Cherokee never faileth

One crisp Sunday morning, about two years ago, my roommates and I were on our way to Sunday services. They always give me a hard time for the way I drive, so when I stopped at a yellow light instead of blasting through it, they started in on me about how their grandmother is a more gutsy driver than I am.

Well, I don’t take any crap from anyone… especially if they’re not willing to chip in if I ever DO drive the way they want me to and end up getting a pricy speeding ticket. So to prove that their jeers had no effect on me, I threw the gear shifter into park, shut off the engine and said, “Fine! We’ll just wait here until I feel like its absolutely safe to proceed.”

My buddy Ty’s known me long enough to know that my Jeep is seldom reliable. After my tantrum he just turned to me and said, “Very funny, Dude. You’d just better hope you can get this thing to start again.”

Half offended by his lack of faith in my car, and half lying in an effort to cover up my own doubts, I replied with an adapted scriptural quote, “Don’t worry, Dude. ‘Cherokee never faileth.’”

Traffic gave way, the left turn lane arrow turned green and I turned the ignition to get us on our way… Nothing… The engine didn’t sound like it was even making an EFFORT to turn over. I tried again… nothing. None of us said anything. We were all too shocked by the irony. The first thing to break the silence was the horns of the cars behind us, impatient to get on their way.
My roommates keeled over with laughter as I continued to try to turn over the engine. Cars were now swerving around my stalled Jeep in an effort to make it through the light before it lost its green. We sat there at the intersection of Canyon and Bulldog for two whole traffic-light cycles before the engine finally turned back on.

My heart hurt with shame from damaged pride and their sides hurt with cramps from laughing so hard. But that was just one of many experiences that taught me at no time, under no circumstances can I EVER fully depend on my car.

Well, this weekend while I was down in Provo visiting those same roommates, my car broke down on me again. I was alone this time, so at least I spared myself the ridicule of roommates, but I wasn’t any less inconvenienced by the situation. I was just driving along East Campus Drive when the engine cut out. I heard a loud whine from the back of the cabin, which made me think it was probably the fuel pump, but I really know so little about cars that I only share my hunches to make myself sound smart, but I really don’t trust them.

“Oh Doc, I tore a hole in the gas tank. We’ll have to patch it up and get gas.”
“You mean we’re out of gas?”
“Yeah, no big deal, we got Mr. Fusion, right?”
“Mr. Fusion powers the time circuits and the flux capacitor. But the internal combustion engine runs on ordinary gasoline; it always has. There’s not going to be a gas station around here until some time in the next century. Without gasoline, we can’t get the DeLorean up to 88 miles per hour.”
“So what’ll we do?”

I called AAA and they had a tow truck come pick me up within an hour. If you own a car and have any inclination that there’s a possibility it could ever unexpectedly break down on you, then you should invest in a AAA membership. It’s WAY useful because not only are you allowed a free 100 mile tow every month, but the part I like best about it is that the people they send to tow you are usually shop owners or mechanics of some kind. The benefit of that is that you can just tell them what happened during the drive to wherever they’re taking you and by the time you get there, they’ll have already given you a full diagnostic on what the problem is and what repairs you’ll need to make.

“Bartender says that’s the strongest stuff they got.”
“Try it, Marty…. Give it more gas… D@mn! It blew the fuel injection manifold. Strong stuff all right. It’ll take me a month to rebuild it.”

So, the plus side is that I was right… the AAA guy said it WAS the fuel pump that had gone out. But there’s still the matter of fixing it. I don’t know enough about cars to be able to fix stuff on my own. I have a repair manuel that takes me through things step by step, but I usually end up spending three days fixing something that a trained mechanic could do in an hour or two.

“A thousand bucks? You gotta be crazy - I'm not gonna pay that.Well, let me talk to the mechanic... Yeah, yeah - I'll hold... Five hundred dollars? Since when does an alternator cost five-hundred dollars? Well, what the h@ll does a transmission got to do with this? Look... Just don't touch my car, alright?! Leave it just like you found it! I'll be right down.”

So logic would say just take it to a garage and pay some grease monkey to fix it for me, right. Well, yeah, that’s what logic says, but logic probably makes more money than I do. I really can’t afford to take my car in for every break down I have… partly because it costs so much to take it in, and partly because the breakdowns happen so frequently that half my monthly salary would go to the garage.

“Ya know, one of these days I'm just gonna get rid of the d@mn cars,
and we'll all take the d@mn bus!”

It’s kind of depressing to think about: I can’t afford a new car, so I keep this clunker, but it breaks down all the time, which also costs money to fix. But if I could figure out some way to get my car fixed WITHOUT having to pay a shop 30 bucks an hour to work on it, then I could probably make due with the jalopy that I have. After all, the only difference between a lemon and a classic is the amount of work put into preserving it.

My dad can fix anything—I cannot. Sometimes I look at him, then I look at myself and I think, "there's no WAY I'll ever make a good father... I mean, look at all the things my dad can do and fix--I don't even know the NAMES of half the stuff he knows how to FIX." But wait... I knew that it was the fuel pump that went out didn't I? And d'ya know how I knew that? Because about 4 years ago it went out and I helped my dad while he fixed it for me.

“Dad?”
“Huh?”
“When did you first learn to work on cars?”
“I don't know - it's just something I picked up along the way, I guess.”
“Well, is Grampa good at working on cars?”
“Oh, sure. I guess I learned most of it from him.”

For years, "helping Dad" has meant holding the light for him while he wedges himself under the chassie, replaces the parts and tightens all the screws. But recently I've learned to demand to do the hands on work myself and have him tell me what do to. Well that's more or less how we worked on the fuel pump the last time. And I learned enough from it that a year ago I was able to replace a separate part on the fuel pump all by myself. And that's why I was confident in replacing the pump this time: because I'd learned from Dad how to do it.

“We know that when the work is hard,

the proper response is not retreat, it is courage.”

And maybe this is how you become qualified to be a dad. It's just being brave enough to try something you're intimidated by. And as you do you aquire experience in TONS of different areas--not excelling at any one thing, but being pretty darn good at just about everything.

“Anakin, how many times have I told you?

‘Stay away from power couplings!’”

I think part of that process of learning as you go can involve a measure of danger too. While I was under the car fixing the fuel pump I managed to snap an electrical wire on the outside of the pump. I don’t really understand everything about electricity and gasoline, but I know they can both be dangerous. I felt so remorseful: "Why couldn't I have just been more careful? I'm not qualified to fix this, but I can't afford to replace the part!" The manual I was using didn’t even mention the part that I broke so I was pretty much on my own to fix it.

“Sir, I don't know where your ship learned to communicate, but it has the most peculiar dialect. I believe, sir, it says that the power coupling on the negative axis has been polarized. I'm afraid you'll have to replace it.”
“Well, of course I'll have to replace it!
…(Chewie, I think we'd better replace the negative power coupling).”

I really don’t know much about electrical workings, but I’ve heard mention before about “grounding” the negative wire. I looked at the piece I’d broken and noticed it wasn’t connected to anything, just welded to the metal frame. I broke the weld, so I couldn’t just reattach it to the same point, but I guessed that if I just connected it to something metal, that would “ground” the line and I’d be safe. So I attached it to a metal hose clamp and prayed that when I tried to start the car I wouldn’t electrify the fuel and blast myself into oblivion. Well, I must have guessed right, because I’m still here. And there you have it, I’m one step closer for qualifying to be a dad.

“This [cherokee] of yours seems a bit beat up. Do you want a new one?”
“Not on your life! That little [jeep] and I have been through a lot together...”

So, despite my many complaints about how my car is too old, that it breaks down too often, that I should just get a new one: the truth is, I’m learning a lot from this old thing. It’s a part of me and I’m a part of it. In fact, I kind of think I’d probably care a lot less about a car that ran a lot better. I’m lucky to have it.

Waxing Poetic

Life’s not easy when you’re manly as me.
I can stink like an ox; and I’m tall as a tree.
But of all the burdens, none can compare
With that of having a chest all covered in hair.

It’s not a big deal for most of the year,
But when the hot summer months begin to draw near
Folk take off their shirts, and I start to dread
Revealing that my chest has more hair than my head.

Honestly, though, I’m not all THAT hairy
But when I notice any Tom, Dick, or Larry
Fleeced like an ape from the Woodland Park Zoo,
I hope in my heart that I don’t look like that too.

It can’t be ignored, something must be done.
I won’t set myself up for others to poke fun.
Sadly enough, there’s no anti-hair drug,
So I sought new techniques to control my shag rug.

I thought clippers might cut a tidey “buzz”,
But it made my chest hair look like tennis-ball fuzz.
Shaving leaves scruff and nair’s smell makes me ill.
And banks don’t give loans for electrolysis bills.

And when my hopelessness reached it’s climax
My good friend, D Money, said, “why don’t you try wax?”
I replied, “No thanks, that sounds kinda gay.”
He said, “My girlfriend waxed mine. Dude, try it some day.”

I argued it back and forth in my mind,
Until finally I convinced myself to unwind,
I told myself, “Don’t be a homophobe.
Heath, you’re desparate: your chest’s like a terry-cloth robe.”

Shopping for wax is a delicate art,
So I put on a disguise and went to Walmart
I didn’t dare buy just the wax alone,
So I bought tons of stuff any macho guy’d own.

I hurried back home and locked the front door,
And shut the blinds to hide my embarrassing chore.
I opened the kit and heated the wax;
With popsicle sticks I smeared it on my thorax.

I made such a mess; it dripped everywhere.
A big glob left my chest and stuck to my leg hair.
I wasn’t ABOUT to wax my legs too.
It took over an hour trying to get THAT unglued.

The kit included a wax remover
Which didn’t work for a darn: “Made in Vancouver.”
But I found what DOES make wax lose it’s stick
Butter flavored non-stick cooking spray, laid on thick.

I did this alone; I wanted no help.
Good thing I was too, ‘cuz every rip made me yelp.
It left my skin pink and throbbing with pain.
And a part of me wished I still had my chest mane.

The results seem mixed: my chest hair’s no more,
But somehow I managed to infect all my pores.
Although the hair’s gone, my chest still ain’t smoothe;
A rash now exists where all my hairs once took root.

Sure, rashes heal, but I doubt I could bare
Re-enduring the pain of ripping out chest hair.
Perhaps it hurts less round two, five, or ten,
But I don’t have the gumption to try THAT again.

Net worth

Have you ever heard the allegory of the guy who God told to push the rock? He spent all his life pushing and shoving and straining, but he never managed to move that rock. When God “called him home” the man was worried about his lack of progress and apologized to God for never having moved the rock. Then the man’s perspective was broadened when God explains, “I never asked you to ‘move the rock’, only to ‘push’ against it.”

“Dad, what do you do all day?”
“What do I do all day?

I shovel other people's crap so you kids can eat.”
“No, I mean, what do you do?”
“Wh- ? I work at NORCOM - you know that.”
“Yeah, I know, but what do you DO there?”

Well, at my job, they don’t even expect me to push. I work at Generation Marketing. I started out here as a media buyer (which meant I purchased advertising space in newspapers), but I found that assignment very unfulfilling, so now I’m responsible to lay out ads (graphic design), and traffic that artwork to the various newspapers we advertise in. I say that I’m “responsible” for that, because really, being responsible is all I do here.

“General Waverly, we want you to know

that you needn’t feel obligated. I mean, since there’s no snow…”
“Nonsense! We’ve made a contract. Your first performance is
tonight at eight o’clock. Be there, or I’ll sue!”

Truthfully, the only thing I DO here is show up. Especially in the summer months, the workload here is very minimal. Ironically, they just made it a policy that we start clocking in and clocking out. I guess to them the fact that I’m present eight hours a day is more important than the fact that the only fraction of those eight hours when I’m mentally engaged are during the 3-5 minutes per day when I’m playing Tetris on my phone in the john.

“Oh, how I envy your freedom: games all day long, no studying dreary old books, staying up late as you like, eating JUNK food…”

Maybe I’m just a guy who’s never satisfied. I mean, when I’m so busy at work that I don’t even have time to sigh, I long for days like this. But now that I have all this freedom, I long for busier days. I guess what I really long for is balance. After all, nobody likes to eat ONLY vegetables or ONLY candy all the time, but a balanced mix of the two makes for quite the satisfying omnivorous experience. I prefer a job where I have something to always keep me busy, but that isn’t so demanding that I can’t distract myself for a few minutes to check Mariners’ scores or read movie reviews.

“Isn’t this awful?”
“What?”
“It’s like taking money under false pretenses.

Emma, couldn’t you talk him into letting us work for half salary?”

Getting paid to do nothing kinda takes a toll on a guy’s well being. Getting paid to do nothing makes me feel like a complete deadbeat. And yet, I can’t afford to generously propose any kind of “half-salary” deal. After all, the only reason I’m living in Utah is because of this job, and the only reason I can AFFORD to live in Utah is because of this salary—every last cent of it. But imagine showing up for work, day after day, staying for eight hours, and then going home, having accomplished nothing, having contributed nothing—it makes me feel like I’m WORTH nothing. There comes a confidence and a sense of pride to a man when he knows he’s completed a job well done. And as true as that is, I can tell you that that same measure of confidence and pride is left unfulfilled when you finish a work day having done nothing.

“You like me because I’m a scoundrel.
There aren’t enough scoundrels in your life.”

I believe that that work-related confidence (or void thereof) can effect our countenance (or aura, or vibe, or whatever you want to call that invisible yet seen part of who we are). Luckily, its not a negative vibe—which is the sort of thing you feel coming off of someone who might be a closet bank robber or secretly run a kiddie-porn ring. My situation generates more of a neutral vibe. But for a single guy who could meet Miss Right at any second, first impressions can’t be taken too lightly, and I feel like my work situation is effecting my mojo (not that I ever encounter opportunities to exercise the mojo—but like I said, it’s the sort of thing one mustn’t neglect).

“Stop the press! Who is that?”

Haven’t you ever met someone and at that first meeting you are simply impressed by the kind of person he/she is. Not in a physical-attraction sort of way, but it just hits you that this is a good person, one who’s got his head on straight, who’s honest and educated, who’s sincere but not gullible, who “stands for truth, justice, and the American way.” That’s the kind of impact that meeting ME ought to have on a person, but this darn job is weakening my potency.

“Ask not what your [company] can do for you.

Ask what you can do for your [company].”

Even though my work-load isn’t keeping me busy, I have found some satisfaction in spending my “office-arrest” time learning new work-related programs. I’m very interested in the production side of advertising, so I’ve weaseled my way away from the media buying department and into the creative department. In the process, I’ve convinced my manager that if I were to be cross-trained in all the graphic design and video editing programs on the computer, I could cover for certain people if we ever had a production emergency when someone was out. So I’ve been teaching myself the ins and outs of the adobe creative suite and the final cut pro video editing software, hoping that doing so will make me more marketable for future job opportunities. Meanwhile, one co-worker busies HIMself by either pacing six steps in each direction, or bouncing a super-bouncy ball against the conference room door (what an idiot).

“Work for an education. Get all the training that you can.

The world will largely pay you what it thinks you are worth.”

The most frustrating part about not being busy is the bottom line. At this point in my relatively-experience-free career, experience is more valuable than salary. But then I think, if they’re paying me this much (not that it’s a lot), just to sit around and do nothing, then I’d probably be worth six figures at a job where I actually apply myself. I long for a challenge, for a job that will put ALL my talents and resources to use and pay me accordingly. But until then, I just keep reminding myself that this job is a means to an end and that the reason I'm still here is more for the "years of experience" reflected on a résumé than for the actual experience of working here.

H2 Woes

“What is this stuff, Rene?”
“I grew up on this. It’s my family label.”

For all of the 18 months I’ve been working at Generation Marketing, the company has always provided an impressive selection of soft drinks in the kitchen. I don’t really go for soda pop(inski) ALL of the time—I’ve got too much of a dietary conscience for that—so I’ve come to rely on the “Mount Olympus” water cooler in the break room to fill all my daily hydration needs.

The Mount Olympus spring is located southeast of Salt Lake City at the 5,000 foot level of Neff’s Canyon, a protected source surrounded by a federally designated wilderness area. Its quality is very uniform, and there is no chlorine, harsh chemicals or impurities to alter the pristine taste of Mount Olympus Spring Water. In fact, more than fifty years of water analyses indicate no discernible change in the quality or mineral composition of the water.

The Mount Olympus water dispenser was one of those top-loading types—the kind with a standard, up-side-down five-gallon jug on top, and an internal cooling system. And the patented Mount Olympus taste was cool, refreshing, and clean. Imagine the crisp waters of a secluded alpine spring, void of the taste contaminants so commonly found in valley waters. Mount Olympus water was like a winter day’s clear blue sky in liquid form.

“WAS” is the opperative word here! As of last Friday, Generation Marketing is no longer a Mount Olympus company. In a shrewd self-promotion plan, the former president of Generation Marketing bought cases and cases of personalized “GEN-M” waterbottles. We’ve got so many that theres a storage unit full of the stuff. Well, the new president of the company has decided that until we drink up all the Gen-M water, we won’t be buying any more Mount Olympus water.

“Kinda tastey, aint it?”
“It’d grow pink whiskers on a hound dog!”

Makes sence, right? I mean, why buy water when you’ve already got a truckload of it? I’ll tell you why: because that water in those truckloads tastes like toilet water! Coming from the great Northwest and serving my mission in Lake Tahoe, I understand that I hold all my water drinking experiences up to a very high standard of excellence, and for that reason, I won’t go into how bad the local tap water is (yet). But this stuff is bottled water—with bottled water you expect it to taste good, because that's what you've paid for.

“Yup, good ol' Canada. They don't [care if their water tastes bad]

because they're too busy playin' hockey or

gettin' drunk or puttin' maple syrup on their ham.”

Except, THIS water comes from Canada through the Norwood Promotional Products Distribution Company. It tastes WORSE than the local tap water, it tastes more like what you’d expect if you poured a glass of local tap water and let it sit and go stale for about a month. I don’t know what idiot thought it would be a good idea to sell Canadian water in the U.S, but I do know what idiot bought the stuff… and thankfully he doesn’t work here anymore.

“I pray to Shiva, '[bring better water].' But [he does] not.

Now, now the evil of Kali take me.”

“How?”

“They will make me drink [nasty Canadian water].

Then I fall into black sleep of Kali Ma...”

“What is that?”

“You become like them. You’ll be alive, but like in nightmare.

You drink the [nasty Canadian water], you not wake up from nightmare.”

So the standing policy is that until all the bottled Gen-M water is gone, we won’t be buying the delicious Mount Olympus water. And as much as I hate that Canadian hydration, I’d be willing to drink it, seeing as how doing so would be advancing the cause toward a greater good. The first day they announced this new policy, I decided to drink as many bottles per day as I could, hoping to speed up the process of exhausting our Gen-M water supply.

“Well, let’s start with a batch of toxic waste from your “clean” textile plant. There’s a hole lagoon of this crud in the back.”

However, even that plan isn’t without its obstacles. I drank every bottle I could find in the office. I think by the end of the day there were about 10 empty bottles in my waste basket. But now that the entire in-office supply is gone, they say there’s a whole storage unit full of it that also must be drank. Only, none of them have taken the time to go out to the storage facility to pick it up, so now I’m stuck drinking plain old tap water.

“It tastes funny.”
“It does not. It's just tap water.
Besides, he licks his butt every day, I don't think he'll mind.”

Maybe the decision makers here don’t drink that much water, or maybe they “lick their butts every day” and can’t tell the difference, but I do mind because I drink a ton of water every day. I don’t particularly enjoy water—even the clean Mount Olympus stuff. But I’m such a snacker (it’s like a smoker, only instead of going through packs of cigarettes each day, you go through packs of fun-size candy bars), that my mouth has developed a very short attention span and almost constantly needs to have something to keep it busy. All I do is sit at my desk all day, so I really can’t afford to collect the quantity of calories that come with a constant consumption of confections. Water is a perfect solution to my situation. Just look at the Nutrition Facts on the label—zero everything. And decent water also has zero flavor, but both Canadian and tap water have way more taste than the recommended daily value.

“What’s that?”
“Antidote.”
“To what?”
“The poison you just drank, Dr. Jones.”

Now, don’t think that I’m so particular about my water that I’m this picky at home. I’m too cheap to buy bottled water, so I drink from the tap all the time. Despite that, I still haven’t learned to tolerate the taste, but I have discovered an antidote to its nastyness (and let me take this time to reiterate that nearly all my references to “nasty” in this post are really just an exaggerated description of water which tastes less than pure, but I want to clarify that I’m not forced to drink from a septic tank. On a scale of 1-10, with Mount Olympus water being a 10, the Gen-M and tap water both merit an 8 or so). That antidote is Crystal Light.

“Anyone who wants to be a can't-hack-it pantywaist
who wears their mama's bra, raise your hand.”
“Yeah, I can live with that.”

Okay, I know that Crystal Light seems to market mostly to women, so I can see how you my think me a pansy for liking the stuff, but hear me out. 1.) Its delicious! My favorite flavors include Strawberry-Kiwi, Ruby Red Grapefruit, and Raspberry Ice. Each flavor is bold enough to mask the murkiest, blandest water, yet none are so overpoweringly sweet to make you feel like you're drinking slurpee syrup. B.) It’s calorie conscious: at only five calories per serving, it’s a way better craving suppressant than even rice cakes—which tally in at about 20 calories per serving. And, D.) Its relatively inexpensive: five dollars will buy you enough flavor dust to mix 10 liters of deliciousness—you’d have to wait for a blue light special to find even SODA POP that cheap.

I guess I’m not really sure what the moral of this whole story is, but I will say this, if you’ve never had Crystal Light, or if its been a while, or if you’re trying to cut caloric corners without forsaking flavor, go out and buy yourself a couple of tubes of Crystal Light. It’s like Kool-Aid for grown-ups. “Oh yeah!”

Suddenly sanctioning soccer

Well, they say there’s a first time for everything. This weekend I attended my first ever professional soccer match, and not just a professional game, but it was a double header—including a US vs. Costa Rica World Cup qualifier.

“Anakin, if one is to understand the great mystery,

one must study ALL its aspects. Not just the [awesome,

nearly perfect] view of the [football players].”

Growing up, I never had much respect for soccer players. I’ve always thought it was a great sport for girls—in fact, there were a lot of cute girls on the soccer team. But boys soccer happened during the same season as football—that all-american sport which turns boys into men and men into heroes. Maybe that seasonal conflict of schedules is what made me always dislike the sport. It seemed to stand in opposition of everything football stood for: Football is solely American, where as soccer is international (I like to think of it as the communist sport). Football players are big and tough who play through pain and injury whereas soccer players in my school were short scrappy guys who always seemed to play up an kick to the shin guards as a game-halting debilitation. Football players seemed like down to earth guys, whereas the soccer players even had a sense of off-field fashion uncommon with any other group.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“…Look, a few minutes ago you said

you didn't want to just wait here...

Now all you want to do is stay?”

“[Attending a SOCCER match] is not what I had in mind.”

“...She's rich.”

“Rich?”

“Rich, powerful! Listen, if you were to [attend

with] her, the reward would be...”

“What?”

“Well more [fun] than you can imagine.”

“I don't know, I can imagine quite a bit!”

I went with my friend Aly, who isn’t rich, but her uncle is—he’s the owner of the team. We were there with four of her brothers (which is only about half of them) and their wives, and I have to admit… the game was a lot of fun. The tickets were free (a price which always enhances the fun) through her uncle, but they weren’t exactly a luxury suite. We were kinda high up, but right at mid-field, and we could see everything brilliantly (I figure it’s fitting to use British idioms here since that’s where the game originated).

“I'm sorry. I don't fully understand. This is a strange [sport] to me.”

I’ve always known soccer players were a rare breed, but I had no idea how insane soccer FANS could be. People had their hair dyed and their faces painted (a ritual which seems completely normal for a sport as cool as football, but for something as dull as soccer it seems a little extreme), EVERYbody brings a flag to wave, and there are these musically challenged people all around the stadium who are either blowing horns, banging drums, or singing chants the entire game through. It seemed I was in for a long afternoon.

“Now, for this cause I know that [soccer is pretty okay],
which thing I never had supposed.”

But as shocked as I was by the fans, I was that much more surprised by the game—I actually liked it. What’s cool about soccer is that any time the ball gets past two-thirds of the way down field (in either direction) everybody stands up because you know there’s going to be some intense action—either an amazing offensive play or a remarkable defensive play. And since I don’t really understand much of the strategy of the game, even the mid-field play was fun to watch because it was interesting for me to see that they don’t just try to push the ball up field with one deep kick, rather they move it up field in slow controlled passes. Plus I finally understood why they totally ham up their injuries: they don’t have time outs or huddles, so an over exaggerated injury is really the only break time they get.

“I DO like green eggs and ham. I do like them Sam I am.”

So, it turns out soccer isn’t all that bad. In fact, my bro D$ has even convinced me to play World Cup soccer games on Xbox and to enjoy kicking the soccer ball around just for fun. And I really do enjoy it. It seems kind of dumb to just kick a ball back and forth, but the truth is that I’m lousy enough at it that even doing just that is challenging enough to keep my attention. Plus there are a lot of different things you can do in just a simple pass kick. Sometimes I’ll think, “this time I want to kick it in the air,” or “this time I want to do it with my left foot,” or “this time I want to stop it with my left, flip it up with my right, and kick it with my left.”

“You know, I did feel something.

I COULD almost [accept soccer as a worthwhile sport].”

“That's good. You have taken your first step into a larger world.”

I still think football is the greatest sport this world has ever known, but I no longer believe that soccer is the dumbest. In fact, it’s pretty fun… to play AND to watch. I always worried about what I would do/think/feel if my sons decided they preferred to play soccer over football, I’ve never been totally against it—I’d love my kids even if they decided they didn’t want to carry on the Bryant name—but every American dad has a dream (even if its unvoiced) that his son will grow up to be a football star, and I think I’m learning enough about how to enjoy soccer that if I ever have a kid who chooses soccer over football, I think I’d be okay with that… just as long as he PLAYS soccer and isn’t one of those half naked annoying lunatic fans in the stands blowing the horns and banging the drums!