The Less You Know

Two years ago I coached soccer for the first time.  The Green Dragons finished 2nd (in a league of 3 teams) and never in history has there been a 2nd place coach who knew so little about the sport in which he/she was coaching.  Until this year.  That's right, I was asked (out of desperation, I assume) to coach again.

This is what first place looks like

I certainly haven't gotten any smarter in the last couple years, and I absolutely haven't studied up on the sport, so I was pretty confident that my knowledge of soccer had significantly decreased.  The good news?  This season our league consisted of only 2 teams.  Worst I could do was lead them to a silver.  The bad news?  Last time I coached I had an assistant who actually knew a lot about soccer, but not this round.  It was just me and my White Sharks.  Not a team name I chose, but I got outvoted.  We played the Black Panthers every Wednesday.  White Sharks vs. Black Panthers sounds more like a free speech rally that ends in tear gas and rubber bullets, so we didn't announce our team names too loudly.  Thankfully, our matches were more civil.

Grady's team.  Cooler colors, better coaches

Etna soccer is a fluid sport.  Not in the Brasilian sense that it's beautiful to watch, but in the sense that the rules, the length of the matches, hell, even the size of the field are all fluid and change on a weekly basis.  We tried to add time to the matches every week as the players got in better shape, then subtracted time when it got too dark to play.  The coaches doubled as refs, so I obviously relied heavily on the other coach to call just about everything except out of bounds; I was pretty good at that.  And "hands," I called that one correctly at least 50% of the time.

But it was, once again, fun.  I had Dylan on my team and she really took off as a team player this season.  The Sharks had a blast (probably because I gave candy bars as rewards), and I learned nothing more about soccer.  Our finally record?  3 - 3.  That's right, 1st place, baby.

Same Santa, Second Verse

It's no coincidence that I've written about Callahan Christmas nearly every year since I started writing Dispatches From the Ranch; it might be my favorite December outing.  The setting is in an old historic Grange building with walls as thick as Fort Knox's.  The cast of characters who attend represent what I love about this valley: hippies, cowboys, loggers, commune dwellers, and everyone in-between, all together, chatting and breaking bread.  The food is always a big traditional turkey and, even though I recently wrote about my normally unenthusiastic response to giant-chicken, this bird is the exception.  Plus, it's paired with potluck food, which is my favorite style of eating (food + surprises, what could be better?).  Send me to a restaurant with "family-style" seating and I'll probably stab you with my fork, but in Callahan, sitting at the long picnic tables is just part of the fun.

And then there's Santa.  Previous Saint Nicks have included a 25-year old dude, tiny frail men, cousins, and the super-legit reining Santa Champion, who had been there the last several years.  Sadly, that one passed away last year (pour a little egg nog out for Callahan Santa).  And even though the new Santa's beard and silver hair were clearly fake (the old Santa walked the walk year round), he did all the required holiday things: he was cheerful, inquisitive, and posed well for pictures.

Once the stockings get dolled out and the kids start terrorizing the Grange Hall, the adults retire to the upstairs to hang out by the wood stove.  Bottles of wine and beer emerge and stories about the past hunting season are told.  We duck the nerf footballs that the kids huck around and when the first rugrat collides with the wood pile, we gather up our salads and desserts and say our goodbyes.

Best of all, we're home before 9:00.  It's the perfect holiday tradition.

Comin' in Hot

The month of December rockets in like a couple of bogeys hot on Goose's tail.  Just when I feel like I finally digested the last piece of Thanksgiving pumpkin pie, Freddy Fender starts yelling that he Wants To Wish Me A Merry Christmas, and I start getting pumped up (because that's the best holiday song ever).  Mostly, because I need all 24 days prior to Christmas to get prepared.  Admittedly, I gave myself a Christmas head start this year and went out on Black Friday.  What a mistake.  Twenty minutes in, and after my third lap around Cabela's, I put everything in my basket back on the shelves and curled up in a ball somewhere between the ammo and archery aisles and muttered, Why? Why? until Regina found me.  People.  Shopping.  Hunting Gear.  All things that, in theory, I think I like, but in practice, nope.

With the Thanksgiving buzz finally worn off, we were ready for Christmas, so we spent last weekend in full holiday spirit.  We hit Etna's Christmas Party, where Main Street gets blocked off to traffic and the downtown stores open up for holiday goodies.  Santa's at the hair salon, some dude (Greg) is giving holiday tattoos at the hardware store, and so on.  It's all the crowds and anxiety of Black Friday shopping, but with more candy and beer.

On Sunday, we went full Christmas.  We drove up the mountain until we hit snow, and then hiked a mile to find a tree.  We lunched in an abandoned barn and drank hot chocolate and caroled.  Ok, we didn't sing, but Regina and I did drink wine while the kids filled up on cocoa and checked for bear tracks down at the creek.  When we got home, we decorated the house.  Dylan was in charge of setting out our 57 nativity scenes while I dragged/squeezed a 12 foot tree in through the front door.  Grady hung the cat-proof ornaments on the low lying branches.  Regina mostly swept up forest chaff.  Stockings were hung.

We are as decorated as we are going to get, and we're still three weeks away from Christmas.  I guess I'll have plenty of time to hit those late season sales at the mall ... or I'll just stay put with an egg nog. That's probably better for everyone.