Your Voice is Important

College was a time of transformation. I met people that changed the way I approached the world and planted the seeds for who I have become today, which is still a work in progress. The largest part of that change started with someone I grew very close to over my final two years at UIUC, someone who challenged my narrow-mindedness, and someone that cared enough about me to be more than a friend but a coach and a mentor. We often found ourselves in the same English classes and in discussing an upcoming registration period, she recommended a class, advertised to me by an assurance of an easy A, but laced with learning and mindset shifts that would be impossible to explain over lunch or seen in a syllabus. There was no catchy name. CHLH 199b (Community Health). Here’s the current description:

“This 3-credit course is open to anyone wishing to learn more about sexual violence and its impact on our culture. The course will discuss the impacts of media, gender, power and privilege on the rape culture, as well as the effects of sexual assault, services available to survivors, and ways to get involved in ending sexual violence.”

Since my experience, I’ve affectionately referred to it as the ‘ism class,’ as prior to the deep dive into sexual assault, the class covered topics of racism, classism, ageism, and sexism, among others. Conversations throughout the semester were heavy; people often left the room if something hit too close to home or got too heated. We shared, we learned, and we grew close as a unit. Then the sexual assault portion of the class began. I don’t think I’ve ever been so impacted by a single portion of classroom material than I was over those weeks, especially so by a panel of survivors (fellow students). It was the beginning of the transformation. 

As the semester, and school year, neared its end, our facilitator mentioned that students who want to become FYCARE Workshop Facilitators may apply at the end of this course. F.irst Y.ear C.ampus A.cquaintance R.ape E.ducation was something that all incoming freshmen went through and promptly ignored, myself included. I never wanted to teach, didn’t see myself as any sort of volunteer or activist, and turned a deaf ear whenever Mr. Wantland would mention the next steps of the facilitator application process. Club baseball was cruising, summer was coming, and senior year would be waiting for me on my return. I was good. 

Additionally I didn’t see much value in my role at these things. Why would someone want hear from me, the kind of guy that most people would expect to be the subject of the conversation? Not that I was an overly aggressive type, but I looked the part. By this point, my wardrobe had turned over to button-ups and polos, I spent most of my free time at bars or baseball, I was to be living in a house with frat boys and lacrosse players, and I didn’t really have much school spirit in terms of giving back. I was selfish, egotistical, and uncommitted, traits that don’t describe the kind of person that would stand in front of 30 freshmen and teach them about the effects of sexual assault on a victim or worse, the role of alcohol. What did I know about that experience besides what was discussed in a classroom? How could I connect with anyone. Everyone would see through me. Clearly this wasn’t something for me. 

When the time to apply came, I shared my reasons for not wanting to get involved. One of my best friends at the time challenged back. 

Because of who you are, you need to do this. Because you play sports, you need to do this. Because you party with frat boys, you need to do this. Because you don’t think you’re a role model… you need to do this.

This decision, these experiences, those people, and that time has shaped me more than anything else in my entire life. 

I wasn’t the kind of person you would expect to see standing at the front of the room, and that meant so much to the people looking at me. Did I show up hungover on a Sunday evening, knowing full-well I would be leaving after the workshop for a night at the bars? Yes. Did I wear my Illinois Club Baseball hoodie and sweatpants (humble brag)? Yes. Did I talk about my own experience when I was in their shoes, sitting in the back, not talking, not participating, signing my name, and leaving? Yes. I did all of that. And it mattered. It mattered because of who I was. 

My colleagues and friends who presented with me weren’t any more or less qualified to teach, didn’t know the content any better or worse than me, and didn’t care any more or less than I did, but we all had our unique perspective. Many were from a very personal source, often even from their own experiences. Some were the kind of kids that had been volunteering their whole lives. Some were quiet. Some were nervous. And some were like me. We were loud, and honest, and brutal. We were sympathetic and relatable. And we were not what anyone expected.

And even though I didn’t have first-hand knowledge of how it feels to wake up feeling violated, I had the knowledge of what it was like to not care. To turn a blind eye. To live my life as if there wasn’t a widespread issue and everything was fine. I showed that even someone that looks like me, and talks like me, and acts like me, can still care so deeply about the experiences of others, even if I can’t even begin to imagine the true depth. 

It’s because of who I am that it is so important I stand for what is right and try to make a difference. Your voice is important. Let it be heard. 

Lessons in Efficiency

My whole day was just a series of event clusters with an array of objectives and outcomes, reasons and results, but with one consistent thread laced throughout: efficiency. Being as efficient as I could while showering. Being as efficient as I could while getting ready for work. Being as efficient as I could on my drive to the office. In putting away my lunch and washing out my smoothie cup. In zipping through morning emails. In project work. Heating up my lunch. Working out. Making dinner. TV. Aside from the irony that it’s taken me one hundred words to explain that I get joy from figuring out the fastest, easiest, and most effortless method of doing anything (except maybe storytelling, but c’mon, that’s not supposed to be a race to the finish line), many things in my life are a result of planned, organized, and well-thought-out processes and procedures to address the persistent and eternal banalities of life. 

For the last three years, I lived in a spacious 2-bedroom apartment with my brother. And when I say spacious, I mean we could have put a pool table in our living room and barely had a move our furniture an inch. My bedroom was so big I thought it was a brilliant idea to expand into the space and buy a king size bed, only to still have enough room to work out or have an indoor picnic. Three years in the same cavernous apartment meant you get good at moving, even sliding, around. Everything had its place. Nothing was in the way of something else. You could move freely and effectively. The space did not require much efficiency. 

One month ago, I slept in my new apartment for the first time. Ten days of moving in, slowly, worked just fine as more and more of my stuff filled closets, drawers, and cabinets. When the final [big] piece was delivered (couch), the place was pretty much done. Over the next few weeks I only tinkered: hung art, built bar stools, replaced the coffee table, bought a floor lamp, picked up some live plants, etc., but as of April 10th, it was time to get efficient. I was no longer traversing a hallway long enough to be a bowling lane on an hourly basis. My life was condensed from 2,000 square feet to 630, and I reveled in some discoveries. 

My new bed is a full frame with built in storage in the headboard and in drawers below. I assumed this killed the rest of my under-the-bed space not taken up by drawers, until, after seeing my bed matressless for a week, I decided to take out the drawers completely and push box after bag of extremely rarely used, back-of-the-closet type containers into the bowels of the bed, maneuvering between the slats to make it all fit like a beautiful, eclectic puzzle of forgotten crap. Crap that, in another move or two, will be the first to go, but crap that as of now, I might need or if nothing else, want.

I found more and more efficiencies throughout the new place. I adjusted shelf heights in the fridge to perfectly accommodate bottles of whatever on two different shelves instead of just one. I also adjusted shelf heights in some of my periphery cabinets, giving me the height to perfectly slide in some excess wall art that would be too big for my aforementioned under-the-bed openings. I also adjusted heights of my closet built-ins to, okay you know what, I mainly just adjusted shelf heights, but clearly the new place was coming together in a way that made my organized and efficient self very happy. 

Then I started actually living here. Not just sleeping or building or unpacking or setting up, but really living here. Day after day of three meals, work, and lounging. Of making trips to the bathroom. Showering. Cleaning. Walking. 

I understand that it’s a new place and of course I don’t know every turn, every corner, or every inch of every cabinet. Of course I’m not going to find my measuring cup on the first or second or third try. Of course I’m going to stub my toe on the feet of my new couch. Of course I’m going to forget which light switch controls the vanity, the shower, and the overhead lights in the bathroom. But those inefficiencies don’t bother me because they’ll go away. I’ll remember where I put all my shit. I’ll learn the characteristics of my new couch. I’ll spend a few hours creating a job aid for the light switch in the bathroom and in a few months, I’ll be batting 1.000. 

But there’s one thing that killed me. 

Due to my reckless expansion in what was an absurdly large bedroom for Chicago, my new bedroom is about 87% bed and 13% walk around, 5% on each side and 3% at the foot. I also decided to upgrade my media viewing situation in the living room, so what used to be a massive TV for the times (46” in 2010) is now my bedroom TV. Clearly I don’t need a TV in my bedroom, but I like it and I wanted to make it work. I knew I could make it work. 

Do you know how I knew I could make it work?

Once I signed my lease and before I moved in, I took the blueprint of my apartment, scaled it up in PowerPoint, and proceeded to create to-scale shapes of every piece of furniture I planned to move or buy. Exact size. Exact layout. And the wall across from my bed had the exact amount of space required for a 46” television between the swing of the bedroom door and the opening of the bathroom door. Maybe an inch to spare on each side. Like a goddamned glove. 

But do you remember what percentage of my room is left at the foot of my bed? Yeah not much. So even though it fit width-wise, I knew it would be a pretty tight squeeze depth-wise. And in the first week here, I challenged the integrity of the bookshelf supporting the TV a bit too frequently for my taste. I can only imagine what the bookshelf was thinking. 

I am in the middle of the strangest stretch of my life. Many of you are in the same situation, but since I can’t be sure of your circumstances, I’ll speak from my own point of view.* I’ve been beyond lucky that my job has been barely impacted (actually have slightly more work than usual while my team works from home), my company is doing well to weather the storm (it’s nice not being publicly traded), and apparently I just moved into a new apartment where I actually get to enjoy spending time here instead of getting anxious at the office that my new house plants are going to die in the package room. I miss bowling. And going out to dinner. And I really want to be able to hug my parents.  The list is nearly endless of shit I miss or want or wish I could do, but that is our reality, at least for a while. 

One thing that I can do is make sure this time isn’t wasted. I love the eagerness and willingness for so many people to jump on video calls to catch up and I really hope we continue to nurture those connections, especially with those we love who we don’t live near. I’m excited to continue discovering new hobbies, from Rubick’s cube solves to crossword puzzles to (in a few weeks) rollerblading (importing from Denmark (baller)). I’m grateful to have time and rededicated focus on editing the previous one hundred and whatever posts in here down to the best and brightest for what I hope to one day be a book someone besides me will read. I’ve cooked more. I’ve ordered from local businesses to show support and solidarity. There are a lot of silver linings that, admittedly, are easy for me to find given how many other parts of my life have not terribly affected. 

If you’re wondering how a post starting with efficient showers has turned into this, you’re not alone, but if you’re silently screaming at me to land the plane, here we go. 

If there’s one thing I want to take with me once we get to Phase 5 and life feels the closest it can to normal again, it’s to slow, the hell, down. Every time I bumped into my rickety excuse for a TV stand on my way through my bedroom I thought, what’s the hurry? Seriously, WHERE AM I GOING? As Greg Focker once brilliantly asked, “where’s the fire?” Why am I washing dishes like the last gallon of water in Lake Michigan is draining? Why am I going to turn on my evening ambient lights like they emit oxygen and I’m clutching onto my final breath? Why?

Going fast and being efficient are not identical. Actually, efficiency can replace the need to be fast. But that wasn’t how my mind worked. It was ingrained in me to be fast AND efficient. I didn’t always want to be, but that was my natural default setting. So I am trying to change. To slow down. To realize the difference between taking 4 or 6 minutes to do the dishes is not worth the mess in splashed water and flicked suds. I am going to try to take my time, if not for my head, at least for my kneecaps and my poor, exhausted bookshelf. 



*To anyone that got this far that is having a tougher time than I have been over the last few months, I was in no way trying to make it worse for you. I can only speak for myself. But if you’re struggling, I am so sorry. I wish I could do more. You are loved. You are constantly thought about. And we’ll get through this. 

Friday Night Life

It started as a book in 1990. H. G. Bissinger wrote a non-fiction piece about the 1988 Permian Panthers football team and their quest for a high school state championship. From there it was turned into a movie in 2004, directed by Peter Berg and starring Billy Bob Thornton. As far as football movies and high school movies go, it’s pretty darn good. Berg loved the synopsis so much, he took it for a 5 season show that ran from 2006 to 2011, and took coach’s wife Connie Britton to reprise her role, this time opposite Kyle Chandler and featuring future Hollywood names Minka Kelly, Taylor Kitsch, Adrianne Palicki, Jesse Plemons, and of course, Michael B. Jordan. The show was a critical success and has turned into more of a cult following than anything else.

The essence of the book, movie, and show overflows the sprayed sidelines of a football field onto the town, the people, the relationships, and the drama. Football is just the vehicle, and what a vehicle it is, chalk full of pep rally celebrations, playing time controversy, injuries, cheerleaders, and pregame William Wallace-esk speeches. In the movie, B.B. Thornton steals the show with his ‘perfect’ speech. It’s, pun absolutely indented, a perfect speech. It’s dramatic, inspirational, sensational, and chilling. I love it. Kyle Chandler didn’t have it as easy as his speeches were given time and time again, across episodes and seasons, to teams and to individuals, and censored due to network guidelines. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t able to elicit passion and excitement and sentiment when he rolled up his game notes and stared into the eyes of his audience. 

Coach Gaines (Thornton) says, “Being perfect is about being able to look your friends in the eye and know that you didn’t let them down because you told them the truth, and that truth is that you did everything that you could, there wasn’t one more thing that you could have done. Can you live in that moment, the best you can, with clear eyes and love in your heart, with joy in your heart. If you can do that, gentlemen, then you’re perfect.”

Coach Taylor (Chandler) doesn’t have just one speech to reference, but aside from a quote like “Every man at some point in his life is going to lose a battle. He is going to fight and he is going to lose. But what makes him a man is at the midst of that battle he does not lose himself,” which is fantastic, one thread can be stitched through every moment of inspiration: “clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.”

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I don’t love the idea of dating apps. This seems contradictory to how I seem to be spending the majority of my free time these days, but I promise, it’s not my preferred way of meeting a potential partner. I would be shocked if I was in the minority in that sentiment, which is ironic that so many people turn to it. Alas, the essence of most dating apps includes creating a profile. I do not take this lightly, in myself nor in others. It’s my job to market myself as attractively AND honestly as possible to attract a potential match. Therefore a lot of thought gets put into its construction and a lot of my time is spent reading and interpreting the content of other’s, when available. It also serves as a launch pad for early conversation, as long as there is more sustenance than ‘I love puppies, traveling, and my Snapchat is ‘ladyd5.’

Bumble requires the lady to make the opening move, resulting more often than not in ‘Hey Chris, how’s your day?’ Sometimes, and my hat is off to anyone with this sort of creativity, the opener is a question that elicits some actual thought. Someone once asked ‘You go to Target for one thing: what two things do you walk out with?’ Kudos! Recently someone opened with “Story behind using ‘clear eyes full hearts can’t lose’ in your humble profile?” I looked past whether or not ‘humble’ was genuine or slanderous and answered the question (albeit in fewer words than I’ve used below). 

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I watched the movie at some point. I didn’t see it in a theater, so I’m sure it was on HBO and I gave it a watch. Baseball was my main focus in high school, so it might not have resonated quite as much with me as those that banged heads for four years. I enjoyed it, but didn’t love it. It definitely didn’t change my life. 

I remember my mom vacating to the living room to watch Friday Night Lights on NBC, a show that no one else in the family watched. I was in college when it started and wasn’t as interested in that high school show as I was in something like, say, The O.C. (2003-2007), so never gave it a watch. Sometime after the show concluded, I found some shady website that was streaming every episode and decided to sit in my room and catch up on what had turned into a bit of a cultural phenomenon. I binged the show in a few months and really enjoyed the experience. I was able to keep up in conversations about Saracen v Street v Vince and understand why I have a friend that named her dog Riggins. But it definitely didn’t change my life.

Then something happened in my life exploration, in my infinite search for balance, and in my ever-growing appreciation for empathy that made it all click. 

Clear eyes, to me, means honesty, integrity, transparency, authenticity, and purity. It’s the capital T truth. It’s the essence of life. It’s anti-Instagram, meaning filter-less. Pure as the driven snow. 

Full hearts, to me, well I guess it’s kind of obvious, but it means empathy, and consideration, and understanding, and inclusion, and yes, love. It’s warmth. It’s acceptance. It’s the softest blanket made by caring hands. 

The backdrop of a life-or-death-type sport scenario in towns where football was everything couldn’t be a better place for this quote. Where winning and losing is talked about for generations, the (overly-cliché) scoreboard of life is only concerned with that which binds us. When it comes to how we treat people, to how we meet people, and to how we live, it’s the most simple, succinct, and poignant combination of words I’ve ever taken the time to unpack. It’s a motto that can act as a backdrop to the stage of life. 

In other words, it’s perfect.

I’ve always been borderline obsessed with quotes and I honestly don’t think there’s a better one out there, at least not for the life I strive to lead. 

Delivering Empathy

I’m sure this isn’t the first time I’ve brought up This is Water, the title of a commencement speech given by David Foster Wallace. I know the video version a bit better as it’s shorter and well-shot, but the idea remains intact. The daily grind is tough and we’re all in this together. Don’t be so quick to judge.

Last week I had some adventures while ordering food via the app delivery service known as Uber Eats. I’m already acknowledging the silliness in forgoing what is in retrospect a pretty simple and mundane task of picking up food from a nearby establishment, but it was lunch time, I was at work, and, well, I didn’t feel like going anywhere. Plus, with the new tiered pricing for delivery, the closer the restaurant, the cheaper the fee. Yes, by all means, let’s encourage my laziness.

The first adventure was Monday, but to call it an adventure is misleading; it was a simple error. The Northbrook campus of UL is made up of several buildings, named in an order that is both logical and baffling. There’s history and progress and an array of reasons, but none of them make it easy for a delivery driver to find my exact location. The two biggest hiccups occur when one, unlike getting picked up by Uber for a ride, my location is not shared to them by my GPS locator, but instead a dot is placed at the address I’ve entered, and unfortunately for those of us sequestered in a building that is not the main building, we do not have a separate address, and therefore the dot is placed directly on what is portrayed by 333 Pfingsten Rd, and two, the name of my building on all signage around the campus is Building 1, what most people would assign as the aforementioned main building, however, that building is instead named 6, 7, 8, a deadly combo of numbers if you ask me, and 9 (ha!). It’s because of this that I choose to stand outside and wave down each delivery, representing the light at the end of what turns out is a pretty convoluted and often back-track-laden tunnel.

Add to these common misdirections the moderate rainfall and I’m sure that Jeroboam was having just a peach of a day, almost certainly directly leading to my shock and disappointment when I opened the bag from McAlister’s Deli to find something I did not order. Instead of what sounded like a tasty beef and swiss hot sub, was instead a cold, boring, basic, Italian meats salad, chalk full of more olives and tomatoes than I care to admit I picked off.

A little tidbit about Uber Eats: once the delivery is made, you can no longer contact your delivery driver. This makes all the sense in the world, but in the moment, ooooooh boy did that make me mad.

I immediately filed a complaint with my order, explaining ‘the entire order is wrong. This is a salad. I ordered a sandwich.’ I also did not leave a favorable rating for Jeroboam. I guess I figured the only job a delivery drive has is to get the order right, so I felt justified in my reaction.

Now comes Friday, and let me tell you, this was a first for me. I’ve ordered lots of food in recent years. The advent of Grub Hub and Door Dash and Uber Eats and whatever the hell GoPuff is has made it exceedingly easy to not leave the couch on the occasional (every) Sunday, so I’ve indulged. I have placed an Uber Eats order while in the back of an Uber on my way home after a late night, trying to time it out to minimize the wait at home before I’m scarfing down a Dagwood pita from Pita Pit. I’ve ordered pizza and fallen asleep, only to awake and wander the streets of Champaign at 3 am in an attempt to track down my Gumby’s. I’ve ordered twice from the same restaurant in the same day.

I guess my point is I’ve been around the block of not having to go around the block.

So it’s with all of that in mind that I share the trials and tribulations of trying to get food in my belly on Friday. The evening before I skimped out on food in a kind embarrassing way, thinking some chips and hummus would mix well with vodka and soda, but nonetheless, after a granola bar on my commute, my stomach demanded that lunch come early. Then it hit me: I’m no longer in Northbrook, bound by desolate suburbia and their $6.99 delivery fees. I’m in River North. I’m around literally dozens of restaurants whose fee would be $3 or less. The neighborhood was my oyster and I was about to get some quality grub, quickly, and at a minimal cost of delivery. Game. On.

Pick the place. Place the order. Half a sandwich and half a salad from a place of which I hadn’t previously heard (Capriotti’s Sandwich Shop). 20-30 minutes. I was so excited. The order was put in at 11:20 am. They received the order and started preparing my food by 11:22 am. At 11:40 am, it was out for delivery. I thought 5, maybe 10 minutes by the cycling bringer-of-heaven until I read that Ben is out delivering another order on the way, so the time shifted. It then said 11:55 am, and I was hurt, but not offended, nor dying. I just finished my water and tried to avoid watching the little GPS-tracked bike graphic traverse the city grid.

The other delivery message went away indicating Ben was on his way and I was salivating. My stomach was uncomfortably loud, like a squeaky toilet paper holder in a quiet office. The little biker image moved north, crossed the river, aaaaaand stopped. I waited. The delivery time kept counting up. The little biker image moved again… SOUTH. Back to the loop. East. West. North. South. Baffled, I messaged our courageous courier.

“What the heck is going on?” I pondered via text.

Minutes go by.

“I’m so sorry, Chris.” Ben started. “The inner tube of my bike popped and I’m looking for a repair shop that can fix it. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.”

You know that classic cartoon gag of smoke blowing out of the ears of a very fed up animated animal?

As I shared this misfortune with my colleague, I wondered out loud what would go through someone’s head while they ride on a flat tire throughout the city with half a sandwich and half a salad on their back, and how it’s conceivable that they would ride, or maybe just carry, their bike a greater distance in an effort to get their primitive mode of transportation fixed as opposed to simply completing the delivery of my lunch before carrying on with the whole “inner tube repair” part of their day. I was dumbfounded. I was perplexed. I was genuinely curious. But above all, I was something I rarely thought I would ever say and mean: I was HANGRY. You read that correctly. I was so, so hungry that I turned nasty. If I had a Snickers, maybe everything would have been fine. But I did not. And it was not.

“Find someone else! Take an Uber! How long am I going to have to wait until your bike is fixed?!” I spat, hoping I would light a fire under Ben. No response.

Five more minutes transpired before the little biker image moved again, on its way to my office, and into my belly. It was 12:26 pm. And then it happened.

“Order Canceled.”

And a wave of failure crashed onto me like an ocean wave crashing onto an aircraft carrier in tumultuous seas, or like one of those big surfing waves crashing onto shore in Hawaii, or like, well you get the picture. Waves, crashing.

I quickly stormed out of the office, walked 700 feet to Mr. Beef, ordered a beef and sausage combo, turned around, and was back to my desk eating by 12:32 pm. I waited 66 minutes for a canceled order and had food in my belly after six minutes. It was tasty, and I was mostly satisfied hunger-wise, but an aura of disappointment clouded my enjoyment. It wasn’t until later that evening over happy hour Pinot Grigios recounting the story when I realized my folly.

“I still have no idea what happened,” I shared, hoping for and receiving sympathy. “Maybe it was my salty reaction that caused Ben to finally give up.” And there it was. Laying in front of me, so obvious I can’t believe I missed it.

Whether it was my 1-start rating on Monday, through the jumbled UL campus, misleading GPS trackers, and rain, or my snappy comeback to someone most assuredly having a worse day than me, it was my response that didn’t need to happen. Why did I need to be such an asshole? Why couldn’t I understand or empathize with people whose job point out my own stagnation by bringing me food I was too lazy to pick up myself? Why was I looking for sympathy instead of passing it along?

Because in those moments, I believed I was the center of the universe. That everything that happens happens to me or for me. And that every inconvenience I experience carries more weight than anyone else’s. I was weak, and I took it out on others. It doesn’t mean I’m an asshole, and I’m not calling you an asshole if you’ve behaved this way recently. All I’m acknowledging is how hard it is to keep everything in perspective. It’s a constant battle, but one that is so necessary to keep fighting.

We can get so caught up in the insignificant, trying, troubling, meaningless details that we often have to take a step back and remind ourselves, this is water… this is water.

And maybe it’s okay to walk to the nearby restaurant to get your own damn food.

Cubs Win: Fandom, Family, and Sports

I don't know where to start.

I was starting to become a sport cynic. I was barely three months old when the Bears won the Super Bowl in '85. And even though I was scraping the roof of being a teenager when the Bulls won their sixth title in eight years, there's no way that their first championship in '91 could have had any significant impact on my life, especially considering the absolute dominance that those six seasons contained. My involvement was harnessed to reading the game recaps in the Tribune the next morning while eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes. I'll fast forward through the White Sox' World Series, not because I didn't watch it, but I just didn't care who won. 

2010 really marked the first time in my life that a team in which I supported, after a season in which I watched, was crowned a winner. I can't call myself a die-hard Blackhawks fan. I mean, we went to a game during the 2009 season, so I was interested, but I'm not even sure I knew the full definition of icing or offsides at that point.

Well thanks to NHL '09 on PS4, I learned the game and learned the team, so when Jonathan Toews hoisted the Stanley Cup in June of 2010, there was a pretty special release of pure elation. It got a little crazy on Division St. that night, and memories of Kane's overtime winner will never leave me, but before you know it, three years later... BOOM, and two year later... BOOM. 

By the time the Cup was raised for the third time, the feeling was not only fleeting, the feeling was almost empty. Sure, I already knew that I wasn't on the one on the ice, ripping wristers or blocking passes, and that anyone who says 'we' when referring to a sports team is quite possibly partially insane, unless of course they work for that team, in which case: kudos, but there was an extra feeling of ineptitude or helplessness as we drank from the bottle of J. Roget at Waterhouse. It's always fun to celebrate, but the overwhelming thought of what are we actually celebrating lingered long after that night in June. I didn't win anything. I didn't accomplish anything. Hell, the only reason I support the team goes back to a relatively random decision of a family of Lazzerinis settling in a large Midwestern city. 

And then the 2016 Cubs season happened.

There has never been a season of a sport that I spent more time watching than the 2016 Cubs season. Obviously, given the excitement and success of the previous year, and the size of the target on their back, it was easy to invest, but let me tell you just exactly what I invested. 

I don't remember a time in my life when baseball was not present. Even if I can maybe place a memory or two before the first time I picked up a bat on the timeline of me, my older brother was already playing the sport in an organized fashion, AND, I was definitely the 'baby at the bar' after my dad's softball games in the late 80s. I began playing 'weekend travel' baseball as a seven-year-old, which was some slightly more serious competition after the initial 'house league' season had ended. Three years later, and for the next five years, I played 'permanent travel' baseball, where children (with the support of loving and caring adults) played 60+ games in a summer, traveling down to Lisle, IL or out to Cary, IL on a week night, up to Minnesota or down to Omaha on a weekend. 

Then four years of Spring high school baseball, three years of Summer high school baseball, one year of Fall high school baseball, and finally and barely two years of college Club Baseball, where the pain I felt after a game was most likely due to a hangover as opposed to throwing too many pitches. Toss in one more season of a young men's league (under 22) after college and a decade of softball, and it's pretty easy to see how much playing the sport as been a part of my life. 

And then there's the Cubs. My grandfather spent a good chunk of his younger years at 1935 N. Sheffield Ave., just two miles south of Wrigley Field. He used to walk up to the north edge of the stadium during the formerly more common double-headers to wait for the first game to end. Much-to-do folks would leave after game 1, drop their ticket in the street, and continue their day. Forever frugal Al Lazzerini would scoop up the discarded and watch game 2 with his buddies for free. 

For the time I lived at home, Sundays were spent one way: with our grandparents. Fortunate enough to grow up a few miles away and eventually only a block, we spent lunch to dinner with them every Sunday for the first 20+ years of my life. College and moving out complicated things, but generally, Sundays were untouchable. In the fall, it was the Bears at noon, Italian sausage on the grill. Football Sundays were special for sure, but nothing compares to the grind and persistence of a six month, 162 game baseball schedule. Watching and reacting (often negatively) to Cubs games while sitting around their kitchen table populates a series of memories that I can't imagine fading. We are a family of baseball fans, and more accurately, we are a family of Cubs fan. 

In March of 2013, my grandfather passed away, months after taking care of my grandmother to the end of her run, and through what turned out to be stage four cancer that he fought off just long enough. Ninety years on this planet, and never once did he see his Cubs win a World Series.

As I watched the playoffs transpire, often at the same bar, at the same table, and in the same seat, I got nervous. Not contemplating their chances of winning or stressing with every blown save or offensive shutout, but with what would happen if they actually won. Barely a year had passed since I sat with that empty feeling of victory, one that I didn't earn and had no reason bragging about, so how would I react when the final out was made?

Fandom is a tricky topic. We know, 'sure as God created green apples,' that the players on the team for which we root are not the same thing as the team. They are a constantly moving, evolving, and changing group of professionals that are simply doing their job. But obviously, being a fan is more than cheering for players. Sports, the best and purest possible form of reality TV, goes being entertainment and borders a world of escapism, whatever that may mean to you. It goes beyond entertainment and borders a world of emotional awakening. Borders a world of legacy and history. Of friends, family, camaraderie. Of passion. Of hope. 

Game 7 was a roller coaster that is nearly impossible to describe. Everyone had their own experience, and everyone will remember where they were for one of the most memorable games in the history of sports. When Kris Bryant connected with Anthony Rizzo for the final out, for the hours, days, and now weeks after, my tear ducts have been loose, my emotions have been rampant, and my spirit has been vibrating. 

Everything I had ever put in, the years, the pain, the admiration, the practice, the time, the patience, the energy, the arguments, the scouting, the excitement, the persistence, the scrutiny, the fun, the pieces of myself, all of it was returned tenfold on Wednesday night, November 2nd, 2016, and we will always be connected, past, present, and future, by the most exciting, excruciating, invigorating, and nearly unbelievable but undeniably unforgettable season that's ever been played. 

No Hope in Sports

On February 15^th, 2014, Ray Rice knocked out his fiancé in an elevator. On film. He was suspended for two games. The criminal charges dropped. And actually won a settlement against the Ravens for an undisclosed but likely multi-million dollar amount because of a ‘second punishment.’

On January 18^th, 2015, the NFL began investigation on the Patriots for using deflated footballs in the AFC Championship game. Tom Brady was suspended 4 games. A judge overturned the suspension because Brady didn’t have enough notice. On April 25^th, 2016, the U.S. Second Circuit Court of Appeals reversed the judge’s decision and Tom Brady was suspended for four games.

On June 21^st, 2014, Hope Solo assaulted her 17-year-old nephew while intoxicated, punching him, tackling him, ripping his shirt, scratching his arm, and causing his ear to bleed. She also threatened a police officer by saying, ‘You're such a b----. You're scared of me because you know that if the handcuffs were off, I'd kick your ass.’ No action was taken by the U.S. Women’s National Team.

On August 12^th, 2016, the U.S. Women’s National Team lost to Sweden and Hope Solo says ‘we played a bunch of cowards… I don't think they're going to make it far in the tournament. I think it was very cowardly.’ For her comments, Hope Solo was suspended for 6 months.

Now, I’m sure there are details to these stories that I either missed or don’t care about, but these are the highlights, and they are the facts. I could do more research, but this is a blog, not the NYT.

I’ve already come to grips with the fact that celebrities are treated differently than civilians. If my recent binge-watching of Ray Donovan has taught me anything, there are plenty of people in the world that leverage, punish, or generally cover up anyone or anything that might damage an image, and that this kind of activity not only happens everywhere, but often, for those that can afford it. Fine. To be fair, I can’t think of anything in my life that would require Ray or Aví or Lena to help out. Sure, I’ve chalked up a few on the embarrassing stories scoreboard, but nothing that would keep me out of running for office, a profession I would never consider.

The only explanation on how Ray Rice and an angry-drunk Hope Solo received a lesser penalty for their actions than Tom Brady and a sharp-tongued Hope Solo is that the NFL and the U.S. Women’s National Team care more about the ‘integrity’ of their sport than the integrity of the people participating.

In simpler terms, the game matters more than life.

The billion dollar industry of the NFL – at least I understand that it’s all about the money, and you can’t have players cheating and expect people to watch. Except that players already cheat, across the league, top of roster to bottom, just in non-visible ways. But the U.S. Women’s National Team, an organization that you would hope supports victims in a far greater way than any of the major leagues – that one really doesn’t make sense. Leagues or teams tend to pucker up when someone criticizes management, officials, or the league higher-ups, which to some extent makes sense. But calling another team cowards seems like a pretty normal thing to say. Stupid, petty, and based in frustration, but really not too bad, except that it paints the team in a bad light.

So if you do anything – and I mean anything – that hurts or injures the team or the game, that’s more severe than if you do something that hurts or injures a person.

I don’t know a lot, but I know this: LIFE is more important than entertainment.

What possible message could they be sending into the world? It doesn’t matter what laws you break in the real world, once you’re inside the Coliseum, you’re rinsed of your sins and reborn again? As long as you feel bad for what you say, then strap on your gear and get ready to compete? It’s asinine and shameful.

I’m sorry, I have to get back to this. Hope Solo punched her 17-year-old nephew and verbally assaulted a police officer and nothing happens. Hope Solo calls the Sweden team cowards for having a conservative game plan and loses half a year of playing. Sticks and stones.

I probably don’t have to go through meandering sentences and long-winded theories on why I feel so strongly about this particular juxtaposition, because I don’t know anyone that would disagree with me. I’m sure I’ll never understand the pressure and spotlight of being an international superstar, and that my life couldn’t possibly compare to the monumental entertainers that captivate worldwide audiences, but I know that life is more important than work. Every time. Every single time. I struggle to comprehend anything else. 

Currency

My dad and I had a conversation recently, and the conclusion was challenging but ultimately expected. From two different generations, our values don’t align. That’s not to say that we don’t have overlapping perspectives regarding literal human existence, but, to quote DFW, what we both see as the “capital T truth” about who we are and why we are alive is different. And that’s okay.

I spend a lot of time in my car. The reality of living in Chicago and working in the suburbs takes its toll on my car, but it no longer takes a toll on me. Regardless if podcasts are the reasons, I’ve found solace in my solo driving. If nothing else, it gives me a chance to think. Which is exactly what happened when I listened to [my favorite sports and pop culture guru] Bill Simmons talk to [a now wildly respected and very curious billionaire investor] Chris Sacca, touching on topics that I’ve very rarely been tasked with considering along my seemingly perpetual 2 hours of driving a day.

We didn’t have a ton growing up. Don’t get me wrong, we (my brother and I) were privileged. Good school, new toys, and happy, in-love parents. So I guess take all of this with a grain of salt. But from an early stage, my parents taught the value of the dollar. They were not world-beaters at 30. And again, that isn’t an insult. It was a sign of the times. They worked their asses off to make sure we didn’t know they were working their asses off. It’s an unbelievable trait, and I don’t write metaphorically.

Thing is, whether it’s my kind of hippie parents that somehow, unbenounced to the rest of the world, found absolute happiness, or Chris Sacca, someone that has both wiffed and connected on so many amazing Silicon Valley enterprises, the end result tends to be the same.

If we’re talking monetary value, how could you even put my parents in the same stratosphere as Chris Sacca? I don’t know a lot, but I’ve learned this.

Value is not in the face on the bill.

Currency is a fallacy. Sure, money makes it easier, but poll the 1% and ask if they are happier. I know the ‘mo’ money mo’ problems’ idea isn’t new, but it goes beyond the value of stocks or your retirement number. There has been such a fucking notion seeping through society of ‘playing it safe’ is how you get from point A to point B, that the average mind-numb imbecile is ready to chalk up life to what was so clearly laid out for them. Truth is, and I believe and DFW implied, the capital T truth is that currency is not the dollar or Euro or Yen or Pound… The capital T ‘truth’ is currency is secret, selfish, BUT, shockingly universal.

Universal, unlike the mildly entertaining theme parked attached to the sweaty belly button that is Orlando, means that we all experience it. Whether we’re stuck in rush hour traffic, banging the walls of our cubicle, or cleaning up literal shit, we cannot believe this is all that matters. To quote another -famous-but-mainly-from-a-movie figure, “would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance…” to walk away happy.

The choice seems simple. Either be happy, or live long enough to see yourself become an asshole. But it’s my firm contention that either way, it’s a choice. Long live the days when a speckle of gold made your life valuable. These days, value is not only placed on what can make you money, but on who can make you feel whole. A few extra commas in your bank account is nice, but I promise you, feeling is the most valuable commodity we have on this planet. Sympathy. Empathy. Compassion. Understanding. Trust. The more we use these 5 words, the closer we get to a society that understands itself. My dad is 62. We are not the same person. But I see in him, for possibly the first time in my lifetime, an openness to what could be next.

Every day, every one of us gets closer to dying. That’s not cynicism, that’s reality. But the way I see it, we have two goals in life. Impact everyone you meet in a positive way, and be happy with who you are. Those ideas are so independent of fiscal representation…

Currency is not a fact, it’s an opinion. 

A Quiet Phone

My first job out of college was called an instructional designer, a title I still possess today. In nine years, while my title has not changed, my position and experience within an industry I never knew existed most certainly has. Well before I knew about Kirkpatrick’s four levels of feedback or Bloom’s Taxonomy, I simply had an eye for formatting PowerPoints and a knack of the English Language, which apparently was enough to be hired, employed, and actually promoted to a lead designer during this 7-month project contract. Since that first job until today at work, everything I’ve learned has been on the job. With no formal education, I’ve had to try and figure out this intangible and generally unknown field as I go.

The thing is, instructional design falls within a broad category called adult learning. Some instructional design for adult learning actually produces the aforementioned formal education, but my work almost exclusively focused on internal training projects for a company, ranging from quite technical, process-oriented material to high-level leadership ideas, and ranging from a paper manual to an interactive and dynamic piece of online learning. No matter the medium, the greatest thing about adult learning: guess what I am? An adult (usually)! So while craft and skill and creativeness dominate the field, there is a relatively simple, consistent backbone that supports the entire industry; would I want to take this? It seems kind of obvious, but even if I’m designing a course for people at the lower end of the adult spectrum, I’ve experienced what they are going through and generally can connect with the audience, something that, say, a high school teacher at the end of their career might struggle with. So when asked to narrate 30 minutes of content with mild PowerPoint animation in the background, I can confidently push back by saying, ‘is this something that you would want to do? Then why put our participants through it?’

Speaking of high school, I wasn’t prom king. That’s pretty narrow, but even if we widened that demographic to include the ‘generally popular kids,’ once again I was on the outside looking in. Don’t get me wrong, I had friends. I kind of walked the line, inadvertently, between pop, jock, and nerd. Mostly A student playing football and baseball that let his friends drink at his empty parents’ house despite not drinking until college. But when I wasn’t taking advantage of my parents’ 25th anniversary, I spent most weekends in front of a similar screen at which I am currently staring, scrolling through my rolodex of people that regretted ever sharing their phone number. I didn’t really know what kids did on the weekend, but it seemed like the place to be. My most common, non-intrusive line when I finally got people on the phone would be something along the lines of keep me posted if something actually happens. And when the phone never rang, I just assumed everyone was equally bored and lonely. This wasn’t the case.

With those as my memories from high school, it's not hard to explain how I am today. It doesn’t take formal education in psychology. For years, I felt ignored, rejected, and alone. There have been enough songs and quotes about the visceral darkness that accompanies waiting by a phone that never rings. It’s crushing. And when it happens ritually, it shapes the rest of your life. Despite the way technology has made it easier to connect and communicate, some of the same pitfalls from life 15 years ago still apply. We have more ways to talk than ever before, but more distractions too. So the idea of staying off the internet to keep a phone line free is obviously extinct, fine, but the onslaught of communication has amplified the opportunities for disappointment.

But for as many opportunities there are for disappointment, there’s an equal number of chances for fulfillment. In 2016, this looks like responding to a text or an email. We’ve become a society where not having your cell phone with you is hard to imagine. The panic that sets in during the initial moments of checking your pocket or purse and not immediately locating your phone rivals any thrill ride I’ve ever embarked. Of course, restrictions apply, but generally, even if you work a job that requires relatively dedicated attention, there are still opportunities. In 2016, this looks like replying to a Facebook invitation with an accurate response, in a relatively timely manner. Because we all get that it’s a little silly, but what other medium do we have?

In 2016, this means saying yes. What I mean is easier explained when turned around. I understand that not everyone has the same sense of adventure, but if at some point you have thought or read or heard of an event or restaurant or bar or store or park that you want to check out and generally would like some company when you do. Not revolutionary. But with the advent of Netflix and blah blah blah it’s become easier to do nothing while still feeling connected. But true connection happens face to face.

For me, it’s probably deep-seeded in my angst-y high school days when I didn’t understand why I often felt on the outside. It’s easier to look back, but those experiences have affected my current perspective. An unanswered text won’t leave me inconsolable in my bedroom with a heavy metal album playing on repeat. So with a slideshow of memories on call, I try, as honestly as I can, to treat others the way I wish I was treated. How does it feel when your texts fall on empty thumbs? When your emails fall on empty hands? When your invites go unanswered or ignored or simply declined?

Just like when I’m designing a new training course at work, all you have to ask is ‘would I want this done to me?’ 

On Demand

I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie that impacted me this much. When I was younger, it seemed to happen a bunch. The movies and music that you’re exposed to as a teenager hits you at the perfect time for long-lasting impact. Ask your parents their favorite album or movie and most likely it was released before they turned 25. So on a lazy, quiet, sunny Saturday morning, I wasn’t expecting to browse my favorited movies on Comcast, find that ‘Once’ was on demand, and for 86 minutes, become completely entranced. It’s such a beautiful and powerful and warm movie that I’m still glowing. So much so that I spent some time during lunch today browsing YouTube for Glenn Hansard performances. Some from the movie. Some with his co-start. But one in particular with another Irish musician, Lisa Hannigan. Click. Highlight. Drag and drop. Wikipedia. Holy shit, she was in Damien Rice’s band during his albums O and 9. I KNOW HER! YouTube. Click. Listen. Like. Grab phone. Unlock. Spotify. Search. Find. Albums. Sea Sew – Save. Passenger – Save.

I am excited to forget that I saved two albums by Lisa Hannigan, get bored one afternoon, browse artists I’ve recently added, and listen to her music. Maybe in the car. Maybe before bed. Maybe just on a lazy, quiet, sunny Saturday morning. But it’s there, and it’s nice to know it’s there. Losing all my music on a dropped external hard drive wasn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me, mainly because I immediately signed up for Spotify Premium and all of a sudden have access to more music than I can listen to in a hundred lifetimes. Sure I have Tragic Kingdom saved because music in 1995 had a major impact on me, especially albums that were released on my 10^th birthday, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love scrolling through my list of saved artists and not recognizing dozens of names because I heard one of their songs on an Evening Chill playlist and decided to save 38 of their songs on 3 albums.

Around 1995, well a year or two before and the years after, at least until the fall of 1999 when my brother went off to college, music was a special thing. It created a bond with my dad when I told him I wanted the entire Pink Floyd ‘The Wall’ album recorded onto a cassette tape, and again when I decided that ZZ top was a good band to listen to as a fifth grader. With my brother when I let the alternative minded music seep into my everyday listening, and again when live shows became a part of everyday life, from garage punk bands to the House of Blues. But the most vivid memories related to music come from riding in my parents’ Cutlass while my brother drove, Palatine to Roselle, Roselle to Algonquin, and all the way west until you hit this tiny music palace called Record Breakers. I don’t think it was always there, but for the sake of this story, that’s what I remember. That’s not around the corner from where we lived, so to go there took some actual effort. Luckily (I guess) my calendar wasn’t too full.

We’d go to this store and literally browse the stacks of tapes and CDs. The smell of incense wafted strong throughout the store. Sometimes there was a mission. Sometimes there was not. Sometimes you would listen to a CD in the CD listening stations and make a decision. Sometimes you would buy a poster or a hat or a shirt. Sometimes you would get a suggestion from a worker and try something new. Sometimes you would see that a band member of a band you like had a previous band worth checking out. Sometimes you would hear a song on a soundtrack and that would open up a whole new set of music to explore. Sometimes nothing would happen. But every time, something was happening. You didn’t always walk out with new merchandise, but you always walked out.

There’s something about this on-demand world that is suffocating our society. That Pink Floyd tape sounded better because I had to talk my dad into setting up a time to make the recording, he had to get his equipment set up, the recording had to happen, and then I got to listen to it. Finding a CD at Record Breakers was exciting and adventurous and rewarding in a way that made you appreciate the music.

And don’t even get me started on video games. NBA Jam TE (tournament edition) was one of the greatest Sega Genesis games of all time. And the cheat codes you could implement to unlock characters, super dunks, super threes, big heads; amazing. After seeing a Kobe Bryant spoof with NBA Jam graphics, I decided to search for a current version of NBA Jam, and if I couldn’t find one, create a Kickstarter, because that game needs to exist for PS3 or PS4. Well much to my surprise, an NBA Jam game had been created, the On Fire edition, and with rosters updated through 2013. And because technology is amazing, sure as shit you could download the game and be playing it within minutes. I was dumbfounded and wildly excited. Know what I did on a Friday night? I stayed in and played NBA Jam with my brother and for about 2 hours, it was 1994 again. I had a great time.

Flash back to 1994. “Mom, can we get a ride to Blockbuster?” I still remember the smell of that place. Straight to the video games. Walk. And browse. Pick up. Read. Look. Compare. The anticipation of renting a video game on a Friday night rivals the adult version of being in an airport before a vacation. That game could be anything. It could be everything. And the clock’s ticking. As soon as you leave the store, every second you aren’t playing that game is wasted. The amount of nights I stayed up until 3 or 4 or 5 in the morning playing video games… It was research. Reconnaissance. And it was amazing.

I’m not sure how I feel about this on-demand life. I’m definitely a participant. But without losing perspective. On-demand makes it easier to avoid the outside world. Netflix a show, GrubHub your meal, Saucey some booze, and never leave your couch. Sometimes that’s amazing. But we’re breeding a population that expects everything to be available. The only way they know how to discover something new is with a search bar. Be adventurous and the reward will taste sweeter.

In This Moment

On July 31st, I was vibrating with excitement. In the days of technology and computers and smart phones and tablets, we have access to more tools and resources and gadgets that can organize or maintain or simply keep track of seemingly every activity we choose or do not choose to engage in. Some of these tools I use. Take, oh I don’t know, Facebook event invitations. Yet others, for reasons unbeknownst to me, never quite stuck. The most prominent of which is the digital calendar. I’ve tried. Boy have I tried. But there is something gravitationally controlling my documentation of plans and events and dates and outings and games and concerts and meetings: PAPER. I can’t get enough of it. I hate taking notes. I hate writing anything more than 10 words. I hate carrying around extra items. But there is some sense of accomplishment, some sense of reality, when I take my Bic Atlantis black ballpoint and fill up the day-by-day of my life, one month at a time.

August was a beautiful month. As I look back, only 5 days remain blank. There were so many things scheduled, I was counting the hours for the calendar to flip. After some changes and struggles and challenging situations, it was my immerse-myself-in-everything-I-possibly-can-for-as-many-days-as-I-can-until-I’m-so-tired-I-have-to-take-a-day-off-work-just-to-sleep phase. And it worked. All the way through my August 31st day of rest. I burned it at both ends. I rode ten roller coasters, played six rounds of golf,  five softball games, drafted three fantasy football teams, attended three concerts, three dinners, a baby shower, a wedding, and a movie. Read ‘em and weep. I went all-in and doubled up.

Looking at the next six Saturdays, my calendar is solid, beginning with this extended Labor Day weekend of fun at the lake. This morning I sent a text that included the quote ‘already looking forward to the weekend,’ and c’mon, who’s not? Take polls, ask friends, email your coworkers, call your parents, and please, someone tell me if you can find more than one grouch that isn’t looking forward to the weekend, even if they qualify it by saying ‘well I look forward to any time away from work’ or ‘well it’s a long weekend, so it’s more exciting.’ It doesn’t matter. We are all apparently programmed to long for moments away from our responsibilities and everything else is just getting in the way. Why, I fell victim to this thinking not 5 hours ago. And why wouldn’t I? I got golf, boating, partying, and golf again. Of course that’s better than what I do when I’m at work. Of course, of course. But, maybe, if all I can do is count down the minutes until the weekend starts, I shouldn’t be alive in the first place.

Work isn’t as fun as golf, but if I spend all my time wishing it were another time, then I’m literally wasting time. Being alive is fucking amazing. Every capability that we have is nearly inconceivable. Scratch that. It is inconceivable. I can’t honestly comprehend the idea of life. There. I said it. And I’m not ashamed. You can tell me a thousand times how the brain sends signals to the heart and the heart pumps blood through veins and our lungs inhale one thing and exhale another and our kidneys and our muscles and whatever and whatever and whatever and everything and anything, and I can answer the questions on an exam and pass biology, but my brain does not have the capability to truly understand existence. Evolution: go ahead and explain it without sounding like a lunatic. It’s not possible. I believe science. But I don’t understand it. The fact that I am here, doing this, thinking this, admitting this, living this, is unbe-fucking-lievable.

So instead of wavering over line between wishing it was the weekend and folding my laundry, mentally escaping my immediate activity, hoping that the also incomprehensible notion of time would inexplicably quicken, I will attempt to teeter between different thoughts. There’s either the task at hand, or the absolute truth that I am alive, and the unbridled appreciation for my opportunities in life. It’s the anti-Office Space. It’s something I heard in an amazing song many years ago, something which resonated in me so wholly, so starkly, that it’s discouraging that I still have to remind myself this thing. It was spoken by the now-Oscar-winning-rapper Common, the song is called ‘Be,’ and the line goes:

“Never looking back or too far in front of me, the present is a gift, and I just wanna be.”