The Shorty Club

In this cozy corner of contemplation, where the air is thick with the aroma of?bourbon?and the gentle wisps of a?cigar, we gather to muse upon life’s curiosities. Here, there are no rigid rules, no prescribed paths—just the ebb and flow of conversation, like the amber liquid swirling in our glasses.

Bourbon Whiskey: Our faithful companion, aged to perfection, whispers tales of oak barrels and distant Kentucky hills. Each sip carries the weight of history, the warmth of camaraderie, and the promise of shared secrets.

Cigar in the Ashtray: Resting gracefully, its ember glowing like a distant star, the cigar invites reflection. Its fragrant tendrils weave stories of contemplation, of pensive evenings spent unraveling the threads of existence.

And so, my fellow Shorty Club members, let us raise our glasses—whether they hold bourbon or simply the elixir of thought—and toast to the musings that bind us. Here’s to wit, wisdom, and the delightful randomness of it all. ??P.S. If you happen upon a particularly intriguing topic, feel free to share it with the club. We’re all ears (and taste buds).?

April 9, 2024

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Now batting….

Yogi Berra, the sage of baseball, spun his “Yogi-isms” like a magician conjuring wit from thin air. His words danced between comical absurdity and profound truth, leaving us chuckling and nodding in agreement. And oh, how he swung at life’s pitches with gusto!

“It ain’t over 'til it’s over.”?A phrase etched into our collective consciousness, a reminder that hope lingers even in the ninth inning, when the scoreboard seems merciless. But today, let us focus on another gem:?“swing at strikes.”

Picture this: You are a seasoned professional in your industry, standing at the plate. The pitch hurtles toward you—a tantalizing strike. Do you hesitate, paralyzed by comfort? No, my friend. You swing. You swing because life’s opportunities are like those pitches—fast, fleeting, and often disguised as routine.

In 2007, fate handed me a curveball—a transfer to the Chief’s office. Not the glamorous home run I envisioned, but I stepped up to the plate. Why? Because declining might dim my future prospects. So, I donned my mental helmet, gripped the bat, and swung. Two years in HQ—a panoramic view of the department, mentors whispering wisdom, and government emissaries crossing my path.

And guess what? My swing connected. Over the years, it paid dividends. I ascended to Chief, the dugout buzzing with applause (or at least in my mind!). Risk, my friend, is the currency of progress. Without it, we are spectators, not players. So, lace up those cleats, adjust your grip, and swing at life’s offerings. Sometimes, you will foul out. Other times, you will send that ball soaring—a grand slam into the cosmos.

Remember, the bleachers are filled with those who never dared to swing. But you? You are in the game. And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, you’ll hit one out of the ballpark.

Keep it real.

Ah, the November Thanksgiving Lacrosse Tournament—a battleground where 14-year-old warriors clashed, their breath visible in the frosty air. The stakes? Bragging rights, camaraderie, a look from a college coach, and perhaps a dash of parental pride. But let us rewind the reel and dissect this tale of turf and tenacity.

30 degrees, 25 mph winds.?The elements conspired against us, yet there we stood, clipboard in hand, eyes squinting against the chill. Why? Because every kid was destined for Division 1 lacrosse glory, right? The dream spun like a lacrosse ball mid-air—majestic, improbable, and occasionally defying gravity.

?We crisscrossed state lines, chasing rival Long Island teams. The scoreboard flickered, and parents huddled, their breaths forming clouds of anticipation. But here is the truth: Those 14-year-olds were not vying for NCAA titles. They were chasing memories—the kind that stick like mud on cleats.

As seasons flowed, the roster morphed. Some players sprinted toward Division 1 scholarships, their cleats leaving imprints on destiny. Others? Division 3 warriors, their hearts stitched to the game.

My proudest moment was not in championship trophies or the Hershey tournament battles. No, it arrived in ink—a letter from a freshman at a division 1 program. His words, like a perfectly executed dodge, cut through:?“Thank you for the high-level play. It opened doors.”? As coaches, we are the compass guiding players through the labyrinth of life. Beyond Xs and Os, coaches weave character.? We mentor, sculpt resilience, and whisper courage. The lacrosse field? A classroom where teamwork trumped stats. And that athlete? Accepted into college, not just for stick skills but for the grit he wore like a jersey.

And then we have the youth sports industry—the siren call of scholarships, early specialization, and bleachers teeming with anxious parents. In reality, only 3% of the 115,000 high school players make a division 1 roster in lacrosse. So here is some sage advice: Let kids be kids. Let them chase sunsets with lacrosse sticks, not just scholarships. Make sports fun again, like a well-executed behind-the-back pass. Prioritize family time over the fourth weekend summer tournament or missing a milestone event for a youth game which will have zero impact on whether or not they play at the next level.

I have seen the game from all angles—the thrill of victory, the sting of defeat. So, parents and coaches, listen: Talent blooms in its own time. Recognize it as they approach high school and set realistic expectations. And remember, the real win? It is not in the scorecard; it is in the hearts you shape and the character you develop.

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Until our paths cross again, let us weave gratitude into our days like golden threads. Thank the teachers who ignite minds, the firemen who battle infernos, the police officers who stand sentinel, the nurses who mend hearts, and the paramedics who race against time.

And when the national anthem unfurls its notes, stand tall. For those notes echo across battlefields, through history’s pages, and into the hearts of those who gave their last breath. Thousands—heroes unsung—etched freedom’s anthem with their sacrifice.

So, let us honor them, not just in words but in deeds. Let kindness be our salute, compassion our pledge, and unity our anthem.