(Pinewood Social. Opened today at 2:00 p.m., including the Creme coffee bar. The place is rocking, as I drink my coffee at the community table directly across from the bar.)
Every year, I plan on taking time off from work leading up to Christmas and in between Christmas and New Year's Day. And, every year, it seems like something comes up that prevents me from doing so.
This year was no different. A legitimate emergency arose in a case I have with a new client, so it was all hands on deck leading up to Monday, December 23. I also had an emergency hearing set on Monday afternoon at 2:30 p.m. Fortunately, we were able to work out an agreement and avoid the Monday afternoon hearing. Although the judge approved our agreement in court when I announced it Monday morning, I found myself at my desk, crossing items off my "to do list" as mid-morning turned into early afternoon.
I closed the office - or at least my part of it - around 2:00 p.m. and what remained of my staff practically ran out the front door. They turned out the lights as they left and I found myself, alone, sitting in my office gazing at what was, for me, a reasonably clean desk. Still, I couldn't really bring myself to leave.
Why?
I'll tell you why. Because I knew that the minute I got up to leave, I would be walking right up to the Ghost of Christmas Past.
My mom loved the holidays. She especially loved Christmas. The decorations. The music. Church. The basketball and football games on television.
Most of all, she loved getting together with family on Christmas Day. Cooking. Sharing a meal together. Watching the kids and, later, grandkids, play in the backyard. And, of course, the opening of presents, which can only be described as pure chaos.
Every family has its holiday traditions and every family does Christmas a little bit differently.
When it comes to opening presents, some families - like Jude's - typically open one present at a time while everyone else looks on and murmurs with approval as each present is opened. It's a very deliberate process.
That's not the way it was at my mom's house, however. Not by a long shot. First, we ate lunch, usually in the mid-afternoon. Scattered throughout the playroom, den, and kitchen, we sat together as an extended family and shared a meal together. Always, we had to remind my mom to make a plate for herself, because she was here and there, making sure everyone else had enough to eat. After we finished eating, the real fun began.
The youngest children - David Clark and Alice in the early days - delivered the gifts to the recipients, usually gathered int the playroom, from under the Christmas tree in the living room. In later years, Kaitlyn and Matthew took over until, finally, they passed the delivery responsibilities on to J.P. and Joe.
After all of the presents were delivered, everyone began opening them. At the same time. So, in roughly 10 minutes, all of the presents had been opened amidst a cacophony of "thank you's" and "I love it's". Balled up wads of wrapping paper flew everywhere in the playroom, as we (well, usually I) tried to peg any unsuspecting or unaware relative. The key, of course, was to look innocent after pegging someone, so they didn't know who had hit them with the wrapping paper ball. Predictably, it was a game I invented, and perfected.
I passed my skills along to all of the grandkids, of course. And especially to my boys, J.P. and Joe.
Always and I mean always, my mom feigned anger and irritation when she was hit by a wrapping paper ball. "Stop it," she would growl at us. Secretly, though, she loved it. At least that's what I told myself then, and that's what I'm telling myself now.
It was pure pandemonium and my mom loved every minute of it. No formality. Just fun. She was in her element on Christmas Day, presiding over the festivities.
I can see my mom, right now, sitting on the couch in the playroom, probably wearing a Christmas sweater of some sort, with her presents piled all around her, watching contentedly as everyone else open up their presents. Tracy, Alice, and I always had to nag and cajole her to open up her presents rather than simply watching others open up theirs.
But, see, that's who my mom was in a nutshell. She couldn't have cared less about what presents she received. That was an afterthought to her. Christmas, for her, like so many other things in her life, was about everyone else. Their happiness. Their joy. That's simply who my mom was. I can't describe her any better than that.
This Christmas, of course, is different. The last two or three have been different, too, but this one is really different because buy mom is not here. I've found myself slipping away to be alone more than normal - at church yesterday after communion, I walked outside and watched the sun set. Last night, as we sat down to eat dinner with Jude's family at our house, I walked out onto the back deck with a drink and sat quietly and, well, just remembered.
It's been a difficult holiday season for me, as I suspected it would be. I hate it, too, because it's my favorite time of the year. I've tried to be present, as much as possible, for Jude and the boys, but it's been hard, at times.
Merry Christmas, Mom. I miss you.
Wednesday, December 25, 2019
Sunday, December 22, 2019
Running the Table
As I've mentioned, I changed by diet about a year and a half ago. No bread, no potatoes of any sort, no pasta, very little sweets and, as it turns out, very little beer. My plan was to try it for 30 days and see how I felt. Now, here I am, almost 18 months later, still at it. It shouldn't be surprising, I guess, since I gave up meat and chicken on a lark - for almost five years - in my mid to late 20's.
It seems I have that kinds of personality - stubborn, obsessive, maybe a little disciplined (about some things, anyway).
I didn't change my diet to lose weight. Not really. I was curious if I could do it. The challenge of it, you know? Also, I wanted to see if I felt better. I do, by the way. I did think, though, that as I head into my mid-50's and beyond, my knees, back, and hips might feel better if I was a little higher.
I didn't weigh myself until I got a physical last May. And, of course, I had lost a significant amount of weight. More than 20 pounds. I had needed some new suits for work, anyway, but dropping so much weight made buying new suits a necessity. Actually, it was kind of fun to step up my wardrobe game, so to speak.
People have notice, which for the mosts part is nice. I laughed, of course (sort of), when a friend's legal assistant - whom I've known for years - asked me if I was okay. She was worried I was sick. I had to laugh.
For me, thought, the biggest difference I've seen has been my running. I've run consistently, with discipline, for more than 30 years. At times, I've run more yearly mileage than others but I've always run. There's never been a time in my adult life when I've gotten away from running, absent a significant injury (torn iliopsoas, plantar fasciitis, low back/hip pain, etc.). Even when I've been injured, I've been in physical therapy. Why? So I could get back to running. It's just what I do and who I am.
Running, for me, is like an old friend whom I've known and been close to for as long as I can remember. Always there for me. Always. Steady and dependable. Never fails to make me feel better about myself. Happier. More self-confident. Always the best listener.
So, what made me want to write this today was the neighborhood run I had yesterday afternoon, just after Jude's brother, James, and his family arrived for the Christmas holiday.
5 miles in my neighborhood - Belmont - 12South - an old route by the house we used to live in on Elliott Avenue. A route I've run countless times. The kicker is that I ran the 5 miles at a 7:48 pace. Comfortably, without pushing myself in any way.
And that's the really cool thing, for me. My runs as of late are almost all 5 or 6 miles and they're almost all under 8 minutes per mile, or right at 8 minutes per mile. Having dropped some weight, I'm training at a pace I hadn't run comfortably in 20, maybe 25, years. I've gone from causing at 8:30 or 8:40 minutes per mile to 8 minutes per mile, or less. And, again, at a cruising, conversational speed.
I haven't raced in ages. Right now, just getting out there and running, pain free, almost effortlessly, at age 53, at under 8 minute miles, is enough.
I'm thankful for good health. I'm going to ride this wave as long as I can.
Running the table.
It seems I have that kinds of personality - stubborn, obsessive, maybe a little disciplined (about some things, anyway).
I didn't change my diet to lose weight. Not really. I was curious if I could do it. The challenge of it, you know? Also, I wanted to see if I felt better. I do, by the way. I did think, though, that as I head into my mid-50's and beyond, my knees, back, and hips might feel better if I was a little higher.
I didn't weigh myself until I got a physical last May. And, of course, I had lost a significant amount of weight. More than 20 pounds. I had needed some new suits for work, anyway, but dropping so much weight made buying new suits a necessity. Actually, it was kind of fun to step up my wardrobe game, so to speak.
People have notice, which for the mosts part is nice. I laughed, of course (sort of), when a friend's legal assistant - whom I've known for years - asked me if I was okay. She was worried I was sick. I had to laugh.
For me, thought, the biggest difference I've seen has been my running. I've run consistently, with discipline, for more than 30 years. At times, I've run more yearly mileage than others but I've always run. There's never been a time in my adult life when I've gotten away from running, absent a significant injury (torn iliopsoas, plantar fasciitis, low back/hip pain, etc.). Even when I've been injured, I've been in physical therapy. Why? So I could get back to running. It's just what I do and who I am.
Running, for me, is like an old friend whom I've known and been close to for as long as I can remember. Always there for me. Always. Steady and dependable. Never fails to make me feel better about myself. Happier. More self-confident. Always the best listener.
So, what made me want to write this today was the neighborhood run I had yesterday afternoon, just after Jude's brother, James, and his family arrived for the Christmas holiday.
5 miles in my neighborhood - Belmont - 12South - an old route by the house we used to live in on Elliott Avenue. A route I've run countless times. The kicker is that I ran the 5 miles at a 7:48 pace. Comfortably, without pushing myself in any way.
And that's the really cool thing, for me. My runs as of late are almost all 5 or 6 miles and they're almost all under 8 minutes per mile, or right at 8 minutes per mile. Having dropped some weight, I'm training at a pace I hadn't run comfortably in 20, maybe 25, years. I've gone from causing at 8:30 or 8:40 minutes per mile to 8 minutes per mile, or less. And, again, at a cruising, conversational speed.
I haven't raced in ages. Right now, just getting out there and running, pain free, almost effortlessly, at age 53, at under 8 minute miles, is enough.
I'm thankful for good health. I'm going to ride this wave as long as I can.
Running the table.
Saturday, December 7, 2019
Oh, Christmas Tree
Last night, we decorated our Christmas tree. It's a beautiful blue spruce we picked out last weekend at Santa's trees. Tall and thick, with lots of branches. Almost a perfect tree, really. Jude strung lights - white ones, this year - on it a few nights ago. Last night, a Friday, was the first time this week we had a couple of hours free with nothing else going on.
As we unpacked our Christmas decorations, a wave of nostalgia almost knocked me down as I looked at all of our Christmas ornaments. Many of them are ornaments from my childhood that my mom gave me over the years. So many memories tied up in so many of the ornaments. Some she had given as a child and we had hung them together on our Christmas trees at our house growing up. Some she had given the boys when they were younger.
Damn. I had no idea how hard it would be to see those Christmas ornaments again. I hung a few of my favorites on the tree but, for the most part, I sat and watched Jude and the boys decorate our tree. The intensity of the moment caught me off guard. It stunned me, really. Parts of this deal - the grieving process, I suppose - are so hard for me, even now.
My mom loved decorating the Christmas tree, especially when we were young. I gave her such a hard time when she switched to an artificial tree after we were older and had families of our own. Our tree always would be haphazardly packed with ornaments on nearly every branch. There were no rules. Just hang the ornaments wherever they would fit. It was the ultimate family event for us.
On occasion, my friend and next door neighbor, Warren Lee Gilley and his sister, Terri, walked over and helped us decorate out Christmas tree. There mother, Sandra, insisted on decorating her tree just so, with little or no help from her children. It had to be just so. At our house, everyone was welcome to decorate the Christmas tree and to hang ornaments wherever they would fit. It was such a happy time every year. So much laughter. So much love.
And you know what? Our Christmas tree was beautiful every single year. A sight to behold, lit up with the lights in the living room turned off, heavy laden with our family's Christmas ornaments.
When I think of it now, as I finish my coffee at Red Bicycle in the Nations, I realize that the way we decorated our Christmas tree when I was a child - and the way my family decorates our Christmas tree - perfectly encapsulates the essence of my mom as a person.
No pretense or formality. What you see is what you get. Happiness and laughter. An openness to others. And a love for family stronger than steel.
It's going to be hard but I'm going to try to remember that, this year and in years to come.
As we unpacked our Christmas decorations, a wave of nostalgia almost knocked me down as I looked at all of our Christmas ornaments. Many of them are ornaments from my childhood that my mom gave me over the years. So many memories tied up in so many of the ornaments. Some she had given as a child and we had hung them together on our Christmas trees at our house growing up. Some she had given the boys when they were younger.
Damn. I had no idea how hard it would be to see those Christmas ornaments again. I hung a few of my favorites on the tree but, for the most part, I sat and watched Jude and the boys decorate our tree. The intensity of the moment caught me off guard. It stunned me, really. Parts of this deal - the grieving process, I suppose - are so hard for me, even now.
My mom loved decorating the Christmas tree, especially when we were young. I gave her such a hard time when she switched to an artificial tree after we were older and had families of our own. Our tree always would be haphazardly packed with ornaments on nearly every branch. There were no rules. Just hang the ornaments wherever they would fit. It was the ultimate family event for us.
On occasion, my friend and next door neighbor, Warren Lee Gilley and his sister, Terri, walked over and helped us decorate out Christmas tree. There mother, Sandra, insisted on decorating her tree just so, with little or no help from her children. It had to be just so. At our house, everyone was welcome to decorate the Christmas tree and to hang ornaments wherever they would fit. It was such a happy time every year. So much laughter. So much love.
And you know what? Our Christmas tree was beautiful every single year. A sight to behold, lit up with the lights in the living room turned off, heavy laden with our family's Christmas ornaments.
When I think of it now, as I finish my coffee at Red Bicycle in the Nations, I realize that the way we decorated our Christmas tree when I was a child - and the way my family decorates our Christmas tree - perfectly encapsulates the essence of my mom as a person.
No pretense or formality. What you see is what you get. Happiness and laughter. An openness to others. And a love for family stronger than steel.
It's going to be hard but I'm going to try to remember that, this year and in years to come.
Friday, November 29, 2019
Thanksgiving Without Mom
I love the fall holidays most of all but this year, my enthusiasm has been tempered by the fact that for the first time in my life, I won't celebrate them with my mom.
It's strange but I don't know how I'm supposed to feel this holiday season.
I feel guilty if I unabashedly enjoy myself because to do so is to necessarily ignore the fact that my mom isn't here with us. However, if I dwell on how much I miss my mom, my spirit will descend into the familiar abyss of sadness and, yes, depression, and those closest to me will suffer the ill effects of my emotional decline. My mom wouldn't want that. This I know.
What would she want?
She would want me to smile and laugh. To enjoy spending time with Jude, J.P. and Joe. To watch football all weekend long. To enjoy a Thanksgiving meal with Jude's extended family at Anne and David Walker's house in Franklin (something my mom did with Jude and me on more than one occasion).
She would want me to watch football all weekend long. To tease my boys, and tease her, about the Tennessee - Vanderbilt football game tomorrow. To have family over tomorrow night to laugh, reminisce and spend time together.
She would want my heart to fill with pride as I watch J.P. and Joe shoot basketball together, with me, at Christ the King or Sevier Park. To have 4-way Connect Four tournaments with Jude, J.P. and Joe. She would want me to lose to one of the boys, of course.
She would want me to enjoy the beginning of the college basketball season. To enjoy taking the boys to the Battle of the Boulevard (Belmont vs. Lipscomb) on Tuesday. To enjoy following the Titans as they make a late season run for the playoffs. To worry about the Predators and early season swoon.
She would want me to enjoy the fact that I'm healthy and running like I did 25 + years ago. To enjoy the fact that, at age 53, I've had a bit of a running renaissance. Not racing but effortlessly running 4, 5 or 6 miles at the same training pace I ran in my late 20's. To enjoy running 10 miles in Shelby Bottoms last weekend. To simply enjoy doing something I love. Running.
I think - no, I know - she would want me to slow down just a little bit this holiday season. To worry a little bit less about work and my immediate and extended family, and my friends. To be still, to be quiet and to be thankful, truly and deeply thankful, for the life I have right now. To be present in this moment and appreciate it for it's singularity, not thinking about the past or worrying about the future.
She would want all of those things for me, and many, many more.
I miss you mom. The holidays aren't going to be easy for me, I know. But I'm going to try to honor your memory over the holidays by living the way you would want me to live.
I have so much. Today, Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for all of it. My life, the sad parts, the hard parts, the happy parts. All of it.
Tuesday, November 26, 2019
LeBron, the Lakers and the Bucket List
I've been a Los Angeles Lakers fan for as long as I can remember. When I was a toddler and we lived in California, my mom used to listen to Chick Hearn - the venerable one - call the Lakers' games on the radio. For a season or two - or so I was told by my mom - my parents shared season tickets to the Lakers' games with three other couples, in the days of Elgin Baylor, Jerry West, Gail Goodrich and Wilt Chamberlain (probably 1969 or 1970 would be my guess).
This part is hazy, but I've always had a memory of attending a Lakers' game with my dad. I remember watching Wilt Chamberlain play. It's funny, now that I think about it, I never asked my mom if that memory was true or a dream. I never confirmed that my dad took me to a Lakers' game. I wish I had asked her about it but maybe I wanted to continue to believe it.
I've always been a huge Jerry West fan, probably because my mom was, as well.
In the early 1980's, with the arrival of Earvin "Magic" Johnson, my Lakers' fandom increased tenfold. I watched the Lakers on television whenever I could - which wasn't often during the regular season, since cable television hadn't arrived yet - and I lived and died by how they did in the playoffs. I mean, lived and died!
Most importantly, I hated the Boston Celtics. Really, really hated them, like all good Laker fans.
In college and in my fraternity, same way. None of my friends, save one - Eddie Messer - were Laker fans. Most of them pulled for the Celtics.
In some ways, my obsession with the Lakers, and the NBA, was an oddity in the pre-internet days. It was harder to follow the NBA because information wasn't readily available as it is now and there were so many few games on television. Today, of course, it's totally different. The NBA is hip and, in reality, trails only the NFL in terms of popularity in the U.S. Worldwide, however, the NBA dwarfs the NFL in popularity.
For me, it's always been MLB, followed closely by baseball. But, in terms of my favorite team, it may well have been the Lakers. Probably trading places, from time to time, with the Dodgers.
The cool thing about having boys - my boys - is that, for the most part, they've adopted my sports' allegiances. The notable exception, of course, is the the fact that they're Vanderbilt fans and I'm a Tennessee fan. I smile as I write that, though, because it's a lasting legacy from my mom. Her parting shot to me, if you will, and something that I believe still makes her chuckle wherever she is now. My sons, the Vandy fans.
The boys - and I - love the Dodgers and Lakers.
Saturday afternoon, we drove to Memphis of then Grizzlies - Lakers game Saturday night. JP rode with my friends, Russ and Chris, and their sons (and his basketball teammates), Cooper and Wes. Joe rode with me, as his basketball game finished later.
Because the Lakers played Friday night in Oklahoma City, I was worried LeBron James might sit in Memphis. You know, load management. Fortunately, that wasn't the case, as LeBron and Anthony Davis played.
As it turned out, we stayed at the Westin - the same hotel in which the Lakers stayed. In fact, the players were checking out when we arrived. The boys saw Lebron, Anthony Davis, Alex Caruso and Kyle Kouzma, which thrilled them to no end.
Before the game, we walked .3 of mile to Central BBQ for some slow cooked, Memphis style BBQ. As advertised, the BBQ was awesome, especially the brisket. Then, back to the hotel to change clothes, and a quick walk across the street to the game.
We had good seats in the Pinnacle Club section. I loved watching the boys watching the Lakers, standing and cheering in the their LeBron James (No. 23) Lakers' jerseys. Joe was so into the game that I had to ask him - several times in the first half - to calm down. The Lakers weren't playing particularly well and the Grizzlies hit their first 8 (!) 3-pointers. Joe was despondent. JP and couldn't help but laugh and - I thought - like father, like son.
The Grizzlies cooled off in the second half, predictably, and the Lakers got hot. It was an exciting finish and the Lakers won by 1 point, much to our delight. I bought the boys some swag in the team shop and we walked across the street, back to the hotel.
Overall, bucket list night. I got to watch LeBron James play, with my sons alongside, cheering the whole game. For me, it doesn't get much better than that.
Wednesday, November 6, 2019
Fall Baseball Season Finales
Sunday marked the end of the boys fall baseball season.
It's rare that we play into November but the previous weekend's games were rained out the fields were too wet on Saturday to play. It was a beautiful, fall Sunday afternoon, though, and I was grateful to get the play the season finale for the Junior Dodgers (Joe) and the Dodgers (J.P.).
The Junior Dodgers played first, at 1 p.m., vs. the Red Cobras (Hi, August!), a team we had split with earlier in the fall season. The pitching machine was dialed up a bit and the boys on both teams had a difficult time hitting. Early on, the score was tied 1-1, then the Junior Dodgers took a 2-1 lead and later, a 5-1 lead.
The play, or plays, of the day, came mid-game when I had Bennett at pitcher and Joe at first base. Bennett made a fairly routine play on a ground ball for the first out, throwing the ball to Joe at first in time to get the runner. A couple of Red Cobras scratched out hits, then one boy struck out for the second out. With two runners on base, the next batter ripped a ground ball up the middle. Bennett reacted instantly, backhanded the ball cleanly, and threw a strike to Joe at first base for the third out.
It was a bang-bang play and for a split second, everyone sat in stunned silence. Then, our fans, coaches and players erupted in cheers as the Junior Dodgers ran off the field to bat. I stormed out of the dugout and Bennett greeted me with a huge smile on his face as I picked him up and hugged him. It was a helluva play!
Although the Red Cobras rallied for a pair of runs in the bottom of the last inning, the Junior Dodgers held on to win 5-3. The boys made must enough routine defensive plays and had just enough hitting to win the game. George, one of my personal projects the past year or so, had three hits. Andrew, filling in because we were short on players, and Trey, had triples to the outfield. Big, big hits. A fitting end to the fall season for the Junior Dodgers.
The Dodgers played our longtime rival, the Dirtbags, in the 3 p.m. game after the team we really wanted - Pennington's team - couldn't get enough players to play us. We've had the Dirtbags number as of late. The boys followed up a 13-1 win over the Dirtbags Tuesday night (in a game the I missed b/c I was stuck mediating a case) with a 12-4 win that was never in doubt.
Although I thought about pitching some boys who don't normally pitch, I decided a win would be important to the team so I started our horse, Porter. He pitched well over three innings and gave up only a single run as we pulled away. Timely hits, walks and a lot of stolen bases led to the Dodgers taking a big lead early and coasting home.
In the lasts inning, I brought in Ethan to pitch. He'd been asking to pitch and he deserved a shot. When he's on he's unhittable but when he's struggling with his control, anything can happen. It's usually feast or famine when he's on the mound. Still, I wanted him to get the experience of being out there because he's got real talent and just needs to learn to manage his emotions. He's got unrivaled competitiveness but is so hard on himself when he struggles the slightest bit. Great, great kid.
I caught J.P., which I knew would be a challenge for him because Ethan can be a bit wild when hit pitches.
After an early strikeout, Ethan's control wavered and he walked a few batters and allowed a run or two on wild pitches. J.P. did reasonably well, but struggled a bit with balls in the dirt, allowing them to get past him and roll to the backstop. Nothing some repetitions at catcher won't correct because he really can play back there, I think. I've said it before but one of the things I'm proudest of when it comes to J.P. and baseball is his versatility. He field at least 3 grounders flawlessly at shortstop early in the game and threw the batters out at first, then was competent at catcher.
The Dirtbags did what the Dirtbags do when the scored a couple of runs. Their players started chanting, quietly at first, then louder and louder. Although I think that stuff is bush league, I had to laugh when they started humming the Jeopardy theme song when I walked to the mound to settle Ethan down. Settle down he did and he struck a batter out for the last out with the bases loaded. A good moment for him.
Overall, again, the Dodgers played very solid defensively. I've seen so much improvement there. we had timely hitting and there's a lot of room for improvement, for sure. But he defense has been outstanding as the fall season progressed.
A great way to end the fall season - wins against rivals of the Junior Dodgers and the Dodgers - and two teams' worth of happy boys on a beautiful fall afternoon.
Baseball is life. All the rest is just details.
It's rare that we play into November but the previous weekend's games were rained out the fields were too wet on Saturday to play. It was a beautiful, fall Sunday afternoon, though, and I was grateful to get the play the season finale for the Junior Dodgers (Joe) and the Dodgers (J.P.).
The Junior Dodgers played first, at 1 p.m., vs. the Red Cobras (Hi, August!), a team we had split with earlier in the fall season. The pitching machine was dialed up a bit and the boys on both teams had a difficult time hitting. Early on, the score was tied 1-1, then the Junior Dodgers took a 2-1 lead and later, a 5-1 lead.
The play, or plays, of the day, came mid-game when I had Bennett at pitcher and Joe at first base. Bennett made a fairly routine play on a ground ball for the first out, throwing the ball to Joe at first in time to get the runner. A couple of Red Cobras scratched out hits, then one boy struck out for the second out. With two runners on base, the next batter ripped a ground ball up the middle. Bennett reacted instantly, backhanded the ball cleanly, and threw a strike to Joe at first base for the third out.
It was a bang-bang play and for a split second, everyone sat in stunned silence. Then, our fans, coaches and players erupted in cheers as the Junior Dodgers ran off the field to bat. I stormed out of the dugout and Bennett greeted me with a huge smile on his face as I picked him up and hugged him. It was a helluva play!
Although the Red Cobras rallied for a pair of runs in the bottom of the last inning, the Junior Dodgers held on to win 5-3. The boys made must enough routine defensive plays and had just enough hitting to win the game. George, one of my personal projects the past year or so, had three hits. Andrew, filling in because we were short on players, and Trey, had triples to the outfield. Big, big hits. A fitting end to the fall season for the Junior Dodgers.
The Dodgers played our longtime rival, the Dirtbags, in the 3 p.m. game after the team we really wanted - Pennington's team - couldn't get enough players to play us. We've had the Dirtbags number as of late. The boys followed up a 13-1 win over the Dirtbags Tuesday night (in a game the I missed b/c I was stuck mediating a case) with a 12-4 win that was never in doubt.
Although I thought about pitching some boys who don't normally pitch, I decided a win would be important to the team so I started our horse, Porter. He pitched well over three innings and gave up only a single run as we pulled away. Timely hits, walks and a lot of stolen bases led to the Dodgers taking a big lead early and coasting home.
In the lasts inning, I brought in Ethan to pitch. He'd been asking to pitch and he deserved a shot. When he's on he's unhittable but when he's struggling with his control, anything can happen. It's usually feast or famine when he's on the mound. Still, I wanted him to get the experience of being out there because he's got real talent and just needs to learn to manage his emotions. He's got unrivaled competitiveness but is so hard on himself when he struggles the slightest bit. Great, great kid.
I caught J.P., which I knew would be a challenge for him because Ethan can be a bit wild when hit pitches.
After an early strikeout, Ethan's control wavered and he walked a few batters and allowed a run or two on wild pitches. J.P. did reasonably well, but struggled a bit with balls in the dirt, allowing them to get past him and roll to the backstop. Nothing some repetitions at catcher won't correct because he really can play back there, I think. I've said it before but one of the things I'm proudest of when it comes to J.P. and baseball is his versatility. He field at least 3 grounders flawlessly at shortstop early in the game and threw the batters out at first, then was competent at catcher.
The Dirtbags did what the Dirtbags do when the scored a couple of runs. Their players started chanting, quietly at first, then louder and louder. Although I think that stuff is bush league, I had to laugh when they started humming the Jeopardy theme song when I walked to the mound to settle Ethan down. Settle down he did and he struck a batter out for the last out with the bases loaded. A good moment for him.
Overall, again, the Dodgers played very solid defensively. I've seen so much improvement there. we had timely hitting and there's a lot of room for improvement, for sure. But he defense has been outstanding as the fall season progressed.
A great way to end the fall season - wins against rivals of the Junior Dodgers and the Dodgers - and two teams' worth of happy boys on a beautiful fall afternoon.
Baseball is life. All the rest is just details.
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Sifting Through the Past
I went to my mom's house this afternoon to sort through some of her furniture, household furnishings, and personal items, so I could decide what, if anything, I want to keep. I've put it off, I know, as a means of self-preservation but it's time to get things moving.
It's so strange to walk into my mom's house. I still feel her presence there but not as strongly as before. It's like her spirit has, for the most part, drifted away and is no longer inhabiting the house she lived in for more than 40 years. The fact that her house hasn't been lived in for so long is part of it. Also, Tracy and Alice have packed up a lot of stuff, so the house has the feel of someone in the process of moving out, of moving on. I guess, in a way, that's what's happened. My mom has moved on.
I think I've mentioned this before but it's strange to realize that so much of what one accumulates over a lifetime - furniture, photographs, art, lamps, books, televisions, every day china - all of that stuff - is so important, so necessary to one's life and, yet, after one dies most of it gets dispersed - to stranger in an estate sale (coming soon), to relatives, or to a landfill.
How can it be that all of these items - this stuff - that was so personal to my mom and made my mom who she was and her house what it was - is simply going to be given away or thrown away? It's mind boggling and a little troubling to me.
How do I decide what to keep? We have enough stuff at our house, as it is. Do I keep some of her furniture - the practical stuff - just because it was hers and it will remind me of her? Or do I keep some of her knick knacks? In truth, those type of things remind me of her most of all. Thing like -
It's so strange to walk into my mom's house. I still feel her presence there but not as strongly as before. It's like her spirit has, for the most part, drifted away and is no longer inhabiting the house she lived in for more than 40 years. The fact that her house hasn't been lived in for so long is part of it. Also, Tracy and Alice have packed up a lot of stuff, so the house has the feel of someone in the process of moving out, of moving on. I guess, in a way, that's what's happened. My mom has moved on.
I think I've mentioned this before but it's strange to realize that so much of what one accumulates over a lifetime - furniture, photographs, art, lamps, books, televisions, every day china - all of that stuff - is so important, so necessary to one's life and, yet, after one dies most of it gets dispersed - to stranger in an estate sale (coming soon), to relatives, or to a landfill.
How can it be that all of these items - this stuff - that was so personal to my mom and made my mom who she was and her house what it was - is simply going to be given away or thrown away? It's mind boggling and a little troubling to me.
How do I decide what to keep? We have enough stuff at our house, as it is. Do I keep some of her furniture - the practical stuff - just because it was hers and it will remind me of her? Or do I keep some of her knick knacks? In truth, those type of things remind me of her most of all. Thing like -
- the Eddie George (former Titan running back) autographed photograph
- the Drew Bennett (former Titan wide receiver) note and photograph
- the letter to her from C.M. Newton (former head basketball coach at Vanderbilt)
- the framed newspaper articles from the Music City Miracle and the Titans' run to the Super Bowl
Those are some of the things my mom loved and that made up the spirit of who she was as a person. Sports was such a big part of her life. Days like today, when the Titans win an exciting game (vs. Tampa Bay), the pain of her loss, her death, is more acute, more immediate, and more visceral. Damn, she loved sports.
I didn't really find much in her house I wanted, which makes me a little sad. It's time to go through everything, though, and discard what we don't want that has no value and sell the rest of it at an estate sale. It's time to get her house - the house I grew up in - ready to be sold. It's past time, really.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
At the Beach But Not On the Beach
So, here we are, back in Santa Rosa Beach, this time for Fall Break. It's our first trip here in the fall and, unfortunately, it's rain, rain and more rain.
Jude texted me from the beach this morning on her morning walk and suggested I bring the boys down to see the waves after last night's storms. It was cool, actually, with waves bigger than they have ever seen at the beach. As I walked up from the beach to my truck to go to Ama Vida for coffee, I passed three surfers in wet suits. Smiling, I told a couple of them that my boys were going to be very excited to watch them surf.
One thing about the beach, for me, is it's always relaxing yet rejuvenating to be here. In a different life, when I used to regularly go to Litchfield Beach, SC, it was always so nice to be there. It didn't matter if it was in summer or in December - just being near the ocean, even if I couldn't swim in it - calmed and centered me. It's still that way.
Our trip down was the easiest so far. We left at 6 p.m. and drove straight here. The boys slept a good deal of the way down and the drive passed quickly. Jude and I listed to a couple of podcasts and just talked. Our lives are so busy, it's hard to find time to just talk. About politics, raising children, social media, etc. It was nice.
Thursday morning, Jude and the boys went to the beach while I nursed a head cold. I rallied after lunch and went for a 6 mile train run on the Longleaf Pine Trail near our house in Old Florida Village. I felt strong and had a great run. I listened to Marc Maron on his WTF pod interviewing Woody Harrelson.
Great interview that inspired me to watch, last night, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. Dark, comedic and powerful movie that I meant to see when it was released a couple of years ago. Frances McDormand's performance was breathtaking and worth of the Oscar for best actress she won in 2018. So good.
The boys and I have had fun watching the NLCS (sweep by the Nationals) and the ALCS (3-2 Astros lead over the Yankees) together. It's great that they're at an age where we can watch, really watch, baseball together. As such a big baseball fan, it's special to me just to sit with them and watch baseball, especially when it's not the Dodgers playing. If you love the game of baseball, like I do and like I think they do, you watch the playoffs and the World Series. Always, regardless of who is playing.
So, I'll finish my coffee, walk out into the October rain and drive back to our house in Old Florida Village in Santa Rosa Beach. Cinnamon rolls to eat, board games to play, college football games to watch, trails to run (if the rain stops) and books to read.
Beached and soaking up every minute of it.
Jude texted me from the beach this morning on her morning walk and suggested I bring the boys down to see the waves after last night's storms. It was cool, actually, with waves bigger than they have ever seen at the beach. As I walked up from the beach to my truck to go to Ama Vida for coffee, I passed three surfers in wet suits. Smiling, I told a couple of them that my boys were going to be very excited to watch them surf.
One thing about the beach, for me, is it's always relaxing yet rejuvenating to be here. In a different life, when I used to regularly go to Litchfield Beach, SC, it was always so nice to be there. It didn't matter if it was in summer or in December - just being near the ocean, even if I couldn't swim in it - calmed and centered me. It's still that way.
Our trip down was the easiest so far. We left at 6 p.m. and drove straight here. The boys slept a good deal of the way down and the drive passed quickly. Jude and I listed to a couple of podcasts and just talked. Our lives are so busy, it's hard to find time to just talk. About politics, raising children, social media, etc. It was nice.
Thursday morning, Jude and the boys went to the beach while I nursed a head cold. I rallied after lunch and went for a 6 mile train run on the Longleaf Pine Trail near our house in Old Florida Village. I felt strong and had a great run. I listened to Marc Maron on his WTF pod interviewing Woody Harrelson.
Great interview that inspired me to watch, last night, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. Dark, comedic and powerful movie that I meant to see when it was released a couple of years ago. Frances McDormand's performance was breathtaking and worth of the Oscar for best actress she won in 2018. So good.
The boys and I have had fun watching the NLCS (sweep by the Nationals) and the ALCS (3-2 Astros lead over the Yankees) together. It's great that they're at an age where we can watch, really watch, baseball together. As such a big baseball fan, it's special to me just to sit with them and watch baseball, especially when it's not the Dodgers playing. If you love the game of baseball, like I do and like I think they do, you watch the playoffs and the World Series. Always, regardless of who is playing.
So, I'll finish my coffee, walk out into the October rain and drive back to our house in Old Florida Village in Santa Rosa Beach. Cinnamon rolls to eat, board games to play, college football games to watch, trails to run (if the rain stops) and books to read.
Beached and soaking up every minute of it.
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
Catching Up
Last night, J.P.'s Dodgers played their longtime rival, the Dirtbags, in one of the final games as the fall baseball season winds down. It's fun to play them because they're our friends and our rivals. We know the coaches and the parents, not to mention most of the boys. It's been Dodgers vs. Dirtbags for more than five years, since the boys were seven years old and playing machine pitch baseball in the Rookie League.
We had a bit of makeshift team because a couple of our stronger players were out. One I knew about but the other's father called me roughly two hours before game time, as I was leaving the office to pick up J.P. and Joe at school. That's another story entirely but I was frustrated, to say the least, because I work hard to communicate with our parents and make sure I have enough players to play each game. When I get a last minute cancellation, it's difficult and it affects the entire team. But, what am I gonna do?
I started J.P. at pitcher and he did well. Our right fielder, Henry, missed a line drive that would have been a tough catch, and a couple of unearned runs scored in the first inning. At first base, Wes missed a ground ball down the line in the second inning to allow a third unearned run to score. J.P. was a little down but he pitched well against a good hitting team. I don't think he walked anyone.
I brought in Porter to pitch next, the Dodgers' horse. He allowed a hit but no runs in the third and we scratched out a run in the top of the fourth inning, trailing at that point 3-1.
Here's where, for me, it got interesting. I put J.P. in at catcher in the bottom of the fourth inning. He's a middle infielder - shortstop mostly - who also pitches and plays well in the outfield. Very versatile. However, he hadn't played catcher in a game for four or five years, in the machine pitch league - and then it was only once or twice. He had never caught live pitching. Until last night.
I was worried. I shouldn't have been.
I guess by now I shouldn't be surprised but he played catcher like he'd been doing it for years. It helped, I think, that Porter was pitching. He throws hard but his control is generally good. Other than one low ball that got under his glove - and hit the umpire in the shin - J.P. didn't drop a ball. Porter struck out two or three boys, swinging, and J.P. held the ball every time. Porter pitched two perfect innings so I didn't get to see how J.P. would do holding runners on or throwing them out stealing. Still, he was confident, poised, and in command.
I was really, really proud of J.P. His versatility on the baseball field continues to astound me.
The icing on the cake is that the Dodgers rallied for 4 runs in the top of the fifth inning to take a 5 - 3 lead. In the bottom of the fifth inning, Aidan - a Dodgers' regular from years past who isn't playing baseball this fall but was filling in last night - made a great play on a ground ball down the line at third base, throwing the runner out at first by a step. Wes got the last out of the game when he made a nifty play on a ground ball at first, then hustled back to the bag for the final out.
Final Score: Dodgers 5, Dirtbags 3.
Friday, October 4, 2019
R.I.P. Sports Illustrated
For better or worse, I am a huge sports fan. For as long as I can remember, I have loved to play sports, watch sports live and on television and, most of all, to read about sports.
I always admired sportswriters and, for a time growing up, I wanted to be one.
I especially admired national columnists I read weekly in The Sporting News - the first magazine I subscribed to, at the age of 10 or 11 - legends like Dick Young, Art Spander and Joe Falls. The Sporting News arrived weekly at our house addressed to me and that was big.
Sports Illustrated was different. It also arrived weekly but it was addressed to my mom, not me. I couldn't wait for its arrival and to see who was on the cover. Sometimes but not often, my mom would beat me to the mailbox and read it before me. Glossy, amazing photographs. Letter to the Editor. Faces in the Crowd (young athletes - high school or small college usually). The Point After. This Week's Sign That the Apocalypse is Upon Us. Game stories.
If it was written about in Sports Illustrated, it obviously was a big game from the previous week. Or, big events, like the Master's, Wimbledon, etc. It was all there.
And long form pieces, which were my favorite part of the magazine. Features. I loved reading them. In fact, in high school during study hall, I would pull bound editions of old Sports Illustrated magazines from the stacks and read long form pieces from years gone past.
Such great writers, some of whom recently died. Dan Jenkins. Frank Deford. S.L. Price. Gary Smith. Tim Layden. And so very many more.
Later, when I left for college, my mom gave me my own subscription to Sports Illustrated as a Christmas gift. And she kept giving that Christmas gift to me, year after year, until she died eight months ago.
So many times over the years, we compared notes on that week's Sports Illustrated. Did you see the article by Gary Smith on . . . ? And on and on and on it went.
No questions, I inherited my love of sports - and Sports Illustrated - from my mom. Now, she's gone and for all intents and purposes, after yesterday, Sports Illustrated is gone, too. Half of the staff laid off as an internet publisher from Seattle - Maven - takes over. Bloggers and contract writers will replace staffers. More video, less written content.
Like everyone else in the magazine industry, Sports Illustrated has been on life support for a few years. Writers have departed. Bi-weekly issues, at best. Now this.
I hate that my boys and I won't have Sport Illustrated to bond over in the years to come. I hate that we won't share that experience the way my mom and I did. I miss my mom terribly and I will miss Sports Illustrated, too.
My mom would have been sad about the demise of Sports Illustrated. I know I am.
I always admired sportswriters and, for a time growing up, I wanted to be one.
I especially admired national columnists I read weekly in The Sporting News - the first magazine I subscribed to, at the age of 10 or 11 - legends like Dick Young, Art Spander and Joe Falls. The Sporting News arrived weekly at our house addressed to me and that was big.
Sports Illustrated was different. It also arrived weekly but it was addressed to my mom, not me. I couldn't wait for its arrival and to see who was on the cover. Sometimes but not often, my mom would beat me to the mailbox and read it before me. Glossy, amazing photographs. Letter to the Editor. Faces in the Crowd (young athletes - high school or small college usually). The Point After. This Week's Sign That the Apocalypse is Upon Us. Game stories.
If it was written about in Sports Illustrated, it obviously was a big game from the previous week. Or, big events, like the Master's, Wimbledon, etc. It was all there.
And long form pieces, which were my favorite part of the magazine. Features. I loved reading them. In fact, in high school during study hall, I would pull bound editions of old Sports Illustrated magazines from the stacks and read long form pieces from years gone past.
Such great writers, some of whom recently died. Dan Jenkins. Frank Deford. S.L. Price. Gary Smith. Tim Layden. And so very many more.
Later, when I left for college, my mom gave me my own subscription to Sports Illustrated as a Christmas gift. And she kept giving that Christmas gift to me, year after year, until she died eight months ago.
So many times over the years, we compared notes on that week's Sports Illustrated. Did you see the article by Gary Smith on . . . ? And on and on and on it went.
No questions, I inherited my love of sports - and Sports Illustrated - from my mom. Now, she's gone and for all intents and purposes, after yesterday, Sports Illustrated is gone, too. Half of the staff laid off as an internet publisher from Seattle - Maven - takes over. Bloggers and contract writers will replace staffers. More video, less written content.
Like everyone else in the magazine industry, Sports Illustrated has been on life support for a few years. Writers have departed. Bi-weekly issues, at best. Now this.
I hate that my boys and I won't have Sport Illustrated to bond over in the years to come. I hate that we won't share that experience the way my mom and I did. I miss my mom terribly and I will miss Sports Illustrated, too.
My mom would have been sad about the demise of Sports Illustrated. I know I am.
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
Where's My Popsicle?
(Tuesday morning at Crema on Hermitage Ave near downtown, gazing out at the giant Peabody Plaza project across the street)
Sunday afternoon, I took J.P. to a soccer game in Bellevue. It was ghastly hot for the end of September. 95 degrees. Three degrees off the record of 98 in 1953. Ridiculous.
Because it was so hot, we stopped at Las Paletas in 12South and I bought 20 popsicles for his teammates and siblings. Roughly 80 dollars worth of popsicles in the end, which I packed in ice in a cooler.
As luck would have it, J.P.'s game against a TSC (Tennessee Soccer Club) team was moved to field 20, which is the farthest field from the parking lot. As a result, my friend, Giles, and I had to lug the tent I brought for the team and the cooler through the grass, across several soccer fields, to field 20. Giles and I set the tent up for the players and I carried the cooler to a shady area across the field, where the parents were sitting to watch the game.
After watching five minutes of the game and seeing how well the TSC team passed the ball - J.P.'s team does not pass the ball well, not at all - I knew exactly how the game would go. J.P.'s team would keep it tight in the first half and TSC would wear them down and pull away in the second half and beat them soundly. Sure enough, the score at the end of the first half was 0 - 0. The final score was 5 - 0, in favor of TSC.
It was a frustrating game for the boys to play and for the parents to watch. The boys were hot and tired. Worn out, really, and down. Perfect, I thought, I'll cheer them up with Las Paletas' popsicles. What could be better, right?
I retrieved the cooler and walked across the soccer field. I handed a freezer bag to Giles and I grabbed one and we preceded to hand out the popsicles to the boys. And this is where, for me, things took a turn.
Not a single boy thanked me (or Giles, that I could see) for the popsicles. Coach Gordon did. The siblings' parents I gave popsicles to were demonstratively appreciative, as were the parents to whom I gave the popsicles I had left. But not the boys, J.P.'s teammates.
And that really chapped my ass.
One of my greatest fears, as a father, is that my boys are growing up with a sense of entitlement. They sit on the glass at 16 of the Predators' games. They sit on the third row, almost dead center court, at Belmont University basketball games. They sit in the club section at Titans' games. They play on multiple sports teams although, with the exception of J.P.'s soccer team, we've avoided travel sports for the most part. They have all the sports equipment they possibly could want.
Last but certainly not least, J.P., Joe and all of J.P.'s teammates attend one of the two most prestigious, academically challenging private schools in town, University School Nashville. It's not cheap and it gets more expensive every year. For Jude and me, paying for private school is not easy, and I know that's the case for some of J.P.'s teammates' parents, too.
What I don't think I see enough - from my boys and from the other boys, too - is a sense of gratitude and appreciation for what we do, as parents, and for how hard we work to provide them with the life they have.
Whose fault is that? Ours? Maybe. Maybe we, as parents, give them too much. Maybe we don't make things hard enough for them. Maybe there's no struggle. No failure. No adversity. Nothing to prepare them for how hard and callous life can and will be at times, when they're adults.
The thought of my boys being soft and unprepared for the rigors and struggles of life terrifies me.
How do we, as parents, get the message across to these boys? That they have to work hard, always, and that nothing in life is free or comes without a cost.
And how do we teach them to appreciate what they have, what their parents are providing for them? How do we teach them that not everyone has what they have?
I struggle with that every single day.
Sunday night, I remarked to Jude, perhaps unfairly, that all of our boys' - all of these private schools boys' - approaches to life could be summed up in one phrase.
Where's my popsicle?
Sunday afternoon, I took J.P. to a soccer game in Bellevue. It was ghastly hot for the end of September. 95 degrees. Three degrees off the record of 98 in 1953. Ridiculous.
Because it was so hot, we stopped at Las Paletas in 12South and I bought 20 popsicles for his teammates and siblings. Roughly 80 dollars worth of popsicles in the end, which I packed in ice in a cooler.
As luck would have it, J.P.'s game against a TSC (Tennessee Soccer Club) team was moved to field 20, which is the farthest field from the parking lot. As a result, my friend, Giles, and I had to lug the tent I brought for the team and the cooler through the grass, across several soccer fields, to field 20. Giles and I set the tent up for the players and I carried the cooler to a shady area across the field, where the parents were sitting to watch the game.
After watching five minutes of the game and seeing how well the TSC team passed the ball - J.P.'s team does not pass the ball well, not at all - I knew exactly how the game would go. J.P.'s team would keep it tight in the first half and TSC would wear them down and pull away in the second half and beat them soundly. Sure enough, the score at the end of the first half was 0 - 0. The final score was 5 - 0, in favor of TSC.
It was a frustrating game for the boys to play and for the parents to watch. The boys were hot and tired. Worn out, really, and down. Perfect, I thought, I'll cheer them up with Las Paletas' popsicles. What could be better, right?
I retrieved the cooler and walked across the soccer field. I handed a freezer bag to Giles and I grabbed one and we preceded to hand out the popsicles to the boys. And this is where, for me, things took a turn.
Not a single boy thanked me (or Giles, that I could see) for the popsicles. Coach Gordon did. The siblings' parents I gave popsicles to were demonstratively appreciative, as were the parents to whom I gave the popsicles I had left. But not the boys, J.P.'s teammates.
And that really chapped my ass.
One of my greatest fears, as a father, is that my boys are growing up with a sense of entitlement. They sit on the glass at 16 of the Predators' games. They sit on the third row, almost dead center court, at Belmont University basketball games. They sit in the club section at Titans' games. They play on multiple sports teams although, with the exception of J.P.'s soccer team, we've avoided travel sports for the most part. They have all the sports equipment they possibly could want.
Last but certainly not least, J.P., Joe and all of J.P.'s teammates attend one of the two most prestigious, academically challenging private schools in town, University School Nashville. It's not cheap and it gets more expensive every year. For Jude and me, paying for private school is not easy, and I know that's the case for some of J.P.'s teammates' parents, too.
What I don't think I see enough - from my boys and from the other boys, too - is a sense of gratitude and appreciation for what we do, as parents, and for how hard we work to provide them with the life they have.
Whose fault is that? Ours? Maybe. Maybe we, as parents, give them too much. Maybe we don't make things hard enough for them. Maybe there's no struggle. No failure. No adversity. Nothing to prepare them for how hard and callous life can and will be at times, when they're adults.
The thought of my boys being soft and unprepared for the rigors and struggles of life terrifies me.
How do we, as parents, get the message across to these boys? That they have to work hard, always, and that nothing in life is free or comes without a cost.
And how do we teach them to appreciate what they have, what their parents are providing for them? How do we teach them that not everyone has what they have?
I struggle with that every single day.
Sunday night, I remarked to Jude, perhaps unfairly, that all of our boys' - all of these private schools boys' - approaches to life could be summed up in one phrase.
Where's my popsicle?
Thursday, September 26, 2019
The Junior Dodgers Find Their Way
Last Saturday, the Junior Dodgers won 8 - 0 on field 2 at Warner Parks. It was the third game of a fall Saturday gauntlet for our family that began with J.P.'s baseball game at 11 a.m., then soccer for Joe at 2:15 p.m., immediately followed by the Joe's Junior Dodgers' game. Just another typical fall Saturday for us.
While the other team wasn't very good, it wasn't because of a lack of experience. They were the same age as our boys or maybe a little older, because we have a couple of younger boys. However, all of our boys hit the ball well. Joe made a nice play on a group ball at second base and threw the runner out at first base. He's got a hell of an arm, by far the strongest and most accurate on the team. That of course, makes me happy.
What was really cool, though, is that a few parents commented during or after the game that the boys "were starting to look like a real baseball team." And they are.
It's a funny thing with seven year old boys playing baseball. Suddenly, they just start to get it and I think that is what's happening now. You can see some - certainly, not all - of the boys starting to get it, to think about where to throw the ball, for example, before a pitch when there are men on base. Yes, some pick it up more quickly than others - like Joe, who probably could coach the team - but all of them are starting to think about situational baseball.
What I want, at seven, is for the boys to begin to know the right baseball play to make, even if they can't actually execute the play. All while having fun, of course.
Moving the boys up early, last fall, to the Rookie (machine pitch) league, as six year olds, has worked wonders for them, as I knew it would. We did the same thing with J.P.'s group and it paid off. Letting them struggle to hit off the machine last fall better prepared them for this past spring, this fall and for a big upcoming spring. That's exciting.
It's so hard to remember when the Dodgers - J.P.'s boys - were this age. It seems as if they've been playing sound fundamental baseball forever, or trying to (most of them, anyway). I know that's not the case. It's so much fun, though, to see the Junior Dodgers starting to pick things up and play like a real baseball team. Long way to go, sure, but they've come such a long way, too.
At practice Sunday, I looked round at one point and saw Brian working with the boys in right field (throwing them pop flies), Brad working with the boys in left field (soft tossing heavy balls) and Courtney pitching batting practice while sitting on a bucket.
I smiled to myself and thought of Chris Taylor, Randy Kleinstick and Tony Weeks and how much time we've spent with the older boys - the Dodgers - on baseball fields over the past 6 + years. In that moment, I thought about how special those times have been and how much I've enjoyed it, spending time with those men - my friends - and with their sons and my son, J.P. It's a unique group, for sure.
And I thought maybe, just maybe, the Junior Dodgers - players, coaches and families - is staring to coalesce into a unique and special group, too.
I know this for sure, though. There's a lot more baseball to come for the Joe and the Junior Dodgers over the next 4 or 5 years. I can't wait to be a part of it.
While the other team wasn't very good, it wasn't because of a lack of experience. They were the same age as our boys or maybe a little older, because we have a couple of younger boys. However, all of our boys hit the ball well. Joe made a nice play on a group ball at second base and threw the runner out at first base. He's got a hell of an arm, by far the strongest and most accurate on the team. That of course, makes me happy.
What was really cool, though, is that a few parents commented during or after the game that the boys "were starting to look like a real baseball team." And they are.
It's a funny thing with seven year old boys playing baseball. Suddenly, they just start to get it and I think that is what's happening now. You can see some - certainly, not all - of the boys starting to get it, to think about where to throw the ball, for example, before a pitch when there are men on base. Yes, some pick it up more quickly than others - like Joe, who probably could coach the team - but all of them are starting to think about situational baseball.
What I want, at seven, is for the boys to begin to know the right baseball play to make, even if they can't actually execute the play. All while having fun, of course.
Moving the boys up early, last fall, to the Rookie (machine pitch) league, as six year olds, has worked wonders for them, as I knew it would. We did the same thing with J.P.'s group and it paid off. Letting them struggle to hit off the machine last fall better prepared them for this past spring, this fall and for a big upcoming spring. That's exciting.
It's so hard to remember when the Dodgers - J.P.'s boys - were this age. It seems as if they've been playing sound fundamental baseball forever, or trying to (most of them, anyway). I know that's not the case. It's so much fun, though, to see the Junior Dodgers starting to pick things up and play like a real baseball team. Long way to go, sure, but they've come such a long way, too.
At practice Sunday, I looked round at one point and saw Brian working with the boys in right field (throwing them pop flies), Brad working with the boys in left field (soft tossing heavy balls) and Courtney pitching batting practice while sitting on a bucket.
I smiled to myself and thought of Chris Taylor, Randy Kleinstick and Tony Weeks and how much time we've spent with the older boys - the Dodgers - on baseball fields over the past 6 + years. In that moment, I thought about how special those times have been and how much I've enjoyed it, spending time with those men - my friends - and with their sons and my son, J.P. It's a unique group, for sure.
And I thought maybe, just maybe, the Junior Dodgers - players, coaches and families - is staring to coalesce into a unique and special group, too.
I know this for sure, though. There's a lot more baseball to come for the Joe and the Junior Dodgers over the next 4 or 5 years. I can't wait to be a part of it.
Wednesday, September 25, 2019
Comparing Notes with a Fellow Traveler
I picked up a couple of suits yesterday that had ordered from a clothier I've frequented, off an on, for years. I've been an active customer the last several months in part because I needed new suits and in part because my older suits are all too big for me now. Way too big, which is a nice problem to have, I guess.
There's a salesman there - Michael - who was an acquaintance but has become a friend. His mother, Dean, has been in the Courtyard at NHC Place, where my mom was the several months of her life. I got to know Dean a little bit because she was there when my mom was there and I often said hi to her, especially after I made the connection with Michael when I saw him there one day.
When I see him occasionally, we have these brief but intense conversations about, well, life. My mom and how much I miss her. His mother and how difficult her circumstances are right now. We talk about death, too. It's the other side of the same coin or so it seems.
Michael goes by to see his mother often, if not every morning, then pretty close to it. I get the sense that he doesn't have other family with whom to share the responsibility of caring for his mother. I think we connect so easily because he knows, really knows, that I understand exactly what he's going through with his mother. Not an approximately of what he's going through but exactly what he's going through.
As we talked yesterday, I was reminded of how much I enjoyed stopping by to see my mom, first at Maristone, and later at NHC Place (Aspen Arbor, then the Courtyard). I've written about this before, I know, but there was something about being there - being with her - that centered me and brought me an unabiding sense of peace.
In the middle of a busy work day or a busy weekend, it was nice to downshift to neutral and just sit with my mom for a little while. It's weird but when I was with her - on the inside (of Maristone, Aspen Arbor or the Courtyard) - the outside world receded. My every day concerns - personal and professional - disappeared, at least temporarily. I think that was one of my mom's last gifts to me, to provide me a place of respite, where I could sit quietly and, well, just "be" for a few minutes. I think she knew I needed that.
That's one of things I miss now, I think. The interludes of quiet and peacefulness, and the feeling that for those few minutes, I was where I was supposed to be doing what I was supposed to do. Spending time with my mom. It was intense, concentrated and focused and yet, it brought me peace and helped me recharge my batteries just a bit so I could find the energy to resume my place in my small part of the world, such as it is. Again, I miss that, a lot.
There was a time - in the relatively early days of my mom's stay at Maristone - when I often stopped by during my workday, in the early afternoon, after lunch. As my mom reclined in her chair in the two room apartment on the second floor, I stretched out on her couch in my suit, and napped off an on for 20 or 30 minutes. When I stirred, my mom would tell me to close my eyes and rest, that I was probably tired and needed a nap. She was right, as always.
It brought me great comfort to wake up, refreshed, and see he sitting in her chair watching me with voices from the television droning quietly in the background. I'd give her hug and a kiss, tell her goodbye, and head back to work.
In those days, her apartment was an oasis and a port in a storm for me. A safe harbor, in a way. I miss that and so much more about my mom.
I knew it then, sort of, and I know it now, too. Boy, do it know it now. Still, I forget it sometimes, which is human nature, I guess.
There's beauty everywhere. Sometimes you have to look a little harder to find it.
Even in the darkest days with my mom, there was beauty. And I miss that most of all.
There's a salesman there - Michael - who was an acquaintance but has become a friend. His mother, Dean, has been in the Courtyard at NHC Place, where my mom was the several months of her life. I got to know Dean a little bit because she was there when my mom was there and I often said hi to her, especially after I made the connection with Michael when I saw him there one day.
When I see him occasionally, we have these brief but intense conversations about, well, life. My mom and how much I miss her. His mother and how difficult her circumstances are right now. We talk about death, too. It's the other side of the same coin or so it seems.
Michael goes by to see his mother often, if not every morning, then pretty close to it. I get the sense that he doesn't have other family with whom to share the responsibility of caring for his mother. I think we connect so easily because he knows, really knows, that I understand exactly what he's going through with his mother. Not an approximately of what he's going through but exactly what he's going through.
As we talked yesterday, I was reminded of how much I enjoyed stopping by to see my mom, first at Maristone, and later at NHC Place (Aspen Arbor, then the Courtyard). I've written about this before, I know, but there was something about being there - being with her - that centered me and brought me an unabiding sense of peace.
In the middle of a busy work day or a busy weekend, it was nice to downshift to neutral and just sit with my mom for a little while. It's weird but when I was with her - on the inside (of Maristone, Aspen Arbor or the Courtyard) - the outside world receded. My every day concerns - personal and professional - disappeared, at least temporarily. I think that was one of my mom's last gifts to me, to provide me a place of respite, where I could sit quietly and, well, just "be" for a few minutes. I think she knew I needed that.
That's one of things I miss now, I think. The interludes of quiet and peacefulness, and the feeling that for those few minutes, I was where I was supposed to be doing what I was supposed to do. Spending time with my mom. It was intense, concentrated and focused and yet, it brought me peace and helped me recharge my batteries just a bit so I could find the energy to resume my place in my small part of the world, such as it is. Again, I miss that, a lot.
There was a time - in the relatively early days of my mom's stay at Maristone - when I often stopped by during my workday, in the early afternoon, after lunch. As my mom reclined in her chair in the two room apartment on the second floor, I stretched out on her couch in my suit, and napped off an on for 20 or 30 minutes. When I stirred, my mom would tell me to close my eyes and rest, that I was probably tired and needed a nap. She was right, as always.
It brought me great comfort to wake up, refreshed, and see he sitting in her chair watching me with voices from the television droning quietly in the background. I'd give her hug and a kiss, tell her goodbye, and head back to work.
In those days, her apartment was an oasis and a port in a storm for me. A safe harbor, in a way. I miss that and so much more about my mom.
I knew it then, sort of, and I know it now, too. Boy, do it know it now. Still, I forget it sometimes, which is human nature, I guess.
There's beauty everywhere. Sometimes you have to look a little harder to find it.
Even in the darkest days with my mom, there was beauty. And I miss that most of all.
Monday, September 16, 2019
The Cars
(Muletown Coffee - Columbia, TN)
It's Monday morning and I'm having a cup of coffee at Muletown Coffee on the Square in Columbia, TN, before a mediation. Mid-September and still dreadfully, unseasonably hot. High 90's again today. Awful.
On the drive down this morning, I listened to The Cars in honor of lead singer and frontman Ric Ocasek, who died yesterday at age 75. The Cars had a run from 1978 - 1990, which means they would for sure place a few songs on the soundtrack of my youth. Several, actually.
As I thought about it, The Cars might have been the quintessential (I love that word) '80's band. A bit new wave or punk but not too much so. Synthesizers. Big hair a new wave look, especially Ric Ocasek - at 6'4" he seemed like he was 6'7" because he was so skinny. Easily accessible sound. More pop than punk, really, with three and half minute songs with catchy hooks.
I played Heartbeat City, released by the band in 1984, a million times my senior hear of high school. I played it again this morning on my drive and reminisced about high school, the '80's, my mom, my friends, my 1966 Mustang and my 1983 Honda Civic 1500S (w/black tinted windows), Steve Jeroutek, spring break in Daytona Beach, a certain kind of innocence lost, youth, life and how it all passes by so quickly.
And it does.
R.I.P. Ric Ocasek
It's Monday morning and I'm having a cup of coffee at Muletown Coffee on the Square in Columbia, TN, before a mediation. Mid-September and still dreadfully, unseasonably hot. High 90's again today. Awful.
On the drive down this morning, I listened to The Cars in honor of lead singer and frontman Ric Ocasek, who died yesterday at age 75. The Cars had a run from 1978 - 1990, which means they would for sure place a few songs on the soundtrack of my youth. Several, actually.
As I thought about it, The Cars might have been the quintessential (I love that word) '80's band. A bit new wave or punk but not too much so. Synthesizers. Big hair a new wave look, especially Ric Ocasek - at 6'4" he seemed like he was 6'7" because he was so skinny. Easily accessible sound. More pop than punk, really, with three and half minute songs with catchy hooks.
I played Heartbeat City, released by the band in 1984, a million times my senior hear of high school. I played it again this morning on my drive and reminisced about high school, the '80's, my mom, my friends, my 1966 Mustang and my 1983 Honda Civic 1500S (w/black tinted windows), Steve Jeroutek, spring break in Daytona Beach, a certain kind of innocence lost, youth, life and how it all passes by so quickly.
And it does.
R.I.P. Ric Ocasek
Sunday, September 15, 2019
The Game of a Lifetime
Yesterday, during the Dodgers' 9-2 win over our longtime rival, the Dirtbags, I was reminded of why I love coaching baseball so much.
11 - 12 year old fall baseball is different from spring baseball. It's more laid back with a focus on development. It's a time to let players play different positions and bat at different places in the lineup.
The makeup of our team - the Dodgers - has changed, well, dramatically, for the first time this fall. That's a story for another day but when the dust settled, we had a roster of 10 players with only five or our original Dodgers. At this age - 11 - it seems that some boys begin to settle into other sports and some give up baseball. Some don't play fall baseball.
So, the Dodgers have a bit of a different look this fall and that's taken a little getting used to for me. We're also not as talented as we were when we fielded two rosters in the spring but it turns out that's okay, probably preferable, to me. That's all part of the other story I'll tell at some point.
Back to yesterday and the Dodgers' 9 a.m. game vs. the Dirtbags.
We have a player - Elijah - who joined us last spring from Bellevue. He's a big kid. Quite, respectful, very coachable. Sweet kid, like a teddy bear. He listens and is genuinely appreciative of all of the coaching he gets. He's a first basemen, for sure, but has the versatility to play other positions, especially in the outfield. He was a bit of a diamond in the rough last spring when he joined us but it was clear to me he had talent and was a baseball player, which is what I told him, often.
This summer, he worked really hard and attended a few baseball camps. Baseball is his thing which, of course, I absolutely love. And, again, I think he's got real talent.
At practice this fall, he's been ripping the ball in the batting cage. Hitting it harder and more consistently than maybe any player I've ever coached, in large part because he's so big and strong, and because he's worked hard to get better. I started telling him he was dangerous with the bat in his hand and that someone might call the authorities if he hit the ball in games as hard as he's been hitting it in the batting cage. I started calling him "Danger," and some of the other boys picked up on it, and he seems to like it.
Unfortunately, in our first game, Elijah's hitting in the cage didn't translate and he struck out twice and didn't make good contact with the ball. Yesterday, before our game as we were working in the batting cage, I suggested he stand a little closer to the plate. I'dl like to thing that what happened next, in the game, was due to the adjustment I suggested but it may have been coincidence. Who knows? Baseball is a funny game.
His first time up, in the second inning, there was one man on base. Elijah, a right-hander, absolutely crushed the first pitch he saw to dead center field. When it bounced, I initially thought he had hit a ground rule double but when he kept running, I realized he had hit the ball about 220 feet, over the fence in center field, for his first career home run. As he trotted around the bases, the other players poured out of the dugout to congratulate him. The smile on his face was mile wide as he rounded this and the players mobbed him at home plate.
What a moment. Watching a player hit his first home run - Wes did it last year - is a privilege. I still remember my first one - off Kevin Johnson - during a Sunday makeup game at Brentwood Civilian Park in my childhood neighborhood. A grand slam. My feet never touched the ground as I ran the bases.
The next time up, Elijah roped a single up the middle and knocked in another run. Then, even though he's the biggest and probably, the slowest boys on our team, got an amazing jump and stole second standing up. Why? Because he listened at practice Thursday night when we talked to the boys about getting secondary leads and practiced it on the base paths with a live ball. He listened and it paid off, which is so rewarding to see. Then, for good measure, he stole third base, sliding in under the tag.
Later, after getting on base yet again, he stole home on a passed ball. When I saw him take off as the ball got away from the catcher, I thought he was going to be out by a mile. But he hustled down the third base line and slid head first (!) into home. The umpire called him safe and the players in out dugout went wild. To see our biggest kid play that hard was inspirational to all of the boys and, frankly, to me.
Elijah caught a fly ball in left field and in the bottom of the sixth inning, he dove for and almost caught a sinking liner. A couple of batters later, the win was in the books.
I was - and am - so proud of Elijah. I identify with him a bit, I think, because he lost his father at a young age, like I did. He's a kid I keep an eye on and try to connect with and give a little extra attention to at practice. He listens, responds and is grateful for all of the coaching he gets. That's like I was when I was his age, as I soaked up all the instruction I got from Warren Gilley, my next door neighbor's dad and my baseball coach on at least two teams of my youth.
So, here's to Elijah and the day he had that I'll always remember - long after I'm done coaching baseball. I bet he remembers it, too.
11 - 12 year old fall baseball is different from spring baseball. It's more laid back with a focus on development. It's a time to let players play different positions and bat at different places in the lineup.
The makeup of our team - the Dodgers - has changed, well, dramatically, for the first time this fall. That's a story for another day but when the dust settled, we had a roster of 10 players with only five or our original Dodgers. At this age - 11 - it seems that some boys begin to settle into other sports and some give up baseball. Some don't play fall baseball.
So, the Dodgers have a bit of a different look this fall and that's taken a little getting used to for me. We're also not as talented as we were when we fielded two rosters in the spring but it turns out that's okay, probably preferable, to me. That's all part of the other story I'll tell at some point.
Back to yesterday and the Dodgers' 9 a.m. game vs. the Dirtbags.
We have a player - Elijah - who joined us last spring from Bellevue. He's a big kid. Quite, respectful, very coachable. Sweet kid, like a teddy bear. He listens and is genuinely appreciative of all of the coaching he gets. He's a first basemen, for sure, but has the versatility to play other positions, especially in the outfield. He was a bit of a diamond in the rough last spring when he joined us but it was clear to me he had talent and was a baseball player, which is what I told him, often.
This summer, he worked really hard and attended a few baseball camps. Baseball is his thing which, of course, I absolutely love. And, again, I think he's got real talent.
At practice this fall, he's been ripping the ball in the batting cage. Hitting it harder and more consistently than maybe any player I've ever coached, in large part because he's so big and strong, and because he's worked hard to get better. I started telling him he was dangerous with the bat in his hand and that someone might call the authorities if he hit the ball in games as hard as he's been hitting it in the batting cage. I started calling him "Danger," and some of the other boys picked up on it, and he seems to like it.
Unfortunately, in our first game, Elijah's hitting in the cage didn't translate and he struck out twice and didn't make good contact with the ball. Yesterday, before our game as we were working in the batting cage, I suggested he stand a little closer to the plate. I'dl like to thing that what happened next, in the game, was due to the adjustment I suggested but it may have been coincidence. Who knows? Baseball is a funny game.
His first time up, in the second inning, there was one man on base. Elijah, a right-hander, absolutely crushed the first pitch he saw to dead center field. When it bounced, I initially thought he had hit a ground rule double but when he kept running, I realized he had hit the ball about 220 feet, over the fence in center field, for his first career home run. As he trotted around the bases, the other players poured out of the dugout to congratulate him. The smile on his face was mile wide as he rounded this and the players mobbed him at home plate.
What a moment. Watching a player hit his first home run - Wes did it last year - is a privilege. I still remember my first one - off Kevin Johnson - during a Sunday makeup game at Brentwood Civilian Park in my childhood neighborhood. A grand slam. My feet never touched the ground as I ran the bases.
The next time up, Elijah roped a single up the middle and knocked in another run. Then, even though he's the biggest and probably, the slowest boys on our team, got an amazing jump and stole second standing up. Why? Because he listened at practice Thursday night when we talked to the boys about getting secondary leads and practiced it on the base paths with a live ball. He listened and it paid off, which is so rewarding to see. Then, for good measure, he stole third base, sliding in under the tag.
Later, after getting on base yet again, he stole home on a passed ball. When I saw him take off as the ball got away from the catcher, I thought he was going to be out by a mile. But he hustled down the third base line and slid head first (!) into home. The umpire called him safe and the players in out dugout went wild. To see our biggest kid play that hard was inspirational to all of the boys and, frankly, to me.
Elijah caught a fly ball in left field and in the bottom of the sixth inning, he dove for and almost caught a sinking liner. A couple of batters later, the win was in the books.
I was - and am - so proud of Elijah. I identify with him a bit, I think, because he lost his father at a young age, like I did. He's a kid I keep an eye on and try to connect with and give a little extra attention to at practice. He listens, responds and is grateful for all of the coaching he gets. That's like I was when I was his age, as I soaked up all the instruction I got from Warren Gilley, my next door neighbor's dad and my baseball coach on at least two teams of my youth.
So, here's to Elijah and the day he had that I'll always remember - long after I'm done coaching baseball. I bet he remembers it, too.
Friday, September 6, 2019
Running Man
In J.P.'s 5th grade P.E. class, the kids were allowed to pick an activity rather than participate in the regular class every day. Much to my surprise, J.P. picked cross country, which meant he would run a mile or so every day in class. Cool, I thought.
I missed his first cross county meet - at USN's River Campus - but was tickled to death when he finished 7th out of 35 or 40 5th and 6th grade boys. A couple of his soccer teammates finished ahead of him and another one of his buddies passed him at the end, which kind of pissed him off. Still, a great first cross country meet. He really wanted me to watch his next meet and, fortunately, I was able to get over there this past Tuesday and damn, am I glad I did.
Running is something I know and know well, of course, since I've been a serious runner for more than 30 years. I've run in a million road races of all shapes and sizes, a handful of trail races and a few marathons. I don't race as much these days but there was a time when in almost every race I ran, I tried to set a P.R. (personal record). At the very least, I was conscious of the time I wanted to run and more than willing to put my body through hell - runner's hell - to get the time I wanted. In short, I know what it's like to run and to race.
I arrived at the River Campus a half hour or so before the race and was able to talk briefly with J.P. as he warmed up with his USN teammates. It was deathly hot, at least 95 degrees. I thought about pulling J.P. aside and giving him some advice on running in the heat, running a negative split and finishing strong but I decided against it. He seemed focused before what would only be his second race. Better to let him run his race, future out what works and what doesn't and we could talk about it afterwards if he wanted to.
As I walked over to a good viewing spot in the early part of the course, I realized I was nervous. I've coached or watched J.P. play a thousand baseball, basketball or soccer games, and I don't think I've ever been nervous, for him or me. I think perhaps it's because I could identify with everything he was feeling - everything - as he stood at the starting line waiting for the starter to fire his pistol.
Suddenly, I heard the shot and the boys were off. USN, Oak Hill School and FRA. As the boys made the first turn and headed down a straight stretch toward me, I had my camera ready. J.P. was in the second group, in the top 10. He looked good and strong, as I snapped a few photos.
After J.P. passed by, I hurried across the parking lot to get a look at the boys as they approached the halfway point of the 1 1/2 mile race. I cheered for J.P. as he ran by, now in 5th or 6th place. I walked back across the parking lot to my first viewing spot and waited for what seemed like forever until, finally, the leaders came into view. A USN 6th grader - who is a stud - was in first, followed closely by a big Oak Hill boy. Next, came J.P.'s classmate, Abe, a tall, redheaded hockey player who is a surprisingly good runner, and another boy. A boy from another school was running just behind Abe.
All alone in 5th place was J.P., although a smaller boy from Oak Hill was about 10 yards behind him.
It's difficult for me to explain my emotions as I watched J.P. run. I was nervous. Proud. Excited. Anxious. It was intense, for me.
J.P. looked good. Very focused. I knew he was in pain because I've been right where he was, many times. And it was really, really hot.
After he ran by, I hustled across to the finish line. As J.P. made the final turn and ran down the straightaway toward the finish line, I could see the Oak Hill boy trying desperately to catch him. My heart was pounding - yes, pounding - as I yelled to J.P. to pick it up and finish strong.
And that's exactly what he did. He pulled away from the Oak Hill boy and finished the race in 5th place. He cut a little more than 30 seconds off his time in the previous race in much hotter conditions. Damn, I was - and am - so proud of him.
He was in obvious distress immediately after the race, so I walked over to him and put my arm around him. He leaned on me and told me he was in pain, that his stomach hurt. "I know, buddy," I said. "I know. Let's walk a bit and you'll feel better in a minute."
We walked together, J.P. leaning on me, two runners. One older, who has run many races and one younger, who had just run his second race. It was one of those snapshot moments that I'll remember for the rest of my life.
I asked him later that night - because I was curious - what he was thinking as he ran toward the end of the race. "I just didn't want anyone to pass me, Dad," he said. You're damn right, I thought.
I've watched J.P. close out baseball games on the pitching mound, striking out boys much bigger than him. I've seen him have walk off hits to win games and I've seen him make defensive plays at shortstop or second base to end games. I've seen him win a state tournament and the make the state tournament all-tournament game. I've seen J.P. take over soccer games with his aggressive and goal scoring. I've seen J.P. score baskets in basketball games and play good defense.
Still, I'm not sure I've ever been as proud of him as I was on Tuesday, watching him finish that cross country race in 5th place. It was amazing.
Running has been such a big part of my life for son long. It's part of who I am and what I do. I think and hope it always will be. So, to see him run - and compete - took my breath away. His focus. His determination. His perseverance. His courage.
I'll never forget it.
I missed his first cross county meet - at USN's River Campus - but was tickled to death when he finished 7th out of 35 or 40 5th and 6th grade boys. A couple of his soccer teammates finished ahead of him and another one of his buddies passed him at the end, which kind of pissed him off. Still, a great first cross country meet. He really wanted me to watch his next meet and, fortunately, I was able to get over there this past Tuesday and damn, am I glad I did.
Running is something I know and know well, of course, since I've been a serious runner for more than 30 years. I've run in a million road races of all shapes and sizes, a handful of trail races and a few marathons. I don't race as much these days but there was a time when in almost every race I ran, I tried to set a P.R. (personal record). At the very least, I was conscious of the time I wanted to run and more than willing to put my body through hell - runner's hell - to get the time I wanted. In short, I know what it's like to run and to race.
I arrived at the River Campus a half hour or so before the race and was able to talk briefly with J.P. as he warmed up with his USN teammates. It was deathly hot, at least 95 degrees. I thought about pulling J.P. aside and giving him some advice on running in the heat, running a negative split and finishing strong but I decided against it. He seemed focused before what would only be his second race. Better to let him run his race, future out what works and what doesn't and we could talk about it afterwards if he wanted to.
As I walked over to a good viewing spot in the early part of the course, I realized I was nervous. I've coached or watched J.P. play a thousand baseball, basketball or soccer games, and I don't think I've ever been nervous, for him or me. I think perhaps it's because I could identify with everything he was feeling - everything - as he stood at the starting line waiting for the starter to fire his pistol.
Suddenly, I heard the shot and the boys were off. USN, Oak Hill School and FRA. As the boys made the first turn and headed down a straight stretch toward me, I had my camera ready. J.P. was in the second group, in the top 10. He looked good and strong, as I snapped a few photos.
After J.P. passed by, I hurried across the parking lot to get a look at the boys as they approached the halfway point of the 1 1/2 mile race. I cheered for J.P. as he ran by, now in 5th or 6th place. I walked back across the parking lot to my first viewing spot and waited for what seemed like forever until, finally, the leaders came into view. A USN 6th grader - who is a stud - was in first, followed closely by a big Oak Hill boy. Next, came J.P.'s classmate, Abe, a tall, redheaded hockey player who is a surprisingly good runner, and another boy. A boy from another school was running just behind Abe.
All alone in 5th place was J.P., although a smaller boy from Oak Hill was about 10 yards behind him.
It's difficult for me to explain my emotions as I watched J.P. run. I was nervous. Proud. Excited. Anxious. It was intense, for me.
J.P. looked good. Very focused. I knew he was in pain because I've been right where he was, many times. And it was really, really hot.
After he ran by, I hustled across to the finish line. As J.P. made the final turn and ran down the straightaway toward the finish line, I could see the Oak Hill boy trying desperately to catch him. My heart was pounding - yes, pounding - as I yelled to J.P. to pick it up and finish strong.
And that's exactly what he did. He pulled away from the Oak Hill boy and finished the race in 5th place. He cut a little more than 30 seconds off his time in the previous race in much hotter conditions. Damn, I was - and am - so proud of him.
He was in obvious distress immediately after the race, so I walked over to him and put my arm around him. He leaned on me and told me he was in pain, that his stomach hurt. "I know, buddy," I said. "I know. Let's walk a bit and you'll feel better in a minute."
We walked together, J.P. leaning on me, two runners. One older, who has run many races and one younger, who had just run his second race. It was one of those snapshot moments that I'll remember for the rest of my life.
I asked him later that night - because I was curious - what he was thinking as he ran toward the end of the race. "I just didn't want anyone to pass me, Dad," he said. You're damn right, I thought.
I've watched J.P. close out baseball games on the pitching mound, striking out boys much bigger than him. I've seen him have walk off hits to win games and I've seen him make defensive plays at shortstop or second base to end games. I've seen him win a state tournament and the make the state tournament all-tournament game. I've seen J.P. take over soccer games with his aggressive and goal scoring. I've seen J.P. score baskets in basketball games and play good defense.
Still, I'm not sure I've ever been as proud of him as I was on Tuesday, watching him finish that cross country race in 5th place. It was amazing.
Running has been such a big part of my life for son long. It's part of who I am and what I do. I think and hope it always will be. So, to see him run - and compete - took my breath away. His focus. His determination. His perseverance. His courage.
I'll never forget it.
Saturday, August 31, 2019
Three Amigos
This weekend, Jude and the boys are in Charlotte to see her brother, James, and his wife (Megan) and their children.
One of my oldest and best friends, Doug B., is driving to Nashville and is going to stay with me. One of my other oldest and best friends, Mike M., is going to come up from Franklin. We're going to watch football today - probably in East Nashville - drink a lot of beer, and just spend time together. Tomorrow night, we've got reservations for dinner in Germantown.
The three of us had planned to go away for the weekend but we never put it all together. It was important to us to get together, in large part because we've all had a difficult year.
I lost my mom, of course. Doug had major back surgery. Mike lost his stepmother, who actually was in the Courtyard at NHC Place, where my mom was before she died. Also, Mike recently helped move his mom into a assisted living and memory care facility.
The three of us have been there for each other forever, or so it seems. Through a terrible car accident that took the life of Doug's mother when we were in high school, weddings, divorces, illnesses, struggles with our children and the deaths of our parents, we've supported each other. Sometimes, we drive each other crazy, but when life happens, we're together, the three of us.
So many happy times and good memories with these guys over, I guess, four decades. Crazy.
This weekend, we'll laugh. Boy, will we laugh. I think we'll reflect, too. And listen and give advice. We'll watch football. We'll drink beer together. Then, we'll laugh some more.
Recently, it occurred to me that perhaps a measure of success in a man's life is how many people he has in his circle who can make him laugh. I mean, really laugh. I have these two guys and, luckily, several others.
And that's a good thing. A special thing.
One of my oldest and best friends, Doug B., is driving to Nashville and is going to stay with me. One of my other oldest and best friends, Mike M., is going to come up from Franklin. We're going to watch football today - probably in East Nashville - drink a lot of beer, and just spend time together. Tomorrow night, we've got reservations for dinner in Germantown.
The three of us had planned to go away for the weekend but we never put it all together. It was important to us to get together, in large part because we've all had a difficult year.
I lost my mom, of course. Doug had major back surgery. Mike lost his stepmother, who actually was in the Courtyard at NHC Place, where my mom was before she died. Also, Mike recently helped move his mom into a assisted living and memory care facility.
The three of us have been there for each other forever, or so it seems. Through a terrible car accident that took the life of Doug's mother when we were in high school, weddings, divorces, illnesses, struggles with our children and the deaths of our parents, we've supported each other. Sometimes, we drive each other crazy, but when life happens, we're together, the three of us.
So many happy times and good memories with these guys over, I guess, four decades. Crazy.
This weekend, we'll laugh. Boy, will we laugh. I think we'll reflect, too. And listen and give advice. We'll watch football. We'll drink beer together. Then, we'll laugh some more.
Recently, it occurred to me that perhaps a measure of success in a man's life is how many people he has in his circle who can make him laugh. I mean, really laugh. I have these two guys and, luckily, several others.
And that's a good thing. A special thing.
Dreams, etc.
I had a dream about my mom a couple of nights ago.
Unfortunately, it was one of those dreams that's hard to remember with any detail or clarity after the fact. Maybe more will come to me later. I do know, however, that in my dream, my mom was happy and laughing.
I miss her terribly. It's not as bad when I'm covered up at work, like I have been lately, or when I'm on the go all weekend with the boys' baseball and soccer games. When things quiet down and aren't as hectic, though, even for a moment, my sadness is like a sudden, loud noise in an echo chamber. There's the sound, then the reverberations of the sound, all bouncing off each other and off the walls of the echo chamber. And it lasts for a while, gets quieter, then goes away. That's the only way I know how to describe it.
I have a little down time and, suddenly, I am hit with a sharp pang of grief. It recedes to a dull ache but continues to bounce around inside my head, my heart and, I guess, my soul for a little while until I get a grip on things or get busy again. It comes and goes, but when it comes, it comes suddenly and it comes hard.
It's been almost seven months, I know. Still, it's there. My professional life often drains my mental and emotional energy. Almost every day, I deal with people, couples and families in crisis. I try to solve their problems. When do I try to solve my problems? I don't know the answer to that one.
I worry about my extended family and how they're handling my mom's death and the other stressors in their lives. I worry about that a lot. Am I doing enough to help? Am I doing enough to support them? I hope so but I'm not sure.
One thing I have learned is that everyone handles grief - heavy, suffocating grief - differently. Why that is, I don't know, other than that we're all different people and none of us is wired the same. There's not a right or wrong way. Not a better way. Just your and my way, or so it seems to me.
I think there are objectively deleterious ways to process grief. Self-medicating with alcohol. Avoidance. Burying oneself in work - that sounds familiar to me. Withdrawing from family and friends.
Objectively positive ways exist, too. Counseling. Prayer. Sharing - that's probably a hard one for me. Self-help, I guess, through meditation or exercising. Running for me, of course, has been a godsend. An outlet for me.
I guess I'm a little worried that in trying to be stoic, in being present for others and in being busy professionally and personally, I may not have properly dealt with my grief. I don't think that's the case but it's hard to know.
I have questions but I don't have the answers. And that's frustrating to me.
How long will I feel this dull ache of sadness? Will it ever go away completely?
Is it normal to feel this way after seven months?
Will I ever stop missing my mom? Will I ever stop wishing I could talk to her or go see her, just one more time?
Maybe I know the answers but I wish I didn't.
Unfortunately, it was one of those dreams that's hard to remember with any detail or clarity after the fact. Maybe more will come to me later. I do know, however, that in my dream, my mom was happy and laughing.
I miss her terribly. It's not as bad when I'm covered up at work, like I have been lately, or when I'm on the go all weekend with the boys' baseball and soccer games. When things quiet down and aren't as hectic, though, even for a moment, my sadness is like a sudden, loud noise in an echo chamber. There's the sound, then the reverberations of the sound, all bouncing off each other and off the walls of the echo chamber. And it lasts for a while, gets quieter, then goes away. That's the only way I know how to describe it.
I have a little down time and, suddenly, I am hit with a sharp pang of grief. It recedes to a dull ache but continues to bounce around inside my head, my heart and, I guess, my soul for a little while until I get a grip on things or get busy again. It comes and goes, but when it comes, it comes suddenly and it comes hard.
It's been almost seven months, I know. Still, it's there. My professional life often drains my mental and emotional energy. Almost every day, I deal with people, couples and families in crisis. I try to solve their problems. When do I try to solve my problems? I don't know the answer to that one.
I worry about my extended family and how they're handling my mom's death and the other stressors in their lives. I worry about that a lot. Am I doing enough to help? Am I doing enough to support them? I hope so but I'm not sure.
One thing I have learned is that everyone handles grief - heavy, suffocating grief - differently. Why that is, I don't know, other than that we're all different people and none of us is wired the same. There's not a right or wrong way. Not a better way. Just your and my way, or so it seems to me.
I think there are objectively deleterious ways to process grief. Self-medicating with alcohol. Avoidance. Burying oneself in work - that sounds familiar to me. Withdrawing from family and friends.
Objectively positive ways exist, too. Counseling. Prayer. Sharing - that's probably a hard one for me. Self-help, I guess, through meditation or exercising. Running for me, of course, has been a godsend. An outlet for me.
I guess I'm a little worried that in trying to be stoic, in being present for others and in being busy professionally and personally, I may not have properly dealt with my grief. I don't think that's the case but it's hard to know.
I have questions but I don't have the answers. And that's frustrating to me.
How long will I feel this dull ache of sadness? Will it ever go away completely?
Is it normal to feel this way after seven months?
Will I ever stop missing my mom? Will I ever stop wishing I could talk to her or go see her, just one more time?
Maybe I know the answers but I wish I didn't.
Sunday, August 18, 2019
Santa Rosa Beach (2019) Wrap Up
(Forthy Monkey, 12south)
My week back at the office after my week out of the office, in Santa Rosa Beach, was jam packed. Work was busy, stressful, challenging, relentless and emotionally demanding. I grinded all week long and even had a mediation yesterday, on Saturday.
Today, a day of rest, sort of. Soccer for JP in Murfreesboro. Baseball practice for JP later in they day. Soccer practice for Joe. Divide and conquer for Jude and me.
I haven't had time until now to reflect, really, or write about our time in Santa Rosa Beach. The highlights, if you will. I've tried to post about our beach vacation every year and it's fun to go back and read the posts from past years and look at photographs.
Here goes.
My week back at the office after my week out of the office, in Santa Rosa Beach, was jam packed. Work was busy, stressful, challenging, relentless and emotionally demanding. I grinded all week long and even had a mediation yesterday, on Saturday.
Today, a day of rest, sort of. Soccer for JP in Murfreesboro. Baseball practice for JP later in they day. Soccer practice for Joe. Divide and conquer for Jude and me.
I haven't had time until now to reflect, really, or write about our time in Santa Rosa Beach. The highlights, if you will. I've tried to post about our beach vacation every year and it's fun to go back and read the posts from past years and look at photographs.
Here goes.
- Hooking up with the Allen's (Russ, Susanna, Ella, Cooper and cousin Tyler) might have been the best part of the trip for the boys. Monday, we went to their place at the WaterSound Beach Club at St. Joe, as we have in the past. We hung out at the pool all afternoon - resort style - and played Spike Ball. Then, we walked down to the ocean. That evening, dinner at Greyson Beer Brewpub, then Cooper came to our place for a sleepover.
- Tuesday morning, Jude and I took all of the boys to the beach. Cooper, JP and Joe played and played and played in the ocean, all morning long. It was windy, so the waves were uncharacteristically big for the Gulf, though not out of control. Cooper fits so well with our boys. It's almost like he's the middle brother. He plays with JP and he plays with Joe and they both love him dearly. I met Susanna later in the afternoon at Sun Dog Books in Seaside, where I dropped Cooper off and picked up some books for JP and Joe. Cooper and I had a great talk on the way down about sports, baseball, soccer and life. As I've said and written before about the Allen's, it's so nice to have friends that fit.
- Tuesday afternoon or evening, Joe told Jude that the morning at the beach was his best day yet at the beach. "Actually," he said, "it's my best day ever at the beach." That made Jude and me smile.
- The waves, especially the first few days. The weather was a bit iffy, but we got to the beach every day. The boys loved - and I mean loved - the ocean. We couldn't get them out of it. We played with the Waboba ball and made up some games but mostly they just wanted to be in the waves. It made me want to take them, soon, to a beach on the Atlantic side or on the Pacific where there are actual, real waves they could body surf in. They would love that.
- Running on the Longleaf Greenway Trail. I'm so glad I found this trail several years ago. It's one street over from Old Florida Village and I love running on it, although it was very hot and humid even fairly early in the mornings.
- Ama Vida for coffee in Seaside. Good coffee and good coffee house, although Ama Vida (and several other merchants) changed locations at the town square in Seaside.
- Lunch with Jude and the boys at Bud and Alley's. JP was insistent he wanted to eat lunch there, like he and I had done two summers ago. It was worth it, for sure. JP loved his shrimp Po 'Boy.
- Lots of pool time in one of the two pools at Old Florida Village. It's a weird, nostalgic feeling to see JP and Joe swimming in the same pool we had them in when they were toddlers.
- Watching "All or Nothing: Manchester City" on Amazon Prime. It was almost as good as First Team Juventus on Netflix. So well made and such an interesting inside look at the Premier League and professional soccer in England and Europe. Yes, I'm watching documentary series about professional soccer. Crazy.
- Watching Joe devour Hardy Boys books. That's close to my heart, as I was a devoted Hardy Boys fan when I was his age. JP and I read a few of them together and Joe and I have, too, but Joe reads them on his own more than JP ever did. Joe is an amazing reader which makes me very, very happy.
- Reading Where the Crawdads Sing (Delia Owens) and Chances Are (Richard Russo). If Russo writes it, I read it. Both great books. Perfect beach reads. Chances Are hit home in some ways, as it involves 3 college friends reuniting for a weekend as they approach their mid-60's. Doug, Mike and I were planning Labor Day weekend together as I was reading it. Early 50's for us, so we're not that far off.
- The drive down and back was so much easier than it ever has been. One stop and JP didn't get car sick. We played the name game for hours with professional athletes. You know, JP says Russell Westbrooks, I say Willie Mays, JP says Marvin Hagler and so forth and so on. Mostly, I played against Jude, JP and Joe. At one point, Jude slid in Boris Yeltsin (and meant Boris Becker) and didn't catch it at first. When she said Boris Becker a few minutes later, I busted her and she got tickled. Jude doesn't laugh - I mean, really laugh uncontrollably very often - and it's a beautiful thing when it happens. Joe remarked about it to me later, about how funny it was to see her laughing like that. I couldn't agree more.
- The golf cart I rented. Top 10 vacation decision all time, in part because it kept my truck free from sand. We drove the golf cart to the beach and to dinner a few times. The boys loved it and JP loved driving it in the neighborhood.
- Throwing the baseball with JP one afternoon in one of the grassy overflow parking lots in Old Florida Village. Nothing beats playing catch with your son, for me, anyway.
- Watching the Dodgers rally for a win at Shunk Gulley Oyster Bar while we were eating dinner. Crazy game and crazy rally for a walk off win. The same thing happened while we were watching the Dodgers a couple of nights later. It's that kind of season for the Dodgers and the boys are way into it, as am I.
- Hanging with Jed at Blue Mountain Beach Creamery. We've known Jed since he opened the Creamery with his family a decade ago, at age 15 or 16. We've watched him grow up, year to year, one our visits. He's grown closer and closer to our family and we keep in touch in the offseason through Instagram. He lost his dad this year and I lost my mom and we visited about that a little bit. It's funny but seeing him is one of things our boys look forward to the most on our trips to Santa Rosa Beach.
That's about it, I think. Next summer, it looks like we're going to Oregon with Jude's college friends, which will be fun. We may try to get back to Santa Rosa Beach for fall break.
It had been a minute, as the kids say, and I had forgotten how much I love going to the beach.
Tuesday, August 6, 2019
Beached
(Ama Vida - Seaside, FL)
After a year off last summer to go to Zion National Park - a once a lifetime trip - I'm happy to be back in Santa Rosa Beach for our last week of summer vacation. I'd forgotten how much I missed this place, our summer home away from home, where we've vacationed almost annually for a decade.
We don't own a home, obviously, in Old Florida Village, but it feels like we do since we stay there every year. Another Happy Day, A Slice of Paradise, Good to Go, Cracker Jack and this year, Beach Gnome. All houses in Old Florida Village where we've stayed over the years. I probably left one or two out, too.
We've graduated, so to speak, from the early years with J.P., when we searched out a playground behind an elementary school on 30A near Elmo's (an early favorite restaurant). Now, it's as much beach time with the boys as we can handle, with pool time mixed into the schedule in the mornings. JP is bicycling on his own through Old Florida Village, which is really just a couple of small loops since the housing development is on the small side.
The cool thing, for now, is that the boys still want to hang out with us. I realize as I write this that soon enough - too soon, really - JP will want to be on his own, exploring, when we vacation here, as opposed to wanting to spend time with us. And in some ways that will break my heart, although I know that's how it's supposed to go.
This morning, at the beach, the boys (J.P. and his friend, Cooper) couldn't wait for me to get in the ocean with them, so they could go out a little father in rough surf. Then, we threw the Waboba ball back and forth, skimming it off the waves and trying to catch it before it bounced past us. That involved into a made up game we called "Nutshot." Use your imagination and you can figure out the point of the game. Actually, the real point of the game was laughing at each other, as we dodged the incoming Waboba ball.
I got a 5 mile trail run in yesterday morning not the Longleaf Pine trail, whose trailhead is right around the corner from Old Florida Village. I've been running that trail, out and back, for so many years. It was nice to get back out there yesterday, although my aching right foot afterwards was discouraging. Stress fracture? I hope not.
Joe and I slipped down to Seaside (where I am right now) Sunday morning for a cup of coffee - hot chocolate for Joe - at Ama Vida while Jude and J.P. walked on the beach and looked for shells. It was "Joe Time," just like the old days when he was still at Children's House and we had a hour or so together almost every morning. We picked up some donuts at 5 Daughters before we headed back to Santa Rose Beach.
The boys love the beach and so do I. Maybe it's the California blood in me, since I spent my early years going to the Pacific Ocean with some regularity before we moved back to Tennessee after my father's death. Being her relaxes me and I'd kind of forgotten that feeling.
Dinner at Shunk Gulley Oyster Bar, one of the new developments along our part of 30A in Santa Rosa Beach.
Ice cream at Blue Mountain Beach Creamery on Sunday night. Our friend, Jed, and his family own the Creamery and it's always great to see him.
Boys being boys in the pool at Old Florida Village.
After a year off last summer to go to Zion National Park - a once a lifetime trip - I'm happy to be back in Santa Rosa Beach for our last week of summer vacation. I'd forgotten how much I missed this place, our summer home away from home, where we've vacationed almost annually for a decade.
We don't own a home, obviously, in Old Florida Village, but it feels like we do since we stay there every year. Another Happy Day, A Slice of Paradise, Good to Go, Cracker Jack and this year, Beach Gnome. All houses in Old Florida Village where we've stayed over the years. I probably left one or two out, too.
We've graduated, so to speak, from the early years with J.P., when we searched out a playground behind an elementary school on 30A near Elmo's (an early favorite restaurant). Now, it's as much beach time with the boys as we can handle, with pool time mixed into the schedule in the mornings. JP is bicycling on his own through Old Florida Village, which is really just a couple of small loops since the housing development is on the small side.
The cool thing, for now, is that the boys still want to hang out with us. I realize as I write this that soon enough - too soon, really - JP will want to be on his own, exploring, when we vacation here, as opposed to wanting to spend time with us. And in some ways that will break my heart, although I know that's how it's supposed to go.
This morning, at the beach, the boys (J.P. and his friend, Cooper) couldn't wait for me to get in the ocean with them, so they could go out a little father in rough surf. Then, we threw the Waboba ball back and forth, skimming it off the waves and trying to catch it before it bounced past us. That involved into a made up game we called "Nutshot." Use your imagination and you can figure out the point of the game. Actually, the real point of the game was laughing at each other, as we dodged the incoming Waboba ball.
I got a 5 mile trail run in yesterday morning not the Longleaf Pine trail, whose trailhead is right around the corner from Old Florida Village. I've been running that trail, out and back, for so many years. It was nice to get back out there yesterday, although my aching right foot afterwards was discouraging. Stress fracture? I hope not.
Joe and I slipped down to Seaside (where I am right now) Sunday morning for a cup of coffee - hot chocolate for Joe - at Ama Vida while Jude and J.P. walked on the beach and looked for shells. It was "Joe Time," just like the old days when he was still at Children's House and we had a hour or so together almost every morning. We picked up some donuts at 5 Daughters before we headed back to Santa Rose Beach.
The boys love the beach and so do I. Maybe it's the California blood in me, since I spent my early years going to the Pacific Ocean with some regularity before we moved back to Tennessee after my father's death. Being her relaxes me and I'd kind of forgotten that feeling.
Dinner at Shunk Gulley Oyster Bar, one of the new developments along our part of 30A in Santa Rosa Beach.
Ice cream at Blue Mountain Beach Creamery on Sunday night. Our friend, Jed, and his family own the Creamery and it's always great to see him.
Boys being boys in the pool at Old Florida Village.
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