Rants from the Coastal Curmudgeon

The items that hold a higher ranking than “being at the beach” on my list of Things I Enjoy Most are few and, well, generally inappropriate for this blog. Suffice to say, though, that by adding “at the beach” to any of those same items thrusts them upward to a nearly incomprehensible level of enjoyment. It’s a true best-of-both-worlds situation for me. Reminds me of the Jimmy Buffett tune Smart Woman in a Real Short Skirt. No – more like sitting on a beach with my smart woman in a real short skirt listening to Jimmy Buffett sing the song by the same name. Wait…it’s really more like hanging out with my smart woman in a real short skirt and Jimmy on a South Pacific beach after a surfing session, playing guitars and singing Smart Woman in a Real Short Skirt. Oh, and Bob Marley is there. You get the picture.

Needless to say, there are very few things I enjoy more than being at the beach. Were it not for many of those who also travel to the beach, it would be Eden for me. For it is they who, on rare occasion, turn me into the Coastal Curmudgeon, the alias I will assume for this post.

Allow me to expound on these folks who, upon my most recent visit to my beloved Carolina coast, gave me pause to consider the interruptions they inflicted on my otherwise idyllic experience.

First, it is not appropriate nor acceptable to wear loosely laced high tops, baggy butt crack-showing, calf-length shorts, a wife-beater tank top undershirt, and a Major League flat-brimmed ball cap - with the brim at 5:00 - on the beach! It looks ridiculous in the mall. On the sand by the surf? Thoroughly idiotic. Try some board shorts. And if you must wear a shirt, you have options. Think loose and cool, or something with SPF protection. Headwear? Certainly. But keep in mind the words of my wise old grandfather-in-law – “I never seen a hat with the brim sewn on the back.” Oh yeah, trade in the heaps of cologne for a liberal application of sunscreen.

Speaking of apparel, let’s turn our attention to the ladies. Now, like most red-blooded males, I’m all for showing some skin. Bikinis are beautiful. If they fit. If you wear a size 18, don’t squish yourself into a 4. The saying, “If you got it – flaunt it” does not apply to fat, beer guts, rolls or hairy underarms. Is that a double standard? Damn skippy. We can’t pull off the magic you gals are able to create every day. There is a line, though. And I’ve seen some not only cross over that line but douse it in ranch dressing and cheese dip, roll all over it, wrap themselves in it,  try it on as a thong, then crush it underfoot, soak it in lighter fluid, set it ablaze, and eventually travel hundreds of miles past it.

I mentioned hairy underarms being taboo for the ladies. But where has the hair gone for the guys? Now this I kinda understand. If your woman likes a bare chest, then striving to please is not necessarily a bad thing. All I gotta say is it seems like there was a step in the evolutionary process that bypassed me in this area. If not, there is a whole lotta shaving going on. I find it laughable, and maybe a little sad, when I watch a dude go by with a silky smooth front torso and the back of a bear. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Looks silly, fellas. An all-or-nothing approach makes more sense. As for me, I’ll leave the waxing for my longboard.

This next complaint applies to the Garden City/Surfside beaches of South Carolina. If you don’t want to walk when you play golf on one of the Grand Strand’s many pristine golf courses, rent a golf cart. If you’d like to go from your rental house 5 blocks off the beach to the pier 4 miles away, take a road-worthy vehicle! Somehow, these 2 towns have seen it feasible to allow golf carts to travel on their busy streets. To make matters worse, those who drive these little misery-making machines refuse to move to the shoulder to allow the 24-vehicle build-up to pass. It’s as though they consider the streets to have been built for them. Bikers and joggers share the road and use common sense (usually), yielding to those machines made for tar and gravel travel. And many go at a higher rate of speed than the displaced duffers’ wagons. Town councils, can we not restrict golf carts to the secondary roads and require them to move over when safe? In the least, be considerate of those of us behind the wheel of a vehicle that can travel beyond 10 miles per hour. Otherwise, save the carts for use when driving a golf ball, like they were intended, not driving the rest of us slam nuts.

My final pet peeve deals with pets. Dogs are not humans. True, I prefer the friendship of a pooch to that of many a person I’ve known. But, if they are not allowed on a section of beach at certain times of the year, don’t take them out there. I can’t tell you how much I just love sifting through broken conchs, olives, and other assorted shells only to come across a pile of dog poop, in pristine condition, nonetheless. A wet nose of an overly friendly canine in my crotch makes maintaining the altitude of a kite somewhat difficult. Oh, and thanks for slobber-soaking that tennis ball my son and I were trying to toss about.

Mean-spirited? Maybe.

Uncompromising? Most likely.

Politically correct? Never.

You may hate me for what I said.

Haters gonna hate.

 

And Coastal Curmudgeons are gonna be crabby.

 

Be that as it may, I can’t wait to head back to my place in the sand.

Be Awake, Not Just Smart!

Now that the new school year is underway, students have opportunities for fresh starts, improved performance, and new experiences. Two groups of which I am always proud are the National Honor Society and National Junior Honor Society. Membership requirements are high academic achievement and service project hours. Students who are inducted (only by invitation) are expected to maintain exemplary academic and school/community service records. The typical student in the NHS takes his or her formal education seriously, putting it at or near the top of the priority list. That is where it should be at this age.

Last year, I was asked to speak at the National Honor Society induction ceremony at a local high school. The school is one of the top academic schools in our state and has a large chapter of the NHS. After shaking free of my initial puzzlement, I gladly accepted. I struggled with a topic. So, I told the truth. Here is the transcript from that speech (I hope you enjoy it). Maybe it can still resonate today:

Thanks for that intro – I’d like to meet that guy. Unfortunately you’re stuck with me.

Seriously, it is indeed an honor to be here today, to be a part of such an auspicious occasion, to join the proud families, faculty and staff in celebrating the achievements of the 2012-2013 Lexington High School’s National Honor Society inductees.

 

I must admit, after Mrs. Scurry and Mrs. Cormany first approached me and asked me to speak to you today I had a difficult time coming up with a topic. After all, there aren’t many topics that a person can effectively talk about for 90 minutes.

No, don’t worry, I know that my job is to speak and your job is to listen, and that I need to finish my job before you finish yours.

But, truthfully, I had an incredibly tough time coming up with a suitable message for today. Sure there are many topics that would be appropriate for the occasion, but none of them seemed to fit.

For instance, I could talk about the importance of honesty – how it is always wise to remember the adage – “honesty is the best policy”. But that message can really be summed up in two short comments. I once heard former NFL head coach Dan Reeves speak and he said, “Always tell the truth. That way, you never have to worry about what you said.” Short and sweet, and sums it up fairly well. Hard to make that effectively last for 15 minutes.

Then, I tried to become more philosophical – maybe that would take up more time. I thought, “What if I were to explain how to live a long life?” After much thought, I realized that the comic strip “BC” provided a very short answer for that one, too – never die.

So, I started going down my list of meaningful traits and positive practices. I turned to some speakers who have been positive influences on my life.

There’s Jimmy Valvano’s Never Give Up speech from the ESPY Awards. But, I feel certain that in order to achieve induction into the National Honor Society, you’ve all had to persevere and know the importance of perseverance.

Then, there’s this guy named Einstein - I’m sure some of you have heard of him. He said “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” But Joubert counters with “He who has imagination without learning, has wings and no feet.” In either case, I’m confident that you have utilized both very well to get where you are today.

One of the most brilliant minds of our age, Yogi Berra, made an astute observation about goals and goal setting when he remarked, “If you don’t know where you are going, you’ll end up someplace else.” Again, you’ve all obviously established significant goals and know what is required to achieve those goals.

What about success and failure? There’s certainly a lot of to choose from there. Henry Ford said, “One who fears failure limits his activities. Failure is only the opportunity to more intelligently begin again.” And Washington Irving spoke on the subject saying, “Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortunes; but great minds rise above them.” And yet again, I’m preaching to the choir. Hopefully, we understand that failure is OK, as long as we learn from it and continue to improve. Plus, I seriously doubt there are any “little minds” out there today.

By now, you should have a decent grasp on my quandary. You’ve made my rare and valuable free time somewhat miserable these last few weeks.

So, I decided that I should do what any brilliant writer, speaker, or philosopher would do in my situation. But I had no idea what that would be. So I went to the movies.

Now I must be honest, I didn’t actually physically go to the movies – that’s a major outing on a teacher’s salary. No, instead I went there in my mind. I love the movies - especially those that move me. I started mentally searching my favorite movies for inspiration and I found quite a few that were indeed inspiring. 

Overcoming odds in Rudy; Rudy!, Rudy!, Rudy!

Following your dreams in Field of Dreams, which also teaches the importance of a game of catch with your dad, or son (that part always chokes me up).

The power of love in What Dreams May Come. We could talk about that for days.

In A Beautiful Mind we learn about what is truly important in life and realize that things aren’t always as they seem.

Freedom in Braveheart. “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take away our…”

Forest Gump teaches us that life is like a box of chocolates – you never know what you’re gonna get.

Morgan Freeman plays a judge in Bonfire of the Vanities and instructs us to be decent people, that decency is what your grandmother taught you.

And then there’s Dead Poet’s Society and Robin Williams – what an unbelievable actor – who taught us about - carpe diem, sieze the day, make your lives extraordinary. I almost stuck with that one.

But my mind wandered on to movies like

Talladega Nights where Ricky Bobby shows us…well I’m not sure he shows us anything useful. Maybe something to do with humor? I don’t know. But I know that laughter is important, too.

Well, my mind was racing – nothing seemed to really work. Then it hit me like brick. My favorite movie. My favorite movie of all time had the message I was looking for. The movie? Joe Versus the Volcano. No joke. It is my all-time favorite. For the 2 or 3 of you who have never seen it, let me give you a quick overview.

This movie is the first of 3 that pairs Tom Hanks with Meg Ryan. In the movie, Hanks plays hypochondriac Joe Banks, a man troubled by the drudgery of a mundane existence and a dead-end job dimly lit with dull fluorescents that suck the life right out of his eyes. At a doctor’s visit, Joe finds out that he has a strange ailment known as a Brain Cloud and it has no cure. Soon after, Joe is visited by an extremely wealthy business owner who challenges him to live like a king and die like a man by jumping into a volcano to appease the gods of the Waponi tribe on the tiny remote island of Waponi Woo. With only a few weeks to live, Joe Banks accepts the challenge and meets a cast of interesting characters en route to the island. One character is his (ahem) incredibly attractive co-star Meg Ryan as Patricia Graynamore, captain of the yacht that is supposed to provide passage. Needless to say, just like in their subsequent films - Sleepless in Seattle and You’ve Got Mail – a love story emerges. I’m not a spoiler so I’ll just say that ultimately, Joe learns how to live as the 2 travelers face their destinies.

On the surface, the movie appears to be a simple fairy tale, when in fact it is an allegorical treat, full of symbolism, imagery, and surrealism with witty heroes and a memorable supporting cast.

During the sea voyage as Joe and Patricia are getting to know each other’s stories, Patricia makes a statement that has resonated with me to this day and has ingrained itself into my very soul. Her good looks and my subsequent crush back then had no bearing on this at all, mind you.

This is what she says:

“Almost the whole world is asleep. Everybody you know. Everybody you see. Everybody you talk to. Only a few people are awake, and they live in a state of constant total amazement.”

So the challenge I have for us today is this: Be awake.

Life is amazing, a precious gift. I’m sure you’ve learned some amazing facts about our universe during your educational careers. For instance, last semester, one of your peers demonstrated to me and his classmates that the speed of light can be measured with only a microwave oven, a ruler, and a Hershey’s chocolate bar. Blew me away – amazing!

The hydra, close relative to the jellyfish, can grow its body back in a couple of days if cut in half. What? Amazing!

There are 500,000 detectable earthquakes in the world each year. Do you feel that? Oh, it’s just my knees – never mind, false alarm.

The color blue causes the brain to release calming hormones. Not sure what bearing that has on our athletic teams, whether it’s good or bad - -probably depends on which coach you ask.

Of course, you being National Honor Society inductees probably knew those amazing facts already. But to truly be amazed by life, every day, we must be awake. We should strive to live our lives, not relive our past experiences and be fearful of our futures. Patrick Loughlin likens the movie Joe Versus the Volcano to the levels espoused by the 19^th century existentialist philosopher Kierkegaard, where those who are truly awake have moved through stages of awareness of life (now stay with me here) -  from an aesthetic level, where life is devoted to a specific exciting activity, to an ethical level, where life is devoted to an abstract idea, to the final stage which is taking that leap of faith, at which point, one can truly appreciate the significance of life.

Now, I can’t tell you how to be awake. I’m still figuring that out myself. I do know that when the drudgeries of life seem to be sucking the life out of me, I simply need to awaken. Have you ever gone outside at night and stared up into the nighttime sky. It’s full of wonder. It’s hard not to be amazed when you look up into the heavens at night. Did you know that there are over a hundred billion galaxies out there? With each galaxy having billions of stars? Sometimes I listen to the innocent and imaginative perspective of my 10 year old daughter. And often it makes me wonder, how does the world lose so much beauty as we grow older?

My father and I were having a discussion by phone the other day about a book he had just read and really liked. He said to me, “Wally – (that name is not to be repeated after this) you are creative enough to write a book like that. You’d be great at it.” I replied, “Yeah, Dad, that would be great – a dream of mine even, but I just don’t have time and I have to pay the bills.” His comment – “I know you’re too busy making a living to have a life.” Now that’s a wake-up call.

I suspect that when we are truly awake, most, if not all, of those traits mentioned earlier will tend to accompany us on our journey. We may view things a little differently, though.

Instead of trying to be a success, we may try to be a value.

We may find that our inspiration is inspiring others.

Our goals may be a tad revised.

We may realize that devotion to something concrete may not bring complete fulfillment because it can be taken from us.

Due to outside influences like guilt, deadlines, and responsibility, we may conclude that devoting ourselves to our ability to choose is not foolproof.

When we are awake, though, we may then devote ourselves to something we know to be vulnerable, to overcome our fears and accept life and its joyful and painful experiences; to take that leap of faith.

It’s easy to get lulled to sleep by the everyday necessities of life, our habits, subconscious actions, responsibilities for survival and existence. And I’m not saying to shirk those responsibilities. They are a necessary part of life and will always be there, whether we’re simply making a living or living our lives.

My challenge to you and to all of us is this - that we should strive to be a value and an inspiration. Success will follow. We should strive to live in a state of constant total amazement. Let us strive to be awake. Be awake

Congratulations new inductees of the Lexington High School Chapter of the National Honor Society. Continue to do well. Thank you Mrs. Scurry and Mrs. Cormany for inviting my family and me here today. And thank you families, peers, and students for your time and attention.

Man and Mower - a Special Relationship

When comparing the weather this summer between South Carolina and Texas, it’s difficult to find two more opposite stretches of time. It rained on us maybe 2 days while we spent the majority of our summer break in Southeast Texas. I think those were the same two days that it did not rain back home in Carolina. Needless to say, when thinking of all the rain we were getting at home, I was truly concerned about its repercussions. Not the flooding, ruined crops, or even squelched vacation plans, but, rather, my back yard.

Buried in my back yard is a septic tank, and covering the ground is the fastest growing patch of St. Augustine grass known to man. A coincidence? I think not. With less than average rainfall, I could mow my back yard once every 5 days. The rainfall amounts we’ve received in Carolina are biblical. Really. About a month after arriving in Texas, I received a text from Noah with the plans for a new ark to be built in my hometown of Lexington, SC.  I immediately envisioned the top of my backyard just below the gutters of my house. It was highly likely that my backyard would be the new home to species of animals typically found in South American rain forest thickets. I guess those hard-to-track-down animals are why Noah contacted me.

So, on my 16-hour drive home, I had lots of time to contemplate how to attack the jungle of grass behind my home. My lawn mower, the kind you push, was way too meager to handle a job of such magnitude. And, besides, it was in the storage shed, buried somewhere in the depths of Jurassic Lawn. Initially, I considered going the machete route, but that sounded like way too much manual labor. Plus, I’m not sure I’m handy enough to take on a panther, which I’m positive must have taken up residence there, armed with anything less than a Sherman tank. Then I thought, “Why not a Sherman tank?” No - way too much damage control afterwards and I doubt my neighbor has one anyway. As I drove along, I crossed napalm, ninja sword, the Army Corps of Engineers, a herd of giant goats and various other less-than-ideal options off my list and eventually decided on flame thrower.

We finally arrived home a little after midnight. I felt like wine. Now, I know what you’re thinking – “Sure, after a long, tiring road trip, a nice glass of vino would be nice and would certainly help with the winding down process.” But that wasn’t it at all. I actually felt like wine, as though I-20 had stomped me like a vat of grapes for hours.  I didn’t want a drink of anything. I wanted to be six years old again and have my dad gently pick me up out of my seat in the car, carry me into the house and tuck me in my bed. I couldn’t talk my wife or son into being Dad, so I crawled on my own into bed without unpacking the car and without a glance toward the backyard. I would have to search for flamethrower dealers in the morning. Maybe my father-in-law would have one. I have a tack hammer and a yard stick. He has a basement and half of a garage filled with a table saw, radial arm saw, the hand tools section from Home Depot, an honorary doctorate from the John Deere Academy, and I think I saw the keys to a Sherman Tank hanging up by the basement door.

Next morning, I peeked out my window at my back yard, much in the same way my wife peeked into the mirror after I convinced her to save money and let me highlight her hair. Admittedly, I blinked a few times. I expected to be staring straight into tall, broad blades of grass. And maybe into the grisly face of a 47-pound ladybug.  Instead, I could see trees, my neighbor’s house, even the storage shed. The grass had only grown a foot tall, a little more in some areas!

“Honey, would you mind calling your dad and telling him I won’t need that flame thrower after all?”

So with high spirits I prepared for some quality time with my lawn.

I’m one of those guys who secretly enjoy mowing the lawn. It’s therapeutic. It’s just me, my mower, and grass in need of a trim. I can be creative – think professional baseball outfield patterns. I also have deep conversations with myself, solving lots of my world’s problems and coming up with earth-shattering ideas that I never really act upon. Now, when I say conversation, I’m using the actual definition that requires a speaker, message, listener, and response. I play both roles, and do so very well. Sometimes out loud. Thankfully, my hands are busy. Otherwise, I’d be utilizing hand gestures to get a point across to myself. My neighbors already have doubts about my sanity. I imagine them all standing at their windows, admiring my lawn care skills.

“Hey, sweetie. Come take a look at Walt across the street. Man, he is a pro behind that mower. Just look at that diamond and sun rays pattern! Such grace. And he makes it look so effortless. I admire him as a man and yard artist.”

“Um, is he talking to himself?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. He does that. You know how artistic types are, sweetheart.”

“Maybe he’s a genius.”

“Maybe…”

One day for grins and giggles, I’ll mow the yard without the lawn mower – just me and myself, having a nice long talk as I walk back and forth in some strange geometrical pattern in my front yard.

Mowing the lawn is also like washing the car to me– it’s a chore I publicly abhor, but secretly adore. The finished product makes the work worthwhile. Standing back and admiring one’s handiwork is fulfilling, especially if the job has been done well. But, as opposed to the lowly bucket, hose, and cloth used when washing the car, the lawn mower is more than a necessary tool. It’s Robin, Watson, Tonto -the proverbial sidekick. I usually give it a pep talk before taking the field and congratulate it after another fine performance. Sometimes we argue about its gas drinking problem and the occasional smoking, but, all-in-all we have a solid relationship. We’ve been together for nearly 15 years. It comes from a great family – Craftsman. No fancy self-propelled, push-button, attached bag shenanigans. It’s all real 6 horse power, mulching blade goodness. Oh, and, I can turn it on with one stroke…every time.

Back to the job at hand. I was a bit worried how my lawn mower would respond when faced with grass that rose quite a few inches above its gas cap.

So, I decided to give the yard two trims – the first with the mower raised a couple of notches. I think my lawn mower actually smiled. You know how kids, and RuPaul, and Adam Sandler, like to play dress-up? Well, my mower got the chance to play a grass combine harvester…and was thrilled. Two runs over the entire backyard and a tank-full of fuel later, my mower and I enjoyed a nice cold drink while admiring our most recent conquest over the St. Augustine green, problems solved, the next big thing discovered (but ignored). I heard the faint sounds of clapping and cheering emanating from behind the closed panes of glass of the surrounding houses. We retired gratified, me to my home and the mower to its shed.

Rains came the very next day. Nice timing!

My mower and I both smile, knowing what rains bring – tall grass and quality time together.

Youth Baseball - Have We Forgotten the Peanuts and Cracker Jack?

I enjoy sports.

I enjoy playing sports. I enjoy watching sports. I enjoy reading about sports. I enjoy talking about sports. I enjoy writing about sports.  

Now substitute "kids" for "sports" in the aforementioned statements. The same holds true.

 

Yes, even the second statement. I have played the role of a child in many a skit, and enjoyed it.  

So it stands to reason that I would enjoy coaching and watching youngsters who participate in youth sports. Well, I do.  

There's one problem... 

Parents. 

Most parents who have entrusted me with the athletic growth of their children have been supportive, cordial, if not downright friendly, helpful, and, well, ideal. The more I see, the more I am truly thankful for this. It seems that type of parent is becoming more scarce every season. I coach youth basketball, a true passion of mine. More specifically, I coach my two kids' teams in a slightly less competitive, church-based league. Great for my kids at their young age. I'm sure that will change as they grow older if they decide to compete at a higher level. I'll coach them as long as they desire me to, and as long as I am making a positive impact. It's such a thrill to watch them grow as people and as athletes while developing skills that will not only improve their performance on the court but in many facets of life - sports-related or not.

Every summer, though, our trek to Texas gives me the fantastic opportunity to watch my nephews play youth baseball. They live over a thousand miles away, so getting to watch them play is a true blessing. They're players. Dickie "V" would call them "diaper dandies" and would be spot-on in his assessment. They eat, sleep, and drink baseball. The middle of the 3 boys sleeps with a bat, one of an inordinate amount that he has purchased with every ten dollars he's earned for various chores and reasons. He may possibly have a different bat for each week of the year. On game day, he wakes up at sunrise, dresses out in full uniform and informs the family (more than once) that he has a game that day. To which his red-eyed dad will sleepily exclaim from beneath his pillow, "Yeah, buddy, but not until 6:30 tonight. That's like 12 hours from now."

"Yep." Makes no difference to him.

All three boys play the game and play it well. Their father was a super player whose career ended soon after high school and some semi-pro travel ball. He's a great teacher of the game and that is evident in the way his kids play. He's also a great dad with common sense and perspective. That separates him from a majority of his colleagues around the country. The guys with whom he coaches seem to all have the same philosophy, and their players do very well. Plus, they are happy. They seem to be having fun - a novel idea for a game, right? The same held true for my son and his coaches when he played youth league baseball.

So, there are good things happening out there in the wide and growing world of youth competitive sports.

The problem is this - for every silver lining, there's a storm cloud. In some cases, it's more of a mom monsoon, coach cyclone, out-of-touch typhoon. As a fan, I've weathered quite a few of these storms, gripping the third base chain link fence - not to prevent being swept away by high tides or gale force winds, but to conceal my incredulity at what I was hearing.

Kids aged under 9 years old were being asked, make that marine-sergeant ordered, to basically be adults (ideally that infinitesimally small percentage who play Major League Baseball), be perfect, be as far from a 9-year-old as possible.

Use your best Arkansas hog-calling, chalkboard scraping, state fair carney, Rosie O'Donald, banshee in heat voice when you screech:

 

"Grind and unwind, T.J.!"

 

Or, "That one wasn't even in your wheelhouse, boy!"

 

Maybe, "If you watch that ball again, I'm coming out there. Got me?"  

I really like, "What the (insert word of choice) do you think you're doing out there?!?"

 

Seemed  pretty obvious to me that the kid was studying some very interesting ants in right field - much more interesting than the, let's see, zero balls that had been hit to him to that point.  

My favorite? "C'mon, Zachary! Look alive out there! We're playing baseball! Geez!"

Interpretation: "I don't care that this is your third game today, and it's 101 degrees, and you're stuck out in center field where even MLB All-Stars sometimes watch the jumbo-tron to pass the time, and you'd much rather be swimming with your pals, or eating a hot dog or sno-cone! You should at least look like this is the most important moment of your entire career, check that - life! You've got to be bigger than all that childishness, for God's sake, you're a youth league baseball player! And the next pitch will be even more important! So, even though I make excuses for your inattentiveness in the classroom, that junk will not float out here on holy ground! You cannot have sprung forth from my loins, you ungrateful, uncaring, cretin!" 

Oh, and that's coming from the moms in the stands. 

"You better not swing at that high ball again, Caleb Joseph Mitchell Clark the Third! We cannot lose to this team! Their bedazzling looks like trash." 

At first, it's a little shocking. Young, pleasant, supportive, wholesome-seeming mommies transform into wild-eyed MMA trainers who have just learned that Anthony Weiner has somehow shut down every Starbucks in the world. For a very brief moment, I check to make sure I haven't been unfortunately beamed to a Middle East protest.

 

Then the self-check process begins again whenever an umpire misses a call - overzealous demonstration city. 

The dads are no better, just not as noticeable, except for the one or two who are obviously on hand simply to be thrown out of the park. You see, these guys meet up in the back of Terry's Auto Garage or the 14-hour warmed over burrito counter at the corner Grub-N-Gas and compare stats.  

"Tough day today, Smitty. Took until the 4th inning to get tossed." 

"Not me. You shoulda seen it. I was on that ump during the coaches' meeting before the game and never let up. Of course, I threw in a few motivators for little Johnny. By the second, I was out of there. I think the other team's fans even cheered as Deputy Clark escorted me out. Great day! Now how can we get the league president to step down?"

 Truthfully, it's madness. A slightly more subtle form of hooliganism.

I know the arguments. I'm the first to admit that self-discipline, personal responsibility, and work ethic is in serious decline in our society. Blame can and should be spread around. Parents, though, are certainly a major cause. Kids need to learn the lessons that come from participating in team sports, certainly. But it seems that when it comes to the win-at-all-costs mentality that has permeated throughout the sports environment, even down to tee ball, our perspective is completely out of whack. 

Instead of teaching youngsters the value of teamwork, responsibility, and discipline while having fun playing a game, many so-called coaches are propagating self-promotion (especially in themselves, which spills down to the players), isolation, and that mistakes are not acceptable, much less learning experiences. Isn't that what youth leagues are for? Learning experiences? The message should be, "Learn from your mistakes and failures and always strive to improve." Instead, many kids are getting the good ol' "Failure is not an option" line. That's perfect for bringing home astronauts from a space flight gone awry; not so great for 8 year-olds developing new skills and improving hand-eye coordination. If done the right way, eventully failure is often not an option because of the progression of learning and experience and mastery - not because some jerk trying to make up for the not-so-glorious glory days says it.

When a 10 year-old sobs uncontrollably, set off by being tagged out in a run-down and then chastised loudly and forcefully in front of his team's dugout by his coach/dad (can we shorten it to cad?), only to then be handed off to red-faced Mom, who has come out of the stands to reiterate dad's sentiments from the other side of the dugout, there's a serious flaw in our perspective. 

It seems to all boil down to ego. It's as though many young players are playing, in essence, to make their coaches and parents look good. The adults don't want to lose face in the stands or on the field. And if little Jackson drops a pop fly or strikes out or, God forbid, acts like a kid, its as though his parent(s) and coaches have failed miserably. Then, embarrassment sets in for the "grown-ups". Followed soon thereafter by unreasonable reactions. 

"That's 10 more laps around the field after the game, Colton. Now you're up to 15 after missing the tag in the 4th!"

Ego also drives out the spirit of the game.

 

"Put it in his face, J.W. Put it...in...his...face!"

 

Whatever that means.

 

The fiercest competition is often in the stands. The music, the attire, the cheers, the insults hurled at the umpires, the sad but hilarious back-and-forth: 

"Go get him, Petey. He can't hit you," shouts an oversized mom in an undersized red tank top, showing shoulders of an even brighter red.

"Knock it down his throat, Corey. Show him what you've got," screams an emaciated mom in a bedazzled t-shirt, bedazzled ball cap and bedazzled 5-inch diameter sunglasses. All in navy blue.

 "Ball," says the ump, in a very matter-of-fact manner.

 

Moans, groans, jeers, and choice words are delivered from one side of the plate, while the other side can't say enough nice things about the calls today.

"Way to hang, Corey. You got him where you want him. Make sure it's in your zone. Grip it and rip it. Make him wish he was never born!" Too many things to remember, if you ask me.

"C'mon, Petey! Locate it! Put it in his grill and make him think about it!" Oh man, something else for the batter to think about now?

"Straaahhhhhk!" growls the ump, a little more emphatically.

 

Roles reverse. Death threats come from the other side now, while their opposition is planning a campaign for the ump's obvious ascent to mayor.

"Don't worry about that one, Corey. Ump's blind as your great-granddaddy. Now hit the dang ball and knock this punk out of his shoes!"

"That's what I'm talking about, Petey! Finish him off! No prisoners! Send him home crying to his mommy!"

 

Oops. Shouldn't have said mommy.

Snooty glances and evil leers are cast like missiles at a distance of 12-20 feet.  

This, of course, continues, waxes and wanes to crescendos and lulls. Occasionally full blown arguments break out, someone gets ejected, fists are thrown, hair pulled, bedazzled stones rudely yanked off of clothing, and riots have even occurred, possibly from the bedazzling defacement.  

 The all-too-common question enters my mind - "Really?

Nobody enjoys losing. Nobody wants to screw up. Nobody wants to disappoint. Not even Tommy, stuck out in right field, who happens to be working on the world's first miniature sand drawing recreation of Hurricane Abernathy (named after his rather rotund and vociferous math teacher) as the ball rolls past him and the bases clear. But there's a much larger and more important picture for kids of these young, impressionable, and formative ages. And if you can't see that, then maybe it's time to take yourself out of the ballgame.

The Republic, In-Laws, and Jerry Jeff

(With a nod to Texas singer/songwriter/legend Jerry JeffWalker) Packin’ up our bathing suits and cowboy boots. Hauling in the perch traps and taking up the trot line. Deflating the air mattress, rolling up the sleeping bag, and washing the used sheets and towels. The last chopped brisket sandwich and chicken fry are just fond gastronomical memories. Great grandparents are showered with loving hugs and tear-stained kisses. The dog gets a good scratching behind her ears. The creek receives a final nod in appreciation of its relinquished bounty. A sure sign we must be going home.

I married a Texas gal. It is easily the best choice I’ve ever made. Truthfully, Em really chose me, I guess. Rumor has it that I drugged her and when she awoke she was married to me. Some initially thought I must have come with a monstrous dowry to get her father to agree. But, once they got to know me better, that thought quickly became quite laughable. In any case I certainly out-kicked my coverage. Along with all the wonderful perks that marrying a Texas girl carries – loves sports, especially football, loves cooked meat, loves freedom and independence and all that Texas (and a few other U.S. states) embraces, loves a good time, loves me (thank goodness) – is the opportunity it affords us to spend time in Texas with her family. I’m a lucky guy. I have awesome in-laws.

Don’t believe me?

My wife’s father is an ex-Marine. His mere presence quietly demands respect. Other than that, though, you’d never know of his military background. The man tears up at Hallmark Card commercials. But I’m not about to make fun of him. Anyway, he interviewed me and hired me for my first job in Texas. Soon thereafter I began dating his only daughter.

He didn’t shoot me.

He didn’t even fire me.

I think he teared up a little. I like to think it was out of joy.

Even more impressive was his reaction when I dropped by to see his “little girl” after I had just been to a tennis tournament at Fairway Oaks Country Club Tennis Pavilion in Abilene to see Andre Agassi. Just for kicks, I had borrowed a long clip-on hair extension from my sister that matched my hair color perfectly, clipped it in my hair, and covered the clip with a Nike tennis cap. Donned in a Nike windsuit, I resembled Agassi (from a distance) and I waltzed right into the tennis pavilion to see what kind of reactions I could get. Even though I didn’t have the eye brows to really pull it off, stares, whispers, finger points, and a couple of camera flashes while I hovered near his private SUV made it worthwhile. Afterwards, when I knocked on the door to Em’s family’s house, I was greeted by her suddenly troubled and befuddled dad. He is typically on the contrary side of piercings, tattoos, and long hair on guys. So, at best he wasn’t really sure how to take me, this different, albeit likable, guy who is dating his daughter.

Maybe he was deciding how to dispose of me before Em came out of her room.

As the moment became increasingly awkward, I tried, unsuccessfully, to explain why I looked the way I looked. He simply replied, “Uh huh.”

He found a way to accept me and my colorful ways, though, gave his blessing for our marriage, and we get along wonderfully. Not only is he my father-in-law, but he’s a true friend and confidant. We’ve rubbed off on each other. I wear a cowboy hat while working in the yard and he’ll put on a Hawaiian shirt and go to a Jimmy Buffett show with me.

“Sure,” you may be saying, “winning over dad is one thing. What about the dreaded mother-in-law?”

Get this: my wife and I moved to South Carolina when she was eight months pregnant with our first child, which also happened to be the first grandchild on either side of the family. Actually, my mother-in –law claims that I snatched her daughter from her and stole away in the dark of night, robbing her of that first proud grandmother experience in the most sinister of ways. She probably has every right to grab my eyelids and yank them right up over and around the top of my head. But, somehow, she loves me. She’s the best. I love it when she comes to visit. That’s right, guys, I said “love”. We get along incredibly well and laugh a lot, usually at ourselves. She will also go to a Buffett show, but it’s not really a stretch for her.  She has a magnet on her refrigerator that says “I don’t spoil my grandkids, I’m just very accommodating.” Spot on. As close to a perfect grandmother as one can get. Not too shabby as a mother-in-law, either.

So, my in-laws are fantastic. That’s how we are able to spend nearly a month of our summer vacation with them in their home on Sandy Creek, which runs into Lake Livingston, just outside of Trinity, Texas, every year.

Our summer Texas whirlwind tour is always a blast. This year’s was no exception. My son enjoyed his 6^th year attending CampOlympia, a fabulous summer sports camp. We compared the football stadiums of the University of Texas, Texas A&M, and LSU – all from first-hand views. We took a Hummer limousine to watch a Texas Rangers game and to two Arlington-area restaurants, one before and one after the game.

We enjoyed a beautiful sunset beside a gorgeous 99 thousand-gallon infinity pool surrounded by palm trees and iron gas-powered tiki torches in the shade of an incredible natural rock outdoor living area…in west Texas!  

We did the food truck lunch (la Barbecue is the best ever), swam in a natural spring-fed pool that remains 62 degrees year round on a 106-degree day, and joined a sea of good-timers for a concert at Blues on the Green in Austin.

 

We stood where legends have played in Gruene Hall and then floated the Comal River. We dined in luxury (best clam chowder ever) after a chasing tennis balls at the gorgeous Abilene Country Club. We took in “Wicked” and treated a couple of special “girls” to hair appointments at American Girl in Houston.

I fished most days, accompanied by snowy egrets, blue herons, pelicans, wood ducks, cormorants, and a couple of small alligators.

 

We paid homage to the Mississippi River, the gulf coast of Mississippi and Alabama, Mobile Bay, Lulu’s Restaurant at Homeport, The Chimes in Baton Rouge, Joe Allen’s in Abilene, the windfarms of Snyder and Sweetwater and big Sam Houston in Huntsville. We swam, watched fireworks on Lake Livingston, took in numerous youth baseball tourneys, hit the cinema a time or 2, and enjoyed loving fellowship with friends and family all over the state of Texas.

 

How can a family of 4 on 2 teachers’ salaries manage all of this? Simple. An incredible blessing of loving, generous, and kind friends and family.

So, when we get back home to Carolina, to another set of family and friends who are just as generous, loving and kindhearted, and they ask us what we miss most, we’ll just smile and say, “We loved it all!”

This Light Show a Nature-Inspired By-Product - Experiences in Amazement, Part III

AKA - Light Show III. In contrast to the previous 2 posts (fireflies, lightning), the only natural aspect to this edition involves the surroundings and not the show itself. Still, an awe-inspiring moment nonetheless.  

Driving on the flat plains of west Texas bores some to tears. To me, though, the slowly (very slowly) rolling landscape of mesquite scrub resembles an open petrified ocean, freeze dried and converted to earth in some cosmic flash. Change the hues from sandy clay to deep blues and dark emeralds and replace the occasional cell tower to a trawler and you're offshore in the Atlantic.  

The terrain carries a unique beauty that stretches for hundreds of miles, painted by the most vivid, molten sunsets seen anywhere. Typically, flat top hills sporadically line the horizon at various distances - fossilized rogue waves to this sea lover's imagination. The only objects that confuse this whole creative dusty-dry to salty-soaked transformation are the occasional oil wells. If I stretch it, they could be buoys. Maybe. Too much of a jump, though, even for me.

Now, though, the wells have been joined by another intrusion of man into this wild landscape. A drive down Texas Highway 84 from Snyder to Sweetwater will present the driver with a sea of wind turbines. Thousands of smooth white blades slowly twirl atop mammoth obelisks, all facing the same direction, not too unlike sunflowers following the sun, except these space-age machines move with the wind. The view is surreal, to say the least. In the midst of pure ruggedness have sprouted acres upon acres of these perfectly symmetrical giants, completely throwing off nature's own rougher symmetry. And yet, it's strangely mesmerizing, peaceful possibly. Not necessarily disappointing, like a beachfront McDonald's on Fiji. Rather, it works in some odd way.  

By day, the scene catches the eye and keeps luring it back. Thankfully, stretches of the road provide little, if any, traffic, making it easier on the wandering eye. But at night, oh at night, is when "the moment" happens. It completely pops when driving south from Snyder, thanks to the fall from something of a shelf that drops you into the valley of the turbine farm. When following this path in the nighttime's dark blanket, dimly lit by a sky full of sparkling silver stars, one must make a conscious effort to refrain from applying the breaks, pulling to the side of the road, and placing a call to UFO Central. It really looks like the mother ship has landed. The mother of all mother ships!. And if the visitors occupying this behemoth aren't friendly, we're toast. For on top of each of the wind turbines is a blinking red light, like those on any tower that may interfere with air travel. But, here's the part that causes immediate jaw-droppage, the lights are synchronized. Yes. They all blink at the same time. 

The unison of red pulses hypnotically grasps everyone in the vehicle, and the wide-eyed gregorian chants soon begin.

 

"Ooohhh woowww."

"Maaaaann."

"Thaaaat'ssAaawwwessooomme."

"WwhhhooooooooaaaaaaaaDuuude."

 

That last chant was mine.

As we make the slow, not very steep, not very elevated descent into this transformed landscape, the feeling is a very otherworldly type of coolness. Even though the illumination is man-made, the sheer area covered makes the scene as impressive as nature's synchronized light show performed by the Congaree Lightning Bugs that we were lucky enough to catch earlier in the summer. This is indeed another rare "wow" moment. That makes a trifecta for the summer, which may qualify as a moment in and of itself. And to think, summer's not yet over. Are the moments of cosmic alignment, when amazement and wonder converge for a brief moment for those awake enough to recognize them, over for now? I'll let you know, but I have a feeling...