Random Thoughts

Sports, Literature, Philosophy, Life

[mrtuckerlane]

Closing the 2010’s out at the Ivywild Tavern. Wouldn’t have it any other way #bigheadprobs #NYE #lovinglife https://www.instagram.com/p/B6w3mXqnt3F/?igshid=1awpt5qlpit1n

[mrtuckerlane]

Your favorite wannabe novelist, complete with the sweet hairdo, will be heading to the West End on Tuesday for a couple of appearances. Thank you to all of the hard-working and supportive people who have made this possible! https://www.instagram.com/p/BtJkob5HXw8/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1mqnhwe9v3ghl

[mrtuckerlane]

LITL getting in on this Black Friday weekend. If you’ve been waiting to get your copy, head over to Amazon or www.tuckerlane.org this weekend for $4 off the paperback and $2 off the ebook! https://www.instagram.com/p/Bqhmf_ln0y5/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=r6ehtsq8ii9f

[mrtuckerlane]

LITL still waiting for its rating to come off of 5 stars but when you’re reading about Trump supporters sharing the sheets with Trump haters.....😂😂😂. And I’m pretty sure only one of these ratings is from my mom😂😂😂Thanks for the love!! ❤️❤️❤️ https://www.instagram.com/p/BqZ-Sjrnqp1/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1dmotehpdfjhx

[mrtuckerlane]

Glad I got to hand deliver LITL to mi amiga! She was one of the first to order, and I continue to be grateful for the outpouring of support. Keep the reviews coming!! 😊 https://www.instagram.com/p/Bp43brPn5_O/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=lqr5w86i4vay

[mrtuckerlane]

One of the highlights of the NWCA All-Star Classic was seeing the smiles in these excited readers’ faces upon receiving their copy of LITL. Get yours today! 🤓🤓🤓 https://www.instagram.com/p/BpzXlLSnxbu/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=fgkafz660nev

[mrtuckerlane]

Pre-orders are in the mail! Thanks to everyone who supported me. Some fun facts: 31 total pre-orders 29 coming from friends and family 87% females!!! The novel is now officially live! If you didn't want to pre-order but have interest, you can get your copy at the following links: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07J6N1MDQ?pf_rd_p=8e0819a9-0ef1-44cd-9544-a7f28374af8b&pf_rd_r=B7Z515ERPNN6PRDK8Y8A https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/love-in-the-time-of-likes If you want a signed copy, you will still need to go through my website: https://tuckerlane.org/book/ If you enjoy the book, it would help me out a lot if you can post on this page, leave an Amazon review, or like my author page at www.amazon.com/author/tuckerlane Happy reading! https://www.instagram.com/p/BpqSUKTHbym/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=hy3o5dhdgzev

[mrtuckerlane]

The aftermath of the Khabib/McGregor fight got me thinking of the role drama plays in the human conscience. The melee may have been a poor display of sportsmanship, it may have been staged, but it was absolutely good for the exposure of the sport. People are talking about MMA like never before, all because of the DRAMA surrounding the fight after the fight. Professional wrestling promoters realized this concept decades ago and used DRAMA to turn a “boring” sport into a larger-than-life spectacle. This same need for drama exists in our personal lives. It annoys me to no end when I hear people say, “Oh, I would never date that person. He/she is just too much drama.” BULLSHIT. We are infatuated with that person and are unequivocally attracted to him/her. There is a reason why “nice guys” get cheated on with “bad boys” on the daily. The drama is exciting. It sets our minds racing. It makes our hearts patter. Drama unearths emotions within us that we didn’t know existed. It makes us more alive than we ever thought possible. The drama Abbey Apple brings to Love in the Time of Likes turns a funny little story about a small-town Colorado wrestling coach into an epic shitshow that will not easily be forgotten. Abbey Apple makes a thick, ponderous-looking volume as light as the first picture book we read in elementary. The way Abbey Apple makes Charles Dawson feel, the way she makes the author feel, and the way she will make you feel leaves Abbey Apple the most enduring in a cast of unforgettable characters, and it’s all because of the drama. 😊😊😊 https://www.instagram.com/p/BorExvuF-Yd/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1oa9t33eagqun

[mrtuckerlane]

Putting an R-rating on the front of my novel clues the reader in that that they're not getting the motivational, rah-rah, self-help book that has become so prevalent in today's society. I call it the Tim Ferriss effect. You're not going to read this book and become inspired to earn a million dollars or head to the gym and develop six-pack abs (well, inspired for a couple of days, at least, until you read that next self-help book that says you've actually been doing it all wrong 😂). No, what you're going to read about is a cast of characters influenced by the likes of Eminem and Lil Wayne, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, Will Ferrell and Seth McFarlane. And you will be highly entertained. In a society so full of depravity, however, there is one notable exception. His name is Jack Apple. Jack Apple is not the most exciting character. He is small, lacks talent, and has limited intellectual capacity. He's not particularly handsome. But with that said, Jack Apple is undoubtedly the BEST character in this sordid tale. Despite his diminutive stature, Jack Apple stands tall above everyone else because he is honest. He is honest, and he does his best, every single day. And even though his best is not very much, in a world or perversion, manipulation, and unadulterated narcissism, Jack Apple is a breath of fresh air, a throwback to a time when a person's word could be taken at face value. #RealTalk https://www.instagram.com/p/BoMfVyRlPVl/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=239r87ys9arc

[mrtuckerlane]

When both your real-life and fantasy football teams are terrible, you spend your Sundays reading through your proof. Can’t wait to make my final edits and mail out all my pre-orders! #HappySunday 😊 https://www.instagram.com/p/BoFcYnjlFNS/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=c6cg4aid8m7j

[mrtuckerlane]

I had some graphics made for my website to give potential readers a glimpse into the psychology of some of the main characters. Our protagonist is Charles Dawson, an average frustrated chump whose trials and travails fuel the plot of the narrative. I use many of my experiences from wrestling and dating in the social media age to give this character life (trust me, it's not much of a life 😝😝😝). He's the type of protagonist that will make 10% of readers say, "Aww," while simultaneously making the other 90% want to kick him in the balls 😂😂😂 https://www.instagram.com/p/Bn4rcL-nSYC/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1ac3pqw97ce5e

[mrtuckerlane]

Hasta, ESPN

I’m neither a democrat nor a republican.

In fact, I’m 30 years old and have never cast a vote.

I might have registered once when I first turned 18, but I can’t really remember.

When I tell this to people, they gasp and tell me how UN-American that is. Our boys died during the Civil Revolution at the hands of Hitler so we could have our own Declaration of Constitution that gives us that right, and if you don’t exercise that right, you are UN-American!

I disagree.

If I, indeed, love this country, then abstaining my vote is absolutely the most American thing I can do.

Why?

Because I’m willing to admit that I don’t know shit about politics. I don’t check on the price of commodities; I don’t read about the state of foreign relations. How would I know what’s in this country’s best interest? The way I look at it, if I were to vote, I would be throwing darts blindfolded, and that’s a dangerous thing.

My line of reasoning strongly follows that of one John Adams. Although he doesn’t have the name recognition of Johnny Appleseed or Herbie Hancock, President Adams is, arguably, the most important politician the United States has ever known, his catalog of political writings and extensive diplomacy largely unmatched by his contemporaries or successors. Perhaps President Adams’ legacy isn’t so fondly promulgated to posterity because he so strongly believed in keeping the ballot out of the hands of the uninformed citizen. For a country so freshly emancipated from British rule, this was unconscionable; elitist, royalist accusations cast a shadow on the innumerable contributions President Adams made to our young nation.

But what’s even more dangerous than giving an uninformed citizen the right to vote?

Having that uninformed citizen’s vote influenced by party interests.

And is it any surprise that among our early politicians, the strongest opponent of a partisan democracy was John Adams? President Adams was the type of man who closed the doors on his successful law practice to run for public office, offices that were largely unpaid. He was the type of man that, despite advanced age and declining health, took to the rough waters of the Atlantic to represent the United States at conference when no one else was willing to voyage to Europe. In short, President Adams was the type of man who put his personal interests to the side for the prosperity of the United States, and he foresaw a nation that would eventually crumble upon itself as political parties sacrificed the good of the people to promote their own selfish agendas.      

Party interests have already divided our government, our states, our communities, our media outlets, and our families, but in 2018, with the advent of instantaneous, around-the-clock information, party interests have infiltrated the most dangerous location of them all: the consciousness of the uninformed citizen.

I once dreamed of being the next Chris Berman on ESPN. I even went to college with that pursuit in mind. When that dream fizzled out, I still kept ESPN as my homepage, and its app is one of the few I have downloaded on my phone. However, when the last three push notifications I have received from ESPN have not been about scores, standings, or injury updates, but about comments made years ago by marginal sports figures? That is not sports news to me, and ESPN no longer serves its purpose.

I will finish the season with my current fantasy baseball teams and then delete ESPN from my phone. I will only watch their programming if the Raiders are playing or they are covering NCAA wrestling. The whole platform has turned into Shutter Island, and ESPN wants to use its influence to subvert its followers into carrying out a highly specific political agenda. I may be an uniformed citizen, but I’m not a complete dipshit, and I will not vote for someone just because some powerful entity tries to scare me into voting for someone. Whether it’s one party telling me that unless I vote for Candidate A, the government is going to break into my house and confiscate all my guns or a different party telling me that unless I vote for Candidate B, my unborn gay daughter will live a life of fear and persecution, I will not waver. I will not relinquish my ballot, and don’t call me un-American.

I had long predicted that World War III would be fought over rights to diminishing water supplies. I’ve since changed my mind. It will be fought between warring political parties, right here on our own soil.

Or maybe, just maybe, it will be fought over “sources” revealing that John Adams once told Martha Washington that her brassiere really makes her bosom pop.

I knew there was a reason America tries to forget that guy.

[mrtuckerlane]

When I was in third grade, I was 81-0 on the wrestling mat. I pinned every little fat kid from Dove Creek to Paonia, Hotchkiss to Grand Junction, in my patented headlock. Go over to Championship Productions to learn my secret #realtalk #wrestling #headlock 💪🏻🤼‍♂️🔥 (at Colorado Springs, Colorado)

[mrtuckerlane]

Troy Nickerson Waits in Line

Troy Nickerson had never read the Harry Potter series, but the expectation plastered on his mien, his intensely blue eyes piercing the wall before him, could have convinced any bystander that his Platform 9 3/4 lay hidden somewhere in the depths of the Chattanooga Airport.

It had been a challenging morning for Troy. Awake since 3:30 AM, his body had long since soured on cheap, bitter coffee—thank you hotel lobby. When factoring in the myriad snafus made standard by the airline industry, Troy’s sleep-deprived state left him none too chipper on this uncharacteristically cold southern morning. But if there were a man who could handle a challenge, it was Troy Nickerson. Widely considered the finest prep grappler to ever hail from the state of New York, Troy battled a multitude of injuries to capture four NCAA All-American honors in college, one of which left him the 2009 NCAA Champion at 125 pounds. After a short international career in pursuit of an Olympic gold medal, Troy took his considerable talents to the coaching ranks, where, for the better part of a decade, he had spent countless hours on the wrestling mat and recruiting trail, molding the lives of wrestling’s future generations. Yes, Troy Nickerson had risen to the top of the wrestling realm, and in a sport that revels in the austerity of its ethic, he had done so without the promise of a multi-million dollar contract, without having his face on ESPN every evening for friends and family to celebrate. He had toiled in the relative anonymity of dingy collegiate wrestling rooms, staved off the debilitating tricks of Father Time, and sacrificed all of the creature comforts afforded the elite athletes in more high-profile sports all for the chance to be the best at what he loved most: wrestling. Still, after 30 years in the game, there were certain aspects of the lifestyle that had become drudgery for Troy, the chief among these being travel. The trans-Atlantic flights; the different hotel room every weekend; and the sea of itineraries, departure times, and ETAs were definitely not his favorite part of the job. Anything to make travel easier, lessen the burden, was of utmost importance, so when the TSA announced its pre-check program several years ago, allowing travelers to skip the long lines and lengthy screening checkpoints that marred airports for the average traveler, Troy was among the vanguard of early subscribers. With the amount of time Troy spent at the airport, TSA pre-check had freed days of his life, days he would have otherwise been stuck standing in line among fellow frustrated souls. Troy basked in the glory of zipping straight from the ticketing counter to the boarding gate, frequently finishing his latte and danish before the rest of the team had even gotten the opportunity to get patted down for the suspicious pit stains that had formed as they juggled their iPads, liquids, and other hazardous materials. TSA pre-check had restored some of the excitement to travel, that excitement every kid feels when going to the airport for the very first time and, for that, it had been worth its weight in Bitcoin for our protagonist. Until it let him down. Until it wasn’t there for him one cold Chattanooga morning. Until it left him standing by himself, staring at the wall, waiting for a checkpoint that never would materialize. While the rest of the sleepy team was zombie-like in its slow march through security, Troy was just standing there, gazing through the wall, and, to make matters worse, there appeared to be no one on the TSA staff interested in helping him. Unable to tolerate such neglect any longer, he finally called out, “So you mean to tell me that this airport doesn’t have pre-check, either?” His words caught the attention of one of the agents behind the podium and, looking up from the ID she was observing, she directed, “Sir, you’re going to need to get in line and go through security.” Imagine the look a coach sends an official when the official makes a bad call. Now, imagine how that look is intensified when the coach doesn’t like the official’s explanation for said call. Finally, imagine the reaction the coach gives when he is deducted a team point for questioning the official’s incontrovertible judgment. Then multiply that by 10. This will give the reader some idea of what Troy Nickerson’s face looked like at the agent’s loathsome words. Nonplussed as the head coach was, the exchange seemed to have an invigorating effect on the rest weary team (and one assistant coach, in particular) and it was with broad smiles and pep in our step that we walked to our gate and waited for Troy to meet us there, minutes later. 

[mrtuckerlane]

Raul the Barber

Where I grew up, haircuts cost $5, and from what I always understood, it had been that way since the shop opened in the 1950’s. Rent had multiplied, the price of gas had gone through the roof, but haircuts were still $5. It was at once totally awesome and completely sad. The people of our town could use their hard-earned dollars toward life’s other necessities, but how could our poor barber survive in modern times with such a measly price tag on his craft?

 Well, one person who didn’t dwell too heavily on this latter point was my dad. A father and two sons equaled three men. Three men meant three heads to be shorn. Three heads to be shorn meant $15 at the barber shop. Seeing that we were supposed to look tough, menacing, and disciplined—like wrestlers—that was $15 going out nearly every-other week. No, he could go to Wal-Mart and buy a $15 pair of clippers and have our mom shear us. Free haircuts indefinitely—one better than the barber’s lagging race with inflation.

Maybe it’s post-traumatic stress syndrome from all of those back-porch buzz cuts, but in recent years, I will stop at nothing to get a quality haircut. Cost is a non-factor. I will travel if necessary. Just treat me well with a pair of scissors, clippers, and a straight razor and all will be right with the world. I once paid $50 to a stylist named Jennnnnnyyyyy, whose passion was cutting haiiiiirrrrr, who finished all of her sentences like thiiiiisssss. The end result was actually pretty underwhelming, the quality of cut none superior to any of the $20 cuts I had gotten in the past, but I liked being able to say that I’d spent $50 on a haircut. That’s where I’m at in my relationship with my hair.

Yes, having nice hair is great until it comes to the appointment. Top-end hair professionals’ time is extremely valuable, and finding a mutually agreeable opening for their services can be quite challenging for a wrestling coach who works late into the evenings and rarely has weekends free.

It was in this frustration I found myself in the days leading up to Thanksgiving. My head is enormous (not just in a metaphorical sense—I actually have a big ol’ size-8 head) and when my hair gets long, it gets exceptionally thick and puffy, a gigantic portabella mushroom sitting on top of a 15-pound watermelon. Yes, it was Thanksgiving, and it was time for a haircut. I called around to all of my favorite salons to the news that the soonest opening wouldn’t be until after the holiday. Ugh! I would just have to tough it out and hope that when my dad saw me at Thanksgiving, he wouldn’t freak out at my long hair and implore my mom to pull the old buzz-cutters out of retirement.

Deflated that I was stuck with my unkempt look, I stayed in my office late, working on my stories, not wanting to be seen in public in my current state. By the time the computer screen started to swirl and I had reverted to typing and erasing the same sentence over and over, it was getting close to 10 o’clock. I saved my work and decided to call it a night.

Everything was normal about my drive home: the route, my oaths of contempt at the stoplights I found wholly unnecessary with no other cars on the street. Everything was normal except for a sign, a sign sitting at the corner of an intersection I had crossed 100 times before, a sign flashing in the November darkness that read: BARBER SHOP OPEN! A barber shop open at this time of night? It seemed rather peculiar, but peculiar was the best that could be said for what currently sat atop my head. I parked along the street and went inside, hopeful that this place could bail me out from my failure to schedule a proper hair appointment.

In the center of the small room sat a single barber’s chair, mirrors hung on the three inner walls, a giant window revealing the passing street at the front. Loud, vulgar rap music blared, a stark contrast to the soothing melodies heard in most salons. A small, tightly buzzed Mexican man stood up from the chair upon my entrance. His front teeth were chipped and in addition to the numerous tattoos that adorned his arms, neck, and upper chest was a teardrop inked on his cheek, just below his eye. As sheltered an existence as I have lived, even I knew what this meant.

“What can I do for you, my man?” he asked before I had the chance to turn and run, his Mexican accent noticeable.

“Um…I…I…I was seeing about getting a haircut,” I stammered, one eye considering the safety of my parked car a few feet away as I tremulously removed my jacket.

“You came to the right place then,” he said enthusiastically. “How do you want it cut?”

I sat down in the chair, holding my breath, envisioning the worst as he wrapped the cape around my neck. “I don’t know,” I gasped uncomfortably, unable to think about anything other than having the back of my head fully exposed to this intimidating man. “I usually like to keep it long while still looking clean.”

“I know what to do with you,” he said confidently, running his fingers through my thick, matted hair. “I’m going to give you a pompadour. You’ve got the perfect hair for it. You’ll be looking real sharp, my man.”

I tried to remain calm as the clippers buzzed and my hair started falling to the floor and in my attempts to appear normal, I tried to drum up a normal conversation. “So how long have you been doing this?”

“A little more than two years,” he returned immediately as he worked on me. “It’s actually my grandma’s shop. She used to cut hair for years out in Los Angeles, long before I was ever born. She’d just cut hair in the back of her house. It was mostly just friends and family at first, but then word began to spread. It was always $10 for my grandma’s cuts, even after business got good. But you know, those $10 started to add up over the years, and she saved up enough where she could open a real shop. The money was there, but she could never do it on account of me. You see, I was a bad kid, my man. I got mixed up with the wrong crowd, you know, fighting all the time, all of that gang bullshit. I ended up getting this girlfriend, and we had some common interests, you know, and we ended up having a little boy. The sad part is, even after we had him, those common interests never stopped, and they ended up getting the best of my girl, so it was up to my grandma to look after my little boy because I was such a knucklehead.  She could have gone out and opened her own shop, but she kept cutting hair there at her house so she could look after him while she worked.

Well, one day, I picked a fight with the wrong guy and that family I thought was family wasn’t there for me. They left me to fend for myself as this guy pulled a knife on me. He cut me up real good,” he paused and lifted up his shirt to point out the various scars before continuing with both his story and my haircut. “I somehow made it back to my grandma’s place and she patched me up, but it was less than a month later that she told me she was moving out to Colorado. We have some family working in the plants out here, and they helped her find this salon. She told me that she was taking my little man with her and I could come, too, but she wasn’t going to leave my boy behind with me and have him grow up like my dad and I did out there in California. So I had to make a choice, and I decided after losing my parents and my girl and almost getting killed myself that I was done with all that bullshit. I came out here with my grandma and my little man and started working in the plants with my cousins while my grandma cut hair over here. It was all going pretty good, but my grandma had a heart attack and died two months after we got here. I was thinking that I could sell the shop and keep working over at the plant, but I wouldn’t have no time for my little man if I did that. Besides, it was always my grandma’s dream to have this shop, and this shop is what got me up out of the streets, so I decided to use the skills that I picked up over the years and keep it going out of respect for her. I’m over here working whenever I can, whenever I don’t have something going on with my kid. He’s asleep now. How do you want your neck, my man?”

“R-Rounded,” I stuttered as he brandished the straight razor, the visions of him using his blade for different purposes years earlier haunting my mind as he cleaned me up.

“What do you do for yourself, my man?” he asked nonchalantly as he focused his attention on my neck. I hesitated, not certain that I wanted to reveal my vocation to this guy, but after he had been so candid with me about the details of his life, how could I not tell him a little about me?

“I coach wrestling,” I replied tersely, void of the passion with which he had explained himself to me.

“Ah, wrestling,” he answered. “You know, that’s something that’s always interested me. I never had time for no sports, you know, because I was always in the streets, but I think wrestling would have been good for me. Actually, now that I think about it, I think wrestling would be a good thing for me to put my little man in. You know, my man, it scares me that he’s going to have a violent streak in him like his dad, so I think it would be good for him to have some way to channel all of that. Wrestling might be where it’s at. Do you know of any kids’ teams around here?”

“Um, well, I work with older kids, but I know that there are some around here. I’d have to look into it, though,” I said as he held up the mirror for me to check out my neck line.

“What do you think, my man?”

“It looks great,” I said, a giant smile on my face replacing the trepidation I had felt throughout the session.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said. “It’ll be $10 for the haircut, my man.”

Ten dollars?! This was one of the best haircuts I had ever gotten in my life! How could it only be $10? It was touching how he honored his grandma’s business. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a $20 bill. “Keep the change,” I said happily. “Thanks for a great haircut.”

“Thank you, my man,” he answered enthusiastically. “I’ll look into wrestling for my boy and see what I can get going for him. Enjoy the rest of your night. Thanks for stopping by.”

“What’s your name?” I asked, extending my free hand to the man of whom I had previously been so terrified.

“Raúl,” he informed me.

“Tucker.”

“It was nice to meet you, my man. Be safe.”

I beamed as I exited the shop, well-groomed for the impending holiday. 

Fast forward one month, and the mushroom had returned to the top of my head just in time for another one of those holidays for which appearance must be impeccable. After my previous experience, how could Raúl not be my first choice for service? It was the middle of the day and I had a few hours to kill before I departed for a Christmas spent back home, and I held my breath as I drove toward Raúl’s shop, breath held, this time, not out of fear for how he would use his razor, but breath held in the hope that I would catch him while he was working.

I was in luck.

Outside of the time of day, the scene was nearly identical to that which I had encountered prior to Thanksgiving. The rap music blared, Raúl sitting alone in the solitary chair. He rose to service me as I sat my jacket back in its familiar place.

“Haircut?” he asked, a heavy tone to his voice.

“Yeah,” I answered. “You gave me a pompadour about a month ago, and I was really happy with it. Can I get that again?”

“You got it,” he said as he caped me and started his clippers.

“How have you been, Raúl?” I continued as the hair started to fall.

“Ah, my man, it’s been tough, just trying to get through Christmas. Business has been slow around here. Usually more people come in, you know, because they want to look good for pictures and stuff, but no one has stopped in this year. I don’t know why. There’s some things I want to get for my little man, but I ain’t going to have the funding for that unless I get some more people in here. I’ll get him some stuff, you know, but not the stuff he wants. You know, it’s not like we live in the greatest neighborhood, but the kids around there, they talk, you know, and they tell my little man about all of the stuff they’re going to get for Christmas, so it’s natural that he wants all of that, too. He’s just at that age where he don’t really understand about love and all of that, and he thinks that I’m mad at him or something if he don’t get what he wants. It’s tough, you know, for me to try and explain about all of that because I never had no Christmas or nothing growing up in California, you know, ‘cuz I was always out in the streets. I don’t know what to do now that I’m trying to show him love but can’t give him what he wants.”

Raúl’s somber tale caused me to choke up a little bit as he scissored at the top of my head. “Did you ever find out about a kids’ wrestling team for him?”

“I looked into that, my man,” Raúl explained. “My little man seemed pretty excited about it and everything, but there’s a fee for all of those teams, you know. If I’m going to start him up in that, I’m going to have to wait until next year to get my funding back up after Christmas. I guess I’ll try to play with him and wrestle around with him until I’m able to sign him up. How’s it look?” He held up the mirror for me to inspect the product of his labor.

“Even better than last time,” I said contentedly as I rose to my feet.

“Good, good,” he said. “Ten dollars, my man.”

I reached for my wallet while continuing. “Raúl, I was thinking that if your boy gets super excited about wrestling and I can find some free time, maybe I can take a few minutes to show him a couple of moves, you know, to kind of help him out until you can get him started in a kids’ club.”

“Ah, my man,” Raúl said respectfully. “You don’t have to do that. He’s still only five years old, and he don’t need no coach like you. I’m just happy that you appreciated my work enough to come back and see me again at this time of year.”

I pulled the bills out of my wallet. I’m a little OCD about how I store my money, putting the smallest denominations at the center of my wad and wrapping them in increasingly larger bills as the stack moves outward. There, blanketing all of my cash, was the face of Ulysses Grant. I thought back on my $50 haircut from Jennnnnnyyyyy. She may have gone to cosmetology school, worked in the chicest salon, and held all of the necessary licensures to put such a price tag on her service, but, in my mind, she had nothing on Raúl. I handed over the $50 to my friend and told him to keep the change.

“My man, thank you,” he said, a real tear covering the one he had tattooed on his face. “Have a good Christmas.”

I thought about Raúl the entire drive home to see my family. I’m sure some readers will view this tale as the world’s most elaborate humble brag, a plea for adulation for throwing a bum a dime at Christmastime. And they’re probably right.

But, somewhere in there, is a simple story about a man who has grown to appreciate a good haircut.  

[mrtuckerlane]

Karaoke, or Karaoki?

Before it started, it had all the makings of a standard Saturday night.

I had just finished a long day of wrestling and was prepared to go home, make a salad and protein shake, and fall asleep before 9 o’clock while trying to make a dent in the mountain of books piled beside my bed.

Then I got to thinking: I only have so many Saturday nights with a full head of hair left in me, so I owe it to myself to give this Saturday a chance. The books could wait until Mother Nature afforded me no other prospect of companionship. I quickly pomaded myself, slammed a cup of coffee, and called around to all of the bars in town to see who was hosting karaoke.

I’m fairly well known throughout the dive bars in northern Colorado for my skills on the karaoke mic, but whether it was the spontaneity of the evening or some other intangible factor, everything clicked this Saturday. All of the other performers were getting polite applause from the audience, but something was just different while I was out there. I actually had the crowd of middle-aged, Marlboro-stained strangers cheering for me, and I could feel the wind taken from their sails every time the DJ came and took the mic from me.

About two hours into what may have been the most fun I’ve ever had in my life, a woman left her large group of friends and walked across the floor toward the bar. She was probably 5-foot-10 in her heels, extremely tan and heavily tattooed. She had her septum pierced, as well as her right eyebrow, to go along with platinum blonde hair. Her teeth were white, very white, and it was obvious from the gaze she had fixed upon me that she wasn’t coming to the bar to order another drink. She wanted to talk to me.  

“Please tell me you’ve requested another song,” she said decisively. “My friends and I have been thoroughly enjoying watching you.”

“Oh, no, I’m not finished,” I responded spiritedly. “I’m a fool with a mic in my hand. I’ll keep singing until they kick me out of here.”

“Okay, good,” she said. She beckoned the bartender and told her to buy me whatever drinks I wanted for the rest of the night.

“Please: you don’t have to do that,” I protested. “I really shouldn’t drink much more, anyway. Don’t want to start slurring my words out there.”

“Well, if you decide you want more, it’s on me,” she informed me matter-of-factly. “I usually don’t say these kind of things so casually, but I am very, very attracted to you. You are, seriously, the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life, and I don’t know what you are doing in a bar like this, so I want to make sure you remember me.”

“Thanks!” I responded, smiling in a manner only attainable by being called the world’s most handsome man.

She returned to her friends and before long, I was back out there, doing my thing. The interaction had really boosted my ego, and I was somehow even more ebullient in my performance. I was soulful, using all of the floor space as a personal display of me. I shuffled over to the table where my admirer sat, leaned into the middle of their space, and gave her an intimate serenade.

Our noses less than an inch apart, I fumbled over my lyrics, an unexpected thought occurring to me as I stared into her lust-filled eyes. I quickly broke my gaze and turned my attention to the video monitor, moving away from the table and back on track with my song.

I will admit to being naïve to the point of cluelessness concerning many social matters and, like my dad, have difficulty remaining subtle when something’s on my mind. I mostly forgot about karaoke for the rest of the night as I shot stare after furtive stare in her direction, trying to add up the clues in my head. Everything about her appearance, from the tattoos to the piercings, the tan to the unrealistically white teeth, was very artificial. She didn’t really have an Adam’s apple, but her voice had been pretty deep. While her heels made her seem taller than she actually was, she was by no means a small woman.

I thought about going up and asking her point-blank, but I quickly talked myself out of that. If she weren’t, she would be highly offended; if she were, I would have to explain why it mattered. I thought about asking the bartender, but if it was supposed to be obvious and normal, I didn’t want to appear like an insensitive schmuck. So I didn’t say anything and just sat at the bar and continued to stare.

Well, she must have thought that I was checking her out because about an hour later, an hour in which I had forgotten to sign up for another song, her group of friends got up and left the building. As she passed me, she slipped a piece of paper in my hand and whispered in my ear, “Since you’re not going to sing to us anymore, handsome, we’re out of here. I live close by. When you’re ready to leave, call me. I’m dying to see if everything is as big as those muscles and that smile.” She pinched my arm, kissed my ear, and exited into the frosty darkness.

It felt like everyone in the building was watching me finish my drink, wondering how I would follow-up with the interaction. Thanks to my mad karaoke skills, I had been the center of attention for the past several hours, but I no longer relished the stares I was receiving. Being objectified was no longer fun for me, and I wanted to get out of there. I called a Lyft and chugged my remaining beverage.

After I buckled myself into my ride, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the previously unread slip of paper, a fact not lost on my driver. “Look at my man getting a number!” he exclaimed, giving me a high-five with his voice as he drove me home. “When I saw you get in, I was thinking that you’re not really the type of person I would envision picking up from that place. I bet a guy like you could shut that place down if he tried…”

I didn’t really feel like boasting about my accomplishment, my mind arrested by the contents of the slip:

Teddi 970-XXX-XXXX

It was a perfectly normal way for a woman to offer her number—other than the fact that the “i” was drawn in the shape of a penis.

I wasn’t much company for the rest of the trip as I pondered the possibilities of Teddi’s calligraphy. Hell, I’m still pondering today, the note serving as the bookmark to one of my aforementioned bedside volumes. I could call her up and get to the bottom of it all, but, sometimes, I feel like having something to think about is of utmost importance in these confusing times in which we live.

[mrtuckerlane]

Happy Birthday, Burroughs!

I often tell people, only partially in jest, that my greatest accolade as a college wrestler was being Jordan Burroughs’ teammate for four years. It has proven to be quite the résumé booster throughout my professional career.

What are some of your athletic achievements? Not bad.

What is the highest degree you have obtained? Pretty impressive.

You spent four years with Jordan Burroughs?! Hired. 

Our relationship as college teammates has enhanced my credibility in numerous ways, made my words gospel in the ears of skeptical, disinterested teenagers. When my athletes’ attention starts to wane, all I have to do is mention Jordan’s name. They immediately hang on my every word, become active participants, and probe me deeper for any piece of information they can get about their favorite wrestler.

Coach, what was he like? Was he cool? Was he arrogant? Did you ever wrestle him in practice? Are all of the stories true? Tell us! Tell us! Tell us!  

I find myself citing Jordan more often than I would like, but, honestly, the example he set and the success he has obtained make it hard for me to avoid name dropping our sport’s greatest superstar.

I tell my kids that he was the most talented athlete I’ve ever seen on a wrestling mat, how he had the upper-body strength of a 197-pounder and the footwork of a 125. He could do sets of pull-ups with a 100-pound dumbbell between his legs easier than the rest of us could do them with our body weight.

I tell them that he was the hardest worker to ever set foot in our wrestling room, citing the workouts in which Jordan would have three or four fresh Division I wrestlers rotating in on him every 20 seconds, refusing to cede a takedown regardless of how many dozens of goes the coaches put him through. His attitude, his approach to such grueling methods of training still stand out to me years later. Jordan would be jogging around the mats, getting himself ready to take on the procession of foes that awaited, while raising his arms above his head and exclaiming, “I’m about to show you all what happens when you throw a bunch of guppies into the shark tank!”

But, what I tell my kids set Jordan apart more than anything, was his love for the sport, his love of a challenge, his love for putting it on the line. The tougher the opponent, the bigger the stage, the more Jordan shone. With 30 seconds left in a big match, a takedown necessary, you could just look into Jordan’s eyes and see a sparkle, a glowing passion that said he was right where he was supposed to be, doing what he was put on Earth to do.   

I had never heard of Jordan when I went on my recruiting trip to Nebraska in October 2006. I was sitting on the bench, watching the Huskers practice, when Coach Manning came and took me over to a skinny, 140-pound freshman riding the AirDyne, observing practice from the sidelines. After exchanging the general small talk of two strangers with nothing other than wrestling in common, Jordan made the following proclamation:

“The trainer’s kept me off the mat for a while now, but he says I’m cleared next Friday. When I get back out there, Imma put Nebraska on the map. Watch me. It was nice meeting you, Tuck, and I hope you come along for the ride.” Coach Manning laughed and gave a little fist-pump, pulling me back over to the bench and out of earshot from Jordan.  

“HA! Jordan doesn’t lack confidence, huh, Tuck? He talks a big game, but he’s had a little bit of trouble adjusting to college so far. He hasn’t really been healthy, and I think he’s a little homesick. But, Tuck, he’s still a little boy! Barely any hair on his chin! Tuck, you’re still in high school, and you’re older than Jordan! He just turned 18 when he moved out here. When he matures and adjusts to wrestling at this level, watch out. He’s going to be special. That will be your teammate for four years.”

My teammate he was, and I have countless Jordan Burroughs stories from our four years together. Some funny, some kind of boring, many triumphant. Rather than type until he turns 30, I will jump ahead to my last memory as his teammate, a moment I have closed my eyes and re-lived hundreds of times in my life.

It was March 2011, and we were at the NCAA Championships in Philadelphia. Jordan and I were the only Nebraska wrestlers remaining in the tournament, and the coaching staff wanted us to head back to the hotel and get some rest before the evening session. In a few hours, I would be wrestling in the blood round, while Jordan would be wrestling in the semi-finals and a chance to compete for a second NCAA Championship. Philly was Jordan’s old stomping grounds, and I stayed close by his side as he showed me how to catch the correct train back to our hotel. As we walked amid the bustle of a busy Philadelphia Friday, I had no way of knowing at the time how closely his words would remain with me over the years.

“Man, Tuck,” he said sincerely. “I’m so excited for you, man. I really hope you win tonight. You’ve been our HWT for the last three years, and you’ve saved us in a lot of big duals. I’ve seen you beat so many of the best guys in the country. All that’s left is for you to go out there tonight and take what you’ve got coming to you. You’ve been so close, and I know how much it would mean for you to finally say you’re an All-American.” 

Jordan’s words of encouragement would prove to be the highlight of my weekend. I choked later that night, losing to an unseeded freshman in the match to become an All-American. Meanwhile, Jordan steamrolled to another national title, Nebraska’s lone All-American on the weekend.

Fast forward to present day. Jordan was getting ready to wrestle for a spot on his seventh-straight world team, and I had just finished my second year as assistant wrestling coach at the University of Northern Colorado. The other half of our coaching staff hailed from Cornell University, the alma mater of Jordan’s World Team Trials adversary, four-time NCAA Champion Kyle Dake. Our wrestlers soon picked up on this division among the coaches and fervently began imploring us to make predictions on who would win the anticipated match.

“OOOOO, Nebraska vs. Cornell, Nebraska vs. Cornell. Right here in our wrestling room. Who do you coaches think is going to win?”

The Cornell coaches jumped in first. “One thing that Ivy-League education teaches you: Never bet against Kyle Dake.”

The wrestlers chirped in anticipation and turned to me. “They seem pretty sure about that, Coach. What have you got to say?”

I smiled before saying confidently, “I know Kyle Dake. I’m friends with Kyle Dake. I’ve stayed at Kyle Dake’s house, and I’ve flown Kyle Dake in for fundraisers. I know how special Kyle Dake is. If he was facing anyone else, the choice is easy.

But he’s not facing just anyone--he’s facing Jordan Burroughs. He’s facing the best. There’s a reason Jordan has accomplished everything he has in this sport. He’s not losing this match. No way. Burroughs wins.”

It feels good to be proven right.

After Jordan won, my wrestlers swarmed me and lauded my foresight. “Burroughs wins again! Wow, Coach, you called it!”

I basked in the glory of my I-told-you-so moment, but what my wrestlers didn’t know was that I had called it a long time ago, before they even knew who Jordan Burroughs even was.

It was April 2008, and Jordan had just taken third place in the NCAA Championships, his first All-American honor. I was finishing up my redshirt during my first year at Nebraska and was competing at the University Nationals in Akron, Ohio. In a bracket of over 80 wrestlers, I won my first three matches before setting up a showdown with the HWT from Virginia Tech, a talented wrestler who was sure to give me all I could handle. A win would place me in the quarterfinals.

After building a significant advantage, I stopped wrestling and put myself in cruise control, holding onto my lead and waiting for the clock to run out. I ended up winning the match, but not until the Virginia Tech guy made a strong comeback, leaving the match very much in doubt as time expired. My coach was not happy as I walked off the mat.

“What the hell was that, Tucker?” he asked in dismay. “When do we ever teach you to wrestle like that? Build a big lead and not do a damn thing, watch the clock, stall it out?”

“Why are you chewing my ass for winning?” I rebutted in defiance. “I just beat a really good kid. I’m in the quarter-finals in a bracket of over 80. Can’t you just be happy I won?”

“This isn’t about winning and losing, son!” the coach bellowed in retortion. “It’s about wrestling the right way! It’s about building the habits that are going to allow you to win at the highest level. I don’t care how good you think that guy was; I don’t care how big your bracket is. The way you just performed is not indicative of an NCAA Champion!” 

I stewed quietly, reluctant to understand the point the coach was trying to make. “You’ve got nothing to say for yourself?” he continued. “Let’s make an example for you. You’re a smart kid. Who’s the best wrestler in the country right now?”

I didn’t hesitate before saying resolutely, “Jordan Burroughs.”

The coach guffawed loudly before opposing my declaration. “HA! I get it, Tuck: Jordan’s your teammate, Jordan’s your friend. You want to support your guy. And don’t get me wrong: Jordan is good. Jordan’s damn good. Third at NCAA’s is nothing to sneeze at. But who’s the guy that Jordan’s never been able to beat?”

I knew Coach was trying to get me to mention a certain somebody from Iowa, but I was not going to humor him. This certain somebody from Iowa was good, and I had a lot of respect for him (he had actually been my host on my recruiting trip to Iowa City), but he wasn’t Jordan--no matter how many times he had beaten him in the past. I stared icily at my coach and re-affirmed my previous statement. “Jordan is the best. I can just see it when he wrestles.”

The coach threw up his hands in resignation. “Alright, Tucker. I know how you are, and I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to provoke me into one of your nonsensical arguments. Jordan’s good--I’m not saying he’s not--but you can’t say he’s the best wrestler in the country when he didn’t even win the NCAA Championships less than a month ago, losing to the same guy who keeps beating him time-after-time. It’s not a matter of opinion--it’s purely factual. It’s not worth arguing, and it’s beside the point. Let’s not get away from what we were talking about in the first place. Wrestling not to lose, watching the clock, refusing to leave everything on the mat from whistle to whistle, is only going to result in heartache. I’ve been doing this too long; I’ve seen it too many times. If you see that in Jordan, please try to emulate it because if you continue doing what you’re doing, you’re always going to be that guy coming up short of your goals, wishing you would have done it the right way.” He stormed off in frustration, leaving me pouting in his wake.

When evaluating our row nine years later, I will have to officially declare a draw. I never changed my ways, and I always ended up just short of my goals. Plus one for Coach. Jordan Burroughs, on the other hand, proved to the world he was the best shortly after my proclamation. Plus one for Tucker.

Happy birthday, Jordan, and good luck on your current quest for gold!