Author Archives: Ben Gannon

Hell Phones

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God has officially declared that cell phones are evil.  (Chapter 13, verse 2016.)  Why would they be burning up or blowing up in your face if the devil wasn’t involved in the process?

Sitting in the park and texting a friend or relative is acceptable in God’s mind.  Walking across a street staring at your cell phone is unacceptable when there is a clearly placed, “Don’t Walk” signal within view.

I’m all about Jaywalking, but I never have a cell phone in my hand while committing this crime.  It’s resting peacefully in my pocket.

My Effing Cell Phone

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Due to weather conditions and laundry issues, my cell phone has been unavailable for the last three days. Embarrassingly, I reacted to losing it almost as immaturely as Americans kneeling or sitting during the National Anthem.  (Those protesting have the right to do so, and I have the right to disagree.)  Different story.

Regarding my cell phone, for three full days, there was no calling, no texting and no such luxury.  Help me, Mr. Banana Yellow rotary home phone when I need you.

I have currently managed to survive without the cell phone, but it is handy, if used properly…much like fire.

 

The Retired Helmet

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Vin Scully, the now former announcer for the Los Angeles Dodgers has passed, figuratively speaking, for the Dodgers and all their fans.  Yet, he will still remain alive in everyone’s baseball hearts.

The LA Dodger helmet I wore to bed for years was not only embarrassing to my brothers, it also was a legitimate reason for hazing me.  Yet, I bet Vin Scully could have weaved a story with so much eloquence about that silly boy, and it would make it funny as opposed to embarrassing.

Lock Down

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I’m not a “We’re all winners!” type of guy.

While watching a baseball game recently, I was asked a complex question regarding coaching.  In my former life, I was a coach at every level up through high school.  Little League, middle school, high school, you name it.  I was a coaching nomad.  Some of those years ended with success and others in failure.   Other than soccer, I think I coached just about every sport, so I thought I had some credibility while answering the question.

I was asked how a coach should motivate a team with potential but lacking motivation. My response was simple and even a bit primitive.  “Sometimes, you just have to scare the Hell out of them.  Make them think you’re a little crazy.  And, sometimes, depending on your audience, it works.”

Years ago, after an embarrassing loss while coaching a wrestling team with fantastic potential, I wasn’t as much upset about the defeat as I was about how our team responded to the loss.  Witnessing one of our best wrestlers making out with his girlfriend in the stands shortly after he was pinned left me more than a little irritated.  Shortly after shaking hands with the winning team, I encouraged our team to get into the locker room for a post match lesson.

Recognizing I was in a pretty serious disposition, the room was silent, and I was calm… for the moment.  The fear in their eyes was clear, and because I was a bit unpredictable, well, that was precisely how I wanted them to feel.  It was then, not saying a word, I, ominously, locked all three of the locker room doors, making sure no one was going to be in the room except them and me.  (Crickets.)  After a minute of awkward silence, I finally broke the silence, because I hate seeing anyone look as afraid as they did that evening.

“Hey, Matsuda.”  He was another one of our best wrestlers delivering a less than adequate performance that afternoon.  “Get out of the way.”

Matsuda looked at me with a “What, huh?”.  I was probably fifteen feet away from him.  “Get out of the way.”  His back was to the lockers and he didn’t understand why he needed to get out of the way, so he asked, very politely, looking back and forth to his teammates, and with terror in his eyes, “Where do you want me to go, coach?”

“I’m going to throw this garbage can in your general direction, and since it is full of garbage, I don’t want it to hit you.  Get out of the way.”

Matsuda managed to get out of the way, the can exploded against the lockers, spewing refuse everywhere, and before picking up the carnage by myself, I let them know how representative the garbage was in relation to how they performed that afternoon.  I’m not necessarily proud of that moment, but we didn’t lose another match for the rest of the year.

The following day, figuring I’d be reprimanded by my administrative Gods or receive some parental concerns, it was quite the contrary.   I received one phone call from a parent only praising me for my actions.

Years later, wrestlers entered my  classroom recollecting that day and the story blossomed, or perhaps mushroomed, depending on their perspective.  Many of those remembering that evening were not members of our team.  That always made me laugh.

 

Emma Can Run

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emmacanrun2I simply love gambling, and a wise man once told me, “No matter what the odds are, bet on your grand niece.”  Actually, the wise man was me after losing a race to my grand niece, Emma.  It’s the first time I genuinely didn’t mind losing.

Loving the ponies at an early age, and being subjected to illegal gambling as a six year old apprentice, I loved the names of the horses more than anything else.  Money meant nothing to me.  Chocolate milk, butterscotch pudding, and a good pizza meant so much more.  When my father and some brothers went to the track, while dad studied the race manual we’d find in the garbage can on the way in, I would just look at the names.  Anytime a horse had a name affiliated with one of my twelve older siblings, well, that was my two dollar pick.

“Tommy Gan Go” was one of our favorites. He was usually the fastest.  Since my closest brother’s name was, and still remains, Tom,  it was an easy pick, and usually a winner.

“Mary Can Meltdown” was always a crowd favorite because she would be in the lead for the initial three quarters of the mile, and then begin throwing her horseshoes at people in the stands for not betting on her.  This was oddly similar to my sister at her Christmas Eve parties.

“Greg Can Cook”  commonly placed.   My brother, Greg, is the second best cook I’ve ever met.

“Patricia Can Fly” usually would come in stand by, or fourth, making us no money.  Ironically, my sister, Patricia, is a flight attendant, formerly known as a stewardess.

Having so many siblings made it handy to choose my wishful winner, but never did I see a horse with my name included.  So, I had to digress to dog racing to pick my favorite name, and bet on it.  “Goofy Wizard”.  That dog wasn’t always winning, but it’s still running.

Yesterday, after losing a race to my grand niece, if I ever decide to buy a horse and race it, without my wife’s consent, she will be respectfully named, “Emma Can Run”.

emmacanrun

Hopeless Football Society

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On a very slow day of meaningless college football games last weekend, when weeds outside were calling to be whacked, I had to find some justifiable way of remaining on the couch.  A call from a friend made it all possible.  He inspired me to write a very poetic blog.

9-whittierThe Whitworth Pillaging Pirates from Spokane, Wa, were traveling to play against the Whittier Poets of “somewhere” in California.  It’s appropriate the “Poets” don’t really have a proper place of residence.  It’s simply, “somewhere in California”.  Lost souls.

Instinctually, I began thinking of Notre Dame and the Fighting Irish, or the Ragin Cajuns from the University of Louisiana, Lafayette.  These are somewhat intimidating, if not menacing mascots.  Hell, even the Stanford Tree makes the Poets sound withered with fear and desperation.  So, I couldn’t help but imagine how CBS’s own Brent Musburger would announce their presence on the grid iron.

“Here come the Depressed and Socially Dysfunctional Poets of Whittier University!”

“And here they are, the Rambling and Blathering Poets of Whittier.”

“Make no mistake, these are the darkest Poets you will ever see on turf.”

“Just about to exit the locker room and enter the modern day gladiator stage will be California’s own, ‘what the f–k is a Haiku?’  Whittier Poets!”

Pre-game prep, also referred to as, “The Emily Dickenson Stretch” requires players to stay, completely secluded, in an attic for days before the game, studying game film, writing sonnets and pondering the difference amongst heaven, hell, purgatory and the possibility of half time.  During the game, defenses facing the Poetic offensive diatribe succumb to abject confusion and dilated eyes.  The only caveat is whichever team wins, they won’t know it until they are dead.  That defines the life and death of a poet.

So, smoke it up, you bards of Somewhere, California.  You will never know if you win a National Title, but you will successfully depress people throughout the nation merely by wearing a weird helmet and dimming the stadium lights.

 

Ok ok ok…

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Living in the Pacific Northwest, I have always loved rooting for the Seattle Seahawks.  I am not a member of the 12 man society, but I love those who are.  They entertain me and inspire me almost as much as a Matthew McConaheeee commercial.  In the fourth quarter of today’s game, my wife had given up hope on a Seattle victory, and I tried to give her strength to hold on to her dream of the Hawks winning their opening game.  Demoralized beyond the point of husbandry pleasantries, my words were fruitless.  She had evaporated into a couch already saturated with Seattle Mariner tears.  It was then, when Matthew McCohancahee, during a commercial break, gave her relief at the precise moment she required it.  It wasn’t the car he was selling, and it wasn’t the pool he was oddly falling in, making us all question his sanity, and it wasn’t even those eyes….those steel blue eyes placing you in a sauteed mushroom trance.  Rather, it was…..well, other than absurdly ridiculous, a wake up call, reminding us that reality can become unreality, and that can become reality.  Wow.  Our heads were spinning with both excitement and abject confusion.

The following might be true.  Then again, it might also be true.  Just try and make it false, and that may also be true.  (It’s simple Matthew McCognicence 101.)

There was no laughter, only profound admiration and respect for Matthew and his craft.  When the commercial came to its epic conclusion, we were subliminally reminded of his greatest line sending him into a wildly successful vortex of celebrity bliss.  “Are you lookin at me?  Are you lookin at me?”  Wait a minute. That’s the wrong line and perhaps a different actor.  “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” That’s not the right one either. My fault.  I guess it was something a little more relaxed which was what we both needed before giving up on our home team. “Alright, alright, alright…”.  Shortly after we properly remembered those words of biblical proportion, the Seahawks pulled off an unlikely victory.

Alright, Alright, Alright.

I love that guy!

Ice Breakers

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For many teachers and students, last week was the first day of school.  As a former teacher, from my perspective, it was always the best day of school, therefore, I’m summoning great nostalgia.  Special tactics, or “ice breakers” are required each year on the first day to engage, confuse, or scare students, thus providing expectations for the following one hundred and seventy nine days of academic exploration.

Awkwardness is the only way to describe the first day of school for novice teachers and all students.  Neither, properly, know what the hell to do on this day.  So, sometimes, as a teacher, you simply improvise, risking the respect from others, and even your job.  I chose the first days to make it awkward for everyone just to break up the monotony of “What did you do over your summer break?”  It was an attempt to break up the ice and make them feel at ease……so to speak.

Each year, I disrupted my menu of classroom expectations either because I became bored, boring,  or an administrator reminded me about the meaning of the term “irreverence”. One, and only one year, I pretended on the first day of school to have a wooden arm.  It was astonishing how convincing I was.  With complete silence, entering the room, my left hand was clenched, precisely, with no movement, save for the help of my right arm assisting it. The room remained silent for an interesting ten or fifteen minutes.  My right arm was used for assisting my left arm to turn on or off lights, open and close blinders and even log on to my computer. These students seemed either collectively engaged, confused and some a little scared.  I figured if I could get the “highly gifted” students engaged, the  “middle of the the road” students confused, and a few punks a little scared, it would make teaching a little less complicated.

Entertaining myself by maintaining a serious face and a phony arm, while collecting attendance, I noticed the students weren’t listening to me, but rather, staring at my left  arm. I then realized it probably wasn’t so funny if one of their family members or friends had lost a limb in battle or for some other unfortunate reason, such as lighting a one thousand dollar firework off in their hand.  So, I quickly gathered my immature behavior and shook my left arm as though it had just been sleeping.  They all looked at me as if I was a little off, or even crazy.  Some laughed or gasped, but for the next one hundred and seventy nine days, I certainly had their attention.

Days later after performing my special tactics, my administer rolled her eyes, giving me a “Be careful, Ben”  warning. Weeks later, some of the parents attending the parent-teacher conference “laughingly” asked me to demonstrate my ability to have a disability.

 

 

 

 

 

Paws

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“The next time you place your tiny paws on my computer, it better result in a great (expletive) story!  Otherwise, get off my keyboard!  Evidently, delete and publish means nothing to you.  Got it??”

A conversation with our kitten.

 

Blame it on Rio or NBC?

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After close to a week, I am still recovering from an Olympic hangover.

Since 1980, I’ve followed the Olympics, Summer and Winter, with patriotic fervor and genuine interest with war being settled on a mat, track, in a pool, or on some ice.   Sports, using that term loosely, I would never commonly pay attention to are witnessed with terrific zeal.  A miracle on ice, perfect ten from Mary Lou, and even a bobsled from Jamaica are amongst many of my fond memories.

This year, I was disappointed, mostly due to NBC’s dreadful coverage.  Even one of my closest friends stated with hyperbole, that he wanted to kill Bob Costas.  “We’ll be right back with the two hundred mile swim medley featuring Michael Phelps” meant nothing to him nor me.  Three hours later, we were falling asleep to commercials and snooze worthy stories.

Mind you, I paid attention to the games every night, but found something to complain about either because I compare them to prior Olympic years, or I am getting older and more cantankerous with every hair I lose.  Talking to others, I received similar feelings, yet, I must begin with the positive.  Both Simones, competing in gymnastics and swimming will be something to behold forever.  A girl with the last name of Ledeky must have been swimming using PET’s. (Performance enhancing toes……….they must be webbed.)  And, unless a man with the last name of Bolt and Caitlin Jenner have children, I don’t see a faster person entering our world for a long time.

This brings us to Michael Phelps.  As magnificent as he is, I simply grew tired of him. Perhaps, I’m just soggy because of the endless amount of events earning him the opportunity to surround his neck with a billion medals.  He is the Mr. T of medalists.

After some collective research, many Americans asked why beach volleyball should be on prime time T.V..  I couldn’t definitely answer that.  However,  I do know this: Females wearing thongs are something I will remember in most of the events including diving, gymnastics, and synchronized swimming.  My wife didn’t have to ask why I was watching these events instead of Major League Baseball.  She would just look at me, and say, “Really?”  I told her I was intrigued with  green water and the pommel horse, which doesn’t even exist in women’s gymnastics.  She bought that about as quickly as anyone bought, and now have sold, Ryan Lochte and his story.