Ring-What?

There are a number of games played on the Canadian winter season ice.

There is ice skating on frozen ponds.

There is hockey.

There is curling – which if you don't know – is a shuffle board like game where each team tries to slide large heavy polished rocks into a target on the other side of the ice, and the team with the most rocks near the target wins. It's a great game of skill, accuracy and strategy.

And then there is ringette.

"Ring-what?"

Ringette. It's a game very similar to hockey. But very different in several key ways:

The players use a hockey stick – with the blade cut off – so they only use the shaft. The butt of the stick is taped.

The puck is replaced by a heavy rubber ring – like the one you probably played ring toss with when you were young.

The players pass the ring to each other much like hockey players passing the puck, but the skill in ringette is in receiving – catching the pass – because instead of just letting the puck hit the blade of your stick as in hockey, the ringette player has to lift their stick and try to put the end down in the middle of the ring as it slides by.

There are also some other significant rules that distinguish it from hockey – like the one that states that no offensive player can put a skate or a blade in the goalie crease, and no offensive player can play defense behind a line on their own side.

You know – rules.

But the key to ringette is trapping that ring on the end of your stick – and then slinging it off the end for a pass or a shot on net.

Oh, and ringette – at this point anyways – is pretty much played by the female gender.

So as the father of a seven and six year old girls, I was very interested to see ringette again.

The ringette I saw played this year was pretty elite. While visiting my cousin Sarah's family at their log cabin outside of Cambridge, Ontario – Sarah insisted that we attend a special game being played that day. The game was between two elite teams: The Paris Ontario Ringette Association's under 20 girls playing two Team Canada Squads representing those on or trying out for Canada's national team.

And this game was played the day before Team Canada made its final cuts.

To make it even more interesting, there were two girls from the Paris Ringette association trying out for Team Canada this day. And the crowd was torn between rooting for the Team Canada rookies, and their hometown squad.

I sat and watched this game. I was not new to ringette. Sarah has been involved with this sport with her Dad (my Uncle Fred) since she was little and living in London, Ontario. Together they started and founded the Ringette association in Mitchell, Ontario. And now Sarah is continuing the tradition for her two daughters Justine and Paige – to carry Ringette into the next generation. She is proud of the exceptional executive committee she is a part of.

When I was young and living in Minnesota, I played a little hockey. Very little – and probably very poorly. When we visited my Uncle Fred's one Christmas, he and Sarah invited my brother Paul and I out to skate a practice with them.

I still remember that day – and how incredibly fun it was. And how difficult it was to catch that stupid ring on the end of my stick. And how humbling it was to have younger girls skating circles around me.

As I sat and watched the warm ups for the game, Sarah explained to me why the older girls were skating with the younger girls from the younger teams.

"This is a very important part of ringette", explained Sarah. "Part of this games culture is to expose the younger players to the older players, on and off the ice, to help them learn and grow quicker".

So ringette also teaches team members to also be role models.

And as I looked around the ice at both the Paris and Team Canada skaters, they were each doing their part to help and inspire the younger Parisian skaters. The Team Canada goalie was talking to the younger Parisian goalie about how to get down quicker to the ice to block low shots.

As the game began, I was blown away by the skating skills of both sides. Better than the best boys I have seen. Faster and quicker spins and turns than I have seen at the AAA OHL level. It was an incredible vision of players weaving so quickly through each other that it almost seemed like positions were only a formality for score cards.

The skill and accuracy of the pass making – moving the ring to open ice and watching the team mate sling over to pick it on the end of her stick up the middle of the ice, whip it outside to the wing, and receive it back on the end of her stick and in the same motion fling it powerfully at the net for a shot – only to have the sprawling keeper block it away.

It was at least as exciting as hockey. And because the player has the ring on the end of their stick – the skating they can do – the spins and cuts and twists are so much more exciting.

It is really something to see.

If you were to ask a hockey player about ringette, he would likely tell you it's for girls.

But if you asked a hockey player to go play ringette with these girls, he would likely decline the offer.

Because hockey players do not want to be shown up by a bunch of girls.

Catching Economic Pneumonia

The American Automobile Industry is in serious trouble.

Chrysler and GM are both faced with potential bankruptcy situations. The American federal government is struggling with finding a way to bail them out – hesitant to throw money at a problem where money won't likely solve the plight but instead only post-pone it.

The outlook at this moment is very gloomy for the Motor City of Detroit. This is a town that has already seen itself erode away to a mere shadow of its former metropolis status – with no signs of healing as city political scandals and racial tensions continue to undermine any chance of recovery.

What many American's may not know is that there is also a great deal of the Automobile Manufacturing done on the other side of the Detroit River – in my hometown of Windsor, Ontario. Since the dawn of the industrial revolution brought on by Henry Ford's invention of the mass assembly line, Windsor has hosted major manufacturing facilities for the Big Three – as well as all the supporting services such as tool and dye shops for parts manufacturing.

The vast majority of employment in Windsor is directly related to the manufacturing of American automobiles.

Over the last three years, we have seen plant shut downs and companies going out of business as the Big Three continue to crumble under pressures of low car sales, high gas prices, and the cost of a unionized labor force.

The Canadian federal government is also looking at ways to assist the Canadian Big Three entities. But much like the Americans, they realize that simply throwing money at these problems will not resolve the crisis at hand.

Over the past three years strides have been made in the quality of the Big Three products, as well as the fuel consumption. And the Unions have made some concessions to ease the burden on the Big Three. But in both Detroit and Windsor, the public outcry is a finger pointed right at "foreign" automotive manufacturers.

Right up the 401 from Windsor in Woodstock is the Cami Automotive assembly plant – jointly operated by GM and Suzuki. Up the highway further is the Toyota manufacturing plant in Cambridge. Each is supported by the same parts manufacturers, trucking firms, and suppliers used by the Big Three. As well, there a numerous plants across the United States manufacturing the "foreign" automobiles.

Yet Ford sends their parts to be assembled for many of their models in Mexico.

Quite clearly, the collapse of the Big Three is larger than just North America. The scope of impact of such a collapse would be felt in absolutely every sector of every economy in every country on the planet.

Yet as one drives through Detroit – you see all kinds of signs, billboards and bumper stickers urging their population to "Buy American". And oddly enough, Windsor – a Canadian city - has bumper stickers quoting "Want to lose your job? Keep buying foreign cars!".

I don't think those Canadian Auto Workers realize their American Auto Workers think of them as foreigners taking American Jobs away.

And I can only wonder what the bumper stickers in Mexico say.

If I were a betting man – which I am not – I would bet on the Big Three declaring bankruptcy. I would bet on the Big Three status to be in receivership by the end of 2009. And I would bet that the Big Three would find themselves being completely restructured – and in the end – find themselves to be much more capable of doing business in this new global economy.

Sometimes when something is really broken badly, it has to be completely taken apart, the damaged parts replaced or redesigned, and then put back together again.

And that is what I see about to happen to General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler.

And the World economy will catch a bad cold, but heal.

The North American economy will catch pneumonia but it will survive.

But Detroit and Windsor will disappear as we know them today.

One Swift Moment of Promise After Eight Years of Mess

It seems that in one swift moment – albeit after two years of anticipation – the world has changed.

I knew that it would be a historic event if it were to come to pass. How could it not be? Barack Obama is the first black man to be elected President of the United States. That's a big deal. An achievement I did not think I would see in my lifetime.

In this year, man found water on Mars. And in this year the United States of America elected an African American to the highest office in the land.

But I thought in this apathetic society of today, it would happen, it would be acknowledged like a new home run record, and then off we would go to the next thing.

But I was wrong.

I have never been so moved by a political event. The falling of the Berlin wall was close, but this made me kind of well up inside. This was magical.

The scenes of the rest of the world so surprisingly erupting in celebration surprised me beyond words. I do not believe these scenes were staged. I don't think they could have been? Who could have staged them?

The whole world breathed a huge sigh of relief. And that sigh produced the warmest global breeze of change of attitude the world has felt in my lifetime.

And I wonder.

I wonder, had the election turned out the other way – how would the world have reacted? Would they have pointed to America again as frauds – as they did after Al Gore won the popular vote in 2000, only to have George Bush's brother Jeb's state Florida upset the cart declaring hanging chads on ballots would decide the Electoral College for the Republicans?

I think that for as fine, decent, honest and sincere I believe John McCain to be, I believe the world would have cried out "FOUL!" if somehow this time he would have come from behind and won this election.

So now the world awaits the inauguration of President Elect Obama.

A feeling of awe is in the air around the globe.

But usually when great news breaks – compelling as this historic moment – the New York Stock Exchange reacts in an upswing. A rise as though riding the wave of optimism.

But instead the NYSE continues to fall.

Is it a sign that this optimism is premature? Or perhaps artificial?

Or is it a sign that the current American President has made such a mess in world affairs and economic policies that there is doubt even a change as large as the one to President Obama shows little hope of cleaning up such a large mess.

So in one swift moment – indeed the world changed.

But the mess will take much longer to fix. It took eight years to make.

Congratulations Mr. Obama. I wish you all the luck and best wishes. And I believe that you will have a world full of prayers behind you.

What a truly amazing time to be alive.

Just because I don’t go to church does not mean I do not believe in God.

Just because I don't go to church does not mean I do not believe in God.

I think this is a fairly common approach these days to faith.

There are those who believe that church is the foundation to faith.

And there are those who believe that there is no God.

And somewhere in the middle there are those who – as I just stated – believe but do not think the answers are to be found in cathedral and read from a book.

Well, I honestly do not mean to state this so dismissingly. The book is the Bible, or the Koran, or whatever other doctrine may be held up as indisputable truth.

So I really should capitalize the "B" in Book.

And I do not write this lightly. I do not state this mockingly, nor with any meaning of malice or contempt.

If I were to be measured my position between two sides of the spectrum, faith or atheism, I am certain I would be placed much closer to the side of faith.

"Then why don't you go to Church?" you might ask.

I have gone to church in my days. Many different churches actually. Like many of you, I have gone to listen and to try to objectively discern what it is that I believe. My faith is to the extent that I do know that God is there. And I do know that God is a compassionate, loving, completely objective deity.

God – in my faith – does not choose sides.

He does not choose sides in times of war. He does not answer one person's prayer to be chosen over another. All – in my faith – are God's children.

Even the atheist

And in every church I have gone to, I have always felt that the person standing before and speaking from the Book, is actually trying to sell their faith to me.

The person standing before me has devoted a great deal of time and consideration to their own exploration of their church. At least most of the time, anyway. And I do not belittle that commitment in any way. But I know this person before me is only another person of flesh and blood. And their conviction to what is true – for as strong and devoted as it may be – is their faith – and their opinion.

Let me try to put it this way.

Think of a person that you know. A person known by many in your social circle. Think about how you feel about this person. List out twenty or so attributes of this person on a sheet of paper.

Then think of those in your circle who also know this person very well. And put yourself in each of those other person's shoes – look through their eyes – and try to think what attributes they may see in this same person. Do that several times over for others in the circle – then compare your lists.

The lists will be different.

Each of those eyes you looked through will have had different experiences with this person. Some good. Some bad. The positive and negative experiences they have had with this person will be different.

Experience is what shapes our opinion. And in my thinking, experience is the most influential definer of faith.

Now think how differently each of those people's experiences with God must be. Because God is so much closer and in one's own heart. Those experiences each shaped their faith in God. Some in disappointment, some in appreciation, some in love and devotion. Some in betrayal.

Because – in my own personal opinion – a God who loves everyone equally cannot please everyone He loves.

And as that person stands before me and reads from the Book, and talks about what each sentence means – I realize that this is what that sentence of the Book means – to them. Some have been taught this is what it means. Others have come to their own conclusion as to its meaning. And some will question what it means.

My Dad taught me as a boy that faith is very important. But how that faith is to be defined is up to me. That I can strengthen my faith anywhere. At home, in my car, at the office sitting at my desk. And that there is risk in the formal accommodations of a cathedral or Church setting. Because the underlying foundation in faith is confidence.

And the formal setting of church is as likely to shake one's confidence in their faith as it is to reinforce it.

So what do I believe? My faith is pretty simple actually.

I believe that there is indeed a deity greater than us. And as I said – He is loving, kind, compassionate. And He loves all of us exactly the same. And that in return for all that He has provided us – all He asks in return is that we do our very best.

Be honest.

Be kind.

Be generous.

Be of service to your fellow man.

Do not take advantage of others misfortunes to profit.

Be understanding.

Be fair.

And be sincere.

Sound familiar?

Imagine if before each action we could take, we could consider these eight points. Our resulting action would have to meet the criteria of these points. Imagine if everyone else did the same.

There would be no bigotry.

There would be no contempt.

There would be no hatred.

There would still be differences of opinion. There would still be diversity in our approaches to life. But there would be no indignation towards others.

And in my own personal opinion – I believe that the great prophets of history were trying to express these same principles. But those that heard the message interpreted it to be a threat to whatever power they held. Perhaps because it was simply inconvenient. Or perhaps because these principles contradict the means by which they reinforced their power.

And in my opinion – this is where the multitudes of division came from to give us the vast array of religions we have today. Each taking a slightly different slant on each of those eight points. And to reinforce their power they insisted that to deviate from their slant will condemn you to an eternity in most horrific prison – hell.

Personally, I do not believe that when we die, we go to heaven or hell. That these are simply tools to restrict our freedom of thought by promising us what is truly the greatest unknown. What happens to us after we die. "If you do like I say, you will live in a glorious after-life", is the promise – much like the promise that a parent will make to their children that a great education will being a bliss full adulthood. "But should you stray from this instruction – you will be condemned to the most horrid existence – forever – with no chance for reprieve".

It seems so childish to me when I put it in these terms. And destructive.

And manipulative.

I believe we make our own heaven and hell here on earth. Simply by the principles we follow. And our hearts commitment to those principles. If a strong principle belief is that you should be rich, yet you life in poverty, your greed shall condemn you to the hell of your failure to achieve wealth. Should you realize you are happy without the wealth – you will suddenly be free of your burden, and achieve a level of peace you might consider to be heaven.

Will I encourage my two little girls to go on to get higher levels of education? Of course I will, because my experience has shown me their opportunities will be much greater if they can achieve such a goal. But it does not mean they will be condemned to a life as a fast order chef if they don't. And they may be well and happy as a short order chef.

I will encourage my daughters to believe in what they want to believe. And I will try to explain the eight principles I listed above. And I will try to show them by my own example. Although at times my example will fail.

Because I love my little girls with all my heart. Equally. Like my Father did my brother Paul and me. Like I think God loves us all.

And I think the God I have put my faith in leads by the best example anyone could follow.

Tampa Bay Is A Shoe-In To Win The AL East

I have been told by those in the know that I have a knack for stating the obvious.

Here we roll into the final six games of the 2008 regular season, and it is obvious to me that the Tigers are not going to fulfill Sports Illustrated pre-season prediction and win not only the AL Central, or the American League, or the World Series.

In fact as I write this, Detroit is in game two of a three game series with Kansas City to stay out of the AL Central Basement. And it's not looking good, as game one was lost last night due to bullpen failure, and the Royals just struck early in the first two hitters to take a one – nothing lead in the first.

The Chicago White Sox and Minnesota Twins are still battling for the AL Central title . In fact, they are playing each other in the next to last series of the year with Chicago taking the first game and leading the Twins by two and a half games. Chicago will finish the year against the Indians of Cleveland, and the Twins against the same Royals my Tigers are facing right now. Only the winner will move on to the playoffs. And in my opinion it will be close but the Twins will take it in the final game of the year.

Write it down.

Because in the AL Central, you have to win the division.

Because the wild card in the American League sits in the East. And the war is on between Tampa Bay and Boston.

Boston is also two and half games back. But they are finishing the season against the Yankees. Against the Yankees in Fenway. And I do not give any edge to Boston in this year of a disgruntled Yankee club who is embarrassed not to be in the playoffs.

No, this year, the edge goes to Tampa Bay. The Devil Rays probably don't even need to make contingency plans. They pretty much have the final four games all wrapped up.

And it breaks my heart. Because the Devil Rays finish the season against my beloved Detroit Tigers. A team I love more than any other team I have ever rooted for – obsessively my friends and family will tell you – ever in my life.

The Devil Rays will face pitching that will struggle to put in six innings, but likely stay in for seven because there is no bullpen. They will face Tiger hitters that sound intimidating – but are meek in these final four games. They will face defense that looks great on paper, but on the field make stupid mistakes and errant throws.

Writing this piece, I feel like a father telling the bully not to be too worried fighting his son, "He may look big, and has a known name", advises the father, "but you should take him no problem."

It just breaks my heart.

Now Yer Messin With A …

Amazing how music finds memories in the very back recesses of your brain.

It happened to me just today.

I left the office today and marched across the parking lot to my little Sebring. It was a beautiful afternoon of full sun, so I rolled down all the windows and opened the moon roof all the way for that convertible effect.

Detroit has a great radio station, 94.7 that plays classic rock just like the play list that my favorite station in Atlanta, 96 Rock, used to play when I was a teenager in Lawrenceville, Georgia.

It was one of the best things about moving to Windsor from London. A 94.7 made me feel like a kid back in Atlanta again. To me, it's a great radio station.

As I pulled on to the expressway, an old song came on that brought back memories like only music can do.

Even songs you don't like, but still remember, will bring back great memories.

This was an old song by a band called Nazareth. In all it's crudity. The song is called "Sum ub ah Bich" (or something that might sound like that anyway…).

So at the now graying age of forty six, I turned it up real loud, put on my sunglasses and reclined the seat of the car back a bit.

"Now yer messin' with a … son of a …"

And my mind went back to when my family first moved to Georgia in 1975.

At that time we were living in Apple Valley Minnesota. South of Saint Paul – Minneapolis – just outside another small town called Rosemount.

Minnesota was – at least to me as a boy of twelve or thirteen – a very sterile and clean environment. Everyplace was well groomed. Gardens and the greenest of grass. And the people in Minnesota were very … well .. I guess "proper" is the best term that comes to mind. Boring – but sterile and proper.

My Dad received notice in the summer of 1974 that he could choose the transfer of his choice to become a regional manager for 3M company's business products division. The choices were San Diego California, and Atlanta Georgia.

Dad chose Atlanta.

Mom and Dad took a trip together to go look for our new house. And they found one in a little town I have written here about before, Lawrenceville. It was a nice subdivision, with a community co-op style club around the corner called Plantation Swim and Racket Club – or PSRC for short.

When we arrived, the culture shock was immense.

We were Canadians living in the United States as green-card-carrying landed immigrants. And in Michigan, where we lived when I was a little boy in elementary school, and then Minnesota, where we lived when I was in middle school (grades seven and eight), we fit right in. Minnesotans could easily be confused for Canadians – at least I think so.

But Georgia – well that's a whole different bowl of peach cobbler. A completely new slice of pecan pie.

The food was different. The attitudes were different. The rules were a lot more relaxed. And well, the pattern of speech was different.

I remember sitting in my very first class in the eighth grade – a trailer – a busted down trailer – with graffiti on the desks and walls – dirty and smelly – waiting amongst this strange trailer full of southern kids – all talking like a completely different language. It was English – but damned if I knew what they were saying.

"That thar's the new kid, I dun wonder where he come from?" said a pretty little girl a couple of seats ahead of me.

"Don't know, but he's kind-a funny lookin."

I guess I was pretty funny looking to them. I had a short haircut my Mom would approve of, I was short, and pudgy. I was also very pale in comparison to southerners. I was just new from Minnesota – and Minnesota wasn't really a sun tanning paradise.

"Hey kid, where y'all from?"

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I replied.

I thought I had landed in Mayberry. I thought "all these kids couldn't really talk this way, could they?"

In came the teacher. Mrs Blylock.

"Thank God", I thought. "She'll tell these kids to stop faking their Gomer Pyle accents."

"Mornin' y'all", said Mrs. Blylock. "How was y'alls summer?"

"Oh my God", I thought, "This is real. Holy cow these people really are serious".

Every single syllable word was spread out to become two or three syllables. The pitch of their voices went up and down in a sing song manner as they practically sang their words. I wish I could write music to express it to you more effectively.

But as time went on, I adapted.

I learned that y'all meant you. And all y'all meant everyone present. I learned that yonder meant someplace over there – or thar . And dun (done) didn't mean something you completed, but just simply added action to the sentence. You didn't just do something. You dun did it.

Then I was assimilated.

And that year of eighth grade at Lilburn Middle School went along quite nice. There were big kids in my class that I looked up to, like Kirk Ewing and Damon Huston. On our street it was Bill Huseby and Mike Lefevbre. The cool guys. The big guys. The guys who weren't scared to fight. Not bully's. They were all pretty damned good guys.

After eighth grade was over, and summer was kicking in, I started playing baseball in Lawrenceville's little league and swimming for the local club PSRC. I was pretty good at both. And I also hit a growth spurt. I grew somewhere between six inches and a foot in a single month.

And now I was as big as the guys I looked up to.

And I learned what confidence felt like.

But now to get back to the point about a song bringing back memories … It was the first day of high school at Berkmar High. Waiting for the bus with my now neighborhood buddies. And the bus pulled up to let us on.

As I got on the bus, an old dilapidated version of a bus with those big green seats with the springs shot out and rips bandaged up with silver duct tape, there was something weird. The driver was a hippy looking girl probably in her early twenties. And she had … an eight track tape player … in the bus? And it was playing Rock music. Pretty heavy music.

And as I sat down in my seat, the music blared …

"Now yer messin with a … son of a …."

"So this is high school.." I thought as I sat with my buddies. "This is pretty cool".

And when I got to school, my new found height, my athletic build, and the muscles in my arms – not to mention my deep tan, was noticed. The guys I used to look up to came up to me to say "hey" – southern for hi.

And I said "hey, how y'all doin?"

And I was converted.

And on the way home from school, the hippy chick bus driver was playing her eight track tape again. And I remember thinking to myself as I sat next to a pretty neighborhood girl …

"Now yer messin with a son of a …"

Start Your Engines

The last week in August spells the end of Summer. Summer as we know it anyway. The true end of Summer comes September twenty first.

But in most work environments, this will be the start of the busy season. Most places will ramp back up to nearly their normal full pace. Oh sure, there will be some who were smart enough to take this last week off as vacation time. But for the most part, now things will start to get busy.

The traffic to work will return to it's normally congested state.

The line ups at the drive-thru coffee shop will again line up into the street.

The number of emails requesting immediate responses to their urgent needs will again fill the first three pages of you inbox.

The number of times the phone will ring about those emails will resume their normal frequency.

The number of meetings your invited to will increase.

Because everybody is back from vaction.

Decisions can be made.

Action items assigned.

And performances again be evaluated.

And now things can get done.

Sigh.

So be ready.

Summers over and people are back at work.

But the good news is that next week, everyone will be facing the same dilemma as we are. And everyone will be hesitant to let summertime pass. So the attitudes of next week may still remain a bit more casual.

Until school starts. Until it is officially September.

Then hang on to your hat, boy. Because everyone will be back and ready to get back to work.

So start your engines. And do your best this week to be ready for next week.

Because my friends, I am sad to tell you, Summer as we know it is over.

Summertime Waking Thoughts

Another summer morning finds me on the back deck by the pool with my coffee, a smoke, and my laptop. Our black lab pup Suzy lies curled at my feet as I sit and try to wake up.

But there is just so much to do today at work. I hate to think this summer day will be lost on me.

Our Irish friends Ray and Shell are now half way through their three week visit. I do hope they are enjoying themselves. When guests travel "across the pond" like Ray and Shell have, you certainly want them to get the most enjoyment for their efforts.

But I will be at work this fine beautiful August morning.

I had stayed up pretty late last night listening to the Tigers game. When I went to bed, they had given up a six to one lead in Chicago to the White Sox, and were in the 13^th inning battling to win a game that could possibly bring them within five of the AL central division lead.

But it was not to be as I wake up this morning to read the news that while my boys scored two in the top of the fourteenth inning, they lost it in the bottom of the inning on an error to shortstop Edgar Renteria. The next batter, Swisher, knocked it out of the park off blaze-ball thrower Joel Zumaya.

We have had a number of these losses lately. And they take their toll on you. The debates on the sports talk radio station 97.1 FM in Detroit will continue to call for manager Jim Leyland's head, and every player to be put up for auction.

My favorite talking head, Pat Caputo, will write in his blog "The Open Book" today more about the possibility of a strong Lions football season this upcoming fall. It is not odd to hear such talk in August – only to realize in September or October that it was only that. Just talk. But right now it seems more plausible than a winning Tigers record in this year of ohhh-eight.

Nobody really knows why the Tigers, picked by most to win the AL Central this season as early as Christmas last year, are playing so poorly – but everyone has their beliefs. Caputo will say it's the starting pitching. Others will say it's the lack of clutch hitting when runs are needed. Even others will tell you it's the lack of defense with errors most every game. But everyone will agree that our bullpen can't shut the door on opposing pitching. In fact they seem to hold the door wide open and usher opposing batters around the bags.

And I am sick of listening to it. If these fans and writers had their way, they would likely choose the US Women's fastball Olympic team over the Tigers starting lineup.

Yet here I sit on a beautiful August summer morning. A cigarette butt, an empty coffee mug, and a snoozey puppy at my feet to show for my first thoughts of the day. Best friends visiting from a far away land, and the promise of another week of vacation next week if I can only survive this one.

I love summer. I really do. It's the season of golfing, sailing, and backyard barbeques while the children splash and play in the pool.

But all I can think about are the Tigers.

The Grandma’s Birthday

Today is my Mother-In-law's Birthday. She turns seventy-seven years young today.

I have told all kinds of stories that are about this one of the two Grandmas. But I probably haven't really given you a taste of how great the Grandma's in our family really are.

Joan is known in our household simply as Grandma or Grandma D when a distinction between the Grandmas is needed. The only living Grampa we have in our family is Joan's husband Glenn. And Glenn is known to my little girls as 'Nonos'. I used to joke that hi sname 'Nonos' came from his ability to say no. But nothing is further from the truth as Glenn is one of the most generous men I know. But he covers his kindness with a very thick crusty mask.

Nonos working life was spent as what I would see to be a project manager of large construction projects – mainly road construction around the world. He was seriously injured when he fell from a cliff in Africa. But work such as that, dealing with tough and rugged people, requires a gruff and rugged leader. And that was – and still is – Nonos.

The Grandma and Nonos participate in the local Legion. For those of you who may not know, in Canada, the Legion is a national association of social and community clubs supporting the Veterans of our Armed Forces. The Grandma and Nonos are very involved with their Legion, as Nonos' recently held the presidency of the local and now stands a past president.

As president, Nonos brought the Legion back from near bankruptcy and certain closure to a profitable and more desirable state for their membership. Now as past-president – Nonos is watching his hard work wash away as the practices of the past drain both the membership and their financial state.

Joan supports her husband's endeavors completely. But the beauty of their relationship stems from the adage that familiarity breeds contempt. I have never met two people who care for each other so much but hide it so well in their day to day battling.

But this the Grandma's birthday. I only tell you about Nonos so that you better understand the this one of the two Grandmas. Both Grandma and Nonos are very social people. Both enjoy a party if you will. And both do their best to bring that party atmosphere with them as they tackle the common challenges of ever day life.

I have not met anyone who dislikes the Grandma. My own Mum – the other Grandma – enjoys Grandma D very much. And when the two are together, well – things just happen.

Today, my family – which currently includes our Irish visitors Ray and Shell – will pack up the car and head over to the Grandma's house for the day. We will sit in the back yard and enjoy the pool and the perfect summer weather. And the girls will be dressed in the summer dresses, and Ray and Shell will enjoy with us this special day with the Grandma.

It will be a day we all remember. A day that my little girls will always remember.

Happy birthday, Grandma D.

Thank You Ivan Rodriguez

Yankee Stadium is known as the 'House that Ruth Built".

And Yankee Stadium is coming down after this 2008 season is over. A newer version being built right next door.

The core of the Detroit Tiger's current roster could be known as the "Team Pudge Built". And now this team may come down just like old Yankee Stadium.

Wednesday, in a very sudden move, was traded to the New York Yankees for relief pitcher Kyle Farnsworth.

Farnsworth is a mediocre pitcher at best – recently pitching well, but much like the Tigers own closer Todd Jones – Farnsworth is unstable at times in the role. Yankee fans had dubbed him "Krazy Kyle".

Great. Just what our bullpen needs – another flakey unstable bullpen pitcher.

Ivan "Pudge" Rodriguez is in my opinion the greatest catcher to play the game during my generation. During his eighteen years of major league play he has attained a lifetime average of .302. When men are in scoring position his lifetime average rises to .382.

But while Pudge's bat is potent (perhaps waning in recent years) and still a threat, his prowess as a catcher is even more threatening. His laser like arm has so far thrown 597 runners trying to steal bases.

Pudge was named to the All Star team 14 times. He was the American League MVP in 1999. He was the MVP of the 2003 National League Playoff Series (NLPS) in 2003 as a Florida Marlin – the one of few years he was not named to the All Star Team.

Catchers have often been called the known as the "Quarterbacks of Baseball" calling pitches for most pitchers, and as the only player to fully view the entire field, leading the defense as each unique situations evolves in a game. And this is where Pudge is a master. He is a leader. In the locker-room he is known to inspire, and discipline his teammates with command and respect.

And the Tiger's will surely miss Pudge. Acquired during the offseason in 2004, on the heels of his 2003 NLCS MVP title – Pudge miraculously appeared in Detroit and donned the old English D. In 2003 the Tigers had lost 117 games – tying the worst record in Major League Baseball history.

And then came Pudge. He came to Detroit, and the fans took notice. And they realized the Tigers were about to get a lot better.

2004 saw some improvement as they lingered around the .500 mark. In 2005 a couple more moves were made as more and more players wanted to come to Detroit to be in Pudge Rodriguez team.

In 2006 – a season they thought was still one of building – the Tigers went to the World Series – led by Pudge Rodriguez. Unfortunately they lost that series to the St. Louis Cardinals – an inferior squad who for that series played superior ball.

These last two years have been spent tweaking the team to get back to the post-season. This 2008 season is still in question as the midway of the season behind us and the Tigers still five to six games behind the Chicago White Sox for the American League Central Division.

But our bullpen these last two seasons has been poor. More games lost by the bull pen than any other cause. So relief help was considered a top priority of the Tigers would make a push in the end here to make it to post-season ball.

So Dave Dombrowski and Jim Leyland – two baseball minds I have absolute respect for and trust in – deemed the best move to be a trade – even up – Pudge for Farnsworth.

It's a hard one to swallow.

But in Pudges defense – he deserves to be a member of the most storied team in Baseball – in a the last season of the house that Ruth built – before it comes down.

But it stinks if you're a Tigers fan.

Adios amigo Pudge – Tiger fans love ya – and we wish you the best – unless it comes down to the Yankees and Tigers in American League play.

Can somebody please show Mr. Farnsworth to bullpen. And tell him he owes this team some amazing pitching after what he has cost us. He had better get the job done.

Announcing ProjecTalk

There is more to having a successful IT team than simply knowing how to write source code.

Yet as I surf the Internet, the vast majority of discussion is how to write rock solid code using various techniques, technologies, and best practices.

But techniques, technologies and best practices are not constrained only to source code development. There are so many more roles in today's IT environment. So I have a established a new talking space for persons of those "other" skills to share, collaborate, and inspire each other.

What roles do those "other" professionals fill?

• Systems Architecture and the project identification process
• Needs analysis and requirement gathering
• Project scope control
• Analysis and design
• Integration, user, and post-implementation testing
• Customer expectation management
• Communication progress and status to project stakeholders
  

In short, ProjecTalk will focus on everything but the actual practice of writing code.

Over the last 20 plus years, I have held positions up and down the IT role ladder. So I will be sharing my thoughts and experiences. But I do not intend to simply tell you what I think. Instead I am hoping I can inspire conversation and debate as we discuss these topics … but in a way uncommon to most IT environments – as calm, rational, professionals.

There are several blog sites I follow religiously – one sports blog in particular. And the lesson I have learned from observing these sites is that the while the authors of these blogs are knowledgeable in their writing, the real insight comes more often than not in the discussions and debates.

I look forward to this new adventure. And I am really excited to meet those of you out there who share the same interest, and learn from your experiences and opinions.

As the same time, I will continue writing my essay's here on my original Head Stuffing site.

These stories, after all, are truly what I love to write.

Reading Green Eggs and Ham

One of my favorite books of all time is by Dr. Seuss.

'Green Eggs and Ham' is a book of pure genius.

I had bought our copy for my youngest daughter Ashley-Rae's birthday when she was no more than two. I had bought it to read to Ashley and Alannah at bed time. And frankly I bought it more for my own selfish pleasure because I enjoy reading that book out loud. The rhythmic cadence, and the opportunity to inflect cartoon-like exaggerated emotion as the main character is persistently harassed by Sam-I-Am to eat that plate of green eggs and ham, chasing him across the country side by car and train, and finally into the bottom of the sea to finally achieve his objective.

It's simply a lesson in persistence.

Last night at bed time, I let Ashley-Rae – who is now more than 2 – she is now five, pick the story of her choice from volumes piled high and wide across her personal library of beaten up story books. And low and behold, she pulls out the orange covered "Green Eggs and Ham" book.

I opened it up to read. But then I stopped.

Ashley-Rae had proven she can read certain words and such before. But sometimes you did not know if she simply memorized the words of the story and recounted her memory back to you, or if she was truly reading.

"You read this time", I said as I held the book for her and put my finger under each word.

"Sam-I-am", she started. "That Sam-I-am, that Sam-I-am, I do not like that Sam I-am".

I knew Ashley-Rae was indeed reading to me as she paused for a second on each word to figure it out.

As we went along, she stumbled on a few, such as "would" or "could", but she figured them out and carried on.

And that is the beauty of this book. A beauty that was, until that experience last night, lost on me. Dr. Seuss was such a genius because he would introduce a new word or two every page. Then he would repeat that word over and over again so that the word becomes known – learned – by the new reader.

"Would you, could you in the rain? Would you could you on a train? "

Halfway through the book, Ashley-Rae had learned a wealth of new words that she knew as soon as she saw them. But the genius of Dr. Seuss is even more dazzling by the way he takes what would normally be such a mundane, monotonous method, and he makes it fun.

Giggly.

Ashley-Rae ended her reading - "Thank you, thank you, Sam-I-am". Ashley turned to look at me with the realization that she had just read a complete book, a literary masterpiece in my mind, from cover-to-cover.

All by herself.

And that beautiful little smile poked up from the sides of her mouth, her eyes got real big, and she gave me a great big daddy hug. Then she scrambled out of bed, and all around the remaining corners of the house to tell Mommy, Alannah, and the Grandma what she had just accomplished.

And I know that she now has the confidence to do it over and over again. She will pick up books to read so as not to look at the pictures, but to actually read the words. And Ashley-Rae will now like reading. She will enjoy it.

I have always known that there is no more fun book to read aloud that 'Green Eggs and Ham'. But until last night I did not understand the true genius behind the book, or the reason that educators herald the book as a treasure.

But now I do.

And Ashley-Rae has been given the greatest gift in the world. The confidence and desire to read.

And that is the best gift I could ever receive.

Thank you Dr. Seuss.

Major League Baseball is a Tough Sport

Major League Baseball is a tough sport.

There are one hundred and sixty two games in a regular season. The season spans the months of April through September. Six months in total. And the endurance of Major League baseball is one that has to be paced. You can't put a hundred percent of your heart into it for the entire duration of the season. You really have to take a break from the game and remember to enjoy life.

No, I am not writing about how tough it is to be a player. I am speaking about the fans perspective.

Major League Baseball is tough on the die-hard fan.

There have been years where it has been a piece of cake to be a baseball fan, depending on the team you root for.

In my case, the easiest year to be a baseball fan was 2006 when the Tigers took off on a blistering pace – reaching and incredible seventeen game lead over the remainder of their division by mid-July. But for as sweet as that was, as comfortable a lead as that was, the Tigers squandered their lead away through August and September, losing their lead on the last day of the season after being swept by the worst team in the American League Central Division – the Kansas City Royals. Instead they had to settle for the American League wild card spot as the Minnesota Twins won the same division in what they called a "miracle come-back".

But truly the only miracle was how a team that played so well for the first half of a year could play so bad in the second half.

The Tigers did regroup in the post-season, beating the New York Yankees four games to one, then sweeping the Oakland A's to win the American League and go on to play in the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals. And then, to the dismay of all Tiger fans, die-hard or casual, the Tigers lost to the Cardinals winning only one game in a series they should have easily won.

So even in the best years, it is hard to be a Major League baseball fan.

The only real satisfaction is when your team wins the World Series.

Then there are years like this one. 2008.

Tiger fans were excited about this season as early as November of 2007. That day a trade was announced that was so great it would already have many sports writers declaring the Tigers to win the World series this year before spring training even started. They were supposed to score ten thousand runs, and run away with the American League – challenged only by the Boston Red Sox.

And this year has been a heart breaking disappointment from the start. Opening the 2008 season with seven straight losses, bettering themselves to maybe win one game in a series, they slowly progressed to winning the odd series here and there, then went on a tear of winning long string of series' as Inter-league play saw the Tigers playing a fairly weak schedule against National League teams.

But when Inter-league play ended, so did the winning streak. They lost the next series on the road to Minnesota, and lost night lost for the time in a row to the Seattle Mariners.

All the hard work to climb back into the race for the American League Central seemingly being squandered away before our eyes.

As a die-hard fan, it is crushing to sit on the edge of your seat – pitch by pitch – almost willing your team to do well, only to see the game lost in similar fashion again and again, with nothing to be done but to try to will them harder. Certain that they will respond to your extra-sensory messages your send by wishing them so hard that they must come true.

Wishing for a clutch hit with men on base to drive in a much needed run only to heart the announcer say the batter " … took strike three with the bat on his shoulder".

Wishing the bullpen mid-relief pitcher can just get this one more hitter out to salvage a one run lead, only to hear the announcer say ".. it's a long fly ball that could be trouble, hit up the gap and rolls to the wall for a double and the tying run comes to the plate standing up …"

And you, as the die-hard fan – feel those most familiar pangs of once again being disappointed.

But then you say to yourself, "there is always tomorrow" and you anxiously await the next game hoping the result will be better.

There is no better feeling than when your team wins that game you invested all your emotion into willing them to victory. There is true satisfaction as they move one step closer to that short term goal of catching a division leader, then leading the division, and moving in to post-season play. The playoffs are so wonderfully exciting when the team you live and die for is contending in the play-offs.

It's almost a euphoric high.

That's the beauty of a season of one hundred and sixty two games. It is also the problem with a season of one hundred and sixty two games.

There is always hope that tomorrow will be better. There is always opportunity for your team to win that next game.

And a true die-hard fan always believes their team has a chance to win the World Series.

Major League Baseball is a tough sport.

Full of highs and lows. Often more lows than highs. It's emotionally draining.

And one really has to pace themselves to be a fan.

I wish I knew how to pace myself.

The Heart of Summer is Berries and Cream

It's berries and cream weekend.

It's the weekend where the shortest grass is well worn with bare spots.

And this version of the Saturday final day was fought by two sisters who put their sibling love aside to fiercely contest the most coveted of trophies in their sport.

I do love Wimbledon. It is the second most prestigious and elegant sporting event, in my book. Second only to golf's The Masters.

I know that tennis has fallen off the North American radar screen, just a small blip as it appears to be wandering off the screen over the horizon in the mind of western culture. But Wimbledon holds an air of legitimate royal legendry. And sports need that level of legitimacy in this era of steroids, corrupt officiating, and the overall consistent contempt shown by professional athletes.

I have always loved tennis since my brother Paul was successful as a junior. I had the joy of being his best rally partner – and the dismay of consistently being beaten by him although I tried my best to better him.

Big brothers are supposed to be better than their little brothers, right?

There is beauty to stand behind a baseline and strike a well hit ball in the heart of the face of the racket driving it hard over the net and the top spin drawing it back down into the opposite side of the court by the base line. The grace of a well struck serve as you toss the ball over your head in a rhythmic movement as your racket swings back behind you - moving in motion to strike the ball with a twisting spin move to curve the ball into a corner of the service line – the racket thrown at the ball in almost the same motion of a pitcher throwing a curveball.

Tennis is a beautiful game of trying to drive the ball to an area of the court where your opponent is not. Trying to guess where your opponent will hit it and moving into position to set your feet to ready your swing to drive the ball back.

I miss it.

And while next year I will be able to play again, that's not enough. Because my brother Paul is not here to play against. He is in Baton Rouge. And in my book, there is playing tennis, but then there is playing tennis against my brother Paul.

There's nothing as fun to me as playing tennis against Paul. Okay, maybe playing golf with Paul.

So when Wimbledon plays out like it did this year, with big sister Venus Williams playing against little sister Serena, I can identify with just how great an experience that would be. And I watch every point. And I love it.

Yes, the Williams sister play at a couple levels higher than either I or Paul, although I strongly think Paul had the potential to get there.

And yes, I do root for Venus – as we older siblings have to stand together against those obnoxiously arrogant younger siblings who teased us until we punched them only to get sent to your room or get grounded.

Damn those younger siblings.

Today Venus won. And I believe her sincerity when she said in the post-match interview that her first responsibility is that of big sister, and to be conscious of her little sister's disappointment so as to not over celebrate her victory.

And that's where Venus is a better older sibling than I am. Because I would have been dancing around that pristine palace of tennis among the royalties of the sport – pointing my finger at my brother and screaming at him "Who's the winner lil' bro?! Who's the winner now!."

And they probably would not have invited me back the next year. And I probably would have gotten sent to my room.

Wimbledon, to me, is the heart of summer.

And the heart of summer is when I miss my little brother Paul the most.

You Just Can’t Say That Anymore

I was reading a book this morning.

In this electronic age of the internet, book reading is becoming a lost past time, unless you are my wife – drilling through volumes of romantic novel drivel in a single afternoon.

I was reading a collection of writings by my all time favorite writer - Lewis Grizzard. Lewis was the sports editor and weekly columnist for the Atlanta Journal. In University I would buy the paper every Thursday only to read Mr. Grizzards column.

It struck me this morning, as I read one of his stories, that I envied him for his free and easy way of describing a person, condition, or situation. There were no holds barred. He could call things as he saw them.

In one particular passage, he is describing his honeymoon night with his beautiful new second wife. They had travelled four hours by car to Savannah Georgia after being married that afternoon by a Texaco gas station attendant that his brother Ludlow had hired to pretend to be a minister.

Once at the train station, the newlyweds are told they had no reservations for a sleeper car on the Amtrack to Orlando, Florida. And in typical Grizzard fashion, Lewis informs the frail elderly train attendant that unless a correction was made, he would "come behind the glass, and punch you and hit you, and pull off your raccoon hair toupee and tell everyone that you are a bedwetting communist homosexual …".

And … well ... you just can't say that kind of thing anymore.

If you did, the National Organization of Bedwetting Communists would complain about being called homosexuals.

Not that there is anything wrong with that. No, not at all. Some of my best friends …

But in this electronic age of posting immediate news and celebrity humiliation video, it ironically goes against the grain to call anything as you really see it.

Now at some point in our lives, we have all had the occasion where we have woken up on a soggy mattress and maybe even had our sheets hung out to dry for all to see. And it is not unheard of to have considered the position of Karl Marx and wondered if it weren't for the fact that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, that in some conditions communism might actually be a feasible means of governing.

And that would just plain upset the homosexuals. Not to mention the political right.

But we are not allowed to talk about such things now.

Nobody likes to be offended. Not the bedwetters. Not the communists. And certainly not the homosexuals.

And far be it from me to ever cross any of those lines.

Some of my best friends were bedwetters, and others I know are actually former communists. And for all the homosexuals I have known, there have only been a few I didn't like, and the reason was not their choice of alternative lifestyles.

They were just not very nice.

It's probably a blessing to Mr. Grizzard that he passed before seeing the content of the internet be so controversial, yet the language that we use be so dumbed down as to be sure we don't offend.

But I do not have the luxury of writing in a time of such a more simpler age.

So I make my solemn promise to you all that I will do my best to not offend anyone by the postings on my blog. And I will do my part to stand up for the rights of all readers.

Even bedwetting communist homosexuals.

This post is dedicated to the memory of Lewis Grizzard – former columnist and sports editor of the Atlanta Journal.

Summertime Jealousy

I am jealous.

It's clearly summer now. Both the weather and calendar agree. The days are hot and steamy. Thunderstorms could erupt at almost any minute. The grass is growing so fast it needs to be cut every three days. The cool waters of our pool are warming to temperatures in the eighties.

Yet my golf clubs sit idle in the storage room downstairs. My knee isn't ready yet.

So I am jealous of those who are playing twice or more a week. I hear them talking daily at work about their game. Their problems with slices and hooks. Their short games bailing them out or failing them. Their putting success and woes.

And I wish I had their problems.

The Tiger's are playing well now (knocking on wood as I type this). They are a game below the even mark of .500 after being as poor as twelve games below that mark. I sit on the back yard deck on the evenings they play and the weekend afternoon games. I root for every pitch. I have some friends who have season tickets – and others who have bought the baseball package for their satellite or cable T.V. at home. I couldn't justify the thousand dollars for the season tickets or the couple hundred for the TV package.

I prefer to listen to a ballgame on the radio, but still, I am jealous.

When I was a kid, I loved summer more than any holiday. More than my birthday. I would live with my friends down at the community pool at Plantation Swim and Racket club. The club is still there. I checked it out on Google Earth. And then I walked the neighborhood in Lawrenceville, Georgia. It looks exactly the same. Thirty years have not changed the physical appearance of the place at all. They did add two tennis courts though.

Now my kids have a pool and playground in their backyard and I wonder if I did them any real favor by buying this house with that stuff. But we do love to hang out in the back yard playing in the nice weather.

But on Mondays, as I head back into the office, I am jealous.

I know that jealousy is an immature thought. And I am not a person generally jealous of material objects – except perhaps the huge LCD HD Television my in-laws have. But I do cherish my personal time. And there is not much of it I can claim with work, physiotherapy, and events my daughters partake in. So when it comes to the free time I had like when we were kids in the summer, I get jealous.

This is a condition that I have learned to control. But not a condition I have learned to conquer. I know there are people who have conquered jealousy though.

And of those who have conquered jealousy, I am jealous.

The Last Day of Turtles

After six months of Saturday and Sunday practices in a gymnasium, with outdoor practices and then games taking place on the infamous Turtle Club ball diamonds; today was the wrap up of both Alannah's Red Timbits T-Ball team, and Ashley-Rae's Green McDonalds Blast-Ball team games.

The season ended today with the Turtles Club annual Tournament of Champions.

The progress made by Alannah's T-Ball team since those first days of gymnasium clinics has been pretty astounding. Remember that explaining baseball to a child for the first time is a huge educational task. The game is not easy to figure out until it has been instilled as a part of personal experience.

Now, after six months of dedicated coaching by persons I can only describe as Saints of Patience, not only do the girls know how to throw a ball, catch another player's throw, field a ground ball, and hit the ball off the tee to a target area where the opposition has left a gap in their coverage – but they now even know where the next play is to be made – and what their role in that play is. Each infielder covers their base. Outs made by infielders throwing the hitter out at first are common.

It's an incredible example of progress and player development.

The fifty year old Turtle Club's facilities are exceptional. Six quality diamonds, each perfectly fenced with nice dugouts and groomed with perfectly cut grass, orange clay dirt with perfectly straight white chalk lines defining the boundaries of each field. Bleachers that change from shade to sun found on each side of each diamond make watching a game a pleasure. And three parking lots intertwined through the facilities accommodate the traffic of the busiest game days.

Like this weekend's Tournament of Champions.

Between games, Alannah and I would go watch the big girls play fast pitch softball. Today the Turtle Club's under-seventeen girls travelling team was playing a Michigan clubs traveling team. The flags of each country were proudly stretched across the back of each team's dugout. The pitchers of both teams wind-milling their underhand pitches at speeds comparable to boys overhand pitching.

Alannah and I sat and watched three innings of this game – sitting in the shade of the bleachers. Watching the girls hit line drives, steal bases, and turn double plays.

"This is the kind of ball you will play when you get older, Alannah." , I said to my eldest daughter as she watched the big girls with wide eyed amazement.

The announcer on the PA speakers announced the next batter. Her name was Alannah. Alannah looked at me with her mouth wide open. Then she sat and watched the older Canadian Alannah drill a line drive into left center field, through a gap, for a stand up triple, and driving in two runs.

Alannah stood up and clapped real loud for her older namesake.

"Dad, do you think I will be that good?", asked Alannah.

"If you practice real hard and try your best, I bet you could, Alannah", I answered. "You might even play on this team."

"Wow – that would be sooo cool."

"Yes, Alannah. Yes it would".

So now that the season is over, and the girls have their participant trophies, I find myself sad that the 2008 season is over. I will admit that in mid March – after two months of 9:00 AM Saturday and Sunday gymnasium practices, I was ready for this day to come a quarter of a year ago. But now it is over. And Alannah has grown to become a ball player. Perhaps not a great player, or maybe not even good yet, depending on your criteria for judgment. But a ball player is a ball player.

And ball players are my favorite kind of people.

Now I fully recognize that things may change in Alannah's mind as the next six months unfold. But I hope some of her accomplishments, achievements, and the things she saw the big girls do will stay with her and she will still want to be a ball player again next year.

And if she does, there is no better place to play ball than with the Turtle Club.

Thanks A Lot, Tiger

Yesterday I had my six week post-op visit with my knee surgeon in Detroit.

I have tremendous respect for my knee surgeon. So much so that I would never use his name without his permission. So I will simply refer to him as 'the Good Doctor'.

Six weeks ago, the Good Doctor replaced my shriveled ACL with part of my hamstring. He also repaired a tear (bucket handle for those in the know) on my meniscus and as much (but nowhere near all) of the arthritis from the same meniscus was removed.

And it feels great.

Still swollen. Still puffy. But everyday feels better than the day before.

My physiotherapist is very pleased with my progress. We had set my goal to play golf by the end of July. Our Irish friends from Dublin are returning for a visit then. Ray is an exceptional golfer, and a great guy to walk a golf course with. So I have been looking very forward to playing golf by then.

After the Good Doctor examined my knee, he restated several times that this is actually the most dangerous time for the new ACL (once part of my hamstring) to tear. "If this things tears", he warned quite clearly and seriously, "we can't go back in there and fix it again. This is it. Don't screw it up!"

I nodded my acknowledgment, and would explain my practices for safety. And after each of examples, the Good Doctor would reply:

"If this things tears we can't go back in there and fix it again. This is it. Don't screw it up!"

And most would have known to keep their mouth shut, and perform the Boy Scout salute while promising:

"I will be very very careful and do nothing dangerous, Good Doctor. I promise I won't screw it up!"

Most would. But apparently not me.

".. you see, Good Doctor, I have some friends from Dublin Ireland coming to visit in the end of July…", I started.

The Good Doctor turned and looked at me – holding my chart – looking over the lenses of his glasses as they dangled on the end of his nose.

".. and I have set this target for myself to be able to play golf by then …", I finished.

The Good Doctor shook his head – almost in disbelief. Almost as to say – although he didn't verbalize the sentiment – "Haven't you heard a word I'm saying?"

But all the Good Doctor did was look at me.

"I would wear my brace of course ... ", I said trying to predict his argument – like a teenager asking to borrow Dad's car to drive to a party.

The Good Doctor kept on staring.

".. and I would ride in a cart, of course .. ", I continued.

The Good Doctor kept on staring.

"See, I hit the ball from my right side and shift my weight quickly to my left ... and since I would not hold any real weight on my right leg …", I continued further, now trying to safely demonstrate to him that I had analyzed this thoroughly and in my own expert opinion …

The Good Doctor kept on staring.

And then he started to shake his head. Head shaking is never a good sign when asking someone for permission.

He laughed a gentle laugh and he said "didn't you hear about Tiger Woods?".

"Why yes, I watched most of the US Open, it was clear he was in great pain, but his bad knee is his left …" I answered, but then cut off.

The Good Doctor kept on staring.

"Tiger Woods is done for the year!", he stated. "It was in the news this morning".

"Really? He hurt it that bad?"

"Yes, and his ACL is now torn, and he has a double-stress fracture in his tibia!"

That sounded bad. I know the tibia is a leg bone, and fracture means a break – and well – double usually means two.

"Huh." I replied.

The Good Doctor returned to staring.

I sat there quietly.

"Let's see how you do this next month then" said the good Doctor – after several long moments of silence passed he said ...

"If this thing tears we can't go back in there and fix it again. This is it. Don't screw it up!" he stated again.

This time it really sank in.

"I will be very very careful and do nothing dangerous, Good Doctor. I promise I won't screw it up!" I replied while speaking slowly and sincerely. "Scout's honor".

"Were you a Boy Scout?" asked the Good Doctor.

"Cub Scout"

And then again, he started to shake his head. "I'll see you in six weeks, Mr. Brill", he said almost dismissingly. But then he added one final time, "If this thing tears we can't go back in there and fix it again. This is it. Don't screw it up!"

Thanks, Tiger.

Thanks a lot.

And Tiger, should you ever happen to read this, I hope you get better quickly – but my advice is to let it heal this time. Otherwise you will have to endure hearing your knee surgeon say "Since you tore this thing again we can't go back in there and fix it again. That was it. You screwed it up!".

And you, Mr. Woods, will feel as childish as I do now.

Baby Steps Are Tigers Answer

We all know that true progress advances slowly.

Quite often things improve at such a gradual pace it is hard to see.

Take as an example the experience of watching your children grow. It's not until you look at pictures from a couple of months prior that you realize how quickly they are really developing. Since you see them every day, their daily millimeter of growth occurs unnoticed.

The same is true for the Detroit Tigers.

A quick recap for those who are interested – the Tigers were picked this year to handily win the AL Central Division, the American League, and the World Series. It was expected that the combination of amazing pitching and collection of All-Star power-hitters would result in a romp through the American League.

And .. well .. so far .. that hasn't happen.

Instead the Tigers lost their first seven opening games of the season and went on a horrific slide to start the year, reaching at one point 15 games below the level .500 mark. The problems were so numerous that it takes a long list to explain, but in short, the lineup couldn't hit – the starting pitching was weak and only able to last a few innings, and defensively errors were being made at all positions. The disabled list (DL) is perhaps the longest in the majors – with many of the remaining players playing hurt with broken fingers, bad backs, shoulder injuries, and even hemorrhoids.

The team that was supposed to burn up the league instead got burnt to a crisp.

In Detroit, the term "emotional investment" is used quite a lot when discussing fan loyalty to the teams this town supports. If you stop and think about rooting for a team, you can actually track the level of your caring for a team by the emotion that you invest in them. High emotional investment translates to great faith and large expectations for the season. Little to no emotional investment comes when the faith and / or expectations are failed to be realized, or never existed in the first place.

And for many Tiger's fans – the investment was cashed in already – willing to accept their loss and invest elsewhere.

Too bad.

Because the Tigers are quietly getting better.

The Tigers are winning more frequently than losing right now. The starting rotation has taken us seven innings, and giving up four or less runs – quality starts as the sports pundits say. The hitting has come to life a bit more day by day, and rally's to come from behind have started to erupt. Hits with men on base have started to increase. And the small ball play of sacrifice bunts, steals, and hit-and-run plays called by manager Jim Leyland have started netting some rewards.

Slowly but surely they are getting better.

They still sit ten games behind Chicago for the lead of the AL Central. And they still sit ten games below the even mark. And coming into this current series, the White Sox were red hot. But the Tigers put some water on that fire last night with timely hitting, solid pitching, and strong defensive play including a throw from left fielder Brent Clevelan to catcher Pudge Rodriguez for a close out at the plate.

It was a great game.

It was the Tigers baseball we expect.

And we have been seeing a lot more of it lately.

The sparks of life are coming from the farm system in Toledo. Names like Clevelan, Mathew Joyce, Ryan Raburn, Clete Thomas, and Armando Galarraga have provided sparks lacking from the superstars Miguel Cabrera and Dontrelle Willis – Willis sent yesterday to Single A Lakeland, Florida.

If the Tigers sweep this series with Chicago, they are only 8 games back, and it is only June. And Chicago can't stay hot forever.

And in recent history several teams have come back from ten or more games behind on June 11 to win their division, and even the World Series.

Stranger things have happened.

And what goes around, comes around.

So I am keeping my emotion invested in the Tigers. It's a long term investment renewed each year, and I don't plan to withdraw until October.

The Old Hockey Stick

I am an old hockey stick.

At one time I was a favorite stick, used in big games to score important goals.

But now my flex is gone and my blade is cracked.

But I am still valuable. There are still many important jobs I can do.

I can be used to pry open new doors to go through, and prop them open as you transcend through.

I can be used to beat sense into those that refuse to understand the position you are taking.

Stick me in the dirt and use me to prop up ailing seedlings to help them grow healthy and strong, providing stability until they can stand on their own.

Or you can sit me in a corner of the garage, and merely look at me to remember days of greater glories.

But if I had my choice, I would rather be taped back up, and used to score more goals.

Starting Over and Over

Last year, I wrote on these pages about how the team I worked with found out that a long standing contract we had been working on was coming to a close, our disappointment, and how were working hard to learn our new roles.

Basically, we were starting our careers within the company over again.

When all the dust had settled, I was delighted to find out that I would be working on a brand new project – not merely maintaining a system someone else had designed and built. This project was large in scope, deemed to be critical to the future success of our organization, and would usher in some radically new technology that would transform many aspects of how we currently do business.

I travelled frequently for weeks at a time on this project. Weeks away from my family and leaving my full time career Registered Nurse of a wife to deal with all those aspects of raising two little girls along with her own professional duties.

We had what we considered to be great success on this project as we delved deeper and deeper into what the users of our new system would need and require. And we put those pieces together in design, intricately integrating various solutions together to result in one very impressive result of a design.

But when we pitched our designed solution, our vision of what we were to build, we were not applauded. There were no standing ovations. Instead we heard gasps. Gasps for what their perception of the size and scope of the solution would be. Gasps at tentative project timelines as they crept across months and into years to complete.

The final solution was going to weave together existing components for collaboration, contact relationship management, and our prestigious claims adjudication system. Very little would be written from scratch. Most components would simply be tweaked and customized. But as any good project manager knows, you always manage expectations of delivery dates of large projects by adding contingency time planning.

So what was once a high-priority and eagerly anticipated solution was now being balked at by those who control both resources and budgets.

My role was to partner with another systems engineer as we pieced this solution together. Once completed, implemented and deployed, I would carry this new system with me to another branch of our IT group to ensure they understood it, to manage it, and to extend it further as time went on.

It was a career opportunity. It was one of those few opportunities to move up in an environment with a very low glass ceiling for professional mobility. And our team was making the very most of it.

And then I went off work for three weeks for knee surgery.

I returned to work two weeks ahead of the doctors desired recovery period as I was excited to get back to the project.

But upon entering the office that first morning back, I was called into my Manager's office. And the news was not good. It appears while I was away, the decision had been handed down from above that this project was not that important after all. The priority had dropped. The interest had evaporated. And the project was shelved.

As any good project manager knows, once a project is shelved, its chances of being rekindled are little or none.

I was told that I would be moving into the group that maintains existing projects. The group I was going to join bringing this project with me. Only now I was joining empty handed. It was explained to me that my return to this team was indeed unexpected – but not to worry, we will find something for you to do.

The opportunity to advance was lost. My mobility to rise professionally seeming stifled.

My disappointment was immense. And I apologized to me new team management for my disappointment, they responding with empathy.

So I find myself now in the awkward position of starting over starting over.

Do I feel I failed on my last assignment? No. I consider the work we did do to be of tremendous value. Do I feel I let this project fail? Perhaps only by taking this time to have my knee surgery done – eliminating the potential for face-time to persuade a decision maker. But I had no control over resourcing, or timelines. Their needs were what they stated them to be. The scope of the project was scaled only to satisfy those needs.

Now those needs go unsatisfied.

So now I spend my days learning data models for other systems so I can support their maintenance.

My career must sit on hold at least for now. Because again, I am starting over.

God’s Contraptions

We opened the pool last weekend. That means summer – if not by the calendar, at least in our minds – is here.

So I sit on the backyard deck a lot now. I'm sitting there now as I type this, although the temperature is only ten degrees Celsius (or fifty two degree Fahrenheit for my American metric impaired friends). It's quite cool and there is a strong breeze.

Strong enough to blow stuff around in the back yard. Like those little "key" seeds that fall off of Maple trees. You know, the ones that have a single wing attached to the seed, and as they fall, they spin to the ground like a poorly crafted Canadian Armed forces helicopter.

And they crash to the ground. On my backyard lawn. And in my newly opened pool.

The Maple tree (a Chinese Maple they tell me – although a Maple is a Maple to me) resides in the middle of my neighbors back yard. To the west of my house. And since the wind blows predominantly from the west, they predominantly land in my back yard.

Predominantly.

I have always liked that tree because it covers so much of the view into neighboring yards it provides a sense of privacy to the west. But after two days of fishing those little key seeds out of the pool, and knowing that there are two large lawn bags worth of these keys to rake and sweep up back here – I am questioning that love for this particular Maple. Chinese or not.

But as I sit and watch the keys fall, I am struck by a certain awe.

How incredible it is that that the seeds of this tree are designed this way. It takes a gust of wind to blow them out of the tree. Grouped in large bundles like grapes on a vine, the wind blows of an entire cluster and the result looks like a mini sortie of helicopters attacking my back yard.

Which is pretty cool. But what has me in awe is the thought that has gone into this means of seed distribution.

These seeds do not simply fall to the base of the tree. They blow away from the tree. Far enough away that if they take seed, the new trees won't grow directly under the parent tree.

As I sit and marvel at this, I notice Hoppy the squirrel running past. He has a fresh new walnut seed in his mouth as he bounds across the fence in my back yard. And he stops to eat that green walnut, like a corn cob – twisting it until he gets to the center seed, which he discards to the ground.

And my awe in the means to distribute seeds strengthens.

And my faith in God is reaffirmed.

You see, I consider myself to be a logical, rational man, superstitious only when it comes to sports like baseball or hockey. You don't step on the lines of a ball field, and you never shave during hockey playoffs.

And for many years I was a true believer in the scientific evaluation of evolution. Which led me down the path of agnostic belief. But each day as I grow older, I find there are just too many little things that couldn't possibly be just a coincidence. Even millions of years of random combinations and natural selection could not – in my humble opinion – and I stress the word humble – result in a system where seeds are deployed and distributed like the key seeds helicoptering down to the ground, or the chance a squirrel will eat a walnut and drop the seed to become a new tree.

There must be a diety that masters this intelligent design. A conscious cognitive force that reasons a thumb is a good thing for biped mammals to grasp tools to work with. A well thought out plan that combines the forces of nature like wind to spread the seeds, bees to pollinate the seeds, and rain to nurture them.

There must be?

A cartoonist from the early nineteen hundreds named Rube Goldberg drew amazing complex cartoons of contraptions that perform simple tasks – usually by launching a ball to knock things over to trigger wheels to spin to scoop up water to flow down a tube to fill a bucket to be heavy enough to pull a rope down a pulley and land on a see-saw to turn on a light switch. You know the guy. And these contraptions as you watch them are hilarious and ingenious. Like his Simple Moth Killer machine:

I think that in a much more subtle – more sophisticated – more ingenious way, God's contraptions work in that same fashion. And they are just as hilarious. God has the most amazing sense of humor.

God's contraptions in nature have helicopter seeds blowing off trees, have strong streams that carry fish downstream and force them to swim upstream to spawn. Volcanoes that erupt to create islands in the middle of oceans, and lightning that triggers brush fires to clear away dead debris to make space for new growth, perhaps by squirrels like Hoppy dropping or pooping seeds back into the earth.

It's incredible to witness even the simplest of these miracles. And you know his awesome sense of humor is present. God is a real practical joker. He's laughing at me right now.

Because it's a real pain in the ass to rake these helicopter seeds up.