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.
This A to Z Challenge has proven quite challenging up around here.
It’s what happens when you toss in a load of high school soccer matches and club practice and, oh, an assignment at work that could make or break us. No pressure. I can handle it. It’s just words. In fact, I armed myself with a two-liter of Diet Mountain Dew and commenced writing.
Then fell asleep sitting up at the couch minutes later.
I have a great guest post to share and other stuff to write and letters to catch up with. The universe, though, saw fit to make this the day I caught up, a Friday, for the letter Q. For “questions from my girls.”
I had to look that up on urban dictionary, of course. It’s pretty bad-ass, actually. Totally not me, though. I just wanted to cap a rough day with a Red Baron pizza and a 40. Yeah, a 40. Only, apparently, I don’t know what a 40 is.
I bought a tall-ass can of Bud Light at Food Lion right after practice.
Not that tall, though. This can is my under-tall counterpart of the beer-can world. I bought, apparently, a 25. Twenty-five fluid ounces of wimp-ass Bud Light. Oh! The can says, though, there’s an extra ounce. And I’ll probably finish the whole thing in two, three sittings, max.
Like, the time I called Jeremy Mayfield’s race team shop on a Friday afternoon to talk to his publicist. All I wanted was a snippet of news I could use as padding in my racing notebook in the Hickory Daily Record. That publicist said, “I’ve been so busy with this driver change for anything else!”
“Oh!” I said. No idea what the hell she meant. “How’s that going?”
She went on to tell me all about the complete team switch happening between Mayfield’s team and another. I played along, and asked more questions as I learned more about the team transaction. It just fell into my lap.
Go Ask Daddy has been a fixture around here for decades, it seems. Only, now, my girls, all post-millennial, they of the vines and musical groups without all the letters in their names (like Weeknd), well, they suddenly want a payday for their “intellectual property.”
Much to my shock and chagrin, this might be the last installment of Go Ask Daddy.
My girls demand $1 per question asked here. Any post that 50% subject matter for any individual, combination of two or all three daughters, real or imagined, will require compensation, commiserate to word count. It’d dumb and it’s complicated. I’m appalled.
I wouldn’t know which Game went to which Throne. I might get to Legends of Tomorrow – tomorrow. I did watch Arrow for a while. When Felicity Smoak *sigh* started to act less nerdy-funny and more vixeny-funny. (I like the glasses and awkwardness, thank you. Hi, Felicity.)
I’m not exactly the trendy TV watcher.
My show of choice: M*A*S*H*. As a friend asked last night, “you mean, that show from when we were kids?” Yes, that show. It came on at 11 p.m. when we were kids. We’d hear the first strains of that theme song, and knew we were on borrowed awake time.
It runs all over the place with kid soccer players. Some play for glory. Some play to get to the halftime and post-game snacks. Sadly, some play because their parents make them. Or they use soccer training sessions as elevated child care.
Each kid, though, can find motivation.
A girl I coached once – we’ll call her Aspen – was the cutest kid on the Sting Rays. The Sting Rays were composed of a handful of hotshots from earlier unbeaten teams, kids with a drive and acumen and love for the game. Aspen came in after much of that glory, and just wanted to play.
To my girls, they’re right up there with homework, canned beets and soccer losses. It’s just the way of the world. It’s like dogs and mail carriers, cats and mice, my March Madness bracket and the truth – some things are just not meant to ever get along.
I’ve had my history of hardships with those in stripes.
However, as coach to impressionable kids and a functioning member of society, I cannot simply fire a navel orange at every official who makes the wrong call in a soccer match. Nor should I want to. They’re doing their jobs, just as I am.
Plus, there are at least 42 things worse than a soccer ref …
Not always. I’ll still take my burger with cheese and bacon – and nothing else. Don’t let ketchup muddle up a piece of art. I like traditional pizza toppings – keep the barbecue chicken and sun-dried tomatoes on your California pie, mate. Notre Dame’s helmet. Acoustic anything.
Yet, those splashes, you know?
It’s just a dab of product in your hair. Vanilla in your waffles. (Just a capful, especially when you add a tablespoon of brown sugar.) It’s blue duct tape holding one headlight on my white Grand-Am. (That’s badass.)