Nothing quite like a good clash

“Just tell them, when they ask, that you’re looking for a good clash,” the debate coach said to me.   Whatever it took — I would do it.  I’d beg for the good kind. The right kind of clash.

The Good Clash policy was declared about the same time that I learned how to write post-debate comment sandwiches.  Encouraging words, first.  (If you have nothing nice to say about the baby, my father recommended praising the blanket.)  So I’d rave about their well-matched socks and then I’d move on to appraising their arguments before signing off with a touch of kindness.

And, as for seeking a clash, did anyone really imagine that these feisty debaters would actually drop their arguments to hammer out a win-win compromise?  After endless sparring practice, did they really need to be reminded NOT to give peace a chance….

Still, I’m very glad I asked. Disclosing my preference for good clashes may have helped convince a few kids that I knew my way around the sport. My cry for goodness may have eased my path.

Now, there’s a short history of clashes that goes way back in our family.  Back in 1987, during our relentless search to reign in another used Saab hatchback, Bill and I were shown a specimen that actually responded when you pressed the accelerator.  And it was three years younger.  If we could only learn to take pride in owning a red car with a questionable bright orange interior …  We winced. The friendly salesman agreed with us.  Yes, he admitted, the colors did sort of clash — but, he pointed out confidently — that it was a good clash.

Good clash or not — we let this one pass us by —  and something else came our way.  A bit like all the times when the oh so big waves roll in and splash me in my face.  Doesn’t mean I’ll stop waiting around for the good waves.  Good clashes.  May they come your way, too — gently.