This was cooler than it reads

Something very strange happened today. With kids at their Grandma's and wife working late, I packed up my gym bag this morning for a post-work workout, making sure I set 'record' on the Tigers/Pale Sox game since I would likely miss several innings. Work was work-like, and not strange at all. Lunch was entirely normal. My drive to the gym? Smooth sailing, and had an excellent discussion (on the bluetooth - safety first) with Murray, who, with his doctorly knowledge and triathlete's body awareness, dropped some advice on how to control my recent hamstring aggravation. 

Lately, gym visits seem difficult to come by, so I've adopted a policy of staying a minimum of 1.5 hours, oftentimes 2, to make it worthwhile. Let's say I haven't been much of a workout freak in my life. Playing sporting games and jogging now and again? Yes. But working out for fitness' sake? Not so much. Until I turned 30. The impetus being fear of physically breaking down and losing my incredibly manly psychological edge over children. What in Insecurities' name am I rambling about?

So 1.5 hours seems plenty for me at the gym, and I make it work by cross-training. And by cross-training, I mean casually shooting basket hoops for a good hour, then doing 8 curls, then jogging for 10 minutes on some sort of futuristic moving floor apparatus, then hitting the hot tub and sauna for as much time as I can stand without shriveling up or becoming that creepy guy that is just ALWAYS in there.

Today, I started my workout like I often do, in the basketball courts. The gym I frequent is not your pick-up game type place. The court is used for local high school lacrosse practice more than basketball, but I relish the isolation at times. I still LOVE shooting. It's not because I think I'm going to become a rec-league All Star, it's because I love the rhythm and the sounds and the satisfaction of still being reasonably good at something athletic. And I don't just play H-O-R-S-E with myself, I do shooting drills. Really. I have to make 10 of 10 alternating right-then-left hand layups from under the basket (harder than you think, especially for those who played intramurals with me at GVSU and remember that 2 year period where I had layup mental block), then 8 of 10 free throws, then 6 of 10 3-pointers going back and forth from the corners of the arc to the top of the key. If I miss my goal in a given drill, I finish the 10, then start that drill over until I get them all. In between, it's just normal dribbling and shooting and imagining I actually get to take my warmups off this time- wait, that was high school. Super lame, right?

After totally sucking at free throws today, I finally hit my 80% mark, then decided it would be a good idea to test the hammies and see if a dunk was possible. Upon smashing the ball into the front of the rim, I realized another benefit of having, essentially, my own gym: lack of witnesses. This fact, however, would prove to be somewhat disappointing in a few minutes. That is, of course, because the strange event was about to happen.

Standing in the right corner, I watch the wall clock for the seconds to wind up to 0 again, knowing my 10 threes routine takes about 90 seconds. At 5:28 I loft my first shot: CLANK. Rebound, opposite corner, nail it. Retrieve ball, move back across but a bit further off the baseline, bury another. This continues until I hit my 6th trey, in 7 attempts. Nice, I'm at my goal with 3 shots to go. With minimal effort and my form locked in, I can 3 more in a row. 9 of 10 - as good as I've ever done! In my movements, I was cutting the lines a little shallow and never got to the very top of the key, straight away from the hoop. So I sauntered there and threw up another shot for good measure. Swish. 10 of 11. What the hell, I think, let's start over. Corner - boom. Opposite - boom. At 14 of 15 shots it hits me: I missed my first shot. That's 14 in a row. At this point I am starting to giggle a little bit as each shot falls. The meat heads doing lat pull downs outside the court door are probably thinking, "What's with Grinny McSkinny?" I continue my circuit and finish again at the left wing with #19 going down easy. At the top of the key I hoist again and it finally, belligerently, rattles out. 19 of 21 is sweet, but more freakishly, those 19 successfully scoring in order. 

83% of you (basically, everyone who didn't play IM hoops with me) are waiting for a point, a different tangent, a horrifying ankle sprain to spice things up. But that was it. I made 19 straight 3-pointers today, and have no witnesses to corroborate my story. I considered leaving the gym immediately and rushing to Energy Solutions Arena to apply for a job as Kyle Korver's understudy (clarification for non-Utahans: that dude can shoot and has dreamy good looks. What?), but decided instead to do strenuous actions with heavy things for a bit before calling it a workout.

I am a man, I'm 30, and I still think it's important to be good at some sort of sport. Even if 'good' means able to make shots I've practiced a jillion times, without defenders, in an empty gym. It's my world, and you're all just not witnesses.

Cereal: It's what's for breakfast

This is such a great idea. One of the talking-head sports radio shows put together a March Madness-inspired cereal tournament! They're already down to the Edible Eight today, and voting continues to see who will move on to the Flavorful Four and ultimately be crowned -- read closely, Wheaties legal team -- The Champion of Breakfasts! Vote here. I will likely break down this championship after the fact, with stunning insight and breathtaking analysis, just like the 8 jillion "experts" do for the hoops tourney. For good measure, I may throw in some comments about the respective cereals' slogans. Sound grrrrrrreat?

Speaking of crunchy particles in a morning milk bath, Relish recently had a good idea to post a blog encouraging suggestions for holiday-themed marshmallows in Lucky Charms. It started with idle chatter about how great it is to have kids who eat cereal, so the dads can also eat cereal, and grew to suggesting a limited run version of Lucky Charms with nothing but green clovers as the marshmallows. This chat took place right before St. Patty's Day, of course. The next obvious drop is pink hearts for Valentine's Day, and don't forget purple horseshoes for National Campground Pitching Stuff Challenge Day. But why limit it to existing marbits (short for marshmallow bits, since there's no way on General Mills' green earth that those are actually marshmallows)? What about:

Green Trees for Arbor Day (yawn)
Yellow Eggs for Easter
Orange Pumpkins for Halloween
...

Okay, those are the easy ones, and you are surely nearing slumber. Here's a site with a list of holidays. See if you can come up with unique marbit-holiday combinations, even make up your own holidays. Be your usual creative selves, and keep a reasonable level of etiquette (Charlie). Post in the Comments below! This could be just as fun (and tastier) than the Sea Kitten session! BEGIN!

Bad dunk contest followup

An ESPN columnist agreed (with me, clearly) that the dunk contest was garbage, but it feels like he didn't quite give an honestly critical opinion, opting for a more PC approach. Maybe he has a job covering the contest next year, or a Sprite-supplied promotional laptop bag. Anyway...

Bonus note: The article comments on Courtney Sims, a former U of M hoopster and current D-League player (the NBA's JV squad), who never ever improved in 4 years of college. After complimenting Sims' shooting touch, the writer quips, "On the other hand, he's a bit awkward, runs funny and isn't terribly physical." Ah yes, that's the Courtney Sims we know. And isn't that the reason he's in the D-League in the first place?

Give me "The Leaner" any day

Annie and I had a quiet, but much needed at-home Valentine's Day. We hadn't spent quality time together, sans kids, since the W. Bush administration. Our mornings were separately endured - she at the hair salon, where I had a dozen roses delivered via super secret courier, and me at a local mall, filling in as Big Cookie Cake decorator in a corporate-supported V-Day promotion. I anticipated doing more 'marketing guy' work, like standing around and looking confused, but demands were such that I had to put my limited decorating skills to work. While you catch your breath from "yeah right" giggling, realize I am not crafting wedding cakes here - just some colorful borders and Valentines-y messages using icing on ginormous cookies.

Let me be honest here: I hate malls on holidays. I'd rather work on 50-year old plumbing at the cottage than service crazed consumers at a cookie shop, but I try not to let this conflict of interests bury my enthusiasm for my job. But there were moments - two in particular - where my creative efforts in cookie design were genuinely appreciated by customers, and that made me feel good. Not as good as the text message that buzzed in my pocket when Annie got the flowers, but good enough to make my morning of work seem meaningful.

Our Valentine's evening began early, with New York strips on the grill (while still daylight), seasoned red skin potato wedges, homemade salad, and plenty of red wine. Maybe it was the wine or the lame comedy we watched, but our night ended early, too. This is finally getting me to the subject of this post...

Due to the early bedtime, I woke at 4:30am and could not get back to sleep. So I made my way downstairs and did what anyone else would do in my situation - watch 2.5 hours of the NBA's All-Star weekend on DVR! For those who aren't pro basketball fans, this event includes competitions of shooting, hamming & mugging for the camera, and dunking (sort of). For the record, I have claimed victory in several basketball skills competitions on lesser stages in my lifetime. Two free throw shooting competitions (Jr. high camp, and an impromptu high school practice competition, where I nailed 62 in a row); a 3-pt shooting competition as a sophomore or junior at a Christ In Youth conference, and a slam dunk contest (seriously) at the freshman orientation all-nighter at Grand Valley's fieldhouse. The dunking victory came on a 9-ft rim, but still, I won a brand new GVSU hat, so that's how you know it was real. I claim and remember these accomplishments both to boost my self esteem (sad, I know), but also to move closer to making my point: I can appreciate these skills competitions, but this year's NBA "jam" was more like a jar of spoiled apricot preserves*.

Nevermind the fact that the 3-pt shooting contest's participants were nobodies who also happened to SUCK AT SHOOTING 3 POINTERS, but the dunk contest fell to the saddest and lowest point in its history. In short, the Sprite All Star Sprite Slam Dunk Fest sponsored by Sprite became a rigged, gimmicky Sprite ad featuring some mediocre dunks. If you saw this event, you might recall the unending delays while defending champ Dwight (rhymes with Sprite) Howard set up false hoops, donned Superman capes (fresh last year, recycled this year), and tried to catch passes from random spectators on his way to a few o.k. power dunks. Then, the NBA's favorite tiny leaper of the decade, Nate Robinson, donned a Sprite-green uniform and shoes, and grabbed a green basketball to leap over the aforementioned Superman for his contest-clinching dunk. Alright - this dunk was okay, unlike his previous round dunk where he stepped off a guy's back. He's short! The whole point is that he can jump super high; so why is he using a step ladder?!

Worse than all the shenanigans were the announcers, including former 3-pt and dunk contest participants, who constantly fawned over the antics and acted like this was some great theater. Reggie Miller, bless his ugly...shooting form, mentioned "kryptonite" and "Lex Luthor" eleventeen-thousand times during Nate Spritenson's green-clad effort. HA HA HA - it's a Superman reference! Look, the great dunk contests of the 80s showed nearly the entire array of what humans can do whilst dunking a ball through a hoop, but they still had to do it, on the spot, cameras rolling, without missing! If you missed you got docked! Now, they allow you not only several full minutes, but 2 extra attempts if you don't get your goofy costume-enhanced dunk down the first 1 or 8 times you try it.

NBA: Get the stars back, drop the ridiculous props and teammate gimmicks, give them 1 attempt per round, 6 or 8 rounds, and put MJ, Dominique, Spud, Clyde the Glide, Kenny "Sky" Walker, Larry Nance, and Dr. J on the judges' table and give us our contest back! Gosh!

*Apricot preserves is the grossest jelly flavor of all time. If you say any other flavor, you are wrong!