The year before I was born, Boris Spassky was the best chess player in the world.  Then he played a guy by the name of Bobby Fischer.  After that, he was no longer the best chess player in the world.  Then, later in life, after the wizard, Fischer, started to succumb to a serious mental illness, Spassky had something to say.   It is one of the top two things I’ve ever heard (because I watched the documentary).  Paraphrasing what he said of Fischer – no person can be so prolific at one thing without being irreconcilably deficient in others.  And as we watched the greats fall – one after the other – perhaps Spassky has more to offer than just his wisdom and prowess in moving pieces on a board. 

This is true in many of the best of the best.  The best golfer and the best pop singer ever to live, to name two more.  But it is also true of our lives.  For me, I’ve poured my life into my studies and my work.  I left my hometown of Niagara Falls to “make it.”  Now, a few weeks before turning fifty, I look back and think, wow, countless sacrifices brought me to this point.  And just like everybody else, I had to decide daily if I’d be the best employee, best boyfriend, husband, father, or friend.  Because on most days, these things are mutually exclusive – we cannot be physically, spiritually, or emotionally in two places at once.  Of course, there is always the option of giving everyone a half-assed effort and seeing where it all lands.

Blink fast and keep moving.  That is what I tell myself.  For if I blink slowly, some moments zip into my consciousness, strangely.  A referee holding my hand up, or the hand of the fella who just beat me.  My grandmother, my mom, dad, brother, or sisters.  I shake hands with Marty Meehan, a television camera in my face.  My son is spitting up all over me or in a pull-up crawling under a table.  A kid with a syringe, another who grabbed me and hugged me when I returned to Niagara Falls for a visit to his school.  A dance with a blue-eyed girl in a gown, a rainy night on 92nd Street, my friend Jamie with his right hand up, saying I Love You in ASL. 

Today, as I arrived at a bus yard before sunrise, I sat in my car for a few minutes.  Headlights were going on around me, with drivers checking to ensure their red flashers were working properly.  I thought about how lucky I was to have had the experience of meeting with a leadership team in my district for three consecutive days.  I asked them to write me a letter telling me how to improve – and I’ve been thinking about those for days.  On our opening day for our teachers, I saw standing ovations for outstanding professionals.  We celebrated our veterans and got ready for day one today.  And as I rode the buses with our fourth graders to school and our first graders home – I was happy. 

Our first day of school was in the books, and it was as nearly flawless as possible.  Not too long from now, I will have one of those longer blinks – and there will be fond memories of my workday today.