Guy Town

After enduring one of the bottom 10 days of my professional career yesterday, I'm taking a break this morning.  After a cup of coffee at Bongo Java, I'm going to walk across the street and watch my goddaughter, Kaitlyn, play basketball as part of Belmont U's high school girls' basketball camp.  She'll be a senior and I don't get to see her play nearly as much as I would like, so I moved some appointments around on my schedule to make it happen.

Jude has been in D.C. for work since Tuesday but is coming home tonight.  As always, it's been a rare treat to have the boys to myself for a couple of days.  We don't get much "hang out time," where it's just the three of us, figuring things out.  When we do, I try to make the most of it.  I think it's good for the boys and I know it's good for me.

-----------------------------

As an aside, it's tough, sometimes, to leave work at the office.  J.P. and Joe help me with that, though. Like yesterday, when I arrive home after a particular shitty day, it almost always lifts my spirits to have them there waiting on me.  It's their gift to me, I think, and one they don't realize they're giving me.  It's made more special by the fact that it's fleeting, as soon enough they will be teenagers, on the go, and completely disinterested in what kind of day their old man had or when he is getting home.

Today, when I sat down at a table in Bongo Java that I don't normally sit at, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia.  Like stepping into a time machine, I vividly recalled a Saturday or Sunday afternoon when I sat here, probably posting on this blog, while J.P. slept beside me in the Baby Jogger.  I felt a tinge - well, more than a tinge, actually - of sadness for what I have lost since that day, that time.  J.P.'s early youth, my 40's and, most importantly, my relationship with my mom.  In those days, I would have talked to her on the phone, laughing, joking and likely discussing the latest big story in the world of sports.

She had a tough day yesterday, but I just don't want to talk about it right now.  We're getting to the point where there are fewer and fewer answers and and more and more questions.

Sometimes I want to ride the wave of nostalgia - like a dream at night I don't want to wake up from - as a means of disengaging from the stark reality of day-to-day life, especially as it relates to my mom.    It's kind of like trying to hold on to the feeling of dreaminess that Frank Bascombe experiences in Richard Ford's "The Sportswriter" (one of my favorite novels and on I'm re-reading this summer) after the death of his son.

-----------------------------

Tuesday night, Carly, Jon and I took the boys to PM for dinner.  J.P. ate sushi with me and, believe it or not, Joe tried sushi for the first time (crunchy shrimp roll).  Afterwards, we threw the frisbee at Belmont U. as darkness fell, then walked home.  It was a splendid evening spent with two people who are as close to being part of our family as you could possibly be without actually being blood relatives.  

Last night, the boys and I walked to the 12south Tap Room, got takeout, and walked back home for dinner.  We watched part of the Lakers-Celtics "30 for 30."  They enjoyed it, although J.P. found some of the video clips of the violence during the civil rights movement disturbing.  Then, off to bed and up this morning for "film study" on Youtube.  In order, the boys selected highlights of Dominik Hasek, Alex Ovechkin, a couple of Dude Perfect videos and J.J. Watt.

Guy town indeed.

When the Music Ends

The last note of music has sounded at Bonnaroo 2017, for me, anyway.

I decided to shut it down after last night and skip Sunday's festivities.  The toe I broke in January hasn't reacted well to all of the walking and standing I did, listening to music, the last three days and nights.  By the time Doug, Mike and I left last night, it was red, inflamed and terribly painful to walk on.  Since I am going to Predators-Penguins, Game 6 (Pens up 3-2) tonight at 7 p.m., I thought a little discretion was in order, so I'm enjoying a quite midday cup of coffee at the Blue Chair before I pack up and head back to  Nashville.

It was a good weekend with the boys.  The cabin was perfect for us.  Doug Brown made a cameo appearance yesterday - his first trip to Bonnaroo - which was pretty awesome.  He's not a music guy nor a festival guy, so it meant a lot to me for him to drive up from Atlanta.  The three of us got to spend some quality time together and share a beer or two, which happens all too rarely these days.  In many ways, we have a shared history - so many of my stories from high school onward cast Doug and Mike in starring roles.  It's good to get together and reminisce about times past and to catch up on current events in our lives.

As always, the music was front and center.  I particularly enjoyed Mondo Cozmo, the Strumbellas (probably the band I most wanted to see this year), Creature Comfort, Belly and the Head and the Heart.  U2 was nothing to write home about, I thought.  Bono is a little too preachy for my tastes.

Sadly, it was harder to unwind and let go this weekend than in years past.  For one thing, my mom was on my mind, thoughts of her struggles always lurking just beneath the surface of my conscious mind.  I felt guilty, at times, enjoying myself while she is fighting what will be the last battle of her life.  Also, work intruded on my weekend, as a pair of clients texted me - literally - while I was watching a band.  That's probably on me, though, as I insist on giving my clients my cell phone number.

Anyway, time to head back tor reality, throbbing toe and all.  Let's go Preds!

Bonnaroo 2017

It's here.  Bonnaroo 2017.

I didn't get away as early as I wanted to yesterday, but I got away.  Barely.  I got to my friend's cabin about 3:30 p.m., unpacked, then headed straight to "the Farm."  The line of cars was a bit long and the line to get in to Bonnaroo was the longest I've ever seen it, but patience prevailed and I made it inside.  As I walked through the front gates - after having my backpack halfhearted checked for contraband - I took a deep breath and felt the stress of my day-to-day life float away.  It happens that way every single year up here and it's in large part why I will never miss Bonnaroo again.

It was a breathtakingly beautiful night, probably the nicest it's ever been at Bonnaroo.  I had a couple of beers, listened to some music, watched the beginning of the Predators' game 6 debacle against the Penguins (a 6-0 loss), ate, browsed the art and craft exhibit and listened to more music.

The highlight of the evening occurred while I was watching a band by the name of Mondo Cosmo.  I got there early, so I was up fairly close to the stage.  About 15 minutes into the show, I got bumped from behind by a young, college aged guy making his way determinedly to the front, buck ass naked. Everyone around me was pointing and laughing, then shrugging their shoulders, as if to say "it's Bonnaroo."  Very, very funny.

I drove home and began a reread of Richard Ford's "The Sportswriter."  It's he first book in what became the Frank Bascombe trilogy.  "The Sportswriter" - when I read it 20 years ago - was my introduction Richard Ford, who became one of my favorite writers.  It's a little surreal to revisit the book now, reflecting back on how different my life was when I read it the first time.  I'm not sure life ever goes according to plan but that's why it's life, I guess.

This morning, I'm sitting in The Blue Chair Cafe & Tavern in Suwannee, drinking a cappuccino and listening to an astonishingly good playlist of 60's and 70's music playing over the speakers.  Bob Dylan's "It Ain't Me" is playing now.  some locals are sitting at a nearby table talking not so quietly, Dylan's harmonica playing in the background.  Now, appropriately, Dylan's "My Back Pages" is playing, one of my favorite songs of his.  "I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now . . . "

It's a beautiful morning on the mountain, at Sewanee.  I love it up here.  There's something magical about Sewanee for me.  The campus of the university, the outdoors and, really, just the feel of the place.  Matteson will be arriving at the cabin soon, followed by Derek and Bill.  So, these are my last few moments of peace and quiet and I'm going to enjoy them.

Surviving the Gauntlet

I didn't sleep particularly well last night and woke up early this morning, determined to get a cup of coffee somewhere at 6 a.m.  Sadly, I discovered that 8th & Roast doesn't open until 7 a.m. on Saturdays, like all of the other coffee shops.  I made the best of a quiet, peaceful interlude by setting up shop across at a table from Bongo Java for 45 minutes and reading Frank Deford's iconic 1978 Sports Illustrated profile on Jimmy Connors.

I'm feeling a bit relaxed this morning, like I finally have my life back.  April and May at work were unbelievably busy months.  In terms of billing time, it appears that May was the busiest month of my career.  Coupled with my mom's failing health and coaching 3 baseball teams, I haven't had time to come for air.  This morning, I'm taking a few minutes for myself before I head back to the house to greet my family, along with J.P.'s friend, J.D., who slept over last night.

One of the things that has kept me going the last two months is knowing that if I could just get through a 2-day trial I had on June 1 - 2, Bonnaroo would be around the corner, June 8 - 11.  Every time I got down or stressed about work or my mom, I reminded myself that if I could just make it to June 3 (today), I had 4 days of music, friends and good times to look forward to.

And, so, I made it.  I survived the gauntlet.

Through nothing but divine providence and good luck, I was able to arrange for my friends and I to stay in a cabin at Sewanee for free.  That in and of itself is something for me to, because I love spending time at Monteagle and Sewanee.  I'll be able to run it he mornings on the trails, maybe do a little hiking and grab coffee at a coffee shop I know on campus at the University of the South.  I'll do some reading and listen to a whole lot of live music.  For me, it doesn't get much better.

But for now, it's off to start the weekend in earnest.

Further into the Abyss

I've been remiss in the not posting about my mom for a month, I know.  In my defense, I've been crushed at work for the past two months leading up to a trial tomorrow and Friday.  That's an excuse, though, and probably a poor one.  The reality is that it's all so personal and hard to write about.

The last month has not been good, not by a long shot.  My mom is slipping away, mentally and physically.  That's abundantly clear.  Just when I think things have plateaued and will remain static for a few weeks, she descends further into the Alzheimer's abyss and we go descend with her in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable.

This morning, I received a telephone call from a nurse at Maristone, one I've talked with before.  She advised me that last night, my mom disappeared from her room between routing checks on her at 11 p.m and midnight.  All staff were alerted and a search inside and outside the facility began immediately.  Ultimately, a staff member found her in apartment no. 102 - someone else's apartment - with her walker, a bunch of clothes and someone else's check book, like she was leaving on a trip.  Fortunately, the room was temporarily unoccupied, so she wasn't disturbing anyone.  

The staff alerted the director, who instructed them to check her out to make sure she was okay, then escort her back to her apartment on the second floor.  Because they were fully staffed last night, a caregiver sat outside her apartment most of the night.  Evidently, my mom was up all night rummaging around the two rooms her life has been reduced to.

Like a woman who has lost her mind.

The Dirty Dodgers

The Dodgers' spring baseball season ended tonight with a heartbreaking 18-17 loss to the Giants.  I'm proud of my guys and really, really proud of J.P.

The Giants took a 6-0 lead in the first inning, only to have our boys chip away until it was 6-4.  Wes struggled pitching in the first inning, so I brought in Cyrus, the youngest player on either team.  He was dealing tonight and shut the Giants down for two innings.  In the meantime, our boys had a huge inning and took a 15-6 lead.  

Because he was pitching so well, I decided to let Cyrus pitch a third inning.  That may have been a mistake, as he struggled with his control and the Giants starting hitting him.  After they scored 3 or 4 runs and had the bases loaded, I brought in J.P. to pitch.  I didn't really want to, but the other boys who pitched regularly had pitched recently and, in my mind, J.P. was the freshest.  

J.P. pitched well and threw strikes for the most part, although his velocity seemed to be a little down. Connor kicked a ball at second base that he should have fielded cleanly.  Then, on a ball hit slowly to the third base side of the pitcher, J.P. made a difficult throw to first base.  Aidan, playing first, could have made the catch even though the throw from J.P. was a little bit wide.  He didn't catch it, the ball tipped off his glove and ended up in shallow right field.  Two runs scored.  When the inning was over, we were down 18-15.

I checked with my dugout coach, Will, who confirmed we had or 9-10-11 hitters coming to bat in the bottom of the last inning.  We don't have a chance, I thought, although I told the boys differently.  With two outs, the boys rallied and before I knew it, J.P. was at the plate with two runners on base.  He took two pitches for balls.  Next, the pitcher threw two low and outside pitches that the umpire called strikes.  After the second one, I yelled - loudly - at the umpire, looking away so as not to get myself in trouble.  Damn, I thought, J.P. is going to look at a called third strike and be devastated. 

The pitcher, who was throwing hard, looked in at the catcher, rocked back and let the ball fly.  Low and fast, again, but this time swung the bat and hit a line drive single up the middle, right past the pitcher's head.  Man, I was (and am) proud of that kid.  Two outs, two strikes, two on, bottom of the last inning and our season on the line, so what does he do?  He rakes, that's what he does.  J.P. was "in the arena," and he wasn't scared.  What a moment.

Ultimately, Aidan struck out looking with the bases loaded and the tying run on third base, and the Dodgers lost 18-17.  That's baseball. 

Another baseball season in the books.  It passed by too quickly, as always.  Damn, I love those boys and their fathers that coach with me. 

This was a big spring for J.P. on the baseball field.  The last half of the season, especially in the tournament, I moved him up to second in the batting order and he started hitting the ball with authority.  He hit a double into the gap between left and center field two nights ago.  Tonight, he had a pair of hits into the outfield (including the line drive up the middle in the last inning).  Also, J.P. really began to develop as a shortstop.  Tonight, as was the case Tuesday night, he threw a fast runner out at first base from deep in the hole.  He had an infielder's hands and a good arm.  I think he can become a good baseball player if it's something he wants to do.

I wouldn't trade coaching these boys in baseball for anything.  I had that feeling again Tuesday night - a beautiful night after a shitty, difficult stretch at work - that on field #2 at Warner Park, under the lights, was where I needed to be.  Hell, it was where I wanted to be . . . forever.  As I've said before, if I'm lucky enough to make it to heaven, I hope my job for eternity it to coach 9-10 year olds playing baseball on a beautiful spring evening as the sun sets.

I'm a lucky man. 

A Sunday to Remember

Yesterday was a big day for J.P.

For the past eight months or so, J.P. has been attending First Communion Sunday School classes at Cathedral - where Jude and I were married - before our regular 11 a.m. church service at St. Patrick.  Like so much that he does, J.P. has taken his preparation for First Communion seriously.  He is and always has been an old soul that way.

Last Sunday, he was asked to do the second reading at the First Communion church service at Cathedral.  He was proud to have been asked and solemnly practiced his reading all week long.  As is also his way, J.P. bristled a little when Jude and I made suggestions to him while he was practicing (speak slowly, don't chew up your words, etc.), mostly because he expects so much of himself.  Sometimes, with constructive criticism, he tends to focus more on the "criticism" and not so much on the "constructive."

Jude's brother, James, was in town with his 2 + year old daughter, Caroline, for the festivities.  Jim and Jane White were there, of course.  Tom and Sandy White were at Cathedral, as were Jude's aunts, Margaret and Ann.  Tracy, Gary and the kids (Kaitlyn and Matthew) brought my mom, which made the day all the more special.  Alice and Jerry came, too.  Our families were well represented.

When J.P. walked down the aisle, hands clasped as if for prayer, I smiled to myself.  He looked great in the red tie I helped him tie that morning, the first real tie he has ever worn.  After Father Steiner addressed the children, who were sitting up front, and the congregation, one of J.P.'s Sunday School classmates did the first reading.  Next came the Psalm.  Suddenly, it was time for the second reading.

J.P. got up, walked to the center of the church, in front of the altar, and bowed low.  Then, he walked up the stairs, behind the lectern, and adjusted the microphone.  And away he went.

My son, my eldest son, who seemingly only days before was being baptized as an infant by Father Eric at St. Patrick, was reading from the bible to a crowd of well over 500 people.

And he nailed it.

J.P. spoke loudly, slowly and clearly.  Truth be told, he was easier to understand than many adults I have heard do readings at church.  When he finished, a lady in front of us mouthed to her companion "he's really good."  I beamed with pride.

When he finished and walked back to his seat, Jude and I looked at each other and shared a moment - a moment made up of so many other moments.  Something passed between us, unsaid and not needing to be said.  We exchanged a fist bump and I said a silent prayer of thanks.

A few minutes later, I watch J.P. take communion for the first time - the first of many, many times in his lifetime.

I've thought this before, but it wouldn't surprise me if J.P. became a priest one day.  What's important to me, though, is that he remembers the day of his First Communion and how proud Jude and I were of him.