Memories; Light the corners of my mind...

I heard an interesting fact on NPR today. Evidently chess grandmasters can look at the positions of the pieces on a chess board at any point in a game, for about 5 seconds and commit the entire board and the positions of the pieces, to memory with about a 98% rate of accuracy. Pretty amazing, huh?

But, that’s not the whole story. If the pieces on that chessboard were RANDOMLY put on the board (instead of in a manner reflecting an actual chess match) the grandmaster’s recall of the board and the positions of the pieces is no better than that of us non-chess playing masses. The expert who presented this fact on NPR has come to the conclusion that the human mind is far more capable of remembering details, stories, and events, when they have a structure to them that is meaningful to us.

I’m wondering if that helps explain how I can run down to the basement primarily to grab a cold beer out of the refrigerator, see that I have laundry to bring upstairs, and make it all the way back upstairs, with the laundry, but sans the beer I went downstairs to grab in the first place.

Is some higher power sending a message that maybe I should drink less beer?

Am I beginning to experience senior moments? Too much on my mind?

Maybe I am having attacks of what a friend of mine had. He described his malady as ADOS (Attention Deficit, Oh Shiny). Attention deficit issues seem to be far more prevalent these days than when I was young. Used to be one had to go to school A LOT of years before you got initials after your name (MD, PhD, JD) now, kids seem to get letters like ADHD attached to their names at very young ages. But I digress.

I’m guessing that the cold beer just isn’t important enough to me so that it slips too easily from my memory.

Two days ago I was riding the bus home from work when I was enthusiastically greeted by a fellow commuter who used to play football at the U. His face was familiar, but I could NOT recall his name. We chatted about old times for about 5 minutes. After he departed I addressed a colleague of mine, who I ride the bus with everyday, and confessed; “I have NO idea what his name is.”

Yesterday a female passed me on the bus and said, “Hi Mr. Stroessner, …Betsy Cairns.” (not her real name – protecting the innocent like I promised) She was an old neighbor that I hadn’t seen in years. I sure appreciated the re-introduction. Again, I turned to my colleague, only this time I mentioned the fact that the woman was kind/smart enough to jog my memory with her name, whereas the man the previous day didn’t even think about it. (Venus v. Mars? Again, I digress)

I guess I just want you all to know that if I refer to you as ‘Buddy’, ‘Pal’, or ‘Guy’, it isn’t an indication that I’ve forgotten YOU or the good times we’ve probably shared, I just have never been good with names. Case in point, years ago I once used the old, “How do you spell your name?” question with someone who I had just recently met (but had already forgotten his name) only to be answered with a knowing smile and, “I know what you’re doing Todd, it’s JONES, J-O-N-E-S.” Ew snap! But we shared a good laugh over it.

Trust me, I’ve got many good memories of times spent with any and all who may read this. I cherish them all. Bob Dylan sums it up quite nicely with a lyric from his song, Mississippi, “… my heart is not weary, it’s light and it’s free, I’ve got nothing but affection for all those who sailed with me.”

The memories we share and who you are is meaningful to me, what your parents named you is not.

Who knew?

Eye of the tiger?

Prior to the 1980 USA v. USSR Olympic hockey game (since dubbed The Miracle on Ice) Herb Brooks gave his team what many (me included) believe to be one of the best motivational speeches in the history of sports. The US team lost to the Soviet team by a score of 10-3 in their final tune-up game two weeks prior to the Miracle game. Entering that Olympics everyone who knew anything about hockey knew the Soviet Red Army team currently was the greatest team in hockey as they had regularly beaten NHL teams AND NHL all-star teams in exhibition games. The Olympic US/USSR showdown was only a formality as the Soviets merely needed to clear this last hurdle before playing for the gold medal. The hope was that the US could keep the score close enough to keep spirits high for the bronze medal game they’d be playing two days later.

Among the pregame remarks Brooks had for his players, the most memorable may be, “You were born to be players, you were meant to be here. I’m sick of hearing what a great team the Soviets have. If we played ‘em ten times they might win nine; but not tonight. Their time is over. Tonight we spit in the eye of the tiger. Tonight is our time!”

And it was. The US was victorious 4-3 in one of the most exciting (until my kids started playing the sport) hockey games I had ever witnessed.

My memorable ‘spit in the tiger’s eye’ moment, while somewhat less dramatic, and receiving far less international acclaim, was memorable just the same, to me and a handful of friends from high school.

While I was tearing up the intramural softball league my senior year in high school a group of my friends formed the nucleus of the Bloomington Lincoln baseball team.

After graduation, we formed a slow-pitch softball team (Marty’s Lumber Company – Marty as a shout out to the Lincoln baseball coach Marty Carlson, and Lumber Company – as a precursor to all the hits we imagined we’d be belting out all summer long) to play in one of Bloomington’s leagues and a handful of weekend tournaments. Typically the teams we played against had sponsors that paid for entry fees, equipment and uniforms. Our rag-tag band of kids, underdogs if there ever were any, each paid our own way as no one was interested in sponsoring a group of kids playing softball merely as an excuse to drink beer, hang out with their friends, and while away the days before we all headed off to college.

At one weekend tournament we played well on Friday and were able to move to the right on the tourney bracket earning the right to face another Friday winner, a team known as Paro’s Pub. Over beers Friday night we found out that the team from Paro’s had won the district championship the year before and had qualified for the state tournament. Things looked bleak for Marty’s Lumber Company. The only glimmer of hope we had was that the field we would be playing on was one that did not have an outfield fence – the field ran on to infinity – which was appropriate since the men of Paro’s could hit the ball just about that far. Had we played on a field with a fence it would only be a contest of which inning the men of Paro’s would pull ahead by 10 runs and the Mercy Rule would end the game.

Saturday afternoon, as I toed the rubber preparing to throw the first pitch, I recall looking over at the opposition’s bench, seeing not a softball team like we’d become accustomed to facing, rather, Paro’s had assembled a group of college football-sized linebackers and tight ends. Behind them was an assemblage of future trophy wives and hotties that evidently were attracted to the type of guys (6’-2” 210, broad –shouldered, narrow- waisted, large, well-defined arms, swarthy, burly men) that played for Paro’s.

We had only a group of kids, weeks out of high school, playing for fun, with a few of our sweethearts, friends, and family members there to watch as we rightfully should have gotten soundly defeated.

As I stood there on the mound I seriously tried to remember if I had all of my final affairs in order, for I KNEW that if one of the Paro’s behemoths hit a line drive back up the middle attempting to defend myself with a baseball glove would SURELY be the last mortal act of my short, largely undistinguished life.

But remember, there was NO homerun fence! With our outfielders positioning themselves so-o-o far away from the infield that you practically needed binoculars and a road map to locate them, the tape measure missiles that the Paro’s men sent skyward (usually clearing the fence as homeruns on other fields) were merely long outs as the fleet-footed Marty’s outfielders chased them down over hill and dale.

Offensively we managed to scratch out a few runs on bloop hits (by me) and sharply hit line drives (the rest of the lumber company). As the game unfolded, and we continued to hang with Paro’s we began to expose their infield as frauds. The sport Paro’s specialized in was a softball version of Home Run Derby. Their infielders typically just relayed the ball back to the pitcher after long fly ball outs. They weren’t nearly as good as our infield.

By the 7^th and final inning the Paro’s squad was in disarray. They were indignant that they were losing to us, bitching at each other, and cursing the tourney organizers for making them play on an open field (without a homerun fence). Hell, by then even their dates, enjoying seeing their men get knocked down a peg or two by a group of boys, began laughing and cheering for us.

The game ended, Marty’s Lumber Company won a game we had no business winning, and remarkable sports history was made (at least in our minds).

A group of high school friends just out havin’ fun walked up to the tiger, spit in his eye, and then kicked his ass for good measure.

Who knew?

Put me in Coach!

The University of Minnesota has had 27 head football coaches in their long, storied history.

I’ve worked, either as a student or full time employee for 5 of them.

The recent passing of Murray Warmath, the coach who had the most recent success (national championship, Rose Bowl trips, Big Ten titles) coaching this once proud program gave me pause to reflect on the men in the big corner office that I’ve come to know.

Cal Stoll A good coach who did a lot with limited resources. He was able to compile 6-5 records but unfortunately he did so in an era when 7-4 records were needed to qualify for the few bowl games that were played back then. The year before I showed up on the scene he managed to beat both Michigan AND Washington who would, after that season, square off in the Rose Bowl. As good a coach as he was, I think he was an even better ex-coach. He stayed involved with Minnesota football and, after his heart transplant he did a lot of work with transplant patients, their families, and the families of donors. Of the athletic director who fired him near the end of the season my freshman year, Stoll often said, “God ruined a good woman when he put a set of balls on Paul Giel”. I always got along fine with Paul Giel AND Call Stoll; I admired the fact that even as age took its toll on coach Stoll he remained hacked off over getting fired.

Joe Salem Just a regular Joe who may have been in a little over his head at the Division One level. He assembled a pretty impressive group of assistant coaches, surrounding himself with very good assistants who later went on to be successful in the NFL; Mike Shanahan (Denver Broncos), Tony Dungy (Indianapolis Colts), Mike Martz (St. Louis Rams). The man was as down to earth as any coach I ever met and he loved to laugh. Shortly after leaving the U I heard he became a wholesale liquor distributor. I think that position may have been better suited to his personality.

John Gutekunst Gutey was a decent coach who was saddled with the unenviable task of following Lou Holtz. Conventional wisdom says you don’t want to be the guy who follows a legend; rather, you want to be the guy who follows the guy who followed the legend. Granted, Lou Holtz was hardly a legend AT Minnesota, his reputation, and expectations of what might have been, did stir up more interest in Gopher football than I recall in my lifetime. Gutey did what he could, but ultimately the powers that be at the U at that time decided they wanted to go in another direction.

Jim Wacker Coach Wacker was kind of goofy, but I always felt a bit of a bond with him as we were both preacher’s kids. He was also the only coach I ever lent a pair of my underwear to. After one game his shorts were inadvertently taken to be washed and he needed to go film his TV show. The pair I was wearing were the only ones available so I offered ‘em up. (talk about taking one for the team!) Prior to arriving at Minnesota his bona fides were impeccable. One year at TCU he became the first football head coach in NCAA history to have an entire recruiting class actually graduate within 5 years of enrollment. I don’t know that anyone has done that since. Wack had a different way of looking at things, and he was easily excitable, but he is one of the few coaches I’ve met that seemed to have a healthy, reasonable view of what winning and losing was all about. Unfortunately, as exciting as the offense under Wacker could be, the defense was largely ignored. The loses mounted and the losing weighed too heavily on Wack. I was sad to see him go. I was touched however, by the fact that he did make a point to seek me out to tell me of his decision before he went public with his resignation. I also like the fact that with a last name of Wacker, he had the stones to propose to, and marry, a woman with the first name Lil. How’d ya like to go through life as Lil Wacker?

Glen Mason Mase had a good long run at the U and compiled an impressive won/lost record. Along the way he alienated long time staff (many, like myself, figured life was too short to deal with this insufferable @$$-hole on a daily basis, and we left of our own accord), Minnesota high school coaches (who can heavily influence talented high school athletes), the general ticket buying public, and eventually his boss AND his boss too. I have little if any respect for Mase as a man, but as a coach (especially in light of the Brewster failed experiment) I think he did as good a job as he could. I just wish his parents would have hugged him more as a child, perhaps then he wouldn’t have been such an @$$-hole to those around him. He and I never butted heads; I just REALLY didn’t like his style.

Coach Warmath, Coach Stoll, and Coach Wacker, Rest in Peace.

Coach Salem and Coach Gutekunst, Good luck to you always.

Coach Mason, Good riddance.

Only one bad one in the bunch, and he accumulated the best record of them all. Maybe you do need to be a jerk to be successful in college football.

Who knew?

A Good Samaritan Gets a Brazilian Wax

I am NOT a religious person in the conventional sense. I don’t belong to a particular congregation, denomination, sect, or cult. I do however have a moral code that I try to adhere to.

Like Ferris Bueller, I don’t believe in any ‘isms’.

“-Ism's in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an -ism, he should believe in himself. “ Ferris Bueller

I fear that organized religion, while offering a sense of community and comfort at times of distress and need, have also done an awful lot to cause pain, heartache, discrimination, war, hunger, famine and other global strife. In my view ones religious beliefs are a matter best left between the individual and whatever deity they worship. Sorry, you’ll get no evangelizing or proselytizing from me. I’ll let you believe what you want so I can believe what I want, thank you very much. We could all co-exist more peacefully that way.

I DO believe in the Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

I DO believe in the Ten Commandments, and, I try to keep the story of the Good Samaritan in mind as I go about my daily chores. As a refresher:

Jesus said: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’

"Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

I like to lend a hand to those in need whenever I can.

A few years back on one of the first warm spring days, like the ones we are having now, I went to the local gas station to fill up. Remembering at the last minute that my lovely and talented bride likes a nice clean car I decided to pay the extra $5 and get the old rig washed. I paid for gas and a wash and then got in line where the automated system would require that I input the number printed on my receipt and drive into the bay to get a nice wash, rinse and dry ($3 extra for Carnauba wax seemed excessive - so I went cheap).

After waiting about five minutes in line the driver in the car just in front of me, at the key entry pad, became inpatient and started yelling, from his driver’s seat, at the elderly couple who were parked in the car wash bay but were NOT getting their car washed.

I thought of the Good Samaritan and sprang into action. Putting my car in park, I exited and told the loud jack@$$ that I’d see what I could do to help. Then I walked into the car wash bay to tell the couple that was trapped and confused that I would go get help.

No sooner had I approached their back driver’s side door when the back roll-up door that I just walked through closed and the apparatus began to whir and move. It was decision time, try to jump in their back seat, and probably cause a cardiac infarction by one or both of them, or ride out the storm and take it like a man.

I chose to take it like a man.

The expression on the lady’s face as she looked back and saw that I was about to get “The Works” wash (rinse/wash/rinse/undercarriage spray/wax) minus a car to shield me from the high pressure water and chemical solvents, was priceless. Speaking of choices to make, evidently this couple DIDN’T go cheap. They opted FOR the hot Carnauba wax.

As typically happens after incidents like this one, the people in the car drove off without explanation, and I could only chalk it up as a learning experience. I dried off a few hours later, the ‘new car’ smell finally faded from the clothes I had on, and the hair on my legs eventually grew back.

I know that if presented with the same situation again I’d still try to help out those in need.

I did find it interesting though that when trying to find the correct spelling for Carnauba wax I found out that it is a Brazil wax. So, technically, I can say that the short, fat kid, as a Good Samaritan HAS gotten a Brazilian wax.

Who knew?

PS You may have heard the smart-@$$ rhetorical reply to a question whose answer is obviously 'yes', "Is a frog's @$$ watertight?" Well, after this incident I can gladly report that I too have a watertight @$$. (at least up to the 800 psi output used for most gas station car washes)

Does anyone REALLY know what time it is?

Reportedly football coach Lou Holtz once exclaimed to his football team, "Today we are going to get 3 good hours of practice in; even if it takes us 6 hours to do it!"

Sounds kind of far-fetched, but not completely unfounded back in the day. Since Lou made this remark new NCAA rules limit how much time athletes can spend practicing. Long gone are the good old days of ridiculously long practices. Those of you that have not been exposed to college football practices may be unaware of how they are conducted. After calisthenics and brief drills, done as groups, by position, the meat of the practice starts with highly scripted drills involving different groups of players from both the offense and defense. In order to orchestrate the script an artificial clock is used to keep everyone on the same page, and in the right location, at the correct 'time'.

Football facilities are now equipped with clocks or large counters that mark 5 minute periods so that each coach and player is on the same schedule coinciding with this artificial time system.

The only problem with this system, at least as far as I observed, is that learning football (and probably most other things) occurs at differing rates that can't typically be determined or scripted by a coach - at least at the college level. You've probably all seen movies about football where the irate coach yells, with great dramatic effect, "RUN IT AGAIN!" I'm here to tell you, it ain't that dramatic when it happens repeatedly every day at practice. In many instances, so many plays get re-run that the coach yells at the freshman student manager (who usually gets stuck with the horse$hit chore of running the clock) to start the period, or even the whole clock over from the beginning.

I read somewhere, years ago, that TIME was the only invention that man has come up with that he is now totally become a slave to. While we all have the ability to spend our own time however we want, football coaches are the only people I've ever met in person who can control time for large populations of people. That power has always amazed me in a "how messed up is that" kind of way. (After all, author Carl Sandberg said, "Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.) Maybe that's part of the reason I got out of "Big Time Athletics", I don't need some football coach thinking he can control MY time.






I got to thinking about time since we just 'sprung forward' for daylight savings time. I guess I now need to add the US Congress to the list of people who can control time for others. By enacting the 2005 Energy Policy Act (that continues our daylight saving time rules) they've got us all changing time as well. Probably contributes to the fact that I don't care much for politicians regardless of their affiliation, either.

I am aware too that we all need to dedicate hours to sleeping eating and other maintenance issues, but how about all the other time we have available to use?

As a 'Recovering Hockey Parent", that strange breed that finds a LOT of time on their hands after the kids are off to college (after devoting copious amounts of time running kids to arenas for practice games & tourneys through their high school years) I finally finished my undergrad degree. I graduated a year AFTER our oldest and 2 years BEFORE our youngest.

I'm amazed at the number of employees at the University that I initially met years ago who, when I run into them now, bemoan the fact that they've been on campus for X years and have never taken advantage of the schooling benefits. I say, do as Nike advised lo, all those years ago, JUST DO IT!




How about all y'all?
What have you always wanted to do if only you had the time?
Start today, and you're one step closer to finishing. Times gonna pass either way.

Who knew?

What the?

What the heck am I doing writing a blog? I thought those were only for Gen Xers and self-absorbed people. Think again.................................

While I probably should be writing my graduate thesis rather than a blog, I thought that maybe writing this blog of tall tales, random memories, crazy theories, and twisted observations, may be a good way to get my writing mojo back and have some fun at the same time. (I still have 5 years to get the grad thing done after all)

I start writing tonight motivated by a couple of things.

My dad relayed to me, shortly after his retirement, that he had been told that the best time to write ones memoirs is shortly after retirement while the memories remain and you have the time since you are now retired. I had a co-worker retire this week and I was envious. I'd like the luxury, like my retired brother-in-law describes it, as waking up and having EVERY day be like a Saturday. Think of that; springing out of bed every day and having ONLY your own agenda to meet. How awesome would that be?

Dad is turning 80 in 2 days so we are assembling for a humble gathering at his request on his birthday. This huge milestone got me to thinking about legacies and such. After I've shuffled off of this mortal coil what will be left? Family, friends, and I hope, some fond memories of adventures taken, journeys navigated, and some weird crap that may have made sense at the time, but in retrospect were probably NOT good ideas.

I'm also reminded of the overriding feeling of sadness I felt as a young boy when my paternal grandfather passed away. I was sad because my grandpa was gone, but I was more sad because in all the time we spent watching baseball on TV together I never got to know him better. I never asked him many questions about "the good old days". I'd give just about anything now to be able to sit and chat with him. Although I say chat, age has confirmed for me the old adage, you have 2 ears and 1 mouth, so you should listen twice as much as you talk, so, if I had the opportunity now, I'd talk enough to get grandpa started then sit back and listen.

I think I did a decent job of that with my mother in law who passed away this past fall. She was a huge Twins fan and we sat and watched a lot of games this past season. She was not big on talking about herself, but over the course of about 150 games we spent a lot of time talking and laughing (I think she was convinced her daughter married a mentally retarded man as she usually ended up laughing more AT me as I told her my stories), we spent time cheering, we spent time questioning the manager, but most importantly, we spent time TOGETHER.


So, come along if you wish. Enjoy the pictures. Read the stories. This is my attempt at leaving a digital legacy. The short, fat kid, embracing technology?

Who knew?