If you’re looking for the why - why a guy like Tiger Woods would continue to rush to put himself in peril - look no further than what legendary high-wire artist Karl Wallenda said - “… life is on the wire - the rest is just waiting…”

For Tiger Woods, wire walking isn’t a thing anymore, and there’s no way to replace the rush. No matter what he does, or how hard he tries, or how many women he sees, or pills he takes, or sordid places he finds himself in - none of it is the walk up 18 at Augusta on Sunday with the trophy in his pocket - none of it comes close to the feeling of draining a 25-footer for a major win.

It doesn’t scratch the itch. None of this does. But when all you know is that rush, and the rush that only Tiger Woods (and the very, very few like him) knows intimately - you want it back. You want to feel something - anything - like it was before.

But that’s impossible. Moving his needle? Nope - there isn’t anything out there. Not like there used to be. Tiger Woods doesn’t exist anymore - not that Tiger Woods - and deep down he knows it - and he knows all these things he’s chasing are so fleeting and so insignificant and more - that they will not quench the thrist - but he doesn’t know anything else.

And treatment - for Woods - and what may come after - well - it’s not gonna turn back the clock on what life was or what he needs it to be now. Not now or ever.

Can he come to terms with that?

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Now what?

I don’t know. I’m idling at this unfamiliar nexus - this unexpected intersection between what was and what’s next. I’ve written a bit about this lately even though I haven’t written much at all in recent days and weeks.

I almost never struggle to find a topic and bang out an essay. I get an idea for this or that - or I hear something - and I marinate on it for a short bit and then sit down and BANG - out it comes. Like - I’m remembering it or something - and the words flow easily. But not these days. These days - I struggle even taking the laptop out.

You read these first couple of paragraphs in seconds. It’s taken me almost an hour to get this much down. Yeah - I’m in a strange place.

And it’s more than just old, quasi-retired guy trying to cobble a small but satisfying life together. This is different, because I’m different than I’ve ever been and my head doesn’t seem to be working like it used to. And I’m fighting a world that doesn’t really want me to be (gasp) unproductive. Or maybe - that’s just how I’m looking at it.

It’s like this now it’s not always like this…

I always knew where I was headed was my thing. I’m a kid and everybody else didn’t know where they were headed but I knew. I always knew. I was gonna be on TV. I was gonna be a star. I was gonna have a big life.

And throughout that whole journey - all those years - no matter what happened - I had that. I knew. Things would work out. I know who I am. I know what I can do. I know where I’m going…

But I don’t know anymore. And I don’t have a ton of great ideas - because I don’t know anymore.

Some readers have been nice - circumventing my locking out comments - and sending me emails anyway saying the usual things. Hang in there. Keep writing. You’re gonna figure it out. And so on. You know - y’all are sweet - but there’s a reason I disabled comments.

Knowing - was everything. Couple that with my crystal ball in seeing what’s coming (which still works a little) and my magic wand for helping others (which is as dead as Julius Caesar now) and I could make things happen.

Now - I don’t know. I can’t anymore. It’s not happening. And every morning I say - It’s like this now it’s not always like this - which - like “This too shall pass” you gotta say when things are going awesome - that’s how these mantras work - and I’m having trouble believing it.

So - now what?

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Colin Campbell, and a handful of the other old school North American born NHL meatheads have to die before the league can begin to properly deal with player safety. Because the problem with NHL player safety is the people in charge and how they view hockey and the hockey world.

These are “hockey men” - they call themselves and each other this. Pierre McGuire called me this one day and I said - “oh no I’m not - don’t ever say that…” - he looked totally baffled.

Hockey men are North American, they generally have backgrounds as third and fourth line grunts if they made it at all. Hockey men say phrases like “not your typical Russian…”, “plays the game the right way…” and talk about “culture” as if it was an actual thing. Lemme tell ya something - culture - is getting that goal or that save when you have to have it. That’s culture. Generally it comes from elite skill and not aspiring hockey men and that annoys these guys.

Hockey men abhor skill and work to legislate against it. They bad mouth skill players from outside North America, and feel just fine with a careless prick like Radko Gudas ending Austin Mathews’ season. In those back rooms you can bet your ass a guy like Campbell said - fuck him - he should have been looking out for Gudas to do that.

Hockey men allow hand passes to defend but not to attack, bad mouth shootouts as “skills competitions…” (as if - skill is something to be looked down upon, preferring a game to be settled not by the elite of the elite, but by a mucker or grinder) and turn their collective heads at ridiculously inflated goalie gear.

Hockey men - are killing the National Hockey League. And Connor McDavid, the best player on the planet - knows it. He’s not a “hockey man.” Sorry Canada… and thank goodness.

Oh - and the Vikings have a new quarterback - that might be helpful in the NFL - and it’s Monday - and we’re closing in on the Stanley Cup playoffs - where I’ll be going to some Stars games and writing about it here - for those of you interested in that.

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It’s as basic as it gets - a modern day tennis match - and it hearkens back to the days of the gladiators. Man on man - one on one - in a loaded stadium in the desert. There’s no place to go or hide. You’re alone out there. You have it, or you don’t. You control your emotions, or you snap. Your outbursts are replayed on big screens.

And - unless you’re one of a very small contingent of the elite of the elite - now down to just one or two - you’re unlikely to win the tournament you entered.

Number 1 Carlos Alcaraz and Number 2 Jannick Sinner ONLY have won the last nine Slams - or - Majors, and 11 of the last 14. And Alcaraz has won his last five matches against Sinner. The gap between number 1 and number 2 - could be widening - could be…

And, there is some hope, as this tournament has introduced us to some new, and promising young stars. Including - one 20 year-old American. Can anyone beat these guys though?

And it’s my annual pilgrimage to the BNP Paribas Open at the Indian Wells Tennis Center right down the street. Yes - this “Fifth Slam”, this event that’s the player’s favorite, that draws huge crowds and visitors from across the globe, is in my neighborhood. I go every year now and to multiple sessions.

This year - I’ve seen Carlos, Jannick, and Novak twice. I’ve seen Elena Rybakina, and Iga Swiatek and yep - I was there for Mirra Andreeva’s outburst and F-YOU to the fans on her way off the court too. Kids these days…

And while I do enjoy women’s tennis - and while they have some shit to sort as well - I want to talk about the men - who are in need of more stars - way more - and more qualified challengers.

Where are they? Well - maybe there are a few just around the corner - maybe…

But - not Americans. Is there an American out there that can challenge these guys?

Because the very best way to engage US audiences is to have US stars and champions. You can trust me on this - I’m a retired professional sports broadcaster…

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I just blocked and deleted my very good friend and sublime essayist Father Joshua Whitfield from my SubStack feed, and I never wanted to do that. I don’t want to do that. But, with SubStack, I had to. I couldn’t get out of the rabbit hole this follow kept sending me down.

It’s this crazy social media thing that pushes us to binary choices and one of two camps. What about goofballs like me? Huh? I’m not interested in this world of getting us mad at things every day.

Oh - yeah - it’s like this - every day we get these clarion calls from these respective camps. It goes like this:

“If you’re one of us - this week we need you to be outraged about Trump’s comment about inviting the women’s hockey team to the White House… you can’t be one of us if you’re not outraged by this…”

or…

“If you’re one of us - you better yell at the top of your lungs that Bad Bunny is un-American, and you better be watching Kid Rock…”

There’s no difference between the camps. It’s why I’m not in either camp.

So - I had to unfollow my friend. He’s the best follow I have on SubStack, and I can’t follow him anymore.

He knew it was coming. Father Josh did. I texted him early last week about it. Then he called me on my birthday. I told him what was happening. We laughed about it. I told him I had tried for weeks, weeks and months really, to manage a feed that was littered - LITTERED with catholic, christian, and other domestic religious contributors. Most - well - yeah. Oh - how did we get here - and how am I in the middle of whatever the hell this is?

Because I followed and subscribed to one catholic priest, SubStack believes I’m religious. I was raised catholic, went to 12 years of catholic school, but I’m agnostic, and one of my great friends is a married roman catholic priest. SubStack is horribly confused.

I’ve blocked no fewer than 500 religious essayists in the last few weeks, priests, authors, and a high number of nutjobs, and, the way things are these days, religious folk not acting very religious you ask me. This has been a daily thing. I can’t get out of the loop.

Now - I’m not stupid - like - I don’t want the supreme creator of the universe pissed at me because I’m blocking accounts on a social media platform on a tiny dot in a grand landscape of planets and stars -

And then I realize how ridiculous that sounds.

But - since the Father Josh block - it’s way better here for me. But - here they come again.

Now, they’re trying me on for size again.

Well let’s see if he’s pro Israel. Well let’s see if he’s pro Iran. Let’s try the MAGA stuff again. Well if that’s not him then he’s gotta want Kamala Harris and Gavin Newsome posts. Wait - he lives in California and isn’t a Gavin Newsome guy? WTF?

SubStack, this platform is all I got now - but I’m considering making more changes in what I read or like for fear of being bombarded again with all kinds of posts and stuff I could give a shit about.

How does anyone escape this shit without going completely dark with it? Turning it all off. Because I’ve shut most of it down, and still, still, they’re after me…

GOD HELP ME!!!

wait….

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Whenever a young broadcaster would ask me - or anyone would ask me - what my strengths are, or how I got to an NHL booth and stayed there for all those years, I’d answer the same way. I’d say that I have natural ability, I’m good in front of people, I’ve worked hard on my writing and communication skills and so on. I got good at being on TV. I worked on it since I’m five years old or something.

But what was it that set me apart? What is the secret of my success in the business?

Career clarity. I knew - KNEW - from as early as I can remember - that I was going to be on TV. That I was going be a presenter of some kind. I thought it might be sports - and it was - but it could have been anything else that got me on the air and in front of people. Game show host. Talk show host. Radio host. Actor.

That - knowing exactly what I wanted to do was a huge advantage. Huge. It’s a rare thing to know, and to have supreme confidence that I would get there. I knew I would get there. And I behaved like it in all things. Very few people I know or knew had any real idea what they were gonna do as a career.

I think most people discover what they want to do along the way. In school. Or with a guidance counselor, or at a part time job when something strikes or interests them.

It wasn’t like that for me. I can’t relate to that. Well - now I can.

Today, I’m 65 years old, and while I’m busy and engaged, for the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m gonna live another 20 maybe - and I want to do something - but what?

What do you do when you have no idea what to do?

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Friday, 27 February, 2026, 0608 hundred (or however they say that) I’m 65. How did that happen? Except yeah, I’m glad it did. Or will. The alternative ain’t great is it. I’ll tell people Friday and beyond - I’ll tell em when they ask how old I am that I’m 65, but look 64 and don’t feel a day over 63. I adjust that joke every year.

In truth, and anyone around this age with any fire at all in em will tell you that they still feel like teenager, or somebody in their 20’s. In their heads anyway. So probably I should say something like - I’m 65, probably look it, but I’m 14 inside, and yes, that’s equal parts awesome and ridiculous.

Used to be - the thing was - and for a lot of years when someone asked me my age I’d tell em and they’d say - Oh - you don’t look it. I always looked young, when I was younger. I’d get carded in my 30’s. When I turned 40 same stuff. 50… well… things started shifting a little. Hair on my ears. Less and less on my head. Gastric issues daily. You know.

Nobody says anything when I tell em my age now. A polite nod. A - only 65??? they’ll say under their breath.

And I think I look ok. I take good care of myself. Mostly…

I’m like Papillon, Steve McQueen’s Papillon, when he sticks his head out of his cell and asks the new young guy next to him - how do I look? I feel pretty good - but how do I look? And the young guy looks at this ragged old man next to him, this guy who just a couple years earlier was the young guy looking at another old man, and says - you look good… But Papi knew anyway I think and so do I.

And it strikes me that 65 is the last one of these things. Marker birthdays. You know - at 12 or something I got confirmed in the Catholic Church, 15 permit, 16 license, 18, 19, 21, 25… and others all meant something - I would get to do - or achieve an age where I was allowed to do something - or more. Like 18 when I voted for the first time. My 21st birthday was in Las Vegas. I told my dad when I sat at my first blackjack table that I knew more about the game when I was 12 than most of the players I was sitting with at the table. I can still confidently make that claim when I go today. I suggested a competency test and not a flat age for blackjack players. That would be me - even then.

So here’s a happy birthday piece to me, and all of you, who may not think about these marker birthdays and the ending of them, largely because this sort of thing is what you think about when you’re me banging around the desert.

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If you’ve never been on foreign soil and heard the US national anthem while the country’s flag goes up with it, well, you’ve maybe never experienced something this cool and important. I have. In South Korea at the Winter Olympics in 2018 after calling the US Women’s gold medal hockey win over Canada.

We’ve talked about this here in this space before, this playing the national anthem and all that means at domestic sporting events in the United States. Most other countries don’t do this. In Europe, anthems played before sporting events are typical only in international play. It’s not like this is the thing everywhere - it’s - of course - something we do because - America. And so on.

A brief history - very brief…

Woodrow Wilson needed to sell World War I to a very reluctant nation a century ago. Among other things he wanted an “anthem” - so they dusted off the Francis Scott Key’s “In Defense of Fort M’Henry” poem, put it to an old bar jag, and presto - anthem. When the fellas came home from World War II, the anthem started getting play at baseball games. This caught on and spread, sport by sport. After 911, the anthem, and other pro-American salutes joined the fray. There have been kneelers and protesters and so on, and these days, because we’ve all gone silly, it’s another faux patriotic litmus test, like, if you watched Kid Rock you’re a patriot, and if you watched Bad Bunny you’re going to hell… you know.

But tomorrow - after the mens gold medal hockey game between US and Canada, you might get a chance to see real spectacle - and a real moment for the country, if Team USA wins. Because if they win - hang around and pay attention. It’s super different when that anthem is played in another country, celebrating a quantifiable victory against another nation, and the flag goes up with our anthem.

Let me tell you about my experience in 2018.

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Gas is expensive in California. There’s no state income tax in Texas. Or Arizona. In 2003, gay marriage became legal in Massachusetts and nowhere else at first. Sports betting is legal in 35 states and in Washington, DC. In Texas and Oklahoma, The Ten Commandments hangs in school hallways. 24 states have made marijuana use legal.

That’s the power of the 10th amendment.

We’re different, and we’re different state to state. Each state is a different age, each state has its own history, customs, traditions. What works in one place doesn’t work even a few miles away.

Throw in the framers concerns that the new federal government might attempt overreach, and get into the business of each state or, local municipalities, and you’ve got a recipe for gridlock, frustration, inefficiency, and pain.

The Constitution is an amazing document. It was the fella’s second whack at creating a governing document for this new - Great Experiment. The Articles of Confederation, in effect from 1781 to 1789, reflected how much this new country didn’t want the government in their business. The Articles was so weak and ineffectual, that we had no means to levy taxes, put down rebellions, see to public goods, or provide for the common defense and promote the general welfare. The Articles, laying out only one branch of government, had no checks and balances.

The rights of the individual - and the rights of the individual to not have the federal government in their shit was everything. But the Articles…

So, after some fits and starts, the boys get together in Philly, (finally…) and decide to edit the Articles. Try it again. We don’t want the federal government in our shit - but - we gotta get shit done. Long story short - James Madison says - oh gimme the damned thing - I’m gonna rewrite it and bring y’all a new draft next week.

Madison returned with the framework - three branches - checks and balances - separation of powers.

The anti-federalist states, those concerned the federal government still might try and pull some shit like - marching federal troops into local cities - limiting the press or free speech - or - nationalizing a religion… they said - OK - we’ll ratify - but you gotta put something in there for us…

Here - here’s 10 things - we call em the Bill of Rights - the kids will become familiar with them as the first 10 amendments. We gotta have em. We won’t ratify without them.

We needed 9 of 13 to ratify. Without the Bill of Rights - we don’t get that done.

And we got them - and they’re important. In scope and intention - these 10 amendments - and the document as a whole - is to limit what the federal government can do - and protect the rights of the individual.

And the 10th amendment - is the way forward you ask me. After 250 years, it’s time to reimagine the country. It’s time, to use what the founders setup - in order to allow real independence state to state - and get the federal government off all our asses. Which was the point of this whole thing when we started…

Interested?

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It was another beautiful day in the Coachella Valley. The sun was bright and warm, even though the temps were hovering around a moderate 70 degrees. It’s like that here in the desert. The golf course was busy on an active Saturday, but there was so much to see. The adjacent foothills were spectacular, the grass was green and lush, the water features, including the large manmade lake off the clubhouse and first tee, shimmered. I was with great and old friends. And I was doing my thing…

I play golf… but I’m not a golfer. I don’t care about grinding over putts, I don’t play in money games ever. My day on the golf course is very much tied to everything but the scorecard. Although with this group - old friends who always want to compete and play for something - I got pulled into the money game. It wasn’t much money - but it changed the whole dynamic for me. I could give a shit out there usually… I want to watch the sights, hear the sounds, bust balls, joke around, hit a few good shots, enjoy the weather and my friends and the day.

That’s why I play golf. You want a money game - you wanna be serious at all - leave me out of it. I say as much but they don’t wanna hear it. So it goes.

And when you’re in a golf cart with an old friend - all kinda shit comes up. How’s Marge? The kids? Toby get his nail gun certification yet? What about the cat with the one eye and three legs - how’s he doing? Did your friend Ellen finally figure out why all her fingernails fell off? And so on.

So on this day once the usual subjects were exhausted, I found myself driving the cart from one green to the next tee and my friend out of the blue asks me - “… how did you like Bad Bunny’s halftime show at the Super Bowl?”

Now - I was pretty sure I was being setup - even though I’m not in any of this - this “I’m a patriot and you’re un-American” litmus test bullshit. But he asks and I answer -

And I’ll give you my answer as I gave it to him. And it wasn’t much more than my review of NBC’s coverage of it, my view on the showmanship of the artist and his event, the choreography, Gaga and Ricky Martin showing up, and how this act fits the NFL’s business model.

But the fallout was insane - and the last thing I shouted was - “… dude - we have to be okay with people having different opinions on things - we have to be able to share opinions with each other. We have to be able to talk to each other without classifying one another as a patriot or a traitor.” Like - WTF?

In this piece I’ll break down the conversation and how we got to where we got to.

It’s crazy - at the end of it - as he and I are driving down the fairway - he says - “I just never talk politics with anyone…”. And I said - “I don’t either…”

And then I thought - is that the problem with the whole thing right now?

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Man it’s tough out there for us, and we make it so tough on each other, mostly because the only messages that get through to us when we’re coming up and into the work world are - the boss is always right - do what the boss tells you. This is the job. We prefer you don’t think - don’t handle anything. Call the manager. Tell the customer to call the 800 number. This is our policy. We can’t do anything about this. Are you in our members circle club? What’s your phone number? We don’t take returns. I can’t do anything about that. We’ll need full payment up front. You must not have completed the registration process in our portal. There’s an error and it’s not in your favor.

We all go through this and every day. And it’s one of us on the other end. I wonder when someone is unhelpful or rude, which is pretty much how it all goes everywhere, is this how they want to be treated? Do they think about that when they smirk and tell us “this is our policy”?

Do you? Because whether you’re in line or at the register - it’s us against them - even if they tell you and have always told you otherwise. Pay attention. Smarten up.

I’m playing golf yesterday at a course in the Valley and there’s a handful of guys on golf carts who work for the course who are Marshalls. Now - not so long ago, and in fact, in many places, Marshalls on golf courses help with pace of play. If a group is slow - they give em a nudge. That’s not happening anymore out here at pretty much every course I play. Yesterday - the same interaction -

“Hey - so - pace of play is slow - can you speak to that group up there?”

“We can’t do anything about that, sir.”

“Well you can… you’re just choosing not to…”

They’ve made the calculation that they don’t want conflict. They’re not paid enough. The course isn’t giving them direction. That they’d rather kiss the asses of the slow and the drunk, at the expense of the players who respect the time of others.

And so this goes on and on in my world. I know it happens in yours too. I see it every day.

Yes, I’m more sensitive than most, and for a few reasons. First, I was trained well by my first employers at McDonalds in 1977. I had some good early bosses and watched my father’s work ethic and drive up close. I’m a very hard worker, but a hard worker who never minded eschewing company policy to take care of someone - a customer - a fucking human being.

I’m a kid they’d say - the customer is always right. They said that. I’m not sure that it was true, but they said it and they tried. Now, they don’t try and they never say it.

I have OCD, so going to into most stores and places and seeing litter on floors, finger marks on counters, and unkempt workers and unclean work conditions pop out for me. I have inundation anxiety too - it’s hard for me to be in places with lots of people and amid chaos.

And it’s the way it’s happening now - another golf course recently where they haven’t updated their website in years and their voicemail at the clubhouse still says - “due to Covid 19 restrictions…” - I was third in line, and watched the two before me have the same unfruitful discussion with the guy at the counter that I would have.

“You guys are doing this all wrong. Why can’t you make the reservation on our system correctly?”

That’s from the guy behind the desk. To ALL three of us - one at a time - and then an announcement to the whole shop about how upset the guy working there is that none of us can do this properly.

#america #capitalism

Yes - it’s our fault. We didn’t sign in correctly. We didn’t click the appropriate box and you’re right to call us out in front of others… Fuck off.

I don’t play there anymore. And they don’t care. They’re not paid to care. They’re not treated well. They’re not paid well. They’re not empowered to handle anything. They’re not supposed to solve the problem, they get a meager hourly wage regardless. They’re on their cell phones. They’re staring into space. They can’t wait to get the hell out of there.

This is the truth of working in America now. Everything funnels up - all the money and the accolades and the ass kissing. Line level employees and workers are scared shitless or, don’t give a shit. They’re not part of it - they… “just work there…”. It’s not really their fault. Everyone has given up. This is all we got - the best we can do…

But - there exist a few companies and in a few places where they still try. You can see they try. You can feel it. Because in 2026, the bar in this country for service and community and a good experience is so fucking low, that if someone just smiles and says hello - it’s a huge win and a place you remember.

And in California (due to a higher state minimum wage for fast-food workers), and at In N Out Burger, a place with a long history of a simple menu done well, well-trained employees paid a fair wage and with bonuses and profit sharing, and quality-controls that insure the world’s best produce (California’s) and all other ingredients are within a days drive, there’s a customer experience unlike most others.

They don’t buy ads. You won’t see an In N Out Super Bowl spot - those are taken by the companies with the most assets that they’ve secured from us by implementing usurious credit card interest rates, exorbitant insurance premiums, and the sale of cheap electronics made by sweat shop workers in third world countries.

No - In N Out doesn’t buy ads, there’s no billboards, no radio messages, no affiliations or membership programs. Just a simple menu - burgers, fries, shakes - done very well. That’s why they don’t need to buy ads.

The workers care. They’re invested. They’re empowered. They… in a word… try.

And I can’t help but think during and after every visit, could this be the template for getting the American workforce back on track?

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J.D. Salinger of Catcher in the Rye fame, said once, late in life, that if he had it to do all over again, he’d write but wouldn’t publish. I don’t really believe that, given Salinger’s persona and his situational enjoyment of being J.D. Salinger, but I do understand it. Salinger also had extreme reclusive tendencies, famously working in his writer’s shack on his property and ignoring family, friends, and anyone else who dared call on him. So there’s that to lend credence to his claim.

The point here is - I think a lot about the purpose of my writing. Why am I doing it? What’s the goal? Where do I want to take it? I don’t think anyone wants to be the falling tree in the proverbial empty forest, with no one there to see or appreciate the grand act. But, given my past life and career in the limelight, I do understand the challenges of even a tiny bit of fame and notoriety.

Which brings me back to the why of all this. This is and has been a continual and evolving process for me, this whole SubStack and writing business. I’ve always loved to write. The two greatest events in my evolution as a burgeoning writer over the years was - first - I took typing in high school in 1977. Nobody knew then how ubiquitous a qwerty keyboard would become, and how important mastering it would be. I’m fast as a typist, always have been.

The second was taking a college journalism course from Dr. Loren Robinson at the University of Wisconsin at River Falls in 1981, where he insisted I stop composing on a yellow legal pad with pen and ink, and do all my composing on the typewriter. I’m sure we had IBM Selectrics. I think I want to get one again.

Being able to write and to compose at the typewriter or keyboard was absolutely crucial to everything I did in my career as a sports broadcaster. One of the challenges for me here and now is that I’m not typing exclusively for myself anymore, (in my own shorthand and with shortcuts and misspells and all) and without an editor as I had for four years when writing op-eds for the Dallas Morning News.

So this SubStack business is a solitary business. Yes, I have my own magazine/newspaper/blog/column - whatever you want to call it - but it’s a one-man operation.

I also don’t have a sales force, I’m not on social media anymore, and I’m not actively in, or interested in, the business of growing an audience anymore. 18 months ago, when I launched here - I did have loftier aims - I just - didn’t have the juice to stay with it on social media, and invest the time and energy it would take to maybe… maybe… grow it big.

I know I don’t want to write exclusively about hockey and the Dallas Stars, and that means adios to a lot of my old audience, while limiting my ability to grow an audience around hockey. I did hockey. Hard. For three decades. I’ll visit and dabble, but I’m not interested in the day to day.

So I have a small audience of paid subscribers, curious about what I’m writing, and a bigger swath of people who don’t pay but subscribe or follow here - I don’t know the difference. Haha. I’m not into all the vernacular, and I’m not so entwined in what’s going on with all this here.

I also try and control what my feed gives me - and that’s been a whole thing too. The world doesn’t want to believe I don’t want to be in it - not the social media and the crazy bullshit we all get stuck mindlessly scrolling through.

So - why am I here now? What are my aims? Why should you read - or keep reading - subscribe - or drop?

I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately - so - if you’re one of my paid - c’mon along for more - if not - pony up or move on. Ha!

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I’ve stayed out of all this, all this horrible business in my home city and birthplace. To make sense of any of it, of the federal government sending troops into local municipalities uninvited, of those troops and ICE tossing due process and long-standing individual constitutional protections in the gutter and doing it under the direction of the President of the United States, of the President calling an entire group of American’s “garbage”, and it just so happens to be in the city of George Floyd, and the city of Tim Walz, of people getting killed indiscriminately, of my birthplace again looking like a war zone.

Everyone has an opinion, and everyone is entitled to their opinion. I’m quite consistent on this, even if not so many know much. Just read comments on social media - ugh - it’s why I’m no longer on social media. My experience with my own circle offers almost daily reminders that nobody really studies any of this beyond what the news or social media, or some pundit they like gives em.

When was the last time you took a civics class? Read a history book? Read the US Constitution? Do you know who your congressman is? What district you live in? You’ll say yes - but can you pass a basic citizenship test? You’ll probably have to know how many members in the house, or how many States needed to ratify the nation’s second governing document (you know the first for sure, right?), and what a bicameral legislature means - but those are easy ones we all know…

Do you know that the second amendment has as much (or more) to do with citizen militias, and our rights to be armed when federal troops march into our cities so that we can fight back and defend ourselves - and not stand with ICE or other federal troops? That’s one reason why the NRA isn’t all in on all this ICE business. We are a nation built on restraining government overreach. That’s why the second amendment says what it says - “A well regulated militia, necessary to the security of a free State, the people’s right to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”

We’re supposed to be fighting back, and not patting them on the back.

The Twin Cities are a national and global flashpoint, essays and editorials are everywhere, relative camps are fighting all over social media, Bruce Springsteen just amended “Streets of Philadelphia” for Minneapolis, and in America now, there’s always and only two versions of the same facts dueling with no end in sight.

And last Friday on his morning show, in the middle of all this, an NFL football announcer and local sports radio host stepped in it, saying - "In conditions like this, do paid protesters get hazard pay? Those are the things that I’ve been thinking about this morning," Then, he doubled-down later in the show, cashing another reference to the statement, with a reference to those protesters “catching strays”... which is a Paul Allen phrase he’s said before, making this not as bad - or worse - depending on where you sit.

I know Paul - PA - a little anyway. And I know what it’s like to be on the air and look for funny. And while I’ve never had this type of on-air moment, I understand how it happens.

And I wonder, what might happen to him here. Because I don’t care for what he said - but - so what? I don’t have to. We don’t have to agree and share the same opinion. It’s not illegal to be insensitive. Everyone gets a voice. I do. You do. Actors do. Athletes do. Teachers do. Paul Allen does.

And we all get to decide what weight, if any, to give these opinions. Turn the channel. Don’t engage. But don’t muzzle. That’s a fast track to nowhere. The next group in power might not like what you say - then what?

But Paul Allen works for someone else, the airwaves aren’t his. On SubStack, I can say what I want. You buy it or you don’t. You can subscribe or block.

Paul Allen doesn’t have that luxury and isn’t afforded the same protections because he works for someone else. Someone beholden to advertisers, listeners and viewers, and other people working in the building. Corporate fear rules the day. And these days it doesn’t take much… does it?

What’s gonna happen here? What should happen here?

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Yeah - here’s another one - another piece bashing NFL HOF voters for the big snub on Bill Belichick. But this one is more about how leagues and bodies do these things, hand huge power to a bunch of grumpy old fucks, and not simply let the work speak for itself.

And maybe here we have a shot to make real, fundamental changes to the systems - because if this guy isn’t a first ballot Hall of Famer - nobody is.

There is way too much opinion, geography, and back-room dealings driving these things. It’s this way with almost all major sports leagues and bodies, and it’s not restricted to just Halls of Fame inductions, but league awards, tournament MVP’s, etc.

We leave these very large honors to opinion, and the opinion of a very small voting group, too often comprised of cliques, like-minded dolts, and people with agendas.

Me - you got the numbers you’re in. That’s it. Forget the character stuff and keeping people out because we don’t like how they conducted themselves. Please. That’s a group of others generally with their own bullshit judging guys they could never hope to be.

But we give it to em. We give sports writers (and generally it’s writers and not broadcasters… which itself is a little odd) so much power. Why? Who the hell are they?

Why don’t we follow the only league that seems to have this figured out - the LPGA? Hall of Fame requirements are completely merit based. There’s a point total to be accumulated (27) and once you hit it, like Lydia Ko just did, (to become the 35th athlete inducted) you’re in. That’s it.

You’re in BECAUSE YOU EARNED IT - AND NOT BECAUSE SOME GROUP OF BITTER OLD ASSHOLES DECIDED YOU EARNED IT.

Should we keep doing it like this? Like - WTF?

Let a recent Hall of Famer (me… haha) walk you through this…

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There’s nothing better for a sports fan, or in my case, a sports fan who is a former professional sports broadcaster, than the biggest games there can be. That’s playoffs. Everything you’ve worked and trained all year for coming down to a series of singular moments. You win - you move on. You lose - everything stops. Jobs are on the line. Entire communities are entrenched and invested.

That’s where the stakes are highest. Every little step and move are analyzed. One mistake can cost you everything.

Well - maybe not exactly everything - as we saw Saturday night from Taipei. So, while the NFL and its broadcasters engaged in the usual high-drama activities and accompanying hyperbole on Sunday, there was an athlete who was actually doing something where the stakes were indeed - the highest - and one mistake could actually cost him everything the night before.

While NFL players were having their final meetings and run-throughs, and broadcasters were back in hotel rooms with notebooks and laptops preparing fodder to call the action, Alex Honnold was climbing a nearly 1,700 foot tower made of slick glass and sharp steel alone, without ropes or safety nets, or any sort of backstops.

One mistake - ONE - ends his life. His wife was there watching. And it was live. LIVE - on Netflix (with a 10 second delay in case the worst happened). And I watched it live and in real time.

And that event on that night made me question every way I ever viewed or described a tense and highly important playoff game or championship moment.

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This is happening more and more, and it’s been happening for a while because people know I’m not on social media. I don’t follow the horse race or the shit show. I don’t leap when an alert pops on my phone - I don’t have alerts on my phone. I don’t reach out when there’s bad weather in a friend or family’s home town. I figure I’ll hear about it or from them if something happens. The last thing they need at night while watching the National Championship football game is me checking in to see if “they’re ok…”.

My mother is like lots of moms - “call me when you get home so I know you’re safe” is kind of always in play. That’s her putting her fears on me. People do that. She’s not alone. I have friends - I go to their house and they say - text me when you get home. I don’t do that with my daughter - and I’ll admit that’s taken some real work. If I’m afraid - and I’m asking her to check in with me so I feel better - that’s selfish and that puts my fears on her. I don’t do it.

My mother knows that I’m unlikely to text or call her like that. I used to say to her - “Ma - I’m sorta famous in Dallas - something happens - they’ll put it in the paper and you can read about it…”

Yes - I’m not like so many. Yes - you might think I’m a dick with this stuff but I don’t bother anyone really. I respect your privacy and I ask you to respect mine.

I’ve actually had lots of people who know I’m not on the Facebook send me pictures and say - “I know you’re not on the Facebook and I thought you’d want to see these…”

Are you kidding me? You know WHY I’m not on Facebook? Well - a million great reasons including I just can’t with so much stupid - but - I don’t want to see those pictures. I don’t care. Not really. It’s WHY I’M NOT ON FACEBOOK!

So people text at me - and don’t speak with me or to me. Friends of mine use texts to comment on my writing on SubStack. Ok - fine - I guess - but - I don’t care. You like it - great. You hate it - great. There’s a comment section there that I don’t read much so if you must… do it there where I won’t read it…

Can we all take a breath and think before we fire random texts at each other?

Because whenever you reach out - you’re giving me something to do. You’re giving me something to look at - and respond to. You are giving me something to do - you are putting something on my to-do list. And - people get mad if I don’t respond and respond right away. But I don’t. I don’t have to. You put something on my to-do list without asking me? Umm - yeah - no.

Just because someone knocks on my door - that does not require me to get up out of my chair and answer the damned thing.

We’ve gotten very careless with each other, sending pictures of cheeseburgers or salads or desserts, firing messages at all hours without thinking about the intrusion. I don’t do that to you.

I grew up in a time where I wasn’t as easily reached, where people didn’t send pictures of what they were eating for dinner to me. I think about that. In 1985, had I gone to the mailbox, and opened a letter from a friend, and it had a picture of chocolate pie - I would have the thought the world had gone mad.

Have we?

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I’m Ralph…

It was May 15, 1986 when my father called and told me he would be taking me to Hazelden treatment center in Center City, Minnesota the next day. This was a lot for me to take in, since my father hadn’t spoken to me in over a calendar year. He said to his friends, he can’t watch - and he was preparing for my funeral. My Uncle Jimmy, whom I was working for at the time, was working with him behind the scenes. Uncle Jimmy, the best salesmen I ever knew, sold me on it - finally. He said “Ralphie, I’ll check you in myself, I’ll pay for it, and I’ll hold your job as a car salesman, if you still want it, when you get out.”

My dad had tried everything over the years - and I mean everything. He tried bailing me out when I messed up. He threw money at me and the problem. He talked tough. He withheld support. He kicked me out of the house multiple times. He spoke to me over the years frequently, warning me that the road I was on wasn’t going to get me where I wanted to go. He told me, over the years, he would do anything - anything, if I would just simply stop drinking. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I - couldn’t?

What’s the big deal? Everybody drinks. Everybody gets a dui, right? Everybody gets into some trouble when they drink - seriously - What is the big deal? Fuck him. Fuck all of them. I know what I’m doing…

I was so into my own head that I didn’t even think about what my parents were going through. They were devastated every day. They were in severe daily pain. It didn’t cross my mind what my friends were going through. What the people I worked for and with were going through. People who loved me, and cared about me, were in agony. And I could give a shit. I had dated some women, and all of those ended badly. I convinced myself time and again that there was nothing wrong with me. If you wanted to be with me, or around me, you’ll have to accept that I’ll drink, and use drugs. It’s your problem - not mine. I discarded friends and family like trash. And I couldn’t see it. Because, I didn’t want to see it. And to be honest, when you’re drinking daily, or almost every day, how the hell can ya?

I’ll go deep here for you, because you deserve that. I’ll tell you some horror stories from my distant past, and how they all piled up to help nudge me towatd my future.

Maybe you’re struggling. Maybe you’ve tried to stop. Maybe, you’re watching a loved one tear themselves apart with it. I’ve done that too, and I do that too, and I saw friends die when I was in my twenties. Lives wasted and blown. Almost everyone in my Hazelden unit relapsed. After only a few years after I got out, I kept getting wind of some of those guys not making it - and - dying. It was more than a couple who passed. One, I considered a very close friend. He couldn’t stop even after all that. I missed our phone calls.

When I was a young guy - a little guy - if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up - I wouldn’t have said - boy - if I could - I’d like to put my family, friends, and loved ones through absolute hell, make an unending series of bad decisions, and finally, after tearing through people I cared greatly about, and screwing up huge opportunities, I’d like to land in a treatment center when I’m 25, broke, in debt to drug dealers and bookies, and be as far away from what I wanted my life to be about as I possibly could.

Because nobody starts out that way. Nobody.

Me - my parents gave us little glasses of wine at the dinner table when we were kids, I tried it from time to time in high school, but I didn’t really start drinking in earnest until I was about 18. Then, I drank all the time. The drinking age at the time was 19 in Minnesota, and 18 in our neighboring Wisconsin. So, we’d pile in a car, drive across the border, get shit faced, and drive home. Christ…

Because - that’s what you do, right? Everyone drinks - it’s part of the culture. And the alcohol industry, looked closely at what happened to tobacco, and the removal of smoking ads from television on January 2, 1971. Say what you want about Nixon, but this was on his watch. Alcohol would muscle up, hire more lobbyists, develop strategies, and make sure that they wouldn’t go down that same road. They also made sure, speaking of roads, that drinking and driving would stay legal in all 50 states.

Wait, what? Drinking and driving is legal? You’re damned right it is. You can drink and drive in all 50 states, provided you’re not over the legal limit. How’s that going? Yes - what we do here is let people drive to bars. Let people go in and order alcohol. Then - let them figure out if they’re over the limit or not - and get in those same cars and hit the roads. It’s not going so well.

SOME QUICK FACTS ABOUT ALCOHOL

The average teenager sees about 200,000 alcohol commercials before they’re 16 years old. We, the sports industry, knowingly advertises a product to people, children, who aren’t legally of age to consume it.

Alcohol is a depressant, despite industry commercials and messages that tell you otherwise. It’s a downer… and not an upper…

Most homes have alcohol within reach of underage drinkers. Everyday in the United States, 34 people die in drunk driving crashes. Think about that. Over 12,000 a year. Then add the health costs, and health care costs. How many other bad things happen with alcohol? How many bad decisions, or worse come from too much booze? How many lost jobs, failed relationships, or lost friendships are directly connected to alcohol use? How many instances of physical and emotional abuse in the home are because of alcohol? How many assaults or date rapes on college campus include alcohol as a mitigating factor?

I used to go out on the speaker circuit, go to schools and I’d say - if broccoli had this resume - would you go near broccoli?

But you can’t tell anyone anything, can ya? I used to participate in interventions with people close to me. An intervention is when concerned others - friends and family - get together and decide to confront the person who’s drinking. These are very emotional. There’s tons of crying. Most of the time the person won’t go to treatment, or a meeting, or anything else. I had one guy I went to grade school with who went - and stayed sober for a time - but eventually relapsed. He’s still alive, but reports about him are very troubling. I had to step away. He lived a block away from me. He and I hung out constantly. We later went to meetings together. And he went back and back. He’s battled, and now it appears, he’s gone into the bottle, unlikely to return. He lives alone, in the same house he grew up in. Shades generally drawn. It’s a very sad thing and I try not to think about him too much. It’s too hard.

MY STORY - (SOME OF IT …)

In the spring of 1982, I went on a college media tour of the old Soviet Union. I met a guy named John Ridgway, and he and I drank brandy, whiskey, vodka (of course) and whatever else we could get our hands on. Ridgway worked in Hollywood at Entertainment Tonight. One night he says - hey - you ever get bored of school - come to LA, I’ll put you to work.

A month after the trip I was ready to go. It was swirling around in my head for weeks, the idea of going to LA. I wanted to be in television. I wanted to be a star. This was a shortcut to the big time, if I could hold Ridgway to his word. I could. He did. He hired me to run his video graphics freelance business. I was in!

The night I left for LA, after I had dropped out of school - again - after I had run my dad through the mill - again - I went up to his bedroom. Ralph Strangis, Sr. was tough as fuck - and especially with his namesake. And I deserved everything he said to me - even though it was quite brief.

“Dad - I gotta go - I feel like this is where I need to be now.”

He had heard so much happy horseshit from me over the years that he was done - he glanced up from the book he was reading in bed and said - “I don’t give a fuck what you do. Get out of here.”

And I left. I left with almost no money. He had helped me buy a pickup truck for school - I took it - and he sent my brother to take it back after I got to LA.

In LA, it was one bad decision after the next. Ridgway liked to drink too - and I got introduced into Hollywood’s cocaine world. The thing is - when you drink - you’re very likely to do anything anyone hands you. And I did.

I was in LA for almost two years, and barely - and I mean barely made it out alive. I slept outside after I stopped paying my rent. I traded everything I owned to my drug dealer for coke - and he let me get off the odd park bench and crash on a mattress in his basement. I remember laying there and praying - praying that someone would break in and beat me to death with the baseball bat in the corner of the room. I had lost a ton of weight. When I couldn’t get coke anymore - I’d drink a bottle a night - if I could find one.

I almost crashed Ridgway’s business. It started out so great - so fun - and then - it was all I could do to get myself home.

My dad let me come home and put me on a very short leash - and I fucked that up again. The last straw was an all-nighter before Easter Sunday. I begged, borrowed, and stole - however I could get coke - and I had a bender that weekend. My dad had helped me buy a $500 car that barely ran. I got home - he said - “pack up your shit, put it in that car, and get the fuck out of here.”

I didn’t speak to him until May 15, the following year. He wouldn’t take my calls. My mother hung as tough as she could with me - but she was dying inside too. I’m sure she was also fighting the feeling that a funeral for her first born son was likely around the corner.

UNCLE JIMMY

What I didn’t know, but probably could have worked out if I had had a fucking brain in my head, was that my dad was working very closely with his great friend Jimmy - my “Uncle Jimmy” - to get me where I needed to be. They were sneaky little fucks…

Jimmy hired me to work in one of his car dealerships as a lot boy. I did that, and did it very well. I’m a hard worker - and work is always the last thing the addict fucks up - why? Because a) it’s how we make money to buy booze and drugs and b) if we’re employed we can tell the world - “see - I’m good…”.

They worked with me to become a car salesman at the Isuzu dealership on the corner. I sold some cars - you can believe that. But I was out of control. My dealer gave me an ounce of blow to “hold on to” for him. I’m sure he knew, addicts being how we are - that I’d blow through and owe him a couple thousand dollars. He was right. In addition to that - I left the ounce in my demo, and my boss, needing a car to go lunch, took mine. I think about what if - what if he had gotten pulled over, or was in an accident - oh god. Nothing happened.

I started making more money as a salesman, and every nickel went to booze and coke. I’d stay up all night, window shades taped down, paranoid, fucked up, sniveling in the corner. To finally sleep, I’d routinely pop Excedrin PM’s - sloshed down with scotch. I’d drink until I passed out.

I was routinely late for work. Routinely careless with friends and family. I was a waif and getting thinner. I was - in a word - dying.

I remember one all-nighter and waking up and turning on the tv set and watching the space shuttle challenger take off in the morning. Loaded, fucked up, I watched her explode. I thought I was imagining it. January 28, of 1986.

I’d make bets to pay the drug dealer - I’d take loans from bookies and friends to make rent. I was making enough money - I had enough money to live on - but all of it was going to my addictions. I bullshitted customers, and the people I worked with. I’d take a girl out - and she’d like me - and I’d run like hell. I didn’t know how ill-equipped I was to be in a relationship when I was “in it.”

In April of 1986, I could feel my body caving in. I knew I couldn’t keep this up - but - I didn’t know what to do. Then, it started - on a Monday. I got to work and there was a note on my desk - “Mr. Lupient would like to see you immediately.”

Uncle Jimmy Lupient, started in on me. “What do you wanna do Ralphie?, because you’re not gonna be around much longer if you don’t figure it out. You sure as hell won’t be working here much longer.”

Still - after all of it - after all the lying and sneaking and bullshit - after all the damage I caused to so many and to me - after wishing for someone to throw me a line - you know what I said?

“Naw - I’m good Jimmy…”

“Ok…”

Then, it happened a few days later. “Mr. Lupient would like to see you immediately.” And we’d do the dance again. He’d offer to help - I’d say I’m good. Jimmy Lupient liked to have a good time. But he also knew what he was watching.

In May I went to the Ministry show at First Avenue. I did coke. I got shitfaced. I was up all night. The next day - “Mr. Lupient would like to see you immediately.”

Finally - I was done. I said - OK. Then my dad called, then he drove me to Hazelden, then I stayed in the bin for 32 days, and went to 90 meetings in 90 days when I got out - and saw an aftercare specialist regularly. I haven’t had a drink - or a line of coke since. It’ll be 40 years in May.

WHAT I GOT WHEN I GOT IN

Listen - I’m not a religious guy and wasn’t then. I didn’t have a spiritual awakening. My thoughts on treatment and all this is - people like me are addicts. We’re obsessive compulsives. We get a bone in our teeth - we’ll chew that sucker till it’s gone and then look for another. I know that about myself. Unmonitored, I’ll eat bags of sunflower seeds until my cheeks are torn up.

I got one thing in my head when I was in the bin - MY LIFE WILL NOT GET BETTER IF I DRINK OR USE DRUGS. In fact, I’ll probably die - or worse…

That - I could hang onto. And I hung onto it for dear life.

And I knew that if I directed my obsessions toward positive things - work, friends, family, my health, and eventually, primary romantic relationships - I might have a chance.

But I always reminded myself - MY LIFE WILL NOT GET BETTER IF I DRINK OR USE DRUGS.

THEN - I GOT OUT

It’s funny how the world comes back to you when you get real and want to join it. Everyone killed every fatted calf… because the prodigal son had come home. My father stood over my shoulder and helped guide me into getting my life back. I took every fucking cable tv or radio sportscasting gig I could get. I worked like a dog.

And just four years out of treatment - four years of doing the right things - I got the North Stars job. I had a great community around me. Lots of meetings and sober friends. And now - I had to hit the road with a group that drank heavily.

But I made peace with that, because if I didn’t, I would have lost that job fast. I wouldn’t have been able to survive those early years in Texas, away from my family and friends and support systems. I was - on my own again - and temptations were everywhere.

But - I carried the mantra with me - MY LIFE WILL NOT GET BETTER IF I DRINK OR USE DRUGS.

I went out and had fun with the guys sometimes. I went to bars every now and then and didn’t drink. Now, all these years later drinking - is such a foreign concept to me - at almost 65 I wonder what the hell was the draw in the first place?

HELPING OTHERS STILL STRUGGLING

In my life, since Hazelden, I’ve given hundreds of speeches to schools and other groups. And I’ve had very close friends ask me to help them.

It’s hard for me now to see someone struggling, and know that - I can’t do a whole lot. I can share my experience strength and hope, and that’s about it.

I sometimes think - well - I can talk anyone into anything - that’s what I’m great at. And - if I just care about and love them - they’ll respond. I can share my wealth of knowledge as someone who has been there - RIGHT THERE WHERE THEY ARE NOW.

But I’m reminded all the time that I can’t fix em. And it’s hard to watch. Horrible. I think about my dad and my mom, my family and my friends and all the people who loved me enough to be tough with me - careful with me - or both.

My ex-wife’s Grandmother Nell used to say - “Never try and teach a pig to sing - it wastes your time and annoys the pig…”

Yeah she’s right - but I keep trying anyway - and sometimes to the point where it’s so very hard on me too.

You see - I am living proof that there is life after alcohol - a really good life. A life with joy and wonder and bullshit and more problems than you can think of - but a life lived on life’s terms with me as a full participant. I owed that to my family and friends and coworkers.

But I really owed it to myself. I’m so proud of getting through that - surviving it - and then - going through life as a tea-totaler - HA!

It ain’t bad friends - in fact - I wouldn’t be here today and around people I love and care about - and be able to be there for them when they need me - had I not done the hardest thing.

The hardest thing to do in life - is almost always the right thing to do.

Ralph

I was in a carefree place Wednesday, bouncing around in the morning with people I care about, and I get the text from Craig’s daughter Kate - “… I wanted to let you know dad died earlier this morning…”

That’s life ain’t it? It ain’t the stuff you plan for or think you’re ready for - it’s the stuff that drops out of the sky like a thud on some random Wednesday when you’re living your life. “Coach” had been sick for a long time. We knew it was coming. But when you hear it - the finality of it hits hard.

Craig Vana was from a different time and place. A time and place that meant, when coaching basketball and demonstrating a pick and roll, he would stand behind us one at a time, and with a firm grip on our shoulders, make sure we stood correctly and pivoted out on the correct foot. I taught it the same way when I was coaching with him in my teens and early twenties. I’ll have you know that when my daughter played basketball in Coppell and I helped out - this method almost got me in real trouble.

I wasn’t a usual kid, and he knew that. He knew then, what I would later discover in my professional work that other great coaches know - you can’t treat everyone exactly the same way. I needed a coach. I needed a mentor. We all did. And Craig Vana was that guy.

In the early 1970’s in Minneapolis, Craig Vana turned around a flailing Catholic school and whole community, and I was in his - and I can say this without hesitation - best class ever.

I remember reading about Lombardi, and how all of his players stayed close and took care of each other over the years. The list of Packers from those days who went on to do big things - great things - is extremely impressive.

The St. Charles Borromeo 8th grade graduating class of 1975 features fine people, great men and women, people who went on to do big and amazing things. And the core group there still stays in touch. I had a bunch of them - Craig Vana’s guys at my HOF induction.

Craig’s daughter Kate, a McKinney, Texas resident also came. I was an altar boy at her baptism.

If you’re lucky - you get a teacher like this. We all hit the lottery with “Coach.”

Let me tell you more about a guy nobody will write so much about - but a guy who deserves to be written about at length.

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Today a departure from my usual fare of hockey, football, and general observations of the world, to bring you thoughts on the Netflix series “Alice in Borderland”, a Sci-Fi thriller produced in Japan.

If you read or know me even a little, you’ll understand that ordinary streaming fare won’t get my attention. You can have your formulaic, US produced, hard to tell one show from the next, garden variety dramas with familiar stars and the usual trappings.

My friends have stopped suggesting shows to me. They know I’m not gonna bite on whatever version of the same thing some Hollywood big dawg producer rolls out.

Some are good - some are quite good - but most are unimaginative and predictable. Most don’t require much of me. Most - I can check my brain after pushing play.

But this one is different. This one - you have to watch and pay attention. Starting with reading subtitles. I can’t watch something dubbed - it’s silly and accurate translations never quite get across. It’s work of course to read subtitles while watching a show, but it’s work I’m here for. Also, opening myself up to foreign catalogs gives me way more programming options and aren’t we all looking for that?

And while Netflix and other streaming services have helped kill my book-reading muscles - it’s ok and I don’t feel bad about that. I still read - just not books - not so much. Storytelling has evolved over millennia, from cave drawings, to the spoken tellings, to print and books, to now the large and small screen. I celebrate this and don’t bemoan it.

And with “Alice” - the storytelling is big, bold, and epic, leaning into Japanese anime themes and visuals. It’s colorful and grand, imaginative and full of wonder. The pacing is fast and tense, and storylines are thoughtful. Characters discover things about themselves, about the world, about humanity and the lack of it, as they play life-and-death games in a parallel Tokyo.

No - “Alice” isn’t for everyone - but if you’re tired of the usual fare - and maybe tried and liked “Squid Games” - come with me.

But don’t say I didn’t warn you…

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Life is this constant game of whack-a-mole, and that never changes. You can trust me on this - I’m almost 65 and this doesn’t change. You think to yourself - you think - well one day I’ll get to a spot where I don’t have to worry about this thing or that and I’ll have life sort of figured out. It won’t be so hard. It won’t rear up and bite me all the time. I’ll see so many curveballs I’ll get great at hitting them. But I gotta tell ya the world keeps wanting it’s piece of me. The world will not slow down even for those of us with a little more time than most. The world doesn’t like pushers - and I’m a pusher. I don’t wait for my life to happen. “Someday I’ll do this…” - that ain’t me. Someday - is a bloody pipe dream. Someday - may never happen. Today I got. Today I’ll live. I see friends gone in 2025. Too soon. I wonder if they were waiting for someday. Whenever one goes I refocus. There is no someday. Life is right in front of my face and I gotta live it now.

And so every New Year I do this whole inventory on myself and my circumstances. I start in early December and keep notes through the month.

Where have I been? Where do I want to go? What do I want to do? I’m past an employable age for the things I got really good at. Yeah - I’m not interested in getting back into a booth - but that’s good - know why? Nobody is ever gonna hire me again to do it. And they shouldn’t. But I’m still a young man. I think so anyway. My great aunt Hedvig used to say - when I’d ask how old she was - “Oh Ralphie - don’t you know the calendar is such a poor way to judge age?” I love that. I can still do things. I still have juice.

And I got it pretty good. I live a simple life now. I don’t have the same economic issues as most, but I’m not out of the woods by any means. I gotta work and plan like everyone else. I look ahead to my future because my future isn’t yet written. I plan like everyone else. I make choices. I decide what kind of life I can and want to live and I do that.

And - every year around this time - I decide - What do I want to do in the coming year? What changes do I want to make with myself and the things I can control? How do I get to the end of 2026 and NOT SAY - 2027 is gonna be my year!

What I’m good at - is planning. What I’m good at - is setting a course and doing it. I do. I execute. I drive people nuts because I’m not willing to wait - wait for the world to come to me. Wait for things to just work themselves out.

That’s not how it goes. Not for me. Nothing gets done you don’t push. Etch that on my urn when I’m gone. Put it on your fridge on a magnet or something. Read it every day because nothing is truer than this. Read Shaw on the unreasonable man. The world is how it is because we make it so.

You want to make big changes? Or little ones? Come with me. Because the world isn’t that interested in you doing much. Be patient they tell you. Slow down. Trust that others have your best interests in mind. Wait - don’t push.

For what?

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