Striking Out

Teachers are striking in Seattle, and because I was a public school teacher for fifteen years, I’ve been respectfully asked by family and friends how I feel about the situation.  Being a former teacher should provide some validation regarding my opinion.

It’s a tricky question for many, but not for me.   The simple answer is that I oppose the strike.  Although I maintain an enormous amount of respect for most teachers, I also feel their duty remains in the classroom with their students even if they believe in further compensation.  I use the term “further” because I know teachers’ salaries, and some of my best friends in the industry don’t complain.  I understand one of their complaints.  Class sizes are out of control in many school districts.  It can be the difference between being a babysitter and a teacher.  That was just one of the reasons I left the profession.  Sadly, I lost my passion for teaching.  That was the most logical reason for leaving.

Here are some of the perks of teaching:  Two and a half months off in the summer.  Every other holiday as well as the day before and after off.  The option to coach, and yes, work a little harder, while putting in some extra hours and being compensated for the additional time.  Those were the least important perks for me and many others entering this profession.  Making a positive difference in a student’s life was, without question, the largest benefit.

Coaching was an additional opportunity for us to create solid relationships, not only with students, but many times, their parents.  If a student didn’t finish a classroom assignment, we didn’t send them home before practice.  We allowed them a half hour in a sweaty wresting room, or rainy football field, to finish assignments before working out for the next hour and a half.  That was punishment enough, and it kept them out of the trouble away from school they could so easily find.  The parents thanked us for keeping them in check for those extra two hours.

At age twenty-three, sadly, I showed up for a paycheck, wondering what my next profession might be.   One month after turning twenty-three, I showed up every day because the students needed me.  It only took me a month to figure it out.  I never complained about a paycheck.  I also had to slap myself for forgetting why one chooses this profession.

I’ll make this clear.  I never considered myself to be a great teacher.  I will also confess there were days I showed up to school, and a smile and laughter was all I had to offer.  Those were the moments I didn’t earn a paycheck.   The students and their care for me in some dark times picked me up,  and that’s why I felt truly blessed for those fifteen years.

I never went on strike.  I just retired.   I will admit that after moving to a different school with a different demographic, those students broke me.   Some people would argue that was the easy way out.  It wasn’t. I miss the students, some of their parents, and the fellow teachers I had the pleasure to work with each day.

Marching Out of Madness (Without Grace)

WE’RE NOT ALL WINNERS!!!

Years ago, I loved to gamble, and I did quite a bit of it.  And, I can honestly say I was pretty crummy at it.  It never became an addiction, just a hobby.  You know, one of those hobbies where you take c-notes (one hundred dollar bills) wad them up into little balls and toss them into a dumpster, hoping one lucky bum will find them.  Since I wasn’t married, had no children, and it was my money, I figured it was okie dokie.

I don’t know why, but I lost interest after a while.  It’s been years since I’ve even had the urge to place a wager on a pony (unless it’s the Kentucky Derby) or a professional team.  However, if you call filling out a college basketball bracket and handing someone twenty dollars “gambling”, well, then I’m still a pretty lousy gambler.

This year, as millions of others did, my wife and I participated in a pool of drowning bettors wishing to win a small sum of money and a dash of pride during college basketball’s March Madness.  The name is appropriate.  Although this month of sporting excitement can be loads of fun, it can also be wildly maddening.

People all over the country brag about their tournament picks before tipoff, and shortly after tipoff, those same people are ripping the piece of paper displaying their senseless decisions into millions of embarrassing shreds and then burning them out of recycling spite.  This is the dark path gambling can take you.  (It’s a felony in the states of Oregon and Washington, amongst others, to burn paper.) No, I’m not referring to myself.  I’m far more environmentally conscience than that.  Not wanting to waste a piece of paper, I keep all my picks on my computer.

Wishing to explain the process in not too much detail, I will merely say that in our group of imbeciles, one must attempt to choose all of the winners in a sixty four team college basketball bracket, including the champion before the madness begins.  Points are gathered along the road, and you want to have the most wins, especially the champion.  This is not an easy task, but most semi-intelligent gamblers can have fun throughout most of the three week tournament, hoping to be victorious.

Whatever the grade below semi-intelligent gamblers is, I’m a member even below that one.  Even though my wife and I picked the teams collectively, she wanted me to pick the champion.  As the man who wears the cargo shorts in the family, I should have demanded she choose the winner.  But, I deferred to her suggestion and chose with every ounce of knowledge I didn’t possess.  As a result, I did not choose wisely.  The team I chose to win the national championship was out the first day of the tournament, thus leaving us a 2 and 1/3 million to one chance of winning the pot of greens at the end of the tournament.  Since my wife and I were in this together, we were watching our team go down like a barn in a cyclone.  Ironically, our team was the Iowa State Cyclones.

During the game, even though it was close, I could sense the Cyclones were destined for failure, and as much as I tried to summon the gambling Gods and ask for advice on how I could possibly place the blame on my wife for this devastating loss, the prayers were answered by the Gods telling me to shut my pig headed mouth, and keep the remote in her hands.  Because gamblers are remote controls’ worst nightmares for fear of being smashed or tossed into a far away land, I followed part of their advice.  I handed the remote control to her, but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.  Before officially marching out of madness, I released an “F-Bomb”. It was a bomb men, women, children and animals could hear all across our zip code.  Usually, I reserve these for the golf course, or any place where my wife can’t hear them.  Following the obscenity, I then marched right outside the house, because I knew that’s where the woman wearing the cargo pants in our house would send me.  Just because you’re old enough to gamble, it doesn’t mean you aren’t a child.

March Madness is officially over for us, and so are the “F bombs” from me.  But, baseball is right around the corner, and believe me, if you hear an “F bomb” floating around the Pacific Northwest, just check the Seattle Mariner box score for a loss, and know these ones are not resonating from me, but from my lovely counterpart.  During baseball season, these are tossed around our house like salad, and it gives me a little ammunition for the next time I gamble on anything.

Appreciating Gifts: It’s a Gift

Recently, I’ve been informed by social media that children are now registering for birthday gifts much like future married couples and later divorcees have done for decades.  Some people may think this is a reasonable and efficient idea, but other than vomiting, I don’t have much to say about this issue.  Personally, I don’t have a problem with gift giving and receiving, but I do have a bit of a problem with certain celebrations of birthdays at young ages.  When countless friends and relatives are invited, the birthday Prince or Princess doesn’t always seem too appreciative of the gifts showered upon his or her royal crowns, thus creating a sense of entitled greed.

Perhaps, I’m just too old fashioned.  When I was child, I remember annually receiving gifts from my parents at very modest parties. Once in a while, a neighbor might show up for a piece of cake, but I knew my parents frowned on inviting many friends over, because they didn’t want them to feel obligated to bring anything for me.   Or, perhaps I just didn’t have many friends.

I once received a gift from a friend at school on my birthday, and the outcome was bitter sweet.   I still feel awful about my lack of appreciation for the gesture of kindness to this very day.   It was my saddest and most memorable of gifts.

In the eighth grade, I befriended a girl, and we eventually, according to others, became the school’s most conceited couple.  She found out that my birthday was coming soon and wished to purchase me a gift.  I begged her not to buy me anything.  Since I didn’t receive an allowance, I knew when her birthday came knocking on my wallet, other than a student body identification card, the only items filling it might be a couple of baseball cards.  So, unless she liked baseball cards, she would have to settle for a dandelion I could pick in our backyard.

Continuing to pester me, shrewdly, I announced to her what I wanted for my birthday: A new car.  Most thirteen year olds can’t afford this, so I thought it ended the discussion.  Indeed, it did.  And, of course, on my birthday, she still presented to me a gift at the lunch table we had been sitting at together for the previous five months.  In front of all our other friends, I opened it, and it was a car.  It was a remote controlled car.  Actually, I had never had one, and all my guy friends were impressed and a little envious.  So, we all took it out to the pavement outside the lunchroom and I let them all play around with it.  I then told her how much I liked it and gave her a hug.  For me, this was a display of sincere gratitude.  Usually, she couldn’t even get me to hold her hand.

A few months later, she presented me with another surprise at lunch. She broke up with me.  When you’re that young, breakups shouldn’t mean that much to you, but this one did.  For years, all I really cared about was sports.  Now, I found myself really liking this girl, so you could say I was a bit heartbroken.  What was wrong with me? Additionally, since she couldn’t provide a proper reason for the breakup, you could say I was a bit PISSED.  Nevertheless, I took it in stride, said goodbye, and did what any mature thirteen year old would do in this situation.  After baseball practice, I went home, walked into my room and looked at the car and my baseball bat.   Grabbing them both, I strolled out the backdoor, and I remember mother asking me, “Where are you going with that bat and car?”  Calmly, I told her I was heading out to the field beyond our backyard.  She just looked at me strangely.  When I made it to the field, I beat the holy hell out of that car into a thousand little plastic and rubber pieces.  Moments after I did it, I think I felt shame, but at the same time, closure.  Years after I did it, I’d matured slightly and sometimes thought about her and the car and what a horribly rotten thing I’d done.  The car was long gone, and it could never be replaced, along with my lack of appreciation for it.

Although she and I went to the same high school, we never spoke once to one another.  However, twenty five years later after that incident, somehow, the girl and I met again.   Being very contrite about what I’d done all those years ago, with a chuckle, she provided proper forgiveness.  Six months later, we were married.  We share that story with many of the same friends we had long ago, because they remember the car but never properly knew the reason for its demise.  It always makes them laugh or get angry wondering why I just didn’t give it to one of them.

Now, I tell her each day how much I appreciate her, and she says thank you and reciprocates the notion.  Now that’s a gift I can appreciate and won’t beat the hell out of with a bat.

New York and a Diamond in the Rough (Hotel)

I wish someone would be kind enough to write and publish this blog for me.  I will admit to being a little confused in this “country” or city affectionally known as New York, New Tips.  Evidently, four times isn’t a charm.

While traveling to New York for the forth time, since the third certainly wasn’t a charm, I thought I’d give it another gentlemanly shot.  We came on a business/vacation trip.  My wife came for work.  I came for vacation and to write to entertain, confuse, or bore people throughout the cyber world.  I also came to run in Central Park. That is my happy, semi- sane place.

My wife lost her wedding diamond in our hotel within twenty four hours after arriving safely to this place of  Metropolitan Magic.   I believe it was the first time something tragic happened in my life which wasn’t my fault.

Tears were flowing from her more efficiently than the faucet in our room.  Therefore, I can only assume, or, surmise, she loves me.  So, I guess I’ve got that going for me.   Not shedding a tear myself, I told her it was o.k.  The diamond can be replaced.

Tearing apart the hotel sink, I gave up when the hair and filth overwhelmed me with dry heaving and disgust.  I was willing to catch a flight back to Seattle, purchase her another diamond and be done with it.  She claimed I was being a bit too dramatic.  She was right.  That makes her my diamond in the rough.

Fantasy Foolsball Lessons (R.I.P.)

If you really want my money, sell me a car or invite me to be in your Fantasy Football League.  In full testosterone gear, the 2014 Fantasy Football Season is in its ninth week, forcing me to recall some of the several thousand silly mistakes I’ve made in my life.

I currently own a car and a fantasy football team.  Each of them cost me money and respect.  They also require maintenance.  The car needs oil, much like I need the money to buy a computer, enter a fantasy league and place my gridiron gladiators in grave positions in which the team will ultimately fail.  The process of selecting a quality fantasy football team or a reliable car, according to your personality, are additionally similar.  My personality maintains an uncommon balance of impatience and abject stupidity.  For example, it took exactly thirty minutes for Carlson the Car Salesman to convince me to roll a particular car off of the lot.  The last fantasy football team I acquired took me a mere thirty minutes to assemble.  With this evidence, one may surmise that I have a tendency to dismiss the detailed research many others find necessary in the decision making process.

Shortly after beginning my first career, I purchased an automobile the very same year I was introduced to fantasy football.  Their demise ended in similar fashion.  Within my budget, the car seemed to be a reasonable deal.  It was advertised as having four wheel drive, power windows, locks, and according to the speedometer, only one hundred and twenty miles on it.  Come to find out, that speedometer was way off.  It only WENT to one hundred and twenty.  The four wheel drive was only two wheel drive, the defrost worked primarily in the summertime, and the air conditioner limited its availability to the winter. To drive a short story an even shorter distance, the truck ended up in the valley of misfit automobiles.

FFImage-NewspaperAs a first time owner of a fantasy football team in 1996,  I thought I could choose a team wisely and with terrific courage.  To help the process of developing a formidable team, I used a Fantasy Football cheat sheet I found in a nationally recognized sports periodical. That’s also where I thought I found my wisdom.  On draft night, while swilling beer and after choosing my number one pick, a running back, I learned a quick fantasy league lesson.  This lesson was much quicker than any running back in this draft…..especially mine. Once you choose your player, under no circumstance are you allowed to reconsider your pick.  No matter what the scenario, you are stuck.  After making my decision, one of the more competitive assholes participating in the draft let me in on an important detail regarding my player’s success.  He was dead.  Evidently, one month prior to this draft, he had been shot and killed in a nightclub.  The periodical I was using had been available in print one week before the player’s last rights were given.  Some of the competitors thought this was hilarious….. not the man’s death, of course, but over the notion I would make such a colossally horrific choice.  Personally, much like holding on to a live hand grenade, I found it quite courageous.

Here’s a tip:  Don’t take any of my advice……about anything…….ever.

Stocks and Barry Bonds

One hundred and sixty two games and then some.  That’s baseball.  It’s a long term investment for those who love it.  And, keenly similar to the stock market, you may be devastated, demoralized, not to mention emotionally or financially crushed, by its outcome.  On the other side of the field, you may be uplifted, elated and proud you persevered such a long season of painful losses and meaningful gains, just to ultimately see your team or stock on top.

It’s easy to make comparisons and contrasts between following baseball and playing the stock market.  One day, you may wake up to find out your stock has plummeted 100 points.  Do you give up on that stock and sell the rest before you can’t afford to buy a new pair of tickets to the ballgame for you and your son or daughter, or do you maintain faith and hope it will rise again?  How do you react when you find out, at the water cooler on a Monday break from corporate chaos, that your team was beaten ten to nothing with their  best pitcher on the mound?  Do you go home at quitting time and burn all the hats, t-shirts, sun glasses, turtle necks, wrist bands, plastic helmets, crowns, coffee mugs, boxers, balls, bats and bow ties with your team’s logo on them?  You may even go hardcore insanity fan on your team’s ass and fabricate voodoo dolls out of your once sacred bobble head doll collection.  Or, do you say to yourself and other LOYAL followers, “Relax.  It’s a long season.  Tomorrow, our team may win by ten runs with our worst pitcher.  If you give up now, you foul mouthed, fair weather freak, we’ll deem you as traitor to your city.  We’ll have you tarred, feathered, and run out on a rail to some city like Seattle where baseball fans don’t really care about winning.  They’d prefer eating sushi and clogging their pretentious pores with garlic fries.  How does that sound?  NOT TOO GOOD.”

For the long term, baseball can be boring just like the market.  There’s 162 meaningful games in a season, each lasting three hours a sitting.  Don’t watch them all.  Take two minutes to read the box score in the daily news right after you take the same amount of time to see pork bellies reach their monthly high.  Do you think Dandy Donald Trump hangs out with his homies, Dirty Dow Jones and Nasty Nasdaq all day? No.  He’s too busy working on his weave, so he just has a beverage with them after the closing bell.

Martha Stewart and Barry Bonds or Mark McGwire :  You don’t see any resemblances?  They play their games dirtier than a Halloween Harlot competing in a bobbing for bananas contest.  Stewart’s insider trading scandal landed her, and her reputation, in prison for a delightful amount of canceled television time.  (Rather than prison time, it was more like merely being sent to the adult version of “Television Timeout”.)  Bond’s and McGuire’s lust for long balls, and even longer needles, placed the two of them, and their reputations, in baseball’s rendition of perdition.  The steroids injected into their behinds also left them with some parting gifts such as back acne and testicular shrinkage.  Martha Stewart’s purse just got a little smaller.  Thus, those who play the market or follow a baseball team must take caution when rooting for either to succeed.

Whether you play the stock market or religiously follow the game of baseball, in both, there will be ups and downs, hots and colds, rushes and depressions, prison times and puckered constitutions.  But, if you gamble on one and merely try to enjoy the other, prepare yourself for an emotional conclusion.

My team didn’t make it to the playoffs this year.  In fact, since the time I started investing in this team, (about forty years) they haven’t won, nor made it to The World Series.   This is not as depressing as it may appear on paper, your television set, laptop, I-Phone, I-Pad, or I-Didn’tWin App.  At the end of the baseball season, however, even when your team takes a vacation until next Spring, you can enjoy the playoffs without your nerves being rattled.  You can watch from an outsider’s perspective and witness the home town fans cheering their team to a victory, and for three hours, enjoy the possibility that their team might win.  It provides hope for your next season.  You want to be next to them in the bleachers.

The Stock Market breeds imminent danger and the possibility of severe consequences.   Much like Vegas, the odds are against you.  Baseball breeds hope.  Remember, there’s always another season in baseball.