Two weeks ago tomorrow I made a significant change in my online writing career. Starting in 2008, I had been blogging about the Tigers virtually every day. As of September 14, I officially stepped down as Senior Editor of my beloved Motor City Bengals.
This wasn't an easy decision at all and I worried that I might immediately regret it. I worried that my replacement wouldn't bring the same passion, the same drive, or the same vision that I had for the site. What we did at MCB was special, that much I am sure of. When I took the reigns of the site in early 2009, I declared that I wanted it to become the biggest and best Tigers site on the net. We were starting essentially from scratch and I was actually losing ground a bit (in terms of traffic) from my independent site. At that time, there were several sites that were bigger than mine. The Detroit Tigers Weblog had been around since 2002, Bless You Boys was a giant and indy sites like the Daily Fungo, Mack Avenue Tigers, Tiger Tales, and even the Spot Starters had larger followings. There were, undoubtedly, others as well.
A shift in the Tigersphere happened very soon after that, however. Billfer stopped writing at the Weblog, Kurt left MAT to take over for Ian at BYB, suddenly two of my three biggest obstacles were essentially eliminated. Throw in the demise of the Spot Starters and Mike's extended breaks at the Fungo and all of a sudden there was a void that we could fill. We worked tirelessly over the next year or so, posting at least once everyday and often more than that. I added two writers, then another, then another, in hopes of growing the site. Everything we did was bringing MCB to the forefront of Tigers coverage.
I began thinking about stepping down some time ago. Last August, I had accepted the position of Director of Development for FanSided MLB. Between the writing that I had to be dedicated to and the duties the network needed my to perform, the strain was more than I could effectively manage. My first responsibility should have been to my site, I felt, but I had such a good staff around me that I could afford to spare some time for the network as well. When Matt Snyder left my site to become an editor at a site created just for him, I was forced to recruit for MCB.
With a bevy of new writers, I had to re-dedicate myself to producing a high volume of quality posts. The success we had at MCB was outstanding and I was having a blast focusing on my writing again. Unfortunately, the recruiting I needed to be doing at the network level suffered. It was the second week of September and we were rolling out new staff levels, complete with a new, higher, post quota. We knew this would cause some amount of turnover. I had no idea how I would be able to keep it all together. It was at that time that opportunity came knocking.
There was a relatively young site within the Tigersphere, but they were gaining attention. They had a solid staff of writers and the site's founder, Mickey Brignall, contacted me with an interesting idea. What if the two sites, mine and his, were to merge? Mickey had a longing to cover the entire baseball landscape and his top writer, John Verburg, was a veritable machine when it came to writing. Throw in Garret Craig, a talented young writer, and we would have a staff fully ten writers deep. While it might not have been Mickey's vision when he approached me, I quickly saw the chance to move forward.
In the end of our negotiations, we agreed that Mickey would join our general site and John would take over as editor at MCB. This would allow me the freedom of time I needed to get more highly involved in the network. I worried a lot about the decision I was making; I was voluntarily handing my site over to another writer, one who was from outside the FanSided family. Ultimately I decided that if things went south, I could step in again and reclaim my site. Even though I would stay on his staff, I would still be his boss as the director after all.
Now almost two weeks in, this situation could not have gone better. The network still has some holes I need to fill, but I've been able to attract and land a few new editors. MCB, meanwhile, has seen success I never imagined.Our numbers are up across the board and we re already talking about more ways to drive traffic. john has been more than i could have hoped for as the site's editor. And I have been relaxed and able to enjoy the Tigers' run to the division crown.
I don't know how far I can take my involvement in the network. I hope that someday, when we get the funding we need, I'll be able to turn this into a decent part-time job. In the meantime, I'll make a few posts on MCB when I get the urge to write and I'll keep plugging holes within the network. So far, so good.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
The worst thing I have ever seen
This morning, as I laid on the couch passing the time with four little ones scurrying around the house, a feature began on Sportscenter about a young man who saved many lives in the September 11 attacks. My oldest daughter, Lillian, is just six years old. She was sitting on the adjacent couch reading a spy kids book. The feature had been going on for a few minutes when she put the book down and shooed her brother away. "I want to watch this," she said.
The feature, about the young man named Welles and his red bandanna, was moving. It recounted, via those who survived, those who were there in the second tower, how Welles helped others get to safety, only to go back into the building to find and help others once again. Welles lost his own life when the tower collapsed.
When the feature ended, Lillian, who had since been joined by Sebastian on the couch, began asking questions. "How did he die?" "Why did he keep going back in?" She's only six, how much of this do I want her to know, I wondered. My mind kept turning back to that Tuesday morning in 2001, ten years ago next week, and the horrible events that transpired. I wondered at what point would her teachers tell her the tale of that day, what the textbooks would say. I made a decision; I would do my best to explain the unexplainable to these two young children. I hadn't meant for them to be exposed to such terror, but now that they had been, I felt I owed them as many answers as I could give.
I was working, at that time, as a restaurant manager at Fricker's in Bowing Green, Ohio. Our establishment was not unlike a BW3 in the menu or the clientele. We stayed open until 2:30am each day and on September 10, 2001, I had been the closing manager. Once the place is closed and I have finished counting the drawers and whatnot, I would usually get home at about 4 in the morning. After that, it would take me an hour or so to get to sleep.
The next morning, my roommate, Ed, came into my room just after 8 am. Ed knew I had worked the night before and that I would sleep until early afternoon on most days. This was obviously important. "Turn on the TV," he said. I could see the look on his face; something was going on. When the television warmed up and gained a picture, I was about to ask him what channel, then I saw that it didn't matter. ESPN wasn't showing their normal programming; it had been taken over by an ABC News feed. There was a static picture of the World Trade Center towers, but you could hear the folks on the broadcast talking about how a plane had crashed into the tower. Smoke and flames was pouring from the side of the tower, nearly three-quarters of the way up. Minutes went by as I tried to comprehend what was going on, as i tried to wrap my head around the picture I was seeing and the words I was hearing. Was this some horrible tragedy where a pilot lost control of his plane? An unfortunate accident that would cost hundreds of lives?
Then, as the picture remained still and the news guys spoke, I saw another lane enter the picture. It was headed in the direction of the towers again. The voices on the TV didn't notice it; they kept on talking, not mentioning the second plane. My mind raced; Why aren't they saying something about this? Are they even looking at the picture? The second plane struck the second tower, erupting in smoke and fire. It wasn't until many second after the impact that the voices on the TV took notice and began to contemplate what was going on. This was no accident, that much was clear.
The feed remained static, but you began to see small things falling from the towers. Those things, it turned out, were people. First one tower collapsed, then the other. Thousands of people who had gone to work that morning were gone. A great sadness wrapped our nation and myself. This was an attack like we had never seen in this country and we witnessed it live on television. Word came down about a third plane hitting the Pentagon and a fourth that crash in a field in Pennsylvania. I spent the next several hours learning about the terrorists and their plan of attack. I talked with friends and family, sharing in the disbelief, the shock, the horror.
Tuesdays were always our busiest night at the restaurant and by the time I was to report to work at six pm, many other businesses had closed in the wake of the attacks. We stayed open and the place was full when I walked in, just as it always was on Tuesdays. President Bush was scheduled to address the nation that evening and when it happened, the restaurant became silent. There were probably 200 people inside our walls, between customers, waitstaff and kitchen help. During the address, however, not one order was taken, not one drink was poured, not one chicken wing was cooked. Customers sat silently, eyes glued to the TV waiting for answers. The staff at Frickers stood behind the bar, themselves staring at the dozens of big screen televisions. I have been in that building many times by myself, hours after the place has closed. I have never been anywhere so eerily quiet. It truly was surreal.
It's hard to imagine the tragedy that took place that morning, or the heartache felt by so many in the loss of their friends and family. It's difficult, now, to remember a time before those people took it upon themselves to murder American citizen. What have become accepted inconveniences in our lives (ecpecially the increased airport security and having to have a passport to come back from Canada) were once nowhere near our conscientiousness. If there is a sliver lining in all of this, it's that the lives of those who were there are not forgotten, nor are the sacrifices made by the first responders who gave their lives in an attempt to save others.
There are parts of the above narrative that I left out when I told the kids of the events of that day. They're still so young, they don't need the details. Sebastian couldn't understand why these people would purposely drive a plane into a building and my answer was unfulfilling for him. "I don't know, buddy. I don't understand it, either."
I can only hope that my children never have to witness such an incident, and that our textbooks can tell the story of those who died and the men and women who gave their lives in an attempt to save others. One thing I know, however, is that no matter how well the books tell the story, their will never be a good enough answer as to why it happened in the first place.
The feature, about the young man named Welles and his red bandanna, was moving. It recounted, via those who survived, those who were there in the second tower, how Welles helped others get to safety, only to go back into the building to find and help others once again. Welles lost his own life when the tower collapsed.
When the feature ended, Lillian, who had since been joined by Sebastian on the couch, began asking questions. "How did he die?" "Why did he keep going back in?" She's only six, how much of this do I want her to know, I wondered. My mind kept turning back to that Tuesday morning in 2001, ten years ago next week, and the horrible events that transpired. I wondered at what point would her teachers tell her the tale of that day, what the textbooks would say. I made a decision; I would do my best to explain the unexplainable to these two young children. I hadn't meant for them to be exposed to such terror, but now that they had been, I felt I owed them as many answers as I could give.
I was working, at that time, as a restaurant manager at Fricker's in Bowing Green, Ohio. Our establishment was not unlike a BW3 in the menu or the clientele. We stayed open until 2:30am each day and on September 10, 2001, I had been the closing manager. Once the place is closed and I have finished counting the drawers and whatnot, I would usually get home at about 4 in the morning. After that, it would take me an hour or so to get to sleep.
The next morning, my roommate, Ed, came into my room just after 8 am. Ed knew I had worked the night before and that I would sleep until early afternoon on most days. This was obviously important. "Turn on the TV," he said. I could see the look on his face; something was going on. When the television warmed up and gained a picture, I was about to ask him what channel, then I saw that it didn't matter. ESPN wasn't showing their normal programming; it had been taken over by an ABC News feed. There was a static picture of the World Trade Center towers, but you could hear the folks on the broadcast talking about how a plane had crashed into the tower. Smoke and flames was pouring from the side of the tower, nearly three-quarters of the way up. Minutes went by as I tried to comprehend what was going on, as i tried to wrap my head around the picture I was seeing and the words I was hearing. Was this some horrible tragedy where a pilot lost control of his plane? An unfortunate accident that would cost hundreds of lives?
Then, as the picture remained still and the news guys spoke, I saw another lane enter the picture. It was headed in the direction of the towers again. The voices on the TV didn't notice it; they kept on talking, not mentioning the second plane. My mind raced; Why aren't they saying something about this? Are they even looking at the picture? The second plane struck the second tower, erupting in smoke and fire. It wasn't until many second after the impact that the voices on the TV took notice and began to contemplate what was going on. This was no accident, that much was clear.
The feed remained static, but you began to see small things falling from the towers. Those things, it turned out, were people. First one tower collapsed, then the other. Thousands of people who had gone to work that morning were gone. A great sadness wrapped our nation and myself. This was an attack like we had never seen in this country and we witnessed it live on television. Word came down about a third plane hitting the Pentagon and a fourth that crash in a field in Pennsylvania. I spent the next several hours learning about the terrorists and their plan of attack. I talked with friends and family, sharing in the disbelief, the shock, the horror.
Tuesdays were always our busiest night at the restaurant and by the time I was to report to work at six pm, many other businesses had closed in the wake of the attacks. We stayed open and the place was full when I walked in, just as it always was on Tuesdays. President Bush was scheduled to address the nation that evening and when it happened, the restaurant became silent. There were probably 200 people inside our walls, between customers, waitstaff and kitchen help. During the address, however, not one order was taken, not one drink was poured, not one chicken wing was cooked. Customers sat silently, eyes glued to the TV waiting for answers. The staff at Frickers stood behind the bar, themselves staring at the dozens of big screen televisions. I have been in that building many times by myself, hours after the place has closed. I have never been anywhere so eerily quiet. It truly was surreal.
It's hard to imagine the tragedy that took place that morning, or the heartache felt by so many in the loss of their friends and family. It's difficult, now, to remember a time before those people took it upon themselves to murder American citizen. What have become accepted inconveniences in our lives (ecpecially the increased airport security and having to have a passport to come back from Canada) were once nowhere near our conscientiousness. If there is a sliver lining in all of this, it's that the lives of those who were there are not forgotten, nor are the sacrifices made by the first responders who gave their lives in an attempt to save others.
There are parts of the above narrative that I left out when I told the kids of the events of that day. They're still so young, they don't need the details. Sebastian couldn't understand why these people would purposely drive a plane into a building and my answer was unfulfilling for him. "I don't know, buddy. I don't understand it, either."
I can only hope that my children never have to witness such an incident, and that our textbooks can tell the story of those who died and the men and women who gave their lives in an attempt to save others. One thing I know, however, is that no matter how well the books tell the story, their will never be a good enough answer as to why it happened in the first place.
Friday, September 2, 2011
"See You Later" Feels Far Too Much Like "Goodbye"
Before I start, I should probably explain a little about my family. I was born in 1977 and my parents divorced in 1981, so the vast majority of my life consisted of my mom and older sister living in one house and my dad living in another. There were a couple of additions along the way; my mom re-married, had another baby, then re-divorced. My dad re-married a woman who had a son already (so I had a brother for a few years), then they got divorced. When I was nine or ten, my dad re-married again and he and my step-mother have been together ever since. This marriage brought another sister, Jennifer, into the mix, who came via Vickie's (my step-mother) first marriage. So I have one sister, one half sister, and one step-sister, plus a mom, a dad, and a step-mother. Now that I've laid it all out, please understand that those titles will no longer be used. As far as I'm concerned, I have three sisters and a dad, a mom, and Vickie (who has always been very much a second mom to me, but for whatever reason she never got that title; she's always just been Vickie).
Growing up through the 80s and 90s, most of my friends came from "traditional" households where their parents were still married. Nowadays I'm sure my unique family is more the norm than that of the people who have remained married and raised their children together. I don't know the exact reason that my parents ever divorced, but I honestly don't much care. It was always normal to me that mom lived here and dad lived there. Everything was fine and I assume that I'm fairly well-adjusted (whatever that means). Dad and Vickie have been married for something in the neighborhood of 25 years now and they have always, always been there whenever I needed anything.
Last night, Dad and Vickie met us in Lima to take us out to dinner; it's something that happens semi-regularly. They get to spend time with the kids, Valerie and I get to sort of "take a break" from being the only set of eyes on the four little ones. Plus, we get to eat for free, which is always nice.
Unfortunately, last night's gathering was very much bittersweet. About a year ago or so, they (Dad & Vickie) told us (my sisters and I) of their plan for the future. They were going to buy a travel trailer and spend time moving around the country, living in campgrounds, while Vickie worked as a traveling nurse. Dad's company, where he's spent 40 years, probably won't be around in a few years and in order to protect his stocks, it's best he gets out sooner rather than later. I don't think any of us actually expected them to leave.
About eight months ago, they bought that trailer and moved to a campground about 20 minutes away. Dad was still working, as was Vickie, as she was unable to land the job she desired. I would get occasional updates about why they hadn't left yet and a few weeks ago, Jennifer told me Dad and Vickie had made plans to move back into their house. It looked like they would be sticking around, at least through the winter.
Not two days later, I got the call I was dreading. Dad told me that Vickie had landed a position in Richmond, Virginia, and that they would be leaving in two weeks. Last night's dinner gathering was the last time we will see them for a minimum of 13 weeks. By that time, it will be early December and they will likely head further south to avoid the harsh Ohio winter.
The dinner was normal. There was no sense of dread or even a sense that this was the end of a life that I had considered normal for so long. That is, normal until we left the restaurant. We all stood in the parking lot for what must have been 10 minutes, just talking and whatnot. Finally, it was time to say goodbye. I swear, until I heard my dad, my hero, sobbing uncontrollably as he hugged the kids and hugged my wife, it didn't even occur to me that this really was "goodbye". I was holding our youngest daughter and Dad reached over Valerie's shoulder and put his hand on my back. He gave me a quick squeeze, without looking at me, and he turned and walked off, obviously trying to compose himself. That was his goodbye to me. It was all he could do. (It took me a very long time and at least a few tissues to write this paragraph)
After they left, we put the kids in the van and Valerie and I stayed at chatted with Jennifer for a while. Valerie was and is quite upset about their departure. My kids have several sets of grandparent, but Dad and Vickie were quite active in seeking out time to see the kids. My in-laws live in town and they watch the kids for a few hours each day before Valerie gets off work, but the other grandparents can't be bothered most of the time. Dad and Vickie were always there for these kids, just as they were always there for me.
Now, they're gone.
I get it, it's not like they've died or anything. They have raised their kids and now it's time for them. They want to travel and move around from place to place. They've certainly put in the time and paid the dues; they should enjoy life while they're still young enough and healthy enough to do so. But understanding why they're doing what they're doing doesn't make it any less difficult for me, or, I'm sure, for them. And it doesn't make any of the emotions that Valerie and I are feeling any less valid.
It really didn't hit me until this morning and while I understand what's going on, I don't like it. I'm happy for them but at the same time I'm a little bit angry and a lot sad. Growing up, I had a very close relationship with my grandparents and I credit those relationships with building much of who I am as a person. I worry now that my children won't get the same benefits I had. Even though I understand the motivations, they just got these grandchildren, their only grandchildren, less than four years ago and the youngest is not yet two. No matter how often you skype with someone, it's not the same as being there. You can't attend a soccer game or take the family out to dinner, or have us over for a cookout, or come to birthday parties from a telephone. You just can't replace the personal contact that enriches lives.
If things go well for Dad and Vickie, if they stick to their plan, they'll come back to Ohio every once in a while. The kids will see them at Christmas, I hope, and maybe once more each year. That's not enough for the kids. And it's not enough for me. Will Amity even know who they are when they come home?
I know this is sounding more angry than I intended it to, but I always try to be as honest as possible on this site. I'm in no way trying to guilt them into changing their plans or anything like that. I have accepted what's happening, but I wish it wasn't happening. The kids need them in their lives. I need them in my life. But I'm also proud that they have the courage to start something new.
Hurry home you two. I already miss you too much for you to be away, and you haven't even left the state yet. I know we don't ever say it, that it's simply understood, but I love you both very much and you are missed greatly. Godspeed.
Growing up through the 80s and 90s, most of my friends came from "traditional" households where their parents were still married. Nowadays I'm sure my unique family is more the norm than that of the people who have remained married and raised their children together. I don't know the exact reason that my parents ever divorced, but I honestly don't much care. It was always normal to me that mom lived here and dad lived there. Everything was fine and I assume that I'm fairly well-adjusted (whatever that means). Dad and Vickie have been married for something in the neighborhood of 25 years now and they have always, always been there whenever I needed anything.
Last night, Dad and Vickie met us in Lima to take us out to dinner; it's something that happens semi-regularly. They get to spend time with the kids, Valerie and I get to sort of "take a break" from being the only set of eyes on the four little ones. Plus, we get to eat for free, which is always nice.
Unfortunately, last night's gathering was very much bittersweet. About a year ago or so, they (Dad & Vickie) told us (my sisters and I) of their plan for the future. They were going to buy a travel trailer and spend time moving around the country, living in campgrounds, while Vickie worked as a traveling nurse. Dad's company, where he's spent 40 years, probably won't be around in a few years and in order to protect his stocks, it's best he gets out sooner rather than later. I don't think any of us actually expected them to leave.
About eight months ago, they bought that trailer and moved to a campground about 20 minutes away. Dad was still working, as was Vickie, as she was unable to land the job she desired. I would get occasional updates about why they hadn't left yet and a few weeks ago, Jennifer told me Dad and Vickie had made plans to move back into their house. It looked like they would be sticking around, at least through the winter.
Not two days later, I got the call I was dreading. Dad told me that Vickie had landed a position in Richmond, Virginia, and that they would be leaving in two weeks. Last night's dinner gathering was the last time we will see them for a minimum of 13 weeks. By that time, it will be early December and they will likely head further south to avoid the harsh Ohio winter.
The dinner was normal. There was no sense of dread or even a sense that this was the end of a life that I had considered normal for so long. That is, normal until we left the restaurant. We all stood in the parking lot for what must have been 10 minutes, just talking and whatnot. Finally, it was time to say goodbye. I swear, until I heard my dad, my hero, sobbing uncontrollably as he hugged the kids and hugged my wife, it didn't even occur to me that this really was "goodbye". I was holding our youngest daughter and Dad reached over Valerie's shoulder and put his hand on my back. He gave me a quick squeeze, without looking at me, and he turned and walked off, obviously trying to compose himself. That was his goodbye to me. It was all he could do. (It took me a very long time and at least a few tissues to write this paragraph)
After they left, we put the kids in the van and Valerie and I stayed at chatted with Jennifer for a while. Valerie was and is quite upset about their departure. My kids have several sets of grandparent, but Dad and Vickie were quite active in seeking out time to see the kids. My in-laws live in town and they watch the kids for a few hours each day before Valerie gets off work, but the other grandparents can't be bothered most of the time. Dad and Vickie were always there for these kids, just as they were always there for me.
Now, they're gone.
I get it, it's not like they've died or anything. They have raised their kids and now it's time for them. They want to travel and move around from place to place. They've certainly put in the time and paid the dues; they should enjoy life while they're still young enough and healthy enough to do so. But understanding why they're doing what they're doing doesn't make it any less difficult for me, or, I'm sure, for them. And it doesn't make any of the emotions that Valerie and I are feeling any less valid.
It really didn't hit me until this morning and while I understand what's going on, I don't like it. I'm happy for them but at the same time I'm a little bit angry and a lot sad. Growing up, I had a very close relationship with my grandparents and I credit those relationships with building much of who I am as a person. I worry now that my children won't get the same benefits I had. Even though I understand the motivations, they just got these grandchildren, their only grandchildren, less than four years ago and the youngest is not yet two. No matter how often you skype with someone, it's not the same as being there. You can't attend a soccer game or take the family out to dinner, or have us over for a cookout, or come to birthday parties from a telephone. You just can't replace the personal contact that enriches lives.
If things go well for Dad and Vickie, if they stick to their plan, they'll come back to Ohio every once in a while. The kids will see them at Christmas, I hope, and maybe once more each year. That's not enough for the kids. And it's not enough for me. Will Amity even know who they are when they come home?
I know this is sounding more angry than I intended it to, but I always try to be as honest as possible on this site. I'm in no way trying to guilt them into changing their plans or anything like that. I have accepted what's happening, but I wish it wasn't happening. The kids need them in their lives. I need them in my life. But I'm also proud that they have the courage to start something new.
Hurry home you two. I already miss you too much for you to be away, and you haven't even left the state yet. I know we don't ever say it, that it's simply understood, but I love you both very much and you are missed greatly. Godspeed.
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