There are three things my future son Phog is going to have to love: basketball, the Kansas Jayhawks, and Jayhawk basketball.

And by future, I don’t mean the near-future. I’ve yet to find the woman to carry my son, which is sort of important I hear.

What’s also important, in my world that revolves around sports, is practice. I’ve spent thousands of hours in a gym shooting a basketball over and over again until my hands turn black. I practice my craft — sports writing — through reading.

But there’s no gym where I can practice, or book to read to learn how to brainwash — ahem, convince — my future son that he should love three of the most important things in my world.

Luckily, I’ve found a guinea pig.

My 1-year-old nephew Juleon has recently developed a deep fascination with the Jayhawk logo. Anytime he sees one, he stops whatever he’s doing, points to the Jayhawk, and shouts, “Da, da, da!” To be fair, his current vocabulary includes “ma” and “da.” He usually needs something when he’s shouting “ma” and “da” usually means he’s excited.

Juleon discovered the Jayhawk the past few months when my sister and her boys moved in with my mom. My mom’s house has Jayhawks all over the place, as it should, and Juleon loves to point them out, stare at them, touch them and shout “Da.”

He’s especially fond of any Jayhawks on clothing, which is half of his uncle’s wardrobe.

Last weekend when I arrived at my mom’s house, I picked Juleon up and held him upside-down behind my back, so he could see the huge Jayhawk on the back of my sweatshirt. He spent the next few minutes trying to climb over my shoulder so he could stare at the Jayhawk.

Last week, my mom got Juleon and his 11-year-old brother Tayte some KU apparel. Tayte is also becoming a big fan and watches all the games with my mom, asking a ton of questions, half of which my mom answers, “You’ll have to ask your uncle.”

Mom got Tayte a Jayhawk jersey and Juleon a Jayhawk sweatshirt jacket. She bought both items in the middle of the week. She said the boys hadn’t taken them off since, and they were still wearing them when I left on Sunday. Juleon’s jacket had a small Jayhawk on the chest, which he of course liked to point out to everyone, letting them know there was a “Da” on his chest.

Tayte sported his jersey proudly, and asked me questions about the team.

The boys’ new-found love makes for a very happy uncle and has taught me that I’m not even going to need to brainwash my boy Phog.

When he’s a baby, the colorful and cool-looking logo will win over his love. And when he gets older, he’ll learn to appreciate the Jayhawks for the same reason I did: because they’re awesome.

Editor’s note: for the next two weeks we’ll be running the best of our This Ordinary Day pieces. We’ve enjoyed working with so many great writers and wonderful people and felt it was high time to take a look back at some of what they’ve brought us. If you’d like to see more pieces, please take a trip over to our archives page — it’ll be well worth your time.

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I’m going to have a daughter. I know it.

I’m not expecting* right now. I don’t know if I’ve even met the girl who will carry my daughter. And if I have met her, well, we haven’t discussed that yet and we haven’t realized some day we’ll be making a daughter.

*Do males expect? Is it the woman and man are expecting or just the woman is expecting? If someone could clear that up for me, I’d appreciate it.

But I just know it, I’m going to have a daughter and I’ve always been scared to death of the fact. I even go so far as to tell people that I want a son. I want to name him Phog (probably why I haven’t found the mother of my baby yet) and he will play basketball, probably get burnt out on basketball and then I’ll force him to play because eventually he’ll learn to love the beauty of backdoor passes and team defense and the pick and roll, because how can you not.

When I say things like this, it makes my mom angry. In fact, it makes females angry. But the men who are reading this are nodding their heads. If their girlfriends or wives are looking over their shoulders, they might be hiding the nod, but they get it. They’re thinking about their friends when they were in high school and college and maybe they’re even thinking about themselves when they were in high school and college and they, like me, are thinking about the chastity belts and bedroom deadbolts they’ll have to buy for their future daughter’s bedroom door when she turns 14. Even I feel bad for my future daughter.

But I had a breakthrough today. It was the first day of a basketball camp I’m coaching at this week and it’s a co-ed camp for kids. I’ve coached in the past*, but I’ve never coached girls.

*Coaching is the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. When you see the light bulb go off in a kid’s head and then his body actually performs the skill you’ve been teaching for months and you see how happy… eh, this deserves its own entry. Come back in two weeks and I’ll tell you all about it.

So when I arrived at the camp today and saw all the girls, I thought it might be a challenge. I know how to deal with a boy who’s not listening. You maybe raise your voice just a little, no yelling, but just enough to get their attention. But could I do that with a girl? I’m not going to make a girl cry. I might cry.

So camp started. I had the eight-year-olds. And they all were pretty good kids. Almost all were awful at basketball and have practically no knowledge of the game and that can be frustrating, but it’s also fun because you get to really teach. Maybe they only get about half of what you’re teaching, but they’re learning, and they want to learn, more than any high school kid can learn or is willing to learn. Patience is the key. Extreme patience.

But this is where I started to realize I could have a daughter.

The girls listen. They all listen. And then, they actually make an effort to do what you say. And they do it with a smile. And they’re all so darn cute. And they all loved me. I don’t know what it was, but they all loved me.

One little girl named Janet was in my group in the morning session and she was one of the few kids who also stayed for the afternoon session. In between sessions Janet came up to me (well, actually, she was sort of following me around, but not an annoying follow like some kids do), and she asked if I knew whether she would be in my group in the afternoon. I said I didn’t know, because I didn’t.

Then when they were being split up into groups that afternoon and she was in the group told to head to my basket, she sprinted toward me like she had just been given the key to the best, biggest candy store in the world and her little freckly face had a smile ear to ear, and, well, my heart kind of melted.

Janet: (jumping up and down, tugging on my shirt) Coach C.J.! Coach C.J.! I’m in your group! I’m in your group!

Me: (smiling) I know. I know.

And then I thought maybe I’m all right with a daughter. Maybe it won’t be a curse. Maybe I even want a daughter… just one that magically skips the teenage years or stays eight forever.

Great guy-bonding movies all follow the same scenario.

Girl breaks up with guy. Guy’s buddies take him on an adventure to help him deal. Comedy ensues.

Think Swingers or Old School.

Like these movies, sometimes we need a reminder of why our friends are awesome and loyal, and girlfriends, at least most, come and go.

My girlfriend of about four months broke up with me last Saturday night. She was supposed to come over that night to watch the KU football game with me, but instead she called during the middle of the first quarter and after some small talk, she dropped an “I just don’t think I can do this right now.”

She then went on to tell me how I was perfect and she liked me, and I’m the guy she would want to take home to her parents, BUT she just had too much on her mind and she just couldn’t be in a relationship.

Yeah, it’s not you, it’s me.

My thoughts: Bullshit.

The sad thing is we went through all this two weeks before, when she sent me a text message at 2 a.m. on a Friday night, saying “I don’t think I can do this…”

The … would suggest that I’m leaving something out, but no, that’s how she ended her message, as though I’m supposed to understand …

Apparently, … is how she ends a thought. I usually end a thought with a singular period, but I also don’t break up with someone via text message.

I didn’t respond to this text until Tuesday night. I didn’t think it justified a response. And I was kind of preoccupied with dealing with a broken nose that required surgery that Monday. Yes, she dumped me the same week I broke my nose and my face looked like it was made out of clay.

But on Tuesday when I returned home from surgery, I finally responded to her text and asked her to come over, because I wanted to chat. I was having a High Fidelity moment. Haven’t you always wanted the real truth as to why someone broke up with you?

This was my chance. Too much time had passed to ask this question of girlfriends past without sounding weird (it was even kind of weird in the book and movie). But this was my chance to find out what the hell was wrong with me — or her.

So the next night she came over, and I told her some variation of this: In grownup world, you don’t break up over a text message. Then I asked what in the hell did I do that made you want to end this?

She came back at me with a bunch of excuses, and she said she had made a mistake and wanted to give it another try. I wasn’t expecting this, and for some reason (banging head against keyboard), I decided to give it another shot. My friends, as they should have, told me to proceed with caution. But hey, what’s a good script without some regret?

As it was before the open-ended text, everything was going fine until Saturday night, when I was watching the football game, and my phone rings*, and cue the second unexpected breakup.

*She was evolving. She called me this time.

I got the feeling that she wanted an understanding reply, and she wanted me to say, “Oh, well, I hope we can still be friends.” She actually did drop an, “I still want to be friends,” somewhere in the conversation.

I didn’t feel like being nice, and I was busy watching the football game, so I told her I was watching the game and didn’t have time for this.

Now, once I hung up, this would usually be the time where I would start moping and wondering what’s wrong with me. This would go on for a couple days before I’d finally stop being a wuss and move on. Most girls would probably start eating ice cream (or at least the movie version of girls would do this), and most guys in my situation would probably just drown their sorrows in alcohol alone.

I decided to be proactive and go with what they would do in the movies. This will be my response to breakups from here on out.

I called my buddies, who were already out in Kansas City at a bachelor party, and they said I should come to town to go out with them, and I did. Unfortunately, I had to miss most the game during the 90-minute drive, but I got to drown my sorrows in whiskey while surrounded by good friends.

Comedy, of course, ensued*.

*I’ll save what happened for my future book, or movie.

It was one of the best nights of my summer. By the end of the night, I wasn’t even thinking about the fact that I had been dumped that day, and that wasn’t even because of the alcohol.

The lesson: Never plan on watching a football game with just your girlfriend.

The other lesson, as it would be in the movies, is appreciate your friends. And when one of them gets dumped, take them out for a good time, filled with whiskey, ridiculousness and if you’re Double down Trent, Vegas baby!

I was at a party last night and a couple brought their new baby girl, who couldn’t have been more than a couple weeks old. One of the wives at the party was cooing over the baby the entire night and made her husband hold her.

“Doesn’t that make you want one?” she asked him.

He did the right thing by not saying anything at all. Now me, the non-married guy, put myself in his shoes when she asked the question, and my answer without my married-guy mussel, would have been a simple, “No.”

I don’t see the fuss over a new baby, especially one that’s just a couple of weeks old. They have no personality at that age. They barely make any noises. They don’t really smile, and you can’t play any games with them.

It reminds me of the Seinfeld episode when Jerry and Elaine’s friends keep telling them, “You’ve GOT to come see the new BABEE.” Jerry and Elaine, of course, could care less to see the BABEE.

Now I’m sure some day when that’s my baby *Phog (come on, be a boy!), I’ll think he’s the coolest thing from the time he shoots out and the doctor catches him and I immediately put a basketball in his hands.

*I know I’m having a girl. I’m cursed.

And lately, I’ve even got a little baby fever myself.

My sister recently moved back to Kansas City and she has two boys, Tayte, 11, and Juleon, who’s 11 months. Tayte really took a loving to sports recently, and much of my attention when I’m back home is going over the pennant race, pitching motions and our favorite ballplayers and teams.

But lately, I’ve become more and more fascinated with little Juleon. First of all, he’s just so darn cute. With his little curls and his cute little smile, and his cute little noises and the way he kicks his cute little legs when I hold him in the air… And, yeah, he’s pretty stinkin’ cute.

And then there’s watching him grow and the changes he makes in just the week of time that goes by between my visits. The other day he was sitting on the ground, and without using his hands or a table, he stood up on his own and raised his arms in the air, showing everyone, Look what I did! I know next week he’s going to be walking, and in a couple weeks he’ll probably chime in on the pennant race.

And with every visit, I can see him getting more and more excited to see me. We’ve even started to have our “things,” like when his tall uncle lifts him in the air and flies him around like an airplane, scaring grandma and the both of us laughing about it in the process.

Now, if I didn’t know the kid and he was of no relation, I’m sure I’d think he was cute — did I mention how cute the little stinker is? — but other than that, I wouldn’t be that fascinated.

But I am. I’m so fascinated I know I’m going to have to start stopping myself when I’m talking to my buddies from slipping in baby stories between fantasy football and recapping the game last night.

It’s just that, they’ve got to come see the BABEE!

There are few things in this world that I hate, even though my mom always told me not to hate anything.

“You can dislike someone or something, but you should never hate,” she would say.

But I think even Mom can understand that I hate the Missouri Tigers. I’m a Jayhawk. I grew up a Jayhawk. I’m proud of the fact. If I was writing my bio, the fact that I’m a University of Kansas grad would make it in one of the first couple sentences.

And see, we Jayhawks, we hate the Missouri Tigers. And, it’s OK, because they hate us too. We don’t respect each other, but we respect the fact that we hate each other.

If you want a history lesson, this all goes back to the civil war, when the people fighting for Missouri set our town on fire.

And fast forward to today, and many Missouri people are proud of that. They’re proud that even though what the Jayhawkers in Lawrence represented – antislavery, a noble proposition – the pro-slavery folk in Missouri burned our town down. They even made a T-shirt a couple years back to celebrate the fact.

In my hometown of Kansas City, the KU grads and the MU grads coexist. When it’s not game day, we tolerate each other for the most part. I’ve even met a couple Tigers, my Uncle Ronnie’s nephews, who I like quite well.

But I could never consider an MU grad as one of my closest friends. It just wouldn’t work. And I could never, ever, ever, evaaaah consider an MU grad to be my significant other. I even addressed this in my farewell column for the University newspaper in college, a list of do’s and don’ts for my fellow graduates. 

I could be with a girl from another school, just not MU. I’ve never even given thought to what I would do if I caught the eye of a Mizzou grad, or vice versa – until last week.

I was out with my buddy Jake at a bar in downtown Kansas City. I was sitting at a table, relaxing and drinking a beer when a young lady came up behind me, put her arm around me and pressed up against my body.

“Well, hello,” I said, caught by surprise.

I started talking to the girl and her friend, not because I’m looking for a lady (I’m not), but because I wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to be the ultimate wingman.

So I called Jake over and we all began a conversation.

As we were chitchatting, the friend noticed that Jake was wearing a Chicago shirt (he just moved back from Chicago), and she took this chance to talk trash on the Cubs, which I was totally OK with because I can’t stand the Cubs. Then she revealed that she was a Cardinals fan, which I was not OK with. I also don’t like the Cardinals, but it’s not a deal-breaker. One of my best friends is also a Cardinals fan and also a Jayhawk, so he totally redeems himself.

BUT these girls were not Jayhawks. They revealed that they were University of Missouri graduates. Obviously, this was not OK. I was not going to stand by and continue to let these girls try to hit on us. If there was a guide for wingmen, this would be the section where it’s addressed that there’s a time to be the anti-wingman.

So I did what I would like to think any KU grad would do in my position. I stood up, I put my arm around Jake, Jake put his arm around his friend Brian, another KU grad, and we sang the Alma Mater.

The Alma Mater is a special song for me. During orientation before my freshman year, all of the freshmen-to-be and their parents gathered in the Union. At the end of the orientation, they had us stand up and taught us the Alma Mater. As we sang, I looked over at my mom and she was crying.

The song reminded her of her days at KU, and right then I knew how much that song meant. Every time I would sing that song, it would make me proud to be a KU student. And now, just like my mom, I’m proud to be a KU alum. And while it doesn’t bring tears, it usually brings goosebumps.

And for the ladies from Mizzou, that song evokes a whole different feeling. They hate that song and they especially hate what follows: the Rock Chalk chant.

So when we started singing the other night, the MU girls immediately got up, walked away and flipped us off.

Typical Tigers.

I’ll start with the first words I told my mom: “I’m OK.”

What followed was the bad news. “But I’ve been in a bad car accident.”

The latter is probably a mom’s worst nightmare, especially if it’s coming from someone else, saying your son or daughter has been in a car accident. That’s one of the reasons I feel so lucky, the fact that I could call my mom and start off by telling her I’m OK.

It happened last weekend at 8:20 on a Sunday night. I’d gone to Minnesota to visit my friend Thor and watch his sister Quinn compete in the Miss Minnesota Pageant. Quinn’s friend Alexis came along for the ride. After the pageant, we headed up to Brainerd, Minn. to Thor’s family’s house for a day on the lake. We never got the nice, relaxing day I had been looking forward to for weeks.

It was raining pretty hard and I was at the wheel. Maybe it’s the young man in me, but I’ve always felt sort of invincible on the road. I don’t drive like this, but I always feel in control. I’ve put in a lot of miles with work and road trips and I always felt like a good driver. Thor had just made fun of me for driving too slow. But a little voice in the back of my head told me to drive 55 mph. When you drive faster than 55 and there’s a lot of rain on the road, you can hydroplane.

I don’t know if that’s scientifically proven, and I’ve probably driven faster before, but on this day, I could hear my Aunt Becky’s voice.

When I was 13, Becky’s daughter Bree was killed in a car accident. Bree was riding to a wedding with her boyfriend, and a bus hit their car. Bree hit her head on the window and died later that night. She was less than a month away from her 21st birthday.

I think about Bree a lot, but rarely about the way she died. I’d rather think about playing Ghostbusters in my basement with Bree and the tasty funnel cakes she made me as a kid. I never saw Bree in the hospital. I never saw her boyfriend’s car and I never thought about the accident. I don’t even know all the details, and I don’t want to.

So I was driving north along the highway at about 55 – just like Becky had said years before when talking to no one in particular – and I saw a car out of the corner of my eye. She was crossing the highway, going east onto a county road. Everything moved in slow motion from that point forward. I honked. Slammed my breaks.

She must see. She’s got to see me.

I turned my wheel slightly to the right.

If she stops or at least swerves, I can miss her without driving off the road completely.

But just as that thought crossed through my head, a split second after I saw her in the corner of my eye, she kept rolling forward, and …

Boom.

The impact played over and over in my head that night. I can see it right now. My car T-boned the passenger side of hers. I can see my front bumper crunching, and the indentation in her car. I can see glass breaking in slow motion. I can hear the pop of my air bags. My car spun around and ended up backwards on the side of the road. I don’t remember the spinning; I didn’t even feel it. All I remember is letting go of the steering wheel and looking over at Alexis, seeing how afraid she was, and then looking back at Thor to see the pain and fear in his face. I knew they were scared, but I also could see that there was no blood and they were still talking and they were going to be OK.

But what about the other car, I thought.

The other car had slid down a hill, but I couldn’t see inside because of the rain and the distance. My door wouldn’t budge. Alexis’ door wouldn’t open either. Then I got Thor’s door to open and climbed out the back. As I ran down the hill, it was the first time that I got scared. What was I going to find?

The girl opened the door and got out crying. She was so young and so scared. She said something about her friend, then I think she said sorry. All I remember is the fear in her face, and I knew what was inside couldn’t be good.

Her friend in the passenger seat was hurt. I don’t think he was responding at first. She kept trying to get him to say something. He had a cut above his right eye. He looked at me and asked, “What’s happening?”

I told him we’d all been in a car accident and not to move. I’ve watched enough sports to know someone who could have a serious injury shouldn’t move.

I got out my phone and dialed 911. Cars had started to stop. There was another man there and I talked to the operator and started back for my car.

The police arrived next and I tried to keep going back and forth. I didn’t know what to do at this point. I had Thor call his parents.

The ambulance arrived, and I knew there was nothing else for me to do but comfort my friends and make the one call that part of my didn’t want to make and part of me did. I wanted to hear her voice, but I didn’t want her to have to worry.

I climbed in the front of the ambulance to get out of the rain and I called my mom.

Mom was so happy to hear from me. I wished I could have been as happy to make the call. I wished, of course, that none of this had happened, but it had.

“Mom, I’m OK,” I said as I could hear her face change to that look of concern she gets, “but I’ve been a bad car accident.”

Then I told her what happened. I’m OK. Everyone’s OK. That’s what I feel blessed to say now.

I don’t know about the boy, but the police officer told me that night he was going to be OK and the insurance man told me the same days later. He spent a couple nights in the hospital, but he was going to be OK. Thor and Alexis were both on crutches, and it looked like Alexis had a softball in her leg that night, but she’s going to be OK.

That night I couldn’t get the flashback of the impact out of my head. I thought about Bree and I thought about my friends and my family. I had bad dreams, like other cousins getting in car accidents. It’s weird what we dream about when we’re scared.

But, like everything, I guess there’s some good that I experienced. The people.

All the people who stopped. One man was a Iowa State trooper and stopped before the police arrived. He stayed throughout, answering any questions I had. Another man named Jeff lived close by, saw there had been an accident and came to check if everyone was all right. Jeff and I exchanged numbers and he sent me a text that night to check on me and my friends. He said that he and his wife worked at the courthouse in the city nearby and to let him know if we needed anything.

I woke up the next morning and I had two texts. One was from my cousin Sarah and another from my cousin Kate.

Since I’ve been back, everyone who knows about the accident has given me a big hug and I can feel the love in their embraces and words.

When I got home late Monday night, I got what I had needed that whole time. My mom gave me a big hug. I got to tell her one more time that I was OK.

I don’t know if someone was looking over us that night or what. I’m not sure I buy that. Why would someone be looking over me and not Bree? All I know is we were lucky, and we’re OK, and I don’t feel invincible anymore.

But I do feel loved and blessed to have my friends and family, and to have people in my life that I can tell, I’m OK.