Forever Young

Ryne Sandberg died this week, too young, at age 65.  Prostate cancer.  So sad and so hard to believe.

Hall of Fame MLB player (2005).  10 time MLB All-Star, 9 time Gold Glove winner at second base, and 8 time Silver Slugger award winner.  Without question, one of the best second baseman of all time.  A stellar defensive second baseman with surprising power at the late.  He won an MVP award in 1984.  

Always a quiet, unassuming player, Sandberg was the consummate Chicago Cub during his 15 season with the club (1982 - 1987).  In 1984, the year he won the MVP he led the Cubs to the playoffs for the first time since 1945, he hit .314 with 200 hits, 19 home runs, 84 RBI, 19 triples, and 32 stolen bases.  At the time, it was one of the best offensive seasons ever for a second baseman.

For me, Ryne Sandberg was forever young.  I feel like I lost part of my youth with his dying.  Why?  I'll explain.

In the late 1970's and early 1980's, Because there was no internet, no smart phones, and no MLB Network, a true baseball fan like me got all of his baseball news from the box scores int he Tennessean or the Nashville Banner, my weekly issue of The Sporting News or, to a lesser extent, Sports Illustrated.  There was very little baseball on television other than the Game of the Week.  For highlights, there was This Week in Baseball.  

I'm not sure when we got cable television in our house, but I'm guessing it was 1979 or 1980.  Suddenly, I could watch the Atlanta Braves on TBS, the New York Mets on WOR, or the Chicago Cubs on WGN.  For a baseball nut like me, this was heaven on earth.  Best of all, the Cubs played only day games, so every day in the summer, I could watch them early and mid-afternoons.  It was perfect.

Ryne Sandberg arrived in Chicago from the Phillies in 1982 in one of the most lopsided MLB trades of all time.  Ryne Sandberg and Larry Bowa for Ivan DeJesus.  Sandberg was young, tall, ruggedly handsome, and quickly became a superstar for the Cubs.  Batting second in the lineup, behind center fielder Bobby Dernier, he became part of "the Daily Double," a moniker invented by the Cubs' iconic announcer, Harry Caray.

Everything came together in the spring and summer of 1984, as the Cubs streaked to the division title it the National League East.  They finished 96 - 65 and I swear, it seems like I watched everyone of their games on television.  The Dodgers were still my team but I fell in love with that Cubs' squad in large part because I was able to watch them every day on WGN.  

So many of the Cubs' players, like Ryne Sandberg were young.  I was, too, as I turned 18 years old that summer.  Everything was so new.  Baseball games on cable television every day?!?  The Cubs on the way to their first division title in 39 years.  It was all so exciting. 

Anything was possible.  For the Cubs and, of course, for me.

In many ways, it was an endless summer, the last one for me.  I was working the night shift at Wal-Mart, partly because it allowed me to sleep in and wake up in time to watch the Cubs' home games on television.  17 years old and working the night shift?  Why not? 

Everything changed, of course, as my friends started to drift off to college at the end of the summer.  Neil to Vanderbilt.  Jay to University of Virginia.  Doug to Auburn.  Me, and so many other, to the University of Tennessee in Knoxville.  I didn't know it then but things would never be as simple, as innocent, as they were in the summer of 1984. 

It seems like every time I watched a Cubs' game that summer that Ryne Sandberg was getting an extra base hit in a key situation.  A home run or a triple.  Or turning a key double play, as Harry Caray shouted "Cubs Win!  Cubs Win!" It was, to be sure, a magical summer for the Cubs.  

As summer ended, I packed for college.  My mom and my next door neighbor, Warren Gilley, moved me to Knoxville.  He was like a second father to me, gone so many years now.  Later, he told me buy mom cried all the way back to Cookeville after they dropped me off and helped me unload my belongings into my room on the ground floor of Reese Hall.  

As I began going to classes on the Hill and adjusted to life on my own for the first time, the Cubs kept winning.  They clinched the division and played the San Diego Padres in the first round of the National League Playoffs.  No doubt, this was the year the Cubs were going to break the curse and win their first World Series title since 1908.  It was going to happen.

The Cubs took a 2 - 0 lead in the best of five game series.  I still remember, like yesterday, that someone in Reese Hall made a sign out of making tape in their dorm room window after the second game of the division series.  

"GO CUBS!  WIN ONE MORE!"

As any Cubs' fan knows, the Padres swept the Cubs in the last three games of the division series, then lost in the World Series to Kirk Gibson and the Detroit Tiger, in five games.  

The guys in the dorm room left that damn sign up all year long.  By winter time, the making tape had faded but it was still there, sadly.  As I trudge through the Presidential Courtyard on my way to class in the bitter cold, I would look up and see the sign, a reminder of what could have been.  A reminder of what should have been.  

For me, Ryne Sandberg always has remained frozen in time. 24 years old in the summer of 1984.  He had his whole life ahead of him.  I had my whole life ahead of me.  Nothing could stop him, or me.  Certainly not age or illness.  Ryne Sandberg and I were going to live forever.  

Now, so many years later, I've learned that nothing lasts forever.  

I'm older, obviously.  My mom has been gone more than five years.  I've lost friends and colleagues, too.  

And this week, I lost a part of my youth, and innocence - maybe the last part - when Ryne Sandberg died at age 65.  

Farewell, Ryno.

2025 NBA Softball Tourney

That's my squad.  Third place in the 2025 NBA Softball Tournament.  We were short a couple of players on Saturday, then had an injury on Sunday, so we probably finished where we going to finish.  We put out the DA's on Sunday morning, 10 - 5.  Joe claims it was one of the best games he has seen me pitch.  I don't know about that but it's special for me, at 59, to be in a position for him to see me compete and succeed against players much younger and, at this stage, more athletic than me.  In short, the old man can still spin it.

Our kryptonite in the 2025 tournament was Hardin Law, helmed by my good friend, Matt Hardin.  Our fate was sealed on Saturday, when we lost to them by one run, after going up early, 12 - 5.  We only scored two runs thereafter and lost, 14 - 15.  I've always maintained that in this league, if we can't score 15 runs a game, we're likely going to lose.  

Yesterday, after defeating the DA's on the small field at Cleveland Street Park, we played Hardin Law, again, on the big field.  Strangely, it was our first game on the big field all season.  We don't play very well on the field.  Never have.  I'm going to need to schedule us there, more, during the regular season next year.  Hardin Law rallied late to beat us again, as our squad simply ran out of gas in the brutally hot weather.  The temperature was in the high 90's and it was humid.  I was cooked, as the boys say, and I'm not sure I could have played Manier Herod in the finals, even if we had managed to beat Hardin Law.

Leroy Joy, one of our longtime umpires, was likewise cooked, so I stayed after our loss and called the game with him.  He had home plate and I was in the field.  Actually, I enjoy umpiring, although I enjoy it more when my body is not cramping up after playing a softball double header in unrelenting July heat in Nashville.  Manier won by spring six runs in the top of the 7th inning against Hardin Law, then holding the lead in the bottom of the 7th inning to win by two runs.  

When Hardin Law rallied to take the lead in the bottom of the 6th inning, my heart sank as I envisioned a second game.  Fortunately, that did not come to pass, as Manier Herod complete a relatively easy trek through the winner's bracket to the championship.  Good for my friend, Jeff Price, and his team.  

Manier, Herod, Hollabaugh and Smith, of course, was where I worked for the first five years of my career  I won multiple NBA tournament titles playing for MHHS, so it makes me happy and a bit nostalgic to see them do well.  For years, Manier, Herod was a team of young players knocking not the door before they won their first title a few years ago.  Almost overnight, or so it seems, they got older, and now they're a veteran team hanging on for few more seasons.

Terry Hill, my first boss at MHHS, was at Cleveland Street Park to watch Manier Herod's first game, which was really cool.  I introduced my boys to him and got a couple of photos with him, which absolutely made my day.

That begs the question, though.  If Manier, Herod is an old team, now, what does that make my team?  Certainly, the oldest in the league.  Probably, the oldest in league history, with me pushing 60, and John Rolfe and Worrick Robinson over 60.

I took over as Commissioner of the NBA Softball League last May, after a 25-year absence since I last held the position.  My friend, Travis, who ran the league for almost a decade, needed a break, and I was happy to take it over, although I wish I had gotten an earlier start.

It was a weird regular season for me, as I learned the ropes on the fly.  Unfortunately and strangely, we had rain almost every Sunday and Monday, as a result of which we had rainout after rainout.  The NBA only has the fields at Cleveland Street Park reserved for Mondays and Tuesdays, so we had a limited ability to make up games in a truncated season.  Some teams, like ours, only played two of the six scheduled games.  I've got big plans for next season but writing about those can wait for another day.

Saturday, we had a scare, one unlike anything I have experienced in 35 + years in the league.  As I was pitching in our afternoon game against Hardin Law, I threw a sidewinder, high and inside, to a right handed batter.  It was a ball but our umpire, Gary, didn't react at all to the pitch.  Staring intently in at him, I asked Gary where the pitch missed.  When he didn't respond, I thought something might be wrong.  I saw his knees quiver just the slightest bit, so I dropped by glove and sprinted to home plate from the mound.  

Sure enough, Gary was out on his feet due to heat exhaustion.  No one could tell because he was wearing dark sunglasses.  As he started to collapse, several of my teammates and players from Hardin Law, too, helped me hold him up and lean him against the backstop.  Some pulled a cooler out for him to sit on and Deb Rubenstein called 911.  Sitting down, Gary started to get sick, a sure sign of heat exhaustion.  When the EMT's checked him out, his blood pressure had soared, although he was conscious and talking coherently.  Cleary, he was in no position to call any games the rest of the weekend.  Worrick drove Gary home.  Leroy finished up our game, then David Drobny (Manier Herod), David's son (Jonathan), and I called the last game of Saturday afternoon, a Not Guilty win by one run over Lewis, Thomasson.  

After we lost to Hardin Law yesterday, I gave out the inaugural Gary "Rube" Rubenstein Spirt of the Game trophy to the only person who could have won it this year, Pete Ezell (Baker Donelson).  Pete is the oldest player in the league, at 73 or 74, and he was there with Rube's wife, Deb, watching the games.  I called Pete and Deb out onto the field and gave Pete Ezell the trophy, as the players from the three remaining teams applauded.  It was a moment I will not soon forget.

After the last game was over, I was exhausted.  As I told Leroy, I wasn't sure I could have called another game, had Hardin Law won.  He felt the same way.  After picking up some trash, I was the last person to leave Cleveland Street Park.  The Commission, somehow, again, after all of these years.

The 2025 NBA Softball Tournament had a little bit of everything, as did the season.  It was fun to have Joe keeping the scorebook for us and JP playing shortstop behind his old man.

As I sat at the bar at Burger Up about 5:30 p.m., sipping a Friday night, I felt strangely empty.  I was relived, for sure, and exhausted, but a little bit sad, too.  I always feels that way immediately after the NBA softball season ends.  

I thought about seasons past and lives lost.  Steve Cox and Don Smith, who were loyal supporters of our team until the very end.  I also thought about Jeff Orr, who died way too young this spring.  We played together in my earliest years at Manier, Herod.  He was swift as a deer in the outfield in the year or two played together.  I thought about Rube, too, and how much I miss him.

In the end, I'm glad the season is over, I think.  But I can't wait until next year.

Attorney in Residence

This is my least favorite time of year, less than a week away from my least favorite month of the year.  I hate August in Nashville.

The older I get, the less tolerance I have for the stifling, insufferable late summer Nashville heat.  It's either gotten worse due to global warming or as I've gotten older, my ability to tolerate has drastically diminished.  Or both.  I hate it.  

The past month or so, I've become an inside the YMCA, treadmill runner.  It's convenient.  Easy.  It's also soft.  As Joe reminded me last night on the way home from shooting practice for the Stars in Cool Springs, though, I am 59, after all.  At least I'm still running, even if it is inside, on a treadmill.  

Maybe I'm just jealous that, as a man and a working attorney, I don't get to wear matching tights and bikini top from Lululemon like every other woman who walks into Dose this morning to get their coffee.  Lululemon.  That's a company I wish I would have invested in a few years ago.

I had an epiphany earlier this week, as I walked back out from the office to my truck to get something I had forgotten.  I was sweating profusely in my jacket and tie, which darkened my mood considerably in the five minutes or so I was outside in the 98 degree heat.  

Why am I here, in Nashville in late July, I thought?

Suddenly, it hit me.  

I don't have to be here, in Nashville, in late July.  I can work from anywhere.

And that's when I decided that beginning next summer, from July 24 - August 7, I will be an "attorney in residence."  You know, like an "artist in residence."

For those two weeks, I am going to go depart Nashville for a town or city where the climate is more temperate.  Duluth, Minnesota.  Mackinac Island, Michigan.  Madison, Wisconsin.  Bozeman, Montana.  

It's not a vacation.  I'm going to work every day.  What I'm not going to do, though, is go to court, mediate cases, or take in person depositions.  I will work remotely.  I can do that.  In fact, I should do that.

When I told Jude about my plan, she asked, "what about the boys?" 

"What about them?" I replied.

"They, and you, can join me, or not.  I'll be working.  It's not a vacation."  

Okay, so that part will be a harder sell, I think.  Still, I love the idea.  I think it has promise.  I hope it does.

Phil R. Newman, Attorney in Residence.

Goodbye to the Head Bruin

What people don't realize about Brentwood High School is that but for the tireless work in the early 1980's of community members (like my mom) and backroom deal making by school board members and county commissioners, like the late Tom Neill, there would be no Brentwood High School.  The fate of Brentwood High School was up in the air until the very last minute as various political factions in Williamson County conspired to prevent the high school from opening in the summer of 1982.  That's another story entirely, however, and not what I want to write about today.

James C. Parker, the first principal at Brentwood High School, died on July 9, 2025.  He was there at the beginning, as they say, and so was I.  Because of that, I can say with complete confidence that Brentwood High School would not have opened, on time, in August 1982 if not for the Herculean efforts of Mr. Parker.  All summer long, he met with parents and students.  He was at the school, literally, from sun up until long after dark every single day of the week.  There was so much to be done to get the high school ready to open an Mr. Parker was intimately involved in all of it.  No detail escaped Mr. Parker's watchful eye.

Mr. Parker organized and inspired the parent-volunteers, who helped lay sod in the football stadium and painted the stadium seats weeks before the opening football game.  My mom and her group of friends road in the back of a pick up truck, tailgate down, and drank frozen pina colodas and banana daffodils while they used a stencil to paint Bruin paw prints on Murray Lane.  I've recounted that story for years in part because it's a great story and because it actually happened.  More importantly, though, it captures the pride so many of our parents had in Brentwood High School.

The summer after my freshman year of college, 1985, Bart Pemberton and I worked for a trucking company off Elm Hill Pike, unloading and loading trucks.  I also worked part-time at Brentwood High School doing landscaping and maintenance work.  If I was there, working, Mr. Parker was, too, all of the time.  No job was too big or small, too dirty or too menial for him.  His work ethic was unparalleled.  

That summer, I saw Mr. Parker in a different light, for sure.  Not as an administrator, wearing a tie to work every day, in charge of things.  I saw him as a man and, I have to admit, a bit of a role model.  Someone who did whatever it took to get anything done that needed to get done.  He treated me differently, too.  Not as a peer but not as a student, either.  When I look back, now, I think he was one of the first people to treat me like an adult.  A young man (with the emphasis on man).  

Mr. Parker also treated me with kindness that summer, too.  Having lost my father when I was five years old, I wasn't the most handy person when it came to repairing or operating equipment and machinery.  He was patient with me, as I learned to use the industrial sized lawn tractor to cut the grass on the school grounds or struggled to repair the weed eater so it would operate effectively.  He taught me how to do those things.  Mr. Parker was a teacher at heart, from beginning to end.

More than thirty years later, I ran into Mr. Parker at a Brentwood High Basketball game.  I was wearing a suit and tie, because I had come from work.  I also was sporting a crazy, long goatee that I had grown out so my mother, fighting a losing battle with Alzheimer's disease, could differentiate me from my long dead father.  When he saw me, Mr. Parker smiled and gave me a hug, eyes twinkling with friendliness as we talked.  He asked about my mother, of course, and listened sympathetically as I described her struggles.  I asked someone to take a photo of us together and I shared it with my high school friends later that night.  He looked the same.  I did not.  

Perhaps Mr. Parker's greatest quality was his loyalty and dedication to people, and things, that he loved.  He attended 502 consecutive Brentwood High School football games, a record that I cannot imagine anyone will ever surpass.  The football stadium, James C. Parker Stadium, is named after him.  A well deserved honor of their ever was one.  

The story of Brentwood High School cannot be told without James Parker as the central figure.  He touched so many lives as a career educator.  Rarely has one man meant so much to so many.  What a career.  What a life well led. 

"Well done, good and faithful servant."  Matthew 25:23.  That bible verse say it all.   

 

59

Last night, all four of us were watching "All the Way Home," the latest season of the motorcycle travelogue with Ewan McGregror and Charley Boorman, when Joe asked me what time I was leaving for work this morning.  

"I'm not sure.  Why?" I asked.

"Because I want to make sure I tell you happy birthday," he replied.

Encapsulated in that one exchange with my sweet, kindhearted 13 year old son, is everything I love about begin a father.  Everything.

After a relatively stressful, futile mediation that lasted all day with a client of whom I'm very fond, I had completely forgotten it was my birthday.  I have so much on my mind right now, professionally and personally, that it totally slipped my mind.  It was important to Joe, though, so it's important to me.  

And so here I am, at Dose, having a coffee before an 8:45 a.m. call with a client.  59.  One year away from 60.  Busier than ever as life flies by at the speed of light.  

So many people depend on me.  My family.  My extended family.  People that work for or with me.  My clients.  Sometimes it's a lot.  But it's never too much and I wouldn't have it any other way.  If I can have one or two interactions a day in which I make someone smile, assure someone, or otherwise add a little bit of positive energy into the world, it's a good day for me.  

At 59, I don't need a lot to be happy.  My family.  A good cup of coffee.  An occasional bourbon.  A good book.  Three or four neighborhood or treadmill runs a week.  A good night's sleep.  Friendships.  Satisfying and challenging work.  Church on Sunday.  Music.  

And all of those things, at age 59, I have.  So, as I finish my coffee on a busy Tuesday morning at Dose, happy birthday to me. 

For now, to quote the poet from the Motor City, Bob Seger, I'll strap up and keep running against the wind.   

Well those drifter's days are past me now

I've got so much more to think about

Deadlines and commitments

What to leave in, what to leave out.

Against the wind

I'm still runnin' against the wind.

I'm older now but still runnin' against the wind.

Younger

It's been a long time since I've posted twice in one day.  Maybe I'm inspired by the fact that I'm having a beer - well, a second beer - for the first time in, oh, six months.  I'm certainly not a teetotaler, not by a long shot.  It's just that my drink of choice is a good bourbon or a heavy cabernet.  Not beer, which is a whole different story.  

This morning, as I drove home from coffee at Sump, catching up with my baseball friend, Gavin O'Heir, I saw JP running down West End Avenue.  Shirt off.  Ripped, not an ounce of fat on his body, six pack abs, the whole deal.  I guess that's what eight days running at altitude will in Boulder, CO, will do for you.  My son, my guy, putting the work in on a summer morning in early July, when the temperature was already on the wrong side of 90 degrees.  

JP looked amazing.  Youth.  Peak form.  Just getting it done.  I honked at him and he waved at me, nonchalantly, seemingly locked into the zone you get in sometimes, as a runner, when it all feels right and life makes perfect sense.  Running.

I drove around the neighborhood as I finished by call with Gavin.  It was nice to get caught up.  I miss sitting with him at baseball games at baseball fields all over middle Tennessee, watching our sons play baseball.  His son, Gavin, is playing for Harris Baseball Club again.  JP is not playing baseball this summer, instead focusing on running and getting ready for a run at the state title in cross country this fall.  

As I sat in my truck in front of our house, I saw JP go flying by me, finishing his workout with a series of sprints on Linden Avenue.  I got out of my truck and just watched him, as he ran three of four more sprints.  He looked invincible.  It was inspiring.  Sweat glistening off his torso as he ran by me, his face a mask of intense concentration.  Straining with effort but not too much, because he's in such good shape.  

It was beautiful moment and one I want to always remember.

Older

Lately I've been thinking a lot about what it means to grow older.  I try not to think about it but with my 59th birthday coming next week and so many of my friends close to turning 60, it's hard not to.  The problem, of course, is that thoughts about my age always end up in places I don't really want to go.  So, l tend not to dwell on my age.  That's always been my approach.  I suppose it's also the reason I've never been big on celebrating my birthday.

One of the reasons I run is to try to stay in relatively good shape.  Running somehow makes me feel younger, even if I'm not as fast or running as long as I used to.  This year, I set a goal of running three miles 156 times and I'm almost halfway there.  Generally, I run three miles - comfortably - at a pace of 8:15 - 8:25 per mile, which is not nothing.  If I pushed myself, I could run three miles at a pace under 8:00 per mile, but why would I do that?  This year, I want to stay healthy and get to 156.  It's a different kind of goal for me, which is what makes it interesting.  Next year, maybe I'll set a new goal that will encourage me to run longer at least once a week.  

At 58 +++, my body is different, for sure.  My low back aches every morning when I get up.  The partial thickness tear in my right rotator cuff feels like it's finally going to need a doctor's attention in the near future.  It hurts to sleep on my right side at night and, in the mornings, my right upper arm and shoulder are very sore.  

It's moderately painful to life my right arm above my head, although I can do it.  I'm not sure if it's related to right rotator cuff injury or not, but I can't throw at all like I used to.  Sadly, it's probably best that my baseball coaching career is over because throwing batting practice would be very difficult for me right now.  Long tossing with the boys is virtually impossible, which makes me sad, too.

It's harder to sleep through the night without waking up once to go to the bathroom.  I pee more frequently than I used to which, as I understand it, is what happens as you grow older.  That's been a new thing the last year or two and causes me to fondly remember the nights, in college, when I could sit on the jukebox at the Tap Room for two or three hours, drinking beer, and never lose my seat because I had to take a leak.  I was like a camel, only in reverse.  Not any more.  

For sure, I forget things in a way that I never did when I was younger, or at least it sure seems that way.  For now, anyway, it's small, insignificant things.  The other day, for example, I could not remember the name of one of my favorite novels of the last 20 years, maybe ever.  I knew it was about a a boy that played baseball - college baseball at a small liberal arts college in the midwest - and that his name was Henry Skrimshander.  I new he was a shortstop and remembered the entire plot of the novel.  But the title escaped me.  

When that happens, I like to puzzle over it in my mind.  I don't look it up on my cell phone because I feel like it's good for me to let my mind work through it and try to remember whatever piece of trivia or arcane fact it is that I've forgotten.  I'll think about something else, then come back to it, several times if I have to.  Suddenly, it hit me!  The Art of Fielding (Chad Harbach), the rare novel that I've read twice.  It's due to join Lonesome Dove (Larry McMurtry) as a novel I've read three times, actually.  Maybe thus summer.

As the child of a parent who died after suffering the ravages of Alzheimer's disease, I get scared every time I forget something.  Curiously, I lost my train of thought in a potential client meeting yesterday - one I which I was really engaged and enjoying the interaction with a young lady and her mother.  Possibly, though, I was on autopilot because I've given roughly the same talk to what seems like 10,000 + potential divorce client over the years.  

For sure, my hearing is getting worse, although that may be due to years and years of listening to podcasts on various kinds of headphone, ear buds, and AirPods when I run.  I find myself having a harder time hearing the television at normal volume.  For me, too, if I'm in a room with a lot of people talking, loudly, it seems like the ambient noice makes it harder for me to hear the person with whom I'm talking.  That's a bit concerning for a lawyer.

I've stuck with 1.0 readers for all of these years for up close reading when I am wearing my contacts.  I've never needed the readers to read at night, after I take my contacts out.  That may be I changing, though, because it's beginning to be harder to read close up at night while I'm laying in bed.  Also, I may need to up the prescription on my readers to 1.25 or 1.50, something I'm fighting against because I don't want to become too dependent on them.  

For no reason that I can think of, a couple of years ago I started doing pushups at night.  Why?  I don't know.  I guess because there have only been a few times in my life when I lifted weights constantly and, at  the time, I couldn't do many pushups.  Over time, my form improved and I've gotten stronger and stronger and, as a result, I easily bang out several sets of 10 to 15 pushups many nights, all with good form.  If I were smart, I'd get int he gym and start lifting weights, I guess, but at least pushups are something.  

I'm eating clean, so to speak, or clean for me.  It's something I started, again a couple of months ago.  I wasn't eating badly.  I just decided to make a real effort, again, to stay away from chips, crackers, French fries, potatoes, bread, and all sweets.  I also stopped eating processed foods, like energy bars.  I'm trying to eat more fruit, too.  Also, I'm back to eating ham and cheese rollups, often, for lunch, although I'm not sure eating that much processed meat is good for me either.  I am eating a lot - I mean, a lot - of salads, which I know is good for me.

I need to get a physical exam, particularly since it's been four years, at least, since I've had one.  I may set a goal of doing that next week.  I'm past due a second colonoscopy, too.  I have an irrational fear of doctors, though, which I know is ridiculous.  

I guess that's that.  It's Friday, July 4th.  I'm going to go home, do some work, read the Warren Beatty biography that I can't get enough of, and enjoy my family.  JP and Jude got home with Joe, yesterday, fresh off three weeks at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp.  Today is today and tomorrow is tomorrow.  

  

Last Day at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp

This morning, I talked with Jude and JP as they drove from Charlottesville, VA, to Woodberry Forest to pick up Joe after three weeks of Sports Camp.  I would have gone to get him but work commitments made it impossible for me be out of the office this week.  

When I talked with Jude and JP, they told me that Joe's team lost a heartbreaker, yesterday, in the flag football finals, 12 - 7.  They squeaked out a win, though, in the futsol championship game, 2 - 1.  They were so close to winning three championships, given that they lost in the soccer finals by 2 - 1.  Still, a title is a title, and I am glad they grabbed one in futsol.

Yesterday, on the second to last day of camp, Joe received the Honor Camper Award for his team (Alabama), given by his counselor and assistants to the team member who contributed the most in the areas of athletics, leadership, sportsmanship, and citizenship.  It's an important award and, of course, I am very, very proud of Joe.  

What a three weeks he has had Sports Camp at Woodberry Forest.  I think - and I hope - that it was a transformation time for him in the all of the best ways.  I hope he learned independence, and self-confidence, self-assuredness.  I hope he developed a better sense of himself and who he is, away from his brother, and Jude and me.  I hope he developed a stronger belief in himself, his abilities, and who he is as a person, friend, and leader.  

Joe is a winner.  Always has been.  In sports and in life.  He is so much fun to be around.  So funny.  Great attitude.  So smart.  Kindhearted and caring.  Fun loving.  Curious.  Happy.  Just a great hang, every single time.  

I can't wait to see Joe tomorrow night and hear all about his three weeks away at Sports Camp.  I've missed him.

The Sun Sets on the Bunganut Pig

Yesterday afternoon, I wondered up to the front of the office while I was on a call.  As I often do, even at work, I was talking to a client on my cell phone with my AirPods in, which allows me the freedom to roam a bit during a long call.  I like that because it keeps me from being stuck behind my desk all day.  

During my call, I saw a headline in the Williamson Herald (in our magazine rack) that after 38 + years, the Bunganut Pig closed last week.  That hit me hard.  

The Pig, as everyone called it, was the oldest restaurant/bar in Franklin.  Tucked away in the basement of Carter's Court for almost three decades before it expended, the Bunganut Pig had a very "Cheers-like" quality to it, in large part because you had to walk down stairs to get to it and their were no windows.  It was a true hole-in-the-wall known only to locals in the days before tourists traipsed through downtown Franklin every weekend.

My dear friend, Ed Silva, was in the Pig at the beginning as an investor, although in the early days it was called the General's Retreat and, at some point, the Rebel's Roost, appropriate names given that it's located across from the Carter House and in the middle of the battlefield for the Battle of Franklin.  You almost had to know where the Pig was to find it and that was kind of what made it special, at least to me.

The point, of course, is that the Bunganut Pig was "old Franklin," something that doesn't really exist any longer.  One need look no further than a few blocks down Columbia Avenue toward downtown Franklin, and our office, to see all of the old commercial buildings - hardware store, bakery, etc. - being torn down as developers are building 2 - 3 million dollar condominiums in a new development, most of which are pre-sold.  It's crazy.  

Part of the reason the Bunganut Pig is so special to me is that after my partner, Chas Morton, joined our law firm, we moved our office to Carter's Court, above and behind the Bunganut Pig.  We were there for five years, from roughly 2001 - 2006, before we bought and renovated the building we're in now directly across from the Courthouse.  

In fact, I have a newspaper clipping from the Review Appeal, framed, on the wall at work with a photo of Chas, Mark, and me in our office at Carter's Court, right after we moved in there.  The theme of the piece, probably written by Mindy Tate, is about "three local boys starting a law firm together."  Moving into our office in Carter's Court marked the end of Puryear & Newman and the beginning of Puryear, Newman & Morton.  25 years later, the rest is history, as they say.

In the five years we were there, our practices grew as we added lawyers and got busier and busier.  We expanded multiple times until, at the end, we had the entire top floor of the back building and part of the bottom floor, as well.  I have many fond memories of that office and our time there.  

A huge snowball fight with the Eric and Ted Boozer's group, whose office was directly below us.  Diane Livingston and Lee Dreyer - God rest both of their souls - whose office, later, was directly below us.  Hosting our annual Pigskin Picks Open House - now defunct, sadly - before football season every year.  At one memorable Pigskin Picks party, we played cornhole on the brick walkway outside the office late into the night.  I drove Mark home, as I recall, and his wife, Elizabeth, and I played ping pong in his garage before I drove home to Nashville.

Blake Sempkowski ("Super Blake"), the first attorney we hired, worked in that office, as did Rachel Harmon.  Raven Hardison.  Lisa Johnson.  Diane Radesovich.  Traci Carter.  Deb Rubenstein.  And others whose names I can't recall.

More work days than not, I walked downstairs from my office and had lunch at the Bunganut Pig by myself.  I checked in with (Ohio State) Eddie or the owner, then, Marty, sat down with latest issue of the Nashville Scene, and ordered a Caesar salad with blackened salmon.  Always the same order, as I a creature of habit if nothing else.  

In those days, Jude used to say we practiced "Pig Law," and we did, in a way, as all of our partners' meetings were held at the big over a beer or two after work.  I loved our office and its proximity to the Pig, although Ed Silva always made fun of me and suggested we needed a bigger, better office.  He wasn't wrong, I guess, which is why we subsequently bought the building we've been in for almost 20 years.  

In those days, before Franklin and Spring Hill had grown so much and added restaurants, the Bunganut Pig was almost the only game in town or, the only game in downtown (Franklin).  The Pig had a regular lunch crowd.  At 4:30 p.m. or so, all of the Franklin and Williamson Country politicos stopped in for a drink or two, always sitting at the long table just outside the tiny bar and the half glass divider that separated it from the rest of the restaurant.  There was a good dinner crowd.  Then, after that, the music crowd came in.  

There was a small stage in the back corner of the restaurant where bands played.  My law partner's wife, Christa, and her '80's band played there often, as did Neil Diamond impersonator, Denny Diamond.  To my recollection, there really wasn't anywhere else to hear live music in or near downtown Franklin, except maybe Kimbro's Picking Parlor.  The music at the Pig was a real thing for a long time.

For years, too, smoking was allowed at the Pig.  As you might imagine, in a basement restaurant/bar with no windows, the smoke lingered . . . everywhere.  In fact, the girls in our office rarely went to the Pig, even for lunch, because when you left, all of your clothes smelled like cigarette smoke. 

I used to joke and say that the Bunganut Pig was the den of iniquity because it was open late and a lot of things happened inside, and in the parking lot, that led clients to me in divorce cases.  I'll leave it at that.  

For many years, my friend, Eddie, worked there, day and night.  Ohio State Eddie.  He was at a point in his life, I think, where he was trying to figure things out.  As often happens in the restaurant business, he got stuck in one place for longer than he planned.  When Eddie finally left the Pig, the atmosphere there changed and not necessarily for the better.    

Mark and Amy Goodson bought the Bunganut Pig close to 20 years ago, right about the time we moved into the building we bought and renovated in Third Avenue South, across from the Courthouse, where our office is currently located.  Mark, an Air Force veteran and Wharton School of Business graduate (University of Pennsylvania) graduate, left a high stress, high paying job in health care with a plan to run the Bunganut Pig as a family business.

Mark saw real potential in the Pig and he quickly set about modernizing it.  First, he eliminated smoking, which was long overdue.  Next, he worked a deal with the landlord, Fernando Santisteban, and opened up a patio outside, complete with tables, cornhole sets, and a small stage for live music.  He also rented the space directly above the Pig - where the Heiress (a hair salon) had been for the entirety of my youth - and put in a pool table, flat screen televisions, and new tables.  He even leased a small space next door and opened up a larger bar, also long overdue as the Pig's original bar was tiny.  

In short, Mark and Amy Goodson turned the Bunganut Pig into a much larger, attractive, versatile Franklin bar/restaurant with more to offer its patron.  In my view, the Pig under Mark and Amy retained some of its old school charm while, seemingly overnight, morphing in to a modern eatery.  Mark ran it much more professionally and like a real business than did Marty, the previous owner.  

After five or six years, Mark and Amy decided to move to Florida.  In 2016, they sold the Bunganut Pig to Mark Rindermann, who quickly ran it straight into the ground.  The service declined precipitously, the quality of the food fell, and all of the great work that Mark and Amy put into modernizing the Pig was wasted.  Rindermann completely closed the downstairs, cut staff, and just let the once proud eatery fall into a state of disrepair.

Rindermann ignominiously closed the Pig, with no notice, on June 23, 2025.  He set up a GoFundMe page, which is maybe the most embarrassing part of his tenure as owner of the Pig.  As of this morning, he had raised a paltry $813 dollars to "save the restaurant."  Mark Rindermann had no business running the Bunganut Pig, or any other restaurant for that matter.

In the end, Mark and Amy Goodson probably got out at the right time.  Since they sold the Pig, downtown Franklin and Spring Hill have exploded in growth.  New bars and restaurants and bars are everywhere, as a result of which competition for customer is fierce.  

Still, I'll remember the Bunganut Pig fondly.  I'll especially remember the five years when Mark, Chas, and I practiced "Pig law" there.

Empty Nesters

Empty nesters if just for a few days.  

That's what Jude and I are with Joe at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp and JP in Boulder, CO.  Empty nesters.  We're getting the barest glimpse of what life is like for so many of my friends, like Mark & Elizabeth (Puryear), Doug and Sally (Brown), all with children out of college and working.  We're a long way from those days.

Last night, Jude and I met our friends, Russ and Suzanna (Allen) for dinner at The Henry.  Nice meal and even better conversation.  A lifetime ago, I wrote a piece in this space, "Friends that Fit," describing our family's relationship with the Allen family.  We've vacationed together, shared meals together, and our boys (JP and Cooper) played sports together.  Now, Ella is halfway through Wake Forest and works at my office on Fridays.  Cooper will be a senior at MBA and JP a junior.  Joe will be start 7th grade at MBA next year.

We don't see each other nearly as much as we did when the boys were younger and Russ (basketball) and I (baseball) were coaching them in sports.  However, that makes it all the more special when we are able to steal a night to go to dinner, like last night.  For Jude and me, Russ and Suzanna will forever be "friends that fit," and our friendship will remind me of a time in our lives when we were together virtually every weekend on a basketball court or baseball field somewhere in town.  I miss those days.

Last night, I enjoyed showing Russ and Suzanna the Woodberry Forest Sports Camp website, along with the blog we anxiously check every morning for an update on the previous days' activities and to see how Joe's "Alabama" team performed in their two or three games.  Yesterday, they lost a heartbreaker in team handball, 9-8.  They've won several contests that way, too, and by my estimation, his squad is slightly over  .500 so far, maybe a little better. 

I talked to JP on my drive home last night.  He and Sam ran 10 miles yesterday on a bike trail in Boulder, CO.  It was 52 degrees there when he woke up yesterday and 72 degrees when we talked at 4:00 p.m. (MST).  Gorgeous.  Meanwhile, it was 97 degrees in Nashville and one of our air conditioning units went out at work.  Am I envious?  You bet your ass I am.

In classic high school/college road trip fashion, JP slept on an air mattress that deflated halfway through the night.  Sam's truck wouldn't start yesterday morning, so he rode his bicycle into town to get "starter fluid," whatever that is.  Predictably, his truck still wouldn't start, so the he had his truck towed into Firestone.  JP and Sam walked a mile into town to see the campus at Colorado University?  Why didn't they Uber?  Only they know the answer to that question.

In the end, JP and Sam will figure it out.  Joe is in the process of figuring it out at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp.  Figure what out, you ask?  Everything, I guess.  How to be on your own.  Life.  All of it, I guess.

And that's really the point of all of this, isn't it?  For Jude and me to put our boys in a position - with safety nets, some visible and some invisible - of where they have to begin to learn to figure it out, all on their own.  

It's a modified version of "the Escape Game," except what the JP and Joe are escaping from is childhood.  That's a little bit sad to a nostalgia old dad like me but absolutely necessary, too.  They're growing up and, if we do it right, they will need us less and less and time marches on.  Also sad but also absolutely necessary. 

(Bongo Java)

Rocky Mountain High

This morning at 6:15 a.m., I hugged JP before he got into Jude's Honda Pilot so she could take him to the airpot.  He's flying to Boulder, CO, to spend eight days with a group of college runners training and running at altitude.

JP will be staying in an Airbnb provided by my friend, Rob Trumble, the father of Samuel Trumble ('25), JP's cross country and track teammate at MBA who graduated last year.  Rob rented the Airbnb so Samuel and some of his KU teammates could train in Boulder, CO, for part of the summer.  Another of JP's teammates from the 2025 MBA cross country and track team who will be there is Mitchell Chaffin ('25).  Mitchell is running at Centre College in Danville, KY.  

Samuel and Mitchell were co-captains of MBA's cross country team last year, the first in school history to qualify for NXN (Nike Cross Country Nationals) in Portland, OR.  As I've written here before, Samuel and Mitchell were consummate leaders who quickly ascertained that JP and his classmate, Gabe Guillamondegui, were legitimate runners who would contribute to the varsity cross country team in a big way as freshman.  They encouraged JP and Gabe all season long to be the best runners they could be.  The rest, as they say, is history, and the MBA cross country team had a historic season in 2024.  

For obvious reasons, Jude and I were trepidatious, at first, when JP mentioned that he might like to go to Boulder, CO, to train with Samuel this summer.  We talked about it at length and ultimately decided it would be good for him to go.  JP is 17, has a good head on his shoulders, almost always makes the right decisions, and has earned our trust.  

I've had several conversations with him about how important it is to make the right decisions while he is in Boulder, CO.  I've told him it's likely he will see things, and perhaps be around things, that he's never seen before, at least no close up.  Alcohol.  Possibly (probably) marijuana, which is legal in Colorado, of course.  I reminded him that being in the wrong place at the wrong time can have serious implications for his future, as he begins applying to college.  Maybe I'm worrying about that kind of thing too much.  Maybe I'm not.  Either way, I'm confident JP will make the right decisions, probably more so that I did at his age. 

I think it might be one of the best weeks of JP's life to date.  Rob indicated that Samuel and Mitchell already have trained with college runners from KU, Colorado, Syracuse, Georgetown, and more.  The boys have been swimming, hiking, and fishing, too, which JP will love.  It will be eye opening, I think, for JP to be around college runners all week.  To see how they train, how hard they work, how they talk and think about running, and their overall all approach to running.  

I must admit, thought, that it's a little surreal for me.  My protege - as I used to call him while we watched baseball or basketball games on television, or went for a run together - on his first road trip.  A road trip that involves him flying across the country at the age of 17 to spend a week, running, with college athletes.  I mean, wow.  

One day I'm rolling him through the neighborhood in the Baby Jogger City Elite stroller, the Thomas the Train musical caboose is his hands as he pushes the button to play music over an over again, looking up at me through the clark plastic window in the top of the cover, grinning the whole time.  The next day, or so it seems, he's flying to Boulder, CO, for a week of running (and playing) with a group of college boys.  

Godspeed, JP.  Have the time of your life.

Once a Runner

This week, JP is interning at Lewis Thomasson, a law downtown law firm, through an internship program at MBA.  Because it's such a small world and my life seems to be a series concentric circles, the managing partner at Lewis Thomasson is Lisa Ramsay Cole, my longtime friend.  

When I walked into the George C. Taylor College of Law on UT's campus for the first time - this would have been the fall of 1990 - I was a bit nervous and unsure of myself.  The first person I met that morning was a classmate who would become my dear friend, Lisa Cole, from MacKenzie, Tennessee, by way of Bethel College.  We stayed close throughout our three years together in law school and in the years immediately after, as embarked on our legal careers.  

I think it was Lisa (although it may have been Jim Price) that first called me "Newby," a law school nickname that several other picked up during our time together.  As I sip my coffee this morning, I'm smiling as I think of Lisa Cole, laughing at something I said, shaking her head, and saying "oh, Newby."  Lisa is one of the kindest people I know.  She's built a helluva career as a lawyer at Lewis Thomasson (formerly Lewis King).  

This week, JP has been getting up early to run, before going downtown for his internship.  It's a summer of running for him, as he prepares for the fall cross country season and what he hopes will be a successful campaign for the school, and for him.

This morning, as I left the house and was driving down Belmont Boulevard, I saw JP running toward me, finishing a six mile run.  He recognized my truck from a distance, waved his arms, then sprinted by with a strong finishing kick.  Seeing him stirred strong emotions in me.  Love.  Pride.  Admiration.   Nostalgia. 

Shirtless, his body glistening with sweat, running hard, I marveled at JP's youth and vitality.  I wanted to freeze that moment in my mind because it seemed important.  It still does, as I recall it now.  

There's not an ounce of fat on JP, of course, but his upper body is filling out.  He has an exercise routine does, religiously, every night, and he's been working out in the gym at MBA.  He's putting the time in and it shows.  I'm proud of him for that and for so may other things.  

I'm going to do my best to remember that moment this morning, when JP ran toward me, then by me.  He looked invincible.  My guess is that he felt that way, too.  I hope so, anyway.

 

Honors Night on the Hill

I never want to take for granted either of my boys' accomplishments.  So, I wanted to make sure I wrote a little something about Honors Night at MBA, while it was still relatively fresh in my mind.  The beginning of the summer has been relatively chaotic - okay, very chaotic - but it seems we're settling into a bit of a routine with Joe at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp for three weeks and JP on the cusp of traveling to Boulder, CO, to run and train with collegiate runners for a week.  Yikes!

A day or two before the 2025 class graduated, MBA hosted Honors Night.  Last year and this year, the weather has been nice so the event has been staged outside, underneath the trees, with folding chairs facing the stage down a slight decline that allows for a good site line for everyone.  I was among the first to arrive, so I selected good seats in the front of the middle section, for Jude and me.

As was the case last year, the mood was relaxed and a bit festive.  The relief the boys felt to have completed another year of rigorous study and competition was palpable.  Getting through exams was tough for JP, I know, particularly chemistry and algebra, all while preparing for the track and field state championships.  It's a lot for all of the boys.

There are so many awards.  It reminded me, as I watched, how fortunate we are for JP (and next year, Joe, too) to be attending MBA.  So many smart, accomplished boys all together in one place.  It's quite impressive.  Dr. Daughtrey did an excellent job of moving things along, as each academic department recognized outstanding students.  Awards were given, as well, to boys in a variety of non-academic pursuits - theatre, writing, athletics, leadership, etc.  

For his sophomore class, JP received the 3-sport athlete award for best athlete in his class.  He also was one of two boys in his class to receive a $1,000 scholarship.  This year, the best boy of the class award - for which he was one of three nominees - went to his friend, Caleb.  It was well earned, as Caleb played junior varsity basketball while singing in the outstanding MBA choir.  He's an incredibly talented singer and guitar player.  A great student, too.  

JP has worked so hard at MBA.  Academically, athletically, and on Honor Council.  He might be proudest, in fact, of his role on the Honor Council.  When he gets his school ring next year, he's going to have earned it, for sure.  

JP and cross country teammate, Jack McDaniel (2026), who is one of the best boys I know.  He and JP have been friends since their days together as toddlers at Children's House.  Jack received multiple academic awards.  The sky is the limit for him.

JP and cross country teammate, Brady (2025), who has accepted an appointment to West Point.  Such an impressive young man.  I expect big things from him. 

JP and cross country and track/field teammate, Jack Wallace (2025), who is running at Furman University.  Jack was the second runner in a row (Samuel Trumble in 2024) to win athlete of the year after rewriting the track/field record book and leading the Big Red to its first track/field state title since 2001.

A Night in Charlottesville

In hopes of taking a minute to catch my breath, I decided to stay overnight, again, in Charlotte, VA, after I found an Airbnb I liked in the Belmont neighborhood.  A roomy basement apartment in the bottom of a large house.  Very cool neighborhood and walking distance to several restaurants.  

As luck would have it, though, I ended up spending all afternoon on the telephone with my paralegal, Julie, the office, and various clients.  Not a good afternoon.  I had to give bad news to a couple of clients and I parted ways with a couple of other clients.  One is being manipulated by her husband and didn't want to listen to me, which is unfortunate.  The other decided to represent himself, which very well may end up being unfortunate for him, as his wife's lawyer cannot ethically represent two parties.  Sometimes, that's the way it goes.  In truth, as busy as I am, it's probably a blessing in disguise.  

Because I skipped lunch, I decided to walk down for a drink and an early dinner.  I ended up at the bar at Mockingbird Restaurant.  I sat, I read the New Yorker on ma iPad, I had a drink, I ate, and I breathed.  Not bad, at last, after a whirlwind of a week.  Sometimes, it's a lot, you know?  I considered staying another tonight but I'm going to head back to Nashville because I don't want to drive all day Sunday and arrive late with no down time before work on Monday.

As it turns out, I'm glad I didn't go to Bonnaroo.  I saw an alert last night that due to rain and more inclement weather on the way, the rest of the festival (Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday) was canceled.  What a bummer.  That's a first, I think.  Maybe I'll get back there next year.  

I'm thinking about Joe this morning and wondering how his first day at Sports Camp went.  I hope he's making friends and having fun.  I've said more than one silent prayer for him over the past 24 hours.  I just want him to have a good time.  

Time to finish my coffee, head back to the Airbnb, pack, and get on the road.

Woodberry Forest and Saying Goodbye to Childhood

No man walks in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.

Heraclitus

It's one of my favorite quotes.  As I sit her tonight, in a basement Airbnb in the Belmont neighborhood of Charlottesville, VA, listening to the Coldplay album, Parachutes, I am not sure if it applies to me or to Joe. 

As "Yellow" plays on my iPhone, I can't help but remember a weekend away with Jude 25 years ago this summer, in the Highlands, NC, when I played the album, and this song, over and over on my iPod.  We weren't married yet.  No children.  No house.  No iPhones.  Just a couple on a getaway weekend to the mountains in North Carolina, listening to a relatively new band with a hit album.  

Reprising my role from four years ago with JP, today I dropped Joe off at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp, an hour north of Charlottesville, VA.  He will be there for three weeks.  On his own, trying to figure out . . . well, a lot of things.  Where he fits with his group of boys.  What it's like to be away from home for so long.  What kind of an athlete he is.  How to make friends, in a relatively short period of time, with a group of boys he has never met before today.  

Is he ready?  Honestly, I do not know.  I feel strongly, though, that Joe needs this.  He really does.  

It's so hard being the youngest in the family or so it seems to me.  Others do things for you.  You are the youngest, so you are treated differently.  Always, there is someone looking over your shoulder, helping you, instructing you, correcting you.  Steering you in the right direction, or at least trying to do so.  It must be hard to forge your own identity as the youngest in the family.

As I write this, I am hesitant to look back and see what I wrote about JP when I dropped him off at Woodberry Forest for Sports Camp, four or five years ago.  In my memory, it seems like JP was more ready to be on his own for three weeks than Joe was when I walked off the football field today and left him with his group of boys (teammates), Alabama.  It's strange to feel that way, since Joe has slept away at Camp Widjiwagan for several years and, in contrast, JP had never been to a week long sleep away camp before his three weeks at Woodberry Forest. 

They are such different boys in so many ways.  Why is it that I find it so hard, sometimes, to realize that?  Same parents, different boys.  Very different personalities.  Different approaches to life.  And that is absolutely fine.  

Woodberry Forest was a transformative experience for JP, or so it seems to me in my mind's eye.  I want it the be the same for Joe.  I want him to develop renewed confidence in himself and, more importantly, a sense of independence.  I want him to begin to believe in his ability to survive, and thrive, without Jude, JP, or me looking over his shoulder, correcting him or guiding him every step of the way.  I want him to begin to figure it all out.  

Middle School at USN is over.  Hell, the protective cocoon that USN provided is gone.  This fall, Joe will walk into the crucible of seventh grade at Montgomery Bell Academy.  As my friend, John Rowland, said, "MBA is a competition every day.  Academically, athletically, and socially.  Is Joe up to it?  I hope so.

To me, as it was with JP, this marks the definitive end of Joe's childhood.  He's on his own for three weeks.  It's never happened like that before.  Today,  I left Joe in a cauldron of competitive, high achieving, athletic boys.  What will he be like when we pick him up in three weeks?  Tougher?  More independent?  More confident in himself?  More self-reliant?  All of those things, I hope.

It all goes by so fast.  Every time I walk by a father holding his infant son, or pushing him in a stroller, I want to grab him by the shoulders, look him in the eye, and tell him how fast it all goes by.  To enjoy every single minute.  Every single second, actually.  

My boys are not really boys any longer.  It happened so damn fast.  

 

Summer Arrives

With the boys out of school for a couple of weeks and all of the end of year festivities at MBA in the books (Honors Night, Graduation), summer has officially arrived for out family.  It's always an adjustment to suddenly go from the hyper-scheduled school year to the unscheduled chaos of summer.  I know it's important for the boys, though, to have down time and I am glad they enjoy it.

For JP so far, it's been an early summer of working the MBA Sports' Camp, golf, working out in the MBA fitness center, and taking it easy.  This morning, he had his first summer workout with the MBA cross country team.  In a couple of weeks, he will fly to Boulder, CO, to train at altitude with Samuel Trumble and some of his college teammates.  That will be big - really big - for JP, I think.

Joe finished up basketball and soccer a couple of weeks ago.  We made the final decision to pull the plug for Joe on Armada club soccer for next season, given the time demands that he will face at MBA beginning with the fall semester.  It was a tough call but Joe was on board with it.  I hope it was the right call.  

Joe finished up basketball for the spring season with the Stars, too.  What an amazing experience for him to play for Jered Street, the Page High School basketball coach.  In two to three months, he learned and improved more than he had in all of his years of playing basketball.  It was a good group of boys, I thought, as we left a final team outing at Buffalo Wild Wings in Cool Springs.

Joe is off to Woodberry Forest later this week for Sports Camp.  Three weeks away from us, on his own, at Woodberry Forest.  He's excited to go and we're excited for him.  Going to the same Sports Camp four or five years ago was a transformative experience in JP's life.  I hope it's the same way for Joe.  

Because he will be gone for the next three weekends, Joe will miss the rest of the summer baseball season for Harris Baseball Club.  I hate it for him because he's struggled mightily in baseball this spring and summer.  The adjustment to the big field has been a difficult one for him.  There's a lot of work to be done.

Jude started a garden in the very back part of the back yard, near where Chad White and I used a chain saw to cut up a small tree that had fallen.  Yes, I used a chain saw!  That's it own story entirely, as I broke out the chain saw Troy and I bought 20 + years ago at Home Depot and, with Chad's guidance and instruction, cut up the tree in question while Jude and the boys watched with alarm from the back deck.  

After Chad and I stacked up the woods, Jude bought a fire pit (at Chad's suggestion) and put it in the back corner of the back yard.  Over the weekend, she started clearing out a space along the fence line to put in a garden.  I was reminded of how much she loved to work int he garden in the front yard of our old house, on Elliott Avenue.  It's therapy for her, I think.  

As for me, no Bonnaroo fir the second year in a row.  It's this weekend and although I had lined up Paul Jennings' cabin, again, I had to beg out because I wanted to be able to drive Joe to Woodberry Forest and drop him off at Sports Camp.  JP and I made the same trip together and I want Joe and I to have a similar experience.  As Yogi Berra would say, it will be "deja vu all over again."  I may spend an extra night in Charlottesville, though, just to unwind.

Work is a grind right now and I must admit that as my law partners played in a golf tournament Thursday and Friday, and I was burning the candle at both ends at work until late, I had a hard time seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.  I have got to get some help at work.

Coffee over.  Text message from Rachel and Julie are flying in.  Time to get after it.  Again.

(Herban Market)

Saying Goodbye to Father Dexter

In September 2007, Father Dexter Sutton Brewer became the fifth pastor of Christ the King.  He came to Christ the King after spending 13 years as pastor at Good Shepherd Catholic Church in Decherd, Tennessee.  Yesterday, I was blessed to attend what I believe was his final service in the beautiful sanctuary at Christ the King.

18 years at one Catholic Church is quite a run for a priest, even when it's attached to a parochial school, as is Christ the King.  Normally, priests serve six-year terms, then they're moved by the Bishop to a different church.  That's what happened at St. Patrick earlier this year, when Father Hammond left us to become pastor at Cathedral of the Incarnation.  From a doctrinal standpoint, I am sure there is a reason, generally, that priests are moved around, but it's been disappointing to us, over the years, to lose Father Eric (Fowlkes), Father David (Perkin), and Father Hammond.

Although Christ the King is a long walk from our house, for a variety of reasons it never became our home parish.  Perhaps it was a little big for me or perhaps we simply fell in love with Father Eric and St. Patrick, our little (but growing) church just south of downtown Nashville, but that's just the way it worked out.  I wonder, sometimes, if the boys missed out on attending a bigger church, one with Sunday school, youth groups, and social activities.  Shoot, maybe Jude and I missed out, too.  It's hard to say.  We love St. Patrick.

It's been reassuring, somehow, to know that Father Dexter has been down the street from us for all of these years, a half mile away.  During the height of the pandemic, when everyone was terrified of Covid-19, we went to "outside church" at Christ the King on Sunday afternoons.  Those services, outside, were singular, beautiful, and memorable, as parishioners sat in camping chairs on Christ the King's athletic field as Father Dexter led the service from a tent up front.  It was one of things I will always remember - and miss - about the pandemic.  Sitting with my family, outside, attending mass at Christ the King, with Father Dexter's small, cute dog trotting happily through the crowd, accepting treats from those who brought them for him.

Father Dexter is an accomplished runner, having competed marathons through the world.  He used to lead a small running group in the neighborhood that, at one point, I almost joined.  I would see him, early in the morning, running, and he once asked me to join the group.  As I recall, I broke my hand playing softball shortly thereafter and was off running for a while.  That was that, as they say.

Yesterday, I had to work and Jude was in Gatlinburg with Joe for the weekend, at a basketball tournament.  JP had an ACT prep class, so I decided to go to the 8:30 a.m. service at Christ the King.  I am so glad I did, because Father Dexter's homily was one of the most memorable I have heard since I joined the Catholic Church so many years ago.

He talked about the ascension of Jesus into Heaven after the Resurrection and what that meant, as a practical matter, to the apostles.  

Then, walking up the aisle and into the congregation, as is his style, Father Dexter began to talk about how to know when something has come to an end.  When it's over.

Sometimes it's easy to know when things end.  Graduation from high school and college, for example.  Those are clearly marked, definitive endings of a time in one's life.  Getting married marks an ending, too, often times of living at home or of being single.

Other times, it's harder to know when something to end.  He was talking, of course, of his his tenure at Christ the King.  He started thinking about it three years ago, he said, and when he decided it was time to retire, he felt an overwhelming sense of peace.  The same kind of peace, he said, that he felt when he decided to become a priest, an epiphany of sorts he had many years ago while living in a sparsely furnished apartment in the Paragon Mills are of Harding Place.  

He talked, movingly, of how he had loved everything about being pastor at Christ the King.  The church, the people, and leading the services.  Father Dexter is such a brilliant orator, so comfortable speaking and able to relate the homily to his life and our lives.  Father Eric Fowlkes has the same talent, as I recall.

What moved the most, I think, was when he told us that on those occasions at the beginning of a service when he felt unworthy or less than, he felt, again, that overwhelming sense of peace when he said to the parishioners, "Peace be with you."  And we replied, "And with your spirit."  That expression of love lifted him up, he said, every time at every service.

It made it more meaningful, yesterday, when I replied in unison with the other congregants, "And with your spirit," to him a final time.  I think I'll often fondly recall Father Dexter in the future, at St. Patrick or elsewhere, when Father Nick says "Peace be with you," and I reply, "And with your spirit."  

When I walked up to take communion, as luck would have it, Father Dexter gave me the bread.  He blessed me as I took and I looked at him and said, "thank you."

For everything. 

Saying Goodbye to University School Nashville

Thursday, Joe walked out of University School Nashville for the last time.  And just like that, our family's 11 year run there will come to an end.  

Bittersweet, to be sure.  There have been far, far more ups than downs at USN for both of our boys.  The  education JP and Joe received there has been top notch.  The boys have had outstanding teachers across the board.  Ms. Hagan, Ms. Roth, Mr. Kleiner, Ms. Dortch, Ms. Fields, Ms. Abington, and so many others.  Nonpareil educators each and every one of them.  

JP and Joe have been seen, nurtured, taught, and mentored at USN.  Honestly, if I could do it all over again, I would send both of them USN.  No doubt about it.  The school has shaped who my boys are and who they will become.  I'm grateful for that.

I remember the Friday morning when Jude and I sent the e-mail to Juliet Douglas, the Director of Admission, to tell her that we had decided JP would attend USN that fall rather than Oak Hill School.  Thinking about the e-mail she sent back to us in reply - all these years later - makes me smile and almost cry, too.  In that e-mail, Juliet wrote that she was, literally, dancing around her office in celebration of the fact that our JP, and our family, would be joining the USN family that fall.  And we did. remaining a part of the USN family for the next 11 years.  

Socially, the boys fit in well at USN.  JP and Joe found their people, so to speak.  For JP, it was Henry, Cecil, JD, Abe, Aidan, and a few others.  For Joe, it was Sam, Rory, Sawyer, Walker, Bennett, Jackson, and Max.  At USN, the boys were seen, nurtured, and generally enveloped in a cocoon of tolerance, love, and friendship.  In many ways, it was an idyllic time in their lives.  Learning.  Growing.  Maturing.  All of it under the watchful eyes of a caring faculty and administration.

At times, I've regretted that Jude and I didn't get more involved at USN.  We rarely socialized with parents other than those we already knew when the boys started to school there.  Certainly, we didn't make any new, close friends among the parents of USN children.  Sure, we donated to the Annual Fund every year and appeared at school for popsicle parties, field day, etc.  We went to all of the boys' parent-teacher conferences and the presentations they did in the classroom.  I guess we never were socially involved.  Neither of us served on the board of directors. 

I was so very involved at Children's House.  I served on the board of directors for seven years, in total, and served as board president.  I was consumed by Children's House.  It was an intensely beautiful time in our lives when the boys were in school there.  In a way, perhaps I felt like another school, even USN, couldn't match Children's House in terms of our level of commitment and engagement.  Maybe I felt like USN didn't need my involvement as much, because it's a much larger operation.  Or, maybe I was a little burned out.  

What always strikes me the most and causes a twinge of guilt, however, is that after 11 years of the boys at USN, if I walked in the school this morning, I still don't completely know my way around it.

For me, leaving USN marks the end of childhood for our boys.  That's a tough one for me to take, too.  The end of recess and P.E.  The end of birthday parties on weekends.  The end of parent-teacher conferences.  The end of pickups from After Care.  The end of little or no homework.  The end of no exams.  The end of innocence.  

When I'm running the neighborhood and I pass by Children's House, I feel a twinge of nostalgia.  Every time.  I miss "Joe Time," the 45 minutes or so he and I spent together every morning after Jude took JP to USN.  I miss doing the drop-off for Joe at Children's House every morning, often pushing him in the swings on the playground before school.  I can almost hear the children's voices as I run by Children's House.'

I'll probably feel the same way when I run through Music Row when my route takes me by USN.  Maybe more so, since the boys were there longer.  

As I close, I've got the Byrds' 1965 classic on my mind, "Turn, Turn, Turn."  It seems appropriate for a Sunday morning, Memorial Day Weekend, as I think about saying goodbye to USN.

Turn, Turn, Turn