What Would Ellen Do Over?

The first thing I did when I was back on US soil this past January was go in search of fast food. Actually it was the second thing. First I apparently needed to blow a fat cloud of judgey from well-dressed, willowy Europe through the Minneapolis airport past gates of sweat-shirted, solidly-built travelers. As American common courtesy would have it, I – carrying a few extra baguette pounds on my boot supported frame - was given most excellent directions to the Chick-fil-A in Terminal B.

I cannot speak of Chick-fil-A like normal people. I worked at Chick-fil-A in high school doling out samples of the WORLD’S BEST CHICKEN to mall cruisers, learning how to upsell people into a value meal, and believing waffle fries, along with SuzyQ’s, as a major high school food group. Needless to say, I was looking forward to the reunion.

Once at the right food court, I stepped up to the till to order. I ordered the Original – a boneless breast of chicken served on a buttered bun with two dill pickle chips (not to be judgey, but the tomato and lettuce should never EVER be added )– and a small waffle fries. I totally would have up-sized if asked, but Drake didn’t ask and that disappointed me a little. Then I launched into my Chick-fil-A story. Right there at the no-line till. Drake was not moved. He only asked: “Is that bottle of water from our case?” I totally should have lied because when you are giving someone a good story, they really shouldn’t be asking about money.

Later that same day in Lawrence, KS, I needed to get sorted with a prepaid SIM for my international mobile phone. Here I can speak of AT&T like normal people. I worked at AT&T for ten years marketing data plans I no longer understand. At the AT&T store, I was greeted, put in a queue and then told that the “data doesn’t work” on prepaid plans with the new iPhone 6. Apple’s fault (obviously.) Some things never change. Given that one uses an iPhone FOR DATA, we agreed that this was maybe a non-starter and I should probably head on over to T-Mobile. A hero’s return.

At the T-Mobile store, there was a line. A nice girl greeted me and told me it would just be a few minutes. I was not moved. Literally. I did not take a seat or “look around” the store – a completely stupid idea for people who already have a phone and would just like for it to work. Instead I hovered and did that thing where you wish bad on every person in line in front of you. That was good fun for a while until I realized I was already in Lawrence, KS. Also the nice girl who greeted me kept doing nice stuff – for her customer, for me, for her co-workers – and that was making it hard to stay pissy.

The girl looked exactly like Ellen Page except with lots of tattoos and hipster glasses. She was maybe twenty-five years old but her crowd control skills were like a seasoned pro. Not oblivious to those of us waiting – thanking us intermittently for our patience - but also not hurrying with her current customer. Of course, he wanted to buy a new phone. Why is it that people ahead of you never just need a new charger?

Before I allowed myself to get too defeated, I noticed the computer systems were up and “Ellen” knew all the right buttons to push and she moved with the possibility that there might be time for me to pick up a Five Guys burger and not be late. Working with purpose and good cheer, the only hurrying she did was to the backroom. Otherwise “Ellen” stopped with her young customer to admire his well-earned new iPhone6 like any good friend would do and volunteered payment plan options in plain-spoken English. You might think she was just doing her job, but I have Drake to point out that she was doing more than that. I decided right then I needed to get in her queue.

I got the trainee instead. He had never done activation like mine. Glory be. The Five Guys burger was so not going to happen.

BUT there she was again. “Ellen.” She guided my trainee through the entire activation process (after my name) without any hint of hovering or irritation. And he had a LOT of questions. I looked for an under the breath harrumph after the first dozen questions or an eye roll about the growing line, but it simply wasn’t there. Instead she kept up her warm welcome with each new person who walked in and stayed attentive to the person in front of her and tuned enough to my trainee to make sure he wasn't setting me up with a family plan with the rest of the line. It was like she created an energy in the room that made you *almost* happy to be there.

I did get the Five Guys hamburger and wasn’t late. ***Also, my phone worked.***

Sometimes it’s hard to imagine WWJD. You need people living today to show you what to do. You know it when you see it. I was thinking about Ellen this past Tuesday night when I accidentally left everything I needed to do to the two hours right before guests were to arrive. Unfortunately those were the same two hours my children were home and every multitasking muscle in my body was unavailable. I needed some Ellen grace to move with purpose and less pinch.

I can’t say for sure what Ellen would have done but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be stressing about lighting the scented candle in the bathroom. I do think she would have answered the 120 minutes of questions without nearly as much irritation and probably volunteered dinner options in normal-volume English. She maybe would have oohed and aahed for reals about what happened at school.

Somewhere between “whatever” and “maybe next time,” I did call a meeting with my children before the guests arrived. I figured if I didn’t get it right this time, it might be a good idea to apologize. I don’t know, but I’m hoping it created an energy that made my guests want to be in the same room with me. The stuff I was emitting before then was all icky and way to interested in my perfectly done snickerdoodle cookies.

Another bonus of the What Would Ellen Do-over was that it caused my little people to offer to be on “greeting committee” and later put themselves to bed like angels.

I really should get some hipster glasses.

Passion Fruit

Photo:  Food Network

Before the juice is sweetened with passion

The fruit must fall and turn colors

 Submit to wrinkling by the sun

 “A tropical twist worth waiting for!” you crow to the mirror

While you slowly release the pinch from your brow

Straight to combing your all-to-misbehaving hair            

Taming what is wild or amplifying what is modest

“I hate my ..!” you almost yell  

While you remember cancer fighting women with heads lay bare

Little by little you see

Your eyes, perhaps not as luminescent as you’d like

But the only decent pair to tell the full story of your soul

Your nose, blurring the lines of the law of proportion

But only in a made-up world where people carry rulers                                              

Where lopsided ears can be traded in on eBay

Where skin doesn’t recognize the season it’s in

Where every cheekbone is in a race to the top

Little by little you tell yourself

This face is ripening and that is good

And while a sexy, pouty mouth might be nice

Your deeper wish is for kindness when you open your lips.

A Reflection on Spinning

I've never been a gym person, but laws of exercise have a way of bending around persistent friends.  One of my dearest friends in Luxembourg is a spinning instructor.  Heidi is a hard core athlete but uber encouraging and has excellent taste in music.  It was inevitable. 

Now a year later, I am a spinning veteran.  I know this to be true because I come early to claim “my bike” which is front and center next to several of my American expat friends.   I don’t yet have clip in cycling shoes, but that too is inevitable.

Two bikes down from us is another regular, a French man who looks exactly like Liberace and wears a paisley scarf while spinning.  It’s worth going just for that.

Everyone talks about being “aspirational.” I have an Instagram feed full of aspirational photos (follow Nike, National Geographic, and a few amazing travel photographers and you’ll know what I mean.) I have a smartphone that professes to take me anywhere I want to go (just preferably not outside Luxembourg.)  I stumble on aspirational quotes all over the place.  All these things I try to will into my psyche for safe keeping but mostly it’s a mental exercise.  But one of the things I like about spinning is that for those 60 minutes I’m sitting atop that stationary bike, I feel myself BEING aspirational. 

At the beginning of class, I always seem to notice what’s not perfect (and also kind of dreadful) about the reflection I see in the mirror.  I won’t go into the details.  You get it.  But by the time the sweat is dripping and we’re climbing our umpteenth hill, I see something else in the mirror.  I see myself being strong.  It happens every time.

I was reflecting this week on my Year of Spinning.  I had this lovely thought (okay a few of them in succession) …

Spinning is a lot like life.  In spinning, there are warm-ups, sprints, climbs, steady cadences, and cool downs.  All out sprints (thank goodness) usually only last for short intervals.  No one- not even Heidi-can sprint for the full 60 minutes.  With every arduous climb, there’s a downhill to enjoy and while you don’t know it at the time, your legs are stronger for the next one.  No good spinning teacher would leave them out.  Dancing and singing while spinning is always a good idea.   It’s harder on the climbs, easier on the “jumps” and steady cadences.

Then there are your feet.  Clip in cycling shoes are best but any old pair of tennis shoes will do. The key is that your shoes must be strapped in tight. You can't get leverage or spin efficiently if your straps are loose.  I’ve learned this the hard way.   Likewise, we are locked in – bound - to the foundations, families, and bodies we were given.  Accepting our collective of givens ground us like a strap, but the type of shoe we wear says nothing about how fast and far we might go.

Your hands have a role to play but maybe not the ones you thought.  They are there to guide and balance.  Engaging them to grip the handlebars when the pedaling gets hard only wastes energy and brings tension to your upper body.  It's a good thing to remember when we get our control freak on, perhaps most especially where other people we love and want the best for are involved.  They have to saddle up to their own bikes, which you hope to God is in sight of yours.  Also re: death grip, I'd prefer the work my hands be left open for better business.

During warm-ups, Heidi always has us stretch our arms up and encourages us to make space in our core.  She brings up our posture frequently as we spin.  My belief is that we wired for worship -  to put our hands up in the air.  Whether it’s God or Happiness or Big Ideas, we all worship something.  I also believe that our core – that big cavernous space some of us call our soul – requires engagement and constant attention. Core fitness makes everything we do easier, but it’s also easy to forget about it when you’re pedaling as fast as you can.  We need reminders.

The thing about spinning is that it’s ultimately up to the person to determine their own level of exertion. You get out what you put in.  Having someone to push you helps but really only you know when you are phoning it in.   You control the resistance on your bike, just like we choose in our attitudes, to make the pedaling as easy or difficult as we want.   And constant adjustment is normal. 

During cool down or sun down, we all get the chance to rest.  That’s when you, and only you, know if you’ve given a perfect effort.

A Reflection on Growing Old

My Grandmother had a blowout party for her 85th birthday and again for her 90th.  For her 95th, she decided to skip the party in favor of staggered visits by her ten grandchildren.    Being the furthest away by a long shot, I was the last of the grandkids to visit.   It is with some shame that I confess her 96th birthday passed before I finally made the trip to Lawrence, Kansas last month.  Guilt gets us places if not always in a timely manner.

Faye (right front), Diane (right back), Betty (left)

My Grandmother Faye still lives in the house of my childhood memories.   Having outlived three husbands, she now lives alone.   She’s slowly losing her eyesight due to macular degeneration, but otherwise is as healthy as a horse and sharper than our best Monday morning well-rested selves.   She still cooks for herself, buys fresh flowers every week and checks her email every morning on her second iPad.  (Her first iPad had an untimely death from the hood of a car.)  

Soon after I arrived, she asked if I might help her read an email.  It was the minutes from her last Investment Club meeting.  Toward the end of the minutes, under “New Business” I read:

“Faye discussed Mankind Corp (MNKD) which was split off from Merck.  Faye moved to buy 100 shares of MNKD for approximately $5.55 per share.  Kitty seconded the motion.  Motion passed unanimously.  Kitty agreed to add this stock to her watch list.”

I knew my Grandmother was something of a stock junkie, but I had no idea she was still scouting stocks at the age of 96.  With some college and a disposition towards numbers, my Grandmother learned how to analyze stocks in the mid 70s.  She started a subscription to Value Line then (which she continues to receive and study to this day under a magnifying lamp), fired her broker in the 80s, and went on to amass a sizable portfolio from a modest amount of money left to her by her first two husbands.   All on her own.  Buying Intel early helped. 

My Grandmother joined the S&P 20 Investment Group fifteen years.  At the time it was mostly a social gathering of women thirty years her junior.  She boldly suggested that instead of picking stocks based on “gut feel” that maybe they should consult Value Line.  She taught them what she knew.  Each woman is now responsible for tracking and providing monthly read outs on a handful of stocks. Today there’s still wine (and probably Bourbon for Faye) at their gatherings, but now official meeting minutes and more money in the bank.   Trickle down teaching works.

Faye (middle red) with her Investment Club

While her finance gene might not have filtered down to me, her love for words did.  My grandmother writes what she calls “Thoughts in Rhyme”, a poetic hobby that took flight in her 80s and just retired with a birthday rhyme to a friend on his 100th birthday and another friend on his 95nd birthday.  I read several of them.  They are witty and proof that growing old doesn’t mean you have to stop flirting.

I learned all this in the first couple of hours I was there.  My travel companion named guilt quickly melted away as it became clear my Grandmother wasn’t keeping calendar score, only I was.   My siblings and cousins had warmed up all her stories and since I was the closing act, I got a few extra ones.   Two full days of stories.  Her stock prowess and Thoughts in Rhyme was only the tip of her chutzpah iceberg.

The youngest of six children with an abusive and alcoholic father and without two nickels to rub together, Faye Jones Olmsted Bradshaw Jones made a life that defied the hand she was dealt.  Understanding her helped me understand how my Dad - her son that she so wanted to be a girl they kept her in the hospital a couple of extra days to make sure she bonded - found the grit needed to make his way from Kansas to West Point.   It was good to know that when I’m hugging the shore, I can remember I come from a line of people who ventured out of their depth.

As we talked I asked her what she thought was her best decade.  She mulled that one over and responded the next morning with this:  “There wasn’t a best.  Aside from my childhood, it was mostly good all the time.”  Not everyone gets sweeter as they age, but the resilient ones seem too.  You can see it in the retell of their stories where they linger on the good parts and urge you to join them there.  Not that they gloss over the bad parts (of which my Grandmother certainly had her fair share of), but they step over them with an easy nonchalance knowing they were all part of the critical path to a life worth living.

Living independently has helped my Grandmother stay young, but it’s also her chosen interdependence on younger friends like her 66 year old traveling companion and chauffeur Diane, her good-as-gold 50ish female neighbors Deb and Jo, and her equally vivacious 92 year old friend Betty (with younger looking hands than my own) that keep her there.  Together they have viewing parties at my Grandma’s house to watch University of Kansas basketball games and drink 7 and 7s.  It’s a motley crew of ladies who came from different parts of town now banded together in uproarious fun, companionship and love.   Guardian angels in flesh and blood and Jayhawks attire.

Jawhawks Mantle

Early in the game, the Jahawks were losing and my Grandmother needed to pace.  She went out to collect the mail and fell on her way back in the front door.  Before any of us could run to her aid, she assured us: “I’m alright!”  Jo, deferring to me as the granddaughter-in-charge, let me bandage the superficial wound on her arm while my Grandmother carried on cheering.  By morning, she had redressed her bandages before I was even up.

In the NY Times article “The Liberation of Growing Old” Anne Karpf says, “The emerging age acceptance movement neither decries nor denies the aging process.  It recognizes that one can remain vital and present, engaged and curious, indeed continue to grow, until one’s dying breath.”

 She’s right.  I have proof.

Soul Cleaning

These little stories keep falling into my lap and so excuse me while I overblog and share.

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I’ve worn contacts - abusively - for years.  Out of necessity, I’ve recently been forced into taking them out at night.  Turns out the buggers want some oxygen.

As a result of my new practice I’ve gotten reacquainted with my glasses in the morning.   Because I’m not yet of Liz Lemon-wearing caliber, there is a lot of eyebrow rubbing and itching behind my ear that causes me momentary bouts of blindness as I pause to have a face-to-face with my spectacles.

This morning, with glasses in my lap, I looked round the room and challenged myself to a game of I Spy. I spied four chairs and a general feeling that the table was cleared.  (It wasn’t.)  That was good enough feedback to reach for my daily devotional and take a moment of quiet.  With the book pressed to my nose, I flipped to January 14 passing through (without self-judgment) the first 13 days I had missed.

The title of the entry was:  “14 January.  Blurry Visions of God.”  I kid you not.  Now I’m not a believer in horoscopes or God intervening to insure the Seahawks win (best fans in the NFL will make that happen), but I do think all of our paths are sprinkled with signs and wonders and every once in a while one of them comes at you like a billboard.  It’s best to sit up and pay attention when that happens.

That C.S. Lewis.  He was such a wise theologian.  “And it a man’s self is not kept clean and bright, his glimpse of God will be blurred – like the Moon seen through a dirty telescope.  That is why horrible nations have horrible religions; they have been looking at God through a dirty lens.”

My first thought was of the religious crazies we saw in Paris last week.  I sat with that one for a while until my anger expanded into a general feeling that I needed to move on.  My second thought was maybe this is why the Christian tradition has always taught confession before petition.  That we can’t find or implore God until we are willing to examine ourselves.  Or if you not religiously inclined, why we need to get our own sh** together before we have any possibility of seeing things right.   That idea applies to the extremists and everyone in between.

I know it’s sappy to tell you that right after I had a little confessional moment, I put my glasses back on.  Things were definitely less blurry … until I teared up.  Because of course, confession is a release – a sending up of a helium balloon that has no way of coming back to you -  and it doesn’t know how not to come through your tear ducts.  

God/healing/inspiration isn’t reserved for the special few, but you do have to be willing to clean out your soul closets if you want to see the fully set table in front of you.  Perhaps with enough cleaning you can even see far enough to your neighbor’s table, set differently but with crumbs under his too.  As C.S. Lewis said so beautifully this morning to me and maybe now to you, “Just as sunlight, though it has no favourites, cannot be reflected in a dirty mirror as clearly as in a clean one.”

It doesn’t matter if it’s been 13 days or 13 years since your last Windex.  What matters is though we may wish it different, the only instrument we have to clean is ourselves.

When the best pictures don't make it to your camera roll

I saw something yesterday.  It was one of those things that didn’t just make me smile.  It made my heart swell big enough that I could feel it in my throat.

Yesterday I went to watch my oldest son’s basketball game – a plan requiring that we be at the gym thirty minutes early.  Taking a seat in the stands, I buried myself in my Kindle as I waited for the game in progress to finish.  Normally this strategy of “ignoring the world around me while I wait” works.  It is harder though to abide in a noisy gym.  

Double checking there was not a French fire drill in progress, I looked up to register the unusual commotion.  No one was moving toward the exit but everyone’s eyes were glued on the court.   A peek at the scoreboard confirmed it was a close game.  The fan appreciation told me there was something more worth watching.  

At first glance, it looked like an ordinary game of big bodied sixteen year old boys.   One of the teams I recognized as being in my son’s club.  The other team was new to me.  Though a player on the other team had just gotten fouled on a very nice move to the hoop, I can say with 100% confidence we weren’t watching the next Lebron James. 

It was the following beat when I understood why the audience was captivated.   Rather than going to the foul line to take his free throws, the big guy positioned one of his teammates on the line.  A highly unusual move to have an understudy take your shots, it did not take any powers of observation to notice that his teammate had down syndrome.  It was also evident how happy he was to be there.  Unskilled but with full-to-bursting effort, he threw up two prayers - both of which missed.  

While the team hustled back on defense, I noticed a second player - not with down syndrome, but some form of intellectual disability.  He was easy to spot as he was taking the mandate to “stay with his man” with an unyielding if not always effective determination.  Rounding out the roster with the big guy and dynamic duo were two more able-bodied and skilled players who helped keep the tempo up and score close.   Against a competitive club team. 

This was not a charity game. 

The dynamo duo kept on with the defensive pressure, passed the ball in and continued to stand-in (90% unsuccessfully) for free throws.  Meanwhile the other three were finding the basket and crashing the boards.   As the game play entered the last period, the dynamic duo subbed out for a new pair of players.  Any assumption that the big guns were coming back was quickly dismissed when one of the guys hugged the scorekeeper to let him know he was coming in and both occasionally needed to be gently but bodily redirected when out of position.  In the flow of the game, the three starters involved their rotating cast in small but meaningful ways.   In return they received a steady stream of high fives and endless encouragement.

The game stayed close.  The club team did not dial down their game.  It was a beautiful thing to watch.  This team of seemingly misfit, certainly unevenly yoked players playing hard and playing together.   Able-bodied young men supported by whole-hearted young men playing a game they clearly all loved.  They won by two points.  Of course they did.   Against a conventional team that wasn’t pandering.  The coach of the club team laid into his team as soon as the buzzer sounded.  As he should.

This was not a charity game. 

This, I think, was a picture of what living with our differences can look like.  When a group of seemingly misfit, certainly unevenly minded/skilled/believing people come together - not in a special summit to celebrate our differences - but when they come together in the real flow of life to accomplish something.  There’s nothing conventional about that. Maybe even a winning formula?

It probably won’t surprise you to hear that the dynamic quad did not wait for the post-game handshake.  They bounded over to the opposing bench to congratulate the team on a game well played.

This morning I read this:  “Let everything be human and flawed, and be completely taken and thankful when it is good.” 

When our hearts are in our throat…  That, I think, is what it feels like to be completely taken when we see something good.   And many of those good things never make it on our camera roll.

Je Suis Charlie

Blowing in the Wind - Ecochic 75/25 by Rosanne on Etsy

I live 2 hours from Paris, but we all live in close proximity to unspeakable evil.

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Howling winds shake the windows

Like bandwagons begging for company

The myth that we can keep ourselves safe

Independent

Without enemies

To not be afraid, yes

In a broken, precarious world

Booming with wonder

Goodness still

Like a fire that must be constantly stoked

Fed by the confidence that justice will prevail

              Some now

                             More later

Better together

The belief that God is in all things

              Not just what I see

                             Or you know

                                           Or what any of us says

Howling winds shake the windows

Rain and hail now too

Let us push our logs inward together

              To increase the heat

                             Towards justice

Black Friday

On this Black Friday
Nothing purchased
Nothing accomplished
Instead may your gratitude hang over
Into longing for
Transcendent moments of joy
The divine tickle in the ordinary
Unconstrained by reason
The whispered reassurance you have enough, are enough
Inexplicably fueling
Persistence in knotty places
Peace in things still unknown
Potentially, hope in sorrow
On a different Friday
Something was purchased
Everything accomplished.

Unscheduled appointments

Like a plumber who arrives unannounced

To finally tend to some clogged drains

Excavating debris from places unknown

Every hair out of place and now on display

Replacing valves narrowed by calcification

Hard leaking out and encrusting itself as scale

We would have swiped the traps had we known

Snaked the drains to show we tried

Instead the towels are all hanging out

Not expecting company

It is hard to tell with this visitant

Too embarrassed are we to lock eyes

He sees the mess we're in

With judgment we can only suppose.

Afterwards, we scamper around tidying

With brush and bleach in hand

A deeper clean than normal

Reinforcing our capacity for Good Housekeeping

The mirror now sparkles, “Ready.”

Forgetting the blocked water flow solved

Oh the hubris, the silliness to think

We can keep it all pristine

That a hair shall never fall out our heads

That hard water is ours alone to bear

Something is forgotten

We were not the ones who called for help?

Wine, Dine and Tweet

Never has there been a time when a great idea, a job well done, or talent been enough on its own.   Dues have to be paid, hours logged, and a stroke of luck – or good timing – has always been the basic recipe for success and advancement.  Great hair also never hurt.

Today, genuinely created value and measured tenacity aren’t enough.   It’s the noisemakers who win.   Shameless self-promotion has become our Common Core. 

Musicians are expected to get people to their casino gig and cultivate online fan groups.  Employees seeking advancement either have to jump ship to get noticed or overshoot every target, preferably into the lap of a senior executive.  Writers, especially in the advent of self-publishing, are required to spend more time pedaling then penning their masterpiece.  Marketers are constantly trolling for new customer bases while beseeching their existing customer base to upgrade NOW.  Soon our college applicants will be asked to submit a song and dance along with their essay.  In the age of wine, dine and tweet, everyone needs their own personal marketing plan.

It’s a lot of racket.  With so much choice and the lack of time and resource to sift through the real talent/best product/most worthy candidate, mediocrity prospers.  Attention is a limited commodity and the loudest voices hold court.  It's labor intensive to filter the message from the messenger.  Some other things are lost with all this YOU, INC. noise.

First, it demotivates.  Talented people understand positive motivation involves extrinsic reward or punishment.  They are inherently adaptable because they know how to read what will resonate with their audience.  However, nothing slows a person down quite like an arbitrary stick in the eye simply because your megaphone volume was turned down too low.

Secondly, there’s the ick factor.   It doesn’t take too many conversations turned talking points for a gifted non-salesy person to feel like a fraud or a walking selfie using his or her most flattering filter.  No one wants to be the guy who’s asking for the ball every time down the court.  Talented people need to be ready for the pitch, but it’s hard to feel authentic – and virtually impossible to listen well – when you’ve been conditioned to treat every interaction as a marketing tactic or a play-by-play of your recent achievements that sniff of a bad combination of Tony Robbins and Gandhi.

Third, it takes time away from the real work.  Valuable energy that could be poured into the work itself instead has to build Powerpoints and dinky dead-end websites and schedule meetings with busy people who will never see your actual work.   Instead of the reasonable challenge of working in a competitive landscape, you’re surrounded by armies of able and more than a few incompetent people launching blind missives in hopes of landing an audience with Oprah or the next ice bucket challenge.   The real work not only moves to the margins of your time, less of it gets done.

And finally, a few gems get overlooked.  In a saturated market, you need more impressions.  You can’t be heads down and expect that someone will notice even if you have a Matisse on your hands.  Everyone needs to arbitrate for themselves sometimes, but you’ll never see the self-possessed or humble make that their primary goal.  It’s like when a wave circles through a stadium, the true sports fan might join in the first time, maybe even the second time, but at some point, he’ll miss the wave and stay seated, eyes glued to the game.   The work always means more than the circus around the work.