Dreaming in Blue and Maize

Today, I turn twenty-seven.  Throughout these twenty-seven years, sports have been an essential part of me, as necessary as a limb.  Memories of sports constantly flood my thoughts.  Even though I haven't competed since high school, often I dream I'm on the mound (either throwing gas or getting blown out).  More often though, I dream that I have one more year of eligibility left for my high school football team.  In this dream, I'm always faster, stronger and smarter, and always just a few minutes before the game starts, I wake up.  But each time I wake up, the initial excitement of the dream and eventual disappointment upon realizing it was a dream is always the same, "That was really fun, but yea, there's no way coach would let me play after missing practice for the last ten years."

So today is my birthday and all I can think about is sports.  Not sports in general, but basketball in particular.  College basketball.  But shouldn't I be reflecting on more important things?  My gratitude for my life?  For my family and friends?  For my wife?  Yes, that's probably true. But this birthday is different.  Here's why.

Like most people, my memories from childhood have mostly blended together to paint a general narrative of my upbringing.  The details get hazy in most places, with the exception of a few distinctly memorable moments. Those memories that we are able to recall shine like a lighthouse because they were either traumatic or ecstatic.

For me, twenty years ago today (give or take) is one of those moments.  I was seven years old and hopelessly addicted to basketball.  My team was playing in the NCAA Championship game against North Carolina.  My hero was Michigan's star power forward Chris Webber.  His number 4 was then and remains my favorite number (dougskelton4@gmail.com).  I can't remember anything about the first 39 minutes of the game.  But I'll never forget rolling on the carpet in heartache after Webber called a (sixth) timeout that they didn't have, resulting in a technical foul that effectively ended their season.  I'll never forget Webber's teammate, Jalen Rose, yelling at him after his colossal mistake.  Feeling his pain, I felt compelled to write Webber a letter.  The letter I wrote and mailed to him that night are still as clear as day.

I told him that I was sorry about what happened and that it wasn't right for Jalen to yell at him like that.  We all make mistakes.  I told him that he was my favorite player and that they would win it all next year.  Keep your chin up.  I told him that the drawing below was created specially for him.  I drew an artistic portrait of him  in colored crayon being awesome on the basketball court.  (I wish I still had it.  No doubt it'd be worth a ton today.)

I can't remember anything after that except for, what must have been two weeks later, my dad coming into my room with a crisp envelope.  It's for you, Doug.  It's for me?  I grabbed the envelope and examined it.  It was addressed to me and it had the blue and maize "M" in the corner!  Wow.  I ripped it open.  I wish I could remember now what exactly the letter said, but my memory of the letter is that Chris Webber personally thanked me for my letter and signed it.  Signed it!

A few days later I was asked by my second-grade teacher to read his letter in front of the school during a school gathering.  I was so proud.  I was no longer sad.  I knew Michigan would be back in the Championship the next year.  This was the second year in a row that they had made it to the finals and lost.  Webber and the rest of the starting five were only sophomores.  They would win it next year.

But then my hero never came back.  Webber left Michigan for the pros after that season, becoming the number 1 draft pick, and later engulfing Michigan in a bizarre financial scandal.  (See ESPN's excellent 30-for-30 documentary on "The Fab Five.")  Since then Michigan never made it back to the Finals.  I stopped following Michigan basketball altogether, instead shifting my interest and allegiance to Michigan football.  A few years later, I gave up basketball altogether and focused on other sports, such as football, baseball and golf.  I didn't look back...until a few weeks ago.

Two and a half weeks ago, I decided on a whim to enter a friend's March Madness pool.  What the hell, I thought.  It'll make it interesting at least, even though I hadn't watched a second of college basketball all season.  So I spent five minutes filling out my bracket and paid twenty dollars to enter the pool.  This was the first pool I'd ever entered for money, so I had no real strategy.

But when I started filling out my bracket I couldn't bring myself to chose against Michigan.  So I didn't.    Not once.  And after I sent in my bracket and looked at the other brackets in the pool, I felt kind of embarrassed.  I was the only person out of 83 people to choose Michigan to win it all.  I shared a lot of the same picks as everyone else, but Michigan is where I differed.  No one else even had Michigan going to the Championship game, let alone winning it.  I kissed my twenty bucks away, I figured.

If you're reading this, or simply just breathing and occupying space, then you probably already know that Michigan is in the Finals tonight against Louisville.  That fact alone is surprising to most.  The fact that I am in first place in this 83-person pool and will win it all if Michigan wins is more surprising.

But what's most surprising to me is how by randomly entering a pool and by choosing by my childhood team, I have experienced emotions that haven't been tapped into in twenty years.  I want to go shoot hoops.  I want to go set up a screen on that guy walking his dog.  I want to be Trey Burke.  Or Mitch McGary.  I will deeply feel their pain if they lose.  I will write them a letter with a drawing on it if one of them screws up badly.

In other words, I'm twenty years older but I feel like I'm seven all over again.

But if this is all just a dream, please don't wake me.

The Answering Machine, Or, My Fictionally Impressive Debut in Fiction

I noticed the blinking red light when I first walked into the apartment.  It came from the kitchen counter.  Some appliance, I thought.  It was an appliance, but not the typical kitchen appliance that someone leaves in a barren apartment before a new tenant moves in.  A telephone.  Telephone?  Strange luxury.  I'd have preferred a dishwasher or a garbage disposal.  A cordless phone with an answering machine.  People still own these?  I thought they had become redundant.  Well I guess they have, considering that the previous tenant left it for my pleasure.  That and a few complementary fixtures: a paper towel holder and a toilet roll holder, plus a little mold settling in above the shower.

For weeks I let the light blink.  I was busy.  I had just moved to this quiet town from the city.  I didn't have much time to waste.  I had just finished school and needed money.  I had rent to pay and a dog to feed, not including myself.  My degree was in philosophy, so obviously I was qualified for absolutely nothing and everything.  I had no idea what I wanted to do.  But I was driven by the immediacy of money.  I needed to survive.

A few days after I moved here, I went downtown to the local coffee shop.  I had a cup of coffee and sat in front of my laptop searching for jobs.  I wasn't picky.  I fired off resumes to any opening I was remotely qualified.  Server jobs, cook positions, retail, wine jobs, I was in Napa after all.  But to no avail.  Nothing bit.

I kept coming back to the cafe.  I kept searching online.  The perfect job must exist out there.  After a day of hopeless searching, my eyes were continually drawn outside.  I closed my laptop, put it in my bag and stepped outside.  The sun had just broken through the gloom of the morning and it was shaping up to be a perfect June afternoon.  I crossed the street and approached the large patch of grass that nestled up against the river.  I sat down, placing my bag on the grass behind me to be used as a headrest.  I closed my eyes.

I must have drifted off because I twitched aggressively before my eyes opened.  Plus, as further proof of my further, I realized there was some drool dangling on the outside of the left corner of my mouth.  I wiped my mouth and rubbed my eyes.  I looked at my watch.  It was only a few minutes, but it felt like I had been laying there for a day.  I got up and headed back towards the cafe.

I could barely see as I crossed the street.  The sun was blinding and my eyes were sensitive from their recent slumber.  But it was a slow day in a slow town, so I didn't worry about getting hit by a car.  I made it across the street and opened the door to what I thought was the cafe.

It didn't take me long to realize that I had made a mistake.  I could feel eyes on me from all angles.  I slowly regained my vision in the less severe lighting of the room.  I scanned from left to right.  A stuffed deer angrily stared me down.  A man behind the bar gave me a confused, annoyed look.  The woman to my right informed me that they were closed.  I'm sorry, I said, as I noticed several more people frantically cleaning and preparing for what looked like a busy evening ahead.  I was embarrassed.  I turned and started for the door.  When I reached the door, I noticed a sign in the window conveying that they had just opened.

I turned around and asked the man in front of me if they were hiring.  He tapped the shoulder of the woman to his right.  She looked at him and he pointed toward me with raised eyebrows.  I asked her if they were hiring.  She smirked an exhausted smirk and told me to follow her.

We sat down at one of the booths of the bar.  I didn't know what to say, so I was honest.  I told her that I had no experience behind the bar, or in restaurants, but that I could learn quickly.  I had just graduated from a good university.

"What did you study?" the woman asked, giving away her Australian accent.

"Philosophy."

"Philosophy, eh?  Nice.  Practical choice."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry.  That was rude of me.  My husband actually studied philosophy.  I like to tease him about it.  He actually runs the bar here.  I manage the restaurant upstairs."

"Oh, cool.  Is that him behind the bar?"

She laughed.  "No, thank god.  He will be here tomorrow. Listen, you seem like a smart kid.  We're in need some of help behind the bar.  Why don't you come back tomorrow.  Five o'clock.  White dress shirt, black tie, blue jeans.  We'll see if you fit."

"Really?  That would be great!  Thank you so much!  Tomorrow, five o'clock!"

I started that next day and worked the next day, and the day after that.  Before I knew it, I was working four to five nights a week.  It was stressful at first.  I had to study the cocktails in my spare time.  But I caught on quickly.  And the money was good.  I was able to cover rent, food and other expenses.   But even though I interacted with dozens of customers each night, I still hadn't made any meaningful connections.

Each night I'd come home around three a.m. to my dog, Gus, anxiously awaiting my arrival.  He was always made me feel at home.  Each night, however, it took a solid two hours before I could unwind after work.  Two to three glasses of whiskey, preferably Scotch, typically did the trick, although not always.  Some nights the sun would approach before I could drift off.  The noises of people starting their daily grind would creep up into my studio apartment, keeping me awake.  Despite my dog's companionship, I still felt alone.

As I laid on my back staring at the ceiling, exhausted but unable to sleep, I thought of that blinking red light.  I rolled over and noticed it coming from the kitchen.  It had been a month since I'd even noticed it.  That fucking phone.  I was still puzzled.  It finally occurred to me that there must be a reason why it was blinking.  Is there a message?

I clicked the play message button.

Virginia, if this is your number, this is your old friend Vic.  I'm returning your call.  My telephone number you have, but Ill give it to you again, 944-1037.  I'm uh very happy to hear from you.  I was wondering, er, looking for you.  Of course, I'm visually impaired like you, I can't see - haha - too good if you're errmental er not, but I've asked a few people aboutcha.  

Anyway, uh, if you wanna come up here this afternoon, I'll be here this afternoon, and I'll be here Saturday and Sunday afternooon, and right after lunch, so you're welcome to come up, you and your girlfriend, all ya gotta do is come in the front entrance of the Vet's Home, and right in the front of Section B there's a ramp, come up that ramp, and go into the lobby and take a left, or once you get into the lobby just ask anyone there and they'll tell you where we are.  Thank you so much for calling. It was very sweet of you to call. 

The answering machine let out a beep and then proclaimed, "end of messages."  I looked at Gus with a sad puzzled look.  He was looking back at me with a similarly sad and puzzled expression.

The sun was already up.  There was no way I was getting any sleep.  Especially not now.  My mind was racing after listening to the voicemail.  Who was this man?  Who was Virginia?  She must have been the previous tenant.  Or maybe he had the wrong number.  The man sounded very old and very sweet.  His voice sounded weak and he sounded lonely.  How long ago was this message left here?  Maybe I could still reconnect them.

I picked up the phone.  There was no dial tone.  This made sense.  I hadn't paid a phone bill in my month living here.  I picked up my cell phone and dialed the number.  I wasn't exactly sure why, but I felt compelled to do this.

"Hello," answered a tired, small voice.

"Hi, is this Vic?"

"Yea, it's me," he answered, following a few throat clearing coughs.

"I'm sorry to wake you."

"You didn't wake me.  I've been up since 3 am.  My voice always sounds like this.  I'm old."

There was an extended silence.  I let out a nervous chuckle.

"Who is this anyway?  Jimmy?"

"No, I apologize again.  You don't know me, but I'm returning your call of sorts.  You see, you left a voicemail on my answering machine, well, it's not my answering machine, it was left here when I moved in and..."

"Son," Vic interrupted, "you're gonna have to speak up.  I can't hear a damn thing."

I wished I would have given this some thought before I picked up the phone.  How do I explain this?  I shouldn't have called.  But I continued, I had to.  "I'm sorry," I spoke up.  "I'm not sure how to explain this, but I think you were trying to reach someone else but instead you called and left a message with me.  Virginia?  I think you were trying to reach..."

"Virginia Moon?  Oh, sweet Virginia Moon.  Bless her heart," he let out a big sigh.

"Yes...  Um, I'm sorry to say that your message never reached her."

"Son, I know."

More silence. I didn't know what to say.  "You do?"

"Virginia died three years ago."

Suddenly, I somehow felt responsible for this, for his pain and for Virginia's death.  Obviously, I didn't know Virginia, or this man who I was now speaking with, but somehow I felt responsible for the sadness he was now reliving.  I had disturbed his peace to dig up old wounds.  I wanted to do something to fix it.  He sounded so fragile yet feisty.

"I'm so sorry, sir."

"Oh, it's fine.  Three years is a long time."

"I just thought I'd try to connect you with the person you were trying to..."

"So you must be over at the Mount Avenue studio?"  He clearly wanted to move on.

"Yea, I've been here about a month."

"Nice, isn't it?  And what's your name?"

"My name is John."

"Nice to meet you, John.  I'm Vic.  I live over at the Vet's home.  The Veteran's home next to the golf course, ya know.  Just a few blocks from you.  Been here a while now."

In struggling over what to say next, I noticed Gus was getting anxious.  He was staring at the door, pacing and wagging his tail.  He was telling me that he was ready for his walk and that he had some business to take care of.   He barked.

"Well, Vic, it was nice to meet you, but I better run.  My dog is dying to get outside," I said, hurriedly.

"Oh, of course. What kind of dog do you have, by the way?"

"He's a black lab."

"Ahhh, lab's are great dogs.  Well, listen John, old folks like me don't talk to young folks like yourself all too often.  And, I'll tell you what, it wasn't half bad," he let out a good laugh that turned into three deep coughs.  He took a deep breath, "and since you called a stranger to ask a question, I'm wanna ask you one: would you do me a favor?"

"Sure," I responded quickly and unexpectedly trustfully.

"Are you going to take your dog for a walk right now?" he asked in a high-pitched and innocent tone.

"Yea, I was going to take him around the block." I was puzzled.

"Are you a reader?"

"Yea, I love to read."

"And you're young, so I know you watch the movies."

"Yepp."

"Well, John, I've been in this place for twenty some-odd years and I've just about read and watched every damned thing we've got in here.  And I can't go to the bookstore on my own anymore, and the place where I used to rent movies went out of business years ago."

I was beginning to figure out what he was asking for.  "Do you want me to bring you a book or a movie?"

"I hate to ask.  But if you were already going to be out.  You wouldn't mind extending your walk and letting me borrow a book and a movie from you?"

"No, that's not a problem.  Do you have a preference?"

"John, thank you, son.  Just bring the best book and movie you've enjoyed recently.  I'm not picky."

We hung up.  I grabbed a book and a movie off the shelf.  I looked for Gus's leash and upon finding it he absolutely couldn't stand it anymore.  He yipped, whimpered and shook his body uncontrollably.  Calm down, buddy.  We're going.  We're going!

I know that, objectively, I should have probably been a little more cautious and less trusting--I mean, all of the sudden I am personally delivering entertainment to an old man who I have never met before--but, subjectively, I was just as excited as Gus.  There was something about the way Vic spoke that was warm.  I mean, his message to Virginia was sweet.  Plus, there's something about him being a veteran that instilled trust too.  His voice was how I imagined my grandfather's.

After all, I was the one who called him.  Maybe he should be the one who is a little creeped out.  But he seemed unfazed.  The man was just in desperate need for some entertainment.  More than anything, he was probably in need of some company.

Well, I guess that made two of us.

We'll See

Just over a year ago, Tracy and I laid on our backs in Yountville, staring at the ceiling with thoughts swirling.  Tracy had just accepted my proposal.  We were going to get married.  Married.  We were ecstatic.  This changed everything.  We shared a bottle of wine and called family.  The joy was contagious and overwhelming.  

We tried to sleep.  Because the lead up to the proposal left me exhausted, I crashed.  Because of Tracy being blindsided by my proposal, she couldn't sleep.  We knew there was still so much to do in the next year.  Finish school, the bar exam, plan a wedding, find jobs.  But we felt reassured knowing we were going through it together.  

Last night, we laid on our backs in the same place, staring again at the ceiling wondering how it all happened so fast.  Where did the year go?  Did this all really happen?  

All of it did happen.  We finished law school.  We took the bar exam.  We got married.  We found (temporary) jobs.  It was our year.  The wedding was magical.  The honeymoon was perfect.  The Giants won the World Series.  My skeeball team won the brewskeeball championship.  We've started settling in on our own, in a town that we love.  We seemed invincible.  There was only one more hurdle and we felt confident in our vertical.  

But last night, the rug was pulled out from under us.  This time I was the one who was blindsided.  But instead of a marriage proposal, it was a denial that blindsided me.  

"This applicant was not successful in passing the bar exam," read the screen in bold red letters.  It had to be a mistake.  Maybe I didn't type the numbers in correctly.  I tried again.  ID Number: 5969.  File #: 419897.  "This applicant was not successf...." I couldn't look.  I didn't prepare for this.  Neither did Tracy.  She typed in my numbers just in case.  Same result.  

She then typed in her numbers as I looked over her shoulder.  In bold green letters read, "This applicant was successful in passing the bar exam."  We both cried.  She wanted it to be me.  I wanted it to be her. I felt her success.  She felt my pain. 

The night was equally beautiful and painful. Half of me passed and half of her didn't.  

While I laid awake last night, this fable kept reoccurring in my head:

An old farmer who needs his horse to plow the land and grow crops discovers that his horse has disappeared. His neighbors lament for him, “Oh how terrible. You will have such hardship.” The old farmer looked at them and simply said, “We’ll see.” 

The horse returned with a mare and all the neighbors said, “Oh how lucky you are. You now have two horses.” The farmer contemplated and said, “We’ll see.” 

The farmer’s son rode the feisty, new mare, fell off and broke his leg. “Oh how dreadful,” the neighbors said. “You’ll lose a hand to work the land.” Again the farmer shrugged and said, “We’ll see.” 

Finally some soldiers came to the farmer’s house looking for army recruits. When they saw the son’s broken leg, they let him be.

There's still so much to grapple with.  I'm not sure what it all means.  I'm not sure if this a sign that this is not my calling, that maybe I'm supposed to do something else.  Maybe one attorney in the family is plenty.  Who knows.  Tracy always did better than me in law school.  I had to fight tooth and nail just to stay afloat in law school.  It was never easy.  

Or maybe it means something entirely different. Maybe it means that I am supposed to be a lawyer, but one who's had to take a winding path.  Maybe I just have to dust myself off and keep fighting...

We'll see.  

I don't have to figure that out right now.  For now, I am continually reminded of how much there is to be grateful for.  Health, family, friends, my wife, free legal representation.  In the end, I'm confident that this is something I'll be grateful for.  I'm just not sure when, how, or why that will be.

We'll see.  

It rained all night.  But when I woke up around 10 after a fitful night of sleep, there was a break in the rain.  Tracy and I threw on our running clothes and ran through the vineyards of Yountville.  The clouds were moving quickly and the sun fought to break through.  As we ran, we talked and talked and talked.  When we got to the end of the run before we loop back, we started to feel a sense of peace and acceptance.  We walked and caught our breath.  Tracy grabbed my arm and stopped.  She pointed to the left, above the vineyards and just before the foothills.  We had never seen a more perfect rainbow.  Vibrant colors and a perfect shape.  We could see both the beginning and the end of it.  What does it mean?

We'll see.

Come With Me

This story starts with a question and ends with a question.  One from an inquiring grandmother, the other from a nervous grandson. 

But actually, it starts much earlier than that.

The year is 1913.   The day, June 13.   The day my grandfather entered the world.   His father—my great-grandfather—a Congressman from Illinois, wanted to commemorate the day.   He bought a ring for his wife.  The ring had thirteen diamonds in it. 

I never met my great-grandfather, or my great-grandmother.  And while my grandfather had met me, I don’t recall meeting him.  He died when I was only one.  I wish it were otherwise.  But I know his wife and daughters pretty well.  And because of them, his life, and the ring used to commemorate his life, changed mine.

I remember the phone call vividly.  It was August 2011.  I was just wrapping up the last few weeks of my summer internship.  I called home on a Sunday evening to catch up with my folks.  I don’t remember the first half of the conversation, but my memory of the conversation kicks in upon overhearing my dad ask my mom, “Should we tell him about Grandma?”  Oh, no, I thought.  Gram is sick.  But before my thoughts could spiral any further, I heard my mom chuckle. 

“Is Tracy around?” she asked.  “Yea, she’s in the other room,” I responded quickly.   “Okay,” she said in a hushed voice, “I visited Gram today, and I have a story for you…”

“What are Doug’s intentions?” Gram asked bluntly.

“I don’t know, Mom,” my mom responded, almost annoyed.  “I know that he loves Tracy very much and talks about the future with her.”  She knew this bought her some time, but not much.

My mom was on her weekly Saturday visit with Gram.   They had just come back from lunch and were sitting around watching golf in Gram’s apartment.  My grandma had become relentlessly curious about Tracy and my relationship in the preceding weeks.  There was a family wedding a few weeks prior that started it all.

Arrangements.  Where would Doug and Tracy stay for the wedding?  Gram had to know.  Where would Tracy sleep?  Would she have her own room? My mom would tell a few fibs to try to buy some time.  But she couldn’t keep it up forever.  She finally broke down and confessed. 

“They’re living together, Mom.  They have been for almost a year.”  A few moments of silence followed.  “Well, it sure is a different time,” Gram said, somewhat sadly.  And that was it.  Or at least that’s what we thought.

“Well, are they going to get married?” Gram asked on that Saturday afternoon, driving her point like a prosecutor on cross-exam.   

My mom squirms in her chair.  “Yes, Mom.  Yes, I think they will get married,” exasperated.  There! There you have it!

Gram takes a moment to consider my mother’s words.  Then she slowly lifts her arms, puts a hand on each arm of her chair, and begins to rise.  “Come with me,” she says. 

I came home two months later for a family-friends’ wedding.  It was early October. This time Tracy stayed up in San Francisco.  Therefore, Gram didn’t have to fuss over arrangements.  Instead, she had other things on her mind. 

“Well, I have the ring,” Gram says in a let’s-not-waste-time-with-formalities tone. 

We had just sat down for lunch.  I hadn’t even put the dressing on my salad.  I smiled and chuckled, unsure of what to say.  She smiled back and then started in on her navy bean soup.   We talked about golf, the books she’s read lately, and the last dumb movie she saw.  She gave me an update on all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins.   Then the food was gone and it was time to walk over to her apartment. 

We walk out of the Garden’s Dining Hall and make for the path toward Gram’s apartment.  Gram waives and says hello to a few senior passerby’s, knowing each by name.  Just before we arrive at Gram’s apartment, she slows and looks over at me. 

“So when are you going to give it to her?”

“Gosh, I’m not sure yet, Gram,” I say, fumbling for the right words.  

Thinking for a moment, she looks ahead and then again at me. “Well, does she have a birthday coming up?”

“Yes, actually.  Her birthday is next week.” 

“Well, that sounds like a perfect time to give it to her,” not wasting a second.   

I laugh as we open the door to her apartment.  We walk in and she sets her walker to the side.  “Come with me…”

I follow her to the back room of her apartment.  She walks over toward her dresser and pulls open the top drawer.   She reaches her hand in and pulls out a small box.  She opens the box.  With the look of a proud parent handing over her baby to be held, she handed the box over to me.  I wasfloored.  The ring was stunning.

Gram proceeded to tell me the story behind the ring.  My great-grandfather bought it for my great-grandmother to celebrate the birth of my grandfather.  The ring had 13 diamonds in it because my grandfather, Bill Gorman, was born on June 13, 1913.  My great-grandmother wore the ring until she died, and then she passed it on to her daughter, who wore the ring for a few years but never felt right about it.  She felt as though the ring should belong to Mary, my grandmother, because the ring was initially given to celebrate Bill’s birth in 1913.  About thirty or forty years ago, she gave the ring to Gram, who has had the ring ever since. 

I had known for quite some time before this moment that I would ask Tracy to marry me.  But I never thought about how or when I would do it, let alone what ring I would propose with.  But all of the sudden, I knew.  Sitting in Gram’s living room, I knew my whole world had completely changed.  My thoughts were spiraling from complete conviction to fear.  I felt like I was simultaneously floating and sinking.  My thoughts spiraled. 

“When did you say Tracy’s birthday was, Doug?” Gram asked, never losing sight of the mission.

“It’s next Thursday, October 13^th.”

“The 13^th?  Well, I think that’s an omen!”

I think so, Gram.  I think so.

This Blog Still Exists

This website has been "under construction" since the end of May while the author attempted to become a lawyer.  This attempt consumed most of the author's time.  But rest assured, this blog still exists. 

At the end of May, the author returned from the Brewskeeball National Championship in New York, licked his wounds from the crushing defeat, and dove straight into Bar exam preparation.  He also moved back in with his parents - another crushing loss of which he is still licking his wounds.  (He is looking for a place.)  He is also getting married in just a few months.  This is all to say that there is much to write and much to share.  So stick around.  

Lastly, we also want you to know that during this period of "construction" we, the editing team, have done absolutely nothing to improve this website.  Thanks for your continued support. 

- Editor's Note

The Origin of Skeecies

My flight departs at 6:55 am on Thursday morning and of course I push it.  Of course I was forced to scramble and sprint to be one of the last to board.  How else was this weekend supposed to start? This is the weekend, of course, that I fly to New York to compete in the Brewskeeball National Championships. 

Skeeball.  The game that is most commonly associated with Chuckee Cheese restaurants for west coasters, or Cony Island for east coasters.  It’s a game that is most likely associated with faint childhood memories. 

You're five.  You’re with your friends at your friend’s birthday party.  You’re stuffed with pie and sugar.  How does this experience get even better, you ask yourself.  That’s when you see them.  There they are, lit up on the other side of the restaurant, begging to be played.  You see the tickets and the toys.  You’re dying to play.  You run over to your mom and ask for some quarters, please, please pleassseee… You get the quarters and you roll the balls up the lane, off the ramp and into the numbered pockets.  The joy, the excitement, it’s all consuming.  You and your buddies pinky-promise to have every birthday party here, forever. 

The birthday parties come and go.  You lose track of some friends, and you gain new ones.  Less and less of the parties take place at Chuckee Cheese, unfortunately, as was initially promised.  Twenty years later and you have all but forgotten about those childhood endeavors.  Instead, more recent memories have all but taken their place, leaving just a flicker of nostalgia about an innocence lost.  Then, in the most unlikely way, and during the most necessary of times, that lost innocence is found, at the bottom of a pint glass at the Buckshot Bar and Gameroom in San Francisco.

I had just started my first few days of law school at USF.  I had moved from Southern California to a tiny studio apartment in the Richmond District of San Francisco.  I didn’t know anyone.  I was very excited, but equally nervous. 

The first friend I made in San Francisco was a guy named Dave.  He was a few years older than me and bore an uncanny resemblance to Matt Damon.  We had all the same classes together, we noticed.  We first met out in front of the school.  I went outside in between classes to make a phone call.  I noticed Dave was also outside.  It was just the two of us.  I saw him look over.  I decided to forgo the phone call and introduce myself to Dave.  After a few moments of awkward conversation, I realized we could be friends.  (I have a thing for Matt Damon.) 

Over the next few days of school, Dave and I hang out a lot, sitting next to each other in practically every class.  With the weekend approaching, we set some plans.  I tell him that my Dad recommended a bar near my apartment named the Buckshot that is supposed to be good fun.  (My Dad had learned of this bar from one of his 30 year-old colleagues who used to live in the Richmond District.) 

We meet at the Buckshot on a Friday night.  Neither of us had ever come across a bar like this.  Deer heads lined every slab of the walls.  Stuffed birds hung from the ceiling.  The few small TV screens played Japanese horror films. The kitchen served burgers and chicken fried bacon.  The smell of garlic and beer permeated throughout.

We sit at the bar and order a drink.  Our drinks are downed before we know it.  We swivel around on our barstools so we can take in the whole bar.  A pool table, a shuffle board table, and, and… on the right side of the bar, two glimmering skeeball machines.  We both laugh, unable to contain our smiles.  “Wanna give it a shot?” one of us asks.  “Yea, why not.”

The Buckshot became of a staple of our weekends during that first semester, especially as we gained more friends and brought them to our promise land.  In particular, our new law school friends, Nick and Ryan, instantly became infatuated with the bar and the skeeball fun. There was rarely a weekend where we didn’t at least stop by for a drink and roll a game of skeeball.  It was our refuge, our Mecca.  But as I sit aboard the Virgin Airlines flight to New York for the Brewskeeball National Championship, with Nick a few rows behind me, Ryan a few flights behind us, and Dave already in New York, I think it’s fair to say that none of us could have imagined what happened over the next two and a half years.

It wasn’t until our friend Robin brought it to our attention, during our second semester of school, that there was a “skeeball league” at Buckshot.  Laughter was the unanimous response.  But Robin, after having a few stellar performances on the skeeball lanes one weekend night, wanted to take her skills to the next level and join the league.  “Brewskeeball” is what the league was called, Robin explained.  In order to enter to league, you had to form a team of three (or more, if you want alternates, but only three can compete in a match), come up with a witty team name, and $60.  We decided we would join. 

The six of us—Dave, Nick, Ryan, Robin, Ted, and I—formed a team and became the “Notorious Skee.I.G.”  We decided to be a team of six so we wouldn’t have to show up every Sunday night, but could alternate instead—three per match. 

[This is as good a time as any to explain how the game works.  It’s a rather simple game logistically, but it can get confusing if not explained properly.  And in order to understand the more “technical” language later, it is necessary to start with basics and move from there…

Step 1: Walk up to the lane and put a dollar bill into the slot.  Down the chute on the right side of the machine come nine wooden balls—bigger than a baseball, smaller than a softball.

Step 2:  Roll the ball, one at a time, up the lane, off the ramp, and into a numbered pocket—preferably the 40 or 50 pocket, but we’ll get to that later.

Step 3:  Repeat step 2 until you’ve rolled all nine balls.

Step 4:  Find your score being shown in bright red numbers on top of the machine.  The higher score the better.  This score is called “a frame”

Step 5:  Find teammate (or skeemmate) and record score on scoresheet, leaving the lane open for your competitor to try his hand.

This is essentially how a skeeball match takes place.  One team of three against the other team of three.  The highest team score at the end of ten frames wins.]

Our team, Notorious Skee-I.G., had a shaky start.  Some of us performed better under the strictures and pressure of league competition than others.  Some of us looked forward to each Sunday;, some stopped showing up altogether.  A couple weeks into the “skeeson,” and we were down to four—me, Dave, Ryan, and Nick.  This is when our scores started picking up.  The four of us started getting pretty good, all the while appreciating how ridiculous this whole thing was.  We won some matches and, at the end of the eight-week skeeson, we qualified for the playoffs.  

We won our first playoff match, and then our second.  Before we knew it we were in the semi-finals against the defending champs, “Skee-Unit.”  Putting up our highest score ever, we stunned everyone and beat Skee Unit, advancing to the finals against the powerhouse “Big Johnson’s Skeeball Team.” 

In the finals, we battled “Big Johnson” throughout the ten frames and were neck-and-neck.  At the end of the tenth frame, we thought we had won.  We celebrated.  We hugged, embraced, and took photos.  But due to a miscalculation on our part, we learned that we didn’t win, but had tied.  Since there is no such thing as a tie in Brewskeeball, there needed to be a “roll off.” Overtime.  Each of their guys would roll a game and each of us three would roll a game—highest team score total wins. 

But it wasn’t meant to be.  We ended up losing in the roll off.  But while we didn’t get to chug from the Brewskeeball Mugs, that night lit a fire in our bellies.  We could almost taste the Mugs, but the rug was pulled out from under us.  Sure, we wanted the mugs and we couldn’t wait for another attempt, but more than anything we realized that we had fallen for this game. It wasn’t just some silly thing we did.  It became more than that.  It channeled those faint memories of childhood, of being with your closest friends and making new ones. It was good, fun competition.  The weekly matches forced us to get together, even if we truly didn’t have time for it.  And in the end, as a law student, being pulled out your room and out of your head can be life saving.  Being pulled out of the bubble of law school and into the world of teachers, artists, consultants, designers, and carpenters was sanity preservation.  We became hooked. 

The last two years have rolled by quickly.  We continued to pursue the mugs and strategized all sorts of ways in which we could finally grasp them.  After investing only God knows how many dollars bills into the machines, the four of us have become scary good at the game, or sport, as I’ll refer to it from here on.  We consistently put up some of the top averages for the San Francisco league.  Along the way, Nick won the BROTY (the Best Roller Of The Year tournament).  I set a San Francisco record for most “full circles” in a skeeson at 32.  (A roller gets a full circle when he or she drills all nine balls in the 40 pocket, thus resulting in a 360; hence, a full circle.)  And, finally, this past skeeson we chugged from the long sought after mugs, achieving the dream. 

Not only have our individual averages scored in the top 10 in San Francisco, but our numbers are also some of the best in the nation.  Yes, nation.  This league crosses state lines!  There are Brewskeeball leagues in Brooklyn, New York, Austin, Texas, and Wilmington, North Carolina—each league consisting of about 70 or so rollers, give or take.

So that’s how I got on this flight.  I’m here because we all qualified for the Brewskeeball National Championship (BBNC).  This weekend we see who is the best.  We are here to settle once and for all—or just until next year—who is the best team in the country and who is the best individual roller in the country.  On Saturday, sixteen teams will compete in the World Mug Tournament at both Full Circle Bar and the Knitting Factory in Brooklyn.  On Sunday, sixty-four individual rollers will duke it out at the same venues in the Rollers Tournament to settle who is the best skeeballer in the country. 

It's absurd.  It's silly.   Trust me, I know.  But this weekend is the final hooray.  This weekend is about more than just the competition.  After graduating last weekend and moving out of my San Francisco apartment and into my parent's place in LA to study for the bar, I'm not sure where we'll all end up after this.  Dave took a job in Louisiana and leaves in a few months.  Nick is staying in SF, and Ryan is likely to stay in the city as well, but I could end up anywhere in California after the bar.  This is the last time we'll be able to do this.  

At the end of this weekend, we will walk away from a (children's) game that rekindled a childhood innocence and camaraderie that I couldn't have imagined going through law school without.  But before we do, there is still more work to be done...

De-Faced

Since deleting my Facebook account, a few of my friends have been curious as to why I left.  Some have been supportive and understanding, others less so.  Those friends who have been less supportive suggest, with scrunched faces and cocked heads, bafflement at my decision.  They convey to me that I am committing social suicide, that I am cutting myself off from the world.  When I try to convince them otherwise, they tend to walk away unconvinced.  I've taken this as a sign that, instead of being wrong, I just haven't been articulating myself well enough.

I have tried to sit down and write this a few times already, but each time I sit down, my thoughts spiral into an annoying rant.  I sound didactic, douchy, and preachy.  This is my latest attempt.  I can't promise it won't sound like a rant, or that you won't think me douchy, but I have to try.

My reasons for quitting are not revelatory.  They are most likely things that anyone who has used Facebook will have thought of at some point.  Some people more frequently than others.  In my case, I thought about them often.  So often that I couldn't do it anymore.  The positive aspects of Facebook couldn't overcome what I saw as the overwhelming negatives.

What are the negatives?  It's addicting.  It's a distraction.  It's creepy.  People say and share crazy things - often.  And I think it's making us less connected to one another.

The Addiction
I started feeling like a junky.  I would feel weird, withdrawal-like symptoms if I hadn't checked my Facebook in more than a few hours.  I would check it on my computer and my phone.  There was no place I couldn't get my fix.

The scene of Mark Zuckerburg's character at the end of "Social Network" where he sends out a friend request and seconds later is shown clicking refresh over and over again is emblematic of the addiction.  Whether it's a friend request, or a status update that is just dying for a few "likes," we've all been there, getting that jolt of excitement when that little red notification appears.


The Distraction
I often wonder how many times I've jumped on my computer with a specific goal in mind, and then thirty minutes later think to myself, what the hell just happened?  I went online to do [X].  I still haven't done [X].  (Resenting self.)  

Instead, I've learned that a college friend is in Europe while I'm in the library.  "Check out my 6,000 photos of Brussels/Amsterdam/Sweden!"  I do.  Or that a friend is in sunny Arizona watching the Giants play spring training games.  His status leads me to his page, where I scan his photos, and then see my friends who are tagged, and then click on the friends in the photos, which then leads me to their page, and then to their photos, and so on and so on.

[I graduate in a few weeks and will then spend the summer studying for the bar exam.  The less distractions the better.]

The Shit
The incessant updates.  The person you just can't seem to get out of your news feed.  The bad politics.  The image projections.  The photos of people you thought (and hoped) you'd never see again.   You know what I mean.

I'd often log on and feel the need to shower immediately.

Sure, you can "block" people, but I found that the moment I tried blocking someone, another, stronger force of shit appears.  And what, de-friend them?  No chance.  What if you run into that person?  It's happened.  It's painful.

The Creepiness Factor
I'm not sure when it happened, but I think it was more of a cumulative escalation.  Facebook wasn't always so creepy.  People weren't able to track you, or your every move, down so quickly.  Every comment of yours on someone else's photo or wall didn't appear in someone else's news feed.

The timeline was the final straw.  The past six years of my activity on Facebook accessible to people who I haven't talked to once or haven't talked to since middle school?  I'd rather not.

And it's not just the creepiness of other people that concerned me.  My own feelings of creepiness were troubling.

How do I know this about this person?  Is it really healthy for me to have this much information about someone I met once?  Or haven't even met?!  Should I really be looking at their photos from their most recent vacation to Hawaii?

Probably not.  But I did it anyway.  And you do too.

The Disconnection
Becoming more and more connected to one another through social networking sites like Facebook, are we actually feeling more connected to each other?  Or does it have the opposite effect?  Do these sites actually separate us and create a false sense of connection?  Since college, I've been convinced that this issue would be the theme of our generation.

Within the past few years, through Facebook, I felt like I knew more information about my friends - where they were and what  they were doing - but less and less about them at the same time.  It was easier to keep tabs on everyone.  But I noticed that as we all started using Facebook more frequently, other forms of communication or interaction dropped off.  Less phone calls were made. We spoke less and hung out even less.  Why call someone to see what they are up to or how they have been when you can just look at their most recent status update or photo album?

Within the past few weeks the New Yorker and the Atlantic ran big stories on this issue.  The consensus is that Facebook is having a huge impact on society.  Some say it is making us lonelier, others say that it all depends on how it is used.  If people use Facebook as a tool for getting together with people face-to-face, then it is good for us.  But most people don't, and the effects have been pretty clear.  More of us are living alone and more of us are becoming lonelier.

God, this has been a depressing post.

Happy!
When I quit Facebook, I said that my shorthand reason for logging off was that I felt I would be happier and that I would be a better friend.  How have I fared?

My theory was that I would be happier because I would seek people out more.  Instead of feeling like I had already had enough of people after a few minutes of "news-feeding," maybe I would try to spend time with the people I care about.  Maybe I would call my friends and family more often.  Or if not call, then write a personal email - no more of the mutual stalking.  Maybe I would try to arrange things with friends.  Maybe I would read more thoughtful articles and essays instead of aimless floating around Facebook.

After more than a few weeks, I can say that I'm definitely happier.  As far as being a better friend?  I don't know.  You'll have to ask them.

This all being said, you can now follow me on Twitter!

What?!