22 on February 22

As Joe so aptly pointed out, yesterday was a special day.  Anniversary number 22 for Jude and me fell on February 22. 

Notwithstanding the fact that the winter cold and sinus infection I had run from for months finally caught me thanks to Vic Anderson coughing all over me for eight hours during a mediation last Monday, we had a fun and eventful anniversary.

Joe's Stars basketball team played there final game of the season at 10 a.m. at David Lipscomb.  They played hard and played better but lost again.  The season has been, well, meh.  The boys on the team - and I include Joe - are not tournament or travel level basketball players.  Still, the parents pay the money, the boys get all the gear, and voila, and the boys plays more basketball at a higher level, which is what it's all about.  More basketball against better players.  Joe has enjoyed playing, for sure, and the Stars' organizational message is a positive one, which Jude and I like.  It's been a positive experience for him and I hope he makes the spring team.

I drove to the Green Hills YMCA and got a three mile run in on the treadmill, hoping that perhaps I could sweat out whatever is ailing me.  No such luck but, still, it was nice to get a run in because February has not been very productive on the running front.  

Meanwhile, JP and a friend, Milo, went to the Vanderbilt baseball game.  Vandy vs. Saint Mary's.  Vandy was down when they left in the 6th inning but rallied and won.

At 4 p.m., Joe played his Bucket Squad season finale at Hillsboro High School.  Thomas McDaniel moved the boys up to play against 7th graders for the last two games of the season in the WNSL basketball league.  Joe's and his teammates had been boat racing most of the 6th grade teams so it was nice to see them get some real competition, although there is a big size difference between 6th grader and 7th graders.

The Bucket Squad cruised to a victory, although they didn't play particularly well and turned the ball over too much.  The 7th graders they played against only had a couple of decent basketball players, as it turned out.  Joe played reasonably well and made several nice passes for baskets, particularly a couple of "Magic Johnson specials," long bounce passes through traffic for layups.  That pass has become his signature play.

Much like with the Dodgers, this may be the end of the line for the Bucket Squad, who have played together for six years in a variety of leagues and tournaments.  All of the boys are starting middle school next year and things will change, of course.  That's a shame but it's as it should be, I guess.  I'll miss the innocence, though, of these Saturday basketball games with Joe and his friends playing together.  They've grown so comfortable with each other and their roles on the team, sharing the ball, helping on defense, and competing as a unit.  It's been special.

We rushed home from Joe's second basketball game to pick up JP and head to the Predators - Avalanche game at 5 p.m.  By luck of the draw, we had all four of our group's tickets to the game.  While I wasn't feeling particularly well and my choice would have been to go to the Belmont - Indiana State basketball game, it was nice to go to the Predators' game as a family.  Better yet, we saw the Predators beat the Avalanche, 2 - 1, a rare victory in what has been a lost season.

It was a great atmosphere, almost like the old days, when the Predators were a threat to go deep into the playoffs every year.  The Avalanche outshot the Predators but Juise Saros stood on his head and sealed the victory by turning away a barrage of shots late in the third period with the crown on its feet, cheering loudly.  

Jude picked up Amerigo's for us - an anniversary dinner, if you will - and we watched the Lakers - Nuggets on television, ABC's Saturday prime time NBA game.  For the first time since arrive a couple of weeks ago in the most stunning trade in NBA history, Luca Doncic dominated and the Lakers snapped the Nuggets nine game winning streak much to the dismay of the Denver home crowd.  

As I enjoy my Sunday morning coffee in the lobby at oneCITY Nashville, outside Sump, I feel a sense of contentment and gratitude.  Jude and I have had a 22 year run - 27 county the years we dated - that I wouldn't trade for anything.  The best years of my life, for sure.  We're so lucky to have the boys we have, the life we have, and each other.  

Now, if I can just start to feel a little better.

Joe at 13

As of today, I have two teenage boys.  I can't believe it.

A few minutes go, I read my post from 13 years ago, the day Joe was born.  What I wrote, and the photos, brought back so many memories. 

At the hospital with Jude for a scheduled, last week check up and ultrasound.  

The telephone call from Roseanne Maikis as she read the ultra sound in another building, suggesting she was a little concerned about what she was seeing.  Roseann asking me if I thought Jude could get her game face on and have the C-section that afternoon, a couple of days early.  Passing the telephone to Jude so she could talk to Roseann.  

Going home and retuning with JP, not quite four, so he could see Jude before surgery.  Walking down the hall toward Jude's hospital room, holding hands with JP, as he got more and more nervous.  Looking up at me, he said, "Dad, I don't know about this."  JP smiling when, at last, he saw Jude in her hospital bed.

The wait.  The interminable wait, sitting in a metal, folding chair while Jude was prepped for surgery in the operating room.  Walking in, at last, and making eye contact with Jude, and seeing the steely look of concentration on her face.  So determined.  So strong.  So ready.  Nothing on earth was going to come between her and the son she had carried for nine long months.  

Our miracle baby.  The second child we never thought we'd be lucky enough to have.  A brother for JP, who had gotten more and more excited as the big day approached.  My family.

Finally, Roseann calling to me, as I walked around the curtain to see my second son take his first breath.  Crying loudly, as Jude and I cried along with him.  God's gift to us and to JP.  

Joseph Dylan Newman.

I remember sitting with Joe in the recovery room for what seemed like an eternity, singing to him.  Elizabeth Mitchell's "So Glad I'm Here."  I changed the words around, as I sang the song over and over, almost like a mantra.

JP is glad you're here.  

JP is glad you're here.  

JP is glad you're here, here today!

Punk is glad you're here.

Punk is glad you're here.

Punk is glad you're here, here today!

And so forth and so on, I sang Elizabeth Mitchell to Joe and held him in the crook of my arm until it ached.  I was worried about Jude because I lost track of time.  It seemed like she had been in post-op forever.  Finally, they wheeled her in and she smiled wanly, then fell asleep.  Exhausted.  

Thus began the greatest 13 year stretch of my life.  A wife I loved, two boys I adored, and what seemed like all the time in the world together, as we watched them grow up.  When I look back on my life, that afternoon - February 20, 2012 - just might be the high point for me.  The moment I would love to relive over and over again.

I closed my eyes when we go home that night, and opened them up this morning, and like magic, Joe had turned 13 years old.  How?  

Time passes.

The days go slow but the years go fast.  

Truer words never have been spoken.  My boys are 16 (almost 17) and 13, both teenagers.  Incredible.  Just incredible.  

Joe is my happy, kind, music loving teenager.  We share an unbinding love of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, sports, and reading.  He's kindhearted, fiercely competitive, a bit naive about life (which I wonderful), and a fan of all things Star Wars and Marvel Comics.  

Joe and JP are alike in many of the important ways but very different, too, which is as it should be.  Joe loves his big brother and looks up to him, always.  Listening to the two of them talk, upstairs, before bedtime, fills me heart with joy.  Brothers forever.

On your 13th birthday Joe, know I love you.  I'm proud of you.  You completed our family.

Searching for Blue Mountain

Through the wonders of the Internet, this morning I confirmed that December 4, 1995, was one of the seminal nights of my life as a music fan.  That's according to a copy of a music industry newsletter - Pollstar - that I happened across online while I was trying to see if I could pinpoint when I saw Blue Mountain play, for the first an only time.  Among other things, back issues of Pollstar has complete listings of artist's shows on tour.  Who knew?

In December 1995, I was 29 years old.  I was two years out of law school and working in downtown Nashville at Manier, Herod, Hollabaugh & Smith.  My first job out of law school.  I was a serious runner, training all of the time and racing every weekend.  I'm still a runner, although not as serious.  I was more that a decade away from having JP and Joe.  

In law school, I started listening to the Jayhawks, then found my way to Uncle Tupelo and, later, the Bottle Rockets.  Out of Festus, Missouri, lead by singer/guitarist, Brian Henneman, I was and am a big fan.  This was before Americana was a recognized musical genre, I think, but it was the type of music that I found myself gravitating to over time.  

December 4, 1995 was a Monday, and I got tickets to see the Bottle Rockets play at 12th & Porter.  The Playroom was a relatively small, intimate music venue adjacent to the restaurant on the edge of downtown, located appropriately enough on the corner of 12th Avenue North and Porter Road.  The only surviving music venue today that is similar is 3rd and Lindsley.  I arrived early, as I often do for shows, and got a table right in front of the stage.  

The opening act was Blue Mountain, a band from Oxford, Mississippi, that I had never heard of until that night.  Three members, Cary Hudson (guitar/vocals), Laurie Stirratt (bass/background vocals), and Frank Couch (drums).  

To my surprise and delight, Blue Mountain was incredible.  Cary Hudson's kinetic energy, thrashing the guitar while he sang in a deep, Mississippi southern accent, almost burned down the Playroom.  It was a performance I will never forget.  So much of that night is a blur, lost to time and age and 30 years of memories filling my head.  Still, I remember being so excited, so delighted, to bear witness to a band on a perfect night, on the cusp of grasping something ethereal and usually unattainable.  The perfect show.

I immediately bought Dog Days, released earlier that year, probably from Tower Records on West End Avenue.  I wore that CD out in the ensuing days, weeks, months, and years.  It's probably one of my most played CD's.  Even now, if it I play it, I can anticipate the next song as the current song is ending.  That doesn't happen anymore, of course, because everyone listens to songs and no one listens to albums.

The Bottle Rockets were good, as I knew they would be.  What sticks out about their show is that at one point, during a song, Brian Henneman sat down in a chair at my table, right in front of the stage, while he was playing a guitar solo.  Perfect.    

I never saw Blue Mountain live again.  I regret that, particularly since the band broke up a few years later.  Cary Hudson and Laurie Stirratt divorced.  Still, having seen them the one time and the one time only somehow makes the how all the more special to me.  It lives on in my memory.  A top 5 show for me, all time.

I've often wanted to go to Oxford, Mississippi, and see one of Cary Hudson's solo shows.  Maybe say hello.  Maybe tell him about a magical, memorable night at 12th & Porter, in the Playroom, on December 4, 1994.

The Ghosts of Baristas Past

At some point, I'm going to stop getting coffee every morning before work.  But not today.

It's by far my favorite part of the day.  A latte and the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Substack, the New Yorker.  Writing in this space.  Occasionally, answering an e-mail or two or working on a document, although I prefer to have 30 minutes or so to myself, not to work.  

Dose.  Bongo Java.  Sump.  The Well (Music Row or David Lipscomb).  Honest Coffee Roasters.  Crema.  8th & Roast.  The Henry.  Portland Brew (R.I.P.).  Wolf and Scout's (R.I.P.). 

For sure, this has been the morning coffee phase of my life.  It started, I guess, when JP was a baby and we began taking long weekend morning walks in the City Elite (stroller).  Until then - and this is slightly past age 40 - I had not been a coffee guy.  Not at all, which is strange, considering how much I love coffee now.  

Chad, a tattooed and facially pierced longtime barista at Bongo Java, took a liking to JP, and for some reason made me a Mood Elevator.  Double iced mocha with hazelnut (very light on the mocha) and an old school Bongo Java drink, off the menu by then.  And away I went down the rabbit hole of coffee, coffee shops, baristas, and all that comes with those things.  I drank a thousand Mood Elevators over the years, many while sitting at a table in Bongo Java with JP or Joe sleeping in the City Elite beside me while I read the New Yorker, surfed the internet, or wrote in this space.  

Other times, I finished a night run at Bongo Java, just before close, and Hunter made me a nightcap Mood Elevator.  I talked with him for a minute or two, then walked home to our first house in Elliott Avenue.  A more simple life for me in many ways and a more simple time.  Before my mom's diagnosis with Alzheimer's, before Carley got sick, before Jude's parents began to slow down ever so slightly.  

And, certainly, before I began to lose colleagues who had been important to me professionally, like Don Young, Mark Hartzog, Steve Cox, Don Smith, Gary Rubenstein, and so others.  And before we lost Dave to a brain tumor.  And before I had so many friends battling cancer, like Lance, Scott, Christa, Kelly, Reid, and Shannon.

So many baristas in so may coffee shops that I saw and interacted with regularly.  I called them my friends, although in truth, they were more like acquaintances with whom I shared a smile or a kind word almost every day.  At Bongo, Chad, AJ, EJ, Adam, Ayla, Chuck, Hunter, George, Megan, Rachel, Mitch, Josh, and many, many others whose names escape me now but who are referenced throughout the earlier days of this blog.  

At Honest Coffee Roasters, Anthony, Nick, and too many others to name.  All gone from my life, as working as a barista is by its nature a temporary, transient occupation, I think.  People do it as a certain point in their lives then move on, either working as a barista at a coffee shop somewhere else or moving into a different phase in their lives by beginning a career or starting a family.  

The strange part, though, is that I'm still here.  Getting coffee in the morning before work or on a Saturday/Sunday morning before a busy day of driving to practices and games for Joe.  The baristas change but my routine stays the same, at least for now.  The coffee shops for the most part stay the same, too, with the exception of those I have lost, like Portland Brew.  

Someday, perhaps soon, I'm going to change my routine and stop getting coffee every morning.  But not today. 

Super Bowl Sunday, Bongo Java, and Harris Baseball Club

Yesterday morning, while JP went out for a run, Joe and I went to Bongo Java for breakfast.  At some point, I'm going to write about this in more detail but as of late, there are good things happening at Bongo Java.  For one, Bob Bernstein hired a grill cook (a good one at that) and it's possible to order a full breakfast, which is tremendous.

Bongo Java is such an important part of the boys' early childhood - and, for that matter, my early fatherhood, too.  We spent so much time when the boys were young.  Memories everywhere whenever I walk in the door.  It's a beautiful thing for Bongo Java to get back in my rotation of coffee stops before work.

Joe and I sat upstairs on the small landing between the first and second floors - like the old days - where, as a family, we ate what seems like a thousand Sunday morning breakfasts at the big table.  Currently, there are too smaller tables upstairs but, still, it's nice that the upstairs is open for people.  It's quieter up there, a little out of the way, and kind of secluded.  It's almost a cloistered spot in what used to be, at times, a very busy coffee shop, filled with Belmont students and neighborhood people.

It was nice to have a quiet breakfast with Joe, just the two of us.  We talked about school, sports, and his MBA interview the day before.  He interviewed with Coach Cheevers and felt like it went well.  We also looked at a variety of crazy Super Bowl props (Eagles vs. Chiefs) on Fan Duel, betting $10 a piece on several of them.  Joe is such a good hang, always.

Later in the morning, we went to church at St. Patrick.  We sung two of my favorite hymns, inclusion The Summons.  Beautiful service at a place that means so much to my family and me.  We're still adjusting to Father Nick and miss Father Hammond terribly but that's to be expected.  After church, Jude drove Joe to Stars' basketball practice at BGA in Franklin.

JP asked me if I would go to the HBC baseball facility after church and throw him some soft toss for batting practice.  Of course, I agreed, and we drove over to the facility on Wilhagen Road shortly after 1 p.m.  JP saw the absolute auction sign in front of the building and had questions about what would happen to HBC in the future.  I suggested that there are a lot of moving parts, which is true, and deflected answering in any meaningful way.

JP and I had the facility to ourselves, as he unlocked the front door and turned on the lights.  We spent an hour or so there, in the quiet, getting work in.  He hit off the tee, then I soft tossed him baseballs from behind  a screen.  How many times, over the years, have we done that together?  Countless.  As I watched him hit liner after liner, I couldn't help but feel nostalgic.  The end is in sight for him, for baseball, I think.  Three more seasons in high school.  

On top of that, I've decided not to coach baseball for Joe's group this spring.  Several of the boys, including Joe, are playing travel baseball.  I'll be busy going to the boys' games, working, and teaching at NSL, so I don't see how I would have time to run two practices a week and play a doubleheader on Saturday or Sunday.  Also, I don't want to be making telephone calls and sending e-mails, begging for players to play like I did in the fall.  It appears that the WNSL Dodgers are indeed at the end of the line. All good things must come to an end, no doubt.

It was nice to have the time with Joe and JP, separately, on a quiet Sunday.  It also was nice to watch the Super Bowl together, as a family, Sunday evening.  The Eagles, shockingly, smoked the Chiefs, as Patrick Mahomes uncharacteristically had a bad game in a big game.

Now, off to work.  Busy, again, but if I can get through the first part of the week, I might find a little breathing room.