I never earned a single merit badge in scouting—pretty sure I officially retired as a Webelos, actually—but I did learn to always be prepared.
In the back of my car right now, I have a frisbee, soccer ball, badminton equipment, camping chairs, a blanket, a pair of socks (clean ones, too), and slightly-melted deodorant.
THAT is preparation.
I’m a big fan of movies. I’m also a big fan of real-life moments that seem to have come straight from movie scripts.
Like just now, when one of my students had a Dumb & Dumber moment. Here’s what happened…
Scene: A middle-school lunchroom. The students have just been excused to head back to class, but must clean up the mess first. An abandoned water bottle sits on the floor between the table and door.
Me: “Lance, whose water bottle is that?”
Lance: “I don’t know.”
He walks over to the bottle, picks it up, and examines it closely. Then, in the most serious tone…
“Oh! It belongs to Camelback!”
End scene.
Of course, there is no student with the first or last name “Camelback”—or anything remotely close to that. Of course, I busted up laughing, thinking about the briefcase scene in Dumb & Dumber…
“Samsonite! I was way off. Knew it started with an “S” though.”
And, of course, I just had to share this movie moment with you all.
Klay Thompson’s 1-for-13 shooting performance Wednesday night—in a 98-105 loss to the lowly Kings—was erratic, ugly, and totally not a surprise.
But it’s okay…or maybe I should say O-Klay.
I accept Klay Thompson for who he is: an inconsistent, yet trigger-happy sniper with permanent green lights in his eyes.
And you should too, though it may not be as easy as it is for me.
Why?
Well, I survived growing up a Knicks fan during the John Starks era; an era filled with similar 1-for-13 nights sandwiched—forming a bizarre triple-decker club creation—between occasional 30-point explosions. It’s no easy bite to swallow, but you do it because those 30-point explosions taste pretty damn good. And I’m fairly convinced that Thompson is nothing more than a Starks reincarnate. At this point, at least.
The good news: this is just his second season in the NBA, so there is still plenty of time to grow.
The bad news: this is just his second season in the NBA, so there is still plenty of time to shoot, shoot, and clank some more.
The truth: despite Thompson’s Starks-like streakiness, the Warriors are 41-32, the likely 6-seed in the much-vaunted Western Conference, and far ahead of preseason predictions.
This team is not built on a foundation of Thompson’s bricks, but rather the play of Steph Curry (’s ankles) and David Lee—heck, I would even argue that Jarret Jack and Andrew Bogut are more important pieces right now. Which is fine. Yup, I said it. Thompson can continue to develop, mature without the pressure of being “the guy.”
So, save yourself a lot of stress and head-scratching and accept him, too.
Trust me; it’s already made my life significantly better.
Every year I enter a few lot of bracket challenges online. The prizes range anywhere from a $50 gift card to brand new sneakers to a vacation to Hawaii to $1,000,000. I have yet to win a single dollar … or even a single shoelace.
But every year I make sure to print at least one hard copy so I get the satisfaction of ripping it up into 68 pieces of poor predictions. And that—along with the buzzer-beaters, cinderella runs, and sheer madness of it all—is a good enough prize for me.
All of this time spent reading textbooks is cutting into my time spent reading, you know, good books.
How could I not write about this Oakland Athletics team?
I mean, after overcoming so many obstacles—including a 13-game deficit on June 30—to win the AL West, it’s impossible not to. So this post, albeit brief, is dedicated to their magical run, which continues Saturday at Comerica Park.
Before the regular season began, I was sure of three things: that the offense, because of a power shortage, would have to manufacture runs; that Jemile Weeks was immune to the Sophomore Slump; and that the team would actually surprise a lot of people and finish 3rd in the division, not 4th.
Shows how much I know.
Well, that offense hit 195 total home runs, and the most in MLB since the All-Star break (111); Weeks struggled to a .220 average before being sent to the minors; and today, in front of a sellout crowd, the A’s beat the Rangers 12-5 to secure home-field advantage in the ALDS.
Yup. Unbelievable. Wow.
I can’t help but think of Cloud Atlas—a novel that skillfully weaves multiple stories, covering multiple genres, into one united whole. A masterpiece. A book you can’t stop reading. A team you can’t stop watching.
14 walk-off wins provided suspense. A Bartolo Colon suspension for PEDs provided drama. The Bernie Lean provided humor. A line drive off Brandon McCarthy’s temple, and the subsequent brain surgery, provided tragedy. Clubhouse camaraderie provided romance—more specifically, bromance. And on and on go the stories that form this united bunch.
Then there’s this song that, when paired with the 2012 Oakland Athletics, reminds us of what we’re all capable of: Magic.
So, pop the champagne, celebrate the journey, and be ready for more.
I went for a run yesterday evening after work and there they were, in all their predictable glory: a group of guys gathered for pick-up soccer.
As I ran my laps, I took on the role of spectator. Sure enough, all six of these guys found their way into the game.
It is a requirement, after all. Or so it seems.
The Guy In Jeans—Sometimes Cargo Shorts
Each game has one. And there are two likely reasons for this odd soccer outfit. Either he forgot to do laundry or his soccer-playing friend dragged him along and he ended up on the field to “even out the numbers.” Usually the latter.
Pass to him at your own risk. Give-and-gos often become give-and-never-get-backs.
The Guy Who Used to Have It But is Now Limited by His Gut
The most common member of the group. You can tell this guy was good before his gut grew into a thirty-pound fanny pack. Don’t get me wrong, he has skills and—don’t let the stomach fool you—is surprisingly light on his feet. He knows how to play, where to be and when, but can’t do it like he used to. At least not as efficiently.
This is what the mirror is starting to look like, though the gut is about 100 beers short of reaching its potential.
The Way-Too-Serious Guy
Outfit has nothing to do with it, this guy is just ultra-competitive. To a fault. Chill out, bro, it’s just a pick-up game. Not the World Cup. No need to flop, slide tackle every five seconds, call ticky-tack fouls, yell at the guy in jeans—remember, he wasn’t planning on playing in the first place—or even keep score. And if his team “loses,” he storms off the field without a word said, aside from profanities, and doesn’t return for at least a month.
In this case, you secretly want him to lose—to the point of pulling a 1919 White Sox if need be.
The Guy In a Jersey
Soccer jersey, of course. The guy in a jersey is always a wildcard. Either he looks and acts the part or he is comparable to a kid in a Spiderman costume on Halloween. No webs are shooting out of those wrists.
You never really know what you’re going to get until the game starts.
The Cherry Picker (I’d rather play with a nose picker)
This guy not only parks his butt in front of the opposing goal and picks cherries, he snags bushels of apples and peaches too. We see you. And no you didn’t just invent a new way to take advantage of the no-offsides rule. People have been picking for years. It’s downright lazy and not even your own teammates want to pass you the ball. Help out on defense and maybe we can work something out.
The Kid
The older—and more out of shape—I get, the more I hate this kid. His bottomless source of energy and the way he makes others look bad. And old. I used to be him. I miss those days. Running around and around, getting faster and faster as the game progresses. Ahh those were the good days. Now I sprint ten yards and my legs feel like anchors.
But seriously, who invited this kid? He’s either a relative of one of the guys, possibly their son, or a messenger sent by God to remind us how cruel time is.
I just returned from my first ever cruise, a four-day cruise from LA to Ensenada and back.
Here are some observations, in no particular order.
- Dining rooms, buffets—with all sorts of food—and a bartender ready to make you a drink are always in sight and within reach.
I watched a grown man eat fries smothered in cheese sauce and ketchup with a side of four chocolate chip cookies for lunch one day. True story.
- A Craigslist ad would describe Ensenada as a “quaint” and “charming little village” when, in reality, it is filth. But with really good tacos.
- Mexican sea lions are bilingual, have mustaches and wear sombreros.
(Not a lie, only a slight exaggeration)
- The gym is the best place to avoid the crowds.
Once again, this has a lot to do with the binge-drinking and binge-eating going on and why the average person probably gains over a pound a day on a cruise.
- You can easily lose track of time in the dark, window-less cabins.
At least they provided a fancy faux window, a curtain with a solid wall behind it.
- $ Money doesn’t leave the ship.
A person, upon winning the bingo jackpot or other large sums of money, is heard to yell “Shots! Shots! Shots!” Lots of shots and bottles and random purchases later, the $ is gone, back into Carnival’s deep pockets.
- People have really ugly tattoos.
The Dodge Ram logo covering half of your back, really?
- The staff is not only very friendly, it’s very international friendly—with employees from over 60 different countries.
None from Madagascar, though. I checked.
- Being without a phone and computer is liberating.
And returning to stacks of texts and emails and tweets makes you feel important.
- “My Heart Will Go On”—the theme song from the Titanic movie—is an odd and slightly eerie choice to put on the playlist of a ship.
The last thing I want to be thinking about on a luxury ship is the Titanic. No offense, Celine.
- Eat plenty of fiber.
Don’t ask why, just find a way to do it.
Mix the above observations into a blender and what do you get?
A pretty damn good time.
Can traditions be spontaneous?
Think about it…
Aren’t traditions just the offspring of fateful, spontaneous moments?
I think so…
Two weeks ago, after running laps and stairs, my girlfriend and I had a random craving and decided to treat ourselves to ice cream—while simultaneously combating our just-completed exercise (oh well)—at the Penny Ice Creamery in Santa Cruz. A forty minute drive, but worth it. If you haven’t been, go. Now.
Two scoops—Strawberry Peppercorn and Dark Chocolate Raspberry—in a fresh waffle cone later and we were stuffed with lactose and a surprising amount of spontaneity. So our little adventure continued—in running clothes mind you. We walked around an empty downtown and found a place to grab a drink. Not just any place; A place that was blaring the entire Aladdin soundtrack on crappy speakers. We were still impressed.
The night came to a conclusion—as the Genie flew away in a Hawaiian shirt carrying a suitcase and golf clubs on his back—but a tradition was born. A Tuesday night tradition of ice cream and downtown Santa Cruz. We’ve been back twice and don’t plan on stopping.
Does that make it any less spontaneous?
Maybe so…or maybe not. Either way I look forward to it. Maybe next time they’ll play The Lion King.
I am learning—and re-learning—that I am always learning new things. And yes I meant to write the word “learn” multiple times in that first sentence. Mission of emphasis accomplished.
Each and every day brings about a new lesson wrapped up in a simple—and sometimes strange, often humorous—life experience. You just have to be aware.
They’re like those scenes in horror movies where the “monster” pops up out of nowhere and everyone in the audience screams in unison “Aaahhh!” Sometimes it’s a surprise; sometimes the buildup foreshadows; sometimes you expect the monster and then it’s just a dog scrounging in the trash for leftovers but you still scream anyway.
Aaahhh!
Take Tuesday for example. On the way back to school from the park we—another teacher, the students and I—opted to take another route, in search of a shortcut. Two dead ends later and we were twenty minutes late.
Mission not accomplished, but lesson learned: Shortcuts are usually stumbled upon—by accident. Those who go out of their way in search of shortcuts often find “longcuts” instead.
Yesterday’s lesson: BBQ and CCR go hand-in-hand on the 4th of July.
Today’s lesson: To be learned…
