The World As Seen Through Constricted Pupils

At 3pm, his day begins
with a cigarette out on the porch.
Sun in his eyes, he smiles wide,
“Can I have twenty bucks?
I’ll bring you
the change.”
What kind of father
can deny hunger pangs?

Cash in his pocket, he rolls away
forgetting the first lie
of many today.

Through pin-pricked pupils
it gets harder to see
the value of a mother
or her wedding ring.
So he pawns the diamond,
says they can melt down the gold,
and walks out of the store
not knowing, or caring,
what he just sold.


~MEA


He came into the den looking at all of us as if we were vultures just biding our time to pick away at him. He looked nervous and uncomfortable as we all gathered and looked upon him with sadness; still holding out hope that at some point his life will finally turn around. Its tough to tell someone you love, someone who, at this moment, is not the person you once knew. No, this person is an impostor, a stranger that even he would be unable to recognize in the mirror. Which makes it even tougher. It is easy to dismiss a stranger, but its entirely different when that stranger is a loved one. 


I felt the stinging blow when his father told him he was an "addict". The impact of that blow was felt both ways-The son, having failed his father, having to hear those words from a father, who feels responsible, whether it's his fault or not, for his son's plight. He wants nothing more than to have son back. I watch the exchange between father and son as I can hear the voice of Harry Chapin singing "Cats In The Cradle" feeling the depth of those words as Father and Son look at one another. The child saying,"I'm gonna be like you dad. You know I'm gonna be like you" Now the father just wants his son to be healthy. He wants him to see the next day. That is why he gave him an option.


The son looks at the option as a death sentence- rehab or being homeless. He tries to bargain, to strike a new deal, but this is not a negotiation; this right here is your life and people are trying to save you. But there is another player in this game- Addiction. It is telling you to resist. You have made it this far. Do not give in to sobriety. Do not fall for their tricks and their ultimatums. Why should you? You are 21. You are a man who can do what you want with your life. Can't they see that this is your life?


What they see is someone who has lost control of their life. A lost soul who made a wrong turn and never stopped to ask for directions. You just kept down the wrong path. They wonder behind your back if you will ever get better. They wonder after talking with you if that is the last conversation they will have with you. They wonder how many times you can slip through the grasp of Death. They lay awake at night, unable to sleep, and they wonder. 


The time for wondering is over. A concrete line in the sand has been placed down at your feet. You look to one side of your conscious and see your family that loves and supports you. You look to the other side of your conscious and you see addiction, with its evil cheshire cat grin, beckoning you not to leave. Hasn't it been there for you all those times to get through your pain and heartache. So what if it has gotten you into a little bit of trouble. You made it through all of that unscathed. Well, almost anyway. 


At 21 you should be looking towards the future with rose-coloured glasses knowing that hope always springs eternal. Instead, we are huddled in a room in the cold darkness of fall with with your only hope being that we will all stop talking. No matter how many times we say we are with you you know you know you stand alone on this battlefield. This is your fight and your fight alone. And that scares you. The numerous times you have fought the demons only to succumb to them in a moment of vulnerability. If only you could turn back the hands of time. 


So here we are, in the heart of darkness- Intervening. Talking, supporting, and urging you to finally turn that corner. No more lying. No more stealing. No more broken promises. A soft knock is at the door. This is your opportunity to choose. Family or Addiction? Hope or Pain? We all look upon you to make this choice as the knock gets louder. You look upon your mother and sister's for warmth and protection. You listen to your brother's and their sage advice. You look at your father, the man you should be, and listen to his guidance. Still you are not convinced. At 21 this will be the defining moment of your life. The knock on the door has now hit a thunderous crescendo. Will you answer it?

One Last Shot

I once had a dream of playing college basketball. I even tried my hand at it for awhile at various colleges, but I was never quite good enough to catch on anywhere. I was a step slow, a vertical that was non-existent, and a height that would make Michael J. Fox not feel so short. In fact, I was Scott Howard from Teen Wolf, you know without the whole morphing into a wolf thing going for me. I was on the cusp of average with an ability to play good defense and give up my body for a charge. I believe they call that player scrappy.

Once I found out my limitations and that college ball was not in my cards I began to stop playing as much. People would ask me to play or join a league and I would decline. Those people seemed shocked that I wouldn't play and to tell you the truth so was I. But I continued my passive attitude of not playing basketball even though I wanted to play. I suppressed that urge to play. I fooled myself into thinking- We all have to move on from childish games at some point, right?

And it was six years ago that I did move on from playing- transitioning from player to coach. My time had come and gone to play in the games. It was now my time to pass on my love for the game and the knowledge to a new generation of kids. I wanted to prepare them for their time as high school basketball players. Maybe I could help them capture a glory that I spent so long chasing. I played with the kids sparingly if we needed another player. I only picked up a ball to show them the right way to make an effective play. I had made the decision to pass the torch to these new hoopsters through coaching; effectively benching myself permanently from the game.

After six years of coaching various ages and leagues, seeing many of my kids go on and have success in high school, I was out of basketball. I was now merely a spectator, no longer coaching or playing like I had all of my life. I stripped myself of basketball.

That is until I wrote about my failed journey for a championship during my high school years I began to feel a twitch. It was a twitch to just go outside and shoot some hoops like I had when I was younger. Shooting hoops was always cathartic and relaxing for me. Just me, a hoop, and a ball all working out the problems of the day together. That, in turn, could lead to some pick up games at the park and a renewed interest in playing basketball regularly. This was a game I loved to play growing up, but just fell by the wayside as I got older. The older I got the less time I went outside to shoot or playing. After having written and re-read that piece a few weeks ago I felt a renewed sense of passion and interest in playing the game I grew up obsessing about. It was time for a comeback to rekindle the light of a game that, at one time, meant the world to me.

Yet, I still did not play or shoot. I was content to watch basketball on TV. Constantly brushing off any opportunities to play at the local gym or with friends at the park. I just couldn't bring myself to play. The comeback came to a screeching halt.

Then it happened last Wednesday as I was driving. I saw a kid at the park shooting all by himself. I was envious of him, outside just shooting hoops like I had done so many times before. I quickly remembered the annual alumni game was happening that very night, which features the current varsity team against the one time members of the varsity team. If I was going to play why not do it at my old high school for this one night. If anything it will give me an excuse to see the old high school and if nothing else a reason to have some extra turkey the next day. There was no debate or hesitation on my part. I was all in.

I called my buddy Godfrey, an old teammate and a guy I was sure would go and play, and told him of my plan. Suffice to say, Godfrey, a basketball junkie/lifer, was really excited to get my call and he too was ready to lace up the sneakers once again. I called up the school and told them that the class of 99' would be representing with two of their finest players. The guy on the other line, Eric, dutifully obliged though it did take him awhile to confirm that we had at some point played basketball at Mitty.

Godfrey picked me up an hour before tipoff so we could get to the gym early to get some shots up before the game. We talked about what we expected before the game. My main goal was to get a little bit of run, not hurt myself, and hopefully not embarrass myself in front of my fiance who had never seen me play before. She was a reason for me going out there to play as she always asked why I never played and wanted to see me play one time. Well here we go for better or worse.

The gym was less than packed upon my triumphant returned to basketball. I remember playing to a lot more people back when I played. The crowd seemed to have the enthusiasm of a grown man sitting, watching Twilight. It was still early so I went and changed, talked to a few teachers and coaches, before going to the other gym to warm up. I figured by the time I came back more people would be ready to watch the game.

Not so. I think people actually left before the game started. Well, I guess if I played lousy, less people would be there to see it. Besides, I had modest goals for the game: 4 points, 4 assists, 2 boards, and two charges. I felt that would be pretty good against the defending state champions. Oh, did I forget to mention that our group of savvy, veterans i.e. out of shape old guys, would be taking on the defending state champions i.e. THE DEFENDING STATE CHAMPS. Last years varsity won state led by a 6'9 sophomore freak of an athlete, Aaron Gordon, who is ranked number six in the junior class of top recruits(#2 as a forward). And now he was a junior. In the past our alumni teams were overmatched due to a lack of playing basketball, lack of continuity both offensively and defensively, guys taking awful shots, and terrible cardiovascular shape. The physical conditioning between teenagers that play everyday as compared to guys that play when they have a chance or sporadically is like a thoroughbred racing a jockey- HUGE.

And not only did we have physical limitations to contend with, but we also had a coach. Now I had played in these alumni games back when I first got out of high school and at that time we never had a coach. A coach implies someone who will or has instructed or trained a team. We were a rag tag group of guys that on the fly decided to play together for one night. But there we were, being led John Faylor, who was athlete of the year back to back in the 80's(he was kind enough to lend us that credential by pointing up to his name on the banner) and his enforcer, The Chief- Okay, his name wasn't the chief, but I never caught it or bothered to find out what it was. He looked a lot like Rob Ryan, the Dallas Cowboy Defensive Coordinator if you are picturing it. But they gathered us around and gave a rousing speech which included nuggets of gold like, "who is going to Los Gatos after this?" and "try not to foul because the pizza will get cold if the game runs too long." I was ready to run through a wall for these guys.

Godfrey and I, the 3rd and 4th oldest guys on the team behind two guys from the class of 80' who have never missed a game, started on the bench. We decided to let the young guys duke it out and maybe have a chance to shine against their reserve players. two minutes into the game and one of our alumni starters was already winded and asking for a sub. I immediately pop up and check myself into the game. Coach Faylor tried to recall me in favor of someone else, but to late I was already checked into the game.  Alumni at this point were off to a good start only down by one early on. I didn't have to win the game, all I had to do was not lose it or put us in a hole.

Our first offensive possession I was open quite a bit. Feet set, good space, ready to lock and load out here. That's right fella's good ball movement, good penetration, and just for the kick out to me and I'll put this baby to bed. I hit my three's in warmups. Confidence is sky high. And the kick out... Never came. The whole game it never came. After all these years I was reduced to the old man screener/facilitator in this game. And when I did touch the ball it was to inbound it after a made hoop. I thought that Godfrey and I, when we got into together, would be able to get the ball to each other, but even Steve couldn't get the ball and if he did he would be called for an offensive foul.

So I took my talents to the defensive end. This is fine. I'll just block shots and slap fives like my old Coach Skip use to say. I'll get my charge and everything will be like it was in the old days. I'm a team player here. I'll just wait for my chance to take a charge. That will get the seventeen people watching in the stands excited.

Then came my chance to excite the home crowd as their one time star, yours truly, would go toe to toe with their current star, Aaron Gordon. Gordon caught the ball on the wing and blew by his defender leaving only me standing between him and the rim. Gordon had already thrown down a sweet and effortless windmill, which really is cruel and unfair to all of us vertically challenged people to have to watch. Our eyes lock as I step up and he comes barreling at me. He lowers his shoulder into me and like a finely trained theatre actor I exploded onto the ground for what I believed was my finest charge. The whistle blew and the ref called a blocking foul on me. I felt the air deflate in the gym with that call, like Mudville when Might Casey struck out. I stared into the ref's soul, saw there was no soul, and knew how it was he did not call a foul. The half ended on that note with Aaron Gordon thinking he got the best of me, Coach Faylor running to get pizza, and the ref cheating the crowd out of a career defining move on my behalf- the charge. Varsity 27, Alumni 21.

The second half was very competitive(surprisingly) as we scrapped a rotation and went for the win. With coach Faylor still eating pizza I assumed the role of Coach, though I made the old Chief feel like he had the Con. A lot of these younger guys I had coached and well, they may not pass me the ball or slap me five, but they do listen to me as if I am still their coach. We went into a trapping zone press to start off the half that gave the Varsity fits. I made sure to sub big guys in and out to hack away at Gordon and we chipped away. We got turnovers and timely three's from our shooters to keep the game close.

At the start of the 4th and us down 2 points Coach Faylor came back out, which meant I would insert myself into the game. This would immediately lead to the second and final act between Aaron Gordon and myself. A moment I am sure he has forgotten, but I am still and will be writing about for a time to come. I was down in help defense as Gordon's defender tried to front him. A baseline pass came into Gordon and he swooped up the ball with thoughts of Glory and a rim jarring dunk. Only he did not expect a the white shadow to meet him as he was going up and tying up the ball. He and I wrestled for the ball. The whistle blew and we continued to wrestle for the ball. Neither one of us was going to to let up no matter how uncomfortable it got for everybody as we both continued to fight for the ball long after the refs broke it up. I, however, ended up with the ball as I held it up in the air in triumphant for the 11 people still in attendance to behold.

I then subbed myself out. For good.

I walked toward the bench, but not before slapping the floor and getting in a defensive stance, fired up by attempting no shots and getting one jump ball. I assumed my position as puppet master coach and continued to sub in new guys and telling the Chief new complaints to launch at the ref while I called timeouts to talk strategy. In the end we found ourselves down by only three with under a minute left. A few errant shots and a couple free throws later and the game was over as we lost 54-49. I logged five minutes with no shots attempted, no rebounds, 2 assists, seven fouls, one forced jump ball and a wish that the game didn't have to end.

We didn't win, I was nowhere close to being good or a factor on the court, but I did get John Faylor, after his eighth piece of pizza, telling me that I could coach the team from now on. More so, I had a great time getting back into the game. Playing out there on my old high school court reminded me of some great times I had playing basketball. It got the competitive juices going, it was intense, and it was fun. Sometimes you leave things in the past because they don't work out like you thought or because it broke your heart when you failed. You only remember the bad things, the negatives of the experience instead of focusing on why you ever started playing in the first place. You play because you love the game; a game that will never walk away from you and will always be there if you ever choose to want to play again. On this one night I enjoyed playing basketball again. Its because of that I think I will give it another shot.

The Road That Changed My Life

I was talking with my friend B.Olive the other night. It was the kind of conversation that dips into a little of everything. It was when we began talking about he and his wife are heading to New York next week for a vacation, but also to see a live showing of Saturday Night Live. When Brandon mentioned this he seemed to really light up and he started getting excited as if he wanted to leave that second to go. SNL, as I came to  find out, means a lot to Brandon. Much like football in the south or soccer to a hooligan, B.Olive grew up idolizing and becoming entrenched in the culture and humor of SNL. That was entertainment for him- a variety show that captured humor, had social commentary, was live and fresh, but most of all it was creative. This is the show that shaped his life. SNL made him want to act and entertain people. That show was the genesis behind who Brandon would become years later as he moved to Hollywood to fulfill a dream.

After listening to B.Olive tell me that story it got me thinking of what event or idea shaped and changed my life. Why do I enjoy writing and reading so much? What do I have in my past that makes me want to create stories to tell to people? There is always a story behind a story that details the spark that started you off on a path. It could be a glove that your dad gave you that made you want to play baseball. Your parents use to listen to records of great music and it inspired you to create music. Or maybe one day you picked up a book and couldn't put it down. It was the tale within the pages of that book that made you embark on your own journey to create something for others to read. 

It was the summer of my senior year in high school when I went over to my friend Danny Arias's house.  He had just finished a book when I arrived and flipped it onto the table. He told me he was going to get ready and disappeared upstairs. I sat down and examined the book that he was reading.  The book was On the Road by Jack Kerouac. I turned the book over and on the back was an excerpt from the first line of the book, “I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won’t bother to talk about except that it had something to do with the miserably weary split-up and my feeling that everything was dead…”  I had just recently spilt up with the first girl I had ever loved and reading this passage shook every fiber in my body.  Inside I felt a loneliness and complex feeling that I was unable to shake and reading that line caused a stir inside of me that I had never felt.  I quickly turned the book over and dove into the story of Sal Paradise, his travels, and the cast of characters that filled the American landscape.

           

Immediately, I had a connection with the narrator of the novel, Sal Paradise.  Not only had Sal been through a dismal separation, but he also yearned for more in his life beyond the monotony of his small New Jersey town.  Still, it took more than a fleeting hope to arouse Sal to pursue his dream; his dream needed a kick start in the form of Dean Moriarty, an adventurous, happy-go-lucky mad man, for Sal to begin his life on the road.  For Sal himself even explained, “I’d often dreamed of going West to see the country, always vaguely planning and never taking off”.  I felt the truth of this line cast a shadow upon me because I am just like Sal in always planning and dreaming, but never seizing the moment or following through with my dreams.  In two lines Kerouac had tapped into my psyche and I felt like he was writing each line specifically for me.  In my head I heard a public announcement- “The role of Sal Paradise will be played tonight by Mark Cuen!”  From that point on I placed myself within the story as its main character.

Quickly, the story finds Sal being befriended by Dean Moriarty, who is described as “a youth tremendously excited with life, and though he was a con man, he was only conning because he wanted so much to live and get involved with people who would otherwise pay no attention to him”.  Kerouac creates these genuine characters of dreamers, thinkers, and seekers of a higher truth that are trapped in a culture that binds and restricts their burgeoning sense of self. In Dean, Sal sees someone that is everything that he is not.  Dean is a flawed and troubled hero, but a hero to Sal and countless other's who would love to be a flawed, unpredictable traveler. Dean was born on the road, hopping trains with his father as a youngster, working odd jobs, and sleeping with various women all while making a name for himself everywhere he went. Dean was creating a catalog of a life that was being lived to the fullest on his terms. Sal deeply admired Dean and his lifestyle of being free of the rules that most people not only abide by, but cater too. Compared to the vanilla origins of his own life, Sal begins to yearn to be more like Dean and live life as an adventure on the road.  Dean has so much life experience and energy that it is hard for anyone not to become intoxicated by his fervent spirit and manic zeal for life. Dean displays the classic idiom of women wanting to be with him and men wanting to be him. A clear illustration of how Dean operates can be shown by a scene Sal describes in Denver when Dean is simultaneously dating two women, working on the side, and staying up all night to have deep conversation with his friend, Carlos Marx, in an attempt to become more knowledgeable and to obtain a higher level of self. It is men like Dean Moriarty that makes men like Sal and myself push to be free of social restraints and travel the roads of experience. 

Another story element Kerouac uses that enthralls my senses is his description of the road and the various places that Sal comments and visits on his trip.  It must be noted that the structure in which Kerouac uses consists of long sentences and paragraphs that move smoothly and subtly through the novel it is as if you are riding in the truck bed yourself passing by, “the inky night of New Mexico, or the gray dawn of Dalhart Texas, and then the bleak Sunday afternoon of Oklahoma, finally into the nightfall of Kansas” with the likes of Mississippi Gene, Montana Slim, and Old Bull Lee.  The road so thoroughly pleases and intoxicates Kerouac that he writes of Sal feeling as he woke up, “the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was”.  Having just traveled for the first time and finding himself at the center of America it is this virtual crossroads of the past and the future.  Many a man has traveled that very same road in search of a brighter future- Ben Franklin as a postmaster; George Washington as an Indian-fighter; Daniel Boone finding the Gap- for Sal it is much more than looking for gold or the promise of land.  Rather this experience is a spiritual moment of freedom, a conscious moment of self-awakening.  Sal has a rebirth brought about by this newfound liberty the road has afforded him to travel when and where he wants; the road is a sea of endless possibilities.  Sal quips , “What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people… -it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-by.  But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the sky”.  Every moment that is experienced is the next chance to turn the page on a chapter of your life and travel down another road.  Kerouac frames that sentiment perfectly with the (mis)adventures of Sal and his traveling companions throughout the novel.

This novel I feel truly saved me in a time when I saw only darkness.  I, much like Sal, had become sick and it seemed that I was going to drown in my own pit of despair.  Then Jack Kerouac tapped into my psyche and opened up a world that is limitless in its ability to amaze and entertain.  I continually find myself flipping through the pages of this book and discovering the characters, the settings, and the dialogue just as exhilarating and honest as the first time I read it.  The authenticity of the American Dream and its different interpretation creates a spirit within me that is encouraged and rejuvenated when life seems to be static or lost.  On The Road is truly inspiring and is a book that revitalized my heart and my soul, leaving this quote as the indelible thought ingrained into my heart, “’The last thing is what you can’t get, Carlo. Nobody can get to the last thing. We keep on living in hopes of catching it once and for all.’”

All of us will have an encounter with a seminal event, whether its taping SNL to relive each episode, watching a skyscraper being built, or just picking up a book that will shape or influence our lives in a way we never thought possible. And when you do end up catching it, that formative moment, it's something you will never forget.  

A Legendary Jump

Forty years ago tomorrow, Novemeber 24, 1971, a man boarded a 747, thirty minutes before the flight and paying in cash, headed from Portland to Washington. It was Thanksgiving eve and many passengers were making their final flight for home to be with their family. This man had other ideas. He gave his name as Dan Cooper, a nondescript middle age man that stood 5'10", between 170 and 180 pounds, with brown eyes and dark hair. Sound like anyone to you?

Dan Cooper, armed only with a briefcase, took a seat by himself on the plane. He smoke heavily and had a few cocktails as they pushed off to Washington. Nothing out of the ordinary for the time. What he did next  was straight out of a Hollywood movie. Cooper took a note and gave it to the flight attendant alerting her that he was hijacking the plane. Inside his briefcase she was given a glimpse of a bomb. He wanted $200,000 or he would blow up the planes. The airlines agreed.

The plane landed down in Seattle, Washington, with local police and FBI in wait, where the pilots were instructed to refuel and set a course, which Cooper provided, to Mexico. Cooper allowed all passengers off the flight keeping one stewardess as a hostage. The FBI strategized, but ultimately allowed for Cooper to leave believing he would have to stop before getting to Mexico. They would just bide their time and wait. Unbeknownst to them Cooper never wanted to make it to Mexico.

The flight took off from Seattle and headed south. Cooper had received four parachutes, at his request, while in Seattle. He strapped one to himself and tied the other to the ransom bag.  Cooper ordered the stewardess to lock herself in the cockpit with the rest of the crew. She did and it was in the cockpit that the crew noticed the rear door or aft door of the plane had been opened. They called back to Cooper, but received no response.

On that cold, and dark night in November a man set out to accomplish an extremely daring feat. With a parachute strapped to himself and the ransom bag gripped in his other hand he stepped calmly and fluidly down the steps. With the wind ripping through the night sky, his heart racing as he looked down into a deep abyss. A flutter of nerves quickly struck, but Dan Cooper composed himself. He took one last look back at the plane before turning his attention back to the night sky. And then he jumped.

That was forty years ago tomorrow when Dan Cooper, now known as D.B. Cooper, took to the air to pull off one of the most well known heists of all time. His plot remains one of the all time great heists, and subsequent mysteries, in the history of the United States, as Cooper was never captured, only some of the money he stole was recovered, and numerous suspects have come and fell by the wayside.

It is that one act, the jump, that propelled a once unknown Dan Cooper into D.B. Cooper: American Folk Hero. His legend spawned numerous books, a movie, a festival in Ariel, Washington held the weekend of Thanksgiving, and at one time my hometown had a bar named D.B. Cooper in his honor. The other seemingly odd note to this story is the number of people that have claimed to be D.B. Cooper over the years.  Or the abundance of people that stepped forward to allege they could unmask Cooper as a family member. The likes of which contended they had evidence that their brother, their uncle, their father, or a friend bared a resemblance to Cooper, or lived in the area of the hijacking, or confided in them upon their death bed. However, all roads have come up as dead end to this point, baffling the FBI, the local police, and the general public as a whole into the identity of this ordinary guy who pulled off a robbery the likes of which could only be scripted in Hollywood.

The question is why is D.B. Cooper still relevant? How does a man who committed a crime become a pop culture icon for the last forty years? And why do people want to answer the question to his identity by forcibly claiming to be him or know his true identity?

I thought the world loved a good mystery?

They do, but they also love closure... or so they thought.

Remember what drove the Watergate scandal years after Nixon resigned? It was the mystery of who was Deep Throat, right. Everyone always wanted to know his identity and then when they found out it was FBI associate director Mark Felt the mystery and excitement of watergate died with it. People wanted to know, but really it was the idea of not knowing that drove the anticipation and speculation of that incident.

In our world of TMZ, smart phones, and high tech video systems that capture virtually everything it seems odd that a single man, identified by dozen's of eye witnesses, was able to get away with such a feat. How long would he be able to hide now? 15 seconds? 45 seconds? It would be nearly impossible for this type of caper to be pulled off in our day and age without video footage, DNA, and heat-seeking infrared sensors tracking him down like a blood hound. Another reason his feat is that more intriguing to our current generation- people just don't get away with crimes anymore, especially a crime that has been in the spotlight for over forty years. Not to mention his face was plastered all over TV's and wanted posters during a highly publicized search; coupled with the fact the Feds found no discernible evidence or fingerprints that could lead to a concrete identification. It as if when he jumped he took all of his DNA with him into the night sky and vanished like a ghost. And not having found even an inkling of evidence to come put them close to finding Cooper has only driven people to want to know more, thus keeping his legend intact.

However, for all the mystery, the lack of evidence, and the conspiracy theory's attached to the case the answers to why D.B. Cooper still resonates with society today lies in once fact. The answer lies in the question- who is Dan Cooper? The answer is he could be any of us. And maybe he is just that- He is one of us.

 Like I mentioned before he was a nondescript middle aged man: average height, average build, even an average name. Nothing about him stood out. He was not a sophisticated, debonair James Bond type or a Herculean type specimen. He was just an average looking person that wore a cheap JC Penny tie, smoked cheap cigarettes, and was said to be very nice and cordial man during the hijacking. I think that quality of the common man who took a huge risk and got away with it is what resonates in the minds and hearts of America who's main demographic are much like D.B. Cooper- Average.

He is an every man. The unassuming person we all walk around being in our everyday life. The difference with D.B. Cooper is that he took an unassuming, every day man and used it to his advantage.  A folk hero that stepped outside of himself to become something more than even he probably suspected he could be. While most of us hope to win the lotto or wait for good fortune D.B. Cooper went out and forged that luck, he forged that moment himself. In that one fateful act he inspired people, not to rob and be criminals, but to become more than what you ever expected. Cooper could be characterized as a cross between Robin Hood and Tyler Durden. Two men that propelled themselves, in their own unique way, to launch themselves and their cause into the social conscience of American culture. That was what D.B. Cooper accomplished with one flying dive into the night sky.

Which is why so many people both revere and want to be D.B. Cooper. They admire the courage and the guts to do something daring and get away with it. The capability of visualizing a moment and then grabbing that moment to achieve your goal by any means necessary. People gravitate and romanticize these polarizing events in their heads, but rarely do any of us have the courage to enact upon that one unique and incredible moment when they can become something great. Even if it is just for a split second.

Dan Cooper was an ordinary man that became a legend. In doing so he cast a shadow upon the doubt and consternation that we all fill in our day to day life as an average person. He set out to accomplish an incredibly insane plan, stuck to that very idea, and was able to get away with that act scott free. He looked down upon an abyss of darkness as he himself was cloaked in both a heavy fear and uncertainty at what may happen. Cooper looked that fear in the eye and turned his very average existence into an extraordinary leap of faith that still fascinates and captures the imagination of many even today, forty years later.

We all can see a little Dan Cooper in ourselves. Maybe we do not hijack a plane or commit the crime of the century, but we all can be something great. We all can do something great. We just need to find that moment when fate turns its head and tells us its our time to be great. And then we jump.

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!!!

I am thankful for all of you and the time you give to me in your day to read my thoughts, ramblings, and ideas.

An Ode to a Man Cave

Now we have been chiilin here since 2002
Come on Boy I thought you knew/
If you coming to the Hole you must come prepared
Or end up on the floor in your underwear.

                                                     ~Arias, The Car Hole

I would never say my cousin Mike is a genius. He does though, on occasion, have brilliant ideas. Turning the garage into a man cave was one of those brilliant ideas. My cousin Mike, having just graduated high school, wanted a place that he and his buddy's could hang out, play their music, clown on each other, and wouldn't cost an arm and a leg to do so.  The bar scene was not an option and frat parties with overbearing frat brothers, endless lines for drinks or the bathroom, and the radio hip hop that was in constant, nauseating rotation didn't interest him that much. He took a step outside into the backyard and saw what would become his new playground- The Garage. It was a perfect setup. His parents didn't use it for their cars, there was a fridge, couches, and with the door down the loud music barely penetrated through. It was a go. And so in the summer of 2001 my cousin and all of us embarked on a journey that transformed this garage from a storage unit of knick knacks and keepsakes to a prohibition style speakeasy, to its present musuem-esque state of a man cave. It was such a success it inspired poetical genius from friends that spent a time or summer hanging out in the garage.

Coming home from college I was excited to party and hang out with my cousin Mike like we always had. I was new into the bar scene and loved to go out to college frat parties. I was always chasing the nightlife going from party to party; bar to bar. My thinking was you had to go out if you wanted to have fun and get girls. Not true according to my cousin. So when my cousin suggested hanging out in the garage I was skeptical into how that could be fun. My cousin assured me that we would have good time. He was right.

The garage was entirely something of our own. A not so private club akin to a prohibition style underground lair for those who did not abide by the law. But instead of a secret code to gain entrance you just had to knock on the garage door. It was a place where you went to be yourself and didn't have to put on heirs to impress a person of the opposite sex. A person didn't have to worry about the rules of a house party and it getting broken up at 11 then having to wander around the rest of the night looking for another party that you may or may not get into. The garage erased all of the expectations and miscues that accompany a night of going out. You didn't have to go out looking for a good time when you could just bring it to your own private domain. It was as if we were the Goonies and we had found One Eyed Willies treasure in the form of a sanctuary of freedom all of our own.

The garage became a known place amongst our friends. Then it became a known place amongst their friends. People new to the garage would come inside and give a face like they just whiffed a baby's diaper. You could tell they were thinking, "Where has my friend dragged me to? Is there no party or bar we can go to, instead?" Within a half hour they were hooked. They saw the endless possibilities that the garage provided. You can be yourself and just let loose. It wasn't wall to wall people, the noise level was fair, and the best part was their was no waiting behind a velvet rope for some bouncer to deem you worthy and there was no closing time. You could sleep on the couch or leave at your own time.Nobody was kicking you out here. How could you not enjoy that?

My cousin had a hit on his hands. If it had been better insulated, the garage was freezing at night time, my cousin would have lived out there. The couches were full of people, liar's dice and hold'em were the preferred games, we played underground hip hop from People Under the Stairs, Atmosphere, and Living Legends to name a few. My cousin and his friends would occasionally test their rap skills(a time honored tradition for suburban white kids) and the rest of us would sit back and listen before giving our feedback.  The life and energy that pumped through the walls was what made the garage a special place for us. The garage began to take on a life of its own and we were all enjoying the ride.

As time passed on and my cousin Mike and then my cousin Joey, who inherited the garage from his older brother, moved out, the garage no longer was the same. It was not needed anymore to host the private party's now that my cousins had their own place. They now had a house to have a party. From time to time we would head to the garage to relive the nights, but those days were few and very far between. Much like the giving tree that gave so much of itself to the little boy we had used up the garage and now there was no use for it.

My Uncle Alex took the opportunity, with his son's away, to turn the garage into his own personal man cave. He began to hang up the sports collectibles that we had gathered over the years- the jersey's, the posters, the team hats and adorn them upon the walls of the garage. He added two TV's to go with the big screen for a total of three. He took the couches out and replaced them with a circle of chairs. My Uncle was creating the ideal man cave, an ode to the sports bar, complete with his parent's 1960's wooden bar, with the idea of hosting whoever came over for Sunday football.

The garage was transforming again. A breathe of fresh air was being put into it that would rekindle the days and nights we had spent enjoying it. However, it was becoming more than a sports bar for Sunday. It was becoming a museum of our past. My Uncle put out small knick knack's of our childhood from my cousin's art projects, Where's Waldo and Cabbage Patch Kid dolls, to his own collection of beer stein's. Atop the big screen TV is a Crosley Super 8 Radio with leather knobs that use to catch the baseball games in the early 1950's. An Elvis canister and music box with The King playing the guitar sits to the left of the radio. Neon beer lights hang from the other side of the garage providing a glow that is reminiscent of the many late night's we use to bask in as the morning light would slowly creep in through the windows.

Not a Sunday goes by where a garage artifact does not catch someone's eye or curiosity. That curiosity inevitably turns into a story or discussion of the significance of that particular piece. That in turn leads to another humorous story or revelation that will take us so far down a path that we no longer can recall the initial cause for the discussion. Being in the garage is like turning the pages of a scrap book, except that the scrap book is surrounding you, engulfing you with memories and nostalgia ranging from decades ago to the not so distant past.

Sitting in the garage you can still feel its pulse, the steady beat of this nest that housed the inhibitions of kids and now chronicles the accomplishments and memories of a family. We still gather in the garage on Sunday's, but now we are adults- married, with kids, and responsibilities. A far cry from the late nights when our only concern was with having a good time and hanging out with our friends. Yet, the garage still has the allure of a playground providing fun and excitement, but that is now passed onto a new generations of kids that play in the garage with the old toys that once brought us joy. The past meeting the present.

Don Henley, singing lead for the Eagles, once sang in the band's hit, Hotel California, "You can checkout any time you like, But you can never leave!"  As I leave the garage, another Sunday football day over, I know the days of my life are changing. Much like the garage I am transforming as a person. The days of chasing the night have gone, replaced now by the ever-growing memories of a yesterday that will forever have a hold on me. A piece of me forever engrained into the spirit and legacy of The Garage. How could you ever leave that? You can't.

The Art of The Procrastination

Friday 11:30 pm- I didn't get much writing done today. I really wasted the day. I won't make that mistake again. I have to use my time wisely and get things done. If its so important I should do it, right. Good thing there is tomorrow. A whole day to really get down to business and get work done. I will buckle down and get to it tomorrow. Promise.

Saturday 9:19 am- Alright, today is the day I get some work done. Just get some coffee and I will be ready.

Saturday 9:25 am- I have my coffee and my laptop is fired up. Ready to write and crank out something awesome. And off I go... Wait, wait I need to check what football game is on first. Oooh, Michigan against Nebraska. My father-in-law to be likes the Huskers. Better watch the game so we have something to talk about on Thanksgiving. Nothing worse than silence. I'll type at halftime.

Saturday 10:15 am- Halftime. Okay, time to crank out some ideas. Here we go... Wait, wait that's the phone have to see who it is. My sister asking if I can pick up her dogs. Sure I can. I am a helpful person. That should take only a half hour. I'll be back in time for the second half, uh, I mean write.

Saturday 10:55 am- I love being helpful. Alright, back to writing. Hold it. I have to check on the Nebraska v. Michigan score. Michigan is up by a lot. This game looks to be over. Now I can get started again with my writing. And lets get going... Oh no, I have that Ferris Bueller's Day Off retrospect from Bio Tivo'd. I really wanted to watch it. Great movie. It's two hours long. Its worth it. Where is my writing going to go.

Saturday 12:28 pm- Wow! That was a great retrospect on Ferris Bueller's Day Off. John Hughes was a huge procrastinator and he made awesome movies. Maybe it is not such a bad thing to be a procrastinator as long as you eventually get something done. I don't feel so guilty about what I'm doing now. I mean, the guy did make Ferris Bueller's Day Off. That obviously counts for something. I'm inspired to do something. Time to write.

Saturday 12:30 pm- Time to eat. What was I thinking? I need fuel before I can take off and write a masterpiece. I almost totally blew it by starting and then having to stop. I almost totally compromised my entire day.

Saturday 12:45 pm- Finishing my lunch, when, what is this? A crossword puzzle? Where is a pen? Lunch and a crossword is exactly what my brain needs to get properly warmed up. I almost just started sprinting without stretching right there. You don't just jump in the deep end without sticking a toe in the water to see what the temperature is. Am I right?

Saturday 1:10 pm- That crossword was tough. But now I am ready to write. Ooooh the jumble.

Saturday 1:19 pm- I am stuck on this one last word for the jumble. Its the last one before I can solve the whole jumble. What word do these letters create? L A I S L N T G.

Saturday 1:25 pm- Stalling. Bingo!!!! That kind of wore me out. Maybe a short nap. No, you have to write. You promised last night, remember? Right! No more excuses. It is time.

Saturday 1:30 pm-  Sitting at my laptop ready to write. My fiance pops her head in, "You want to come to the gym with me?" I stare at the blank screen. I am kinda tired and maybe I can sort out my thoughts and ideas at the gym. The gym could get me out of this funk of not writing. Me, "Just make sure I get back to writing when I get home. Don't let me come up with any excuses. Got it?" She nods. Off to the gym.

Saturday 1:45 pm- At the gym. Pumping iron and sweating. Good endorphins. Hey, there is my good buddy Mr. San Jose. Mr San Jose, "Hey, lets get some dinner tonight? We can go around 7?" That sounds awesome. I mean this is Mr. San Jose and I will need to eat dinner. I am in.

Saturday 2:45 pm- Finishing up my cardio and then home to write. I am pumped. ESPNews ticker just said that Michael Vick and Jeremy Maclin are out for tomorrow's game against the Giants. Holy Philly Cheesesteak, I need to check my fantasy team for tomorrow. We need to get home now.

Saturday 3:10 pm- My fiance pops her head in the door as I study my fantasy team, "What are you doing? You are supposed to be writing." I look at her as if she just asked me if I wanted to go see Twilight- with disgust and coldness. Me, "I only have the next 19 hours to get my team ready. I am playing the first place team and I need this win to make the playoffs! Don't you know what is important?!?! Don't you have any sense of what matters?!?!?!" She looks at me as if I just flew off the handle. Women.

Saturday 3:59 pm- Racking my brain- Do I start Mike Nungent or Billy Cundiff? I need to do some homework on the matter figuring in wind, stadium, time of day, special teams, and the list just grows. I am woefully unprepared to handle these questions. Better put on a pot of coffee and start doing some research on this.

Saturday 4:30 pm- Phew. Glad that is over. Almost totally blew tomorrow's fantasy game. Close calls like that need to be avoided. Now I can move on with my day.

Saturday 4:35 pm- I came real close to blowing my whole day. I can't believe I lost sight of what I needed to do. Glad my phone alerted me that I have pending games in Words with Friends. I almost forfeited three games. What kind of Word with Friends friend would I be if I just let people hang like that.

Saturday 4:57 pm- Now I can sleep well knowing I took care of all my friends on Word with Friends. Now I really am tired. Nap time.

Saturday 6:24 pm- That was a great power nap. I am refreshed. I feel like writing right now. Oh yeah, I have dinner in a half hour. I will write when I get back. Some food and a couple drinks. I will defintely want to write when I get back. Better get ready.

Saturday 7:07 pm- Here at Kyoto Palace for dinner. This is a long wait. Better wait in the bar, have some drinks, and watch the football games. Best plan of the day.

Saturday 7:32 pm- Closing out my tab at the bar before we sit and eat. I have so many good ideas to write. I wish I had the time to write right now.

Saturday 8:40 pm-  Done with dinner. I am ready to get home and write down some great stuff I came up with. Phone rings and its my good buddy Sleazy B. A bunch of people are getting together in Campbell tonight. Sounds awesome. I can only stay for a half hour though. I need to get some work done. Coming over right now.

Sunday 11: 57 am- Sure glad I didn't miss that phone call. What a great day. That last bar sure was fun.  I look over at the blank screen that stares back at me. My shoulders slump, but I shake it off quickly, as I think to myself, "Oh well, I always have tomorrow." I will get all my work I put off today done tomorrow. I promise.

Why?

A person passing away in our lives is inevitable. It's the law of nature that has always been in place. We know that nobody will live forever, yet we as people to this day, still do not understand why this happens. It's the question we wrestle with in our minds and in our hearts. We spin it. We grapple with it. We push it away only for it to reappear again. That question of why? Why do our loved one's have to pass away? What are we suppose to take away from their passing? And how can someone so important just be taken away in the blink of an eye?

Why?

Earlier today, two basketball coaches at Oklahoma State, head coach Kurt Budke, 50, and 36 year old  assistant coach Miranda Serna, along with three other passengers, passed away in a plane crash. Budke, husband and father of three, was described as "a man of character and an exemplary leader". Serna, a former player of Budke's, was said to be a rising college coach and an excellent recruiter.

Why?

How come these two very loved and impacting people, who sought to teach young women the game of basketball and were role models in the community, were taken from their family, friends, and community? It is no wonder we are always left with more questions than answers in these matters. When something tragic hits, where two young and good people are ripped away at a moments notice, is there any wonder why so many people look at life with consternation and diffidence. We live in a world where we are always looking around waiting for the other shoe to drop. We live in a world of juxtapositions: the joy and misery. Laughter and tears. Life and death.

Why?

Looking back at the times I have been hit by a loved one's death I follow the same pattern of shock, denial, anger, sadness, and finally reflection. It is the very last part of the pattern, reflection, that I believe is the key in trying to grapple with the tragedy that has struck our lives. It is upon that introspection that the "why" we ask ourselves is somewhat answered. It is in remembering that person- their body of work as a person, what they meant to us, what they taught us, how they made people feel- that makes us take stock of our own lives. For a better part of our lives we are so concerned and caught up with getting from one day to the next that we hardly have a moment to stop and truly evaluate ourselves. As people we over value past events while looking too far forward in the future in a series of "what could be" scenarios. Rarely, do we stop in the moment and think of how are we doing as a friend, a husband/wife, a family member, as a person. We are consumed with reacting to life and what it brings instead of truly living in the moment when we can be better as a person. That is what coach Budke and coach Serna asked of themselves each day. That idea is what they taught and strived to deliver to their players, their family, and their community. The idea to be better than you are in the moments you are given.

Death is cruel and it is not fair. It takes great and very much loved people away from us all too soon. Why? I don't know. Nobody knows. But when you reflect on the life of someone you realize the teaching, the passion, and the love they imparted upon us and that you must carry that very essence in your own daily life. And that right there is something you don't have to question.

Class Is In Session... But for Who?

Detective John Kimble: How do I look? 
Phoebe O'Hara: Take off the gun. 
[Kimble realizes he has strapped on his shoulder holster] 
Detective John Kimble: That's a good idea. 
Phoebe O'Hara: Little bastards are gonna eat you alive. 
Detective John Kimble: Get some rest and don't worry. I've been working undercover for a long time. They're six-year-olds. How much trouble can they be? 
Phoebe O'Hara: On second thought, take the gun. 


My dad loved Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. He had his own personal Arnold movie collection. We watched hours upon hours of Schwarznegger movies from Predator, Terminator, and Commando(My Favorites) to Red Sonja andRed Heat(I would walk out of the room for these). Arnold, at that time, was the biggest, most monosyllabic action hero of all time. He would rarely talk in these movies, instead the producers and director opted for Arnold to stare down his enemy, grab the nearest weapon, and then proceed to wipe out an entire army with brute force. Or a bicep pump. It was all deadly for Arnold. 


After a good five year run playing the brawny action hero, Schwarznegger took two comedic roles in Twins, with Danny DeVito, and then took center stage as the tough cop turned sensitive teacher in Kindergarten Cop. Both of these films were directed by Ivan Reitman, a man who knows a thing or two about funny movies. I was nine years old when Kindergarten Cop came out. Arnold was perfect for the role with his action hero/tough guy image combined with that distinct Austrian accent that played well against his child co-stars who tested and pushed their tough guy teacher to the limit. I'm thirty and I still laugh when I think of the line, "Boys have a penis and girls have vagina" Along with the classic Arnold game he plays with the children of "Who is your daddy and what does he do?"


Now I was nine at the time, not that far removed from my own Kindergarten days, thinking I never talked or acted like these children. If a guy like Arnold was in the classroom he would never get railroaded like he did on his first day. This guy was Commando for crying out loud. No way a pack of five year olds could get the best of The Terminator.


21 years later I got a taste of what Detective John Kimble was up against. 


Last Sunday night I received an email that a school needed a substitute teacher for the following day for their Kindergarten class. Now it was around one in the morning, I had tailgated the whole day at the Niners/Giants game, and I would have to wake up in six hours to go and teach. No sweat, right? Advice: The worst ideas are always made at 1 a.m. after a day of tailgating. 


I arrived at the school early in the morning to check in at the office and get my instructions. When I mentioned or people heard I was subbing for kindergarten the look and tone of the adults was like I had volunteered myself to the firing squad. Hey, its not like I haven't subbed before, granted it was older kids in 7th grade and I also had coached kids basketball from 6th grade all the way to high school. I even had babysat my niece and nephew, who were younger, numerous times. I was not fazed by their looks. Note to self- When more than one person openly worries for you in a certain situation you should probably not brush those concerns aside. Maybe think about running at that point. 


I go into the classroom and see all the small chairs, the drawings hanging up, and all the basic math and alphabet charts up on the wall. Adorable. Little kids are fun. All they do is draw, have story time, and nap. This will be simple. 


Then they came in the door like a scene straight out of Lord of the Flies. 


There were 26 yelling, pushing, screaming little children running around the room like the offspring of the tasmanian devil. What is your record for most questions asked in .5 seconds? Mine is 26. Anything from my name, what is pink eye(what their teacher had), were they going to watch a movie, could they have share time right now, and other indiscernible questions I could not comprehend. Alright, no problem. Just the early morning excitement. They see a new teacher and they are back at school with their friends. Of course they will be excited.  All of this is very exciting. I totally understand. I can handle this. They will tire themselves out and nap time will be here in no time. Maybe I can start it earlier. 


An older woman came up to me and introduced herself as Mrs. Lewis. She was there to help me for the day. I turned to Mrs. Lewis to explain that if she had something better to do than she could go. I had this covered. Mrs. Lewis just gave me a smirk and asked, "You ever taught Kindergarten before?" 


Me- "No, but I feel like I can manage."


Mrs. Lewis- "I'll stick around."


She handed me the lesson plan. I looked through it and nowhere on that sheet was there a place for nap time. If I remember one thing about kindergarten it was there was a nap time. I quickly pointed out the error to Mrs. Lewis. 


Mrs. Lewis(smiling)- "Like I said before- I'll stick around"


First order of business is to take the kids over to assembly. The art of a straight line and staying in said straight line is not a five year olds easiest maneuver. I have seen intoxicated drivers on Cops better at walking and maintaining a straight line. And kids love to hug and squeeze one another? I am talking a bear hug where the kid on the receiving end turns red and their eyes may burst through their head. Another kid will join in on the squeezing when the first eyeball does not pop out just to see if it will occur. Finally, the assembly ends and we go back to the classroom. So far I have a headache(Its not a tumor), but we have all the kids. Good start. 


Back in the classroom it is just a hurricane all around the room. Kids are wrestling, kids are yelling, and the other kids have me backed against the chalk board asking me one of the following, "Can we read the Turkey book?" "Can I go to the bathroom?" "Can I go to the office I don't feel well?" "Do I have pink eye?"


The Pink Eye. When I first heard that the teacher caught it and that it is highly contagious I immediately felt an itching in my eye for the rest of the day. I tried to keep clear of the children and I washed my hands exactly 47 times during the course of the day. Once again- Don't put less value on people when they shake their heads and lower their voice in concern like you just signed up to bungee jump in Mexico. 


The day dragged on and on with kids yelling to talk, admonishing me for not doing activities like their teacher, and wondering when they were going to watch their movie. A little girl was playing a game of hide and go seek with herself having hid in every crevice of the room. Me nor any of her classmates tried to seek her out, though Mrs. Lewis eventually would find her and call her to sit on the mat as punishment. Another little boy began to sob uncontrollably when he was not allowed to ring the bell. In protest he laid on the ground and cried for a solid twenty minutes. The kids though were not fazed as they just stepped over the child and didn't pay attention to him. 


And the bathroom breaks, water breaks, and sore throats. If one kid announced they needed to go to the bathroom then everyone had to go to the bathroom. Now these kids don't wear diapers and I refuse to have some kid mess himself in my classroom so I excused each and every child to the bathroom. It was like the ladies room at any event, but with boys and girls lined up for one bathroom (The boys bathroom was broken, probably due to overuse). I just wanted to shout, "No more complaining. No more, "Mr. Mark, can go to the bathroom?" There is no bathroom!!!!


There was crying, there were hurt feelings, there was curling up in the fetal position in the corner. By the time I was done doing those three things the kids had returned from PE and were ready for lunch. 


I needed a Phoebe moment where she tells John Kimble after his first day that it will be alright. You just can't show fear. No fear. 


I Can Do This!!! I Can Do This!!!!


It is Noon and I look around the room with blocks laying all around the ground, papers thrown all over the room, and marker strewn all around the room. 


I can't do this.


And then Mrs. Lewis came over and told me I was doing a good job. I was? These kids were wearing me down. These kids had looked into my soul and saw fear. They bear hugged me till my eyes popped. My head was throbbing. 


Mrs. Lewis- "I mean, you are doing better than I thought you would do. Kindergarten is tough. They have a lot of energy and they are excited about school. You have showed patience when a lot of other adults would have just shut down. You are doing fine."


The second half of the day was much like the first. Screaming, bathroom breaks, sickness, the girl was still hiding, but nobody was seeking. The little boy threw another tantrum in the middle of the floor as nobody paid attention. i was convinced I had contracted pink eye as my eyes itched, but I dare not touch them.


As I looked at the clock I was fighting for sanity. I was fighting for survival. I had become Dutch, Arnold's character from The Predator, just trying to survive till the clock struck three. There was no escaping the kids as they just came at me in waves of tattling, hurt feelings, and meltdowns over such things as their shoe not being tied or not having a yellow crayon. Seriously, who did away with nap time? We all could have benefitted from a nap. 


Mercifully, the kids finished their final project that left the tables full of glue and strips of scrap paper covering the floor. I pushed play on their Winnie the Pooh movie and finally a calm hit the room. A special thank you to the inventor of the TV, Philo Farnsworth, who must have been a father to a bunch of kids or a kindergarten teacher. You could not convince me he had any other occupation. The TV was invented to calm and entertain children while parents went to the other room to have a good scream or cry or both.


The bell rang ending the day. It was not a case of if I had lost any of the kids, they were all there feasting on what was left of my soul, but rather if I was still alive. I felt my pulse. It was faint, but I had a pulse.


I walked out of that school like a wounded, ragged soldier. The kids having gotten the best of me that day. I now know why Ivan Reitman casted Arnold to play the Kindergarten teacher- It doesn't matter how tough, how bad, or how big you are. You will always succumb to the youth and energy of a class full of children. 


Now get to the Chopper!

The Rivalry

My brother and I are different. A lot different.

He is 6'2 with long wavy hair. I am barely 5'10 with short straight hair. I enjoyed school and did well,  where as my brother was not particularly interested in sitting still and listening to a teacher drone on and on about any subject. My brother is tech savvy, having been self taught in the ins and outs of computer hardware and software. I would need a manual just to know where the on switch was or I would just ask my brother(I tend to choose the latter). He was rebellious and pushed the envelope, and while I wouldn't say I didn't have my moments, but my brother's indiscretions definitely trumped mine.

My brother had the self confidence and bravado befitting a young Hollywood star. He always wanted the glory and the limelight in everything he did. On the basketball court he never met a shot he didn't like. When he played football he had to be the quarterback. That was how he was wired- That he could do or be anything if you let him.

Little brother, on the other hand, didn't have that self confidence. I tried to fake it, but in reality I was always racked with nerves and doubt. Before a big game I was a wreck. I could shoot well, but if an opportunity arose to pass the ball to a teammate I would do just that- Pass. My attitude drove my brother nuts. He would scold me after games for not shooting the ball when I was open. That was just how I was wired- I'll pass up an opportunity if it means I don't fail.

We were the real life version of Wayne and Kevin Arnold from the "Wonder Years". I was the "scrote" to his "butthead". We would push and antagonize each other, which is easy to do when you share a room growing up for as many years as we did. He would chase me around the house with a rubber shark until I cried or my mom ordered him to stop. I once hit him in the head with a talking Alf doll that contained a huge battery that left his head black and blue. All of our activities or encounters ended in the same fashion: having fun, then an argument, escalating into a fight that ended with both of us being upset and my mom scolding us.

Though we knew one of us would get upset with the other in just about anything we did it never stopped us from playing with one another. I played the role of David to his ever growing Goliath in our preferred game of one-on-one basketball. Goliath nearly always won. The few times I did get the better of him I was sent racing to my best friends house a few blocks away or locked away in the bathroom calling my mom for help. My brother was ultra-competitive and I would get that way too when I played against him. I would have to claw, scratch, and generally survive during these front yard battles of one-on-one.

I knew when  went out onto the driveway that I badly, almost desperatley, wanted to win. My brother was the same way, only he not only wanted to win, but he wanted to whup my butt, teach me a lesson, and show me who was boss. The games were very, very personal to us both. In these daily lessons the passive and fearful little brother had to transform himself. I could not be scared and I could not pass off my doubts to anyone else. I had to stare my brother down. I couldn't let him know I was afraid of him. In a sense if I was going to beat him I was going to have to become him. The playing mantra of- Act As If!

In these rare moments I became angry and I exuded confidence, granted it was not real, but I made it feel real. I bought into the idea that I was better than my brother. I talked myself into being able to beat him. I told myself, "I can beat him. I don't need anyone else." I became aggressive and all of the frustration of being a little brother came out while I played my big brother. He would lower his shoulder into me, hit me, brutalize me, antagonize and frustrate me during these games. He wanted to rattle me. And he did. More times than not I would run inside angry and wounded. Usually,  I would lick my wounds and return. On other occasions my brother would come in and talk me back outside. Class would be back in session.

I learned a lot from those games, mostly about myself. I was playing against someone who was physically more gifted and dominant than I was. I would never be able to match his athletic or physical ability so I had to be smarter and I had to get tougher. I spent hours on the driveway shooting jumpers because if I was going to beat him I needed to be able to clear the ball quickly and be ready to shoot. My brother would always dare me to shoot and I needed to make him pay. As I got older I was able to beat him a couple of times. In some of those games, maybe I got lucky with bank shot to win or a circus shot from the neighbors house that he counted. As time when on there were also games when I flat out played better than him.

I will always remember those games in the driveway, the night sky falling upon us as our mom switched on the light for us to see, as the days I learned what it took to be better. There will always be someone with better talents and skills like my brother at the time. But to offset that a person can have a better drive or ambition to be better than their opponent. My brother beat me more often than I ever beat him. However, the few wins I did get were because he showed me what I needed to do, how hard I had to work to not only compete with him, but to beat him.

Now its hard to say that we have grown apart only living a few blocks away from each other. Yet, we live different lives. He has a family and is very active in his kids school and their athletics. I am searching for work and spending time with my fiance. It is definitely not the same as when we shared a room for all those years when we were kids.

My brother and I recently went to the Niners/Giants game in San Francisco. My brother and I, to add to our rivalry, have always liked different teams growing up. He liked Phil Sims and the New York Giants. I loved Joe Montana and the 49ers. He liked the Minnesota Twins and I was a fan of the San Francisco Giants. The same with basketball as I liked Jordan and he liked Dominque Wilkins. He and I never could agree on anything; other than the simple fact we both could not stand the other person's favorite player or team.

Sitting in the parking lot, my brother wearing a throwback Lawrence Taylor jersey and me with my Niners shirt on, we were like the many fans there that day divided by the love of our team. Our own sibling rivalry continuing. Or was it?

My brother and I sat out in that parking lot before the game and talked about everything. Everything except for the game. We discussed family, recent news, sports, and making cracks about other people that sat around us. At one time, in our younger years, we would have been barking at one another about who had the better team. We would have belittled and mocked each other till kickoff about who had the better defense or why the other quarterback was awful. Instead, we were more content to hear about each other. The details of what is going on in each other's life. It reminded me of the days when we were little and we would talk to each other before we went to bed. Falling asleep laughing as our mom told us to be quiet. We no longer have that sibling rivalry that dominated our adolescent life. We now are just two adults trying to navigate our lives through this world.

I'll always look back fondly on the many battles my brother and I had growing up knowing that the rivalry was good... while it lasted.

Mr. Destiny

Have you ever tried to pinpoint how you got to a certain point in your life? Thought back to a decision or a moment where if things had turned out differently so would your life? That point on your timeline you wish you could have back because it was, in that moment, that your whole life went in another direction. Have you ever wondered back to that "What could have been" moment? I have. A lot.

For me that moment was my last high school basketball game. It was a cold, March night in 1999. It was the second round of playoffs and we were a highly ranked team in our section. We were a veteran squad made up of mostly juniors and seniors, but had a dynamic freshman, Brandon Worthy, who was Freshman of the Year for the state of California. Our next best player was his older brother, Terrell. The first day of freshman practice I challenged Terrell to a game of one on one for five bucks. I am pretty sure I didn't score at all, but he let me keep my five bucks. The rest of our team was made up of guys I grew up with, either playing with or against in elementary school, summer camps, or at the park. We had a very solid team and many picked us to win the section title. A title we had been chasing for awhile.

As Freshmen, we came into a program whose Varsity team was coming off a terrible season, finishing last in league. We were looked at as the class that would take the school back to prominence in basketball. As freshmen we were given the task of not only getting the school back into CCS playoffs, but of winning a championship. Each year we got better and eventually the program got back on track. My junior year we were able to get to the semifinal round of CCS playoffs before losing to the eventual champs, Riordan. My senior year we were poised and confident in completing what we had set out to do four years earlier- win a championship.

Now, here we are, in this cold gym in the second round of playoffs. We are playing Seaside High school, a very athletic team that uses its quickness to play a helter skelter pressing, trapping game. At the beginning we were unfazed by their press. We jumped out to an early lead behind the Worthy brothers and were efficiently passing through their press. We were cruising. At one point on a fast break, I faked the lay up and the defender went right by me as I dished it to my buddy, Steve Godfrey, for the lay up. I pumped my fist as we were up by ten with only a few minutes left. In my mind I knew we had this game in the bag.

Then, everything began to unravel. To this day I can't block out the details of those final minutes when I saw my basketball dreams die. A couple of our starters fouled out. I missed free throws. We turned the ball over. Brandon was so gassed that he had no lift on his jump shot. I was hoping at some point I would wake up from a panicked nightmare. But this was real. It was all happening in front of my eyes. The lead was slipping away and so were all of our dreams. It is one thing to fail by yourself, it is another thing to fail as a team, with guys you grew up playing with. We endured practices, hill runs, mile runs, weight room sessions, film study-- all for a chance to win a championship we felt we deserved. It hurts so much more when you care about the other guys that you have been working with and then to see all of that work fall to the wayside.

Our last shot falls short as the buzzer sounds. Its over. I sit in the locker room and cry. I know this is the last meaningful game I will ever play in my life. This was not how it was supposed to end. This team was supposed to win. We were supposed to walk off into the sunset as the champs. That was the script I had envisioned.

It's twelve years after that game happened and it still hurts. It is hard to talk about. It's never easy to look back on your failures. But I always look back on that day, that game, as the day my life went another direction. That day dogs me, follows me like a rain cloud. Maybe if we do win a championship I have more confidence when I try out at St. Mary's the next year to play basketball rather than feeling scared and afraid. Maybe I feel accomplished having won a title and I don't feel somewhat lost or like a piece of me is never fulfilled as I move forward in life. All I know is that day played out like a "choose your own adventure" book, only somebody flipped it to another page for you and had you read an alternate version that didn't end the way you had envisioned. Does it ever end how you envision it? It seems that the only thing you know for sure is that it will end.


Looking back now, that is what hurt the most. That it ended. I was not prepared to face a life of not having basketball. For longer than I can remember I always had basketball. But at 5'10, with no athletic ability(my coaches words), my days of playing competitive basketball were over. It's hard to let go of something you have known for so long. I guess that is why I wanted to win a championship so bad. The championship would be the one thing I could hold onto when my playing days were done. Instead, I have the memory of a stinging loss and a lifetime of wondering, "What could have been?"