Celebrating Three Years

Today, we celebrate three years cancer-free for my daughter, Jessie. Even as I type that, I'm somewhat in disbelief of that statement. Has it really been three years since she completed her treatments? Which also means, it's now going on 4 years since the horrible June day in 2012 that changed our lives forever.

"Three years cancer-free" is really not an accurate statement, to be honest. What I can tell you is that you're never really "free" of cancer. It's always there, lurking beneath the surface. I still have days when I will be overcome by a moment that reminds me of what Jess went through, or just how scary it all was for her, and for us. The tears can come out of nowhere. There's a fear that I know will never ever truly go away. 

Even three years later, I'm still a bundle of nerves every time we go to Loyola for her check-ups, both in the days leading up to it and the day of. I don't sleep well the night before. I don't think Jen does either. And I'm sure Jess doesn't.

It's just how things are now. I'm worried every time she has a sniffle, the slightest cough or complains of any discomfort. And I suppose that will just be the reality for Jen and me now and forever. It's an exhausting day, and the feeling of relief and elation to know that she remains healthy is impossible to describe.

I ask everyone, when you think about your charitable donations, please consider the American Cancer Society, or CURE Search or any organization funding research and support for curing cancer, and children's cancers in particular. I long for the day, when no child or parent has to hear that awful word, or has to experience the terror of diagnosis and treatment, of chemotherapy and radiation, of missing their families and friends and school while stuck in the hospital for days, weeks or months at a time. I wish no other parent will lie in bed at night, sleepless and scared and ask, "Lord, why couldn't it be me instead?" 

In those dark days of 2012, if I could have traded places with her, I would have without a moment's hesitation. I still would, as it pains me to think of the things she's had to face, at the obstacles she's had to overcome. She doesn't like when I talk about trading places. I remember her telling me back then that she wouldn't want that, that she wouldn't want me to be sick. But I wish I could make it all go away, wish I could do something so she wouldn't have those memories.

I'm so grateful for the kindness and love of our family, friends and even the strangers who have each helped us throughout this journey over the past 4 years. I remember saying back then, that one of the things that kept us going was the amazing care and concern we saw from the people around us. 

A little story that illustrates this was when Jess was very sick, and we were doing the CURESearch Walk to raise money for children's cancer research, we had a team for Jess. I asked one of my friends and former colleagues (the wonderful Kelsey Krzmarzick) to design a logo for Jessie's team that we could put on a t-shirt. We reached out to a local printer in Manteno to print the t-shirts. Not only did the folks at Basham's print the shirts for free, when we picked the shirts up, inside the box was an envelope. I can remember my wife Jen calling me at work and through sobs explaining to me that inside that envelope was $1,000 and a note that this was just to help us out a little. We had no connection with Basham's ever before. 

That generosity was an amazement to us. I cannot count how many people we had never met before heard about Jessie, and would come up to us in the local grocery store or at the library or the park and just offer a kind touch or words of encouragement. In those darkest days, we learned that LOVE is a real thing, and it heals. It healed our broken hearts, repaired our despondent spirits. And I really believe it helped cure that damn cancer. 

I sincerely love each and every one of you who has taken the time to think of and pray for Jess (and us). I ask you to celebrate Jess tonight by saying a prayer for those who are currently battling this disease, for those that did not make it to "survivorship" as they call it, and for the families that love them.

My hero

Hello again everyone. It's been a really, really long time since I have posted anything here. It's not for a lack of anything to say, although not really anything of substance I'm sure. I've spent much of my time on here often spouting meaningless prose about my sports fanaticism or love of all things related to Bruce Springsteen. Entertaining entries for me, but certainly nothing especially important or profound.


My favorite entries have been the ones about my kids and my coming to grips with their growing up -- and my own. Those are the ones that always bring a smile to me, and the ones that I'm most thankful that I wrote down somewhere. My kids bring me and my wife, Jennifer, such joy and love and writing about them is pure pleasure.


But sometimes life throws you a wicked, wicked curve. I'm writing today about one of my kids, but it would be hard to call it pure pleasure. Quite the opposite.


Over Memorial Day weekend, my 10 year old daughter Jessie complained of back pain. We didn't think much of it -- she had been swimming at a friend's house and riding her bike. Probably just a pulled muscle or something. Then it continued into the week. My wife took her to the immediate care center where they thought it might be a urinary tract infection or something of the like. They encouraged Jen to take Jess to the pediatrician, which she did the following Monday afternoon. Even then, it didn't seem serious, although the doctor felt like her symptoms "didn't fit neatly into a box." So, maybe it was a kidney stone or something like that. Unusual for a 10 year old, but not off the charts. He told us to have an ultrasound the next morning, Tuesday.


That night, at bedtime, Jess was in extreme pain and discomfort, So much so, that we ended up taking her to the emergency room by our home in Manteno. There, some more tests and some pain medication, but it still didn't seem too serious. They sent us home around 4 am with a prescription for pain medicine to go with her antibiotics to fight the infection. She should be alright. Just before we left, we asked, "should we still go for the ultrasound in the morning?" The doctor said it was probably a good idea and if it was a kidney stone, that would confirm it. After a 4:30 am stop at the 24-hour Walgreen's, we were back home, Jessie was resting comfortably and I was contemplating whether to try and head into work on two hours sleep while Jen and Jess headed to Orland for the ultrasound, which seemed like just a formality.


Instead, I decided to go with, just to be sure all was OK. I emailed my folks at the office, let them know I'd be out in the morning and should be back online working from home that afternoon.


I didn't end up working from home that day.


Instead, the technician told us they'd transmit the results to our doctor and he would "call us later." We left and debated where to stop for some lunch on the way home. A good burger at Pop's in Frankfort seemed like a great choice. We were discussing menu choices with Jessie. Jennifer's cell phone rang.


And life as we know it would never, ever be the same again.


Jen answered and I continued driving until she touched my arm and quietly said "you need to pull over." I pulled into the parking lot outside the restaurant and listened to half of a conversation between Jen and the doctor on the other end of the phone. Jessie watched a DVD in backseat. Jennifer's hands were shaking as she scribbled notes on a pad of paper. I saw two words and my head began to spin violently -- "mass" and "oncologist."


Oh my God. This cannot be happening, this cannot be happening. It's not real, please tell me it's not real, it's a mistake, it's something besides what it is. 


But it's not.


That day, June 5, we found out my beloved Jessie has cancer. And we were instantly transported into a world we had never imagined even in our darkest nightmares. 24 hours later we were at Ronald McDonald Children's Hospital at Loyola in Maywood, Illinois, preparing for Jessie to have exploratory surgery to have a biopsy to determine the disposition of this horrible invader into our daughter's body and our lives.


More words I never wanted to hear or see, that pain me and make me tear up even now as I type them: tumor, malignant, chemotherapy, radiation, surgery. And then tears, and more tears and even more. 


There is nothing to prepare you for this kind of thing happening to your child. Even now, after nearly two months of chemo treatments, I keep praying that I'll wake up from this terrible dream and the problems I'm dealing with are cranky clients, temperamental telephones or even chicken salad in the toilets. I'd so much rather be dealing with that than this.

Anyone who knows me well know that my kids are my world. Jessie has been my special little girl from the first moment I held her, from the days she called me "da-doo". She's a very special little girl.


Even in the most dire circumstances though, you find things that reaffirm your faith in love and humanity.  The love of our family. The love I've seen sent her way from my extended work family at JT, most of whom have never even met her, means more to me than mere words can express. The countless cards, emails and calls from friends far and wide, old and new has helped us through some of the darkest days of our lives to date. And the people around our little town, who have stopped us in the grocery store or at the ballfield to touch our shoulder, offer their love and friendship, are an amazement to us. The love directed toward our beautful daughter has been inspiring in the face of the most awful circumstance imagineable.



The most inspiring person in all of it has been my Jessie. And I guess that's why I'm writing this today, just to put it down and share it with whomever takes the time to indulge my ramblings. And to hope that maybe she will inspire others the way she has inspired me.


She heard the word "cancer" and held her tears. She has taken on all of the slings and arrows of this malicious disease and its treatment with strength and poise far beyond her 10 years. She worries more about her mom and me and how it affects us. 


Her prognosis is good. Her initial treatments have shrunk the tumor about 30 percent and she will soon have surgery to remove it. She still faces months and months of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. She knows she will have difficult days and more hospital stays in front of her. She tires easily and will not be able to go back to school with her 6th grade class this fall. She won't get to play in 6th grade band or be a part of student council or try out for the volleyball team. The cancer robbed her of all of that.



But she doesn't wallow in self pity or anger. She has lost her hair, but not her sense of humor. One morning, as she sat at the breakfast counter in our kitchen with her mom and big brother Mike, her thinning hair hidden by a hooded sweatshirt, Mike asked how she was doing. Her reply? 


"Goin' bald, dude."


She takes the time to write a thank you note to every person who has sent her a card or a  email or token of affection. She still sits with me and laughs at Adam Sandler movies. She tells me that everything is going to be alright. She is beautiful, strong, kind brave and true. She is the best person I know, far better than me, far stronger than me.


She is my hero, and I love her with all of my heart and soul.


I hope you will do the same. Please keep Jessie in your thoughts and prayers. This world needs people like her. Please make sure God knows that.

Beware the "Longtime Fan"

If you've ever read this blog before, you know that I'm a Chicago Bears fan. To a degree that's really probably not healthy to be honest. This is been a very tough month of August. And while I'm looking forward to the season starting, and I know the preseason games don't really mean anything, I'm still fighting this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that I've had since the Wannstedt years.

But I don't want to talk about the current edition of the Bears. I want to talk about the so-called "longtime fans." So-called because it's a qualifier they feel the need to use. You hear them on the radio all the time.

"Hey this is Rich, I'm a longtime Bear fan."

"I'm a longtime fan, since 1985."

Or the worst:

"I'm not a Bear fan. I'm a longtime Packer fan."

Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to engage in any sort of meaningful sports conversation with anyone who feels it necessary to offer the "longtime" qualifier to their fan credentials. The simple reason being they're usually full of crap.

"Longtime" fan to me means "since birth" or at least "since I started watching football."

The longtime Packer fans are the ones who really bother me. Because very seldom have I ever come across one who's been a fan since before the 90s and Brett Favre. I got into a conversation with one recently and decided to take him at his word. We were talking about players past and present and I mentioned Eddie Lee Ivory.

The guy responded with a blank stare. I grew suspicious.

David Whitehurst? Nothing.

Randy Wright? Nope.

Mossy Cade? Charles Martin? Terdell Middleton? Not a clue?

Bart Starr? Well, of course, let's not be ridiculous.

I've had similar exchanges with "longtime" Bear fans.

Terry Schmidt? Huh?

Wally Chambers? What?

Golden Richards? Bob Thomas? James Scott? Noah Jackson? Revie Sorey? C'mon!!

Donnell Woolford? Jeff Graham? Trace Armstrong? Joe Cain? Barry Minter? Raymont Harris? Seriously!!

Cade McNown?

"Oooh yeah, he sucked."

Finally.

I have no problem if you don't have the psychosis I do that requires you to retain all of this information. But please don't pretend to be the biggest fan in the world when your knowledge doesn't go back to Jim Harbaugh at quarterback.

And age has nothing to do with it. If you ask me who Bill George or Doug Atkins or Willie Galimore are, I can tell you. If you ask who George McAfee or Bulldog Turner or Rick Casares is I can tell you. As can any other who lives and dies every Sunday wearing blue and orange.

And for you "longtime" Packer fans. Either just move to Green Bay or at the very least, get on the Interwebs and look up Chester Marcol.

I can't do this anymore...

That's it. It's over. After last night, I just can't do this with you any more. This just isn't working out and I think we'd be better off apart from one another.

I know we've been together a really long time. When I met you, I was just a kid and I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I didn't understand the pain that you would cause me over the years. You were my great love and we'd spend every summer together. When you would go away in the fall, I'd miss you all winter long. I'd count the days until the weather turned warm again and you would come back.

You've always been a bit superficial, more concerned with what you looked like than what you actually were. In my younger days, that didn't bother me so much. You looked good to me, I loved you no matter what. When friends wondered what we were doing together, I always defended you, always said you had my heart. Many people tried to get me to forsake you for others, tried to hook me up with another. Especially my friends who wanted to set me up with the one across town. "She's a little crazy and rough around the edges, but a lot more fun!" I never would.

We had many crazy, wonderful nights together. Remember Pittsburgh in 1984? What about going up to Montreal in 1989? Even those nights in Atlanta and Miami in 2003. They were some of the best nights of my life, and at those moments I didn't think it could have been any better, and I couldn't have loved you more.

But the problem is, after every one of those good times, you'd go off and break my heart, just a week or two later. You did it in San Diego. And again in San Francisco. Hell, in 2003 you came back home and did it to me here in Chicago.

Maybe I'm the one who's superficial. I mean, I have to be honest. A big problem here is that I have needs, and you just wouldn't go all the way. I think you wanted to, but somehow, things always ended with me feeling unfulfilled and disappointed.

But what happened last night just tells me that you won't ever change, and that you just don't care. Oh, you're still popular and everyone likes to hang out with you at your house, but for all the wrong reasons. And I can't any more. I want more than this.

Maybe I'll feel differently later. Maybe you'll finally realize the error of your ways and really commit to this relationship. But until then, I just have to be away from you for awhile.

I'd love to tell you that it's not you, it's me. But that would be a lie.

It's you.

Goodbye Cubs.

Random Thoughts

I haven't been on here in awhile. A half dozen random thoughts from the day, while sitting eating Ritz crackers for lunch -- pay day is Friday.

#1: I've decided I want a Jeep. It's the perfect vehicle -- top down and doors off in the summer, four-wheel drive when the freakin' snow piles up in the winter. If you would like to purchase me one, I prefer blue.

#2: Me and little man Matty bought the same shoes at Target this weekend -- Converse one-star high tops, black and white. He calls them "Chuck shoes" after the TV show, which we watch together because we're "Chuck buddies." He looks adorable in them. I probably look like a dork. But they are comfortable.

#3: I obliterated a bird the other day while driving. I haven't hit wildlife of any kind with the car for years. It was an explosion of feathers. And it freaked me out a little bit.

#4: My new wish is to acquire enough capital to buy some land and open a drive-in movie. We took the kids to one down in Gibson City, Illinois a couple of weekends ago -- shout out to the Harvest Moon Drive In (www.harvestmoondrivein.com )-- about 70 miles from our house. And it was a fantastic time. Reminded me how much I loved the drive in when I was a kid. The owners/operators of the place seem to have a great time running it and do a wonderful job. It's such a bummer that there aren't any more around the Chicago area anymore. The Sheridan in Bridgeview, the Starlite in Chicago Ridge, the Double up on Archer Ave, the I-80 in Tinley Park, they're all gone. But some still exist. You just have to do a little digging, and a little driving, but they're worth it. Check out www.drive-ins.com. They have a searchable database for drive in theaters nationwide. Anyhow, we're going back on Friday night, you're all welcome to follow us down!

#5: The entire town of Westchester is under water. I realize the rainfall totals were unprecedented, but c'mon. The whole town? Something is seriously wrong with your drainage system guys.

#6: I cannot wait for the Blago trial to end. Please Rod, just go away.

BONUS: Lastly, training camp starts in TWO DAYS. Baseball, once again, has been a trainwreck. Bring on the Bears!!

Joy Never Gets Old

Pure joy.

That's how I'll describe the feeling last night. Absolute, utter, pure unabashed joy. My boys, clad in their jerseys, jumping up and down. My wife wondering loudly, "Did it go in? Did it go in?" The fireworks going off in the neighborhood, the dogs barking. The wide grin on my boy Mike's face.

Joy.

This is why you watch sports, this is why fanatics pour their heart and soul into their teams, why we schedule our lives around it, read about it. It's why we grumble when things go wrong, and why we die just a little when they come so close and disappoint.

It's why we say, "we did it" or "we won" when just about everyone one of us had absolutely nothing to do with the actual game played.

For moments like this.

For really just the second time in my life of 42 years, my die hard fandom has yielded the ultimate reward -- an actual championship for one of the teams I pour so much of my own heart and soul into.

Yes, the Bulls won six titles in the 90s. But I have to be honest. I was every bit the bandwagon jumper with those teams. I would never say that I was a die-hard Bulls fan. Before Michael Jordan came along, I could probably count the number of Bulls games I ever watched on one hand. It was fun to see the Bulls win, but they were never really one of my teams. The Chicago Bears. The Chicago Cubs. The Chicago Blackhawks.

In January 1986, my Chicago Bears won the Super Bowl. As a complete sports idiot, it's one of the marking posts in my life. At that moment, it was the first time one of my teams had won the whole damn thing. I was 17 and it seemed like those Bears would win 3 or 4 more. They didn't.

The Cubs -- well, we aren't going to talk about them today.

The Blackhawks are a team I've followed my whole life. I remember my Grandma Johns, who was most certainly in my thoughts last night, and her having the game on WGN-TV on the big console tv in her living room in Chicago Ridge in the mid 70s, back when Hull and Mikita and Magnuson still roamed the ice in Indian head sweaters.

I remember my dad and my Uncle Art playing furious games of rod hockey between periods on multiple Saturday nights. And my dad telling tales of Bobby and Dennis Hull, and "little Lou Angotti" and Blackhawk triumphs of the past. My dad was never a huge story teller about baseball or football, but hockey was different. It was the one sport where he got excited to tell me about the way things were back when.

I watched great Blackhawks players entire careers here -- Jeremy Roenick, Denis Savard, Doug Wilson, Chris Chelios, Steve Larmer, Tony Amonte, Ed Belfour. I watched great Hawks teams in the mid 80s through the early 90s, teams that kept running into those damn Edmonton Oilers. I watched the great 1992 team win 11 straight playoff games and then lose 4 straight to Pittsburgh. And I watched it all fall apart in the late 90s through to about 3 years ago, when forgettable names like Zhamnov, Mironov, Dychehouse, Daze dominated the scene. When stars like Doug Gilmour and Paul Coffey came to wear the colors about 3 years after their legs had already retired.

So when Kaner's wrister slipped through Leighton's legs and into the net and there was that unreal few seconds where no one besides Kane himself was sure what happened, and then his teammates poured over the boards to celebrate while the Flyers and their fans sat in stunned silence, there was joy. And when Toews lifted that unwieldy, beautifully ornate what used to be silver punch bowl -- themost beautiful trophy in all of sports -- up, there were tears too. For my Grandma. For my dad. And yeah, for me too.

Hopefully my boys won't have to wait the rest of their lives for another. I don't begrudge them the waiting. I hope they're spoiled, I do. And I welcome the bandwagon jumpers. Stay on board folks -- with this team, we're hoping the ride's a long one and we get to do this again and again and again.

The Chicago Blackhawks are Stanley Cup Champions.

Joy NEVER gets old.

Vote 'Em All Out? Maybe...

The news is full this morning of stories of schools in crisis. Schools in crisis because of massive budget shortfalls, caused in no small part by the State of Illinois.

Because the State of Illinois doesn't pay its bills. According to the sign at my son's high school when I dropped him off at baseball practice the other day, the State owes our little school district $1.2 million. One. Point. Two. MILLION.

They owe the school district in Elgin more than $13 MILLION. Which is going to force the layoff of 1,100 teachers and others. In Chicago, the schools budget shortfall is more than $700 million, which will mean the layoffs of more than 3,800 people.

Just what in the hell are our wonderful elected officials in Springfield doing about it? Where the hell is the money going down there? They have shirked responsibilities for years, decades and the now the bill has come due. And who pays the price for their sloth, for their focus on self-preservation and re-election? Our kids.

I've never been one of those who subscribes to the simplistic "vote 'em all out" mentality. But I'm getting closer and closer. Democrats are you listening? I've been a loyal and consistent Democratic voter all my adult life. But the mess in Springfield has me strongly considering the concept of voting against any and all incumbents, Republican or Democrat. We need a change. You folks who are down there have had long enough.

So you're on your last chance. Do something this spring session. Work together and compromise and make the budget adjustments you need to make to get the schools paid, to make sure public safety is a priority. Make the cuts that need to be made to the non-essentials.

But make no mistake, public schools DO NOT fall into the non-essential category. Cut your perks, your member initiatives, your vanity license plates, your travel expenses, your SALARIES.

But get those schools paid. Or come November, you've lost my vote.

Are you listening?

Probably not. Because you don't care.

Instant Gratification

I'm already worried that I don't like where this is going.

Since he took over, new Cubs owner Tom Ricketts has made a point of saying that the goal of the new owners is to win the World Series.

Amen to that.

And then he mentions making improvements.

A second amen, 'cus this team needs improvements.

But the improvements he invariably winds up talking about center around things like cosmetic and structural changes at Wrigley Field, ballpark advertising and a new spring training facility in Mesa.

Nary a mention of finding a reliable number 4 or 5 starting pitcher, a reliable set-up guy out of the bullpen, addressing the mediocrity at 2nd base or getting a strong left-handed bat off the bench.

You know, the things that actually help you win a World Series.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the new Cubs owners -- and they sound an awful lot like the former Cubs owners, more interested in the revenue stream than moving a runner from first to third or turning a double play.

Unfair assessment? Too early to tell? Perhaps.

But if one more person tells me to be patient, I'm going to take a Louisville Slugger -- you know, that stick that Alfonso Soriano swings and misses with -- and smack them in the head. No, I will not be patient, and neither should any other Cub fan. This team has not won the World Series in over 100 years and hasn't been to one since before my father was born.

No, I will not be patient. I want my World Series. And I want it NOW. There's no room for goodwill, no room for player development or building for the future. Screw that. I don't care about 2011, 2012 or beyond. Win me the Series this year and you'll buy yourself breathing room. Be the Yankees, BUY the title. I don't care.

But I'm sick of waiting, my patience is used up. I'm 42 years old today. I ain't a kid anymore.

Win me pennant goddammit. I deserve it.

Death of the Sick Day

This morning I woke up feeling like hell. Actually, that's incorrect. You can't really "wake up" when you never really got to sleep. But the "feel like hell" part is accurate. So, rather than cough my germs all over the office and my co-workers, I chose to just spread them amongst my beloved family. Except the dog. I don't share dishes with him, so he's safe.

I took a sick day.

As I sit here typing this, waiting for the Sudafed to kick in and knock me out, saving me from the indignities of morning TV, I'm struck by how the sick day has really changed.

Already this morning, I've finished and sent two client memos, sent out a variety of e-mail correspondence and reviewed some client-related newsclips. All before 9 am.

What the hell happened to the good ol' sick day -- wearing torn sweats, sucking down orange juice and watching bad 80s movies on the VCR while drifting in and out of sleep on the couch. My personal sick day favorite was "Better Off Dead." The title appealed to my male tendency to inflate my symptoms to near death. A headcold and a slight fever might as well be malaria. Yeah, I'll admit it.

But VCRs became DVD's, cell phones got smaller, Al Gore invented the Internet, everybody got laptops and now we can check e-mail and phone messages ANYWHERE, ANYTIME.

Don't get me wrong. A substantial portion of the time, these are good things. Technology gives us greater flexibility.

But it also killed the sick day as we used to know it. Even when you'e running to the bathroom every 10 minutes with stomach flu, you can still check e-mails in between "driving the bus."

I'm not making any value judgement. But I miss "The Breakfast Club" while comatose on cold medicine.

A job quiz...

A quick one. Tell me what would happen at your job.

You're arguing with a co-worker one day about a bet on a college basketball or football game. As a joke, you decide to pull out a couple of guns and lay them out on the table as an illustration of what happens if the co-worker doesn't pay up. Guns that you've decided to keep at work, because you don't feel comfortable keeping them at home. And it's currently illegal to keep them in the locale you live and work in. But hey, they're not loaded.

Your bosses find out. Do they:

A. Immediately fire you.
B. Immediately suspend you, without pay, pending the police investigation of the matter
C. Allow you to come in to work as if nothing had happened, because you acknowledge that it was a dumb thing to do, but hey, they weren't loaded

I think for most of us, the answer is A or at the very least B. But then, most of us are not NBA millionaires. Because that's what happened to Gilbert Arenas, current NBA superstar/idiot for the Washington Bullets -- er, Wizards. Sorry, I slipped a little bit on the irony of the franchise name change.

This guy played in the Wizards game against Philadelphia last night. It's like you or me pulling a weapon on a co-worker, joke or not, and still being permitted to lead the staff meeting on Wednesday.

I love sports, but situations like this show where they've really lost touch with reality. David Stern, NBA czar, has done NOTHING. The Wizards themselves, nothing. NOTHING. And this, Mr. Stern, is one of the reasons I don't watch the NBA. Oh, and your league is boring, but that's another subject.

I know, it's just the latest in a long line of superstar, or even mediocre, pro athletes bumbling along without any consequences for their actions. They lie. They cheat. They get in bar fights at 2 am on a Wednesday. They drive drunk and kill someone. Because they can put the ball in the hole, because they put asses in seats, the rules don't apply. Or, no one has the gumption to MAKE the rules apply.

And folks wonder why some people grow more and more disillusioned with sports.

"The Happiest Day of My Life"

It's been a long time since I posted anything on here. The overall busy-ness of the holidays and work and family have taken firm hold and left very little time for anything else.

But my wife called me this morning to tell me that she wanted to be our son Matty today. That he was SO excited for his Christmas party at preschool. He was singing "Jingle Bells" the whole way there and when he got out he told her "This is the happiest day of my life!"

Oh, to be four years old. Oh to be able to utter those words sincerely.

We're all rushing, all on our way to somewhere else, even Matty although thankfully he's too young to know it yet. Here's to singing "Jingle Bells" in the car on the happiest days of our lives.

It's something to strive for.

34

Ten years. It's really been ten years. Ten years ago tomorrow is when my childhood really came to its end. Ten years ago, on November 1, 1999, I lost my boyhood hero.

Ten years ago tomorrow, I lost Walter Payton.

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. I know there are thousands, probably hundreds of thousands of kids who grew up in the mid to late 70s and the 80s who spent Sunday afternoons watching him fight, scratch and claw for yardage for Bears teams ranging from pitiful to proud. I know I'm certainly not the only one who would sit on the living room floor and then run out into my backyard, football in hand, pretending to dodge imaginary Packers, Vikings and Lions, trying to emulate the moves of my hero.

The best there ever was, the best there ever will be...

I grew up with Walter Payton. A certified sports fanatic now, it was Payton who cemented me as such. At 9 years old in 1977, I came to live and die by the Bears, and Walter in particular. I remember vividly when he broke the single game rushing record with 275 yards against the Vikings in November 1977. The Sun-Times that week announced a special edition with a two-sided iron on so you could turn an ordinary t-shirt into your own Payton jersey. For those younger folks, we couldn't get authentic game jerseys in those days, and t-shirt iron-ons were a big deal. I remember begging my mother to make sure that dad didn't forget the paper that Tuesday and then relentlessly pestering her to drop everything and please, please, please put the iron-on on my t-shirt at that moment. I wore that t-shirt for years, until the decal was long since worn and the shirt itself was little more than tatters.

He was the best there was, and he was ours. We may not have won the Super Bowl, or even gone to the playoffs on a regular basis -- the Bears lost a lot more than they won when I was a kid -- but we had Walter. And unless there was just no way to avoid it, I watched EVERY game.

When the Bears won the Super Bowl in January of 1986, I was a high school senior. And it was a feeling of euphoria because the team had won, but also because Walter got that Lombardi Trophy. he got the championship he deserved. I honestly don't know which made me happier.

Good and pure and powerful...

Beyond my dad, he was the only other person I would ever call my hero. Always was, still is.

He influenced my approach to a lot of things. To sports surely. I wanted to play the way Walter played, fighting for every inch, diving in the dirt, unafraid to take on even the biggest opponent. I was a runt, but I wasn't afraid to go against anybody. Walter wasn't, so neither was I.

But it extended beyond sports. I learned to give my all in whatever I was doing, and then, whatever the final outcome, whether it was success or failure, I could live with it.

He also keenly influenced my perspective on race. He was my hero, it really never occurred to me that he was black, or that I was white. Walter was good and pure and powerful. He was a Bear. And he was the best, no matter whether he was black, white, green or red. I remember a kid in the neighborhood teasing me about wearing a #34 jersey once, saying that he'd never wear a black guy's jersey. And I remember being angry and telling the kid that that was just about the dumbest thing I'd ever heard. He was my hero because of who he was and what he did. The color of his skin, never entered into my mind. And I decided THAT was the right way to be.

Beyond a boyhood hero...

When he retired in 1987, I was crushed. I was still a rabid Bears fan, but it changed a little. Even today, I never miss a game if I can help it. But there's a piece missing, always.

I was lucky enough to get to meet him twice. The first time, working an event for the Better Boys Foundation, I was tongue-tied, face to face with my idol. I somehow was able to spit out the words "thank you" as he signed a football for me. But the second time is something I'll remember the rest of my life.

My company was handling special events for Target stores and Walter was releasing a new highlight video called "Pure Payton." There was an autographing happening at one of the suburban stores and I couldn't volunteer quick enough to lead the event. One the day of, I summoned all of my professionalism as I greeted his car in front of the store and actually managed to speak and introduce myself and explain what we would be doing.

"OK, no problem, Dan. I'll just follow you." And then he poked me in the chest and smiled.

We did a brief session with the employees in an internal break room before taking him out on the floor. When it was time to head out to the floor, I told Walter it was time to go and assembled the security team to walk him out.

"You guys be the blockers, but follow Dan! He's the man with the plan!"

I lead the team out and many shoppers were stopped in their tracks waving and yelling to Walter. I was floating. And then...

I felt two arms around my neck and then a high pitched laugh.

"Here we go, we'll just ride Dan out!" And then he was on my back. Walter Payton, arms around my neck, jumped on my back and for a short spell, was riding piggyback on me as we went to the stage area.

I never got a photo, I have no visual proof. And you can call me a liar if you want. Doesn't matter, I KNOW it happened and I'll never forget it.

On November 1, 1999, Walter died. And I wept openly. I remember the phone calls to my house from friends and family members who knew that I had lost someone beyond just a boyhood hero, someone who was a big piece of who I was and who I am.

I loved Walter Payton. I miss him today in the same way I miss my grandfather who passed on in 1979. You may find fault with that or think that's silly or strange. And that would be your problem. Tomorrow, there'll be all sorts of tributes and memorials, much more eloquent than this rambling memory here. And I know that I'll cry a little more.

But I'll also smile as I watch the video and hear the recollections. Once again I'll be 9 years old, wearing my iron-on #34, watching Walter run and for a few fleeting moments, all will be right with the world.

Happy Halloween!

Suckered you in. I hate Halloween, have since I was a kid. I know the kids love it, and that's fine. But Halloween for adults is another story. Because now that I'm grown up (at least in the chronological sense) I don't have to dress up. Or if I want to, I can do it any time I want.

A friend created a "I Hate Dressing Up for Halloween" group on Facebook and I was proud to be one of the first to join (Thanks Nick!).

So here's what I will NOT be dressing up as for Halloween:

I will not be dressing up as anything super, scary or funny; as anything silly, ironic or campy; or in anything requiring make-up, masks, wigs, tights, hats, gloves, colored contact lenses, fake appendages, fake blood, props, nail polish, charcoal, dark glasses, uncomfortable shoes, fruit, vegetables, small animals, large animals, farm animals, stemware, tinfoil, cardboard in any form, power tools, paper products, jewelry, small appliances, oversized clothing, undersized clothing, revealing clothing, itchy clothing, balloons, luggage, buckets, garden hoses, coaxial cable, burlap, meat, light bulbs, gasoline, pencil shavings, faux fur, faux vomit, anything involving the word faux, magnets, ink, tomato juice, uncooked pasta in any form, plastic bags of all shapes and sizes, tape, carpet, rubber, floral arrangements, nitrous oxide, hots, sharps, dairy products, mesh, meth, monkeys, dentures, grease, padlocks, stencils, pocket change, musical instruments, office supplies or anything I may have left out that would make me feel/look silly, stupid or even vaguely uncomfortable.

What I will be doing?

I'll be dressing up as the guy who sits on a lawn chair on his driveway and hands out candy to the kids, enjoying the cute little ones while keeping an eye for the slightly older little bastards to make sure they don't mess up my shit.

And trick or treating ends at 7 pm in my neighborhood. Don't show up on my doorstep at 7:10.

Yeah, I'm THAT guy.

Wow...

Just a follow-up to this morning's post.

I'm absolutely stunned Chicago lost in the first round. I had this sinking feeling, but I thought it was going to be a heartbreaker in the final round.

Yet another chapter in our familiar story. We get dressed up in our best, but someone else gets asked to dance. Instead of a party at Daley Plaza, it's stunned silence.

An unbelievable day. And naysayers, you got your way. So you can thump your chests until it's time to voice your opposition to some other visionary idea. Congratulations, y0u got what you wanted.

It sucks, it really sucks.

An Olympian Set-Up???

I hope I'm wrong, I really do. I would like to see the Olympics in my hometown. I chalk the naysayers up to those folks who always have to be against everything. The folks who can find the one cloud on a clear and sunny day.

But I have a bad feeling about this vote in Copenhagen. I've heard all the reports and been actively following the web updates that say Chicago seems to have the edge, that it's down to us and Rio and there are a lot of questions about our South American neighbors ability to pull the Olympics off. All hopeful news.

And that's why I'm fearful. I'm a Chicago sports fan and I cannot shake the feeling that we're being set up for another epic Chicago sports letdown, another time where ultimate victory is pulled away from us at the very last minute -- like fumbling away the Super Bowl in the warm Florida rain, or being 5 outs from the World Series and watching the world unravel so quickly that we didn't know what to do, so we blamed the inconsequential fan with the headphones who reached for a foul ball, or countless other lamentable moments. Yes, the Bears won the Super Bowl and yes the Bulls won 6 titles. But all of that seems like a long, long time ago. Even the White Sox title seems longer than four years ago. And for every triumph, there seem to have been 100 indignities.

I'm hoping against hope that this isn't another big tease, that the party at Daley Plaza this afternoon is indeed a party and not a televised uncomfortable moment for all of us.

I hope I'm wrong, I really, really do. But I can't shake the feeling that we're being set up...again.

Liar, Liar...pants on fire

Let's get something straight here, once and for all. No one was a bigger liar than George W. Bush. Period. There were no WMDs. There can be no debate about semantics or language. They weren't there. That was a lie. And Americans died because of it (and still are).

Read the legislation. President Obama never lied. You're idiots. And you have every right to be idiots. Loud idiots. That's fine.

But you're still idiots.

Oh, and one more thing. The flag and patriotism and love of country? Yeah, they don't BELONG to you. They're all of ours. And I'm tired of you wrapping yourselves in MY flag and telling me that I'm unpatriotic or immoral because I don't agree with you. If I'm going to hell, well then I guess I'll see you there.

Again, you're idiots. Have a nice weekend. Go burn some books.

It's not racism. It's because you suck...

Hey, Milton! It's not racism. It has nothing to do with you being black, white, green or blue.

You suck. The team sucks. And we're tired of it. We're tired of false-promises, of free agents who walk around in a funk for half the season and finally start hitting the ball when the race is over. Who can't count to 3 but can count their $30 million.

Go ahead and pad your stats now that the games are meaningless. Maybe you'll convince another gullible GM to think that his organization can get you to play to your potential and be a valuable teammate. Fine with me, just as long as you go.

But it's not because of race, it's because you're all underachievers and we don't want to wait another 100 years.

You're not the only one. The window of opportunity for this team has slammed shut. Time to blow it all up and start over.

Big Z -- We're all really tired of the act. Grow up. To paraphrase Bull Durham, "You've got a million dollar arm and a five cent head." If you're ever going to realize the vast potential you have, you need to leave the coddling country club that is Wrigley Field and go somewhere where they'll make you work or ship your behind to Triple A. Enough. Bye.

Fukodome -- One of the largest disappointments ever. That great batting eye that Sports Illustrated featured early last year, where did that go? No power, low average, poor defense. But that contract? How do you say "laughing all the way to the bank" in Japanese?

Kevin Gregg -- this guy couldn't close a door...

Derrek Lee, Ted Lilly and Aramis Ramirez -- it's a shame, but we need prospects and you guys are tradable commodities. Besides, you're not going to win the Series here in the time left in your careers, so you'd be better off somewhere else.

Alfonso Soriano -- It only took a couple of years for us to finally figure out you cannot hit leadoff. And you're the worst leftfielder we've had since Dave Kingman. And that's saying something when you're patrolling the same patch of grass as guys like Steve Henderson and Glenallen Hill.

Keep Theriot, Fontenot and Soto, although Geo, maybe you could pass up seconds at the dinner table this off-season, OK? Keep Samardzija, but make up your damn minds on what role you want him to play.

I can’t help my allegiance to the team, they’re my team. But I really, REALLY despise all the rest of it -- Sammy Nation, Cubby Blue, Ronnie Woo-Woo, Bleacher Bums, Lovable Losers, Santo’s legs, “Let’s play two”, the ivy, baseball in sunshine, “who cares if the Cubs lose, we just love coming out to the ballpark,” all the crap. They come with so much goddamn baggage. I don’t even enjoy going to the ballpark anymore, because it’s a freaking circus. I won’t just swallow what they put out there, and that puts me in the minority. I guess I’m a Cub fan with a Southside Sox fan’s mentality. Hell, Sox fans don't go to the games even when their team's winning.

The last few years just have killed me. Five outs from the fucking World Series, and they blow it. 2004, best damn team they’ve had in my entire lifetime, the first time I could REALLY talk about them and a World Series with a straight face, and they piss the whole thing away bitching and moaning about Steve Stone and Chip Caray. Not to mention playing like complete jackasses the last week and a half of the season when they STILL could have made the playoffs if they could have just taken their head out of their asses. And the last two years? Swept out of the playoffs completely. Last year's team made the choke of 1969 seem like a hiccup.

Win me a pennant goddammit, I deserve it.

But I'm not a racist. I boo you because you didn't do what you were brought here to do - help win the World Series. Don't like it? Make you feel bad? Tough.

RIP (again) Cubs baseball for 2009. It wasn't fun and I'm glad it's over. Enjoy playing out the string and hopefully we won't see some of you at Wrigley Field next season.

Tougher than I Thought...

My oldest, Mike, starts high school next Tuesday.

I'm having a much tougher time with this than I thought I would.

For the past few months, I've been giving his mom a ribbing about her not being ready for her "baby" to grow up and go to high school. I've been asking her if she needs me to stay home from work that day to supply her with tissues and support for her tears as Mike embarks on his high school years. And Jen's been a very good sport about it. Maybe because she knows me too well and knows that I've been, well, full of it.

I'm the one who's having the tough go of it.

Last night was freshman orientation for the students and parents. It was time to pick up his schedule, help him find his locker and take a walk around and find his classrooms before he starts next Tuesday. And I as struck that I was a lot more nervous than he seemed. He was cool and collected, like none of this is a very big deal at all. After all, with sports practices and other functions, he's been in the high school dozens and dozens of times, it's not like it's an unfamiliar place. And we live in a relatively small town. Most of the students in his freshman class are the same ones who were in middle school with him. There won't be that many new faces.

Still, I remember starting high school myself and I was scared to death. I went from public school to a parochial high school. Most of my friends were headed off to Alan B. Shepard HS as I boarded the bus for Marist HS. I knew about 5 or 6 guys who were going to my school. And, at that time, Marist was an all boys high school. So the experience was going to be very different than what I had been used to. And as I've written here before, I was kind of an outsider in HS. Never completely isolated on an island, but never really part of one specific group or another. For the most part, I was OK with that. But, it did make for a lonely existence sometimes. I would never look back like some others and say that my high school years were the best of my life.

So maybe I'm simply projecting my worry onto Mike, hoping that his high school years are more fulfilling than my own. But Mike is so much more confident and popular than I ever was. He's an excellent student. He's a really good athlete. And he has a wide circle of friends. He tends to get along with everyone and everyone tends to like him. He seems destined to have a wonderful high school experience.

I guess my worry is more that I know we've entered the home stretch. From the day he was born, his mother and I have worked hard to raise him to be the best person he could be. I did my best to raise him to be a man of virtue, respect, intelligence, compassion and honor. And I see him turning into just that person. I couldn't be more proud of him (can you tell). And that's what scares me.

Michael is my son. He's my first-born. He's brought more joy to my life than he could ever possibly understand. But he's more than my kid. He's my very best friend. He's the guy I watch sports with and talk Bears and Cubs and Blackhawks and Irish. He's the guy I go to Wal-Mart with at midnight to get our copy of Madden 10 for Xbox and then stay up all night playing with. When I'm down, he almost always finds a way to pick my spirits up. He's one of the best people I know.

And he's growing up. And in the next four years, he'll begin to grow away. He'll become his own man, with his own interests. And we'll do battle, as he begins to carve out a life of his own making, as he begins to test the boundaries of his own independence. We're going to knock heads because that's what fathers and sons do. He's going to try and break away while I attempt to hold onto him with all my might. And I will lose.

I know that Mike will become a man and we'll have a different and perhaps even deeper relationship. But right now, I don't want to let go of playing catch in the yard or video games or of just kissing him goodbye on the forehead as he sleeps as I leave for work every morning. I don't want to give my little boy away to the world, because I know the world, and it's going to be cold and mean to him. And I hate the world for that.

I guess, most of all, I don't want him to grow up, because I don't want to either.

There's a poem by General Douglas MacArthur that hangs on a plaque my father gave to me and I gave to Mike that hangs in his room and reads:

Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak; and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid; one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory.

Build me a son whose wishes will not take the place of deeds; a son who will know Thee -- and that to know himself is the foundation stone of knowledge.

Lead him, I pray, not in the path of ease and comfort, but under the stress and spur of difficulties and challenge. Here let him learn to stand up in the storm; here let him learn compassion for those who fail.

Build me a son whose heart will be clear, whose goal will be high, a son who will master himself before he seeks to master other men, one who will reach into the future, yet never forget the past.

And after all these thing are his, add, I pray, enough of a sense of humour, so that he may always be serious, yet never take himself too seriously. Give him humility, so that he may always remember the simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true wisdom and the meekness of true strength.

Then I, his father, will dare to whisper, "I have not lived in vain!"

Thank you for everything, Michael. And good luck, my son, as you begin the next part of your journey.

A world without hope...

I had an interesting exchange with my younger brother last night on the health care reform issue. He voiced his opposition to Obama's plan and I, admittedly somewhat condescendingly, challenged whether he had reviewed the plan before forming an opinion about it. His response was that his opposition was based on a mistrust of government and their political motivations rather than their desire to actually do something for the common American. He referred to politics as "an insane man's game." (Gotta give it to him, I love the quote).

Well, I believe we need to do better than that. If you base a position solely on your cynicism then that unfortunately lumps you in then with so many others with a lack of mental fortitude to examine the problem and identify solutions, to LEAD. They take the easy way out. Be against something simply because the government's behind it, so it must be bad. Just poke holes but offer no solutions of their own. That's the "insane man's game." Incidentally, it's also the coward's.

There's no such thing as perfection as we all well know. But that doesn't mean you don't try, that you throw your hands in the air and just give up. You make compromises, and try to work together toward solutions. Do we do it especially well right now? No, I'll give you that. But the President is taking a leadership role, he's attempting to tackle a problem that has gone unchecked for far too long. And he's expending a lot of political capital to do it. It might cost him re-election. It's certainly gonna hit his approval ratings. But that's not important. It needs to be done and that's why he's trying. THAT'S real leadership and that's why I believe in him.

If we give up trying, we give up hope. And I don't want, nor do I want my kids, to live in a world without hope. Do you?

We just decided to go...

"That's one small step for man...one giant leap for mankind."
- Neil Armstrong

Forty years ago Monday night, man first walked on the moon. Unless you were alive to witness it, that sentence is one whose magnificence is somewhat lost on many as just another historical fact, just another piece of trivia or bullet point in a Wikipedia entry when you type in "Neil Armstrong."

So just consider it for a moment.

Man walked on the moon.

Human beings found a way to traverse the lifeless vacuum of space to our dusty celestial companion and return home again. For all the science fiction about space travel and whatnot, we actually did it. When you look up in the sky tonight, think about it. Look at the moon and think about the fact that Americans were actually there.

To me, when I consider America's greatest achievement in our 230-plus years, it's the night of June 20, 1969. Neil Armstrong's sojourn down the steps of the Eagle to the surface of the moon, the culmination of the work and sacrifice of thousands, was a truly -- without any hint of irony or cynicism -- unifying moment in the history of our planet. For a few fleeting moments in time, human beings the world over watched in wonder as one of their own stepped foot on a different world.

My favorite quote about the Apollo 11 landing comes from the movie Apollo 13, as Jim Lovell contemplates the achievement.

"We now live in a world where man has walked on the moon. It's not a miracle. We just decided to go."

And that sums it up. "We just decided to go." The dream realized when Armstrong and Aldrin descended those steps shows how we really can do ANYTHING that we set our minds to. No objective is beyond our grasp if we have the desire and drive to work together and sacrifice and face the challenges along the way. If we truly want it, we can do it. President Kennedy issued a challenge in 1961 to do something that at that moment in time, we were not capable of doing. The technology and know-how didn't even EXIST yet. But in nine years of collective effort, we did the impossible when our astronauts not only set foot on the moon, but more importantly, returned home and set foot again on the Earth.

Argue the political realities about the moon landing being a product of Cold War politics another time, that sure, we can go to the moon if all those resources are thrown behind it. It doesn't change the fact that we accomplished the feat. And because of it, no dream is beyond us.

And that's my most important point. That landing is an affirmation for me of American ingenuity, ambition, cooperation and spirit. It's one of the things I point out to my kids about our potential as a nation. War, poverty, education, health care, the failing economy -- none of it is indomitable if we decide it's not.

If we just decide to go...