The Billings Bottom_line

One and Done - The End of Coaching?

2012-02-10T21:34:00.000-08:00

It's official: the basketball season, and my return to coaching, is over.

I can't honestly say if I will return.

Monday a girl of mine was leveled inadvertently by an opposing player. She was slow to get up, and as play was stopped I quickly made my way to the court to ensure she was okay - until I was promptly met by an official (who likely holds a day job at a Jiffy Lube) who told me to return immediately to the bench.

"I'll give her time she needs," he said.

Nope. Sorry, that didn't sit well with me. (But I'm a hot tempered guy, so I followed my inner Zen and said nothing). Fact was, she's my kid and her safety is a primary concern. I may of said nothing at the time - but I didn't forget.

After the first half we trailed by 7 - which was a mild success considering I was playing with four girls the entire game.

Late in the third quarter - still down by only 7 - my point guard got a nice two handed push from behind. She stutter stepped while holding the ball and was whistled for a traveling violation. I politely called the official over, proceeded to push a chair to the floor, and kindly asked if the chair just committed a traveling violation as well. I got a technical for my demonstration, and nonchalantly tossed my water bottle to the side of my bench.

There was 3:08 left in the third quarter. And I got ejected, still down by 7. We ended up losing by almost 30.

I served my suspension Wednesday (we lost by 25) and I returned to the court this evening. The last game of the season.

It's B-girls basketball, and we ended up missing somewhere between 10-15 easy layups, no joke, that rimmed in and out (and ultimately cost us the game). A parent, who earlier in the season I removed from my bench for interfering with my style of coaching, remained ever-so vocal in the audience criticizing every action, shot, play, or movement of anyone who wasn't his daughter. He continued to vehemently yell at my shooting guard that she was the reason we were behind.

"Stop being selfish, make the pass, you're the reason we're behind! Come on get it together!" (At the time, she was the reason we scored all of our points.)

I promptly turned to him and informed him that she's shooting because I'm telling her too. She's got tremendous range, and is capable of hitting a three on any given shot. Tonight she was struggling - as shooters sometimes will. And our deficit began to grow from her rimmed misses and our inability to get a board.

Booster Dad (his ass is being kissed because he has money - which I guess is why I wasn't coaching these last two years because I kiss no ass, and if you mess with one of my girls, I don't care who you are you're gone; I have no problem blasting a parent out of my program. Especially from a a guy whose 1) wife calls one of my girls a bitch and 2) has my 14-year old shooter in tears on the bench.

I turn to Booster Big Shot Dad and remind him they're kids. They're just kids. And it'd be a good idea if he shuts his mouth.

After two girls fouling out, and finishing the game with only four girls (nothing new here) we lose the game. As I'm taking the girls to the locker room for my last talk with them, I turn to Booster Dad once more and simply say, "They're learning the game. They're kids. Try being supportive."

"Sure coach, why don't you go push a chair down and throw another water bottle. I paid to be here I can say what I want," he responds.

I refrain from putting his head through the wall. I value my three kids and wife and my career. But it takes tremendous effort for me to walk away.

The confrontation was loud - my voice carries. And, I assume, it is heard by many people. The pushed chair, the thrown bottle, the lame ejection, was in defense of my girls. For him to use that against me is senseless. I decide then he isn't worth any effort.

I walk away and take my team into the storage room (With the exception of Booster Dad's daughter, who didn't show up). They all remind me that they have my back.

"Coach, did you hear what we said to that jerk?" asks one player.

"Coach, we got your back, always," says another.

In the storage room it hits me: I may not be coaching again anytime soon. I'm reminded of the success, and the great times I had in my years coaching cross country. And thoughts of the Athletic Director and the Athletics Principal two years ago telling me it's time for a change "Despite none of my athletes thinking it was" comes flooding back to me.

This year I tried to play nice, but didn't necessarily follow the Varsity coach's philosophy - "his program" which saw four unpolished freshman prematurely pushed to the Varsity level at the beginning of the season, which left me with a skeleton team.

I ran no offensive sets (they're a waste of time, usually break down, and require too much thinking, and not enough reacting); we got out on breaks and pushed the ball; we played lock down defense which predicated our offense; we worked inside out; and I always, always, gave my shooter the green light if she had a wink of space to shoot it, despite the dismay of Booster Dad (except, of course, when she was draining them.)

We played. We won three games, to 10 losses - but I never made it to a single practice once the season started because of Kristie's work schedule. In other words, we improvised on game days. And they made massive strides as the year progressed with me earning their trust and adjusting on the fly.

I didn't want to let my friend down, who supported my return to coaching. I didn't want to let Clark down, who gave me a chance to return to the bench again. So, for the entire season, I played it cool and did what I could without causing waves.

But the season is over. And while I am not the greatest X's and O's coach - I understand kids. Especially girls. You win their heart first, and they'll dive for every loose ball; they'll run back on defense if their life depended on it; they'll beat themselves up if they feel like they let me down. That's what I can do. And that's what I did. And in that storage room tonight I thanked them profusely for allowing me to be their coach. Their were some tears spilled (although I think I had dust in my eyes).

In one short season those girls became a part of my family. I love them like they're my little sisters. And I don't think you can find a former athlete of mine who disagrees with my connection to my former athletes.

So, sorry Admin, I'm not kissing a booster Dad's ass. I coach for the kids. In an unkind world I dump everything I have to make sure my athletes always have someone to go to. (Again, part of the reason why I walked away two years ago was because I dumped so much energy and emotion into two sick athletes of mine.)

Coaching has been my saving grace. And as much as I had documented my mistake initially walking away - one of my only regrets - all I can say is shame on the powers that be who kept me out as long as they did.

I made the mistake of leaving prematurely. They made the mistake of not taking me back sooner.

And to my skeleton crew of girls I coached this year: Thank you. I can't say enough how proud I am of you. You will forever have a place in my heart.

Basketball: A (near) year in review

2012-02-04T10:57:00.000-08:00

I vowed to myself I wouldn't touch this blog until after the season was over. But going two months without - well - expressing myself in writing is far too long. The best place to begin is in a nice, tidy recap:

The first four games
I'm the new kid on the block, feeling out my players, determining where I'm going to slot them in the line-up. Deciding on rotations. And then, come game time, three other coaches are on the bench with me running my team. I become a disgruntled spectator. In that span we go 0-4. In one game we score two points in a half under the vocal, short-leashed guidance of the Varsity, Assistant Varsity, and Junior Varsity coaches. The three coaches leave at half and I, finally, have the girls to myself. We rally and score 16 points to close out the game.

The games that never happened
At this point I have six girls. So, one girl coming off the bench. Two become ineligible and we end up forfeiting two games.

The mysterious Intervention
Curiously after the previous game (where my girls rattled off 16 points and played loose and had fun) I find myself coaching the girls on my own... until...

Booster Dad comes to the rescue
The father of one of my athletes slowly replaces the departed coaches, and takes my side on the bench for a couple games (we go 1-1 in that span). One of my girls defiantly tells the over-excited father "you're not our coach, you need to go sit down in the stands." I question her tact, but she's 15 - and I do appreciate her fire and commitment to me. She doesn't feel alone, and after a blowout game, in which we lose, I permanently remove him from the bench. Unlike a 15-year old girl, I am tactful in doing so.

Head Coach has little faith in my loose playing, overly aggressive, fast break mentality offense
And he tells my girls this. It's his "program" (which truthfully I respect) and he wants them to run his slow developing, snail paced half court offensive sets. I remind him that, having not been to many practices because of scheduling conflicts, I intend on utilizing my personnel the best way I see fit. He politely informs me that "when we're getting blown out in the second half" he is going to take over. The game is never in question - we play unselfish and aggressive where much of our offense is predicated on takeaways, fast breaks, and an inside out game with the one BIG and one shooter I have.

Booster Dad and Booster daughter are out sick. This is my first official game alone on the bench.

We win my 13.

Alone at Last
In what has become my first official game coaching alone, we lose by 26. (20-5 after the first quarter.) The team is ranked top three in the City; one girl gives up at the half (score 30-9) and I bench her. We end up finishing the game with four girls since I refuse to let the quitter back in.

The Rebound Game, and our third win in five games
Coaches use white boards to demonstrate their brilliant X's and O's strategies. Instead, before the game I write to the remaining five girls I have (the bad attitude I don't suit up, and another girl remains ineligible for the rest of the season leaving me with the minimum of five for the rest of the season).

I notice the opposing coach scribbling furiously on her board and waving her hands in, what seems to be, an elaborate attempt to explain a play. In response I wave my hands in circles too, draw intricate shapes with my finger while in the huddle, and forcefully push the air with the palms of my hand to demonstrate a make-believe coaching play. Before our huddle breaks I call out a play to run on the offense: Bingo Bingo Alpha Baseline!

They laugh - as there is no such play. Yet they vehemently call it, "Bingo, Bingo Alpha Baseline!" my point guard yells. The opposing team looks concerned. We score easily on an improvised unselfish play that has absolutely nothing to do with a baseline.

We win by 18.

Three games left. With girls, like my wife said so many times to me, you win their hearts first. Do that, and you win games.

Lately, it seems to be working.

There's a little rust; but I can still coach

2011-12-11T17:58:00.000-08:00

I've been gone for awhile. There's a few reasons for this:

1) I've been busy. You know, making sure my dog doesn't die; packing my classroom for the move to Portable City during construction; playing Skyrim; and coaching.

Yes,

2) I am coaching again. With me back in action you'd think I'd have a lot to say. After all, coaching was one of three reasons this often neglected blog was created.

But,

3) I've been hesitant to write anything about it. The basketball team. My team in particular (which on most practices doesn't constitute a team since usually four show up). The other coaches. I don't want to say anything about them.

I've been given a second chance. One, at this school, I didn't think I'd get. (And, if you've followed me long enough you'd know I shouldn't have been out of coaching this long.) But, here I am, working with a Rag Tag group that, after only a handful of practices - and even less time working with them alone - have gravitated towards me.

And I to them.

Yet this isn't my cross country team where, over six years, we (maybe) lost two or three dual meets within the Division. This isn't my cross country team where I had State Qualifiers every year, or a team with a chance to go to State on a consistent basis. This isn't my cross country team that sleep walked to a conference title year in and year out. Even the years I wasn't coaching they breezed to conference titles (oh, stop it, those were still my girls.)

I'm treading in uncharted territory where I have a loose understanding for the game of basketball. But I know kids.

And this isn't a cross country team where all practices were predicated by me. All workouts where developed by me. Tapering programs by me. Speed work, tempos, team meetings, me, me, me.

Now I'm just that one guy who's coaching a B-team that, on some days, may not even have a full team. I'm a fixture in the background. Watching. And learning.

And you know what? I'm okay with that.

Starting over isn't easy, though. My reputation - where I had kids simply joining cross country from all walks of school without my having to recruit - is long gone. Only three girls remain who knew me as "Coach Billings". Two play soccer, and one remains my most quiet advocate as a four year Varsity player on basketball.

Tomorrow is my first game. I didn't have an entire summer with this team. Alone, I've had them for maybe an hour total.

If I lose, I can stomach it. At least I know I will have lost with kids who aren't coming to the school for "Academic Reasons" only - they're just kids who are here wanting to play and have fun.

Fun I can do. And in time, win.

The humble egomaniacal teacher/coach

2011-11-17T16:55:00.000-08:00

Note: Every year my journalism students are required to write a personal feature on themselves. The last time I coached, over two years ago now, I wrote this as an "in-class example." As it has been well documented, I have been out of coaching now for two years and eight days (exactly). But, starting Monday that will change. And this feature, in all its prophetic glory, foreshadows what will soon become my new adventure...

A coffee house classroom, that’s what it is. Despite his general hatred for all things coffeehouse, Billings sure doesn’t mind decorating his room as such. Octopus lamps provide just the right light, streaming blues music sets the right mood, and a sweet pumpkin smell subdues the stench from the hallway outside.

A student approaches his desk, calling him “Billings” and asking him if he approves the lead of a feature story being written. “That’s pretty bad. It’s a question, don’t use a question,” is Billings’ response. The student shuffles back to his desk, nodding, thinking of a better way to start his article.

Mr. Billings prefers to be called Billings, “Short and simple,” he says. His students oblige, and often feel awkward when accidentally calling him Mr. Billings. It’s not a question of being cool, or wanting to be cool, it’s just easier. And the easier for Billings, the better for Billings.

“My intention isn’t to be the teacher that doesn’t want to be called ‘mister’ just so I can be cool—I can do that without the name,” Billings jokes. “My intention,” he says, “is, and will always be, to keep things as simple as possible.”

He speaks to me with his arms folded, leaning back in is 1980s upholstered arm-chair. A tattoo, Egyptian hieroglyphics, is exposed on his left forearm. They spell out his name “B-I-L-L-I-N-G-S.” He says his tattoo was his attempt to be different, to not be like those people who get tattoos of Chinese proverbs. He admits he’s failed in is attempt at being different, but likes the tattoo—and his name—just the same.

Bags encircle his eyes, which can be attributed to the early morning runs with his dog—something he does religiously rain or shine. He denies that’s why he looks so tired:

“Genes,” Billings says about his swollen eyes. “My dad had two constant black eyes, so I have been blessed with them as well. I may look tired, but really, I’m not.”

The environment is loose. Students move effortlessly through the classroom, without restriction. They appear on task, and comfortable with one another. It is clear to the casual observer that tension has long been abandoned. Billings is aware that there are enough problems outside his doors, he tries his best to keep his class a peaceful sanctuary.

“I can’t always do it,” he says. “It’s not always so relaxed and chill. There are days my temper gets the best of me, and there are days when I bring my problems with me to work. But for the most part, I try not to.”

The kids appreciate it. They know they can go to his class, and not be on guard all the time. The pressure is off, and they perform better that way, according to Billings. If they worked late the night before, Billings will let a nap slide. Or if an assignment wasn’t completed because of an away basketball game, or a wrestling match, or a soccer game, or a Key Club activity—Billings typically turns the other cheek. “Just get it to me,” he’ll say.

One student, in an off-hand remark, suggests he should coach Girls’ basketball. This excites Billings, and he goes on a tangent—as he often does—about coaching philosophies.

“Listen, I understand my limitations. I have a lot of them. I also know what I am good at. It’s not X’s and O’s or fundamentals. I would focus on my strengths as a basketball coach, like I do with my runners. I’m not going to fool [the athletes] or myself if I try otherwise.”

Asked what his strengths are, he smiles, “Getting kids to do what I want and to perform their absolute best for me. Always.”

He says the same thing about teaching in regards to limitations, and his critical of himself in preparing his kids properly for proficiency tests, and entry to colleges.

“I struggle with the basics of teaching—grammar, proper form, classic literature, attendance—crap like that. I like to think that the way I teach, what I teach, is more real-life applicable. That’s not always the best thing for kids. But that’s what I am good at, so it’s what I focus on.”

Billings has been described by his editor-in-chief as a humble egomaniac—a very ironic combination, she insists.

He agrees with the assessment: “It goes back to knowing what you excel in, and almost promoting what you suck at. I do both. Which is why that impression of me exists.”

His students and athletes say it suits him well.

The art of the Three-Paragraph Essay

2011-11-02T19:13:00.000-07:00

Being a writing snob, I never, not once, thought I would ever teach the dreaded "Three Paragraph Essay" (which is the intermediate version to the equally dreaded "Five Paragraph Essay"). I always prided myself on teaching writing "outside the box". And, yes, that included not teaching the Thesis Statement. I'm more of a narrative-type a guy where the pointless thesis statement was usually implied with humor, cunning, and wit.

But, there I was today, whipping out the manila folders (their writing portfolios) and taking my 48 kids per through the "writing process" at Warp Snail Pace. It all started with a topic, proficiency approved of course. We class-banged the brainstorming process, cluster style, baby. (I always cluster before I blog it out!). Then we moved into the rough draft. Because, like I told them, the cluster map was the buffet - the rough draft was our lunch, we could go to the buffet and take whatever we wanted to eat from the Cluster Table to put on our Rough Draft Plate!

It all got pretty intense at this point. Because when we shifted to the Final Draft, at the end of the period, I threw in a monkey wrench - or, like my AP cleverly dubbed, "Surprise Editorialization". This safe-proof is to prevent them from copying the rough draft verbatim and claiming it as a final draft. Anyway, they had to include not one, but two hardcore facts (guaranteed to persuade the masses, and this was a persuasive piece) in the final.

Well, this was three days worth of work wrapped up in one day to get the familiar with them routine - I will typically take them through the pre-writing, rough, and final drafts on separate days (as a warm-up activity before moving into the nit and grit of my glorious English II curriculum: pronouns!).

It's a shame I am teaching something I, myself, would never use. To pigeonhole my students into a formulaic essay in despicable, and I threw up twice this afternoon between lessons.

That's okay, though, I still have my combined Journalism I and II class to tinker with. Sadly, my Creative Writing Class - where I could really flex composition ingenuity - was destroyed in an effort to fit as many students as possible in regular English courses.

Positive Side Note: Only three new enrollments today. I am eagerly awaiting the end of October where, as promised, classes will be leveled.

Alright, I'm done being an ass. I just thought I'd brag that my students are doing things students in high school do: stupid stuff.

Common Question: Why are you teaching? Get out if you hate it, sucka!

Answer: Mommy is still laid off, and I have three half-blackies to love and raise. I don't plan on slingling computers at Best Buy ever again, so this is it.

I just put in a graphic arts request: 500 stapled (pre-writing, rough rafting, final drafting) proficiency practice packets! (Which is good for a measly two essays - the price one pays for classes of girth.)

I am a man on a mission. I am determined. Willing. And able to do what it takes to be a teacher amongst teachers! All hail the three-paragraph-teaching Billings!

(Yeah, my students know those are exclamatory sentences. And they use them cautiously, because it's never good to yell!)

Playing favorites in my class: It's the only way

2011-11-01T18:47:00.000-07:00

Teaching is tough. A lot of times, it becomes one big negotiation. My motto has become, "You treat me good, I'll treat you good."

And it's the truth.

Example: My first and second periods act like seniors. Meaning they are quiet, laid back, want to get in and out and be done with it all. They have the same mentality that I do.

Another nice thing about this is that - despite having class sizes hovering in the mid to upper 40s - I have 8-12 kids absent every day in these periods. (This could be why they are my the most well-behaved bunch. What a concept, drop a class size below 40 and the classroom becomes tolerable). My more difficult periods, where everyone shows up and I am sitting at 47 students, those are the trickiest.

My good classes, the classes I enjoy, had 17 assignments last Quarter with three massive extra credit opportunities. My less desirable classes punched in at 22-23 assignments with one little extra credit assignment. I like you, we do less. I don't, we do more.

(A note: on the classes I like "more" we turn the busy work, paper-based assignments, into engaging classroom discussions. Because, for the most part, I enjoy talking to them - and they enjoy listening to what I have to say.)

This week my classes have taken a practice Reading Proficiency pre-test to help familiarize them to the standardized test they're all going to encounter come March. With four of my five classes I embedded a nice little incentive: For each question they got correct they would "win" .5 points in extra credit. The test came in at 50 questions total, so they could potentially bank 25 points extra credit.

Not a bad deal, considering this was the first "assignment" for the new quarter - an extra credit opportunity, of all things.

Shit, I wish I had me as a teacher. I think about, and say that, often.

Well, one class (surprisingly only one) couldn't be quiet while taking the test. I congratulated them for signing an "F" for their second quarter grade - and proceeded to turn it into a 250 point assignment, a whopping 5 points per question.

So, instead of having a little cushion to start the quarter like the rest of my classes, this particular class was buried with a massive test amounting to a point total that almost equaled all of first quarter.

I told them they'd be getting an Honors load worth of work these next 9 weeks. One kid asked, "Does that mean we're honors now?"

...

Any teacher that tells you they treat all classes, and all students as equals are full of crap. And I tell my students this. I'm human. I'm subjective. I play favorites. I take care of students who bust their butts, shut their mouths when I'm talking, don't line up at the door before the bell rings - I take care of kids who show interest in themselves, their grades, sports, and my overall amazing teaching and storytelling ability.

(That's why Honors was so fun, they all kissed my butt and laughed at everything I said - my humor and dry wit seems now to evade most students I have. Ah, Honors, one day I will have you again - especially since I started teaching Thesis Statements and things AP teachers want me to teach. You know, stupid stuff discussed over cosmopolitans on those late alcohol induced Friday evenings.)

But I think my philosophy is universal. For anyone who ever thought I treated them poorly, take a good look at yourself. Because it's true: If you treat me good, I'll treat you good. (If I have, or am, treating you poorly, well...).

Or, as I always say to those worry-wort students I really like (and who have treated me good): "Don't sweat it, I'll take care of you."

And I always, always do.

A look at my writing: The next morning

2011-10-31T10:12:00.000-07:00

It's a bit frightening, and a little embarrassing, to read what I write the following morning. It's like calling an old friend when you're hammered out of your mind, puking on the telephone, and crapping your pants just before you pass out on the floor.

The thing with drunk texting, or drunk calls, or other drunk escapades is that the person usually needs to be drunk first. Then the following morning they follow it up with a "What, or who, did I do last night?"

With my writing, oftentimes I am sober (and I was last night). My boozing days - which never really started - are long over. I suppose athletes call it "getting in the zone," but something in me comes alive - something I can't control. So, like this morning, when I go back and read posts that I have written I am sometimes shocked to see what I find. And, like I said already, both frightened and embarrassed.

Writing can have the type of hypnotic grip on a person. It certainly does to me. For the hour or however long it is that I write, I'm lost. Apparently last night I took a wrong turn deep into my subconscious. And it hasn't been my first trip down Memory Lane either - I've been mugged a bunch walking down that street.

I sensed something was up when I finished writing last night - which is why I threw in a little disclaimer at the beginning (after the fact). Little Red Flags were popping up every paragraph. This morning it read like a whiny guy who can't move on with his sorry life. Last night it sounded like so much more in my head.

So, children, here's the lesson for the day: Get lost in yourself, write until you can't write any more, then push it aside to read another day.

Or, just do what I do, and "Publish Post".

Why l feel unappreciated, bitter, and angry - yet still care

2011-10-30T17:06:00.000-07:00

This post, as with most of my posts, is unfiltered, discombobulated, and sincere - not to mention unusually lengthy. To anyone with an "English" sense, these are all rough drafts. Never do I sit down brainstorm my writing. I just write. Here is tonight's result:

It’s been over a year now since we’ve had the kids. Fifteen months, to be precise.

When we first decided to foster Team Billings (and eventually adopt them) we were lauded by many as Saints. My wife is always told, by people in her foster licensing class, that there will be a special place in Heaven for us. Which is odd, because I thought Heaven in general was supposed to be special enough.

Anyway, her and I will have the Jesus - V.I.P. Lounge, courtesy the adoption of a sub 5-year old sibling group.

A bold move indeed, to adopt three kids. Remember, I wanted a girl, and my wife wanted a boy, so we settled for two boys and a girl. It hasn’t been easy since. And there isn’t a day that goes by where I’m not envious of parents with only one or two kids. Three complicates things quite a bit. I suppose it’s the equivalent of having one or two kids as a single parent, but however you cut it, three is tough.

But a married couple, with one kid (or even two)? Count your blessings people.

I knew parenting wouldn’t be easy. But most parents have some type of transition period – usually a birth (of a single child) to help ease them into parenthood. As far as Kris and I, two professionals with loads of experience with children, we find ourselves on the ropes daily. We take unbelievable punishment.

I work at a job where it’s take, take, take – question, question, question – teach me, teach me, teach me; and I come home to an environment where it’s take more, take more, take more - question more, question more, question more - teach more, teach more, teach more.

In a lot of ways we are a single couple fending for ourselves. The bulk of our blood and old friends are across the country. So it’s not like the kids can spend the night at Grandma’s house while mom and dad take a breather (which we often need to do). That can’t happen here.

At ages three, four, and five – they’re at a crucial stage in their lives. And I caught myself today saying to my wife how unappreciative, spoiled, and greedy our children have become (or already were). Neither of us can believe this, though, since the only thing we feel like we do all day long is yell at them and count down from five.

My mom always says to me that she would watch me and my brother at night as we slept, and she would feel so bad – she would feel like such a terrible parent – because all she did all day was yell, yell, yell.

I reassure her that – while I certainly remember her temper – I don’t remember seeing it all the time. I remember the good, like any kid will. And there was a lot of good.

Despite these words from my own mother, I can’t help but feel guilty about the way I treat them: I certainly don’t abuse them. Well, not in the physical sense. But, like my mother, my temper is short and quick. I feel unappreciated, both at home and at work - and that only contributes to the distress.

With school it’s a simple matter of feeling betrayed or left out to dry at a time when I had expended all I had to help those around me. I felt like, after that 2009 season, I had nothing left. That’s why I walked away from track following my early (untimely) departure from cross country. However, there were no pick-me-ups, I was merely pushed aside without the courtesy of being notified or consulted with.

It was all logistics: I impeded on their employment plans – they needed Coach X for season Y and that was it. The hire was made, and with it promises were broken. You know, anything I did prior to me quitting cross country and backing out of track usurped all. Loyalty was a non issue. I was an obstacle. I pissed some people off with track (which, not coincidentally, took place during my foster classes and the onset of Rogue’s epilepsy) and was replaced. Period. End of story.

There was no, “What can we do to keep you to stay?” or “What prompted this decision?” or “We’re here to help you in any way possible,” or “The job is yours if you change your mind, even if it’s the day before the season.”

Actually, I did hear that last quote, but it was pretty much "Don't let the door hit you on the way out." It didn’t matter, because the AP who said the job was mine left the next year along with the promise he had made. Those in power remaining simply turned their backs, and did their best to avoid confrontation.

With a guy like me, I initially thought I was hurt because I didn’t get my ego stroked like I expected to (and deserved to). But, as I sit here tonight and think about parenting, I realize I just wanted someone to care. I think maybe that’s why I took it so hard (and continue to take it hard). My co-coach at the time seemed to care the most. She was ultimately powerless to help (although I will never forget she tried.) But I followed my Friendship Script, pissed her off too, and permanently ruined any chances at ever coming back.

(A lot of my conversations with her last year sounded like this: "If you become Dean I'd like to take your spot." Well, she became Dean, and I didn't take her spot. Although I am pleased with the person who did, at least.)

At home my kids are too young to pull me aside and give me a hug, or offer me a moment to say, “Hey Dad, what you and mom did was amazing. I can’t thank you enough for becoming our parents. And, by the way, you were an amazing coach and are a truly remarkable teacher, despite what anyone says…” I’m sure that will happen one day – on many occasions. And I wish I could hear it sooner than later, but that just isn’t how things work.

So much of who we are or how we perceive our lives (good or bad) correlates with how much we care for others and how much we are cared for. This worries me because, according to this equation, my self-perception is dim.

My wife, who I’ve gone on record saying many times before, is my lifeline. I shiver to think of who, what, or where I’d be without her. But she can’t burden the “Care Load” all by herself. No one person can.

So pay it forward, people. Go out and adopt three kids, or whatever, but pay it forward. Tell the person next to you how much you appreciate them. Stand up for them, especially if you’re in a position of power and have the ability to help.

Don’t piss your bed and just assume Mom is going to wash your sheets. Because I pissed my bed a ton, and have been sleeping in it for awhile now.

(While I won't - or try not to - use any names, there has been a great deal of support and compliments sprung my way. Mostly from students, and graduates with a few colleagues thrown in for good measure. I wanted to just recognize them "in general" for taking the burden off my wife, and helping a guy back on his feet. Your texts, letters, and conversations with me says it all. As anyone will agree, it's good to know that we're not alone.)

Things that make me go "Grrr...."

2011-10-28T16:23:00.000-07:00

Last post I explained how my wife questioned my unadulterated anger issues. This was just two nights ago when – at the time – my anger stemmed from a thing called insomnia. I promised to pursue the question further. Today I do just that.

Today I am angry about something else.

Neurologists. Neurologists in general, really. My own neurologist(s) have bombarded me with medications in an attempt to cure chronic migraines and neck pain – all to no avail. I eventually turned more towards diet and exercise (again) which has helped “naddah” either. So the Chinese have it all wrong, too.

Like a shrink once said, (not my own shrink, of course), “I need to think of my migraines as a permanent disorder. Like being a paraplegic.” Yet being able to, um, walk and stuff. A fair enough trade off, I suppose. It’d really suck if I couldn’t walk, and I had migraines and neck pain all the time. The logic is sound: Learn to Live With It.

Rogue’s neurologist (for her epilepsy) told me today that I need to be prepared for Rogue to die, since I no longer want to follow the pill regiment that had stripped my dog – a former star athlete – of her former life. She was a freak of nature, a dog with a combination of athleticism and intellect I had never before seen. Truly, a worthy best friend.

Less than a year after her first seizure, and her first pill, all her greatness vanished.

Today the only thing Rogue can do is wag her tail occasionally, eat a lot, and seize while pissing and pooping simultaneously.

“By far, the worst epileptic patient I had ever seen,” her neurologist said.

(I may get a lot of knocks for my brash personality and overall jerkish behavior, but at least I can make people feel comfortable in their own skin – Doctors, not so much.)

She insisted that, considering her recent seizure activity, we continue the same medicine at the same dosage. I insisted (considering she can’t do anything but eat, sleep, wag her tail, and poop and pee while convulsing like a demon-possessed beast from hell) she start a strict tapering program.

“I really don’t want to,” she said.

“I've listened to you for 18-months now. I’m well read. Have done my homework on epilepsy. Have witnessed over 50 seizures. And while I’m not the Dog Whisperer, I know my dog. So we can do this one of two ways,” I said.

I told her that she will come up with recommended tapering plan for me. Or I will. But we are cutting back her pills, regardless.

And that’s when she dropped the “D” word.

“Well, remember, she can die because of this.”

My best friend took a nose dive down the stairs right before the doctor visit, actually. Her deteriorated hind leg strength and lack of coordination – caused by the 13 pills she’s taking daily – can kill her too.

I told her this, but failed to conclude said statement with ", bitch." like I wanted to.

“Have you thought about euthanasia?” (No, not the loud mouth girl in my 6th period class.)

I’m such a tactless, heartless jerk who typically has the audacity to say things like “my principal doesn’t use Facebook,” and “my department chair said I don’t teach things I actually do.” So, yeah, I’m off the cusp – normally. But I refrain from saying what I really want to say here. I can do that on occasion, despite wanting to give her a painful – not painless – death.

After sparing her life, she begrudgingly agrees to establish a “neurologist approved weaning program.” She must really want my money – over six thousand dollars so far and counting.

She went on to compliment my wife and me on our thorough seizure log of Rogue, as well as the regular check-ups, and overall upkeep of our dilapidated pet. She even said, “I don’t know if I could do this with my own pet.”

What? I’d cut off my arm for my girl. Right now, if it guaranteed a long, seizure free, healthy and happy life, my left arm would be gone. How can she be a vet and feel this way?

I left the place with a $120 bill, an audacious migraine, a sick dog, and a lot of anger.

But tonight I will be watching Charlie Brown's "Great Pumpkin" with Team Billings - so that should help some.

At Staff Development Day I Learned...

2011-10-27T21:21:00.000-07:00

About a lot of things.

But before I get into that I'd like to point out that even though I use no names and try to remain discrete, sometimes the truth just outright hurts and personal feelings may be compromised. Therefore, proceed with caution, or don't proceed at all.

Today was another Staff Development Day. Another chance to Observe. Listen. Learn. And Wonder.

This morning, as I pulled into school, I noticed the cross country team on the football field playing this elaborate makeshift game. A game - or rather an exhaustive workout designed behind the tapestry of a game - I invented more than four years ago. A game that, three years ago, almost killed my top distance boy and fastest male sprinter via a most delightfully brutal collision.

The boys who almost died on that fateful day are now long gone. One is in Guatemala on his Mormon Mission, after having ran one year collegiately in Virginia. The other (now a sophomore in college) leads the fourth ranked junior college in the nation. He is currently being pursued by a (Division I) Oklahoma program that is ranked fifth in the nation.

(Do you hear the sound of me tooting my own horn?)

And then there is me. Just heading into a crumbling building, concerned about the State of My Crumbling Career.

At breakfast this morning I eat with the "old" teacher group this time. The "old" teacher group consists of teachers who 1) are old, and 2) have been teaching the longest in the department. 1) I am both the youngest, and 2) I have been teaching the fewest number of years at this particular table.

Call me an old soul. Old news. Yesterday's big story. Whatever the case may be, I eat with the Oldies but Goodies.

I learned - not through the Oldies, but through passing conversation - that we are getting another administrator. Which is odd, since I already thought we got another administrator at the start of the school year. I secretly wonder (but do not say aloud in fear that I will be discovered as a complainer) if this rumored administrator will be teaching English II.

I learned - via a text - that my daughter pointed at her purple Leapster laptop today, turned to my wife, and said, "Thanks, Steve Jobs."

I learned (a couple of weeks ago, actually) that despite being the best candidate for the job, I probably will not be coaching distance runners in track. (I officially gave-up on cross country at my school, and turned - unsuccessfully - to its ugly step-sister-sport when I learned a spot would be open.)

Loathing is alive and well in Las Vegas. And my reputation for being a self-centered, egocentric, unpractical, self-deprecating, do-what-I-want-when-I-want, impossible-to-work-with kind of guy has ruined me.

Absolutely and positively ruined me.

I'm cancerous. Poisonous. Pomp....ous. To all but the students and athletes who themselves generally love and admire me and would follow me into the fiery depths of room number four-thirty-one with a stolen Conference Trophy in hand to hang on my wall - alongside all the other Conference Titles we won.

Toot, toot.

Damn me for gaining respectability with the wrong demograph: the kids!

(Let it be known that I shopped free agency this past summer. There wasn't a school out there that needed both a Journalism teacher AND cross country coach. As much as I seriously thought about it, I wasn't about to drop Journalism just to take my talents somewhere else.)

But, like my credibility over the last two years (or around the same time I started writing this blog), I digress.

Last night I went to bed at 8pm. I was tired, so sleeping seemed like the best thing to do. A little after midnight, or after about four hours of lying in bed composing one story after the next in my head, my wife asked: Why are you so God Damned angry all the time?

This question was a valid one. I am angry a lot. And for a lot of different reasons. Yet it's a question I couldn't answer at the moment - because, at that moment, I was angry I couldn't fall asleep. (I would eventually lose consciousness three hours later. Which was three hours before I needed to get up to Observe. Listen. Learn. And Wonder.)

Wonder how, suddenly, certain people within the department have become omnipotent to the extent that they know exactly what we are doing in our classrooms at all times. I thought it was obvious: We aren't teaching Thesis Statements. And proficiency practice? What is that?

Or...

Observe the glaring rift in methodologies and personalities, yet wonder why nothing has been done in an attempt, from a leadership standpoint, to unite a splintered group and coagulate the varying viewpoints to a common cause: the new-found core curriculum. (I just wanted to sound like a politician there. You may now return to your regularly scheduled bitchgram.)

Or...

Listen to the High Horse neigh, snort, grunt, blow, and nicker in repeatedly failed attempts to rally the riders.

I understand the push for resolution. Change is among all educators, and we need to be doing things a certain way. Soon. Unless, of course, we live in Alaska and Texas. I get it. I respect it. I've adapted. This year I've excessively taught grammar; planned weeks ahead with detailed lessons; have altered my teaching to accommodate the new and improved core curriculum; specifically collaborated with other teachers to ensure continuity; and have showed students what a thesis statement is. All things I hadn't done much of in the past.

I've roused and incited The Horse (something I have done much of in the past) enough to have it buck beneath me. Truth is I'll continue to jab and prod that Crowbait if it deliberately continues to ride me into the ground any further.

Did I mention that I taught my students what an extended metaphor is?

Oh, and here's a disturbing newsflash: I learned that part of the school's rehab will include closed captioning in each classroom, which suggests there will be a broadcast journalism course. Sadly, the entire staff learned of this news together, this morning, despite many personal inquiries over the past few years (and weeks) to see if this was going to come to fruition.

Did I mention I taught my students what foreshadowing is?

Lastly I learned that our Commander-in-Chief does not use Facebook "like all of us" - indicating that no vote was made on the President's behalf to help ensure the $10,000 school-based reward from the Nevada State Bank. For the record, I voted.

Once.

Toot, toot, toot.

Entertaining, teaching, fathering, and gaming!

2011-10-22T17:08:00.000-07:00

Last night was my birthday and I crashed (real early) from a hard...week of entertaining.

Kids. Everywhere.

In my class, engaging 46 students and teaching them becomes a Late Night Skit with no laugh track - although, oddly, I did get several applause yesterday. (Literally, I they laughed and cheered and clapped. I've had the laughs plenty of times, but the applause?)

AND they learned masculine, feminine, plural, possessive, demonstrative, indefinite, and relative pronouns in the process. Yes, there are way too many pronouns, at least 85 more whose names I don't know but pretend to do when teaching.

And then Kids. When I get home. Everywhere.

A wife mugging me to have a conversation with someone who she doesn't have to talk about wiping butts, putting wet pull-ups in the trash, washing hands with soap (soap! damn it), not peeing our pants at school. She wants a good-ole fashioned adult conversation. Once a proud AP student, and a High Honors graduate at the University of Illinois, she struggles to hold dialogue of any intellectual merit during the day.

So, when I get home, and she has her chance to speak to a real person (because kids are like fake little dirty puppet things that don't even know how to write the letter "h") this is what she talks to me about:

Wife: Easten isn't wiping his butt. We need to courtesy wipe him. I didn't think we had to but you need to see his underwear. Let me show you. It looks like he's literally shitting all in his pants and digging his fingers in his butt.

Me: It probably itches.

Wife: And Ember can't have her radio at naps or bedtime, because she keeps leaving her soaked, 20-lb pull-up in the middle of her room and not in the garbage like she's supposed to.

Me: Maybe we put the garbage in the middle of her room.

Wife: And Jax pissed so bad during nap today you could literally squeegee his pillow. His pillow! How do you pee on your pillow?

Me: I'm going to get a beer. Want one?

But I digress. Last night, the night I hit the Big 3-3, I was lights-out before the clock struck eight.

I crashed for a solid seven hours before I turned over and saw the clock.

The clock read 3:09am and my body felt like it had been pummeled with a baseball bat the entire seven hours I slept.

But I had options here: 1) go back to sleep and wake up with kids fighting, beds soaked, and Ember crawling in (or lately UNDER) our bed, or I could 2) Wake-up and have three hours of quiet.

Yep, I got up at 3:09 - made myself instant coffee that tasted like road mud (we were out of the regular stuff), and sat myself down in front of my computer. Rogue followed, laid at my feet, and wondered what the hell I was doing.

"Weekend, gaming, baby," I said. "It's just me and you girl." She obliged, and tucked herself under my desk.

My students love that I'm a gamer, and they want me to play Borderlands, and Call of Duty, and Battlefield, and Bioshock - oh and Deadspace, they say, is a good one. But, damn it, I tell them, I have three kids, a fried brain when I get home from Playing Conan O'Brien at school, and a wife who wants to talk about skid marks in underwear.

People, I choose my games carefully - because I don't have an eternity to play them. I have two hours and 19 minutes, starting at 3am, before kids storm the castle; angry, loud, and wanting chocolate milk. NOW!

By 3:17am I had loaded up the turn-based slash real-time strategy giant, Total War: SHOGUN 2, and escaped to feudal Japan. Good thing I'm not a real Commander, of real Samurai Warriors (or anyone for that matter) - because my reactions were slow. I sacrificed needlessly. I advanced too early when I should have held back. I exposed my flanks. Didn't provide cover for my poor bowman who were slaughtered in seconds by opposing cavalry.

At 3:29am, with Mud Coffee in hand, and a quiet house, I realized I was no Ender Wiggin. Just some tired teacher, an exhausted dad, and a man who had to poop from downing two cups of Instant Sludge in eight minutes.

On weekends I let Kristie sleep in, it's the least I can do - I'm up at three anyway.

By 6am the house was overrun, my flanks were exposed, and instead of the air reeking of the blood from my fallen bowmen, it reeked of urine and dirty kids.

I did the only thing a good dad could do to regain control of lost ground: I made them popcorn - don't worry it was all organic - and chocolate milk for breakfast. Next, I sat them in front of the television, put on an episode of Little Einstein, and followed it up with a two-mile walk to exhaust them.

(Even though, by this time, it was only 7am.)

The two-mile walk became one-mile, because, "Daddy, I really need to poop. Can we just stop and I go here?" asked Ember.

Ah, what the hell - it was a Saturday morning, nobody would notice.

Thank you to everyone who has ever run with me

2011-10-21T17:39:00.000-07:00

About a month ago I reconnected with a couple of old athletes of mine. It wasn't much of a re-connection, in the sense that we had actually talked a handful of times over the past few years. But it had been sometime since I'd last seen them.

They were, after all, my first experience (and challenge) into coaching: a hard-nosed, no nonsense female who had speed to back up her big mouth. And her complete opposite, a soft-spoken boy with Romeo looks and a steadfast work ethic.

I inherited them as a coach, but they quickly became my kids. My Captains. I had earned their trust.

My male Captain went on to play Lacrosse at the University of Reno. While up at the State Championship two years back when I was still coaching (and sending kids to State every year - no hard feelings), he and I toasted over a cold one. He had just turned 21. He's on the five-year college plan, and still playing Lacrosse (which, not surprisingly, he is the Captain of the team).

My female Captain, on the other hand, was the first athlete I coached who went on to run at the collegiate level. She ran Division I, locally at the University of Las Vegas, Nevada. (So did another female athlete of mine who graduated with her.)

She finished the year as their #4 runner, and then after an all-out battle with her phony coach the following winter - she quit (and so did the other female athlete I coached who graduated with her). Invariably, she lost her scholarship. She went on to graduate a year early with a degree in Anthropology.

The following weekend, after they had been to my house to see my kids and eat some grub, my old female Captain comes knocking on my door dressed to run.

I've been on over 100 runs alone now, ever since I lost my team, and my best friend (my dog) lost her health. Every morning I debate on whether or not I should go. Every morning it's just me, the lonely desert, a stray car or two, a sore back, and tired legs. But I do it regardless.

But on this day, when she came to my house ready to run, and even though I was feeling like doing anything but hitting the road, I obliged and laced up as well. And that run, a simple three mile scamper through the trailed desert behind my house, was the best time I had on a run in a long, long time.

I had life in my legs. The desert, normally void of everything except rock and shrubs, was suddenly alive and thriving with life. My back and neck pain dulled to the point where I hit I pace I hadn't come close to in a long time when running - every morning - alone.

And today I hit 33 years of age. And like I have been doing every morning since school started, I fed Rogue (my best friend, and one of my old running partners) her 7 morning pills, took a pre-run dump, laced up, waved to my pooch who slouched on the cool tile by the front door to wait for my return.

It took me a while to trudge the measly two-mile loop. But when I eventually made it back, my girl struggled to her feet and greeted me like she always does now. And that was enough to make today a beautiful one.

10 Things About The School Year (so far)

2011-10-19T19:29:00.000-07:00

A couple things I have noticed this year so far:

1) My class sizes are monstrous - apparently not as massive of some who claim to have 50-plus kids. Mine average 44, with 41 being my smallest and 47 being my largest. But my classroom is large (despite only having 38 desks). So, despite what the tone of this post (and posts to follow) may suggest: I am not complaining. I am simply stating a fact.

2) In 1999, roughly 12 years ago, an additional wing was built to accommodate the growing student population at my school. Despite still being in its pubescent years, my particular hallway still doesn't know what 70 degrees means. As a teacher in my wing, you have two choices: 58 degrees, or 83 degrees. (Again, this is a fact - dispute it and you will lose in the court of law.)

Just recently, however, a Dean brought a cooler filled with ice cold drinks to 'thank' us for teaching in volcanic temperatures. I drank my first Mountain Dew - chilled with precision - for the first time in ages.... even though it was actually 58 degrees in my class at the time.

3) I continue to dress nice, and impress the ladies. I don't do it for the ladies, of course. I do it because I want to become relevant again. No, that's a lie. My wife likes it, so I do it for her. "Don't wear jeans, babe," she says to me each morning when I attempt to dress down. Sorry Powers That Be, the only person who has control over me is She. You never will. And I will forever "Toe the Line." Great teachers always do.

4) I jinxed the best runner my high school has ever seen. I did this because I wasn't the one who coached him. After writing an article about him a few weeks back for the local paper, his season officially ended because of over-training, or so the story goes. I received some compliments on the article, which was nice for a change. Next time I will write a feel-good story on a runner from an opposing school, instead.

5) I have been out of coaching for two years now. And while I beat that to hell, I'd just like to say that I keep winning conference titles even though I'm not coaching. That makes six in seven years. Next year, when there is a team I actually never coached, a team I didn't initially establish good running habits with, a team I didn't continually counsel, cheer, support, follow, and write about through the season - then we'll see if the streak continues.

And, really, after having talked to the new coach several times - I do like him. He means well, looks out for his kids, and is dedicated to the sport. All the shit that went down wasn't his fault - the blame goes to me. But I'll be a casual observer next year when, finally, all the kids I coached (save for one) are gone. And that includes his entire Varsity Girls' team.

6) I'm teaching grammar. Someone give me a raise.

7) I'm not sure the school counselors know what they're doing. But I'm not a school counselor, so the things they are doing - for example moving a kid from Period 2 English II and Period 6 Biology to Period 6 English II and Period 2 Biology - with the same exact teachers - never fails to confuse. But I'm cool with each course in my grade book having 63 kids, 22 whited out from withdraws/transfers after only seven weeks of classes.

Jesus, I feel like I need to make these disclaimers. So I will. I like the counselors, save for one who thankfully I don't deal with. But if I catch him talk down to the counselors' secretary one more time, or tell a student that a particular college is out of their reach - and this is said in front of me - i'll be sure to put on a show.

8) If I were going to Carnegie Hall I would be able to sell chocolate.

9) If construction is on time, and I'm moved to a 10x10 portable in January, I will be conducting classes in tent on the adjoining softball field, instead.

10) Rumor has it that God, in the name of some church, is coming to my school to argue our institute's lack of religious curriculum. It must be some impostor - because this said God can be found teaching three-paragraph essays in room 431.

Dad, you taught me one thing: Go for what makes you happy - I promise, I will.

2011-09-24T17:37:00.001-07:00

Date nights, or - in this morning's case - Date Days, always prove to be very enlightening experiences for me. They give me a chance to talk with the person I trust most; the person who understands me more than that bathroom mirror I admire myself in on a regular basis.

My one true love. My wife. The knower of all things Billings.

On this particular morning, over a particularly massive vanilla latte, and a well-done Denver Omelet, her and I talked about me. Normally this isn't the case. Being married to a woman, our conversations usually revolve around her.

And having three kids, if our conversations during our Special Alone times aren't about her, then they center around our children.

On this morning, however, it was all about me. And rightfully so, I'm a pretty awesome guy - so there is quite a bit to talk about in regards to my general greatness. But, despite my greatness, we talked about the uncertainty that has been following me for some time now.

My future.

You see, I have the Art Billings Syndrome. (For those who don't know the infamous "D" Man - a term my brother and I used to call our pops - Art Billings is my late father whose life ended with a sudden implosion of his weakened, broken heart on Father's Day of the year 2005.)

Art Billings was a renaissance man.

Looking back at his life (now as a 32-year old married man with three children, a career, and a whole lot of advanced diplomas to show off my superior intellect) I've come to the realization that, even though he crushed me as a young child when I needed him most; and even though he was unfaithful to the one woman who helped shape the man I am today; and even though he never played catch with me; or took me to a baseball, football, or basketball game; and even though he was a blatant racist; and even though he drank too much wine - often hidden in an unassuming coffee cup; and even though he was a father who showed me what not to do with my own children; I still, nearly six years after the heart attack that claimed his life, learn something new from him every day.

His parenting - although questionable at times - didn't stop with his cremation. Even now I see more and more of myself in the man I grew up despising. It's both a scary and exciting realization.

He was superb talent: a brilliant artist, an analytical mastermind, an electrical engineer; a charismatic salesman; the funniest man I ever knew; and a once-in-a-generation photographer. He danced with every profession in the book, from running his own photography business, to working at Abbott Laboratories as a lead engineer, to selling carpet at some shady home improvement joint. The man was a not only a jack of all trades, but a master of them as well.

I always said we live our life in five year increments. And in terms of teaching, I am in my sixth year. As an educator, I am dead. It's no secret that keeping good teachers around for longer than five years is a very difficult thing to do. In fact, roughly half of new teachers quit within the first five years.

My Dad would have.

This was a man who dropped his six figure engineering job (circa 1989) and took a leap of faith with something he loved doing: photography. The man covered weddings, and took photos that, to this day, I marvel at. There wasn't another photographer like him. But he lost so much money, and spent most of his nights sucking down cheap wine in his coffee mug as he sifted through the piles and piles of bills sprawled out before him on his makeshift desk.

He left what he loved doing (photography), and turned to sales where commission got him back on track. Because the man could sell. This was a time where computers replaced his skillful artwork, so going back to engineering was out of the question. And he was okay with that, because it allowed him to reinvent himself. Something I oftentimes find myself doing (or wanting to do) on a daily basis.

Personally, I've often been told that I can sell ice to an Eskimo. I'm pretty sure that at one point in my father's selling-stint, he did actually sell ice to an Eskimo.

"What do you want to do?" asked Kristie, as she sucked down the rest of her Vanilla Latte at this morning's breakfast.

"Kristie," I told her, "I want to write. That's what I want to do for a living. Plain and simple. I want to live on a nice piece of land, where it's quiet, and do what I love most: write."

And I won't write news stories with sad endings. I refuse to be some beat reporter. Nor will I write articles that offer no entertainment value. I want to touch those who read my work. I want to tell stories of human interest, and of life lessons. Of strife, and struggle. I want to write how I've always taught. I want to write how I have always coached: with passion. With truthful passion.

If I ever get that chance, I will change a lot of people's lives. Just like I have in the classroom today, and like I once did on those jarring seven-mile runs, and post and pre-race meetings.

Dad, there's a lot of areas you failed at as a father. But, aside from teaching me to keep my cars clean, you did teach me one thing: do what makes me happy. Even if that means me having a half-empty coffee cup of cheap wine sitting on a desk piled high with unpaid bills.

So long as I am writing, and making some type of difference in someone's life - then none of that will matter.

Writing brings back some great memories

2011-09-22T20:01:00.001-07:00

I just wrote a feature on a tremendous young athlete who runs cross country at the school I teach. And anytime I'm around the sport I'm haunted by my only real regret I have so far in my 32 years of living.

I've had two fathers die; I witnessed an ugly divorce between my parents; drug addiction that plagued my older brother; I've lost a lot of good friends with things I shouldn't have said (and things they shouldn't have said). I've gone 32 years experiencing a lot of loss.

I've led a good life. I befriended my step father when he was diagnosed with cancer. But I wasn't so lucky with my biological dad - I never did forgive him for taking away my best friend - and my father's sudden death courtesy a massive heart attack didn't allow me a chance to make amends. Or, rather, for him to make amends. I never forgave him for taking away my best friend, Roscoe. He promised I would get to see him every weekend following the divorce of my folks.

The last memory I have of Roscoe was him looking out of the car window as my dad drove away. If Roscoe could talk, he would have asked where he was going, and when he would see me again. Instead he just barked. Repeatedly. As he looked at me with those big, sad eyes of his.

Two years later, as the brutal divorce raged on, I found out that my Airedale Terrier companion died. The last memory I have of Roscoe was him looking out of the car window as my dad drove away. I was only 15.

I was a good student. I surrounded myself with good friends. I Fought through all kinds of adversity. Helped my mom through difficult times. Stayed loyal to my one true love in a world run rampant with infidelity. Didn't drink alcohol until I was 21. Never did hard drugs. And while I never turned to religion, I think God would give me the thumbs up for the life I have led.

And for those reasons I don't have any glaring regrets, save for one which - on this blog - I have repeatedly documented.

I've been told many times, just as recently as two night ago, that I have so much now in my life with a new house, three kids - my plate is filled with joy and new challenges. But I just continue to push the food aside. And don't get me wrong, I have embraced (and have been beaten down) by suddenly fathering three kids.

Even teaching (coupled with fathering and being a faithful loving husband) has offered me a tremendous amount of reward and satisfaction, yet a piece of me is still dead without coaching: which, to those who ask me, has become my greatest regret. Which boggles even me, considering the tumult life I've led.

I've been asked by students who notice all the trophies on my walls, and pictures with old athletes. They ask me why I don't coach anymore. And save for a select few, I lie: I tell them I took time off when I adopted my three kids.

But the truth is I quit, despite the advice of those closest to me.

I'm not sure how many more times I can write about this. I have beaten this topic to death, and have annoyed my readers with these trivial complaints. But I was at my best with a group of nervous athletes gathered around me before a big race - waiting to hear what advice I had to give.

I was at my best when, post race, a female athlete wouldn't stop crying because of how ashamed she felt. How she let the team down. How she let me down. I was at my best bringing a sense of calm to my athletes, while instilling a sense of urgency. I worked wonders at minimalizing the importance of a race, while maximizing their performance. I did this because, as I soon realized, it was what I was meant to do.

I haven't been able to replicate that high I received from coaching by teaching English.

The closest I've come to feeling as good as I did when I was coaching came today: when I saw my feature story on Clark's athlete occupying the front page of the Las Vegas Review Journal.

At this point, it's all I can do to help impact these young athletes like I once did.

There isn't a night that goes by where I don't think about that final race at the State Championship, where my two kids took 8th and 12th place. There isn't a night where I don't think about hanging it up prematurely, after an emotionally bruising year put me on my ass. And there isn't a night where I feel that teaching, alone, can replace the joy I felt coaching.

But for one day, at least, I felt pretty damn good.

And tonight, as I write about this yet again, I want to officially stop blaming other people for me being out of coaching. The fault lies with me. And I vow, if ever given the chance to coach again, I will not make that mistake again.

My interview with the best high school runner in the State of Nevada

2011-09-18T11:07:00.001-07:00

There may be some debate to this, as far as who the best is. And I am certainly not being subjective just because this particular runner comes from the school I teach at. And I am certainly not being subjective, because I don't coach him. It'd be great if I did because then I'd really look like a great coach!

Sorry Centennial, but Basabose Bahati is the best distance runner not only in Las Vegas, but also the State of Nevada. And I suspect that by the end of the year, he will be the best to have ever run in the State of Nevada.

With all due respect to "Bulldog" nation, their "best" may very well be the best combo Track/Cross Country runner Nevada has ever seen. But all things considered: last year was the first year Bahati ran cross country. And it would be foolish to think that he has touched his potential.

He hasn't. In fact, he's now just realizing how easy it is for him to beat everyone. And very shortly, that's exactly what he will be doing.

The kid is humble. He came through adversity not many privileged Americans had to go through. He's tough as nails, and getting beat by an improbable leap at the end of 5k race by the reigning course record holder, and State Champion (in Cross Country, and for the 1600 in track) won't faze him.

And after talking with him, it hasn't.

During the interview (again, look for the full story on him this coming Friday in the Review-Journal) I told him he held the record for the 1600-mile run with a modest 4:21 which he ran last year during track (remember: our school has a 46-year history!). Sadly, the record books are buried somewhere with an athletic director who doesn't care about anything other than getting spanked in football. (Kidding!)

His response: "Oh geez, I'm glad [nobody knows]. I don't want any unnecessary attention," he said.

Soon he will be getting a lot of attention. And none of it will be unnecessary, I can assure you.

Learning to flirt

2011-09-17T10:21:00.001-07:00

So last post I mentioned a certain (female) Barista who has, to the best of my knowledge, been flirting with me. Or, at least, what I perceive as flirting - because I'm not really sure how that all works. Because I don't flirt, of course, and I certainly don't ever get hit on.

Once or twice a week for almost two years now I have gotten my Medium 24oz Vanilla Latte from her. She's attractive. Dark. Mediterranean dark: Greek or Italian. Or both. My style. And she always uses the same "in" with me, asking me whether or not I am ever going to get my truck window fixed (I have to have the door open when I'm ordering).

The other day I said I may never fix the door - I waste all my money on these Lattes. I told her I may need to stop coming here so I can save money for the repair.

She "ha-ha" laughed and leaned on that little drive-thru ledge-thingy and told me what a shame it would be if I stopped coming.

Quick background story: I've had one girl in my life, yesterday in fact marked 16 years we've been together. And I'm married to her now. This is one game I DO NOT know how to play.

So I said, "Yes it would." I took my latte and drove off.

That night I went home and told my wife about this Barista Dilemma. She said I'm on my own with this one.

Wednesday I'm back at the coffeehouse drive-thru (and in all honesty, I go there because they do have the best Vanilla Lattes, and it's on my way to school). There is a guy who takes my order, and I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief: I won't have to try and flirt this time around.

But when I pull up to pay, she pops out of the takeout window, "Hi!" she yells. A big smile plastered across her face. Of course my door is wide open to take my order, since I can't roll the window down.

"You look really good in that color," she says, referring to my shirt.

I thank her - quickly examine her hair (it's the one thing I notice on women) but am discouraged to see she has done nothing different with it. Quickly I search for a compliment to return to her. Ah, yes, her lip ring! I never noticed that!

"I like your lip ring, when did you get that?" I ask.

"Oh this?" About three years ago," she says as she hands me my drink.

"Um," I fumbled, "I was just checking to make sure you remembered," I say.

After a slight pause, and a curious smile, she responds, "Sure you were."

I thank her and speed off, happy to know I'm married and am not forced to play this game all the time.

I wouldn't be very good at it.

Tricky Subconscious

2011-09-03T05:39:00.001-07:00

I'm sitting in the Manager's office at Best Buy. But this doesn't look like any manager's office at Best Buy, being as managers don't have any offices.

It definitely looks like the Principal's office. Very academic. And the man before me isn't wearing Blue. He's a suit and tie guy, also very academic. He's tall with a devious face and a soft, Bud Light belly. He's not hiring me back into the ranks of Blue and Yellow, despite all I did for the company.

I state my case in absolute fury: one day, in 1999 as a 19 year old kid I sold 21 service plans for this company. In a day. Over the 7 years I worked for the retail behemoth I sold quite literally millions of dollars of electronic equipment, and several hundred thousand dollars in warranties alone - all without being on commission.

But Bud Light Belly Man isn't listening. I can see his mind is already made up. I'm not coming back.

Sure, towards the end of my retail career I tailed off. I got burnt out. I avoided customers and moved out of Sales and into merchandising, except on big shopping days when they needed someone out on the floor to wheel-and-deal. And sure I'd spend an hour on my 15-minute breaks at Borders reading and drinking coffee. And I may of ignored or disagreed with a few managers during that time. I may have thought I was better than I actually was.

But the truth is I was pretty damn good. Apparently not as good as I thought. Because here I am now having the door shut in my face.

Bud Light is telling me he wants to go in a different direction, and I'm powerless to persuade him otherwise. This is one service plan I can't sell. I'm out and speechless and never selling a computer or printer again for Best Buy.

When I wake up, it's 2am and I can't fall back asleep.

52 and NOT feeling blue, because I am happy, so there.

2011-08-29T16:56:00.001-07:00

These past couple of days I have been blogging in my head, thinking of ways I can avoid getting fired, while continuing to maintain this "hard hitting" dialogue. Focus on the positives. Because, let's face it, teaching isn't that demanding of a profession. I mean it is demanding, to a degree - but there are benefits beyond that other professions wish they had.

Well, since I've acquired children my respect for myself as a teacher has grown exponentially. Let's face it, when summer is over and chasing three kids around has left me physically and utterly exhausted, I get slightly rejuvenated knowing I can start pawning my darlings off to people like me: teachers.

Then an hour later, using one particular class as an example, I get 52 (fifty-two) kids pawned off on me. Then I sit down, and do a little this and a little of that (some people call it math.) Deductive reasoning suggests I am getting scammed - turning one child over to public education for some (help!) yet be given 52 (fifty-two) back in exchange. To teachers with children: I now realize there will be no parenting drop off...ever.

Anyway, teachers are still pretty cool. And I'm arguably one of the coolest teachers their lives. Large class sizes manage to bring the decibel levels to new heights. Secretly I have been devising a plan to combat the chit chat. It was obvious, my green tie and ironed white shirt didn't levy the respect I needed to keep the kids on the DL. A new plan will need to be formulated, one that offers incentives for not doing something: talking. I dropped the idea-still-in-works on 52 heads, and it seemed to be well-received, before a cyclone of teen-loudness subdued my excitement.

I think it was then when I turned back to sneak a peek at my foot long ruler. On most butts it would simply bend and possibly snap in two. I wonder if a team from Science Olympiad could construct a similar piece of equipment, only sturdier.

At the end of most posts now-a-days I will provide a little commentary on the recent day's blog. This is to clarify the interpretation of the reading, and to help prevent me from getting paddled.

Commentary: Teaching as an easy profession. That's a legit statement. I've always said it's only as hard as you make it out to be. Would I rather stay home and write 10,000 words a day. In a heartbeat. But I'll gladly do this teaching-thing for the time being though.

Readers would say "52! That's not safe, people die that way." And while people do die in groups larger than 2, a statement (and concern) like that would be completely valid. When classes get this big, a teacher must surface teach, entertain, turn to anecdotes and popular media sources to engage. Lectures become unwieldy, doing what a teacher would want to do (group work, Socratic seminars, daily discussions, one-on-ones) is null and void. Just throw some paint up on the wall and call it a job well done.

I think the Olive Green looks wonderful, you?

Note: Since this was written, my class sizes have dropped dramatically. Not from writing this, but only because students never showed up the first week. I thought I should mention that classes are at the respectable 38-42 range now.

The Billings Bottom_line is going in a new direction

2011-08-26T12:48:00.001-07:00

Last February a teacher made national news regarding her controversial blog posts about students. Although she had only 6 followers (compared to my 22!) a student discovered her blog and set the turmoil in motion. Natalie Munroe, the "Blogging Teacher" who anonymously blogged as "Natalie M.", never used names in any of her posts, yet still came under heavy fire from the school district in which she taught.

In her posts she described the students as “sneaky jerk‐offs,” “rat‐like,” and “utterly loathsome." She blamed parents for "not knowing how to raise their children," and said that their kids "had no redeeming qualities."

Here's a clip to give you the jist of the story:

While I have chronicled my obvious fall from grace through some 214 blog posts, I don't want to chronicle my fall from employment. If I were single, renting a one bedroom apartment somewhere, and had no family to look after, I would gladly continue on my merry way.

I've considered continuing writing whatever I want, like I have in the past. With any luck maybe I would have gotten some national attention to go along with a suspension. But chances are, I would have just gotten a suspension.

The sad thing is I never purposely meant to hurt anyone, or disparage my colleagues in any way - despite how much they infuriated me, or how much they annoyed me, or how much I felt betrayed, or I much I felt decisions could have been handled differently. If anything all I wanted to do what I've always done (and why I think people either loathe me or love me) and that's be honest. I used this blog as extension of myself. But as a teacher, that wasn't the best idea. Teachers don't have feelings. They don't have sex, or drink alcohol, or cry, or make mistakes, or take big stinky dumps. They just teach.

I consistently shattered that perception with my composition, and it made some people uncomfortable (especially the 'big stinky dumps' part). To the point where, now, I feel like someone(s) waiting for me to really screw up so they can pop out from hiding and yell "I gotcha!".

I, like Natalie Munroe, also never used names. But my blog was never about students, or other teachers, or my wife, or my kids - really it was just about me. And I owed it to myself, and whoever happened to read it (for better or worse) to be truthful. To show that a teacher is more than just the White Board and his Expo marker.

But, for the protection of my livelihood (and so I don't get six sections of Read 180 next year), I was wrong. That's all a teacher is: A shirt and tie.

Dust in the wind

2011-08-24T17:01:00.001-07:00

Today marked my first day back to work. And every time I pull into the parking lot, it reminds me of coming in from a run - the area where we held team stretches and lounged many of mornings and afternoons (underneath a lonely tree) is all right there.

After a long mishap of trying to find my keys (apparently I never turned them in), I found my room in complete disarray. Four tables, two teacher-desks, 38 student desks, and random stools and chairs were pushed against the far wall to make room for "air duct repairs" over the summer. I put the reassembly on hold and made my way to the cafeteria for some free breakfast. (The people administration brings in usually make a pretty mean omelet.)

This is when I started to feel like I was in high school. I couldn't sit with the jocks (coaches), since I no longer was one. (As a side note I never sat with them anyway.) I couldn't sit with the big shots (administration), or people from other departments. That would be weird. So, with purpose, direction, and a smile on my face (as not to look awkward) I sat with some colleagues I "may have accidentally burned my bridges with."

The in-crowd. AP teachers. Cream-of-the-crop type people. Teachers who are going places where, at one point in my career, I was going. The type of teachers who will spend a good portion of their summers attending conferences for personal growth. The type of teachers who willingly join committees, mentor others, and grade essays on weekends.

They welcomed me, and I laid on the charm (although one, for whatever reason, always seems completely disinterested with me.) They laughed, joked, and - since I came so late - excused themselves and left.

I was alone, shoveling eggs and hash brown in my face feeling like the outcast everyone despised.

The kick-off meeting, which I was also late for, was like most kick-off meetings. It went a little something like this:

"Welcome back, you guys are great, this was the graduation/dropout rate from last year, so-and-so had a kid, blah-blah got married and aims to have a winning season for the first time ever, and did I mention you guys are great? Have a wonderful year even though the toilets in the bathrooms won't flush, the internet will be down, and the air conditioning will explode!"

After that it was back to my room for some much needed remodeling. I wasn't at all surprised to see that nobody was waiting for me in my class. But I was a little sad. No cross country athletes came in all sweaty from a run to help me move things and "decorate" (this was usually the week I had Captains run practice in the morning to beat the heat); no editors came in to set up their little "place" in my room with random cork boards (that remains uncorked to this day).

When everything was put back together, I still felt like something was missing. The medals, and Divisional trophies, and Journalism awards, and memorabilia from cross country seasons' past - pictures of former athletes, and students, and colleagues - it all felt like so long ago. Another lifetime.

The afternoon was capped off with another meeting. This time on discipline. The presentation was given by someone with the curiously fabricated position of "behavioral specialist." She was bombarded with important questions like what should a teacher do if a student refuses to take of their hat? 4,000 referrals were written last year, and some teachers were guilty of writing more than 250, or slightly more than one referral a day.

"I didn't write any!" I wanted to say. "Am I doing something wrong?" Instead, I slipped out for a pee break.

On my way out to the car concluding the day's festivities I ran into the cross country team stretching. Two girls ran up to me and gave me a quick hug. Another girl who was in the center of the circle leading the stretches (the team captain who just so happens to be my babysitter) gave me a wave, and another shouted an empathetic hello.

Four, I said to myself.

Only four left who I know. Pretty soon they'll all be new faces.

For most of them in that circle today, I had already become a new face. Just another guy. One they would never get to know.

The last Friday before school starts

2011-08-19T09:13:00.001-07:00

And that's not such a bad thing. While the months of June and July trudged slowly through hot desert sands, August proved to be the opposite. Since the official move at the first of the month, these past 19 days have gone by in what seems like barely a week.

I've since enjoyed this fast paced month acquainting myself with new neighborhood running routes, watching 22 movie-length episodes of The Adventures of Young Indiana Jones, visiting my family veterinarian with Rogue, and leisurely modding (and somewhat playing the heavily modded versions of) Fallout 3, and New Vegas. But summer is a slow time for gaming, so there hasn't been much of that for me.

I'm ready to go back, despite not getting the respite I may have truly needed. (A trip to Mt. Charleston will have to do this summer.)

I return to work with some apprehension, however. This may be the first year, since I started teaching, where my rapport with students, teachers, and administration is at an all-time low. Students, because most (all but three) of my former athletes and editors have graduated and moved on.

Teachers, because I may have intentionally burned bridges out of either annoyance, intolerance, or sheer stupidity on my part. (Something along the lines of cutting ties and moving away out of fear of potentially getting burned in the end. I think therapists call it "Fear of Loss." It's a rather commonplace institutional problem, and one I think I have partially corrected.)

Administration, because I may be perceived as a lackadaisical pre-Maddona. Although that's merely speculation, and is all-together inaccurate. Mostly.

I'll take two thirds of the blame for everything wrong in this world, and will both eagerly and willingly reconcile any differences to make this year better than last.

While I don't wish for any awkward encounters come next week, I can expect them. This all sounds like middle-school rubbish, eh? It seems like it. What's the saying? I need to sleep in the bed my three kids peed in? It couldn't be any more truer.

Speaking of kids, mine continue to grow - and pee - as most young children do. Ember speaks fluently for a three year old, and has started to embrace her inner blackness. She does the head-shake in perfect motion while explaining certain menial feats of accomplishments.

[Head Shake] I went pee on my own.

[Head Shake] I can make my own chocolate milk.

[Head Shake] I can take a shower like a big girl.

Tee-ball starts in the fall, and Easten and Ember will both playing. And you can be sure that Jax, athlete extraordinaire, will be playing as well.

Me: Let's lie and say Jax is really Easten, so we can get him in little league instead of tee-ball, he doesn't need a tee.

Wife: It doesn't work that way. Someone will find out and every parent will want their four-year old in little league.

Me: Ok, so can we do it? I'm going to do it.

So, for a year Jax will need to hit with a Tee even though he's been taking overhand batting practice with me since he was three.

Easten has become both remarkable and difficult. He is remarkable because he still is the only child I... own... who can entertain both himself, and his siblings. Difficult, because he entertains them at 5:45am every morning right outside our bedroom. And his addiction with television has reached new heights. You see, when you take TV away from one kid, you take TV away from all three. And if Little Einstein isn't going to occupy the kids, then who will?

(In case this happens, fellow parents, proceed to take your children to the nearest park with a Splash Pad. When there, instruct them to play tag and chase you. Use your superior endurance and lightning quick speed to frustrate and exhaust them. Place children in vehicle, return home, feed them, and watch them nap for 3.5 hours while you enjoy a cold beer in quiet.)

Surprisingly I don't miss my old house all that much. I miss the 100 grand I sank into it. I miss the familiarity of the neighborhood, the running routes, the desert trails right in my back yard. I miss taking the kids out there, pretending we're scouts on an alien planet fending off a hostile environment. I miss Ember eating dirt on every hike. But the actual house, not so much. Not when the one I live in is so much more conducive to a massive family.

Besides, I'm ready to start over. It's been a long time coming.

School dreams

2011-08-07T07:07:00.001-07:00

Well, there's certainly more room. I feel like I'm living in an adult's house now, and not some giant playpen. The entire downstairs is completely toy free, and we're having no problems keeping it that way because the loft is the size of a baseball field. And, as I write this, I'm sitting in my office (I have one of those again) with my old pooch (really, she's young, but you know...) laying at my feet.

I don't think I could do this again in one year - but that very well may be the case. At least as it is now, a quarter of of our crap is tucked away in boxes and will remain there until we settle permanently. So moving a next time shouldn't be as bad. Unless it's across the country, that could be a pain.

School is a couple of weeks away, and really - up until these last 10 days or so - time has dragged along. Now that I have that $369,000 mistake behind me life is gaining momentum again. And that means weird dreams. Students have dreams that they're naked on their first day of school. (Do they? In the movies they do.) My dreams are a little different (teachers don't get naked) but they're there. Which is a surprise, I'm never nervous about school starting. And I spend little time planning. So I suppose this is my subconscious way of getting ready.

I am going to miss my old Journalism staff. Well, I've always missed my old editors but made it a point to establish a legit relationship with my incoming editors. I dropped the ball a little bit on that this year (for reasons I think were all too obvious). And while I am certainly comfortable with the new editors, and think they're fantastic students, I don't know if I will have as much fun with them. I think that was all apart of my "weird school dreams" last night.

Anyway, I can honestly say that things are pretty good. I still need to get rid of this gut, but having the ability to get back into running (I've taken the last two weeks off) should help with that.

PS - Working WITH 150 kids is easier than FATHERING 3 kids.

All hands abandon ship

2011-07-10T08:46:00.001-07:00

Well, the Big Move is underway. I lost about three years worth of paychecks into this house - that's three years I could have not worked and done something else with my time. But, we work, we pay the mortgage, we fall on hard times, we stop paying the mortgage, we lose the house, we move.

The cycle continues. We found a monster of a house, nearly 3,000 square feet with almost a third of that in a Loft alone (perfect for three kids). But, of course, it's temporary. One year. I have an office in the new house. One that's secluded from the loft, the kids, the wife - everything. It seems like a good place to write.

I vow that eventually I will settle into a custom built home. And I won't rely on government jobs to pay the bills - we saw how well that worked out for my wife (and how it's working out for me).

The intriguing thing is that - like I've said before - we're not tied down. Chicago remains an option, with family-abundant things would be easier. But having lived in the sun for 11 years I won't be so quick to just give it up. Vegas, sure. The sun, not so sure.

I'm debating whether or not to link anything (on here) to Facebook anymore. Just as an irritant I will log in occasionally and read status updates. And I don't want to be an irritant to people, so I may just stick to the non-publicizing route. Besides, for a long time this blog hasn't been for any of you, but me. I started it to entertain, I continued it for my own sanity.

Last week Rogue was bombarded with cluster seizures (and it sucked even more because Kristie was out for the night with an old friend). Three in 12 minutes; two she pissed herself, one she defecated. And somewhere during those twelve minutes she bit a piece of my finger off. At first I thought the pool of blood on the tile was from her biting her tongue, but was glad to see it was just my hand.

The next morning she dropped again while I was tossing the ball for her in the yard (that's a first) - it was a shitty 12 hour span, to say the least.

Last night, as she lay on the cool bathroom tile, I nudged her with my foot. She looked lifeless and failed to react to the gentle kick. I had to crouch down and stir her. She was fine, just a little more lethargic and spacey than usual.

I realize the importance of having friends, especially best friends (I know this because, believe it or not, I've had them before). I see that with my wife and her best friend - the outside companionship is important. Sometimes a person needs more than a spouse and kids to bring them joy, to lean on, or to spend time with. Unfortunately my outside companionship currently resides in the form of a near lifeless, lethargic, spacey dog.

She doesn't have any agendas. Loyal to the core, so long as you feed her a chicken strip every so often, and hold her head (with your fingers far from her mouth) while she seizes. If you do those things, she won't leave your side.

That's my kind of friend.

A run I won't forget

2011-06-19T04:31:00.001-07:00

A particularly unspectacular dream woke me, and - for the time being - got me writing.

It is a little after 2:30 in the afternoon. I am occupying a treadmill at a non-existent "mysterious exercise room" that only exists in a dream. All the machines are filled, the bikes, the other treadmills, the ellipticals - the place is packed. But i'm just standing on this treadmill. Leaning casually on the controls waiting for a running partner to show.

You see, for a real runner (such as myself) a treadmill - to run on - is simply not enough. For a real runner (such as myself) we need two things to be truly happy: a dirt trail/open road/makeshift outdoor route, and a running partner. At least one running partner.

As I wait on this treadmill - for whom I'm waiting for I still don't know - people are giving me the stink-eye. The wait, however, is like the mystery prize - the stocking gift. Who's going to show up to run with the Old Coach today? It's one of the things I like about these runs. It's someone different almost every time. And whoever it is usually makes for a unique, memorable run. Which is all I ever want.

Fifteen minutes pass, and it's starting to look like the treadmill will be my hombre for today. Discouragingly, but to the relief of the other fitness room patrons (who are at least happy I'm not using a valuable resource as a lounging device), I crank the beast on. The tread begins to do what it does best: tread. Just as it starts to pick up full speed, one of my (now old) running companions show.

I promptly shut down the "running" device, and greet her. It's always good to see an old face. An athlete you've shared a few hundred miles with. In this case, I've also shared a few hundred hours with in the classroom. She helmed my newspaper for me a couple of years ago, and did a more than admirable job I might add.

I tell her we can't waste a beautiful day inside an exercise room. Of course, being the runner that she is, she agrees. And seconds later we are out the doors and on a familiar trail - again, the type of familiar, unfamiliar trail that exists in dreams.

She's compulsive, this one. Which normally kills me, but on certain runs can be refreshing because I can just listen and reserve me breath - something I do more of now. She's rambling on about sinuses, and Mountain Dew, and how she drinks too much of it and how it dries you up (again, some whimsical, weird dream-state norm we're dealing with).

"You know what I mean?" she asks.

We've run for over two miles, me just gliding along at a healthy clip half-listening to some strange new compulsion she is having this week when she suddenly sideswipes me with a question.

Being the improviser I am, I respond with a cool "Yep," and she continues her crazed OCD rambling.

But I never finish the run. I never hear the end of her uninspiring sinus-story. I've prematurely woken from my slumber. I try to go back. I nestle myself in, and convince myself that if I fall asleep now I won't miss a beat. I won't miss that run. That conversation.

I can't though. It's gone. And, at three in the morning, I make my way to the computer to make sure I don't ever forget it.

Because once it's gone, I now know I can never get it back