Life is a
consistent second chance. In fact, I have been given 21,931 of them since I
showed up in Edgewater back in ’66.
Every sunrise is another chance to get
it right.
Maybe what we call a "second
chance" is really just someone giving us a break.
Our
parents gave us breaks. So did our coaches, teachers, friends, bosses, supervisors,
spouses, the parish priest and the rabbi. Somewhere along the line, somebody
looked at us, saw our flaws, and decided we deserved another shot.
Now let's talk about defeat. What makes us
feel defeated? That list changes as we get older.
As a kid, striking out in the bottom of the
ninth felt like the end of the world. Later it became losing a job, getting
divorced, watching a dream slip away, or lying awake at three in the morning
wondering how you are going to put shit back together.
Looking back, you would think
my biggest defeats would have been my divorce or that stretch of unemployment
just after Fritz was born. They weren't, those were setbacks.
Was I defeated when we learned George had
special needs? Am I defeated today because Hazel is at that age where Dad is
suddenly the biggest jagoff on earth?
No.
Because defeat isn't something
that happens to you. It is something you accept. I have never been very good at
accepting defeat.
I lower my shoulders, bow my neck, shorten
my stride, and keep chopping forward. Some days you don't charge. Some days you
simply refuse to stop moving.
So
don't feel defeated today, you gorgeous Cheeseheads.
Take your lumps if they come. Dust yourself
off and catch your breath. Then keep muddling through.
Remember what F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote… "Never
confuse a single defeat with a final defeat."
Every sunrise is a second chance. Before
this one sets tonight, hang a victory flag on the front stoop. It doesn't have
to be a big one. Make that phone call. Finish the day strong. Forgive somebody,
walk another mile and say your prayers.
Just win today.
Speaking of victories... Today is National Dive Bar Day.
Being a Grabowski at heart, I appreciate a
good neighborhood tavern. Three beers on tap. No blender behind the bar. No
smoky watermelon margaritas or buttery nipple shots.
Just an Old Style, a shot of Jack, a
bartender who personally says hello before your ass hits the stool…
… and if you are lucky, a frozen pizza that
somehow tastes like a five-star meal after four beers.
The beauty of a dive bar isn't the décor. It is the people who bring
different characters to the bar. It is your favorite stool that you always sit
in. It is the old Blackhawks pennant over the cash register and the poster of
Dick Butkus by the crapper.
Sit there long enough with an open mind, and
you will meet someone with an astonishing story. A retired steelworker, a Vietnam
veteran, a divorced mother of three, a truck driver, a young couple just starting out or one that
has been together through good times and bad times. Ordinary people carrying
extraordinary lives.
Have a wonderful Friday, my
friends.
And if today knocks you
down...
…Get
back up.
Tomorrow's sunrise is
already making plans for you.
