My friend Tammie Brown of The Graying Chronicles challenged me to describe myself in five words.
The idea brought on the twitches. It’s that uneasy feeling I get when people cram file folders and binders into a tight backpack. (The idea of) paper/folder/binder cuts make my skin crawl.
The problem with a five-word challenge: I’m a multiples-of-three kind of guy.
That’s a thing. The whole three-posts-a-week, 6 words, hat-trick life suits me. A five-word challenge juts out like a hamburger in a hot dog bun. Like soccer on a football field. Like a price check at the dollar store. As they say in Stanly County, “It don’t fit.”
I got this, though. Go Ask Daddy delivers five questions every Friday, and that doesn’t bother me.
Damn. Well, it didn’t used to.
You can’t live the life of a Rockies fan without a dash of John Lennon. I dream. Often, ill-advisedly. Always whole-heartedly. Dreams can defy logic when they’re loaded up with soul. Live without dreams? That’s like ordering a burger without cheese, isn’t it?
My dreams? They’re very wow. You’ll see.
Dinosaurs and planets, art and writing, soccer and blogging. All my life. Often, into the storm. Always, achors aweigh. That’s enough to keep Indiana Jones and Vasco de Gama plenty busy.
I believe in what’s around the bend, the ground under my feet, and the importance of packing snacks for the journey. Exploration is as much thought and writing as it is maps and telescopes.
I wish as a kid I had a new Star Wars figure for every time a teacher told my parents, “Eli sometimes takes it a little too far …” I’d have, like, a bunch of Star Wars figures. Often, idealistic. Always, improbable. I’m a soccer coach who never played.
I toss distance drivers as putters. Crazy. This part of me isn’t a dare, it’s not an effort – it’s as divisible as the number 11 and as practical as the stegosaurus’ walnut-sized brain.
I wear incorrigible like a general’s stars. Or at least the captain’s C. Often, it’s mistaken for hopelessness. Always, it feels easy like Sunday morning to me. The incorrigible can’t reform from incorrigibility. It’s in our fabric.
It’s not an equation to be solved, but a condition relish, if you must know. Never been branded incorrigible? Don’t worry. There’s time.
5. Hippie Coach
My parents were hippies. Real ones, only they didn’t go to Woodstock. But they listened to Dylan and named me after a Three Dog Night song. This designation came from someone who knows me as coach, who understands what I do, how I do it and why I do it.
It’s not for everyone. It works for me.
I quote: “You’re not all full of jock and aggression. You don’t bark like a sergeant in the army. The kids don’t practice like robots. You want the kids to learn, play well and have fun, even when they’re 14.”
It’s true. And I’m beyond reform. Want to change me? Good luck. For practice, separate seven colors of Play Doh that’ve been mixed together. It’s an exploration of where my dreams will carry me.
Now, to challenge pass the challenge on. I’ll choose a blogger you might not know, but should. She’s Britta, of It’s A Britta Bottle! blog. She’s fresh and introspective and about to embark on life’s next journeys. Go get ‘em, Britta.