Category Archives: Writes

Fitness New Year Proposal

Happy New Year!
But, please people, hold off for now on the gargantuan fitness resolutions for January 1, 2012. Please. It is January, folks. It’s mid-winter Kansas here;  dark, cold, and there’s more than likely snow on ground. January is not, I repeat, IS NOT, the best time to make fitness resolutions if you want to give yourself the best chance at success with those resolutions.
Instead,  try to accomplish some baby steps forward at this time. Eat a little better and move your body a little more often. Maybe try to learn something new your body can do or perhaps do something it hasn’t done in a while. Take the baby steps, then make a new target date for the big fitness resolutions. A new date when the weather is a little better, when the sun shines a little more and life in general makes the big fitness changes easier. I propose we designate a new date, perhaps April 1 (April Fool’s Day), to be the official date of the Fitness New Year.
So, take those baby steps, build some confidence in your body and what you can do. Lay the groundwork for significant lifestyle fitness changes come April 1, 2012.
Coach Hays
P.S. I am going to try something new in 2012. I will  attempt to post daily  the FamFit and Human Weapon workouts on Twitter under the hashtag #FamFit .  Follow me @coachhays64, if interested. 

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Wonder-Counselor

For a child is born to us, a son is given to us; upon his shoulder dominion rests.

They name him Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father Forever, Prince of Peace.

His dominion is vast and forever peaceful,

From David’s throne, and over his kingdom, which he confirms and sustains

By judgement and justice, both now and forever.

-Isaiah 9: 5-6

A couple of my favorite, most inspirational lines in the Bible are in these passages from Isaiah. “For a child is born to us” and “They name him Wonder-Counselor”.

Hearing the name, “Wonder-Counselor”, alone, can give one goosebumps.

Merry Christmas!

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Sharing is Caring: Football Version

Coaching freshman football with Coach Eric Burks was so much fun. He was the perfect guru for a novice coach, like I was, to start coaching with.  EB was the head freshman coach and coached offense; I was the freshman assistant and did the defense. His offense was simple and effective, but his real talent was connecting with the players.

The kids used to love that he called our best offensive play, 34 Power, “Bread and Butter”. EB told the kids “Bread and Butter” play is the one “go to” play everyone trusted and could execute in dire situations. 34 Power was ours for dang sure. Last summer, at a couple of wedding for kids who played on those teams, I could still walk up to the majority of those players ten years later and say, “Bread and Butter” which to a man would respond, “34 Power.”  Folks, in the coaching world, that is staying power.

Freshman boys are not the most responsible or most aware beings on the planet. I know this is a shock to parents, but it is true. We actually made a list we posted in the locker room to remind freshman football players of the equipment they would need to practice or play. Helmet, shoulder pads, pants, shoes, etc. etc. etc. all essential equipment to play organized football all had a reminder so the young man would not forget.

One Monday at a freshman road game, we unload the bus, dress out in the locker room, and get ready to take the field for warm-ups. At the very last minute, one player walks up to us two coaches and reports the obvious. “Coach, I forgot my pants.”

“Uhhh. Really? I couldn’t tell.” was the official coach reply.

Player number two slides up. “Uh, Coach. I forgot my shoes.”

Coach Burks lays into a soap box rant about responsibility, etc. He tells the two players to sit down and shut up, he will deal with them later, then we go out for warmups.  EB is po’d during warm-ups. Toward the end of team period, right before we go back into locker room for final meeting before the game, he breaks out a huge smile and elbows me in the ribs.  “Watch this” , he says as the team jogs to the locker room.

Coach Burks addresses the team. “Player One, you have shoes, right?”

“Yes.”

“Player Two, you have pants, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then Player One, you will wear the pants and shoes while playing the first half. Player Two, you will wear the pants and shoes and get to play the second half. Any questions?”

“Nope.” They say collectively and join the team breakdown huddle.

“Let’s get after it then, boys! One, Two, Three…”

“Tigers!” The team yells and runs onto the field.

As I walk with Coach Burks across the field to the sideline, I say, “You, my friend are a freaking genius.”

We had to deal with a couple upset parents, but after explaining the situation, they just shook their heads and walked off. I think we won, maybe we didn’t. Who cares, though, this far down the road? In the grand scheme of things it really doesn’t matter much because what I will always remember most are the lessons I learned on that fall autumn day:

1. Sharing is caring and a beautiful thing (unless one player has pants that fit his 6’2 frame and the other player who must wear the same pair of pants is 5′ 6″).

2. Sometimes one player plus one player does indeed equal only one player.

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Sheep and Goats

I work at one of the finest land grant institutions in North America. Every night when I leave work and head north out of town, I drive past the Sheep Teaching and Research Unit. The Unit is a group of older barns that sit a ways off the road. The section of land around the barns is surrounded by your standard barbed wire fence. The sheep, mixed with a handful of goats, graze the grass around the Unit.  It is always a pick-me-up to drive by and see the animals in the pasture, especially after lambing season when the lambs are turned loose on the world. I could watch the lambs run around all day, kicking, bleating and acting like little bad-asses.

A funny thing, (and I wish I had a picture of this) is when there is a breakout from the pasture. If you know farm life at all, you know that almost how hard you try to keep animals in, they will find a way out.  So on occasion, an animal or two will get out of the fence.

In the Bible, it says something about sheep going to heaven and goats going to hell. I know now this may be true, at least in the context of animal intelligence. Sheep, they don’t escape very often, but when they do, they use their limited smarts to make the best of the opportunity and hit the good, fresh grass across the street from the Center.

Goats, on the other hand, are dumb. They escape on a frequent basis. In fact, those goats are almost always out of the fence. That’s not dumb, you say? Being able to escape sounds like real intelligence, you say? Not so fast, my friend. Sure the goats can get out of the pen, but you know what they do? Instead of finding greener pastures, the goats will stand on the outside side of the fence and stick their heads back INTO the pen in order to eat the very same grass they just spent all day trying to get away from.

Folks, that’s animal stupidity.

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Fire Baton Dad Duty

Once upon a time, one would find me roaming the sidelines as an assistant football coach on a Fall Friday night at Otto Unruh Stadium.  Unfortunately, beginning in Fall of 2009, personal decisions steered me from the sidelines and into the stands. My plan was to show up, sit in the stands and watch the football game. But, as with most things in life, (especially with one’s parental slice of that life) plans often change without consultation and without notice.  One night early in that 2009 season, I came home from work on a Friday night, to find myself recruited by Twirly-Girl Daughter #2 (see this for example of Twirly-Girl baton skills) to prepare the fire batons for the fire baton performance that night.

The first thing I did was laugh because I had no idea where to even start. I was a football coach, which meant I was pretty much oblivious to anything else which occurred outside the white lines on a football Friday night in America. Patiently, even though she was desperate for help, Daughter #2 quickly taught dear old dad the process. From there, it has been game on.  With her instruction and the help and guidance of fellow Baton Dad Jeff L.,  I became the proud stage/equipment/pyrotechnic manager in charge of fire batons.

So here it is, the top secret protocol describing the preparation of the fire batons for action. I thought it important to document how this is done as I retire from active baton dad duty. I thought it important to pass this down for future generations of dads; for the fathers of those little girls who sit on the front row of the stadium and watch the twirler’s halftime performances.

It’s not really hard, but it was a pain in the ass at times.  Some Friday nights after work, I really did not want to work on fire batons.  I often would get hands covered with tiki torch oil to the point where I did not sit in the stands during the game for fear of spontaneous combustion. Plus, I would always worry about making a mistake and having one of the girls spin burning oil onto themselves and get hurt. But all the work, all the discomfort, and all the worry melted away when I would watch the girls perform then turn around and see those little girls faces’magically light up and jaws drop open as the twirlers did their thing.

Preparation of Fire Batons.

1. Place one of the ends of the fire batons completely into standard tiki torch oil. Allow oil to soak in for 30-45 minutes.

2. Shake out the excess fluid by flinging the batons over the oil container and let drip for several minutes.

3. Place on a large piece of aluminum foil.

4. Fold top half of foil over the soaked end of baton

5. Fold one side of foil in.

6. Roll foil around to get a good seal around the end of the baton.

7. Turn batons over and repeat the process:

Soak

Wrap

8. Done with both sides, then put in an over-sized plastic bag and take everything  to the stadium.

9. Before the performance, shake out any excess fuel from the ends and light the ends with a lighter.

10. Showtime!

Click here for a link to a short performance video.

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My Jackson Browne Moment

It was a show I was looking forward to working all summer. Jackson Browne. I ‘d been a fan of his since I heard Doctor My Eyes as a kid back in the early 70’s. He cemented my fanship in 1977 with the Running of Empty album. A true WOW work of art. His music is high quality, his lyrics outstanding, can you blame me for being a fan?
But, on that summer night at Sandstone Amphitheatre, working my favorite front stage security duty, I found out something about the character of the man, Jackson Browne. There was a chance of a storm that night, but everything goes smooth as silk as the crowd arrives. Over the western ridge of the general admission seating hill, dark, black clouds begin to roll in, peppered with lightning. Then the show starts and it’s magic.
One of the best things about working front stage security is watching the faces of the crowd light up and sing along. The rain starts several songs into the set and rapidly turns into a deluge.  Sheets of water, wind, lightning, and claps of thunder pelt the crowd the stage and the band. The band is looking at Jackson Browne, waiting for him to call it and send them offstage. A  gust of wind shakes loose a huge speaker hung from the roof  and it crashes to the stage. The band stops playing and they meet for a brief meeting in front of the drum kit, where their fearless leader sends them offstage. Many in the crowd have already bailed, so the crowd of 10,000 is probably down to 10% of its original size.  The rain draining down the amphitheatre hill is pooling at the bottom of the hill. I am literally standing in thigh high water at the front of the stage. As long as there is one fan , we hold our post.
I have seen many shows in my life. and have worked many of these shows. I can honestly say 99% of the performers would have walked off that stage and given in to the elements. 99% of performers would have considered themselves going above and beyond the call of duty even attempting to play through the weather conditions thus far, but not Jackson Browne. He stands solo behind his electric piano and continues the show. It is so good, but after a couple more songs, a huge lightning bolt, with an almost immediate earth shaking clap of thunder, strikes. This not only sends most of the crowd in a forced retreat, but blows up Jackson’s electric keyboard with a flash of sparks and smoke. He jumps back and unplugs the keyboard, then apologizes to the crowd that he is giving up. Head down, he walks off the stage.
To me, I would have felt like the artist gave his all in this incident. No questions asked, the man could have been killed up there. But, a-holes being a-holes, about 30 people swarm the front of the stage and start screaming about getting ripped off. Are you kidding me, people? is the thought running through my head. These people are so pissed off at the “prima donna” star, they won’t quit. After about 15 minutes of this, and mind you, it is still storming, Jackson Browne comes back out to the front of the stage to personally apologize to this angry mob.
Unfortunately, this is not good enough for these idiots. One monster of a man just rips into Jackson Browne, cussing, name calling, the whole nine yard.  He keep going on and on about getting ripped off  the $40 he paid for his ticket. Jackson Browne, superstar, rock and roll hall of famer, and apparently an all around good guy, gives a response which will always be burned into my memory banks.
He pulls out a money clip from his pocket. “I’ll refund the ticket price for anyone who really wants it.”
Out of the crowd of 30 or so people, only about five (including Mr. A-hole, of course) people take the money. The others slide away, embarrassed to have complained. Brilliant. If that is what a spoiled, prima donna, rock and roll superstar is like, then count me in.

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Best Day Ever

I went to Catholic school. Taught by the nuns of the  Order of Saint Benedict (O.S.B). The nuns of the O.S.B. were the very pillar of old-school Catholicism. Full black battle gear with rosary bead belts, shiny black boots, and a seemingly physical inability to smile in the absence of parents.

Pro discipline, duty, corporal punishment, and evoking fear in children.

Anti smiles, happiness, liberal thinking and smart-assness.

They ruled with an iron fist (or thin side of a yardstick, or cane, or crutch…whatever was within reach). This is the story of the greatest day ever. Great day for us boys, but a day of infamy for the O.S.B.

Fr. John was new at the school and the church. He was junior associate pastor, which meant he did all the duties the pastor and the associate pastor didn’t want to do. He was young and he was educated. Besides being a priest, I think he had advanced degree in psychology.  Now, none of us 8th graders knew anything about psychology (Heck, I doubt half of us could even spell it.). But, we did know anything ending in  -ology was not to be totally and completely trusted.

That particular afternoon, we were at the church for a religious education session with Fr. John. It was a classic Catholic school session on SIN. Fr. John gave a masterful presentation on mortal and venial sin.  The retired O.S.B sat in the front pew, the classes spread out in pews behind them and, although each was class supervised by their respective teacher, we could feel the retired nuns “watching” the crowd.

It was a long-standing belief, backed by volumes of empirical evidence, that many of the O.S.B had an extra eye in the back of their head. I personally experienced this extra visual sensory organ in a fourth-grade incident when 70+-year-old Sister Johanna trapped a friend of mine in a corner and was laying on him a verbal assault of biblical proportion. I stood several feet behind her, pointing and making faces at my poor friend, when a blind, behind-the-back slap landed square on the side of my head, almost knocking me down for the count. The O.S.B were no BS.

Fr. John finished his session on sin and we knew we were about to be set free with the wrap up prayer. I was already mentally preparing my recess basketball game when two spots down from me the unspeakable happened. One of our class clowns, a smart-ass extraordinaire, raised his hand to ask a smartass question. He just couldn’t leave well enough alone. We were halfway to recess, what was he thinking? Fr. John acknowledged the hand up with a “Yes, son?”. The heads of the O.S.B snapped around to find the raised hand.

Young smart ass stood up, grinned at us as we rapidly slid away from him in the pew,  and asked the loaded question,”Father John. Is cussing a venial or a mortal sin?”

The line of the O.S.B relaxed in their front pew. A crack of a smile broke through the stone facade on one or two of them. This was an easy one for Father John, they thought, it was a softball lobbed over the middle of the plate for the young priest.  All was good.

Thank God for psychology, for what came next was totally unexpected and turned a normal, bland day into a miraculous one.

“Neither.” Said Fr. John. The O.S.B. collectively cringed in their seats. The students snapped to attention. Game on.

Smartass was as shocked as the rest of us. “You mean it’s not a sin?”

“No. Cursing and bad language is more a sign of ignorance than an act of sin.”

Smartass was stupefied. For the first time in eight years of school, he was speechless.

Fr. John asked the stunned crowd if there were any other questions. There were none. So he led us on a final prayer and dismissed us. I floated out of the church on cloud nine. The O.S.B sat frozen in totally disbelief. This ordinary day had suddenly, miraculously transformed into the BEST DAY EVER. Why?

I was longer going to hell for poor language choices!

I was just going to be an idiot!

BEST DAY EVER!

CTKpicture1

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Football is NOT Life, A Reprise

I originally wrote this post last year for me, to help me get over myself being down in the dumps over another year not coaching football. I wrote is as a therapeutic reminder that, even though I miss coaching dearly, this great game of football is not, and should never be, the MOST IMPORTANT thing in life.

I am re-posting the blog piece, Football is NOT Life, for you.  You know, you folks out there who have let things slip out of focus in the Fall of 2011. The ones who are half crazed with the emotion and the frustration and the disappointment associated with sports, especially when things are heading south in a hurry.

Everybody wants to win, it is written in the marrow of our bones. However, not everybody can win and we need to remind ourselves there are worse things in life than losing a game of football, no matter how much it hurts.

Respect the kids and respect the coaches. Respect the work and effort everyone invests, no matter how disappointing the outcome is. Please read this post and think about it. If it helps, then pass it on to the next person before we adults take all the fun out of this great game.

Football is NOT Life! (originally posted on September 21, 2010)

I know this may sound highly irrational and maybe even a bit hypocritical coming from me, but contrary to what the t-shirts say, FOOTBALL IS NOT LIFE!.

Football is the greatest damn game ever invented, but it is not life.  Football is intensity, competitiveness, sportsmanship and violence, but it is not life.  Football requires immense strategy and teamwork, but it is not life.  Football provides education, drama, entertainment, and a solidarity which binds communities, campuses and fan bases throughout the nation, but it is not life.  Football is universal, it is played by presidents and paupers, genius and idiot, big and small, aggressive and passive, rich and poor, but it is not life.  Football should not be all consuming.  Football should not be the top priority.  I know this for a fact, I have tripped and fallen down that hole before (see my story).

Football can be like a package of Oreos, both need to be consumed in moderation.  You’ve been there, you open the package of Oreos and leave it out on the counter.  Sooner, rather than later, the whole package is gone and you don’t feel so good.  But if you open that package and only take a couple of Oreos and place the package in the cupboard for a later date, they not only taste spectacular, but last and satisfy for days upon days.  Football is not life.  It should be taken in moderation and/or with a tall glass of milk, (1% or skim preferably).

Football has it’s proper place, it has it’s proper perspective. Football is not the primary reason for the existence of high schools, colleges and universities.

Yes, football is important.  It is important to compete.  It is important to work hard to be the best coach or player you can be.  It is important to compete with purpose, pride and passion.  But I think Coach Paul Lane said it best with his prioritization of the sport, “Faith, Family, Football, in that order”.

Football is important to me.  But football is not life.  Let’s work to keep football in it’s proper perspective and place. I would hate for you to get a football belly-ache.

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Alignment, Assignment, Attack

Coach Lane taught us an awesome philosophy. He used to preach what he called the three A’s: Alignment, Assignment and Attack. This simple method of teaching, planning and playing the game of football can be used for many, many other disciplines in life or sport.

Alignment – Where you line up. It is the physical position you put yourself in. Starting in the right position, in the right spot or in the right frame of mind increases the chances of success.

Assignment – What you need to do. It is your job, it is what your teammates are depending on you to do. In football and baseball, we called it EVERY MAN, EVERY PLAY. Meaning, know what your job is and consistently get it done.

Attack – How you create chaos. It is a way of living, it is your approach and it is how you compete. Create chaos to cause confusion and confusion slows your opponent down mentally and physically, giving you an edge. An attacking philosophy needs hustle and attitude. We wanted to  intimidate through hustle. Always attacking, always coming, always, always, always…

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The Game Perspective

It’s a game.

It’s a game.

It’s a game.

Truly, it is only a game.   Not that you can’t take the game seriously. Not that you can’t work you buttocks to the bare bone to prepare to compete. Not that you can’t compete with the very marrow of your human existence. All of those things are good. But, in the end, it is only a game.

I am a competitor. I will scrape and scrap for any victory, no matter how insignificant the victory or the competition can be. If there is a contest to be had, my game face sits constantly at the ready. Whether organized sports, recreational sports, family game night or kicking/blocking 32 oz plastic cup field goals through my president’s room door off the living room of the fraternity house, it is game on. But, it always remains a game. No crying, no whining, no takeover of one’s life…It’s a game.

After my eighth grade year, we had a very good summer baseball team. We were too cool for school in the late 1970’s. As recent graduates of Catholic school, we were good and we had uniforms fashioned after the old rainbows style of the Houston Astros, only with a blue spot on the front of jersey instead of a star. Our head coach worked as a salesman for our team sponsor, Spotbilt (hence the blue spot) and with his job it meant he was out of town sometimes for games. When he was gone, our gruff assistant, Ray, would take over. Ray was a much-older brother of one of my teammate friends and a friend of my oldest brother.  He was a mountain of a man, with a hippie inclination, who loved music and sports. He was a great influence on me while I was growing up, needless to say.

One night, right before the championship game of the end of season tournament, Ray said one of the damnedest things I had every heard. His wisdom that night has stuck in a prominent place in my brain all these years. It is the perfect thought for a rant on perspective and sports.

Before our games, our very Catholic head coach would do the very Catholic sports thing of praying for the quick and bloodless domination of our upcoming opponent.  It was always one of those awkward moments in which newly minted teenage boys found difficult to keep from giggling and laughing, but the head coach made us do it with religious purpose and consistency.

The championship game rolls around and, lo and behold, the head coach is out of town on a sales trip. We warm up, take pregame infield and meet down the first base line for the usual “biggest game of your life, now let’s pray an Our Father for the complete vanquishing of our opponent” speech our head coach always gave. Coach Ray fills in for the head coach. Ray talks about how much fun it is to play a championship game, how hard we have worked to get here and how we need to go out, relax and have a good time. But, when we all put a hand in the team circle to say the prayer, Ray turns and walks toward the dugout.

We look in confusion to each other. After a few seconds, one of our real smart asses on the team (one of many smart asses on that team, I assure you.) says, “Hey Ray Ray, aren’t we going to say a prayer?”

Ray stops dead in his 6’ 4” 280 lb. tracks, pauses for a moment of thought, then returns to the team huddle.  The look in Ray’s eyes spelt doom for the young smartass who had the nerve to speak up and say what we were all thinking, but with the “Ray Ray” thrown in. Ray stops, looks each of us squarely in the eye and says,

“Boys, this game tonight is important. This sport of baseball is a great game, it is important. But, if God gives a shit about the outcome of this baseball game, we are all in a hell of a bad way. Now go out and play goddamn baseball while you still can.”

Perspective and sports. Not always an easy marriage. But, it is just a game…

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