Coach of the Century

I love this story; stop me if you've heard it already.

I've found my new favorite basketball coach. His name is Jim Johnson, and he coaches high school hoops in a little town outside of Rochester, N.Y., called Greece. The school's name is Athena.

For their last home game, against a somewhat overmatched opponent, Johnson let student manager Jason McElwain dress and sit on the bench in uniform. I was a student manager; I would've probably given my right nut for the chance to do that.

With 4:30 to go and his team way up -- they eventually won, 79-43 -- Johnson put McElwain into the game. The fans go nuts, chanting "J-Mac! J-Mac!" It probably could have been interpreted as teasing. This was, after all, the 5-foot-6 student manager.

He gets the ball and throws up an air ball on his first shot. Then he missed a layup. So much for the nice ending; sit down and grab your clipboard, kid.

Not exactly.

Over the next four minutes, the kid hits 7 of 11 shots, including 6-of-10 from behind the 3-point line. The manager scored 20 points in four minutes, and set a school record for most 3-pointers in a game. I would have given both my nuts and a few of my toes to do something like that.

The manager scored 20 points in the only four minutes of high school ball he'll ever play.

Oh, by the way: The kid is autistic.

"I've had a lot of thrills in coaching and I've coached a lot of wonderful kids, but I've never experienced something like this ever in my life, you know other than my own personal family things," Johnson told WROC-TV. "My emotions, I couldn't stop crying."

I love this story. I hope this was the breakthrough moment for this kid; experts claim that high-functioning autistics can have experiences that actually help unshackle them from disease.

"This is the first moment Jason has ever succeeded and was proud of himself," Debbie McElwain, Jason's mother, told WROC. "I look at autism as the Berlin Wall; he cracked it."

For his sake, may that be the case -- and may he keep finding hammers to chip away at that wall.

Yep, definitely on a fast train headed way South

(somewhat continued from previous post)

Kids received money in the mail today for Valentine's Day from various relatives. Have no idea when the hell that tradition started; all I know is that it started about 25 years too late.

Anyway, each kid netted about $9 or so. We took them to Wal-Mart so each could buy $9 worth of toys.

The Old Daughter looked, and looked, and then found what she wanted:

Chips.

Yep, poker chips.

I got The Look again.

Instead of the bedtime story, The Boy and the Old Daughter opted for a few hands with me. Says The Boy, with an evil not-yet-7 smile: "Bluffing is fun. I like bluffing."

God help us all. God help me when The Wife delivers my well-deserved beating for my bad influence.

I suspect I'm going to Hell for this

Grandpa Mike was teaching the kids to play five-card draw. They were using K'Nex (think Tinkertoys of 2006) as chips. They were enjoying that, and then I came home. I said, "Let's learn a new game."

"Cool," said The Old Daughter, 11. "What's it called?"

"It's called Texas Hold 'Em." I dealt the pocket cards, explained terms and the betting, and set down the flop. The Wife rolled her eyes. The Boy, not quite 7, said, "Hey, this looks fun."

The Boy bluffed his way to win two consecutive hands, one of them after he stared down his sister, who folded to his pair of 4s. Grandpa Mike won a few hands, I held out until the river for a flush to win one, and then it was dinnertime.

Didn't think much more of it until a few days later, when we were driving to Lowe's or Home Depot or Chili's or somewhere suburban in the minivan. The Wife said, "It's awful quiet back there; wonder what's going on?"

The silence continues for a few seconds. Then, the Old Daughter's voice: "Now, here's the flop ... "

Yeah, I got The Look. You know, the look one's wife gives you after it becomes completely evident that you've corrupted the children in some fashion; the look I get when The Boy knows the words to "Bohemian Rhapsody." I'm pretty sure I deserved The Look. I'm not going to worry about it, at least not until my two older kids show up to the table in sunglasses.

Best of ...

Digging through the back issues, I found this from Aug. 29, 2002. No particular relevance to anything, other than a reminder that if you must wage war, there are plenty of things against which war should be waged. Here's one of them.

"There is never a shortage of bullshit"
Thus declared The Wife a couple of days ago. She noted that while we suffer deficits of many necessary things, there seems to be a perpetual bullshit surplus.

This is reality. Some people deal with it by meditating, or smoking weed, or lighting incense, or getting an occasional massage and spa treatment.

The Wife, right-leaning person that she is, has declared war.

"I am declaring war," she said, "on bullshit."

Now there's a war I can get behind.

This is a noble cause. Instead of obsessing and bitching and moaning and freaking out over things over which we have no control, now would be a good time to simply choose to not worry about them. Many things are just not going to get any better. That's OK, 'cause they're really pretty good. Let's say I take that excess energy freed up by ceasing to acknowledge bullshit and devote it to things that really matter, and who knows? Maybe I'll take less aspirin.

I know I won't be able to dodge the opponent every day, but it'll at least know I'm there.

The War on Bullshit is on. All are invited to join the effort.

We're still accepting volunteers.

You heard it here first

Steelers 24, Seahawks 20.

State of our Union: Fashion-challenged

So, Cindy Sheehan was arrested at the State of the Union shindig, and all I can think is, "Dear God, she wore a t-shirt to the Capitol?"