I hate putting it that way. I feel like a kid – especially a girl – isn’t bound to compete at every turn. I don’t want any of my girls to feel obligated to take up the fight, for themselves, their families, their race, their gender … their anything.
I learned a ton when Grace took the high road before.
So she didn’t sign up for the LEGO Ninjango Obstacle Course a few weeks ago. I wrote about it here on the CD. She’d even picked out a friend to sign up with. She’d planned it all out, which parts she’s excel and which were better suited for her friend. We’ll call her Jaylen.
No, it wasn’t a broken heart, or even a noogie on the playground taken too far. Being the devout patriot she was, she took exception to my project on advertising in our gifted and talented class. See, I made a series of newspaper ads for a car dealership …
My spokesmen: Dead U.S. presidents.
I had Honest Abe, George Washington and others pushing off used cars to the public. I had them jive-talking and contemporary-acting (“No money down?? Say WHAT, GW??” that sort of thing.) and that’s just not dignified for any of our forefathers, not even Lyndon B. Johnson, Chester Arthur or James Polk.
The USMNT did well to reach the quarterfinals in Copa America. When I see kids on the pitch, though, they’re not in Clint Dempsey or Jozy Altidore shirts. They’re in Barca and Man U shirts, paying homage to Messi and Ronaldo and Neymar.
What about the girls?
They’re in shirts with Morgan and Wambach on the back. They’re imitating Carli Lloyd and Julie Johnston and Kelly O’Hara. Their teams are built like Jill Ellis’. The boys’ teams, the men’s program, they lack the identity of girls’ soccer and the women’s national team.
I’ve had the worst luck with law enforcement lately.
I’m a police advocate. If I behave, I’ll have nothing to worry about. Police are there to serve and protect. It’s a tough job. These men and women put their lives on the line for people they don’t even know – and for people who don’t respect them, in some cases.
I drive the speed limit, and limit my road rage manifestation to squirting windshield wiper fluid on people who tailgate me.
On the way to the park a few weeks ago, a state trooper pulled me over for failing to change lanes when he was on the side of the road. I passed a slower car on the right on a two-lane road, and this officer’s car (and another) was parked well off the road. I wasn’t even sure anyone was in them.
It’s why I love them. I love them most from a position NOT as the No. 1 seed. If you’re the top team in the playoffs, your road, theoretically, starts out easy. No. 1 seeds play No. 4 seeds or No. 16s or whoever just made it in to the tournament.
And that’s the most dangerous team to play.
I love coaching or rooting for that No. 4 seed or No. 16s who get paired up with the team that’s supposed to go home with medals. The thing about tournaments and fate: Tournaments and fate don’t give a !@#$! what seed you are. You’re all 0-0, and let’s get this thing going.
Two years ago, I held a kid selfie contest here on the CD. The rules were simple: Send in a selfie your child took with your phone. It must be there already; no staged shots for the contest. (It’s the honor system, and Smoky the Bear will know if you break the rules.)
Send your photos to firstname.lastname@example.org, by Friday, June 3. I’ll post entrants on Go Ask Daddy for June 10, and open the contest to an open poll. I’ll determine a winner by June 17. The winning kid will receive a prize package valued at a minimum $3.
Not that I hated it. Like bedtime and math, church served a function in life. I had the sense of its moral compass, fueled heavily by tradition with a dash of fear. (My Sunday school teacher told us all the bad words we weren’t to use; she also warned us we’d go to Hell if we yawned in church.)
My church, though, seemed a circus with free cotton candy when compared to Margarita’s.
On birthdays, back in the 70s and 80s, your mom could bring cupcakes for the class. Mine many years was “class size – 1.” Margarita left quietly before the celebration of icing and noise and a spirited game of Thumbs Up could begin. I wonder how many kids noticed?
You know this if you’ve ever visited this blog. You also know that I’ll never paint my face at a game or defend a team’s honor with fisticuffs or waste any time watching ESPN SportsCenter. (Thanks, Disney.) No, my love of sports resides on a higher plane.
Give me rivalry and pageantry. Give me team colors, matchups, human stories.
Give me a team not expected to compete, in a state playoff game against a conference rival that’s taken them lightly. Watch them pronounce their arrival with spirited play and tenacity. That’s what the girls’ high school team did Thursday.
I tried to write a succinct topper to this sucker. Twice.
First, I wanted to tell you about the Warby Parker frames I tried on, and the adventures (and misadventures) they led to. It got long, and I didn’t want it to detract from the Go Ask Daddy portion. So I shelved it.
Then, I got into soccer.
So many great things happening in the beautiful game for me right now. They even overshadow the bad things going on. The tough stuff. By far. From one kid getting a yellow card and an acceptance letter, to another getting a hat trick on a special day for her sister.
Each draft pick in pro sports has such an impact on the franchise that picks the player, the player, of course, and also the players picked before and after.
Take the 1988 NFL Draft, for instance. The Indianapolis Colts selected Tennessee quarterback Peyton Manning. He gave the franchise quick cred, won a Super Bowl, and helped the Denver Broncos to a title at the end of his career. They couldn’t make their mind up until … draft day.
The other choice? Washington State quarterback Ryan Leaf, who went No. 2 to the San Diego Chargers.
They were considered an even match, Manning and Leaf, before the draft. Manning went on to win 186 games, pass for 71,940 yards, and garnered 14 pro-bowl selections. Leaf? He started 21 games, won four, passed for 3,666 yards (yikes) and never made a pro bowl.