July 22, 2008

When my wife was looking for jobs in anticipation of her separation from the U.S. Air Force, I knew we'd be looking to settle in the Midwest. She's an Iowa gal, born and raised in the state's eponymous city. Settling in the Hawkeye state, or one of its contiguous neighbors, was pretty much banked.

Illinois, Minnesota, Missouri. They were all on the list.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

When I made my first move to the Midwest there was some serious trepidation. Born and raised in Boston, I had a natural attachment to the Greater Beantown area. A relatively brief, two-year foray to Virginia did nothing to sway my Northeast-centric world view. At that point, it was 26 of 28 years in New England.

When I made my inaugural visit to Iowa to see my then `girlfriend,' it was the middle of winter in 1999. Everything seemed dark. Granted, there wasn't the lone corn silo or rusting hulks of John Deere combines silhouetted in the fading sunlight as I had envisioned, but it certainly wasn't anything familiar.

After finally making the plunge and moving to the Heartland in '01, I was happy to find that Iowa City was a livable (and not flooded) spot. My thoughts were confirmed when the participants on my side of our wedding - essentially a bunch of Massholes and Mainiacs - gave their tacit thumbs up to their surroundings.

Alas, the Midwest was, in hindsight, a luxurious pit stop. Three years in the middle of West Hell - the decaying urban sprawl that pocks the landscape between San Francisco and Sacramento - was followed by a special kind of purgatory.

For many, Mountain Home, Idaho, offers the solace of a simple life devoid of any of the nuisances of a 21st century life, such as, um, options. There is one restaurant to grab a `nice' dinner, there is one golf course, and there is one acceptable establishment to buy groceries.

I have no hard numbers, but the divorce rate has to be spectacularly low here in "The Home" with seemingly nothing to bicker about.

But there is now a speck of light at the end of this long, wind-swept tunnel. We're short-timers in Mountain Home, heading back, presumably, to something better. The idea of holding up the Midwest as a modern-day Xanadu would be amusing in a different life, but my current reality mandates doing what is best for my son and, God willing, the rest of my impending family.

And that means Wisconsin.

Yep, we're heading to the Cheese State.

Wait. Is that right? No?

Badger State, you say? Fine. Whatever. We're going there. (For the record, it should be the Cheese State).

My wife's got a peach of a deal awaiting her and, as usual, I'll be able to keep my nomadic gig with USL (if they'll have me). But there's something mildly awkward about this move.

In a bizarre coincidence that would be extremely funny to me if, well, it wasn't me, I'm moving to La Crosse, Wisconsin.

As for my family and friends back in Titletown, transitioning to the Midwest - even to a city bearing the same name as my employer - was met with a disinterested shrug. Anything past the Hudson River is considered part of the Louisiana Purchase.

However, when I shared the news of my impending move with those at the USL home cubicles in Baltimore, it was greeted with almost universal amusement. Except, however, for the intrepid Matt DaSilva. It seems he had a feature story in the pipeline involving a staff writer wandering around the streets of La Crosse, asking unknowing civilians whether they've heard about our sport.

This passes for sardonic on Long Island.

From what I can glean from my wife's visit and other input (I have yet to make a visit), La Crosse is devoid of our sport for the most part. Evidently, there are a couple of statues depicting crosse-wielding Native Americans, but as for the local collegiate and high school concerns, there is nothing but baseballs and javelins come spring time.

Wisconsin, however, is not barren. I receive semi-frequent emails from Tom in Fitchburg, a town just outside of Madison, informing me of the ascendant nature of lacrosse in the area. He's a high school coach and his son is a rising sophomore goalie at St. John's (Minn.) College - an MCLA D-II national qualifier - and a testament to the potential of my soon-to-be home.

So as it turns out, my move to La Crosse next July is not only a coincidence, but also a challenge of sorts.

I became a lacrosse official in California and Idaho as way to give back to the sport that employs me. Depending on the coach you talk to, my contributions range from acceptable to tolerable. Since I don't know what kind organization there is on the ground right now, it is rather presumptuous of me to assume assistance is needed, but I want to help La Crosse emerge as something other than a verbal novelty. It's time to build a foundation on the youth, high school and collegiate level if it doesn't already exist.

I hope those in the area let me know if I can help in any way.

If I were just coming out of my New England cocoon and experiencing other parts of the country for the first time, I'd probably give up on Wisconsin from the start and use my free time to make a couple of bucks on the golf course. Or on the riverboats.

But I'm moving on to my eighth state in 13 years, and I've had the opportunity to see lacrosse blossom all along the way - and in fields far more fallow than Badgerland.

I'm undaunted, nay, I'm inspired to embrace my new hometown.

Instead of running from my manifest destiny, I willingly accept it. I'm officially pledging my services and soliciting input from those on the ground in hopes of allowing my newfound home to realize its own unmistakable purpose.

La Crosse, Wisconsin. It will soon take its rightful place as our sports capital.

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