Old Friends are the Best Friends

I'm blessed with a close knit group of friends from high school.  With my 57th birthday around the corner and one of our group terminally ill, I find myself thinking a lot about friendship, the passage of time, and how those two concepts are interrelated.  

Maybe everyone feels this way but the group of guys I ran with in high school were special.  We were tight, maybe because we were the second graduating class in a new high school.  Our senior class in 1984 was small with fewer than 130 students.  Our community - Brentwood, TN - was small and bucolic, dotted with a horse farms and open land.  Everyone knew each other or so it seemed in the early 1980's.   

Sometimes I think what we didn't have made us closer to each other, then and now.  No internet.  No cell phones.  No computers.  No laptops.  No iPads.  No Instagram or SnapChat.  No Xbox or Playstation, although we gathered at the Brentwood Fun Factory to play video games for a couple of years during the arcade's limited run.  

Doug, Jay, David, Greg, Corley, Neil, Mike, Jabba, Jeroutek, Wass, Rip.  

Every name on that list is attached to a flood of memories.  Woven together, those names form the tapestry of my young life.  

Over the years, of course, some of us drifted apart as we moved away, married, had families, and lived our adult lives.  Others stayed in touch - particularly as the children got older - and visited or vacationed together.  

Recently, after one of our group - Greg - lost his father, he and I spoke briefly at the visitation.  I've known him the longest of our group, as he and his family moved to our neighborhood in 1976.  Latecomers, comparatively speaking, as we had been there since 1972.  He and I played baseball and football together as boys, then went to junior high school and high school together, as well.

Greg returned to town to stay for a week and to check in on his mom a couple of weeks after his dad died.  He and I tried to make time to get together and it almost didn't happen.  We settled on coffee on his last day in town before he left to return to Hilton Head, SC, where he lives.   

Although we only spent an hour and a half together, it was time well spent.  Time I needed to reconnect with Greg, talk and laugh, and reminisce a bit, too.  He invited Jude and me to bring the boys to see he and his wife in Hilton Head, SC, or at his house in the mountains in North Carolina, and we're going to make time to do it.  

Reconnecting seems more important, more urgent, since one of our group - David - was diagnosed earlier this year with a glioblastoma.  He's not going to make it - it's hard to even write that - and in our own way, we're all thinking about what that means.  To David, his family, and to all of us.  It's not something any of us have faced so processing it is difficult, at least for me.

I feel guilty about missing JP playing baseball in Louisville, KY, and Joe playing baseball in Donelson this weekend.  However, I wanted to get together with Doug and Mike on the Mountain, not so much to go to Bonnaroo but to spend time together.  

This time last year, David was healthy and on top of the world, professionally and personally.  Now, everything is different.  Irrevocably altered for David, his family, and all of us.  

I tend to look for the lessons in life, especially in times of adversity.  What can I learn?  What can I change?  

The lesson here, for me, is to reconnect.  Find time to be with my oldest friends.  Make the effort.  And that's what I'm going to do.

 

Dimmick Lake

For the first time in, well, forever, I slept past 8 a.m. this morning.  More than eight hours of sleep is a rarity for me.  My down time - my reading time - is at night after the everyone goes to bed.  I don't have the discipline to force myself to go to bed at or before 11 p.m., as I probably should.  

For now, I'm sitting in Stirling's Coffee House, one of my favorite spots in the world.  I love watching the students, faculty members, locals, and visitors smiling and chatting as they wait in line to order or wait for the coffee or food.  It's Sewanee.  

I ran three miles on the Dimmick Lake trail this morning.  It's one of my favorite runs.  Though I didn't run all the way back to the lake, it was still a beautiful run through the woods on the Mountain.  As my back felt a little balky this morning and I'm on the back end of a lingering head cold, I only ran three miles (same as yesterday).

As summer arrives every year, I find myself doubting my fitness level and ability to continue running regularly.  The rational part of my brain realizes this is something that I go though every year as my body struggles to adapt to running in hotter, more humid conditions.  The adaptation part is what kicks my ass.  It gets harder and harder every year to go from running in cooler, more pleasant weather, to running in hotter weather.  This year, a head cold wore me out, too, so I feel like I'm starting over just a bit.  

I seem to notice more aches and pains in my body.  Less than a month from 57, my low back hurts in the morning.  My right knee hurts and my ankles are stiff in the morning.  The back pain is the most concerning, as I don't see it getting better as I age.  

Lately, I've taken to going on walks later at night, often after 10 p.m.  It's strange, I guess, to walk two or three miles on a night when I could go for a run.  It's just that I don't like to start a run after 9 p.m. for some reason but walking is different, somehow.  I guess. 

Assuming good health with my knees, hips, and back, I don't see myself stopping running anytime soon.  However, for the first time, I can envision a time when I'll walk every day.  Three or four miles. 

Doug and Mike are a couple hours away from the Mountain, coming from different directions.  Time to head back to the cabin, shower, and read for a bit.  

Damn, I'm glad to be here.

Return to the Mountain

Better late than never, I arrived at the Jennings' cabin in Clifftops late this afternoon.  Normally, I leave on Wednesday but this year, I couldn't get away until Thursday.  I had hope to leave early but I had to finish a few things for work before I left, so I camped out at Bongo Java - like the old days - for a couple of hours before JP helped me pack for the trip.

The important thing, of course, is that I made it back to the Mountain.  Monteagle Mountain.  Slowly, the stress of an incredibly busy few weeks at work is slipping away.  I'm sitting in the screened in porch listening to Radiohead - Pablo Honey - and album I've become obsessed with, thanks to Rohan Chitale.  I can't stop listening to it and, like all great albums, I find a different song every few days that I love.  

I knew about Radiohead but I'd never listened to them, which is weird because I'm such a fan of all types of music.  Pablo Honey was released in 1993, so it's been out in the world for 30 years!  Somehow, I never bumped into it until very recently.  I overheard Rohan talking about Radiohead at one of Joe's baseball games earlier this spring and I joined the conversation.  One thing led to another and he sent me a Radiohead playlist on Spotify.  The rest is history.

It reminds of the time, years ago, when Chris Vlahos introduced me to My Morning Jacket after a law league softball game.  After listening to Evil Urges (2008), which I think had been released that summer, was hooked.  I worked my way through the older MMJ albums and fell in love with the first one, The Tennessee Fire (1999).  I bet I've listened to it 200 times.  

Music, of course, is what brings me to the Mountain again.  Bonnaroo.  I think it's this is the eighth consecutive year I've been to Bonnaroo, not including the consecutive years it was canceled, 2020 (Covid-19) and 2021 (flooding).  As much as I enjoy listening to music at Bonnaroo, though, it's become as much about getting away for a few days and spending time with my friends.

This weekend, Doug Brown and Mike Matteson are joining me.  They will arrive tomorrow, midday, Doug from Atlanta and Mike from Franklin.  This year, no Hughey, Seve, or Bonnaroo Bill.  I'm not sure the original crew will make it to Bonnaroo again.  Hughey travels every summer with his family and Bonnaroo Bill, the oldest in our group, sold his architecture business and retired.  Chances are, he is hanging out with his wife in their Airstream somewhere far from her, remembering the days when he used to go to Bonnaroo.  

Paul and Lisa are so generous to give us their cabin every year.  It's the perfect place for me to unwind.  In Clifftops, on the Mountain.  j

Home.

Empty Nest

Last Saturday morning, JP left for Rome.  Jude, Joe, and I saw him off at the Nashville airport.  11 days away, as he returns on Tuesday.  It's an amazing opportunity for him to see Rome and party of Italy with the Latin Club at MBA, made possible through the Wilson Grant.  JP had a couple of friends that went on the trip last summer and being selected for the trip was a goal of his.  He wrote and essay and his grades I Latin were stellar this year.  Off to Rome he went.

Joe left for a week away at Camp Widjiwagon on Sunday.  He camped there last year, too, mostly because JP had gone to sports camp for three weeks at the Woodbury Forest sports camp the previous summer.  Joe idolizes his big brother, of course, and wanted to go to Woodbury Forest last summer.  Jude and I thought three weeks away at age 10 was a bit much for someone who had never been to overnight camp at all, so we compromised and sent him to Camp Widjiwagon.  Joe had a good time last year, so back he went this year.  

A week off, so to speak, has been nice, although Jude and I miss the boys terribly.  Sadly, I've been crushed at work this week - three mediations and several new clients, among other things - so Jude and I haven't had as much quality time to ourselves as I had hoped.  

We walked down and had dinner at Epice on Sunday evening, which was nice.  Epice is one of our favorites.  Great good.  Great service.  A place to unwind, for us, and to talk about how lucky we are to have the children we have.  That's been a theme lately, for sure.

Monday evening, I had a late softball game.  Tuesday and Wednesdays, I had mediations.  I got home a little bit late, so we stayed in and watched the Office.  A lot of the Office which, of course, reminded his of Joe.  I think it's his favorite show, by far.  I'm not sure why because at age 11, a lot of the humor goes right over his head.  Still, he loves Michael Scott (Steve Carell) and the entire cast of characters at Dunder Mifflin's Scranton office.

Thursday night, Jude made reservations for us to have dinner with Russ and Susanna at Urban Grub at 7:45 p.m.  Jude and I walked down to meet them on a beautiful late spring evening.  We're spoiled, I know, living in a neighborhood like Belmont/12South, where we can walk to restaurants any night of the week.  Location, location, location, right?

Although our table wasn't ready when we arrived, eventually we were seated outside, which was awesome.  As I've written in this space before, Russ and Susanna are "friends that fit," and it was nice to spend an evening with them over wine and good food.  For me, it doesn't get much better than sharing a meal with friends.  Talking, laughing, learning, getting caught up, all while drinking a good bottle of wine.  It's the best.

Last night, Jude and I went to the Nashville School of Law Annual Dinner and Banquet.  My firm bought a table, as we did last year, although I didn't attend that event.  Lauren, Rob, Andrea, Lee, Hannah, Stephanie, Vanessa, Sharon, Elizabeth, Jude and me.  Great table.  Great event.  

Since I co-taught the Family Law Trial Practice last semester at NSL, I thought it was important that I attend the event.  Damn, I'm glad a did because it was reminiscent of the Nashville Bar Association Annual Dinner at Christmas that I attended religiously for almost two decades.  Jude and I saw so many friends and longtime colleagues last night.  It made me feel good to be a lawyer, which is the way I used to feel every year at the NBA Annual Dinner.  

Afterwards, we fought through the CMA crowd as we walked to Jude's parking garage.  She gave me an impromptu tour of the Senate and House Chambers - now abandoned for almost four years - under the Legislative Plaza.  I felt like I had walked onto the set of Planet of the Apes as Charlton Heston walks through the abandoned subway tunnels.  I saw meeting rooms, office,  and committee hearing rooms.  It was a surreal feeling to imagine how much of our state's business had been done there once upon a time.

A pay phone.  Wow.

Jude is off to pick up Joe, early, from Camp Widjiwagon this morning, so he can play in an all-start baseball tournament with the Braves today, starting at 10:15 a.m.  We can't wait to get him home, then JP on Tuesday.  

The Night of the Kid

Tuesday night, MBA held a graduation ceremony for the eighth grade class.    

It was a night to celebrate the successful completion of two challenging, yet rewarding, years of middle school for the eighth grade boys.  A night to congratulate the boys and allow them a chance to hear their name called, walk across the stage, and accept a certificate that marked the end of middle school at MBA. An ending and a beginning, as high school looms across the summer divide.  

It was also the night of the Kid.

JP has worked so hard the past two years.  Every night, without fail, he came home from whatever sport he had been practicing or from a game - cross country, soccer, basketball, and baseball - took a shower, and started studying upstairs in his room.  He took a break for dinner, then he studied until almost bedtime.  Another break - 30 minutes or so - to watch a game with me on television, then off to bed.  Every single school night.

On weekends, he had a bit of free time.  Still, he missed most of Joe's basketball and baseball games, because he stayed home and studied.  He skipped Belmont basketball games, sometimes, to study in "the Grind House" (the name he gave his room in the beginning of seventh grade).

Never once in two years, through all of seventh and eighth grade, did Jude or I have to remind JP to study or check in to see if he was on top of things from an academic standpoint.  He did the work.  He prepared. He studied.  He completed his projects.  He grinded because that's what JP does.

He was on the privilege list every quarter of seventh and eighth grade, which is reserved for boys who have an A average across all of their classes.  Those boys get a little more freedom during the school day to study in different places and roam the campus a bit.  JP's final report card for his eighth grade year was stellar, as he finished with all A's for the year.  No small feat, to be sure.

I won't recount his athletic exploits in this post because I've written about them in this space many times before.  Suffice to say he's worked hard to get better at all of the sports he's played at MBA and he's contributed to every team on which he's played.  JP burns with a competitive desire that's unique.  He wants to get better and he wants every team he plays on to succeed.  This year, by necessity, he's been a leader on his teams, and that's not necessarily something that comes easily or naturally for JP.  

As Jude, Joe, and I sat together under the trees and out of the late evening sunshine Tuesday evening, what I mostly felt was pride and gratitude.  Pride in how hard JP had worked the past two years and in the example he had set for Joe.  Gratitude for my family and for the fact JP has the opportunity to go to school at MBA and be a part of the MBA community.  It's the perfect place for him, really.

As per tradition, before the eighth graders are recognized individually for graduating from the Junior School, a variety of awards are given out to seventh and eighth graders.  Everything from Presidential Fitness awards and citizenship awards to various academic awards.  A lot of awards.  When a boy's name is called, he walks up front, is recognized, and receives his award as the spectators and his classmates. applaud.

Although he never told us it was the case, JP really wanted to receive the award for Eighth Grade Athlete of the Year.  Joe wanted him to receive it more than anyone because he is JP's biggest fan and number one supporter.  As I've always said, JP is Joe's superhero.  More than anyone, Joe wants everyone to know how great JP is.  It's a special relationship, to be sure, that the two of them have as brothers.  

Driving over together to the event, I reminded Joe that in our family, we don't work hard to get awards.  We work hard to get better, academically and athletically, and the reward is in the journey not the outcome.  I also reminded him that in my view, it's difficult for a seventh or eighth grader to be the best athlete at MBA if he doesn't play football which, of course, is the bell cow of sports at MBA.

Still, when it came time to announce the best athlete awards, the three of us leaned forward slightly, almost imperceptibly.  I surprised myself a little bit with how badly I wanted JP to be awarded the Best Athlete for Eighth Grade.  I wanted it not for myself but for him, because I know how hard he worked, how much he cared about winning and making the teams he played on better, and how hard he took his teams' losses.  

When the announcement was made - "JP Newman" - Joe grinned widely, started clapping, then fist bumped Jude and me.  Jude and audibly sighed in relief, as JP walked up to get his award.  A couple of friends of mine with boys in JP's class immediately texted me congratulations.  Gavin O'Hare, sitting a couple of rows in front of me, turned around with a grin on his face and fist bumped me.  He was as happy for JP as I was, which meant a great deal to me.  

For us, the night was complete.  Except that it wasn't over.  Not yet.  What happened a few minutes later was something I will remember for the rest of my life. 

To close out the evening, Brad Gioia, the longtime retiring head of school at MBA, walked to the podium to announce the winner of the Best Boy of the Seventh Grade and the most important award of the night, the Walter Noel, Jr. Outstanding Boy of the Junior School.  

JP's baseball teammate, Will Brock, was named the Best Boy of the Seventh Grade.  His dad is a teacher and assistant football coach at MBA and one of JP's favorite teacher.  Will is a great kid, so we were pleased to see him get the award.

Next, Mr. Gioia began a long description of the winner of the Walter Noel, Jr. Outstanding Boy of the Junior School, the suspense building.  He described a boy whose hard work in all of his classes set and example for his classmates.  He described a boy whose humility, friendliness, and quiet sense of humor made all of his classmates feel comfortable around him.  He described a boy who competed like no other on the athletic fields in a variety of sports and who, according to his coaches, "was the very soul of every team he played on."  

Tears came to my eyes when Mr. Gioia said, "MBA is a better place for having this boy here.  The winner of the Walter Noel, Jr. Outstanding Boy of the Junior School is . . . JP Newman."  In fact, tears come to my eyes as I write this on Sunday morning sitting in Dose having coffee.  

Jude and I were stunned.  She teared up and Joe cheered.  My cell phone exploded with text messages, again, from friends who were there and I just shook my head and smiled.  I watched in a state of disbelie as JP walked up to receive the award and shake Mr. Gioia's hand.  

As a father, I've watched JP grow up.  I've seen him take over a soccer game against his USN classmates in third or fourth grade and will his team to victory with a second half performance that remains one of my favorite sports memories.  I've seen him strike out batters to end games.  I was on the field when he won a state championship in baseball at age 11 and was name to the all tournament team.  I've seen him win cross country race after race.  

I've also seen him fail, then pick himself up to try again.  I saw him take too big of a turn around second base in an all-star game in Bellevue and get picked off to end the game - and the tournament for his team - when the centerfielder threw behind him.  I've seen him get out kicked by his eighth grade teammate, Cade, at the end of the HVAC cross country championship in his seventh grade year.  I've seen him in tears when as he struggled to figure out how to lead the basketball team and get the most out of himself, and his teammates, during a tough stretch of games.   

I've seen all of that and more.  

Watching JP receive the Walter Noel, Jr. Award, though, was probably my proudest moment as his father.  

I called Jon Meade on the drive home.  I wanted him to know about the awards that JP had received and, more importantly, I wanted him to know that I felt Carley's presence there with us.  I also wanted him to know that all of the time Carley spend with JP when she nannied for us and all that she taught JP about how to be curious, how to be friendly and kind, how to love life and love others - all of that was an important part of JP's accomplishments at MBA in the two years he has been there.  

I was emotional as Jon and I talked and he was, too.  It was a special moment.

Price and gratitude.  I still feel those emotions.  

What a night for JP.  

  

The Nationals

And just like that it was over.

Joe's brief run with Coach Troy and the Nationals for a short spring baseball season closed with a loss to the Braves, 6-5, in the WNSL end of season tournament last weekend.  The last 4 games of the season were decided by one run.  An 18-17 win, a 4-3 loss, a 2-1 win, and a 6-5 loss.  

I was proud of Joe for how he pitched in the Braves' game.  Joe came on in relief - after Emmett and Ram - and retired all seven batters he faced, striking out three of the first four.  His control was great, which has not been the case as of late.  Joe has struggled uncharacteristically on the mound this spring, so it was nice to see him finish strong and have something to build on as he moves into all-stars and June baseball.

Several of Joe's teammates will move in to Prep baseball one the big field, as they're turning 13 years of age in the near future.  Eli, James, Jack, Bryce.  All good boys. 

A quick word about Eli, a player I quickly grew to admire this season.  Versatile, tough, very coachable.  A winner.  Excellent shortstop with great instincts.  An absolute animal as a pitcher.  Tough as nails.  He finished the Padres off in the Nationals' 2-1 win in between throwing up in the dugout after eating Hardees chicken tenders before the game.  (Insert Hardees' joke here.). I'd like to have had the opportunity to coach Eli, as I like his makeup.  He has that something.  Actually, he reminds a little bit of JP.  Quiet, determined, confident on the baseball field.

It was a blessing, for sure, to land with Coach Troy and the Nationals, and for Joe to be able to play with original Junior Dodgers Trey, George, Ram, and Nico.  During a recent game when Eli was pitching, I realized the entire infield was Junior Dodgers, all 11 year olds in an 11-12 year old league.  Trey at third base, Joe at shortstop, Ram and second base, and Nico at first base.  It made be proud to see that.  Very proud.  

It worked out well for Coach Troy and for our boys, too.  Troy had unexpectedly lost several of his players  before the season started, so I was able to land my guys as a group on a ready made team with a handful of players that had played together in past seasons.  It took some work on my part combined with dumb luck, but it happened.  

While it sucked for a variety of reasons to be left by Oliver Davis - formerly a close friend - without a baseball team to play with a week and a half before the spring baseball season started, the parents of my boys were pleased with the way the season unfolded.  Our boys were ready for 11-12 year old baseball.  Real baseball.  More than one parent mentioned to me how glad they were we weren't spending another season playing with inexperienced players against cupcake teams.  Baseball players develop, physically and emotionally, by playing against a higher level of competition.  The struggle is what make them tougher and, in the end, better baseball players.  

Winning games in a 9-10 year old league against opposing pitchers who can't throw strikes while at least two of your players' voices already have changed isn't my idea of good competition.  Some parents, like Oliver, choose the easy road for their boys.  They coddle them.  In sports and in life.  That's not any way.  To each his own, I guess.

Judging from JP's success and the success of his Dodgers teammates - Wes, Benton, Porter, Jonathan, and Elijah - I'm pretty confident my Dodgers' coaches and I did it the right way.  All of those boys were contributors to their middle school or freshman/junior varsity baseball teams this season.  All of those boys initially took their lumps when we moved them up, early, to the next age group in WNSL baseball.  They were stronger because of the struggles, though, and then won a state championship when they were 11 years old, too.     

As I've written, it was different for me to watch Joe and his teammates play baseball and not to be coaching.  A different vantage point, to be sure.  I suspect I will be back out on the field coaching Joe in the fall in one capacity or another.  

It was fun watching the parents of the Nationals' boys grow closer as then season progressed.  The players quickly bonded, too.  Joe is the kind of kid that manages to fit in wherever he is on whatever team his is playing for at the moment.  He's a natural leader.  Confident, charismatic, funny, and kind.  Always a good teammate and always coachable.  

It will be interesting to see what the baseball future holds for this group of boys.  

Mother's Day

It's been a little more than four years since my mom died.  I think about her almost every day, even now.  Mother's Day is bittersweet and I guess that will never change.  While I very much appreciate my wife, Jude, and all that she does for our boys, it's hard for me to shake the melancholy I feel on Mother's Day.

It's strange but I'm afraid if I think too deeply about my mother and all that I miss about my relationship with her, I'll find myself enveloped in sadness and unable to function properly.  Pondering all that was lost the last few years of her life and when she died is an exercise in emotional futility.  I don't think there is anything to be gained by it other than feeling sorry for myself.  

Still, it's hard not to think about how much my mom would have loved seeing my boys grow up.  JP and Joe would have had so much fun talking sports with her.  Her love of sports - reading the sports page, watching and going to games, listening to sports talk radio - would have been the coin of the realm in her relationship with them, much as it was in her relationship with me.  Ours was such a unique relationship - deeper in many ways that mother and son - a friendship or a kinship of sorts.  I know she would have had a similar relationship with my boys.

Beyond that, my mother dedicated her life to her children and to her family.  After the death of my father my 31 year old mother could have done anything with her life.  She was young, intelligent, attractive and living in California, just outside Los Angeles.  She was financially secure, whatever that meant in the early 1970's due in part to life insurance and a prudent investment she and my dad made in stock in a hospital.  She could have dated, remarried, and maybe had another child or two.

She did none of those things, however.  She moved her young family from California to middle Tennessee to be closer to her family, I suppose, with a sister in Green Hills and another one in Gallatin.  She dated - briefly - on only one occasion that I can recall.  Instead, she took care of Tracy and me, adding Alice to our family when her sister died in the late 1970's.   

That's not all she did, of course.  Shortly after we moved back to Tennessee, she earned a master's degree in education from Vanderbilt's Peabody College of Education and taught at an inner city school for a couple of years.  She returned to nursing, later, and worked nights for 17 years at Baptist Hospital, where she positively impacted many, many lives and families.  

What she did mostly, though, is talk care of her family.  My Aunt Margaret then, in later years, her mother (my grandmother).  And Tracy, Alice, and me and, of course, Kaitlyn, Matthew (Tracy's children) and mine, too.  She so loved her grandchildren.

What might have been is hard place to go, for me, anyway.  I wish my mom could have seen JP and Joe compete.  Although she would have been a nervous wreck, she would have loved watching JP pitch a seven inning complete game in a 1-0 loss to David Lipscomb in the final game of his middle school baseball season.  She also would have loved to watch Joe play left field, shortstop, and pitcher, and lead his team from all three positions.  

Similarly, my mom would have loved watching JP be confirmed in the Catholic Church after almost two years of classes.  She would have loved watching Joe take his first communion, too.  

Maybe, though, she is watching JP and Joe, or watching over JP and Joe.  That's what I need to believe and it's what I do believe.  

Happy Mothers' Day, Mom.  I miss you.