Taking it on the Chin

I've been a slow pitch softball pitcher since my early twenties, when I pitched and played intramural softball in college.  By my count, I've been a softball pitcher for almost 40 years.  

How many games have I pitched?  A countless number of game in ball parks all over middle Tennessee, many of which no longer exist.  West Park.  Shelby Park.  Fieldstone Farms.  Granny White Park.  Cain Ridge.  East Park.  Cleveland Street Park.  Paragon Mills.  I've pitched in intramural championship games, fraternity championship games, city championship games, and law league (Nashville Bar Association) championship games.

Yes, it's only slow pitch softball.  For me, though, it's always been about the competition.  Fun and camaraderie, yes, but also the competition.  Without question, there's some ego involved for me, too, because I am a damn good softball pitcher and have been for many, many years.  As I've aged and since we retired from playing city softball, I've taken pride in begin the best pitcher, year after year, in the Nashville Bar Association softball league.

As I've written in this space before, the law league in general and my teammates in particular, some of whom I have played with for three decades - are very important to me.  For so many years in the midst of busy personal and professional lives and, yes, in times of misfortune and tragedy, I've taken the mound in East Park or, now, Cleveland Street Park, in May, June, and July to play softball and pitch against my fellow lawyers and assorted legal professionals.  And, each year for close to 35 years, our season has culminated in the annual law league softball tournament.  

My team and I have won the tournament several times including as recently as last season, when in a mildly controversial decision, we were awarded the championship after the final day of games was rained out two or three weekends in a row.  We had the best season record, the best run differential, and were by far the best team.  So, we got the title and I have the trophy in my office to prove it.  

I've never been seriously injured pitching a softball either, until yesterday, at Cleveland Street Park.

In the semi-finals, playing against Hardin Law, I took a line drive in the face when a young stud - probably not a legal player - absolutely smoked a softball up the middle, head high.  The ball was hit so hard, I never had a chance.

There were two outs and we were up 12 - 4, or something like that, and likely cruising to a matchup in the finals against the DA's, our rival the last couple of years.  It's all kind of fuzzy but I believe I was stepping back after the pitch as the batter swung the bat.  The ball was on me so fast that I didn't have time to react.  All I saw was a blur of yellow streaking directly toward my face as I reflexively tried to block my face with the softball glove on my left hand.  

As near as I can tell - and I've replayed this over and over again in my mind, even physically trying to reconstruct what happened - the softball deflected off the bottom of my glove and hit me in the chin first, then careened off my chest.  After I was hit, I staggered backwards, spun, and fell on the ground.  There was blood everywhere.  I stood up, literally roaring in pain, anger, and fear, as I looked at my hands and left arm, covered in my blood.

I was livid, in part because earlier in the game, another ringer for Hardin Law also had crushed a line drive up the middle, head high.  I got my glove up in front of my face and almost caught that one, although I think I may have broken the knuckle on the ring liner of my left hand in the process.  I had the presence of mind to pick up the ball and throw the runner out at first base.  He apologized, half heartedly, as I stared at him near the first base line after I threw him out.  

Joe, sitting in the dugout, looked at me as I walked off the field toward him after the inning, and said, "that was too close, Dad."  I nodded my head in agreement.

Then, an inning or two later, I got drilled in the face by another line drive.  I was infuriated that a second player had hit a line drive right back at me.  

Why?  This is, after all, the law league.  It's co-ed, with each team playing two females.  Many of the players are older, like me (although, at 58, I'm one of the older players).  It's competitive, sure, but not that competitive.  To me, that's the problem with having a team full of ringers - they don't understand what the law league and and what it isn't.  It's just about winning, for them.

I erupted in a fusillade of profanity as I pinwheeled around the infield, yelling at Hardin Law's players in the first base dugout.  I knew I was hurt.  I just didn't know how badly.  All I knew was that there was a lot of blood.  

I stormed off the field, foolishly banging (and hurting) my right hand as a slammed the gate open by the first base dugout and walked up the third base line, outside the field.  I was trying to compose myself and take stock of my injury.  Slowly, I realized that the blood was coming from a deep gash in my chin and that my teeth appeared to be intact, which was a slight relief.  

When I looked back out toward the field, I saw that the teams had lined up near the first base dugout and were jawing at each other.  I turned and began making my way through people back to the field, filled with anger and adrenaline.  Someone from my team - Jack, I think - tried to stop me and I pushed him away and walked through the gate back onto the field.  

I'm not sure what I was going to say or do but it wasn't going to be good.  Thankfully, one of Hardin's players that I've gotten to know a little bit the last few years stopped me and assured me that the player who injured didn't do it on purpose.  I knew that, at some level, but having one of his teammates provide that reassurance, at that point in time, calmed me.  I found the batter, shook his hand, and gave him a hug.  

To my surprise, my friend Matt, told me his team was forfeiting, because our friendship was more important than the game.  It was one of the classiest gestures I've ever seen someone make on an athletic field that I was on.  True sportsmanship.

I packed up my things, said goodbye to Jude and the boys, and drove to the emergency room at Centennial Hospital.  Five hours later, I drove home with a negative CT scan (no fractures), seven stitches in my chin, and after a tetanus shot.  

My enduring thought is that a guardian angel was looking out for me because I could have been injured so much worse.  A couple of inches higher and I would have spent 12 hours in a dental chair, for example.  My cheek or orbital socket could have been fractured.  I could have been killed, and that's not an exaggeration.

The many text messages, e-mails, and telephone calls buoyed my spirits and reminded me how much I love my team and the law league.  

In the end, my team brought home the 2nd place trophy after losing in the finals to the DA's, 16 - 14.  If only.  I made the all-tournament team, as did JP. 

I think I earned the hardware.  The hard way, by taking one on the chin.

Look closely at my jersey and right hand. 

What It Means to Be a Friend

It's mid-week, Wednesday, and I'm on the tail end - thankfully - of five mediations in seven days.  One more mediation today, then I can slow down just a bit.

What's been on my mind this week, though, is friendship and what it means to be a friend.

At various times Saturday while we visited with my friend, Dave, and his wife, Mary, in Louisville, he got tired and we helped him into the bedroom to lay down and nap.  We took turns watching him on a baby monitor, as I mentioned earlier, so we could help him if he decided he wanted to get up.  It was surreal, to say the least, to stare at a baby monitor and watch Dave - one of the most confident and successful people I know - like I watched my boys, sleeping in their cribs, when they were infants.

More often than not and particularly as the afternoon turned into night, Doug slipped into the bedroom and lay down on the bed beside Dave.  Usually, he tried to talk to Dave, acted silly, and generally prevented him from sleeping.  It got to the point that Mary or one of us tried to talk Doug out of going into the bedroom.  Alternatively, we went into the bedroom and tried to convince Doug to get up and join the rest of us for a drink.

At one point, with Mary's laughing encouragement, Dave insisted Doug agree to a "safe word" which, when used by Dave or his family, meant Doug had to leave Dave alone.  

Bobcat.

Even now, saying that word out loud, I smile.  

Doug and I have been close friends for more than 40 years and I know him, inside and out.  He's hurting so badly as he watches Dave slip away.  I know that and it affects Doug more deeply and differently than it does me, because he is closer to Dave, and Doug and I are different people.  Seeing Doug in such unbearable pain is devastating to me. 

As I talked to Jude on the phone Sunday morning and recounted the events of the previous day to her, I broke down and cried in the coffee shop, as I described Doug insisting on laying down next to Dave whenever Dave took a nap.  It was such an act of unbridled love and affection, built on years and years of friendship.  Dave hurts, so Doug hurts, too.  

It's what friends do, I think. 

Doug's devotion to Dave was beautiful to watch and it continued on Sunday morning at Cracker Barrel, where I watched Doug cut up Dave's pancakes for him without a second thought.  An act of service and an act of love.  Above all, an act of friendship.

At times like this, we close the circle tighter around Dave, Mary, and their children.  We fill the circle with love and prayer. 

What else can we do?

My Man, Dave

I'm sitting in Quill's Coffee Shop in Jeffersontown, Kentucky, on an early Sunday morning, wondering where 40 years went.  This is so hard to write. 

Where to begin.

Yesterday morning, long after Jude, JP, and Joe had left for Bell Buckle, Tennessee, for JP's last two baseball games of the season, Mike and I left Nashville for Louisville, to spend the day with my high school friend, Dave, who was told a week ago that he has less than three months to live.  The glioblastoma he has been fighting for the past 18 months is going to win.  

And that really, really sucks.

Mike and I met Doug (Altanta) and Neil (Columbus) at the hotel upon our arrival shortly after noon and followed them in my truck over to Dave and Mary's house in Anchorage, Kentucky.  They live in a beautiful neighborhood where Mary grew up.  Interestingly, Dave and Mary own two homes almost directly across from each other.  The home they owned for more than two decades and in which they raised their two children was hit by a freak tornado while they were in Costa Rica after Dave's diagnosis and initial round of chemo and radiation.  The damage was extensive.  Fortunately, they were able to buy the house across the street, which is where we visited with Dave yesterday.

Although Doug has prepared me ahead of time, seeing David was jarring.  His dark brown hair, always combed in a perfect side part and neat, was a mess.  Always trim, David has gained a considerable amount of weight because he has been taking a heavy dose of steroids as part of his regimen of medicine and treatment.  He was wearing a patch over his left eye because as of the past few days, he can't focus his eyes if they are both uncovered.  He's lost much of the use of his entire left side, so he's using a wheelchair and a walker to get around the house.

Last week, Dave walked out of his doctor's office under his own power after being told he was going to die so soon.  His physical decline since then has been rapid and precipitous, as he needed a lot of assistance to get in and out of bed, chairs, and to walk by this weekend.  Again, I was prepared for it but still, it was so hard to see Dave like this.

What was amazing, though, is that Dave's mind is still so sharp.  Always quick-witted, Dave's offbeat, quirky sense of humor was in full force and effect, much to my delight.  He was still . . . Dave . . . and I thank God for that gift.  

Mike, Neil, Doug, and I sat with Dave all afternoon and in the evening, mostly on his large, covered front porch.  We told stories from our high school days and beyond, from our time together as boys and, later, much younger men.  We talked about trouble that found us in high school - "the five that got five" - and road trips, weddings, and vacations.  We talked about old girlfriends.  We talked about practical jokes we played, like climbing on the roof of Brentwood High School the night before school started in August 1982 and anchoring giant wood numbers there that spelled out "1984."  

We talked about the unsanctioned spring break trip we took to Daytona Beach, Florida, in March 1984.  How I arrived first with Steve Jeroutek, Jeff Jackovich, and Jimmy Klein, and changed out hotel because the one we had booked, somehow, over the telephone, was a dump.  We found another hotel, right on the beach, and immediately booked it for our group of 30 + students.  How we did that with no credit card, no cellular telephone, etc., I will never know.  Still, once our group located us, it ended up as one of the best weeks of our lives together.  A legendary week together and a trip that all of us regularly reference to this day.  

We listened to and talked about music a lot, old albums and concerts we'd been together.  I recalled when Dave and Neil introduced me to R.E.M.'s second album, Murmur, at my 18th surprise birthday party at Neil's house in my old neighborhood.  They were on R.E.M. early.  We talked about Shakey's Pizza in Green Hills on Thursday nights in spring 1984, our senior year of high school.  Rome Bordage (?), ZZ Top, pizza, and beer.  

Dave was especially animated when Neil started a discussion about the greatest sports movies of all time.  I've always had a connection with Dave when it came to sports.  Although his interests, and mine, are many and varied, we share a love of sports, sports trivia, and baseball.  I laughed, shaking my head, as Dave and I finished each other's sentences as we quotes lines from our favorite, often obscure, sports movies.

"All the way with a red hot poker, Coach.  I can play anywhere I want."  Henry Steele (Robbie Benson) in One on One. 

We talked about '80's movies, the Rocky movies, DC Cab, Hot Dog, Ice Castles, and so many more.  We talked about cartoons and sitcoms.    

We told funny jokes, bad jokes, and jokes in poor taste.  We laughed and laughed.  My God, did we laugh.  

We acted like young men again, without a care in a world.  No wives.  No kids.  No jobs.  No brain tumor.  

Because just for a few hours yesterday afternoon, that's exactly what we were.  

David wanted to order wings, so we ordered wings.  Mike, Doug, Neil, and I ate them together with Dave's son, Hayden, while Dave napped in his bedroom.  I watched him on the baby monitor to make sure he didn't try to get out of bed on his own.  

When Dave decided to go to bed after his wife, Mary, got home from dinner at a neighbor's house, we poured whiskey's and settled in to talk some more, with Mary.  Our conversation turned more serious, at times, as we struggled to make sense of it all.  Our hearts hurt for Mary and the kids, because their lives will be so different without Dave.  

Dave has always been larger than life.  His own guy.  Funny.  Smart.  An entrepreneur of the highest magnitude, Dave has been financially and professionally successful beyond anyone's imagination, and he has always done it his way.  If there ever was a life well lived - a full life - Dave has lived it.

It's so hard, though, to say goodbye to someone we've known for 40 + years.  After breakfast this morning at Cracker Barrel of all places - that's where Dave wanted to go - we lingered at our table, talking and laughing.

Together. 

I don't think any of us wanted to leave the table because we knew when we see Dave again, if we see Dave again, everything will be different.  

Doug wheeled Dave out of the crowded restaurant and into the parking lot, and helped Dave into Neil's car.  I reached in, hugged Dave, and kissed his cheek as he thanked me for coming.  I told him I loved him, my sunglasses hiding my tears.  Mike did the same, as I said goodbye to Doug and Neil, then we got in my truck for the three hour drive back to Nashville.

What I'm left with, today, is this -

How can life be so beautiful and so heartbreakingly sad at the same time?

    

Gut Truck and Gut Punched

Some weeks are better than others.  Some weeks are, well, the pits.  That's what last week was for me.  The pits.

At the end of the week, I learned that one my high school friends, Dave, likely has less than three months to live.  Less than two years ago, he was diagnosed with a glioblastoma (brain tumor).  For the most part, he's done remarkably well.  As recently as six weeks ago, an MRI was very encouraging and revealed little traces of the tumor.

Unfortunately, an MRI he underwent last week revealed the tumor had stormed back with a vengeance, it's tendrils wrapped in and around his brain.  Apparently, it's not uncommon for a tumor like this to be hidden at times during treatment.  It's so fast growing and aggressive that a relatively clean MRI doesn't mean as much as one would hope and, for sure, it doesn't change the life expectancy with a glioblastoma, which is roughly 15 months from diagnosis.

It's not about me, of course, but it's tough in my line of work to emphasize with a client whose wife is hiding chairs and a table he was awarded when I have a friend with a wife and two grown children whose time on earth is at and end.  It makes what I do in the trenches, everyday, seem mundane.  That's the way I felt by the end of last week, anyway.  On top of that, it seems that almost every lawyer I am opposite in a current case has chosen this point in time to be difficult.

JP had a baseball tournament in Memphis over the weekend.  He played early on Friday afternoon and when it became apparent I would be stuck in Court in Nashville, I decided to stay home and try to get caught up on work.  More importantly, I needed some time to myself, to try to recharge my batteries for what is about to be an extremely busy and demanding week at work.  

Burnout?  Maybe, but I'll fight through it, like I always do.  I'll also fight like hell to keep things in perspective, at home and at work, as Dave and his family deal with the end of his life.  As of yesterday, it looks like a group of us may drive to Louisville, KY, this weekend to say goodbye.  

At 58, I didn't plan on having to say goodbye to friends I've know for more than 40 years.  Not by a long shot.  

Dave had a band in college in the mid-1980's.  Gut Truck.  He played bass, as I recall.  He also started a recycling business in college and I think the band may have been named after the pickup truck he used in the recycling business.  Ever the entrepreneur and a born salesman, Dave succeeded beyond belief from a financial standpoint and, yet, here we are.  

I've been thinking about his wife, Mary, and this children, since I heard the news.  Nothing to do, I guess, but pray for Dave and his family.  

The Summer of the Kid

This morning, I left the house early because I'm covered up at work and have a busy day ahead of me.  Plus, I have to build in time for coffee (and writing) at Dose, where I am right now.  Joe was still asleep, Jude was on her morning walk, and JP was gone for a run.  A perfect description of the majority of our summer mornings.  

When I hurriedly stepped out the front door, backpack slung over my shoulder, tie knotted around my neck and wearing a forest green sports jacket, I stopped for a second when I saw JP's Honda Pilot parked on the street across from the house.  Before he started his run, he had taken his shirt off and left it hanging on the side view mirror.  I smiled to myself and stood quietly, just for a moment, taking it all in.  

What a summer to be JP.  16 years old.  Driving Jude's 19 year old Honda Pilot ,everywhere, with such pride, after she bequeathed it to him when he turned 16 in late March.  Running shirtless all over the neighborhood every morning, as he prepares for the cross country season.  So disciplined and dedicated.  Working the MBA all-sports camps earlier in the summer and the MBA baseball camp this week.  Doing his summer reading for school.

Smiling, I got in my truck and began my drive to Dose.  A few minutes later, as I drove up Fairfax near Eakin Elementary School, I saw JP running toward me.  Shirtless, rightly proud of his thin, fit, and slightly muscled physique ,running fast and comfortably with an endless summer day  - and his whole life - in front of him.  

Youth.  Resplendent and beautiful on a summer morning.  

He saw me and lifted his face to the sky as he yelled - in triumph or, maybe, outright joy - and stuck his left arm out as he veered toward me.  He slapped my hand as he ran by, a huge smile on his face and his hair flopping every which way.  

And then he was gone and I was off to work.

It was like a rainbow that briefly appears during a summer rainstorm, then quickly disappears as the rain stops.  

It was a beautiful moment and one I won't forget.  

Fourth of July in the Windy City

It's Sunday morning and I'm at Dose on Murphy Road, my favorite spot for coffee.  JP left before I did to go to the park for a long run with Samuel.  It's going to be tough on JP when Samuel and Mitchell leave for college (Kansas University and Centre College) at the end of the summer.  I have no doubt he will stay in contact with them and, at some point in the future, I could see him visiting one or both of them at school, but it won't be the same as running with them almost every morning.

We arrived home from Chicago yesterday afternoon.  Very quickly, I was reminded how much more humid it is in Nashville than in Chicago.  My three mile run (Blair and back) late yesterday afternoon in 90+ degree temperatures was entirely different than my three miles runs the two days prior along the Riverwalk and Lakefront Trail in Chicago.  C'est la vie.

Our trip, albeit abbreviated at four nights, was a good one.  We stayed in a downtown penthouse condominium on the 53rd floor of a building - with a doorman! - at the corner of State and Grand.  Staying downtown in a big city was a new experience for the boys and for me, too.  So was riding the train and subway into downtown from Chicago Midway Airport.  Struggling to roll our luggage up the aisle of a relatively crowded subway surrounded by, shall we say, a diverse group of people, was an eye opening experience for Joe.  I want him to have those type of experiences, though, to gain an understanding that he lives in a little bit of a bubble.

After checking into our place, we had a great dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant, Siena Tavern.  While Jude and JP went for a walk after dinner, Joe and I ducked into Harry Carey's Steakhouse and spent some time looking at the many photographs of celebrities own the walls and the sports memorabilia.  As many do when the visit the restaurant, Joe posed for a photo with the bust of Harry Carey.  That one was a keeper.

The next morning, Wednesday, we took at Uber over to Northwestern University in Evanston for an informal college visit for JP.  He was disappointed, as was I, to learn that Northwestern doesn't have a men's cross country or track team.  Still, we enjoyed walking around campus on a self-guided tour, stopping in an art exhibit, walking through the athletic facilities for students, and perusing in the bookstore.  At this point, I want JP to get the feel of different colleges, to develop a frame of reference, and begin to form an idea of what kind of college he would like to attend.  Large, small, liberal arts, etc.

Later that night, Jude went kayaking on Lake Michigan with a few of her college friends - Terry, Blake, and Jeff.  The boys and I ate dinner across the street from our place at Weber's Grill Restaurant (who knew?).  When Jude returned home with Blake and Jeff, we were watching the Beekeeper with Jason Statham, much to her chagrin.  After they left, Blake and Jeff missed the last train, which was typical and rather comical, although Blake wasn't amused.

On July 4th, Jude and I took the boys to Wrigley Field to see the Cubs play.  It was their first visit to Wrigley Field and one they will remember, I think.  The holiday crowd was amped and there were a lot of Phillies fans in attendance.  The Phillies are having a great season, so their fans at Wrigley were a bit shellshocked when the Cubs roared back from a 2-0 deficit to thrash the Phillies, 10-2, behind a pair of homers - one from each side of the plate - by Ian Happ.  On the day, Happ was 4-4 with 6 RBI's.  Quite a performance.  

We took the train to Margaret Walker's house after the game and spent a few minutes with she and her husband, Angel, and their young girls, who are adorable and full of energy.

After the game, we met Jude's college friends - Terry, Blake, Jeff, Jim, and Colleen - for dinner at Italian Village.  Great meal.  

On July 5, JP and I went for a morning run on the Riverwalk and the Lakefront Trail.  Jude cooked breakfast at home while I got coffee.  Later, we went the Cubs-Angels game - another Cubs' win - and saw the Cubs' pitcher, Justin Steele, throw a rare complete game.  We stayed for the finish and the boys enjoyed celebrating with the Cubs' fans waving the "W" flags and singing along to "Go Cubs Go!"  Very fun afternoon.

That evening, Jude had dinner with her college friends at a Greek restaurant and the boys while the boys and I ate pizza at Giordano's, near our place.  Later, we finished watching the Beekeeper, with Jason Statham.  Certainly, that was one of Joe's highlights of the trip, since he shares my affinity for action movies.  

On Saturday morning, July 6, JP and I shared another run on the Riverwalk and the Lakefront Trail, then sat and talked while he ate a quick breakfast.  Then, back to pack, to the airport, and a quick flight home.

Nice, quick trip to Chicago.  We were on the go a lot, so it wasn't overly relaxing but still, it was good to get away.  I'm glad Jude got to see her college friends.  She needs that every so often and it's a good group.

Running to Nowhere

This morning, I struggled through three windy miles on the Lakefront Trail in Chicago, hard on the bank of Lake Michigan.  We're here for the week to celebrate the Fourth of July, to see Jude's college friends, and for a vacation during the baseball dead period.  

Struggled is what I did, as it's been that kind of year for me running, at least recently.  Tuesday morning, I broke off a hot and humid three mile morning run after a little more than two miles and walked the rest of the way home.  Sunday evening, I stopped after running two miles with Joe, rather than continuing with another mile or two on my own as I normally do when I run with him.

What started out as a promising running year for me - with an intention to focus on long runs that ended after I ran 8 + miles (Murphy Road and Charlotte Avenue) - has turned into a year of inconsistency.  I haven't run anywhere near 20 miles per week with any regularity.  Truth be told, I've not been running 15 miles most weeks, at least not lately.  

The rational part of my brain reminds me that as I get older, I have a harder time transitioning to running in the extreme heat and humidity.  That's been true the last several years and it's true this year.  It's hard for me to get in the habit of running in the morning, before work, because it's virtually impossible for me to cool down sufficiently before I put on a coat and tie.  Yes, that's an excuse, and I've got a lot of them or so it seems.  I've been staying later at work than I would like and that's only going to get worse because Andrea, the associate attorney with whom I work the most closely, is leaving our office.  

So many nights, I get home from work late and it's just easier, a lot easier, to unwind with a bourbon and dinner with the family than with a run.  It just is.  

What's really concerned me, though, is that I haven't felt good, lately, when I'm running.  Maybe it's the heat.  Maybe, though, it's that I'll be turning 58 in a few days and I'm just old.  Depressing though, that one.  

I run to stay younger, not to feel older.  I mean, damn.

I'm more than a little jealous, to be sure, on mornings like this morning, when JP takes off to run six miles in the middle of a regimented summer of running and I struggle through three miles.  There was a time when I would have been able to run with JP and his cross country teammates - six, seven or eight miles - at 7:30 per mile, or faster, as a training pace.  Those days are long since gone, as is so much else in my life.  

Especially my youth.  

Gone like a bottom of gin, to quote John Hiatt, whom I met, again, and talked with at Josh Sanger's wedding in Knoxville earlier this year.  

I'd like to get back just a little of it - my youth - as a runner at some point this year.  Can I?  Time will tell.

I can still pitch a damn softball, though.  Better than anyone I know.  And that's a fact.