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.