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.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Friday, December 18, 2009
"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.
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.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
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:
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:
Friday, October 2, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
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.
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.
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