A bearded doofus stepped right in front of Hayden and me and a dozen other rain-soaked volunteers as we waited to board the bus last week at Quail Hollow Club.
A man short on words but high on intent drove a shoulder into my side as he sought a spot next to his wife and in front of me. A handful of other fellows jostled for position as we filed onto the bus, fighting for space that meant nothing – there was plenty of room.
Men, Hayden breathed out dismissively, and I couldn’t argue.
Embarrassing, not only for my gender, but for the human race. We’d volunteered to man an ice cream cart at the PGA Championship for the day, asking $5 for cherry explosion fruit ice and M&M ice cream sandwiches, and getting nothing but friendly responses.
You might have come to conclusion I’m kind of proud of my girls.
It’s not all about athletic accomplishments, although that’s part of it. Their character emerges all the time, in moments especially when no one else can see. I’m most proud in those moments.
Those moments are by no means proof of parenting perfected, of course.
The book List Your Self For Parents (Andrews McMeel Publishing, by Ilene Segalove, Paul Bob Velick and Garreth Esersky) includes 90+ prompts for lists parents compile for a series of snapshots of life with kids. I’ve held a copy for years.
I did. Not intentionally. There’s sometimes just not even cable cars to carry everything. I’ve tried to recognize just how many cable cars I have a day (or to-go boxes, whatever), and not overfill. Last weekend, that meant leaving Sunday reads behind.
I’ll share seven this week, spanning last week and the week before.
I’m doing this Friday afternoon, so those of you so inclined can check things out Saturday morning. I’ll be back at the soccer fields with Hayden’s team camp, grateful for a random stray Wi-Fi signal that allows me to turn the picnic area into an outdoor office.
No, this isn’t an NPR report on the effect of on race relations. (I think they did one on the Viewfield crater and its impact on we Hispanic people once). But the power of color is so powerful. It’s most noticeable to me in the sporting world.
When Camdyn and I watched the Denver Broncos play the Jaguars in Jacksonville last fall, we felt at home in a sea of orange.
The color silver, for example – stellar on the Detroit Lions’ helmets. Paired with black in oakland/Las Vegas for the raiders? Gross. Blue and white is golden with the Kansas City Royals – it’s deplorable with that ugly scripted LA logo with the dodgers.
It’s been a while since I’ve done an I Believe post.
Not that I don’t still believe, because I do. Some days, it’s easier than others to see it. Every day, though, we carry with us beliefs. Mine pop up in conversation, email, texts, comment responses, court depositions.
Kidding on that last one.
What do you believe? I’m only slightly (and very slightly) embarrassed that probably 37 of 42 statements here are food-related. Forty-two, also, is not by accident. It’s supposed to be the answer to the universe.
I wasn’t sure at all where to start with Joanna Gammon.
She’s a fellow UNC Charlotte alumnus, and it seems a few of us find our way back here to this page. One look at what Joanna has taken part in – or still works with – and you’ll wonder if it might be easier to ask about stuff she doesn’t do.
This will tell you all you need to know about Joanna Gammon:
Know those 30 Under 30, 40 Under 40 lists of age-specific go-getters? Well, Joanna didn’t just make a list. She topped Charlotte Business Journal’s 40 Under 40 influencers in 2017. Wherever she treads, impressions are made.
It’s an undisclosed, nondescript number at which fashion is no longer a player in my life game. It’s an age at which lead singers for bands I once blasted from stereo speakers as a teenager (Huey Lewis) now hocks … of all things … hearing aids.
You ought to see some of the ads served up on my Pandora station, for men of my age.
Look, I might not be able to dunk a basketball (I could, on a 6-foot rim, once … okay, 5.5-foot rim), or do anything crossfit, or – Hell – stay awake through consecutive episodes of Hawaii 5-0 after dinner. But I sure as Hell don’t need these supplements you’re pushing on me.
Madison pounced like the keeper of old recently on a balmy night on the soccer field.
She’s not playing on a team anymore. Her injured hip couldn’t completely heal. The life of a goalkeeper takes and unforgiving toll sometimes. Trainers worked their magic, but ultimately the pain outweighed her ability to carry on full time.
A limp and grimace were all that remained.
This day, though, she dove, sprung and stopped shots in a workout with my high school team. She’s a legend to those girls, object of fables told to girls who came after her by girls who played with her.
Reports of yellow cards, 36-save matches (a school record), and college life.
Sometimes, they’re set in the wilderness, or the big city, or even in a galaxy far, far away. Other times, they happen in the tortilla aisle at the local Aldi. No matter. Adventure can find us anywhere, and they leave behind a great story, at least.
I compile a monthly post called 6 Words. Ernest Hemingway inspired it by his assertion that any story can be told in six words.
I ask bloggers, friends, strangers, and a few strange blogger friends to respond to a prompt. Here’s the prompt for July:
Not as good as Jennifer Lawrence, but in the same area code. I’d just chucked one of my favorite discs into the abyss of ivy and pricker bushes, all because some dinkeldorf in the group ahead of me jacked up my throw.
The boy in the neon green tank top and his vaping doofus best friend were long gone to the next hole, far from earshot of the verbal assault.
Stupid !@#!% I muttered as I crunched over broken bottles and terrain that, to burrowing snakes, would look like prime real estate. You turned right around and saw my ass waiting for your slow, vaping asses to finish up, and you could have let me play through …