Okay students, you have read Killer Angels and part of Red Badge of Courage.
1. What are your first impressions of Red Badge?
2. Other than the length, what are the primary differences you have noticed between the two books, especially in regard to language? Please be specific!
3. Does Red Badge's language remind you of anything else you have ever read? (I'm leaving this question vague to see in what directions you might take it.)
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Confessions of an Amateur Carpenter
"Although I have never pretended to be a great fisherman, it was always important to me that I was a fisherman and looked like one, especially when fishing with my brother."
-Norman Maclean, from A River Runs Through It
I first read this line in 1997. How many times these words have rung true in my life since. I'm not necessarily referring to fishing, but to other skills men should be stereotypically good at, like fixing things around the house. Tonight I hung a door in a house that I am convinced is not square- the house, not the door. The door is on, but it doesn't fit so well.
You see, it started about two months ago when my wife, while caught up in the excitement of our friends buying a new house, decided to start looking around town for a deal. 4.5% interest and a buyer's market were clear signs that we needed to look at a bigger house, and we found one. But over the course of a month of offers and counter-offers, we finally came to a dead end. Okay, no problem, except that we had decided that if we were going to put our house on the market, we had better fix it up. The wheels were in motion. There was no going back.
So I set out to fix all the little problems our little house had, and there were penty of them. Patching sheetrock, rewiring, and painting, we prepared our house for my sister and brother-in-law, the latter of which flips houses for a living. It was decided that new floors in the office and kitchen, new counter tops in the kitchen and bathroom, new fixtures throughout the house, faucets, and such would spice up our little abode, making it much more marketable. But since we were now not selling it, we would just force ourselves to live in a house which was more pleasing to the eye.
In the course of a weekend we flipped the three rooms previously mentioned. Never having done many of these skills, I found myself asking my brother-in-law for help many times over, each time surrendering my Man Card, for this is not typical "man behavior." It's like pulling over to ask for directions while on vacation.
I felt stupid the whole weekend. We moved at a snail's pace, and when they left here Sunday night, the only major job left was to hang a door. Now we have come full circle in this story.
I won't go into all the details, but I will say that the darned door is hung, and it sticks something aweful. Sawing, planing, and sanding, I did all I could to keep from totally wrecking that poor door if only for the reason that I didn't want to buy another one if I whacked too much of it off. It opens and closes, but barely.
I wanted to look like a handy man in front of my brother-in-law, and I'm sure I failed. My wife knows the real truth about my sad skills, so there's nothing I can do to change that perception. The thing is, my father-in-law is a true do-it-yourself handyman and my wife's hero for one good reason- he's been around the construction site a few times. He can fix anything, just like my dad. Thirty years ago he was probably where I am now, a man gaining valuable skills by fixing-up stuff around the house. Learning by screwing up doors, successes coming few and far between. To my wife, her dad hung the moon, and that's how it should be. But I can't compare myself to him or others with valuable experiences, just like I can't compare my students' education levels to mine. As math teachers would say, it's apples to oranges.
So tonight I will hold my head up high because I am the man who successfully hung the office door. When it's discovered in the morning that the door sticks something bad, I'll return to my incompetent reputation and surrender my Man Card again. That or blame it on shifting tectonic plates.
-Norman Maclean, from A River Runs Through It
I first read this line in 1997. How many times these words have rung true in my life since. I'm not necessarily referring to fishing, but to other skills men should be stereotypically good at, like fixing things around the house. Tonight I hung a door in a house that I am convinced is not square- the house, not the door. The door is on, but it doesn't fit so well.
You see, it started about two months ago when my wife, while caught up in the excitement of our friends buying a new house, decided to start looking around town for a deal. 4.5% interest and a buyer's market were clear signs that we needed to look at a bigger house, and we found one. But over the course of a month of offers and counter-offers, we finally came to a dead end. Okay, no problem, except that we had decided that if we were going to put our house on the market, we had better fix it up. The wheels were in motion. There was no going back.
So I set out to fix all the little problems our little house had, and there were penty of them. Patching sheetrock, rewiring, and painting, we prepared our house for my sister and brother-in-law, the latter of which flips houses for a living. It was decided that new floors in the office and kitchen, new counter tops in the kitchen and bathroom, new fixtures throughout the house, faucets, and such would spice up our little abode, making it much more marketable. But since we were now not selling it, we would just force ourselves to live in a house which was more pleasing to the eye.
In the course of a weekend we flipped the three rooms previously mentioned. Never having done many of these skills, I found myself asking my brother-in-law for help many times over, each time surrendering my Man Card, for this is not typical "man behavior." It's like pulling over to ask for directions while on vacation.
I felt stupid the whole weekend. We moved at a snail's pace, and when they left here Sunday night, the only major job left was to hang a door. Now we have come full circle in this story.
I won't go into all the details, but I will say that the darned door is hung, and it sticks something aweful. Sawing, planing, and sanding, I did all I could to keep from totally wrecking that poor door if only for the reason that I didn't want to buy another one if I whacked too much of it off. It opens and closes, but barely.
I wanted to look like a handy man in front of my brother-in-law, and I'm sure I failed. My wife knows the real truth about my sad skills, so there's nothing I can do to change that perception. The thing is, my father-in-law is a true do-it-yourself handyman and my wife's hero for one good reason- he's been around the construction site a few times. He can fix anything, just like my dad. Thirty years ago he was probably where I am now, a man gaining valuable skills by fixing-up stuff around the house. Learning by screwing up doors, successes coming few and far between. To my wife, her dad hung the moon, and that's how it should be. But I can't compare myself to him or others with valuable experiences, just like I can't compare my students' education levels to mine. As math teachers would say, it's apples to oranges.
So tonight I will hold my head up high because I am the man who successfully hung the office door. When it's discovered in the morning that the door sticks something bad, I'll return to my incompetent reputation and surrender my Man Card again. That or blame it on shifting tectonic plates.
Monday, July 12, 2010
A Beautiful Living Room
Leaky Tent. Soaked sleeping bag. Visible breath.
It was 3:00 A.M. I had been trying to fall asleep for maybe two hours, and at that point I was just praying for sunrise.
It's no stretch to say that the annual "Mantrip" was off to a rocky start. Let's start at the beginning of that day.
We woke Wednesday morning in my brother's new home in Amarillo in quite a melancholy mood. A torrent of rain that night had created quite a washout on his property, which, with more storms forecasted, threatened to worsen in the following days.
Undeterred, we loaded up the pickup trucks like the Beverly Hillbillies, only without Granny on the rocking chair, and headed west. The trip itself was uneventful, and by the time crossed the border into Colorado, spirits were high. We made camp at 10,000 feet on a beautiful spot overlooking the Conejos River some 300 feet below. Gazing at the river, one of us happened to look up at a mountain obscured by an omnious rainstorm that was heading our way.
The original plan was to set up camp, then run down the hill to fly fish the evening green drake hatch. Setting up included a gazebo with walls for food storage and preparation, a modefied fire ring (hourglass shaped for a bonfire and for cooking,) a big canvas tent with air mattresses, cots and such, a shower tent, and finally a latrine tent. Now it takes about two hours to set up camp by the book. We didn't have that much time.
We worked fast and nearly managed to set up the essentials before the clouds let loose. We took shelter in the trucks and waited for the lightning to abate. It soon became evident that the rain was not going to let up, so we got out and worked through it like real men, not complaining about being soaked.
About 9:00 that night, after not doing any fishing, we saw upon entering the canvas tent that the treated material was leaking, and that our bedding was getting soaked. We had planned on getting out of our wet clothes and into a dry bed, but it now became apparent that we needed a tarp. Amazingly enough, six grown men who had made numerous trips to the mountains all forgot to bring one. So my brother and I headed down the road about an hour away to see if a friend had one at his cabin. When we got back to camp without a tarp, we found out that there had been more problems.
The tent stove got a bit too hot and burned the tarp we were using for a floor. It was also giving off a poisonous odor from the lacquer finish being burned off which made one of our friends sick. It had to be dragged out of the tent with a pair of pliers. Without the heat of the stove in the tent, it got very cold that night. Now we're back to the beginning of this story.
So what is so fun about camping out in the mountains? This question has permeated my thinking since that night. The fishing was good, the weather did improve, and we managed to stay dry the rest of the trip, but that couldn't replace that fact that I had a perpetual case of altitude sickness, I smelt like a campfire, I was exhausted, and I hadn't showered since I left Amarillo. Aside from the discomfort, it was easy to become soured after that first night. Finally on the last evening, it hit me.
I had just finished taking pictures of the setting sunlight on the top of the mountains when I sat down in my camp chair. The fire was stoked and we friends all took our turns poking sticks at the burning logs on the fire as the stars, all billion of them, came out for the first time that trip. I had somehow forgotten that I go for the simplicity of it all. We sat around the fire and cracked jokes in the most beautiful living room God could have created.
It was 3:00 A.M. I had been trying to fall asleep for maybe two hours, and at that point I was just praying for sunrise.
It's no stretch to say that the annual "Mantrip" was off to a rocky start. Let's start at the beginning of that day.
We woke Wednesday morning in my brother's new home in Amarillo in quite a melancholy mood. A torrent of rain that night had created quite a washout on his property, which, with more storms forecasted, threatened to worsen in the following days.
Undeterred, we loaded up the pickup trucks like the Beverly Hillbillies, only without Granny on the rocking chair, and headed west. The trip itself was uneventful, and by the time crossed the border into Colorado, spirits were high. We made camp at 10,000 feet on a beautiful spot overlooking the Conejos River some 300 feet below. Gazing at the river, one of us happened to look up at a mountain obscured by an omnious rainstorm that was heading our way.
The original plan was to set up camp, then run down the hill to fly fish the evening green drake hatch. Setting up included a gazebo with walls for food storage and preparation, a modefied fire ring (hourglass shaped for a bonfire and for cooking,) a big canvas tent with air mattresses, cots and such, a shower tent, and finally a latrine tent. Now it takes about two hours to set up camp by the book. We didn't have that much time.
We worked fast and nearly managed to set up the essentials before the clouds let loose. We took shelter in the trucks and waited for the lightning to abate. It soon became evident that the rain was not going to let up, so we got out and worked through it like real men, not complaining about being soaked.
About 9:00 that night, after not doing any fishing, we saw upon entering the canvas tent that the treated material was leaking, and that our bedding was getting soaked. We had planned on getting out of our wet clothes and into a dry bed, but it now became apparent that we needed a tarp. Amazingly enough, six grown men who had made numerous trips to the mountains all forgot to bring one. So my brother and I headed down the road about an hour away to see if a friend had one at his cabin. When we got back to camp without a tarp, we found out that there had been more problems.
The tent stove got a bit too hot and burned the tarp we were using for a floor. It was also giving off a poisonous odor from the lacquer finish being burned off which made one of our friends sick. It had to be dragged out of the tent with a pair of pliers. Without the heat of the stove in the tent, it got very cold that night. Now we're back to the beginning of this story.
So what is so fun about camping out in the mountains? This question has permeated my thinking since that night. The fishing was good, the weather did improve, and we managed to stay dry the rest of the trip, but that couldn't replace that fact that I had a perpetual case of altitude sickness, I smelt like a campfire, I was exhausted, and I hadn't showered since I left Amarillo. Aside from the discomfort, it was easy to become soured after that first night. Finally on the last evening, it hit me.
I had just finished taking pictures of the setting sunlight on the top of the mountains when I sat down in my camp chair. The fire was stoked and we friends all took our turns poking sticks at the burning logs on the fire as the stars, all billion of them, came out for the first time that trip. I had somehow forgotten that I go for the simplicity of it all. We sat around the fire and cracked jokes in the most beautiful living room God could have created.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Move over Griswalds!
It wasn't Wally World we were visiting, and my great aunt Edna didn't die, but my family vacation mirrored nearly every other tragedy in National Lampoon's Vacation.
Beforehand, I gave myself a budget of $1000 for the trip, inclusive of everything from lodging, food, attractions, and intangibles.
We should have known fate was telling us not to go when a few days before departure, I used a free tire rotation gift certificate and the mechanic ended up putting on a new tire, aligning the front end, and replacing the brakes and rotors. To add insult to injury, the bill came out $150 more than he had promised me on the phone. So before starting out, we were already $450 in the hole.
My wife Angela mentioned that God was trying to tell us not to go on vacation. I disagreed and got my way. I should have listened to her.
The drive up to the Black Hills of South Dakota was pleasant enough. We left my parents' house in Western Kansas at 5:00 in the morning, enjoyed a sack lunch at Chimney Rock in the panhandle of Nebraska, and took in a viewing of a sinkhole littered with mammoth skeletons in Hot Springs before rolling into Hill City, South Dakota just before evening. The temperature was a cool sixty-five degrees and my family basked in the fading light of the sun setting behind the pine-littered ridge to the west as I casted a fly at some hungry trout in the little creek behind our cabin. It was bliss. The next morning my wife's words took on a prophetic tone.
We drove to Rapid City, population 76,000, to go to Wal Mart (it was thirty-eight degrees that morning and all I had brought was shorts and tee shirts!) One sweatshirt later, I drove towards a fly shop to pick up some flies, a book on fly fishing the Black Hills, and some information from the local experts. On the way I saw the temperature gage on the car's control panel rise to nearly 200 degrees, so I made an about-face, ran back to Wal Mart, and bought some more antifreeze. When I popped open the hood I saw that the car didn't need any antifreeze. This is where I started to panic.
We drove to the nearest garage, a Jiffy Lube, and the grease monkeys there went above and beyond to try to find a mechanic who could get me in immediately. This hospitality was something that everyone from the Black Hills seems to possess. I am totally convinced that they are the nicest people on earth, but I am getting off topic.
A man from a Ford garage next door just happened in on the conversation and told me that he would look at the car for me. I handed him the key and my wife, the kids, and I spent the morning at a park. When he finally called me around lunch time, he told me that not only did my thermostat need replaced (what I was hoping for) but also that the water pump was bad. I quickly added the math in my head and guessed around $200-$250.
He quoted me $600!
We spent lunch and all afternoon at a Chevy dealership looking for a new car and being assisted by a salesman named-and I am not making this up- Jerry Maguire. It took every fiber of my body not to ask him to "Show me the money!" To make things even tougher, all the cars in the lot had been transferred to the civic center downtown. We would run downtown, look at a car, run back up to the dealership, get quoted a ridiculous price, run back to the civic center and start the whole process over again, the whole time keeping an eye on the heat gage and praying for green lights. By five o'clock that afternoon, it became apparent that we were not going to be able to purchase a new car because the financial people at the dealership had gone home for the night and we were still $3000 apart on price. I can't even describe how frustrated we were. We had wasted a whole day of vacation and we were no nearer to having the situation resolved, so we did the only logical thing we could do; we went to church. It was the best thing we did that day.
Afterwards we drove back up to Hill City, probably around a 1000 foot climb, and made a phone call to a mechanic from Rapid City named Mark that the guys at the Jiffy Lube had suggested. This is what we should have done in the first place.
Mark quoted us $200 for parts and labor and that next day back in Rapid City, while he replaced the parts, his secretary gave us an auto tour of Rapid City before dropping us off at the mall to hang out for a few hours. As I said before, the people of the Black Hills are the nicest people on earth, outside of the unethical mechanic that quoted us $600.
That afternoon, we received our fixed car plus a new air filter that Mark threw in, and in the euphoria of finally being able to start our vacation, we decided that this glorious moment was the right time to visit Mount Rushmore. For those of you who haven't been to Mount Rushmore, you travel uphill from Rapid City to Keystone, then travel drastically uphill for a few more miles, taxing your engine the whole way. We might as well have been driving up Mount Everest. When we finally parked beneath the presidents, the temperature on our car's heat gage read 220 degrees! Aaauuuugggghhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!
That next morning we mulled over our options. We talked about just leaving and trying to get our money back on the final few nights of the cabin. We could write down the phone number of a mechanic in every town on the way back home. I spoke with my dad for advice and he asked if we had our radiator blown out with an air hose. I told him we hadn't. Not wanting to go back to Rapid City for a third day in a row, I opted to wait until late morning to get it into the only shop in Hill City. Ten minutes with the air hose and the man blew out massive quantities of wheat chaff, bugs, and dirt. That afternoon was the first time since we had been there where we felt at-ease. We were able to salvage one and one-half days of our vacation, during which time my boys and I were able to tour Custer State Park, catch a few trout and take home a few memories.
We survived the trip, getting home in one piece with our dignity and well over our budget. I think back to family vacations when I was a kid and I recall car troubles being part of the equation. Apparently things haven't changed. It's a tradition maybe my kids will be able to break when they become fathers with starry-eyed dreams of the great American vacation. Feel free to comment on any National Lampoon Vacation incidents that you have had. I would love to hear your stories!
Beforehand, I gave myself a budget of $1000 for the trip, inclusive of everything from lodging, food, attractions, and intangibles.
We should have known fate was telling us not to go when a few days before departure, I used a free tire rotation gift certificate and the mechanic ended up putting on a new tire, aligning the front end, and replacing the brakes and rotors. To add insult to injury, the bill came out $150 more than he had promised me on the phone. So before starting out, we were already $450 in the hole.
My wife Angela mentioned that God was trying to tell us not to go on vacation. I disagreed and got my way. I should have listened to her.
The drive up to the Black Hills of South Dakota was pleasant enough. We left my parents' house in Western Kansas at 5:00 in the morning, enjoyed a sack lunch at Chimney Rock in the panhandle of Nebraska, and took in a viewing of a sinkhole littered with mammoth skeletons in Hot Springs before rolling into Hill City, South Dakota just before evening. The temperature was a cool sixty-five degrees and my family basked in the fading light of the sun setting behind the pine-littered ridge to the west as I casted a fly at some hungry trout in the little creek behind our cabin. It was bliss. The next morning my wife's words took on a prophetic tone.
We drove to Rapid City, population 76,000, to go to Wal Mart (it was thirty-eight degrees that morning and all I had brought was shorts and tee shirts!) One sweatshirt later, I drove towards a fly shop to pick up some flies, a book on fly fishing the Black Hills, and some information from the local experts. On the way I saw the temperature gage on the car's control panel rise to nearly 200 degrees, so I made an about-face, ran back to Wal Mart, and bought some more antifreeze. When I popped open the hood I saw that the car didn't need any antifreeze. This is where I started to panic.
We drove to the nearest garage, a Jiffy Lube, and the grease monkeys there went above and beyond to try to find a mechanic who could get me in immediately. This hospitality was something that everyone from the Black Hills seems to possess. I am totally convinced that they are the nicest people on earth, but I am getting off topic.
A man from a Ford garage next door just happened in on the conversation and told me that he would look at the car for me. I handed him the key and my wife, the kids, and I spent the morning at a park. When he finally called me around lunch time, he told me that not only did my thermostat need replaced (what I was hoping for) but also that the water pump was bad. I quickly added the math in my head and guessed around $200-$250.
He quoted me $600!
We spent lunch and all afternoon at a Chevy dealership looking for a new car and being assisted by a salesman named-and I am not making this up- Jerry Maguire. It took every fiber of my body not to ask him to "Show me the money!" To make things even tougher, all the cars in the lot had been transferred to the civic center downtown. We would run downtown, look at a car, run back up to the dealership, get quoted a ridiculous price, run back to the civic center and start the whole process over again, the whole time keeping an eye on the heat gage and praying for green lights. By five o'clock that afternoon, it became apparent that we were not going to be able to purchase a new car because the financial people at the dealership had gone home for the night and we were still $3000 apart on price. I can't even describe how frustrated we were. We had wasted a whole day of vacation and we were no nearer to having the situation resolved, so we did the only logical thing we could do; we went to church. It was the best thing we did that day.
Afterwards we drove back up to Hill City, probably around a 1000 foot climb, and made a phone call to a mechanic from Rapid City named Mark that the guys at the Jiffy Lube had suggested. This is what we should have done in the first place.
Mark quoted us $200 for parts and labor and that next day back in Rapid City, while he replaced the parts, his secretary gave us an auto tour of Rapid City before dropping us off at the mall to hang out for a few hours. As I said before, the people of the Black Hills are the nicest people on earth, outside of the unethical mechanic that quoted us $600.
That afternoon, we received our fixed car plus a new air filter that Mark threw in, and in the euphoria of finally being able to start our vacation, we decided that this glorious moment was the right time to visit Mount Rushmore. For those of you who haven't been to Mount Rushmore, you travel uphill from Rapid City to Keystone, then travel drastically uphill for a few more miles, taxing your engine the whole way. We might as well have been driving up Mount Everest. When we finally parked beneath the presidents, the temperature on our car's heat gage read 220 degrees! Aaauuuugggghhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!
That next morning we mulled over our options. We talked about just leaving and trying to get our money back on the final few nights of the cabin. We could write down the phone number of a mechanic in every town on the way back home. I spoke with my dad for advice and he asked if we had our radiator blown out with an air hose. I told him we hadn't. Not wanting to go back to Rapid City for a third day in a row, I opted to wait until late morning to get it into the only shop in Hill City. Ten minutes with the air hose and the man blew out massive quantities of wheat chaff, bugs, and dirt. That afternoon was the first time since we had been there where we felt at-ease. We were able to salvage one and one-half days of our vacation, during which time my boys and I were able to tour Custer State Park, catch a few trout and take home a few memories.
We survived the trip, getting home in one piece with our dignity and well over our budget. I think back to family vacations when I was a kid and I recall car troubles being part of the equation. Apparently things haven't changed. It's a tradition maybe my kids will be able to break when they become fathers with starry-eyed dreams of the great American vacation. Feel free to comment on any National Lampoon Vacation incidents that you have had. I would love to hear your stories!
Friday, June 11, 2010
Men's Slow Pitch Softball- A Love Story
The weekend warrior. Reclaiming one's youth. Great in his own mind. A has been. A never was.
Anyone have a good remedy for a pulled hamstring? How 'bout two bad hammies?
My father was my hero when I was a kid. Mom would take my brother and me to watch the Shelton team. Officially we were sponsored by Pizza Hut, but most of the team was made up with my family members. Dad was a slick second baseman. Uncle Ronnie pitched. Uncle Dick played short stop. Finally Uncle Kenny manned left field. When my older brother turned sixteen he joined up to make 1/2 of the team Sheltons. I was only two years behind and day-dreamed about being the sixth, but Dad retired before I could play.
But growing up, I watched my Dad turn double plays with the fluidity that would make the toughest managers in MLB history crack a smile. He could turn on a pitch and actually hit the third base bag with the ball five times out of ten. His game was exacting. My uncles were great in their own rights. Kenny was a very capable left fielder. Ronnie threw pitches with such high angles that hitters constantly popped up. Uncle Dick was a vacuum cleaner at short and was a beautiful opposite-field hitter.
Oh yeah, they never lost.
Now that is to take liberties. Sure they lost a game or two but it seems like for ten years they went undefeated in league. It wasn't until the Shelton brothers started reaching their forties that they became vulnerable. Dad's range shortened with his bad knees so he was relegated to catcher. Kenny had a tougher time getting a strong throw in from the outfield. Dick's shoulder bothered him so much that he had to sidearm flip the ball to first, then moved to second for shorter throws. Ronnie was gun shy from getting hit on shots up the middle and couldn't move out of the way so easily. And then one year they took second in league. It was quite the depressing moment to see my childhood heros... lose. How could they lose? They were invulnerable in my eyes. Well, now I know why.
I am a mere thirty-five years old, still young in my own eyes, but then my eyes don't aren't accustomed to physical activity. The last five years I have given up on playing serious tournaments and relegated myself to church league. I have gone from a speedy outfielder making remarkable plays to a short stop for only one reason: I don't like to run out to the outfield every inning.
I'm getting old.
When I look at myself, I don't see an aging man. I still see that eighteen year-old who had very few physical limitations. I am the man who doesn't need to run and stretch before a game, doesn't need to warm up the arm. Of course this is all false. And last night it finally came to a head.
In what would be my final games of the season, my last swings at the plate this summer, I invited my wife and kids to watch. I had a romantic idea that my wife would marvel at my softball prowess, my kids would call me their hero.
So I took the field with my normal excitement, and in playing against a team that was vastly superior to our rag-taggers (myself included) we were able to keep the game close the whole way. Nursing a hamstring pull, I was not going to be able to turn a single into a double, or a double into a triple like I could in my youth, but I would put on a show all the same. And I got my chances.
I dove for and snared line drives, turned double plays (one of which I tweaked my other hamstring,) and made an assist on a cut-off from the outfield when an arrogant kid tried to go for an inside-the-park home run. The center fielder on my team even called me Derek Jeter on one play. I hit safely two times out of three and came a few feet short of a home run on one swing. I scored the winning run in extra innings on a sacrifice fly, despite being hobbled by my two ageing legs. I gave it everything I had. It was a great way to finish a year.
Caked from head-to-toe with dirt, I went into the stands to see my kids. They too were busy playing in the dirt. I asked my wife what she thought of my performance and she said, "You we're kind of slow out there. You had to dive for a lot of balls. You should have let the center fielder play short stop. He's really fast."
When she noticed my baloon deflating, she quickly added, "But I thought you played very well, honey!"
So it's morning now. I have two ace bandages wrapped around my legs, a cold pack in each. I have taken 600 mg of Ibuprofen to ease the pain in my back and I definitely don't yawn and stretch, or else every muscle in my body will cramp up at once. And I am thinking that I am not eighteen anymore. I can still play the game in a semi-competative church league, but at what cost? I remember my dad coming home from softball very sore, sore for days and I couldn't understand it. I understand it now. Dad held on until he turned forty. I don't think I will last that long. Maybe it's time to hang up the spikes.
On the other hand, I bet I will feel different next summer!
Anyone have a good remedy for a pulled hamstring? How 'bout two bad hammies?
My father was my hero when I was a kid. Mom would take my brother and me to watch the Shelton team. Officially we were sponsored by Pizza Hut, but most of the team was made up with my family members. Dad was a slick second baseman. Uncle Ronnie pitched. Uncle Dick played short stop. Finally Uncle Kenny manned left field. When my older brother turned sixteen he joined up to make 1/2 of the team Sheltons. I was only two years behind and day-dreamed about being the sixth, but Dad retired before I could play.
But growing up, I watched my Dad turn double plays with the fluidity that would make the toughest managers in MLB history crack a smile. He could turn on a pitch and actually hit the third base bag with the ball five times out of ten. His game was exacting. My uncles were great in their own rights. Kenny was a very capable left fielder. Ronnie threw pitches with such high angles that hitters constantly popped up. Uncle Dick was a vacuum cleaner at short and was a beautiful opposite-field hitter.
Oh yeah, they never lost.
Now that is to take liberties. Sure they lost a game or two but it seems like for ten years they went undefeated in league. It wasn't until the Shelton brothers started reaching their forties that they became vulnerable. Dad's range shortened with his bad knees so he was relegated to catcher. Kenny had a tougher time getting a strong throw in from the outfield. Dick's shoulder bothered him so much that he had to sidearm flip the ball to first, then moved to second for shorter throws. Ronnie was gun shy from getting hit on shots up the middle and couldn't move out of the way so easily. And then one year they took second in league. It was quite the depressing moment to see my childhood heros... lose. How could they lose? They were invulnerable in my eyes. Well, now I know why.
I am a mere thirty-five years old, still young in my own eyes, but then my eyes don't aren't accustomed to physical activity. The last five years I have given up on playing serious tournaments and relegated myself to church league. I have gone from a speedy outfielder making remarkable plays to a short stop for only one reason: I don't like to run out to the outfield every inning.
I'm getting old.
When I look at myself, I don't see an aging man. I still see that eighteen year-old who had very few physical limitations. I am the man who doesn't need to run and stretch before a game, doesn't need to warm up the arm. Of course this is all false. And last night it finally came to a head.
In what would be my final games of the season, my last swings at the plate this summer, I invited my wife and kids to watch. I had a romantic idea that my wife would marvel at my softball prowess, my kids would call me their hero.
So I took the field with my normal excitement, and in playing against a team that was vastly superior to our rag-taggers (myself included) we were able to keep the game close the whole way. Nursing a hamstring pull, I was not going to be able to turn a single into a double, or a double into a triple like I could in my youth, but I would put on a show all the same. And I got my chances.
I dove for and snared line drives, turned double plays (one of which I tweaked my other hamstring,) and made an assist on a cut-off from the outfield when an arrogant kid tried to go for an inside-the-park home run. The center fielder on my team even called me Derek Jeter on one play. I hit safely two times out of three and came a few feet short of a home run on one swing. I scored the winning run in extra innings on a sacrifice fly, despite being hobbled by my two ageing legs. I gave it everything I had. It was a great way to finish a year.
Caked from head-to-toe with dirt, I went into the stands to see my kids. They too were busy playing in the dirt. I asked my wife what she thought of my performance and she said, "You we're kind of slow out there. You had to dive for a lot of balls. You should have let the center fielder play short stop. He's really fast."
When she noticed my baloon deflating, she quickly added, "But I thought you played very well, honey!"
So it's morning now. I have two ace bandages wrapped around my legs, a cold pack in each. I have taken 600 mg of Ibuprofen to ease the pain in my back and I definitely don't yawn and stretch, or else every muscle in my body will cramp up at once. And I am thinking that I am not eighteen anymore. I can still play the game in a semi-competative church league, but at what cost? I remember my dad coming home from softball very sore, sore for days and I couldn't understand it. I understand it now. Dad held on until he turned forty. I don't think I will last that long. Maybe it's time to hang up the spikes.
On the other hand, I bet I will feel different next summer!
Monday, April 26, 2010
Pain (Real Pain)
The following is a chronological compilation of my thoughts while running the OKC Memorial Half Marathon. My pain should be read as but a selfish side note to the real reason 22,000 runners laced up their shoes yesterday. To remember.
(In the parenthesis are the names of fifty-four of the 168 victims of the OKC bombing. May they all never be forgotten)
It's early. Waking up at 4:45 is rediculous.
(Baylee Almon, 1, Oklahoma City)
It's cold. The wind is blowing and it's forty-nine degrees out there.
(Elijah S. Coverdale, 2.50, Oklahoma City)
We had to park on the 6th floor of the parking garage and there seems to be no elevator! Plus we're five blocks away from the start line and there are crowds that we will have to fight through.
(Carrol June "Chip" Fields, 48, Guthrie)
The wind is penetrating and I didn't bring my sweatshirt.
(Donald Ray Leonard, 50, Edmond)
I am starting behind ten thousand other runners.
(Kathy Lynn Seidl, 39, Bethel)
Butterflies. I am nervous. My back is starting to hurt just standing here.
(Ted L. Allen, 48, Norman)
Finally we're moving, but it is taking ten minutes just to cross the finish line!
(Donald Earl Burns, Sr., 63, Oklahoma City)
The pace of the runners is way too fast! Don't they know that we shouldn't start out in a sprint! Even if it's downhill. This pace is going to kill me!
(Dr. George Michael Howard, 45, Vallejo, Calif.)
Where's the banner marking one mile? I've been running for nine minutes and I am out of breath. A week in Vegas and I am exhaling second-hand smoke. Where's the banner?
(Jules A. Valdez, 51, Edmond)
My left achilles hurts. I've dealt with Achilles tendonitis for four months now and it's not getting any better.
(Frances "Fran" Ann Williams, 48, Oklahoma City)
Finally hit a mile. Still out of breath. The first water break is another mile away.
(Andrea Yvette Blanton, 33, Oklahoma City)
Still out of breath. Achilles still hurting. Crowded. People are already walking and I am having to dodge them while others behind me try to dodge me. This is madness!
(Kim R. Cousins, 33, Midwest City)
Big hill! I thought OKC was flat! Thighs are burning.
(Thompson Eugene "Gene" Hodges, Jr., 54, Norman)
Two miles down. Skipping the water stop. Passed my wife and mother-in-law because they stopped for water. They will catch me fast because I am out of shape.
(Castine Brooks Hearn Deveroux, 49, Oklahoma City)
Mile three. My pace has slowed. Powerbar for breakfast just isn't doing it for me right now.
(Mary Leasure-Rentie, 39, Bethany)
Mile four. Mile pace has gone from nine to eleven minutes. At least I feel a bit more robotic. Little aches and pains, but this morning's ibuprofen is finally kicked in.
(Patricia Ann Nix, 47, Edmond)
Mile five. Finally feel in a groove. Going through what appears to be a park and residential neighborhood. Plenty of good folks cheering for me. It reminds me that I should be in pain. Was that my back that just tightened?
(John Karl Van Ess III, 67, Chickasha)
Another hill. This one is steep. Hills are my speciality. Dodging plenty of walkers including what appears to be a group of five sorority girls who are no more than a road block.
(Sgt. Benjamin LaRanzo Davis, USMC, 29, Edmond)
Turned the corner at the top of the hill. Man, my right foot has developed a sharp pain I haven't ever felt before.
(James E. Boles, 50, Oklahoma City)
The hill doesn't stop. It just keeps on going. Some guy in a gorilla suit and another dressed like a banana. Any other day this would be cute, but my foot is killing me. Better find a water stop and try to walk this off.
(Richard "Dick" Cummins, 55, Mustang)
Water stop. Walking it off. Pain isn't going away. Pain is getting worse. What the heck?
(Carole Sue Khalil, 50, Oklahoma City)
Running again. Check that. I'm moving at a slightly faster pace than the walkers and I am now limping. I have to finish, but I am worried that I've really messed up my foot and any further running will only worsen matters. Think like a robot. Mind over matter.
(Paul Gregory Beatty Broxterman, 42, Edmond)
Where the heck is 50th street? This is where the half-marathon runners turn around and head back, but we keep paralleling it instead of heading right for it. ENOUGH ALREADY! SURELY I AM AT THE HALFWAY POINT!
(John C. Moss III., 50, Oklahoma City)
Finally, I've made the turnaround. It's all I could think about for the last fifteen minutes, which is probably my pace right now. Over half way done with the race. I would feel for the others who are going straight and have nineteen more miles to go, but I am in much too much pain to consider feeling sympathy for anything other than myself.
(Claude Authur Medearis, S.S.A., 41, Norman)
Wind directly in my face now and gusting. I think I am moving backwards. Pain in my foot has pacified. I can still feel it, but it's not as intense. Maybe all I had to do was run through it. It must be nothing.
(James K. Martin, 34, Oklahoma City)
My wife and mother-in-law are nowhere to be seen. They must be burning up the course. An eighty-year-old man with Albert Einstein hair just passed me. I have serious doubts that I can make it. I am now at the point where I have never run this far before.
(John A. Youngblood, 52, Yukon)
Another turn and we're heading back towards downtown OKC. At least that's what the direction of the sun is telling me. I don't see any buildings yet. How far do I have to go still?
(Peter L. DeMaster, 44, Oklahoma City)
Hitting every water break and trying to walk for fifteen seconds, but when I start to walk, my foot starts to hurt again and it is tough to start up again. Catch 22. If I don't slow down and walk the water breaks my body won't hold out. If I don't get a drink of water, my legs will cramp up and I will end up like any of those people in the grass who are trying to stretch out their cramps. But if I do stop, I feel a thousand needles sticking up through the bottom of my foot!
(Woodrow Clifford "Woody" Brady, 41, Oklahoma City)
The key must be to walk longer at the water breaks. Just have to grin and bear the pain.
(Robbin Ann Huff, 37, Bethany)
Starting up again gets harder and harder. My body says stop. My right foot screams stop. My left achilles says stop. Both my knees say stop. It would be so easy to stop. Is that a building I see up ahead?
(Claudette (Duke) Meek, 43, Oklahoma City)
It was a building, but it is not part of downtown, just a solitary wart sticking up in an otherwise unblemished forearm. For the better part of five minutes I thought I was home free. HOW MUCH FURTHER? SHOULDN'T I SEE DOWNTOWN BY NOW?
(Sonja Lynn Sanders, 27, Moore)
A marathoner just passed me on a sprint. Wow, was he fast. Why didn't I train harder for this? For four months I had the chance. My wife warned me but I balked. All I want to do is lay down in this guy's front yard and let him dig me a six-foot hole.
(Tresia Jo "Mathes" Worton, 28, Oklahoma City)
"Pain, pain go away. Come again another day!"
(Zachary Taylor Chavez, 3, Oklahoma City)
Three miles to go. I've run three miles dozens, nearly hundreds of times before. Forget that I have already run ten miles. Just think you are beginning your run right now, and everything will be alright. Except this foot still hurts. Going to spend a full minute walking this stop.
(Antonio Ansara Cooper Jr., 6 months, Midwest City)
Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Just keep leaning forward. Your feet will automatically catch you.
(Jaci Rae Coyne, 14 months, Moore)
Two miles to go. Another turn. I can finally see the buildings of downtown, but it appears that we are running away from them. How can that be?
(Kevin "Lee" Gottshall II, 6 months, Norman)
Another hill? I thought downtowns were always downhill because they are always set on rivers and everything drains downhill. Does OKC have a river downstream? Why didn't I study the map before I left? Why didn't I stay in bed? Nerve! Nerve!
(Dominique Ravae (Johnson)-London, 2, Oklahoma City)
Got to the top of the hill. That really hurt my foot, and I can feel both calves beginning to cramp. Can't stop now or I will collapse and never get up. Gotta keep moving. My right foot is a rump roast with a carving knife stuck in it. Good news is that some guy on the side told us that it's all downhill from here.
(Pamela Cleveland Argo, 36, Oklahoma City)
HE LIED! ANOTHER HILL!
(Oleta C. Biddy, 54, Tuttle)
Another turn. Running on fumes. I think I will make it. One mile to go. I've done this a thousand times.
(Peachlyn Bradley, 3, Oklahoma City)
I'm in a walk-run now. It looks really stupid, but I can't help it. I want to walk but I will cramp up. My body simply will not run another step, so I have to cast my pride away and look stupid. I really don't care now because some guy just said I only have one-half mile to go. One more turn up ahead.
(Laura Jane Garrison, 61, Oklahoma City)
He lied too. Final turn and I can barely see the finish line banner in the distance. I am crying now and I don't know if it's from pain, from excitement, or just hormones.
(Thomas Lynn Hawthorne, Sr., 52, Choctaw)
Crowd gets thicker. Everyone is cheering us on. I only have one-quarter of a mile to go, and I swore I couldn't run another step, but I have to kick it. Whatever I have left, I am letting it all go now.
(Raymond "Lee" Johnson, 59, Oklahoma City)
Sprinting for all I am worth. Passing people left and right. Cheering. Did I kick it too soon? I still have two hundred yards to go and I can feel my chest tightening up. Mind over matter. It's all just an illusion. There is no pain. No cramps. Plenty of air. My foot feels great. My thighs are two pistons. This is the moment of glory. I can do it!
(Rev. Gilbert X. Martinez, 35, Oklahoma City)
A few more steps to go. Crowd is going crazy, but not because of me. The womens' marathon winner is right on my heels in the other lane and she has competition that will push her to within one-tenth of a second at the finish line.
(Emilio Tapia, 50, Oklahoma City)
I cross the finish line totally spent. I have nothing left. A marathon worker has to grab me by the arm to lead me on so that I don't create a jam at the finish line. I think I am going to fall over. I need something to hold on to.
(LaRue A. Treanor, 55, Guthrie)
They give me a medal and a mylar blanket. Do I need the blanket? I am hot. I am dizzy. Maybe I should use it as a pillow. Right here on the street would be a good place to lay down.
(Julie Marie Welch, 23, Oklahoma City)
There's my wife and mother-in-law. They finished ten minutes ahead of me and look as if they are out on a Sunday morning stroll. They congratulate me. I search for something intelligent to say, but it all comes out in short choppy bursts that make no sense. I see a look of worry in my wife's face as she tells me to grab onto the fence to keep from falling over.
(Sharon Louise Wood-Chesnut, 47, Oklahoma City)
I pound two Power Aids, two peanut butter cookies and a hamburger. I am thirsty and hungry but none of it tastes good at all. I am waiting to throw up. Gotta get out of the crowd so I don't hit someone's shoes.
(Steven Douglas Curry, 44, Norman)
"I hurt my foot. I think it's broken." These are the words I get out once my brain is working again. I can barely put any weight on it. It's a five-minute walk back to the parking garage. It takes me twenty minutes.
(Rebecca Needham Anderson, 37, Midwest City)
Six flights of stairs. Another twenty minutes.
(Anita Christine Hightower, 27, Oklahoma City)
Finally to the vehicle. Both of these women are deeply concerned and I try to tell them that I will be fine to aleviate their fears, but the decision is made to take me straight to the urgent care.
(Kathryn Elizabeth Ridley, 24, Oklahoma City)
An hour later I am getting x-rayed.
(Robert N. Chipman, 51, Edmond)
X-Rays negative. No breaks. Ice. Elevation. Mass quantities of Ibuprofen. I hurt. I am glad there's no break, but I also feel a bit like a wimp. Maybe all the pain was psychological. Waking up the next morning tells me a different story.
(Trudy Jean Rigney, 31, Midwest City)
A day after the race now and I am limping around. Pain is relative. I will get over this minor setback and all will be well (but on April 19th, 1995, 168 men, women, children, and babies lost their lives because of evil.) Every time I felt pain during the race, I looked up at the (banners that spelled out the names of the victims of this horrible tragedy.) Tonight I pray (for the families of the deceased) and I pray (that the world may finally learn how to learn from the past. May God bless us all with this wisdom.)
(In the parenthesis are the names of fifty-four of the 168 victims of the OKC bombing. May they all never be forgotten)
It's early. Waking up at 4:45 is rediculous.
(Baylee Almon, 1, Oklahoma City)
It's cold. The wind is blowing and it's forty-nine degrees out there.
(Elijah S. Coverdale, 2.50, Oklahoma City)
We had to park on the 6th floor of the parking garage and there seems to be no elevator! Plus we're five blocks away from the start line and there are crowds that we will have to fight through.
(Carrol June "Chip" Fields, 48, Guthrie)
The wind is penetrating and I didn't bring my sweatshirt.
(Donald Ray Leonard, 50, Edmond)
I am starting behind ten thousand other runners.
(Kathy Lynn Seidl, 39, Bethel)
Butterflies. I am nervous. My back is starting to hurt just standing here.
(Ted L. Allen, 48, Norman)
Finally we're moving, but it is taking ten minutes just to cross the finish line!
(Donald Earl Burns, Sr., 63, Oklahoma City)
The pace of the runners is way too fast! Don't they know that we shouldn't start out in a sprint! Even if it's downhill. This pace is going to kill me!
(Dr. George Michael Howard, 45, Vallejo, Calif.)
Where's the banner marking one mile? I've been running for nine minutes and I am out of breath. A week in Vegas and I am exhaling second-hand smoke. Where's the banner?
(Jules A. Valdez, 51, Edmond)
My left achilles hurts. I've dealt with Achilles tendonitis for four months now and it's not getting any better.
(Frances "Fran" Ann Williams, 48, Oklahoma City)
Finally hit a mile. Still out of breath. The first water break is another mile away.
(Andrea Yvette Blanton, 33, Oklahoma City)
Still out of breath. Achilles still hurting. Crowded. People are already walking and I am having to dodge them while others behind me try to dodge me. This is madness!
(Kim R. Cousins, 33, Midwest City)
Big hill! I thought OKC was flat! Thighs are burning.
(Thompson Eugene "Gene" Hodges, Jr., 54, Norman)
Two miles down. Skipping the water stop. Passed my wife and mother-in-law because they stopped for water. They will catch me fast because I am out of shape.
(Castine Brooks Hearn Deveroux, 49, Oklahoma City)
Mile three. My pace has slowed. Powerbar for breakfast just isn't doing it for me right now.
(Mary Leasure-Rentie, 39, Bethany)
Mile four. Mile pace has gone from nine to eleven minutes. At least I feel a bit more robotic. Little aches and pains, but this morning's ibuprofen is finally kicked in.
(Patricia Ann Nix, 47, Edmond)
Mile five. Finally feel in a groove. Going through what appears to be a park and residential neighborhood. Plenty of good folks cheering for me. It reminds me that I should be in pain. Was that my back that just tightened?
(John Karl Van Ess III, 67, Chickasha)
Another hill. This one is steep. Hills are my speciality. Dodging plenty of walkers including what appears to be a group of five sorority girls who are no more than a road block.
(Sgt. Benjamin LaRanzo Davis, USMC, 29, Edmond)
Turned the corner at the top of the hill. Man, my right foot has developed a sharp pain I haven't ever felt before.
(James E. Boles, 50, Oklahoma City)
The hill doesn't stop. It just keeps on going. Some guy in a gorilla suit and another dressed like a banana. Any other day this would be cute, but my foot is killing me. Better find a water stop and try to walk this off.
(Richard "Dick" Cummins, 55, Mustang)
Water stop. Walking it off. Pain isn't going away. Pain is getting worse. What the heck?
(Carole Sue Khalil, 50, Oklahoma City)
Running again. Check that. I'm moving at a slightly faster pace than the walkers and I am now limping. I have to finish, but I am worried that I've really messed up my foot and any further running will only worsen matters. Think like a robot. Mind over matter.
(Paul Gregory Beatty Broxterman, 42, Edmond)
Where the heck is 50th street? This is where the half-marathon runners turn around and head back, but we keep paralleling it instead of heading right for it. ENOUGH ALREADY! SURELY I AM AT THE HALFWAY POINT!
(John C. Moss III., 50, Oklahoma City)
Finally, I've made the turnaround. It's all I could think about for the last fifteen minutes, which is probably my pace right now. Over half way done with the race. I would feel for the others who are going straight and have nineteen more miles to go, but I am in much too much pain to consider feeling sympathy for anything other than myself.
(Claude Authur Medearis, S.S.A., 41, Norman)
Wind directly in my face now and gusting. I think I am moving backwards. Pain in my foot has pacified. I can still feel it, but it's not as intense. Maybe all I had to do was run through it. It must be nothing.
(James K. Martin, 34, Oklahoma City)
My wife and mother-in-law are nowhere to be seen. They must be burning up the course. An eighty-year-old man with Albert Einstein hair just passed me. I have serious doubts that I can make it. I am now at the point where I have never run this far before.
(John A. Youngblood, 52, Yukon)
Another turn and we're heading back towards downtown OKC. At least that's what the direction of the sun is telling me. I don't see any buildings yet. How far do I have to go still?
(Peter L. DeMaster, 44, Oklahoma City)
Hitting every water break and trying to walk for fifteen seconds, but when I start to walk, my foot starts to hurt again and it is tough to start up again. Catch 22. If I don't slow down and walk the water breaks my body won't hold out. If I don't get a drink of water, my legs will cramp up and I will end up like any of those people in the grass who are trying to stretch out their cramps. But if I do stop, I feel a thousand needles sticking up through the bottom of my foot!
(Woodrow Clifford "Woody" Brady, 41, Oklahoma City)
The key must be to walk longer at the water breaks. Just have to grin and bear the pain.
(Robbin Ann Huff, 37, Bethany)
Starting up again gets harder and harder. My body says stop. My right foot screams stop. My left achilles says stop. Both my knees say stop. It would be so easy to stop. Is that a building I see up ahead?
(Claudette (Duke) Meek, 43, Oklahoma City)
It was a building, but it is not part of downtown, just a solitary wart sticking up in an otherwise unblemished forearm. For the better part of five minutes I thought I was home free. HOW MUCH FURTHER? SHOULDN'T I SEE DOWNTOWN BY NOW?
(Sonja Lynn Sanders, 27, Moore)
A marathoner just passed me on a sprint. Wow, was he fast. Why didn't I train harder for this? For four months I had the chance. My wife warned me but I balked. All I want to do is lay down in this guy's front yard and let him dig me a six-foot hole.
(Tresia Jo "Mathes" Worton, 28, Oklahoma City)
"Pain, pain go away. Come again another day!"
(Zachary Taylor Chavez, 3, Oklahoma City)
Three miles to go. I've run three miles dozens, nearly hundreds of times before. Forget that I have already run ten miles. Just think you are beginning your run right now, and everything will be alright. Except this foot still hurts. Going to spend a full minute walking this stop.
(Antonio Ansara Cooper Jr., 6 months, Midwest City)
Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Just keep leaning forward. Your feet will automatically catch you.
(Jaci Rae Coyne, 14 months, Moore)
Two miles to go. Another turn. I can finally see the buildings of downtown, but it appears that we are running away from them. How can that be?
(Kevin "Lee" Gottshall II, 6 months, Norman)
Another hill? I thought downtowns were always downhill because they are always set on rivers and everything drains downhill. Does OKC have a river downstream? Why didn't I study the map before I left? Why didn't I stay in bed? Nerve! Nerve!
(Dominique Ravae (Johnson)-London, 2, Oklahoma City)
Got to the top of the hill. That really hurt my foot, and I can feel both calves beginning to cramp. Can't stop now or I will collapse and never get up. Gotta keep moving. My right foot is a rump roast with a carving knife stuck in it. Good news is that some guy on the side told us that it's all downhill from here.
(Pamela Cleveland Argo, 36, Oklahoma City)
HE LIED! ANOTHER HILL!
(Oleta C. Biddy, 54, Tuttle)
Another turn. Running on fumes. I think I will make it. One mile to go. I've done this a thousand times.
(Peachlyn Bradley, 3, Oklahoma City)
I'm in a walk-run now. It looks really stupid, but I can't help it. I want to walk but I will cramp up. My body simply will not run another step, so I have to cast my pride away and look stupid. I really don't care now because some guy just said I only have one-half mile to go. One more turn up ahead.
(Laura Jane Garrison, 61, Oklahoma City)
He lied too. Final turn and I can barely see the finish line banner in the distance. I am crying now and I don't know if it's from pain, from excitement, or just hormones.
(Thomas Lynn Hawthorne, Sr., 52, Choctaw)
Crowd gets thicker. Everyone is cheering us on. I only have one-quarter of a mile to go, and I swore I couldn't run another step, but I have to kick it. Whatever I have left, I am letting it all go now.
(Raymond "Lee" Johnson, 59, Oklahoma City)
Sprinting for all I am worth. Passing people left and right. Cheering. Did I kick it too soon? I still have two hundred yards to go and I can feel my chest tightening up. Mind over matter. It's all just an illusion. There is no pain. No cramps. Plenty of air. My foot feels great. My thighs are two pistons. This is the moment of glory. I can do it!
(Rev. Gilbert X. Martinez, 35, Oklahoma City)
A few more steps to go. Crowd is going crazy, but not because of me. The womens' marathon winner is right on my heels in the other lane and she has competition that will push her to within one-tenth of a second at the finish line.
(Emilio Tapia, 50, Oklahoma City)
I cross the finish line totally spent. I have nothing left. A marathon worker has to grab me by the arm to lead me on so that I don't create a jam at the finish line. I think I am going to fall over. I need something to hold on to.
(LaRue A. Treanor, 55, Guthrie)
They give me a medal and a mylar blanket. Do I need the blanket? I am hot. I am dizzy. Maybe I should use it as a pillow. Right here on the street would be a good place to lay down.
(Julie Marie Welch, 23, Oklahoma City)
There's my wife and mother-in-law. They finished ten minutes ahead of me and look as if they are out on a Sunday morning stroll. They congratulate me. I search for something intelligent to say, but it all comes out in short choppy bursts that make no sense. I see a look of worry in my wife's face as she tells me to grab onto the fence to keep from falling over.
(Sharon Louise Wood-Chesnut, 47, Oklahoma City)
I pound two Power Aids, two peanut butter cookies and a hamburger. I am thirsty and hungry but none of it tastes good at all. I am waiting to throw up. Gotta get out of the crowd so I don't hit someone's shoes.
(Steven Douglas Curry, 44, Norman)
"I hurt my foot. I think it's broken." These are the words I get out once my brain is working again. I can barely put any weight on it. It's a five-minute walk back to the parking garage. It takes me twenty minutes.
(Rebecca Needham Anderson, 37, Midwest City)
Six flights of stairs. Another twenty minutes.
(Anita Christine Hightower, 27, Oklahoma City)
Finally to the vehicle. Both of these women are deeply concerned and I try to tell them that I will be fine to aleviate their fears, but the decision is made to take me straight to the urgent care.
(Kathryn Elizabeth Ridley, 24, Oklahoma City)
An hour later I am getting x-rayed.
(Robert N. Chipman, 51, Edmond)
X-Rays negative. No breaks. Ice. Elevation. Mass quantities of Ibuprofen. I hurt. I am glad there's no break, but I also feel a bit like a wimp. Maybe all the pain was psychological. Waking up the next morning tells me a different story.
(Trudy Jean Rigney, 31, Midwest City)
A day after the race now and I am limping around. Pain is relative. I will get over this minor setback and all will be well (but on April 19th, 1995, 168 men, women, children, and babies lost their lives because of evil.) Every time I felt pain during the race, I looked up at the (banners that spelled out the names of the victims of this horrible tragedy.) Tonight I pray (for the families of the deceased) and I pray (that the world may finally learn how to learn from the past. May God bless us all with this wisdom.)
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Behold the Ant
As a coach, it was one of those days. The sun was stifling, competition was stiff, and my athletes were mentally defeated. How many times I was to see slumped shoulders after a missed shot, racquets tossed down in frustration, hands held high in supplication to the higher power who was guiding the opponent's shots where we weren't. Attitudes on the court stunk. The prevailing thought was that we were supposed to lose, so lose we would. Out of our eight slots, only two won their first-round matches, guaranteeing at least a fourth place finish. The others would have to win the rest of their matches to secure fifth place, and that didn't happen. Some of the best tennis players in the state of Oklahoma were there today. It was a tough tournament and it seemed nothing went right.
By three in the afternoon, most had played their first two matches, and having lost both, they sat in wait to play for seventh place. I wasn't satisfied with their results, and I am pretty sure that they weren't satisfied either, but many of them had accepted the results and laughed as they joked about getting blown away, losing leads, and the like. No conversation was had about strategy, and nobody thought to put together a game plan for their seventh-place match. Instead they just joked. I too was defeated.
I separated myself from this so that I wouldn't say something I would regret later. After all tennis is a civilized sport and cooler heads must prevail. There would be a time and place. And when the gentlemen took to the courts, they were again outmatched. Their defeat wasn't a mathematical certainty, but for their morale it might as well have been.
So I sat and pondered this as I helplessly watched the inevitable. Specifically, I ponderd how I had failed them. Each player I had personally given one-on-one attention in practice in the past few weeks, throwing little nuggets of wisdom at them as if I were writing tennis' version of The Book of Proverbs. On changeovers in the matches today, I would call them over and tell them what they could improve upon, also pointing out their opponent's weaknesses, but nothing worked. Then I saw the ant.
Truth to be told, one of the parents I was sitting by, a good friend to me, saw it first. It was a fire ant, the size of a grain of rice. It was trying with all its might to drag a chunk of granola bar the size of a marshmallow. The bar was three or four times its size, and no matter how impossible the odds might have been, the ant refused to give up. Millimeter-by-millimeter, it dragged the boulder across the sidewalk towards the grass. As if this weren't tough enough, things got even tougher.
Two other ants, instead of helping their teammate, climbed aboard and the first ant dragged the extra weight without hesitation. It took nearly ten minutes of physical exertion from the time we first noticed it to when the ant took it to the grass, and who knows how long it had been struggling before we noticed. But when it reached the edge of the sidewalk, the granola monolith became stuck between the sidewalk and the neatly edged grass. For the next fifteen minutes the ant tried and tried, never budging it. When the matches were over and I left, the ant was still hard at work. The application was obvious.
Roger Federer is the best tennis player in the world. There can only be one of him. Same can be said for a school's valedictorian, the President of the United States, and on and on. You get the picture. Does that mean we quit trying to achieve our goals? This goes far beyond tennis. Life applications abound. I'll let you put your own struggle to this test:
Victories can be counted in many ways, and the only time we lose is when we give up. I've put our poor showing in its proper perspective, ceding it to greater tragedies in the world, but I will still come back out tomorrow ready to try where I've failed, as a coach, as a teacher, as a servant. In all walks of life. My athletes will too.
As for that "poor" ant, I'm sure he will too.
By three in the afternoon, most had played their first two matches, and having lost both, they sat in wait to play for seventh place. I wasn't satisfied with their results, and I am pretty sure that they weren't satisfied either, but many of them had accepted the results and laughed as they joked about getting blown away, losing leads, and the like. No conversation was had about strategy, and nobody thought to put together a game plan for their seventh-place match. Instead they just joked. I too was defeated.
I separated myself from this so that I wouldn't say something I would regret later. After all tennis is a civilized sport and cooler heads must prevail. There would be a time and place. And when the gentlemen took to the courts, they were again outmatched. Their defeat wasn't a mathematical certainty, but for their morale it might as well have been.
So I sat and pondered this as I helplessly watched the inevitable. Specifically, I ponderd how I had failed them. Each player I had personally given one-on-one attention in practice in the past few weeks, throwing little nuggets of wisdom at them as if I were writing tennis' version of The Book of Proverbs. On changeovers in the matches today, I would call them over and tell them what they could improve upon, also pointing out their opponent's weaknesses, but nothing worked. Then I saw the ant.
Truth to be told, one of the parents I was sitting by, a good friend to me, saw it first. It was a fire ant, the size of a grain of rice. It was trying with all its might to drag a chunk of granola bar the size of a marshmallow. The bar was three or four times its size, and no matter how impossible the odds might have been, the ant refused to give up. Millimeter-by-millimeter, it dragged the boulder across the sidewalk towards the grass. As if this weren't tough enough, things got even tougher.
Two other ants, instead of helping their teammate, climbed aboard and the first ant dragged the extra weight without hesitation. It took nearly ten minutes of physical exertion from the time we first noticed it to when the ant took it to the grass, and who knows how long it had been struggling before we noticed. But when it reached the edge of the sidewalk, the granola monolith became stuck between the sidewalk and the neatly edged grass. For the next fifteen minutes the ant tried and tried, never budging it. When the matches were over and I left, the ant was still hard at work. The application was obvious.
Roger Federer is the best tennis player in the world. There can only be one of him. Same can be said for a school's valedictorian, the President of the United States, and on and on. You get the picture. Does that mean we quit trying to achieve our goals? This goes far beyond tennis. Life applications abound. I'll let you put your own struggle to this test:
Victories can be counted in many ways, and the only time we lose is when we give up. I've put our poor showing in its proper perspective, ceding it to greater tragedies in the world, but I will still come back out tomorrow ready to try where I've failed, as a coach, as a teacher, as a servant. In all walks of life. My athletes will too.
As for that "poor" ant, I'm sure he will too.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
SSR (The Sound of Silence)
It's quiet.
The room is at peace. The air-conditioning unit has set the air to that perfect temperature of "cool" that my cheek is calm to the touch. It even sends my eye lids into a lull so peaceful that I have to struggle to keep them open. Natural light cascades in from the window like a silent tropical waterfall. Time nearly ceases to exist, only reminding me of its presence by the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall across the room.
Tick... tick... tick... tick
In fact, other than the four-count melodic rhythm of that metronome, the only other sound is pleasing. It's the gentle flipping of pages.
I'm not at the library. I'm in my classroom. Twenty-some ninth graders are all quiet- amazingly quiet. They are all on the same task. Having taken months to train, all I have to do is say the phrase, "Reading time has begun," and all go to work, save for the occasional nodder, a victim of the peaceful setting.
Of course it's April and school will be out in five weeks. We are far enough along in the school year that I can reap the rewards of drill-instructor-like training to whip these students into shape. All whining has ceased, all questions as to the validity of SSR (silent, sustained reading) have been sufficiently answered. We are still far enough away from summer vacation that I don't have to worry about them getting antsy. So for a peaceful thirty minutes today, and twice a week, we sit in silence and enter our own little dream worlds created by each individual author.
SSR is an oasis in a desert full of foul-mouthed teen talk in the hallways, the cafeteria, or whenever the teacher's back is turned- generally any time they can think they can get away with it. But I don't have to think about that right now. Right now there's just... silence.
And then the bell rings.
The room is at peace. The air-conditioning unit has set the air to that perfect temperature of "cool" that my cheek is calm to the touch. It even sends my eye lids into a lull so peaceful that I have to struggle to keep them open. Natural light cascades in from the window like a silent tropical waterfall. Time nearly ceases to exist, only reminding me of its presence by the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall across the room.
Tick... tick... tick... tick
In fact, other than the four-count melodic rhythm of that metronome, the only other sound is pleasing. It's the gentle flipping of pages.
I'm not at the library. I'm in my classroom. Twenty-some ninth graders are all quiet- amazingly quiet. They are all on the same task. Having taken months to train, all I have to do is say the phrase, "Reading time has begun," and all go to work, save for the occasional nodder, a victim of the peaceful setting.
Of course it's April and school will be out in five weeks. We are far enough along in the school year that I can reap the rewards of drill-instructor-like training to whip these students into shape. All whining has ceased, all questions as to the validity of SSR (silent, sustained reading) have been sufficiently answered. We are still far enough away from summer vacation that I don't have to worry about them getting antsy. So for a peaceful thirty minutes today, and twice a week, we sit in silence and enter our own little dream worlds created by each individual author.
SSR is an oasis in a desert full of foul-mouthed teen talk in the hallways, the cafeteria, or whenever the teacher's back is turned- generally any time they can think they can get away with it. But I don't have to think about that right now. Right now there's just... silence.
And then the bell rings.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Stand by Me
I just can't bring myself to hate Will Wheaton.
Anyone who is a fan of the hit sitcom The Big Bang Theory knows that Will Wheaton has made a few guest appearances, playing himself/the arch nemesis of fan favorite Sheldon Cooper, a brilliant, yet quirky scientist who sees fellow humans as merely bacteria through the lens of a microscope. As kryptonite to Superman, Sheldon's weakness is Will Wheaton's character, Will Wheaton, a guy who is not smarter than Sheldon, but much craftier. As a former fan of Wheaton's character on Star Trek -that is until Wheaton scorned him for an autograph years back- Sheldon is constantly seeking his revenge, but always falls short due to Wheaton's mean-spirited tricks. My wife and I both love Sheldon, hence it would be so easy to hate Wheaton (the character or the actor.) I just can't do it because I remember him for a role he played in 1986, a role that in many ways shaped who I am today.
In the best movie of all time, Stand by Me (adapted from Steven King's novella The Body,) Wheaton plays a sensitive twelve-year-old named Gordie who is trying his best to cope with life after the death of his brother and in the midst of being invisible to his grieving parents who have apparently forgotten that they still have a living son. Either as an act of rebellion or simply to cope, he hangs out with a group of tough guys who are all on the way to nowhere. Chris (played by the late River Phoenix,) is the leader of the group who has to live down his bad family reputation. Teddy (played by Corey Feldman) is the spawn and near clone of a military man who after storming the beach at Normandy, went Section Eight and stuck his son's head to the stove, melting off his ears. The last in the group, Vern (Jerry O'Connell,) is the fat one that everyone picks on.
One hot summer afternoon, the four set out on an adventure to find the missing body of a boy in a neighboring town after Vern overhears some information about his whereabouts from his brother and his brother's friend who stumbled upon the dead body by a river twenty miles away. Armed with only the shirts on their backs, canteens, a pack of smokes, and a pistol, the four follow the railroad tracks to the location and find lots of trouble along the way: a junkyard dog taught to seek specific areas of the male body, a train that nearly runs them over on a bridge, and leaches in a cess pool that they fall into to name a few. But with all the trouble, the boys find out who they really are, they locate their inner-strength, and they come out men on the other side. It's a classic story of the initiation ritual.
I always identified with Gordie. No, I never had to deal with the type of tragedy he did, and I had the best parents in the world, but like him, I hung out with the wrong crowd, cussed like I thought real men did, and underachieved in school. I always knew I was a good kid, felt I was going to turn into a good man someday, but I suppose that this was my version of sowing my wild oats- instead of dating multiple girls, I misbehaved. And my parents thought that I was a perfect angel for the most part.
The movie had a huge impact on me. I can remember in junior high, hanging out at night with my best friend, C.J., one of the few good kids I palled around with. I would stay over at his house and we would stay up till all hours of the night, watching, rewinding, and rewatching Stand by Me. I swear we had every line memorized, cuss words and all. For that matter I still do.
But Gordie really stuck to me, hit close to home. In the story Gordie and Chris find a way out of the mire and become productive. Gordie becomes a writer, something Chris persuades him to follow because he had an obvious aptitude for the written word. Somewhere along the way I did the same. I guess I could say that my first real influence in writing was Gordie. I aspired to be the boy who could achieve the American dream.
In fact I so idolized Gordie and Stand by Me that my first novel, The Unwritten Rules of Moccasin Creek, was essentially a dedication to the movie. Four junior high boys on the last day of school take an unchapperoned camping trip to a local creek and with the aide of some necessary evils, fully enjoy acting like "adults" until the rains bring rising water and a threat to survival. Sounds kind of familiar, doesn't it? If it ever sells, I hope Steven King will forgive me, or at least be honored that his brain child could be my spirit guide and inspiration.
So Will Wheaton will never be Sheldon Cooper's nemesis to me. He will never be some character on Star Trek that I don't even pretend to understand. He will never be any other character he has ever played. Will Wheaton will always be me.
Anyone who is a fan of the hit sitcom The Big Bang Theory knows that Will Wheaton has made a few guest appearances, playing himself/the arch nemesis of fan favorite Sheldon Cooper, a brilliant, yet quirky scientist who sees fellow humans as merely bacteria through the lens of a microscope. As kryptonite to Superman, Sheldon's weakness is Will Wheaton's character, Will Wheaton, a guy who is not smarter than Sheldon, but much craftier. As a former fan of Wheaton's character on Star Trek -that is until Wheaton scorned him for an autograph years back- Sheldon is constantly seeking his revenge, but always falls short due to Wheaton's mean-spirited tricks. My wife and I both love Sheldon, hence it would be so easy to hate Wheaton (the character or the actor.) I just can't do it because I remember him for a role he played in 1986, a role that in many ways shaped who I am today.
In the best movie of all time, Stand by Me (adapted from Steven King's novella The Body,) Wheaton plays a sensitive twelve-year-old named Gordie who is trying his best to cope with life after the death of his brother and in the midst of being invisible to his grieving parents who have apparently forgotten that they still have a living son. Either as an act of rebellion or simply to cope, he hangs out with a group of tough guys who are all on the way to nowhere. Chris (played by the late River Phoenix,) is the leader of the group who has to live down his bad family reputation. Teddy (played by Corey Feldman) is the spawn and near clone of a military man who after storming the beach at Normandy, went Section Eight and stuck his son's head to the stove, melting off his ears. The last in the group, Vern (Jerry O'Connell,) is the fat one that everyone picks on.
One hot summer afternoon, the four set out on an adventure to find the missing body of a boy in a neighboring town after Vern overhears some information about his whereabouts from his brother and his brother's friend who stumbled upon the dead body by a river twenty miles away. Armed with only the shirts on their backs, canteens, a pack of smokes, and a pistol, the four follow the railroad tracks to the location and find lots of trouble along the way: a junkyard dog taught to seek specific areas of the male body, a train that nearly runs them over on a bridge, and leaches in a cess pool that they fall into to name a few. But with all the trouble, the boys find out who they really are, they locate their inner-strength, and they come out men on the other side. It's a classic story of the initiation ritual.
I always identified with Gordie. No, I never had to deal with the type of tragedy he did, and I had the best parents in the world, but like him, I hung out with the wrong crowd, cussed like I thought real men did, and underachieved in school. I always knew I was a good kid, felt I was going to turn into a good man someday, but I suppose that this was my version of sowing my wild oats- instead of dating multiple girls, I misbehaved. And my parents thought that I was a perfect angel for the most part.
The movie had a huge impact on me. I can remember in junior high, hanging out at night with my best friend, C.J., one of the few good kids I palled around with. I would stay over at his house and we would stay up till all hours of the night, watching, rewinding, and rewatching Stand by Me. I swear we had every line memorized, cuss words and all. For that matter I still do.
But Gordie really stuck to me, hit close to home. In the story Gordie and Chris find a way out of the mire and become productive. Gordie becomes a writer, something Chris persuades him to follow because he had an obvious aptitude for the written word. Somewhere along the way I did the same. I guess I could say that my first real influence in writing was Gordie. I aspired to be the boy who could achieve the American dream.
In fact I so idolized Gordie and Stand by Me that my first novel, The Unwritten Rules of Moccasin Creek, was essentially a dedication to the movie. Four junior high boys on the last day of school take an unchapperoned camping trip to a local creek and with the aide of some necessary evils, fully enjoy acting like "adults" until the rains bring rising water and a threat to survival. Sounds kind of familiar, doesn't it? If it ever sells, I hope Steven King will forgive me, or at least be honored that his brain child could be my spirit guide and inspiration.
So Will Wheaton will never be Sheldon Cooper's nemesis to me. He will never be some character on Star Trek that I don't even pretend to understand. He will never be any other character he has ever played. Will Wheaton will always be me.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
The Boys of... Spring
For the first time in many years, we had good weather for our Easter egg hunt this morning. In the recent past we've had a combination of wind, cold drizzle, and even hints of snow, which forced the Easter bunny to hide his eggs inside, but this morning was warm. When wishing for spring, I tend to look to the trees and bushes. The yellows and whites come out before anything else, but it's not until the reds and pinks show up that I know we are finally free of winter. That and opening day of the Major League baseball season.
With the smell of freshly cut grass still in my nostrils, I raced inside this evening and took the fastest shower of my life. Still dripping wet, I plopped down into my chair and turned on the television just in time to see the Boston Red Sox take the field against the hated New York Yankees. Opening day is always special because it's a clear sign that winter is finally over. Every year thousands of kids are called in sick on opening day. Unbeknownst to mom, dad helps his kid play hooky. They sit in the outfield bleachers, buy a five-dollar bag of peanuts from the vendor coming down the isle, and enjoy waching the boys of summer. This is a ritual that takes place in thirty unique cities aross this country. With the exception of tonight's early opener, all these cities will celebrate tomorrow.
So what is so great about opening day in a 162 game season? Every team is even. We know of a few certainties when it comes to baseball every year. A few teams will spend close to $200 million, and will make the playoffs. This group includes both the Red Sox and Yankees. Other clubs who try to outspend teams like the Red Sox and Yankees will fall considerably short of making the playoffs because of forces unseen and unknown. This group includes the New York Mets and the Chicago Cubs. Finally, a few teams will be out of contention by May because their owners don't care whether they win or lose. This group includes the Kansas City Royals and the Pittsburgh Pirates. This doesn't bode well for me because I grew up as a Royals fan.
Living in Western Kansas in the early to mid eighties, we grew up idolizing the great Royals. George Brett, Frank White, Bret Saberhagen, Dan Quisenberry, Willy Wilson, even Bo Jackson later on. Kansas City was a proud franchise. Every year the Yankees would be in it until the end, but many of those years, the team that slowed them, or even showed them the door was the Royals. I yelled at the umpire through the television when he called Brett out in the classic pine-tar game. I cheered from the upper deck when Dad took our little league team to see them beat up on the Athletics (before McGuire and Canseco tainted the game with Steroids.) I danced in Grandma and Grandpa's living room with Uncle Joe when they took the I-70 Series from the St. Louis Cardinals.
Then somewhere along the way they became irrelevant. Talent started to dwindle. Instead of having a roster loaded with unselfish talent (for KC is a nice community to live in and raise kids,) the roster started showing weaknesses. Star pitchers like David Cone (who was born and raised in KC) would work their way up the farm system and give a few good years to the Royals before either finishing out their contracts and moving on to better paying teams, or worse, the club would deal them to the Yankees for cash to help New York in their stretch run to another damned championship. Before long, Kansas City became a farm team for the more serious clubs, grooming talent and just giving them away for practically no fight and nothing to show for the effort. Now KC makes one or two trades in the winter to add a former "medium-sized" name like a Mark Grudzielanek or a Matt Stairs, while fielding the rest of the positions with players that should be starting for the AAA Omaha Royals. It's sad, oh so sad.
So on opening day, every year, I buy a newspaper and go straight to the sports section. I take a look at the standings and see five teams in the American League Central Division with the number "0" beside their names in the games-back column. Kansas City is one of them. I also smile as I see KC listed fourth out of those five teams because "K" comes before the "M" in Minnesota in the alphabet. By the time the red buds lose their color, "K" will fall after the "M" and never recover.
Today, while there's still time, I celebrate a former great franchise, the Kansas City Royals, for by this time tomorrow there won't be much to celebrate. By May I will just pray that the Red Sox can keep up with the Yankees.
With the smell of freshly cut grass still in my nostrils, I raced inside this evening and took the fastest shower of my life. Still dripping wet, I plopped down into my chair and turned on the television just in time to see the Boston Red Sox take the field against the hated New York Yankees. Opening day is always special because it's a clear sign that winter is finally over. Every year thousands of kids are called in sick on opening day. Unbeknownst to mom, dad helps his kid play hooky. They sit in the outfield bleachers, buy a five-dollar bag of peanuts from the vendor coming down the isle, and enjoy waching the boys of summer. This is a ritual that takes place in thirty unique cities aross this country. With the exception of tonight's early opener, all these cities will celebrate tomorrow.
So what is so great about opening day in a 162 game season? Every team is even. We know of a few certainties when it comes to baseball every year. A few teams will spend close to $200 million, and will make the playoffs. This group includes both the Red Sox and Yankees. Other clubs who try to outspend teams like the Red Sox and Yankees will fall considerably short of making the playoffs because of forces unseen and unknown. This group includes the New York Mets and the Chicago Cubs. Finally, a few teams will be out of contention by May because their owners don't care whether they win or lose. This group includes the Kansas City Royals and the Pittsburgh Pirates. This doesn't bode well for me because I grew up as a Royals fan.
Living in Western Kansas in the early to mid eighties, we grew up idolizing the great Royals. George Brett, Frank White, Bret Saberhagen, Dan Quisenberry, Willy Wilson, even Bo Jackson later on. Kansas City was a proud franchise. Every year the Yankees would be in it until the end, but many of those years, the team that slowed them, or even showed them the door was the Royals. I yelled at the umpire through the television when he called Brett out in the classic pine-tar game. I cheered from the upper deck when Dad took our little league team to see them beat up on the Athletics (before McGuire and Canseco tainted the game with Steroids.) I danced in Grandma and Grandpa's living room with Uncle Joe when they took the I-70 Series from the St. Louis Cardinals.
Then somewhere along the way they became irrelevant. Talent started to dwindle. Instead of having a roster loaded with unselfish talent (for KC is a nice community to live in and raise kids,) the roster started showing weaknesses. Star pitchers like David Cone (who was born and raised in KC) would work their way up the farm system and give a few good years to the Royals before either finishing out their contracts and moving on to better paying teams, or worse, the club would deal them to the Yankees for cash to help New York in their stretch run to another damned championship. Before long, Kansas City became a farm team for the more serious clubs, grooming talent and just giving them away for practically no fight and nothing to show for the effort. Now KC makes one or two trades in the winter to add a former "medium-sized" name like a Mark Grudzielanek or a Matt Stairs, while fielding the rest of the positions with players that should be starting for the AAA Omaha Royals. It's sad, oh so sad.
So on opening day, every year, I buy a newspaper and go straight to the sports section. I take a look at the standings and see five teams in the American League Central Division with the number "0" beside their names in the games-back column. Kansas City is one of them. I also smile as I see KC listed fourth out of those five teams because "K" comes before the "M" in Minnesota in the alphabet. By the time the red buds lose their color, "K" will fall after the "M" and never recover.
Today, while there's still time, I celebrate a former great franchise, the Kansas City Royals, for by this time tomorrow there won't be much to celebrate. By May I will just pray that the Red Sox can keep up with the Yankees.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Annual March Disappointment
A few months ago, mired in a losing streak as long as this winter has been, Roy Williams, head men's basketball coach at the University of North Carolina, had the audacity to compare his team's losing streak to the Haitian earthquake disaster. It was a conversation that he never expected to get outside the walls of his office, but stuff this juicy has a way of escaping like juice from a lemon in a vise. The moment it became public, he knew how bad it sounded and he made a public apology, stating that he never once thought his little predicament compared to the devastation the people of Haiti felt and will continue to feel. His apology, as trite as it came out, was true. Nevertheless, his original words felt true to his situation. To him, a man who is destined for the College Basketball Hall of Fame, this was devastation. Oh, to be so blessed.
March Madness is a three-week tour of "devastation" for many fans. There are 347 NCAAS Division 1 college basketball teams. Sixty-five of the best teams in the nation sprint at break-neck speed towards the goal of being crowned national champions. Though the odds are much greater than, say, winning the lottery, this is still a mammoth task. That said, there are some fans who are ecstatic that their team merely makes the top 65. Then there are some fans who won't be happy until their favorite guys are hoisting the trophy. Unfortunately I fall into the last group.
I am a Kansas University Jayhawks fan and I have had my heart broken by them more times than by girls, which is saying something. In 1988 the great Danny Manning and his "Miracles" barely made the tournament, grossly underachieving all year. Playing inspired ball and streaking at the right moment, they swept six games from worthy foes, two of which they lost to miserably during the regular season. I was an impressionable eighth grader the year they cut down the nets and my expectations were permanently set in stone. I am not alone on this one.
Hence, for the next twenty years I was to be regularly disappointed in March. Many of those years if they weren't the clear-cut favorite to win it all, then they were certainly considered one of a handful of teams that could do it. In 1991, under the direction of now UNC coach Roy Williams, there was their surprise run to the championship game before being knocked off by a Duke team who beat arguably the best team in the history of the game in the semi finals, the UNLV Running Rebels. Despite the loss, this only heightened expectations. The very next year they were ranked #2 overall going into the tournament before a shocking defeat in the second round. 1993 resulted in another run to the final four before being dismissed by eventual champion North Carolina.
Two years later KU was upset in the Sweet 16 by an underrated Virginia squad after being tabbed as one of the favorites once again, but this only led to greater expectations the next year. In the 1996 season, after winning the Big 8 Tournament, KU again came up short, losing to Syracuse in the Elite 8. But their All American point guard, Jaque Vaughan, and a great supporting cast including All Americans Raef LaFrentz and future NBA Hall of Famer Paul Pierce, all decided to come back to school to finish the quest. Fielding what many considered to be the finest collection of mature athletes at the school ever, KU choked in the tournament to an Arizona team that caught fire at the right time and went on to win the tournament as a four-seed, practically unthinkable. KU was the consensus #1 almost all season. The next season, with Raef and Paul still in uniform, the #1 seeded Jayhawks were knocked off by little-known 8 seed Rhode Island, a total fluke, but consistent with the March madness moniker.
After a few off years (only winning 23, 24, and 26 games respectively) KU had another great team in 2003. Again one of the favorites, KU lost in the Final Four to eventual champion and senior-laden Maryland. So in 2004, with so many saying that this was KU's year with all their upper-classmen, they stormed into the championship game, only to lose to a Syracuse team that sported one-and-done Carmello Anthony and some dorky little point guard who couldn't miss from the three-point arc. I know his name, but I refuse to write or speak it. Anyway, it didn't help that KU choked away over 50% of its free throws that game. Coach Williams promptly bolted to UNC right after the game. Really, who could blame him?
Under the new direction of basketball genius Bill Self, KU regrouped and went after the championship with new vigor, but many hardships were to befall them. After an overtime loss in the Elite 8 that first year, KU came into the 2005 tournament as Big XII champions again, and as again one of an elite few who could win it all. They promptly lost to mighty Patriot League automatic qualifier Bucknell in the first round. That made Bucknell's century. The next year was a carbon copy, submitting Bradley for Bucknell, again in the first round. Jayhawks fans around the world were hiding their KU gear in shame. The very next year they won their conference yet again, but faltered in the Elite 8. At that point it didn't really matter who the opponent was. Quite frankly I don't remember, or care to.
In twenty years, KU had ten teams that many would consider had at least a sporting chance of winning the whole damn thing. All ten of those teams fell short of expectations, and 2008 shaped up to offer the same lamentable tune. In the championship game against Memphis, KU fell behind eight points with only a few minutes to play. Then something amazing happened; a different team choked. Memphis missed their free throws and Mario Chalmers hit a miracle three pointer at the buzzer to take the game into overtime. Breaking twenty cursed years, the boys in blue outdistanced their opponent for the National Championship! I felt like I was thirteen again! The boys went 37 wins versus 3 losses that year.
So two weeks ago, composed of some of those same ball players who contributed that fateful season, KU strolled into the NCAA tournament, Big XII Champions again and #1 overall seed with 32 wins. This had been dubbed as KU's year for the past twelve months, ever since their two great stars, Sherron Collins and Cole Aldrich announced they would return for a championship run. It ended five games short. KU lost to dinky University of Northern Iowa in the round of 32, leaving many disbelieving KU fans and millions of pissed off bracket participants who picked them to win it all (40% of all ESPN.com users!)
Disappointment describes it perfectly. When I look at this year's Final Four participants, 5 seed Michigan State, 5 seed Butler, 2 seed West Virginia, and 1 seed Duke, I shake my head in disbelief. This motley group of cagers supposedly represent the top four teams in the nation, foresaking great teams like Kentucky, Syracuse, and of course KU. The people who write about this topic for a living make statements like, "That's what makes this sport so special." That's a load of horse hockey. If they want to do it right, they should come up with some sort of double-elimination format. That way, when some of the teams that shouldn't lose end up hiccuping, they can play their way back into it. It would take an extra week or two to complete, but really, what sports fan says at the end of the tournament, "Man, that was a long tournament. I am glad it is over! I am sick of basketball!" Wouldn't happen.
9 times out of 10 KU easily handles Northern Iowa, Bucknell, Bradley, Rhode Island, Arizona, and Virginia. In those other years against the better competition, I'd give them a 50/50 chance, but honestly, this whole monologue is just a load of sour grapes. I waited a week after KU's "disappointing" loss to write this, hoping for some insights into the meaning of life without having to climb a mountain and soliciting an old, wise man with a beard down to the ground. I did find it tonight. What about poor old "devastated" Roy Williams' UNC team? They are still playing... in the NIT. That's cheap. They can have it.
I won't ever think of my poor misfortunes (sarcasm) as anything even remotely close to what the unfortunate people in Haiti are going through. If this is the frustration God has in store for me, I consider myself very blessed. Besides, two titles in my lifetime ain't bad.
March Madness is a three-week tour of "devastation" for many fans. There are 347 NCAAS Division 1 college basketball teams. Sixty-five of the best teams in the nation sprint at break-neck speed towards the goal of being crowned national champions. Though the odds are much greater than, say, winning the lottery, this is still a mammoth task. That said, there are some fans who are ecstatic that their team merely makes the top 65. Then there are some fans who won't be happy until their favorite guys are hoisting the trophy. Unfortunately I fall into the last group.
I am a Kansas University Jayhawks fan and I have had my heart broken by them more times than by girls, which is saying something. In 1988 the great Danny Manning and his "Miracles" barely made the tournament, grossly underachieving all year. Playing inspired ball and streaking at the right moment, they swept six games from worthy foes, two of which they lost to miserably during the regular season. I was an impressionable eighth grader the year they cut down the nets and my expectations were permanently set in stone. I am not alone on this one.
Hence, for the next twenty years I was to be regularly disappointed in March. Many of those years if they weren't the clear-cut favorite to win it all, then they were certainly considered one of a handful of teams that could do it. In 1991, under the direction of now UNC coach Roy Williams, there was their surprise run to the championship game before being knocked off by a Duke team who beat arguably the best team in the history of the game in the semi finals, the UNLV Running Rebels. Despite the loss, this only heightened expectations. The very next year they were ranked #2 overall going into the tournament before a shocking defeat in the second round. 1993 resulted in another run to the final four before being dismissed by eventual champion North Carolina.
Two years later KU was upset in the Sweet 16 by an underrated Virginia squad after being tabbed as one of the favorites once again, but this only led to greater expectations the next year. In the 1996 season, after winning the Big 8 Tournament, KU again came up short, losing to Syracuse in the Elite 8. But their All American point guard, Jaque Vaughan, and a great supporting cast including All Americans Raef LaFrentz and future NBA Hall of Famer Paul Pierce, all decided to come back to school to finish the quest. Fielding what many considered to be the finest collection of mature athletes at the school ever, KU choked in the tournament to an Arizona team that caught fire at the right time and went on to win the tournament as a four-seed, practically unthinkable. KU was the consensus #1 almost all season. The next season, with Raef and Paul still in uniform, the #1 seeded Jayhawks were knocked off by little-known 8 seed Rhode Island, a total fluke, but consistent with the March madness moniker.
After a few off years (only winning 23, 24, and 26 games respectively) KU had another great team in 2003. Again one of the favorites, KU lost in the Final Four to eventual champion and senior-laden Maryland. So in 2004, with so many saying that this was KU's year with all their upper-classmen, they stormed into the championship game, only to lose to a Syracuse team that sported one-and-done Carmello Anthony and some dorky little point guard who couldn't miss from the three-point arc. I know his name, but I refuse to write or speak it. Anyway, it didn't help that KU choked away over 50% of its free throws that game. Coach Williams promptly bolted to UNC right after the game. Really, who could blame him?
Under the new direction of basketball genius Bill Self, KU regrouped and went after the championship with new vigor, but many hardships were to befall them. After an overtime loss in the Elite 8 that first year, KU came into the 2005 tournament as Big XII champions again, and as again one of an elite few who could win it all. They promptly lost to mighty Patriot League automatic qualifier Bucknell in the first round. That made Bucknell's century. The next year was a carbon copy, submitting Bradley for Bucknell, again in the first round. Jayhawks fans around the world were hiding their KU gear in shame. The very next year they won their conference yet again, but faltered in the Elite 8. At that point it didn't really matter who the opponent was. Quite frankly I don't remember, or care to.
In twenty years, KU had ten teams that many would consider had at least a sporting chance of winning the whole damn thing. All ten of those teams fell short of expectations, and 2008 shaped up to offer the same lamentable tune. In the championship game against Memphis, KU fell behind eight points with only a few minutes to play. Then something amazing happened; a different team choked. Memphis missed their free throws and Mario Chalmers hit a miracle three pointer at the buzzer to take the game into overtime. Breaking twenty cursed years, the boys in blue outdistanced their opponent for the National Championship! I felt like I was thirteen again! The boys went 37 wins versus 3 losses that year.
So two weeks ago, composed of some of those same ball players who contributed that fateful season, KU strolled into the NCAA tournament, Big XII Champions again and #1 overall seed with 32 wins. This had been dubbed as KU's year for the past twelve months, ever since their two great stars, Sherron Collins and Cole Aldrich announced they would return for a championship run. It ended five games short. KU lost to dinky University of Northern Iowa in the round of 32, leaving many disbelieving KU fans and millions of pissed off bracket participants who picked them to win it all (40% of all ESPN.com users!)
Disappointment describes it perfectly. When I look at this year's Final Four participants, 5 seed Michigan State, 5 seed Butler, 2 seed West Virginia, and 1 seed Duke, I shake my head in disbelief. This motley group of cagers supposedly represent the top four teams in the nation, foresaking great teams like Kentucky, Syracuse, and of course KU. The people who write about this topic for a living make statements like, "That's what makes this sport so special." That's a load of horse hockey. If they want to do it right, they should come up with some sort of double-elimination format. That way, when some of the teams that shouldn't lose end up hiccuping, they can play their way back into it. It would take an extra week or two to complete, but really, what sports fan says at the end of the tournament, "Man, that was a long tournament. I am glad it is over! I am sick of basketball!" Wouldn't happen.
9 times out of 10 KU easily handles Northern Iowa, Bucknell, Bradley, Rhode Island, Arizona, and Virginia. In those other years against the better competition, I'd give them a 50/50 chance, but honestly, this whole monologue is just a load of sour grapes. I waited a week after KU's "disappointing" loss to write this, hoping for some insights into the meaning of life without having to climb a mountain and soliciting an old, wise man with a beard down to the ground. I did find it tonight. What about poor old "devastated" Roy Williams' UNC team? They are still playing... in the NIT. That's cheap. They can have it.
I won't ever think of my poor misfortunes (sarcasm) as anything even remotely close to what the unfortunate people in Haiti are going through. If this is the frustration God has in store for me, I consider myself very blessed. Besides, two titles in my lifetime ain't bad.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Super Bowl
When I was a kid the Super Bowl was just as important as my birthday and nearly upon level with Christmas. During the week leading up the big game, the anticipation was too much to bear. I was worthless in school. The teacher would call on me in class and I would be daydreaming about Terry Bradshaw throwing a touchdown strike to John Stallworth, and the subsequent Steelers' big win. It was so huge for me that I couldn't sit still to hold another thought.
On the day of the game, I would wake up really early to turn on the television and watch the marathon of former Super Bowl games, really focusing on the four that Pittsburgh won. I had every highlight memorized, the accompanying music, and the deep-voiceded vernacular of John Facenda, the overvoice specialist for NFL Films. There would be a break for mass, another for lunch, and by three in the afternoon, my father couldn't stand to hear me or my brother ask one more time, "How long until it's on?"
Buttoned up from head-to-toe, we would be sent outside to re-enact the Immaculate Reception (yes, I know that was not in a Super Bowl game,) Lynn Swan's tiptoe dance along the sideline, or even the folly of the play that the tight end from Dallas created when he dropped a sure touchdown to put them ahead of the Steelers. What was that guy's name again? I should send him a thank you card.
Anyway, the stress of the day would get to me. By the time the Super Bowl came on, I had another tradition. My migraine headache would be so bad that I would have to lay down in a dark room until it abated or the game was over, which was usually one in the same. What a big letdown after all the anticipation.
I watched every Super Bowl with my father until 2003 when it just wasn't feasible to have one of us drive so far. Nevertheless, every year I call Dad on Super Bowl Sunday to get his prediction. Every year he pretty much nails it. About five years ago my brother Chris and I started a tradition. Each year, he calls me or I call him minutes before the game and we place a wager on it. The loser pays the other's out-of-state fishing fees for our annual Colorado fly-fishing trip in July.
Whether it's for the love of the game, for tradition, or for the commercials, the Super Bowl is more than just a contest between the two best football teams in the world. It's a social event that's big enough to cause Wal Mart to move snack items to the center aisle. Whatever your tradition, and whether your team made it or not, I hope your Super Bowl Sunday is a good one.
On the day of the game, I would wake up really early to turn on the television and watch the marathon of former Super Bowl games, really focusing on the four that Pittsburgh won. I had every highlight memorized, the accompanying music, and the deep-voiceded vernacular of John Facenda, the overvoice specialist for NFL Films. There would be a break for mass, another for lunch, and by three in the afternoon, my father couldn't stand to hear me or my brother ask one more time, "How long until it's on?"
Buttoned up from head-to-toe, we would be sent outside to re-enact the Immaculate Reception (yes, I know that was not in a Super Bowl game,) Lynn Swan's tiptoe dance along the sideline, or even the folly of the play that the tight end from Dallas created when he dropped a sure touchdown to put them ahead of the Steelers. What was that guy's name again? I should send him a thank you card.
Anyway, the stress of the day would get to me. By the time the Super Bowl came on, I had another tradition. My migraine headache would be so bad that I would have to lay down in a dark room until it abated or the game was over, which was usually one in the same. What a big letdown after all the anticipation.
I watched every Super Bowl with my father until 2003 when it just wasn't feasible to have one of us drive so far. Nevertheless, every year I call Dad on Super Bowl Sunday to get his prediction. Every year he pretty much nails it. About five years ago my brother Chris and I started a tradition. Each year, he calls me or I call him minutes before the game and we place a wager on it. The loser pays the other's out-of-state fishing fees for our annual Colorado fly-fishing trip in July.
Whether it's for the love of the game, for tradition, or for the commercials, the Super Bowl is more than just a contest between the two best football teams in the world. It's a social event that's big enough to cause Wal Mart to move snack items to the center aisle. Whatever your tradition, and whether your team made it or not, I hope your Super Bowl Sunday is a good one.
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