Back in my days covering sports, I wrote a feature article on “Smokin’” Joe Frazier, the onetime heavyweight champion of the world. I went to his hometown of Philly, and we spent a couple days touring the ghetto from which he sprang. It was a truly edifying experience, providing valuable lessons in perseverance. Smokin’ Joe told me something that applies perfectly to my current bout against unemployment: The most important thing a boxer can do is keep his feet moving at all times.
Actually, on second thought, Smokin’ Joe never told me that. It just popped into my head. No matter. It’s pertinent nonetheless: If you want good things to happen, you can’t be caught flat-footed—you must press the action. That’s why boxers jump so much rope. It trains them to keep their feet moving.
Today I jump a lot of rope, starting at 7:30 a.m. when we go to Liv’s school to help train the journalists of tomorrow. I’m assigned a seventh-grader named Josh, or maybe it’s Jacob or Jerry or Jake—Christ, I can’t remember—who has just completed the first story of his journalism career. I unsheathe my red pen and take a swipe at the paper. And another swipe. And another. And another. Before long, the sheet is covered with red lines.
Jeff or Jude or whatever his name is doesn’t know what to make of all that red ink, so I explain each scratching to him. Afterward, I say, “Nice job, especially for you first story.” He’s a good kid. He’ll be back.
On the way out of school, Cassie asks if I want to stop at Caribou Coffee. I’m stressed about all the stuff I need to do for the freelance gig that doesn’t pay great but is steady, so I try to decline. I want to keep my feet moving.
Cassie rolls her eyes and says, “Even if you have more to do than me—which you don’t—you need to learn how to relax. Taking five minutes to grab a cup of coffee shouldn’t be a big deal.”
She has a point. We drive to Caribou, and I try not to twitch when the car is forced to idle for a few minutes because of a train. Christ, it’s not like we’re going to sit there and drink the coffee. We’re just grabbing it to bring home.
For my lunchtime workout, I decide to run a couple miles around a golf course that’s next to our house. Man, do I move: I clock the two miles in about 16 minutes, which is about as good as it gets for middle-aged me.
I show no signs of slowing as the day wears on. In addition to my freelance work, I pick Cole up at school and then drop him off at the Y in the evening for his swim practice. I go back to the Y a little early to pick him up so that I can sneak in another workout.
After training budding journalists and doing a bunch of freelance work and working out and doing a bunch of freelance work again and working out again, you’d think I’d slow down in the wee hours of the night. Not a chance. I wake up around 3:30 a.m., and my mind is racing. There’s nothing else to do but go to my computer and tap away for a while. My feet are still moving, but I’m starting to get annoyed. I wish they’d stop.
Will, as a fellow unemployed person I know how you feel - I've often woken up at 2:00 a.m. thinking "I need to be doing something to make money for this family NOW." I haven't really figured out just what exactly to do at that hour but rest assured you are not alone. Elinor
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