26 times two

"Time slips away and leaves you with nothin', mister, but boring stories of..." ~ Springsteen

I'd lie in that Beacon Street bedroom, probably 8 or 9 years old, and pray night after night for God to please just let me live to see 1999.  

Why?

There could have been a few reasons.  Early-onset anxiety.  The doomsday preachers at church.  AIDS.  My parents let me watch The Day After.  Whatever the cause, I was sure I would die "young" or that the world was going to end soon.  

My mind was unable to imagine growing up and being an adult.  (Some might say they still can't imagine me as an adult.)  Having a job.  Buying or renting a place to live.  Having kids.  These all seemed like impossibilities to me.  So if I could make it to twenty-six, that felt like a good number of years.  No doubt, twenty-six-year-old me would've vehemently disagreed.

Spoiler alert: I made it.  And by 1999 I doubt I was even thinking about the milestone.  We were more worried about Y2K.  Would clocks run backwards?  Would the government declare martial law?  What was the meaning of "Two thousand zero zero, party over, oops out of time?"  Had Prince known something the rest of us had not?

It appears not.  Unless his song was a revelation of the martial law plot causing them to call it off.  Or maybe Marty McFly had gone back in time and fixed the problem.  That could have happened, I was so confused by the third one I had no idea what year they were in.

Years.  Each once represented such a long span of time.  Now they seem but wisps.  A blur of fading mental photographs and "that was the year we" recollections.

As for 26, it was a big year for me.  Lost a fiancé.  Found some new friends.  It was the year I bought a new truck.  Five-speed.  Engine automatically cut off at 100 mph.  Beacon Street me's mind would have been blown.

Back then, I don't think I ever once tried to picture making it past 26.  And now, as of today, I'm at twice that.  Wishing there was a way to let off the accelerator a little.  

(Hmm, maybe there's a deeper, hidden meaning about human existence and the space-time continuum in Sammy Hagar's I Can't Drive 55, as well!)

But hey, from what I've read during hours spent on Wikipedia, Earth's orbit is actually getting infinitesimally slower due to the sun losing mass.  So go ahead, enjoy an extra nanosecond or two on me.

I like to look at it this way: In little Bone's eyes, I have already experienced two whole lifetimes!

No, the years aren't passing any faster.  But they sure become more valuable once you notice your supply starting to dwindle. 

Death of a season

Dearly beloved, we gather this weekend to commemorate Super Bowl Sunday.  But what we are really doing is saying goodbye, marking the sad but not unexpected death of another football season.  Gone too soon, just like all the others before it.

Oh sure, there's the UFL.  Arena league.  But that's like trying to replace the loss of Aunt Rita by sitting and listening to Uncle Randy drone on and on for two hours about the weather, Ronald Reagan, and being at the urinal next to Roy Clark "that time we went to Branson."  ("I looked over at him and said, 'I'm a pickin.'   'Cept he thought I said peekin'.  We didn't get to stay for the rest of the show.")

So as much of America gathers this weekend putting on brave faces feigning joy and laughter, please remember this is a funeral.  The 2024-2025 NFL and college football seasons.  Gone.  At the senseless age of a hundred and sixty-nine.... days.

That's right, in the time it takes to impregnate a woman (not counting courting her, dating, the inevitable break-up-and-get-back-together, etc.) and see that pregnancy reach minimum viability, football as we know it has been taken from us.

Oh, sure we'll eat -- Mrs. B has planned a menu of buffalo wings and multiple dips.  Probably gorge ourselves.  That's how we drown our pain.  It's a cry for help.

And yes, we will cheer when our team scores a touchdown; or any time they show Taylor Swift.  Where do you think the term "celebration of life" came from?  That's right.  Football.  You're welcome.

And if you're not a fan, let me speak to you if I may for a moment.  Because I know it can be hard to know what to say to someone who has suffered a tremendous, grave loss.

First, let's start by going over what not to say:  

"Hey, March Madness will be here soon.  It'll be ok."  This is well-intentioned, but unhelpful.  March Madness is the three-week bender you go on after your wife leaves you.  Sure you feel better for a little while.  But when it's over, she's still gone, you're out of alcohol, and you beat yourself up asking, "What was I thinking picking UC-Irvine to make the Final Four!?!?"

Then there's the always popular, "It was a beautiful season."  Yes, but what will I do next weekend?  And the next?  And the next?

Last, and most annoying, "You know, there's more to life than football."

...

...

...

Get out!  Get out of my house!  Now!  Go on!

More to life than football.  What do you think I am, some uber-energetic self-starter with three thriving businesses, my own social media platform, and access to the health and financial records of every citizen of the United States of America???

Instead of these tired, cliched phrases, maybe try something consoling like, "You've got to be the strongest person I know."  Or "Hey, I will completely understand if you go into your annual off-seasonal depression now and will not expect you to be productive or want to be around other people until for at least six weeks."

Or maybe bring up a funny, shared memory of the dearly departed.  "Remember back in week one.  The season was so young.  So naive.  We actually thought the Cowboys had a chance to make the playoffs."

So on Sunday, while you're listening to Uncle Randy complain about his gout and realizing your cheese ball will never measure up to Aunt Rita's, God rest her soul, please take a moment to remember those of us suffering.\]

Yes, we go through this every year.  And no--it never gets any easier.

Because while you see Commissioner Goodell awarding the Lombardi Trophy, I see him administering last rites.

Here lies the 2024-2025 football season.  You will be missed.  

OK, maybe not by Giants fans.

A pizza story

"No one gives a damn about the things I give a damn about.  The liberties that we can't do without seem to disappear..." ~ J. Isbell

It was five after eleven Saturday morning.  Warm for February.  At least, warm compared to the Februaries of my youth.  I had on shorts and a Zach Bryan t-shirt.  We were having a postseason pizza party for Luke's basketball team and I had come to pick up our order.

The couple at the counter placed their order then took a seat to wait.  They were one of those couples who favor each other.  Probably wear matching outfits on occasion.

There was only one guy in front of me now.  I had been a little concerned because originally, it had said my pizza would be ready in 15 to 25 minutes.  However, the exclusive pizza tracker hadn't even made it to "bake."  It was still stuck on "prep."  At this point, "quality check" was a distant dream.

I would soon find out why as one of the two employees began bringing boxes of pizza and stacking them on the counter.  The guy in front of me had ordered 30 pizzas.  

What, are you planning to lead legions of kids away from town with mounds of delicious pepperoni and cheese while donning your colorful jerkin?

Finally, Adam -- a name I made up for the male employee -- came over to ask if I had an order.  I was informed it was just now going in the oven.  Then Jewel, which was the name I assigned to the female employee, apologized and informed the room that she had already made over fifty pizzas since arriving at 10:30.

Yeah, that's right, rat catcher, we're all looking at you!

I watched as they worked in tandem, perpetually.  Jewel would make the pizzas and put them in the oven.  Adam would box and cut them and handle the counter.  He was also having to make any deliveries they might have.

As the pepperoni pied piper was finally exiting with the last of his pizzas, another man walked in.  When Jewel cheerfully informed him there would be a 25 to 30 minute wait, he turned and exited.

I pondered what had brought on this situation.  Had someone called out?  Or were they simply short-staffed like seemingly every other business 'neath the sun?

It struck me as remarkable how these two were holding things together, neither of them uttering a single complaint.  

Whatever they were making, it surely was not nearly what they deserved.  I told them as much.  I wondered if they made a living wage, or if they had a second job, or even a third.

I thought about how I, and so much of our society, just relies on these people to be there.  Whenever we want or need or crave.  A pizza, a burger, a taco.  

We take it for granted.  Or I do, anyway.

But I also thought how this particular pizza place on this particular day seemed to be hanging by a thread.  And how many other restaurants, stores and businesses of all kinds, must be facing similar situations.

Lately it feels like society, democracy, the world as a whole is hanging by a thread.   So much of what I have taken for granted for most of my life seems to be in danger of unraveling or being hijacked, if not completely destroyed.  And the majority of those we elected to represent we the people seem to be okay with it.

I think of those who are scared for their jobs, scared for their families, scared for their very lives.  And my heart aches constantly.

Uncertainty is everywhere.  Good things like humanity, compassion, and kindness; they don't seem to be trading all that high right now.

But I'm not gonna sell.  Just going to continue to try to teach the kids about those good things.  Maybe they'll eventually make a comeback.

After all, there's no tariff on kindness.

Not yet anyway.