You Herd Me!: I'll Say It If Nobody Else Will (7 page)

And that phenomenon—the world-within-a-world—is what I have witnessed for more than twenty years in sports. Hyperfocused people living goal-oriented lives attain levels of confidence as a direct result of their familiarity with success.

Despite their seemingly single-minded devotion, they love their families and have friends. But on a deeper level, they’re searching for personal achievement, a way of putting a stamp on their lives. They have no guilt about it, no qualms about setting goals and going balls-out to achieve them.

They aren’t choosing the local triathlon over feeding their kids. At the same time, they know they can’t feed all the world’s starving children, so they aren’t going to worry about it. Would they be better served if they
did
become overwhelmed by the plight of all the starving children in the world, to the point of making themselves depressed and miserable over it?

Conservatives cry, too, but for them all crying is local.

Like any industry, the top of the sports food chain is filled with serious people who have pruned away life’s excess branches at an early age. They’ve found jobs and projects they love, and they’ve set out to create a path they can control to achieve goals that are within reach. They seek the kind of certainty a relentless work ethic can make possible.

And if that means they sacrifice balance along the way, they don’t care. They’ve found something more important: results.

Balance, dare I say it, is vastly overrated.

In the end, you might want to consider the benefits of imbalance, and the achievements that come with pursuing a passion with single-minded devotion.

You can continue to seek balance. By all means, go right ahead
and marvel at the balance of your life as you stand over the bean dip at your fourth dinner party this week.

If you can stare into that dip and see the path to the kind of happiness that comes with long days and constant pressure and daily competition, more power to you.

It’s not one of the world’s more pressing concerns, but if you travel regularly, you know that every major airline has turned the boarding process into one of the more ridiculous events in human history. The whole operation has jumped not only the shark but also the manatees and squid. It’s rapidly making its way through every other living sea creature.

There was a time, lo those many years ago, when people who purchased first-class tickets or had frequent-flier upgrades to first class boarded … well, you know … 
first
. Oh, the gimpy octogenarian fresh off hip surgery also got the early invite, but now the rules are completely different. All bets are off.

Now? Now it’s pretty much a free-for-all. Gone are the days of purchasing or earning an early walk down the jetway. Now boarding early is looked upon as the God-given right of anyone who’s had so much as a leg cramp or an ice-cream headache in the past week.

“Anyone with a first-class ticket, people with children, mimes, those who feel a little gassy, women named after months, and people who watched the final episode of
Arrested Development—
all of you are welcome to board early.”

Since children won’t read this book and are the easiest to pick on, can we just start—and end—with them?

Can someone please tell me why six-year-old Amber needs to board first? Does she have a big meeting at Lego to attend? Is there a Disney Princess Convention I’m not aware of?

Look, I’m a proud parent. I’m not antikid by any means. However, that doesn’t mean that responsible and sane adults should encourage children to fly.

Yes, I just said that.

Parents considering taking their young kids on cross-country flights should feel the same way left-handed batters did when facing Randy Johnson in his prime: it’s probably safe, but don’t push your luck.

In other words, when you’re at the plate, lean back, not forward.

It would be dangerous and irresponsible for us to make the childhood flying experience so darned plum-tastic that kids inform other kids. We’d be risking some sort of child revolution that we’d have to battle the rest of our lives.

I’ll tell you what we need to do: we need to make the flying experience fall somewhere between being sent to your room and having to eat all the hideous frozen mixed vegetables Mom just dumped on your plate. You know, the ones she dished out while wearing a slightly devilish smile.

Because let’s face it: once word gets out that spending a few hours in one of those winged metal things is no day at the theme park, we’ll pretty much eliminate the kind of whining that could possibly lead to a six-day trip toward sunshine.

Settle down, mom-zealots. Nobody here is suggesting kids should board last and sit right next to those loud jet engines. Although I’ve got to think rows 28–34 are about the best place to put them. After all, planes don’t back into mountains, right?

And nobody is suggesting that kids can’t spend the entire flight stuffing their faces with however many pounds of junk you packed in that duffel bag. Although it’s worth noting that kids have small stomachs, and a glass of warm milk on an empty stomach might help kick-start a nap.

I’m just pleading for reason here. As the self-appointed president of Citizens for a Slightly More Rigid Boarding Process, I’m just throwing out some ideas for discussion.

There’s no reason to get all upset. We’re all on the same page.

Or should be.

Everyone wins with quieter planes—especially busy radio hosts who, if disrupted, could lose valuable prep time and come into work groggy and cranky.

Or who knows what else.

I also understand something important about why kids fly: grandparents miss their grandchildren. They need those annual visits and look forward to them. And that’s why, as a public service, I’d like to propose another civic organization to join my brilliant Citizens for a Slightly More Rigid Boarding Process.

The new group? Cheaper Seats for Grandparents Who Want to See Their Grandkids But Can’t Because They’re on a Limited Budget.

See where I’m going here?

Two birds, one stone.

I admit, my initial tone was fairly harsh. By now, though, I’m confident you can see my heart is in the right place.

And that right place is Row One, Seat A, surrounded only by adults.

Fit is underrated.

   When I used to work in local news you would see one popular anchor get plucked away by the rival news team. He or she would get a fat new contract and it was all the talk of the town among the media. Yet they never delivered the same ratings magic. Why? It’s so obvious, but news managers continue making the same hiring mistakes. It’s about the fit, not the face.

News teams that win the ratings war all deliver a certain comfort or chemistry to the viewer. The members of these teams appear, at least, to like one another. The new well-compensated, polished news anchor is now on an imaginary pedestal. He doesn’t feel like one of the guys. He’s a hired gun.

An intruder, almost.

In life, finding that perfect fit is difficult and underrated. They say everybody has an interesting story to tell and I would add this: they also have a gift if they can discover it and polish it. They just need the right fit. Even people who appear to be unmotivated have a fit.

Take Pot Dealer Guy.

About once or twice a year you see one of these stories hit the front pages:

A 36-year-old high school dropout who lives over his mom’s garage is running a sophisticated marijuana ring.

As you read the story your jaw drops. The same dude who refused to wear a belt or tie to his brother’s wedding is now the driving force behind a $234 million hydroponic pot farm with an intricate irrigation system that is the envy of most agricultural centers.

What in the name of Cheech, Chong, and Jeff Spicoli is going on?

What’s going on? Pot guy found his fit. It wasn’t in corporate America and isn’t even legal in America. But he found it.

Fit happens. Make it happen for you. Legally, of course.

What happens when your trip down memory lane takes a detour that doesn’t make its way down a lane after all? What if, instead of a lane, it’s a strip—a strip full of sex pamphlets, drunks, and Elvis impersonators?

There are all sorts of things you can lose in Las Vegas, but for me the city isn’t defined by what I left behind but by what stayed with me. No matter how many showers you take, something is bound to stick to you once you leave.

The city provides opportunities to unearth the buried truth in all of us. In Vegas, you can take your reckless judgment out for a walk. You can invite yourself into any and all kinds of oddball encounters. You can be as dangerous and uninhibited as you want.

Vegas simply lobs the pitch over the heart of the plate and begs you to swing away. For me, the place is truth serum covered in neon.

I was fortunate enough to land my first broadcasting job in Las Vegas in 1986, back before it became the monorailed, corporatized, culinary hot spot it is today.

It was headlined by the three Ts: Tyson, Tark, and Trouble. The Mob still had an active presence and the growth spurt was just beginning. The city’s, that is—not mine.

Tark, of course, is shorthand for Jerry Tarkanian, the former UNLV basketball coach who both fascinated and bothered me in equal measure. Most broadcasters begin their careers covering minor-league teams. Mine began covering the nation’s most controversial coach.

Anywhere.

Ever.

He and I had our differences, but I’ve never met anyone in sports like Tark the Shark. He was a really good man. Or maybe he wasn’t. I can go either way.

To say Tarkanian was complex would be like calling Fenway Park an old sandlot. Tark would be brought to tears by children and was known to interrupt a recruiting session by telling a young prospective UNLV Rebel that he would be better off going to Stanford rather than his public desert institution. He once told a luncheon crowd he loved taking his teams to tournaments in Hawaii because most black players don’t want to hang out at the beach. He said it without an ounce of malice but instead with the authority of someone who—after twenty-five years of coaching—was simply relaying something he perceived to be an absolute.

One of his favorite pastimes was criticizing coaches who lamented the recruiting process. As he saw it, “You get paid to watch basketball in the day and eat steaks and drink beer at night on the university’s dime. What’s so hard about that?”

He was the most honest coach I ever covered.

Sometimes.

Tark had a personal valet/shadow named Mike Toney who was straight out of central casting. Toney wore cheap sweat suits with the same deluded pride Ronny from
Jersey Shore
wore his fake tan. One of Toney’s jobs was to handle Tarkanian’s enormous, contractually negotiated ticket allotment from the school. During his peak years, when the Runnin’ Rebels were routinely in the national-title conversation, that allotment was pure gold and he was sitting on a mountain of it. Whatever Tark wanted he bartered for, or at least Toney did. Anyone who covered the program during that period knew it was an ugly scheme, but we weren’t IRS agents. And frankly, some of Tark’s allies had all the charm of Paulie Walnuts.