Lessons, Cliches, and Stories From a Washed-Up Has-Been

I will learn to let go what I cannot change
I will learn to forgive what I cannot change
I will learn to love what I cannot change
But I will change, I will change
Whatever I, whenever I can
- Lyrics from What I Cannot Change

I can't change, I can't change
But I'm here in my mind
I am here in my mind
But I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mind
No, no, no.
- Lyrics from Bittersweet Symphony

"I'm gonna change -- I'll change -- I've learned that I have the strength to change."
- Michael Corleone, Godfather II

Over the past several weeks, I've learned quite a bit about myself and this world:

• There is no good television programming on at 2 o'clock in the morning. I'm thankful for the DVR.
• Morning Joe is perhaps the best non-rerun show on tv. It starts at 5 am.
• Like a nephew of mine, I develop a nervous stomach when I'm under intense pressure. I have to do the same thing he does - lay down, relax, and think calming thoughts. And eat a lot of Tums. Although, I did learn that Octavian suffered the same ailment. The other morning, I got quite the chuckle picturing him puking his guts out in the Straits of Actium.
• Change is the only constant in life. So be it.
• If you're successful once, it's easier to achieve success again - even if the two incidents aren't remotely related.
• It ain't over 'til it's over. But after everything is said and done, there's nothing left to say or do.
  

Toward the end of my seventh grade, I played for the eighth grade basketball team. I knew most of the guys because when I was in the fifth grade, I played for the sixth grade team. I also knew that they didn't particularly care for someone a grade younger outscoring them. So be it.

Anyway, during one of these junior high games, we found ourselves down one point with only a few seconds left. The inbounds pass came to me and I took the shot. In true Shooter fashion, in-and-out; I was fouled. With no time left on the clock, one free-throw would tie the game, two would win it. With only myself and the ref out on the court, I sank both free-throws. That's the shot that put me on the map.

During the next five years, I was put in several similar situations - down by a couple of points, time running out, and with the ball. I wish I could say I won them all, but I didn't. The main thing that counts is that I won that first one.

I'm in a story-telling mood.

My final year in high school, we played in the Mason tournament. I loved that tournament for no other reason than the annual trip through Fredericksburg during Christmas season.

We played well and earned a trip to the championship game to face Llano. Llano is probably a wonderful town in an undoubtedly wonderful section of Central Texas. However, I can't stand that place for no other reason than we played their team in a meaningless non-district game 17 years ago.

I still have the game on videotape, which I watch every few years. Despite never having played each other before, we sure did hate each other. Several times during the game, hard fouls led to a few fights. At the beginning of the third quarter, the referee warned each coach that one more scuffle would lead to the game being forfeited by both sides; even talking smack would warrant a technical foul.

With five seconds left, we were up by two points but they had the ball. During the timeout, Coach told us that we could do just about whatever we wanted except foul the shooter. Of course, one of our guys fouled the shooter.

The kid shooting free-throws missed the first shot. Four of our guys jumped up and celebrated because we just won the game, except we hadn't. I was the only one to stand still and get ready for the next free-throw. He had one shot left and it was possible for him to miss, get the rebound, and make the shot to tie, or possibly win, the game.

Of course, he purposefully missed the shot, we got the rebound, and a fight flared up as the clock went off since the game could no longer be forfeited. The court was cleared and the medal presentation took place in the locker room.

Anyway, those two stories have been floating around in my mind since Monday morning.

Even though those two happenstances occurred many years ago to a kid I barely now recognize, they sure do provide quite a bit of relief to an aging man who is quickly showing more and more grey.

Frontrunner Always Running

It's my opinion that there were three types of Americans yesterday: those interested in Mardi Gras beads, those interested in Super Tuesday delegate counts, and those living in caves.

Watching caucus and primary results last night brought back a long-forgotten memory.

In Fall of 1996, I read a book that cemented my absolutist position concerning the First Amendment. At the beginning of the book, the author made an interesting observation: it's easy to support the First Amendment if the speech in question is of the variety you support; an advocate of the First Amendment even tolerates speech that is disagreeable. Only a true believer of the First Amendment will defend speech of the truly abhorent nature. A true defender, he wrote, will seek out an event featuring speech he absolutely disagrees with and support the advocates of that speech.

A few months later, I accepted an invitation to join the Travis County Democratic Party's Watch Party at the Driskill.

As it was a foregone conclusion that Dole was going to lose to Clinton, I had already accepted defeat but remained unrealistically hopeful of an upset. Bonnie and Mark, on the other hand, eagerly anticipated a second term. Good friends that they are, they promised not to let anybody else know I am a Republican and I promised not to wear my tie with an elephant motif.

We got to the ballroom and anchored ourselves in front of the television to watch early returns. Revelers came up to us to ask, How are we doing?.

Not as good as I hoped, was my reply.

Anyway, as Bonnie, Mark, and I drove to Austin that November 1996 evening, we talked about what political junkies all across the country were already talking about - who was going to run in 2000.

Conventional wisdom centered on two people: Governor Bush and Senator McCain.

I quickly dismissed McCain. My reasoning - he was still too closely associated with the Keating Five. Advantage Bush. Turned out I was correct but for the wrong reasons.

In 2008, I wonder if anybody remembers who Keating is and if anybody cares McCain always will.

And Happy Birthday, Ronnie. Many people this morning wish you could come back and hit the campaign trail as a candidate.

I Got Your Ali Baba Right Here!

In Syriana, an oil executive warns an attorney about the dangers of due diligence: "Dig six feet, find three bodies. But dig twelve feet, you find maybe forty."

There's also the Aristotelian adage that the unexamined life is not worth living.

Regardless, I don't mind coming across the proverbial forty bodies if it provides greater understanding.

Earlier in the week, a colleague of mine asked how I am able to withstand criticism. I spent quite a bit of time the next couple of days thinking about it and this is what I came up with:

Almost everything I learned related to ethos I learned from religious training; almost everything I learned related to pathos I learned from athletic training.

I recalled a previous conversation I had with another colleague about raising children: there's a certain part of me that is fearful my child, particularly a boy, will not be the sports addict his father is. In my everyday life, I often rely on the lessons I learned through organized athletics and I'd be a much weaker person without them.

Anyway, I told my colleague I always hear criticism, but don't always listen to it. Let me explain.

I played basketball with another kid from junior high all the way through high school. On paper, he was the superior athlete. Meaning, he could jump higher, run faster, and lift more.

The two things that made us vastly different (and, I believe, put me on the regional team at the end of the season): I hated to lose and I hated to be yelled at, in that order.

If I screwed up, I got yelled at; if I got yelled at, I made it a point not to repeat that particular screw-up. My teammate, however, if he screwed up, he got yelled at; if he got yelled at, he got so nervous, he'd screw up again. Rinse and repeat.

When I was about 15, our basketball coach was particularly upset after a disappointing loss. The next practice, he was still livid. The first time somebody ran the wrong play, he took that moment to explode. He yelled and used words I wouldn't use around war veterans. As he continued to yell, he got more and more upset. After telling us how sick and tired he was of being sick and tired, he took the key ring off his shorts and hurled them as fast as he could against the wall.

When he first started his rant, the JV coach took a knee against the mat against the baseline expecting to be there a while. He was allowed to do this; the rest of us were not. While he yelled, we were expected to stand still, neither slouching nor making a lot of movement. As he paced, we were expected to keep eye contact on him. What we weren't allowed to do: smile, smirk, roll eyes, or make any movement that might enrage him further. To do so would risk an invitation to, as he put it, run until he puked.

Getting back to the story, as the keys were hurled against the wall, they headed right for the JV coach's head. He quickly ducked to avoid them while Coach didn't miss a beat, continuing to yell. The rest of us were temporarily distracted at the near miss and a few bit their lip to avoid laughing.

A few minutes later, we resumed practice and everything went back to normal.

That, my friend, was the best training I had at hearing, but not listening to, criticism; I hope my kid learns the same lessons.

Well, it's been ten years and maybe more since I first set eyes on you.

Actually, it's only been nine years but never skip a chance to quote Zeppelin.

A little less than a full decade ago, I had been on my first post-collegiate job for about three weeks. I was the first-hire of a newly created four-person department.

Nine years ago today, my boss told me that the newest hire was going to come in and fill out some paperwork before she officially started the next week; her name was Melissa.

Melissa and I chatted for a little bit. She was cute but the last thing I wanted to do was date somebody I worked with.

Several months down the road, we started dating. Several months after that, we got engaged.

Through our employment, we worked side by side for several years.

Through a series of miracles and several acts of charity (few of them mine), we're still working side by side.

Her style is new but the face is the same as it was so long ago,
But from her eyes, a different smile like that of one who knows.

*

I really don't know why sports records are kept. I guess because they're fun to remember and recount.

But as objective qualifiers, I believe they've done the opposite of what they're intended to do; instead of defining absolutes, they are used as opening proffers for comparison.

Sure, almost all records are generational. Some factors are substantive, others external. For instance, I'm more willing to debate the fact that Ruth only had 154 games each season. I'm less willing to debate the fact that Owens ran on cinder.

But what I won't allow is a change in terms of debate that create a lower threshold. As a fan, I can enjoy the competitive pursuit of a record even if that record stands after all legitimate attempts are exhausted. It's why I believe DiMaggio's hitting streak is perhaps the purest of all time.

Nothing I can say diminishes the relatively unchallenged domination of Woods. But I won't diminish the domination of golf's past heroes to sustain the insecurity that my generation is better than your generation.

Yes, I am referring to the Tiger Slam.

Additionally, Woods has been credited with breaking Nelson's streak of 113 consecutive cuts made. In Lord Byron's day, making the cut meant receiving a check and one had to finish in the top 20 in order to accomplish that. Modern golf has allowed making the cut to merely mean qualifying for the third and fourth rounds.

In 1945, Byron Nelson won 11 consecutive tournaments. No question mark, no quotations, or brackets. When he entered a tournament, he won.

Now, modern golf acknowledges Woods' [active] "streak" of 7 consecutive(?) tournaments.

Since last year's Open Championship, however, Woods failed to win the HSBC Championship and the World Match Play; over the weekend, he tied for third at Dubai.

How then is this an active winning streak?

Because modern fans are lazy and care more about apparent triumph than actual victory.

Don't even get me started on what I think about the fans at the 16th green at the FBR Open.

Saturday Night Snooze

Last year, I found Iconoclasts on the Sundance Channel.

The show takes two public figures and puts them in an roving interview environment. Every once in a while, the two share a professional or personal connection; often, the two share little except a mutual admiration. Mario Batali and Michael Stipe, for instance. Still, it worked.

This morning, I caught the episode with Lorne Michaels and Paul Simon. The pair often discussed their long-running friendship by reviewing the many times Simon appeared on SNL.

My thought throughout the interview: What the heck happened?

I can't even remember the last time I saw a complete episode of SNL, which coincided with when it ceased to be funny. I don't even miss it. Now, if I want to watch funny skit comedy, I'll watch Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.

Growing up, SNL was a weekend staple. We'd risk sleeping during church just to catch the show in its fullness. If you showed up at the lunch table on Monday morning without knowing many of the skits or Weekend Update jokes, you might as well just sit next to Ronald Miller in Siberia.

Brian called me a couple of weeks ago with his idea for a skit. Weekend at Harry's, he called it. It would follow Senators Reid and Clinton playing puppeteers to Senator Johnson in order to hold onto their majority. He asked if this idea were feasible. I responded that I wasn't aware the show was still running or that people still watched it. Cast members aren't comedic. Jokes aren't funny. Skits aren't entertaining.

Obviously, being funny every weekend for over 30 years is impossible. Continued comedic genius for that long a period is probably unprecedented.

Still, this dry spell is reaching epidemic proportions. And I believe it directly relates to the inability of too many people to laugh at themselves and others in non-malicious racial matters. While political commentary has primarily guided SNL, its comedic method of revealing the idiocy of racism has been invaluable. Kinda like All in the Family.

But lately, Lorne is playing it safe.

A word association skit like the one Chase and Pryor performed would end with demands for an apology and eventual boycott. Even a Garrett Morris jail dance-and-song skit would end in complete discomfort.

Now, those were iconoclastic.

For Love of the Game or Money

I've recently been re-reminded of why it's much more fun to be a child than it is to be an adult.

The summer after I graduated from high school, I got a job working the poolside snack bar at the Lodge. Brian had been life guarding the pool during his summers home from UT. Since most kids went to the Pro Shop, I was essentially paid to work on my tan and look like a tool with my do-rag.

Anyway, Brian and I got into collecting basketball cards. A box of cards cost about $25, if memory serves. But this wasn't just blindly spending money; it was investing in our idols. Surely there would be a couple of rookie cards in there that would not only pay for the price of the box, but would one day mature to $100 or more.

I faithfully kept all my cards in plastic sleeves and arranged them with OCD detail. My favorite players first, then by team, then by All-Stars, then all the rookie cards together. I placed them in a red plastic folder I used to hold notes in high school.

When Jackson came up this weekend with his parents, he brought along with him his trading cards. Most are feature players from the NFL with a few NBA players tossed in. I told him I had some trading cards and retrieved them from the study.

He makes TD look like a piker. Flipping through the book, he quickly asked, "Can I have the Michael Jordans?"

At the end of the weekend, I took all the cards that are worth anything (maybe $10 or over) and gave the rest to him, including one Michael Jordan.

It got me to wondering about how much they had increased in value over the past 15 years. I also remembered that I absentmindedly tossed 3 cards in my desk about a year ago: a 1981 Ervin Johnson Topps, a 1986 James Worthy Fleer, and a 1970-71 NBA Scoring Average Leaders with Lew Alcindor, John Havelicek, and Elvin Hayes. They are in the same condition as when I bought them - near mint.

Looking at these cards and wondering of their worth, I am also reminded of three David Robinson rookies I let my then-girlfriend hold onto for safekeeping. Man, was that stupid.

Today, I did some quick research to see how much I could sell my cards for, were that to be my decision. To make me feel better, a card I bought for $32 dollars is now worth almost $80. A card I bought for $18 is now worth almost $45.

To make me feel worse, those David Robinson rookies are worth about $15 apiece.

I'm glad I don't collect those cards anymore. First, it's too time consuming. And while it can get to be expensive, I readily admit my other hobbies and other toys are quite expensive themselves. But most of all, I know that at my cynical age, I would purchase solely as an investment and not for the boyish love of the players.

Still, I'm left with the question: Do I sell these cards now, or do I let them sit for another 15 years and pass down if we have a son?

Little Rio in Dallas? Who Knew?

I've lived in Dallas for almost ten years. Each day, when I search, I find that there is something new to learn about my community. If only I stop and seek out new opportunities.

A couple of days ago, Melissa and I ran an errand to the nail salon where everybody in her family gets their nails done. They've been going to the same place for years on end and the technicians there have become like family.

Anyway, we had to run by and purchase a gift certificate. As we were leaving, I saw a store called Coisas Do Brasil. It's not everyday that I see a sign in Portuguese so I grew interested in what they sold. We dropped in to take a look.

I became giddy at the sweets and other products I haven't seen for years. But my eyes grew about ten times their normal size when I saw a drink product called Guarana; it's the Coke of Brazil. Guarana has a taste I have never tasted in any other drink. But, if I had to make a comparison, I'd say it's like mixing cream soda and ginger ale with a mild cherry aftertaste. I purchased a bottle and quickly consumed it.

When we were inside the store, I wanted to talk to the owner in his native tongue to see how much of the language I had retained. I wasn't afraid of my own tongue, I was nervous in front of my wife. The thing same happened when we traveled inside Mexico and in Italy. I don't know if I feel I must speak perfectly in order to impress her, but my tongue freezes.

Well, yesterday was mani/pedi day for me and Melissa. We went back to Legends for a mini-day of relaxation. Anyway, when I was done, I told her I'd be next doors for a little bit. But once I got inside, I felt more at home, more relaxed. The owner recognized me from a couple of days ago and started a quickie conversation. I responded in his native tongue and we began conversing back and forth. After a couple of minutes, I sat down on a bar stool in the cafe and made myself at home. I thought about returning to the nail salon but my wife knew where to find me when she was done. After about 20 minutes, she did. I was able to introduce her to my new friends and discuss our (ongoing) travel plans to Brazil.

And I got six bottles this time.

Stormy Memories

When I was in elementary school, a traveling book fair rolled in each year. They'd set up in the main lobby and it was impossible to miss them either entering or exiting the building. Marketing geniuses.

Additionally, I don't remember receiving a regular allowance growing up. I also don't remember doing many chores around the house so fair is fair. Regardless, I hated asking for money (still do) unless it pertained to books.

This time of year, however, I didn't mind asking. I'd inevitably end up with some Encyclopedia Brown book or some sports book that would be quickly consumed and put in a box in the attic with the rest of my books.

I'll admit it - I'll often judge a book by i's cover. And its opening paragraph.

While browsing the aisles of the book fair (I think I was in the 3rd grade), I found a book with an eerie cover. It featured two boys, a little older than me. One was blonde and wore glasses, somebody who looked like somebody I would like to be friends with. In the background, a warlock looking guy held out both palms in an entrancing manner; and a storm loomed in the distance.

The book was Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. It remains one of my childhood favorites.

I believe it's because of that book that I love rain storms.

When I went to bed last night, a steady but brisk wind blew in from the south. It didn't have the dark clouds that usually accompany a storm so I thought nothing of it. Plus, our home is situated in an area that when storm clouds do form, they quickly drift over; the rain usually doesn't fall until the clouds have moved twenty miles to the west.

I woke up at 5:20 to a thundering boom followed by pelting rain against the windows. My first thought was "By the pricking of my thumb". The next forty-five minutes were a torrential downpour and blinding lightning storm. I loved it. Melissa and Logan, on the other hand, did not. Logan, who fell asleep in the library, quickly came to the room to seek us out.

Wanting to catch sight of the storm myself (and to retrieve the paper before it became soaked), I got up and watched the storm from the porch.

A few months ago, I sat on the porch and watched a fascinating electrical storm. Lighting filled the entire sky. I took some very neat pictures anticipating posting them here. I went to bed and woke up the next morning only to learn a tornado touched down about 15 miles northwest of here killing several people and displacing hundreds more. It felt a bit callous posting pictures for amusement of a storm where people died.

So this morning, I just enjoyed the storm for a few minutes, wrote down a few thoughts, then happily crawled back into bed.

New Girl Needs A New Name - But She Doesn't Like Her First Name

Every once in a while you meet somebody who makes life a little more tolerable.

My last year in high school, a new girl moved to Wimberley. I think we only had one class together - a math class.

New Girl sat behind me. New Girl was hot. And smart. She attended Hays the previous three years and was unhappy in Wimberley. My older brother went to Hays; I grew up watching their football team and sang Dixie every Friday night. I understood.

Never a stellar student, the teacher assured me that if I attended tutoring sessions after school, she would not flunk me. Preserving my eligibility was of foremost importance to me so I whole-heartedly agreed.

For some unknown reason, New Girl also went to these tutoring sessions. Serve ice cream and I'm king of the world.

While New Girl gave me a ride home one day, she mentioned she was thinking about transferring back. I told her I didn't want her to because I thought she was really cool. So I asked her to Homecoming before anybody else could. Lucky thing it was Charity Week because she said yes.

One day, she asked me to go to the mall with her and her older sister to look for a dress; I think Big Sis was brought along for a second opinion (me, not the dress). That's okay. But when I remember small moments, that one comes up first.

The rest of the year went by quickly. Basketball, baseball, but we remained friends nonetheless. Truth be told, I liked her too much as a friend to risk putting her in the "exes club".

We lost communication after graduation even though we went to the same college. I still ran into her mom every now and then and heard about how great she was doing.

Anyway, we just started talking again after many years. Other than having two kids at the hip, she hasn't changed much. She's extremely well-grounded and I'm glad.

She recently reminded me that things happen or don't happen for a reason.

It was worth the 5 year period of silence to be reminded of that.