Prologue to #19

The Old Man sat quietly at the top of Old Trafford, home of the famed Manchester United soccer team. It was a cold, rainy day, the type that English soccer has become well known for. The Old Man had wrapped himself tightly in a wool blanket as he sat in the corner of the box suite to bear the brunt of the cold. The older you get the colder you get he thought. It had been thirty years since he had donned the red jersey, but he could remember the games, the agony of defeat, and the thrill of victory like it was yesterday. The Champions League Final, winning the FA Cup, winning the Super Cup, as well as the premiership a half dozen times, it all felt like it had just happened. He remembered all the great players he had played with and all the goals he had scored. His assists were streaming through his mind as the first half of the game began. He barely noticed the tap on his shoulder as the security guards instructed him to make his way to the field to have his number retired at halftime. This was a great honor, reserved for the greatest to ever play the game. The once masterful player strode with confidence and humility, making his best effort to conceal the limp that accompanied many great athletes in their latter years, especially on cold and rainy days. The Old Man took the elevator down to the field level. The walls shook with the applause of the fans, the result of an intensely played first half. The Old Man had been a part of many of these matches. The score was 0-0 and the Man U fans were cheering their team on, singing as the halftime whistle blew and the players made their way to the dressing room. As they left the field, Old Trafford rumbled as “Come on You Reds” echoed through her walls. As the last player left the field, the Old Man waited at the end of the tunnel, shouldered with security. Players from both teams ran up the tunnel to their dressing room but, one by one, they slowed to a walk to pay their respects and shake the Old Man’s hand. It was so loud in the tunnel, the Old Man could barely hear himself think, but he was able to read the movement of the lips. “Great to meet you” all the lads were saying as the timid gentleman shook the young players’ hands. “Great half. Best of luck in the second half,” was all the man replied. As he made his way down the tunnel, he saw the great pitch of Old Trafford. It had been years since he’d stepped foot on this grass. The smell of the stadium, the roar of the crowd, the lights, the history, it all came rushing back to him. Now he was outside the tunnel and in plain view of the crowd at the halfway line, and in an instant the crowd hushed. The Old Man walked to the center circle where his storied number nineteen jersey was waiting for him. The stadium remained as silent as a church. It was a quick ceremony. They played some clips of the great goals he had scored, the trophies he had won, and his FIFA World Player of the Year awards, and then the owners of Manchester United raised the famed number nineteen to the top of Old Trafford, never to be worn again by another Manchester United player. The Old Man bowed his head to the fans and quietly made his way off the pitch in the same fashion he had entered it. The ceremony was a summation of his career. He had always entered the pitch humbly, driven the crowd wild with his talents, and then walked off the field, head bowed in honor of his opponents and teammates, never forgetting where he came from. As he left the field at Old Trafford for the last time, he caught a glimpse of a young boy sitting in the third row. He was dirty on the face, wet on the beak from the rain, and pure in the eyes. They locked eyes for a twenty-yard stride, the youth in envy of the Old Man, the Old Man sensing something special in the youth—a hunger, a drive, a desire that evaded most young players and only emerged in dreams. Occasionally, the very special ones tap into that desire and drive and make their dreams a reality. The Old Man understood the look. He smiled as thoughts from his own childhood began to resurface.

Mark Hires A Landscaper

Without too Much Backstory, here are the bullet points. 1. I buy a house in Escondido because I can afford it and it has a big lot for my dogs to run. 2. The property doesn't have irrigation. 3. The dogs tear up the grass and leave no less than the Mojave Desert in their wake. 4. Dirt outside equates to dirt inside, which equates to Sara yelling at me. Everything is my fault afterall. 5. I hire an irrigation expert to install a system. 6. $1800 later we have an irrigation system to water dirt. 7. Simultaneously, Gopher moves in, begins his own aeration process. Sara tells me to kill him. But then changes her mind when she sees him sunbathing outside, not I'm just supposed to trap him and move him to a canyon. I tell her that he will be going to a place with plenty of canyons, he will even likely be wearing a white robe. It's going to be great. 8. Mark Plants Grass Seed. Waters Frequently. 9. Weeds Grow. Lots of them. 8 Trash cans full. 10. Mark Calls landscaper back, tells him he has grass, it's time to cut the grass on a regular schedule. 11. Landscaper laughs. Says he was by my house last week, he saw the weeds. 12. Mark says nothing, holds steadfast that beneath the underbrush there is grass. Landscaper still laughs. 13. Landscaper comes to mow the yard. 14. Landscaper must weed whack the entire yard by hand before getting his mower on it. 15. 2 Hours Later, beneath the underbrush, grass appears. 16. Now the dogs can go in the back in the grass area in the morning, then have to track through some dirt en route to house, leaving mud by the back door. And eventually inside the house. 17. Now Mark realizes that he has to invest in some pavers for the patio area to nix out the dirt confine during the grass growing stage that the dogs tore up. 18. Landscaper tells me the cost is going to be in the 5 digit range. 19. Mark Prays for good tax return. 20. Gopher is in great health and seems to be enjoying his new mangrove. To be continued.

Lucy Mae!!!

For those of you who are still following this blog, let me take this opportunity to remind you to throw out your old yellow pages, and please bring in the new pile...while you are at it, please visit yellowpagesoptout.com. This weird thing happens to you when you have a child. It isn't a crescendo, I didn't cry, I didn't throw up. I simply looked in the back seat and saw another person there and thought, "Well, it's going to be different now." It's not good, it's not bad, it's just different and it's fantastic. I find myself spending hours upon hours of sitting on a blanket playing like a little kid, with a little person. I find myself having this kinesthetic energy with my child that allows me to know when then need something...that is a very scientific way of saying every 5-10 minutes she either needs to poop (gets that from her dad), needs attention (gets that from her dad), or needs to eat (also, gets that from her dad). However, there is this weird space that exists between my wife Sara and I that wasn't there before. I recently quit my job, which was a 6 figure one. We recently bought a house, which is a very old one. That said, the space that exists isn't really space at all, what is left is the fact that the person you fell in love with before the baby is forever and will be forever different. Ironically, I'm in love more now than ever. When I watch my wife with my child and the way she is, it's different. It isn't the 3 jack and coke lustful stare I used to get, it's now the I've got breast milk all over the couch and the baby is about to barf...again, please help look. It's a total trip. I look back on past blog posts and laugh. Too much time, no enough substance. These days, I'm starting my own company, raising my own child, changing diapers at a 30 second per diaper clip (that's clothes off, clean butt, to clothes on) which frames me. A year ago, I used to take the dogs on a walk around Escondido where our little casita is, and people would say "cute dogs." Now I load up the Ergo Baby, cruise the dogs on the same walk, and all of a sudden I hear "SuperDad!" My Mom said something to me the other day. She said "I knew you would step-up!" I stepped back and thought about that statement and thought about my options...where else would I go? Step down? Step Away? No chance. For me, as life presents challenges and opportunities you adapt and either engage or disengage those less than desirable or more desirable opportunities. So basically, I didn't know failing was an option. After my fallout with my own father, one of my measuring sticks was how good of an influence could I be. I left my job (quit), started my own business (smart I hope), doing my passion (sounds good on paper), and hoping (in one hand) that it all works out. I look at it like this. If I decided to leave California and drive to New York in the middle of the night I wouldn't be able to see. But I trust the fact that my headlights will run 200 feet in front of me (inner wisdom). If I drive down the road, my goal is that my headlights will run 200Ft, and then 200Ft. more, and before I know it, the sign for New York will be in front of me. That's my view on parenthood. I don't have all the answers, and once I do, I will be a grandparent. So just get going, trust yourself and your passions as long as they are thought out and there is a plan (roadmap). So I'm getting going, I'm an Academy Soccer Coach for Boys Under 12 and Under 13. I do skills clinics to the general population. I will be doing 2-3 weeklong camps per year and have founded a website called Ratemysoccercoach.com. The website isn't profitable yet, but we (me and strategic partners) have business models that pencil on paper. The point being, 5 years ago my life was in control of me. I was reactive. I couldnt' be happier with my new position in life as a family man and stay at home dad/entrepreneur/youth soccer coach. For the first time in a while, I can see the lines and the patterns, and the idea of stepping down doesn't exist. The idea of stepping up seems small and the normal course of action is to keep rolling. I miss you guys, hope all is well on the homefront. All Good Days, Mark