Coach

I was running 10 miles a couple weeks ago. Part of the marathon training regimen I have set up for myself and the 36 kids I am coaching to run the L.A. Marathon (check out www.srla.org for more info). But the kids were in L.A. and I was in Phoenix for the weekend. It was mile 6 and I was starting to fade. Damn hard to keep running when there is no one else running with you. Whether they are gaining on you, along, or you’re chasing them to take the lead, it’s always advantageous to have others out there.

So through the sweat and the beat in the headphones, I started to search for drive. For motive. And out of the thoughts, came a booming voice.

“ALRIGHT BOYS, LET’S TAKE IT IN!!!”

For anyone who’s played for him, you know exactly whose voice I heard.

Coach Duvall.

I think it’s interesting that in a moment when I was looking for motivation and drive, I hear the voice of the man who taught me so much of these traits…and so many more. In his many years of coaching, he has guided literally hundreds, if not thousands of his players and students, in areas that many weren’t getting enough of elsewhere. He taught us discipline, teamwork, sacrifice, and humility. He taught us to dodge clipboards. He taught us how to put money in the bank.

I’ve reflected the past couple weeks since that run to remember so many of the great times I had playing for Coach, but more importantly, the skills I’ve had to call upon in my life to persevere and excel. We’re a lucky group of men who have had the privilege of playing for a Coach who was so established and so clear in his message. Many young men do not receive that opportunity. But I look at the roll call of the WL Players Club and I see a tremendous amount of success and accomplishment.

The great thing though is that the lessons haven’t stopped at us. We’ve become fathers or teachers or coaches ourselves. We’ve taken what we’ve learned in our time playing for Coach and tried to pass it along. I’ve worked with several of my kids to teach them drive and passion and success. And I know where that in part came from.

Today is Coach Duvall’s birthday. Take a second to let him know what’s he has done to help you get to where you are. What he’s taught you that you’ve in turn bestowed on to others. We really do owe a little bit to him.


I love it, I love it. Can’t get enough of it.


Thanks Coach.

Patriots Day, September 11th - What we honor and remember

It was a gorgeous Tuesday morning in Centreville, VA and I was still asleep. I had been working as a bartender and that meant late nights and sleeping in. I didn’t have any reason to get up early that morning. I didn’t have to work or be anywhere specific. But even with no alarm set, I woke up and looked at the clock. It was 8:46 am. What woke me up I’ll never really know.

My morning routine was to go into our office and turn on the computer, log-on to AOL and check my email. AOL instant messenger always would auto-load, just as it did this morning. Yes, AOL…and it was dial-up.

It was 8:56. Stef was working at her office in DC. She sent me an IM:

“Good morning babe. Did you see what’s happening in New York?”

I had no clue what she was talking about and replied as such. She told me to go turn on the TV.

It was 9:00.

The image on the screen was that of the North Tower of the World Trade Center on fire. The scrolling updates across the bottom were talking of an “accident” at WTC One. It was a newsworthy image, certainly. But it was just a suspected large building fire at this point in time. Matt Lauer and Katie Couric’s voices were trying to fill the oddly silent air.

It was 9:02. I know this because I turned to look at the clock and see how early it must’ve been since the fire had started. Maybe there weren’t a lot of people at work yet. I thought about that 1970’s film, “The Towering Inferno” and even remember a little chuckle thinking that OJ Simpson was in that. I watched the clock flip to 9:03.

I turned back to the TV and saw the image that would soon be seared into the collective consciousness of our world. I watched as flight 175 flew directly into the South Tower. I physically gasped. I fell silent. Tears welled in my eyes. The gravity of what was occurring was starting to set in.

The rest of that day is very specific in my mind. Driving in to DC with my friend Tim to pick up Stef and his then girlfriend, now wife, Meredith. The roads in both directions were as empty as if there were 2 feet of snow on them. We listened to news radio as we theorized what could possibly be going on. We rounded the turn past Arlington and Rosslyn to see the city unfurl before us.

We watched the Pentagon burn as we drove across the Roosevelt Bridge. We saw the entire population of workers and residents of DC as they staggered out of the grid-locked city in the general direction of their suburban homes and past our car. They’d not make it there on foot, but anywhere but the city seemed safer at this point in time.

I remember us sitting in a TGIFriday’s that evening and being glued to the events as they unfolded. The information, sketchy at times, of what had happened that day. I remember the silence over-head as nearby Dulles Airport, as well as all others, had grounded flights.

I remember so much of that day and those days that followed.

I remember the flags that appeared on every overpass. In front yards. Hanging from skyscrapers. I remember the unity that this country felt. We were ONE NATION. I remember the images from around the world where people were remembering, supporting and honoring those who perished. The world was ONE WORLD united against a brutal attack. In the sadness and the pain was a sense of hope and unity. A feeling that this world wasn’t as cold and lonely as it can often feel.



The events of September 11, 2001 are now well documented. A quick search can give you facts, timelines, and names of the victims. What it cannot give you is a reason why they happened. But the simplest explanation is obviously the most logical. Hatred.

There were millions who witnessed this hatred, and regrettably, 2,959 who never understood that it would be hatred that would cost them their lives this day. We have attempted to uncover the source of that hatred. We know the people behind it and have fought multiple wars in an effort to bring them to justice. Hundreds of thousands more have since died because of the hatred that manifested itself that morning. Our troops, their troops, their innocent citizens.

Where has it gotten us?

Our communities, our country and our world, stand divided once again. Divided over every thing that can separate us. The seed of hatred planted that day has been watered by political infighting, power lust, greed, and ignorance. IT is now the only thing that has grown from the site of where the Trade Towers stood. Hatred has taken root.

The men who executed and planned those attacks are extreme in their radical and fundamental beliefs in their faith. They are the ones to blame. Not the faith umbrella that they fall under. Not the one billion other people who kneel before the same God as them.

The Afghani child playing in the dirt field behind their mud hut home who is killed by a misguided drone, is as innocent as a person who died on 9/11. It makes no difference that she prays to a different God than you. It makes no difference that she was not born on this soil.


Today we honor the memory of those people who died that day. Whether they were innocent travelers, average office workers, or the brave heroes who charged into the burning buildings. We honor the spirit of America that showed it’s true colors that day and in the days immediately after the planes were flown into those three buildings and the ground in Pennsylvania. We remember that the rest of the world stood with us and cried with us. We remember how we stood together against hatred. That is what Patriots Day is all about. Remembering the core values we hold in this country and they are not much different than the core values of the almost 7 billion people on this planet. We remember the freedoms afforded to us being American citizens, freedoms upon which our Nation was founded in the first place. And we understand that with such wonderful freedoms, why people so wish to cross our borders to taste them. That we are one Nation, under God, indivisible. And it certainly doesn’t matter what you call that God.

Being different from each other in country of origin, faith or language does not mean being wrong or being better. It means only being different. Understanding and respect for difference is the only way to combat hate. Regardless of any differences, we are still Americans, and more so, we are citizens of one world…united against hate.

Get your "Preak" On!!!

Today used to be a day I looked forward to for weeks. Mind you, weeks were a LONG time in the mind of an early 20-something. But I digress. I'm writing about how special today was and is. A quick glance at your calendar will note that today is not my birthday (My birthday BETTER be on your calendars), it's not release day for the new Madden, and nope...it's not the drop day for Ke$ha's new single.

What's so special about today? It's Preakness, baby. In all it's glory...it's PreakNic. It's "The Infield" and I ain't talking about no Camden Yards. It's PreakNasty. And for us Marylanders, it might as well have been the most ginormous State Fair/Festivus/Big Sale at Hecht Company all rolled into one.

The Preakness Stakes are a major deal in the horse racing world. Understandably, because it's the 2nd of the 3 legs of the Triple Crown, and things with 3-legs are either awesomely odd, or something to be worshiped...am I right ladies (and some of you guys)? But in the glorious environs of: Charm City - The City that Reads - Home of "The Wire" - STDCentral - otherwise known as Baltimore, Preakness might as well BE the Triple Crown. And the Lombardi Trophy. And that cup thingy that Jesus drank out of.

We Baltimorons are made to believe that Preakness is a right of passage for all to experience until our livers, our spouses/children/jobs, or a judge prevent us from doing so. 98 Rock with their Kirk, Mark & Lopezes used to whisper sweet nothings across the airwaves starting shortly after New Years, reminding us how many days it was until "The Infield." We HAD to go. It was our DUTY as crab-lovin, NattyBoh drinkin, sorta-rednecks-but-not-really-because-Howard-County-and-Owings-Mills-are-rich-suburbs to attend Preakness. We spend the better part of high school trying to figure out how we can get to it. It's a Marylanders right!

I feel it's important to say that there's two experiences to Preakness. One is the wanna-be Kentucky Derby that happens in the grandstands. It is the "Wear a cute hat and sundress" for the ladies, while the men don their Calvert Hall or Loyola ties with plaid blazers, white UVA lacrosse hat, khakis, and flip flops. The mint juleps are replaced by black-eyed-susans and the stories being regaled in those grandstands are about how McDonough lacrosse is this year, and when the sailboat down in Annapolis will be Bay-ready. And don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with being a rich, snobby son-of-a-bitch who's Daddy bought you a Mercedes for your 16th birthday. But that Grandstand experience is alien to most Marylanders. And they'd just as soon have it that way.

It's the OTHER Preakness that we all wanted anyway. It's the OTHER Preakness we'd remember (sorta) for years to come.

The REAL Preakness was about waking up at 5am to meet your friends at someone's house (usually mine...thanks and sorry Mom!), or a local bar to board a chauffer-driven school bus. Odds are that you were showing up slightly hung-over from partying a little too late the night before. So when your friend reached into the cooler that was literally the size of a coffin and grabbed you a cold Beast Light, you were in dire need of cracking it open quickly and glugging that golden goodness as fast as you could. Who knew a dog's hair could taste so wonderful.

Part of what made this a PERFECT time was that finals had ended for colleges, and we were too early into summer jobs to be fired yet. Preakness often represented the first "write-up" you'd get that summer. And it was always so worth it. Also, Memorial Day was still a couple weeks away, so you didn't have to go "DowneyOhshunHon" yet.

Arriving at Pimlico Race course was also always a lesson in humility...and bartering...and Sociology. Let's just say that the neighborhoods surrounding Pimlico and it's Preakness weren't the kind of neighborhoods that most of the attendees spent a lot of time in. Unless they were scoring some dope for the party.

Driving around trying to find a place to park, while avoiding the kids running out with signs advertising $20 and $30 parking which was always a person's front or back yard, was the first adventure of the day - and the first sociological experiment. Trying to find that house whose owner didn't look like they were going to jimmybar your door and go looking through your shit while you got shit-faced. It required quick "judge that damn book by the cover" mentality and a little bit of a gambler's ego. "Our car will be fine...just don't let them see where you hide your purse" (which is a little difficult when the owner's kid has hopped on your hood to take you to their house). Could people set aside racist notions about each other for the sake of a little commerce. The answer: nope. But then again, they've never, so why would a horse race be any different?

So judgmental racism aside, and the car parked, you would group with your friends and retrieve all the gear you'll need for the day: blankets, tarps, throw-away camera, lucky hat, can coozy, condoms (cause we were young and stupid and you just never know), and the most important thing...13 cases of beer piled into a cooler the size of a Honda Civic hatchback.

Being a taller dude, I was always one of the ones who had to carry the cooler. That, or because I borrowed it from my sister and she'd kill me it I broke something on it (*note - Chrissy, IT WAS A COOLER...NOT A TENNIS BRACELET). Now don't let my height fool you. I'm as weak as a cocktail on a cruise ship. Carrying that damn cooler was one of the most painful memories of my post-childhood/pre-marrieddom. And I couldn't bitch about it because I (along usually with a Casella brother) was one of the heroes of the moment. I WAS CARRYING THE BEER. They would've called the Maryland State Police to give me an escort if they could've. But most of them were either in attendance or on the roads cleaning up the after-affects. Plus, none of us had cellphones. It was the mid-90's.

So with the weight of this cooler that was the size of a crabbing schooner cutting into my skinny four fingers and stressed my rather noodle-like arms driving me almost to the point of crying. But there's no crying at Preakness! At least not until you're schnockered and it's 4pm and you're sunburned and have lost all your friends and bets and now you fear going back to where the car is parked, alone...then you can cry. But NOT while carrying the cooler on the way in! (*side note: when your friends are doing a solid and carrying the cooler, it is NOT at all funny to sit on the cooler; act like you're going to sit on the cooler; or tickle their faces or arms. Don't be a dick.)

The odd thing about Preakness is that no matter how early you get up and arrive there, you ALWAYS feel like the party has been going on for hours. You walk up into the infield and sure as hell, it seems like you'll NEVER find a place to set down your blankets, tarps, and this cooler that is size of those two fat guys on the back of every Guinness Book of World Records on their motorcycles. A cooler which, by the way, has now caused one of your arms to be 3" longer than the other permanently - regardless of how often you switched hands.

We always seemed to be running late for Preakness. I personally blame Oba. Because if we're late for something, it's probably Oba's fault.

Lateness aside, walking under the tunnel or across the track (whichever they were letting you do that year) was always a surreal feeling. Or maybe that was just the 4th beer kicking in. Either way, coming up into the world of the infield is certainly something to be experienced at least once. But if you can't ever do it, or are over 30 and have children to worry about, try this and you'll essentially get the experience: get a little buzz on, go stand in some mud while holding 100lbs, light up a marijuana smelling incense (or just blaze out), turn on Skin-A-Max and pause it on a boob shot, and then maybe ask a friend to vomit about 15 feet away from the stale portapotty you've set up nearby. That'll do it.

Oh, and for good measure, walk around for 30 minutes while everyone debates the best place to set up camp. You think driving with your father while he hunts for a "great" parking spot at the mall 2 days before Christmas is a pain in the ass? Try getting 14 people to agree on the best place to spend 8 drunken hours together. I think the Geneva Convention was less contentious. Did I mention that we were carrying a cooler that was the size of Glenelg High School?

Eventually the treaties were signed and a camp was chosen. Often, and again because of Oba's tardiness, we would find ourselves a little too close to unfavorable areas: the johns, the walkways, or the betting windows. More traffic = more people stepping on your shit. Drunk people. Drunk BAREFOOT people with muddy feet. You'd really get annoyed with this...until at least 6 or 7 beers.

Thinking about Preakness today and all the memories of the years we went go me thinking about those wonderful little details. So I've begun to wonder:

What the HELL was so special about Preakness?

It sure wasn't the beer. We couldn't afford good beer in that large of quantities, so we often found ourselves choosing either Milwaukee's Best Light or National Bohemian or...God-forbid...Keystone Light (although I always hid a 6-pack of Oxford Raspberry Wheat at the bottom of the cooler, but never can remember drinking a one in the 6 I attended). We swilled beer that today most of us would scoff at. And if we were made to drink one of those today, we'd likely leave half the can sitting somewhere at the cookout in Glen Burnie we are regrettably attending. And look, I'm all for the sentimentality of Natty Boh. But be honest with yourself. That beer tastes like shit. The only reason Marylanders drink it with pride is because we're too afraid to drink water from the Chesapeake. So this is the only liquid in Maryland we can be proud of AND claim to have tasted. Even now, as I sit here and write, I have a glass of Sauvignon Blanc next to my keyboard...not a Natty Boh or a Beast Light.

The grounds at Preakness sure weren't what was special. Usually by midday, you were barefoot. That was either because you lost your shoes, or you just got tired of them getting stuck in the beer-and-urine-made mud. When in Rome...right? I heard a rumor once that there was grass somewhere under the acres of beer-pooled tarps and passed out frat boys.

Maybe it was the young, lustful, scantily clad women and men who populated the infield that made it special? But let's be honest about this. We're talking about Maryland here. Most of the state doesn't have all it's original teeth. When Jerry Seinfeld said that 95% of the world was undateable, he was cutting Maryland some slack. And when you start removing shirts from many of these folks, that number drops rapidly to 99.9% Sure, you would see an occasional girl raise her shirt (I have plenty of pictures if you need proof), but ultimately, you weren't there to hook up. Unless you were this couple we knew who did the deed in a porta-potty at Preakness. Yes, really. I know. Made me gag too writing this.

Was it the horse racing or the actual Preakness itself that made it special? Well in 6 years of attending the Preakness, I saw 2 collective horse races. And neither were the Preakness. I could hear them. I heard the crowd get excited in the Grandstands (maybe those white-bred-snobs were on to something!) And let me just tell you this: large quantities of booze and gambling on a sport you know nothing about is a VERY stupid mix. You don't down a fifth of Goldschlager then go try and bet the Pakistani Field Hockey Championships, do you? What makes you think you've got the top horse identified in the #6 race, when you were probably too drunk to tell anyone your shoe size at that point?

Was it the time with your friends that made Preakness special? Well, the majority of the pictures I have are of all of us whooping it up: Beer Pong...and well...that's really it. Most of the pictures are of us sitting around and drinking. With shirts off. Getting FRIED by the sun and of course not wearing sunblock because we're 22 (or so our ID says) and at that age the human skin is more resilient than later in life (an actual argument I once made). If we wanted to sit around with each other and get plastered, why go through all the above to do it? On top of that, 2 of our friends would inevitably get in a fight. Either with each other or with a guy walking by who stared a little too long (um, dude, he was shitty...he was just trying to see his way past the 3 of you he was seeing on his way to go vomit on the track) Friends fighting at Preakness is not fun. I'm pretty sure we didn't pass through metal detectors. And I KNOW there were some parolees around there. Bottom line was, Nate & Tony...not a good idea.

So I'm at a loss. Something that seemed so freakin' awesome every year that I would spend the better part of April planning for it, now has become quite an enigma to me. I ask myself "Self, why would you have ever done that to your...self?" (I haven't even MENTIONED the hangover and sunburn you'd have for 3 days following)

The only answer I can come with is: because I'm from Maryland baby...and that's how we rolled.

And even though thinking about all this and writing it down has made me feel older than the rednecks who sat by the women's porta-pottys and held up 1-10 signs rating the talent; and to those of you who've read this far and are now thinking "I understand where 'Bitters' comes from", I gotta say, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. If Stef would let me. And if I didn't have to carry that damn cooler.


And THAT'S the Bitters Truth.

Love is staring you right in the face

Ah, springtime. Such a beautiful time of year. The weather is temperate, the sun is bright in the sky, and every where a sense of love is in the air.

Especially at the dog park.

I was driving to get a little bite to eat today. Since I seem to be in a perpetual quarter/mid-life crisis, I put the top down on the convertible and took the long way to our little breakfast spot in Westwood. Rolling up Barrington and past the well known dog park that is there, traffic slowed eventually to deposit my vehicle right next to the fence that sits along the road. With music blasting on the radio, I was feeling the vibe of the day. And then I glanced slowly over to my right...

Cue the cheesy 70's porn music.

He was a larger dog. Likely in the Retriever family. Big, goofy, tongue flailing wildly out of the side of his mouth as he stared directly at me.

She was of the hound family. Smaller, a little curvy, and staring right at me.

I wanted to look away. But I couldn't. Not because I have some sort of dog humping fetish, but because THEY were staring at ME. It's my opinion that I was just glancing over and they were already looking at me. They wanted me to see them. Why else would they be knockin' boots at 10 in the morning in the middle of a park? Damn little doggie voyeurs.

Dogs are about as close to the internet as the natural world gets. As with that there world wide web, with dogs...anything goes. Cleaning themselves in public? Check. Eating their own regurgitations? Check. Nose to ass/crotch/other? Check, check, CHECK!

They put their private lives on display as if all dogs are part of some unknown Dogbook we can't plug into. But not only are dogs social networkers, they are the pornstars of the animal world. They walk around all day with nipples swinging to and fro, or little tubes of "pink lipstick" popping out at all the wrong times. And they don't really care what you think about it. As for other animals adopting this behavior, you don't see cats or squirrels doing it, do you? They may chase each other around, but that's foreplay. We've all seen the pigeon doing the little bob-n-weave-look-at-me walk behind the female his diggin' on, but have you ever seen them just flat out go for broke?

When my Dad told me about the birds and the bees, he talked about discretion, love, and safety. I guess that's why they don't tell you about the "birds and the dogs".

Makes me glad I have a cat.

Ain't that the Bitters Truth.

Dear Arizona - you've failed...EPICALLY.

Dear Arizona,

Epic Fail. Epic.

There's times in politics and government that one just sort of says "Oh well, that's how it goes. I disagree, but I can live with it."

Then there's the immigration law passed this week in Arizona. There's no way that the public as a whole can respond to what's happened these past couple days with that same response. The state, as a whole, has taken a big, fat, steaming dump on the fabric of what built us as a nation.

Arizona is effectively saying that if you are in their state, and you aren't a citizen, well then they hope you are pretty flexible. They hope that you are able to bend completely over at the waist, tuck your head between your genitals and...kiss your ass goodbye.

Don't believe me? Go ahead and check it for yourself. It says so right here: www.azleg.gov/legtext/49leg/2r/bills/sb1070s.pdf

Okay, so maybe not exactly like that, but damn close enough. They want nothing more than the try and scare away the residents of that state that should be selling tamales in TJ. Oh wait, I'm sorry, I shouldn't call them "residents". Arizona sure doesn't (unless it wants tax revenue from them). I should refer to them as how the Arizona politicians see them: burdens.

Before I go any further, let me say this: I have A LOT of people in Arizona that I love. My father and step-mother have lived there for 28+ years (Dad's always voted Democrat...Step-mom, not so sure...). I have friends, family and golf club employees who've taken care of me over the years. Oh, and the Cardinals are finally worth rooting for.

But the state as a whole got it fucking wrong. Way wrong. And those of you in Arizona who let it happen, you're completely at fault for what I bet was a lack of effort on your part to fight this xenophobic law. Did you stand up and do something? Did you contact your State Representative whom YOU elected? Like it or not, you're part at fault and should shoulder some of the embarrassment of this..

Creating an environment where police (led in Maricopa County by a WILDLY anti-establishment, Sheriff Joe Arpaio) are able to stop and question, without reason, people who might possibly not be citizens of this country is as close to Nazi Germany that this world has been since that disgusting time. And this is not hyperbole. It is EXACTLY how things first started in 1930's Germany. The reason it grew was because those morally opposed didn't speak up until it was too late.

Sound familiar Arizona?

People come into this country for criminal things. Of course they do. We have a significant opportunity for people with poor motives to take quick advantage of the animosity of our country. But the vast majority come here to try and contribute and do more than they ever could've hoped to do in their home countries. Need proof? Ask your Grandparents. Check your ancestry at http://www.ancestry.com/ and I bet YOU didn't come from here originally. Without the presence of people willing to do what it takes, America wouldn't run.

And neither should the people this law targets.

Arizona is a state with a rich and complicated history. From it's "Wild West" roots to it's modern growth, it's always dealt with an influx of people seeking a different "climate." It has wealthy retirees from the East. It has the 3rd generation Arizonan who's family came here to escape something. It has the guy who proudly carries a gun into the nearest Home Depot. It's what Texas wishes it could be if Texas were smaller.

Arizona was also the first state I recall seeing the ATM offer instructions in Spanish AND English. It was 1994. I thought, "How cool?!" Now it seems as if some people in AZ are saying "How uncool?!"

I teach several kids who are here illegally. And if there aren't, their parents are. And I love them sincerely. I can't imagine a situation where they'd be stopped and then questioned by police if they belong here.

I'm not saying open the doors and let all who want in to come in as if the U.S. is a keg party on the frat row of the world. But we have systems, we have agencies, and as broken as they are, rely on them to do the work AT THE BORDERS. Don't ask your officers to patrol the freeways and side-streets to rid the neighborhoods of the unwelcome.

Shame on you politicians of Arizona. Shame on you for thinking that fear and punishment are the answer to dealing with those who arrived here differently than you.

And that's the Bitters Truth.

The Bitters Truth

I'm opinionated.

I'm bored.

Many of you like my writing.

So, why not?

Allow me to introduce...The Bitters Truth. The world through the eyes of a guy you love to love and love to hate.

Thanks,

Bitters