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.)
Monday, April 26, 2010
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.
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