Some ideas are so great it’s great to use them more than once.
(Using the same word in the same sentence twice isn’t a great idea. Oops. I did it again.) Think about some great ideas in history. Playing football on Thanksgiving? Great. Let’s do it again. The beautiful and comedic Elizabeth Banks on a real estate commercial?
You can’t have greats without grrs, however. A grr is … playing football in a stadium like Heinz Field in Pittsburg, where it’s impossible to kick a field goal on one end. Ever. Or … persistent ads on Pandora for problems of men my age.
Competition wasn’t a problem for me as a kid. It was the success I had a problem with.
No bother. I embraced a life of green and white third- and fourth-place ribbons on field day as part of my DNA. (I can’t remember which was for third, which for fourth.) I toiled on the second level of Donkey Kong and Pac-Man, even.
I made the Detroit Lions look like the dynasty to end all dynasties.
Imagine if I’d been able to compete in something squarely in my wheelhouse. Alas, there existed no competition that involved eating tacos (that I knew of) or throwing a plastic football on the roof of my grandma’s house and catching it at least 20% of the time.
Go Ask Daddy has been a Friday feature around here for years. My girls ask lots of questions. I know your kids do too. It felt derelict of daddy duty to answer with look it up or I dunno. I don’t feel right, not at least putting down my grilled cheese and giving fatherhood a good try.
I wrote the girls’ questions in a notebook, and then feared I would leave the notebook in the cafeteria and not have a thing to write on a Friday.
So I started a Word doc, on my work computer, and I try really hard and follow the rules at my job so I’m not fired and would lose the entire list. This motivates me at work to avoid criminal activity and also to try good like I would with being a dad.
Not a big deal. I love that I can. I’m O positive and have some special particles or sorcery in my blood that makes it good to give babies. Who doesn’t want to give good stuff to babies? I’d rather give baby crackers or baby nunchucks than my blood, but …
If they need it, I’m glad mine is compatible.
I watched my blood – which looks not surprisingly like barbecue sauce, in those little bags – go out of my arm, and clear saline solution flow in. I do something called double red cell donations, so they take the red stuff out and wash me out with the saline.
I argued with a friend about politics while she waited for her egg, sausage, and cheese English muffin at work on Thursday.
I know. I’m so far removed from politics since my media purge in October, but now and then, a news story works its way to my attention, between audiobooks and Matchbox 20 on Pandora and Yahoo! Sports updates on Colorado Rockies games. Much of current events are foreign to me.
The subject of our disagreement isn’t the point.
It’s the fact that our belief systems can feel right as rain and can change and sometimes can’t be changed. Where does belief even come from? It’s in conviction, what we know to be right, but what if others know it to be wrong? That doesn’t change it for us.
It’s eight – times something. Eighty? Eight thousand? Eighty-eight thousand? That depends on if you count car keys and wallet as two things, left behind regularly, or one for every time. I wouldn’t want to do that math.
If God had a cosmic lost-and-found bin, even The Great I Am would assess me a storage fee.
I’ll forego listing the plastic dinosaurs I buried beside my house just before dad put on a sidewalk, or the UNC Charlotte sweatshirt left on the bus in Louisville. Same, too, for the stormtrooper Tervis, the actual stormtrooper from my youth, a few tons of innocence …
I told a co-worker that I staged a hunger strike because of her leaving the company.
Most hellish 13 minutes of my life, I announced. This food-related sacrifice plays right into the mindfulness challenge I participated in for March. I softened it to be carnivore-friendly: March was a beef-free month for me.
Jen Schwartz’s challenge was to give up meat completely, like a liberal. I believe in miracles, yes, but also in the universe’s balance. I could no more easily go veg for more than a single bean tostada as an NBA star could expect to play every game on his team’s schedule when he’s healthy.
My own depravity – which challenged in duration the time Jesus spent in the wilderness that one time or the average drought between quality starts for an Arizona Diamondbacks starter – taught me.
I don’t care for some of the stuff I find in press boxes.
Others, I love. Krispy Kreme donuts, for instance. Some places have those! I also love people I meet, like Stacey Dales and Jackie Servaisand Alicia Barnhart. Stacey is my favorite NFL Network reporter (and a Coach Daddy reader.)
Jackie, a former volleyball star and an intern with the Carolina Panthers when we met, now works for the University of Mississippi.
Like, red in the Colorado flag, to symbolize the state’s red soil. Or the Mandala, to stand for eternal harmony. Or even a blue star on the side of a silver helmet. This stands for a team allergic to playoff victories.
Symbolism isn’t lost on me in the kitchen, either.
Here’s the recipe for my Brown and White Sugar Waffles. They’re representative of my children, actually, part brown like dad, half white, like mom. In perfect harmony, ironed to light and crispy perfection, with a hint of vanilla.
That was my first impression of the blog banner that used to reside on April’s page, The Stories of Our Boys. Not because of that sweet, smiling mom (well, kinda), but the fact that her kids sat in matching Washington Nationals gear? Idyllic.
See, it’s not that way among the Coach Daddy children.
One’s an Anaheim Angels fan, like my dad. The second likes the Boston Red Sox. Grace picked the Texas Rangers and got a ration of h*ll from me because they lost to my Colorado Rockies last night. They love to pick on my Rockies.