Joe at 11

Joe turned 11 years old yesterday, which is unfathomable in so many ways.  He's growing up so fast and he does, I am growing older, so it's bittersweet.  

I miss the stroller days, when Joe was two years old and JP was six years old.  It was an innocent, unblemished time, or so it seems in retrospect.  My mom was alive.  Carley, of course, was alive and healthy.  Carley shared a special bond with Joe, I've always thought.  I see so much of her in Joe and JP, too.  Those boys loved her fiercely.  Still do.  It's tough, sometimes, when I stop and think about how much my mom and Carley would have enjoyed watching my boys grow up.

As I think Jude sensed earlier on than I did, it's a little bit harder, as a parent, to watch Joe grow up.  With JP, we knew Joe was coming right along behind him, so we would get to do it all over again.  It's different with Joe, because he is our youngest.  There is no one coming along behind him, so everything he does we are experiencing for the last time.  From a nostalgia standpoint, that's tough for me to realize sometimes.  

Joe and I share a love of music, especially Tom Petty.  He loves Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers like I do, which is saying something.  I love to play music for him, particularly music from my past, or present, that he hasn't heard yet.  Recently, I stumbled upon a song, "Eyes to the Wind," by War on Drugs, when it appeared on my Spotify Discover playlist one Monday morning.  I couldn't stop listening to the song and I played it for Joe.  To my delight, a few weeks ago I heard it playing on Alexa, upstairs, one morning as he was getting up to go go school.  On his own, he has asked Alexa to play it as his alarm the next day when it was time to get up.  That made my so happy.

That's what Joe does for me so often.  He makes me smile and laugh.  He makes me happy, always.  

Joe is like me in many other ways.  He's perfectly comfortable being in the spotlight, most of the time.  He's a natural leader.  Other kids gravitate to him.  It's always been that way.  He leads on the basketball court, on the baseball field, and on the soccer field.  I don't think he sets out to lead his teammates but they look to him, which is the way it is with natural leaders. 

Joe's intensely and outwardly competitive, which is something that worried Carley at times because it was hard for her to relate to, I think.  I love it, of course, because I have long believed that as a parent, it's possible to channel competitiveness in a positive direction when a kids has it.  If a kid is not competitive and doesn't have it - whatever "it" is - it's hard put it in them.  At times, we have to dial Joe back a bit but I  am okay with that as it relates to competitiveness.  Again, it's easier to dial it back than to dial it up, so to speak.

It's been a great year for Joe, I think.  Captain of his club soccer team.  The leader of his basketball team, as a real glue guy.  A leader on his baseball team.  A leader at school, on the playground and in the classroom.  He's well behaved at school (and at home) and a friend to many, moving easily from group to group.  

Jude and I are so lucky to have the boys we have.  We're even luckier that they have each other, especially as older parents.  JP is such a great big brother to Joe.  Joe continues to worship JP and is loyal beyond measure.  

Happy Birthday, Joe.  I am so proud of you and I love you.  

Mardi Gras 2023

It's 7 a.m. and I am having coffee at CR Coffee on Magazine Street in New Orleans.  JP and I discovered CR Coffee after a 5 mile run a couple of days ago.  Cool place in an old house.  Nice seating inside, including a couple of easy chairs, one of which I am sitting in right now.  Great hidden patio on the side of the house.  Very New Orleans.  Good coffee, too.

Very different vibe from Undergrowth Coffee, another coffee shop I hit on Magazine after a run the day after we arrived.  That place was cool, too, just different.  A bit more of a hole in the wall but in a shotgun style building that went back and back and back to a walled off patio that actually was pretty cool.  

Where would I be without a place to get coffee in the morning or after a run?  

It's been a good trip, though a bit exhausting.  Parades, parades, and more parades.  I was done and ready to go home last night near the beginning of Bacchus.  Jude, of course, insisted on staying until the end, so we did.  We walked home, at frozen pizza, and fell into bed.  

The house we rented through VRBO - almost a year ago - is fantastic.  It's a converted basement in a large house on Camp Street, conveniently located a few blocks from our preferred parade viewing spots on St. Charles and, yesterday, Napoleon.  It's a block off of Magazine Street, which has restaurants, bars, and art galleries aplenty in both directions.  Three big bedrooms - all with king sized beds - which the boys loved.  Four full bathrooms, too, which is crazy.  

Certainly, if and when we return to New Orleans, I could see us staying in the same place again.

After a relatively uneventful flight down, Judy and Bob Quinilty were kind enough to pick us up at the airport late Thursday night and drive us to their house in Metairie, where we stayed overnight.  Friday morning, we picked up the rental car in Metairie, which was much more convenient than dealing with trying to get a rental car at the airport.  Then, it was off to find out house on Camp Street.

We found a decent but not great spot on St. Charles to watch the parades later that day with Jude's friend Jeff - El Jefe, the founding father of Foodbrothers - and his family.  It was fun spending time with them all weekend.  

Saturday morning, we hooked up with Jude's cousins, Ann and Catherine, and their families for more parade watching.  Much to Joe's delight, we had an early birthday dinner at what is maybe his favorite restaurant on earth, Frankie and Johnny's.  In his telling of the story, it's the first place he ate fried shrimp, so it's his go to dish there.  

Saturday night, Jude and I left our camping chairs and a couple of moving blankets I scrounged up in a new viewing spot on Napoleon Avenue.  Veteran move.  It secured us a spot for watching the three parades we saw yesterday, although I spent a considerable amount of time defending our turf from others - who had not been out there since 7 a.m., like us - who want to stand in front of us.  It was a complete madhouse by the time Bacchus started, as Jude predicted.  Everyone, everywhere, all at once.  

It's Joe's birthday today - 11 years old - more own that later.  I'm ready to get home, which we'll do later this afternoon after brunch with Judy and Bob Quinilty.  

A quick trip.  Action packed.  Lots of parades and a lots of beads (which I have not idea how we will get home).  

Angus Returns and Prayers are Answered

I have always said a miracle is in the eyes of the beholder.  What seems like a miracle to me might not be a miracle to you.  

For reasons I discussed in this space long, long ago, finding out Jude was pregnant with Joe - and the way we found out - was a miracle to us.  I believe God's hands are in all miracles and without question, His hands were in Jude's pregnancy and Joe's subsequent birth.

Tuesday night, I saw another miracle, and God's hands were in that one, too.  

Angus came home.

As the temperature dropped outside and the rain turned to sleet, Joe ran upstairs to my office, shouting "Angus is back!  Angus is back!"  JP and I ran downstairs to the kitchen and, sure enough, there he was.  Angus.  There were tears in my eyes as I reached down, carefully, to pet him. 

His poor feet were scraped up pretty badly, as was one of his legs.  It was clear something had happened to him and, most likely he had been holed up somewhere nearby, licking his wounds, literally and figuratively.  My guess - and what the veterinary tech surmised later - is that he was hit by a car Sunday afternoon or evening and was hurt badly enough that he couldn't get home.  Alternatively, he might have been confused and unable to find his way home, at least at first.

Either way, I think that as the weather turned and it began to sleet, he knew he had to find the strength and will to get home if he was going to survive.  So, that's what he did.

This is where it gets a little - okay, a lot - personal for me.  Since Angus had been missing, I had not been myself.  My equilibrium was off, because not knowing if he was okay, or hurt, or dead, was weighing heavily on my heart.  Most importantly, I knew my boys were hurting, especially Joe.  Watching them get up off the couch every few minutes and look out the back door at the deck and the back yard - looking for some sign of Angus - was heartbreaking.  

Monday afternoon, I left work and drove out to the Davidson County Animal Shelter on Harding Road to see for myself the cats that had been turned in over the past few days.  I saw a couple that looked like Angus but weren't him.  Honestly, it was kind of depressing to see these poor animals there with little or no hope of being reunited with their owners or being adopted.

One of the workers at the Animal Shelter suggested I post a message in a Facebook group that's for people if Davidson or Williamson Counties who have lost pets.  I am not a Facebook guy.  Far from it, in fact.  Somehow - and I'm not sure how this happened - my original Facebook account was deleted, not by me, though.  I was told it was damn near impossible to delete your Facebook account.  Still, my account managed to delete itself.

I didn't miss it because the only time I got on Facebook was when someone I knew died.  Facebook just wasn't my thing.  Twitter, Instagram, yes.  Facebook, no.

Nonetheless, I posted a photo of Angus on Skippy Lou's Lost and Found Pets, a Facebook group for people of have lost (or found) pets in Williamson or Davidson Counties.  It's crazy but within minutes of posting the photo and leaving a message, several people replied.  Some posts provided helpful hints for how to find a missing cat and other just offered kind words and, yes, prayers.  A lot of prayers for Angus and our family.

I was touched by the generosity of spirit of so many complete strangers.  I also was struck by the fact that in this age of toxicity in social media, through dumb luck I had stumbled upon a group of kind and caring individuals, united by a love of animals.  There was no red or blue, no Republican or Democrat, just a group of strangers who genuinely cared about my family and really, really wanted Angus to come home to us.  

It sounds trite, I know, but the reaction of those people on Skippy Lou's Lost and Found Pets restored my faith in my fellow man, or woman, as the case would be.  

So, I find myself sitting in the lobby of the Graduate Hotel on Sunday morning, have a cup of coffee (Poindexter's), listening to a young man play guitar, waiting on JP to finish his Sunday school class across the street at The Cathedral of the Incarnation (where Jude and I were married 20 years ago this month).  I'll pick up JP in thirty minutes and we'll head to church at St. Patrick's.  And Angus is at home, resting comfortably as he has been all week.  

I earnestly prayed for a miracle, for Angus to return home, one way or another.  And he did, just as the temperatures dropped and the freezing rain started.  He was injured but he was home.  Did God hear my prayers, and Jude's prayers, and the boys' prayers?  Of course he did.  That's what I believe, anyway.

God is great, life is good, people are kind, and I'm content.  It doesn't get much better than that.

Angus

Almost two years ago, a stray cat wandered into our lives and stole our hearts.  Two days ago, he disappeared and now our hearts are broken.

On her morning walks, Jude first noticed Angus on 12th Avenue, as a kitten, hiding under a tarp that covered a car outside a vintage clothing store.  Evidently, he noticed her every morning because after a few months, he followed her home and appeared on our back deck.  He was scared of us, and everything, at first, but over a few days we made friends with him.  Soon enough, he was sitting in our laps in the wrought iron chairs we have on the back deck.

I named him Angus because he had a pair of giant balls of which he seemed to be very proud.  Angus Young was the lead guitar player of AC/DC.  One of their old songs is "Big Balls."  It's a silly song, filled with double entendres.  The boys loved it when they were young, although they didn't really understand it.  That's how Angus became Angus.

He was a true neighborhood cat, splitting time between our house and, apparently, another house a few streets away.  We had him vaccinated and, ultimately, neutered, and over time, he began wandering the neighborhood less and staying with us more.  In the end, he became our second cat and learned to coexist with Mini T, or she learned to coexist with him, actually.

The boys have loved having Angus around because he turned into a lap cat, at least with our family.  Also, he took turns sleeping with various members of our family at night.  One night, he'd sleep with JP.  The next night, Joe.  Then, Jude or me, and so on.  He was and is, I guess, just a really cool cat.  

Sunday afternoon, he went outside and by early evening, he hadn't come back.  That was unusual for him and, for some reason, I had a bad feeling that he was gone.  Sure enough, he stayed out all night Sunday night and we haven't seen him since.  The boys are torn up about it, as are Jude and I.  

I went to Animal Control yesterday and he wasn't there.  I've checked the Pet Emergency Clinic in our neighborhood to no avail.  I even posted a photo of Angus on Facebook, a desperation move if there every was one.  

It's rainy and cold this morning and our hopes that Angus will return are growing dimmer by the hour, sadly.  I'm going to try to believe he is in someone else's house in the neighborhood, warm and fed, and most importantly, content.

In the end, it may be the Angus was ours for just a little while, in the scheme of things.  Still, he brought our family a lot of love in the time we spent together.

Breaking Out

I finished my mediation yesterday a little early as a result of which I had time to get to his 5 p.m. basketball game at MBA vs. Lipscomb.

What I decided to do instead was skip the game and go for a run to give JP some space when he played.  My thought was that maybe he had been pressing because he doesn't want to let me down as I watch him play from the bleachers on the sideline of the basketball court.  I've seen or heard nothing - from JP or anyone else - that leads me to believe my presence at games is putting pressure on him to perform.  Still, with him mired in a shooting slump, I was willing to try anything.  

What happened?  JP shot his way out of the slump he was in, scoring 11 points and hitting 3 - 4 three pointers.  That's more like it!  More importantly, he as in much better place - emotionally - after the game, although his team lost to a very good Lipscomb team in a game that was close until the fourth quarter.  

The boys played better together, as a team, too.  I think that meant as much to JP - or more - than scoring in double digits.  JP believes so strongly in the concept of team and in the group working together toward a common goal and sacrificing, if necessary, that it's been a difficult season for him as he struggled to figure out what he could do to bring the team together.  I think, for him, it's been a puzzle without an answer as he has struggled to find a way to improve team chemistry. 

A buddy of mine whose son plays on the team texted me with updates throughout the game.  What he said about JP when he hit his second or third three pointer summed it up, for me.  

Different kid, tonight, Phil.  

Now, of course, I have to spend some time thinking about why that was true.  Do I put too much pressure, even inadvertently, on JP to succeed at basketball games?  Does he feel too much pressure when I am at his basketball games, even if it's intrinsically generated and not anything that I'm saying or doing?  It's hard to say but as his father, it's something I feel obligated to think about.  

The thing is, I happened to have a telephone conversation with Benton, one of my oldest friends whom I became close to as an adult, out of school.  Benton and I worked together at a law firm downtown 30 years ago at the beginning of our professional careers.  He started the year before me and quickly became a professional mentor, confidante,   and close friend.  Over the years, we played softball together in the bar association league and in the city league.  We played a lot of basketball together, too, in pick up games and in the bar association league.  

Benton was an outstanding high school athlete at Lipscomb, starring in basketball and baseball.  He played baseball in college, too, and a couple of years in the low minor leagues.  Benton is the best athlete I have ever been around.  I love sports, of course, and follow and play sports passionately.  However, I have. never been in Benton's universe athletically, not by a long shot.  

What we have in common when it comes to sports - and probably in practicing law - is our competitiveness.  Both of us have a burning desire to win in everything we do.  That's our currency, I guess, or a language in common that we speak.  

Very few friends know me as well as Benton knows me.  He has seen me at my best and my worst, competitively, on the softball field and the basketball court.  He knows and understands, like few others, how intensely the flame burns inside of me to succeed in every thing I do.  Sports, practicing law, coaching and, yes, parenting.  

And because Benton knows me and we have shared very trying life experiences - on both sides - I listen when he gives me advice, especially of a personal nature.  

At any rate, in our call, he picked up on something Jude said and completely agreed with her.  He reminded me that when I watch JP and his team play basketball, I have to smile, laugh and, generally, appear to be having a good time.  He accurately predicted that I probably grimace at a turnover or missed shot - by JP or his teammates - while I watch a game.  All true, I'm a bit embarrassed to admit.  Tuesday night, I found myself shaking my head when one of JP's teammates made a boneheaded play.  

Although JP's not a kid that looks over at me for any reason during a basketball game or otherwise interacts with me, Benton pointed out that he probably steals a glance my way when he's on the bench or during a stop in the action.  If I'm frowning or appear to be unhappy, that likely has an effect on him.  I have to credit Jude, too, because this was in essence what she had said, too.

So, I think about Tuesday night and how badly I wanted JP to play well against the boys he grew up with and went to school with at USN and how badly I wanted JP's team to win.  None of that happened and I was devastated . . . for him, not for me.  Still, I think - no, I know - I watched that game with a burning intensity and JP probably saw that or felt it, as I sat on the first row of the bleachers.  

Maybe my work calendar will prevent me from attending his last few basketball games.  If I able to go, though, I'm going to stand behind the bleacher with some of the other fathers and inconspicuously watch JP play.  And I'm going to watch him play with a smile on my face the entire time.  I can do that and I will do that.  

It's not enough, I think, to say all the right things to him after a game, win or lose.  I've got to do the right things - things that give him confidence and self-assurance - during games, too.  And I will. 

On the other hand, maybe JP just shot himself out of a slump.  Shooters are going to shoot, I always tell him.  Maybe that's what happened but I'm not taking any chances.  

Taking it on the Chin

When I think about it, there is a considerable distance between why I started writing in this space 15 years ago and why I continue writing in it.  At various times, I've written for others, for my mom, for my sons, and for myself. 

I've tried to be honest and candid in this space by writing about the highs and lows of parenthood and, well, life.  As my sons get older, though, I have to at least consider the unlikely possibility that someone could stumble across this blog and read something I wrote that might embarrass one of them.  In other words, I may have to pull some punches in my writing depending on the subject matter.   

A couple of nights ago, I found myself in unfamiliar territory.  I was driving home from a basketball game with an inconsolable 14 1/2 year old trying to make sense of of a basketball team gone wrong, a basketball season gone wrong, and a basketball game gone wrong.  He's struggling to understand how 8th grade teammates - some, not all - can not give a shit if their team wins or loses.  I don't understand that, either. 

All season long, I've watched a basketball team that doesn't play with effort or energy.  I've watched a team that continually takes leads into halftime, then falls apart in the second half and loses game after game.  I've watched a team that makes zero - absolutely zero - adjustments during games to what the other team is doing.  The worst thing, I think, is that I've watched a team where the players don't play with joy or a love of the game.  

The same team with the same players went undefeated last season, as 7th graders, playing the same schedule.  It's unfathomable that a team of the same players - one year older - could play as poorly as this team has played all season.  It's painful to watch these boys struggle on the basketball court, desperate for leadership and discipline, and receiving neither.  

I didn't really know what to tell JP as we drove home from what had to have been the worst game of his young life.  His team lost to his former school, USN, and he didn't play well.  Neither his coach nor his teammates knew, or cared, how much this game meant to JP.  That's my view and I think it's the correct one.

I tried to help him put the game and the entire basketball season in perspective.  I don't want what has turned out to be a lost basketball season - a season to forget, to be sure - to sour him on playing basketball at school.  We talked about perseverance and character and the things that playing sports can teach you about life.  We also talked about the fact that in life, you can go on a losing streak, so to speak, or have a time when things at work or at home aren't going well.  But, you can't quit.  You keep working hard and, always, things turn around.  Easy for me to say, harder for him to do, I know.

Yesterday, as I took notes while my client was giving his deposition, I couldn't stop thinking - and worrying - about JP.  He works so hard in practice.  He wants to win so badly.  He cares.  He's so down right now and the only thing he can do is try to have fun, finish the season, and move on to baseball.  

I want him to learn from this experience - this basketball season, though - and I think he will.  He'll become stronger, mentally and emotionally.  I know it because that's the kind of kid he is.  

Four Basketball Games, One Baseball Practice, and a Run to Remember

One of JP's buddies from school asked him to play on his recreational league team this morning at 9 a.m. at the old Cohn High School building in Sylvan Park.  Joe had basketball games at 10 and 11 a.m. at CPA. JP had baseball practice, indoors, for his travel team at MBA.  Then, Joe had a basketball game at 4 p.m., also at MBA.

Four basketball games, one baseball practice.  Just another Saturday in January for us.  

Oh, and after I picked JP up from MBA after baseball practice and brought him home, I ran 5.5 miles, back to MBA, so I could watch Joe's basketball game.  

For me, a perfect Saturday.  

This morning, before Joe's first basketball game, I showed Joe a YouTube clip of "White Chocolate"- Jason Williams.  Old school.  He loved it.  Williams whirling, spinning and, most importantly, passing to teammates for assist after assist.  

In his first game - against admittedly weak competition - Joe started out like "White Chocolate," as he passed to teammates for the first three buckets of the game.  He passed to a teammate for a layup on their first bucket.  Next, on a 2-on-1 fast break, Joe looked away as he drove down the right side of the lane and passed the ball to his teammate for another layup.  Pure "White Chocolate," channeling Jason Williams.  It as awesome.

The best part, though, came a minute or two later when Joe drove into the lane and whipped a behind the back pass to . . . nobody.  Turnover.  I laughed and laughed.  I love the creativity and, more importantly, I loved that Joe had the cojones to try the pass.  For me, that was, by far, the best part.  That's Joe, for sure.

Later, my run was damn near perfect.  One of those days I run all year for, you know?  Shorts and t-shirt in January, a different route, running to somewhere.  A fast pace, too, for 5 + miles.  Slightly under 8:00/mile.  And I felt really, really good.  It was one of those runs where I felt thankful and blessed to be a runner.

Overall, a perfect Saturday.