This Dad Gives Readers Two Choices

I woke this morning and walked into my little buddy Dakota's room to see him sleep. He had just returned home after a week long bout with pneumonia and though it wasn't life threatening, he truly battled for about a week and worried his Mom and me.

Just to make me feel a little bit worse, he got sick while Mom and I were taking some R and R in Jamaica. We returned home to find that my Mom, who was baby sitting, had shielded some truths from us so we wouldn't come home early, as Dakota's cold became a flu became pneumonia.

Long story short, the little trooper is home and was still breathing when I poked my head in a few minutes ago.

I looked at him breathe as he slept in his awkward yet trademark position, (butt up in the air like the way he slept as an infant) and breathed my own little sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

To the computer, where Dad had sent me the following email. I'm sentimental today, so though I want to believe the story is fact not fiction, who knows. It's an email that I'm supposed to forward so I am.

I know Bleacher Report is not the platform to forward emails. If it was you'd be getting a whole bunch about male enhancement and Mr. Chin finding $2,000,000 in a Hong Kong bank and needing to spread the wealth.

But this one, at least in this sentimental Dad's mind is worth the read. I encourage you to sit back, read it and then go hug your kid.

Writers Note: No Pick of the Day Votes. I didn't write it. Simply Paying it Forward. Comments are welcome, however.

Two Choices

What would you do?....you make the choice. Don't look for a punch line, there isn't one. Read it anyway. My question is: Would you have made the same choice?

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves children with learning disabilities, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question:

'When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does, is done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do.

Where is the natural order of things in my son?'

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued.

'I believe that when a child like Shay,who was mentally and physically disabled comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.'

Then he told the following story:

Shay and I had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, 'Do you think they'll let me play?'

I knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but as a father I also understood that if my son were allowed to play, it would give him a
much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

I approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, 'We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.'

Shay struggled over to the team's bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. I watched with a small tear in my eye and warmth in my heart. The boys saw my joy at my son being accepted.

In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three.

In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands.

In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again.

Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat. At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game?

Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but
impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact.

The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed.

The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay.

As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.

The game would now be over.

The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman.

Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.

Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman's head, out of reach of all team mates.

Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, 'Shay, run to first! Run to first!'

Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base.

He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

Everyone yelled, 'Run to second, run to second!'

Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base.

By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball. The smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team.

He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he
understood the pitcher's intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball
high and far over the third-baseman's head.

Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled
the bases toward home.

All were screaming, 'Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay'

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by
turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted, 'Run to third! Shay, run to third!'

As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming, 'Shay, run home! Run home!'

Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team

'That day', said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, 'the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world'.

Shay didn't make it to another summer.

He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making me so happy,and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

For Daddies Everywhere: Why Every Day is Father's Day

You're grown up now, guys. I'd heard the old expression so many times, "They grow up so fast." Who'd have ever thought though that they were talking to me? I ignored the warning and feel like I missed so much.

And now look at you.

Corey, you just graduated college and have the whole world in your grasp. Still unsure what you'll be, but I know what you'll become. A success at anything you decide to do. And unlike many, you have a good enough grasp on life to define your success in hearts touched as opposed to dollars earned. Guess you were actually listening at times.

Erika, you're a young woman ready to enter the world of teaching and molding young minds. After playing surrogate Mom to your younger sisters, this should come as no surprise. Sometimes maturity and self confidence take time to develop. Yours became apparent when you were four years old.

And Julia, my little butterfly dancer. Jules. Juice Box. Ready to enter college with your plan so in place. I wasn't there to help you formulate it, only to coach you, but like everything you do, you do it with abandon. No "I" left undotted and "T" left uncrossed.

Never forget the time you cartwheeled down Mtn. Wachusett. All 4.3 miles on the dirt road. Hands bleeding. Rocks embedded. Why did you do it? Because you said you could.

Gotta forgive me for getting sentimental. It's Father's Day on Sunday and I get like this every darn year. Wondered if I could have done more to be a good father. I think I was, but sometimes you wish you could have done things differently. And so I critique.

I remember each of your births so vividly; every detail etched in my mind forever. The look fo joy on your Mother's face. The sound of the doctor's voice announcing "It's a boy, Mr. and Mrs. Civin" followed three years later by "It's a girl, Mr. and Mrs. Civin, then three years again by "It's another girl, Dawn and Todd."

I remember late night feedings and diaper rash and holding you tight while I rocked you to sleep. The way you grasped my finger tightly as you nodded off to dreamland. Testing the temperature of the water prior to your baths.

I can still smell the sweet scent of clean baby after you got out of your tub. Dripping your bottle on my forearm to make sure I didn't scald your tiny little tongues and tasting those God awful creamed peas in an effort to trick you into thinking they actually tasted good. First sounds...first words..first steps...first everythings.

We survived the terrible twos and the almost equally torrential threes. First day of school. First dance lesson. First base hit, first error and even your first and only unassisted triple play. I cheered for every home run and tried to console every swing and a miss.

I clapped feverishly at every arabesque and screamed "BRAVO" at each curtain call. I tried to catch you when you'd fall and watched proudly when you'd brush yourself off and tell me you "didn't need my help" on those times that I didn't arrive in time to make the catch.

I remember every birthday at Chuck E. Cheese, our trips to Disney and our vacations in the "cooooold" water in Maine. I loved when you'd bury me up to my neck at Hampton Beach and then sit back and watch the other families laugh.

I loved feeding the animals at Friendly Farm. I cherished every ice cream cone shared, every shoulder ride given and every Happy Meal enjoyed.

Teaching you to ride a two-wheeler.. hearing you sound out words...listening to you actually read. I'll never forget how my chest swelled with pride as I heard you spell word after word correctly at the spelling bee and the look of horror on Mom and my face as you spelled peninsula. P-E-N-I-S-U-L-A. Peninsula.

"What are you eating, Erika?" "Muffin dough"...you'd say in that little angelic voice. Art projects made out of macaroni...hand prints pressed into wet ceramic...and a shirt and tie made out of construction paper. How I wish I still had them.

I remember how my eyes welled up with tears as you marched with the Little Leaguers in the Memorial Day Parade and with your karate group at Labor Day. I remember you graduating from Daisy Girl Scouts and when you graduated from readiness to first grade. I will forever remember the feeling of pride as each of your teachers told Mom and I "what a pleasure" you were to teach and how eager you were to learn.

I remember every night I tucked you into bed, each prayer you recited and every butterfly kiss, Eskimo kiss, Grandma kiss and regular kiss you'd give to me before you'd nod off to sleep.

Mom and I split up, but you guys never stopped including me in your lives. Every Wednesday and every other weekend I learned about first dates...first kisses...first broken heart..Junior Prom...high school sweethearts..

The future promises to bring college graduations...First job...First promotion and trips down the aisle.

Oh how I wish you had stayed little forever.

What I guess I'm saying kiddos, is that although we'll get together on Sunday for a barbecue and some hugs, I want you to know that every day has been Father's Day with three awesome "kids" like you.

Love you, Daddy

Todd Civin is a freelance writer. Feel free to email him at toddcivin1@aim.com with comments or to request permission to use his stories for content. He is also a supporter of "A Glove of Their Own" the award winning book that teaches us all the importance of Paying it Forward. Visit the site at www.agloveoftheirown.com and purchase the book under today's donor code JNF636 Joe Niekro Foundation.

You Came in 14th Dad. How Great Is That?

Many of you know my tired little story. I was laid off in November, 2008 along with 150 of my closest friends. I'm told it's part of life. "Not my life," I frequently think. Nothing bad ever happens to me.

My wife, Katie, reminds me, however, of my days spent as a single parent in the mid '90s, after my divorce. Days of "situational depression" where I laid, huddled in a corner, too depressed to get out of bed, thinking of the hand life had dealt me.

My son, Corey, who was nine at the time, had chosen to live with "Todd, I mean Dad" instead of with Mom and our daughters, Erika and Julia. Corey would come into my room and say. "Hey Todd...I mean, Dad...we need to worry about us. Not about Mom and the girls. Get up. We need to go live."

I'd get up, and go shave and drag a comb through my hair. I'd shove some tooth paste in my mouth and "go live."

From "living" I struggled to find a new job, as my "wife" and I had gone into business together publishing a monthly "feel good" magazine. When I stopped feeling good, the magazine stopped too. When my marriage died, we put the magazine down.

I started a new job making "$6.93 an hour," a number that is forever etched in my brain. It was about 20 percent of what I had made previously, but I was working again. I was out of bed and I had started to "live."

At lunch, I'd go outside and take a walk around the building. I would wear big steel-toed work boots and jeans. Hardly exercise apparel. But I'd walk. And think. And think. And walk. When the 12:30 bell rang, I'd go back inside. And work. And think.

I'd think about my kids. My man, Corey, who was thrust into adulthood at the age of nine. My daughters, Erika and Jules, excited to go live with "Mom in her new house." I'd think about not being able to tuck them in. Or wake them up by throwing their shades open wide. I could still hear them sing "Butterfly Kisses" to me. Only now I couldn't feel their eye lashes brush against my cheek.

The bell would ring again. It was 5:00. Time to leave, pick up Cor at the babysitter, make him supper and go outside and play some ball with him.

"Hey, Todd...I mean, Dad...watch my curve. Did it curve, Dad? Did it curve?"

"About this much, buddy," I'd say to the little man, motioning. "How was school?" I'd ask as I turned and twisted, a la El Tiante.

"Have you heard from Mom?" he'd ask, totally unaware I had ever asked him a question.

"Does this curve?" Corey would ask, totally unaware he had asked a question.

On weekends, I'd drive to Worcester to pick up the girls. As I got closer and closer to their "house," I'd get nervous in the pit of my of gut. Not sure if it was excitement to see my "Big girls" or the anxiety that comes with meeting "Mommy's new friend."

The girls would look absolutely beautiful as Mom sent them out of the house, dressed like little princesses. Erika was six and Jules was three.

We'd drive up to New Hampshire and the girls would sing to me. "Every breath you take, I'll be missing you," they'd sing, a la Puff Daddy's tribute to Notorious B.I.G. While they were rapping, I was fighting back tears. I still cry a bit, 15 years later, when I hear that song.

The girls and Corey and I would do our best to make everything seem OK. We'd spend mornings that fall at Corey's soccer games. One of my favorite moments of my entire life was taking the girls behind the shed in Hooksett, NH to pee pee and not understanding that "girls are plumbed different than we are."

In the spring, the girls would come up every Wednesday night and every other weekend and hang in the stands while Corey played baseball. They were there on a Wednesday night, when Daddy lived vicariously as Corey turned an unassisted triple play against the "Expos."

That spring we joined karate. I'm not sure if anyone but Corey climbed above a yellow belt. It wasn't important. We all learned the "star block set" to defend ourselves against "left, right, up, or down" strikes. (I actually used it in a fight I got in a few years ago in Antigua...Thanks, Sensei).

By now, my lunch time walks turned to jogs. No longer in steel toes, but in a $29 pair of running shoes I bought at K-Mart. I'd strip out of my work clothes in the men's room at work and jog one telephone pole at a time.

As I'd get from pole one to pole two, I'd literally pat myself on the back in an effort to rebuild my shattered self esteem. Tomorrow, I'll try to make it to the third and then the fourth on Wednesday. I'd run out, and run back...if I could.

My pay climbed a bit. And Corey and I fixed up the house. We had curtains now and I promised to make him a hot supper each night. We had separate rooms again as he thought, "It's time for you to sleep by yourself, Todd...I mean Dad."

That Wednesday, I picked up the girls a little earlier than normal and whisked up Rte. 93 to Derry. It was the night of my first race. The Derry five miler. The most I'd ever run at work is 45 phone poles, or about three miles. "What's an extra two?" I thought. That was until I passed the three-mile mark.

There were 27 people in the race. I felt like I could see 26 of them in front of me. Reality was, I was in the middle of the pack. A place I had spent most of my life in nearly every sporting endeavor in which I had ever participated.

As I turned the final corner I could see Corey, Erika, and Julia. They were still about 150 yards away. I could see they were holding a sign. I was gasping for air as runner No. 14 was gaining on me. "Second wind?" I thought. I used my second wind back at mile 3.5.

I plodded. Runner 14 gained. As I got closer to the three munchkins, they were jumping up and down. I'm not sure if I could read the sign or hear their voices. "Go Dad, Go!"

I'm sure No. 14 didn't know what happened. He was on my heels and I was failing fast.

"Those kids saw 13 people ahead of their Dad. I'll be damned if No. 14 passes me too."

I suspect God picked me up and carried me the last quarter mile. I'd never run so fast. No. 14...ate my dust. I crossed the finish line and they gave me a Popsicle stick with No. 14 written on it. It belonged to me. Not him.

The lady at the finish line tried to take the Popsicle stick with No. 14 on it out of my sweaty hand. I clutched it tight. "It's for my kids," I panted. The lady looked at me and looked at my smiling kids. She nodded and smiled as if knowing what kind of a life race we have all been through.

"You came in 14th, Dad," Erika screamed. "How great is that?" Julia added.

Pretty great, kids. Pretty great.

Finally Ready To Share: Todd's All-Star Blooper

One of the most wonderful gifts, that has been passed down through the Civin gene pool has been the ability to share a good story. To me, the ability to tell a personal account of a chapter from life's play is the greatest treasure that my Dad and Mom could have blessed us kids with.

The ability to capture nearly every nuance of life's most memorable moments coupled with a steel trap long term memory leaves me with an endless web to weave. Most times I try to share the thousands of points of light that have dotted my personal geography, but every once in a while it's fun to share a story of a time that life has reared back and kicked you in the jewels.

There has been one such story that I've been holding back as it teeters delicately on the see saw of good taste. At the same time, presenting ones life while exposed and vulnerable tends to create character. As Friedrich Nietzsche said, "For a tree to become tall it must grow tough roots amongst rocks."

So here goes nothing.

My story begins when I was about eleven years old. Most of my friends made the Spencer Little League All-star team and even though I thought I deserved a spot on the team the voters didn't. I guess that an .083 batting average and a half dozen errors for the daisy picking right fielder doesn't score many All-star votes.

Our team opened up the All-Star schedule in Auburn, MA, a town about fifteen miles from Spencer. My Dad was away on business and my Mom didn't drive in those days, so my brother, Dyno, and I hitched a ride with Mrs. B and Mrs R. (names have been altered for obvious reasons), two of the All-Star Moms.

We rode in the back seat of their station wagon with the wood paneled sides with their two All-Stars, Anthony and Paul.

Mrs. B and Mrs. R. were those two typical Little League mothers that help to define the phrase "Little League mom". Both women wore loud red T-shirts emblazoned with their son's names on the back and red baseball caps adorned with the bold Spencer "S". Each of them feasts on a daily dose of umpire amongst their daily fare and snap their gum incessantly as they chew.

It was a scorcher of a summer day, but for some reason, I decided to wear a pair of long Wrangler jeans to the game. I wasn't much for shorts in those days. Probably because I used to suffer terribly with warts all over my legs. In fact, my sister, Melanie, used to call me Toad, though I was never quite sure if it was because of my name or because of my warts.

The hot July sun baked down as the Spencer All Stars took the field. Mrs. R. tapped me on the shoulder as Paul took the mound and Anthony took his spot behind home plate.

"You didn't make the team, huh Todd?" she said in a screeching voice that closely resembled finger nails on a chalk board.

"No, Mrs. R." I said thinking of my .083 average and the beautiful patch of daisies growing out in right field.

I remember feeling a little nauseous as the first couple of innings passed. I wasn't really sure though if it was from Mrs. R or from the 90 degree heat burning a hole in my Wranglers.

Around the third inning I remember getting up from the bleachers along the third base line because I felt my stomach feeling sort of unsettled. I walked away from the crowd of Spencer fans with hopes of "breaking a little wind" as Dad used to say.

Much like the pigeon who dampened my spirits by dropping in my ear on the first day of first grade, my colon let loose with a wrath of fury. If one can envision the folk tale of Hans Brinker with his finger in the dike, and then picture said little Dutch boy taking his phalange out, that's what it looked like.

With the speed of a flood engorged stream overflowing it's banks, my Wranglers filled with hot, wet excrement from my ankles to my collar. I immediately dropped to my knees looking a little like Bambi falling to the ice.

At that very instant, the unsuspecting group of Spencer fans cheered loudly as All-star catcher, Anthony came to bat. Anthony batted about .600 points higher than I did during the regular baseball season and therefore made the All-Star squad. In the event that you forgot, I didn't.

As the strapping catcher stepped to the plate, a warm cross wind blew from left to right. I was sure it was going to take the stench from my soiled undergarments and cause the evacuation of the bleachers. It didn't, but as I looked in that direction from my spot on the matted turf, I spotted Roberta, a hottie from my fifth grade class walking right towards me.

Roberta was the first girl in our class who had bumps in her shirt and was the talk of the entire fifth grade. I suspected it was toilet paper and found it sort of ironic that Roberta had what I wanted, in more ways than one.

I'd waited for the chance to talk to Roberta for most of the school year and now had my chance. Unfortunate for me, I was sitting on the ground with hot, wet, fecal matter baking to my backside.

She walked by and smiled. I nodded and played with the dirt that hadn't been contaminated around me.

After about ten minutes, my brother came over. "Wanna play catch?" he asked unaware that his big bro had pooped himself.

"I can't...I pooped myself", I whispered.

"You what?" Dyno blurted out, apparently unaware that any hope of a future prom date rested perilously in jeopardy.

I motioned him over and shared my quandary with him. I begged him with all my heart and soul to go ask where the bathroom was but he didn't want to ask.

"Dyno, please. I'm filled with poop and I feel another one coming."

After a little pleading Dyno, walked over to the snack bar to ask where the rest rooms were. I sat in my doo doo as Paul swatted a deep fly to right to put Spencer up 2-0. Unlike me, Paul had made the All-star team. Mrs' R looked over at me from the top seat in the bleachers and shouted in her excruciatingly high pitched voice.

"Hey, Taaaaahd. Did you see what Paul just did?"

"No, Mrs R." I thought. "Did you see what I just did?"

Dyno returned seconds later and I knew that my nightmare was coming to an end. As luck would have it though, the facilities for the Auburn Little League complex consisted of a one-holer about 500 yards beyond the left field fence.

I pulled myself to my feet as steaming poop dribbled out the elastic band of my Fruit of the Looms and traveled down the leg of my Wranglers. I remember waddling the length of the left field line, turning over my shoulder occasionally to see if the Spencer cheering section was any the wiser.

I opened the door to the dimly lit shack and proceeded to make like the Department of Environmental Protection and clean up after the spill. The small wooden outhouse had no lock on the door so Dyno had to stand guard, while I waged war.

The porto-potty had a plank of wood with a hole carved in the middle and a swarm of flies buzzed around the top. I remember some colorful graphity filled the unpainted walls of the throne, but really wasn't up for reading.

I peeled my Wranglers over my soiled bottom as the smell of raw sewage filled the stall.

I reached over to the rusted toilet paper dispenser and pulled at the end of the first sheet. To my dismay, I yanked a two inch by two inch square of something resembling wax paper to clean my steaming rump.

I pulled again and again and again wrapping the high gloss papyrus around my little hand until I made a little mitten of sorts. With the first wipe, the mitten instantly disintegrated spreading doo doo all over my hand and wrist. I've never experienced such a mess.

A good fifteen minutes passed, as Dyno waited patiently outside the door. I made the decision to toss my pooped filled undergarments down the hole and to fly commando for the last few innings of the game.

I exited the outhouse and felt a certain sense of relief as I entered the fresh summer air.

"You think anyone will notice?" I asked Dyno wishfully.

"Oh, I think they'll notice," Dyno replied while blocking his nose.

Well, the last two innings were completed as Spencer came out on top. Mrs. B and Mrs R and Anthony and Paul hustled quickly to the car with trophies in hand, while Dyno and I walked sheepishly to the wood side station wagon.

"What happened to you?" asked Mrs. B.

"You stink" added Mrs. R, in her familiar Edith Bunker-like shrill.

"I fell in the mud near that building over there" I explained as if falling in poop was better than unintentionally smearing it on yourself.

Mrs. B relocated Dyno and I into the way back of the wood paneled station wagon as Paul wrapped his stinky athletic sock around his face. We traveled the fifteen miles in record fashion even by passing the Dairy Queen which was orignally part of our plan.

Mrs. B stopped the wood paneled station wagon at the bottom of High Street and let Dyno and I walk the last quarter mile up the steep hill.

"Hey Taaaahd," shouted Mrs. R as Dyno and I made our way up the street. "The fliiiiiiies are following you."

The Supermen of Summer..An "xoxo" Video Production

Ladies and Gentlemen, Now Appearing in the Center Ring...

As many of you already know, I write differently than a lot of people. Not better. Just different.

I write sports and love the X's and O's, but I love to write about life's events; the stories that make the legends. I guess it's my niche.

The pages are like an artist's easel. We start with a blank canvas and create our journalistic masterpieces. Sometimes about sports, sometimes about ourselves.

My wife frequently reminds me that sports writing is my hobby and that chasing that elusive next job should be of greater concern. And it is. But writing is what gives me life. Writing is what gives me the confidence and courage to chase the next pay check.

Writing allows me to get up each morning, get dressed, and build my confidence before trying to sell myself to the Five and Dime known as employment.

We are in the midst of financial confusion in the world today. I was laid off in November and have done everything possible to keep my head held high. I try to keep my spirits from getting stomped on daily by the reality of the situation. My friends consider me one of the lucky ones because they have to go to work, while I can play with my dog.

I smile every day despite not having a place to go. I suspect my friends think that unemployment isn't bothering me. My friends are wrong. They don't know how green their grass looks to me, how intimidating that Help Wanted section or Monster.com can be.

And so, in writing, I find solace. I find peace and tranquility. I have fans. I have friends that I've never met. Friends who tell me I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread. (Frankly, I like to tear mine off the loaf in chunks as opposed to slicing it).

But as writers, we have fears, too. Am I any good? Will they like me? What if I don't get any reads? Should I delete it or let it stay on my profile?

Metaphorically, we are sort of like the guy on the tight rope, balancing himself along the overhead wire of life. And no, this story isn't about sporting events per se, even though the World High Wire Championships are held every May. This story is about walking the high wire we refer to as Life.

And so...I present to you...The Tight Rope Writer.

Where nearly half a day earlier laid the desolate sun-scorched field, now stands a towering circus tent. Through the dark of night, erected pole by pole, rope by rope, draped with canvas the size of a football field, stands the once bright but now faded shroud of the Big Top.

The wind of the early fall morning races across the surface of the crisp brown grass, only to be blockaded by the tattered red and white tapestry that will soon house center ring. It is far too early to inhale the familiar odor of hot, buttered popcorn.

It is hours before the clown smears on his first fistful of white disguise. The ring master has yet to bellow his forever famous, "Laaaadies and Gennnntlemen," yet the excitement of the circus has the small Midwestern town bursting with anticipation.

In the middle of the center ring stands a slight man, clad in faded gold tights, covered with the glimmer and shine of a thousand sparkling sequins. He slowly walks towards the towering pole at the side of the ring and pauses for what seems like an eternity.

His left arm rises slowly as he grasps the first rung of the ladder, which appears to travel to the heavens. Seconds pass before another muscle flexes in his slightly quivering arm.

The circus calliope plays tunes in the background as he reaches for the next rung. A deep breath, a nod of the head, and his right arm reaches skyward. His white knuckles leave a trail of perspiration on each rung.

The slight man finally reaches the small platform atop the mountainous pole and begins to weep. He recalls a day when he ascended the same, brightly painted pole with the confidence of a matador preparing to wage war with an on-rushing bull. His every breath was heightened by the joy he felt upon hearing the thunderous applause as the ring master bellowed, "The one...the only...the magnificent...."

Now quickly snapped back from his day dream, his hand trembles as he reaches for his pole. The pole that had always supplied his life balance. Only days before, his pole had betrayed him as he tip-toed halfway across the steel wire, barely one-inch wide, bouncing high above the straining necks of the crowd below. Step behind step, he deftly made his way across the cord overhead.

Then, suddenly, as if someone had kicked his feet out from under him, he faltered. The wide-eyed children shrieked as he tumbled, tumbled, bounced into the tightly woven safety net below. Their parents, who had been transformed into an equally wide-eyed bunch, "oohed" and "aahed" as he bounced down..up...down, finally nestling into the web that had rescued him from doom. The crowd exploded into a deafening ovation.

He, however, laid silently, the sole person under the inflated Big Top, who knew that his descent to earth had been a stumble and not part of his meticulously choreographed routine.

Over the side of the net bounced his balance pole, as if forever deserting him. Onto the sawdust-covered floor tumbled his pole, his courage, his confidence.

Now...he finds himself snapped back to reality, inching toward the edge of his perch like he's returning to the scene of the crime. Frame by frame, he sees himself tumble toward the earth, much like a film editor carefully examines each clip of his upcoming feature film.

He tightly squeezes his pole, face quivers, his heart quickens, and his Adam's apple bounces as he swallows hard. He suddenly takes a step backward, his grip loosens, and he heaves the pole from the platform. It does not even bounce, but slips through a space in the net and punctures his confidence which has been swept into a pile below the net. He slowly descends the ladder, leaving a trail of fear on each rung. He reaches the dusty ground and walks away, his head hanging low.....

....At a desk in a dimly lit room, sits a man. Before him rests three sheets of paper, one flat and pressed, two crumbled into balls of frustration. On the floor below lies a trail of previously aborted attempts at literary success.

He grasps his pen, knuckles white, heartbeat heightened. He slides to the edge of his seat and gazes at the blank sheet below. He attempts to write of the tight rope walker at the small mid-western circus. A bead of sweat forms on his brow and drops slowly from his forehead. It flips in mid air and stains his "Center Ring."

He recalls a day when words seemed to flow from mind to hand with the swiftness of a flood-swelled river. These days, however, the flow is that of a stream in the midst of a midsummer drought.

His hand trembles as pen approaches paper. His face quivers, his heart quickens, and his Adam's apple bounces as he swallows hard. He suddenly pushes himself from his desk and heaves his pen like a javelin toward the slightly opened door.

The pen lands at the feet of a young boy, who picks it up and hands it to the now-weeping man. "Here, Daddy," says the wide-eyed young boy. "You dropped this."

The man smiles, dries his tears, and takes the pen from the hand of the small child. He hugs him, takes a deep breath, and begins to write feverishly on the page below.

Life back in perfect order.

"Laaadies and Gentleman," he writes. "Now appearing on the dangerous high wire directly overhead...the one, the only...The Magnificent."

The slight man is now accompanied by a small boy, identically clad in sparkling tights. The boy hands him his balance and smiles. He smiles and waves wildly toward the wide-eyed crowd below.

The New England Patriots and the Sundays Before Handheld Games

As each calendar page of my life falls slowly to the floor, I spend ample time reminiscing about my childhood. Blessed with a file cabinet of a memory, coupled with my Dad's gift of storytelling, I seem to have an ever-present audience, eager to hear about my days growing up in Spencer.

Be it my first kiss with Roberta Welch or the time the bird pooped in my ear at Pleasant Street School, playing baseball in the middle of High Street with my brother, Keith, or the time my Dad and I built the last-place car in the Pinewood Derby, I always seem to have a tale to tell.

The time of my life where I fell in love with football and the New England Patriots is perhaps the most warm and wonderful days of my life.

I see many kids today who never leave the couch and I fear that with handheld games and widescreen TVs comes a loss of physical fitness and imagination. Playing with John Madden's game while sitting on the living room floor is, oh so different than being Madden's Oakland Raiders in our backyard on High Street.

Mom and Dad worked at the apple orchard on weekends in the fall, so Keith and I had the entire day to play. Mom started working seven days a week in the fall at Brookfield Orchards. She started working there in 1966 when I was five and Keith was three. She's now held the position for 42 years.

Dad sold fresh apple cider on Saturday and ran "Pick Your Own" on Sunday in between long weeks traveling on the road. It amazes me that the two of them still have the energy they do at nearly eighty years young. Both still work at the orchard today and are as much a part of the orchard experience as apple dumplings and ice cream.

While Mom and Dad were off to work each week, Keith and I would wake at about seven o'clock. We'd get ourselves ready for a Sunday filled with football.

We had just discovered the sport the year before. I'm not really sure where it was all of those years, but somehow it remained buried behind baseball and All-Star Wrestling on our list of sport favorites. Once we discovered it, however we became full-fledged football junkies.

We'd start preparing for our game on Saturday mornings by watching "This Week in Pro Football" with the familiar voices of Pat Summarall and Charlie Jones. Each game from the week before was recapped in five-minute vignettes.

Archie Manning and the Saints against Roman Gabriel and the Rams. Roger Staubach's Cowboys against Sonny Jorgenson's Redskins. Fran Tarkenton's Vikings taking on the Frozen Tundra and Bart Starr's Packers.

Keith and I would watch the long bombs of Johnny Unitas and Joe Namath and the bone jarring hits of Carl Eller and the Purple People Eaters.

We'd wait patiently for nearly the full hour of the show hoping to catch the recap of the Patriots, even though the highlights of the game usually involved the opposition. Each week we'd watch wide-eyed as Bob Griese chewed up the inept Patriot defense or Joe Capp got picked off by a swarm of Baltimore Colt defenders.

I think it was about the third week of watching that we figured out that the team we decided to love was the "Bad News Bears" of the NFL, but we loved them just the same. After all, they were from Boston and so were we.

It was the period of my life before I had adopted the philosophy that "one must truly experience failure before they can appreciate success," but somehow in their losing they were a little more endearing. Keith and I knew we'd never be Y.A. Tittle or John Brodie, but hoped we could at least be Mike Taliaferro or Bob Gladieux.

Each week the TV Guide had the rosters of the two teams playing in the televised game. Keith and I would fight for the guide to see who would play the role of the "Washington Generals" of our weekly back yard battle.

We'd make believe that our bedroom was the locker room and gear up for the approaching game. We didn't have shoulder pads or helmets, just two Patriots winter jackets that Mom had bought us at Mortie White's Five and Ten.

We'd paint on eye black, which we snuck from Mom's make-up bag the night before and stuff toilet paper in our gums to act as our mouth pieces. We'd pump air into the under-inflated football we had bought with our weekly allowance money and head out to the gridiron.

We'd jog out of the cellar door and into the backyard for the announcements of our starting squads.

"Starting at quarterback, No. 16...Jim Plunkett," Keith would announce and I'd run to the center of the field.

"No. 18, at wide receiver, Randy Vataha."

"At running back, No. 32, Jim Nance."

One by one, player by player, Keith and I would take turns announcing while the other took the field. After Carl Garrett and Larry Carwell, Charlie Gogolak and Randy Beverly had taken the field, we'd do the same for the opposing "victim of the week."

After about half an hour of pre-game festivities, we would kick off and start our day of football. For the next seven or eight hours, Keith and I would draw out plays on the dirt of the back yard and play act as if we were real live Patriots players. In our game, the Patriots always won and the opposition always seemed especially inept.

Slant routes, draw plays, corner patterns, and long bombs were drawn like cave art on the dirt below and quickly erased so the invisible opposition couldn't see what we had planned.

As the years passed, Nance was replaced by Sam Bam and Plunkett by Grogan. Randy Vataha became Stanley Morgan and Julius Adams always seemed to be Julius Adams.

Week after week, Sunday after Sunday we'd use our imagination and our "Billy Kilmer" autographed ball and run play after play in the backyard behind 26 High. As each season past, the players changed, but our love for the hometown team grew stronger.

I remember vividly the games we played in the rain and mud and the contests we had in the waist deep snow of an early New England winter storm. Much like the post office in those days, nothing could keep us from our scheduled game.

We'd play for hours and tuck our muddy clothes in the bottom of the hamper in hopes that Mom wouldn't notice when she did laundry that night. I'm sure she did, but her boys were happy and she was probably tired from a long day at the orchard.

We were really not very good and over threw many a long bomb despite not having a defender on our backs. We didn't really care. We ran an "efficient offense" and a "ball hawking defense" and enjoyed a Sunday filled with imagination and bonding.

As I watch my son, Dakota, play with his Nintendo DS, he fantasizes about Super Mario slaying a dragon or something like that. I pray that he soon finds the desire to play football and that he befriends a teammate as good as Keith was.

Or I at least hope that Bleacher Report develops a page for handheld games.

Hockey On Cider Mill Pond

My daughter, Erika, and I recently spent a couple hours of Daddy/Daughter time at the Worcester Sharks hockey playoff game against the Providence Bruins. We took our seats behind the Sharks bench and waited for the singing of the National Anthem.

Before the first note of "O Say Can you see" Erika asked me if I ever played hockey. I laughed. Then I cried a bit and told her the story of my brief life on skates.

As a child, skating simply wasn't my thing. It wasn't truly my fault, however. We were a middle class family who weren't overloaded with extra cash and the result was that I never having a proper pair of well-fitting ice skates.

My Dad complains to this day that the reason he is not handy around the house is because he never has the right tools. Mom hands him a butter knife to turn a screw or his shoe to pound in the head of a protruding nail.

When it came time for a bunch of the High Street crowd to take over Cider Mill Pond, Mom would head down the cellar and grab a pair of Dad's old skates for me to wear.
It didn't matter to her that Dad was a size 8 and I was a size 3. Or that the blades of the skates were layered with rust. What mattered most is that I had skates and therefore I could join the guys at the homemade rink.

Had Dad's skates been unavailable I sense Mom would have hooked me up with my sister's white figure skates with the faux fur on the top. While neighborhood buddy, Gary Grenier was breaking down the ice with his Easton Synergy Skates, I would be wearing Melanie's Peggy Flemings.

And of course, had Mom dug deep enough into the wooden box that housed our mismatched skates, winter gloves and hats, I would have been presented with an antiquated pair of double runners that belonged to some Civin ancestor generations earlier.

To offset the enormous size of my skates, Mom would hand me several pair of woolen socks. I'd pull them up as high as I could and fold the length of toe into the tip of the skates. "There, that should be perfect," Mom would reassure me. And for a moment, I'd believe her and head to the pond.

Tim, Phil Lavallee, Dyno and I would head through my back yard and cut through Mr Daley's yard, hoping not to get scolded for cutting through. We'd traipse towards the pond knee deep in snow with my skates tied together and thrown over my shoulder.

We'd pass the tree where I inadvertently broke Brian Foley's nose and laugh about the story. Brian was older than me and quite a bit larger. One year he offered to bring me down the hill on his new Mountain Boy Double Runner sled. He laid on his belly and me on his back and we sped down the hill.

I threw my hands around his head and apparently covered his eyes with my snow-covered mittens. I saw the tree. Brian didn't. I rolled off the top of his back in the nick of time. Brian hit the tree with his face. Blood everywhere. Ooops. My bad.
We then laughed about the time we built a ramp out of snow and hosed it down with water over night so it would freeze. The next morning Rick Aucoin volunteered to christen our bobsled track.

Up in the air he lifted as his saucer hit the ramp. Down it crashed with his leg underneath. I can still hear the sound of Rick's scream and the scream of the approaching ambulance. We laughed now. We were scared white then.

We'd cross Pleasant Street, cut through another back yard or two and hit the Cider Mill Pond. Cider Mill Pond was simply named after a Cider Mill that sat up stream from the pond in the early part of the century.

It wasn't much of a pond and actually was smelly and littered with shopping carts during the spring and summer months. Occasionally a cart would peak through the ice and could be used as an end line on our make shift hockey rink.

The level of hockey we played wasn't great. After all we were American kids and only played the sport when the baseball field was snow covered. But with Spencer roots grown in Canada and with a roster filled with Cournoyer's, Deschamps and Delongchamps it was technically in our genes.

Before the two teams were picked, I'd sit on a log which all the boys used to change into their skates. Off would come my high top work boots and on would slide my first sock.

The itchy wool picked my feet, so I'd usually slide it on above my other sock. Seemed like I'd pull that sock on forever, before it finally made it's way slightly below my knee.

Rick and Tim would already be dressed and would be taking their initial spins around the ice, while I was loosening my first skate. I had tied my two skates together for the trip to the pond and invariably they had formed themselves into a knot that Houdini couldn't escape.

I fumbled and wrestled with the two laces and longed for the fork that Mom would use at home to poke at the tangled cord.

Once untangled, I'd have to pull the laces through the weathered eyelets in order to get my over sized foot into the boot. Then back through the 10 sets of holes, and wrap the superfluous string around my ankles to give me extra support.

The boys would start picking teams as I tried to get myself geared up. It didn't matter if I made it out to the ice for the pre-game draft. I was always picked last anyhow.

Two socks on, skates laced up, I'd wobble my way onto the ice like a ding-toed penguin. The second my blades exited the snow, I'd hit the ice. Not running but falling.

The boys would laugh and tell me I looked like Bambi trying to make my way to his feet for the very first time.

Tim was always one captain and Gary the other. They bucked up to see who was the Bruins and who was the Blues. I knew however that the only Black and Blues I'd be a part of where the ones forming shortly on my ass and legs.

I'd line up on the defensive side of the ice and dream of being Bobby Orr or Espo. I'd even accept being Dick Buttons or Oksana Baiul. All the while, I knew, however, that I'd spend the day more like an old-time Zamboni, cleaning the surface of the ice.

By the time the opening puck was dropped I'd have finally figured out that if I turned my feet in and walked on the side of the cracked brown leather I could kind of run along the ice and participate in the game.

I'd think of myself as Bobby Orr while in reality the only move I imitated was his fly through the air after his famous goal against the Blues.

The teams would race up and down the ice with the skill and speed of the 1970-71 Bruins. I'd plant my freezing cold tush on the ice and marvel at their skills.

Occasionally, when the puck was shot wide and went up onto the bank, I'd wobble myself over and toss it back onto the ice. At least then I felt like a contributor.
As the final horn sounded, and the score ended something to something, I'd already be up on the bank disrobing. Skates off, ankles sore, bruises already forming, I'd wrestle again with my knotted up laces and finally decide to tug my foot out of the top and leave the knots for next time.

While Tim and the boys circled the ice with an imaginary Stanley Cup held high above his head. I longed for spring and the start of baseball season. At least there I felt I was playing on an even playing field.

And my cleats fit better than Dad's skates.

This Year I Resolve...To Eat From Life's Table

"Spread love everywhere you go; first of all in your own house. Give love to your children, to your wife or husband, to a next door neighbor. Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be living expression of God's kindness; kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your smile, kindness in your warm greeting."-Mother Teresa

While many sports lovers see New Year's Day as a day to watch copious football, recover from ample over indulgence and, this year, to prepare for hockey from, of all places, Fenway Park, I am trying to embrace the New Year as one, last ditch effort to produce...that word again...change.

Tick-tock..tick tock...I glance down at my watch tonight..New Year's Eve..It's 11:55 PM, December 31st. Five more minutes until the New Year. I sprint over to the buffet table and grab a final fistful of Lays overflowing with onion dip (several hours old and slightly coagulated).

I wash down, yet another plastic cup of bubbly. I chew rapidly. One eye on Time Square and the other scouring the buffet table to see if there is one last, tasty morsel that I can down before the ball drops.

I spot one lonesome brownie at the far end of the table and decide that with children starving all over the world, it is my civic duty to make sure that this brownie is not wasted. I sprint towards it with the speed of Usain Bolt...10-9-8 seconds until the New Year is upon us...7-6-5...I shove down the brownie and lick onion dip off of my fingers at break neck speed.

4-3-2...I search the room for Kate who is obviously already puckered up to receive her New Year's Kiss. One second remains until I start my New Year's Resolution..to lose weight...to regain the slim, muscular body of a man half my age...to gain control of my runaway eating habits.

I'm prepared to make the necessary changes to ensure my success. Sure I over ate a little bit tonight, but I was bulking up...carbo-loading.. trying to reach my peak weight so that my immense loss would be that much more impressive to my supporters and fans.

The clock strikes midnight. I grab Kate. We lock lips in a passionate embrace as a small fleck of potato chip tumbles from the corner of my mouth.

Out of the corner of my eye, I discover that the empty plate of brownies has been refilled. Aaah, maybe just one, I think. To celebrate the New Year, of course.

I realize that each year for the past who knows how many, that I've had the same resolution. To rediscover my athletic body of old, which I know resides somewhere deep below these many layers of chub.

Every December 31st, I fool myself into believing that simply by waking up in a new year, I will awake as a slimmer, trimmer version of last year's model. With one magical flip of the calendar page, these unwanted 20...I mean 30...Ummm, these unwanted 40 pounds will instantly disappear from my bulging waistline. Each January 2nd, while munching on a Ring ding and searching for my feet, I decide to wait until next year.

So, I've decided that this year will be different. This year, I've committed myself to "gobbling up" everything around me. To taste each and every morsel of each and every day. To drink heartily from this cafe called life. To open my eyes each and every morning with the sole purpose of ingesting every ounce of food the world has to offer.

To refrain from taking life so seriously and simply to enjoy each moment to it's fullest. To laugh more. To love more. To begin each day by putting my feet upon the floor and realizing how lucky I am to be alive.

To enter each day motivated, excited and enthusiastic. To make a difference, not only to my friends and loved ones but to every life that I come in contact with in the flesh or while writing on these pages.

In Robert Schuller's book, "What Happens to Good People When Bad Things Happen", Schuller lists actions "big and small" that we can take to ensure a fuller, more enjoyable life. "Think freely. Practice patience. Smile often. Savor special moments. Live God's message. Make new friends. Rediscover old ones. Tell those you love that you do.

Feel deeply. Forgive trouble. Forgive an opponent. Hope. Grow. Be crazy. Count your blessings. Observe miracles. Make them happen by never quitting. Discard worry. Give. Give in. Trust enough to take. Pick some flowers. Share them. Give a promise. Look for rainbows. Gaze at stars.

See beauty everywhere you look. Work hard. Be wise. Try on fourth and two (okay, so I added that one on my own). Try to understand. Take time for people. Make time for yourself.

Laugh heartily. Spread joy. Take a chance. Reach out. Let someone in. Try something new. Slow down. Be soft sometimes. Believe in yourself. Believe in others. See a sunrise. Listen to rain. Reminisce. Cry when you need to. Trust life. Have faith. Enjoy wonder. Comfort a friend. Have good ideas. Make some mistakes. Learn from them. Trust others. Celebrate life.

The beauty of resolving to eat from life's table is that you don't have to wait until the next January or the next Monday morning to begin your new diet. It is fat free, cholesterol free and contains no preservatives. It is a diet that you can begin today. A diet that if accidentally broken, can easily be restarted by simply deciding to change one's attitude.

How often do we break our diets and decide, "Well, I've already broken it anyhow. I might as well gorge myself until next Monday morning?"

By resolving to live life to its fullest, it is unlikely that someone would say, "I didn't have faith today. I'll just wait until next Monday morning." Or I didn't tell my wife I loved her today. I think I'll wait until next December 31st to tell her."

See some days, life is more important than sport. And though there will be football aplenty tomorrow, coupled with bowls filled with left over dip, maybe we can all resolve to live life a little bit differently.TC

Todd Civin is a freelance writer who writes for Bleacher Report, Seamheads and Sports, Then and Now. His top stories can always be found on his blog The 'xoxo' of Sports at www.thexoxoofsports.blogspot.com.

I Want You To Join the Women's Pro Soccer Community

I don't consider myself to be a philosopher, although sometimes I sit quietly in the lotus position rubbing my big Buddha belly and philosophize.

I think for hours on end about many of life's imponderable questions.

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

Is the Pope German?

If a bear craps in the woods and there's no one there to smell it, does it have a scent?

My mother and your mother hung out the clothes. My mother punched your mother right in the nose, what color was the BLOOD?

Even Who's on First and How Did the Chicken cross the road?

I've been able to answer most of them in the following way...Yes.

The others I've been able to answer R-E-D and he was stapled to the rooster.

Recently, I was presented the most imponderable of all imponderables by The Bleacher Report Community Leader Coordinator (a promotion from Chief Cook and Bottle Washer) Dave Morrison, when I petitioned to become the Community Leader of the WPS.

"If a Community has no members", I pondered. "Is it still a Community?

You see, The Women's Professional Soccer League has recently been hatched by the marketing geniuses who believe that their league can succeed where most have dared not tread. Only two weeks after the WPS gave birth to a bouncing baby league, seven teams from coast to coast find themselves with the daunting task of learning to run.

Like Susan B. Anthony, Harriet Tubman, and Sally Ride, these 100 plus women have put history upon their backs and are carrying the torch of the Women's Pro Soccer League.

Being a man who has had more than his share of experience in putting women on their backs (sorry, couldn't resist) I have decided to join them on their ride. I've decided to man the co-pilot seat on the bus they are riding.

And so, I ran (unopposed) in hopes of becoming the First Bleacher Report Community Leader in League History.

I waited on AIM for days, much like I was sitting in the Virtual Waiting Room prior to my children's births.

I chewed my nails and paced the floor of the kitchen in much the same way that Thomas Dewey did before he defeated Eisenhower.

And then it came. An email from the Coordinators of All Community Leaders, Big and Small. I was hand selected. Appointed. I am again One of the Chosen People.

I feel a bit like Latvia sitting next to China at the United Nations, but at least I'm not the former USSR. I exist. My Nation is recognized.

I set up my office and carefully positioned a folding card chair in front of my desk. On the door, I hung a sign which I crafted from tan construction paper and emblazoned with thick bold letters written in black magic marker.

It reads Todd M. Civin Community Leader of Women's Professional Soccer

It's lonely here. I have to admit.

I didn't realize the size of the chunk I had bitten off until I logged on this morning and saw the sign in big bold white letters.

"The Community Has 0 Members"

I looked at it and stared. I've always been an over achiever. After I ran my first 5K, I decided to run a marathon. And after I drove up Mtn Washington in my car, I decided to enter the 6.7 mile up hill race. Running.

And when asked to raise some money for Muscular Dystrophy I opted to sleep on a scaffolding for 48 hours outside of my Service Merchandise Store in an effort to shatter all previous records.

But now, I've decided to do something that seems so much more challenging. I've became ruler of a Nation that has no inhabitants. I feel a bit like Pat Paulsen did when he opted to run for the President of the United States for the first time.

I feel a little bit like a Yodeler standing on the edge of a canyon and shouting Hello...hello..hello...hello...hel...

I truly have the same feeling in my gut when I sitting Shiva after a death in the Jewish religion and waiting for a minion (See page 34 on Judaism 101...This is where I got the info).

I called my Mom and Dad to brag about my new appointment. "Hey Mommy and Daddy", I said still hoping for parental approval. "I was appointed...no named...no Elected by a jury of my peers to be Community Leader of the Women's Soccer Page on Bleacher Report."

I puffed my chest up big. I smiled ear to ear and I waited for Mom and Dad to respond.

I waited for Mom and Dad to respond.

I waited for Mom and Dad to respond.

"Good, Todd," they replied in unison. "And how much does this job pay?" they asked as if somehow being annoyed by my lack of employment.

"No pay. This is for exposure," I responded as all 6,000 of us Bleacher Report writers are brainwashed to respond...(Gotta Drink the Kool-Aid...Zander is God).

"Exposure?" Dad inquired in a mocking tone of voice. "Exposure and $2.19 will buy you a cup of Coffee at Dunkin Donuts", he added.

I slammed the phone down, as I do when my parents don't support my many career choices, and went back to my lap top with a sudden enhanced thirst to succeed.

And then I saw it. Again.

The Community Has 0 Members

And The Pope Is German...

And The Bear's Poop Has No Smell...

And Who is indeed the Name of the Guy on First Base...

Writer Takes The Road Less Traveled

In the mid 1990's, I started a feel-good magazine called Country Essence. I was fed up with the rapes and robberies and murders we are all subjected to on a daily basis fueled not only by the media's need to gain viewership but also by our own sadistic need to know.

We drive by car accidents and rubber-neck in hopes of seeing a mutilated body. We watch the show Cops in hopes of seeing someone who is more messed up than anyone we've ever seen. We are glued to the CBS Nightly News in hopes of feeling just a little worse about our lot in life than we already do. In short, we become part of the problem and not part of the solution.

As a writer, I have a choice.

I can choose to write a juicy story about Manny being Manny, or A-Rod shooting himself up, or Plaxico shooting himself down. My goal, I guess, is not to truly fix the broken world but to score reads and comments.

As you all know, we write strictly for the love of writing or perhaps to be discovered. We write to climb up the rankings and to hopefully see our story or, better than that, our own picture perched atop the unofficial writer's rankings.

Been there. Done that.

It's cool, but it's not why I choose to write.

Like Country Essence, Bleacher Report can be our own personal platform for (yes, that word you're all sick of) CHANGE.

I've now written 35 stories. I've written a half dozen or so that make me feel good and 29 that make me part of the problem. My victories were stories written about my son, my love of the sport of baseball, my loss of my job, my family, and the mentoring I received from a friend who has since passed on.

I've written about the personal achievement of the Italian National Baseball Team and the friendships that the teammates have forged. They made me feel good and I sense the readers have left feeling the same.

So, effective now, I have made a choice. I've made a choice to dare to be different. I can march to the beat of a different drum instead of cruising down the path of negativity. Walk the high road instead of crawling along the road of slander, drivel, and libel.

This idea actually entered my thoughts after I wrote A-Rod Isn't My Hero, My Son is My Hero. My fear was that I'd become predictable. I'd become a cream puff writer. People would start to say, "Oh, more of the same." If I am truly as strong a writer as I profess to be, I'll bet I can remain interesting.

It's so funny how we are so concerned about being repetitively good, instead of caring that we are repetitively bad. Messed up, huh?

A man was walking along a beach. The tide was high. He saw another man, ankle deep in starfish. As each wave would come in, more and more starfish would be beached on the shore.

One by one, the man would reach down into the cold surf and pick up a starfish. A starfish that was doomed to die. He'd throw them into the surf, only to see the majority of them float back onto shore. Occasionally, he would witness one make it over the top of the next approaching wave.

The first man said to the second, "What are you doing? Can't you see that your effort doesn't make a difference?"

The second man bent down and picked up another starfish. He threw it into the ocean. He looked at the other man and said, "Made a difference to that one, didn't it?"

I've chosen to be that man.