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.