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D. None of the above

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

In a fractured and uncertain world, the skill sets that make us marketable to potential friends, employers and neighbors have shifted.

Sure, competence, professionalism and experience can and do come in handy in the context of numerous environments. These days, though, getting along with others and navigating through the cacophony of frustration beamed into our living rooms and phones on an hourly basis seems to have elevated what otherwise might seem like trivial skill sets in another time.

I have come up with a list of skills or, perhaps more appropriately, qualities that might be helpful in the modern world.

I don’t overuse the word “literally.” To emphasize a point, people often literally throw the word “literally” into phrases, as in “I literally hate tofu.” I’m not sure you can figuratively hate tofu, but I don’t overuse that word.

I keep a straight face: even when confronted with outrageous claims in which others hold fast to ideas, to heroes or to patterns I find questionable or even objectionable, I don’t wince, roll my eyes or shout them down until I’m in the safe space of my home with my wife.

I know how to write a handwritten note. Electronic communication has become so ubiquitous that sharing a personal touch that comes from writing something by hand has scarcity value.

I have trained my dog to do exactly what he wants. Sure, other people have trained their dogs to sit, roll over, fetch the newspaper and come to them when they call, but my dog does exactly what he wants. That means when he wags at me, he’s genuinely excited to see me and he’s not just wagging because he’s expecting some immediate reward or punishment.

I can find almost anything in a supermarket. Having spent an embarrassing amount of time searching the supermarket for foods that satisfy four diets and that take the place of in-person dining and social interactions, I can find most items sooner than supermarket employees.  

Through a hard-target search of every bed sheet, blanket and pillowcase, I can find the remote control. While that may seem trivial, it shows a willingness to go the extra mile to avoid having to take a few extra steps to change the channel.

I speak teenager. Yes, they are wonderful people who not only have a shorthand way of speaking, but also have a tendency to multitask while they are talking, looking at their phones or speaking through a mouthful of food. I can interpret much of what they say even when they appear to be offering disconnected sounds in a guttural and frustrated language.

I can finish an entire chapter in a non James Patterson book without checking email or texts. That means I can concentrate for longer periods of time. Patterson is excluded because the chapters in his violent novels are often shorter than this column.

I can make myself laugh. Every week, I enter the New Yorker cartoon contest. The captions I write never win, but they make me laugh.

I have a wealth of untapped ideas. I look at all the masks around me and think, “Hmm, I could come up with so many new mask products.” For example, how about mood masks, which change color depending on the person’s mood? Or, perhaps, masks with the outline of states, presidents of the United States, or images of abolitionists, important women in history or slogans? Masks could become the equivalent of educational posters hung on the walls of classrooms or, if you prefer, facial bumper stickers, giving someone starting at our covered mouths a chance to read or see something new.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Joe, the gentleman at the supermarket register, asked me the routine questions.

“Did you find everything okay?”

“Do you have a rewards number?”

I nodded and typed in my cell phone number.

At the end of the order, I carefully watched the total, waiting for the moment he asked me whether I wanted to donate a dollar or round up my total.

Instead, it looked like the cost declined, even after applying all the discounts. In order to be sure, I had to remove my glasses, which allow me to see at a distance, but not to read.

Yes, the total decreased by 5%. Just as I was about to thank him, I went slack jawed behind my mask. Staring closely at the total in the register, I realized he had given me the senior discount.

I pondered what to do. I could tell him I’m not a senior. Then again, maybe anyone over 35 was a senior. Okay, fine, 40. Alright, 50. 

Anyway, I thanked him for ringing me up, told him to stay safe and headed to the car, where I promptly checked the age for a senior discount at my supermarket. Yup, just as I suspected. He gave me the discount well before I was eligible.

As I loaded the groceries in the car, I wondered whether this was a freakout mid-life crisis moment. Maybe this was the universe’s way, through Joe, of reminding me that I’m not a kid anymore.

Then again, I thought, steadying myself behind the wheel, maybe Joe had just typed that senior discount button by mistake. Maybe he felt generous or, perhaps, he was giving everyone a senior discount, just to stick it to his bosses. 

I have an image of myself that doesn’t align with what other people see, or even what I notice in the mirror. Somewhere along the lines, my brain imagined that the younger, fresher, more energetic version of me continued to type on my computer, yell at the TV when the Yankees lost, and maneuver through my life.

My body, and the unwelcome hair that seems to wave from my ears, has offered reminders about the passage of time. Recently, my son, who is still waiting for his freshman year to start in earnest after New Orleans recovers from Hurricane Ida, asked me if I wanted to have a catch.

Excited for some father-son bonding that doesn’t involve electronics, I readily agreed. Besides, it’s been a few years since he asked. I am no longer his coach and he has numerous athletic friends and former teammates who can launch balls across a field.

The first few throws felt comfortable, as my fingers reached for the familiar seams and tossed the ball back at his chest.

“Okay, move back,” he instructed.

A few throws later, he asked me to move back again.

“Wait, what?” my arm begged, to a brain that tried to hit the mute button on muscles, tendons, bones and rotator cuffs begging me to stop engaging in such unaccustomed activity.

Pretty soon, he was throwing lasers from the next county and I was trying to figure out if I could strap the ball to a nearby bird to return it to him.

Instead, I ran 20 steps, rotated my hips and snapped my shoulders in an effort to minimize the strain on my arm.

“Good idea,” he yelled. “You should soft toss it back to me.”

Soft toss? That was one of my hardest throws!

Two days later, we repeated the same routine. The second time, my arm instantly hurt. I might imagine that I’m 25 or even 35, just as I might imagine I can fly.

I can enjoy some consolation: the senior discount saved me enough money to buy an ice pack for my throbbing shoulder.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

The pain in my abdomen climbed from a relatively mild one, which pediatrician’s offices usually represent with a slightly puzzled but still pleasant stick figure face, all the way to a 10, with a crying stick figure in extreme duress, in under five minutes.

Doubled over, I shuffled to my wife’s working station in our house and sat, uncomfortably, in a chair next to her.

She started to talk and then looked carefully at my face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as I twisted in my seat.

“I have serious pain in my abdomen and back,” I said.

We knew what that likely meant. We’d been through this before, although last time was much more terrifying because we had no idea what was going on. Also, six years ago, the mysterious symptoms, including searing back pain, uncontrollable nausea and vomiting and extreme discomfort, appeared and disappeared. I might have had some reaction to bad food, we thought, or I might have inadvertently consumed my food kryptonite, dairy.

“It’s probably kidney stones,” my wife said, as she stood on my back to try to relieve some of the developing pain.

I twisted on the floor, hoping I wouldn’t have to go to an emergency room that was likely overwhelmed with the latest Delta variant wave of COVID-19.

I did the I’m-okay-and-can-tough-it-out-at-home-but-wait-maybe-I’m-not dance for about 10 minutes before I gave in and shuffled towards the car.

As soon as I got in the garage, I made a quick u-turn and headed to the closest bathroom, where I knelt next to the toilet and vomited.

“It’s another kidney stone,” I sighed in between heaves.

With a bucket in the backseat on the way to the hospital, I contorted my body into different positions, hoping to find one that would offer some relief. The last kidney stone episode taught me that wasn’t likely, as I did everything but stand on my head in the basement all those years ago to ease the unrelenting pain.

Fortunately, the emergency room only had two people waiting on a Friday morning. My wife spoke through a plexiglass shield with the receptionist, sharing my details while I disappeared beneath the counter into a crouched position.

The receptionist directed my wife outside until I had a room. I waited on the floor, with the same bucket at my side, for a nurse to call me.

During the 20 minute wait, the pain eased up just enough to allow me to breathe more normally and to sit on the floor. A chair was still not an option. The two other people in the waiting room were too engrossed in their phones to notice me.

Once I was in an examining room, I called my wife, whose sympathetic eyes and encouraging words eased some of my discomfort. She answered questions from the nurse as I stood on the floor and leaned the top of my body over the hospital bed as if I were praying.

The nurse promised to return with morphine. In the few minutes he was gone, I felt closer to a four on the pain scale.

I considered not taking the narcotic. The roller coaster ride along the pain pathway makes managing kidney stones, and so many other types of discomfort, difficult. Each moment of comfort is like a sliver of sunlight between heavy rain clouds.

The doctor confirmed our kidney stone diagnosis. He thought I’d pass the stone that night or the next day. I didn’t have any such luck, as I fought through symptoms for 10 days.

Finally, the obstruction exited. I was so elated that I jumped up and down in the garage with my baffled son, who was returning from an errand.

As others who have had kidney stones can attest, the experience is extraordinarily uncomfortable and painful. I feel fortunate for all the support from my wife, children, brothers, mother and friends. I can only imagine what people hundreds of years ago must have thought when these stones made their painful journey.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Last Friday around 10:30 am, our son, who just arrived at his freshman dorm 12 days earlier, asked how quickly I could get him on a flight back home.

I dropped what I was doing and searched for flights out of New Orleans. We knew he was in the path of Hurricane Ida and had been hoping, as Long Island had done the week before with Hurricane Henri, that he and the city would somehow avoid the worst of the storm.

His college had provided regular updates, indicating that the forecasts called for the storm to hit 90 miles to their west. That would mean they’d get heavy rain and some wind, but that the storm, strong as it might become, might not cause the same kind of devastation as Hurricane Katrina had exactly 16 years earlier.

By Friday, two days before its arrival, my son, many of his friends, and his friends’ parents were scrambling to get away from the Crescent City amid reports that the storm was turning more to the east.

Fortunately, we were able to book a mid-day flight the next day. An hour later, he texted me and said he might want to stay on campus during the storm, the way a few of his other friends were doing. I ignored the message.

Two hours later, he asked if he still had the plane reservation and said he was happy he’d be leaving.

Later that Friday, another classmate tried unsuccessfully to book a flight, as the scramble to leave the city increased.

My wife and I became increasingly concerned about his ride to the airport, which, on a normal day, would take about 30 minutes. We kept pushing the time back for him to leave, especially when we saw images of crowded roadways.

He scheduled an Uber for 9:30. On Saturday morning at 6 a.m. his time, he texted and asked if he should go with a friend who was leaving at 9 and had room in his car. Clearly, he wasn’t sleeping too much, either.

I urged him to take the earlier car, which would give him more time in case traffic was crawling. He got to the airport well before his flight and waited for close to two hours to get through a packed security line.

When his plane was finally in the air, my wife and I breathed a sigh of relief. We both jumped out of the car at the airport to hug him and welcome him home, even though we had given him good luck hugs only two weeks earlier at the start of college.

After sharing his relief at being far from the storm, he told us how hungry he was. The New Orleans airport had run low on food amid the sudden surge of people fleeing the city. After he greeted our pets, who were thrilled to see him, he fell into a salad, sharing stream-of-consciousness stories.

The next day, he received numerous short videos from friends who stayed during the storm. While we’d experienced hurricanes before, the images of a transformer sparking and then exploding, videos of rooms filling with water from shattered windows, and images of water cascading through ceilings near light fixtures were still shocking.

He will be home for at least six weeks, as the city and the school work to repair and rebuild infrastructure. During that time, he will return to the familiar world of online learning, where he and new friends from around the country and world will work to advance their education amid yet another disruption from a routine already derailed by COVID-19.

We know how fortunate he was to get out of harm’s way and how challenging the rebuilding process will be for those who live in New Orleans. When he returns to campus, whenever that may be, we know he will not only study for his classes, but that he and his classmates will also contribute to efforts to help the community and city recover from the storm.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We packed our bags full of dreams, hopes, clothing and cliches and took our son to college. We pondered the journey, which is really what’s it’s all about, and not the destination.

My wife and I were bursting with pride, thinking about the shining light that is our son.

We wondered what advice we could offer before we returned to a house that would feel so empty without him. We thought a good rule of thumb might be to avoid harebrained ideas, although we knew we could do better at preparing him for future dark and stormy nights.

As he took his first steps onto his new campus, we encouraged him to discover the world and himself at the same time.

We shared the butterflies that fluttered among our four stomachs. Like a good soldier in our family’s mission, his sister joined us for this momentous occasion, prepared to offer her version of older sibling advice and to help find whatever item he might need in a college dorm he is sharing with a stranger he’d chosen from a grab bag of potential roommates.

As we followed the move-in directions to a tee, we could feel the electricity in the air. We drove up to an official behind a desk, who was all ears listening to him spell a last name chock full of vowels.

With bated breath and sweaty palms, we waited with every fiber of our beings until she found him on the list. We breathed a sigh of relief when she found his name and handed him a key that would open his dorm room to a new world of possibilities. As a freshman, he knew he was no longer the big man on campus he had been during his pandemic-altered senior year.

Once inside his dorm, we got down to the business of unpacking. We debated where to put his shoes even as he stared out the window, considering where he might plant his feet.

Recognizing that time was of the essence, we spring to life while unpacking his room. Standing apart in a small room full of wonders, we drew strength from our collective mission.

Slowly but surely, we removed the contents of his boxes, creating order from the chaos despite a few moments when we felt like we were all thumbs. We lined all his ducks in a row, creating neat rows of pencils, pens and notebooks on his desk and boxers, shorts, tee shirts and socks in his drawers.

After we prepared his room, we wiped the sweat from our brow, reminding him that this effort was but a drop in the bucket of the work he’d need to do in college.

We assured him he could bet his bottom dollar he wouldn’t feel like a babe in the woods or a fish out of water for long.

We could almost hear the angelic chords as the sun set in the west, where it always sets because that’s the way the cookie crumbles, or, rather, the earth rotates.

Before we left him in his new home away from home, we exchanged embraces and urged him to dance to the beat of his own drum.

We also suggested he find a healthy way to blow off steam, to recognize that a rising tide lifts all boats, to swim when it was time to sink or swim, and to play his cards right.

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Image from Pixabay

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Welcome to Dan Dunaief HS or DDHS. I know it’s an odd time to start a new high school, but children need to learn, even during a pandemic.

Originally, I was planning to have everyone come to a pep rally on the first day of school. After all the restrictions of last year, it only seemed fitting to bring the kids together in the gym and celebrate the chance to sit in 1950s style wooden bleachers that rock when someone walks a few steps.

But, then, I realized we don’t have a basketball, football or squash team, we haven’t picked school colors, we don’t have a school song and, most importantly, we are in a difficult spot with the pandemic.

I know your kids are exhausted from dealing with the virus. Who can blame them? Aren’t we all?

At first, I thought we’d avoid the whole topic and stick to the basics in school.

But, then, it occurred to me that avoiding a virus that has now affected three school years wouldn’t make it better. We can try not to think about it, but that doesn’t make it go away. Information and knowledge will help these students understand the strange world that surrounds them and might empower them to feel as if they’re doing something about it, even if it’s just learning more about a time that future generations will no doubt study carefully, scrutinizing our every move as if we were some kind of early laboratory experiment.

With that in mind, I gave the curriculum serious consideration. I thought about all the standard ways students have learned.

Ultimately, I decided to turn toward the academic vortex. At DDHS, at least for the first year or so, we’re going to encourage students to study the real challenges of the world around them.

For starters, in our art class, we’re going to have design competitions for the front and back of masks. The winners will provide masks that the entire school will wear each week.

Then, in an engineering class, we’ll work on creating masks that are more comfortable and just as effective as the ones that make our faces sweat. Maybe this class can also figure out how to provide words that flash across the mask when we talk, giving people a better idea of what we’re saying behind our masks. Maybe enterprising students can design masks that cool our faces when we sweat and warm them when we’re cold, that shave or bleach unwanted hair or that act like dry-fit shirts, covering our faces without clinging to them.

In history, we’ll spend at least a semester on the Spanish Influenza. We’ll explore what leaders throughout the world did in 1918 during the last pandemic. We’ll see what worked best and what disappointed.

Our psychology class will devote itself to the conflicts between people’s perceptions of infringements on their individual freedoms and their desire to protect themselves and each other by wearing masks.

Our political science course will delve into how politics became enmeshed in the response to the virus. This class will look at which side gains, politically, amid different public health scenarios.

Science classes will explore why some people get incredibly sick from the virus, while others show no symptoms. We will also study the way the virus works, look at similar viruses and try to understand and track the development of variants.

Math will work with the science department to understand the spread of the virus and to plot various scenarios based on human behavior. Eager students in math will have the chance to demonstrate how sicknesses spread depending on the wearing of masks, the use of vaccines, and the creation of new variants.

Our language arts class will provide an outlet for students to express their hopes, dreams and concerns amid the unique challenges in their lifetime created by the pandemic.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Years ago, restaurants had smoking and non-smoking sections. Airlines reserved parts of the plane for people who smoked and those who didn’t.

How, after all, were people addicted to nicotine supposed to get through a meal or a plane ride, especially one that could take hours, without lighting up?

Society knew back then that smoking was harmful for the smoker. We knew that each person ran the risk of lung, mouth and throat cancers, among others, from inhaling the toxins in cigarettes.

Slowly, we also started to learn about the dangers of second-hand smoke. People who didn’t light up cigarettes and cigars couldn’t simply move away from that smoke, especially if they were in the same house, the same car, or even, for several hours, on a plane together.

Over time, health officials started to piece together the kind of information that made it clear that non smokers needed protection.

Slowly, restaurants and planes banned smoking. And yet, despite the years of no-smoking policies on planes, the flight attendants or the videos we watch before take off include threats about the consequences of disabling or dismantling smoke detectors in bathrooms.

We also knew, at great cost, that drinking and driving was enormously problematic. People getting behind the wheel after having a few drinks at dinner or while watching a sporting event with their buddies risked the lives of those in their own car, as well as anyone else unfortunate enough to be on the road at the time.

Groups like Mothers Against Drunk Driving and Students Against Drunk Driving came together to fight against habits that put others at risk. While drunk driving still occurs throughout the world, the awareness of the dangers of drinking and driving and, probably just as importantly, the vigilance with which police forces cracked down on people while they were driving impaired has helped to reduce the threat. In 2018, alcohol-impaired driving fatalities was 3.2 per 100,000, which is a drop of 65% since 1982, according to Responsibility.org.

Drunk driving remains a public health threat, with advertisements encouraging people not to let friends drive drunk and organizations like MADD continuing to fight to reduce that further.

While risking the potential for false equivalence, the current pandemic presents similar challenges, particularly regarding wearing masks. Yes, masks are a nuisance and we thought we were done with them, particularly in the early part of the summer when the infection rate declined and vaccinations increased.

With the Delta variant raging throughout the country, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommends masks for anyone indoors and for those in larger, outdoor settings, regardless of their vaccination status.

Now, living without a mask and drinking or smoking are not the same. Drinking and smoking are riskier activities adults engage in and that are not a basic necessity, like breathing.

At the same time, however, people opting not to wear masks because they don’t want to or because that was so 2020 are risking more than their own health. They are sharing whatever virus they may have, in some cases with people whose health might be much more at risk.

When I’m sweating at the gym, I find the masks uncomfortable and distracting. I do, however, continue to wear them because they are a way to protect other people in the room.

I hope I don’t have COVID-19, but I can’t be sure because I have been vaccinated and I could be an asymptomatic carrier.

Students, many of whom can’t receive the vaccine, are better off learning at school than at home or, worse, in a hospital bed. If you’re not wearing a mask for you, consider putting one on for everyone else. 

Together, we can and will get through what seems like a viral sequel no one wanted. Until there’s a better way, consider wearing a mask to protect others. If people could do it during the Spanish Influenza in 1918 and 1919, we can do it, too.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Welcome to the casino. Just by being alive today, you’ve all punched your ticket to the worldwide slot machine.

Now, the machines operate the way people expect, most of the time. They follow their programming, they make the loud noises as the three wheels inside of them spin and then show images on those three wheels.

The machine doesn’t cost anything to play. You don’t have to put in quarters or tokens or anything else. You just sit down and a machine starts spinning.

In fact, when you sit in one of our relatively unclean chairs, because we’re much more about playing the game than we are about cleanliness or safety, the process begins.

The chairs are close together, so you and your neighbor can compare notes on how you’re doing in this game, can share stories about your lives and can enjoy time out, away from the limitations of quarantine and all the other frustrations that you’ve had to endure for so long.

We do everything we can to discourage masks. We want you to be able to share the freedom that comes from seeing each other’s faces clearly.

And, if you should happen to need to use the bathroom, we don’t have any annoying signs about washing your hands. In fact, we don’t even recommend soap. What is the value of soap, after all? It’s probably some corporate scheme to boost profits somewhere.

We mean, come on, right? The cavemen didn’t have soap and they lived long enough to become fossils. That should be good enough for you, too, right? Before they died, they drew cool things on the wall, sharing stories that survived years after they did.

Now, we want to share a few details about our cool slot machines. You want to know a secret? We didn’t build these machines. We know, it’s hard to believe, but they just appeared one day, as if a stork or another kind of flying creature brought them. Well, not all of them. That’s the incredible thing. A few of them appeared and, after we started playing them, they copied themselves. The more we played them, the more they produced new copies.

Now, you might have heard that these machines can be bad for you. But, hey, so many other things are bad for you, too, and you still do them, right? You have a little too much to eat or drink now and then, and you maybe put a recycling bottle in the wrong trash can, but who pays attention to those things?

Anyway, so, these original machines built themselves the same way, most of the time. Each time a new machine appeared, they worked the same way, with images flying across the screen.

Every so often, when the machines made enough copies of themselves, they changed slightly. We’re not exactly sure why or how that happened, but it’s perfectly normal, we think.

The newest versions of these machines spin at a faster rate and also copy themselves more rapidly. One of them, which is now the most common type, has a big D on its side. That’s the dominant machine.

Actually, at this point, we’d kind of prefer people stop playing the game. You see, each time you play the game, not only does that D version copy itself, but our people are telling us that we run the risk of creating other types of the machine that might have worse features.

But, wait, how can you stop playing? What can keep you out of a casino that’s everywhere? Well, there’s a special thing you can get at any local drug store that someone puts in your arm. After you get it, you become almost invisible to the machine. That may be the best way to get away from these monsters.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

One day, you wake up and your kids who called noodles “noonies” are getting ready for college.

No, not exactly. It’s a long journey filled with skinned knees, ripped tee shirts — don’t ask — eye rolling and muttering between clenched teeth. Still, here we are, as our kids prepare to move on from the educational minor leagues. Along the way, we went through numerous milestones. Please find below a few of the phases in our journey.

— Deer in the headlights. I’ve seen deer in my headlights. The only difference between them and us when we first brought our children home is that the deer’s eyes are open much wider. We almost instantly became sleep-deprived. Other than that, we had that frozen not-sure-where-to-move feeling, knowing we had to do something, but not exactly sure what or in what order to take care of those needs.

— Hating everyone. People meant well back in the days when our children were young and cried. Numerous people, who didn’t live with or even know our needy infants, offered unsolicited advice about what this scream or that scream meant. Strangers would tell us how our daughter’s cry meant she had gas, was hungry, needed her diaper changed, or was hot or cold. Yes, thanks, those are the options. Thanks for the help!

— Cooking the plastics. Yup, back in the early days, I was so sleep deprived that I put plastic bottles in a pot of boiling water to sterilize them and fell asleep. It wasn’t until I smelled the burning plastic that I realized how long I’d been out.

— Carrying everything: We couldn’t go four blocks without a diaper bag filled with everything, including the special toy each of them needed, diapers, wipes, ointment, sunscreen, bug spray, rain jackets, boots, and extra clothing.

— Straining our backs: Picking the kids up and playing with them was fun when they were under 20 pounds. When they reached 50 and above, holding them the entire length of a ski slope became impossible.

— Crazy sports parents: This phase lasted much longer than it should have. It was only when the kids reached late middle school that I appreciated the fresh air, the sparkling sunlight and the excitement of the moment. Exercise and making friends are the goal. Everything else, including winning, is gravy.

— Giving them space (aka, it’s not about us). As they reached adolescence, our children needed to make their own decisions. Tempting as it was to jump in and redirect them or even to kiss them before they left the car for middle school, we bit our tongues as often as we could, leaving us feeling lonely and nostalgic in our cars as they joined their friends.

— Beautiful naps: Giving them space allowed us to do what we wanted. After years of living our lives while monitoring and helping theirs, we had a chance to do exactly what we wanted, which started with restorative naps.

— Sending them into space. We aren’t putting them in a Jeff Bezos rocket ship or sending them to the International Space Station, but we are preparing to give them an opportunity to explore the world outside our house.

— Looking at the calendar differently. With both of them on the way to their futures, we can choose places to visit that didn’t interest them. We can visit these places when school is in session, which should mean lower costs for us.

— Telling other people how to take care of their kids: With our free time, we see parents struggling with young children. We, of course, know better. Or maybe not.

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Ashley Langford. Photo from SBU

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

She hasn’t scored a point or dished out an assist in a college basketball game since 2009. That hasn’t stopped Ashley Langford, Stony Brook University’s first-year women’s basketball coach, from mixing it up with the players.

A point guard who graduated from Tulane University and who holds the school record for the most assists, scored over 1,000 points, and, despite being five feet, five inches tall, brought down 403 rebounds for 25th in school history, Langford plans to tap into her playing experience at Stony Brook.

“I’m a hands-on head coach,” said Langford, who most recently was associate head coach at James Madison University in Virginia. “I’m a demonstrator.”

Langford, who took over for Caroline McCombs this year when the former coach joined George Washington University, believes she can help a team that won back-to-back America East Championships by stepping onto the floor during practices and drills.

When she’s guarding them, she wants to “see them do a move,” she said. “At a certain point, they get too good” for her skills, which is when she pats herself on the back, especially after she sees her players exuding increased confidence.

Langford is pleased with the start of her time at Stony Brook, where she has felt welcomed and supported by Athletic Director Shawn Heilbron and President Maurie McInnis.

“This is a big reason why I chose to come here,” Langford said. “The administration is great and the president has been awesome.”

Langford appreciates how Heilbron knows the names of so many student-athletes, which is consistent with her approach to coaching.

Langford believes her players and the coach should have similar expectations.

“I need to be connected to my players, and I want them to be connected to me,” Langford said. “I want players to come into my office and talk. I want that relationship.”

Langford has been working within the limitations of National Collegiate Athletic Association rules during the summer. She hopes to use this time to build a rapport with her team and help them learn her terminology and the drills she runs.

“I want to give them a preview” about her and the program, Langford said.

In making the transition from playing to coaching, Langford said she has tried to improve and grow. She believes she and her team should constantly strive to improve.

Coaching is “less about basketball and more about how you connect with your players,” Langford said.

To be sure, that connection doesn’t mean she coddles the team. She strives to be honest without sugarcoating the message. 

“When they’re doing well, I’m going to tell them,” she said. “When we need to be better, I’m going to tell them that, too.”

Langford explained that basketball has changed considerably since her playing days, as players have more resources available to them. She sang the praises of Elizabeth Zanolli, assistant athletic director for Sports Medicine, who supports the basketball and other teams.

Players also have nutritionists, dietitians, and strength and conditioning support, which improve the overall health and endurance of the athletes.

On the court, the men’s and women’s games have increasingly emphasized the value of the three-point shot, which means that most of the points in a game come from in the paint close to the basket or outside the three-point line, where long-range shooters can rack up points quickly.

Langford doesn’t see much of a difference between the men’s and women’s games.

“I want players to pass, dribble and shoot,” she said. “It’s that simple.”

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