Wins & Losses

I was reading the other day that Kyle Williams of the San Francisco 49ers had received death threats after his performance in the NFC Championship game. Kyle Williams is the Son of former Major Leaguer and current Chicago White Sox General Manager, Ken Williams––and Ken was the one who revealed this information about his Son.

All I could think about was, "really?"

No one understands what it is to be die-hard fan of your home team than I do. For me, sports kept me out of trouble––most of the time––and was my escape from a single-parent household, gangs and the awkwardness that each and everyone one of us goes through as we grow up. I learned to read the Sports page with my Father at 4 -years-old. I watched the the NBA Finals as a 7-year-old at my best friend's house as the Celtics beat the Lakers AGAIN and then had to endure the taunts and being berated by my friend's family because I was a Lakers fan––they were from Philly so why would they be rooting for the Celtics?––and ran out of their house screaming and with tears running down my face. I would walk from my house to Dodgers Stadium––a little over 4 miles––as much as I could to go watch the Dodgers play from age 12-15. My Mom would pick me up after the game, as the neighborhoods I walked through were rough enough during the day.

My point is this: life and death is not a sport. And your team's winning or losing should not control your emotions––especially if you are NOT PLAYING in "your team's" game. I really changed my emotional connection to my teams––and I'm a USC, Lakers, Dodgers fan that lives on the East Coast––once I had cancer. Oh I still care and get passionate. But if we really need an emotional connection that makes us feel good, I say try to tell someone you love them. Or give them a hug. Or a kiss. Or give them a call.
As long as you're not threatening anyone.

That's a win, every time.

100

I made it.

When I started this blog in July 2008, I had a modest goal that I never told anyone. (Yeah, imagine me not telling anyone anything. Go ahead. Now stop smiling that "no way" smile). I wanted to get to 100 posts. Why? It would mean I would at the very least live another 100 days. Beat cancer's ass day after day after day after day.

July 20 is quite another number. The first walk on the moon, 41 years ago. Bill Singer pitching a no-hitter for the Dodgers in 1970. A game where I bought tickets for me and my Dad to go see––but he couldn't make it so I didn't go. (Still haven't seen a no-hitter live in the 1,000 games I've been to). Which brings me to another July 20 special number––my Dad's 71st birthday.

But another reason for celebration of my 100th post is that I am changing jobs. Gave my 2 weeks notice last Friday. Going to build something from scratch. It's going to be challenging. It's going to be fun. It's going to be strange going to a place where I don't know anyone except for the people I met. And it's going to be the first job I got after cancer. If only you could see the tears of joy and pride on my face. Maybe I'll take a picture and use on my next post.

If I make it.

Trusting Your Gut

We all have an inner voice. Now before you think I still have an imaginary friend at the advanced age of 51, let me explain myself.

I "discovered" I had cancer in the shower. No, it wasn't a previously undetected lump that I discovered. I had a small "bump" on the right side of my jaw, just below my ear which I thought was caused from being sick with a very bad cold. I've posted about this before, but my "inner voice" kept asking me a question: why do I feel like I have cancer? That's some pretty heavy duty shit. And to some, I'm sure, pretty hard to believe. But it's the God's honest truth. If it wasn't, I wouldn't be at the keyboard right now. I'd be six feet under or spread over the outfield of Dodger Stadium as my ashes became a fixture at Chavez Ravine.

But this isn't about that day in the shower that saved my life. This is about having to present myself and my group at work in front of the new Big Boss. And this was a big moment for myself and the group who works with me––and I wanted to crush it and hit it out of the park. (Sorry, I have baseball play-off fever and it's on my mind). We've been doing some really great work lately. And I wanted everyone to know it.

So I agonized. Wrote down stuff. Wrote down stuff others wanted me to say. Got on the defensive. Went on the offensive. Talked to myself––my inner voice was NOT paying much attention at the time––and even juiced up on more caffeine. I wasn't nervous. I was anxious. I love the stage. I love being able to share work that others have created. It's a positive blast to the ego, and we can all use that every now and then, right? Then about 15 minutes before we were on, one of my co-workers walks in and says, "we only have 2 minutes? What do we say that they already don't know?"

After he walked away, my inner voice finally spoke up––about time, rat bastard––and gave me the same advice Denny Kuhr gave me 20 years ago.  Go with what you know. Speak from the heart and the head will follow. Forget trying to script it or spin it or spew out somebody else's words from my mouth. I know this stuff. I live this stuff. I love doing what I'm doing. I don't know exactly where my "inner voice" lives inside my body. My head? My neck? My feet? No.

Right where it should've been all along. Right in my gut.

For Jackie

This is a day that changed the lives of many.

Yes, it's tax day. But more importantly to me, it's the day Jackie Robinson changed society. Today in 1947, Jackie Robinson became the first man of color to play baseball in the Major Leagues. And while he was a great athlete, the way he handled himself and what he stood for was even greater. He was soft spoken, yet powerful. He actually did more during and after his playing career ended in 1956.

He was Director of Community Activities for WNBC and WNBT. He starred in a movie about his life in 1950. And after his playing days with the Dodgers, he became the first African-American executive of a major corporation, Chock Full O' Nuts. He served on the Board of Directors of the NAACP. He built houses for low income families through the Jackie Robinson Construction Company. So what is this, a history lesson? A biography report? What does Jackie Robinson have to do with cancer?

Have you ever been the object of different treatment? Been the only one of your race (or gender) at a party, concert or in a classroom? It's a strange and uneasy feeling. I would get those feelings after I was diagnosed with cancer. People didn't know what to say to me. Some people didn't talk to me anymore. Others would tell me about their friend or relative who had cancer and tell me they know how I feel. Really?

I will never know what it is to be a black man. I will never know what it's like to be a woman. I do know that everything I thought I knew about cancer before I had it, was totally wrong. You cannot truly understand what having cancer is like unless you've survived it or are living with it now. In many ways, it's indescribable. You're body goes through so many changes. The chemo––Erbitux, in my case––gave me blisters all over my face and scrambled my brain. The radiation burned my skin and zapped my energy. My emotions came to the surface. My emotions were buried. My soul ached. Does this even compare to Jackie went through? Does this compare to what people who are different from others have to go through every day? Probably not. But if Jackie Robinson, a player from my favorite team––the Dodgers––could face a lifetime of hate, ignorance and prejudice with class, grace and dignity then I could endure the pain of cancer for however long it will be. A baseball player having that kind of effect on me?

No. A man like Jackie can. And does.