Amongst those who play checkers frequently and well, there is an unwritten rule. He who moves first wins. No matter how well you play, the other guy knows all the moves too. You can’t help but follow the same two or three patterns for the flow of the game if you are determined never to lose when you don’t have to. So, if you play checkers with old gassers who have glasses and bald spots on their heads, liver spots on their arms, and Buddha bellies, then there are no surprises. You can play checkers like the clock ticks, moving relentlessly and without thinking. It allows you to discuss the world, solve the European immigration crisis in the cruelest possible way, watch the grandkids rolling skating in the neighbor’s driveway, complain about frequent bouts of cramps and flatulence, and just generally enjoy life in a way that is as Norman Rockwell as all hell… without actually having to think about it.
Today is a day like that for me. Diabetes ravaged me yesterday, my blood sugar playing a fierce game of Chinese world-champion ping pong between high and low… all day long. My brain is full of sand today and I cannot think. I can write, but the only thing that comes out is sludge as boring as watching old guys play checkers. But I have a young family and duties that will not give me a break. Number two son is playing flag football for his charter school, and we have to get him to a game in Grand Prairie, Texas today, over an hour away through the metroplex in good traffic.
Flag football, of course, is not real football. But this is Texas. Anything even remotely related to football is super serious business in a cowboy-centric world. You have to get out there and cheer. You have show team spirit. You have shout bad words at the other team when they invariably intercept your son’s pass and run it back for a touchdown. And I don’t have the energy today for the drive, let alone the actual football. All things considered, I’d really rather be playing checkers with old guys.
Catch a Falling Star 