Greatness, whether you're a fan or not . .

One of the things I've said a lot recently is that when you have an opportunity to witness greatness, you should stop and take it in. Whether you're a fan of sports or not, there's something awe inspiring about watching an athlete who's just head-and-shoulders better than all of their competition. I have used this speech at work in the past, when some extra motivation was required to get my team really fired up. To watch an athlete who has combined a God-given ability with an extraordinary work ethic to make him or herself a dominant figure in a sport is remarkable. It's the pinnacle of achievement and perseverance. In my lifetime I can think of six athletes that were (or are) completely untouchable, some of whom I can appreciate right now and others I wish I had stopped to marvel at when they were playing. The guys from the past who in my memory stand out are Nolan Ryan, who still holds the record for the most no-hitters in baseball history; Joe Montana, who re-invented the quarterback position; and Michael Jordan, who is the most complete and dominant player in NBA history. I look back on my fleeting memories of those three players and wish I had learned earlier to appreciate greatness.

While those three played in what I would consider mainstream sports, two of the three playing right now are dominating largely niche sports. But their greatness takes events that the majority would otherwise ignore and thrusts them into the spotlight. That's called transcendence, and it's what turns above-average into great. Roger Federer is poised to be the most dominant player in the history of professional tennis, a sport that a grand total of zero non-tennis enthusiasts pay attention to. But I'm telling you, watch him play once and you too will be awestruck. Tiger Woods, the most dominant and intimidating golfer ever to walk a fairway, not only shone the world spotlight on the game of golf, but he did it as a minority. That's what great does . . it walks in, takes all your best shots, beats all your odds, and then punches you in the mouth and leaves you cowering in a corner.

The player that precipitated this post had his A-game on display last night, and while I only stayed awake for about a third of it, I was able to fall asleep completely confident that I'd read about his dominating results this morning. Josh Beckett, the Red Sox staff ace, has become one of the best post-season pitchers ever. He took on a Colorado Rockies team last night that hadn't lost a baseball game in over 3 weeks and completely dismantled them. You could see the dominance in his smirk as he stood on the mound, impervious to the rain and the pressure of the World Series. The look on his face said simply "We're going to do this my way, and there's nothing you can say or do to change that." It was exhilarating to watch, and I can only hope to have one more chance to see him pitch before the series ends. If it happens, it'll be Monday night, and I strongly encourage you to watch a few innings of the game. I'll bet it makes you, like it does me, want to improve yourself and inch closer to greatness in your life.

Ayúdeme, Or Something Like That

Anybody that says kids shouldn't watch too much TV is full of crap. I mean, I know there's some garbage on some of the channels (even the public ones) . . Teletubbies comes to mind . . but kids soak up this stuff like sponges. I think the key is that they more readily pick up the things you reinforce while you're watching it with them. If you watch Sesame Street, and you sit silently until until Elmo's World comes on, at which point you break into the song and dance and start jumping around like an idiot, chances are the kid will get excited the next time Elmo comes on. Pretty simple stuff, you don't need a degree in psychology to figure that one out.

Lily, who I'd say picks up and repeats about 400% more things from her environment than the average 2 1/2 year old, proved my point for me this morning at the park. She was climbing up the little rock wall thing, which is missing about 2/3 of its pegs and was still damp from the overnight rain. As she got to the top her foot slipped and she grabbed hold as she started to slide down the thing. Before I go any further, understand that this thing is about 3 feet long and the top is no more than 18 inches higher than the bottom, so she was in a grand total of zero danger. Because she doesn't ever shut up, it took me a minute to re-focus on the words coming out of her mouth as she hung on for dear life and her volume shot up precipitously. She was looking over at me yelling "ayúdeme, ayúdeme!" For those of you who aren't ardent fans of Dora or fluent in Espanol, ayúdeme is Spanish for "help me". Are you kidding me right now? I have occasionally repeated one or two of the Spanish words with her . . abre means "open", azul means "blue" . . but most of the Spanish I could reinforce is stuff I learned from the cooks and dishwashers at the Ruby Tuesday, and she doesn't want to know how to say "take out the trash". I was floored when she busted out ayúdeme on me . . how smart is this kid? I'm bound to be far more impressed by this than most of you would since she's got my DNA, but you've gotta tip your cap to the people who make these cartoons too. They put these shows together knowing that kids learn from the repetition and reinforcement, and I think Dora (and her cousin Diego) in particular are really good stuff. You say TV ruins their mind and gives them A.D.D., I say p'shaw!

I'm Not Competitive, Am I?

The picture you see here is what Avery's wearing to school today. It's Crazy Sock Day, a part of the school's week-long drug awareness campaign . . Sock it to drugs or something like that. We dressed her for Red Day yesterday, but it was nothing spectacular . . then when she came home and told me her friend won a prize for the best outfit, the competitive itch kicked in and I concocted this hair brained scheme to ensure victory on Crazy Sock Day. By itself I'm quite sure this story wouldn't be very interesting, but when coupled with what went on last Saturday it really starts to expose a pretty serious flaw of mine.

Avery's soccer game last weekend started much as the rest of them have, a handful of players doing most of the work and the rest practically sleepwalking up and down the field. It was chilly, wet, and our first 9 a.m. game, so the usual lethargy was compounded by the proximity to breakfast. Her team was undefeated coming in, having tied once but won convincingly in the other 5 games, so when it became obvious early that we were going to get thoroughly smoked if somebody didn't wake these kids up, I turned up my volume. Substantially. Well, to make a short story long, my attempts at motivation bubbled over into an obnoxious display of referee taunting that you'd expect to see on Montel Williams. That's right, for a brief moment my competitive streak turned me into that guy. I mean, we really were getting hosed out of some calls . . God, no way, just shut up. The other coach said to me, just passing by, "Hey, it's just youth soccer, chill out." So I sucked it up and apologized to him and the referees after the game. I've gotta get a handle on this competitiveness before I get banned from the soccer league and am relegated to a spectator!

Well, tomorrow's Wear Your Favorite Hat Day, so I'm off to figure out our strategy on winning that one. Maybe I could safety pin a bunch of hats together and make her look like the Cat In The Hat . . or maybe I should just concentrate on a plan for Crazy Hair Day on Friday. Thursday is the only day with no wiggle room in the plan . . it's Wear Your Favorite Team Jersey Day, and I've already got the Vandy football jersey laid out!

A Group For Dads

Remember when I wrote about the weekly newspaper column I didn't get asked to write? You know, they ran an ad for neighborhood reporters and I didn't get chosen, and in typical male fashion I hated on the woman who they did choose after reading her first edition? Yeah, well I hate to admit it, but in her third column she wrote about a group called Charlotte Area Dads, which I joined last night. It pains me to give her credit for it, but I'll be the grown up I'm supposed to be and say that I'm glad she opened my eyes to this forum. The group operates a website, charlotteareadads.com, where dads from the area can have a place to chat, make friends, and plan dads-only events and outings. The few things I've seen so far seem really interesting, like a weekly basketball game in a nearby subdivision and some weekend no-moms-allowed breakfast outings. The website itself will most certainly be the biggest draw for me . . it's set up with bulletin-board type forums and chatrooms where dads from a really diverse set of circumstances and backgrounds can get together and chat and talk about whatever they want. I've long been jealous of the online forums that Mandi's a part of (she calls her friends from her Weightwatchers board "her bitches", and I feel like we'll need to put a spare bedroom in our next house for them). Now I'll have my own online gossip outlet, and everyone on it is local. I feel compelled to come up with a clever nickname for the group of guys I become friends with . . my homies? Nah. My dudes? G-A-Y. The Boys? Too backstreet. Let's hear your ideas in the form of comments to this post . . winner receives a some-expenses-paid trip to somewhere utterly unspectacular, which will be paid in the form of a 20-year worthless annuity held by a company that went bankrupt last week. If you're curious, I've placed a link to the Charlotte Area Dads website on the left of the page among my other links.

"I Want An iPhone For Christmas"

I know that quote might not seem outrageous on its surface, but when you hear the context I'm certain you'll feel my pain. For the most part, Mandi and I are not big spenders, especially when it comes to things we consider to be just toys. We have good phones, but you can be sure we got the good rebates on them and our plan is as cheap as can possibly be. We use our iPods quite a bit, and the iPhone's ability to do email, photos, and so on would not be difficult to sell me on for my hard working wife. So why did that quote deserve a post on my blog today, you ask?

Because Avery said it.

Trust me, I wish I was kidding. Lily, Avery, and I were driving to Lowe's to return some paint I'd picked up to paint our garage with. About halfway out of our neighborhood my phone rang and I immediately recognized the number as Avery's friend Elise, who lives 2 blocks away from us. 15 minutes later when we pulled into our parking spot at Lowe's I had to cut the conversation off. As we got out, Ave immediately started begging me to call Elise back when we got back in the car, to which I responded "We'll see how good you are in the store," knowing in my heart of hearts that that was a slam dunk way to keep the phone in my pocket. Then, as I got Lily out and locked the doors, the bombshell was dropped. "I want an iPhone for Christmas," Avery said. My jaw literally got stuck in some old gum that was on the ground in the parking lot. "Umm, how do you even know what an iPhone is?" And then it hit me . . Elise is from Florida! I immediately flashed back to my 9 months in Miami all those years ago, visions of broke people driving their Escalades to the plastic surgeon's office, but only after a stop at Starbucks (which of course they paid for with their Amex).

No, seriously though, what the hell is going on in this world? I won't pretend to remember second grade, but I can promise you none of us were as interested in "stuff" as kids are today. At 7 years old, I'm pretty sure my biggest concern in life was trying to get through a day without PJ, who my mom babysat, biting me. I'm quite certain I was wearing homemade velour shirts and Spiderman Underoos and loving every minute of it. I remember years later obsessing over things I wanted, but we're talking about Transformers and Matchbox Cars, not a $400 phone. After I summarily told Avery "No" to her request, she retorted "I'll just ask Santa Claus for it, and I don't believe Mommy when she says she has his phone number, so don't tell me that." "Well, (I didn't say punk, but I wanted to), maybe not, but I do have his email address, so don't get your hopes up!"

Too Much Of A Good Thing?

Tonight was McDonald's Night for Avery's school . . a bunch of the teachers "work" at the local Mickey D's and in return the restaurant donates 15% of its sales to the school. It's a nice thought, the kind of charitable idea I was presented with over and over again when I ran restaurants. Most of the time we'd put a hundred hours or so into promoting the event, only to be let down heartily by the results. It was nice to help out, good for the restaurant company's image in the community, and a feel-good moment, but that's where the positives ended.

I'm going to go out on a limb and say that wasn't the case at our local McDonalds tonight. The promotion was scheduled to last from 5 until 8, and when we got there at 5:45 it was literally standing room only. Seriously, there were kids sitting outside on the sidewalk eating their Happy Meals. My money says tonight was the busiest night in that McD's history. My confidence in that wager is based not only on my vast restaurant experience (can you see my shit-eatin grin?), but also on the fact that at least 3 different parents I talked to tonight didn't even know that McDonald's existed before yesterday, when their kids came home and begged to go there. I was pretty sure I knew where it was . . but I'll be honest, it wasn't until we were about 30 yards from the turn and the Arches popped out from behind a hedge that I was 100% sure. After all, it's one of those stores that's half of a gas station. The other 364 days of the year they stay busy cleaning up their restrooms after the travelers who've stopped to fill up their tanks and dump their previous fast-food trash in their trash cans. Their employees certainly had never experienced anything like this. The look on the 17 year-old cashier's face was priceless, like a cross between a deer in the headlights and Avery when she doesn't get her math homework . . tears, fear, and adrenaline. That girl's gonna be having the "Waiter-in-the-weeds" dream for like a month.

It's interesting to observe how different types of people act in settings like this. Without stereotyping, you can just tell by looking at some people how they'll behave . . there's the dad in the suit with the 4 different communication devices on his belt who's getting to the restaurant about the same time as we did. He tactfully sells his 2 kids on the fact that dinner there is going to take too long, and convinces them that they shouldn't stay. He's too busy to spend time with his kids every other day of the week, too. Then there's the Kindergarten teacher who's standing in the geographic center of about 125 kids, in charge of passing out treats and prizes, who all the while can make small talk with all the parents and just smile the whole time. Consider what she does every day and this isn't a stretch at all . ."just a walk in the park Kozanski".

Then my favorite is the mom at the cash register as I'm coming back to retrieve our food. I took the girls to our table to get them settled (tables were not easy to come by, we would have been out on the sidewalk were it not for a friend's generosity) and when I returned to the counter the manager was auctioning off our food. I reached across to grab our tray from the counter, and as I did so I was chided with an "Excuse Me!" that sounded like it should have been followed by a "Z Snap". I glanced only briefly enough to cower and apologize, but the picture certainly fit the words. My guess is that she's a DMV employee or something, spending all day getting worked up about who's not standing behind the yellow line. She had the requisite hideous 12-year-old brown pantsuit and Tina Turner hair to match the "Watch Your Manners" attitude. I mean seriously . . there were about 200 people in this restaurant who's capacity was 78 (yes, I checked), there are 8-year-olds running and yelling everywhere and yet she felt it necessary to call me out on a simple lean-and-reach? Maybe she was worried that with my arm in the way the cashier wouldn't hear her ask for extra special sauce on her Big Mac . . heaven forbid. As I walked away, I heard her tell her daughter that this was "just too crowded, and we shoulda just gone somewhere else" at a volume about 60% higher than it needed to be, no doubt so that everyone within earshot could witness her disgust and inconveniencing at the hands of these commoners . . I'm a government employee for goodness sake, I deserve better than this. Bitch.

Anyway, in this case I definitely think the Mickey D's got too much of a good thing. While I'm sure they're grateful for the sales bump, they won't be happy when that cashier quits tonight at the end of her shift. Six twenty-five an hour just ain't enough to put up with that kind of chaos.

"I'm Eating Candy Corn"

This is just a quick, funny Lily story . . I felt I needed to post something just to get back in the flow. It's tough to find the time to blog when Mandi's out of town.

So I'm dumping the litterbox and generally just straightening up the house when Lily comes meandering in to the laundry room and says "I'm eating candy corn Daddy." I paused, thinking I had taken the last few away from her before her nap, and wondered if I could have been dumb enough to leave them somewhere she could reach (which is almost everywhere now). I asked her where she got them, expecting her just to tell me that she found one on the couch or something similarly benign. When she responded "In the trash can Daddy" with the utmost level of nonchalance, I gave one of my defeatist sighs and just shook my head. I guess she wasn't really feeling me when I told her she couldn't have any more snacks before dinner time . .