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.

School Ties

If you haven’t figured out by now, my recent trip to Notre Dame was great.

Everything about it.

Well everything except for the game.

But even that had its moments.

Like when the referee said, “Time Out, UCLA.”

Even though Notre Dame was playing USC.

The South Bend fans didn’t let that one go unnoticed.

In fact, they didn’t let anything go unnoticed.

Everything you could read in the newspaper on Sunday morning.

We heard in Section 35 on Saturday night.

Something else we heard on Saturday Night was the song "Crazy Train".

By Ozzy Osbourne.

Every time and I mean EVERY time the Notre Dame defense needed a stop, they played the beginning of Crazy Train on the PA system.


ALL ABOARD... HA HA HA HA.

Now I love that song.

Love it so much that its the ringer on my cell phone.

But it took me at least 15 times to stop reaching for my phone whenever they played that song.

Clearly, I'm not very bright.

When we bought the tickets, we were told they were in the student section.

Which meant, don’t plan on sitting down.

If you want to watch the game, bring comfortable shoes.

Because you’ll be standing.

Apparently the lady next to me wasn’t given that memo.

Or her husband didn’t share that information with her.

They showed up just before the kickoff.

And sat in their seat.

Never got up.

For the entire first half, she stared at the back of the man standing in front of her.

There was no college try for her.

And when the first half ended.

So did their night.

Never saw them again.

We also left at halftime.

In search of “Irish Nachos”.

We were told we MUST try them.

So must we did.

But it wasn’t easy finding them.

Just one stand in the entire stadium sold these World Famous Irish Nachos.

But when we got to the stand, there was no line.

That should’ve been our first clue.

But we still bought in.

$8.50 worth.

And for that $8.50 we got a ginormous bowl of something.

Something that resembled nachos.

But instead of tortilla chips, we got potato chips.

Instead of ground beef, we got corned beef.

Instead of melted orange cheese, we got cut up swiss cheese.

Instead of beans, we got sauerkraut.

And instead of salsa, we got thousand island dressing.

It was more Reuben than Nachos.

Tasty?

At times.

“Must get”?

Not so much.

But at least it gave us something to do during halftime.

Actually finding stuff to do in South Bend was never a problem.

Book signings to band performances.

Pep Rally to Volleyball games.

Before the game my son and I took a tour of the campus.

Including a visit to The Grotto.

Forget the Irish Nachos, the Grotto is a MUST see at Notre Dame.

The Grotto is a quiet place of worship hidden inside this beautiful Catholic campus.

Actually outside.

It’s a place that invites one and invites all to kneel in prayer.

Or light a candle.

And connect with whatever faith that fits them.

So I lit a candle.

Connected with my emotions.

And prayed for a Notre Dame win.

Well that didn’t work.

Maybe the Grotto knew I was Jewish.

From there we headed to the Golden Dome.

Well it’s called the Main Building.

But we all know it as the Golden Dome.

While we were there, the Bagpipe Band was performing its pre-game concert.

Normally a 12-year-old boy might get freaked out by a bunch of guys wearing skirts.

Not my son.

Remember, he used to live in California.

As we were leaving the Golden Dome, I saw a familiar face.

A face I hadn’t seen in 10 years.

Exactly.

That was the last time I was at Notre Dame.

In fact, the man I saw was the man who brought my dad and I to South Bend in 2001.

He has to be in his mid-80s by now.

Maybe more.

But he looks great.

And so does his wife, of 60+ years.

As soon as I saw them, I hustled over.

To say hello.

And to introduce them to my son.

I always knew this man was a big supporter of my favorite school.

But I didn’t know just how big.

I didn’t know that he was a star baseball player at Notre Dame in the late 40s.

I didn’t know that he wrote a book about his life. 

I didn’t know he played amateur baseball against Jackie Robinson.

And I didn’t know that he played professional baseball.

When he found out that baseball was my son’s true love, he was very excited.

So excited he gave him some tips.

Fingertips.

“Fingertip push ups,” he said.  “That’s the key.”

He told my boy that strong hands and strong forearms are the secret to being a great baseball player.

And he would know.

We probably spoke for 15 minutes.

And then we went our separate ways.

Hopefully we'll meet again in South Bend.

In less than ten years.

Thanks for going on this trip with me.

Now back to reality.