State Champs

This morning, in Lawrenceburg, my WNSL Dodgers beat Giles County 11-0 to win the 11U Cal Ripken State Championship.

As I sip a cup of coffee at Portland Brew, it's hard to get a handle on my emotions.  How do I feel?

Happy.  Relieved.  Nostalgic.  Contemplative.  Sad.  Excited.  Incomplete.  Proud.

Really, really proud.  Of J.P. and all of my players.

I thought about my mom a lot this weekend, especially after our games.  Damn, she would have enjoyed watching J.P. compete and she would have loved watching the games.  When we rallied on Friday night in game one to beat Giles County by scoring four runs in the bottom of the sixth inning, I couldn't help but think that somewhere in heaven, she was doing her "whooshes" and pacing nervously, cheering the boys on.

I felt the same way when we held on to beat Lawrenceburg, the house team, 11-10 last night in a game that had a little bit of everything.  I almost felt her presence.  I think somehow, some way, she was with me and with this team on its run to the State Championship.

I was the last one to leave the ballpark, so I took a minute to sit on a bench underneath a large tree between the fields and collect my thoughts.  My mom was on my mind and in my heart, for sure.  I said a prayer of thanks and I talked to my mom for just a minute.  Just a word or two.

I rode home alone which, in truth, was perfect for me because it game me time to reflect on what my boys had accomplished.  I longed to call my mom and talk to her about the tournament, the final game and the fact that J.P. was selected to the All Tournament Team.  Perhaps more than at any other time since she died, I wanted to share this moment with my mom.  I wanted her to help me put it in perspective.  I wanted her to listen to me break it all down.

This weekend, it's been a bit difficult for me to overcome a slight twinge of sadness, in the midst of the boys' success.  I've not been able to complete shake a sliver of regret that J.P. and I couldn't share this moment with my mom, especially because it would have meant so much to her.  My elation has been a bit muted, I think, for that reason.

Emotionally, it's been, I guess, the toughest five months of my life.  I've managed, for sure, because I've had to.  But it's been tough.  Ups and downs.

As I told the boys when we gathered together after the last out, after the trophy presentation and after photographs, coaching this team has helped me deal with my grief in ways that I can't completely explain.  Going all the way back to the beginning of the spring baseball season in April, being able to see and coach the boys in practices and games, during the regular season and postseason, has taken my mind off how much I miss my mom and how devastating her loss was and is to me.

There is so much behind the scenes stuff that goes into running these baseball teams.  Countless telephone conversations, e-mails and text messaging.  Lengthy and detailed discussions about topics that are - yes - trivial in the scheme of things but important in our little baseball world.  There are emotions to be managed - with 11 year old boys and with their parents.  Administratively, there are always ongoing conversations with our league about practice slots, games, player eligibility, etc.  There is practice time and game time.

Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, I love every minute of it.  I love the hard stuff and the easy stuff.  I love youth baseball and this is al part of it.

Most of all, I love the smiles on the boys' faces after a key hit, a good defensive play and after a win.  Especially after a State Championship that, in reality, was six years in the making.

Several of the boys on this Dodgers' team took their lumps in the postseason as six year olds, eight year olds (that was a rough postseason) and as ten year olds last year.

Today, though, they're the 2019 Cal Ripkin 11U State Champions.  The WNSL Dodgers.

Who knows?  This team, as constituted, may not play together again.  But for today and for all time,   they're State Champions.

Go Dodgers!

Coffee Talk

"Tell me what is it you plan to do with your one wild & precious life"

- Mary Oliver

That quote speaks to me.  I'm not sure why.  It's on a board by the register at Portland Brew in 12South and I see it every time I stop in for a cup of coffee, like this morning, before work.  I don't know Mary Oliver.  Maybe she is a poet or maybe she's just a regular customer.

Coffee shops are funny and interesting places.  There are a few I frequent regularly - Portland Brew and Honest Coffee Roasters - and others I visit occasionally.  If I go to one enough, I start to recognize the regulars.  Like the older, retired couple that just walked in to Portland Brew - they're psychologists or therapists, I think I overheard them say the other day.  

So many regulars from the old days at Bongo Java - my original home base coffee shop - Bob, Ms. Joyce (who I still see at Portland Brew) and Dave Cloud, the cult hero and underground musician that used to hold court in the afternoon on the front porch at Bongo Java before he died in 2015.  Some - like Ms. Joyce - became my friends.  Others I just nod to and smile on my way in or out.  Some odd balls, to be sure, like the heavyset, long-haired guy who sits at Bongo Java and writes in what appears to be a journal every day.

Here comes another regular at Portland Brew.  The bearded, balding man who dresses the same every day - khaki shorts and a short sleeve button down.  He's always reading library books or, perhaps, grading papers.  I'm guessing he's a professor of some sort but, really, I have no earthly idea.

Other times, when I go to a coffee shop enough, I see friends and we chat over a quick cup of coffee, like Courtney Little (Portland Brew) or Derek Hughey (Bongo Java).  It's always good to get caught up.      

It takes time for me but I tend to become friends with the baristas in my favorite coffee shops.  There's only one leftover at Bongo Java - Nick.  Abby at Creme (a former Bongo Java barista).  EJ, perhaps my all time favorite - at Red Bicycle in West Nashville.  Jacob and the crew at Honest Coffee Roasters are all awesome, although he recently left, along with several other baristas.  Josh and Grant Geersma at Frothy Monkey in 12South.  Always great people, there.  

Coffee shops, I guess, are like neighborhood bars, in many ways.

For me, I think, a coffee shop I frequent is an oasis.  A safe harbor.  A respite - just for a minute - before I begin a busy and often stressful day.  A place for me to recharge my batteries for the day.  A place for me to read, write or, sometimes, just think.  About everything or about nothing.

I spent a lot of mornings at Honest Coffee Roasters, sipping a cup of coffee, thinking about my mom when she was at NHC Place and later, after she died.  That place was a refuge for me, for sure.  Still is, really.  

From Bongo Java in the early days, when JP and, later, Joe, were infants and toddlers, to today, when I dropped both of them off for summer tennis camp at University School (with Jude out of town in Atlanta), at Portland Brew.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Hello In There

Last night, at Bonnaroo, I saw John Prine.  He's a national treasure at the age of 72 and one of my favorites.  Amazing lyricist and songwriter extraordinaire.  Very few can turn a phrase like John Prine.

To make sure I was up close, I laid my blanket down an hour before he was scheduled to play at 8:15 p.m. and settled in to wait.  I struck up a conversation with a young man from Maryland, who just finished his freshman year at Middle Tennessee State University.  Soon, a young lady and bluegrass aficionado - who plays and sings bluegrass when she's not working - joined in and we had a great time talking music.  T'hey seemed to enjoy educating me on why Post Malone and Childish Gambino are so popular.  It's one of the things I love the most about Bonnaroo - meeting happy, friendly people and talking with them about music for a bit.

As it approached showtime, the crowd thickened under at the That stage.  I rolled up my blanket and moved up closer to the stage, slight to the right of center about ten people deep.  Perfect vantage point.

John Prine walked out on stage much to the crowd's delight as everyone clapped and cheered for him.  As always, he was grinning, like he's in the joke.  In on every joke.  He seemed bemused, even surprised, at the intensity of the crowd's adulation.  Many people simply yelled "John Prine!  John Prine!" over and over again.

He played several songs off his latest album, "Tree of Forgiveness," which is a good one.  And, of course, Prine being Prine, he grinned the entire time he played.  Kelsey Waldon sang a duet with him, as did Brandy Carlisle.

There were tears in my eyes when he played "Hello in There," a song he wrote and released in 1971.  It's such a special song to me because of the subject matter and the lyrics.  Many, many times, on walks through the neighborhood after my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, I listened to that song and cried silent to myself.  I don't know for sure if a song can change your life - I think it can - but I think of "Hello in There" when I see and older person and try to make sure I stop and speak to him or her.

Here's a link to John Prine performing the song several years ago.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OVhA01J0Zsg

The last sone he played was one of my favorites, "Lake Marie."  Prine rollicked through an extended version of the song and ended by dropping his acoustic guitar in the middle of the stage, pointing at it and dancing around it.  He danced right of stage as the crowd roared.

Here's a link to a live version of "Lake Marie," coincidentally performed by Prine at Bonnaroo nine years ago in 2010.

He and the band even came back out and played on encore, which is rare at Bonnaroo.

The show was pure magic for me.  Probably my favorite show out of all of the shows I have seen at Bonnaroo over the past seven or eight years.

Running the Trails

It's a beautiful early morning on campus at Sewanee.  I'm at Stirling's Coffee House again, enjoying a cup of coffee before I head back to the cabin and get ready for Mike and Bill to arrive.  We're going to get an early start and, hopefully, get to Bonnaroo in time to see the Teskey Brothers.  That's the preliminary plan, anyway.

I had a fantastic 4 + mile trail run yesterday on part of Sewanee's Perimeter Trail.  Part of the trail I had run before - to Beckwith Point.  I call it the "Five Bridges Trail" because there are five small bridges to cross as the trial winds down and up to Beckwith Point.  It's a tough run because there are so many uphill and downhill parts and because there are a lot of exposed roots and rocks.  I like that, though, because it requires me to engage my mind in the physical act of running as opposed to just letting my mind wander.  That's a different approach to running - for me, anyway - and it's a nice change from running the streets of my neighborhood.

The view at Beckwith's Point is nice, although you have to clamber across a formation of boulders to get to the edge and really enjoy it.  It's a peaceful spot and when we're here with the Allen's for the week of July 4, I might suggest we hike there and have a picnic.

I continued on the trail from Beckwith Point to Green's View, a relatively short section of the trail I had never run before.  The trail wound around the edge of the golf course before opening up into a large clearing with a spectacular view.  Well worth the extra half mile or so.

The run back to the trailhead was tough but satisfying.  The music playing on my favorite playlist - "the Haunting," a collection of 50 + songs that stay with me - kept me going.

There's just something about trail running that speaks to me in a different way.  I've felt that from the time I ran the Wild Thang 10-mile Trail Race at Long Hunter State Park, my first ever trail run to now.

Now, time for some music.

  

Back on the Mountain

It's here and I'm here, on the Mountain.  

Bonnaroo 2019 and a weekend I've pointed toward, mentally and especially emotionally, for almost six months.  I've needed this weekend like I never have before.  A chance to get away, to reflect about what has been lost and how my life has since I was here last year.

The Mountain - and include within it Sewanee - is a magical place for me.  I love it here.  There's something about it that relaxes my soul.  It centers me and it recharges my batteries.  And, most importantly, something about being here heals me and that's something I need after my mother's death.

It's still strange, somehow, to type those words.  I vividly remember how much grief she gave me the first time I came to Bonnaroo for the weekend, seven or eight years ago.  She worried about me, as she always did.  She didn't understand Bonnaroo or why I wanted to be here, to stay in Paul's cabin, alone for the first couple of days, then with my friends.  She didn't understand why I wanted - no, needed - to spend three or four leisure days listening to music at the Farm with thousands and thousands of people.  

Over time, I think, she came to understand that in the middle of my busy family life and a sometimes stressful professional life, I need a long weekend away to find myself again.  I needed time and a place to reset my compass and to find peace and quietude.  She still laughed about it and told me I was crazy to go to Bonnaroo, but she grew to understand how important it was for me to be here.

I miss my mom something fierce.  Still.  I don't talk about it as much, as I don't want to burden my family and friends with my grief.  She was my North Star.  I think about her every day, or almost every day.  I'm not sure that will ever end.  I'm not sure I want it to end.

It's manageable grief, for me, or at least that's what I tell myself.  She taught me to be strong, always.  Without question, the example she set for me - every day - of getting up, putting one foot on the floor followed by the other and taking care of business - is something I have relied on and continue to rely on as I find my way and learn to live, and to thrive, in a new and different world.  She faced so much adversity in her adult life, always with a smile on her face and an unshakeable sense of resolve.

My mom loved life and refused to dwell on the adversity she experienced.  She never complained, at least not to me.  She smiled, laughed and loved her family and her friends.  That's the lesson I try to learn, for sure, especially during difficult or stressful times.  It's what she would want me to do.

There will be moments while I'm here - like yesterday evening during a 4-mile run on the Mountain Goat trail as dusk fell or this morning, sitting on the front porch at Stirling's Coffee House on campus, sipping a cup of coffee in 63 degree weather - when my thoughts and memories of my mom almost overwhelm me.  But, then, I'll take a deep breath, look around and see - really see - the beauty all around me.  The train I'm running, the music I'm listening to and the laughter I'm sharing with my friends.

And I will be glad to be alive.

      

Seven Hills

A couple of years ago, some friends of ours invited us to go swimming on a Friday evening at Seven Hills Swim and Tennis Club.  When we walked in, it was like I'd entered a time machine and been transported back to the Brentwood Dolphin Club in the mid-1970's.

We spent so many lazy summer days at the Dolphin Club, swimming with friends, jumping off the diving boards and playing "green river," "gator" and baseball (with a tennis ball).  In my pre-teen and early teenage years, the Dolphin Club was my social circle all summer long.  In those days, the summers were endless and seemed to last forever.  Now, not so much.

My mom played tennis - always doubles - for the Dolphin Club for several years.  She often played with Donna Bethel, a peach of lady who later became a very successful realtor in Brentwood.  Donna died several years ago, long before I did some work for her son, Tommy.  Those were good ladies and good times.

Sadly, the Dolphin Club was sold several years ago to a developer.  It fell into a state of disrepair until very recently, when a building project of some sort finally began in earnest.  It was sad, really, to imagine so many memories of so many people disappearing as the remaining structures there were razed.  

I applied for a membership to Seven Hills last year and was wait listed.  Last winter, I reapplied and much to my delight, we got in.  We have several friends - most of our Dodgers' family, in fact - that belong to Seven Hills, as well.  I knew we'd love it and so far, we have.

Last Saturday evening, with Jude still laid up after eye surgery, I took the boys to Seven Hills for a quick swim and dinner.  We arrived a little after 6 p.m. and the pool wasn't crowded.  We swam for a bit, then ordered dinner from the Grill.  It had cooled off by the time we ate.  It was nice just sitting and talking with the boys, probably a lot like it was for my mom on those summer evenings when we were at the Dolphin Club with her so long ago.

After we ate, I watched Joe jump off the high dive for the first time ever.  He's fearless, much more so than J.P. was at that age.  I laughed every time he jumped off with a huge smile on his face.  Next, we played keep-a-way in the pool with the Waboba ball, the three of us hanging out, roughhousing and laughing together.  

It was close to a perfect summer Saturday evening.