Toaster Oven Time

Tick, tick, tick. I knew that time was passing and didn’t need the dial on the toaster oven to remind me of every hypothetical second my bulkie roll would need to turn a golden color for my lunch, several thousand hypothetical ticks down the road. Did someone at Sunbeam think it would comfort me; knowing of the slow march of time as my roll heated up? Did the final, “ding” at the end of the timer seem insufficient? It’s this kind of affirmation of linear time that I had given up long ago; back when I wore a watch and gawked at it blankly several times a day and still not acknowledging what time it actually was. Time, after all my friends, is stuff. It’s not just any stuff either, but stuff we have left. Time passes, not by the audible ticks of a toaster oven but by check marks and crossed lines, real or imaginary, marking off our stuff. Wake up, make lunch, get gas, call garage, student’s program, IEPs, noon switch, start again, Range Pond, did you call the garage?, coach in South Portland, dinner, write article, mindlessly watch Dr. Who (don’t judge me), so it goes. A day has passed, not by time but by stuff. We lose time when we lose our stuff. The article that didn’t get written Wednesday will now be added to Thursday’s stuff.

We realize it too when others make requests of us unexpectedly; gazing back at them with a betrayed look, “I just can’t… I have too much stuff already!” Our eyes plead but time is indifferent. More stuff has just been piled on. It’s why we get so upset when we discover that someone else has dropped the ball, “Why should I have to do their stuff? I have stuff of my own to do!” We care little that in a linear sense we will have to perform another thirty minute task. It’s the stuff that really sticks in our craw; makes us want to cause them to have more stuff in their life. We could even stretch and say that to be rid of stuff to do is our life’s purpose. What is retirement after all, if not an official way of saying, “I’m tired of all this stuff.”? Even death, then becomes, not an end to linear time but the cessation of stuff we have to do. Just ask anybody their view of heaven and they’ll describe a great place without stuff to do.

As I write, a clock behind me somewhere ticks, different from three other clocks in the immediate area; fuzzy time zones around the building. Here, the article is finished; check. I’ll get a cup of coffee (check). By then my student will arrive (check). So, in that spirit, I’ll simply say, not “enjoy your day” but rather, “enjoy your stuff”.

Fighting off the Mid-Winter Blahs

I happened to notice as January lagged on that I felt the change. Did you feel it? It’s that tangible something; that palpable “harrumph” that settles into the bones and gnaws like field mice behind old plaster. It’s the dog days of winter, my friends, and I don’t like it one bit.

It changes a person; makes them feel trapped. It makes otherwise calm and rational people suddenly explode into a tirade when they hear that the price of Yemeni quail eggs has nearly doubled. This is what we become when the sun has been vanished for so long and even 200 channels cannot rectify the seemingly hopelessness of the situation.

It’s in this spirit that I give you a little something to hold on to.

• Remember the smell of fresh cut grass.
• Think of seeing the bobber dart beneath the surface of a flat pond.
• Breathe deep and imagine the smell of the ocean as it pounds against hot sand that pulls out from under your toes with the retreat of each swell.
• Breathe again and remember the smell of dew-laden spruce boughs as you push back your tent fly while the first light of dawn gathers around the edges of the woods.
• Imagine the taste of a burger; just lifted off the flames.

 

Keep this list. Cut it out and hang it on your refrigerator for the next time you feel like throwing your shovel at the snowplow. We made it through last year and we’ll do it again. In the meantime, spray a little WD-40 on your bike, dust off your fishing gear, and set the tent up in the living room for a night. We all do what we have to when it comes to surviving the dog days.

~C. Douglas M^cIntire

Christmas Looks at Forty

Searching for Christmas at a Certain Age

I was going to write something different this month; something that didn’t make reference to, well, you know. It was going to take you on an imaginative trip to the beach, conjure the smell of burgers on the grill. Ah, since it’s only our imagination, why not make those babies fillets wrapped in bacon. It’s hard after all isn’t it; getting beat over the head with holiday cheer from roughly September fifteenth on.

No matter what one’s faith or social conscience holds, just as a part of our culture, we must all reconcile to ourselves just what it means to us; this season. For some, I’m sure, the answer is readily on their lips and anxious to trumpet out their love for Christmas like so many ringing bells buzzing in store fronts, held by freezing Salvation Army workers. Still, for others it takes a more meandering path through memories long past to evoke the old spirit.

So it’s to those people I write today; those of us who have to return to a certain place to find Christmas again; an annual migration, if you will. For those of us, this season remains in a child, not much unlike ourselves; unburdened by the trudgeries of the day, unaffected by gas and oil prices, and unperturbed by people with twenty items in the fourteen or less lane. It remains with that part of us who loved to see the snow plow because it made the biggest snowballs in it’s wake.

So, I’ll prattle on then for a bit. If you share any of these memories, smile a bit and remember that kid, undaunted by a frozen runny nose and bundled in a snowmobile suit complete with snorkel jacket with the cotton candy like faux fur trim on the hood.

Christmas for me began, not with a tree, but a ball of lights; carelessly jammed in a box the year before as if never again to be seen. My father and I would spend hours untangling, plugging in, and chasing after that one burnt out bulb, hiding among the healthy, that made the whole string go out. The tree would arrive and my sisters and I would assault it with a mix match of decorations garnered by years of our parent’s gathering and almost as many of our gaudy school creations. There were glass balls of unimaginable brightness of hue; iced with glittering white lace patterns. There was tinsel; both carefully laid upon bough and tossed by careless hand like a metallic snowball across bulb and ball alike. Together, alongside the colored lights, they made an explosion of brightness across the living room.

Out of a box would come candles and various decorations that, despite my few years, had already created a bit of youthful nostalgia. Garlands would wrap railings, stockings would be ceremoniously stapled to the annually assailed moldings, and records would come out. We all still hear Bing Crosby every year, but who remembers the vinyl that carried those tunes every Christmas? They all became stacked on the console television/stereo and were played in turn: Bing, Dean Martin, and Perry Como. There may have even been some K-Tel compilations in there as well.

All that was left to do then was wait, not for Christmas but the specials that were only shown once a year: A Charlie Brown Christmas, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman… There weren’t 200 channels and if you missed them, you were out of luck and Christmas would somehow just not be the same.

So, there we have it and thanks for coming along. If you share some of the same memories, hopefully I helped you on your way. As for me, I’m off to find that kid; the one with moon boots and a towel stuffed in the neck of his snorkel jacket so snow didn’t fly down my back when I barreled down bullets hill on my magic carpet sled. Maybe I’ll see him when I drive through Brunswick and see the kids skating downtown by the gazebo. Perhaps I’ll pick his face out at the mall, staring at the decorations, never knowing that the colors will never again look that vibrant or that in thirty years time, he too will be searching the crowd for himself.

So, Merry Christmas everyone!

Nollaig Shona Duit

C. Douglas M^cIntire

Equinox

As I write here in my little nook, the Autumnal Equinox
looms. Summer has ended and for most of us those remnants of July will soon be
packed away. Styrofoam noodles and camping gear, coolers and sunscreen,
reluctantly tucked away; the hibernation of Spring’s ambitions. Trees already
fringed with orange and scarlet prepare to blanket lawn and sill. Squirrels
give chase to one another; darting beneath fallen, stained maple leaves; no
time to waste.

Our minds, too become more industrious; turning to firewood
and oil. The odd air conditioner still hangs precariously from a propped sash,
collecting yellow birch and brown spider before being relegated to the garage
or attic for another season. This ancient drive, this medulla-sparked fidget
that snaps the synaptic switch as the sun takes a more earthward slant reminds
us. As Spring bears the fruits of hope, so Fall’s legacy is to bear the harvest
of hopes unrealized. That porch on your list of repairs in May will have to
languish another winter. The ten pounds you wanted to lose with all your Summer
activities will have to hide nicely behind sweaters. There are more pressing
things now. Inconsistent Fall makes us at once rake leaves and put up weather
stripping while slowing down with the rest of nature. As the last grasses of
Summer have gone to seed, so we make our final physical push; stretching as the
grass, as green fades to gold; at last to slumber and dream again of Spring.

And so, welcome the Fall. Indulge in the crisp breath of
morning. Linger hours, calling forth the flavors of a perfect stew. As the
evenings grow chill, revel in the first fire of the darkening season. Hear the
iron of the stove creak, smell its radiant heat mingled with sweetly seasoned
wood, and breathe deep the cider of the season. Pull out an old sweater from
its hiding place; the one that still smells of last Winter: wood smoke and
toil, spruce bough and slush. Gather in and forget those things that need to
wait. They’ll make better dreams in March.

Country Register Article (December)

December

Gravid skies hang; a steel gray promise of the white blanket that will soon lie

beneath. Colorful leaves litter the corners of our yards; the confetti of fall’s final

celebration. The familiar, acrid smell of wood smoke drifts on the crisp breeze as

the sun slants low on the horizon; shortening our days.

This is a time of closure. We close our storm windows to the breeze that has

turned chill. We close our doors against the early night. We close out our

summer activities; storing away shorts, tents, and gardening tools. We gather

in our firewood, rediscover our sweaters, and once again, crave hot cider.

We also gather our loved ones close to us. No longer far flung by summer’s

activities, we gather together to celebrate under one roof. Our minds drift to

thoughts of turkey, pumpkin pie, and holiday music. Meals are shared and gifts

exchanged as winter wraps itself around brightly lit homes.

It doesn’t matter if the pie needed more cloves or someone took your parking

space at the mall. All that matters now is that we are together; if only for

this one time each year. As if a longing from the ages, we are still drawn

together now if only to reconnect, share a meal, or see a familiar face anew.

Premier Player Magazine #2 Why Sports Matter

Why Sports Matter (Book Review)

Imagine getting shot in the throat. No, really, the fear nay the terror of facing down a 9mm pointed roughly at your dome, hearing the discharge, and feeling the round tear through your flesh; turning every millisecond into a lifetime. What would go through your mind; despair, acceptance of your fate? Now imagine waking up to the reality that although you survived, the bullet had severed your spinal cord, leaving you paralyzed from the chest down.

In his book, “Why Sports Matter: Life Lessons of a Diehard Chicago Fan” Bill Renje, a lifelong athlete, experiences the unthinkable. After being shot down, Renje experiences the darkest moments of his life; surviving the attack that left him paralyzed. Refocusing his energies, he decided to begin training for quad wheelchair rugby. Enrolling in the University of Illinois where he eventually received his BA in Sociology and Master’s in Journalism, Renje began to retrain his body to match the athlete his mind always knew him to be.

From his rookie year of ’91-’92, Renje learned, not only a new sport, but how to master negotiating a new chair in a new environment. In ’92, he played with Illinois, developing his skills on the court as well as finding himself in the social and academic arena. Working with the Illinois team, Renje helped develop new strategies to play off other team’s strengths; racking up wins and urging his team forward.

As the next couple of seasons passed, Renje saw his team grow on and off the court. In ’95, he was named to the All-Tournament team; one of thirty-six in his career. In his next season, it was announced that wheelchair rugby would be a Paralympic sport in the summer games in Atlanta. Through long trials, he found himself in the Olympic Village in Atlanta, representing the United States. Renje’s expectations for the Paralympics prepared him little for what he was about to experience. The crowds, the spectacle, and the grandeur; all of which he thought was rolled up and carted away when the Olympic Games had ended, remained to cheer the team on to gold.

Assured his brief moment of fame would quickly flicker, Renje again proved his detractors wrong by earning two more gold medals and continuing on to have a successful career in wheelchair rugby. His faith, spirit, and perseverance have inspired countless athletes and proved once and for all that the athlete is not in the limbs, but in the heart.

Renje and his wife Amy went on to other adventures as they sought to expand their family through international adoption. Guided by faith and an uncanny chain of events, Bill and Amy set their sights on Guatemala. After falling in love with baby Nico, the two began to traverse the minefield of red tape, politics, and unforeseen delays. Their long “birth pains” were finally rewarded when baby Nico came home to be greeted by all the Renje’s “team mates”.

Premier Players Magazine #2 Cricket Revisited

Cricket Revisited

 

So, you read my last article about the T20 match here in the US and got caught up in the cricket fever that’s sweeping the nation. You and your friends went out and bought cricket bats and, after hours of running around a nearby field playing Shawn of the Dead, you finally admitted you didn’t know the first thing about cricket and went home after apologizing to the terrified children left in your wake.

It’s alright to admit we don’t know what we’re doing when it comes to cricket. I mean, it looks like baseball. Those thingies behind the batter look like something out of croquet. As for the guys milling around the field, well, honestly they look like bored bystanders who wanted to watch some base, croquet, ball, thing. You know, considering the US beat the undefeated Canadian team (and they’re almost English, right), we should take a moment to get acquainted with baseball’s polite cousin. Let us begin.

We’re used to looking at the world of fields as either a diamond or a grid marked out in yards. In cricket, you have the “pitch”; a swath of field about 66 feet long. I’m sure it’s measured in metric now, but I seem to have left my meter stick back in sixth grade when they swore to me the English system would soon be dead. The pitch is, well, a line. At either end are those sticks; remember the croquet thingies? That’s the “wicket” and the little stick on top is called the “bail”. These are no ordinary sticks as the batter’s life seems to depend on them. That brings me to the batters. There are two of them at opposite ends of the pitch; one “striking” and the other not. There is also a pitcher, or “bowler”. The bowler’s job is to knock down the bail of the batter. Hits in cricket have as much to do with defending the wicket as they do with hitting the ball. Behind the wicket is the catcher, or “keeper”. Behind the bowler is the umpire. The game is played with eleven a side and traditionally, all team members get a turn at bat.

Scoring is slightly more difficult than we are used to; having to do with both running and position. When the batter hits the ball, he and the opposite batter run, crossing mid pitch, toward each other’s wicket. They can cross as many times as they think they can get away with it, but must be back in their own “crease” before someone knocks over their wicket. Batters can also score by hitting the ball out of the play area. Crossing the line in the air scores six runs, on the ground, four. Batters are “out” when either the ball is caught, or their wicket is toppled, either by the bowler, or their own bat.

So, now you have it. The mystifying world of cricket has been entrusted to you. Now go forth and make bowlers and batsmen and milling about fielders of all you chance upon. As perhaps the only former colony not to have embraced cricket, perhaps it is time. Besides, couldn’t you just see Hanley Ramirez with one of those things in his hands? Just a thought. Indulge

Premier Players Magazine #2 The First Rule of Fight Club

The First Rule of Fight Club…

 

So, you grew up on Jean Claude Van Damme and Stephen Segal before he became a bloated caricature of himself, kicking the snot out of the bad guys in a way that your father’s Rocky Balboa never could have imagined and now you find yourself in the 18 to 24 year old demographic and hungry for more? Chances are you made the easy slide from movie goer to Mixed Martial Art fan quicker than you can say Tyler Durden.

Call it what you will: Mixed Martial Arts, Ultimate Fighting, Attack of the Terminally Testosteroned. It all ends up the same with some guy kicking the bejesus out of another for fame and glory. What ever happened to the kinder, gentler days of toe-to-toe slugfests that coined such phrases as “toe the line” and “Hey, did you see Boom Boom Mancini kill that guy in the ring?” Boxing was an evolution of man’s violent tendency to raid, pillage, and plunder; a tightly regulated venue for us to vicariously partake in senseless, bloody mayhem, safe in the knowledge that genitals will stay in tact and eyeballs will, for now, remain in their current location. It was a true love story of art imitating life. Two athletes would act out war; confined by ropes, refs, and a strict point system. Recently however, with the rise of MMA, we see the different story of life imitating art. From Enter the Dragon to the insane anarcho-terrorism of Fight Club, a growing base has devolved back into the brutality of true war. It’s an ends of the means that even the movie industry couldn’t have predicted. Although Hollywood has always known that the masses are still enamored with the Roman Coliseum and the spectacle of gore, they never knew the feeding frenzy would distill into made for TV bloodsport.

In comparison, there is really little wonder why MMA is toppling the world of boxing. In boxing, young fighters are discovered and nurtured by agents. The lucky few go on to wait in line to get a shot at moving further up the ladder. Again, if fate smiles upon you, you may get a shot at the top. Well, if you’re really lucky, you get hooked up with a great promoter and manage your winnings better than Leon Spinx (I think he literally became a janitor when his career ended).  Mixed Martial Arts, on the other hand, broke into the mainstream in the days of reality television. No longer content to follow the rise of the hometown favorite, viewers were able to watch the spectacle of tournament style fights. Don’t want to sit through ten rounds of carefully placed punches? You can always tune in to watch a parade of guys quickly dispatch each other with surgical precision. Sometimes it looks like a roadhouse brawl, sometimes a Hollywood plot device where even the ancient Egyptians knew martial arts (The Mummy movies! I’m not alone here, am I?) but the images keep changing as the crowd is allowed to work themselves into a froth a la “professional” wrestling. Wrestling, however dubious as it is, provided years as a proving ground for real fights. It’s the perfect storm of over the top fans, blood, and brawling that is quickly earning MMA the sponsorship it needs to be a real, legitimate, powerhouse.

For those corporate sponsors early to jump onboard with MMA, the benefits are tangible. The demographic that follow the sport are the biggest spenders out there. Want to sell beer, burgers, and Harley’s? Investing in MMA is the biggest bang for the buck. Early reluctance by some sponsors to get on the bandwagon has resulted in premium ad space for those daring enough to cash in on uber machismo; and why not? Again, look to the wrestling model. If it doesn’t hurt your company’s credibility to invest advertisement dollars in a fake sporting event, why draw a shameful line at legitimate martial arts?

At the end of the day, if the coliseum were still open for business, we would not only watch it, but it would garner more advertisement dollars per minute than the Super Bowl. Ask me for proof? Sit there with a straight face and tell me you haven’t watched a match, a youtube clip of one, or at least a Jackass episode. It’s what the Germans call Schadenfreude and it’s the delicious joy we take in the misfortune, or in this case, pummeling of another. Think of it as slipping on a banana, over and over again. Corporate America is coming around, though, and as the economy rebounds and frees up advertizing budgets, audiences will reap the benefits of over-funded venues as well as the evils that come with the mainstream:  overpriced tickets, corporate control, and the fight for new celebrity endorsements. Move over, baseball these guys don’t play catch.

Premier Player Magazine Soccer Spread: Lionel Messi

June issue 1 – soccer spread

Premier Player Magazine Cricket Article

June issue 1 – cricket