Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 47

The Yard Goats told the wrong story

I love minor-league baseball. The combination of genuine athletic excellence, relentless amusement, unabashed silliness, and low-stakes competition make for the perfect way to spend an afternoon at the ballpark.

On Father’s Day, my family spent the day at Dunkin Donuts Field, home of the Hartford Yard Goats. The home team was engaged in a pitching duel with their rival, the Akron Rubber Ducks.

The day was spectacular in almost every way except for one:

The wrong story was being told throughout the game.

The public address announcer frequently referenced Father’s Day between innings and after the game as my son, Charlie, and I ran the bases alongside hundreds of other fathers and sons. Mentioning Father’s Day made sense and would have been lovely, except the story being told made no sense.

At least to me.

The public address announcer said things like:

“Remember the two things dads want more than anything else today: A cold beer and a place to kick back and relax.”

“As you run the bases today, dads, you can feel good about yourself. You’re finally getting in a little bit of exercise this week. But don’t overdo it! Those bases are a whopping 90 feet apart!”

“Grab yourself a cold one, dads, and make this afternoon at the ballpark perfect.”

None of this spoke to me.

I’m sure that many fathers enjoy beer.

It’s also true that some rarely exercise.

And yes, some fathers certainly think relaxing is the perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Those particular fathers were being told the right story that day.

But I suspect the world is filled with a multitude of less stereotypical fathers, too—those who don’t conform to the fathers we’ve watched on television for decades.

I exercise every day.

I haven’t consumed a beer in more than thirty years and barely drink any alcohol today.

I’d much prefer to spend a Sunday afternoon playing catch with Charlie, taking a bike ride, playing golf, or seeing a movie with friends and family. Relaxing is lovely for some, but my ideal day is filled with activity.

Relaxing is not something I enjoy.

On this particular day, after the game, we left the stadium and went to a bookstore, followed by a stop at one of our favorite ice cream shops. Then Charlie and I played nine holes of golf. Later, I rode my bike before watching a movie with Clara and Elysha and finishing the day writing.

Yes, I’m sure some fathers took a nap. Others probably put their feet up and read a book. Basked in the glory of a sunset. Listened to their kids run around in the backyard. Watched TV.

Bully for them, I say, but that all sounds awful to me. And I know I’m not alone.

Most of my friends exercise regularly. At least a few barely drink or don’t drink alcohol at all anymore. Many are like me, striving to fill their days with activity. Like me, they would prefer to go places and do things.

Cold beers, afternoon naps, and avoiding exercise are not something any of them desire.

When we tell stories to our customers, we need to ensure that all customers feel spoken to. Everyone needs to feel like they, too, are part of the story. Therefore, we must carve out spaces for as many types of people as possible. We must find ways to reach the masses, recognizing that the masses contain multitudes.

The Yard Goats chose to lean on the ancient, overdone stereotypes of beleaguered, bedraggled fathers who would want to drink beer, sit still, and avoid movement whenever possible.

Those people surely exist and to each his own, but I suspect the world is more nuanced today.

More diverse.

Maybe even better.

Tell those stories, and people like me will feel like we are part of the story.

Post it note

A few months ago, I performed in “Matt and Jeni Are Unprepared,” a storytelling improv show in which audience members provide my storytelling partner, Jeni Bonaldo, and me with prompts, from which we tell true stories on the spot.

The audience then determines whose stories are better.

It’s competitive storytelling on a highwire, and I love it. And despite complaining about the format, Jeni is brilliant. I can’t imagine doing such a thing with anyone else.

In the game’s final round of our most recent show, my prompt was “Post-it note.” As an added layer of difficulty, the final round also requires a genre of story, too, because nothing can be too easy.

Reaching from a bowl of genres, I chose “Tragedy.”

Unfortunately, I had a story to tell.

It’s a story I haven’t told many people before, but given the prompt and the genre, it seemed like the right time to finally tell it onstage.

And now here.

Back in 2005, I was fortunate enough to be named West Hartford’s Teacher of the Year, and a few months later, I was named one of three finalists for Connecticut’s Teacher of the Year. It was one of the greatest honors of my life, and it came with some lovely perks:

I delivered a speech at our school district’s convocation the following year, and nearly twenty years later, I still receive kind words about it.

My principal honored me with a surprise parade in the circle in front of our school. As I returned from lunch with him and a fellow Teacher of the Year finalist from my school in a red convertible, we were greeted by the student body and colleagues lining the circle, waving signs and cheering.

It’s a moment I’ll never forget.

I also rode in local parades, worked on important committees, delivered more speeches throughout the district, and enjoyed a lovely year of accolades and honors.

Honestly, I couldn’t believe any of it. A decade earlier, I had been homeless, jailed, and awaiting trial for a crime I did not commit. I could barely feed myself. I was the victim of a horrific robbery, overwhelmed with a mountain of legal debt, and had no parents to help me. I was 23 years old and had yet to make it to college.

I thought I never would.

Then, after a great deal of struggle and hard work, my dream of becoming a teacher finally came true. Shortly after that, I was honored for doing that job well.

Elysha and I were teaching side by side at the time, engaged to be married, which made that year even more special.

Then something extraordinary happened.

The following year, our school librarian, Kathy Paquette, was named Teacher of the Year. Two educators from our school were named Teacher of the Year in consecutive years in a district of 16 schools and more than 1,000 teachers. It was a great honor for our school and an indication of how well our faculty performed as educators.

Two years later, a third teacher from our school would also be named Teacher of the Year.

I was thrilled for my friend Kathy. Elysha and I, alongside many of our friends, attended the Teacher of the Year banquet, where she was announced as the winner.

Much celebrating ensued.

The next morning, I walked through the doors of my school and down the hallway to my classroom. As I went to insert my key into the lock to open the door, I saw a yellow Post-it note affixed to the door at eye level. It read:

“Finally someone deserving.”

It broke my heart.

I had no idea who would place such a thing on my door, and I had no inclination that anyone in my school felt this way about me, but apparently, someone did. Some anonymous coward had taken the time to steal joy and inject doubt and fear into my life with the simple stroke of a pen.

With one tiny piece of paper, all of the joy and excitement of the previous night was washed away.

Though it made no sense, I also felt ashamed. Ashamed that someone would think this of me. Ashamed that perhaps their words were true. Maybe I hadn’t been deserving of the honor in the previous year. Perhaps I was a fraud.

Staring at that note, I made a decision:

No one would ever know about this Post-it note. I wouldn’t allow it to tarnish the excitement of Kathy’s great honor, nor would I allow it to fester in the minds of Elysha or any of my friends as I knew it would in mine. So I threw it away, tried to forget it, and pretended it never existed.

Later that year, the sentiment behind that note—and likely the person or people responsible for that note—would take further action against me in a far darker and more insidious way, but that is a long, complex, almost unbelievable story for another day.

I eventually told Elysha about that Post-it note and told school officials about it when it became necessary. Still, other than that small handful of people, I had kept that story to myself for nearly two decades.

Then, the combination of a prompt, a genre, and an improv storytelling show finally pried it from me. It wasn’t an easy story to tell, and I suspect it wasn’t easy to hear, but I was happy to finally share it with the world.

Two days later, on a Monday morning, I entered my school and walked down the hallway to my classroom. As I went to insert my key into the lock and open the door, I saw two yellow Post-it notes affixed to the door at eye level.

It’s the same door where I found that original note back in 2006.

They read:

You are a brilliant author and teacher and storyteller and wouldn’t it be fun to say, “How do you like me now?”

It had been affixed to the door by a colleague who had been in the audience that night and had heard the story.

She is also our school’s most recent West Hartford Teacher of the Year.

My heart soared.

The sting of that note from nearly two decades ago still stupidly remains, but my friend is right:

Despite the efforts of some to punch a hole in my reputation and destroy my career, I am still standing, a quarter century into my teaching career, and I am successful, happy, and respected. I love my job, my colleagues, my students, and my school.

I’m fortunate enough to have many ways to earn a living these days, but I choose to remain a teacher because it’s what I love to do.

My hope is that the person who left that note knows exactly how joyous I am today. I hope they know how much I love teaching and how happy I am to still share a classroom—that very same classroom— with my students.

Mostly, I hope they know that they failed.

I was deserving of that Teacher of the Year honor in 2005. Others were equally deserving, too, I’m sure. Many of my colleagues could just as easily have won Teacher of the Tear in 2005, but for some blessed reason, it was my year to be honored. Despite that cowardly act and all the terrible, heartless acts that would follow, I still look back on that honor with great affection and joy.

But my friend’s note helps, too. It replaces one ugly image with a far better one.

I also told my story. I stopped allowing that moment to remain in the shadows. It gave my friend a chance to make it a little better.

I’ll be forever grateful.

Sharing toothbrush or not

There are three kinds of people in the world:

Those who would never, ever share their toothbrush with another person.Those who might grudgingly share their toothbrush with their spouse or child or someone similarly intimate if necessary.Those who would share their toothbrush with almost any other person

I’m in category 3, but I worry I might be the only person on the planet in that category.

Thoughts?

Maher’s questions plus a couple of my own

Bill Maher is a comedian I like very much because he says things I love and hate.

Sometimes, I agree with him entirely.

Other times, I think he’s wrongheaded and dumb.

But I like that. I enjoy being challenged. I think opposition to my ideas is healthy and productive.

Unlike so many people who seem to be living in the world today, I’m not so prickly and thin-skinned to require a fainting couch when someone says something that I think is incorrect or shortsighted or even offensive.

I like disagreement. I believe intellectual conflict is healthy. I would never seek to silence a person, shout them down, or prevent them from speaking at my institution because I find their views abhorrent.

I would either listen to possibly learn or simply not attend.

With all that said, Maher offered a list of questions recently he thought the protesters on college campuses should consider as they issued their demands, threatened fellow students, and chanted their slogans.

I liked the list a lot.

Maher said:

1. Is the most critical thing in my life something I hadn’t heard of six months ago?

2. Do I know what I’m talking about?

3. Am I here for the cause, or is the cause here to bring you me?

I especially like his first question. Truer words have never been spoken.

I want to add two additional questions to Maher’s list.

1. Why do I care so much about this particular cause while ignoring other similar or nearly identical causes?

2. Is this cause important enough to consistently occupy my time and energy, or will I be taking time off because it’s only important enough to occupy my time when it’s also convenient for me?

This isn’t meant to imply any position on any particular issue. I’m only suggesting that before anyone takes a position and decides to disrupt institutions, infrastructure, and the lives of individuals to affect change, they might want to ask themselves these questions first.

Rationale and reasoning are important.

Why Elysha fell in love with me

Years ago, someone asked my wife, Elysha, when she first started falling in love with me.

Thankfully, I was standing beside her when this question was asked.

My assumption, of course, was that she took one look at me, swooned, and fell head over heels in love.

This, it turns out, was not the case. 

“I think I first started falling for him at Chilli’s,” Elysha said.

Not exactly what I was expected or even wanted to hear.

We were both teaching elementary school at the time, one door apart. We were colleagues and friends, but we weren’t yet dating. I already had an enormous crush on Elysha, but I had assumed from the moment we first met that she was way out of my league. 

I still feel this way from time to time today. Actually, a lot of people do. Last year, in the midst of a math lesson, one of my students said, “No offense, Mr. Dicks, but with all the people in the world, why would your wife choose you?”

In the middle of my math lesson!

Even ten-year-old kids think she’s out of my league.

On the night in question, Elysha and I were waiting to attend the school’s annual talent show. I was going to appear in a skit that would conclude with a student pouring a vat of oatmeal over my head.

Elysha was wisely sticking around to watch.

“Want to get some dinner?” she asked. 

I agreed. I was thrilled. 

Chilli’s was nearby. Not exactly the place to take a girl on a first date, but this wasn’t a date. Just two coworkers and friends grabbing a bite before a show. 

During that dinner, Elysha asked me questions, and I answered them with a story, which is what I always do.

I told stories about my childhood, the years when I was homeless, jailed, and facing prison time. I told stories about college, managing McDonald’s restaurants, my friends, and my family.

Ask me a question. I tell you a story. Even to this day. 

“That was the night I first started falling in love with Matt,” Elysha said. “I knew I had never met anyone like him. His stories made it clear that he was different from any other person I’d ever met. I thought I’d never be bored if I was with him, and we’d never run out of things to say to each other.”

Did you catch that?

Storytelling landed me the best spouse in the world.

The stories I told that night told Elysha who I was and who I would be. Storytelling convinced her that I was an entertaining and interesting human being. My stories made her believe that I was someone worthy of spending her life alongside. 

Elysha is a beautiful, intelligent, kind, and incredibly funny person. She’s genuinely popular and exceptionally well-liked. Yet she chose me, in part, because I was willing and able to tell her vulnerable, entertaining stories about my life. 

“I can’t believe you never told me that,” I said to Elysha after revealing the truth about that night in Chilli’s. “Storytelling made you swoon? That would’ve been great for my brand!”

“I’m not in the business of building your brand,” she said.

Rightfully so. 

But when it comes to romance, you can swipe left and right, or you can find a way to connect with someone meaningfully and deeply by telling a story. Sharing of yourself. Making yourself known to another person. 

You can swim in the shallow end of the pool, afraid to be open, vulnerable, and revealing, or you can brave the deep waters and be real, honest, and vulnerable with another person. 

If you find yourself on a first (or second) (or even third) date, may I suggest that you tell some stories? And spare your date your stories about your brilliant exploits and heroic deeds. Instead, share stories about struggle, embarrassment, foolishness, and stupidity.

The kinds of stories that demonstrate strength, confidence, depth, and courage.

Be brave enough, bold enough, and wise enough to open your heart and mind and perhaps find love.

That would be the greatest story of all.

Laundry disaster

Not only were there nine unmatched socks in Charlie’s laundry basket, but there were also no matched pairs.

Just nine random socks.

How is this even possible?

Father’s Day joy and outrage

My Father’s Day was all I could have ever wanted.

Also slightly disappointing.

My best version of Father’s Day would be one filled with nonstop fun, and that was certainly the case for me.

It started at sunrise with nine holes of golf with my friends. I didn’t play great, but I didn’t play poorly either. I beat two friends and came within a stroke of beating the third.

More importantly, we had a lot of fun. Laughter and stories and the occasional groan. Great fun for all.

Then, my family and I went to brunch at a favorite spot before heading to the Dunkin Donuts Stadium to watch the Double-A Hartford Yard Goats play the Akron Rubber Ducks on a perfect summer day. The Yard Goats won 1-0 in a nail-biter, and after the game, Charlie and I ran the bases.

Then we were off to a favorite ice cream shop, followed by another nine holes of golf with Charlie. On the last hole, Charlie hit his drive alongside the green, chipped onto the fringe, and then put the ball in the hole for the first birdie of his life.

He’s never even had a par.

We celebrated the hell out of the moment.

I also had a birdie putt on the hole that I missed, meaning Charlie also beat me on a hole for the first time.

A great moment for him and me.

I finished the day with a bike ride before watching a movie with the family.

My kind of Father’s Day. Non-stop fun.

But not every moment was ideal.

As we entered the restaurant for brunch, we found ourselves behind a couple – presumably a mother and father – with three small children under the age of eight. In the mother’s arms was a neat stack of iPads, enclosed in child-proof cases, ready for the children.

I hoped and prayed not to be seated beside this disaster.

Instead, we found ourselves on the other side of the restaurant beside a couple whose older child – probably about seven – was watching something on an iPad while their younger child was playing with a phone. Elysha had to lean over and ask the couple if they could turn down the volume on the iPad so we could enjoy our meal.

What the hell are people thinking?

Seriously. WHAT THE HELL ARE PEOPLE THINKING?

As an educator, I also couldn’t help but think:

“These kids eventually find their way into our schools, where dysregulation, distraction, and defiance are rising. Where teachers are forced to fight for attention and engagement every day. And we wonder why.”

Later, while standing in line to run the bases with Charlie, I found myself standing in front of another couple and their weeping son. He had apparently run ahead of his parents, momentarily disappearing from sight, which upset the father. In response, he was laying into his son relentlessly, harping on his son’s mistake again and again, causing the boy to cry more and more.

This eventually shifted into a fight between the man and his wife, who thought her husband needed to “Knock it off.”

“This isn’t the time,” she whispered.

“You’ve made your point,” she added.

“It’s Father’s Day,” she reminded him.

Rather than rethinking his decision and standing down, he turned his ire at his wife, telling her how unsupportive and ridiculous she was behaving. In response, she immediately disengaged from him, becoming a silent receptacle for his anger.

All of this caused their son to cry even more. All of this right before they were to step onto the field to run the bases on Father’s Day.

Just before it was their turn to step onto the field, the father said, “I’m not doing this,” and walked away, leaving his wife to run the bases on what had been branded as a “Father-Son Baseball Run.”

Charlie caught the last bit of this particular fight. Just before we stepped onto the field, he said, “I’m really happy you’re my father.”

“Me, too,” I said, and I meant it. The thought of Charlie staring at screens in restaurants, being publicly shamed for becoming overly excited about running the bases at a baseball game, or watching his parents go to war over a parenting disagreement would break my heart.

It broke my heart for those kids who weren’t mine but deserved better.

The Boston Celtics are world champions, and I was there to watch it happen

I’ve been very fortunate as a serious sports fan. In my lifetime, I’ve been lucky enough to watch:

Six New England Patriots Super Bowl championships

Seven New York Yankees World Series championships

One Boston Bruins Stanley Cup championship

And up until last night, four Boston Celtics NBA championships

The Yankees and Celtics won other championships in my lifetime, but I was too young to enjoy those.

I’ve also witnessed eight AFC Championships victories in Gillette Stadium. Still, I’ve never had the joy of watching one of my favorite teams win a championship in person until last night.

Thanks to a boss who wouldn’t give my friend’s son the day off, they had an extra ticket to the game last night, so I was lucky enough to watch the Celtics win their 18th championship in the Garden in the company of friends and my former student.

It was one of those nights that you never forget—a joyous, uproarious, electric, raucous, festive night of victory and celebration.

When Paytton Prichard hit a three-pointer from half court as the buzzer sounded, ending the first half, the crowd went wild.

I don’t know if I’ve ever heard the Boston Garden so loud.

Added to the joy of this championship was my love for this particular team. I’ve watched nearly every game this 2023-2024 season, and Charlie and I attended games in person throughout the season.

It was his first time watching professional basketball live.

Many an evening was spent watching the Celtics play on TV as I texted about the game with my friend, falling increasingly in love with the team as the season went on.

I watched one playoff game on a flight back to Boston. The screen was small, but the plane – filled mainly with Boston fans – was going as wild as possible at 32,000 feet.

Even the long walk back to my friend’s apartment was fun. The streets were filled with Celtics fans, and happily, thankfully, I didn’t witness one moment of overly exuberant celebration.

Celtics fans were ecstatic, but they did behave like monsters.

Twenty championships in 52 years is pretty good. A championship every 2.7 years.

Probably better than most people.

Lucky me. I’ve been fortunate enough to celebrate many sports championships in my lifetime, including my own Little League and high school track and field championships.

But I will remember this night for the rest of my life.

Witnessing your favorite team win a championship requires many  stars to align:

You need to love a sports team enough to care about them winning and losingYour team needs to be good enough to survive the playoffs to the championship game or roundUnless you’re traveling to the opponent’s city, your team needs to be playing for the championship on their home turfIn the case of baseball, hockey, and basketball, you need to attend the game in which the championship is actually decided.Your team needs to win that game.

If the Celtics had won their previous game, I would’ve celebrated the championship in an Atlanta airport sports bar amongst strangers.

Had the Celtics lost last night, I would’ve celebrated their championship from the comfort of my couch alongside Charlie.

I needed the Celtics to win the first three games of the series, then lose game four so they could return to Boston to claim their championship on the night I happened to be in attendance.

Happily, that happened.

You also need to somehow acquire tickets. If you’re a season ticket holder, that’s easy, unless you’re an NFL season ticket holder like myself. Those season tickets will only get you as far as the AFC championship game.

Super Bowl tickets, plus travel and lodging in the host city, are an additional, considerable hurdle.

For me, I needed some know-nothing monster of a boss to refuse to grant my former student the day off so they could attend a Boston Celtics championship game, thus allowing me to sit in a seat originally designated for him.

The stars were aligned last night for the Boston Celtics and me. It was an incredible night of sport and celebration that I will never forget.

Despite less than three hours of sleep, I woke up this morning smiling.

I’ll miss my friends

Today is the first of my summer vacation.

The school year ended last Thursday, but after dismissing my students at the end of the day, I drove for two hours straight to Logan Airport, where I took off for Arizona, where I was speaking on Friday morning.

Then, I returned to the airport and flew home, landing in Boston at 2:00 AM on Saturday.

I was in bed by 4:30 AM  and up again at 7:30 AM, so today is the first day that feels like a vacation for me.

Despite that, I find myself thinking about my students. Partly, it’s because of the thank you notes and letters that I will be writing to them over the next week, but mostly, it’s because our family will never be together again.

I love summer vacation, but it comes at a great price—people who know me almost as well as anyone else are no longer in my life.

In addition to the last day of school being incredibly hard, it’s also often hilarious.

This year was no exception.

A few memorable moments:

Saying goodbye to a student in the company of his parents, one student said to me, “When you’re dead, Mr. Dicks, I’ll still be thinking of you.”

“Who says I’m dying first?” I asked. “I’m indestructible.”

“Well, then,” he said with a smile. “I’ll see you in hell, Mr. Dicks.”

“No,” I said. “I’ll see you in hell.”

His mother, watching this back and forth unfold,  said, “You two have the strangest relationship.”

I also received a couple of amusing emails on the last day of school from a student. Two particularly funny:

_______________________________

Dear Mr. Dicks,

I will miss you very much. I will probably cry a lot today but try not to make fun of me even though that is very difficult for you._______________________________

Dear Mr. Dicks,

Thank you for preparing us for middle school so well. We didn’t make it easy, but that was because we love you and enjoy watching you suffer, too.

You taught us well.
_______________________________

You can see why it’s so hard to say goodbye.

Father’s Day gifts I won’t actually use

Of CNN’s “60 practical Father’s Day gifts that your dad will actually use,” I would use exactly four, and I already own three:

Battery organizer storage caseElectronic cable organizerMartini golf tees

The one I would actually use and don’t own:

Zero gravity lounge chair

The other 56 items—tools, cooking implements, camping gear, personal grooming devices, and at least a dozen items related to the brewing and consumption of coffee and alcohol—do not appeal to me.

When you declare a list to be “60 practical Father’s Day gifts that your dad will actually use,” and I only want about 6% of the items, it makes me wonder what’s wrong with me.

Happy Father’s Day everyone.