To be honest, Christmas and the holiday break can't come soon enough for me. I am ready for three weeks off. Now!

The last few weeks of dealing with the loss of a dear friend and having my second surgery for skin cancer has left me yearning for days of sitting on the couch with nothing to do but write. I need to get back into it. I am suffering some serious withdrawals.

It isn't this blog that I need to get back to writing on. Don't get me wrong... I love my blog. But, I need to find my muse again on something that I have always wanted to finish.

A novel.

And, up until a month ago, I was really enjoying the fact that I had actually been making progress on it. Each day, I would spend an hour or two and everything was flowing. And, most importantly, I was beginning to really like what I saw on the screen of my laptop.

Then, life came at me and everything came to an abrupt stop. It doesn't look as if going to settle down any time soon to allow me to focus completely on my little project.

On Friday, my dermatologist took 20 stitches out of my forehead and informed that in January he would like to start me on chemotherapy treatment. Fortunately, the therapy is simply applying an ointment cream on my face. It doesn't sound nearly as bad as the typical chemotherapy that goes along with most cancers.

I can't help but laugh at the irony of me having to deal with any type of cancer while working on my novel. Cancer is at the center of my book. In fact, it is the reason behind everything that is the book.

It was in the summer of 2006 when the motivation of the book came to fruition. I didn't know it at the time that it would be the motivation for a future novel, it was me simply dealing with real life again.

Laying on hospital bed and awaiting to undergo a colonoscopy, I began to daydream about what I would do if the results of my test proved that I had colon cancer. The dream continued while I was under anestesia and it was so real, so beautiful, and so tangible.

When I was fully awake from the procedure and received the news that all was well, I couldn't stop thinking about the dream. I was glad the whole cancer scare ordeal was over, but I didn't want to lose what I saw and felt in the dream. I eventually stopped thinking about it and the thoughts of the dream were gone forever... Or, so I thought.

While struggling to come up with a post earlier this year, I stopped trying so hard and just started writing. Twenty minutes later, I had the start of my novel. I continued to work on it and I loved how everything I dreamed about came back to me so easily.

Wanting to get some feedback on what I wrote, I started a new blog and posted the first five days of a man heading out to live what he was told would be his last year of life. I have gotten some favorable and some not so favorable feedback on the early stuff.

But, what I have really found is that I like it. Most importantly, I love writing it. The whole process has been so enjoyable for me and I can't wait to get back into it once I get back into it. Does that make sense?

I don't know what will ever happen from it, and at this time, I don't really care what comes from it. I just want to continue to enjoy the process en route to finishing it.

I equate this journey to when I set out to finish my first marathon in 2002. I didn't care how fast I ran or what my time was when I completed the Los Angeles Marathon and the 26.2-mile course. I just wanted to finish it. And, I did.

That's all I want to do now. Finish it.

(In his book Stephen King On Writing, King said the worst thing to do when trying to write a book is to have people read it while it is being written. The writer gets too caught up on what the reader thinks and stops staying true to his/her story. I figured King probably knows what he is talking about, so I stopped posting entries on the other blog after five days. If you would like to read the first five days, head over to www.365todeath.blogspot.com. Start with Day 1 and work back up to Day 5.)

My rock

When it comes to my blog, my life is an open book. I write about anything from my alcoholism to the discomfort my balls have given me at times.

There really has been no limits to what I will write about on here. It is my opinion that if you can't open yourself up in your writing, then what's the point of doing it?

However, I do have my limits. And, my limits have always centered around writing about the people I am close to. I try and stay away from writing about anybody who might not want their personal life on a blog for anyone to read.

That rule is especially true when it comes to who I am dating. Until now.

Meet Jen. She is the hot chick in the picture. But more than being hot, she is my best friend, my biggest supporter, and my rock.

From picking me up in Los Angeles after I spent a night in jail to roaming the sidelines during football games, she is always there for me. And, I am there for her.

We had been close friends for four years before we started dating and it has been so natural for us to be together. There is nothing we can't say to each other and nothing we wouldn't do for each other.

I am truly blessed to have her in my life. It is so great for me to be able say that she feels just as blessed to have me.

So, there you go. You have met Jen.

I probably won't write much about her again. My rule hasn't changed.

But, I am pretty confident that as long as I am on here writing, she won't be too far away.

For the second time this year, I have lost a dear friend and coaching mentor. Coach Jim passed away Friday morning after suffering heart attack. He was 59 and a single father of three young men that I have seen grown up over the last 13 years.

Despite coaching at different schools and never working together, Coach and I developed a strong friendship that really blossomed over the last year. He retired two years ago from football, having coached his last game against my team in a game we won 42-21.

Coach and I spent many nights sitting next to each other on bar stools, having a few beers while talking football. He was a wealth of knowledge and was never apprehensive of sharing what he knew with an opposing coach.

We were two of three coaches who spent many nights together at the bar. We were like court jesters, making others at the bar laugh with our friendly banter that never seemed to stop. It was great fun among three single men who leaned on each other during rough times on and off the field.

There were no tougher time than when one of the three - Coach Bill - passed away in Febuary at 47. Coach Bill worked for me in the late '90s and then went and worked for Coach Jim before he retired in 2007.

Coach Jim and I were devistated with the loss of our friend. However, we were forced to go into survival mode as we along with the owner of the bar had to plan a memorial service for Bill. It was beatifully done and had more than 100 coaches from the area attend.

Ironically, it was just last Wednesday that Coach Jim and I were at the bar and briefly talked about it being the first Thanksgiving without Bill. Two days later, Coach Jim was gone as well.

I can only hope that the two of them are up there together now, looking down at me and cracking jokes at my expense.

Forever Coach Jim's spot at the bar

Should it stay or go?

About the biggest decsion I am going to have to make during my week off is whether or not I should shave my beard off. I stopped shaving midway through the football season after losing a bet with the team.

The season is thankfully over. So, should the beard stay or go? That is the question. Think it over and get back to me.

Just for kicks

Time really hasn't been too kind to me lately. So, no new post any time soon. Enjoy a few cartoon's from the great Gary Larson that I received in an email yesterday. Have a great Friday.


Drink anyone?


To scratch, or not to scratch.


Not saying if this reminds me of me.


Don't do it!

I got home from football practice today and was welcomed into the home by three girls who just back after two days with their Mom. Looking at them, I couldn't believe how beautiful they have become.

After a few minutes of deciding what we are going to do the rest of the day, I walked into my room and took a glance at the mirror on my closet door. I couldn't believe how old I looked with wrinkles every where and grey hair mixed in a beard that needs cutting.

Still looking in the mirror, I wondered how I could of possibly played a role in daughters' beauty.


How did these beautiful girls come from this????



For more Wordful Wednesdays go to Seven Clown Circus.

How did these beautiful girls come from this????

How did this happen?

How did these beautiful girls...

Savannah and Alani

Shelby

Sitting on a cold concrete floor with my arms crossed and my head buried in my chest, a man twice my size and with blood all over his shirt began to walk toward me.

He stopped a foot away from me to my right, unzipped his pants, and began to pee in a urinal. I could have reached over and touched the dirtiest toilet I had ever seen from the only available place to sit when I was led into the cell in the Los Angeles-area jail.

Never moving my head while he was there, I closed my eyes and began to wonder what brought me to what was no doubt the lowest point in my life. I am lucky enough to be a father of four beautiful girls, have the job that I wanted ever since I was in grade school, and I am generally pretty happy in life.

Yet, here I sit with nine other men, at 2 a.m. on Sunday morning, in a 10x10 cell, knowing that five hours later my girls would wake up and ask my roommates why their Dad was not home. That thought made me realize that there was really only one thing that could make me jeopardize everything that I had in my life.

It was alcohol. Like my mother had been all my childhood and my older brother who developed into one as a young adult, I knew then that I had become an alcoholic.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Seven hours earlier, I fought through Los Angeles traffic en route to my 20th high school reunion. Truthfully, I didn't want to go and see my former teammates on what was one of the best football teams our school ever had.

However, I was repeatedly told that I had no choice.

"Brett, you have to go," Jenny said, who I had known since junior high and was the reunion organizer. "You are the football coach of the school we graduated from. How can you not go? Everyone will want to see you!"

That was exactly the reason why I didn't want go. While seeing old friends and sharing stories from the past was intriguing, having to answer questions on why our football team is now struggling was worth avoiding.

"Don't worry about all that..." Jenny continued. "You will have a blast and everyone won't care about what the team is doing now."

She was right. I did have a blast and everyone was more interested in seeing pictures of my girls than how the team was doing.

For five hours, I laughed, shared parenting stories, and reconnected with people I had grown up with and hadn't seen since graduation. And, I drank.

Every time another former teammate or friend walked up to me to talk, they brought with them a drink for me. I didn't buy a drink during the night. But, that didn't stop me from not knowing how many I drank.

Despite going with the intention of not drinking, I never turned down a drink and was enjoying downing beers with my former drinking buddies.

I was funny, loud, and felt pretty damn good about myself. The shy, insecure kid from high school was now the head football coach at the school we all went to and was also the fun guy to be around.

Shortly after 11 p.m., I began to say goodbyes and started to head to my car when I was stopped by one of my oldest friends.

"Hey, are you OK to drive?" he asked while puffing on a cigarette.

"Yea, I am good. But, let me bum a few cigarettes for the drive home. It will keep me busy and awake."

He handed me three cigarettes and I got in my car and jumped on the freeway. I drove for 30 minutes and thought I was driving just as I would if I was sober.

Driving in the fast lane, I finished the first cigarette and flicked it out the window to avoid the smell lingering in my car. Rolling my window back up, I checked the rear view mirror. My heart began to race as I saw the flashing lights of a California Highway Patrol car behind me.

I couldn't believe it. I had no idea how drunk I was, but was pretty sure I was over the legal limit of .08. Moving my car off the freeway and onto an off ramp, I told myself to calm down and act relaxed when the CHP approached my car.

Stopped on the side of the road, I waited as two officers approached both sides of my car.

"License and registration please," said the younger of the two CHPs.

"Here you go, Sir. Everything alright?"

"Well, everything was alright until you threw a cigarette out your window. Have you been drinking?"

I was speechless and didn't know what to say. Stupidly, I lied.

"No, Sir."

"Well, you were driving fine and we pulled you over because of the cigarette. But, I can smell alcohol on you. If you would have told me you had two beers, we would probably have let you go. You need to get out of your car for a sobriety test. Are you willing do that?"

"Yes, Sir. Whatever you want."

I got out and went through test after test. I touched my nose with my eyes closed, counted backwards, and walked foot over foot down an imaginary line. After I was done, the CHPs talked to one another quietly for a moment before asking me to blow into a breathalyzer.

I agreed and waited patiently after blowing the first time. The younger CHP then asked me to blow again. It was after the second time that I began to understand the situation I was in.

"How fucked am I?" I asked as he waited for the results. "Am I fucked? I am so fucked. Damn... I can't believe this. I am so fucked."

He then looked up from the breathalyzer and told me what I didn't want to hear.

"Sir, you blew .0823. You have the right to reamin silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After two slip-ups on consecutive weekends after my arrest, I am proud to say that I have not had a drink in 115 days. It hasn't always been easy, but it also hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be either.

Instead of drinking after football games with other coaches, I drink iced tea or have a non-alcoholic drink. No one harasses me about not drinking, and I can't believe how much easier it is on Saturdays or Sundays at football meetings or practices without suffering from a hangover.

The definition of an alcoholic is different for every alcoholic. I believe I am an alcoholic because I couldn't stop once I got started. Enough said.

I am thankful that my night in jail didn't involve me hurting anyone with my car, didn't cause me to lose my family, my job, or end the relatively new relationship I am in with a wonderful woman. It could have been a lot worse for me and my family.

But, that still doesn't change that fact I am... "Brett, and I am an alcoholic."

Dear Coach,

Just wondering, where have you been? Everything alright? Been too long since we have heard from you on your blog. Hope all is well. Can we get anything from you soon?

Sincerely,

Your Bro

That's right. I got an email from one of my best friends from high school asking me where I have been. I have a question for him now... Why not call me and ask? My blog is the only place we can connect?

Where I have been? How about trying to endure a football season from hell?

Or, how about going to a doctor appointment in October for a rash and being told a I need a number of biopsies done on different spots on my face? Doesn't matter what kind of cancer it is, being told that you have can scare you a little.

Or, how about trying to move from one side of the town to the other with little help from guys like you? There is only so much four little girls under 11 can carry from the house to the moving van.

Or, how about having to hire a lawyer for the first time in my life for something other than a divorce? After having never been in sort of trouble with the law in 38 years, I spent the night in a jail cell with nine other guys who actually looked like they belonged there. Good times.

Or, how about rushing out after my last class to get my girls from their school, bringing them back with me to football practice for three hours, heading home to make dinner, help them with homework, and then finally putting them to bed?

Is that enough? Or, should I go on? Even I did write a real post, I wouldn't know where to start.

With two weeks left in the football season, I hope to get back to writing on regular basis. But again, where do I start when I start?

How about this... you tell me what you want to know more about from what I told you that has be happening. Do you want to know more about my football season, my battle with skin cancer that currently has me with 32 stitches in my head, my time as a jailbird, the move from hell, or the comings and goings with my girls?

You decide.

Grandma in my thoughts

I woke up this morning with a message on my phone from my Dad. Ater telling me about all the fun he had on his fishing trip to Alaska, he got down to the real reason why he called.

"Brett, Grandma is in the hospital," he said of his 92-year-old mother. "It doesn't appear to be life-threatening, but you might want to call her. I know she would like that."

My Grandma has always been very special to me and I to her. I can't imagine not having her in my life even though she lives 1,200 miles away.

After getting the phone number of the hospital from my step-mother, I called my Grandma and we talked for several minutes. Not surprisingly, the call centered around me and my girls. She had no interest talking about her health.

"How are the girls, Bretty?" she said. Grandma is the only person that I would allow to call me "Bretty".

"They probably don't remember me. I loved when you guys would come over and have lunch with me. Be sure you tell them about me and that I love them."

"I do Granmda. All the time."

She moved out of the Los Angeles area a few years ago and I have only seen her once since at her 90th birthday party. I don't call or write her as much as I should, but she is always not far from my thoughts.

I wrote her a letter on my blog in January and I am posting it again for her. She deserves to hear how much she means to me as much as possible.

Dear Grandma,

It has been almost two years since I saw you and I can't tell you how much I miss you and our visits. I know I should call more often. I can tell you how busy I am teaching and coaching, or I can tell you how much time it takes to try and to do my best raising my little girls...but there really is no excuse. After all, a phone call takes just a few minutes to make.

I guess what I want you to know is how much you mean to me and how much I loved spending time with you and Grandpa. Over the years I have periodically been asked who my heroes are... with no reservation I have answered it has been and always will be you two. I can't imagine a greater pair of role models. You are everything I want to be in life, and everything I want to have in life.

Having been married and divorced twice, I can't tell you how much I envy you two and the relationship you had. I can't imagine being married for 60-plus years like you two were. I am not naive to think it was always easy, which only makes me respect this great accomplishment even more.

But more than just being able to make a marriage work for so long, your greatest accomplishment is in the kids you raised. A registered nurse, an aeronautical engineer, and a President of a bank. All have been incredibly successful in their careers, no doubt because of the pride in their work and desire to do everything to the best of their ability that you and Grandpa instilled in them.

Aside from what they have accomplished professionally, they have all remained close with each other and would do anything for you. What more can a parent ask for than that? You have truly been rewarded for your great work as a parent.

I often look back at the times we spent together. Spending the summer in Chicago and the summers you flew out here to Southern California were truly some of the greatest times of my life. Watching you walk off the plane every time you flew out here was a moment that I looked so forward to and one that I still relive today.

There are times when one of my daughters wants to climb into my lap when I am having a long day or just want a moment to myself. As soon as I start to push her away, I think of you and how you were always there for me to climb into your arms or rest my head in your lap as you ran your fingers through my hair. How can I turn down my daughters after remembering how you never turned me away?

I can't imagine how lonely you have been since Grandpa has passed. Please know that you have a grandson who thinks of you often and tells his children what a wonderful Grandma I have in you.

I promise you this year that I will do a better job of calling you on a regular basis. But even if I don't, I wrote this today because I wanted you to have this with you whenever you may be thinking, "How come my Brett hasn't called me in awhile?" I want you to read it so you can know that there is no one who can admire you more, respect you more, and simply love you more than I do. I also want you to know that I will always be YOUR Brett.

Your loving Grandson,

Brett


Grandma and her grandchildren

My girls and I started school this week. I started my fifteenth year as a high school teacher, Kern started sixth grade, Savannah is now in third, Shelby moved into first, and Alani is now officially in school with Kindergarten.

We are now represented in the high school, middle school, and elementary schools in our town. All of us were both excited about the start of school and sad to see our summer of lounging around the pool come to an end.

On Tuesday, I skipped my first period of class to take the three youngest to their first day on the new year. With four daughters, I am often baffled by the differences in personalities that they all posses. One might assume that growing up with the same parents and same environment, there would be more similarities in my children.

Savannah was a veteran of the whole process, Shelby was terrified and crying the whole time, and Alani was... Alani.

Alani could not be more different than the other three. She is fearless, independent, incredibly intelligent, possesses a sense of humor way beyond her years, and has battled and overcome an addiction of using a foul tongue she inherited from her father. Basically, Alani has no idea she is 5-years-old.

When her mother and I walked her into the Kindergarten class on Tuesday, we were surrounded by other munchkins clinging to their father or mother's leg. Alani simply looked around the room, took a few steps away from me, and quickly turned back toward me and looked up.

"You OK, baby?" I said.

"Yep. You guys can go now. I'll see you after school. OK, Dad."

What? She didn't want us to stick around until class actually started like all the parents? She might have been ready for us to leave, but I wasn't ready to go.

"Well babe, I think your Mom wants to wait here with you for awhile. It is your first day of real school and all."

"OK Dad, but I am going to walk around and check it out."

After 20 minutes of waiting to meet her teacher, I left Alani and she didn't seem all that concerned with my exit. She sat down at her desk, opened a book, and started to thumb through the pages.

With that, my youngest and last daughter to enter school was ready to get started. It didn't seem to matter to her that I wasn't all that ready for her to move on to the next stage in her life.

I met Danny Evans of Dad Gone Mad during my first Journalism class at Fresno State in 1991. We were two Southern California sports fans in a sea of NorCal dweebs who thought the sporting world centered around the Golden State Bridge in San Francisco.

We quickly developed a friendship and I found Danny to be funny, quick-witted, and rather confident in his ability. Spending just a few minutes around Danny, I realized I was no longer the big fish in a little pond. I came from a small Southern California community college and thought I was a big deal having spent two years as the school newspaper's sports editor and worked a part-time at the local paper.

Along with others in that first class, Danny had far more experience in the writing field and seemed much more at ease about being surrounded by people who thought they were good enough with the keyboard to make some serious in the future at big market newspapers and magazines.

During our three years at college together, we played intramural basketball together, played golf, drank beer, snuck into the dorm's cafeteria for lunch and dinners, shared the campus radio airwaves as sports talk show hosts and annalists for school's softball teams, and covered the football games as sportswriters for the school's newspaper. In all the time we were at Fresno State, I don't remember ever studying together. Yet, on a Saturday morning in May of 1994, we both walked onto Bulldog Stadium as college graduates.

After graduation, I left Fresno to become a football coach at the high school I graduated from in Southern California. In need of employment, Danny accepted my offer of helping him land at a job at my hometown newspaper that I worked at three years earlier.

He spent my first season as a varsity assistant covering the team for the newspaper in of our school's greatest seasons. A few months later, Danny left for Orange County and we have had very little contact since his departure.

Thirteen years later while surfing the web, I googled Danny Evans in hopes of finding out where his writing skills have taken him. Not to my surprise, I found his blog Dad Gone Mad and quickly became hooked.

Reading his stuff was no different than sitting in his dorm room back in college. With humor, sensitivity, and brutal honesty, it was no wonder that his site was so popular among reader and advertisers.

I loved everything that I read and after eating up every post, I decided in January to give this blogging thing a try. Not because I thought I could be as good or better than him, but because it became obvious to me that his writing was a form a therapy for him and also provided an outlet for him to get anything and everything off his chest.

While I may have not been able to be as committed to blogging as he has been, I have found it to be rather therapeutic. I have also found that while I love my career choice in education and coaching, I have missed writing more than I would ever admit.

As a follower of Dad Gone Mad, I have waited as patiently as I could for the last year for Danny's first book to be published on August 4th. Deciding last weekend that I could wait no longer, I emailed Danny last weekend hoping that our onetime friendship and the the promise to post of review of Rage Agaisnt the Meshugenah.

After spending the afternoon in the backyard while my girls swam in the pool and the evening at the school getting ready for the start of my third season as the varsity coach, I got home late last night and found his book in my mailbox. Immediately, I opened the package, planted myself on the couch, and dove in head first.

I finished this morning and haven't been able to stop thinking about it. Friend or not, Danny Evans has produced something that I was lucky to read. Something that I needed to read.

Still sitting on the couch eight hours after finishing it, I am unable to do it justice and write the review just yet. I need to finish digesting it.

I will say that it is better than I could ever imagined. It is something that anyone who has suffered from depression, loved someone who has suffered from it, and known anyone diagnosed as clinically depressed has to get their hands on it.

By Sunday, I will tell more and really get into what Danny went through and overcame. I will say that he has written something brilliant and I am glad to say that my first impression of Danny being funny, honest, and an incredible writer was right on.

(For more information about Danny Evans, his blog, and his book, visit Dad Gone Mad.)

OK. So, I suck. I haven't submitted a post in quite some time. Seems life sometimes gets in the way of doing the things that you love doing like writing.

My girls, summer school, and trying to get ready for the upcoming football season has made it next to impossible to blog on a daily or even a weekly basis.

I have received a number of emails asking me what has happened to me as of late. The fact is not much has happened.

My girls have spent the summer with me at football practice. When we are not on the field, we have been spending the weekends two hours away at our mobile home in Lake Isabella.

It is a small town community in the Western Sierra Mountains that has some of the best fishing in California. Already this summer, my girls have caught their first fish and have spent many hours swimming in the lake.

The love it and I love reconnecting with a spot that my parents and I went to nearly every summer when I was a kid. I frequented it during my 20s a number of times and even stayed in the same mobile home that I took over from my former head football coach two months ago.

I wrote about this spot in a prior post and shared the story of how I was mistaken in a local bar as the kid from "A Christmas Story." Good times for sure.

However, not as fun as spending time with my girls there. They have already decided that we would be spending the next holiday season up there.

Looks like another version of "A Christmas Story" will be in the making.

I love to text message. I find it to be a perfect outlet to get straight to the point the with a person without the annoyance of having to acually have a real conversation with someone.

Nothing worse to have to be on the phone for 10 minutes with someone when all you need is a one- to two-word response from the person. Text a simple question and wait a few minutes for the answer.

"Hey, what time is the meeting tonight?"

"7 p.m."

Perfect. Didn't have to hear about his or her day and got the information I was looking to get. Impersonal as hell, however, gets straight to the point.

But... text messaging does have its' drawbacks. Like when you text something personal as hell to the wrong person.

Oh, the problems that can cause. I have been guilty of it many times.

The first time was three years ago when my ex-wife picked up my kids from me on a night I was to entertain the Most Beautiful Woman in the World. As soon as she was gone, I quickly typed up the following text:

"Hey... I am finally alone. Hurry up! I want you now!"

Instead of sending it to the Most Beautiful Woman in the World, I sent it to the last person I texted. My ex-wife.

Needless to say, my night didn't go as planned. Instead, I ended up driving to the exes house to pick up my kids because the ex threatened to leave town for good with my girls if I didn't come get them.

You would think I learned my lesson after that. Nope. Yesterday, I did it again.

This time a new coach I just hired was on the receiving of one of my personal texts that went to an innocent receiver.

Last weekend, I spent the weekend with two women co-workers in Las Vegas to help put an end to a recent but lingering funk I have been in. We had a blast going from club to club watching each other hitting on and being hit on by other patrons.

It was great fun. The highlight of the night was listening to one of my friends having to endure on of the worst lines I have ever heard.

"Excuse me. . . can I be blunt?", said an obviously drunk man in his late 50s from New York.

"Absolutely,", said my friend.

I sat in excitement with what he was about to say to my very attractive friend. After hearing what he said, I knew I would never make the same mistake.

"You have real nice boobies."

My friend laughed and said thank you for stating the obvious and kindly asked him to leave.

We laughed all weekend about it and I thought I would have a little fun with her by sending that line to her yesterday afternoon in a text message. But, instead, I sent it to my newly hired coach that I have only known briefly for a month.

While he is a big guy, I would never say he has man boobs. Even if he did, I would never tell him, "You have real nice boobies."

I realized my mistake when I got a text from the coach.

"Hey Coach... While I am flattered, I really think we should keep our relationship strictly to football. But, again, thanks for the compliment."

Damn, I did it again. And, I did it to a guy who I am so thankful that I was able to steal from a rival school. While I was kicking myself for the fuck up, I got another text from him.

"You know Coach, if you take me to Vegas, I will show you my boobies."

Well... at least this time the recipient of my wrong text had a sense of humor about it.

I Want Revenge Saturday

One of my favorite sporting events to watch with my girls is the Kentucky Derby. I love the pageantry and the history of the event. They love the horses and the women in the stands with their fancy clothes and hats.

We have started the first Saturday in May off the same way for the last six years. Waking up, grabbing the newspaper, and then all sitting down in the living room choosing our own horse to root on later that day.

The person who picks the winning horse gets to decide what family activity we will do Sunday. Not a bad way to spend a day with your daughters.

However, this year my girls and I will be rooting for one horse and one horse only.

I Want Revenge is the early favorite and a friend of mine happens to own one percent of the horse. He will be at my house Saturday enjoying the race with my girls and I in what should be an exciting day.

All week I have been reading articles on how I Want Revenge has been training and all indications are that he is primed for a big race. The anticipation of watching has been building and my girls are almost as excited as I am.

"How many more days until the horses race, Daddy?" Alani asked Monday morning during breakfast.

"Five more, baby."

"And your friend's horse is going to win, right?"

"I hope so."

"Good, then that's the horse I am picking."

I Want Revenge is the horse my girls and I will all be picking this year. And, we can't wait to watch him run.

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