Still a coach. Still a daddy. Just not Coach Daddy anymore.
Being a dad of girls is like being left-handed in a right-handed world.
As a lefty and a dad, I know. Desks, notebooks, and putt-putt clubs aren’t made for you. You adjust.
I’m 43. It’s Richard Petty’s old racing number, and the reason there are always 43 cars in a NASCAR race. The London Telegraph says it’s the age men finally mature. That’s 11 years after women do, according to this Brit rag.
Twitter is loaded with examples to the contrary.
Few things hurt like a Super Bowl.
I’m an optimist. But a realist. I’m writing this draft at halftime, with Denver down 22-0. This is a familiar feeling. Denver lost four Super Bowls before they won two. Do you know what it’s like to lose a Super Bowl?
Imagine leaving a tooth for the tooth fairy – and getting a scorpion.
Imagine going to bed on Christmas Eve with visions of sugarplums – and waking up to a bobcat with rabies in your stocking.
Continue reading “This is What a Post-Super Bowl Rant Looks Like (I Need a Rum & Coke Zero)”
Go Ask Daddy: Open for business.
The kids don’t ask me about the fiscal cliff, or General Petraeus, or even what the heck the BCS is going to do if four schools remain undefeated. Nothing heavy, you see.
No, the questions come out of what’s in front of them. The grocery store. Storms. Sports.
Long after I exhaust the list of blog topics, there’ll still be the questions.
Just a dad ... 