Gary's Bio
Gary Stallard spent a career as a U.S. Marine before completing his bachelor's degree at Stephen F. Austin University, where he majored in English and Journalism. For nine years, he worked as a sports writer/columnist/photographer for the Lufkin Daily News, for whom he continues to contribute free-lance articles. Stallard has won several awards for writing, including the Golden Hoops Award for basketball writing in 2003, Regional Sports Writer of the Year in 2004, and the Texas Press Association's first-place award for column writing in 2007. He has also done basketball, football and baseball radio and web stream play-by-play and color commentary for an ESPN affiliate. He currently works at Angelina College as the Coordinator of Marketing and Development, Sports Information Director and writing instructor.
Prior to arriving at Angelina College, Stallard taught English at Lufkin High School for four years.
He and his wife Susan live in Lufkin.
Adventures in House-Cleaning, Male Style
By: Gary Stallard
Last week, I spent several hours attempting to do something nice for my wife.
I tried to do a little house cleaning.
I had a day off, but my lady had to work. I thought I´d earn some big hubby points by knocking out some of the chores I knew she´d try to do when she got home. You know, the basics: Vacuuming, loading the dishwasher, tossing in a couple of loads of laundry. Simple stuff, right?
Ri-i-i-ght.
I failed to take into account my utter lack of competence in all things housework-related. I survived years as a bachelor, never comprehending how different my version of “clean”would be to a woman. Making the bed made no sense to me, since I planned to crawl right back in it that night. I didn´t need post-it notes; I just wrote notes to myself in the layers of dust on the furniture. I kept my laundry in three separate piles: Dirty, Really Dirty, and Too Funky to Wear. And hey, I always thought those stains on the walls looked like some form of abstract art. Sort of a Picasso in his Slob Period.
After an hour, I began hoping it would be like my college Algebra class. I never got a right answer, but I got credit for showing my work. Only way I passed.
Started by vacuuming the house. Here´s a question: Why do women use those dinky little vacuum cleaners for housework? It´s cute, but for this day I busted out the ol´ Shop Vac from the garage. Ten gallon, five ragin´ horsepower. Gave my best Tim Allen “Ahh, ahh, ahh”pig noise. Sucked the dust out of the house in no time flat.
Of course, now I can´t find any of our rugs, our blankets or pillows, or the dog and cat.
But by golly, that floor was SPARKLIN´.
Note to self: Stop sucking the cat´s tail up the vacuum. That noise she made nearly made me wet myself.
Washed the dishes. Rather, I piled them into the dishwasher. I can´t figure out how she manages that whole jigsaw-puzzle routine, stacking everything all nice and neat. I jam those suckers in as high as they´ll fit.
Moments later, the dishwasher was throwing knives at me across the kitchen. Guess maybe she´s onto something.
Saved the pots for washing by hand. Had a sneaky motive for this one: The last time she walked in and caught me with my hands in the sink, she got all excited. Matthew McConaughey in a Speedo couldn´t have gotten her that fired up.
And to think: All that time tracking down wine and roses for her. All that money I´ve spent on Axe body sprays and colognes? Coulda saved it all and spent a buck fifty on a bottle of Palmolive dishwashing soap.
Jammed a full load of laundry into washing machine. No time to sort it all out, the way she always does.
Hey, wait a minute. Washing machines aren´t supposed to buck, are they? I stayed on for the full eight seconds, but I don´t think the judges are going to award me any points for the ride - especially when they see the mess in the laundry room.
It took me a total of three and a half hours to do what she knocks out in about 30 minutes. Now I´m thinking maybe she does one of those Samantha Stevens “Bewitched”thingys with her nose. You know, the “beekle, beekle, beekle”and suddenly everything´s clean?
Still, I was proud of my efforts. Thought, “I´m gonna stand at the door and wag my tail like a dog gone potty in the right place when she comes in and sees what I´ve done. I just KNOW I´m gonna score points with this.”
Then it hit me. She does this kind of stuff every…single…day. Not once has she waited for me at the door, waiting on some sort of gold star on her report card. She does it, and never says a word.
I tucked my tail - and my new perspective - between my legs, and waited for her to come home. If she notices, great. If not, that´s okay, too.
But I make myself a promise to notice all these things she does from now on.
It´ll be a lot easier than riding a washing machine.
Goodbye to a Decade Made for Sports Fans
By: Gary Stallard
It´s time to bid farewell to the “Aughts.”
You know, as in “Aught eight”, or “Aught nine.” The years preceded by zeros on our calendar.
And what a decade it was for sports fans. To think that just 10 short years ago, I huddled in my Y2K bunker awaiting the end of the world with the rest of the paranoids. (Not true. I celebrated too much that New Year´s Eve and completely forgot I was supposed to awaken to the end times.)
With the advent of such high-tech treats as wireless internet, smart phones and high-def TVs, we sports nuts couldn´t help but think the 2000s arrived just in time - and solely - for us.
Consider: When the calendar turned in 2000, I was still watching sports on my 15-year old, 32-inch Sony TV with a picture that, on a good day, allowed me to read players´ numbers. Tonight, I´ll settle in front of my 52-inch flat screen with the wondrous high definition picture sharp enough to allow me to count sweat beads, if I´m so inclined. (I won´t be.) In those days, if I wanted to record a game I´d miss, I had to buy a blank VHS tape and hope I programmed the fickle machine correctly. Now, I´m a DVRin´ dude.
Those televisions have also been a big reason for the explosion experienced by the gaming industry. Anybody remember Atari baseball? Little dots on the screen representing players, and a joystick that really was nothing but a stick? Now we´ve got graphics good enough to fool passersby into thinking they´re viewing a real game.
And how about the internet? Back then, I had internet service, but it was dial-up and took forever to download any sort of sports update. Forget trying to view photos, unless I had a few days off. Today, not only do we fans have high-speed ‘net - also available in wireless form - but we also have internet access on our phones. On our telephones! Hallelujah and pass the ESPN! Raise your hands if you´ve sat in meetings or other important gatherings, getting scores and updates on your phone when you were supposed to be paying attention to something else. (My hand is up.) In 2000, “4G” would have represented how much money former NBA ref and high-stakes gambler Donaghy dropped on an NBA game he was calling.
The advent of those smart phones is also a big reason fantasy team ownership has multiplied exponentially. By 2007, an estimated 15 billion - of which I am NOT one - fans participated in some form or fashion. A sports fan´s dream: Owning a team without paying the high salaries or dealing with all the whining.
Did someone say whining? In the ‘90s, we had to read about a petulant star´s unhappiness in the newspapers or on TV sportscasts. Now we can log on to Twitter and read every single, mundane thought - however relevant or irrelevant it may be. (I really don´t want to know what Ochocinco is doing right now. I have a life of my own.) When I grow up, I want to think my little world is that vital to man´s existence. I can´t wait to become a Twit.
If you don´t Tweet, you can always find a blog. Seems that blogs are now like bellybuttons; everyone´s got one, so what´s the big deal? Can we really come up with something different to say regarding steroids and baseball?
Gone now are the plain ol´, everyday paper posters of our favorite stars, replaced by the aptly named “Fatheads.” In addition, in this past decade we learned that because of free agency, it´s okay to have one player´s name and number on three different replica jerseys. Thus, we discovered who the team fans are, and who simply follows a single player. Personally, I´m still wearing my old Bears´ throwback with the number “20”. It´s either Bob Nowaskey´s from the 1940 Bears, or Mark Carrie from the 1996 bunch. Who cares? I just like the jersey.
A full decade designed just for sports fans. Who´d a ever thunk it?
So goodbye, Aught-1 through Aught-9. Thanks for everything. And welcome, 2010s. You Aught to be even better than your predecessor.
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Minding My Business in Lufkin
By: Gary Stallard
Wed., Jan. 13, 2010, 3:00 pm CST
There´s a reason I prefer to do all my business right here in Lufkin.
Actually, there are lots of reasons, and they all have names and faces.
That´s the cool thing about living here. I don´t have business associates; I have friends with whom I do business. We don´t have meetings. We have receptions and reunions.
For example, when I walk into the Angelina County Teachers´ Credit Union, I have to allot at least an additional 15 minutes to do business. It´s not because they´re slow; far from it. It´s because I have to visit with Gayle and Phyllis, trading stories and pics of our grandkids. It´s part of our routine. Grandkids first, business later. I wouldn´t change it for anything.
These types of relationships make my business excursions more pleasurable experiences. If I take my truck to Wright Brothers for its usual oil change, I know I´ll be talking baseball with Jim Holton while waiting for my vehicle.
There are benefits to such relationships. During the holiday season, Greg, Gary and the gang at Diamond Photo went out of their way to help me put photos in my wife´s new locket I´d gotten her for Christmas. They didn´t have to do this. They did it because they cared.
Same for the folks at Tommy´s Watch Repair. I needed the locket engraved, and they managed to squeeze me in despite their incredibly hectic holiday schedules. When they were finished, they charged me less than half of what they´d quoted, just because they said it was a special gift.
I could go on and on. Doug Russell at East Texas Monuments gave me a great idea for making a patio table for my lady´s Christmas gift. The ladies at Kay Jewelers know my wife and me well enough now that when we enter the store, they already know why we´re there. They´re either really good at reading minds, or they just pay attention to their customers.
Back in the fall, I had to buy a new wireless card for my laptop. My buddy L.A. at the AT&T store knows I´m not real bright with some of this technical stuff, so he actually came to my house during his lunch break to help me set everything up. It took an hour. Ten minutes for L.A. to do his magic, and the rest of the time to sit on my back porch and catch up on life in general.
So many more people like this in Lufkin. Peggy Rains at the Lufkin Daily News, talking kids and advertising with me every time she calls. Ricky McNeal and Greg Little at Loving Toyota, knocking themselves out to help us with a new car. Chad and Lisa at Chili´s, seeing me come through the door and having my drink ready before I´ve even taken a seat. The ladies at China Garden who, when my favorite buffet entrée - General Tso´s chicken, if you´re keeping score - runs out, making sure I never have to wait for a refill. Jennifer at the Lufkin Mall, calling not for a business reason but just to see how I´m doing.
Sure, I could get the same products and services out of town - but with people like this greeting me, why in the world would I? The possibility of saving a few bucks isn´t near as appealing as seeing pictures of Michael (Phyllis´ grandson) or hearing how J.P. (Jim Holton´s son) is doing on the baseball field.
There are those who might say these people treat me so well just because we´re friends. I´d beg to differ.
We´re friends because they treat me so well.
A House Divided
By: Gary Stallard
Fri., Jan. 8, 2010, 2:30 pm CST
Back in the fall, I listened to a friend of mine whining about the Longhorns vs. Aggies Thanksgiving Day game. He attended UT, and his wife is an Aggie alumnus. He said they hardly speak on those game days.
Waaaah. Want some cheese with that whine?
That guy has no clue. He should walk a mile in my house shoes.
When it comes to sports rivalries, my entire family needs professional help. Read and weep:
My wife's son Jay is a Yankees fan. I'm a lifelong Braves fan.
Worse, he managed to recruit my lovely lady - never a big baseball fan until this year - to the dark side. Now she, too, is a member of the Evil Empire, and they celebrated the recent World Series together while I stashed away my tomahawk until next year. They even got matching freaking t-shirts. I wanted to hurl.
By the tenets dictated in the Superfan Code of Conduct, I should have beaten Jay with my foam tomahawk the first time he wore his Jeter t-shirt.
But wait. Jay, like me, is a diehard Cowboys fan. He got me through the T.O. era, and re-established my place in the Brotherhood of the Star. Hostility negated due to common interests. Peace in the house, right?
Wrong. My wife also happens to be a Bears fan. Not a problem most times, unless one of the teams happens to be playing an opponent whose loss would help either the 'Boys or the Bears. On a couple of Sundays earlier this season, Susan and Jay burned up the texting keys talking smack about who had the worst quarterback. It's not as if Romo and Cutler were giving them reasons to rest their fingers. Now the smack comes from Jay, whose Cowboys are playoff-bound while the Bears are headed for hibernation.
As if that wasn't enough to endanger the mother-son relationship, Jay is a Mavs fanatic, while Susan has a Spurs jersey, license plate cover and travel mug. Whatever love she and Jay managed to build with the Yankees got flushed right down the potty during football and basketball season. If I hear one more Dirk vs. Duncan smackdown, I'm going to join those NFL players who are donating their bodies to science. They can have mine now. I hear it's blissfully quiet in those vaults.
Were these the only family issues we're facing, we'd still be in desperate need of help. But no-o-o-o... We can't leave it at that.
Susan's daughter Erika attends Texas A&M and loves her Aggies. Daughter Aimee is at UT in Austin, and she, grandpa Doc and Jay - a student at the University of Texas-San Antonio - love the Longhorns. Each year, for the annual UT/A&M game on Thanksgiving Day, I have to seat myself in the middle of the couch to try and keep peace, all while dodging barbs and sharp instruments these siblings choose to throw at one another. I'm sure I didn't help any this year when Aimee asked if I was a UT or A&M fan; I responded that I'm all about UT, making her happy until I explained that as a Volunteer fan, the ONLY "UT" worth noting is the University of Tennessee.
Her response left a mark that still hasn't healed.
It never ends. Personally, I think I look downright tri-polar, wearing my Aggie t-shirt, my Longhorn cap and my UTSA Under Armor t-shirt - all in the name of trying to prevent all-out war in my own home.
So, is that enough turmoil for one household?
Of course not. We can't stop there; that would be too easy. My brother-in-law Wayne is... I don't know if I can even type this... a Giants fan. The GIANTS. He painted his man-cave with blue walls and a red ceiling (if his stereo wasn't so wicked, I'd never step foot in there.) He's even got this obnoxious voice message on his cell phone instructing any Cowboy fan to stop calling. He's brainwashed his poor daughter, Mackenzie, into cheering for the G-men, and his wife Beth says she wears Giant blue "just so we can stay married." It may be too late to save them.
By the tenets dictated in the Superfan Code of Conduct, Jay and I both should have had Wayne sleeping with the fishes by now.
Is there a solution? Short of moving everyone to some obscure city containing one team per sport - while cutting off cable and internet access - I don't see it.
Each and every year, I guess I'll flash the "Gig 'em!" sign with one hand, the "Hook 'em Horns!" sign with the other, and hope Bevo doesn't try to gore me and/or Reveille doesn't mistake my leg for a fire hydrant.
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