#69 Thunderstorms

Gavins Point Dam on a day that looks eerily
similar to the one described in this post.
Photo: U.S. Army Corp of Engineers

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

We both thought it would be best if Jim drove the little fishing boat, although, neither of us was the most experienced. Okay, I had no experience since I was a young boy sitting on my grandpa’s lap on a lake in Minnesota. That probably doesn’t count.

The boat puttered painfully slow – no more than five miles per hour. As we went across the choppy waves at Gavins Point Dam in South Dakota, the boat we rented would rock back and forth. Jim, one my best buddies from high school, was in total control though. A cigarette hung from his mouth as he steered the boat with one hand while straddling the back seat so he could see where we were going.

We traveled several miles up the shoreline, found what appeared to be an ideal place to fish and dropped our lines in.

Neither of us are great fishermen, but that didn’t matter. We were there for a weekend of fun and fishing. No tents for us either. We stayed in a hotel. And we certainly were not dependent on what we caught for dinner. Thankfully.

As is typically the case for me when I go fishing with friends, we had our share of bites as the morning wore on, but no success in landing the big one.

Me (left) and Jim (right) on the night before he
shipped off to Iraq for a year-long tour of duty in 2007.

A huge storm front was moving in and appeared to be nearing the dock where we rented the boat. Fishing is supposed to be better in the rain – at least that’s what real fishermen say, right? What’s a little water among friends? We decided to keep fishing.

A few minutes later, the waves began to get more violent. Our choices didn’t thrill me. We could do nothing and try to wait out the storm. We could pull to the shore, out in the middle of the boonies, and try to wait out the storm, but there was nowhere to take cover. Or we could try to putter our way back to the dock, driving straight through the storm.

Keep in mind that The Perfect Storm had not yet been released. If it had been, we may have chosen one of the other two options.

No matter which option we took, we were going to get soaked. So, we pulled in our lines and headed for the dock in the slowest boat in the history of the world. I wasn’t even sure if the motor could navigate the increasingly choppy waves.

Rain began to fall shortly after we headed for the dock – which we couldn’t even see yet. Then the heavens opened up and I was expecting to see Noah’s Ark come floating by. Thunder rumbled overhead. This could get interesting.

The rain stung our faces as the boat fought against the waves. A third of the way into our trek, a much larger boat with official lettering on it sped by us in the opposite direction, and one of the men on board pointed us back toward the dock.

Yeah, we figured that one out already buddy. You want to give us a hand?

They must have had more confidence than we did in the boat because they kept going.

As the dock came into view, Jim and I laughed – partially out of relief and partially out of the silliness of the situation. Our clothes were stuck to our bodies. All of our possessions were drenched. And we both knew that if you added up our experience with boating on such a big body of water, especially in conditions like this, it would still equal nothing.

We made it back safely, pretending like it was no big deal, but happier than ever to see wet land. We drove back into town and had a nice meal, talking about the storm the entire time and knowing this would be a story for the ages.

And even though this happened a good twenty years ago, it really was one for the ages. But the funny thing is, I still love a good thunderstorm.

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?

Schedule Changes and Comments

Little Nuances turns seven next week.

So much has changed in the blogosphere since 2005. I went from hearing, “What is a blog?” to “How many blogs should a writer maintain?” during that span of time.

Frequency of posting has changed in the blogosphere. Posting every day used to be the norm and it still is for blogs that deal with current events. But more and more, bloggers are choosing to post once or twice a week on scheduled days (much like a newspaper columnist) and it seems to work quite well. It gives the blogger a chance to offer only his or her best material and that in turn is a win for readers.

Starting next week, I’m going to begin posting here on Tuesdays and Fridays. That doesn’t mean I won’t pop in once in a while with a surprise post, but two posts a week seems like enough.

Too much of a good thing is still too much. And too much of a bad thing is annoying.

Little Nuances has a small but faithful audience and I’m thankful for every single one of you. I know many of you were not in the habit of reading blogs until you encountered this one. Some of you still only read Little Nuances. Thank you so much for doing so.

If I could be so bold as to ask you a favor, I would ask that if you see a post you like here, click on the comments section at the bottom of the post and let me know. If you have more to add on the subject, like a great quote or valuable insight, please leave it in the comments. And if the content makes you think or if it reminds you of a good story from your own life, I would love to hear about it in the comments section.

Blogs live and die by comments. I’ve known bloggers who gave up because their blogs didn’t receive comments. When nobody is commenting, the assumption by the blogger is that the content is not resonating with anybody. I certainly make that assumption.

Even if you’ve never left a comment on a blog before, give it a try. If you need help, I’ll be glad to walk you through the process. Just send me an email.

And if you are an email subscriber who tends to read posts in your email inbox rather than on the blog, I would appreciate it if you would click the title of the post in the email and read them here, unless, of course, you are reading on a smartphone or a tablet. Clicking through to the blog will give you the chance to comment, to join in the community of other commentors and to see what else might be going on here.

You may have noticed a couple of recent cosmetic changes. I changed the tagline to, “Pop culture through the eyes of a 40-something.” I believe it better captures what this blog is about than the previous tagline. I’ve also added a “Featured Posts” section on the sidebar. These are posts you might have missed from the past.

Thanks for sticking with me.

Find a Mitch

Sometimes dreams die of natural causes.

The 30-year-old minor league baseball player has a sudden realization that he’s never going to get the call to the big leagues, so he finds a job as a scout or a coach, or he joins the business world. 

The singer who gained a local following, but was passed over by every record label understands deep in her gut that her big break is never going to happen – with her finances dwindling and her opportunities drying up, she finds a way to stay in the industry by teaching or in some other way.

The man who opened his own auto repair shop during a down economy finds financial stability early on since people tend to hold on to their cars longer when money is tight and therefore need to have them repaired more often. But when the economy improves and they trade them in for new ones, his business takes a huge hit and he has to close his doors.

Sometimes we kill our own dreams.

I’m reading a novel called Unconventional by J.J. Hebert. It’s about a writer named James Frost who spends his free time working on his novel and the rest of his time as a janitor in a school. He battles the notion that he is not good enough to be published. Nearly everybody around him tells him so. His dad is doubtful too, but his doubt is rooted in his own regret. Early in the novel, James notes this about his dad:

He was a talented baseball player, an all-star in each league in which he participated. He could have gone somewhere with baseball, maybe the big leagues, but he quit. He withdrew because he didn’t believe he was good enough. Every time he watches baseball, I see pain etched in his face, the anguish of an abandoned dream. He’ll never get his prime baseball-playing years back. One can’t reverse time.

James’ dad found it easier to walk away than to find out he really wasn’t good enough.

Understanding the difference between a dream that is on the verge of dying of natural causes versus a dream that somebody is about to abandon prematurely can be tricky.

Be careful who you talk to about your dreams.

Some people just aren’t risk takers, so they impose their mindset on people who are willing to take a risk to chase a dream, but their doubtful tone causes more damage than they realize.

Some people failed in pursuit of their dream because they just didn’t have the talent or finances and they are bitter to the point of not wanting anybody else to succeed.

And some people just abandoned their dream prematurely rather than hearing they are not good enough and they think you should too.

If your dream has died of natural causes, take some time to mourn and then find a way to morph your old dream into a new one. But if you are on the verge of killing your dream, you need to find a Mitch.

Mitch is a friend of James. He invents sporting equipment and sees his profession as similar to what James does as a writer. Here’s a conversation Mitch has with James in a restaurant:

“Being different all the time,” James says. “It’s like an automatic strike against me. I feel so alone sometimes.”

He nods, understanding. “The greatest and most inspiring achievements are not produced by those who conform to society’s idea of normal, but by those who courageously adopt the unconventional.”

If you can’t find a Mitch, become a Mitch. It may come full circle.

Remembering Phyllis Diller

Photo: Public domain

Phyllis Diller always reminded me of the woman in the neighborhood who never changed out of her nightgown but still roamed around in her yard, talking to passersby as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Every neighborhood has one.

It’s beautiful to live that way.

When I heard that Diller passed away yesterday, at the age of 95, four memories of her came flooding back – her crazy hair, her unique laugh, her self-deprecating humor, and that long cigarette holder she waved around during her routines.

As a boy, my mom took my sister and me to my grandma’s on Saturdays. All of us headed to Kmart where I ended up with a cherry Icee with one of those famous bubble top lids, or a milk carton full of chocolate malted milk balls. Saturdays were glorious as a result.

After the shopping was complete, we went back to grandma’s where she would cook a meal (the best pot roast in history, potatoes and green beans) before we settled in to watch the Carol Burnett Show and other variety shows.

I was too young to remember any of the bits specifically, but I do remember Burnett’s signature ear tug, Tim Conway’s portrayal of a character named Dorf, Flip Wilson dressing up like a woman, and Diller making fun of herself as she appeared on these various shows. Of course, that was the same era in which Johnny Carson was the master of late night television.

It was a golden era of comedy and it became part of who we were as a culture.

If I got out of bed with crazy hair and failed to comb it, Mom was sure to say something like, “You have Phyllis Diller hair.” If somebody did something wrong, he or she would invoke Flip Wilson theology and say, “The devil made me do it!” Conway’s “Dorf on Golf” became a video that was a connecting point between my dad and me.

We can never go back, and that is probably not a bad thing. Oh, it would be nice to experience good, relatively clean humor like the old guard used to produce. But we have Bill Cosby, Jeff Foxworthy, Mark Lowry and others. The thing is, a good comedian knows herself and the culture she lives well enough to find humor in the mundane of that era, so every generation needs to produce new comedians.

Every generation needs a Phyllis Diller, a Johnny Carson, a Bob Hope, a Lucille Ball, a Tim Conway, a Flip Wilson or a Carol Burnett. We were just fortunate enough to have all of them at the same time.

*****

I’ve been combing through YouTube videos this morning looking for some gems of Diller in action. This seems like a perfect one to share with you – it’s from the Ed Sullivan Show in October, 1969:

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.