I almost forgot...

So yeah.

At 10:48 on Sunday night, I got fired.

I'm a little bummed.

That's about it.

I guess I have time to do some cleaning now...

I'm a horrible, horrible blogger. Seasonal affect disorder SUCKS!!!

Around April and May, it finally hit me that the Gay Games were around the corner and I was a wee bit shorter on cash than I thought I'd be. I stopped going to the bars. I stopped going to Potowatomi. I picked up shifts at work and tried doing some creative calucluating with the bank account. Which helped by.... Ok, it didn't help much.

So, the schedule went a little like this:

July 5-15th: Volleyball Camps
July 15th-22: Gay Games
July 23rd: Beg for job. Panhandle....

I left for MSU's summer volleyball camps at 3:13 a.m. on July 5th with $50, a check card and a dream. Dramatic-like, almost Thelma & Louise if you will. Well, without a Louise. Or a convertible. Or a vagina. Or guns. Or the need to cause havoc and destruction. Or considering the possibility of driving my non-Louise-convertible-vagina-with guns-causing havoc and destruction Toyota Corolla over a cliff. So, I guess it's not too much like Thelma & Louise.

Somewhere around Gary, Indiana, the Corolla's ole check engine light went on.

Somewhere around Kalamazoo, Michigan, I found out my check card wasn't working right.

I say, "somewhere," because I don't actually know where these things happened. See, I've been kind of blind for some time now. And I don't mean the "I forgot my reading glasses" kind of blind. I mean the "my face is 3-1/2 inches away from the computer screen and the 25 pt type is still a bit fuzzy" kind of blind. Let's just say that the big "E" at the top of the eye chart was pushing it the last time I went to the eye doctor.

So, back to driving 375 miles blindly across four states in the dark of night following a 7 hour work shift with no sleep.

Six hours after I left good ole Milwaukee, I arrived at Butterfield Hall on MSU's campus, ready to check in and get them camps started. Lots of impressionable young, budding, excited girls wanting to learn from my vast knowledge of the sport.

(When I went to summer volleyball camps at the University of Hawaii, I thought my player-coaches were the best thing since sticky rice. Every time I did anything, their advice seemed god-like. After 8 summers of being that coach, I can safely say the #1, or so, thing going through most coaches' minds when doing drills with players that aren't their own is...: "Don't hit her in the face. Don't hit her in the face. Don't hit her....damn it. Don't hit her in the face again. Don't hit her in the face again...Is she crying? Whew. Okay now, don't hit THIS ONE in the face.... Fuck, I need a beer.)

I checked in at the front desk and asked who else had checked in. No one. Okay, so, it's 10:15 am with a staff meeting at 11 am and no one has checked in except me. Something wasn't quite right. Whatever, I thought, I smelled pretty bad. I needed a shower like K-Fed needs a vasectomy. Federal mandate or not.

I grabbed two of my bags out of the car, the keys to the dorm room out of my pocket, the cell phone out of the other pocket and walked it all up two flights of stairs. Note: still blind as a headless bat.

I'm standing outside what I think is probably my room, working the key into the keyhole when...I dropped my cell phone. Which has happened a lot in the past. Those people that know me aren't surprised if I walk into a wall, or an oddly-placed six foot diameter pillar, or fall up a flight a stairs (I'm coming to that one...) or drop something that's practically glued to my hands. Opposable thumbs and panoramic vision, I sometimes don't have.

This time, the cell phone breaks in half.

So, I'm holding the two halves of my cell phone, trying to reconnect the connecting ribbon that I assume is probably important to some aspect of the phone fuctioning properly by banging the two halves together like a homo erectus trying to discover fire for the second or third time.

At that point, the keypad half starts lighting up. Flash flash flash....flash flash flash...

I'm not gonna lie, I started crying right there and then.

Camps weren't too bad at all. Not what I expected, but not bad for my last go around there. One of the highlights was the Project Runway 3 Premier Party at Tracy's place. I'd like to think Tracy and I should patent the phrase, "I just want to punch him in the windpipe." It was fun trying to explain to the uber-straight 6'9 volleyball guy about the whole concept of Project Runway and its fabulousness without using any gay buzzwords.

Try it. It's not easy, but kind of fun. It's like ex-gay Password, except ______.

See. I told you.

The ENTIRE time I was in Michigan, Mike's words haunted my every move.

"Girrrrrl, you BETTER just be eatin that salad. I'm not taking one in the face because of you..." ....which doesn't sound quite right now that I actually type it out. I guess it's a volleyball thing.

I'm not gonna lie, I lost at least 15 pounds in a week and a half. Nobody on my team in Chicago would believe it, so I didn't say anything.

I guess the next post will be about all the debauchery and ridiculousness and crazysexycool that was the Gay Games in Chicago. Oh, and I think some volleyball was played, but I still can't say for sure. Since I like lists, I'll leave a little note for me to remember for next time...

1) On my new cell phone heading to Chicago from Michigan -- "Girrrrrrl. John done lost her wallet somewhere in the Burger King at the Vegas airport.... It had your cash, her credit cards, all her shit... What the fuck she doing at Burger King??????"

2) It IS possible to fall UP a flight of stairs. And then Giniqua rolls her suitcase over you to get in the apartment.

3) In the gym at 1 pm: "Hey, I was watching you guys playing. You're really good." "Uh, thanks, but no, we're not. (Do we know you?)" "So yeah, I heard you were the guys with beer." "What? We would neve...yeah, it's in the suitcase over there."

4) "Hey, it's Brent. I just wanted to apologize for anything the manager in Chicago claims my friends did when he calls you about the homos he kicked out of the restaurant..."

5) Watching Project Runway: "Is that Vera Wang?" Nine homos turn in unison to look at the ONE straight, I mean "straight," guy in the room. And, he's wearing a pink polo.

6) Someone: "Okay, someone has to find a trick and sleep somewhere else every night so there's enough room." Nate: "Done."

7) Wherever the "I'm Not Your Bitch, Bitch" team goes, there's always the possibility of an orgy just breakin on out all over the place. I'm not saying it happened, I'm just saying it's a possibility. On the balcony. In the middle of a bar. At the IHOP. On the train. In the gym. On any and all couches. Just sayin, there's potential.

8) SEVEN TIMES. SEVEN. Seriously now, SEVEN TIMES. And, it's huuuuuuuge. I'm innocent and virginal, so I don't know. I'm just sayin...SEVEN TIMES.

9) Me: "So yeah, Mike and Nick, just a little request. While I'm driving down Michigan Avenue in rush hour traffic, do you mind NOT waving the Smirnoff Ice bottles out the window...you know, just when we pass the traffic cops."

10) There's NO WAY your boyfriend can think he's straight. He's like Jessica Simpson, but not as butch.

11) "Hey there young men, do you mind talking to us for a minute. So, how do you feel about God?" which wasn't all that funny until 20 minutes later when Mike the lawyer talked her out of believing in heaven and the afterlife.

12) "....and I don't think I can make it... (inhaaaaaaaale) again..."

13) When operating a washing machine: (1) Load laundry into machine. (2) Pour detergent into THE SAME machine. (3) Insert quarters into THE SAME machine as was used in steps 1 and 2.

Nate: "Hey Brent, let's unload John's laundry so we can get out of here."
Brent (standing next to Nate): "Hey Nate, look, this machine is washing air."
Nate: "Hey Brent, why is John's laundry dry already? And it still smells."
John: "Okay, I dropped this bag full of bottles of liquor, but everything fell into the bag. Here, I scooped the smirnoff out of the bag...drink this. I know, I know, I'm bleeding. I cut it on the broken bottle."
N & B: "Uhh, no, I think we're gonna pass. But thanks anyway. So, how did you get the all of the broken glass out of the liquor before you scooped it into the cup? And, are you sure you're actually washing your laundry?"

14) "....so, we're going to a Black....gay...dance....club....where exactly? So, left on...was that Fucking Beatdown Street...oh, ok, right on No Prayer In Hell Blvd...got it. Toodles."

We're on our way. We're there. Where are you?

I lost my cell phone.

Two weeks ago.

Maybe more.

I'm pretty sure that Skittles swiped my cell phone and ran off. There're some odd charges from a few one-nine hundred kitty singles "services."

I'd do something about it, but I'm not exactly sure what that conversation would sound like.

Operation Rescue

Skittles has been sighted.

I first sighted the tragic furball in Vegas. Well, not so much sighted as heard somewhere in or around John's apartment in Henderson.

I remember waking up sometime on Sunday morning on the living room floor next to the empty futon bed. Apparently, Winesha had drunkenly stumbled off somewhere early in the morning. I, however, found myself completely wrapped in some kind of evil blanket device that had been bewitched to evade all attempts at removal. After much concentrated and taxing effort, I got the damn thing off and stood up.

That's when I heard her.

Skittles.

It wasn't quite a meow. Not really a yelp. A distant relative of a high-pitched cry.

Possibly a me-yelp-ry

At any rate, I was told that Winesha had adopted the damn hairball and I, by default, was responsible for her well-being. As time has passed, I've come to miss her.

So, if anyone has seen Skittles, PLEASE contact me ASAP.

Skittles, where are you?

Cook? Well that doesn't make any sense

I won a nice chunk of change at the casino again, so I decided to buy a couple of new and fun shirts.

I think they're funny as all hell, but I'm sure the joke's on me somehow. So, in the next couple of days, I need someone to play devil's advocate. Otherwise, in a month, I don't wanna hear it.

Love,
Brent

Uh oh

Pickle.

Last week I turned in my 4th request for time off from work.

-- April 22-23: Women's spring tournament @ Great Lakes Center, Chicago
-- May 23 - 28: North American Gay Volleyball Association Championships @ Atlanta
-- July 4 - 15: Volleyball Camps @ MI St
-- July 15-23: Gay Games @ Chicago

The big boss is on vacation in Florida right now, so I won't get the worst dirty look ever given for a few more days. He's already approved my time off for this weekend's women's tournament and the Gay Games. With the volleyball camps, I'd be taking the entire month of July off, so it's not looking good for the NAGVA championships.

..yeah honey, I'm the designated driver...

I haven't stepped foot in a bar, tavern, pub or club since January 10th.

When I mention this fact to people, they start to laugh...and calculate the statistical improbability of my declaration.

In fact, it's the same reaction I get when I profess that I'm innocent and virginal.

All three are true: bar estrangement, innocence and virginality...kind of.

Technically, I guess, I walk into a bar 4 times a week. But, the bar in my restaurant shouldn't count. I'm not allowed to drink before, during or after my shift. And, I'm not a big fan of well whisky old fashioned sweets or generic gin martinis on the rocks, which seem to be the only drinks my tables seem to be ordering lately.

On a sidenote: To the diners who seem to think that I, the lowly waiter, am personally and single-handedly responsible for the following things, kiss my fucking ass:

-- Pepsi products instead of Coke.
-- Sierra Mist is WAAAAAAAAAY to sweet
-- Your favorite microbrew isn't one of the 11 beers we have on tap.
-- MGD doesn't come in a bottle.
-- Only 2 options for double-malt whisky
-- Your drink arrives more than 3.4 seconds after you order at 7:30 pm on Saturday night.
-- Our water is too cold. Our ice is too big.
-- The bottle of wine you ordered is more expensive than at the Discount Liquor across the street from your trailer.

Okay, I feel better.

Wait, one more thing...

WHEN YOU SHOW UP AT A RESTAURANT ON A SATURDAY NIGHT WITHOUT A RESERVATION AND ARE TOLD THE WAIT WILL BE AN HOUR AND A HALF TO TWO HOURS....AND ARE SAT AN HOUR AND FORTY FIVE MINUTES AFTER YOU ARRIVE...YOU ARE ONE LUCKY MOFO. YOUR WAITER HAS DONE ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY NOTHING WRONG...BY GETTING ANGRY, YOU'RE THE FUCKING MORON.

There, all better.

I can't say that I haven't had a drink. I had a few glasses of wine during a dinner date in February. On two of my off days, I had a total of three drinks while waiting for my roommate to get off work so I could drive her home. Last time, I had a chocolate martini and a grasshopper and got a little buzz going. That's just sad.

Winesha's been banging at the closet walls for awhile. Apparently, someone peeled her off some Vegas sidestreet and air mailed her back to Milwaukee via some kind of poultry and livestock transport. From time to time, I'll wake up in the middle of the night and hear her calling out "Skittles" and ransacking my closet. Girl is a mess.

Bitch, get out of here. You spilled my skittles!!!

I don't know what skunked or poodle-balled means.

And I'm using every ounce of energy trying NOT to use my imagination.

...and making me spoon you until you fall asleep...

Do you remember a time when it was surprising and, daresay, shocking to hear Brittany Spears say...

"Whatever you got, I'll ride it, eat it or snort it."

Ahh...the days of yore, when Christina was heaven's only missing hooker. And Justin Timberlake was still white.

And Shazam. free coffee every hour on the hour and sometimes...

Apparently a quad of barristas in Vancouver finally snapped.

World, be warned.

It went around the world...

I'm confused. Really really confused.

Wisconsin-Madison steamrolled by Zona.
Wisconsin OUT in Round 1.

Marquette knocked out by Bama.
Marquette OUT in Round 1.

Wisconsin-Milwaukee upsets Oklahoma.
Picked to pull another Cindarella on Florida.
Wisconsin-Milwaukee possibly in Sweet 16.
Again.

Example #3,888,297 of how messed up this state is.

My surfer friends, they get me. They say, Jack, we get you.

I just re-read my volleyball post from a week ago. And I'm.... I don't know.

I've never really thought too much about what sparked, and still sparks, my passion for the sport.

When I was a wee tyke, I played AYSO soccer like everyone else. I played "sweeper." Which I still don't believe is an actual position in soccer. I kind of remember having fun. I do remember that my teams didn't win much. Mom and dad like to remember that I was better than the kid on my team who liked to pick weeds and flowers during our games.

I tried playing baseball. Mostly because it was important to my dad. Baseball had been a way out of the old plantation towns and, eventually, scholarship offers from Northwestern, Michigan and a few California schools. From time to time, dad would tell a few baseball stories. Not very often, though. And, only in the last few years, he's started to talk about what it all meant in the context of the times. I tried to play baseball. It didn't work.

I did start to train and compete in kendo in the 3rd grade or so. I would think it's a kind of martial art, except the body armor weighs about 20 pounds. We used a bamboo "sword" to hit the other person. I enjoyed that. Each year, I got a little better at hitting the armored part of my teachers and opponents. I guess I got pretty good. I always got 1st or 2nd in my division at district and state tournaments. Eventually, I quit to focus on school and volleyball. I also finally figured out that it wasn't exactly a self-defense kind of martial art. I doubt a thief with a knife or a gay-basher with a gun would wait about 15 minutes while I suited up the ole body armor. And I wasn't planning on carrying around my bamboo stick -- which probably wouldn't do much against a knife or a gun anyway. Slow learner, me is, sometimes.

I wanted to play football. In 7th grade, I brought home the permission slips for my parents to sign so I could try out. Dad sent me to mom, which seemed odd. Mom took one look and said, "I'll make you a deal. I'll sign this form when you can carry the piano on your back in the marching band." I pondered that for a moment. "Does the electric piano count?" She shook her head and pointed to our piano and said, "Even if you do it, I still won't go and watch your games." Mom had spoken. Football was out.

Which brought me to volleyball. It's hard for people in the continental states to understand Hawaii's obsession with the sport. It's a little excessive. A lot excessive, actually. College volleyball players are almost godlike and get more attention than movie stars. Even opposing teams and players get stopped on the street or have their pictures placed on store walls next to rock stars and pro athletes.

Once, I was home for the holidays and threw on an MSU volleyball shirt to grab some lunch. After I ordered my chili rice and lilikoi drink, the cashier looked at me. "Do you go to Michigan State?" I said no. "Then, why would you wear that shirt? You trying to cause trouble?" No, not at all, just threw on a clean shirt to get lunch. She considered that for a moment and decided that I shouldn't be killed and stewed. Seven years earlier, Michigan State upset the then-undefeated and #1 ranked Hawaii women in the Honolulu NCAA regional final. Seven years earlier. Seven years. Seven.

Volleyball has been great to me for a long time and in a lot of ways. But, until recently, I haven't really taken a step back to look at the things I've learned. As unorthodox as it's been. Maybe I needed some time away from playing and coaching to really appreciate the things that've gotten me to this point.

I have a lot of friends that like cheap Asian food and unisex bathrooms

The Girls Scouts are evil.

And if anyone knows any of these evil Girl Scouts with more of those new cookies , I need their phone number right the fuck now.

You know, the new Cartwheels: Cinnamon Oatmeal Bites.

Right now.

Yesterday, even.

Thanks

Eating Out For Dummies: Occam's Razor

Excerpt from page 23,

Occam's Razor

When conversing with a waiter, remember the following: Stay simple.

The following are a few questions that you, the diner, may wish to say. Followed by what you should be say.

Example #1

You may, but shouldn't: "Does your Spaghetti with Meatballs come with marinara or meat sauce? Marinara? Ok, I would like the Spaghetti with Meatballs with meat sauce instead of the marinara and meatballs."

What you should say: "I would like the Spaghetti with Meat Sauce. Yes, the item listed just above the Spaghetti with Meatballs."

Example #2

You may, but shouldn't: "I would like a virgin Bloody Mary. But, I don't want it to be spicy."

What you should say: "I would like a glass of tomato juice."

Example #3

You may, but shouldn't: "Could you wrap up the chicken in one container, the rigatoni in another container, the green beans in another container and the salad in another container."

What you should say: "Yes, please wrap our food."

And...scene.

I feel like nesting...

My roommates think I'm a perv. Or a stalker. When we first moved in, they helped me haul up more than two crates worth of VHS tapes.

I have tapes. Lots and lots of tapes. As of yesterday, 188 to be exact. Not including movies. And that pilates series I ordered that night I got really drunk. Now that I know what's on a good number of them, it could be a little frightening for people that don't know me.

I swear it's not porn. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not porn. I'm not that interesting.

Honest.

[3/10/06 Edit: The following is my full-blown volleyball nerd breakin on out.]

Tapes 1-30 are all volleyball games. All together, I think I have something to close to 200 matches. I'm a volleyball nerd. I've admitted as much for a long time. I know I've scared more than a few professional volleyball people with how much I can remember. Like the starting lineups of each team in every D-1 women's national championship match since 1988.

Then again, when I was in 3rd grade I could recite the introductions from Miss Alabama to Miss Hawaii from the Miss America Parade of States. With proper inflection and regional accent. That was the year Miss Texas won with a cheesy baby blue poofy prom dress.

I probably should have kept that one to myself.

But really now. I just found the 1988 National Championship match between Hawaii and Texas. The one where Martina Cincerova pretty much just set Teee Williams and Carolyn Taetafa. Anna Vorweck (Fer-verk), Karrie Trieschman and Mary Robins were pretty much just observers.

In that match, Teee Williams showed that very few other American women had what it took to go from the American college game to the international game. I believe she had something like 25 kills in the 3 game loss, .400 hitting percentage and most of the team's digs and blocks. In '88 that was absolutely unheard of, especially in a national championship game. Nobody else was hitting the ball so high over the block and so hard that the opposing defense didn't even make a move for the ball. Since then, only 4 other players have come close to, but not equaled, that performance: Kerri Walsh ('96), Lauren Cacciamani ('98), Logan Tom ('01) and Ogonna Nnamani ('04). Others had spurts of greatness: Tara Cross ('89), Natalie Williams ('91), Danielle Scott ('91, '92, '93), Kristin Folkl ('94), Terri Zemaitis ('97), Cacciamani ('99), Sherisa Livingston ('00), Tayyiba Haneef ('01) and Keao Burdine ('02, '03).

[Of course, none of those compare to watching the Unified Team's Irina Smirnova getting 56 kills in 130 attempts in ONE match or 16 year old Eugenia Artamanova's 14 kills, hitting almost .900 while only playing 3 rotations per game in the same match against the U.S. in Barcelona Olympic pool play.]

But, in that 88 match, Williams was the most dominant player in a national championship of all time. And, she barely said a word.

As much as I learned to hate Texas (and even more so when my team lost to them in another national championship), they really shaped how I see the sport. I do have to admit that Texas team and the matches they played against UCLA and Hawaii, showed me what it looked and felt like to play with nothing to lose. The underdogs that nobody gives a second thought to before, during or after the match. The kind of team that, after a match, leaves their opponent wondering, "Did we just lose? How the hell did that happen?"

Maybe it's not necessarily an underdog mentality. There are times when I'm watching a match -- or even a practice or an open gym or a tryout -- when I see that one player who has a certain aura about them. Most often, it's that quiet player who isn't afraid to talk or yell or push someone out of the way. It's the player who's found a way to channel all of their emotion and grit into something that looks calm. Except when you look in their eyes. It's that player who plays like they have something to prove to him/herself. It's the player that has a hard time taking a compliment because, she/he thinks, it was exactly what they were supposed to do. It's the player whose baseline is 90%, but can push it to 110% because they just couldn't do anything less.

Which brings it back to that '88 match.

There was a quiet, fiery and almost-but-not-quite angry demeanor about setter Sue Schelfout. And yet she was still very much in control of every part of that match in a way that can only be described as "you know it when you see it." I remember my dad telling me, in his wisened coach-like way, "That is what a true leader looks like. Doesn't matter the sport, that's what it feels like."

Since '88, I've only seen a handfull of setters like Shelfout in that championship match: China's Kun Feng, Hawaii's Robyn Ah Mow, UCLA's Stein Metzger, Lewis' Jose Martins, Pacific's Melanie Beckenhauer, Ohio State's Laura Davis, Long Beach's Joy McKienzie and Keri Nishimoto, Michigan State's Courtney DeBolt and Cuba's Marlenis Costa and Lilia Izquierdo. Those 12 setters are my benchmarks. None of them are flashy, except maybe Metzger and Davis, but they all have this intangible (something) that comes across just by watching them.

I've got a lot of volleyball matches, and the dorkhood that goes along with having watched all of them over and over again, because I was never really taught how to play the game. Even as early as 7th grade, the school's coaches weren't there to teach a player how to play. You were already supposed to know how. Then again, I guess Punahou is a different kind of volleyball program.

I tried out for my 7th grade with 50 other 7-9th graders. I got cut. First. No really. First. The coaches were like, "Brent. Thanks. Uhhh, good luck with something else." Then again, thinking about the people on those two intermediate teams, it's not surprising. That year, my dad took me to the state championship game between Punahou and Kamehameha. Punahou's starters were, I believe: Kevin Wong, Stein Metzger, Sean Scott, Mike Lambert and three other guys who ended up being D1 All-Americans. On the bench, were four future D1 All-Americans.

In the 8th grade I tried out again and, somehow, made it. Well, actually, the coach pulled me aside after the first practice and told me that I was 13th of 13 players on the team and that if I wanted to pursue other interests, he wouldn't hold it against me. I ended up staying with the team. And starting. Still pretty humbling.

In the second week of practices, our coach took us to watch a varsity practice which pretty much freaked my shit out. For the first twenty minutes, the balls stayed in the carts and the team did a "shadow pepper." I watched Stein Metzger and Mike Lambert the entire time. About two minutes into it, Lambert dove to his left to get a ball Metzger had "hit" to some spot. Stein went on a full-on basketball-court-length sprint over to where we were sitting and watching. He yelled "MOVE! Get the fuck out of the way!" as he came barrelling at us. He dove and slid about ten feet until he crashed into the wall we had been sitting against. Then, he got up and full-on sprinted back where Lambert had dove and was "watching" the ball go to the ceiling. Twenty minutes later, everyone was at a full-on-have-to-change-shirts-cuz-it's-too-dangerous sweat. Then the coach unbagged the balls. If I was going to play volleyball for Punahou I was gonna have to get a lot better really fast.

I watched as many televised games as I could and just copied what those players did. Every once in a while, my dad would say, "she's good" or "he's good." And, I would watch that player do whatever they did well, pause the tape, go through frame by frame, and then copy it.

I used to back my dad's car out of our driveway and take my dingy little outdoor volleyball and try to copy the way Lyman Lacro set or Teee Williams passed or Cheri Boyer served. On more than a few occasions, the police would show up. Apparently my senile old neighbor would call the cops because he was old and senile and needed something to bitch about. The police would show up and, after a few minutes, walk over and ask me how it was going. "Five more minutes, okay? But, it looks like your serve is getting better. When you start jump serving, your dad is gonna have to build a bigger garage." I would agree, thank them and head back inside.

The thing I realize now is that I wasn't just learning how to play the game. I was learning how to coach. Or, more accurately, how to act like a coach. There were coaches I loved to watch. Dave Shoji, John Dunning, Brian Gimillaro, Andy Banachowski, Mike Hebert, Don Shaw and Lisa Love. Al Scates, Carl McGowan and Marv Dunphy. And, more recently, Russ Rose, Jim Stone, Jim McLaughlin and Christy Johnson.

I remember so clearly the night my dad took me to a men's game in Klum Gym to watch Mike Wilton's first match as head coach. They lost. Bad. But, after the match, my dad walked over to Coach Wilton. I followed. Dad shook Coach Wilton's hand and asked, "How much longer?" I didn't understand. Coach Wilton smiled, looked my dad in the eye and said, "I really don't know." My dad smiled. Coach Wilton smiled. I wondered what the fuck was going on.

Back in the car, I asked dad what it all meant.

"Did you see the look in his eye?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You can tell by the look in his eyes. It's like fire. He doesn't show it because that's not what a coach is supposed to do. But, you can see it. He's into the match so much. Into what the players are doing. Into what's happening. The way they're playing. How hard they're working. And you can just tell by looking at him that he's so invested in all of it. He's going to get them all to play like winners because they'll want to follow him there."

Three years later, they were in the Final Four. Four years later, they were in the National Championship match. My dad called to tell me, "I told you so." I laughed. Then reminded him that I told him to bet that Michigan State would beat Hawaii in '95. He laughed.

My dad taught me to watch coaches during matches. You figure out a lot about their teams. There are some teams that have a hard time adjusting to situations they're not used to -- usually their coaches are up off the bench and giving advice after every play. There are some teams that always win the broken plays -- those coaches are usually the ones that sit back and watch carefully. it's not always true, and there're a lot more examples, but it kind of pans out in the end.

Every once in a while, the camera and microphone people will catch some snippet of a coach's speech during a time out. It's always been interesting to hear what they say. Some are all about effort and emotion: "Come on ladies, the game is in your hands." Some are all about systems and responsibilities: "Our transition game is slowing down too much. Let's really focus on where you're supposed to be." Some are who-the-hell-knows-where: "We really need to get that touch on the block. Come on 5'6 girl, Bibi Candelas is killing us out there." Or some, and I'm not naming names at all are...well...: "Okay, it's 28-14. But don't look at the scoreboard, let's get some momentum." No really. I heard that once. About starting laughing, I did.

So, even though I have no idea what they're actually doing or thinking, I have copied a few coaches from what I've seen of them.

I have NO FREAKING clue what or how Russ Rose or Al Scates keeps in those damn notebooks, but I have found my own stat tracking quite useful. Plus, it keeps my ass in the seat and away from telling my players things they already know and would feel annoyed or patronized if I actually said to them during a match.

I don't actually know what Russ Rose or Jim Stone or Mike Hebert is saying when they pull one, just one, player aside. But I've learned why it can be necessary. Sometimes one player is off about a certain thing and doesn't need it pointed out to the whole team. And I've learned why it's important for that player to walk away either smiling/chuckling or feeling really confident.

I wonder what was going through Chen Zhonghe's mind when he had that goofy grin on his face watching his Chinese team. I remember seeing that same smile on Bond Shymansky's face when his Georgia Tech team was playing Kim Willoughby, I mean Hawaii, in the regional finals in Honolulu. I guess there are times when players do something that seems so unlike their norm that a coach has to laugh it off. Brain fart, I guess. No harm, no foul. It happens. But the thing I've noticed is that I can only find the humor in a player's brain fart on the court when I -- as a coach -- know that the team is so well-prepared and well-practiced that one error really doesn't make a difference.

I have no idea what Russia's Nikolai Karpol or Cuba's Eugenio George or Brazil's Bernadino are saying. Or, except for George, what they're yelling. Screaming even.

I once read that Russia's Karpol told a reporter that in a gold medal Olympic final ('88, I believe, though I might be wrong) he spent an entire timeout yelling at his star, Irina Smirnova, something like: "After this match, you will be known as a failure and a national disgrace. I will personally tell your mother and grandmother that your pathetic performance was the only reason we did not bring home to the Soviet Union a gold medal and you will live with that shame for the rest of your life." And, hell if Smirnova didn't single handedly win the next three games and the gold medal. Now, I'd never do that or say that or even think that. First off, I've yet to coach a team or a player or in a situation where that may even seem possible to think. Second, as unlikely as it is to ever happen, not even an Olympic medal is worth that much. Third, I could never say that to a woman. It's not sexist, it's just completely defeatist and unnecessary. I have, however, said (not yelled) something close to that to a male player. And, I'll never do it again. Ever.

I love watching Brazil's Coach Bernadino. In the '04 Olympics, he was right up on the sideline in every match and basically threw a tantrum every time one of his players did something wrong. Again, I'd never do that. I've got too much else to worry about than getting caught up in every single contact or every individual rally. I like to think about big picture stuff: Are we competing as best as we can? What are the weaknesses in our system that nobody has thought of yet? What is our mental state? But, I guess it's my dad's voice I hear when I watch Bernadino. It's all in the eyes.

Cuba's ex-coach George gave me a totally different feeling. Similar to Karpol's without the red-faced hysterical yelling. Once, I watched on television as he sat calmly in his chair and called out, "Marleny..." raised his hands and narrowed his eyes. And then crossed his arms again. The Cuban setter, Costa had hit into the block, gotten tooled several times and trapped a couple of sets. With just a single look and a name, he showed the power of a coach's expectations. Set an achievable goal (play well) and expect the players to play at that level. There isn't really a need to go on and on about specifics or motivation. Just a reminder of the expectation that the players completely understand.

But, it wasn't until I watched Lang Ping coach the Chinese women in several Grand Prix matches before the Olympics, that I finally understood something I had read in Mike Hebert's book. During China's match against Cuba, L.P. sat in her chair and watched her team very carefully. She didn't say much, except the occasional snippet that obviously was her telling her young outside hitters what to look for when hitting against the huge Cuban block. Somewhere near Cuba's match point, a free ball came over the net and four Chinese players let it drop between them. As less-experienced players do when they make a mistake at a really bad time, they were visibly shaken. L.P. sat quietly in her chair and watched her players. They lost the next point and the match and she stood up, grabbed her folder and smiled as Coach George came over to shake her hand. "Good match," she said, smiling and shaking with both hands.

I had read something similar in Mike Hebert's book about the process of building the programs at Pittsburgh, New Mexico, Illinois and (although long after the book's writing) Minnesota. He said that sometimes a team or specific players need to learn for themselves what winning is. Especially teams and players that aren't used to winning or success. In my first few coaching gigs, I was more than fortunate to coach teams with very expereinced and successful players. The next few taught me what it's like to be on the other end. There were times in those next few years that I couldn't understand why players wouldn't do the simple things they normally do to win a tournament or a championship, instead of just being a "participant." I would scrutinize the little things I thought they weren't doing. But, when I finally got to my last coaching gig, I understood how much more important it was to sit back and watch a "failure" or deficiency than to coach it not to happen.

I think, now, that Lang Ping was watching how her players reacted to blowing an important point. Watch and listen. See what happens next in the context of the whole picture. See how individual's react to adversity. Don't be obsessed with winning at the expense of how the players and the team think and feel and do.

In a way, it's been a "fake-it-till-you-make-it-and-then-you'll-figure-out-why" kind of thing.

Or, I really really really have no life.

Yep. Dork. Full-blown, inescapable. Dork.