Tate's Rookie Season

Tate just finished his first season of Junior Jazz. When five-year-olds play basketball, it looks a lot like football: One kid takes the ball, tucks it under his arm, and runs across the court until the entire pack of kids swarm around him, at which point some or all of them end up on the floor. Dribbling is recommended but not required.

Much like in soccer, Tate spends most of his time running and smiling. He also plays some killer D, which consists of putting his hands directly in his opponent's face and waving them back and forth. And he even made a bucket or two. (Including one on the 10-foot hoop yesterday. The power went out at the rec center and the baskets couldn't be lowered to their usual eight feet.)

All in all, a pretty good season.

A History of Super Bowl Sadness

I've been a Broncos fan as long as I can remember. When I was little, my aunt and uncle lived in Denver and they'd bring us Broncos stuff when they came to town. Nothing was cooler than when they got my oldest sister an autographed John Elway poster that looked just like this. (Of course Elway looked great as a fighter pilot.)

We've had lots of great memories together, the Broncos and me. There was "The Drive" against Cleveland, The Three Amigos, and Rich Karlis' barefooted kicking. But there was there was also sadness.

So much Super Bowl sadness.

Super Bowl XXI - 1987 (Age 6)

My first Super Bowl as a Broncos' fan. Coming into the game, my confidence was high. Going out, my spirits were crushed. 

Back in those days, they always showed Disneyland commercials after the game. "Phil Simms, you just won the Super Bowl. What are you going to do now?" 

"I'm going to DISNEYLAND!"

Stupid Phil Simms. I hated him so bad. 

Super Bowl XXII - 1988 (Age 7)

Back-to-back Super Bowl appearances. There was no way the Broncos were going to lose two in a row, especially after John Elway threw a touchdown pass on his first play of the game. Then they kicked a field goal and went up 10-0. We've got this in the bag!

Nope. The Redskins went on to score 42 unanswered points. I went into the bathroom so my parents wouldn't see me cry. 

Doug Williams got to go to Disneyland. I hated him so bad. 

Super Bowl XXIV - 1990 (Age 9)

The 49ers pummeled the Broncos 55-10. My poor little heart couldn't take any more.

Super Bowl XXXII - 1998 (Age 17)

Over the next few years, things changed. I went from being a kid to being a teenager. I stopped thinking about football and started thinking about music and girls. I kept watching the Broncos--but passively and at arms length. (I couldn't let myself get hurt again, now could I?)

When the Broncos made it to another Super Bowl, I told myself it was no big deal. The Packers were really good and clearly the Broncos had trouble winning the big game. If they lost, they lost. I was an angsty teenager. I wasn't going to cry for John Elway (again).

But the game was close. The Broncos had a chance. The Broncos had a chance but I wasn't going to get too excited. The Broncos were going to win this game but I wasn't going to believe it.

Then John Elway--now Old Man John Elway--was leaping in the air. He's diving for the first down. He got it! It was time to believe.

And then it happened. The Broncos won the Super Bowl! They hoisted John Elway onto their shoulders and they may as well have been hoisting me, too.

Super Bowl XXXIII - 1999 (Age 18)

Another back-to-back Super Bowl. I was a freshman in college. My roommate
was from Atlanta. He cheered for the Falcons and I cheered for the Broncos. He left sad, I was happy. But I was busy thinking about music and girls and a mission that was right around the corner.

I don't know if John Elway was ever invited to Disneyland, but he definitely rode off into the sunset. Everything was good in the world.

Super Bowl XLVIII - 2014 (Age 33)

The years that came next were tough. There was Brian Griese (no one remembers Brian Griese) and Jake Cutler (no one liked Jake Cutler) and Jake Plummer (I liked Jake Plummer and wrote about it here). And, of course, there was Tebow.

But the Broncos didn't become the Broncos again until Peyton came to town.

In the past few years, I fallen in love with football again. I don't think I've missed a Broncos game in a decade. And with Peyton, the Broncos were really good.

Sure, Peyton fumbled the first snap and the Seahawks scored a touchdown. We'd come back. I was as confident about a Broncos victory as I had been been in the opening minutes of Super Bowl XXI.

When the Seahawks scored again, I was still okay. We had five-time MVP Peyton Manning. We'd be fine.

But we weren't. The Seahawks put up 43 points.

We were watching the game at a friend's house. I didn't cry, but the memories of all those Super Bowl losses came rushing back.

I could just picture every single one of those Seahawks going to Disneyland--right along with Phil Simms, Doug Williams, and Joe Montana. And I hated all of them.

Super Bowl 50 - 2016 (Age 35)

Today's the day. Will Old Man Peyton channel Old Man Elway and go out on top? Or will I be left crying in the bathroom once again? 

This year, I've got family on my side. Paige will be sporting her Peyton Manning t-shirt and Tate says he's going to wear all three of his Broncos shirts at the same time. Curtis, of course, hates the Broncos and will be cheering for the Panthers. 

Six hours 'til kickoff...

Basketball Season is Over

Curtis' first season of Junior Jazz. He loved every minute of it. 

  

Happy Hoopster

It's well documented that Curtis hates just about everything (until he tries it, and then he just pretends that he hates it). 

For the past two years, I've tried get him to play basketball. No luck. Both years he refused me flat out. 

But this year was different. Curtis told me he was going to play Junior Jazz.

And he was actually happy about it. And I'm happy that one of his buddies from school is on the team, as well two kids from the ward. (The rest of the kids are also from the subdivision, which means we'll get to know some new folks in the neighborhood.)

Check out this smile before his first practice. 

He was even happier after practice—after the team played Elimination and he came out victorious. 

But everyone knows that the best part of playing sports is getting the uniform. And this one is reversible. Sweet. 

He had his first game on Saturday. After tip-off he promptly scored the first four points of the game. The season's off to a good start. 

Jazz Game Night, Take Two

Last April, I attempted to take Curtis to his first Jazz game, only to have him decide at the last second that he didn't want to go.

Because I'm a resilient father (or maybe stubborn...or stupid), I gave it another shot.

I  tried to learn from last season's mistake. This time around, we left straight from our house so the allure of grandma's house or cookies or toys could not distract him. Traci was not allowed to speak of what she, Paige, and Tate were going to do while we were gone. We were only focusing on the game.

We successfully made it into the car (which I know isn't true success; I still remember when I took Curtis to Monster Jam and he didn't start bawling until we were all the way to the arena) and he was still pretty excited about the game.

At the Gateway before the game

We made it to the arena and he was still happy. It was free t-shirt night, so Curtis and I put on our matching shirts--me in a Men's XL and Curtis in the smallest size available, a Men's L that went down to his calves--and made our way to our seats.

It only got better from there:

• We had aisle seats on the eighth row (thanks, New Job)
• The Jazz Bear slid down the stairs on his sled right next to us
• The Jazz dancers danced right next to us (Dad like this part)
• During a timeout, the Jazz Bear played Curt's favorite sport, human bowling, and got a strike (with the help of Little Jazz Bear)!
• Curtis and were on the Jumbo Tron for like 15 seconds (me shaking my keys and whooping it up for the "Show us Your Keys" contest; Curtis refusing to acknowledge the camera) 

Curtis, being Curtis, did not allow his emotions to get the best of him. I don't think I saw him smile the entire night. (But I did spy the half-smile he does when he wants to smile, but doesn't want you to see it.) But I knew he was having a great time.

In our matching shirts

On the ride home, I asked him what his favorite part of the game was. In classic Curtis fashion, he said it was when I bought him a bouncy ball out of the vending machine by the parking lot. But when we got home, his true feelings were revealed.

He ran straight up to Paige and said excitedly, "Paige! We got shirts and the Jazz Bear rode on his sled and Dad was shaking his keys and the Jazz wore their green jerseys but they didn't win and the Jazz Bear knocked down all the pins and I got this cool bouncy ball."

The night was a success. He's already asked when we can go to another game.

And that makes my heart happy.

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No Love for the Soccer Coach

Though he foughtand fought it, Curtis now loves tee ball. He’s already told me he’s going to play again in August…and September…and October…and on and on. (We had to break the bad news that you can’t actually play tee ball in December in Utah.)

I’ve been enjoying tee ball as well. After coaching Curtis’ last soccer team, it’s kind of nice to just sit on the sideline and watch.

I didn’t decide to coach the soccer team because of some burning desire to coach. I just figured it was my turn to help. Coaching 3-5 year olds is no easy task. Especially when 8 of the 11 kids are three-year-old girls who are playing soccer for the first time.

Most of my energy was spent just trying to keep the kids on the field. Here are some typical conversations:

“Teacher,” (a lot of the kids called me teacher) “Can I get a drink?”

“Sure, just remember to come back, okay?”

“Teacher, I want to tell my mom something.”

“Okay, but don’t forget to come back.”

They never came back.

I’d usually start each half with all 11 kids on the field (you’re only supposed to play six at a time) because within the first few minutes, half of them would disappear.

I’m sure I wasn’t the best coach in the world, but I tried hard and I think I did a pretty good job. Apparently, Curtis didn’t agree.

I made it to all of the games but one, which I had to miss for Paige’s first grade graduation. I asked my friend Bert to fill in for me.

He didn’t want to, but I told him I really needed him and all he had to do was show up. The other coach could take care of the rules and the stopwatch and all that stuff. He just needed to keep track of the kids and maybe blow the whistle when the ball went out of bounds.

Through all of the shuffling of getting Curtis to the game and Paige to the graduation, I forgot to give Bert the whistle. Oh, well. He’d be fine.

The graduation was shorter than I anticipated and I was able to make it to Curtis’ game by half-time.

“How’s everything going?” I asked Bert.

“Good. But the other coach is a substitute, too. Neither of us had a stopwatch or even a whistle.”

“Uh, sorry about that.”

After the game, I asked Curtis how Bert was as a coach.

“Good,” he replied.

“How’s dad as a coach?” I asked.

“Good.”

“Well, who’s a better coach, dad or Bert?”

“Bert.”

"What?!” I said, louder than I meant to. “Why?”

“Bert didn’t even need a whistle.”

Why'd I forget that stupid whistle?

Baseball Blues

Curtis hates pretty much everything. Except that he doesn't.

He loves football, for example, but if you say to him, "Hey Curt, do you want to go to the Blaze game?" he'll not only say that he doesn't want to go but rather "I never want to go to the Blaze game. Ever." After being rather stoic about it and then even aggressive (one of his favorite things is to crumple stuff up, like football tickets, right in front of your face in dramatic fashion), he'll usual give in and go. And then have a great time. (Though he'll never let you see him smile.)

He also loves playing baseball. But after hinting around about him playing in the summer tee ball league, we knew that he was not going to participate of his own free will. So we pulled out one of our favorite parenting tools: trickery.

We decided we simply wouldn't tell him that he was playing tee ball until we showed up for his first game. We were about a day away from a winning strategy when our plan was foiled by his cousin and teammate saying, "I'll see you at tee ball tomorrow, Curtis."

We thought he would go into his usual rage. But it was way worse. He started crying. Real tears. Real enormous, heart wrenching tears. He told us he was too scared to play tee ball. And despite our best efforts, he was unconsable.

We finally had him calmed down by bedtime. But then around 10:30 p.m. he came wandering back downstairs. "Dad, I'm scared about tee ball."

"What are you scared about?"

"I'm scared about the pitching."

"Well, it's your lucky day. In tee ball there is no pitching. You just hit it off the tee."

His eyes lit up.

"Well, maybe I'll play tee ball."

By this morning he was 100% onboard. And when we showed up at the field and he saw that his uniform was a Salt Lake Bees hat and t-shirt, he was nearly ecstatic (in a Curtis sort of way).

He played and had a great time. Then the first thing he wanted to do when he got home was to play baseball in the backyard. I happily obliged.

When we were in the backyard he said to me, "Which do you think is my favorite sport, Dad? Soccer or tee ball?"

"Is it tee ball?"

"Yes! But my favorite sports are soccer and tee ball!"

It was a good day to be a sports dad.

Spinner Becomes the Next Jimmer

Jimmer Fredette's sister lives in our neighborhood. While I was watching a Kings game on TV, I said to Curtis, "Do you see that guy? That's your buddy Jason's uncle. He's a professional basketball player."

Paige, never willing to be left out of a conversation, replied, "Dad, you like to play basketball. Maybe if you keep practicing, you can be a professional basketball player."

Hear that, Jimmer? You better watch your back.

Dear Mr. Fish, I Will Eat You Now

The year was 1987. It was Super Bowl Sunday and I was getting ready to cheer on my beloved Denver Broncos as they faced the New York Giants. My mother made halibut for dinner, which was noteworthy because she never cooked fish. Having no prior experience to fish, I ate it.

It was disgusting.

I can still taste the strong fishy flavor--combined with the bitter taste of a 39-20 loss, mixed with the salt of my six-year-old tears--on my tongue.

In the years since, I have avoided fish almost entirely. Until last week.

Much like yoga, I've always thought I should give sushi a try. But I've never been motivated enough to say, "Hey Traci, let's go get some sushi tonight." (Or say, "Let's go to sushi." Why do people "go to" sushi? I'm going to start saying, "Hey, let's go to pasta" or "Let's go to hamburgers.") And Traci would never agree to sushi anyway.

But I have some other friends who can't get enough of the uncooked stuff. So I tagged along.

My first sushi experience started off well enough. I was having a great time at the restaurant, chatting it up, and drinking my orange Fanta. And the something happened.

"What's that fishy smell in here?" I thought. It was, of course, our meal.

I started off cautiously with the California roll. Then I moved on to the Spider roll...and then to the Prozac roll...and then the Xanax roll...and then to all of the other ultra-cool-pharmaceutically-named rolls. I dipped stuff in eel sauce and wasabi sauce and whatever else. And soon I realized I'd already downed like 10 of the things.

Did I like it? No, not really. But I figured if I was going to try it, I better try it.

It wasn't until I was driving home--and thinking it best to roll down the window and get some air--that I realized that was a bit too much to ask of a stomach so unaccustomed to things of the sea. (Especially after the large amounts of deer jerky I'd eaten at lunch, prepared by the guy who said, 'I hope you don't get sick, I've never made deer jerky before.')

But I hung on.

And now I have two memories of fish: the first of three Denver Broncos Super Bowl defeats (which was bad), followed by two Denver Bronco victories (which was good); and a meal that made me a little sick (which was bad), but was accompanied by some delicious orange Fanta and some dear homies (which were both good).

Only four months 'til my birthday lunch at the Chuck a Rama.

Bend it Like....

Dance class is over. Now it's soccer time. And it's serious. (This fact is made abundantly clear by Paige's intense goalie stance.)

July Raves: Music, Sports, and TV

MUSIC

Dashboard Confessional

Chris Carabba certainly understands his audience.  Not only is he selling his new record Dusk and Summer for just $10 bucks but if you show your student ID when you buy it at lousy Best Buy, you get it for $7 (you will have to convince the cashier of this, though).  Dashboard isn’t something I would normally run out and buy from a store, but I thought it was a cool idea.  Note to the record industry: people will buy CDs if you offer them at a reasonable price. 

The Cardinal Sin

Also hailing from the Windy City, The Cardinal Sin share the same raw sound and intensity as early Alkaline Trio.  I was so immediately drawn to their music when I heard them on purevolume that I work tirelessly to track down their first full-length Hurry Up and Wait.  I couldn’t find it at any of my usual locations so I ended up buying it off of half.com.  Other than the outstanding Eye Opener, there aren’t really a lot of standout tracks, but it’s a really solid album.

SPORTS

World Cup Soccer

Though I suffered some mild depression when Holland lost to Portugal (once again), the World Cup is still exciting – and I’m not even a soccer guy.  Who says you can’t be thoroughly entertained by 120 minutes of scoreless action?  I’ve got tickets for the Real Madrid vs. Real Salt Lake exhibition in August, but it looks like the great David Beckham may not even be making the trip thanks to his injury against Portugal. 

BOOKS

An Ordinary Man

If you haven’t seen Hotel Rwanda, you should.  If you have seen it, you should read An Ordinary Man, the autobiography of Paul Rusesabagina, the man on whom the movie was based.  Rusesabagina explains how and why the Rwandan genocide went down, including sectarian violence, corrupt politicians and outsiders who were unwilling to stop it from happening.  Though it the book was based on the 1994 events it couldn’t be more applicable to current conflicts.

TELEVISION

VH1’s Supergroup

Without going into an entire dissertation, here’s why only has-been celebrities should be on reality TV shows.  Though you get the mega-exposure that you had (or always wanted to have) when you were in your prime, you also always kind of end up looking like an idiot. 

Sebastian Bach was so incredibly cool when he was in Skid Row.  Now he may be the whiniest, most annoying TV personality on the planet.  Even my sister, a die-hard Bach supporter, has given up on the show because he is so annoying.  “He has officially ruined the ‘rock on’ devil horns," she says.  But it does make for great television.

If you can get over the embarrassingly awkward moments of Bach telling the PR team that he has a top 20 hit (“I Remember You” on the newest Monster Ballads CD), him crying about his dad or drunkenly telling Anthrax’s Scott Ian that he loves him and that he'll never play with another guitar player (um, they are going to be in a band together for 12 days), you'll be glued.