Traveling: Chapter 21 / 22

Chapter 21
standard deviation



The group collectively stares at the five large piles of clothes and two dryers, looking intimidated and overwhelmed. Hunched over one of the dryers, Blackhawk scribbles away on a piece of paper. It turns out Blackhawk not only looks like an accountant, he actually is an accountant.

He mumbles to himself.

“Game ends about 9 p.m.,” he says, his pencil working furiously. He looks up at me.

“Did your son help you at all?”

I scoff. “What do you think?” I say.

Devlin’s voice echoes overhead.

Great game, dad. One game apiece now. Have fun doing the laundry. I’m going to bed.

I shrug at the ethereal voice.

“Like father, like son,” Stache says, smirking.

Blackhawk continues calculating. “Five loads, two dryers, 50 minutes per load…folding… delivery …,” Blackhawk checks his numbers, circles the answer, and looks up at me. “2:30 a.m.,” he declares.

“More like 2:32,” I say.

Blackhawk appears to have expected this.

“Standard deviation of two minutes,” he says.

The piles of laundry have now disappeared.

And my Celtics hat is back.

But God am I tired.

Chapter 22
all the pretty flowers

Like a kid returning home past curfew, I try to unzip the tent slowly so it won’t make noise. This makes no difference. Shannon is awake, and stares at me by the light of her cell phone.

“It’s 2:30,” she says, showing me the tiny screen.

“2:32,” I say, squinting at the numbers.

“Devlin told me you had to do laundry,” she says. “What the hell?”

“The dryers messed up the TV,” I say, sliding into our double-wide sleeping bag. “To watch the game, I had to make deals to do some people’s laundry.”

“How many loads?” she says.

“Five,” I say.

“You did laundry for five different people?” she says.

“Well, more like three people,” I say. “Two of them had separate whites and colors.”

“You don’t even do laundry at home,” she says.

“That’s because at home, laundry isn’t tied to TV watching,” I say.

“Well maybe now it will be,” Shannon says.

“Wonderful,” I say.

“So I suppose your offer to do all the driving is off the table now,” Shannon says.

“No,” I mumble. “I can do it.”

“How?” she says.

“I have my ways,” I say.

As I’m drifting to sleep, I notice a silhouette against the moonlit tent fabric – ten yellow flowers, each individually placed in its own tiny, colorful bottle.
I sit up on my elbow. “What the-”

“Yeah,” Shannon says into my ear. “While you were gone, Fiona got into your stuff. She thought the 5-hour energy bottles were pretty, so she poured them out and used them as flower holders. Sorry honey.”

Shannon’s apology rings of insincerity. She rolls over and goes to sleep as I stare emptily at the flowers. I feel like a drug addict who’s had his stash flushed down the toilet.

Tomorrow is going to be a long, long day.



************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June, Chapter 10: 18 and oh no, Chapter 11: DNA, Chapter 12: Peanut Butter Sandwiches, Chapter 13: Tom Brady and the McGuffin, Chapter 14: Game 1, Chapter 15: Who the H is John Havlicek?, Chapters 16 - 17, Chapter 18: Game 2: Great White, Chapter 19: Pickle, Chapter 20: Marty McFly, Chapter 21 / 22: standard deviation, all the pretty flowers, Chapter 23: Game 3: Black Hills

Traveling: Chapters 16 - 17

Chapter 16
Skittles and Dynamite

Bill peers into the minivan window, his wife Karen hanging on his arm. They are both clad in bathrobes.

“PSP, iPod, DVD Player?” Bill says.

“Check, check, and check,” I say.

“Snacks, tent, sleeping bags?” Karen says.

“Got ‘em,” Shannon says.

“42 inch TV, satellite dish?” Bill says.

I glare at him. He grins. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” he says.

I don’t believe him.

“And don’t worry about the cats,” Bill says. “I’ll feed them plenty of Brutus’s dog chow. What are their names? Skittles and Dynamite?”

Karen playfully taps Bill’s chest. “We’ll take care of Itchy and Scratchy for you,” she says.

Bill leans forward and whispers to me. “Nine hours to Sioux Falls,” he says. “Watch as much Sportscenter in the hotel bar as you can.” Then he leans back and speaks in full throat. “I’ll DVR everything for you,” he says. “Just keep from finding out the scores. That should be no problem where you’re going.”

As we back out of the driveway, the kids are already whining. Bill grins and waves like a man secure in the knowledge that he will be enjoying the rest of the NBA finals from the comfort of his own home.

Four hours later, I am standing over the carcass of a baby deer in the breakdown lane of Interstate 90. Shannon remains in the car, looking sour and disgusted behind the wheel.

The tinted rear van window buzzes down. Edwin’s face appears.

“Is it dead?” he asks, popping goldfish crackers into his mouth.

I ponder a white, winding string of deer intestine.

“Yup,” I say.

“Can I see it?”

“No, stay in the car.”

I pop my head through the passenger window. Shannon looks horrified.

“You alright honey?” I say.

Shannon scans the flat, wide-open Wisconsin landscape.

“Look at it out here,” she says. “You can see for miles. Yellowstone is nothing like this – it’s dense and hilly and has, like, a thousand times more wildlife.” Shannon stares morosely at the deer. “There was only one tiny deer out here, and I managed to hit it.” Her eyes bulge with fear. “Oh my God, we’re going to kill everything.”

“No we won’t, honey,” I say. “I’m sure a few of the animals we hit will survive. I mean, they’ll limp away and live in agony for the rest of their days, but they’ll survive.”

“That’s not funny,” she says.

“Are you sure? Cause I think it might be.”

“Could you check the car please?” she says.

“I did. It looks fine,” I say, glancing toward the front bumper.

“No, you went straight for the blood and guts,” she says. “Just check again, will you?”

I go to the front of the car for a better look at the bumper and hood. Aside from some deer fur and blood, the damage is minimal.

Patch’s voice sounds from behind me.

“Lucky the airbags didn’t deploy,” he says, walking up next to me. “You know how much it costs to reset airbags?”

“How much?” I say.

Patch looks toward the horizon and thinks.

“A whole bunch, I’ll bet,” he says.

This is going to be a long trip.


A storyboard image from the
Disney version of Traveling,
scheduled for release: Summer 2013.

Chapter 17
clockwork orange

“Is that the heart?” Patch says, studying the distended guts.

“I’m going to say kidney,” Stache says.

“Do animals have kidneys?” Bandana says.

“Why wouldn’t they?” I say.

The road kill slide is followed by a picture of a town that appears to have been ravaged by an earthquake or a tornado or something. The next image is a car wreck, and then cowboy outlaws hanging from nooses.

“What is the point of this again?” I say.

Tooth taps the Enter button on his laptop. Man on an operating table. “To gave us all some perspective,” he says. Taps Enter. Burning building. “To make us realize that winning and losing is meaningless in the grand scheme of things. We need to keep perspective.”

“So looking at these images is supposed to make me not care about winning my fishing tournament next month?” Bandana says. “What is this, Clockwork Orange?”

Tooth hits Enter. Picture of Greek Gods fighting each other. Looks like Zeus and Poseidon.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Patch says.

Tooth shrugs. “I was trying to convey religion there,” he says.

“By showing us Clash of the Titans?” Stache says.

Tooth ponders. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure about that one,” he says.

Enter. A shot of Earth from space.

Enter. An image of the solar system.

“You know what I think this presentation conveys?” Stache says. “That you could dearly use a Psychology degree.”

Tooth looks hurt. “The online degree is almost done,” he says.

Enter. Picture of a satellite dish.

“What’s that mean?” Patch says.

Tooth looks at me.

Must mean Game 2.

************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June, Chapter 10: 18 and oh no, Chapter 11: DNA, Chapter 12: Peanut Butter Sandwiches, Chapter 13: Tom Brady and the McGuffin, Chapter 14: Game 1, Chapter 15: Who the H is John Havlicek?, Chapters 16 - 17, Chapter 18: Game 2: Great White, Chapter 19: Pickle

Traveling: Chapter 15: Who the H is John Havlicek?

No wonder nobody's heard of him. Look how tiny he is.
I think this is how they filmed the hobbits for Lord of the Rings.

“Seriously?” I say. “John Havlicek? One of the greatest Celtics of all time? One of the greatest basketball players of all time?”

Bandana waves a dismissive hand at me and looks at Tooth. “See? I told you I wouldn’t identify with this,” Bandana says.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “This is basic history. Next you’re going to tell me you’ve never heard of Bob Cousy.”

They’re all staring, blank faces.

“Are you people kidding me?” I say.


Greatest basketball picture ever? Forget the lighting, the contortion of Cousy's body and foot...how about that his moves are causing his opponents to set picks on each other.


“Listen, Doug,” Tooth says. “Just try to stay on point.”

“Aren’t my obsessions exactly on point?” I say.

“Look,” Bandana says. “If you can keep the Celtics lore to a minimum, I’ll stop trying to imagine you’re a Bulls fan. We got a deal?”

Resentfully, I nod.

“Look at that,” Tooth says with a smile. “Progress.” He looks at his watch. “And that makes this a perfect time to end this meeting. Thanks everybody.”

Immediately, Blackberries and cell phones reappear, and the rest of the guys return to their isolated digital worlds.

Except for one.

In the hallway, Patch walks shoulder-to-shoulder with me.

“Doug, question,” he says.

“Yes?”

“Do you think I can do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make a hologram of your wife like that. That was awesome. It was like the Matrix.”

“Dude, let it go,” I say.

“Why would you mind?” Patch says. “It’s not even really her. She was a – what’d he say?”

“A phantasm,” I say.

“Yeah,” Patch says. “When you touched her, could you feel anything? Or is it like the movie Ghost? Because it looked like she moved when you touched her.”

I stop in the middle of the hallway and stare Patch down.

“Look, she’s the product of collective whimsy,” I say. “You saw her, so therefore you must possess some whimsy…or libido, or something. So I’m sure you can work up enough imagination to make it happen again.” I press a finger into his doughy chest. “But use someone else’s wife, will ya?”

He nods again, and we continue down the hall and exit the school. In the middle of the parking lot is my bed, and Shannon sleeping in it. Her nightgown is tighter and smaller.

I look to Patch.

“Could you please wait to get home before you do it?” I say.

He nods in silent shame, and we part ways.

************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June, Chapter 10: 18 and oh no, Chapter 11: DNA, Chapter 12: Peanut Butter Sandwiches, Chapter 13: Tom Brady and the McGuffin, Chapter 14: Game 1, Chapter 15: Who the H is John Havlicek?, Chapters 16 - 17

Traveling: Chapter 14: Game 1

Chapter 14
Game 1, Chicago
Lakers 103, Celtics 89



Bill and I stare at the TV screen with dead expressions as the clock ticks down to 0:00. At the buzzer, Bill tries to pull himself together.

“No problem,” he says, his hand limp over the edge of the near-empty bowl of Cheetos. “If we win game 2, we steal home court. Just need one of the first two.”

I shrug and slump. “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe it’s just better if we get swept.”

Bill looks at me like I’ve just threatened his children. “Excuse me?” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say. “If it goes seven games, you know how much more heartbreaking that’ll be than just getting swept?”

Bill stands. Behind him on the screen, Lakers guard Kobe Bryant is doing his happy-go-lucky post-game interview, smiling from ear to ear.

“Look, I know you have your trip coming up in a few days,” Bill says, pointing an orange-stained finger at me, “and I realize that a long, drawn out series could make your life a little tougher, but I’m not going to tolerate quitter talk.”

Suddenly, the Elvis Presley version of Glory, Glory, Halleluiah starts playing under Bill’s words.

“You think Larry Bird was ready to quit with his team down 2-1 in the ’84 Finals?” Bill says.

I shake my head.

“No!” Bill says. “And what happened?”

I reply in a weary, defeated voice. “They won game 4,” I say.

“And then took the Championship,” Bill says, “And you think when Larry, or John Havlicek for that matter, were in trouble in their respective Eastern Conference Finals games with 5 seconds left to play, that either of them decided to quit? No they didn’t. What did they do?”

“They stole the ball.”

“That’s right,” Bill says. “Twenty-two years apart, they each stole the ball.”

Bill starts to pace a bit, like a coach delivering a great halftime speech. Even with an orange Cheeto hand, he’s kind of inspiring.

“And when Bill Russell faced the demons of racism, sometimes from his own team’s fans, what did he do?”

I stare. For a second, I’m not sure what answer Bill is looking for, but then I realize there is no wrong answer.

“He persevered?” I say.

Bill rolls with it. “He persevered,” he repeats, pointing at me. Flecks of orange salt fly in my direction, “and oh yeah, he only revolutionized the game of basketball and won 11 championships, that’s all. No big deal.”

I lean forward on the couch. I’m starting to feel it.

“WWLBD, baby,” Bill says.

I look confused.

“What would Larry Bird do?” he says.

Bill knows how to get to me. He knows about the Larry shrine in the basement. He knows my dad took me to John Havlicek’s last game, and even though I didn’t understand the relevance of it at the time, it set the stage for my worship of Bird. He knows that I was in attendance for “the Duel” against Dominique and the Hawks. And he knows that despite the responsibilities of home and family that keep me from spending crazy amounts of money to attend games, my blood runs green.

“And finally,” Bill says. “Do you think this narrative is compelling to anyone if you’re a whiner and a mope?”

I shake my head.

“That’s right,” Bill says. “Nobody likes a whiner. So what are we gonna do?”

“Take game 2,” I say. And I actually believe it.

“Damn straight,” Bill says.

We both look at the TV. Kobe Bryant is finishing his standard drivel interview.

….we just have to take this series one game at a time.

“Maybe just a good ankle sprain,” Bill says, eying Kobe. “Just something to slow him down.”

“No,” I say. “We want them at full strength. Beating them means more when everyone’s healthy.”

Bill looks to me. “That’s the spirit!” he says. “That was just a test. You passed.”

I’m not sure it was a test, but I’ll take the passing grade anyway.

The TV interviewer pulls back the microphone and turns to the camera. It’s Stache.

“Thank you, Kobe,” he says. “And now, back to you for answers to larger questions, like ‘Who the hell is John Havlicek?’”

************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June, Chapter 10: 18 and oh no, Chapter 11: DNA, Chapter 12: Peanut Butter Sandwiches, Chapter 13: Tom Brady and the McGuffin, Chapter 14: Game 1, Chapter 15: Who the H is John Havlicek?

Traveling: Chapter 13: Tom Brady and the McGuffin

I sit up in bed.

“And then…they lose the game,” I say. Shannon rustles next to me. I lower my voice to a strong whisper. “It’s my dream, and they go and lose the game. What does that mean?”

“For one, it means you watch too many movies,” Stache says, looking around at everyone. “That death scene was a little over the top, wasn’t it?”

Tooth waves Stache off and contemplates. “It could be a subconscious fear of success,” he says. “Maybe somewhere deep inside yourself, you realize that winning will actually never satisfy you.”

This reminds me of an interview Tom Brady did for 60 Minutes where he said “There’s gotta be more than this.” The dude had won three Super Bowls before the age of 30, and he wasn’t satisfied. God, I wanted to punch him after that interview.


Don't worry, Tom. There's more to come...
namely supermodel booty and
honest-to-goodness lady hair.

Still, if he wasn’t satisfied, how could I ever be?

Patch is staring at Shannon. The way she’s positioned in bed, her cleavage is pressed together, and one of her spaghetti straps has dropped from her shoulder. I think he’s seeking nipple.

“Dude,” I say. “Would you stop that please?”

“Stop what,” Patch says.

“Trying to look into her nightgown,” I say.

Stache comes to Patch’s defense. “What’s the problem?” Stache says. “That’s not even your wife. That’s a doppelganger, a phantasm – a plot convention.”

“Yeah,” Patch nods. “What he said.”

“Still, keep your eye off my plot convention,” I say.

“What about this big Yellowstone trip?” Bandana says. “Supposedly, it’s the McGuffin of your tale, and you haven’t started it yet.”

I consider the point, and decide Bandana is right.

I lean over and tap Shannon’s shoulder.

“Honey,” I say. “Honey.”

She turns and grunts. Patch continues twisting his head for a prime angle.

“Honey, it’s June,” I say. “It’s time for our trip.”

Shannon awakens slowly, and looks at the expectant faces surrounding us.

“It’s time, sweetheart,” I say. “We need to go.”

Shannon wipes her hand across her brow. “My God, your narrative is so disjointed,” she says. “First of all, I’m the one who woke you up for the trip, like I do for anything that takes place before 10 a.m. Second, are you telling me you’re just going to skip the playoffs leading up to the finals entirely? The way the Celts rolled over D-Wade’s Heat in the first round in 5, then took down LeBron’s Cavs in 6 after being down 2-1, and finally taking out Dwight Howard’s Magic in 6?”

Bandana looks impressed. “Whoa, what just happened there?”

“In my subconscious utopia, she’s a huge sports fan,” I say.

Everybody does the I-understand ohhhh and nods.

I turn to Shannon.

“So do I get to tell this story how I want?” I say. “Or are you going to try to take control like you do with everything.”

The guys look suddenly uncomfortable.

“Relax,” I say to them, taking a hold of Shannon’s shoulder and giving it a little shake. “Remember, phantasm.”

Tooth looks skeptical. “Even in an alternate reality, I’d be careful,” he advises.

I look to Shannon again. She’s fixed on me with a ferocious glare, her lips clenching like a dog ready to strike. I withdraw my hand.

Stache’s facial hair broadens with a grin.

“Fantastic,” he says. “Even the imaginary her-”

Shannon’s glare locks on Stache, who leans back with discomfort. He looks to me.

“Could we get on with it?” he says.

“Yes,” I say. “Game One.”

************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June, Chapter 10: 18 and oh no, Chapter 11: DNA, Chapter 12: Peanut Butter Sandwiches, Chapter 13: Tom Brady and the McGuffin, Chapter 14: Game 1

Traveling: Chapter 12: Peanut Butter Sandwiches

It is time for action. An octogenarian is in dire need. I don’t normally know CPR, but today I do. I hasten from the stands and kneel by old man’s side. I feel for a pulse. Nothing. Place my open hand below his nose to feel for breath. Nothing again. Support the neck to flair the airway, pinch the nostrils and exhale two deep breaths into the old man’s lungs. Find the soft spot below the breastbone and administer compressions. Wow, it really sounds like I know what I’m doing; I must have been paying attention when I watched those medical shows. Back to the breaths. The old man’s glassy eyes come to life, but barely. He takes my hand. His grip is weak, frail. His fingers feel like I could break them away if I squeeze too hard.

The old man speaks. His voice is a distant rasp.

“Douglas,” he says. “Is that you, Douglas?”

I had no idea this man knew my name. It’s a magical moment.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m here, Mr…” I can’t think of his name.

“Holbrook,” he says.

“Right, Holbrook.”

His grip tightens. “I want you to take over,” he says. “Win this game for me.”
I look around. Both teams, the crowd, the refs – all of them encircle us, a mix of concern and inspiration on their faces.

Mr. Holbrook begins to fade. I give his hand a shake to reawaken him.

“Yes?” he says.

I pause. How to say this.

“So…when you say ‘Win this game for me, do you mean you want me to win it in place of you, or, like, in tribute to you? Because I don’t really know you, and I don’t think it would be appropriate…”

“Can’t you do both?” he says, his voice weakening.

“I don’t know…” I say. “I mean, a lot of movies and stuff are dedicated to people just because they died while it was being made…so, what, if you die, you get the whole thing dedicated to you? That doesn’t seem fair to everyone else who participated. I mean, what if the person who died was just the guy who made peanut butter sandwiches for the cast and crew? Not that you’re the equivalent of a guy who makes sandwiches, but I don’t think you and I have enough of a connection where-”

Despite his imminent death, Mr. Holbrook looks perturbed.

“Fine,” he says. “Do it for your son then.”

I shrug off that idea.

“You know what?” I say. “Ten seconds after a tough loss, he’s skipping around wondering where his next piece of gum is gonna come from, so I don’t really see the point-”

“Fine,” Mr. Holbrook says. “Do it for yourself then.”

I think about it. Start nodding. “Yeah,” I say. “I can get behind that.”

Mr. Holbrook’s body clenches, then goes limp. He’s on his way out.

“I’m going to switch to 1-3-1 zone defense,” I say. “I think your 2-3 zone was going nowhere.”

I take the final slump of Mr. Holbrook’s head as an authorization to change defensive strategy. As he passes out, the EMTs surge past me and try to revive him but it’s no use –he is gone.

As the stretcher is rolled off the court, I gather up the disoriented group of 9-year-olds.

“Alright, boys,” I say. “Let’s win this game.”

I gather them close, and look to each of them with profound meaning in my eyes.

“Let’s do this for me,” I say.

************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June, Chapter 10: 18 and oh no, Chapter 11: DNA, Chapter 12: Peanut Butter Sandwiches, Chapter 13: Tom Brady and the McGuffin

Traveling: Chapter 11: DNA

Shannon makes a bunch of animal noises. Not the good kind.

“I was wondering,” I say. “Would maybe…July or August be better for our trip?”

The words coming out of her groggy mouth are unintelligible, but I’m pretty sure she’s threatening to hurt me. I’m not sure why I thought she’d be more open to suggestion while half-awake. Maybe it’s because I’ve won many an argument with her while she was completely asleep.

“I hear it’s nicer at that time of year,” I say. I’ve heard no such thing, of course.

“Where’d you hear that?” she says.

“From Bill,” I say. “He’s taken the Yellowstone trip. He said July is nicer.”

“I’ve already made a bunch of reservations,” she grumbles.

“Oh,” I say.

Shannon seems to dose off again, but it’s an illusion. Five minutes later, the nightstand light is on and she’s sitting up, staring at me.

“What’s going on?” she says.

“Nothing,” I say, turning my back to her. “I just want the best experience for our family, that’s all.”

“No you don’t,” she says. “You want the trip to be so awful that you never have to do it again.”

“That’s silly,” I say.

“I’m buying a new tent, you know,” she says, like it’s a threat. Which it is.

“Good,” I say.

“You hate tents,” she says.

Before we had kids, Shannon and I camped once. Once. I lasted less than an hour in the tent before taking my sleeping bag to our Ford Escort. A Ford Escort has never felt so luxurious to me before or since.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “Bugs, rain, cold…I’m all about that. Love it.”

“Tent technology has improved vastly in the last 15 years, I'll have you know,” Shannon says. “We are going to be dry and bug-free. The tent even has a little overhang, like a front porch.”

“Sounds great,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll be very comfortable.”


The best tent technology 150 bucks can buy.

Shannon lies back down, but I can tell by the slow motion of her movement that she’s still deep in thought. Light off. Thirty seconds later, light back on.

“Promise me one thing,” she says. “Just try to enjoy yourself. You can make this trip miserable, or you can make it fun. I know you’re not a natural when it comes to camping, so we’ll do cabins here and there…for you.”
Cabins. Here and there. Yippee.

“I promise I’ll try to enjoy myself,” I say.

Light off. Ten seconds this time.

“What’s wrong with June anyway?”

“June is fine,” I say. “I mean, there may be some…sports things going on, but we’ll work around it.”

“Sports things?” she says. “There’s no Super Bowl in June. What else is there?”
Incredible. As if there are no sporting events other than the Super Bowl. Does she not realize there’s an entire channel devoted to sports that has new stuff on it every single day? It’s as if I said to her “You already have a pair of shoes. Why would you need more?”

“It’s fine,” I say. “The NBA Finals are going on about that time, but the Celtics would still have to make it there, and that’s no guarantee, so it’s fine.”

“But if they do make it, you’ll be miserable,” she says, expectantly.

“No,” I say. I almost believe myself. “I’ll manage to find places to watch the games. I’m not worried.”

Shannon lies back down. Again, slowly. I get no reassurance from her that my needs will be met, or that my games will be watched. I can only assume that Shannon, who has been studying up on the various legs of the trip and the various facilities where we will stay, realizes that we will be about as in the middle of nowhere as we can be. I imagine the Web sites and brochures saying things like “Good luck finding a television out here!” and using that as a selling point.

Now my nightstand light goes on.

“Should I be worried, honey?”

Shannon does not reply. In a miracle that defies the laws of her DNA, she is fast asleep. I’m surprised she isn’t trying to fake snore a little too.

I lie back down, realizing that my own DNA might be in jeopardy as well.

I think I’m actually hoping the Celtics don’t make the finals.

I turn my head. Next to me in bed is Patch, grinning.

“Do you need to be held?” he says.

“Shut up,” I reply.

************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June, Chapter 10: 18 and oh no, Chapter 11: DNA, Chapter 12: Peanut Butter Sandwiches, Chapter 13: Tom Brady and the McGuffin

Traveling: Chapter 10: 18 and oh no

Chapter 10
18 and oh no

Bandana is sitting upright in his metal chair.

“You’re a Boston fan!” he says, pointing at me like I’m an animal in a zoo. “That explains it! I knew there was something about you.” He starts shaking his head, looking disillusioned. “I’ll bet you have, like…a Larry Bird shrine in your basement or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff.

Cut to my basement, which does, in fact, have a corner dedicated to Larry Bird. It’s across from the Tom Brady exhibit.



“You couldn’t even let me hit my lay-up, could you,” I say. “You just had to block it. It’s my story, and you couldn’t even let me finish.”

Bandana looks at Tooth. “Are Boston fans even allowed in this group?”

Tooth nods, but looks a little disappointed in me. “We don’t discriminate here,” he says, then addresses me in a calm, expectant voice. “Do you at least like Chicago teams?”

“Do I have to?” I say.

“No,” Tooth says. “But it wouldn’t hurt.”

“I… follow them,” I say, “but that’s just because they’re on the local news.”
Bandana shakes his head. “Even his friend is a Boston fan,” he says. “How am I supposed to identify with this story now?”

Tooth rubs his chin and thinks. His eyes awaken. “No, this is good,” he says. “This is part of why we’re here – learning acceptance and tolerance. This is not about Doug’s affiliation – this is about his emotions, his journey. His issues are the issues we all have. That’s what we need to focus on.”

Bandana looks skeptical. “I don’t know,” he says. “I pride myself on being intolerant.”

“But you’re here to change that,” Tooth says.

“No, I’m here because my wife forced me to be,” Bandana says. Many of the other men nod with empathy.

“You know what? I like being a Boston fan in Chicago,” I say. “Whenever the Celts, Pats, or Red Sox win, people congratulate me like I’m on the team. It’s awesome. That doesn’t happen in Boston. Sure, everyone’s happy, but here, I get singled out. Here, I’m special.”

Of course, I choose to leave out the down side of living in Chicago – like also being singled out when my teams suffer humiliating losses. On the Monday following Super Bowl XLII, in which the heavily-favored 18-0 Patriots suffered an epic upset loss to the New York Giants, I was met at work with 300 colored pieces of paper in my cubicle that read “18 and oh no.”

Not to mention living in a city where the last Super Bowl win was in 1986, in which the Bears crushed my beloved Patriots, 46-10. Any time the Bears reach the playoffs, I have to endure a slew of parties that center around screenings of Superbowl XX videos and commemorative DVDs. Sometimes I wish the Bears would win a Superbowl just to marginally reduce the likelihood of my having to endure watching William “the Refridgerator” Perry’s circus-act touchdown, or hearing that Godforsaken Superbowl Shuffle.


Welcome to my nightmare...


...and every Chicago Superbowl / playoff / pity party since 1986.

“You didn’t mention the Bruins,” Stache says.

“Hockey?” I say, twisting my face like I just ate a bad piece of broccoli. “Who cares about hockey?”

Only then do I register that one of the guys in the circle is wearing a Blackhawks jersey. He looks perturbed, but this doesn’t concern me – he’s built more like an accountant than a hockey player.

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to imply that hockey’s not a real sport. I mean, hey, at least it’s not soccer.” I scan the circle of men, half expecting to find that one of them is dressed in a Manchester United goalie uniform.
Blackhawk says nothing.

“You know, I was trying to get people in you corner, Doug,” Tooth says. “You’re kinda ruining it.”

“Ok, I’m sorry,” I say. “Would it help everyone if I just say I’m a huge Bulls fan?”

“No,” Tooth says. “We’re all adults here.”

“It would help me,” Bandana says.

Blackhawk suddenly speaks up. The words come out of him hard and fast and high pitched, like air from the leak of an overfilled tire.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a hockey fan?” he says. Everyone rolls their eyes and gives a here-we-go-again look to each other. “Any idea what it’s like to try to talk to your buddies at work about a great comeback win or a prudent trade, and have them look at you like you’re an alien? Sure, there are blogs, but that can only fulfill you so much.” Blackhawk’s face is red, like the pressure is somehow building instead of being released. “My God, the Hawks just won the Stanley Cup and the guys at work still don’t know Kane from Sharp.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. I suspect I’m giving him that “alien” look.

Tooth is massaging his temples. He looks at me as if I’m in charge of the last Titanic lifeboat. “So Doug, how about you continue your narrative?” he says.

“Ok,” I say.

There is a queen-sized bed in the center of the circle. In it, Shannon is sleeping. I start getting undressed.

“Oh my God, are they gonna do it?” Patch says to Stache.

“What would that accomplish?” I say.

“It would accomplish something for me,” Patch says.

I slide into bed next to Shannon.

“Honey,” I say, nudging her shoulder.

************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June, Chapter 10: 18 and oh no, Chapter 11: DNA, Chapter 12: Peanut Butter Sandwiches, Chapter 13: Tom Brady and the McGuffin

Traveling: Chapter 9: June

Chapter 9
June

“June,” Bill says.

He looks at me as if this is supposed to mean something. I return a blank stare.

He and I are forehead to sweaty forehead in my backyard basketball court. He starts pacing and dribbling, as he looks to drive.

Bill lowers his voice. “June.”

Now I understand. I shrug it off.

“I won’t miss any of the games,” I say, stepping side to side along with him. “And besides, who’s to say the Celtics will even make the Finals?”

“Really,” Bill scoffs. “They won it all in ’08. The only reason they didn’t make it last year was the injury to KG. Now he’s healthy, and they’ve added Rasheed. How could they not make the Finals? And it’s going to be against Kobe again. You know it is.”

Bill shoots, misses a contested jumper. I rebound.

“Possibly,” I say, clearing the ball. “But I won’t miss anything.”

“Really,” Bill says, “South Dakota…Wyoming…you’ll be lucky to find a picture of a TV set. A few months ago, I went apple picking outside DeKalb. It’s barely an hour West… might as well have been rural China. There was a diner there that closed up shop at Two p.m.”

Bill looks at me. No blinking. “Two p.m.,” he repeats.

I stop dribbling, and Bill straightens from his defensive posture.

“You’re being dramatic,” I say. “There are…cities and stuff.”

“Oh sure, and between those cities are enormous stretches of nothing,” he says. “I’ve taken the Yellowstone trip, my friend. Do you have any idea what kinds of attractions you’ll be stopping for?”

My heart rate is rising. These are the details I have intentionally avoided. I need to be completely ignorant when I step into that minivan. It’s the only way I’ll survive. I start humming, but I can still make out Bill over the drone.

“I can damn near guarantee you there’s a giant rock carving, a building devoted to the wonders of corn, and a sanctuary for dangerously well-endowed horses in your future,” Bill says. “While the Celtics are playing the Lakers in the NBA Finals, you’ll be in a cabin made of cow pies playing travel monopoly by candlelight.”


Giant Rock Carving: Check


Building devoted to Corn: Check


Sanctuary for dangerously well-endowed horses: Check

I’m still humming, and it’s still not working.

“And don’t even get me started about Yellowstone,” Bill says. “You know what qualifies as entertainment at Yellowstone?”

I close my eyes, as if that will help. I know Bill means well in some twisted way, but he might as well be shoving bamboo under my fingernails.

“BUFFALO!” Bill says. “Also known as Bison. I’d explain the difference between buffalo and bison to you, but I don’t want to ruin it…because instead of watching another historic NBA Finals on 42 inches worth of stunning high definition, that’s what you’ll be learning about.”


Bison, or buffalo...one or the other

When I think he’s done, I open my eyes and stare at Bill. He stares back, looking at me like I’ve just told him I have cancer.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, then make my move and drive to the basket. My burst leaves Bill frozen and flat-footed, which is why I’m stunned when my lay-up is swatted and I tumble to the ground.

Above me, a burly bandana-clad man flexes and growls like he’s just blocked LeBron James, and not a Glucosamine-Chondroitin-taking 40-year-old.

“That explains it!” he says, sneering down at me.

************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June, Chapter 10: 18 and oh no

Traveling: Chapters 7/8

Chapter 7
Coaching high school

Dear Mr. Blatch,

I’m sorry about what happened at the Washington Bulls game yesterday. I was in the stands and was, of course, disturbed and saddened. I blame myself for putting you in a position like that. Had I been more professional, you wouldn’t have needed to take on Mr. Holbrook as my replacement.

I suppose with his age and his smoking habit (I saw him chain-smoking outside before the game), what happened was inevitable. I am also saddened that the kids had to experience such a scary event.

I talked to my son about the situation, and I think he’s going to be ok. I told him that Mr. Holbrook went to a better place, to which he replied “He’s coaching high school now?” It was actually pretty funny, but I know this is not a laughing matter.

My son asked if I could go back to coaching the team again, but I had no answer for him. I just wanted to let you know that if you have trouble finding someone to replace Mr. Holbrook, I am available, and promise you that I would behave in a manner befitting the league and its code of conduct.

Sincerely,
Doug McAllister

Chapter 8
Shark attacks and appetizers


“Dead?” Patch says.

“Yup,” I say. “Our team hit a last second shot and he just collapsed to the floor.”

Bandana leans over to Tooth. “Listen to him,” Bandana says. “Our team.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I say. “My son’s on the team.”

Stache shakes his head. “Nah, it’s more than that,” he says. “When I got fired from my kid’s baseball team, I still felt like the team was mine. I would adjust my lineup and devise strategies even after I lost the job.”

I look at Stache like he’s insane, then flick my thumb at him to the others. I don’t have the nerve to admit I was doing the same thing.

“Ok, hypothetical,” Tooth says. “You’re playing your favorite sport. It’s the championship game, you score the winning run, point, goal, whatever. It’s the greatest victory of your life. – your team mauls you, and as you’re celebrating, you have a heart attack and die.” Tooth scans the group. “The question is, is that how you’d want to go?”

“What are the choices?” Patch says.

“What do you mean?” Tooth says.

“Well, if it’s between that and dying during sex, I’ll take sex,” Patch says. “If it’s between that and dying from a shark attack...”

“I’m not giving a choice,” Tooth says. “You have the chance to die at the moment of your greatest victory, or keep living, likely to never acquire the same feeling ever again.”

“So you’re assuming we wouldn’t be able to repeat as champions,” Stache says.

“I didn’t say that,” Tooth says. “I just want to know who thinks winning would justify-”

“Oh wait, so ‘justify’ implies that if you win, you die,” I say. “So it’s a lose-and-live, win-and-die scenario.”

“Well, I wasn’t saying that,” Tooth says. “But ok. If you win, you die.”

“I’ll take that,” Bandana says, his wrinkly eyes scanning the group. “Champioinship game? Yeah, I’ll win it and die.”

“Do we get to have sex right after we win, then die?” Patch says.

“No,” Tooth says. “You die right out there while you’re celebrating.”

“Do I feel it coming?” Patch says. “Do I realize it’s happening, or is it instantaneous?”

“Instant death,” Tooth says.

“Well, you’d feel a heart attack coming on,” Patch says. “So we’re really talking about, like, a brain embolism then.”

Tooth nods. He looks to be losing his interest. “Sure,” he says. “Brain embolism.”

“What about drinks?” Patch says.

Tooth stares, needing more.

“After a big win, part of the winning is going out with your teammates to a bar, having drinks and celebrating your awesomeness,” Patch says. “Can I do that and then die?”

“You know what? Sure,” Tooth says. “You can have a few drinks first.”

“How many?” Patch says.

Tooth looks weary. So he’s playing along, not fighting it. “Three, he says.”

“I don’t even get a buzz ‘til I reach five,” Patch says.

“Fine, five,” Tooth says.

“Do I get any apps?”

“What?”

“Appetizers…hot wings, potato skins, and such.”

Tooth waves him off, and looks around the group. “See?” he says. “Endless negotiating with the grim reaper.” Then to Patch. “So your life is worth some hot wings?”

“Not just hot wings,” Patch says.

Tooth rubs his forehead, exhausted with the exercise.

“You know, I haven’t even gotten to the real reason I’m here,” I say.

Tooth waves me on. “Please,” he says. “Anything to move on to a new subject.”

I begin. “Well, some time around my not getting the coaching job back, my wife informs me that she’s planning a family driving trip to Yellowstone for the following June.”

I look at them as if this is supposed to mean something. I am met with blank stares.

“June,” I repeat.

************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June

Traveling: Chapter 6: Suicide

Bandana looks at Tooth. “Why is he even telling us this?” Then to me. “Are you just here for some free all-around therapy or something? What does being a hypochondriac have to do with being competitive?”

I stare at the faces around me. They seem united behind Bandana’s dubiousness, or at least as united as a group of detached, silent men can seem. I am not daunted.

“First of all, I would think you guys have been here long enough to have figured out that everything you do is related, in some way, to your competitive fire,” I say.

“Even your interruption, for example, feels to me like a questioning of my manhood, which in and of itself is a form of competitiveness. Second of all, my being a hypochondriac is a function of my wanting to be healthy, which is a function of my wanting to be healthier – better – than everyone else.”

Bandana waves a dismissive hand at me. “Bah, you’re just afraid of death.”

I point an ah-ha! finger in the air, “Right! And death is the great equalizer,” I say, scanning the group with disdain. “I don’t want to be equal to any of you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Bandana says.

“Just as I would expect it to be,” I say.

Tooth extends his open hands. “This is all very interesting,” he says. “But I think we’re getting a little too high-concept.”

Stache chimes in. “How would you know?” he says. “You’re not a licensed therapist. You’re just like the rest of us.”

For a moment, Tooth wears that concerned expression ship captains in the movies make when they realize their crew is on the verge of mutiny. It doesn’t last long. His gaze aims at me.

“How tall is that doctor of yours?” he says.

I cross my arms over my chest. Everyone in the group is looking at each other, trying to figure out if anyone else knows what’s going on.

“Come on, how tall?” Tooth repeats.

“Why would I know how tall my doctor is?” I say.

“Humor me,” Tooth says. “Take a guess.”

“Six-five,” I say.

Tooth nods slowly. “So…did he agree?” Tooth says.

I keep it stone-faced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

“Of course you do,” Tooth says. “My plumber is six-six. A few years ago, I stuffed a T-shirt into my toilet to get him to come over so I could ask him to anchor my volleyball team.”

I stuff my hands into my pockets. I figure the fabric will absorb the sweat.

“So…?” Tooth says. “Did he agree?”

The room is so silent, the silence almost has a sound to it. All eyes are on me, waiting. My forehead is burning like when I eat the spicy chicken for lunch at work.

The judgmental faces are too much. I break.

“I don’t have any tall friends! Going into a three-on-three basketball tournament with a bunch of shrimps is suicide! I already saw what a disaster it was with my kid’s team!”

The bodies around me unclench. The men look with collective admiration at Tooth. The captain has regained the confidence of his crew.

Tooth looks at the instigator of the uprising, Stache. “Sometimes, it’s not complicated,” he says, then looks to me. “Suicide,” he says. “Life and death. That’s how you just defined winning and losing.”

I fold my hands and look down at the floor.

Because that’s what guys do when they’ve been deconstructed.

************

Links: Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket
Chapter 1: Cribbagegate
Chapter 2: Two e-mails
Chapter 3: Pattern
Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee
Chapter 6: Suicide
Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers

Traveling: Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee

Headlining at Zanies this Thursday: My Urine.
Please tip your server, and try the veal.

Chapter 5
Hilarious Pee


Dr. Mullen looks mystified.

“So…why are you here again?”

“Well, people at my office have been sneezing and nose-blowing and whooping-cough coughing for weeks now, and I’ve been fine,” I say.

“And you’re worried you’re about to get sick?” he says.

“No, I’m wondering if there’s something wrong with my immune system,” I say.

“But you’re not sick,” he says.

“Exactly,” I say. “I should be, don’t you think?”

Dr. Mullen gives me an are-you-serious look.

“So you’re here…in my office…because you’re not sick,” he says.

“Correct,” I say.

Dr. Mullen eyes me, dumbstruck. Then he looks at my shirt. “Do you have a hidden camera on you or something?” he says. “Am I on Candid Camera?”

“Nope,” I say.

Dr. Mullen stares a little longer, then opens a manila folder “Well, Douglas, I’d say this visit takes the cake for hypochondria,” he scans the folder contents. “Two months ago, you were in here because…”

“My pee smelled funny,” I say.

“Right,” Dr. Mullen recalls. “And I asked you ‘How funny?’ and you said ‘Hilarious.’”

“I know I joked with you, but I could have had an infection,” I say.

“Yes, you could have…but you didn’t. You just have smelly pee,” Dr. Mullen says, returning to the folder. “Two months before that, you were here because you would wake up with tingling in your arm. We determined that to be…”

“My arm was asleep,” I say.

“Right,” Dr. Mullen says, slapping the folder closed. “But I must say, this visit puts the others to shame. Don’t get me wrong – I’m happy to take money from you and your insurance company, but really, don’t you have better things to do than come and visit me?”

At that moment, a guy opens the office door. I think I recognize him.

“I have to agree with the doctor on this one,” he says.

Dr. Mullen looks at me.

“New support group?” he says.

************

Links: Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket
Chapter 1: Cribbagegate
Chapter 2: Two e-mails
Chapter 3: Pattern
Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee
Chapter 6: Suicide
Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers

************************

Bonus this-chapter-was too-short discussion material (even though I owe you nothing - and on a Sunday no less):

A couple of weeks ago, a story came out that a man has been 'functionally cured' of HIV. I wanted to do a post at the time declaring something to the effect of "Newsflash: Magic Johnson doesn't exist," essentially discussing that a man has already been "functionally cured" of HIV, and his name is Magic Johnson. However, my poking around the Web turned up nothing to indicate Magic is cured of anything, so I dropped the notion, not wanting to write about such a significant subject without firm knowledge. I know what you'd reply: "But ET, [insert hated columnist name here] does that every day!" It would be funny, but would not justify my trying to sift through an HIV piece with a blindfold ... and still, I feel there are some significant items from my personal experience with this subject that still make Magic's situation that much more mysterious to me today:

- I remember in college, when the announcement was made, having to avoid talking about Magic in the past tense, like he was already dead. We know now that a person can live decades with HIV, and medicine has advanced greatly, but if anyone at the time had said to me "Guess what? Magic will be commentating with JB and Wilbon in the 2011 NBA Finals and nobody is going to ask him 'Hey Magic, how are you even here?'", I'd have called you insane. Think back to where you were, what you thought, at that time about Magic and his plight, and think about today. Is it...a miracle? Is it...a simple discrepancy between the medical treatment the rich and famous get and that which "normal" people receive? Is it...Area 51 - Fake moon landing - JFK cover up conspiracy? Is it the best medical treatment, and...a good diet, exercise, and attitude, as ESPN indicated 10 years after Magic's HIV announcement?

- I recall, but couldn't find, an interview where Magic said there was "no sign of the HIV virus" in his body. This interview made me readjust everything I thought about Magic's situation - was he no longer sick? how ignorant am I / we about HIV? And more recently, thinking "why is Timothy Ray Brown considered the first man to be 'functionally cured' of HIV, when Magic roams amongst us with a giant, healthy smile?"

To me, the biggest mystery is not that Magic is still alive and well, but our curious evolving reaction, or non-reaction, to that fact...where we have reached a point that Magic is not even mentioned in an article that discusses a person who has been functionally cured of HIV, or that Magic is not asked "How you feeling?" by anyone unless they think he's got a cold.

I hope Magic lives a long, healthy life, but I am still mystified by the enormous discrepancy between where he was 20 years ago, and where he is today.

Discuss.

Traveling: Chapter 4: Shattered

Chapter 4
Shattered

Almost everyone is doing a little nod, like they’ve all been there.

“The Wii controllers shatter the best...Cheaper plastic,” says a burly guy with a sleeveless T and a bandana sitting next to Tooth. His name is now Bandana.

“I tried to keep it together,” I say. “I really did. My whole purpose was to just enjoy myself, to not care…and I couldn’t do it.”

Tooth opens his arms. “And thus you are here.”

I shrug and shake my head. “Not because of that,” I say.

“So…making children assault each other on a basketball court and throwing video game controllers is just the beginning,” Tooth says.

“I told you it was a long story,” I say.

Tooth adjusts in his chair for a longer haul.

“Ok,” he says. “Continue.”

************

Links: Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket
Chapter 1: Cribbagegate
Chapter 2: Two e-mails
Chapter 3: Pattern
Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee
Chapter 6: Suicide
Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers

Traveling: Chapter 3: Pattern

Next year from Nintendo: Wii Fight

Chapter 3

Pattern

I’m scanning the faces at our kitchen dinner table. All of them, except for the oblivious six-year-old, are fused in disappointment.

“How was I supposed to know Edwin would clothesline the kid?” I say.

“Two weeks,” Shannon says, disappointment oozing from her words. “It took you two weeks… and that was with only one practice and one game a week. So really, it was more like four days.”

Edwin, the nine-year-old whose team I’m now forbidden from coaching, asks to be excused. He hasn’t touched his chicken fingers, even though he loves chicken fingers. Shannon excuses him. I want to apologize, but I can’t get the words out. The six-year-old, Fiona, also asks to be excused, but in a more excited voice. She’s not expressing any particular judgment – she’s just following Edwin’s lead like it’s a game. Still, it somehow feels like she, too, is rejecting me.

Now it’s me, Shannon and our twelve-year-old, Devlin. They’re still glaring with disapproval.

“You were both in the stands,” I say. “You saw how they were manhandling us.”

“They were just taller,” Shannon says. “They weren’t playing dirty.”

“Maybe not, but that team was rigged,” I say. “They were gigantic. The only thing my team could ever do is…form a Lollipop Guild.”

“You shoulda called timeout in the second quarter to settle them down,” Devlin says. “The other team scored 10 straight points, and you didn’t do a thing.”

“I wanted our guys to play through it,” I say.

“They’re 9 and 10,” Devlin says, as if being 12 makes him some sort of child psychologist. “They can’t play through it.”

Come to think of it, several members of my pint-sized team did return to the bench at half-time crying.

“I thought they’d be a little more resilient,” I say.

Devlin shakes his head in shame. “What a massacre,” he says, “and then to order a hard foul like that.”

I look to Shannon.

“Is he allowed to talk to me like this?” I say.

Shannon absently runs her fork through a tiny pile of green beans.

“You know what the most upsetting thing is?” she says. “Your attitude going in was so good, so positive. Your introduction e-mail to all the parents was great…I spoke to several of them and they were thrilled with your learn-first, win-second approach. But the approach was a little surprising to me, frankly, because it was so not you.”

“What do you mean, not me?” I say.

“Oh stop it, Doug,” Shannon says. “If you’d just not tried to fool yourself about your nature from the beginning, maybe it wouldn’t have snuck up on you, bitten you in the behind, and gotten you kicked out of a children’s basketball league.”
I deadpan to Devlin. “Is she allowed to talk to me like that?” I say.

“It’s like When Harry Met Sally,” Shannon says.

“Good movie,” Devlin says, nodding.

Now I’m back to Shannon. “Is he allowed to watch that?” I say.

“When Billy Crystal says the worst kind of woman is high maintenance but thinks she’s low maintenance,” Shannon says. “The worst kind of man is competitive but thinks he’s not.”

“Seriously,” I say to Shannon. “There’s a lot of sex talk in that movie. Are you ok with him seeing that? And what about the-” I shield my mouth from Devlin and lip the words fake orgasm scene.

Devlin rolls his eyes. “May I be excused?” he says.

“Yes,” Shannon says, not taking her eyes off me.

As Devlin saunters off, I slump in my chair, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

“Do I…have a problem?” I say.

“Well, you’re the only person I’ve ever known to snap a putter in half over his knee at a miniature-golf course,” Shannon says.

“Am I ever going to live that down?” I say. “That was 10 years ago. And besides, the speed of that windmill was screwed up. There was no way to putt through it.”

“Of course there wasn’t,” Shannon says. Then she starts glaring at me in a way that is far more serious than before.

“What,” I say.

Shannon motions me into the living room, where Edwin and Fiona are playing Mario Kart on the Wii, with Devlin watching.

Fiona crashes.

“Stupid controller,” she says.

Edwin crashes.

“My car stinks,” he says.

Fiona crashes.

“STUPID CONTROLLER!”

Edwin Crashes. Devlin says, “This game is defective.”

And on it goes.

Shannon whispers into my ear as I watch the kids.

Stupid controller…my car stinks…this game is defective…that team was rigged…that windmill was screwed up…See a pattern?

It all becomes so clear in that moment.

So very clear.

“Oh my God,” I say. “I’m raising a bunch of losers.”

“Uhm… that’s not what I was getting at,” Shannon says. “What you’re raising are children who blame everything but themselves when they encounter hardship. That’s not a recipe for success.”

“So what, this is all my fault?” I say.

“See?” Shannon says. “Can’t assume any responsibility, can you.”

“I assume responsibility. I mean, I am their father,” I say under my breath. “I’m just saying it’s not my fault.”

“Are you… proofreading anything that’s coming out of your mouth?” Shannon says.

My brain gets all hazy. The idea that I might be responsible for my kids’ shortcomings does not register.

“I don’t even…spend enough time with them to be a bad influence, do I?” I say.

“Unfortunately, setting a bad example doesn’t take much time,” Shannon says.

I step toward them. Shannon grabs my arm.

“What are you doing?” she says.

“I’m setting a good example,” I say. “Starting now.”

“No, don’t,” she says. “You’re not ready.”

“It’s not like being a Jedi,” I say. “I just need to be encouraging, pleasant, and tolerant of…incompetence and failure.”

“And what exactly is it about your current body of work that makes you think you can do that?” she says.

I look at Shannon, and speak my next words oblivious to the paradox.

“Good intentions,” I say.

Shannon lets go of my arm, but looks worried.

Five minutes later, I understand why.

************

Links: Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket
Chapter 1: Cribbagegate
Chapter 2: Two e-mails
Chapter 3: Pattern
Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee
Chapter 6: Suicide
Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers

Traveling: Chapter 2: Two e-mails

Notice to all Park District Administrators:
Do not hire any coaches with two distinct,
different half-faces. Or Brad Childress.

Chapter 2
Two e-mails
From: Doug McAllister
BCC:
RE: 4th / 5th Grade Boys Basketball Team – Washington Bulls

Greetings parents,

My name is Doug McAllister and I will be coaching the Park District 4th / 5th grade Washington School boys basketball team - the Washington Bulls.

This is my first time volunteer coaching, but with my son Edwin on the team (and with him being the only one of my children who isn't mortified to have his dad be his coach!), it seemed like a great time to give this a go. My priorities as coach will be to have fun, and teach the boys to be better basketball players. Winning, while nice and hoped for, will be secondary. When our season is done, I hope to have shown the boys a few things about how to be better / more skilled players, and to leave them wanting to continue playing basketball because they've had a positive experience in the league. The league's "mission" is 1.) safety and 2.) everyone plays and everyone has fun. I plan to stick to that mission, and hope all of you will fully support me in it!

I will contact you with further information about uniforms and practice / game schedules.

Regards,
Doug McAllister

Wow. I sound very reasonable and pleasant, don’t I? Hey, I meant all that stuff when I wrote it. How was I to know the games would get so intense, with parents screaming from the sidelines, and other coaches yelling for blood? I mean, yeah, I observed all that last year, but I was planning to be the voice of reason. I was going to be the one who kept calm in the face of adversity and chaos.

Cut to me on the sideline of a particularly brutal game, sweating like the engine room operator in a submarine movie, telling my own son to hard foul the other team’s best player.

“What, dad?” Edwin asks. He looks confused, which is understandable. At practice, we never covered playing dirty.

“Just foul him hard,” I say in my best Karate-Kid-villain voice. “We need to make him think twice when he comes into the lane. You know what I mean?”

Edwin nods and returns to the court in a stupor. A word of advice – never say “You know what I mean?” to a 9-year-old unless you are absolutely certain that you know they know what you mean.

Long story short, my volunteer coaching career began with an e-mail, and ended with another two weeks later:

RE: Park District Code of Conduct Violation

Dear Mr. McAllister,

I was present at the Washington Bulls / Irving Heat game this past Saturday, and was disturbed by the flagrant foul involving your son Edwin and the Heat’s David Flanigan. While I was initially satisfied with your handling of the situation, I have since been informed by other children on your team that they heard you instructing your son to be physical with the Flanigan boy.

This behavior is not acceptable by our league’s code of conduct. Please return your basketballs, first aid kit, and clipboard to the Park District office as soon as possible, so that a replacement coach can pick them up before next practice.

While I am obliged to remove you from your duties, I will not punish Edwin. In my experience with him, he has always been a pleasant, sensitive, non-violent child, and will be allowed to remain on the team despite this incident.

Thank you for your attempt to get involved in youth sports. I am sorry things could not work out.

Sincerely,
Gregory Blatch
Park District Athletic Director

Somebody once said if you’re going to be bad at something, be the worst at it. Even that person probably didn’t get fired two weeks into a volunteer kids’ basketball coaching gig. So, in some respect, I suppose I deserve congratulations.

************

Links: Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket
Chapter 1: Cribbagegate
Chapter 2: Two e-mails
Chapter 3: Pattern
Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee
Chapter 6: Suicide
Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers

Traveling: Chapter 1: Cribbagegate

"Circle of Trust, Focker."

“I’m the best you ever seen, Fats. I’m the best there is.
And even if you beat me, I’m still the best.”
- Paul Newman (playing Eddie Felson)
to Jackie Gleason (playing Minnesota Fats), in The Hustler

Based on a true story


Chapter 1
Cribbagegate

The grammar school cafeteria where the group is held smells like fish sticks. It also smells a little like Jello. You might not think Jello has a smell, but it does.

The mediator – a stringy little man with a wispy beard and a dark oversized hoodie – doesn’t look like someone I’d expect to be running this group, but I guess that’s the point. Anyone can suffer from it. Of course, I say suffer like it’s some affliction, and I’m still not positive it is. I guess that’s why I’m here.

The mediator looks at his digital Casio.

“Let’s get started,” he says, waving at a circle of metal folding chairs set up near the kitchen. A scattering of men converge in slow motion toward the circle of chairs, eyes locked on their respective iPhones, cell phones, and Blackberrys. The mediator nods at arrivals, each of whom turns off his device in a resentful, overstated manner.

Casio Man clasps his hands in his lap and smiles. One of his front teeth is yellow. Distractingly yellow. His nickname just went from Casio Man to Tooth.

“We have a new visitor,” Tooth says, looking at me. “Doug McAllister.” He then waves his hand at the group like he’s shooing a dog from the dinner table. “I’m not going to ask any of the others to say ‘Hello’, Doug, because they’ll only cross their arms and stare at you, which makes me look like an ass.”

I cross my arms and stare. Tooth seems amused by this.

“Welcome to Competitors Anonymous, Doug,” the Tooth says. “I’m David.”

I’m still calling him Tooth. I don’t care.

“I’ll start by telling you a little bit about myself,” Tooth says. “I founded this group three years ago after I outed my brother-in-law to avoid losing a game of cribbage.”

I crane my neck forward for more.

“I openly confronted him about my suspicion that he’s gay for no other reason than that he was about to beat me at cribbage,” Tooth says.

I nod.

“My concern for his privacy was trumped by my own competitiveness,” Tooth says. “It wasn’t a gambling issue, per se – there was no money on the line. It wasn’t violence or rage – I was never verbally aggressive or hostile. It wasn’t narcissism – I don’t like myself nearly enough for it to be that. It was just an irrational unwillingness to lose. After what is now known as Cribbagegate, I realized I had a problem. I went to therapy. It was expensive and useless. I always ended up trying to ‘beat’ the therapist at their own game of analysis. I felt like if they could successfully deconstruct my behavior, they were winning.”

Tooth glances fondly around the room.

“So I started this group,” he says. “A place where people of like minds can talk about the seemingly irrational things they do without shame or fear of judgment. This is a place where you can safely talk about how you…” Tooth nods at an overweight, balding man sporting a 1970’s-style mustache to my right, “…regularly cheated in competitive Sudoku with your wife.”

Stache leans toward me. “I would switch around her numbers while she was cooking dinner or going to the bathroom,” he says matter-of-factly. “It would buy me time.”

Tooth slides his gaze to the young man at my left wearing an eye patch.

“Or how you resolved a paintball tournament dispute with an underwear-clad duel at 10 paces,” Tooth says.

Patch looks at me, gravity in his pupil.

“Always…wear…goggles,” he says.

I nod my appreciation, then stare cautiously at Tooth. I know what’s next.

“But those are all stories we’ve heard before,” Tooth says. “What about you? What’s your story, Doug?”

I scratch my head and scan the faces surrounding me. They look bored. I wonder how many of them are forced by their wives to come here.

“I thought maybe I’d just… listen,” I say.

Tooth sighs. “Well, Doug, to be honest, if I have to hear once more about how bad a paintball pellet hurts, I’m going to claw my own eyes out,” he says, causing Patch to frown. “Spare us that, will you?”

I do kind of want to talk, and there is a lot to say. Might as well get to it.

“It’s kind of a long story,” I say.

“We’re here to listen,” Tooth says.

************

Links: Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket
Chapter 1: Cribbagegate
Chapter 2: Two e-mails
Chapter 3: Pattern
Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee
Chapter 6: Suicide
Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers