LESSONS - #ShortStorySunday

‘You learn how to cut down trees cutting them down.’ - Bateke proverb

Lessons

      By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

First published in PROVERBS FOR THE PEOPLE

I can do this, I know I can do this.

            So what if she’s the prettiest girl in the whole wide world, while I’m just …  I’m just a guy who’s terrified.  I don’t want to be rejected.  More than that, I don’t want to be rejected by her.  If only I was more experienced at this sort of thing.  If I could look back at a time when I had been successful, I’d be more confident this time around.  But since it’s my first time, how can I know if I’m doing it right?  My grandpa says that some things can’t be taught.  Certain things you just do, and when you’re done, then you’ll see how it went.

            The problem with that is, I can’t afford to do this wrong.  I’m pretty sure I’ll get just one shot.  Screw it up and somebody else will be quick to take their turn, probably a smooth talking senior who’ll know exactly what to say and how to say it.  I don’t think I could take it if she shot me down.  Not after I’ve spent so much time daydreaming about us being together.  Night dreaming too.  Perhaps I shouldn’t give her the chance to rewrite my dreams.  After all, if I don’t ask then she can’t say no.  But she wouldn’t have a chance to say yes either.  And maybe she will say yes.  It wouldn’t be the craziest thing to ever happen.  I’ve seen her smile a few times in a way that seemed custom made just for me.  It could have been my imagination.  That’s what my best friend says.  But I don’t think so.  I think I do have a shot at winning her over.  If I do this just right.  If I do it perfect.  Like my grandpa says, loving is a much braver act than simply loving back, and sweeter too.

            There she goes, right where I knew I’d find her, taking books for her first classes of the day from out of her locker.  I am lucky enough to have a locker only a few feet away from hers.  My grandpa says never to underestimate the value of location.  Other students walk by laughing, talking loud, horsing around, greeting each other, completely unaware that I’m about to do this extraordinary thing, that my knees feel as wobbly as a newborn colt.

            Her hair is prettily separated into dozens of spaghetti thin braids.  Her hair clip is shaped like a butterfly perched on a flower in full bloom.  Last year she wore braces, which did not keep her smile from speeding up the beat of my heart.  But after they were taken out, the impossible happened.  She became even more beautiful.

            I had thought these last steps would be the hardest to take.  Never would I have expected to grow so calm, so bold.  I suppose I feel that this is beyond my control now.  I’m like my grandpa’s great big Cadillac, moving forward on cruise control.   But when I arrive by her side, I realize that the calmness was a mirage.  My mouth refuses to open.  I feel dizzy.  I think I might puke.  Even when I had a bad case of the flu this past winter, I managed not to do that.

            Time to regroup.  I walk past her and stop in front of my own locker.  Why am I freaking out?  I’ve spoken to her several times before.  But never about anything important, just small talk I’ve managed to sneak in whenever she wasn’t occupied by the attention of others.  She has never made me feel that my clumsy attempts at conversation were unwelcome.  But I’ve never been convinced that she was inviting me to say more, to speak what I really think, what I truly feel, how I truly feel - about her.  I know that once I do, everything will change.  It may change into bitter disappointment and heartbreak, or else transform into something absolutely amazing.  There is only one way to find out which.   

I was hoping to take command of the situation today like an action movie hero.  I would follow my grandpa’s advice, tell her that I liked her, and more importantly, let her know specifically what I like.  For example, her big hazel eyes; the pitch of her laugh; her ability to expertly mimic the nasal voice of our school librarian; the way she purses her lips in concentration when we’re taking a test and she doesn’t realize I’m paying more attention to her than to the exam; the magical scent of her hair that I catch as I pass by her in the hallway.

            Instead of saying these things I just stand here, helplessly peeking out of the corner of my eye, afraid to be caught staring, afraid that if I let her out of my sight, the opportunity to act on my runaway feelings will be forever gone.  Resolve is a lot tougher to locate once it’s already been had and lost.  So my grandpa says anyway.

            Some might say I’m biting off more than I could possibly chew.  My best friend Kurt is one of them.  He insists that she’s one of the hottest sophomores in school, as if I had not figured this out for myself.  I also don’t need to be told that she’s very popular, usually surrounded by friends from the school journal or the tennis team she’s on, not to mention muscle bound admirers from the football team who think they can effortlessly charm her because they wear jockstraps and jerseys, never mind that they won only four games last year.  But Kurt doesn’t see, or can’t see, that her main priorities are not about being beautiful and in demand.  She’s not like the extra fine, extra shallow girls that Kurt lusts after who would pass on a guy like me with scarcely a glance.  If she was, she wouldn’t need to reject me because I wouldn’t be interested in her to begin with.  It so happens that she is an honor student just as I am.  And like me, she can often be found in the library checking out not only books that are assigned to us, but also those chosen for pleasure.  Yes, she is pretty and athletic and popular.  But she is also smart and ambitious and creative and funny and sweet.  In short, she’s perfect.  Perfect for me.    

Oh, there is one other thing.  She has the finest looking butt you ever did see, sweet as a chocolate covered cherry, especially in this pair of jeans she wears every other Wednesday like clockwork.  They hug her hips just right, outlining her curves with expert precision.  In anticipation of seeing her in those jeans, I wake up extra alert on those days.  Or at least a certain part of my anatomy does.

            What does Kurt know about what girls want?  Not a whole lot, no matter how much junk he talks.   He’s had exactly one more girlfriend in his life than I have, giving him a grand total of one, and that only lasted a month.  He says I’m chasing after a girl who is out of my league, but there’s nothing wrong with the league I’m in, whatever it happens to be.  I may not be a jock or one of those guys who walks around in phat gear and blinging jewelry like a big shot in a rap video, but I don’t think I’m someone a girl would be embarrassed to be around either.  I’ve been called cute plenty of times, well at least a few times, the message usually delivered second hand.  But the girls who have lazily pursued me in the past were ones I was not all that interested in, and the ones who have sparked my interest did not pay me much mind.  I’m not sure why my love life, or lack thereof, has worked out like it has.  I often see much dopier looking guys than me with pretty girls on their arms while I stand by enviously and alone.  Maybe those guys are simply luckier than I am.  Or braver.  Probably a combination of the two.  I’m guessing that Lady Luck will not just fall in my lap.  I’ll need to test her to see if she’ll work for me.  As for bravery, I’ll have to fake it.  Maybe brave people are sometimes nothing more than cowards doing a good job of acting.                    

            My grandpa told me recently that my dad was quite awkward and shy in high school.  I think he was saving the story until I reached puberty.  My dad was tall, which is usually a plus, except that he was the gangly type rather than one of those guys who take off their shirts on playground basketball courts to show off their 3-D abs.  Apparently my dad did plenty of tripping over his feet and his tongue when trying to impress girls way back when.  But his frame and his confidence filled out as he grew older, and by the time he graduated college he had successfully managed to win over the most beautiful girl he’d ever met - my mom.  There was hope for my dad, so there must be hope for me too.  I’ve met the girl of my dreams at a younger age than my dad met his, so I’ll need to grow into my own at an accelerated pace.  I’ll need to get off the sidelines and into the game, as sports obsessed Kurt would put it.  

            I wonder what my grandpa would say if he were here beside me, an invisible guide coaching me to action.  How would he motivate me to push away this gigantic boulder that my fears and insecurities have merged into?  I’m surprised to draw a blank.  The boulder seems too heavy for even my grandpa’s endless wisdom to budge.  I remember him once telling me that if you can’t push something out of your way, you need to find a way around it.  But this boulder is not only impossibly heavy, it’s also much too wide to circle in the amount of time at hand. 

While I stand here idly considering my options, the bell goes off and she goes off with it towards her homeroom class.  Everything around me suddenly speeds up from the slow motion it seemed to be have been moving in when my vision was locked on a single target.  Lockers clang shut, conversations are cut short to be resumed later in the day, sneakers squeal as their inhabitants rush past me in opposite directions, my classmates for the moment nothing but a blur of colors.  Not wanting to receive detention for late arrival, I have no choice but to join the stream.

            I don’t hear a single word said to me throughout the school day.  What my teachers are trying to place in my head, I have little patience or luck attempting to hold in.  In history class the talk is of wars fought long ago.  Geometry presents a bunch of fancy names for simple shapes.  My French teacher communicates in a strange curvaceous tongue.  In biology class I absently create colorful potions that sizzle in beakers.  And if all of this isn’t thrilling enough, I am forced to grunt, groan and sweat for the entertainment of Mr. Bellamy, who apparently was unable to decide between becoming a gym teacher or a drill sergeant, so decided to split the difference.  But not a single lesson taught from bell to bell explains how to find the courage to speak to a beautiful girl.

            When my final class ends I rush outside and head home as if wearing blinders, desperate to avoid an encounter that would only deepen what is already an ocean of shame.  I don’t want to risk seeing her again today.  I don’t want to be reminded of what I let slip away before I was ever able to grab hold.  With every step I further realize that my flight is senseless.  I can hide from her today, but I will no doubt run into her eventually.  There are still three years of high school left to go.  And even if I somehow was able to keep our paths from crossing for all that time, it wouldn’t stop me from remembering.  Remembering how crazy I am about her.  Remembering that I’m a coward. 

            I arrive home to the sight of my grandpa nestled in his easy chair, spectacles hanging precariously at the very tip of his nose as he reads a thick, leather bound book.  I’ve seen him in this pose a thousand times, watched him run his large veined hands over his neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard when he’s about to turn a page, observed his bushy eyebrows raising every day to acknowledge my entrance when I get home from school.   It gives me comfort to know that some things do remain the same.  They can be relied on no matter what happens around them.

Instead of waiting for him to greet me and ask how my day went, I break our ritual to ask the question I came up with on my lonely walk home.

“Grandpa, what’s the hardest thing you ever had to do?”

My grandpa answers every question of mine as if he was expecting it and had rehearsed giving the perfect response.  This time proves to be no exception.

“I tried to make myself the father I never was to your dad.  I’m still trying.”

“I don’t understand.”

He removes a bookmark from his shirt pocket to hold the page he’s on, places the book on the table beside him, and takes up his pipe.  Although he puts the pipe in his mouth, he makes no move to light it.  My grandpa gave up smoking years ago, transferring from daily packs of cigarettes, to a few cigars after dinner, to one smoke of his pipe late in the evening, until arriving at his goal of total abstinence.  He still holds the pipe in his mouth sometimes, usually when he’s worried or in deep concentration over some important matter.  This tips me off to pay especially close attention to whatever he’ll say next.

“You see, when your dad was growing up I wasn’t around for him very much.  I used the excuse of trying to build a career, providing amply for my family.  But even when I was home, I wasn’t involved like I should have been.  I left the day to day details to your grandma, not realizing that the day to day details are what make up our lives.  She’s the one who went to the PTA meetings, bandaged your dad’s bruises, went to his school plays, protected him as a growing boy and showed him how to be a good man.  The most I did was watch the occasional ball game on TV with him.”

I am somewhat surprised, close to stunned actually.  My grandpa is saying things beyond the logic of the world I have experienced.  The words he speaks don’t match up with the deeds of the man I know him to be.  Recognizing the disbelief in my eyes, he explains himself further.

“I was amazed by the kind of father he turned out to be, especially under the circumstances of having to do it mostly by himself.  I used to make excuses for the way I’d been, saying I had the worst possible role model in my old man.   But what he passed down to me, I failed to pass along.  Maybe the fact that your dad had to become both father and mother to you had something to do with it.  He needed to somehow fill the void left by your mother’s passing, and he did one hell of a job.  I watched him raise you with enormous pride, and in the process, I got my first lessons on how to be a real father, not just the man who pays the bills.”  

Hearing him speak of my father like this really gets to me, but I manage to hold my tears in check.  Okay, I hold most of them in.  Can you blame me for letting a few slip out?

“After the accident when you moved in with me, I was given the opportunity to put into practice what I had learned.  And I must be doing an okay job the second time around because you’ve grown up to be a wonderful young man, even if you do wear your pants too baggy for my taste.  I’m guessing you’ll grow out of that eventually.  In life you grow in and out of all sorts of things.”

“You’re doing a great job, Grandpa.”  I would give him a hug if he was more of the touchy-feely type, but knowing better, I just return his contagious smile.  He puts his pipe back down and takes his book up, pushing his glasses closer to the oval auburn eyes that I inherited.  I cross the living room of our bachelor pad, as my grandpa is jokingly fond of calling the house, and head upstairs to my room.

For reasons I do not comprehend and will not bother trying to figure out just now, the talk with my grandpa has released my apprehension.  I find myself able to get to the business at hand.  Knowing her last name and the street her family lives on, locating her phone number in the White Pages is a breeze.  My fingers do not tremble as I dial.  There is no quaver to my voice when I ask if she is home.  And when she appears on the other end of the phone line, I simply begin speaking to her as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do, rather than the near miracle I know it to be. 

Our first real conversation lasts nearly two hours.  It goes easier than I could have ever imagined, like a baby squirrel figuring out how to climb a tree.  She seems to have expected my call, to have been waiting for it even.  I learn countless new things about her.  We turn out to have a whole lot in common, sharing the same favorite flavor of ice cream, and favorite song currently on the Top Ten countdown, and favorite book read in Literature class last year, and mutual annoyance at the frantic hand waving done by a certain pigtailed know-it-all in every class.  I quickly grow fond of the frequently said phrase - “me too”.

            As the phone call draws to a close, nervousness finally returns.  I ignore this emotion and tell her that I have one more question to ask.  To calm myself, I close my eyes and recall the first time I ever rode a bicycle without training wheels.  I remember the shock of looking back and learning that my father had stopped running alongside to keep me balanced, that I had been riding for awhile all by myself.  I remember how unstable the bike got after that, how I lost control, the skinned knee earned for the effort.  I remember getting back up, brushing myself off, hopping on the bike again and riding towards my dad like I had been doing so all my life. 

            The details of life when my dad was still around grow fuzzier as time passes.  I don’t want to forget anything about him, but little by little my memory fades.  Once I ran home in a panic after school because I suddenly realized that I couldn’t picture what he looked like.  I flew into my house and straight to the nearest photograph with him in it.  That picture is of my parents, the father taken from me by a drunk driver and the mother I never got to know at all because she died while giving birth to me.  Neither of them died as heroes, such as what they’re calling the firemen and police officers who rushed into the World Trade Center back at the beginning of the semester.  If you have to die, I guess it would be nice to be called a hero by those you leave behind.  My father and mother were just ordinary people with worse than ordinary luck, I suppose.  Then again, my grandpa says heroes come in all sorts of shapes and sizes that you can’t always recognize. 

With heroes, and my long ago bicycle lesson, and the steadying hands of my father, and a mother I never met who has always seemed like my own personal angel in mind, I ask a girl if she would like to go out on a date with me.  It is the first time I have ever done such a brave and wonderful thing.  I probably didn’t do it perfect.  But I did it.  And how did it go?

            As my grandpa says, sometimes it is the journey that matters, not the destination.  She answers that this weekend isn’t good for her.  My heart drops.  Then she says that the following weekend would be much better.  So my destination is the movies next Saturday night.    

I don’t know how I’m going to wait so long without bursting.  I sure do wish it was sooner, although I’ll probably need all the time I can get to prepare myself.  It will probably take me at least a few days to learn how to be charming and clever and whatever else girls like a guy to be. 

Fortunately, my grandpa is a great teacher.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Patches Of Grey

by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

Giveaway ends February 14, 2014.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

A teaser - Passages from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE

I can't tell you quite yet when my second novel will be published...or how.  First things by their nature must come first, and now that Matters of Convenience has been written to completion, what I have elected to do initially is seek representation by a literary agent.  Hopefully a successful search will lead to its finding home sweet home at a publishing house en route to the ultimate destination - laid out before you in printed format or on a screen.  If the traditional path does not work out, my back up plan (which at this point is fairly traditional in its own right) will be to publish it myself.  Either way, the goal is to get it before your eyes and hope you enjoy the tale.  Since the time for you to partake of my story in full has not yet arrived, I have decided to present snippets here to whet your appetites.  Gentle readers, without further adieu I present a few bite sized morsels from Matters of Convenience.

No reasonable excuse or explanation occurred to her for declining his invitation. Her body craved to be explored by his touch. She longed to discover the places that would make him arch with pleasure, moan with delirium, hum her name in delight. Yet something made her suppress these urges, told her she must wait, that it was too soon. And although the source of these warnings was vague, she opted to obey them over desires that were far better understood.

James could sympathize with problematic sexual entanglements.  This was not to say that he lugged around a suitcase full of regrets about past behavior.  His fierce appreciation of female beauty, the unrelenting desire he felt for their company, the pleasure he both derived and sought to give, had led him in and out of quite a few bedroom doors.  Pleasure was still what he craved, but he was now ready to find nirvana in the embrace of a single pair of arms and legs.

Happily ever after did not make its way to everyone’s doorstep. Most people made due with whatever came along for however long it lasted. They surrendered fairy tale hopes for cookie cutter lives that they could make peace with. If it looked like happiness to those looking from the outside, success was claimed. But a certain percentage of people routinely opted for chaos at the expense of the appearance of tranquility. Perhaps for them the appeal of the race was stronger than that of the finish line, the thrill of the chase far more important than actually catching up.

And on some night in the probably not too distant future, nature would lead them to whichever of their bedrooms was closest at that moment. In this man’s arms, stretched out on either his bed sheets or her own, she would eliminate the final traces of Todd from her everyday consciousness. James would serve as diversion for a week, a month, however long she decided. It was almost as if she had willed him into existence, into standing before her at the precise moment she was willing to accommodate him, arriving not a minute too early or too late. 

He mentally prepared for the worst.  The last time he’d run into one girlfriend while out with another had not gone well.  Perhaps his memory exaggerated it, but his recollection was of a scene that reached the hysteria played out on daytime talk shows when some clueless guy was informed that he was “not the father”.  Sonya had no rational reason to get upset.  They barely knew each other really.  Other than sex, they had shared little and held even less in common.  For God’s sake, it had been a struggle to remember her name.  Still, he was well aware that the way he viewed his involvement with a woman sometimes did not match how she was seeing it.

On occasion he would think back to the fiercest passion it had been his pleasure to experience and reflect on what might have been. He would look upon the woman who occupied the opposite half of his bed and feel his life had not quite lived up to the promise of another day. These moments would be mercifully brief, or so he hoped.

A few minutes of stalling would not break her. She had the strength to stand there and love him right up to the moment he would possibly reveal that this was no longer in her best interest. He did not expect histrionics if his revelation was disappointing. She would not give him the satisfaction, would remain stoic until showing him the door. Whatever happened once he was on the other side would be privileged information.

For more passages from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE (with accompanying imagery), check out the board I created at Pinterest. 

Halloween Book Giveaway for PATCHES OF GREY

Growing up I found Halloween to be the most awesome of holidays for two critical reasons. #1 - Everybody got to play make believe.  #2 - Show up at someone's door, just about any one would do, and receive a handful of free candy.  Potential lay at each ring of a doorbell to receive a trick, but the odds were in your favor that you would end up with a treat.

If you're not walking my beat on October 31 then I'm unable to fuel your sugar rush, plus my candy supply is strictly for kids, those are the rules.  But I do have something for you, gentle reader.  I'm giving away copies of my novel PATCHES OF GREY.  You can end up with it in your possession in one of two ways.  The first is to stop by GoodReads.com between now and the end of October and enter to win a copy of the print edition.  See link below.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Patches Of Grey

by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

Giveaway ends October 31, 2013.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

If you aren't the lucky winner but happen to read ebooks on the Kindle or Kindle App, head over to Amazon.com.  The Kindle edition of PATCHES OF GREY is available for FREE three days - 10/29, 10/30 and All Hallow's Eve.  If you're an avid reader in eternal search for the next great book, your odds of obtaining my novel at no cost are pretty good.  So go on and indulge your literary sweet tooth.

Best of luck (if any is needed) to everybody, and as always, Happy Reading.  And be sure to have a HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

What I've Read Lately

DOUBLE FEATURE by Owen King - I didn't realize when I picked this book out at the library that the author is Stephen King's son. Once discovered, I tried not to let that influence my evaluation.  It turned out to be relatively easy because although the literary gene certainly passed down the family tree, Owen has his own unique voice that stands aparts from his dad's creepy one.  I enjoyed this novel, even if the pile up of coincidences at the end was a bit much. Sam, the hero of Double Feature, is a well developed character who keeps getting in the way of his own happiness. He feels short changed by his parents divorce, a father he both sort of emulates and is unable to connect with, the early death of his mother whose only sin was loving an unworthy man, and the mutilation of his directorial debut. You want Sam to move on, achieve some measure of closure, accept the imperfections of loved ones, make another movie, get the girl. But for much of the story he is determined to stick with the one thing he has mastered above all - the art of brooding. Enough quirkiness and amusement is scattered about the pages to prevent Sam's journey from feeling especially somber. The narrative often feels directionless, which may bother some readers but I don't find to be a negative trait in a book so long as the writing is strong and engaging. When someone is trying to figure out who they are and what they want to do with the life they've been given, a certain amount of meandering about is inevitable. I was reminded of the movie Garden State, which is a good thing as I'm quite fond of that movie.  Events of great impact have already taken place, an unknown future of vague promise lies ahead, but the moment at hand seems to mostly be about hanging around and waiting, no longer a child but perhaps not quite an adult, probably stalling. I was also reminded in a more superficial manner of one of my favorite movies, Cinema Paradiso. Like that wonderful film, Double Feature is in large part on ode to the movies. Whether it's an intellectual art house film or a campy cult classic or a Hollywood blockbuster with dazzling special effects, we accept the enjoyment that movies have to give us for a couple hours in dark rooms and then we return to the real world. Loose ends tend to be tied up by the time credits roll. Epiphanies have been reached. We walk away satisfied that events came full circle and we return to our own lives where things don't need to conform to rhyme or reason. They just are. I look forward to Owen King's next book and to seeing what direction his literary career will take. It's off to a fine start.

CANADA by Richard Ford - Richard Ford takes his sweet time building up to the details of events that he reveals at the very beginning of this novel.  The leisurely trips to "the bank robbery" and then a much shorter one to "the murders" are enjoyed because of Ford's masterly, non-pretentious use of language. This book isn't about crime and/or punishment. Despite the title it isn't even about Canada. It's simply a story about making due with what you have, moving on from what takes place, looking back on what once was, ever watchful for what may come to be. Canada is a chronicle of what happens to every single one of us. Life.

FREEMAN by Leonard Pitts, Jr. - A fantastic book. Readers will empathize with the well developed characters. History buffs fascinated by the Civil War time period will be enthralled. Those who take great interest in this nation's troublesome history of race relations will be deeply drawn in, and on numerous occasions will shake their head at the realization that centuries old truths stubbornly remain valid to this day. Those in eternal search for bittersweet love stories should immediately add Freeman to their reading list. The only bone I had to pick with it is that in order for certain events to go the way the author intended them to, there were a couple instances of characters leaving incriminating evidence lying conveniently around, allowing for trails that otherwise would have gone cold to remain hot. I temporarily felt the presence of Leonard Pitts Jr. directing the narrative when this happened. "No way she doesn't toss that newspaper in the fire immediately" I may have said aloud at one point near the end of this riveting story. This is the closest thing I found to a flaw in an otherwise wonderful novel. From its first sentence to the last, it packs a powerful motional punch. Bravo to a job well done.

SNUFF by Chuck Palahniuk - As with another of my favorite authors, Tom Robbins, when you're reading a Chuck Palahniuk book you know you're reading something that nobody else could have written. With a book like Snuff, Palahniuk may be the only person who would ever want to write such a thing.  It's not for everybody, that's for sure. The stuff of genius never is.  Pornography itself is more socially acceptable than in depth examination of it from outsider perspective. Palahniuk dives all the way in and the readers emerge from it covered in...insight about the underbelly of commonplace human desires.  What did you think I was going to say?  When all is said and done, Snuff probably won't rank among my most favorite Palahniuk novels. I'm near the beginning of my journey through his catalog. But Snuff is most definitely riveting and, even considering the immense popularity of Fight Club, this may end up being the most memorable of his works.

HARRY POTTER AND THE GOBLET OF FIRE by J.K. Rowling - As fascinated as my daughter (who this book was read aloud to) is by all things wizard, Rowling has a tendency to be wordy when incorporating a ton of information along with drama into scenes. These passages turned off my 7-year old. I found them a tad dry myself, but I'm a stubborn reader and refuse to skip over anything. This wasn't the case so much with the first two Harry Potter installments, but the end of #3 dragged somewhat with considerable explaining dialogue. Still, it's one thing for a book to have an excessively wordy ending, by which point you're fully committed to making it to the finish line. It's another thing to start off in such a manner. Glancing at other online reviews it seems my wife, my daughter and I are not the first ones to find the World Cup scene in Goblet of Fire rather tedious. Eventually it picks up steam. Things also start taking a turn for the dark & grown-up in this installment of the series, so it will be the last one I read aloud to my daughter. Perhaps she will return to it on her own some day. As for me, I'll probably just watch the movies to see how it all turns out for Harry and company. The onscreen adaptations do a pretty good job of leaving out Rowling's explanatory rambling and cutting to the chase. I hear she's doing some Hogwarts based screenplay writing now. I suppose she has a pretty good idea by this point of what to include on paper to give readers the richest experience, and what is best left on the editing room floor to keep fidgety viewers on the edge of their seats.

THIS IS HOW YOU LOSE HER by Junot Diaz - A fine follow-up to Oscar Wao. Not nearly as ambitious, which is fine, because that might have meant waiting a decade or so for another book from Diaz. He's much too good a writer to make us wait that long again. This is How You Lose Her (love the title) is basically a series of scenes, collection of short stories on the same theme, rather than a novel. One might say it's Drown II, featuring a character from his Pulitzer Prize winning novel rather than his debut work. If you have the time you may devour this book in a single sitting. His prose goes down easy and resonates long after you've read the last page. No synopsis required because the title tells you all you need to know.

SERENA WILLIAMS - Daddy's Girl

Since my column written for Suite101.com back in the day is no longer archived there, I am presenting a few of the articles here at A Line A Day.  Many of them were time sensitive so I’ll pass on taking a stroll down memory lane with those.  But a few stand up pretty good in reprint despite the passage of years since they were written.  I have reprinted IMAGINE here because athletes being busted for taking performance enhancing drugs continues to be a plague on sports.  More recently I reprinted THE BLACK ATHLETE in response to the 2013-14 NFL season beginning with a record 9 African American men taking the field as starting quarterback for their respective teams.  I happened to attend a game that featured two of them, with Geno Smith of my beloved New York Jets earning victory over Josh Freeman of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers by the slimmest of margins.  In that post I also included a snippet from an article I wrote about the young Michael Vick long before his legal difficulties and eventual comeback led me to write about him a couple more times.  The article I am reprinting below was written about the Williams sisters back in 2001 during the US Open.  As I predicted might happen, Venus ended up defending her title by defeating her younger sister Serena.  Fast forward twelve years and once again the US Open champion is a Williams, only this time around Serena was the victor and she did not need to go through any family members to earn it.  Serena merely had to get over the fact that at age 31, her talent level is supposed to be in sharp decline.  Instead she has never looked better on the court.  She’s looking pretty good off it as well.  So I decided to reprint this article in her honor, and if a decade down the line she somehow is STILL winning Majors, I’ll reprint it yet again.  Take a bow, Serena.  You too, Venus, even though your prime now appears to be in the rear view mirror.  And shout out to Richard Williams who has been keeping a relatively low profile of late, and has recently become a father again in his 70’s.  Will a third Williams be hoisting up championship tennis trophies some day?  I wouldn't bet against it.

Once upon a time. No, let me be more precise. On June 11, 1978 an event took place that would end up transforming the world of tennis, though not for many years to come. It was on this day that Virginia Ruzici won the French Open women's singles championship. A man who resided in California was watching on television and he found himself amazed not so much by the skill and effort displayed by Virginia during the match, as by the size of the check she received at the end of it. Over twenty thousand dollars for a day's work. Not bad at all. The man vowed that any children his wife gave birth to in the following years would play tennis. Since those children would need to be taught how to play, and he was by no means a wealthy man who could provide them with top notch instructors, he bought some books and videotapes and taught himself the game. Within three years the man's family had grown by two daughters. They were named Venus and Serena.

Their training ground would be the less than pristine glass strewn public courts of Compton. Unlike a sport such as basketball that requires no more than a single ball to be shared by everyone and a rim attached to a backboard, the considerably pricier game of tennis rarely generates its stars from ghetto neighborhoods. American phenoms in expensive sports like golf and tennis tend to be white, and they almost always have the advantage of elite training at top tier institutions. Neither was the case for Venus and Serena. What they did have was a determined father with a master plan. And since their starting point was not the conventional one, it stands to reason that the steps taken along the way were radical as well. Eyebrows of those who thought they knew it all were certainly raised when Richard Williams pulled his daughters from the junior ranks, even though Venus by that point at age 11 had earned national attention for her prowess. He relocated his family to Fort Lauderdale where for the next 3-1/2 years there would be no tournaments or competitive match play for the Williams sisters. Even after the traditional route had become an option, rather than following it, Richard arranged for his daughters to practice, practice and practice some more with academy instructor Rick Macci. Instead of going through the machinations usually employed to churn out professional tennis players, Venus and Serena kept tennis as a focal point, but not as the only thing in their lives. They earned high school diplomas with top marks, developed outside interests such as their love of fashion. But all the while, the eyes of Richard and his daughters remained on the prize. And now, twenty three years after that fateful match won by Virginia Ruzici, the most prevalent questions being asked in tennis circles are the following three. Will Serena Williams once again reign as the US Open women's champion? Or will the 2001 version of this contest be won for the second time in a row by arguably the best female player in the world - a gal named Venus? And lastly, wouldn't it be something if they ended up playing each other for this honor in the Final? It seems there was a method to Richard's madness.

Why then has the extraordinary success of Venus and Serena been routinely accompanied by controversy and flat out resentment? Why are these talented, intelligent, attractive young ladies the least popular players on the tour? Was Venus' sudden withdrawal before a match sufficient cause for Serena to be subjected to a cascade of jeering rather than cheering as she earned a championship at Indian Wells earlier this year? And even if the circumstances of that day were somewhat suspicious, why was it reported that words far more offensive than "boo" were yelled at Serena?

Some would blame the perceived "unladylike" arrogance of the Williams sisters, demonstrated by the fact that they rarely credit losses to superior play by their opponents, and the audacity they showed in turning down lucrative endorsements until the stakes grew sufficiently lofty. Others would cite envy of Venus and Serena, who seem less dedicated than those they routinely annihilate because they play in considerably less tournaments than their top ten peers. There are those who are convinced that the outcome of matches between Venus and Serena are fixed, depending on whose turn it has been determined to be the victor. A few people probably had a problem with the beads once worn in their hair, or the colorful form fitting outfits they don to better exhibit their tall, lean, muscular physiques. Would someone be playing the so called race card in claiming that the brown skin of Venus and Serena is at the root of the troubles they find, or simply stating the obvious? There do happen to be folks on the professional tennis circuit who have predominantly positive comments to make about the Williams sisters. There actually are players who do not form competitive alliances against them, such as was admittedly done by Lindsey Davenport and Martina Hingis during last year's US Open. But even the majority of these people cease to compliment and start expressing disapproval towards the architect of the Williams master plan - Papa Williams.

When Richard Williams encounters racism, such as he said he did at Indian Wells, he is not shy about bringing it up and shouting it down. When he merely suspects that he detects it, such as when Irina Spirlea bumped into Venus during a changeover, he does not hesitate to brand her "a big, tall, white turkey", nor to contend that the incident was motivated by a broader racist attitude on the tour. He did later apologize for insulting Spirlea, but he is never apologetic about exposing racism, nor about exhibiting excessive pride to the point of gloating over his daughters' accomplishments. Richard Williams has been blamed for and accused of many things, but subtlety is not one of them. This is a man who has attended matches sporting signs that read "It couldn't have happened to a nicer family" and "I told you so". This is a man who once went on to the court and performed a celebratory dance on behalf of Venus while her vanquished opponent stormed off. Richard Williams has not chosen to hold his tongue about additional fees he feels his daughters should receive due to the greatly expanded fan base they are wholly responsible for bringing to tennis, much as Tiger Woods has done in golf. Speaking of Tiger, it is natural to compare his feats and impact to that of Venus and Serena. They do after all share the ability to win virtually at will and often with great ease; a plethora of lucrative endorsements; a Jackie Robinson like effect on the formerly lily white sports they have come to dominate; and unique names that match the flair of their playing styles. Yet even Earl Woods, father of Tiger, has been critical about the antics of Richard Williams and how Venus and Serena's behavior reflects poorly on their upbringing.

The more Richard Williams shouts to be given his due, to have the near miracle he has accomplished be properly acknowledged, the more scorn and derision he invites. And some of it inevitably spills over on to his daughters whether they deserve it or not. Instead of the genius who managed to put two of his children simultaneously in the upper echelons of tennis, enabling them to earn fortune and fame, he is cast in the villainous role of detriment to their brilliant and apparently limitless careers. There will probably be no end to the stream of conspiracy theorists and Martinas like Navratilova and Hingis who claim that rather than being held down by race, Richard takes advantage of it in a politically correct climate to get away with what others would be crucified for. And they probably do make some valid points, even while mostly missing the point.

In rebuttal, I believe Richard Williams would say to his detractors, and most likely stated far more boldly than I will put it here - "Do you think you can do a better job molding well rounded, well adjusted, one (make that two) of a kind multi-millionaire athletes out of nothing but a ghetto dream inspired by a memorable moment of television viewing? Let's see you try."



Being who he is, and his relationship with the media being what it is, even with his lower profile Richard Williams still manages to steal headlines away from his daughters from time to time.  For example...

FIRST LOOK: @Nike debuts outstanding ad using home video of nine-year-old @serenawilliams with father Richard from August 29, 1991 pic.twitter.com/EQRKE6Xka6

— Darren Rovell (@darrenrovell) August 27, 2018

A Black Quarterback By Any Other Name Would Be

I have often stated my amazement at the fact that the President of the United States of America has been a black man for just about the entirety of my seven year old daughter's life.  A person's view of the world is shaped by the particulars of their existence.  If a single person could lead two lives, one of them beginning in 1953 and the other starting in 1993, the result would be two different sets of belief systems and attitudes.  Practically two different people.  It may as well be two different planets they resided on rather than merely different decades.  My daughter and her peers will not grow up thinking that becoming the most powerful person in the world is beyond any of them, be they girl or boy, black or white.  I can't honestly say that this is how I felt as a 7 year old.  No matter how you feel about President Obama's policies and the way in which he has presided, the significance of his presence in the oval office cannot be minimized and its impact will spread indefinitely.

Pictured above is not President Barack Obama, but rather, 9 of the 32 quarterbacks who started for NFL teams in week 1 of the 2013 season.  Now if you were born in 2003 you might simply look at this picture and shrug.  If born in 1993 it might give you slight pause.  If you had my ancient birthday however, you'd likely say something like - Well damn, will you look at that!  One cannot deny that there is significance to this event, not if one has been around long enough to remember when the occurrence seemed quite implausible.

At The Big Lead @thebiglead an article was written by Jason Mcintyre provocatively titled "The NFL is Entering the Golden Age of Black Quarterbacks".  The photo above illustrates rather clearly why it was written.  The reasons cited were primarily football reasons rather than social commentary about the evolution of race relations in this country.  Defensive players, particularly linemen and linebackers, are growing increasingly fast and athletic.  In order for quarterbacks to excel, they needed to do the same.  Dumb stereotypes about black men not being able to handle the thinking man's position of QB have fortunately gone by the wayside over the past few decades, as most false beliefs do (see flatness of the earth as an example).  Removal of such ignorance freed football teams to simply go with the best man for the job, and that has increasingly become the more athletic man, and this leads to the choice being the Black Man more so today than ever before.  If the trend continues, and I see no reason why it won't, then the title of Mcintyre's article is fairly accurate.

This title/premise annoyed at least one sports writer - Robert Littal aka @BlkSportsOnline of Black Sports Online.  It led him to post "Why the Phrase 'Black Quarterback' Should Be Eliminated From Media".  In it he urges us to focus on the skill set of the player, not the race.  Neither Mcintyre nor Littal wrote anything that I particularly disagree with.   They are not even necessarily disagreeing with each other, nor with Jason Whitlock aka @WhitlockJason who also chimed in on Twitter with an endorsement of the piece at The Big Lead.  In my opinion Mcintyre is merely being candid about the fact that there are more African American quarterbacks today than ever before and giving an explanation for why he thinks this is so, whereas Littal doesn't want a race based label placed on any quarterback even though he chose to place a race based label on his blog.  If you read Littal's posts with any regularity as I do, you'll note that he doesn't write about "Black Sports".  He writes about sports.  He also digresses into non sports areas such as photos of beautiful women and "groupie tales" and other stuff which is not especially racial in nature.  His blog, his right.  I'm in agreement with him that we live in a world with far too many labels.  I extend this opinion to matters far beyond quarterbacks.

Rather than writing a rebuttal or endorsement of either piece, I am reprinting an article that I wrote for Suite101.com in 2001 entitled THE BLACK ATHLETE.  That's right, I said in 2001.  Told you I was no spring chicken.  So much water has passed under the Cliche Bridge since I wrote it and yet I didn't need to change a word to re-express my opinion about the issue of race in sports.  Turns out I agreed with both Mcintyre and Littal long before they ever got around to expressing their views on the matter.  Check it out:

Do African-Americans (and individuals of African heritage in general) tend to excel in athletic competition? If answered in the affirmative, what is the rationale behind this phenomenon? And most important of all, what are the implications of this reasoning?

Considered objectively, African-Americans clearly represent a significantly larger percentage of professional athletes (particularly at the most elite levels) than the portion of the population that they represent. This is beyond debate. On the track, if anyone will be gaining ground on Marion Jones or Maurice Greene any time soon, in all likelihood they will not have blonde hair and blue eyes. Whether in short distance sprints or long distance marathons, the person who crosses the finish line first usually has brown skin. On most teams in the NBA in recent history, if you were searching for a white man you would have been best served starting with the twelfth man on the bench, if there was one to be found at all. Disproportionate numbers of blacks occupy positions in the NFL that require the most speed, agility, and leaping ability. Think about it. If you were choosing sides for a game of pick up basketball and had to decide between the remaining white guy and the remaining black guy, all other characteristics appearing equal, whom would you choose?

Scientists have researched, and some even claim to have found physiological differences that prove members of one race are predisposed to do better at certain tasks than members of other races. If it is taken as factual that a person's heritage makes them more susceptible to a particular disease, then can an equally valid point not be made about one group of people genetically having faster twitch muscles than another?

And so, with both impartial numbers and unbiased science supporting the case, why is the statement that blacks are superior athletes to whites such a controversial one? Why do some people vehemently oppose such a seemingly obvious notion? The answer can be written in black and white. America is a land obsessed with race relations. Racial prejudice is by no means a lost art in the land of the free, home of the brave. So any broad statement that divides us along color lines will be open to great scrutiny. Even if a generality seems benign, it still constitutes a stereotype. Once a stereotype is accepted by those it is being pinned on, the argument for other less pleasant stigmas is strengthened. Is to accept being labeled as naturally faster worth the cost of also being considered inherently lazier, or less intelligent, or more criminal minded? Of course not. This is a clear cut case of the negatives far outweighing the positives. Sometimes evidence is best left ignored. 

Besides, the latest wave of European imports and special American finds is slowly but surely bringing a semblance of racial balance to the NBA. If any race can be said to be tailor made to dominate Major League Baseball, that honor belongs not to blacks, but to Hispanics. Perhaps the next white heavyweight champion of the world is not lurking around a corner in nearby proximity (I was proven wrong here.  See Brothers Klitschko). But a Brit did recently manage to win and hold the belt for awhile, which is just about as fantastical as the plots of Rocky I through V.

It's just plain sense that those who were initially excluded from competing at the highest levels of sports would end up excelling when finally given the opportunity. As for dominating or at least achieving fair representation in coaching and front office positions, this is probably still a long time away. One barrier at a time. Changing institutionalized perceptions is a slow process, and Jackie Robinsons come around only every so often. So as tennis goes the way of the Williams sisters; Tiger Woods elevates himself farther and farther above his tennis brethren; and African-Americans continue to smash pigskin myths by demonstrating an aptitude for "thinking" positions like quarterback; those who long for a paler shade of sports are left to take solace for now that not too many folks of brown, yellow, or red complexion have taken much interest in ice hockey yet. 

If you've read this far, you rock!!!  As bonus for those of you not suffering from short attention spans I will cut and paste below some thoughts I wrote about an exceptional athlete/quarterback/black quarterback/ball/er/phenom/whatever you wish to call him, during the 04-05 football season.  The sky appeared to be the limit for this young man who was basically the personification of what I wrote in 2001.  At the time I wrote about him he had led his team the Atlanta Falcons to the playoffs early in his career, and it seemed there would be no stopping him any time soon.  There have been quite a few twists and turns in his story since then, but this makes the potential I saw in him and for the change he would bring about in the NFL no less valid.  Check it out:


With all due respect to Tom Brady and his two impressive Super Bowl rings, or to Ben Roethlisberger and his impressive winning streak, the man to whom most eyes would be glued is MICHAEL VICK. Why is that? Well, he just happens to be the most athletically gifted highlight reel making player the NFL has ever seen. He plays the most analyzed and admired position on the field, and does so in an unconventional manner never before witnessed. Yesterday the NFL belonged to the likes of Dan Marino and John Elway, and today belongs to Peyton Manning and his two consecutive league MVP awards. However, if you take Peyton out of his domed home stadium and place him outdoors to face wintry elements, his prowess can be tamed by an elite defense. On any given Sunday a scheme can be concocted to thwart veteran pigskin slingers such as Brett Favre or emerging hot shots like Drew Brees. But just how does one prepare to face a player as talented and unpredictable as Michael Vick? He is two superstars merged into one, both a quarterback with a canon for an arm and a running back with lightning fast legs. Michael Vick may be providing a glimpse at tomorrow in the NFL. Football purists who believe the prototype of a quarterback is a white guy who stays in the pocket and throws perfect spirals right before getting hit in the chest by a charging linebacker probably do not fully appreciate Michael's gifts. Those who can take or leave aging aesthetic values and prefer to focus on the bottom line understand that Vick may beat you with his arm, or he may beat you with his feet, but the important thing is that he will beat you.

The NFL is known as being a copycat league. If a particular game plan proves to be very successful for one team, it’s a brief matter of time before half the league has adopted it. Offensive and defensive fads come and go, and for each one, numerous variations are devised. If Michael Vick proceeds to lead the Atlanta Falcons to Super Bowl victory, talent scouts throughout the NFL will go in search of running backs with strong arms, or quarterbacks with fast feet. The hybrid QB will be much sought after while the conventional quarterback will become an endangered species. Professional football as we currently know it may be transformed into an entirely different game, sort of like how the NBA went from a league of spot up jump shooters to one of acrobatic dunkers, or how sluggers in baseball could once lead the league in homeruns with 30 in a season, but now hit that many by the All Star break.