The Wind Up

“Remember when we used to blah blah blah together? I miss that.”

                

Oh jeez. What an inspiration. The Caitlyn Jenner level of courage it must take to send that text after not talking for several years and ending on bad terms. What actually goes through one’s mind to put this into the air? At what point do you think to yourself, “Yep. Sending this text is a good idea. It’s not creepy or weird or inappropriate at all.”

                

What good can come from that? Do you expect the reader to just respond with some fairytale shit like, “Yeah, I remember. I miss it. I miss you. We deserve another chance together. We owe it to ourselves.” Please. Best case scenario is that you get ignored and you get a chance to pretend that you never sent that message. Worst case is you get a response out of pity. Oh Lord...

                

“I do remember that [insert name here]. But that was a long time ago. I’m with someone else now and I’m happy.” That’s not what you wanted to hear, is it? So now you’re going to act out, call the reader names, call their partner names, tell them your text was a joke to begin with, just generally start acting like a tired child. What are you doing? How bored are you that you choose to instigate this type of drama AGAINST YOURSELF to get the minutes ticking over?

                
If I give you the benefit of the doubt, however, I may be able to find a slight speck of genius hidden in your actions. Maybe you too are in a new relationship. You’ve found someone, you’re pretty happy, but the passion isn’t there. You are a little bored. You would start a fight, but they’ve done nothing wrong. Light bulb – I’ll start a fight with my ex and get it all out of my system. Get my excitement fix. My taste of drama. Kudos on your diabolical relationship management skills and/or blind act of foolish courage. You are hilarious and I am starting to write a sitcom in which the main character is based on you. Now.

Pet Peeve #34 – My Bubble

                Spatial awareness. Is this something we are born with but some choose to ignore? Is it something we develop at different speeds? Do some people have a lower ceiling when it comes to spatial awareness? It’s a growing epidemic and something needs to be done!

                I’m 6’7” with a relatively solid frame. I KNOW YOU SEE ME! People choose to ignore other people coming towards them. Is this how self centred we are as a society? We all just think, “Oh they’ll move, it’s not like they’re going to want to bump into me.” If I did choose to be like these obnoxious assholes I feel like I could do some damage. However, I’m pretty nimble for my size and I regularly have to break out some fancy footwork just to go grocery shopping. I’m going to put on some classes at the Y on Tuesdays and Thursdays to help some of you fools out. Here’s what you can expect:

                I see myself in the mirror every day. I have real conversations with people. I’m 98% sure that I’m not a ghost. This eternal game of chicken must come to an end! See you on Tuesday to work on your feet.

The Search

            “Clay, why don’t you ever write anymore? You should bring your blog back, that shit was hilarious!”

           Yeah, I could continue writing about my pet peeves and going on mildly sexist rants about relationships, and I might – give the people what they want, right? But what my writing has been missing is something that I feel that I myself have been missing; substance.

            My basketball journey has been long. It has been hard work. It has taken hours of dedication and sacrifice. It has taken its toll on me both physically and mentally. It has taken over my identity, and finally I’m starting to build myself into Claybrin McMath the person, rather than Claybrin McMath the basketball player.

            Now don’t get it twisted – I still love the game and I’m not ready to give up on my dream, I’m just ready to talk about how my mindset has changed from a bright-eyed 13 year old, to my 25 year old present self.

            I was born with a ball in my hand, taking after Dad from the jump. I had dreams of the NBA! Until I was 13 I was hesitant to play club basketball. A shy kid that got bullied in school, the thought of having to meet new people gave me anxiety. But eventually I realized that I wasn’t going to get any better if I didn’t join a more structured program, so I joined the Sturt Sabres. The coaches there developed my game quickly, my teammates were accepting, and we were successful. My love and appreciation of the game blossomed. All I watched was basketball. When it was nice out, I would shoot hoops. When it was raining, I would shoot hoops. I would only play basketball video games. Basketball consumed me. It was my first love.

            Basketball gave me an education, it took me to five different countries, I have met amazing people, and experienced some things that a lot of people will never have the chance to appreciate. Although while I was experiencing all of those incredible things; my identity became a sport. I was inspired by and obsessed with basketball. Basketball was who I had become.

            It was only recently that I realized that the identity I developed through basketball had taken over everything else that I was. That I am. I am so invested in this game, it dictates my decisions, my actions, my thoughts, my dreams, my relationships, my emotions, my entire life. Is it everything to become a pro? Something I never actively asked myself until the beginning of this year. The answer is no, but it is still a goal I wish to achieve. I still have a burning desire to be the best I can be. I still have the untamable will to compete. I still have the love and the passion that I was born with. But I have experienced some new things too; disappointment, adversity, and resentment.

            I have gone through losing seasons that I had only ever heard or read about. I have performed poorly. I have gone through a number of injuries and comebacks. I have missed out on making teams. I have sat on the bench for entire games. But it was my love for the game that always brought me back to practice the next day, or even that same night.

            I have given the game everything and I have sacrificed so much, that there are times that I feel like the games not giving back. This is where my resentment of the game comes in. I had never felt anything like it until I had a second tough year in college. I felt like I gave everything I had to this game and was getting nothing in return, “You’re getting a free education.” I would remind myself. But it wasn’t free; it had cost me my pride and happiness at that point. I was mad at basketball for taking that from me, but I was madder at myself for giving it away. And now? Now I’m ashamed of myself for being ungrateful for the chance I was even given, and for not allowing myself to be more than a sport for twenty-five years.

            Now that college is over and money is involved, I place that little extra bit of pressure on myself. Allowing that external incentive to become internal impacted my performance negatively, quickly and noticeably. When this happened for a few games in a row, I became stressed and began to really think about what I do and where it really sits in the big scheme of things. I get paid to do what I love! Whether I get another contract or not for the next season is not a factor. Right now, today, that is what I do and I’m grateful for that. Once I de-stressed, took a step back and looked at my situation from the outside, I noticed a lot more about myself. Other passions of mine started to become more important. At the age of twenty-five my personality developed through the athletic ceiling I had previously placed upon it.

            Once I came to the realization that I was seeing the game as a business more than I was seeing it as a passion, I had to make a change. I changed how I viewed myself, and how I viewed the game. I changed how I viewed my experiences and my capabilities. I changed how I viewed my past, present, and future. And by looking at all of this differently – I learned who Claybrin McMath really is.

Pet Peeve #33 - Close Talkers

I have no interest on what your last meal was. I don't want to see it on Instagram, and I sure as hell don't want to smell it whilst you're invading my space and talking to me close enough to kiss.

If you're not telling me a secret out of necessity, or kissing me - there is no reason for me to be able to smell or taste exactly what your last beverage was. I'm going to go ahead and say that if you're any closer than a foot from my face you're talking too close to me. I can hear you. I just don't understand why some people feel like they need to be that close to talk. Are my eyes THAT pretty? Are you trying that hard to read my facial expressions? Or is it that you want to smell my last meal? Because that's impossible - I'm holding my breath so I don't have to smell yours, soooo we're at a stalemate here.

If you're within your 1 foot radius and you're a man - you're within head butting distance and I'm listing you as a threat. If you're within this radius and you're a woman - you're within kissing distance and now I'm uncomfortable and probably unwilling to continue the conversation... Or executing kissing phase.

Twitter

Twitter is a crazy bitch’s time to shine. Are you famous? No. Are you crazy? Yes. Do people care what you have to say? No. Will people read what you have to say simply because it is there? Yes. As I said – It’s a crazy bitch’s time to shine.

                Obviously I don’t have access to your timeline, but I think I can accurately guess at least a few recent posts from crazy bitches:

                There is one complaining about loneliness and how much she needs a man in her life. Complaining about how she can’t just meet a good man who will respect her. Well, you have to admire her honesty – but no man who reads that thirsty shit wants any parts of that action.

                There is one ‘complaining’ about how big her tits are. We get it, you have big tits, we’ve noticed. Obviously someone was not given enough attention growing up. Maybe a sibling was born when you were like four and it was cuter than you? Congratulations on all your followers – you earned them with your cleavage ridden avatar. May I recommend some self respect?

                There is a side bitch trying to expose some dude out there. He is somewhere reading your tweets laughing hysterically while his friends dap him up. You think his girl is reading the tweets and is about to confront him. She doesn’t follow you because you’re an idiot.

                There is one posting pictures of cats. We are unsure if they are supposed to be funny or cute. We label them as crazy and creepy. Get friends.

                There is one attempting to be inspirational, however we all know her and she does NONE of what she posts on social media. Practice what you preach – or be real. Choose one.

                There is one posting happy birthday to her “bestest fraaaand evaaaaaa” for the 365^th day in a row. I’ll give you a maximum of 10 best friends – which is a bit rich. And just type in English please.

                There is one posting pictures of her and her booboo kissing. She just got unfollowed. And her boyfriends unfollow button got seriously hovered over. He got a considerate “It’s not his fault.”

                Finally, there is one posting pictures of HIMSELF sleeping captioned, “She play too much, takin’ pictures of me sleep.” There is a MIRROR in the background. Unfollowed, blocked, defriended, number deleted, changed classes, transferred schools, moved interstate. Stop this mess.

                If none of this is on your timeline you have already unfollowed these clowns… Or you’re famous and you follow nobody. If you’re famous tell Diddy I’m a bad boy for life.

Pet Peeve #32 – First Like

First place. A great accomplishment since the very dawn of time. First caveman to arrive back at the cave with food got all the cavewomen. First kid to raise their hand with the correct answer is the smartest kid in the whole wide world. First in a race – gold medal. First in a dog grooming contest – blue ribbon. First place is a good thing, but what you come first in is not always worth congratulations.

                If you are the first person to ever commit mass genocide, do you want a prize? Do you want congratulations? How about a big “Fuck you, Hitler!” from anyone who ever lived for the rest of eternity? “I saw her first!” Oh really? You saw her first? In that case, I’ll just let you have her and I’ll be forever alone. Not going to happen. “I heard that song before anyone even knew about it.” Whoa bro, maybe Drake will be your best friend and give you a million dollars. Pick something meaningful to be first at.

                Some people are so desperate to be first, that they will literally comment “first like!” on photos and videos. I’m sure if they could comment on comments they would do that too. Does that honestly make people proud? Does that provide you with fulfillment? If it does, you need help. I’m going to provide you with a little help myself (free of charge). Get a hobby – something appropriate, I know there are some freaks out there who are like, “But I already masturbate.” I mean a hobby that is generally socially accepted. Anyway, get this hobby. Practice. Get good at it. Enter a contest. Win a prize. Continue to practice. Get better scores/times/distances and give yourself a true sense of accomplishment. “First like!” What a joke.

The Trail

No matter where you are in the world, no matter who you are or who you know, no matter who you sleep with – you will leave a trail. Six degrees of separation is an interesting and dangerous concept and it seems to apply even more when you are hooking up with more than one girl at once. Let me explain:

                You are at a party, single, dancing with a PYT. She’s obviously feeling you so you invite her back to your place. She readily accepts – you know what happens. During the week you get a text from a different girl asking if you want to hang out. Still single, you stupidly think to yourself, “Cool, must be my week,” and you accept. You go get a bite to eat and invite her back to your place. In desperate need of validation, she accepts – you know what happens. Later in the week you go on the date that you have had set up for a couple of weeks. A nice dinner, a movie, and a lighthearted (secretly super competitive) round of mini golf and she is eating out of your hand (pants). After some exciting and illegal public fellatio you brag to your friends the next morning at breakfast. But wait – the waitress is hot and flirtatious. Since you are having such a hot week your friends eagerly allow you to take it from here. After her shift you give it to her in her car in the parking lot. After being exhausted from a long week of being “The Man” you are content with chilling for the next few days. On this vacation you continue to text these girls, all of whom are very excited about the new incredibly charming man they have in their life. Enter: drama.

                The girl from the party went back home after a good night of lovin’ and told her housemate about the incredible guy she just met. The housemate, who has a disturbingly close (borderline incestuous) relationship with her brother, tells her brother how happy she is for her housemate. Her brother, while on his break at the restaurant shares a cigarette with his co-worker and casually mentions his sister’s roommate’s new man. The air-headed waitress has still not caught on. Since her car is getting detailed after the mess you left in it, her friend has to pick her up from work. “What happened to your car?” her friend asks. The waitress giggles and tells her about the stud she met on the morning shift a few days earlier. In shock, the friend laughs and playfully calls the waitress a slut, proceeding to tell her about her date the night before her friend was slain in the parking lot. They are both sluts.

                “Why have none of them stated his name?” you ask. I answer your question with another question, what happened to the girl who texted you to hang out? Enter: the twist.

                The girls, while laughing, hear something interesting on the radio and begin to calm down so they can listen. The DJ is talking about something personal, on the same topic the girls have just been discussing. She describes how she texted a guy she thought was cute purely because she wanted a little action, but he was so charming that somehow she managed to catch feelings. Since she had an emotional tie to this man she felt like she had no problem saying his name on air. She says your name.

                The girls in the car go quiet. They look at each other. “What’s wrong?” they say in unison. “That’s my guy’s name..” they also say simultaneously. The waitress wants to take a detour past her co-workers house. He takes them to his sister’s place to talk to her roommate. They tell the roommate what has happened and the roommate starts crying uncontrollably – The DJ is her sister. They call the sister and put her on speaker to inform her on the situation. Livid, they all textually abuse you. Your phone is going so crazy that the girl lying next to you breathing ever so heavily asks what is going on. You pause, so she knows you are about to lie and snatches your phone right out of your hands. She does not seem to like what she is reading – since she is already back fully clothed. “Damn.” You say out loud. “Damn is right. Cindy (the waitress) is my daughter.”

                Your name is spread throughout town – as a king among men, and a womanizer among women. Enter: free beers for a week and a cold streak for eight months.

                The lesson? Free beers taste much better than the ones you pay for.