Vacation's All I Ever Wanted

August 12, 2006

We took a trip into the strange but fun this summer when we visited my wife's folks for a week in Castle Rock, CO. One of the days she suggested we visit one of her favorite childhood vacation spots, the "North Pole" outside Colorado Springs. If you have ever visited the "North Pole" you know what a crazy, tripped out place it is. It's a Christmas theme park for little kids with county fair style amusement park rides.

The "North Pole" is located in the mountains just west of Colorado Springs. It's far enough out of the way that the boys actually thought we were going to the real North Pole. And when you pull up to the gate it's like you stepped into a scene from the movie, "A Christmas Story." Nothing but 1950's style Christmas decorations and theme rides as far as the eye could see. The boys emerged from our car and stared wide eyed at the huge ceramic Santa Claus greeting us at the front gate.

The park is actually a great place for kids around age 10 and under. Every square inch of the place was decorated in Christmas theme. Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" crooned from the sound system. All the workers were dressed as elves. There were reindeer holed up at a petting zoo. It was beautiful.

The boys tore into the rides for the first hour. In the middle of the park is a huge North Pole made out of ice. Not realizing it was solid ice, our oldest reached out to lean on it and smashed his face right into it. No real harm done so we continued our journey to the "Little Chapel of Christmas" where they had a small wooden chapel with Jesus, Mary, Santa Claus, Rudolph, and Frosty the Snowman. And they were all shopping at Wal Mart. The boys and I walked out a bit confused but forgot about the chapel after a cotton candy break. We then turned out attention to Santa's Workshop where a genuine Santa Claus had the boys sit on his lap and ask what they wanted for Christmas. I told my wife I didn't realize Santa had an Australian accent and got shushed.

The day was a smashing success. It was Christmas in August. We finally headed out and said good buy to all the worker elves. That is when the perfect day turned very, very ugly. Our decent into Colorado Springs started off innocently enough. The boys were cranky so we handed out snacks. And then we hit the mother of all traffic jams.

I-25 from Colorado Springs to Denver is always crowded and slow. But it's REALLY crowded and slow when there is an accident. About half way through Colorado Springs traffic came to a complete stop. We waited about 5 minutes before our baby girl started crying and the boys began fighting. You see, we took my mother-in-law's smaller Toyota Prius to save gas money and avoid wear and tear on our van. So all three kids were crammed into the back seat. Our girl's crying was magnified by the cramped quarters and the boys were beginning guerilla warfare.

I glanced at the snack provisions. Two cheese slices, a half a peanut butter sandwich and one fruit chew snack. We also had a bit of water left. Could be trouble. I pass out the cheese slices. We move about a 1/4 mile and then stop again. The baby's crying has raised to screaming level. The boys are demanding arbitration for the remaining fruit chew snacks. "Hey!" I suggest, "Why don't we try and pray a Rosary and see if we start to move again?" I mark our spot on the side of the road by an empty Burger King bag. Surely God will help us out of this jam?

25 minutes later the Burger King bag is mocking me. God has abandoned us. The baby's screaming is beginning to pierce my brain. Nothing calms her. I watch a weed spout up from the side of the road and grow into a full blown plant. Then for the next 45 minutes we inch forward 10 yards and stop. Each time I think we're going to get moving but we don't. I've run out of threats for the boys and they know I'm bluffing. I fantasize about leaping out of the car and running like the wind down the open shoulder of the road to the tune of "Born Free". A wad of peanut butter to the back of the head brings me back. A family to our left enjoys a movie in their spacious Yukon/Sequoia/Canyonero 4x4 sport utility. It looks like they're singing. And drinking champagne. The voices in my head tell me to kill them.

We finally start moving slowly. The baby passes out. Then the boys pass out. Freedom! Sweat Georgia Brown we're moving and they're asleep! We head for Castle Rock and I start fantasizing about whether I'm going to start with beer or go straight to the hard stuff when we get back to my wife's parents' house. But just when we thought we were out of it...our oldest throws up.

Oh it's a beauty too. The car now smells like a cheesy, peanutty, fruit chew snack. The stench wakes up the baby who starts to scream again. My hallucinations start in again for the final 20 minutes. We finally pull into the driveway and we bail out of the car like it's on fire. On the bright side, my decision is made for me and I break into the hard stuff.

Fortunately the rest of our trip was fun and we didn't experience the decent into hell that we experience on I-25. However,next year's vacation is booked. We're heading to Seward. I hear their county fair is awesome.

Come and Get It

June 1, 2006

Hope your summer is off to a good start. We are getting ready for our oldest son's first t-ball game and my wife has a complex schedule of swimming lessons, play dates, work and naps all ready to go. I thought I'd share the latest struggle at our house. It involves the family meal.

We make it a point to try and eat as a family in the evenings. But it is not without serious effort. One side of the table we have one son, whose list of foods-he-will-eat consists of bread, water, butter, apples and Lucky Charms. On the other side we have our second son who will eat anything, but eats it too fast and is in perpetual motion at the table so much so that it makes you dizzy.

Our oldest analyzes a plate of food like one of the cops from CSI. You put a plate in front of him that contains cheese slices, bread with butter on it, apple slices and ham bits. You say a quick prayer and hope he eats something. But then the investigation begins.

Oldest son, "Is this the kind of apples I like?"
Me, "Yes. It's the kind you had yesterday."
Oldest son, "Are they Golden Apples, or Washington?"
Me, with sweat starting to form on my upper lip, "Um, Golden?"
Oldest son, "Dad, I hate Golden. These cheese slices look weird. Why did you cut them so small?"
Me, starting to turn red, "Because I thought you liked them small."
Oldest son, "Dad, I like them longer than this. Is this butter on my bread? I like butter. But not too much. It looks like you put too much butter on the bread dad."
Me, suppressing a twitch starting to begin in my left eye, "I can take some butter off."
Oldest son, "Now there's not enough butter dad. Why did you take so much butter off?"
Me, "EAT YOUR MOTHER SCRATCHING BREAD AND BUTTER BEFORE I MAKE YOU EAT WITH THE DOG OUTSIDE YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE FOOL!!!!"

Ok, I don't actually say that last line out loud, but I mouth it every now and then.

Our second son is the world's happiest eater but he eats entirely too fast. I set the plat down in front of him. We say grace. I look down to pick up my fork. I look up and his plate is clean and he's walking out of the kitchen. Half the time you get sucked into his quick eating habits and before you know it, you're shoveling food down your gullet just trying to keep up. It becomes some type of contest where I'm the slow tempo basketball team, he likes to run and gun, and I'm getting run out of the gym. He is also all over his chair. Kneeling on the chair. Doing handstands on the chair. Falling off the chair. Getting his foot stuck in the chair and screaming in pain. Lecturing the dog, "No Casey! No! My food!!!" When he's finished he heads out of the kitchen and I run after him to bring him back to wash his hands before the living room drapes become ketchup stained with finger prints.

Our oldest will try a new food. Oh I don't know, something exotic like a cheeseburger. He gets so worked up he makes himself gag. You can see it coming so you hopefully have a chance to swallow your own food before the drama begins. There's the initial gag. The effort not to gag. A more violent gag. An attempt to swallow mixed with a look of a drowning man. Then the lean over to the trash can and the spitting up. Then a representative from the Academy brings him the Oscar for "Best supporting actor in a family dinner time drama."

And both of them have a unique talent for spilling their cup of water, juice, milk, etc. I've come to expect at least one spill each meal. I've actually become quite good at the clean up. I just have a towel handy, tucked in my back pocket, and I spring into action to wipe up the spill before the glass hits the floor. And don't you dare give one kid a cup the other kid wanted or you'll be heading back to the cupboard to find two identical, "Over the Hedge" movie cups.

We've actually made some progress with our oldest's picky eating habits. He's expanded to an occasional orange and now eats Honey Nut Cheerios. And yet with all this, when we holler at the boys to "Come and get it", they scream, "OK!" and race to the table with smiles and laughter.

They're not fooling anybody. Somebody pass me the Lucky Charms.

Praise the Lord and Pass the Aspirin

March 21, 2006

Greetings from Lincoln. Spring has arrived which means we were due for our first major snowstorm of the year. I just spent an hour shoveling snow off our roof. Yes our roof. The two feet of snow will melt and probably bust out our aging gutters so I tried not to kill myself. The dangerous thing about the deep snow is it would have muffled my screams if I took a dive off the house. Thankfully no major injuries.

Thought I would share the latest funny episode at our house. It involves going to church. Those with young children know that going to church with kids is risky business. You never know when a screaming episode might break out. Our oldest is fine in church but now that we have a baby to go with our second child, I'm not getting anything accomplished at Mass. I mostly spend the hour watching the two of them like a hawk, looking for the slightest sign of an impending eruption. Fortunately for us, so far, the baby has slept in her car seat peacefully. But I get nervous when I see her face get scrunched up. You have to decode the facial expressions. "Is that her 'I've got gas' face or the 'Get me out of this car seat you idiot or I'm going to make you wish you were never born' face?" The differences are subtle but deadly.

Nothing is worse than being caught in the middle of the pew with a screaming kid and making the walk of shame out to the back. Actually it's more like a circus act as you sprint as fast as you can out of the pew, avoiding all the down kneelers and feet while trying not to fall and kill yourself and your screaming child. All while maintaining a prayerful presence. You really feel for the parents that don't make it out in time. They're like a comrade in arms that goes down in battle. Last week a child erupted like Mt. St. Helen and the dad was fumbling to get out of the pew. I thought to myself, as the dad scurried for the exit, "Poor bastard never had a chance."

Our second child is a different animal all together. His church game is multi dimensional; he can beat you with the screaming, the crying, the laughing or the bolting. For the most part the kid is great but beneath the sunny smiling church pew disposition is real volatility. His worst episode occurred a couple weeks ago was when he was playing balancing beam on the kneeler, took a header and smashed his head on the hard wooden back of the pew. Fortunately for me he gave the "Delayed- level 10 -red faced -mouth open -no sound coming out - holy crap that really hurt my head" scream and I scooped him up and was halfway down the aisle before the scream came out.

Well this past Sunday proved just how devious the mind of a child is. We were sitting near the back as usual and our second child could see kids playing in the vestibule of the church behind the closed doors. He kept pointing to the kids and was thinking, "Hey can I get in on that action out there?" I shook my head no. That's when it happened. Remembering the hitting his head on the pew episode from a couple weeks earlier, he calmly turned and faced forward, sized up the pew, paused, and gave it a good head butt! I couldn't believe it! The pure evil genius of it all! Fortunately it was a half hearted attempt at self inflicted pain and he just winced and rubbed his head and pointed to the kids again. No screaming. I looked at my wife and we both starting laughing uncontrollably. Un-freaking-believable.

After Mass Father noticed the red mark on my son's forehead and asked "What happened?" I just responded "You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

Field of 5 Year Olds

July 27, 2005

Happy summer to everyone. We've just completed a successful t-ball season here. I volunteered to coach our son's t-ball team this summer. NRC (short for National Research Corp) finished the season at 6 wins 2 losses. We had sharp royal blue t-shirts for uniforms. My son of course wore baseball pants so he could slide, and bright red cleats. This was his first crack at baseball. A few highlights, lowlights, and observations...

1) The league ordered these crappy, one-size fits all hats that were adjustable. As coach you spend most of your time during the game looking for players' hats, adjusting their hats, listening to endless complaints about how their hats don't fit. Mostly when the ball is in play. They're obsessed with their hats. A herd of raging bulls could be running toward my son and he would be oblivious to them, trying to fix his hat or asking me to fix it.

2) Your average t-ball player stops running to first base 3-4 feet before he gets to the bag, pretty much every time. They're just not capable of making it to first. Now second base, that's no problem. They run through second base right on out into the outfield with gusto. Or they run into right field, left field, anywhere but second base. I finally purchased a set of dog hunting collars and put them on the boys and zapped them every time they overran second. By game 6 we had it down.

3) It takes until about the middle of the 2nd inning for the players to start asking what we have for snacks and if the game is about over yet.

4) A t-ball player has no idea where the shortstop position is. He'd have better luck finding the Holy Grail. I'd send a kid out to play shortstop and five minutes later he'd be wondering out in left field. I basically had to put on an orange vest, bring out a couple bright red batons and backed them right into position.

5) Nothing is better than a smile from a kid after he gets up from sliding into home plate.

6) They let you coach out in the field which is nice. A typical play would go like this... Ground ball hit to our pitcher. I say, "First Base!" Our pitcher turns towards third. I holler "First Base!" The pitcher starts to run into our dug out. I scream "First BASE!" He makes a motion towards home plate. I scream "First freaking BAAAAASSEEEEE!" my eyeballs popping out of my head. Our pitcher wheels around and throws a dart right at me, narrowly missing the onions.

7) You learn to multi-task. One time in the field, I had a player who had dirt in his eye, one had to go to the bathroom, one was thirsty, another asked me what inning it was, another was crying because he didn't want to play third, and another was in the middle of a detailed description of a rash he had.

8) Every single game is played in blazing 97 degree heat. You learn patience standing at home plate in sweltering heat, waiting for your player to pick up his bat, adjust his batting helping that is five sizes too big for him and approach the tee. "Any day now Johnny. Don't mind me, I'm just having a mild heat stroke here. I've got alllllll day for you." Of course those thoughts were never verbalized.

9) You want to be a good sport but sometimes original sin kicks in. After an opposing player took his 50th swing at the tee with no success our shortstop turned to me and said, "Coach this kid can't hit." I responded, "Can't argue with you there Billy. This guy sucks."

10) When the game's over, there's nothing better than a frozen Popsicle or ice cream sandwich. That's what they play for. That and glory.

1-2-3 NRC!!!!

Into the Abyss

April 14, 2005

The occasion of my oldest son's birthday and first soccer game have caused me to take an inventory of life, and pause and stare into the abyss that is organized soccer and sports and all things grown up, and I just have to ask a series of questions; how they hell did I get to be a soccer parent? What the hell are the rules of soccer? Am I going to be asked to riot at some point? Who is driving this train and how do I get off?

Now nothing against soccer...although I jokingly rant and rave against it, and maybe it's more of a mini mid-life crisis that was triggered by my son's kindergarten round up a month ago, but the soccer thing has me confused. I think it was the kindergarten round up. I walked into school for the orientation for kindergarten parents thinking, "Didn't I JUST graduate from kindergarten? How can I be a parent of a kindergartener? So maybe that freaked me out.

When you live in suburban America your kid signs up for soccer. I saw it coming a few months ago so I did a pre-emptive strike and volunteered to coach my son's tee-ball league this summer. It's like I'm USA and soccer is Russia and we're in an arms race. If my kid is going to play a European sport I'm going to do my darndest to counter it with America's pastime. Now you have to understand, where I grew up in the 80's there WAS NO SOCCER. We played baseball. Like Americans. But it's 2005 and baby, your kid is playing soccer and he's going to like it.

Of course my son is just dying for the day of his first game to come. He's been carrying around his yellow YMCA shirt all week. Game day finally does come Sunday. My parents are visiting and we all head down to the "soccer complex". It's lightly raining and I'm thinking maybe it'll be rained out and the other 5 games in the season will also get rained out and we'll move onto baseball. We get to the "soccer complex". I look to the fields. It looks like the half time show at the Super Bowl. It's all a chaotic sea of colored YMCA shirts and kids of all sizes running around in the rain. All that was missing was Paul McCartney, J-Lo, 50 Cent and Arosmith. We head for field 10 where my son is suppose to play, he and I leading the way ahead of my wife and my parents.

Well I don't know where the hell I'm going, there are 10 million fields and I don't know anybody from my son's team. I'm listening for the incredibly annoying "ole, ole, ole, ole...Ole..Ole" European song, but nobody's chanting it so I get a little more comfortable. We finally find my son's field and see some other kids and parents standing around. He and a buddy are eyeing the empty field and itching to get out there so I tell him, "Go ahead, go out there and play and wait for your coach." His perma-grin makes me feel a little guilty about hoping for a rain out.

His coach shows up and the team has a little practice before the game. Kids are running all over the place with little red cones on the ground and I'm thinking, "I have no freaking idea what's going on." This is micro soccer which is 3-on-3, and anything goes. The game starts and the two coaches referee and try to keep the kids within the boundaries of the field. It's wet and a parent asks us if my son has cleats. Cleats? He wipes out on the slick grass. Of course, cleats! I have a flash back to 1989 when Kurt Kanne and I beat his brother Scott and J.D. Feilmeier in one of the greatest upsets in backyard snow football history. I was the worst athlete on the field but I had on snow boots so I had traction while the other guys where spinning their wheels. I scored on several deep touchdowns. Kurt and I killed them and it was all due to the snow boots. Cleats! Mental note to buy cleats.

Then the breakaway goal happened. My son burst out of the pack of 6 and streaked to the goal and scored the first goal of the season. He was pumped and I was too. A short kid on the other team with no neck gets blasted in the face with a line drive shot. Nosebleed. Mental note to bring first aid.

The game goes on and he ends up scoring another goal. Then it really starts to rain. The coaches ask the parents, "Do you guys wanna keep going?" A resounding "NO" from the parents calls the game. The coach passes out treats to the team as the rain picks up and we hustle back to the car. The parking lot is full of minivans with their automatic doors beeping and lights flashing. It's a miracle we find our van. We say good-by to grandpa and grandma. He is soaked in the backseat and grinning ear to ear.

So for the next five weekends we'll be watching Europe's favorite pastime and 5-6 year olds race all over a short little field with reckless abandon. I'm still not a big soccer fan. But after my son said, "Dad I had so much fun, I just wish our team could play every day, all the day long!" I stop myself and smile. Into the Abyss. With both feet. And cleats.

Man vs Swing Set

April 22, 2002

My son had a birthday this month so his grandparents decided to get him a swing
set. Nice idea in theory. But as with all things in life, reality is much, much more messy. I'll give you three guesses what I did this weekend and the first two don't count.

First let me describe the box. I think it was something left over from a
NASA garage sale. Something they stored their old rockets in. It was a
miracle we even got it to our house. Luckily my wife's dad and mom were
visiting so we crammed it into her parents' 4x4. I was scared to open it,
but we did. Parts just kept coming out. We bought a swing set with a
slide, teeter-totter, two single swings and a two-person porch swing, but by
the time we got all the parts strewn about the lawn it looked like we were
going to build something along the lines of U2's stage during the "Achtung
Baby" tour.

So we have the parts all over the lawn. I forgot to mention it was 40
degrees outside. Then it started to drizzle. But we forged on and got the
directions out. Let me just say this about the directions; if I find the
guy in China who wrote those $!@#$ing directions I'm going to shove a Toys
Are Us deluxe model X2000 swing set slide right up his ass. Why they let
communists write swing set assembly directions is a mystery to me.

Somehow we got the main frame of the thing together. My hands kept slipping
trying to tighten the bolts in the steady drizzle. My father-in-law was
working on the two person swing while I was trying to put the slide
together. Pieces were missing. The bolts never fit into the holes.
Neither of us spoke. We just kept on putting pieces together, randomly
cussing and crying out in frustration. Then it started to rain so we called
it a day and went into the house defeated. The half assembled swing set sat
in the rain looking like some kind of grotesque science fiction monster.
My son looked up at me with his big blue eyes and asked in his sweet little
voice, "Swing dada??" I looked at him and realized for the first time in my
life I'd let him down and all I could muster to say was, "No son, your
grandpa couldn't get the swing together."

Sunday dawned with fresh optimism. It was a balmy 41 degrees outside but
this time no rain. We attacked the beast with everything we had. We had a
Chinese interpreter from the University of Nebraska on the cell phone. I
had some holy water and we did an exorcism on the teeter-totter. My
father-in-law had to leave and head back home. I struggled on alone.

Then a crucial breakthrough. My Chinese interpreter friend from the
University cracked part of the code on page 197 of the directions. The
tetter-totter puzzle was solved. The beast began to weaken. Finally I had
it all put together but I still had to tighten the bolts so it didn't
crumple in a heap when the first bird landed on it. The beast got one in
last shot and I cut my hand tightening a bolt. Bleeding, freezing, nursing
a calf cramp and the emotional scars of letting my son down the day before I
finally finished. I stumbled into the house victorious and announced, "It's
put together!!!" My wife and son were watching TV and looked up just long
enough to say, "Good job," then turned back to the TV. I know how the
troops must have felt coming home from 'Nam in '74.

Well, my son had a blast tonight on his swing set. He had so much fun he
didn't want to come in for dinner. Ahhh, sweet redemption.

Potty Wars

May 19, 2003

Most of the country's attention these past few months have been focused on the war in Iraq. God Bless our troops and all their heroic efforts for the country. But back home a far more prolonged and bitter struggle is taking place in the homes of all parents with children ages 2 -4. And frankly, it's a battle that just isn't getting any press. I'm talking about the potty wars.

The fighting is hot and intense at our home and more specifically at our house. That is where one small boy, has successfully been waging an all out campaign of terror, spreading more poop and urine than a geriatric mosh pit at a Lawrence Welk rave. It only took the U.S. 30 days to conquer Iraq. We're on month six of potty training. Once the Pentagon gets things wrapped up I'd like them to send some logistical people over to my house to get a three year old to focus on keeping his shorts dry.

Here is a conversation the boy and I have had one million times since we started trying to get him on the john; ME, "Do you have to go potty?" Boy, "No." Five minutes later, ME "Do you have to go potty?" Boy, "NO." Five seconds later, Boy, "I went potty in my pants." ME, "Are you #$*^ing kidding me???"

The enemy is tenacious. He is dug in and his position is good. He holds the bedroom, the basement, the family room couch (a frequent battleground) and the kitchen. We hold the bathrooms and have a tenuous grip on the hallway leading into our bedroom.

The other day the enemy tricked us into an ambush. We had him standing at the toilet. A major victory in of itself. But just as we thought we had victory in sight he unleashed a barrage of pee, spraying it indiscriminately all over the bathroom. Shrapnel was flying everywhere. I tried to dive backward out of the way but got hit in the left calf. The horror. The horror.

We've tried chocolate, toys, praise, peer pressure, a mariachi band, the Wiggles. Nothing works. I'm walking around the house shell shocked, with a nervous twitch. Every time the boy pauses and looks like he's squeezing one out, I leap into action. But he's too fast. And more often than not I end up with a pair of rubber gloves on, kneeled over a toilet washing out a soiled Blues Clues underpants. Too bad society doesn't value the ability to stand a kid up and remove a pair of pooped in underpants without getting the poop all over the kid or dropping it on the floor because I'm getting so good at it I could paten the procedure.

So tie a brown ribbon around the tree in your front yard for all those fighting for a cleaner, poop free America. And send some extra underpants. Preferably Blues Clues.

Heaven On Earth

October 9, 2003

Warning: This story is very long, so read it when you have a few minutes. I apologize for the length...

My friend Mike Neppl and I had a conversation 6 years ago about what our greatest days were. They were days that were so good, they were worthy of the title, "great day". Well this Tuesday, after my wedding and the birth of my children, I had my fourth "greatest day ever."

The day started off pretty normal. I had an 11:00 am appointment to donate blood which I went to. Unfortunately the nurse poked a gaping hole in the vein in my right arm. My bicep started to swell like a balloon. The nurse had to call it off and apologized profusely. I took it like a man, but grabbed some extra cookies and cranberry juice on my way out. Now I admit I'm basically a puss when it comes to pain, but I could barely move my right arm driving back to work. Bad ending to the morning.

Then the call came. I'll never forget it. My wife called me at about 1:15 pm and said the eight most beautiful words I have ever heard, "Hank, I got tickets to the Cubs game!" I blacked out for about 15 seconds, then picked myself up off the floor and grabbed the phone. She said the words again. I blacked out for about 20 seconds this time then came too again and replied in a shaky voice,"What?" Finally, she got through to me. My beautiful wife of 5 years had come through with the greatest gift of all time; two tickets to the first game of the National League Championship series between the Chicago Cubs and the Florida Marlins.

My wife has connections with a guy who works for Fox Sports in Chicago and the guy offered her two tickets to the playoff game. She is going to stay with the kids. I spend the next 45 minutes searching for flights to Chicago, and trying to get my dad, who turns 60 this month to go with me. But he has some lame meetings to go too that he can't get out off. Finally, I pull my sister who teaches at a high school in Chicago out of her class and tell her to meet me at the McDonalds on Clark and Addison across from Wrigley Field because we're going to the Cubs game. She starts to hyperventilate, which makes me start to hyperventilate until I get a grip and tell her to calm down and I'll see her at 7:20 pm. I find a 5:00 pm flight on Southwest out of Omaha that gets into Midway airport at 6:20 pm. I book it.

It's now 2:00 pm. I grab my suit coat and bag, turn out the lights in my office and run down the hallway and out the office like Forest Gump. I lay rubber out of the parking lot narrowly missing two nuns and head for home for a quick change. I still can't believe I'm going to the game. I fly home, grab my Cubs hat, the Cubs jersey I've had since my freshmen year in college, boxers, toothbrush, throw it in a bag, kiss my wife and boys and head for Omaha. My wife has arranged for me to pick up the tickets from Jay (Fox Sports connection) in front of his apartment just off Lakeshore Drive. It is now 3:00 pm and I'm in good shape. Only the fact that I just got a speeding ticket last week keeps me from breaking the all time record from Lincoln to Omaha on I-80. My palms are sweating and my mouth is dry. It's hard to focus on the road. I say the prayer "Please God make my flight be on time" one thousand times. I pull into the quick park lot at Epply and Forest Gump my way to the Southwest ticket counter.

The flight is on time and everything looks good. I relax a little. I realize I forgot my camera and panic again. Then I realize I'm in an airport and buy a disposable camera. The plane loads and I walk to the back and take a seat. I pass out. I miss the beverage cart and ask the stewardess for a bag of ice for my right arm. I take a look at my arm and it's purple. The lady sitting next to me thinks I'm a heroin addict. I ice the arm for a while then think to myself, "What the hell am I doing at the back of the plane?!!?"" I gotta get off this thing fast and get a cab. So as we're descending I grab my bag and walk up to the front, looking for an empty seat. I hope I'm not mistaken for a terrorist with a heroin addiction. I find a spot in the third row next to an old lady and sit down. She asks where I've been the whole trip. I tell her I was in the back but needed to move up because I have tickets to the Cubs game and need to get off the plane. She responds, "Oh, the Cubs. Who are they playing?" I deliver a passionate speech about how this is the fourth greatest day of my life and the Cubs haven't won the world series since 1908, tell her my whole life story, etc, etc. The plane lands. My speech to the old lady must have worked because she grabs my arm, looks me in the eye and says, "Get outta here! You gotta cab to catch!" Inspired, I ruthlessly knock over a young mother with her three kids in getting off the plane. As I'm running up the ramp I hear the old lady's voice behind me telling everyone, "He's gotta catch a cab and get to the Cubs game."

I'm Forest Gump again. I fly through the terminal and jump into a cab. I scream, "Take me to Lakeshore and LaSalle!" "All right Cubs fan," he responds. Thank God. He speaks English. It is now 6:20 The game starts in one hour. It's all coming together. I call Jay from Fox Sports on my cell phone and tell him I'm five minutes away. He meets me outside his apartment. I rush outside, hug him like I've never hugged another man before, tell him something about naming my first child "Jay", grab the tickets and hop back into the cab. Another guy hops in the cab with me to share the ride. He's going to the Cubbie bear to watch the game. He's from Michigan. I rub it in his face about the Iowa game last weekend. He can't believe my story. But now I'm nervous. Are we going to make it on time? What if traffic is bad? Then, the guy from Michigan points up ahead and says, "Look. There it is."

The most beautiful sight in the world. The lights of Wrigley Field. It was like the scene in "Field of Dreams" when Kevin Costner and James Earl Jones see the field at night after they come back to it with Moonlight Graham in the back seat. I pass out again. Michigan guy shakes me and says, "I'm getting out here. Have fun at the game." I decide to get out too, throw money at the cabbie, and get out about five blocks from Wrigley Field. Forest Gump time again, except now it's harder because I have to weave in and out of all the people. I'm in heaven. Everyone is wearing Cubs gear. All the restaurants and bars have the game on. Venders everywhere. Miraculously, I see my sister walking towards me. We meet, freak out, she grabs my right arm and I fall to the ground in pain. I shake it off and we head into the game. I feel like I've died and am entering the pearly gates. I check the ticket guy for wings.

I'm in baseball heaven. If they're playing baseball in heaven, which I'm sure they are, I'm positive it looks something like they way Wrigley Field looked that night. I've been to a handful of games at Wrigley Field but off course never in the playoffs, and only once at night. I can't believe I made it. Our seats are in the upper deck, third base side, even with the third base umpire down the line. We get to our seats and just miss the first out. Beer, brats, popcorn. There are almost as many people around the stadium, in the streets waiting for a home run, and up in the buildings around the stadium as there are people in the stadium.

The Cubs score four runs in the first. The place goes nuts. My sister and I are jumping up and down. I can't really clap because I can't raise my right arm above my waist. But I feel no pain. I'm screaming at the top of my voice. The first inning ends and I'm exhausted. I tell my sister that I don't think I'm going to make it another 8 innings. I have a beer and a dog. I'm taking pictures like a Japanese tourist. Florida comes back. The game is like a heavy weight fight with home runs and comebacks. For some reason, because I'm actually at the game, I'm not as nervous as when I watch it on tv. Don't know why. Cubs down two runs. Bottom of the ninth. One guy on. Sammy Sosa at the plate. Two strikes. The pitch...Sosa sends it over the left field fence and the place erupts. It's so loud I can't breath. I'm hugging complete strangers. Grown men are crying. My sisters says she thinks she just burst her vocal chords. I'm in baseball heaven.

Of course the Cubs lose in 11 innings. After the last out the crowd lets out a collective groan/sigh and it suddenly gets real quite. It feels like a wake. My sister and I shuffle out of the stadium. Now my arm is killing me again. We take a few more pictures around the stadium. We walk about five blocks to my sister's apartment. We replay the entire game on the way. How did we score 8 runs and lose??? I look back and can still see the lights on at the stadium. We get back to her apartment and I drown my sorrows in a bucket full of Halloween candy. It's 12:30 am. My flight leaves at 7:30 am. I'll be back at work by noon. The greatest day ends. And even though we lost, I fall asleep with a gut full of chocolate and a smile on my face.

Go Cubs.

An Upset at the Bowling Alley

January 6, 2004

Hope everyone had a good Christmas and New Year. We rang in the new year last Saturday by taking the family bowling. It was my son's first game. A group of friends of ours got together with the kids and went kiddie bowling, where they put up the bumpers on each side to keep the kids' bowling balls from going in the gutters. Now I'm not the best athlete in the world, and maybe bowling isn't a sport, but my athletic psyche took a major blow that night. There, at the Three Lanes Bowling Alley my son beat me. By a lot.

I think I can say I was distracted by the food the first few frames. Maybe the cheeseburger and onion rings weren't sitting too well. My son would pick up a six-pound ball and waddle up the lane and let the ball drop. Two hours later, it would hit the pins with the velocity of a flea. But the pins fell. And they kept falling. Maybe I should have switched from the 12-pounder to the 10-pounder sooner than the 6th frame.

Because by the 6th frame I had dug myself a huge hole. I was just enjoying the evening, talking with friends, making sure nobody's kid got stuck in the ball retriever, when my buddy Dave pokes me and says, "Hey. Do you know your kid is beating you by 20 pins?" Yea right, I think, and glance up at the board. $@#!**! He IS beating me by 20 pins. Am I that bad? Apparently, yes. So I stop socializing and start to focus. I can't get beat by the kid. Gutter guards, or no gutter guards. 7th frame, my son waddles down the aisle and lets one fly. 5 pins. I'm ok, no way he gets the spare. Way. His second ball crawls down the lane. It takes forever. I go to the bathroom. It's still rolling. I check the Cowboys vs Panthers score. Cowboys are losing. Great. It's still rolling. Finally the ball reaches its destination and cleanly knocks the other 5 down. I'm in deep trouble.

I grab the 10-pounder and heave it like a gorilla. I bank it off the left bumper guard and it knocks over 6 pins. My wife and friends are now starting to heckle me. I strain my lower back with my second throw, overcompensating too much and throw an air ball. My son is rubbing it in by chasing girls around the chairs. The kid is in my head. I slam a beer. It doesn't help. By the time we hit the 10th frame it's over. Son - 91. Hank - 78. Unbelievable. I want to be proud of his accomplishment but come on!

Greatest bowling upset ever? Maybe. But let's just say I'm not taking him golfing anytime soon.