The Magic Number Is...34

I used to fly high, dating all the way back to 8th grade when we tested our vertical leap for the first time.  If I recollect correctly, I scored the highest on the team with a 24-inch standing jump.  That season, I averaged more turnovers than points per game and probably shot 12% from the floor...but I could jump.

A History of Flight

I dunked for the first time as a freshman at Ricks College after attempting a mere 1287 times.  After getting over the initial psychological hump, it got easier to dunk with each try.  This is me at age 19 --well before iPhones, photo-shop, and participation trophies.  Those were glorious days before things like a 30-year mortgage, 6 kids, and Barney started weighing me down. 

Flying high before a 30-year mortgage

Here's me today, and you can see the difference ~25 years of Barney makes; it's just harder to get off the ground.

What 25 years of Barney does to your vert

Crunching the Numbers

To get high enough to dunk in the time allotted, it's going to come down to numbers.  Lots of them.

71.75.  My height in inches (5’ 11¾”).  I never broke six feet!  I’d always been miffed I wasn't 6'6", but after I first flew coach for over 8 hours, I changed my mind.  That flight, I fantasized about being the little guy 3 rows behind me at 2'7'' and wearing footy pajamas.

2.  The number of feet (human appendages, not increments of measure) I have to jump off.  I don't know why, but I've always had trouble dunking off of one foot which, in theory, is easier.  Go figure.

10.  The height of a regulation basketball hoop (3.05 meters).  No, I won't be going to the local elementary school to dunk on an 8-foot-hoop over a pack of kindergartners eating Goldfish while sipping juice boxes.  I have some dignity.

98.  The number of days left to train for the dunk to raise 44k for refugees.  *gulp*

44.  How many trips this man will have traveled around the sun by August 4th, 2017 (Dunk Day).  Technically this is two days shy of my birthday, but I won’t be dunking on Sunday.  (Google Chariot's of Fire or watch it on Netflix.)

34.  This is the magic number—the number of inches I need to put between my Nikes and the ground to have enough elevation to dunk.  Getting to this number on Dunk Day means I will cry like a baby; coming up short on Dunk Day means I will cry like a baby.  Either way I will be crying, and it will be baby-like.

Thirty-four inches is the magic number to dunk on D-day

50%.  Chance I gave myself when I started that I could pull this off; also the chance that statistically Heather and I would be expecting a baby in our 30s.  After a few weeks under my belt, I'm upping my dunking probability to ~70%.  But, Heather and I are done having kids.  Really!  😊

1876.  Daily allotted calories during my Lego"loss" phase to get to goal weight.  Also the year Benjamin Franklin invented the Twinkie while kite surfing in search of lightning. (Ok, I just made that up -- but it sounds cool).

Numbers That Matter Most

All cheekiness aside, the reason behind the numbers above is found in the numbers below.  Mad Hops 4 Humanity is far more about our fellow human beings in crisis than it is about one man conquering a goal; it's about helping the IRC to help refugees.

With that in mind, let's talk the numbers that really matter: 

122.  The number of people you would need to meet globally before encountering a refugee.  So, imagine if the school you attended growing up had a representative sample of the world's population.  A handful would be individuals involuntarily displaced due to war, famine, violent crime, religious intolerance, or sex trade.

50%.  The likelihood those individuals would be children.  It's hard for me to wrap my head around this.  Many of us have tasted anxiety as we work to maintain an appropriate cocoon of safety and innocence around children to reassure them in times of turmoil.  I can't fathom the crushing stress families navigate when forced to flee their homes.

Photo courtesy of IRC

90.  Days that refugees have support from the US government—it’s a race against time for them to become self-sustaining, get social security cards, find employment, enroll children in school, and begin paying back the cost of their plane tickets to the US.  The IRC plays a huge role here in helping them navigate this morass; the passenger van we're raising funds for will be a game changer by dramatically amplifying the support they can provide.

85,000.  Number of refugees that came to the US to begin rebuilding their lives in 2016 represented by some 79 countries.  Since 1980, 3 million refugees have come into the US as our country has helped lead the way in resettlement. 

Reunification.  Photo courtesy of the IRC

18 - 24.  Months it takes for a typical Syrian family to get into the US as of 2015.  The rigorous vetting process in this New York Times article details up to 20 critical steps to ensure those entering are considered safe to resettle here.

Zero.  Number of acts of terror carried out by resettled refugees in this time.  Yes, zero.  Acts of terror are more likely to be committed by US citizens sympathizing with radical causes or those entering the country on tourist, student, or other visas.

Impossible to quantify.  What your contribution means to the families helped by the IRC.  Please take a moment to donate.

Mad Hops 4 Humanity was born out of the crazy notion that an under 6-foot guy could dunk a basketball on his 44th birthday to raise 44k for refugees.  

If you're a little crazy about the current refugee crisis, take a moment to contribute. Funding benefits the Seattle office of the International Rescue Committee (IRC) for use in purchasing and maintaining a passenger van to provide critical transportation services for refugees resettling in the US. 

The IRC is a 501c(3)organization and contributions in the US are tax deductible.

A Call for Kindess

A mother is the giver of comfort, the easer of fears, the one who absorbs the shock of the outside world to create a nurturing environment for her child—yet I had to dig deep to hold my 3-year-old boy, smile, caress his forehead and promise that everything would be just fine.  

Decorating a jack-o-lantern

The blood we found in his stools prompted immediate concern but luckily turned out to require minor surgery to remove benign polyps.  And everything did turn out just fine.  We had all good things going for us.   My husband had a good job; we had good insurance; and the toy airplanes from the gift shop after the whole ordeal was finished would smooth over any trauma he might have felt.  Afterward whenever we drove by “Motol,” he would smile, point and say “that’s the bum hospital,” all tears forgotten. 😊  But harder to forget were my feelings of anxiety trying to navigate my desire for his safety and comfort, unfamiliarity with the healthcare system, and inability to speak the language.  Nothing felt worse than feeling powerless to protect the one I love.  

Motol University Hospital in Prague - the "bum hospital"

Many times I felt powerless when my family lived in Prague, Czech Republic, but never more-so than in that hospital.  Not being able to read signs to the children’s ward, the inability to speak to the nurse, white walls rather than colorful murals, the business-like manner of personnel administering the IV, watching my baby go under the anesthesia all created an overwhelming feeling of complete vulnerability which I masked with a calm and reassuring smile to shine down on my boy.  Regardless of the uneasiness I felt in a foreign environment, he could only know that he was safe, that all would be well, and that I would be there when he woke.

The little man

If I, who had comparatively no worries in this situation, felt lost, confused, and apprehensive, how must a refugee mother feel when she is forced to leave her home to search for a safer one for herself and her children?  I can only imagine—her fleeing her country with basically what she can carry, having no income, no guarantee of education or medical care, let alone food and housing.  How does she filter the world that her child grows up in?  What kind of shocks must she absorb?  Spence had a Lebanese colleague from work who grew up in Beirut during the violent and tumultuous 80s.  When Spence asked what impact it had on him, he remembered happy times with family, shielded from the air raids and car bombs.  He could see in retrospect how his parents had absorbed the shock of it, and as best they could, created a nurturing environment in which he would grow into a happy adult.  Vihn Chung, author of Where the Wind Leads (a memoir of his experience as a Vietnamese “boat person”), describes a similar situation where his father worked every day of his life in the U.S. at a sweltering factory to provide for children who went on to be ivy-league educated and have rich, productive lives.  But who buffers the effects of a harsh world for the parents?

That is where the International Rescue Committee (IRC) comes in.  The IRC aspires to help suffering refugees and are in over 40 countries. They are the mother for the mothers, as well as anyone else who needs them, providing vaccinations, helping save victims of human trafficking, offering relief wherever they can—from the countries that refugees flee, to the countries where they are temporarily given asylum, to countries like ours that provide a stable place to land.  Once refugees get here, the IRC is a lifeline to help them become self-sufficient: find access to English, learn how shop, how to search for a job and land one, navigate the naturalization process, find family members still overseas, and help their children adjust to new schools. 

It’s a critical time—the 90 days that the government formally allots the IRC to help—they are doing all they can to ensure these individuals hit the ground running: job, license, housing, SS card, transportation, all while the moms are wracking their brains trying to create a new “normal” for their children.  But we can't expect to turn a blind eye and let the IRC do it all!  They need our help to empower mothers and fathers to take control of their lives and build a better future for their children.

In Prague, I learned to live for kind people, those who sometimes counted my change for me and gave me directions when I couldn’t verbalize where I wanted to go.  I’m not unintelligent, but I became nervous in public and made silly mistakes.  We (the bumbling American family with six children) needed help, and I quickly lost all pride, learned to accept assistance, and be grateful when it was offered!  There were some people though, who weren’t kind.  A dark-haired woman on the metro in crisp white pants pointed to my little one kneeling up to peek out the window (feet off the seat, btw), and firmly declared, “Shoes down!  Shoes down!”  Moments like these made my cheeks burn hot with shame, look for a place to hide and forfeit my plan for the zoo that day, or any other outing for that matter.  Gratefully, there were many more Czechs like the 86-year-old gardener who rode his bike to our house with pockets lined with sweets, and a face full of smiles.  When we left, he gave us a swan he made from clay, and an old Czech story book that he read to his own son.  His kindness meant so much, and taught me more.  

Cherished Czech mementos

My little disappointments pale in comparison to what a refugee mother must feel when after the lengthy vetting process she went through to get here, she hears false rhetoric that we should fear violence from people like her, one who abhors violence; conversely, I am sure of the relief she feels when someone opens a door for and smiles at her in the grocery store.  We are each so powerful—there are no small acts of kindness, no small snubs.  They all matter, because all people matter.  We have no idea.

Now that I am home, Prague seems like a distant dream.  I am back to where I don't feel powerless.  I speak the language and know the system--but in my life of relative ease, I ask myself, “Who am I to the stranger in this land?”  Am I a stiff woman in white pants?  Am I a gardener?  Am I a mother, who softens blows with gentle touches and smiles?  I can’t be everything to everyone, but I can open my eyes and see what’s going on in the world around me.  Seeing others in my own circle of influence, and seeing suffering takes courage.  It almost always induces discomfort, pain, and the recognition of a need to change—it means inviting the family who just moved in from Turkey over for dinner, smiling at a neighbor that I barely know, or taking food over to someone who had surgery. 

Maybe you've been asking yourself what you can do.  Maybe you’ve been touched by the millions of refugees that are displaced and the humanitarian crisis that it represents? There is something you can to today, right now.  You can contribute to the IRC in their effort to raise money to provide critical transportation to newly relocated refugees.  This is more than vehicle; it's a lifeline for these mothers who are fighting to help their families find “normal,” getting to job interviews, medical appointments, school registrations, and other key services, our generosity gives them a fighting chance to stand on their own.  I need to do more, because I have been there!  I have been a stranger who needed a little kindness.  

We all have. 

MadHops4Humanity.  Let’s get mad.  😊

The Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins With Legolas

**Warning: unflattering picture enclosed.**  Yes, it's true...I was a tub of goo at one point.  After a stressful family move overseas, Heather and I gave up on all aspirations of fitness and healthy eating, and took up binge-watching Lost and munching Milka chocolate. 

*Sigh*

If only life could be the stuff of Lost and Milka--that would be something.

We enjoyed this unhealthy hiatus immensely, and here you see the result.  As my glorious girth tipped the scales at 225 lbs (just over 100 kg), motivation began to outweigh gluttony.   

The next few years consisted of me chipping away those extra 40 lbs like Michelangelo carving a hidden David from inside that goo (well, maybe David Letterman).  The added weight greatly impacted my ability to jump and enjoy the game of basketball.  I can sum up what I learned during this period with a simple equation:

Chocolate + Binge-watching Lost + Couch = Crummy Jumping Ability

I set a goal that on my 40th birthday I would dunk a basketball.  I consulted with physics experts and formed a new equation to help me get there.  Something like...

Tofu + P90X - Couch = Sweet Jumping Ability

OK, maybe I didn't really eat tofu, but I did rounds of P90X until I could no longer stomach Tony Horton's jokes, and the result was a modest dunk on my 40th.

Alas, time is a cruel mistress.  What she gives in wisdom, she takes away in jumping ability; but I have a plan, and this is where Legolas comes into play (because I knew you were wondering).

I was 10 pounds heavier than my current weight when I dunked that ball on my 40th.  To do it at age 44, I will need to be the leanest I've been in my adult life--maybe in my entire life.  Fat is gravity's friend and therefore my sworn enemy; any ounce I can shed will reduce the burden on my muscles to get me above the rim.

So my training will break into two phases:  Phase Lego"loss"  and Phase "Gym"li (FYI no pun is a bad pun).

The Lord of the Rings Dunk Plan

Phase Lego"loss"

It's all about weight loss here.  Remember when the LOTR crew was on that snowy mountain pass and Legolas was walking on the snow?  That's gonna be me when this phase is over, I'm going to need lead Nikes to keep from blowing away in the wind.  So we're going to lock up the Cinnamon Toast Crunch and break out the quinoa, because who likes junk food anyway? (ME!)

Phase "Gym"li

It's all about explosion here, and that means time in the gym.  Gimli says Dwarves are "built for short distances"--meaning they are about explosive movement, none of that endurance madness.  This phase will transition me from weight-loss oriented workouts to heavily-concentrated explosion exercises; this should put a defibrillator on the fast twitch muscles, shocking them to life; medicine ball jumps, power cleans, dead lifts, and squats will become my new best friends.  It will be as fun as a bucket of tears. I can't wait!

Week 1 in the books - so far so good. 

Feeling hopping mad? DONATE NOW, there are refugees that need your help.  Tight on cash?  No problem, just like and share my Facebook page with 10,000 of your closest friends; share this post.

Also, it's never to late to train to dunk whatever it is you want to--a toy basketball on a Fisher Price hoop, or a maple bar in your hot cocoa?  Heck, maybe it's your fear of public speaking or the fact you never learned the salsa.   I would love to see a video of your dunk on D-day.

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Mad Hops 4 Humanity.  Let’s get mad.



The Sojourn to Slam

I’m hopping mad.  That’s right, hopping mad.  And it’s not every day that happens—like when I ask my kids to do something for the 5^th time.  I’m pretty chill for times 1 to 4, but when number 5 rolls around, I go nuclear.

So why am I hopping mad right now?  It should have started when I was listening to a leader from our church speak some time ago about the refugee crisis.  I learned there are 60 million refugees in the world today, or 1 in every 122 people have been forced to flee their home.  What’s more daunting?  Half of these are children.  It’s hard to imagine 30 million children without a home!  For perspective it’s like Chicago, New York City, and greater Los Angeles combined, or just a little less than the entire population of Canada.  “Somebody should really do something about that; it’s a humanitarian crisis,” I thought to myself as I puttered into the kitchen to look for some Double Stuff Oreos, and later settled in for an afternoon nap on the couch.

Somebody did do something, but that somebody wasn’t me.

That somebody was my wife, Heather.  A day later, thoughts of the refugee crisis were no longer on my radar, but for her the fire was kindling, and before long, she was on a mission to do more than just empathize, but to do something to realize a better future for these individuals who are in the direst of circumstances.

She embarked on a journey to find ways she could meaningfully contribute to refugees in our area, which led her to the International Rescue Committee (IRC) based in Seattle.  The IRC is a global, non-profit organization that “responds to the world’s worst humanitarian crises and helps people whose lives and livelihoods are shattered by conflict and disaster to survive, recover, and gain control of their future.”  The State Department partners with and provides significant funding to the IRC to aid with refugee relocation in the US.  I watched as Heather did little things to help the IRC in Seattle: a coat drive and move to a new office.  My interest was piqued, but to be honest, I wasn’t mad just yet; however, a breakthrough occurred when she coordinated a substantial donation drive for the IRC in partnership with Studio C, a popular comedy troupe.  We got to know wonderful, selfless individuals at the IRC on a more personal level, which opened additional opportunities.

At this point, I felt the temperature rising underneath my collar a little while I still contemplated the work it would take to get involved.  My track record for helping non-profits wasn’t exactly stellar, dating back to when I sold “The World’s Best Chocolate” for the Cub Scouts.  I ended up eating most of the chocolate and donating all my paper route money in the process, but the more I learned about the IRC, the madder I got...and that Oreo nap was becoming less appealing.  This all lead to one experience that humanized the entire refugee crisis for me; the moment I started to get mad, hopping mad.

The IRC in Seattle works miracles with limited budget to provide critical services to newly relocating refugees: trauma counseling, employment services, help with schools, and English tutoring, the list goes on.  Heather found us an opportunity to help the IRC setup an apartment for Syrian mother and father and their two girls ages 5 and 4 who had just arrived in the country with nothing but the basics.

With neighbors and friends, we collected donated furniture and other household items, and spent part of a day staging the modest apartment in anticipation of their arrival.   Our children lovingly arranged Piglet, Eeyore, and Winnie the Pooh along other simple toys for the two little girls; each bed was perfectly made; each lamp meticulously placed.  We wanted every inch of the apartment to say “welcome” as they arrived exhausted, completing a journey of a year or more to get here—on the cusp of starting a journey to make a new life that will take years to complete.

A week or so later upon getting an email from the IRC, it all came together for me.  It contained a picture of the family, two loving parents and their adorable little girls—smiling ear-to- ear.  A smile that radiated from within.  When I saw the other pictures of the little girls playing with their toys, I couldn’t help but tear up.  I didn’t know this family, but suddenly it felt like “our family.”  For us, readying the apartment was a few phone calls and a morning of our time; for them, it was a home and a refuge—it was everything.

In that moment, something changed inside of me.  I knew I wanted to do more, I needed to help more.  I hungered to get out of my comfort zone, dump those Oreos on my couch, douse them in kerosene and light them all on fire.  I was mad, hopping mad.

Soon after, the idea for Mad Hops 4 Humanity was born.  The premise is simple: dunk a basketball in 4 months on my 44^th birthday to raise $44,000 all 4 the International Rescue Committee in Seattle.  For a “just-shy-of-6-feet,” washed-up basketball player, the challenge to dunk a basketball at my age is real. For the IRC, the challenge is even more real.  Forty-four thousand dollars will be a game-changer for the IRC, allowing them to purchase and maintain a passenger van. Refugees need transportation services from the moment their plane touches down, until they can get their feet under them some months later.  To say transportation is a lifeline is an understatement—it can make a huge difference for many.

As I begin this 4-month journey, I’ll be posting regularly on my blog and in social media about my “sojourn to slam,” raising awareness about the plight of refugees internationally as well as needs right in our own backyard.  I hope you’ll generously share updates with friends, family, and colleagues.

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Feel the need to get hopping mad?  You’ve got four months to train to dunk whatever it is you want to dunk – a toy basketball on a Fisher Price hoop or a maple bar in your hot cocoa.  I would love to see a video of your dunk on D-day.

Mad Hops 4 Humanity.  Let’s get mad.