The Incredible Importance of Saying Nice Things

I had a very Mark Twain-esque moment today.  It was one of those moments that is not really that funny, unless you think about it in a certain way.  (My way, that is.)  But no matter how you look at it, at the time it was hysterical, and no one is ever there to share the laugh with.  Let’s just say that Matt or Mike would have pooped on themselves had they been there.

Twain once said, “I can live for two months on a good compliment.”  I can certainly attest to that, and I think you’ll all agree.  A real and true compliment from someone - friend, foe, or complete stranger - is a game changer.  It’s a sad fact that in today’s culture a sincere compliment is a very rare thing, I think because most everybody is so incredibly self-centered.  Because of this, I find that when someone says something nice to me (i.e. “You are extremely handsome and talented.”) the rest of the day is about 5 degrees warmer, so to speak.  A sincere compliment can change someone’s week, and it costs nothing.  And it doesn’t even have to be intentional praise, as I discovered today at the laundromat.

First, a word about my laundromat, Sudzees.  It’s clean.  It’s warm.  It’s close to my house.  It has free wireless internet (so slow as to be unusable, but it’s the thought that counts.)  And it is generally not inundated with large, smelly trailer dwelling folk.  And (very) occasionally there is a lovely lady there, also cleansing her unmentionables.  Sudzees is the Peter Luger’s of laundromat’s.  

So Saturday is laundry day in rossnation..., a tradition that dates back all the way to last year.  Occasionally it has to happen on Sundays, depending on the level of apathy in the water.  But it must be done, as rossnation... lays claim to only 6 work shirts, and would prefer not to be known the world over as “the stinky cable guy.”  Thus, I found myself there today, cleaning my whatnots, when two older women approached me near the change machine with a pointed question: “Do you have a knife?”

The women were trying to open their detergent package, and being old, did not have teeth sharp enough to bite it open as I would probably have done.  Not to worry, though, as I just happened to have a pocket knife gifted to me from my sister and brother in law not one day before.  The timing could not have been more perfect, which leads me to believe that my density has bought me to you.  (Back to the Future reference.)

I know you’re in suspense, so I’ll allay that by telling you that I did open their detergent.  After all, I am a gentleman and a scholar, with many gentlemanly and scholarly things to do.  But it was the few seconds afterward that changed my day for the better, when out of the wind, one of the women said to me, “You didn’t strike us as a knife kind of man.”  Oh, be still my racing heart.

Her comment was so offhand that I almost didn’t catch it, and she clearly didn’t intend it as a compliment, but I couldn’t help but smile.  For some reason, it was very comforting to me to know that I don’t look like a person who carries a knife.  On the other hand, she might have meant, “You look like a person who can’t help.”  I think I’ll take it either way, because if I look useless, perhaps I won’t be bothered with the trivial.  But I opened the detergent, bowed deeply, and walked off into the sunset (and by sunset I mean the dryer section.)

The key here is that it made my day, and a compliment is such an easy thing to give.  And imagine how big a difference it can make if it’s thought out and intentional.  It can change the world, like Eric Clapton, except without the British-ness.  And it’s better that way.

rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Loyalty

The Vandals need us.  They’ve never needed us more.  

We’re beyond the point of being able to call any loss “crushing,” simply because there have been so many losses in the last fifteen years.  But after today’s one-sided defeat against Nevada, I can feel the passion draining from Vandal fan’s souls, and I think we might be at a crossroads.  Now, far be it from me to suggest that I have any pull in the Vandal universe, so forgive me if I overstep my authority.  I am but a lowly alumnus with an opinion: Idaho is a hair away from returning to the dark ages of Vandal football, and if that happens it will be partly our fault - and mine - as fans.

When I say the dark ages, I am referring to my own experience, the dismal years following 1998 when the Vandal football team posted a record of 30-86 (1999-2008).  1999 was a better year than most people may realize, especially when you consider that an 8-5 record is merely above average, and a bowl win is cool, but not earth shaking.  Imagine the best meal you’ve ever eaten at Applebee’s, followed by a cone at Baskin Robbins.  (You’re not gonna write a column about it, is my point.)  But 1999 delivered something that I actually cherish more than wins: a head coach that I’m proud of.

I missed the salad days of Idaho coaches.  John L. Smith, Dennis Erickson (the first time), and Keith Gilbertson helmed Vandal teams of note, but what I got was Chris Tormey (interviewed him once: kinda of a jerk), Tom Cable (terrible coach, keeps getting better jobs somehow), Nick Holt (leaves for a better gig every two years), and Dennis Erickson (the liar).  Then comes along Robb Akey.  I was skeptical to the max, as the kids say.  After all, the man was a coach on one of the worst PacTen teams in history.  But Senor Akey is infectious.  He’s gotten under my skin with his passion and his perfect soundbites.  He makes me want to believe in Vandal football, that there are better days ahead, that mediocrity isn’t everything.  And now that I have that feeling I’m scared of losing him (insert weird comment here.)

But the awful truth is this: I wouldn’t stay if I was him either.  Not with the support that we give him.  I know Moscow’s a small town, but the Kibbie Dome is a small building, and filling it can be done.  (In related news, I’ve heard an inordinate amount of complaints about the way ticketing was handled for next week’s “game” against Boise State, but I don’t think anybody gets to complain if we don’t sell out every game against top 25 teams.)  Why would Coach Akey stay if we don’t show him that he’s wanted?  Yes, that probably includes a significant pay raise, but money is less of a concern than showing up.  Playing for a half-full dome can’t be uplifting.  

On the flip side, how incredible would it be if in 25 years, we were Penn State.  I know that Joe Paterno’s teams have not been dominant recently, but the man has won 400 football games, 24 bowl games, and two national championships.  He has been the head coach at Pennsylvania State University for sixty one years.  He is 84 years old, and still stalks the sidelines of Happy Valley as often as his legs will allow him.  This is loyalty at its finest.  Over the last year I have realized that loyalty (aka, commitment) may be the most important human quality that we possess.  Or not possess, sadly.  And that’s why, speaking only for myself, Joe Paterno is a hero.  He’s a man with a passion for his work, for his employers, for his students and for his supporters, and doesn’t exhibit an ounce of selfishness.  I sense the same aura from Robb Akey, and I want (perhaps naively) to see it even more in a quarter century.  That kind of loyalty from him, and from us as fans and alumni, is what turns a mediocre program into a juggernaut.  It can be done, but it isn’t easy and it doesn’t come cheap, and it won’t happen overnight.  It will happen when we decide that being there for the team is important, every week, for every snap, for every rendition of Go Vandals.  When we tell them they’re important by staying for the last whistle, even though it means getting stuck in traffic leaving the parking lot.  When we do that, Coach will have good reason to think twice when the University of Whatnot comes calling with a bigger program and bigger wallet and a bigger...well, you know.  When, not if, that happens we’ve got to make a stand for our coach, and be able to tell him, without a hint of inconsistency, that we are behind him to the end.

These principles apply to so many more parts of life, but that’s material for a different rant.  The nuts of this column are a call to arms for all Vandal fans, alums, or Moscow indifferants.  Let’s stop acting like football is just a game (even though it is), and treat our Vandals as a student that we’re trying to raise to be the President of the United States.  It takes all of us to make that happen, by showing up, always, even if the game doesn’t matter.  It takes all of us telling Coach Akey that we believe in his talent as a coach, and that we want him here.  It takes all of us yelling ourselves hoarse, even if we’re down by double digits, to tell the players that we believe in their talent and drive, and that win or lose we will be with them next week, and next season, and the season after that.  If we do that, they’ll talk about Idaho football on SportsCenter with the reverence they used to reserve for Notre Dame.  

And in ten years (or so), Idaho will beat Boise State again.  And this is my prayer, that we’ll prove them wrong.  BSU will want to play in the Dome, because they have a worthy opponent there, or they will fear the Dome, because they have a butt-whooping waiting for them inside.  I want to be part of that.

Until next time then.  rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Next Year

    The refrain of Cub’s fans everywhere has always been, “Well, there’s always next season.”  I don’t know what it is about Cub’s fans that makes them so innately optimistic and pessimistic at the same time, but whatever it is I seem to have contracted it, and it is a most displeasing feeling. 
    It’s a phrase that reeks of sadness and resignation.  There’s a comparable phrase outside of the baseball world that has the same feel to it: “Tis’ better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.”  Borrowing from the great George Will, this is nonsense on stilts.  Anyone who has lost knows that ignorance would have been preferable to pain.  And it turns out, this is just as true in baseball.  I once stated that I fell in love with a team that would never be good enough to break my heart.  But then the sky fell in, and the Texas Rangers were just good enough (and just lucky enough) to get to the World Series.  All of a sudden, life isn’t so simple anymore.
    I thought I wanted the Rangers to go to the World Series.  And I knew, from my teeth to my toenails, that they were going to win.  They had won on the road in Tampa.  They’d beaten - nay, torched! - the hated Yankees.  They were as hot as a Texas PWI in August (but less humid.)  The Rangers were unstoppable, and my spirits were indomitable (forgive me if this writing is abominable.)  What could go wrong?
    Here’s what: life does what it wants.  I have no control over it, and thus no control over the happenings of baseball.  And then the Rangers lost the World Series in five games, behind mediocre pitching and truly sad hitting.  It was so one-sided, I am convinced that there was a conspiracy.  Here’s what rossnation... thinks.
    I think you can draw your own conclusion from this factoid: Giants outfielder Jose Guillen has been tied to performance enhancing drugs.  Even though he wasn’t on their postseason roster, this clearly implicates every Giant.  Plus, this is the team that tolerated Barry Bonds for all those years.  You do the algebra...
    Actually, that’s all I’ve got, and now that it’s in print it looks a little bit flimsy.  Ah, never mind.  Let’s face it, the Rangers got worked.  And I think from now I’d be just fine with going back to the old ways.  It was easier when they led the division at the all-star break and then lost 16 in a row because the bullpen had an ERA of 12.6.  When they didn’t make the playoffs, I could move on to other things in September.  It was a simpler time.  But now I’ve tasted the forbidden fruit that is the World Series, and now October won’t matter unless Texas is in the hunt.  And this makes me as bad as the Scott Mahurin’s of the world, with their Red Sox Fever and whatnot. 
    Sighhhhhhhh... I’m already tired.  But, hey, there's always next season!

rossnation... down and out.

What Once Was (Small Group Edition)

Are you listening closely?  I'm only going to say this once.

The stars are aligning, conspiring against me.  And worse yet, they're conspiring against my brother.  Me and He are a lot alike, in the one way that matters: we love the same things.  The Vandals, the Rangers, the Cowboys, and our hatred for Boise State football.  And because of these Four Pillars of rossnation..., this year has the potential for more pain than all previous seasons combined, and I'm not sure if I'm emotionally prepared.
It breaks down thusly.

1. The 2010 Vandals are average to slightly above average, but they're still looking at getting shellacked twice more this season.  Nevada and Boise State both have compelling reasons to put up a 70-spot on us.  Add in the very real possibility that the Idaho/BSU game will never happen again in the majestic yet confining confines of our beloved Kibbie Dome, and you've got a recipe for pain.  
2. The Texas Rangers are not expected to pull out a postseason win against the Yankees, but they are the only reasonable hope I have for magic.  So either they win the pennant, or they lose to the Yankees, which is akin to losing the Cold War for me.  Or am I being over dramatic?
3. The Cowboys have a top 5 defense and a top five offense, and they are 1 and 4 on the season.  In layman's terms, they sucketh.
4. The entire college football landscape seems to be in cahoots, beating up on each other to the point where BSU could potentially be the only unbeaten team left.  If they were to win the national title, this would be the worst thing that could possibly happen, ever.  Like if Red Dawn actually happened, except worse because we wouldn't have Patrick Swayze to defend us.
5. My young friend Jordyn guessed my age at 38 today.  I am not.
6. I had a conference call today with the Rent's small group.  LIKE A BOSS!

All told, there's a lot of things that could go wrong this fall, and the sum of these is a ton of hurt for the Gibson boys.  The only thing that will redeem a year like this will be the immensely successful launch of the rossnation... PWI.  And then we'll be making it rain in the club.

Or whatever.

rossnation... out.

Addendum to What Once Was (Playoff Edition)

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I hate the Yankees.

What Once Was (Playoff Edition)

Last night I got to watch (in HD) the most significant sporting event of my life.  Not the most significant ever -- that would be hubris -- but for a young-at-heart-Texan-by-birth, watching the Texas Rangers win a playoff series in a deciding game was a revelation.  (Side note, the Miracle on Ice is probably the most significant, but I was negative two months old.  Mom didn't have HD in the womb.)
My first memory of any kind probably involves baseball.  But for sure, my first memory of sports involves the Texas Rangers.  Being born in Dallas gave me a birthright of sorts: the "gift" of falling head over cleats in love with a team that would never be good enough to break my heart.  I'll admit to dabbling in Oakland A's fandom in the late 80's, but we were all taken in by Jose Canseco's muscles, and Dennis Eckersley's mustache.  But my whole life I've been enamored of the red and blue, the extreme heat of a game in Arlington, taking my glove to the stadium, and Nolan Ryan (the greatest pitcher in the history of pitchers.)
The Rangers (nee Washington Senators) moved to Texas in 1972, which means 38 years of utter futility.  Before October 12, 2010 the Rangers were the only major league team that hadn't won a postseason series; that makes them the least successful team ever, kind of.  They've been to the playoffs three times in my life, and lost to the Yankees each time.  This is where my hatred for the Yankees originates, but it doesn't stop there.  And for a long time, I actually held the (semi) misguided idea that the Rangers actually lost when I was watching.  They always seemed to find ways to lose, like whoever was fighting Rocky.  At any rate, I've always loved the Rangers, and have always expected the worst.  Tonight was no different; they were in danger of dropping a third straight game to the Rays and effectively ending my baseball season, thus forcing me to place all of my hopes on the Dallas Cowboys.  Not an appetizing proposition.  This is the choice between waffles and cauliflower.  Gross.
But it didn't happen the way it usually does.  They got timely hits.  They ran with abandon.  The Rangers were even the beneficiary of a horrific call by the first base umpire.  But first and foremost, they had a pitcher.  A player they weren't afraid to send out every inning.  Even in the glory days of Nolan Ryan, I never knew if he was going to throw a no-hitter or get shelled for 8 runs in 3 innings.  But for some reason, Cliff Lee makes me feel totally safe.  And that is an uncomfortable feeling for a worrier.
When Elvis Andrus didn't drop a routine popup, thus winning the series, I didn't feel what expected.  I expected to feel a sense of euphoria, a sublime happiness that I would struggle to explain herein.  Instead, what I felt was more akin to ... contentment.  Like being with someone that you love, and not caring if there's something fun to do, or something good on tv.  You're just good.  This is only important because it made me realize what true happiness is: your team winning once every 40 years, an idea for a great invention*, and a nice pen.

rossnation... will try to explain himself later.

*PWI

Return of the Mack (I'm the Mack, btw)

I used to be wicked skinny.  Actually, scrawny might be a more appropriate word.  Consider this: in high school I could do pushups for days, because there was hardly anything to push up.  I have since "grown up."  (Or out, if you will, and I imagine you will, because rossnation... requires it.)

And all this was before I discovered the world's greatest weight loss program.  Please understand, I did not invent this program.  There is nothing new under the sun*, as the saying goes.  But I'm here to tell you that there is no better way to shed 20 ell bees, and it doesn't involve liposuction, treadmills/ellipticals, gym memberships, Dexatrim, or eating disorders.  All you need is 10 weeks in the world's hottest and least forgiving climate, and the will to survive.  In 1998, I had the former, and God gave me the latter.

Please let me clarify a few things for you.  To begin with, the rossnation... weight loss experience (rWLE) is neither easy nor cheap.  It will cost a fortune, actually, but is well worth it.  First, you need a plane ticket; Salt Lake City to Dallas, Dallas to Miami, Miami to Chicago, Chicago to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Bombay, Bombay to New Delhi, New Delhi to Calcutta.  (This is the preferred route, but it can be adjusted; I've heard tale of flights that don't originate in SLC.)

Next, you need to take this trip in the summer.  The rWLE isn't nearly as effective when it's snowing in Canada.  I got off the plane in India in the dead of night, and it was over 100 degrees.  And as humid as Houston in August (and Mom and Dad wonder why I only visit at Christmas).  I've never experienced something comparable to it, and there's no need for a metaphor.  All I need say is that is was so hot/humid that I would be drenched in sweat immediately after getting out of the shower.  I was probably dry for a total of three hours that summer.  But now, rossnation... chooses not to sweat.

Step three is not a sure thing, but certainly a good bet.  Any guesses?  If you said giardia, you get a cookie.  (You'll have to buy the cookie yourself though; I ate all of my cookies.)  I'll never know exactly how I got my little friend, or my Dark Passenger, as I like to call it.  I was careful not to drink the water, but it turns out that protozoa don't care how cautious we are.  I'm actually pretty sure that protozoa don't have souls, but I'm researching it thoroughly, as I do with everything I write here.  At any rate, giardia makes for one helluva companion.  (We've been together 12 years now, and she keeps getting on me about forgetting anniversaries and writing thank you notes.)  I'm betting that any kind of stomach ailment will do just fine for your own rWLE.  Just as long as you're sick, that is the key.

If you're a huge fan of Indian food, the rWLE is probably not for you.  I wouldn't try to lose weight by living next to an In n' Out Burger.  But seeing how I don't especially care for curry and rice, I wasn't tempted to binge.  In fact, all I could really bring myself to eat was soup (aside, soup isn't really an Indian culinary specialty.)  Though I'm fairly certain that I may have eaten dog while I was there; no proof, but I've not eaten anything like it to this day.

The last step is the easiest.  You walk everywhere.  FYI, you can do this part at home, it's just not nearly as effective.  (Do you like how I just told you that exercise is possible in the US?  I thought so.  I DO WHAT I WANT!)  5 to 10 miles a day will do the trick.  

So, would you like to lose 20 pounds, even if you don't have it to spare?  Combine one part extreme heat with one dash of Mahatma's Revenge, stir in a dollop of undereating and a gallon of exercise daily.  (I think a food analogy is appropriate.)  You too can go from a trim 150 to a sparse 130.  This program is endorsed by Skeletor, and the funny looking kid in the picture.  Anyone else think it's ironic that the Indian street kid is fatter than me?

rossnation... out.

*Or so the Germans would have us believe.