Fantasy Fridays
July 13th, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Wide Receievers
I got one thing to say about wide receivers: Who knows?
Calvin Johnson is the consensus number one wide out. Megatron deserves it, and ought to be drafted in the first round. Okay, granted. But despite his monster year, you know what he did in the critical five week stretch of weeks 10-14? Megatron forgot to be Mega. In four of those five weeks, Tron went single digit. The one week he doubled, he barely scratched 10 on the board. Need a broader sample? Okay, let’s take a look at the number ten WR, Mike Wallace. Wallace was an early round pick last year. And in most leagues, he towed #1 WR duties for some poor sap, who got one double digit output from Wallace in the second half. From weeks 10-17, he scored 2 TDs, both of ’em in one game. That’s 7 of 8 games without a TD. Ouch, mommy, that hurts.
I think as the trend moves toward pass heavy offenses, it hurts the #1 WR. It sounds crazy, but bear with me a minute. Pass happy offenses mean defenses need to adjust. Corners and Safeties are drafted higher; they sign bigger contracts. More teams are stocking three, four legit corners. The #1 WR obviously gets the lion’s share of attention from these beefed up secondaries. Andre Johnson, Larry Fitz, and Megatron will always be doubled. Always. The defenders they pull opens gaping holes for #2s, slot receivers, tight ends. Why throw to Dez Bryant through a tight window when Laurent Robinson is standing alone in the end zone? It’s why we know names like Antonio Brown, Victor Cruz, and Jordy Nelson.
No doubt about it; you need a couple solid receivers. The trend of ballooning pass offenses demand it. What remains in doubt is who those solid receivers will be. Again, who knows? I don’t. And so I’m planning on waiting … you know, put something together piecemeal.
Please help …
July 11th, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I pray for my kids. Just about everyday. That might get you thinking, “But I don’t believe in God.” Do you suppose that prayers are said only by those who “believe” in God? Think about it. Even at this very moment, how many people are saying, “Oh, please …” In how many places? How many languages? In many cases the one to whom the petition is directed is not even identified. A soldier looking out into a battlefield, a parent in an ICU waiting room, the starving, the homeless, they utter the call of the desperate. It raises for me some interesting questions about the nature of faith.
I have a vision for my son, for my daughters. I didn’t have to try formulate one. Just held ’em in my hands, and Wham! There it was. Can’t shake it, this beautiful picture of the lives they will lead. Part and parcel with the vision are the fears. Holding the most precious things I’d ever held, I could sense them gathering at the door – real and imagined, all that would oppose the realization of my hopes.
You know what I’ve learned? Forget about bringing my children through all that oppose them; forget about me making it happen. As much as I’ve tried, I’ve learned that I get in the way. It’s rough. The countless times I’ve caught myself not able to get out of my own way. I know what I ought to do, but for the life of me, can’t get myself to consistently do it. And yet I love my kids. I can’t shake the vision. So, I pray. I do. And it’s not so much evidence of my “belief” in God as it is a confession that I do not believe in myself.
Just about every day I utter the call of the desperate, the call of a father, “Please help …”
Marriage Mondays
July 9th, 2012 § Leave a Comment
If you want to live, let go …
Awhile back, a friend, a former Los Angeles County lifeguard told us a harrowing story. He was on duty at a beach notorious for attracting a heavy crowd of inexperienced swimmers. During his shift, he saw two large women in trouble. According to him, once you swim out, the prudent thing to do is to take a moment and assess the situation. The reason being: A drowning adult is a dangerous person. On this occasion he could not because he was alone, and one of the women was already going under. He threw his flotation device at the one above water, and went under to grab the submerged woman. As soon as he got to her, she clamped onto him like a hungry octopus. When he tried to tear away, he discovered not only was the woman large, she was strong. He tried to swim up for air. The drowning woman instinctively latched onto the part of him pointed toward the surface – his head. With the large woman wrapped around his head by an adrenaline juiced death grip, he was now fighting for his life. Fear drove the woman to try to drown the one man there to help her.
It’s a good picture of so many marriages. You’ve waited all your life – a life, let’s face it, that often feels like you’re barely keeping your head above water – for someone to come along and rescue you. While dating, you hide your fears and your need for a savior so as not to spook ’em. “Oh, I’m fine. Look, you see. I can kinda swim.” And then he/she swims in, puts a hand on you, and “BAM!” The death grip. Save me! That’s fear talking.
Your husband cannot save you. Your wife cannot deliver you. Your spouse is not the answer. No one can swim with you wrapped around their head. No one.
If you want to live, let go.
Fantasy Friday
July 6th, 2012 § 1 Comment
Tight Ends
The Beast moniker is overused in sports. Anyone who does anything big is a beast. “He’s a beast off the tee.” You know you just called a guy wearing an argyle, vest sweater, and white trousers – a guy standing on a manicured tee box of a private country club a beast, right? No. The name ought to be reserved for those select few who literally send shivers down our collective spine – the ones who freeze us in jaw-gaping, glass-dropping terror.
Robert James Gronkowski is a beast. The Gronk, all 6’6″ 265 of him. The dude is huge. Now combine that size with … okay, I’m gonna say what we’ve all been thinking … Gronk isn’t the brightest bulb on the chandelier. C’mon, you’ve thought it. You’ve watched the post game interviews, the YouTube clip of the wild, post Superbowl flail dance. He’s missing that something connected to inhibitions, to calculating risk. It’s what helps him be singularly minded on a football field. “Gronk catch, Gronk run, Gronk spike ball real hard.” This past season, watching him barreling down the field like a starving giant palming a loaf of stolen bread, I involuntarily muttered Beast. And I suspect a few undersized defensive backs did the same as they braced themselves for a beating. The combination of size and his single-minded, recklessness makes Rob Gronkowski a certifiable beast.
Will the beast go in the first round in your draft? If we knew the beast goes off again this year, then we’d have to draft him early. But before we get too excited, remember, Gronk had the best season by a Tight End ever. Ever! How often does ever get repeated? Welker and Hernandez are still there. And the Pats just added Brandon Lloyd and Jabar Gaffney, who I think both fit the system better than Ocho. And then all those Defenses that were abused, they’ve been up all night studying. You know what happens to monsters – to beasts. They run amuck for a while – terrorize the countryside. But eventually they send in the mob with the pitch forks; eventually they fly in the airplanes. And we all know how that story ends.
Beast or no beast, I’m not taking a Tight End in the first round.
Can You Say, Ball?
July 5th, 2012 § Leave a Comment
My kid’s first word was “ball”. Yeah. You’d think as a parent, I’d be bummed about that. I wasn’t. No, because I’m a father. And like many other fathers, I’ve dreamt of my kid being a star athlete. So, when he blew right past “Mama” and “Dada” and went straight to “ball”, I turned to my wife in fascinated delight, “Is he saying ball? I think he’s saying ball.” Once confirmed, I stood up, inhaled deeply and beamed with pride, “Well, would you look at that.”
The kid is a pretty good athlete. More than freakish natural ability, he possesses a competitive spirit and a solid work ethic. Is he going to be signing a multi-million dollar contract to play in front of thousands of adoring fans? Not likely. Will his athletic prowess garner him a free ride through college? Not discounting it. But really, how many kids get that?
I’ve learned: dreams are mine, reality is ours. I can try to wedge him into my dream, or meet him in our reality. In this real life, I’ve jumped up and down in cheer. Watched as he made that catch and beat the rest to the wall. I’ve put my arm around him to console him, and I’ve barked at him to spur him on. I’ve coached him on the importance of balance, and on not letting the ball get into his palm. We’ve talked of courage. And that you never, ever give up. More than anything, we’ve played ball together – stood out front and tossed it around. And really, isn’t this the dream?
Marriage Mondays
July 2nd, 2012 § 2 Comments
Frank Zappa: “I detest ‘love lyrics’.”
“Yes, Frank! I hate love songs too.” They’re lame. “I can’t live, if living means without you…” “Oh, my love, my darling I’ve hungered for your touch … I need your love I need your love God speed your love to me!” “I”m lying alone with my head on the phone, thinking of you til it hurts. I know you hurt too, but what else can we do? …” Geez. Kick me in the head.
Nope, not just generational. I listen to my kids’ music. The same lameness. “I’d catch a grenade for ya Throw my hand on the blade for ya I’d jump in front of a train for ya You know I’d do anything for ya See I would go through all this pain Take a bullet straight through my brain Yes I would die for ya, baby But you won’t do the same.” Bruno, that’s not love; that’s a big fat lie. The same ol’ whinny, sappy, sorry stuff.
The trouble with “love songs” is there’s really very little love in them. It’s all “me, me, me”; “I, I, I”. Then they glorify the “extraordinary” at the expense of the “ordinary”. From our youth, they make us sigh and long for a life not our own. As the years go by, as gravity pulls our “love” down to Earth, we bemoan, “You don’t bring me flowers … anymore.” C’mon. The pinnacle of love can’t be youthful intoxication.
Love goes something like this: “I’d watch an episode of Glee for ya I’d clean our baby’s pee for ya I’d jump in line at Macy’s for ya You know I’d do anything for ya See I would go through all this pain Wash the dishes, clean the drain Yes I die a little each day for ya, baby And you don’t have to do the same.”
No Wimps Continued
June 27th, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Every Korean American kid growing up had one of these – an Ivy League cousin. Damn you, Ivy League cousin! Mine was not Ivy League, but that’s “splitting hairs”. He finished his undergrad in a little over two years, and went on to MIT for his Masters and Doctorate. Crushed all of this before turning 30. Pssh. The funny thing is I don’t even know this guy. I’ve seen him once, maybe. Oh, but my folks made sure I knew of him … well, of his academic exploits, anyway. What does an eleven year old kid with a C average do with that kind of info? What is Massachusetts Institute of Technology? If the idea was to motivate me into the Oak paneled halls of some dusty Ivy League Institution, it didn’t work. What it did accomplish was it told me: “In things that matter most, you don’t measure up kid.”
Not good. So, what now? The answer isn’t to blow up MIT. Or stop handing out grades. Nor do we solve anything by disparaging the accomplishments of Ivy League cousin. I think it’s an adjustment in the “What matters most” category. And as I’ve said before, I think children are often closer to “What matters most” than we adults. Your child may not get into MIT. He may not play in the NBA. She may not be a concert pianist. Not everyone is a doctor or an Olympic athlete. But they can all take a step toward Courage, Humility, Compassion …
He just missed qualifying for Championships by a second. It was the last meet of the season, so the last chance to get a qualifying time. All week, he had worked hard, putting in extra time outside of practice. As he walked briskly away from the timers, shoulders shrugged and head down as boys often do when trying to hold back tears, I saw he had missed it. When I caught him, he told me what I already knew – his face trying without much success to hide the disappointment. If at that moment, being the fastest was the most important thing, I would have been useless to my Son in his time of need. I haven’t always gotten it right, but on that day, I grabbed him by his little shoulders. I told him it was okay to be disappointed. I was disappointed for him. I told him I was sorry. Then I told him how proud I was of him. He had the courage to believe he could do it. And he worked hard and raced hard. “You gave it everything. I saw it. There will be other races. You are great.”
I don’t want to do away with races. It was a precious time for us to remember what matters most. On a stage of competition, in his time of failure, we were given an opportunity to affirm his greatness. Hey, he’s no wimp.
Marriage Mondays
June 26th, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Beer Cart Girl
Like Pavlov’s dog, seeing an oversized beer cooler on wheels sputtering toward them gets the foursome of middle-aged men at attention – salivating, the tail involuntarily wagging. And then you see her, behind the wheel – shapely, cute, barely-out-of-her-teens optimism. “Hi, guys!” She bubbles. She can’t be happier to see you. “You guys need anything?” Can it get better? She actually wants to serve you beer! Bless her heart, she’s been scouring the golf course for you, to refresh you ’cause God knows beating up a golf course is hard work. What a nice girl.
When she steps out in her cute little outfit – the tiny shorts, the snug shirt so as you don’t miss any of her youthful perkiness – you say to yourself, “DAAAAAMN.” As she happily digs in to grab you your beers, her enthusiasm says in effect, “Not only do you deserve to be out here away from wife and kids, it’s really hard work breaking 100. Let me get you an ice cold beer.” By this time, you don’t even care that she’s charging you $5 per. In fact, you’re so grateful you’re ready to chip off the biggest tip of your life. As she drives off, she gives you a delicate wave, “See you guys later.”
“Okay.” (For proper effect, insert own doofus mimicry)
Ah… Why can’t my wife be more like the beer cart girl?
Wake up dude! You’re wife can’t be more like beer cart girl ‘cause beer cart girl is not real. She’s a player in a five-minute vignette of a male fantasy. First of all, she was cast in the role. What do you think are the hiring criteria for beer cart girl? Do you think they give ’em a driving test? She knows; she’s dressed the part. Secondly, she meets you on a golf course! Your happy place. When she meets you, she just needs to be happy for five minutes. That’s it. Man, beer cart girl ain’t happy to see you. Look around. You’ve fallen into a distinct demographic: Ugly, middle-aged men who’ve been forced to trade in games requiring running and jumping for a game of walking. And then even the walking became too much and so you’ve opted for motorized assistance. She’s smiling ’cause she knows how easy it is to separate you from your cash. And if the thing isn’t stacked enough, she rolls up in a mobile beer cooler.
Your wife can’t be more like beer cart girl because beer cart girl is not real. Anyone can be bubbly for five minutes. Your wife, she has to live with you – love you for real.
Fantasy Friday
June 22nd, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Running Backs
I like Running Backs.
In my opinion, you ought to use your top five picks to secure a couple of solid ones. Quarterbacks are predictable. We pretty much can name the top five Quarterbacks before the season starts. Relatively speaking, they are not major injury risks. And in a standard 12 team league, there are plenty of serviceable QBs. These reasons tell me to wait on a QB.
Wide Receivers are the exact opposite: They are unpredictable. Every year in fantasy, there is an undrafted WR goin’ off. Couple years ago it was Brandon Lloyd. This past year it was Victor Cruz. Here are some names from the list of last year’s top ten fantasy WR: Jordy Nelson, Wes Welker, Victor Cruz, Steve Smith, and Percy Harvin. The opposite tell me the same thing: Wait on WRs.
Running Backs are less predictable than the QB – due mostly to injury – but more predictable than the WRs. There are fewer serviceable ones than either spots. All this tells me, “Grab a RB early. Two, if you can.”
Here’s my top ten, and a quick thought for each:
1. Arian Foster – Again, I love Arian Foster.
2. Ray Rice – Sturdy, runs and catches, and pro bowl fullback. Better than Flacco.
3. LeSean McCoy – Little too much dancing. Can he repeat 20 TDs?
4. Chris Johnson – C’mon. He couldn’t have forgotten how to run.
5. Maurice Jones Drew – Just keeps on ticking. Blaine Gabbert can’t be worse, right?
6. Ryan Mathews – With Gates aging, Jackson gone, SD gets balanced.
7. Darren McFadden – Chicken legs. Roll the dice; pray for them legs?
8. Marshawn Lynch – Skittles strikes me as a bit volatile. Beastmode or apathy?
9. Adrian Peterson – If he says he’s good, and he is there in the 4th. How can I pass?
10. DeMarco Murray – Dallas will score pts. And everyone saw Murray do what Jones could not.
Honorable Mention: Darren Sproles – Can he do it again?
Michael Turner, Frank Gore, Steven Jackson, Fred Jackson – Kinda like driving with the gas warning light on. Nervous.
Peterson the only one coming off major injury to make the list. Never loved Charles, Mendenhall, or Forte. Hillis, Redman, and Bush mess with all their value.
No Wimps
June 20th, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I’ve gotten wind of something called the Wimpification of America. Have you heard this? Not sure who coined the term, but sounds like a reaction to the smothering of kids with too much care. Coddling. I guess there are people out there who advocate things like not keeping score in soccer games and not handing out grades in school. Their reasoning being we need to shelter our children from the trauma of loss, of failure. I suppose if you let them, they’d get rid of all forms of measurements. No child would be overweight. None slow. Every kid would be smart. Everyone, musical. Not true. And you don’t have to tell a kid that. They already know.
“Make up your mind, dude! Which is it? Do we tell them they’re great? Or do we tell them the truth?” Fair question. It’s complicated. As parents, I’m suggesting we have to wade through the complexities to be able to tell them both – the truth that they are great.
By All babies are beautiful I’m not saying, “Everyone wins.” What I am saying is that though things like winning, being pretty, or getting an “A” are meaningful, they are not close to as important to the measure of greatness as are other things. Dr. King put it well when he said, “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” I don’t think he meant that the color of their skin was irrelevant. It was just not as important as the content of their character. Had we ordered those properly, we would have seen that they were every bit as great as any other child. Love, Trust, Humility, Honesty, Mercy. These being foundations upon which we build Courage, Perseverance, Generosity, Kindness.
I find that very young children are closer to this truth than us who’ve grown to forget it. We’ve lived too long in a world in which the most, the best, the strongest is everything. To be able to tell our kids the truth that they are great, we need to adjust more than they. And the littlest ones can help us with that adjustment. In a world that incessantly says otherwise, they can help us order our values aright.
And by trying to rid ourselves of them, aren’t we really saying these measurements are everything? Our kids don’t believe that. Neither should we. Hey, no wimps here.
