Omicron

I sure as hell did not want to be here again.

Sitting in my office, having a bourbon, worried about whether my family or I am going to get the coronavirus.  I. mean, shit, I'm vaccinated and boosted.  Jude is vaccinated and boosted.  The boys are vaccinated.  Jude's parents are vaccinated.  Shouldn't that be enough?  Apparently not.

Just when it seemed like we were in the clear, I knew with certainty, that we were not.  I can recall - vividly - sitting in the same chair in my office I'm sitting in right now, on a Saturday or Sunday morning a few weeks ago, and reading about a "variant of interest" that had been identified in South Africa.  I read, with dread, how contagious the variant was and how, at least preliminarily, it appeared to be able to infect vaccinated people.  

Omicron.

Instinctively, I knew the pandemic wasn't over, not even close.  Yes, I can be a pessimist at times.  And, yes, I read so much and listen to so many podcasts that maybe, at times, I have too much information rattling around in my head about the coronavirus.  Sometimes I find it hard to strike a balance between being informed on the one hand and obsessing about the virus on the other hand.

As I read about Omicron that morning, though, I knew it was very likely already in the United States.  With globalization and the ease of worldwide travel, if it was in South Africa, it was here.  No question.

A few days later, as Jude, the boys, and I walked down 12th Avenue one evening, I glumly predicted restaurants would be closing again due to the coronavirus during or after the holidays.  Jude looked at me like I was crazy and told me I was a pessimist.  I told her I was a realist.

Sure enough, Dose (coffee shop) closed last week for a few days when several employees tested positive for the coronavirus.  Closer to home, Burger Up stayed closed a couple of extra days after Christmas, then opened to go only for a few more days.  

Europe is setting records for coronavirus infections every day as "the Omicron variant tears thorough populations with a swiftness outpacing anything witnessed over the past two years of the pandemic," according to today's New York Times.  In New York, some subway lines are suspended and coronavirus testing sites are closed because of staffing shortages due to the virus, also according to today's New York Times.  

Not that it matters much in the scheme of things but several college football bowl games have been canceled after one or both teams experienced and outbreak of the coronavirus among players and staff.  NHL, NBA, and NFL games have been postponed.  College basketball games have been postponed or canceled.  

Today, I learned that Belmont University is going to start school remotely and isn't planning on having students on campus until January 17, 2022.  I bet other colleges and universities follow suit.  In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the boys' schools, particularly USN, start the spring semester with remote learning.

Honestly, that's probably the best course of action.  At MBA, so many of the boys are traveling over the break - J.P. has had 5 out of 12 team members at basketball practice - the Omicron variant is likely to run wild through the school the first week or two the boys are back.

My law partner's wife and daughter, who is a grad student, tested positive for the coronavirus earlier this week.  It's their second bout, as they had it a year ago, too.  He tells me that many of his daughter's friends tested positive, more so than at any time during the pandemic.  He has several friends who have it, as well. It's crazy, really, and more than a little scary.

My paralegal's stepfather died this week from the coronavirus.  He was 67 years old, in good health and in good shape before he got sick immediately after spending time with family at Thanksgiving.  Sadly, he was an ardent anti-vaxxer and had not received the Covid-19 vaccine, let alone the booster.  And now he's gone, just like my college friend, Steve Bettis.

When is this all going to end?  The Omicron variant appears to be less serious than the Delta variant if one has been vaccinated and boosted.  That's a hopeful sign, obviously.  On the other hand, only 62% of the United States population is fully vaccinated and even less are boosted.  What that means, to me, is that the next six weeks to two months are going to bad.  Flights canceled, restaurants closed, and worst of all, hospitals filled with sick and dying people.  

It's all very depressing.  But, it's where we are and where we're going to be for the foreseeable future, I suppose.  I'll keep running.  My family will keep distancing, as much as we can.  We'll stay in town and close to home and, hopefully, we can get through this without serious illness.  That's my prayer - quite literally - every day.      

A Few of My Favorite Things

It's been nice the past week or so to have some down time at home.  Later bedtimes for the boys, no heavy studying routine for J.P., and overall, a slower pace for all of us.  All good things come to and end, of course, and we'll all be grinding again next week.  Still, for now, I'm having a cup of coffee and thinking about some of the things I've most enjoyed this holiday season.

• J.P. and I had an awesome 5 mile run together mid-morning of Christmas Eve.  We ran in the neighborhood, 5 miles at a 7:41 pace.  That's about as fast as I can comfortably run without exerting myself in a way that turns a training run into something more painful.  As I've said many times before, I appreciate every run I have with J.P.  At my age, I'm an injury away from having my running life significantly curtailed.  Knowing that helps me enjoy, even more, any run we have together.
• The boys and I have practiced baseball, outside, quite a bit with the help of the unseasonably warm late December temperatures.  We long tossed on the field at Christ the King a couple of day before Christmas.  An older, grandfatherly man complimented the boys on their throwing, after we finished, telling us he had coached his twin sons many years ago, when they were young.  The last two days, we've been to Rose Park.  We practiced pitching and I hit the boys some grounders.  Yesterday, I threw batting practice to them.  As J.P. is getting stronger, the baseball really jumps off his bat when he barrels it up.  
• Our latest games at home to play together, as a family, is Hearts.  We're all very competitive, of course.  Usually, I win, and J.P. gets surly and/or Joe gets upset, but not always.  There's a lot of trash talking and the ridiculous singing of an old David Bowie song by J.P., Joe, and me when one of us gives Jude the queen of spaces.  "I'm happy, hope you're happy, too.  Ashes to ashes, . . . ".
• We watched Spiderman - the original Spiderman move w/Tobey Maguire - and Joe loved it, as did I at the time it was released.  I told the boys it was, in my view, the original movie from the modern Marvel Universe.  I think it marked the point in time when the studios realized they could make a Marvel movie and multiple sequels, and people would flock to the theaters in droves to see them.
• Reading.  Lots of reading.  Always.
• I've enjoyed running, along, in the afternoons.  Although I won't hit 1,000 miles this year - too busy and two or three occasions where I took a week or so off of running due to back or knee issues, or being sick - I've had a good year of running overall.  I'm finishing strong, for sure, with my pace per mile dropping to 8 minutes or under and most of my runs four or file miles long.  I'm relatively healthy right now, which is a blessing.
• We've gotten a lot of time with Jude's parents, which is always nice.  Christmas morning, they came over to exchange gifts with us.  Last night, I made a pot of chili and we celebrated their 53rd wedding anniversary together.  
• We went to church on Christmas Eve, outside, at St. Henry's.  It was a special service and I was glad to be there with our family, Jude's parents, and Lauren Bashion and her children.

Now, I'm headed to the office for a bit, then, hopefully, I'll get home for the afternoon.  J.P. starts back with basketball practice today, so he's easing back into his routine and, I guess, I am, too.

Our Country Friends

As much as I love a well made cup of coffee, a glass of a full bodied Cabernet, a smooth bourbon w/one ice cube, and an engaging movie, there might be nothing I like more than a good book.  Nothing.

To me, reading is in some ways like taking photographs.  I take tons of photos, always searching for the one that stops my heart years after I took it.  I read a lot, all kinds of stuff.  Always - especially with novels - I'm looking for the one that moves me.  The one that resonates and stays with me.  As the years go by, I don't always find the type of book but, damn, it makes it more special when I do.

Earlier this week, in Serenbe, with the Allen's, I downloaded the novel, Our Country Friends, by Gary Shteygart.  I had seen it on various "best of" lists for 2021 but it wasn't until I read and end of year review of it in the New York T'imes Book Review that I bought it.  Damn, I'm glad I did.

Every now and then, I start a book and, immediately, I stop everything else I'm doing and read only that book.  Right or wrong, I read several books - fiction and nonfiction - simultaneously, so when I find a book that grabs me, it's a real pleasure.  And that's exactly what happened with Our Country Friends.  From the minute I started reading it, I knew it was special. 

Honestly, Our Country Friends is reminiscent of a few of my favorite novels of the past decade - The Interestings by Meg Wolitzer, Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk by Ben Fountain, and The Art of Fielding, by Chad Harbach.  All of those novels had characters I felt like I knew, or wanted to know.  I lost myself, literally, in the world the characters inhabited.  And, of course, I didn't want any of those novels to end.  

Occasionally, I recommend a book to Jude's "all girls" book club.  Rarely, they agree to read something I recommended.  Even more rarely, they let me make a cameo appearance at book club to discuss one of the books I recommended that they read.  

That happened with The Art of Fielding, much to my delight.  I read it a second time to be prepared for book club and the ensuing discussion.  One comment I recall, vividly, is that it was impossible to tell who was the main character.  Henry Skrimshander?  Guert Afflenlight?  Mike Schwartz?  Pella Afflenlight?  Owen Dunne?  The members of the group disagreed on that point.  It was a fascinating discussion, really.  The fact that different characters spoke to different members of the book club was a large part of what made The Art of Fielding such a good book, in my mind.

For me, anyway, Our Country Friends, was similar to The Art of Fielding in that I can't decide who the main character is.  Senderovsky?  Vinod?  Karen?  Masha?  Dee?  Ed?  The Actor?  It could have been any of them, or maybe all of them.

Much like The Interestings, Our County Friends involved the nuances and intricacies of friendships formed as teenagers and maintained up to and into middle age.  The setting was a farm - really, artists' colony, outside New York City at the beginning of the pandemic.  It's the first novel I've read, I think, that takes place during the pandemic.  

So much about the pandemic was unknown - to the author and the characters in the novel - during the spring and summer of 2020, the time period in which the story takes place.  I remember, vividly, the feelings of fear, anxiety, and uncertainty in the early days of the pandemic.  In some ways, those feelings have returned as the Omicron variant of Covid-19 has taken hold in the United States, particularly in New York and New Jersey.

I guess that's a long way of saying Our Country Friends was timely, for sure.  

When I finished it on the morning of Christmas Eve, I hated that it had to end.  I wanted more.  I was so stunned by the beauty of the story, and the writing, that I just sat for a few minutes and thought about characters.  Gary Shteygart, whom I had never had before, may have written the perfect novel for the time we're in right now.  That's why it reminded me of Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk, by Ben Fountain.

What a wonderful world we live in, indeed, with writers like Gary Shteygart writing novels like Our Country Friends.  It was the best book I read in 2021, by far.  

The Calm Before Christmas

It's the morning of Christmas Eve and I'm having a coffee at Crema, after being met with a locked door at Barista Parlor and a friendly barista advising me they're not opening today until 8 a.m.  

Christmas music is playing in the background and I'm sitting across from Crema's Christmas tree as I sip my coffee.  There's a few tables of coffee lovers, like me, smiling and talking quietly.  Crema is one of my favorite coffee shops in Nashville.  Very good coffee made by baristas who care about making good coffee.  Nice atmosphere.  

Generally, Crema is busier than it used to be, when it was more of a coffee outpost.  Now, the neighborhood has caught up, as buildings, apartments, and condominiums have sprouted up around them the last couple of years.  Good for Crema.

I've got a lot of wrapping to do today, and tonight.  Not my favorite thing in the world but 'tis the season.  In our guest room and in my truck, I've got boxes shipped from Amazon and elsewhere, along with items I've picked up the last few weeks for Jude, the boys, or other members or our family.  One year, someday, I'll be more organized for Christmas, but not this year.

Masks are back in force, as they should be, with the arrival of the Omicron variant of Covid-19.  I'm double vaccinated and boosted but I'm not sure that matters anymore.  It's all kind of depressing, to be honest, worrying - again - about the virus.  Nearly 900,000 Americans have died from Covid-19 and with the surge due to the Omicron variant and the holidays, soon the national death toll will hit 1,000,000.  

I distinctly remember my law partner, Mark, laughing at me in April or May 2020, when I told him in a partner's meeting that the University of California San Francisco's epidemiologists had run models that predicted 1,000,000 Americans would die from Covid-19.  In the same conversation, he laughed at me when I told him Joe Biden could win the presidency.  I'm glad I was right about the latter but I wish I had been wrong about the former. 

Still and all, now is not the time to worry about Covid-19.  Today and tomorrow - Christmas Eve and Christmas Day - is a time to be in the moment and enjoy down time with Jude and the boys.  A time to be grateful for what we have and for the opportunity to spend another holiday season together.  A time to unwind and a time to recharge.  

Last night, while I made white chili in the kitchen, Jude and the boys watched A Charlie Brown Christmas and Frosty the Snowman, at Joe's request.  It's funny, sweet, and a little bit sad, but Joe is at that age, 9, where he's a mixture of childlike innocence and preadolescent angst.  He believes, fervently, in Santa Claus and Elf on the Shelf - probably for the last season - yet he's becoming more aware of current events and their impact on family and friends.  I'll miss these days, as I miss the stroller days.

Tomorrow, Jude's parents will come over in the morning, as they typically do, to celebrate Christmas with.  Tomorrow evening, we're going to drive down to Franklin to my sister's house, which will be nice.  

Christmas, again, is upon us.   

Whatever Happened to Escondido?

In February 2013, a Nashville-based band, Escondido, released their first album, The Ghost of Escondido. Lead by classically beautiful singer/guitarist, Jessica Maros, and multi instrumentalist, Tyler James, the band's music was described alternately as indie folk or psychedelic folk.  

A part-time barista at Frothy Monkey and full-time Seattle Mariners and Seahawks fan, Grant Geertsma, played guitar in the band, as well.  I knew Grant in passing only, as we often exchanged small talk when I went to the Frothy Monkey for coffee on weekends before going to visit my mom at NHC Place before she died.  A class Nashville thing, for sure.  An acquaintance of mine played - who made me coffee and good coffee, at that - played in a band I liked completely unbeknownst to me, at least initially.

The biggest song off the first album and, I think, the band's biggest song, period, is Cold October.  What struck me first about the song was Jessica's voice, best described as haunting.  The lyrics of the song, too, stayed with me.  

Miles down the highway

I called you on the phone

Couldn't bring myself to tell you

When I had you all alone

'Cause I love you like a summer's day

Those night's spent in your arms

I said I'd never leave you

Guess I'll be doing you some harm

I'm not sure when or how I first discovered Escondido.  I think Cold October appeared in my Spotify Discovery playlist one Monday morning - probably in 2015 - and after hearing the song one time, I was hooked.  That's usually how it happens for me with a really good song, like Cold October. 

I do know that Joe and I used to listen to Cold October every day on the ride to Children's House, which would have been 2015 or 2016, when he was three or four years old.  He absolutely loved that song and I did, too.  To this day when I hear it the opening guitar chords of Cold October, I'm instantly transported back in time to those mornings Joe and I spent together before school for him and work for me.  Simpler times, yes, before Carley got really sick and my mom died.

The band had a moment, for sure, and three years later released a second album, Walking With a Stranger. I'm not sure but I don't think that album did as well as the first album.  And suddenly, like a star shooting brightly across the sky on a late summer night, Escondido was inexplicably - to me, anyway - gone.  No formal announcement of a hiatus or breakup.  Just no more shows or new music.

This being the age of social media, of course, I kept up with Jessica Maros, Tyler James, and Grant Geertsma, individually, on Instagram.  In an odd way, this made the end of the band's run harder for me to take.  Why?  I could see what they were up to, almost in real time.  And what they were up to was not making new music or playing together as Escondido. 

Jessica traveled a lot and, sadly, dealt with the death of her father.  Having fairly recently lost my mother, I could understood how hard that must have been.  Tyler built a studio at his house and kept making music.  He even produced a few songs by the Almanacks, another band that Grant Geertsma played in.  Grant got married.  In other words, life moved on for the members of Escondido and for me, too.  

Every now and then, I'd check in Escondido's Instagram feed to see if I had missed a post or if there was any news about the band?  Nothing.  

Finally, on May 19, 2021, Jessica and Tyler posted a video of the two of them sitting on a couch at her house, playing guitar and signing a song together.  By way of explanation, they had run into each other at Publix and decided to show each other their new houses.  At Jessica's house, they decided to play a song together and, I guess, to video it and post it on Instagram.  

It was breathtaking beautiful to watch them play together again but, predictably, it left me with more questions than answers.  

For one thing, how could two people front a band for several years, experience a modicum of success, then lose contact with each other to the extent that they hadn't seen the other's new house?  In the same town?  Strange, or maybe not. 

Or, how could two musicians - artists - find the chemistry some search and entire career for and stop playing together on the brink of stardom, or whatever passes for stardom in the music business these days.

For sure, bands I've loved have broken up before but usually after a longer run together.  Blue Mountain out of Oxford, MS, comes to mind.  Cary Hudson and Laurie Stirratt were married, then divorced, so it was unlikely the band would stay together indefinitely.  Also, in some form or fashion, Blue Mountain played together for more than two decades.

I felt the same way when Kelsey Kopecky - whom I had met a time or two in passing through one of our early nannies (and a professional violinist), Laura Mustan - and her band, Kopecky Family Band (later, Kopecky), broke up without any explanation that I could find.  

Similar to Escondido, the Kopecky Family Band had a fairly brief run, starting in 2007, that included the release of single, Heartbeat, that charted in the top 10 - the video for the song was filmed at Sevier Park, on the tennis courts, no less - and appearances on Kimmel and Leno, and an NPR tiny desk concert.  The bank released albums in 2013 and 2015.  

Seemingly on the edge of sustained success, the band broke up and Kelsey Kopecky embarked on a solo career that, to my knowledge, has not really resulted in any sustained success by music industry standards.

Still, whenever I hear Cold October by Escondido, I recall those mornings with Joe, six or seven years ago, on the way to school at Children's House, singing along with Jessica Maros.  That song always will remind me of Joe, at three or four years of age, and our innocent, uncomplicated mornings together before school and work.  

I'll also always wonder about what might have been, for Escondido, and about what's to come, too.  And maybe that's the point.

What It Means to be a Friend

Eight days before Christmas and I'm comfortably ensconced - if only for a few minutes - on a couch at The Factory, coffee from Honest Coffee Roasters in hand.  I'm surrounded by Christmas trees decorated by various merchants, all of them brightly lit this morning with white or colored lights.  My happy place at my favorite time of the year.  Sometimes I wish it could be mid-December forever.

Lately, I've been thinking about friendship.  What it means to be a friend.  What it means to have a friend.  A true friend.

Like most people, I have more acquaintances than friends.  Acquaintances, to me, are a type of friend, and they're a necessary part of my life.  My personality alone - the way I am wired - requires that I know a lot of people.  What I mean is that, as a classic extrovert, some part of me needs the daily interaction I get at places like Honest Coffee Roasters, Portland Brew, Burger Up, etc. w/people that work there or other regulars.  

Those are people I know and am friendly with but that aren't necessarily my friends.  Depending, I guess, on my definition of friendship.

Friends, to me, are people I share something with.  A cup of coffee or a drink.  A telephone call.  A conversation about our children or our parents.  Someone with whom I discuss what I call matters of the heart.  The good stuff.  The things that matter.

Perhaps because it's the end of the year and a time to reflect and take stock, I've been troubled, recently, by friendships that seem to be slipping away or, at the very least, lying dormant for now.  I'm thinking, in particular, of Doug, of Hal and Kim.  Longtime friends that I've lost my close connection to because of the distance between us - literally and figuratively - and where we are in our lives at the moment.  

A downside to having children late in life is that so many of my peers have raised their children and are no to the next thing.  While I wouldn't trade where Jude and I are with J.P. and Joe for anything and I love our busy life, most of my longtime friends have children in college or out of college.  In truth, we have little in common when it comes to our children.  They have been where I am but I haven't been where they are now.  It's strange but true.

The tradeoff, of course, is that I have made close, new friends that have children the same age as J.P. and Joe, mostly through sports.  Later today, for example, J.P. and I are driving to Georgia, to Serenbe, a resort community outside of Atlanta.  We're going to stay for a few days with my friends, Russ and Susanna, and they're children, Cooper and Ella.  

Just the other day, J.P., Joe and I met my friend, Will, and his son, Benton, at D-bats, so the boys could get a pitching lesson and hit in the cage.  With us was Joe's friend, Preston, from Joe's baseball team.  Preston's dad, Oliver, and I coach together.  I had coffee with Glen earlier this week, who has become a friend.  I coach his stepson, Elijah, in baseball.  

All of those people, and many more, have become my close friends over the past decade, as our boys have grown up together.  And they're all very, very important to me.  We have so much in common.  We've supported each other, in raising our boys and, really, in life.  These people are a constant presence in my life and I am better for that, for sure.

I worry, though, that my connection with, for example, Doug, and Hal and Kim, has weakened.  Doug, in Atlanta, is not the best at returning calls, and that's completely on him.  It's hard for me to stay in touch with him.

Hal and Kim, though, live walking distance from me and still, I rarely see them, and that makes me sad.  They're two of the most talented, interesting people I've ever known.  My life is richer - so much richer - because they have been in it.  The challenge, though, is they don't have children, and I do.  As a result, on occasions too numerous to count, Hal has called about getting a drink or stopping by, and I'm on the way to baseball practice, basketball practice, or fighting traffic to get home for dinner.  They're at their place on the Buffalo River a lot - I'm jealous - which makes it more challenging to get together, too.

The answer, I guess, is that I've got to plan time, monthly, or semi-monthly, to see people like Hal and Kim.  Coffee.  A bottle of wine in their back yard.  Something.  Anything.  Doug.  Hal and Kim.  Others.  

I've got more to say about this, later, and more to think about, as well.  For now, thought, The Factory is filling up with people, which is my signal it's time to get going, time to move on.  

Clients to call before I head out of town.  Loose ends to tie up.  Errands to run.  

    

At Last, A Return to St. Patrick

This morning, after an absence of almost 21 months, we're returning to church at St. Patrick. 

The four of us, fully vaccinated, and Jude and I fully boostered, plan to be in our regular spot - near the front on the right side - for the 11 a.m. Sunday morning service.  Soon to be 150 years old, St. Patrick Catholic Church hold a special place in our lives for more than 15 years.  

I've sung my favorite hymns, tears of happiness in my eyes, while I watched Jude take communion, looking radiant to me eight plus months pregnant with J.P. and later, Joe.  

I've sat in the crying room, upstairs, and watched J.P. stand on his tiptoes to peak over the lower edge of the window to see Father David (Perkin) delivery his homily.  

Countless times at the end of a church service, I've watched Father David pause at our row as he walked toward the narthex to greet parishioners, and shake hands with J.P. and Joe (standing at the end of the church pew).  As Father David smiled down at Joe, shook his hand, then walked on, Joe always scampered along the pew back to Jude, who enveloped him in a hug).  That might be my favorite, and most enduring, memory of St. Patrick.

I've shaken hands and given peace, and watched my boys do the same, to fellow parishioners, near and dear to our hearts.  Some have moved away, like Ann Kuklinski.  Some are no longer of this earth, like Dennis Donovan.

I've watched both of my boys baptized in the Catholic Church, J.P. by Father Eric (Fowlkes) and Joe by Father David, as our extended family shared our joy.

I've watched my boys hunt Easter eggs with other children in the front and back of our venerable old church.  

I've patrolled the parking lot during with my father-in-law, Jim, in the early days, before the neighborhood changed, to make sure parishioners' cars were not broken into during the Sunday morning service.

I've attended many, many Finance Committee meetings in the Rectory, my favorite being the December meetings with Father David when, at my suggestion, the members of the Committee shared wine, cheese, and other snacks, in our last meeting of the year.

I've received communion, with my family, what seems like a thousand times, and felt closer to God - even for a moment, every time.

I've watched with pride as J.P. received communion for the first time at St. Patrick, after his official First Communion at Cathedral of the Incarnation.  Today, I'll watch Joe receive communion for the first time at St. Patrick.

The boys and I have brought donuts from Krispy Kreme and set them up in the cafeteria for a little fellowship after church, too many times to count.  It was our family tradition.

I've grown to know, and love, three priests.  Father Eric, Father David, and Father (John) Hammond.

I've lit candles and prayed to our Lord for peace, health, and strength.  First, for my mother, as she was ravaged by Alzheimer's disease, and later, for me, as I grappled with the emotional reality of her death.

I could go on and on.  St. Patrick has been everything to me.  My North Star.  My compass.  It's centered me, weekly, in good times and in troubled times.  

Today, my family and I will return, masked up, to the place we belong on Sunday mornings and missed so badly.  St. Patrick.  Our church home.

JP's First Exam and the Passage of Time

As I drove J.P. to school at MBA this morning, we reminisced a bit about the passage of time.  

He has his first exam this morning - English Literature - the first of many exams he will take in middle school, high school, and college.  He admitted to being a little nervous.  Understandable.

My advice?  "Approach the exam with confidence.  Just like playing basketball or pitching in a baseball game.  With confidence.  You've put in the work.  You're ready."

I added, "If you make a 98 or an 82, are you any different of a person?  I know the kind of kid you are and you know the kind of kid you are.  That's what matters.  Nothing changes because of the grade you make."

Good advice or bad advice?  I don't know, but it's what I had for him.

I asked him how it felt to know that his first semester at MBA is almost behind him.  "Strange," he replied.  "Now, it seems like it went by so fast," he continued.  "But it seemed to go really slow while I was in it."

I chuckled and agreed.  "That's kind of the way it works," I said. 

When I see a father walking in the neighborhood with a baby or toddler in a stroller, or when I see a father roll a stroller into Portland Brew, a wave of nostalgia stops me in my tracks momentarily.  I pause, smile, and for an instant, remember the stroller days with J.P. and Joe.  

Simpler times?  Unquestionably.  Better times?  I'm not so sure about that.  Happier times?  Maybe, if for no other reason than my mom and Carley Meade were still in my life, and the boys' lives.  That's a big part of it, I think.  I find myself missing both of them lately.

I told J.P. that it seemed like, forever, I could pick him up, hold him, or throw him over my shoulders as he laughed.  Now, that seems like forever ago.  At 13, soon to be 14, he can probably pick me up. 

Time and the passage of time are such strange concepts.  

And, now, I look up from my table in the back of Portland Brew, and see a father walk in with his infant daughter, carrying her breakfast and milk, and hand her off to what looks like her nanny.

Just like I used to meet Carley at Bongo Java a lifetime ago, and hand off J.P. then later, Joe, to her as I hurried off to work.  We'd spend a few minutes together and I'd buy Carley breakfast.  The joy in the boys' faces when they saw her and the joy in her face as she hugged them.  A memory I'll never forget.

So, as I return a wave from Dierks Bentley as he picks up his morning coffee, I'll sign off.       

Joe DeRozan

For most of the fall, Joe has been working with Coach Amos, the coach of MBA's 7th grade team, in individual workouts, with his buddy, Pike.  Coach Amos had been working with JP and Jack, Pike's older brother.  Normally, he doesn't work with boys as young as Joe and Pike - who are 9 - but he made an exception because, I think, he already was working with their older brother.  

As it turns out, Coach Amos has really enjoyed working with Joe and Pike, because they're so competitive, in general and with each other.  They're best friends at this point, have played sports together for years - basketball, soccer, and baseball - and they love to get after it.  They listen and they're coachable.  I think it's been refreshing, too, for Coach Amos to give lessons to younger boys.  Less baggage than with teenagers, I suspect.  

Right now, with J.P. playing middle school basketball, Joe is the only one with games on Saturdays.  Yesterday, for example, Joe had a game at Ensworth at 11 a.m. and at St. Paul's Christian School at 3 p.m. His team won both games against lesser opponents.  I almost skipped the afternoon game to watch Alabama - UGA in the SEC title game but, at the last minute, I decided to go.  

Had I stayed at home, I would have missed a play by Joe that I'll always remember.

Early in the second half, I was sitting in the nearly empty bleachers at St. Paul's, between Jude and Oliver Davis, in a cluster of parents of our team's players.  From the start, the game was a laugher.  Our boys were playing a type of half court trap, which really just meant they were picking up the other team's ball handler at half court and trying to double team him.  It worked and our boys jumped out to an early lead.

Going right to left, in front of us, Joe took an outlet pass, probably from Cole, and started a fast break by dribbling up the left side of the court, closest to us.  Near the left sideline, he angled a bit toward the middle of the court as he drew even with the top of the key.  He had a player open ahead of him, on the left side of the basket, which would have been the safer, and more obvious, pass to make.

Instead, Joe saw Pike streaking down the right side of the course ahead of him.  There was traffic in the lane, with two or three players running through, their backs to Joe.  Dribbling with his head up the entire time, Joe pulled up suddenly, and with his right hand, threw a long bounce pass through the lane.  Not a player saw it coming except for Pike, who caught it in stride and hit the layup.

In the bleachers, the parents on both teams paused, the collectively, gasped and said, "Whoa!"  We looked at each other, stunned, and Oliver, Allan, and I fist bumped, smiling from ear to ear, as Joe ran back up the court, grinning triumphantly and twirling his right index finger in the air.  

That one play spoke volumes about Joe as a basketball player and, really, as a kid.  Confident, creative, joyful, and enthusiastic.  And, most importantly, not afraid.  Never afraid.

I call him Joe DeRozan because he's developed a midrange game as knockdown shooter on 9 foot goals the 9 year olds play on.  In fact, he hit a nice turnaround jumper in the lane during the game that he was particularly proud of because he's been working on it.

But on that pass, the one I'll always remember, Joe looked like Magic Johnson, my all time favorite player.

Indeed, it was a little bit of magic, and I was there to see it.

Nothing Left to Give

I am not sure if it was coming back after time off for Thanksgiving or what, but this was an unusually tough week at work.

I started with a pair of difficult mediations that went late both nights, but ultimately settled.  Difficult facts, excellent but demanding attorneys - those things often go hand in hand - emotional clients, and late nights.  It was a satisfying feeling to help the lawyers settle both of the cases and I was happy Wednesday morning but I quickly ran out of gas as the rest of my week got crazier and crazier.

By 9:00 a.m. Wednesday morning, I was fighting with two attorneys already, and had three long meetings to get through at work.  Thursday was similar.  That, combined with staff issues and a couple of clients in real crisis, and by Friday morning, I didn't have anything else to give . . . to anyone.  Opposing counsel, staff, clients.  I even went for a 4 mile run at 10:15 p.m. Thursday night to clear my head.  

I should have taken Friday off - a mental health day, if you will - but I couldn't because there was too much to do.  I went in my office, closed my door, and interacted little, if at all, with anyone in the office.  Of course, an unplanned client meeting appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly I had to be "on" again, at least for a couple of hours.  I managed it, then thankfully, changed into my running gear at 4:00 p.m. and ran 6 miles to Harlinsdale Farm, on the grassy trails, then back to the office. 

Being a divorce lawyer is a demanding job, at least the way I do it.  

Part of it is the job itself.  People, good people, often come to see me at the lowest point of their lives.  I am someone - a divorce lawyer - they never thought they would need in their lives.  Someone they never wanted in their lives.  At our first meeting, the people are filled with regret, disbelief, anger, disappointment, incredible sadness, anxiety, fear, and uncertainty.  Quite literally, a maelstrom of emotions.  

I connect with these people on a personal level.  That's just the way I do it.  I always maintain my objectivity but I think I have been blessed, or cursed, with the natural ability to empathize with others.  That, of course, includes my clients.  I joke and tell them I am not Dr. Phil but, in a way, I guess I am.  Although I encourage almost all of my clients to see a therapist and I am careful not get out of my lane, sometimes I think the way I do what I do - with so much empathy - places me in a similar role as a therapist, with the added responsibility of guiding them through the legal quagmire of a contested divorce case.

Honestly, I had not given this much thought until this morning, over coffee at Portland Brew, but an "empath" is defined as "a person who is highly attuned the emotions and feelings of those around him."  Science is divided as to whether there are true empaths - those who can tap into and take on the emotions of those around them.  I do not think I do that, mostly because my job - my oath - requires me to be objective, but sometimes I wonder.

Apparently, empaths are vulnerable to developing depression, anxiety, emotional burnout, or addiction.  Emotional burnout?  That hits home, at least on occasion, particularly after a week like I just had. 

I give so much of myself to my clients.  I am not saying that's the right way to do what I do for a living, but it is the way I do it.  It is the only way I know how to do it.  I care deeply for my clients, every one of them.  When I meet with them, when I talk to them on the telephone, I have to be "on."  So often, I have to be the decider and assist them in making some of the more important decisions they have had to make in their lives.  That can be a lot, again, depending on what I have on my calendar in a given week.

On top of that, when I mediate family law cases, I work incredibly hard to connect with the parties over the course of the day, as we work toward the resolution of their case.  As I think about it, I try to find where they are emotionally and meet them there, so I can better understand their point of view, process it, and effectively communicate it to the other side.  I put a whole lot of myself - all of myself, really - into the mediation process over the course of a day.  That can be all consuming but I think it is part of what makes me good at mediation. 

I am supremely confident in my abilities to help parties, and attorneys, settle difficult cases.  I am convinced that there are not five other mediators in town who could have helped the parties settle one of the cases I mediated, for two days, earlier this week.  And, afterwards, to get a hug and a handshake from both parties, in different rooms.  Is that a bit arrogant?  Probably, but I work very, very hard to prepare for mediations and to settle cases when I mediate.  

What does all this mean?  I don't know.  I have to take care of myself in a profession that can and will consume me, if I let it.  In many ways, I love what I do.  But, sometimes, when I combine what I do with managing our staff at work and mentoring my younger attorneys, it is a lot.  In fact, it can be overwhelming.  

I guess - no, I know - that's why I need to get up on Saturday morning, like I did this morning, and go get coffee, by myself, to clear my head.  It's why I have run, alone, with a podcast or music.  It's why I have to read, every night, to lose myself in a novel, a memoir, or a biography.  I have to empty my vessel, emotionally, and recharge my batteries.  

Is there a lesson here?  Probably.  Do I know what it is?  No.  But it helps to think about it and to write about it.  

Monday is a new day, a new week.     

Thanksgiving, Again, on the Mountain

Down from the Mountain and back to reality, Thanksgiving break all but over.

As the boys made one last sweep through our rental house on Tennessee Avenue in Sewanee, Jude and I shared a moment on the porch.  Arms around each other, we paused a moment or two to reflect on our holiday weekend as we took in the view of the neighborhood and the Sewanee School of Theology across the street.  

The ground carpeted with gold and red leaves on a beautiful fall morning on the Mountain.   A beautiful fall morning.  The boys rustling around inside the house, laughing and joking with each other. 

A moment to reflect for Jude and me.  A lot to be thankful for, as we near the finish line of a year of change and uncertainty.

I ran Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, five miles each time.  I've been injured or sick more this year than last year, so I've a few stretches where I've not been able to run.  Hopefully, I'll stay health and can finish the year on a high note.  I won't get 1,000 miles this year but, still and all, it's been a good year of running for me.  The runs with J.P. are always special and there have been several of those, thankfully.

The boys and I made it over to the Fowler Center to play basketball on Friday morning.  J.P., on one end of the court, ran through plays he's already learned in the week or so he's practiced with the 7th grade team at MBA.  Joe practiced layups, shooting, then we played "around the world."  

Yesterday, we all went to breakfast at the Blue Chair.  I'm not one for a heavy breakfast but I make an exception a few times a year at the Blue Chair.  Tiger Bowl, YSR omelette, domain breakfast.  It's all there and we enjoyed every bite.

We played a lot of hearts together.  In fact, last night, we took our act on the road and ate dinner at Shenanigan's, playing hearts before and after we ate.  We're all competitive, of course, so there's a lot of trash talking when we play, mixed in with complaining and gloating.  

Thanksgiving Day - with Jude's parents and Megan, James, and their kids was near perfect.  Turkey and sides from Martin's BBQ, ham, a nice red wine, and desserts from Meridee's and courtesy of J.P.'s baking ability (fudge brownies).  Great company, fellowship, and food and drink.  What more could I ask for?  

It's funny, though, when I watch Megan and James with Caroline and James, their children, I'm reminded of how much work it is to have young ones.  Really, it's exhausting just to watch Megan and James doing what parents of young children do, which is, well, everything.  I miss those days, in some ways, but I enjoy interacting with our boys in a different way, too.  

I think Caroline and James were sufficient worn out by the time they drove back to Nashville Thursday afternoon.  Before Thanksgiving dinner, we played on the football field and they made a quick jaunt to the soccer field across the street.  Megan sent us pictures of both kids - crashed - on the ride home.

So, now it's back to work.  The home stretch before Christmas.  I love this time of year.  It's time to buy a Christmas tree and put up our Christmas decorations.  Speed up, then slow down for Christmas.        

 

What's Been Lost

I've been thinking a lot lately about what's been lost - on a personal level - because of the pandemic.  

Yesterday, in particular, I found this topic turning over in my head, as we celebrated Thanksgiving on "the Mountain" with Jude's parents, Jane and Jim, and her brother and sister-in-law, James and Megan, and their children.  This is our second year in a row to spend Thanksgiving at Sewanee.  Actually, we're staying in the same house on campus, on Tennessee Avenue, we stayed in last year.

The juxtaposition of sharing Thanksgiving dinner with Jude's family on the same day the news broke of the discovery of yet another Covid-19 variant in South Africa - one that appears, early, to have the ability to escape the vaccine - was jarring.  

For me, and for us, it strikes me that the biggest loss was time spent with Jude's parents.  When I stop to think about it, we have not seen them regularly since March or April 2020, when our city, Nashville, and so many other cities shut down because of the pandemic.  That's 20 months and counting, which is why the thought of another, more Covid-19 variant is so depressing to me.  Things just seemed to be on the verge of normalizing and we have been seeing her parents more, then this.

We stopped going to church at St. Patrick, which was tough for us because we're a family that's in church every Sunday.  Several years ago, Jane and Jim joined St. Patrick, so we were used to seeing them every Sunday morning.  Many times, too, we ate lunch together, or celebrated one milestone or another at our house after church.    

The really hard part, it seems, is that the time we have lost with Jude's parents is irreplaceable.  We're not going to get it back and neither are they.  It's gone like the perfect summer day, one you didn't want to end but knew that it would.  Afterwards, it's just a memory.  

And speaking of memories, how many memories have we lost?  Of times with Jude's family or mine?  Of trips to the beach not taken?  Of a trip to Disney not taken?  How many sleepovers for the boys have been lost?  How many nice meals, together, at local restaurants?  

Having been through what I went through with my mom, I know the value of time with one's parents, or grandparents.  I've dreamed of my mom a couple of nights, recently, and I wonder if it's because I've been pondering this concept of losing time because of the pandemic.  I would give anything for another week - another day - with my mom, even near what I didn't know was going to be the end, when she was so diminished.  

I'm desperately afraid that Jude, or J.P. and Joe, are going to regret the time with her parents that has been lost because of the pandemic.  I don't want that.  I really don't.  

Of course, the other end of the equation is as hard to accept, if not harder.  Jane and Jim have lost 20 months of regular, consistent time with their grandchildren.  J.P. and Joe, yes, but also Caroline and James in Charlotte, NC.  What about the memories they haven't gotten to make?  That's a real tragedy.  To me, anyway.

Yes, it's Thanksgiving, and I'm at home on the the Mountain, where I feel more and more like I belong.  And I have so much to be thankful for, including a 5 mile trail run, yesterday, with J.P. on the Mountain Goat Trail, and another 5 mile solo run to the Cross today. 

But I want this pandemic to be over.  I want our lives to return to normal.  I want to travel out of state.  I want to spend time with Jane and Jim.  I want to return to St. Patrick.  I want to stop worrying about the mutations of the virus or the latest Covid-19 variant.  

Is that too much to ask?  

 

A Boy for All Seasons

Because the Music City Marathon was moved to mid-November - this morning, actually - I find myself at Sump Coffee in One Nashville Place.  Not one of my regular Saturday morning coffee haunts.  Sump, out of St. Louis, makes great coffee, though, so I'm good.  Tucked away in a corner with only a couple of other early morning coffee lovers in the shop.

J.P. made the MBA 7th grade basketball team last week and had his first scrimmage game yesterday afternoon after school.  His team got smoked by the 8th grade B team, which was to be expected.  J.P.'s group only has had four practices and, as a result, they haven't had time to learn the offense.  Realistically, at this point, J.P. is probably the sixth man, playing point or two guard.

He missed all four shots yesterday but handled the ball well against pressure and made some nice passes.  As always, I'd like him to be a little more aggressive, and confident, but that will come with time this season.  The thing I'm the most excited about, for him, is to have the opportunity to play basketball and be coached, hard, for the next three months.  I'm curious to see how much he improves just by having the basketball in his hand every day.  

Basketball ends in mid-February, then it's on to baseball.  I feel fairly confident he'll make the middle school baseball B team, particularly with his pitching, but we'll have to wait and see.  

It's funny, now, that one of my biggest concerns about J.P. switching schools from USN to MBA was that he might not good enough to make any of the sports teams.  That hasn't proven to be the case, though. 

I felt like, academically, the challenge and the change would be good for him, and it has been.  He studies, hard, every night, and is self-motivated.  We never have to tell him to go study.  And, so far, his grades have been good, all A's for the first quarter and at the mid-second quarter, too.  No small feat at MBA.  The school work is hard but J.P. takes a lot of pride in being prepared and doing well in his classes.  He's a rule follower and thrives in structure, which he gets in spaded at MBA.

His success in sports, relatively speaking, has been a bit of a revelation.  

His success in cross country was unexpected, at least the level of success.  As I've written before, I thought he would do well but I didn't think he would win meets.  I sure didn't think he would win meets convincingly.  

When he decided to try out for the soccer team, I was a bit surprised.  He hadn't played soccer in a couple of years, in large part because the experience he had playing for Coach Gordon at FCA wasn't a good one.  The team was disorganized, several of his teammates quit, and the coaching was subpar, at best.  I continued to be surprised, pleasantly, when he made the middle school soccer B team.  

While I'm not the biggest soccer guy, for sure, I love watching my sons compete, in anything.  J.P. played well, especially as a defender, and his team was undefeated.  Just as he always has in soccer - and in basketball - he saw the field better than most of his teammates, as a result of which he moved the ball and passed it extremely well.  He was physical when he needed to be, which always has been my favorite part about watching him play soccer.  His ball skills need work but for having been away from the sport for a couple of years, he played well.

For a large part of the fall, he's been doing one-on-one basketball workouts with Coach Amos at MBA.  I think the workouts have helped him tremendously.  He recognizes what he needs to work on and he has a better understanding of what Coach Amos wants him to do and how he wants him to play.  This, of course, is helpful, as Coach Amos is one of the middle school basketball coaches.  

J.P. has far exceeded where I was as an athlete at his age.  His versatility across a variety of sports - and even within each sport - is impressive, and I'm a pretty tough critic.  I'm not sure there are many other boys in his grade who have played three different school sports, and may well play a fourth one, in 7th or 8th grade.  

I'm very proud of him, again, because of how hard he works, academically and athletically.  J.P. has an inner drive that I'm not sure I had at his age.  A determination.  A toughness.  I like that,  No, I love that, to be truthful.  Sure, I want him to be more confident, to be more vocal, when he plays sports, but I think that will come with time and experience.

I wonder where he will be in two or three years.  Probably, by then, he will have narrowed down his sports participation to a couple of sports.  But, for now, I'm going to enjoy the ride, and appreciate the opportunity to watch him compete with his classmates.  

MBA has been a great experience for him, so far.  Everything Jude and I hoped it would be, and that's huge, for him and for us, as parents.  

  

The Last Days of the Dodgers

The Dodgers - my Dodgers - played their last games of the fall season on a glorious fall morning at Warner Park while I sat in a classroom, downtown, in the third day of six days of mediation training.  

There I was, stuck, getting text messages from my players' dads in a futile effort to keep up with how my guys were playing, and how J.P. was playing.  Missing the last two games of the fall season - maybe the last two games I would have coached some of these players - absolutely crushed me.  I love these boys so much.  As I've said many, many times, I love them like they're mine.  Every damn one of them.

I like to think I am man of many words.  Too many, sometimes.  Still, I find myself without words sufficient to describe how much these boys - these Dodgers - mean to me and how much I treasure all of the time we spent together on baseball fields across middle Tennessee the past nine years.  The memories I have of our time spent together will endure for the length of may life and sustain me, I hope, on my inexorable journey into old age.  

I remember my very first practice as a head coach.  The makeshift, all grass, non-baseball field at Sevier Park.  Nothing but tall grass and a rusted, dirty backstop.  No infield.  No bases.  My father-in-law, Jim White, was there with me.  I was nervous and, quite literally, had no idea what in the hell I was doing.  We probably practiced running to first and, maybe, played catch, although I have no memory of the practice itself.  I got through it and away we went.  

I remember the ones that got away from the earliest days of coach pitch and machine pitch baseball.  Brennan Ayers and Davis Joyner, both of whom moved to Florida with their families.  Later, I lost Braden Sweeney, Aidan Poff, and Porter Weeks.    

Coach pitch baseball was so much fun.  Me, sitting on the empty, upside down bucket I carried the baseballs in, while pitching underhanded to my players from five or ten feet away.  Encouraging the boys to knock me off the bucket by driving a ball back up the middle and making a big show of falling off the bucket when they did to gales of laughter.  

I remember Benton Wright - one of the "Core Four" that played with me all the way through - as my most serious five year old, carefully placing his glove and hat on the bench, then grabbing his batting helmet and bat when it was time to hit.  Now Benton is my tallest kid, by far, best hitter, and hardest thrower.  I've seen him, literally, hit three batters in a row in the back, then strike out the side.  My guy 'til the end.   

Benton's dad, Will, always present, graciously and selflessly running the dugout game after game.  In those days, I believe, Will sat the boys in order by their uniform number and we batted them 1 - 12 or 12 - 1, alternating from game to game.  Later, Will kept the lineup and the scorebook for me, then used the Gamechanger App the past few years.  Will always kept order in the dugout, which is not an easy task.  So many dugout conversations with Will over the years, telephone calls, e-mails, and texts, all about the Dodgers.

I remember an end of season league tournament game - machine pitch - on field #4 at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ, when J.P. just missed making a tough play at second base.  With the tying run on third base and the winning run on second base, though, he fielded the next ball hit, a hot shot again to second base, and threw the batter out at first base.  J.P.'s teammates mobbed him as I watched from the first baseline, so proud.  

So many losses to our rivals, the Dirtbags, in the early years.  We just couldn't get over the hump against them.  I remember the end of season tournament final, also machine pitch, on field 2 at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ, when Benton threw a boy out at first to end the game and secure our first win over the Dirtbags, only to have the umpire - a 17 or 18 year old boy - panic and miss the call as Pat Lawson yelled "safe" from the third baseline.  We tied that game.  I was devastated because I wanted my boys to get a win over the Dirtbags.

Later, at Warner Park, I remember coaching Joe's Junior Dodgers on field 2, when several of the Dodgers came running over from field 3 after beating the Dirtbags for the first time.  They were walking on air, so excited, and I was damn proud of them.  I think our boys were 10 or 11 then and, after that, the tables turned and we rarely, if ever, lost to the Dirtbags again.  Persistence paid off, as it usually does.  

All the time spent on the baseball field, at practices and games, with Chris Taylor, Randy Kleinstick, Will Wright and, before he and his son, Porter, left for greener pastures, Tony Weeks.  My good and, hopefully, lifelong friends, all of these men.  Role models to our boys.

So many memories.  

The first home runs hit by Wes Taylor, Elijah Luc, and Benton Wright.  Wes throwing a knuckleball in a game for the first time.  Ethan Deerkoski's first curve ball in a game, baffling to the boys trying to hit it.  

A run to the state championship, in Lawrenceburg, when the boys were 11 years old.  That baseball season is a chapter in a book unto itself, for sure.  So much going on behind the scenes, trying to blend our team with the boys we added from Bellevue and, that season, running two 11/12 year old teams with 18 or 19 players on our roster.  

As I stood at the church at visitation for my mom, my heart breaking, I looked up and saw my entire Dodgers team walking toward me.  For the length of what I hope will be a long life for me, I never will forget the sight of those boys, my Dodgers, walking toward me, hugging me, supporting me in my darkest hour.  

So many times over the past decade, the baseball field was an oasis for me.  A place where I could forget my mom's declining health, as I helplessly watched Alzheimer's disease steal away with her mind and memories, day by day.  A place where I could forget about the stresses of a thriving family law practice and my client's pressing and important problems.  A place where - for an hour or two - I was "Coach Phil" to a bunch of boys playing baseball, many of whom I'd known since they were four or five.  

I've always said it - and it's true - the boys who played baseball for me taught me a lot more than I taught them.  

I could tell stories, and recount memories - snapshots in time - of every boy who has played for me.  And, maybe, one day I will.  But not here in this space, at least not today.

I've had a feeling for a while now that our run - the Dodgers' run - was nearing the end.  Actually, I thought that might be the case last fall, then again last spring.  Still, we stayed together as a group, a team, and played together again this fall, in an abbreviated season marked by an unusually high number of rainouts and a burgeoning controversy involving the efforts of the Wicked Witch of West Nashville - Jenny Hannon - to dismantle the Heriges Field at Warner Park and for Friends of Warner Park to eliminate baseball an flag football at Edwin Warner Park.  But, that's another story.

I don't know what the future holds for the Dodgers but I suspect our group will look different in the spring if we play together again.  Part of me - a big part of me - would like to form a tournament baseball team with the boys who are committed to baseball as their main thing, their priority.  We have a nucleus of boys who could do that, I think, especially if I hired hitting and pitching coaches.  The boys would be competitive with a couple of additions to our roster.  I'm sure of that.

But, for now, it's the offseason.  J.P. made the basketball team at Montgomery Bell Academy and Joe is playing on two basketball teams.  Grayson Murphy is embarking on his final season at Belmont U., and I want to take my boys to as many of his games as I can.  Baseball can wait.

What I really, really want to do is plan a party for all of the boys (and families) who have ever played for me.  I want to collect everyone's photos in a shared Google album.  I also want to take my coaches out to dinner over the holidays.  I want all of those things, badly.

And I want to take a few more quiet moments, sipping a cup of coffee, or my favorite bourbon, and reflect on this group of boys - the Dodgers - and magical, memorable ride we've taken together for almost 10 years. 

The Core Four, Jonathan Kleinstick, Wes Taylor, J.P., and Benton Wright.

 

Winn Hughes, Will Hughes and Ethan Deerkoski.

Benton Wright and Will Wright after a game last spring.

Also, the Core Four.  Will Wright, me, Randy Kleinstick, and Chris Taylor.

One more of the Core Four.  Benton Wright, Wes Taylor, J.P., and Jonathan Kleinstick.

J.P., baseball manager in training.  At Oldtimer's Field in Shelby Park.

Dodgers forever. Impromptu team photo at Heriges Field after a game last spring.

 

Mediation Training 2.0

This evening, I finished my sixth and final day of mediation training at David Lipscomb's downtown campus.  Thursday, Friday, and Sunday last week, and Thursday, Friday, and Saturday this week, 8:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m.  

Through a set of circumstances too convoluted to go into here, my staff and I didn't pay the annual fee to renew my family and civil mediation listing with the Tennessee Supreme Court when it was due.  I was told my the Administrative Office of the Courts that I had to repeat the mediation training course to regain my Rule 31 listing in Tennessee.  I also was told there was no exception to this requirement.

So, after 15 years of mediating between 750 - 850 family law cases - many of which involved the division of marital estates valued at tens of millions of dollars, or more; or divorces where the parties were professional athletes, songwriters, or reality television stars; or child custody cases of all shapes and sizes; I went back to school.  48 hours of family mediation training over the past two weeks.  

The good news?  I won't need any CLE hours for quite a while.  The bad news?  I was out of the office for four of the past 10 days. 

All in all, though, I thoroughly enjoyed the training.  It helped that the facilitator, or teacher - Cynthia Greer - was excellent.  Well educated, well credentialed, a very experienced mediator, and just an amazing educator.  It helped, too, that I approached the class with a positive attitude.  I was there to listen, to learn, and to add something to the class, hopefully, based on my experience.   

What I realized pretty quickly, though, is that it was nice to be in an academic setting again - at least for a few days - and to disconnect from the day-to-day realities of my law practice.  For me, too, it was worthwhile, even necessary, to revisit the basic concepts of mediation and the psychology behind mediation, in the context of taking a cold, hard look at how I perform as a mediator.  

Am I skipping steps because I've been doing it for so long?  Probably.  Are there things I can do better, as a mediator?  Certainly.  Are there things I do well as a mediator, instinctually, based on my personality, or because of my experience?  Unquestionably.

As was the case 15 years ago when I completed Jean Munroe's mediation training class, I enjoyed interacting with the other members of our class.  It's an intense experience - particularly with the role playing exercises at the end of each day - and that brings the members of the class closer together and creates a bond, of sorts, between them.  That happened 15 years ago and it happened with this class, too.

On the first day of the class, last week, we introduced ourselves.  I was certain I knew one of our class members - Lori - but I just couldn't place her.  I even e-mailed the office and asked if anyone knew her.  We talked at the first break and, sure enough, we did know each other.  A decade ago, we served on the board together at Children's House.  Her oldest daughter was J.P.'s age and I immediately recalled she and I sitting together at most of our board meetings, probably because we were both lawyers.  

Life is funny, isn't it?  We got caught up with each other at breaks or during lunch and it was great to hear about her three girls and, really, to compare notes on raising our children.  

I sat next to Clarke, a state senator in Arkansas.  Great guy.  We had some good and interesting discussions about politics, on the state an national level.  About raising children, too. 

The group, in general, was awesome.  Diverse, for sure.  Also, some lawyers, some counselors, and some that were neither.  All, though, with a desire to mediate. 

One thing I learned - or, really, confirmed, about myself - is that I want to teach.  Many times, during our sessions, other class members looked to me to add commentary based on my experience, as a mediator and as a lawyer.  I liked that, a lot.  Several class members, at different times, thanked me for speaking up and giving my opinion on a variety of subjects we were covering.  I felt like my participation enhanced their experience and that made me happy. 

It was a good six days, time well spent for me.  Memorable. I feel rejuvenated as a mediator.  I'm ready to apply some of the things I learned and to refocus on some things I already knew.  

Let's go!

     

When We Were Lions

The past few days, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be young and what it means to be old.  

At age 55, I wonder what it is - beyond the obvious - that's lost on the trip from young to old?

The death of may friend, Steve Bettis, hit me hard, as it did so many of my contemporaries.  I've been in a contemplative mood since I returned from Chattanooga Saturday afternoon, trying to find the meaning of Steve's death, and a life ended prematurely.  What's the lesson in all this or is there one?  

I saw fraternity brothers I hadn't seen in 10 or 20 years, or longer.  It was jarring, frankly, to see - all in one place, all at one time - so many faces from college, from my youth.  Some I recognized, some I didn't.  Many of them, though, looked like old men, or at least older men.  Grayer.  Heavier.  Tired, like life had won a prolonged fight with their youth.  It was almost painful to see.

So many of those guys - especially the ones with whom I'm not particularly close - I remember as young men, boys really, in college.  Youthful.  Clear eyed.  Vigorous.  Carefree.  Innocent.  Life staring at them - and me - like an open road, waiting patiently to be traveled on, destination unknown.  

Now, the end of the road is nearer then ever before, and that's unsettling to me.  Frightening, even. 

How did I get from college to age 55 so quickly?  What have I learned and what have I lost?  Not enough and too much, I fear.  

The college experience is an intense one.  Everyone is on their own for the first time.  No real adult supervision.  Learning to live, every day.  Friendships and relationships form.  Hearts are broken.  All in a four year or, in my case, five year span.  A season of life that passed too quickly but is ingrained in my memory like no other time in my life. 

After a mediation today, I walked around downtown Nashville while I was talking on my cell to Carl P., my close friend from high school, college, and law school.  We reminisced about our early days practicing law, and talked about which attorneys and recently retired and who had died.  

It felt like the first real day of fall - a real chill in the air on a beautiful late afternoon - and I couldn't help but marvel at how much downtown Nashville had changed since I walked the streets there every day in the mid-1990's while I worked at Manier, Herod.  New buildings, new hotels, new bars, new restaurants.  The Arcade a shell of its former self.  

I thought about lawyers - mentors - lost.  Steve Cox, Bobby Jackson, DonYoung, Mark Hartzog.  

I guess, in the end, the memories are what we have and what we hold dear.  Of old friends and of times one our life that are gone, never to return.      

Steve Bettis

I'm sitting, alone, at a table Goodman Coffee at Warehouse Row on a grey and rainy day in downtown Chattanooga, trying and failing to understand a world in which a perfect healthy 55-year old man can die of Covid-19 in less than two weeks. 

Steve Bettis was my fraternity brother (Kappa Sigma) at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, when we were in school in the mid-1980's.  Beyond that, he was a husband, a father, a leader, a sports fan, and a friend.  

Steve and I didn't run in the same circles the last several years, in part because like so many of my college friends, he had children way before I did.  Still, I kept up with him through his annual golf trips with my law partner Mark, and friend, T.B., our participation in the Shortycorp football pool, and a network of mutual friends.  

College is such an emotionally intense memorable period of life.  At least, it was for me.  So many moments stand out for me, almost all of which involve my fraternity brothers.  Parties, intramural sports, road trips, football games, class, playing basketball or shooting pool at the fraternity house, or just sitting around, wasting time, and talking.  College seemed to last forever and, yet, it was over in a minute.  My memories of those years - 1984 to 1988 - survive and amazingly, Steve Bettis appears in almost all of them.

In my life, I don't think I've ever known anyone as enthusiastic and fun-loving as Steve.  As I write this, I can hear Steve laughing - a kind of roar that originated deep inside him and erupted like a volcano.  I can see him grinning, clapping me on the back, and grabbing me in a bear hug so hard it hurt.  Yelling my college nickname, one only he continued to use, 35 years later.  

"Butthead!"  And me, smiling sheepishly, hugging him back, and silently marveling at his outsized personality, genuine kindness, and friendliness, all wrapped up in one bone crushing bear hug. 

Steve was a force of nature.  A category five hurricane.  When he shined his light on you - and his light always, always shined brightly - you felt a reassuring warmth that made you happy to be alive.  

To know Steve, even in passing, was to love him and to be loved.  That was part of his gift, I think.  He had a heart the size of Texas and the singular ability to love others unabashedly and, in return to accept others' love.  

To me, Steve was indestructible.  A rock.  The heart and soul of my group of guys in our fraternity in the time we were there and later, as well.  For his family, Vivian, and his children Owen and Olivia - to lose him to Covid-19 is beyond tragic.  It's unfathomable.  

The memorial service today at the Baylor School in Chattanooga was pitch perfect but so very, very sad.  Watching my brother, Steve Short and Mike Dixon, eulogize Steve, broke my heart.  I feel numb.  We all feel numb.

Rest In Peace, Steve Bettis.  

AEKDB.

Wildflowers and All the Rest

Last week, on October 20, 2021, on what would have been Tom Petty's 71st birthday, Joe and I went to the  Belcourt Theatre for the world premiere of his the new documentary about the making of his seminal album, Wildflowers.  The documentary, "Somewhere You Feel Free," was shown at theaters worldwide for one day only.

Tom Petty, of course, was my guy, and the Heartbreakers were my band.  His death four years ago on October 2, 2017, crushed me.  As I've said before - and I'm stealing this quote from Jason Isbel - his music was the soundtrack to my life, in so many ways.  

This post isn't about that, though, at least not entirely.  What this post is about is how the music Tom Petty created over a 40 + year career has strengthened the bond between Joe, 9, and me.  

Joe loves Tom Petty and Heartbreakers in the say way I do.  I can't explain it other than to quote Emily Dickinson in saying "the heart wants what it wants."  Joe's his own man - always has been - so I don't believe he's a Tom Petty fan because I am.  Something about the songs, and the music, speak to him and touch his heart.  Just like his old man.

J.P., Joe, and I share a lot of things, like a love of sports.  Some things, though, I share more with one or the other, and that's okay, too.  J.P. and I read the His Dark Material Trilogy (Philip Pullman), loved it, and discussed it at length during the first year of the pandemic.  Joe and I are share a love for Tom Petty's music.

I had purchased tickets a few weeks ago, almost as an afterthought, when I saw an Instagram post about it on Tom Petty's feed.  I was excited - and so was Joe - when the stars lined up and I didn't have a conflict on my calendar. 

I left the office early and picked Joe up from school, then zipped over to the Belcourt.  I've been a member over the years and it's my favorite venue to watch a movie.  Several times over the years, I've slipped out after the boys were in bed and walked or biked down to the Belcourt, my myself, to watch an independent film or documentary.  

Once, Jude took me to see Lucinda Williams play guitar and sing, with her father reading original poems in between her songs.  Now that was a night I'll never forget, particularly since I was so sick with the flu I could barely sit up straight.  Still, one of the best shows I've ever seen.

The theater was at half capacity for the matinee screening, which made me feel more comfortable being there with Joe.  Also, everyone was masked up, thankfully.  It felt a bit odd to be back in a movie theater for the first time in more than 18 months.  I've missed the communal experience of watching a movie together with strangers.  Such a human thing to do.

Joe was, by far, the youngest person in the theater.  Any doubts I had about how he would handle watching a documentary film were quickly erased, as I could see he was transfixed by the footage of Tom Petty and the band rehearsing songs that made their way onto Wildflower.  The studio footage, the interviews (then and now), all of it.  Joe watched intently, smiling as images of Tom Petty playing some of his favorite songs flickered on the screen in front of him.  

Of course, I smiled, nodded my head, and tapped my foot to the music.  All of these great songs on Wildflower, released on November 1, 1994, when I was in Knoxville, in my second year of law school, 28 years old.  Even now, when I hear one of the songs on the album, my mind immediately expects the next song, in sequence, to be played.  That's how many times I listened to that album when it was released.

Joe and I fist bumped each other several times during the move when a song we loved was played.  When the movie ended, the audience clapped, and Joe and I stood up from out seats near the front and began to walk to the exit in back of the theater.  I saw more than a few people with tears in their eyes or on their cheeks.  

As Joe and I walked outside into the setting sun of a beautiful fall evening, I took his hand in mine and asked him how he liked the movie.

"It was awesome," he replied.  "I almost cried a couple of times, because it was sad, but I smiled a whole lot, too."

"Me, too," I said, as I marveled at the purity of Joe's innocence at 9 years of age, his way with words and his true, true heart.

I held his hand a little tighter and we walked to my truck in the falling twilight.

  

Time Passages

I'm not sure why but this morning felt like the end of something and the beginning of something else.

With Jude and Joe still in Monteagle for the end of fall break, J.P. and I had the house to ourselves last night when we arrived home.  As much as I enjoy family time, it's always good to have some alone time with J.P. or Joe. 

On the drive home, J.P. and I listened to one of my favorite Bill Simmons' podcasts of the year, the NBA over/under edition (w/Russillo and House).  It's not lost on me how lucky I am to have a son - two sons actually - who love sports as much as I do.  J.P. and I talked NBA basketball the entire rid home.

I picked up takeout from Burger Up and we watched the Dodgers-Braves NLCS game together until he went to bed about 9:30 p.m.  I gave him the option of staying up until the end of the game but he chose to go to bed, on time, on a school night.  That's J.P.  Responsible kid and a rule follower, like his mother.

I watched the end of the game (another Dodger late inning loss), then foolishly stayed up late, in bed, finishing an Ace Atkins (Quinn Colson) plot driven thriller I was reading on my iPad.  I wasn't particularly tired, possibly because I - also foolishly - drank a 20 ounce Red Bull on the way home from Monteagle.  Then, our damn cat, Mini, spent most of the prowling restlessly through the house, meowing loudly, probably pissed because I hadn't let her outside when we got home last night.

Suffice to say, I was tired this morning and somewhat surprised when J.P. walked into our room, downstairs, and said, "Good morning, dad," at just past 6:30 a.m.  I'd slightly overslept.  as I climbed out of bed, he added, "I can fix my own breakfast."  

And he did.  Scrambled eggs, toast, a banana, cheese, and a glass of milk, which is exactly what I would have made for him had I been on my game this morning.  We like our boys to eat real breakfasts, not an instant breakfast, like a Pop Tart or a granola bar.  So, while I showered, shaved, and put my suit on for work, J.P. quietly and diligently made himself a real breakfast.   

As parents, Jude and I are trying to raise our boys to be independent and self-sufficient.  J.P. is on the way there, so it seems.

I was proud and strangely enough, a little sad.  My oldest son is growing up before my eyes.  J.P. needs me, still, but maybe not quite as much as he used to.

And that's as it should be. 

Another Morning on the Mountain

Friday morning on the Mountain.  Quietude, a word a love.  Watching the Sewanee campus wake up from the front porch of Stirling's, one of my favorite coffee shops. 

Students straggle in for breakfast before morning classes.  Tired and mumbling quietly to each other.  Faculty walk up the front steps, too, looking for their morning coffee.  More energy.  Parents - teachers at Sewanee or St. Andrews Sewanee - comparing notes about their young children.  A woman and her two dogs walk in front of me, in my rocking chair on the front porch.  There's such a sense of community on campus up here. 

Playing in the background, "Rich Girl," by Hall and Oates.  A staple from the mid '70's.  A light fall breeze rustles the multicolored leaves in the trees shading the front porch of Stirling's and across the street, as well.  

A perfect morning?  Pretty damn close.

As I've written in this space so often before, things move at a slower pace on the Mountain, even on campus.  Maybe I move at a slower pace when I'm here because I'm away from work and home.  

Yesterday was our first full day at Three Dog Farm, a place we've never stayed before.  The boys kayaked and canoed and fished in the lake.  JP caught seven fish for the day, fishing from the small, anchored dock in the middle of the lake.  Joe caught a solitary fish, which JP had to remove from his line after he kayaked back out to the dock to help.

JP and I ran 4 miles on the Trail of Tears greenway.  At my urging, he left me the last mile.  A passing of the torch?  Perhaps, although I'm still congested and fighting a sinus infection.  The Z-pack I'm taking doesn't help my breathing when I run.  That's what I'm telling myself, anyway.  Either way, he's a damn strong runner, a point of pride for me, for sure.  

Yesterday afternoon, we rented bicycles on campus from Woody's Bicycles.  JP and I rode around campus for a bit.  While Joe and I worked on teaching him to ride a bicycle - that's a story in and of itself - JP rode around campus some more and Jude walked on Abbo's Alley, a favorite hike of hers.

We finished the day with an early dinner on the porch at the grill at Sewanee's golf course.  Mozzarella sticks and burgers, as we watched a Sewanee golf team member practice from the team's facility adjacent to the 9-hole golf course.  After dinner, JP and I rode our bicycles back to Woody's, locked them up, then drove to our place.

After Joe went to bed, JP, Jude and I - and a white cat with different colored eyes we've temporarily named "Max" (after Dodgers' pitcher, Max Scherzer) - crowded together in the bed in the master bedroom and watched the Dodgers beat the hated Giants, 3-2, to clinch a spot in the National League Championship Series.

No cable, so JP "mirrored" by iPad to the bedroom television, so we were able to watch the game on TBS. There were a few technical difficulties late in the game, when we had audio only.  Still, Bellinger got the game winning hit, and the Dodgers move on.

Time for me to move on, too, to the grocery store, as "Everybody Wants to Rule the World," by Tears for Fears, plays in the background.  Mid '80's, complete one hit wonder, but the song survives.