Frank’s Place: Best of 2015

best 2015Another year come and gone. We’re really starting to log some miles here at Frank’s Place. Like every year 2015 had some serious ups and downs. But like every year, since 2011 at least, we have blogged about it.

And since blogging is what we’re here to do, lets get to the posts with the most, the verbal stylings that y’all liked better than the rest.  As always they are in ascending order of popularity based on views each post got.


Frank’s Place hit the bigs! One of the surprising Ups for 2015. Two of Frank’s Place stories were published in an actual book. With real words, by a real publisher, that paid real money. Do I have to say it? Doesn’t get any more real than that folks.


A Night on the Tracks Another Up sort of. This from the back to work saga that became my life in 2015. More on that later. Needless to say going back to work required a car to get there. This is the fateful night of car shopping.


The plan begins to unravel

The plan begins to unravel

Oh Crap! They’re Gonna Make It!   This is a new development. The very first post of 2015 made the list. We decided to let the kids, then 5 & 2 years old, try to make midnight on New Years Eve. One of many tragic parenting decisions throughout the year.


Balloons on the Ceiling: A Birthday Tale.  How does one good deed lead to a week of punishment and pain. Read on McDuff. You’ll see.


Inside the Dust Jacket: A dedication.     The passing of my Father brought out some neat, sad, funny, great memories and thoughts. This one made it to print. What would I say to my family in the event I ever had my own book published. And why wait to memorialize them, just say it now. So I did.


Naked & Afraid: 2 Hours in the Mall Without My Phone!  This was the most fun post of 2015. My favorite. An editor’s choice if you will. Is it possible to experience the world without your smart phone? Who the hell cares. I don’t want to know.


It was that kind of year.

It was that kind of year.

3 Years Home! It’s Anne Marie’s birthday week. Who survives, who doesn’t?! The answer is me on both counts. Plus bonus birthday pics!


And we have reached the top 3. Yep, the three posts that had the most. Views that is. These three cracked the 250 mark for views on the day they were posted. That’s a first for Frank’s Place.


One Actionable Thing.  Our first guest author at Frank’s Place and she lands in the top 3. How do you like them apples? Mrs Frank’s Place took to the key board after the one of many mass shootings this year.


Stay at Home No More  Not sure how to take the response to this one. Over 320 views on the day it posted. Either people really wanted to read about the story of me going back to work or… they were really glad I was going back to work and thus not writing as much any more.

Francis John Linardo: An extraordinary, unknown, life.     We end this year on a major downer. I wrote this one in my head on my 10 hour drive home to Knoxville after my Father’s funeral in Jersey. That was in March so I’m not sure why but I thought then it might end up on this list at the end of the year. It’s truly amazing how your mind can work and wander when you have 10hrs of silence to let it.


In a German forrest made famous not 10 years earlier.

In a German forest made famous not 10 years earlier.


So ends the year that was. It had some sorrow to be sure, but there was a lot of joy as well. For that Frank’s Place is grateful!

Happy New Year!

The Candy Land Confessions

Church has changed a lot in my years of existence. When I was a kid you kept all your dirty secrets secret. Then on the first Friday of every month you lined up as a class, walked down to the Catholic Church and unloaded you horrifying sins on an unsuspecting priest through a strange identity concealing screen, took your 48 Hail Mary’s as penance, went to communion and got on with your life. No one is the wiser.

If you were light in the sin department that month you may have fabricated a few just to make it seem like you were a penitent kid. Nuns loved that stuff. Now though the church has become more progressive. You sit face to face with the priest, kids are not as ashamed of the stuff they did and the stuff they do is way worse than anything I could have conceived in my day.

The point being, kids are more open and forthcoming these days, more ready to confess to anybody who’ll listen. It’s like they have no fear of repercussion, of the mountainous stream of Hail Marys and Our Fathers that await them for their transgressions. It seems that way to me anyway. My son, by way of a board game, has become such a confessor. Before we get to that let’s discuss the evil that is Candy Land.

Plotting the entire time!

Plotting the entire time!

Candy Land: A Game of Confessions (not real title), was given to our kids by a person who shall  not be named. Pic to the left. Here we have a relative, an Aunt to our kids, holding our daughter in the NICU in 2012. It’s the picture of the dark side. Much like no one could have known Annakin would become Darth Vader, no one seeing the picture on the left could have known the evil plot that lurked within.

We’re not really sure why or how, but what could be pieced together from the archives shows it was some sort of revenge for a previous noise making Christmas gift. Ultimately the details of the attack are unimportant. The fall out however, is ongoing. How could such a benign gift pack such destruction? How could such a pleasant looking person perpetrate such evil? Well pull up a chair and I’ll tell ya.

Candy Land is a game without end. Not like Chutes & Ladders or Hi Ho Cherrio, games that can absolutely never be completed. No Candy Land can be played rather quickly. Getting to the ginger bread thing at the top doesn’t take much time. So the first time you play it you think, “Awesome that took no time at all! Yeah let’s play again.” Boom you’ve just be tricked, hoodwinked, bamboozled. As Malcom X once said, “I didn’t land on Candy Land, Candy Land landed on me!” Or something like that.

No matter. The hook is set. Candy Land games end so quickly relative to all those other kid’s games that drone on and on they make Monopoly seem like a Minute Clinic, you get tricked into playing again. And again. And again. And again. And… You get the point.

The dreaded Loli-pop forest, where parents go to die. Or something...

The dreaded Loli-pop forest, where parents go to die. Or something…

So does the kid. They know they have you. They know the hours of trying to pick all the damn cherries from your cherry tree only to land on the f*%*ing basket symbol on the spinner and have to put them all back. They know you will wise up and make excuses on why you can’t play. They also know you can’t escape the allure of a quick four games of Candy Land, where you get the added benefit of feeling like you just spent quality time with your kid and are therefore a good parent.

It’s the dark side people. Believe it.

However some light has shone through the darkness of Candy Land and was the impetus for the title of this particular screed.

In the midst of a rather length Candy Land marathon I needed to run upstairs and deal with midget #2. When I got back my #1 had a strange look on his face. His look got stranger when I turn over the next card and was rewarded with the Cinnamon Bun symbol, putting me almost to the end. Two cards later: victory, and the chance to play again, and again, and again. His look of consternation at that moment finally made sense. He fixed the cards while I was out. Frank realized he counted wrong when I got the cinnamon bun before him.

The next time we played we had just finished and I had to run upstairs again. I told him to shuffle as I would be back in a few ticks. He looked down at his feet and said he shouldn’t be allowed to shuffle. “I’m a cheater daddy. I’ll just make the cards so I can win.” Yes Frank, yes you are cheater. Not much of a card counter apparently. Gonna have to perfect one or the other son.

I wasn’t really too concerned with the deck fixing. He’s six. I sort of looked at it like he’s becoming competitive. My job will be to channel that into winning within the rules. But what surprised me the most was his openness with the whole thing. Reference the paragraphs of evil above, Candy Land games run together like the sands of an hour glass. I had completely forgotten he tried to cheat me mere hours, yes hours, before. I’m still not currently sure what day it is, having just extricated myself from gum drop mountain. He could have taken that little secret to the nether world with him and no one would have been the wiser.

Silly kid. Quit making me parent. Save it for First Friday.


Back to Work: A Stranger in a Strange Land

Editors Note: Ok so this work thing sucks. Not the job itself mind you, that’s been great. Great people, great environment, great schedule. The greatness of it is great. No, it’s my inability to sit down and write stuff.  I have stuff, a lot of stuff. I’m still trying to get myself on a good schedule here at home so I can post that stuff on a regular basis. Hang with me gang, I’m working on it. Speaking of work, enjoy my tale of travel to a far off land called West Texas.


Back to Work: A Stranger in a Strange Land

West Texas man. You gotta want it. You gotta want it real bad. As a friend who lives out yonder way said to me, “It’s West Texas my brother, home of the rugged, get yourself a gun and go hunt something.”

He’s not kidding. These folks are rugged. How rugged? Well I got there on Sunday and it was 80 degrees. Monday the hail was so thick you couldn’t see. By Monday night a mile wide tornado, that’s 1 mile across people, passed us in Amarillo and hit a small town called Pampa.

How you doin?

How you doin?

The tornado, an F4 I think,  sent several houses on the edge of Pampa into the stratosphere and it leveled the entire Haliburton plant. Human casualties – 0. As in zero, none, nada, zilch. No deaths at all. These people know how to do tornadoes. The next day it was 34 degrees and snowing. Not kidding. It snowed all day. No one batted an eye. By Wednesday the sun reappeared but we had straight line winds in excess of 40 miles an hour. Still no one flinched. Except me. I left at 5am the next day, it was calm and warming. What in the actual hell?

Are the people of West Texas rugged? I’d say so. Crazy? Probably. I mean they’re crazy by default right? Why would you willingly live in a place that limits your ability to golf unless you were “a little touched in the head?” But the weather is only part of the fun in West Texas. Driving in the Panhandle is a life experience all it’s own.

Somewhere over the rainbow on old RT66.

Somewhere over the rainbow on old RT66.

The phrase you can see for miles and miles and miles is not just a catchy song lyric. In the Panhandle it’s the God’s honest truth. In the day time it’s pretty cool. The pic on the left is me unwisely and probably illegally taking a picture as I drive down old RT 66 back to my hotel. My speed here is moderately fast. Which is to say I was haulin the mail. Hey when in Rome…

But the fun really starts when it’s dark. My trips to the work destination were early morning, like 5am. That’s actually 4am for you eastern standard time kids. So it’s freaking dark. Look at that picture again. Imagine it with no visible horizon, no lighting, no landmarks to separate the ground from the sky. Now, pretend for a second you can see the dash in the that pic. It would read about 75mph.

That would be about 15mph slower than every other freaking car on that road at 5 o’clock in the AM. How do I know that? Well, on the first day driving in they all passed me, that’s how. It took me two days of driving into that void to get my bearing. On the third day I felt comfortable enough to let the smoke out of the engine of that Mazda 3 rental they gave me. Aside from being a little rocket on wheels, the M3 was like a smart car. As it turns out it was smarter than me. And thank god for that.

Tiring of spending $11.50 American on an egg & cheese croissant from the hotel lobby I decide on the third day I would stop at one of the numerous truck stops on I-40. Apparently I was getting too cocky. This little smart car came with a giant key and key fob. But it was a push button start, so other than unlocking it, the keys were useless. I got in the bad habit of dropping them in the console after engine start.

As I’m walking back to my little rocket on four wheels with about 3800 calories of morning goodness, (that’s a #3 with a diet coke and extra hash brown from the golden arches), I realize the friggen keys are snug as a bug in the console of the rental car I just locked. For reasons I can’t go into, I was not able to carry my cell phone for most of the trip. So guess what the keys were resting on?

Yeah so I’m in the middle of no where, I know no one, and that wouldn’t matter cause I have no way to contact anyone. I have sustenance and shelter in the form of the McDonald’s, but if I want help I’ll need to engage a stranger. Not exactly my strong suit. In desperation I keep walking toward the car. It did make a strange beep when I shut the door on my way into heart attack alley, so maybe, just maybe…

HA HAH! VICTORY! The smart car is smarter than the driver. It won’t lock with the keys in it and no one in the seat. Must be a weight sensor or some such thing in the driver seat. I don’t care because I’m eating, I’m mobile again, I won’t be late, and more importantly I need not the help of strange people. That’s just a straight up win for everybody involved. I mean there is a good chance I’d still be wandering around out there in the middle of God’s country, having long exhausted my #3 with diet coke if not for the smartness of the key fob.

Of course, it’s West Texas. I could have just picked up one of the random guns lying about and hunted something.



A night on the tracks.

OK, so it’s taken me a little longer than I thought it would to get my feet firmly planted on the ground after joining the workforce again. And yes, I’m aware raising kids is a full time job with no pay. I’ve been doing it since 2009 so all offended personnel can downshift and relax.

My hope is to get on a once a week schedule here. So check back next Saturday, I’ll do my best to meet you here. New job not withstanding.

Tons of stories emanating from my new place of business too. The irony, I can’t write those stories for several reasons. At some point I may be able to figure a generic, nonspecific to work function, way of telling them. But for now no dice. What I can write about are the events leading up to getting the job and what home life looks like now that I’m only in my home from 5pm to 4:45 am the next morning.

This is one of those. Enjoy.

A Night on the Tracks.

As a stay at home it turns out the work always comes to you, always. In the shower, a face appears pressed against the shower door. In the bathroom, a tiny hand appears under the door trying to pry it open. In bed at oh I don’t know, 5:30 in the am, a set of eyes stare at you out of the darkness like Children of the Corn. Work as a stay at home is always conveniently within arms reach.

We had a good run fellas.

We had a good run fellas.

Not so when someone hires you for a job. They expect you to come to them. Never occurred to me. I needed a new sled. The Starship Frankerprise would be staying with the kids. I would be leaving. That separation difficulty, mine not theirs, is another story all together. Never the less a new ride was in order.

So me and the Mrs hit the happy hour at Chuy’s and then went car shopping. Cause you know, drinking, nacho’s and driving new cars is a natural combination. Sort of like open flames and gasoline.

So off we went. Below is the recounting of that night.

“Oh I think we have a gallon or two, that should be plenty.”

That should have been my clue to park the car and exit immediately. But I’m an ass sometime so instead of being the smarter person I started calculating how far we may get from the dealership when the tank dries up and where might that be. Lots of roads, businesses, parking lots, etc… to choose from. Dead center of a railroad crossing never entered my mind.

I’m not very smart.

So as we crest a small hill and coast down to a RR Crossing and then a T intersection, the car gets amazingly quiet. Since I’m driving I know what just happened. We’re out of gas. Now my calculations spin from where we’ll stop to, Oh crap are we going to make it over this set of train tracks. The sales guy, ever the optimist says no problems, we’re fine. My response, Really bro cause unless this thing just switched into stealth mode, we’re out of gas.  Took him a few more ticks than I would have thought to catch on to the implications.

Tracy was in the back seat and either oblivious to what was going on up front or she was in the Who cares I just had the 2 for 1 margarita special at Chuy’s mode. I think I was more amused at the sales guy. He just wasn’t cluing in to or not accepting the fact that indeed we were out of gas and had breached the track crossing and needed a good tail wind to get all the way across.

Thankful we had the law of inertia working for us and we slowly moved across the tracks. But of course now the steering wheel is like a block of cement and we are at the T. Sales guy says ok get us on the shoulder by the tracks. Now all of a sudden he’s aware of the danger but still strangely unaware of what happens to a car when it runs out of gas. He’s getting hyper because I’m not executing a barrel roll to get us to the side of the road. I’m not busting him in his cake-hole because I need both hands to move the wheel a 1/4 inch so we can slowly roll to the gravel shoulder by the tracks. Cause you know, WE ARE OUT OF GAS SALES GUY!

We finally come to rest on the gravel about 5 feet from the tracks. For all my northern brethren, this is the south. Train tracks are not guarded by fencing or any other barricade. You can cross a street and walk right on to an active rail if you want. So that 5 feet will come to mean something. Generally what it meant was sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel is in fact a train.

I see it first in the rear view mirror. I sarcastically say Oh look a train, just what we need, maybe they have gas. Sales guy stops his banter long enough to look in several mirrors to confirm it is a train. Good thing he was there. By the way, it’s the south. This is not a commuter train. It’s a 2 mile long chemical rail car train. How we were not flipped over or buffeted to pieces is beyond me. But the train did pass and we were able to put the windows down again.

That was a mistake.

Apparently a skunk, somewhere up the train line, had decided he was done with this cold cruel world and went towards the light. His odor followed the train about a minute after it passed us. The pungent was strong with this one. And just like that the skunk’s despair became ours.

A short 45 minutes later two people from the dealership show up. We were 3 miles from said dealership. Sales guy called the second the car came to a stop. Not entirely sure what was going on that required all that time to travel all that 3 miles. But they came with gas so at this point who cares. Sales guy says Oh it’s the general manager. I guess I was supposed to be impressed by that. Let me say if I have not already, I’m an ass. Three people would impress me if I met them: Chuck Yeager, Jesus, and Tiger Woods. And I’m not entirely sure of the order. The GM from a car dealership doesn’t even make the third cut of that list. But like I said he brought a guy who brought gas so who cares. Just filler up bub.

Upon seeing the gas can it occurred to me what took so long. They time traveled back to 1960 Mayberry so they could hit Wally’s Filling Station and borrow it from Goober. Didn’t even have a spout. They brought a funnel. It was a good looking funnel. Apparently it was not a functioning funnel. I say that because half way through the filling process the GM reached over his other sales guy and inexplicably grabbed the can. It, of course, disengaged the funnel and covered the GM and his nice suit in gas.

Well how could it not? At least the gas smell covered over the stink of despair from our dear departed skunk. So it should no be a surprise at this point to know they put the gas covered gas can in the trunk of the car we may buy. I guess that was better than one of those old pine tree air fresheners. We did make it back to the dealer without incident. Or should I say without further incident.

Old and new, side by side. No skunks.

Old and new, side by side. No skunks.

I will say while we did not buy that car, it sold the next day skunk despair/gas fumes and all, we did go back and buy a similar car. The dealer is Auto Nation Honda in Knoxville and aside from this little tale they are great. We bought the Frankerprise from them and the service department is really the bees knees. Hard to beat waiting for your car to get an oil change while you eat from a complimentary dessert buffet and get a massage. Really, they have masseuses and fudge stripe cookies free for people waiting for their cars ! Fudge Stripes and a free rub down? How can you beat that?

So a little night on the tracks wasn’t going to deter us from getting my new ride. If you’re in Knoxville and looking for a car, do yourself a favor and go see them.

Bring your own gas can.

Stay at Home No More

I did not, however, win the lottery with those numbers.

I did not, however, win the lottery with those numbers.

One thing I have learned since retiring from the Air Force to raise my two kids is change is not only inevitable, it’s fast moving, never ending, and it can sometimes be an angry little bastard. The kids change at dizzying pace. What they like to eat, what they will eat (these are not always the same), what they like to wear, and play, and do. Hell I’ve changed, and I didn’t think that was possible.

Situations change too. And those changes force other change. And that’s where we find ourselves at the very moment; a big change at Frank’s Place.

I’ve received an offer I cannot refuse. An organization has made me a substantial offer (read money, greenbacks, doubloons. You get the idea) to do some teaching, mostly in the leadership area but some other areas as well. It’s a full time gig so I will begin the inevitable; removing the title “Stay at Home Dad” from all obelisks and pylons, or ya know, Facebook and Twitter and blog profiles.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. But not to worry. It’s a 4 day, 10 hour schedule with every Friday off so my golf is not in jeopardy. I know y’all are as relieved as I am. There is one person in Knoxville that has been wearing sack cloth and ashes for the past few months in faith I would get this job so our Friday morning round will go on uninterrupted. Praying and fasting people, it’s not just to ward of the seven plagues of Egypt anymore.

Will there be changes here at Frank’s Place? Probably. I have no idea what they might be. I can guess my posts will actually become more regular. I can foresee a steady Saturday morning deal whilst watching The Premier League. I really can’t envision anything too drastic. We’ll see.

Two funnies I can relay without delving into specifics of where I’ll be working. The HR department called to say the offer was official and to give whatever notice to my other employer as was necessary. It’s a big place and my resume doesn’t say I’m a stay at home, so no big deal. But I did give notice to the kids, in verbal and written form. They had mixed feelings but understood the need for me to develop more and wished me the best in my new endeavor. Ha not really.

We had a good run guys...

We had a good run guys…

Frank was happy mommy would be home during the day cause daddy complains too much. Meaning I make him clean his room, pick up his toys in the living room, clear his place at the table, do his school work…. He’s not sure about getting to the bus stop or school on time now. All I’ll say on that subject is his concerns are not without merit. 6:30 comes pretty early in the morning.

The midget, well she loves her daddy and she’ll miss me as much as I’ll miss her. But she’s going to love being home with mommy.

The other funny? Well it might not be funny to you all but it’s downright hilarious to me. There is quite an extensive physical involved with this job. They drew my blood at 6:05 am. I note the time only because it’s a little ironic that both my kids sleep well past that point. Anyway by 2 in the pm as I was finishing that last of the physical stations I received my blood-work results.

Now keep in mind I’ve been at home since September of 2009 eating what ever the kids left on the plate. I know I know, but it’s a reflex action. In 2010 at my first ever civilian physical the young good looking lady doctor told me I was a fat man heading for sure death. To avoid that I should fire my lawn guy and do it my self, which I did, and to play golf at least once a week as long as I walk and not use golf cart. I never take a cart unless the course won’t let us walk so I was good to go there.

I say all that to say this. Aside from those two things, the golf and doing my own mowing, not much has changed since 2009. Back then my cholesterol was high. Last week it was 15 points lower and in the green. I’m also about 20ish pounds lighter from 2012 when the midget was born. No meds, no routines, no low carb diets, just good old American yard work and golf. Again you might not think so but that’s pretty damn hilarious.

So with that bit of healthy news and my notice given to the kids, back to the work force I go. I’ve worked two places in my life: the stockroom/sales floor at Sears and the United States Air Force. Sears & Roebuck paid very little in 1985, and expected even less. The US Military pays even less but demands the maximum effort from its members at all times. I’m proud and privileged to have served and for the most part given my best effort for 22 years.

But this new joint? This is a whole new level. It’s been six years since I answered to the man, put in an honest days work, or even wore pants that would remotely be considered “nice”. I’m about to stretch some muscles I’ve not used in a long time. Figuring out the plots lines of Jake and the Neverland Pirates or Doc McStuffins (how does she work without a license or medical degree) are a thing of the past. Gonna have to know stuff again.

God help us all.


Hey Pele, this ain’t the World Cup.

Editor’s note: the following is a very non-meaningful, nonsensical, get it off my chest, rant. AYSO is a fine organization as I’m sure are the people who run it. Never the less, proceed at your own risk.

<begin rant>

Look man, I’m all for team sports. Although not nearly as fun, educational, and downright awesome as golf, team sports teach a lot of life lessons for our kids. Futbol, or soccer, is one of my favorites. An addict of the Premier League and fervent fan of the Arsenal Football Club, I think it’s a great sport, especially for my kids. So just remember this little intro as you read what’s coming.

Youth Soccer ain’t that important. It just isn’t. And I type that as I watch Crystal Palace v West Bromwich Albion.

As hurricane Joaquin was bearing down on the US, the south started getting the rain. It’s been raining in Knoxville since Thursday. The storm has since moved on but not before causing the cancellation of several Major League Baseball games and causing the NCAA to put plans in place for the altering of their Saturday college football schedule.

You get that? College football was planning to alter their schedule because of the storm. The irony of all that? I was planning on some serious football (both types) watching on this rainy, no wait, rained out Saturday. So imagine my surprise when my phone lights up at 7:45 in the AM with a text message from the good people at AYSO. That’s American Youth Soccer Organization for the uninitiated. The text, in short, read:

“U5 U6 and U8 games are on. All other games are off.”

End transmission.

U5 denotes age group. So U5 means all kids under the age of five. U8 is kids under the age of 8 but older than 6. You get the idea. I’m sure by now you also get the idea that my son Frank falls into one of those Game On category’s. U8 to be exact. Game time 8:30 in the AM on a field that floods from a heavy dew. It’s been raining for two days and it has just stopped raining. Here’s a peep at the weather in our part of the world this morning at game time.

No thanks.

No thanks.

That ain't England. It's a storm.

That ain’t England. It’s a storm.

So cloudy and 55. As I said the rain had just stopped. But take a peek and the bottom left of the first picture. The little radar map. I blew it up for you.

We are the middle red dot. See all that yellow and green on the right and the little green and blue to the left, that’s the storm window AYSO was trying to squeeze the littlest kid’s games into. Mind you that weather is moving east to west because of the hurricane. So yeah, the big stuff was yet to come.

And yeah I get it. Kids are soft, American is weak, the next generation is nothing like those that came befzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Yo man, he has school on Monday. You can stuff all that soft nonsense. Rain and cold on Saturday equals sick and absent on Monday.

My standard of toughness has changed. The nurse who ran the first baby class we went to as we waited for Frank to appear gave us all a good rule of thumb for baby comfort and safety. If the temp in the house is too cold for you, it’s too cold for them. If the bath water is too hot for you, it’s too hot for them, etc… Man that is quality advice.

I now adapt that to events like AYSO soccer. If it’s not weather I would golf in, it’s not weather for my 6 year old to be playing soccer in. Trust me, I’ve golfed in some serious weather. Ask anyone I’ve teed it up with. But if you have already made a conscious choice to cancel all the other games because of the impending weather why are you trying to jam the smallest kids in your program on the field?

These games have no playoff implications. There are no World Cup standings being affected. These games are not important enough for 6 year olds to play if you already know the weather will be too bad for the 12 year olds to play.

Of course I have no doubt the issue is money. We pay for the kids to play so missed games have to be made up. Parents no doubt want their money’s worth. Cancelling games altogether is problematic I would imagine. So the fewer games you have to make up the better. I get it.

But dammit man! It’s 55 and cloudy and the field is a muddy mess and Bournmouth v Watford starts at 10:00am on NBC SN and more weather is coming. Sitting in my barcolounger watching adults play futbol/soccer from the climate controlled comfort of my living room sounds so much nicer.

So, I made the decision. He stayed home.

And it was glorious.

<end rant>