Foregone Conclusion

Why?  Why?  Why?  Mike Anderson, Mizzou's head basketball coach recently announced that he would not be accepting a job offer from the University of Oregon to be their head coach.  This past weekend, Coach Anderson met with officials from UO, but made a statement today that he would remain in Columbia.  C'mon, MA! How could you even consider taking over a program you beat by 37 points on December 5th?!

Aside from the money, it is hard to determine why it would be worth the time.  Currently, Coach Anderson makes around $1.5 million per year, but could earn over $2 mil based on the incentives in his contract (he'll make about $1.7 mil based on this past season).  Oregon reportedly offered about $800,000 more as a base salary.  I realize that a figure like that is nothing to sneeze at, but Oregon?  Really?!  Oregon basketball is about as hopeless as the Chicago Cubs.

Over the past two seasons, Anderson's teams have won 54 games with four wins in the Big Dance. That is impressive.  The current recruiting class is ranked as high as 11th by many scouting experts.  Clearly, Mike Anderson knows what he's doing.  He and his coaching style have made a good program even better, so I certainly don't fault any other program for approaching our coach.  But MA is building something here.  Entertaining an offer from a lesser program sends the wrong message.  It gives me the impression that when Alabama (Anderson is from the state of Alabama. In fact, Mizzou hired him away from University of Alabama-Birmingham) fires its coach next year, MA will be gone.  I wonder if next year's crop of recruits think the same thing...

The Mizzou Men's Basketball program is a program that is coming off two straight years in the tournament, and an Elite Eight run a season ago, and overachieving in 09-10 resulted in close loss in the second round of the Big Dance.

This program appears to approaching a level that many programs strive for, and I realize that a raise is a raise, and $800k is a huge raise by any measure.   But who likes to start a difficult project over from scratch before the initial task is even completed?  That's what he would've been doing if he'd taken the job at Oregon - starting over.  He would've been hitting the reset button and taking a step backward.  Although Mizzou loses the Battle of Rich Alumni, Oregon's basketball program is nowhere near the prestige that Missouri holds.

(Even Phil Knight's Nike money doesn't compete.)

Ultimately, I think he would've just been getting paid to lose.  $2.5 million to recruit against (and lose to) Arizona, Cal, UCLA and Washington. It's hard to recruit good players to play basketball at Oregon.

The Pac-10 is a lesser conference than the Big 12.  The Pac-10 had only two teams make it to the NCAA Tournament last month.  The Big 12 had seven.  That means that the Big 12 had six times as many teams earn a chance to compete for a National Championship.  Mizzou is a better team in a better conference.

Oregon basketball averages 7800 fans, while Mizzou brings about 13800 to each home game.  A bigger fan base means that more games will be televised. More exposure means more revenue and better recruits.

                                                                           OR







There just is no comparison.

Duck! Duck! Goose!

Let me start by apologizing for my unsanctioned absence from the blogosphere.  Though I've been unemployed for exactly one month, I've been unusually busy. On to today's entry...

A day or so ago, Faith and I decided that it would be fun to visit our favorite spot to feed fish.  There's a man-made pond in Glen Carbon that is home to some of the largest Koi I've ever seen.  We make a handful of trips each year to this spot.  We like to relax and feel the breeze and watch the fish wrangle food from each other. This week has some rather uncharacteristic scheduling conflicts, so my little princess and I decided that today after school would give us a great opportunity to hang out and do some fish-feeding.  So this morning as I prepared her breakfast and packed her lunch, I also gathered a sack of unwanted bread-type items from the cabinet: old dinner rolls, the last few Cheez-Its, the end pieces of a couple of loaves of bread, etc.

We both were excited about what we had planned since it had been seven or so months since we'd last been to the pond.  I was happy that the middle of my day had passed so quickly, and that it was time to pick her up from school.

As the school bell rang, Faith ran out of the doors, and grabbed my hand to head to the car.  She double-checked with me that I had brought the bag of soon-to-be-fish-food because she wanted to go straight there. I answered yes, and she began gabbing about some of the things that had happened during her day.  We hopped in the car, let the windows down, and continued to talk as we rode.  Little did we know that our innocent plans were about to be derailed by a team of rogue birds.

I noticed as we got close to the pond that there were more ducks and geese milling around than usual. They were strutting around, nibbling at the grass, and waiting...

As I parked, I noticed a few of them noticing me.  Something felt weird. I hurried around the car to open Faith's door, and we moseyed down the ramp toward the dock.  As we strolled, so did a few ducks... accompanied by a few geese. As Faith and I walked hand-in-hand, we noticed a few geese up ahead.  They stood there like tough-guy gate-keepers.  I felt like I was in a dark alley somewhere. Conflict was brewing...

(I was NOT feeling lucky today.) 

About 15 feathered bullies closed in on us, eyeing my bag of goodies, and my heart began to race.  Faith looked up at me with an intimidated and concerned look. She hugged my waist tightly. I made eye contact with a rebel mallard. It felt like High Noon at the OK Corral, but I wouldn't be calling any bluffs.

As we slowly and cautiously turned to head back to the car, I yelled "Run!  Get to the car!" Faith took off to the car and reached safety as I bolted to the other side and got in too.

They followed us to the car!  Honking and quacking, they had us surrounded. There had to be more than 20 geese and ducks honking, quacking and flapping their wings in anticipation. It was like a twisted horror movie.  Here we are, in the middle of the afternoon, trapped in my car at a pond by a posse of poultry.  And beside ourselves with fear.  Never have I been so afraid of a toothless animal as I was with that pack of grissled geese overly aggressive ducks.

In a last gasp of desperation, Faith suggested a diversion.  She advised me to toss some crumbs across the street in order to clear a path to the pond.  These birds were hip to our game.  As I tossed bits of old dinner roll, one at a time, the ducks and geese took turns retrieving the morsels.  This gaggle of roughians weren't letting us out of that car.

I concluded that I wasn't in the mood to get punked by a team of roughbeaks.

Spelling, Bees and Birds

We try to limit Faith's daily television intake. Partly because there's a lot of trash on television and partly because my wife believes television will rot her brain and partly because Faith has an insane amount of bring-home activities at her school.  This kid has a reading assignment every day.  I think I was only reading at home once a week when I was in first grade.

For those that know the dynamics of our marriage, you know that I'm more laid-back than the more-beautiful half of our lovely union.  So long as she has her school work done, I'll let Faith watch as much TV as she wants. After all, I can't park myself in front of an episode of SportsCenter but deny my daughter her Disney Channel. That's like grabbing a cookie out of the cupboard and enjoying it right in her face while she is forced to finish her veggies.

I was one of those kids that did nothing but watch TV and play video games when it was too cold to play outside. I went to public school, as opposed to my privileged offspring, and had no educational obligations outside of school in first grade so I indulged myself on hours upon hours of uninterrupted inactivity after school. I admit to being a pretty lazy kid, so I have sort of bought into my wife's program.  Plus, I was a fat, fat kid.  Thanks to hours of couch potatoing and ridiculous amounts of Kool Aid (there will be no visual proof of my obesity, you'll just have to take my word for it).

Last Monday after her bath, Faith and I decided to surf the channels for some good ol' animated entertainment. Upon realizing that cartoons are quite scarce at 8 pm, I happened to flip past a movie I'd heard about.  Akeelah and the Bee. I never had much interest in this movie. Despite the buzz when it came out on dvd, Faith was too young to understand much of it and I had no interest in a movie about the National Spelling Bee. However, something about the scene made me want to stop and watch, but I was met with opposition from a diminutive voice seated next to me. 

When I asked her why she didn't want to watch, Faith was unable to provide an answer, simply offering 'Because.' Well, I don't accept that from children. I'm a taxpayer, and half the reason this kid even exists. If this kid wants to disagree with me, it better be for more than just because. So I respond, "'Because' isn't a reason."  We played that game for a couple of rounds before I finally laid down the Trump Card, and let her know that if she couldn't give me a real reason that this movie wouldn't be adequate entertainment, we'd watch it until she could.

I realized that I seemed like a remote-bully. I didn't taunt her so much as I wasn't willing to consider any other viewing options until she could verbalize an adequate reason to not watch.  Trust me, my intentions were good. I promise. Plus, there was nothing else on.

As the scene unfolded, I determined that this was a movie that Faith needed to see.  I needed her to see another little girl having a tough time with something.  She needed to see a real, flesh and blood human girl fight through adversity.  Not a computer-generated Barbie with her talking bird, or pencil-drawn perfection from Disney.  There was a real, human lesson to be learned here, and I'd be doggone if she didn't learn it.

Part of the beauty of this movie is that the star and major co-stars are black.  We don't get a lot of that in my house.  It's important to me that Faith isn't too sheltered from diversity.  I'll admit that I initially thought that she didn't want to watch because the little girl on the screen didn't have blonde hair.

I resolved to have my first discussion about race...  with my seven year-old...  I felt a boiling confidence that I would pass a milestone by having a deep, heart-to-heart with my little princess.  I was confident that we would bond further through this impartment of knowledge from lion to cub.  I eagerly sent her off to brush her teeth as I readied my words and planned the course of the upcoming talk.

As a man, I can talk sports with the best of them.  I can negotiate a car deal all day long. I can talk music, shoes, religion, barbecue recipies - articulating the differences in skin color to my kid's innocent little mind was like explaining to Julie why I didn't take the trash out yesterday before I left for work... my words made sense to me, but I still saw that what-the-heck-are-you-talking-about look on her face.

I tried to be strategic.  I began by asking a few exploratory questions that lead us down the path to the societal construct of race. I tried to soften the entry by mentioning the fact that none of her dolls have dark skin and none of her favorite movies have many dark-skinned characters. When I asked Faith if she didn't want to watch the movie because of the girl's brown skin, she answered no. She sort of got defensive about it. She said, "Daddy, Grandma has brown skin. And so does Nick (my nephew). And Uncle (cousin) Jon....." After she rattled of a few more names of friends and family, I felt silly. My child was basically reminding me that many of the people she loves and interacts with looked just like the people on television. She let me know that yes, she sees the differences in people and their physical features but doesn't care.

I was beaten.  I anticipated being able to empart some knowledge.  I wanted to be able to explain away any conceived notions that she may have had.  Despite my initial disappointment at a potentially missed opportunity to establish open lines of communication between father and daughter, I found myself somewhat relieved that she hasn't learned how to stereotype yet, and that her innocence is still intact.

It's kind of endearing that she calls black people 'brown'  because the actual skin color is brown.  She doesn't know that daddy is supposed to jump higher and run faster than her friends' dads because I'm darker than they are, she just thinks I'm awesome.  Evidently, I'm awesome at everything except sit-down, heart-to-heart talks.  I stumbled and stammered through a conversation about a spelling bee.  What am I going to do when the conversation is about the birds and the bees?

Hot Dog Thanksgiving

I'm not much of a "TV guy." If I'm in front of the tube, you can bet that I'm either watching a game, highlights of a game, or playing a game. I will occasionally enjoy some History Channel or an episode of Seinfeld, but certainly not the Food Channel.

Earlier this week, the beautiful Mrs. Mayfield and I had our lives changed forever.  We were laying in bed watching television.  Julie had tuned to a show called "Man Vs. Food."  I had heard about it, but I don't think I've ever seen it. The show was touring the East Coast.  There were some delicious pizzas of course, burgers and hot dogs.  Hot dogs.  I'm typically not a hot dog guy.  I like steaks and burgers mostly.  I find these two types of cow to be the most grillable.

I grill a lot. I mean a lot.  Last summer, I grilled every Sunday dinner except for three (I only missed those three days because of being out of town.) Despite the subject of smothered burgers and toasted buns, I wasn't paying much attention. I was mostly fantasizing about the pretty lady lying next to me, and planning my pick up line. Then I heard him mention bacon.  Bacon is God's gift to us humans.  Everything is better with bacon. Iwould eat bacon on dog food.  I would eat a bacon and hair sandwich. Suddenly, my focus shifted from my wife's short shorts to the sizzling swine on the screen. My eyes bulged and my mouth dropped open. The chef was adding bacon to a hot dog topped with barbecued pulled pork, cheddar cheese and an extra dab of barbecue sauce for good measure.  It was love at first sight, and the Lord answered my prayers.

(Yes, it's as good as it looks!)

Today, we were blessed the warmest day of the year 2010.  My wife saw it coming, and planned for me to fire up the grill.  She planned a hot dog bar complete with chopped onions, shredded cheese, cheddar cheese, sprouts, slaw, relish, salsa, guacamole, chili, sour cream, and of course ketchup and mustard.  She had researched some hot dog recipes online, and made sure that we had every ingredient for any conconction a person's heart could desire on a bun. Did I mention that I grilled the bacon?  The sound of bacon sizzling on the grill made me feel like I was hearing for the first time.  It was lovely.

(Faith's Macaroni Dog)

But not nearly as beautiful as the sight of two dogs smothered in pulled pork, grilled bacon and cheddar cheese. There was party in my mouth that could hardly be contained. I was truly enjoying the enjoyment. I found myself eating long after the feeling of fullness.  It was reminiscent of a Thanksgiving feast.  The need to sample some of everything left me euphorically stuffed.

(Onions+avocado+sprouts+salsa= The California)

As Duke gets ready to host North Carolina, I find that the previous four hot dogs are making room for more guests at the party.

Not A Tiger. Just A Man.

I just can't take anymore of the Tiger-bashing. I'm bored with all of this scrutinizing and inaccurate psychoanalysis.  The fact that Tiger Woods turned his back on his faith and had a previously-unfathomable amount of extra-marital affairs has been over emphasized.  The fact that his personal choices have damaged his earning power has also been overstated.  The recent topic of 'sex addiction' has pushed me to a point that all of these so-called professional journalists have to be put in their place.

Tiger doesn't have a sex addiction.  Personally, I don't believe there is such a thing.  An addiction would indicate that he is incapable of refusing sex.  Though a couple of Tiger's mistresses were less-than-appealing in my opinion, and there is an astounding amount of them, it seems as though he was somewhat selective.  I would argue that this presentation of evidence refutes addiction claim. How?  Not a one of them is black or Asian or Hispanic. He hand-selected these women.  Crackheads won't turn down a rock that isn't the 'right' color. They don't shy away from a dealer because the dude looks shady.  That's an addiction.

(A PB & rock sandwich. Is it 5 o'clock?)

What Tiger has is a complex. It's a complex borne of life-long success which has resulted in an addiction to the word 'yes.' This addiction to the affirmative is an affliction that many successful people encounter and struggle with. I'm not limiting this to world-class, nationally recognized people.  Anyone that has been a big fish in their pond could fall victim.  And the size of the pond doesn't matter. Big fish like to get their nibbles. For a long time, even I couldn't stand being told 'no.'  I was a spoiled kid, and a standout athlete.  I got used to getting what I wanted, when I wanted from someone.  A pair of shoes from my grandma. Wrestling tickets from my uncle. You think Tiger Woods got more or less first-class treatment than me?  Exactly. That's where this situation comes from.  He said it himself. 'I knew my actions were wrong. But I convinced myself that normal rules didn't apply. I never thought about who I was hurting. Instead, I thought only about myself.' 

Consider all of the politicians, movie stars and other athletes that have been caught with their hands in the cookie jar: Martin Luther King, Jr, Bill Clinton, Jesse Jackson, JFK, Michael Jordan, Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O'neal, Wesley Snipes, Hugh Grant, Charlie Sheen, even Tiger's dad! I could go on and on.  These men weren't necessarily unhappy with their wives. Nor were they ill with a sex sickness.  Ego was the problem.  These are highly competitive people with an aversion to being told no for anything, which probably began somewhere around grade school.  Money, power and fame clouded their judgement... but they all recovered.  Some got divorced. Some were able to stay married.  But their recoveries all began with an apology.

(Ladies' man.)

While I commend him for his apology's content, not missing a chance to acknowledge everyone affected by this (with the exception of any of the hussies that blew the whistle on him in the first place). The lack of true emotion leaves me with an odd feeling.  I realize that Tiger isn't as charismatic as many of the mega-endorsers happen to be, I'm sure he's human enough to be sorry and really mean it. I liked the fact that his press conference was limited to a lone statement by him, and not followed by questions. This ordeal doesn't need anymore circus-like media frenzy. Really, he doesn't owe any answers anyway.  Personal mistakes don't require public apology. However, if you ever find yourself on television apologizing for something you got caught doing three months ago, I suggest making your production believable. He came accross as robotic. I interpreted his apology as an apology for getting caught.

Tiger's gonna have to play a lot of golf over the next 30 years because
 Elin's taking his kids and a lot of his money with her. 

Situations like this frustrate me about our society. We're so quick to dismiss someone's shortcomings or flaws as illness.  I'm not saying that his persecution is unjust because I believe that it is, but I'm not onboard with trivializing his choices by classifying them as a glitch or minor imperfection or as something that can be cured. Tiger made bad choices because he wanted to make them.  In the back of his mind, he thought that he had enough money and fame to cure the evils he was subjecting himself to.  Life is about choices. The choices a person makes will shape their life, and there's no reset button.  If Tiger's truly sorry, then this personal hell he's created isn't going anywhere.

Not only does he have to re-invent himself, he has to prove himself all over again. He's going to have a line to walk for a while. When Tiger comes back to golf, he has to win.  If he wants his endorsements back, if he wants the media to relax, if he wants to off-set that child support and alimony, he has to win. A lot.

I'd Rather Be A Cat Uncle Than A Cat Daddy

17 months of marriage have taught me a lot of things. I've learned survival tips.  I've learned hair tips (more than just split-ends).  Maintaining a household is hard work.  Something always needs to be budgeted: time, money, energy. Many of these things I expected to learn over time. Before I took the oath, made the promise, and said goodbye to Single Craig, I had a pretty good idea that I was about to be whipped into shape.  I had no idea that I was gonna get tag-teamed by my wife, daughter and the pets. Yes, the pets. What makes it worse it that I hate pets.  Actually, I don't hate pets. I just don't like mine.

I am not an animal-hater.  Generally, I like animals.  That's not true. I don't really like animals, I just don't mind them. Although, I have to say that our animals are pretty well-behaved. My dog doesn't bark like crazy and disturb the neighbors.  The cat has had his front claws removed, so he's not tearing up stuff. I know my dog can't help being a dog, but I find myself loathing his canine instincts and behaviors (he licks everything). Or perhaps it's the combination of a dumb dog and a fat cat.

I didn't have too big of a problem with my wife's cat before we got married. After all, we didn't live together, so I was only around the cat for a few hours while at her apartment.  I wasn't a part of the vet bills, or litter box cleanings, or the incessant meowing at 3am.  I was only around during the fun part.  I never noticed the cat's hair coating half of every exposed surface in the house.  I didn't think much of the cat jumping up on counter tops, book shelves or tv stands.  I was the uncle that didn't see the problem with letting the kids eat an entire box of Nerds for lunch only to send the unlucky parents home with sugared-up brats.

Now I notice cat hair on my clothes and in my sandwich. I notice that he's tracked kitty litter to places where I don't want to think about what may have caused the litter to stick to his feet.  This is the same cat that managed to smear poop on me in my sleep once, so I have a pretty good idea why the litter has made it up the basement steps. He also nearly threw up on my face one sleepy night.  Needless to say, Max (the cat) and I haven't had a very trusting relationship.

(The cat was probably trying to steal her breath.)

My animal-related ignorance got me into deeper trouble when I opted to buy my daughter a puppy.  Yikes! What was I thinking? I brought it on myself.  I set myself up.  I gave my wife the impression that I wanted to be a pet owner. Hindsight tells me that I should've known better.  Of the 29 years of my life prior to marriage, I'd owned a pet for about three months. Less than 1% of my life had been spent caring for (and tolerating) an animal.  Though I did have a pretty cool fish tank for a few years, my experience with non-people is almost nil.

My wife on the other hand has always had pets.  To her, this is normal.  $400 for their flea medicine (our pets don't have fleas. I wonder how much it would cost me if they did), $250 to get the cat diagnosed with an allergy to grass? Comes with the territory.  Not for me.  It's just that the responsibility and expenses far outweigh the rewards of pet ownership for me. I see these expenses as few pairs of shoes I had to forgo.  Or that pair of designer jeans I couldn't have.  Plus, we still have to feed them.

And clean up after them.  I think this idiot dog gets a kick out of watching me gagging as I scoop his extractions in the back yard. I know Milo loves the fact that I've spent back-breaking hour after back-breaking hour replacing the abundance of plants from our home's previous owner with nice, green grass that he gets to dig up.  Now, instead of the Kentucky Blue I originally planted, we have crabgrass and other weed-like turf.  What a spiteful creature.  Having these pets is like having to do the dishes after a delicious dinner that I didn't get to eat.

(Did I mention that he gets beaten up by the cat?)

It doesn't help that my wife and daughter are ridiculously in love with animals. Not just our animals, but every furry, four-legged something-or-other on earth.  The prime example took place on my honeymoon. My wife  is so animal crazy that she was petting stray dogs in Mexico.  Stray dogs!  In Mexico! These were filthiest, mangiest things I'd ever seen and she was undeterred.  This, from a woman that complains about the germiness of kids at Chuck E. Cheese, was fondling filthy, foreign, orphan animals. Wow.

Now I'm stuck. Two animals that I don't like very much, stand to be members of my household for the next 14 or so years.  That's a long time to be miserable.  I've let my wife know that these are the last two pets I'll ever own.  If one of them scurries out into traffic tomorrow, I would like to dream that I'd be one step closer to pet-freedom.  I bet I'd like them more if they were your pets, not mine.

One Week To Go....

Today feels like December 18th.  December 18th is exactly seven days before Christmas. One week.  By this time, we're all so filled with the Christmas Spirit that our exuberance and giddiness begins to fade and morphs into fatigue and the crankiness of two-year-old before naptime.  I'm not talking about the last week before Christmas when you were a kid. I'm talking about the last week before Christmas as a parent. 

See this is the other side of the coin.  As a parent, it is our responsibility to bury the tree with presents but not mortgage even the slightest element of the lifestyle that we've all gotten used to.  Despite the fact that Jesus' birthday is right around the corner, we have to keep going to work, taking out the trash, paying bills and paying the same amount of attention to normal duties as always.

As a parent, your joy on Christmas day is the living cliche. You have to be happier to give than receive. You have to hope that your best effort produces big smiles, a few 'wow moments' and several 'thank you, daddies.'

Well in this case, it's a week before a big day for Daddy.  The anticipation is mounting.  Despite my anxiety, I have to keep up appearances.  I still have to work hard and pay attention to details at my job, I still have to keep up with reading and writing assignments for my classes, but my head isn't in it.  I'm still driving my mother-in-law's '99 Jimmy. I have to remind myself that I still have a life to live, and people counting on me.

I have to prepare for this event as diligently as I would anything else in my life, except it gets less attention than anything else. I still work eight or nine hours per day and I still have the semester's first round of exams coming up, yet this event could hold more rewards than both.

Maybe it's not like Christmas. Maybe it's my 'Super Bowl.' There is no next year. This is a one-shot deal. My Super Bowl happens the day after the NFL's version.  It has taken serious preparation to get to this point. I have given some big hits along the way, and I've certainly taken my lumps too. It's like the biggest game of my life, except I'm not happy to be here. I need to win. People are watching me. People are rooting for me. My wife is in the stands, and she's cheering the loudest. I'm going to compete with every ounce of my being. There's no consolation. It's not still a great season if I lose.