There comes a time when you realize your striking-iron days are numbered. The hammer is getting heavier; the sparks don’t fly as quickly and what used to be muscle memory now feels like effort. I’m running out of time to pound the iron into shape, but I still show up to the forge.
My Old Man used to quote Yeats, the Irish Shakespeare and he would remind me that life doesn’t wait for the iron to get hot. You make it hot by striking the crap out of it. You make the first move. You fight, even when your hands are tired and your back aches.
Last night I tried to watch the Bears game, but between the lousy officiating and the bubble-wrapped generation playing, I couldn’t keep my patience. The game used to be raw, caked with mud, blood, and cold breath in the air. Now it feels like a video game with shoulder pads.
I wish real life had intentional grounding! A rule to let you toss the mess away when there is no play to make, no open receiver, no chance to win the down.
But there isn’t.
You stand there, take the hit, and hope to live for the next snap.
I scribbled Fried Saltines in the grabber section this morning. The latest Grabowski is an addition to what they call these fancy character boards with the meat, vegetables and cheese. The snack that fits Chicago guys, a fried saltine with a squirt of CheezWhiz. Nothing fancy, just something simple, salty, and honest.
Each day is one more strike of the hammer, one more spark, one more swing before the final bell rings. I may not have the strength I used to, but I’ve still got the will. As Yeats would tell you, it is the fire that makes the iron hot.
Make the world hot Chalkheads!
