For Gabbard: A Briefcase History of Time

Anthony Gabbard never won our fantasy football league. Never came close, really, despite often being armed with more picks in the first seven rounds than the rest of us had in the full draft. He would methodically fill slots based on need, meaning he always – ALWAYS – ended up taking a kicker not just too early but entirely too early. Like ridiculously early. Like seventh or eighth round early, having already rounded out a roster and ready to go worry about other things, usually poker.

Unlike others in the league, Gabbard didn’t study charts or meticulously pore over fantasy gurus in the days leading up to the draft. He preferred to print out a couple of sheets, then let the numbers be the guide while the team fell into place.

This is not to say, however, that he didn’t come prepared.

Go Royals, for KC

It’s really more than just a hat.

Earlier this year, Cory Graham and I, in an effort to pay some sort of tribute to our old friend KC Jones, who had unexpectedly died, decided we should probably become Kansas City Royals fans. The reason was purely superficial: the Royals’ cap featured the letters “KC,” and we’d had more than few conversations over the years that our KC should be a fan of that KC. Not only would he have personalized caps (or shirts or jackets or whatever piece of Royals memorabilia he desired), he’d also be rooting for an obscure small-market team in an area surrounded by fans of the Yankees, Cardinals, Braves and Reds. Basically, our friend would stand out.

Turning 38: simple words can change an outlook

I woke up this morning, my 38th birthday, thinking about the things I miss, the things I want, the things I’ll never have again. Birthdays are, by their very nature, perhaps the most selfish of days, and I not only embraced the selfishness, I wallowed in it.

A text message from a friend changed that.

Dear Charlie: An Open Letter to My Friend’s Newborn Son

Dear Charlie,

Let me tell you about Wilco.

First, though, let me make a few introductions: my name is Kevin. You’re going to get to know me pretty well over the years, but for now, I’ll hit the basics of what you should know: Springsteen. Wilco. Scorsese. Tarantino. Football. Seinfeld. Arrested Development. The Simpsons. Football. When you learn to talk, if you’re remotely familiar with any of those things, we’ll get along just fine.

You see that man over there? Probably not, because although I know little about babies who are about 12 hours old, I’m fairly certain I recall reading that they can’t see long distances. OK, so how about this? The next time the bearded redhead holds you, the one in the Phillies cap, that’s your dad. His name is Cory. I’ve known him a long time, and one thing I know about him more than just about anything else, he’s waited for this day more than you (or anyone) can possibly imagine (realizing, of course, you are 12 hours old and can’t imagine anything right now, but even when you are much much older, the sentiment will be the same).

Friends’ support keep memories alive, or How a Reservoir Dog’s bite far outweighed his bark

My parents hadn’t given up on me, even though by all accounts they probably should have. I hated them, for no good reason, other than the fact I was in my early 20s and they weren’t.

They tried to reach out to me. I refused, time and again.

Then someone reached out to them, they graciously accepted the offer and I was fortunately too young and dumb to realize I was being parented by proxy. I’m not sure when Norman Watson called my mom, telling her he’d talk to me, try to make me be less angry, less sullen, less bratty, less negative.

I’m just glad he did.

Fantasy football isn’t just numbers and nonsense

If you don’t want to read about football, stop now.

If you don’t want to read about fantasy football, stop now.

But if you want to read about brotherhood, then brutha, by all means, continue.

This Saturday, the 2010 version of The Skullz Fantasy Football League begins with our annual draft held, as usual, at the Cory S. Graham Sports Complex/Clay City Music Hall. There will be Mama Crowe’s pizza. There will be chicken wings. There will be trash talk and girl talk, groans over missed opportunities in the draft and laughter over poor picks.

Goodbye, dear friend

We buried Norman today.

His friends and family gathered in Stanton for his funeral, and I’m fortunate enough to have been invited to be part of the service, both as a speaker and as a pallbearer. It was a touching tribute with kind words being shared about the man (or, perhaps more appropriately, The Man) we all loved so much. I was especially fond of his son-in-law Barry’s talk, which included a quote from Yoda (“Death is a natural part of life. Rejoice for those around you who transform into the Force. Mourn them do not. Miss them do not. Attachment leads to jealousy. The shadow of greed that is.”) and this essay by Robert Hastings called “The Station”:

Cancer can’t stop friend’s love of life

The sign, black magic marker lettering on pink construction paper, tells you everything you need to know about how he has handled his life.

And for Norman, as he sits up in his bed, sucking on a piece of ice, the sign tells you more about how he is handling his death.

Norman has cancer, which started in his stomach and has spread to inoperable levels in other parts of his body. He is dying.