Posts Tagged With: heartbreak

It’s You, Not Me, Falcons.

It's You

**gathers all the Atlanta Falcons in a room and closes the door quietly**

You know what, guys? Enough.

No more.

I give.

I’ve been a fan of you guys for just about 34 years of my life. My Granddaddy loved y’all when you arrived in this city in 1966 until the day he left this Earth. My Dad loves y’all lamenting the woeful Falcon teams he was offered autumn after autumn… and I love y’all, honest I do, but on the real, I’m tired.

Continue reading

Categories: Atlanta, Relationships, Sports | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Not All of You, Just Enough of You

I don’t delve too much into the male/female dynamic too much on this blog because I don’t want to be that dude. Plus, it seems that every blog run by a man is offering his two cents on the matter of the Mars vs. Venus goings on between ladies and gentlemen in and around the world. Typically I leave such matters to those bloggers. However there is one thing. As mentioned in a blog not too long ago I come from a family that has generally had a good experience with love. Though I’m not yet married, the relationships that I have been in have generally been healthy and, though ended, I sit on good terms with a number of women that I once called “girlfriend”, “significant other”, etc. Also in my love lifetime, I’ve been cheated on, dumped, and occasionally felt disrespected. It’s happened to the best of us whether you know of it or care to admit it or not. And in this knowing is the main difference between men and women.

When I was in the 5th grade I took a stab at playing little league baseball for the first time; for the most part I stunk to high heaven, I was a good athlete and a great fielder but for some reason I couldn’t hit that ball to save my soul and no matter how well you catch and throw, if you can’t hit you become a pariah among your fellow 11 year old teammates. About 3 games into the season we’re having batting practice and I’m flailing away with the bat, tears are starting to well up in my eyes because my teammates have been counting strikes and they are now up to “Strike 8!” The head coach, a Jamaican cat named Coach Bennett, shook his head and said, “Ay mon, do dis for me, ok? Settle down; take a deep breath, ‘n jus relax, ok?” I wiped my eyes took a practice swing, forgot about the snickering pre-teens behind the backstop and the next pitch I sent a screamer right over the pitcher’s head into center field. The next pitch I turned on was a shot right down the third base line and the next one after that nearly cleared the fence in left center field. Suddenly the laughs had turned to cheers, my teammates high fived me after my practice session and, no, I wasn’t automatically a little league All Star but things were better simply by simplifying things and just hitting “de damn ball”. Now, what does that story about 11 year old redemption have to do with male/female dealings? Glad you asked.

When mess goes wrong you got two choices, only two. You can dwell on it, let it get in your soul and fester and grow into something that looks like bitterness or you can take a deep breath, settle down and get back after it. I won’t paint in broad strokes here and say that all women do the former but it’s a good number. In fact, the number is so big that you’ve let your disenchantment become marketable; women’s (not all of you, just enough) inability to turn the relationship page has made a small fortune for Steve Harvey and Hill Harper. It has provided fodder and dramatic material for any playwright that titles his work in the form of a question (“Why Did I Get Married?” or “Why Am I Not Married?”) or a direct petition to a higher power (Lord, Send Me A Man! or God, Send Me A Man! or Lawd, Why The Men You Send Keep Beating Me?). Women’s (not all of you, just enough) inability to turn the relationship page sends you to your Facebook page to write that pain driven status message that read something like:

“90% of all my fellow beautiful women are being cheated on right now, just open your eyes and see it, girl!”

And if you’re not the one typing that tripe then you probably have someone on your list that does. Women’s (not all of you, just enough) inability to get back in the batter’s box and swing again drives you headlong into the church of All These Men Ain’t Sh*t. Women’s (not all of you, just enough) need to scream to the high heavens created dontdatehimgirl.com where you, too, can friend them on Facebook and tell your own tale of fear and loathing (hyperbole, much?) to the others hurt or pathetic enough to listen.

Men don’t do that.

Admittedly, we probably don’t wallow because we’re usually the ones that do (read: get caught) the majority of the dirt, that’s my word, not on some ol’ win the female crowd for the sake of staying on your good side BS. I’ve done enough dirt in my day to know how we get down sometimes. That said, women are not without fault in the failings of relationships yet the wailing doesn’t prevail as loudly, if at all, from the men that have been wronged. Yes, a man doing so would move him into “punk” category both with his boys and surrounding ladies but it doesn’t make the desire to vent, lash out, and type a Facebook status quoting, “B*tches ain’t Sh*t”, from that great Negro poet Dr. Dre any less strong. The main factor though, other than the fact of a man losing universal respect for crying over love gone wrong, is that there is no win in that game. I think that’s the thing that men get, and one of the main facets that I’ll never understand about women (not all of you, just enough).

Is it just because women, the fairer sex, are the more emotional? Is it because you process your pain differently? What is it that justifies in the task of blanket blaming, that if one does it the other will too, and so will that one, and so will that one over there. I’m sure there’s not one answer or reason why, it’s kinda like that old question about how many licks it takes to get to the center of a blow pop; and even if there is an explanation my male brain probably wouldn’t be able to decipher that area of the Matrix but I figure it is worth a try anyway. But since other men out there are making a fortune trying to help you out I’m gonna offer something for free. Instead of running to your circle, instead of scathing Facebook messages, instead of creating a website, instead of blaming everybody but the right person (in some cases, self) simply settle down, take a deep breath, and relax. That’s for free…you can have it, courtesy of Coach Bennett.

~thanks for reading

Join the party at:

www.facebook.com/TheLastAtlantaNative

Categories: Attempts at Seriousness, Relationships, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Getting Over It – A Sports Story

Hey folks! I’ve been away from my blog for awhile. It’s through no fault of my own for you see I, my friends, have been in an Atlanta Falcons induced coma. I have seen seemingly the worst hockey that has ever been on ice displayed by my Atlanta Thrashers but a couple of days and a couple of beers later, I’m okay. I have seen my Atlanta Hawks slapped around the hardwood domains of several basketball arenas in this great nation but I’m okay after a day or so. The epic postseason faceplants of my beloved Atlanta Braves are numerous and colorful but after four or five days I’m right back after it again. The Falcons, however, made me cry my first sports related tear on January 4th, 1981, and they’ve reduced me to seasonal whimpering every year since then. They don’t just break my heart, they stomp it, they twist the life out of it, blow their nose with it and hand it back to me with a smirk. I’m sure they don’t intend to be so harsh, I’m sure they want to win as much as I want to see them win; but over the years they have been so creative and maniacal with the way they bruise me until I’m starting to think they do it on purpose. So it’s not hard to fathom that when I woke up on Saturday, January 15th, I felt twinges of dread starting to gather on the inside. Certainly not this time though Falcons; not with the best record in the conference, not with home field advantage throughout the playoffs, you certainly wouldn’t abuse me this time would you? I looked up at my red Falcon jersey and hooded sweatshirt hanging on the closet door as if waiting for the logo emblazoned on the front to answer my rhetorical question…but silence. I thought I saw the eye of the Falcon on the sleeve of my jersey wink at me, but I think that was just an early morning hallucination. I shook off my doubt and went on about the day; ticket in hand I was ready to go and help usher in the new era of Falcon football with 65,000 of my closest friends. My heart beating with Falcon pride I locked the front door and descended my front steps but as I walked up the block to the train station the inner 8-year-old who was brought to tears by that other Falcon playoff team decades ago called out… “You’ll be sorry you bought that ticket, you could have gotten a shiny new train set for that.”…then his small voice faded out as I pulled my hat tight over my head and walked up the block to catch the train.

It takes no time to get from the house to the station where I find that the escalator is broken but I’m thrilled to know that someone else in my neighborhood is also familiar with the comedy stylings of Mitch Hedberg…

I didn’t really have a problem trotting up the steps though considering it was colder than polar bear nipples dragging across a glacier outside. This was the week of Snowpacalypse here in the city and the freeze was still very much in effect here. Once I was down in the station I certainly didn’t appreciate the wind whipping through the place, I had on 4 layers and seriously reconsidered going home and getting three more. But after about 5 minutes the train came and I took my seat.

The thing about Atlanta, especially for sporting events, is that we’re always late. I have a clue as to why that is but I’ll keep that to myself so as to not trample on anyone’s sensibilities. 🙂 Anyway, I jumped on the first train car because that’s the car that stops closest to the Dome stairwell a few stops down the way. It’s approximately 5:45 at this point, kickoff isn’t until 8 which explains the empty car.

Five Points Station is an extremely poor man’s version of Grand Central station. Extremely poor. But since a pretty good portion of the Falcons fanbase is north of the city you can always count on the train to get crowded here due to the suburban folks transferring in the city. I snapped this picture of a young lady’s shoes once everyone squeezed into the train.

There are 5 million people in the city of Atlanta. So what are the chances that I run into a high school soccer teammate of mine? On this day, pretty daggone high. It was good to see you, Chris!

I’m still dealing with these twinges of doubt and uncertainty as the clock moves closer to kickoff time but nothing will relax your mood (and warm your insides) like crashing a tailgate sponsored by Crown Royal. It’s time to get after some libations, ladies and gentlemen. If the bartender is pouring while wearing a purple velvet hat, you know it’s on.

There was almost a near riot because the line was long and the Crown Royal supply had just run out. There were no “Water into Crown Royal” type miracles taking place at this particular location so the natives were starting to grow restless while they waited on the new cases to arrive but once they did everyone walked away with a cup that looked a little something like this…

I am not a sports trash talker, I just don’t do it. When I played football in high school I wasn’t good enough to justify talking trash to anyone except myself and the sport I did excel in (soccer) didn’t lend itself much to the act of trash talk. So why is it now that I’m standing on the sidewalk across the street from the stadium talking trash to any and everything wearing Green Bay Gold? Oh man, what in the world has gotten into me? I’m calling people names, threatening to knock cheesehead hats off all while voraciously flirting with the lady selling candy apples. What is going on with me? Oh yeah…Crown Royal…

It’s cold outside and since I don’t like being cold we made our way inside…its about 7:15, kickoff isn’t for another hour or so. The good people in the Dome had the Steelers/Ravens game on the screens inside turning the place into the world’s largest sports bar for about an hour or so.

About a half hour passes and the place is completely rocking now. The Dome is jam packed and 85% is in Falcon Red and Black. Pregame introductions are taking place and I can’t hear myself think. We’re all swept up in euphoric Falcon fever waving our red flags  with the Falcons’ catchphrase “RISE UP” printed on them. I imagine it’s like what all the other stadiums in the league are like while we were too busy sucking over the last 15-20 years. This is what the other half feels like: Pride, Passion, and deafening roars of approval from the home folks.

The Falcons get a fumble recovery and return it about 10 yards, or maybe 20, perhaps 30 yards…I don’t know, I’m jumping and screaming and my head is still fuzzy from whatever dude in the purple Yosemite Sam hat made. I just know we have the ball and then a few plays later…touchdown!!

Then they score, then we return the kickoff for a score and then that’s when the night went real bad real quick on the field and in the stands. The Packers start going all PlayStation on the Falcons defense, the Falcons start going all Little League football, turnovers, mishaps, embarrassments; everything they do is very right, everything we do in horrifically wrong and I start to wonder aloud if they even have a punter. Then a Packer fan gets hauled out of our section for slicing cheese (with a knife, it’s against the rules for weapons of any kind in the stadium)and handing it out to other Packer fans in the section. People get unruly, a dude 5 rows behind me calls me “boy” and that’s why you don’t see any more pictures because for the next 2 quarters I’m seeing red (not Falcons red this time) wanting to stomp a hole in the chest of the guy. The one time I needed to be rolling with some of my unseemly associates to do some facial damage to a redneck Packer fan I go to the game with my educated friend that calmly talks me off the ledge and keeps me from doing something stupid…Thanks, dude. I appreciate it, but you have to admit, dude would have had it coming.

90 minutes later the stadium is empty and the inner 8-year-old is all in my ear saying “See! See! Didn’t I tell you that you’d regret it. They always break your heart, just like every year. Why didn’t you listen to me? Why didn’t you just buy a train set!” All I could do is sit there surrounded by the Packer fans who were hooting and hollering up a storm at this point and why not? This was a tail kicking of the highest order. I couldn’t bring myself to leave though, they were still my team, still my boys. With ’em to the bitter end and when the clock struck zero and all the Cheeseheads cheered this is what it looked like on the scoreboard…

This has served as therapy of sorts, the fact that I’ve talked about the game is proof enough that I’m healing. However, I haven’t watched ESPN for a collective 15 minutes since the Night of the Letdown and sports talk radio is a complete no-no. Baby steps I guess. We’ve all got our vices and the Falcons are mine. They mistreat me and they tease me but I’ll be back, I always come back…year after year. They need me I guess so come August I’ll forget this ever happened, pull the jersey out of the back of the closet, and hop a westbound train towards downtown where I’ll take my seat amongst the faithful and think, “maybe this time they’ll love me back.” Until then, I have Braves baseball, Thrashers hockey, and Hawks basketball to mangle what’s left of my sports loving heart…

Hope springs…

~thanks for reading 🙂

Categories: Atlanta, Humor, Sports | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Rules of Engagement…

I don’t have many rules as it pertains to love mainly because I always fail so miserably at it. Why set rules when the outcome is almost always a predetermined epic fail, right? I’m not quite sure what happened with my DNA structure when it comes to love and relationships, I come from a family where love has gone right 95% of the time. I mean we all have that one uncle that got married and divorced every time the moon phases changed, but other than that Uncle that I have that lives on the west side of the city that I hope doesn’t read this blog because he will know I’m talking dead at him, love has been a constant with my kin. My grandparents were together 56 years before my Grandfather died. My parents have been together 48 years and haven’t managed to throw each other off the deck in the back yard. My older sister has made it 22 years and even as a young man at their wedding I didn’t give those fools 10 years before they were on the way to dividing marital assets. And the list goes on and on…

And then there’s me.

For all my charm, wit, decent enough looks, and manners I can’t catch a break with this love thing. I’ve had some awesome relationships but for whatever reason they haven’t panned out. Typically you shrug it off and move on to the next one, but after the next one and the next after that and still the next one you have to consider the common denominator…that would be the smiling blogger before you! But, perhaps it’s because I keep forgetting and conveniently breaking the only rule I’ve ever set regarding love and that rule is to never, and I do mean ever, take interest in a woman whose first name ends in the letter “A”.

First and foremost, this is an issue because there is a general rule of Blackness that if you have a baby girl, her last name is going to end in “A”. Think of 10 Black women you know and tell me your results. I’ve had heartbreak in my life, several times over, but no woman is as adept at breaking a heart as a woman whose name ends in the letter “A”. They have this unique ability to like you, then go out with you a couple of times,  then like you a lot, then write you great emails saying she can’t wait to see you, then draw you in – and just when you start to think to myself that “Hey, that’s a stupid rule you set up! Her name ends in “A” and she’s great!” – she starts to fade. She won’t call, then she won’t return phone calls, then she gives you the “it’s not you it’s me”, then you find out she’s humping some dude in some Mid-Atlantic state all while you thought she was into you. Then you remember the rule that you wrote in your journal years back after Erica, Malikqua, Lisa, Malika, and Greta did the same thing to you and know that it’s your own fault for trusting the evil “Ends With A” women.

I’m certain that there are some good women out there that have a name that ends in “a”. Perhaps it’s some compatibility match flaw that assures failure if the guy ends in “n” and the woman ends in “a”. One could theorize ad infinitum but I don’t have that kind of time. Not much I can do I guess other than avoid any woman whose name falls into the dreaded criteria. Until then I’ll just stay patient until an Angie, a Marie, an Ingrid, a Karen, or a Michelle shows up on my front steps.  🙂

Categories: Humor, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , | 16 Comments

Blog at WordPress.com.