Five Years Without Mom

Five years ago today, my mom died in a room at St. Thomas Hospital.  She was surrounded by loved ones, as they say, including me. 

Did she die peacefully?  I'd like to think so, although who knows for sure.  Our weeklong vigil at St. Thomas Hospital after she had a stroke remains, in my memory, a blur of visitors, tears, and interminable waiting.  Time seemed to stand still for me that week.  There were a lot of trips to and from the hospital, as I tried to make sense of what had happened to my mom and, more importantly, how I was going to live a life without her in it.  

My mom was 31 years old when my father died at age 30.  Suddenly, she was a widow with two young children, living in California, far away from her parents and sisters in Tennessee.  How did she overcome such hardship at such a young age?  How did she get over losing someone she loved?

When I asked her this, she told me there was no real secret to overcoming such a devastating loss.  The answer was straightforward and uncomplicated.  It didn't involve therapy a long-term sabbatical from work, although she wasn't against those things and neither am I.  

Simply put, you get up every morning, put one foot on the floor and then the other, and start you day.  You love and care for those that need you, that depend on you.  In other words, you do what you have to do, what you need to do, each day.  Then, you get up the next morning and do it all over again.  

"Each day," she told me, "the hurt and sadness get a little bit easier to manage."  It's incremental and not really noticeable but things get better by the tiniest bit each and every single day.  

I think there's some Zen in this, somewhere, because it requires a focus on the present moment, the present day, that seems to be a necessary element of the healing process.  It's important, I think, not to get too lost in the past or too worried about a future without the one you love.  Stay present and get through this day, then get through the next day.  It's living, quite literally, one day at a time.  

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you place days beside each other and stack them on top of one another, until you are well on the way to building a foundation of recover and of a new life.  Different from the old life, sure, but life nonetheless.  And you develop an appreciation for the new life.  That doesn't happen overnight, at least it didn't for me, but it did happen.

Most important, I think, from my mom's point of view is that you do all of this with an incredibly strong faith that God is with you, really WITH you, at every point in the journey through unimaginable grief and hurt.  Without faith, for her and for me, tool, I am not sure recovery is possible.  Not in the way she accomplished it or in the way I have tried to accomplish it after her death.  

Five years without having my mom in my life.    

There are so many things I would love to have shared with her, almost all of them involving JP and Joe.  Their academic and athletic achievements.  Their successes and failures.  So many questions I would have loved to ask her.  So many laughs I would love to have had with her the last five years.  

I still think about my mom all the time.  In fact, rarely a day goes by when a memory of her doesn't cross my mind.  In church on Sundays, I always think about her, and Carley, too, usually saying a prayer of thanks that my life was enriched by their presence when they were here with me and my family.

Five years is a long time, objectively.  This five years, though, seems to have passed by in the blink of an eye.  

I miss you, mom.  I love you.

      

Joe Gets It

Saturday morning, Joe's 5th grade basketball team, the Bucket Squad, played their rival, Outkast.  Much as it was with the Dirtbags and JP's Dodgers in the early days, the Bucket Squad hasn't quite been able to get over the hump and beat Outkast.  Not yet, anyway.

The players and parents on the two teams couldn't be any different.  The Bucket Squad, of course, consists of a bunch of white, privileged, private school boys who show up at the game five minutes before it starts and expect to play well without really warming up.  

On the other hand, Outkast's players and coaches are at the game 30 minutes before is starts and by game time, the players have broke a sweat and are ready to play basketball.  They're well coached.  They have white and black players, not that it matters.  Basketball is basketball and kids are kids.  I'd be shocked if there is a kid on their team that goes to private school.  In short, their players play harder and are significantly tougher than our players.

Outkast's parents are loud and proud.  Really loud.  It's kind of silly for youth basketball but they wear a variety of "officially licensed" Outkast gear.  Jackets, hats, t-shirts, etc.  I don't think I've ever seen a group of parents in a youth sport with so much team gear.  I'm sure their boys play travel basketball, although we generally play them in WNSL recreational league games and tournaments.

I want to be clear about this, though.  Their parents seems to be good people, as I've talked to a few of them before or after games.  Their kids are good kids, too.  Good kids that play hard and compete. 

And that's my problem, really.  With a couple of exceptions - Joe being one of them - our players are privileged, soft, and not as competitive as they need to be.  Our players whine and complain to the referees during games.  When a call goes against one of them, the classic move is to hold their arms out, palms facing upward, mouth shaped liked an "O."  The universal look of the entitled private school boy.  I detest that look.  Always have.  

As I've said for many years, dating back to when JP was young, the biggest challenge we face as parents is helping our boys understand that the lives they lead are unlike the lives lead by the vast majority of boys their age across the country and the world.  As a parent, I'm conscious - maybe overly conscious - of any sign that my sons feel entitled.  I want them to work and compete for everything, all the time.

Which brings me to Joe.  For the most part, I never see the palms of his hands during basketball games.  I can tell when he doesn't like a call because I can see him getting angry but he doesn't complain to the referees or look toward the bench for affirmation that the referee is out to get him.  He always plays hard from the beginning to the end of the game, regardless of the score.  He competes.  In basketball, he's not the most athletic kid on the floor - far from it - but he usually outworks everyone else.  And I love him for it.

Saturday wasn't one of the better games for the Bucket Squad.  They lost by 20 points or so ago Outkast, which was disappointing, as the more recent games have been closer.  This game was a step back, for sure.  

It was a solid game for Joe, however.  We arrived thirty minutes before the game and waited outside for WNSL to open up the gym at JT Moore.  He and I did some shooting drills and got warmed up, long before any of his teammates arrived.  When the game started, Joe hit two quick jumpers.  I'm convinced it's because he was warmed up and ready to play.  

For almost the entire game, Joe was matched up with Outkast's biggest player, a heavyset redheaded post player who is at least a foot taller than Joe.  Joe was physical with him and worked hard to front him when the ball was on his side of the floor.  Joe's not big - I hope that changes - but he played big, so much so that one of the referees mentioned it to me after the game.  He was impressed with how hard Joe worked guarding the big man.  

What impressed me the most, however, was not how Joe played in the game.  It was what he did after the game.  He singled out the redheaded post player with whom he had battled the entire game and slapped on the bag, telling him he played well.  He thanked Thomas and Charlie, his coaches.  He walked up into the stands and thanked my friend, Alex, whose son plays with Joe, for the instruction he had provided during the game from behind the bench and during timeouts.  Then, he jogged across the court and dapped up the referees, thanking them, as well.  

I was so proud of Joe.  He demonstrated sportsmanship, class, and maturity after the game, all qualities I'm trying to teach him.  He's growing up, I think, into the kind of young man I want him to be.    

In a game in which several of his teammates whined, played with little effort after they got behind, and gave up, Joe never did any of those things.  He competed his ass off with a good, positive attitude, and handle his business after the game like a champ.

Watching Joe post-game is part of what I love so much about being a parent.  It's so gratifying.

That's Why They Play the Game

Basketball is like religion.  Many attend but few understand

- Scott Skiles

One of my favorites sports' quotes of all time given.  Scott Skiles is former Michigan State and NBA point guard.  Later, he served as head coach for four different NBA teams.

_____________________________________________

During our short drive Saturday afternoon to MBA for the freshman team's game against CPA, I told JP to have fun and play with confidence.  I reminded him that a way to show gratitude and an appreciation for his athletic gifts is to play basketball with joy.  I also said silent prayer when I dropped him off and asked that he have fun, enjoy himself, and simply play his best.

My hope was that the team would get off to a better start, since virtual every team they play tends to blow them out in the first half.  Unfortunately, it was more of the same as MBA gave up 39 points to CPA by halftime.  That was one point shy of the 40 points they gave up to CPA in the game at their place earlier in the week.  Missed assignments.  Players not getting back on defense.  Poor communication.  Players not switching on picks.  Just awful defense.  

At halftime, I jokingly bet another player's dad $5 that CPA would score more than 90 points, the arbitrary over/under line I set on the game. 

While JP started and played better and with more confidence, he missed a couple of early shots he probably should have made, including an open 8-footer from the left side that he air balled when he should have shot it off the glass for an easy bucket.  He just missed a catch and shoot 3-pointer on the baseline from the left side, though.  It was a good and confident shot and I was glad he took it.  Late in the first half, he was fouled on a drive and hit 1 of 2 free throws.  

MBA fell behind by more than 20 points in the third quarter and I was dreading the ride home with JP.  He wan't going to be happy.  Again.  

Everything, and I mean everything, changed in the fourth quarter.

It was like watching two completely different basketball games and from MBA's standpoint, two different basketball teams.  The boys played with an intensity - a desperation - that was palpable, on offense and defense.  They forced CPA to turn the ball over time and time again, converting the turnover into fast break baskets on the other end of the court.  Caleb got hot and hit a few 3's during the rally.  Anders got to the rack on a couple of drives and laid the ball in for easy bucket.  JP rebounded an off-target, air balled 3-pointer and made nifty pass to Bobby (aka Jimmy Chitwood), who drained a three from the baseline.  

Late in the game, MBA was forced to foul CPA's player on every possession.  As often happens in games like this, one missed free throw led to another and suddenly, MBA was down by four points with the ball and less than 20 seconds left in the game.  After a missed bucked and a mad scramble as time wound down, Anders passed the ball to JP on the left baseline in the corner, directly across the court from where I was standing.  Without thinking, JP launched a 3-pointer with maybe 10 second left.  

For me, time froze as the ball was in the air.  The entire, frustrating season - for the team and JP - flashed through my mind.  I waited.  The crowd waited.  The players waited for what seemed like and eternity.

Nothing but net!

MBA's JV team, watching from the sideline before their game, erupted in cheers.  Near pandemonium in the crowd, as the parents looked at each other incredulously and cheered for the boys.  Coach Dodson immediately called a timeout to set the defense.  

I almost choked up as JP jogged to the sideline and yelled to his teammates on the bench as they ran toward him.  His roar was a release of so much pent up emotion.  Relief.  Intensity.  Frustration.  Anger.  

And, yes, joy.  Pure and unadulterated. 

Joy.  

Landon hit a 3-pointer as time expired and MBA lost by one point.  Still, the mood among the parents was almost ebullient after the game, as we waited on our sons, proud to a person of their effort.  Their competitiveness.  Their refusal to quit.

For the first time after a game for, maybe, the entire season, JP seemed satisfied as we sat together and watched the first half of MBA's JV game.  

Well, not totally, because at one point he looked at me and said, "you know if I would have hit both of my free throws in the first half - he hit one of two - we would have been tied at the end."  

I smiled, shook my head, and put my arm around him.  

And that, my friends, is why they play the game.

     

Playing Out the String

JP's freshman basketball team lost badly to Brentwood Academy last night to fall to 1 - 9 on the season.  It's a season to forget and, if I'm being honest, a team to forget.  The boys don't play together.  They play as a group of individuals.  Zero chemistry.  With a couple of exceptions, they don't rebound or play defense.  They don't move the basketball on offense.  They don't communicate on defense.  I haven't seen any improvement from game 1 to game 10.  It's just been a tough season all around.

Individually, it's been a season in which JP has struggled, too.  He's never really found his shot and, as a result, he's been hesitant - too hesitant - to shoot.  As a player, if you don't have size or incredible quickness and speed, I believe you have to have one thing that you do really well, that makes it hard for the coach to keep you out of the game.  Lockdown defense, deadeye shooter, ball handler with the skills to run the team, etc.  

I think JP's skill could be outside shooting but he has to be confident enough to shoot and if he misses, shoot again.  I think he's lost his confidence a little bit, as a result of which he gets up one, maybe two, shots in limited minutes.  The shots he takes, often times, are forced shots off a drive into the lane and a collapsing defense against defenders that are taller than he is.  Low percentage shots and more often than not, he ends up on the floor after contact while the players head the other way with the basketball.  

I've felt guilty as I've watched JP struggle this season.  We had a long conversation in Monteagle back in the fall about basketball.  He wasn't sure he wanted to play this season and was thinking about using the winter to run with his cross country teammates and to work out with the baseball players to get ready for junior varsity baseball.  I was surprised when he first brought it up, in part because he had been going tot the YMCA to get shots up and working out with Coach Amos at MBA.

I encouraged him to play basketball and, now, I wonder if that was selfish on my part.  I really didn't want him running too much over the winter because I didn't want him to burn himself out by running too much as a freshman in high school.  I also thought his team needed him particularly since their best player, Mac, was out for the season after tearing his ACL playing freshman football.  I suggested to JP, too, that if he didn't play basketball this season, he likely wouldn't play again.  Generally, I felt like 9th grade was a little too soon to decide he was done with basketball.

In retrospect, though, I wonder if I just wasn't ready to give up on the idea of JP as a basketball player.  Or, said another way, maybe I wasn't ready to be done watching JP play basketball.  As I think about it, though, he's one of last ones standing of all of the boys he played basketball with for so many reasons on Chris Taylor's and Russ Allen's teams.  Wes, Benton, JD, Cooper are all done with basketball.  Braden is on the junior varsity team at Lipscomb, as is Porter.  Only Porter is likely to see real playing time in high school, though.  

Maybe I was being selfish, as JP and I sat and talked on the back porch of the lake house in Monteagle that belongs to my friend, David Jarrard, last fall.  Maybe I was wrong to encourage him to play basketball this season.

What I think JP was worried about, though, was having a season like his 8th grade year on the A team with Coach Jackson.  Up and down (mostly down) with a bunch of boys who were more interested in acting cool than working hard and tailoring their game to give the team what it needed to succeed.  In other words, he was afraid this basketball season would be just like last basketball season.  

He was right, unfortunately.

In all likelihood, there are four games left in the basketball season.  Three regular season games and one tournament game.  JP plays today and Monday, makeup games for games lost to the snow and ice last week, when school was out for everyone in town.  I thought about that after last night's game, as I took a photograph of JP with his grandparents, Jane and Jim.

I could be wrong but I suspect these are the last four games of organized basketball JP will ever play.  It's hard for me to think about that and harder to write it which, of course, is my problem and not his.  This is the first time that I've had to face the prospect of one of my sons giving up a sport - a sport that he's played his entire life - forever.  

Why is that so hard for me to accept?  Maybe, no probably, because it marks a passage of time, definitively, in JP's life and mine.  As he gets older, so do I, and maybe that scares me.  

What I'm going to do is remind JP how much he loves the game of basketball.  I'm going to remind him to play these last four games with joy and a love for the game.  If they are his last four games of organized basketball, I want him to remember them as fondly as he can.  

I'll remember these last four games but I'll also remember the many games that came before, in gyms all across middle Tennessee.  

The Death of an Old Friend

Sports Illustrated, which has been on life support for the past few years, died a quiet death yesterday when The Arena Group missed a quarterly payment to Authentic Brands Group, as a result of which Authentic Brands Group terminated its license to publish the magazine.  Of the 100 or so remaining employees, most were laid off immediately and the rest are expected to be gone within three months.

An ignominious death for a once proud publication and a weekly read for all sports fans?  I think so.

None of this surprises me but it still makes me sad and more than a little nostalgic for times not so long ago when Sports Illustrated mattered.  I miss those days terribly and that's what I want to write about this morning, as I sip my coffee at Frothy Monkey, the only coffee shop in the neighborhood with the temerity to open and serve a full menu on a Saturday morning with snow and ice on the ground and the temperature hovering at 6 degrees.  I guess this is an obituary of sorts, personal to me but one to which others my age can relate.

I can't think of Sports Illustrated without thinking about my mom.  As I've written in this space many times before, my mom loved sports like no other woman I've ever known.  For better or worse, I inherited my love of sports from her.  Our shared love of sports was part of what made our relationship so unique and so close.  Whether it was deliberate and intentional on her part or not, it was one of the ways she filled the role of father and mother to me in my youth after my father's death in the early 1970's.

For as long as I can remember, Sports Illustrated arrived like clockwork every week in the mailbox at the end of the driveway of the house where I grew up in Brentwood, Tennessee.  My mom and I debated who should have been on the cover of that week's edition of the magazine, more often than not disagreeing with SI's cover choice.  It's hard to believe today but being on the cover of SI in those days was a big, big deal. 

On so many nights, I lay on the couch reading Sports Illustrated while she sat in her chair - "Archie Bunker's chair," we called it, because it has hers and not mine or my sisters - and discussed with her a Frank Deford or Gary Smith long form piece as I finished it.  Often times, the long form piece was about an obscure sport, outdoor activity, or sports person that I knew nothing about.  Those conversations with my mom were the best, though, as we discussed what we had learned.

When Sports Illustrated arrived, I turned first to the table of contents with great anticipation, so I could see who had written the four or five feature pieces in that week's issue.  Paul Zimmerman on the NFL?  Yes!  Curry Kirkpatrick on college basketball?  And so many others.  I also looked to see what the long form piece in the back of the issue was about and who had written it.  Frank Deford?  S.L. Price?  Gary Smith?  Or a writer I didn't know as well?  

I loved reading "Faces in the Crowd" and marveling at the achievements, often obscure, of high school and small college athletes at schools I had never heard of.  I loved reading Steve Rushin's clever, pithy short pieces.  Rick Reilly's closing column often irritated me but I read it religiously, too.  The in-season short pieces on pro or college football, pro or college basketball, and baseball were a must read, too. 

Sometime in junior high school, I started papering a wall of my bedroom with Sports Illustrated covers.  That continued, I think, until I had one entire wall covered and it stayed that way through high school.

In my junior and senior years in the nascent days of Brentwood High School, I skipped study hall and went to the school library, where I read old issues of Sports Illustrated in the bound volumes from the library's stacks.  Thumbing through back issues of SI for an hour was a kind of heaven for me as a 16 and 17 year old boy who loved sports and good sportswriting.  It was all there in old issues of Sports Illustrated.   

In September of 1984, I left for college in Knoxville intent on majoring in journalism and becoming a sportswriter and someday writing for Sports Illustrated.  For a variety of reasons, I changed my major after my freshman year, a decision I've pondered over the years.  I guess it was the right decision considering the current state of print journalism and the fact that at age 57, my interests range far and wide beyond sports.  Still, I wonder what might have been.

In college and law school, too, I subscribed to Sports Illustrated or, rather, my mom gifted me a subscription.  It felt a little bit like home every week when my issue of SI arrived in the mailbox in Knoxville, whether I was living in the dorm, the fraternity house, an apartment, or later, the house on Kenilworth Lane during my last two years of law school.     

In fact, for many years - really, until Alzheimer's disease irrevocably changed her life and our lives, too - my mom gifted me a subscription to Sports Illustrated every year for Christmas.  Sure, I was an adult by then, but it meant something to her - and to me - for her to fill out the gift card, wrap it, and place it with my other gifts on Christmas Day.  I can still see her stylish handwriting on the gift card with an explanation point at the end announcing she had subscribed to SI, for me, for another year.

Over the years, my conversations with my mom continued about who was on the cover of Sports Illustrated in a given week or a particular article in that week's issue.  Our love of sports was still a touchstone of our relationship as it evolved and I became an adult, got married, and had children.  On a smaller scale, though, Sports Illustrated was always there and a love of the magazine and what it stood for was something my mom and I shared for what I thought would be forever.

Life happens, of course, and as an adult, you realize that nothing lasts forever.  Part of growing older I think, is realizing that there is no forever.  

My mom's memory began to fade and our conversations about an article in a particular week's issue of Sports Illustrated slowed to a trickle, then ceased altogether.  Alzheimer's disease is a terrible monster for many reasons, but one of the worst things about it is that it robs its victims of the things they really, truly love.  It hurts my heart even now when I remember sitting with my mom after we moved her to assisted living and realizing she couldn't follow what was happening in a Vanderbilt basketball game we were watching on television.  

When Time Warner sold Sports Illustrated to Authentic Brands Group in 2018, I knew the magazine would never be the same and it wasn't.  In short order, the number of issues was reduced until Sports Illustrated became a monthly publication.  

SI for Kids was a big hit with my boys, which was cool.  As they got older, they thoroughly enjoyed reading Sports Illustrated when it arrived each month, too, much as I had at their age.  JP and Joe didn't share my sadness and concern over a magazine that was quite obviously on life support, though, because they didn't know that a different, better version of SI had ever existed.  

I think that's what makes me the saddest of all.  I will never get to have the weekly conversations with my sons that I had with my mom about the best version of Sports Illustrated.  

Truth be told, I stopped reading Sports Illustrated some time ago.  It was too hard for me to read it, somehow, understanding that it was a shell of what it had once been.  All, or almost all, of the best writers had left.  In December 2023, no one was surprised to learn that SI.com had used artificial intelligence to ghostwrite more than once story on the website.  That's how far things had fallen at Sports Illustrated.

I'll close quoting a passage from Ernest Hemingway's The Son Also Rises.

"How do you go bankrupt?"  Bill asks.  

"Two ways," Mike said.  "Gradually and then suddenly."

How did Sports Illustrated die?  Gradually and then suddenly.

A Run in the Snow

One of my favorites things to do, as a runner, is run in the snow.  Not snow on the ground but falling snow.  

Why?  Probably because everything has to time out perfectly for me to get a run in the falling snow.  We have to get snow, which happens rarely in Nashville.  A snowfall has to happen when I am already at home, preferably during the afternoon or early evening.  I have to be at home, too.

Yesterday, on Martin Luther King Day, we awoke to three or four inches of snow on the ground and more snow falling from the sky.  Not big, wet flakes, but smaller, harder flakes, almost like ice crystals.  It was too cold for a wet, snowball packing snow.  Still, snow is snow, and Jude and the boys were excited to be out of school.  

Because it's quite literally the only true neighborhood coffee shop in town, Portland Brew was almost the only coffee shop open in Nashville.  Reduced hours (9 a.m. - 1 p.m.) but still, open for business and serving its full menu of breakfast and lunch items.  I fired up the truck and Jude, the boys, and I drove down to Portland Brew - in falling snow - where we ate breakfast and played Hearts for almost two hours. Great fun!

After we returned home, the snow starting falling harder.  I walked upstairs and into JP's room, where he was sitting at his desk as he prepared to do some school work.  He smiled when I said, "You want one?"  That's code for "I'm going for a run.  Do you want to go?"  

"Let's go," he replied.  And we did.  4 + beautiful miles in 14 degree weather.  

Because it was so cold, I wore running tights and layered up under my orange REI cold weather running jacket.  With great pride, I retrieved my old school, purple Bill Rodgers cold weather running jacket from the closet in the office and had JP try it on for size.  It's a little big for him but it fit close enough for him to wear it on our run.  It's a fantastic jacket - probably 30 years old - and I've run in temperatures as low as 8 degrees while wearing it.  I've always wanted to give it to JP, so watching him run in it was special.

As we began our run, it was pretty damn cold.  He returned to the house before we really got started to get a pair of sunglasses to keep the snow out of his eyes.  We ran up Belmont Boulevard to Portland Avenue, across 21st Avenue, and all the way up Fairfax before circling back.  As we neared the house, we detoured on to Belmont's campus and ran the loop around the green space and the fountains.  

No music during the run and not a lot of conversation, although I pointed out that in my view, running in cold, snowy weather is what separates runners.  Hard core, dedicated runners are formed the crucible of foul weather running and running on days when you don't feel like running.  Anyone can run when it's 55 degrees and sunny outside.  

Just the sound of our footsteps in the snow, as we ran down the middle of the street.  The pace was easy, so neither of us was breathing hard.  I felt like we could run forever which, as any runner knows, is the best feeling.

Top 10 run all time?  Because of the falling snow, low temperatures, and, more importantly, sharing with JP his inaugural run in the snow, I would say yes.  Top 10 run and one I will remember forever.

Where Does the Time Go?

Ain't no time to hate

Barely time to wait

Woah, oh, what I want to know

Where does the time go?

Uncle John's Band (Grateful Dead)

Last night as JP and I walked into the MBA gym to see watch the MBA-Lipscomb game, we ran into Tony Weeks.  His son, Porter, had played in the junior varsity game and was dressed for the varsity game, as well, although he wasn't expected to play.  

It was a normal night but, also, a really good night.  JP chose to sit with me rather than the raucous group of MBA students sitting behind one of the baskets.  That surprised me a bit but it made my happy, too, to sit with him and quietly enjoy watching a basketball game together.  Across town, Jude and Joe were watching the USN basketball game on homecoming night.  

What struck me after talking briefly with Tony and seeing Porter on the court, warming up, and Braden Sweeney in the Lipscomb student section after he played in the junior varsity game is that the boys have grown up so fast.  Overnight or so it seems to me.

Porter looked good on the court and I think he'll earn some minutes for Lipscomb's varsity over the next couple of year.  I couldn't locate Braden's parents, Michelle and Ryan, in the stands at the game.  Why?  Because Braden likely had driven himself to the game.  JP will be driving, too, in a couple of months.  

How did this happen?

I coached Porter, Braden, and JP in baseball for several years.  Porter pitched a complete game shutout against Giles County in Lawrenceburg, TN, to clinch the state championship for the Dodgers.  JP, who pitched and played shortstop, second base, and third base was named to the all tournament team.  Braden got one of the biggest hits in Dodgers' history in a game against our blood rivals, the Dirtbags, in one of our first victories over them when the boys were 10 or 11.  

I still see those boys - all three of them - as they were in those days and earlier, too.  So young, so innocent, so happy to be playing recreational league baseball or basketball with their core group of friends.  It was such a special time in my life, running baseball practices in the fall and spring.  Coaching games with my friends, Chris, Will, Tony, and Randy.  Spending time with the boys and their families.  As Michelle Sweeney once said, our Dodgers' family.

I miss my Dodgers' family.  I miss sending the lineup to Will Wright the night before the game, so he could enter it in Game Changer to keep the online scorebook.  I miss talking to Tony Weeks about our pitchers and watching as he visited the mound to talk to JP or warmed up a pitcher down the left field or right field line during a game.  I miss watching Chris Taylor and Randy Kleinstick coach third and first base, so comfortable in their roles.  

What I might miss most of all is jogging out to left field at the end of a game with the boys running with me.  As the boys slid in the grass and piled on one another, I'd try to settle them down for a few minutes, so I could discuss the just completed game with them.  All eyes on me, as I sat on one knee and talked to the team, recognizing individual boys and mentioning things we needed to work on before the next game.  

Then, as I finished talking and answered any questions, the boys huddled up, yelled "1-2-3 Dodgers!" and ran back to the dugout to collect their gear.  I walked slowly, contentedly off the field.  

Dodgers forever. 

Wide World of (Weekend) Sports

It's Sunday morning, the last day of Christmas Vacation for the boys, as JP returns to school tomorrow and Joe on Tuesday.  

For today, after coffee at Dose, it's donuts from Dunkin' Donuts for church, church at St. Patrick with the family, Belmont basketball at 2 p.m., basketball practice for Joe at 4 p.m. and baseball practice for JP at 4 p.m., followed by youth group for JP at 6 p.m.  Oh, and I want to get a run in at some point. 

For now, though, in the quiet before the busy storm, I want to talk about yesterday.

Joe played basketball at 9 a.m. and 4:20 p.m., at J.T. Moore and MBA.  Fortunately, his soccer practice at 11 a.m. in Antioch was canceled.  

I loved Joe's game yesterday, especially on the offensive end.  He was more aggressive shooting the basketball, which is what I've been looking for from him.  He managed to get more shots up while still running the Bucket Squad - great name - offense from the point.  There was a sequence in the second half of the first game where he took three or four shots in a row and missed them all.  I loved the aggressiveness, though, because it takes confidence to shoot the ball, and shoot it again, when you're not particularly hot and another teammate is calling for the ball.  Believe me, at age 11, all of the boys call for the ball all of the time.  

After an easy win in the first game, the second game was with a group of boys that were down a coach and several players.  Their coach asked our coach, Thomas, to take the reins and bring a few players.  The game was disjointed, as you might imagine, with a team of boys comprised of three or four players from separate teams.  Still, Joe's team won by 15 points or so because the other team was not very skilled.  My only complaint was I thought Joe could have hustled more and played a little smarter in guarding the only kid on the other team who had any game.  

As Rex's grandfather, Jack - whom I have known for 30 years and used to play basketball with at lunch in the Uptown YMCA - said at halftime, "There's only one player on that team who could play dead in a cowboy movie and we're not guarding him!"

He was right. 

Last night, JP ran in the KYI High School Indoor Track Meet at Vanderbilt.  Over 1,300 high school students from multiple states competed in what was billed as the largest indoor track meet in Tennessee history.  Several of JP's cross country teammates were running in various events, so JP decided he wanted to run in the 1 mile race, just to see what he could do.  Although he's in the middle of basketball at MBA, why not?  It was JP's first track meet, indoor or outdoor, and my first indoor meet.  

It's interesting because JP has continued running with his cross country teammates over Christmas vacation even though cross country season obviously is over.  His teammates are training for track season and JP has trained with them.  Some day over the break, he has met them to run six or seven miles, then gone straight to basketball practice.  Why?  I think - I don't know, mind you - but I think it's because he really likes spending time with his cross country teammates and he's been bitten, hard, by the running bug.

At any rate, the meet ran way behind yesterday, which apparently is par for the course.  I dropped JP at Vanderbilt at 5:30 p.m. or so, after Joe's basketball game.  He quickly texted Jude and me to tell us that his heat (3 out of 5 total) likely wouldn't run on time and 7:30 or 8:00 p.m.  To be safe, though, we arrived at 7:15 p.m.  He was right, of course, because he didn't run until well after 9:00 p.m.

I was glad to have a chance to walk around, though, and take in what was really quite a spectacle.  Runners, runners, and more runners everywhere.  Sprinters.  Distance runners.  All of the kids with supportive parents and family members to cheer them on in their respective events.  Dedicated runners, all.  I loved it. 

I struck up a conversation with a group of mothers whose sons and daughters run for Daniel Boone High School in Washington County, near Johnson City, TN.  Very nice ladies.  Apparently, Daniel Boone has quite a cross country program, as many of its runners go on to run in college.  One mother I met, Tera, had a daughter (senior) running the mile (she's committed to Appalachian State) and a son running in the 2nd heat of the mile (sophomore), who probably will run in college, too.

Two of JP's senior teammates ran in the 1st heat, which was for the older, stronger runners.  A young man from McCallie won the race, finishing in 4:13.  Fast.

As JP's group, which included his freshman teammate, Gabe, lined up for the 3rd heat, I realized I wasn't as nervous as usual when he runs, probably because I had no idea what to expect.  I knew he was in excellent running shape but he had never raced a mile - five laps around the Vanderbilt indoor track - so he likely had no idea what to do in terms of strategy.  I deliberately didn't talk to him about it - which has been my approach in cross country, too - because he has to figure that stuff out on his own.  Plus, what could I possibly tell him that would have any merit, given that I've never run at the level he runs.  

Suddenly, the starting gun went off and I was startled out of my silent reverie.  The race was on!

I had positioned myself on the turn just before the homestretch.  As the boys ran by me, JP was near the rear and, in fact, as they completed the first lap, he was in dead last out of 15 or so boys, although the runners were still bunched up into two groups.  He was stuck on the outside, too, which I didn't like.   

Well, I thought, this isn't going like I thought it would.  Still, it will be a learning experience for JP.  A measuring stick race for him.  Nothing wrong with that, I told myself, as I began considering the encouraging words I would have for him after the race.  

As the boys began the second lap, I saw JP begin to pass a few runners on the outside.  That's interesting, I thought.  Good.  Let's get a respectable finish and build on this.  

As JP passed me near the end of the second lap, my heartbeat quicken a bit.  He was running effortlessly.  Perfect posture, shoulders back, breathing easily, in his element.  It was at that point that I knew - I mean KNEW - I was about to watch something unexpected, maybe even something amazing.  

And I did.

"Let's go, Noos!" I shouted as he passed by me on the fourth lap, running easily and cleanly in the lead group of runners.  They were tiring.  He was not.  That much was clear to me.   

As the runners began the fifth lap and entered the first turn, JP grabbed the lead.  From last to first!  I jogged closer to the finish and looked across the track to see JP still in first, running strong.  

When the boys made the final turn, JP was still leading.  As he approached me near the finish, I saw the second place runner - a kid from Father Ryan that was used to play baseball against - begin to sprint and close ground behind him.  I could tell JP didn't see or feel Chris C. right behind him but I also could see that JP didn't have a spring left in him.  In the last 10 yards, he passed JP with a strong finish and won by one second at the most.  

Great finish.  Great race, by far the most exciting of the five heats of the mile.

JP showed the heart of a lion, the heart of a champion, really.  A 4:41 mile in his first indoor track meet.  

Afterwards, he said he really enjoyed the race.  I could tell he was proud of his performance in that quiet, calm way of his.  Not boastful, not arrogant, but confident.  

One of the coolest things about the race was about halfway through, as I was pacing, I walked by a group of his cross country teammates and overheard one of the coaches or parents - I'm not sure which - talking about JP to the boys as he began passing runners and moving closer to the lead pack.  

"That's what makes him different.  His competitiveness.  Look at him run!"   

I couldn't have said it any better myself. 

Books in 2024

A few years ago, I began logging in my cell phone the books I read, including the title, author, and date I finished a particular book.  Why?  Part of it was vanity, I suppose.  Part of it, though, was it was easier for me make a book recommendation to a friend or colleague if I had the relevant information about a book easily accessible.

This year, I read 40 books, which might be a record for me. 

Just for fun, I traveled down the Walter Mosley rabbit hole, as I read - in order - all 15 novels in the Easy Rawlins series.  From Devil in a Blue Dress (1990) to Blood Grove (2021), I thoroughly enjoyed each and every one.  As a reader, it was interesting in a year's time to follow Easy Rawlins in Los Angeles as he grew from a young man in the late 1940's to a middle aged private investigator in the late 1960's.  In many ways, the city of Los Angeles was almost as much of a main character in the novels as Easy Rawlins.  Walter Mosley expertly weaved the changes in the city into each story, so much so that I felt as if I had lived in Los Angeles during the 20+ years from the first novel to the last.  

I enjoy plot driven thrillers, to be sure.  Walter Mosley compares very favorable to James Lee Burke, one of my favorite authors of the genre.  Easy Rawlins and Dave Robicheaux are similar protagonists.  Damaged as human beings.  Emotionally vulnerable but physically tough.  Hardened by life experiences, particularly from their childhoods.  Scarred by their experiences in war, Rawlins from World War II and Robicheaux from the Vietnam War.  Two sides of the same coin on many levels. 

In terms of straight fiction - literature as it were - my favorite was the first book I read in 2023, America, America by Ethan Canin.  Like all good novels, the characters resonated with me and I didn't want it to end.  A coming of age tale set in the late 1960's and early 1970's in upstate New York, the story was set against the backdrop of the 1972 presidential election.  I would re-read this one some day, which is something I rarely do.  It brought to mind Richard Ford's Frank Bascombe saga and Richard Russo, as well.  

Riverman.  An American Odyssey, by Ben McGrath, was the book that moved me the most in 2023.  It spoke to me in the same way Into the Wild (John Krakauer) did more than 20 years ago.  Similar true stories with sadly familiar endings.  I think Riverman was the book I gave copies of to the most friends in 2023, including to my sister, Tracy, for Christmas.

Salvage this World by Michael Farris Smith, proud resident of Oxford, MS, and running buddy of Wright Thompson, unexpectedly grabbed like no novel has in a while.  Set in the deep south during an apocalyptic weather event, it was reminiscent of Stephen King's The Stand, my favorite book of all time.

Let My People Go Surfing: The Education of a Reluctant Businessman (Yvon Choinard) and Wild Idea (Jonathan Franklin), which I read back-to-back in October, inspired me and changed the way I look at the world.  What more can you ask of a book?  Strangely, Yvon Choinard and Doug Tompkins (the subject of Wild Idea) were best friends.  Choinard was present when Tompkins died tragically on an ill advised kayak trip on General Carrera Lake in Chile in December 2015.

I particularly enjoyed Jimmy Carter's Sources of Strength.  Mediations on Scripture for a Living Faith.  I picked it up on a whim while browsing one day in Landmark Booksellers in Franklin, TN, and I was glad I did.  Published in 1997, it's still timely 26 years later.  Somehow, it felt important for me to read it, and finish it, as Jimmy Carter has been in hospice care in Georgia for the past few months.  He's an incredible man.  If ever there was a good and faithful servant, Jimmy Carter is it.

The last book I read in 2023 was one of my favorites.  Romney.  A Reckoning, by McKay Coppins.  I got it from my sister for Christmas and read it in four or five days.  What made it so fascinating, I think, is the fact that Mitt Romney gave the author unfettered access to his private journal and e-mails.  Simply a fantastic and informative read.

There were other books, of course, but those are the highlights.  We're a reading family and it gives me great pleasure to see my boys reading regularly.  A love of reading is one of the greatest gifts Jude and I could give JP and Joe.