Wednesday, October 28, 2020

A Poster For My Screenplay AGAIN

 I have a thriller feature film script I'm developing called AGAIN. It's partly set in the USA and partly set in China. Here is a poster for it, capturing the script's climax - a helicopter flying over the Yanqing Ice Festival during nearby Beijing's new year celebration: 

Tuesday, October 22, 2019

Bringing in the Wings

When I was a kid, I read "Jonathan Livingston Seagull." It inspired me, in a schmaltzy kind of way. Even at that young age, I knew schmaltz when I read it. But I also couldn't put it down. It mattered, to a young teen whose parents just divorced, whose life was a storm on the outside (and in), to imagine this bird - this outcast, too - who kept trying despite it all.  It was likely the right book at the right time. 

I grew up near San Diego - inland, but we saw seagulls - so it was a bird with whom I had affinity.

I haven't read it since, and I don't remember a heck of a lot of details, other than that it was about a bird who tried - who really, really tried.

Except I do remember one thing. I remember how he soared higher because he brought in his wings.

JLS was learning to fly high, and then dive. He'd dive towards the ocean. He'd try to keep his wings stiff as he flew towards the sea (is how I remember it). The wind would beat his wings back, and he wouldn't succeed - time after time, the wind would pull a wing and flip him before he could reach his highest speed.

Then he had an idea. He'd pull in his wings. The wings were what stood in the way. If he brought his wings into his body, there would be less wing to disrupt the flow.

So he flew high up - brought in his wings - dove from the height - gathered up the greatest speed he'd ever experienced.... it was heaven.

And then he went to bring himself out of the dive. And crashed in the ocean. He was going so fast, the ocean was a brick of water.

I thought he was dead.

And then, when it turned out he wasn't dead - I thought he was done experimenting.

That was crazy! To nearly die, just to go fast. Just to feel like heaven on earth. 

I thought he'd have to stretch out his wings again. He could still dive, just not as fast. It would be safer.

But I wanted him to solve it, too. I wanted him to touch the sky, ride the wind, live to tell.

And then he figured out a different solution - he figured out that he could still do the deep dive with his wings pulled in - he just had to change how he came out of the deep dive to survive it. Instead of trying to spread his wings there at the end, he needed to move a feather or two. With his speed, that slight move would create enough shift that he could scoop himself out of his dive before hitting the water.


It took him awhile to figure out that would work - and to figure out the right combination - it took a lot of practice, and many more crashes. But in the end, he made it work, and soared higher than ever. 

I've forgotten most of "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" - other than the sense of connecting to a bird who felt a little like I was feeling, in the new life thrust upon me because of my parents' divorce.

But I do remember his bringing in the wings. And I do remember how the tweak of just one feather saved his life. It all was easier than he first imagined. And it was worth the risk.

Time to practice.

Tuesday, June 11, 2019

"Until the End of the Ninth" Reviews

I have received reviews on both my novel "Until the End of the Ninth" and its screenplay adaptation. This is a baseball tale, inspired by the true story of a minor league team from Spokane, Washington that died in a bus crash midway through the 1946 season.  Nine of the 16 men on the bus died. Eight of the nine who died had served in World War II. They came home to baseball, expecting one destiny and meeting an altogether different, devastating one. It remains the worst professional sports accident in U.S. history.

When I learned of the story while living in Spokane, I wanted to imagine their spirits living on. So that is what I did, in both novel and script form.

In recent months, and over the years, I've received reviews of what I've written. I've compiled some of those reviews here:

This is a “gorgeously-rendered historical drama … sporting impeccable research and detail…”

“Montages, flashbacks [and] narration that dips in and out throughout the script… give UNTIL THE END OF THE NINTH a unique and genuine touch…”

It's “as if you’re sitting around a campfire, listening to an impassioned storyteller give you details about the ‘worst accident in modern American sports history.’”

"The screenplay features a keen understanding of cinematic language: it is packed with stylistic flourishes and employs unconventional storytelling throughout."

“This is not only a story of a baseball team, but a story of men who have survived the hell of war only to be thrust into it one more time…”

“The writer adds a spiritual dimension that makes the story so much more meaningful.”

“I was moved by this story. I was absolutely moved to tears.”

Thursday, December 6, 2018

The King

Alex died. My 16-year-old cat passed away.

I know he was old. But he was my baby too.

He came into my life like a whirlwind. And I knew he was on his way. I told a friend that I was meeting some guy that day, I was sure of it. My intuition told me. And there he was that night, a kitten full of life, trying to get a leaf from under an abandoned building. He was homeless, dumped. He was my guy. He wasn’t exactly what I’d expected earlier that day, but he was absolutely the right guy to show up.

Alex was not fond of other cats, liked some dogs, and loved people. He usually (not always) tolerated my other cat Annie - the true ruler of the home, which bugged him.  But when Annie became sick a few years ago, he became kind.  When she passed away, he grieved (kept cleaning himself and then coughing up hairballs). It turned out, she was his friend and he was just so terribly sad she was gone.

He had this way of walking with his tail held high. He sure thinks a lot of himself, said one friend who saw him. It’s just how he walks, I explained. It was impressive, though - as if he knew he was all that.

He slowed down as he aged, became an indoor kitty and left the outdoor frolicking behind (I used to say he brought new meaning to the term “cat about”). But he still had the ornery in him. Just this last summer, he got out to go after a little neighbor dog - head first, which is how he had always fought - and the nearby road workers marveled. “I’ve never seen a cat do something like that,” one guy said, over and over. I had - seen it before, that is. I just hadn’t realized that he still had it in him.

Alex was turning a corner before he passed. It was a seizure that came - which makes sense, that’s about the only thing that could take him down - no slow illness was going to do it... I think we all can turn a corner and then slam into a wall. That’s how it happened for Alex. I sobbed to let him go, but knew absolutely that I had to let him go, and put him to sleep.

The day before, I decided to take him outside to a nature center nearby.  Oh, how he loved it! He sniffed at the air and smelled the flowers. He greeted people who walked past. It made him hungry, and he ate with enthusiasm for the first time in a couple weeks. I was hopeful - that corner looked to be turned.  Then the next day came and the grand mal seizure took over.

Alex was the kind of cat who generated lots of stories. There’s that time he got lost - the time he tried to jump on my head from the roof - the time he wore a cone because a neighbor cat got the better of him in a cat fight (that Alex started) - the time he stood at my car window meowing, telling me to get off the phone and get out of the car already - the time he made my neighbor get up from the chair on my neighbor’s own porch because that’s where he (Alex) liked to nap - the stories do go on and on.

But what I remember, and what I miss, is my sweet Alex, handsome boy, soft as a plush toy, always ready for what’s next. We all should live life with such tenacity and verve.

Friday, August 3, 2018

The Baseball Story, and LIIFE

Very excited to announce that my baseball script "Until the End of the Ninth" (an adaptation of my novel by the same name) was the runner-up in the screenwriting competition at the Long Island Int'l Film Expo - LIIFE!   I particularly love the acronym, and its parallel to the baseball story - which is about death, but life too.

I went to Bellmore, New York - on Long Island - for a weekend of events.  What a fantastic group, and festival.  I was really impressed.  I appreciated the opportunity that they gave me to talk about the baseball script, too.  All in all, it was a fun and productive trip.

"Until the End of the Ninth" is inspired by the true story of the 1946 Spokane Indians' minor league baseball team that died in a bus crash midway through that season.  Nine of the 16 men on the bus died. Eight of the nine who died had served in World War II.  It is the worst ever professional sports accident in U.S. history.  They died as a team - 9 - the number of players on the field at a time.  It was a terrible tragedy and one that moved me greatly when I learned of it.  I wanted to imagine that their spirits could have lived on, so I wrote a novel (and screenplay) as if they did.  It is heartwarming to have LIIFE acknowledge the work but, more importantly, the story of these 1946 men.

Sunday, June 4, 2017


She came in the summer, and stayed for the rest of her life.

My friends take on greyhounds from the track - rescue dogs.  They are invariably precious, sweet dogs.  They have lived hard lives, and when they come to the comfort of a real home, they seem amazed and grateful.  Always grateful.

So it was with Ocho - "eight," in Spanish.  She came to my friends' home in 2013, after they had lost a great girl named Ivy.  They were looking for a dog who would be a good match for their older gentleman greyhound Scruff - unaptly named before the adoption (unless you were looking for irony).  Ocho was a perfect fit for him, and for their family.

Though Ocho wasn't exactly the right name for her, either.  It needed to be softened just a little bit, in an endearing way.  "Ochita" was a favorite.  "Ochi" was, as well.  Ochi seemed to be the name we called her.  I can almost see her wagging her tail in joy as I think of her name.  She loved her humans and she loved when they would call for her.

She was a brindle-colored dog, a color name unfamiliar to me before I met her.  She truly was beautiful, both in color and in demeanor.  She had this way of walking with her toes splayed out a little - a condition that likely didn't help her much on the track (probably to her benefit, as she was able to "retire" a little earlier because of it).  But it didn't stop her from going down stairs. Another dog may have refused - her gait was slow as she would make her way down the stairs, one by one, to go outside - but Ochi insisted on making her own way, mostly because my friends asked her to try and somehow she knew (early on) that she could trust them to know her limits.

She was such a perfect match for Scruff too - a beautiful dog in his own right, but slowing down with age.  She was gentle, and so was gentle around him.  Scruffy passed away awhile ago, and so she was an only dog for awhile.  I think she missed him but also accepted, with grace, that cycle of life.

In the meantime, she aimed to please.  She kept us company quietly but insistently.  She was one to "hold space" for others, I think.  She was at home, finally.

Last fall, she had a cyst on her leg that the vet drained, but it was expected to return.  It would be her demise, my friends knew.  So long as she wasn't in pain, they'd continue.  And she did well, after that. I was able to see her many times, and wondered if she wouldn't just beat that cyst.  Walking down the stairs became a struggle, and sometimes she had to be carried, but she fought her way back and insisted on trying until she mastered those stairs once more.  I admired her for trying - walking at an angle (as she always had), figuring out how to make it to the landing, always trusting that my friends would not ask of her more than she could do.

The cyst came back, and the day came when life was more than she could manage.  She trusted my friends then, too, as they made the difficult - but right - decision to put her to sleep.  She'd arrived at their home as a ready-made friend - to them, to Scruff, to me.  She seemed happiest when she made others happy.  She was perhaps the sweetest dog I've ever met.  I'm glad she's not in pain anymore - but I can't help but miss her.  She was a good, and great, girl.

Monday, May 15, 2017

Exciting News - "Until the End of the Ninth" screenplay

Exciting news!  The screenplay UNTIL THE END OF THE NINTH is a semi-finalist in the Seattle International Film Festival, and is one of only ten scripts to be recognized!  We'll be headed to Seattle for events during the last week of the festival, which runs from May 18th through June 11th.  I'm excited not just because of the success, but also because this story is such a compelling one, about great men who played good baseball, but who tragically died in a bus crash in 1946, before their time. It was the season just after World War II.  Nine of the 16 men on the bus died, and 8 of the 9 had served in the War.  I chose to tell the story as if their men's spirits could have lived on after the crash, and imagined what that may have looked like.  Would they have gotten help from the other side?  I hope that is true. I'm grateful that SIFF sees the merits of this story.

Here is the news article, announcing the winners:

Thursday, March 30, 2017

The Man From Rome/Seville Communion

I'm happy to announce my writing work on THE MAN FROM ROME, a film in development that is the adaptation of Arturo Perez-Riverte's novel "The Seville Communion."  A plot summary:  
A computer hacker penetrates Vatican security and sends an urgent anonymous plea to the pope. Handsome Father Quart, of the church's Institute of External Affairs, an arm of the Vatican intelligence, is dispatched to investigate. The message of the hacker concerns a crumbling 17th century Baroque church in the heart of Seville that apparently "kills to defend itself".

Here is an IMDB page for the project:

Here is my IMDB page (which will be growing in the next couple weeks as I add all my projects):

Here is a link to the book's Amazon page:

THE MAN FROM ROME is a great project.  Watch for it as it goes from script to screen.

Friday, March 3, 2017

Socially Relevant Film Festival - Finalist!

We are finalists in the Socially Relevant Film Festival screenwriting contest for the script AGAINST.  I am the screenwriter and Chicago director Justin Jackola is a co-writer as well as the concept creator of this compelling story.

Our website is:

A portion of the screenplay will be read at the Film Festival in New York City on March 16, 2017 - the film fest's website is:

As noted at our website and the festival's website, the log line is:  Portrayed in a fantasy world of medieval combat that parallels her ordinary world, a girl joins an unusual suicide prevention group to figure out how to stop her secretly abusive father and reclaim her own life. 

I will be in NYC for the reading.  We are all very excited!


Saturday, February 4, 2017

Blue Bloods, Gangs, and "This Is Not Chiraq"

I watch the show Blue Bloods.  I like it.  I expect I'm not the typical viewer, since I'm not conservative - at all.  But it's usually well written, and only slightly expository (an Achilles heel for many hour-long procedurals on TV).  Sometimes the dialogue is clunky, and I usually am able to identify the writer on those occasions.  It's the same one who wrote the last clunky episode.

This most recent episode - taking down gangs - was particularly painful and wooden, however.  The writing had its problems, but it was the substance of the writing that caused the most grimacing for me.  Basically, gangs are bad and weak - some lip service to "I had it tough as a kid" is sandwiched between "we are evil people."  I'm not saying gangs are good - far from it.  But this portrayal did little to create any bridge of any sort - usually a hallmark for Blue Bloods.

There is a proposed TV show out of Chicago, all Chicago made (including actors), called "This Is Not Chiraq."  Although not yet picked up as a show yet, it has all the right makings of trying to figure out how to address gangs and violence from the inside out.  It's a well thought out drama with a realistic approach to solving very real problems on the street.  Since its inception, I've noticed some of the Dick Wolf Chicago shows attempt real conversations about gangs and violence (admittedly with a little more success than Blue Bloods did on 2/3/17), but the approach is still law centric.

We need a show like This Is Not Chiraq.  It was shown at the Black Harvest Film Festival in Chicago this past August, with a great audience and an incredible talk back session. 

Here is its trailer:

Here is its Facebook page:

Here is its website:

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

The First Video Game - Pong

Ta da.

Thursday, July 21, 2016

Go Cubs, Go #GoCubsGo

You may say this is a corny song.  You likely are right.  But I love it:

Maybe if you knew its history...

Steve Goodman.  An American folk music singer-songwriter.  From Chicago, Illinois.  The writer of "City of New Orleans," made popular by Arlo Guthrie.  Winner of two Grammy Awards.  And a diehard Chicago Cubs baseball fan. 

In long-suffering mode, he wrote this song and sang it from one of the Wrigley Field rooftops:

He smiles as he sings it.  It brings him joy, even with its lyrics of hopelessness.

"Year after year after year."  "After year after year after year."

People didn't know Steve Goodman was dying from leukemia back then.  It made the song have a double meaning, once Chicago found out.

The Cubbies banned the song from Wrigley Field.  Later, on the radio, Steve Goodman agreed to write a new song.

And so was born "Go Cubs Go."

I love how the Cubs go from the "doormat" of the National League in one song to winning it in the next.  I love its joyful tone, and joyful lyrics too.

Steve Goodman died on September 20, 1984 - just months after writing "Go Cubs Go" and just four days before the Cubs went to their first playoff appearance in decades.  His brother did try to spread his ashes as he asked. The wind blew, and it didn't quite work.  So goes the story.

"Go Cubs Go" has been the Cubs' theme song at various times, most recently now - 2016.  It's Steve Goodman's voice that plays.  The announcers give time, before doing post-game analysis, to allow the song to play through - and allow the fans to sing along - when the Cubbies win at Wrigley Field.

Of all years, this one makes "Go Cubs Go" particularly poignant.  If Steve Goodman hadn't written the song about his long-time suffering, we would not have such an optimistic song now.

Life can be tough as a Cubbies' fan.  Not this year.  Not too bad.

Yes, they get paid oodles of dollars to play.  But doesn't it feel like they also are playing because they love the game so much? 

So yes - "Go Cubs Go" may be a corny song. But I love it.  Steve Goodman would love it too - would love to hear it played, game after game, win after win - would love to watch the home runs land out on Waveland Avenue, like they do right now.

This song matches this team right now. I suppose, in a way, it always will - just like a Dying Cub's Fan Last Request is the team's iconic match, on the opposite side of the coin.

Hey Chicago! What do you say? The Cubs are going to win today!


Friday, June 24, 2016

70th Anniversary

An anniversary today. The 70th. Of the bus crash that took nine vibrant lives, of the Spokane Indians' baseball players back from World War II - playing the game they loved, waiting for a turn at the Show. I found the story and wrote a novel and screenplay, imagining their spirits living on. A silver lining. But every year on this day, my heart still weighs heavy. They were great men who played good ball, who loved their families, their town, their country and their game. They had a way of winning when down in the Ninth. What spirit. Still so missed by those they loved. RIP.

Saturday, May 28, 2016

Earth Landing

This is amazing:

Here it is, from our view:


Sunday, May 15, 2016

70 Years Ago Today

70 years ago - May 15, 1946: The Indians' team came from behind, tied it in the Ninth, and won it in 12. It was that kind of season, that kind of team. They saw a destiny. 40 days later, their bus crashed and nine died. Destiny's detour. Here are pages about that May 15th win - the first pages I ever wrote in my novel about these men, UNTIL THE END OF THE NINTH:


Monday, March 14, 2016


If your name is Scruffy, you must either be ugly or ironically beautiful.

The Scruff I knew was the latter.

He was a gentleman, too - a gracious host, a kind soul. 

He lived a long life, in greyhound years.  His life's beginning was stressful I'm sure - at the tracks, bred to race, caged when he was not in a race.  It is a difficult life for these sleek, fast dogs who only look to please, and connect.

His second life was not much better, as far as we know.  It did bring him Ivy - what a good girl she was, another greyhound from the track - a powerful chest, and runner.  They were adopted to a home, as happens with retired greyhounds, but it was a home that did not work.  By the time Scruff and Ivy were returned, they would not leave the other's side.  I've wondered often what happened there.

It was in his third life that I met him - with Ivy by his side.  My friends adopted the two together.  They had had other greyhounds before, saved from the track, to live with love and comfort in their final years.  It was time for a new pair - a male, a female - one of each.  My friends understood that, by that time, Scruffy and Ivy came as a pair.  They liked it that way.  It was a perfect match.

I'm assured I was Scruffy's favorite visitor.  I'm sure he wouldn't play favorites like that.  He was too much of a gentleman.  But I did love how he would stand at the window in the mud room when he heard my car drive up, and how he would dance a little dance as he watched me walk up the driveway to his house.  I loved how, once the greetings calmed down, he still stood with me and leaned into me as I stood.  I knew, always, to give him some moments to lean - to give us both those moments.  When he finally would pull away, I would be sad.  Yes, it was time to stop the greeting.  But it was a such a nice moment, each time.  

My friends thought of changing Scruff's name.  After all, he was a beautiful tan - nearly elegant in stature - not Scruffy in any way.  But a name change never came.  He answered to Scruff, wagged his tail when he heard that name, and seemed so grateful that this name was said with love, that there seemed no need to change it.  We all knew how pristinely beautiful he was.  My friends didn't need to change his name to know that.  And all that mattered to Scruff was protecting Ivy, loving his new family, and appreciating the gift of his new, comfortable life.  So Scruff he stayed.

Scruff had a fourth life too.  It was after Ivy died.  She died abruptly, unexpectedly, on a walk - while relishing life as she always did.  It was devastating to lose her.  It was Scruffy who'd been aging at that point, not Ivy.  But it was Ivy who passed, who was sorely missed by everyone - I think by Scruffy most of all.

We worried that, without his Ivy girl, Scruff would have no will for life.

But he did.

When Ocho came, she lightened his world.  She was almost a puppy, compared to him.  He was not quite sure what to make of the brindle-colored little greyhound, but then again - well, he was Scruff. He was the gentle gentleman, humble in spirit, kind, aware - always aware - and he welcomed her to his house, to Ivy's place, just as you would expect from such a grand boy. 

I ended up moving away, and so saw him less.  I came to visit a time or two and watched he and Ocho do so well together.  We'd go for walks - short ones, now.  Scruff couldn't go far.  I'd still get my greeting, though - the dance, and the lean. 

The last time I came, I saw him through the window in the mud room.  "Hey, Scruffy," I said.  "Hi, honey...."  He lifted his head, struggled to his feet, and stood at the door, dancing his dance, slowly now but still with a lift in his step.   As I opened the door, he came to my side and leaned in to my leg.  We stood there awhile, until he had to lie back down.  I stroked his beautiful fur, and talked with my friends of his sweet spirit.  He listened, I think, while he napped.

Scruffy passed away a month or so ago.  It was his time, so it was all right.  I'm going to his house soon.  I won't see him, I know.  But I will look for a flash of light that dances in the mud room just as I arrive to the home that he loved so much.

Thursday, September 10, 2015

My Kind of Town

I've been thinking it's time to start to fall in love with Chicago.

I've been here awhile (moved to be closer to family).  I did grow up here, during toddler times (but that was a long time ago).  I do work downtown so am actually in the midst of the city (though it's the Loop, so not really the City).

For a city, I've liked Chicago.  The people are mostly friendly, the traffic is mostly easy to navigate.  Old buildings have character. 

But I haven't yet fallen in love.  It's still a large city.  It's hard to get a handle on a massive amoeba.

Nonetheless, the enthusiasm of new friends for this City - their home town - have convinced me that Chicago is worthy of a deeper connection.  So I'd been thinking I should fall in love with Chicago.  Though I don't think that's how love happens - by plotting it out - so thinking hadn't manifested into actual abiding love.

And then the other night happened.

I was coming back to the Loop from a Lake Shore Drive location - where I'd been on a boat cruise with some people I know.  It was nice, and fun.  It had been a hot day, but the fog rolled in during the cruise and the weather turned perfectly cool.

After the cruise,  I could have taken a taxi back to the train that then would take me home.

But I've had this thing, you know - where I'm supposed to fall in love with Chicago.  So I thought - hey, now's the time - I'll walk to the train from here.  It's what - about a mile or so - my heels are short, my steps are long - I'll take the 20-minute detour down some streets and watch some night life (or 8:00 p.m. night life, as it was).

My phone's GPS said "turn left here."  What could go wrong?

Turns out, I was going down a street without a sidewalk.  My heels were higher than I remembered.  I clutched my purse as I walked by various and sundry.  At one point, I walked by a (presumably) homeless man laid out on his belly on a piece of cardboard.  I peered at him closely as I started to walk by, and worried about his lifeless form.  He blinked.  Thank God.

I continued to walk.  Hey, that's what my phone said to do.

And then there I was - somehow in the belly of the City - coming upon some men who were - I don't know. playing a roving craps game, or something?  I reminded myself how "nice" people are in Chicago.  I walked like I knew where I was going, prepared to pass them with a nod.

"Good evening," one man said. (Or maybe I said it first.)

I smiled.  He smiled. The others nodded.  It was all good.

I started to walk by.  I stopped.  "How do I get downtown?"  I asked.

He looked at me, surprised.  "Just go up these steps," he said.

He gestured.  I looked.  There were some metal steps. They went up.  To a bridge?

I looked at him.  He pointed back to the stairs.  "Michigan Avenue's just up there," he said.

I thought I was already on Michigan Avenue.

I started up the stairs to find this parallel universe that was supposed to dump me on a different Michigan Avenue than the one I thought I was on.

I was halfway up the stairs when he called after me, as if he'd forgotten something.  I heard something about spare change...

"Of course," I said.  I came back down, dug through my purse, and found about $11.  I don't  normally, for a variety of reasons.  But he hadn't even asked, except as an afterthought, so busy he was to get me pointed in the right direction.  We were helping each other out, really.  First one favor, no contingencies, then another, same thing.  Man, I really loved this guy.

"Thank you for your help," I said, as I headed back up the stairs.

"Well sure," he said.  "I'm always going to help someone who's lost."

We waved so long. 

Getting to the top of the stairs and seeing the sparkly side of Chicago on the now-recognizable Michigan Avenue was almost a letdown, after that.

This is the staircase, I think:

photo credit: Anna B. Brawley

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Window Kitty

I came home last night to my small abode, and saw a kitty sitting on my window ledge.  She could not have been older than 12 weeks.  She was mewing in the windy night.  I figured someone dumped her nearby, and she found my window ledge to protect herself from the elements.  I don't know why she was a she, but she was. 

I'm not allowed pets where I rent.  But I figured that bringing a kitty out of the cold wasn't really adopting a pet.  So I walked outside to pluck her from the window ledge. I figured I'd figure out what to do with her later.

Alas, she was a street-wise kitty.  She wasn't having any of it.  She heard the door and leapt from the ledge before I had a chance to catch her.  I wandered the bushes, saying "meow, meow," and "here, kitty, kitty," but to no avail.

Now I'm worried.

I hope she'll be all right.

Sunday, January 25, 2015

The 12th Ball

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Explaining Football

A few years ago, when my now-7-year-old nephew was just 4 years old, we watched football one weekend.  I tried to explain the game to him.  At the end of the weekend, he explained football to me:

"Bad choices.  Good choices.  Watch the flag!"

Just yesterday, his brother - who coincidentally is now 4 years old - also explained football to me:

"You kick the ball and then you kick it again and again, and then you win.  To get the trophy."

And there it is.  What else is there to know?