Practice what you preach

I told my students not to watch the games this weekend. I told them the games were on too late. I told them this with red socks on, so it’s hard to say how seriously they took me. What I should have told them is good to bed while you still can. Go to sleep before you get to a point where even when the game ends you stay up for hours questioning calls, mostly because you are too afraid to get to the real question.
    They don’t yet understand the seriousness of it yet. They are eight years old. They don’t understand what eighty-six years can do to a person.  Even when the drought ends, there is always the fear another will begin.
    I should have told my students to ask their parents to move to a different city, hell, a different state. Before it’s too late.  As much as I love this dirty water, lately, it feels a little bit poisonous. If nothing else, I hope my students never start listening to sports radio. And I hope they don’t switch from Harry Potter to Shaughnessy.
    Alright, Clay, show us what you got tomorrow.  We’ve seen glimmers of your brilliance. I plan on a red bull and twelve pieces of bacon for breakfast.  Hopefully, I’ll be having the same thing Tuesday morning.

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