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.
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