I was watching the new Rafael Nadal documentary on Netflix when something his Uncle Toni said stopped me:
That line followed me onto the court.
Because despite all the matches I’ve played, despite knowing—intellectually—that it’s “just a match,” I still felt the familiar surge: the tightening chest,
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At my gym, there’s a simple phrase on the wall:
“Live well. Move well.”
It’s elegant. Aspirational. Directional.
But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I find myself wanting to flip it:
“Move well.…
I’ve been sitting with the word available lately—not in the calendar sense, but in the deeper, more revealing way we either show up to life… or don’t.
Available shares a root with avail—to make use of,
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Last week, my reflections were guided by Charlie Munger’s favorite mental model: inversion.
Rather than asking how to design a good life, the question was simpler and sterner: What does a bad life look like—and how might we avoid it?
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I recently won my first doubles tennis tournament in a few years. This was the most satisfying because we won four matches on three surfaces, with one of the battles being quite challenging, requiring a come-from-behind victory.
It took longer than I expected—and probably longer than I wanted—but in retrospect,
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“Watch out, you might get what you’re after.”
The line floats through Burning Down the House almost as a warning—half playful, half ominous. I’ve heard it countless times, usually sung along to without much thought. But lately, it’s been echoing differently.
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Sometimes the Place Trumps the Play
On Trade‑Offs, Tennis, and the Economics of Time
Thomas Sowell famously defined economics not as money, markets, or math, but as the allocation of scarce resources that have alternative uses.
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After finishing listening to Sound Man on Audible, which is a book I highly recommend for music lovers, it cycles through snippets of other books the algorithm thinks I might like. One of those books was The Uncool by Cameron Crowe.
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Five Years, One Heart, and the Quiet Power of Momentum
February 9th marked the fifth anniversary of my heart surgery to repair a damaged mitral valve. It’s a date I don’t celebrate with fanfare, but I do honor it with reflection.
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I wasn’t in the most elevated of moods when I learned Bob Weir had passed away. I had just come off the tennis court after losing a mixed doubles tournament match — one of those aggravating defeats where the mind lingers on a few points you should have put away and how,
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