The Mega Post (Part 3: Revenge of the Birthday and Derecho Douchebaggery)

And now, the final portion of a LOT of stuff that has happened. Previously, on Josh's blog, you read it, and it was good, but it stopped at Thursday with health care stuff and a lot of boring work things that no one cares about. Onto more thrilling stuff in the exciting finale of... THE MEGA POST! Actually, wait. I feel like I'm setting your expectations way too high here. I don't fight crime or anything. I just, you know, do stuff. It's fun, I like it. Then I write about it. Again, no crime-fighting. Ok, now that's starting to sound like I'm hiding something, so... fuck it. MOVING ON.

The Mega Post (Part 1: Old Friends and New)

I've been lax in updating again, which means that in between watching the Euro Cup Final, I'm going to try to crank out three parts to a Mega Post that picks up from where I left off last time. Oh, and that promised Friday mini-update never happened because... well... I was tired. That week was long, damn it. Without further ado, let's launch into the first part of the Mega Post.

My Type of Time

In high school, I played soccer, and I had this Australian soccer coach. He was gruff, pear-shaped, and not a particularly effective coach -- largely due to his embitterment at having been a former Australian minor league player and all the inferiority complex that implies. When I say I played soccer, I should qualify: I attempted to play soccer. I gave it my best shot. I showed up to practice every day, ran on the field, and intellectually knew the sport; but I wasn't particularly good at it. As a former Captain on the Junior Varsity team (due to my natural inclination to impose order on chaos, and what is more chaotic than 11 sixteen-year-olds chasing 11 other sixteen-year-olds and one uncooperative ball?), I was determined to get better. So one day, at the end of practice, I asked Coach Grubba, "Coach, how do I improve?"

He turned to me, swelled up his Australian beer gut, and blessed me with a remarkably smug and disdainful smirk, "You're a very Type A person, aren't you, Josh?"

Not knowing what the hell he was going on about or what crazy Australian classification system he was using, I followed up in the Socratic way with what I felt was a very apropos and striking question, "What?"

"Everything has to go a certain way. If you just know steps 2 and 3, you can get to step 4," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and continuing to look down at me like a particularly amusing but ineffectual yappy dog jumping at knees. "There's Type A -- you -- and Type B -- me. Type B is relaxed. Type B goes with the flow and things happen as they happen. Type A plans and plots and imagines that they can hold the universe and all its doings like a cowboy wrangling a particularly nasty steer. When something doesn't go 'according to plan,' all hell breaks loose." I may be paraphrasing here. He was a former Australian minor league player with no doubt a few soccer balls to the head.

"I don't understand how this applies," I said, somewhat perturbed now and beginning to expect the helpful advice was not forthcoming.

Grubba placed his meaty hand on my shoulder and said in his best impression of fatherly charm, "Josh, you're never going to be our star defensive back. You try hard, and I like you, but there's no step 2 or step 3 for you to get to step 4 here. Just enjoy what you're doing and don't worry about it. You'll see play time."

I did not go out for soccer again the next year.