Tuesdays

The first time my father lost his mind, it was a Tuesday.

I stood in line at the concession stand of a junior high football game, staring blankly at the smiling booster club moms and dads, while on the phone, my own father spit curses and lies about my mother and, later, about me.

The first time I did not recognize my father's voice, it was a Tuesday. 

The first time I ever had a panic attack, it was a Tuesday.

The first time I ever considered my own death, it was a Tuesday.

The first time I ever prayed for my own father's death, it was a Tuesday.

I have a real and palpable anger about Tuesdays.

***

Looking back, almost a decade later, I know now that wasn't really my father on the phone. It was a plague of chronic disease, financial despair, and unregulated medication.

It was a man whose brain was betraying him, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy; a wrecking ball of delusions and conspiracy and rage.

It was a mind, once full of joy and song lyrics and the names of every person he ever met, now tormented by even the simplest of tasks.

It was a distortion; a funhouse mirror reflection of the man I had cherished my entire life.

It was a jailer of logic and a thief of memories.

It was a havoc I would not wish on my own worst enemy.

***

There were many other horrors that would happen in the years between that phone call and my father's death. Some happened on Tuesdays, I'm sure, but when there are so many sadnesses and fears, the calendar fills up quickly, and other days have to suffice. 

But when my father died, he died on a Tuesday, just as I had prayed those hundreds of Tuesdays before.

I think about that prayer often. I've spent a great deal of time and money, on therapists and vacations and cheap bottles of wine, trying to come to grips with that prayer. How a daughter can pray such a thing for her hero. How I could pray for an end to the madness however God might see fit. Maybe He would take him to spare all of us; maybe He would take me, at least, to spare me. Either way, I prayed.

My guilt is that I prayed that prayer out of anger and selfishness. My shame is that it wasn't the only time I prayed it. I war with that shame often still.

Over time, my anger and frustration transferred from my dad to his disease, Parkinson's and its terrible little sidekick, Dementia. And although I eventually forgave my father the grievances he had caused, I still found myself praying often for the end. An end to this cruelty. An end to the indignities he endured. An end to his confusion and tears and pain. 

So, in the exquisite and beautiful circles of life, his life ended on a Tuesday, but my pain did not.

I have a real distrust of Tuesdays.

***

There have been several deaths this half year that have affected me more than I expected. Perhaps it's just the feeling of loss in general. Perhaps it's the ways they are connected back to my father -- the music he loved, or the storytelling he so encouraged, or the afflictions that tormented both him and my family. I was told that I would often see my father's death in the deaths of others, especially in those whose endings feel so familiar.

Last night, I read that Pat Summitt, one of my idols in education and sports and being a badass woman, was dying. This news hit me profoundly, and I found myself praying, yet again, for a quick end. 

There is something to be said for all of our old stories about knights and warriors and the dignity of a clean death. That's something especially foreign to those suffering from dementia -- a clean, quick death. It's a nice idea -- romantic, even -- but death, no matter how swift, is never clean, and I felt all of my old guilt rising again as I prayed. 

I thought of her and my father, two people who never met but still shared a space in my life. Two people who share the bad luck of a bad disease. Two people known for kindness and teasing and hard work and their bright blue eyes. Farm kids who came from nothing. One grew into a legend, having everything and more; one was everything and more -- a legend --  to me.

***

What I pray for, I've come to learn, is not just a prayer for him but a prayer for me. An end to my own confusion and tears and pain. I think it must be what so many people experience when they watch a loved one slip away, heartbreakingly slowly, over time.

It's hard to reconcile the selfless act of letting go with the selfish want of being free, and pain is a parasite feasting off such conflict.

A few weeks ago, I read a passage from a book, A Monster Calls, a children's book that (like so many books for children) is really meant to teach us all. It stuck with me and comforted me, and I've gone back to its earmarked page many times. So in addition to my prayer, I read it over and over, first in a whisper, feeling silly and useless, alone in my bed; then out loud and steady in hopes that somehow God would bring it to others.

The article had said that her family had stopped accepting visitors and that she might only have days left to live. But I knew, without question, what day my heartache loves best. 

So it was that I woke up this morning, a Tuesday, to say goodbye yet again.

I have a real loneliness and an ache for healing on Tuesdays.

Dreams Do Come True

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I had a dream of being a writer. I kept diaries and journals full of bad poetry. I relished essay tests. And my high school English teacher forced me into any journalism event she could, helping me, eventually, into the only state medal I'd ever receive.

I tried for a while, when I showed up at college. I hung around the newspaper kids. I submitted a couple of things to the English department's literary magazine. But what I quickly realized is that you need to be 1) thick-skinned 2) good at promoting yourself and 3) a risk-taker.

Anyone who knew me at 19 can verify that I was none of the above. Anyone who knows me now, twenty years later, can verify that I still struggle with all of the above.

My full-time job is as a teacher. For the majority of the last 15 years, I was exclusively a writing teacher and a coach. Although I have a great passion for working with kids, there were moments where I wondered if I was a walking, talking version of that saying, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach."

I hate that saying.

I tell my students that a writer writes. No matter what, this is true. A writer simply cannot be contained. His words buck against closed lips; her fingers search for just the right pattern of sounds. I am no different. I write with my kids in class. I create stories while sitting in traffic. I compose some pretty killer birthday cards and haiku. I've been published before, but mostly I considered that luck. Nothing more. I blog. I update. I spill in 140 characters at a time on Twitter.

But last weekend, I had the chance to test drive my dream. And, in truth, I almost turned it down. (Refer back to reasons 1, 2, and 3 if you're new around here.)

One of those 140 character friends, Shawn Krest, is an actual, real-life, professional writer in North Carolina, and he was one of the first strangers to encourage my writing. While I treasure the praise and support of my friends, there always exists a small fear that they're just being nice. Strangers don't have to be nice.

When Shawn learned that the Duke Blue Devils basketball team would be headed to Houston for the Sweet Sixteen, he knew he needed someone to cover that part of the tournament. Houston is a long way from Raleigh, and, contrary to popular belief, not every news outlet has ESPN-like budgeting. Somehow, Shawn thought it would be a good idea to send me as his substitute for accsports.com. I could catch a cool game or two, keep his credential viable, and write a little "if I wanted to".

I think his logic was something like this: Wide-eyed Duke fan sees her favorite team in person for the first time ever + nationally televised event + need to maintain professionalism and restraint while in the BEST SEATS EVER on press row = either hilarity or a total meltdown (still hilarious).

My thinking was more like this: OMG + WTF x Where do I go?/ I'm not good enough = Shawn's going to get fired.

Somehow, though, he talked me into it. He was paid back with 987 questions/freaked out text messages. I was paid with a seat 20 feet from my idol and court side seats to a dream come true. I think I came out ahead.

It was a tremendous four days. I was able to stay with one of my grown-up camp kids and see Houston through her eyes.

The sign that Allison posted on her front door
 to alert me that I had found the right house.

When you spend a birthday with a Skrehart, it's chocolate cake for breakfast.

The Beer Can Museum. Sadly, it was only open on the weekends, but here's what we know: a dude covered his whole house in beer cans. It took him about 20 years. We calculated that if he was a six-pack per day kind of guy, there were roughly 43, 680 beers consumed. Although, if you are dedicated to beer enough to cover your whole house, you're probably more than a six-pack a day kind of dude. Texas, y'all.

 

It's basically a house-sized wind chime.

And the art car museum. Houston has an art car parade each year. These are a few of the winners. I don't "get" art always, but this little museum is worth the time. It's also free. Definitely going to hit up the whole parade next year.

The Art Car Museum

Phantoms

The curator was also the doppelganger of Pat Garner.

"Hungry"

"Splinter" -- A full-sized Honda covered in wood

And "Lil Splinter": the go-kart version (special appearance by Allison for scale)

 And we even took a detour to look at David Adicke's latest work which Allison found by chance one day. It's a 30-foot-tall version of the Beatles. Because why not? And then we went to "Good Dog" --  a gourmet hot dog joint for a late lunch. Because why not?

When Allison last saw Ringo, he was torso-less. We're hoping John gets his left arm soon.

This is "The Texican". Avocado, black beans, freshly pickled jalapenos and creme fraiche.
Homemade buns, homemade dogs, homemade everything. Just do it, Houston.

And then there was the real reason I was in Houston. You know... that dream thing. I went to the first of four press conferences where I sat, working up the courage to ask a non-shaky-voiced question. I went to a Duke practice. Bucket list: check. I scored my first interview. It was with a 5 year-old.

That's a hall-of-famer, y'all.

From my seat at open practice

The precious kids who sat behind me.

Duke guys signing autographs

The Duke Family from my story.

This is the street I took to the stadium each day.
Duke University is located in Durham, NC. #GoodOmen

 I went to work everyday at an NFL stadium as opposed to going to work everyday across the freeway from one. (I have to say, ours is nicer inside. Yours is nicer, and less bicycle helmetish, on the outside, Houston.)

NRG Stadium

My seat for the Sweet Sixteen. Nothin' special.

The starting five.

I had the thrill of seeing a hall-of-fame coach getting his 12th trip to the Final Four, probably 2 (possibly 3) first-round NBA picks, and my favorite current player earn his way to a banner. Quinn Cook, who took me and every Blue Devil fan on a roller coaster ride for three years. Quinn Cook, who has emerged as a leader in every single, steady way this year. I love that kid. He is why teachers teach and coaches coach -- to see a boy become a man.

The post-game handshake with Utah before the actual end of the game.

Hometown Hero, Justise Winslow

I love you, Quinn Cook.

Coach K, finishing the job.

 I had to watch the dreams end for some kids, and I got to watch the dream continue for others. I watched as the media (including me) ignored Matt Jones in the press conference on Saturday. And then I watched him hide a smile on Sunday night as a reporter asked him how it felt to be the "Three Point Assassin". I saw these kids flip from playful to poised in an instant. I saw a coach defend his team with kindness and admiration and love.

Matt Jones, Quinn Cook, Coach Krzyzewski, and Tyus Jones

And I got to be a writer -- a "real" writer -- with all of the lavish accommodations you could dream of. Like the women's restroom for the female journalists. It was outside. As in, outside the stadium. As in, "go outside alone so someone can kill you and hide you in the Astrodome next door" kind of lavish.

For real.

The creeptastic Astrodome

But truly, I was in awe of the reporters surrounding me. They were in constant movement: keeping stats, tweeting, writing game stories, and lining up interviews -- all while the game was going on. The most I could manage was not yell at Jahlil Okafor to block out or stare, open-mouthed, at Grant Hill the entire time.

Then today, I came home to my very own name, spelled correctly and everything, in a newspaper. In print. That I can send home to my mom so she can read it to my dad.

Like I said, a dream come true.

Dreams don't happen just because they're dreamed though. They're usually the result of one person with a crazy idea (Shawn) and a hundred people somehow agreeing with that lunacy. I said while I was on my trip that if you ever want to measure how loved you are, announce that you're going to attempt a lifelong goal that could end in total ruined failure. People come out of the woodwork for that kind of stuff, man.

Here are my woodwork people. The list is long, but I don't have time for individual thank-you cards. I am seriously so very blessed. And I mean that in the most non-sarcastic way imaginable.

Shawn Krest -- Proof that not everyone you meet on the internet is an axe-wielding lunatic. Or at least not yet. I hope you're enjoying your first Final Four, buddy.
ACC Sports Journal -- Thank you for this opportunity. And thanks for not thinking Shawn had lost his mind.
Duke University and Mike Krzyzewski -- Thank you for finding one another and then for finding that 10-year-old kid one CBS Saturday afternoon.
The 2014-2015 Blue Devils -- You've made this season one of the best and most entertaining in a long, long time. You are a band of brothers.
Allison Skrehart -- Thanks for being such a great kid/adult and for letting me invade your home for 4 days. I am so grateful for your friendship. And for that cake.
Roommate Kelly -- You're the coolest. Give Hazel and Zelda a massive hug for me.
For my 140 character friends -- Twitter is allegedly full of racists and trolls and dumbasses. I wouldn't know that for sure because I hit the Twitter jackpot -- talented, funny, and kind. #ACCTwitter is truly, truly the best.
My school friends -- You told me things would be fine while I was gone, and you made them fine. Not just last weekend but for so many times this year. It's always a great day to be alive and a Mustang.
My camp friends -- There is no greater support network. Camp is the only place I knew I could fail and be just as loved as if I had piloted a spaceship to the moon and back. You are my touchstone.
JD and Tammy and Hunter -- You have always let me be who I was meant to be and loved me as intensely as I'd let you whether I saw you yesterday or last year.
Becky, Isaiah, and Jaxson -- Thank you for bringing such joy and kindness into my life. You amaze me.
Jim -- You've put up with my Duke passion for the longest, always having to share the VCR as it taped endless games or listen to me shout at my television as if they could hear me. You were the first person to recommend my writing to anyone else, telling Mrs. Hayes, "If you think I'm good, wait until you see what my sister can do." No compliment has ever been more treasured.
Mrs. Estlack and Mrs. Hayes, my junior high and high school English teachers -- You were my first guides in what to say and how to say it. You cracked open my skull and heart and out came my soul. Thank you for helping me scoop all those words into neat little piles. And these are just two of my dozens of life-changing teachers. I hope I make you all proud.
My parents, Dean and Wanda -- Daddy, you taught me how to tell a good story, but I'll never be as good at it as you. I miss them more than anything. Every story I tell now, I tell for you. Mom, you gave me power and strength to put on a brave face even when I'm terrified. Thanks for teaching me all about sports and not ever letting them be "just for the boys". I love you both.
And to my tribe, LJ, Courtney, and Heather -- There are not enough words in the world to ever tell you what you mean to me. You are the stars in my sky, the sun on my face, the prayer on my lips, and the solid ground under my feet. You are what every friend should be and what every person should be lucky enough to have.

Just a Little Line-Jumping

I coached at my junior high for 13 years, and if there's one thing I learned in all that time it's this: when the End Times arrive, and all of our souls are sent to Heaven for Judgment Day, anyone who has ever coached B-team girls' basketball will move automatically to the front of the line. Junior high teachers, in general, will ascend in the carpool lane, but those coaches? Double sixes, buddy. Collect your eternal reward and understand that it was all worth it.

Seriously... saints, healers, people who give up their seats on the subway, three-legged dogs... you can all just wait your turn. Jesus knows the patient and virtuous when He sees 'em.

This is the first year in my entire career that I have not coached. After all, as I told my new principal last year, nobody gets their school out of AYP troubles with lay-ups and free throws. So, I stepped off the court and decided to devote myself to my classroom. All year long, people have asked me if I missed it. All year long, I couldn't decide if I truly did. I don't miss the 70 hour work weeks or the 6:30 AM practices. I don't miss keeping books and waiting on buses and hosting tournaments. I don't miss overly-enthusiastic parents yelling from the stands -- at me to play their kid (yes, I know she is unique and special), at their kid (no, they simply cannot box out), or at the refs (believe it or not, they DO know that they should "call it both ways").

Believe me. There are lots of things I don't miss.

Last week, I kept the scoreboard at the 8th grade girls' game. The A-game was exciting, fast-paced, push-and-pull. It was hard to keep my mouth shut, but I left them in good hands, and although they lost, I know that they'll be okay the next time around. I was sad to have missed out on their talent, but I did not feel the pang of regret that I feared I might.

And then, came the B-team.

When I first started coaching, my friends would come to my games, not to watch the kids but to watch me on the sideline as I, their most competitive friend, tore at my hair, pinched the bridge of my nose, watched kids shoot at the wrong basket on multiple occasions, and released a torrent of expletives into the back of my hand.

For the record, no one can hear you scream in your hand. Also, no one is ever really sure which basket is theirs. Ever.

As I watched those girls play, I was reminded of some of my most notable B-team adventures, including a tournament game whereupon I had 5 players total, and we won 9-6 in double overtime.

NINE. TO SIX. DOUBLE OVERTIME. For real, that's seven baskets (plus a free throw) in 42 minutes. At the end of the first overtime, when it was 6-6, the tournament hosts and the opposing coach wanted to just end the game, but I was all, "I did not just survive that mess for a tie. No way. SOMEBODY is going to win this freakin' game."  And then we did. My girls went on to dub it as their "Miracle Game".  I saw one of them at her high school last year. She is still talking about that game 5 years later.

B-team basketball is not for the faint of heart. The closest approximation I can make for it is to attempt to drive a bumper car, blindfolded, while holding an egg, without cracking it or your own skull. It is 32 minutes of collisions and near-misses and close calls. It is a series of wrong turns and panicked throws and unforced errors and at least two dozen switches of the possession arrow. It's more than enough to lead a coach to buy stock in hair dye and blood pressure meds.

It is also all heart and hustle and Hail Mary's. It's celebration and nervous energy and second chances. What I realized in my many journeys, navigating the wilds of B-team athletics, is that there are few people willing to work harder. There are few kids who find more joy in a steal or a rebound or, God forbid, a made free throw. There are few moments I have found more frustrating or funny.

But there are also few moments where I have found myself as a better or more patient teacher.

I've coached many incredible athletes who have gone on to set scoring records and secure scholarships and, yes, even win national titles. Yet their smiles are not always the first I remember in my heart; their one shining moment simply cannot hold a candle to scoring the winning basket in a miracle game. 

And tonight, as I watched those same girls play their guts out, I looked over to the bench. There were hot tears and hurt feelings and the pains of coming so close. I watched the coaches lean in to explain, to console, to teach, and I felt a little ding in my heart.

I checked the time. I listened to the parents yell a little more, and I wondered:

Do I miss it? Not really.

But do I miss them? Absolutely.

Was it worth it? Without a doubt.

Even if I didn't get my line-jump in Heaven.

I Won't Be Watching

I am a sports fan. I am sometimes a highly illogical sports fan.

It's okay; I own it. I'm not the sort of person who believes that players or coaches are losing or making decisions to spite me or that my complaints or thoughts will somehow make some sort of difference in the outcome. Those people aren't illogical; they're insane.

I'm not insane. At least not to the trained eye.

I do believe in superstitions though. I believe in mojo. I believe in routine. I believe in lucky shirts and changing seats and whispered prayers. So maybe slightly cuckoo but not insane.

I've always followed Duke basketball intensely, and the addition of better technology has only heightened that passion. I've written about it a few times: here, here, and here too. Duke football, however, has mostly lived in the shadows for me and most everyone else. I've always been a little ashamed of that, but football itself has never had the same hold on me as basketball has. 

Yet, the last two years, I've watched an emergence of Blue Devil football. Through area sportswriters and fans on Twitter, I've delighted in watching Coach Cutcliffe lead this team. And for the record, I am falling in love with Cut in the same way I fell in love with K -- as a teacher. As a teacher and former coach, there's nothing that drives me crazier than people who think that it's "easy" to coach. As if all you have to do is draw up a couple of plays on a chalkboard and roll the ball out. But good teaching recognizes good teaching, and I can say with confidence that Coach Cutcliffe is not just a football coach; he's a fantastic teacher. Watching him, and reading about him, has piqued my curiosity and strengthened my belief.

Also, let me clarify about the word "watch". I have to confess that of all of the games I've actually watched in real time, most have wound up as losses, including the Pitt game this year and the Belk Bowl last year (sorry, Ben Swain). The only notable exception was the Duke-UNC game last year.

Last week, as the Blue Devils took on NC State, I left to grab dinner at 17-14. I was gone for 15 minutes, and no one scored. Within 30 seconds of watching, State scored. Testing out my jinx status, I turned off the TV and turned my attention to following the game solely on Twitter updates. Without my watching, at one point, Duke scored 21 points in less than 30 seconds. I got this message.

Of course I was. Jinxes cannot affect recorded television. But a lack of planning can. The DVR cut off 45 seconds before that scoring onslaught began. Duke won 38-20.

This afternoon, I was out of the house at the beginning of today's game against Miami. A win against them today would put Duke in the driver's seat of their division. I walked in the door to see Miami score a touchdown to go up to 17-7. I held on, watching, just long enough for a punt before I decided to test my theory one more time. 

I scheduled the DVR to extend an hour after game time ended, and I turned off the television. When the tide began to turn, I started getting the itch to turn it on and watch for a while. Instead, I left the house to erase the temptation. This is how I wound up sitting in the Quik Trip parking lot, searching my Twitter feed, and screaming in my car as Duke Football emerged, once again, out of all the shadows, winning 48-30.

Do I believe in superstition? Yes.

Do I believe in jinxes? Yes.

Do I believe in Duke Football? Hell, yes.

Congratulations, Blue Devils. Good luck next Saturday at Wake Forest. 

And don't worry, I won't be watching.

My Life in Fantasy Football -- Week 2

A few weeks ago, I finally got my shot to play in the boys' club at my school when they decided to let me into their Fantasy Football League.

I was glad about this because A) as the little sister to two older brothers, I've always felt I could hold my own with the boys and 2) the boys at my school make me laugh, and I thought it would be interesting to see what the crap is so interesting about Fantasy Football.

So A) it's not going so well.  By the end of tonight, I'll be 1-1 in the standings, but just barely.  My team started really strong on Thursday night, but by the end of the first half in the late game last night, I was just squeaking by.  And then... of course... the night ended in a tie according to points.  I don't know how often two fantasy teams end in a tie, but if it's semi-rare, this would explain how I managed to do it in only my second week.  And it was a painfully slow journey to a tie, too, and neither my score or my opponent's score was very close to anyone else's.  After a little research, I think I'll win on bench points -- by 1.  By one stinkin' point.  It's sort of embarrassing, but I'm glad not to be the absolute lowest score this week.  It's sort of like if a bear chases you -- you don't have to outrun the bear, you just have to outrun one of your friends.  It's a sad look at things, but it's all I've got.

And 2) I still don't really get it.  I can see how a total football nerd would get super-involved and study up every day, but, frankly, I do not have the energy for that.  Nor do I even care all that much about pro football; I'd do much better if it was a college football league, I think.  Maybe.  Probably not.

Confession: at one point last week, I got caught up in a "My Fair Wedding" marathon and just followed my FF points via an app on my phone.  I'm not ashamed; David Tutera is a MASTERFUL wedding planner.  He creates magic, people.  

Needless to say, my competitive drive took a big hit after last week's showing.  

This week, I rededicated myself, and I only fell asleep twice during Sunday's games.  I avoided all the girly stations on my television, and I tried to keep an eye on the game while still reading my newest book (Laughter, Tears and Braids -- beautiful and thoughtful, but it made it hard to watch the game through the watershed of tears).  I was involved, but not overly so, and therefore I didn't have to feel too awful if I had another lousy showing.  I am masterful at the "appear aloof so no one will expect much from you" strategy in life.

Things went pretty well until I found myself, at 11 PM, screaming at the television for Seattle's quarterback, Russell Wilson, to "STOP THROWING THE DAMN BALL TO EVERYONE BUT MY RECEIVER! WHY DO YOU HATE GOLDEN TATE?  HE'S YOUR TEAMMATE!  VALUE HIM SO I CAN SCORE SOME MOTHER FLIPPING POINTS!"

That's when I took a small step back and took a long, hard look at my sad little 82 points and pulled up an old episode of "Project Runway".  

*Sigh*

Challenge Accepted

I am the baby of my family.  I have two older brothers, and I have a mom and dad who don't believe in "letting" you win, even if you're little and cute.  I was 32 years old before I ever beat my mom at Scrabble; I still have the score card.  For every domino game I win, either (or both) of them will soundly thrash me 3 or 4 times in return.  I have never beaten either of them at shooting pool or golf.  My mom even trash talks when she solves a Wheel of Fortune puzzle before me.  My middle brother and I were rarely allowed to play games together because eventually the game board would take flight in a fitful rage from whomever happened to be losing (typically me, I admit).  And many a Nintendo controller narrowly avoided my wrath.

I hate losing more than I like winning, but, sweet baby Jesus, I do love to win.

Coaching junior high girls for 13 years taught me to temper my rage and frustration (although I'm embarrassed that I did accidentally break a volleyball cart once because I kicked it so hard).  I understand what behavior and expectation is expected and acceptable at what level; I'm a fairly humble winner and loser publicly.  But even my best behavior cannot quench my thirst to just make somebody else pay for their self-righteousness.

As the baby girl in a highly competitive family, I was desperate to be old enough or cool enough to be as good as my brothers and their friends.  I tend to have a chip on my shoulder when it comes to "boys only" activities and clubs, and I feel a deep need to impress if not out-perform or outsmart the competition.  So, today, when I was invited to play in my school's fantasy football league, I accepted the challenge without much hesitation.

And it will be a challenge, for sure, because I know ZERO about Fantasy Football.  In fact, I usually think it's kind of dumb.  But I'm not about to be left out for simple facts such as being a girl (or being clueless), so tomorrow afternoon, I'm going for it.  I've consulted a few of my Twitter experts and done a little studying up.  I think I've got the basic plan formed.

In my head, I'm viewing it as my own personal Title IX test case.  I'm about to roundhouse kick down the fantasy sports gender barrier, people.  This is the trophy I rescued from the garbage pile at school today.  I think it's an omen.

In truth, the guys I'm playing with are actually really nice guys who will talk noise and test me but still love me no matter how terrible I am at it.  There's only a couple that I'd really take delight in beating.  They're kind of like my work brothers, though, and historically, that spells trouble.

Hold onto your game boards and volleyball carts, friends.

Not For the Faint of Heart

To everyone who knows me and knows how much I love Duke basketball, let me reassure you.  I am alive.  I am still breathing, and all breakables are still intact in my house.  I'm not even drunk and irrational.  Well, not yet anyway.  I'm disappointed, but you can't be disappointed if you're not fully invested.  And if nothing else, I'm always fully invested in Duke basketball.

I've lived the majority of my life with a heart broken by college basketball.  Even in '91 and '92 and '01 and '10, I wound up with a broken heart simply because the season of my favorite team comes to a close.  Sure, those 4 years were easier to take as they ended on a victory, a glorious victory, but still they ended.  And no season like that one will ever be again. 

I've also lived the majority of my life with people crowing about every Duke loss.  In the 4 championship years, I also endured the bitching about how they won.  When it comes to Duke basketball, most of the world will always have something to say, and if you can't handle it, you better find another team to support.  Being a Duke fan is not for the faint of heart.

Am I satisfied with this outcome?  Of course not.  No competitor wants to go out this way.  Have I enjoyed the hell out of it?  Absolutely.  My favorite coach became the all-time leader in men's Division I basketball.  We won the Maui invitational in the most thrilling of fashions.  We fought back in so many games that seemed desperately far out of reach, including snatching a win out of some powder blue clutches on their own turf.  I witnessed Miles Plumlee snag 22 rebounds in one game.  I saw Tyler Thornton emerge as the unlikeliest of heroes.  I watched the White Raven soar.  I fell hard for Austin Rivers' game and saw a level of swagger I haven't seen since #32 strolled the court.  The best part of college sports, of any youth sport, is bearing witness to the emergence of men from the footsteps of boys.  There is profound pride in their joy and empathy to their heartbreak.  And I found, after 25 years of searching, a hardcore Duke Family of fans via Twitter with which to share this roller coaster season.

There are lots of corrections left to be made, and no coach or player ever fails to realize that.  The wheel keeps turning, and work must be done.  My favorite tweet of the night for me was via Ben Swain (@thedevilwolf):
"Austin on what he'll do tomorrow.  Wake up.  Go to the gym.  This is my life.  This is all our lives."

And the saying is true, "Duke basketball never stops".  It never even takes a break. 

I don't know what the next season will hold, but I know I can't wait to see it.  Let's go, Duke.

The Best Belated Birthday Gift Ever

Three things to know about me:

1.  I'm a voracious reader. I was the kid staying up late, flashlight under the covers, finishing a book because I just HAD to finish the book. I still am. Always will be. Only now, I can just leave the light on.
2.  I'm a sports enthusiast. Not a stat-head. Not a sports history buff. Just a  fan. Specifically, I'm a huge college basketball fan. From Midnight Madness to March Madness, there's an undeniable excitement and energy that surrounds college basketball that I see nowhere else. 
3.  I'm a rabid, hard-core Duke fan. Seriously. In my parents' house, I'm sure there are still boxes upon boxes of VHS tapes full of every televised Duke game from the 89-94 stretch (when I finally had to leave home and the free ESPN). I would study those tapes. Watching twice in a row in the wins and sometimes 3 or 4 viewings to see "what went wrong" in the losses. I don't remember exactly when I first started to notice the Blue Devils as it's a weird team for me to choose being from the Panhandle of Texas and all, but I am. Always will be.

So, it's little surprise that as soon as I saw this book pop up on my Twitter feed, I HAD to have it.

I ordered it on Friday. It showed up on Saturday (overnight shipping charges, be damned). And I was done by Sunday morning at around 3 AM. I couldn't put it down. 

So here's my testimonial:  It's incredibly well-written and chock full of behind-the-scenes kind of stories that fans love but hardly ever hear. And while the high point of the book is most certainly the Regional final in Philadelphia, the journey of both teams -- through the narrow misses and consistent "nearly there" years of Duke as well as the NCAA troubles of the Kentucky Wildcats and the living room recruiting stories that built the teams-- is so well-crafted that by the end, I found myself, for the only time in 20 years, hurting for the Wildcats almost as much as I was cheering for my beloved Blue Devils. I realized only years later, and was reminded again with this book, that sometimes it is a real shame that either team has to lose. As I read, I found my heart racing and my breath caught just as it had 20 years ago, and, let me tell you, it was wonderful.

Now I have always loved Duke and their style. I loved their academic sensibilities. I loved the Crazies and Cameron Indoor Stadium. I loved Coach K and his staff. But more than anything, I loved their swagger. Wherever they went, they knew they were going to stick it to the opponent. And they were cute. I admit it. In the height of my Duke fever, I was a high school girl who happened to love basketball, but a high school girl nevertheless. So the fact that they looked like movie stars, carried themselves like rock stars, and played lights out on a day-to-day basis?  Forget it. As I've grown older (and the Dukies stay the same age), I've cultured my basketball attitudes a bit. I'm a little more realistic about our chances year to year. I'm a great deal more aware of our weaknesses and strengths. I'm much less willing to jump into a fight just because. Unless you're a Carolina fan because then you're just askin' for it. But this book took me right back to those Clarendon Crazie days, and I am thankful for it.

There are certain moments that people claim they will never forget, no matter how old they become. When JFK was assassinated. When Armstrong walked on the moon. When the Challenger exploded. Okay, so maybe those are huge examples, but if you're a college basketball fan, you certainly remember when "the shot" went in.

March 28, 1992. I was 16 years and 1 day old. One of my best friends (and fellow Duke fan), Carrie Simpson, had arranged for us to watch the Duke/Kentucky game at the Clarendon Junior College student center with some of the CJC Bulldog basketball guys. As we've established, a high school girl who loves basketball.... this was perhaps the best set-up of all time. Not only would I surely witness Duke head to the Final Four for the 4th time in a row, I'd watch it surrounded by exceptionally tall and handsome college boys.

I know. Sometimes I still laugh at my 16 year-old self too. It's okay. Go ahead.

Little did I know that I'd witness history. Before the game even started, sides were chosen and bets were placed. Only Carrie and I and one of the guys lined up for Duke. Whether they really wanted Duke to lose or if they just wanted to see us suffer and squirm, I'll never know for sure. But suffer I did as the battle went back and forth, back and forth, leading up to the showdown in overtime. When Woods hit that mother-effing bank shot to go ahead one, Covington "Cupp" Cormier -- the Bulldogs' star and future UConn Huskie -- jumped up to do his "you owe me $20 dance". 

"No way," I announced defiantly. "Not with time still on the clock. That 20 is mine still for the next 2.1 seconds."

I will never, to this day, understand how I was so confident. It wasn't normal. I liked teams with swagger because I had next to none for myself. I wish I had that spot of 16 year old confidence more often these days. But somehow I knew. I just knew. This was not going to end without a chance to win another national championship. They were going to win and give me the best belated birthday gift of all time. So I did all my time-out hand-wringing, whispered my lucky chant, crossed my fingers, and prayed like Hell.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Of course, so was my "I told you so" dance right back at Cupp. And wouldn't you know? Bastard still owes me 20 bucks.

How Twitter Changed my Life. Well... My Sports Life.

When I was in the 4th or 5th grade, way back in the days before iPhones and texting and Facebook, back when my house had a land line and the phone receiver was connected by a long and twisting cord, I had an afternoon routine I religiously followed.  I'd get off the school bus, go inside, and call my best friend, Christel.  Together, via rotary phone, we'd watch Family Feud. 

We were badass at Family Feud.

We'd throw out answers and usually, Christel would have some snarky retorts about what the families were wearing and she'd shout things like, "Makin' whoopee!  Don't you freakin' idiots know the top answer is always 'MAKIN' WHOOPEE?'"  It was hilarious to me, but our routine was probably sort of obnoxious and weird to everyone else in my household.

You're probably thinking right now, "That is so weird."  Don't worry.  I'm going somewhere with this Family Feud intro.

While I don't watch the Feud so much anymore (unless I'm at my mom's house), there are still things I'm just as passionate about on t.v.  Most notably -- sports.  Even more specifically -- Duke basketball and Rangers baseball.

I have a rule that I don't watch a sporting event in which I'm emotionally invested in public.  It's just not pretty.  It involves a lot of hand-wringing and second-guessing and talking to myself.  And praying for things that really aren't on the good Lord's to-do list.  I am also highly superstitious, which sometimes involves wearing "lucky t-shirts" that may or may not be clean.  And that may or may not make me crazy, I realize.  Oh.  And swearing.  I swear a whole lot.  Good things.  Bad things.  All of it is usually met with highly inappropriate language.

People try to get me off the couch and out into the public eye.  In 2010, when Duke played Butler in the National Championship, my friends and I were at Fuzzy's Tacos for dinner.  A) I nearly got in a fist fight with a loud and drunk Duke-hater.  And 2) I taught some little cherubs at a nearby table how to use the F-word as noun, verb, adjective, adverb, and interjection.  I forced my friends to leave at a commercial break because I couldn't "concentrate properly".  It's a good thing too.  At the house, I enforced a no-talking rule, and I'm pretty sure I'd have fallen off my bar stool at the last shot.  God Bless my friends and the fact that they all know CPR.

This season, I took to watching the Rangers in the playoffs via texting and Facebooking with my fellow metroplex fans -- and after 30 years of misery, it's hard to find anti-Ranger sentiment around here.  My friend, Courtney, lured me to her house for Game 7 of the World Series with the promise of stiff drinks and cute children who'd be in bed before the first pitch.  I made it all of 5 and 1/3 innings before I ran out of the house apologizing, "I just can't do this.  I have to go home."  I raced home, threw on my lucky t-shirt and screamed obscenities at the St. Louis Cardinals.  I still question whether things would have turned out differently if I'd just stuck to my original plan.

Needless to say, I am sometimes the loneliest sports fan in the world.

But now, I've discovered Twitter.  Well, I discovered a whole lotta Christel Green-like "friends" on Twitter.  Devoted.  Hilarious.  Slightly skewed.  And ready to scream obscenities at the television.

Most of them are rabid Duke fans, players, and former players.  As a lifelong Blue Devil fan who usually finds herself in a swirl of anti-Duke sentiment, it's been a pleasant find.  I'm continually updated on stats, game times, broadcasts, and loads of pro-Duke passion.  And snark.  Viciously delightful sarcasm that, for the most part, I cannot match.  Every game, even if I'm not watching, I can follow the action (although it's oh-so-much more fun to monitor my timeline while watching) via bitter taunts and delighted crowing.   I love the crowing.  They're no basketball slouches either.  Their commentary is as pinpoint as any coach and decidedly moreso than your average announcer.  Don't be fooled, though.  When the team screws something up, the barbs fly just as often.  But it's a very "it's my team, so I can say it" kind of attitude.  Very similar to a big brother/little sister relationship.  Although I do not know a single one, I can guarantee they might be the only people I'd ever venture off the couch to catch a game with. 

They might even let me wear my smelly t-shirt while we're at it.