A conversation between strangers

They'd been sitting side by side for the entire first half, occasionally glancing over at each other as any two strangers would when fate brought them to such close proximity.

The boy's father descended the creaky bleachers to hit the restroom before the second half began. It was a closely fought girls' basketball battle between two teams who didn't normally meet: Auburn and Chief Sealth high schools.

This time, their eyes met. "Hi," said the man.

"Hi."

"Are you watching your sister play today?"

"No, I go to lots of high school games. My dad's a teacher here, so we get in free. I'm a big basketball fan," offered the boy. "My mom even made me a real Auburn basketball uniform that I wear around the house. I don't wear it around my friends because they make fun of me."

"That's too bad. And I'm a big basketball fan, too. Well, mostly because my daughter plays for Chief Sealth. She's number 20."

"Really? She looks familiar," said the boy. "Why do you have earrings? Only girls wear earrings. And how old are you, anyway?"

"I'm 47. How old are you?"

"I'm ten and five-sixths. I'll be eleven in August."

"My birthday's in August, too."

The boy straightened his glasses, which had begun to slip down his nose. "August birthdays are totally decent. What do you do for a job that lets you wear earrings?"

"I'm a graphic designer."

"What's that?"

"It's a type of artist who tries to visually capture someone's attention. I work on a computer."

"A computer? Like one of those things at NASA? I love the astronauts. Do you draw stuff?"

"Sometimes."

"I love to draw. I draw all day, when I'm not watching J.P. Patches. That show's really neato. He's so funny."

"Do you watch old episodes on DVD?" inquired the man.

"What's that?"

"Never mind." The man now wondered if this kid was for real. The boy was wearing Converse All-Stars, like a lot of children these days, but he also wore a football jersey with number 51 and the name "Butkus" on the back.

"So are you wearing one of your dad's old jerseys?"

"No. This is mine. Dick Butkus is my favorite player. Duh," said the boy more quietly. "I hope my dad at least comes back with an apple. I'm starving. I eat too much junk food, like Ho-Hos and Ding Dongs and Twinkies. And donuts and Cheese Nips and Chicken in a Biskit. And Froot Loops and Cap'n Crunch."

"I hear you," said the man.

"Of course you hear me. Geez."

The boy's dad returned with a crispy, red apple. "Here you are, son. I was surprised to see that these apples are twenty cents now."

The boy crunched down hard on the apple and turned toward the man. He was gone.

The boy knew he'd see him again.

300 miles for some street ball? Uh, sure.

Road trip—Woohooo! Road trip to Spokane, Washington for Hoopfest—Woohoo! Road trip to Spokane, Washington for Hoopfest with three fifteen-year-old girls—Woo-hey, wait a minute. That's not the kind of road trip I remember.

Well, I reckon that's just part of being a dad. You sign up for stuff, that stuff eventually rolls around, and before you know it, you're driving down I-90 for a five-and-a-half-hour trip to do the stuff.

Such was the case this weekend, as my daughter and three of her old basketball rec league cronies set sail for the largest three-on-three basketball tournament on the planet, 300 miles away in the Lilac City of Spokane. 6,700 teams, 3,000 volunteers, 200,000 players and fans, and 428 courts spanning forty downtown city blocks comprised this colossal event. Another dad, Chris, accompanied me as a fellow chaperone. This is my good friend, Chris:

Hang on a second, why don't I also introduce our awesome team? Okay. Here's Maddy:

And Halle:

And Emily:

And of course, the member of the team who is indebted to her mother and me for the very air that she breathes, Zoe:

At first the girls were a little apprehensive about their competition, especially since most teams were made up of tall, high school and club basketball players. Our kids wore their concern on their sleeves:

But eventually, as the young tend to do, they shook off the butterflies and started enjoying the atmosphere:

Normally, I would post a photo of the last remaining member of our entourage—me—but since I accepted the local beauty college's promotional offer for a free haircut, I'll just use an older image:

The kids played aggressively and fought hard in the sweltering eastern Washington sun. The competition was rough. Oh, and by the way, here's another picture of my baby, since this is my blog:

Dads don't usually get to spend entire weekends with their teenage daughters, so I consider the entire weekend a double-overtime win with a three-pointer at the buzzer.

Nothing but net.

Hey, I'm talkin' to you, tough guy!

Hey, guys, I'm talking to you. Yeah, you. So you think you're a tough guy? Really?

Maybe you should read this column, posted by CNN.com's Health Writer, Elizabeth Landau. A new study found that people can evaluate upper body strength based on the sound of men's voices. The results support the idea that the human voice, especially the male voice, contains cues of physical strength.

Of course it does. You don't need to conduct a complex study to know that this guy is formidable:


It's true, some guys are obviously tough by the sounds of their voices. When James Earl Jones belts out his trademark, "This is C-N-N," he might as well be saying, "I could easily kick your A-S-S."

Or how about Mike Rowe, the host of Dirty Jobs and Deadliest Catch? He's got that voice that women love and men admire. A gay co-worker of mine recently informed me of his attraction to Rowe, so I asked him, "Do you prefer him before he's showered or after?"

"Preferably during," he replied.

Some guys try to sound tough, and wear a little somethin' somethin' to add to the effect:

The guy in the goggles behind him seems a lot tougher. Wedgies don't portray strength. They portray discomfort.












Another interesting finding from this study is that lower vocal pitch is not necessarily associated with greater perceived strength. Although I must say, the Bee Gees wouldn't be my first choice to back me up in a bar fight.

So fellas, maybe we should grasp this opportunity to assess our own strength, to listen to our voices in the most objective way we're able. Please repeat after me, using your everyday vocal tone:
"Your handbag doesn't match your shoes."

Just as I suspected: I can probably bench 250.

Mom, are you reading my yearbook again?

Last day of school! (Insert high-pitched, adolescent whooping and hollering.)

Even though some of us haven't attended any type of academia for well nigh thirty years, who among us can't still feel those exhilarating pangs of emancipation from all those years ago?

And for those of us who harbor students in our homes, it all comes flooding back with a greater vengeance. Both of my kids have been lounging around the house for the past few days, reading their yearbooks, gazing at pictures and notes from friends, already waxing nostalgic before the year has even concluded.

Since my older daughter is just finishing up her freshman year, and since I had previously unearthed my ninth-grade annual for a post about basketball uniforms, I decided to compare and contrast the types of comments our respective classmates jotted in our freshman yearbooks.

I don't want to embarrass her by quoting actual passages, but suffice it to say that the gist of what teenagers write has not changed much over this thirty-two-year chasm. Here's a little sampling of what I found in my Olympic Junior High, 1977-78 yearbook (all spelling and grammatical errors have been retained for historical purposes):

"I really don't know you to good but I think you are nice."
Hmmm...I guess that's like the pleasant elderly lady you see reading her book on the bus—I don't know her, but she's nice.

"You are a real funny person but a little dirty but a nice person."
Oops, that's actually from my report card.

"I hope you have a great summer, but not so great that you forget everything we've been through."
I don't remember that summer very well, but hopefully I took some time to reflect on those awful times where we had finally made it to the front of the lunch line, only to discover that they were out of mashed potato buds, and we had to eat our hamburger gravy over rice. Profound days.

"Have a good summer and don't get too high."
This is probably the best advice I received, as all that summer, I contained myself to only one tube of airplane glue.

"If I were to rate you on a scale for jocks, youd barely not make it."
No idea.

"Have the best summer ever, and if you don't, here's a great recipe:
1 dash of giggles
2 cups of fun
3 pounds of happiness
and a summer full of sun!"
Oh, wow, I can't believe it...I attended ninth grade with Barney!

Thankfully, my daughter's yearbook didn't contain any drug references, and I'm sure my mom was a little shocked when she snuck mine out of my room and read it.

So to all you kids who have nothing but time on your hands for the next two-and-a-half-months, have a great, safe summer, and please refrain from the two words which drive parents insane: "I'm bored."

'81 rules.

Hey, Dad, how come there isn't a Kids' Day?

It seems like, every time Mother's or Father's Day rolls around, one of the kids remarks, "Why isn't there a Kids' Day?"

Our standard response, which I'm sure matches most parents', is "Every day is Kids' Day." We moms and dads own superior skills vis-à-vis  pulling out the guilty stick and waving it with the skill of Luke's light saber when we feel the need.

The fact is, Father's Day is a fantastic opportunity for us to feel grateful for these pesky, little creatures who spend most of their time up in our grills. I learn so much from them, on a daily basis, and I often spend far too much time immersed in daily routines to really listen to what they're saying.

"Dad, I feel sorry for racehorses. What if they don't like running in mud? They have no choice." I heard this yesterday when my brood and I went to the local track with friends." Are the jockeys nice to them?"

Naturally, I couldn't answer either question, which made me wonder what the truth was. We've already decided to not attend any more circuses as the result of conversations like this.

"Dad, you should hug mom. She looks like she needs a hug." Another piece of solid advice given from my compassionate younger daughter one Tuesday evening.

"You're absolutely right. I'll do that."

So, fellow dads, today, on this 100th Father's Day (which I just looked up), let's celebrate our kids, too. Without them, chances are we'd be those slightly self-absorbed, immature males we were before they came along to set things right.

Happy Kids' Day!

Lakers-Celtics: True fashion pioneers

Who ever said that fashion doesn't exist in the athletic arena?

Every year around this time, we get the opportunity to view a little runway show in the form of the National Basketball Association playoffs.

Last night, the Los Angeles Lakers won their sixteenth NBA title over the Boston Celtics, who already own seventeen championships. Since these two juggernauts possess over half of the trophies over the league's 64-year history, it's become apparent that the Lakers and Celtics are the true face of the NBA.

With this in mind, I've accumulated a docket of the best looking players from the two best teams. Because, as we all know, it's better to look good than to feel good.

Danny Ainge (in green)—not only did his dirty play make him more attractive, but he also popularized the new, super-absorbent jerseys, which have the ability to soak up an exorbitant amounts of tears.

Jerry West—He looked so good, he became the logo.

Kevin McHale—a great player, who also looked great in the suit. He's one of those fortunate types who was born with a couple of extra ribs and one additional knee.

Wilt Chamberlain—One of the first players to accessorize with knee pads, head and wrist bands, Wilt was known for his outstanding play even after the game. He once claimed to have taken on at least 20,000 fans in personal games of one-on-one during the "fifth quarter." He showed us all why they're not called "trunks" or "bottoms"...they're shorts.

Larry Bird—another highly attractive man, who would have been even more foxy if his shorts hadn't been so tight, they made his face sag.

Kurt Rambis (in yellow)—Mr. Rambis was a true pioneer when it came to endorsements. During 1984 alone, he raked in over $130, representing both LensCrafters and Scotch Tape.

Bob Cousy—"Hey kids. Fix Dad a bourbon and we'll hop in the Edsel and go see President Eisenhower at the Elks Club."

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar—All kidding aside, this guy was awesome. In this image, he's shooting his trademark "sky hook" over a helpless defender from the now-defunct Seattle SuperSonics, my former hometown club. I always hated the Lakers, but loved Kareem.

Brian Scalabrine—Looks a little out-of-place in Celtic green, sort of like he won the Massachusetts "Be A Celtic For A Day" lottery. I see a lot of guys like him in Home Depot, looking for the best deal on Weed-n-Feed.

Pat Riley—A lot of us know him as a Hall of Fame coach, but he also had a different look during his days as a player for the Lakers. Four words: I got you babe.

Okay, so I wasn't a Laker or a Celtic. In fact, I didn't even play in high school. I just wanted to finally share the disappointment I felt when I viewed this picture in the yearbook, knowing that they cropped just barely above my sweet new tube socks.

The day I stopped talking out of my butt

I've got a problem.

Well, let me rephrase that—I used to have a problem, but it's much better now.

Here's the problem: I talk out of my butt.

Over the years, I've had a tendency to "guess" the answers to questions, rather than researching them or simply stating, "I don't know."  I used to get away with it with my daughters, mostly because they were too young to challenge me, but now, all three of the women in my house tend to call a bluff when they see it.

I think it's a little bit of a guy thing and a little bit of a dad thing. We want to be experts, especially with our children. In the past, one of my kids might have asked me, "Dad, what's that thing they measure my foot with when we buy shoes?" Since I work in the fashion industry, I'd be compelled to know the answer even though I didn't know the answer.

"Oh, that's a Metallic Instep Calibration Bob," I would reply, "because it's made of metal and it measures your foot and...um...it was invented by a guy named Bob."

As many of us know, it's called a Brannock Device.

Another past inquiry may have been, "Dad, why don't chickens fly?" Again, rather than looking it up, I'd just say, "Because God wanted to eliminate one step in the process of getting them into our burritos."

I put the brakes on the Talking Out of My Butt Era on January 1, 2007, when I resolved to end this nasty habit for the new year and renew the resolution each following year into perpetuity. It's gone fairly well. In fact, just to compare and contrast, here are some questions and answers, both before and after resolution day:

Question: "Dad, what's that piece of skin at the back of your throat that dangles down?"

Answer, prior to January 1, 2007: "Well, honey, you answered your own question. Depending on your gender, that's either a Jane- or a Jimdangler. It's for brushing off food so it goes down cleanly."

Answer, after January 1, 2007: "Well, honey, that's called a uvula. The uvula plays a key role in the articulation of the sound of the human voice to form the sounds of speech."

Question: "Dad, why do you drink so much coffee?"

Answer, prior to January 1, 2007: "Because, honey, I came down with scurvy as a deck hand on a long cruise, and the Vitamin C in the java keeps me healthy."

Answer, after January 1, 2007: "Because, honey, if I don't, I'll get a throbbing headache which will cause me to drive over lots of road turtles and yell at loud birds."

Question: "Dad, what's Viagra?"

Answer, prior to January 1, 2007: "You know, I'm not sure."

Answer, after January 1, 2007: "Ask your mom."

Question: "Dad, why does your hair keep getting grayer?"

Answer, prior to January 1, 2007: "Because, honey, I made a deal with Satan that for each new gray hair on my head, you will receive one additional day of earthly, self-absorbed bliss."

Answer, after January 1, 2007: "Because, honey, as people age, the pigment cells in their hair follicles gradually die."

So there you have it. I'm now a straight shooter when it comes to answering the tough questions. And yes, Santa is real.