We Were Free

My old man called me while I was on my way into work the other day- whenever that happens I always think that someone died or he has to tell me he's got some disease- he just doesn't call much. Well he did tell me that someone died, his best friend had a heart attack while driving and crashed into a house...now I don't remember ever meeting this friend of my Dad's, but I respect the hell out of the way he went out...that's pretty rock star.

But the purpose of the call was to ask me if I remembered a particular weekend from my childhood when he and all of his childhood buddies took their kids out to a house on the Cape and we all ran wild like a pack of ferrell dogs for two or three days. I learned how to throw a knife that weekend, I was about 10 I think.

I learned how to open a beer bottle with literally anything short of a cotton ball that you hand to me.

I talked about running away from home with my best friend Lenny.

I fell down a mountain and read a bunch of "Little Monster" comic books.

I cooked without supervision for the first time in my life.

Yeah, Pop, I remember.

I have one picture from that weekend- it's the one above. Me in my Celtics jacket, Little Mikey is the 8 year old with the knife in his mouth like a pirate, Lenny is the one with the bow and arrow and Jason is the sweet smiling 7 year old that grew up to be a 6'5" linebacker for Pitt. I haven't seen any of the people in this picture in almost 10 years. I haven't seen Lenny in probably closer to 15.

But I remember.

My Dad recently had another birthday- he lies about his age on Facebook, but I know how old he really is- and his closest friend is gone, he's three times divorced, he's a hell of a sweet guy and I'm just like him, for good and bad- I'm charming as hell, but riddled with neuroses.

I wonder if when I'm in my 60's and I have another birthday, if I'll think about this day and want to call someone?

My Dad said that that weekend would be one of the freest times I'll ever have in my life. And he's right and I thought about that all day. It depressed the fuck out of me to be honest. Everywhere people talk about freedom and being free and thanks to my Old Man I realized that the older you get the less free you'll ever be. You're attached to your memories and your regrets and your fears and prejudices...and, honestly? That's OK. I think that it is all up to you how you choose to remember your life, mourn your losses and that if you can figure out how to be ok with it all, you might just get somewhere at the end of the day.

And maybe that's the great freedom conundrum...you can't figure out how to be free until you remember you already are...

It's Not My Fault...

I wish that I could effectively put into words how I feel after one of my beloved sports teams loses and let's me down. It's odd, because up until 10 years ago EVERY one of my favorite sports teams always lost and let me down. The Sox, The Pats, The C's*...they were all perennial losers that I never expected anything out of. You think I'd be used to it.. But watching the Patriots lose the game yesterday, I cannot help but think of this scene- one of my favorites.

I know it's not my fault that the Patriots lost- but somehow it feels like it is.

I was thinking about this all morning as I found myself grinding my teeth through meetings and realizing that my patience, sense of humor and capacity for rational thought have flown straight out the window. But why? Why am I so attached to giant men, that are all mostly younger than me, that get paid dizzying amounts of money to play a game? Why do I let my mood and peace of mind rest on the shoulders of these giants that have no idea I exist and could care less if they ever knew that I did?

It's simple.

As a boy, I looked up to  these people- Larry Bird in particular- because they were figures to aspire to. Something to live up to- that's a simple fact. Larry Bird was the best at what he did, everyone loved him and I wanted to be that. Loved by the masses, top of the heap, tons of cash and one hell of a 3 point shot...it's all good. I wanted it, wanted all of it.

As I grow older (old?)- I am the Alpha Male of my species (my species being the suburban businessman trying to remain cool while easing into my middle age)- I am the boss at work, The protector of my family, the bread winner of my household.

So what should I care if Tom Brady loses a game? Seriously, fuck Tom Brady, with his good looks, hot wife, jet set lifestyle and outstanding football career. That's what I want to say! But I would never say that out loud to anyone for fear that it might get back to him and I would have lost all chances of ever being best friends with the man.

It's pretty simple when I start to think about it- our lives dictate that trusting people is hard- relying on other people is dangerous. So my fellow men and I don't rely on too many people. Given the chance we provide for ourselves, make our own money, assemble our own IKEA shelves, apply our own band aids. BUT sports teams- in our minds, we can quietly allow these players to take care of us- we can rely on these players. If for nothing else, we can rely on them to entertain us for good or for bad.

Being a Boston sports fan is a little more sinister though- Boston sports run in waves of very, very good to very, very bad. It's like having an alcoholic father- they're abusive and they don't show up for the school play- but then they feel bad. They go into rehab, get their heads on straight and then come showing up with an arm load of Christmas gifts, promising that they've changed and you can count on them.

That's what yesterday's Patriots game felt like. It felt like I was duped by someone I trusted. Father, Politician, Girlfriend...they all have the ability to turn on you. But not you Tom Brady. He was supposed to be the one that didn't let the bad feelings get me. He was supposed to be the one that was always there for me. The one that I could always count on.

But he let me down. And he let me down hard. Took away one of the trusts that I have in this world.

And today I have to keep reminding myself that it's not my fault.

And then I also have to remind myself that it's really, at the base of everything, just a stupid game and that pitchers and catchers start work outs in 28 days so whatever. No big deal. I'm OK.

...but it's not my fault.