Killing Herndon - An Open Letter to the President

Dear President Obama,

On the 12th of September, 1857, a 43-year old United States Navy Commander was given leave of his military command to captain the commercial sidewheel steamship SS Central America from Panama to New York.

You see, this famous and vital run was not the sort of trip you trusted to amateurs, and especially not when carrying nearly 600 passengers and 15 tons of gold (worth $2,000,000 back then). So it was common practice for commercial shipping companies to employ military ship captains on these treacherous and important voyages to keep their crews, cargoes and passengers safe. After all, in the 1850’s, sailing through the Caribbean wasn’t a lazy jaunt past resort islands and pleasure cruisers. No, the dangerous waters just below North America were a festering stew of bad weather, vicious piracy, and unmarked shoals - and if you were going to make passage through them, when you looked up on the command deck of the boat, you wanted to see a man in uniform, a Navy man, and if you were fortunate enough, an Annapolis man.

And so it was with the 575 souls aboard the Central America. With the sweltering heat of summer just passed, wealthy travelers and dignitaries eagerly seized the opportunity to accompany one of the largest shipments of gold ever at that point back to New York where it promised untold wealth for the men who had previously sent it from the California coast down to the west side of Panama. Passage with the famous Commander Herndon (having just a few years before completed what was then the most comprehensive exploration of the South American Amazon basin), aboard the luxurious and newly-built Central America, and in the cooling autumn breezes meant that this normally treacherous journey would be as safe, comfortable and incident-free as could be afforded at the time. But after safely reaching, stopping into and subsequently leaving Havana, things took a turn for the worse.

The Central America headed up the American coast, and as luck would have it, a hurricane had a similar trip planned. The crew struggled valiantly, but after a three-day battle with the tropical storm off the coast of South Carolina, the ship was doomed. As it began to succumb, Commander Herndon ordered the women and children to the main deck to begin evacuation. He oversaw as 153 people were loaded into lifeboats and safety, but refused to leave the deck of his ship. The last recorded sighting of him was “in full uniform, standing by the wheelhouse with his hand on the rail, hat off and in his hand and bowed in prayer as the ship gave a lurch and went down.”

Since his tragic and honorable death, the Navy has honored Commander Herndon with two ships named after him, and perhaps most famously, by erecting a 21-foot granite obelisk on the inner Yard of the Naval Academy, just steps from the beloved and world-famous Chapel, that simply bears his name in capital letters: “HERNDON”.

This monument is also the site of a seventy year old tradition at the U.S. Naval Academy, by which the Academy’s freshmen, or “plebes“ mark the completion of, what has been for most of them, the most difficult year of their lives. “Plebe Year” is a year of endless physical, mental and emotional challenges that outside of the other state and federal military academies, has no analog. It is a year of running, shouting, learning, cleaning, studying, working, and enduring. It is, if even measurably, exponentially more difficult than the freshman year of any state college or private school student. It is a sacrifice to prove worthy of brotherhood. No matter how detailed the description, it is inconceivable except to those who have lived through it, and when it is finally completed - it offers an incomparable moment of joy, pride and relief. And to reach this moment the Academy offers up to the freshman class one final challenge - a challenge they have all either seen or heard of, shortly after arriving on campus. According to tradition, the Herndon rock is covered with two hundred pounds of lard, and a blue-rimmed dixie cup (the hat the Plebes wear during their first summer) is taped to the top. The task is simple: take the dixie cup off, and replace it with a combination cover, the hat worn by midshipmen during the rest of their time on the Yard. The only tool they are given? Each other. The one and only time, upperclassmen included, that a midshipmen is ever given the opportunity to (1) wear athletic gear on the stored inner Yard and (2) set foot on the sacred lawn of the same, is for the completion of this monumental assignment.

As you might imagine, it is not easy. Is it is hot, slippery, sweaty and smelly. It is brutal and joyful, marked by moments of ecstasy (as hands reach perilously close the top) and cries of pain (as human pyramids tumble onto the throng below). It is group effort so massive that it nearly has life of its own: speaking with its own voice, in its own language, rising and falling like the chest of a heaving giant, and moving with both the strength and weakness that is composition provides. There are crews standing by with hoses to keep the beast from overheating, cannoneers a short bit away marking each 15 passing minutes in the creature’s short lifespan, and a crowd of mystified, awestruck and horrified onlookers cheering in its life and ultimate demise. It is also not safe. Sending a thousand college freshman in shorts and t-shirts to build a human pyramid on a lard-covered rock with no training and only the barest of instructions is not the sort of thing you do if bumps and bruises are of concern. But it is in those bumps, bruises, scrapes and cuts that the class is truly born. Like the year that precedes it, and the climactic actions of the man whose monument bears it, it teaches that nothing great is easy, and so long as you aspire to greatness, you can expect sacrifices (both big and small) along your way. For me, it meant scrapes down my arms and legs as I was raked down the rock’s north face, a sore neck from having a classmate literally standing on it, and innumerable bruises whose specific origins were lost in my own bliss as we reached the top.

I suspect that though he never lived to see it, that Commander Herndon would be proud to have his name endure as the seminal test of the Academy’s midshipmen; a rite of passage without compare. And I wonder what he would say to Vice Adm. Jeffrey L. Fowler, the Academy’s departing Superintendent, who nearly scrapped the entire ritual, and only ended up eviscerating it (by removing the lard) as his parting shot. I wonder how the storied Commander would look at this 1978 graduate, who after having spent a career aboard nuclear submarines in one of the world’s most dangerous and unforgiving environments, decided to punctuate his political flag-rank career by emasculating one of the Academy’s greatest traditions under the auspices of “safety”. Had Commander Herndon survived that fatal voyage in 1857, I suspect he, too, would have ended up commanding only larger and larger desks, and becoming more gentleman and politician than warrior. But I refuse to believe that he would have run so far afield of his days in command that he would demand that only purposeful and risk-free elements of officer training be retained; ignoring the value of such elements in his own development and perhaps trying to secure a place in a liberal administration who seems ever more bent on sissifying the nation’s armed services. Because I choose to believe Patton’s historic refrain that “old soldiers never die, they simply fade away.” And it makes me wonder if Mr. Fowler was ever a soldier in the first place.

Mr. Fowler’s actions may be consistent with current trends and may simply be a symptom of much larger problem, but that is no excuse and little consolation. Of the many lessons I learned at Annapolis, the most important was that the right thing to do is not always popular with subordinates, peers, superiors or even the public, but it remains the right thing to do - and as an Annapolis man, nothing less would be expected or tolerated from me. As a passenger aboard the Central America I would be counting on the very same to keep me safe, and prior to this incident, I have always felt the Academy’s legacy was similarly safe in the hands of men who walked its hallowed halls themselves. But I cannot fathom the narcissism, shameless self-interest and pomposity it requires to abandon the principal tenets of the institution that raised you in the name of political gain and the false production of one’s own legacy. There was a time that simply placing your name amongst the few men who have had the honor of leading the Academy was enough to mark the career of any officer as successful - apparently that time is passed, and now to be remembered you must change the Academy in some memorable way. It seems that no institution is safe from this Age of Entitlement.

To put it into perspective, Mr. Fowler’s actions have made me feel something I have previously never felt, and that is embarrassed to be a submariner. Of all the terrible surprises in this story, none was worse than finding out Mr. Fowler and I had both served in the same service. In fairness, the sub community has always, in its own way, held itself apart from (and even above) the rest of the fraternity of Naval officers, but I never expected that would come to this. I never expected that our pragmatism and intellectualism would become bastardized, short-sighted and downright stupid. I couldn’t have imagined that the crucible of underwater war-fighting could generate someone so foolishly paternal and mired in political correctness to the point of bald ignorance. I can only hope that the tens of thousands of men who have preceded Mr. Fowler, and the many more that will follow him in the silent service will stand up beside me and let him know that he does not speak for us, he does not represent us, and despite his service, is not welcome amongst us.

If Mr. Fowler expects to convince a group of officers specially selected for their academic aptitude that he has legitimate reasons aside from his own self-aggrandizement for his actions, he’s going to have to try harder than offering up “safety” as his primary motivation. Does he really expect any of us to buy such an argument when there are literally dozens of events on the Yard that produce larger number of small injuries, a greater risk of incident and an even less-tenuous connection to actual Fleet activity? What about varsity sports, intramural Field-ball, formal parades, Leatherneck, Pre-Airborne, Lightweight football open tryouts, running the sea wall, not canceling classes after ice storms, Army Week, March Over, pep rallies, cannoneers, the 40-year-swim, and his beloved Sea Trials (just to name a few)? Are they on the chopping block, too? Or did Jeff get pulled off the rock as a plebe before he could get to the top, and this is his way at getting back at all of us?

In the weeks since I learned of this tragedy, I’ve written and read countless comments and commentary, and I’ve been accused by a few of overreacting. After all, it’s only one ceremony, it’s not as though their tearing down the walls, right? Wrong. This one thing is indicative of what else is happening there, and just one bad enough to finally garner some media attention. It is, quite literally, the tip of the iceberg. We live in a world where the modern iterations of many storied institutions are simply shadows of their predecessors. We ought to be careful to hang on to the ones we can, even when it seems as though doing so will do little to quell the tide.

I am fiercely proud of my Academy experience. Between my degree and commission from USNA and my JD from Stanford Law School, only the former hangs on my office wall. I spent two years as Bill the Goat and believe that I am one of the most ardent and fanatical Navy Football supporters even today (for the record, I’d gladly pay thousands to put that costume on again just one more time). I have an “N” tattooed on my side and hate Notre Dame with a white hot passion that only an Annapolis man could. If given the occasion to explain how I’ve gotten so far in my own life, I never forget to mention that without the Naval Academy, I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere. And with that, I believe the institution is worth saving. I believe that we should rise up both as a nation of alumni, and simply as a nation and stop this nonsense, before my beloved alma mater becomes East Maryland State University.

Sir, I’ve never asked you for much, and I know you're busy but since you’ve had time to weigh in on the LeBron James free agency, I figure you’ve got time for this. Mr. President, my prescription for saving Navy:

1. Censure Jeff Fowler. Let his farewell tour of the Yard be just that. No promotion, no operational command. Give him two options: retire now with your pension, or retire now without it. The vast majority of his career is worthy of an honorable resignation - but, no matter how many stars you’ve got, unless you’re an actual war hero (e.g. John McCain), you don’t get to kick tradition in the balls and keep on moving up the Chain of Command.

2. Hand Pick the New Superintendent. Only ask him/her one question: will you put the lard back on the Rock? If the first words out of his/her mouth aren’t “Yes, absolutely”, move on.

3. Go See It. Next June (since you’re headed there anyways), take that little trip 30 miles up the road to Annapolis a week early and watch Herndon. To my knowledge, no President has ever witnessed it in person, and I know how you like being first to do things. Once you’ve seen it, write about it. And tell your successor about it. Trust me, you’ll have something to say once you see it - and you'll be glad you saved it.

In closing, let me just say that as men, we are rarely put in a position to really do something, and when we are, we often shrink from the task under the pressure from and obligation to those who got us and keep us there. I cannot imagine the pressure you are under but this is a real opportunity to effect that change you spoke about during your campaign. Of course, this one small thing will not swing the pendulum of legacy for your Presidency one way or another, but it has an air about it that I hope will make it unavoidable, and that is, it is the right thing to do. Because when it comes to killing Herndon, don’t you think that’s the sort of thing we should only do once?

Sincerely, 

Glenn H. Truitt
USNA ’97

Thanking Coach

Like most athletes, I’ve had a lot of coaches in my time. Coaches hold a special place in American culture; somewhere between parent and teacher, someplace between best friend and arch-nemesis, a person with whom you might share your greatest victory and someone who may very well deliver your greatest defeat. Coaches come in all shapes and sizes; big coaches, little coaches, mean coaches, friendly coaches; coaches who yell, coaches who drill, coaches with catchphrases, coaches with bad hair. Some coaches never played the game they coach, while some play it still (or at least think they can). There are coaches that look good in suits, and coaches who look about as comfortable in suits as they would standing on the sideline naked. Nevertheless, many of us mark time in our lives with the coaches we’ve had. There are some lessons that only a coach can teach; things you would never have learned from your parents, friends, or that “school of hard knocks” you keep referring to (though you’ve been in private school since you were 18). Funny thing is, these most important lessons are most often learned from the coach you’d least expect them from.

I have to admit, I do like the word “Coach”. It’s respectful but still intimate - an unspoken understanding between athletes. Some coaches want you to use their first name, some want you to call them Mr. This or Ms. That., even rarer still are those who insist on sir or ma’am (outside of Texas high school football). But there’s something about saying “Hey Coach...” which lets someone know that you’re ready to take direction, and that you trust what they’re about to send you out to do. And so, every coach I’ve ever had I’ve called “Coach”. The last coach I had is probably the last coach I’ll ever have - there aren’t a lot of professional team sports opportunities for a 35 year old with a double spinal fusion, and whose two greatest sporting abilities are his ability to throw (a) girls and (b) frisbees (I’m sure my dad secretly wishes those were strikes and touchdowns - but sometimes you get what you get). My final coach was the coach of the Clippers Fan Patrol - the professional coed cheerleading squad for the L.A. Clippers - although her official title was “Director” - and like every last anything, ours is a story that deserves to be told; as she was, surprisingly enough, the coach that taught me the most.


Old Cheerleaders Never Die...

...they just keep finding other places to stunt. It’s true. Forget about the clapping, chanting, hand-motions, spirit fingers and any of that ancillary nonsense. Most cheerleaders just put up with that stuff because it’s an excuse to stunt. Don’t get me wrong, we are the energetic sort - but we’re also not stupid, so we know the cheese factor of what we have to do to earn the right to do acrobatics in front of strangers. Of course, as we get older, two things happen: 1. Our tolerance for wearing ill-fitting and awfully colored polyester, shouting chants to the detriment of our vocal cords and trying to generate excitement whilst starting at a sea of apathetic faces wears very thin (notwithstanding the license it provides); and 2. We’re not good for the four quarters, two halves, daily/weekly practices, warm-ups, stretching, etc., that we used to be (no matter what our brains may tell us). As a result, we end up finding places that will let us do the throwing, catching, flying, spinning and stretching that we love, both as little as we’d like and with as little hassle as we can. For some, it’s skulking around open gyms, while others find spots on pro teams, and for the precious few who can manage it, they coach.

Such was the case with Jessie. An All-American cheerleader for literally decades before - she, like many all-stars before her, found herself on camp staffs, then leading camp staffs, and then ultimately coaching. Though I didn’t know her then, I expect at each stop along this road, she stole a little time away for herself, throwing a stunt, basket, or other such skill every now and again - both to make certain that she still had it (though there was little doubt) and because, well, once you’ve got the itch - it’s hard to ignore. And that’s the beauty of a coach who’s played the game at the highest level: you know damned well that if you don’t live up to their standard, they’ll likely just step in and do it themselves (probably better than you did - and just as well as they did it ten years ago). What’s more, they get you - in a way that you sometimes don’t get yourself. They know what you do, how you do it, and most importantly, why. Which is why Jessie was a great cheerleading coach - she was a great cheerleader first.

The Cat Herd

At each level of any sport, the higher you go, the less teaching-of-the-game you have to do, and the more management of challenging personalities you must do. Despite what you may think you know about the group Coach Jessie was tasked to lead, you have no idea. As uniform as we may have appeared, we couldn’t have been a much more diverse group. We were young and old (ages 19 to 37), tall and short (4’11” to 6’6”), quiet and loud (yes, I know, quiet cheerleaders), and cocky and, well, o.k. for the most part all of us were cocky. We came from wildly different backgrounds, both personally, and in our own sport: some from rich families and some from poor, some from storied college programs and some who had only ever cheered in competition. To say we may have been a difficult bunch to lead would be akin to saying that Miley Cyrus may grow up a little socially maladjusted. We were a coaching nightmare.

But Coach was stoic, optimistic and loving. Always. You could see that most of us started out thinking that she didn’t have much chance of coaching us when we first met her - and for some, that petulant stare never went away. But she endured, and for many of us, she earned that spot she had - and we rewarded her with something that most of us did for precious few others, we listened. It’s a powerful thing when you realize for the first time that someone is really listening to you - you know, when a child is hanging on your every word for guidance, and you know fully well that they will take every bit of what you say as absolute gospel. It’s heady, empowering and sometimes scary. Of course, Coach had kids of her own, and it clearly wasn’t her first time both earning and exercising this responsibility. She used it well. She knew just the right amount of shenanigans to put up with, the right moment to drop the hammer, the time to pull someone aside. She knew how each of us ticked, she knew how to push you, she knew how to make you do what she needed from you, she knew how to make you feel like she hadn’t done much at all, and that you did it all on your own. Most importantly, she never lost sight of the fact that it was, in fact, cats, she was herding. They would never be cattle, they would never fall in line, bond like a football or volleyball team, or be lead by simply a strong hand. And that was really the genius in it after all.

The Captain I Wasn’t

I’m not quite sure how Coach saw me at first. I was going through so much personal change when we first met, I scarcely knew myself back then. On the doorstep of a new legal career, my first real job that didn’t involve a uniform, and in a terrifyingly new city where I didn’t know a soul. I was shy but loud, all heart and little technique. I was older than most of the group and felt it. I always suspected that I’d have more in common with Coach than I would with most anyone on the line. But I insisted on calling her “Coach” - and when she finally realized that this wasn’t just a verbal slip on my part, she gave me an odd look (as did many of my teammates). I suspect I may have been the first cheerleader in her charge to ever do so - at least at the pro-level. But she handled it with her customary aplomb.

My personality was a tremendously bad fit with the existing team’s at the time I joined. I was faster, more energetic and louder than most everyone (save my dearest Sanchez) - a cheerleader trained at a military academy - and, after expecting everyone to be exactly like me, visibly disappointed in my teammates. Coach saw it, and could see the storm brewing on the horizon. The strong personalities in the locker room, especially the team captains she had selected, brushed harshly against my own, and as you might expect, ultimately came to a head. One day, I forgot myself, and in a fit of childish rage, stormed off the court during warm-ups. Coach found me immediately, and the care and concern which she had always previously addressed me with was gone from her face. She presented me with my own foolishness, shined a light on my immaturity and would hear nothing of my justifications. She not only demanded better, but also that I apologize to the team, and to my then-hated nemesis - and that was simply for her to consider letting me back out on the court. In all of my years of leading and being led, I had never had to do such a thing. But I did. I swallowed the little pride I had left and gave that apology, through gritted teeth and strained back tears, and walked back out on that court - knowing a little more about Coach and a lot more about me.

My final year, I had every expectation that I’d be selected as a team captain. I had the seniority - the only guy on the line who had been there longer had already been captain and didn’t want the job again. I was the oldest, and most vocal member of the team. I did my best to lead during tryout prep, tryouts and early practices. I communicated with the group, organized social events, and tried to generate a new esprit de corps. I was simply waiting on my coronation, and Coach knew it. She didn’t pick me. And like that day I stomped off the court, I again reached back and found my petulant adolescence, and turned my back on a team, and a coach, that I felt had betrayed me. It wasn’t long before she confronted me again. We talked for hours - and though I don’t remember exactly what she said, I remember realizing exactly what she had known all along. It wasn’t my team to lead. They wouldn’t follow me, and I wasn’t ready. It didn’t make me less of a cheerleader, teammate, or person - team leadership is not simply about qualification, it’s a collective relationship that you must be capable of. She knew I didn’t have it, and taught me one of the most valuable lessons of my adult life.

* * *

There are other stories; other lessons, other moments. It’s difficult to try and take a five year relationship and condense it to just a few thousand words. There were moments we shared our own outdated-ness (singing Bon Jovi and Boston songs way too loudly), our individual successes and our personal defeats. We went down a long road together - and one that neither of us expected. Today, Coach is no longer coaching that team, and I’m no longer cheering. But, it takes little more than a stroll into STAPLES Center, or a picture from those days to remind me of not just who she was, but what she was to me. Though I’ve had many teachers in my life, I’ve learned from precious few of them. As luck would have it, it has almost always been from those I least expected. There were moments I cursed and hated her, and moments I loved her just as intensely. It was a crucible of a relationship, and I’m grateful for every high and low. Time has taken much, but has given me more - especially in the way of perspective. I don’t have many regrets from my last run as a “real” athlete - it was a time I’ll always remember, but there is one that came to me as I sat to pen this little ode. I don’t think I ever gave her a hug and thanked her for just how much she gave me - whether she knew it or not. So here it is Coach, in the best way I know how, in a medium which lasts forever, a hug from one old-retired athlete to his last Coach: thank you.

The Fourth Horseman

History is filled with transcendent trios. Bands of heroes, villains, saviors and songsters have come in threes so often that we've become accustomed and comfortable with the idea and even the superstition that good things come in threes. The Three Musketeers, Charlie's Angels, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, and the Three Amigos, just to name a few. While the first foursome that comes to mind are those famous horsemen who foretell the coming of the Apocalypse: Conquest, War, Famine and Death. As I prepare to depart Los Angeles after a shorter-than-it-seemed five year stay, I'm also leaving my own group of horsemen; a foursome to which I'm not certain I ever truly deserved to be a part of, but one that never made me feel like I did anything but.

I've lived a life of ancillary-at-best connectivity, treating each place I've stopped as simply a way-station on the way to bigger and better things. And as you might imagine, that sort of attitude doesn't lend itself to making great or lifelong friends. I've frequently felt intensely and secretly jealous of people who have best friends that they've known forever; people who would give or do anything for them, and for whom they'd do the same. Though through the years, I've had some close calls, I'm not sure I really ever had a best friend, let alone more than one. What's more, if you were to survey most folks on the places you might be least likely to make an actual connection, I would expect that Los Angeles would end up either at or near the bottom of the list. And not without good reason, the majority of the city is shallower than a spit puddle, and emotes a collective narcissism so intensely extreme that it's a wonder they don't commit all eight million of us. But it was here, in the most improbable of places, that I found three horsemen to ride with, and with whom I hope to frequently ride with again.

The Big 3

Sanchez, Joey and the Hawk. That's them. Sounds like a modern day A-Team. And I suppose we are an A-Team in a way. Though, I imagine that every group of male friends has a Hannibal, a Face-Man, a Murdock and a B.A. Barracus - or maybe more than one of each. David (Sanchez) is definitely our Murdock - crazy, wide-eyed, and an ability to find a smile in just about anything; though not without moments of unexpected lucid insight that are so profound that they often leave you simply shaking your head. Joey is surely our B.A. Barracus - though I expect if asked, that he'd tell you he's the Face-Man. He's certainly a fighter, and no mohawk notwithstanding, has gone through a number of haircuts that I'd never even consider. He's a man of few words, but constant presence; a fiercely loyal band member who often can't be convinced to do anything he doesn't want to do (though with sufficient tranquilization - or intoxication - he usually comes along). The Hawk is sort of half Face-Man and half Hannibal. He's surely the most well-dressed of the pack, and is legendarily suave with the ladies - then again, he's also the natural leader of the band. He's a business man, a family man, and one seriously big son-of-a-bitch. His demeanor is unflappable - and always seems to bring a purpose, a peace and a plan to every operation. They are an unlikely band of brothers, from wildly different backgrounds and with unimaginably different personalities, though I met them all in the same place: on the floor at STAPLES Center.

You see, we were all Clippers cheerleaders together.

Four For Fighting

I consider these three the brothers I never had, and like brothers, we certainly haven't always seen eye-to-eye. In fact, as I sat down to think about it, as ill-advised as it was, I realized that I had nearly come to blows with each of them (on separate occasions, mind you - no one's dumb enough to take all three of them on at the same time). But, brothers fight. It's as predictable as the rising sun. We challenged each other - drove each other to our absolute best, and absolutely crazy - usually at the same time. And when that got intense, well, it got intense. But just like brother fight - brothers understand when you mess up, brothers forgive, and in the end brothers stick together. To be honest, I don't regret the fights. I think it's how I knew; how I knew we were brothers after all.

It's a strange brotherhood, this cheerleader thing. All of us athletes in our own right, all facing the same ever-present emasculating stigmas, jealous jeers, and temperamental partners (which may be the hardest part of all). Trust me, no matter how much fun they look like, those tiny little girls we throw aren't always a barrel of laughs. I personally think it's because they're underfed (because I know how cranky I can get when I'm hungry) but who knows - all I can tell you is that it certainly mitigates any titillation you think we're getting from the process. The reality is, it's not easy on the line. Especially not on a pro line. And the guys are a much tighter knit group than the girls are - we have to be. We're not out there to look good - we're the muscle that makes it happen, and makes it happen with a smile. No one's looking for a picture with us, our autograph, or a calendar filled with us in our bathing suits. No, we have each other. Don't get me wrong - I love the STAPLES crowd, staff and the team we cheered for - but when it wasn't good, I had three guys on the line who were there. Every time. And for all the fighting we ever did amongst each other, we always fought better together.

The Back-Up Plan

There are a lot of things you can't count on your guy friends for: clean sheets at their place, something to eat in the fridge, keeping the noise down in the bed next to you when sharing a room in Vegas, a decent smelling bathroom and sympathy when you hurt yourself. But for all of that and more, there are a precious few things that you can count on your friends for, and of those, the most important is having your back.

The Urban Dictionary (the web's leading source for slang and truthfully horrible euphemisms) defines to have someone's back as:

An expression assuring someone that you are watching out for them. Comes from making sure you are safe by watching what's behind you when you're busy looking ahead.

But to be honest, that doesn't really capture it all. In a way, we knew about it much more intimately than most friends would have. After all, in a sport where "spotting" is a fundamental virtue - keeping an eye on your friends' safety becomes second nature. But, as cheerleading is full of just as much drama as you might imagine - there are other moments where it would be easy to not step in; easy to pile on rather than stand up; to run with the mob rather than step out alone. Each of these guys has had my back on countless occasions - not only in situations where I wasn't looking - but much more often in situations where I wasn't even there. They were there to defend me, who I am, and what's true about me - even in the face of not being popular or well-liked. I have done my best to do the same for them - because I believe that each of them is a better man than I am, and I won't suffer anyone saying otherwise - even if it means my ass.

* * *

Every day I spent on the line with these three fellow girl-wranglers, I wondered what I had done to get there, and if I ever really belonged amongst such a talented group. Joey could stunt with anyone and make it look like they weighed a hundred pounds; the Hawk could shoulder press a girl with either arm like it was a foam-covered aerobics weight, and Sanchez could do a back flip as easily as he could walk down the sideline. They were all better cheerleaders than I ever was. Joey has a National Championship, the Hawk was a team captain for one of the best squads in the Pac-10, and David logged seven years with the Clipps - and may be the most recognizable guy in the arena outside of Clipper Darryl. But they never made me feel like anything but an important part of the team; and just as proud to be standing on the line next to me as I was of them.

I often wondered what it is that I bring to the group. I am no Hannibal, no Face-Man, only a little bit Murdock and certainly no B.A. I'm not the oldest, the biggest, the fastest or the best-looking. What I am, however, is the piece that fits by not fitting. I'm not sure these three musketeers would ever had really fought for one another without a fourth. As we rode for the last time together this past weekend, we realized it was the first time we had done so since I retired from the line three years ago. And that's when I knew. Sometimes what great trios really need isn't any more talent, muscle, or brains. Sometimes they just need a fourth horseman; someone to hold the line together.

See you guys in Vegas.

Resolute

New Year’s resolutions have their origins in ancient Rome and Babylon, where the mythical Roman king Janus with his two faces would look both at the year past and the year to come (and after whom the first month of the Julian calendar is named) and the Babylonians would return any farm equipment they had borrowed the previous year and start anew. Regardless of their origins or traditions, the marking of a new year has always offered a unique opportunity for reflection and renewal across cultures and eras. Reviewing the disposition of previous resolutions is not nearly as popular as the declaration of new ones, but since I had the unexpectedly good fortune of actually keeping my first year-long resolution in 2009, I have the chance to do both with equal vigor as we roll headlong into 2010.

My primary 2009 resolution was to write an essay a week, each week for a whole year - which turned my previously mundane blog into the essay project which you’re now reading. And to my great surprise, I actually completed this resolution - which inspired me to make a few more resolutions this year, in the hopes that I can repeat my previous success. I’m listing them here, so that I’ll have a few more people to be accountable to (should things get a little off track) and perhaps inspire you to some resolutions of your own.

Reading What I Preach

Some time ago, I stopped reading books. Which is not to say that I stopped reading. Actually I read every day - but I read the news, magazine articles, columns, essays and other short form prose, usually things that I can get through in a single sitting, a few stolen moments, or during an unexpected delay in doing something else. But between my ADD and my otherwise busy life, I stopped really reading books.

Now this is particularly hypocritical because I’m often telling people that want to become better writers that the one unavoidable prerequisite for great writing is great reading. And despite the fact that I endeavor to be a great writer, I haven’t done any great reading since I plowed through Olive Kittridge on my Kindle early last year.

So this year, I’ve resolved to read two books a month - and before you go sending a ton of suggestions, rest assured that my reading list is already quite full of suggestions, purchases and loaned books that have queued up as a result of my shoddy reading behavior over the preceding twelve months. I doubt I’ll be firing up book reviews here - but I may mention the titles from time to time. But that’s about two weeks per book, and as a part of this resolution, I’ve also resolved to spend a minimum of one hour per day reading (and to compensate I bought my TiVo a new 1TB hard drive to hold all the TV I’ll be missing).

Time to reconnect with the bookwormy dork that got me through middle school with great grades and no social life.

Three Things and the New Essay Project

With any project, if you don’t keep adapting it, it will become irrelevant, uninspired and uninteresting. And because I don’t want Tru Love to meet such a fate, they’ll be some changes coming to the blog and the project in the coming weeks.

First off, the essay project will be reduced in frequency to once monthly and, second, a new project called “Three Things” will take its place as my (at least) weekly creative output. Three Things will be a shorter version of my favorite thing: lists of three - sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant, always just three things long - well, not counting subparts, etc. Perhaps it’s better just to assume it will be three-ish things. The essay project will be moved to once monthly to ensure the essays get a little more attention and cover bigger things. Additionally, I’ve resolved to start submitting the monthly essays for publication elsewhere to see if I can expand my audience beyond friends and family - though I truly appreciate the support.

I’m truly excited for the format change and I’m looking forward to using the lessons learned from last year’s essay project to have an even bigger and better year of writing (and publishing) in 2010!

Sundry

Then, of course, there are those resolutions which aren’t really a whole year long, and aren’t really the sort of thing that require a whole lot more explanation that just to list them:

• I’ve resolved to start eating healthier - a whole lot healthier - because I got way too close to 200 lbs., and no, they’re not making the pants in my size smaller all of a sudden...
• I’ve resolved to de-clutter my life; which mostly means throwing away a whole lot of stuff, except books, which everyone should keep forever...
• I’ve resolved to send more cards, because everyone likes getting them, and who am I kidding, I’ve got the time...
• I’ve resolved keep fighting back from my injury - because giving up sucks...
• I’ve resolved to save more and spend less - because that house I want isn’t going to buy itself...
• and finally, I’ve resolved to cut myself a little slack; it may not mean finally taking my first vacation, actually spending a whole weekend doing nothing, or gracefully taking a compliment, but hey, it’s a start.

* * *

2010 isn’t the year we thought it would be when we were kids. There are no giant orbital space stations, self aware computers, or colonizations of other planets pending. There are no hover cars, or hover boards for that matter, we’re not wearing a whole lot of silver (if you don’t count the metallic print on Affliction t-shirts) and we still can’t “beam” ourselves anyplace. But it’s still an amazing time to be alive. We live in a world of constant wonder and change, where more than any other time in history, we can make ourselves anything we want to be. There’s no doubt that the last decade provided disappointingly few opportunities for optimism and hope, but as each new calendar appears, we are given just that. In this time of looking forward to endless possibilities, seize the chance to write down just a few of them; dream big and imagine that this might be the year that changes everything.