a fairway bunker on 12--a drive that I came across because I was thinking too much--and then three-putted from 20 feet for a double. On the par-3 13, the easiest hole on the course, I hit my one truly bad shot of the day, a super-fat 9-iron that left me short and with a downhill lie to an uphill green. Bogey there. And then 14, where I took a triple-bogey 7.<br /><br />I hit a good drive, but missed the fairway. The slice lie, my fade and the wind conspired to put me in a greenside bunker from which it took me three shots to get out. I was okay with the first one (downhill lie and I hit the lip of the bunker), less so with the second (I hit a hard patch and my club bounced up resulted in me blading it right into that same lip). At which point I uttered my first curse word of the round.<br /><br />So, suddenly I'm 7-over after 14 and a little tilted and I say to Emet, "I need to play par golf over the last four holes to break 80."<br /><br />"Stop talking about it and just hit your shots," she said.<br /><br />*<br /><br />All I did was move my hands away from my body. About six inches. One, I was able to take an inside swing path to the ball without my body getting in the way. I think, and I'm just guessing here, that I was auto-correcting on the way to the ball, dipping my right shoulder too much to get the club face there, and that was resulting in hitting it fat too often. Two, I was much more balanced, so, at impact, my body turn was maintaining speed. Three, my hands were free to release the club head and flowed easily to a good finishing position.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Fifteen is a short (491 yards), downwind par-5 and I owned it, hitting the fairway and then a 5-iron from 210 that ended up pin-high, just right of the green. I got up and down for birdie.<br /><br />A routine par on 16 (I hit 12 greens in regulation. 12!) and then a three-putt bogey on the par-3 17 (pretty much missed the ball on the first put, a 25-footer up the hill).<br /><br />I needed par on the 18th, a par-five that isn't especially long, but has a waste bunker fronting the green that discourages going for it in two. Which became a moot point when I out-thought myself again on the tee (I tried to hit a draw so it could ride the wind and all I succeeded in doing was swiping it). My drive was well right (but playable) and only 220, so I laid up with a 6-iron to a decent spot, about 110 yards out.<br /><br />The green is well uphill from there and we had a blue flag, so I hit a big pitching wedge. It wasn't enough. I had to two-putt from 40-feet for 79. <br /><br />My first putt was good. I got it there, plus six-and-a-half feet. Six-and-a-half feet, slightly downhill. For 79.<br /><br />Right in the heart.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Dr. Jeff sent me a message of congratulations and an note of warning. "You will never be satisfied with anything higher."<br /><br />Yeah. I know.<br /><br />But I am tempering expectations. All I want is to be able to keep a reasonable facsimile of my "new" swing. I don't think I'm currently an 8-handicap, which is what that 79 would be. No, I still think I'm in the right range. Maybe a little lower than my current 15.1 (and, actually, disregarding any rounds I play until May 31, the 79 moves my HDCP to 14.3). I know I won't hit the ball as pure as I did every time out.<br /><br />I just want to be able to find that swing again after it inevitably goes missing.<br /><br />Is that too much to ask? If so, can I just keep it for another week? I'm playing TPC Scottsdale on Sunday.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-50770701051700351942011-05-13T12:19:00.000-07:002011-05-13T12:29:04.797-07:00Stay Gold, PonyboyIn our 50-50 custody arrangement, five days is the longest I ever go without seeing The Boy. It sometimes seems much longer. Every once in a while, he walks through the door and I hardly recognize him.<br /><br />AJ will be ten in three months. That scrambles my brain (says every parent ever). It goes so fast. He's reaching a tipping point. Double figures. Out with The Boy, in with the...whatever social demographers call it. He's growing up. Young man strut and new concerns. He smells bad after soccer practice.<br /><br />His current favorite word is "crud," which I find oddly heart-warming. A word from my own childhood, that I've never heard out of the mouth of someone older than ten. "Holy crud!" he says. "Kevin Kouzmanoff is cruddy." And I laugh.<br /><br />"I hope he stays sweet as long as possible," Emet says, and he is that. Sweet. He'll disarm me with no warning. He is also argumentative, convinced he's always right. The other day, he insisted the record for the mile run was under three minutes. I gently told him that was not true, but he insisted. I dropped the conversation--pointedly--and sent him to Google after dinner was done.<br /><br />On the other hand, I took him on a surprise trip for a scoop of ice cream--one measly scoop--last night and the thanked me with little boy genuineness. Three times.<br /><br />*<br /><br />I was ten, in fifth grade, when I first noticed girls. Didn't know what to do about it yet, but I noticed 'em. "Started kissing them a year later," I told AJ and he predictably screwed up his face and blurted, "Ewwww."<br /><br />Just wait, buddy. Before you know it.<br /><br />*<br /><br />We have a fantasy baseball team together this season and it's the worst side in the league (this is entirely my fault as I didn't peruse the league specs before drafting and went with, you know, the best players, instead of players that fit the scoring. What kind of idiotic league has categories for singles and save opportunities?). Yet, every night, he's on the computer, checking our team (not helped by the fact our #1 pick, Hanley Ramirez, is currently hitting .200) in a way that describing as "obsessive" would be understating it by a buttload.<br /><br />He has his own You Tube account now and monitors his viewer numbers. He comes home from school and wants to play with his buddy across the street. Social. Maturing. At his Open House a few weeks back, he showed me a project that illustrated these changes. "I used to..." all the sentences opened and turned on "...but now I..."<br /><br />"I used to want to be the center of attention," my son wrote, "but now I just want to share with my friends."<br /><br />*<br /><br />He got bullied recently. Escalated from words and taunts to playground shoves. His mother and I reacted quickly, as did the school. No problems since.<br /><br />Trouble is right around the corner. Bullies, peer pressure, sex education. Teenagers.<br /><br />I'm the parent who scares him the most. Daddy Discipline. I'm the last to know about things, as he filters his misdeeds first through his mother and then Emet, dipping his toe in the water before I splash punishment. This is a good thing. Boundaries.<br /><br />It remains a tightrope. Knowing when to rein him in and when to not stifle his enthusiasm. Who knows what sets him off. He wants to be heard, but needs to know when to be quiet. A hard lesson, especially in a house where his Dad is always yelling at umpires on TV.<br /><br />He still climbs on me when we watch sports together. Doesn't sit next to me. Lays across my lap or on top of me if I'm supine. He laughs at farts and burps and my stupid puns.<br /><br />I hope he stays sweet as long as possible. Respectful.<br /><br />He gets out of the car in front of the school. I'll see him in five days. I wonder what he'll be like then?Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-40700106806769357442011-05-05T11:09:00.000-07:002011-05-05T11:40:42.807-07:00Ball Don't LieOakland A's #1 starter Trevor Cahill is over-rated. I heard this enough during the 2010 year, during the entire off-season and even now. Relax Sabre-Dorks. I get the argument. BABIP.<br /><br />Now, first off, I have a bit of skepticism regarding BABIP, which is Batting Average on Balls In Play, for you people who have lives. BABIP basically says the pitcher has no bearing whatsoever on balls hit into the field of play (obviously home runs are excluded), that once wood hits horsehide, it's all luck, the Baseball Gods with their fakery and whimsical ju-ju are now fully in control.<br /><br />Horse balls.<br /><br />Do you think Mariano Rivera's cutter in on the hands of a lefty (where it is, roughly, all the time) influences a batted ball? Of course it does, in the form of a weak grounder to the right side or a measly pop-up and, usually, a shattered stick. Does a mighty hitter, every once in a while, manage a bloop over whomever the Yanks are paying ungodly sums to man first base? Sure. But the Mo's cutter surely has a major impact on...er...impact and the former scenario is massively more likely than the latter.<br /><br />Which brings us to Cahill. Have you seen him pitch? His sinker evokes Brandon Webb in his prime. Or Dan Haren now. Heavy ball. Darting action. No surprise he gets a ton of ground balls (1.35 GB/FB ratio last year) and he is aided by a fine Oakland infield defense (last year anyway) and the spacious Coliseum. <br /><br />But the Sabre-Guardians can't quit their moaning about Cahill. Unsustainable BABIP (with which I agree, with the above "luck" caveats). Doesn't strike out enough hitters. This is a guy who, at age 22 last season, was an All-Star, had an ERA under 3 (I know, ERA doesn't mean anything, it's peripherals(!) that predict performance; well, maybe I'm an idiot, but I'll take ACTUAL performance over predicted performance any day) and an OPS Against of .619.<br /><br />Read that last stat again. Also, 22 years-old.<br /><br />So now, Cahill is off to a heated start in 2011--at age 23. ACTUAL performance. The Sabre-Wonks are trotting out small sample size and "See! His BABIP is up 23 points! WEEEEEEEEE! Regression to the mean! Regression to the mean!"<br /><br />Except Cahill is allowing an OPS Against of .549 through seven starts. Is striking out more than two batters per nine than last year (and I assure you this isn't a fluke; I've seen all his starts. He is putting suckas away) and his K/BB ratio is at 2.53 versus 1.87 last year. He dominated the best offense in the league last night.<br /><br />I think we can say that--right now--Trevor Cahill is really good, even over the protestations of those who say he really isn't as good as he looks. Here's the thing:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">23!</span><br /><br />Maybe it hasn't occurred to others, but young pitchers mature. Young pitchers with nasty movement learn to harness it and have better command. Young pitchers with wide-eyed immaturity gain experience and learn the hitters and vary their attack patterns. Young pitchers get better.<br /><br />Perhaps this is blasphemy from an A's fan, one who loves and preaches "Moneyball," but sometimes the eyes don't lie. Sometimes watching a player do work is more illuminating than poring through the numbers. Trevor Cahill is on the cusp of being an elite pitcher.<br /><br />And luck doesn't have anything to do with it.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-50311615471498471502011-05-01T21:38:00.000-07:002011-05-01T21:48:14.042-07:00IndivisibleAJ was just shy of six weeks old on 9/11. He's nine now and had to be coaxed away from a video game to watch the President's news conference just a few minutes ago. That was a powerful speech. I clapped at the end. <br /><br />"Are we happy he's dead?" AJ asked as I tucked him in a short while later.<br /><br />"We should never wish for somebody to be dead, son," I said. "But here's the thing...Osama Bin Laden was an evil man. He intentionally murdered thousands of innocent people. Now his evil is gone from the world. He can't hurt anyone else and that's a good thing."<br /><br />Sorry for the post. I couldn't fit it into 140 characters.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-2280818922482430712011-04-29T09:57:00.000-07:002011-04-29T10:45:51.478-07:00Big 4 ReviewThe song in my head right now is "Peace Sells," so let's start there shall we? <br /><br />The VIP area was very peaceful. We set the O/U at fights witnessed at 10, but we only saw one involving a mosher and a young lady's spilled beer and that was just shoving and pointing and one hand gesture I believe conveyed "Toss off." We did see a couple security takedowns of intrepid interlopers in our pristine VIP area--one of impressive middle linebacker-ian power--but, overall, the mood was festive, rather than maniacal. At one point during Slayer, we were in a thin safety area between two thrashing pits, but the vortex never closed in on us. Even those circling with relish were a conscientious lot, following pit etiquette and creating what my friend Salk once terms, "A Pit of Good Intentions."<br /><br />So, VIP? Totally worth the extra hundred bucks. Trying to think of $100 that has ever been better spent, I can only come up with two:<br /><br />1) When <a href="http://guinnessandpoker.blogspot.com/">Iggy</a> paid donkeypuncher that same sum to ride in the front seat on the way back from Key West.<br /><br />2) When I wagered that amount on Mrs. <a href="http://www.humanhead.blogspot.com/">Human Head</a> to take down Phil Gordon in Roshambo.<br /><br />The boys (<a href="http://www.alcanthang.com/poker/index.html">Al</a>, <a href="http://badbloodonpoker.blogspot.com/">Blood</a> and <a href="http://www.beercitypoker.blogspot.com/">StB</a>) and I figured there was room enough for about 1500 humans in the VIP area, which arced out in a half moon from the stage. Behind two restraining barriers, the huddled masses were jammed together like Vienna sausages. It was insane. Ninety minutes before the first note, those crazy kids had packed themselves in, midday Indio sun pouring down on them. It was with more glee than guilt that we stood in our spacious area, stretched out our arms and marveled at their commitment. My single act of charity was to toss them a bottle of water and ask them to share. <br /><br />Not sure they did.<br /><br />As for the VIP beverage area, we were promised "better" food and drink selections. The food was fine, including a burger truck cleverly entitled "Grill 'Em All" (which I'm sure Lars slapped with an injunction of some sort), but the beer selections were Coors Light and Blue Moon, neither of which I could consider better than the amassed and mingled sweat of those kids in the front row. Fortunately, I fired up my craft beer radar and tracked down the Stone Brewing tent (arriving there at the exact same time as StB, who had taken another route; eerie), not that there was time or inclination for epic sudsing, but that Stone IPA was a far finer quencher of thirst while waiting for Megadeth.<br /><br />*<br /><br />I suppose you want me to talk about the bands some, eh? Bear with me. I've been backed up like a Beijing traffic jam with the writing and it's presently flowing, so I have no desire to edit or stop, so you get stream-of-consciousness or you get nothing you sniveling snivelers.<br /><br />Though I've always admired Anthrax, I pretty much got off their train after the first album. It's the only one I ever owned, though there was plenty of "Among the Living" blasted into the hallways of my college dorm. My biggest contention with them was always Joey Belladonna, who did not sing on the first album. Even so, I was looking forward to their set, party since I'd never seen them, party because Al's enthusiasm was infectious and partly because I knew that they would be fun.<br /><br />Of all the bands, they were the happiest to be there and it showed. Joey was probably the most happy, since he was admittedly "higher than a (compound curse word") and appeared to have aged double of everyone else. That fake tan he had working achieved the opposite effect of what I figure he was going for (that's our first winner of the day: Joey wins the Keith Richards Award). Their sound wasn't that great--first band curse--but the energy was fantastic and Scott Ian's maniacal stomp-dance entertained. The highlight was "Metal Thrashing Mad" (from the first album), edging out "Indians" and the playful admonition from Charlie Benante that our War Dance was less than stellar.<br /><br />*<br /><br />The second winner of the day, in lieu of a segue, goes to the dude in the blue shirt who was listing dangerously left, making his way (somehow) through the VIP area at a 45-degree angle to the ground. When he led with his right foot, he looked ready to fall over, but the left would magically find terra firma just in time to keep him from a public face plant. I sincerely doubt he made it through all four bands without some sort of trouble, but he can be proud of the fact he was our Big 4 Lewey Award winner.<br /><br />* <br /><br />Megadeth opened with "Trust" and then went into "In My Darkest Hour," which succeeded in whipping me into an off-key singing frenzy. It was the one song I told Blood I wanted them to do and it was superb. The song has a lot of history, especially with Metallica in the compound, and Dave Mustaine sang it with full bitterness and anguish, feelings he no longer feels, but was able to summon for the occasion, which is exactly what was demanded. <br /><br />They were damn good and awfully tight, Mustaine and Chris Broderick trading technically superior riffs while banging away (Best Hair Award goes to Broderick; I told Blood the only reason I ever wanted to grow my hair long was to whip it around in Broderick-ian fashion. Sadly, I don't look nearly as cool as when he does it). Mustaine was short of audience interaction, but before launching into "Holy Wars" he decried the "brother against brother" nature of our world today. <br /><br />Well said, Dave.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Here's the metaphor I used to describe the Slayer performance to Blood:<br /><br />"Hi, we're Slayer. These are large steel-toed boots and we would like to come on stage and use them to kick you in the teeth."<br /><br />Wow. Wow. Wow. They opened with "World Painted Blood" (a song I once used to illustrate to Emet what is awesome about this music I enjoy), followed by "Hate Worldwide" and "War Ensemble." Three absolute punishers. Sure, you can make that case for most of the Slayer canon, but they do have the ability to offer nuance. They simply decided not to in their entire set, which contained songs from 1983's "Show No Mercy" all the way up to 2009's "World Painted Blood" and there was not the slightest variation in quality or pause for respite. Kerry King spent 65 minutes pummeling his guitar. Tom Araya, always the coolest guy in the room, wailed away and when not singing, stepped back, surveyed the scene in front of him and offered that self-satisfied, bemused smile of his. It's a look of pure confidence. "Take that!" it seems to say.<br /><br />"Silent Scream" was an unexpected addition to the set, but the biggest surprise was when regular guitarist Jeff Hanneman came out for the encore, his first appearance with the band since October. He'd been rehabing from necrotizing fasciitis (google'd it), which is flesh-eating bacteria, likely caused by a spider bite. He made sure to cut the sleeve off his t-shirt so we could see the atrophy and scars as he ripped through "South of Heaven" and "Angel of Death." Really cool moment for him and for us.<br /><br />*<br /><br />I'm a Metallica apologist ("St. Anger" excluded). I've always backed them ("St. Anger excluded) even when Lars exposes his most douchey side (frequently). They were the band that started it all for me. I went from Top 40 to Metal thirty seconds after I heard "The Four Horsemen" in 1983. But I have to say, they were terrible.<br /><br />Okay, perhaps not terrible. Just...out of place. A parody, closer to Spinal Tap than to Slayer, with their flash pots and double-decker stage and goofy guitar designs (Kirk Hammett) and big, black beach balls and the way they positioned LArs's drum kit to make sure he'd be in the background of every video projected onto the big screen and the way he jumps up from behind the kit at the end of every song (sit down and play!). It was all rather silly. Even worse, they did not play well. "For Whom the Bell Tolls," which followed the opener, "Creeping Death," was horribly botched, especially by Hammett, who didn't seem to find the pocket until midway through the set.<br /><br />The songs they chose weren't bad. Only one song from the years between the "Black Album" and "Death Magnetic" and heavy on the first four studio albums. The best was a startling and fantastic "Orion," which was dedicated to the late Cliff Burton, a nice touch from the boys. <br /><br />Of course, there were the songs none of us wanted to hear, though we protested less vociferously than the guy near us in the Pit who thrust his middle finger at the band throughout the entirety of "Sad But True" and then stoically turned his back to the stage during "Nothing Else Matters" and "Enter Sandman."<br /><br />*<br /><br />The encore with all the bands was both telegraphed and onerous, but it was still kind of fun to see them up there together. Not all. Araya passed, later saying he didn't approve of the song selection ("Am I Evil?"), but he would have happily participated if they'd chosen something more "metal" like "The Four Horsemen." That would have been awesome (Big 4, Four Horsemen; get it?) and you know Mustaine knows the song already. Alas...<br /><br />All in all, a vital and must-seen adventure for me and I was happy to share it with the others, a great bunch (as you all know) who made the experience that much better. I think my metal concert-going days are over now and I can't think of a better way to have gone out.<br /><br />Well...on second thought...I'll probably go see Slayer again.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9337515.post-6224109932651665312011-04-28T09:10:00.000-07:002011-04-28T09:21:33.896-07:00RevelationsI'd like to thank all of you who reached out via comments, Twitter, Facebook, e-mail, text, carrier pigeon, stone tablets and voicemail (sorry to those of you in the last group, but we still don't get any cell reception at home; might take that one up with the Big Guy tonight).<br /><br />As I said, I didn't want to write that post. That was my overwhelming feeling when it became apparent I had to. What you read was something I began about four months ago. By the time I hit 'post' 90% of any trepidation I felt about it was gone. Part of that was the process and growth, but also thanks to a serendipitous conversation I had with <a href="http://badbloodonpoker.blogspot.com/">Blood</a>, <a href="http://www.alcanthang.com/poker/index.html">Al</a> and <a href="http://www.beercitypoker.blogspot.com/">StB</a>.<br /><br />On our way out of Indio (as I said, my faith is a work in progress, as evidenced by my spending Easter Weekend with Slayer), we were briefly caught in Easter Sunday traffic and the conversation veered toward my own experience. And I felt totally at ease talking about my faith with the boys, which provided impetus to finally finish the darn thing. <br /><br />I would be remiss if I didn't mention a couple people who were integral in me finally sacking up to post this. Emet, of course, is unflagging in her support and had known how I've struggled to say what I wanted to say lo these six months. She never prodded me and was, at the same time, always there. I'd not have arrived without her and we are both so thankful that God has brought us together.<br /><br />I also want to thank <a href="http://princessmaigrey.blogspot.com/">maigs</a> for that brief, but meaningful, conversation in Chicago. It was the first time I felt like I could do this (though I continued to fight it; the lesson there is, she's always right). <br /><br />I wrestled with that post for so long and started and stopped and edited and re-edited and second-guessed and...well, let's just say it was hard. There was one part I kept revising and cutting and, finally, I just took it out altogether. I won't put all of it here, but, allow me to summarize:<br /><br />God is, above ALL else, tolerant. He loves everybody. Muslims, gays, strippers, rappers, atheists, dogcatchers. There is no room for intolerance in His heart or in his Word. Using scripture as a basis for discrimination against any single person or any group is not what I've been taught, nor what I believe. <br /><br />*<br /><br />So now that the damn dam is broken, I think I can write again (your mileage may vary) and we'll get back to the usual silliness contained herein. My Big 4 review is on deck.<br /><br />Thanks again, everybody. I'm overwhelmed.Joe Speakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01980064962084527347noreply@blogger.com2