Memorial Day on the Mountain

We're back on Monteagle Mountain, our home away from home, for the Memorial Day holiday weekend.

The boys' last day of school was Thursday.  J.P. had a baseball game that evening and as soon as it was over, Jude and the boys drove up to Ben Phillips' cabin in Monteagle, where we've stayed several times and made many happy memories over the past two or three years.  

Jude and the boys are playing golf at Sewanee.  I just finished a seven mile run on the Trail of Tears Greenway - with a first time detour on the Dimmick Trail - and I'm sitting on the back deck of the cabin, drinking a Bearded Iris Tunnel Vision IPA and listening to my favorite playlist on Spotify.  The birds are singing and the leaves are rustling as a slight breeze blows through the trees.  The temperature is in the mid-60's, there isn't a cloud in the sky, and my view is breathtakingly beautiful.  Later tonight, we're picking up two racks of smoked ribs from the Blue Chair at Sewanee.    

It doesn't get much better than this, for sure.  Maybe that's why Lucinda Williams is singing "Blessed," as I write this.  Coincidence?  I think not.

I love it here in Monteagle.  It feels like home.  So many memories made and so many memories to make, I think.  We're going to buy - or build - a place here, sooner rather than later.  That I do know.  

For me, there is magic on the Mountain.

Friday evening, we drove over to the baseball field and played Blitz Ball.  Jude and me vs. J.P. and Joe.  Pitcher's hand (I'll explain later).  I batted left handed, as I usually do, and hit a couple of jacks.  Still, the boys won, as they usually do.  

Jude's favorite part, no doubt, was seeing what appeared to be a Northern Bobwhite laying on it's eggs, right in front of the pitcher's mound.  We ordered dinner - takeout - from Papa Ron's.  Always a go to and a favorite of the boys. 

Yesterday, we played tennis on the indoor courts at Sewanee.  An exit door to the indoor tennis courts was propped open and we walked in with our tennis gear and had the entire facility to ourselves.  Classic Sewanee and one of the things I love the most about the college and its campus.  Open to all.  We stopped by the Sewanee bookstore, then ate lunch at the Blue Chair.  I went for a late afternoon six mile run on the Trail of Tears Greenway.  Jude made spaghetti and we watched "Formula 1 - Drive to Survive."  A perfect day, as most of them are on the Mountain.

This morning, we hiked the 1.9 mile Fiery Gizzard Trail, one of Jude's favorites.  Lunch at home, after which Jude and the boys left to play golf and I went for a run.  

Over the past few years, we've been here in the summer, when it's relatively hot but 5 to 10 degrees cooler than Nashville.  We've been here when it's snowed like crazy.  Big, beautiful snowflakes.  We've been here in the fall, when the leaves on the trees are an explosion of colors.  And, now, we've been here in the spring.  

As Jude so aptly noted today, "time slows down" on the Mountain.  At least, for us is does.   

 

Sunrise, Sunset

Thursday is J.P.'s last day at University School Nashville, his home for the past seven years.  Predictably, I have mixed emotions.

I remember - like yesterday - the Friday morning Jude and I lay in bed made the final decision that J.P. would to to USN rather than the Oak Hill School.  Dear Juliet Douglas, USN's admission director and public ambassador, sent the sweetest e-mail to us after she arrived at school that Friday morning and learned that J.P. would be starting at USN in the fall.  

It was the right decision for J.P. at the time, I think, and I'm glad it's the decision we made.  And now he's moving on to MBA for seventh grade this fall. 

In seven seemingly short years, J.P. has gone from Jude or me dropping him off at school, for kindergarten, to walking home from school himself every afternoon.  It's crazy but I blinked my eyes and my little boy was a young man.  I guess I'll blink again and he'll be leaving for college.  

J.P. has had a good run at USN, although I don't think he leaves with a best friend, or a group of really close friends.  I wonder, sometimes, if that's part of why he chose to go to Montgomery Bell Academy.  He has friends at USN, a lot of them, but I don't know how many of them he has a lot in common with.  J.P. is not one to play video games like Fortnight or Call of Duty because we don't let him.  He's also not one to play fantasy card games like Magic:  The Gathering, Pokemon, etc.  Sports is what he loves and, frankly, there aren't a lot of boys at USN that share his love of sports or that play sports like he does.

Many, if not most, of his baseball teammates - the boys I've coached for so many years - are at MBA or David Lipscomb.  Private schools with boys that maybe, just maybe, have a little more in common with J.P.  Boys that are academically inclined and, yet, want to play sports and compete athletically, too.  

J.P. has excelled at USN, always.  He's done well academically.  We've never heard a criticism of him at a parent teacher conference.  Other than a playground scrap or two in the early years with one of his friends from Children's House, he's never really had any problems in school.  The teachers and staff have been so supportive of him, especially after my my mom died and it was obvious to them that he was sad.  They have nurtured him and provided him a safe and loving environment to begin to discover who he is, and that's been invaluable to him, and to us.  

Sometimes, I think, J.P. has been a bit of a big fish in a small pond at USN.  He's going to be challenged at MBA, academically and socially, and he realizes that.  At least I hope he does.  As I hear it from his friends and baseball teammates who are current in seventh great at MBA, there's a bit of a dog eat dog mentality there.  Some of that is endemic to the age group, I think, and it was that way for me at Northside Junior High School when I started seventh grade in the fall of 1978.  I survived, flourished even, and I hope he will, too.

I've always thought real growth happens when you get out of your comfort zone.  When you're challenged.  That's true for teenagers, like J.P., and for adults, as well. 

I think - I know, actually - that J.P. was comfortable at USN, and we were, too.  Maybe too comfortable.  He could have stayed at USN, worked relatively hard, but kind of treaded water and maintained, academically, athletically, and socially.  I'm not sure, though, how prepared he would have been for college and life after college, had he stayed in the protective cocoon he had established at USN for the the next six years.  

I could be wrong but I think MBA is going to present him with an opportunity to rise up, to grow intellectually and emotionally, to forge new relationships.  I want J.P. to gain confidence in himself and his ability to connect with others in any and all settings.  That's something he needs to work on and, I hope, an area that MBA will help him with.  

So, it's time too say goodbye to beginning of school popsicle parties, nature journeys, the relatively short-lived FBC soccer club, friendships (Cecil, JD, Calhoun, Henry, etc.), the Turkey Trot, and walking home from school.

I hope this is the right decision for J.P.  Time will tell but I'm excited for him to give it a shot.  I'll be forever grateful to USN for seven years J.P. spent there.  

Smokin' Joe

I saw something in Joe on the pitcher's mound last night, something I've been looking for.  

Joe's got a good, accurate arm.  Very similar to JP's arm at that age, as I recall, perhaps even a little stronger.  He's also got a very good baseball mind.  Again, just like JP at that age.  I always used to say that JP was able to think the game at a young age.  Joe is exactly the same way.

For some reason, though, when Joe pitches in a game, he normally doesn't throw very hard.  My guess is that he's aiming the ball and not throwing it, not just letting it go.  We've talked about this because it's important, especially when he's pitching against 10 year old's who are stronger and can hit the ball harder.  Earlier in the season, a good team of all 10 year old's ripped him because he was throwing meatballs.  

Last night, however, was a bit different.  Pitching against the Cardinals - another team of mostly 10 year old's who were good hitters - Joe went three innings.  In the first inning, he got hit pretty hard, mostly because he was grooving the ball and pitching with no real speed.  It was like he was holding something back.  He gave up four runs in the first inning but didn't pitch badly.  The top of the Cardinals' lineup just hit the ball, which is what you expect 10 year old's to do.

In the second inning, Joe pitched better.  He threw a littler harder against the bottom of the Cardinals' lineup and, as I recall, didn't give up any runs.  He felt good, was pitching well, so Coach O (Oliver) let him pitch the third inning, with the top of the Cardinals' order coming up.

Sitting on the bucket of balls outside the third base dugout, I exhorted Joe to throw hard - as hard as he could - just as I had told him in between innings.  "Everything you have!" I said, before almost every pitch.  

And to my pleasant surprise, that's exactly what he did.  Joe threw harder that he has yet in a game.  Every batter - and these were good, 10 year old hitters - swung late and was behind the pitch.  A couple of them got base hits but I'll take a good hitting righthander getting on base with a soft line drive to right field and a lefthander blooping a base hit to left field.  

In the third inning, Joe was solid.  He threw the ball hard, with control.  In fact, for the game, he struck out five batter in three innings and didn't walk anyone the entire game.  His control and poise, especially when he began throwing harder in the third inning, was impressive.

The icing on the cake came in the bottom of the last inning, when Joe was playing shortstop.  With two outs and a couple of runners on base, the batter hit a hard ground ball right at Joe.  He field it cleanly, on a short hop, and fired a seed across the diamond to Micah playing first base.  My stretched and Joe's throw popped into his glove a split second before the runner's foot touched first base.  Bang bang play, as they say.  

There was a pause, then an audible gasp from the crowd, then everyone cheered as Joe and the boys ran off the field.  I bowed up, stuck my chest out, and made eye contact through the fence with some of our parents.  Damn, I thought.  That was a nice play.  And it was.

A good night and a good week of baseball for my boys.  

Saying Goodbye to the Homestead

My sister, Tracy, and I closed the sale of my mother's house today.  The house we grew up in after my mom bought it in 1972, 49 years ago.  Our homestead, so to speak.  

1422 Brenthaven Drive, although when we first moved in it was 173 Brenthaven Drive.  I'm not sure why the street address changed at some point.    

I said my final goodbye to the house yesterday afternoon, after J.P., Wes, and I loaded a desk and pie safe on a U-Haul truck I had rented.  I walked through the house and stood for a few seconds, silently, in each room.  J.P. did the same thing.

As I think about it, I've said a lot of goodbyes to the house the last few years.  

The first time was when we moved my mom into assisted living at Maristone.  We moved some of her furniture out then, so her two room apartment at Maristone would feel more like home.  That was jarring, of course, being in the house with random pieces of furniture missing.  It was like looking in the mirror and noticing that you're missing a tooth here and there.

When my mom died, I said goodbye to the house again.  There was a sense of finality, at that point, because the house no longer belonged to my mom.  It was a thing that was part of her estate, something to be divided between Tracy, Alice, and me.  It was ours even though we didn't really want it because of what it symbolized, I guess.  A life lived.  A life ended.  Sadness, loss, and loneliness.  Emptiness.  Grief.

When we had the estate sale, that was a different kind of goodbye.  Even after we had removed from the house what we wanted to keep, it hurt to think of strangers walking through the house and rummaging through my mom's things, buying bits and pieces of her life for 10 cents on the dollar.  Then, we had whatever was left - mostly boxes of junk in the attic - hauled off for disposal.  

An empty house.  That's all that was left.

Finally, we sold the house.  As of yesterday, it doesn't belong to us and I can't stop by there if and when I want to, and walk around the yard, lost in the memories of my childhood.  I can't walk through the house and listen for the faintest echoes of my mom's voice, of her laughter.  I can't go there to feel her presence or to remember her as I want to remember her.

Instead, what is left are snapshots of moments in time.  Memories that, I fear, will fade, if I can't restore them by visiting the physical location - the house - where the memories were made.   

My mom sitting in her chair, watching a game on television.

My mom sitting in the playroom at Christmas, smiling contentedly and a little bemusedly, amidst the chaos of children and grandchildren opening presents and throwing balls of wrapping paper at each other, and at her.

My mom sitting at the kitchen table with a 10-year old me, late, watching me eat a sandwich and talking with me about the baseball game I just played at Brentwood Civitan Park.  

My mom, at night, on the telephone with her sister and best friend, Sue Clark, stretching the cord as she looked down the hallway to see if I was in bed.  

My mom sitting at the kitchen table late in the afternoon, talking to Warren Gilley, who had walked over for a cup of coffee.  Mr. Gilley and I teasing my mom and her laughing the entire time.

My mom in the backyard, trying to throw the baseball with me.  Or in the driveway, shooting basketball with me.  I was 7 or 8 and she was every bit of 5'8", a giant to me, as she tried to be mom and dad to a young boy who wanted to play each and every sport.

My mom sitting in her chair, reading the newspaper or Sports Illustrated, me on the couch, doing the same thing.  

My mom entertaining, something she loved to do more than anything.  Holidays, her neighborhood summer shrimp party, the chili dinner for her Coach Stockdale and her teammates from her days playing basketball for the UT Women's School of Nursing, and on and on.  

My mom, outside, walking Shakey, or Toby, or Gypsy.  Later, my mom in the driveway, feeding dog treats to Walter and Elizabeth's barking dogs next door.  

My mom and me, as a 7 or 8-year old, putting in our mailbox out front, cement and all.  Her refusing help from Warren Gilley because she wanted - needed - to do it herself.  Her independence.  

And so many more memories of her, and of us.

As Tracy mentioned a couple of weeks ago, it will be nice for their to be life in the house again.  It's been empty too long.  It needs to be filled again with laughter, love, and yes, occasional tears.  It needs to be filled with life.

And it will be.  

    

  

 

The Last Days of the Dodgers

When it's over, I'll remember nights like this one, too.

My Dodgers played a doubleheader - 5 and 7 p.m. - against the Commodores and their coach, Keith Moore.  Keith and I have coached against each other in the WNSL for years.  Great guy coaching a team of great boys, most of whom go to Christ Presbyterian Academy.   

They're a good team of almost all 14 year olds (8th graders).  My boys are all 13 years old (7th graders).  It was a matchup we needed because we've been smoking the other 13 year old teams that we've played.  

In game 1, I started Wes Taylor at pitcher.  He struggled with his control in the first inning and gave up 2 runs.  The Commodores pitched a tall, rangy left-hander who threw harder than any boy we've ever faced. Good control for the most part and he could flat out bring it.

In the bottom of the first inning, however, Benton Wright - batting in the three hole - absolutely crushed a fastball to dead center with Winn Hughes on second base.  Standing outside the third base dugout, I thought it was gone.  The ball flew about 300 feet in the air and hit the bottom of the fence, which is 302 feet from home plate.  He turned the lefty's fastball around and hit the ball harder - and longer - than any player I've ever coached.  Winn scored easily and the inning ended with the Commodores up 2-1. 

And, believe it or not, that was the final.  A 2-1 Commodore victory.  Wes was lights out.  He pitched, by far, the best I've ever seen him pitch.  He changed speeds and, really, kept their entire team off balance are the first inning.  I think this was a real turning point game for him as a pitcher.  I brought Benton in to pitch the top of the sixth inning.  He struggled with his control but worked out of a jam.  

In the bottom of the sixth inning, Wes was thrown out at home to end the game.  

Great, great baseball game.  Our boys made no errors!  Such a well played game by both teams.  As the Commodores' coach, Keith Moore, and I said afterwards, "it was real baseball."  Plain and simple.

Game 2.  Damn, game 2.

What can I say?  J.P. pitched a 106 pitch, five inning complete game.  Unbelievable, particularly since one of my players bailed on me at 3 p.m., two hours before game time.  As a result, I had few options at pitcher for game 2.

I think the coolest thing was when my Dodger batted in the top of the fifth inning, J.P. pulled me aside, and said "I want to finish the game."  That, I think, is what every father want his son to say in that situation.  J.P. was tired but he wanted the ball, win or lose, so I sent him back out there to face the 1 - 2 - 3 hitters in the Commodores' lineup, up 6 - 4.

The leadoff hitter - their catcher - great kid, great player - hit a line drive single to left center field.  J.P. struck the next batter out, looking.  One down.  J.P. walked the number 3 hitter, who promptly stole second.  Runner on second and third, one out.  I brought the infield in and the cleanup hitter hit a ground ball to Wes at first base.  Easy out?!?  The Big Cat, Wes, kicked the ground ball and one run scored.  6 - 5, Dodgers, with the tying run on third base.  J.P. walked the next batter to put runner on first and third, with one out.

I walked out to the mound to talk with him, to buy him some time, to calm him down.  I waved Winn (shortstop) and Nico (catcher) off so I could talk to J.P. alone.  

"Well," I said, "we've got a little trouble now.  How do you feel?"  

"I'm good," J.P. replied.  

"All right," I said.  "Let's finish it."  Then, I walked slowly back to our dugout on the third base side of the infield.

J.P. threw a ball, then the runner on first stole second base.  I called time out and told the umpires I wanted to intentionally walk the 5th hitter to load the bases.  My assistant coaches looked at me like I was crazy.  I brought the infield in and reminded them that we had a forced at home.  

First pitch, the 6th hitter in their lineup hits a ground ball back to J.P. at pitcher.  He calmly fielded the ball and threw it  home to Nico for the second out of the inning.  

Two outs, bases loaded, Dodgers up 6 - 5.  I backed the infield up and brought the outfield in because a flare or a line drive wins it for the Commodores. 

I could hear our fans cheering for J.P.  Encouraging him.   

What does J.P. do?  Pitches 104, 105, and 106 are strikes, swinging, and the game is over.  J.P. walks off the mound to out dugout, as his teammates rush toward him, pounding him on the back and tapping him on the head.  

All these years and all the games where I've put J.P. in tough situations on the mound and he comes through, again.  Amazing. 

As I sit here in my office at home with everyone else in bed, sipping my bourbon - Short Mountain - I'm shaking my head and smiling.  

Call it guts.  Call it having a pair of brass balls.  Call it heart.  J.P. had it all tonight.  I'm not sure I've ever been prouder of him on a baseball field.  

I'll remember it forever. 

What I'll also remember, though, is midway through game 2, when Benton, in the dugout, said, "what is Joe doing?"

I look up and I see a kid in a bright neon yellow hoodie - Joe - running all the way around the outfield on the outside of the fence.  Why?  Because, well, that's what Joe does.  The boys in the dugout started cheering.  Will Wright looked up and said, "oh, he looks like the 'Mini Freeze.'"  And he did.

Dodger baseball on a Saturday night.  Northing better.