Hey kids, trying to figure out what to do with your life? Can't decide which career to pursue? Well, here's a handy list of possibilities, all of which I've done in my life and most of which at least provided a living wage so that my family didn't starve. Which is a plus.
Dishwasher in an Italian restaurant (1985)
PRO: Free food.
CON: It turns out there are a LOT of dishes to wash in an Italian restaurant.
Wendy's employee (1986)
PRO: Free food (whether or not it was supposed to be free).
CON: Drunks who came through the drive-thru at 2:35 a.m. after the bars closed and thought they were hilarious when they ordered a Big Mac.
Newspaper sports department clerk (1988-90)
PRO: The thrill of deadline, helping to put out an award-winning sports section every night and getting paid for it while still in college.
CON: No free food.
Newspaper sports writer (1991-96)
PRO: See the "PRO" entry under "Newspaper sports department clerk" above.
CON: When they ask how much money you make, people can hear in your voice the implied quotes when you talk about your "salary."
Health insurance plan document writer (1996-97)
PRO: Each day would eventually end.
CON: Each day would inevitably begin.
(NOTE: In all fairness, this was with a very solid, reputable organization. It just wasn't a job that fit me especially well.)
Managing editor for a urology-themed trade newspaper (1997-99)
PRO: Urologists are hilarious. Seriously, some of the funniest people I ever worked with.
CON: Almost everything you write and talk about in the course of a normal work day involves penises, prostates and assorted old person problems.
Hospital public relations guy (1999-2002)
PRO: Being in the operating room and getting to tell stories about amazing research and clinical care at one of the finest academic medical institutions in the world.
CON: Lots of blood, some of it not your own.
Public relations agency account executive/vice president (2002-06)
PRO: Travel to many cool places.
CON: Travel to many cool places while your kids are little and your poor, pregnant wife is stuck at home.
Community foundation public affairs representative (2006-11)
PRO: Some of the nicest, coolest, most talented colleagues I've ever had.
CON: It's amazing how much people hate you when all you're trying to do is give away money.
Tech-oriented nonprofit marketing and communications VP (2011-13)
PRO: Broadband access is fascinating.
CON: Startlingly few people care about broadband access.
Unemployed guy (2013)
PRO: No work!
CON: No paycheck!
Blender company director of communications (2013-present)
PRO: There's always food here.
CON: There's always food here.
Thursday, March 23, 2017
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
I got a new car so I stopped speeding
We probably need to address three things about today's headline:
(1) I didn't get a "new" car. I got a "new to me" car. A "pre-owned" car, as they call it nowadays. A "used" car, as they called it when I was growing up. It's a 2015 Honda Civic. It's a great car and about the newest car I've had in my life. So it's new but it's not. Are we clear on that?
(2) To say I've stopped speeding is to imply I don't speed at all, which isn't true. I go about 5 MPH over the speed limit in most instances. It's just that I used to go 10-15 MPH over with regularity. So while technically I still speed, I don't speed like I used to.
(3) The headline also implies that the reason I stopped speeding is because I got the car. And while that's true, it's not the only reason. Sure, I don't want to jeopardize my nice new-ish car, but I've also felt for a long time that I should slow down.
To that last point, speeding always felt good in that it got me places faster. But it also felt selfish in that it (statistically anyway) put others around me in danger. And as a supposed follower of Christian teachings, I'm supposed to submit myself to the law, and the law clearly states how fast I should be driving on a given road in a given situation.
And really, I should clarify that I've only been slowing my roll for a couple of weeks now, so it's not like this is a permanently established habit quite yet. But I intend it to be.
I find, for example, that my morning commute is far more peaceful when I just kind of go with the flow and don't immediately slide over into the left lane and jam on the gas pedal. This morning I was listening to Wagner ("Die Meistersinger," for those who care) and having a good old time in the second lane from the right, averaging about 65 MPH. I got to work maybe two minutes later than normal and it was fine.
Seriously, it was fine. I didn't feel like I was missing anything by not joining my old friends in the speed demon lane – a lane that, by the way, averages about 75 MPH on Interstate 90 westbound heading into Downtown Cleveland most weekday mornings.
I felt a lot more relaxed as I drove and a lot more relaxed when I got to work. Relaxed is good. I could use more relaxed.
A lot of this has been brought on by the fact that I'm teaching my daughter Melanie to drive. She's the fourth of my kids with whom we've gone through this process, and with every one there have been awkward conversations like this:
CHILD: Aren't you supposed to turn into the left lane when you make a left turn?
ME (sheepishly): Well...yeah.
CHILD: Then why did you go all the way out into the right lane?
ME: You'll do the same once you get your license.
Translation: I know what I did is wrong, but everyone does it and therefore it's OK.
Not my finest parenting moments.
So I figure setting the example for my children and for others is a better-late-than-never situation.
Anyway, if you're a chronic speeder like me, I suggest you give, you know, NOT speeding a try for a while. At first you'll be antsy. Just itching to swerve around that slow poke in front of you who has the nerve to do the actual speed limit. MOVE OVER, IDIOT!
But then after a while you'll be that idiot. Except you won't be an idiot. As long as you drive in the correct lane (leave the passing lane for those still addicted to velocity), you'll be the responsible driver.
And that's what we're all aiming for, right? Safe, smart, responsible, relaxed.
Especially relaxed. I'm telling you, relaxed is good.
CHILD: Aren't you supposed to turn into the left lane when you make a left turn?
ME (sheepishly): Well...yeah.
CHILD: Then why did you go all the way out into the right lane?
ME: You'll do the same once you get your license.
Translation: I know what I did is wrong, but everyone does it and therefore it's OK.
Not my finest parenting moments.
So I figure setting the example for my children and for others is a better-late-than-never situation.
Anyway, if you're a chronic speeder like me, I suggest you give, you know, NOT speeding a try for a while. At first you'll be antsy. Just itching to swerve around that slow poke in front of you who has the nerve to do the actual speed limit. MOVE OVER, IDIOT!
But then after a while you'll be that idiot. Except you won't be an idiot. As long as you drive in the correct lane (leave the passing lane for those still addicted to velocity), you'll be the responsible driver.
And that's what we're all aiming for, right? Safe, smart, responsible, relaxed.
Especially relaxed. I'm telling you, relaxed is good.
Friday, March 17, 2017
I just assume you're a good person
There are relatively few things I can say I strongly believe, but one is certainly the idea that most people have genuinely good intentions.
I truly believe this. I'm not saying that most people are "good" (whatever that means) but that, by and large, they intend to do good.
There are exceptions of course, though I'm not good at recognizing them. I have almost no ability to detect when someone is trying to take advantage of me. Call it naivete or whatever, I just don't pick up on it.
The result is that you could easily get me to buy a fake deed or to give you money to help with some nonexistent problem. But I choose to believe people don't do that to each other.
My wife, on the other hand, would disagree. She can point to several examples in which she would say my faith in humanity ended up biting me in the proverbial backside.
The most shining example of this was Maurice. Maurice was a man I met at a Shell gas station a couple of years ago when I was pulling in to put some air in my tires. He flagged me down as I drove in and explained that he and his girlfriend were staying at a nearby hotel, that they didn't have any money, that they had gotten into an argument (I think...I can't remember the details now), and in a nutshell, that he needed to get food and could use some money to buy it and to get them back to where they actually lived. I wish I could remember the specifics, but you get the drift.
If you're like most people, you probably would have reacted in one of two ways:
Option A: You would have politely declined his request for money and driven away
Option B: You would have given him a few bucks and driven away
I, however, chose Option C, also known as The Dumb Option. I told Maurice to get into the car so that I could take him to Mr. Chicken for food, which I would pay for. I didn't know Maurice from Adam (or from Eve, for that matter). If any of my kids ever took a total stranger into their car like that, I would freak out at them. But for whatever reason, it seemed OK for me to do it because he seemed like a nice guy.
NOTE: My wife recently pointed out that many of my dumbest decisions include the sentence "he really seemed like a nice guy." She's probably right.
Anyway, we chatted as we drove to Mr. Chicken and I enjoyed the conversation. Maurice really WAS a nice guy, at least outwardly. When we got to the restaurant, I told him to order whatever he needed for him and his girlfriend. And there may have been a child involved, too, I can't remember. I think the order came to $20 or so.
Then, as we got into my car and started driving back to his hotel, Maurice said the only way he and the girlfriend could get home was by taking a cab. And since it was on the other side of Cleveland, it was going to be really expensive. I wasn't sure how much of his story I believed at this point – even I'm not a complete fool, though I know it seems like I am – but it was clear he was in need, so I told him I would take him to the bank and we would take out some money for him.
If you're a sensible person, you're probably staring at your screen slack-jawed at this point. "What the #^&?! were you thinking?" is something you likely want to say to me now. I know, I know. But did I mention how much of a nice guy he seemed?
I got $60 out of the cash machine and gave it to him. He had asked for more, but I told him that was all I could spare. Then I drove him back to the spot where I had originally picked him up. He thanked me as he got out of the car and told me he would be in touch to pay me back, which I never believed. Because again, I may be stupid, but I'm not dumb. Mostly.
Wait, you're wondering, how would he be able to contact me? Because I gave him my cell phone number. "YOU WHAT?!? WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST SIGN OVER YOUR HOUSE TO THE GUY, YOU DUMB ****?"
I know, I know, in retrospect maybe not a good move. But I thought that was the end of it.
Until a week or two later when I was sitting on a hillside in West Virginia. (This is absolutely true.)
Terry and I were attending my mom's family reunion, which every year is held in a rural park on the West Virginia/Pennsylvania border. We had climbed up a grassy hill and were sitting there by ourselves talking when my phone rang. I saw it was a Wickliffe number and picked it up, figuring it was somebody I knew.
And it WAS somebody I knew. It was my friend Maurice! He was at a different hotel this time and needed a place to stay, but at the moment he was short of cash and was hoping I could pay for his room until he was able to reimburse me.
It was only at that moment, I think, when I realized maybe not everyone is a completely honest person. In a few seconds, I would fall from the ranks of "completely honest" myself.
I wasn't about to pay for Maurice's hotel room, so I told him (truthfully) I was out of town and couldn't just come down and bail him out. He said that was probably fine and asked if I could come to the hotel the next day when I was back. So I did the only thing I could think to do.
I lied through my teeth.
"Oh, I won't even be back in Wickliffe until Thursday," I told him. "And even then I have work and I'm going to be really busy."
We were going back to Ohio that same day, but I wasn't going to tell him that.
Then came one of those moments that lives on in my relationship with Terry. After I told Maurice I wouldn't be home until Thursday (it was Saturday), I covered up the phone and said in a loud whisper to Terry, "I'M LYING!"
And she started busting up. Of COURSE I was lying, and of COURSE she knew I was lying. There was no reason for me to tell her I was lying, but I felt the need anyway. Now, to this day, any time Terry or I say something that obviously isn't true, one of us will look at the other and loudly whisper, "I'M LYING!" We have fun together.
Maurice hung up and, surprisingly, I never heard from him again. I really thought I would. Terry, from time to time, will mockingly ask me if he has called recently to arrange repayment of the $80 "loan" I gave him (which is how much it was when you add up the food and the cash). I tell her to shut up, she laughs at me, and life goes on. This is how you stay married for nearly 25 years.
Anyway, I tell you all of this not to suggest that I'm some virtuous person, but to drive home two essential points:
(1) Despite my stubborn belief in the inherent goodness of most people, I will concede there are indeed exceptions.
(2) I'm an idiot.
You instinctively knew both of these things already.
I truly believe this. I'm not saying that most people are "good" (whatever that means) but that, by and large, they intend to do good.
There are exceptions of course, though I'm not good at recognizing them. I have almost no ability to detect when someone is trying to take advantage of me. Call it naivete or whatever, I just don't pick up on it.
The result is that you could easily get me to buy a fake deed or to give you money to help with some nonexistent problem. But I choose to believe people don't do that to each other.
My wife, on the other hand, would disagree. She can point to several examples in which she would say my faith in humanity ended up biting me in the proverbial backside.
The most shining example of this was Maurice. Maurice was a man I met at a Shell gas station a couple of years ago when I was pulling in to put some air in my tires. He flagged me down as I drove in and explained that he and his girlfriend were staying at a nearby hotel, that they didn't have any money, that they had gotten into an argument (I think...I can't remember the details now), and in a nutshell, that he needed to get food and could use some money to buy it and to get them back to where they actually lived. I wish I could remember the specifics, but you get the drift.
If you're like most people, you probably would have reacted in one of two ways:
Option A: You would have politely declined his request for money and driven away
Option B: You would have given him a few bucks and driven away
I, however, chose Option C, also known as The Dumb Option. I told Maurice to get into the car so that I could take him to Mr. Chicken for food, which I would pay for. I didn't know Maurice from Adam (or from Eve, for that matter). If any of my kids ever took a total stranger into their car like that, I would freak out at them. But for whatever reason, it seemed OK for me to do it because he seemed like a nice guy.
NOTE: My wife recently pointed out that many of my dumbest decisions include the sentence "he really seemed like a nice guy." She's probably right.
Anyway, we chatted as we drove to Mr. Chicken and I enjoyed the conversation. Maurice really WAS a nice guy, at least outwardly. When we got to the restaurant, I told him to order whatever he needed for him and his girlfriend. And there may have been a child involved, too, I can't remember. I think the order came to $20 or so.
Then, as we got into my car and started driving back to his hotel, Maurice said the only way he and the girlfriend could get home was by taking a cab. And since it was on the other side of Cleveland, it was going to be really expensive. I wasn't sure how much of his story I believed at this point – even I'm not a complete fool, though I know it seems like I am – but it was clear he was in need, so I told him I would take him to the bank and we would take out some money for him.
If you're a sensible person, you're probably staring at your screen slack-jawed at this point. "What the #^&?! were you thinking?" is something you likely want to say to me now. I know, I know. But did I mention how much of a nice guy he seemed?
I got $60 out of the cash machine and gave it to him. He had asked for more, but I told him that was all I could spare. Then I drove him back to the spot where I had originally picked him up. He thanked me as he got out of the car and told me he would be in touch to pay me back, which I never believed. Because again, I may be stupid, but I'm not dumb. Mostly.
Wait, you're wondering, how would he be able to contact me? Because I gave him my cell phone number. "YOU WHAT?!? WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST SIGN OVER YOUR HOUSE TO THE GUY, YOU DUMB ****?"
I know, I know, in retrospect maybe not a good move. But I thought that was the end of it.
Until a week or two later when I was sitting on a hillside in West Virginia. (This is absolutely true.)
Terry and I were attending my mom's family reunion, which every year is held in a rural park on the West Virginia/Pennsylvania border. We had climbed up a grassy hill and were sitting there by ourselves talking when my phone rang. I saw it was a Wickliffe number and picked it up, figuring it was somebody I knew.
And it WAS somebody I knew. It was my friend Maurice! He was at a different hotel this time and needed a place to stay, but at the moment he was short of cash and was hoping I could pay for his room until he was able to reimburse me.
It was only at that moment, I think, when I realized maybe not everyone is a completely honest person. In a few seconds, I would fall from the ranks of "completely honest" myself.
I wasn't about to pay for Maurice's hotel room, so I told him (truthfully) I was out of town and couldn't just come down and bail him out. He said that was probably fine and asked if I could come to the hotel the next day when I was back. So I did the only thing I could think to do.
I lied through my teeth.
"Oh, I won't even be back in Wickliffe until Thursday," I told him. "And even then I have work and I'm going to be really busy."
We were going back to Ohio that same day, but I wasn't going to tell him that.
Then came one of those moments that lives on in my relationship with Terry. After I told Maurice I wouldn't be home until Thursday (it was Saturday), I covered up the phone and said in a loud whisper to Terry, "I'M LYING!"
And she started busting up. Of COURSE I was lying, and of COURSE she knew I was lying. There was no reason for me to tell her I was lying, but I felt the need anyway. Now, to this day, any time Terry or I say something that obviously isn't true, one of us will look at the other and loudly whisper, "I'M LYING!" We have fun together.
Maurice hung up and, surprisingly, I never heard from him again. I really thought I would. Terry, from time to time, will mockingly ask me if he has called recently to arrange repayment of the $80 "loan" I gave him (which is how much it was when you add up the food and the cash). I tell her to shut up, she laughs at me, and life goes on. This is how you stay married for nearly 25 years.
Anyway, I tell you all of this not to suggest that I'm some virtuous person, but to drive home two essential points:
(1) Despite my stubborn belief in the inherent goodness of most people, I will concede there are indeed exceptions.
(2) I'm an idiot.
You instinctively knew both of these things already.
Thursday, January 5, 2017
Born to run. Or at least I used to be.
I have long thought of myself as a runner. Some people don't think they're runners because they don't do marathons, or they "only" run two or three days a week.
Then it suddenly doesn't. Because my calves hate me, and they delight in nothing more than letting me think I'm OK and then tearing themselves out of sheer spite.
Rule of thumb: If you get outside and run, or you hop onto a treadmill and run, you're a runner. If you cover even 10 feet more ground than a couch potato does, and even if you do it at a snail's pace but it's a running pace for you, then you're a runner.
Trust me, it's not some elite club you can't join.
Anyway, I run. For the past couple of years, the cadence of my running has been four days a week. Usually Saturday, Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Most of my runs are 3 miles in length, over a fairly hilly course in my neighborhood. On Saturdays I'll often do a 5-miler over that same hilly course.
But lately there have been no 3-mile runs. There have been mostly 0-mile runs. Because I'm hurt.
99.99% of runners, at one point or another, get hurt. For some it's the joints. They tweak a knee or an ankle and have to sit out for a period of time. Then, once they're healed, they run again.
For me it's muscles. And specifically the muscles of my calves.
Over the past year, I've strained various muscles in both calves a total of nine times. That's according to my daily running log, which I've been keeping assiduously since 2001.
(NOTE: I thought of the word "assiduously" the other day for no reason at all, and now I get to use it in a blog post. Score.)
Actually, those calf strains have all happened over the past eight months. The problem being that I hurt one, I rest for a little while but not long enough, I go back out and try to run, and I hurt it again. Then I repeat that cycle.
Then that calf finally heals, and somehow the other one decides to tear. And I go back out, and I hurt it again, etc.
I'm in the middle of this insanity right now with my left calf, and I've been sticking to brisk walks, rather than runs, in an attempt to let it mend itself. This works for a while, but then I'll be out walking and think to myself, "The calf feels fine. I should run a mile or so to test it."
So I do. And for most of that mile it feels fine.
Then it suddenly doesn't. Because my calves hate me, and they delight in nothing more than letting me think I'm OK and then tearing themselves out of sheer spite.
This leads to a love-hate relationship with my calves. On the one hand, they're clearly trying to kill me, or at least drive me crazy, which makes me hate them. But on the other hand – and I'm going to be perfectly honest with you here – I have great calves.
No, really, it's one part of my body I actually like. My calves are genetically awesome. One time I remember walking back to the locker room after a football practice, and Vic Peroni was behind me and said, "Tennant, give me your calves!"
This is Vic Peroni, who was pretty ripped. The guy had muscle upon muscle, but my calves were the one area where I had him beat.
So as vain as it is to say, I have nice calves, and I tell them how nice they are all the time, yet they still choose to hate me. I feel like the parent of a criminal: I want to love them, but they continually disappoint me.
Anyway, I am, as I type this, once again sidelined by a left calf strain. I'm walking four days a week, and I've created what I hope is a sensible, patient recovery schedule that involves walking for the next few weeks, then a couple of weeks' worth of combined walking and light running, and eventually stepping up to a full running schedule again.
In the meantime, I can't run. And I hate that. I HATE that. I run for health and weight management and all, yes. But do you know the #1 reason I run?
Because I love running. I love the physical act of running. I love that, at the age of 47, when my calves cooperate, the rest of me is in sufficient condition to run several miles a week. The feeling of putting one foot in front of the other is my high. I don't really drink. I definitely don't do drugs. But I do run.
And right now I can't.
It's a terrible sort of withdrawal that manifests itself in the form of general fatigue and blah-ness. I'm addicted to the act of running, and right now I can't do it.
My advice to you: Do not become a middle-aged person if you can help it.
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
Now my heart is full
It doesn't matter if you're unfamiliar with this song by Morrissey. You only need to know the feeling it evokes.
It's the feeling every parent gets when their kids are with them and happy and all is right. You get it on the day they're born. You get it when they're little and in their jammies and you're snuggled up watching Disney movies together. You get it when they're a little older and you start having conversations together about important things. Adult things.
And you get it when they're mostly grown-up and it's Thanksgiving and they're all home and that never happens.
My driveway is as full as my heart today because all of the kids are home at the same time. This, you begin to realize in the teenage years, is an increasingly rare occurrence. It is the way of life that they're going to start spending more time away from home than in it, and that's a good thing. That's the way it should be.
But you miss the jammie-wearing, Disney-watching days. And while you'll never get them back, having them clogging up the driveway, sitting in the kitchen and laughing while they eat pizza together as young adults is the next best thing.
Suddnely you understand a gratitude you hadn't known before. It brings a deeper meaning to Thanksgiving.
And now my heart is full. I hope yours is, too.
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
An October roller coaster of emotions
This is a long post. Absurdly long. You don't have to read it. Really, you don't. I just had a lot to say, is all. If you want to read it, go ahead. I just felt I should warn you...
Bill Cosby began what is, for my money, one of his funniest stand-up comedy routines many years ago by saying, "I must tell you about my problems driving around San Francisco..."
Of course, there was nothing "must" about it. He wanted to tell you about those problems, and you wanted to listen because you knew it was going to be funny. Or at least you wanted to be nice to Bill, back when he seemed like a person to whom you should be nice.
In the same way, I must tell you about the emotionally exhausting ordeal that has been my October 2016 to this point. I don't "have" to tell you about it, but I want to tell you about it, and I thank you so much for listening. Or reading, I guess.
If you're someone who indulges me on Facebook, you know that most of my posts these days have something to do with my kids' sports activities. The youngest three are all in the latter stages of their soccer seasons, and of course Jared, my 18-year-old, is also serving as the kicker for my beloved Wickliffe Blue Devils football team.
There are highs and lows when you're the parent of an athlete. You rejoice when they succeed, you agonize when they fall a little short, and you cry inside when they have a difficult time or seem to be losing their enjoyment of the sport, for whatever reason.
Jack, who is 10, is playing his first season of travel soccer. He's a defender, and his team is very good. Very, very good, actually. Jack has had periods when he plays every minute of every game, and other times when he sits the bench. This level of soccer is new to him, and while he has mostly adapted well, there are still things for him to learn. His coach, Arturo, is tough but fair. You earn your spot and you work to keep it. That's the way life goes, and I don't think 10 years old is too early to learn the lesson.
Melanie is a sophomore in high school, and statistically she has had a tougher time this year than she did as a freshman. She's a forward, so Mel measures herself by statistical output: Goals and assists. As of this writing she has one of each. Last season she had something like seven goals and two assists. The fact is, the talent level on her team has risen noticeably this year, and playing time is harder to come by. Again, you get it by earning it.
Virtually no soccer player I've coached or watched over the past 15 years works harder than Melanie. She's the soccer equivalent of a hockey grinder: Someone who goes out there and fights for loose balls, bangs bodies and plays physically when needed, and consistently puts her head down and does the dirty work in front of the goal. Those are the types of things that help teams win, even if they don't always show up on the stat sheet.
Mel is going through a crisis of faith these days. She's a bit disillusioned by her position in the team hierarchy, and she doesn't see much room for upward movement in the next two seasons. My advice to her is simple: Keep doing what you're doing. Work on every facet of your game: Ball control, first touches, decision making, speed, conditioning, etc. Be the hardest working player on the field. The rest will take care of itself.
Not a bad lesson there, eh?
And then there's my boy, Jared. He's one of two boys I have, of course, but for a long time before Jack came along, I simply referred to him as The Boy. And let me tell you, that boy is one busy dude these days.
He's a starting forward on the boys high school soccer team, and the team's second-leading scorer. He does the kicking thing in football, of course, and he also puts on his saxophone and plays (while still in his football uniform) at halftime on Friday nights. Every day is another practice or game, or a combination of all of the above.
He is nearing the end of a football career that began three years ago, but more importantly, of a soccer career that began when he was a fuzzy-headed, six-year-old kindergartner. That's how it is when you're a senior in high school: You do something for years and years and work so hard to get better at it, and then suddenly it's over. Unless you're one of the handful of people who go on to play at the collegiate level, you're done. Just like that. Done.
This realization is coming quickly for Jared. It will all hit him in 3-4 weeks when his fall activities end without the promise of a next year. Part of him will be relieved, I'm sure, as the grind of fall sports and band starts to wear on him noticeably after a while. But part of him will grieve, no doubt in that silent, I've-got-this, keep-it-to-yourself manner of Jared.
And if I'm being honest, I will grieve right along with him. I love watching him play. Just love it. I love watching all of my kids play, but you only get the Senior Experience once, and it has been wonderful. He plays some sort of key role in everything he does, and I couldn't be more proud of him.
But the rest of Jared's life is calling to him, urging him to move on from where he is now and to experience new adventures. I'm excited for him, but I'm going to be so sad when this all comes to a screeching halt in November.
Oh, but you know what I won't miss? Jared taking hard-hit soccer balls to his testicles. Seriously, this happens to him at least once a season. He'll be going about his business playing the game, and someone on the other team will inadvertently launch a rocket shot that will absolutely destroy his Man Region. Jared goes down, he gets tended to by a snickering coach or trainer, both teams on the field laugh while trying to seem like they're not, Jared gets up and hobbles off, and he comes back later in more or less decent shape.
This has happened so many times that I can't imagine watching him go through it again. Maybe it's just as well this soccer thing is about to end.
As for football? Well, Jared has settled into a nice routine every game of executing a series of pooch kickoffs and converting extra points. He had some trouble on the extra points earlier this season, but now he has rounded into form, and the team itself is 6-2 and on its way to its best record in 15+ years. And there may be playoff football in our future, which is stunning.
So I start thinking about whether Jared will be called on to decide one of those playoff games. He hasn't kicked a single field goal in three years of varsity football. Not one. Twice he has lined up to attempt field goal kicks, and both times they were blocked.
What if they send him out there to decide a game with a 35-yard field goal in the final seconds of the fourth quarter? Physically I know he can do it (easily, actually), but mentally, how will he handle it? How will I handle it, for crying out loud?
I'll tell you how I'll handle it: by fainting. Seriously, I'll just pass out on the spot. I'll never see whether the kick is successful or not, because I'll be laid out flat on the bleachers while everyone else is watching nervously.
I'm tough that way.
I am married, as it turns out, to one of the most amazing people on the planet. I've said this before, and if you know her then you know the truth of my words. She is a whirlwind of ability, empathy, laughter and grit. She keeps six of us going every day while maintaining a house that has somehow not fallen down around us in the 13 years we've lived there.
She is, in short, the most remarkable person I've ever met. By a longshot. No disrespect to you or me or anything, but we simply don't come close to her on the Awesomeness Scale.
Which is why her recent emotional struggles have come as a bit of a shock.
When I say "emotional struggles," I don't mean she's going nuts or anything. I just mean that even the mighty Terry has reached the limits of her endurance at a time of year when she is constantly being called on to drive a kid to practice, mend a band uniform, clean up a mess someone else has made, or tend to a very sick cat (more on that in a bit).
Some people can handle more than others. Terry's threshold for work and responsibility is high, but it is not infinite. And over the past several weeks, we've finally reached it.
Which is why I've been on the kids and on myself to step up our games. It never should have gotten to this point in the first place. The family, as a whole, allowed itself to grow entirely too dependent on Mom. That's not good for her, and it's certainly not good for them. You raise independent, resourceful adults by forcing them to be independent and resourceful kids.
We're working on it. Some are better than others, but I'm confident we'll all get there.
In the meantime, Mom has applied for a job for the first time in nearly 20 years. I won't get into the details here, but suffice it to say that she has an interview in a few days, and I know she'll do great. Because that's who she is. If and when she gets the position, even though it's only part time, we're all going to have to adjust and fend for ourselves a little bit more.
This is, by all accounts, a good thing.
A few hours ago, before I had the chance sit down and eat my lunch as I type out this post, I took our cat Bert to the vet and had him euthanized.
That's the medical term they use for it, of course: "euthanized."
What it means, in reality, is that I allowed the doctor to inject a lethal substance into his veins that almost instantly ended the life of the beautiful mess that was Bert.
That phrase "beautiful mess" came from our friend Kelly Gabriel, and I love it. They are the two words that best encapsulate the Bert ethos.
My oldest daughter, Elissa, found Bert sick, cold and alone on Eddy Road one winter evening a few years ago. She called Terry, and they took this smelly, bedraggled creature home. A long bath, a warm bed and several bowls of cat food later, he joined our household as Cat #4 (there would later be five).
We don't know where Bert came from, but it was always clear that his ordeal had left him permanently shy of 100% health. He was fat, he walked with a limping waddle, and one eye appeared to be semi-functional, at best. But he was so, so lovable. He enjoyed being petted. He enjoyed being fed. He enjoyed sleeping in sunbeams.
And best of all, he seemed to enjoy being part of our family.
Not long ago, it became clear that something was wrong. First it was an infection in his mouth. Then it was clear he wasn't eating or drinking much. We quickly discovered that he couldn't eat or drink much, because something was wrong with his tongue. It stuck out sideways, and he couldn't coordinate it with his mouth and jaw to draw in needed food and water.
There was something neurological going on with Bert, though we honestly never paid the vast sums it would have taken to determine exactly what. A brain tumor? A stroke? Something else? Who knows? What was obvious was that Saint Terry, who made it her personal mission to care for Bert every day despite the fact that he couldn't clean himself and quickly became repulsive and smelly, couldn't hand feed this increasingly emaciated feline every day for the rest of his life.
And so the decision was made to put him down. I took him in because there was no way Terry should have had to do that herself. She had already done more than her fair share. The vet, Dr. Richman, was so incredibly kind and empathetic. It was almost as if it pained him more to put Bert to sleep than it did for us to agree to let it happen.
The process itself, if you haven't been through it, is quick and almost painless for the animal. Bert was gone before they even finished fully injecting him with whatever it is they use for this sort of thing. His eyes didn't close. They were just kind of half open. But the life that had been in them moments earlier was obviously gone. It was his body, but it wasn't Bert.
I teared up a little, and not just for Bert. My heart hurts for him, but it hurts even more for the people in my house who loved him. They're dealing with this in different ways, so if you're a praying person, I would appreciate it if you said a few words for them this week.
Which I know sounds silly to those who don't own pets. I realize he was just a cat, but to say that is to deny the reality that Bert was also a presence in our house. He was a personality with whom all of us dealt, just as surely as we deal with each other every day.
And now he's gone. And he's never coming back. The dynamic in our home changes just a little. Among the remaining four cats, it changes a lot.
Ginny, our little semi-kitten, loved Bert. She slept virtually on top of him, helped him clean himself, tagged along sometimes when he walked around the house, and clearly preferred spending time with him more than any of us. It was cute.
Then Bert got sick. And Ginny's tune changed quickly. She avoided Bert. Even hissed at him. A few times in the last week or two, I would see her sneak up on Bert to sniff him. She would get close and take in a good whiff, and quickly recoil.
But you can't blame her. This was nature at work. Pure instinct. Bert had the smell of death about him, and animals avoid death. It's how they're programmed. What had been a loving relationship, at least the way we saw it, quickly became avoidance. Fickle little Ginny moved on to Charlie as her cat buddy. Together I'm sure they'll continue terrorizing the white cats, brothers Fred and George.
And they'll do it without the help of Bert. I don't know how cats' memories work, but I wonder if there will always be a little bit of him in Ginny's mind. I wonder if she'll miss him. Maybe not.
We sure will.
Bill Cosby began what is, for my money, one of his funniest stand-up comedy routines many years ago by saying, "I must tell you about my problems driving around San Francisco..."
Of course, there was nothing "must" about it. He wanted to tell you about those problems, and you wanted to listen because you knew it was going to be funny. Or at least you wanted to be nice to Bill, back when he seemed like a person to whom you should be nice.
In the same way, I must tell you about the emotionally exhausting ordeal that has been my October 2016 to this point. I don't "have" to tell you about it, but I want to tell you about it, and I thank you so much for listening. Or reading, I guess.
Sports, kids, and painful nutshots
If you're someone who indulges me on Facebook, you know that most of my posts these days have something to do with my kids' sports activities. The youngest three are all in the latter stages of their soccer seasons, and of course Jared, my 18-year-old, is also serving as the kicker for my beloved Wickliffe Blue Devils football team.
There are highs and lows when you're the parent of an athlete. You rejoice when they succeed, you agonize when they fall a little short, and you cry inside when they have a difficult time or seem to be losing their enjoyment of the sport, for whatever reason.
Jack, who is 10, is playing his first season of travel soccer. He's a defender, and his team is very good. Very, very good, actually. Jack has had periods when he plays every minute of every game, and other times when he sits the bench. This level of soccer is new to him, and while he has mostly adapted well, there are still things for him to learn. His coach, Arturo, is tough but fair. You earn your spot and you work to keep it. That's the way life goes, and I don't think 10 years old is too early to learn the lesson.
Melanie is a sophomore in high school, and statistically she has had a tougher time this year than she did as a freshman. She's a forward, so Mel measures herself by statistical output: Goals and assists. As of this writing she has one of each. Last season she had something like seven goals and two assists. The fact is, the talent level on her team has risen noticeably this year, and playing time is harder to come by. Again, you get it by earning it.
Virtually no soccer player I've coached or watched over the past 15 years works harder than Melanie. She's the soccer equivalent of a hockey grinder: Someone who goes out there and fights for loose balls, bangs bodies and plays physically when needed, and consistently puts her head down and does the dirty work in front of the goal. Those are the types of things that help teams win, even if they don't always show up on the stat sheet.
Mel is going through a crisis of faith these days. She's a bit disillusioned by her position in the team hierarchy, and she doesn't see much room for upward movement in the next two seasons. My advice to her is simple: Keep doing what you're doing. Work on every facet of your game: Ball control, first touches, decision making, speed, conditioning, etc. Be the hardest working player on the field. The rest will take care of itself.
Not a bad lesson there, eh?
And then there's my boy, Jared. He's one of two boys I have, of course, but for a long time before Jack came along, I simply referred to him as The Boy. And let me tell you, that boy is one busy dude these days.
He's a starting forward on the boys high school soccer team, and the team's second-leading scorer. He does the kicking thing in football, of course, and he also puts on his saxophone and plays (while still in his football uniform) at halftime on Friday nights. Every day is another practice or game, or a combination of all of the above.
He is nearing the end of a football career that began three years ago, but more importantly, of a soccer career that began when he was a fuzzy-headed, six-year-old kindergartner. That's how it is when you're a senior in high school: You do something for years and years and work so hard to get better at it, and then suddenly it's over. Unless you're one of the handful of people who go on to play at the collegiate level, you're done. Just like that. Done.
This realization is coming quickly for Jared. It will all hit him in 3-4 weeks when his fall activities end without the promise of a next year. Part of him will be relieved, I'm sure, as the grind of fall sports and band starts to wear on him noticeably after a while. But part of him will grieve, no doubt in that silent, I've-got-this, keep-it-to-yourself manner of Jared.
And if I'm being honest, I will grieve right along with him. I love watching him play. Just love it. I love watching all of my kids play, but you only get the Senior Experience once, and it has been wonderful. He plays some sort of key role in everything he does, and I couldn't be more proud of him.
But the rest of Jared's life is calling to him, urging him to move on from where he is now and to experience new adventures. I'm excited for him, but I'm going to be so sad when this all comes to a screeching halt in November.
Oh, but you know what I won't miss? Jared taking hard-hit soccer balls to his testicles. Seriously, this happens to him at least once a season. He'll be going about his business playing the game, and someone on the other team will inadvertently launch a rocket shot that will absolutely destroy his Man Region. Jared goes down, he gets tended to by a snickering coach or trainer, both teams on the field laugh while trying to seem like they're not, Jared gets up and hobbles off, and he comes back later in more or less decent shape.
This has happened so many times that I can't imagine watching him go through it again. Maybe it's just as well this soccer thing is about to end.
As for football? Well, Jared has settled into a nice routine every game of executing a series of pooch kickoffs and converting extra points. He had some trouble on the extra points earlier this season, but now he has rounded into form, and the team itself is 6-2 and on its way to its best record in 15+ years. And there may be playoff football in our future, which is stunning.
So I start thinking about whether Jared will be called on to decide one of those playoff games. He hasn't kicked a single field goal in three years of varsity football. Not one. Twice he has lined up to attempt field goal kicks, and both times they were blocked.
What if they send him out there to decide a game with a 35-yard field goal in the final seconds of the fourth quarter? Physically I know he can do it (easily, actually), but mentally, how will he handle it? How will I handle it, for crying out loud?
I'll tell you how I'll handle it: by fainting. Seriously, I'll just pass out on the spot. I'll never see whether the kick is successful or not, because I'll be laid out flat on the bleachers while everyone else is watching nervously.
I'm tough that way.
Saint Terry: The Savior of Our Lives
I am married, as it turns out, to one of the most amazing people on the planet. I've said this before, and if you know her then you know the truth of my words. She is a whirlwind of ability, empathy, laughter and grit. She keeps six of us going every day while maintaining a house that has somehow not fallen down around us in the 13 years we've lived there.
She is, in short, the most remarkable person I've ever met. By a longshot. No disrespect to you or me or anything, but we simply don't come close to her on the Awesomeness Scale.
Which is why her recent emotional struggles have come as a bit of a shock.
When I say "emotional struggles," I don't mean she's going nuts or anything. I just mean that even the mighty Terry has reached the limits of her endurance at a time of year when she is constantly being called on to drive a kid to practice, mend a band uniform, clean up a mess someone else has made, or tend to a very sick cat (more on that in a bit).
Some people can handle more than others. Terry's threshold for work and responsibility is high, but it is not infinite. And over the past several weeks, we've finally reached it.
Which is why I've been on the kids and on myself to step up our games. It never should have gotten to this point in the first place. The family, as a whole, allowed itself to grow entirely too dependent on Mom. That's not good for her, and it's certainly not good for them. You raise independent, resourceful adults by forcing them to be independent and resourceful kids.
We're working on it. Some are better than others, but I'm confident we'll all get there.
In the meantime, Mom has applied for a job for the first time in nearly 20 years. I won't get into the details here, but suffice it to say that she has an interview in a few days, and I know she'll do great. Because that's who she is. If and when she gets the position, even though it's only part time, we're all going to have to adjust and fend for ourselves a little bit more.
This is, by all accounts, a good thing.
Yeah, he was just a cat, but...
A few hours ago, before I had the chance sit down and eat my lunch as I type out this post, I took our cat Bert to the vet and had him euthanized.
That's the medical term they use for it, of course: "euthanized."
What it means, in reality, is that I allowed the doctor to inject a lethal substance into his veins that almost instantly ended the life of the beautiful mess that was Bert.
That phrase "beautiful mess" came from our friend Kelly Gabriel, and I love it. They are the two words that best encapsulate the Bert ethos.
My oldest daughter, Elissa, found Bert sick, cold and alone on Eddy Road one winter evening a few years ago. She called Terry, and they took this smelly, bedraggled creature home. A long bath, a warm bed and several bowls of cat food later, he joined our household as Cat #4 (there would later be five).
We don't know where Bert came from, but it was always clear that his ordeal had left him permanently shy of 100% health. He was fat, he walked with a limping waddle, and one eye appeared to be semi-functional, at best. But he was so, so lovable. He enjoyed being petted. He enjoyed being fed. He enjoyed sleeping in sunbeams.
And best of all, he seemed to enjoy being part of our family.
Not long ago, it became clear that something was wrong. First it was an infection in his mouth. Then it was clear he wasn't eating or drinking much. We quickly discovered that he couldn't eat or drink much, because something was wrong with his tongue. It stuck out sideways, and he couldn't coordinate it with his mouth and jaw to draw in needed food and water.
There was something neurological going on with Bert, though we honestly never paid the vast sums it would have taken to determine exactly what. A brain tumor? A stroke? Something else? Who knows? What was obvious was that Saint Terry, who made it her personal mission to care for Bert every day despite the fact that he couldn't clean himself and quickly became repulsive and smelly, couldn't hand feed this increasingly emaciated feline every day for the rest of his life.
And so the decision was made to put him down. I took him in because there was no way Terry should have had to do that herself. She had already done more than her fair share. The vet, Dr. Richman, was so incredibly kind and empathetic. It was almost as if it pained him more to put Bert to sleep than it did for us to agree to let it happen.
The process itself, if you haven't been through it, is quick and almost painless for the animal. Bert was gone before they even finished fully injecting him with whatever it is they use for this sort of thing. His eyes didn't close. They were just kind of half open. But the life that had been in them moments earlier was obviously gone. It was his body, but it wasn't Bert.
I teared up a little, and not just for Bert. My heart hurts for him, but it hurts even more for the people in my house who loved him. They're dealing with this in different ways, so if you're a praying person, I would appreciate it if you said a few words for them this week.
Which I know sounds silly to those who don't own pets. I realize he was just a cat, but to say that is to deny the reality that Bert was also a presence in our house. He was a personality with whom all of us dealt, just as surely as we deal with each other every day.
And now he's gone. And he's never coming back. The dynamic in our home changes just a little. Among the remaining four cats, it changes a lot.
Ginny, our little semi-kitten, loved Bert. She slept virtually on top of him, helped him clean himself, tagged along sometimes when he walked around the house, and clearly preferred spending time with him more than any of us. It was cute.
Then Bert got sick. And Ginny's tune changed quickly. She avoided Bert. Even hissed at him. A few times in the last week or two, I would see her sneak up on Bert to sniff him. She would get close and take in a good whiff, and quickly recoil.
But you can't blame her. This was nature at work. Pure instinct. Bert had the smell of death about him, and animals avoid death. It's how they're programmed. What had been a loving relationship, at least the way we saw it, quickly became avoidance. Fickle little Ginny moved on to Charlie as her cat buddy. Together I'm sure they'll continue terrorizing the white cats, brothers Fred and George.
And they'll do it without the help of Bert. I don't know how cats' memories work, but I wonder if there will always be a little bit of him in Ginny's mind. I wonder if she'll miss him. Maybe not.
We sure will.
In the end, an October to remember
I have a meeting to get to, so I need to finish lunch and stop typing. But I can't leave without mentioning my Cleveland Indians, who in a few hours will play for the right to advance to the World Series for the first time since 1997.
The year 2016 has been a magical ride for those of us who call ourselves Cleveland sports fans. We endured a comically long period of athletic ineptitude in this town that ended abruptly in one 10-day stretch this past June when the Lake Erie Monsters won the American Hockey League's Calder Cup, and their Quicken Loans Arena roommates the Cleveland Cavaliers captured their first NBA title shortly thereafter.
I had seen so much losing in my lifetime that you would think I would still be on Cloud Nine over these championships.
But in a very real way, I'm not.
And I'll be the first to admit the reason is silly and childish. I never fully embraced or celebrated either title because I wasn't here to see them. I was in Europe for both. When the Monsters won the Cup with a dramatic 1-0 Game 4 victory over Hershey, it was Terry and Jared who sat in our season ticket seats and rejoiced. I was in a hotel room in London on a business trip.
And when the Cavs completed their incredible comeback series win over the Golden State Warriors, I woke up to the news in Barcelona.
That wasn't how it was supposed to happen. It just wasn't. I was supposed to be there with Jared when the Monsters won, and I was supposed to be watching with Jared in our living room when the Cavs finished off the Warriors.
But I wasn't. Best laid plans and all that sort of thing, I suppose.
Again, I know this is stupid, and that I really should be happy for Terry and Jared that they got to witness what they did. I just struggle with it. My dumb little cross to bear.
Enter the 2016 Cleveland Indians.
The Indians were the first sports team with which I fell in love (a statement I realize makes almost no sense to someone who isn't a sports fan). Specifically, it was the 1979 Cleveland Indians. They were a mediocre team that won as much as they lost, finishing in their customary sixth place in the American League's East Division.
But they were my team. The first time I had ever had a "my team." I followed those guys every day in in the paper and on TV. Toby Harrah, Duane Kuiper, Andre Thornton, Bobby Bonds, Mike Hargrove, Wayne Garland. Names that mean almost nothing to most people now, but that meant a lot to me as a 10-year-old fan.
The Tribe has been to the World Series twice in my lifetime, losing in 1995 to the Atlanta Braves and (painfully, unbelievably) in 1997 to the Florida Marlins.
And now they're almost back. One more win and they play for the title, preferably against the Chicago Cubs because that sort of perennial loser vs. perennial loser story is too good for the journalist in me to pass up.
I've been staying up late to watch the Indians games with Jared and paying the price the next day in the form of bloodshot eyes and a stuffy nose. I need more rest, but I won't get it until the playoffs are over.
Hopefully they end with the Indians celebrating yet another Cleveland sports championship. As the guy said on TNT the moment the Cavs won their title, "Cleveland is a city of champions once again!" Unreal.
I want the Indians to win because I want the Indians to win, of course. But selfishly again, I want them to win so I can jump up and down with Jared and hug him and think of my dad and probably start crying.
I cry easily these days. I cry thinking about people who are gone (my dad, my sister), pets we've loved, my kids, my sports teams, etc. Only some of those things are truly worthy of tears, but there you have it.
I am, in the end, a nearly-47-year-old suburban father of five doing my best. And I realize my dad was much the same before me.
So it goes. So it has always gone. So it always will be.
Monday, September 5, 2016
A man's got to know his limitations
Harry Callahan was right. Here are mine:
- If you're giving me directions, do not refer to points on the compass unless I'm traveling on a well-marked interstate. Otherwise, you're better off telling me something like, "Now when you get to the Dairy Queen that kind of looks like the Mos Eisley spaceport in 'Star Wars,' you're gonna want to take a left. You'll know you've gone too far if you come to the billboard for Swanson TV dinners." Those reference points I can relate to much better than north, south, east or west.
- Does the job involve hammering and/or basic operation of a screwdriver? Fine, I can do it. Are power tools and/or measuring in the mix? In that case, please see my wife.
- Cutting the grass? Yes, I'm a virtuoso. Landscaping of any sort? Yeahhhh, let's call a professional.
- I can sing the melody. I cannot sing harmony. I long ago accepted this fact.
- Athletically speaking, I'm all about running and jumping. Once you start throwing hand-eye coordination into the mix, you're going to want to pick someone else for your team...unless we're talking about hitting a slow-pitched softball, in which case I'm probably your guy.
- Writing? Yes. Editing? Absolutely. Grammar question? Most likely. Drawing and/or general design? Next, please.
- Would you like me to dance? Fine, but the music must be limited to an 80s power ballad for which homecoming-type, rock-back-and-forth slow dancing is acceptable. There is no foxtrotting and/or Lambada-ing coming from this guy, let me tell you.
- I'm very good at tedious, long-distance car trips. I can be in that driver's seat for 12 hours and still be raring to go. But if at the end of the trip you ask me to parallel park on a busy street, I will melt right before your eyes. Really, my body will turn to liquid and I will enter another state of being that prevents me from even attempting to wedge the vehicle into that tiny space. A similar phenomenon occurs if you ask me to drive a stick-shift.
- I will sit spellbound for an hour listening to Mahler. I will not do the same for Merle Haggard. I'm also ready on a moment's notice for an all-day session of M*A*S*H* binge-watching, but I cannot abide more than seven consecutive minutes of almost any CBS sitcom, "The Big Bang Theory" excepted.
- Roller coaster? Sure, I'll come along if you'd like. Spinny ride? Sure, I'll puke on you if that's what you're looking for.
- I max out at roughly one beer or one glass of wine. Beyond that there's trouble. As for hard liquor, my preferred maximum there would be zero.
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