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Don’t be a sore winner

It’s important not to be a sore winner, which I’m not always perfect about, but I try, I’m constantly trying to be a good sport, the kind of guy that comes up to you after a game and, regardless of how aggressive I was playing under the net, even though I was kind of taking advantage of the fact that the ref really wasn’t calling too much in the way of hacks, he definitely didn’t see any of those elbows, I’ll still march over to your bench immediately after the buzzer looking for a handshake. And just because we won, just because we crushed you guys, I won’t be like smiling or anything, nothing cocky, I mean, sure I might be happy, and that happiness might naturally want to express itself with a smile, but I’ll make it as subdued as possible, like if anything, I’ll just make a face, maybe a pained expression, something that, combined with my uncontrollable urge to smile, to laugh even, you’ll feel OK, you won’t feel as if I’m rubbing it in.

Even though we probably could have let up a little toward the end of the second half. I mean, it’s still a competitive league, right? Even if it’s just a men’s league, we’re still here to compete. And I guess we were being a little aggressive, but I need to get that run in. If anything, you guys should have hustled all the way to the last second. By that point, it’s not about score, it’s something personal.

Still, don’t think I was trying to rub it in. I never take threes. I was only taking them because we were up by so much. I figured, when else is a good time for me to practice my long shot? You know, in a real game setting. I was just as surprised as everybody else when they kept falling in, just sinking three after three. That’s why I was celebrating after each shot, jumping up and down, that was sick. I’ve never hit that many threes in a row, not even during practice.

And look, you’re the one acting like I was being a sore winner, but if I was playing you, and you were the one who just scored twenty-one solid points in a row, and then you came up to me looking for a double high-five, I’d give it to you, because why not? That’s some good shooting, great fucking shooting man. I’d cock back my shoulders and give you a chest bump. And yeah, I guess it was coming out as a little aggressive, but I was just excited. You could have been excited for me, with me, I would’ve let you in on that celebration.

But no, keep complaining about those elbows. You think the ref’s going to change his mind? And yeah, I agree, the ref was calling everything you dished out, to which I’d argue that you’ve got to change your game. You want to dish it out, get a little physical under the boards? It’s not my fault if you’re telegraphing everything to the ref. And of course I’m going to shout out, “Ah! Foul!” because, what the hell man? You want to play rough?

But I am sorry about ripping your shirt. You did have my arm hooked when I was going up. Right, rough, I get it, it’s just, you back me into a corner like that, I don’t know, I guess I’m just good at making it look like an accident, like when the ref blew the whistle and I was like, “Oh, I’m sorry man, I’m so sorry, that was an accident, heat of the moment,” and the ref pulls me over and whispers to me in my ear, “Hey, number twenty-five, good sportsmanship,” you can’t fault me, that’s all part of the game.

Besides did you guys pick this division? No, we got placed here also. But only like half of the guys showed up to the qualifier, and I think, well, don’t tell anybody, but in the interest of being a good sport, I guess I’ll admit, I brought in this fat guy from the office to make it look like we’d be playing at a disadvantage, they must have bumped us down a few levels.

Still, it’s all about having fun, right? Hey, come on, don’t be like that, take my hand. I used to think there was nothing worse than a sore winner, but clearly sore losers are much worse. Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to be a sore loser? My parents? My parents are dead. No, it’s OK. Seriously, it’s OK. No need to apologize. Seriously, I’m fine. Honestly, my parents aren’t dead. No, I just wanted you off my back for a second, OK? Enough, we won, no they’re not dead, yes, they told me not to be a sore winner, which is why I’m trying to apologize. And yeah, I guess I’m coming up a little short, but I tried. That’s the most important thing, to try your hardest, right? That’s what my parents always taught me.

I’m never going to the desert

I’m so glad I don’t live in the desert. I apologize if this comes across as insensitive, I realize that some people live in the desert, but I really am glad that I’m not one of them. If you’re reading this from the desert, before you get angry at me completely bashing your sandy way of life, I urge you to try moving out of the desert, or at the very least getting away for an extended vacation. While I’m sure that you might be able to rattle off ten or fifteen reasons why living in the desert is cool, I’m confident that after a brief stay in a non-desert environment, you’ll lose a lot of that sand clogging up your brain, you’ll rethink everything.

True, I’ve never actually been to the desert. But from an early age I realized that I’d never need to go to the desert to understand what a terrible place it is for people to live. When I was in second grade, I remember the teacher going over a spelling lesson. She told us a trick so we wouldn’t get confused over how to spell desert and dessert: “Just think kids, you always want a second helping of dessert, so dessert is spelled with that second s.” And although that should have been enough to make the pneumonic stick, she continued, “But you never want to go to the desert, so that’s why it only has one s.”

So for a while, I wouldn’t even spell it desert, I’d spell it de’ert, because I didn’t even want my one s to be mistaken for me wanting even a single trip to the desert. This fear of the desert was reinforced when I’d go home to play video games. Anybody who had Super Mario 3 for regular Nintendo knows exactly what I’m talking about: the desert level.

It’s a horrifying place to wind up, even in an eight-bit setting. There are giant pyramids made out of blocks, but some of the blocks start jumping at you when you get too close. Each stage is infested with these bouncing flames invincible to Mario’s attacks. That mean looking sun in the background starts swooping down to kill you when you’re not even paying attention.

And I don’t want to make this whole thing about video games, but every virtual desert level is the worst. The Legend of Zelda, Super Mario 64, Mario Kart, they’re all terrible places, desolate and dried out, the sun so oppressive that if you spend too much time on any given stage, you could wind up with a tan just by sitting too close to the TV.

I can only imagine what the real desert must be like. No water anywhere. Sand flies. Holy shit, sand flies. I’ve heard they’re like ten times bigger than regular flies. They burrow under the sand and wait for you to walk by, and then they bite you. But that’s not it, the bites get infected and start swelling up, by the time the blister pops, you don’t even realize that there are all of these sand fly eggs ready to hatch under your skin. It’s the same with sand spiders.

And what about scorpions? I think that Mother Nature put certain creatures on this planet solely to keep human beings far, far away. Snakes, wendigos, and scorpions, they’re all just living warning signs, scorpions existing to tell us, look, if the miles and miles of endless sand, complete lack of water, and oppressive arid heat weren’t enough to keep you from setting up shop here, I’m going to crawl around your house and sting you with my giant poisonous tail. Now go away.

Popular culture doesn’t help the desert’s case. Nobody was looking to settle down and build a home on Tatooine. No, that’s where you leave little babies when you never want the The Empire to find them. It’s the same with the Dune series. Do you think everybody liked wearing those hydro suits, saving up their own sweat and pee to be filtered and recycled into drinking water? No, the whole point of those books was to turn desert into something non-desert.

I just don’t get it, you spend all day riding around on your camel, and if you’re lucky enough to avoid having the skin torn from your body in an unexpected sandstorm, you’ve got to worry about not accidentally tripping over some spiky cactus patch. You waste all of your time walking across the sand for a drink of water, which is much harder than walking on solid ground, and even if you happen to not get stuck in any quicksand, it’s more than likely that the drink you were after the whole time is actually a mirage, and look up above, the vultures are already circling up in the sky, just waiting for your body to collapse from the heat, yet another feast for sandworms and sandrats.

No thanks, I’ll stick with the regular worms and regular rats, no desert for me. If anybody needs me, I’ll be far away from the desert, somewhere nice and cool, with plenty of water to drink and lots of shade where I can relax.

Keep running! You’re doing great!

I’m always looking to help out, to pass along a little positivity wherever I can. Like when I’m running a race. I get it, you’re not in great shape, maybe this is your first 10k or whatever, so I’ll give you some support. You’ll see me right before, I’ll be the one doing practice laps across the starting line. And I’ll give you a high five. I’ll tell you, “Good luck out there! You’re going to do great! Just keep going! Don’t forget, don’t give up, because I believe in you!”

It’s a nice gesture, giving people a little motivation, maybe a few pre-race tips. I like to find runners beforehand that I can kind of tell haven’t really had too much race experience, I give them helpful hints like, “Make sure you’re striking the ground with the front of your foot instead of the heel! This is going to help your knees in the long run, trust me, I’ve been running for years! I’ve ran thirty-eight marathons! I’m training for an ultra right now!”

You might need a little boost, I carry all of these energy gel-packs in my running fanny-pack. Do you want one? I can give you one. Save it for about a quarter of the way through, and then down the whole thing. Just try not to litter, OK? You really shouldn’t litter during a race. You know what? I’ll probably have crossed the finish line already, and so if you see me running backwards along the racecourse, you can just hand me the trash, I’ll throw it away for you.

That’s another thing that I do, when I finish, I like to immediately turn around and start cheering on everyone else who hasn’t finished yet. It’s great, you might be struggling, each step getting progressively harder, you’re sweating, out of breath, and then you see me, I look like I haven’t even broken a sweat. You’ll get inspired, you’ll think, wow, that guy right there is living proof that anybody can do this.

Anybody that dedicates themselves to my level of training, of course. But you could do that. It’s possible. And you, and you too. That’s what I’m thinking when I’m cheering you on, “Go for it!” I’ll always say. Or another good one is, “Keep going! You can do it!” and I can just tell by the pained expressions on people’s faces that they want to quit right there, that you don’t want to keep going, like you feel like you can’t do it, so I encourage them, “You’re almost there! Great work!”

Because you can do this. You don’t think I’m feeling any pain when I’m running? I mean, sure, I don’t look like it. And yeah, it’s only a 10k. Did I mention that I’m a marathon runner? Did I tell you that I’m training for an ultra? Now that’s some serious pain. But I don’t give in, no I keep going, I start cheering myself on, I’m like, “Come on Rob!” I scream it out loud, I clench my teeth and I start digging even deeper.

So just keep that in mind, your own challenges, your own personal struggles. Do not give up! Look out for me running backwards. It’s a nice way for me to cool down, to look at all the people I’m inspiring to keep at it. And sometimes some of the other top tier runners will do the same thing, and then we kind of have like a race-after-the-race race backwards, which, there’s no real finish line there, but still, if they’re getting close, I like to really push hard, sprint way back to the start, motivate even more runners along the way.

And when I get there first, I immediately stop and turn around, like I’m running forward again, but now I’m cheering on the other people running backwards, I’m saying stuff like, “Great job! Way to inspire! Keep on motivating!” like I’m the source of even more positive energy, like it’s just sending ripples of good vibes outward.

Did I tell you about that Iron Man I was training for a while back? Man, I don’t care how fast you’ve run a race, you haven’t felt anything until you’ve done an Iron Man. Just think, if he can do it, I can do it. I’m talking about me. And you. Just keep it up. Don’t stop, because you’re doing great. We’re all doing great. I’m feeling just terrific.

This is my parking spot

So what, we’re going to stand here all day and argue over who saw this spot first? I saw it first. I’m going head in. Come on man, are we really going to do this? Don’t you think this is probably like the most cliché thing that we could be doing in this parking lot? Because look, I’m not a doormat, all right? I’m not just going to back away. And I get it, you know, I’m not claiming to be the best driver, but I’m a lot better than I was before. I don’t cut people off on the exit ramps, I wait in line. Some people cut right to the front? What am I going to do?

But that’s on the highway. This is a parking lot, and I was absolutely here first. Listen ma’am, this is between your husband and me, OK? So why don’t you just lean your body back inside the car window and stop screaming at me, because you’re not helping. No, you’re making it worse. You’re making me feel like more of a doormat, like you think I’m going to back down just because you’re loud and pissed off?

No, I’m not going to be intimidated. What? Sister, whatever, wife, I don’t know. Just, sir, tell her to get back inside. No, I’m not telling you what to do, well … well I guess yeah, I am telling you what to do. Have your sister shut the fuck up for a second … OK, yeah, that wasn’t right, sorry for cursing at you. Ma’am, yes … OK … ma’am … right, I apologized. I’m sorry for saying fuck. But you see how agitated you’re making me?

Will you stop screaming for one second? Can I get one word in here? Yeah well I apologized for saying fuck, I didn’t apologize for the parking space because, why would I apologize? I had my blinker on as the car before was pulling out. Well it doesn’t matter if you saw me or not, because I was here, and that’s the way you park in a parking lot. You know how long I’ve been looking for a spot? A long time. I’ve been circling and circling like an idiot for like twenty minutes now, Jesus, the amount of time I’ve spent in this parking lot is like double how long it would have taken me if I’d just walked.

Honey, get in the car, honey, you’re not helping. Please, just sit down, please, will you let me handle this? Will you? Hey! Don’t talk to my wife that way! Yeah, well, that’s true, I was a little short with your wife … sister, sorry, right? Anybody ever tell you two you look like husband and wife? That’s not what I meant, it’s just, you know, you don’t really look like brother and sister. Is one of you two adopted?

See? I told you, I could tell. What are you, Italian? And you? All right, OK, I’m just saying, I knew it, you didn’t have to act so offended when I mistook you for husband and wife, you guys must get it all the time. Well, yeah, I guess I’d be annoyed if I was constantly getting mistaken for my sister’s husband.

Hey come on man, how long are we going to keep this up? Because … oh yeah? Well I’m not moving either. That’s what I was just going to say, I was going to be like, because I’m not moving. And I’m not moving. Here you go honey, take the keys, I’ll meet you inside. Fine, well, if this guy doesn’t want to move, I’ll just wait out here, you go eat dinner by yourself, just get me some takeout or something when you leave. I don’t know, order me anything. Just get me anything. Jesus Christ, fucking anything on the menu.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to curse at you. No, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at this guy. Whatever, if he leaves, I’ll put it in neutral and push it in the rest of the way. Oh yeah, don’t get me any pasta, anything besides pasta. Or chicken. Just go … well, yeah, I guess I wouldn’t want to eat by myself either.

OK, go inside, get takeout, and we’ll eat here. You hear that buddy? We’re staying right here. We’re going to eat dinner right in this half of the parking spot. You want to try me? I’ll stay here all night. And that car behind you, they’re going to come back eventually, you’re going to have to move for them. I won’t budge. I’m just saying, I’ll stay here for as long as it takes. How you feeling? You need to go to the bathroom? Not me. I’m OK for at least twelve more hours.

Maybe I’ll call in sick

I’m taking the day off. I’m going to call in to work and be like, “Sorry boss, I’m feeling pretty under the weather today,” and he’ll cut me off, he’ll be like, “You know Rob, if you can’t get your shift covered, well, you better bring a doctor’s note is all that I’m saying,” trying to discourage me from taking a personal day. But that’s OK, my wife’s aunt is a doctor, I could always just put a pinch of black pepper up my nose, and then I’ll call her up and be like, “Achoo! Oh my God! I’m so sick! My boss said if I can’t get a doctor’s note then I have to show up for work!”

And I know my wife’s aunt, she’ll get really worried, she’ll be like, “You know Rob, that sneeze actually sounds pretty serious. I’d like you to stop by my office in an hour,” and I’ll have already regretted calling her. Why wouldn’t I have thought this through before actually picking up the phone? I’ll try, “You know, I think I’m OK. I know my body, I just have to rest this one out, please,” and she’ll protest, “No, Rob, I’m actually very concerned.”

So, what, that’s not that terrible, is it? Getting to the doctor’s office? I’d still have most of the day to myself. Even though, yeah, I had really intended for this day to include me staying asleep, but now I’d be up, I’d have already taken a shower and brushed my teeth. I’ll think to myself, this actually isn’t that bad, I’m a lot less tired than I was before. Maybe I should just go to work.

But no, the call to my boss, I’ll have already involved my wife’s aunt. I’d have to go to the doctor. And I’ll get there much later than expected, by the time I actually make my way into the office, sneak into the bathroom to apply some more black pepper, realize that my nose must have developed a black pepper immunity since the morning, kind of panic seeing as how I’d have to sit down in the exam room, totally healthy, making up a bunch of vague sounding symptoms to which the doctor would kind of just look at me puzzled, trying her best to act sympathetic, but doing a terrible job at hiding the belief that maybe, probably, this guy is just faking it, like what kind of an adult does something like this, how did my niece wind up with this clown, but still, she’s family, and so she’ll prescribe me a bunch of antibiotics, sending me on my way, me having to remind her a bunch of times about that note, the only thing I’d really be there for, that doctor’s note, by the time all of that would be over, it would be way past lunchtime, I’d be starving.

And then traffic on the way back would be much worse than it was coming in, it’s always that way, and now, what, do I really have to go to the pharmacy and pick up a bunch of medication that I don’t need in the first place? It might not be a bad idea to have some on hand, in case I really do get sick. Like, I’m not stupid enough to self-diagnose everything. But I know what strep throat feels like. Why spend a whole day going to a doctor when I could just get started on that Z-Pac? But my cavalier attitude toward popping pills will alter my body’s microbiome, my system will develop antibodies so that, when I’m an old man, if I ever get pneumonia or whooping cough, none of the medication will work and I’ll die.

By the time I’ll have snapped out of my daydream, I’ll think, man, I should have just gone to work. This whole day off has been a total bust. And I’ll show up the next day and my boss will be standing there with his hand out for the doctor’s note. He’ll look at it and say, “Hey Rob, this doctor’s note says that you went to the doctor because you weren’t feeling well, and that she prescribed you antibiotics. That’s it.” And I’ll say, “Yeah? What else are you looking for?” And he’ll tell me, “Oh I don’t know, maybe a diagnosis, maybe confirmation that you were actually sick?”

And I’ll have no choice but to feign indignant, like, “What are you, a health care practitioner? I was sick. I went to the doctor. Now I’m feeling better.” Which is true, my boss shouldn’t really cross into my medical history, but he’s clever, he’ll be like, “All right, well let me see your antibiotics.” And I’ll realize, shit, I’m not taking those meds for real. I left them at home. I’ll call his bluff, “Fine!” and then make a big show of looking everywhere, pretending like I must have lost them, asking people if they’ve seen a pill bottle anywhere.

But my boss will get in my face, he’ll be like, “I’m writing you up.” And despite my protests, “But! Come on!” he’ll walk away, “You try anything like this again and you’re out.” Most likely I’d get really sick like a week later, for real, and instead of going through the proper channels, doctor, medicine, stuff like that, I’ll have already used my sick excuse for the year, and I’ll have to tough it out, work while I’m sick. Maybe I’ll develop an infection. Maybe I won’t make it. I probably won’t. I should probably just go to work. But I really don’t feel like going in today. Maybe I could make up a death in the family. Nobody close, just a distant cousin. One of my in-laws. A distant in-law. Someone close enough that I’d have to go to the funeral, but distant enough so that nobody at work would feel obliged to say stuff like, “Sorry for your loss Rob,” and I’d have to fake it, “Yeah … thanks …”