Austin Blizzard and Gettysburg Victory

It's not every day that it snows in Austin. That makes today not every day. What started out as a cold morning turned into a cold rainy morning. The rain became sleet and then finally, snow. As you can tell by the picture, it's heavy snow, the kind that traps people indoors and shuts down government offices. So to family members in the Northeast, I sympathize with you. I know the desolation, isolation that comes with being stuck in a blizzard. The roads are treacherous, and I feel lucky that my truck and its 4x4 capability is equipped to handle this type of extreme weather. I don't know how far I'd be able to get. I can only hope this passes before I run out of food. But fear not. My heating still works, I have a good book and access to running water - for the time being. I am kicking myself for not being better prepared for this storm, but there is nothing to do now except hope it passes. Regret can kill a man before the snow does. I have wooden bookshelves, an acoustic guitar and even books which I am prepared to burn in order to stay alive and not succumb to frostbite. I pray it doesn't come to that. But if it does, it does. I look outside at the white oblivion and stare my own mortality in the face. I refuse to blink. This storm can do many things, but it can not rob me of courage, it can not strip me of hope.

I know my father - a man who hates snow and the cold weather that accompanies it like a cat hates being held under a shower - can relate.

A quick stirring of the pot: Over a month now, and the pre-blog is awfully quiet. Excuses are sure to come for the lack of response: "too busy/not enough time" being the most likely. My guess is that the ambitious blogger simply ran out of things to say. I can't help but feel like General George Meade, victorious after a bloody, but fairly one-sided fight at Gettysburg. That would make my opponent General Lee, who launched a courageous yet ill-advised attack. This blog was his Cemetery Ridge, where he fought desperately, but was ultimately repelled and then systematically decimated. Now, he is left with nothing to do but retreat amongst his troops [perhaps Mencken as his General Pickett], and say, as the real Lee did, "It's my fault. It's all my fault." Hubris claims another victim.

Not much else to report. The snow is still coming down, showing no sign of giving up anytime soon. I can't say for sure how much longer I'll have electricity. Or how long I'll be able to keep the flame of hope burning inside. I'll try. I can promise no more than that. I'll try.

Sport?

The Winter Olympics are underway. Gold and silver and bronze medals are being handed out to curlers, snowboarders and ice skaters. In two years, equestrian and synchronized swimmers will also receive the same medals. And I can't help but feel nauseous. Because the medals are being awarded for skills, not sports. I'm not saying they're worthless, or anything of the sort. They're just not sports. Allow me to explain.

If the results are decided by judges, it is not a sport. If winners and losers are determined by scores issued from a panel of judges, it is a popularity contest, an election, not a sport. The outcomes should be determined by the people competing, not the people watching. Simple as that. Sorry snowboarding, ice skating, gymnastics, synchronized swimming, equestrian, diving etc. [Even split decisions in boxing fall into this category]. The truth is that judging is not always unbiased, and that tenths of points are added and deducted inconsistently, often arbitrarily. And those tenths of a points determine first and second place, third and eighth place. Two people can see the exact same routine and give two different scores. Neither is technically wrong or right. In the end, perception can affect the outcome as much as the routine itself. It's like a human dog show, where it's all about impressing the judge. Difficult? Yes. A sport? No. Next.

A response I've heard to this is "If [ice skating, snowboarding, etc] isn't a sport, then why don't you try and do it and see how tough it is?"

My response: "I'm not saying [ice skating, snowboarding, etc] isn't incredibly difficult or difficult to master, it's just not a sport. Breaking bricks with your face is challenging, just as balancing a stack of books on your feet is, but it doesn't make it a sport. Chess is difficult. So is bowling. So is riding a horse. I can't do those things very well, or at all. But they're not sports..."

Which leads me to my second point. A sport must require some type of physical endurance. If you can succeed at a sport and be overweight, it's not a sport. It's a skill. Sorry archery, hunting, curling, fishing, chess, golf. They're challenging, require lots of practice to be good at, but alas, not sports. Baseball teeters on the edge on this one, but because there is a distinct advantage to those in shape, it remains on the table.

Finally, it must be you doing the physical endurance. Sorry race-car drivers and jockeys. Again, I'm not saying I could do any of these, or perform at 1/10000th the level the professionals do. But when the possibility exists of having more skill than an opponent, and still losing because their horse is stronger or their car is faster, it's not a sport. It's a contest of who has a better car/horse. Obviously, skill plays a major factor in NASCAR and horse racing - that's why some dominate and others don't - but the fact that machine/horse can influence the outcome instead of the individual cheapens the end result, and removes it from the realm of a sport.

A common response I hear: "NASCAR drivers are athletes. Fatigue and sweat loss plays a huge role in a race. As does strategy, driving skill, knowing the course, when to pit, change tires, fill up on fuel, etc."

My response: "I agree, NASCAR drivers are amazingly skillful. Strategy is involved. But chess requires skill and strategy as well. And sitting in a suit and sweating isn't physical endurance. Otherwise wearing a plastic bag and sitting in a sauna would be a sport. The car does more work than the driver. It's fun to watch, incredibly difficult to master, but at the end of the day, just not a sport."

So what is a sport? A sport is determined by the individual participants, not by judges [let's distinguish between judges and officials. Judges determine the outcome. Officials enforce the rules. I understand that officials can determine the outcome, but not as obviously as a judge does.] And a sport requires some type of physical endurance, which you yourself perform. Tennis, basketball, football, baseball, track and field, swimming, cycling, biathlon, triathlons, rugby, soccer, and many more fall into this category. Where the rules are clear and enforced, and the outcome is decided by the participants, not a panel of people applying numbers to routines, or sitting behind a wheel pressing an accelerator or brake pedal.

I understand it is brief, and roughly written. But today, it's not about the writing. It's about defending athletics.

That is all.

Chapter One

I have started writing. I'm not sure if it will be a short story, a book, a novella, or even good.

Here is the beginning.

Feedback appreciated.
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One.

Never. How he struggled with the finality of that word, its haunting permanence. Never. It offered no recourse, allowed for no exceptions. He wished the word didn't exist tonight, but it did. Never would never disappear. He continued along the damp sidewalk, alone, hoping that he could leave the word behind if he walked all night.

Never. So tantalizingly close to forever that it even rhymed. Yet there was no mistaking the two. There was no hope to be found in never. Only the eternal certainty of what was not to be, could never be. The word pursued him around every street corner, harassed him under every flickering street light. It was everywhere he looked and everywhere he didn't. On the stop signs he didn't stop for, glimmering in the puddles he stepped over. On his fingertips and buried in the pit of his stomach. The word even fell from the sky, soaking his clothes, his skin. Never. The sound droned in his head like a heartbeat, making his mind more tired than his legs. Ne-ver...ne-ver...ne-ver...

He walked with his head bowed, grappling with a word that had come to consume his existence. Oblivious to the stars littered across the wet midnight sky, he walked. And no matter how quiet it was or how hard he looked, answers, or at least something resembling one, escaped him. Tonight his eyes were mirrors, capable of reflection only in the simplest sense of the word.

The downpour was fitting. It made an unpleasant walk even more so, but he didn't resent it. Even though he had no umbrella to hide under and no poncho to cover up with, he didn't mind the rain. It emptied the streets and made his journey seem, if nothing else, private. Cold gusts of wind randomly blasted his face, almost freezing the rain onto his cheeks. It was only a matter of time before the rain turned to snow, just like his breath turned to fog. As a boy, when it got this cold, he used to put his index and middle finger up to his mouth, take a long drag of air and blow it out. The fog made it look like he was smoking. His brother was the only person who had ever laughed at that.

He kept going, because it didn't occur to him to stop. The memory of his childhood slowly washed away, as all memories have a way of doing, and he was alone again. He quickened his pace. He would stop when the heartbeat did.

There had to be a place where everything made sense; the word, his life, his fears. Where simple questions had simple answers. Where he didn't break down and cry. Maybe if he kept walking, he would find it.

He turned left onto a quiet street that was normally busy. The road was shiny, like a black pool with yellow stripes running down the middle. At the far corner of the street was a cathedral, which was impressive even for a house of God. The rain made it look even more so. The stone gray exterior, stained by the falling water, was so dark it could almost be confused for a light shade of black. A few lights were on inside, illuminating the stained glass windows. They too, looked impressive on this waterlogged night. He didn't know how old the building was, or any of the history behind it for that matter. He just knew what everyone else did who looked at it: that it was massive, impressive, and holy.

The bells in the tower on top of the cathedral rang out, as they did every hour. He didn't bother to count how many times. Instead, his mind wandered back to a little over a week ago, when he had gone inside the church, in search of the same thing he was pursuing tonight: an answer, or at the very least, comfort. Preferably both. As impressive as it looked from the outside, the inside was even more magnificent. The marble altar up front was surrounded by beautiful white candles sitting in silver and gold candle holders. A crucifix that would be over-sized in almost any other building, hung on the wall behind the altar. Rows and rows of dark rosewood pews lined up neatly in front of the altar, offering not too much comfort or leg-room. Eight days ago, on one of those pews, he sat down and talked with a priest.

But the conversation had brought him neither answers nor peace. Father Andrews, the priest whom he had spoken with, looked too young to legally buy a drink, let alone counsel on life and death. His eyes were too bright to understand just how dark life can be. The only thing the discussion had left him with was a taste of resentment. "God has a plan for everyone and everything," Father Andrews said, but it felt more like a recitation. "It's not our job to understand it, only to believe in it." It seemed easy to talk about God's plan when you weren't one of its sacrifices. The boy priest had even offered a psalm, psalm 91, as comfort for times when he felt his faith wavering.

"He is my God, and I trust Him. For He will rescue you from every trap and protect you from deadly disease..."

As he remembered it, the words felt empty. Just as they had then.

It was raining even harder. As he stood out front, staring at place that he had been in not long ago, he thought of another psalm. He couldn't remember the number.

"O Lord, how long will you forget me? Forever? How long will you look the other way?"

The bells stopped and it was quiet again. The only noise came from the rain hitting the trees and the concrete. He climbed the stairs which led to the cathedral, but not any closer. The doors would be locked. Then, after a moment of staring, he continued on. Not exactly sure of where he would go, but sure that he must go somewhere.

Street corners and houses and cars passed by without him realizing. The rain kept falling, showing no signs of surrender. Small puddles became big ones. Walking under trees made little difference, if any. Lightning flashed off in the distance, and a gentle rumble of thunder answered a few seconds later. Still, he kept moving, and again, as it always did, the absurdity of hope crept back in. Maybe, just maybe, if given enough time, his thoughts and the headaches they were coupled with would fade into the darkness, carried away by a gust of city wind. Maybe his phone would ring in the morning, as soon as the clinic opened, and they would say it was all a mistake, that everything was fine, and that they were sorry and hoped he had a nice day. Just maybe.

While taxi drivers hunted the deserted city streets in search of customers and children were enjoying the sleep that comes after a week of school, he wandered in the dark, hounded by questions that no twenty-seven year old should ever have to face, let alone try and answer. Even after the wind died down and the rain slowed to a drizzle, the heartbeat was still there. The pulse that he so desperately wished the storm would have drowned. Ne-ver...ne-ver...ne-ver...

At The Race

I went downtown to the Austin Marathon this morning as a spectator, not a participant. The marathon was to be run regardless of the fact that it was Valentine's Day as well as bitterly cold. Excuses aren't welcome at a marathon.

I seem to remember the announcer saying that over 15,000 people were there, ready to brave the 13.1 or 26.2 miles ahead. I was not one of them. Carinne was. And so, at 6:50 am, I said goodbye, gave her a hug and some advice that has taken me many races to appreciate, but has never failed me: start off slower than you think, make your goal to be able to smile at mile 11 and 12, know that your finish time is not as important as how you feel, and above all else, enjoy it. After the goodbye, I walked down Congress Avenue and found a good spot to cheer from, a place where all the runners wouldn't be bunched up at the start. It is an unusual feeling, being at a race but not racing. Being there to hold clothes, to lend watches, to wait and cheer. It is unusual, but refreshing. At 7:05 am the race started, (I can't think of any major race that actually starts on time) and the endless parade of runners poured down the street. Brogan and I cracked a beer to celebrate. That too, was refreshing.

We saw Carinne three times. Every time she was smiling, giving us short updates about how she was feeling, a few high-fives, and then moving on. The last time we saw her, right around mile 12, there was a little less bounce in her step, a little more resentment at Austin's hills, but still the smile.

In between the times we saw Carinne, Brogan and I stood by the side of the road, cans of beers in hand, cheering the way you only can after you've run a race like this before. I reminded a few people that doing this race was their idea, and that they'd even paid money for it. We stood, cheering people we'd never met. A few smiled as they ran by, staring at our cans of PBR, saying something like "I'd kill for one of those right now," or "You got an extra one for me?" For one lucky runner, we did. I popped open a can of Pabst's and handed it to him. He jogged away, sipping it, and I didn't see him for the rest of the day [maybe he was being sick in a porta-potty at mile 10]. I didn't catch his name.

But it wasn't my day, my race. It was Carinne's. My job was to support, to cheer, to get a smile if possible, and hopefully give a slight lift when the mile markers can't come fast enough. To help her forget, even if only for a moment, that her legs hurt and she's still got a way to go. I've felt the energy that comes from friends and family cheering, literally running beside you. It carried me across the line in Florida, kept me running at mile 22 in the dark. I know how important it is to have support there, because at the end of the day you need a reason to keep going when your body doesn't want to. My friends and family have always been that for me. If nothing else, I hope for a few minutes I made the decision to not break, to not relent, a little easier.

Standing on the side of the road, watching thousands of people pass by, you can't help but want to go home and sign up for every race possible in the 2010 calendar year. You promise to train fifty hours a week, to shatter personal bests and redefine your level of personal fitness. How can you not be moved to such extremes when you are watching wave after wave of people who are fit, alive, and on the edge [some call it the lunatic fringe]? When someone passes by pouring sweat into a shirt that says "Doing this for Dad", or is running beside their spouse, or finishes with a prosthetic leg, how can a fire not burn inside? In a world full of excuses and reasons to be average, for a few hours you stand and cheer for people who are anything but. You want to be out there again, to be with them, to be part of that fringe.

I remember telling one woman as she passed by me that "It's not even 10 am yet and you're going to finish a half marathon. Not a bad day." She smiled, moved on, as if drawn to the finish line by a magnet. I didn't catch her name.

In the most basic sense, the Austin Marathon was an inconvenience to thousands of Austin drivers. It shut down main roads and caused delays on countless others. For those who did run, it was a waste of time. The marathon started at 2nd and Congress and finished eight blocks north on 10th and Congress. Hours after starting, the runners were essentially right back where they began, only their legs hurt, their throat's were dry, and they had an unhealthy craving to sit down and eat. To not move. But as many have noted before me, it's the journey, not the destination that's remarkable. Seeing Carinne conquer her doubts and those 13.1 miles was exceptional. Just as the post-race lunch was, and so were the high-fives out on the course. Watching a slight grimace creep on to her face as she climbed some stairs, seeing a finisher's medal dangle around her neck; you know those are anything but pointless.

Not a bad day.

Ebb and Flow

"There is a time for being ahead,
a time for being behind;
a time for being in motion,
a time for being at rest;
a time for being vigorous,
a time for being exhausted;
a time for being safe,
a time for being in danger."
-Tao Te Ching

I can't tell you how many times I read that quote, and disagreed with it as I was doing so. Too passive, too complacent. It was a shelter to build excuses - "I'm not training now because I'm not ready for it...this is my time for rest, for being safe." Bullshit. Life is meant to be lived, always striving to be ahead, to be vigorous, to be in motion. It's supposed to be wrestled with. I knew it whether Lao Tzu did or not. And while it was a beautiful paragraph to read, it was wrong. You got fat by being safe, by being behind. You died with unfulfilled dreams by resting, by surrendering to exhaustion. Half of the paragraph seemed to have it right, the ahead, the motion, the vigorous, and strangely enough, the danger. But the rest wasn't for me, wouldn't ever be for me.

[An Oscar Wilde quote creeps to mind: "I am not young enough to know everything".....]

Now I find myself taking shelter in the very sentences I spent so long shaking my head at; the sentences I skipped over time and time again. After a year of constant motion, of classes and tests and sunny bike rides and hot runs and weekends dominated by races, after an Ironman and a graduation and becoming a godfather, after all of that and much more - I am at rest now. No longer a slave to the classroom, I work only 3 days a week. I don't train much either, it's too wet or too cold, often both. I sleep more than I ever have, I feel lazier, more behind than I thought possible. I spend many of my mornings lying down, reading, not in a pool or on the road before traffic starts. Yesterday morning was no exception.

And on that rainy morning, for perhaps the very first time, I read that passage - every line of it. The words hadn't changed, but their meanings, especially in how they applied to my life, had. I guess when you really look at it, that's all reading is - not the words written, but the meaning that's extracted. Not what is said, but what you hear.

I know I'm all over the place, not making too much sense. It just struck me, that's all. I've looked at something fifteen or twenty times and only read it once.

A Toast

Quick, parenthetical point: if you doubted my last entry, or perhaps felt I was too harsh on sports writers, read this.

I apologize in advance for asking you to waste your time slogging through that article. About the only thing it does well is prove my point. I'm sorry.

Let's move forward, and hopefully restore a little bit of your faith in the English language that you lost somewhere amidst the terrible jokes about pecan rolls and Mardi Gras.

At the very least, I can do no worse.
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Unfortunately I am in Austin, not around a low, wooden table in a living room in Kensington. A hundred candles aren't burning, casting shadows on a few terracotta soldiers and Buddhas. I don't have a glass of champagne in my hand, a warm plate of food isn't in front of me. Mom isn't sitting across from me and Dad isn't to my left. Amelia isn't to my right, sitting next to Jim. Lilly isn't asleep downstairs, and Tess isn't passing gas in the corner. Fire embers aren't waiting to be rekindled after dinner. Joe isn't refilling champagne glasses and Ellie isn't wearing her hoodie with more holes than fabric. But, for a few minutes, let's pretend that I am sitting at that table, and my family is with me. Candles are burning. Glasses are full. Let's raise them. Dinner can wait for a few minutes.

I would like to propose a toast to Mom and Dad, who have been married for over half their lives, and in love for even longer. For making a marriage of 31 years not just survive, but flourish. To making each house a home, regardless of which continent it was on. For making it to here, even though nobody believed you would when you started out. To putting four kids through college. To being grandma and grandpa. To the journey ahead, and the one already completed. To the Ironmans finished and spectated, to Country Music Marathons, retreats to Italy, "get personal" car magnets, weeks on the beach in Bali and Lombok, to Vietnamese coffee, morning cups of tea, toast with honey, occasionally sharing Venus razors and everything else that has filled in the gaps between the 31 anniversaries.

Here's to you, Mom and Dad. To being different [the barely 5', ever-peaceful mother, the 6'2", a little rough-around-the-edges father], yet so complementary. For always finding a way, and sometimes making one. Here's to right now, this family, this dinner, which is anything but accidental.

And here's to the next 31 years, which I for one, am excited as hell about.

Cheers.

Picking on Sports Writers

I am not particularly fond of sports writers nowadays. In my hierarchy of favorite things, they rank slightly above disease, visits to the dentist, and terrorism. It's not that I don't like sports or reading [anyone who knows me, knows that I love both]. And it's not that I've grown tired of reading about the Cowboys' failures in clutch situations [because while painful, it's also true]. It's that their writing is so bland, so un-insightful, so obvious, so outlandish, so unfunny, so tedious and cliche', that they systematically destroy two things I love in a mere 600 words. They should not be called sport writers, because they do many things, but writing is not one of them. They have earned a different title. The term "douchebag" comes to mind.

Let me clarify quickly. I am not including people like David Halberstam or H.G. Bissinger or Michael Lewis in this group of despised sports writers. My anger is directed toward the weekly columnists, who write their articles once or twice a week, and yet never seem to have anything to say. I hate 99% of sports journalists [cnnsi writer Jeff Pearlman is a rare exception] for many reasons, but the two below are the most pressing.

Reason #1: Sports writers are never held accountable for their predictions, claims, etc, and are then paid for said predictions. It infuriates me when after week 1, a writer will say that team so-and-so looks "super bowl bound", or that they're "the team to beat right now." Really? You know all that after one week? You completely grasp the potential and character of a team after one week, and can already predict how the season will turn out, even though there is no way to account for injuries? You must, because after all, you wrote it, then put your name at the bottom. But seriously, really? I guess that explains why you're a sports writer. These are the same people who anointed Matt Barkley "one of the greatest freshman quarterbacks of all time" after his win at Ohio State [the same Matt Barkley who lost four games this year, and who put up rather pedestrian numbers in the process]. The same people who will call a team unstoppable one week and then hopeless the next. Who will call T.O. 'matured' in one article and a 'cancer' in another. Sometimes, when they've scavenged the sports world for stories and not found any, they talk about the psychology of the game [makes me nauseous], and how someone is a true competitor [are there such things as false competitors?], and that a player has a "will to win." They are consistently inconsistent, if nothing else. I have figured out the pattern that your syndicated sports writer follows, and I am here to share it with you. They make sensational claims [to attract readers], and when those claims don't pan out [which they usually don't], they keep on making newer, even more ridiculous claims [which they're never held to answer for], and then when one of their rocks launched into the darkness actually hits something, they refer to it endlessly [for credibility with their new, laughable claims] and proclaim their own brilliance.

Reason #2: The funny/original opinion piece, reserved for the 'senior' or well-respected columnists of the sports realm. This is specifically directed at Rick Reilly and Bill Simmons, and any other writer who is convinced they are clever, and worst of all, funny. In these articles, you can expect to be hit with one-liner after one-liner. "Tiger Woods drives a golf ball better than a Cadillac." Or maybe, "the game was so shocking, it felt like I was watching Janet Jackson at halftime all over again." It makes me angry just writing those. I read sports articles, *gasp*, to read about sports. Not to be impressed with your pop culture references, or to read your practice for a stand-up routine. I want to read interviews that I can't get, or stories that are only told in locker rooms. What makes it even more unbearable are the short, formulaic endings at the end of each piece. As you read it, you are left with an empty, hopeless feeling in your stomach, especially because you know that Reilly or Simmons wanted to applaud themselves for their ingenious ending to a masterful blending of comedy and sports. For an article on Tiger Woods [which both men have written], it would end with something like "After all, that's par for the course." For Lance Armstrong, it would be "...a man who has shown the ability to do anything. Except quit." It's painfully uncreative. Agonizing also comes to mind.

I ask any sports writer who may be reading this to remember a few things. You are here to write about sports. More specifically, to write about what happened, the inside information from coaches and players, and your 'expertise' occasionally as well. It's ok to admit that you don't know who's going to win it all at the beginning of the season, because then, even though you can't write, you're still being honest. And honesty, in any situation, is a homerun.

*Vomit.