Dating is like sports free agency.

Like athletes, we’re players who possess unique talents and characteristics that determine our place in the dating game.  There are stars.  There are washed-up veterans.  There are mediocre contributors who drift from team to team, forever mired in a cycle of short-term contracts that ultimately lead to the socio-romantic equivalent of broke retirement (i.e. cat lady).

Like the small world of sports, we can’t hide from our reputations.  We’re on stage for all to see.  Mutual acquaintances provide scouting reports.  Weaknesses are exposed.  Skeletons fall out of closets.  Like free agency, we court teams and teams court us.  We look for potential.  We evaluate.  Negotiations begin.  The media (our social network) interviews us and speculates.  If we’re already under contract, trades can happen (though we often find out after the fact).  Sometimes we’re placed on waivers.  Sometimes we opt not to renew a contract and test the market, instead.  Like teams, we make depth charts of prospects.  Finally, we settle on one.  A contract is offered and signed.

Market Value

Every free agent has strengths and weaknesses that define him or her: attractive, fun, smart, cooks, good job, nice ass, etc.  Like a big, puck-moving defenseman, some dating free agents are more desirable than others and generate more interest.  For these superstars, it’s not hard to secure a long-term contract (marriage) with the best team (Miss Michigan).  Other free agents are not so coveted.  Like a corner outfielder with so-so power and a decent arm, these people fill short-term needs (i.e. “want someone to cuddle with”) while the team searches for a better option.

Just like in sports, the older a dating free agent gets, the more his or her physical tools deteriorate.  There is something to be said for the smarts and experience of grizzled old vets (low-maintenance, don’t mind if you watch football), but these players also come with baggage (divorce, children, bitterness).  As a result, most teams search for young talent with raw physical power (example: 36-24-36, no silicone performance enhancers) whose career hasn’t peaked.

Leagues

There are four levels of play into which each person fits based on age, talent or a combination of both:

• Major league
• Minor league
• College
• High school

Note: College teams may scout high school players, but any direct contract talks must take place between the team and the player’s agents (parents).  Contract offers made by major and minor league teams to high school players is prohibited and punishable by federal law.

Scouting

Every free agent has a reputation and resume.  Teams do their homework about a prospect in a few ways:

• Conversations with a previous team (ex-fiancée)
• Discussions with other players (the person’s circle of friends)
• First-hand experience (remember that night she got drunk and threw up all over the hostess stand?)

Scouting plays a major role in whether or not contract talks begin.

Contract Talks

Also known as “first dates,” contract talks begin when a team and free agent show mutual interest.  Early negotiations usually take place with the player’s agent (BFF) present and, in many cases, the agent acts as a bellwether during the first few weeks of talks.  For example:

You: How did she feel it went the other night?

BFF Agent: She enjoyed herself and thinks you’re a great guy, but other teams are in the mix.

You: Where do you think I rank?  How serious are the other teams?

BFF Agent: Pretty serious.  After all, my client is highly-coveted.  She thinks you’re cute, though.

Initial interest is generally expressed to the player’s agent (BFF), who takes the information back to her client.  From there, each side states its terms for making a deal through the BFF.  Sometimes, negotiations never begin.  Other times, teams and free agents meet, but  interest is lost and talks break off early.

Note: It is crucial that contract talks – especially in their early stages – remain private so they are not influenced by the media (Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, etc.).

All of this is, of course, pending a physical.

Our family no longer buys Christmas presents.

It’s awesome.

Think about it: no lines, no traffic, no swapping soulless $25 Barnes & Noble or Best Buy gift cards.

And no stress.

(Try it.)

Since memories of gifts are all that sustain me now, here are five of the best Christmas presents I’ve ever received.  Hold the garbage bag open so I can shoot wrapping paper 3-pointers:

PATRICK ROY REPLICA STREET HOCKEY GOALIE GEAR

My mother delivered, well, the motherlode on this one: Replica mask and helmet painted just like the great Montreal goaltender’s, replica catching and blocker gloves and a full-sized, real deal white stick with KOHO painted down the blade in blue and red and ROY stamped on the shaft.  Pretty sure my buddy Nick scored at least a dozen street hockey goals simply because I couldn’t stop looking at myself.

HOOSIERS REPLICA UNIFORM

Before I fell in love with hockey, basketball was my game and Hoosiers was my obsession (OK, my dad’s, but it soon became mine).  Gene Hackman.  Barbara Hershey.  The Hickory Huskers.  Jimmy Chitwood in the state championship.  Ollie’s underhand free throws in cracker box gymnasiums in tiny farm towns across Indiana.  And the uniforms: my stepmother sewed for me replica gold shorts and a maroon jersey — number 11 — to go with a pair of brand new black Chuck Taylors.  I died.  Then my grandpa, a fine woodworker in his spare time, built an indoor mini basketball hoop the size of a coat rack.  I dunked on my uncle Denny all that Christmas night in South Haven, then did nothing but shoot living room triples in my new threads for the next six months.  (Is it weird I was 17?)

HATS

Dude, I was a hat aficionado.  I still have boxes full of them in the basement.  The Chicago Bulls were my team in the early 90s and, while I always welcomed a new hat if the colors and logos were cool, I was always down for a new Bulls lid.  And there they were one Christmas morning: three of them hanging on our peach-lit, Victorian style tree.  Screw what was wrapped in the boxes below.  As soon as I saw the hats, my year was complete.  (Signature cap from that era: the cursive team name across the front with either the league or team logo on the side.  I had the Spurs, Celtics, Bulls, Pistons.  Hell, I even had the Kansas City Chiefs because I loved the arrowhead logo.  Classic.  I actually got a red and yellow Chiefs winter jacket one year for Christmas, thereby making me perhaps the oddest kid in tiny grape-farming Lawton, Michigan.  Kind of like now, when I see a guy walking down the street in Kalamazoo wearing a dirty San Diego Chargers jacket that was clearly some kid’s Christmas present in 1993.)

GEORGE CARLIN BOOKS AND CDs

I fell in love with George Carlin when I was 15.  My dad bought me Brain Droppings for Christmas and the rest is history.  I lapped up every word of that book and thought it was so hilarious that I interrupted the rest of Christmas morning periodically with passages, reading them aloud to the rest of the family with the type of pride that suggested I had written the book, myself.  Audio CDs soon followed and the Carlin-themed gifts continued well into my 20s.  The best thing about George: he’s the gift that keeps on giving.  For generations.

THE TRAIN

Circa 1985.  I’m five years-old and my siblings are three.  We had a trashed basement full of toys, yet for some reason we loved putting cardboard boxes together in a row, plopping ourselves in them and pretending we were riding a train.  We’re a creative bunch.  So our parents, in an attempt to kick things up a notch, bought us a giant, automatic plastic train big enough to carry us for rides through the countryside of our house’s kitchen, den, living room and hallways.  Seriously: a molded plastic train with wheels and a battery and seats.  So cool, right?  Yet, there we were once Christmas morning ended: three happy kids, the eldest here acting as conductor, steaming around the living room in the cardboard boxes with a probably $300 plastic train that most kids would die for idling next to the couch.

Why my parents didn’t suspend gifts until 25 years later is beyond me.

In case you missed it, Western Michigan University announced it will raise tuition by 3% next year in order to pay for Sangren Hall renovations.  The upshot is state legislators “promised” WMU funding for the project, so the school commenced demolition over the summer with the assumption tax dollars would underwrite the total cost.  Mind you, the school didn’t actually have the physical tax dollars in its bank account.  So when the final state budget for 2011 turned out NOT to include the Sangren project, WMU leaders were caught with their pants down and wrecking balls hanging out.  So, naturally, they responded by penalizing students and their parents for the self-inflicted stupidity.

One parent, whose two sons attended WMU, was particularly peeved.

My mom.

And she let WMU President John Dunn know about it via this interesting and almost surreal email exchange Tuesday.  Pay particular attention to the part where Dunn offers to fall on his sword without my mother’s prodding.  Oh, and in case you were wondering, my mom wins the Starbucks gift card.

(Mom’s initial email)
It is outrageous that, because of very poor management planning on WMU’s part regarding the new Sangren Hall, you are going to put it on the backs of the already indebted students. Have you no shame? How could you start building on a ’promise’? My two sons attended WMU, I gave you a lot of money, and now I will be anti-WMU.

(Dunn’s response)

——– Original Message ——–
Subject: Re: Tuition hike
Date: Tue, 14 Dec 2010 11:11:02 -0500 (EST)
From: John M Dunn <john.dunn@wmich.edu>
To: kathy@pyattassociates.com
Cc: Elaine Gaudio <elena.gaudio@wmich.edu>

Dear Kathy:

Thank you for your note. Nothing has been decided regarding tuition for the coming year. We are still working with our Legislators on their responsibility and commitment to Western Michigan University regarding Sangren Hall. The background is that we were promised support for Sangren from the Governor and both chambers (House and Senate). WMU
(Sangren) was included in the original bill and deleted at the last minute through some political manuvering that all parties now acknowledge was wrong. We, therefore, are working – as I type this note - on the appropriate corrective action. I understand your concern and frustration that we would believe any “promise”, but I assure you that the earlier passage of Phase I funding for Sangren was a clear indication of the commitment to Phase II. I am stubborn on these matters and I intend to continue to “dog” this to its appropriate resolution. I am committed to our students and will do all that I can to mitigate the impact of this on them. FYI, our overall tuition costs ranks number 10 among the 15 public universities (number one being the highest). We have been and will continue to be thoughtful about future tuition hikes.

Again, thank you for your note. FYI, my direct email is: john.dunn@wmich.edu You, as well, as all students, faculty, staff and alumni have direct access to me at any time. I read and respond to emails sent directly to me. I respect your input and wish you the very best for a happy and healthy holiday season.

John (President Dunn)

(Mom’s follow-up)

Thank you, Mr. Dunn, for your very quick response to my email concerning a possible tuition hike.  An equivalent scenario to this would be if I trusted my brother-in-law (a shady character, at best) when he promises to give me money to add a room onto my house.  I want to believe him, so I go ahead with the addition.  My brother-in-law proceeds to file for bankruptcy.  Who is to blame in this scenario?  If I’m being honest with myself, it is ME.  I don’t then proceed to charge my children rent to live there because I took steps based on a promise.  I and others (my sons who are alumnae) will be watching the progress of your decision on this matter very closely.  Should the burden be put on students, we will not hesitate to protest loudly.  Thank you.

(Dunn’s follow-up response)

From: John M Dunn <john.dunn@wmich.edu>
Date: Dec 14, 2010 11:58 AM
Subject: Re: possible tuition hike
To: Kathy Pyatt <kathy@pyattassociates.com>

Kathy:

Please do not misunderstand me, I am more than willing to accept personal responsibility and, if my Trustees, believe that I need to go, I will do so.   My focus right now is on trying to develop a recovery strategy, given that, as you suggest, my faith in our elected leaders was misplaced.   I respectfully accept your criticism.

Again, thanks for your input,

John

When I started this blog, I vowed to never apologize for long stretches without content.

You see it often elsewhere.  ”I’m sorry I haven’t kept this up in a while, but (insert excuse).”

Mostly, it’s arrogant.  Who am I to assume you are sitting around in front of your computer waiting for what I have to say?  To paraphrase George Carlin, “Everyone’s off at the mall buying sneakers with lights in them.”

So when I don’t write, I don’t write.  When I do, I do.  It’s that simple.  But there must be inspiration and, lately, I just haven’t been inspired.  I could make fun of people.  Or bitch about politics.  Or write about hockey.  I dunno, I’m just sort of over it all lately.  Plus, I’ve been writing for money more than ever before, so the last thing I want to do is write in my free time.

But I kinda miss it.  And I need a spark.

Can you help?

Post a topic you’d like me to write about in the comments section.  It can be anything.  If I chose yours, you get a $20 Starbucks gift card.

Happy Holidays!

Tuesday, November 2, 2010.

Election day.

Schools, churches and community centers across America sit quietly in the early morning darkness.

Inside, the lights are on.  Retirees press American flag stickers to their lapels, pour coffee into styrofoam cups, and scoot metal folding chairs closer to wooden tables.  On the tables are lists of names of people who will soon arrive to cast votes in the makeshift privacy booths with blue curtains.

Finally, the clock strikes 7 a.m.

A volunteer unlocks the front doors.

Outside, waiting in line, is no one.

::

At 7:15 a.m., a senator running for re-election walks into the most popular diner in his hometown.

He wears a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

A table of farmers in mesh trucker caps and insulated overalls look up when they hear the ding of the door.  The Senator makes eye contact and smiles.  The farmers look back down at their eggs and keep talking.  The senator approaches their table and introduces himself.  The farmers ask him to pronounce his name again.

“BYE,” the Senator says.  ”Like, ‘Goodbye.’”

“You know?” one of the farmers says.  ”That seems like a good idea.”

The four men get up and leave.

::

At the senator’s campaign office across town, a staffer opens her laptop, turns on the television and digs in to watch a day of returns.  This is her Super Bowl.

But instead of exit polls and interviews with candidates, the news is focused on other events.  CNN airs an in-depth investigation of BP’s coverup efforts during the oil spill.  Fox News panelists discuss the alternative fuel industry and, in particular, how jobs can be created from it.  The town’s local CBS affiliate runs a feature about the connection between soda and obesity and the overall need for better nutrition in public schools, then airs an in-depth investigative report about how one of the town’s largest employers promised job expansion in exchange for tax breaks, which it is now trying to collect despite laying off workers instead of hiring them.

The campaign staffer gives up on channel surfing and shifts her focus to her laptop.  She clicks to the New York Times, which bustles with front-page news.  None of it regards her senator.  In fact, none of it regards any senators.  Or any national politics, for that matter.  The staffer is dumbstruck.  She looks at the navigation pane along the left side of the web page where sections like SPORTS and TECH are listed.

POLITICS.

The staffer clicks it.  But instead of election hoopla — live polls, feature stories, pictures of perfectly coiffed trust fund heirs greeting the masses with too-white smiles — all that exists on the page are the simple voting records of each member of the House and Senate and a list of the corporations that have contributed money to their campaigns.

Clearly frustrated, the staffer sits back in her chair, looks around the office and sighs.

Just then, a BAYH FOR SENATOR yard sign loses its adhesiveness and falls off the front window.

::

Revolution.

Notice how people use that word these days?  We need a revolution, they say.  They’re talking, of course, about government.  About politics.  About politicians who, despite claims and promises to the contrary, never deviate from the status quo of legislative gridlock, attack ads, outrageous publicity stunts, lies, affairs, scandals and, alas, corporate handouts.

The public wants something different, yet the only way we think we can make an impact is to create a new political party (Tea, anyone?), stand on a street corner with a sign, or vote the bastard out of office in favor of a new bastard who we’ll hate in two or four years.

What we fail to understand, however, is that when we pay attention we still participate in the madness.  A fire needs oxygen to survive, and here we are fanning the flames with demonstrations and phone calls to talk radio shows.  We watch, we listen, we form opinions, we get angry and we vote — all of which keeps us engaged.

Just how the media and politicians want it.

So here’s an idea for 2010: Don’t participate.

In fact, don’t do anything.

Don’t vote.  Don’t click the link to a story about a congressional candidate who says something outrageous just to make headlines.  When NPR runs a story about politics, turn your radio off.  When CNN gets a political roundtable together, switch the channel.  Don’t play the game.  Don’t participate.

Could you imagine if not a single person showed up to a polling station on election day?

What would happen?

::
Gene Weingarten of the Washington Post went to Muskegon in 2004 to profile a guy who doesn’t vote. And George Carlin, of course, is brilliant:

Just pulled the trigger on a pair of tickets for the Red Wings-Blackhawks game in Chicago on Oct. 9.

Home opener.

Cup banner raising.

Ring presentation.

5,674 people packed into WestEnd for pre-game revelry.

It’s gonna be wild.

It also means that I will have been present for the two most crucial events of the Blackhawks’ Stanley Cup run.  There certainly have been many key moments — the victory over San Jose to send Chicago to the Finals for the first time since 1992, Patrick Kane’s anti-climactic overtime clincher in Philadelphia, the parade down Michigan Avenue in front of 3 million people — but the following two events, to me, are most significant — and not just because I was (or will be) there:

April 24, 2010: Come-from-behind OT victory against Nashville in Game 5, Western Quarterfinals

You remember this game.

Hawks lead 3-1 in the second period and are absolutely plowing the Predators around the rink.  Shots are 24-8, Chicago, but Nashville gets a shorthanded goal late in the period, then scores twice in the third to take a 4-3 lead.  Everyone’s Saturday afternoon beer buzz switches from celebratory to self-medicating.  Worse, Marian Hossa takes a five-minute boarding penalty late in regulation, which pretty much cements the fact that this will be the team’s biggest dud of the season.

Unthinkable: the looming loss gives the Predators a 3-2 series lead heading back to Nashville.

Then, of course, out of nowhere, Kane shovels a backhander into the net with 15 seconds left in regulation.  Chaos.  The Hawks kill the remaining 3:57 of Hossa’s penalty to start overtime, then the big dog exits the penalty box and skates, untouched, directly to the Nashville net and pops in a deflected shot from the point (above).

Hawks win, 4-3.

Bedlam.

If they lose that game, they probably lose the series.  Bye-bye, Cup.  Instead, the victory not only proved what everyone already knew — this team, a show-up bunch of hot dogs who loved the spotlight, operated best on deadline — but it also scared them so straight that they stopped fucking around.  They went on to steamroll Vancouver, San Jose and, finally, the Flyers.

But if they don’t come back to win that game against Nashville, none of the rest happens.

October, 9: 2010-11 Season Opener, Banner, Ring Presentation

“Nobody in Chicago really got closure with this thing,” my buddy, a longtime Hawks fan who will also attend the Oct. 9 game, said yesterday.

He’s right.  The Hawks won the Cup out of town and, although the city has pretty much been a Cup-raising frat house all summer, there’s still going to be something about seeing that banner raised, remembering the key players who were subsequently traded, and realizing that the Cup is now over.  This is a new season.  New players.  New challenges.  And with Detroit in the building, a perfect opponent for a multitude of reasons, it will be one final Cup catharsis.

Bring it!

PS: My seats for the Nashville game were about 15 rows off the ice just inside the blue line at the end where Hossa scored the winner above.  I’ve been to concerts, walked near jet engines, and accidentally jacked up iPod ear buds to “Bleed” level, but I’ve still never heard anything louder than when Hossa scored that goal.  That game was the most dramatic sporting event I’ve ever attended.

In my job as a freelance writer, I:

• Rarely set an alarm
• Dress comfortably
• Don’t answer to a boss
• Could, if I was irresponsible, drink beer at noon every day

I’m fortunate.

I’m also a little out of touch with the average person.  I don’t know what it feels like to set an alarm at 6 a.m., rush out the door, try to squeeze in time for a workout before or after dinner — say nothing of raise kids — over and over and over and over and over and over again.

The rat race, I do not live.

Except for today.

A corporate client of mine needed urgent on-site help, so I ironed my clothes the night before, went to bed early and set my alarm for 6:30 a.m.  I made breakfast and used a travel mug.  I left plenty of time for traffic.  I pondered life as I whistled down the highway.

This is easy.  What’s the big deal?

I signed in at the front desk and clipped a badge to my big boy pants, just like everyone else who filed past on their way to another day’s work.  I shook hands and had a meeting and — gasp! — used a cubicle.  I worked and worked, and then I peed.  I passed my would-be boss’ office, waved, and went back to work.  I broke for lunch around noon and stood in line at the cafeteria.  (Really, when you think about the logistics and some of the people dynamics, corporate America is a lot like high school.  Although the food is better).

After lunch, I went back to work.  Head down, brain chugging, I didn’t even notice the time fly.  It was 4:30 p.m. when I finally looked at the clock.

This is a breeze!  Why does everybody complain?

Finally, I packed up a little after five, said a couple of goodbyes, thanked them for their business, and headed home.

With a run on a gorgeous blue evening in my future, I stripped off my dress pants, peeled off my socks and lunged for a pair of gym shorts.  It was only when I bent down to put on my running shoes and saw the dress socks marks on my lower legs (the kind I see on men all the time during evening workouts at the gym) that it hit me:

I’m thankful I don’t do this every day.

***
PS: Last time I did this sort of thing every day?  About seven years ago.  I appreciate that fact every time I open my eyes in the morning.

Got this email recently:

“Rick Shanley, will you rate your transaction on August 24 at Amazon.com?”

No, I won’t.

Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m too busy answering the phone survey about the customer experience I had while I got new tires on my car.  Then I have to fill out the pop-up survey on NHL.com that wants to know how I like using the site.  After that, it’s a follow-up phone call from Sprint during which I will inform them that “Morgan” did not, in fact, solve my issue.

I know we’re a data-driven service industry, but when did companies get so insecure?

They’re like needy, clingy high school girls.

“How would you rate my …?”

“If you receive a phone call asking about my service, would you say …?”

“Am I doing it the right way?”

“I’m still pretty, right?”

“Do you love me?”

I love Canada.

The maple leaf.  The beer.  The hockey.  The names of the little towns way up in northern Saskatchewan.

I also like Canadian media.  The difference is subtle, but one of the things I enjoy most compared to American media is the Canadians’ relaxed approach to everything, including political correctness.  I listen online to stations in Toronto and Edmonton (for the hockey talk, of course) and read Canadian newspapers (for the hockey coverage, of course) and notice how they tend to get away with saying or writing things that if uttered down here would trigger any of the following:

• An uproar
• A public apology by the host/writer/anchor
• Suspension
• Firing
• All of the above

A radio host uses the term “douche bag” (I’ve heard it) and there isn’t a headline in tomorrow’s paper.  I also enjoy the way many Canadian media members write and speak.  Direct.  Quick wit.  Dry humor.  There’s just something about their style that’s different from down here.  It’s a cultural thing.  Mostly, I like it because it’s real.  It’s how people speak.

All that being said . . .

Bruce Dowbiggin, a columnist for the Toronto Globe & Mail, needs to hang it up.

In his column Tuesday, Dowbiggin criticizes the Edmonton Oilers for hiring an American play-by-play host.  He asks how the Oilers could ignore the flood of Canadian resumes they received.  Alan Watt, the Oilers’ executive in charge of media, explained it rather simply:  ”It was close, very close. But Jack just kept cutting through as the best. This was not a one-person decision. It was not easy. But we feel we’ve got the right guy.”

Don Cherry, who I happen to like even though I realize he’s basically a cartoon character, is notorious for his diatribes against Russians, Swedes, Fins and basically any hockey player who doesn’t hail from Canada.  Everyone chuckles, thinks it’s cute, pats Don on the back and tells him to go get fitted for a new blazer.

But he’s wrong.  And so is Dowbiggin (who is eternally surly and negative in his columns, most of which I do not read.)

How is Dowbiggin’s take any different than arguing against a black or a Hispanic or a woman?  What would happen if he wrote that column down here?

Watt says it best: “I don’t think it’s much different than a Canadian symphony bringing in a guy from Milwaukee to conduct their orchestra … There’s a long list of Canadians who have announcing jobs in the U.S., and no one is bothered. The game itself is now full of Russians and Swedes and Czechs, so I think that’s a little bit xenophobic to say we have to hire a Canadian in Edmonton.”

Bingo.

PS: The Oilers hired Jack Michaels, a career minor league play-by-play broadcaster who, most recently, was calling games for the Alaska Aces of the ECHL for eight seasons.  The guy has over 900 games of experience … and now has his break.  Cool.

PSS: Xenophobia is an irrational, deep-rooted fear of or antipathy towards foreigners. It comes from the Greek words ξένος (xenos), meaning “stranger,” “foreigner” and φόβος (phobos), meaning “fear.” Xenophobia can manifest itself in many ways involving the relations and perceptions of an ingroup towards an outgroup, including a fear of losing identity, suspicion of its activities, aggression, and desire to eliminate its presence to secure a presumed purity.