Sometimes (often) I say things off the cuff and profane.
Most times they go unnoticed. This is best for society and mankind. Sometimes, though, another blogger picks up on it and makes it into a holiday.
I muttered something I can’t even find on social media: That there should be a holiday to celebrate tea, cookies and blogging. Who could object to that?
Rara of Raurasaur blog came up with the name Tribus – a celebration of three things we love. How to celebrate? Write love notes to three things. I prefer everything good in threes. And looky here, y’all: I’ve got three daughters.
Thing is, though – I’m going to write about three non-daughter loves of mine. (No, not January Jones, Stacey Dales and Kesha.) You’ll see what I’m talking about.
No offense January Jones, but it’s the Broncos that gave me writer’s block.
Denver’s Thursday Night Football miracle comeback a couple of weeks against the Kansas City Chiefs blocked my writing like Weight Watchers to a double bacon cheeseburger.
I can multi-task, like tweeting nonsense while eating free queso from Moe’s.
I cannot, it seems, blog while watching my Denver Broncos.
I grew up a Seattle Seahawks fan, but recovered as a teen. All those years hearing my dad and uncle bellow for Denver sacks and first downs in the basement, while everyone else’s dads and uncles did the same all through the state of Colorado.
It’s late Sunday afternoon analysis from my grandpa after games.
His unofficial post-game show was marked by empty Coors cans on a yellow Formica kitchen table. The beans and meat of the day long gone, we sat around the table and listened.
I remember the losses most – grandpa Juan lamenting and listing every missed opportunity from his Bronkis.
(I’m able to write this love letter because it’s halftime. And Denver’s up.)
You’re my long, long lost love.
Like a Nicolas Sparks movie, probably. I wouldn’t know. But disc golf, you’re that love in the woods that I escape to. Only, I haven’t seen you in ages. A millennium, it seems.
My discs sit in useless solitude in a duffle bag in my car, a conglomeration of beat-up drivers and warped putters.
I’ll be back to you soon, love.
I need you. I long for you. The walk in the woods, spoiled only slightly by dirty discs named for sharks, Valkyries and cheetahs. You’re where I find peace in conflict, clarity in complexity.
Throw a disc, find it, and figure out the quandary you’ve created.
I’ve been doing that in life – it’s time to take it to the course again.
When all else fails – pizza.
It’s where I feel like a king, walking with my girls into a buffet, holding my arms out in generosity, and proclaiming, albeit silently, “Eat! Feast!”
Because, I will.
When we win on the soccer pitch?
When we lose on the soccer pitch?
Probably when we tie, too. But who’s counting? It’s a Friday tradition for us, and the first thing we look for when we visit a new town. Trouble finding your way around? Find a mom and pops pizza joint and regroup.
Village Inn, Village Idiot, Mellow Mushroom …
we’ll find you, my hungry girls and me.
# # #
The Broncos are winning. Disc golf and pizza could very well be in my future today. Feels like love is in the air.
What are your three loves?