Supersonic

I have always been fascinated by things that fly.  Since I was a boy I have gazed in wonder at airplanes streaking across the sky, jumbo jets taking off and seemingly standing still in the air - and I will never forget my first air show.  Any time I think of an air show I can smell kerosene, hear the whine of the turbofans winding up, and my favorite part - the thunderous, ground-shaking roar of the afterburners that threatens to rattle the fillings from my teeth and I absolutely love it!
Before Chuck Yeager became the first human being to fly faster than the speed of sound there were varying theories about what would happen to the air craft and the pilot the instant the sound barrier was broken.  Some experts believed that it could cause the airframe to break apart and kill the pilot.  Others said it didn't matter because they were skeptical that it was even possible to achieve the speed of sound.  You see, when an object moves through the air it pushes it out of the way, much the same way a boat does water.  If you could see the air around an airplane it would look similar to the triangular wake of a boat.  When a certain speed is approached the waves begin to bend around the aircraft and can no longer get out of the way of each other - they pile up like an accordian and make an invisible wall.  Early airplanes couldn't get through this 'barrier' which kept them from going any faster - all of this took place near the speed of sound.  The quest for supersonic flight led to the design of more powerful engines and sleeker, more aerodynamic airplanes and required brave men to fly them.
The Bell X-1 (which we saw at the National Air and Space Museum but I forgot to photograph) was designed specifically for this purpose and she was given the name 'Glamorous Glennis' -  named after Yeager's wife.  It was basically a rocket motor with wings and a seat and she was built for one thing - speed. Yeager said he had to be a contortionist to get inside the cockpit - which he somehow did the day of the historic flight despite 2 broken ribs  - the result of being thrown from a horse.  He didn't tell the Army doctors about the injury for fear they wouldn't let him fly the mission.  That is the reason for the broken broom handle handed to Yeager in the video below - so he could secure the hatch with his good arm.  Test pilots have always been the ''best of the best" and to me about 2 parts very brave and 1 part pure crazy.  Rather than try to explain his experience, I have included footage here from the movie The Right Stuff - part of which is about Yeager's first supersonic flight.  My understanding is that it is slightly embellished (it's a Hollywood movie...) but I think it tells the story pretty well and it gives me goose bumps no matter how many times I watch it.  Sorry, it is kind of long, but if you have the time, worth watching...

What does this have to do with anything?  For some people, maybe nothing.  For me, it is a metaphor for the last several months.
Sometimes we reach a threshold after enduring many attempts at something or just plain enduring something for a long time - where like Chuck Yeager in his X-1 we are being 'buffeted', or we get 'wobbly' and 'rattled', or things have been 'hectic' and we just aren't sure if we can make it through - and even if we do make it through, there is still the uncertainty of what is waiting for us beyond.  The reward for hanging in there when at last you punch through a seemingly unbreakable (or unbearable) boundary into the unknown can be to discover that you are still accelerating and climbing and you feel like laughing.
That's what I love about Yeager's story.  There were many attempts at the sound barrier - with many set backs - even some serious ones. What is inspiring about it is that he never quit trying. 

This is one of my favorite poems - to me it is a masterpeice that captures the joy of flying - and other things.  The first time I ever heard it was when President Ronald Reagan quoted it after the space shuttle Challenger exploded in 1986.  It was written by John Gillespie Magee Jr, who was a pilot during WWII and tragically (and ironically) died in an airplane crash at the young age of 19.  I share it here in its entirety.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

— John Gillespie Magee, Jr

For about 3 hours Thursday night I 'slipped the surly bonds of Earth' and I did 'dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings' - and it was the best 3 hours I've had for a very long time.  I understand a little better now what Mr. Yeager felt as he passed that threshold after a long period of trial and perseverance to the exhilaration and satin sensation of going supersonic.

Bummer of a Birthmark

I take the time to mention this here because as I look back at it was something that changed my perspective on life and I have never really recorded what happened. I forget I have an 8 inch scar in the center of my chest until I get stares at the pool - and because I have no chest hair it still stands out pretty good. I also think that my siblings never got the full story. I am the second oldest of seven kids so all of my younger siblings were pretty young when it happened and weren't allowed (I don't recall why) to come see me in the hospital for the week that I was there. So, for their sake, and anyone else interested, here is what happened.

When I was a junior in high school I was diagnosed with a heart problem that required open-heart surgery to correct. For a couple of years leading up to that point I would occasionally have episodes where my heart rate would accelerate to the point where I would have 'brown-outs' - I never completely lost consciousness during any of these episodes but I would have to lay down to keep from blacking out until my heart would slow down on it's own. I found out later, when my arrhythmia was recreated in the hospital, that my heart was beating at 280 beats per minute - so fast that it was essentially not pumping any blood. One episode, after basketball practice when I was a sophomore, lasted for about an hour. My mom came home to me laying on the kitchen floor. When she asked me what I was doing I just said I was relaxing after a long b-ball practice. I didn't think anything serious was wrong. I was 16 years old and in very good physical condition - I though it was heat stroke. Well, I had one nasty episode during soccer practice and luckily Hans was there, as he had been helping coach the team, and he was worried. I tried to dismiss it but he, and the other coaches insisted that I get it checked out so I did. I went to Alta View hospital and had an EKG which showed an irregular heartbeat. The diagnosis was Wolf-Parkinson-White Syndrome. WPW is an irregularity in the Atrio-Ventricular node which creates extra electrical pathways between the upper and lower chambers of the heart and can cause irregular heartbeats. The prognosis? I was going to most likely need surgery and I was forbidden to do anything strenuous until then because apparently WPW can, in some instances, cause cardiac arrest. I was not happy about the diagnosis or the fact that, for the first time in 10 years, I would not be able to play soccer. The first time I met with the medical team at the U they told me I had basically 4 optionss: 1) take medication religiously for the rest of my life with only a small chance of regualting the problem, 2) attempt catheter ablation which may or may not work , 3) get a pacemaker which was no guarantee and 4) full on open heart surgery which was pretty much guaranteed to work -but unforutnately would be the most painful and risky.  It was decided that we would try the ablation and then, if that didn't work, the surgery.  I wanted no part of the other two options.  I will admit that I felt a little sorry for myself and was mad at the whole situation. I was a pretty good kid and had always treated my body well. I had tasted beer once and was completely repulsed by it. The only thing I ever smoked was the home made toilet paper cigarettes that the older kids sold to us at scout camp - I know that must sound like the stupidest thing in the world but we did it - once. Once was enough - my smoking career was over pretty much before it started. So for a while I was a little bit of a martyr. I was mad at the world and slacked off in school, failed math (which was taught by Mr. Cottle, my soccer coach!) and my attitude about life became pretty sour. I was required to wear a medical alert bracelet in the event that I collapsed somewhere, the EMT's would know why. I would go and watch our soccer games in the stands and I hated not being out there. Soccer had been so much a part of everything I did for ten years that it really left a big hole. It was decided that we would wait until school was out before having the surgery. I watched our team make it to the State Tournament only to lose early on.

As the day of the surgery approached I became increasingly anxious about it. I think I played the part of nonchalant, care free teenager pretty well but deep down inside I was terrified. I had gone with my parents to meet with the surgeons to get the rundown.   Dr. Karwandi (I will never forget his name) was (and I believe still is) a world renowned heart surgeon and just a very nice person.  I instantly liked him.  I think even Max Hall would like him!  It was Dr. K that really explained the nature of WPW and why it was causing me problems.  He had a great sense of humor and explained that it was just bad luck to be born with this condition.  He drew my attention to this Far Side cartoon:

 

My mom and dad bought me a T-shirt with this on it and it became a favorite.
The night before I was admitted to the hospital my dad surprised me by inviting several of my friends from school and the ward to our house so he could give me a blessing. I was overwhelmed by their presence and I think it was the first time any of them ever saw me shed tears. I can only remember a few things he said to me (I see now why journals are a good thing) but I can vividly recall how I felt. It was the first time in my life I had felt the power of the Priesthood of God wash over me. I do remember that he blessed me that, if the catheterization failed and the surgery was necessary, that it would go well and that I would recover quickly and fully and that I would not have this problem again. When the blessing concluded I was no longer afraid. The fear was replaced by a quiet assurance that all would be well - that even though it would be a difficult thing - I would be alright.
The first day in the hospital was full of tests - checking to make sure I was OK to proceed with the procedures. The nurses were wonderful. I'll always have a soft spot for nurses - they were, without exception, kind and reassuring. I don't know how they do what they do day after day and still act so pleasant. It is remarkable to me. That is why when I met an old friend at my reunion this summer and we discussed nursing (she is a nurse), I may have gushed a little on the subject.

Part of the preparation for the catheter ablation was to put in a Foley Catheter.  If you don't know what a Foley Catheter is then consider yourself lucky. When the nurse showed up with it I wanted to know what her intentions were. I don't remember how the conversation went but it was something like this:

Me: What is THAT? (It looked like a ball point pen with a long tube attached to it).
Nurse: It's a Foley catheter.
Me: And what, pray tell, is it's purpose?
Nurse: It will drain your bladder during the procedure so that, while you are sedated, you don't have to pee.
Me: Oh. And where does it go? (as she was lifting up my hospital gown)
Nurse: It goes in your bladder (dummy)
Me: And how does it get in there?
Nurse: Just take a deep breath....
When it was over I and I looked at the blood on her gloves I thought I was ruined forever. When they were prepping me, 4 days later, for the open-heart procedure I made sure to request that they put the catheter in after I was under...

If my recollection is correct, the next day, I walked into the catheterization room under my own power.  That goes against normal hospital procedures but for some reason I remember walking in there.  I can recall a large stainless steel table that was actually an x-ray machine. Above it were several TV monitors. I would lay on the table, receive a heavy sedative, and watch the monitors. Incisions were made in my groin and neck where small catheters were inserted. The natural blood flow would carry them back to my heart. Apparently I was lucid for most of the procedure and distinctly recall the doctors reproducing my irregular rhythm (which was when they clocked it at 280 beats per minute) several times. I can also remember looking up at the image of my heart on the monitor above me. I could see all 4 chambers with what looked like little tadpoles swimming in them. I was also apparently talking most of the time. I think I told them my entire life story. Because of this, they were able to continue for such a long time. I was on that table for close to 11 hours (I was told at the time that was a record for this procedure). They would periodically update me on what they were doing and ask if I felt OK to continue. When it was over, I was exhausted - they told me that my heart had just done the equivalent of running a marathon. That, coupled with the fact that I had been literally strapped to the table for so long, made it so that I could not move my arms or legs - they were too stiff. That was why when they told me it didn't work that I was so disappointed. I broke down and sobbed. Apparently the problem was not in the location they had originally anticipated and, despite their best efforts, they could not reach it with the catheters. I had pinned a lot of hope on that the procedure would work and that I wouldn't need to go 'under the knife' but it just didn't work out that way. Sometimes life sucks - what do you do? The poor petite nurses needed to move me from the gurney to my hospital bed but I couldn't help them - and I was just too big for them. That's when this huge male nurse (and by that I mean body-builder huge) came in, picked me up like a rag doll and moved me to my bed. He looked like Lou Ferrigno (the guy who played the original incredible hulk). My opinion of male nurses was changed forever.
The catheterization was so taxing on my body that they gave me 2 full days to recover from it before proceeding with the surgery.
The dreaded day of the surgery came and I remember very little but here is what I can recall.  They got me doped up on Valium in the pre-op room and proceeded to shave me COMPLETELY from the neck down.  It didn't take very long because I am not a hairy person.  I remember feeling that I should be embarrassed that a woman (other than my mother) was looking at me completely naked for the first time in my life but I wasn't.  I think I even laughed out loud - I understand why some people get hooked on drugs - Valium is good stuff.
I sobered up a little when I was wheeled into the OR and saw the operating table and the 'instruments' they were going to use on me.  Once I was on the table the anaesthesiologist put a mask over my face, lied to me by telling me he was giving me pure oxygen, and told me to take a deep breath.  It was the last thing I remembered until I woke up after the surgery.
I was warned before hand that coming out of the anaesthesia can be unpleasant and that the worst part is the breathing tube.  I was given instructions not to panic and try to take the tube out myself.  It is very uncomfortable and some patients actually tear their own tubes out before they are awake enough to breathe on their own.  I got the message.  When I came out of it I felt hot and bloated, was in a lot of pain and I HATED the breathing tube because it makes it so you can't speak.  Once I was sufficiently lucid they came and told me the doc was on his way to take it out.  It seemed like forever.  They had given me a pencil and paper to write on so I wouldn't have to try and speak.  The only thing I wrote was "tell the doc to hurry".  I think my mom still has that paper with my scribbled words on it.  I can remember seeing the worried look on my mom's face and my first thought was: "Shit, something went wrong" but then I realized I was still alive and when she saw me looking at her she came over and told me that everything went perfectly - just like my dad said it would.
The night in the ICU was a long and very painful one.  They came in in the middle of the night and actually made me stand up which was difficult because I couldn't move my arms and I had what seemed like 20 different tubes and wires sticking out of me.  But I was able to stand and when I laid back down immediately hit the button for the morphine drip.  Morphine is also good stuff.  I've never felt that sensation before or since - where you are in a lot of pain, you hit a button, and you are instantly warm and the pain is gone.  Powerful stuff - another reason I have never messed with drugs but why I understand how some people can get addicted.
The next couple of days were a blur.  I was pretty hopped up on pain killers and very groggy.  I do remember lots of people with clip boards coming in and out (University Hospital is a teaching hospital).  I also remember being used as a guinea pig to train new nurses on how to put IV's in.  One poor girl was so bad at it she used every vein in both arms before she got it right.  She felt badly but what did I care - I really couldn't feel it - and she was pretty cute.
The other annoying thing was the chest drainage tube.  The gross thing about it was that occasionally I could actually hear the suction in my own chest - it was weird.  The worst part about the tube was getting it out.  One of the ladies from the surgical team came in and took it out.  She cut the suture holding it in place, put her big hand on my chest and told me to take a big breath and then yanked it out.  I swear there was 3 feet of tube in there.  She just kept pulling and pulling until it popped out.  It was really painful but after that I felt like I was really making progress.  The nurses would come in and get me up several times per day and make me walk around the 4th floor.  They were, without fail, kind and patient.  Because of my physical condition before surgery I was able to recover pretty quickly to the point where I could go home.  On the 4th day after the open-heart procedure, I was released from the hospital.  It was a happy day.  I spent a total of 8 days there and while I appreciate everything that was done for me by the staff - I don't ever want to be a patient in a hospital again.  I don't like going to hospitals even now.  I don't have a phobia - I just don't like them.
When I got home I had to do a lot of things differently.  The most annoying thing for me was I had to have help bathing and dressing myself because I couldn't raise my arms above my head and I wasn't supposed to get my incision wet.  I would lay in the half-full bath tub with a towel covering my goodies and my mom would come in and help me.  To get dressed I would lean forward and put my arms out like superman so she could slip my shirt on.  Fortunately it was early summer so most of the time I just went shirtless.  Two things happened at this point that stand out in my mind.  The first day or two that I was home I got nauseous - probably form the Percocet - and I threw up.  That is the single worst physical pain I have ever felt in my life.  Throwing up with your sternum in two pieces hurts and I don't recommend it.  I think I slept for 16 hours after that happened.  The other thing is that I started to develop pain in my lower abdomen - near where your appendix is but it only happened when I laid flat on my back (which was the only way I cold lay down).  So for a couple of nights I slept upstairs sitting up in my sister's bed (my room was downstairs at the time and it was hard to get up and down the stairs).  When the pain didn't subside I began to worry that my appendix was going to need to come out and I dreaded the possibility of more surgery.  We went back up to the hospital where it was determined that I did not have appendicitis and that their best guess was that sometimes interconnected nerve groups can be affected far from where things hurt and that it would probably just go away on its own - which it did.
Once I could sleep normally at night I began to get better pretty rapidly.  I was given exercises to do and a thing I called the 'breathalyzer' which had a ball in a tube that I was required to alternately blow and suck on so many times per day to keep my lungs clear - both of which I did faithfully. 
My friends had had a Lake Powell trip planned for that summer and I desperately wanted to go.  My parents weren't excited about letting me do it but they did.  Those trips to Lake Powell with Brady, Kirk, Jon, the Brandons (Walsh and Lingwall) were so much fun.  Walsh's mom and step-dad Johnny had a house boat and we had the best time down there.  I wasn't supposed to but I went water skiing - just 5 or 6 weeks after having heart surgery.  I also wasn't supposed to get my scar sunburned but I did.
Though I recovered quickly and completely I changed.  I lost my sense of invincibility - especially on the soccer field.  I found my self protecting my chest a lot more than I normally would have - which is silly considering that my sternum was now permanently steel-reinforced.  My temperament become more subdued and, if anything, I became a little more shy.  I can't explain it.  I have over the years contemplated the whole ordeal and searched for the reasoning behind it.
This is what I have come up with so far:  we live in a fallen world where crappy things are the norm.  Part of it I think is just that - bad things can happen to us when we don't deserve them.  It's life.  On the other hand, because this life is so important in an eternal perspective, and we only get one shot at it, I can't help but think that some of these things are specifically designed for us.  What did I get from my surgical experience?  Greater appreciation for life, health, family and friends.  Greater compassion for human suffering and a vivid understanding of human frailty.  These lessons didn't come all at once - I'm still learning them but occasionally something will happen in my life that causes me to reflect back on that period of my life - and on the surgery itself and realize that our time here is limited and there is nothing we can do about it when it's 'our time' to go.  I also learned, though I did feel sorry for myself at first, that someone always has it worse and that remembering that can save a lot of useless worry and fuss and that we can be happy, if we choose to be, no matter what happens to us.  The most important thing I learned is that God in Heaven is real, that he hears and answers prayers, and that His Priesthood is on the earth in all its power and authority.
I hope that these last two posts haven't been too indulgent or self-glorifying but I think they are a big part of my story and wanted to put them out there for anyone interested in them.
Thanks for reading it!

My love affair with the Beautiful Game

It is hard to believe but the blog has reached 1,000 page views now.  Thank you to everyone who has shown interest in my story.  I honestly never thought I would post more than the very first one about my trip to DC with Haley.  Then I thought that once I had told the story of my divorce that I wouldn't have anything else to say.  Well, it has turned into a great outlet for me and also a way to let my family and friends get to know me better - and along the way I have rediscovered my love for writing.  Last week I went with my brother, his son and a friend from my ward to the RSL game.  It was a great game and reminded me of why I love the sport of soccer - which is sometimes referred to as 'The Beautiful Game'.
Another reason for continuing the blog is that it has kind of become the beginnings of a personal history.  It is always better to write about things while you can still remember them!  I am going to start copying these things to another file so that, after the blog has served its purpose, I will be able to keep going and won't have to start over.

Understanding One Another

April's grandmother, Lucille Cannon, remains one of my favorite people - even though she has been gone for several years now.  She was such an interesting person.  Grandma Cannon was a fairly renowned water color artist and spent some time (if I'm not mistaken) as president of the Utah Water Color Society.  The most intriguing part of her story, to me, is that she didn't really start painting until she was a senior citizen.  She went back to school at the U while in her early 60's and earned a BA in fine arts - and she did it backwards.  She convinced the school counselor to let her take the classes in reverse order - from the hardest to the easiest.  I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation!  Grandma Cannon was one of the most Christ-like people I have ever met.  I felt like one of her grand children from the beginning even though she hardly knew me.  That was the thing about her - she could make you feel like you were the only person on earth when you were talking with her.  She listened to and heard every word you said and always had relevant questions to ask about the subject of the conversation.  I loved her for that.  One of the most enjoyable experiences I had was sitting next to her on a flight when the whole Long family went to Hawaii 14 years ago.
Grandma Cannon could talk about everything - from sports to art to making castings.  I don't know how we got onto the subject but we started talking about Pablo Picasso.  I made some remark about how crazy I thought he was and that I didn't really get his art.  Well let me tell you of the education I received during what has to be the shortest 5 hours of my life!  She told me how at a very young age little Pablo could very quickly draw precise likenesses of people and animals and that he was so good he got bored with drawing normal stuff.  His IQ was in the genius range.  He had to find more complex and 'interesting' ways to express himself.  That is how he sort of invented his own style - the depth of which takes time to appreciate.  Grandma Cannon taught me two things on that trip: 1) sometimes the best way to learn is to keep your eyes and your ears open and your mouth shut.  2)  If you want people to understand you then you have to be willing to let them in.  If April ever reads this she will probably say "well then what happened to you?".  It is true that I stopped communicating with her on some levels.  In my defense I will only say this - you can only have your opinions and feelings scrutinized and rejected so many times before you no longer want to go through what for me was the painful process of always having to justify everything I said and thought.  At times it felt like she was never impressed with anything I ever did.  Maybe I'm not that impressive, I don't know.  But once upon a time I was a pretty good soccer player.  Maybe it's just that the older I get the better I was...

The Early Years

I first started playing organized soccer when I was 7.  I had played baseball for a couple of years but was not very good at it.  I think the last year I played I only got one hit the whole season.  My parents could tell I wasn't enthusiastic about our national past time and to their credit never pressured me to keep playing.  That is why when my best friend, Steve Smith, introduced me to soccer and got me to sign up I fell instantly in love with the most popular sport in the world.  For me and soccer it really was love at first sight.  Instead of sitting and watching for half of the game I could run the whole time!  From the beginning I showed aptitude at the game.  I was smaller, but also faster than, most of the other kids and I loved to chase the ball.   I can still remember the blue, reversible, mesh jerseys with the vinyl numbers that would stick to my back as I got sweaty.  I have tried to find some of my old soccer photos but have not been able to.  My mom probably has them stashed away somewhere.
For a quiet, shy and reserved kid the soccer field was a great refuge.   In some ways I became a different person out on 'the pitch'.  I was aggressive and loved to win.  I never hurt anyone intentionally - when I was little.  As I got older and began playing defense there was a certain element of intimidation that accompanied being the 'last line of defense' but for the most part, as a young boy, I just loved to play.  In my second season I scored a lot of goals which prompted my dad to lower the $5 per goal reward to 1 dollar - which did not deter me one bit - it actually made me want it more.  As I got older I spent increasingly more time with a soccer ball between my feet.  I have sometimes wondered if I had OCD as I would often sit on the couch, watch TV, and juggle my soccer ball with my feet.  For you non-soccer types juggling involves kicking the ball from foot to foot without letting it touch the ground.  It is a great way to develop a feel for how the different surfaces of your feet react with the ball.

The Teenage Years

As time progressed I spent more and more time playing the game itself.  I would juggle for hours in the back yard.  I would kick the ball against the back wall of our garage in the back yard until my parents would say "enough!  It sounds like your trying to kick a hole in the wall'.  Funny thing is I kind of was.  I would kick the ball against that wall as hard and as low to the ground as I could and then try to recover fast enough to stop it as it came back at me.  That was how I developed the power in my shot and my ball handling skills.  I ruined the soffet above that back wall but my dad never really got that mad at me for it.  I think he felt that there were worse things I could be doing and that if I stayed away from drugs, alcohol, and girls then it was a small price to pay.  I also had one of those little net thingies with an elastic tether that you could stake to the ground.  I would spend hours kicking the ball trying to break that tether - until I finally did.  Had to go knock on the neighbor's door to ask for my ball back.  In my early teen years I was introduced to the world of competition soccer.  The difference with competition teams is that you had to try out, you practiced more, and the other kids were better - and almost always for me - bigger.  Bigger but not faster.  Somewhere along the way I developed very good foot speed, which for some reason got me moved from offense to defense.  I was frustrated at first because I loved to score goals.  I would have been unhappy with the move were it not for the best soccer coach I have ever known - Hans Knubel (the correct pronunciation is, actually, Kuh-nuble).  Hans explained to me that some of the best players in the world were defenders and the reason was they had to have all of the same skills as the other players but that it took a special kind of smarts to play defense.  He also reassured me that I would still get opportunities to score goals - and he was right about that part.  Maybe I'm just a sucker but I swallowed it hook line and sinker and played defense for the rest of my soccer career.  This photo was taken earlier this year at an RSL game.  Hans was there celebrating 70th birthday.  He looks pretty good for 70, don't you think?

Hans, Inga, and me (about 20 lbs ago).

The Knubel's have season tickets so whenever I go to a game I always try to stop by and say hello.  Hans Knubel was a great coach and mentor and his accent made him sound legit!  He was very patient with us.  He had that gift of relating to younger people but was still able to get your attention and communicate important information.  He had this saying where he would call us 'Pre-Maradonnas' - a sublte play on words that combined Prima Donna and the name of the legendary diminutive Argentine striker Diego Maradonna.  If he called you a Pre-Maradonna, you knew he wasn't happy with whatever stunt you had just pulled which usually involved getting away from the basics skills he was tring to teach you.  I learned so much about the game, and life, from him and he, really more than anyone else, helped me to develop my skills.  He is the one responsible for teaching me the shot that his son, Stephan (our goal keeper and a great friend) hated so much.  One of the great things about Hans was that not only could he tell us what to do, he would demonstrate it.  The first time I saw him kick one of those low, knuckle-ballish, laserbeam shots I was envious.  He taught us how to do it then left it up to us to work on it - and work on it i did!  I loved the feeling of striking the ball that hard and watching it glide, with no rotation (like a knuckle ball in baseball) into the back of the net.  That and the pursuit. I loved having the ball go 'over the top' at midfield when the fastest player on the other team would take off running after it. (This, by the way, is the most over-used and inefficient play in American soccer - also known as the long ball - and it pains me to see MLS teams, and the national team, still try to use it so much, but I digress). Anyway, while I loved the pursuit, my favorite part was catching up to him, taking the ball while upending him and then seeing the 'where-the-crap-did-you-come-from' look on his face.  The funny thing is that I hated to run for any other reason.  I hated jogging, wind sprints or any other exercise related form of running.  But kick a ball and pit me against another kid chasing it and I loved it.  I loved to be the spoiler and I became a slide tackle artist.  Brandon Lingwall was also every bit as good, if not better at it, than I was.  Some seasons I would slide tackle so much that I would get a nasty raspberry on my left butt cheek and would have to wear a bandage the entire season.  I also would have to sleep on my right side because it was too painful to lay on my sore spot.  I also had the dubious record of 14 yellow cards in one season but, somehow, that never deterred me from sliding.  We had so much fun playing together - Brandon, Stephan and I.  Brandon and I became the enforcers.  We had some smaller kids on our team who occasionally would get bullied by the bigger kids on the other team.  If one of our smaller buddies got hurt Brandon and I would make eye contact and we knew it was on.  It was sometimes a silent competition to see who would be the first to hand out the retribution.  We never really hurt anyone (badly) but we were pretty good at sending the message to the other team. - leave the little kids alone.  If you want to play rough - bring it over here.  Playing with Brandon and Stephan are some of my fondest childhood memories.  In ninth grade I tried out for the high school team and actually made the team but I chose not to play.  Part of it was that I wanted to stay on my comp team to play with my friends and part of it, if I'm honest, was that I didn't have the confidence to do it.  Looking back that seems kind of silly to me because I tried out again the next year and made the varsity team as a sophomore and started every game - duh.

The Beautiful Game

There are many reasons why soccer is the most popular sport in the world. One is that it can be played just about anywhere.  All you need is an open field (or a street), something with which to mark the goals and something round to kick.  In some of the poorer countries around the world an old stuffed sock or shirt becomes the ball.  Another reason is that it resonates with so many different people across many social, economic and political backgrounds.  I once read an interesting article in National Geographic about soccer.  It was fascinating and one of the most eye-opening articles I have ever read about any sport.  In fact, it's here if you are inclined to read it:

http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2006/06/soccer/soccer-text

Here is one of the best parts - which puts it way better than I can:

Brazil
Ballet With the Ball: A Love Story
By John Lanchester
Why do we fall in love with soccer? What happens? At some deep level the reason soccer snags us is that good soccer is beautiful, and it's difficult, and the two are related. A team kicking the ball to each other, passing into empty space that is suddenly filled by a player who wasn't there two seconds ago and who is running at full pelt and who without looking or breaking stride knocks the ball back to a third player who he surely can't have seen, who, also at full pelt and without breaking stride, then passes the ball, at say 60 miles an hour, to land on the head of a fourth player who has run 75 yards to get there and who, again all in stride, jumps and heads the ball with, once you realize how hard this is, unbelievable power and accuracy toward a corner of the goal just exactly where the goalkeeper, executing some complex physics entirely without conscious thought and through muscle-memory, has expected it to be, so that all this grace and speed and muscle and athleticism and attention to detail and power and precision will never appear on a score sheet and will be forgotten by everybody a day later—this is the strange fragility, the evanescence of soccer. It's hard to describe and it is even harder to do, but it does have a deep beauty, a beauty hard to talk about and that everyone watching a game discovers for themselves, a secret thing, and this is the reason why soccer, which has so much ugliness around it and attached to it, still sinks so deeply into us: Because it is, it can be, so beautiful...
 

I love the way that guy writes!  Americans, for the most part, don't get soccer.  I don't know if we aren't patient enough or we are just suspicious of things that weren't invented here.  I realize some things about the game itself are out of place in American sports.  Things like 'diving', faking an injury, or my biggest pet peeve - overreacting to an injury and acting like you are dying until the trainer comes out and sprays his magic mist on you and you get up and play the rest of the game at full speed.  Americans don't buy into that because we watch American football where you can see a player suffer a real, painful injury and keep playing - even without the magic spray.
Last week I was reminded of the beauty of the game when I went to the RSL playoff game and saw this goal by Alvoro Saborio.

Sabo's goal is even better in this video than when I saw it live - it was beautiful.  One of those rare moment where everything went right.  For me soccer is a great metaphor for life.  It can be so frustrating and sloppy at times and then suddenly, it can become gratifying and elegant - it can be beautiful.  Sometimes there is a great play that completely turns the tide - a play in which one player exerts himself and takes a chance, stops a pass or a shot and the momentum does a 180 and the team that was on its heels is suddenly on the attack.  The whole mood of the stadium is transformed from boredom or even disdain - to anticipation and excitement. It can be electric.
Like life, soccer can be mundane (though it is never boring to me).  It can also be frustrating and even irritating when, as a fan, you can see from the cheap seats that the team isn't playing as well as they can or that it's just going to be a long night because you can feel it's going to be.  But every once in a while - if you know what to look for, the game can be truly beautiful and when it is - all seems to be right with the world.

So, like Grandma Cannon did when I revealed my ignorance of Pablo Picasso, I try to be patient with people who show the same contempt for the beautiful game - my game.  If they have a moment and are inclined to listen - I will try to share my appreciation for it - and if I'm half as good as Grandma was, they will understand a little better.  And maybe next time they have a chance, they will sit down and watch a game.  And if they are lucky - they will witness greatness - and it will be beautiful to them too...