Feeling 60

Thursday morning, after Jude got up, I rolled over in bed as I was waking up and as I turned my head, I heard a crunching sound in the right side of my neck.  Kind of like one of those plastic toys toddlers play with that they stretch and pull to hear the noise it makes.  I felt it, too, and worse still, my neck immediately began throbbing painfully.

My first thought was that I'd herniated a disc in my cervical spine.  That's still my fear, sine I'm still in quite a bit of pain, three days later.  If I want to look to the right - for example, when I'm driving - I have to turn my entire torso to the right.  I've been taking ibuprofen like they's candy, which has helped a bit with the pain.  Yesterday for most of the day, I wore a Salonpas patch on the part of my neck that hurts the most.  It loosened up some but, this morning, as I drink my coffee at 8th & Roast, there is a dull, aching pain in the right side of my neck.

So far, there is no numbness or tingling in my arms, hands, or fingers, which is a good sign, I guess.  Still, my right shoulder is a bit sore, which I guess is somehow related to whatever it is that I did with my neck.

I think what scares me is immediately after I felt, and heard, the cracking in my neck, it felt tired.  It's hard to explain but that's the way it feels when my low back issues flare up.  My back feels tired, then extremely sore, which can last for weeks.  I have low back pain every day, which I've learned to live with, because it's not been debilitating pain since the flareup I had a decade ago.  It's just something I live with.  I'm not sure I could live with pain in my neck, every day, like I have now.  

I suppose I'll make an appointment with a neurosurgeon next week to get my neck looked at, although I'd rather not.  I don't really have time and I sure as hell don't want to hear that I've herniated a disc and I'm looking at surgery.  A cervical discectomy and fusion at C-2/C-3 or C-3/C-4 is not something I want to deal with.  Not now, not ever, if I'm lucky.

I've been 60 years old for one month today.  Let's hope this is not a preview of what my 60's are going to be like.

The Firsts Shall Be Lasts

Yesterday, JP left for his fourth and final cross country camp in Alabama.  It's the first of so many lasts for him, and for me, this year.  

I vividly remember when he went to his first cross country camp - led by seniors, Mitchell Chaffin and Samuel Trumble - and ran well in the two mile time trial.  His performance surprised many - head coach, Roderick Russ, and his older, upperclassman teammates - but it didn't surprise me, not one bit.  Having taken a look at high school race times from the previous year, I knew JP (and Gabe Guillamondegui) would run with the varsity as freshman, and run well.  And that's exactly what happened.

JP's performance in the time trial, at camp, as a freshman, announced his arrival on the cross county landscape at MBA.  That's the way I see it, anyway.  I hope he runs well in the time trial this week, too.  I want JP's final cross country season to be everything he wants it to be, particularly after he was injured last spring during a large part of the track season.  

JP met his MBA little brother last week, a seventh grader from Brentwood Middle School.  When I went to junior high (7th - 9th grades) there in the late '70's, it was called Northside Junior High.  Still the Vikings.  Still green and gold.  A full circle moment to be sure.  JP, a senior, meets his little brother for the first time, much as he meet his big brother at MBA for the first time five years ago.

For every season, turn, turn, turn . . . 

JP's school books arrived in the mail the other day.  Even now, they're sitting, boxed up, on the dining room table.  I eye them suspiciously every time I walk by the dining room, knowing those damn books are doing to dominate his attention soon enough.  He's got, roughly, two more weeks before he begins the last year on the Hill.  It's all so hard to believe.

     

Down From the Mountain

Still processing the tragic death of Glen Hansard in a motorcycle accident two days ago, I'm sitting on the back porch of the house on Florida Avenue in Sewanee, Saturday afternoon, postponing my departure.  Jude and the boys left yesterday and, actually, I have the house until tomorrow, but I need to get home.  Reality awaits.

Our family needed this weeklong getaway to the Mountain, as the summer winds down.  I know Jude would have rather gone to Santa Rosa Beach but Sewanee made more sense.  Shorter distance to travel and the need for the boys - especially JP - to have a place to train for cross country made Sewanee a better choice, I think.  

We had a great week together, one I will remember for a long time.  I had to work more than I would have liked, especially yesterday, but we had plenty of down time.  We played hearts almost every day.  We played bananagrams (a first for me).  We watched movies - Good Will Hunting and The Town.  We all read, a lot.  The boys finished their summer reading for MBA, while Jude and I read for pleasure.  I finished The Topeka School (Ben Lerner) and Guide Me Home (Attica Locke),  both good novels.

Every morning, JP went for a solo run and Joe and I ran together.  What a joy for me, as a father and an avid runner, to see my boys up early and running every morning while we were on vacation.  Really, for me, it doesn't get any better than that.  Running with my boys in my favorite place in the world.    

Joe's cross country coach set a goal for the boys to run 100 miles this summer.  Joe left the Mountain, yesterday, with 94 miles in his pocket.  After his three mile run at home this morning, he's sitting on 97 miles.  Tomorrow, he will hit 100, and hopefully I will get to run the last three miles with him.  Quite an accomplishment for Joe.  

Joe's body has begun to transform this summer, as he's gotten taller, something he's been waiting to happen forever.  He's thinned out, probably due to the running.  On top of that, I can see him being more careful about what he eats, which is a sign of his growing maturity.  My youngest boy is growing up.

We ate at our favorite restaurants.  High Point, Shenanigan's (twice), Papa Ron's, Judith Tavern, and Shakerag.  The Mountain Goat Market was closed for two weeks of summer vacation, so that's the only one we missed, as it turns out.

As always, I can't get enough of the Mountain and Sewanee.  I would move up there tomorrow if I could.  This house on Florida Avenue is my favorite.  It's my third time staying here and it feels like, well, home.  It's around the corner from the football field, which was cool since MBA's football team was at Sewanee for camp this week.  It was nice to sit on the back porch and listen to the practicing in the mornings and evenings. 

If I could figure out a way to take a year off work and live her, on the Mountain, I would do it.  I really would.  

For now, though, time to pack up and head down the Mountain.

  

No More Friday Nights

A little over a month ago, I was at work one afternoon when I heard from my sister that Burger Up was closing.  It's not an overstatement to say that I was stunned, numb even, as I tried to process the news. 

So much has changed in my neighborhood, 12South, the past few years.  It has become less of a neighborhood and more of a destination for tourists who want to spend the afternoon shopping at overpriced boutiques and eating at upscale, soulless restaurants owned by out of town restaurant groups or investors.  It pains me to say this, but it's not really a neighborhood any more, at least not one that I recognize. 

Gone are Portland Brew and 12South Tap Room.  As of last night, Burger Up is gone, too.  In a few months, Epice will be gone.  

That's another story, though, and not one I want to write today.  Today, I want to write about Burger Up, and how much I am going to miss it.  

To me and to those of us in the neighborhood - the regulars, if you will - Burger Up was never just a restaurant.  It was a gathering place.  A place to take your family for dinner.  A place to meet up with friends.  A place to pick up takeout food on the way home from work.  A place to sit at the bar and strike up a conversation with someone from the neighborhood you hadn't met.  Burger Up was all of those things and so many more to so many of us in the neighborhood.

I have so many memories of Burger Up.  My boys, 18 and 14, practically grew up there.  My wife, Jude, used to read to Joe from the children's books that were up front at the hostess stand.  Later, when he was six or seven, Joe and I sat at a table and played Battleship while we waited on our dinner, much to the delight of Burger Up employees and other customers.  

Over the years, I ordered a thousand takeout meals from Burger Up on the way home from work.  My trick was to order as I pulled into the parking lot, so I could tell Jude, truthfully, that I'd ordered on the way.  This bought me a few minutes to sit at the bar and have a drink to unwind after a long day at work.  I needed those few minutes to myself, always.  A quick, friendly conversation with Troy at the bar.  A Friday Night to take the edge off my day, maybe two.

I recall sitting at the bar several years ago with Doug Brown and Mike Matteson, my two closest friends in the world, when Doug was in town for Labor Day Weekend.  Troy served us drinks, while we talked and reconnected with each other.  Strangely, it made me proud to sit with Doug and Mike at my bar, in my neighborhood, among my people. 

Before the pandemic, when Burger Up was still open until 10 p.m., I loved to stop by around 9 p.m. and have a Friday Night on nights when Troy was working the bar.  The dinner rush was over, things were more relaxed, and we talked about, well, so many things.  Music.  Books.  Plans.  Life.  Often times, Troy turned the music up as closing time approached and I sat there, content, listening, talking, and just being.  

During the pandemic, when the world shifted on its axis in a way that frightened us all, Burger Up provided a sense of normalcy by staying open and serving takeout meals to people in the neighborhood.  While so much had changed, it was reassuring to know that Jude and the boys could still order a Woodstock, a Bison Burger, or a Byrd, and I could bring it home to them for dinner.  That simple thing meant so much to my family and me in a time of great uncertainty.

I think Burger Up was one of the first places I returned to, in public, during the pandemic.  I vividly remember sitting at the bar when Troy was working - with customers only allowed to sit in every other bar stool - having a drink but feeling really, really nervous about it because of Covid-19.  Troy and the other staff wore masks.  I so needed the social interaction with others so badly after being isolated at home that I was willing to risk being exposed to the virus.  It all seems so silly now but I can assure you, it didn't feel that way then.  

The last few years, I almost always stopped by on the way home on Wednesday nights, after I taught class at Nashville School of Law.  While I waited for my takeout order, I sat at the bar, had a drink, and made notes in my laptop to capture what happened at class that evening.  

So often, a bar takes on the personality of someone who works there.  Usually, it's the manager or the longest serving bartender who sets the tone for other staff and creates the vibe for customers.  That was true during my run at Edley's more than a decade ago, when Julie, Ashleigh, and Cara were bartending there.  

It was even more true at Burger Up.  Troy Akers was, by far, the longest tenured employee of Burger Up.  Miranda Pontes, who conceptualized and originally owned Burger Up, hired Troy in the early days.  And he never left.  And because of that and, more importantly, because of kind of person Troy is, he became the heart and soul of Burger Up.  

As I think Troy will be the first to tell you, he grew up at Burger Up, and became the man he is today.  Through our interactions with Troy at the restaurant, so many of us from the neighborhood were lucky enough ride along with on his journey, to watch him grow up.  To watch him find himself.

Troy was Burger Up and Burger Up was Troy.  In many ways, they beat with one heart.  Many, many times, I drove by Burger Up, made the block, and peered in the front window of the restaurant.  If Troy was tending bar, I found a parking place, and walked inside.  Every single time, Troy's face lit when he saw me and we shared a hug or a handshake.  I was home, even if only for a few minutes.  Often times, before I could sit down at the bar, Troy already was making a Friday Night for me.

What's a Friday Night, you ask?  Good question.  It's a drink Troy and I invented on a night years ago, when I was sitting at the bar.  Uncle Val's gin, Jack Rudy tonic, a splash of soda, and a lime.  On that night long ago, I took a sip, and said, "damn, Troy, this tastes like Friday Night."  He laughed and replied, "that's what we'll call it, then.  A Friday Night."  

Thus was born my all-time favorite drink.  A Friday Night.  Over the years, I probably had a thousand of them at the bar at Burger Up.  

It's funny but every single time I sat down at the bar, there was a person, or a couple there together, whom I could tell were regular customers of Troy's.  Which, for Troy, is the same as saying they were his friends.  Always upbeat, always kind, always smiling, always giving of himself to to his customers.  Troy's aura permeated the bar and, really, the entire restaurant.  The employees wanted to be like Troy and to be liked by Troy, so they treated customers with the same love and kindness that he did.   

In the end, to me, that's what Burger Up was about.  Love.  It's what Miranda Pontes wanted Burger Up to be about when she opened the restaurant.  It's what she bequeathed to Troy when she left, and it's what Troy carried in his heart every shift he worked until Burger Up closed its doors for the last time, last night.

Love.  

Love of customers.  Love of service.  Love of co-workers.  Love of music.  Love of life.  

As sad as I am, and as angry as I am at Jim Lewis, the owner, for closing Burger Up, I take comfort in the fact that love can't be closed.  Love is too powerful to be contained inside the four walls of a restaurant.  

The love that was Burger Up will live on forever in the memories of those of us from the neighborhood who experienced it firsthand over the past 16 years.  It will live on in the relationships between co-workers at Burger Up, some still there last night and others long since moved on in their lives.  

Burger Up was never about the food, or the drink.  It was about love.  

And it always will be.

    

         

Dusted by the Kid

As a dad, there always comes a moment when your son is better than you.  He beats you for the first time, one-on-one.  He shoots a lower score than you on the golf course.  Or, in my case, when he leaves you behind on a run.

Like yesterday, I remember when it happened with JP.  We had been running together for a while and he was starting to push the pace, which I loved.  Still, I decided to let him know who was boss, so I began sprinting over the last half mile of a run through Belmont U.  As we turned on to Belmont Avenue a few blocks from home, I looked to my right and smiled because he was nowhere in sight.  The old man still has it, I thought.  Suddenly, I saw him on my immediate left.  He smiled, stuck his tongue out - like the Roadrunner and Coyote - and off he went.  Just like that, it was over.

Yesterday, after our 5-mile run, I gave Joe the talk.  The talk that every runner-dad has with his son at a certain point in time.  

"When we're running, if you feel good, just go," I said.  "Don't wait on me.  Don't feel bad for me.  Just go.  I'll catch up."

His response?  "Okay."

I had noticed, lately, that he was pushing the pace on our runs.  Chomping on the bit, so to speak.  He was ready to run faster - faster than me - and I needed him to know it was okay.  Just like his brother, Joe is a sweet kid with a big heart.  He doesn't want to hurt my feelings by outrunning me.

What he doesn't realize, of course, is that all I've ever wanted is for my boys to outrun me.  Running is a metaphor for life.  It always has been.  I want JP and Joe to outrun me . . . in life.  That's all I want.

So, today, on the Mountain Goat Trail, as we reached the turnaround point of our 3-mile morning run, I turned to Joe and smiled.  "If you're feeling it, go.  I'm fine."  

And off he went, like a young dog let loose from a leash.  Running joyfully.    

It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.  Me at 60, doing what I love most, running, and watching my 14 year old son's image grow smaller and smaller as he ran away from me under the canopy of trees on the Mountain Goat Trail, perhaps my favorite place in the world to run.   

In those moments before I lost sight of him, I felt so happy.  And . . . proud.

Watching my boys run stirs my soul in a way little else does.  For the rest of my life, I will remember this morning, when Joe ran away from me on the Mountain Goat Trail.  

 

Running with the Kid 2.0 on the Mountain

Much to my delight, I am back on the Mountain, two weeks after spending a few days up here for my birthday.  

For a week of vacation, time we're staying at the same house I stayed at on Florida Avenue - the family for the first time and me for the third time, counting last summer.  It's almost perfect for us, particularly the location.  Jude can walk to Abbo's Alley from the house.  We're also walking distance from McGee Field at Harris Stadium, where Sewanee plays football.  Coincidentally, the MBA football team is up here this week for camp.  In the mornings and evenings, we can hear them practicing from the back deck of this house, which is pretty cool.

This morning, shortly after JP left for a 12-mile long run, with progressions for the last six miles, Joe and I left for a 5-mile long run on the Mountain Goat Trail.  It was relatively early, about 7:30 a.m.  As we ran down University Avenue, we passed several of the football players walking to the Fowler Center to get ready for the morning practice.  Joe was absolutely terrified I was going to do something to embarrass him in front of the football players.  I held off acting stupid, although I did say hello to James Orey when I saw him.  He looked up, half asleep, surprised, and waved at us as we ran by.

It's a little more than a mile from the football field to the Mountain Goat Trail.  Joe and I ran it easily, then turned on to the trail and off we went under the canopy of trees on one one of my favorite running routes of all time.  Relatively cool, shady, and almost deserted.  It was the perfect time and place for an early morning long run (recognizing, of course, that not too long ago, a long run for me was eight or more miles).  

What's even better, though, is that Joe was the perfect companion, for me, for a long run.  We ran at nice clip - 8:30/mile - and I felt like he was pushing the pace a little bit.  I held him back, purposefully, because we were running long and the pace absolutely didn't matter.  In fact, the pace needed to be slower than training pace.  What's cool, though - and I can remember feeling this way with JP - is that Joe appeared to be running comfortably even while I was struggling a bit.  

With all of the running he's been doing this summer, Joe's body has transformed.  He's gotten taller, which is great for him, and he has slimmed down, not that he was ever heavy.  Still, his appearance is lithe and sinewy - lean, really - and he's starting to look like a runner.  He's been dedicated to running this summer and it's paying off for him.  He seems to enjoy it, too, which is key, of course.  He also seems more confident, which is one of many things running can do for you.

What I want, as a father, is for Joe to learn that being disciplined and working hard at something always pays off in the end.  I just want him to see how good he can be, to test the limits of his body, and find out what is there.  I want him to put the work in and do the best he can.

I think it took a tremendous amount of courage for Joe to decide to run cross country again and to train as diligently as he has this summer.  The shadow JP casts as a 3-time all state cross country runner is a long one, I know, and I don't want Joe to get lost in it.  I want him to learn to love running for the reasons I do and not to measure success by race results.  

All day, I've been on a bit of a high, thinking about running five miles with Joe on the Mountain Goat Trail at the age of 60.  I want him to take pride in taking care of his body, in running regularly, is staying in shape, in honoring the gifts he's been given by God.  It's all there for him.  I think he knows that.  

What I know is that it's a real pleasure to run with Joe.  It's a gift, as I always say, to run with one of my boys.  Every single time.

Coffee and orange juice at Stirling's Coffeehouse after our 5-mile run this morning on the Mountain Goat Trail.

 

Closing the Curtain on the Redbirds

Saturday and Sunday, Joe played his final baseball all tournament of the summer for the Redbirds at the Mt. Juliet Little League Park.  It's one of my favorite ballparks and one Joe has played in before.  It's an old school ballpark that was built in 1967.  When I think about it, I'm an old school baseball coach who was built in 1966.  

Two summers ago, I helped Scott McRea coach the Braves in the Cal Ripken 12U all-star regional tournament.  Joe loved playing for Scott and with the combined Dodgers-Braves.  It was a good squad, actually.  As I recall, we ran out of pitching in the semi-finals and lost to a solid Franklin team.  I coached the same group in the fall that year and it was one of the more talented teams I've had, top to bottom.  

What I remembered, of course, was having a beer in the parking lot after the final game with Scott McRae and Mark Erdman.  We talked about the boys, baseball, and a little about life.  Within a few short months, Scott was diagnosed with abdominal cancer and, as I've written about in this space before, he died on January 31, 2026.  He never coached another baseball game, so I consider it a privilege to have been with him, on the field and in the dugout, for the last baseball game he coached.

Sunday in between games, I found a quiet moment to slip away and sit in the first base dugout on the field where the Braves played their final game together in the July heat two years ago.  I said a prayer for Scott and his family, especially Daniel, who is such a talented, sensitive boy.  I am so very thankful that Scott and I crossed paths and got to coach together, even if it only was for a couple of years.  

In the first game on Sunday, Joe played his best, most complete game of the summer.  Early on, batting cleanup, he had a solid two strike base hit to left field to drive in a run.  They second time he batted, he hit a line drive in the gap in left center field, again making solid contact.  Joe also made two or three nice plays are shortstop, where he should have been playing all summer long.  The boys gonged Cedar Hill Mayhem in a game that was never close.

My favorite play, though, was when Bo perfect executed a safety squeeze bunt with the bases loaded and Joe on third base.  He laid down a perfect bunt and Joe scored easily, just the way you draw it up, as they say.

In the finals, the boys ran into an absolute stud  pitcher for the Kentucky Legends.  He was over six feet tall and threw harder than any boy I have seen at 13 or 14 years of age.  As I told Joe, he would be the best pitcher on MBA's high school junior varsity team right now.  He threw a one-hitter and the Redbirds got smoked by nine or ten runs.  It was a tough game to end the summer season.  Still, all in all, this group of boys had a good run together.   

Travel baseball is a strange animal and one I am not entirely fond of.  A group of boys is thrown together in the fall for a few practices and tournaments, or a workout here or there.  Then, several months later, in the summer, they play tournaments seven out of eight weekends and just like that, it's over.  I'm pretty confident it's not the best way to develop young baseball players' skills, not by a long shot.  

But, baseball is baseball, I guess.  

A Pirate Looks at 60

For once, I find myself without words.  

Tonight is the last night of my 50's, as I turn 60 years old tomorrow.  As an adult, I've never been a big birthday guy.  Because my father died so young, at age 30, it's always seemed like I'm living on borrowed time.  For that reason, I guess, I never really enjoyed celebrating my birthday or making a big deal out of it.

With JP on his way home from Tasmania, and Jude and Joe in Nashville with work (Jude) and school obligations (Joe), I'm more than comfortable turning 60 by myself, on the Mountain, at Sewanee.  In fact, I kind of prefer it that way if I'm being honest.  Being by myself gives me the time and space to reflect, which is what I really needed this week and on this birthday.  

It's funny, so many people have told me how surprised they are that I'm turning 60.  They tell me I don't look 60.  I don't know about that.  I'm pretty sure I don't act like I'm 60, which just might be by design.  

In the mornings, I often feel every bit of 60.  My low back hurts, especially in the mornings, when I get up.  Some mornings, it hurts worse than others, but the pain is always there.  The pain is not debilitating by any stretch and for that, I am grateful.  It's been more than a decade since I've had an episode where low back pain put me out of commission, thankfully.  Still, I have a sneaking suspicion that my low back pain is likely to increase as I get older.  

I'd like to think that running regularly helps keep me young on some level.  I have found that running longer than three miles is harder than it's ever been.  Why?  Well, that's the question.  It is because I never ran longer than three miles in 2025 and in 2026, to date, I've rarely run longer than that?  Perhaps.  Or, maybe it's because I'm getting older and my stamina is not what it once was.  Probably, it's a little of both. 

I don't think I'm prepared, tonight, to grapple with the larger, existential questions about life.  In many ways, I'd have to be a self-absorbed asshole to complaint about turning 60 when my friend, Ed Silva, has been diagnosed with Mantle cell (non-Hodgkin) lymphoma, and another friend's 58 year old brother just fond out he has stage 4 pancreatic cancer.  And on and on it goes.

The lesson, I think, as I told Joe the other night, is to be thankful - not superficially thankful - but really, deeply thankful each and every day we have on this beautiful and complicated earth.  

Enjoy and appreciate the little things.  A song that moves you.  A laugh with a friend.  A good glass of wine.  A three mile run.  A good night's sleep.  Family.  Steady and satisfying work.  A book that resonates with you.  A telephone call with a friend you haven't spoken to in a while.  A warm hug.  A good cup of coffee.  A beautiful sunset.  Sitting with you family in church on a Sunday morning.  A walk in the neighborhood.  

At 60, or almost 60, my life is not perfect.  But, when I stop and think, when I reflect, it's damn close to perfect.  

I have a beautiful, intelligent, strong, capable, intelligent wife.  Jude is the best mother our boys could possibly have.  She is there, and my, everything.  JP, at 18, and Joe, at 14, are everything any father could ask for in a two sons.  I live my life for them.  What more could I ask for? 

God is good.  Always good.  And I am so very blessed.  

       

  

Home on the Mountain

Once again, I am home on the Mountain.  

Sitting on the back porch of the house I rented last summer, when I had to get out of town, drinking a glass  red wine and listening to the crickets singing in harmony in the back yard, I feel so . . . content.  I work so hard throughout the year and, finally, I am able to reward myself with a few days of solitude at Sewanee on Monteagle Mountain. 

I will never know why, but it just feels like home.  It's where I feel most myself, where I belong, somehow.  I feel that, deeply.

"No Hard Feelings" (Avett Brothers) is playing on my cell.  The song of all songs that reminds me so much of my mother.  When the Avett Brothers played it at Bonnaroo on a Friday night in 2019, I stood in the crowd and cried, thinking of my her and the battle she was losing with Alzheimer's.  I miss her so much, even now. 

As always, I needed this trip to the Mountain.  JP is still in Tasmania, so I was hoping Joe would be her with me while Jude worked at home, in Nashville.  As it turns out, Joe has a research class in the mornings at MBA for the next couple of weeks, so I am flying solo.  I love the solitude, so I am fine by myself for a few days.  Because I spend so much time talking with clients and giving them advice in what are often very stressful situations, it is important for me to be able to get away, my myself, and just . . . be.  

This house on Florida Avenue, near the football field, is perfect for me.  The owners need to put a little more money into it, I think, but it works.  They need to add a garbage disposal, more dishes and bowls, a cutting board, etc.  Just a little more attention to detail if they really want to keep it rented on a regular basis, or so it seems to me.  Still, it fits me nicely.

My plan is to run early tomorrow morning, then get coffee at Stirling's, one of my favorite coffee houses anywhere.  I would love to avoid work completely but that's probably not possible.  Doug and Madison can handle things for me at the office, I know, but I will check in with them at some point.  Mostly, I just want to run, hike, and read, in no particular order.  I want to unwind if only for a few days.  

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.