Requiescat in pace, Abraham.

The last vivid memory I have of Abraham was a couple of years back, when he and his dad, Tavo, visited us here in Arlington during the summer. Abraham was on the eve of his senior year in high school, and one very vivid moment continues to loop in my mind.

The Guevara brothers, Abraham, and his oldest and only brother, Germain, took to wrestling in high school. They were both well suited for said sport. Short, but genetically gifted in musculature, both brothers accomplished great feats at Socorro, on the wrestling team. His room was adorned with the decorations earned during competition, including commencement from Socorro High School last May, 2008.

Abraham, more than once during his visit here, would awake to purposeful jogs at my home. I remember clearly opening the door one morning, as I was headed to the office, and no sooner had I done that than he sprinted out in full stride. I thought, "Wow. To be 17 again and able to run like that without warming up!"

The picture here is of his pre-K graduation in El Paso, many years ago.

He would say, "Tio (uncle), I'm going for a run. I have to keep in shape for wrestling." "Fine with me," I thought. Except instead of running around our cul-de-sac as I do (It's pretty big), his gait carried him quickly out of our street and my sight! I'm pretty anxious when it comes to childcare. And, while I know he was no child even then, I still reported that to his still-sleeping dad. He mustered a whisper and said, "He'll be fine. When he's done, he'll come right back." With that, I left for work.

That was the last time we spent real time with him. We would see him again briefly at great-grandpa's funeral last year (2008), but the "straw..." was when he phoned us Thursday to announce he was a brand new uncle, for his oldest and only brother had just seen a son born to this life. He was beside himself with excitement, to be in such a honorable position. An uncle...

Those were his last words to us. Early Saturday morning we received that fateful call so many do. Abraham had died at home. A history of epilepsy -- we fear -- got the best of him. A medical examiner's report will say for sure.

What is certain is that our lives have been changed forever. Our little wrestler, brand new uncle and only brother has now departed us. To tell his grandparents was the hardest thing we have had to do in recent memory. The are devastated, exclaiming, "Why wasn't it me!!!!"

Over and over our family motto (Najera family and its extended members, such as the Guevara family) has been to carpe diem, seize the day. We literally waste ourselves maximizing each moment, remembering it may be the last. How could Abraham have known he would only see his nephew once?

We are numb, stunned and deeply saddened by this.

Please, remember to seize the day for you and yours.

Abraham's tentative funeral arrangements are a prayer service Tuesday evening, June 9, 2009, in the chapel of Sunset Funeral Home Americas (9521 North Loop, El Paso, Texas 79907, 915-858-4408, http://www.sunsetfuneralhomes.net/index.cfm). A graveside will follow on Wednesday morning, June 10, 2009 at Restlawn Memorial Park in El Paso.

$3 Signing Bonus

**The author of the following tale is a good friend, who amongst other things, is a fellow wordsmith of sorts. He and I have had long chats about the probabilities of re-living The Feeling during Digger Bowl IV, an unforgettable event. What is Digger Bowl IV? I'll be happy to tell you, for sure.

Anyway, because life carries us in many directions, the miracle of communication is an occassion like this -- being able to share everyday moments with friends in distant lands via venues like this blog. Like us, the man we call The Teenager From Mars, Mark Bedell, had a memory-lasting event with dad -- his. Cool drinks and fellowship make moments like this carry you through days and days.

Mr. Bedell was kind enough to pen his memory, the one true way to ensure it can be enjoyed for a lifetime. Cheers, TFM.

What does it mean to be a pro? What makes you a "professional?" Indulge me while I explore a little. My current "profession" sees me commuting three hours a day in each direction from my home in New Jersey to New York City, which I utterly despise -- not the job -- the city. It's a dump. It's not like you seee on TV shows, such as Friends.
I'm an educator. I teach grown people how to do their jobs. At times it's rewarding. And, other than having to be in that city, I enjoy my profession very much. There are friends who may read this that can attest to one thing, too: I'm the best there is at what I do. The gig pays the bills, albeit barely.But, is that all it is to be a professional? I chose not be believe so, otherwise I might just fade away enroute to that awful city... lost in thought.
What is my point, already!?!? Allow me to share.
The first time I got paid to play music, I was 15 years old. Add up the digits in that number and you get more than the dollar figure I took home. I've been paid similar amounts and far more over the years on many occasions. I played. I got paid. I'm a professional musician. Truthfully, I'm better at that than anything else I have ever done in my life. I still rule. ;)
Over the years I have been paid to be in pictures and videos. I have been paid to photograph people. That makes me a professional model, actor, and photographer. I've gotten a cut for booking bands and models. I'm a professional agent and manager.
I've won prize money with my beloved former bowling team, from which I take my UFL franchise name, which came from a song by my favorite band. I'm a professional bowler. Heck, I've even got official sanctioned awards for that. But...There is a recent story that I would like to share. This is how I became a professional golfer…
It was a sunny Saturday morning. I stood waiting for my group to tee off. We were second. The foursomes were randomly selected. Coincidentally, my old man was with group one. He led off. I was nervous for him. When his swing is on, he's got a great tee shot. But, when he's not on his game (usually from a sore shoulder) his tee shots go on about a 45-degree angle to the right. This would have put him dead in the woods here. His shoulder must have felt good, because he put the tee shot on this short Par-3 on the green, about 4 feet from the pin. I was overjoyed for him. I knew he'd have a good round. It was the first shot of the day, and we were already joking that he would win the prize for a Closest To The Pin shot. Incidentally, he drained shot number to for a nice birdie. Tweet Tweet. Way to go old man!
The pressure was on as I led off for my group. My practice shot was gorgeous, as I prepared to beat my own dad for the closest to the pin at this early juncture. I lined up and took a breath. Whoosh. I hit the ball about twenty feet, skimming across the top of the grass. Ouch. Embarrassment in my first tee shot in a tourney. Closest To The Pin would not be mine this day. But, I wasn't done -- yet. I made par.My tee shots were dead on the rest of the round.
On number eight I sank a twelve-foot putt, with a big break in the green. Under pressure, I hit the best putt of my life. On the final hole, I had an equally long putt for birdie, which would have put me at one under par for the round. I pulled back, and made the perfect "pendulum" swing. The ball came to rest no more than two inches to the left of the cup. I tapped it in for a par. I finished even. It was my best round ever.
I waited and watched at the first tee for hours after I finished. It was fun seeing what others did. A woman who was easily in her 60's hit the pin on her tee shot. It was pretty to watch. She won closest to the pin for the women.
The round came to an end after a gorgeous Jersey Shore day of golf and fellowship. We saw the final score two days later, posted in the clubhouse. The old man pulled it off. The first tee shot of the day won him the prize for Closest To The Pin. In the standings, it was like poetry. We tied for third. :)We each took home a whopping THREE DOLLARS for that third place finish. He got an additional $4.00 for achieving closest to the pin.And, my friends, just like that... we're professional golfers. Oh what a feeling.

Three Red Gowns, Three Black Gowns, and Three White Dresses

I was reminded of a lasting lesson the other day by my daughter. My mother-in-law, bless her heart (as we say in Texas), has a knack for posing one-sided arguments with the best of 'em. Sometimes her arguments are validated by an underlying purpose, but many other times, she just wants to be, well, right.

Grandma had been complaining about her ex-husband, my wife's dad, and my daughter reminded her promptly, "Without buelito Carlos, we wouldn't be here." Grandma, of course, immediately retaliated saying, "Yes you would, but you would look different."

Think about that for a minute. Would it be just a physical difference? Hardly. Nothing would be the same.

One of the things I value the most in life is loyalty. At times mine is tried in the world of sports due to the situation at hand, i.e., cheering on the Steelers in February, knowing full well they would out-do the Cowboys for Lombardy trophies. And, they are the current AFC kings, where the Cowboys are NFC royalty. So, why do it then? Because my loyalty to a special uncle in Nebraska outranked my relative loyalty to the sports situation at hand. A vivacious Steelers fan since the Bradshaw era, his enthusiasm for the men of steel encouraged me and about 20 others to defend his cause at the Super Bowl.

Loyalty, though, goes much further than sports.

When speaking of life, my loyalty is deeply rooted in family.

On May 16, 2009, a very interesting completion occurred. It was the evening, about 8 p.m., on a windy, breezy day in El Paso. One of the most formidable journeys was completed. My sister -- younger and only -- walked across the stage to receive her degree from The University of Texas at El Paso. With that, clad in the typical black gown of an undergraduate, she completed a very special chapter in our corner of the Najera family. The preamble to this occasion was the day before, at 15:00 hours, where she walked the floor of that small church in far east El Paso, in a white gown.

Truly the journey began one April in 1972, when mom and dad tied the knot for good. A year later, I was born in February. Four and a half years later, my brother was born in September, and thirteen years later, my sister was born in August to complete the set of three.

Three red gowns.

We had the distinct pleasure of attending and graduating from Socorro High School. All three of us wore that red gown, and on different May evenings, completed twelve formative years of education.

Three black gowns.

All three of us chose different fields, but completed a college education. Though not always sure what we should do, or how we could do it, we didn't give up. Again, on different days and seasons, we walked the stage to receive various degrees.

Three white dresses.

All three of us are now married. Though my brother and I did not wear a white dress -- at least not to the wedding -- , we did have three fantastic weddings. Each in the summer. Each well attended (probably a cumulative total of 1,200 people at our weddings). And, at those weddings, there were three white dresses.

The entire journey took three decades and seven years. There's no true way of measuring all the work, persistence, motivation, fear, et al, it would take to get it done.

Yes, I'm tooting my own horn. Though totally exhausted upon my return from my sister's wedding and graduation ceremony, I stand proud when reflecting about this.

I guess this is a good reason why I can't understand people who give up so easily on marriage, family. I just can't.

Maybe mom and dad should have quit when we lost two aunts -- one after the other -- suddenly and tragically. Maybe we should have quit when dad got laid off from a job, right after signing off on a new mortgage. It would be about 3 years before he saw a real check from the new business he started with family. Maybe when said business went bust, and they were faced -- again -- with figuring out what to do , mid-life. Maybe when a son left far away and joined a radical religion. Maybe the countless nights mom spent nursing a daughter, when multiple chronic things kept her sick. Maybe at the news of another son, when he was diagnosed with congenital heart problems. Those are just some of the highlights.

Maybe...

Guess what?

They didn't.

We didn't.

Quit.

Never have, never will.

If there is a lasting lesson from the last 37 years, it is this: All's Well That Ends Well. It's Shakespeare, but for us, it's been a lasting creed.

Not that it's ended. At least we hope we have many more journeys to live, complete.

Cheers to all of you who continue to fight. To survive. I hope you're able to visualize the possibilities!

Why 1440 Is the New Diamond

In our twenties, we had a pretty interesting circle of friends. We were all married, 20-something, and with plenty of disposable income for countless dinner dates, movies, trips, etc. I'm sad to report that 100% of those friends are divorced, save my wife and I. We've actually moved on to other circles, where we are happy to report marriages are much more stable.

So, many times, during those divorces, we were asked, "How do you and your wife do it? What is the secret to remain together for so long (nearly 17 years now)?"

The fact of the matter is, it's not that complicated. Marriage is not 50/50, at least not any given moment. If you think it is -- or worse -- if you force it to be, you will head down the road of separation pretty quick. Maybe, at the end of a day, span of time, or an entire lifetime, it is a "collective 50/50," but at any given moment, one spouse is doing way more than the other.

Don't believe me? Keep tract of yours, if you are married.

In our case, we keep things real and we set parameters that work pretty well.

Where is this going?!

Well, that pristine formula might have come to a crushing end at about 7 p.m., April 27, 2009, in our formal living room, right in front of the piano. One of our most prized possessions -- especially for my wife -- rests on a side table. It's a custom lamp, which incorporates two Home Interiors porcelain figures, a custom made base and a hand-painted shade. I have since learned they -- the procelains -- are Home Interiors #1440 and #1441.

The porcelain is not Lladro, and won't pull thousands of dollars on the market, at least I don't think it will. What that lamp did have is a lot of thoughtfulness from my wife, a brilliant interior designer. Those two figurines were a memory of our wedding until the male, the elusive #144o, fell to it's destruction at the tap of my size 11.5 running shoes. Everyone (who has been to our humble abode) knows our house has not a stitch of carpet. It's all cermaic tile, wood floors and a few rugs. So, when the #1440 landed head first on the ceramic tile floor, it had no shot in hell of survival.

Yes, the event had it all: tears, head resting on her palms, defeat, and lots of silence. Even the girls and my dog, who witnessed the event, hugged me knowing my life as I knew it was over.

See, we have an understanding. There are items so precious to her, I stay a regulated 10-20 feet away. Such is the case for some of my most prized possessions. NO ONE sits on my Notre Dame chair; she can wash my baseball and football jerseys, but they DO NOT go in the dryer; I buy a new Cowboys cap to begin a season, which nobody washes, wears, touches; and my mini College World Series bats cannot be used to air drum. You get the picture.

Protection of our prized personal property is akin to protection given the Shroud of Turin.

I know. What does it matter? We have the economic crisis and a killer virus.

Well, it does.

The #1440 Home Interiors figurine has survived 7 apartments moves, 3 house moves (twice across the state of Texas), and multiple children's' parties, where kids have run dangerously close to the famed lamp.

This fine day, as we were headed out to buy landscaping flowers, I bumped it ever so precisely. Such a minuscule moment in time. Such a lasting effect.

Since then, I've found #1440 on the Net. Ebay, of course. I lost the first auction. I'm on the prowl for another.

Good attorney soon? Probably not. But, I'm into her for many, many favors to make up for the loss.

Pray to the gods of accidents for me.

**Since I wrote this, I have been able to glue most of #1440, except for a big missing piece on the top of his head. I'm not sure that'll fly.

I Come To You in the Name of Jesus!

Last night I was called to duty shortly before the zero hour. I had just positioned myself perfectly in bed, ready for a good night, when the call came.

As I headed to the office, I exited the freeway, and at the traffic light, there was a vehicle stranded. Hood up. People seemingly distressed.

Two disclosures:

1. I grew up in the mecca of people on the street hustling for money (border town), whether their stories were real or not, odds were not good. We rarely gave out money freely, though we were always happy to give a meal and/or a day's work for "earned money."

2. I'm not too keen on people employing terms like, "I come to you in the name of Jesus!" I'm not even keen on athletes pointing to the sky when they have accomplished a fine deed on the field. Granted, I'm glad an athlete displays faith, I just don't think they need to credit the Lord for a double to deep center field. Pacquiao (boxer) is a devoted man of faith, and prays very boldly in his corner to begin/end a fight, but he didn't point to the sky when he mauled Oscar De La Hoya to retirement.

So, it was a couple -- man and lady -- stranded. It was not the man who came rushing to me at the red light, proclaiming, "I come to you in the name of the Lord! Is there any Christian who will help us?" It was the lady. Not only did she rush to my door, but she was consumed with a cigarette of choice, exhaling the Lord's name, along with the remnants of her "fag" (see English slang word for a smoke).

In a guarded manner, I rolled down the window. For some reason, after midnight, this red light will not change. I've often thought somebody's booby-trapped it for lonesome drivers at night. Anyhow, though she's coming in the name of Jesus, she might also be packing heat. I had no clear view of the man in the vehicle. For all I knew, I might be about to meet the Lord at the hand of these late night evangelists.

I was dressed in a suit and tie. Yes, we still make house calls in full suit. On my windshield was my Garmin, where I had input the address I was headed. My vehicle is nearly new, and my disposition is usually gentle.

In this woman's view, there should be no reason I cannot help her.

Red light continues to hold firm, and the same Jesus in whose name her gait announced, is the one I implored for a green light. Wonder how He sees these prayers/petitions?

But, I don't carry much cash, if any at all. I was in a hurry, as my destination was not close.

"Sir, I'm not going to hurt you. In the name of Jesus, we need help. We're supposed to be at Cook's Hospital, but we're in the wrong one."

Smoke comes out of her nose and mouth, and while usually this would have angered me enough to close the window (I don't care if you smoke, just don't blow it in face), I actually didn't mind it this time, in the face of this horrible virus. I figured this was the one time toxic fumes actually benefited my close-range contact with the evangelic lady.

Red light holding on like a champ.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry..."

"But we need your help. We just need some gas money to get to Cook's in Dallas! Please, is there any Christian love anymore!"

More smoke. Light seems to shine a brighter hue of red.

"Ma'am..."

"Please sir, lend us a Christian hand!"

"Ma'am (now irritated my voice was) I am a mortician. On call. On the way to respond to a death! I don't have any cash. I'm sorry."

"OH DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN! OH DEAR GOD!"

She backed up and had words with her man, who never made a showing to my door. I'm sure the announcement of my professional career path shocked her enough to cease her request. Finally another vehicle approaches. And, just as I was about to run this light and get on with my evening, er morning, the light shines green.

I'll never know what the real story with these people was. I suspect they ran out of gas and didn't have a dime to their name -- for gas anyway. As my associate and I were returning on this path about 10 minutes later in the company vehicle, I saw the same scene, this time from the other side of the freeway. A large truck was stuck on the eternal red light, but there was an exchange of some sort between the driver and -- this time -- the man.

I guess I wasn't Christian enough. Or, I just plain didn't buy their story. Or, I didn't have any cash. One thing is for sure. That I'm aware of, there is no other Cook Children's Hospital, certainly not in Dallas. They're not as cool as us Fort Worth-ians.

For now I'm just glad I wasn't a victim of the Midnight Evangelists, who might have been violent and/or trying to jack my car. I'm always left with a hint of guilt, wondering if someone really needed help.

The feeling quickly dissipated. By the end of the night, we had helped another family, who lost a loved one. We traveled a distance, putting ourselves at the mercy of the night's mysteries. And though my associate and I didn't audibly announce we were there in the name of Jesus, we are men of faith and hope for the best.

I'm sorry, but I can't get out of the car?!

Routine hump day in the Chicken Fried Nation.

So, we settled on salads today -- the ladies in the office and I. There's a quaint little place, in a newly developed area in Fort Worth, where they sell overpriced salads easily made at home.

Nevertheless, I offered to go get the salads for one reason: I like to drive by a new bar, which posts new thoughts on their sign every week. They're usually brilliant, at the very least very entertaining (see picture).

Well, as I parked near the salad place, I noticed two ladies leisurely walking away from their vehicle, a rather new and expensive SUV. They were chatty and ready to ingest whatever fare they like from this joint.

So?

Well, as I parked my vehicle, I noticed a third member of the lunch ladies club still in the vehicle, but something was wrong. Way, very wrong!

She was frantically pulling, hitting, kicking, and screaming at the door. Think of your favorite cheesy horror movie, and surely there's scene somewhere of a beautiful woman trying to get out of something, possibly a car, before she gets the machete, drill bit, or weapon of choice in her head and blood goes everywhere.

Except, this was broad daylight, in a well populated, fairly urban zone. And, if there was any suspect in this scene, it was Yours Truly. Had I not been enthralled with my Blackberry, I might have noticed that.

Well, I finally did notice the lady. As I got off to see if I could help, she started to honk the horn frantically. I turned to see the other two in the lunch party, and one said, "What is she doing?"

So, they started to walk back toward the vehicle and the owner clicked the clicker. The mad hostage lady finally got out and, first, apologized to me. For what, I'll never know.

Second, she said almost in tears, "I couldn't get out!" The other two started to chuckle and then it became a full-blown laugh.

What I never understood was that the hostage member of the three-way ladies lunch party was in the front passenger's seat. That I'm aware of, they don't have child locks. Second, even if the car had been locked via the keyless entry, you can usually override it by pulling the car door lever.

But, I don't drive a vehicle, whose MSRP is about $67,000 either. So, maybe there's kinky things about these bad boys no one has informed me about.

One things is for sure...

5:1 odds that lunch conversation had many "I was like" sentences in it. And, the calorie count was sub-150.

As I picked up my order, the hostage lady was outside on the patio. She looked up again and said, "I'm sorry."

I'm still confused.

The TOT Tournament. Buy-in is $10,000

The picture was in a recent article in the Star-Telegram. It probably shouldn't bother me -- the problems of others -- but this particular problem does. I can't help it.

If you "Wiki" Mr. Hicks, it states he has a financial worth estimated at $1.3 billion. Google has a satellite picture of his $28 million mansion, one of several residences, I'm sure.

In simple terms, the Star-Telegram article states Mr. Hicks and his sports firm (HSG), which includes majority ownership of the Texas Rangers and Dallas Stars, is $525 million in the hole with the juice still running. In fact, he has officially defaulted on loans, missing a $10 million quarterly payment purposely until he "restructures debt."

I was telling my mother the other day I find playing poker surprisingly refreshing. As expected, she was aghast. No, wait, horrified is more like it. For those that know my mother, the reaction is par.

But, it's true.

I find it refreshing to find honesty in whatever way I can.

Poker? Honesty?

Yes.

Think about it. In the game of poker, the economy is simple. You bring cash and trade for chips with the dealer. You sit at a table and invest/save your chips on every hand against other players, who play with the exact same rules. Some players will have much, much more experience. Others will have a lot of luck. The basic principle is this: if you know how to play the game well, you will have a legitimate shot at millions of dollars.

The main event at the World Series of Poker (WSOP) is a no-limit Texas hold 'em event, where the buy-in is $10,000. Yes, a lot of money, especially considering the fact that there may be 6,000 or more players in that event alone. In order to have a shot at the grand prize, a seven or eight figure purse, you must outlast thousands over a several days.

The 2008 champion is a kid (I can say that now) from Denmark, aged 22. He banked $9 million and first prize.

Real money. A real, legitimate shot at making it big.

For many, comparing poker to real-world finance is, well, heresy. Wealth is a result of hard work, education, etc.

Yes, those things matter (even in poker where most champs spend countless hours playing hands). But, Malcolm Gladwell in Outliers takes exception to the norm, too. In it he explains many of the wealthiest people in world were, well, lucky.

What if (work with me here) baseball teams were up for prize every so often -- say every four years -- to people who won a tournament. Say the MLB suddenly changed all the rules and said, "Baseball fans of all walks can now buy into the Team Ownership Tournament (TOT), where the buy-in is $10,000. The grand prize: your MLB team of choice. You get to own and manage that team for four years.

Are you laughing yet?

But, wait, that's exactly what happens in poker rooms. You have the initial investment (buy-in). You're in. Education? Many hands of poker at home or online. Investment strategy? Fold when you don't have it. Raise when you do. Management skills? Don't donk your chips, and don't fall into a tilt (emotional whirlwind, where players lose most or all their chips 'cause they get pissed). Anything else? Oh yeah. Bluff in key areas to keep your fellow players on their feet.

See, most of us view the rebels of the world as "weird." When I see a lady clinging to her man, clad in leather and tats on a Harley on the road I think, "Wow, what did that dude do/say to convince his lady to wear a tank top and ride behind him on the road?"

I may actually admire that man more than a man like Tom Hicks, who poses as an example of success, but defaults on loans for his alleged assets.

I promise you if I default on my car loan, my bank will not have the courtesy it has for Mr. Hicks.

And, if you saw a picture of Tom Hicks and Chris Ferguson side by side in The Wall Street Journal, first, most would not know who Chris Ferguson is. Second, because he wears his hair long, a cowboy hat and goatee, he'd be categorized as some gambler unworthy of accolades from such a respected periodical.

What you don't know if both of Ferguson's parents have PhDs in mathematics, as does Ferguson in computer science. He just chose a different way of making use of his talents.

Dammit, the point...

It's getting harder and harder to view the world conventionally. No, I'm not suggesting we should all become gamblers and run to Vegas, or that we should buy Harley's, tank tops for our brides and take to the road with no helmets, although the visual is still tempting.

What I am suggesting is there is a lesson to be learned in a hand of poker.

Mr. Hicks, make the payment. You have the money. The people of the Chicken Friend Nation and the one lonesome Rangers fan in El Paso want to love our baseball team. But, when we read the team is broke and its owner is screwing around with its finances because he can, we get pissed.

Fold, raise or go all in. Something, for the love of God.