I recently broke the #1 rule that comes with being on a sports team. I should know better, but I couldn't help myself. It's probably a good thing that I'm the coach or I'd probably be looking over my shoulder for errand pucks, cross checkers, or even sticks that "accidentally" slip from the hands of fore-checking forwards. Perhaps what will save me is the fact that my players are still kids, 11 and 12 year old boys, who are still learning the ropes about the idiosyncrasies of teammanship. They likely do not comprehend as of yet that I have committed such an egregious violation of the team concept. It may also help that not too many 11 and 12 year old kids are faithful subscribers to my blog.
What rule, you ask? Was it failing to give 110%, which is not only mathematically impossible, but humanly impossible too? Nope! Perhaps it was forgetting to teach the kids the all important rule that "winners never quit and quitters never win? No, not that rule either. Then surely, you are thinking, that it has to be the most over quoted rule that goes with being a player on a team - "There's no I in team." Wrong again. The rule to which I refer has nothing to do with athletic performance and everything to do with what happens before and after the actual competition. Simply put, this rule is the glue that binds a team. It is the engine that drives a team to greatness. By adhering to this rule, the total awesomeness of a team becomes greater than the sum of its individual parts.
Time to spit it out. Here goes - What's said in the dressing room, stays in the dressing room. It's as simple as that!
If you haven't been a part of a team, then you probably don't get it. For those of you who have been, or still are, then you are probably nodding your head in agreement. Taken a step further, this rule has been expanded to include team road trips. Therefore, we have "What happens on the road, stays on the road."
My breaking of this rule occurred after I asked my young hockey players if any of them had any allergies. One of the boys, in a seemingly serious state of mind, said that he is allergic to marihuana. The innocence of the remark, combined with the flashback of all those years I spent chasing down users and abusers of narcotics, made it one of the most hilarious statements I have ever heard. As I said, I couldn't resist the temptation, so I blabbed about the kid's malady in an email to all the players' parents. I hope that they laughed as heartily as I did.
I've been a part of so many sports teams that I can't even begin to count the exact number. There's been hockey, softball, soccer, basketball, curling, and even golf. Now that I'm an admitted transgressor of the holy grail of team rules, I'm betting there are an awful lots of former team-mates of mine who hope and pray that will be my only violation. Oh, the stories I could tell. Some of my former team-mates seemed to do a Jekyll and Hyde as soon as our bus or plane went beyond the overpass. Thankfully, none of them have nothing on me. How could they? I was way to busy being boring.
Perhaps the parents of my peewee hockey team also have similar misgivings. After all, we certainly will hit the road this year for one or two tournaments. I can only promise them that any and all secrets and transgressions will be fairly safe with me. I hope that will be enough to convince them and all hands can relax and have fun.
Even if I do write about our road trips, it won't be a big deal. Its not like a lot of people read my blog anyhow. Just in case some of the parents don't see things the way I do, I have an ace up my sleeve. I will pacify them with brownies I will make using my secret recipe. You know, the kind of brownies that kids shouldn't have (certainly not the boy on my team with the unique allergy). These brownies will be guaranteed to make all of the hockey moms and dads really like my stories - 110% guaranteed.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Halfway There (and Then Some)
To my mom I'm young. To my daughters I'm old. That's must be what is meant by age being relative. Several things have happened recently to make me reflect on the years that I have seen and those that are yet to come. Being 47 also probably means I've lived over half of my earthly existence. Nothing in my family genes suggests anything different. I've made it to the top of the mountain and I'm working my way down the other side. Taken literally that means I'm "over the hill", but I still feel like I did when I was a much younger man. Lord knows I am still accused of acting somewhat juvenile at times. But what do my kids know anyway?
I knock around with a group of guys who are in their mid thirties. Perhaps I'm closer to their fathers' ages than to theirs, but sometimes I feel like I'm from another planet. I'm a borderline Baby Boomer and they are one of those alphabet generations - X or Y or something like that. I never have taken the time to figure out what those younger groups stand for, so maybe our parallel universe existence is partially my fault. Only partially though. That younger generation seems to have no clue about where we've been, nor any understanding of the how and why today's world is as it is. Take for example that fact that neither of my thirty-something friends had a clue about the ground breaking, 1970's family sitcom, The Partridge Family. Two of them never even heard of it. Surely Mr. Kinkade is rolling over in his grave. One of my younger buddies at least made an attempt, although his assertion that Mrs. Partridge had a son named John Boy left my eyes rolling behind my bifocals. I kept my thoughts to myself and, somewhat exasperated, muttered under my breath - "Kids!"
The other wake up call to my humanity came when I was looking for a part time job as a baggage handler for a large national airline. I made it through the initial phases of the hiring process and was required to have a medical examine. Filling out the form sure took a lot longer than it used to. There are so many more medical procedures and dates to recall. I handed it to the nurse and her review of it took even longer. She said I will have to go back to my family doctor and have her provide clarification of a few issues I've had over the years. I was still in the game but I had a couple of strikes against me. Next was a hearing test. I passed but needed my hearing aids to do so. Finally, she hooked me up to a heart monitoring device to do an EKG. Wouldn't you know it, I was told to go see my doctor about that too. It seems that test indicated that a part of my heart may be enlarged. I'm not too concerned, but I have gone to see my doctor to double check.
At this point I'm not sure if I'm going to pursue the job with the airline. With all of those strikes, I'm not sure they would want me anyway. To add insult to injury, Lynda says that my medical results say that I'm a ticking time bomb and airlines don't like bombs. Funny!
In any event, I don't plan on dying any time soon. There are millions of youngsters out there who need me around to teach them about the pinnacle events of the 70's: Fonzie, on water skis, jumping over the shark; Laura Ingalls growing up on the prairie; the White Shadow schooling Coolidge and friends in high school basketball and life; and Kotter sparring with the sweat hogs.
When my time does come, perhaps my headstone can reflect the life I lived. I'm hoping it says something like:
James NIXON
1965-2065
loving husband, proud father, cracked grandpa
He had a big heart.
I knock around with a group of guys who are in their mid thirties. Perhaps I'm closer to their fathers' ages than to theirs, but sometimes I feel like I'm from another planet. I'm a borderline Baby Boomer and they are one of those alphabet generations - X or Y or something like that. I never have taken the time to figure out what those younger groups stand for, so maybe our parallel universe existence is partially my fault. Only partially though. That younger generation seems to have no clue about where we've been, nor any understanding of the how and why today's world is as it is. Take for example that fact that neither of my thirty-something friends had a clue about the ground breaking, 1970's family sitcom, The Partridge Family. Two of them never even heard of it. Surely Mr. Kinkade is rolling over in his grave. One of my younger buddies at least made an attempt, although his assertion that Mrs. Partridge had a son named John Boy left my eyes rolling behind my bifocals. I kept my thoughts to myself and, somewhat exasperated, muttered under my breath - "Kids!"
The other wake up call to my humanity came when I was looking for a part time job as a baggage handler for a large national airline. I made it through the initial phases of the hiring process and was required to have a medical examine. Filling out the form sure took a lot longer than it used to. There are so many more medical procedures and dates to recall. I handed it to the nurse and her review of it took even longer. She said I will have to go back to my family doctor and have her provide clarification of a few issues I've had over the years. I was still in the game but I had a couple of strikes against me. Next was a hearing test. I passed but needed my hearing aids to do so. Finally, she hooked me up to a heart monitoring device to do an EKG. Wouldn't you know it, I was told to go see my doctor about that too. It seems that test indicated that a part of my heart may be enlarged. I'm not too concerned, but I have gone to see my doctor to double check.
At this point I'm not sure if I'm going to pursue the job with the airline. With all of those strikes, I'm not sure they would want me anyway. To add insult to injury, Lynda says that my medical results say that I'm a ticking time bomb and airlines don't like bombs. Funny!
In any event, I don't plan on dying any time soon. There are millions of youngsters out there who need me around to teach them about the pinnacle events of the 70's: Fonzie, on water skis, jumping over the shark; Laura Ingalls growing up on the prairie; the White Shadow schooling Coolidge and friends in high school basketball and life; and Kotter sparring with the sweat hogs.
When my time does come, perhaps my headstone can reflect the life I lived. I'm hoping it says something like:
James NIXON
1965-2065
loving husband, proud father, cracked grandpa
He had a big heart.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Don't Bet On It
If you are lukewarm on something or teetering on the fence as to whether you give a hoot about how something will turn out, then I have just the prescription to ensure that you'll care a whole lot going forward. It's quite simple actually. All you have to do is place a bet on it.
I joined a football pool this year and I can't believe how much more interested I am in the games, or at least their outcomes. I anted up a few bucks and that has made all of the difference. It's not like there's a lot of money on the line, certainly no one is getting rich on the weekly prize. The actual odds of winning any of the cash are so high that I probably shouldn't count on using that money to pay for fixing my brother's boat. You may remember that I recently wrote about the vicious whale that attacked the boat and it was only through the courageous actions of her captain, yours truly, that all hands were saved from a Titantic-like fate. No? You don't remember? OK, so it may not have happened actually like that. Some of it is true though - I was using my brother's boat, it was on the mighty North Atlantic, and the rock that the propeller hit did very much resemble a whale. It's funny that when I told my other brother, Gord, what I did to Bill's boat he said he wasn't surprised. He told me that "they" had bets on when I was going to do something like that. I wish he had told that to me earlier so I could have gotten in on the action.
It appears that my family has developed quite an interest in betting on what I'm going to do, or not do, next. I guess it's a tribute to my somewhat erratic behaviour of late. Lynda has even taken to calling me a ping-pong ball. I prefer to consider myself as charmingly creative and imaginative. The opportunities available to me seem endless. I'm like a big kid in the candy store of life.
I wrote in my last story, which was four days ago, that I would not be a hockey coach this season. Well, since hitting the publish button on that one I wasn't coaching, I was coaching, I wasn't coaching...and now.... I am coaching. I also mentioned in that post that I am looking for a job and that I had "an iron in the fire". I agree that I was somewhat wishy-washy on deciding whether or not to coach and that was for something I love doing. So you can only imagine what's going through my head on whether or not to continue to pursue a part time position that pays just above the minimum wage. Or can you? If I'm a ping-pong ball then I'm the one being practiced with by the unconquerable Forest Gump in the movie of the same name. Brother Bill told me this morning that he has a pool going on how long I will last in that job. Geez! I don't even have the job yet and already the vultures are swooping over my corpse.
I know how to turn the tables on my family of Doubting Thomases. I will break open my piggy bank and bet it all on me staying in that job for the next ten years. Surely the odds will be so against that happening that I'll make a fortune when the time comes to collect. After all, as I wrote in the first paragraph, betting on something makes it more interesting. Maybe that will be in my favour as I try to plug in ten years at something I just may not be too passionate about. Hmmmm.....I wonder what odds Bill is giving on me not even taking the job? That's where the smart money will be.
Lynda is not a fan of being a character in any of my stories. As she is undeniably the most important influence in my life, it is hard not to include her in some fashion. I would argue that most times she is responsible for getting herself included. Her description of me as being a ping-pong ball was the inspiration for today's story. To honour her, I will conclude with a few, very fitting, quotes from Forest Gump:
I joined a football pool this year and I can't believe how much more interested I am in the games, or at least their outcomes. I anted up a few bucks and that has made all of the difference. It's not like there's a lot of money on the line, certainly no one is getting rich on the weekly prize. The actual odds of winning any of the cash are so high that I probably shouldn't count on using that money to pay for fixing my brother's boat. You may remember that I recently wrote about the vicious whale that attacked the boat and it was only through the courageous actions of her captain, yours truly, that all hands were saved from a Titantic-like fate. No? You don't remember? OK, so it may not have happened actually like that. Some of it is true though - I was using my brother's boat, it was on the mighty North Atlantic, and the rock that the propeller hit did very much resemble a whale. It's funny that when I told my other brother, Gord, what I did to Bill's boat he said he wasn't surprised. He told me that "they" had bets on when I was going to do something like that. I wish he had told that to me earlier so I could have gotten in on the action.
It appears that my family has developed quite an interest in betting on what I'm going to do, or not do, next. I guess it's a tribute to my somewhat erratic behaviour of late. Lynda has even taken to calling me a ping-pong ball. I prefer to consider myself as charmingly creative and imaginative. The opportunities available to me seem endless. I'm like a big kid in the candy store of life.
I wrote in my last story, which was four days ago, that I would not be a hockey coach this season. Well, since hitting the publish button on that one I wasn't coaching, I was coaching, I wasn't coaching...and now.... I am coaching. I also mentioned in that post that I am looking for a job and that I had "an iron in the fire". I agree that I was somewhat wishy-washy on deciding whether or not to coach and that was for something I love doing. So you can only imagine what's going through my head on whether or not to continue to pursue a part time position that pays just above the minimum wage. Or can you? If I'm a ping-pong ball then I'm the one being practiced with by the unconquerable Forest Gump in the movie of the same name. Brother Bill told me this morning that he has a pool going on how long I will last in that job. Geez! I don't even have the job yet and already the vultures are swooping over my corpse.
I know how to turn the tables on my family of Doubting Thomases. I will break open my piggy bank and bet it all on me staying in that job for the next ten years. Surely the odds will be so against that happening that I'll make a fortune when the time comes to collect. After all, as I wrote in the first paragraph, betting on something makes it more interesting. Maybe that will be in my favour as I try to plug in ten years at something I just may not be too passionate about. Hmmmm.....I wonder what odds Bill is giving on me not even taking the job? That's where the smart money will be.
Lynda is not a fan of being a character in any of my stories. As she is undeniably the most important influence in my life, it is hard not to include her in some fashion. I would argue that most times she is responsible for getting herself included. Her description of me as being a ping-pong ball was the inspiration for today's story. To honour her, I will conclude with a few, very fitting, quotes from Forest Gump:
- "My momma always said, Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."
- "I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floatin' around accidental-like on a breeze. But I, I think maybe it's both."
- "That's all I have to say about that."
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