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!”