In the mood for some joyous chaos? Try a Brazilian soccer match

My daughter Elissa, my wife Terry, and me before the match enjoying some Brahma Chopp beers, which I would describe as Brazilian Bud Lite.

Last month, four of us (my wife, our kids Elissa and Jack, and me) took a one-week vacation to Rio de Janiero, Brazil. It was the first time any of us had been to South America, and the trip lived up to our every expectation.

Rio is a wonderful place with a rhythm and vibe all its own. I highly recommend it to anyone anxious to experience Brazilian culture and the friendly Brazilian people, though it does present some minor obstacles for the American traveler.

For one thing, while there are English words on signs all over the city, relatively few people there speak our language well. I wouldn't expect them to (it's THEIR country, after all), but we tend to get spoiled traveling to many popular destinations in Europe and Asia where you can find English speakers on almost every corner.

We learned the words you need to be polite in Brazilian Portuguese, including "hello," "goodbye," "please," "thank you," and "I request that you not steal my iPhone." Beyond that, we relied on hand gestures and the godsend of an app known as Google Translate.

Fluminense supporters waving flags
and screaming at the top of their lungs.

There's also quite a bit of traffic in Rio, so don't expect to get anywhere quickly. The locals accept this as a fact of life and make up for it by driving like suicidal maniacs.

That's an exaggeration, of course, but not by much. We got around via Uber, and we found the Uber drivers to be somewhat aggressive in their driving. By "somewhat aggressive" I mean changing lanes on a whim without really looking, not bothering to even tap the brakes at stop signs, and seemingly targeting pedestrians for no other reason than the sheer sport of it.

While the Uber rides provided enough thrills to last us a long while, so did my favorite part of the trip, which was the chance to attend a soccer match between Rio-based teams Fluminense and Vasco de Gama.

We did this through a tour company that specializes in bringing foreigners to Brazilian soccer games. Buying tickets directly as a non-Brazilian is a difficult experience – perhaps intentionally so – so you have to do it through an accredited agent.

Our tour guide Leo was outstanding. He was effortlessly trilingual (Portuguese, Spanish and English) and did a good job preparing us all for the experience.

Because Brazilian soccer is an experience. From the pregame festivities outside historic Maracanã Stadium to the match itself, rare is the time you can even hear yourself think. Everything about it is loud. All the time.

A small portion of the pregame crowd near Maracanã Stadium.

The streets around Maracanã were filled with people sporting Fluminense and Vasco de Gama colors. While it was technically a home match for Fluminense, the Vasco supporters seemed to be out in greater numbers.

We were told that Vasco fans generally draw from the region's working classes, while Fluminense fans are somewhat more affluent.

Regardless, we didn't overtly root for either team. We just tried to soak in the atmosphere. Outside the stadium there were fireworks aplenty (M-80s and bottle rockets mostly) and people yelling specific chants/cheers for their team. Europeans and North Americans mingled freely and happily with Brazilians and other South Americans, giving the whole thing an air of intense but friendly rivalry more than dark menace.

Once inside, we were struck by a few things that differed greatly from American sporting events:

• The only reason we knew the Brazilian national anthem was playing was because the players stood at attention and the words appeared on the video boards. The fans continued cheering loudly as if nothing important was going on. We couldn't hear the song at all.
  
  
• Once the match began, everybody stood. Everybody. The whole time. There was virtually no sitting.
  
  
• On a related note, people clogged the aisles of our section rather than just staying close to their seats. If you wanted to go get a beer or visit the restroom during the match, you had to wade through a dense sea of screaming fans standing in your way.
  
  
• I say "their seats," but there is no assigned seating in Maracanã Stadium. You just claim a seat and sit in it. If you leave, the seat is fair game for anyone else.
  
  

That's me and my son Jack before the start of the match.

Each side's supporters seemed to have an arsenal of chants and songs they would shout together in large groups. These were obviously in Portuguese (as were all game announcements and video board messages), and Leo tried to teach me one for Fluminense.

When the Fluminense fans launched into this particular chant, Leo turned around and looked at me like a teacher quizzing a pupil, but I immediately forgot almost everything I had learned. Instead I just sort of yelled along using nonsense words that somewhat approximated what I heard from the fans around me.

No matter, though. It was still a lot of fun.

In fact, the whole thing was a lot of fun...loud, crazy, and carried out in a beautiful language I will never be able to learn no matter how hard I try. But in the end, Fluminense's 2-1 victory (even including the shower of beer that hit us when Vasco scored the first goal of the match) was undeniably enjoyable.

I will not, however, be trying out anything I learned in Brazil at, say, the next Cleveland Guardians game. Between standing in someone's line of sight the whole game and claiming seats for which I don't own a ticket, something tells me I would be in a lot more danger at Progressive Field than I ever was at Maracanã.

Stop yelling at sports officials (says the guy who used to yell at sports officials)

There is a story that comes up regularly in our family about the time my son Jared was playing high school soccer and got run over (like, literally run over) by a member of the opposing team.

Jared had fallen and was down on the field, and this kid – I want to say "this punk," but I'll restrain myself – just ran right up his back and stepped on his head as if Jared was part of the turf.

It was reckless, dangerous and blatantly unsportsmanlike, yet no foul was called on the play. The athletic trainer came out and tended to Jared, then escorted him off the field to rest and recover.

I was livid about the whole thing, especially about the fact that there would be no consequences for the kid's actions. So I started yelling some not-so-nice things at the officiating crew from my seat in the stands.

Just as I thought I had gotten it out of my system and started to sit back down, I quickly stood back up and aimed a very unkind remark at the center referee, who was somewhat heftier than soccer officials normally are.

(Because we're friends, I will tell you that my exact words to him were, "And lay off the donuts!" I will also tell you that I was immediately embarrassed and ashamed I said it, though it delighted our friends the Pugh family to no end. It still gets brought up whenever we see them.)

I mention that story to establish the fact that I am a hypocrite when I tell you we all need to stop yelling at officials, especially those working youth and high school games. I'm not in a position to make this demand of you.

Yet I'm doing it anyway because I hear people do it all the time when I'm working as a public address announcer at various local schools.

There was a game recently at my home school of Wickliffe involving an opponent whose fans are generally very nice and pleasant, but that always seems to have a contingent of screamers. That obnoxiously vocal minority was horrible to the three referees working our boys basketball game.

Just as I was embarrassed by my own comments years earlier, I was embarrassed for them. They set a bad example for the kids in the crowd, and they represented their school and community poorly.

They also cast themselves as a big part of the problem when it comes to why we have such a shortage of officials to work youth and scholastic sports in this country. Loudmouth parents/fans make it an entirely unappealing experience.

What people like me and like them fail to realize is that the job of a sports official is hard. It's insanely difficult to catch every infraction and to find the right balance between keeping athletes safe and making sure they as referees are not disrupting the flow of the game.

You wouldn't be good at it, no matter how highly you think of yourself.

So – and I say this as politely as possible and with no more conviction than when I said it to myself after the Jared soccer incident – you need to shut up. Seriously, don't make things worse. Just keep your mouth closed.

You won't change the call, but you almost certainly will be a shameful example for everyone around you. And you'll make it less likely that anyone with any common sense will ever want to become an official.

Thank you for understanding, and for restricting your comments only to those words that positively support your team.

And even if you're not a hefty soccer official, it's not a bad idea to lay off the donuts every once in a while, either.

In an increasingly dark world, high school sports remain a source of light

This week begins my 11th year as a high school public address announcer, and I couldn't be more excited about it.

Between now and mid-October, I'll probably announce more than 50 different events, from volleyball and soccer matches to football games and marching band performances.

I even get to do several Division I college soccer matches for Cleveland State University, something to which I'm really looking forward.

My enthusiasm for PA announcing stems partly from the fact that it's fun, and partly from the way in which sports provide a wonderful-yet-temporary escape from everything that's wrong with the world.

These days, there is no shortage of things that seem to be going haywire. In the U.S., we're divided now as badly as we were in the late 1960s, and perhaps nearly as much as were during the Civil War.

I take great comfort in the undeniably wholesome nature of high school athletics. In my experience, the kids who participate tend to be smart, friendly, motivated and brimming with potential. They are fun to watch and even more fun to interact with.

Even if you don't really like sports, it's easy to admire the sustained effort and dedication of these athletes. The things they learn and apply are highly cliched (teamwork, sacrifice, hard work, etc.) yet still very real.

They give me hope.

I've been around prep sports for more than 40 years as an athlete, coach, journalist, league administrator and now as an announcer. I get just as excited for the opening kickoff of a football game now as I did back in the Stone Age when I was playing.

For those next few hours, I don't give the presidential election or any divisive social issues even a single thought. I am absorbed in the game.

Is this naive? Pollyanna-ish? Unrealistic? A case of the privileged white man sticking his head in the sand because he can?

The answer is probably "yes" on all counts. But I don't care.

I would rather watch a well-played high school volleyball match than two candidates yelling at each other on a stage any day.

One thing I learned at the Olympics: We should let the Dutch run the world

Last week I was in Paris with my wife Terry, my daughter Elissa, and Elissa's boyfriend Mark. We were there for the Olympics, and other than coming home with a case of Covid to a house without electricity thanks to a powerful storm a few days earlier, it was incredible.

We didn't get to any of the truly high-profile events. Or at least I didn't. I was already coming a day later than Terry, Elissa and Mark, but a delayed connecting flight forced me to miss my plane to Paris and to arrive on Sunday morning, rather than Saturday afternoon as planned.

The result was that my three travel companions got to watch the U.S. women's soccer team defeat Japan 1-0 on Saturday while I was still hanging around the airport in Atlanta.

Even though I wasn't there, my favorite thing about that match was that a number of people apparently asked to take pictures with my family, especially Elissa and Mark, who were dressed like this:

Elissa is on the left and Mark on the right, The woman in the middle was one their adoring fans at the U.S.-Japan women's soccer match who asked to take photos with them.

I just loved that. Elissa says cowboy hats, in particular, are a novelty for Europeans, who quite naturally don't get to see them very often.

Anyway, I didn't make women's soccer, but I did get to attend women's field hockey and a session of track and field. For all the hassle it was to get to the some of the venues – and make no mistake, the endless subway rides and countless steps we took to reach these sites were a hassle by any definition – the atmosphere, energy and fan camaraderie at Olympic events almost can't be described.

As Ferris Bueller would say, I highly recommend it.

Among the people we encountered during our week in Paris, my favorite were the fans from the Netherlands. They come from a relatively small country, but when their nation is represented on the international athletic stage, they show up loudly and proudly in large numbers.

I quickly realized that all of us who don't happen to come from the Netherlands/Holland have quite a bit to learn from the Dutch. To the point that I think we would be better off if we formed some sort of world government and allowed the Netherlanders to oversee it.

Three reasons why:

(1) They're smart: Mark and I were standing in line between field hockey matches outside Stade Yves-du-Manoir waiting to refill our water bottles. The line was long and the sun was hot. At one point the two Dutch guys in front of us persuaded almost everyone to move the line about 10 feet to the left so we could all be in the shade. It was a simple idea, but it hadn't occurred to anyone else. They convinced several people with whom they do not share a common language the mutual benefit of shifting the line over. That takes impressive communication skills. And brains.

(2) They're very comfortably bilingual: We talked briefly with the two smart Dutch men, and their wonderful grasp of English reminded me how effortlessly people in that part of Europe switch among languages. I worked with many people at Goodyear who were fluent in at least three languages and it always impressed me. In my experience, people who can speak in multiple tongues are generally people worth listening to.

(3) They proudly wear orange in mass numbers: While the flag of the Netherlands is red, white and blue, the national color is orange. Their fans deck themselves out in orange shirts, orange pants, orange hats, orange socks, etc. When we saw them take on Great Britain in field hockey, the stands were a sea of orange and orange variants. The only people not wearing orange were the relatively reserved British fans and us. Everyone else was cheering in unison for a Netherlands team that would go on to win the gold medal in the event. Want results? Get everyone on the same page, no matter their role in the process. The Dutch have known that for years.

As hobbies go, sports PA announcing is a strange but fun one

The high school sports season has kicked off here in Northeast Ohio, though I generally refer to it as "announcing season."

I have picked up a variety of public address announcing gigs these last few years, mostly through Wickliffe High School. It all started with the Wickliffe Swing Band, whose announcer I became back in 2014 (making this the start of my eighth season on the mic for this great institution). In subsequent years I've taken on Blue Devil boys and girls soccer, volleyball, and boys and girls basketball.

All of that, in turn, has led to separate engagements announcing for the Mentor Ice Breakers hockey team; Lake Erie College; University School; Perry, Mayfield, and Riverside high schools; and even a Division I men's college basketball game for Cleveland State University.

I've often said that PA announcers are much like football linemen: In ideal circumstances, you don't even realize they're there. Our job as announcers is to enhance the experience for both fans and players, all while staying out of the way and melting into the background.

The kids are and always will be the show. Just as no one comes to the ballpark to watch an umpire call balls and strikes, no one buys a ticket to hear the guy talking over the public address system.

That doesn't mean we don't do our jobs without enthusiasm. These kids who work so hard on their chosen sports deserve robust introductions and verbal recognition of their achievements. The trick is to balance energy with restraint.

The best I've ever seen and heard doing that was the late Ray Milavec, who taught, coached, and announced at Wickliffe for decades before passing away in 2016. He was a master at the craft, if you want to call it that.

Between now and mid-October, if all goes as planned, I will have announced something on the order of 40 total volleyball matches and soccer games, not to mention halftime band performances and miscellaneous band festivals. I also run the scoreboard for girls soccer.

And I can't tell you what a privilege it is to do all of it. I get a little sad when fall sports end, but six or so weeks later I'm back at it doing basketball, which makes for a very fun winter.

Some people collect stamps. I strive to pronounce kids' names correctly into a microphone. To each his own.

My wife and I have been sitting in the bleachers since 1999

All five of our children have participated in sports of one kind or another.

The result has been that, over more than two decades, Terry and I have watched countless soccer, t-ball, baseball, and football games. And don't forget all of the freezing cross country meets and rain-soaked track invitationals.

I coached many of those events, which meant that in addition to the natural nervousness that comes from hoping your own kid does well, I also had to worry about equal playing time and securing post-game snacks for other people's kids.

I wouldn't change any of it, of course, but lately I've marveled at how big a part of our life it has been.

It started with Elissa as the cutest little 5-year-old t-ball player you'll ever want to see, and it's likely to end in a couple of years on a high school track just before Jack graduates.

In between there have been some truly incredible moments. There have also been a few lowlights, including the time I told a portly soccer referee to "lay off the doughnuts" after I watched my son get viciously fouled with no call. (There should have been a whistle, but I wish I hadn't said that.)

Jack is our last student-athlete, and his specialty is distance running. He runs cross country and does the middle- and long-distance events in track. I think he's crazy, but then again, as a former sprinter, I think all distance runners are crazy.

I keep telling myself to savor every race and appreciate every moment we have left watching him compete. Everyone says it ends sooner than you'd like, and I can see how that will be true.

But I'll admit that sometimes, when I'm shivering my way through an eight-hour, 35-degree track meet, I allow myself to think for just a second that maybe it would be OK if we could fast-forward to Jack's senior year.

Then, of course, he zooms past us on the track and we cheer for him as loud as we can and it's all good again.

It's amazing how fast you warm up when you have the increasingly fleeting opportunity to watch your formerly little boy do his thing.

Fond memories of youth sports in the 70s and 80s

The photo above is not, it should be noted, one in which I or anyone I know appears. My little league softball/baseball career had just about ended by 1983.

But the one thing I share with the young men in this picture is the experience of having played dozens (maybe hundreds) of games wearing jeans. Not baseball pants, just good old Toughskins from Sears.

And, I should add, we were brilliant.

Or at least we thought we were. I played on some pretty good teams over the years and could hit the ball a fair distance, which is a good thing considering I had such a weak arm for an outfielder.

Here's what I remember about youth sports in the late 70s and early 80s:

• We were always coached by dads, many of whom smoked during practices and games.
• We wore those jeans but did have sweet matching t-shirts and hats.
• If you weren't a good hitter, no one on the other other team had any qualms about yelling out that fact when you came to the plate ("Move in, move in! He can't hit it out of the infield!") I'm not saying this is necessarily good, but it's pretty how much how it was.
• We got ice cream after games, but only if we won.

And I remember having fun. The whole thing really was a lot of fun.

I'm not saying it's radically different now, though I don't see the kids wearing jeans while they're playing. I spent more than a decade coaching and organizing youth soccer, T-ball, and baseball leagues, and the one thing kids of the 2000s shared with us Gen Xers is that they were just out there looking for a good time.

So that was always my philosophy as a dad-coach. Yes, I was going to make you work to get better, and yes, we were going to try to win. But if you're 9 years old and you're not out there having fun, then some adult (in this case me) has failed pretty badly.

You can go on your Old Person Rants about keeping score and participation trophies and all of that, but I'm not too inclined to listen. All I know is it's possible for young athletes to improve while still enjoying themselves. And if you're not doing both, you're not going to get much from the experience.

Of course, I still say sweating your way through a doubleheader in a pair of jeans in 85-degree weather builds character, but maybe that's just me.

My theory of leadership: Get good people and get out of their way

I never set out, in either my career or my personal life, to be a leader. It just kind of happened that way.

At Vitamix, I head up a team of three very talented communications professionals. I inherited one and hired two, and I couldn't have been more fortunate with the mix of ability and dedication that resulted.

At home, of course, I'm theoretically the co-head of a household of seven people, though I recognize aptitude when I see it and leave many important executive decisions to Terry. My job, in those instances, is to support her. I'd like to think I do it well.

I'm also the president of the Wickliffe High School Girls Soccer Boosters. A more appropriate title would be "coordinator," because my role is largely to channel the vast energy and ideas that emanate from the three wonderful ladies who are my fellow officers.

What I have learned, in all of these situations, is that effective management starts with recognition of what you yourself do well and what you don't do well. I know my limitations. I know what I can and can't do, and I don't pretend that my talents extend any further than they actually do.

I will make suggestions and coach when I can, but if you ever find yourself reporting to me in any capacity, I promise you two things:

(1) I will not micromanage. I trust that you are a responsible adult and that you have the ability to do your job well. That's a given. I'm going to step aside and let you do that job. I expect you'll deliver fabulous results (or else I wouldn't have hired you) and keep me apprised of what's going on.

(2) I will go to bat for you every chance I get. One of my responsibilities is to take some of the slings and arrows for you. Some you'll know about, others you never will. And that's the way it should be. You don't need to be distracted by things that are beyond your control, or by people who may or may not understand what you do and how you do it. Let me run interference for you.

If I ever fail to do either of these things, or if I'm letting you down in some other aspect of our working relationship, I expect you will let me know.

And that about sums up my philosophy on leadership.

So far it has worked out. Check with me again in two decades when I'm thinking about retirement and I'll let you know the final result.

What we did right with each of our kids - Part V - Jack

(NOTE: Parents are forever lamenting the things they wish they had done differently with their children. "I should have been more strict about this" or "I wish I had let her participate in that." That type of stuff. I see nothing productive there, so instead I choose to celebrate the things that Terry and I appear to have done well with our children. Plus, it's a good way to fill five days of blog posts. So there's that.)

At the ripe old age of 11, my son Jack is still a work in progress. You can of course argue that ALL of us are works in progress, but what I mean is that, compared with my older kids, he's still fairly malleable in terms of how he sees the world and the values he absorbs from us, his parents.

Jack busts me up. I don't know if it's because he's so naturally funny (he really is) or if it's just because he's kid #5 and Terry and I are, in general, more laid back and relaxed in our approach to raising him vs. our older children.

I actually like to think we've been pretty laid back with all of the kids, since my wife and I are essentially laid back people. Maybe too laid back in some ways, though we've been trying to focus only on the positive in these "what we did right with each of our kids" posts, so I'll stay away from that.

So to wrap up the series, here are five things Terry and I may have actually done right when it comes to little Jack:

(1) We're letting him try a new family sport: cross country. Like everyone in the family at one point or another has done, Jack plays soccer. Like three of his siblings before him, he has done this since he was a kindergartner. But over the last couple of months he has started distance running through the Wickliffe Junior Olympics program, and it's obvious we've stumbled upon something for which he has talent and from which he derives enjoyment. Bingo. I have no idea what his sporting future holds, but I have a feeling that soccer and cross country will have a hard time co-existing in his life, and that he will eventually (maybe very soon) have to pick one or the other.

(2) We got him swimming lessons when he was a baby. A toddler, really, but still, he was much younger than any of the other kids were when they learned to swim. I think Terry started taking him to lessons when he was 2. I'm amazed at how well kids that age can do in the water, especially since I'm not exactly a fish myself. That was a good call.

(3) We exposed him to electronics fairly early. Like most in his generation, Jack is a technological native. He was proficient in all types of hardware and software from an early age. And while he often spends too much time on various devices, he at least has a sense that there's such a thing as "too much time on devices." He'll learn to balance it all out as he gets older.

(4) We taught him to be affectionate. This may be just Jack's personality, but to this day he still hugs us and tells us he loves us every day. I'll be interested to see how much of that goes away as he hits his teen years, but right now he has no problem showing the world he loves his mom and dad. It's sweet.

(5) We taught him to lose. Now understand, when he was really, really little, I would arrange it so that Jack would win most games of Candyland or Chutes and Ladders. You don't want to crush their dreams quite that early. But for the most part, when we play a family game and Jack wins, he wins on his own. There's a lot of losing in life, and I don't say that in an Eeyore, whoa-is-us manner. It's just the way things are. The sooner you learn that, and the sooner you learn to deal with it, even if it's just a seemingly unimportant card or board game, the better.

What we did right with each of our kids - Part II - Chloe

(NOTE: Parents are forever lamenting the things they wish they had done differently with their children. "I should have been more strict about this" or "I wish I had let her participate in that." That type of stuff. I see nothing productive there, so instead I choose to celebrate the things that Terry and I appear to have done well with our children. Plus, it's a good way to fill five days of blog posts. So there's that.)

My 20-year-old daughter Chloe wants to be a doctor. A pediatrician, to be specific, and of course she's doing it by first getting a degree in biomedical engineering. This makes some sense, I suppose, but it's just like Chloe to go at the whole thing just a bit differently from most people.

For Chloe herself is a bit different from most people. Always has been. It is one of the many things to love about her.

Allowing her individuality to flourish is probably one thing we did right for her. Here are five others:

(1) We allowed her to be an interesting person. As Chloe was going out the door to head for work just now, I told her I was going to write a post about her, and I gave her the topic. She suggested that letting her be an interesting person should be on this list. Actually, she just said, "I'm an interesting person." And I said, "Does that mean we actually helped you become interesting? Or did we just stand by and let it happen?" And all she said as she ran out to her car was, "Good point." I'm not even sure what the point is. But I guess you could say we never quashed any of her eccentricities. Chloe is Chloe. If you love her like we do, great. If you don't, she doesn't have much use for you.

(2) I introduced her to soccer when she was 6 years old. Technically, she introduced me to soccer. I had been coaching my kids in t-ball and baseball for a couple of years when Chloe the kindergartner informed me she wanted to play soccer. So I went to City Hall to sign her up, and through a chain of events that still confuses me to this day, I ended up as her coach, as well (another story for another time). Chloe played nonstop all the way through her senior year of high school, capping her career by being named Most Valuable Player on her team that season. Soccer proved to be an outlet for her both physically and mentally, as she learned what it means to truly work for something and strive to improve every day.

(3) I let her choose the baritone horn on "Meet the Instrument Night" when she was in 4th grade. Chloe's choice to be a low brass player serves her well even to this day, as she has played the sousaphone in the University of Akron marching band the last two years. Terry, however, started accompanying us to these Meet the Instrument Nights after that because she was afraid I was going to steer all of our kids toward weird musical choices.

(4) We got out of her way. I said in a blog post on Chloe's birthday a year or two ago that the best thing when you're dealing with extremely bright and talented kids is to just let them go. That doesn't mean you should disengage from their lives completely, but understand that you aren't (and shouldn't be) driving the train. You're just the conductor, man, and you'd better hang on for the ride.

(5) We taught her to play cribbage. Have you ever played cribbage? That's a fun game. Sailors on submarines have played it for years. It's a good mix of strategy, skill and a little luck (much like life itself). Teach your kids to play cribbage. And if you don't know how, I will take you to Starbucks and have you playing like a champ in less than 15 minutes while we sip overpriced coffee (on me).

Getting back to youth sports coaching and why anyone would do it in the first place

I am, for the first time in more than two years, a youth soccer coach.

"Coach" used to be one of the ways I identified myself. Between 1999 and 2013, I coached a long string of youth t-ball/baseball and soccer teams, and also ran our local soccer club as league president for a couple of seasons.

During that time, my life was a blur of game and practice schedules, post-game snacks, making out lineups, etc. Coaches at the youth level have to coach their actual sports, of course, but they also must play the role of administrator, organizer, psychologist (to kids AND parents) and ball pumper.

Good Lord, I pumped up so many soccer balls in that decade-plus. With tiny little handheld pumps that require 5 minutes of hard exertion in order to blow up one size 4 soccer ball. How is it that we as a society are incapable of designing a soccer ball that will hold air for an entire season? Why do they all go flat? Why?

Anyway, through it all, despite the occasional hassles and inevitable calendar conflicts, I loved coaching kids. Just loved it. You build a special bond with them, and even years later when they're in high school they'll see you, wave and say, "Hi Coach!" Such a cool thing.

Then, in 2013, I had to step aside from the coaching ranks because there just weren't enough hours in the day. My then-new job at Vitamix was demanding in terms of time and travel, and I just couldn't swing regular attendance at practices and games from August through October (and then again in April and May) for another season while still surviving at work.

But now I'm back coaching my son Jack's U10 soccer team. We're well into the season and I'm excited about it. I love coming to the field and helping the kids have fun and become better soccer players. Win or lose, I love the post-game team talks. I love congratulating them on a job well done as much as I love trying to lift their spirits when things don't go so well.

Because that's why coaches do it, of course. Not because they're looking for any sort of recognition or monetary reward. You won't find either of those things at the rec soccer level anyway. It's for the equally selfish reason that it's fun. It's just fun. I get as much out of it (or more) than the kids do.

Like good teachers, good coaches stick with you for a lifetime. You remember them. You remember what they taught you. You remember catchphrases they used. You remember how happy you were when you made them proud, and you remember how crushed you were when you disappointed them.

Which is an awfully big responsibility for any coach to take on, I realize. And I don't want to be presumptuous and assume I'm making some huge difference in these kids' lives.

But even if you just teach them a little bit about responsibility, teamwork and all those gee-whiz concepts we attach to team sports because we want them to have redeeming social value, then you've done OK – both by the kids and by yourself.

And that alone is reason enough to hang a whistle around your neck and volunteer to help out. Assistant coaches are always welcome if you don't want the responsibility of being a head coach, and you don't necessarily have to understand the sport all that well. Just be willing to organize, teach and set a good example, and you're more than halfway there.

Why you shouldn't yell at referees or coaches when your child participates in sports

Actually, we all know we shouldn't do this. Yet a lot of us do it anyway. I sure have.

Let's say your kid is playing soccer, which is something I can personally relate to since all of my kids currently play or have played soccer. Soccer is thought of as a passive, non-contact sport, which is absolute nonsense once your child gets to be, say, 12 or 13 years old. Soccer from that point on becomes an aggressive, full-body contact game. Kids can and do get hurt. Regularly.

Anyway, let's say your kid's team is playing in a tournament against a local club team, and the opposing team's players are all head-and-shoulders bigger than your players. I can also relate to this because it just happened to me recently.

Melanie's soccer team played in the finals of a tournament against a group of girls who were all supposed to be 14 and under, but who looked to be juniors and seniors in high school. Clearly at least half of them drove themselves to the field for the game. (NOTE: I'm being facetious here. I'm sure they were all legal, but man, they were huge.)

This team used its size to great advantage, repeatedly bumping our girls off the ball, leading with their elbows, and generally doing things that technically are violations of the agreed-upon rules but that the referee in this case was letting go without calling fouls.

Many of our parents spent the game screaming at this ref, which I understand. But I wasn't one of them. It's not because I'm especially virtuous or anything, but mostly because:

(a) I spent years as a coach, and I know that screaming at an official gets you nowhere, in terms of helping your team. (Like I said, I've done it before. I'm certainly not without sin here.)

(b) I also officiated dozens of soccer games, and I'm here to tell you it's difficult. You have to find a balance between keeping the players safe and letting the competition flow naturally. That's not easy.

Look, I get why any parent wants to scream when they feel their kid is being wronged or threatened. Your natural instinct is to protect your child. Anything you can do to keep them safe, you do. I get it.

But unless you're 100% sure your kid is about to suffer a concussion or something, I suggest you keep quiet. Sooner or later that child is going to have to learn to work through seemingly unfair situations on their own. And I have just enough parenting experience to tell you that "sooner" is the better choice.

Life isn't fair. Never has been, never will be. You can choose to raise a child who accepts that and learns to adapt, or you can choose to raise one whose reaction to the inherent unfairness of his/her existence is to whine and complain.

Because that's what you're getting when you constantly berate an official and/or your child's coach. You're sending the message that the proper reaction is to yell, and that that's how mature adults handle tough situations.

Trust me, you don't want that.

If it's a case of your child seemingly not getting enough playing time or maybe not being set up for success by the coach, that's a legitimate concern. And it should be handled in a private conversation in which you express that concern and allow the coach to respond.

Unless your kid is playing for a high-level athletic organization, chances are that coach is an unpaid volunteer. He/she just wants to help. They do what they do in most cases because they love working with kids, and they love being around the sport.

That doesn't absolve them from the responsibility of doing what's best for every kid, but what your child learns from the experience largely comes down to how they see you react to it.

I am often afraid that my city – a place in which I take a great deal of pride – is starting to get branded as a home for yelling, screaming, whining, unreasonable parents when it comes to athletic competition. And I don't want that to happen. Not only because it reflects poorly on our town, but also because I know it's not helping our kids.

Like I said, I have the same urge to yell and complain sometimes. But there are better alternatives for all of us.

You're a parent. Act like one.

Chloe graduates, life goes on

If everything went according to plan, my daughter Chloe graduated from high school last night.

I say "if everything went according to plan" because I'm writing this in mid-April and, you know, lots of things could happen between now and the time you're reading this that would prevent Chloe from receiving her diploma.

Murder, for instance. Chloe may commit murder in the next few weeks and be locked away for life well before commencement.

One time Chloe drew up a list (this is absolutely true) that she posted on our refrigerator headlined "People Who Won't Die When I Get a Sword." I was relieved that my name appeared on the list, but I genuinely felt for those who were excluded. They should watch their backs once Chloe gets her hands on a sword.

Because that's the thing with Chloe, you see. She's like Mike Tyson in that absolutely anything you hear about her, no matter how off the wall, could possibly be true.

She has always been a little bit crazy. And by "crazy," I simultaneously mean both "endearingly quirky" and "frighteningly unbalanced." It's one of the many things I love about her, and I believe it's a primary reason she has accomplished so much thus far in her young life.

Chloe is intensely self-motivated in the way only the most talented eccentrics can be. Whatever she sets her mind to, she does. And she does it well. Soccer, music, academics, lopping people's heads off. Whatever it is, Chloe is driven to be the best.

One result is that – again, if everything went according to plan and she avoided any sort of legal entanglement – Chloe had the honor of giving a speech at last night's graduation ceremony as the Salutatorian of her class. Her academic achievements earned her a complete scholarship to the University of Akron, where God willing she will study biomedical engineering beginning this fall.

I shouldn't call it a "complete" scholarship because I think we still have to pay for books. But saying that is really looking a gift horse in the mouth, since the scholarship covers four full years' worth of tuition and room and board. As a father of five children, I cannot tell you how grateful I am for that particular blessing.

She was also named the Most Valuable Player on her high school soccer team last fall based almost solely on a strong left foot and the ability to run seemingly forever and ever. She was never the fastest or most athletic person on that team, but she excelled through sheer force of will.

Which is how I expect she'll also succeed in life. When Chloe wants something, she's not to be denied, regardless of what natural tools or gifts she may or may not have. She wants it, she'll have it, she gets it. Maybe not every time, but close to it.

But you know what? While that's all well and good, and it largely describes who Chloe is, it neglects the fact that she also has an immense capacity to love. Her heart is bigger than even the Grinch's was when it grew three sizes in one day. She is passionate and she is loyal, and those are qualities I will always admire in her.

So working under the assumption that Wickliffe High School did indeed last night confer upon Chloe a piece of paper making her an official high school graduate, we hit another milestone in our family. We're not the first, and we won't be the last, but it does mean that we've gotten 40% of our children through the Wickliffe school system. Two down, three to go.

Congratulations, Chloe. You deserve all of the wonderful things people have said about you over the past few weeks, and I know you'll earn many more compliments along the way. I hope you know how much I love you, not only because I'm your father, but also because I want to stay on that list of people who are safe from your sword...

There was a time...

There was a time when Saturday mornings meant Barbies and board games. I miss it.

There was a time when it wasn't at all uncommon for me to be awake at 3 in the morning changing a diaper. I don't miss it.

There was a time when every trip out of the house meant baby bags, car seats and snacks for little ones.

There was a time when everyone in the family believed fervently in Santa Claus. Including me, I think.

There was a time when helping someone with their homework didn't involve advanced math or Ph.D.-level linguistics.

There was a time - several, in fact - when I wondered how we would ever make ends meet (yet somehow we always did).

There was a time when the kids' high school graduation years seemed laughably far off.

There was a time when Raffi was the soundtrack of our long car trips.

There was a time when everyone was in bed by 9 p.m. and it was quiet. I really miss that.

There was a time when I could walk around the house without finding a single bra or feminine hygiene product on the floor. I think I really, really miss that.

There was a time when tee ball and pee wee soccer were the extent of our family's sporting endeavors. Now, thousands of dollars of athletic fees later, it's a bit more complicated.

There was a time when I was a 24-year-old father who had no idea what he was doing. Now I'm a 43-year-old father who has no idea what he's doing.

There was a time when I didn't have to worry about the top of my head getting sunburned because there was hair to protect it.

There was a time when I didn't know and honestly didn't care what my cholesterol, BMI and blood pressure were.

There was a time when someone dying at the age of 60 didn't seem to be that much of a tragedy to me.

There was a time when eating 4,000 calories a day meant I would probably lose weight.

There was a time when I was a newly married, 22-year-old recent college graduate with a beautiful bride. Now I'm someone who has been married for nearly half his life and is thinking about returning for a graduate degree who has a beautiful bride.

There was a time. It was a long while ago, but there was a time...

A new job, a new beginning, a new blogging schedule

So after four months of unemployment, I have a new job.

It makes me so happy to type those words, I'm going to do it again:

So after four months of unemployment, I have a new job.

Starting Monday, May 13, I will assume the title of Director of Communications for Vitamix, a company of which I'm hoping you've heard. They make very high-end, high-quality blending equipment for home and commercial use, and they're growing by incredible leaps and bounds.

This extended period of unemployment was the first of my life, and it was at times a nerve-wracking experience.

Now that it's ending, I can see how it helped me. It was a great time to reassess, get healthier, refocus myself, bring back this little mess of a blog, etc.

But when you're in the middle of it, you have a hard time believing the people who tell you, "Oh, trust me, it will be the best thing that ever happened to you!"

It's difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel when you don't even know how long the tunnel is. And when you're the sole source of income for a family of seven.

But like I said, now that it's over, I have to say these four months were good for me. I'm ready for gainful employment.

My new job is one with a high level of responsibility. I have three people reporting to me (all of whom, fortunately, appear to be talented pros), and there are a lot of expectations for my team to transform the way Vitamix communicates to its internal and external audiences.

No small challenge, but one I welcome.

Anyway, with the return of full-time employment in my life comes the usual examination of one's priorities and schedules.

For example, I've determined that after 11 years of soccer coaching and administration, I have to step down from my beloved Wickliffe Soccer Club. It's an organization I hold near and dear to my heart, and I'm proud to have had the chance to serve it for more than a decade.

But it's time to hand the coaching and leadership reins to others. They don't need my old self hanging around messing things up anyway.

There's also the matter of this blog. I determined months ago that I would not give it up once I got a job, even if you people all went away and I was just writing for myself (a distinct possibility of which I'm keenly aware, believe me).

But writing every weekday isn't going to work, either. So what to do, what to do?

What I've decided is to promise three posts per week starting the week of May 13th. I'm guessing those would appear on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, though we'll see what schedule works best. And occasionally we'll try to throw in a Tuesday or Thursday post, as well.

I realize this is all far more important to me than it is to you. And I want you to know how intensely grateful I am to the 150-200 of you who regularly check in here daily to read my senseless raving. It's a very, very, very small corner of the Internet, but one I hope that brings you some pleasure and even makes you think from time to time.

So let's see how that works and go from there.

In the meantime, go out and buy yourself a Vitamix machine. You won't be disappointed.

Does The Calendar rule your life, too?

Our life is controlled by The Calendar.

This is both a good and a bad thing.

It's good in that The Calendar, by which I mean the large "Mom's Plan-It Calendar" hanging on our refrigerator, is an invaluable tool in helping us organize our life.

I always say, "If it's not on on The Calendar, it doesn't exist." If you want a ride, if you want to make sure the family attends your event, if you simply want to remind yourself, write it on The Calendar.

At the same, it's a bad thing because, well, since when did we surrender control of our schedules to a sheaf of laminated paper?

Since about three kids ago, I would say.

You people with children know what I'm talking about. Especially if that child is school-aged and/or involved in a lot of activities. Sports, music, Scouts, whatever. They all involve practices, meetings and games, and they all seem to happen at once.

You people with multiple children are already shaking your heads and saying, "I hear ya, brother."

As I type this, our family has, over the next four hours, a track practice (Chloe), a track meet (Jared), a soccer game (Jack), and another soccer game (Melanie).

I coach both Jack's and Melanie's teams.

Do you see the problem there?

This is not the first nor the last time this will happen. And I don't ask for pity because we brought this on ourselves.

But that doesn't make it any more fun.

If you wonder how I made the choice to coach Mel's game and not Jack's, it came down to the relative "importance" of their games.

I put importance in quotes because it's kids soccer. No game, no practice is anywhere really close to "important."

Their overall experience and what they take away from participating in organized team sports: That's important. Not a game. Not the final score.

But when you compare the two, I selfishly picked Melanie's game to attend because we're playing our intra-city rival tonight. Our opponents are a great bunch of girls with a great coach, but when we play each other, nobody holds back. It's actually a lot of fun, and win or lose, all the girls involved get something out of it.

So that's what I chose.

But I never like to choose at all. And I'm actually surprised how often I don't have to choose. With five kids (even with one in college), the potential for Event Conflict is enormous. Yet the schedules tend to balance out, for the most part.

Still, activities and events leave us very little down time. When we can, we all like to just stay at home and do whatever we want. Everyone in the family appreciates that.

But when we're "free," other people expect that's a good time for us to get together. And we really should, but those rare free nights are the nights when we rest and recharge.

Again, we made the choice in all this. I know that. But I'm still going to whine because it's my blog.

Except that I'm already late for a soccer game and I have to go...

Coaching girls sports: The easiest(?) gig on the planet

I'm nearing the end of my 11th season as a youth soccer coach. Through the years I've had the opportunity to coach all five of my kids, plus countless other Wickliffe soccer players ranging in age from 4 to 12.

One thing I've learned (as detailed here) is that the single most important item young soccer players want to know is what's for snack.

Dribbling, passing, shooting and soccer tactics are important, sure, but nothing captures their attention quite like the thought of those Mini Chips Ahoy bags and Capri Sun juice boxes just waiting on the sideline when the final whistle blows.

They also want to know what position they're going to play. And what the score is. And how much time is left. All information they could easily ascertain IF THEY WOULD JUST PAY ATTENTION FOR ONE SECOND.

Not that I get frustrated or anything. I'm perfectly fine with teaching them something and then five minutes later realizing they have no recall of what they just learned. After a decade of this, you kind of get used to it.

But that's really just with the younger ones. Once they get up to the U12 level (5th and 6th grade), it's a lot easier and a lot more fun to coach them. Especially if they're good.

I've had the great fortune of coaching some excellent soccer teams over the years. You just show up at the game, tell them who's starting at which position and who's going to sub in, and sit back and watch while the whole thing goes onto automatic pilot and they methodically destroy the other team. It's a lot of fun.

Of course, I've been on the other side of that equation a time or two, as well. That's not so fun. But you take the good with the bad, and on balance I've really enjoyed my years as a soccer coach.

My favorite thing is coaching girls. Not that I don't like coaching boys, but girls are more enjoyable for two reasons:

1. They listen (for the most part). They're actually coachable.
2. Contrary to stereotypes, they very much care whether they win or lose.

This second point is key. The older they get, the more vicious girls become on a soccer field.

I coached Chloe's high school girls indoor team this past winter, and they were nasty. Not in a bad way. Just in a "we're better than you and we're going to pummel you" kind of way. There were times when these normally bright and cheery girls actually frightened me.

You play a variety of roles when you coach girls, but perhaps none more important than that of team psychologist. Girls care so much, and are sometimes so fragile in the confidence department, that you have to keep their spirits up. You have to let them know it's OK to fail. You have to praise them a lot before you offer up criticism.

And I've gotten pretty good at it. Having three daughters has been excellent practice.

The other crucial role you play with girls is Official Jewelry Holder. The rules state that, for reasons of safety, players cannot wear dangly earrings, necklaces or bracelets during games. Most of the time they remember to leave these at home.

But when they don't, they take them off and I hear the familiar, "Coach Scott, can you hold this for me, please?" And of course I do, because really, what else am I going to do?

Besides taking a peek into the snack bag and maybe pulling out a sample for myself, of course. Let's make sure we have our priorities straight here.

Five first names I wouldn't mind having

I like my first name. Always have. But if I had to change it, here are five alternatives I wouldn't mind:

(1) BRUCE: Seems like a solid, manly name. Maybe because it reminds me of Brut aftershave, a bottle of which could often be found in our house when I was growing up in the 70s. The bottle was green plastic, which probably spoke to the quality of the product inside, but I thought it smelled nice. And some bottles of Brut came with a cool silver medallion. I would wear the Brut medallion today if given the chance.

(2) TIM: Tims are good people. You don't run across a lot of annoying Tims. And if you do, they're most likely a "Timothy." Big difference. (NOTE: In no way am I implying that guys named "Timothy" are necessarily annoying. Just some of them. If you're named Timothy and you're reading this blog, you're probably not annoying.)

(3) DAVE: The Tim Rule applies here, too. I have good associations with the name Dave. Like Dave Matthews, for instance. Seems like a good guy. Someone you'd want to hang out with. Or my brother-in-law Dave. He's a good guy. Or former Cleveland Indians manager Dave Garcia, who according to Wikipedia is 92 years old and still going strong. Apparently Daves live a long time, which is a plus.

(4) HANK: A dark horse candidate. I used to associate Hanks with people missing most of their teeth. But then the TV show "Royal Pains" came along, and now I think Hank is kind of hip. Still, it's hard to separate "Hank" from Hank Williams, and it remains my go-to generic hick name. But it's still an up-and-comer. (By the way, have you noticed so far that all of these are short, one-syllable names? So is "Scott." I'm just lazy enough to want a first name that doesn't require a great deal of effort when writing it out. Let's see if #5 bucks the trend...)

(5) KAI: Not only did we stick with the one-syllable pattern, we actually went back to the three-letter first name. "Kai" is a cool name. It's actually a relatively common name in several different cultures, most notably in Finland. I associate "Kai" with Kai Haaskivi, a Finn who played professional indoor soccer here in Cleveland back in the 80s and early 90s. "Kai" also means "probably" in Finnish, which is fitting because I would "probably" be the coolest person on the planet if my name was Kai.

HONORABLE MENTION - D.J.: My dad wanted to name me D.J. As he explained it, it wouldn't have stood for anything. Just the letters "D" and "J." I think I would have liked that, but he was overruled by my mom. And as we've mentioned before, the pregnant woman always gets veto power over name suggestions. It's OK, Mom. I really do like Scott...

One way to save your children from having YOU as a parent

I don't have many theories about raising children, mostly because I'm pretty much winging it as I go. I've been winging it for close to 19 years. And so far none of my kids have:

(a) committed a felony (or at least there have been no convictions)
(b) lost their lives while under my care
(c) been abducted by a man in a windowless white van

These are my criteria for parenting success. I'm not sure I'm capable of much more.

Which is why, as I often say, Terry cannot die. Well, eventually she CAN die. I have no say over that. But it absolutely must not happen in the next 15 years, because she's the one who instills actual values into our children and teaches them practical stuff.

My role, other than to eventually get another job and resume my duties as Chief Provider, is to teach them things like:

- Why hockey was meant to be played 4 on 4
- Why the 3,000-mile oil change is a scam
- Why 1983 was the greatest year in the history of music
- Why you need to pour milk into a cereal bowl in a certain way such that every single piece of cereal gets milk on it BEFORE you start eating. This is vitally important.
- Why you should never put your hand on the table.

Regarding that last point, I'm thinking it has been covered before in this blog, hasn't it? Hold on a second while I go and check...

Ah, yes, this tradition of mine was described in a post last April (see point #8). In case you have no desire to click on that link (and honestly, I wouldn't be that motivated if I were you), I've been doing this thing with the kids since they were little in which I try to get them to put their hands flat on the kitchen table. When they do, I pound their hand − hard − and say, "NEVER put your hand on the table!"

Why, you wonder? And I ask, "why not?" It's to the point that I have to trick them into actually putting their hands on the table, and I'm lucky if I can get even one of them to do it in the space of a year. They're clearly on to me.

But every once in awhile I'll put on a stern face when one of our offspring is sitting at the table and say, "Did you spill milk here? I can't believe you spilled your milk." And the kid will indignantly say, "I didn't spill my milk! What are you talking about?" And I'll rub the table and say, "Well, then, why is it so sticky here?"

And then, if the stars align just right and the child forgets who they're talking to, they'll get an annoyed look on their face and rub the spot I show them. And in the space of 8 milliseconds, my fist will come crashing down onto their hand and I will triumphantly remind them NEVER TO PUT THEIR HAND ON THE TABLE.

This is the greatest feeling in the world, and it actually teaches them a valuable lesson: Namely, that you can't trust ANYONE in the world, not even your crazy father. Maybe especially your crazy father.

The point is, I clearly won't be writing a parenting book any time soon. And if I do, it will be called "Never Put Your Hand on the Table: And Other Things I've Tried to Teach My Poor Children." It won't sell well, but I'll be a hero to dads across the world who make it their mission in life to show kids the value of pain.

Still, I will say this: If I have learned anything from nearly two decades of dad-dom, it is the value of confidence in a child. You cannot, in my view, overestimate the value of a child's self-worth.

Now, before you conservative types get your panties in a bunch, please understand that I'm not talking about the cheap, feel-good brand of self-esteem our society so often tries to pump into kids these days. I'm not for everyone getting a trophy, no score being kept (in most circumstances), etc. etc. etc.

I'm talking about the very real benefits of simply helping a kid believe they're worth something. And that they can do whatever (realistic) task set before them.

I think there's value in doing this for every kid, but especially girls. I coach a lot of girls sports, and I've found this unfortunate fragility that creeps into the psyche of female athletes starting at about the age of 10 and often lasting well into their teenage years (and beyond).

You have to be very careful how you deal with them. Criticism absolutely needs to be offered in a positive, constructive way. This is not to say they're not tough. They absolutely are (and vicious, too...I'm telling you, girls soccer games are as rough as any football game in which I ever played).

But Lord knows these girls are bombarded daily with the not-so-subtle message that they're not good enough. They're not skinny enough, they're not pretty enough, they're not smart enough, and on and on and on. They don't need to be beaten down on the athletic field, too. They should feel empowered by sports.

That doesn't mean I won't be tough on them. I will. I'll let you know if you're not playing to your potential. You can't help lack of natural ability, but you most certainly can help lack of effort.

Ultimately, though, these girls need to hear five positive things for every one negative. And the "negative" shouldn't even be negative as much as a guideline for improvement. Yes, one day they'll need to be ready to deal with a tough boss, and yes, we need to prepare them for the roller coaster ride of life.

But to my way of thinking, the way we do that in these adolescent years is to build a base of self-confidence that will naturally breed toughness, strength of character, and all of that other Girl Scout stuff that actually means something in life.

So I take every opportunity I can to praise my daughters. I do it with my sons, too, but I don't think they're fighting the same battles as my girls.

And besides, my boys instinctively KNOW a 2005 Honda Accord can go 5,000 miles before it's time to change the oil...

The consequences of having British people live in your home

As I mentioned before, we had three young English soccer coaches living with us last week. They left on Saturday, completing the seventh consecutive year we have housed coaches as part of Wickliffe's annual British Soccer Camp.

We love having the guys stay with us, and this year's crew of Ben D., Ben B. and James were great fun. Nice young lads, as Ben, Ben and James themselves would say.

And that's the thing about providing room and board to a trio of Brits: Every year it changes the way I talk and act, at least for a little while until well after they've left. Here's what I find happening every time we have these Englishmen in our home:

(1) I say "init" a lot
This is a uniquely British word that's actually a contraction of "isn't it." I don't know if all British people use this word, but it seems the coaches who stay with us do...a lot. It will be a particularly warm day and one of them will say, "It's hot out there, init?" Or, "The food here is great, init?" I've started using this word myself and people look at me funny. "Did you just say 'init?'" "Oh, sorry. Yeah, I meant, 'isn't it.'" It gets a bit awkward, like I'm trying to put on one of those little faux British accents of which Madonna has become so fond.

(2) I'm suddenly aware of England a lot more than usual
You know that thing where we as Americans know next to nothing about other countries and are perfectly happy to live in ignorance when, say, there are full-scale wars and revolutions going on overseas? Yeah, I'm pretty guilty of that myself. But when the Brits come, I pay a lot more attention to what's going on in my ancestral home (well, the home of SOME of my ancestors...I've got a lot of German in me, too). It's nice to have some awareness of British current events that don't involve the Royal Family.

(3) I'm also aware of how insanely much we eat
Portions in American restaurants are massive. Not coincidentally, so are many Americans. Of the 15 coaches we've hosted over the years, I believe every single one has mentioned that their food intake goes up dramatically whenever they're in the States. All you need to know about us is the fact that the smallest sizing available for many Starbucks drinks is "tall." That's right, "tall" is actually small. The largest size, "trenta," is an Italian word for "heart disease."