Never Too Old for Hoops

Age is mind over matter.

Like a fierce gladiator going to battle, I wrap the flexible neoprene fabric around my right knee and stretch it till it's comfortably in place.  I reach into a bag and pull out two ankle braces, lace them up and slip on my tennis shoes which contain arch supports.  An elbow strap for compression completes my five minutes of prep and I rise to my feet.

I shut my locker, grab the ball and walk out of the room, which is still stinking from the exertion of sweaty bodies and wet towels.  A blast of fresh air coming from the hallway brings my mind and body into focus, preparing me for the next 90 minutes of exercise. 

As I open the door leading into the Mathy Center gym area, I hear the squeak of shoes on waxed floors followed by the swish of a basketball falling through an overhead net.  A throng of bodies flood the area only to push and shove its way to the other end of the court.  Like a school of fish flashing through water, the assorted bodies surge to one player, then separate only to dart to the left as the ball is passed to a streaking figure who grabs it and banks it through a basket.

I continue to my left, leaving the mass of young players and part a full length curtain that hides another court populated by a very different collection of players.  A group of five men stand around -- their bodies decidedly bent with age, their hair gray and receding, and their demeanor much more relaxed and accommodating.

Upon my arrival, one of the men slaps his hands and asks for the basketball.  "Hey, Ward," I smile and pass him the ball.  "How's the foot?"

With a shrug of his shoulders, he answers "Not good.  I'm looking forward to getting off my feet for a few days and give it some rest."  Like all of these guys, Ward Jones has been playing noon ball for years.  Despite the plantar fasciitis, it hasn't kept him from playing three times a week at Viterbo University with other professors, students and alumni.

These basketball junkies, at one time grade school, high school, or college players, can't get enough of the game of basketball.  I am no different.

As the husband of a Viterbo University alumni graduate, I started coming to the school's gym to play racquetball.  It was free and (unlike the YMCA) courts were available.  At the end of my lunch hour, I started talking to this small group of men who shared the locker room and quickly discovered that my passion for basketball was shared by others.  While my days of hitting a small blue ball continued for many years, the object of my affection quickly changed from the racquetball court to the basketball court.

And for nearly 21 years, noon basketball has become my escape from old age, where magically I'm a young boy again.


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There is nothing better than basketball.

Well, next to my wife and two sons, there's nothing better than basketball.  And even that has been called into question at times, when basketball interferes with vacation and weekend trips.

Where does this obsession come from?

My earliest recollection of playing basketball goes back to fifth grade at First Lutheran grade school in La Crosse.  As I was a tall kid for my class, it didn't take long for our basketball coach, Jerry Grunholz, to track me down and ask me if I'd ever played basketball.   As my coach was to learn, playing basketball was one thing, being good at it was another.  My first game in fifth grade was against the Pioneers of Lewiston, Minnesota.  I came off the bench in the first quarter and was so nervous that the first two balls passed my way slipped right through my trembling hands.  Somehow, my capacity to catch and dribble had been replaced by an inability to catch a bouncing ball.  Two blocks of slippery ice had more trraction than my hands. 

Acknowledging his mistake, Coach Grunholz had me back on the bench for the remainder of the game.  

Despite my sloppy beginnings, I stuck with it.  There was something different about basketball than football, track, swimming and baseball.  I was a good athlete (not fast, but athletic) and my height made it easier to play basketball than other sports.  By the time I reached eighth grade, our "A"team of Bill Juen, Randy Mitten, Tom Grams and Steve Jenkins had beaten the likes of the Mount Calvary Hawks,  the Lewiston Pioneers, and the Nodine Patriots.  I can't say we ever had a good team, but I do remember the excitement of practice and scrimmages, and the thrill of running on court to a full gym of parents and siblings cheering us on.

 I don't know where it came from, but I always had a love for sports -- the Green Bay Packers won the 1967 NFL Championship game against the Dallas Cowboys in what later became known as the Ice Bowl, and I was in front of our television watching it.  As for basketball, I remember watching Notre Dame end UCLA's 88 game winning streak in 1974.  The Fighting Irish beat Bill Walton and UCLA by a score of 71-70.  It represented the first time UCLA had lost a game in more than three years.

 

Yeah, sports was in my blood.  Whereas my older brother and dad would go hunting or fishing, I would spend my time in our driveway shooting hoops, or watching it on television.  I can remember somedays when I would be so excited from watching a game on television, that I would shovel part of our driveway and shoot a few baskets just to get it out of my system.

What began with the First Lutheran Wildcats continued into middle school where I played center for the Longfellow Trojans.  Coming from a small parochial school like First Lutheran meant my competition was upgraded by the likes of Aquinas, Tomah, Sparta, Logan and Lincoln middle schools.  But the game was the same despite the fact that I was no longer one of the tallest player on the court.

At First Lutheran we scrambled to find enough players to make a team.  Not so at Longfellow where we had tryouts to determine who made the team.  I remember the excitement of seeing my name listed on the team  roster along with other boys from the prior year:  Tom Juan, Bill Weber, Paul Mundinger, Matt Venghen, Randy Newton and Dan Michaels.  Being the new kid in school, I felt I had to try harder to prove my value and to let them know I could be counted on.

One memorable game had our team on the brink of losing.  Our better shooters had fouled out and I was one of the few remaining starters as the game wound down.  My hook shot as time expired sent it into overtime, where our team eventually won after a number of my shots kept us in the lead.  You hear about shooters being "in a zone" where everything goes in.  This was one of those games.  I'm not bragging when I say that I couldn't miss, -- believe me -- I had plenty of other games that brought me back to earth.

My memories of that game include running from the court, walking through a gauntlet of cheering students to our locker room.  It was one of the first times I can remember where I felt like people knew who I was.  Coming from First Lutheran in ninth grade, it was hard to make new friends.  Most of my classmates had been together since grade school, so there was a familiarity that I was missing.  I always felt like sports was one of the best ways to make new friends, not only with your teammates, but also with students in class.   All of a sudden, everyone knows you and wants to talk about the game.  I can understand why professional athletes have the egos they do.  Add a couple million dollars to the mix and they think they can do anything.

The following year I tried out and made the high school basketball team at La Crosse Central.  Once again, the competition was tougher, but tryouts went well and I was happy to make the team.  When the season began, however, I discovered that band and basketball practiced at the same time.  Not wanting to give up either, I surprised my coach (and my parents) by quitting the team and playing with my friends on Saturday mornings in a city high school league.  

Initially it was hard giving up the competitive game I'd grown up loving, but I soon discovered that a game between friends was just as much fun.  Playing in the pep band on Friday nights at Central and the Mary E. Sawyer Auditorium kept me close to the high school game -- even if it was from the bleachers.  

Through the remaining years -- in college and after graduation -- I always found a way to track down a game of hoops, both in city leagues and at the Y.  I continue to watch my Wisconsin Badgers fight it out in the Big Ten, and take days off around March Madness to watch the initial rounds of the tournament.  A few of us from noon ball even travel to Madison to watch the boys state tournament.

As I said, there's nothing better than basketball.


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As I spin to the left, I receive the pass with my right hand.  After faking a move to the center of the lane, I drop to the baseline and finger roll the basketball off the back board and into the basket -- game point. 

"Another game we should have won," complains Rick Kyte, walking forward to shake my hand.  "Nice comeback!"

As a professor at Viterbo University, Rick is one of four teachers who are playing basketball today.  The remaining group includes a pastor, a financial planner at Wells Fargo, a journalist for the La Crosse Tribune, an owner of a cleaning business, a CFO for a hospital and a number of retired businessmen.

As is typical for this group, each team consisted of a fairly balanced group of "seasoned" players mixed in with a few students.  Our game has gotten worse with age.  We are trying hard to convince ourselves that we can play with the younger guys next door, but reality has us on the losing side.

It has become a game of attrition for our group -- this has been an especially tough year for some of the players.  Last summer we had one of the retired players suffer a heart attack while waiting to enter the game.  As he lay there -- his heart stopped -- two of us (who luckily were trained in CPR) were pushing on his chest and performing mouth to mouth until the paramedics arrived.  It was the first time I had ever seen something like that, and I'll never forget it.  A few weeks later, another player didn't feel right and he went to see his doctor, who promptly put him into surgery to perform heart surgery.

It's a fine line between our love of basketball and our fear of injury. 

Most of us have suffered broken noses, dislocated fingers, torn rotator cuff injuries and even scratched corneas.  Some wrap their knees, elbows and ankles to keep playing, despite the pain.  I think all of us keep Johnson & Johnson in business one way or the other.

But it's the enjoyment of the friendly competition, the thrill of hitting the winning shot and the camaraderie that keeps us coming back.  Last month, one of the players came to play right after a colonoscopy.  He asked the doctor to back off the anesthesia so he come join us.  The funny thing is all of us understood why...

"Let's go!" shouts Tom Tiggelaar, looking at the clock on the wall.  "We have time for one more game -- let's do it."  As guys grab a last drink of water and gather under the basket, Ron Amel takes the ball at the top of the key and says, "You guys know we only remember the last game, right?"

Maybe for some, I think.  But I remember them all, even the ones I lose.

 

Fire Of The Dragon

A collective sigh of disappointment came from the people around me.

My fingers and wrist were shaking as the sweat and river water dripped from my hand and fell to the bottom of the boat.  Heat rose from my upper body, though my neck to the top of my head.  My life preserver felt constricting, preventing the deep breath my body needed to feel better.  

As I lifted my head and looked to my right, the red-scaled dragon boat sliced to the right and headed back up the river, its crew confident in another victory.

Heat number two was minutes away, and I needed to gather my strength for the last race of the day.

                       

Liz and I were in Dubuque, Iowa to race in the 26th Annual Dubuque Dragon Boat Race.  We were part of La Crosse Dragon Fire

 

, a ragtag team of hard working paddlers who wanted to win against some of Iowa's best dragon boaters.

Dubuque, on the shores of the Mississippi River, has been putting on dragon boat races since 1988, three years after this unique boat racing began spreading throughout the Midwest.  Since its inception, competitors from the U.S., Germany, Italy, New Zealand, Taiwan and Canada have competed for medals in novice, intermediate and elite divisions.  Recently, junior and breast cancer survivor teams have been added.

Our team chose wisely by putting us in the novice division, pitting us against teams from Dubuque and Chatham-Kent (Canada).

Our 18 paddlers (6 men and 12 women)  came from a variety of professions -- none of them professional racing.  We were doctors, nurses and technicians from Mayo Clinic in La Crosse.  We had a yoga instructor (which came in handy for warm ups). Clock and insurance salesmen, and even someone old enough to be retired.  One thing held us together:  pride.  We may not have been experienced dragon boat participants, but we were a determined bunch.

With our padded cycling pants, rowing gloves and water shoes, we had arrived to show the state of Iowa how much La Crosse loved the river.


                                                                                                              

As we paddled upstream to start the second heat, our sweep (at the back of the boat) told us to use a method he called 10-10-2.  Ten long strokes from a dead start, ten quicker strokes once we got going, and then a one-two punch through the middle one-hundred fifty meters.  Then let all hell break loose and go for broke on the final fifty meters.

"But coordinated," Mark said to my left.  "We have to remember that none of that will help if our strokes aren't coordinated."

"We need a good start," said Carolyn, the woman in front of me.  "If we can stay with them at the start, we will take them at the end."

I would be happy if I could get my hand to stop shaking.  It was so tired, that I could barely grasp the paddle.  My thoughts wandered back to our instructor in Winona who told us that if your hand, forearm or biceps was tired, you weren't paddling correctly.  Use the strength in your shoulder to pull through, he said, and your top hand to push down.  You should reach with your paddle, rotate your torso to the middle of the boat and locate your top hand over your lower elbow.  For optimum efficiency, the blade of the paddle needed to be perpendicular to the surface as you pushed through the water.  

"It should feel like you're pulling through cement," he had said.  "Pull and push.  Pull and push."  

I wondered what our drummer and flag puller (sitting quietly in the front of the boat) were thinking as they studied this collection of aging, sweating faces.  They would play a critical part in our finish, and we needed them to have confidence in our ability to paddle our boat smoothly and quickly to the end of the race.  As members of our team, they watched patiently for most of the 300 meter course.  Our sweep needed to position our boat through the currents toward the finish, and our puller needed to lean over the edge of the boat and grasp a flag before the other boat grasped theirs. 

Sounded simple until you stepped into the boat.

                   

 

Dragonboats are the basis of the team paddling sport of dragon boat racing -- an amateur water sport which has its roots in an ancient folk ritual of contending villagers held over the past 2000 years throughout southern China.

While competition has taken place annually for more than 20 centuries, dragon boat racing in the United States is a relatively new sport.

Most dragon boat races consist of a 300 meter course in a 40 foot fiberglass boat, weighing close to 1200 pounds.

In ancient Chinese times, it was believed sacrifices through drowning may have been involved in the earliest boat racing rituals.  During these races, violent clashes between the crew members of the competing boats involved throwing stones and striking each other with bamboo sticks.  Originally, paddlers or even an entire team falling into the water could receive no assistance from the onlookers as their misfortune was considered to be the will of the Dragon Deity which could not be interfered with.  Fortunately, our boats, with a crew of 21, were better sports (with no rocks to throw).

Dragon boats can vary in size, varying from our 40 foot span to ones that hold upwards of 50 or even 80 paddlers, plus a drummer and sweep.

There are also much longer races than the one we were participating in.  Our three hundred meter sprint was nothing compared to others.  The Three Gorges Dam Rally along the Yangtze River near Yichang, Hubei province, China covers up to 100 kilometers (62 miles) and the Ord River marathon in Australia covers over 50 kilometers.  The record holder is a relay event, on the Missouri River with a distance of 340 miles in a mere 38 hours and 5 minutes.


                                                         

As we positioned the boats for our 300 meters, I thought back to how we had gotten here.

In the morning's first two heats, we had gone up against a team called the Mississippi Tailbiters for a chance at a gold, silver or bronze medal.  Our combined time was 176.51, which was four seconds better than Saturday's best time.  But still not good enough to beat the Tailbiters from Dubuque.  So the good news was that we were stronger and faster than before.  The bad news was that we were heading into the consolation race later that afternoon.

At two o'clock, we were lined up against Lot One, a team of novice paddlers of similar age.  I think both teams were disappointed to be where they were, so every effort was being made to finish with a win.

Despite our best efforts (and after the first heat) we found ourselves less than a second behind heading into the second and final heat.  We had struggled with our start time, as half the boat paddled faster than the other.  With poor coordination, the boat struggled to hit its cruising speed, costing us valuable time.  Making matters worse, one of our rear paddlers broke his paddle during the start, reducing the push we desperately needed out of the gate.  Despite the poor start, we fought back.  By the time we reached the end we had made up most of our lost time.

 !

The dragon boat rocked slightly as I heard one of our team members say that our second heat times had been better than our remaining competitor's time.  But as the morning's race had shown, when pushed to compete, time trials were not a good indicator of how the race would go.

It was here and now, I thought -- as we switched lanes and positioned ourselves for the start of the final heat -- that we would find a way to beat this team. 

It was time to have fun.  
Time to hold our heads up and smile.  
Time to win.

                                                            

Our weekend consisted of two time trials on Saturday and then two competitive races on Sunday.  Our first two time trials were against a group of 11th graders (E.D 11th) and a team called Solid Steel.  We did well against the boat of eleventh graders, but reality set in as we faced off against the Dubuque Midtown Marina favorites, Solid Steel Dragon Boat Club.    

Solid Steel has seven boats that compete around the world -- most recently in the 2013 World Dragon Boat Championships in Hungary, where they won two golds, seven silver and 13 bronze medals helping Team USA to a third place finish.

Needless to say, we were intimidated, even though our sweep told us to ignore them.

Time trials involved teams from all three divisions, so we were not actually competing against them.  Easier said than done, as I found myself repeatedly watching their deep, strong strokes.  Their coordination was machine like, complete with a video camera attached to their drummer.  Our quess was that they used the video to train and monitor paddlers who were out of sync.  It was the only race where we were swamped by the wake created by the other dragon boat.  

But we were able to see how much hard work and coordination would be necessary to beat the teams that were in our division.  Sunday's race would tell us if we were good enough to medal, or bad enough to go home early.

                                                     

I tried not to look at the paddlers of Lot One, but the temptation was too great --  I wanted to know if they looked tired, triumphant or worried.  I quickly realized our competition looked just like us.  Some faces were drawn and tired.  Others were determined and eager for another chance.  A few were trying to encourage others by telling them to "give it their all" and "fight through the pain."  But as both boats settled into their race positions -- paddles forward -- a quiet settled over the dock area.  Everyone knew what they needed to do.  It was going to come down to who did it better.

The powerful, dual tone air horn blasted through the humid air.  I sunk my paddle to the hilt, pulled through the water and lifted.  Grunts and shouts of  ONE!  TWO!  THREE!  FOUR!  FIVE!  SIX!  SEVEN!  EIGHT!  NINE!  TEN! escaped each paddler.  My eyes were focused on Susan, our pace setter in the front of the boat, and I tried to follow her lead with every reach, rise, and push of the paddle.  

Another ten shouts and our boat hit its cruising speed.   Paddling became easier and the pace of our strokes increased.  The boat to our right appeared to be slightly ahead, despite a better start from our team.  A float passed by marking the first 100 meters, then a second as we continued to push.  The boats were side by side as a cry rose out from our boat to PUSH, PUSH, PUSH!  From the back of the boat someone was yelling PULL, PULL, PULL!  

It was the final fifty meters when our boat took its first lead of the race -- albeit a small one.  

 

Giving it my all, I continued to dig my paddle into the river, pulling water and paddle out only to drop it quickly into the water again and again.  It seemed to me that all sound had gone out of the world -- I could see lips moving, arms rising and paddles diving into the water, but I couldn't hear anything.  So focused on what I was doing, I shut out all sounds except my breathing and my heart as it pounded in my chest.
Suddenly a cheer from shore broke through the silence as our boats flashed past the finish line and our flag puller grabbed our flag.  By the smallest of margins, it appeared to me that we had taken the flag first.  But who knew...  The winning decision was still minutes away as the announcer waited for the final electronic results.

Heads sagged and bodies leaned forward as our boat coasted through a gentle turn.  We held our breathe in anticipation of the results.

Minutes later, the announcer spoke again.  "With a second heat of 87.03 seconds, the La Crosse Fire Dragons have a combined time of 174.73 seconds.  Lot One has a final time of 87.79 seconds and a combined total of 174.76 seconds."

At first my mind was too tired to understand what that meant.  Seconds later, our team let our a roar as we realized we had won by a total of .03 seconds.  The amount of time it takes for me to blink my eye was all that separated our win from a loss.

We had come to Dubuque looking for fun.  In the end, all of us left looking for win number two.

Losing Our Way

A few weeks ago, Jason Collin's gay coming out party made the cover of "Sports Illustrated," and virtually every newscast on the planet.  Today's article by the reigning NFL's most valuable player, Adrian Peterson, barely made a ripple.

Peterson, a running back for the Minnesota Vikings, told Sirius/XM NFL Radio last week that gay marriage "was not something I believe in."  Peterson made his comments when asked about his thoughts on the Vikings cutting longtime punter Chris Kluwe, an outspoken advocate for gay rights and gay marriage.

Peterson has been kicking Packer butt for years.

While Peterson agreed that it hurt to see his good friend leave the Vikings, he made it clear he differs with the punter on the issue of gay marriage.

"To each his own, (but) I'm not with it," he said.  "I have relatives who are gay.  I'm not biased towards them and I still treat them the same.  I love them, but again -- I'm not into that.  That's not something I believe in.  But to each his own."

Peterson concluded with, "I'm sure the Vikings organization didn't release him based on (his outspoken nature).  They know Kluwe, and they've known him for a long time."

With Minnesota becoming the 12th state to legalize gay marriage, and set to begin conducting same-sex weddings on August 1, you would think this would be big news.  Predictably, it wasn't.  I stumbled upon it while reading "Bleacher Report," a blog for Wisconsin Badger fans.  I had to search for the story on the ESPN website and other sports related sites.

The Vikings new uniforms were bigger news than this.

Why is it that an aging, out of work basketball player can announce he's gay, and the whole sports world (and most of the mainstream media) go nuts, but the reigning MVP of the most popular sport on television says he's "not with it" and it barely registers?

Is it because it doesn't fit our media's social engineering profile?

I tried to find information on the percentage of sports athletes in favor / against gay marriage.  Yahoo's search engine pounded out the results, with 99% of available links showing some type of support for gays.  They went something like this:  Pro Athletes Take a Stand Against Homophobia in Sports, Discrimination Against Gay Athletes On Sports Agenda, and A History of Athletes Saying Terrible Things About Gay People."  Do you think I could find anything in support of heterosexual marriage in sports?  Not until page three, and then it was a small blurb about Adrian Peterson's comments.

The results didn't provide supporting evidence for OR against gay marriage.  It just scrambled everything positive about gay issues to the front of the line.  In case you didn't know it before, you do now.  Search engines are as biased toward liberal results as is everything else these days.

If anyone should be crying "bias!" it should be quarterback Tim Tebow, who has been criticized for his religious beliefs by sports media since the day he was drafted by Denver in the first round of the NFL draft.  In his brief football career, Tebow has been criticized for wearing his faith on his sleeve.  Gay journeyman Jason Collins wears his sexual preference on his sleeve and gets calls from President Obama and ESPN.

Tebow doesn't cause problems with other players or get into trouble with the law.  He sets a great example for youngsters and has the type of values that should be welcomed in every locker room.  He boasts 2.2 million followers on Facebook and has been named by Americans as the pro athlete who holds the most influence with the public.  Yet he is out of a job, following his dismissal from the New York Jets.  Who do you think will get a job first -- Tebow or Collins?  And who will get the blame if a team doesn't pick them?

I think you know the answer.

1973's Battle of the Sexes

It's been one gay victory after another this year.  The overwhelming push coming from the Progressive left -- including sport media and big time political donations (sometimes 5 to 1 in favor of gay marriage) -- has states like Minnesota ignoring the voting majority and passing laws to allow a  new definition for marriage.  Money speaks, especially in sports.

To the left, sports like football, basketball and baseball continue to represent a new frontier.  In the past, they have pushed  racial equality (even though most of the NFL is black), equality of the sexes (remember the "Battle of the Sexes" where Bobbie Riggs played Billy Jean King in tennis in 1973), and Title IX  which forced a certain ratio of women's sports for every men's sport in college.

Today, the physical, snot-busting, winner-take-all entertainment of major league sports needs to become less dangerous and more politically correct.  Progressives want to change sports from "a pursuit of victory" to a "guarantee of victory."

At the athletic facilities of West Point Military Academy you will find these words:  "Upon the fields of friendly strife are sown seeds that on other fields, on other days, will bear the fruits of victory."  Never have those words rung more hollow than today.   Liberals have taken away most of the fun that came with childhood recess --  no more dodgeball and please don't keep score because it may hurt someone's feelings -- and now they're trying to change America's most popular sports.

If the left continues to push for social change in sports -- and they will -- football and basketball will never be the same.  Showing athletes as "pioneers in social change" would make me laugh, if it didn't hurt so much.  And calling "for an end to homophobia in sports" paints a picture of intolerance, abuse and vitriol that simply doesn't exist.

Unfortunately -- NFL lawyers, players' union leaders, and the bureaucrats in Washington -- will not give up.  It's what they live for.  With a younger draft of NFL players coming into the league every year, eventually things will change.

As Adrian Peterson's comments show, the left only keeps score if their side is winning.

Nifty Fifty

Turning fifty is a traumatic experience for some people.  Take my wife, for example.

She turned 50 last June and felt a significant change in the universe when her internal clock moved from 49 to 50.  If she was captain of the starship Enterprise, we would have just come out of some worm hole into an alternate time zone where days pass much quicker, and your hair turns gray and wrinkles appear overnight.

Earlier this year, Liz traveled to Mexico
looking for the Fountain of Youth.
She found a beautiful hat instead.

It must be a female condition, because most guys I know look at it as another reason to celebrate.  Throw a party and see how long you can last.  Buy a car, put the top down and see how fast it will go.

I had no such shift in reality.  When I turned 50, I decided to grow a beard to mark my age in pictures that will live on for years to come.  The idea was to grow it for a year , but now I've decided to mark the decade, not just my 50th year.  That way when I hit 60, I'll shave it off and look ten years younger.  I can start my fifties all over again.

Turning a certain age will make you re-evaluate your life and in doing so make you realize that you need another 50 years to do all the things you haven't gotten to yet.  That means you have to stay healthy and find a way to do it without going broke.

Staying healthy is never an easy thing, especially when you get older.  Years ago, Liz and I took an exercise class called Combat Endurance Training.  If it sounds tough, that's because it was.  Created by some marine workout junkies, our instructor had us doing things to our bodies that only masochists would enjoy.  After about three years, we got tired of our internal organs feeling sore all the time, so we quit.

This year, as a result of turning 50, she teamed up with a friend from Trane company to work with a personal trainer.  As part of her training, she has been challenged to try things like eating vegetarian for a week, doing 100 push ups each day for a week, and running a 5K race.  Having successfully conquered the first two challenges, she enlisted my "expertise" in preparing for the Festival Grandad, Three Rivers 5K race, held in La Crosse on May 4th.

After contemplating the personal risk I was taking (Liz has been known to throw shoes at me while walking, I could only imagine what she would do running), I convinced her that we needed to train outside.  Get off the treadmill, leave the "Ease Into 5K" app on the IPad and hit the pavement.  For my running routine, I would get up early and run around the track at Central High School.  Not the most exciting thing to do, but for someone who had never run a quarter mile -- much less 3.1 miles -- I thought it would provide an easy way to gauge her progress, one lap at a time.

Our first obstacle was the weather.  In Wisconsin this year, spring decided to take a holiday, leaving winter in charge of the weather.  We had snow and 20 degrees into the first week of May.  But like all obstacles, you can either take another path, or put on your shoulder pads and knock it down.  Liz reluctantly chose the pads.

On a nice Sunday morning, with two weeks to go until the race, and with temperatures in the low 40's, we put on our Under Armor sweats and our Saucony Ride 2 tennis shoes and headed over to the track.  For our first outing, I thought we would try a mile to see how she did.  After a leisurely lap, Liz was breathing hard, so after another 1/2 lap we decided to walk to the end of lap two.  At that point, the "Ogden" in her must have kicked in because she continued running through the first mile and half way through the second, before we took a breather.  Another quarter lap later, she pushed on until we reached our twelfth and final lap.  I didn't bother keeping track of time, because I didn't think we'd run the entire three miles.

Our second outing involved running the scheduled route from Riverside Park, through downtown and to the La Crosse River path before finishing at the park again.  I felt familiarity with the course would make it easier for Liz on race day.  What I didn't realize was that it would make it harder for her before the race.  La Crosse is laid out with Riverside Park low next to the river, then gradually rising all the way to the bluffs.  So, one of the toughest parts of the race is at the beginning, where you have to climb a persistent hill before leveling off three blocks into downtown.   Liz and hills get along as well as Superman and kryptonite, so my claims to her that she was "doing great" fell on deaf ears.

Once we leveled off, she did better, but not to the degree that other runners seemed to enjoy.  We encountered two groups of young,  quick and graceful runners trotting past us, some even with baby strollers in tow.  They were laughing and talking, and I could feel her disappointment grow as we slowed to a trot barely faster than a walk.  By the time we returned to Riverside Park, over 40 minutes had passed, which was slower than she had hoped.  Despite my best attempts at telling her she had just completed the full 3.1 miles without stopping, she showed no signs of confidence.  Even her favorite breakfast at The Hungry Peddler didn't help.

Our final attempt to train for the race was back at Central's track, where we decided to run  a mile and a half.  My thinking was to conserve her energy (the race was in four days) and to help her overcome the initial "wall" she had encountered earlier.  Success was tempered by her frustration at anything I said, especially the attempts to push her harder.  "I'm not cut out for running," "Don't tell me what I can do!" and "Do you want to sleep on the couch tonight?" slid out of her mouth as easily as the sweat from her face.

I wasn't worried -- because we had a very comfortable couch.

The final piece to her 5K training was to put together a playlist that she could listen to.  I'm sure she was thinking that music would make the pain of running a little easier to take.  The bad news is, nothing makes the pain less.  Your mind may like listening to "The Love Shack" by the B-52s, but your legs still send signals to your brain that scream WHY AM I DOING THIS?  IT SUCKS!

Nonetheless, we spent an evening putting together some of her favorite songs, like "Panama" from Van Halen, "Girls Got Rhythm" by AC/DC, "Dancing With Myself" by Billy Idol  and others from when we used to head to the bars at 10:30 after work.

I just hoped Travis Tritt's "T-R-O-U-B-L-E" wasn't a sign of things to come.


                                             *                              *                          *


Race day arrived with temperatures in the high 30s and a threat of rain.  Ideal conditions if you were a duck on the first day of duck hunting season.  Or an incumbent politician hoping for a low voter turnout.

Once a champion, always a champion.

Arriving the night before was a good friend, Lu Ann Jordan who had participated in the Danskin triathlons a few years earlier.  Liz initially thought it would be fun to run with her, but as the race approached and she continued to struggle with her time, I think she was having second thoughts.

Nonetheless, Saturday morning dawned, and LuAnn, Liz and I prepared ourselves for the race.  Weather called for rain, so we didn't know what to expect.  And the wind was chilling whatever moisture was in the air.

Finally, it was time to line up. As we reluctantly left the  protective cocoon of the warming tent and shuffled to the starting gate, my thoughts wandered to Monroe, Wisconsin 28 years earlier.

I was remembering a day I ran with Liz's dad back when I was just starting to date her.  It was a hot and windy day, and Don was out to prove to his future 26-year old son-in-law that he could run further and faster.  He couldn't have been much over 50, but he ran like he was 35.  Like all things that he did,  Don couldn't settle for second place.  Before the hour-long run was over, I was bent over, sucking for air and he was running up the stairs to his house, well ahead of me.

While Liz didn't share the same competitive spirit that her dad had, she was still his daughter, and I was confident that she would not back down from the challenge.

With the start, everyone rushed from the gate and headed around Riverside Park.  LuAnn quickly jumped ahead and increased her speed.  I could sense the panic in Liz as she watched men, women and children run past us, almost effortlessly.  I had tried to warn her that some runners make the mistake of running too hard at the beginning of the race, then suffer toward the end.  Adding to the risk was Liz's choice of music now pounding in her ear buds -- I could literally hear Nickleback's "Burn It To The Ground," coursing through her body.

We continued up the hill on State Street, then turned by my office onto 6th, as more and more people streamed past.  As we continued through the intersection I could hear her say, "I've got to stop..."  But after a few quick jumps, she pushed on and we crossed the first mile marker at a little over twelve minutes.  As is often the case, your mind shuts down and your legs carry you through the next mile. Then we hit the La Crosse River trail for the final mile of the race.  With sweat running from her face, Liz slowed, trying to catch her breath.  With the chords of "Girls Gone Wild" on her IPod, she was off again straining to keep up with the distant crowd that was now turning past the Grandstay Residential Suites on Front Street.

As wonderful as the thought of finishing a race is to your tired body, the final stretch leading up to that point can be shear agony.  I could tell the stretch of Front Street that leads to Riverside Park was becoming unbearable for Liz.  I tried telling her she was almost done, but I don't think I was registering on her radar anymore.  All she could think about was the painful breathing and tired legs.

But in true fashion for anyone facing the reality of turning 50, she somehow found the extra energy that screamed, I'M NOT QUITTING NOW!  Putting aside the pain, she rounded the final bend and focused on the finish line.  As we crossed that line, approximately 6,680 strides later, the race clock above us indicated 38 minutes and 28 seconds.

By my calculation, it was an improvement of over two minutes from only a week earlier.  Not bad for someone who used to say she couldn't run.

Now if I can just get her to climb that hill on Hwy 33.

High Anxiety

I have a good friend who called me this weekend (twice) to talk about two big football games -- the Wisconsin/Michigan State BIG TEN championship game in Indianapolis, and the Giants/Packers game in New York.

 

In both instances, he had called to sound alarms about the condition of his heart and the sanity of his mind, as both games literally went down to the last minute of play.  "I had to get out of the house and go to the grocery store," he said, as a way to get away from the anxiety of the game.  Not surprising, I thought.  Paul is quick to switch channels in the second quarter if the game is not going well, only to tune in later to see if things have improved.  And he usually needs something in his hands during the game just for something to do.  Come on, I thought, it's just a game.  


Yeah, right.

Fortunately -- for him, and his blood pressure -- both the Badgers and Packers won.

Why is it that we get so worked up about something that's supposed to be entertaining, enjoyable and exciting?  I swear, the older I get the more difficult it is to watch sometimes.

To be fair, the better we are in football, the harder it is to enjoy.  In other words, our expectations are higher and the stakes are higher if we lose.  I won't even read the paper or watch sports highlights on ESPN until a week later if we lose.

Last winter, during the Packers incredible journey to the Super Bowl, we had a bunch of friends over for the game.  It was during the Chicago Bears game in Chicago, that things got too intense for one of them, who had to go upstairs and read the newspaper.  Anything to take her mind off the game -- the closer we got to winning the game, the more intense and worried she got.  For Peggy, it was the possibility of taking on the Pittsburgh Steelers for a chance to win the Super Bowl for the second time in 15 years.  Even if we were ahead by two touchdowns, I don't know if she'd feel any better.

I have another friend who can't bear to watch a game live.  So Tom will set the recorder, leave the house, and come back later.  If the Packers he'll rewind and watch it, knowing that we won't lose.  Somehow taking all the risk out of a game just doesn't seem like the right thing to do.  But in this case, it's probably the best thing he can do, because he get's so worked up that you don't know what he'll do.  They way I figure it, a walk through Hixon Forest is probably doing his family more good than harm.  It's just so funny to know that he'll do anything to avoid watching it live.

And then there's my brother-in-law, who lives in Chicago.  He gets so stressed out about the game that he can't even watch the game.   It doesn't matter who the Packers are playing, or even what the score is.  He's convinced that if he tunes in to the game that things will go badly.  I can usually expect a phone call after the game that goes something like this --

"So what happened?  When I checked last" -- he's already checked the score on the internet -- "the Packers were up by eight, 35 to 27 with 2 minutes left.  The next thing I know, we've won 38 to 35.  What the hell happened?"  That's actually a sanitized version (maybe his kids were in the room).

It's a lot of fun to call him when we're up by 21 points -- pleading with him to watch the game.  "What can happen?" I say.  "There's no way we can lose this game.  You should turn it on and enjoy it while you can."  But no way.  He's convinced that bad things are going to happen now that I've told him that we're going to win.  Sure enough, I'll hang up the phone and stare in disbelief as the Packers fumble the ball, the other team recovers and scores a touchdown.  On the ensuing kickoff, the other team will recover the ball and start moving again to score a second touchdown.  Maybe he DOES know something, I'll think before the Packers stop the drive and go on to win.

He's also quick to expect bad things will happen before the game is even played.  He'll find something to complain about (like our defense) and automatically assume that it will lead to our downfall.  He loves to assign blame to coaches, whom he routinely fires throughout the game.  "Bielema's the worst coach in the Big Ten -- they should fire his ass right now!"  I think his problem is that he lives in Chicago, where losing has become a way of life.  Now if he was up in Wisconsin....

The Piece' de Resistance' was when a business associate asked him to go to the Bears/Packers NFC Championship game last January.  I loved it!  Not only was he going to have to watch the Packers, but if they actually lost to the Bears, he'd have to endure all the crap that would be hurdled his way by Chicago's finest fans.  Luckily for him, the Packers knocked Jay Cutler out of the game and hung on to win a great conference championship game.

I must admit that even I have suffered from high anxiety while watching Wisconsin sports.  There was a Monday Night Football Viking / Packers game years ago that went down to the wire.  Back in those days, the Vikings were actually good, and they beat the Packers with a field goal in the closing seconds.  I was so stressed out that I went out at  eleven o'clock at night and started raking leaves.  I had so much energy flowing through my body that I couldn't contain it anymore.  I could have run 5 miles or shoveled my way through 12 inches of snow if it had been falling.

 

I mentioned earlier that the Wisconsin Badgers were playing in the inaugural  BIG TEN Championship game in Indianapolis for a chance to go to the Rose Bowl.  Well, as luck would have it, I wound up missing the game because of an event called the Senate Dance, which my wife and I had been invited to weeks before.  At the time, I had no idea that the Badgers would be playing, since they had yet to beat Illinois and Penn State.

At the start of the dance, and prior to the game, I had mentioned to everyone in our group that I didn't want to know anything about the game -- no scores or indications of who was winning.  Or losing...

While sitting at our table eating dinner, the couple next to me had checked the score of the game on their Blackberry.  Honoring my request, they didn't say a word, but the looks on their faces were driving me nuts.  Did those smiles on their faces mean we were winning?  I thought.

"Well, all I'll say," Kim said, "is that a Big Ten team is winning."


Good God!  How can she say that?  What does that mean? I stabbed my steak, cut off a piece of meat and shoved it into my mouth.  Later, I heard a group of doctors sitting at a table behind us checking on the same game, and moaning "Oh no!!"


THAT doesn't sound good!  I can't believe the Badgers can't beat Michigan State!  Not again!  This is driving me nuts, and depressing me,  I thought, trying to put the game out of my mind.  Grabbing my wife, we hit the dance floor and started to Rumba across the floor.  Within minutes my mind was off the game and concentrating on my struggles to do half moons and the Cuban shuffle.

Around 10:30 p.m., Liz and I decided to head home.  On the way, all I could think was the game is over.  I wonder who won?  It HAS to be the Badgers, there's just no way they aren't the better team.  Great quarterback, great running game and a great defense.  I had made sure the radio wasn't tuned into the game before the dance, so there was no way of knowing the score until I walked into the house.

Once we got home, I turned on the TV and discovered the game was STILL going -- with the Badgers leading 42 to 39.  With less than two minutes remaining, I watched in horror as the Badgers punted to the Spartans' Keshawn Martin, who promptly ran around, through and away from every Badger defender before leaping into the end zone for an apparent touchdown.  "Noooooooo!"  I yelled.  This can't be happening!  I just walked into the house and now I see this?  I can't believe it!  Eric is right.  The Badgers are the worst team ever!

Seconds later, with my heart beating madly in my chest, I listened to a voice (a referee) from the TV say, "Personal foul on Number 32.  Roughing the kicker.  Five yard penalty.  Wisconsin ball. Automatic first down!"  What?  Could this be happing?  Oh my God, we did it!  We are going to win the game!

And with that, the Badgers got the ball back and ran out the clock.  Piece of cake.  Nothing to worry about.  I knew it all along. 


Yeah, right.

It's Good to be a Cheesehead

Wisconsin is known for a lot of great things, including cheese curds, Friday night fish fry, and Miller beer.  Based on the past few years, it should also be known as a state with great sports teams.  I'm talking about the Badgers in football and basketball, Packers in pro football and -- new to the list -- the Milwaukee Brewers in baseball.

2011 began with the Wisconsin Badgers going to the Rose Bowl to play TCU.  While we didn't win the game, (lost19-21) I still love celebrating New Year's Day with Bucky in Pasadena, CA.  After winning a share of the Big Ten conference title and hitting 70 points or more three times during the year, the Badgers are primed to win the conference again with an outstanding offense featuring Russell Wilson, Monte Ball and Nick Toon.  In addition to big games against Ohio State and Minnesota, the Badgers will play Nebraska this weekend in their first conference match up since the Cornhuskers joined the Big Ten Conference this year.  It's bound to be our biggest game of the year, and hopefully sets us up for an undefeated season and a possible National Championship

 

Apparently ESPN's Game Day feels the same way, since it is the featured game of the weekend.  The last time the "World Wide Leader in Sports"  came to Madison, our under-appreciated team beat number 1 ranked Ohio State, 31-18.  I'm hoping for the same result from the Badgers, which currently lead the Big Ten in scoring offense (48.5 points per game) and scoring defense (8.5 points per game).  I realize it's only the non conference schedule, but regardless, that IS impressive.  And everyone else in the conference is playing similar opponents.  What it shows is that the Badgers are taking care of business and showing the rest of the country how good they can be.

I'm excited for the Badgers this year, and the years to come as recruiting is getting better and the Wilson-effect (at quarterback) is changing us from a team that runs the ball to one that can throw the ball, as well.

There's not much room for improvement when it comes to the Packers, who won it all last year with a victory in the Super Bowl, defeating Pittsburgh, Chicago, Atlanta and Philadelphia along the way.

This year, they are out to a 3-0 start, behind excellent play of Aaron Rodgers, Greg Jennings, Jermichael Finley, Clay Matthews and Charles Woodson.  Currently leading the NFC North Division with the Detroit Lions, the Packers are trying to become the latest NFL team to win back-to-back Super Bowl titles.  It's a difficult challenge, but it shows how far we've come.  No longer are we satisfied with winning more than just our division.  Now we're disappointed if we don't get back to -- and win -- the Super Bowl.

This team is fun to watch with their explosive offense and no huddle attack, which reminds me of the St Louis Rams when they were know as the Greatest Show on Earth.  And our defense, which is led by defensive coordinator Dom Capers, seems to be flying all over the field.  Sometimes it's an all out blitz, other times they will fall back into a zone.  Either way, the opposing teams are left wondering where we will be attacking from next.  And we have the personnel to get better, as draft after draft brings in younger and better players.

Who are the Packers going to have to worry the most about?  I would say the Detroit Lions in our division and probably New Orleans in the conference.  We've already beat them once, but it was by the slimmest of margins, when the Packers stopped them on the one yard line with no time remaining.  What an awesome game!  As for who we will play in the Super Bowl.... well, maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.  The NFL is as tough as ever, and there's a reason why so few teams make it much less repeat back-to-back.

What can you say about the Milwaukee Brewers?  Few gave us a chance to win 90 games this year, much less win the NL Central Division over St Louis and Cincinnati.  Despite having a tough time with the New York Yankees, Boston Red Sox and Tampa Bay Rays during league interplay, the Brewers currently hold a 94-66 record which includes a 55-24 record at home.  This is the best home-away record in the majors, and a big reason why the Brewers are hoping to finish ahead of the Arizona Diamondbacks, who are likely to be their first round playoff opponent.

 

So how did the Brewers, who finished last year with a losing record, turn things around this year?  Primarily with better pitching, in particular pitching from their top three -- Yovanni Galardo, Zack Greinke, and Shaun Marcum -- and an excellent closer in John "Axe Man" Axford, who finished with 46 saves in 48 attempts.  The Brewers have also gotten All Star performances from Ryan Braun and Prince Fielder who have hit 78 homers, 230 RBIs and somewhere around a composite .300 average.  The combination has been one of the best in baseball for the past two years, and has been great to see, with both drafted by the Brewers and coming up through their minor league farm system.   It's easy to say that they have turned into a modern day version of Robin Yount and Paul Molitor, who won so many games as part of Bambi's Bombers in the early 1980's.

Now if they can just get us to the World Series.  Which will mean beating Arizona and probably the Philadelphia Phillies, who have owned the Brewers in 2011.  Either way, it has been a fabulous year.  I remember taking my son and wife to a game this year against the Chicago Cubs during a stretch when the Brewers won something like 23 out of 28 games.  Miller Park is fun no matter what, but it was especially rewarding to see the Brewers take down one of their most hated rivals.  This has been a magical year, one that may be hard to duplicate next year without Fielder in the line-up.

As I have sung so many times at a Badger event, the song "On Wisconsin!" remains the same.   And while it was written for the college game, it still applies in spirit to the Packers and Brewers this year, as well.

On Wisconsin!  On Wisconsin!
Plunge right through that line!
Run the ball clear 'round Chicago
A touchdown sure this time.
On Wisconsin!  On Wisconsin!
Fight on for her fame
Fight!  Fellows! - fight, fight, fight!
We'll win this game.

On Wisconsin!  On Wisconsin!
Stand up, Badgers, sing!
"Forward" is our driving spirit,
Loyal voices ring.
On Wisconsin!  On Wisconsin!
Raise her glowing flame
Stand, fellows, let us now
Salute her name.

At the Super Bowl last year, Greg Jennings said "It's a great day to be great!"  For me -- now in my fifth decade as a sports fan -- it's a good time to be from Wisconsin where the Packers, Brewers and Badgers are on their way to being great.