Karen and Lisa

I’ve put my foot in my mouth many times in my life by failing to check my assumptions.  I believe there may be a permanent footprint on my palate.  I get disappointed with myself and it can be a hard way to learn a lesson in humility.  Not everything is as it seems or appears on the surface.

It is risky to make assumptions then fail to validate them.

A few years ago I managed to get myself invited to a luxury box at a professional football game.

These luxury boxes are stuffed with food and drink, and feature great views of the field.  But the biggest draw is the opportunity for networking and mingling at a high level with bank presidents and entrepreneurs with lots of contacts.

I met the host once before so I felt fairly confident going in to this event.  A friend of a friend, he’s a tv personality and has written several books on finance and investing.  I wanted to make a good impression on the group. 

At half-time there would be visits from neighboring boxes.  It would be a good place for me to make contacts as I prepared to retire from the Marine Corps and pursue some personal and professional goals.

Just like you might before a meeting or engagement, a date or visiting a restaurant, I gathered some intel before the day of the game.  I watched parts of one of his shows, and listened to part of one of his books.

While listening to the book I selected I noted how he gushed over his wife.  In the book he identifies his wife, Karen, as a Wall Street Wizard.  That struck me as something useful for my visit.

On game day I found myself sitting next to the Wall Street Wizard.  This seemed like a good time to demonstrate how I’d done my homework.  So during our friendly chat, I called her Karen.

She bristled visibly and turned her back to me.

I thought maybe I’d stepped over a line and had acted to familiar with her, but then she said:

“You just called me my husband’s ex-wife’s name.  My name is Lisa.”

I wanted to throw myself over the balcony and into the mass of rabid Eagles fans below.  Recovering a little, I apologized to Lisa.  Then she asked me why I was there.  I explained my transition situation, and then shared that I was looking for help in sharing my personal story.

“Everyone has a story,” she said coldly and matter of fact.  “What is so special about yours?”  It was rhetorical.  Lisa wasn't interested.

Maybe I need to go find Karen, I thought to myself...

Spontaneous Christmas Joy

Once when I was young, about 8 years old, I went along with a spontaneous gang of kids through the streets in my neighborhood.  It was an ad hoc collection of kids ranging from my age to high schoolers.  We went house to house knocking on doors up and down several streets, and sang Christmas carols.

I don't know how it happened, exactly, or how I was able to wander around after dark at that age.  I was playing outside with kids on my street.  In those days and on my street, if the wrong mix of kids were out and had nothing to do, I could end up having a lousy time.  My parents mostly kept me off the street through activities and playing organized sports.  When I did join the kids outside on my street there seemed to be a lot of fights.

But this night I was drawn out by my own boredom and desire to hang out with other kids, and it was the holidays.  I couldn't have expected what that night would promise, or that I'd remember it 40 years later.

I recall there were 10 or 15 kids in this gang and we started knocking on doors, going to the nearest neighbors with kids that were familiar.  We sang Christmas songs, half joking and looking for laughs.  It was cheeky.  Then we went to another house and sang.  Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.  Frosty the Snowman.  Santa Clause is Coming to Town.  Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  The ones we all knew, often jumbling the words.  This was not an organized choir.

I remember being in the rear of this group as we knocked on doors.  People started giving us money, which one of our group collected.  Soon there was a wad of cash.

We finished my street and went further down another and then another.  We stopped at a house where many of the older kids had a friend.  We conspired in the event that the friend opened the door, and when he answered we began to sing "Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen, a contemporary hit at the time.  The friend got a big kick out of it and we all laughed.

Then he had a request.  "Sing something for my mom," he asked.  "Something nice."

His mother appeared at the door.  We were arrayed below on the steps leading up to the door.  The gang got quiet for a moment then conferred to choose a song.

We began tentatively to sing "Silent Night."  We were encouraged by the words and picked up some volume and confidence.  We sang all the verses we could remember.  No one would ever confuse this rabble with the Vienna Boys Choir, but it was heartfelt, and surprising considering the singers.  A true serenade.

Now after dark, I wondered what kind of trouble I'd be in when I got home.

The group discussed what to do with the funds we collected.  There was talk of taking it to a church or hospital.  Then we realized that Marion Manor Nursing Home, a retirement home run by Catholic nuns, was located at the end of our street.  It was decided that the nuns would get the cash.

I vividly recall this scene from 40 years ago.  A dozen or more kids knocked on the door after dark at a nursing home.  One of the sisters opened the door halfway and leaned out, surveying the gang.

"What do you want?" she asked pointedly.  It took courage for her to open the door.  As an 8 year old, I was struck by the fear in her tone of voice and movements.  I was in this group and I knew our intentions were genuine, but clearly she did not.

The gang's spokesman pulled out the wad of cash and offered it to her.

"Where did you get this money?" she asked.

The spokesman replied: "We collected it from the neighborhood."

We then sang "Silent Night."  As we sang a few other sisters came to the door, marveling at this unexpected scene.

We sang a few more songs for the nuns and then the gang splintered into smaller factions and we made our way home.  I walked up the street to my house and my parents didn't blink when I entered.  The TV was on, my mother was in the kitchen.  I told them what we'd done and they were surprised to hear about it.  But the event was never repeated, and it faded from memory.

Today it seems more like a dream.  I recall this spontaneous act of giving and marvel at the simplicity of what happened.  A bunch of kids with nothing to do, used a few hours to make a meaningful expression of Christmas cheer.  And I like to think that we all experienced joy that night.

Merry Christmas!

Songs of Loudest Praise

Listening to Sufjan Stevens’ Christmas double album is one of my personal favorite things to do during the holidays. Christmas music can do many things to the heart and the mind. Bring back memories. Six years ago I shared the first stanza of Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing in a CaringBridge post. It was a quick post to update our followers on the great and miraculous news that I’d had a clear brain mri. 

I had been listening to the Christmas singalong music. I was a fan of Stevens before and discovered the Christmas album many years ago. 

His approach to the message of Christmas is so unique. Folly and contemporary at the same time. But make no mistake the message of Christmas is the star of the show. It shines down unmistakably through the gloomy clouds of night, dismissing darkness and doubt. The primo side of Emanuel. Gif with us. Grace and forgiveness for all. 

Today I listens to the album. And the words and music flowed over me like the peace and comfort of the best news the world can receive. 

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
  Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
  Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
  Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount, I’m fixed upon it,
  Mount of Thy redeeming love.

It was written in 1758 by a man named Robert Robinson when he was 22 years old. 

Centuries later, we have the song from Stevens. And the powerful words brought to our ears to turn our hearts. And sing God's praise. 

My Name is Daniel

I went to first grade in summer 1978. St. Margaret’s school would be my school for the next 8 years, in good times and bad.

My name is Daniel but I was not used to being called that. My kindergarten teacher Mrs Popovich called me Danny because that’s who I was. That was my name and the only name I went by at that time whether it was with family or school. My preschool teacher Mrs Lightoff called me Danny. I remember her fondly mostly because she let me play the cymbals during our class concert. I stood on my own at stage left and crashed them together with glee.

My first day at St. Margaret’s I knew this was going to be different. It was a small class and girls seemed to out number boys by nearly 3 to 1. Great numbers for a college classroom but icky for grade school. 

Mrs Reddinger was the teacher. She was tall, larger than life as I remember, and had long straight dark hair. She wore a long skirt and long sleeve blouse. She had a sister that also taught in the school who was a sister, indeed. The feature I recall most was her teeth. They were large and protruded especially the top teeth when she smiled - a smile that made me smile back guardedly.  Soon I’d learn what those teeth would look like in a disapproving face.

She called out all the student names that first day after she’d introduced herself. Apparently she’s been on maternity leave or something for the last year, and was coming back to teach first grade with gusto because we spent a lot of time taking attendance that first day. 

I am a Z last name. This has mostly been a curse especially when in any school environment. Last for everything. Alphabetical order was my adversary. I have fought alphabetical order my whole life and still fight it today, with glimmers of success with my children. One notable success was baseball tryouts in 2018 when I lobbied for reverse alphabetical order and both boys successfully made the higher tier league. I was convinced of an alphabetical bias. And the data though a small sample proves me right. 

So I was last to be called by Mrs Reddinger. And she called me, “Daniel Zappa.” I raised my hand and nodded. One of the curses of alphabetical order is that Zs nearly always sit in the very last seat in the last row of the classroom. Especially in 1978. Now a days there are small groups of students at small desks of a handful of kids. Seemingly seated at random or according to like ability in some cases. We have come a long way!

Mrs Reddinger asked about me and I told her. I mentioned the only extracurricular activity that I took part in at the time was competitive swimming. I was the only swimmer in that class and would find out that nonconformity of any sort was generally considered heresy and cause for ridicule among my peers.

Gathering boldness at the sound of my own voice in a strange environment I told her that my name is Danny and I’d like to be called Danny. 

“Your name is Daniel. And that is what you will be called in my classroom.” And the teeth were prominent. I nodded breathlessly and the boldness was gone. This was the first case in a series repeating over many times in that school in the coming years. Looking back if I’d been able to read the signs that day I’d have petitioned hard to my parents to send me somewhere else. But it would not happen. I was already coming to grips with my sentence: 8 years of hard labor at St. Margaret’s.

“My shield is God most high who saves the upright in heart. God is a righteous judge. A God who shows his wrath every day.”

That is Psalm 7, verses 10-11. A plaque with those verses emblazoned with “Daniel. God Is Judge” hung in my bedroom from my earliest memory. I don’t know where it came from or who gave it to me or when. It was either a baptism or first holy communion gift from a family member or friend. Either way it was in my room from the get go. It hangs in my office today alongside framed pictures and some select memorabilia from my career as a Marine officer.

I treasure that plaque as an early artifact from my upbringing. And a talisman of sorts. 

My name is Daniel. I was given that name at birth by my parents. When I call home my father greets me as Daniel. Or Danny. Today I go by Dan, as it is less formal and more familiar. My family and close friends call me Danny. I love that. I was Danny from a young age and there is a closeness, a dear and knowingness, a familiarity with it. Once you get to know me, I am Danny.

But my name is Daniel and it has great meaning to me. A biblical name that comes along paired with a powerful message that God is a righteous judge. But verse 10 is so uplifting and inspiring. My shield is God most high who saves the upright in heart!

I know and appreciate the significance of my name. The upright heart is one that is forever rejoicing and looking forward and upward to higher and higher places. An upright heart both basks in the beauty and passion of the present, and strives for high and worthy goals. It remains upright through trials and times of uncertainty  because it know that fear and temporary pain and suffering are merely bit players in the journey and serve to test but cannot conquer.

With great reluctance and deference to my young self I will yield that Mrs Reddinger had a point, though her delivery to a newly minted six year old landed awkwardly. My name is indeed Daniel. But if you want to be my friend then you can call me Danny. 

New Year, New You!

They always say that.  Every magazine in the checkout line, every sideboard ad on your phone, all the links at the bottom of the story you're trying to focus on reading.  Promises to drop the ten pounds you put on over the past six weeks in six days of clean eating, or cleansing.  It is tough to resist and I always fall for it.

Not the magazines.  I don't touch them.  I avert my eyes and curse myself for allowing my gaze to linger.  No, I don't touch the magazines.  And I usually don't click on the ad or take any of these tempting actions.

No, I use my own notebooks and the notes function on my phone to make my big plans and try to identify clear goals and objectives in each phase of my life.  Each phase of life gets some attention, but the physical phase typically gets the most.  It may seem obvious why I usually start there.  Appearance is the most easily identified thing about a person, to most people.  But success in the physical phase of life isn't all about appearance to me.

I just finished my first run of the year, a slow 50 minute effort over 4 miles.  I'm pretty happy that on January 1st I got out and ran for close to an hour in my neighborhood.  But it was more than just the opportunity for me to personally start the year of right.  A lot more!

I woke to 60+ degree weather this morning, and after two cups of coffee to help clear my head and shake the effects of perhaps one too many the night before (hey, it was New Years Eve!) I decided I needed to get out and start the year right.

My son appeared just as I was making this decision.  He's 13 and an early riser like me on most mornings.  I asked if he wanted to come with me, and he said no.  As I prepared to head out, strapping my Garmin watch on my wrist, the heart monitor around my chest, and lacing up my shoes, he changed his mind and said he'd go with me.

He is not typically much of a runner but wants to build his strength and endurance and I was very happy he decided to join me.

I have struggled over the past couple of years with joint pain, particularly in my knees, ankles and feet.  This pain is the result of many factors, including an inflammatory response to clinical trial drugs.  But it's clear to me that my age (46 1/2 as of today!) and the pounding of the years of a fairly active life are contributors as well.

This past month I completed the St. Jude 1/2 marathon.  It hurt, I will admit.  But I felt pretty happy to complete it considering what I've been through.  Since the first of December I've been focusing mostly on swimming, building strength and endurance that way.

I also completed the Marine Corps Combat Fitness Test (CFT) and earned a 1st class score of 261/300.  I hadn't attempted the CFT in at least 2 years due to all my medical woes; I have spend a lot of the past 2 years on limited duty which restricted my physical activity.

In October it looked as though I would be medically discharged from the Marine Corps.  But I resisted this, and strived to complete the standards and end my service as a Marine officer on my feet, the way I came in.  So I had to prepare for the CFT in 10 weeks.

There are 3 events to the CFT, including a 35# ammunition can overhead lift (100 repetitions in 2 minutes for 100 points).  The ammo can lift is not much of a problem for me, even considering the shoulder pain and inflammation I've had.  The other two events are not as easy.  First, a 880m (1/2) mi run in combat boots and utility trousers.  For me to pass this event I'd need to run it under 4:20.  Under normal circumstances, and in the past, this wouldn't be too bad or difficult for me to achieve.  But these days, keeping an 8 minute mile pace is not so easy, even in running shoes and shorts.  I was able to cover the distance in 3:40 seconds.

The last event is a shuttle run consisting of short sprints, low and high crawling, dragging a partner and then a fireman's carry of the partner, carrying ammunition cans and throwing a mock grenade.  I completed this in plenty of time to meet the standard.  It is a good thing I'm 46, though, since the standards are graduated for age!

We took it easy this morning on the run, my son and me.  There are a couple significant hills where you can gain a hundred feet in elevation fairly quickly.  It was good running weather.  The sky was a gray January overcast and the air was misty.  We followed the road and on the side there is a path that resembles more of a path at certain points.  It would seem a dreary day to the casual observer but when you're running on January 1st in Virginia it is a pleasant surprise.

My son kept wanting to pass me and run ahead.  I didn't stop him.  He has grown a bit lately shooting up a couple inches, feet outgrowing shoes at the rapid rate, appetite off the charts and unpredictable.  I noted how he swung his arms in font of him from side to side a bit too much.  I counseled him on his breathing and speed as we approached the first hill.  He didn't seem to mind listening but didn't really change much.

The hill is about four tenths of a mile long, and as we got closer to the top he sped ahead of me.  There were others out today, walking dogs mostly.  A few other eager runners as well going the opposite direction.  He made it to the top before me, stopped, and put his hands over his head.

"I have a cramp," he said.  I nodded.  "It will work it's way out," I responded.

We eased up, not that we were going fast.  I usually call 10:00-11:00 mile pace "running" these days, when it's really barely moving.  The point is to keep going, and make steady progress.  I know that over time the average pace will quicken if I stay with it.  But this is where I am right now, and I'm okay with it.

I explained to him that by running with your hands low and keeping your upper body from swaying back and forth you can prevent cramping.  We weren't going fast enough or hard enough to incite cramps, or far enough for dehydration to be a factor.

"I can't do that." he said.  "I know you can, don't say you can't.  You can do anything." I told him.

He stuck it out.  As we approached the end of the run I suggested we stop.  "No," he said.  "I want to finish it."

We made it four miles, the goal of the run, and stopped to walk.

As we walked home through our neighborhood I congratulated him.  "Great job," I told him.  "I'm proud of you for sticking with it and not quitting.  This is a great way to start the new year!"

A neighbor emerging from his house overheard me and echoed my statement. "A great way to start the new year!"

6 Weeks to Kids Cancer Fight Race

I have been working hard to build good habits for fitness but I honestly have not been running very much.  My longest run in about 2 years was on September 15th when I went for just over 5.5 miles.  That's not a lot, I will admit.  And with only six weeks left for training you might think I'd be concerned.  But I'm not.

One reason is I have been doing a lot of swimming.  Until very recently, running hurt a lot.  Feet, ankles, and knees all hurt when I tried to run.  It would take me nearly 20 minutes to get to a point where I could amble along at a 12 min/mile pace.  This isn't running.  Swimming over 2500 yards 4x per week has compensated.

Another is that my inflammatory arthritis has been brought under control.  A steady rheumatology protocol has brought the pain down considerably over the past 18 months.  I don't like taking meds but this has worked wonderfully.  And it has all been under the watchful eye of my neuro-oncology team at Duke.

And finally, I know what 13.1 miles can be like.  My first 1/2 marathon was in 2000; the Rock 'n Roll half in La Jolla, California.  The night before I was at a San Diego Padres game and my roommate and I had a few beers and thought it might be cool to run the half marathon the next day.  Conveniently the race started at the Del Mar race track which was across the street from our apartment in Solana Beach.  We woke the next morning to the sounds of the race beginning, so we raced off to the starting line.  We begged for safety pins along the way, passing runners coming the other way who had already started the race.  There is a mighty hill in that race that ascends along the Pacific Coast Highway towards Torrey Pines.  This was a tough climb, but it was nothing compared to how I felt on the home stretch.  There was beer at the end, though, and it was a great experience.

Since then I've competed a few more 13.1 races along with 6x 26.2 marathons.  I'm pretty confident that along with my good friends in Memphis this one will be fun!

The plan for tomorrow, Tuesday, is for me to run for an hour of track intervals.  4x 400, with an easy 200m walk between intervals.

Thursday's plan is a 45 min run nice and easy, nice and slow.

More to follow, stay classy...and thanks for stopping by.
DZ

Help Cancer Kids

Or: How to overcome debilitating inflammatory arthritis brought on by brain cancer treatments to "run" a half-marathon for St. Jude December 2nd in Memphis

Please click HERE to go to my fundraising page and support me as I strive to raise $1500 for St. Jude!

Or copy and paste this link into your browser:http://fundraising.stjude.org/site/TR?px=4314768&pg=personal&fr_id=88563  

I haven't blogged in six years.  Plenty has occurred during that time, but I'm getting this going again for the immediate purpose of sharing a new challenge.

I invite you to follow me as I prepare to tackle several things simultaneously.  I've tackled hundreds of running backs, receivers and quarterbacks in my time - some were pretty good, too!  But this thing is going to push me in the physical and mental space in a new way.

I'm running a half-marathon in December to raise money for St. Jude.  According to their website, St. Jude "is leading the way the world understands, treats and defeats childhood cancer and other life-threatening diseases."  This is a truly inspirational cause and one that our my wife Aimée has supported for decades.

We also have a personal connection to St. Jude through the Hardy family.  Aimee and Todd Hardy's son Josh was a true Warrior who inspired everyone he met.  To honor Josh's legacy, several of us are joining Aimee's team in this effort to support St. Jude.

For more on #SaveJosh visit the Fb page  

Why this will be a challenge for me, just the facts:

• The race is 13.1 miles 
• The race is December 2nd)
• The race is in Memphis, TN
• I haven't run a race this distance since January 2012
• I haven't run over 2 miles in about 2 years
• I have 12 weeks to get ready for this
• I want to raise a total of $1500 - about $100 a week

Watch me prepare for this race

I have 12 weeks for this race, but also have to successfully pass the Marine Corps Combat Fitness Test (CFT) this fall.  The CFT is three events, including an 880m run, which must be completed in 3 min 50 sec or less.  Preparing for these two physical challenges for me will not be easy.  But I am inspired.  And it would be awesome to get your support along the way!

Semper fidelis,

Dan Zappa (DZ)