Julia Spitz: Put me in, coach, I'm ready to play
World Cup. Stanley Cup. Celts-Lakers. U.S. Open. French Open. Wimbledon. Pats' mini-camp. Sox. Spitz.
One of these is not like the others.
If you guessed me, you're right. In this month of competitive superlatives, I'm not getting world attention, NESN coverage or even a small mention in our paper's Sports section.
Then again, I'm not looking for notoriety.
I just want to live life as if it's a game.
My game. And my rules.
I can stop the clock when I need a break, and take a knee when I've had enough for the day.
I can call a personal foul on shoppers who think the "10 and under" sign doesn't apply to them.
I can hand out yellow-card warnings to people who take the parking space I spotted from afar.
I want to combine rules from different sports and make them the rules of life.
And I want some form of musical acknowledgement of my achievements. Just not a vuvuzela drone. Or a chorus of "Sweet Caroline."
A "charge" chant would be OK, so long as it means I can add to my shoe collection each time I hear the word, but I'm thinking something more along the lines of an Olympics theme song.
Plus, I get my own mascot to cheer me through parent-teacher meetings and epic battles with my computer.
But I can wait to hammer out the details on "Spitz's Theme" and an iconic costumed symbol to accompany me wherever I go. First, we've got to get the rules straight.
Rule 1: I get a coach. Not some New Age "life coach." I want an old-school cigar-chomper who knows what's what. Just so long as he doesn't make me run laps if I turn in a story a few minutes late or a few inches too long.
I also get a wired-up helmet to wear throughout the day, with the coach giving me direction every step of the way. ("Don't ask that question. Ask this one instead." "Take Exit 12. Exit 13 is all backed up." "Go with the salad - no soup for you.")
And a manager who's willing to get in critics' faces on my behalf, maybe kick a little dirt on the boss' shoes if he has something disparaging to say about my performance.
Rule 2: I set the clock. I get to call timeouts each day to confer with my coach, catch up with Facebook friends, or do whatever I think will help me get my game face on and give 110 percent.
I set other people's clocks, too. If I think you deserve two minutes in the penalty box, you're in the box. If I think you should be benched for a quarter, you're on the bench. And if you roll up next to me at a stoplight with your bass turned up loud enough to rattle fillings in my teeth, you're out for the season.
Rule 3: Don't even think about appealing that last call.
Rule 4: I enforce the penalties. Switching channels on me while I'm watching TV? Fifteen yards. And since our living room isn't that big, it means the offender's chair gets moved onto the neighbor's lawn.
Not ready when I say we're leaving at 7:30? Delay of game. The clock gets reset in my favor, and my mascot gets to make rude gestures at you.
Give yourself some gobbledygook ridiculous title, like "life architect" or anything including both "facilitator" and "executive," it's a red card. And I invoke the infield fly rule and call you out.
Rule 5: I get to make up all sorts of terms and rules you can't possibly understand.
Rule 6: I get do-overs. If I get my point across, but not quite well enough to cleanly clear the conversational net, I get another chance to tell my story, and you have to pretend that last serve never happened. And laugh at my jokes as if you've never heard them before.
Rule 7: I get a caddy and/or equipment manager in charge of toting around everything I might need to get me through my day. He or she will be in charge of making sure my wallet and keys are in the purse I'm carrying, not the one I took yesterday, and my notebook has enough blank pages for a lengthy interview so I'm never left scrawling quotes on the back of a receipt.
Rule 8: There will be press conferences at the end of every day. If I feel like denying anything happened, anything at all, that day, that's par for the course.
Rule 9: In the unlikely event I do something wonderful, you will celebrate in a calm and orderly fashion. No tipping over cars. No driving around town leaning on the horn. No setting fires. No brawls that make the cops break out their Tasers.
A few shouts, maybe a few shots, a little fist-pumping and a Duck Boat parade will be sufficient acknowledgement.
MetroWest Daily News writer Julia Spitz can be reached at 508-626-3968 or email@example.com. Check metrowestdailynews.com for the Spitz Bits blog.