My dad, a man who captained his cross-country team in high school and even flirted with the idea of continuing his running career in college, has adopted the exercise mantra of "Five miles or five minutes, whichever comes first." Somehow after 20 years of strict adherence to this policy, he still maintains a rather slim figure and a full head of hair. OK, that last part may just be a personal grievance. Anyway, I bring all this up because, sadly, I'm falling into Middle Aged Man's (fellow Founts of Useless Knowledge will recognize this Mike Myers "SNL" character from the early '90s; my dad and I watched one of the skits together and the nickname stuck) mindset. Especially after having my right knee scoped back in 2001 as a result of the pounding my legs took running track and cross-country in college, I just have not been able to get myself back in the exercise routine that characterized my younger days. I played all kinds of basketball, soccer, and baseball growing up and then ran track and cross-country in high school and at Ohio University (hey, Coach Banton needed somebody to pick up all the cups out of lane one at the end of practice at OU, and I was happy to oblige.......hahahaha). The surgery helped put the final nail in my running coffin, and so I've really only had sporadic addictions to exercising on the bicycle and putting in laps in the pool. Well, a couple of years ago, I began a seasonal series of once a week exercise excursions as part of an adult softball team. No, not "adult" as in we had to wear special plastic covering before each game began, but "adult" as in, "Yeah, I think I could make it over to catch that ball, but it would require diving, and, well, I'm not 18 anymore and I make it a practice not to dive unless the landing area is a pool of appropriate depth."
Even though this exercise was weekly, I was always quite humbled and a bit ashamed at how easily winded I would get just playing softball. I mean, come on, we weren't exactly giving ol' Jennie Finch a run for her money. Anyway, I had been playing with the same group of guys for a couple of years, and toward the end of the second spring session this year, I had somehow convinced our coach/manager/supervisor to let me play catcher. Indeed, the only left-handed catcher in the whole league. Again, with a piece of Useless Knowledge: when I took my turn as the backstop, my mind wandered back to a guy named Benny Distefano who caught a bit for the Pirates back in the early '90's and was, like me, a southpaw. Well, as luck would have it, I really felt like I was coming into my own on the last day of the season. We always played a doubleheader each Monday night, so I was especially jazzed that I was playing so well in just the first game of the evening. I still remember the foul ball sent straight back from a batter early in the game that came precipitously close to eliminating any hopes of fatherhood I might still have. Of course, I was caught (pun intended) off guard and didn't make the play. Shortly after said foul ball, another ball came back, and with visions of testosterone-mad Kevin Mitchell dancing in my head, I snatched the tip bare handed to end the inning. Yes! I thought, Katybaldcoach has hit the big time! I legged out a single in our half of the inning. Riding my newfound feelings of softball uber-grandeur, I went to third on one play, and sensing a close play, executed one of the ugliest slides ever seen in any level of softball. My left foot was actually perpendicular to the ground. I look back and wonder how in the world I contorted my body into such a position. Anyway, as I slid into the base, the ball was overthrown, so officially, I was declared safe. However, just after the ball passed, I felt a sensation in my lower left calf that could be best be described as someone beaning me with the ball even though I knew the ball was nowhere near me. Inexplicably, I blurted out, "Who hit me?" reminiscient of Forrest Gump when he got shot in the buttocks. Why did I say this? I haven't the foggiest. The first thought I had was of Middle Aged Man circa 1991 when he and my sister and a couple of other kids were fooling around on Memorial Day playing softball. After scampering/running/moving with purpose to second base, MAM pulled up lame. On the morrow he knew something was definitely wrong, and sure enough, the good doctor had ripped his Achilles. Surgery followed, several weeks of crutches, and of course, MAM being MAM didn't do his part on the whole rehab thing, and thinking of the oh, so attractive scar he still bears just added to my mind's ominous meanderings. Anywho, since I didn't have a full time job this year, and since I don't live in Canada, I have no medical insurance. So as I'm flashing back to that not so frabjous day in '91, I'm also thinking, "How in the world do I pay for a surgery with no insurance? Is it time to give up a kidney?" Somehow I hobbled off the field and took refuge in the bathroom. With all these not so happy thoughts running through my head, I came the closest to blacking out than ever before in my life. Looking like I had taken shrapnel from an enemy mortar attack on the streets of Kabul, I dragged my leg back to the dugout and mumbled something to the coach about taking myself out of the game so I could get home and give myself the Old Yeller treatment. I decided to try and drive myself home from the ballpark. I called Pops as I began the commute, and Dad, who will never be employed by the Hallmark company, seemed quite certain that I had ripped my Achilles as well. Honestly, no pain was ever felt, just some really strong stiffness. Somehow I did complete the drive home and did so without ever taking off my cleats from the game. Cleat driving is never advisable even on two good legs, so I was really red-lining on the Stupid Meter with that decision. Of course, I'm not exactly the greatest when it comes to being proactive with any situation regarding my health, so I had no ice packs or heating pads at home. However, I did have a large cooler, and decided to draw on my knowledge gleaned from therapy sessions with the good folks of the Ohio University athletic training staff. I dumped all the ice I had in my freezer into the cooler and filled the rest of the cooler with water. My very own ice bath was born! Ah, sweet numbness settled in within minutes.
Also going through my head was what to do about work the next day. I had recently begun a long term sub position at a junior high in Katy filling in for a 7th grade math teacher. I knew that if I took a day off, I'd throw out any hope of pulling down long term sub pay and how would this look in the eyes of the school's administration if the sub needed a sub? So, I propped up the leg on a pillow and tried for a good night's sleep. I don't know if "good" could describe that evening's slumber, but I was able to hop into school the next day. I told the students my condition was to be blamed on those stealthy Viet Cong, but I think the reference was more than their 13 year old minds could bear. Of course, as a teacher, there was no chance I was going to be able to rest the leg during the day. I made it through the school day on Tuesday, made it through a shift of tutoring at Huntington, iced the leg vociferously that evening and made it through the school day on Wednesday. However, after another tutoring shift Wednesday afternoon, I thought I was going to have to go all Aron Ralston on my busted leg. It. was. throbbing!!! I think it was Wednesday evening when I finally said to myself, "Self, you can plainly see that this is quite an unpleasant physical condition, so why don't you ask the nice school nurse if she has any ideas or can at least let you borrow a heating pad?" Fortunately, I listened to this wise self-admonishment and was able to procure a heating pad from said nurse the next day. The results of the heat made for an extremely frabjous day! My "shrapnel shuffle" remained quite pronounced through the end of the school year but much more manageable. Admittedly, I did harbor thoughts of getting myself a nice XL 350 scooter with a nine volt a la George Costanza in a memorable "Seinfeld" episode. Alas, I was not working at Play Now but at a public school, so the scooter idea was a no go. Unfortunately, I never was able to give the leg the rest it needed until the school year ended at the first of June.
I did visit a RediClinic in HEB the last week of school for an "official" diagnosis. Fortunately, my near death experience turned out to be nothing more than a strain. The doctor/nurse/shaman just told me to keep icing, heating, and elevating for treatment. Still, it was quite humbling, and, honestly, a bit embarrassing to realize that I couldn't withstand even an hour of sustained exercise without thoughts of a physical armageddon almost knocking me unconscious. I mean, was it really that long ago when I could go out for eight or ten or 12 mile runs or hour plus long bike rides? "Five miles or five minutes?" Really?! Thanks, Dad! hahahaha
I guess the lesson to be learned from all of this is that maybe the vast majority of today's American youth actually have it RIGHT: there's something to be said for consuming large quantities of Chee-tos, communicating willy-nilly with friends and strangers on various and sundry forms of PDA's and cyber resources, as well as enduring mind numbing hours of video games and TV shows. Absolutely none of these activities can even remotely cause a strain, sprain, tear, or break of any part of the body (well, at least not below the waist).
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Baytown
It's strange what memories from your childhood stay with you. For instance, even though my family probably only visited our relatives in the tropical paradise of Baytown, Texas, about a dozen times during my adolescence, there are certain parts of the town that still hold a special significance for me.
My parents were authentic high school sweethearts. They both graduated from Lee High School back in the '60's. My dad grew up in Tennessee and moved to Baytown around his junior high years, but I believe all of my mom's time until she went to college was spent in ol' Baytown. For many years, Baytown was a pretty hopping place. Oil was big in town, and the industry employed many Baytown-ites. My mom's dad worked for Exxon and actually did quite a bit of travelling overseas with them. My dad's dad taught English at Lee High School from 1955-81, so both families were comfortably middle-class. Mom's sister and her daughter as well as Mom's grandparents also lived in town as well as her uncle and his boys, and my family's trips to Baytown would usually serve as a mini family reunion of sorts since for most of my childhood, we lived in Alabama and Ohio, and trips to see the relatives were not frequent occurences. Until I graduated from college, I can't remember flying on a plane more than about two times. I guess it's the mind-set my dad was instilled with, but whenever we visited the Baytown Gang, we always drove. Scratch that, I should say, my dad always drove.
610 Peggy, 312 Scott, and 1511 Echols: These are the addresses for my great-grandparents as well as both sets of grandparents in Baytown. Until maybe the late 1980's, Baytown was a fairly successful suburb of Houston. However, the last 25 years or so have not been so kind to the old town. During my last several visits, I have seen so many boarded up businesses and store fronts. Most of these are in the older part of town. However, there's a restaurant my grandmother likes to take me to when I visit that is in old Baytown. To give you an idea of the slang Nana still holds on to, she still uses "trades" to describe the purchases she would make when visiting a grocer or furniture store. Sometimes I really have to pay attention to her stories to understand even the context of what she's talking about. Oh well, it makes for an interesting trip down memory lane with her. Anyway, this chicken restaurant is located just a few blocks from where I remember my grandfather taking me to get a haircut maybe 30 years ago. I can't for the life of me remember the name of the salon, but I do recall the stuffed animal heads on the wall. Of course, I remember his car. My family always called it "Clifford," after the big red dog in the children's books. I believe it was a red Ford sedan. I can't remember the exact model, but I do know that it was big, and it was red. He probably held onto that car for close to 20 years.
My mom's grandfather, Pappy, was a self-made man. He had, at best, a 4th grade education. The same was true for his wife, Mamo. They married just before the Depression and struggled to make ends meet just like most Americans. When they finally settled in Baytown, Pappy not only built the house he lived in for 40+ years, but also the house next door to his. I've always had a tremendous amount of respect for the hard, manual labor Pappy did during his life. He was a giving, devoted, family man, and he will always have a special place in my heart. That's probably why it's so disheartening when I drive by his old house and see how unkempt and disheveled it is. It looks like some college frat boys live there. One large tree that not only provided shade in the front yard but also supported a bench swing (the setting for a nostalgic extended family picture) has been taken down. A large tree in the backyard is overgrown and in dire need of a trim. The grass is so high it wouldn't be too difficult at all to lose a small child during a game of hide and seek. Of course, the bowling alley where my sister and I and some of our cousins spent part of one mini-reunion is still in business right across the street from Mamo and Pappy's house.
My dad's parents' house held some special memories for me as well. I took after my dad's interest in distance running and ran during high school and college. Pops was captain of his high school cross-country team, and frequently I've in my mind pictured him going off on a long training run from his house around town, or up to the school, or perhaps, over to see my mother. I'd say round trip it couldn't be more than a 10 mile jaunt. Strange what kind of memories I create for my father. I remember my grandparents' house, with the exception of the bathrooms, was covered in hardwood floors. There was a big dining room table in the dining room and a piano (which was unplayed during just about all of my visits) in the front bedroom. I think the piano belonged to my aunt, but when she moved out, the piano did not. When my grandfather finally moved out around 2003, I'm not sure whatever became of it. I also remember their backyard. For some reason, my grandfather showed me how to shoot a BB gun back there during one visit. I believe my parents still have a photo of me with a helmet of hair pulling back on the trigger and aiming at some random target near the back fence. And the kitchen, yes, the kitchen. Both my grandparents were proficient in the kitchen. And one of their favorite dishes was "corndodgers." "Corndodgers" were basically long pieces of cornbread, and I never had them anywhere else. It's one of those things that I'll always associate with my grandparents. Well, over time, especially after my grandfather moved in with my aunt in San Antonio, the condition of the house suffered. In its "heyday," it was painted a lovely, strong white all around. Since Grandy moved out, it's served time in a yellow hue and is currently sporting two tones of blue, one around the house and one for the trim. The fence around the yard is still the same. In fact, I've got a sneaking suspicion that fence has been there since at least the Kennedy administration. Vaguely, I remember a large gate at the end of the driveway that would have to be opened and closed whenever cars would leave or arrive back at the house. However, seeing the house in its current condition seems to somehow distort those childhood memories.
My parents were authentic high school sweethearts. They both graduated from Lee High School back in the '60's. My dad grew up in Tennessee and moved to Baytown around his junior high years, but I believe all of my mom's time until she went to college was spent in ol' Baytown. For many years, Baytown was a pretty hopping place. Oil was big in town, and the industry employed many Baytown-ites. My mom's dad worked for Exxon and actually did quite a bit of travelling overseas with them. My dad's dad taught English at Lee High School from 1955-81, so both families were comfortably middle-class. Mom's sister and her daughter as well as Mom's grandparents also lived in town as well as her uncle and his boys, and my family's trips to Baytown would usually serve as a mini family reunion of sorts since for most of my childhood, we lived in Alabama and Ohio, and trips to see the relatives were not frequent occurences. Until I graduated from college, I can't remember flying on a plane more than about two times. I guess it's the mind-set my dad was instilled with, but whenever we visited the Baytown Gang, we always drove. Scratch that, I should say, my dad always drove.
610 Peggy, 312 Scott, and 1511 Echols: These are the addresses for my great-grandparents as well as both sets of grandparents in Baytown. Until maybe the late 1980's, Baytown was a fairly successful suburb of Houston. However, the last 25 years or so have not been so kind to the old town. During my last several visits, I have seen so many boarded up businesses and store fronts. Most of these are in the older part of town. However, there's a restaurant my grandmother likes to take me to when I visit that is in old Baytown. To give you an idea of the slang Nana still holds on to, she still uses "trades" to describe the purchases she would make when visiting a grocer or furniture store. Sometimes I really have to pay attention to her stories to understand even the context of what she's talking about. Oh well, it makes for an interesting trip down memory lane with her. Anyway, this chicken restaurant is located just a few blocks from where I remember my grandfather taking me to get a haircut maybe 30 years ago. I can't for the life of me remember the name of the salon, but I do recall the stuffed animal heads on the wall. Of course, I remember his car. My family always called it "Clifford," after the big red dog in the children's books. I believe it was a red Ford sedan. I can't remember the exact model, but I do know that it was big, and it was red. He probably held onto that car for close to 20 years.
My mom's grandfather, Pappy, was a self-made man. He had, at best, a 4th grade education. The same was true for his wife, Mamo. They married just before the Depression and struggled to make ends meet just like most Americans. When they finally settled in Baytown, Pappy not only built the house he lived in for 40+ years, but also the house next door to his. I've always had a tremendous amount of respect for the hard, manual labor Pappy did during his life. He was a giving, devoted, family man, and he will always have a special place in my heart. That's probably why it's so disheartening when I drive by his old house and see how unkempt and disheveled it is. It looks like some college frat boys live there. One large tree that not only provided shade in the front yard but also supported a bench swing (the setting for a nostalgic extended family picture) has been taken down. A large tree in the backyard is overgrown and in dire need of a trim. The grass is so high it wouldn't be too difficult at all to lose a small child during a game of hide and seek. Of course, the bowling alley where my sister and I and some of our cousins spent part of one mini-reunion is still in business right across the street from Mamo and Pappy's house.
My dad's parents' house held some special memories for me as well. I took after my dad's interest in distance running and ran during high school and college. Pops was captain of his high school cross-country team, and frequently I've in my mind pictured him going off on a long training run from his house around town, or up to the school, or perhaps, over to see my mother. I'd say round trip it couldn't be more than a 10 mile jaunt. Strange what kind of memories I create for my father. I remember my grandparents' house, with the exception of the bathrooms, was covered in hardwood floors. There was a big dining room table in the dining room and a piano (which was unplayed during just about all of my visits) in the front bedroom. I think the piano belonged to my aunt, but when she moved out, the piano did not. When my grandfather finally moved out around 2003, I'm not sure whatever became of it. I also remember their backyard. For some reason, my grandfather showed me how to shoot a BB gun back there during one visit. I believe my parents still have a photo of me with a helmet of hair pulling back on the trigger and aiming at some random target near the back fence. And the kitchen, yes, the kitchen. Both my grandparents were proficient in the kitchen. And one of their favorite dishes was "corndodgers." "Corndodgers" were basically long pieces of cornbread, and I never had them anywhere else. It's one of those things that I'll always associate with my grandparents. Well, over time, especially after my grandfather moved in with my aunt in San Antonio, the condition of the house suffered. In its "heyday," it was painted a lovely, strong white all around. Since Grandy moved out, it's served time in a yellow hue and is currently sporting two tones of blue, one around the house and one for the trim. The fence around the yard is still the same. In fact, I've got a sneaking suspicion that fence has been there since at least the Kennedy administration. Vaguely, I remember a large gate at the end of the driveway that would have to be opened and closed whenever cars would leave or arrive back at the house. However, seeing the house in its current condition seems to somehow distort those childhood memories.
And that brings me to the third house of the mini reunion circuit. It's probably the newest of the three houses because I know my grandmother has told me that one of her first parties in the house was a graduation shindig for my dad when he graduated high school in '66. I always wondered how five people, my grandparents, my mom and her two sisters, could all live together in a house with just three bedrooms. I'm assuming the younger girls shared a bedroom since my mom was only a year behind my dad in school and would be leaving herself for college at Lamar in Beaumont after a year at Lee College in town. Anyway, one of the lasting memories I have of that house is the brown wood paneling used to decorate the kitchen. All the cabinets remained in that faux wood shade until just a few years ago. For some reason, my grandmother decided to go white, all white. I remember the first time I laid eyes on the new kitchen. It was like a piece of my childhood had been taken away from me. Even typing that fills me with a sense of awkwarness. I mean, it was only cheap wood paneling, for crying out loud! For whatever reason, my grandmother worked for years and years in the cafeteria at Sterling High School in town. Both my grandmother and my mom (and dad, for that matter) attended Lee, the older of the two high schools. Well, Grandma's devotion to Sterling became pretty passionate. She'd frequently talk to me about the performance of the school's football team, and she would frequently attend my cousin's functions at the school when she was a student there in the late '90's. Believe it or not, another strong memory I have of that house is a Sterling parking sticker with a picture of Yosemite Sam that has for about 30 years been affixed to the door leading into her "playroom." I don't know why that parking sticker is so significant to me. Out of bias to my parents' alma mater, I always stick up for Lee when my grandmother or my aunt or cousin brag about Sterling's performance in competitive cup-stacking or underwater basket weaving or whatever else their students receive top notch instruction in. I'm now at the point in my life when I can help out my grandmother with her yard work. Sometimes it seems odd when I mow the yard that I used to play catch with my cousin or dad in. I remember one time walking with my cousin to the Little League diamond a few blocks from Granny's house to play some baseball. As is the case with much of Baytown, those fields are overgrown and in pretty poor shape now.
I even remember the preacher of the church my Baytown family attended. If for no other reason, he had a very significant name to a young boy with a strong obsession with sports and a steel trap memory of baseball, basketball, and football trivia. The preacher's name was "Bobby Thompson." For a long time, I thought he might have been the one who hit the "Shot Heard Round the World" for the Giants back in the '50's. Sure, it made sense. Parlay a successful Major League Baseball career into a second career as a preacher. I remember how packed the congregation was for services. I would always be introduced as the "son of..." or "grandson of...". It never bothered me. I always looked forward to it as a time to re-meet the members of the congregation. This past Sunday, Granny and I made it over there for morning services. I'd say the pews were about half full. Now, granted, there are a few more congregations in town since I was a kid, but it just seems like another memory made murky by time and change. There's even a for sale sign at the front of the building.
Like I said, it's strange what you remember about your childhood. I know my family couldn't have visited Baytown more than a dozen times when I was growing up, but there are still seemingly meaningless minor details that I still remember fondly. Now when I go back to visit, I try to just enjoy the time I have with my relatives without getting too caught up in the memories of the past.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Arizona Boycotts
OK, I get it. Illegal immigration is a problem. A big problem. Growing up in Ohio, it was never even a teeny-tiny problem. "Illegal immigration" up there might mean some Hoosier's trying to sneak across the state lines. Since I moved down here in 2000, the issue has grown and grown in importance. For a few years my parents lived in Arizona, so I had at least a passing knowledge of how the issue was affecting that state. However, I will say this new law their fine state has passed does sound eerily reminiscent of racial profiling, but specifically, the road the country went down during World War II with Japanese Internment Camps in the western US. I still remember nary a word about the camps in any of my school textbooks growing up. HMMM! I WONDER WHY? PROBABLY BECAUSE AS A COUNTRY WE WERE A WEE BIT ASHAMED OF OURSELVES!!!! Anywho, illegal immigration is probably going to be a hot topic issue for quite some time, and I haven't the foggiest idea of how to solve it. However, I do know that some of these idiotic protests against Arizona's law make me wonder if our national IQ borders on "special needs." I mean, really, a group is going to boycott Arizona Iced Tea? It's not even made in Arizona! People are protesting where the Arizona Diamondbacks play opposing baseball teams. Really? Remember folks, for most pro athletes, they stick around their team's city during the season and then go "home" during the off-season. And the last I checked, yes, you can hem and haw about "church and state," but there's definitely no such "sports and state." It's almost like these protests will take on a "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" theme.
I'll boycott PGA events where Phil Mickelson plays since he went to college at Arizona State.
I'll boycott the movie Raising Arizona (OK, a friend gave me that one.).
I'll refuse to watch the Seinfeld episode which contains Mr. Costanza's classic line, "I'm like a phoenix, rising out of Arizona!"
I'll "de-friend" any Facebook buddy with a degree from the University of Phoenix.
I will not visit Canada since Phoenix Suns point guard Steve Nash hails from the land of the Mounties. Additionally, I refuse to watch the movie Strange Brew, and I refuse to eat round bacon.
I will not drive on I-10 since it goes all the way through Arizona and ends in California. Likewise, I will not board any commercial flight that travels over the state of Arizona. Also as part of my transportational boycott, I will not travel any interstate that is a multiple of 10 (such as I-40 in Arkansas and I-70 which goes up to Columbus, OH: HMMMM, maybe I've just found an easy way out of visiting my sister in the Buckeye State).
I will not eat Tostitos chips since they sponsor the Fiesta Bowl which is played in Phoenix.
I will not listen to the Steve Miller song "Rockin' Me" since it contains the line, "I went from Phoenix, Arizona, all the way to Tacoma..."
This has taken stereotyping and racial profiling and all kinds of other societal fears to a new level. I sure hope someone is keeping track somewhere of all these lamebrain boycott/picket ideas. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to change the channel on the telly. I've accidentally been watching Reno 911 this whole time. Oh, wait, no, that's for when I protest against NEVADA. Each of the continental 48 better beware. You're next!!
I'll boycott PGA events where Phil Mickelson plays since he went to college at Arizona State.
I'll boycott the movie Raising Arizona (OK, a friend gave me that one.).
I'll refuse to watch the Seinfeld episode which contains Mr. Costanza's classic line, "I'm like a phoenix, rising out of Arizona!"
I'll "de-friend" any Facebook buddy with a degree from the University of Phoenix.
I will not visit Canada since Phoenix Suns point guard Steve Nash hails from the land of the Mounties. Additionally, I refuse to watch the movie Strange Brew, and I refuse to eat round bacon.
I will not drive on I-10 since it goes all the way through Arizona and ends in California. Likewise, I will not board any commercial flight that travels over the state of Arizona. Also as part of my transportational boycott, I will not travel any interstate that is a multiple of 10 (such as I-40 in Arkansas and I-70 which goes up to Columbus, OH: HMMMM, maybe I've just found an easy way out of visiting my sister in the Buckeye State).
I will not eat Tostitos chips since they sponsor the Fiesta Bowl which is played in Phoenix.
I will not listen to the Steve Miller song "Rockin' Me" since it contains the line, "I went from Phoenix, Arizona, all the way to Tacoma..."
This has taken stereotyping and racial profiling and all kinds of other societal fears to a new level. I sure hope someone is keeping track somewhere of all these lamebrain boycott/picket ideas. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to change the channel on the telly. I've accidentally been watching Reno 911 this whole time. Oh, wait, no, that's for when I protest against NEVADA. Each of the continental 48 better beware. You're next!!
Monday, April 26, 2010
Roommate Ministry, Part II
Oh, frabjous day!! I know, I know, I get a little carried away with my affection for the Lewis Carroll poem "Jabberwocky." I remember learning it when I was in fourth grade and acting it out for a class. Since then, it has been my favorite poem of all time, and most years, I try and implement it in some way, shape, or form into my classes. Well, another frabjous day took place a couple of weeks ago. After several weeks of study with the minister at my church, my roommate Don was baptized!
I still remember how excited he was that Saturday several months ago when he asked me if he could come to church with me. He displayed that child-like exuberance Christ spoke of when He answered the question, "Who is the greatest in the kingdom of Heaven?" Don's lived with me since June of '09, and not too long after he moved in, I asked him about his religious affiliation. When he told me he considered himself agnostic, I knew I had my work cut out for me as far as being a witness and example to him. I'm not sure what prompted him, but when he asked to come to church with me, it opened my eyes to new possibilities for our relationship. That same youthful passion he showed in his initial desire to attend services with me has continued to grow and grow. He really has set an example for me as far as faithful attendance and daily study. Don works third shift at HEB and usually when he attends Sunday morning services, it's after coming home from work just a few hours before. Honestly, since his baptism I've felt more of a challenge (it's definitely not a "burden" or "pressure" I feel) to improve my walk with God and sense of service. You know, it's actually been a very good thing because for most of my professional life I've lived by myself. There was never anyone to be accountable to at my house or apartment. Now I have Don (and another roommate who actually is a long term sub at my school) who have dedicated themselves to a certain lifestyle, and we should all three be lifting each other up and encouraging each other.
Monday was the monthly Mega Monday service night at our congregation. The night usually consists of a potluck dinner, and then the attendees split up and work on various service projects around the building: cleaning, restocking, following up on visitors. It's always a great opportunity for a free meal (remember, I'm a single guy), a chance for service, and great fellowship. I called to remind Don Monday night when I was on my way to the building, and wouldn't you know it, he was already on his way up there as well. I hope that this aspect of our relationship continues to grow. Obviously my Holy Grail has been finding a Christian mate of the opposite sex, but after college I never really had any "church friends" to lean on and develop relationships with. God definitely does work in mysterious ways. There are multiple experiences in my life where I can look back and see what a possible reason was that God had for me at that time. I always hope and wish I can learn from my mistakes and apply the lessons from some of the stupid decisions I've made to becoming a stronger servant. I'm very excited to see how my relationship with Don can grow.
I still remember how excited he was that Saturday several months ago when he asked me if he could come to church with me. He displayed that child-like exuberance Christ spoke of when He answered the question, "Who is the greatest in the kingdom of Heaven?" Don's lived with me since June of '09, and not too long after he moved in, I asked him about his religious affiliation. When he told me he considered himself agnostic, I knew I had my work cut out for me as far as being a witness and example to him. I'm not sure what prompted him, but when he asked to come to church with me, it opened my eyes to new possibilities for our relationship. That same youthful passion he showed in his initial desire to attend services with me has continued to grow and grow. He really has set an example for me as far as faithful attendance and daily study. Don works third shift at HEB and usually when he attends Sunday morning services, it's after coming home from work just a few hours before. Honestly, since his baptism I've felt more of a challenge (it's definitely not a "burden" or "pressure" I feel) to improve my walk with God and sense of service. You know, it's actually been a very good thing because for most of my professional life I've lived by myself. There was never anyone to be accountable to at my house or apartment. Now I have Don (and another roommate who actually is a long term sub at my school) who have dedicated themselves to a certain lifestyle, and we should all three be lifting each other up and encouraging each other.
Monday was the monthly Mega Monday service night at our congregation. The night usually consists of a potluck dinner, and then the attendees split up and work on various service projects around the building: cleaning, restocking, following up on visitors. It's always a great opportunity for a free meal (remember, I'm a single guy), a chance for service, and great fellowship. I called to remind Don Monday night when I was on my way to the building, and wouldn't you know it, he was already on his way up there as well. I hope that this aspect of our relationship continues to grow. Obviously my Holy Grail has been finding a Christian mate of the opposite sex, but after college I never really had any "church friends" to lean on and develop relationships with. God definitely does work in mysterious ways. There are multiple experiences in my life where I can look back and see what a possible reason was that God had for me at that time. I always hope and wish I can learn from my mistakes and apply the lessons from some of the stupid decisions I've made to becoming a stronger servant. I'm very excited to see how my relationship with Don can grow.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Flags of Our Fathers
A couple of weeks ago, I completed yet another long and winding trip back from Georgia where I spent my spring break with my parents. I had a wonderful relaxing time with the 'rents, their two dogs of whom I have grown especially fond, Guy and Gus, as well as the ol' Birman cats, Vandy and Webster. Fortunately, about a year ago, I decided to give audio books a try in an attempt to keep me as alert as possible on the roads. I've grown accustomed to making these long trips. After all, when I first moved to Texas, my parents still lived in Ohio, and they moved to Arizona in '03 before moving over to the Peach State just a few years ago. However, these trips can get rather dull when I'm the only one with opposable thumbs in the car (sometimes I take my cats, Jerry and Kosmo, but they're not very helpful when it comes to providing meaningful conversation). These audio books have really done the trick. A few times I've visited the Houston Public Library branch near my school, but their pickings are pretty slim. Last week I actually picked up a few good "reads" from Half Price Books but burned through those before it was time to head back Saturday. Lucky for me, my dad let me take his audio copy of Flags of Our Fathers for the trip back.
I had heard of the book and mini-series but had never taken the time to either read the work or watch the show. Granted, now after "reading" the book, I definitely want to see what HBO did with it. I was initially struck by the author's comments in his foreword at the beginning of the book. Only after his father passed away did he come to find out that his dad not only was one of the men who raised the flag at Iwo Jima, but he also was a highly decorated soldier during World War II. The author knew his dad was a veteran, but he just didn't realize how significant his dad's service had been. Sure, there were times when he tried to get information from Pops about what the war was like, but Dad had been reluctant to share anything. One thought with the author really resonated with me. He said he "needed" to know what happened to his dad, that his dad to some degree owed it to him to tell him about his experiences in the war. That's exactly how I felt for many years about my dad's involvement in the Vietnam War. Pops went to grad school at Vanderbilt on the GI Bill. When he finished his undergrad, he served three tours in 'Nam on two different ships, the USS Hollister and the USS Coral Sea as a gunner's mate.
Our fathers owed it to no one, not one person, to tell them the gory psychologically scarring details of their experiences. It took me a long, long time to realize that. Recently I've heard a military slogan that's stuck with me: "All gave some; some gave all." Rarely do any of us civilians witness the actual death of an acquaintance, but these men saw it all around them on a daily basis. They risked their lives day in and day out so we could enjoy the freedoms and way of life we just take for granted.
Spiritually, I find myself oh, so often confusing what I need for myself with what is best for me. I want things like personal happiness and professional happiness when I should be focused on just living my life in the way God wants me to. I put too much emphasis on what I need to do for myself rather than what I can do for others. I need to realize that only God truly knows what I need in my life and recognize that in order to find the peace and happiness I desire, I must turn my life completely over to Him and overcome the desires I have to pursue my own self-serving "needs."
I had heard of the book and mini-series but had never taken the time to either read the work or watch the show. Granted, now after "reading" the book, I definitely want to see what HBO did with it. I was initially struck by the author's comments in his foreword at the beginning of the book. Only after his father passed away did he come to find out that his dad not only was one of the men who raised the flag at Iwo Jima, but he also was a highly decorated soldier during World War II. The author knew his dad was a veteran, but he just didn't realize how significant his dad's service had been. Sure, there were times when he tried to get information from Pops about what the war was like, but Dad had been reluctant to share anything. One thought with the author really resonated with me. He said he "needed" to know what happened to his dad, that his dad to some degree owed it to him to tell him about his experiences in the war. That's exactly how I felt for many years about my dad's involvement in the Vietnam War. Pops went to grad school at Vanderbilt on the GI Bill. When he finished his undergrad, he served three tours in 'Nam on two different ships, the USS Hollister and the USS Coral Sea as a gunner's mate.
Our fathers owed it to no one, not one person, to tell them the gory psychologically scarring details of their experiences. It took me a long, long time to realize that. Recently I've heard a military slogan that's stuck with me: "All gave some; some gave all." Rarely do any of us civilians witness the actual death of an acquaintance, but these men saw it all around them on a daily basis. They risked their lives day in and day out so we could enjoy the freedoms and way of life we just take for granted.
Spiritually, I find myself oh, so often confusing what I need for myself with what is best for me. I want things like personal happiness and professional happiness when I should be focused on just living my life in the way God wants me to. I put too much emphasis on what I need to do for myself rather than what I can do for others. I need to realize that only God truly knows what I need in my life and recognize that in order to find the peace and happiness I desire, I must turn my life completely over to Him and overcome the desires I have to pursue my own self-serving "needs."
Monday, February 15, 2010
Tennis, Anyone?
That's right. I'm doing my good deed for the day. This may be a good deed for at least a month or two to be honest with you. I'm serving as the school's tennis coach. I knew the school was in a bind since the tennis coach from last year moved out of state, and the only other people with tennis background are the two varsity basketball coaches. They're both firmly involved in their respective playoff runs, and one of them is leaving the school at the end of the season to take the head women's job at a small Christian college. I made sure the AD knew I had absolutely no background in tennis, and inexplicably, he wanted me for the position anyway.
This will definitely be a new and interesting experience for me. I've only minimally played the sport outside of gym class, so there will likely be some people on the team with more tennis knowledge than me. Yeah, it is a bit intimidating, but at the same time, I think I can still teach them a thing or two. I'm working on obtaining actual tennis drills and practices, but I do know enough about the game to know quickness and agility are very important. We did some drills today to work on those skills, and I definitely see the need to continue and augment this aspect of the training. Matches don't begin until March 1, so I've still got some time to develop into a tennis guru.
We had 12 players show up yesterday and an extra three showed up today. There may still be a few out there in the woodwork who want to come out. I know for some of the guys on the team, this is their only sport, so I do feel good that they are able to compete this year. Several of the players I have in class, and that adds an extra aspect to the student/teacher relationship that I really enjoy.
I'll keep you posted.......
This will definitely be a new and interesting experience for me. I've only minimally played the sport outside of gym class, so there will likely be some people on the team with more tennis knowledge than me. Yeah, it is a bit intimidating, but at the same time, I think I can still teach them a thing or two. I'm working on obtaining actual tennis drills and practices, but I do know enough about the game to know quickness and agility are very important. We did some drills today to work on those skills, and I definitely see the need to continue and augment this aspect of the training. Matches don't begin until March 1, so I've still got some time to develop into a tennis guru.
We had 12 players show up yesterday and an extra three showed up today. There may still be a few out there in the woodwork who want to come out. I know for some of the guys on the team, this is their only sport, so I do feel good that they are able to compete this year. Several of the players I have in class, and that adds an extra aspect to the student/teacher relationship that I really enjoy.
I'll keep you posted.......
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Playoff Party in Plano
Well, we came, we saw, we had dinner at Taco Cabana. Oh, yeah, and we played a game against Plano Prestonwood Academy.
The day started with a bad omen. Originally everybody on the team and our groupies (about 15 family members made the trip with us) were going to meet an IHOP close to the school for breakfast before we left on the bus. However, my assistant coach astutely pointed out that there were just too many intangibles that could go wrong with such a plan. So, the two of us decided that we could try and get a bite to eat once we were on the bus and had cleared the cozy confines of Houston traffic. I even went ahead and reserved seating at an IHOP on I-45 up in Spring. We made good time getting up there, but once we were there, they only allotted one server for all 33 of us! Not good. We wanted to leave by 10:30 so we could get up to Plano in time for something light to eat for lunch and plenty of time to warm up. Well, the only reason we left at 11:00 was because the father of one of the boys on the team was gracious enough to put the entire tab on his credit card. If each of us had to check out individually, we may still be at that IHOP. We got up to the school in Plano at about 3:00. The second bad omen of the day took place once we were in the school, and my starting right fullback told me he had left his cleats at home. His first suggestion was that he could go buy another pair. I had no idea where the shoe fairy was at that time of day, but I was pretty sure the fairy was nowhere close to us. We had just driven up on a charter bus. I have no idea how Matthew thought he was going to procure transportation to a store. Fortunately one of the seniors on the team who's been injured for the last several weeks loaned Matt his shoes. Serves him right though since during the game I'd look over at Matt and see him walking quite gingerly in shoes that were at least a full size too small for him.
The campus itself was just immense. I think it would be similar to a campus here in Houston if Lakewood Church had a school. Maybe if I mention it to ol' Joel Osteen, it'll make him jealous and he'll break ground. The school had large full color action cut-outs of the boys and girls basketball players on the wall mats in the gym. They played soccer and football on a full field with turf just slightly softer than astroturf. I knew we'd be faced with a swanky complex, and this was only the second time of the season we had played on a field like this.
The team we played was the number one seed from its district. I wasn't quite sure what to make of that since, yes, they were undefeated, but they only had a five team district, and the last place team hadn't won any district games. Our district has nine teams, and three of the teams from last year's State Final Four in boys' soccer were from our district, including the state champion. Well, Plano was good, not spectacular, but good. It took us awhile to get into the flow of the game and adjust to the different field surface. Of course, I'm sure there were some playoff jitters for each of the boys. We lost, convincingly, but I think each member of the team now knows what it takes to compete with the best teams in the state. I wouldn't be surprised if Plano makes it into the Final Four. We have a great group of boys returning next year, and I hope the camaraderie that was established this year and the respectful attitudes continue so we can make another appearance in the playoffs. Of course, it would be nice if we could at least finish fourth so we wouldn't be faced with the task of playing the number one team from another district!
Before the game, I talked to the team about the great unity they had shown during the year. Of the eight seniors we had last year, four played college soccer. Of the other eight that we hadn't planned on losing from last year's squad, three earned some form of All District recognition. Obviously there were several holes that needed to be filled. However, this is the team that was able to make it into the playoffs. I know two of our seniors from this year's team would like to continue their competitive careers, but, honestly, I think last year's team had better individual skill players. The difference was that this year's team was able to come together and put the desires and needs of the team above their own. I'm proud of what this team was able to accomplish and hope that this experience motivates them to put in the work needed to not only make it back to the playoffs but make it back as a higher seed.
The day started with a bad omen. Originally everybody on the team and our groupies (about 15 family members made the trip with us) were going to meet an IHOP close to the school for breakfast before we left on the bus. However, my assistant coach astutely pointed out that there were just too many intangibles that could go wrong with such a plan. So, the two of us decided that we could try and get a bite to eat once we were on the bus and had cleared the cozy confines of Houston traffic. I even went ahead and reserved seating at an IHOP on I-45 up in Spring. We made good time getting up there, but once we were there, they only allotted one server for all 33 of us! Not good. We wanted to leave by 10:30 so we could get up to Plano in time for something light to eat for lunch and plenty of time to warm up. Well, the only reason we left at 11:00 was because the father of one of the boys on the team was gracious enough to put the entire tab on his credit card. If each of us had to check out individually, we may still be at that IHOP. We got up to the school in Plano at about 3:00. The second bad omen of the day took place once we were in the school, and my starting right fullback told me he had left his cleats at home. His first suggestion was that he could go buy another pair. I had no idea where the shoe fairy was at that time of day, but I was pretty sure the fairy was nowhere close to us. We had just driven up on a charter bus. I have no idea how Matthew thought he was going to procure transportation to a store. Fortunately one of the seniors on the team who's been injured for the last several weeks loaned Matt his shoes. Serves him right though since during the game I'd look over at Matt and see him walking quite gingerly in shoes that were at least a full size too small for him.
The campus itself was just immense. I think it would be similar to a campus here in Houston if Lakewood Church had a school. Maybe if I mention it to ol' Joel Osteen, it'll make him jealous and he'll break ground. The school had large full color action cut-outs of the boys and girls basketball players on the wall mats in the gym. They played soccer and football on a full field with turf just slightly softer than astroturf. I knew we'd be faced with a swanky complex, and this was only the second time of the season we had played on a field like this.
The team we played was the number one seed from its district. I wasn't quite sure what to make of that since, yes, they were undefeated, but they only had a five team district, and the last place team hadn't won any district games. Our district has nine teams, and three of the teams from last year's State Final Four in boys' soccer were from our district, including the state champion. Well, Plano was good, not spectacular, but good. It took us awhile to get into the flow of the game and adjust to the different field surface. Of course, I'm sure there were some playoff jitters for each of the boys. We lost, convincingly, but I think each member of the team now knows what it takes to compete with the best teams in the state. I wouldn't be surprised if Plano makes it into the Final Four. We have a great group of boys returning next year, and I hope the camaraderie that was established this year and the respectful attitudes continue so we can make another appearance in the playoffs. Of course, it would be nice if we could at least finish fourth so we wouldn't be faced with the task of playing the number one team from another district!
Before the game, I talked to the team about the great unity they had shown during the year. Of the eight seniors we had last year, four played college soccer. Of the other eight that we hadn't planned on losing from last year's squad, three earned some form of All District recognition. Obviously there were several holes that needed to be filled. However, this is the team that was able to make it into the playoffs. I know two of our seniors from this year's team would like to continue their competitive careers, but, honestly, I think last year's team had better individual skill players. The difference was that this year's team was able to come together and put the desires and needs of the team above their own. I'm proud of what this team was able to accomplish and hope that this experience motivates them to put in the work needed to not only make it back to the playoffs but make it back as a higher seed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
