The Waking is the Hardest Part

My phone started buzzing at 5:30 this morning.

As it always does.

That was followed by...

All aboard! HA HA HA HA HA HA! a'ight, a'ight, a'ight, a'ight (echo)

That’s the beginning of Crazy Train.

By Ozzy Osbourne.

My own personal ring tone.

The sound I wake up to every morning.

I set my alarm for 5:30.

So I can leave the house by 6.

And be on the elliptical machine by 6:30.

That’s the goal.

Every morning.

That’s the result.

Many mornings.

Some days are a little slower out of the block than others.

But the good news is I usually get the gym four or five mornings a week.

Actually, we get to the gym four or five mornings a week.

My 12-year-old son and I.

Now I consider myself a pretty good negotiator.

I credit it to my many years of playing fantasy sports.

But talking a 12-year-old boy into getting up at 5:30.

Four or five times a week.

To work out.

Now that's quite the challenge.

At first I just asked if he wanted to go.

Guess how that turned out.

Then I hinted that I thought it would be good for him.

Strike 2.

This is where it gets dicey.

One more strike and I’m out.

So instead of taking a risk, I went for the sure thing.

A sports analogy.

That’s what we do.

I asked him how many times Michael Phelps cursed at his mom when she woke him up at 4:00am to go to swim class.

For a brief moment I wondered if this was where he was going to throw a shoe at me.

Or if he was actually going to bite the hook.

Fortunately when I looked him deep in the eye, I could see the light.

The light from where the light bulb had gone on.

I knew I had him.

I told him that Michael probably cursed at her EVERY day.

Maybe even twice a day.

But she believed in his ability and recognized that he had the opportunity to be special.

And nothing was going to get in the way of that.

I told him I see the same thing in him.

That was a few months ago.

And for a few months we’ve been working out together.

Almost every day.

Not exactly P90X.

Not even p9x.

It’s a handful of weight machines.

Abs, delts, pecs, lats, traps, arms, legs.... whatever. 

Followed by a half-hour (or so) on the elliptical.

Ta-da.

We’ve got a workout.

Some days our workout qualifies as “something is better than nothing.”

Other days I actually break a sweat.

But everyday is great.

Me and my boy.

Just the two of us.

Building castles in the sky.

Just the two of us.

I’m not so sure I have a Michael Phelps on my hands.

But the fact that he is still going is a victory in itself.

And he seems to be sincerely enjoying himself.

Which is a bonus.

Not to mention he has mastered the face of looking like he is lifting 2500 pounds.

When it’s only 25.

I should know.

I invented that face.

While the results in the gym are certainly paying off, it’s the entire morning that is special for me. 

The discussions we have on the car ride to the gym are nothing short of perfect.

Sports.

Music.

School.

Food.

Whatever.

An uninterrupted conversation between a boy.

And his dad.

Take that Harry Chapin.

Sure, there has been more than a morning where there’s been no conversation at all.

I credit that to the pitch-dark departure.

But those rides are just as heavenly.

I split my time 50-50.

Between watching the road.

And watching my son sit next to me.

Sleeping.

Nothing more peaceful than that.

Nothing more perfect than that.

Who knew that working out could be so much fun.

Pool Play

This morning I dropped the kids off at the pool.

Just like I do every morning.

The community pool that is.

I'm very regular.

My kids are part of a local program where they swim.

Every weekday morning.

For an hour.

It gives my kids some exercise.

It gives my wife and I.

A break.

My youngest child, the seven-year old girl, has been swimming since she was one.

But she's been swimming without those cute adorable floaties for far less time than that.

In fact, signing her up for the swim team was quite a bold move.

The first day of practice she had some serious concerns.

"Do you think I will be the worst one out there?"

She asked me.

Now that set up one of those parental moments.

A moment when you better do a very quick search of your cranial hard drive for the perfect answer.

The clock is ticking.

One one thousand.

Two one thousand.

Bingo.

"Come on," I said.

With an encouraging voice.

"There's as much of a chance of you being the worst one out there as there is of you being the best one out there."

Ok -- Tony Robbins I am not.

But I had to say something.

And quick.

But did it work?

*** Pause ***

Cutaway of my daughter.... smiling.

Wow.

I guess I got that one right.

The eavesdropper dad next to me agreed.

"Good answer," the stranger said.

Patting me on the shoulder.   

Unfortunately it took me three kids to figure out how to answer that question.

But my answer seemed to work.

This time.

And this time it got my daughter into the pool.

But from the start she was quite defiant.

Not listening to a word the coach said.

“Elizabeth you are next.”

Nothing.

“Elizabeth, start swimming.”

Nothing.

“ELIZABETH, GET GOING!”

I could see the coach was getting frustrated.

But what my daughter and I didn’t realize.

Is that he was calling for her.

You see her name is not Elizabeth.

Oh, maybe that’s why she wasn’t listening.

Well, eventually he got the message.

And everyone got a laugh.

Moments later she started swimming.

Um- -- tried swimming.

Out of the nine or so kids in her group.

She ranked 17th.

You could say some of it was a skill deficiency.

But most of it was a lack of confidence.

Fortunately they had an unpaid volunteer local high school teenage swimmer in the pool with her the entire time.

So what could possibly go wrong.

The good news is she’s gone back every morning.

With only a small helping of kicking and screaming.

But there was a carrot dangling at the end of lane 7.

That carrot was the fact that this team of ours competes in swim meets.

Every weekend.

Now we made it clear from the beginning that we were not looking for her to be the next Michaela Phelps.

But if she could learn how to do laps on her own.

That would be the victory.

Well after a few weeks of practice, she had met that challenge.

And the coaches noticed.

And they determined it was time for another challenge.

An actual swim meet.

Against other real swimmers.

So they taught her how to dive in from the board.

Ok, fall in.

And they taught her how to swim freestyle.

Or some kind of style.

But the bottom line is she did it.

Not me.

Not the unpaid volunteer.

Not Elizabeth.

Her.

And she made it through the entire race.

On her own.

Sure, she finished last.

But as my wife put it.

“She was almost second to last.”

Hey, let’s not aim to high.

It’s a long season.

March Badness

We are approaching the best time of the year.

Well, the best time of year to be a sports fan.

Ok, there are at least 35 “best times of the year” to be a sports fan.

But honestly, is there anything better than the NCAA College Basketball Tournament?

The Madness of March.

Well, nothing better in March.

And it is not just the basketball.

It’s the gambling.

Every March, most of us spend more time in a pool than Michael Phelps.

We pick like 500 games.

Played by schools we have barely heard of.

Played by players we have never heard of.

And we love every single tenth of a second of it.

Take last year.

Up until last March, my favorite Butler was Robert Guillaume.

But after last year’s tourney, how could you not love the Butler Bulldogs?

They put the OMG in Cinderella.

The same can't be said for my alma mater.

We have made the NCAA Tournament.

Twice.

And we have won.

Exactly never.

But for those forty minutes, actually eighty minutes, there was nothing better.

I’m not sure where basketball ranks on my list of favorite sports.

But in March, it’s #1.

I love the tournament.

I love the NBA.

And I certainly love watching my 12-year old son play.

It’s his team that is tough to watch.

We are one Amanda Whurlitzer away from being the Bad News Bears.

Or Bad News Bulls.

Ok, half of the kids are not so bad.

But half of our kids act like have never touched a ball before.

Never seen one either.

They play like they just fell out of the womb ten minutes before practice.

Sure this is “just” Rec League ball.

And winning is not the most important thing.

At least that’s what they want you to think.

But it is killing my son to be part of team that has more losses than Bernie Madoff’s rolodex.

One game was so bad, they made the scorekeeper turn the scoreboard off when we fell behind by 30 points.

With like five minutes left.

Really.

League rule.

Most teams don’t score 30 in a game.

And yet somehow we lost by more than 30.

....But wait, there’s more.

During a time-out of like game #5 or 6 this year, one of the kids asked the coach how many periods we were playing.

The coach responded with “seven-and-a-half.”

The boy thought that was cool.

And he also thought it was true too.

Late in another game, during a second half huddle, one of the boys said he had cramps.

And he wanted to know what to do.

One of his teammates responded, “eat more bananas.”

Makes sense.

I guess.

The coach told the boy “maybe you should come to practice more often.”

That made sense too.

During the two-month season, somehow we managed to win two games.

Back-to-back even.

During the middle of the season.

Now there are stretches where we look pretty darn good.

Those stretches usually last 4-to-5 seconds.

But if you watch closely, even that seems like an accident. 

I realize this will sound like the proud papa, but my son is definitely one of the better players on the team.

Now that’s not really saying much.

But we certainly believe that being “the star” on a bad team can still help his confidence.

But it doesn’t mean it will help his focus.

After one of our (many) losses, a few weeks ago. 

He notified me of a major foul he committed.

He wore his shorts backwards.

“No problem,” he reported.

“Did you know if you wear your shorts backwards and you get a wedgie, you can stick your hands in your pockets and get rid of the wedgie?”

Um.   No.

I did not know that.

I was hoping this season he would learn the 2-1-2 defense.

Or the pick and roll.

But hey, learning is learning.

Tomorrow is the playoffs.

And we qualified.

Thanks to those back-to-back wins, great attitude and amazing work ethic.

Oh and the fact that we paid the entry fee.

But either way, if we win, we advance to next week.

If we lose, the season is over.

Just like the big boys.