If Bobby Riggs intentionally lost to Billie Jean King in The Battle of the Sexes, it matters. The truth always matters.

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ESPN recently ran a feature story about the allegation that Bobby Riggs intentionally lost the famous 1973 Battle of the Sexes match against Billie Jean.

I’ve read the piece and then listened to the writer discuss it on a podcast.

Am I convinced that it’s true?

No. But I think there’s a possibility that it’s true.

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Amanda Marcotte of Slate responded to the piece with one of her own entitled Did Bobby Riggs Throw His Match Against Billie Jean King? It Doesn’t Matter.

I can’t imagine a more ridiculous title or a worse premise.

Of course it matters. The truth always matters. Even when the truth may damage your cause or harm your narrative, it should always be sought.

In this case, however, the discovery that Riggs threw the match would not change the course or the perception of feminism in any way. In fact, I would argue that Marcotte’s piece does far more damage to feminism than the revelation that Bobby Riggs may have intentionally lost to Billie Jean King. It lends credence and weight to something that is no longer relevant. It implies that the feminist narrative is still dependent on King’s defeat of Riggs, even while she claims that the truth about the match “doesn’t matter.”  

Marcotte’s initial argument is that even if it were true that Riggs threw the match, it wouldn’t matter. Just because male athletes can jump higher and run faster than female athletes doesn’t mean that women should be paid less for the same work that men do or be any less entitled to affordable daycare.

Of course this is true. We all know this to be true. Even the most ardent, angry sexist would be hard pressed to argue that women should be paid less than men because they can’t jump as high. At no time in the history of the universe has this claim been made by even the most idiotic sexist. 

You don’t earn points for stating the obvious.

But it’s Marcotte’s ridiculous knee-jerk reaction to these allegations about an event that took place 40 years ago that risks lending credibility to something that should have absolutely to bearing on feminism at all. 

Is the feminist narrative really so dependent upon a 55 year-old retired professional tennis player losing a match to a 30 year-old female professional at the top of her game?

I hope not.

And has it been forgotten that this same 55 year-old retiree had already defeated 28 year-old Margaret Court, the #1 ranked women’s tennis player in the world at the time, just four months earlier?

In truth, The Battle of the Sexes was was hardly a feminist victory. At best it was a tie, and if you factor in age, it’s hard to argue that Riggs’ loss was a boost for feminism at all.  

Marcotte goes on to predict that after reading this ESPN story:

Every single embittered, sexist man in the country—every Fox viewer, every Limbaugh fan, every visitor to Ask Men—is going to eagerly forward this story to every guy he knows, chortling triumphantly that this finally proves that women are in fact the weaker sex.

Does she really believe that there are hordes of embittered, sexist men in this country still stinging over a tennis match that was played more than forty years ago?

Even if there were men still looking for vindication as Marcotte seems to believe, don’t you think they would’ve already found solace in the age disparity between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs? Riggs was more than a quarter-century older than his female opponents, and he defeated one of them (and according to the tennis rankings at the time, the better one) easily.

Marcotte is crazy if she thinks this potential revelation would even be a blip on the sexist radar.  

I realize that Marcotte’s intention was to say that this tennis match has no bearing on feminism today, and she is right. It doesn’t.

But to assume that sexist men are still angry about this match is ridiculous.

To state that the truth behind the Battle of the Sexes doesn’t matter is equally silly. 

This pint-sized hockey fan makes your average fantasy football player look like a joke.

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I have such respect for this little girl. The passion that she possesses for her favorite hockey player is beyond impressive. She makes the fantasy football  fanatics of the world look like little boys playing with Pokémon cards on the playground. 

Even her request for food at the end of the video is perfect. This little girl truly understands how to love and embrace a sport.

She’s probably about three or four years older than my son, but if I could arrange a marriage between the two of them, I would seriously consider it. And I think he’d thank me for it later.

He could do a whole hell of a lot worse than this little girl. 

Thrilled (and possibly giddy as a schoolgirl) for a friend

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ESPN's "This Is SportsCenter" is among the handful of classic sports ad campaigns of all time. Launched in 1995 by Wieden and Kennedy, the campaign—originally inspired by the mockumentary This Is Spinal Tap—has become a cult hit for anyone who follows sports on ESPN.

“Have you seen the latest ‘This is SportsCenter’ commercial?” has been a refrain often heard amongst me and my friends for years.

The most recent “This is SportsCenter” commercial may be my favorite of all time. It features tennis champion Rafael Nadal, but more importantly, it features my friend and SportsCenter anchor Bram Weinstein.

Knowing Bram’s humble, low key nature, I’m probably more excited about his appearance in this commercial than he is. For me, these commercials have been a fixture in my life for almost 20 years. They have been a source of hilarity and genius. Only the best and brightest have had the opportunity to appear in them.

Perhaps when you’re immersed in the industry, these commercials seem slightly less glamorous and awe-inspiring, but for someone like me on the outside, the idea that a friend could one day appear in one of these commercials is absolutely thrilling. Unbelievable, really. 

And he’s great in it, too.

Baseball pitchers are cowards. All of them.

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Last night Red Sox pitcher Ryan Dempster threw four consecutive pitches at Alex Rodriguez. The first nearly hit him in the legs. The next two were tight inside. The fourth finally hit him in the elbow and ribs.

These pitches were intentional. No one debates this. Obviously Dempster is not pleased with Rodriguez’s use of performance enhancing drugs. Even as a Yankees fan, I am not pleased. I’d prefer that Rodriquez be banned from baseball permanently, and I’d like to see every other PHD user banned for life, Yankees included/

I’m also not so naïve as to forget that beloved Red Sox slugger David Ortiz was also busted for steroid not that long ago.

But here’s the thing about last night’s incident and incidents similar to it:

Baseball pitchers are cowards. All of them. Even my beloved Yankees.

Long ago, it became acceptable for a pitcher to throw a ball at an opposing batter for any number of ridiculous reasons. Sometimes it’s in retaliation for a previously plunked batter, even if the previous incident was clearly accidental. Sometimes pitchers hit batters because they don’t like the way the batter trotted around the bases after a homerun or the length of time a batter spent admiring a homerun ball. Sometimes pitchers are upset because the batter stole a base when his team was leading by four runs or the batter hit too many homeruns in a single game or the batter said something unacceptable to the media.

Pitchers stand 60 feet away from their nearly defenseless victims and throw a rock-hard ball 80-90 miles per hour at their legs, backs, elbows and shoulders. Sometimes their aim is not true and they hit a head.

Like a said: They are all a bunch of cowards.

Can you imagine if this happened outside a baseball game?

My neighbor is offended by something I say or do, and in retaliation, he throws a rock at my knees from behind his backyard fence.

Or my colleague is displeased with the way I’m boasting about a recent performance review, so in retaliation, he throws a shoe at me from across the room.

These things don’t happen in the real world, not only because these actions would seem stupid, childish and possibly criminal, but because the real world is not populated with nearly as many cowards as you can find in a major league bullpen.

Is there anything less honorable than throwing a ball at a man who is forced to stand in a small, chalk-outlined box and wait for it to happen?

And then if the batter retaliates by charging the mound to fight the coward who just threw a ball at him, the batter is thrown from the game and possibly fined for his actions.

In baseball, you’re punished for acting like a man and attempting to at least fight fair.

Last night Alex Rodriguez got the last laugh by hitting the game-winning homerun. There’s no better revenge than winning, and sadly, there is no other revenge available to Rodriguez, since he is not a pitcher.

Leave it to the Red Sox to make Alex Rodriguez, the most hated man in baseball (and justifiably so), appear sympathetic, at least for a moment.

Network television turns a baseball fan into the butt of a joke. Is this okay?

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I’m torn.

On the one hand, I love this video. There is nothing better than watching a muscle-bound man struggle with someone so inconsequential.

All those hours spent lifting iron has apparently done this gorilla no good.

But on the other hand, this also strikes me as akin to the cowards who take surreptitious photographs of strangers and post them on social media in order to mock them.

I suppose that when you enter a major league baseball park, you acknowledge that your image may appear on television, but I’m not sure that this acknowledgement extends to being made the butt of a joke that will be viewed by millions of people in real time and online. 

What if he had been picking his nose? Or arguing with his wife? Or crying after receiving word that his dog had died?

Would it be okay then?

I feel for this guy. He was just trying to help.

Still, it’s hilarious.

Even I haven’t made this golf shot yet.

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I’ve made some terrible golf shots in the past five years.

I’ve hit a duck. I’ve somehow turned my ball 90 degrees and landed it in a drainpipe. I hit my tee shot onto an adjacent green while guys were in the midst of putting. I literally hit the broadside of a barn once.

Last year I hit myself with my own shot.

Even with my litany of embarrassing golf shots, I’ve never hit a golf ball into a restroom, as this pro did while on the European tour.

Sunday, however, was a good day. For just the second time in my life, I beat one of my three main rivals on the golf course by one shot, employing advice received on this blog in order to extract myself from a bunker on the penultimate hole in order to secure my victory.

I even made an inadvisable, near impossible shot from the edge of a pond, through a patch of tall grass, and onto the opposite bank in order to avoid taking a penalty.

For a few moments yesterday, I felt like a real golfer.

I’ve started taking notes on the rounds of golf that I play this year with an eye to a possible, albeit slender memoir. Something along the lines of Carl Hiaasen's THE DOWNHILL LIE: A HACKERS RETURN TO A RUINOUS SPORT.

I liked the book a lot, but Hiaasen wasn’t a hacker. He wasn’t PGA material, but he was a solid golfer before and after his return to the game.

I am a bad golfer. Legitimately poor.

The initial vision for my book would an account of my six month quest to defeat one of my three main rivals on the golf course before the end of the golfing season.

But my plan was foiled yesterday when my victory came on the second round that I played this year.

I’m not complaining, even though it disturbs my planned narrative flow a bit. A victory is always a good thing. An at least I’ve beaten this particular rival once before. It was a great day for me, but not my ultimate golfing moment.

For that to happen, I would have to beat Tom, the unfairly named nemesis and villain of the book.

Tom is my the white whale. He remains at sea, waiting for my harpoon.

Best basketball shot ever

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The thing I like best about this amazing, incredible, unbelievable, never-to-be-duplicated basketball shot is that it only happens because an opposing player (our antagonist) is overconfident in his supposed victory and therefore careless with the ball, and our protagonist (and my new hero) never gives up hope even in the face of overwhelming odds and almost certain defeat.

It’s the combination of victory and defeat that I like best.

The triumph of pluck and determination.

The knowledge that the brash and careless have suffered for their arrogance. 

Not to mention it’s the most incredible shot I’ve ever seen.

Football is better than fashion, even if both are inane.

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On Sunday night, my wife turned on the television half an hour before the Academy Awards were to begin to watch the fashion on the red carpet.

Less than two minutes later she turned it off.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s just so stupid,” she said.

I love her so much.

On Monday morning I criticized the existence of a piece in Slate entitled Oscar Shocker! Movie stars rivet the entire world by wearing stunningly conventional evening gowns and all the Oscar fashion talk in general. On Twitter, I questioned why anyone even cares about this nonsense.

A few people responded, questioning how one’s love for red carpet fashion is any different than my love for sports, and my initial response was that they were correct.

My love for the New England Patriots is illogical and fairly stupid.

The love for red carpet fashion is the same.

The people who questioned me were satisfied with his response.

But I think I’ve changed my mind.

Essentially, these people were arguing that it’s not fair to judge a person’s personal interests. To each his own. Some people like sports, Some people like fashion. Some people like bird watching.

Who’s do say which is better?

But I found myself thinking that some areas of interests and some hobbies have inherently more value than others, and there’s noting wrong with valuing one over another.

Take sports versus fashion, for example.

I attend Patriots home games with friends. I spend a day outdoors in the company of friends. While tailgating prior to the game, we cook and enjoying a meal together, listen to music, engage in conversation and meet new people. Then we enter a stadium and watch world class athletes who have trained for the entire lives compete against other world class athletes on the field of play.

Contrast this to the person who sits in front of the television for two hours before an award’s show begins in order to examine the clothing choices of actors entering a theater. These movie stars answer questions like, “Who are you wearing tonight?” and “Which movie do you think will take home Oscar?” Then the next day these actors and actresses are subjected to hundreds, if not thousands, of best and worst dressed photo galleries and glossy magazine covers in a spectacle not unlike high school. Discussion often includes the actor’s weight, nipples, makeup and hair.

Are these two areas of interest really comparable?

If you’re opposed to football because of the violence and sexism that it admittedly embraces, substitute it with tennis. Women’s basketball. Minor league baseball. Soccer. Track and field. The Olympics.  

As a parent, would you prefer that your child become a sports fan or a fashion fan?

Would you prefer your child to read an article about Anne Hathaway’s nipples (of which there are hundreds) or one about the rise of women’s soccer in the United States.

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I don’t even think all aspects of fashion are bad. As hesitant as I am to admit this (for the ammunition that it will provide my friends on the golf course), I have watched every season of Project Runway and loved them all. Unlike red carpet fashion, Project Runway is a television show that honors creativity, intelligence, competition and excellence. It is a show about designers who utilize their expertise, wits and problem solving skills to create amazing objects in a short period of time.

This is an aspect of fashion that I can embrace.

Even if you want to argue that fashion is better than football (and I could probably make that argument even though I might not believe it), can’t we at least agree that a hierarchy of value exists when it comes to personal interest? That a day spent reading or painting or listening to music or playing tennis with a friend (or even bird watching) has more inherent value than one spent watching Celebrity Rehab III or playing Farmville on Facebook?

“To each his own” is a valid way of viewing the world, but that does not mean that each choice is equal in terms of value and merit.

Some are just stupider than others.

When it comes to the pre-Academy Award red carpet television show, I’ll defer to my wife:

“It’s just so stupid.”

Three reasons I don’t ski. I also avoid cocaine and Angry Birds for similar reasons.

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I don’t ski.

Years ago, a doctor told me to avoid skiing because of the cartilage tears in both of my knees. While I often cite this as the reason for not skiing, I have admittedly never been one to adhere to doctor’s instructions.

The real reason I don’t ski is because of something I was told back in 1992. I was working at a bank in Stoughton, Massachusetts as a customer service representative. I was helping a man settle an issue with his account, and while I was waiting for the necessary information, I asked him if he had plans for the weekend.

“Skiing,” he said. “Always skiing.”

Having grown up poor, I had never been skiing before, so I mentioned to him that I’d like to try skiing someday.

“Don’t,” he said. “Skiing is exactly like cocaine. It’s expensive, it’s addictive and you will get hurt.”

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That sounded about right. So I decided there and then to never ski.

It’s the same reason I have never played Angry Birds or any other game on my iPhone. I know I would like the games a lot, and I know I would waste an enormous amount of time playing them.

Better to avoid them entirely. 

As the man rose to leave my office, he turned, smiled and said, “It’s also all about the quality of the powder.”

Bethany Meyer’s recent 5 Reasons This Family Isn't Skiing is a good list, but I like my former banking customer’s list better.

There is always a reason for an imaginary friend

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Someone invented Manti Te’o’s imaginary girlfriend. Whether he was the victim of an elaborate hoax or the perpetrator of the scheme, the fact remains: Te’o professed to loving a woman who did not exist. He had never held her hand, kissed her on the lips, or assured her that she was the best looking woman in the room. How could he? He had never laid eyes on her. Yet Manti Te’o had called Lennay Kekua “the love of my life.” She was an imaginary girlfriend in an imaginary world.

Only in an imaginary world would Te’o’s grandmother and girlfriend die within five hours of each other at the onset of a possible Heisman Trophy winning season. Only in an imaginary world would a star football player skip his girlfriend’s funeral, defeat an arch rival, and dedicate the game ball to her memory. And only in an imaginary world would the captain of a football team use the death of his grandmother and girlfriend to lead his team to an undefeated season and a shot at the national title.

This is the stuff of fiction, the stuff of invention. But it doesn’t come out of nowhere. There is always a reason for an imaginary friend.

I had an imaginary friend as a child. His name was Johnson Johnson. A friend and confidant, Johnson Johnson spent hours riding on my back, whipping his cowboy hat into the air and firing his pistols at traitorous Indians, the Lone Ranger to my loyal Silver. When my parents fought (which happened a lot), Johnson Johnson hid in the basement with me, keeping me company, keeping me safe.

It wasn’t until I was ten that I discovered that he wasn’t real. My parents occasionally took in foster children and I had made what I considered to be a natural assumption—that Johnson Johnson was just another temporary sibling. My mind had created Johnson Johnson and conveniently bestowed upon him all of the attributes that my younger brothers and sisters were lacking. Johnson Johnson didn’t depend on me. He didn’t insist that I wear a house key around my neck every day or that I make sure my siblings boarded the school bus safely. Johnson Johnson was the one person in my life who gave me what I wanted: the opportunity to be a kid. I wanted to ignore my parents’ battles and my siblings’ needs and just think of myself. Johnson Johnson allowed me to be irresponsible, unkind and selfish, and I loved him for it.

There is always a reason for an imaginary friend.

Twenty years ago, I knew a woman I’ll call Nancy. Nancy was a small in stature, high energy, uncommonly tolerant woman who called everyone she met “Honey.” Nancy was also gay and very much in the closet. In order to avoid the inevitable questions about boyfriends and marriage, Nancy invented an imaginary fiancée who had died in a car accident years before. This imaginary, deceased fiancée silenced nosy aunts and well-meaning acquaintances, and gave her a graceful excuse when it came to occasional offers of set-ups and blind dates. Her tragic loss kept the curious at bay.

There is always a reason.

As an elementary school teacher, I’ve known many children with imaginary friends. Some children possess an overactive imagination that requires an outlet. Others have a difficult time making friends and require close companionship. Imaginary friends fit the bill Always present, always supportive, they are allies and accomplices, that safe person to whom a child can always turn.

Imaginary friends serve many needs and they take many forms: small animals, paper dolls, ghosts, spots on the wall. Real children, too. Some of kids have adult-sized imaginary friends. These imaginary adults typically fill the roles of absent fathers and mothers. They’re often dressed in formal wear and carry umbrellas, handbags and briefcases. They’re called Mr. Bruno and Mrs. May—names that suggest authority and a certain order.

Imaginary friend exist for a reason, and it’s often a good one. But not always.

In September of last year, American voters watched Clint Eastwood invent an imaginary version of President Obama in order to debate him at the Republican Convention. Speaking to a chair, Eastwood created a stir by posing questions that Imaginary Obama could not answer. Like any good imaginary friend, Imaginary Obama served his master well, refusing to refute any of Eastwood’s claims. He just sat there, invisible and agreeable.

Hardly surprising.

After all, imaginary friends serve their imaginers at all times. That’s their job. They fill the gaps in our lives. The spaces of discomfort. In Eastwood’s case, Imaginary Obama served as the mute prop that he required. Lacking the courage to debate the real President Obama. Eastwood chose a straw man over the real one.

An imaginary president.

In the coming days and weeks, the reason behind the creation of Manti Te’o’s imaginary friend will likely be revealed. For Te’o’s sake, and for the sake of an American public that does not need another sports villain, I am hoping that Manti Te’o was naïve and gullible rather than nefarious and calculating. As tragic and mystifying as it may seem to fall in love with an imaginary girlfriend, at least there is innocence behind this idea. An understanding that we all want to believe in something. Perhaps Manti Te’o simply needed this more than most of us. Perhaps he needed something else.

There is always a reason.

Best use of duct tape ever

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I received a gift in the mail last week from a former student. Here it is.

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At first I thought that she has simply seen the Patriots logo, been aware of the versatile nature of duct tape and decided it would make the perfect gift.

If this had been the case, I would be have been quite happy with the gift.

But she transformed a great gift into an unforgettable, top-10 of all time gift by adding the following to the accompanying note:

Mr. Dicks, use this to shut the hollering mouths of the Jets, Giants and especially Dolphins fans in your classroom.

The principal informed me that duct taping the aforementioned children’s mouths was not appropriate (something I also suspected), but that’s okay.

When it comes to gift giving, it’s always the thought that counts.

Most unbelievable trade in the history of mankind. This is not hyperbole.

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This is nothing more than a few paragraphs lifted from a Wikipedia article about former major league pitcher Fritz Peterson and his teammate, Mike Kekich. It’s so incredible and unbelievable that it required restatement here.

Just try to imagine what it would be like if this happened today.

The world would probably explode. Seriously.

Fritz Peterson may be best remembered today for swapping families with fellow Yankee pitcher Mike Kekich, an arrangement the pair announced at spring training in March 1973. Peterson and Kekich had been inseparable friends since 1969; both families lived in New Jersey, their children were about the same age, and often they all would visit the Bronx Zoo or the shore or enjoy a picnic together. They decided that they would one day trade wives, children, and even dogs.

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The affair began in 1972, when the two couples joked on a double date about wife swapping, a phenomenon that caught on in some uninhibited circles during the early 1970s. According to one report, the first swap took place that summer, after a party at the home of New York sportswriter Maury Allen. The couples made the change official in October; Kekich moving in with Marilyn Peterson and Peterson with Susanne Kekich, but no word leaked out until spring of 1973. A light moment came when New York Yankees General Manager Lee MacPhail remarked, "We may have to call off Family Day." The trade worked out better for Peterson than it did for Kekich, as Peterson is still married to the former Susanne Kekich, with whom he has had four children. Kekich and Marilyn Peterson did not remain together very long.

My wife and children are ruining football for me.

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I attended the Patriots game on Sunday. The weather was spectacular, the pregame tailgate menu was superb, and most important, the Patriots won.

It was the first game in more than a month for me. I missed both home games in October thanks to my book tour and a wedding.

I was happy to return to Gillette Stadium on Sunday. I love attending Patriots games. When I was young, I made a list of life goals, and one of them was to become a New England Patriots season ticket holder.

I’ve been dreaming about these Sunday afternoons (and occasional Monday nights) for many years.

While attending these games often means the loss of an entire Sunday, there are only eight home games a season (six for me this year), so it isn’t too big a burden.

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Except now I have a wife and a daughter and a son who inexplicably continue to do fun and cute and memorable things while I am away at the game. Rather than placing themselves in suspended animation or parking themselves on the couch, anxiously awaiting my arrival, they do stuff that I want to do, too. They continue to exist, and I find part of me wanting to exist alongside them.

I miss them, damn it. It’s so annoying.  

Five years ago a day spent at the Patriots game was pure bliss for me.

Now I miss stuff like this, making the games slightly bittersweet. 

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The three day, three month, three year test

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Last year the New England Patriots played the Kansas City Chiefs on a Monday night in Foxboro. My fellow season ticket holder could not attend the game for less than acceptable reasons, and I could not find a soul who was willing to attend the game with me.

The freezing temperatures and the probability of arriving back home in Connecticut well after 2:00 in the morning (if we were lucky) deterred anyone from wanting to take the extra ticket and join me.

I hemmed and hawed all day about going to the game alone, knowing that if I went, I would be driving home from the game in the dead of night by myself. I’d also be watching the game from the icy confines of Gillette Stadium without the benefit of a friend’s companionship or a pre-game tailgate party.

In the end, I chose to remain home.

Last week I planned on attending a Moth StorySLAM in Manhattan. I had a story prepared and was ready to make the trip on my own (again, no one was willing to join me), but at the last minute, I chose to stay home. I had spent 5 of the last 6 days on the road, camping with my fifth graders, attending the Patriots home opener and traveling to Troy, NY for a book signing. With so much time spent on the road, I decided that I would be better off staying at home rather than enduring another long, late night drive on my own.

In the past two years, these two decisions represent two of my greatest regrets. I’m completely annoyed with myself for each decision, and I cannot foresee a time when I will not feel this way.

When it comes to making decisions like these, I use a “three day, three month, three year” test.

As difficult as it might be to travel to and from Gillette Stadium or New York City on my own, late at night, will I regret my decision three days later? Though I may be tired or even exhausted the next day, how will I feel about my decision three days from now, when I am well rested? Will I regret not having chosen the more difficult road?

What about three months later? When I look back on the missed opportunity, will that restful evening at home come close to matching what could have been? Will I even remember what I did on the night that I could have spent watching Monday Night Football or telling a story on a Moth stage?

What about three years later? What will mean more to me?

A forgotten evening at home amidst a thousand other evenings at home or the memories from a rare Monday Night football game?

Or the missed opportunity of taking the stage at a Moth StorySLAM and entertaining an audience of strangers with a story from my life? Perhaps even winning the StorySLAM and earning the right to perform in another GrandSLAM?

I am not implying that an evening spent at home with my wife and children is a forgettable, wasteful experience. Those evenings are some of the most cherished moments of my life. But I also believe that we must take advantage of the considerably less frequent opportunities like a Monday Night Football game or a Moth StorySLAM when they present themselves. The time we spend with our families and friends creates the fabric of our lives, but those moments we spend doing things that so many do not punctuate our lives and create the bright, specific memories that last a lifetime. We cannot allow a few hours of lost sleep or chilly temperatures or the promise of a bleary-eyed day at work prevent us from doing those things that so many people skip in favor of an evening in front of the television or surfing the Internet.

When making a decision about whether or not to do something that is hard, we cannot allow the subsequent 24 hours to dictate our decision. We must look ahead, three days, three months and three years, to see how we might then feel about our decision.

Perspective is a powerful tool in decision-making. While we can never know for certain how we will feel, we can predict how hindsight might make us feel. This is what I do when deciding between something that is easy and something that is difficult.

Tomorrow doesn’t matter. I can always survive tomorrow.

Will I regret this decision in three days, three months or three years time?

In terms of last years Monday Night Football game and last week’s StorySLAM, the answer is decidedly affirmative.