Head Czech

Okay, I guess that sounds a little obscene. I've been thinking about my lack of an active exercise regime and I think it boils down to one thing: exercise is boring.

I was in much better shape during college, when I played organized sports with local leagues. Roller hockey and pick-up football and basketball were great ways to stay in shape and have a bit of fun as well. Now, I'm so damned busy, waking up at dawn for the commute and getting home from work well after dark, that I barely have time for a jog, much less the motivation to go punish my body with mindless running.

So then this article from the WSJ surfaces, talking about how "Nintendo's new [Wii] system forces players to move their bodies," and details a few Wii enthusiasts who are getting their workouts from the new gaming console, and waking up sore the next day.

I guess it's probably too good to be true. Nintendo PR's response to the whole thing: "If people are finding themselves sore, they may need to exercise more."

Part of me wonders how much of this is truth and how much is Nintendo walking the PR line. I mean, let's face it: gamers aren't typically the most fit bunch, right? So maybe the last thing that Nintendo wants its target audience to think is that this new Wii thing? It's a hell of a lot of work and if you're looking for a game you can cuddle up with before bed and wind down to, you should maybe look elsewhere.

If I had the money, I'd get one. I'm sure it's not much of a workout, but at this point, anything is an improvement. Either way, it sounds like a whole lot of fun.

I guess I should start off by saying, yet again, that my negligence in contributing to this (hardly) self-enforced ritual of journal-writing is staggering, even to my sagging standards. I think that, given the events that have gone down since I was bemoaning the KeyArena's fate way back in August, I've been fully entitled to a nice break from any obligation other than surviving day-to-day life.

Liam was born and then came home, and then, suddenly, we were heading back to the hospital at 4am, he was crying—had been for nearly six straight hours—and running a fever of over 100. We took him to the emergency room, expecting a routine examination, maybe some Tylenol, but they intubated, and he was admitted.

I can barely think about it. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did later that day, as Natania and I tried to get some rest in the tiny sleeper room that the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit was kind enough to provide. We dozed in and out, from waking nightmare to the normal kind, and it felt as if the entire thing couldn't possibly be happening.

Before, when they brought us to see our son, with the tubes and wires hooked up, it seemed like some sort of cruel joke, the kind of thing from which parents awaken and then smile down on their healthy children, happy and safe in warm beds, away from the cold and sterile airlessness of a hospital room.

Over the eight days that followed, I learned that it's cruel, but it's no joke. We spent our time first in the PICU and then on one of the pediatrics floors of the UNC Children's Hospital. I can't explain the dichotomy that exists in these places to which normal people do not visit, that sane, healthy men and women cannot contemplate, because if they did, they would be faced with that age-old quandary: why do the innocent suffer? Every day, the nurses and doctors of these wards are bombarded with that question, and they find a way around it somehow. They just treat the suffering and let the answers flit from room to room, just beyond their reach, just outside their narrowed visions. Because that question, once answered, doesn't really help the girl born without the use of her kidneys, or the boy whose heart was missing a chamber.

Our Liam had a viral infection that bombarded his newborn body. His circulatory system had been affected by the infection, to the point where he was having severe bradycardia whenever the room temperature was lower than eighty degrees. Natania and I slept on cots, sweaty and half-naked, in his hospital room, waking up from time to time to feed him. When, finally, he was well enough to feed at the breast, I think both of us knew that everything was on its way to better.

The past three months have been more than I can wrap my head around. There are depths of sorrow and joy that I'd never realized were even in me to feel.

Three months with a new human being will change anyone's life, mainly because it shows you how much can change with the child. Liam has gone from a wrinkled, squinty-eyed wriggle worm to an honest-to-God little boy. He smiles, laughs, studies his toys with an abundant curiosity. He cries and whines and tells us when he's pissed off. He mashes the keys of my Macbook and cackles when the shapes and sounds and colors perform to his every whim. He is growing, and growing on me, and I love him more and more every day.

It really is worth every worry, every tear, every sleepless night. Every frustrating moment with the bottle, or the times you can't put him down because he just wants to be held. When he looks up at you and flashes that crooked grin, all is well in my little corner of the world.

A really interesting post at the Supersonicsoul blog about the predicament with the 'Sonics, specifically in reference to team being, more or less, extorted into renovating KeyArena. Pete Nussbaum writes:

The argument these stadiums/teams produce economic benefits is provably false, so the only argument can be that we as fans want others to pay for our fun. Sorry, folks, but I won’t play that game, because that makes us no better than Bennett, Schultz, Stern, and all of their ilk – and, in fact, makes us co-conspirators in an extortion scheme. Thanks, but I’ll pass.

I spent a few years living in nearby Greensboro, and managed to catch the minor league baseball team in action a few times. The Grasshoppers (previously the Bats, a much cleverer name, if you ask me) played at the World War Memorial Stadium, which was built in 1926. It was a grand old ball park, and I loved the ambience.

The team didn't dig their duds, though, and in a bid to qualify for double-A status, they pushed for a new stadium. And Greensboro gave it to them. At a cost of around $21.5 million. A downtown ballpark would boost foot traffic, revitalize the city center, etc.

The KeyArena is unique in that it is one of the few publicly funded sports venues that actually supports itself with revenue. If the NBA gets its way, however, the city of Seattle will need to pony up about $180 million in renovations or they'll lose their basketball team. There's no way that a sports arena can recoup those costs.

That is, of course, where the Seattle and Washington taxpayers will come in. If, like Greensboro decided, they vote to foot the bill, then their tax money will be funnelled into a stadium that has no chance of ever returning their investment.

Sports investors have really discovered a fine racket here, don't you think? Maybe one day people will realize it. I love sports as much as the next guy, but I'll be rooting for my childrens' school systems and new sidewalks and whatnot over wireless internet for Ray Allen. He's got an $80 million contract. He can foot the fucking bill.