Girls Basketball

I've never coached boys basketball (though that is about to change when I begin coaching aydan's 6th grade team this year), but I did play in high school and college so I'm at least slightly familiar with that realm. Coaching girls has been an eye-opening experience, though. So today I will share with you the main differeneces between the two sides of this one sport.  

1) Blankets
Maybe this is a North v. South distinction here, but no guy on my team EVER brought/wore a blanket to a game. In Ohio where the season was always cold and the first few minutes on the bus could literally be freezing, we dressed warm and in layers. In Texas, people don't know how to dress against the cold, but even still a boys basketball player's response is either baggy sweats or the shorts-and-suck-it-up method. But girls? Fuzzy blankeys...with tassels. And I'm not even getting into pillow pets, over-sized slippers, etc. It's weird. 

2) Smell
This one is harder to communicate in text, so I will parenthetically give the expression. Perhaps the primary difference is noted when walks into the locker rooms of the two genders. 
Boys--"Do you smell that?" (Face scrunched, groan in the voice, feelings of disgusted revulsion)
Girls--"Do you smell that?" (Sigh of contentment and delight, feelings of refreshment)
Guys locker rooms smell like butthole. Girls locker rooms smell like a Bath and Body Works franchise. Huge difference. 

3) Giggling on the court
I'm not joking--girls literally giggle while playing. Guys are just more competitive and mean. 

4) Singing on the Bus
I do remember once singing "We Didn't Start the Fire" on a return trip from a game, but it was in Coach Harrison's car with 4 other guys, not the whole team. Besides, I guess I'm not really a typical guy in that sense. Typical guys MIGHT sing after a particularly big win if they are in unusually high spirits. But girls sing to and from, win or lose. 


I am very fortunate to coach these girls.  We are having a great season and they are awesome young ladies to work with.  Go Chargers!

Rest

I have spent nearly the entire day in bed.

I feel sort of bad about this, actually.  There is much to be done.  My garbage disposal is broken.  My washing machine is leaking.  My stove top refuses to turn on.  In addition to these major repairs/replacements, I have work to do for basketball, work to do for school, paintings I'd like to finish, paintings I'd like to start.....  But today I did...nothing.

And rest is a beautiful thing.  I went to bed last night at 8 pm; I'm probably going to try and sleep again as soon as I post this.  Not that it needs justifying, but I do so because of the many nights I have returned home from basketball games near midnight, only to get up at 4:30 or 5 am to go back to practice and start the madness all over again.  I need to catch up on sleep.  I need a break.  It is good to rest.

So I came home from practice this morning and took a nap while the rain drizzled down outside.  I finished a book ("Ender's Game"--it's a good sci-fi read).  I completed a project.  Not a wasted day by any means, but I really haven't done much.

What I have been doing over the past several days is enjoying the treats of the holidays.  One way has been through my own gift to myself this season: new music.  I figure I'll be a little lighter on presents this year, and so I took the liberty to buy new tunes.  I'm really enjoying Amos Lee's "Mission Bell" ("Learned A Lot" is particularly poignant), and The Civil War's "Barton Hollow" ("Poison and Wine" kills me).  Following my older brother's example, I will recommend an "off the beaten path" Christmas album.  It's by Duluth-based band, Low, and is entitled, simply, "Christmas" ("Just Like Christmas" with its Scandinavian references, and "Take the Long Way Around the Sea" are tops).  As for other Christmas-time treats, I have utilized the ubiquitous Starbucks gift cards I've received to indulge in my beloved Peppermint Mocha's.  And though it may cost me my baptist-based salvation, I will say that my favorite alcoholic drink is the White Russian, and it is only made better (and more festive) with the addition of peppermint mocha creamer.  I had my first one tonight and it was delightful.

Update.  Recommendations.  It's the most productive I've been all day.  Whew! I feel like I need a nap.

A Year for the History Books

I thought this birthday might be weird, what with an impending divorce and all, but it was actually one of my favorite birthdays in recent history.  As the Beatles have said, "I get by with a little help from my friends." 

It started with my lunch-time crew presenting me with this as I walked in the door.  To offer some explanation, Sissney (the head girls basketball coach) and Josh have taken to calling me "Beefcake" (in reference to my attempt to build muscle mass).  You may notice my face has been Photoshopped onto Taylor Lautner's body in the photograph, but what you may not see is that in the upper left hand corner of the cake there are some pieces of jerky...thereby making it a literal beef cake.  

How awesome is it to have friends that understand you?  They know you well enough to know what you really enjoy and they indulge your little quirks.  I received this gift from the Fab Four, which now hangs in my entryway.  It probably won't stay there for long--it's a little gaudy.  Still, I think it's fantastic.

While we adults opened the presents, my two glorious sons played in the lot next to Josh's house, where a new home is being built.  They produced this bunker for the war with the Japanese who, in their words, "almost killed Uncle Bucky" (my Uncle Jim, who really did get shot in Vietnam).  

If only they could be this precious all the time.  When we went to eat out for dinner, no sooner had I given my name to the hostess than I returned to find them fighting and yelling at each other in the entryway.  This was done within mere feet of other guests who were waiting to be seated.  So I immediately turned the buzzer back in, grabbed their hands, and left to go home.  All was not lost.  Even though they couldn't keep it together to eat in public, we enjoyed each other at home.  

I also received this awesome scarf from my friend Brandi.  Obviously, it is my new favorite.  What meant the most perhaps, were the encouraging words I received in cards from these friends.  Seriously, some of the best cards I've ever received.  Josh's words in my card almost made me cry.  He pointed out that this year has brought car collisions and relationship melt-downs, and yet I'm still standing.  It just means so much that people around me care, and--as silly as it may sound--that I'm doing something right.  The words in the cards reminded me that although my life is a bit screwed up right now, I am not a screw up; they are proud of me.  That is a fantastic present.  

Always

"The best mirror is a friend's eye"
-Irish Proverb

While our children played recently, my friend Brandi saw me yawn and told me I am always tired.  This is true.  By the end of the conversation, we had joked about several other things I am "always".  The list ended with:
1) Tired
2) Sore
3) Eating
Obviously, I see--from her perspective--that this transformation program I have undertaken has pretty much taken over my life.  It is a thought that has occurred to me before (and I think I've written about it).  I have desires to be a monk, a philosopher, a musician, an artist, a bodybuilder...., but to excel in any ONE of these pursuits would take single-minded focus.  That's why they're often all left behind in favor of "father" or "teacher."  Still I enjoy having elements of each of them in my life, and I'm thankful to have had this time to focus on the physical aspect of who I am.
Speaking of thankfulness, this episode reminds me just how thankful I am for my friends and family who are keeping up with me and helping me stay on track.  I guess this now serves as my Thanksgiving post as well.  Here's to enjoying the holiday season in a new way this year!

A Photo Essay

So life has become an endless stream of school days, basketball games, and a few stolen hours of relaxation here and there.  Knowing that a picture is worth a thousand words, and knowing that I would be too tired to write at any great length, I took my camera with me last weekend to document my life.

 For the past two weekends we have had tournaments, so each morning (Thursday, Friday and Saturday) I wake up early and go pick up the bus.

Fortunately it's been at least moderately cool here lately, so it's chilly and quiet when I go to the bus barn.  We're also in the middle of No-Shave November, so my beard is coming along nicely.  And while I wouldn't call driving a bus "fun," at least I get paid to do it.  I figure, since I'm already going to the game, why not?

Helping me through this interesting time in my life are my dearest friends.  Here are Josh, Taylor and Hervey, hanging out after the Friday games.  I also went to a wedding with my friend Brandi, who was a bridesmaid, the next night.  And finally, the new head coach of the girls program, Michael Sissney, is becoming a good friend and lifting partner.  I am thankful for them all.

 Speaking of lifting, before we left for Saturday's game I snuck in a quick workout up at school.  I am nine weeks into my 12-week transformation program, and today when I weighed myself I was 194 lbs.  It's exciting to near my goal (200 lbs.).  This is the biggest I've ever been in my life.

And finally, what would life be without weird and somewhat creepy photos?  This past Monday I played in our annual Turkey Tennis Mixer at school.  My doubles partner was a girl from my AP Art History class, and we did fairly well (despite the fact that I'm terrible at tennis and the fact that this was the first real test of my leg since the accident).  Here we have Wes Madis, coach of the CHS tennis team, and myself engaging in a European greeting.  Best part of the picture?  Our assistant principal looking on in the background.  It's hard to follow his gaze, but it's possible he is staring at my butt.  And that, my friends, is the perfect end to any day (no pun intended).

"Healed"

They say time heals all wounds.

Nearly six months ago I was hit by a car.

Nearly four months ago my wife left me.

According to the surgeon who saw me today, the fracture in my left leg has healed completely.  The pain I still feel in my knee is to be expected and may persist for up to a year or even indefinitely.  Still, those wounds are healing.

According to my therapist I'm handling my separation in a healthy, mature way.  The absence of someone I love is emotionally draining, and while I'd like to say that the wounds are healing, I know that the pain may persist indefinitely.

I haven't written about it in such a public forum before because I've been hoping and praying that she would return.  Last week she told me she does not want to, but would rather file for divorce.  It seems, then, that this is for real.  This is really it.

So here's to healing.  By God's grace, I pray it continues to come.

Three Words That Became Hard to Say

Load the car and write the note
Grab your bag and grab your coat
Tell the ones that need to know
we are headed north...

Loser

I have written about this concept recently, but today I returned to thoughts of being a winner or a loser.  I am happy to report that my fitness goal is producing positive results.  I am getting bigger and stronger.  (I do sometimes stop to contemplate why I am doing what I'm doing, but that's a matter for a different post.)  However, such "positive" results naturally produce a dramatic negative result within me: hubris.

I think most of what we attempt to do with our appearance is really aimed at both sexes.  On the one hand, in regard to the opposite sex, we seek to answer the question, "Can I get her to notice me?  Am I attractive?"  On the other hand, we seek to feel either separate from or superior to our own sex: "Am I better than him?  Am I distinctive enough to stand out?  Am I worthy?"  Maybe I'm generalizing my own actions, but I think we all want to be validated.  We all want to have worth and, even more importantly (we think), have someone recognize and comment on that worth.

I am not using my physique to attract women.  That would be wrong, and so I don't let my mind drift there.  Rather, I look around at every man and compare myself to him.  This is especially common for me to do at the gym, because this is really where the only "competition" is.  So I see young guys, old guys, burly guys, strong guys, ripped guys...and I try to see how we stack up against each other.  Are my arms bigger than his?  Can I bench more than him?

Please understand, I'm being completely honest here.  I know I'm not making myself sound like a very deep or sanctified person.  Still, this is more of a chronicle of what is happening, not an endorsement that it should be happening.

Anyway, a friend recently emailed a link to a song by the Belle Brigade called "Losers." The lyrics came into my head just as I was comparing myself to one guy (who was smaller) and then another guy walked in (who is bigger).

There will always be someone better than you, even if you're the best
so let's stop the competition or we will both be losers
Now i'm ashamed that I ever tried to be higher than the rest
brother i am not alone
We've all tried to be on top of the world somehow, cause we have all been losers
I don't want to be laid down, no I don't want to die knowing
that I spent so much time when i was young just trying to be the winner
So I wanna make it clear now, I wanna make it known
that i don't care about any of that shit anymore


Don't care about being a winner, or being smooth with women
or going out on Fridays, or being the life of parties


There will always be someone worse than you, sister don't let it get to your head
cause you won't be on top of the world so long in constant competition
This ain't about no one in particular but i could list a few
i'm removing myself from the queue


Don't care about being harder, or being daddy's favorite
or if you think i'm a mimic, or if I'm a loser

It's very easy for me to start to think too highly of myself.  I start to think, "Hey--morally and spiritually I'm doing pretty good, physically I'm getting in shape, I'm a fairly competent artist (never mind that I'm not painting right now)..." and I look around for "lesser souls" by which to prop up my weak argument that I'm somehow a winner.  Even if I become the buffest, smartest, most saintly, most talented person in the world, I will have missed the mark.   As Rich Mullins says:

Well I am a good Midwestern boy; give an honest day's work if I can get it
I don't cheat on my taxes, I don't cheat on my girl
I've got values that would make the White House jealous


Well I do get a little much over-impressed
'til I think of Peter and Paul and the Apostles
I don't stack up too well against them I guess
But by the standards 'round here I ain't doing that awful


Oh Lord it's hard to turn the other cheek, hard to bless when others curse you
Oh Lord it's hard to be a man of peace, Lord it's hard to be like Jesus

There's the standard.  He is the reference point and the ultimate comparison.   I cannot hold a candle to his light.  Jesus makes all my righteousness look like filthy rags.  He makes all my temporal concerns about a decaying body seem silly.  He is more and he is better than I'll ever be.  And that is what will keep me on track and knock me down to size.  There is no man or woman for whom I perform or to whom I compare myself.  Please let me warn you to be very careful.  God wants our best and not our better-than's.  


There is a Greek story about a famous Olympian.  He walked out of the stadium to the roar of the crowd.  He had proven himself the best wrestler in the world.  At the exit sat an old man.  In his wisdom he said to the youth, "Don't pay too much attention to their applause.  One day it will fade, and you will be forgotten."  The young man was insulted, and retorted that he was the best and his name would always be remembered as such.  The old man pointed to a statue behind him and said, "Oh, but I remember years ago when he wrestled.  You couldn't have stood in the ring with him."  The youth saw a statue of some long-dead champion whose name he could not remember.
Walking away, the young wrestler turned the comment in his head over and over.  Was he really the best?  Could he have beaten the former champion?  The questions began to gnaw at him.  He couldn't eat.  He couldn't sleep.  Finally, in the middle of the night he returned to the stadium, approached the statue, and began to yell at it.  "You are no match for me!  I could destroy you!"  The statue remained lifeless and unimpressed.  Incensed, the youth began to grapple with its legs, trying to tear it down; trying to gain victory over the frozen opponent.  Before long, the bronze was worked loose and it toppled down, falling on the youth and killing him.

The Greeks had a way of driving home the point that hubris is bad.  There is always someone better.  There is always someone worse.  It is good to be healthy.  It's good to have goals.  But it's not good to sacrifice everything to attain that goal.  It's not good to attempt to reach the goal for attention or for superiority.  Don't be overly fit and don't be lazy and sickly.  It is good to hold onto one and not let go of the other.  Enjoy being healthy and meeting the goal, but whatever I choose to do, I do it with all my might for the glory of the Lord.  That's my reality check for the day.

Mixing it Up

I have always been an avid "journal-er."
 [At this point I automatically recall a conversation between two TV characters:
"Do you mean your old diary?"
"Mike, it was a journal."
"Ed, Lewis and Clark had a journal.  You, my friend, had a diary." Digression ended]
I have written down my thoughts since the concept was first proposed to me in high school.  While some might tease me about the diaries I have kept, even if I were forced to call them that name I would still be glad to have them.  It's both fascinating and entertaining to look back at events and feelings from 15 years ago.

But sometimes I like to mix it up.  On days such as this I record my thoughts straight to the blog.  It's a bit more public, so some content is not appropriate, but for general updates and more amusing anecdotes it is great.  I have also been known to post completed paintings on my blog.  However...nothing has been completed for a long time.

The painting you see here is one that I did finish recently.  Only it's not mine.  I mean, the execution is mine, but the concept is that of Charlie Harper.

 Such work reflects a love that I have for good design, mathematical precision, and the beauty of simplified forms.

It reminds me a great deal of another fantastic designer you should check out.

This painting now hangs in my kitchen.  I love to see the still night, the autumn leaves (which match with orange walls within the house), the birches...it's a brilliant image.  But again...not mine.

Painting is hard work.  Of all my "hobbies" or "pastimes" it is by far the most taxing.  My friend Jon used to say that good painting is like brain surgery, and he's right.  It's extremely difficult to simultaneously monitor form, value, color, composition and all the little things that go into making them perfect (paint mixing, brush control, etc.).  If only I were an abstract expressionist like Pollock who believed in Jung's collective unconsciousness and the need to tap into it!

So although I find myself (periodically) with a bit more time on my hands, I find other ways to fill it.  I am just exhausted, so it's easier to work on tiny, mindless projects.  I'm sure that someday soon I will return to the place I was at the end of the summer and just paint for hours on end each afternoon and evening.  But imagine going to work, caring for the kids...and doing it all while feeling completely spent--could you paint?

Betrayed By My Body

Working out without a goal has always seemed futile to me.  I mean, the general goals of looking good and feeling healthy make sense, and those are things I desire.  But eventually, motivation runs out and monotony sets in.  Unless I am resolved to hit some mark, I can find plenty of excuses to stop lifting.  

Following my bicycling accident last May, I lost nearly 25 pounds.  Some of it was due to change in diet before, but a lot was due to inactivity during my recovery process.  Since mid-July, however, the leg has been feeling good enough (and needing rehab) to allow me to start lifting again.  

In college I had a goal of bench pressing 225 pounds.  Not as a one rep max, but as multiple repetitions in a set.  I found a plan, followed the plan, and was successful in meeting that goal.  But where do you go from there?  I didn't want to become a power lifter.  And now I don't really care about how much I can lift--I only care that I look a certain way (vain, I know).  And I want to look big.  So I've set a goal to put on 30 pounds of muscle in the next 3 months.  I know it's impossible, but if it weren't audacious it wouldn't be worth doing.  Since July I've regained the weight I lost and added 10 pounds, so that I'm now 180 lbs.  I've tried to do this two other times in my life--once in Minnesota when I was about 24 or 25 and once a few years back.  Now I'm 32 and I know that if I don't hit the mark this time this will be my last try.  I don't really care if I even hit it.  In Minnesota I only made it to 185 lbs.  At least I have a goal, and that motivates me.  

Anyway, I'm telling you all this because my body is starting to rebel.  In August, while swinging the weights to my shoulders for incline bench press, I strained the muscle/tendon of my left bicep.  I've tried to lay off it, even taking a whole week off of everything, but I guess I didn't wait long enough.  

Yesterday was my first back and biceps day under my new program.  I did concentration curls...and I'm pretty sure I tore my bicep.  Maybe not a big tear.  Perhaps a tiny little rip.  It's not a big deal, I don't think, because my arm doesn't hurt.  It's just that when I woke up this morning I saw this:

After doing some internet searching, I found several discussion boards and one informational site that said such a bruise could be a result of straining or tearing your muscle.  So I guess I'll be taking it easy on that arm for the next couple weeks.  

I should have known, though.  I'm getting older--I have to keep reminding myself of that fact.  My hair is trying to help me remember.  I've kept it short all summer, but now that I'm growing it out (for a glorious, well-thought-out plan, I might add) there is a white stripe that is visible above the left side of my forehead.

But that's life I guess.  You get older and your body breaks down on you.  I can't really complain, though.  It's held up pretty well so far.  My left leg is mostly healed (I feel the screw poking into my tendon now more than I feel the site of the break), and I hope to get an "all clear" report at my appointment in late October.  I'll just try and slow down a little bit and not do any more breaking than I need to.

You Named Your Blog What?

I'm always on the lookout for a good band name.  Keep in mind that I do not have a band.  But when a good name strikes I find it's always best to tuck it away for later.  You never know when you'll meet a drummer and a bassist, right?  

When I lived at BGSU, "Apartment 11" (our address) seemed like a great band name.  Looking back, it may not be as cool as I thought then.  I am very confident that in no time at all I will think the current title of my blog to be lame, but for now I think it's interesting.  Let me tell you why.  

First of all, Kid Icarus was one of the first home video games I ever played.  It was at Sam Powers house.  We pronounced it "Kid e-CAR-iss" or "kitty CAR-us."  But none of that really has anything to do with why I chose the name.  

It all has to do with the myth.  In Greek mythology, Icarus--with the help of his genius father, the inventor Daedelus--escapes an island prison.  Everyone remembers what happens in the end: his wings, made of wax and feathers, fall apart and he crashes into the sea and dies.  Sad story.  

But the Greeks used this story to teach a message.  In an often forgotten portion of the story, Daedelus also warns his son not to fly too low.  The sun might melt his wings, but the waves might grab him if he drops too far in altitude.  

This story illustrates the idea of the Greek virtue sophrosyne.  We have no modern equivalent, but familiar Greek phrases like "Everything in moderation" are statements about sophrosyne.  It is the notion of balance or perfect equilibrium.  As I understand it, it's a bit like Aristotle's golden mean from Nicomachen Ethics.  It's the most beneficial and good position between two extremes.  For example, between cowardice and wrathful vengeance is defending the right and the just.  

The opposite of this virtue is hubris.  We have heard this terms used a bit more widely.  Hubris is excessive pride.  As Scripture says, "Pride leads to a fall."  

If you have ever read my former blog, Hopelessly Uncool, you will understand that I lean toward hubris, rather than sophrosyne.  In fact, the title of that blog really was sort of tongue in cheek; saying I wasn't cool but really thinking I sort of was for coming up with such a great title for a blog.  Uncool is my cool. As my friend Taylor says, "It's thought out.  You may wear weird clothes, but you do it in such a way that it's interesting and you pull it off."  

So in trying to think of a new title, I wanted something that would capture not just the current state of my life, but would also indicate some of the major themes of my life.  I have always dreamed of flying.  Literally.  I wanted to be Superman.  But I also want to soar figuratively; to achieve dizzying heights in my life.  In my hubris I have thought that I must be bound for greatness or to do great things.  And in thinking this, I have often caused my own destruction.  To quote Brave Saint Saturn: 

"Did you see me falling down from heaven

trailing wings of melted wax?"

Thankfully I have avoided the extreme of despair, and the waves have not pulled me under.  But that is hardly a virtue, especially if every other day I attempt to climb too high and scorch a new pair of wings.  

But for this I will always glorify God and thank him for his grace: He has always kept me from plunging into the depths, and he has always allowed me "to soar on wings like eagles" again.  "What matter wounds to a knight errant?  For each time he falls he shall rise again and woe to the wicked!"  "If the Lord delights in a man's way, he makes his steps firm; though he stumble he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand" (Psalm 37:23-24).  I may have crashed and burned in my life, and I'm sure huge disasters and fiascos are still to come, but I am grateful to God that he has preserved my life and has given me the strength to pick up the pieces and try again.

So here's to a new blog and new things. 

Here's to flying high on borrowed wings.

In soaring with Christ there is no "too high."

I'll follow past sun, and clouds and sky.