Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 659

I am a giant nerd

I admire the guy's willingness to put his passion on display, and I love his courage to be himself, but this guy has no chance of ever getting a date.

Right?

Testicular cancer talk

Sometimes former students and I maintain friendships long after their days in my classroom have ended.  These students and I tend to share similar personalities, interests, and demeanors, and as they get older, it's easy to understand why they continue to visit me in my classroom long after they have left elementary school.

For a few former students, the teacher-student relationship has slowly developed into a genuine friendship.  As I have become close with their parents (and now call some of them my closest of friends), and as they have headed off to college and bigger and better things, I have begun to view these young people as friends, even if they continue to call me Mr. Dicks. 

One of my former students, now in college, is my daughter's primary babysitter and an all-around friend of our family.  On Saturday, while I was working, she and my wife spent the afternoon together, playing with Clara. 

Two other students (a brother and sister combination) are our primary dog sitter, and still another is our backup dog sitter.  We have invited former students and their families to our home for Christmas and Thanksgiving and Clara's first birthday, and we have been invited to their homes for similar reasons.  I count myself lucky to have these young people in my life.

Yesterday two such former students, now all grown up and attending college, came to visit me at the end of the school day.  We chatted for about fifteen minutes before I headed off to a meeting, but in that time, it became apparent why these students and I have become such good friends.

The first girl's hair is quite long. In the midst of our conversation, I asked if she planned on cutting it soon and perhaps give the hair to an organization like Locks for Love. She replied, "Of course not. I'm saving it for when I get cancer. In that case, my wig will match my natural hair color."

While a fellow teacher was slightly horrified at the remark, I found it quite clever.

We then began chatting about cellphones, and somehow this led to a discussion on how radar detectors once emitted so much radiation that police officers in the 1970''s were contracting cancer at alarming rates. "It's the same with cellphones," the other girl added. "So keep your cellphone out of your pocket or you'll get testicular cancer."

Having the former student mention my testicles was odd enough, but as she did, she pointed to my groin as well.

While I found the moment refreshingly innocent and amusing and a clear indication of the friendship I share with these girls, teachers never want students, all grown up or otherwise, pointing to their testicles.

Bits and bytes from my first days with Elysha

I was rooting through old short stories, poems and other miscellany on my hard drive when I came across a five-entry diary that I began in March of 2004.  This was the month that my wife and I began dating.

I've kept a journal off-and-on for most of my life, and I have a bunch of hand-written ones stacked in a drawer in my desk.  This is the first and only one I can recall writing with a keyboard. 

Three of the entries mention my future wife, and oddly enough, the diary ends on the evening that Elysha and I unofficially-officially began dating.

I got busy after that, I guess. 

Here are the three entries that mention Elysha.    

March 12, 2004

Tonight at the Talent Show, Chloe poured oatmeal over my head to end a skit that I had written for us.  Chloe may have cancer.  God I hope not.

Dinner with Elysha. That girl is great.

Late. Bed.

March 21, 2004

Met Elysha and friends at Trumbull Café. Later we went to The Red Plate for pizza. Good time.  Paul, a guy sitting next to her, hit on Elysha at the bar, but he never asked for her number. What a dummy.  Elysha called me around 2:00 AM and we chatted for an hour.  Asked me about my religion.  Very interesting.  Just love talking to that girl.

March 22, 2004

Going to Coaches tomorrow night to watch the Lady Huskies. Elysha will be there.  I'm excited.

Elysha didn't call tonight.  Was hoping she would.

No spread of cancer for Chloe. Hooray!

Old men quitting on their teams

I have a friend who will not be watching the Celtics or NBA basketball in general this year.  He's older than me and has become disillusioned by the involvement of agents in the sport, the inability of small market teams to land free agents, the creation of the supposed Miami Heat super team, and more.

All of this is nonsense, of course.  

In the past thirty years, only eight different teams have won NBA championships, including the Celtics and the Heat. 

The domination of certain markets is nothing new.  

But his newfound attitude is not surprising.  I have a number of friends who have abandoned baseball, basketball and even football because of a variety of reasons, mostly related to the way the games are played, the ways the teams are assembled, and the attitudes of today's ballplayers. 

All of these friends are older than me, and all are over forty years old. 

I do not think their age is a coincidence. 

I would argue that quitting on a sport has more to do with becoming old, nostalgic, and intractable and less to do with the fundamentals of the game.  My friends may believe in their hearts that they have abandoned these teams and sports as a result of their passion for the way the game used to be structured and played, but the truth is that all sports evolve over time, and these guys have found themselves at an age when they can no longer adapt to these changes. 

How many twenty or even thirty year old guys have you met who once loved a sport with all their hearts but have now given it up? 

Any?

No, it's around forty, and perhaps closer to fifty, when the game no longer resembles the game of a man's youth and these old men no longer want to adapt to the changes.  And while I understand the sentiment, I find it a little sad and tragic.

I cannot imagine quitting on basketball because three possibly incompatible players decided to join forces in Miami or because agents may have helped to facilitate the move.

The NBA has a bad guy once again (something it hasn't had since the Detroit Pistons of the 1990s), and it made last night's Celtics victory even more sweet.

It's basketball.  No matter how the teams were put together and who had their hands in the decision-making pie, it's basketball.    

If I ever get to the point that I sound like an old man, complaining about free agency, league balance, or a lack of fundamentals in today's game, smack me on the head with my cane, stuff my AARP card down my throat and remind me of the greatness of these games, regardless of how they may evolve over the years. 

A lot can happen in twelve years

Tonight I learned that a student from my very first class, a former second grader who I taught twelve years ago, is modeling a line of clothing that was designed and manufactured by my friend and his partner.

That is a damn small world.

I can't get over it.  I'm sitting here, staring at photos of a woman wearing clothing designed by my friend, and I can remember teaching this woman how to add with regrouping like it was yesterday. 

And now I am feeling a little bit old. 

My little second grader is now modeling high-end fashion?

I still can't believe it.

Identity crisis

I called in an order at the local sandwich shop today.  When I picked it up, there was a slip of paper attached to the bag with the order written on it.  I described my roast beef sandwich (American cheese, salt and pepper on wheat) and dessert choice (apple pocket). 

At the bottom of the slip it read:

Clara's dad
Picking up in 15 minutes

My identity has been usurped. 

Forever young

Last week I went to the doctor's office for a routine visit.  Prior to seeing the doctor, a nurse took my blood pressure and pulse.

"Wow," she said, staring at me in near disbelief.

"Good, huh?"

"Great," she said. "And your pulse too. I'm surprised!"

"Alright," I said, becoming uncomfortable with her level of astonishment. "It's not that amazing. I know I don't look like I'm in the best shape of my life, but I'm doing okay."

"I guess," she said, smiling.

I get this reaction from nurses all the time. They take one look at me and assume from my fire hydrant shape that my blood pressure will be off the charts, when it is usually around 100/80. And my resting heart rate tends to be around 60, which it was last week. Both of these numbers are very good.

Incidents like this make me realize how people's perceptions of me change as I get older while the perception that I have of myself do not. I still think of myself as a young, athletic man, and though I have a rotator cuff problem, golfer's elbow and a bad knee, I've had the knee trouble since high school and the rotator cuff tore while I was diving for a ball, so it was hardly an issue of age. And while I also would like to lose some more weight (I've lost about 25 pounds in the last year but would like to lose another fifteen), I am still able to run 2-3 miles with relative ease, spend an hour or more on the elliptical machine, and play hoops with kids half my age.

In fact, the same day of my appointment, I stopped by the basketball courts near my home and joined a pickup game with some kids of high school and college age. We played two on two for about an hour when four other guys showed up, forcing us to reconstitute the teams. It was quite a scene, a 39-year old white guy playing alongside six young, black guys and a young white guy who carried himself like Eminem.

Captains were chosen, and as the choosing began, the first captain, one of the new arrivals, asked the second captain, a guy who I had been playing with, about me. "What's up with the old guy?" the kid asked.

"Well, he's not too fast and he can't jump, but he knows how to pass and when to shoot, and you can't move him once he's under the basket.  And he fouls hard."

I was still picked last, but I didn't mind the assessment of my skills, and I managed to hold my own that morning.

See Nurse Judgmental. I still got it.

Shooting little kids in the chest

On Friday night I played laser tag against two students and a band of marauding birthday party kids.  Eighteen players in all and I was the only adult in the maze.

I finished second, despite the frequent and illegal teaming by children who wanted to do nothing else but destroy me.

I left the game feeling pretty good about myself.

Actually, I felt great about myself.  I play laser tag a couple times a year and rarely finish below second place, often winning the game.  And in most circumstances, I am playing against kids who play more often than me and often team up to defeat me. 

Then I tried to explain my euphoria to an adult, and she looked at me with a less-than-impressed stare.  She was listening to a grown man describe the way in which he defeated children in a game involving lasers, fog machines and a maze.

I was suddenly wrenched back down to Earth.  Back in the land of mortgage payments and child-rearing, I felt foolish for my unmitigated enthusiasm and joy.   

But then my eyes returned to my scorecard, and the note on the bottom that indicated that I had placed second and had received 50 bonus points for my #2 ranking in accuracy.  I noted the number of shoulder hits I had taken, primarily from a pod of five ten-year olds who had taken the high ground on the upper corner of the maze, and considered alternatives to taking on a fortified position in the future.  I analyzed my own shot selection, counting the excessive number of times I scored a hit on the front of an opponent's pack, a statistic in keeping with my flush-and-retreat strategy.

I had played a great game, damn it, and those unimpressed, glazed-over adult eyes were simply the eyes of inexperience and ignorance.  Until you running through that maze, armed with a laser, battling platoons of four-foot tall warriors who will cover sensors and ambush you whenever possible, you cannot know the skill and strategy that goes into finishing second.  Yes, it's a game, and yes, it's primarily a children's game, but for those adults brave enough to enter that maze, it is twenty minutes of war, and to the victor goes the spoils.

Which in this case is a pink scorecard and an offer to play in the Halloween overnighter next week. 

Still, do not belittle my accomplishment until you have carried a laser yourself.  Events like the birth of my daughter and the publishing of a book contained moments of pure, unadulterated joy, and those moments far exceeded my laser tag joy of finishing second. 

But finishing second is on that list of joyous moments, and it's not too far down the list. 

How often can you say that you beat seventeen kids at their own game?

But its just Bram

I told my buddy that I'll be spending my afternoon watching football with my friend, Bram.

"Who's Bram?" he asked.

"Oh, Bram Weinstein," I said.  "He works for ESPN.  Actually, he has his own show on ESPN2 every night at 6:00.  The Beat.  And he's hosted Sports Center and done the updates on the Mike and Mike Show.  And other stuff, too.  College football.  Lots of stuff."

"You're watching the game with an ESPN Sports Center host?" my friend asked, his voice filled with awe and reverence.  "A guy who works on-air for ESPN?"

"Yeah," I said.  "I guess.  But it's just Bram."

It's remarkable how the celebrity luster fades once you actually get to know a person.

Evil step-father advice

In the ten years I spent living with my evil step-father before leaving home at the age of eighteen, he taught me the following things:

1.  The most painful way to die is by fire.  Being a psychiatric social worker, I believed him. This, by the way, is always good information to give a ten-year old boy.  His assertion has since been proven correct based upon my ample movie-watching career. When a bad guy catches fire, he flails and screams more than anyone else on screen.

2.  Don't trust you're real father. He didn't love you.

3.  If you're disappointed with the service you receive at a restaurant, don't leave nothing for a tip. Leave a penny. It's more insulting.

4.  If you are going to be blamed for something, you might as well do it.

This last one is the only lesson that I utilize today, and even this is used sparingly.