ROTTWEILER – Chapter 1

To commemorate the end of my 90-day enrollment in Amazon’s KDP Select program – a subject I’m sure I’ll have more to say about in the future – I’ve decided to offer you all a free look inside my novel Rottweiler. I’ve written plenty about Rottweiler on this site but have never had the freedom to share it with you all.

Until now.

Click here for some basic information about the novel. Click here if you’d like a more detailed account of how and why I wrote it.

Constructive feedback is always welcome. Hope you enjoy.

CVA

Rottweiler
Chapter 1

The difference between self-defense and abuse is the difference between a woman hitting a man and a man hitting a woman.

Or, more to the point, it’s the difference between a man hitting a woman and a man hitting a woman back.

The difference between self-defense and abuse is the difference between a man hitting a woman and a man hitting a woman back.

Let me explain. Last summer there was a party two doors down from my house. The whole fucking neighborhood must have been there by the look of it. And, by the sound of it, most of them stayed later and drank more than they’d planned. The predictable rhythm of polite small talk gave way to the sporadic ebb and swell of drunken laughter around the time the sun went down. The radio never got reined in to the property line until nearly midnight. And it was well into the early morning hours before the cackle and hiss of the last guests standing and the last logs in the fire pit finally went silent. In all, it was a hell of a bash.

Or so I assume. I wasn’t there.

My family was one of only two on our block not invited to the party two doors down. The other one lives in the house between us. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. And I really wasn’t particularly upset. The family two doors down from us had parties for everything. No occasion ever went uncelebrated. Maybe I’ll feel differently when I have children of my own, but I don’t see any reason you need to have a party to celebrate a kindergarten graduation. Or a third-place little-league season. Or anything ending in versary that doesn’t involve the passage of a full year. The family two doors down had invited me to every one of these self-congratulatory embarrassments for years and I had long since stopped showing up at them. Eventually I didn’t even bother to RSVP. By the time this one rolled around, I figured they had finally taken the hint.

I just didn’t like them.

They were loud. They were obnoxious. Their trash cans sat at the end of the driveway until at least Wednesday every week when trash day is Monday. On the rare occasions they left the house, their two boys had a habit of cutting through the neighbors’ yards seemingly everywhere they went. Their daughter always rode her bike with her head down, wobbling her way along the middle of the street. And they always had those fucking parties.

There was never just a small crowd, never just some friends sitting around having drinks, never just a few cars in the driveway. It was always everyone they knew. It was always case after case of soda and beer stacked next to the recycling bin the next Monday. It was always a constant parade of people and a ubiquitous line of cars that dotted both sides of the street, at least two of which were always parked on my lawn.

Everything about every party they threw was big. That day was no exception. But it was big in a way that was somehow totally alien in its apparent sameness. It was well into the evening before it finally dawned on me why.

It was the parade. Or the lack thereof.

On an occasion that would normally be commemorated by every family within a five-block radius, there was little more than a slow trickle of people walking the street to the house two doors down. Don’t get me wrong – the party was still packed. That much was obvious. What little of the yard I could see from my upstairs window was no less dense with people than it would normally be, and the idle drumbeat of awkward conversation pattered along just like always. But the line of cars up and down the street was longer than it had ever been before.

What I didn’t find out until later was what they were celebrating that day. And then it all became clear.

Several months ago, the girl two doors down was attacked and bitten by a large dog. Mauled was the way her mother put it. To paraphrase the girl’s dad, that fucking mutt wanted to fucking kill her! Needless to say, an ambulance showed up, then the police, and then animal control. The next day, someone from the local paper was there, followed by a south-suburban reporter, then someone from the Chicago Tribune.

Within a week there were TV cameras and a sixty-second segment on FOX. The girl was interviewed sitting on her living room couch. She was all ruddy face and crocodile tears as she blubbered her way through a brief salvo of cloying questions that never actually probed into the truth.

She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her play clothes for the camera. And apparently no one thought it was worth clearing the dirty dishes or old newspapers from the coffee table before the spotlight was on.

Mother, daughter and father sat in a row on the sofa while the camera rolled. Seated side-by-side and hip-to-hip, they looked startlingly alike. All three of them were grossly overweight, and they shared a complexion that made them look perpetually unwashed.

And they all had the same eyes. They were scornful, damascene eyes that looked through you more than they ever looked at you. Eyes that only really drew you into focus when they came to bear on you as a target.

They were the kind of eyes that I’ve seen altogether too much of in my life.

But that’s not important yet.

What matters is the way they groped at the audience with a story of fear and heartache and raw, savage pain; the way the girl described her shock and awe and terror (my words, not hers); the way her mother described how she came outside to a trail of blood on the lawn and how she found her daughter laying in a simpering heap on the verge of shock (ditto) and how she forced herself not to cry because she knew she had to be strong for her precious angel and had to call 911 with calmness and clearness; and the way her father described how he came home and called the police and how he was not going to rest until his baby girl had justice for her pain and suffering and the dog and his owner were locked up.

Those were his exact words. I can still hear them ringing in my head, fading beneath the echoes of another story that was screaming to be heard but ultimately left untold.

I knew what really happened.

And that’s why I wasn’t invited to the party.

It was summertime. The daughter – the youngest of the three kids – had gotten a job dogsitting an old Rottweiler during the day. I knew the dog a little bit and had introduced myself to him while he was out walking with his owners. Once I even found him alone and missing his collar outside the grocery store. He followed me as I led him back home that day and let me pet him while we waited for his owners.

On his good days he could still muster some of the puppy in him. And even on his bad days his eyes beamed with absolute love and adoration.

He was one of those dogs whose lips always curled into a smile, whose tongue always lolled out of his mouth, and whose teeth had never once been borne in anger. His white muzzle did nothing to detract from his joy and devotion, instead giving him a dignified sophistication as he sat in the sun.

He could still walk. He could still chase in short bursts. He could still melt your heart with one cock of his head.

But he couldn’t make it through the work day anymore without pissing in his crate.

So he had a sitter.

I knew there was trouble the first time I saw them together. The dog that barely knew me but had followed dutifully at my heel on the walk home from the store was the picture of rebellion following the girl’s lead. He veered in wide arcs behind her, wrenching her arms back and forth as he went. He dashed ahead of her and doubled back, tangling her in the leash. He stopped and started at his leisure, and he didn’t listen to a word the girl said.

I wouldn’t have either.

Her commands were shrill, nonsensical whines. She spent more time complaining at the dog than commanding him. And her behavior was just as erratic as his. Maybe even more so. She smashed sticks against the sides of mailboxes, kicked blindly at rocks and litter in the street, and periodically threw her arms to the sky and moaned unintelligible curses at the sheer iniquity of her plight.

Long story short, our white-faced friend really wasn’t being difficult. He was just following his sitter’s lead. How was he supposed to know that he was following an idiot?

I was outside that afternoon. I first noticed the two of them when I heard the near-silence of our sleepy block split open by a high, guttural wail of snarling protest. Hers, not his. She was frustrated and had hit her limit. And she was obviously clueless about how to handle a dog.

I walked out into the street and called for him. The Rottweiler trotted toward me amiably enough, his head bobbing in time with his semi-arthritic gait and his tongue swinging freely around his gray beard. It was a good day and he had some spring in his step.

I could hear the girl biting back another outburst as she loped after the dog. I think she was willing to concede that I had called him over. And, to tell you the truth, I think she was relieved that someone else was volunteering to deal with him.

I gave the dog a firm sit and he dropped his ass and gazed up at me for approval. I told him he was a good dog – he was, he really was – and I gave him a quick scratch behind the ears. His eyes seemed to plead with me for more, lots more, a little more, any more, please.

If you’re a dog person, you understand.

The girl caught her breath, and reached out with one gruff, uncertain hand to give the Rottweiler an aimless pat on the head. He craned his neck to inspect her, showing me the expanse of his brown chest before turning back to look at me with those same pleading eyes. He seemed confused by the girl and was obviously desperate for reassurance. I stroked his head and gave him another scratch behind the ear. I met his gaze with one of my own, one that told him everything was going to be fine.

I showed the girl how to handle the dog, demonstrated the firmness and sharp resonance of my voice and the ringing snap I used to punctuate my commands when they weren’t immediately followed. She listened with a practiced inattentiveness, nodding and okaying on cue and uh-huhing during the silences, always facing the right way but never really focusing her eyes on anything.

I showed her how to take a good strong hold of the lead and told her she should keep it short until she knew she could trust the dog. I gave him just enough slack to sit comfortably beside me, then showed her how to walk with him properly.

My strides were even, my pace was fair, and my aura was confident. I was the master, he was the dog, and we were old friends. I coached the girl as we walked the length of the yard, the dog again dutifully following at my heel with an open-mouthed, tongue-drooping pant that sounded like a mix of laughter and contented sighs. For those few minutes, I was the fucking neighborhood Cesar Milan.

I was so high on myself that I didn’t even notice we’d already crossed the neighboring yard and were walking in front of the house two doors down. Her house.

I asked her if she wanted to take the lead for a while. She didn’t say a word, but she snatched at the leash with a territorial aggression that made it clear how much she appreciated my advice. This was her job, dammit, and she was going to do it her way. The leash fell from my hand as she gave the dog a stiff jerk and pulled him to her side. Instead of heel, all he got was C’MON.

I stopped the girl with a touch on the arm and reached for the long end of the leash.

That was when it got ugly.

I was correcting her and trying to re-affirm the points I’d made earlier when her mother bellowed from inside the house. I can still hear her elephantine wail.

Get your goddamn hands off of her, you son of a bitch!

Don’t you ever lay a hand on my daughter again, do you hear me!?!

I will have you arrested if I ever see you near my daughter again. Do you understand me, Goddammit!?!

I was frozen by panic and embarrassment.

Fortunately it was daytime, and it was summer. No one was home to hear her tirade. And no one would be around to hear me tear her fucking head off about what a piece of shit her daughter was and how if her own mother wouldn’t teach her how to do her job, then somebody had to.

I wanted to take her apart. I wanted to fucking blast her.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

I took it.

I was quiet. I was polite. And I tried to explain the situation as rationally as I could.

I can still feel the humiliation smoldering at the base of my neck. When I think too long about it, my fists clench and the veins in my arms writhe. I can still feel that ludicrous sensation of head floating away from body and feet floating away from ground that only seems to come when you’re being railed on for something you didn’t do. It’s the last resort of the powerless, the instinct to try to get out of body and let the soul escape while the flesh stands impotent in the face of so much anger.

And I can still hear myself saying everything I wanted to say, that to this day I wish I would have said.

Maybe I could have kept it from happening. Maybe I could have prevented so much misery and so much wasted innocence.

It probably wouldn’t have mattered, though. I suppose I know that now.

When my initial polite explanation and concerned pleas went unheeded, I gave up.

But I knew she’d heard me. She could never deny that. And her words are the reason I’m telling you this story now. She had the balls – the kind of fucking balls that only angry fat women have, I swear to God – to actually say the thing that her daughter told me without having to utter a word.

It’s her goddamn job and she’ll do it however she wants to.

With that, she yanked the leash away from her daughter and almost pulled the dog off his feet as she turned and stalked away.

I would die for a second chance to point out the irony to her.

The daughter waddled after her mother, obviously relieved that she was no longer responsible for the Rottweiler and – I’m sure – that she no longer had to put up with my dog-whispering ass.

As they walked away, the dog paused and peered back over his shoulder at me. Our eyes met for a fleeting moment that’s since burned itself into my memory. To this day, those eyes haunt me in the dark. They glare at me in my nightmares. When we studied Freud and The Interpretation of Dreams in Psych 100, the professor said that dreams about hiding in forests and fleeing from people we can’t outrun are classic indicators of guilt, messages from our subconscious that we’re living with shame, sorrow and embarrassment that we simply cannot escape.

Bull shit.

Do you know how I know I’m racked with guilt? I dream about those eyes. They pervade my midnight hours, they wake me in cold sweats and convulsive gasps, and they continue to bore through me long after I wake up. In those eyes, in that dog’s gaze in that too-short moment, I saw a very different plea.

I would see it again soon enough.

It’s probably the same helpless, mute plea he gave his owners right before he was put down.

The next time I saw those eyes was several days later. I could hear the girl from the other end of the block. She was yelling at the poor dog as she led him down the street on the final leg of their walk. I watched from my living room this time, kneeling at the window and peering through the curtains as the pair of them crossed in front of the house. The dog was walking slowly, hanging his head and dragging his feet like a little boy. But instead of the stiff yet compassionate hand of a loving mother, there was only screaming. And pulling. And dragging. And every time the girl stopped to adjust her grip on the leash, the dog flopped his butt onto his haunches. He would dig in and lean his weight back as she pulled him forward.

But the battle was lost before it started.

In a true tug-of-war, in a fair battle, he could have had his way with her. He could have toyed with her then paraded her around the neighborhood as his prize. He was old and she easily outweighed him. But aside from her infamous, listing bicycle rides in traffic, these two walks were the only exercise I’d ever seen her get in her life. She was soft. Advantage: Dog.

But it wasn’t a fair battle, and it wasn’t a level playing field. He wasn’t just pulling against her. He was fighting more than a decade of firm but loving training and a lifetime of obedience. And in the end, that’s what moved him forward, whether he wanted to go or not. He was a good dog.

He deserved better than this. And he knew it.

He looked up at me as she led him away from the house. Somehow he knew I was watching.

And there were those eyes. There was that plea. He knew I understood and I sympathized. He knew that I knew better.

And he knew that I wasn’t going to do anything. Somehow he knew.

But what was I supposed to do? Her mother had made it very clear how she felt about my advice and my interference. And I knew – I just knew – that another altercation between me, her, and her daughter really was going to end in her calling the cops. And it was the middle of the week again. No one was home. So when the police showed up to start asking me questions about a possible assault charge, it was going to be my word against hers.

I wouldn’t have stood a chance.

I don’t know how many days passed before the next and last time I saw them together, the last time I saw that weary supplication in the Rottweiler’s eyes. But I do know that I was in my front yard again and that I didn’t even realize they were walking past me until they were almost in front of the next house. I remember being impressed at first by how much progress the girl had made and by how obediently the dog was following at her heels. I tried to tell her so, but she just kept walking, her nose in the air and her glare unbroken.

That was when he gave me those eyes. He gazed mournfully at me long enough to know that I was returning his same gaze, long enough to know for certain that I recognized something in his eyes that I’d seen all too many times before.

He locked eyes with me just long enough to know that he had a kindred spirit somewhere in the world, someone to tell him that eventually this was going to be over and that in the end he could come out of it all right.

Then he put his head down and walked on.

That’s when I noticed his undocked tail between his legs.

By then, they were in her yard. What could I do?

It happened a few days later.

I didn’t see it. I heard it.

And I knew.

The windows were open and I could hear the screams. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but I could tell it was aimed at the dog. The screaming got louder, and as it grew in volume it got less intelligible.

Then there was the all-too-familiar percussion of flesh striking flesh.

I heard a whelp.

And another.

And another.

Then all hell broke loose.

The snarling torrent of high, guttural barks pierced the frozen summer air like gun fire. These weren’t the barks of a good dog. This was the growl of a hunter, the cries of a beast. This was the report of a Rottweiler who had finally told his sitter that he had had enough.

There was thrashing, then ripping, then shrieking.

I ran outside and I could see her in a convulsing heap on the front lawn. I could hear her wailing in utter terror and agony.

And I could see the blood.

For one fleeting moment, I felt sorry for her. Bile crawled into the back of my throat and my legs went weak. My eyes stung and I nearly wept for her.

I ran to her.

Then her mother stormed out of the house.

I skidded to a stop at the property line and watched her rush to her baby girl. I don’t remember what she said that day, but I remember the volume. I remember the pitch and intensity. I remember it was vile, angry, and accusatory.

And I remember her daughter wailing even louder as a result.

She hauled the girl up unsteadily from the ground and led her into the house. As she walked away, she met my eyes with an incendiary glare. This was my fault. If I hadn’t interfered. If I had just let her daughter handle the damn dog. If I had just known what the fuck I was talking about that day, none of this would have happened.

Someone was going to pay for this.

And someone did. With his life.

After she went inside, I went looking for the dog. I found him cowering on the back stoop of the house next door. His white muzzle was stained red. His tail was curled so tight to his body I thought it might disappear into the flesh of his rump and his belly. He was quivering with abject terror. It was in his eyes. And in those eyes I saw his third and final plea.

Save me.

But what could I do?

I called his owners at work and stayed with him until they got home. By then the police were there waiting for them. Animal control arrived a few minutes later.

Justice was slow, but vengeance was swift. The criminal charges and civil suit were both filed within twenty-four hours. A few weeks later, the owners of the house next door had to say goodbye to a member of their family and begin budgeting to pay putative damages.

And now I live with the memory of those eyes. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to escape the plea the Rottweiler gave me as his sitter led him away that last time. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be man enough to stare down that final tempestuous glare the girl’s mother gave me after it was all over.

I have to live with the fact that this all could have been prevented.

I could have saved him.

It’s ok to go back and reread that sentence. Make sure you read it right.

Did you think this was her story?

The girl two doors down was cruel. She was hateful. She was violent.

She was abusive.

And he wasn’t going to take it.

In the end, she got what she deserved and I hope she learned a lesson from it. But her kind never does. Her kind puts a banner in the front yard and chalk on the sidewalk to announce her victory. Her kind swells with pride that justice has been served, that her attacker has been punished, and that the precedent has been set: You do not fuck with her.

Her kind just doesn’t know any better.

So why should we expect him to?

He stood up to her, and he did it the only way he knew how. But he didn’t want to do it. Believe me when I say that. I could see it in his eyes. I could spot that look anywhere. Just like I could tell that he was trapped. He was desperate for any way out, any way to make it all stop. And he knew that the best response, the most logical one, the most righteous one, was also going to be the wrong one.

Because he was the dog. He had claws. He had teeth. He was the animal.

She was just a girl.

Do you understand now? The difference between self-defense and abuse is the difference between a woman hitting a man and a man hitting a woman.

Or, more to the point, it’s the difference between a man hitting a woman and a man hitting a woman back.

And that is where my story begins.

Click here to purchase a copy and keep reading!

“Well, it intensifies your personality…”

First, some context:

The internet is a lot like cocaine. It’s highly addictive, in some cases even after the first use. Said addiction typically leads to multi-dose binges resulting in sleepless nights followed by eventual crashes. And those crashes are almost always followed by intense cravings and inevitable resumption.

Most importantly, the internet intensifies your personality.

We all know the social butterfly who’s always on the move, who’s always talking to someboby, and who has the equivalent of the White Pages in his/her cell phone’s contact list. He or she probably also has friends in the quadruple-digits on Facebook and Goodreads and the like. And all of this in addition to the hundreds – if not thousands – of followers on his/her blog.

We also all know the chronically dysfunctional (son of a) bitch whose default setting is Pissed Off and who seems to thrive on making everybody else in the world miserable. I’m pretty sure (s)he’s the only reason we have the word “trolling”.

As I said in my previous post, I’m not the most gregarious of individuals. That’s not to say that I’m socially incompetent. I’m just a little bit reserved and awkward, and I know that I can be off-putting and a bit abrasive on first impression. I don’t work rooms, I don’t bullshit, and I don’t make small-talk. I’m willing to let it all hang out when I know I’m among friends, but I don’t make a point of being the life of the party. I listen a lot more than I speak, especially if I’m surrounded by people I’m not particularly close with. And I keep a lot of things to myself, much to my wife’s chagrin.

If you invite me to a party and tell me I don’t need to bring anything, I’m going to show up empty-handed. I won’t take it as you only need to bring a bottle of wine. If I offer to help you with something and you tell me I’ve got it, I’m going to leave you to it. I won’t read that as yes, please. And if I ask you if you’re all right and you tell me you’re fine or ok or that you don’t want to talk about it, then I’m going to be done talking to you about it. I won’t take any of those responses as an invitation to pry. Unless you’re my wife.

Which brings me to my real point. As a self-published author, I – like so many of you – am expected to not just be the writer, editor, and publisher. I’m also the marketing department. And let’s be real. If I had any acumen for marketing – or any desire to do it – I would have chosen it as a career in the first place.

I’m awful at schmoozing, I’m terrible at pressing the flesh, and I’m inept at networking. I have a brother-in-law and an uncle who are both gifted in this capacity and who have an absolute genius for making quick connections with other people. Both of them made highly successful – not to mention lucrative – careers out of it.

And God bless ‘em for it, cuz that just ain’t me.

I have neither the skill set nor the personality for it. And that’s not going to change just because I’m online. Quite the opposite in fact.

As I’ve already documented on this site, I mostly ignored the rise of the social networking age. Hell, I used to stay home specifically to avoid socializing and networking. It would have defeated the purpose if I’d started doing both from my computer.

But now I’m being told that my dreams and my livelehood are at least partially dependent on the mastery of social media. I’m told that I have to have a Facebook page (which I do) and that I need to reach out to people and make friends and join groups and all that (which I don’t). I’m told I have to have a Goodreads page (which I do) and that I need to share reviews and follow people and join discussions (which I don’t). So, too, with Shelfari and AuthorsDB, etc. Even as much as I’m learning to enjoy life on WordPress, I’m sure I’ve committed more than a few egregious breaches of etiquette when it comes to Likes and Follows and Comments and the reciprocation thereof (my apologies if that’s the case).

Essentially, I feel like I’m being forced to change who I am and to do it in a medium that specifically intensifies my personality.

But I suppose it could always be worse.

I could be an asshole.

My Deep, Dark Secret

I am the laziest man I know.

I lead a life of selfish pursuits, empty promises, and unfulfilled ambitions.

I say this because I’ve had multiple conversations in the past couple of weeks about how busy you are and how hard you work and how impressive it is that you’re able to write a book with everything you do. And one of these conversations was with my own wife. Of all people, she should know better.

So…what do I do?

1. I teach (which includes planning, grading, meeting with students, exchanging emails and phone calls with parents, etc).

2. I coach (football in the fall, rugby in the spring).

3. I work out, generally lifting and running (in the wee hours of the morning during the fall, in a short gap between school and practice in the spring, and mostly whenever the hell I feel like it the other six months of the year).

4. I write (normally for an hour or so before the sun comes up, with extra time on some weekends and over summer vacation).

5. I work in my yard (usually only 1-2 times a week, mostly in the summer).

6. I spend as much time as I can find with my daughter and my wife (which, admittedly, isn’t much for half of the year).

Now…let’s balance that against what I don’t do in each case.

1. I don’t take much of my work home with me. Admittedly, I get to school about 90 minutes early every day. And I allow myself minimal if any downtime while I’m there. But typically almost no grading, planning, etc goes home with me. I’ve always justified that by saying that I want to keep my private life and my professional life separated – that when I’m home with my family, I want to be home with my family – but, quite frankly, I think it’s because I just don’t want to do any homework.

2. I don’t watch enough film, I don’t spend enough time at clinics, and I don’t put in enough hours outside of practice. And I consider quitting every year because I look ahead at the season and it always looks hard.

3. This is all about sanity and vanity. Exercise keeps me emotionally balanced and gives me opportunities to let my mind wander. But I’m not an athlete. I don’t even run races (even in spite of the fact that one of my life goals is running a marathon). So what the hell am I doing?

4. For an hour a day? Really? And sometimes that hour is spent here, on my blog, rather than actually working on my next book. I don’t spend any late nights at the keyboard, I don’t make any sacrifices for my writing, and I really don’t accomplish much. Who am I kidding?

5. I cut my grass. I find the occasional small landscaping project. But – as you already know – I generally don’t get out my weed-whacker. I don’t consistently weed my flower beds. I’m typically delinquent cleaning up after my dogs (which means my daughter often can’t play in our backyard). I work just enough to make it look like I take care of my house so I don’t piss off my neighbors, but beyond that…

6. Ok…I think this is the one thing I generally get right, even if it comes at the expense of 1-5. But even still, those six months gnaw at me.

With that said, what else don’t I do?

I don’t market my writing for shit. I’ve set up pages and accounts and what-not all sorts of places that are supposed to be great marketing platforms for self-published writers, but I don’t do crap with them. I tell myself that I’m learning, but I have to actually DO something before I can LEARN anything.

And let’s think about that writing for a minute. If I was really dedicated to it, I wouldn’t go months at a time without accomplishing anything. I wouldn’t be 33 and publishing my first book. I wouldn’t be writing and then sitting here with nothing to show for it. I’d be submitting. I’d be networking. I’d be pressing the flesh. I’d be GOING SOMEWHERE. I would be PUBLISHED rather SELF-published. Wouldn’t I? As it stands right now, what am I accomplishing for my family? What more – what BETTER – could I be doing with that time to benefit my wife, daughter, and our upcoming second?

I don’t have a second job in the summer, even in spite of the fact that my wife and I are living on one income in a house purchased with a two-income budget. And I don’t focus anywhere near enough on the job I have during June, July, and August.

I’m a shit friend. I don’t socialize. I’ve done nothing to keep in touch with my friends from college, even though I miss them like crazy. I live in the same area where I grew up, and I do still see my high school friends every month because of it. But outside of our regularly scheduled get-together, I do nothing to keep up with them. Hell, I’m so bad that I barely see or even speak with my friends from work during the summer.

Sadly, I’m just as bad with parents, my sister, and the rest of my extended family.

My finances – I’m thinking specifically about my children’s college savings and my retirement – are a fucking train wreck. If something were to happen to me tomorrow, my family would be in deep shit.

My house is falling apart. I can’t even begin to list all the projects and repairs that I’ve been putting off and/or completely ignoring. I try to tell myself that it’s because I’m so busy right now. But I used that same excuse in the fall during football. And I didn’t get a damn thing done during the winter. I’ll keep telling myself that I’m waiting for summer, but – again – who am I kidding?

Don’t take this as a fishing expedition.

I’m not looking for reassurance. I’m not trying to weasel compliments or sympathy out of anyone. I just need to vent. It chaps my ass a little bit when people tell me how hard I work because I go through every day of my life feeling like I don’t do shit but lay on my ass and hope and dream and lament everything I could/should/would accomplish.

Every day I’m surrounded by people that are not only doing more than me, but they’re also doing it better. I work with teachers who are always on the ball with their planning and their grading, who have incredible rapport with their students, and who both work their asses off when they’re at home and teach their asses off when they’re at school. I also work with coaches who put in extra hours both in-season and off-season, who live and breath film and clinics and spring practices and everything else it takes to get better and stay on top. I talk to parents who have a plan, who know how they’re going to pay for their children to go to college and how they’re going to retire, and who still know how theyr’re going to renovate their homes and take a family vacation on top of it. And then I sign on to WordPress and find myself surrounded by writers and bloggers who have distinct voices, unique platforms, and scads of readers and followers. In other words, writers who have something to show for their work.

With all that said, I’m ignoring my wife during the one hour of the day that we typically get to spend together so I can focus on this post (which should have been done this morning, but I started it late and thus couldn’t finish it before having to leave for work). So I’m going to wrap it up and focus on the one thing I can control right now. Hopefully if I can be a good husband and father, the rest will find a way to take care of itself.

And hopefully my wife will let me off the hook for all the shit I still don’t have done around the house so I can find a few more minutes to write.

10 Things I’ve Learned in 10 Years of Teaching (that I hope I remember 10 years from now as a parent) – Part 2

What follows is the second in a planned 10-part series of posts on some insights I’ve taken away from the first decade of my career as an English teacher. If you haven’t read Part 1, you can find it here.

Number 2 – Sleep matters. And so does nutrition.

There are three things that generally make me intolerable:

1. Exhaustion
2. Hunger
3. Dehydration

Never am I less patient and more combative than when I’m over-tired, underfed, and/or inadequately hydrated. My two-year-old is the same way. I don’t know if that’s a product of nature or nurture – or if it says more about her or me – and I don’t care. When she hasn’t gotten enough sleep, enough to eat, or enough to drink, she’s impossible to be around.

First-world problems, right?

We all know people that are hard to put up with. We have a myriad of names for them: Crank, crankpot, grump, grouch, fuss, fussbudget, fussbutt, butt, butthead, butthole, buttmunch, jerkbutt, jerk, jerkoff, jerkass, jackass, jackhole, jackwagon, asswagon, asshole, dillhole, dickhole, dickhead, dick, cock, cocksucker, fucker, fuckhead, fuckwad, motherfucker, bitch… Need I go on?

When I have to deal with a son-of-a-bitch who routinely pisses me off, I often ask myself if he’s really that bad of a person or if it’s just that he routinely fails to sleep enough, eat appropriately, and/or hydrate sufficiently. Any of these things on its own is enough to turn a person into a grade-A diva – we’ve all seen the Snickers commercials to prove it – but when suffered in correlation, they compound each other exponentially. So, is the son-of-a-bitch in your office (or down the street, or standing in front of you in the local Starbucks, or wherever) really that big of a dickwad? Or is it just that his default mode is tired, hungry, and/or dehydrated so, by extension, his default mode is surly, impatient, and downright pugnacious?

Granted, I’m probably letting a lot of prodigious assholes off the hook here, but I hope you see my point.

Now, with all that said, imagine thirty clones of your favorite Snickers diva locked in a cinderblock room for an hour being forced to discuss the implications of social justice as it’s portrayed in The Scarlet Letter and whether such punishments are still inflicted on American citizens in the modern day.

Welcome to my life.

A student who’s tired, who’s hungry, and who hasn’t had enough water (WATER!) is a student who can’t stay awake, who can’t focus, and who can’t participate meaningfully in class activities. In short, students who aren’t taking care of themselves are students who can’t learn.

There’s no denying that you never in your life have more energy than when you’re a teenager. But what we often lose sight of is the fact that there’s no other time in our lives when we need more energy because there’s no other time that we burn more energy.

Think about how much work goes into the average car in order to keep it running right over the long haul: Regular refuelings, oil changes, fluid-level checks, tire rotations and replacements, brake repairs and replacements, suspension and alignment services, even washings and waxings. And how often do you simply throw the car in park, take out the key, and let it cool down and rest? The more mileage you tend to put on your car, the more frequently and diligently you have to do all of these things. You know what happens if you don’t: Blowouts, overheating, engine trouble, transmission failure, and eventually total breakdown.

The human body’s no different.

Now think about the care and maintenance going into the most heavily driven body in your home. Is it any surprise that so many parents complain of knocks, pings, and engine noise?

So, give your kids a bedtime. Yes, even the seniors in high school. Take the TV, the video games, the computer, the tablet, and the cell phone out of their bedroom and give them a quiet place to unplug, rest, and recharge. Make sure they eat breakfast and make sure it’s something other than Hot Pockets and Mountain Dew. And send them to school with a healthy lunch. You’ll be amazed what it does for their energy levels and, by extension, their attitude. You’ll see it in how much easier they are to wake up in the morning and how much happier they are when they get home in the evening. And I’ll bet you’ll be blown away by how much more they’ll be able to focus and how much more they’ll accomplish during the typical day.

As far as you’re concerned, future Chris, don’t lose sight of the importance of modeling, both as an educator and as a parent. I told you in my previous post that when it seems like there aren’t enough hours in your child’s day and something’s got to give, you can’t let it be school work. Please don’t let it be a good night’s sleep or a good meal, either. Don’t become that guy who lets his kids live on fast food as they shuttle between activities. And don’t become that guy who can’t convince his kids to eat breakfast because all they ever see him have in the morning is a pot of coffee.

And, Chris….you may need to start getting more than 5-6 hours of sleep a night.

Where Does the Time Go?

Three weeks…no updates to this page except for two angrily (and sloppily) written rants about some high profile coaching buffoonery…no posts on my Facebook page….not a word read on my Reader or on Freshly Pressed…not a Like or a comment made…and not a single word written for my next book.

As a general rule, there are few excuses I hate more than “I don’t have time”. It’s an excuse for all occasions, and it’s an easy one to turn to. It keeps us out of the gym. It keeps us from cooking healthy meals and eating them at the table with our families. It keeps us from maintaining our homes and our lawns. It keeps us from fulfilling unpleasant obligations in both our personal and professional lives. And, worst of all, it keeps us from pursuing our dreams.

The truth of the matter is that we have the time to do anything important enough for us to MAKE THE TIME. School starts at 8:00, but I get up at 4:00 every work day to make sure I spend at least an hour focused on being/becoming a writer. I set an alarm for 6:00 on Saturdays for the same reason. Admittedly, that hour often gets divided between writing, blogging, marketing, etc. But it’s SOMETHING. And ANYTHING is better than nothing. I hit my school’s weight room in the 40 minutes between the end of the school day and when I need to leave for rugby practice for the same reason. It’s the only time I get to work out, and I’m going to take advantage of it. It might not be much, but it’s something.

So, next time you say you don’t have time for something, ask yourself what you’re really saying. Is it that you really don’t have time for it? Or are you simply admitting it doesn’t mean enough to you to find the time in your day? I know that my lawn goes to shit every fall because “I don’t have the time” to take proper care of it from mid-August to mid-November. But that lawn is really a declaration that after an early morning writing or working out (no after-school time during football season), a day in the classroom, and an afternoon on the field, what little time is left in the evening is going to go to my wife and my daughter. My neighbors will simply have to cope with the fact that I haven’t run the weed-whacker in eight weeks.

It’s easy to dream big – about writing a book, about recording an album, about dropping those twenty pounds, about running a marathon – but it’s a lot harder to take the small steps necessary to achieve those dreams. And it’s far too easy leave those dreams behind entirely. Take ownership of your time, and take ownership of your life.

Now…with that said. Where the hell have the last three weeks gone?

1. Croup – I don’t know if there’s anything scarier than waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of a two-year-old who can’t breath. And there are few things more exhausting and frustrating than a sick toddler.

2. Bronchitis – There’s ten days of my life I’m never getting back. My wife was convinced I’d given myself pneumonia by continuing to go to school and then to rainy rugby practices. My lungs were clear, but I still cost myself three days of school, two practices, and a match.

3. Lesson Planning – I’ve spent the past month teaching a handful of short stories and whole stack of poetry (it is April, after all) that I’ve never taught before. I had some extra time in my schedule and figured what the hell?. Unfortunately, I’ve run myself ragged putting together new unit and lesson plans on the fly. On Thursday I’m starting a novel I’ve taught before and for which my ducks are nicely in a row. And thank God! Because waiting for me are…

4. Research Papers – I’m weeks behind grading these things because of number 3.

And, finally…

5. Rugby – Specifically, the desperate struggle to figure out how to avoid the first losing season of my career (in either sport). Number 2 didn’t help here.

It’s been a wild few weeks. But I’m back now. Today’s early morning hour has been spent on WordPress. Tomorrow’s needs to be spent in Word.

No more excuses.

REALLY!?! – Part 2

Click here for my original reaction to the Mike Rice/Tim Pernetti scandal, posted on April 5.

As much as I wanted to write a response to the news of Tim Pernetti’s severance package when I first read about it last night, I was too livid to even think straight (click here for a short article). It’s not often that I find myself at a total loss for words. But ten hours and a fitful night of sleep later, I’m still struggling.

My first reaction, the one that I shared with my wife as I learned of Pernetti’s deal, mostly echoed my initial reaction on Friday: What….the….FUCK!?!

Some highlights from the above link:

“Pernetti is to be paid his base salary of $453,000 per year through June 2014 and a one-time payment of $679,500 in the next month. He gets the money even if he takes another job.

He also gets his $12,000 per year car allowance through June 2014 and health insurance and pension payments through October 2015….

Rutgers agreed to represent Pernetti in any lawsuits related to his job as athletic director.

The university agreed not to say anything bad about Pernetti to the media or prospective employers”.

But here’s the part that disturbs me even more. It actually has nothing to do with Pernetti. The emphasis is my own.

“[Rutgers Basketball Coach Mike] Rice was fired last week not for cause, meaning that under his contract he is in line to be paid just over $1 million, or 75 percent of his remaining salary, plus a $100,000 bonus for staying on the job through the 2012-13 season.”

Which begs the question: What counts as “cause” to fire a Division I coach? My gut reaction is to scoff and say, “Losing”. Unfortunately, I don’t get to be so jaded in this case. Rice had a losing record in his three years at Rutgers, and that record even declined slightly between his first and second seasons. Granted, Rice’s team did improve this year, but lingering around at .500 is generally considered a career-killer.

Obviously, the University doesn’t think that getting caught on tape mistreating student-athletes is grounds for dismissing a coach. So, is this simply a PR move? Would Rice and Pernetti’s jobs still be secure if the story hadn’t been featured on Outside the Lines? And if that’s the case, how is paying nearly 2.5 million dollars to the two guilty parties going to help Rutgers save face?

From where I sit, this is essentially rewarding Rice for abusing his team and Pernetti for trying to sweep it under the rug. By not only agreeing to not publicly disparage Pernetti and to represent him in any subsequent lawsuits, Rutgers is essentially saying that they think the AD was in the right. And, by extension, they are absolving Rice of some grievous sins.

I’m sure if you followed the stench back its source, you’d eventually come to a pot of money brought in by Pernetti’s various revenue-generating moves. Most famous among these is the University joining the Big 10. You’d probably also find a cash box labeled Rutgers Basketball. And somewhere, huddled around them both, you’d probably find a cluster of men and women in business suits who are more concerned with protecting that income and saving their own asses than they are with protecting the welfare of their student-athletes.

In the end, I hardly know what to say. But I can tell you this. Sixteen years is a long time for a bad taste to be washed out of my mouth, but if my daughter was searching for a college today I know where I would tell her NOT to apply.

REALLY!?!

I spent most of my morning at the gym watching news of the Tim Pernetti/Mike Rice scandal as it broke on ESPN. There was grainy footage of Rice and his assistant physically and verbally abusing Rutgers basketball players during practice. There was the revelation that Rice had been handled with kid gloves when he was first disciplined by the university for mistreating his players at the end of 2012. Then there was the news of Pernetti’s firing followed by the inevitable question of university president Robert Barchi’s culpability. As a parent and a coach, all I have to say in response is this: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!?!

Maybe I’m jumping the gun here. Maybe I’m being too quick to judge. Maybe I’ll change my mind after the official press conference at 1:00 pm today. But, as a coach and an educator – and you’re kidding yourself if you claim to be the former but think you’re not the latter – right now I’m pissed off.

To paraphrase some of the wisest words I’ve ever heard in regards to coaching, behind every athlete there is a parent (or grandparent or older sibling or aunt/uncle or SOMEBODY) who has invested their life in raising the young man or woman now entrusted to your care. And, more than anything else, they are trusting you to return their child to them UNBROKEN.

It’s unfortunate that I have to confess that these words were originally spoken by Joe Paterno. I read them in an editorial published in The Sporting News over a year before the Jerry Sandusky scandal. However, I refuse to let public opinion about the man undermine the fundamental value of his words. Whether or not Joe Paterno ultimately lived up to the standard he set is immaterial. What matters is that, as coaches and teachers, WE MUST.

And there are far too many of us out there that don’t.