Ping Pong Diplomacy

At some point during my pre-teenage years, my mom bought a ping pong table for the playroom.  The setup wasn't perfect, as the popcorn ceiling from what used to be our garage was quite low, which prevented almost any type of lob shot.  Still, my neighborhood best friends, Warren Lee Gilley and Jimmy Levine, played a lot of ping pong for a couple of years and especially one summer, as I remember it.

The best memories, though, are of my mom and me playing ping pong.  She was actually pretty good, although I normally beat her.  What I remember most fondly is simply returning every one of her shots with a half lob while, in the middle of a point, she would get tickled and start laughing uncontrollably.  "Stop!  Stop!" I recall her saying, as she laughed until she finally missed the ball or hit it into the net.  

It was great fun, playing with my mom.  Looking back, she probably saw it as a way for us to bond.  To do something together, as I was approaching or beginning my teenage years.  I don't recall us getting rid of the ping pong table altogether but as the years passed, it wasn't there any longer.  The memories remained, though.  

For years, Jude and I talked about building a screened in porch where our back deck is, in part because we thought it would be a great place for a ping pong table.  Because she is a "doer," Jude got the ball rolling a year or so ago.  It helped tremendously for her to be working remotely from home, as she was able to monitor the work on a daily basis.  By her estimation, Jude has taken her laptop and worked outside, on the screened in porch, for part of every day since it was finished.  

But that's not the best part.  The ping pong table, which I ordered, is the best part.

The boys and I, and occasionally Jude, have played more games of ping pong than I could possibly count. Competitive games, too.  Initially, I dominated the boys and ran up an unbeaten streak of 20 or so games.  That changed quickly, though, as JP and Joe improved at a rapid rate.  Now, for the most part, we take turns beating each other, although I still win more than I lose. 

JP and Joe play handicap matches against Jude.  They sit on a baseball bucket and player her.  For a while, Joe played Jude using a book instead of a paddle.  Then, he played her left-handed with the book.  Recently, Joe began playing Jude with his hand and no paddle.  It's hilarious. 

Joe and I often play best of 2, best of 3, or best of 7 matches, trash talked each other all the way.  Jude usually walks out and sits in my camping chair or on the sectional couch she ordered, reading and laughing at us, as we play.  Always with music in the background - the Grateful Dead and the Jerry Garcia Band as of late - we play ping pong, taunt each other, and mostly laugh a lot.  Most of all, we enjoy spending time together, as a family, making memories that will last a lifetime.

The other night, Joe looked at Jude and me and said, earnest, "I can't remember what we used to do before we had a ping pong table."  

Indeed.

Joe Time

 

When Joe was three or four years old, maybe five, I used to take him to school at Children's House every morning.  Jude took JP to USN first, on her way to work downtown (this, of course, is before the pandemic and remote work for Jude).  That left Joe and me with 45 minutes or so of time to kill, after breakfast but before I dropped him off at Children's House.

I treasured those previous minutes with Joe.  I called it "Joe Time."  Some days we watched Daniel Tiger on television.  Often times, we went to Belmont U., where we performed trick shots with the Nerf football, one of us trying to catch passes from the other thrown from the second floor of the Curb Center  Sometimes, we played touch football inside the Curb.  Other times, we ate "second breakfast" at Bongo Java and watched Thomas the Train or NHL videos on my iPad.  Sometimes, we arrived at Children's House early and I pushed Joe on the swings or played with him on the playground.

Those stolen moments were so special to me.  I knew, too, that those moments were fleeting, which make them even more precious to me.  I miss those days.  So much of parenthood seems to be nostalgia for the way things used to be, when a child or children were younger and life was more innocent and less complicated.  

With JP in Tasmania, it's been nice to have one-on-one time with Joe.  Yesterday, after Joe went for an early morning two mile run, I drove him to basketball camp at TOA Courts in Cool Springs.  We listened to Brian Windhorst on his NBA podcast, as we talked basketball all the way down.  I picked Joe up at noon and we ate lunch together at my office in Franklin.  At 2 p.m., I drove him to a hitting lesson at a new baseball facility on Main Street, deep in Franklin.  We drove home after a quick stop at the office.  At home, we ate dinner and watched the last half of "For Your Eyes Only" (James Bond).  

This morning, Joe and I left the house about 6:35 p.m. and drove to Shelby Park.  We ran four miles on the trails at Shelby Bottoms.  I wanted to get his a long run in and, more importantly, I wanted to run with him at my favorite place to run in the world, Shelby Bottoms.  We had a great, albeit hot, run and even saw a couple of deer on the trails.  Afterwards, we had breakfast at Aaron's Goods on Gallatin Road.  

For the past week, with JP in Tasmania, it's been Joe time all over again.  It seems like JP has been gone forever.  I miss him terribly.  We all do, especially Joe.  Still, hanging out with Joe, and focusing what little free time I have on him - has been refreshing.  A preview, just maybe, of what my life will be like after next summer when JP leaves for college.  Maybe, just maybe, it won't be as difficult as I fear it will be with JP out of the house.  

Joe Time.  

   

The Godfather

Ed Silva, the Godfather, is down but not out.  Not by a long stretch.  At 83, he's still too tough.  Boston tough.  

Ed is hospitalized at Vanderbilt with lymphoma, after being transferred there from Williamson Medical Center in Franklin.  I had a wonderful visit with him last night after work.  He's in a tough spot but he's a fighter and there are many, many people pulling for him.

In my legal career, I've had two mentors that meant the most to me.  Two men, lawyers, whom I turned to when things were darkest.  When I had a problem, personal or professional.  When I needed advice about a case or a client.  When I needed business advice.  

Steve Cox, who hired me at Manier, Herod, Hollabaugh & Smith, God rest his soul.  

Ed Silva, who once tried to hire Mark Puryear and me, a couple of years after we started our law practice in Franklin, Puryear & Newman, in a small house at 401 Church Street.  

Interestingly, Steve and Ed, similar in so many ways, were friends and colleagues as they shared a love of Nascar racing of all things.  Ed Silva did all of Darryl Waltrip's and Sterling Marlin's legal work for many years.  Steve occasionally called Ed to get the scoop on this or that racer or race.  Small world , since both of them have had such an outsized impact on my legal career. 

As I look back on three decades of practicing law in downtown Franklin, I can't remember how I got to know Ed Silva so well or how we became such close friends.  Steve Cox made the introduction, by telephone, and I can recall us calling Ed about a case and the two of them ending up talking about Nascar.  But I can't remember when or how our friendship developed.  

In every small town, there is one lawyer whom everyone turns to when they have a legal problem.  A series legal problem.  He or she will handle it, most often discreetly with little or no publicity, behind the scenes, or refer it out to the person who needs to handle it.  Somehow, everything and everyone in the legal community seems to run through or be connected to that lawyer.  In Franklin, that lawyer was Ed Silva.  

I'm struggling this morning, as I sip my coffee at 8th & Roast, to adequately describe how important Ed Silva has been to my legal career.  So many stories.  We've had cases against each other.  We've mediated for each other.  We've yelled at each other.  We've laughed together.  So much laughter.  I've sat across Ed's desk from him on several occasions and sought his advice, professionally, and he's given it to me.  Always on point.  Always straight up.  

My partner, Chas Morton, and I named him The Godfather years ago.  Ed loved it.  At one point, I had a set of business cards made for him.  Heavy card stock.  On the front, it said "Ed P. Silva."  Underneath that, "The Godfather."  On the back, it said "It's not personal.  It's strictly business."  He beamed when I gave them to him.  

The Godfather.  

The lawyer in Franklin that other lawyer went to for help.  The lawyer in Franklin you knew you were in for a fight with when he appeared in a case against you.  The lawyer in Franklin that people called, always, when they were in trouble.  The lawyer in Franklin who could get things done.  The lawyer in Franklin who kept all of the secrets.  

I'll write more, I know, about Ed, in the coming days.  I'll see him this weekend, too, along with many others.  

   

In Transit

The last couple of months, I found myself going on long, late night walks all over the neighborhood and beyond.  Initially, I thought I would walk on days when I didn't run.  Then, I began walking on days when I already had run.  It clears my head and gives me the opportunity to listen to podcasts or music and, really, to unwind after a stressful day.  

Last night, about 9:45 p.m., I left the house and walked down to Christ the King.  I stopped in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary in the courtyard and asked our Holy Mother to intercede on JP's behalf and to ask our Lord to provide him safe passage on his journey to Tasmania.  Afterwards, I walked over to the running stream and said a prayer for him.  It comforted me to pray for JP.  That's a special spot for me, and it always comforts me to pray there.  

As I write this, JP is on a Qantas Boeing 787-9 Dreamline, flight QFA22, flying over the Pacific Ocean at 36,000 feet.  He's roughly eight hours out of Melbourne, Australia, where he will have a three hour layover before he boards a flight for Tasmania.  I hope he's getting some sleep because it's night time where he is and he will be landing about 6:13 a.m.  Jet lag is a bitch, especially on a flight as long as this one.  

Thanks to the miracle of modern technology, I am tracking his flight on Flightradar 24, an app I just downloaded on my cell phone.  It's kind of crazy.  

It's funny, JP sent me a text last night from the plane, as I was going to bed, to tell me that Giannis Antetokounmpo had been traded to Miami.  Just now, Joe texted me to tell me that he's watching Sportscenter and it looks like Jaylen Brown (Celtics) is going to be traded, too.  The apple hasn't fallen far from the tree in terms of sports fandom.

During my walk last night, I listened to Romeo and Juliet, the poignant, heartbreaking, sparse yet powerful song by Mark Knopfler and Dire Straits.  I did a bit of a Dire Straits deep dive.  Then, this morning, as I walked into 8th & Roast for coffee, the boys were playing Dire Straits' Sultans of Swing.  

I took that as a sign.  A good sign of safe passage for JP.  I turned them on to Romeo and Juliet, so they played it.  Great, great song.  It was a nice way to start my morning before I run Joe and Pike over to Vanderbilt basketball camp.  

So, JP is in transit.  We're all in transit, in a way.  Going from one place to another, praying to our Lord for safe passage to our final destination.     

Traveling Man

JP leaves for Tasmania today and I feel lost already.  

As someone who sees no need to travel any further than 30A or Sewanee, this is a tough one for me.  Of course, I'm happy for him.  Still, Tasmania?  I mean, damn, it's a 25 to 28 hour trip.  I'll worry every minute until I know he's safely on the ground on this island off the coast of Australia.  I mean, what in the hell?!?

Truth be told, I'm very proud of him.  The trip to Tasmania is part of an exchange program at MBA and to be one of two boys in the entire school selected to participate is quite an honor.  JP will stay with a family in Tasmania, attend school, and return home on July 10 (the day after his old man turns 60).  In January, our family will, in turn, host the young man whose family JP is staying with in Tasmania.  Pretty cool, actually.

It's winter in Tasmania, as I understand it.  Temperatures in the 50's and 60's, which sounds kind of nice, actually, compared to the mid-90's we have been experiencing in Nashville lately.  Summer in Nashville, of course, is my least favorite time of year, so I'm jealous of the weather in Tasmania, at least.  

As I think about it, JP taking this trip probably is good for me, as it gives me a tiny bit of a preview as to what it will feel like when he leaves for college next summer.  JP is 18 and, in reality, he could decide to skip his senior year at MBA and move to Tasmania if he wanted to.  He won't but he could, which is the point, right?  Legally, JP is a grown up.  A man.  

What was I like at 18 years old?  I wonder about that sometimes.  I had been working full-time hours at Wal-Mart for more than two years when I turned 18 in July 1984.  I worked too much during high school, actually, but I liked having my own money and a different identity than I had at school.  I liked it that people at Wal-Mart depended on me.    

When I graduated from high school, I was still 17, as my birthday wasn't until July.  Still, I already had traveled on my own - no chaperones - to Daytona Beach, FL, for Spring Break, in what turned out to be one of the most memorable weeks of my life.  There were 28 of us, as I recall, and in a stroke of serendipity, it was a perfect week.  

After I graduated from high school, I went to Panama City Beach, FL, with my girlfriend at the time, Debbie Billings, and another couple.  Because I was young, dumb, and arrogant, I told my mother I was going on the trip, rather than asking her.  That, of course, was one of the benefits of having my own money, a car I was paying for, and the ability to be relatively self-sufficient.  It was a precursor, I suppose, to how much I enjoyed, and thrived, on my own in my freshman year of college in Knoxville.

Is JP ready for this?  I think he probably is.  He's mature, confident, and driven.  He'll be fine.  Still, I will be glad when he texts us to confirm he's on the ground in Tasmania.  That's for sure.

Memories of Baseball (Vol. 1)

Recently, Thomas McDaniel and I had a telephone conversation, followed by an e-mail exchange, about how much we have enjoyed coaching our sons and their friends over the years.  Thomas in basketball with Pike, Joe, and their crew, and me in baseball, first with JP and, later Joe.  

The Bucket Squad and the Dodgers.  It was quite a run for both teams.  

I have been feeling especially nostalgic lately, as Pike, Joe, and their teammates have begun to wind down their time playing together on the Bucket Squad.  More and more, I have found myself missing my baseball coaching days tremendously.  Right about now, we would be in the middle of all-star baseball, playing every weekend at a quaint old ballpark in another small town.  Donelson.  Mt. Juliet.  Lawrenceburg.  Lewisburg.  I loved every one of those ballparks.  We'd be practicing two or three days a week, too.  All baseball, all the time. 

My friend, Audrey, sent me a photo of her son, Huck and Joe, with me, after the boys won an all-star tournament title in Donelson.  They played for Scott McRae, who died this winter, far too young.  I love the photo.  Huck and Joe are so happy and so innocent, as they point their championship rings toward the camera.  

I telephone Audrey after she sent me the photo to thank her for it.  I told her how much I had enjoyed coaching Huck.  One of my all-time favorites.  Emotional but, damn, he cared so much . . .  about how he played and how the team performed.  I'll take a kid who is emotional and cares every time, because that's coachable.  I can teach him how to dial it back but it's much more difficult to teach him to care and to compete.  

Audrey told me that on several occasions, she has overheard Huck telling his travel baseball teammates on the Redbirds, "Coach Phil would never let that happen."  Or, "here's how Coach Phil would do it."  

I mean, damn.  That made me so happy.  

All the practices in the spring, summer, and fall of years past.  All the baseball games.  All the e-mails to parents.  All the conversations with my assistant coaches.  It was all worth it.  Every single second I spent coaching baseball.  All of it.  It was all worth it.

I only wish I could do it again.  

Maybe it's the time of year or the fact that a couple of weeks ago, I watched so many of the boys I coached graduate from high school.  Maybe it's that JP is 18, a rising senior, and leaving on Monday for three weeks in Tasmania as part of an MBA exchange program.  Maybe it's because I turn 60 years old in less than a month.  

For whatever reason, I find myself longing for another baseball season to coach my sons and their friends.  One more season.  It's like an ache that won't go away.  It's palpable.  Lately, once a day something will remind me of one of my teams, one of my players, or call up a memory of a long ago baseball practice or game.  A win.  A loss.  A lesson learned, by a player or more often, by me.

Every boy I ever coached taught me something and enriched my life in some way.  Every single one.  And I'm grateful for the memories.  So grateful.

 

  

 

The Kid 2.0

A couple of weeks ago, Joe told me he wanted to run cross country this fall, as an 8th grader at MBA.

I was skeptical at first, for several reasons.  Joe didn't seem to enjoy cross country that much when he ran at USN as a 6th grader.  He didn't seem to be very interested in putting the work in to be in the kind of shape he needed to be in to race comfortably.  He also had some breathing issues when we ran that were a little bit concerning, although I was never sure if they were related to, perhaps, a touch of exercise induced asthma or not having the cardiovascular fitness that he needed to run two or three miles in the heat.  Mostly, I didn't think he really enjoyed it.  

I also didn't want Joe to run cross country simply to follow in JP's footsteps.  As I have told Joe repeatedly, it's important to me for him to strike his own path, not just at MBA but in life.  I want his experience at MBA to be his experience, not one he's trying to fashion after his big brother's experience at MBA.  I think that's really, really important.

I've always been hands off when it comes to running and my boys.  Obviously, running has been one of the mainstays of my life for 40 years.  It's my north star.  No matter what is going on in my life, I have running.  Work can be crazy, like it is now.  I can be stressed, like I am now.  I can be sad, as I have been at different times in my life, like when my mom was fighting Alzheimer's or when she died, and I still have running.  Running never leaves me.  It's my constant companion, always there, always waiting patiently for me to return.  In some ways, running is my best, my loyal friend.

I want my boys to have that kind of a lifelong relationship with running or, at the very least, with some type of a physical fitness related activity.  How do I help them find it?  I do that, I think, by letting the boys come to running and by me not taking running to the boys.  This is the way.

Slowly, I've come around to Joe running regularly again.  Slowly to him, that is.  Inside, when he told me he wanted to run cross country, my heart was jumping for joy.  Still, I am easing into it with him.  At his request, I sent JP with him to Team Nashville and Terry hooked him up with some running shoes.  I'm going to get him a watch, too, because he'd like to be able to monitor his pace and, more importantly, know how far he is running when goes on runs.

Yesterday, I worked from home.  Joe asked me if we could run in the morning. "Of course," I replied, and we did.  We ran up Belmont Blvd. to Belmont U., around the grassy area, back down past our house and over to Hearts in 12South.  Two miles for him and three miles for me, as I ran one mile before I picked up Joe at the house to get two miles in.  We sat at the bar at Hearts, talked about real estate, and had a nice breakfast, then walked home.  A perfect summer morning for me. 

Last night, he asked if I was going to run this morning.  "Sure," I said.  "Can I come with you?" he asked.  "Of course," I replied, again.  Of course he can run with me.  

We ran a bit of a different route, up to Belmont U. again but, this time, down and around to Portland Avenue and back home.  I dropped him off at the house, then I ran down to 8th & Roast, my current favorite coffee shop.  

In our run, I think a saw something today.  A glimpse, maybe, of little of that joy in Joe.  The joy of running.  Of feeling good.  Feeling strong.  Feeling confident.  That's what running can do for you.  That's what running will do for you if you commit yourself to it.  

Every run with one of my boys is a gift.  A true gift and something I never, ever take for granted.  

      

A Week in DC and Another Close One

Joe returned home Saturday evening from a week away.  He had been on a Wilson Grant trip, with 14 classmates, to Washington D.C.  It was a great experience for him - one that JP had in seventh grade, too - and one that we're grateful MBA provides through the Wilson Grant Program.  Joe got to spend time and become friends with some of his classmates that he didn't really know well, before the trip, which is kind of what it's all about.  

It was a trip packed with sightseeing with a historical emphasis.  One of the chaperones on the trip was Mr. McMurray, Joe's history teacher last year in a class that he thoroughly enjoyed.  It all worked out very well, actually.  Joe's favorite things to do were going to the Washington Nationals' game, where the boys took off their shirts in between innings and were shown on the Jumbotron, much to their delight.  He also was really taken with the Spy Museum, which I had never heard of.  An intern who is a graduate of MBA and working for Senator Hagerty gave them a tour of the Senate Chamber, which Joe enjoyed.

JP tried one final time to qualify for New Balance Nationals in Philadelphia by running the mile in a Toad track event at Green Hill High School in Mt. Juliet.  He ran hard, set a new PR at 4:20:12, but came up a little more than two seconds short of the 4:18 time he needed to qualify.  He was disappointed, of course, but seemed a little more philosophical about it than he was after the mile race at Lee University a couple of weeks ago.  

JP was in the second heat when, in reality, he should have been in the first and fastest heat.  Two of the other competitive runners in his heat didn't show up, so he led wire to wire and won his heat easily.  The problem, though, was that after the pacer left the track after two laps, it was harder to maintain the pace he needed to run a 4:18.  If he would have run in the first heat, chasing faster, collegiate runner, might have helped him run just a bit faster.  That's track, though, so we'll never know.

He ran the 800 a little more than an hour after the mile race, and clocked a respectable 1:57 +.  It was slower than the PR he ran in the 800 at Lee University (1:55:02) but still impressive, as he raced the 800 after having just raced the mile a little earlier.  My guess is he would have been close to sub-1:55 had he run only the 800.  

In the big picture, JP finished the track season strong, I think, setting PR's race after race.  Yes, it's tough to wonder what might have been had he not been hurt early and missed more than one month of training time.  But, again, that's track.  I'm proud of how hard he worked to get back and how he's performed since he got back.

Sunday afternoon, Joe played in a couple of tournament games in Donelson with his Bucket Squad basketball team.  Nash was in California, but Thomas McDaniel picked up three boys from the Stars' Gold team.  The boys won two games on Saturday to gain the top seed in their pool.  Through the grapevine, I heard that Pike had broken out of his Stars' shooting slump and was raining 3's during both games on Saturday.

Sunday, it was the same thing.  Pike looked like a different player, and not just because he was sporting a summer crew cut.  In game one, he hit 3 after 3 to the point that the other team's parents were talking about what a pure shooter he is.  Joe hit a 3 early then, later, hit a step back 3, which I didn't know he had in his bag.  A little James Harden.  He made some nifty passes, as well, and ran the offense with confidence.

I left partway through the final game, which the Bucket Squad won by 5.  Joe played okay, although not as well as the first game.  He thought he was fouled on a 3-pointer early in the second half and complained to the referee in a way that I am not comfortable with.  Private school basketball, I call it, when a young player doesn't get a call, turns his hands over and palms up, whines and complains to the referee.  

A play or two later, a kid came over Joe's back to get a rebound and, again, Joe didn't get the call.  Why?  Because he complained so much about not getting the previous call.  That's how it works.  We talked about it afterwards and, hopefully, Joe will clean that up in the future.

It was a good tournament title for the Bucket Squad.  It reminded me of how much more free and loose the boys play when the coach is relaxed and not uptight.  I was proud of Joe and all his teammates.  

Bucket Squad.  Joe, Thomas McDaniel, Pike, Rex, Cole, Elliott, Aaron, and Chandler.

One Damn Second

Cross country and track are strange sports.  I love them both, although at a certain level they're designed to break your heart. 

At Lee University yesterday evening, JP ran in the fist of two heats of the mile.  It's not a distance he has raced often because, in high school meets, the 1,600 is a much more common race.  As far as races go, the mile is 9.334 meters longer than the 1,600.  Actually, that's something I didn't know until this weekend.

JP's goal was 4:19, which he felt was fast but doable.  His thought was that running a 4:19 would qualify him for New Balance Nationals in Philadelphia in late June.  

JP left the starting line running a fast pace and settle in behind the leaders, in third and, later, fourth place.  I was standing not he far side of the track, so I could encourage him at roughly the 200 meter mark of each lap.  He looked good and, by lap three, was doing a good job of staying connected with the lead pack of three runners.  

The same was true on the final lap, although JP appeared to tire ever so slightly in the last 100 meters.  A runner nipped him at the finish by less than .30 and took fourth place.  He finished in 4:20:52, so very close to running a sub-4:20, which was hi goal.

Afterwards, when he realized he had just missed a sub-4:20, JP was disconsolate.  I was on the infield with him and tried my best to console him.  He knew he had missed by a second, probably less, and there wasn't anything I could say that really mattered.  Not in the moment, anyway.  I hurt for him, terribly, because he was so disappointed.  

He's worked so hard to get back to where he was - and where he expected to be - before he was injured.  And he's made it, almost.  JP ran a PR in the mile yesterday, just as he did in the 800 the day before. That's something, for sure.  He continues to improve, to run faster.  Still, it wasn't quite good enough, at least not in his mind.   

Less than one damn second off.  So close.  

Before JP ran his cool down, he was talking to one of the McCallie runners, a senior.  The McCallie runner was talking about how tough the conditions were for the race.  Hotter and more humid than expected, with an annoying headwind on second 200 meters of each lap.  

"No one ran their best today," he said, somewhat philosophically.  "But, that's track."  

Truer words have never been spoken.

That's track.  Indeed.

JP and I talked about it later.  I reminded him of the importance of keeping things in perspective, in track and in life.  I also reminded him that God has a plan for him and for all of us.  This is just part of it.  I hope our conversation helped.  

Later, I picked up takeout burgers and we ate dinner together while we watched Game 7 of the Spurs - Thunder in the Western Conference Finals.  Honestly, those are the moments I will treasure when JP leaves for college in a little more than a year.  Holed up in an unfamiliar town after a baseball game or race, eating dinner together, and just hanging out.  The two of us.  

Sometimes, like now, it seems to me that JP's entire childhood has passed me by in a few seconds.  

Some Can Whistle (Again)

As I write this, I'm sitting on the front porch of a quaint house in downtown Cleveland, Tennessee, a city that strangely enough, I've never visited in my 50 + years of living in Tennessee.  

Why I am here?  That's a difficult question to answer, existentially. 

JP is running in a track meet at Lee University this weekend.  I was able to find an Airbnb a few short blocks away from campus and a five minute drive from the track.  It's a quite a nice, older neighborhood, tucked away away between downtown, historic Cleveland on one side and a series of strip malls on the other.  A bit of an oasis, it seems to me.  Some smaller, modest houses and a few larger, almost antebellum houses on Ocoee Street.  

It's strange to me that I've never been to Cleveland, particularly since I have several fraternity brothers from here, a few of whom I was quite close to during college.  Speaking of which, on a lark I decided to try to track down Greg Mooney, my little brother in the fraternity, as I drove into town late yesterday afternoon.  I was successful and on the eve of his older daughter's wedding, we had a nice chat on the phone.  

JP ran the second heat of the 800 last night.  He finished 5th, I think, in a fast race, clocking a 1:55:02.  That's another PR for JP by more than a second almost a sub-1:55.  JP was pleased, I think, as he's beginning to feel like himself on the track again, which is nice.  H runs the mile tonight, in about an hour and a half.  I hope he has another good race.

To close out May and "Larry McMurtry Month" - self-designated - I just finished "Some Can Whistle" (1989), a sequel to "All My Friends Are Going to Be Strangers" (1972).  Both of the novels are semi-autobiographical, particularly "Some Can Whistle," as the protagonist is a novelist and, later, a television producer, Danny Deck.  Neither are particularly uplifting - actually, they're kind of bleak - but Larry McMurtry is one of my favorite writers and, as always, these two novels are well written a resonate with me.

What's really strange, though, is I had a fairly vivid recollection of reading "All My Friends Are Going to Be Strangers," and Danny Deck as a young man is a character who always stayed with me.  The scene at the end, when he drowned the manuscript of his second novel in the Rio Grand, was a memorable one, and something I had never forgotten.

When I picked out "Some Can Whistle" from the bookcase in my office upstairs at home, I assumed it was a book I had purchased sone ago but never read.  It wasn't until I opened it and turned a few pages that I saw I had finished reading it - the first time - on February 4, 1993, more than 33 years ago.  I would have been in my last year of all school in Knoxville when I originally read it.

What's really strange and, honestly, a little troubling, is that I had absolutely no independent recollection reading "Some Can Whistle" the first time.  When I re-read it, nothing at all was familiar to me.  Not the story, the characters, the plot, or the ending.  Nothing.  Still, I wouldn't have dated it and put my name in it in February of 1993 if I hadn't read it.  Weird.

Maybe it hit me differently now because I am older and Danny Deck in "Some Can Whistle" is closer to my age.  Danny Deck in "All My Friends Are Going to Be Strangers" was closer to my age, then, when I read it for the first time.  

It reminded me, too, that I read fiction not necessarily to remember what I have read, because often times that fades.  I can't recall the details of "Cold Mountain" (Charles Frazier) or "American Pastoral" (Phillip Roth), although I loved both of those books.  I read fiction because I enjoy it - in the moment - and simply for the love of reading.  That's the takeaway for me, I think.  

Now, it's off to the track to watch JP run.

Going to State!

I've not written about too much but track season has not been what I hoped it would be for J.P.  The injury that kept him from running for six weeks derailed his season before it got started.  Although he cross-trained his ass off while he couldn't run - elliptical, stationary bike, weight lifting, swimming - it turns out that you can't get in prime running shape without . . . running.  

Since he's been released to return to running, he's been running on alternate days for the most part.  He's not doing too much distance, weekly or on any given run.  He's still cross-training, too.  

When I saw JP run in the Scott Hartman Invitational, I knew it would be a longer road back than I had hoped.  He didn't have the sustained, top level speed and stamina that he normally would have.  Late in the race, runners passed him, which is not something that ever happened before.  To me, it was like watching a sports car drive that didn't have a fifth gear or a bird try to fly with a damaged wing.  

It was incredibly painful for me to watch runners pass JP at the end of races - at MBA and Harpeth Hall for the Metro Championships - when he ran out of gas.  I was emotional and my heart hurt for him as I watched him struggle.  Runners, from his school and other schools, passed him late in the 3,200, 1,600, and 800.  JP's was still posting respectable times in these races, particularly compared to an average high school runner.  What is hard for him, though, is that he's never been an average high school runner.  He's always been outstanding.

When he ran in the 3,200 last Monday in the Region Track Meet, the hope was that he would qualify for State.  He ran with his teammate, Gabe, the entire race.  On the last of eight laps, however, Gabe outkicked him and won the race, as JP finished in second place.  Again, the fifth gear was missing.  The next night, after West and East Tennessee ran their Region Track Meets, we learned that JP had finished in 9th place in his division, one spot short of qualifying for State in the 3,200.  Still, JP's 9:29:38 was a PR for him in the 3,200.  

He was very, very disappointed.  Again, my heart hurt for him.  It was small consolation, really, that the runner who grabbed the eighth and final spot beat him by seven or eight seconds.  That's an eternity, really, in a race like the 3,200.  On Friday, he still had the 1,600, followed by the 800.  I was hoping for a miracle of sorts.  And that just what I got.

JP and Gabe quickly moved to the front of the pack in the 1,600, with their friend, Clark S. close behind.  The three of them ran together for the first couple of laps before it became clear that the race was between JP and Gabe.  JP actually took the lead, briefly, in the third lap.  When the boys hit the first turn on the final lap, though, Gabe surged ahead and stayed ahead.  JP just didn't have the last lap speed to stay with Gabe, who crossed the finish line more than five yards ahead of JP.  

What was encouraging, though, is that JP's 4:19:17 was  PR for him in the 1,600.  Not the 4:18 he was hoping for but still damn fast and still a PR.  The question, though, was would it be fast enough to qualify him for State?

A few minutes later, JP walked up to me on the infield at MBA with a huge smile on his face.  "I'm in," he said.  "Qualified eighth."  

"Are you sure?" I asked.  "Yes, Coach Russ said I'm in," he replied.  My heart soared as I hugged him.  My heart soared higher, if that was even possible, as I watched teammates walk up and congratulate him.  Coach Perry walked up to me and gave me a hug, too, then told me how proud he was of JP.  "He's such a great kid," he said, which meant a lot.  He knows how hard JP has worked to get back to some semblance of his running self. 

How did I feel?  Relieved for JP, of course.  Proud.  Mostly just incredibly happy for him.  His hard work had paid off.  At last.

An hour and a half later, JP ran the 800.  Surprisingly, he stayed right with the leader, Ryder O., for the first lap, which they ran in a blistering 55 seconds.  As they started the second lap, Ryder hit the gas an pulled away, finishing just over 1:51, which is a smoking fast 800.  JP ran through the tap, which we had talked about leading up to the race, and finished second in 1:56:78, just slightly off his PR of 1:56:52 from last year.

For the night, JP ran two PR's and almost had a third.  He's not there but he's getting there, I think.  It looked like he raced with joy again, with a little more confidence.  He  ran free, especially in the 800.  No pressure.  He just . . . ran.  I hope that continues next week at State.  I think it will.

  

 

Old Friends in the Bluegrass State

As I sit her in a coffee shop in Shelbyville, Kentucky (Sixth & Main Coffee House) on Sunday morning, I am struck by how deep old friendships can be.  

After we lost one of our own, David Easterling, a little over a year and a half ago, our group committed to trying to be more intentional about getting together and seeing each other, as a group or two or three at a time.  To tighten the circle, if you will.  In some ways, it has worked and in some ways, it has not worked, at least in my view.  

JP and I had a delightful visit with Neil Lynch and his wife, Cindy, in Columbus a year ago December, when we visited Ohio State and watched Tennessee get trounced in the college football playoff.  I went to a Braves' game last fall with Doug Brown and stayed overnight with T.B., which was great.  My family and I just missed Greg Westfall when we stayed at his  house in the mountains outside Brevard, North Carolina, when were on spring break a couple of months ago.

Doug, ever the organizer, put together a trip to Louisville, Kentucky, and surrounding areas, in part because Louisville is relatively easy for all of us to get to.  Plus, Mary Easterling, David's wife, lives here and it gave him a chance to visit with her.  In attendance from Thursday - Sunday were Chris Reber (Fort Wayne, Indiana), Jay Miller (San Francisco), Neil Lynch (Columbus, Ohio), Mike Matteson (Nashville), Steve Buzzell (Nashville), Mike Corley (Sarasota, Florida), and Greg Westfall (Hilton Head, South Carolina).  Those are some of my oldest friends dating back to junior high school at Northside.

It would have been easy, very easy, for me not to make the effort to drive up to Louisville, because I was not going to miss JP running the 1,600 and the 800 in the Region track meet on Friday, especially after he just missed qualifying for the State meet in the 3,200 on Monday night.  Since the 800 was not scheduled until 8:20 p.m., my choices were to drive up after he ran, which would put me arriving well after midnight due to the time change or leave at 4:30 or 5 a.m. Saturday morning, so I could arrive in time for the 9:30 a.m. departure for the bourbon trail tour.  

I chose the latter, as I did not want to miss a chance to see my guys, even if it was only for 24 hours.  You know what?  I am really glad I did, because it was so good to see everyone and it was great fun.

Doug rented an Airbnb - nine or 10 bedrooms - on the outskirts of Shelbyville, Kentucky.  It has a swimming pool, unused by us, a gaming barn (pool table, ping pong table, darts, golf simulator, etc.), and an entertainment room, complete with a karaoke machine.  

Aided by Chat GPT, Jay designed a round robin pool tournament over two days, which matched all of us up with different partners.  Chat GPT kept up a running commentary after each game, which was hilarious.  After winning my first two games - including one in which I unscrewed my cue stick and used to top half to make a difficult shot late in the game - I played poorly in the semi-finals and lost.  Neil won the tournament, quietly, because of course he did.

As I mentioned, I arrived in time to depart by shuttle - shout out to our driver, Holly Wells - for a guided tour of Bourbon Trace.  Now, my idea of fun is not to sample bourbon at 10:15 a.m., but the tours were relatively interesting.  The early highlight was Doug being cut off during the tasting at the second stop on the tour, Four Roses.  Somehow, he was already reasonably drunk but, mostly, just acted silly.  

Holly quickly figured out that our group, with the exception of Jay, was less interested in touring actual bourbon making facilities than have a drink or two.  Once that was established, we had a fantastic time sitting outside in Adirondack chairs at one stop whose name escapes me, talking and drinking mint juleps - my drink of choice for no apparent reason - beers, etc.  At our next stop, we sat outside on the covered patio, talked more, then ordered four giant pizzas to take home for an early dinner.  After we realized that Holly loved a lot our "our music" from the 80's in spite of our age difference, she played the Cars, exclusively, on the 30 minute drive home.  Tremendous!  

We ate an early dinner, finished the pool tournament, listened to music, and joked around with each other, like we've been doing for 45 years.  It was damn near a perfect late afternoon and early evening. 

As the sun set, and day turned to night, we settled in for the evening and, well, just sat and talked.  We reminisced about the way things were and shared memories - a lot of memories - of times gone by and friends we have lost, by death or because they had drifted out of our lives.  We gave each other a lot of grief in the comfortable, playful way old friends do, and we had serious talks about our families and lives, too.

A highlight of the evening was when I telephoned Tommy Campsey to confirm the details of a story Doug had told about Campsey, on patrol, catching him making out with Anita G. in a dead end in our subdivision in the early 80's.  Tommy also regaled us with stories about policing in Brentwood in the late 70's and 80's, including a blow-by-blow recounting of the time he arrested George Jones for drunken driving on I-65 after receiving an anonymous tip.  It was priceless!

Maybe the biggest highlight was when I was able to reach Rip Pewett, who is on a two-month trip to New Zealand.  For sure, he's had his ups and downs the last few years, so it was a special moment for all of us to talk with him. 

I ended the evening with a couple of bourbons (O.H. Ingram River Aged) on the back patio, sitting in front of a fire that Neil and Matteson built in the outdoor fireplace.  I convinced Doug to have a serious conversation for 30 minutes, much to everyone's delight.  I kept him on the clock and in spite of his heightened state of inebriation, he managed, for the most part, to talk seriously for a half hour before he began asking someone, anyone, to get on his shoulders.  

For me, it was a needed respite from my incredibly busy personal and professional life.  A chance to reconnect with the friends who have known me the longest.  In many way, none of us have changed that much - or so it seems to me - in terms of our personalities.  Everyone is pretty much the same, in the way, as they were 40 + years ago.  

In the river of life, as you travel downstream, floating comfortably or, sometimes, paddling like hell, it's nice to to stop at an island every now and then, and spend some time with old friends.  Time to reflect, to recharge, to remember, to laugh, to live.  

That's exactly what we did, in a large, somewhat secluded house in a dead end in a neighborhood outside Shelbyville, Kentucky.  

It was perfect.

Another One Bites the Dust

Late in the week, word leaked out on social media that 12South Taproom was closing the end May after a 20 year run.

I mean, damn.  One of the last OG's in 12South, soon to be gone in puff of smoke after some heartless developer razes the building and erects an ugly building housing 12 condominiums or apartments in its place.  The 12South I knew and fell in love with ceased a long time ago but at least there were remnants - Portland Brew and the Taproom - that were reminders of what the neighborhood was like before tourists and bridesmaids took it over.  No more.

When the Taproom originally opened on June 6, 2006, owner Will Stuff was married to Christy Shuff.  She owned and operated Rumor's Wine Bar, which was a couple of doors down the Taproom.  They later divorced, Rumor's relocated to the Gulch (due, of course, to the construction of an early residential/retail development), then quite closed a few years later.  

Originally, the Taproom was a gourmet market with a small bar that served craft beers and filled customers' growlers.  (Growlers!  That's actually was a thing back in the day.). There was a hand-painted, blue sign outside on the front of the building - 12South Taproom - and picnic tables on the front patio.  In later years, Will renovated and covered the front patio and hosted trivia and live music there every week.

The Taproom found its footing when it pivoted away from the gourmet market concept, expanded the kitchen, and began serving food.  The menu always was eclectic - burritos, sandwiches, and entrees - and craft beer selection was the best in town in the heyday of the craft beer renaissance.  

After JP was born in 2008, on weekend afternoons I often strolled him up from our old house on Elliott Avenue to the taproom.  While he slept contentedly in the City Elite stroller, I read the New Yorker, worked the crossword puzzle, or talked to the bartender, Sweeney.  He was the son of a lawyer and former judge I knew in passing, and once hit two or three home runs off me at East Park, playing for his dad's law firm softball team.

Things were so different then.  As I recall, the Taproom had followed the lead of many other restaurants and stopped allowing smoking, inside or out.  There was a mild backlash, I think, as the smokers stayed away.  Those Saturday and Sunday afternoons in the Taproom with JP were quiet, peaceful, and memorable, especially when he woke up and I gave him his milk and snack.  

For a while, I arranged for special guests to meet me there while JP napped.  Matteson drove up from Franklin one Saturday afternoon.  Another time, Rip Pewett drove over and had a beer or two with me while JP napped.  Those were the days, for sure.  I remember trying to convince Jude that JP and I had been to get ice cream after his nap, which worked until she saw a photo of him sitting on the bar with the beer taps behind him.

Side note:  Right on time, two women from a bachelorette party just strolled in for coffee at 8th and Roast.

The Taproom was a place where business meetings happened at lunch, couples on first dates when to dinner, parents took kids for a family dinner, and youth baseball or soccer teams had after game get togethers.  Just last year, I took my law league softball team there for beers after the end of season tournament.  

Over the years, our family got takeout from the Taproom a thousand teams.  The Salmon BLT, and early favorite of mine, became one of JP's go to meal, too.  We always ordered the hummus and pita, too.

The Taproom was (I am already speaking of it in the past tense) a neighborhood anchor for 12South, a reminder of what the neighborhood used to be like before it became crowded with weekend tourists shopping in high end boutique clothing stores.  No more.

Because I've not drank beer much at all the past several years, the Taproom hasn't been a regular stop for me, not like it was in the early years.  Still, it was comforting knowing it was there and we've always enjoyed the food.  

I'm going to get by the Taproom, maybe as soon as this weekend, and get a beer for old times sake.  

The Spring of My Discontent

Sometimes, when I don't write as often, I think it's because I'm unhappy or discontented.  Other times, it's because I'm busy.  Or, maybe, I'm taking the wonder of life for granted.  I guess it could be some combination of all three.

Although I've run at least three miles or walked at least 30 minutes or more almost every day this month, I've had a difficult time getting any traction with my running this year.  I had planned to run long more often or, at least, to run more mileage.  Rather, I've found myself running three miles on most days that I run with a longer run on fairly rare occasions at Shelby Bottoms.  Twice I've bonked while trying to run my 5-mile loop around Elmington Park and back.  My mile pace has been good during my runs but the distance hasn't been there.  Maybe I'm getting old.

As I've written before, it's been a bit of lost spring athletic season for the boys.  JP's injury has slowed him down, literally, on the track.  After missing the early track meets, he's been slower than he wanted or expected in the 800 and 1,600 at the meets in which he has run.  Fortunately, he's been running pain-free, which is what we want.  As his mileage has picked up, I think he's feeling more comfortable running.  Hopefully, his times will pick up a bit at the MBA Senior Day track meet this afternoon and at the Regional Meet next week.  I would love for him to qualify individually for an event or two at the State Meet but I think that's going to be a tall task for him.

Joe's school baseball season was, well, meh.  He wasn't able to get any significant playing time on the infield.  He began batting higher in the order late in the season, as he began hitting better.  Maybe he can carry that over to the travel baseball season.  Joe pitched a couple of games and did relatively well, although I'd like him to throw harder.  Still, no windup or curve ball.  I'm going to try to get him with a good hitting/pitching coach as school winds down.

Basketball has been a mixed bag, too.  Last Sunday, for example, the Stars Gold played at Lebanon High School.  Joe's squad rallied late, as they tend to do, but lost a close game to Chapel Hill.  The Bucket Squad closed the game, as Joe, Cole ("Zeebo"), and Pike played most of the last 10 minutes of the game.  Joe hit a big 3-pointer late but missed the front end of a 1-and-1, which hurt.  I was surprised, as was he, because he's been knocking down free throws as of late.  

Joe doesn't move particularly well laterally, so he's had a tough time staying in front of the man he guards, at times.  His ball handling limitations have been apparent, too, as his team has begun to play against quicker and more athletic players.  He can correct that somewhat, I think, if he works at it.  His 3-point shot is still inconsistent, although he can improve there, too.  He needs to become a knockdown 3-point shooter if he's going to continue to play in the coming years.  

Work is, well, work.  Draining.  Busy as hell with clients and office stuff.  On the one hand, my practice is thriving.  Happy clients for the most part.  Good reviews.  New clients coming in and I'm able to be selective, as I refer cases out I don't want to handle for one reason or another.  On the other hand, it's a lot.  That's just the nature of the beast.

Speaking of work, time to get going.

The Sports Machine

Friday, JP ran in the Metro Championships at Harpeth Hall.  

The 1,600 was his first event.  For almost the entirety of the race, JP ran toward the back of the lead pack in sixth place.  He finished in 14:23, a PR for the 1,600.

In a stirring finish, JP's teammate and friend, Gabe, ran down the leader, Ryder Ortner, and won the 1,600 by .100 of a second.  He finished in 4:15:73, also a PR for the 1,600.  Running in fourth place, he passed the third and second place runners in the last 150 meters, caught Ryder, and beat him win a lean at the finish line.

Less than 30 minutes later, JP ran the 800.  He held his pace longer than he had been able to the last couple of races, but fell in the last 100 meters.  Still, he ran a 2:00:13, barely missing breaking 2:00.  I though he finished just under 2:00 but apparently not.  My guess is he was looking at a 1:58 before he faded at the end.

As JP regain his running fitness after being injured, what's missing, I think, is the finishing kick.  He doesn't have the ability - not quite yet - to out kick other runners at the end of the 1,600 or the 800.  In the 1,600, that meant he ran in sixth place, stayed in sixth place, and finished in sixth place.  In the 800, that meant he fell off at the end, was passed by a couple of runners, and didn't break 2:00.

Here's the thing, though.  For him to be able to set a PR in the 1,600 and run, basically, a 2:00 800 with as little running as he has been able to do until very recently is impressive.  While he has been cross-training religiously on the elliptical, stationary bike, and with weights, the only way to get faster at running is to run and run a lot.  He doesn't have the mileage base right now to slip it into 5th gear when he needs to during a race.  I think it's coming, though, and when it does, he's going to be a problem for other runners to deal with.

Saturday morning, Joe played two basketball games with his Stars' team at Maplewood High School.  Both were close losses, the second game in sudden death, double overtime.

In game one in the main gym, the Stars fell behind, early, in what looked like was going to be a blowout to a bigger and more athletic team.  However, in what is becoming this team's hallmark, they rallied in the second half, tied the score, and lost a close one.  Joe played a lot and well down the stretch, going 4-5 from the line and hitting a key 3-pointer.  He just missed another 3-pointer late that would have given him double figure points for the game.

In game 2 in the practice gym upstairs, the Stars again fell behind early but rallied late.  Losing a game in sudden death double overtime is brutal.  This one hurt Joe more than others because he didn't play particular well down the stretch.  

Late in the game, he foolishly fouled a kid from behind on a put back after a rebound, resulting in a 3-point play that tied the game.  Then, in overtime, when the Stars had the ball under their own goal with 7 seconds left, Joe caught the inbounds pass at the top of the key and clearly shuffled his feet before passing the ball to the wing.  Travel.  That one really hurt, as his team had the ball with a chance to win it.

In the second overtime, Joe brought the ball up the course after the Stars won the tip.  At the top of the key, Joe walked into a 3-pointer that he missed badly.  The other team rebounded the ball, drove up court, set up the offense, then scored the winning bucket when a kid drove the lane, jump stopped, and hit the bucket.

A great game was marred when the other team's best player suffered what appeared to be a torn ACL on a drive into the lane in the second half.  It was hard to watch, as he writhed in pain on the floor.  Tough kid. almost Amish looking with long hair tied up behind his head.  A guard, Joe and his teammates couldn't stay in front of him.  I don't think the game would have ended up in over time had he not gotten hurt. 

While Joe's 3-pointer in the second overtime was ill advised given that his team had a decided size advantage, I give him credit for having the courage to take the shot with the game on the line.  That's Joe.  

Yesterday, Joe played a lot of minutes.  He played hard, made most of the right plays, and only had one turnover that I can recall.  He hit key free throws in game one.  That's Joe, too.  

I'll be curious to see how much he plays today in his game at Glencliff. 

A busy weekend of sports.