I am Offended by Mascots

"...Colored people don't like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about Uncle Tom's Cabin. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator...." -- Fahrenheit 451

Dear NCAA:

Last Friday I read your policy that forbids "displaying hostile and abusive racial/ethnic/national origin mascots, nicknames or imagery at any of the 88 NCAA championships."

"Finally!" I thought. "There's a macot out there that offends me every time I hear it! Maybe now this school will finally change their mascot to something less offensive."

So I read through the list of schools who have mascots you deem offensive.

Much to my dismay, I didn't see Nortre Dame's mascot anywhere on the list.

As a proud Irish-American, I am offended by the school nickname Fighting Irish. It is a slur on all Irish-Americans. In case the NCAA is unaware, the label "Fighting Irish" derives from "anti-Catholic nativists who reviled the poor and mostly uneducated Irish immigrants who came to these shores in the mid-19th century--a drunken, brawling breed, it was said, who espoused the wrong religion."

By not adding Notre Dame to the list, it's obvious that the committee that adapted this rule are a bunch of Irish-American bigots.

The truth is that most Irish-Americans are hard working, productive citizens. We obey the law, pay our taxes, and raise our children to be good Americans.

And what do we get in return? Nothing but hatred and a cold shoulder wherever we go.

Just the other day I was at the bank depositing my hard earned money. When the teller brought up my account info she asked if Keogh was Irish. I told her it was.

"Shouldn't you be out drinking or chasing leprechauns or something?" she said.

See what we have to endure.

And you know where ideas like this come from, don't you?

Television. Especially sports related television.

In a matter of weeks college football will start. Norte Dame will start another outstanding season and the term Fighting Irish will be said over and over again on ESPN. And the amount of harassment that I and other Irish-Americans will experience will go up as well.

Soon I won't be able to walk down the sidewalk in my own neighborhood without someone wondering if I'm simply looking for trouble.

You may say that most Irish-Americans don't care.

Well, I do.

And in a society where all we're concerned about is another's feelings, that should be enough to justify banning the Fighting Irish mascot.

Thanks for your consideration in this matter.

I look forward to you adding Norte Dame to the list.

Sincerely,

Abel

Either I'm old or Aidan's growing

We moved Aidan to a toddler bed this weekend since he's rapidly outgrowing his crib. He took right to his new bed and has had no problem sleeping in it.

There was one downside to this bed however that I didn't think about.

Instead of making noise to alert us when he's awake, he now can crawl out of bed and come running to our room. This point was driven home yesterday when I awoke to go for my 6:30 a.m. run.

Aidan was awake and when he heard me walking around came running into the room yelling "Da da da da da!" In his hand he had a book that he wanted me to read.

This wasn't good.

Marathon Girl had not slept well that night and was in no mood to watch with Aidan. I needed to run and couldn't leave Aidan run around the house by himself.

What else could I do other than take him running with me?

So I put him in the running stroller and started the daily run.

Everything went great until mile three. Aidan sat in the stroller and flipped through the pages of his book. I was running slower than usual but still making a decent pace all things considered.

Then exhaustion overtook me. Instead of pushing a baby, I felt like I was pushing a car. I slowed the pace a bit to regain my breath. The muscles in my arms and legs grew tight.

"I don't know if we're going to make it home," I said to Aidan between gasps.

"Da da da da da!" Aidan said as he looked up at me as if he really meant to say "This is as fast as you can go? What kind of father are you?"

I made it home -- barely. I put Aidan in his highchair, gave him some breakfast, and went to shower and ready myself for another day at work.

Marathon Girl roused herself from bed while I was getting ready and asked me how the run went.

"The last mile was a killer," I said. "I don't think I could push Aidan every day."

"Better get yourself in shape," she said as she squeezed my arm. "Next summer you could be pushing both kids."

Holy crap. She's right.

Maybe it's time to take up something a little less strenuous.

Golf, anyone?

I am not alone

One of the more comforting things in life is to know you're not alone in the world. That out there on this big ball of dirt, there's someone, somewhere who shares something in common with you. While shopping with Marathon Girl this weekend, I learned that in fact I am not alone. My life now has purpose and meaning.

Why?

I saw someone wearing a Detroit Tiger baseball hat.

Least you don't understand the subtleties of Major League Baseball, people don't just walk around wearing Detroit Tiger hats. The Tigers often rank up there with the Devil Rays or the Rockies in terms of respectability. In the eyes of many, wearing a Tiger hat it's the equivalent of walking around with a big L on your forehead.

I first noticed this guy in the parking lot and pointed him out to Marathon Girl. (Marathon Girl didn't seem to think this was such a big deal.)

As luck would have it, we ended up shopping in the same store.

About halfway through the shopping trip our paths crossed. Our eyes met then immediately went to our respective baseball caps.

No words needed to be exchanged. Just a quick nod to one another in realization that, yes, there are other Tiger fans out there that share in the same pain and confusion each night when we see that the Tigers have suffered yet another setback or made another bonehead move.

So if you see me with a smile on my face, you'll know why.

I am not alone.

I can now die a happy man.

Sharing It All

Marathon Girl and I teach the 14-18 year olds in our church for an hour each Sunday. We enjoy the teaching anywhere between 5-8 teens each week. Our students are smart, well behaved for teenagers, and, for the most part, want to be there. I've learned a few things from teaching this class. One is that the better prepared our lessons are, the more enjoyable the class is for everyone. So Marathon Girl and I spend about thirty minutes each night preparing the lesson and discussing what we'll share with them. The result is usually an valuable in-depth lesson that I hope is valuable to our students.

Last weekend the subject was relying on the Savior for overcoming adversity. I was looking forward to teaching this lesson and sharing what I've learned from losing a wife and daughter with them. We're close enough with our class that I felt comfortable sharing some personal experiences with them.

Saturday night arrives. It's 9:30. Marathon Girl and I are putting the final touches on the lesson. I feel good about this one. I know the subject well and supporting scriptures well. I'm looking forward to class the next day.

Then the phone rings.

It's another member of our church. Apparently the teacher who teaches the adult class won't be able to make it tomorrow. The caller asks if I can take my class to the adult class and teach them the lesson I've prepared.

Usually this is something I'd be happy to do. But this time I hesitated. I knew the lesson I had prepared was going to be very personal. And while I was comfortable sharing this with my small class, I didn't feel comfortable sharing it with the entire congregation.

Odd, I know. I've been blogging off and on about the whole widower thing for three years and writing a book about the experience. And anyone that knows me can simply type my name into Goggle and learn all about me. So you think I wouldn't have any qualms about sharing parts of my story with people in church. But for some reason I was hesitant to share any of these experiences with my neighbors.

I tried very politely to weasel out of teaching the other class. But all my excuses were for naught. I was the only one on such short notice who could teach the class. I hung up the phone and told Marathon Girl about the call. She didn't seem nearly as bothered about teaching the other class as I.

"If you think about it, you're the perfect person to teach this lesson," she said. "Maybe there's a reason things turned out this way."

That wasn't the answer I wanted.I went back over my notes for the lesson and tried to reorganize in such a way that I wouldn't have to share anything persona. It wasn't working. The lesson wasn't going to work unless I shared something personal.

Sensing my frustration, Marathon Girl sat next to me.

"You've told me many times that you think things happen for a reason," she said. "Maybe it's not a coincidence that the other teacher couldn't make it. Maybe there is going to be someone tomorrow that needs to hear about what you went through."

I mumbled something about not using my own words against me and continued to review my notes.

Sunday morning came. Marathon Girl, Aidan, and I headed off to church. I couldn't concentrate through the first hour of services. I kept reviewing my lesson, trying to find a way to take any personal experiences out of it without any success.

Then came time to teach the class.

As I stood up to start the lesson, I realized this was the Sunday that everyone decided to show up to church. I estimated there was about 90 people in attendance.

I waited for a moment hoping for some kind of miracle that would excuse me from the class like a meteor to come smashing through the roof of the church or the fire alarm to go off.

Nothing happened.

Instead I had 90 pair of eyes staring at me, waiting for me to begin.

I took a deep breath and started teaching.

And the lesson went well. Very well. Much better than I hoped.

After the lesson I felt I had said the right words and those words had touched someone who needed to hear about my experiences, as hard as they were to share. Maybe Marathon Girl's was right.

Maybe there was a reason the regular teacher couldn't make it.

Maybe there was a reason I needed to teach that lesson that day.

Maybe there are no coincidences.

The Real Reason I Run

I've been running regularly for five years. During this time I've discovered I need motivation to run or it becomes monotonous.

When I first started running, my motivation was to lose weight. When Marathon Girl came into my life, my goal every morning was to run faster than her. (A goal I have of yet to obtain.)

Now that she's pregnant, we don't run together as often or as fast as we have in the past. So on the mornings I run alone, I've had to come up with another reason to lace up the running shoes several times a week.

This summer I've found one.

Golf balls.

Let me explain.

Two miles of my four mile run takes me by several holes of the local golf course. Most summer mornings the course is quite busy with golfers trying to squeeze in some rounds before work or retirees enjoying their free time.

The way the course was designed there are several holes that often send stray balls out onto the running trail or into the street. Because of this most mornings there's at least one dew covered golf ball lying in the grass next to the running trail. Sometimes two.

Each morning I've been picking up these stray balls as I run and taking them home with me.

I'm not sure why.

I don't golf or ever had the desire to play even one hole.

But last month alone I must have brought home close to 30 golf balls.

One shelf of my garage contains several quart jars full of Titleist, Callaway, and Nike balls.

Forget timing my runs or trying a new running course. Morning runs have become a quest to see how many balls I can find or perhaps discover a brand of ball that I don't have.

Thankfully Marathon Girl should be running in a couple months and my motivation can be keeping up with her as she trains for several marathons.

Her timing couldn't be better.

I'm running out of jars to put golf balls in.

Out of Here (For a few days)

Marathon Girl and I are embarking on an adventure tomorrow. We're going camping.

Camping is always an adventure but even more so with a 14-month old baby.

Not thinking that Aidan would make this camping trip daring enough, Marathon Girl is seven months pregnant and we'll be camping with her family.

Add it all together and I'm sure it's going to be an interesting weekend.

Have a good rest of July.

I'll be back in August.

The Other Runner

This morning when I reached the turn around point on my four mile run, another runner caught up to me and turned at the same spot. (What can I say. It's a popular turnaround spot.) Not wanting to be left behind, I increased my pace, caught up with the other runner, then sprinted past him, thinking that my dazzling speed would make him realize he had met his running match.

It was not to be.

The other runner increased his speed. I could hear his footsteps on the trail behind me coming closer.

Of course I had no choice but to stay a few steps ahead of him. But every time I increased my speed, he increased his. We were both determined

We ran a seven minute pace for about two miles. Finally with about a quarter mile left in my run and unable to keep the pace any longer, I slowed. The other runner slowed too and we ran side by side for a bit.

"That was fun," the other runner said. He was breathing hard.

"Yeah,"I said barely able to talk. I hadn't run this hard in a long time. I felt like throwing up.

"I saw you about a half mile before the turn around point," the other runner said. "I thought I'd try to catch you before you made it there."

"You did that," I said.

"Yeah but I didn't think you'd catch up and pass me."

"I'm competitive when I run. You can blame that on my wife."

The other runner laughed. I told him about Marathon Girl.

He said he wished his wife was a runner.

We parted ways at the end of my run promising that if we saw each other running in the mornings we'd race again.

As I walked home, I realized how much I miss running in the mornings with Marathon Girl. Even though I struggled to keep up with her blistering speed, I enjoyed every minute of it.

Now with a kid, crazy schedules and the fact that she's seven months pregnant, running together is just about impossible. The only time we exercise together anymore is when I we go for one of her "walks" on Saturday morning. Though I enjoy them, they aren't the same as just the two of us running full speed down the road.

This isn't a complaint. It's really anticipation for baby number two to arrive so I can run with Marathon Girl as fast as we can down the road in a couple months.

Mark my words. I'll be the one trying to keep up with her.

To Blog or Not to Blog, That is the Question

Yesterday one of my favorite blogs was locked because someone in her family found out about it. This morning I read an article on how personal blogs by two editors and a columnist at New Times in Miami, which included observations about current and former staffers, caused major uproar at the company. Lawsuits could be forthcoming.

That's the thing with blogs, you never know who's going to find them. No matter how much you try to hide your real identity (and the blog that was locked yesterday did an excellent job of doing just that), someone you know can find it.

Marathon Girl found my (old) blog soon after we started dating. (Five minutes on Google and she can do wonders.) She kept the knowledge to herself for a few weeks before finally telling me she had found it. I remember being a little stunned that she had found it after thinking about it, I realized there was little to worry about since my posts at the time were not about her or anyone else -- only what I was going through as a widower at the time.

After Marathon Girl's discovery, I realized that what I wrote could be read by anyone, anywhere, anytime. And though it didn't stop me from blogging, it made me a little more cautious what I wrote about. Though no one else knew about my blog, many potential blog entries stayed in my paper journal instead of working their way online. There were some very personal things not worth sharing with the world -- even anonymously.

Two months ago when I made the decision to blog under my real name, I worried that it would limit what I could write about -- especially since friends and family and coworkers who didn't know I was blogging would now have full access to it. But I've discovered that, for the most part, what I post here is no different than what I'd post in my old blog.

Since I've started this blog, occasional situations have arisen at work or with family and friends that made me wish my blog where anonymous so I could write about those incidents.

And I do end up writing about them. But they end up in my paper journal, not online.

That is probably for the best.

It's one of the few places Google can't access.

The Dark Knight Returns

Growing up Batman was my superhero of choice. There were several things I found more appealing about The Dark Knight than other superheroes. First was the fact that he had no superpowers. Sure he had a lot of fancy gadgets but there was no super strength or powers that could save him. Eventually it all came down to his training, skills, and (yes) gadgets to help him out of a situation.

Second was that Batman worked alone. (Yes, I know about Robin but I refused to buy any comics book with Robin in it. It was the lone Batman tales I purchased.) As somewhat of a loner growing up, I like reading stories about him saving Gotham or taking down the Joker on his own.

Finally the was the fact that Bruce Wayne chose to be Batman. Most superheroes (or supervillans for that matter) never choose to be who they are. Most of their powers or unique abilities are a result of fate: radiation, a genetic mishap, or an accident. But not Bruce Wayne. He wanted to be The Dark Knight. He made the choice to put on the mask and go out every night.

So it goes without saying when my dad volunteered to watch Aidan for an evening so Marathon Girl and I go out and have some alone time, we went and watched Batman Begins.

I had heard good things about Batman Begins but was a little hesitant about it since the last two movies (Batman Forever and Batman & Robin) were absolutely horrible.

But Batman Begins is different that the first four Batman movies -- it's better. Way better. In fact I'm confident in saying this is by far the best Batman movie ever made. And if Warner Brothers is looking to make more, I hope they follow the winning template they have with the latest movie.

Christian Bale makes a great Bruce Wane and Batman -- a critical ingredient that the first four moves never had. (Michael Keaton, George Clooney, and Val Kimler were great with the mask on but couldn't pull off a decent Bruce Wayne.) And the directors have dropped the corny comic book aspects of the first four films.

The movie also goes where the comic books have only lightly treaded -- the reason why Bruce Wayne decided to become Batman and why he chose to dress as a bat. By delving into the reasons behind his actions, we start to understand the mind of Bruce Wayne better and he becomes a more real and believable character instead of just some rich guy in a Bat costume -- something the first four movies didn't address very well.

The movie is dark and intriguing -- as is Batman himself. Gotham is now a real city instead not the crappy prop city that Tim Burton gave us in the first two Batman movies. The acting is solid. The special effects, epically some creepy Scarecrow effects, are great. The acting is rock solid. It seems like the guys have made this watched the Spiderman movies and took their cue on how to make a comic book character come to life in a believable way.

Now the bad. I wish they would have done a little bit more with The Scarecrow. One of my favorite and most disturbing bad guys in the comic books, I felt Scarecrow was given just light treatment. His true psychotic nature was never shown. And the scenes where Batman is taking out a room full of bad guys was edited with MTV-style close-ups so you couldn't see what was really going on. Come on guys. Quit being cheap. Show us the action.

But those were only minor blips on the screen. Batman Begins was thoroughly enjoyable for both Marathon Girl and I and well worth a rare night out together.

Batman Begins 4 stars (out of 4).

A Harry Potter Confession

Another confession, if you will. I've never read a Harry Potter book. (But I have enjoyed the movies.)

No, it doesn't have anything to do with my literary snobbishness. Nor is it because I think that Harry Potter books promote witchcraft. (They don't.) I've just never bothered reading them.

Which is odd considering how much I love to read.

Admittedly part of the reason I've held off so long is just to see people's faces when they learn I've never even opened the cover of one. I might as well be telling them I'm from Mars or have gills and live in a swimming pool.

But I've read so many good things about this latest book, I'm this close to breaking down and starting the series.

Marathon Girl loves the books and says I'm missing out. And when it comes to books, her judgment is usually right on the money.

I have most of next week off work. Marathon Girl and I are going camping with her family and there will be lots of time to read.

Maybe it will be a good time to finally dive in to Harry Potter.

Maybe.