Game On

After hunkering down in Houston for Tropical Storm Bill, I spent last week being chased by tornadoes in Iowa. More accurately, I spent the night before my flight glued to the hotel TV as the warnings and watches rolled through (nobody chasin’ me boy). Fortunately, the few tornadoes that were spawned were relatively small, and I don’t believe they did much damage.

Ah, the joy of sleeping in one’s own bed. ‘Tis one of life’s true pleasures, and one that I have too often taken for granted. The weekend was nice, and punctuated by the visit of one of my brothers. While he and I fought like dogs and were ultra-competitive in our youth, we have mellowed a bit in our old age. Mellowness aside, the highlight of the weekend was an impromptu head-to-head sprint. Goaded on by our children, we faced off over a distance of about 40 meters. In full view of God, our wives, and our children, I beat him by a good 2 strides. Yes, little brother was beaten in a sprint by a cancer patient in chemotherapy. Did I mention that my brother is a sheriff’s deputy? I hope the criminals of Pitkin County don’t discover running as a valid means of escape. The stage is now set for a September rematch when the family gets back together. Is it possible he can lose to guy who has been on chemo for 6 months?

If you haven’t figured out by now, I love to compete. I love testing myself against standards, and against others. This whole cancer ordeal plays right into that. I get to compete against the cancer and use each of my scans and labs as a scoreboard. There are two ways to judge whether or not I win*. The first is to live long enough to die of a cause other than this particular cancer. The second is to live longer than my original prognosis (1 year). In the spirit of competition and evaluation, I offer the C.Rushing Big C Countdown Clock. The clock is ticking down to the one-year anniversary of my year-to-live prognosis. If I’m still ticking after this clock stops doing so, I win. Game on.

In other sports related news:

I got a card from Nick Saban’s charitable foundation this week. I must admit that at almost forty-three years of age I felt a bit awkward getting a card from Nick’s Kids. Receiving an autographed card from Coach Saban (that's actually autographed), however, made me feel like a kid again, so I suppose it’s ok. Regardless of the age issue, it is always nice to know that others are praying for you and thinking of you. Big thanks to the Coach and all of the people at Nick's Kids.

For the past couple of years I have been involved in a regular golf game with some of Chattanooga’s finer gentlemen. We play weekly (and weakly) during the season and end the summer with a Ryder Cup style tournament. That this group of very creative people could do no better than “The Ryder Cup”, as a name for our tournament was one of life’s great mysteries. In my absence last week, however, the group rectified the situation by renaming the event “The Rushing Cup”. I am honored and flattered, but must remind the gentlemen that I’m not dead yet. This also raises several questions: Do I have to hit a ceremonial first drive to start the tourney? How many additional strokes does this honor come with? Am I now on the hook for purchasing an actual Cup? Does one still get to play in tournament if it’s named their honor? If so, and we lose, how awkward will that be? Do they know that there is already a Rushing Cup and that I retained it via a forty-meter sprint on Saturday? While questions remain, I appreciate my friends thinking of me, and I look forward to getting back out on the course this week so they can take my money.

*Note: The game is rigged, and I’m going to win- even if I have to redefine victory in some hippy, bleeding-heart, liberal way in which losing is actually winning, and everyone gets a trophy. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.

This week's chemo listen courtesy of Hot Chip.

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