Friday, December 4, 2009

Hold Me Closer Tiny Dancer

The morning air was cold, but in a good way; a refreshing sort of way. I put a determined look on my face as if to say, "I'm going to get something done today, even though it's cold." Luckily, my coat was warm, and my pockets deep. My first task was complete: taking all my junk out to the car. I usually had my briefcase, my thermos, my lunch, and some extra books/folders that didn't make it back into my briefcase. Today, I just had my briefcase and my phone charger (since I had forgotten to charge my phone the night before).

I went back to the house for my precious cargo. Her name is Penelope. She'll be two on Sunday, and she's a real riot. When I opened up the door she was climbing into her booster chair saying, "Berfest. Berfest," which I understood to mean breakfast and sighed in mild disappointment. The household never functions very well when mommy is sick, and I was already running pretty late because I had suddenly and unexpectedly thrown up after brushing my teeth. I had considered staying home; but then, as my to-do list started running through my mind, I thought better of the idea and decided I had better get some work done today.

I managed to trick her out the door with a bowl of dry fruit-loops I promised she could have as soon as she was in her car-seat. I buckled her in and asked if she could keep from making a mess with her cereal. She nodded in agreement. I walked around the car, enjoying more of the cold air and wondering why she would only silently nod her head to say yes, but quickly shouted the word "NO" anytime she disapproved of anything.

I checked the clock as I made my first turn. I was already eleven minutes late, and I had a sixteen minute commute, plus an extra nine minutes today because I was dropping off Penelope. Plus, I left work after dark the night before and had thus forgotten to grab my sunglasses, so I was having to squint around the low morning sun as it glared off everything at every possible angle.

As I slowed down to make it through the first school zone, I began thinking through my to-do list. There must be at least two-dozen things that have to be finished today. If I play my cards right, some things can be put off until Monday. But, I'd probably be working over the weekend anyway. Suddenly, the second school zone snuck up on me. I braked hard and glanced around for black and whites. Black and whites, who am I, John Dillinger? Just like embracing the cold morning air somehow made me more of a man. Good one Wilson, just get to work already.

I pulled into the empty parking lot as Penelope shouted, "Pay Pace!" She equated her daycare with one of those giant plastic mazes at Chick-Fil-A. I contemplated this connection as I circled the car. On one hand, it was supposed to be a learning center. On the other hand, she's two, and she doesn't hate the place, so what's the big deal. I opened the car door and reached into the back seat to retrieve her. Whoever thought a two-door SUV would be a good idea? What a waste of resources.

I had to lean the front seat forward and put my foot in the floorboard behind it just to reach far enough back to unbuckle her. I took her cereal bowl and put it on the center console, hoping she'd forget about it (They eat breakfast at the daycare). I pulled her out of her seat and began moving backwards, one foot still in the car. She peeked over to her cereal bowl, but didn't whine when I didn't reach for it. Once I got a hold of her, I took a step backwards. My foot was caught in the seat-belt.

Suddenly, I was falling backwards, uncontrollably. We briefly made eye contact. She starred plainly at me as if to say, "I trust you," and then shut her eyes as I hugged her close. This I did with my left hand as I covered the back of her beautiful red head with the other. Waiting for my back to hit the ground was like waiting for an empty bottle of honey to drain. We inched toward the asphalt.

Every moment of that precious child's short life scurried through my mind. The day she was born. The three days after that in the hospital. This very morning when I had hurried her out the door and every day in between. The first time she had looked at me and smiled. The first time she first rolled over, crawled, and walked. The first time I heard her laugh. The first time she kissed me on the cheek. The first time she said, "I Love You Daddy."

The ground approached us faster, and yet, slower at the same time.

I thought of her playing her toy piano and singing at the top of her lungs. I thought of her two little arms up above her head, trying to dance like Barbie and the Nutcracker on TV. I thought of her tiny whisper voice, saying, "Goodnight, Daddy," just before I closed her door at night.

I squeezed her tight. Surely the ground was near.

I even thought of every moment that had not yet graced her life. Her first day of school. Her first piano recital. Her first basketball game. Her 16th birthday. Her first boyfriend. Her first day of college. Her engagement. Her wedding.

The asphalt was suddenly upon us. I closed my eyes in fear.

The world was silent. She lifted her eyes and looked deeply into mine. I still trust you daddy. For one brief moment, the whole world made sense. For one instant, I understood the turning of the world and the meaning of life as if I could see it all at once. "Are you okay?" I asked, breathing again for the first time. She pushed herself off my chest and stood up. She glanced over to the car and then grabbed my hand to help me up. We walked back to the car and examined the scene. Following her instructions, I leaned the seat back and forced the seat-belt to wind itself. She pointed into the car and said, "Searoe Bow Peas." "Sure, baby," I replied. I grabbed the bowl and picked her up and we headed for the door. "I love you, Penelope." "I love you, daddy," she smiled as she laid her head on my chest. All was right with the world. The world was in my arms.

Monday, August 24, 2009

What kind of Coke?

I grew up in Arkansas, where carbonated beverages are called cokes, no matter what company has produced them or bottled. There are just cokes. Someone might ask you, "Hey, do you wanna coke?" After you confirm your thirst, they will kindly ask, "What kind?" To which you can reply Pepsi, 7up, Dr. Pepper, Squirt, or even, Coke. Any of these would be an acceptable response, because a coke is any kind of carbonated beverage.

Because of my natural inclination to not do what I'm told, at an early age, I started bucking the trend of generalizing all carbonated beverages under one brand name. I would proudly ask guests if they would like a "soda." And, then even prouderly explain what that even meant and also the ignorance of calling every soda by the name of one soda company.

I recently moved to Tulsa, where everyone drinks Pop. This is a little different than what my college friends from Michigan drank, Paap. Either way, while trying to adjust my vocabulary, I have realized that I still haven't kicked the habit of not wanting to do what I'm told. I find myself wanting to have to explain that I actually want a Pepsi after ordering a coke. Or, at least, ask someone for a soda, which is a little different than a Pop. Of course, in order to justify my mild civil disobedience, I've been reasoning myself an argument to defend myself after grabbing a 7up out of a cooler full on Sprite.

At this point, I have fully re-embraced the hasty generalization of blanket brand name assignment. The truth is, there are a lot of brand names that serve as the ambassador for the rest of their product families. I routinely blow my nose with a Kleenex, never with a tissue. I always use White Out to correct my poor penmanship, never correction fluid. When we moved, I had to uninstall and reinstall our washing machine. To do this, I used a pair of Channel-Locks, since I used to be an electrician, my channel locks are brand named Klein. I (or, more realistically, my wife) always use the dustbuster to clean up small messes, but never the "hand held vacuum." She also puts all the leftovers into Tupperware, even though it's a Rubber-Made, plastic, microwavable, plastic container for the kitchen.

So, if you're going to be a snob about ordering sodas instead of Cokes, so be it. You can do whatever you want. Just be sure that the next time you paper cut your finger, you reach for a box of adhesive bandages, and not, Band-Aids.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Two of Us

I put together a list of statistical categories comparing Lebron to Kobe for the ‘08-’09 season. This is totally biased, nonetheless all of this is true (as far as I can tell). I’ll list it all like this:

Category
Lebron: total; NBA rank
Kobe: total; NBA rank
Here we go.

Total Games
Lebron: 81
Kobe: 82

Lebron sat out the last game of the season, sacrificing his stats in order to rest for the playoffs.

Points Per Game
Lebron: 28.4; 2nd
Kobe: 26.8; 3rd

Dwayne Wade led the league with 30.2. Charles Barkley is probably real proud.

Assists
Lebron: 587; 8th
Kobe: 399; 24th

Hey, 24, that’s cute. It’s his number.

Assists Per Game
Lebron: 7.2; 9th
Kobe: 4.9; 29th

With Pau Gassol streaking to the basket every possession?

Blocks Per Game
Lebron: 1.15; 40th
Kobe: .45; 150th

Rebounds
Lebron: 7.6; 42nd
Kobe: 5.2; 92nd

Steals
Lebron: 1.69; 8th
Kobe: 1.46; 20th

Hey, that one is close. Let’s give Kobe some credit. Let’s see how often he was “Most Valuable” at anything other than scoring.

Double/Doubles (This is achieved by reaching double digits in two statistical categories in a single game)
Lebron: 29; tied for 14th
Kobe: 8; tied for 79th

Honestly, a player of this caliber can’t make ten assists or grab ten rebounds more often than that. This is border line absurd, mostly because of people talk about what a super awesome player he is. I did some more research and found that Lebron had 7 triple-doubles last year. Besides being one shy of Kobe’s total for double-doubles, it is half of Kobe’s career triple-double total of 14. Don't forget, Kobe has been in the league for 14 years. He did double his career average with 2 triple doubles this year, his first in three seasons. I guess he did have three this year if you count the game against the Pistons in January that he had 39 points, 10 rebounds, and 11 turnovers.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Five For Fighting

The past couple of Sundays, I've had the good fortune to catch a hockey game on NBC during the afternoon nap hour. Growing up in the South, I never really played much hockey as a kid. I did do a short stint playing unorganized street hockey after the first Mighty Ducks movie came out. I had a pretty good triple deak. Really, I never even watched that much hockey growing up, though I do seem to remember some cartoon version of Wayne Gretzky fighting crime with Bo Jackson and Michael Jordan. Ongoing train wreck aside, I’ve decided that I really enjoy the game of Hockey. It has the physicality of Football, the skill and tactics of basketball, and the strategy of baseball. What's more is, I think that Hockey has a lot to offer other sports in the way of rules and procedures.

You may not know this, but in Hockey, (at least in the NHL on NBC on Sundays) they don't have to call timeouts to make substitutions. Subs just jump onto the ice right in the middle of the game. Some guys will be skating along and all the sudden they just head to the bench and then a bunch of other guys jump over the wall and take their place. Imagine if basketball coaches didn't have to call timeouts or wait for free throws to make changes to the lineup. For one it would just speed up the game. But it would also eliminate the excuse for teams to have a dozen timeouts per half and consequently eliminate the absurd practice of fouling and burning timeouts to move the ball to half court. (This is a whole other post altogether, but may be the worst rule in all of sports.) Football kind of uses this substitution method already, but it doesn’t really speed up the game because of the fact that everything completely stops in between each play.

Something else you may not know about hockey is the penalty for fouling. This is probably my favorite. I’m still not sure exactly how it works; but sometimes when a player commits a foul he has to immediately sit out of the game for a certain amount of time. Not only is he out of the game for a while, but his team can’t even sub for him. That’s right sports fans; play continues with a mismatch. One team gets to keep playing with more players than the other team. They call this a “power play,” and it’s very exciting. Just imagine if Phil Jackson had to suddenly draw up a play for four players instead of five because Kobe couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Or, imagine if after a pass interference call, the defense had to suddenly defend Payton Manning with no more than ten players. It would be severely interesting to say the least.

Now I’ll admit that Hockey is not without its flaws. The whole fighting thing is kind of weird and, well childish, but admittedly entertaining. But, football is a pretty violent sport altogether and baseball and basketball players are just too cowardly to fight anyway. There is also this business of keeping up with some sort of points that don’t seem to contribute to the score of the game. Really it’s just an advanced way of keeping up with stats, and no American sport really has the right to accuse another of keeping too many stats. There is also the problem of basketball fans that are accustomed to hundreds of points in a game or football fans that always have the consolation of three points for not scoring a touchdown. These are the people who quickly get bored with hockey because someone isn’t scoring every two or three minutes. They could probably stand to learn some patience anyway, and I don’t think James Naismith ever planned on a final score of 121 to 119.

I don’t think that Hockey will ever be as big in the States as it is in Canada. But I do think it deserves a little credit. The pure skill level involved should be enough to entice any real sports fan. And, as much as I hate to be a front runner, the Pittsburgh Penguin's star Sidney Crosby is really fun to watch. Sure, the scoring is a little sparse, and the puck is a little hard to follow. But, what’s not to love about the only sport that has two halftimes.