Long before Kesha and Jennifer Lawrence, way back on the timeline before Ingrid Michaelson and Laura Linney, in a time Hope Solo, Sue Bird and Paula Creamer were just youth-league cuties … there was the MCI girl.
Her cute but creepy ad for the soon-defunct MCI became all sortsa Dream Weaver for me. She resurfaced in Mr. Holland’s Opus, as star-dreaming Rowena Morgan in 1995. In 2000, you could see her in Yes, Dear, married to a dude even dweebier than yours truly.
I thought she’d disappeared after that feeble TV show.
Then I watched 1,000 to 1: The Cory Weissman Story. I resisted, invoking my “No Movies That Star Kids From Disney Shows” clause. But … Cory’s mom looked, so sweetly familiar. The curls were now straight; her lipstick less pow than fire-engine red.
I’m not just saying that because I must live, work, and maneuver amongst you for an undetermined length of time. I’m saying this because I hear the bitter denial (it wasn’t you, it was us!), see the sad gazes, know that feeling of watching your team lose a game and sometimes its innocence on the biggest stage of all.
This understated Broncos polo I wear today? It’s older than some of you and belonged to my dad.
I chose it from his closet just weeks after he died. Not to make this a sob story, but it’s a big deal to me. The last game dad saw was Denver winning its second straight Super Bowl, against Atlanta in Super Bowl XXXIII. The win was more relief than jubilation, which is crazy to say about a championship.
Disney got its mitts on Star Wars. I know. They’ve done all this authentic stuff and will preserve the saga and all that. They have Daddy Warbucks dollars to toss behind this and probably even a few Gen Xers who grew up with the original three movies on staff to keep it real.
This? This isn’t real. This came off a Target candy shelf.
I’m not saying it’s blasphemous … but I might have done the sign of the cross when I put this down. The one with the kiss on my hand at the end.
I want to be excited that a third of the magic trifecta of my youth – of Star Wars, dinosaurs and football – is about to get a 2015 Jenny Jones makeover.
Today’s post is one of the shortest ever on Coach Daddy.
It’s definitely the shortest guest post. It’s from Ashley Mahoney, a fellow sports writer. She conveys a love of soccer so succinctly, she doesn’t need 600 words.
Ashley and I cover the Carolina Panthers. She for the Charlotte Post, me for the Associated Press. She reminds me of myself, in a lot of ways. Some not-so-obvious ways. See, when I was her age, I was the young reporter on the NFL beat.
You feel like you’re trying to run with the big dogs in the press box and locker room. Your paper might not have the circulation, but you’re trying to make a splash. It’s why you covered volleyball on your college paper and everything.
By move, I don’t mean walk downstairs without groaning. (Although I could do that too.) In football, I played on the kickoff team normal for a sixth-string linebacker/fullback.) Sometimes, I’d even make a tackle on one of the three plays a game I got into.
I thought I’d lost the blaze – until the day, as a grown-ass dad, I saw fins sticking up out of the ocean.
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.”
Every time I look at the NFL playoff picture or listen to any of those talking heads on TV (not you, Stacy Dales. Love ya mean it!), I feel like I’m getting a lump of coal in my Christmas stocking.
Everyone with a microphone and great hair can’t wait for the New England Patriots and Seattle Seahawks to meet in the Super Bowl. What’s the over-under on overdone praise?
Can commentators announce every Marshawn Lynch run by bellowing “MAR-SHAWN LYNCH!!!!!”? (For 2 yards. But holy hash marks, the guy is just a professional. Never mind that he treats Skittles better than he does reporters.)
We’ll hear about the genius of Bill Belichick and competitive fire of pretty boy quarterback Tom Brady. Don’t know how much the players love to play for Pete Carroll? You’ll learn all about it.
Don’t even ask about the hype machine that is Richard Sherman.
Why this, why that. Philosophy in everything, from my soccer matches to my blog posts to my eggs over easy with a warm tortilla. (I just like to think about breakfast). Kelly McKenzie’s blog, Just Typikel, is to blame for this brain hyperactivity.
She asked why we return to some blogs, but not others.
Ever since I was a boy, the “what if” questions got me thinking.
Especially if thinking got me out of chores or homework. So when Amanda at the Miss Zippy blog postulated this week with “what if everyone ran?” it got me thinking. And avoiding chores.
What if everyone in the world decided to become runners? What if you had to wait in line at the greenway or the treadmill? What if you couldn’t swing a skinny trail runner without hitting fierce mama and her bobbing ponytail? Would we all be fit?