The Last Days of the Dodgers

The Dodgers - my Dodgers - played their last games of the fall season on a glorious fall morning at Warner Park while I sat in a classroom, downtown, in the third day of six days of mediation training.  

There I was, stuck, getting text messages from my players' dads in a futile effort to keep up with how my guys were playing, and how J.P. was playing.  Missing the last two games of the fall season - maybe the last two games I would have coached some of these players - absolutely crushed me.  I love these boys so much.  As I've said many, many times, I love them like they're mine.  Every damn one of them.

I like to think I am man of many words.  Too many, sometimes.  Still, I find myself without words sufficient to describe how much these boys - these Dodgers - mean to me and how much I treasure all of the time we spent together on baseball fields across middle Tennessee the past nine years.  The memories I have of our time spent together will endure for the length of may life and sustain me, I hope, on my inexorable journey into old age.  

I remember my very first practice as a head coach.  The makeshift, all grass, non-baseball field at Sevier Park.  Nothing but tall grass and a rusted, dirty backstop.  No infield.  No bases.  My father-in-law, Jim White, was there with me.  I was nervous and, quite literally, had no idea what in the hell I was doing.  We probably practiced running to first and, maybe, played catch, although I have no memory of the practice itself.  I got through it and away we went.  

I remember the ones that got away from the earliest days of coach pitch and machine pitch baseball.  Brennan Ayers and Davis Joyner, both of whom moved to Florida with their families.  Later, I lost Braden Sweeney, Aidan Poff, and Porter Weeks.    

Coach pitch baseball was so much fun.  Me, sitting on the empty, upside down bucket I carried the baseballs in, while pitching underhanded to my players from five or ten feet away.  Encouraging the boys to knock me off the bucket by driving a ball back up the middle and making a big show of falling off the bucket when they did to gales of laughter.  

I remember Benton Wright - one of the "Core Four" that played with me all the way through - as my most serious five year old, carefully placing his glove and hat on the bench, then grabbing his batting helmet and bat when it was time to hit.  Now Benton is my tallest kid, by far, best hitter, and hardest thrower.  I've seen him, literally, hit three batters in a row in the back, then strike out the side.  My guy 'til the end.   

Benton's dad, Will, always present, graciously and selflessly running the dugout game after game.  In those days, I believe, Will sat the boys in order by their uniform number and we batted them 1 - 12 or 12 - 1, alternating from game to game.  Later, Will kept the lineup and the scorebook for me, then used the Gamechanger App the past few years.  Will always kept order in the dugout, which is not an easy task.  So many dugout conversations with Will over the years, telephone calls, e-mails, and texts, all about the Dodgers.

I remember an end of season league tournament game - machine pitch - on field #4 at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ, when J.P. just missed making a tough play at second base.  With the tying run on third base and the winning run on second base, though, he fielded the next ball hit, a hot shot again to second base, and threw the batter out at first base.  J.P.'s teammates mobbed him as I watched from the first baseline, so proud.  

So many losses to our rivals, the Dirtbags, in the early years.  We just couldn't get over the hump against them.  I remember the end of season tournament final, also machine pitch, on field 2 at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ, when Benton threw a boy out at first to end the game and secure our first win over the Dirtbags, only to have the umpire - a 17 or 18 year old boy - panic and miss the call as Pat Lawson yelled "safe" from the third baseline.  We tied that game.  I was devastated because I wanted my boys to get a win over the Dirtbags.

Later, at Warner Park, I remember coaching Joe's Junior Dodgers on field 2, when several of the Dodgers came running over from field 3 after beating the Dirtbags for the first time.  They were walking on air, so excited, and I was damn proud of them.  I think our boys were 10 or 11 then and, after that, the tables turned and we rarely, if ever, lost to the Dirtbags again.  Persistence paid off, as it usually does.  

All the time spent on the baseball field, at practices and games, with Chris Taylor, Randy Kleinstick, Will Wright and, before he and his son, Porter, left for greener pastures, Tony Weeks.  My good and, hopefully, lifelong friends, all of these men.  Role models to our boys.

So many memories.  

The first home runs hit by Wes Taylor, Elijah Luc, and Benton Wright.  Wes throwing a knuckleball in a game for the first time.  Ethan Deerkoski's first curve ball in a game, baffling to the boys trying to hit it.  

A run to the state championship, in Lawrenceburg, when the boys were 11 years old.  That baseball season is a chapter in a book unto itself, for sure.  So much going on behind the scenes, trying to blend our team with the boys we added from Bellevue and, that season, running two 11/12 year old teams with 18 or 19 players on our roster.  

As I stood at the church at visitation for my mom, my heart breaking, I looked up and saw my entire Dodgers team walking toward me.  For the length of what I hope will be a long life for me, I never will forget the sight of those boys, my Dodgers, walking toward me, hugging me, supporting me in my darkest hour.  

So many times over the past decade, the baseball field was an oasis for me.  A place where I could forget my mom's declining health, as I helplessly watched Alzheimer's disease steal away with her mind and memories, day by day.  A place where I could forget about the stresses of a thriving family law practice and my client's pressing and important problems.  A place where - for an hour or two - I was "Coach Phil" to a bunch of boys playing baseball, many of whom I'd known since they were four or five.  

I've always said it - and it's true - the boys who played baseball for me taught me a lot more than I taught them.  

I could tell stories, and recount memories - snapshots in time - of every boy who has played for me.  And, maybe, one day I will.  But not here in this space, at least not today.

I've had a feeling for a while now that our run - the Dodgers' run - was nearing the end.  Actually, I thought that might be the case last fall, then again last spring.  Still, we stayed together as a group, a team, and played together again this fall, in an abbreviated season marked by an unusually high number of rainouts and a burgeoning controversy involving the efforts of the Wicked Witch of West Nashville - Jenny Hannon - to dismantle the Heriges Field at Warner Park and for Friends of Warner Park to eliminate baseball an flag football at Edwin Warner Park.  But, that's another story.

I don't know what the future holds for the Dodgers but I suspect our group will look different in the spring if we play together again.  Part of me - a big part of me - would like to form a tournament baseball team with the boys who are committed to baseball as their main thing, their priority.  We have a nucleus of boys who could do that, I think, especially if I hired hitting and pitching coaches.  The boys would be competitive with a couple of additions to our roster.  I'm sure of that.

But, for now, it's the offseason.  J.P. made the basketball team at Montgomery Bell Academy and Joe is playing on two basketball teams.  Grayson Murphy is embarking on his final season at Belmont U., and I want to take my boys to as many of his games as I can.  Baseball can wait.

What I really, really want to do is plan a party for all of the boys (and families) who have ever played for me.  I want to collect everyone's photos in a shared Google album.  I also want to take my coaches out to dinner over the holidays.  I want all of those things, badly.

And I want to take a few more quiet moments, sipping a cup of coffee, or my favorite bourbon, and reflect on this group of boys - the Dodgers - and magical, memorable ride we've taken together for almost 10 years. 

The Core Four, Jonathan Kleinstick, Wes Taylor, J.P., and Benton Wright.

 

Winn Hughes, Will Hughes and Ethan Deerkoski.

Benton Wright and Will Wright after a game last spring.

Also, the Core Four.  Will Wright, me, Randy Kleinstick, and Chris Taylor.

One more of the Core Four.  Benton Wright, Wes Taylor, J.P., and Jonathan Kleinstick.

J.P., baseball manager in training.  At Oldtimer's Field in Shelby Park.

Dodgers forever. Impromptu team photo at Heriges Field after a game last spring.

 

Mediation Training 2.0

This evening, I finished my sixth and final day of mediation training at David Lipscomb's downtown campus.  Thursday, Friday, and Sunday last week, and Thursday, Friday, and Saturday this week, 8:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m.  

Through a set of circumstances too convoluted to go into here, my staff and I didn't pay the annual fee to renew my family and civil mediation listing with the Tennessee Supreme Court when it was due.  I was told my the Administrative Office of the Courts that I had to repeat the mediation training course to regain my Rule 31 listing in Tennessee.  I also was told there was no exception to this requirement.

So, after 15 years of mediating between 750 - 850 family law cases - many of which involved the division of marital estates valued at tens of millions of dollars, or more; or divorces where the parties were professional athletes, songwriters, or reality television stars; or child custody cases of all shapes and sizes; I went back to school.  48 hours of family mediation training over the past two weeks.  

The good news?  I won't need any CLE hours for quite a while.  The bad news?  I was out of the office for four of the past 10 days. 

All in all, though, I thoroughly enjoyed the training.  It helped that the facilitator, or teacher - Cynthia Greer - was excellent.  Well educated, well credentialed, a very experienced mediator, and just an amazing educator.  It helped, too, that I approached the class with a positive attitude.  I was there to listen, to learn, and to add something to the class, hopefully, based on my experience.   

What I realized pretty quickly, though, is that it was nice to be in an academic setting again - at least for a few days - and to disconnect from the day-to-day realities of my law practice.  For me, too, it was worthwhile, even necessary, to revisit the basic concepts of mediation and the psychology behind mediation, in the context of taking a cold, hard look at how I perform as a mediator.  

Am I skipping steps because I've been doing it for so long?  Probably.  Are there things I can do better, as a mediator?  Certainly.  Are there things I do well as a mediator, instinctually, based on my personality, or because of my experience?  Unquestionably.

As was the case 15 years ago when I completed Jean Munroe's mediation training class, I enjoyed interacting with the other members of our class.  It's an intense experience - particularly with the role playing exercises at the end of each day - and that brings the members of the class closer together and creates a bond, of sorts, between them.  That happened 15 years ago and it happened with this class, too.

On the first day of the class, last week, we introduced ourselves.  I was certain I knew one of our class members - Lori - but I just couldn't place her.  I even e-mailed the office and asked if anyone knew her.  We talked at the first break and, sure enough, we did know each other.  A decade ago, we served on the board together at Children's House.  Her oldest daughter was J.P.'s age and I immediately recalled she and I sitting together at most of our board meetings, probably because we were both lawyers.  

Life is funny, isn't it?  We got caught up with each other at breaks or during lunch and it was great to hear about her three girls and, really, to compare notes on raising our children.  

I sat next to Clarke, a state senator in Arkansas.  Great guy.  We had some good and interesting discussions about politics, on the state an national level.  About raising children, too. 

The group, in general, was awesome.  Diverse, for sure.  Also, some lawyers, some counselors, and some that were neither.  All, though, with a desire to mediate. 

One thing I learned - or, really, confirmed, about myself - is that I want to teach.  Many times, during our sessions, other class members looked to me to add commentary based on my experience, as a mediator and as a lawyer.  I liked that, a lot.  Several class members, at different times, thanked me for speaking up and giving my opinion on a variety of subjects we were covering.  I felt like my participation enhanced their experience and that made me happy. 

It was a good six days, time well spent for me.  Memorable. I feel rejuvenated as a mediator.  I'm ready to apply some of the things I learned and to refocus on some things I already knew.  

Let's go!

     

When We Were Lions

The past few days, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be young and what it means to be old.  

At age 55, I wonder what it is - beyond the obvious - that's lost on the trip from young to old?

The death of may friend, Steve Bettis, hit me hard, as it did so many of my contemporaries.  I've been in a contemplative mood since I returned from Chattanooga Saturday afternoon, trying to find the meaning of Steve's death, and a life ended prematurely.  What's the lesson in all this or is there one?  

I saw fraternity brothers I hadn't seen in 10 or 20 years, or longer.  It was jarring, frankly, to see - all in one place, all at one time - so many faces from college, from my youth.  Some I recognized, some I didn't.  Many of them, though, looked like old men, or at least older men.  Grayer.  Heavier.  Tired, like life had won a prolonged fight with their youth.  It was almost painful to see.

So many of those guys - especially the ones with whom I'm not particularly close - I remember as young men, boys really, in college.  Youthful.  Clear eyed.  Vigorous.  Carefree.  Innocent.  Life staring at them - and me - like an open road, waiting patiently to be traveled on, destination unknown.  

Now, the end of the road is nearer then ever before, and that's unsettling to me.  Frightening, even. 

How did I get from college to age 55 so quickly?  What have I learned and what have I lost?  Not enough and too much, I fear.  

The college experience is an intense one.  Everyone is on their own for the first time.  No real adult supervision.  Learning to live, every day.  Friendships and relationships form.  Hearts are broken.  All in a four year or, in my case, five year span.  A season of life that passed too quickly but is ingrained in my memory like no other time in my life. 

After a mediation today, I walked around downtown Nashville while I was talking on my cell to Carl P., my close friend from high school, college, and law school.  We reminisced about our early days practicing law, and talked about which attorneys and recently retired and who had died.  

It felt like the first real day of fall - a real chill in the air on a beautiful late afternoon - and I couldn't help but marvel at how much downtown Nashville had changed since I walked the streets there every day in the mid-1990's while I worked at Manier, Herod.  New buildings, new hotels, new bars, new restaurants.  The Arcade a shell of its former self.  

I thought about lawyers - mentors - lost.  Steve Cox, Bobby Jackson, DonYoung, Mark Hartzog.  

I guess, in the end, the memories are what we have and what we hold dear.  Of old friends and of times one our life that are gone, never to return.      

Steve Bettis

I'm sitting, alone, at a table Goodman Coffee at Warehouse Row on a grey and rainy day in downtown Chattanooga, trying and failing to understand a world in which a perfect healthy 55-year old man can die of Covid-19 in less than two weeks. 

Steve Bettis was my fraternity brother (Kappa Sigma) at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, when we were in school in the mid-1980's.  Beyond that, he was a husband, a father, a leader, a sports fan, and a friend.  

Steve and I didn't run in the same circles the last several years, in part because like so many of my college friends, he had children way before I did.  Still, I kept up with him through his annual golf trips with my law partner Mark, and friend, T.B., our participation in the Shortycorp football pool, and a network of mutual friends.  

College is such an emotionally intense memorable period of life.  At least, it was for me.  So many moments stand out for me, almost all of which involve my fraternity brothers.  Parties, intramural sports, road trips, football games, class, playing basketball or shooting pool at the fraternity house, or just sitting around, wasting time, and talking.  College seemed to last forever and, yet, it was over in a minute.  My memories of those years - 1984 to 1988 - survive and amazingly, Steve Bettis appears in almost all of them.

In my life, I don't think I've ever known anyone as enthusiastic and fun-loving as Steve.  As I write this, I can hear Steve laughing - a kind of roar that originated deep inside him and erupted like a volcano.  I can see him grinning, clapping me on the back, and grabbing me in a bear hug so hard it hurt.  Yelling my college nickname, one only he continued to use, 35 years later.  

"Butthead!"  And me, smiling sheepishly, hugging him back, and silently marveling at his outsized personality, genuine kindness, and friendliness, all wrapped up in one bone crushing bear hug. 

Steve was a force of nature.  A category five hurricane.  When he shined his light on you - and his light always, always shined brightly - you felt a reassuring warmth that made you happy to be alive.  

To know Steve, even in passing, was to love him and to be loved.  That was part of his gift, I think.  He had a heart the size of Texas and the singular ability to love others unabashedly and, in return to accept others' love.  

To me, Steve was indestructible.  A rock.  The heart and soul of my group of guys in our fraternity in the time we were there and later, as well.  For his family, Vivian, and his children Owen and Olivia - to lose him to Covid-19 is beyond tragic.  It's unfathomable.  

The memorial service today at the Baylor School in Chattanooga was pitch perfect but so very, very sad.  Watching my brother, Steve Short and Mike Dixon, eulogize Steve, broke my heart.  I feel numb.  We all feel numb.

Rest In Peace, Steve Bettis.  

AEKDB.

Wildflowers and All the Rest

Last week, on October 20, 2021, on what would have been Tom Petty's 71st birthday, Joe and I went to the  Belcourt Theatre for the world premiere of his the new documentary about the making of his seminal album, Wildflowers.  The documentary, "Somewhere You Feel Free," was shown at theaters worldwide for one day only.

Tom Petty, of course, was my guy, and the Heartbreakers were my band.  His death four years ago on October 2, 2017, crushed me.  As I've said before - and I'm stealing this quote from Jason Isbel - his music was the soundtrack to my life, in so many ways.  

This post isn't about that, though, at least not entirely.  What this post is about is how the music Tom Petty created over a 40 + year career has strengthened the bond between Joe, 9, and me.  

Joe loves Tom Petty and Heartbreakers in the say way I do.  I can't explain it other than to quote Emily Dickinson in saying "the heart wants what it wants."  Joe's his own man - always has been - so I don't believe he's a Tom Petty fan because I am.  Something about the songs, and the music, speak to him and touch his heart.  Just like his old man.

J.P., Joe, and I share a lot of things, like a love of sports.  Some things, though, I share more with one or the other, and that's okay, too.  J.P. and I read the His Dark Material Trilogy (Philip Pullman), loved it, and discussed it at length during the first year of the pandemic.  Joe and I are share a love for Tom Petty's music.

I had purchased tickets a few weeks ago, almost as an afterthought, when I saw an Instagram post about it on Tom Petty's feed.  I was excited - and so was Joe - when the stars lined up and I didn't have a conflict on my calendar. 

I left the office early and picked Joe up from school, then zipped over to the Belcourt.  I've been a member over the years and it's my favorite venue to watch a movie.  Several times over the years, I've slipped out after the boys were in bed and walked or biked down to the Belcourt, my myself, to watch an independent film or documentary.  

Once, Jude took me to see Lucinda Williams play guitar and sing, with her father reading original poems in between her songs.  Now that was a night I'll never forget, particularly since I was so sick with the flu I could barely sit up straight.  Still, one of the best shows I've ever seen.

The theater was at half capacity for the matinee screening, which made me feel more comfortable being there with Joe.  Also, everyone was masked up, thankfully.  It felt a bit odd to be back in a movie theater for the first time in more than 18 months.  I've missed the communal experience of watching a movie together with strangers.  Such a human thing to do.

Joe was, by far, the youngest person in the theater.  Any doubts I had about how he would handle watching a documentary film were quickly erased, as I could see he was transfixed by the footage of Tom Petty and the band rehearsing songs that made their way onto Wildflower.  The studio footage, the interviews (then and now), all of it.  Joe watched intently, smiling as images of Tom Petty playing some of his favorite songs flickered on the screen in front of him.  

Of course, I smiled, nodded my head, and tapped my foot to the music.  All of these great songs on Wildflower, released on November 1, 1994, when I was in Knoxville, in my second year of law school, 28 years old.  Even now, when I hear one of the songs on the album, my mind immediately expects the next song, in sequence, to be played.  That's how many times I listened to that album when it was released.

Joe and I fist bumped each other several times during the move when a song we loved was played.  When the movie ended, the audience clapped, and Joe and I stood up from out seats near the front and began to walk to the exit in back of the theater.  I saw more than a few people with tears in their eyes or on their cheeks.  

As Joe and I walked outside into the setting sun of a beautiful fall evening, I took his hand in mine and asked him how he liked the movie.

"It was awesome," he replied.  "I almost cried a couple of times, because it was sad, but I smiled a whole lot, too."

"Me, too," I said, as I marveled at the purity of Joe's innocence at 9 years of age, his way with words and his true, true heart.

I held his hand a little tighter and we walked to my truck in the falling twilight.

  

Time Passages

I'm not sure why but this morning felt like the end of something and the beginning of something else.

With Jude and Joe still in Monteagle for the end of fall break, J.P. and I had the house to ourselves last night when we arrived home.  As much as I enjoy family time, it's always good to have some alone time with J.P. or Joe. 

On the drive home, J.P. and I listened to one of my favorite Bill Simmons' podcasts of the year, the NBA over/under edition (w/Russillo and House).  It's not lost on me how lucky I am to have a son - two sons actually - who love sports as much as I do.  J.P. and I talked NBA basketball the entire rid home.

I picked up takeout from Burger Up and we watched the Dodgers-Braves NLCS game together until he went to bed about 9:30 p.m.  I gave him the option of staying up until the end of the game but he chose to go to bed, on time, on a school night.  That's J.P.  Responsible kid and a rule follower, like his mother.

I watched the end of the game (another Dodger late inning loss), then foolishly stayed up late, in bed, finishing an Ace Atkins (Quinn Colson) plot driven thriller I was reading on my iPad.  I wasn't particularly tired, possibly because I - also foolishly - drank a 20 ounce Red Bull on the way home from Monteagle.  Then, our damn cat, Mini, spent most of the prowling restlessly through the house, meowing loudly, probably pissed because I hadn't let her outside when we got home last night.

Suffice to say, I was tired this morning and somewhat surprised when J.P. walked into our room, downstairs, and said, "Good morning, dad," at just past 6:30 a.m.  I'd slightly overslept.  as I climbed out of bed, he added, "I can fix my own breakfast."  

And he did.  Scrambled eggs, toast, a banana, cheese, and a glass of milk, which is exactly what I would have made for him had I been on my game this morning.  We like our boys to eat real breakfasts, not an instant breakfast, like a Pop Tart or a granola bar.  So, while I showered, shaved, and put my suit on for work, J.P. quietly and diligently made himself a real breakfast.   

As parents, Jude and I are trying to raise our boys to be independent and self-sufficient.  J.P. is on the way there, so it seems.

I was proud and strangely enough, a little sad.  My oldest son is growing up before my eyes.  J.P. needs me, still, but maybe not quite as much as he used to.

And that's as it should be. 

Another Morning on the Mountain

Friday morning on the Mountain.  Quietude, a word a love.  Watching the Sewanee campus wake up from the front porch of Stirling's, one of my favorite coffee shops. 

Students straggle in for breakfast before morning classes.  Tired and mumbling quietly to each other.  Faculty walk up the front steps, too, looking for their morning coffee.  More energy.  Parents - teachers at Sewanee or St. Andrews Sewanee - comparing notes about their young children.  A woman and her two dogs walk in front of me, in my rocking chair on the front porch.  There's such a sense of community on campus up here. 

Playing in the background, "Rich Girl," by Hall and Oates.  A staple from the mid '70's.  A light fall breeze rustles the multicolored leaves in the trees shading the front porch of Stirling's and across the street, as well.  

A perfect morning?  Pretty damn close.

As I've written in this space so often before, things move at a slower pace on the Mountain, even on campus.  Maybe I move at a slower pace when I'm here because I'm away from work and home.  

Yesterday was our first full day at Three Dog Farm, a place we've never stayed before.  The boys kayaked and canoed and fished in the lake.  JP caught seven fish for the day, fishing from the small, anchored dock in the middle of the lake.  Joe caught a solitary fish, which JP had to remove from his line after he kayaked back out to the dock to help.

JP and I ran 4 miles on the Trail of Tears greenway.  At my urging, he left me the last mile.  A passing of the torch?  Perhaps, although I'm still congested and fighting a sinus infection.  The Z-pack I'm taking doesn't help my breathing when I run.  That's what I'm telling myself, anyway.  Either way, he's a damn strong runner, a point of pride for me, for sure.  

Yesterday afternoon, we rented bicycles on campus from Woody's Bicycles.  JP and I rode around campus for a bit.  While Joe and I worked on teaching him to ride a bicycle - that's a story in and of itself - JP rode around campus some more and Jude walked on Abbo's Alley, a favorite hike of hers.

We finished the day with an early dinner on the porch at the grill at Sewanee's golf course.  Mozzarella sticks and burgers, as we watched a Sewanee golf team member practice from the team's facility adjacent to the 9-hole golf course.  After dinner, JP and I rode our bicycles back to Woody's, locked them up, then drove to our place.

After Joe went to bed, JP, Jude and I - and a white cat with different colored eyes we've temporarily named "Max" (after Dodgers' pitcher, Max Scherzer) - crowded together in the bed in the master bedroom and watched the Dodgers beat the hated Giants, 3-2, to clinch a spot in the National League Championship Series.

No cable, so JP "mirrored" by iPad to the bedroom television, so we were able to watch the game on TBS. There were a few technical difficulties late in the game, when we had audio only.  Still, Bellinger got the game winning hit, and the Dodgers move on.

Time for me to move on, too, to the grocery store, as "Everybody Wants to Rule the World," by Tears for Fears, plays in the background.  Mid '80's, complete one hit wonder, but the song survives.