We were There!

Last night my son played in the Kentucky 6A Championship game. They played #1 in the nation Trinity High School. I wish I could report that we rose up in feel-good sports movie fashion and knocked off the giant, but as we all know, in real life, sometimes Goliath wins.

You might think that my son and his teammates are crushed. Certainly, they are disappointed, but crushed? Not even a little bit.

We lost and the score was ugly. I'm not even going to post it. You can look it up on the KHSAA website if you want to know. They were bigger and stronger than we were, and their speed? Holy cow...we're talking SEC speed. I say without exaggeration, at least three of their players could start for Kentucky right now. Watching them was a sight to behold.

A bigger sight to behold? Us.

I heard some talk around school last week from both freshmen and upper classmen. "Why would I want to go all the way to Bowling Green (it's a 3 hour drive) and watch us get killed?" "Half of Trinity's roster has already committed to D1 schools." "We have no chance."

You know what I heard from my son? "They're ranked #1, so if we win, we can call ourselves National Champions." That was the last thing he said to me before he went to school yesterday morning. He wasn't being ironic.

Our kids took the field with that attitude. Trinity has this whole gladiator-like routine they run through before the game. They walk out on the field two-by-two like an army. They have twice as many kids on their roster, so it's impressive. They do this call and response thing as they go through stretches like something out of 300.

Our kids didn't even know Trinity was on the field.


I took some pics of my son and his good friend during snap warm-ups. My son is the short snapper, and his friend is the long snapper. They were doing what they always do, getting loose, smiling, taking care of business. When they did look around, it wasn't at Trinity, but at the stadium. I could almost read their minds.

"Man, we are here!"

Our kids played with joy, recognizing that the moment they were in was huge. Those kind of moments come very few times in a person's life. Some of those kids will never again run out of a college tunnel in a big university stadium, but they did last night. The coach pulled a rabbit out of his hat on the first drive and sprung something on Trinity they hadn't seen in our film. Our David may have been ultimately defeated, but we drew first blood on Goliath. We showed them we wouldn't fall on our sword, and the kids were on top of the moon when we took it into the end zone. Whatever the final score, no one on our side of the stadium would have traded that moment for anything.

Our kids played hard. They went up against those mammoth linemen and kept their feet moving and strained with all of their might to make the block or the tackle. I was close enough to see our biggest offensive lineman's muscles straining with the effort on every single play.

Our kids played with heart. Several of our senior leaders went above and beyond the call, playing after they were hurt and inspiring their teammates to play hard. Our quarterback played after he was spitting up blood, and eventually had to be forced off the field by the coach. A senior defensive lineman and our best senior running back played on old injuries that should have kept them on the sidelines, but didn't. Trinity scored, and they went back out and played the next play hard.

When it was over, and I picked up my son and his friend at the school in the middle of the night, I didn't know what mood to expect. What I got was exuberance. Both of them had made blocks on kick returns that took a kid who has already committed to Alabama out of the play. (They had a lot of chances, because we had a lot of kick returns...lol.) They got to measure themselves against the best of the best, and they won the play a couple of times.

They even gloried in some of the ugly moments, in the way that only a true lover of the game can.

"Did you see that punt where I got laid out? Damn!" And they high fived. "Dude, that one d-tackle shooting the A gap..." They both shook their heads and grinned. It's like getting to go one on one with Michael Jordan. You take your licks, but man you're there!

They were there. They were on the field, and even when face down, staring at turf, they were having fun. And no matter how many times they were face down on the turf, they never quit. Not once. They. Never. Quit.

Through the first four games of the playoffs, Trinity had a total of 12 points scored on them. We scored 21.

There are two kinds of people in the world. The kind that say, "Why bother? We can't win." And the kind that say, "We have a chance to knock off the #1 team in the nation."

I'm inspired by my son and his team. You can't win if you don't show up and play. If these kids take that attitude into the rest of their lives, they will win more than they lose. Their lives will be rich with experiences that take them places other folks fear to go, and that, my friends, is a game worth playing.

Mojo

Bruce leaves tomorrow for Montana to play in the NAIA national semi-finals. Young son leaves Friday for Bowling Green to play in the Kentucky 6A State Championship game. Bruce's undefeated season of glory will either end or stretch to one more game, the National Championship. Young son's undefeated season of glory will end either way, hopefully with a state championship ring.

Me? I'm a wreck just thinking about it.

Both of my guys have a significant challenge ahead of them. My son's team is playing powerhouse, Trinity High School out of Louisville. They are the #1 ranked high school football team in the nation. Bruce's team is playing Carroll College in Helena, Montana. They are the defending national champions and have never lost at home.

What am I doing? The only thing I can...cheering from the sidelines and pulling together every positive bit of mojo available to me. I obviously can't be in Bowling Green, Kentucky and Helena, Montana at the same time. Where do I go? Well, let's examine the mojo.

I haven't missed a single one of my son's games all year, and they haven't lost. I have watched Bruce play via live Internet streaming twice this year, once when they played in Kansas and once when they played in Mississippi. They won both games. The only logical conclusion is that I have to be at my son's game and root for Bruce from afar. (yeah, yeah...this was the only conclusion anyway, but it is supported by the mojo)

What will I be wearing on Friday night? The mojo says I need to wear blue jeans, my red Scott County hoodie, and my Georgetown football stadium jacket sized XXL. It's huge, but it's warm, and best of all, it's LUCKY. My only concern with Friday's wardrobe is my gloves. I have worn my black suede gloves with the faux fur trim for every cold weather game. Unfortunately, I lost one of them two weeks ago after the quarter final game in Louisville. Quite frankly, this worries me. I may very well go gloveless regardless of the temperature.

You think I'm kidding? Not even a little bit.

Saturday's wardrobe will include black jeans, a long sleeved Georgetown football t-shirt under either my orange or black Georgetown hoodie. Both have proved equally strong with the mojo as long as the t-shirt is underneath. I will also be wearing black underwear. Again, really not kidding. I would hate to jinx the whole damn thing by wearing the wrong pair of panties.

It could happen.

I will sit with my son's girlfriend at his game. She will sit on my right. I will hold my phone in my hand throughout the game. I might nervously check Facebook or post from time to time, but that's not where the mojo is. The mojo is in the phone itself. At no time during the game will it go into my purse.

Saturday, I will sit or pace nervously in my kitchen with the computer on the island. I will hold my clicker pom-pom from the 1999 National Championship game in my right hand, clicking furiously at pivotal moments in the game. I can't overstate the mojo that resides in that pom-pom. I've held onto it for 12 years, and bad things happen when it doesn't make it to a game with me. I've even withheld it from small children during close games.

I will yell a lot, prompting the dog to hide from me. My son might join me for a bit, but he generally can't be around me when I get like that, and that's okay. He and I never sit together at Bruce's games, and the mojo is good with that.

Bruce and my son have watched hours of film, practiced in every conceivable weather condition, absorbed their respective game plans until they know them better than their own names. Executing their game day responsibilities is as natural to them as breathing. In the end, do I really think that my clothing, what I'm holding, where I eat, what I eat, who I'm sitting with has anything to do with whether we win or lose?

You better believe it.

Go Cards!

Go Tigers!

Victory is sweet indeed!

We are a football family, and this weekend we are celebrating accomplishments worth bragging about.

My youngest son is a junior in high school. He plays guard on the offensive line and does all the short snapping for PAT's and field goals. He also long snaps on occasion. You don't think about the short or long snapper very often. His name doesn't get called. In fact, he's invisible unless he messes up. Then, everyone in the stadium knows who he is. I can say with pride, my son doesn't mess up very often.

Like any good football mom, I beam with pride every Friday night. However, my game day pride goes much deeper than my son's accomplishments on the gridiron. His success on the field every week is a visible, tangible marker of how far he's come in the last six months.

Suffice it to say, young son created some very big problems for himself last school year. Teenagers are wont to do that. Mothers of teenagers are wont to gray hair and bouts of stomach-turning anxiety. Up until the first practice in July, I didn't think I'd ever see him in a football uniform again, and honestly, that would have been okay if that's what he had wanted and not the mess he had made for himself.

To my son's credit, he accepted the consequences of his actions and cleaned up his mess. Things aren't perfect, but he's so far from where he was that I can only be thankful. Every Friday night when he runs out of that tunnel, my heart soars. The cherry on this wonderful cake is that his team is 12-0 and heading into the third round of the playoffs for the state championship. Regardless of whether the team reaches that goal, my family has already won.



An undefeated regular season is a rare, rare thing. I've been married to a football coach for 22 years, so I can say that with some authority. We have been blessed in that the losing seasons have come less often than the winning ones, but we went 2-9 four years straight and suffered the humiliation of losing a job over it. And yes, I do mean "we." Losing a job happens to the whole family.

I'm not complaining. Bruce chose to be a coach, and I chose to marry him. As our son learned this year, we live with the choices we make. And truly, being a football family has brought so much more joy than pain.

And an undefeated season is a rare, rare thing. Not only did my son get to experience that joy this year, but so did my husband. It's almost scary how long the odds are on that happening. I've been afraid to say it out loud up to this point out of fear that I might jinx something. Football families are a superstitious lot for sure.

I can say it now though, because tonight my husband's team won their final regular season game. 10-0.

You want to hear something even scarier?? My son played on the JV team all season as he earned his place in the rotation on the Varsity team. The JV team went 10-0.

My family has not experienced the sting of a loss on the football field since 2010.

It could come next week. After 22 years, I know that. There are only 16 6A teams still playing high school football in the state of Kentucky, so every game gets tougher, every win harder to come by.

Likewise, there are only 16 NAIA teams still playing football nationwide. Georgetown is ranked #3, but at this level of competition, everyone is good.

Tonight, I'm thankful for my football family. I'm thankful for what seeing my son in Cardinal red and white represents. I'm thankful for the blessing of winning, and the chance to play at least one more week.

Go Cards!

Go Tigers!

Why I'm a Steelers' Fan

Here in Central Kentucky, most of us don't have a dog in the Super Bowl fight. We have a few transplants here and there from Western Pennsylvania or Wisconsin, but by and large, most of us are just rooting for the team whose players we like...or whose attitude we like...or whose city we like...or whose colors we like.

I was in that boat last year when the Colts played the Saints. I love Peyton Manning, but I wanted New Orleans to win after all they'd been through in recent years. You can read my dithering here. In the end, I was thrilled for the Saints.

No dithering this year. I'm a Steelers' fan through and through. The third entry I ever posted on this blog was on Super Bowl Sunday two years ago. Here's to you, Pittsburgh!

You can click on the link, but I've gained enough new readers in the last two years that it's worth recapping here.

My fandom comes not from the team itself, but from a community.

A Neighborhood called Speers Hill
Bruce coached for the California University of PA Vulcans from 1993-1997. (You need to click on that link just to see Vulcan, god of the forge, hammering the big V...lol) This necessitated a move from Kentucky to southwestern Pennsylvania. We bought our first house together in a neighborhood overlooking the Monongahela River called Speers Hill.

Cal U was a losing program when Bruce was hired. If you've never lived with a professional coach, you don't know that losing programs require way more hours at the office than winning programs. Bruce often worked 18-20 hour days.

I was six hours from anyone I knew. It snowed 96 inches that first winter. I was alone 20 hours a day with a baby and a toddler. Yep...Bruce had moved me to hell and it had frozen over.

Sometimes, it really did feel like hell when young son was howling in my arms and eldest was running in circles around me repeating, "Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama" and there was no hope of relief. Bruce wasn't coming home for hours, and my own mama was eight hours away. I remember sitting in the floor crying, wondering what I had done to deserve my fate.

Then, I met Tim and Carrie who lived next door. And Billy and Sandy who lived down the street. And Shelley across the street. And Shelley's eccentric dad who lived down the street. (He had "sweet" and "sour" tattooed over his nipples during the Vietnam War. He had a pool, so he displayed his tats on a regular basis.)

Suddenly, I wasn't alone anymore. Carrie's teenage daughters babysat when I needed a break. She and I worked in her garden. All the kids in the neighborhood, including mine, swam in her pool. I went back to school to get my teaching certificate, and Shelley gave me a break at the daycare she ran.

Billy and Sandy had Steeler-watching parties every single Sunday during football season. I went to the parties alone until the college season was over. The adults passed my youngest around and my eldest toddled after the older kids. I got to interact with grown-ups. When Bruce's season was over, he joined the party.

My social life revolved around the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Steeler (the correct pronunciation is actually "Stiller") fans are the most rabid fans I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I'm sorry Kentucky basketball fans. Your devotion is but a pale imitation of theirs. I have seen furniture thrown off a deck when the Steelers lost. I have seen my neighbor mow down his wife's rose bushes in the middle of the night because he was in a fugue state over their Super Bowl loss (f'n Neil O'Donnell and his four f'n interceptions). I have seen guns fired into the night sky after wins.

My neighbors foamed at the mouth over their Steelers. And because I had grown to love and rely on my neighbors, I began foaming a little bit. The infamous night of f'n Neil O'Donnell's four f'n interceptions, I was screaming like a lunatic at the television right along with everyone else.

Tonight, I will be screaming like a lunatic in support of my Steelers. Bruce will call Tim and Billy to make man-noises in support of the black and yellow. My heart will be with my good friends in Speers Hill, and at the end of the day, it will be a fun Super Bowl because I care about the outcome.

Here's a little video enjoyment, made more even more awesome by the fact they start with DEFENSIVE highlights! Here we go, Stillers, here we go!

So long 2010! I won't miss ya!

The end of the year creates an opportunity to look back and see what you've accomplished. I would rather look ahead than behind, but sometimes you need the behind to move ahead. So with only a few short hours left in 2010, I guess it’s time to take stock of the year.

Winter
I outlined this post before I started writing it, and I could see on paper what I already knew. Fall and winter are the hardest seasons for me. Some very practical concerns might explain this. Football season requires an enormous amount of energy, and my biggest work responsibilities fall during this time frame. However, I know a more fundamental, metaphysical reason exists. The cold gloomy weather of late fall and winter bring me down. Always have. The evidence would suggest I need to move to South Florida or a Caribbean Island.

While I’m waiting for the money fairy and the moving truck, I’ll keep on Jazzercising. I went to my first Jazzercise class January 25. Today’s class will be number 233 for the year. Jazzercise has been life-changing for me. The physical benefits are wonderful. My pants are a size smaller than they were 11 months ago. I don’t find myself breathing hard and sweating doing stupid things like carrying in groceries or climbing up and down the stairs. The real life changer, though, was in my mental and emotional health.

I weathered a particularly difficult personal storm last winter, and every time I thought I would fall into despair, I would go to Jazzercise and find the strength to get through another day. I had always heard about the endorphin high that comes with regular exercise, but I hated exercise so much, I’d never experienced it. I promise you, that high is real. I know because I’m addicted to it. I can actually identify the moment the extra oxygen hits my brain and those endorphins are released. And the benefits snowball. I can do actual push-ups now and hold a full plank. Feeling strong makes me feel confident which in turn makes me feel happy.

Beyond that, it’s just fun. I get to dance every day. This is how I feel when I dance.

Last winter was as cold and gloomy as winters get in Kentucky.


This pic was taken from my deck in January or February. I don’t remember exactly when, but there was a three-week stretch in which we only went to school for three days. Subsequently, we were in school until June 9th. You can read my philosophy on snow days here. Suffice it to say, I don’t love them.

The only positive thing about snow days is that I have more time to write. Last winter I finished my second novel, Crimson Crimes, during that long icy run with no school. It took me longer to write the second book than it did the first. I had cohesion problems with the second that have made me take a hard look at the way I approach plot. Sapphire Sins, my first, played out in my head like film rolling across a movie projector. The film broke midway through the sequel, and when I spliced it together, you could see the gap. The whole process was part of the learning experience. You have problems. You work through them. Your writing improves.

Of course, writing a sequel when you haven’t sold the first book is a mistake so common, it's a cliche. I know why writers do it…at least I know why I did it. It’s easier to keep writing characters you know than to invent new ones. I suppose if I was hell bent on making lots of writing mistakes, at least, they were all wrapped up in a book I feel quite confident will never sell. Only my beta reader has seen Crimson Crimes, and she was honest with me, thank goodness.

“It didn’t suck, but it didn’t keep me turning the pages like the first one did.”

Yeah, I know. That one will probably go in a box under the bed, never to see the light of day again. Unless…I sell Sapphire Sins, and then maybe I’ll rework the whole thing and who knows?

Spring
Spring brought exciting news on that front. I acquired a literary agent in March. Anyone who has queried knows it’s hard as hell to get an agent to even ask for pages, let alone offer representation. After 18 months of querying Sapphire Sins, I finally had both in one fell swoop. The day he called and offered was a glorious day. I was validated. I really could write. A professional in the shrinking publishing industry believed in my work.

I signed a contract. I made a few minor edits on his recommendation. I rewrote my synopsis, as well as a two paragraph back-cover blurb, and then he began submitting. Almost immediately, an editor at HarperCollins wanted to see it. That email ushered in another string of glorious days. I could already see the cover art in my head. I mentally ran my fingers across the raised letters of my name. I imagined the trip to Italy I would take with my fat advance. I dropped the new project I was working on and began tinkering with the broken sequel, thinking a two-book deal would really launch my career.

And then…the editor passed. The writing was good, but they were looking for the next big thing in paranormal romance. Vampires had seen their day and were on the way out. Honestly, this had been my problem in getting an agent. I was on the wrong side of the vampire curve. Timing is everything. We got several more bites, but traditional publishers didn’t want any more vampires, and the book is too long for most e-publishers. So it languished.

Then, in late October, my agent informed me he was getting out of the agenting business. Too hard to make money in a shrinking industry. Tomorrow, on January 1, all the rights to Sapphire Sins revert back to me. I’ve been thinking hard about what to do next, but I’m going to save those musings for another blog post.

Spring brought other happy occasions. I love spring. As the weather warms, I feel lighter. Even the end-of-the-school-year deadlines don’t stress me too much. Light and warmth and lots of natural vitamin D make all the difference in the world.

My brother married his soul mate on May Day in Nashville. If you live in Nashville, I’m certain you remember that weekend. It started raining in the wee hours of the morning Saturday and didn’t stop until the city was underwater. But many waters cannot quench love. It was a great day for my family in spite of the natural disaster.



Another glorious spring day brought my son’s high school graduation.

He’s handsome isn’t he? He’s starting college this January. He worked through the fall at UPS and realized maybe he could stand to go back to school. I have faith that he’ll find his way, but I’ll worry constantly until he does.

Summer
Summer brought my bff, Pam, home from Iraq. Oh Happy Day! Life is so much more fun with her around. If there is a party, she will find it. If there’s not, she’ll create it. The girls’ weekend I blogged about recently? Totally her brainchild. And if you need someone to have your back, no one will have it better than Pam. I’m putting the U.S. Army on notice. I know she’s a damn good soldier, but you may not deploy her overseas again. I forbid it.

Yeah, I’m sure that will work. Speaking of patriotism, I felt it over the July 4th weekend in Ocean City. You can read about that here.

July was memorable in all sorts of ways, not the least of which was my first national writing convention. I attended RWA in Orlando. It was supposed to be in Nashville, but the Opryland Hotel had water halfway up the second floor on May Day weekend, so we went to Disney World instead. The experience was awesome, and you can read about each day's adventure here, here, here, and here. My after-the-conference post is here. As I reread my post conference goals, I realize I haven't done everything I said I would. I've got six months to do better. The 2011 convention in New York is one of my most anticipated plans for the coming year.

August brought a new school year. I love being a teacher. It is my second career, and I’ve never once regretted leaving the business world for the classroom. Teaching is a calling for me. Every school year has its ups and downs, and standing at the halfway point of this year, I’ve experienced both. I have some of the brightest kids I’ve ever taught this year, and they never fail to make me feel optimistic about the future. I also have some challenging students. That’s part and parcel of the job. I hope when the school year is over, I can say I reached these kids and enriched their lives.

Fall
Somewhere in the middle of football season, fall happens. It’s summer, and I’m carting my youngest to camps and practices, saying hello and goodbye to Bruce like ships passing in the night, and suddenly I realize the leaves have turned and it’s not hot anymore. Football season rules our world in the fall. Bruce’s team plays on Saturday (this year on Thursday night several times…what’s up with that?), and my youngest plays on Friday night. Being a sophomore, he also played JV on Monday nights. I logged a lot of hours on metal bleachers this year.

I’m not complaining (at least most of the time). A long season means you’re winning, and having been married to a football coach for 21 years, I can say with authority that winning is better than losing. My son’s team went all the way to the final four in the state tournament this year, and Bruce’s team made the playoffs again after a four year dry spell. Nope…not complaining about that at all.

I guess if I had a complaint about the fall, it would be that my writing stalled. I should qualify…my blogging and novel writing stalled. I’ve written several short stories. One, I posted on the blog and you can read it here. Others were more personal and therapeutic and not for public consumption. If you’re a writer, you know what I mean.

Winter has rolled around again, and I’m focused on not letting it get me down. The weather has already been crappy, and it’s only December. I’m hoping that means the worst is out of the way, and it’s smooth sailing from here on out. (Yeah, I’m delusional sometimes, but it gets me through.) If not, my stepmom. Patricia, bought me a happy light for my desk at work. I’ll let you know if it works.

I know Jazzercise works, and I know spending time with my friends and family works. I know that putting my butt in the chair and my fingers on the keyboard works. So I plan on doing all three as frequently as possible in 2011. I’m a no resolutions person. Don’t resolve to do something. Just freakin’ do it.

So long 2010. I won’t miss ya.

Bring it on 2011! I’m ready.

No Music? No Thanks.

In my first piece of posted fiction, I imagined a scenario in which music is unwittingly traded away by my protagonist. I called it horror because a life without music sounds pretty darn horrible to me. It got me thinking about what I would lose if I made that bargain.

Without music, I would not have sung Eminem's "Lose Yourself" with one of my former students at a karaoke party last week. He's all grown up now, a college graduate and contributing member of society (Yeah, I've been teaching that long), but there was definitely an "Oh, Snap!" moment when I agreed to be his hype man...er, woman on stage. How many people get to rap in public with their ninth grade English teacher? The crowd, of course, went wild...me, Chad, Eminem...why wouldn't they?

A high moment. A good night. Music was at the center of it.

Without music, I would not be addicted to working out. I would still be carrying around extra pounds and huffing and puffing when I climbed more than one flight of stairs. Jazzercise is exercise choreographed to music, and I love it. Most of the time it feels more like fun than work, and when it does get tough, I sing to distract myself from the pain. Subsequently, I know every word to Lady Gaga and Beyonce's "Telephone".

Sometimes, I sing for the sheer joy of endorphins kicking and oxygen hitting my brain like a drug. And that's my excuse for knowing every word to Christina's "Candyman." Why wouldn't you want to know lyrics that include "He's a one stop shop. He makes my cherry pop?"I like singing along to that one because the music sounds so 1940s wholesome, and the lyrics are...not.

I've discovered new songs I love at Jazzercise....Madonna's newer stuff, Melanie Fiona's "Bang Bang," Idina Menzel's "I Stand," One Eskimo's "Kandi"...and so on and so on. Today, we did new routines to covers of two old songs. LeAnn Rimes' version of "Swingin" is fun. The remake of Jefferson Airplane's "Don't You Want Somebody to Love" is strange. The link is to the original. Some songs should just be left alone.

Without music, sports would lose something. "Welcome to the Jungle" and "Back in Black" will always make me think about football. Kid Rock's "All Summer Long" came out one summer when I was driving Eldest all over the state to baseball games, so it's a baseball song in my head.

Bruce and his colleagues have XM radio in the football offices. Not surprisingly, they listen to the headbanger channel on game day. What did surprise me (and cracked me up) was finding out they listen to the reggae channel during the week. According to Bruce, the Jamaican vibe chills everybody out. Whatever works, right?

Without music, driving wouldn't be nearly as much fun. Who among us doesn't like to roll down the windows and crank the stereo on a beautiful sunny day. I tested the speakers on my new car today with the Foo Fighters' "Let it Die." While not on par with my son's massive subs, I found them sufficient to my needs. :)

Ironically, the one thing I cannot do to music is write. I follow many writers who say they use music as a way into their stories. I find that music almost always pulls me out of my story. The story of the song is usually pervasive enough that it interferes with the plot thread in my head. I do use music during non-writing activities to get me started when I sit down later to write. A song can solidify a character in my head or help me establish the mood of a scene. So without music, my writing would suffer.

I can think of situations where I might be tempted to make a deal with Erebus. To magically attain those things that seem very far out of reach, I might give up something. The problem with those deals is that you always lose something precious. In a classic deal with the devil, you lose your soul. Losing music might seem tame by comparison, but I wonder. What kind of soul would you have without it?

Structure, Football, and Three Amazing Girls

The first week of a new school year has come and gone, and I'm relearning how to keep myself on a schedule. The artist in me chafes at rigid structure. I've always been a go-with-the-flow kind of gal, and because of that, flying by the seat of my pants comes easily to me. That modus operandi works just fine if your life is uncomplicated by multiple plot threads.

Mine is not. In fact, I've got more unresolved issues than an episode of Lost. Hence, the need for some structure. I'm experimenting with where to schedule my writing. I have time late in the evening, but my brain has usually turned to mush by then. Early in the morning, I'm firing on all cylinders, but I'm limited in time. Nothing is worse than having the muse sitting on your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, and having to close the computer and take care of another responsibility.

We make time for the things that are important to us, so I'll figure it out.

Time is even more critical now because football season is upon us. I LOVE football season. For real. It's my favorite thing about the fall. You can read my post from the start of last year's football season here. While I still have a few weeks before the college season starts and my Saturdays are booked, my Friday nights are already accounted for until sometime in November.

Last night, my young son, now a sophomore, played in his first varsity game. It was just a scrimmage, but the excitement of the first snap, the adrenaline rush at the sound of pads meeting in the first hits of the season, the euphoria of the first touchdown were all there.

The scrimmage was in Louisville, and much to my son's dismay, Bruce couldn't be there because of his own three-a-days, so I was the family representative. Not wanting to go alone, I dragged Pam along with me...although, not having been to a football game in two years (there's no football in Iraq), there wasn't much dragging involved. Even better, all three of Pam's girls went with us. Her daughters are 22, 19, and 17.

You haven't lived until you've gone on a road trip with three smart, opinionated, loud, sometimes ditsy young women. Remember, I have boys, and though I've done the road trip with a car load of testosterone, it's a whole different ballgame with girls.

Boys will go for miles without saying a word. They pop in their ear buds and disappear into their own thoughts. Not so with girls. We all listened to the same thing on the radio, and the talking never stopped. The conversation was entirely stream of consciousness. We moved from one subject to another with no apparent transition. Case in point...

Girl 1: Vitamin D is good for your colon.

Girl 2: Ewww.

Girl 1: Hey, I'm all about taking care of my butt. I'm not doing colostomy bags or having my butt hole sewn up.

She said something else, but I was choking at this point and missed it. When I regained control of myself, they were talking about tanning.

Girl 2: You get vitamin D from the sun. I wonder if you tanned your butt hole if it would help your colon?

Girl 3: How would you tan your butt hole? Tape your cheeks open?

Pam interjected at this point, like she couldn't take it anymore: Oh my god! When you get sun anywhere, the vitamin D is absorbed and your whole body gets the benefit.

Girl 2: Okay, I'm not a doctor.

I was laughing so hard, my stomach hurt. I can say with absolute authority that you would never hear this conversation in a car full of boys. I may actually lift this entire conversation and use it in a story somewhere. Really...you can't make this stuff up.

Lest you think these girls completely silly, there was another memorable conversation on the way home. We had the radio on loud, and we were all singing. This also never happens with boys. When I sing loud with the radio, my boys politely (sarcasm, sarcasm) ask me to stop. Not so with the girls.

Eminem's "Love the Way You Lie" came on. Pam's oldest daughter asked us to change the station. She hates the song, believing it glorifies and glamorizes domestic violence. Her other two girls disagreed completely. They believe the song graphically depicts domestic violence to show how both men and women fall into that ugly cycle...the idea that art sometimes shines an uncomfortable light on the grotesque. The conversation was intense and heated and came from a place of passion and belief in all three girls.

I was proud of them. They are strong, intelligent young women who know how to express themselves. Pam has raised self-confident daughters who, regardless of how they interpreted that song, would never stay with a man who abused them. The three of them are as different as they could possibly be, but I see Pam in all of them.

It was a great first night of football. My son played well, and I got to hang with my best friend and her three amazing daughters. I thought I'd end by posting Eminem's video, and letting you guys decide. Art shining a light on the ugly? Or glorification of domestic violence? (Warning: This is the unedited version.)

Super Bowl Fence Sitting

Happy Super Bowl Sunday! This is akin to a national holiday in my house, and although this year my family is just hanging with each other, it will still be a party.

Usually, I have no problem deciding which team to support. Last year, I rooted hard for Pittsburgh. You can read about my reasons why here. This year, I'm a bit flummoxed. I like both of these teams.

The Colts have Peyton Manning. I always root for him. He's a smart, decent guy with a wicked sense of humor. I find those three qualities extremely attractive. This SNL skit sealed his place in my heart.

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So I want Peyton to win. Here's the thing...I want New Orleans to win too. That city has been through a lot in the last five years. Tell me how you root against this city?



So whoever wins, I'll be happy for them, and my heart will break a little for the other team.

Overtime

Saturday nights bring either brooding silence or happy satisfaction to my house, depending on the outcome of the day's work. Either way, we're always tired. The massive surge of adrenaline brought on by the game, regardless of the outcome, is followed by the inevitable crash. The crash is much easier to handle after a win.

We won today, and we learned a long time ago that every "W" is a good "W," but we experienced a first today, and my house is caught somewhere between the silence and the satisfaction. Bruce has coached 23 years now, but today was the first time we ever had to go to overtime. How weird is that? You would think in over 200 games, there would have been a few ties at the end of regulation play, but today was the first one.

Bruce's teams have served up some gut-wrenching, heart-stopping finishes in those 23 years (including a come-from-behind kick-off return with 11 seconds on the clock), but today takes the cake. Riding the elation/devastation see-saw left me feeling physically sick, and we won. I don't even want to imagine how it would have felt if our DB hadn't stepped in front of their receiver on the one yard line and picked off the touchdown pass that would have sent us into double-overtime. Players for the other team literally curled into the fetal position on the field when it was over. I was glad it was them and not us, but I felt sorry for them.

Our fans left the stadium jubilant. They certainly got their money's worth today, intense hard-hitting football with an exciting finish. I had a moment or two of jubilation, but it was tempered by knowing it could have easily ended differently. On the field when we hugged each other, there was more a sense of wide-eyed "holy crap" than joy.

I wonder if there are other professions where intense emotional highs and lows are inherent in the job? I've had several jobs over the course of my life, but none that made me want to scream until I was hoarse or curl up in the fetal position at the end of the day.

Aristotle says catharsis is good for the soul. I'll bet he never coached a game that went into overtime.

Tuesday-Monday

The calendar says it's Tuesday, but I've had a Monday. I spent most of the long weekend buried in my manuscript -- 23 pages (I lost track of word count, but it was big.). I mentioned yesterday that coming out of it was like waking up from a really intense dream. Today I got smacked in the face with reality.

My alarm seemed more obnoxious than usual. Yesterday, I popped out of bed early and went right to my laptop. Today, the same hour seemed ungodly. Why would anyone get up so early? I staggered into the shower and washed my hair in a daze. A moment later, I realized I had shampoo in my hand again. I know the instructions say lather, rinse, repeat, but I usually only lather and rinse once. Not wanting to waste the shampoo, I lathered and rinsed again, ignoring the fact that lathering and rinsing clean hair is probably still a waste. I was trying to get my brain in gear, mentally running through my first hour lesson plan, when I realized I had the shampoo in my hand AGAIN. I lived the hair-washing version of Groundhog's Day.

Finally, I managed to escape the shower. I should have realized the kind of day it was when my boys woke up easier than I did. Anyone who lives with teenage boys knows you need necromancy skills to wake them up. They sleep like the dead. Except for today. Younger son had a birthday today and a football game after school, so he was up and at 'em. Older son, well I don't know why older son got right up, but he did. I seemed to be the only one in slow motion.

I managed to get through the morning okay, but then at lunch time, I discovered that I had not in fact grabbed the leftover grilled Italian sausage. I had actually grabbed the leftover onions and peppers. I had a bun and onions and peppers. Mmmmmmmm

The piece de resistance was the panicked phone call I received from young son after school. He was on a bus halfway to the freshman football game and realized he left his cleats in the locker room. I run to the custodian and talk her out of her master key. Doesn't work. I run to the Principal's office, praying he's still there. He is, and thankfully, his key works. I frantically search the row of lockers for my son's. (Side note: high school football locker rooms are disgusting.)

Once I have the cleats, I have to get them to my son before his coach realizes he doesn't have them. The game is set to start in 40 minutes and driving at a reasonable speed it will take at least 30 minutes to get there. As a bonus, I'm on empty, so I have to stop for gas. I hit the road and drive a smidge past reasonable for exactly 5 minutes when the heavens open. The interstate looks like a lake, and traffic slows to a crawl. I grab my phone and call my friend who is certainly already there.

"Is it raining there? Have they started warm-ups yet? Is my kid barefooted?"

"I have no idea. There's been a bad accident. The highway is a parking lot."

Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be on this Tuesday-Monday. I call another friend who directs me off the highway and on to a back road. It's now 5 minutes until gametime and I'm sure my son is toast. I generally believe in letting kids live with the consequences of their mistakes, but the idea of my son not getting to play on his birthday is too much. I'm almost in tears at this point.

I finally arrive, and miracle of miracles, the players are all still in the locker rooms. The refs saw lightning and made them go inside until it cleared. I found a kid who had come out of the locker room for something, and I used him to smuggle my son's cleats inside. He had snagged a 4th string player's shoes, and the coach caught them switching back...of course. Luckily, my kid is usually responsible, and the coach forgave him. Turns out he was a game captain today. Can you imagine him going out for the coin toss with no shoes?

I sat in the stands, exhausted. The skies cleared, and we played football. All's well that ends well. We won. My son made a couple of pretty good plays, and more importantly, didn't have to sit the bench on his birthday. And I enjoyed the game with really clean hair.

Football Season is Here!

Football season is upon us. Our local high school opened tonight, and my husband's college team opens tomorrow. I sit typing this entry in a Comfort Inn in NoWhere, TN...and I couldn't be happier. I love football season!

I love hanging with my football girls. Coaches' wives stick together. We have to. Ever heard an irate fan say,"They should get rid of that coach." It makes me cringe. These folks don't realize they're talking about someone's livelihood...someone's paycheck...someone's health insurance...someone's identity as a working person...someone whose job depends on the performance of college kids. Thankfully, we've been very successful and people mostly say nice things about us, but we've all heard ugly comments about the men we love. So we stick together.

Sticking together is easy. I've known the wives sitting in the motel room with me for more than 20 years. We've been together for weddings, the birth of children, and funerals. We've travelled to many, many football games in rain, ice storms, snow storms, and blistering heat. Small college football doesn't have much in the way of a travel budget, especially where the wives are concerned. We've made the occasional charter bus trip, and one very memorable plane ride, but mostly we travel by car and stay in places like the Comfort Inn. It's all good though. Long car trips foster intimacy, and we have fun.

I like the rhythm of the season. We live from Saturday to Saturday, game to game. Wins are celebrated. Losses are mourned. The leaves turn, you blink, and it's Thanksgiving. Fall goes faster than any other season of the year. Now that my younger son is a high school freshman, we have his games on Monday night, and the varsity games on Friday. I suspect the season will fly by even faster.

I love the games themselves. At least twice a week, I will nervously await kickoff. I usually can't eat before a game. My adrenaline will surge as the first hit is made, and my emotions will rise and fall with the successes and setbacks of the boys on the field, even more so when one of those boys is my own. I will hug muddy, sweaty boys when the game is over regardless of the outcome. The last words I will say to my husband before kickoff every Saturday are "Go Tigers!" and the first words I will say after the horn sounds at the end of the game are "Good game. I love you."

I'm going to bed in anticipation of a new season. My son has called to tell me the high school team won. Go Cards! Tomorrow my husband coaches in his 23rd season opener.

Football is here, baby! GO TIGERS!