The bicycle paths of Amsterdam can be a perilous place. I'm incredibly surprised by how few accidents and injuries that I've witnessed during my years in the city; they could probably be counted on one hand (unless you're also counting self-induced, or weather-induced accidents) -- but even so, at any moment, on any bicycle path, any individual is in danger of being scraped, bruised, or bowled over by a fellow fietser. Or even worse: by a pedestrian tourist.

I have, of course, learned some survival tricks along the way.  The bicycle bell, naturally, is the first line of defense.  At first I considered it rude and offensive to "ding" at innocent people wandering aimlessly in front of me -- but I quickly learned to overcome that inhibition, and now I freely ring away (even repeatedly, if the situation calls for it) even if it only appears as if wandering aimlessly into the bicycle path is only a remote unconscious possibility in the mind of the pedestrian.  I guess you could say I've enculturated, in this respect.  Sometimes, a tourist might get offended by my quick-with-the-bell attitude; but none of the Amsterdammers feel insulted by a well-placed "ding" helping to avoid a disaster.

Of course, it's quite often that the bell will need to be accompanied by further measures -- like a deep-throated "Hey!" to help the ignorant wanderer realize that there's actually a person connected with that metallic dinging sound they've been hearing.  Sometimes, there will be a bit of creative steering (swerving) that has to happen to avoid a collision.  And, of course, there's always stopping (though, let it be said, this is not a very Amsterdamse solution).

Recently, I've become fond of an alternative solution -- a third (or fourth) line of defense, if you will.  A careful slowing of the bicycle's pace, a delicate nudging of the bike's front tire slightly astride the clueless idiot pedestrian, and a gentle hand on the shoulder offering a subtle but determined shove toward the sidewalk.  Not in a mean way.  Actually, it's a very personal, very kind, very careful maneuever which requires the bicyclist to slow down and address the situation with human contact -- superceding the linguistic and cultural differences that are inevitable in the city (especially going through areas like the Dam, which is now a regular part of my commute) -- and it gets the message across clearly enough to allow me to be on my way.  I saw the hand-on-the-shoulder technique a few years ago during the Tour de France.  It was back during Lance Armstrong's period of dominance, and it happened during some medium-size climb through mountainous territory, when some lower echelon team like Credit Agricole or Rabbobank was pounding away in front of the American rider, as he was just starting to make his move toward the front of the pack.  The lower echelon team was either clueless that another racer was coming up through the pack, or they were obstinately (though clearly hopelessly) trying to hold their lead -- but in any event, I remember that it was obviously a breach of Tour etiquette.  Yet instead of lowering his shoulder and pushing through the pack by brute force, Armstrong simply reached out with his right hand, softly laid it on the shoulder of the nearest rider, and powered by on the left side.  That moment of the Tour is still very vivid in my mind (even though the specific year and the specific riders involved have escaped me), and it's inspired me to try a similar approach in the most congested terrains where pedestrians most frequently crowd the bicycle paths.

And it's actually worked pretty well.  I don't know how the recipients of the hand-on-the-shoulder technique receive it -- but I figure it's for their own good.  Maybe I need to refine my technique in the future (if you've got any advice for me, feel free to let me know).  But for now, I'm just glad to have another tool in the utility belt.

Like many other Americans at this time of the year, I enjoy the delicate balance of science and intuition that goes into guessing the winners of the annual basketball tournament of the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA).  There's a certain excitement about the whole process -- especially in the days leading up to and including the first couple of rounds of the tournament (when there are several games simultaneously being played in varoius parts of the country).  I have warm memories of filling out the tournament brackets in high school (and even stealing glimpses of the games, together with the teacher, on the classroom television set in our cheminstry laboratory)... I remember debating the prospects of various games together with the other guys in my dormitory at Bowling Green State University... And even since moving to Europe, I've kept up with the annual observance of "March Madness."  It's a lot of fun.

For the first time this year, though, I've included my two oldest children on the tradition as well.  A friend of ours (with whom we also happen to be hanging out this week) organizes a rather sophisticated contest for the NCAA basketball tournament, with prizes handed out primarily for the sake of prestige (more than financial gain, like most "bracket pools" in the USA).  Thus, together, Elliot, and Olivia, and I are now vying for the coveted March Madness Traveling Tropy (and yes, the spelling on that last word is, in fact, correct) -- and competing amongst ourselves to see whose skills in sports prognostication are the most developed.

It's funny to see how Elliot and Olivia approach the selection process.  Elliot used some degree of logic -- albeit a rather unusual sort of logic -- in making his picks.  He asked a number of questions and sought my input on a number of occasions, pausing at times to genuinely consider a difficult pick in his mind.  But ultimately, he made his picks according to his own wisdom -- which seemed to be primarily linked to acquaintance and familiarity with the names of the schools in the tournament.  American University (a lowly #15 seed) was picked to advance a few rounds, "because I'm American." Kent State was picked to win a few rounds because it's an Ohio school.  Siena was picked for a number of upsets (making it all the way to the "Elite 8"), because Elliot and Olivia have a friend named Sienna.  Likewise, West Virginia (though not quite as much of a long-shot as Siena) was picked for the "Sweet 16" because Elliot has a cousin named Virginia.  Ultimately, Elliot picked Wisconsin and Texas to be playing for the championship -- Wisconsin because "Daddy used to live there," and Texas because his cousins Aydan and Brennan live there.  Don't ask me how he figured out that Texas would be his ultimate pick for the national championship.

Olivia, on the other hand, seemed to use almost no logic in making her picks.  Remarkably, she didn't even hesitate from one choice to the next.  At first, I thought she was just picking the second team that I mentioned (i.e. a question of "Team A or Team B" would always result in an answer of "Team B")... But as I experimented with this hypothesis, it was definitively disproved.  Apparently, it was just the aesthetic appeal of one school's name over another.  Thus, she picked three of the #16 seeds (the lowest teams with the longest odds of success) to advance to the second round (even though such an upset has never occurred in the history of the NCAA Tournament, up to this point).  And her Final Four were Boise State (a #14 seed), Austin-Peay (a #15 seed), Georgia (#14 seed), and Gonzaga (#7 seed) -- with, who else, Boise State winning the national title.

What's really funny, though, in all of this is that Elliot and Olivia honestly have as much of a chance to do well with their predictions (Well... OK, Olivia less than Elliot)... You never can tell when it comes to March Madness.

A sunny October day in Ohio... What more could a man hope for?  We had one free day in the midst of our conferences -- and we made the most of it.  The day started off at the H2O Fall Get-Away in Bellefontaine, Ohio, in the middle of beautiful fall colors.  Just stepping outside of the cabin to start the day, my heart was filled with gratitude for such a day...

Perhaps the most perfect way that such a fall day could be initiated was with shooting some baskets while the sun rose from behind the beautiful forest.

I even managed to sink a shot, synchronized to perfection with the camera's timed setting!

Shooting baskets by myself has always been one of my favorite ways to think and relax and enjoy physical and mental stimulation.  Starting off the day in this way was soooooooo nice...

I was especially blessed to hang out with some good friends from Bowling Green at the Fall Get-Away.  Furthermore, I got to introduce some of my Amsterdam friends to my Bowling Green friends and vice versa.  Somehow, I feel that it helps people to know me better if they can meet people from the "other half" of my life straddling the Atlantic Ocean.

It's hard to beat a chance to chew the fat with Jason Slack.  If only the time could have been longer.  Eventually, though, we needed to head on our way back to Cincinnati...

Before getting back to Cincinnati, however, the girls in the van convinced me into stopping at the world's largest flea market:  Trader's World, conveniently located just off of I-75, on the northern rim of Cincinnati.  It was a very bizarre place...

Ariënne, Eva, Marie Christine, and Naomi enjoyed trying on some vintage sunglasses in one of the stalls at Trader's World.

There was a little bit of everything to see at the flea market -- including rows of doll's heads, eerily arranged with their eyes facing outwards.  In the end, I was actually glad that we decided to stop.  It was such a unique spectacle.  So uniquely American!

Right next to Trader's World was a church with a giant fiberglass statue of Jesus, with his arms outstreched toward heaven.  It was absolutely massive (if you look around the cross in the above photograph, you can see the four Amsterdammers posing with their arms outstretched, to give you some sense of the scale).  Something about the setting -- right next to the interstate highway, immediately transposed with the spectacular consumerism of Trader's World -- combined with the sheer monstrosity of the statue itself and its bland dairy coloring led us to dub the statue "Cheesus."

Such a bizarre setting... Ohio has so many interesting facets.

The pound-pound-pounding of the basketball on the hardwood floors matches the rhythmic beat of blood flowing through my temples.  We've only been playing for fifteen or twenty minutes, but the sweat is already dripping from my forehead and soaking my t-shirt -- as the low-grade fever of a early July morning seep into the nominally air-conditioned YMCA gymnasium.  I'm breathing hard, and my legs are burning because I've been playing hard.  I always play hard... but when my opponent -- and indeed the very man that I am guarding -- is my younger brother, well... I somehow play harder.  In these situations, some kind of sibling rivalry kicks in.  And even though we are having fun and enjoying a bit of good-natured trash-talking (an oxymoron, if ever there was one) -- let there be no doubt:  we are seriously competing.  Man-to-man.  Against each other.  Just like it's always been.  And probably always will be.

Jay's playing better than I am this morning -- which, let's be honest, is really nothing new.  Jay was always athletically advanced, beyond his age (and mine), while we were growing up.  It always astounded me.  And frustrated me.  Except now that we're both pushing our thirties, he's somehow managed to flip things around and maintain the edge -- now playing younger.  Stronger, faster, higher, more gracefully.  Nevertheless he's frustrated, as usual, with his level of play.  He always wants to be better -- which is probably how he always manages to become better.  But for me, I'm fairly satisfied with how things have gone so far.  I made a couple of half-way decent shots.  I pulled in a couple of rebounds.  And my team won the first game, with a score something like 10 to 7.  Sure, I was woefuly out of shape -- and I needed to make a bee-line for the water fountain the instant after our team secured the first game of the morning... But I'm having fun.  My Dad, my brother, and I are enjoying one of those rare opportunities to hoop it up together, instead of being separated from each other by the thousands of miles from Holland to Ohio to Texas.

And despite my brother's athletic heroics, the team with my Dad and me is closing in on its second victory of the morning.

I check the ball and bounce-pass to my Dad on the left side of the court.  I cut into the key, looking for the ball -- my brother's breath hot and heavy on my shoulder.  But when one of my other teammates swooshes the tenth point of the second game, I pull up and smile at Jay.  "Same teams for a third game?"

"What are you talking about?" he responds.  "We're playing to eleven."

"Nuh-uh," I come back, like an argumentative third-grader.  "We're playing to ten.  That's what we played to in the first game."

"That's only because you took off after you got to ten," says Jay.  His tone has become a bit more serious.  He's not joking.  And my competitiveness steps up a notch, to keep in step.  On the inside, my juices are swirling.  It seems so obvious to me that he's frustrated with the losing and that he's trying to adjust the rules-of-play on the fly, giving him and his team a chance to stay in the game for a bit longer.  It's so typical, really.  It's so Jay.  "We're playing to eleven."  He pounds the ball to me, with a sharp bounce pass.  He's checking the ball in.  He's actually expecting this game to go on.

At this point, I turn around toward the other players.  I appeal with my eyes:  "What do you guys think?  Are we playing to ten or eleven?"  But the other men turn away or register blank looks in response.  It's clear that they don't want to get involved.

"Seriously, Eric."  My brother continues.  "No one in America plays to ten."  The words feel contemptuous and cruel -- like some cruel reminder of the fact that I've become some kind of eurofreak, after living abroad for five years.  In the heat of the moment, I give no consideration for the spirit in which his comment may have been intended... and even though he goes on to cite examples of the Tuesday night pick-up game in Plymouth, where they play to nine... or the Sunday evening game at the high school, where they play to eleven... Always an odd number, he says...  But honestly, I cannot hear his explanation.  Regardless of the facts, I am infuriated.  I am incensed.  The pounding of the blood in my arteries is the only audio to register in my ears.  In this moment, I can't even understand exactly why I am so bothered, so angered, by this situation -- but I am inexplicably cut to the quick.  I develop tunnel vision.  I can't even remember what I say or do... but somehow, the game resumes.

Playing to eleven.

Somehow I play even harder than before -- fueled by my incomprehensible rage.  I dribble harder.  I pass harder.  I cut harder.  I pull down the rebounds with thunder in my grip and lightning in my eyes.  At some point, I put down my shoulder to throw up a shot -- and to my shame and indignation, the shot is powerfully swatted away by my brother's strong right arm, which is the classic signal that my brother's intensity is very much mirroring my own.  The circumstances of the morning basketball game have worked him up every bit as much as me.  Whenever he gets fired up, he always goes extra hard for the shot blocks -- those incindiary statements, those humiliating stamps of rejection, those devestating ego-busters of the basketball vernacular (I'd probably be the same way, if I had any ups)... But at any rate, after twenty years of playing basketball with the guy, I just know that the shot blocks serve as Jay's intensity indicator.  And at this point, he's totally going for the rejection on every shot.  Which makes me even more mad -- and more intense.  Which makes him even more mad -- and more intense.

When I go up for the winning shot, from the top of the key, Jay's block attempt misses the ball but catches my arm.  And as the ball clangs off of the rim, carroming leftward, I scream at the top of my lungs, "GOT IT!!!!!" ("Foul!"), loud enough for the entire patronage of the Shelby YMCA to hear.

Jay responds with a disgusted, "Call that loud enough?" and guns the ball back to me for a check.  And indeed, I am disgusted, too.  I am fed up.  I am furious.  And after passing the ball off to a teammate, I back down into the key with 85 percent of my bodyweight leaning on Jay, as he tries to guard me.  Responding to my dirty playing technique, my brother actually throws me forward, like the precursor to a NBA brawl -- and I turn back toward him with hate in my eyes.  I feel in this moment that I could kill.

And then, for some reason, in one instant on the basketball court -- the spell is broken.  I stand up straight, blinking, in posession of my right mind.  I look at Jay.  I look at the other men on the court, who are staring at the two of us.  Someone asks us if we're going to be all right to keep playing, and I respond meekly and honestly:  "Yes."  As a matter of fact, I sleepwalk through the rest of the game, embarrassed and ashamed by my base behavior.  I can say nothing to my brother -- and he says nothing to me -- as we take turns at the drinking fountain, following the game.  Almost instantaneously, the raging inferno of my anger has been replaced by a shivering, drenched, and dripping dose of reality.  And for the rest of the morning, Jay and I experience a slow and silent thawing of our relationship.  We guard each other loosely, in subsequent games.  And we even get to play a couple of turns as teammates, passing the ball and setting each other up cordially.  After we're done with playing basketball, we get to talk a little bit.

I ask him.  "You know what really got me to the boiling point during that second game?"

He knew it, without hesitation.  "It's when I told you how we roll in the States.  Wasn't it?"

He knew it.  We don't need to talk about it much further, because we both get it.  We're competitive people.  We know how to push each other's buttons.  And though our emotions may still take a couple of hours (or maybe even a couple of days) to sort themselves out, this experience has only served to underscore the point that we know and understand each other deeply.  Instinctively.  We are brothers.  And this is the way that it has been since time immemorial.

I'd been thinking that this summer would be the summer that I'd finally help Elliot learn how to ride a bicycle.  Without training wheels.  All by himself.  He's been wanting to learn for some months now.  And even though the Dutch tend to pick up this skill earlier in life than their American counterparts (not surprisingly), I figured that Elliot would be up for the task.  And it turns out that I was right.

I just never expected that it would all actually happen so quickly, so suddenly, so smoothly, so easily -- all on the first try, believe it or not.

We decided to go to the Oosterpark, not far from our home, to give us plenty of space for the first attempts at flying solo.  I told Elliot that the trick was in the pedaling.  That the faster he went, and the harder he pedaled, the straighter his bike would go and the easier he would be able to stay balanced.  That it was all about commitment.  Of course, I would be there beside him, ready to catch him if he started to fall.  I could give him a push for a little while to get things started (the starting and the stopping is always the hardest part), and I could run beside him shouting encouragement and celebrating his accomplishment.  But it was going to be up to him to pedal and stay calm and confident and commited in order to make it all happen (if you know Elliot -- a typically cautious, careful, and timid boy -- then you would know why this sort of mental preparation and "pep talk" would be so important for him).

Honestly, I just didn't expect him to listen so well and pick things up so quickly.  Even the very first attempt went surprisingly well.  I only had to stop him because he was about to run into the bushes.  The second and third and subsequent attempts, too, went remarkably well.  He would only need to be rescued when some distraction came up (i.e. another biker within 25 meters of him), or when he would gradually veer off-course toward the bushes or toward the curb in the middle of the park's roundabout.  There did end up being some minor crashes -- but mostly, I was amazed by how well my boy did!  He still needs some practice when it comes to starting and stopping, and of course he'll get steadier with time.  But overall, it was a great start.  I'm so proud that my son now knows how to ride a bike!

If you'd be interested in seeing a few more photos of Elliot's first day of bicycle riding, you can check out the Family Pictures section of the website.