See Steve run, and run, and run

See Steve.

See Steve run.

See Steve run down the street.

Steve is running a long way down the street.

Steve is doing this to stay in shape.

He is not doing it for fun.

Running is not fun to Steve.

Getting old and fat isn’t fun to Steve, either.

So Steve runs.

Run, Steve, run!

Steve runs onto a sidewalk.

The sidewalk is getting old like Steve.

The sidewalk is not in shape like Steve.

It has cracks and holes.

It has puddles of water.

It almost has one of Steve’s ankles.

Steve is not happy with the sidewalk.

Steve wishes the city would fix the sidewalk.

Steve isn’t getting his hopes up.

Why doesn’t Steve get his hopes up?

Look at the streets.

The streets look like the surface of the moon.

Except the moon is smoother.

So Steve keeps running.

Run, Steve, run!

Steve runs into a park.

The park has a jogging trail.

Steve likes the jogging trail.

He doesn’t like it very long.

People walked dogs on the jogging trail before Steve.

The dogs did something besides walking.

The dogs left what they did in Steve’s path.

Steve detects a smell.

The smell is following Steve.

The smell IS Steve!

Steve’s shoe has dog on it.

Steve runs on.

Run, Steve, run!

Steve comes to a busy street.

The street has a pedestrian light.

The light tells Steve to wait.

Now the light tells Steve he can go.

Steve crosses the street.

A car wants to cross the street, too.

The light didn’t tell the car it could cross the street.

Steve stops.

He stops quickly.

The car doesn’t stop.

The car goes by Steve.

Steve is close to the car.

He is so close to the car he can see the driver.

The driver does not look happy.

The driver thinks Steve did something wrong.

The driver says something to Steve.

The driver invites Steve to go someplace.

That place is very hot.

Steve would rather keep running.

Run, Steve, run!

Steve runs home.

Steve is sweating.

Steve is tired.

Steve’s shoe smells.

Steve almost twisted his ankle.

Steve almost became a hood ornament.

Steve was told to go to a hot place.

Steve thinks about running.

He thinks getting old and fat might be better than running.

Then Steve sees his wife.

His wife likes to exercise.

His wife is in good shape.

Why does Steve’s wife have to be in such good shape?

What can Steve do?

Steve runs.

Run, Steve, run!

Rest in Pieces

I am in mourning. On Tuesday, I lost a dear friend who paid the ultimate sacrifice to protect me. The obituary follows:

LAFAYETTE, Ind. – Steve Leer’s umbrella, 3, of Lafayette died April 19, 2011, moments after being deployed in a thunderstorm. It had been in failing working order for months, having lost three ribs and a couple of tips to wind damage. At the time of death, one-fourth of umbrella’s canopy was drooping, although, surprisingly, the push button opening feature remained intact after hundreds of uses.

Leer and the "deceased"

Umbrella was born on a Totes assembly line in China, along with 97 percent of the other consumer products made in the world. It was exported to the United States before being purchased by Leer’s wife at a retail store. Leer adopted the black folding umbrella in 2008, with a message from his wife that said, “I bought you a good umbrella. Try not to break this one.”

Umbrella was an umbrella all its life. It enjoyed drizzle, rain showers and downpours, and was involved in no activities other than keeping Leer’s head and upper body dry – most of the time. Umbrella was difficult to open only when Leer was wearing formal clothing, and returned to its folded position within seconds, except when Leer absolutely needed it to: entering buildings and getting into a car. Outside those days when the weather forecast called for at least a 40 percent chance of precipitation, umbrella could be found tucked inside Leer’s backpack or on the floorboard of Leer’s car, where it inevitably was stepped on.

Surviving along with Leer is a stick umbrella, of Leer’s West Lafayette office; assorted umbrellas, of wherever they were last placed; a Weather Channel app, of Leer's smartphone; and a step-golf umbrella, a waterproof jacket, an Indiana Beach rain poncho, and a pair of all-weather boots, all at home. Umbrella is preceded in death by an untold number of umbrellas that passed away as a result of the same flawed design that has made umbrellas susceptible to high wind for thousands of years.

Umbrella was in grave condition

No visitation is planned, unless Leer’s family and friends wish to compare the flimsy construction of their own umbrellas to the deceased’s. Internment will be in the City of Lafayette Sanitation Department Trash Toter. Or the recycle bin. Whichever.

In lieu of flowers brought from April showers, memorials may be made to the Steve Leer Umbrella Replacement Fund. Donors may choose instead to purchase Leer another umbrella.

Titanium frame is preferred, if such an umbrella exists.

Take a (government shutdown-proof) hike

Whew! That was close.

Americans came within minutes of a federal government shutdown Friday night. Thankfully, an 11^th hour budget deal in Congress spared us the awful prospect of doing without the daily federal government inefficiency we’ve all come to know and trust. Now Democrats and Republicans on Capitol Hill can get back to the real work of hating each other with our money.

Until an agreement was reached on a last-second spending plan, it looked like we might lose all those great federal government services we enjoy. You know the ones – I don’t have to list them for you.

Really, I don’t want to list them for you.

Okay, you tell me what they are.

I do know that had an agreement not been reached, our national parks would have closed. That would have been disastrous. Think about the wonderful experiences our national parks provide. Where else can you take quarter-of-the-way-down-before-you-give-up hikes into the Grand Canyon? Stand around waiting while Junior has to pee to watch Old Faithful erupt at Yellowstone? Wonder why you drove hundreds of miles to look at soggy grass at the Everglades?

Leer Yard National Park's Nature Area with shelterhouse

Minus Friday’s congressional action, our national walk in the park would have stopped dead in its tracks. We would have arrived at a national park to find a “Closed, please call again” sign at the front gates, hung there by a park ranger just before he headed to Washington to join a federal employee protest.

That could still happen. With more federal budget battles in our future, we’ll again be at risk of having our entire national parks system shut down. Something must be done to preserve the recreation we need and the health benefits that come with being in the great outdoors. Namely, sitting around picnic tables eating too much potato salad.

With that in mind, I’m doing what any patriotic American would do. I’m starting my own national park.

Don’t tell my wife. I want it to be a surprise.

The Leer Yard National Park is now open at my residence on the southwest side of Lafayette, Ind., in the Ashton Woods Subdivision (marketing slogan: “You can’t see the forest because there are no trees”). Admission is free, although donations are welcome and will be placed in a fund to cover legal fees associated with neighbors’ public nuisance complaints.

Leer Yard National Park is a sprawling guarter-acre natural paradise with something for everyone. There’s plenty of on-street parking except on Friday mornings, when the garbage trucks come by.

We recommend you begin your day at the Visitor Center, which just so happens to look exactly like my house. Ring the doorbell and whoever is properly dressed or not watching TV will come to the door and let you in. Inside you’ll find restrooms, a water fountain shaped like a kitchen sink and Zoey, our animal mascot. It’s okay to feed Zoey. She takes three scoops of cat food per day.

While in the Visitor Center you’ll also want to pick up a park map, or print the one here:

There are lots of things to see and do at Leer Yard National Park. Among them:

* Hiking – The Nature Area affords several seconds of challenging walking on completely flat ground. Test your knowledge of the exotic plant species you find, from dandelion to crabgrass to whatever weed is poking through the neighbor’s fence. You might even come face-to-face with wildlife, including the legendary Gray Beast. She looks hideous with half her tail missing, but her meow is worse than her bite.

 

* Swimming – Cool off in the park aquatics facility behind the Visitor Center. The aquatics facility opens as soon as we get down to Walmart and pick up a kiddie pool.

Our Recreation Area; don't sue me

* Sports and games – Enjoy a variety of competitive activities at the Recreation Area, such as basketball and concrete driveway football and wrestling. Be sure to sign the liability waiver for the latter two before you get started.

* Cooking out – Prepare meals on the park gas grill (yes, it’s singular, not plural). Visitors should bring their own propane tank or else come with an extra ribeye to share with park staff. Groups who call ahead can reserve the park shelter house, which has ample seating for three once the lawn mower, rakes and fertilizer spreader are pushed to the side.

* Camping – Set up a tent anywhere in the park and sleep to the sounds of trucks rambling down nearby U.S. 231. Outdoor shower facilities are available – pick up the garden hose and turn the spigot – and visitors can take advantage of the free Wi-Fi that, near as we can tell, extends 17 inches outside the walls of the Visitor Center.

Pack up the family and head to Leer Yard National Park. We promise to stay open no matter what Congress does. Now, should the county health department get involved, well, all bets are off.

The agony of defeat

Bummed out.

That's how I felt when I woke up this morning, and now that the day is nearly done the gloominess is still there. It might take a while for me to get over Butler University losing to the University of Connecticut in the NCAA national championship game.

I know it's just a game. I know a sporting event doesn’t come close to equaling the tragedy of war, poverty, human suffering or natural disaster. And yet, the deep disappointment is there nevertheless. I’d invested myself emotionally in Matt Howard, Shelvin Mack, Brad Stevens and Co., and I feel rotten that another dream season ended in heartbreak.

Losing often does this to me, even when I’m no more than a spectator.

Matt Howard, I know how you feel

For as long as I can remember I’ve taken defeat harder than most people. I’ve certainly had more than enough experience, having probably posted more L’s than W’s in the won-loss record of my life. But despite my familiarity with defeat, I’ve never grown accustomed to losing.

I despise losing and struggle to understand it. Losing makes me moody, irritable, withdrawn and depressed. Even in victory I sometimes dwell only on the failures along the way. I’m a lot like former tennis great Ivan Lendl, who once said he hated losing more than he loved winning.

How and why I became this way, I can’t explain. While I inherited my fiery competitive nature from my father, he was able to shake off defeat and move on. It’s never been that simple for me.

I remember my high school and college athletic careers. After many games where my team lost I was inconsolable, often choosing to sit quietly by myself during the bus ride home rather than chat it up with my teammates. I’d review the game film of my mind, trying to figure out what went wrong and how defeat could have been averted.

One especially painful road trip comes to mind. My high school basketball team was playing a conference rival – a much larger school we’d never beaten. After playing a near perfect first half – a half in which I scored 20 points – we led by double-digits. We were ecstatic in the locker room at halftime. We came out for the second half expecting to finally close the deal against the school that had owned us.

It didn’t happen. Our opponent rallied and finally took the lead late in the fourth quarter. We never led again. I finished with a career-high 33 points, but all I could think about heading home that night was the opportunity that we’d let slip away. I was so upset I didn’t want to hear the congratulatory words from teammates and fans, much less get off the bus when it stopped at McDonald’s.

Adulthood brought an end to my competitive playing days, but not the sting of defeat. Many are the times I’ve coached youth sports teams and agonized over losses, even as the kids themselves were forgetting the final score as they tore into the post-game snack and Gatorade.

Lombardi made a habit of winning

When I started an athletic program for homeschooled kids nearly eight years ago I knew it likely would take years for our teams to be competitive against established clubs. My hunch was correct. Although we won some games, the losses far outnumbered them. On the outside I played up effort and attitude and downplayed results with players and parents, but inside I was aching. I wanted the kids to feel like winners and not also-rans – the feeling I’d had through much of my high school sports career.

These days I find it difficult being a sports fan without dying a little after each humbling setback. Indianapolis Colts playoff losses can leave me blue for days. Watching the St. Louis Cardinals fall in three of the five World Series I’ve seen them reach was dispiriting. And then there was Butler, dropping title games to Duke last year and to UConn last night.

Vince Lombardi knew a lot about winning. He also knew a thing or two about losing.

“Winning is a habit,” Lombardi said, “and, unfortunately, so is losing.”

Don’t I know it.

If it ain’t broke, it will be soon

Some people pour money down a rat hole. Not me. I empty my dollars into a chasm no vermin would dare crawl into:

Cars.

Our three automobiles are disposable income black holes. Among the trio – a 2005 Mercury Sable, 2001 Honda Accord and 1994 Dodge Caravan – rarely a week goes by when one or more doesn’t need an oil change, tire rotation, windshield wiper, brake service, tune up or some obscure part that only a contortionist at a carnival freak show could reach without the help of an industrial hydraulic lift and a tool that bends in 17 directions at once.

We’ve sunk so many thousands of dollars into our vehicles in recent months I’ve quit reading the auto section of our family budget and, instead, taken up reading my 401(k) statements. It makes me feel better.

Is the Sable trying to tell me something?

Watching one car, then another and then the other require attention is like living with a house full of grade school children during flu season. By the time the last child exhibits flu-like symptoms, the first child to become ill starts coughing and sneezing again. At least with a bunch of snotty-nosed kids you can fix the problem for $10 co-pays.

This past year our car infirmary has been exceptionally busy. The list of repairs is long, atypical and costly.

There was the tire that kept losing air. Come to find out I’d driven over a nail, which apparently is an ingredient of road paving materials, considering the number of times I’ve had them removed from tires over the years.

There was the power steering that suddenly lost its power, making the Caravan harder to navigate than an oil tanker pulling a U-turn in the Panama Canal.

There was the mysterious warning light that began glowing on the Accord dashboard. After an attempt to diagnose the problem – I opened the hood, saw that the engine was still there and pushed the hood shut – I took the car to a mechanic. The problem: the gas cap. “In some of these models if they’re not on just right the warning light comes on,” I was told. How could I have missed that, since the “Warning Light” entry in the owner’s manual consists of “Have your vehicle serviced by a certified Honda auto technician”?

There was a battery that wouldn’t hold a charge, a failing fuel pump, old belts and fluids, and several other mechanical issues that will go unnamed because I can’t extricate the 10-pound automotive folder from the file cabinet stuffed with every receipt we’ve collected since before the Wright brothers used the first bar code – or something like that. Anyway, all were replaced, at varying degrees of pocketbook pain.

But none of those financial hits could prepare me for what was to come, however. Unbeknownst to me the granddaddy of auto problems lay just beyond the horizon. I was about to have a transmission go out. Twice.

The Sable’s went first. I was driving to work one morning when I noticed something unusual. When I stepped on the accelerator the car didn’t pick up speed. I tried it again. No luck. A third time I tried – nothing. I pulled the car to the side of the road, turned it off and then back on. Still no acceleration when I pressed on the gas pedal – not even a warning light to lead me to an owner’s manual page with no information. Had my wife finally had enough and purchased a drives-too-fast voodoo doll that looked like me?

Into the shop the car went. Several days of work and a couple thousand dollars in parts and labor later, the Sable emerged with a rebuilt transmission.

A less-expensive use of my money

A once-in-a-lifetime repair, I told myself as I drove it home. Yes, if that lifetime happens to last as long as the tsetse fly’s.

Last month, it happened again. The Accord began doing strange things as it shifted gears. A mechanic confirmed what I feared: the transmission was slipping.

How could this occur again so soon? Had the Accord and Sable compared notes in the garage? And had they gotten to the Caravan?

Another 10 days with the mechanic, and another $2,000-plus expense.

When he notified me the car was ready, the customer service representative finished by saying, “Mr. Leer, while we were putting the transmission in, we found something.”

Unless it’s a bag of South African Krugerrands, I don’t want to know, I thought.

“We noticed a small leak coming from your radiator. At some point you’ll need to have it replaced.”

A Google search placed the repair at between $400 and $600.

I did another Google search. Yep, just as I figured: I could save half that amount by pouring my money down a rat hole.

Cold comfort

It was just a refrigerator. A large metal box used to keep food cold.

An appliance. A machine. Non-human. And yet, in so many ways, the White Westinghouse that we replaced a few days ago was a part of our family.

Yes, I know – it’s silly to get sentimental about something as commonplace as a refrigerator. But for the better part of our family's history, old White was there in the kitchen, inviting us in for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And, if we gave in to temptation, a few snacks in between.

That was only part of what made White special. For the 15 years we owned our 18-cubic-foot frost-free friend, White was the family secretary…the information desk…the art gallery of the Leer household.

Every important appointment made its way onto White’s door, held in place by one of the dozens of magnets we’d collected over the years from pizza restaurants to nonprofit organizations to insurance companies to wherever it was that we found the ones with the ducks. Not a single scheduled visit to a doctor, dentist, loan officer or auto mechanic failed to appear on White’s cool skin.

White held our lives on its doors

Sports schedules and photographs occupied a large space on the refrigerator. There was the picture of our son in his T-ball uniform, cap slightly crooked and mitt open with a ball wedged in the pocket. There, too was the snapshot of him in the recreational soccer league, wearing those way-too-roomy shorts and standing by the ball that was as tall as his shin. Our daughter was pictured in a graceful gymnastics pose worthy of a perfect 10. In another she was surrounded by pom-poms ready to lead "two bits," and still another attired in a volleyball uniform but way too prettied up to smash a spike onto the opponent’s side of the court.

White helped us celebrate academic achievement, as well. Assignments and tests bearing big red A’s and B’s were posted on the refrigerator. If an appliance can appear to smile, White did it every time we attached one of those papers to its exterior.

Our kids’ artwork routinely hung from White. Original drawings of what we supposed were people and animals – some had two legs, others four – were there. Also on display were coloring book pictures filled inside and outside the lines with crayons. The often bizarre choice of colors – purple humans and yellow trees – would have made van Gogh blush, but not White. Our chilly chum always had room for post-impressionism, and any other art period for that matter.

White was a source of inspiration on days when we needed it most. The short, motivational quotes we affixed to its front and sides reminded us of the important things in life – things more important even than the gallon of milk we reached into White’s belly to retrieve. Many were the times those words – some on the refrigerator for years – helped me get through a difficult day.

Recently, an expensive part on White broke. We learned a repair would be less cost-effective than purchasing a new refrigerator. After comparing prices at several stores we chose a model that looks a lot like White. We bought the refrigerator, and I didn’t think much more about it.

A couple of days later as we began removing all the pieces of our lives from White’s metal body, I realized a central figure in our home would soon be gone. White had been with us since our days in North Carolina, when the kids were young children.

White was an appliance, sure, but it had been much more than just a food storage unit. White had enriched our lives in ways that grocery staples could not.

That old refrigerator had nourished our souls.

Jurassic Pick (and roll)

People in the Stone Age played a primitive form of basketball. I should know because I was there, if you listen to what my kids have to say.

Back in the 1970s when large carnivorous reptiles roamed the earth and the only word man could say was “Ug” – again, according to my offspring – basketball was a far different game than it is today.

Yes, we used a round ball made from a farm animal when I played in high school. The backboard was its usual rectangular shape and the referees were just as vision-impaired as always. But much of the rest of the game looked nothing like it does now.

For starters, the rules were practically primordial.

Naismith invented basketball in 1891 B.C -- er, A.D.

There was no three-point shot. Until the mid-1980s you could launch a Spaulding at the basket from the other end of town and you’d earn no more for putting it through the net than if you laid one up from a foot away. That is, if those sight-challenged guys with the zebra print shirts didn’t whistle you out of bounds first.

In the prehistoric era of James Naismith’s invention, long-range field goal attempts were usually considered bad shots. Normally, only short guys who didn’t have the skills to dribble through the tall timber to get to the rim dared try one from distance. Nowadays, every guard, forward, center, team manager, mascot and hot dog vendor with a half-second to get one off steps behind the arc to let fly, and we hold up as virtuosos those whose failure rate is only six out of 10.

The alternating possession rule was a mere twinkle in the rules maker’s eyes in the 1970s, too. Back then, every tie up resulted in a jump ball, which apparently so slowed the action when it happened once or twice a game that a rule change just had to be made in 1981. The two-shot double bonus on the 10^th team foul was not yet adopted, either – a 1990 rule addition that has greatly sped up the action when it happens in 90 percent of all halves. Countless clock stoppages for free throws always put fans in the seats.

Also, dunking was illegal at the amateur level for much of the ‘70s. Basketball’s regulatory body removed that prohibition late in the decade, introducing fans to such game improvements as hanging on the rim and the shattered backboard.

The rim is a hang out place these days

Oh, and then the breakaway rim.

Style of play also has evolved substantially in the 30-plus years since my scholastic hoops career. Set plays were the norm back in the day. We had to memorize six or eight basic plays, with four or five shooting options available for each.

The modern game is all about motion. Everyone moves. They go here, there and everywhere. The spectacle takes on almost a Swan Lake quality, as five guys wearing one color prance about the court while five guys wearing another color chase them around. Every so often one of the guys whose team has possession of the ball steps in front of a chaser, sending the unfortunate slob into a collision reminiscent of those TV crash test dummy PSAs. They call it a “pick.” Short for “pick-him-up-off-the-floor.”

Then there are the team uniforms. Today’s basketball players are adorned in moisture-wicking muscle shirts, shorts easily able to double as gas grill covers and calf-length sneakers engineered to both add three inches to the athlete’s vertical jump and garner a $500 price tag without so much as causing the buyer to grunt in disgust.

Hoops fashion in the 1970s included:

That ‘70s fashion

* A form-fitting tank top that, in female apparel parlance, was held up by spaghetti straps. A large block numeral appeared on the back with a smaller block number on the front, along with the word “Eagles,” which was placed there because everyone named their team after our national bird.

* Shorts cut high enough to reveal the entire fibula, tibia, knee, thigh and the athletic supporter washing instructions tag.

* Sneakers minus logos with swoops, stripes, slashes, check marks and predatory felines. In their place, an autograph from a guy named Chuck Taylor.

We had cheerleaders in the 1970s, too. I can almost hear their chant now:

 “Ug!”