Depression Continued: A Story Of Keep Going

     You knew it was coming.

     Now that we've pretty much mourned Robin Williams' passing, our lives have gone back to normal, we've moved on to the latest celebrity tragedy/controversy/ice-bucket-challenge, now that depression--the X-factor in Williams' departure from the earth--has faded into the molasses rain.

     Only, it hasn't.  At least not for those of us who continue to suffer from it, yes, even those of us in recovery.  Our lives roll onward, some through the molasses rain, some on the "sine wave roller coaster", some on that highway called life where we ***drive 55***.  Question is--how do we pay attention to the signposts of *****DEPRESSION KILLS***** now that the disease-slash-addiction is no longer in the celebrity spotlight?

     Simple.  Pay attention.  If only it were that simple.

     The paradox of the sentence above is just one example of the pall of the gray--where depression thrives.  Gray as in gray skies those of us who suffer from depression see when we're experiencing a depressive episode.  Regardless, the signposts are there.  This post is about a signpost of mine that was, and is, paramount to my continued recovery.

     The year was 1994.  The place was a late June vacation with mom & dad in the Seattle, Washington area.  T'was not a good year.  I was in what I know now was the tail end of a moderate depressive episode that started about 6-months earlier.  I hated life at the time--I hated my job, the women I was chasing (admittedly now NOT good choices), and my walk with my Lord & Savior Jesus Christ--which was shallow at best and a grievous deception on my part at worst.  Those three are just for starters.  But, of course, as those of us who suffer from depression do, I turned my anger inward, let it fester, and then shut myself off from any kind of help, which then isolated me, which then I interpreted as, "I'm so worthless that nobody wants anything to do with me.", which caused me a great deal of sadness and anger, which I turned inward, which shut me off from others, which led to, "I'm so worthless.. "--I think you see the vicious circle here.   I was hoping this vacation would break that cycle.  It did--just not the way I expected.  It was a vacation that made one of my worst childhood fears become reality.

    That fear became reality in the backwoods of the Mt. Baker-Snowqualmie National Forest--just about an hour east of Seattle.  First, the events leading up:  mom, dad & I were staying at a bed & breakfast in north Seattle. We had distant family that lived in Seattle that were also big-time campers--and I had it in my mind that I was going to go up in to the woods, and tell God a thing or two about how bad my life was and what he was going to do to fix it.  My gear was complete for a one night stay--backpack, tent, rain gear, swiss army knife, food, water, rain gear, map,  and a small flashlight.  So, I loaded up my gear into mom & dad's rental car (which they were kind enough to let me use), and sped off eastward on I-95 to the trailhead.  I would hike the Talipus Lake Trail--a fairly easy 2-mile trek up to a scenic little lake, where I would attempt to pull a Jacob and wrestle with God.   I started the hike around 4pm.  I anticipated about an hour-long hike to my destination, as I passed through the trailhead and into the wilderness--under overcast skies (appropriate for my state of mind) and a friendly, warm mist.  The first half-mile-or-so was a gentle ascent through thick underbrush which pretty much blocked the gray skies above.  When I made way through the underbrush into a forest of tall trees and skies that were now dripping with full, cool drizzle.  The trail was still a gentle ascent of a series of switchbacks--one of which was a mountainside creek that required one of those big, round pass-throughs underneath the trail--which basically amounted to a small bridge without a railing.  I thought to myself at the time I'd probably die if I slipped and fell at that spot--as there was nothing but jagged rocks and the creek bed all the way down to the bottom of the mountain (we'll revisit this point shortly).  Anyway, as I continued my ascent, I saw patches of snow not far off the trail, so as you can now guess, the summer warmth turned into what was an autumn-like chill---for which I was prepared, as I stopped briefly to put on a thick, flannel shirt.  Then, it was back to the trail, which shortly leveled out.  Through the now-thinning tall forest, I saw what looked like a mirror laying in a meadow:  it was Talipus Lake.  Still.  Pristine.  The few tall firs and jagged knob-like mountain on the other side of the lake were seemingly perfectly reflected in the still water of the lake.  Yes--no wind at all.

     *****Stillness*****.

     It was just as I envisioned when I first saw a photo of Talipus Lake when I was doing my research on the trail.  As I had anticipated, it was just under and hour to make the hike up to the lake.   It seemed the perfect place to set up camp, eat, then give God a piece of my mind--right there among his perfect creation.   So, I found a spot about a hundred yards away from the lake, set up the tent, cooked up the hot dogs and veggies, chugged down a beer, and then started praying--mustering up enough courage to **really** tell God **out loud** what was going on with me and how angry I was with him that I had to come all this way to yell at Him.   Oh, by the way..

     I bet you're wondering where that big childhood fear comes in.  It comes in right about **NOW**.

     It was now full dusk at Talipus Lake, and I was in both deep prayer and a deep yelling session all wrapped up into one ball of human wrath.  About this time, I hear and feel a little rumbling beneath my feet.  I look over toward the now rippled water of Talipus Lake, and see a cloud of ash rolling down the knobby mountain across the lake:  it was an avalanche!  A very small avalanche, but an avalanche nonetheless.  It was also about that time that I look up to a tree not far in front of my tent--a tree with a small wooden sign with something on very clear, and very disconcerting: a picture sign of a black tent surrounded by a red circle and a red line across the black tent.  Translation?  No camping--day use only.  It was at this point I started to panic.  At the time, I figured my wrath stirred up God's wrath.   With the preceding mini-avalanche, it became alarmingly apparent there was good reason there was a **no camping** sign there, which meant it was time for me to pack up and head back down the mountain.  I packed up at about twice the speed I used setting up--because by the time I had finished, it was completely dark.  The skies had also started to dump a Pacific Northwest rainstorm.  To where I pulled out my small flashlight, and got about a 20-steps down the trail--and that's where my worst childhood fear come to bear:  the flashlight went dead.

     Yes, I remember my first **lost in the wilderness with no light** nightmare at age 5.  It had been a recurring one about two, three times a year.  Each time, I'd wake up crying in a chilled sweat.  It was so bad that even at age 16, on a church camp night-time hike at Sky Ranch Lutheran Camp, Colorado in 1980, I stayed sheepishly next to the counselors every step of the way--very unlike me on all of the many day hikes during my week's stay at camp.

    Fast forward 14-years.  There I was, just under 2-miles up in a strange wilderness, on a now muddy trail with no light.  There's a rain storm, my depression, and the guilt of bringing  God's wrath raining down upon myself for my arrogance.  My mild panic had turned into all out personal terror.  I'm telling you--it was **dark**, with not even the moon and/or stars to light up the sky.  Dark, cold, and rainy.  I had visions of Bigfoot finding me, wrapping me onto a shish-ka-bob, stuffing an apple in my mouth, and being roasted to be his tasty dinner.  Perhaps that was my way in finding morbid humor in my personal terror.

     It was not lost on me that I was living my nightmare, as I took very slow steps down the trail--slow not only because of the mud caused by the rain, but also because the trail was not marked at the time.  All I had to go by was memory of the switchbacks, and frequent gazes upward where there were breaks in the trees, where I could see glimpses of the cloudy, rainy sky.  I can't tell you how many times I lost the trail--to where each time I'd scream to God, "Why are you allowing my worst nightmare to happen to me??!!"  Three steps, lose the trail, more screaming at God.  Find the trail again.  Repeat.  It must have been that way for about a mile.

     And, then, I slipped.  I slid.  Waaaay down.

    The most terrifying 10-yard slide one could imagine--which came to a stop slightly off the right side of the trail, and guess where?  If you said at that mountain creek that went under the trail through that big circular underpass, you'd be correct.  That's right.  I came about 2-feet from tumbling down the mountain on that stony creek.  I would have died a tumbling, stony, and piercing death had I slide that other two feet. I didn't.

     As I found the trail again, there were two pieces of optimism: 1) I was about half-way down the mountain; and 2) the trail was wider from this point to the trailhead.  It was still pitch dark and now raining hard, and the slippage on the trail was more frequent.  I could also look up and use the breaks in the trees to help keep on the trail, which was, in my real-life nightmare's sense, another little dab of   some mental Balm Of Gilead.  That is until that last half-mile-or-so of the trail.  Remember?  That was the section of the trail that was full of thick underbrush, and on the descent, it was thick underbrush along with about 2-inches deep of mud, and not break in the trees to navigate.  Once again, it was a slow slog of a walk, where I lost the trail, re-found it, took two or three steps, lost the trail again, repeat.  For almost a half mile.   I have to admit the panic wasn't as bad as it was before the almost-slide-down-the-creek-of-death--because I knew I was closer civilization.  I just had to find it.  Mind you, I'm still scared to death, still wondering if Bigfoot will find me before I find the trail head, and I'm still in the midst of a depressive episode.  Even though I'm less than a half-mile from civilization, I still don't really know if I'm on the original trail.  Other than being Bigfoot's bedtime snack, my biggest question was: if I'm not on the original trail, and find the highway, which way would I go to find the rental car??  What if I went the wrong way?  Would I ever find it?  If I don't find it, what will mom & dad do for transportation?  ((Remember, this is before smart phones and most GPSs)).  All of this while it's pitch dark and a trail consisting of a top layer of 2-inches of mud.  I'm literally crawling now so I can keep my place on the trail.  The path was side but as sloppy as a pig sty.  My guess it was that way for close to a quarter mile.  During this push, I was crying the whole time, which my tear drops only added to the sloppiness of the trail.  Those teams got amped up when I lost the trail on my hands and knees, and couldn't find it again--for about a minute.  Talk about one looooooooooooooooooooooooong minute, as all those terrifying scenarios of my painful demise swelled up again.  My crying because shrieks, as I explored the ground in each direction, again, not finding the trail.  And then, I suppose it was my survival skills that kicked in--when I remembered a point in my ascent when the trail made a short jagged "Z" pattern, and I took the risk that I was at that point of the trail, and made that Z-pattern in reverse, and what do you know?  Yes, I found what I hoped was the trail again.  If it wasn't, well, so be it.  I'd deal with that later if I was wrong.  Thank goodness I was not wrong.  Shortly after, I saw a trellis-like structure about 30-yards in front of me.  It was the trail head!  Believe it or not, even though I was never so happy to see a structure of any kind in my life and couldn't wait to jet down to trail's end, I had to stop, sit on my butt, and then **gently** cry.   It was a cry of exhaustion, of relief, a cry of apology to God.   That cry was likely about a minute.  It felt like 5-hours.  Regardless, I got up, and slogged the rest of the way through the trailhead trellis, waddled to the rental car, got in, and drove back to the bed and breakfast.

     I did not look in the rear view mirror the entire one hour drive back.

     It had taken me about an hour to ascend the 2-mile Talipus Lake Trail.  After looking at the clock in the rental car when I got in, I ascertained it took me about **4-and-a-half hours** to make it back down.   Four-and-a-half hours of sheer terror, the terror of a real-life nightmare of being lost in the wilderness with no light.   A nightmare that came about 2-feet from resulting in a real life falling, stony, piercing death.   All while going through a pretty bad depressive episode.

     When I made it back to the bed & breakfast, Mom came in and asked me what happened.  I said something to the effect of, "You don't want to know.".

     As I lay there in that comfortable bed, all I could keep asking was, "Why?".  I must have asked **why** a thousand times before I fell asleep.  When I woke up, I had my answer--through all the terror, through all the Bigfoot scenarios, throughout all the times I lost and re-found the trail, throughout all the slogging on my hands and knees, and even through almost tumbling down that stony mountain creek to my death, there was one constant truth: I KEPT GOING FORWARD.   The message I got from the experience was, and is, two simple words:  KEEP GOING.

     Those two words served me well two weeks later back in Texas, as I got fired from my job.   I hated the job so much that I almost felt like I was paroled, that it was more of a relief--minus the income hit.  This time, I was without work, and five hours from my family.  Regardless, I had to **keep going**, and I did.

     It's be another two years before I'd suffer the most severe depressive episode of my life, the one where my life was at the point where I didn't want to go on.  I know it was my **keep going** experience of 1994 that helped spur me to get the help I needed, and start the long and continuing road of recovery.

     For those of us who suffer from depression know, **keep going** is a most difficult proposition.  My providence of **keep going** sprung from having to live a nightmare.

     So, for those of you who struggle with our disease, I simply offer:  keep going.  Keeping going may mean seeking the help you need.  For others, it means counting getting out of bed as a victory.   If you keep going and keep it real, you'll make it.  And someday you'll draw strength from the pain of the experience, and come out the other side a new person.

     Just keep going.

   
   
   

 

 

   

   

   

NEWSFLASH: I Am Retiring

  Yes, I'm retiring.  And starting over.  All at once.  And it's all good.

  I'm officially announcing that I am retiring from being a 6 and 10pm TV Sports Anchor--a career that I have, for the most part, thoroughly enjoyed over the last 25-years.  It's all I had ever wanted to do since I was an 8-year old--since the days as an 2nd-grader of turning down the TV and doing my own play-by-play, and turning a pencil eraser-side up and pretending it was a microphone.  It was a career that allowed me to do what I enjoyed for a living. A career that enabled me to meet, interview, and even get to know as  human beings some of the greatest athletes of the modern era, and staff some of the greatest events of  the 1990s and early 2000s--events from the Dallas Cowboys 1993 Super Bowl season, three BCS title games (1996 Fiesta Bowl: Nebraska vs. Florida; 2001 Orange Bowl: OU vs. Florida St.; 2006 Rose Bowl: Texas vs. USC), a Final Four, College Baseball World Series, College Softball World Series, 2006 NBA Finals, a golf major, two Cotton Bowls, the 2003 Rose Bowl, a Holiday Bowl, Alamo Bowl, 1999 Independence Bowl--which was THE LAST major football game of the 1900s, and many, many more events on the pro, college and high school levels--all of which were special in their unique way.  It was a career that, early on, took up most of my time--which was all right because I was single with no attachments.  It's a career that had me working nights, many weekends, and about half of the major holidays.  It was a career that I willingly sacrificed time with family and friends to hone the craft of TV sportscasting.  It was also all about me, my wants, my needs, and nobody else--a sacrifice of thinking of others as myself. And, that's a sacrifice that I'm no longer willing to make.

  The seed of my decision to retire for family reasons was planted back in college.  My fraternity rushed a kid who's dad was a popular TV sportscaster in my hometown of Oklahoma City.  I recognized his last name, and told him I wanted to be a sportscaster like his dad.  I'll never forget his sheepish laugh, the downward head nod, and then his verbal response: "Well, I hope you get to know your kids."  He then shook hands and walked away.

  I never forgot that.  I made a point to never forget that.

  I want it to sink in a little bit more.

  "I HOPE YOU GET TO KNOW YOUR KIDS."



  That conversation was almost 30-years ago.  I know it resonated for a reason: people mean more than events.  People mean more than bragging points.  People mean more than big names to drop.  People mean more, period--even though I ignored the this truth at the time.  Fast forward to today: my family means more than telling stories about other people more famous and/or accomplished than me--at least to the point where I see more of those people and my fellow co-anchors more than I see my wife and two children.

  I walked away from my last Sports Director job here in the Rio Grande Valley on March 1 of this year, and since have had the opportunity to not only spend more time with my wife and kids--but have had the chance to take my kids to school, pick them up, play with them extended periods of time, read **whole books** to them, and then get them ready for bed each night.  It has taken a great deal of stress off of my wife, who more or less a single parent ever since we brought our kids home, and basically in exchange for my salary--again, a sacrifice neither my wife nor I am willing to make anymore.

  There's more.  More that's not comfortable to talk about, but must be.

  I can't speak for anybody else, but I have to admit, now publicly, that I hid behind my career--largely because of what I referred to in my most previous blog post "Depression Gets Personal":  I used it for significance--to quiet that voice of, "You're sorry, and not matter what you do, you'll always be sorry".  What better way to not be "sorry" than to be able to say "but at least I'm more famous than you", that is, until you ran into someone more famous--which is why hiding behind fame backfires.  I used what little notoriety I had to get introductions, and then put out the hand so that you wouldn't find out my self worth was largely wrapped up in being the sports guy, that you wouldn't find out I was bored of small talk beyond about 3-minutes, that you wouldn't find out while I could talk sports and understand sports I was largely not very good at most sports, that you likely had (and have) a lot more life experience than I did about most anything other than sports.  It was a large burden to bear.  And even though that burden has eased over the years as I got to know myself and have been in recovery from depression for 18-years, it's a burden I'm not willing to bear anymore.

  Truth be told, I'm also tired.  Tired of a lot of things.  Tired of hiding behind my career, of being exclusively "The Sports Guy", tired of hiding behind the veneer of being "The Sports Guy", and most of all tired of ignoring important friendships and relationships because of the time it takes to be "The Sports Guy"--at least in my mind.  I abhor the thought of using people and loving things, of being ruthless more than relentless.  I was not the type to go to places "to be seen", to go out and drink and/or party with "the right people" to get ahead.  Ergo, I'm tired of the energy it takes to balance networking (which I enjoy) and brown-nosing (which I healthily ***hate***) to achieve my professional goal(s).   I'm tired of not getting to experience a deer hunt in November because it's football season. I'm tired of the mental exhaustion that set in after football and basketball season professionally along with the guilt of knowing that my wife and kids hardly saw me all the while I was driving myself to exhaustion.  After age 35, exhaustion takes its toll, and now, at 50, that kind of exhaustion--with all of the aforementioned points factored in-- is a sacrifice I'm not willing to make anymore.

  Make no mistake--I still love the craft of TV sportscasting, the craft of the storytelling, the opportunity to learn from people who make the pursuit of excellence a daily practice.  But it's a younger person's game--and perhaps that's why you see your sportscasters--and really your news and weather people as well--getting younger and younger.  It's a business more and more for people who are mobile and can move **right now**, who can afford to **live to work**--much like I did early and mid-way through my career.  I'm just not there anymore, and in the five months since my last day on the air, I haven't missed anything but the craft of the storytelling.  And, I can tell stories in many other ways other than being your 6 and 10pm sports anchor.

  Which, leads to the **starting over** part:  what's next?   Answer: I don't know--at least as far as full time work goes.

  I will continue to pursue free lance reporting opportunities, free lance writing opportunities, and any full time media opportunities that don't involve working nights (at least not every night).  I'm also exploring communications jobs for school districts, and any other entity that would benefit from my talents and experiences.  As many of you know, I also earned a personal trainer's certification last year, and have been a working personal trainer for the last three months--where I have re-discovered my love of teaching.  You'll also see frequent posts to this blog--something that was greatly hindered as a 6 & 10pm sports anchor--and again, that kind of hindrance is a sacrifice I'm not willing to make anymore.

 Lastly, I'm also not willing to sacrifice my faith anymore.  I am a Christian to the bone.  What you take from that after my affirmation is up to you.  For me--and only me in this post--it means putting faith and family before anything else & letting that drive what's next and what kind of income it'll produce, and of being relentless instead of ruthless.  And, in the end, it's God who will be glorified.  It's a scary thing not having any kind of a *sure thing** right now, but isn't that what faith is about?? A pursuit of what's not seen?  Talking about it one thing, doing is a whole other.  And, like my continuing battle with depression, making appearances over being real is a sacrifice I'm not willing to make anymore.   And, my faith is real to me, and as a testimony to my faith, and the promises I made to my wife and kids to put them first, retirement from doing 6 and 10 is a sacrifice I'm more than willing to make.

Depression Gets Personal

  Robin Williams' death hit a lot of us really hard.  It hit some of us in our spirit--a kindred spirit.  As in those of us who suffer depression.  This is my personal story of a life long battle with depression.

  First, some parameters.  This is only **my** story.  It in **no way** should be construed as a way for **anyone else** who suffers from depression to handle their affliction, or diagnose depression in anybody else (because I'm in no way qualified).  It is a testimonial of my personal and ongoing battle with the disease/addiction.

  Yes, I suffer from depression. It's chemical and likely genetic--thanks to those good Scandinavian genes.  I've been fortunate through a lot of meditation, brutal honesty and some timely therapy to discover that I've known my depression from age four on.  I remember at age four, there was an ongoing message in my brain: "I'm sorry"--and not the kind where one apologizes.  It's the "I'm sorry" as in, "you're no good and you don't have what it takes".  Where it came from?   I still don't know.  Perhaps that's a discovery for a different day.  But I distinctly remember that message at age four.  From there to about first grade, it morphed into, "You're sorry, and no matter what you do, it's not going to be good enough, so you'll always be sorry."  Without going into detail, those two destructive statements pretty much summed up the belief I took into almost any athletic, academic or social endeavor from grade school, through junior high and high school, through college and even into my professional life as a TV sportscaster.   Yes, while trying to prove those messages wrong, I also suffered major depressive episodes about every two years, and severe ones about every 4-to-6.

  Yet, hardly anybody ever knew.

  That's one of the commonalities for those of us who suffer from depression: hardly anybody knows, and we become masterful at hiding it.  Robin Williams hid his with humor and his vast talents.  I hid mine with watching sports and talking about sports, and creating my own little world where I would **always** win--and thus disprove that message of, ".. you don't have what it takes."  However, when I'd get push back of any kind outside of my land of make believe, or even just some gamesmanship from an opponent, it'd send me back into my comfortable little world of depression, where I was faceless, and comfortably in despair--where life was familiar and predictable.  After all, I'd been there so many times before.

  Yet, hardly anybody ever knew.

  I was outgoing, confident, even awkwardly gregarious when you first met me, only to see me withdraw after the newness of our acquaintance wore off.  I can't count how many relationships I either ruined or just ignored because my depression took a hold and repeated those lines, "You're sorry.  You don't have what it takes, and no matter what you do, you'll always be sorry."  I simply feared that's what other people would think if they ever got to know the real me.  The depression turned my anger inward toward my spirit.  And the churn downward then spiraled.  It'd start with what I now call the "molasses rain"--the feeling of being slowed down as if it were raining drops of deep brown molasses, with the sky turning from blue to deep smog, with my movements being labored as if walking through the molasses--sticky, awkward, slowed.  Very distorted.   I saw the world as hostile, and it was my fault because, once again, "You're sorry.  You don't have what it takes, and no matter what you do, you'll always be sorry."  I wouldn't want to wake up in the morning.  I feared going to sleep at night.  So, along with a distorted view of the world, I would have sleep deprivation problems on top of things.  Which, led to a lack of concentration on studies in school, of focus on the basketball court, which, led to less-than-excellence academically, spotty performance athletically, and no dates on the social scene.  Which, in turn, increased my self-loathing, which confirmed, "You're sorry.. ".  And, after all, since it was my fault, the vicious cycle then repeated.  And repeated, and so on, and so on..

  Those who suffer depression are saying, "Uh-huh!".

  My first major depressive episode was in 5th grade, the year I got into three fights, and got my ass kicked in one of 'em--suffered a busted up jaw.  I took up for the kid who did it--because I somehow thought I deserved it.  (Take heart, he picked another fight a few months later and this time, I gave him a kick to the jewels he never forgot).  It took several months to come out of that one.

  Yet, hardly anybody ever knew.

  My first severe depressive episode came in 7th grade--when I was in the middle of a growth spurt where I was basically tripping over doorways.  I had a girl call me **ugly** to my face for the first time.  I experienced "the molasses rain" for a good 9-months--well into my 8th-grade year.  It was during this episode I had ever considered ending my life.

  Yet, hardly anybody ever knew.

  Then, there's "**the big one**--1996.  I had a job and a relationship go south at the same time.  I had so much of my identity wrapped up in my job, and the prospect of losing it, once again, confirmed: "You're sorry. You don't have what it takes.. ", which started the molasses rain, and since it was my fault, I turned my anger inward so hard that I went from hopelessness to despair--and actually started to plan my suicide.

  Yet, hardly anybody ever knew.

  Thank goodness one person did--and this person encouraged me to seek help.  I did.  And, it saved me.

  That was 1996.  Thanks to a fantastic pastoral counselor's guidance, recovery began.  And it's continued to this day.   Yes, I've been in recovery for 18-years.

  Yet, hardly anybody knew--until now.  And you heard the easy part of the story.

  Once again, my path is different from everybody else's.  I can tell you what worked for me, and what works for me now.

  First, know that it's not quick and easy.   It's work.  It can be years of work.  It's tireless work, and it's tireless work when there's paychecks to earn, kids to be reared, a wife to be loved and cared for, and prayers to be offered for anyone who suffers from any affliction.   It's like a train that's been chugging downhill off of a cliff, and then stops just before going off the cliff.  Stopping was the easy part.  Now comes laboring back up that big hill to safety.  It's that climb back to normalcy that claims so many of us who suffer from the insidious disease.  Remember, "You're sorry. You don't have what it takes.. " didn't go away just because the train stopped short of going off the cliff.

  Second, it's recognizing the triggers and behaviors that induce the molasses rain.  This is where I recognized my manic-depressive cycle.  I have named the cycle two things:  1) The sine wave;  2) The roller coaster.  Go up waaaaay high (top of the sine wave and/or roller coaster) and ride that wave as long as I can because I know it's going to crash anyway, and you know, what goes waaaay up must go waaaaay down--to the depths of just not wanting to go on because the emotional pain was too much, while feeling no one can or will help.   It was during my early recovery I learned how to "drive 55"--in other words, keep things even--not too high, not too low.  Mind you, I'm not wired that way, but God works miracles--and this one was one of mine.

  Third, it's recognizing what is NOT yours--and not owning other people's projections of themselves onto me.  This is where the healing of, "You're sorry.  You don't have what it takes.. " started and continues to this day.

  Fourth, we MUST be able to talk about it, and keep it out of the shadows.  Secrets flourish in the dark.  Depression flourishes in living for appearances.  If you've ever wondered why you see posts on my social media pages that go something like, "Appearances mean nothing.. ", now you know.  We MUST keep things real no matter the cost materially.  Because, the alternate cost is a life.  Look at Robin Williams.  He had what appeared to be everything the world of shadows says we should have:  fame, millions of dollars earned in a career, elite-level talent, et al.  Yet, in the end, he had nothing.  Like I said, recovery is hard.

  But, it's worth it.  Especially when one comes out the other side a changed person--and draw strength from the pain one just conquered.

  Finally, for my brothers and sisters who suffer from depression or any mental illness: please seek help-- and know that you're not alone.  For those who want to help someone who suffers from depression and/or mental illness:  please encourage us to seek help, and be generally encouraging--however, don't allow yourself to get sucked into our circle of despair thinking you can cure our disease/addiction.  You can't.  That's our job, with our counselor's help and God's grace.  Know your limits, or the disease will destroy you as well.  With all due respect, you've been warned.

  In conclusion, I have definitive feelings baring this part of my soul.  My battle, whether easier or harder than somebody else's, is still my battle.  It's unique to me--no matter what anybody else says about it.  If you consider my revelation weak or less-than-manly, well, that says a lot more about you than it does about me.  And yes, it feels good to know **today** I'm not sorry, and I do have what it takes.  Today is all I have.  Tomorrow is not promised.  It's what keeps my recovery going, and the cruise control near 55.

  And now, everybody knows.

The Practical Case Against Pay For Play

      I've waited awhile to write this one, mostly to let the raw emotion to die down, so that a practical view could not get practically blown off.  So here goes: paying collegiate athletes is a great way to turn Pandora's Box into the Death Star.

     Yes, that's pretty dramatic.  Too dramatic--but going over the top seems to be one of the only ways to get and keep people's attention.  Now, to state the case.

     First to review--there's a pending court case known as the "Ed O'Bannon Case", which is a class action lawsuit against that basically challenges the NCAA's limitation on what men's basketball and football players can receive for their services to the university as revenue producing athletes.  Second, there's the ruling earlier this year that Northwestern University football players can form a union, which if the players do, they'll be recognized as university employees.  Both cases could blow up the entire intercollegiate sports landscape.  Yes--***the entire*** landscape, and not for the better.

     Let's first address paying players more than their respective scholarships, room & board, books, and per diem.  Right now, the O'Bannon case deals only with football and men's basketball players.  This is impractical simply because **which ones** are you going to pay?  How much are you going to pay them? Are you going to pay just the stars--the guys who truly generate the revenue stream--or are you also going to pay the 3rd-string offensive lineman, et al?  This is where the attitude of "show me the money" rears its ugly personna, because everybody wants to get paid.  It doesn't stop there.  This is such a slippery slope that many other Pandora's Box questions must be answered on the way down that slippery slope into the Tar Pits.  Among them: what about athletes in non-revenue producing sports?  What about at universities where women's basketball is a revenue stream, or a a player/players are popular enough that they generate revenue for the university?  Shouldn't that be a "pay for play" scenario as well?  And, since you're talking about women's sports, you can bet the Title IX folks will chime in on the equal opportunity issue.  Those are just for starters.  All of these challenges must be met before "pay for play" can be practical.  Oh, and don't think the elite academic students--you know, the ones the universities recruit to come there to pad their academic and research prowess???!!!-- don't you think they're smart enough to get in on the cash capade?  What about the arts/performance stars who are recruited as well?  Shouldn't they get paid a portion for their contribution to the university's success/reputation?   Where does it end?  They're hard-but-fair questions.

    Second, a look-see at an even uglier scenario which is the Northwestern union thing.  The prima facie (at first look) questions cut this thing to pieces.  First, if these scholarship athletes become university employees, don't they become subject to the same rules and regulations of any university employed from the groundskeeper to the university president?  Do they fill out time cards?  Are they paid hourly or on a salary? Do they pay taxes on their scholarships?  Can they get fired for non-performance of duties--say, for example, being chronically late (for team meetings, study hall, the mess hall, etc... )?  Since they'll have to go through the National Labor Relations Board, won't they need to have a collective bargaining agreement?  Suppose there's an impasse between the players' union and the school--if they choose to strike, do they not get to go to class?  If they don't go to class, will they get flunked or incompleted?  Will they then lose their scholarship for non-compliance on the academic end?  If the university locks them out, same questions remain.  Those are just for starters.  All this will have to be legislated to make this practical.

     On the other side, it's become obvious the collegiate sports landscape needs serious reform.  It is practical to see that some athletes do generate not only some income, but some serious PR for their respective institutions, which added value on top of the revenue producing athlete/athletes.  I understand that.  I'm not one to offer challenges without at least a stab at a solution.  So here goes.

     For the revenue producing athlete, the university shall establish an escrow fund, where proceeds (let's just say 51% for the university, 49% for the athlete) from the athlete's likeness is deposited and kept, earning interest, for the entirety of the athlete's service to the university.   The athlete can then, after leaving the university, withdraw the proceeds under the following conditions:  1) To complete his/her degree, and upon completion of the degree the athlete can then withdraw what's left. Once he/she completes the degree, he/she can either withdraw the funds, or continue it earning interest to use for another degree for either him/her or a family member at a later date;  2) Withdraw the proceeds 5-years after his last day of service to the university to do with what he/she pleases.

     Regardless of which way one chooses to lean on this issue, there's no denying this is a slippery slope that very few know where it leads--largely because it's dark, murky, with a blindfold called money that obscures much rational thought on what "pay for play" means long term for not only the athletes and universities, but fans as well.

   

   

   
   
   


   

The Case For Wellness Over Fitness

     OK, so you're fit.  But are you **well**?  Not necessarily.

     When most of us speak of "fit", we're talking about physical fitness.  When we speak of wellness, we're usually talking out of our posterior--because many of us don't know what wellness is.  We have some ideas, know some of the aspects, and even can list the six dimensions of wellness (can you list them?).  The challenge is tying them together and then "gleaning the meaning" to create a map of the journey to land of "Zest For Life".

     Physical fitness is one of the six dimensions of wellness.  I'll opine that it's nowhere near the most important.  The body will only do what the mind will allow.  If the mind is not well, the body will not follow.  If the mind is fixated on what **looks** well, the body will follow--and will only **look** well.  The look is destined to fail, because the mind has failed to grasp that wellness is from the inside-out, not the other way around.  The fruit of outside-in?  Injuries, eating disorders, yo-yo eating and/or workouts, apathy, and eventually, great pain--the pain that comes from the pain of avoiding pain.  Pain which could (and should) have been easily avoided.

      I understand there's a sizable amount of the population that will not buy into wellness--simply because it's too hard.  That's OK.  I liken it to Sturgeon's Law: "90% of everything is crud."  The truth remains the truth even if 90% of the population chooses not to believe: **Wellness** trumps fitness every time--because it's sustained long term, and its fruit is peace, not pain.

    Wellness is not just mental and physical.  There are four other dimensions: emotional, social, spiritual, as well as occupational.  When the wellness dimensions are fully integrated and become interdependent, the result is a **zest for life**.

     Ergo, wellness isn't just going into the gym and doing some arm curls.  It's harder.  It's challenging.  It's engaging.  And, once it becomes habit, it's fun, rewarding, and peaceful.  And, not subject to Sturgeon's Law.

     Come join me on a journey to wellness.
   

Cover vs. Support

  It's a case of your job versus my job--no matter how you see it.

  That's right, and you're going to have to like it--because that's just the way it is, and should be.  I'm talking about my job as an accredited media professional versus your job as a fan.

  My job as an accredited sports media professional is to **cover** your team(s), your kid(s), and everybody else's kid and team(s).  **Cover** can mean the feel good stories, the inspirational stories, and the golden moments where your kid(s) and/or team(s) shine.  Conversely, **cover** can also mean the defeats--whether big or small, where your kid(s) and/or team(s) screwed up--whether on or off the field, and then ones that may make your kid(s) and/or team look unfavorable.  It's called impartiality, and there are some of us who endeavor to stay close to the ever-shifty line of neutrality.  Call me old school, but impartiality is what lends to credibility.  If I'm biased (support) to your opponent, you'd have the right to be upset.  Conversely, if I'm biased to (support) you, your opponent would have the same right.

  It's **your** job to be the fan--which really requires partiality, as it should.  It's your job as a fan to **support** your kid(s) and/or team(s).  It's your money, your time, your effort, your choice.

 I draw the line when one projects one's partiality (support) to my broader perspective of endeavored impartiality (cover).  This is particularly true when it comes to two or more teams being **covered** in one game/match/meet/contest.  If one wants me to **support** his/her kid(s) and/or team(s), and all of those teams are asking me to do the same, I can't very well do my job--which is to take a step back and be as impartial as humanly possible (and don't give me your garbage that it's not possible--that's more of your projecting your weakness).  My agendas are as follows:  1) accuracy--whether folks like the accuracy or not; and 2) make my deadline.  That's it.  No ulterior motives.  No conspiracy/conspiracies.  I can't speak for anybody else--only myself.  Those of you who know me know ***I say what I mean, and I mean what I say***.

  I've also become adept at picking up when **supporters** are trying to use me to further their agenda--as in the waaaaaaay too common, "You need to come support my kid(s) and/or team(s) because they work hard.  He/she/they deserve your support.  You NEVER support my kid(s) and/or team(s)!"   This has happened in every single market where I have worked, but to be honest, it's been much more prevalent in my current market (the Rio Grande Valley).  For example, one gentleman texted me pretty much verbatim what's in quotes in this paragraph.  My response was as follows: "The kids who lose and don't hit a lot of home runs also work hard, and perhaps even harder because they're not as good.  So, why don't you rephrase?"  He couldn't.  He couldn't--perhaps because I knew his agenda, which was to promote his kid to college recruiters with press clippings/videos.  For those of you who didn't know this goes on, again, it's quite common.  For those of you who did and do--shame on you for being manipulative.  Just be an adult and go through the front door, and tell me what you want--that's your job.  I may or may be able to accommodate you--because that's **my job**.

  I've also had a few thousand folks over the years counter with something like this: "Well, I'll just talk to (insert competing medium/media here)!".  My response has been and is: "Go right ahead.  They can deal with the current headache and future headaches you bring."  If it's **that good** of a story, I'll be on it.

  And, don't give me "it's not fair".  I've found that often times many folks definition of fair is what's in their exclusive best interest.

  The biggest compliment I can pay any **supporter** is this:  I won't kiss your ass.  I respect you enough as a human being to be honest with you when I consider your story pitch, your compliment(s) and/or your complaints.  I respect myself and my profession enough to make this delineation: I cover,  you support.

That's just the way it is.

Why Soccer Is The World's Game & Not Ours

    No, it won't.

  Sorry, soccer enthusiasts, fans, and the like--your game will not become our game this year or anytime soon.  It's not because it's not a great game.  It's not because we're (the good ol' USA) behind the rest of the world, either.  It's certainly not some grand (or even minute) conspiracy.

  No, "fútbol" will do little better than grab our attention during the 2014 World Cup and then will quietly go back to its existence as the sport **just on the cusp** of breaking into the big four of American football, basketball, baseball and hockey.  It will stay the sport many will encourage our kids to play--and we'll cheer voraciously for our children as they play.  Some will take that enthusiasm into their kids' competitive soccer leagues into junior high and high school.  Some will even purchase tickets to some MLS games.  Most will not.

  So, what's the deal?  Where's the disconnect with soccer between World Cups?  Why does American football sack soccer from Uncle Sam's sea to shining sea?

  One theory has it being about our history versus the rest-of-the-world's history--particularly one important **revolution**.

  Michael Mandelbaum put it all in words in his book, "The Meaning Of Sports: Why Americans Watch Baseball, Football, And Basketball And What They See When They Do" (Public Affairs, New York ,2004).  The revolution?  The industrial revolution.  Put simply, football emerged from the mechanization of America, where measured time and synchronization of tasks catapulted the USA into the super power it still is today.  To quote Mandelbaum:

          "Football is the sport of the machine age because football teams are like machines,
          with specialized moving parts that must function simultaneously. Players are like
          workers in a factory. They must perform their tasks in a precise sequence, and the
          failure to so sow leads to the kind of disaster depicted in the film "Modern Times"
          in which Charlie Chaplin, working on an assembly line, gets tangled up in the
          machinery."

  Football was born of boon--and the great rivalries were born during that boon: Auburn-Alabama, Michigan-Ohio State, Oklahoma-Texas are classic examples on the college scene.  "The Black And Blue Division" of the NFL (Chicago Bears, Detroit Lions, Green Bay Packers, Minnesota Vikings) come to mind, as well as Rust Belt rivalries like the Steelers vs. Browns.  It's a game built upon the blue collar, hard labor, bare knuckles striving of the American Industrial Revolution.  We became truly great then, and perhaps football reminds of that greatness--at least subliminally.

  Mandelbaum also notes that American football is also video friendly, and I believe that's the principal reason football trumps futbol for the general masses between the Atlantic & Pacific (as well as Alaska & Hawaii).  You've heard it a kajillion times: soccer's boring.  I'll be more precise:  no, soccer is not boring at all, just like baseball's not boring--it's just not as exciting on TV.  I find soccer strategy fascinating, and the athletes playing the game to be on the same level as football athletes.  I, and millions of others, just don't like waiting so long for the **big** action to take place.

  Mandelbaum doesn't shy away from the violent aspect of American football.  He compares it to warfare--as in the drawing up the game plan (football) is to drawing up a battle offensive, where the head coach acts as the general, the players as soldiers, the support staff subordinate officers and medical staff.   Mandelbaum extends on his comparisons:

          "Because each (football and war) are dangerous, fighting a war and playing
           in a football game both require doing what comes unnaturally. Commanders
           and coaches must find ways to overcome the natural inhibitions to taking
           part in both.  Here again, the array of techniques they use, and the invent-
           ives they offer exhibit marked similarities."

  It's here I'll extend on Mandelbaum's point.  I believe football is a better diversion than soccer.  Sports, and all entertainment really, are really just diversions from real life that make real life more bearable, more lively, more hopeful.  Yes, football is a most violent game, where there are frequently serious injuries and infrequent deaths, but the violence is generally confined to the field and not the stands.  That it's also more fun to watch in person and on TV only makes it better.

  So, regardless of how successful the USMNT is in this or future World Cups, futbol will face an El Capitan-like climb to reach the popularity of football in the US of A, and really, even basketball and baseball.  I believe it can over-take hockey simply because more youth across all economic lines can play soccer than can play hockey--although watching hockey is a zillion times more exciting than watching soccer (popularity IS about the number of eyeballs).

  I fully expect some pushback from soccer fans and elitists. That's OK.  Those that know me know I welcome dissent--even if it's based more in emotion than in fact.  I fully expect some to counter that the world's game should be ours because most everything is global nowadays. I full expect others to use the well-worn counter that, something like this, "You'll never give soccer a chance because you just hate us and our game and you'll never understand it anyhow."  In my 25-plus years of sportscasting, I've heard variations of the above dozens of times in each market where I've worked.  There was even a lady in Oklahoma who refused to believe I had **ever** covered a single one of her son's high school games even after I gave her video proof of the nearly dozen games I'd covered in two years. My response to such nonsense is the same: your mind is already made up, so thank you for your opinion and you're free to go--there are some nice parting gifts waiting for you.

  Football certainly has its challenges, but popularity in the 50-states is not one of them.  Of all facts, this one is undeniable.  It's soccer's challenge to eclipse that popularity before the nation gets excited beyond World Cups.

Super Bowl Softies

     Gosh we have gotten soft.
     It's bad enough there's been "concern" about the weather at the upcoming Super Bowl in New Jersey, but now there's talk of moving the game up to avoid the chance of playing it in a blizzard.
     Really?   REALLY????!!!!
     Has America forgotten that football is a blue collar game?  That it originated in the harsh elements of the northeast?  That the "black and blue division" of Chicago, Detroit, Green Bay and Minnesota got its name not only because they beat each other black and blue--but did so in at least the last half of the season where the thermometer rarely rose above 40.  And they liked it.  They reveled in it.  They survived it.  And, the still talk about it.
     And so will the players and fans if the game's played in a blizzard on February 2, 2014.
     Honestly, I think we as a society have become comfort junkies.  The thought and likely reality that Super Bowl XLVIII will be cold at best & amid a full scale blizzard at worst is shuddering to many because both scenariors--and any in between-- are uncomfortable.  My response:  so the heck what!!  Football is an uncomfortable game, played in uncomfortable pads and a helmet designed to make sure the player isn't comfortable in a pine box (which could be the result when giving or taking an NFL hit without a helmet, you dig?).   It's a violent game played by violent men.  It's a wonderful diversion--where the violence is on the field and not (generally) in the stands.   It's designed to be uncomfortable and really **needs** to be uncomfortable.  The elements  of wind, rain, mud, cold and snow add to the discomfort, but in a good way--because the elements even things out for the more agile against the bigger and more powerful, for the skinnier guys against the bigger and more powerful, and even the bigger and more powerful against the speedier-guys.  The elements add more elements to the game.  Why not on the game's biggest stage once in awhile?
     Do you remember Week 14 of the season?  The Lions at Eagles game played in a blizzard?  Man, that was fun to watch.  If you missed it, take a gander:

http://www.nfl.com/videos/nfl-game-highlights/0ap2000000294491/Week-14-Lions-vs-Eagles-highlights

   Man, that was fun to watch on TV.  And if I was at the game, it'd be the one I certainly remember being at and would be telling stories over beers for years.  There's also a reason why similar games are etched in history.  Does the name, "The Ice Bowl" ring a bell?  Ding-dong.  Of course it does, as it should.  It was guts action football, with guts action players on the field, and guts action fans in the stands.  And they still talk about it to this day.  It was tough.
   I fear we're losing our toughness--in the name of the comfort of the sub-tropics and domed stadiums.  There's also the money factor.  I know there's concerns that the projected cold and the discomfort it will bring might keep some fans away, that the corporate sponsors will not want to be associated with such discomfort, which would likely mean you'll never see another Super Bowl in a cold weather city's outdoor stadium.   The almighty dollar talks, but in this case, it's saying, "America, you're soft."