Photographs and Memories

 Yesterday, I spent a few hours at my mom's house sorting through old photos, letters, cards, and mementos.  I even ventured into the attic - which is a disaster - as I near the end of my quest to salvage anything I want to keep.

I've said it before but it bears repeating - it's sad and in some ways heartbreaking that a person spends a lifetime accumulating so many things that are so special and personal to him or her - priceless, really - then he or she dies and so much of it ends up in a landfill somewhere.  

For example, my mom's shadowbox is laying in the floor in her guest room.  It's filled with knick-knacks - my name tag from my first job, at Walmart; Shakey's (my mom's first poodle) leash; a nurse's pin; a Vanderbilt basketball button; and on an on.  The shadowbox was on the wall in the den for years.  Every single item in it meant something to my mom.  

A singular event.  An accomplishment of one of her children.  A token of a friendship.  A loving reminder of a pet.  A graduation.  A gathering of friends.  An election.  Her unwavering loyalty to Vanderbilt basketball.  Her love, above all else, for her family.  Her faith.

It's all there.  Not just in the shadowbox, of course, but in the dwindling boxes of old photos, framed pictures, Christmas decorations, and keepsakes.  

Photographs and memories.  

I know it's time to let go of so many of this things because that's what they are - things.  Inanimate objects brought to life and made special by my mom's personality and what was important to her.  But it's hard.  Really, really hard. 

I am haunted by the fear of not looking in a box, a trunk, or an envelope, and losing forever a memory that meant something to my mom.   When I get down to it, I guess I am afraid of losing part of her.  Forever.  

My mom's very essence is in all of those old photographs, many of which I had never seen or did not recall seeing.  Photos of my mom and my dad, many with Tracy and me.  My parents were so young in those photos.  Photos of the two of them starting a life together full of promise and, yet, one sure to be cruelly cut short by my dad's death from hepatitis at age 30. 

I ran across a photo of my mom and dad on the day of their marriage, taken at her parents' house - Robert and Mary Alice Ussery - in Jackson, Tennessee.  A Jewish medical student, football player, and concert-level pianist from California, by way of Phoenix, Arizona and Cleveland, Ohio, marrying a modest Methodist, country girl from Jackson, Tennessee, the daughter of a man who drove a Wonder Bread truck for 30 years and of a woman who taught elementary school for 42 years.  

They looked so happy together.

It is a strange feeling, almost voyeuristic, to be going through boxes of things my mom saved.  Things that meant something to her.  Mementos from the Ussery family and the Dickson family, all of which will be lost forever if and when we discard so much of what she saved.  Our past.  Our family history.  Lost to the winds of time.

We are near the end of this process, I think.  This sifting through the things that meant the most to my mom but probably has the least actual value.  Somehow, those things are the most special to me.  I feel closer to my mom as I handle them, as I look intently at an old, black and white photograph, that no one has gazed upon in decades.  

I am, of course, reminded of how much I loved my mom and how much she loved me.  

I am also reminded, starkly, of how much I miss her.  Every single day.  

It is like an ache in my heart that never completely goes away.  I work, I coach baseball, I run, I raise children, I read, I eat, I sleep, I laugh, and I love.  In other words, I live my life.  

It is what I must do and what I am called to do.  And it is what my mom would want me to do.  

    

Running with the Kid

Saturday morning, JP and I got up early to go for a run.  Although it was a beautiful late summer morning, refreshingly not hot, I didn't feel great as we began our run up Linden Avenue toward Belmont Boulevard.  Maybe it was the two gin and tonics I had Friday night or the fact that I stayed up late reading the latest James Lee Burke novel but I just didn't feel right.

I needed to get five miles in, so we ran past Belmont U., up Portland Avenue, toward Fairfax and Elmington Park.  One of my regular routes.  The first mile was a struggle and our 8:30 + mile split reflected it.  

Gradually, though, as we ran through the neighborhood on Fairfax, past Eakin Elementary School, I began to feel better and we picked up the pace.  It was nice, as it always is, JP and I running side by side.  Not talking much, just running together.  Father and son, lost in our thoughts.  

As I always do when JP and I run together, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to be run with him.  To be able to share with him something that is so much a part of me.  So much a part of who I am.  I don't take any of my runs with JP for granted, not by a long shot.  Every run with JP is special, in large part because I know there is a finite number of them.  It's like a wave I'm going to ride as long as I can, appreciating ever moment I am on it.   

I wonder, sometimes, if it's akin to how my father felt when he took my flying in his Cessna 172 and, later, his Mooney airplane, in the late 60's when I was a toddler.  Then, as now, it was a father doing something he loved with his oldest son alongside.  I treasure those memories, even now.  Always have, in fact.  I hope when I am gone, JP will treasure these runs, too, and understand how meaningful they were to me.  

I began to push the pace as we ran through Elmington Park and up West End Avenue.  I felt strong, almost young again, as I do sometimes when I run.  I guess, to an extent, that's what I am doing when I run - chasing my youth.  Trying to turn back the hands of time or, maybe, to stop them, if only for a few minutes. 

As we passed the three mile mark and turned onto Blakemore, I began to sense we had something going, J.P. and I.  This might just be one of those runs I look for all year long and, if I am lucky, find five or ten of them.  A run where everything falls into place.  I feel good.  I feel strong, like I could run forever.  Nothing hurts.  My breathing is even.  

Runner's high.  The zone. Call it what you will but I think it's what ever runner looks for when he or she goes for a run.  Same shoes, same route, different feeling.  Way different.  

Losing ourselves in the run.  Surrendering to it.  It's a hard feeling to describe and it doesn't happen often.  But when it does?  Damn, it feels good.

I continued to push the pace as we turned right onto 21st Avenue and JP ran along beside me.  No talking.  Not breathing hard but putting the work in, our bodies like engines running smoothly.  His, the younger model, for sure.  Mine, the older model, but reasonably well maintained.  

The last mile - mile five - I pushed us harder.  I was fine but I could tell he was working, which was good.  We ran up an alley to Portland Avenue and made the turn onto Belmont Boulevard, running hard now.  I wanted to finish strong and we did.

We hit mile five right in front of the Trout Theater and stopped, breathing hard.  JP was spent.  I could have run more.  Soon enough, our roles will be reversed, I know.

Splits:

8:27, 8:10, 7:55, 7:28, and 7:03.

Negative splits, yes, but 7:03 on mile 5!  That's smoking!

7:46/mile and, for sure, a top ten run of the year.

Running with the Kid inspires me.  Every time.

The Day the Diamondbacks Became the Dodgers

This morning, just for a couple of hours, the Diamondbacks became the Dodgers.   

Because of Covid-19, I decided not to coach the Junior Dodgers last spring and this fall, too.  Joe's been blessed to be able to play for the Diamondbacks (aka as the Thundersharks, in fall baseball, anyway) and my friend, Oliver Davis.  I've been blessed to help Coach O, as I call him, at practices and by coaching third base during games.

A word or two about Coach O.  Having coached baseball for so many years and having been around so many baseball coached during that time, I know a good coach when I see one.  I think Coach O is one of the best - probably the best, actually - that I've seen.  Always a positive message and always upbeat.  Enthusiastic.  Organized.  Role model.  Leader.  Great communicator.  Even tempered.  Great sense of perspective.  Works the boys but always with a goal in mind.  Loves the boys, not just his son, Preston, but all of the boys.  Loves baseball.  Just a real treat to be around.  

It's funny but I've thought many times that Oliver would have fit in perfectly with my coaching staff on the Dodgers.  And that's saying something because my coaches are the best.

In truth, it's been nice to be able to work with the boys at practice and help Oliver as an assistant coach but not have all of the responsibilities of being the head coach.  No drafting and sending e-mails, no planning practicing, no setting lineups and batting orders, etc.  All of those things I have done for years with the Dodgers (and Junior Dodgers).  I must admit, it's nice to have someone else doing them for the Diamondbacks. 

This morning - Saturday - Coach O and Preston couldn't be at practice, so he asked if Ryan and I could run practice.  It's Labor Day Weekend and we weren't sure how many boys would be at practice.  I knew which ones would be there - the ones who love to play baseball.  And they were there, all nine of them.  Joe, Huck, Henry, Henry, John, Parkes, Westin, Luke (my new favorite), and Matthew.     

And, for me, it was like being on the field at Harpeth Hills with the Dodgers of old, four or five years ago. Benton, Wes, Brennan, J.P., Jonathan, Cyrus, Davis, Aidan, Cooper, and Braden.  Several of those boys I still coach on the Dodgers.  They're voices are starting cracking this summer or dropped several octaves below mine - see Braden and Porter - and they're playing on the Prep filed at Warner park.  Big league dimensions, with bases 90' feet apart and the pitching rubber 60'6" from home plate.  

Well, this morning, the Diamondbacks were the Dodgers from so long ago.  And, yes, I was me, four or five years ago.

Ryan was happy to let me take the wheel today, so to speak, and I led practice from beginning to end.  Coach O had asked that we have the boys take batting practice, live, against the pitching machine, which we did.  And also that we have the boys hit in game situations, which we also did.  

I don't know all of the dads who are helping coach by name but they're all good guys.  I think they recognize that I've done this before, though, so they defer to me a little bit.  Not because I'm any kind of expert - not at all - but because I've been there before and I'm not afraid to take charge.  Imagine me, taking charge.  

We had one dad working with one boy at a time, hitting off a tee in deep left field.  Another dad hit fungoes to the infield in between pitches.  Another dad worked one boy at a time with hitting stick.  Ryan ran the pitching machine and I coached whomever was hitting, working on stances, feet placement, swing, etc. 

I love the individual work with the boys.  The one-on-one stuff.  Throwing to them in the cage, playing catch with them, or working with them while they're hitting.  That's how I get to know them, to connect with them, to build the player-coach relationship with them.  That how I show them I care about them as boys, not just baseball players.  I give them nicknames - Luke became "the Punisher" today.  I make them laugh.  Most importantly, I let them know I believe in them.  I tell them - like I told Matthew, today - that their potential is unlimited if they'll keep working.  

It's what I love the most about coaching.  No doubt.

After everyone had hit today, I organized a game of the Dads against the 'Nads.  The boys batted in a game situation (5 pitches) and the dads played the infield.  That's how the boys bond with each other.  It's also how the dad bond with each other and begin to form friendships that, if all goes right, will last for years to come.  

After practice was over, I looked out on the field and four or five of the boys, on their own, had stayed afterwards to get in more work, throwing and fielding ground balls.  All of them working with their dads or big brothers.  

And I smiled to myself, as Joe gave me an impromptu hug afterwards.  Great practice.  The boys worked, learned, and most importantly, had fun.  

The Diamondbacks became the Dodgers, even if was just for a couple of hours on a random late summer Saturday morning.

And I loved every single minute of it. 

A Lion's Last Roar

Yesterday, on my way to a meeting with another lawyer, I learned that Lewis Hollabaugh had died.  Lewis was one of the name partners at Manier, Herod, Hollabaugh & Smith, the place I worked when I got out of law school in May 1993.

Lewis's daughter, Lela - one of the best commercial litigators in middle Tennessee and an extremely accomplished lawyer - was one of my bests friends at Manier, Herod in the almost five years I worked there before I started my own law firm with Mark Puryear in 1998.  Lela and her husband, Dean, stayed close friends with me after I left and, in fact, became close friends of Jude's, as well.  They were in our wedding.

Lewis Hollabaugh, in my mind, was the personification of "old school" when it came to practicing law.  He was a trial lawyer.  His word and a handshake truly were his bond.  When it came to billing, there were no detailed time entries for Lewis (unlike the way it is with clients today).  When he entered his time for a day as "10.0 - work on file," no one questioned it.  If Lewis said he had worked on the file for 10 hours that day, then by God, that's what he had done.  

Everyone, and I mean everyone, respected Lewis Hollabaugh.  He was a lawyer's lawyer, and that's a high compliment.  He and the remaining name partner when I arrived at Manier, Herod - Don Smith - made me proud to be a lawyer.  More than that, they made me proud to be a lawyer at Manier, Herod.  

To me, Lewis was quiet and taciturn with those he didn't know well - young lawyers at the time, like me.  He didn't waste words, yet he was quick with a joke.  He had a mischievous, sly smile - like he knew something you didn't know - and a great sense of humor.  He was barrel chested and burly, country strong, as they say.  One thing I'll always remember about Lewis is that at parties for summer clerks, after a few drinks, he challenged the male summer clerks to arm wrestle him.  And he always won, easily, every time.  

I didn't know Lewis particularly well when we worked together at Manier, Herod.  He worked on the 22nd floor of what was then the Dominion Bank Building in downtown Nashville, and I worked on the 21st floor.  I probably did some legal research for him, perhaps when I was a summer associate, but I never worked on one of his cases.  I regret that, now, as I would love to have had the opportunity to learn from him, up close and personal, like I did from Steve Cox, Mike Evans, Mark Levan, Randall Ferguson, or Richard Smith.

Several of us who worked at Manier, Herod when Lewis was there have been in contact with each other the last 24 hours, by text or telephone.  We all agree those were special and instructive days for us as lawyers.  Those days and our exposure to Lewis and how he practiced law and ran the law firm informed how we practice law and manage our practices today.  

All of us took the lessons we learned from Lewis Hollabaugh at Manier, Herod and relied on them as we started our own law firms (Mark Levan, Benton Patton, me) or saw our careers flourish at other law firms (Lela Hollabaugh, John Rowland, Ken Weber, Stephanie Edwards). 

As I think about it, that's the professional legacy Lewis Hollabaugh leaves behind.  

First and most importantly, a daughter - Lela - who has succeeded as a commercial litigator and a trial lawyer and earned respect in a field often dominated by men.  Someone who has an unparalleled work ethic and is unflappable, no matter how small or big the case.  Someone who gives back to the community and mentors younger lawyers.  Someone who, during the two darkest periods of my life, was there for me as a friend and supporter in ways I can never repay.    

Second, a cadre of lawyers at law firms all across Middle Tennessee who practice law the right way.  Lawyers that work hard but have fun.  Lawyers whose word means not just something, but everything.  Lawyers that can be trusted.  Lawyers that judges, other lawyers, and clients respect.  

I'm grateful to have had Lewis Hollabaugh in the early, formative years of my career as a lawyer.  I hope I can carry on his legacy.      

Down from the Mountain

 It's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting in my favorite chair in my office at home sipping my first cup of real coffee in a week - thanks Dose! - decompressing after a week on the Mountain in a beautiful cabin in Monteagle.  Uncle Tupelo (Anodyne) is playing in the background - one of my 10 favorite albums all-time  - and one I revisited for the first time in a while in Monteagle.  Jude and the boys are downstairs, watching an NBA game and playing Scrabble.  

Back to real life. 

It was so nice to get away for a week, especially to Monteagle/Sewanee, one of my favorite places in the world.  Truthfully, I think I'd rather go there than the beach and I never thought I'd say that.  Certainly, the trip there and back is easier.  

Jude needed to get away and unplug for a week.  I did, too.  It was good for our family to spend that time together.  We all needed it.  

As I contemplated the end of our time on the Mountain the last couple of days, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was one of the last long vacations where the boys will be content to spend time with us, and each other, as opposed to having a friend or two around.  J.P. is 12 + and I can't help but think by the end of next summer, when he's a teenager, he may be less inclined to want to spend a week away with only his family as companions.  

For the most part, I think, Jude and I still are floating through the age of innocence with our boys.  J.P. doesn't have the slightest concern about girls.  He doesn't have a cell phone and, in truth, isn't fighting too hard to get one.  Neither J.P. nor Joe is into video games to any great extent, which is nice.  Our Xbox hasn't worked in weeks and neither one has complained about not having it much at all. 

My sense, though, is that a lot of that will change in the next year.  School at USN is starting remotely while other schools are starting in person.  Jude and I are trying to figure out how to set up some groups, or pods (I hate that word), for the boys so they interact socially with their classmates and friends at school.  I think that's important for both of them but especially J.P., as there's bound to be some drift between he and Cooper with Cooper entering 7th grade at Montgomery Bell Academy.

All of that is for later, though.  I want to list some of my memories from our week on the Mountain while they're still fresh on my mind.

• Hiking.   A lot of hiking and all of it 15 - 30 minutes away from the cabin. 
• Fiery Gizzard.  One family hike, then Jude and Joe returned two more times.  Yesterday, they hiked the two mile loop together and saw a frighteningly large snake on the trail.  The day before, Joe took his "crawfish net" and I'm still smiling envisioning him poised over the still part of the creek, waiting patiently for a crawfish to crawl out from under a rock so he could "catch" it.  He didn't catch one but Jude marveled at his patience.  Joe decided that the "wild crawfish" in the creek on the Mountain are much faster and harder to catch than the ones in the creek at Camp Whippoorwill.  
• Foster Falls.  We hiked - early one morning - to Foster Falls.  The hike down, over jumbled rocks, actually is harder than the hike back out.  We were the second group to arrive at the large swimming hole, across from which we could see the waterfall cascading down from high above.  J.P. and I swam out to the waterfall, then swam under it.  Pretty cool.  The water was very cold but not too bad, once you were in it for a few minutes. 
• I ran every day while we were at the cabin.  Every day, which was awesome.  J.P. and I had an unforgettable five mile run on the Trail of Tears greenway, which I wrote about earlier.
• Ping pong.  Lots of ping pong on the ping pong table in the garage.  I taught Jude and the boys how to play doubles and they loved it.  It pissed J.P. off royally that he and Jude couldn't beat Joe and me.  Until this morning, that is, when we played a final game before we left.  
• Grilling out.  J.P. loved lighting the charcoal in the grill and helping me manage the fire.  Jude cooked the burgers and I cooked the hot dogs.  A great meal.
• S'mores.  We built a fire in the fire pit outside.  A total team effort.  We sat around the fire, in the dark, as Jude and the boys made and ate their fill of S'mores.  
• Sewanee.  One morning, I went for a run, then met Jude and the boys at the Sewanee football field - always a must visit for us.  Jude and Joe threw the football while J.P. and threw the Aerobie on the football field.  
• Baseball.  J.P. took apart, then assembled the boys' hitting net.  The boys hit off the tee, into the net, facing the bluff, almost every day.  Doing work.
• Tennis.  Two days, we played tennis at the Sewanee tennis courts, adjacent to the golf course.  That was some real fun, actually.  It brought back memories of when Jude and I used to play regularly.  A lifetime ago, we used to play double not he Belmont University courts on Tuesday nights with Cyndi Baines and Kelli McAbee.  Those were the days.  I might see about getting J.P. a lesson or two at Seven Hills (our swim and tennis club), because he enjoyed himself so much.  I also might get my old Prince racquet and Jude's restrung.  
• Deadliest Catch.  We are way, way into Deadliest Catch which, I think, is on its 16th season on the Discovery Channel.  Back in the day, pre-kids, Jude and watched for two or three seasons.  This summer, I watched a few episodes from season 4 with the boys and they were hooked.  We watched a lot of season 6 this week.  
• Papa Ron's.  Up in Smoke.  The Blue Chair.  Gallery 41.  No Shenanigan's this time, because food and service was too poor last time.
• Lots of reading.  Blacktop Wasteland, by S.A. Cosby, followed by A Dangerous Man, Robert Crais's latest Elvis Cole/Joe Pike book.
• Jude napping in the hammock, every afternoon.
• J.P. and Joe playing Golden Tee.  A lot of Golden Tee.
• J.P. and I listening to the epic J.J. Redick podcast - his second to last for the Ringer - featuring Patrick Beverly.  So many good lessons for J.P. (and me) about hard work and what it takes to succeed athletically and, really, in life.  It was my second listen. 

And now we're back home.  Almost time for the boys to start school.  Time to get back after it.  Time to grind.  

All in all, a great vacation.  We'll be back on the Mountain in the not too distance future, I'm sure. 

A Run on the Mountain

Jude, the boys and I are staying at a cabin in Monteagle this week.  On Monteagle Mountain, so to speak. 

I love it up here.  Always have.  Normally, we go to Santa Rosa Beach the first week of August.  This year, though, with COVID-19 raging in Florida, I thought it would be prudent for us to stay closer to home.  

It's been a great week so far, although I've had to stay in touch with the office more than I had hoped.  The weather has been awesome with high's in the low 80's and low's in the low to mid 60's.  

Today, J.P. and I went for an afternoon run on the Trail of Tears greenway.  It's a nice, flat run and, as a bonus, the greenway is covered by a canopy of trees for nearly the entire route.    

Starting out, I suggested to J.P. we could run four or five miles.  His choice.  As we got going, I was leaning toward four miles because my legs were feeling a bit heavy, perhaps because I've run every day this week, including six miles on Tuesday.

As we approached the two mile mark, I sneaked a peak a J.P.  In spite of the fact that we were running at a brisk pace, he was cruising along right beside me.  Effortlessly or so it seemed.  

"Four or five?" I asked.  

"Let's do five," J.P. replied.  

So, five miles it was.  

Now, often when we run, J.P. runs just behind me, off my shoulder.  It's almost like he's a car on the interstate, driving slightly slower than me in the lane beside me, right in my blind spot.  He rarely runs right beside me. 

Today, for some reason, was different.  He ran beside me and continued to do so as we made the turnaround at the 2.5 mile mark.  

I like to run negative splits (second half of a run faster than the first half) and part of me wanted to see what the kid could do, so I picked up the pace.  Well, shit, I thought to myself, as he picked up the pace and continued to run right beside me.  Interesting.

I sneaked another look at him and smiled.  He was just running, lost in thought, not even breathing hard.  This might be trouble, I thought.  Deep water ahead.  

As I began to tire a bit - to feel the run - I could see that he was just fine.  Still, I pushed the pace a little more, just to see how he would react.  He didn't react, though.  The little bastard just ran faster.  Damn, I thought.  

At that point, I knew this was not a run I was going to forget.  

For the first time since we've been running together - hell, for the first time in his life - I realized that he could probably outrun me if he wanted to.  Probably.  I'm not conceding yet.  

As we neared the beginning of the fifth mile, I felt a myriad of emotions.  Pride, for sure.  A little bit sad, too, for my lost youth.  A little jealousy if I'm being honest of his youth and the life he has ahead of him.  Happiness, yes, and pure, unadulterated joy at sharing a run - a damn fine run, at that - with my son.  Admiration.  I felt blessed, too, by the hand of God, to be running down the greenway with J.P. and sharing that experience with him.  Not talking, just running.  I felt a real closeness to him in that moment and I wanted to hold onto to it, always.  I wanted to stay in that moment, almost like the way you try to go back to sleep when wake from a dream, in an often futile effort to drift back into the dream again.

The last half mile was downhill and we ran hard, tougher, until we finished.  

Our average pace was 7:58 per mile.  The last two miles were 7:43 and 7:37, and we could have run faster.  It wasn't race pace but it was a good, hard run.

Afterwards, we sat outside Mooney's Market & Emporium, on a picnic table, and cooled down as we drank the water we brought.   

My favorite run of the year.  Maybe my favorite run in many years.

The Last Days of the Dodgers

I'm going to write a book someday.  A book about baseball but, also, about so much more.

Things like coaching boys.  Watching your boys grow up.  Friendships forged.  Winning and losing.  Competing.  Sportsmanship.  Dealing with personal loss and grief.  Resiliency.  Teaching.

And, yes, baseball.

I'm going to call it "The Last Days of the Dodgers."

This morning, the Dodgers played our last game of the truncated spring/summer season.  It was nice to play the 8:30 a.m. game because it hadn't gotten hot yet.  Actually, it was a beautiful morning.

We lost to the Ballers for the fourth time.  7-3.  Previous losses were 5-2, 5-3, and 5-2.  I'm not going to recap this morning's game because that's not what this post is about but, in reality, it should have been a 4-3 game.  We had a couple of wild pitches that scored runs and a throw down to third that got away from Porter and allowed run to score.  The Ballers are slightly better than us but only by a run or two.  It's a good, competitive matchup for us.

It was our last game on the smaller fields (no. 3 and 4 at Warner Park).  Field 3 today.  Now, it's on to the prep field (no. 5).  Regulation baseball.  Bases 90' apart.  Pitching from 60' 6".  Just like in the big leagues.

It's a whole new ballgame.

All morning before the game and, really, during the game itself, I had one foot in the past and one foot in the present.  As I restlessly walked around on our side of the field during the game - the first base side, as we were the visiting team - my my wandered.

So many Dodgers' baseball games with this group for the past seven years.  Fall, spring, and summer.  Hot summer afternoons and cool, sometime cold, fall nights under the lights at Warner Park.

From coach pitch at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ on fields 4 and 5, nestled amongst the trees on the back of the property to machine pitch on fields 1, 2, and 3 at Harpeth Hills and Warner Park on field 2, 3, and 4.  From the first fall season of kid pitch on fields 3 and 4 at Warner Park, when the boys were eight and nine years old, struggling to learn how to steal bases, to today, watching our 12 year old boys play the game the right way.  Holding runners on, taking secondary leads, stealing bases, seeing real curve balls.

I thought about all of those games.  I saw ghosts on the baseball field.  I saw Wes, Benton, J.P., Porter,  J.K., Aidan, and Cooper, as five and six year olds, running around field 5 at Harpeth Hills after a Sunday practice, playing a game they called "diaper tag," as the parents watched, laughed, and talked amongst themselves, building the foundation of friendships that have flourished over the years.

In those days, I always marveled at the fact that the boys had as much, if not more, fun after practice than they had at practice.  And you know what?  That's the way it should have been.  And that's the way it was.

I thought about the ones that got away.

Brennan and Davis, who moved away.  I nicknamed Brennan's dad, Dan, "the Professor."  He ran the pitching for me when the boys were 7 and 8.  He was a master at making the micro-adjustments, in game, to the pitching machine that were necessary to give the boys good pitches to hit.

Ellis, from a single parent home, who more than anyone needed this team and the role modeling that all of us, as coaches, work hard to provide to the boys.  His mom simply couldn't or wouldn't get him to games and practices consistently, even though my coached and I offered to help with transportation.  She pulled him off the team mid-season, selfishly in my view.  I always hated that for Ellis.

Asher, the quiet one who joined us late and played first base and outfield.  He had talent.  His dad, also very quiet, always came to games in a Cubs hat and sat behind the backstop, reading.  I love to read, of course, but I cannot imagine reading at the ballpark while my son played baseball.

Asher drifted away from baseball which happens, of course.  Boys find other sports or don't enjoy hitting off of live pitching.  Or, sometimes, boys' parents don't enjoy baseball and the boys pick up on that.  Braden drifted away, too, after a long run with the Dodgers.    

Emerson, a girl, played with us one fall when the boys were 7 or 8.  As I recall, she was out third best hitter, a year older than most of our boys.  She played the game with such enthusiasm and joy.  It lifted everyone on the team, including coaches.  I always thought she had a crush on Wes that fall, although he was clueless.

I smiled to myself and thought about the first practice I ever lead, as head coach.  It was at Sevier Park and my father-in-law, Jim White, helped me.  We were the Red Sox that fall or spring.  I forget which but it's the only time I've coached a team that wasn't the Dodgers or Junior Dodgers.  I was nervous and, really, didn't know what the hell I was doing.  Still, Jim and I made it through that practice, and I made it through that season, and the core group of the Dodgers was on that team.  Crazy, when you think about it.

I thought about players, and families, whom we have picked up over the years.  Boys like Elijah, Ethan, Turner, and Nico.  I wish like hell they had been on the Dodgers from day 1 because they fit so well with the rest of our group.  Still, I am so glad they ended up with us and that I got to coach them.

I thought - a lot - about the love and gratitude I feel for my assistant coaches.  Chris Taylor, Tony Weeks, Randy Kleinstick, Will Wright, and Chad Poff.

The late night telephone conversations about lineups, which player is down and needs a little extra attention, scheduling, practice drills, and tournaments.  The "coaches meetings" I used to call when we would meet, after bedtime for our boys, at Edley's for a beer or two and a lot of baseball talk.

These men are the Dodgers.  They're role models for out boys, every one of them, and I love them for that.

I thought about how, when the boys were younger, after every game I would race with them out to right field to talk.  Win or lose, they ran with me, tackled each other, slid onto the ground, and we shared a few minutes together after the game.  Many times, half of them didn't know, or care, if we won or lost the game.  Yesterday, I walked with them out to right field again, for old time's sake, and spoke to them.

I told them how much I loved them.  I thanked them for this season and for giving me, and my coaches, a sense of purpose again, and providing a distraction from the stress of every day life.  I told them I was proud of them.  I told them how lucky they were to have such a great coaching staff.  

So many games on so many fields for the Dodgers over the last seven years.  I've loved every game, every inning, every pitch.  Wins and losses.  Individual triumphs and individual failures.  Lessons learned, by the boys and, of course, by me.

I don't know what the future holds with middle school ball looming for several members of our baseball team, including J.P.  I think, and hope, the Dodgers will play together in the fall on the big field at Warner Park.  We'll lose a few players but all signs point toward having most of our core group.  I hope that's the way it works out.

Either way, it's the last days of the Dodgers.  Or close to it.

And it's been one helluva ride.