Well, so much for my avid promises to be more proactive with my writing....
Three years since I've touched this thing. I guess I do most of my writing nowadays in short little Facebook posts, which has become the world's online diary (sadly). Better than Twitter, I guess...
Anyhow... once again I'm going to try to stop by here with some regularity (especially since I just had to get a new password because I couldn't remember my old one).
A lot has happened in three years-- good, bad, in between. I won't rehash it all because why slog through misery? Instead, I'll use today's reentry into the blogosphere to try and shed some light on my current obsession.
PINTEREST! The devil's playground! A silent force in the universe that whispers to me, "you can make that...." so I go out and buy hoards of supplies (crafty stuff mostly; I'm still keeping myself far removed from the kitchen). I've done cardmaking. Bath bombs? Check.
The latest? Hand painted wine glasses. I've made two in the last two days. Never mind the fact that I'm mostly succeeding in my quest to drink less. And that we have more glassware than our cabinets can hold.
I'll likely make a few more and will get sick of it and the copious supplies will sit there with the fimo clay, beads, yarn, etc....
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
9:32
I don't make New Year's resolutions, per se, but rather a vague promise to myself to "do better." Sure, assigning lofty goals and metrics is one way to go about it, but I've found that self-fulfillment can be distilled into a simple spreadsheet divided into two columns: Column A - What Sustains Me and Column B - What Impedes Me.
Since the first quarter of 2014 has drawn to a close, I'm taking stock of my figurative spreadsheet and looking forward a bit.
What Sustains Me
1) health and exercise. I've joined Weight Watchers Online and have managed to lose 14 pounds so far (would be more if there were no pizza in my world). The weight loss has improved my self-esteem exponentially. Buying clothes is even more of a joy when wearing them with confidence is once again a possibility.
Running sustains me. Sadly, I hadn't been doing too well with that in 2013. An injury is all it takes to tilt the balance and slip into complacency, which leads to weight gain, which leads to slower running, which leads to discouragement.... a vicious vortex of all that is ugly. Enter karate. It's something I've always wanted to try. I'm interested in the Asian cultural aspect as well as the discipline and rituals attached to the martial arts. Plus, it's a great workout. My dojo, sensei and fellow karateka have helped me to tap into my inner strength, a power and optimism that had been in hiding for too long. True, I have a long way to go, but I'm on the way to making peace with myself and silencing the voices of cannot.
Challenges now spark my enthusiasm rather than shining a spotlight on my perceived inadequacies. To that end, I've adopted a new one today, based on something I read somewhere. I'm going to start a running streak, just for the month of April... one mile (at least) per day. I've never run that consistently before. Of course, I know my limits and how to not exceed them. Many of these runs will be ONLY a mile. I'll use those to push the speed envelope. Today I achieved 9:32 for a mile (my benchmark nowadays is 10:30 or so, so that's thrilling to me). How fast can I get? I'm excited to find out.
2) art. Once again, I'm taking Paula Henderson's critique class at SAIC. I'm joined by some familiar faces and I've met some new colleagues. I continue to be enriched by the artistic environment and I strive to push myself in new directions-- specifically, working larger. It's a fun ride. My happy place.
3) Reading and writing. Reading's always a constant in my life, but I've been making a concerted effort to tune into the tv less and power up the Kindle more. As for writing, the dates of these blog entries will help to keep me on track. I love to write. I love language, but I don't make the time to do it as often as I would like. That's going to change.
Next, What Impedes Me. A lot more difficult to review.
1) drinking. What is too much? That means something different to everyone. For me, liquor was starting to pack on the pounds and directly contributed to feelings of depression and low energy. I went a full 90 days without a drop of alcohol. Of late, I've had a glass of wine or beer here and there, but oddly enough, it's lost its allure. I'm learning that I'm better off without it and that I can, in fact, still have a rich social life behind the glass of a seltzer water.
2) negativity. Mostly my own. I'm learning to be more mindful and meditative in my daily life and to not look too far ahead or too far behind. I've restructured some relationships that were dragging me down and let go of one or two which were seriously bad for me. I faced some truths about myself-- how some of my actions and behaviors have contributed to problems with friendships and how to not fall into that trap any more. I've also reconnected with a few important people who I've lost touch with. I'm making the conscious decision to not engage in the "cult of busy." It's so easy to use that as an excuse to get bogged down by self-absorption. Truth is, we make time for what is important to us-- or at least we should-- and when we do, we'll find joy there. Joy in people, not in things.
2014 so far has given me a lot of reason for optimism. I'm proud of the changes I'm making within myself and I continue striving to hold on to patience and understanding, both towards myself and with those around me. Life ain't a bowl of cherries, but it's all we have. Deciding to live it with a little more purpose is where I'm at now. Stay tuned.
Since the first quarter of 2014 has drawn to a close, I'm taking stock of my figurative spreadsheet and looking forward a bit.
What Sustains Me
1) health and exercise. I've joined Weight Watchers Online and have managed to lose 14 pounds so far (would be more if there were no pizza in my world). The weight loss has improved my self-esteem exponentially. Buying clothes is even more of a joy when wearing them with confidence is once again a possibility.
Running sustains me. Sadly, I hadn't been doing too well with that in 2013. An injury is all it takes to tilt the balance and slip into complacency, which leads to weight gain, which leads to slower running, which leads to discouragement.... a vicious vortex of all that is ugly. Enter karate. It's something I've always wanted to try. I'm interested in the Asian cultural aspect as well as the discipline and rituals attached to the martial arts. Plus, it's a great workout. My dojo, sensei and fellow karateka have helped me to tap into my inner strength, a power and optimism that had been in hiding for too long. True, I have a long way to go, but I'm on the way to making peace with myself and silencing the voices of cannot.
Challenges now spark my enthusiasm rather than shining a spotlight on my perceived inadequacies. To that end, I've adopted a new one today, based on something I read somewhere. I'm going to start a running streak, just for the month of April... one mile (at least) per day. I've never run that consistently before. Of course, I know my limits and how to not exceed them. Many of these runs will be ONLY a mile. I'll use those to push the speed envelope. Today I achieved 9:32 for a mile (my benchmark nowadays is 10:30 or so, so that's thrilling to me). How fast can I get? I'm excited to find out.
2) art. Once again, I'm taking Paula Henderson's critique class at SAIC. I'm joined by some familiar faces and I've met some new colleagues. I continue to be enriched by the artistic environment and I strive to push myself in new directions-- specifically, working larger. It's a fun ride. My happy place.
3) Reading and writing. Reading's always a constant in my life, but I've been making a concerted effort to tune into the tv less and power up the Kindle more. As for writing, the dates of these blog entries will help to keep me on track. I love to write. I love language, but I don't make the time to do it as often as I would like. That's going to change.
Next, What Impedes Me. A lot more difficult to review.
1) drinking. What is too much? That means something different to everyone. For me, liquor was starting to pack on the pounds and directly contributed to feelings of depression and low energy. I went a full 90 days without a drop of alcohol. Of late, I've had a glass of wine or beer here and there, but oddly enough, it's lost its allure. I'm learning that I'm better off without it and that I can, in fact, still have a rich social life behind the glass of a seltzer water.
2) negativity. Mostly my own. I'm learning to be more mindful and meditative in my daily life and to not look too far ahead or too far behind. I've restructured some relationships that were dragging me down and let go of one or two which were seriously bad for me. I faced some truths about myself-- how some of my actions and behaviors have contributed to problems with friendships and how to not fall into that trap any more. I've also reconnected with a few important people who I've lost touch with. I'm making the conscious decision to not engage in the "cult of busy." It's so easy to use that as an excuse to get bogged down by self-absorption. Truth is, we make time for what is important to us-- or at least we should-- and when we do, we'll find joy there. Joy in people, not in things.
2014 so far has given me a lot of reason for optimism. I'm proud of the changes I'm making within myself and I continue striving to hold on to patience and understanding, both towards myself and with those around me. Life ain't a bowl of cherries, but it's all we have. Deciding to live it with a little more purpose is where I'm at now. Stay tuned.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Hong Kong Phooey
Today I had my very first karate lesson. It's something that I've been toying with doing for a few years now. Found a dojo fairly close to me (on South Michigan Avenue) called Imazaki Dojo, so I set up a free session for lunchtime today.
The sensei's name is Seijo Imazaki. His features have a distinct Asian flair to them, although it looks like he's part caucasian as well. The dojo was very no-frills--- just a big empty room with mats and mirrors. I was the first one there, so I got a solo lesson for the first 20 minutes or so. Afterwards, two men joined us. One of the guys was also a newbie (it was only his second class), so I didn't feel too out of place. The sensei made me feel very at ease and gave me confidence-- I had never experienced a workout like this. I was suprised at how difficult and strenuous it was while, paradoxically, requiring a certain level of focus and grace.
Here are some of my thoughts and what I learned today:
1) it's a barefoot activity and my pedicure is solely lacking. Epic fail.
2) there are all kinds of behavioral rules regarding gestures and bowing, especially when you get onto the mat. I wasn't entirely sure if I was supposed to bow every time you get on and off the mat, so I erred on the side of over-bowing. I was a human bobblehead.
3) they loaned me a pair of pants to wear, but during the whole session I kept thinking "where is the store and when can I get my own outfit?" I was jonesing over the sensei's get-up with the mysterious Japanese writing.
4) once I got my outfit (it's called a gi and it's a uniform, not an outfit; there's a whole new language to learn here), it soon became apparent that adding a spash of color via the belts can only happen once you earn it by progressing from level to level. So much for freedom to accessorize.
5) I kick better than I punch. And I still have trouble knowing my left from my right. And I'm a klutz when it comes to footwork.
I had a BLAST! For the next two weeks, I'm allowed unlimited sessions for $25, then I sign up for a monthly pass-- I'll probably go with the one session a week, because I'll need to keep up my running and Pilates, and school will be starting soon.
Will I become a mean, lean, fighting machine? Who knows? But the process is filling me with energy and I'm eager to dive right in.
The sensei's name is Seijo Imazaki. His features have a distinct Asian flair to them, although it looks like he's part caucasian as well. The dojo was very no-frills--- just a big empty room with mats and mirrors. I was the first one there, so I got a solo lesson for the first 20 minutes or so. Afterwards, two men joined us. One of the guys was also a newbie (it was only his second class), so I didn't feel too out of place. The sensei made me feel very at ease and gave me confidence-- I had never experienced a workout like this. I was suprised at how difficult and strenuous it was while, paradoxically, requiring a certain level of focus and grace.
Here are some of my thoughts and what I learned today:
1) it's a barefoot activity and my pedicure is solely lacking. Epic fail.
2) there are all kinds of behavioral rules regarding gestures and bowing, especially when you get onto the mat. I wasn't entirely sure if I was supposed to bow every time you get on and off the mat, so I erred on the side of over-bowing. I was a human bobblehead.
3) they loaned me a pair of pants to wear, but during the whole session I kept thinking "where is the store and when can I get my own outfit?" I was jonesing over the sensei's get-up with the mysterious Japanese writing.
4) once I got my outfit (it's called a gi and it's a uniform, not an outfit; there's a whole new language to learn here), it soon became apparent that adding a spash of color via the belts can only happen once you earn it by progressing from level to level. So much for freedom to accessorize.
5) I kick better than I punch. And I still have trouble knowing my left from my right. And I'm a klutz when it comes to footwork.
I had a BLAST! For the next two weeks, I'm allowed unlimited sessions for $25, then I sign up for a monthly pass-- I'll probably go with the one session a week, because I'll need to keep up my running and Pilates, and school will be starting soon.
Will I become a mean, lean, fighting machine? Who knows? But the process is filling me with energy and I'm eager to dive right in.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
It's been almost a year...
I don't know how or why I got away from writing. I enjoy it. Here's to 2014 and a new start. I changed the look and color scheme of the blog to keep things interesting (or at least to keep me engaged-- I have a short attention span).
So, what's happened in the past year? Well, I turned 50 (complete with a surprise birthday party featuring Keith Semple of 7th Heaven and an unexpected visit from my youngest sister) in September. I also travelled to Dallas this past summer with Kimmy and the kids and got to see the Texas School Book Depository and stand on "the spot" on Elm Street. In November, my brother David took me to Boston for the anniversary of the Kennedy assassination (see a theme here?). In December, John and I jaunted to western PA for my friend Louann's surprise 50th birthday party.
Reflecting on the past year, a lot has happened. The Hawks have another Stanley Cup ring. I fell out of step with my running and then reclaimed it again (although a tad bit slower). Decided that, for my health's sake, I would give up drinking (saving a lot of calories while at the same time lovin' my liver-- it's going on two months now). I continue to be energized by my ongoing painting endeavors-- explored some new techniques in mixed media and new ways of handling the figure and bugs and all of my other favorite subjects. Met new people who inspire me. Renewed friendships from the past. In other words, moving forward.
So, hello again, blog. Nice to be back.
So, what's happened in the past year? Well, I turned 50 (complete with a surprise birthday party featuring Keith Semple of 7th Heaven and an unexpected visit from my youngest sister) in September. I also travelled to Dallas this past summer with Kimmy and the kids and got to see the Texas School Book Depository and stand on "the spot" on Elm Street. In November, my brother David took me to Boston for the anniversary of the Kennedy assassination (see a theme here?). In December, John and I jaunted to western PA for my friend Louann's surprise 50th birthday party.
Reflecting on the past year, a lot has happened. The Hawks have another Stanley Cup ring. I fell out of step with my running and then reclaimed it again (although a tad bit slower). Decided that, for my health's sake, I would give up drinking (saving a lot of calories while at the same time lovin' my liver-- it's going on two months now). I continue to be energized by my ongoing painting endeavors-- explored some new techniques in mixed media and new ways of handling the figure and bugs and all of my other favorite subjects. Met new people who inspire me. Renewed friendships from the past. In other words, moving forward.
So, hello again, blog. Nice to be back.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
The DC Diaries - The Beltway Boys
One of the brightest highlights of the trip for me was getting to reconnect with two of my Alpha Phi Omega brothers from St. Francis. Although we've kept up with each other via Facebook, I haven't seen either one of them since 1985.
After my Capitol experience, I walked to Union Station to meet Bob outside of the Barnes & Noble store. I thought that this was very appropriate since one of the greatest things about Bob is how intelligent and well-read he is.
Before we met, he briefed me about a change in his life, so that I wouldn't be caught off guard. It seems that he suffered from Guillame-Barre Syndrome about ten years ago and was paralyzed for 9 months. His walk is now labored and assisted by a walker, but his wit was as sharp as ever. We talked about our jobs and families. He has two boys, one of them has Asbergers syndrome. I was struck by the fact that despite the very serious and real hurdles he's faced since we last met, his optimism and joy for life is as radiant today as it was in our college years.
He talked with me about my writing, which is one of the things he remembered and admired most about me. Those remarks inspired me to do more of it. He now works as a research librarian for the Department of Transportation-- perfect job for me. He delighted me with personal Kennedy stories-- rides on the train with Rory and talks with her often. He also mentioned that he sat near Ted Kennedy often at Mass and shook his hand during the Rite of Peace. Wow.
I went directly from my visit with Bob to a short distance away, where I met Gerry in Chinatown. He took me to an Irish bar there. Again, much conversation about our lives and families. He's still very into liturgical music, as is his son. Other than the grey in his hair and beard, he looks the same. Laughed a lot about pledging Alpha Phi Omega-- a slutty gal in our circle (who shall remain nameless), hell night, air band, etc.). He works now as an IT resource for the FBI. Yes, he knows secrets.
It was so wonderful to see these dear friends and I'm looking forward to meeting their families on my next visit.
After my Capitol experience, I walked to Union Station to meet Bob outside of the Barnes & Noble store. I thought that this was very appropriate since one of the greatest things about Bob is how intelligent and well-read he is.
Before we met, he briefed me about a change in his life, so that I wouldn't be caught off guard. It seems that he suffered from Guillame-Barre Syndrome about ten years ago and was paralyzed for 9 months. His walk is now labored and assisted by a walker, but his wit was as sharp as ever. We talked about our jobs and families. He has two boys, one of them has Asbergers syndrome. I was struck by the fact that despite the very serious and real hurdles he's faced since we last met, his optimism and joy for life is as radiant today as it was in our college years.
He talked with me about my writing, which is one of the things he remembered and admired most about me. Those remarks inspired me to do more of it. He now works as a research librarian for the Department of Transportation-- perfect job for me. He delighted me with personal Kennedy stories-- rides on the train with Rory and talks with her often. He also mentioned that he sat near Ted Kennedy often at Mass and shook his hand during the Rite of Peace. Wow.
I went directly from my visit with Bob to a short distance away, where I met Gerry in Chinatown. He took me to an Irish bar there. Again, much conversation about our lives and families. He's still very into liturgical music, as is his son. Other than the grey in his hair and beard, he looks the same. Laughed a lot about pledging Alpha Phi Omega-- a slutty gal in our circle (who shall remain nameless), hell night, air band, etc.). He works now as an IT resource for the FBI. Yes, he knows secrets.
It was so wonderful to see these dear friends and I'm looking forward to meeting their families on my next visit.
The DC Diaries - Of Government and Art
On Thursday, I once again took the Metro, this time to the White House Visitors Center. It was under revision, so it was being temporarily housed in a trailer. I was a bit disappointed in the gift shop. I wanted a tour but learned that you have to plan ahead through your state representative for it. Oh well. So I contented myself with just taking exterior pictures from as close as I could get.
From there I walked to the National Archives. While walking through the streets of DC on that day on on the previous days of my visit, I noticed that there is no frou-frou here-- no tacky shops of Joe's Chicken Shack #11 (well, maybe they're here, but I didn't see them). Everything feels important. Every building embodies a sense of gravitas.
The National Archives were beyond belief. I was thrilled to see a special exhibit on the Cuban Missile Crisis but bummed that I couldn't take pictures. Blown away by the iconic chairs that Khruschev and Kennedy sat on to sign their agreement. Saw personal notes in Kennedy's hand.
Then to the main room-- dark and cold and silent as a tomb. Saw the Constitution, Bill of Rights and Declaration of Independence. Talked to a security guard about conservation (the documents are shrouded in argon gas). He was very friendly and informative and I was awed.
Next to the National Gallery, which is in fact two buildings. It was massive and I was overwhelmed. I just saw a fragment of it (some Wyeth works) and chuckled a bit that they now have the Lichtenstein show that was just in Chicago. Couldn't spend a lot of time there because I had plans with friends that afternoon and I wanted to budget my time.
Next was the Capitol. Took an hour long tour with a group of about a dozen folks-- hailing from Poland, Australia, Latvia, England, Ireland. The tour guide was kind of bitchy and kept yelling at Ireland for straying too far. She eventually got tired of being treated like a child, so she took off on her own. Would've liked to do the same but I'm not sure it was an option.
The Rotunda was fantastic. I kept picturing Kennedy's coffin lying in state. It was mostly about the statues. I really wanted to see the Senate and House chambers. U.S. citizens need to go get a pass from their representative, but ironically it is much easier to gain entry if you're a foreigner. So me and a guy from Spokane became fast friends with a gal from Latvia (she's here for 10 months studying forestration) so we could tag along with her. Couldn't get into the Senate, but sat in the balcony of the House. Disappointed to not see any business being conducted (our tax dollars at work!). It's much smaller than it looks on TV.
From there I walked to the National Archives. While walking through the streets of DC on that day on on the previous days of my visit, I noticed that there is no frou-frou here-- no tacky shops of Joe's Chicken Shack #11 (well, maybe they're here, but I didn't see them). Everything feels important. Every building embodies a sense of gravitas.
The National Archives were beyond belief. I was thrilled to see a special exhibit on the Cuban Missile Crisis but bummed that I couldn't take pictures. Blown away by the iconic chairs that Khruschev and Kennedy sat on to sign their agreement. Saw personal notes in Kennedy's hand.
Then to the main room-- dark and cold and silent as a tomb. Saw the Constitution, Bill of Rights and Declaration of Independence. Talked to a security guard about conservation (the documents are shrouded in argon gas). He was very friendly and informative and I was awed.
Next to the National Gallery, which is in fact two buildings. It was massive and I was overwhelmed. I just saw a fragment of it (some Wyeth works) and chuckled a bit that they now have the Lichtenstein show that was just in Chicago. Couldn't spend a lot of time there because I had plans with friends that afternoon and I wanted to budget my time.
Next was the Capitol. Took an hour long tour with a group of about a dozen folks-- hailing from Poland, Australia, Latvia, England, Ireland. The tour guide was kind of bitchy and kept yelling at Ireland for straying too far. She eventually got tired of being treated like a child, so she took off on her own. Would've liked to do the same but I'm not sure it was an option.
The Rotunda was fantastic. I kept picturing Kennedy's coffin lying in state. It was mostly about the statues. I really wanted to see the Senate and House chambers. U.S. citizens need to go get a pass from their representative, but ironically it is much easier to gain entry if you're a foreigner. So me and a guy from Spokane became fast friends with a gal from Latvia (she's here for 10 months studying forestration) so we could tag along with her. Couldn't get into the Senate, but sat in the balcony of the House. Disappointed to not see any business being conducted (our tax dollars at work!). It's much smaller than it looks on TV.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
fiction based on the news
So, I protested my last writing assignment on principle. That doesn't mean I didn't do it. I found an article in the Sun-Times about Brandon Saad's first goal, so I used that as the jumping off point for the story below. Fiction based very loosely on a few facts. Give it a read if you are so inclined.
October 27, 2000. A glorious pumpkin-colored sunset danced playfully with the skeletal, almost leafless, tree branches on a fall evening in Western Pennsylvania. Halloween was but a few days away and Brandon was celebrating his 8th birthday.
Inside, the ice rink smelled faintly of old popcorn and sweaty socks as he tightened the laces of his hockey skates. The milky ice and echoing catcalls of his teammates urged him to hurry. Coach Brian clasped him on the shoulder with a meaty hand and Brandon clamored over the skate-scarred bench. His shift.
As he did every game, he tapped his stick one-two-three times on the ice and invoked the name of Jaromir Jagr, his hero. He felt good, in sync with the ice, the puck, his linemates. Brightly colored sweaters, like the plumage of winter birds in the tropics, flashed past as he zinged the puck towards the net. The stunned goalie, Jason (he was in Brandon’s cub scout troop), barely had a chance to react as the puck fluttered the twine before resting definitively in the back of the net. Another goal, his 8th of the season already. Eight goals. Age eight. Brandon smiled.
October 27, 2008. Boardman, Ohio was not too far from Gibsonia, Pennsylvania, but for Brandon, the intense competitiveness of the NAHL made it seem as distant as an alternate universe. He missed his parents and his friends at home, not to mention his auburn-haired girlfriend who smelled of Angel perfume and whose quirky smile offered the sweet promise of memorable kisses.
The voice of his teammate broke his reverie. “Hey, Saad, better eat something. It’s gonna be a long bus trip and coach said we ain’t stopping.”
Brandon deftly caught the foil-wrapped beef and cheddar sandwich tossed his way. “Thanks, Mike,” he retorted, “So sweet that we live in the home of Arby’s.” Everyone laughed.
“Lemme stick a candle in it,” his teammate joked in response. Today was Brandon’s 16th birthday.
The bus belched acrid fumes as it wound its way down the ribbon of highway towards their next game. Brandon leaned his head on the smudged window and gazed absently out the window at the passing landscape. In addition to being slightly homesick, he was tired. Tired of the endless practice, the constant striving to improve skating, stickhandling, being in the right place at the right time.
Sure, he knew he was a cut above the rest (later that year he would be the NAHL’s Rookie of the Year and achieve status in First All-Star Team), but he was a teenager who sometimes longed for the opportunities that his non-hockey peers took for granted—endless nights listening to Metallica on satellite radio in someone’s basement rec room while surreptitiously swilling Iron City beer absconded from the bowels of a refrigerator. Being able to come home from school and flop bonelessly on the couch with his dog and languish in front of “The Simpsons” reruns.
Still, pursing a dream of professional hockey took perseverance. He hoped that in the end his sacrificed adolescence would be worth it.
June 24, 2011. The harsh lights of the Xcel Center in St. Paul, Minnesota made Brandon feel like a tiny, struggling insect trapped under a microscope. It was draft day. Beside him sat his father, fugitively mopping his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. His mom was there, too, wearing the blue dress she paid full price for at J.C. Penneys in Monroeville Mall last week.
Suddenly his tie felt like a noose. He wormed his fingers into the knot and loosened it just enough to stop the claustrophobic sensation. Around him other young men sat up straight like anxious maidens, hoping not to be the last chosen to dance at Homecoming.
It was a Barnum and Bailey’s riot of color as NHL executives tantalizingly presented their jerseys to the lucky ones. Much like the Kentucky Derby, the chosen strutted and preened in their new sweaters. What colors will I wear? Will I be fastest, strongest, toughest? The first round was over, and with it his anxiety increased.
Brandon’s palms moistened and the butterflies in his stomach turned into a swarm with each successive announcement from a plethora of NHL bigwigs.
Round two and Stan Bowman took the podium. After the requisite showboating, thanking the fans and congratulating the Cup winner, he paused dramatically and solemnly intoned, “The Chicago Blackhawks are proud to select, from Pittsburgh, Brandon Saad.” For a brief moment, he couldn’t move until his mother prodded him with her sharply manicured fingernail.
He approached the stage in a dreamlike fog. Around him, a cacophony—clapping, whistling and hugs. The row of front office suits seemed like a receiving line at a wedding, full of welcomes and backslapping. At the end awaited the coveted symbol of an NHL career—the blood red Indian head jersey. He reached for it with trembling hands and pulled it on over his dress shirt and offending tie. “Congratulations, kid,” Stan Bowman said. “We expect great things out of you.”
February 5, 2013. HP Pavilion in San Jose was awash in teal as far as the eye could see as the locals geared up to support their Sharks. However, the visiting Blackhawks were on a roll, setting the league on fire with a record-breaking start to the lockout shortened season. The mood in the Hawks dressing room before the game was one of joviality and a little bit of thankfulness for having a slight respite from the cold that was blanketing Chicago. Rolls of tape flew through the air and laughter punctuated the room as the team underwent their final preparations.
Amidst it all, Brandon Saad adjusted his helmet strap and looked down at the proud Indian head logo adorning his sweater. Bobby Hull. Stan Mikita. Al Secord. There was a lot of history in that swatch of embroidery. Not only did he bypass the minor leagues this season, he was playing on an elite line with some of the most notable and talented Blackhawks forwards. Life was indeed turning out just the way he had hoped. He was thankful for the confidence that his coach, teammates and management placed in him. He and the team seemed invincible.
With a fanfare of stick tapping and jostling the team took the ice, full of swagger. The Sharks had a different idea. Within the first few minutes of the game, the visiting team found themselves with a 2-0 deficit. Spirits were starting to sag on the Hawks bench. The season was short—momentum meant so much and every second of every game counted. Sensing the ebbing demeanor of his team, Quenneville motioned for a time out to rally his troops.
Brandon felt the discomfort somewhat more than his teammates. Since being drafted by the team in 2011 and notching stellar minor league numbers last year and early this year, he knew that the Hawks were looking to him to complement their big guns and to provide some firepower of his own. True, his efforts had been beyond reproach, but the holy grail, that first NHL goal, had so far eluded him.
After their chat with the coach, the Hawks took to the ice with renewed vigor. Ten minutes into the first period, Jonathan Toews slid a pass to Brent Seabrook. Seabrook skillfully flicked it to Saad, who was camped out to the right of the net.
Reflexively, Brandon fired a slap shot. The same shot he had practiced thousands of time from childhood until the pre-game warmup. But this time, NHL sirens raged and red lights flashed as the San Jose faithful grew silent. Sharks goalie Antti Niemi, knowing the puck was in the net, glanced behind him to verify the fact, slumped his shoulders and shook his head.
Saad punched the air in jubilation. His first NHL goal achieved. Marian Hossa came over and playfully rapped his helmet with his gloved hand and other teammates huddled around him to offer their praise and congratulations. “Way to go, kid,” Jonathan Toews uttered, “we’re getting great things out of you.”
October 27, 2000. A glorious pumpkin-colored sunset danced playfully with the skeletal, almost leafless, tree branches on a fall evening in Western Pennsylvania. Halloween was but a few days away and Brandon was celebrating his 8th birthday.
Inside, the ice rink smelled faintly of old popcorn and sweaty socks as he tightened the laces of his hockey skates. The milky ice and echoing catcalls of his teammates urged him to hurry. Coach Brian clasped him on the shoulder with a meaty hand and Brandon clamored over the skate-scarred bench. His shift.
As he did every game, he tapped his stick one-two-three times on the ice and invoked the name of Jaromir Jagr, his hero. He felt good, in sync with the ice, the puck, his linemates. Brightly colored sweaters, like the plumage of winter birds in the tropics, flashed past as he zinged the puck towards the net. The stunned goalie, Jason (he was in Brandon’s cub scout troop), barely had a chance to react as the puck fluttered the twine before resting definitively in the back of the net. Another goal, his 8th of the season already. Eight goals. Age eight. Brandon smiled.
October 27, 2008. Boardman, Ohio was not too far from Gibsonia, Pennsylvania, but for Brandon, the intense competitiveness of the NAHL made it seem as distant as an alternate universe. He missed his parents and his friends at home, not to mention his auburn-haired girlfriend who smelled of Angel perfume and whose quirky smile offered the sweet promise of memorable kisses.
The voice of his teammate broke his reverie. “Hey, Saad, better eat something. It’s gonna be a long bus trip and coach said we ain’t stopping.”
Brandon deftly caught the foil-wrapped beef and cheddar sandwich tossed his way. “Thanks, Mike,” he retorted, “So sweet that we live in the home of Arby’s.” Everyone laughed.
“Lemme stick a candle in it,” his teammate joked in response. Today was Brandon’s 16th birthday.
The bus belched acrid fumes as it wound its way down the ribbon of highway towards their next game. Brandon leaned his head on the smudged window and gazed absently out the window at the passing landscape. In addition to being slightly homesick, he was tired. Tired of the endless practice, the constant striving to improve skating, stickhandling, being in the right place at the right time.
Sure, he knew he was a cut above the rest (later that year he would be the NAHL’s Rookie of the Year and achieve status in First All-Star Team), but he was a teenager who sometimes longed for the opportunities that his non-hockey peers took for granted—endless nights listening to Metallica on satellite radio in someone’s basement rec room while surreptitiously swilling Iron City beer absconded from the bowels of a refrigerator. Being able to come home from school and flop bonelessly on the couch with his dog and languish in front of “The Simpsons” reruns.
Still, pursing a dream of professional hockey took perseverance. He hoped that in the end his sacrificed adolescence would be worth it.
June 24, 2011. The harsh lights of the Xcel Center in St. Paul, Minnesota made Brandon feel like a tiny, struggling insect trapped under a microscope. It was draft day. Beside him sat his father, fugitively mopping his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. His mom was there, too, wearing the blue dress she paid full price for at J.C. Penneys in Monroeville Mall last week.
Suddenly his tie felt like a noose. He wormed his fingers into the knot and loosened it just enough to stop the claustrophobic sensation. Around him other young men sat up straight like anxious maidens, hoping not to be the last chosen to dance at Homecoming.
It was a Barnum and Bailey’s riot of color as NHL executives tantalizingly presented their jerseys to the lucky ones. Much like the Kentucky Derby, the chosen strutted and preened in their new sweaters. What colors will I wear? Will I be fastest, strongest, toughest? The first round was over, and with it his anxiety increased.
Brandon’s palms moistened and the butterflies in his stomach turned into a swarm with each successive announcement from a plethora of NHL bigwigs.
Round two and Stan Bowman took the podium. After the requisite showboating, thanking the fans and congratulating the Cup winner, he paused dramatically and solemnly intoned, “The Chicago Blackhawks are proud to select, from Pittsburgh, Brandon Saad.” For a brief moment, he couldn’t move until his mother prodded him with her sharply manicured fingernail.
He approached the stage in a dreamlike fog. Around him, a cacophony—clapping, whistling and hugs. The row of front office suits seemed like a receiving line at a wedding, full of welcomes and backslapping. At the end awaited the coveted symbol of an NHL career—the blood red Indian head jersey. He reached for it with trembling hands and pulled it on over his dress shirt and offending tie. “Congratulations, kid,” Stan Bowman said. “We expect great things out of you.”
February 5, 2013. HP Pavilion in San Jose was awash in teal as far as the eye could see as the locals geared up to support their Sharks. However, the visiting Blackhawks were on a roll, setting the league on fire with a record-breaking start to the lockout shortened season. The mood in the Hawks dressing room before the game was one of joviality and a little bit of thankfulness for having a slight respite from the cold that was blanketing Chicago. Rolls of tape flew through the air and laughter punctuated the room as the team underwent their final preparations.
Amidst it all, Brandon Saad adjusted his helmet strap and looked down at the proud Indian head logo adorning his sweater. Bobby Hull. Stan Mikita. Al Secord. There was a lot of history in that swatch of embroidery. Not only did he bypass the minor leagues this season, he was playing on an elite line with some of the most notable and talented Blackhawks forwards. Life was indeed turning out just the way he had hoped. He was thankful for the confidence that his coach, teammates and management placed in him. He and the team seemed invincible.
With a fanfare of stick tapping and jostling the team took the ice, full of swagger. The Sharks had a different idea. Within the first few minutes of the game, the visiting team found themselves with a 2-0 deficit. Spirits were starting to sag on the Hawks bench. The season was short—momentum meant so much and every second of every game counted. Sensing the ebbing demeanor of his team, Quenneville motioned for a time out to rally his troops.
Brandon felt the discomfort somewhat more than his teammates. Since being drafted by the team in 2011 and notching stellar minor league numbers last year and early this year, he knew that the Hawks were looking to him to complement their big guns and to provide some firepower of his own. True, his efforts had been beyond reproach, but the holy grail, that first NHL goal, had so far eluded him.
After their chat with the coach, the Hawks took to the ice with renewed vigor. Ten minutes into the first period, Jonathan Toews slid a pass to Brent Seabrook. Seabrook skillfully flicked it to Saad, who was camped out to the right of the net.
Reflexively, Brandon fired a slap shot. The same shot he had practiced thousands of time from childhood until the pre-game warmup. But this time, NHL sirens raged and red lights flashed as the San Jose faithful grew silent. Sharks goalie Antti Niemi, knowing the puck was in the net, glanced behind him to verify the fact, slumped his shoulders and shook his head.
Saad punched the air in jubilation. His first NHL goal achieved. Marian Hossa came over and playfully rapped his helmet with his gloved hand and other teammates huddled around him to offer their praise and congratulations. “Way to go, kid,” Jonathan Toews uttered, “we’re getting great things out of you.”
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