The Athlete Way

Today is November 17, David and Sarah's birthday. No, they are not twins. Yes, they share a birthday. So do Meghan and Natalie. Since neither of them were home, I took the liberty of waking up early to open their presents. Only when I went downstairs, the dining room table was surprisingly empty. Mom must have forgotten. Hopefully she didn't forget to make the yellow cake with chocolate icing because I was planning on blowing out their candles and stealing their wishes tonight. I used to think there was something wrong with me because I had my own birthday.  Was I destined for the same sort of weirdness that possessed my older, mud-puddle drinking, lone-birthday boy brother Andrew? When Mom was pregnant with her seventh shit, I prayed to the heavens to save me from that fate and let the child drop on my day. But she came 13 days early on July 20. I was five years old, and a brat. I remember sitting around the dining room table waiting for the Dodge Ram to pull in the...

View from the Navy Seals Leap Frog Team as they parachuted onto the Hockey field at the OTC-CV The whistle will blow, but for America's real heroes the game never ends. “There are no finish lines.” That is what Chief David Goggins, Navy Seal, Ultra-marathoner, and pretty much hero-extraordinaire, professed to us on a warm California morning last January at the Naval Amphibious Base in Coronado, California.    He told us a deranged story of his first 100mile race on a track in San Diego some years ago. His body barely functioning, his mind was focused on one thing - keep going. The race never ends. The job is never done.  Honestly, at first, I didn’t get it. I wondered if this man, handsome and charismatic as he seemed, was crazy But all year, his words stuck with me. Then it hit me. There are no finish lines for America’s real hereos . For those crazy, selfless, brave souls who live everyday serving the great calling of America and her protection. It is b...

My mom isn’t athletic. At all. She played basketball. Once. Scored a basket in the wrong net. Wondered why everyone was yelling ‘No’ as she streaked down the court. She didn’t realize no one was playing defense. She was focused on one thing. The middle child, finally, getting what had always been denied her. Glory. No one celebrated. Her teammates glared. Santone, the coach hollered. She didn’t wait for the sub. Walked to the end of the bench. Picked up a clipboard. Resigned herself to the sidelines – stats and shuttle services - for the rest of her life. Her first email address was kldrides@blahblah.com. She spent more time in the blue paneled Dodge Ram Van driving kids to sports practices than buying food, doing dishes, and washing clothes combined. The Dodge Ram Van The van didn’t have enough seats for all the kids. When we piled in the car for church, or those odd Dad inspired family drives through Pennsylvania Amish country, we fought over who had to sit on ‘the hump.’  ...

The Difficult Dawsons, Destiny, And An Unknown, Soon To Be Forgotten Dynasty   We are a pretty pathetic bunch. You would think that of the ten of us the chances that at least one would wear the ‘cool’ genes would be pretty high.  Nope.   No one in my family would win a popularity contest. Melanie, the self-proclaimed baby princess, may come close. She’s the only one in the family with blond hair and blue eyes. Even so, I don’t think she would wear the Miss Popular crown. She’s too emotional.   Hannah’s hair is too frizzy. Meg’s too stubborn. Andrew’s mouth is too damn filthy. David’s too nerdy. Nat, too aloof. Sarah, too dramatic. Mom, too quiet. Dad too loud. And me, I’m just misunderstood.   We are difficult too. We hold ourselves in very high esteem. Each and every single one of us.  I guess that is how you survive a crazy childhood.   Tell my dad to finish his beer. Dinner will be on the table at 6:30. Milk and water. No juice, no soda. We are  hungry. Rushed in...

October 10, 2011 Jump on Board, America We aren’t used to crowds. We have a small following of faithfuls that includes our friends, families, and a few field hockey aficionados.  Otherwise, America doesn’t know much about our sport. Unless of course you happen to live in a small Pennsylvania Dutch town, or in one of those isolated pockets of American territory, like my hometown of Berlin, New Jersey where field hockey made a niche for itself. Field Hockey. Imagine a major sport mash-up: combine the eye-hand coordination skill-sets of other stick sports like Ice Hockey, Cricket, Baseball and Lacrosse with the tactical elements of soccer, add a marshmellowman-like goalkeeper between the metal posts, and you ought to have a blurry image of our game. We wear skirts. Our legs are usually decorated with patterns of black, blue, and red. The turf is cruel. When we dive and tumble, it rips our hides raw. Yet, we dive and tumble anyway. The ball is even crueler – it is plastic...