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.