Category Archives: Sports

Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, Sports, Uncategorized

Paradox Chapter 5: Shocked Again

Leave a comment

The only reason I got to play Little League that one year was because my father went through a guilty phase that motivated him to pay for it. He even bought me a birthday present that year—an outfielder’s glove.

I hadn’t even been all that excited about baseball. But now I was dying to play football on a real team. I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting until junior high before I could play.

I had already begun to acquire a modicum of self-confidence. It started with those first words of encouragement from Uncle Si. He was quickly becoming the most important person in my life.

He wasn’t easy on me. He pushed me, hard, and almost never accepted excuses. Whenever I grumbled about how sore and tired I was, or voiced any other complaint, he would ask, simply: “What do you want—sympathy?”

My complaints froze in my mouth. I examined my motives for bellyaching, and it was true—I had wanted sympathy. When I realized this, I was ashamed. I attacked my training, driven by the anger with myself, and wouldn’t complain again that day.

But Uncle Si was never cruel or insulting. He believed in me. He said as much. And his actions lined up with his words.

Without my newfound confidence, I probably wouldn’t have asked Mom if I could start Pee-Wee Football that summer.

St. Louis was a big enough city, I was sure there must be a program.

I waited until a commercial before asking her, one night.

She fit her casual dismissal seamlessly in between lighting a cigarette and making a phone call, without missing a beat: “Don’t be silly, Pete. Those things cost money.”

Maybe my father was going through another guilty phase. I would have asked him about Pee-Wee, if I had known how to get hold of him.

I was in a melancholy mood when I trudged into The Warrior’s Lair the next day. When Uncle Si saw me he asked, “Everything okay?”

I didn’t want to lie to my uncle, but I didn’t want to complain either, so I said nothing.

“Hey, step in the office for a minute,” he said, cheerily. “Need to talk to you.”

I followed him into the office and we took our respective seats.

“I couldn’t help but notice how much you’re into football, lately,” he said.

I’d developed a habit of assuming the worst in most situations, especially when in a bad mood, so even as I nodded, I imagined the next thing out of his mouth would be a reprimand for letting it distract me from my training.

“I coach in the Pop Warner League,” he said. “Sign-ups are next month. Think you’d like to play?”

I stared at him wide-eyed.

He waved a hand over the desk. “I know your parents won’t pay for it. No big deal. I can take care of it, if you want to play.”

“Are you serious?”

He nodded.

Just like that, my mood went from one extreme to the other. I couldn’t stop thanking him, and it took a while before I calmed down.

“Oh yeah,” he said, opening a big drawer in the bottom of his desk. “I got something for you.”

He tossed me a brand new football.

I caught it and looked it over. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” he said. “Now you don’t have to depend on other boys to bring a ball when you want to play.”

“Thanks Uncle Si,” I said, taking grip on the laces. I felt guilty, like I’d been cheating or something. “I don’t get it. You’ve done all this stuff for me…”

“And you appreciate it,” he said. “That’s enough.”

He sent me to the locker room to get dressed for training. When I came out, ready to skip rope, he said, “You’ve been coming along pretty good, so far. I want you to keep practicing everything you’ve learned, and this summer we’ll start working in some kicks.”

UPDATE:  This book is published! Click here to buy on Amazon.

Click here to buy anywhere else.

Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, Sports, Uncategorized

Paradox Chapter 4: The Football Seed Is Planted

Leave a comment

Some boys my age were into sports. My father had paid for me to play Little League once a couple years before, and I had a decent fast ball. But I never had more than a passing interest in sports until that one day at the beauty shop.

I had to tag along with Mom on enough shopping trips and visits to places like jewelry stores, and beauty shops, that I was used to twiddling my thumbs in girly places. But on that particular day, I found a magazine in the waiting area that was not the typical crap about clothes, makeup, hairstyles and relationships. It was a special edition of some sports magazine, dedicated entirely to football. I flipped through it while I waited for Mom, casually looking at the photos.

There were pictures of players in action—throwing, catching, running, hitting, tackling…and big dudes on the line of scrimmage locked in Sumo-like combat, grimacing behind their facemasks from the effort of trying to overpower the other man. There were pictures of injured players being carried off the field. There was one picture of a certain player with a black beard, his helmet pushed back up on his head so that his weary eyes peered out under the lowest bar on his facemask. He was sitting on the sidelines, sweat streaking down his face, evidently waiting for his turn to go back out on the field.

The field of battle.

Football players were like modern day knights, I decided; and the game of football was the new chivalry.

This realization impressed me to the point that, from that day, I began to learn about the game.

Mom almost always stayed out late on Friday and Saturday nights, sleeping for most of the day on Saturdays and Sundays. So, with no Allyson to monopolize the TV anymore, I was able to binge on football every weekend. What I saw confirmed my epiphany.

Each game was a battle. Head coaches were the generals, devising the strategy. The quarterbacks were the field commanders, who led the valiant knights against the enemy. The opposing knights employed certain tactics on every play. Some knights were heroes, and some were villains. Some of the teams were even named after historical warriors or badasses. Just in the pros, there were Cowboys, Redskins, Chiefs, Patriots, Buccaneers, Raiders, and Vikings. It was a thrilling, fascinating milleu.

PJ didn’t care much for sports. I began to drift away from him, hanging out, instead, with other boys who loved football. Outside of school, I played catch or a sandlot game whenever there was opportunity. In a very short amount of time I learned and understood the rules.

Prior to this phase of my life, there were times when other boys asked me to do these things, but I had no interest, and sucked at it when I did try. They told me to try throwing with my thumb on the laces, but I still couldn’t launch a spiral.

What a difference motivation makes. In less than a week after taking an interest, I could throw perfect spirals with accuracy. I still couldn’t punt very well, but for my age I had a cannon for an arm.

Soon I was part of “the football gang,” which included Jay, Rogellio, Lamont and Scott.

Football was soon all I could talk about. Uncle Si noticed my obsession, but didn’t have a problem with it as long as I trained hard.

I did train hard.

 

Once Uncle Si was satisfied with my footwork and stance, he taught me defensive skills. This included blocking, “slipping” punches, bobbing, weaving, and the art of simply maneuvering to keep out of range. This part of my training seemed to take forever, but he finally decided I was ready to start learning some offense.

First came the jab, then the cross, then the hook, then the uppercut. He made me practice them until it felt like my arms would fall off. Then he taught me how to put them together in combinations, emphasizing the jab over everything else. He had me practice in the mirror, and corrected mistakes in my form until I maintained good defensive posture even when executing a combination. Then he moved me to the bags.

I still had to skip rope and run my circuit drills, but now most of my training time was spent at the double end bag. This was an inflated bag suspended between one bungee cord above and one below. After you hit it once, it was hard to hit it again because of the way it bounced and oscillated. Thankfully, when Uncle Si saw I was getting too aggravated, he would move me to the heavy bag and let me take out my frustration on it.

In time, I got where I could judge how the double end bag would move, aim and time my punches to hit it repeatedly and consistently. And just as I was mastering it, Uncle Si pulled me off of it. He brought me into the roped-off area. I put my training gloves on, and my mouthpiece in. He wore punch mits. What we did wasn’t exactly sparring. He would catch my punches with the mits, but also take swipes at me I would have to duck or dodge. It was still just western boxing—hands only—but I was finally putting offense and defense together. The next time he had me work the double end bag, he had changed the bungee cords so it didn’t move in the exact same patterns I had grown used to. He did stuff like that a lot; and I assumed the purpose was just to cause me frustration. But what he didn’t tell me (and what I didn’t appreciate at first) was that I was learning to adapt quickly on the fly.

Uncle Si drove me home after training every night, and after Mom got the job at the jewelry store, he had begun feeding me, too. No more hotdogs, or meals composed of potato chips. My diet now consisted of a lot of green vegetables, with mostly beef for my protein.

I didn’t like all the vegetables, but I noticed the difference after just a week. Although I usually passed out from exhaustion after my evening shower, and slept like the dead through the night, I had a lot of energy after breakfast each morning.

That helped make me even better at football. But as that school year wound down, I was overcome with the hunger for real football. Sandlot just wasn’t enough.

UPDATE:  This book is published! Click here to buy on Amazon.

Click here to buy anywhere else.

 

Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, Sports

Paradox Chapter 3: Your Most Dangerous Adversary

Leave a comment

It’s only natural that, when he heard the term “martial arts,” a young boy would imagine himself breaking boards, executing midair spinning back kicks, and heroically winning fights. My first training session with Uncle Si was not what I assumed it would be.

After school, I showed up at The Warrior’s Lair. I walked in and saw a handful of men, in pairs, working out. Some were using the punching bags, some were practicing throwing each other, and two were in the roped-off area, wearing padded gloves, foot pads, and padded helmets, sparring. While I was busy gawking, something smacked me in the side of the head. I turned to discover the source of the blow.

Uncle Si had crept up and thumped me. I stared at him in confusion. He had workout clothes on. His sunglasses rested atop his head and I could see his eyes clearly.

“This lesson normally comes further on in training,” he said, “but you might as well start adapting now: Always be aware of your surroundings, who is within them, what they’re doing, and might be about to do.”

I rubbed my head where it was still stinging from the smack.

“Follow me,” he said.

We entered his office. He picked up a bag from the top of his desk and threw it to me. I caught it. He gestured, indicated I should open it. Inside it were a pair of gym shorts and a gym shirt, sweat pants, sweat jacket, a protective cup with jock strap, and a mouthpiece.

“You’re not gonna need most of that stuff for a while,” he said. “For now, just put on the shorts and wife-beater.”

“You’re…you’re giving me all this?” I asked, disbelievingly.

“Yes. You’re welcome. Now go get dressed.”

That first day, Uncle Si wasn’t concerned about anything but my feet, it seemed. He briefly went over a balanced stance, placing my feet roughly shoulder-width apart. He said I needed to learn when my feet were the right distance apart, without looking. Then he taught me how to shuffle. Done right, I learned, the shuffle would keep you balanced and close to your optimum fighting stance at all times. From now on, I wasn’t allowed to walk anywhere except to the rest room. Everywhere else, I had to shuffle.

He ordered me to shuffle after him as he moved around the padded floor, then shuffle back away from him when he advanced. He corrected me when my feet drifted too far apart, or too close together. Then, instead of verbally warning me, he simply knocked me over.

I must admit: I did learn a little faster that way than I would have otherwise.

I had never jumped rope before. I never saw the point. Besides, the only time I ever saw it done, it was black girls doing it in the school yard. Uncle Si taught me to skip rope that day.

He played loud music, so I could keep rhythm with it. I’d never heard music like that. It sounded from another time. But the beat was easy to follow.

He had me trade off between skipping rope and shuffling, until my ankles were sore. Then he introduced me to circuit drills.

The circuit drills were what first caused me to entertain the thought of quitting. I had to shuffle from station to station, completing different exercises at each station. Push-ups at one, sit-ups at another, pull-ups, flutter kicks, bear crawls, jumping jacks (which he called “side-straddle-hops”)… My favorite was the trunk-twister, because it was almost like resting. The station I dreaded more than anything was where I had to do “mountain climbers.” They didn’t look like much to watch, but they absolutely waste a person trying to do them.

“Good,” he finally said, after a few hours. “Good work today. Your feet are coming along.”

“My feet feel like they’re gonna fall off,” I muttered, “and I haven’t thrown a single kick.”

He tossed me a towel and motioned for me to take a seat. “What do you want–sympathy? Remember: I said what I teach here is a mixture.”

I nodded, sitting down. It felt really good to be off my feet.

“I’ve developed a system that takes the best elements from several different disciplines,” he said. “I’m gonna teach them to you in a certain order that makes sense. One of the most important skills in any kind of combat is how to move, tactically. You have to maintain balance at all times. You have to keep yourself in a good position to block or avoid an opponent’s strike, even when you’re on the offensive. And you’ve got to do it right, even when your tank is empty and you want to do nothing more than quit. Understand?”

“I think so,” I said, toweling off my face.

“Good. Before you take a shower tonight, take Ace with you for some roadwork. You can keep it to just once around the trailer park, and not too fast your first night.”

“Roadwork?”

“A run.”

“A run? You mean jogging?”

“A jog for tonight,” he said. “But I’m gonna have you running before long.”

***

I did take Ace for a jog that night. She seemed to enjoy it. It wasn’t much fun for me, though.

Uncle Si continued to emphasize footwork, but my second day, he put me in front of a mirror. By pushing, pulling, prodding and twisting, he positioned me into a stance that didn’t feel natural at all. I already knew where to put my feet, and to keep my knees bent. He also had me tuck my chin down, and cock my fists. My guard was high, so that my knuckles were just below the level of my nose. I could shield my face with minimal adjustment. My elbows were tight against my sides, to protect my ribs, he said. I was twisted slightly at the trunk, so that my shoulders were at an oblique angle to the direction I faced–presenting a smaller target than if I stood square.

“Look at that guy in the mirror,” he told me.

I did.

“It’s a cliché,” he said, “but in your case, as true as anything ever was: that guy right there can be the most dangerous adversary you’ll ever face.”

Maybe it was a cliché wherever he came from, but it was a novel concept to me. “Myself?” I asked, confused.

“Exactly. You’ve been trained to doubt yourself at all times. You’ve been trained to assume you’re in the wrong whenever challenged. You’ve been sold a bill of goods that says, ‘Whatever the situation, I am not good enough to succeed’.”

My jaw dropped and I stared at him.

“It’s not all your mother’s fault,” he said. “It’s not even mostly her fault, though she contributes.”

“Allyson,” I muttered. As far back as I could remember, my half-sister had taken it as her personal duty to make my life miserable. Eventually the physical torture gave way to verbal abuse…which seemed even worse. She finally left home last year, and I didn’t have to hear her insults and mockery on a daily basis anymore. But some of the things she said still bounced around in my mind.

“Allyson hates you,” he confirmed. “You’re not crazy–it’s the truth. You’re right. Your mother will never admit it. Allyson will never admit it. But I’ll tell you the truth, even if nobody else has the balls.”

“Why does she?” I asked, searching my memories, as I had for years, for some clue as to the source of her hatred.

Uncle Si rested a hand on my shoulder and said, “Quit looking for a reason to blame yourself. It’s not because of anything you did, or didn’t do. It’s simply because you exist, period.”

He stepped back and sat on the floor. “Have a seat.”

I sat facing him.

“There’s a couple factors that contributed. You know what psychology is, right?”

I shrugged, still bewildered. “The way our brains work?”

“Kind of. The brain is hardware. Psychology is about software. The way your mind processes data and forms conclusions based on that data.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

The way you think,“ he clarified. ”There’s a few things going on psychologically with your half-sister. One is simple: she was an only child, and all the focus was on her. Then along you came and started getting some of the attention she was used to.“

“But that wasn’t my fault!” I protested.

“You’re right. It wasn’t. And it’s still not.”

I was speechless. I didn’t know how to handle a grown-up taking my side on any issue.

“Also, she resented her parents’ divorce,” he continued. “She fantasized about her father coming back and them being a family again. When your dad came on the scene, that was an obstacle. Then when you were born, the fantasy was shattered completely.”

“But I couldn’t help…” I started.

He held his hand up, palm toward me. “I know. It wasn’t your fault. I’m just explaining two of the reasons Allyson hated you from the day you were born. All her ridicule and belittling and accusations and lying are attempts at revenge against you, for events and situations you had no control over.”

I took a good look at Uncle Si, wondering if he was actually a human, or some sort of omniscient being masquerading as my uncle. “How do you know all this?” I asked. “Can you read minds?”

His mouth twitched into a fleeting grin. “I can read yours. Sometimes, anyway.”

That was such a bombshell, I just let it soar by without trying to process it.

“But you haven’t been around me, or Mom, or Allyson. I never even met you until the other day.”

“Oh, I know all of you,” he said. “We’ve met.”

“Why don’t I remember you, then?” I asked.

“You don’t remember a lot of stuff. Do you remember the day you learned to walk?”

I frowned and shook my head.

“Do you remember your mom and dad together? Happy?”

Again, I shook my head.

“Well obviously they were for some period of time, or you wouldn’t be here. Right?”

“Huh?” My confusion mounted by the moment.

“Never mind,” he said, whipping his head back and forth as if trying to shake something loose. “There’s some things you’re better off not remembering. And now,” he added, cryptically, “let’s hope there are some memories that will never even form in the first place.”

Before I could wonder much about that remark, he changed the subject back. “So, if you know that Allyson hates you, and she wants to see you fail at whatever you do, all because of stuff that’s not your fault…is she a reasonable person?”

“No. I guess not.”

“She’s not. She’s irrational, and petty. And vindictive. So why would you care what she thinks?”

“I guess I shouldn’t…?”

“No, not ‘I guess.’ You shouldn’t. Period. She’s a liar. Should you believe what a liar says?”

“No,” I said.

“That’s right. So take all that stuff Allyson said to poison your mind for all those years and reject it. Get rid of it. Recognize it as false, and refuse to let it affect how you think about yourself.”

I pondered this new information for a while, before mumbling, “But…but…”

He shook his head, closed his eyes, and made a cutting gesture with both hands. “Stop it, Sprout. Listen to me. I don’t hate you. I don’t want you to fail. I have no reason to lie to you about this. Not only is Allyson wrong, but she’s not as smart as you are.”

“Of course she is,” I replied, automatically. “She’s six years older than me.”

“She is older than you,” he agreed. “But you’re already smarter than her. That’s another reason she hates you.”

“Uncle Si, I think maybe you don’t know me as good as you think. I’m not smart. I don’t think I’m even average.”

His face flushed. His mouth didn’t change shape all that much, but he appeared angry.

“You listen to me, Pete: you are far above average. Got it? Above. You’re smarter than you know. You think PJ is so smart, with all his experiments and contraptions? What if I told you that you’re smarter than him, too?”

“I wouldn’t believe you,” I said.

“Well you need to believe me!” he snapped. The other men in The Warrior’s Lair all looked in our direction, wondering what the outburst was all about. Gradually they went back to their activities.

We were both silent for a few long minutes. Uncle Si’s color returned to normal. Finally he sighed and said, “Just think about what I told you.”

He stood, reaching over to tousle my hair. “Get back in the mirror.”

I stood, faced the mirror, and resumed the boxing stance he had taught me.

He pointed at my reflection in the mirror. “This guy is gonna hit you with stuff Allyson told you. He’s gonna hit you with shots that come from stuff Mom’s said and done. He’s gonna hit you with speculations about why your father left, and why he doesn’t spend time with you.”

“But that’s me,” I said, as if he were being silly. “That’s a reflection of me you’re pointing at.”

“Exactly. Ding ding ding!” He shifted his index finger from the reflection to the source. “You are letting other people tell you what to think about yourself. You’re letting other people, who are more concerned about their own agendas than what’s good for you, decide whether you will succeed or fail.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Even if that’s true, it’s not like I can do something just because I ‘decide’ that I can.”

His smile seemed sad as he said, “Oh yes you can. You’re not just smart. You’re stronger than anybody gives you credit for.”

“I’m just average strength,” I said.

“First of all, that’s not true either,” he said. “Second, I’m talking about the strength inside you. After hearing all your life how you’re useless, stupid, weak and ugly, and can’t accomplish anything important, you decided to come train here anyway.”

I shrugged, feeling a choking sensation in my throat and wet heat behind my eyes.

“I warned you it was going to be hard work. You imagined you would be insulted, embarrassed, humiliated–all the stuff Allyson would do, if I turned out to be like her. Right? You were afraid you would fail–that you wouldn’t be tough enough. You knew you would lose some fights, when it came time to fight here. And you could be seriously hurt.”

He really could read my mind. This was creepy.

He extended his index finger until it touched me right between the eyes. It felt hot–like a panhandle after the pan has been sitting over a stove burner for a while. I flinched.

“But you came anyway,” he said. “You were scared, but you came anyway. Even after everyone in your life had reinforced how you should doubt yourself, you came anyway. You didn’t let fear stop you. That means you beat fear, Pete. Not everybody can do that. You proved yourself stronger than fear. You’re a fighter.”

“You really believe that?” I asked, barely able to force the words out.

“Damn straight,” he said. “I believe you’re a warrior, and that you belong here. Hell, I don’t just believe it–I know it.” He pointed back at my reflection again. “Allyson couldn’t stop you. Your parents couldn’t stop you. Your teachers couldn’t stop you. Not even this guy was able to stop you; and like I said: he’s the toughest opponent you’re gonna face for a long time.”

I looked at my reflection, seeing somebody I had long assumed was stupid, weak, and incompetent.

“I’ll tell you something else,” he said, “he doesn’t have to be your enemy. In fact, sometimes he’ll be the only one you can count on. You start listening to me, Sprout.” He looked angry again. “You may not be able to trust what other people tell you, but you can trust me. And if you do, you’ll start to learn what you’re actually capable of.”

 

UPDATE:  This book is published! Click here to buy on Amazon.

Click here to buy anywhere else.

Adventure, Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, Sports

Paradox Chapter 1: Altering the Course of Your Life

Leave a comment
As promised, here is the first chapter.  Just one disclaimer:
These chapter titles might not be in the final draft. They were strictly for my benefit while writing/editing. As mentioned before, I do a lot of editing/revising while I write (one reason it takes me so long). These titles were helpful in organizing and finding stuff. I’m using them now in the sneak preview because blog posts need titles, and they might help the reader know what to look forward to.
I have a handful of titles in mind for the book; but am not sure which one I’ll settle on. For now I’ll call it Paradox.
Enjoy.

It was my retarded dog that indirectly brought me face-to-face with the rest of my life.

She was the only pet I’d ever been allowed to have. We got her from the pound. I learned everything I could about training dogs, but still…

Wait. Let me back up a bit.

I was over at PJ’s house. I was to spend the night there, which meant one of two things: either Mom wanted some privacy with whoever her newest boyfriend was; or my father had contacted her recently, asking her to let me go see him (which meant that he was in between girlfriends long enough to remember the reason for the child support payments). Mom became pretty lenient when she found a new boyfriend, or when she feared my father wanted to be part of my life. On such occasions, she was happy for me to spend the night somewhere else and tell my father, “Sorry. We had other plans.”

PJ was one of the pals I made in grade school. We both liked to make stuff. For a science project, he built a Jacob’s Ladder. I build a crude electric motor in a shoe box. Most of our classmates drew graphs or diagrams, but we liked each other’s projects best. That’s what drew us together.

PJ liked to build “experiments” in his back yard, using plastic buckets, PVC pipe, bungee cords and other stuff. The contraptions reminded me of some of the ridiculously complex traps set by characters in the old, old cartoons. The technical term for an experiment like these was “Rube Goldberg,” but I wouldn’t know that until many years later.

Me and PJ were in his unfenced back yard, building yet another Rube Goldberg contraption, when I noticed a grown-up approaching us with a big, dumb German Shepherd on a leash that had been chewed in half.

My big, dumb German Shepherd. Great—she destroyed yet another leash.

“Is this your dog?” the man asked me.

There were two strange aspects to this. One was that, the way he looked at me while asking the question, he already knew it was my dog, and not PJ’s—even though it was PJ’s house. Two was the familiarity of the man’s hard face not concealed by the shiny sunglasses, and the flat, gutteral voice. And more than that. There was some quality about him that triggered a sensation a lot like deja vu.

The familiarity of his face should have been a bigger deal to me than it was. I had seen my father in person a few times, and this guy bore an uncanny resemblance to him. Only, whereas my father was whipcord thin, this stranger was obviously muscular under his business-casual attire (which was alien to neighborhoods like this). The pyramid-shape of the neck was a dead giveaway for fully-clothed body builders. He had a square jaw and a nose with that pronounced Dick Tracy notch toward the brow that was a family trait on my father’s side; but his was crooked too, like it had been busted at least once. He was a tough-looking SOB.

Behind his sunglasses, his eyes were hidden; but I could feel his gaze when it rested on me.

“It’s my dog,” I confirmed, hoping she hadn’t killed a cat, dug a hole in somebody’s yard, or broke something expensive.

The man reached us and handed me both parts of the leash. I took it, and only then noticed how Ace was straining to get free.

“Her and another neighbor’s dog started chasing each other,” the man said. “They were tearing-ass through every yard in the neighborhood. Gonna break something any minute.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, wondering how I was going to keep her out of trouble if she kept chewing through her leash.

The man pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was a leash made out of chromed chain, with a vinyl strap for a handle.

“Try tying her up with this,” the man said. “Probably can’t chew through metal.”

She might be dumb enough to try, but I didn’t say that. “Are you sure, Mister? I don’t have any money to pay you for it.”

Ignoring my question, the man squatted to bring his dark shades on a level with my eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Pete Bedauern,” I said, nervously. Usually, when somebody asked my name, it meant I was in trouble, or about to be.

“Well how about that,” the man said, extending his hand for a shake. “We’re related, then.”

“We are?”

“I’m your uncle Si,” he said, rising to stand again, rubbing his knees and grimacing.

“Uncle Si?” My mind churned furiously for a moment as I stood there staring at him. Then it came to me: my father’s younger brother Simon. Somebody had told me he was in a bad accident that put him in a coma.

Just then, PJ’s mom came outside. “Is everything alright out here?”

PJ’s mother wasn’t home all that often. She was a buxom blonde, maybe in her 30s. What I remember about her most was how, when watching TV, she was frequently irritated about statements from a character in a show, and would argue with them as if they could hear her. Then she would lecture PJ and me, angrily, as if we had spoken the dialog that upset her.

Uncle Si’s hard face broke into a grin and he walked toward PJ’s mom, who was standing in the open doorway. “Hello. I’m Si Bedauern.”

Prior to that, it would have been difficult to picture a grin on that hard face. I didn’t recall PJ’s mom ever smiling before, either. But Si’s grin must have looked natural enough to her, because she brightened right up.

I took Ace away to tie her up with the chain leash, happy that the grownups looked like they would keep each other busy for a while so me and PJ could get back to work on the contraption.

Uncle Si talked with PJ’s mom a long time on the back porch. I didn’t notice when they both went inside, but he was sitting at the table when she called us in for supper. We ate pizza and ice cream that night, and PJ’s mom acted the happiest I’d ever seen her—laughing at all Uncle Si’s jokes and fascinated by his every serious statement.

***

I didn’t think much of it when Uncle Si was there at breakfast the next morning, too. He still had the sunglasses on. Grownups did a lot of stuff I didn’t understand and I had learned to mind my own business by that time.

I caught sight of PJ’s mom only once that morning, as she spent most of her time in the bathroom—and she looked rather disheveled. Uncle Si pulled me aside and told me he would take me to school.

The plan had been for me and PJ to take the school bus together, but I had also learned not to argue with grownups. Uncle Si said he would come back, walk Ace to my house and put her in the kennel, so it didn’t seem to be a big deal.

Uncle Si’s car was a late model Corvette. At first glance it didn’t look too much different from other Corvettes on the road. But it was louder than any car I’d ever heard, and I had the feeling it might explode any moment, because the engine was just too powerful for the chassis. Most of the drive I was flattened back against the seat, the muscles of my face pulling at me like I was on one of those spinning carnival rides. I didn’t know a car could navigate those streets so fast, but I decided that, as fast as he drove, it made sense that Uncle Si would have been involved in a car wreck that put him in a coma.

The Corvette came to a stop and that scary engine shut down. I looked out the window and noticed we were not at the school. We were a few blocks away.

“Get out,” Uncle Si said, opening his door. “Let me show you something.”

He got out and walked around the front of the car. I opened my door and got out, not too worried about being late for school because:

1. I hated school, and

2. It was a grownup’s fault if I was late, so this grownup would have to work it out with the other grownups.

Uncle Si faced the building he parked beside, and nodded toward the sign overhead. It read: “The Warrior’s Lair.”

This got my attention. I was kind of a nerd about history, when it came to warriors of various cultures. I did poorly at school, but studied on my own about knights, samurai, Mongols, Cossacks, Turks, Apache, Commanche, and my favorite: the Vikings. They were my favorite for the silliest, most superficial young boy reason: they looked cool wearing horned helmets (which it turned out weren’t historically accurate, anyway).

“What is this?” I asked.

“Come on,” Uncle Si said. He pulled some keys out of his pocket, walked around the corner, and unlocked the door.

I followed him inside. An odor hit my nostrils that reminded me of a gymnasium. He turned on the lights. The walls were covered with mirrors and posters of men in martial arts uniforms. Most of the floor was covered with padded mats, and a roped-off square was in the center. There was also a variety of punching bags, and racks with weapons on them. I saw katanas, wakusashis and nunchukus, along with some others I couldn’t name.

It was the coolest place I’d ever seen.

I had fantasized about learning the martial arts one day, if I could somehow come up with the money for lessons.

“You have keys to this place?” I asked, like an idiot.

“Yup. It’s my place,” he said.

“You teach Karate?”

He pursed his lips. “More like Bushido. As far as the art…well, some Karate, some Kung Fu, some Ken-Po, some Jui-Jitsu, some boxing, some freestyle wrestling…a mixture. I believe it’s gonna be the fighting system of the future.”

“Oh my gosh,” was all I could say, at first.

He gave me a tour of the place, encouraging me to punch and kick some of the bags and dummies. I’m sure my efforts were comical.

“Bushido means ‘way of the warrior’,” I said. “Do you teach people how to fight, and how to live like a warrior?”

He nodded.

“Oh my gosh. How do people get into this school?”

“Why?” he asked. “Is this something that interests you?”

I nearly wore out my neck nodding.

“Maybe I can work out a family discount.”

“I don’t have any money at all,” I said, dejected. “I’m too young to work at a job, and my mom…she’s not gonna pay for something like this.”

Head hanging low, I followed him into an office where he sat behind a desk and I slouched into a chair opposite him.

“You understand there’s a value in services like what I provide here,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, nothing in life is free. Everything of value costs somebody something. This building, the equipment in it, the lights, the running water for the bathroom, and the training of my students, for starters—it all costs me something. Either money, or time, or sweat, headaches…all of the above.”

“I know,” I said. But I didn’t really know. No kid my age did. At least not in America.

“That’s why I charge money,” he said. “I have to pay the bills, put food on the table, and maybe pocket a little bit while I’m at it.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I can’t come here. I get it.” But maybe some day, if I could just come up with a way to make some money…

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Uncle Si said. “I’m considering letting you come here and take lessons for free. But you have to recognize the value of that gift. You can’t take it for granted, or get lazy, or come at it half-assed. You’d have to take it deadly serious, Sprout. You’d have to give 100%, without whining about how hard it is—because it will be very hard—the hardest thing you’ve ever done up until now. And when you’re sore, and exhausted, and scared of what I’m gonna make you do next, you have to drag yourself back up here and crank it right back up to 100%—day in; day out. It’s gonna be work. And if I see you slacking, taking it for granted, or not taking it seriously, then you’re out. I won’t waste my time with somebody who doesn’t appreciate the value of this gift.”

“I’ll do everything you say, if you teach me,” I said. “Only, I’m not sure my mom—”

“I’ll talk to your mom,” he said, as if my mother was an easy person to deal with. “But this is about you. We’ll see if you’re as dedicated as you think you are after about a week.”

Maybe I was being too cocky. The training sounded tough—maybe too tough for me. What if I started training and then wimped out? I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing somebody who gave me a chance like this.

As if he could read my mind, Uncle Si pointed at my head and said, “See, I know something about you that you probably don’t know. I know you’re tough enough to make it. I know you’ve got the brains to recognize the value. I know you’re capable of the discipline it will take. What I don’t know is if you’re mature enough yet to apply yourself, long-term. If you can, then you’ll make it. I have no doubt.”

I felt a lump in my throat and pressure behind my eyes. No man had ever told me something like this before. It was a compliment! He couldn’t have dreamed up a more motivating speech with a room full of psychologists.

“Should I take a chance on you?” he asked.

Unable to speak, I simply nodded.

“Okay, Sprout,” he said, rising from behind the desk. “Remember this day. We’ve just altered the course of your life.”

 

UPDATE:  This book is published! Click here to buy on Amazon.

Click here to buy anywhere else.

Action, Historical, Sports

Ford vs. Ferrari – a Review

Leave a comment

Once upon a time, Henry Ford II (“the Deuce”) decided he wanted to get into Grand Prix racing.  Back then there was some truth to the motto “win on Sunday/sell on Monday.” Ford had enjoyed success in NASCAR (truly “stock car” racing back in those days), but didn’t have a foothold in the sports car market, despite once building a sporty two-seater Thunderbird. The simple solution was to just buy Ferrari, which had been dominating the 24 Hours of Le Mans in the GT Class for some time.

Long story short: Enzo Ferrari led Henry II on for a while, then pulled out of the deal at the last minute. This chapped Ford’s hiney. The Deuce made the decision that Ford would enter its own GT cars in Le Mans, and beat the Europeans at their own game, on their own turf. Trouble was, Ford didn’t have a platform, and would have to build their GT cars almost from scratch. Ford would first use their existing 289 V8, but later upgrade to big block overkill.

What happened was truly astounding. Within a couple years from the Deuce’s command, Ford fielded a team of GT40s (incredible machines for their time, and still no slouchers 60 years later) that dethroned Ferrari for good, and dominated Le Mans for years–even once Ford pulled the plug on the GT program after making their point).

The real-life story is fascinating, with real-life drama and excitement. What a natural mine for a dramatic movie. The  true story is one of several personalities in multiple teams. The filmmakers chose to focus on just two men in one team–the most colorful and well-known (Carol Shelby) and the most tragic (Ken Miles). I like the Shelby America team best, partly because it was composed of hot-rodders instead of college-educated engineers.

Ken Miles himself was a great fit for a team like that. He was Old School. Professional race drivers today know less about cars than a cashier at Auto Zone, but Miles was a mechanic as well as a driver. An especially talented driver, I would add.

The acting and direction in the movie is top-notch. Plenty of creative license was taken, as you can imagine, but the pacing is adequate and the racing scenes are visually gratifying. In my personal director’s cut, there would be a little more racing and a little less personal drama…but then I’m a gearhead.

The film glosses over a lot of details in this real-life saga, like losing early skirmishes with Ferrari due to problems like an Italian-built transmission that couldn’t handle the torque of the American V8. Other details were tweaked or fabricated to increase the tension, to placate the women in the audience who got dragged to the theater by husbands or boyfriends, and to take typical Hollywood cheap shots at capitalists and American mass production. But if you’ve watched anything else made by Commiewood in the last 20 years, then you probably won’t even notice any of that, so subtle is it by comparison

I strongly recommend this movie. Once you see it, if you’d like to know the more complete story of this slice of motorsports history, read Go Like Hell by A.J. Baime.

Action, Adventure, Espionage, Fantasy, Historical, Military, SHTF, Sports

The Shelter-In-Place E-Book Sale…Part 2

Leave a comment

I’m not calling it “the Martial Law Book Sale” because I’m trying desperately to be optimistic about the shutdown and what will happen afterwards.

While we’re waiting (and hoping) for this to blow over, don’t succumb to boredom. Kick back with a good book and enjoy the down time.

Mike has reduced the prices of all his e-novels, now. Also, I’ve slashed the prices of my shorter books and will add those links, too. Remember, you can click on the images or the text links to buy. And all these books are available not only on Amazon for the Kindle, but at Barnes & Noble for the Nook, Kobo, the Apple Store, and just about every other store where you can buy e-books, for whatever device.

-Hank

Fast Cars and Rock & Roll…that title tells you exactly what you’re in for in this 459 page  high-testosterone tale of Deke Jones’ adventures with racing, rock music,  and ravishing women.

CLICK HERE TO READ IT ON YOUR KINDLE!

Click here to read it on Kobo.

Click here to get it from Smashwords.

Click here to get it everywhere else.

Deke Jones is back for 612 pages of private detective work mixed with irreverent mayhem in Shadow Hand Blues, trying to solve a cold-case mystery after stumbling on a dead blues man’s electric guitar.

CLICK HERE TO READ IT ON YOUR KINDLE!

Click here to read it on Kobo.

Click here to get it from Smashwords.

Click here to get it everywhere else.

There are no elves, unicorns, or pixie ninjas in Gods & Proxies, but it’s about as epic a fantasy as you could possibly get in 316 pages. Or is it a fantasy at all?

CLICK HERE TO READ IT ON YOUR KINDLE!

Click here to read it on Kobo.

Click here to get it from Smashwords.

Click here to get it everywhere else.

The Curly Wolf is 321 pages of western action, innocent romance, and larger-than-life characters.

CLICK HERE TO READ IT ON YOUR KINDLE!

Click here to read it on Kobo.

Click here to get it from Smashwords.

Click here to get it everywhere else.

 

Buy all three Retreads novels from Amazon.
Buy the whole series from Amazon.

The entire Retreads series is available for a song at Amazon. Well, I don’t think they actually make you sing. But the three E-Books will cost less than a cheeseburger from the drive-through.

And, of course, the books are for sale individually, too. Hell and Gone was the series premier, my first bestseller, and still the most popular of all my books.

Buy Hell and Gone for the Kindle.
Click to buy on Amazon.

Buy it for the Nook on Barnes & Noble.

Buy it at the Kobo store.

Buy it at the Apple store.

Buy it at Smashwords.

Also available as an audiobook from Audible. Comment on this post to get a coupon code for a discount!

The second Retreads novel is Tier Zero. Many readers thought it was even better than the first book.

Click to buy Tier Zero for the Kindle.
Click to buy on Amazon.

Buy it for the Nook on Barnes & Noble.

Buy it at the Kobo store.

Buy it at the Apple store.

Buy it at Smashwords.

Also available as an audiobook from Audible. Comment on this post to get a coupon code for a discount!

With the third book, False Flag, the Retreads series took a turn into SHTF (I believe the current term in use is “boogaloo”) patriot fiction.

Buy False Flag for the Kindle.
Click to buy on Amazon.

Buy it for the Nook on Barnes & Noble.

Buy it at the Kobo store.

Buy it at the Apple store.

Buy it at Smashwords.

Below are some shorter books that were priced lower than the full-length novels. Now they’re even cheaper! (Sale prices will be visible after clicking on the links.)

Long before mixed martial arts, men of the west displayed their violent prowess with fists only. Tomato Can Comeback is the tale of a young fighter’s quest for redemption…on the canvas.


Also available as an audiobook from Audible. Comment on this post to get a coupon code for a discount!

Radical Times is set during the aftermath of the Civil War, when a soldier returns to the girl he loved, but is caught in the middle between two factions that still want to fight.

Thus Spake the Bard tells the story of a troubador and his creative friend, who get on the wrong side of a sheriff from Nottingham.


The Greater Good is a satire, dropping snark bombs on the superhero genre and leftist groupthink.


There will one day be a full-length Honor Triad novel, but for now there are two short books in this heroic fantasy series: The Bloodstained Defile, and The Gryphon of Tirshal.

Historical, Sports

Ali-Shavers (A Glimpse Into Boxing History)

Leave a comment

To this day, the fanatic fan-boyism for Muhammed Ali is as myopic as ever. The Narrative on Ali is always him overcoming adversity and bigotry to beat the odds and show the world he was “The Greatest.”

While one has to admire his footwork, his lateral movement, his masterful head games, and his ability to absorb punishment to the body, you must use selective metrics to determine he was ‘the greatest”…or even the greatest heavyweight. What he conclusively proved is that, at least in his younger days, he could move faster backwards than his opponents could move forward.

Nobody before Gaseous Cassius had so brazenly flaunted such raw egotism. Humility was still a virtue before Cassius Clay’s ascendance. Now all athletes (and most people in general) are arrogant, trash-talking legends in their own minds. Clay/Ali was the trailblazer for grandiose, egomaniacal personalities in sports.

In this bout, Ali probably thought he could use the rope-a-dope strategy as he did in Zaire, and cause Shavers to punch himself out. There turned out to be two problems with that plan: the ropes weren’t nearly as loose as they were in Zaire; and Shavers had learned from that particular George Foreman blunder. Although Shavers had a small gas tank (like a lot of power punchers), he showed remarkable discipline in pacing himself, for the most part.

Arguably, Shavers was far too cautious. He ignored multiple opportunities after stunning Ali with hard shots, and had him hurt more than once, but failed to follow up effectively. Unbelievably, Ali even backed into the corner on several occasions. This would have been a suicidal tactic against a fine-tuned Mike Tyson, or The Rock at any time. (Marciano would pound on whatever part of an opponent’s body could be reached. If the best target he had was the arms, he would bang them until they couldn’t be lifted for protection any longer.) But Shavers only made token efforts at punching in these circumstances. Every such opportunity ended by Ali clinching, or Shavers simply backing away to let him off the hook.

A fight historian can probably count on one hand the number of times the elusive Ali was ever hit flush. Three of those times, he went down. Shavers never caught him flush, but even glancing blows from Shavers nearly took Ali’s head off. Starting  in the fifth round (and intermittent thereafter), Ali jumped on his “bicycle” to evade Shavers, offering an occasional feather-fisted counterattack.

As in too many fights throughout history, only a knockout could have overcome the favorite’s “home cooking” in this bout. As was typical in Ali’s reign, the referee allowed him to hold and hit for all 15 rounds, with only one warning. Because he could get away with it as usual, Ali clutched the back of Shavers’ head with one glove any time Shavers got inside. Shavers was the aggressor from bell to bell, landing the most effective punches consistently, unfazed by Ali’s occasional attempts at offense right up until an adrenaline-fueled flurry in the last seconds of the fight. No fair, impartial judge would have awarded the champion more than five rounds…but the judges were, like the referee, effectively part of Team Ali. All of them scored the fight an astonishing nine rounds to six in favor of the guy who got battered around the ring like Michael Avenatti’s girlfriend.

Shavers fought less than a perfect fight, to be sure. And maybe his excessive caution was partially warranted–he seemed to be out of gas by the end of Round 15 (possibly because, despite his caution, he still tended to load up and swing wild Western Union punches when he got excited). He was hardly the first to be exhausted from chasing the Louisville Lip around all night. Considering the officiating and scoring he was up against, his only path to victory was a knockout. He had Ali in deeper trouble, far more frequently, than Foreman ever did. It would have been fascinating to find out what might have happened, had Shavers not squandered so many opportunities.

Action, Sports

The Replacements – A Review

Leave a comment

With NFL millionaires flaunting their hatred of America, and contempt for at least half of their fan base, now looks like a good time to plug one of the best comedy jock flicks ever made.

“Every athlete dreams of a second chance,” proclaims Coach Jimmy McGinty (Gene Hackman) in voiceover toward the end. Second chances is what this movie is about, at it’s core. All the jokes, action, and Sports Movie Formula might distract you from that central theme; but those frills are not what resonates with the masculine soul while watching it.

Inspired by the NFL players’ strike in the late 1980s (before Joe Gibbs’ Washington Redskins went on to destroy the Denver Broncos in the Superbowl), the story begins with crybaby millionaire star quarterback Eddie Martel throwing a game in order to avoid getting tackled. The end of the game marks the beginning of the players’ strike.

The owner of the “Washington Sentinels,” hungry for a playoff berth despite the strike, woos “controversial” (old-fashioned) coach McGinty into putting together a roster of replacement players to finish the season.

Turns out, McGinty has been tracking some former players with great potential who, for various reasons, never made it in the pros. “If nothing else,” McGinty says, “they should be fun to watch.”

And they are.

Unfortunately, there are only so many plots available for a sports movie. It is a credit to the director that there are enough twists in The Replacements to make it stand out despite the formula.

The movie does have flaws. The romantic subplot, for instance, comes off as tacked-on and superficial. I suspect the scenes that might have fleshed it out wound up on the cutting room floor. It probably should have been left out altogether, so that other scenes didn’t have to be pared down for the sake of running time (Shane Falco’s first pass in the first practice was obviously two scenes cut together).brookecheerleader But the compromises that weaken the film are not why the critics hate it.

There’s none of the obligatory LGB-pandering anywhere in the film (except, perhaps, in a tres risque pantomime by the strippers-turned-cheerleaders on the sidelines at one game). The screenwriters didn’t contrive some way to put a female on the team–even as a kicker. Comraderie and male-bonding are celebrated throughout, and men act like men. When a female reporter invades the locker room, she gets little cooperation from the players and is ultimately convinced to give up and leave the “male space” intact. The bulk of the entire movie is an unapologetic celebration of masculinity guaranteeing that it could never get made today.

In fact, it’s amazing it got made 17 years ago, because the culture was deeply pozzed by then, already. Instead of watching the anti-American NFL bite the hands that feed them on Sunday, check this flick out.

Non-Fiction/Documentary, Sports

NASCAR Needs to Allow Speedometers

2 Comments

NASCAR stands for “National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing” and, believe it or not, the drivers once raced cars that were factory-stock. That means, present-day race fans, that the cars driven at NASCAR races were once equipped with speedometers.

This is not the case now, which is rather mystifying, considering that penalties are assessed for speeding on Pit Road. In the Cup Race at Kentucky this weekend just past, Kyle Larson had to start the race at the rear of the grid due to finishing Tech Inspection late. He worked his way through the field during Stage One, only needing to pass two more cars to take the lead…

And then a speeding penalty planted him at the back of the pack yet again, and he had to start over. He finished Second behind the winner, Martin Truex Jr., but one has to wonder if that would have been the case without his mistake on Pit Road.

Truexvictorycircle

It’s an easier mistake to make than it ever has been, and more drivers are making it–ruining their chances for victory week after week. Without a speedometer, the driver has to estimate his actual speed based on the tach reading, and what the spotter tells him over the radio. But every single driver wants to gain, or at least maintain, grid position during pit stops, so they will push their cars as close to the speed limit as possible.

At least, that’s what they would do if they had a means to accurately gauge their speed. Then we’d see more races won or lost due to the collective effort of the respective race teams, instead of being penalized for failing to calculate what they are not allowed to measure.