There is a famous and very old saying, that Rome wasn't built in a day. That is so true!
My first e-book, a biography on the early part of the boxing career of Muhammad Ali called "The Cassius Clay Story," was published on June 1. There has been a whole crazy-quilt of activity surrounding the project since my last update in mid-July. There were no other sales in July, but four copies of the book have sold, so far, in August, which is very encouraging. The marketing of "The Cassius Clay Story" is still just in its infancy. Barely anyone knows who I am or about the existence of my book.
A big step in the right direction was the publishing of the Clay Story on Smashwords.com. In order to do this, I had to re-format my manuscript, add hyperlinks, and perform a complete proofreading of the original copy. This took some time, but it was a labor of love. It took about three weeks to finish all of the changes I had to make, but the good news is that the revised version was accepted into the Premium Catalog at Smashwords, making it easier for the millions of people in the world with smart phones and tablet and palm computers to find and access the book.
My Twitter account had five followers on my previous blog update. I am now up to 13 followers, which makes it easier for me to spread the word. Anyone who follows me, I follow them right back! My most recent tweet, earlier today, announced that I am translating my book into Spanish. This is important for increasing the number of potential buyers. While the many Latino/Hispanic peoples around the world have certainly heard of Muhammad Ali, I doubt that a book of this type is available in Spanish. I am hoping to fill a niche.
Sportside Books has its own Facebook Page (http://on.fb.me/nKZ0B0). Facebook is an amazing creation. In addition to helping me to promote my book, it has enabled me to re-connect with old friends and even with family members I haven't spoken to for a while. It is a powerful way to spread news and information. And, practically every day, someone sends me a new friend message, or I hear from a new person I've sent a friend message to. My friend base at Facebook will continue to grow. The sky is really the limit on it. That's also good for my book.
I recently got the book listed on a Web site called Kindle Mojo. This was a victory, in that it was the first time "The Cassius Clay Story" was promoted in the lead position on such a site. Kindle Mojo has more than 7,000 Twitter followers, so that's gained me some visibility. I also joined a couple of author services called Goodreads and Wattpad. On these Web sites, independent authors go to have their books listed, and avid readers frequent these sites to find new, independent material to read. This is a good matchup of needs. While I'm busy converting the manuscript into Spanish, I am also formulating a plan to maximize my marketing clout using sites such as these.
My hope is that by the time it's been out for a year, thousands of people will have heard of "The Cassius Clay Story," whether in its English or Spanish incarnation. This will not be easy. It will be a long, hard fight to be recognized as a good author and to have my book recognized as a superior product. However, I stand behind my work and I am more than willing to push, for as long as it takes, to get that work into the spotlight. Rome, after all, wasn't built in a day.
It would be nice to make some money with this endeavor. For right now, I would settle for the satisfaction of knowing that someone took a gamble, dropped ten bucks to buy the book, read it, liked it, and thought it was good enough to post a positive review. How good would that feel?
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
An Open Letter To Tiger Woods
How are you? How are your kids? I was glad to hear that you are doing a lot better, physically.
I was sorry to see you struggling so badly in the heat at last week's PGA Championship golf tournament. I know that you are not accustomed to missing the cut in a tournament, but this was your first time back after rehabbing your injuries. Give yourself time.
I'm concerned about you, Tiger. People have been saying things about you, lately, that you may have heard and that may be upsetting you. I've heard or read people saying that you're no longer the player you once were; that you're finished as a major player in golf; that you'll never be able to win the four major golf tournaments that would let you pass Jack Nicklaus, whose 18 major wins is the all-time record. They talk as if breaking that record would be the ultimate measuring stick for your career, as if they'd consider you some kind of a failure if you do not break it. I know you can not say this, Tiger, so I will say it for you: You don't need that record!
Even if you never win another tournament in your career, you've done enough to this point that you are probably already the greatest golfer who ever lived. Golf used to be considered a sport for the elite class. A system was in place to prevent people of color from being allowed to compete. You bucked the system easily because you started golfing at such a young age, and you were so good, that the Powers that Be in golf had to let you compete. Your game was too strong. Coming out of high school, you were already one of the very best amateur golfers in the world. Stanford University could either offer you a scholarship, or they could watch you accept one from some other elite educational institution.
You continued to wreak havoc on the world of amateur golf, so doors that are usually shut to Black golfers had to be opened for you. There would have been a fierce competition among golf's major sponsors to help you turn professional, except that Nike knocked the ball so far out of the park with their offer, you could only accept. Then you went out and tore up The Masters the first time you played Augusta National as a pro. Just like that, a star was born, and game of golf will never be the same.
So, you changed golf for the better, Tiger. That unfair system may still be in place, but never again will anyone be able to say that a person of color can't be the very best golfer in the world. Your dominance of pro golf for more than a decade was so thorough that it was practically intimidating to your peers on tour. You set the bar for golfing excellence so high that young players, such as Kory McIlroy, had to adjust their goals and set their sights higher than ever before. And, they are playing great golf.
In recent years, though, you have gone through some personal problems that unfortunately went public. The destruction of your marriage has rattled you and the resultant negative publicity has embarrassed you. Those who seem to take such joy in poking holes in a star's reputation were just ready to pounce. You have been belittled. You have been ridiculed. You have been cast as a punchline in their classless jokes. Don't despair, Tiger. Remember that most of those people doing the laughing, haven't done in their given field even a tenth of what you've done in yours. And, how many of them would still be around if their dirty laundry had been aired so publicly?
Watching your current struggles on the links, Tiger, sometimes you seem very much alone. It seems like you are putting pressure on yourself to win; to prove them all wrong. It must be tempting to feel that way, since you know how fickle the press and the public are. Let you score a big tournament win; the kind you used to enjoy during your heyday; the kind where it's Sunday and you lead by 11 strokes on the front nine and can just cruise into the clubhouse, and all of your detractors will come running back, just as they did with Kobe Bryant. Your personal and professional redemption must seem tantalizingly close, like it's just one win away.
But, it's not that simple, Tiger. There is no easy road back from where you've been. Professional redemption, for you, will not come until you have accepted personal forgiveness. And, that forgiveness will not be forthcoming from the public or the press without the accompanying wins, so it will have to come from another source. The one who must forgive you, Tiger, is you.
Give yourself a break, Tiger. Your troubles proved that you are human, after all. You are not the first famous person to fall into one of the many traps that are out there, and you won't be the last. However, you are still one of the very best golfers on the planet. Take the weight off of your shoulders, Tiger. Let go completely of any pressure you feel inside to prove yourself, all over again. Simply play your game, and let your natural abilities rise to the top and take you where they may.
It may not immediately be the way it was. You may have to be satisfied with what others would call insignificant victories. But, you don't owe your critics anything, nor the press, nor the fans. The only important things you owe, you owe to yourself, and those are self-forgiveness and self-acceptance. Give yourself those things and truly turn your back on anyone else's expectations, and you will win again, Tiger. It might not be at Augusta National. It might not be at the U.S. Open. But with self-love and self-respect back in place, the small victories you will gain just might be the greatest wins of your entire career.
That's all the advice I have for you, Tiger. I hope you'll consider it to be constructive and in good spirits. I wish you the best of health, physically and mentally. Please give your children a big hug, for me.
One last thing, Tiger: When you do make it back to the winner's circle, remember the ones who stuck with you when you were down.
Respectfully,
David W. Coleman
I was sorry to see you struggling so badly in the heat at last week's PGA Championship golf tournament. I know that you are not accustomed to missing the cut in a tournament, but this was your first time back after rehabbing your injuries. Give yourself time.
I'm concerned about you, Tiger. People have been saying things about you, lately, that you may have heard and that may be upsetting you. I've heard or read people saying that you're no longer the player you once were; that you're finished as a major player in golf; that you'll never be able to win the four major golf tournaments that would let you pass Jack Nicklaus, whose 18 major wins is the all-time record. They talk as if breaking that record would be the ultimate measuring stick for your career, as if they'd consider you some kind of a failure if you do not break it. I know you can not say this, Tiger, so I will say it for you: You don't need that record!
Even if you never win another tournament in your career, you've done enough to this point that you are probably already the greatest golfer who ever lived. Golf used to be considered a sport for the elite class. A system was in place to prevent people of color from being allowed to compete. You bucked the system easily because you started golfing at such a young age, and you were so good, that the Powers that Be in golf had to let you compete. Your game was too strong. Coming out of high school, you were already one of the very best amateur golfers in the world. Stanford University could either offer you a scholarship, or they could watch you accept one from some other elite educational institution.
You continued to wreak havoc on the world of amateur golf, so doors that are usually shut to Black golfers had to be opened for you. There would have been a fierce competition among golf's major sponsors to help you turn professional, except that Nike knocked the ball so far out of the park with their offer, you could only accept. Then you went out and tore up The Masters the first time you played Augusta National as a pro. Just like that, a star was born, and game of golf will never be the same.
So, you changed golf for the better, Tiger. That unfair system may still be in place, but never again will anyone be able to say that a person of color can't be the very best golfer in the world. Your dominance of pro golf for more than a decade was so thorough that it was practically intimidating to your peers on tour. You set the bar for golfing excellence so high that young players, such as Kory McIlroy, had to adjust their goals and set their sights higher than ever before. And, they are playing great golf.
In recent years, though, you have gone through some personal problems that unfortunately went public. The destruction of your marriage has rattled you and the resultant negative publicity has embarrassed you. Those who seem to take such joy in poking holes in a star's reputation were just ready to pounce. You have been belittled. You have been ridiculed. You have been cast as a punchline in their classless jokes. Don't despair, Tiger. Remember that most of those people doing the laughing, haven't done in their given field even a tenth of what you've done in yours. And, how many of them would still be around if their dirty laundry had been aired so publicly?
Watching your current struggles on the links, Tiger, sometimes you seem very much alone. It seems like you are putting pressure on yourself to win; to prove them all wrong. It must be tempting to feel that way, since you know how fickle the press and the public are. Let you score a big tournament win; the kind you used to enjoy during your heyday; the kind where it's Sunday and you lead by 11 strokes on the front nine and can just cruise into the clubhouse, and all of your detractors will come running back, just as they did with Kobe Bryant. Your personal and professional redemption must seem tantalizingly close, like it's just one win away.
But, it's not that simple, Tiger. There is no easy road back from where you've been. Professional redemption, for you, will not come until you have accepted personal forgiveness. And, that forgiveness will not be forthcoming from the public or the press without the accompanying wins, so it will have to come from another source. The one who must forgive you, Tiger, is you.
Give yourself a break, Tiger. Your troubles proved that you are human, after all. You are not the first famous person to fall into one of the many traps that are out there, and you won't be the last. However, you are still one of the very best golfers on the planet. Take the weight off of your shoulders, Tiger. Let go completely of any pressure you feel inside to prove yourself, all over again. Simply play your game, and let your natural abilities rise to the top and take you where they may.
It may not immediately be the way it was. You may have to be satisfied with what others would call insignificant victories. But, you don't owe your critics anything, nor the press, nor the fans. The only important things you owe, you owe to yourself, and those are self-forgiveness and self-acceptance. Give yourself those things and truly turn your back on anyone else's expectations, and you will win again, Tiger. It might not be at Augusta National. It might not be at the U.S. Open. But with self-love and self-respect back in place, the small victories you will gain just might be the greatest wins of your entire career.
That's all the advice I have for you, Tiger. I hope you'll consider it to be constructive and in good spirits. I wish you the best of health, physically and mentally. Please give your children a big hug, for me.
One last thing, Tiger: When you do make it back to the winner's circle, remember the ones who stuck with you when you were down.
Respectfully,
David W. Coleman
Friday, August 5, 2011
The Rites of Autumn
It is with fond reverance that I recall the days of my young adulthood, when the coming of the fall meant that I would be watching football all weekend long! It started on Friday nights, when my high school team would play its home games at a nearby community college. There was something about watching these kid footballers playing this game in a place where grown men also played. It made the players seem bigger and it made the whole prep school football scene seem more mature. The cheerleaders were young and oh-so-enthusiastic. The popcorn at the concession stand was fresh. The Associated Student Body or the Parent-Teacher Association would be selling authentic school souvenirs. And, oh yes, the team, the Kearny High Komets, was usually pretty good on the field.
Saturday nights were reserved for watching the Aztecs play at San Diego Stadium. (I still can't call it any other name!) During these years, San Diego's pro team, the Chargers, had fallen on hard times. It seemed that everyone who was anyone had "stepped on up" to watch the winning major college program. Don Coryell had long since departed to coach the NFL's Cardinals, but Claude Gilbert's troops were still winning 9-10 games each year. Some people still think that firing Gilbert was the biggest mistake the Aztecs ever made, although switching the games soon after that to daytimes, and changing the home uniforms from black to scarlet did not help.
Eventually the games played on Sundays became more enjoyable, as the Chargers began to stockpile talented young players. In 1975, they drafted 3/4 of a defensive line, in the persons of Gary Johnson, Louie Kelcher, and Fred Dean. Five years later, all three of them were starters for the AFC in that year's Pro Bowl. In the same draft, the Chargers added a starting cornerback (Mike Williams), a starting safety (Mike Fuller), a starting offensive tackle (Billy Shields), and a starting running back (Rickey Young) who led the team in rushing three straight years before being dealt to Minnesota for an all-pro level starting guard (Ed White).
I was all of 15 that year. By the time I was grown and could afford to buy season tickets, this talent nucleus had coalesced around a maturing quarterback named Dan Fouts. Awesome targets for Fouts came when Charlie Joiner arrived in a trade with Cincinnati in 1976, and John Jefferson (Arizona State) and Kellen Winslow (Missouri) were drafted in 1978 and 1979, respectively. Don Coryell returned to San Diego to coach the Chargers offense during the 1978 season, but was promoted to head coach after Tommy Prothro was fired four games into the seaon. There were a few mis-steps, but the team caught fire at the end of the year, scoring big wins in its last three games over Chicago (40-7), Seattle (37-10), and playoff-bound Houston (45-24) to finish at 9-7.
Those Chargers made the playoffs the next four seasons, twice advancing to the AFC championship game. I was at the playoff win following the 1980 season over the Buffalo Bills. The Chargers were trailing late in the fourth quarter. As Fouts released a long pass in the direction of a streaking Ron Smith, I saw Bills safety Bill Simpson start to fall to the turf and Smith move into the clear. I jumped out of my seat and held my hands high over my head, screaming "TOUCHDOWN!" while the ball was still in the air. As the stadium went crazy, the ball settled softly into Smith's grasp. We all watched ecstaticly as he ran the last 30 yards to the end zone! Too bad the Chargers lost to the Raiders in the AFC title game the next week!
Who could ever forget the playoff win the following year, in Miami? Winslow made 11 catches in that game, scoring a touchdown and blocking a field goal to save the game at the end of regulation. The Chargers won on a Rolf Benirschke field goal in overtime. But, again, they lost in the AFC title game, this time to the Bengals in Cincinnati. As the good times for the team again began to fade, I was able to move up the waiting list for season tickets, finally buying them in my own name in 1986. (The previous three years, I'd bought some else's season seats.)
I relinquished my prized season tickets in 1997, after learning I would soon become a father for the first time. The daughter I had that year will soon be 14 years old! I later had a son and then another daughter.
My son shares my name. Last year he turned seven years old. One of my presents to him was to buy season tickets for us to watch Arizona State University football. I am fortunate enough to be able to share the Rites of Autumn with David, Jr., as I never could with my own father, growing up.
Our football days are all-day affairs. We get up around 10 a.m. We have a quick, small breakfast, then drive from the west side of the Phoenix Valley to an area just southeast of downtown, where we park the car and ride the light rail system the rest of the way to Sun Devil Stadium in Tempe. We get there early, so we can be sure to be on time for the Devil Walk, where the players arrive at the stadium and walk through a long lane lined with the blaring band, the shrieking cheerleaders, and the fired up fans!
Next, it's time for the tailgate party, which is held at the nearby basketball arena because it's too hot in Phoenix for anyone to be outside for a couple of hours. David always feasts on a sandwich from Chick-fil-A (saving room for a brownie for desert is a big priority for him). I usually opt for a barbecue plate. We sit in the arena stands and watch big-time college football games being broadcast on big-screen televisions by the major networks. We give each other high-fives for great touchdowns we see, and we root for the underdogs!
With about 20 minutes until game time, we make the long walk into the stadium, where our seats are on the upper level. Last year, our seats were on about the 10-yard line. This year, we are moving to about mid-field. We watch the player introductions. David is really into the Sparky character, and loves to watch the poor guy do all of those push-ups after touchdowns, especially if it's a high-scoring game!
We wanted to go to Los Angeles last year for the game at USC, but we had to settle for going to Tucson to see the annual Territorial Cup showdown with the University of Arizona. It was the last game of the year, and David really got into it. I think he really got a sense of "us-versus-them," being in a foreign stadium and seeing 70,000 Wildcats fans rooting against the 10,000 Sun Devils fans who were brave enough to go. I think he was proud to be there and represent the team he'd been rooting for all year. The fact that the Sun Devils blocked an extra point kick that would have won the game for the Wildcats at the end of regulation, then won the game by blocking another point-after-touchdown in overtime, was that much more gratifying. David actually willed the Sun Devils to victory. Right after I told him that extra points aren't blocked very often in big-time college football, he told me that they could do it. And then, the team went out and did it - twice!
So, this year, we will have better seats and one extra home game to root for our Devils. The Wildcats will be coming to our stadium, so David will get to see the rivalry from the other side. And, this year, we're going to make it to Los Angeles, though it will be at the Rose Bowl against UCLA. The USC Trojans come to visit Tempe, this year.
When the game is over, we ride the light rail (we actually call it a trolley) back to the car. I drive us home. The actual games begin at 7 p.m. or 7:30, so it is approaching midnight by the time we are on the freeway heading west. David is asleep by the time we get to the west side of town. We have been together all day.
These are the Rites of Autumn. We root for our team, win or lose. We talk, man-to-man and sometimes son-to-son. We pick our favorite players and watch their exploits on the field. We count the number of total push-ups Sparky had to do today. We have fun, plain and simple. If it's time-consuming and if it's costly, it's worth every second and every penny. These are the days and these are the times that I so anticipated, when I could only dream of being a father.
And if it's a Saturday night and anyone wants to know where I've been all day, tell them I've gone to the stadium to watch a ballgame with my son!
Saturday nights were reserved for watching the Aztecs play at San Diego Stadium. (I still can't call it any other name!) During these years, San Diego's pro team, the Chargers, had fallen on hard times. It seemed that everyone who was anyone had "stepped on up" to watch the winning major college program. Don Coryell had long since departed to coach the NFL's Cardinals, but Claude Gilbert's troops were still winning 9-10 games each year. Some people still think that firing Gilbert was the biggest mistake the Aztecs ever made, although switching the games soon after that to daytimes, and changing the home uniforms from black to scarlet did not help.
Eventually the games played on Sundays became more enjoyable, as the Chargers began to stockpile talented young players. In 1975, they drafted 3/4 of a defensive line, in the persons of Gary Johnson, Louie Kelcher, and Fred Dean. Five years later, all three of them were starters for the AFC in that year's Pro Bowl. In the same draft, the Chargers added a starting cornerback (Mike Williams), a starting safety (Mike Fuller), a starting offensive tackle (Billy Shields), and a starting running back (Rickey Young) who led the team in rushing three straight years before being dealt to Minnesota for an all-pro level starting guard (Ed White).
I was all of 15 that year. By the time I was grown and could afford to buy season tickets, this talent nucleus had coalesced around a maturing quarterback named Dan Fouts. Awesome targets for Fouts came when Charlie Joiner arrived in a trade with Cincinnati in 1976, and John Jefferson (Arizona State) and Kellen Winslow (Missouri) were drafted in 1978 and 1979, respectively. Don Coryell returned to San Diego to coach the Chargers offense during the 1978 season, but was promoted to head coach after Tommy Prothro was fired four games into the seaon. There were a few mis-steps, but the team caught fire at the end of the year, scoring big wins in its last three games over Chicago (40-7), Seattle (37-10), and playoff-bound Houston (45-24) to finish at 9-7.
Those Chargers made the playoffs the next four seasons, twice advancing to the AFC championship game. I was at the playoff win following the 1980 season over the Buffalo Bills. The Chargers were trailing late in the fourth quarter. As Fouts released a long pass in the direction of a streaking Ron Smith, I saw Bills safety Bill Simpson start to fall to the turf and Smith move into the clear. I jumped out of my seat and held my hands high over my head, screaming "TOUCHDOWN!" while the ball was still in the air. As the stadium went crazy, the ball settled softly into Smith's grasp. We all watched ecstaticly as he ran the last 30 yards to the end zone! Too bad the Chargers lost to the Raiders in the AFC title game the next week!
Who could ever forget the playoff win the following year, in Miami? Winslow made 11 catches in that game, scoring a touchdown and blocking a field goal to save the game at the end of regulation. The Chargers won on a Rolf Benirschke field goal in overtime. But, again, they lost in the AFC title game, this time to the Bengals in Cincinnati. As the good times for the team again began to fade, I was able to move up the waiting list for season tickets, finally buying them in my own name in 1986. (The previous three years, I'd bought some else's season seats.)
I relinquished my prized season tickets in 1997, after learning I would soon become a father for the first time. The daughter I had that year will soon be 14 years old! I later had a son and then another daughter.
My son shares my name. Last year he turned seven years old. One of my presents to him was to buy season tickets for us to watch Arizona State University football. I am fortunate enough to be able to share the Rites of Autumn with David, Jr., as I never could with my own father, growing up.
Our football days are all-day affairs. We get up around 10 a.m. We have a quick, small breakfast, then drive from the west side of the Phoenix Valley to an area just southeast of downtown, where we park the car and ride the light rail system the rest of the way to Sun Devil Stadium in Tempe. We get there early, so we can be sure to be on time for the Devil Walk, where the players arrive at the stadium and walk through a long lane lined with the blaring band, the shrieking cheerleaders, and the fired up fans!
Next, it's time for the tailgate party, which is held at the nearby basketball arena because it's too hot in Phoenix for anyone to be outside for a couple of hours. David always feasts on a sandwich from Chick-fil-A (saving room for a brownie for desert is a big priority for him). I usually opt for a barbecue plate. We sit in the arena stands and watch big-time college football games being broadcast on big-screen televisions by the major networks. We give each other high-fives for great touchdowns we see, and we root for the underdogs!
With about 20 minutes until game time, we make the long walk into the stadium, where our seats are on the upper level. Last year, our seats were on about the 10-yard line. This year, we are moving to about mid-field. We watch the player introductions. David is really into the Sparky character, and loves to watch the poor guy do all of those push-ups after touchdowns, especially if it's a high-scoring game!
We wanted to go to Los Angeles last year for the game at USC, but we had to settle for going to Tucson to see the annual Territorial Cup showdown with the University of Arizona. It was the last game of the year, and David really got into it. I think he really got a sense of "us-versus-them," being in a foreign stadium and seeing 70,000 Wildcats fans rooting against the 10,000 Sun Devils fans who were brave enough to go. I think he was proud to be there and represent the team he'd been rooting for all year. The fact that the Sun Devils blocked an extra point kick that would have won the game for the Wildcats at the end of regulation, then won the game by blocking another point-after-touchdown in overtime, was that much more gratifying. David actually willed the Sun Devils to victory. Right after I told him that extra points aren't blocked very often in big-time college football, he told me that they could do it. And then, the team went out and did it - twice!
So, this year, we will have better seats and one extra home game to root for our Devils. The Wildcats will be coming to our stadium, so David will get to see the rivalry from the other side. And, this year, we're going to make it to Los Angeles, though it will be at the Rose Bowl against UCLA. The USC Trojans come to visit Tempe, this year.
When the game is over, we ride the light rail (we actually call it a trolley) back to the car. I drive us home. The actual games begin at 7 p.m. or 7:30, so it is approaching midnight by the time we are on the freeway heading west. David is asleep by the time we get to the west side of town. We have been together all day.
These are the Rites of Autumn. We root for our team, win or lose. We talk, man-to-man and sometimes son-to-son. We pick our favorite players and watch their exploits on the field. We count the number of total push-ups Sparky had to do today. We have fun, plain and simple. If it's time-consuming and if it's costly, it's worth every second and every penny. These are the days and these are the times that I so anticipated, when I could only dream of being a father.
And if it's a Saturday night and anyone wants to know where I've been all day, tell them I've gone to the stadium to watch a ballgame with my son!
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