Participation Trophies for All My Friends!

All this outrage over participation trophies in youth sports has me puzzled. They're not new, you know? I collected a few all the way back in the 1970s -- when parents were all supposedly hard asses who wouldn't dream of coddling their kids -- and in backwards-ass West Virginia, no less, where political correctness and worrying about hurting someone's feelings are about as popular as the EPA or gun control.

If we had 'em, I know you civilized folks from Connecticut and Michigan and Kansas had them too. They weren't as big or flashy as the championship trophies, but they existed and no one seemed to mind.  But boy are they ever the devil's handiwork these days.

I really laugh when I hear some lifter dude rant about them. The irony is that the objector is usually the same sort of dick weed who enters every damned division at the local power meet and "wins" them all. Never mind he was the only goddamn entrant in the Dave's Gym Sanctioned by Dave Backyard Power Wars age 38 to 38.5 sub-sub-masters women's novice raw except not raw because they allow a belt, knee wraps, wrist wraps and a tourniquet and you don't have to walk it out division.

Wait? Novice? Pretty sure we've been competing in the same meets since '94.  

Well... yeah... but I've never won the open division so I'm still considered a novice.  

Have you ever entered the open division?  

Umm, no, but that's beside the point.  

Fine. Whatever. Congrats on your big win. Um, I mean wins. My head hurts. See ya.

That's right, bitches! A war chest full of trophies for me!

See that one in his left hand? Your other left. I have an identical copy. Won it in '97 in York. We only got seven attempts for the entire meet instead of the usual nine and you could use them any way you wanted as long as you spent at least one on each lift. I might have taken five attempts to get in one deadlift, but I earned that shit that day.

I used to store my car keys in it, but every once in a while I'd have a couple drinks too many, fill it up, bellow something about being the Bull God or King Fucking Kong, and take a big swig without remembering to remove them. I hid it from myself so that wouldn't happen anymore and now I don't know where it is.

This guy guzzled one too many drinks from his Best Actor trophy.

At any rate, I love all of my brethren who compete, but if most powerlifting awards aren't fucking participation trophies, then I don't know what the hell they are. And yet the hatred is real.

There was even a commercial during the Super Bowl denouncing them. This dad and his kid get in the car after the big baseball game the kid's team won. Dad takes the kid's trophy, rips the participation moniker off, writes "champs" while muttering something about winning every game, and smugly hands the trophy back to his kid.

Apparently, that commercial was a smash hit. The only thing I thought about smashing when I saw it was my TV screen.

It's a car commercial, and I guess the theme is excellence or something like that. And it's for Kia. That's right, fucking Kia. I'm not saying they're bad cars. Hey, I know it's not just the Big Three anymore. I was around in the 1970s when Datsun sucked. Then they learned how to build cars and became Nissan, which I understand is half decent. So while I've never driven or even ridden in a Kia, I'm sure they're alright.

The point is, if I was giving out trophies to car companies, Kia would get the participation trophy, not the excellence trophy. In no way, shape, form, or fashion do I associate Kia with anything other than being a player in the game -- a participant. Excellence? Well, that's reserved for Mercedes or Audi or some other precision engineered German bullshit.

As thick-headed as I am, I do realize that even by mentioning this steaming turd a few of you will Google it and give them extra publicity. Oh well. At least I didn't link it right to your curious little finger tips.

Let's clear something else up. The damn commercial doesn't even make sense. They act like there's only one fucking trophy for everyone, and that ain't how it works. In reality, the winners, and even the runners up, actually do get trophies with the appropriate designation. And then everyone, winners included, gets the smaller participation trophies. At least that's how it is in West Virginia, but maybe we're just smarter than the rest of you dumb fucks.

I'm not trying to expose plot holes in commercials -- 'pot holes' might not make sense there but it sure would be funny since, you know, I'm talking about a car commercial -- or to denigrate car companies. I'm working my way toward crucifying asshole parents.  Let's get to that.

So your eight-year-old's team won every fucking game, huh? Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. No one outside Mayberry gives a shit anyway, and I bet the big winning streak didn't have diddly to do with your little spawn. In fact, they probably won 'em all in spite of your bumble fuck brat.

That coach of yours is the youth league Lombardi. When that kid from the wrong side of the tracks showed up sporting muscles like a testosterone-infused teenager from fighting off his five older brothers, ole coach knew he had a ringer. Think Kelly from Bad News Bears only big, athletic, and with less resemblance to a pot head ne'er-do-well.

Tell me again how this douche carried the team.

All of you living-on-credit-to-impress-the-neighbors yuppies with perfectly manicured lawns wouldn't dream of letting your kids cavort with real-life Kelly, except of course if it meant he might carry their shitty team to victory. And carry he did. Man-child might be fielding with his brother's hand-me-down Goodwill glove, but he catches better bare handed than your coddled sissy-boy with his $350 Rawlings. At least you won't have to worry about your golden child knocking up some poor little rich girl in a few years; that kid couldn't catch herpes in a whore house.

Not to worry, though, that public school thug your team's genius coach found ran down every ball hit out of the infield, belted 106 home runs, and brought home the coveted championship of Pleasantville. He was a goddamned one-man wrecking crew.

Even so, his parents didn't show up to see a single one of those tape measure dingers, and they certainly weren't showing up to collect some lame trophy, participation or otherwise. They're not going to win any prizes for model parenting either, but at least they're not pushy assholes. And they're not so deluded as to think winning every game, or any game, at eight years old matters one iota. Hell, if I had to choose, I'd take the deadbeat parents over the win-at-all-costs psycho nut job parents.

And if your team didn't have said ringer, then you probably won because your jerk of a coach played the best nine players only while everyone else sat there keeping the bench from flying away. Either way, even if your kid was one of the anointed nine, he ain't the next Mike Trout. Keeping with the fish theme, he's just a big fish right now in a very small pond. Odds are, you'll have burnt him out with all this ludicrous pressure to win before he even makes it to high school ball.

Speaking of high school, if this was high school ball we were talking about here, things would be a little different.  By the time you get to high school, things are getting a little serious. College scholarships are on the line, and winning actually starts to mean something. Not everyone plays, and no, there aren't participation trophies.

But here's a little newsflash for all you dumb fuckers who didn't even play anything in high school. Even at this somewhat advanced level, participation is still recognized. There's a thing called a sports banquet at the end of the year. At least there is in communities where the residents don't have their heads completely up their asses. At the sports banquet, the name of every kid who participated is read aloud as they walk to the front, shake hands with the coaches, and receive a nice little participation certificate. Sure, there might also be some awards for stellar play, but every kid, even the ones whose names the coaches don't remember, is acknowledged.

Let me reiterate this, because it's probably the only point I'm going to make in this entire article that's not laced with profanity. Participation is recognized and appreciated at all levels of sports.

You might have heard of Peyton Manning? He's an actor. He's also that old geezer quarterback -- younger than me, though, by damn near a decade -- who just rode a phenomenal defense to a Super Bowl victory in spite of his own shitty play when, really, Tom Brady and the Patriots should have won if they hadn't been decimated by injuries. Wait, I'm about to trail off on a tangent about deflated footballs and growth hormone and media coverage and public perception.

Manning, we're talking about Manning. He might be done as a player, but he's still all the way there as a man in my book. While he rehabbed a foot injury during the season, a practice squad receiver named Jordan Taylor ran routes for him every day. When Manning limped back into the lineup to claim that Super Bowl, guess who he bought a brand new suit for to wear on the flight to the big game? That's right, you guessed it... practice squad player, scrub, loser, participant... whatever you want to call him... Jordan Taylor.

No chance of seeing the field.  Wearing a fucking sweet suit anyway.

You hear these kinds of stories all the time. Some marginal player who barely made the team emulated the other team's star quarterback in practice so the first team defense could kick the shit out of him, get their reads down, and perfect a winning game plan. That dude who's just another guy and was never going to play during live game action made all the difference in the world. His participation mattered, and you can bet your ass his teammates know it and will recognize it in some fashion.

It's not just the stars who win games. Every member of a successful team, from the star down to the guy who barely made the team, contributes in some way. That's a huge part of winning culture, in sports and in life. By telling an eight-year-old participation doesn't matter, you're telling him there's no point being a good teammate if you're not the star.

I was one of those kids in Little League who rode the pine. Whatever wire disconnected since, I was a good kid back then - timid, small for my age, and with lousy eyesight that hadn't been sorted out yet. But I was proud to be on a team; I liked wearing my jersey; and I did whatever my coaches asked without question because my mom taught me to be polite and respectful and because I wanted to help out. Guess I had being a good teammate pretty well figured out. Most kids do when their parents aren't filling their heads with nonsense about how winning the pee-wee bowl is somehow going to propel them to NFL stardom.

What exactly does a real star player look like? I've heard professional hitters talk about picking up the rotation of the laces on the ball as it comes out of the pitcher's hand and determining whether it's a curve or a fastball early in the ball's flight. That's right; they can see the LACES! That's what true talent is, and your kid ain't got it. I promise you that.

This bully hates participation trophies. He's holding a couple he stole from his sons to teach them participating sucks. With genetics like that, I'm sure no one in this family is losing sleep over a participation trophy.

You could forget me picking up the laces. I sure didn't have it either. I couldn't even see the damn ball. It just looked like a white blur about three feet long hurtling toward me, and it didn't help that I blinked every time I felt it coming close. It wasn't until after I grew up that I turned into a masochist who would enjoy being hit in the face, but at eight I wasn't so ridiculous and was actually afraid of a baseball thrown by some kid who I just knew didn't have a clue where it was going.

Every disastrous at-bat, I'd take whatever flailing hack or three I could take and resume my position on the bench. Or I'd just stand there with the bat on my shoulder, hoping the pitcher was too wild to get three strikes over the plate and would walk me. I was so damned short that actually worked sometimes. Whatever strategy I employed, I netted all of about three hits in that entire illustrious season. I think two of them went for extra bases, so at least I was swinging for the fences.

Most of the time, I sat there with my thumb up my ass, wishing we could get out of the hot sun and go swimming soon, and glimpsing the field only for the bare minimum youth rules required. Thanks, coach. I really stand a snowball's chance in hell of improving at this game while sitting here watching the kids who already know what they're doing do it some more. Maybe I shouldn't get that fucking participation trophy after all, seeing as how no one ever lets me, umm, participate.

The truth is, there are a lot more kids like I was in any youth sport than there are really good or interested ones. They're kids. They don't even know what they like yet. And much of the time, even the sane parents are enrolling them in anything and everything that comes down the pike in order to keep them busy and work off some of that crazy kid energy so they'll sleep at night. Participants are really all they're going to be.

The hope, I guess, is that they'll find something that really interests them at some point, and I suppose that sort of "throwing darts at the board and hoping one sticks" strategy isn't a bad one. Exposure to different experiences and all that jazz. You think more parents would realize this is what's going down. Maybe they do. Maybe it's just the crazy ones who are so vocal in their disdain for the kids who are there for the experience and haven't figured out yet if this is their life's passion.

Why is this bench warmer wearing a blanket? It's hot as fuck out here.

So what's behind all this vitriol toward the participation trophy? The best I can figure is that it comes mostly from a bunch of frustrated jock wannabes who never did much even in their so-called primes and certainly don't do anything these days besides drink beer and move further and further away from anything resembling athletic. Their tales of their youthful athletic exploits get bigger with each passing year. In reality, most of these peanut dicks could have never hoped for anything more than a participation trophy themselves, but of course they conveniently forget that fact so they can take the hard-line, tough guy stance.

I got a little something to say about that. For starters, shut up fat boy and sit your blow hard ass down. I got trophies for everybody and there ain't shit you can do about it. I'm the real bully up in here, only my marks are the other bullies. You don't like it that everybody's kid gets a trophy? Do something about it. I'm just itching to make you eat this fucking thing.

Guess what else? I got trophies for all kinds of people you probably hate as much as I hate you. The same sort of jackass who doesn't think an eight-year-old deserves a participation trophy probably thinks liberal is just another word for pussy. Yep, I just said the dirty word. Oh yes I did! Not pussy, dumb ass, liberal. And I got trophies for liberals too, fuck-face.  

I'm sick of listening to your fucked up logic about how anything left of center is weak or un-American. Social Security is 81 years old -- older than your dead grandma -- for Christ's sakes. It's pretty much ingrained in the fabric of our society. Capitalism is great, but only an absolutist moron with no appreciation for history would think it should dictate every policy decision. Obamacare, for example, while not perfect, is monumental legislation that improves hundreds of thousands of lives.

And if driving a giant pick up truck to make up for the fact you have a tiny little penis even though you never do anything resembling manual labor isn't environmentally irresponsible, then it's at least a pretty stupid way to spend your money. So go ahead and do that. Give a big chunk right back to the big business you so love voting into office. The rich get richer at your foolish expense and you think middle class economic woes have something to do with food stamps and free loaders. Moron.

You like apples?  How you like them apples?

Call me a liberal pussy to my face, motherfucker. We'll see who's what when you're spitting up a mouthful of blood and your goddamn teeth. Don't act all horrified and offended. I'm just putting it in language you'll understand. Bomb the terrorists' families, right?

Are you finished, Mr. Slade? No, I'm just gettin' warmed up.

I got trophies for gay people too and all kinds of trans this and that people. You're definitely the type who would be chafed by that. Gay! Gay! Gay! We're all gay and we're coming to your house to fly a gay pride flag in your front yard and ass rape you right there in your own bed!

I'm no expert on any of this sexual identity stuff, by the way, and I don't pretend to be. Hell, I don't even really understand the terminology. Could you tell when I just wrote "trans this and that" above rather than elaborating? But I don't have to have a complex understanding to know what should be common sense.

I've never lost a wink of sleep worrying about someone else's sex life, and you're an idiot if you have. As long as whatever is happening between two people or a big ole group of them isn't hurting anyone who doesn't want to be hurt, then have at it. Fuck whoever you want. Fuck your couch if you want. And if you need somebody to strap a homophobic bully who hates liberals and participation trophies to a chair, tape his eyes open Clockwork Orange style, and make him watch gay porn until his dick shrivels and falls off, I'm your man.

You're really not my favorite person mister pushy dad raising your all-star athlete kid and teaching him to begrudge all us lesser beings our loser participation trophies. That's coming through here, isn't it? Let's try it one more way just in case it's still a little fuzzy.

If you're feeling left out, I brought your trophy. It's a pointy little Father of the Year trophy, and I think I'll wedge it up your ass. I still can't hit a baseball, but I did grow up strong like bull. I'm pretty sure I can make good on my threat, at least with the piece of shit audience to which this little ditty is directed.

Really? This thing is so fucking great you put a watermark on it so I can't use it. I should shove it up your ass.

Oh wait, you'd probably enjoy getting rammed in the ass, even though it's the last thing you'd admit. That little trophy would open up a whole new world to you. Never mind. I ain't doing you any favors.

There's a flaw in my logic anyway. You're probably also the type who thinks it's a good idea for regular citizens to tote concealed weapons around town for protection, and you'd likely pull yours on me instead of just taking your well-deserved beating like a man. I won't argue with you there. I figure a gun is about your only chance in this fight provided you don't shoot yourself in the foot pulling it out like I imagine you probably will.

So there it is. The self-annointed super hero Captain Participation Trophy -- champion of children, lousy athletes, liberals, and gay people and hater of overbearing jock dads -- is here to save the fucking day. Never mind you think liberal and gay are the same thing. That's completely beside the point.

CPT will fuck you up!

Here's a shiny participation trophy for everyone. Weeeeeeee! I'm even giving one to those sensitive kids I read about who jump imaginary jump ropes in gym class. They weren't jumping as well as the other kids and their feelings were hurt, so the teacher confiscated all the ropes and made everyone jump air to level the playing field. It doesn't take much timing, after all, to jump air.  

I might even think that's taking it too far and that a few of us could stand to toughen up just a little, but fuck it. Everybody gets a trophy today. And all you jump rope all-stars can keep right on jumping and stop worrying about anyone else's business for a change.

Jesus, forget my piddly biases about who should have won the Super Bowl. This was a downright righteous fucking tangent! What was I even talking about??? I don't know. Actually, I think it all fits together rather nicely. But for the sake of trying to stay on topic, let's get back to my original rant. What the hell was it? Oh yes, participation trophies in youth sports. Right.

Of all the causes to passionately defend, why in the world would I pick this obscure one? I dunno. It touched a nerve. Obviously.  

This kid has more trophies than you. Nah-nah-na-boo-boo.

I pictured my little girl when I saw that commercial. She wasn't going to win anything yet, and maybe she never would have. She was tiny -- much tinier than I was at her age even though I was small -- and way behind other kids.  

I knew she knew a lot. She could navigate all over the place with this uncanny sense of direction. She was at Ocean City when she was maybe three years old. A full year later she returned and led her mother by the hand right back to the same room she stayed in previously! Yet she was barely speaking -- just a few words and broken phrases. So yes, she had a ton of catching up to do and would have been lucky to even participate in an organized sport in any manner.

But if she had, I bet she'd have marched off the field carrying her participation trophy like it was a gold nugget. I'd have kissed her soft little cheeks and told her how proud I was. Then we'd have ridden off to get ice cream and celebrate while listening to her favorite songs. One time we were sitting at a picnic table eating ice cream, and she tasted my flavor and decided she liked it better than hers. She didn't say a word -- strong, silent type that kid. She just slid her bowl in front of me and slid mine in front of her. That was that.

She'd have probably slept with her little trophy the night she got it. She liked taking everything she could carry to bed with her, especially new stuff. She'd trudge up the stairs tripping over the tattered blanket she drug behind her, both arms full of toys and sippy cups and whatever else had her attention. I usually walked right behind her, scared to death she'd topple over and go careening down the stairs backwards on her head.

I sure wouldn't have wanted anyone telling her her trophy didn't matter. Because it would have mattered to us. If someone said it didn't matter, it would have been like saying she didn't matter. And boy did she ever matter.  I miss her so damned much.  She's with me every minute of every day. If you're ever talking with me and you think she's not there somewhere, she is.  

You don't need to feel sorry for me. Hell, I'm kind of a venomous jerk at times. And I certainly did some really stupid shit, but I knew -- I still know -- something few people ever get to experience. I know true, unconditional love.

I realize I went a little nuts here. I'm almost done, though. There's just a bit more swearing, spitting, and teeth gnashing to endure.  

Here's all I'm really saying. Life can be hard sometimes. Really fucking hard. And you might not have a clue what the hell someone is going through; what kind of loss they've suffered; what kind of addiction is gripping them; what kind of guilt they carry; or what demons haunt them.

Don't do as I do. I'm a lousy example. Do as I say. Be a little less judgmental of others. And if all you can do is outwardly be nice while inside you're seething at their stupidity or incompetence or weirdness or whatever, then do that.  

Sometimes, participation, even just dragging out of bed to participate half-assedly, is all someone can muster. If it's not directly messing you up, and maybe even if it is if it's only temporary, then let that be good enough.

If someone had ever said my daughter didn't matter, explicitly or tacitly, I'd have certainly jumped in their face and threatened them about like I did here. I might have even beaten their ass. Oh well. Sorry not sorry. That's my kid you're fucking with. I guess that's why this particular issue is a hot button with me.

Sooooo.... I think that about covers it. I'm pretty sure I managed to get everything off my chest that's been bothering me and probably piss half the people I know off in the process. Damn do I feel better! If you're still around, here's a little present for you.

  

If you don't agree with what I wrote, it's not a difference of opinion. You're actually just stupid, and you can fuck off. Facebook really should have added that option to the new like buttons.

Now check out the short video below. You'll be treated to something way better than anything I ever wrote.

First chair drummer? Oh hell no.  Participation trophy for being a member of the band? You bet your ass!

Love is Harder Than Hate

Foreign policy and terrorism are weighing on my mind this morning.  Might as well get these thoughts out of my head so I can move on with my day.  I like violent sports - football and boxing - not because of the gamesmanship and skill of many of the participants.  I could care less about any of that pretty boy crap I never had.  I like contact sports specifically for the violence.  In fact, I don't have much use for a sport where you can't make up for at least some lack of skill by imposing your will - with determination and putting your hands on the other guy to rough him up.  

I have no problem with being as aggressive as you possibly can be within the rules, and I don't even empathize if someone gets hurt short of something really serious and life-altering like paralysis.  I never wanted any empathy towards me, either.  It runs both ways.  If you’re a willing participant, know what you’re signing up for or stay home.  There’s no crying in… you get the idea.

Didn’t I start by saying I was thinking about foreign policy?  Why did I even bring sports into the discussion?  What does football have to do with ISIS or ISIL or whatever the hell it’s called?  I’ll tell you exactly what.  I’m tired of watching everyone from the media, politicians, world leaders, and just regular people sitting at home on their couches equate things that really matter with games we play and watch for fun; or in my case, as an outlet for some really excessive bloodlust I might need medicated to control! 

Sports are so damned pervasive in our society, we confuse them with real life.  We call quarterbacks “field generals” and discuss game strategy like it’s war.  Some player gets carted off the field and we’re more concerned about how his absence impacts our stupid fantasy football team than about the man’s well being.  We’re immune to the violence.  The tough guy sports rhetoric is tempting when we witness incomprehensible acts of terrorism - people willing to strap bombs to their backs and die just to kill innocent people they’ve never met.  

“They’re all bat shit crazy; let’s add a little heat and turn all that sand to glass!”  

That sounds great as you thump your chest and bellow like an enraged silverback gorilla.  Or does it?  Maybe you really sound like a moron - someone who can’t distinguish between radicalism and religion; someone incapable of nuanced thought or consideration of real world consequences.

We might like to make the choice black and white - an eye for an eye like our Hollywood action heroes.  Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson, and John Wayne standing shoulder to shoulder and snuffing out the bad guys.  I missed much of the party on comic books, but throw in Captain America, too.  He wears the good ole red, white, and blue proudly across his broad chest!

Whenever violence is suggested as the answer to violence - right about the time I feel my excitement rise and I'm on the verge of blurting out "Hell yes!" - some voice deep inside stops me and tells me that more violence is not the answer.  Maybe this voice comes from my upbringing in a small town church that had monthly fellowship dinners where everyone brought a casserole to share.  Regardless, this isn’t some game where force meets force and winner and loser both walk, or limp, off the field to go home to their families in the end.  

People die here.  And not just the bad guys who harbor a death wish anyway.  Innocent people die, too - just regular folks who understand the business of international politics about as well as me and give it even less thought.  They’re too busy trying to eek out a living and raise their families in harsh landscapes and economically depressed societies to think much about foreign policy.  But many of them will die simply because they happen to live in the wrong place at the wrong time and get lumped in with all the other crazy towel heads or sand monkeys or whatever derogatory term we’re throwing around.

I don’t have any answers.  Maybe we do need to stand with our allies and retaliate in some way.  I just worry when I see the motivation being more about revenge or “showing the world who America really is” than about making a life and death decision that really might make us safe or help lead to peace in the end.  Who are we, exactly?  We should think long and hard about that.

I was going to just post this in my newsfeed.  It’d probably get more reads there, since that’s one less click.  I decided it should really go in my seldom-written-in Ruby blog, because in the end most of my thoughts now are shaped in some way by memories of my daughter.  What would I tell her?  What values would I want to pass on to her?

I’ll try not to be too much of a hypocrite.  Bringing the church I grew up in into the discussion was probably a low blow.  I don’t even attend church anymore and have forgotten much of what it teaches.  I’ll steal instead from where I really draw my inspiration these days - watching post-apocalypse survivors hack up zombies and each other on The Walking Dead.  Staff-wielding Morgan’s new code says it better than I can.

All life is valuable, even the lives of those we want to hate.  

The Martian gets it across pretty well, too, for those of you who don’t like the sight of all that rotting flesh.  The whole world draws together to pull for a single astronaut’s life.  Why?  

Because one life matters.  

Amen, brother.  Oh, what wouldn't I give for just one life back?  A movie might seem trivial in the context of international terrorism, but I see value in offering its beautiful perspective in juxtaposition to the hate that surrounds us.

One more.  This one is all too real.  Remember those South Carolina church goers a few months ago who were murdered in cold blood and their families prayed for the attackers and offered them forgiveness?  Now there’s some extraordinary heroism and courage for you.  I probably couldn’t do that myself, but it’s the lesson I’d want to pass on to Ruby.  

She was so much better than me.  She could do it.  She, and all children, give me hope for a world where we love each other no matter what.  Whatever we do, let’s not kill any more of them as we muddle through.

Aftermath

I watched you die two years ago today.

I try to write about you but don’t know what to say.

I used to document your every move,

but now I just can’t find a groove.

So proud; I wanted to share you with the world.

Like any father, I loved my little girl.

The way you would drag me around by my finger;

these fragmented memories of our bond are all that linger.

Six years passed so quickly in a blur.

My greatest fear now is that one day I will forget her.

I cling to these moments so tightly, for they're all I have to remember.

Her fire has died, but wait; there’s still a smoldering ember.

What can I possibly say now that would matter

about a precious life taken away, leaving so many in tatters?

So instead I sulk and wallow;

a bitter pill that’s mine alone to swallow.

Last year, I went on a Hawaiian hike.

It seemed a fitting way to celebrate my tyke.

Today seems so much harder.

Are the feelings real, or am I just playing the martyr?

This pain I don’t feel just once a year.

It’s with me every day—a constant reminder ringing in my ear.

I find no comfort in reading scripture,

and the ache is only worsened if I dare look at her picture.

I’m left here to wonder what might she be doing on this day.

Boarding the bus, I suppose, heading off to learn and play.

Now all that remains at her school is a little tree

planted to honor her memory, although I doubt many visit except me.

I curse God and sometimes family, too.

Most couldn’t possibly know, because they haven’t lived through.

So just be quiet and don’t speak a word.

These hollow comforts you offer I’ve already heard.

This journey is reserved for a chosen few.

Be glad it’s me and not you.

My time here is not yet complete.

What is it you want me to do, my sweet?

I know I couldn’t have changed this wretched outcome.

Your journey here was done; you gave your heart and then some.

Now it’s time to find a new purpose amidst this strife.

Pick up the pieces and make a new life.

Keep holding tightly to that finger and lighting the way.

Although you're somewhere else, I need this small part of you that helps me each day.

I’m listening to your voice telling me to write.

Fingers to the keyboard Daddy, don’t give up the fight.

I feel your gentle tug pointing me where I should go.

I listen and wait for you to reveal those things only a little angel can know.

Love really does transcend the bounds of time and space.

This knowledge I’m grateful for but also wish I didn’t have to face.

I’ll see you again one day on the other side, but not yet.

On that one certain truth, you can place your bet.

Meet Recap / Lessons Learned

The blog is going to be focused a little differently today.  Up until now, it has been all about sharing my daughter.  I'm going to continue using it as a forum to share her, but I'm also going to start working in one of my other loves – the sport of powerlifting.  Last Saturday, I lifted in a meet held at CrossFit Retribution, an awesome gym in Westminster, Maryland, owned by an awesome dude named Beau.  To be sure, Ruby was on my mind all day.  I wore ruby-colored shoes (no pig tails, cutesy dress, basket, or little dog though) and a t-shirt with her picture on it, listened to music that reminded me of her, and looked at pictures of her on my phone for a little extra motivation before attempts.  Just being there was my first lesson learned:  you really can endure loss and continue doing things you love and that were important to you before the loss.  Anyway, let’s get on with the meet report.  If you’re really only reading the blog to read about Roo and don’t give a rat’s ass about some meat head sport, just jump to the end.  That little peanut makes an appearance before I close. 

I hit some good training lifts in September but then the injury bug (back, per usual) and work demands conspired to mess up my preparation in October.  To salvage the meet and at least make some progress I decided to focus on my bench, which wouldn’t aggravate the back, and try to get 400 at 220.  The week prior to the meet I made a pretty decent 385 in training that I thought showed I had some left.   

 

I followed the 385 with some board work I’ve been including for my lockout.  Board work simply involves benching while lowering the bar to boards of varying heights resting on your chest.  This shortens the range of motion by the height of the boards used and allows you to overload the lift a little.  I might not have been born with a barrel chest, but I can get one temporarily by throwing a board under my shirt!  During my first, and only, set of board pressing, I felt a twinge in my right pec.  A twinge during board work is unusual, since the first few inches of the lift that boards eliminate should be the most vulnerable part of the lift for pectoral injuries.  Ah, this brings me to my second lesson learned:  things aren’t always as they seem and sometimes a logical explanation eludes, despite our human desires for one.  I’m sure you guessed I’m not just talking about weight training with this observation.  Why did she have to go when so many needed her here?  That one is too big for me to answer, so I don’t even try.

Back to the meet… during the week leading up, the dodgy pec seemed fine but was a concern in the back of my mind.  I definitely didn’t want to stress an injury and cause a blowout.  I don't know if I subconsciously shifted a little more weight to the left side to compensate or what, but I felt a distinct cramping/pulling on my attempt with 400 and quickly stopped driving the bar a few inches off my chest.  At 44 a torn pec might be a tough injury to recover from, and I consider myself lucky to have had time to recognize something wasn’t right and stop the lift before doing any damage. 

With little deadlifting the entire month of October, I certainly wasn’t expecting much but decided to at least warm up, maybe take an opener, and then make a decision about whether to keep raising the weight.  After Beau’s equally awesome wife, Angie, performed her magic on me with some deep tissue work and a few stretches, warm-ups went pretty well.  I opened with 550 and it felt reasonably fast, though my left low back still did not feel perfect as I walked off the platform.  Ah, par for the course; seems like I always feel a little tweaky.  I put in 600 for my second, figuring I’d just bail if anything felt weird.  It seemed like this was the emerging theme of the day.  And then… Boom!  Solid lift with good explosion, and low and behold I felt fine walking away.  Shoot, I felt spry as a rutting buck.  You better bone up on your Outlaw Josey Wales references if you don’t recognize that one.  Weird… my back is completely random and unpredictable.  What was lesson number two, again?  Ah, right, it’s the one about life not always revealing logical explanations.  Well, guess what?  The best thing about that one is that it holds true not just for bad occurrences, but for serendipity as well.  As Charlie Sheen would say, “Winning!”  My feeling about the lift was confirmed when I mouthed 630 to Marty across the room and he shook his head up and down enthusiastically.  I think the video and photos speak for themselves.  My lifetime PR 630 was solid with no form breaks.  It was a little slow, especially at lockout, but I think I had some left.  Judge for yourselves:

 

I Know; The Ruby Red Shoes Rock

Sure, I want to bring my bench up some.  I think 400 is well within reach at 220 and might have even been there on Saturday without the twinge.  But anyone who knows me knows I’ll take a squat or deadlift PR over a bench PR any day.  I’ve pulled triple bodyweight as a 198 and am inching closer at 220.  I think 660 will fall soon.  When I squat 630 or so, a 660 pull will be a foregone conclusion.

For those still reading, I’ve dropped a couple of crumbs, but you’re probably waiting for the big lesson learned.  Ah hell, I don’t know.  Listen to your body but don’t listen too hard???  That sounds ridiculous, but it really is kind of what I do.  It’s a powerlifting meet.  You’re not playing the clarinet, though I do wish I had a speck of musical talent.  You’re lifting really heavy stuff, and that means you’re going to be asking your body to do something it doesn’t really want to do.  Also, there’s a difference between pushing on a weight (squat/bench) and pulling on it (deadlift).  If the weight is on top of you, it’s difficult to bail.  So if something doesn’t feel right beforehand, I say don’t even attempt a lift.  And if something feels weird in the middle of a lift, like with my bench on Saturday, make sure you have good spotters ready to take the weight in an instant.  With the deadlift, at least you can bail on your own without relying on spotters by just opening your hands and letting the bar drop.  I’m not real reckless at 44; certainly not like I was at 24.  I can’t afford to be.  If anything had felt weird at any point on that PR attempt, I’d have just opened my hands and said, “No mas.”  I love lifting heavy, and I want to be able to do it for many more years if possible.  Let’s see if I can restate that ridiculousness above about listening but not too hard.  My third lesson learned:  you know your own body best, and there’s no shame in tapping and living to fight another day if something feels “off” – just try not to act like a wussy.

After the meet, there was a letdown.  I lifted well and earned an unexpected gift in the form of that deadlift PR.  I thought about my angel and how I felt her presence there with me helping me through the day.  I didn’t feel her as strongly afterwards, as if she had flown back to heaven where she belongs.  Of course I was greedy and wanted her here with me.  But I have someone new here; a woman.  I realize this knowledge might divide my meager audience.  I could end up with too few readers to even field a team for a 3-on-3 basketball tournament.  Anybody ever play 21?  Tim Randolph… I’m talking to you… surely you’re still here.

Grieving man moves forward with his life – some may see this as selfish.  Others will see it as healthy and be happy for me.  At times, we all live our lives worrying about what others think.  Losing Roo made me care less about what anyone thinks.  It’s not that I don’t want friends.  I want lots of them.  I need them.  I just want the ones who accept me for me.  I’m not saying my friends need to rubber stamp every assholish (ugh, grammar checker, please quit underlining “assholish;” it’s obviously a word!) thing I do and tell me how great I am when I’m really being a jerk.  They just can’t disown me over choices I make.  Well, I suppose they could disown me over some choices, like you know, murder and stuff.  But are you really going to abandon a friend over life choices or even give them some holier than thou attitude?  I've quoted the NFL Game Day crew before, but I must yet again.  “C’mon man!”  Look in the mirror.  I’m sure we’ve all done some stuff others don’t understand.  But in the end, don’t most of us try to do what we think is best for ourselves and those we love?  I got a divorce.  I had my reasons, and I explained them to everyone who needed to know the details.  Everyone else will just have to trust me or not. 

Here’s something I wrote on a really bad day a few months ago but didn’t publish.  I couldn’t imagine anyone would want to read it, yet it was the truth at the time I wrote it.  I don’t want to go back to this place, but I might.  We all might.  Hopefully, none of us stays there for too long.

I need to write more of these blogs, but I'm having a hard time sitting down to do it.  Nothing really helps.  I can't stop crying and I just want to be with her.  Even though she was about to turn six, she was just a little baby still.  Mary had gotten her an Elmo potty training video, but she had no interest in watching it.  Mary tried a few times to put it in the video player and Roo would just get mad and say, "Beach!  Beach!"  She wanted to watch her little beach video and see Elmo run around in his swimming trunks building castles and splashing in the water.  I had a beach painting on my wall.  It was actually pretty ugly, but I knew she'd love it when I picked it up for a couple dollars at a yard sale.  She used to climb up on the couch and mess with it and say, "Beach!  Beach!"  Maybe she knew she wouldn't be here long and that potty training didn't matter.  I want to go be with her.  I don't want to be here anymore.  I pray every night maybe that can happen soon.  I wish others wanted that for me too.

I don’t feel this way anymore.  I started trying to pull myself out of my funk on my own.  I had some minor victories, but it was hard and I slipped back a lot.  I needed some help.  And then I met a girl and asked her out.  She’s wonderful.  I was fighting to be hopeful about an uncertain future before she came along, but her presence has certainly opened my eyes to many beautiful things life still has to offer.

I'll share a few more lessons learned through lifting and living.  Humans are complex.  We can be sad and happy for different reasons at the same time.  Things aren’t always black and white.  Learning when to push through and when to pull back is difficult but important.  Life gives and life takes away.  Hope and love are at the heart of human existence.  Moving forward is scary but Winter Warlock knows you just have to “Put one foot in front of the other and soon you'll be walking 'cross the floor.”  Something else scary:  Halloween will never be the same, but I still enjoy passing out candy to children.

Banana and Ape

Mary Lou and Bela Karolyi

Little Red Riding Hood and Big Bad Wolf

Elmo's Best Buddy is a Goldfish... Not Happening.

Putting Out Fires

That title is not some creative metaphor for how life is about overcoming obstacles.  It's about an actual fire.  Ok, maybe just smoke and not a raging inferno, but stories are always better when you exaggerate a little.  An author who shall go unnamed - but since he's the only author I know you can probably guess - calls it "creative license."  Hint... hint... he looks like the Dos Equis beer commercial guy.

 

Anyway, so I woke up early this morning ahead of the alarm.  This is highly unusual for me, as I am not exactly an early riser, and was perhaps a sign I didn't see that more unusual events were in store.  I do enjoy waking up early on occasion though and having that first cup of coffee or two or three before the sun comes up.  So that's what I did.  And you can imagine what happened.  I went from calm, peaceful guy watching the sun come up on the front porch to supercharged wild man all hopped up on the bean running around with too many thoughts to even process.  This was perhaps the beginning of my problem.

 

One thought that sort of gelled was that since it was so early I had time to make a huge breakfast of steak and eggs.  I think of myself as some steak master, and the routine is to salt a rib eye heavily, sear a nice crust in a frying pan, and then stick it in an iron skillet in a 350° oven for just a couple minutes.  They come out perfectly every time - warm through and pink in the middle with that delicious crust.  But the damn oven takes like 10 minutes to preheat, and I had finished all the coffee.  This meant I'd just be sitting there twiddling my hyperactive thumbs while waiting on the stupid orange light to go out.  That scenario was intolerable for coffee crack head man.

 

The solution... flip the oven on and jump in the shower.  YES!  BRILLIANT!  By the time I hopped out, it would be time to sear that steak and throw it in the hot oven.  So that's what I did.  At least it's what I thought I did.  I was in there happily lathering up - it may as well have been an Irish Spring commercial - when my bliss was interrupted by this shrill beeping.  I knew what it was immediately, because I've done it numerous times before, though never while showering... the damn smoke alarm in the kitchen.  The difference this time was that it was like 6:00 a.m., not 4:00 in the afternoon.

 

So out I scrambled; water and soap flying everywhere.  I ran in the kitchen and immediately discovered the problem.  In my haste, I had flipped the switch for one of the stove burners instead of the oven.  Rather than storing my favorite pan like a normal human, I just leave it sitting on that burner, ready for whipping up something yummy at a moment's notice.  Why reach in a cabinet to get something out when you can just leave it out all the time?  Why wash your car when it's going to just get dirty again?  Why mow the grass or get a haircut when... ah, never mind, this is sort of a ludicrous train of thought.  But I think leaving a pan out is acceptable, except when you can't work your oven and end up ruining the pan by melting the Teflon into a gooey, smoking paste that's mistaken by your imperceptive smoke detector for a five-alarm fire.

 

You know the definition of multi-tasking?  Doing more than one thing at a time - in my case cooking and showering - badly.  I've never met a good multi-tasker, but I've met plenty of people who could bungle a conversation with me while trying to drive to the market.  They give nonsensical answers to questions.  They sometimes don't even answer the question that was asked.  Hell, maybe they're texting too and really got confused.  I've even been called the wrong name.  Way to engage, "friend."  I'm glad this moment we're sharing means so much to you.  Good lord.  And I guarantee they sucked at the driving too.  While else would I hear honking in the background and the occasional "Oh, shit."?  That's certainly not defensive driving.

 

Enough of that rant and back to this rant.  After flipping the burner off and throwing the smoking pan in some water, I jumped up on a chair and started frantically waving a towel at the alarm.  This always worked in the past, but of course it wouldn't work when the entire neighborhood is asleep and I really need  a break. Nope.  Nothing.  Thirty seconds of naked arm flapping seemed like three hours.  And of course the walls are paper thin, so I could hear the neighbor and his girlfriend rustling around.  Shit!  He even muttered something under his breath about the incompetent idiot below.  Think fast, Chuck!  Think fast!

 

BAM!  In my panic, I accidentally got too close with my towel waving and knocked the whole damn alarm off the wall.  It flew one direction and the battery another.  Oh well.  Problem solved.  Lacking much of a filter on what I say, I jumped down from my precarious perch on the chair and blurted out, "No worries.  Go back to bed.  Everything is under control now.  I'm a fireman!"

 

Jeesh.  Forget this shower, I thought.  I'm clean enough, and I'm certainly dry after all that jumping around.  Time to cook that steak.  Ah, there's the little oven dial I meant to hit.  At least I'd be able to get dressed while waiting for the dumb thing to preheat.  I mean, showering is one thing, but I could get dressed right there in the kitchen where I could multi-task efficiently and keep an eye on everything.  Right?  Well that's what I thought.

 

So there I am with one shoe on and one in my hand, hopping up and down and trying to slip it on the other foot, when the damn alarm in the far room starts going off.  WHAT THE HELL!  I'm standing right there looking around the kitchen and there's no freaking problem!  Off I run through the house to determine the source of this latest annoyance.

 

Entering the living room, the issue is immediately apparent.  A cloud of smoke has floated over from the kitchen and is hovering above my head like an early morning fog enveloping the entire room.  I'm not even fooling around this time.  There isn't going to be any waving this oppressive haze out of the way.  It's everywhere.  Hell, I'll be lucky if it doesn't choke me out and finish me right here.  Not really, but again, the story is better with a little element of danger thrown in for effect.

 

I'm hurriedly dragging a chair over to stand on while I remove the battery when I hear it.  The recluse upstairs has never once spoken to me, preferring to gripe about me to his girlfriend as if I can't hear his every word, but he's picked now to man up and come out of his shell.

 

"You are the worst fucking fireman EVER!" he screams in disgust.

 

I had to laugh.  It really was funny.  It was also true.  But I didn't care.  I knew the best fireman EVER!