Early Birds

OK, I feel guilty for taking so long to respond to the tagging post, so in addition to today’s regularly scheduled post, you’re getting a bonus post afterward. Looks like I picked the wrong week to cut back on my blogging...


Part I – The Birds

Allow me to introduce you to our summer houseguests:


That’s Hoot on the left, and Ringo on the right. They are ring-necked doves. We picked them up about three weeks ago.

During each of the past two years (and this will be our third), we have been a foster family for these birds during summer vacation. When school is in session, they live in the classroom of my son’s former kindergarten teacher.

Apparently her husband doesn’t like the constant cooing from the birds throughout the day, so the birds aren’t welcome at her house when school is out. On the other hand, our house maintains a pretty much constant din anyway, so the birds just fit right in.

My wife and I find the cooing of the doves to be a fairly soothing sound, and the kids love watching and listening to them throughout the day. They (the birds) constantly hoot and coo and echo each other during every waking minute, and their background chatter has become part of the natural summertime soundtrack at our house. (Come to think of it, that could apply to our kids, too.)

The doves are also very light sleepers.

When my bedroom alarm goes off in the pre-dawn darkness, they hear it and spring to life within minutes. When the first traces of gray daylight seep through the windows, they inevitably start chattering at full volume. And when they do, my chances of falling back asleep become very slim.

In that regard, they are beneficial to my training. There are several mornings when I feel like canceling my workout plans simply because I’m too tired to crawl out of bed. But when the birds remind me that I probably won’t be able to fall back asleep anyway, I will begrudgingly pull back the sheets and get ready to head out the door.

So I’ve started thinking of the doves as my summertime training partners. When I realize that they won’t let me go back to sleep, it’s just as effective as knowing someone is waiting for you on the corner; even though you don’t want to, you feel obligated to drag your butt outside.

There’s no way of telling how many workouts I would have skipped if it weren’t for the doves; it may be only a few, or possibly a lot more. Either way, I’ve come to be thankful for their time in our house, and when they leave us again at the beginning of the school year, it will probably feel like a training partner is moving away.

I guess you could say I’m attached to them.


Part II - Tag

Yes, I’ve been tagged. I think everyone is familiar with this one, so I’ll jump right in:

4 jobs I've had:
1. Poop-scooper crew assistant for the Pioneer Days parade, Butternut WI. Sure, it wasn't glamorous, but it was an easy way for a 9-year-old kid to pick up 20 bucks in the summertime. That buys a lot of Tangy Taffy.
2. In high school, I was on a work crew that cleaned up the assembly room of our neighborhood Catholic church after wedding receptions on weekend nights. We started work at midnight, and spent the next four hours cleaning up beer, urine, vomit and assorted other messes in the dancing area, dining area, and bathrooms. I know that Catholics are all about clean living, but they sure make a holy mess at their parties.
3. In grad school I was a per-diem meat and cheese slicer in the deli at our local gourmet store. I got pretty good at it, too – I could slice the Black Forest ham so thinly you could see shadows through it. When it came to slicing, I had crazy game.
4. Remember the Vlasic pickle stork? One day I was paid to dress in a costume of him – all the way down to a pair of yellow tights and oversized bird feet - and walk around the grocery store handing out pickle coupons. It was a fun gig, aside for the elderly ladies (yes, more than one) who took it upon themselves to pinch my thighs when I wasn’t looking. Who violates a 6-foot bird like that? Does this happen on Sesame Street?

4 movies I watch over and over:
1. Shrek
2. Shrek 2
3. Finding Nemo
4. Star Wars Episode IV
(Have I mentioned before that I live with young children? Just checking.)

4 Places I have lived:
1. Los Angeles, CA
2. Westwood, CA (Go Bruins!)
3. Denver, CO
4. Chapel Hill, NC (Go Tar Heels!)

4 TV shows I watch (What? Just 4?):
1. Pardon The Interruption
2. The Daily Show
3. VH1 Jump Start (you must have figured this one)
4. Jeopardy
Plus just about any manner of sports you can imagine. I've got the U.S. Paintball Championships on my TiVo right now. I'm not kidding.

4 Places I've been on vacation:
1. Disneyland
2. Big Trees, CA
3. Kauai, HI
4. Key West

4 Websites I visit everyday:
1. Bloglines
2. ESPN.com
3. LetsRun.com
4. Slate

4 Favorite Foods (again – just 4?):
1. Pizza
2. Barbecued Salmon
3. Fajitas
4. Pumpkin chocolate chip muffins – one of my wife’s specialties.

4 Places I'd rather be right now:
1. In the pool
2. On my bike
3. Running the trails, or…
4. Home with my family. But not necessarily in that order. In fact, turn that list upside down, then read it. There - that’s better.

4 Favorite Bands/Singers: This list varies tremendously from month to month, and depends on where I am…
1. At work: Fall Out Boy or Yellowcard
2. In the car alone: Avenged Sevenfold or Foo Fighters
3. In the car with the kids: Bob Marley or Jack Johnson
4. At home: Classical – typically Yo-yo Ma or Anne-Sophie Mutter

4 Bloggers I'll tag: Seriously, aren’t I one of the last people to do this? So no tagging from me – just best wishes for a nice weekend.

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The Name Game

(Administrative note: Michelle tagged me with the "list of 4" thing going around, but I'm not going to do it today, since I had this post mostly finished before I discovered the tag. I'll do it someday, I promise.)

Brazil easily won their World Cup match yesterday against Ghana, the slot that would have belonged to the United States if we hadn’t, well,...I guess if our team hadn’t completely stunk.

Trust me - even if we had survived to the second round, there’s no way we would have given the Brazilians a match. They’re in a whole different category when it comes to what they call “O Jogo Bonito,” the beautiful game. It will be a major surprise if they don’t win the whole deal.

Obviously I’m impressed by the skill of the Brazilian players, but what’s more fascinating to me is the concept of changing one’s name in adulthood, as so many of the Brazilian players do. In fact, 17 of the 23 players on Brazil’s roster go by a single name.

I mean, I’m just full of questions about this: When do the players pick their names – is it some rite of passage in adolescence? Is it when they become professional players, or when they make the national team? Are there guidelines for coming up with a tight name – and if so, how did one guy on this year’s team end up with “Fred”? What do they do if somebody already has a nickname they want (like when George Costanza wanted to be T-Bone on “Seinfeld”) – is there some sort of national team dibs policy, or do they settle it with a penalty-kick shootout? And doesn’t anybody check to make sure their nickname isn’t a slang word for “poop” in another language?


More importantly, if the American players did this...would it make them a better soccer team?

Apparently it’s commonplace in Brazil for people to go by nicknames. There are various cultural theories for why this happens: it could be a way of symbolically cutting ties to the surnames bestowed upon slaves by European landowners, or it could be related to the nation’s high rate of illiteracy. Or maybe they just collectively decided it’s a cool thing to do. Whatever the case, the practice is widespread, even including Brazil’s president, who goes simply by Lulu.

To the rest of the world, particularly Americans, it’s an unusual consideration. I tried to think of some other situations where adults get to pick a new name, and it’s a pretty short list:

1. After being elected Pope
2. Upon entering the witness protection program
3. Converting to Islam, or...
4. Being a superstar musician, a la Bono or Sting (or even Slash).

That’s all I came up with. I think we can agree that all of those, with the exception of #4, are pretty weighty circumstances. But then we have the countless Brazilians who essentially say, “Screw what my parents named me – I want to be called Zico,” and everybody goes along with it.

And you know what? Maybe it would be a cool thing to do. At the very least, it’s a great parlor game: if you could make a new name, what would it be?

I figured that most runners or triathletes would choose something related to the sport or activity they like. Unfortunately, when I posed this question to my group of running partners, the conversation somehow deteriorated into what the best porn names would be for runners (Obviously we're not the most intellectual training group around. If you’re interested, the winning names were Max Stamina and Miles Long).

Clearly, my runner friends weren’t much help. So now I’ll post the same question here. If you could change to a nickname, would you do it? And if so, would it be something related to running, or just a variation of your given name? Or something totally random?

As for me, I’m kind of noncommittal. I’ve always loved the nickname Slash - it implies a perfect combination of speed and toughness, which seems ideal for a runner. During the late 1980s, when I was finishing high school and when all of the Guns ‘n’ Roses guys seemed certain to die of a cocaine overdose, I figured I could swoop in on that name if Slash croaked. Unfortunately he survived (that sounds bad - of course I mean fortunately. Fortunately for him. Unfortunately for my potential nickname. You know what I mean.), and I eventually grew out of the idea of having a cool moniker.

So I think I’ll just stick with what my momma gave me. Unless, of course, someone determines that a nickname can somehow make me a faster runner. In that case, I’ll quickly throw myself wide open to suggestion.

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How to Have Fun with an Englishman

“I’m just a smart ass but I’m playing dumb.” - Green Day, "Walking Contradiction"

Once again, I spent a good part of the weekend watching the World Cup. But now that the Americans are done, I’ve resorted to more juvenile amusements – namely, using the tournament to exploit the nationalistic passion of my foreign friends for cheap entertainment.

Two of my running partners are from England. The Brits have high expectations in this year’s Cup, but also have a long history of frustration and underachievement in many previous tournaments. As a result, many Englanders suffer from paranoia and emotional fragility every four years when the World Cup comes around.

One guy who I run with three days per week is in his mid-40s, but spent the first 35 years of his life in London. He also happens to be a raving football fanatic, so you can imagine how easy it’s been for the rest of us to push his buttons this month.

We ran together this morning, and I goaded him into the following conversation:

***
Me: Hey, I was watching that England game yesterday, and I noticed something. A lot of the English fans were singing America’s “My Country Tis of Thee” song, but putting different lyrics to it…I think it was about a queen or something.

Him: You mean “God Save the Queen?” Our national bloody anthem? You Americans didn’t write it – you stole it from us.

Me (playing dumb): Really? I’m not sure it’s the same one...does your song start, “My country tis of thee, sweet land of liberty...?”

Him: No! It starts “God save our gracious Queen, long live our noble Queen.” We wrote that song one hundred years before your country was born!

Me: You mean before we beat you in that war?

Him (getting exasperated): It’s our song!

Me: Wait a minute...“God Save the Queen?” I thought the Sex Pistols wrote that song.

Him: Yeah, yeah, yeah...”God save the Queen and the fascist regime and there is no future and England’s dreaming...”

Me (secretly impressed that a 45-year-old knows those lyrics): That’s the one! So that’s what they sing during the games?

Him: No! We sing the ROYAL ANTHEM! It’s called “God Save the Queen,” but it’s not the Sex Pistols song.

Me: They sing it to the tune of “My Country Tis of Thee?”

Him: Yes. I mean no. Its our bloody song!

Me: OK, if you say so... (long pause)...it was a good game, though. England played well.

Him: Aah, they got lucky. They need to play a lot better. They’re just driving me crazy.

Me: Clearly.

***

Keep in mind, this was the morning after a game that England won. I can’t imagine how he’s going to react if/when England gets eliminated.

Whether they win the Cup or not, one thing’s for sure: it’s going to be a lot of fun running with my friend for the next couple weeks.

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Sweet Tri O' Mine

Considering that this is a blog about running, I don’t really talk about training that often.

In fact, it’s entirely plausible that I could be making this whole “runner” thing up, right? I mean, have any of you actually seen me running? I rest my case.

My reluctance to talk about training is entirely by design. I want this blog to be more about how being a runner (again, assuming I really am one – you have no idea) affects the way I see the world and my place in it. Posting specific workout details doesn’t necessarily fit into that framework. From my standpoint, the plan has worked well so far.

But lately my training has taken a noteworthy turn, significant enough that I feel like I should discuss it here.

My race schedule on the right lists the Big Kahuna Triathlon, a half-Ironman event in the middle of September. Now that my other races for 2006 are done with, it’s time for me to focus exclusively on the triathlon. That means a little less running, and a lot more swimming and biking.

I’m still fundamentally a runner at heart. As I wrote in this post at the end of the 2005, running is my true love, but triathlon is like this totally sexy mistress that’s always in the back of my mind. (And don’t think I won’t hammer that analogy into the ground over the next few weeks – you know how this blog works.)

This summer is the time for me to withdraw from my relationship with running and have an affair with triathlon. Actually, I’ve already been at it for a couple of weeks now. I’m keeping separate bags of clothes in my car, sneaking out of work for quick “nooners”, and showering twice a day sometimes. It’s physically exhausting, but it makes me feel young (I’m talking about training now).

The reason I’m bringing all this up is twofold. First, if you see me dropping a lot more peripheral references to swimming and cycling, that’s why. Don’t worry - I’m not going to turn into a tri-geek and give you all sorts of workout splits, or post pictures of my various tri-gear (with one exception: I have to do a post about my bike – it’s too good of a story to go untold.) I’m not changing the blog name to Running and Swimming and Cycling and Rambling. Just as I’ll always be a runner at heart, running will still be the subject at the heart of this blog.

Second, I’ll probably spend more of my lunch breaks exercising than I normally do. It’s the best time of day for me to swim, and the easiest way to get two-a-day workouts done when I want to. Unfortunately, lunch breaks are typically when I do a lot of blogging. So my productivity here may take a noticeable dip.

Reviewing my recent posts, I’ve managed to post something almost every weekday for the past couple of months. I honestly didn’t realize I was doing so much. I don’t think I can maintain that kind of clip – or more accurately, I’m not sure I want to.

I think I need to pace myself a little better. Remember the band Guns ‘n’ Roses? They were one of the most powerfully unique and influential bands ever when they burst onto the rock scene in the mid 1980s. Shortly afterwards they simultaneously released two full-length discs that had some inspired brilliance, but set too high of a standard to successfully maintain. They spent several years trying to create a worthy follow-up, but ultimately burnt themselves out and never made another album. (I’m still sad about this, honestly. For those three years, there wasn’t a cooler band on the planet.)

I don’t want to be the Guns ‘n’ Roses of bloggers. I’d rather have the long, graceful career arc of Green Day than the “burn bright and fade away” story of GNR. I think I can reasonably aim for a few posts each week without doing an Axl Rose and passing out in the bathroom of a strip club or landing in a detox unit somewhere. (I’ve mentioned before – I don’t typically set real lofty standards for myself.)

If there’s something that I’m just dying to post on an “off” day, I’ll go ahead and do it. But if you have to go a couple of days without posts from me, I’m sure neither of us will suffer too badly. You’ll find another blog to read. I’ll be getting into better shape. And we’ll always have April.

With that, I’m off for now – I’m scheduled to be in the pool in three hours.

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If You Want Blood

I have one quick World Cup-related item before today’s post…

This morning I stopped at the bodega on my way to work, and walked in just as Mexico was lining up for a penalty kick against Portugal. Mexico was losing 2-1 at the time.

There were about 10 people in the bodega cheering and chatting and paying for items at the register, until one of the amigos said “Everybody! Silencio!” so he could watch the penalty kick. Everyone immediately fell silent, then we all screamed in shock as the Mexican guy launched the PK over the crossbar. I think I even learned a couple new swear words. A few minutes later we all went on our way again.

Afterwards, I knew there must have been 100 million people watching the same thing and having the same reaction at exactly the same time as we did in the little bodega. And that’s a snapshot of why I like the World Cup – it’s a shared experience of truly global proportions. Not many sports can claim the same thing.


Anyway, on to the post. It turns out I have one more Dipsea-related post in me. One I wasn’t really expecting.

I noted that several people were somewhat disappointed about the lack of blood and gore in my Dipsea report and photo. I wasn’t sure what to say about this. It’s not like I’m trying to get myself bruised and bloody out there. I just run the race as hard as I can, and deal with whatever scrapes and sores might happen as a consequence. This year I happened to come out relatively unscathed.

Then four days later I went on my first post-race run, an easy five-miler on the trails at Garland Ranch. About 30 minutes into the run, I drew blood.

I wasn’t doing anything spectacularly risky like jumping over logs or racing down railroad-tie stairs. In fact, I was running uphill at the time. Quite slowly. And I tripped over a root that only protruded a few inches over the ground.

The funny part was, I knew the root was there, and thought I could clear it with no trouble. But obviously my legs were a little more fatigued than I realized, because I couldn’t lift my foot up the extra few inches necessary to avoid the root.

As I picked myself off the ground and dusted off, the guy I was running with went back a few paces to check out the monster that had wrestled me to the ground. Seeing the blood coming from my knee, he said, “You better make up a better story than this to explain that scrape.”

So for the remainder of the run – while I considered the irony of my surviving one of the most brutal trail races in America without a scratch only to go down in a heap on a recovery run - I pondered various ways to embellish the story. But then I remembered the comments from the Dipsea post.

Apparently it’s not the story you’re interested in. It’s the blood. So I stopped irrigating the leg, and just came back home and took this picture. Like the old AC/DC song says - if you want blood, you’ve got it:


Yes, I know it's very minor. But don’t let anybody say I won’t bleed for you.

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World Cup Musings

I mentioned in Friday’s post that I grew up as a soccer kid.

On the other hand, I don’t think I’ve yet disclosed the fact that I’m Italian, although it’s obvious to anyone who knows my last name. Both of my parents are of Italian descent, which makes me about as Italian as you can get - except that I’m not olive-skinned, Catholic, hot-tempered, sophisticated with the ladies, or overly attached to my mother. But other than that, I’m as Italian as they come.

So when Saturday’s World Cup game between the USA and Italy rolled around, I knew that was a game I had to watch.

I honestly had torn feelings about who to cheer for. I still remember the pictures of Le Azzurre on my bedroom wall, but my conscience wouldn’t forgive me if I cheered against the Americans. My compromise was to just settle into the easy chair and enjoy the spectacle.

Of course, along the way I couldn’t help some random observations that I thought might apply to my own interests:

• Child companions: As the players walk onto the “pitch” before the game, each of them holds the hand of a child, who also accompanies them for the singing of the anthems. It’s a win-win situation for everybody involved. How jazzed do you think those kids are to be a part of a World Cup match? How cool must it be for the players to know they are giving some kid a memory they’ll cherish forever? It’s also symbolic passing of the torch from one generation to the next, getting kids more involved in soccer. Because apparently the 50 million American kids already playing soccer isn’t quite enough for us to develop into an international contender.

• National anthems: I don’t care what the sport is – I get chills when I see athletes stand under their flag as national anthems are played at sporting events. And I can honestly say that chill-wise, Saturday’s anthem ceremony was completely off the charts. As I saw the Azzurre linking arms to sing, and listened to 20,000 people thunderously belting out the words to “Inno di Mameli”, I thought to myself, “Gosh, those people are amazingly passionate with national pride.” I got choked up just by the sight of it. Then the US anthem played, and the stadium voices were just as strong, if not louder. Watching our players standing with their hands over their hearts, knowing how nervous they must be, realizing the importance of the moment...as far as I’m concerned, there isn’t a more dramatic scene in sports. And, um...is it dusty in here? I think I have something in my eyes...

Finally, before the opening whistle, the captains greet each other to exchange flags and gifts. It's a true display of international friendship. I know a lot of people knock the World Cup for being dull, stifling, and low scoring, but at least give them credit for this: when it comes to pre-game ceremonies, it may be the greatest show on Earth.

• Injury amplification: I think I’d like to try this sometime: if I’m in a race and having pain due to stomach cramps or blisters, instead of stoically dealing with my issues, I’m going to handle it World Cup style. I’ll drop to the ground, roll over three or four times, and scream like I’m having labor pains. I’ll get some rapid medical attention, eventually stand up and walk a few steps, and then start running again as if nothing happened. And nobody would bat an eye at this.

Could you imagine what mile 24 of a large marathon like Rock ‘n’ Roll would be like if this were the standard code of conduct? It would look like a battlefield scene from a Civil War documentary. Hmmm...maybe that’s what it takes to get better TV ratings for running. We should think this idea over.

• Post-goal celebration: Goals happen so infrequently in soccer, that players make sure to savor the celebration. It’s like extra style points are awarded to the most creative, expressive, unique celebrations after a goal. After scoring against the United States, Alberto Gilardino trotted to the corner flag, knelt on one knee, and mimicked playing a violin sonata.

Actually, a couple of famous runners have tried similar stunts. Hicham El Guerrouj frequently played the air guitar after winning a 1500m race. More famously, Maurice Greene once mimicked pain in his feet after winning the 100m dash, then took off his shoes as a buddy of his ran over with a fire extinguisher and sprayed them. For whatever reason, the track community tends to see these actions as corny, but soccer fans just eat them up. They are two completely different cults of personality.

• Red and yellow cards: This is a fantastic disciplinary technique. When a player misbehaves, the official may give him a yellow card warning, or send him immediately off the field with a red card. A player with a red card cannot be replaced on the field.

It’s swift, frontier style justice, and extremely effective. In fact, when my son was misbehaving later that afternoon, and bickering with his sister, I gave him a red card and sent him to his room. His sisters had to play one man down until dinnertime. (For those of you keeping score at home: yes, this was 8 hours before Father’s Day. Don't come to this blog looking for a role model.) It diffused the situation quite nicely. I can’t believe it took me so long to steal this idea.

• The Group of Death: How does soccer come up with such cool nicknames? Sure, the United States is in a qualifying group with three other good teams – I get that. But isn’t that moniker exaggerating the talent pool just a bit? Remember the 100m final at the Athens Olympics, with Shawn Crawford, Maurice Greene, Justin Gatlin, and Asafa Powell? Why didn’t anyone think to call that the Race of Death? You think NBC isn’t kicking themselves that they didn’t come up with that one? Sometimes it’s all about the presentation. People might not tune in to see “World Cup Soccer”, but if you tell someone to watch the Group of Death, they just might check it out.

Fittingly, the USA-Italy match ended in a 1-1 draw, providing everything I could ask for: a closely fought match, Le Azzurre still in control of their fate, a glimmer of hope for the US squad to survive group play, and a thoroughly relaxing afternoon for me. All four teams in the group play on Thursday (7:00 AM Pacific time), and all four have a chance to advance.

So if for some reason I’m late in posting on Thursday…it could be because I’m stuck at home in the easy chair, cheering for my two favorite countries as they go their separate ways.

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A Coach's Son

Seeing as how Sunday is Father’s Day, I figured I should muse a bit here about my own father, and his contribution to my development as a runner.

My father had nothing to do with my running career. Then again, maybe he had everything to do with it. I haven’t really decided yet.

He was the classic four-sport varsity stud in high school, playing a starring role in all of the macho sports back in the day: football, basketball, baseball, and track. He played freshman football in college before giving up the team to concentrate on his studies.

Intentionally or not, his talents influenced his role as a father. Sports were the backdrop for almost all my childhood memories, and my dad was involved prominently in most of them. It’s one of those nature-vs-nurture things I’ll never figure out: if I always played sports because my father shaped my environment, or if he simply catered to the athlete he saw emerging from the boy.

Growing up, I participated in more sports and on more teams than I can count, and my father was right alongside me nearly every time. Whenever a team needed a coach, he volunteered to fill the role. He coached me on several baseball and basketball teams. Most surprising of all, for many years he coached me in soccer, a sport he knew nothing about when he first started.

Soccer became our family’s calling, as I excelled at the game through high school. My dad read coaching books and studied the game, and expanded his knowledge base while I developed my skills. When the politics and demands of competitive boys’ soccer grew tiring, my father started coaching my younger sister’s teams, and became one of the most successful girls’ coaches in the state.

All the while, he worked a full-time high-stress job, often staying up past our bedtimes to finish one task or another. Now that I have kids, I can’t imagine devoting the amount of time and effort my father did to our athletic pursuits. Years later, when I asked him why he did it, he matter-of-factly said that he just thought it was a great way for us to spend time together. Since my sister and I were going to be playing on the teams anyway, he figured he might as well get involved.

When I headed off to college, I left soccer and the other sports behind, and joined the rowing team. I participated for three years and had a fantastic experience. But then my grades started slipping, and I knew I had to quit the team before the following season started.

I was 21 years old, had participated heavily in team sports since I was 4, and suddenly had nothing to do. I missed the challenges, and the competition, and the camraderie. I missed my identity as an athlete.

That’s when I turned to running.

I’ve written essays before (like here) about how I developed into a marathon runner from square one while I was in college. Since then, I’ve had a fairly well-documented progression from novice runner to experienced racer to complete running lunatic. In nearly every regard, it’s been one of the most satisfying journeys I’ve ever embarked upon.

So now I come back to the question: Did my dad influence my running career?

The most apparent answer is no. I never ran as a kid, and never ran with my dad (with one notable exception, which will be its own post someday). I chose running on my own, well after I had moved out of the house for good. I progressed as a runner only through my own study and discipline and perseverance.

But here’s the thing: if I hadn’t grown up playing sports, if I hadn’t been hooked on the rewards of physical exertion and hard work, if I hadn’t been immersed in athletics for so long, maybe I wouldn’t have gone looking for running in the first place.

And if it weren’t for my father’s dedication to my childhood pursuits, maybe none of those things would have happened.

I’ll never know for sure. All I know for certain is that I had a satisfying childhood, and that I’ve grown into a happy, well-adjusted (well, mostly) adult. And now that I’m a dad, I realize that’s pretty much the only thing that matters.

So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks for everything.

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