I wanted to talk about Star Wars but he kept wanting to sing songs from the Grease soundtrack. Every time I started talking about Roger Staubach, he would change the subject to what kind of shoes looked best with his jeans. For a ten-year-old, this was a very frustrating play date. My best friend from fifth grade was confusing me and I couldn’t figure it out. At school, all of us kids kind of talked about the same stuff and seemed to be interested in all the same “boy” things. But now, at his house on a Sunday afternoon, under the glare of one-on-one interaction, he and I seemed very different. I couldn’t put my finger on it then, but looking back thirty-five years later, I’m fairly certain my friend was …gay.
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It’s my birthday …and I am dying. I wanted my friends and family to be the first to know about my condition. I’ve been concealing it for some time and I’ve tried to act like it wasn’t happening, but it is and I have to finally face it publicly. It’s easy to seduce yourself into believing you’re going to live forever. But the cold, harsh truth is I am not going to live forever. As I write this, I am moving toward the ultimate finality we all face and fear. I am closer to whatever I have believed about the afterlife and heaven and ultimate healing than I ever have been. As much as I love all of you and as much as I want to stay close to you, and as much as I absolutely adore my wife and kids, I find myself in the painful position of knowing I will have to say goodbye. That breaks my heart the most. I am dying. The doctors have all confirmed it …and I wanted you all to know before any more time passed.
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As much as I love Michael Jordan, I can’t look at him without thinking of Marcus. The coy smile, the fluid athleticism, the constant, yet subtle gum chewing and, oh yes, the black skin, all remind me of my fourth grade classmate Marcus. I can’t remember his last name but I remember he looked exactly like a nine-year old Michael Jordan. He was taller, faster and stronger than me, even though we were the same age. He could fly on the monkey bars without ever getting tired. He could run for the entire play period and barely break a sweat. He seemed to glide through the air – he was aerodynamic. When teams were being picked for anything, Marcus was first on everybody’s list. With good cause too, his team always won. I was always picked somewhere in the middle. I won some and lost some, depending on whether or not I was on Marcus’ team. I knew in the fourth grade that Marcus was superior to me physically. I didn’t know why but I instinctively knew there was no amount of practice or training I could do that would grant me equality to Marcus on the kickball court. If a foot race broke out I would run as hard and as fast as my relatively new legs could carry me, but in my heart I knew I would never taste victory over Marcus. He was better.[read full blog»]

It’s a rite of passage – a step in the direction of enlightenment and understanding. The skill, bravery and organizational maturity that will be achieved in this cultural crucible will shape and sculpt the young minds and bodies of the future. Yes …I’m talking about T-ball. As I watch my five-year-old and his compatriots kick dirt around their heels, put their gloves on the wrong hands and run to third base after hitting the ball, I see something important taking place. These tiny men are learning the rules of a game. They’re learning how to work as a team. They’re learning how to master a sport and themselves (and trust me, both are going to take a while). At the end of every practice the coach calls them in to huddle up and yells out the question that instinctively lets them know who the perverbial “good guys” and “bad guys” are. He screams, “who are we?” The unified reply echos through the suburban air …”WHITESOX!” This is how boys become men.[read full blog»]

The internet has allowed us all to spout off about …well …everything. I blog and comment and post and tweet and do whatever is available. I believe in freedom of speech and, by God, I participate. You should too. It’s healthy and cathartic and (I believe) your duty to speak your mind. At no other time in history has it been easier and more encouraged to speak out. Tell me what your daughter said before her dance recital. Tell us where you’re going for lunch. Post the pic of that new car you’re buying. Blog about how much you hate haters and love potato chips. I’m all for it. Bring it on! I love freedom of speech …I really do. One of the things we get to see, through open forum however, is what someone really is. For better or worse, your posts and your speech will tell the story of what you think about and what is important to you. In some ways, you could take a post thread and tell the story of someone’s life. I think about that whenever I post something …or take something down.[read full blog»]

It was one of those rubber slidy, bouncy places, with nets and safety precautions at every turn. You know …the new “thrill-without-danger” zones for kids these days. I took my five-year-old and his friend to a birthday party at this colorful, loud, soulless amusement warehouse, where the middle class is squeezed for disposable income on cake, juice boxes and 45-minute sets of physical exertion that will hopefully tire out the children. We, the weekend-weary, middle aged frumps, stand in lines and move like cattle through the rules of engagement that are yelled into our numb brains by the twenty-somethings working their way through college. They hope to one day graduate, get a job and start a family …so they can end up like us. It’s exhilarating.[read full blog»]

I watch the NFL Network …not MTV (or whatever the new music channel is these days). Still, because a music superstar died last week, I’m compelled to comment on it. Actually, I’ve been desperately searching for things to say about the passing of Whitney Houston. I haven’t really shed a tear or gotten sentimental or waxed poetic or anything of the sort. The truth is I’m actually surprised she lived as long as she did. While my heart sincerely goes out to her daughter and family, unfortunately I think we all saw this coming in a way. It’s tragic …yet expected somehow.[read full blog»]

It was a social networking site that shall remain nameless …but it rhymes with “spy place.” I tried to type a certain word, in a blog, and it wouldn’t allow it. No mater how hard I tried, “a” …followed by “bortion” was simply not allowed on this particular site. To this day, I have no idea why. But I was never able to speak freely about this word in any blog …on the nameless site …that rhymes with “fly case.” I don’t talk about this “A” word much anyway, but it seems that lately, said “A” word, the Catholic Church and political posturing are all back in the news …
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