Christmas 2021

Christmas has come and gone, again, in this strangest of years.  

Sipping my coffee at Barista Parlor Golden Sound on a cold Saturday morning, listening to music (Bon Iver, maybe) on their turntable, I feel a bit melancholy.  

With the pandemic raging and people dying in our city, and across the country, in record numbers, we hunkered down and stayed home for Christmas.  As much as I hate it, we decided not to get together with Jude's parents, because we didn't want to risk - somewhere - getting them sick.

I especially hate it because I know how much Christmas means to Jude's mom, Jane.  She reminds me, a lot, of my mom in that way, which made it all the harder to celebrate Christmas apart.  We made the best of a difficult situation, though and "Zoomed" with Jude's parents, on my laptop and Joe's iPad, while we opened presents.  It wasn't he same as having them at our house Christmas morning, as has been the case for more than a decade.

When is this all going to end?  Will things get back to normal?  

One of the many tragedies of the pandemic - and it's certainly not unique to our family - is that the time we've lost with Jude's parents, well, we won't ever get that back.  As I know firsthand, those times spent together are precious and to be treasured, for sure.  I don't like to think about all of the shares times, events, and occasions we've missed with Jim and Jane.  Sundays at St. Patrick's and, often times, lunch afterwards.  Birthday parties.  The boys' baseball and basketball games.  Holidays, like Christmas.

It seems unfair and it pissed me off that so many others, including several members of Jude's family, are traveling over the holidays, Covid-19 be damned, at putting others at risk, while we play by the rules and keep to ourselves.  I went to bed, I guess, angry about this and, later,  I dreamt I was arguing with visiting attorneys in my office who refused to wear a mask.  It's crazy how the pandemic permeates every waking, and sleeping, moment of our lives.

I can't help but wonder about the short-term and long-term effects of the pandemic on J.P. and Joe.  Thank God they're in school, in person.  At least they're around their friends - albeit distanced and wearing masks - every day.  Metro Nashville's students have been in school remotely all year long and they're not returning to in person learning anytime soon.  That's tragic for those children.  

So many families have pulled their children out of Metro Nashville public schools and enrolled them in private schools.  Metro Nashville public school already were struggling and things are likely to get worse with so many good families leaving.  

So, here I am, the day after Christmas, trying to figure it all out.  I'm enjoying the time off - God knows I need it - but I'm anxious about how bad it's going to get in Nashville, and everywhere, the next couple of months.  Worse than anyone imagines, I fear, particularly with all of the idiots ignoring the warnings from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) against traveling over the holidays.  There will be a big spike in cases - and deaths - in mid-January, I bet.  I don't think many people realize how bad it's going to get.  

Well, I guess, for me, it's been a blue Christmas.   

Crossing the Rubicon with J.P.

Jude and I are crossing the rubicon with J.P. this Christmas.

At long last and with more than a little trepidation, J.P. is going to get a cell phone.  I can't believe it.  My constant companion from so many walks in the stroller only yesterday is turning 13 years old in a few months and he's getting a cell phone.

He's getting a cell phone.  

How can that be possible?  

One of the few areas of child rearing that Jude and I are in compete agreement on is technology.  Even as the boys have grown older - 12 1/2 (J.P.) and 8 1/2 (Joe) - we've limited their time on the iPad to weekends only when school is in session, and then just 30 or 45 minutes in the morning when they wake up.  

Our approach is generally the same with the X-box.  During school, they might play for 30 minutes or an hour, on weekends, only sports games.  Madden.  NBA2K.  FIFA.  NHL.  No shooter games.  No Fortnite.  No Call of Duty.  Nothing violent.  And, there are strings attached to X-box play.

On weekend afternoons, the boys have 30 for 30 or 40 for 40.  30 or 40 minutes of reading and 30 or 40 minutes of X-box.

I'm not sure if that's the right approach but it's our approach.

Gradually, over the past year or so, most if not all of J.P.'s friends have gotten cell phones.  That, of course, doesn't influence Jude and me, one way or the other, and J.P. realizes that.  Pretty quickly, he stopped reminding us who had cell phones and who didn't.  Lately, he's seemed resigned to the fact that he's not likely to get a cell phone until his 13th birthday in March, at the earliest. 

What changed our minds?  

This fall, he started walking home from school with a friend or two from the neighborhood, and sometimes by himself.  It's not far, maybe a mile, but still.  Jude and I agreed that if he's going to walk home from school, he probably needs a cell phone in case there's a problem of some sort.

Also, J.P. stays home, by himself, more frequently, when Jude and I are running errands on weekends or taking Joe to a practice or birthday party.  Normally, Jude leaves her personal cell phone with him, in case he needs to use it.  That's not the most practical solution but it's worked for the most part. 

I'd thought about getting a house phone - a land line - something we haven't had in many years.  That seemed like an unnecessary expense, though, and I had visions of a barrage of telemarketing calls during dinner.  

I'm thinking about sitting down with Jude and drafting a contract for J.P. to sign, one that contains the conditions under which we will allow him to have a cell phone.  Surely, two lawyers could turn that kind of document around pretty quickly.  

To whom much is given, much is expected, or something like that.

Or, much like with Peter Parker, the Amazing Spiderman, with great power comes great responsibility.

A friend of mine - someone I see when I get coffee every morning at Honest Coffee Roasters - briefly showed me how he monitors and controls his daughter's cell phone usage through his Apple account.  He can block particular apps or websites - like Instagram or Facebook - and he can control the hours she uses it and, I think, when she uses it.  I'm going to have to bone up on that, for sure.

I think J.P. is ready for a cell phone of his own.  I'm not sure I'm ready for J.P. to have a cell phone of his own, though.  He's a responsible, obedient kid.  He wants to please us and make us proud.  I don't think he'll misuse it or allow it to assume to prominent a place in his life.  At least, I hope he won't.

That's the thing, it all happens so fast.  One day, J.P. is a toddler, 3 or 4 years old, not a care in the world.  And, the next day, he's getting his first cell phone.  It's crazy, when you think about it.

1000 Miles in 2020

It's beautiful outside this morning.  Brilliant sunshine.  Bright blue skies.  No wind.  A perfect mid-December morning.

A perfect day, really, for me to run my 1000th mile for 2020.  Which is precisely what I did as I ran down Fairfax Avenue, toward home, this morning.  The third mile of a four mile run gave me 1,000 miles for the year.  

I've run 1,000 miles in a year before but not in a while.  I came across a photo from 2010 a few weeks ago, taken at Shelby Bottoms with me holding a sign that said "1,000 in 2010!"  I remember that morning, well, in fact.  I drank an ice cold New Castle beer in the parking let, then met Carley Meade and J.P. for lunch in East Nashville at Battered and Fried after my run.  J.P. wasn't even three years old.

I'm sure I called my mom that morning and told her I'd hit the 1,000 mile mark.  

Now, a decade letter, J.P. turns thirteen in three months and is about to get his first cell phone for Christmas, although he doesn't know that.

And my mom and Carley are gone, which in many ways still is so hard for me to believe.  I miss them both so much.

On many of my runs this year - as the miles passed - I thought of my mom an Carley.  So many times, in the solitude of my runs, or as I walked to cool down afterwards, one or both of them was in my heart and on my mind.

I joked, often, in the past year that I was going to outrun Covid-19.  In reality, though, I ran scared.  Scared I was going to catch the virus, or that it would catch me.  I wanted to be in the best shape I could be in just in case I got the virus, hoping that, somehow, there would be less of a chance I would die if I was running a lot.

I also thought, perhaps foolishly or perhaps not, that if I was running a lot, I would immediately know if I had Covid-19, because if I struggled with my breathing during a run or had a bad run, I would know I was sick.  When I'm running a lot, in general, I'm in touch with my body and aware of how I feel.  I noice the smallest muscle aches, heavy legs, or breathing issues.  Yes, that's paranoia, but to me, there's some logic to that line of thinking, too.

I ran, for sure, to keep my sanity during what was probably the strangest year of my life.  The pandemic.  The shut down of the economy last spring.  The presidential campaign.  Trump's madness before and after the election.  The election.  

The pandemic.  Always, the pandemic.  Especially today, the pandemic rages.  Twice as many people in Tennessee are testing positive on a daily basis as last spring, when the economy was shut down.  And, still, we soldier on, foolishly in many cases.  Waiting desperately for the vaccine to reach us.  

The past few weeks, I've been scared I would get the virus with less than 100 miles left and not be able to hit 1,000 miles for the year.  Sure, what I really was afraid of was getting the virus and dying, but, in my mind, I convinced myself I only was afraid of how getting the virus would affect my running. 

I ran 1,000 miles for so many reasons.   

I ran to feel better about myself.  I ran to reach a goal.  I ran to stay young, for my boys and for me.  I ran out of vanity.  I ran to say healthy.  

I ran because I am obsessive about running.  I ran because I am disciplined about running.

I ran because I am a runner.  I ran because it's what I do.  I ran because at my core, it's the very essence of who I am.  I ran because it's what I've done for 30 years.  

I ran to feel closer to God.  I ran to honor God.  I ran because God has blessed me with the ability to run and to waste that ability, that talent, would be, for me, one of the worst kind of sins.    

I ran because it makes me feel alive.  I ran to meditate.  I ran to clear my head.  I ran to think.  I ran to try, often in vain, to understand.  I ran to celebrate life.  

I ran to deal with grief and sadness that overwhelmed me and almost brought me to my knees, as I visited Carley and her family at Alive Hospice.  I ran in tears when Carley died. 

I ran because I missed my mom.  

I ran because I wanted, and needed, to be by myself.  I ran because I needed to unplug and unwind.  I ran because I needed to blow off steam.    

I ran because J.P. wanted to run with me and because I wanted to run with him.  I ran because, when I die, I'll never forget those spring and summer runs with J.P., my heart filled with pride and love to run through the neighborhood, or in Sewanee, with my son running beside me.

I ran for all of those reasons and for so many more.  I'm a runner.

I'm so thankful to have been healthy in 2020.  There were only a handful of occasions when my back was hurting or I otherwise didn't feel well enough to run.  That's a huge blessing.  

1,000 miles in 2020, at age 54.  Not bad for an old man.

 

The Innocence of a Child

It's early on a rainy Saturday morning and I'm sitting, alone, in Barista Parlor Golden Sound on Division Street, having a quiet cup of coffee.  One couple beat me here this morning but they quickly departed after getting their coffee to go.  The coffee shop - a cool one, for sure - is decorated for Christmas.  In fact, Christmas music is playing on the turntable in one corner.  In another corner, there's a small Christmas tree next to the ever present motorcycle.  

It's peaceful in here, which matches my mood this morning.  And, damn, the coffee at Barista Parlor is always good.

I've been thinking a lot about Joe lately.  He's at such a great age, 8 1/2.  There's still an innocence about him, which fills my heart and mind with a joyful wonderment, particularly since we're in the middle of the worst pandemic in modern history and facing a two or three month stretch this winter when things are going to get worse and worse.  

When I picked him up from school earlier this week, Joe was excited when I asked if he wanted to ride in the front seat for our 1 mile + trip back to the house.  His eyes lit up as he said "Yes!" and I'm certain he was smiling behind his tie dyed mask as he threw his heavy laden backpack in the back seat and climbed into the front seat on the passenger side of my truck.  

Joe didn't think to remove his mask as he excitedly began to tell me about his day.  It occurred to me how adaptable children are - and how adaptable Joe is - as he chattered away seemingly unaware he was wearing a mask.  It made me a little sad, too, as I thought about how much has changed in our world in the past nine months, with the pandemic raging.

As we pulled out of the University School parking garage, I asked Joe if he wanted to go to the Belmont - TSU basketball game.  His eyes widened as he looked at me.  "Really?" he asked.  "Sure," I replied.  He shouted "YES!!" and began pumping his fists excitedly.  

"How about we pick up Chago's for dinner?"  I asked.  "Really?" he asked, again.  "Yeah," I said.  "YES!!" he shouted, again pumping his fists.  

I thought in the moment and again, later, how special it is that even still, such small things can make Joe happy.  I wish I could keep it that way for a few more years.  He has such a goodness about him.  It's blissful and it's innocent.  And it's so pure.  

Joe does this thing that I love, when I call his name to ask him to do something.  If I call out his name when he's in another room, he always answers "Yes?" in this melodious tone of voice.  

It's hard to describe but that one word - "Yes?" - and the way he answers me when I call for him encapsulates all of the innocence of youth and a life ahead of him replete with limitless possibilities.  

I've talked about "snapshot moments" before in this space and this is one for certain.  I wish I could preserve for all time one of those indelible moments so I could replay it, again and again, when Joe is older and life become more complicated and, yes, a little bit harder.  

This horrible pandemic has me, and all of us, on edge.  People are dying every day.  Three people in my office have tested positive for Covid-19 in past three weeks, one yesterday.  I just texted an attorney friend who has the virus and whose father-in-law is in intensive care and on a ventilator.  The next two or there months - the winter months - are going to be bad.  Really bad.     

Still, in the midst of it all, Joe continues to maintain his sense of innocence and naivete.  And it's a pure and beautiful thing to behold.

Up Here on the Mountain

I know I say it every time we're up here but, for me, there's just something special about being on the Mountain, especially when we're staying on Sewanee's campus.

Our day, today.

While Jude and the boys are finishing up breakfast - scrambled eggs, fruit, and assorted pastries I brought from Meridee's Bakery, two doors down from my office in Franklin - I left to go for a run.  I ran through campus and downtown Sewanee, such as it is, an on to the Trail of Tears greenway.  Out and back for a nice 6 mile run.  Straight from the house we're staying in on Tennessee Avenue.

Jude and the boys hiked Abbo's Alley and just as they finished, I met them at the Sewanee football field.  J.P. and Joe tackled the blocking dummies while Jude and I watched, laughing.  Then, we played two-on-two football, switching up teams with every play.  Family time on the football field.

Next, back to the house.  Jude and the boys played scrabble in front of the semi-roaring - ok, not roaring - gas fire in the fireplace.  I picked up a couple of Christmas gifts at the bookstore, then ate lunch at the house with Jude and the boys.

After lunch, Jude hiked to Bridal Veil Falls, while J.P., Joe, and I went to look around at the pro shop at the Sewanee golf course (where we bought a pullover to give Jude for Christmas that she saw there yesterday).  The boys and I drove over to the baseball field and threw, then took some infield.  While we were there, the Sewanee baseball coach ambled up.  He was happy to see someone using the filed and after tinning the boys a tip or two, he and I chatted for 15 - 20 minutes.  He invited us back anytime and asked me to e-mail him next time we were coming up, so he could show us the indoor baseball facilities.

The boys and I played Blitzball on the softball field for a few minutes, then drove home.  While Jude naps, they're doing "30 for 30" - 30 minutes of reading followed by 30 minutes of iPad time.

Later, we may play tennis, under the lights, on the Sewanee tennis courts, then have dinner at the Sewanee Inn.

There's always so much to do for us here, up on the Mountain.  It's barely more than an hour away from Nashville, but it seems like a world away.

This getaway was what we needed.  Really, I think it was what Jude needed, since she's been working from home since March.  When your home becomes your office, to get away you really need to get away.

Eight Miles of Pure Bliss on the Mountain

This morning, up here on "the Mountain," I had a damn near perfect run.

We're in Sewanee for the Thanksgiving holiday, renting a house on campus on Tennessee Avenue.

As I walked outside the house into a beautiful, brisk Thanksgivng morning - temperature in the high 40's - I turned on John Hiatt on Spotify.  No playlist, just random Hiatt songs.  It turned out to be the perfect choice, for my mood and for the run.  It was cool, on my run, to hear so many of the old Hiatt songs I haven't heard for so long.  

I was a big, big John Hiatt fan a couple of decades ago - still am, really.  Saw him live several times.  I even went to his house for a wedding a lifetime ago when my friend, Sarge, married Jennifer.  As I recall, Jennifer's aunt was married to John Hiatt.  

Great songwriter and, in my mind, similar to John Price.  Great sense of humor but poignancy in his songs, too.

I wasn't sure, exactly, where I wanted to run.  I ran down to the intersection at the beginning of "downtown" Sewanee, by The Blue Chair and Shenanigan's and turned right, looking for the Trail of Tears greenway.  

What I found, instead, was a gravel road marked "private," with a purple (Sewanee's color) barrier blocking entry.  Like any good trail runner, I ran around the barrier and decided to see where the road would take me.  Boy, was I glad I did.

The gravel road narrowed pretty quickly into a large path completed covered in fallen leaves.  Orange, yellow, and red.  It was like running on a multi-colored, carpet of leaves.  Beautiful.  I loved it.

There's something special about running a route for the first time, sometimes for the only time.  I feel more alive and in the moment.  

I felt strong and fast as I ran down the trail, marveling at the beauty all around me.  The sun was shining through the trees, which made the colors of the leaves even brighter.  To my surprise, I ran by a waterfall on my left.  

In the end, I ran about three miles or so out the trail, then turned back.  My run was eight miles in all.  Maybe the best eight miles I have run all year.

It was just one of those amazing and memorable runs, the kind I chase all year long.  Perfect weather.  Perfect music.  Perfect route. 

Perfect run.   

Missing Mom

The holidays are upon me, officially.  As I left the office this afternoon, I saw that the City of Franklin had put up the giant Christmas tree on the public square.  I'm guessing it will be decorated tomorrow.  

Thanksgiving is next week.  Jude and I are renting a house in Sewanee, so our family will spend its first Thanksgiving, ever, away from home.  Given the uncertainty and, well, weirdness, surrounding the holidays because of the pandemic, it makes sense to do something different, I guess.  Hopefully, Jude's folks will be able to join us for Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my mom and how much I miss her.  She loved the holidays so much, mostly because it brought our family together, I think.  Some of that has been lost and it makes me sad.  To be honest, the ties that bound our family together have unraveled more than a little since she died.  That makes me sad, too, because I know it would disappoint her.    

Even before her health began to fail her, so much or our lives this time of year seemed to revolve around her.  Planning for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Christmas cards and the calendar of the boys I make every year as a Christmas gift.  Christmas lists for the boys and yes, me.  Every year, she'd renew my subscription to Sports Illustrated and Jude's subscription to Southern Living.

So much has happened in the almost two years since she died.  JP and Joe have grown so much.  They're such good boys.  So funny and smart, with such great personalities.  She would have loved spending time with them.  And, damn, would they ever have loved to spend time with her back when she still had her fastball and could dish it out and take it.  They would have loved her sense of humor, especially now, as they've gotten old enough to appreciate it.  

Her love of sports, which I inherited and, of course, passed down to the boys, would have delighted them.  I wish she could have seen JP and Joe playing baseball this fall.  She would have been so into the games, so proud.  Sometimes I feel haunted, in a way, by what might have been as it relates to the boys' relationship with my mom.  

What to do?  For me, appreciate holidays, as I always do.  Take time to enjoy them.  Live in the moment, in the here and now.  Stop, for just a minute, and appreciate the little things.  

And that's what I'll do.  

  

I Am a Runner

A quick one while I sip a latte at Honest Coffee Roasters - in my usual seat at the table in the middle of the shop - before I head home for the evening.  

It's dark outside, cozy and warm here in the coffee shop, music playing quietly in the background as people wrap things up for the day.  

I left the office a little after 4 p.m. and went for a run.  Beyond beautiful for a fall evening in Franklin, as I ran the grass trail at Harlinsdale Park.  I ran the complete trail last week for the first time and I love it.  All grass, hilly in places, particularly on the back side, and a gorgeous run.  

Harlinsdale Park is a little bit difficult to get to, right now, due to the road construction project on Franklin Road.  It's all but eliminated the shoulder on both sides of the road, which makes it a bit dicey to run on Franklin Road in 4 - 5 p.m. traffic.  It's doable, though, if I'm careful, and the run is easily worth the effort.

I had another special run this evening.  6 + miles.  Fast and strong.  I had a moment, as I ran down the last grassy hill on the back side of the park, 4 miles or so into my run.  I felt so alive, so blessed to be able to run like  that at age 54.  I don't take it for granted, not for a minute.  Every run is a gift, for sure, at least the way I see it.

I've said it before, I think, but running is like meditation for me.  It clears my head, literally.  Often times, on a really good run like tonight's, my mind is empty and I think about . . . nothing.  

I breathe in.  I breath out.  I run.

Just like that.

"Why doesn't everybody do this?" I wondered, as I ran through Harlinsdale Park this evening, watching the sun set ahead of me.   

Running keeps me young or, at least, it keeps me feeling like I'm young.  I feel closer to my creator, to God, when I run.  I feel blessed.  Happy.  Blissful, even.

So fortunate.  So lucky to have found running or for it to have found me.  So many runs over the past 30 years or so.  Miles and miles.  Every single one a gift.

     

October Surprise

So, we have a new president elect, Joe Biden.  Sort of.  

While Donald Trump continues his quixotic quest to overturn the results of a fairly contested election - one he lost - hundreds of thousands of Americans test positive for COVID-19 every day.  In fact, yesterday, a record - 124,000.  Hospitalizations and deaths, nationwide, are on the rise this fall, an eventuality that was predicted by virtually every epidemiologist who commented on the pandemic.

It's saddening and depressing in many ways.  It's anxiety inducing, also, to those of us who live in fear of catching the virus.  Or of the virus catching us.  

Strangely enough, although statistically things are worse than they were last spring, when the economy was shut down, many people - including several standing maskless right in front of me as I write this at Honest Coffee Roasters - act as if the pandemic isn't occurring.  This is especially true in Franklin and Williamson County, where I work.  

Across the country, the governors in several states are imposing, or re-imposing, lockdown measures designed to curb the spread of the virus.  Restaurants closing at 10 p.m.  Limiting the size of public gatherings.  Closing gyms, nail salons, and spas.  The Los Angeles Lakers announced yesterday that when the 2020-21 NBA season starts in late December, there will be no fans at the Staples Center.  

On the home front, Jude and I pulled Joe out of fall basketball last week, before his first practice.  First Presbyterian Church in Nashville canceled the fall league he usually plays in,  so we had signed him up for a league based out of the Brentwood YMCA.  The games were to be played at a multicourt facility in Franklin and he would be playing for a coach we didn't know and with boys we didn't know.  In the end, we decided the juice wasn't worth the squeeze, so we pulled him from the league.  He was disappointed but it was the right decision.

JP is playing basketball this fall - for the first time - for my friend, Isaac Connor.  It's a great opportunity for him to play for and learn from a different coach.  I have coached Isaac's sons, Cyrus and Elias, in baseball for years, and I know Isaac well, so I am as comfortable as I can be with JP playing basketball during the pandemic.  At his first practice last night, though, I deliberately stayed out of the gym at Brentwood Academy where he was practicing.  It's an auxiliary gym - small, no where to sit - and I just didn't feel comfortable lingering in it and watching practice.  

At work, I have 13 or 14 mediations scheduled between now and Christmas.  In mediations, I spend as much as eight or ten hours shuttling back and forth between two conference rooms in my office, meeting with the parties and their attorneys.  In the end, that's where I'll get the virus, I know, because it's really impossible to properly distance in a closed conference room during an eight hour day.  I can't really mediate with a mask on because it's just too hard to connect with people.  Zoom mediations just are not effective either.

So, the show must go on and, in fact, it does go on.  I don't see the economy shutting down again.  I think COVID-19 will be with us through the winter months, at least.  My law partner, Mark, laughed in my face last spring when I told him 1,000,000 Americans might lose their lives.  241,809 deaths to date, according to the New York Times, and climbing.  I hope he's right and I'm wrong.

Dark times, in many ways.  It's important, I guess, to enjoy the little things.  A late afternoon run.  A good book.  A family dinner.  Watching American Ninja Warriors, the Mandalorian, or All or Nothing (Tottenham) with the boys.  

And try not to let the virus catch me.

The Night Joe Dawg Got It Done

Tuesday night, Joe's Thundersharks played their second to last game of the fall season.  And what a game it was!

It was one of those magical, memorable nights on the baseball field with Joe that will stay with me forever.  I have a few of those with J.P., too, and they're special.  Really special.

It all came together for Joe on Tuesday night.  Offensively and defensively.  And he continued to be a leader on the team, keeping other boys focused and encouraging them.  Always locked in and always vocal.  That's Joe on the baseball field. 

He continued his torrid hitting.  His first two at bats, he hit line drives up the middle.  When I asked him put an early swing on the baseball and pull the ball between third base and shortstop, he adjusted his swing and hit line drives into left field his last two at bats.  One of them went for a double with Joe sliding into second base just ahead of the throw.

Early in the game, playing first base, Joe ranged to his right and nonchalantly backhanded a hard ground ball in the hole, then trotted back to first base for the force out.  

"The Big Cat," I yelled, paying homage to Wes Taylor from J.P.'s Dodgers, the original Big Cat, so nicknamed by me one year when we played "giant pepper" after an all star practice.

"Dad," Joe replied.  There's only one Big Cat!"  I laughed my ass off, as did Chris Taylor (Wes's dad), when I told him about it later in the week.

In the bottom of the last inning, Joe played pitcher.  Coach O rotated our boys, as a result of which the infield wasn't the Thundersharks' strongest.  Other than Joe, the more experienced players were in the outfield.  Although the boys started the inning up 19-12, the other team quickly rallied.  

With one out, the based were loaded, and the score was 19-17.  The batter hit a looping line drive - not hit terribly hard - between pitcher and shortstop.  It looked like it was going to drop in for a single and score one, if not two, runs.  

Joe turned and ran toward shortstop, then leaped and caught the baseball in the air by reaching his glove, backhanded, over his right shoulder.  Truly an amazing catch.  He immediately realized the runner on third base was running toward home, so he ran to third and stepped on the bag for an unassisted game ending double play.  

Ballgame.

Joe's teammates were stunned at first, as were Coach O, all of the rest of the coaches, and me.  Then, Joe's teammates started cheering, ran to him, and mobbed him.  I smiled, shook my head in disbelief, and gave Coach O a high five.  Amazing play by an amazing boys.

After the game, Coach O spoke to the team and, as always, his message was fantastic.  Joe got the pack of baseball cards for the first time this fall season, symbolic of a player who played the game the right way.  Coach O remarked that Joe had been a leader on the team the entire fall.  And he has been.

Walking to my truck, Joe told me that he thought throwing with "Coach Glenn" at J.P.'s game the night before had prepared him to make the catch because Glenn was throwing him pop flied.  We called Glenn on the way home and he was tickled to death to hear about Joe's success.

Joe has worked hard - over the years and lately - to become the best baseball player he can be.  To see it all come together in one game is special.  

Damn near a perfect night for me.  

Toys in the Attic

Tracy, Alice, and I spent the morning at my mom's house, supervising, while some guys from "College Hunks Hauling Junk" cleared out the attic.  

The clearing out of the attic, while a daunting task to be sure, was long, long overdue.  Over 40 + years, my mom had accumulated a lot of stuff/mementos/junk and stored it in the attic.  She was not a hoarder, not at all.  She did, however, save a lot things from our childhoods, and she loved the fall holidays, especially Christmas.  There were a lot of holiday decorations in the attic, many of which I saved and will use at our house or at my office this Thanksgiving and Christmas.

It's a weird feeling to watch strangers hauling boxes and boxes out of my mom's attic.  Although I'd spent a couple of Sunday mornings in the attic, opening boxes, trunks, and generally scavenging through the detritus of her life, I still felt a rising sense of panic this morning, as I hurriedly looked in boxes and plastic storage containers before the the college hunks arrived.  

I was afraid I might have missed something.  Something that was especially important to my mom.  Something that might have reminded me of my mom.  Something that once it was carried out of the house would be gone forever.  A part of her history.  A part of our family's history.  A part of my history.  

I salvaged a few more holiday decorations and a few more books.  I kept an unframed picture of Jesus that had been in a frame that was broken at some point.  I found an old wallet of mine that had photographs of friends from high school.  Kim Reynolds, Anna Shepard, Laura Satterfield, Jimmy Spruill, Melissa Thompson, Shannon Parker, Debbie Billings.  Definite keeper.  The photographs, not the wallet.

I even found the application I had completed for my first drivers' license on July 9, 1982.  I also found belt buckles from when I was in junior high school at Northside.  KISS and Foreigner.  Rock-n-roll belt buckles that I could change out and attach to my leather belt.  Was I cool the late 1970's?  Of course I was.  

We're near the end, now.  I'm a bit embarrassed that it's taken us this long to get my mom's house (almost) cleaned out.  Still, we're close.  As I prepared to leave, not one but two neighbors approached me and asked about our plans for the house.  One appeared to be a bit of an operator.  I think he wants to flip it or perhaps rent it out.  The other has a friend who is renting in Meadow Lake, a subdivision on the very north end of Brentwood, and is looking to buy a house in Brenthaven, my mom's subdivision.  Everyone, of course, is looking for a fair deal, whatever that means.

It's hard to be at my mom's house, of course.  It makes me miss her more, like opening up an old wound that hasn't quite healed yet.  Still, I know, it's time to move on.

I couldn't help but think - this week - how much my mom would have enjoyed seeing J.P. and Joe play baseball this fall.  They've both played well and their teams have played well.  She would have loved to see them develop as baseball players and to watch them compete.  

I try not to share too much of this, or any of it, with the boys because it's too heavy for them emotionally.  Someday, there will be time for that.       

The Last Days of the Dodgers

A rainy Friday night.  I just managed to slip in a 6 mile late night run while the rain briefly stopped.  Running between the raindrops, I call it.  Now, a busy week at an end, I have few moments to sip a glass of Bardstown bourbon and reflect.

I've been reflecting a lot lately, mostly about the Dodgers.  As the fall baseball season winds down, I'm savoring every last minute I get to spend on the baseball field with these boys - my boys - whom I've coached for so many years.  They mean so much to me.  I love every one of them.

I worry, sometimes, what I will do and how I will view myself after the Dodgers have played their last game together.  For the past seven or eight years, so much of who I am has been wrapped up in coaching fall and spring baseball.  Coaching the Dodgers.  It's been a huge part of who I am and something with which I've happily occupied a tremendous amount of time.  And I've loved - literally - every single minute of it.  

The game last night was a memorable one, a 10-3 win over the "Country Braves," aptly named by who else but Winn Hughes a few years back.  Several boys with long hair, a second baseman with a beard, and nice, albeit "country" fans.  Ergo, the "Country Braves."

I hustled over to field no. 5 from Joe's game on field no. 2 after an exciting 20-16 win for Joe's Thundersharks.  The Dodgers were batting in the third inning, up 3-2.  As I walked up, the boys were bit down after kicking the ball around and giving up a couple of runs in the previous inning.

J.P. had just replaced Wes Taylor at pitcher.  As I settled in, sitting on my bucket of balls, J.P. struggled early, walking the first two batters he faced.  I think he gave up a run, too.  His body language was terrible and he had no energy, so I called time out and walked out to the pitcher's mound from the first base dugout.    

"I'm not upset with the walks," I told him.  "But I'm bothered by your body language and lack of energy.  Lead these guys and have fun out here," I said.  "Smile."  

He was kind of pissed at me but he knew I was right.  He struck out the next batter, puffed out his chest, and started pitching with more confidence.  And, of course, he was completely fine and sailed through the rest of the game without giving up a run.

Both times I watched him bat, J.P. hit the ball well.  The first time, he hit a line drive single to right field.  The next time up, he smoked a ball to the gap in right center for a double.  It was at the hardest hit ball I saw all night.  J.P. has worked so hard all summer and fall, hitting off the tee.  I'm happy for him to see the results of the hard work.

Watching J.P. play well, up close, was fun.  What was as much or more fun, though, was hanging out with all of the boys during the game.  Maybe because I know there's a chance our time together is limited, I treasure and appreciate every minute on the baseball field with them.  Every interaction with each one of them is special.  

In a way, I think I'm trying to have a meaningful interaction of some sort with every boy these last few games, so I can file a memory away about each of them.  So, when I'm older and they're older, and the Dodgers are no more, I can summon up a memory or two or ten to make me smile and warm my heart.  

After I addressed the team after the game behind the bleachers, I gathered up my gear.  As I was walking toward the parking lot, one of the "County Braves" fathers, sitting in a camping chair with a ZZ Top beard that reached his waste, stopped me.  

"Every one of your boys can hit, coach," he said.  

"Thank you, sir," I replied.  And I walked to my truck, smiling the whole way.   

A Baseball Family

 

                                            I love this photo.

The Thundersharks

Through happenstance and good fortune - something we haven't had a lot of during the pandemic - Joe found himself playing baseball this spring and summer for the Diamondbacks and, this fall, for the Thundersharks.  Same team, different name.  Most importantly, same coach - Oliver Davis.

Last spring, I reluctantly decided not to coach the Junior Dodgers because of the pandemic.  Three or four families were not going to allow their boys to play and I was on the fence, too.  I just didn't think I could keep the boys safe based on what we knew, thought, and believed at the time.  

I ran into Oliver in what can only be described as a chance meeting one evening last spring at Green Hills Park, behind J.T. Moore MS, after an early season Dodgers' practice.  He asked if Joe could play with his group - the Diamondbacks - in the WNSL Rookie (machine pitch) League.  They already had played a game but he knew they would be short on players in the coming weeks due to family vacations and other conflicts.

I asked Joe if he wanted to play with the Diamondbacks and, without hesitation, his eyes lit up, he smiled, and yelled "YES!"

It's difficult for me to put into words how much it's meant to Joe, and me, to be a part of the Diamondbacks/Thundersharks, last spring and this fall.

Joe is one of the older boys, at 8 +, and he's taken on a real leadership role on the team.  He encourages other boys, helps position them, and helps them keep up with the number of outs, the score, etc.  He works hard at being a good teammate and friend.  

Joe and Oliver's son, Preston, have really hit it off.  Several times, we've stayed late after practice so Joe and Preston could get some extra work in.  Joe's become friends with Henry, Matthew, William, and others, too.

For me, being able to contribute on the field in a hands on way has been rewarding.  I had completely forgotten what a great age this is for boys playing baseball - 7 and 8 - and how much I love coaching boys that age.  

Fall baseball in the Rookie (machine pitch) League at WNSL might be my favorite.  Why?  The boys have adapted to the pitching machine and almost all of them can hit it regularly.  It's not as competitive.  There are still coaches on the field - and running the pitching machine - so there's more teaching and a focus on development.  Also and perhaps most importantly, there's still an innocence about the boys at this age.  Winning is not everything.  For them, what happens after practice is as much fun as what happens during practice.  

This group of boys and families is really, really special.  As I've said, it reminds me so much of my Dodgers' group when those boys were 7 and 8.  Having been through it before and knowing what is to come, hopefully - many more practices and games on many more fields - there's an optimism for me about this group.  I hope it stays together and I hope Joe is a part of it.

So many dads are on the field, just like in the glory days of the Dodgers.  Practices and games are run so well, in large part because Oliver is so organized and because so many dads are willing to help.  

In a relatively short period of time, I've grown to love these boys - Cannon and Andrew (twins), Jack, Patrick, John, Henry and Henry (not twins), Pike (Joe's longtime buddy), Preston, Matthew (maybe the best 7 year old baseball player I've seen - a 5 tool player), Parkes, William, Luke ("the Punisher"), Roman (my guy, a first time player with little athletic ability), Westin and, of course, Joe. 

Joe has fit in seamlessly with this group and to see him so excited to play baseball every weekend or to go to practice on Tuesday evenings, so joyful, is a beautiful thing.  Last Sunday afternoon, after playing two games Saturday and two games Sunday, we arrived home and Joe asked JP if he wanted to go out in the backyard and throw the baseball.  And they did, much to my delight.

Joe needed the Diamondbacks/Thundersharks and you know what?  I did, too.  More than I possibly could have imagined.

    

   

A Day of Baseball and a Day of Reflection

It's Saturday evening, late.  The boys are asleep upstairs and Jude has just gone to bed.  I'm sitting in the reading chair in the living room, sipping a bourbon (Bardstown) and unwinding after a Saturday of baseball.  

Two games this morning, helping Oliver Davis coach Joe's Thundersharks.  Two more games this evening at Liberty Park coaching JP's Dodgers.  The Thundersharks won swept both games and the Dodgers got swept.

JP and Joe are both hitting really well this fall.  All of the work they have done - and keep doing - hitting off the tee in the backyard has paid off, I think.  They're doing work and it shows.  

It's interesting, the juxtaposition of coaching 7 - 8 year olds and 12 - 13 year olds, in baseball, in one day.  

With the Dodgers, we've been together for so long.  So many practices, games, and seasons.  Wins and losses.  WNSL league games, all-star games, and travel tournament games.  The Dodgers are very obviously nearer the end than the beginning.  That makes me nostalgic and more than little sad.  I've watched so many of these boys grow up and I love them like they're my own.  I'll reflect on these days gone by and cherish the memories of the Dodgers for the rest of my life.

The Thundersharks (aka the Diamondbacks), it seems to me, might be on the verge of evolving into a cohesive, special group that will stay together for the next several years.  Like the Dodgers.

I see similarities, for sure, between the Dodgers four or five years ago and the Thundersharks now.  Great families.  A great, inclusive coach (Oliver Davis) who is amazing with the boys.  Several dads who help, hands on, at practice and during games.  That's key.  And good, really good, coachable boys.  

I miss my Junior Dodgers very much.  It makes me sad to think that maybe, must maybe, they're no more, due to the pandemic.  For some reason, though, the Junior Dodgers group never gelled like the Dodgers group.  That much is clear.  I just don't think you can create in a petri dish - like I tried to with the Junior Dodgers - what formed organically with the Dodgers.  

In many ways, for me, 7 - 8 year old baseball is the best.  The boys are innocent, curious, and so eager to learn.  It can be tough because when a boy strikes out, it might be the first time he's failed in a public setting.  But that's how to teach resilience and perseverance.  Fail, then try again.  And again.  And again.

There's more pressure on the older boys - like the Dodgers - from some parents, sadly, and what each boy puts in himself.  

Every day I get to coach my sons, JP and Joe, and all of my other boys on both teams, is a blessing.  I don't take it for granted and I don't want it to end.

  

The Knuckleballer

Saturday morning, JP's Dodgers played a doubleheader in Antioch at Pitts Park.  It was an absolutely gorgeous day for baseball and as we arrived and got out of my truck, I reveled in the brisk (almost) fall air.  The sky was cerulean blue with only a wispy cirrus cloud or two set out against the entirely blue skyscape.  

We've had so much rain lately, particularly on Saturdays, that it felt good to get out on the field and watch the boys start to warm up, knowing they would get two baseball games in for sure.  For the first time in a while, I felt a sense of normalcy.  Optimism, even.

In what was only their second game of the fall season - on the big field to boot - the boys played a reasonably tough team in game one and beat them 6 - 1.  JP had a client hit to center field, batting in the two hole, his first time up.  I was proud of him, as he's been working hard and hitting off the tee in the backyard almost every day.  

Porter pitched well and gave us just one run in two innings of work.  With the lead, I brought JP in to pitch next.  Facing the top of the order, he played with fire by allowing a couple of baserunners but got out of the inning without giving cup any runs.  I talked to him on the mound at one point and told him to calm down, as he was uncharacteristically showing a lot of emotion when a batter got on base or he didn't get a call he wanted from the umpire on a pitched ball.

The fourth inning as more of an adventure, as JP walked the bases full after retiring the first batter on a pop fly.  I noticed from my vantage point in the first base dugout that the runner on first was taking a huge head, so I casually lifted my baseball cap off my head, signaling JP to throw over to first base.  Sure enough, he caught the runner napping with a quick throw over and Wes put the tag on him for the second out of the inning.

Facing the tenth batter in the lineup, JP ran the count full before striking him out swinging.  Game over.  I was on the verge of bringing in the closer, Señor Smoke (Benton), but I was glad to see JP finish the game.

Game two was a bit of a laugher, as the boys beat their Creive Hall counterparts - the Dodgers - 14-4.  It was never close.  

The really cool thing and, frankly, the highlight of the day for me was how well Wes pitched.  I started him and he went three innings and, in truth, probably could have finished the game.

Wes is one of the Core Four, along with Jonathan, Benton, and JP - boys who have been with me from the very beginning, fall and spring for eight years.  That's hard to fathom, for me.  Really hard to fathom.  I've watched those boys grow up.  

Wes is a tall, quiet kid, but one with a wellspring of grit and determination.  He doesn't typically say a whole lot and he's pretty unemotional and even keeled, at least on the baseball field.  In truth, he's a lot like JP form a personality standpoint.  

Wes has been messing around with a knuckleball.  The boys said he was throwing in one of our last games of the spring/summer season but I didn't really believe them at the time.  

Then, at practice last week, I was warming up with Wes and he started throwing it.  To my surprise, he was able to take all of the spin off the baseball, though it wasn't really dancing of fluttering.  Still, for a 13 year old kid, it was pretty impressive.

Before our game against the Crieve Hall Dodgers on Saturday, I pulled the home plate umpire - Fernando - aside and told him Wes was likely to throw some knuckleballs.  With his baritone voice, he laughed loudly and shook his head.  "I'm serious," I continued.  "All right, all right," he said, shaking his head and smiling.

Sure enough, once the game started, Wes started throwing the knuckleball when he got ahead in the count.  And it was working!  If nothing else, it was an off speed pitch - one that acted like a changeup - and made his fastball look even faster.  Wes pitched the best I've ever seen him pitch, particularly in the first couple of innings.  

Before the last inning, I was talking to Fernando about Wes and the knuckleball.  "He's throwing it, all right," said Fernando.  "I told you," I replied.  

Laughing, Fernando said he could see the batters' knees buckling just a bit when Wes threw the knuckleball, not because it was moving but because it was coming in with no spin on it whatsoever.  The batters hadn't ever seen a pitch look like that and it confused them just enough to make it hard to hit.  

Wes didn't necessarily have much control over the knuckleball and I'm not sure he got any called strikes throwing it.  On one pitch, thought, Nico caught a knuckleball on the inside corner of home plate.  It was a strike, although Fernando paused, then called it a ball.  I could see him chuckling behind his umpire's mask, though, because he knew he has missed the call.  

The best part, though, was that when Wes threw a fastball immediately after a knuckleball, it looked to the batter like the pitch was coming in at 90 mph.  The contrast between the speeds of both pitches was intimidating.  

It was a good day for Wes.  Did I think when I started coaching him so many years ago that one Saturday, at age 13, he'd be throwing a knuckleball?  No.  

That's baseball.  And that's why I love these boys, every single one of them. 

   

Photographs and Memories

 Yesterday, I spent a few hours at my mom's house sorting through old photos, letters, cards, and mementos.  I even ventured into the attic - which is a disaster - as I near the end of my quest to salvage anything I want to keep.

I've said it before but it bears repeating - it's sad and in some ways heartbreaking that a person spends a lifetime accumulating so many things that are so special and personal to him or her - priceless, really - then he or she dies and so much of it ends up in a landfill somewhere.  

For example, my mom's shadowbox is laying in the floor in her guest room.  It's filled with knick-knacks - my name tag from my first job, at Walmart; Shakey's (my mom's first poodle) leash; a nurse's pin; a Vanderbilt basketball button; and on an on.  The shadowbox was on the wall in the den for years.  Every single item in it meant something to my mom.  

A singular event.  An accomplishment of one of her children.  A token of a friendship.  A loving reminder of a pet.  A graduation.  A gathering of friends.  An election.  Her unwavering loyalty to Vanderbilt basketball.  Her love, above all else, for her family.  Her faith.

It's all there.  Not just in the shadowbox, of course, but in the dwindling boxes of old photos, framed pictures, Christmas decorations, and keepsakes.  

Photographs and memories.  

I know it's time to let go of so many of this things because that's what they are - things.  Inanimate objects brought to life and made special by my mom's personality and what was important to her.  But it's hard.  Really, really hard. 

I am haunted by the fear of not looking in a box, a trunk, or an envelope, and losing forever a memory that meant something to my mom.   When I get down to it, I guess I am afraid of losing part of her.  Forever.  

My mom's very essence is in all of those old photographs, many of which I had never seen or did not recall seeing.  Photos of my mom and my dad, many with Tracy and me.  My parents were so young in those photos.  Photos of the two of them starting a life together full of promise and, yet, one sure to be cruelly cut short by my dad's death from hepatitis at age 30. 

I ran across a photo of my mom and dad on the day of their marriage, taken at her parents' house - Robert and Mary Alice Ussery - in Jackson, Tennessee.  A Jewish medical student, football player, and concert-level pianist from California, by way of Phoenix, Arizona and Cleveland, Ohio, marrying a modest Methodist, country girl from Jackson, Tennessee, the daughter of a man who drove a Wonder Bread truck for 30 years and of a woman who taught elementary school for 42 years.  

They looked so happy together.

It is a strange feeling, almost voyeuristic, to be going through boxes of things my mom saved.  Things that meant something to her.  Mementos from the Ussery family and the Dickson family, all of which will be lost forever if and when we discard so much of what she saved.  Our past.  Our family history.  Lost to the winds of time.

We are near the end of this process, I think.  This sifting through the things that meant the most to my mom but probably has the least actual value.  Somehow, those things are the most special to me.  I feel closer to my mom as I handle them, as I look intently at an old, black and white photograph, that no one has gazed upon in decades.  

I am, of course, reminded of how much I loved my mom and how much she loved me.  

I am also reminded, starkly, of how much I miss her.  Every single day.  

It is like an ache in my heart that never completely goes away.  I work, I coach baseball, I run, I raise children, I read, I eat, I sleep, I laugh, and I love.  In other words, I live my life.  

It is what I must do and what I am called to do.  And it is what my mom would want me to do.  

    

Running with the Kid

Saturday morning, JP and I got up early to go for a run.  Although it was a beautiful late summer morning, refreshingly not hot, I didn't feel great as we began our run up Linden Avenue toward Belmont Boulevard.  Maybe it was the two gin and tonics I had Friday night or the fact that I stayed up late reading the latest James Lee Burke novel but I just didn't feel right.

I needed to get five miles in, so we ran past Belmont U., up Portland Avenue, toward Fairfax and Elmington Park.  One of my regular routes.  The first mile was a struggle and our 8:30 + mile split reflected it.  

Gradually, though, as we ran through the neighborhood on Fairfax, past Eakin Elementary School, I began to feel better and we picked up the pace.  It was nice, as it always is, JP and I running side by side.  Not talking much, just running together.  Father and son, lost in our thoughts.  

As I always do when JP and I run together, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to be run with him.  To be able to share with him something that is so much a part of me.  So much a part of who I am.  I don't take any of my runs with JP for granted, not by a long shot.  Every run with JP is special, in large part because I know there is a finite number of them.  It's like a wave I'm going to ride as long as I can, appreciating ever moment I am on it.   

I wonder, sometimes, if it's akin to how my father felt when he took my flying in his Cessna 172 and, later, his Mooney airplane, in the late 60's when I was a toddler.  Then, as now, it was a father doing something he loved with his oldest son alongside.  I treasure those memories, even now.  Always have, in fact.  I hope when I am gone, JP will treasure these runs, too, and understand how meaningful they were to me.  

I began to push the pace as we ran through Elmington Park and up West End Avenue.  I felt strong, almost young again, as I do sometimes when I run.  I guess, to an extent, that's what I am doing when I run - chasing my youth.  Trying to turn back the hands of time or, maybe, to stop them, if only for a few minutes. 

As we passed the three mile mark and turned onto Blakemore, I began to sense we had something going, J.P. and I.  This might just be one of those runs I look for all year long and, if I am lucky, find five or ten of them.  A run where everything falls into place.  I feel good.  I feel strong, like I could run forever.  Nothing hurts.  My breathing is even.  

Runner's high.  The zone. Call it what you will but I think it's what ever runner looks for when he or she goes for a run.  Same shoes, same route, different feeling.  Way different.  

Losing ourselves in the run.  Surrendering to it.  It's a hard feeling to describe and it doesn't happen often.  But when it does?  Damn, it feels good.

I continued to push the pace as we turned right onto 21st Avenue and JP ran along beside me.  No talking.  Not breathing hard but putting the work in, our bodies like engines running smoothly.  His, the younger model, for sure.  Mine, the older model, but reasonably well maintained.  

The last mile - mile five - I pushed us harder.  I was fine but I could tell he was working, which was good.  We ran up an alley to Portland Avenue and made the turn onto Belmont Boulevard, running hard now.  I wanted to finish strong and we did.

We hit mile five right in front of the Trout Theater and stopped, breathing hard.  JP was spent.  I could have run more.  Soon enough, our roles will be reversed, I know.

Splits:

8:27, 8:10, 7:55, 7:28, and 7:03.

Negative splits, yes, but 7:03 on mile 5!  That's smoking!

7:46/mile and, for sure, a top ten run of the year.

Running with the Kid inspires me.  Every time.

The Day the Diamondbacks Became the Dodgers

This morning, just for a couple of hours, the Diamondbacks became the Dodgers.   

Because of Covid-19, I decided not to coach the Junior Dodgers last spring and this fall, too.  Joe's been blessed to be able to play for the Diamondbacks (aka as the Thundersharks, in fall baseball, anyway) and my friend, Oliver Davis.  I've been blessed to help Coach O, as I call him, at practices and by coaching third base during games.

A word or two about Coach O.  Having coached baseball for so many years and having been around so many baseball coached during that time, I know a good coach when I see one.  I think Coach O is one of the best - probably the best, actually - that I've seen.  Always a positive message and always upbeat.  Enthusiastic.  Organized.  Role model.  Leader.  Great communicator.  Even tempered.  Great sense of perspective.  Works the boys but always with a goal in mind.  Loves the boys, not just his son, Preston, but all of the boys.  Loves baseball.  Just a real treat to be around.  

It's funny but I've thought many times that Oliver would have fit in perfectly with my coaching staff on the Dodgers.  And that's saying something because my coaches are the best.

In truth, it's been nice to be able to work with the boys at practice and help Oliver as an assistant coach but not have all of the responsibilities of being the head coach.  No drafting and sending e-mails, no planning practicing, no setting lineups and batting orders, etc.  All of those things I have done for years with the Dodgers (and Junior Dodgers).  I must admit, it's nice to have someone else doing them for the Diamondbacks. 

This morning - Saturday - Coach O and Preston couldn't be at practice, so he asked if Ryan and I could run practice.  It's Labor Day Weekend and we weren't sure how many boys would be at practice.  I knew which ones would be there - the ones who love to play baseball.  And they were there, all nine of them.  Joe, Huck, Henry, Henry, John, Parkes, Westin, Luke (my new favorite), and Matthew.     

And, for me, it was like being on the field at Harpeth Hills with the Dodgers of old, four or five years ago. Benton, Wes, Brennan, J.P., Jonathan, Cyrus, Davis, Aidan, Cooper, and Braden.  Several of those boys I still coach on the Dodgers.  They're voices are starting cracking this summer or dropped several octaves below mine - see Braden and Porter - and they're playing on the Prep filed at Warner park.  Big league dimensions, with bases 90' feet apart and the pitching rubber 60'6" from home plate.  

Well, this morning, the Diamondbacks were the Dodgers from so long ago.  And, yes, I was me, four or five years ago.

Ryan was happy to let me take the wheel today, so to speak, and I led practice from beginning to end.  Coach O had asked that we have the boys take batting practice, live, against the pitching machine, which we did.  And also that we have the boys hit in game situations, which we also did.  

I don't know all of the dads who are helping coach by name but they're all good guys.  I think they recognize that I've done this before, though, so they defer to me a little bit.  Not because I'm any kind of expert - not at all - but because I've been there before and I'm not afraid to take charge.  Imagine me, taking charge.  

We had one dad working with one boy at a time, hitting off a tee in deep left field.  Another dad hit fungoes to the infield in between pitches.  Another dad worked one boy at a time with hitting stick.  Ryan ran the pitching machine and I coached whomever was hitting, working on stances, feet placement, swing, etc. 

I love the individual work with the boys.  The one-on-one stuff.  Throwing to them in the cage, playing catch with them, or working with them while they're hitting.  That's how I get to know them, to connect with them, to build the player-coach relationship with them.  That how I show them I care about them as boys, not just baseball players.  I give them nicknames - Luke became "the Punisher" today.  I make them laugh.  Most importantly, I let them know I believe in them.  I tell them - like I told Matthew, today - that their potential is unlimited if they'll keep working.  

It's what I love the most about coaching.  No doubt.

After everyone had hit today, I organized a game of the Dads against the 'Nads.  The boys batted in a game situation (5 pitches) and the dads played the infield.  That's how the boys bond with each other.  It's also how the dad bond with each other and begin to form friendships that, if all goes right, will last for years to come.  

After practice was over, I looked out on the field and four or five of the boys, on their own, had stayed afterwards to get in more work, throwing and fielding ground balls.  All of them working with their dads or big brothers.  

And I smiled to myself, as Joe gave me an impromptu hug afterwards.  Great practice.  The boys worked, learned, and most importantly, had fun.  

The Diamondbacks became the Dodgers, even if was just for a couple of hours on a random late summer Saturday morning.

And I loved every single minute of it. 

A Lion's Last Roar

Yesterday, on my way to a meeting with another lawyer, I learned that Lewis Hollabaugh had died.  Lewis was one of the name partners at Manier, Herod, Hollabaugh & Smith, the place I worked when I got out of law school in May 1993.

Lewis's daughter, Lela - one of the best commercial litigators in middle Tennessee and an extremely accomplished lawyer - was one of my bests friends at Manier, Herod in the almost five years I worked there before I started my own law firm with Mark Puryear in 1998.  Lela and her husband, Dean, stayed close friends with me after I left and, in fact, became close friends of Jude's, as well.  They were in our wedding.

Lewis Hollabaugh, in my mind, was the personification of "old school" when it came to practicing law.  He was a trial lawyer.  His word and a handshake truly were his bond.  When it came to billing, there were no detailed time entries for Lewis (unlike the way it is with clients today).  When he entered his time for a day as "10.0 - work on file," no one questioned it.  If Lewis said he had worked on the file for 10 hours that day, then by God, that's what he had done.  

Everyone, and I mean everyone, respected Lewis Hollabaugh.  He was a lawyer's lawyer, and that's a high compliment.  He and the remaining name partner when I arrived at Manier, Herod - Don Smith - made me proud to be a lawyer.  More than that, they made me proud to be a lawyer at Manier, Herod.  

To me, Lewis was quiet and taciturn with those he didn't know well - young lawyers at the time, like me.  He didn't waste words, yet he was quick with a joke.  He had a mischievous, sly smile - like he knew something you didn't know - and a great sense of humor.  He was barrel chested and burly, country strong, as they say.  One thing I'll always remember about Lewis is that at parties for summer clerks, after a few drinks, he challenged the male summer clerks to arm wrestle him.  And he always won, easily, every time.  

I didn't know Lewis particularly well when we worked together at Manier, Herod.  He worked on the 22nd floor of what was then the Dominion Bank Building in downtown Nashville, and I worked on the 21st floor.  I probably did some legal research for him, perhaps when I was a summer associate, but I never worked on one of his cases.  I regret that, now, as I would love to have had the opportunity to learn from him, up close and personal, like I did from Steve Cox, Mike Evans, Mark Levan, Randall Ferguson, or Richard Smith.

Several of us who worked at Manier, Herod when Lewis was there have been in contact with each other the last 24 hours, by text or telephone.  We all agree those were special and instructive days for us as lawyers.  Those days and our exposure to Lewis and how he practiced law and ran the law firm informed how we practice law and manage our practices today.  

All of us took the lessons we learned from Lewis Hollabaugh at Manier, Herod and relied on them as we started our own law firms (Mark Levan, Benton Patton, me) or saw our careers flourish at other law firms (Lela Hollabaugh, John Rowland, Ken Weber, Stephanie Edwards). 

As I think about it, that's the professional legacy Lewis Hollabaugh leaves behind.  

First and most importantly, a daughter - Lela - who has succeeded as a commercial litigator and a trial lawyer and earned respect in a field often dominated by men.  Someone who has an unparalleled work ethic and is unflappable, no matter how small or big the case.  Someone who gives back to the community and mentors younger lawyers.  Someone who, during the two darkest periods of my life, was there for me as a friend and supporter in ways I can never repay.    

Second, a cadre of lawyers at law firms all across Middle Tennessee who practice law the right way.  Lawyers that work hard but have fun.  Lawyers whose word means not just something, but everything.  Lawyers that can be trusted.  Lawyers that judges, other lawyers, and clients respect.  

I'm grateful to have had Lewis Hollabaugh in the early, formative years of my career as a lawyer.  I hope I can carry on his legacy.      

Down from the Mountain

 It's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting in my favorite chair in my office at home sipping my first cup of real coffee in a week - thanks Dose! - decompressing after a week on the Mountain in a beautiful cabin in Monteagle.  Uncle Tupelo (Anodyne) is playing in the background - one of my 10 favorite albums all-time  - and one I revisited for the first time in a while in Monteagle.  Jude and the boys are downstairs, watching an NBA game and playing Scrabble.  

Back to real life. 

It was so nice to get away for a week, especially to Monteagle/Sewanee, one of my favorite places in the world.  Truthfully, I think I'd rather go there than the beach and I never thought I'd say that.  Certainly, the trip there and back is easier.  

Jude needed to get away and unplug for a week.  I did, too.  It was good for our family to spend that time together.  We all needed it.  

As I contemplated the end of our time on the Mountain the last couple of days, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was one of the last long vacations where the boys will be content to spend time with us, and each other, as opposed to having a friend or two around.  J.P. is 12 + and I can't help but think by the end of next summer, when he's a teenager, he may be less inclined to want to spend a week away with only his family as companions.  

For the most part, I think, Jude and I still are floating through the age of innocence with our boys.  J.P. doesn't have the slightest concern about girls.  He doesn't have a cell phone and, in truth, isn't fighting too hard to get one.  Neither J.P. nor Joe is into video games to any great extent, which is nice.  Our Xbox hasn't worked in weeks and neither one has complained about not having it much at all. 

My sense, though, is that a lot of that will change in the next year.  School at USN is starting remotely while other schools are starting in person.  Jude and I are trying to figure out how to set up some groups, or pods (I hate that word), for the boys so they interact socially with their classmates and friends at school.  I think that's important for both of them but especially J.P., as there's bound to be some drift between he and Cooper with Cooper entering 7th grade at Montgomery Bell Academy.

All of that is for later, though.  I want to list some of my memories from our week on the Mountain while they're still fresh on my mind.

• Hiking.   A lot of hiking and all of it 15 - 30 minutes away from the cabin. 
• Fiery Gizzard.  One family hike, then Jude and Joe returned two more times.  Yesterday, they hiked the two mile loop together and saw a frighteningly large snake on the trail.  The day before, Joe took his "crawfish net" and I'm still smiling envisioning him poised over the still part of the creek, waiting patiently for a crawfish to crawl out from under a rock so he could "catch" it.  He didn't catch one but Jude marveled at his patience.  Joe decided that the "wild crawfish" in the creek on the Mountain are much faster and harder to catch than the ones in the creek at Camp Whippoorwill.  
• Foster Falls.  We hiked - early one morning - to Foster Falls.  The hike down, over jumbled rocks, actually is harder than the hike back out.  We were the second group to arrive at the large swimming hole, across from which we could see the waterfall cascading down from high above.  J.P. and I swam out to the waterfall, then swam under it.  Pretty cool.  The water was very cold but not too bad, once you were in it for a few minutes. 
• I ran every day while we were at the cabin.  Every day, which was awesome.  J.P. and I had an unforgettable five mile run on the Trail of Tears greenway, which I wrote about earlier.
• Ping pong.  Lots of ping pong on the ping pong table in the garage.  I taught Jude and the boys how to play doubles and they loved it.  It pissed J.P. off royally that he and Jude couldn't beat Joe and me.  Until this morning, that is, when we played a final game before we left.  
• Grilling out.  J.P. loved lighting the charcoal in the grill and helping me manage the fire.  Jude cooked the burgers and I cooked the hot dogs.  A great meal.
• S'mores.  We built a fire in the fire pit outside.  A total team effort.  We sat around the fire, in the dark, as Jude and the boys made and ate their fill of S'mores.  
• Sewanee.  One morning, I went for a run, then met Jude and the boys at the Sewanee football field - always a must visit for us.  Jude and Joe threw the football while J.P. and threw the Aerobie on the football field.  
• Baseball.  J.P. took apart, then assembled the boys' hitting net.  The boys hit off the tee, into the net, facing the bluff, almost every day.  Doing work.
• Tennis.  Two days, we played tennis at the Sewanee tennis courts, adjacent to the golf course.  That was some real fun, actually.  It brought back memories of when Jude and I used to play regularly.  A lifetime ago, we used to play double not he Belmont University courts on Tuesday nights with Cyndi Baines and Kelli McAbee.  Those were the days.  I might see about getting J.P. a lesson or two at Seven Hills (our swim and tennis club), because he enjoyed himself so much.  I also might get my old Prince racquet and Jude's restrung.  
• Deadliest Catch.  We are way, way into Deadliest Catch which, I think, is on its 16th season on the Discovery Channel.  Back in the day, pre-kids, Jude and watched for two or three seasons.  This summer, I watched a few episodes from season 4 with the boys and they were hooked.  We watched a lot of season 6 this week.  
• Papa Ron's.  Up in Smoke.  The Blue Chair.  Gallery 41.  No Shenanigan's this time, because food and service was too poor last time.
• Lots of reading.  Blacktop Wasteland, by S.A. Cosby, followed by A Dangerous Man, Robert Crais's latest Elvis Cole/Joe Pike book.
• Jude napping in the hammock, every afternoon.
• J.P. and Joe playing Golden Tee.  A lot of Golden Tee.
• J.P. and I listening to the epic J.J. Redick podcast - his second to last for the Ringer - featuring Patrick Beverly.  So many good lessons for J.P. (and me) about hard work and what it takes to succeed athletically and, really, in life.  It was my second listen. 

And now we're back home.  Almost time for the boys to start school.  Time to get back after it.  Time to grind.  

All in all, a great vacation.  We'll be back on the Mountain in the not too distance future, I'm sure. 

A Run on the Mountain

Jude, the boys and I are staying at a cabin in Monteagle this week.  On Monteagle Mountain, so to speak. 

I love it up here.  Always have.  Normally, we go to Santa Rosa Beach the first week of August.  This year, though, with COVID-19 raging in Florida, I thought it would be prudent for us to stay closer to home.  

It's been a great week so far, although I've had to stay in touch with the office more than I had hoped.  The weather has been awesome with high's in the low 80's and low's in the low to mid 60's.  

Today, J.P. and I went for an afternoon run on the Trail of Tears greenway.  It's a nice, flat run and, as a bonus, the greenway is covered by a canopy of trees for nearly the entire route.    

Starting out, I suggested to J.P. we could run four or five miles.  His choice.  As we got going, I was leaning toward four miles because my legs were feeling a bit heavy, perhaps because I've run every day this week, including six miles on Tuesday.

As we approached the two mile mark, I sneaked a peak a J.P.  In spite of the fact that we were running at a brisk pace, he was cruising along right beside me.  Effortlessly or so it seemed.  

"Four or five?" I asked.  

"Let's do five," J.P. replied.  

So, five miles it was.  

Now, often when we run, J.P. runs just behind me, off my shoulder.  It's almost like he's a car on the interstate, driving slightly slower than me in the lane beside me, right in my blind spot.  He rarely runs right beside me. 

Today, for some reason, was different.  He ran beside me and continued to do so as we made the turnaround at the 2.5 mile mark.  

I like to run negative splits (second half of a run faster than the first half) and part of me wanted to see what the kid could do, so I picked up the pace.  Well, shit, I thought to myself, as he picked up the pace and continued to run right beside me.  Interesting.

I sneaked another look at him and smiled.  He was just running, lost in thought, not even breathing hard.  This might be trouble, I thought.  Deep water ahead.  

As I began to tire a bit - to feel the run - I could see that he was just fine.  Still, I pushed the pace a little more, just to see how he would react.  He didn't react, though.  The little bastard just ran faster.  Damn, I thought.  

At that point, I knew this was not a run I was going to forget.  

For the first time since we've been running together - hell, for the first time in his life - I realized that he could probably outrun me if he wanted to.  Probably.  I'm not conceding yet.  

As we neared the beginning of the fifth mile, I felt a myriad of emotions.  Pride, for sure.  A little bit sad, too, for my lost youth.  A little jealousy if I'm being honest of his youth and the life he has ahead of him.  Happiness, yes, and pure, unadulterated joy at sharing a run - a damn fine run, at that - with my son.  Admiration.  I felt blessed, too, by the hand of God, to be running down the greenway with J.P. and sharing that experience with him.  Not talking, just running.  I felt a real closeness to him in that moment and I wanted to hold onto to it, always.  I wanted to stay in that moment, almost like the way you try to go back to sleep when wake from a dream, in an often futile effort to drift back into the dream again.

The last half mile was downhill and we ran hard, tougher, until we finished.  

Our average pace was 7:58 per mile.  The last two miles were 7:43 and 7:37, and we could have run faster.  It wasn't race pace but it was a good, hard run.

Afterwards, we sat outside Mooney's Market & Emporium, on a picnic table, and cooled down as we drank the water we brought.   

My favorite run of the year.  Maybe my favorite run in many years.

The Last Days of the Dodgers

I'm going to write a book someday.  A book about baseball but, also, about so much more.

Things like coaching boys.  Watching your boys grow up.  Friendships forged.  Winning and losing.  Competing.  Sportsmanship.  Dealing with personal loss and grief.  Resiliency.  Teaching.

And, yes, baseball.

I'm going to call it "The Last Days of the Dodgers."

This morning, the Dodgers played our last game of the truncated spring/summer season.  It was nice to play the 8:30 a.m. game because it hadn't gotten hot yet.  Actually, it was a beautiful morning.

We lost to the Ballers for the fourth time.  7-3.  Previous losses were 5-2, 5-3, and 5-2.  I'm not going to recap this morning's game because that's not what this post is about but, in reality, it should have been a 4-3 game.  We had a couple of wild pitches that scored runs and a throw down to third that got away from Porter and allowed run to score.  The Ballers are slightly better than us but only by a run or two.  It's a good, competitive matchup for us.

It was our last game on the smaller fields (no. 3 and 4 at Warner Park).  Field 3 today.  Now, it's on to the prep field (no. 5).  Regulation baseball.  Bases 90' apart.  Pitching from 60' 6".  Just like in the big leagues.

It's a whole new ballgame.

All morning before the game and, really, during the game itself, I had one foot in the past and one foot in the present.  As I restlessly walked around on our side of the field during the game - the first base side, as we were the visiting team - my my wandered.

So many Dodgers' baseball games with this group for the past seven years.  Fall, spring, and summer.  Hot summer afternoons and cool, sometime cold, fall nights under the lights at Warner Park.

From coach pitch at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ on fields 4 and 5, nestled amongst the trees on the back of the property to machine pitch on fields 1, 2, and 3 at Harpeth Hills and Warner Park on field 2, 3, and 4.  From the first fall season of kid pitch on fields 3 and 4 at Warner Park, when the boys were eight and nine years old, struggling to learn how to steal bases, to today, watching our 12 year old boys play the game the right way.  Holding runners on, taking secondary leads, stealing bases, seeing real curve balls.

I thought about all of those games.  I saw ghosts on the baseball field.  I saw Wes, Benton, J.P., Porter,  J.K., Aidan, and Cooper, as five and six year olds, running around field 5 at Harpeth Hills after a Sunday practice, playing a game they called "diaper tag," as the parents watched, laughed, and talked amongst themselves, building the foundation of friendships that have flourished over the years.

In those days, I always marveled at the fact that the boys had as much, if not more, fun after practice than they had at practice.  And you know what?  That's the way it should have been.  And that's the way it was.

I thought about the ones that got away.

Brennan and Davis, who moved away.  I nicknamed Brennan's dad, Dan, "the Professor."  He ran the pitching for me when the boys were 7 and 8.  He was a master at making the micro-adjustments, in game, to the pitching machine that were necessary to give the boys good pitches to hit.

Ellis, from a single parent home, who more than anyone needed this team and the role modeling that all of us, as coaches, work hard to provide to the boys.  His mom simply couldn't or wouldn't get him to games and practices consistently, even though my coached and I offered to help with transportation.  She pulled him off the team mid-season, selfishly in my view.  I always hated that for Ellis.

Asher, the quiet one who joined us late and played first base and outfield.  He had talent.  His dad, also very quiet, always came to games in a Cubs hat and sat behind the backstop, reading.  I love to read, of course, but I cannot imagine reading at the ballpark while my son played baseball.

Asher drifted away from baseball which happens, of course.  Boys find other sports or don't enjoy hitting off of live pitching.  Or, sometimes, boys' parents don't enjoy baseball and the boys pick up on that.  Braden drifted away, too, after a long run with the Dodgers.    

Emerson, a girl, played with us one fall when the boys were 7 or 8.  As I recall, she was out third best hitter, a year older than most of our boys.  She played the game with such enthusiasm and joy.  It lifted everyone on the team, including coaches.  I always thought she had a crush on Wes that fall, although he was clueless.

I smiled to myself and thought about the first practice I ever lead, as head coach.  It was at Sevier Park and my father-in-law, Jim White, helped me.  We were the Red Sox that fall or spring.  I forget which but it's the only time I've coached a team that wasn't the Dodgers or Junior Dodgers.  I was nervous and, really, didn't know what the hell I was doing.  Still, Jim and I made it through that practice, and I made it through that season, and the core group of the Dodgers was on that team.  Crazy, when you think about it.

I thought about players, and families, whom we have picked up over the years.  Boys like Elijah, Ethan, Turner, and Nico.  I wish like hell they had been on the Dodgers from day 1 because they fit so well with the rest of our group.  Still, I am so glad they ended up with us and that I got to coach them.

I thought - a lot - about the love and gratitude I feel for my assistant coaches.  Chris Taylor, Tony Weeks, Randy Kleinstick, Will Wright, and Chad Poff.

The late night telephone conversations about lineups, which player is down and needs a little extra attention, scheduling, practice drills, and tournaments.  The "coaches meetings" I used to call when we would meet, after bedtime for our boys, at Edley's for a beer or two and a lot of baseball talk.

These men are the Dodgers.  They're role models for out boys, every one of them, and I love them for that.

I thought about how, when the boys were younger, after every game I would race with them out to right field to talk.  Win or lose, they ran with me, tackled each other, slid onto the ground, and we shared a few minutes together after the game.  Many times, half of them didn't know, or care, if we won or lost the game.  Yesterday, I walked with them out to right field again, for old time's sake, and spoke to them.

I told them how much I loved them.  I thanked them for this season and for giving me, and my coaches, a sense of purpose again, and providing a distraction from the stress of every day life.  I told them I was proud of them.  I told them how lucky they were to have such a great coaching staff.  

So many games on so many fields for the Dodgers over the last seven years.  I've loved every game, every inning, every pitch.  Wins and losses.  Individual triumphs and individual failures.  Lessons learned, by the boys and, of course, by me.

I don't know what the future holds with middle school ball looming for several members of our baseball team, including J.P.  I think, and hope, the Dodgers will play together in the fall on the big field at Warner Park.  We'll lose a few players but all signs point toward having most of our core group.  I hope that's the way it works out.

Either way, it's the last days of the Dodgers.  Or close to it.

And it's been one helluva ride.