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 mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.
Well, okay. I’m not happy. I noticed Hopey Solo – I mean, Hope – trending on Twitter the other night. That can’t be good, I thought. And it wasn’t. Turns out, Boo got suspended for six months for mouthing off after a shootout loss to Sweden in the World Cup.
The USWNT also terminated her contract. She called the Swedes “cowards” for their conservative tactics in a tied match against the U.S. I disagree with her. In my eyes, Sweden played legal tactics that give them the best chance at winning.
Hope’s diatribe was only words. No mammals were traumatized. Amphibians either. It might have lacked class, but Hope responded honestly to a question.
I might act curmudgeonly at times, but really, I can roll with the punches. I finally got a smartphone, remember? I fully embraced Star Wars: The Force Awakens, and gave Fuller House a puncher’s chance (Hi Kimmy.) Agile, that’s what I am.
Still, there’s stuff I miss. Stuff I wish I could bring back.
Like, Summer Sanders. Toys in the bottom of cereal boxes. Ice cream in baseball caps at the ballpark that don’t set you back $8. Cookie Monster, in his full glory. The original Electric Company. The Gameboy. Trading football cards with Tandy Dillen at lunch.
The Photo a Day Challenge helped. I could write about happy faces in frying pans and display sweet pics my kid took of clouds and not tread near to the hell breaking loose around the world. Unintentionally, I dealt with fear of speaking up by looking down.
It involved sticking my head in the sand when it comes to the Denver Broncos’ offseason woes or the perennial quandary my Colorado Rockies put their fans in by sucking but not sucking enough to justify giving in on a season and trading off all your tradable players.
I bottled up thoughts and reactions to pertinent things in the universe, such as shootings and coups and attacks on the innocent and a contentious election season brewing.
Note: I wrote this stream-of-consciousness post given the one-word prompt “book,” on the blog Life in Progress.
I have to finish this book, y’all.
It’s the one I’ve started and gotten further on than anything I tried to jot in a random steno pad. It’s about the NFL in the 1970s. And here’s the thing: I’ve interviewed former players for this. I’m going to tell the story, in their words.
Former Chicago Bears legend Gale Sayers returned my call for an interview, guys.
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.
You didn’t hear it here first, but you’ve heard it here. As an occasional series, I’d like to spotlight some women who blaze trails for girls like my daughters. It’s a beautiful age we live in. A girl can do anything she sets her mind to.
Meet author Jennie Davenport. Yes, she’s a Denver Broncos fan, but that’s just a bonus. Jennie writes a compelling blend of romance, paranormal and retelling of fairy tales. Jennie’s introspection and ability to find light in darkness, and find it within herself.
Not just because of the age of most of my co-workers. I’m not sure exactly, but I’d estimate 88% of my colleagues are young enough to be my little brothers and sisters. And that’s fine with me. A campus with a bowling alley, two food courts, bier garden and pool tables shouldn’t be only for the young.
Grace spent time with me recently at Red Ventures, and asked at least 11 questions.
She did the same on a visit to Wake Forest University for a soccer tournament. She dug the fact that you could live, eat, sleep, learn, and play all, right there. Just like at daddy’s work. She asked about everything, from “do college kids have bed time?” to … well …
Stadiums: They ought to be named after dead guys or geographical fixtures.
That’s just my take. It’s in the Coach Daddy Almanac, chapter 11, section 2. Some corporate genius wondered aloud whether companies would shell out more cash for naming rights on the home field. I suppose the outfield signs weren’t enough.
Even the radio studio and sports talk email inboxes have corporate sponsors attached.
They even renamed Charlotte Motor Speedway after a home improvement big box. It didn’t last long. And naming the Denver Broncos’ home field after an investment firm went over like raiders colors in a Rocky Mountain Super Bowl party.