What on Earth is this thing I’ve done? Dare I say — “Again?”   All this time, energy that has mysteriously disappeared, the specter that this project will be yet another business biplane, piloted by Sylvester the Cat, tail-spinning toward the welcoming arms of Earth’s gravity, smoke billowing from the engine?  What have I done?  Yesterday, Halloween, after weeks of 18-plus-hour days, me sneaking up on 80, we pushed the button, launching johnlovesamerica.com. I’m snickering at my own humor, envisioning a fan base, like Democrat voter rolls vastly outnumbering Earth’s population. Meanwhile, Doubt is in the hallway, doing one-handed push-ups.  Then, it hit me. All’s well, more than. This project? It’s my touchdown dance.  Eons ago, I was shamed by Randy, Newhall’s Parks & Rec director. Randy begged that I take over a coachless youth flag football team. Nine poster children for hypochondria, each a stubbed toe or sniffle from wheelchairs. Skinny. Slow. Nerdy. Unathletic as a sponge. There was an identical trio whose bodies resided in town with attention spans floating beyond Uranus.  Football? These lads couldn’t beat the Peanuts gang from a Christmas special. Remember? Peanuts? Each round child 2 inches tall, sporting four fingers, anchored by a 2-ounce typewriting beagle?   Life and its blessings. What my flag team taught me.  Our afterschool gridiron squad was such a lovable, adorable collection of misfits, with not a drop of confidence amongst. No one wanted these kids on their team, for they were — well. Misshapen. We all end up getting emotionally wounded, but that shouldn’t happen in fifth grade.   Eons earlier, I had coached “B” basketball at Hart and was lucky to attend a basketball clinic hosted by the legendary UCLA genius, John Wooden, without argument, the greatest coach in college basketball history. One of the guest clinicians was another legend, Abe Lemons. Abe was the Mark Twain of coaches. I’ll never forget his Oklahoma drawl, cigar and observation about leading untalented people: “You can teach a mule to run the Kentucky Derby, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to win it …”  Summing up my life? I’m a hopeless romantic doomed to unrequited love. I firmly believe that yes, a mule CAN win the Kentucky Derby. That’s why we’re here. To receive miracles. To make miracles for others.  On a cool autumn day, on the grassy field of Newhall Park at our first practice, the heavens opened. Inspiration rained. These poor kids? Lovable albeit as far away from football prowess as Walter Payton from a crayfish. But, as the French say? La vie sportive horrible.  The Sports Life Wretched.  I blew a whistle. Laconically, the hospital children’s ward lined up. I introduced myself and my assistant coach, The Foonman, aka, childhood pal and Grammy-winning bass player, Curtis Stone. “For our very first drill, I want to see your very best — TOUCHDOWN DANCE!” I said.  A group dimwitted expression oozed, as if to ask, both, “What’s a touchdown?” and “What’s a dance?”  The first few receivers managed to find the end zone (ours). A couple caught softly thrown spirals and performed a half-hearted celebration, more like landing butt-first on a fence post vs. a Michael “Eeee-heeee!!” Jackson pirouette. Footballs hit concave chests, knocked off inch-thick glasses or resulted in our gridiron stars shrieking and covering up in the rare, defensive yoga position, Standing Feral Frightened Stork.  Curtis? What an absolute peach of a friend and human. There was no yelling from Foon or me. Just encouragement. And laughter. And good-natured kidding. After a few minutes, the unexpected miracle visited.  Joy.  Soon, that terribly heavy wet blanket of self-consciousness vanished. Curtis and I snuck in actual techniques on how to catch a pass and, in a couple of near-fatal cases of uncoordination, how to run. Imagine. Living in a world where you have to teach a fifth-grade boy how to — gallop.  Foon and I broke it down in slow motion.  Decades later, I can still hear the laughter, growing camaraderie and, more importantly, the freedom from believing whispered lies about ourselves.  Coaching strategy? Pretty much, the poet, e.e. cummings nicely summed it up: “To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.”  Even simple existence can be such an erosionary process. We lose our way, forget that magical axiom that dreams exist, and, with a little elbow grease, dreams come true. It’s profoundly sad. Older, we forget this wonderful law of Life.  We won our first game, losing just once to the SCV league’s only unbeaten team, who, to this day, with their beards, muscles, wives and Coast Guard tattoos, I still suspect of being ringers. It was unimaginable my darn guys — FOONMAN’S darn guys — would score a touchdown. We ended up taking second in the league, went to the Los Angeles County playoffs and won our first game against some scowling youths with no discernible dance skills from Rancho Cucamonga.   My new humor, inspiration, trivia and Americana website, John Loves America, launched yesterday.  It’s my touchdown dance.  For years, I’ve been blessed to hear a song. It’s America singing. It’s a melody of mischief and heroism. It’s nostalgia and — different skin colors, genders, occupations, geography, weight, age, ability, background — that common bond we all share: the Love and Divine Twinkle in God’s Eye.  I hope that each day, this website can lighten a heart, share some gee-whiz trivia. As my life’s experience, we’ll probably tick off some people. We’ll try to inspire, tickle, touch a heart, make the reader ponder, remind them that yes, they too can make a splendiferous noise. All of us have a glorious, can-do touchdown dance within. We shouldn’t be afraid to share it with this wonderful world.  I owe my beloved home town, Santa Clarita, and this Mighty Signal, so much for letting me write, and — dance my touchdown dance — for you over the years. Thank you so…  Wincing weekly as we do, here’s Boston’s website — and, cripes, gift shop — johnlovesamerica.com. The post John Boston | John Loves America. And It Loves John. appeared first on Santa Clarita Valley Signal.