What Happened to the Last 20 Years?

Photo: Dicemanic

Over the past few weeks, I’ve had multiple conversations with people my age about how quickly time flies. I’m 46 years old, but it seems like I should be 26.

I say that because I have so many unmet expectations – ones that are typical of a twenty-something, including marriage, children, an established career, and financial security.

Marriage has eluded me, which means having children has too. One friend says it may be the result of me having a high sense of duty. He’s probably right. Whenever I see a need in my family, I try to meet it – from caregiving to stepping into the gap when someone else leaves. And I’ll be honest, more than once I’ve wondered if my turn would ever come. I don’t say that as a victim – at least I don’t think I do. It’s just an honest question.

Over the years, some have told me I deserve my turn – my shot at a family and children and that I can’t always be expected to play a supporting role. I agree with them. And if the right woman had come along, I would be married by now. But since she hasn’t, I do what I believe I’m supposed to do. I step into the gap, and I do so without any regret.

My career isn’t where I thought, or hoped it would be. In my twenties I had no idea what I wanted to do, so I did what most people do. I filled out applications and took a job. When I got tired of one, I took another one. I didn’t stumble into the possibility of writing professionally until I attended a writer’s conference in 1998. I was 32 years old then, and still had a lot to learn. It was seven years before my first book was published.

Six books and hundreds of articles later, I have a pretty good handle about the type of writing I enjoy most. Nothing satisfies me more professionally than telling an athlete’s story. I don’t care about his statistics or awards. I care about his journey. One editor tells me I gravitate toward the blue collar athlete and I think he’s right.

Last summer, I interviewed Kansas City Royals’ outfielder Mitch Maier about his journey through the minor leagues, hoping to eventually land in the big leagues for good. I wrote the story as a freelancer for the Yahoo! Contributor Network and a couple of thousand people read it. Neither the piece, nor the traffic it attained, was earth-shattering, but I hope it accurately portrayed Maier’s heart and maybe gave fans a glimpse into his struggle.

During the 2012 College World Series, I wrote a story about a father and son who caught a home run ball during a 1998 CWS game and for years they wanted to return it to the player who hit it. After the story ran, I was curious to see if I could find the player. It didn’t take me long. He called the boy, who is no longer a boy, and that led to the player getting his ball back. And of course, it led to another article that was a blast to write.

Once I learned what I wanted to write, I started looking for a position as a sports feature writer with local and national publications. So far, every door I’ve knocked on has been closed. I’ll keep knocking, but I wonder if it’s too late.

It seems like I should have figured out this, and so much more, twenty years ago.

Laughing at Yourself

Sometimes you just have to laugh at yourself.

During the Australian Open women’s final this weekend, No. 6 seed Li Na was locked in a tight battle during the second set with world No. 1 Victoria Azarenka when Azarenka pushed her wide to her backhand side, which happens to be Li’s best shot. Only this time, her left ankle rolled over and she plummeted to the ground in pain. She landed awkwardly, slamming the back of her head against the court.

Earlier in the match, she rolled that same ankle and a trainer taped it so she could continue. So when she rolled it a second time, the crowd gasped. For the next 30 seconds, everybody was quiet as medical personnel checked on her. After the match she said she was worried because she couldn’t see anything for two seconds after bumping her head.



Medical personnel checked her for a concussion. The doctor moved his finger back and forth and asked her to follow it with her eyes. During the test, while still sitting on the court, she burst out laughing. She continued to laugh as they examined her. She wasn’t laughing because possible concussions are comical, but rather, she was laughing about her clumsiness.

It lightened the mood in the stadium. And it also made me think.

I don’t laugh at myself often enough. I think it’s because I’ve heard my share of fat jokes in my lifetime, so I’m sensitive to people joking about me. Somehow, I’ve allowed that to squash my personality, which really is more jovial than I let on in groups. But it is time to let my guard down.

On Sunday, a friend sent me a text asking if I was going to watch the Pro Bowl. He knows I’m not a huge football fan. I told him I was going to watch Ally McBeal on Netflix instead. Here is our brief exchange after that:

Him: Turn in your man card ... geesh

Me: You are gonna make me cry.

I don’t think he picked up on my attempt to laugh at myself, so I still have some work to do. We’re all a work in progress though, right?

By the way, the doctor cleared Li to continue playing. She fought through her injuries and ended up finishing the final against Azarenka, losing in three sets. But I have a feeling she gained many new fans.

Classic Christmas Toys

Here I am in 1970 or so unwrapping a gift while my dad
looks on from behind me with interest. By the way, I
still have that Santa you see hanging in the window.

Buzzzzzzzz.

“Yes! You touched the side. My turn.”

“No I didn’t. I got ripped.”

Five minutes after my sister and I opened our Christmas gifts as kids, we could be found playing Operation because invariably one of us would receive it every year. Remember that game? You had to use tweezers (which would seem to give females a distinct advantage now that I think about it) to remove body parts from a cartoon guy.

I saw a piece on the news the other day about the types of gifts kids used to receive versus the ones they receive today. The video panned past the game Operation and boy did that bring back memories. And that made me want to write a blog post about my favorite toys I received as a kid at Christmas. 

Maybe some of your favorites are on this list. If not, by all means, list your favorites in the comments section below. Here are mine, in no particular order:

Operation. The guy’s “spare ribs” were always the most difficult to remove because they were so tiny. The poor guy had some rather comically named body parts: broken heart, actual butterflies in his stomach, a bread basket, a pencil which symbolized writer’s cramp, etc. The game not only buzzed when you touched the sides with the tweezers, but it also vibrated and the guy’s nose flashed bright red, leaving no doubt that your turn was over. Although, you could always claim someone moved the game, which caused you to touch the side, or that the sensors weren’t set correctly.

Etch-a-Sketch. Somebody recently called this the iPad before the iPad. It allowed a kid to explore his imagination as he twisted and turned the knobs, trying to create something recognizable. I usually created words rather than images, which I guess makes sense since I went on to become a writer.

 

Hot wheels. My best friend Willie had the largest collection of hot wheels of anybody I knew. Whenever I would get a new one, I would head for his place and we would set up two parallel hot wheel tracks using extensions so they would go all the way down his front porch steps and onto the sidewalk. We raced our cars against each other, recording the results in a notebook. He had a hot wheel with the No. 43 on it that could not be beat. I learned later that it was modeled after Richard Petty’s car. No wonder it was undefeated!



Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots. Before video games, we had a game that featured a green robot going up against a red robot. You could move them around the ring with the controller, hoping to land the perfect shot that would send your opponent’s head skyward. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like knocking your opponent’s head off (or up, as the case may be). There was a flaw in this toy though ... sometimes, if you moved your robot around violently enough, the other robot’s head would pop up without being touched. That made the entire game suspect in my young mind.



Nerf basketball (or football). Nerf basketball hoops didn’t last long around my house. They had a hitch on them so you could hang them over a door. I would invite a friend over and we would go to war in the kitchen. Of course, we had to try to prove how manly we were by trying to dunk on each other – hence the need for a new one every year. Nerf footballs were the bomb as well. When you are a boy, you can’t grip or throw a real football. But a Nerf football made you feel like you were Terry Bradshaw, and that reference probably dates me, but that’s okay.



Thinking about all of these classic toys gives me an idea for Christmas parties in which adults who are over 40 are gathering. Somebody could make a list of maybe 50 or 100 classic toys and all of the secret Santa gifts would come from the list. Imagine how much fun it would be to see two 45-year-old co-workers doing battle Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot style at the company Christmas party. 

Our Representatives

Photo: Peter Martorano

I know I’m a day late in posting this. I returned home from a writers conference in New Mexico on Monday night, so I took Tuesday off to recharge my batteries.

Since I did not have much time to blog at the conference, I pressed the play button on my cell phone on my drive home and recorded several messages that have been floating around in my mind as possible blog posts. They are raw and you’ll hear some background noise (such as static from my car stereo), but they are also honest.

I’m calling this first one “Our Representatives,” which is fitting given that election day was yesterday. This isn’t about politics though. It’s about the people we choose to represent our neck of the woods to the rest of the world. I hope you enjoy it. [If you subscribe to this blog via email, you won’t be able to listen to the audio post without clicking through to the blog.]

The first couple of words of this audio post were cut off because I started speaking too early, but you will still get the gist of the message. If you cannot get the audio player below to work, you can listen by clicking this link.

Naming Inanimate Objects

“Gigi told me to tell you she forgives you for setting her down a little roughly last week,” I told a friend in my bowling league last night. “She wanted to text you to tell you that, but she doesn’t have thumbs.”

“Umm Lee, if you are wondering why you are still single …” my friend’s wife said without finishing her thought. It was all in good fun.

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It’s just kind of creepy that you name your pen.”

I bring a G-2 pen to bowling each week, and really, everywhere I go because you never know when inspiration is going to strike and you might need to jot down something. I’m a little particular about my Pilot G-2 pens and my friends kid me about it, probably justifiably so.

The Gigi idea is new and it just came to me last week after bowling, thinking that G-2 is like saying the letter “G” twice. So G-2 becomes G-G and that becomes Gigi. Maybe you just had to be there, but I thought it was funny.

“How is naming a pen creepy?” I said. “I think it’s endearing.”

She wasn’t buying it.

I’ve never been one to name my car or other possessions. But a few years ago I bought a GPS and during a trip with a friend, he began calling her Garmina (which is just a take on the Garmin brand name). I liked it, so it stuck.

Once in a while, I’ll tell Garmina that I want to go to Starbucks. She’ll lead me to a building that used to be a Starbucks but is now a Hardees. When Garmina leads me astray like that, I get a little upset with her and her call her out by name. It’s more fun that way.

The used van I bought last year is beginning to have some mechanical problems. As I was thinking about those problems a few days ago, a name for her popped into my head: Samantha.

I don’t know where it came from, but it seemed to suit her. When I looked up the meaning of the name for this post, it made even more sense. According to this website, Samantha is Aramaic and it means “listener.” What car doesn’t know a lot about its owner – from the music we like to the conversations we have?

Yeah, it’s all a bit silly. But it is one of the ways I let my hair down around friends. Does that make me creepy? I hope not. What do you think? Do you name inanimate objects? I’d love to hear a good story from you about names you’ve given your cars or some other possession so I don’t feel like I’m off my rocker.

The Third Lap

Last week I reached the one-third mark of my 100-mile walking goal from August 7 to the end of the year. The first 33 miles have not come without difficulty.

One overcast day I got up early and my body wasn’t all that thrilled about walking a mile. My back hurt, my hips were sore and I walked with a slight limp since overcast days tend to aggravate my bad leg.

I popped my headphones on, pressed play on my iPod and walked anyway.

The park was empty except one middle-aged man. He was on the softball field, taking practice swings in preparation for an apparent game or practice.

On my second lap, the man had moved to a spot close to the walking track where he was tapping a tree with his softball bat. I had no idea what he was doing. Simulating contact? Steadying his swing? Preparing to attack me?

I was cautious as I passed him. Once I knew I was in the clear, I stopped trying to figure him out. My body was still protesting my decision to walk. I pressed on anyway.

Half way into the third lap, my pace picked up and my arms began to swing a little harder, and mysteriously, the pain in my back, hips and leg were gone. The final lap and a half were easy. I just had to push through the first two and a half laps to get to that point.

A former co-worker once said I spend too much time talking about what needs to be done and not enough time doing it. After considering what she said, I knew she was right (note: I had to spend time thinking about what she said before concluding she was right). But knowing she was right and doing something about it are two different things.

Contemplation is in my nature.

I need information and then I need to process it before I act. I mull over major decisions from every angle. And I like getting feedback from people I know and trust. I talk myself into beginning every new work project – not because I’m lazy, but because I want to do it well, and to do it well, I need to figure out my approach.

But when I finally do push past the point of contemplation to the third lap, I always find a rhythm. I just need to make sure I get there as quickly as possible.

On 9/11 and Filling in the Gaps

Photo: Kenji Ross

The boy, who looked to be about four, tugged on his Chicago Cubs cap and took several practice swings. A man moved in close and tossed him an underhanded pitch. The boy swung and missed.

He missed the next four pitches as well, but did not appear the least bit fazed.

While this appeared to be a competitive game of softball, showcasing talents of people of all ages, exceptions were made for little ones – no strikeouts allowed.

On the sixth pitch, the boy made contact – a dribbler toward the shortstop.

The girl who was playing short, who looked to be maybe 13, was thin as a rail, but she has the arm of Derek Jeter. She threw out grown men on several occasions. So, the play looked to be routine for her.

All of this took place as I walked around the park and I was screened from the play, so I didn’t see what happened next, but the girl with the cannon arm didn’t field the ball cleanly or the ball found a hole. Either way, the boy slid headfirst toward the first base bag, barely beating the throw.

People cheered from the stands as the cloud of dirt settled. The boy stood up, tugged on his cap again, and got ready to advance to second as the next better stepped into the box.

I’m just guessing, but I got the feeling that this was a church group out enjoying a Sunday afternoon at a local park. People of all ages, races, shapes and sizes played. It was beautiful to see. There was something so innocent about it. And then it struck me.

The little boy has no recollection of the events of September 11, 2001. He wasn’t even born yet. And the girl with the cannon arm would have just been two. So, she probably doesn’t have any recollection either. That’s good and bad at the same time.

When they reach an appropriate age though, the people around them will need to fill in the gaps about what happened that day. Otherwise, the events that changed our country will not seem real to them.

My grandmother used to keep a photo of her husband on a stand by her front door. He died 17 years before she did, but she always kept his memory front and center. One of my nieces was born five years after my grandfather died, but she will tell you that she feels like she knew him. The pictures and the stories we shared made her feel that way.

Filling in the gaps for the generation behind us our is responsibility. If we don’t do it, the stories, dreams, beliefs, struggles and triumphs of all the previous generations will die with us.

Hoping Lightning Strikes Twice

Photo: momovieman

John Elway had “the drive.” Jimmy Connors had “the play.”

Some call it the best point in tennis history.

The 39-year-old, 174th ranked Jimmy Connors was doing the unthinkable – making a run to the quarterfinals of the 1991 U.S. Open tennis tournament where he was matched up against Paul Haarhuis. Tennis fans were on the edge of going berserk and Connors was about to send them there.

After returning three Haarhuis overheads with defensive lobs during one particular point, Connors gained control of the point, ripping a forehand cross court. Haarhuis hit a decent slice that went deep to Jimmy’s backhand side. Connors approached the ball with reckless abandon and ripped the ball down the line for a winner.

He pumped his fists at the standing crowd and they went crazy – clapping, laughing, and some even pumped their fists in return. [Here’s a video of the point. Even if you are not a tennis fan, watch it. You’ll get caught up in the moment.]



It was everything a great sports moment is supposed to be – thrilling, electric, joyful, exciting, and a dozen other adjectives. But it also shines as one of the greatest points of the open era, because, for one point, athlete and fan were one. Connors gave us exactly what we wanted.

He never gave up on the point (or in any point for that matter) even though his 39-year-old legs probably wanted to, and by going all-out he honored the game.

Connors won that match. His miraculous run ended in the semifinals at the hands of a young Jim Courier, but twenty-one years later, that point against Haarhuis is still shown on U.S. Open preview shows and during rain delays every year at this time. It’s held up as the standard for the way the game ought to be played.

Since that moment in 1991, the tournament has had many thrilling moments.

From Todd Martin’s big-eyed crazy look after winning incredible points, to Pete Sampras puking his guts out at the back of the court and still finding a way to win, the tournament still delivers.

And who can forget Andre Agassi’s defeat of James Blake, 7-6 in the fifth in the 2005 quarterfinals in a match that became an instant classic? Or, Agassi, with an ailing back, defeating Marcos Baghdatis in five thrilling sets in the second round in 2006 in what turned out to be his final win at a major?

But a moment like the one Connors and Haarhuis had is one of the reasons fans tune into the tournament every year. We are hoping lightning strikes twice. We want to cheer for another player the way we cheered for Connors. We want to put our hands in the air, scream with delight, and lose control for a minute.

It makes all the other restrained moments of life worth it.

*****

Can you tell that the 2012 U.S. Open started yesterday and that I was camped in front of my TV?

Shooting 100 While Avoiding the ER

From left to right: Shawn, Bob and me

I had one goal on Saturday – avoid the ER.

A friend, Shawn, was driving in from central Nebraska to spend the day with a group of friends I’ve had since high school. We pulled up to the golf course close to noon and the rain began to fall. Maybe I was going to be saved by the bell.

I had not golfed in five years. 

The thing is, I tend to pull muscles rather easily and I could imagine myself taking a mighty rip at the ball on the first tee and going down in a heap.

As a kid, a friend and I once dueled with toy lightsabers. I ducked out of the way and something happened to my neck – the pain was so bad my friend’s mom had to call an ambulance. They put me in a neck brace and I had to wear it for several weeks.

I once pulled a muscle playing Wii tennis.

I even pulled a muscle sneezing one time.

So on Saturday, it wasn’t too farfetched to think I could end up in the ER before the end of the day. My goal wasn’t to shoot under 80. Or to beat my friends. Or even to make perfect contact with the ball at least once. I just wanted to avoid the ER.

The rain continued when we teed up on hole No. 1. I took out a five-iron on the 253-yard hole – not because I thought I could hit one that far, but because the smaller first cut would allow me to get back into the swing of things and hitting a five iron would allow me avoid the parking lot on the left since I tend to slice heavily with my woods and therefore have to aim directly at the cars.

I lined up, wiggled my club as I addressed the ball (because that’s what golfers do), and took a swing. The ball went relatively straight and it went further than I would have imagined.

Nothing to it.

My second shot – a pitching wedge – went way over the green and hit a fence. That felt more familiar. My third shot landed on the green and rolled off. Oh yeah, I have a terrible short game – it was all coming back to me now. I don’t remember what I shot on that hole, but I figured it couldn’t get any worse when I teed up on the 141-yard, No. 2 hole.

I hit a six iron into the forest behind the green. My next shot went over the green. Noticing a pattern yet? My next shot missed the green again. I was on in four, and then disaster struck. I six putted and took a ten on a par three.

Right on cue, the heavens opened up and poured on us.

“We’re making a great memory,” I told Shawn. He didn’t seem all that convinced.

Shawn played well the rest of the round. Bob, who is so good that he will probably earn his PGA certification soon, played well too – given the conditions. Another friend, John, rode along with us, but he didn’t play because he has a bad shoulder. We’re all in our mid-to-late forties and our age is showing.

After we finished nine, we made the turn and played again.

Why not?

I improved the second time around. Of course, better is relative. I ended up shooting 100 for 18 holes. But it was a blast anyway. The rain kept most people away, so we had the course to ourselves on the back nine. That allowed us to stop and snap some photos. And we just took our time.

I met my goal – no ER for me. About an hour after we finished, my back got so stiff I could barely move but by the end of the night, I felt pretty good.

And I wasn’t even sore on Sunday.

100 Miles of Music: Mile 6.77

The softball diamond has two first bases,
which probably helps to prevent injuries --
great idea!

A group of men my age, or older, swung for the imaginary fences on the softball diamond. The walking track surrounds the park, with the softball field tucked inside the track’s western boundary, which means the track itself is located about where a left field wall would be.

Everything in me wanted to grab a bat and give it a try.

But I also couldn’t help but wonder how many of these guys were going to wake up on Sunday morning with sore sides and back muscles, or worse.

I know about worse.

In 1997 I played on a softball team for my church. I normally played second base, but one day the coach wanted me to play first base. When the shortstop fielded a ground ball and came up firing in my direction, I could see that it was going to be over my head. I jumped to try to catch it, was unable to do so, and somewhere along the way I felt something snap inside my right leg.

I ruptured my Achilles tendon.

To make a long story short, after surgery I developed a blood clot which turned into a pulmonary embolism and that landed me in the hospital. After surviving that, I began the difficult road of physical rehabilitation. I worked hard and regained the use of my right leg, but it still isn’t right. It swells and my flexibility is limited.

That is frustrating for somebody who loves to play sports. I’ve haven’t played softball since that day in ‘97, but I would sure love to – especially when I see guys who are older than I am who are still playing.

As I walked around the park, these songs on my iPod seemed selected for just this occasion, even though they played randomly:

Jesus Name Above All Names by Various Artists. Nothing like hearing these words to bring perspective: “Lord, You are more beautiful than diamonds. And nothing I desire compares with you.”

Never Been to Spain by Elvis Presley. I used to listen to this as a boy on my record player. Always loved cranking up my “Elvis as Recorded Live at Madison Square Garden” LP.

Jump Then Fall by Taylor Swift. This isn’t even funny. Yes I jumped and yes I fell, but you don’t have to rub it in.

Forever & Always by Taylor Swift. My softball incident happened on a Tuesday. The opening lines of this song are, “Once upon a time, I believe it was a Tuesday ...” Hmm.

Whenever We Wanted by John Mellencamp. Hard to believe that this tune is 22 years old. This album, also titled “Whenever We Wanted” is one of Mellencamp’s most underrated.

What a Man’s Gotta Do by Living Proof. An original from a local band that played bluesy rock in the Melissa Etheridge vein. I bought their cassette at least twenty years ago and converted the songs to MP3 a few years back. Nice to see this one pop into the rotation.

Suddenly by LeAnn Rimes. I sang along with the chorus, “Suddenly you’re in this fight alone. Steppin’ out into the great unknown.” I sort of feel that way about walking and trying to get my blood sugar down – which by the way, seems to be working quite well. I’ve had numerous readings within the target range my doctor set since I started this routine.

Something to Believe In by Poison. Who doesn’t love a good power ballad from the ‘80s? Well, technically this is from 1990, but it’s close enough.

Distance walked: 1.60 miles
Total distance since August 7: 6.77 miles
Goal = 100 miles by December 31

100 Miles of Music: Mile 3.73

If you think kids are so involved in their gadgets that they aren’t willing to chase a ball around a park like we used to, then you might want to check out Churchich Park in Omaha.

Thursday night the temperature dropped enough to take a walk in the park and there were probably 20 to 30 kids playing soccer, 15 or so on the playground, a dozen playing tennis, 10 on the basketball court, five or six playing volleyball and several practicing softball.

These kids were much more prepared than we were when we used to spend all afternoon in the park as kids.

The soccer players had orange cones to mark the goals. When we played football in the park, we usually used a couple of shirts. The softball players had a dozen softballs, so they spent more time practicing than chasing errant softballs. And nearly every group had a cooler with water inside. We used to drink out of garden hoses at a nearby friend’s house.

As I made laps, I just had to be mindful of all the activity so I could avoid being drilled in the side of the head by a ball. But that’s a good problem to have. While I prefer walking in empty malls, I would much rather walk in a full park. 

I pushed play on my iPod, and here are the random songs that came out:

All Your Life by The Band Perry. Last year about this time I declared it as my new favorite song. It’s still right up there.

Won’t be Lonely Long by LeAnn Rimes. The anti-lonely song. That’s a relief compared to the songs that randomly came up during my last walk.

Jackson by Johnny and June Carter Cash. Have you ever visited songmeanings.net? It’s a fascinating website because passionate fans gather to debate the meaning of their favorite songs. One person said this about Jackson, “It’s about a married couple whose passions may have waned a bit (fire went out) and the man is forever talking of going to the bright lights of Jackson (TN? Famed at the time for its entertainment offerings and as the home of Casey Jones, then the subject of a popular song).”

It is Well by Rebecca St. James. A modernized version of the Horatio Spafford classic hymn. As I rounded a corner on the walking track and came out from under a few trees, St. James sang these words, “And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight, the clouds be rolled back as a scroll; The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend, even so, it is well with my soul.” You need to be outside to fully appreciate these lyrics.

The Trouble with Girls by Scotty McCreery. Didn’t really have a lot of relevance to my walk, but a couple of thoughts did come to mind about 18-year-old McCreery singing, “Spent my whole life trying to figure out, just what them girls are all about.” First, this song is too old for him – I have CDs that are older than his “whole life.” Second, I’m not sure any man has figured out women.

Streets Cry Freedom by Badlands. One of my all-time favorite bands, whom I’ve written about in the past. I especially like these lines, “There is no reason, for livin’ in sin. I don’t believe when they say hey boy, you better give in. You know I’ll fight for what I know, till the day that I die. Cause I'm better off dead, then buried along with my pride.”

Little Things by Shannon Curfman. It’s not my favorite song by her, but the title is fitting for this blog.

Distance walked: 1.49 miles
Total distance since August 7: 3.73 miles
Goal = 100 miles by December 31

Don't Miss Your Life

The older I get, the more I am drawn to country music. I love the stories and the messages. Phil Vassar's "Don't Miss Your Life" is a great example. The song is changing people. Here's what a few have said about it on Twitter recently:

@aFIOrini13: "Don't miss your life" by Phil Vassar really changed my whole perspective on life. The smallest things in life are the most valuable.

I love that sentiment. It's the reason I started this blog.

@WorleyFbabyy: Every time I hear "Don't miss your life" I think about how much I miss out on because I work so much. is the money worth it?

I feel for her. All of us need to work, but this song is prompting people to wonder how they can do a better job of balancing work with family. 

And then there are these heartbreaking words (read the hashtags):

@Jackie_Corco: Don't miss your life by phil vassar makes me cry hysterically...just chillin in the backseat sobbing.. #remindsmeofmydad #youmissedmylife

#youmissedmylife is the saddest thing I've read in quite a while. 

If you haven't seen the video, I advise that you watch it alone because you are probably going to cry:



But, as Vassar says in this video interview about the song, the beautiful thing about the message is, it is not too late. He says he hears from children who tell him they asked their dad to listen to the song and now he comes to all their games or cheerleading events.

Weeping with Those Who Weep

The Porter family in 2005
www.trishporter.com

It’s a fallacy to think we always have tomorrow.

Last Thursday, Pat Porter, a two-time Olympian distance runner was piloting a twin-engine Cessna that crashed, killing everyone on board, including Pat, his 15-year-old son Connor and Connor’s friend Connor Mantsch.

I’ve known Pat’s wife, Trish, for a number of years. She too has competed in the Olympics – in fact, that is how she met Pat. I wrote a story for Christianity Today, International about her journey as an Olympian and about how she continues to compete at high levels. I also played a small role in helping her with her book, Rekindle Your Dreams, that was released in 2010.

The USA Today reports that just before the crash, Pat and Trish exchanged a series of humorous text messages. Her last text to Pat asked him when he was coming home.

When I heard about Trish’s loss on Thursday night, it felt like somebody punched me in the stomach. I ached for her and her 11-year-old daughter Shannon. I still do. She wrote this heartbreaking message on her Facebook page:

Thank you everyone for your thoughts, prayers, and kind words. This has been the most difficult time in my life and my heart is broken. I am so thankful that Pat and Connor loved the Lord and had a personal relationship with Jesus. God's strength and your prayers are what is keeping me going. I can't neglect Shannon is too! I wish I could respond to each of you personally but I am just not able to. Know that I will read each message and you are part of my healing process. Thank you. I have included the link to the local t.v. station Ch. 4 that aired a very nice tribute to Pat and Connor.

Here’s the video she linked to. I could barely get through it.



None of us know when we will breathe our last breath. Don’t wait to live deeply or to love genuinely. Say everything you need to say now and do everything you need to do. We are not promised tomorrow.

#72 Comfortable Clothing

Here I am bucking the trend and dressing
down at a writer's conference in Kansas City

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

Ties are for funerals. Dress clothes are for weddings and work days in which I will either be meeting clients or presenting to them. And every other occasion is made for comfortable clothing.

That is my philosophy.

I dress down one or two levels from the norm. Many men wear suits to church. I wear jeans during the cool months and shorts during the summer – exceptions occur, especially when I’m behind on laundry. When I’m invited to speak at writer’s conferences or seminars, I politely tell coordinators that I’ll be there in a polo shirt and dress pants. Most sports journalists wear dress pants or jeans to cover sporting events in the summer. I wear shorts.

Five years ago, I attended a speaking seminar in which all of us gave five minute presentations within our group on the last day. Staying true to my clothing philosophy, I wore dress pants and a polo short. We critiqued each other, anonymously, judging delivery, content and appearance. I received relatively good marks on delivery and content, but not so much on appearance. One person suggested I would look better when presenting if I were to wear a loose fitting suit. Others at least wanted to see a dress shirt and tie. I appreciated their honesty, even if I didn’t agree with their opinions.

For me, it’s not about looking better. I’m fighting a losing battle there anyway. Instead, it’s about feeling comfortable physically, so I can be at my best. When I’m speaking to a group or to an individual, my goal is to get to past the externals so I can get to the matters of the heart. I’m a co-struggler who simply wants to learn and to teach.  

This past Sunday, my pastor read Isaiah 53:1-3 and he asked us to take in the verses anew, especially in relation to the appearance of the Messiah. Here is what those verses say:

Who has believed what he has heard from us?
    And to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed?
 For he grew up before him like a young plant,
     and like a root out of dry ground;
he had no form or majesty that we should look at him,
    and no beauty that we should desire him.
He was despised and rejected by men;
    a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;
and as one from whom men hide their faces
    he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Jesus would have no form or majesty that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him. He would be one from whom men would hide their faces.

Bible commentator Matthew Henry points out that, “Those who saw him could not see that there was any beauty in him that they should desire him ...”

In context, there doesn’t seem to be any hint that people hid their faces in reverence for the Messiah. Instead, the verses say he was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.

Maybe the weight of our sins and his coming rejection reflected in Jesus’ countenance. And maybe God, in his eternal wisdom, had no desire to adorn the gospel with a picturesque Messiah because he wanted to draw people with truth, not physical beauty.

If that is true, then outward appearance would seem to be a secondary matter.

The Before and After

Photo: AudreyJM529

July 3 was the five-year anniversary of my mom’s stroke.

I always dread that date. What do you say to someone on such an awful anniversary date?

“Happy recovery day, Mom,” seemed to work best, even though the recovery took much longer than one day. It just feels more redemptive to talk about the recovery than it does the stroke – it’s a way of taking the date back.

As I thought about how I would acknowledge the date to my mom, it made me realize something. Most of us, myself included, can point to a date (or an event) in our lives in which the natural course of events changed so much that we refer to a before and after. Sometimes it is health-related, sometimes it’s not.

Before I ruptured my right Achilles tendon in 1997, I had never experienced physical rehab, or heard of a Pulmonary embolism, or been totally dependent on other people. I never had to worry about blood clots forming in my leg when I rode in an airplane or drove long distances in a car. And I never dreamed that I would spend portions of every afternoon since then sneaking away from whatever I’m doing to elevate my leg to keep it from swelling.

After I ruptured my right Achilles tendon in 1997, I longed to play tennis the way I used to, but my side-to-side mobility was limited. My internal anticipation on the court was the same, but my body would not cooperate. In hindsight, I should have kept playing anyway, but it was frustrating to be a shell of the player I was before the accident. In more ways than one, I was struggling to process the after of my injury, and in some ways, I still am.

Many people face health challenges that are far more severe than mine. I recently followed Olympic swimmer Kaitlin Sandeno as she visited ill children at Children’s Hospital & Medical Center here in Omaha (here’s a link to the story I wrote for the US Olympic Committee website about the events of the day -- Kaitlin Sandeno: Joy by the Jar). Seeing what those kids are facing put my after into perspective.

But this isn’t a competition. It’s reality, and we all have realities to face.

I cannot speak for anyone else, but personally, I like it when people ask me about my before and after. Not because I need or want anyone to feel sorry for me, but because it tells me they care enough to ask and then genuinely want to hear my answer. Somehow, having someone else acknowledge my before and after makes it feel like they are sharing my burden, and that makes it lighter.

This makes me want to ask other people about their before and after. I feel like I need permission to do this though. The before might be too painful to think about and the after might be too depressing. But I think I’ll gently broach the subject with people in the future because if it helps me to tell my story, it might help them too.

Third was the Fence

A friend posted a video on my Facebook wall on my birthday a few days ago, knowing I would like it since I’m a baseball fan. She was right.



This video reminds me of when neighborhood kids used to gather in front of my house to play baseball in the street (it’s a side street). I don’t know how it happened, but at some point, a bit of tar or rubber embedded itself into the street and we used it as home plate. We used the tree on the side of my yard as first base. We used a Frisbee, a shirt, or an unused baseball glove for second base. And we used another tree on the other side of the street for third base.

Ah, those were the days.

Capturing Reaction

Photo: Lee Warren

I’m a sportswriter who often has to take photos at sporting events. Not being a photographer puts me in some awkward situations.

Last year I covered a professional tennis event for a local magazine. The media relations representative led the photographers courtside where she told us to find a spot on the ground to shoot our photos. She said we had five minutes and then we had to leave our cushy spots on the ground. I looked down the row of long lenses pointed toward the court and knew I had little or no shot of getting a decent action photo with my non-SLR camera with a rather short lens. I was right. Every time I tried to get an action shot, all I got was a blur.

As I was browsing a friend’s Flickr account one day recently though, I had a revelation. She has an eye for sports photography. What I failed to really see until recently though was, many of her photos aren’t action shots – even though she has an SLR camera.

Instead, she does a fantastic job of capturing players, mascots and fans laughing, grimacing and in funny poses. Earlier this year, she took an adorable photo of a smiling little boy at a ballpark. Last year, she shot a photo of a member of the Powerade Power Team tying the mascot’s shoe. It was the epitome of minor league baseball. In fact, it was so good it would have made a great cover shot for the team’s media guide.

Photo: Minda Haas / Royal Blues

Photo: Minda Haas / Royal Blues

Her photos helped me realize I don’t need to worry about action shots. In fact, I’m not an action-shot sort of guy. I’m more of a capture-the-moment-between-action sort of guy. That fits my writing style much better anyway. I’m not an Xs and Os sort of sportswriter. I’m a feature writer who loves to dig for a great story from an athlete or fan.

I love talking to the journeyman athlete who can walk into Walmart unnoticed, and the truth is, he’ll never be noticed because he sees very little playing time, and therefore, nobody knows who he is, but he sticks with the game anyway. I love talking to a father who is sitting next to his 4-year-old son the first time he takes him to a game. And I love hearing how his dad did the same thing 30 years prior.

Now I’m finding I love to capture moments with my camera I otherwise ignored. The other day I was working at a minor league game and a player who recently had been sent down from the major league team was chatting with his minor league manger before the game. The player put his hand on his manager’s shoulder, making it look as if were offering some sort of consolation to his manager, rather than the other way around. I pointed my camera and snapped the photo you see above.

I still have a lot to learn about photography, but with a new philosophy, I think it can become something I really enjoy.

Men of a Certain Age: The Pickup

Terry's life is a mess
(Photo: Danny Feld)

TNT sent me an advance copy of the final six episodes of season two and I’m blogging my way through them. This is the second in a series of six posts. This episode, The Pickup, airs tonight on TNT at 10:00 pm (Eastern) / 9:00 pm (Central).

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Joe says to his teaching pro after a shot goes astray off his club. “Last week, I was hitting it really solid.”

The golf pro looks at him with his eyebrows arched and left hand covering his chin. It’s a look that says, “Joe, you’ve given this a good shot, but you just don’t have it.” The pro closes his eyes and searches for the right thing to say. Instead, he tells Joe to try his 8-iron, which Joe shanks way left of his target. The pro continues to say nothing with his mouth, but everything with his eyes.

Joe’s dream of making the Senior Golf Tour is slipping away. He has responsibilities that keep him from practicing and he feels like his dream may be over when his teaching pro tells him he might need somebody else to coach him. It’s enough to drive Joe back into an old pattern, which is heartbreaking to see, but also understandable given that most of us look for an escape when life gets difficult. Unfortunately for Joe, some forms of escape are more harmful than others.

Terry is a mess in this episode. Since Erin broke up with him, he can’t find the motivation to get to work on time or do anything else he is supposed to. Like Joe, he too falls back into old patterns. Owen has it all together though and he has one of his finest moments since the show began as he pulls Terry into his office and calls him on his lack of maturity.

“Do you think you’re the only one here with problems – other s**t to worry about?” Owen says. “We all got problems and you just created a damn big one for me. I have the opportunity here to actually do something with this place – to bring it back from the dead – and you just chased my best salesman out the door, along with 25 sales. So you’re not going anywhere. You dug this big a** hole and you’re going to fill it up.

“Go clean yourself up and be back in here, at 7:00 [am] with a tie. And ah … grow up.”

How’s that for drama?

*****

Links of Interest:

• Men of a Certain Age: The Great Escape
• Interview with Men of a Certain Age co-creator Mike Royce

What If ...?

Photo: Marco Bellucci

Did you ever see the episode of Yes, Dear in which Jimmy pursues his dream of working as an umpire after his wife Christine decides it’s time she pushed him in that direction the same way he pushed her to go back to college? Back in high school, she told him it was a stupid idea, but she wants to see him happy, so she encourages him to give it a shot.

Jimmy’s first game as an ump is a disaster. He makes the wrong calls – or no call at all. Players, managers and fans give him the business. And he returns home dejected. He tells Christine he hated the experience because there was too much pressure and no matter which call he made, somebody was mad at him. Christine feels better knowing she didn’t squash his dream.

“Yeah well, I’m glad you feel better,” Jimmy says, “but I lost my what if.”

“Your what?”

“My what if. Whenever I was bored at work or stuck in traffic I’d like to kind of sit and think about what my life would’ve been like if I’d a been an umpire. Now I know I never could’ve done it.”

He finds a new what if when Christine suggests he could be a pro golfer on the senior tour if he practiced every day until he was 50, but since she would never allow it, he’d never have to deal with the possibility of failing.

It’s a twisted way of viewing life, but probably not all that far from the truth. We all need what ifs.

The second I heard Jimmy use the “what if” phrase, I thought about the various “what ifs?” in my own life. In high school and college I used to wonder, “What if I practiced tennis every day, and got in great shape, and developed a better backhand?”

After college I wondered, “What if I practiced guitar every day and transitioned from power chords to learning the nuances of playing individual notes in a key that captures the mood of a song I’d written?”

In more recent years I’ve wondered, “What if I studied fiction writing techniques and was able to use what I learned to write a novel that spoke to people?”

For most of my life I’ve wondered, “What if I finally found someone to love – someone I could pour my life into?”

My first what if was answered when I couldn’t advance deep into tennis tournaments I entered. My second what if was answered after I became a Christian and put my guitar down – which, in hindsight, wasn’t my best decision. My third what if still lingers. I still dream about writing a novel that moves people. And my fourth what if – the one about finding love – it does more than linger. It gives me hope for the future – at least in an earthly sense.

What are your past and present what ifs? How and why have they changed over the years?

Katherine's Baseball

My mom and I visited the cemetery this weekend to decorate graves. During our visit, we went looking for the headstone of a couple of relatives – a husband and wife – we’ve never visited because we didn't know for sure where it was. But I had a general idea of where it might be and we had some time, so we gave it a shot.

As we browsed the rows of headstones, I stumbled across a headstone that stopped me in my tracks.

Her name was Katherine. She was born in 1911 and died in 1999. I stopped because somebody had placed an old beat up baseball where flowers or flags would ordinarily go – at the top of the headstone.

Obviously, Katherine must have been a baseball fan. Growing up in the 1920s, she would have had the chance to gather around the radio with her family and listen to broadcasters paint beautiful pictures of players such as Babe Ruth, Rogers Hornsby and Lou Gehrig in action.

I couldn’t help but wonder about the story behind the baseball itself. Did it belong to her? Was it autographed? Did she play catch with her grandkids with it? Did she catch it at a baseball game? Did one of her grandkids inherit it?

Oh, if baseballs could talk!

After stopping for a minute to snap a photo of Katherine's baseball with my Blackberry, my mom and I found the headstone we were looking for. I made a mental note of where to find it in the future. And when I visit it, I’ll be looking for another baseball on the headstone nearby.