Fumble.

I played a lot of football as a kid. I played nearly every down possible between third and eighth grade. And then, when I got to high school, and everybody started to pack on muscle, I figured out the hard way that being a 125 pound lineman and linebacker wasn't going to work. Football broke my heart.

But up until then, football and its tough love were good to me. As a nerd, it introduced me to a different set of friends I otherwise wouldn't have had. It taught me to think analytically, looking for clues as to how a play would unfold. Most important, it taught me physical and mental toughness.

At this point, if I'm lucky enough to have kids, I wouldn't want them to play the game. The game has broken my heart a second time. I love football. I love it despite my torn-up shoulder, cleat-scarred shins and likely multiple concussions. The game is forever a part of me. I just don't think it should be a part of them.

Inspiration strikes promptly at 7:30 p.m.

In my post about Fear, I wrote that I think of writing as a practice or an exercise. There might be a goal that I have in mind when I sit down to write something. But the ultimate goal is to is to log the time at the keyboard.

The past two days, I haven't been in the mood to exercise in the morning. I hate to say I'm going through the motions, but the burpees haven't had the same pop. I haven't felt the same grounded presence I typically get on the yoga mat. I haven't been swinging any kettlebells, due to a back issue. I hate to say I was going through the motions, but it felt like it.

But I tend to think that going through the motions is better than not going at all, killing any momentum I might have built. If I skip my hour of morning activity, I will feel drained for the rest of the day. Plus, I'll likely skip two more. Writing is no different.

I had no idea what I was going to write here tonight. I thought about skipping. But I need the practice. And the practice is now a part of my routine, and that routine, like my hour of morning activity, is sacred.

No service.

I'm not one to complain about the advance of technology. I'm no Luddite. But I do worry about its pervasiveness.

As a kid and a teen, I'd spend at least a week every summer at Scout camp. Like a good portion of the early Millennials, I grew up during the inception of the mobile revolution. If you had a phone -- and only the adults had them -- it didn't get service on top of that mountain in upstate New York.

My parents couldn't keep tabs on me. Later on, I couldn't keep in touch with my girlfriend. And in so many ways, that was the point. For that one week, the cord that connected me to them was cut. I was forced to reckon with reality alone or with my peers. I did more growing up during those one-week intervals than I ever did during a school year.

I remember my first campfire. I was maybe six. I had helped build it, so it was all the more memorable. It was on a Cub Scout camping trip at the defunct KOA campground in my hometown. I found a dilapidated shed and peeled some rotten plywood from its floor and laid it on the woodpile. I remember staring into that fire until I was forced to go to sleep, the splintered edges of that plywood curling into long, orange fingers as the flames leaped into the starry August sky. There was something primal about the way that fire held my attention. I wanted to watch it more than any cartoon. I wanted to keep it going further and longer than any video game.

If you haven't noticed this feeling before, next time you're sitting by a campfire, you will. I don't think it's a feeling that technology ever will be able to conjure. It's profoundly human, and the thought of losing that feeling is profoundly terrifying.

Three demons | Fear.

Fear is pervasive. It doesn't just stand in that no man's land between life and death. Fear is stage left when the guitarist tunes up, when the actor dresses for opening night. Fear is skulking in the hedgerow when the farmer puts his crops in the ground. Fear strikes at the contractor's heart when the housing market tumbles.

Like all of them, I'm afraid of failing. And failing at writing, to me, is the most personal kind of failure imaginable. Writing for anyone but myself is like giving away my battle plans. Everything anyone could ever want to use against me is right there in my own words, all of my vulnerabilities typed in concise English. If I fail at writing, I've put those vulnerabilities on display for no reason.

Lately, I've gotten better at overcoming that fear. I don't seek validation for what I've written. I don't check the metrics on this blog. I don't worry about people understanding what I've done. Writing is a practice. There's no run-up to a final game, or a test. Every day is an exercise. Every day is work, just for work's sake. 

I do this because this is who I am.  I look forward to the day when I put the words THE END at the bottom of this manuscript. And I look forward to the day after when I start the next one.

Intentions | Courage.

Over the past two weeks, I've written a post about each of my three demons. I started with Procrastination, moved to Rationalization and this week, I'll close with Fear.

You'll notice that I capitalized each of their names. It's out of respect. I know that any of these demons could knock me off the path if I let my guard down. Maybe Fear should be in all caps. It's the mother of all my demons. With a post pending this week on Fear, it seemed like a good idea to set an intention of Courage.

Without Courage, nothing gets done. The enemy never gets pushed back. The oyster never gets eaten. Personal boundaries never expand. We never go to the moon.

Courage, I believe, is contagious. And lucky for us, it's abundant.