Losing Steam

As I've mentioned before, it's been a spotty running year for me.  I had lofty goals for 2022 - 1,000 miles and running long weekly for the first time in years - but those fell by the wayside pretty quickly after I got Covid-19 in mid-January, followed by a lingering sinus infection, right knee problems, and low back pain.  Just one of those years, I guess.

All has not been lost, though, as I've had some good runs - especially with JP - and I've run fairly regularly, just not as often or as long as I had hoped for in 2022.  I think my disappointment at quickly falling short of my running goals for the year caused my motivation to wane, at times.  I know there have been nights when I finished a long day of work and relaxed with a bourbon rather than finding a way to run late in the neighborhood, after dinner or when the boys went to bed.  

The danger to me, it seems, is that running - and running well - feeds my soul.  It's what keeps my inner flame burning brightly.  Yes, it feeds my ego to an extent, but it really keeps me going from day-to-day in a busy, at times stressful life.  It's also how I release energy, so I can slow my mind and body down and, well, just be . . . be more present and in the moment, I guess, and worry less, personally and professionally.

My overriding concern as it relates to running, though, has been what I perceive to be a lack of stamina the last month or two.  For the first time since I can remember, I'm having trouble constantly finishing runs.  Normally, I may cut a run short two or three times a year, at most.  If I go out the door with a plan to run five miles, I run five miles, almost without fail.  

Lately, though, I've found myself stopping at three or three and a half miles when I've planned to run four miles, or stopping at four miles when I planned to run five miles.  Then, I walk the rest of the way home.  For me, it's the walk of shame.  Failure.  I feel like a quitter and that's something I rarely experience in my running life. 

I've been concerned enough that I reached out to my friend, Josh Beckman, a cardiologist.  He ordered a stress test at Vanderbilt, which I completed early Monday morning.  True to form, I knocked off at 16:30 when my goal was to get to 18:00.  I was pissed although in fairness to myself, the technician told me the average time before stopping was 9:00.  Still, I didn't hit my target.

The good news is that as Josh predicted, my stress test was normal and there were no signs of ischemia.  The results also showed a high capacity for exercise for my age and sex.  After reading the results, Josh added it was "the best exercise performance he had seen in years."  I'm pretty sure he was blowing smoke up my skirt, as my mom used to say.

Still, I ran last night, before Jude got home from a trip to Washington, D.C.  My plan was four miles and I ran out of gas, again, and stopped at three miles.  Shit.

Maybe it's he oppressive, unbearable heat this summer, in which the dog days of August arrived in early July.  I've tried running on the treadmill at they YMCA and have hit my target distance, running faster than normal, without too much difficulty.  That's what I'm hoping it is, anyway.

What I'm hoping it's not, of course, is age.  Maybe I need to reevaluate my goals as I get older.  Although I've got to slow down sometime, it would surprise me if my capacity to run long and fast diminished so suddenly, rather than over time.  

Recently, on my birthday, I changed my diet again, returning more militantly to the Spartan intake of food and drink I originally adopted almost four years ago.  No breads.  No sweets.  No soft drinks.  No potatoes and, certainly, no chips.  No fried food.  No alcohol.  Thus far, it hasn't made a difference in my stamina, at least not that I can see.  

I'll keep grinding.  Or, as I say in adopted motto - Keep going.  That's what I'll do.

Keep.  Going.

R.I.P. Mark Howard

Mark Howard, a distinctive and singular voice in middle Tennessee sport media for more than three decades, died yesterday at his home in Bellevue. 

When I was growing up as an avid sports fan and even when I returned home after college - before the internet,  before Sirius, before podcasts, before blogs, before talk radio, and before cable TV and ESPN - the only way to get local sports news was from the five minutes or so of sports on the nightly, local news broadcast.  Beginning in 1984, Mark Howard was the weekend sports anchor on Channel 5.  

The local news sports anchors were larger than life in those days with big personalities to match their outsized importance in the middle Tennessee sports landscape.  Rudy Kalis.  Hope Hines.  And, yes, Mark Howard.  Mark was different from the other sports anchors, though, or so it seemed to me at the time.  He was from the Northeast - an unabashed Yankees fan - and his style was less genteel and more abrasive than what we had seen on the local new broadcasts in the past.  Mark wasn't Charlie McAlexander or Paul Eells, that's for sure.

In 2004, Mark transitioned to sports talk radio just as it was hitting it's stride in middle Tennessee, when he joined Kevin Ingram and retired Titans' tight end, Frank Wychek to host the Wake Up Zone on local radio station 104.5.  The morning drive time sports talk show gave Mark a forum to showcase his sports knowledge, which was considerable.  It also gave him an opportunity to opine on all things sports on a daily basis.  One thing the listeners quickly learned about Mark Howard was that he had a lot of opinions.

The chemistry between Mark, Frank, and Kevin was rare and unique.  Simply put, 104.5 caught lightning in a bottle and the show dominated the local radio airwaves for a decade plus.  When former Titan, Blaine Bishop, replaced Frank Wychek, the show lost some of its luster - at least to me - but it remained a ratings hit for 104.5.  In 2020,  the station unceremoniously sacked Mark Howard and Kevin Ingram, in a move that is as puzzling today as it was two years ago.  

Mark continued to work in local sports media, hosting a call in show before and after Titans' games.  He also hosted a post-game show after Predators' television broadcasts with Terry Crisp, before he was replaced a couple of years ago.

I corresponded occasionally with Mark on Twitter.  Looking back, yesterday, I saw that our last exchange on Twitter was on August 11, 2020, after his departure from the Wake Up Zone on 104.5.  I mentioned how much my mom had loved to listen to Mark, Frank, and Kevin in the mornings, on her way home from work.  He appreciated that, I think, and reminded to "be safe."  

As I think about it this morning, drinking coffee after having a stress test at Vanderbilt, I'm struck, again, by the concept of the passage of time.  A recurring theme for me, lately, for sure. 

Mark's career in sports media straddle two eras.  The provincial, local news sports anchor as icon era.  That was a more innocent and less critical time for sports fans, like me, I think.  

Later, when sports talk radio took off - and in Nashville, the Titans and the Predators arrived - fans became more opinionated or, maybe, sports talk radio provided a forum for them to voice their opinions.  The good sports talk radio hosts - like Mark - were knowledgable and unafraid to challenge the listeners and engage in discussions, sometimes heatedly, with them on a variety of sports topics.

Mark Howard was intelligent, informed, irascible, curmudgeonly, kind hearted, argumentative, funny, confident, and above all, human.  All of those things and more.  Gone way too soon.

Prayers up for his family, particularly his wife, Debra, and his son, Jack, of whom he spoke often on the radio. 

https://www.nashvillepost.com/sports/sports-media-personality-mark-howard-dies-at-65/article_a2d6e7e2-0bc6-11ed-8dec-0745f8593a12.html

Three Decades of Law

It was a tough, draining week at work because of one case in particular.  After working as a lawyer for almost thirty years, I have a pretty good perspective on what I do for a living and the fact that client's lives aren't intertwined with mine.  

The hard part - for me, anyway - in practicing family law is that I care deeply about my clients and their families.  I want my clients to be healthy, to be successful and, above all else, to heal.  Still, I can't change the facts of a case and, sometimes, I have clients who won't or can't listen to the advice I give them.  As hard as I try to help them, they can't get out of their own way.  Those are the really challenging cases.

Mark and I will have had our firm in downtown Franklin, Tennessee, for 25 years this fall.  That, in and of itself, is hard to believe.  A quarter of a century working together, first as Puryear & Newman, later as Puryear, Newman & Morton after Chas joined us three years into our run.  That's a long time to do the same kind of work, at the same place, with the same partners.  As someone who doesn't like change, however, I guess it shouldn't be a surprise that I've been doing the same thing with the same people for, well, forever.  There's also no end in sight, at least not for me.

I've been thinking a lot about our Bar in Franklin and Williamson County.  By bar, I mean all of the attorneys, past and present.  It's grown over the past 25 years, for sure, but it's still a collegial bar, by and large, with a small town feel to it.  The Davidson County Bar is different.  Not worse.  Different.  Less collegial, for sure, and a lot bigger. 

I've had so many cases with so many of our lawyers in Williamson County.  I've got colleagues and friends throughout the Bar and, to be fair, a few non-friends (though, thankfully, not many of those).  What we do - what I do - is by its very nature adversarial and, at times, confrontational.  It's competitive, too.  Perhaps why I like it and why I'm good at it is because none of those things scare me.  I'm okay being adversarial, confrontational, and competitive.  What keeps me sane, though, is that it's rarely personal as it relates to opposing attorneys.  As long as it's between the lines and there is no sneakiness or unethical behavior,  I'm good.  

I've also been thinking a lot about lawyers we've lost in Franklin.  Mark Hartzog.  Carter Conway.  Don Young.  Nick Shelton.  Ernie Williams.  Diane Livingston.  I had cases with every one of them and tried cases with some of them.  

Mark Hartzog - always full of wisdom and a true gentleman - once gave me advice I treasure to this day.  He told me I could live in Nashville, send my boys to private school, and work in Franklin, just like he did.  And that's what I've done. 

I had a divorce trial, years ago, with Carter Conway, who spoke with a deep, gravelly southern voice.  When I cross-examined his client, the husband, about Victoria's Secret purchases he had made on a credit card, he lamely stammered that he had made purchases for his wife - my client - on the off change they might get back together.  Judge Davies looked at him skeptically and said, "Mr. McClure, that's a little thin."  And it was.

Don Young was legendarily quick witted and always ready with a joke.  My old boss, Don Smith, told me that in college, at Vanderbilt, Don Young's nickname was "Weasel."  When I first started practicing law and I didn't know Don Young, he got me out of scrape and didn't charge me a thing, probably as a favor to my original mentor, Steve Cox.  Don also told me the smartest thing he ever did was only paying rent one. year of legal career.  Mark, Chas, and I took that advice when we bought our building.

I miss Nick Shelton terribly.  I rarely play golf but Nick is, by far, the best golfer with whom I ever played a round of golf.  He was in my foursome,  years ago, in the (now defunct) Williamson County Bar Association Golf Tournament.  He played gold in college and could absolutely smoke a golf ball.  In cases, Nick was a like a bull in a china shop, but he had a good heart.  He also was emotionally damaged and he took his own life, which makes me sad to this day.  

Ernie Williams was the U.S. Attorney for a brief period of time before he began practicing law in Franklin.  I remember talking with him when his son was accepted into the Naval Academy at Annapolis and played football for the Midshipmen.  Ernie was so proud of his son, just as I am of my boys today.

Diane Livingston was always, always laughing.  In the earliest years of our practice, she asked me to be co-counsel on a few workers' compensation, plaintiff's cases.  She was bilingual and often originated business from immigrants, documented and undocumented.  One time - in the late '90's when we in our first office on Church Street - Diane fell when she was crossing the street to drop something off for me.  She was tall and always wore a skirt or dress and heels.  She walked in to our office, laughing, and told Lisa Johnson about her fall and that it was a good thing Mark and I didn't see her, because she didn't have on underwear.  The perfect Diane Livingston story.

So many lawyers over almost 30 years of practicing law.  So many memories.  

The Kid Joins the 100 Mile Club

At the beginning of the summer, JP got an e-mail his middle school cross country coach sent to the team challenging each member to join the 100-mile club.  The rules were pretty simple - run 100 miles in the summer, before cross country practice starts in early August, and you're in the club with a t-shirt to prove it.

JP being JP, it was game on, right from the start of the summer.

Most mornings this summer, in the oppressive heat, he has gotten up at 6 a.m. and gone for a run.  Sometimes three miles but usually four or five miles.  I've run with him occasionally but not too often.  It's his thing and I wanted him to do it on his own.  Plus, I know I need my running time to think, to meditate, to be, and I wanted him to have that time to himself, too.  Oh, and I was often still in bed when he left!

It's made me very proud to see him do his thing, on his own, with no prodding from Jude or me.  Many days, in fact, he would run early, then leave for work at the MBA sports camp or to a baseball or basketball camp he was attending in a particular week.  He could have slept in, as most 14 year old's do, but he didn't.  He woke up on his own and ran, getting his miles in before most people had started their day.  He stacked up the miles, always pointing toward 100.  

Yesterday morning, I woke up early, at 5:45 a.m.  I put my running gear on, stretched for 10 minutes or so, and waited for JP to come downstairs.  When he did, he stretched for, what, 10 seconds, and was ready to run.  Youth is indeed wasted on the young.  After a brief discussion, we decided to the Blakemore/Elmington Park route - 5 miles - and off we went.

As is usually the case, we settled into a comfortable pace pretty quickly and ran along together against traffic, sometimes on the sidewalk but usually in the bike lane or on the edge of the street.  JP always sets up on my left shoulder, a half step behind me.  We didn't talk much as we ran.  We rarely do, actually, mostly because we're focused and in the moment, running.  At least I am, though I think JP is, as well.

Lately, my stamina hasn't been there like it usually it and as we ran up Fairfax and neared the end of four miles, I thought about stopping and walking it in.  I didn't, though, because I wanted to run five miles with him and be there - or close - when he hit 100 for the summer.  So, I kept going, and I am glad I did.

With about a half mile left, he picked up the pace to race it in, and I smiled - a bit ruefully, I must admit - as I watched him pull away.  I don't have that finishing gear anymore and it's likely gone forever.  I kept him in sight the entire time as he ran up Belmont Boulevard and I kept running behind him, albeit at a slower pace.  He finished, waited for me, then I finished.  

We walked a couple of blocks to cool down, then jogged to Sweetbriar and ended at Portland Brew.  Coffee for me and hot chocolate for JP.  I congratulated him on his achievement - 100 miles - and we talked about how it felt to set a goal like that and reach it.  We talked about important things that running teaches you.  Discipline.  Determination.  Perseverance.  Patience.  The good stuff.  

There was a moment, probably half way through the run, when I reached over to JP and held my fist up.  I didn't say anything and he didn't either.  He fist bumped me, one runner to another, and we kept on running.  It was a small thing but it was everything.  I'll never forget that moment and I'll never forget that run, honestly.

As I've said before, it's a helluva thing when your 14 year old son inspires you, but that's what JP has done all summer long.  He's inspired me not to get discouraged by injuries, illness, or age, and to go out and run, like I always have done.  That's a gift for which there is no value.  

I'm proud of you, JP.  The 100 Mile Club. 

Keep going.

  

Ms. Cynthia and the Passage of Time

Yesterday - because, of course, it was Monday and the first day back at work after vacation - Joe woke up with what looked like pink eye.  His left eye was red, swollen, and itchy.  I ran to an 8:30 a.m. meeting I couldn't miss, canceled two meetings afterwards, called the pediatrician, and picked up eye drops for Joe from the Kroger (8th Avenue) pharmacy. 

While waiting for Dr. Godfrey's nurse to call me back, I managed to squeeze in a cup of coffee at Steadfast Coffee in Germantown.  I haven't been there in ages but I was glad I was on that side of town and stopped in, because the coffee was really, really good.  Cool atmosphere, too.

At Kroger, I stopped by the deli and ran into Ms. Cynthia.  She's been working in the deli for as long as I've been going there, almost 20 years by my count.  I almost didn't recognize her.  She's much, much thinner and almost looked like she had been sick, which made me sad.  She's older and I am, too.   

With the Publix having opened a couple of years ago in the neighborhood and a smaller Kroger on 21st Avenue, I don't get by the 8th Avenue Kroger as much as I used to in the old days, which was several times a week.  Also, almost everyone of the older, longtime employees that worked at the Kroger - Eddie, Bama, Rose - are gone.  And, really, the store is kind of a mess compared to the Publix, which his still relatively new.

When the boys were young, toddling about, the 8th Avenue Kroger was the only game in town.  We were there all of the time or so it seemed.  I often took JP alone, then later, Joe, too, to Kroger.  We always stopped by the deli to see Ms. Cynthia and she gave the boys a cookie or a slice of ham if I was buying deli meat.  More importantly, she always smiled and talked to the boys and they always wanted to go see her and say hi when we were at Kroger.  

I have so many happy memories of grocery shopping in the 8th Avenue Kroger, rolling around with JP sitting in the front of the shopping cart.  I was a new father, full of optimism at the wonder of life, trying to figure it all out.  Grocery shopping w/JP and giving Jude a break seemed like such a fatherly thing to do.  JP and I used to play a game in the produce section, where I would drop a plastic bag from high in the air and he'd try to catch it before it hit the ground.  He would laugh and laugh I would, too.  

In a way, time seemed to stand still for us in those days, as we meandered through Kroger.  JP was endlessly fascinated and entertained by by everyone and everything at Kroger.  Other customers smiled at us, as I shopped for groceries and he chattered away.   

I remember an after dinner run to Kroger with one of the boys, although I can't recall which one.  JP or Joe "drove" one of the shopping carts with the car attached to the front.  When I got home and unloaded the groceries, I realized we had left "Gnash" - a favorite lovie (stuffed animal) - at Kroger.  I jumped in my truck and drove back to Kroger like a bat out of hell and frantically searched through the shopping carts to see if I could find Gnash.  No luck and my heart sank.  I checked the service desk and to my relief, a good Samaritan - one with children no doubt - had found Gnash and left him there, knowing a panicked parent would return looking for him.  Crisis averted.

Of course, time doesn't stand still, which is why I found myself yesterday, standing in a coat and tie, looking across the deli counter at Ms. Cynthia, smiling in delight when I recognized her.  

"How are the boys?" she asked.  

I pulled out my cell phone and showed her a recent picture taken last week in Florida.  

Stunned and almost speechless, Ms. Cynthia looked up at me, smiling.  "They're so big," she said.  "They're just so big."

I agreed, thanked her and told her how good it was to see her.  It really was good to see her.  

As I walked away, I was briefly overwhelmed by a wave of mixed emotions.  Nostalgia.  Happiness.  Pride.  A little sadness, too, at the passage of time and that Ms. Cynthia didn't look particularly well.

That's the constant, really, the passage of time.  It just goes by so damn fast, doesn't it?  

I miss those Kroger days with the boys.  I miss the innocence, the wonder, and the joy of the early days of fatherhood.  I miss Ms. Cynthia.  

  

 

56

After staying up late last night binging season one of "For All Mankind" on Apple +, I woke up this morning and decided the gift I wanted to give myself was a run with JP, balky back and all.  I got dressed, stretched, then woke up JP to see if he wanted to go.  He did, of course, and within a few minutes we were out the front door.  

I focused on running with good form - straight up and not leaning forward - and, miracle of miracles, I had the best run I've had since we've been in Bradenton.  My low back let me know it was there but just a bit of an ache and overall, I felt good during a fast 4-mile run.

For me, there probably isn't a better birthday present than a 4-mile morning run with the Kid.  And, in truth, I saw it as God's gift to me more than my gift to myself, and I'm grateful for it.  

I'll remember that run, this morning, with JP, as one of the highlights of our vacation.  Of course, there are other highlights, too.

• Putt Putt golf with the family.  I won, which is rare, as I'm not a very good Putt Putt golfer.  My hole in one on the 18th hold earned a free game.  

• Coffee at Kahwa Coffee Roasters every morning.  Good coffee.  Great people.
• Beach time with the boys, especially yesterday at Lido Key.  We were in the ocean for an hour and a half, at least, playing a game we made up.  I threw the Waboba ball to one of them while the other played defense.  Lots of the boys tackling each other, wrestling, etc.  In other words, brotherly fun.

• An afternoon Hemingway daiquiri at the bar at 1592 in downtown Sarasota while Jude and the boys kayaked in a mangrove swamp.  My only regret?  I didn't have time for second one.

• Adventure Island Water Park in Tampa.  One of the highlights of the trip for Joe.  Old school feel, kind of like the state fair with water rides.  

• A lot of reading.  The New Yorker, the Paris Review, the Sun, and The Glass Hotel (Emily St. John Mandel).
• Pool time at the Corley's.  A lot of pool time, especially after morning runs in the oppressive south Florida heat.

• Dinner last night at Patrick's in downtown Sarasota after a full day of activities.

I bought Mike and Stacy a couple of bottles of wine and a few books, as gifts, to thank them for their generosity.  It's been nice to stay in a house, a real house, as opposed to a rental.  I needed, really needed, this getaway, because I've been so covered up at work and have had to deal with my staffing stages.  

I know I'll be swamped as soon as I get back, with work and staff, so having a chance to regroup and recharge was much needed.  

We fly out tomorrow and real life begins again.  It's been a good week.

A Monkey on My (Low) Back

I tweaked my low back bowling, of all things, so I'm sitting on the sidelines while Jude and boys take a guided kayak tour through a mangrove swamp in Sarasota.  I hate to miss it but I know my back, and low back pain, and I think I just dodged a bullet by quitting during our second game at a bowling alley a couple of days ago.  I'll be out of commission for a few days - and not running - but I won't miss two or three weeks or need physical therapy if I'm careful now and don't do anything to cause further damage while my low back heals.

I know it frustrates Jude and the boys when I hurt my back because it limits what I can do.  This is especially true on vacation when we all are so active.  Still, having dealt with low back pain and flareups for forty years, I have a pretty good feel for how bad it is and what I need to do, or not do, to minimize the recovery time.  

If you haven't had back pain - and luckily, Jude and the boys haven't had it - it's impossible to completely understand how depressing and debilitating it can be, particularly for someone like me who prides himself on being active, running, and staying fit.  Because they can't see that I'm injured, it's not obvious to them, and unconsciously, I think, it seems like I'm bailing on them or not sucking it up and fighting through the pain.  

What they don't and can't understand, though, is the very real fear I experience, every day, of having my back go out and put me down for the count for an extended period of time or, God forbid, send me to the operating table.  If you've had a back injury or back pain, you get it.  If you haven't, you don't get it.  It's just that simple.

I don't have time, right now, for the weeks of physical therapy I've had to undergo in the past when my low back has been injured.  I'm too busy at work and with the boys to be driving to and from physical therapy appointments two or three times a week.  That's part of the reason why, when I tweak my low back, I shut it down.  No running.  No unnecessarily stress or strain on my back.  Lots of rest.

Also, I don't want to be off running for very long.  I trace my longevity as a runner to the fact that I'm careful.  If I'm hurt or don't feel right, regardless of whether it's my right knee, hip pain, or low back pain, I shut it down.  Better to rest for a bit and live to run another day, or days.  In other words, the long view.      

When my low back is hurting, like it has been the last couple of days, I feel old, which is ironic, since I turn 56 tomorrow.  And 56 sure as hell is old, although most of the time - when my back is not hurting, that is - I feel significantly younger.  Running, of course, keeps me young or, at least, makes me feel young.

So, as I sit in Breaking Waves, a coffee shop in Sarasota, on a scorching hot Friday afternoon the day before my birthday, do I feel like I'm turning 56 tomorrow?  My low back pain notwithstanding, not really.  I sure as hell don't act like I'm 56 years old.  

I'm guessing not many 56 year old men run five miles with their 14 year old son like I did two days ago.  Of course, the universe of 56 year old men who have 14 year old sons is probably not a large one, so there's that.  Still, of JP's friends, I'm guessing very few of their fathers run with their sons.  I do and I love it.  Every run I have with JP is a gift and something I never take for granted. 

 

Soon, I hope - maybe later this summer or in the fall - Joe will join JP and me for a run.  Dream come true?  For me, yes.  For sure.

Recently, the first couple of guys from my friend group have retired, at least from full time work.  That's almost incomprehensible to me, although I'm happy for them.  A couple of others are close to retiring, I think.  Those guys have children who are out of college or, in the case of one of them, no children at all.  Still, I mean, wow.

I am a long way from retiring or even slowing down from a work standpoint.  For one thing, the boys are obviously young and have several years of private school in the future, then college.  As a lawyer, I think you really hit your stride in you fifties or early sixties.  I don't know many lawyers who retire early.  I guess it's not in our nature.  

In truth, 56 is not going to feel any different from 55.  As I told JP after our run a couple of days ago, it turns out I don't need a lot to be happy beyond the basics (food, shelter, family).  The ability to run.  Coffee.  A good book.  A subscription to the New Yorker.  Music.  A good glass of wine or a bourbon, straight up with one large ice cube.  That's pretty much it.  

Notice that none of those things involve a lot of money.

What do I want for my birthday?  My answer is almost always the same, year after year.  Nothing, because I've got everything I need.  Jude, JP, and Joe.  

What more could I ask for?  The answer is easy.  Nothing.  Nothing at all.    

   

 

   

Be Kind

"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

I saw these words today in Kahwa Coffee Roasters, a coffee shop near the house where we're staying this week in Bradenton, Florida.  I found this coffee shop when we were in Bradenton with the boys for spring training four years ago.  I found it, again, on this trip.

What has struck me about Kahwa Coffee Roasters is how nice everyone here is, to each other and to the customers.  It's a small place in a strip mall, almost nondescript.  Sitting here at the same table after my run each morning, I've had a bird's eye view of the baristas interacting with customers at the drive through window and in the shop.  Everyone at Kahwa is so damn friend.  So, well . . . kind.  

"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

As I tell the boys, often, it's so easy to smile at an acquaintance or even a stranger.  It's so easy to compliment a friend or to make eye contact and ask how they're doing.  It's also easy to give someone a quick pat on the shoulder, a fist bump, a hug.  

Those are all acts of kindness.  They don't cost anything and, really, they don't take much effort.   The return is so much greater than the act itself.   

To try to make someone else smile or to try to make someone else happy, even if just for a moment, is what we all should strive to do every day, isn't it?  

To connect with someone - particularly a stranger - is a beautiful thing.  To see the unexpected smile on someone's face when you give them a kind word or a smile, that's the essence of life, I think.  It's what makes us human. 

That's what I am thinking about this morning. 

"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."  

That's what I want to do - be kind.  To strangers, to friends, to acquaintances, to my family.  Once a day, I want to have a small, positive impact on someone's life.  I want to connect with one person a day, to make that person feel loved and to understand that he or she matters, in that moment, to me. 

In a world where I can be anything, I want to be kind.

Taking Refuge in Bradenton

In most years - most pre-pandemic years, that is - we take a trip to Florida at the end of every summer, almost aways to Santa Rosa Beach.  Some years, we meet Jude's college friends and their families for a week, like we did last year in the Smokies and a few years ago in Zion Park.  This summer, we accepted a generous offer from my friend, Mike Corley, to stay at his house in Bradenton, FL, while he and Stacy were in Hawaii.  So, here we are. 

The flight down was strange for me, as it was my first time to fly since before the pandemic.

As an aside, I find myself dividing my life - my recent life, anyway - into two, no, three stages stages.  Before the pandemic; the pandemic; and after the pandemic.  Maybe, at some point, the pandemic will face into the past but it's not even close to doing so yet, particularly with Omicron cases on the rise again and estimates of 200,000 more people to die in the United States in the next year.

The flight.  The Southwest terminal was amazing, actually.  A new one - D - has been added since I last flew out of BNA almost three years ago.  New, clean, roomy, with a legitimate Nashville coffee shop (8th & Roast) and restaurants (Party Fowl, etc.).  I saw my longtime friend and fellow lawyer, John Rowland, at our gate, as his family was on our flight.  We worked to gather at Manier, Herod the first four years or so of my career and played a lot of softball together in the early days, so it was great to get caught up with him.  He's one of my favorites.

It was a complete full flight and I thought, briefly, about wearing a mask but decided against it, as did the boys.  Jude opted to wear one during the flight, though.  Habit?  Fear?  Caution?  I'm not sure she knows, to tell you the truth.  Two people crammed in next to me, of course, as I sat in my usual aisle seat.  Nice people, it turns out, although I am not much of a talker on flights.  I want to take off safely, fly safely, and land safely.  That's it. 

And that's what we did.  So far, three days into our trip, everyone appears to be healthy.  Let's hope it stays that way.

After a rental car snafu - note to self, never rent online from a rental car company you've never heard of (that's you, Sixt) - we finally got a car and off to Bradenton we went.  We arrived just after 9 p.m., ate a late dinner at a sports bar, and got to Mike's house around 10 p.m., just in time for the boys to get a late swim in his pool.  A highlight for them, for sure. 

So far, we spend a beautiful evening at a minor league baseball game (and fireworks) - the Bradenton Marauders - and Longboat Key, where we had a tasty, late lunch at the Drydock Waterfront Grill.  After stopping at Tyler's Gourmet Ice Cream, JP and I dropped Jude and Joe off at the beach and we drove to the end of the key, or near it.  Otherwise, it's been a lot of rest, reading, and TV watching (I'm hooked on For All Mankind on Apple +).  

JP and I ran yesterday, a stifling run in the South Florida heat.  I bonked at four miles and he finished five miles on his own.  

Unwinding, recharging, and trying to forget about work.  That all ends, today, though, as my team is working on a couple of projects that have to be finished in my absence.  I'll need to check in for a status report, then review the final product.  No rest for the weary and I am weary.  I need the time away.

Today, it's off to Adventure Park in Tampa, FL, a water park adjacent to Busch Gardens.  Not my choice of how to spend a day but Joe is really excited about it, so we'll give it a whirl.  

It's always good to get away, although I'll pay for it when I get back from a work standpoint.  

Now, morning coffee finished at Kawha - surprisingly good coffee that I remembered from our Spring Training trip here four years ago - it's back to the house and off to Tampa for the day.  Let's go!

Field of Dreams

I've played in the Nashville Bar Association softball league for 30 years, maybe a year or two longer. When I write that or say it out loud, it's almost hard to fathom.  The softball league is something I have been a part of for as long as I've been practicing law.  Longer, even, since I played a season for Farris, Warfield & Kanaday when I was a runner there and a season for Manier, Herod when I was a second year law clerk. 

So many of my teammates - longtime teammates - have come and gone that, sometimes, I feel like the last man standing.  Weber, Benton, Richie, Sprader, Shawn, Dwayne, Chappie.  All gone but not forgotten. Through all of the wins, losses, titles, MVP and all-tournaments trophies, I've kept coming back to play, summer after summer, year after year.  And I've loved every game.  

Monday night, though, was quite possible my favorite and most memorable game I've played in the softball league.  

When I walked out to pitch in the bottom of the first inning, JP was in left field.  As a starter, not as some kind of a mascot.  At age 14, hat pulled down low, sunglasses on so he could see staring straight into the setting sun, there he was, playing left field for my softball team in my softball league.

Calling it a dream come true is hyperbole, maybe, but not by much.  The softball league has been such an important part of my professional life for so long.  JP has watched me play so many games over the years.  To see him out in left field, playing alongside me was a snapshot moment for sure, something I will never forget.  To watch him interact with my teammates as just that - another teammate - was special.  

In the second inning, after a single to left field, a runner on second base tried to score.  JP fielded the ball cleanly, and with me covering home, fired a 1-hop strike on a rope to nail the runner at home plate for the last out of the inning.  As he jogged in from left field, Quint (our left center fielder) tapped gloves with him.  JP smiled sheepishly as he trotted toward the dugout and tapped gloves with me, too.  What a moment!

For the night, JP was 2-3 and I was 3-4 with a triple.  The old man can still hit, though I'll leave out the part about me taking too big of a turn around third in the top of the sixth inning after my triple down the right field line, when I got picked off.  

In the end, the Russians lost to Not Guilty 19-18, after I gave up four runs in the bottom of the sixth inning.  Not Guilty posed for a photo at home plate after the game.  That's what happens when you beat the Russians in the Nashville Bar Association softball league.  

I was pissed for a minute - particularly at my baserunning blunder - but only for a minute.  As I had a beer with my teammates afterwards at Cleveland Street Park, telling stories and laughing together, I glanced over at JP, taking it all in.  

Field of Dreams?  For me, it sure was.