Category Archives: Original Essays

Remembering Josh Gibson

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I arrived early at Nationals Park for Game 4 of the NLCS and did a lap around the stadium to see the sights. I discovered three statues near the home plate entrance, and as a student of baseball history anticipated two of the honorees—Frank Howard and Walter Johnson. But I confess that the Josh Gibson statue was a most pleasant surprise.

Not that Gibson, the greatest home run hitter in baseball history, does not deserve a statue. Quite the opposite. Gibson hit more home runs than anyone, including the longest home run in the history of Yankee Stadium. Some called him “the black Babe Ruth,” while others preferred to refer to Ruth as “the white Josh Gibson.” No, I was surprised to see the statue since Gibson, simply because of the color of his skin, was never allowed to play a Major League Baseball game.

Sadly, Gibson died of a stroke at age thirty-five. Three months later Jackie Robinson integrated Major League Baseball.

In certain ways there has been undeniable progress in race relations in this country, thanks in part to baseball and the heroism of players like Jackie Robinson. When the team from our nation’s capital takes the field tomorrow night in their first ever trip to the World Series, their roster will feature players from Brazil, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Venezuela—and the United States. And from the United States, alongside white, European-Americans you will find African-Americans, a Japanese-American, and a Mexican-American. It is a beautiful thing to witness.

But do not be deceived. Progress is simply signage on the road to somewhere, and the destination most assuredly remains on the farthest horizon.

Josh Gibson’s statue outside a Major League Baseball stadium in our nation’s capital honors one of the greatest baseball players of all time. At the same time, it reminds us that he was never allowed on the team. Both deserve remembering.

First Grade for Grown-ups

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I am one of sixty-four students from around the world here in Alexandria, Virginia, at the 2019 NASPA Institute for New Vice Presidents for Student Affairs. Each of us is the most senior student affairs officer on our respective campuses and in our first two years on the job. That so many of us are here is an interesting statement about both higher education and student affairs.

We were told that this is an institute and not a conference to make it clear that we will not pick and choose among class offerings. No, we will all partake of the same intensive cohort experience, including sharing meals together. Tuesday evening is our only break, and as luck would have it, I get to attend Game Four of the NLCS with my buddies, Steve and Rachel (Go Cards!).

I jumped at the opportunity to be here. When I served as Dean of Students at Pepperdine Law, I did my best to attend the national AALS conference each year because I learned a lot, sure, but more importantly, because of the relationships I formed with people who truly understood what I did each day. I still miss my law school student affairs buddies, but that is what excites me about being here today—the opportunity to connect with more amazing people from diverse places who share the common bond of loving students from the same seat as mine.

I love, love, love diversity. It is simultaneously a challenge to navigate and a gift to embrace. But for those like me who are drawn toward diversity instead of resistant to it, it is worth remembering that we also need those who truly “get” us. What I love about national organizations is that it provides the opportunity for both.

There is just one me, and for that we can all be thankful. But there are sixty-three other people here that have a job like mine, and what a comfort it is to know that and to know them.

Away from Home

Freshman Year (Sturgeon)

It has been a long time since I was a college freshman, which my present work constantly reminds me. I barely remember it now and often wonder if that is a gracious gift of aging.

Although I did very well in high school and should have considered many options, I never went on a college visit and simply remember struggling with one question—do I “go away to college” at Harding University, or do I “stay home” to play basketball at Crowley’s Ridge College? I don’t remember the details of why, but I chose the former and traveled the daunting one-hundred miles to study physical education in Searcy, Arkansas.

It was a good year overall. Harding reminded me of my high school in many ways, which was positive. I knew several students already there and roomed with Christopher, a friend from high school and a track star.

When I try to remember those long ago days, an odd collection of scenes comes to mind: An unsuccessful attempt to walk on the basketball team. The terror of speech class. Daily chapel. Pledging a social club. Navigating a laundry room. Unlimited food in the cafeteria. New friends.

Although it was a fine year, it was only a year, and I transferred to the University of Arkansas for the rest of my undergraduate education. At this point of life my solitary year in Searcy seems like a blip on the radar screen, almost causing me to question if it even happened.

Today, I am back in Searcy for the first time in close to thirty years for a student affairs conference, and I am reminded that it did. In fact, that year and that place represents an extremely formative moment in my life—my first experience in actually being “away from home.”

I have subsequently lived in multiple zip codes and discovered quite a bit about the world and about myself. That all began with a mysterious decision to go away to college. That decision is not for everyone, but all in all, it was right for me.

1982

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“Baseball has been good to me since I quit trying to play it.” – Whitey Herzog

The year was 1982, and I was adjusting to life in junior high school. I doubt I knew the word hazing, but I sure was nervous about going to the locker room, which was unfortunate since sports were my very favorite things.

But God smiled on me as a young baseball fan.

The combination of my dad and Paragould, Arkansas, made me a St. Louis Cardinal baseball fan, and 1982 was simply our year. Dale Murphy tore up the National League, and Robin Yount the American League, but destiny was with the Redbirds.

The previous winter the Cardinals added Joaquin Andujar and Lonnie Smith—and more importantly, Ozzie Smith—and during the season they called up young Willie McGee. In the summer they would draft future stars, Vince Coleman and Terry Pendleton, but it was Keith Hernandez and Bruce Sutter who were the beasts on the field in 1982. They led Whitey Herzog’s team into the playoffs for the first time since 1968 where they faced the Atlanta Braves.

It is a special memory. The Cardinals were my team, and I knew them so well from listening to Jack Buck on the radio. But Ted Turner’s young television “superstation” helped me know the Braves, too, and for a twelve-year-old boy enamored by all things sports, it was just special. That my team swept the series was icing on the cake.

It is disturbing how quickly thirty-seven years can pass, but here we are again. Times have changed, including baseball, and along the way I have watched the Redbirds go to the postseason fifteen more times, including six World Series appearances, but today I am remembering that first innocent memory: The Cardinals versus the Braves in the playoffs.

The Braves are loaded this year, and I would be surprised if my Redbirds survived the challenge. Honestly, I don’t really care that much anymore. Now, I simply like to watch and imagine Bob Forsch firing a fastball in to Darrell Porter on a fuzzy console television. Those two players aren’t with us anymore, at least in person, but they have never left my sweet childhood memories.

Country

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“The goal in sacred story is always to come back home, after getting the protagonist to leave home in the first place! A contradiction? A paradox? Yes, but now home has a whole new meaning, never imagined before.” – Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life (pp. 87-88)

Growing up I associated two things with Nashville: Churches of Christ and country music. The former was familiar, but even as a young person I was drawn toward things that were unfamiliar. And the latter was something my dad listened to in the car (other than a brief Randy Travis stage, I did not choose to listen to a lot of country music). So I never pictured myself in Nashville.

But when our potential move emerged, I was surprised how much I was drawn to the city itself. It felt like I would learn a lot about myself in Nashville, who I am, where I come from, and the meaning of the word “home.”

Still, it was surprising to think that country music had a role to play. Sure, moving to ground zero of Churches of Christ would involve introspection, but country music? Somehow I just knew that would prove important, too. Little did I know that famed filmmaker, Ken Burns, was putting the finishing touches on a new documentary miniseries to help me out.

If you have not been following Country Music on PBS, I suggest you find a way to catch up. Simply learning that the banjo came from African slaves and the fiddle came from European immigrants in Appalachia was worth tuning in. Country music is just that—an amalgam of this complicated country—and learning its history is helpful in understanding America if nothing else.

I had unfortunately never heard of DeFord Bailey, the first performer ever introduced on what became known as the Grand Ole Opry, and a grandson of slaves, and a harmonica genius. In fact, it was after Bailey’s brilliant rendition of a train on the show in 1927 (following a show that ended with the New York Symphony’s version) that announcer George Hay said, “For the past hour, we have been listening to music largely from Grand Opera, but from now on, we will present ‘The Grand Ole Opry.’” Bailey was unceremoniously fired in 1941 and spent the rest of his life shining shoes to make a living.

And speaking of 1941, I learned that country music was the favorite choice of soldiers during World War II, which provided a stunning realization as to why my dad always tuned in on the radio when I was a child. Country music must have walked my dad and a lot of people through tough times—the Great Depression, and a world at war. I also learned that it was World War II that propelled the Grand Ole Opry past other radio “barn dances” to its worldwide prominence. According to Burns, Japanese soldiers in the South Pacific were heard saying, “To hell with Roosevelt; to hell with Babe Ruth, and to hell with Roy Acuff.”

I’m not sure what I am learning about myself just yet, so if you are expecting me to weave this together in a perfect harmony that just isn’t going to happen today. What I do know, however, is that the banjo and fiddle are apparently providing the music that is serenading me toward home.

Life Between the Hedges

IMG_0931“No wise man ever wished to be younger.” – Jonathan Swift

Monday birthdays seem more appropriate at my age, but in an attempt to beat the system Jody and I took a weekend trip to Georgia and claimed it was birthday-related. It was actually a chance to accept a kind invitation from a friend to do something every sports fan should do—watch a game “between the hedges” at iconic Sanford Stadium. It just so happened that the mighty Georgia Bulldogs were playing the Red Wolves from Arkansas State University, my wife’s alma mater, so it was a cool deal all around.

Did I mention that our gracious hosts once were the President and First Lady of the University of Georgia? It was an honor to stay at their home and sit in their air-conditioned stadium box, and from the sometimes-you-get-more-than-you-ever-dreamed files, we even got to meet Uga—once named the best mascot in the nation—who was hanging out in his SUV in the bowels of the stadium before greeting his adoring fans!

And just after meeting the star of the show, we were allowed on the field during pregame warmups where we were privileged to see those iconic hedges. The hedges were originally planted in 1929 – inspired by rose hedges in Pasadena – and other than a controversial removal/replant surrounding the 1996 Olympics, football games have been held between their carefully-manicured boundaries ever since.

And then the game was terrible. Arkansas State, although a quality football program, was completely outmatched against the #3 team in the nation and lost 55-0.

But there was something very special about this particular blowout. Georgia fans don their red with great pride, but in the approach to this game they were invited to wear pink in honor of Arkansas State’s head coach who recently lost his wife to breast cancer shortly after her 49th birthday. And did they ever. The stadium was filled with pink in what Coach Anderson emotionally described as “one of the classiest moves he has ever seen,” and it was breathtaking.

Today, as I celebrate my own 49th birthday, I am reminded that life is both fleeting and unpredictable. Shakespeare said that all the world’s a stage, although the Southern take might be a football field, and that we humans are “merely players” on it. As we play our parts “between the hedges”—win, lose, or draw—it is nice to imagine a scene where even the opposition recognizes that something greater than our differences binds us together as one.

That is what I thought about on a pleasant Saturday afternoon in Georgia.

Beneath the Surface

IMG_0902Mammoth Cave is, well, big. One might say mammoth. It is, in fact, the longest cave system in the entire world—412 miles of underground fun—but the name emerged from the enormous rooms and passageways found within. It is also in central Kentucky and just ninety miles from Nashville, so Jody and I did a little day trip on Saturday to check it out.

We chose the Historic Tour, a two-mile, two-hour journey that included in the price of admission a 300-foot descent, temperatures in the fifties, and hundreds of murky stairs. And in addition to the expansive rooms and passageways, we also discovered “Fat Man’s Misery”—a horribly-named section of the tour that required lathering oneself in butter to squeeze through—and “Tall Man’s Agony”—a personally-intimidating and backbreaking section apparently designed for contortionists. It was all very cool, both literally and metaphorically.

Mammoth Cave became a national park in 1941, but we were surprised to learn that guided tours began over 200 years ago in 1816! It is mind-boggling to imagine the courage it took to explore that massive underground system so long ago by torch or by lantern.

But what challenges the imagination even more is that this underground world exists in the first place. Houses, farms, highways, schools, baseball games, and all manners of life happen day after day on the surface above this complex and invisible universe. I find that fascinating—living unaware of the fascinating world that lies silently beneath the surface.

The natural world is enchanting, but my entire adult work life has taken place in a social environment instead. Time and again I have found the subterranean world there to be equally as fascinating.

Love & Baseball

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“Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too.” – Yogi Berra

I caught some of the Little League World Series on ESPN a couple of weeks back and smiled to see eleven-year-olds treated like major leaguers. One little dude came up to bat, and I saw on the screen:

Age: 11
Height: 5’1”
Weight: 97 lbs
Favorite band: AC/DC

Disturbing, sure, but also hilarious.

While football season kicks off, baseball is sprinting toward home at full speed. Baseball is a remarkable sport and has become as much of Labor Day as charcoal grills, furniture sales, and packing up your white clothing—and baseball is something my wife and I enjoy together.

We are told that opposites attract, and Jody and I are living proof. We are similarly independent, which makes the differences even more pronounced. Jody likes listening to music, and I like a quiet place to read. Jody is flexible, and I need structure. Jody enjoys soaking up the sun, and I burn like a piece of toast. Jody prefers an indoor cycling class, and I prefer a long run. Jody is beautiful, talented, and popular, and I prefer a long run.

We have tried over the years to find things we enjoy doing together, and while our love for each other has continued to grow stronger, our attempts at shared interests have remained a challenge.

Enter baseball.

We have both enjoyed baseball over the years, but it has not been something we enjoyed together. Until now, that is. Recently, we have been following our favorite MLB team together and keeping the television on MLB Network most of the time. Last weekend, we went to First Tennessee Park for some top-notch minor league action to watch the Nashville Sounds battle the San Antonio Missions. Jody tracked down a scorecard, and we took turns every half inning attempting to remember how to keep score. We are suddenly crazy for baseball!

Honestly, I’m not 100% sure if it will last, but like a fun baseball rally, what I do know is that we are both seeing the curveballs of life pretty well right now and making good contact. So I’d say it’s a hit, and if you are keeping score at home, you can score one for the home team.

Mind & Body

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In mid-May, I injured my back. While stretching before a morning run I felt some pain and questioned whether running was a good idea, but I decided to give it a try and stop if the pain persisted. It turned out to be a great run with no pain at all, but as the day went on the pain returned and intensified. I have now struggled with back pain for over three months and have endured a frustrating cycle of feeling better, running again, feeling worse again, feeling better again, and so on.

Establishing a relationship with a new doctor in Nashville has not been easy, but I recently made it in to a fantastic physician who ordered x-rays on my back that confirmed that there is no acute injury. He then referred me to a spine center to determine the next steps, so help is finally on the way.

I would love it if that was the only challenge but aging doesn’t seem to mind multitasking.

I have had stomach issues for most of my adult life, but they came to a head (um, wrong metaphor) over a decade ago that led to a change in diet, exercise, and lifestyle that was life-changing in a good way. But there have been some ups and downs in the last few years, particularly in my willpower when it comes to diet, and about a month ago I may or may not have had a stomach virus—all I know is that it wasn’t pretty–and something clicked in my brain that reminded me that Southern comfort food is not very comfortable for me.

So the new doctor suggested I add a low-FODMAP diet to my GERD diet, which basically means that I can only eat cardboard as long as it is baked and without any extra flavoring. I am suddenly gluten-free, lactose-free, sugar-free, and all other kinds of free that ironically aren’t anywhere near free at the grocery store. All of this is a pain in the neck, but I am astounded that I am fully locked in mentally to this new way of life. And as long as it is a pain in the neck and not the stomach or back, I’ll take the trade.

As I walked to the office last Friday I met possibly the happiest human on the planet who proceeded to tell me about his happiness—and how happiness leads toward good health, too. He reminded me that we all get to choose our attitude and then said something profound that I intend to hold on to for the road ahead. He said that sunrises and sunsets are totally different but equally beautiful.

Here’s to looking for beauty regardless of, well, anything.

What Goes Around…

blog picIn December of 1993, over a quarter century ago now, I was a young high school basketball coach in Arkansas trying to come to terms with what it meant to truly follow Jesus. My struggle pointed toward the margins of society and the conclusion that I should go love people in places that others might not. Specifically, I decided to move to a major city and teach in an inner-city school, and although I had never been further west than Dallas, I chose Los Angeles.

I then went to tell my mother. That was no fun. I told her that I planned to drive (yes, drive) to L.A. on spring break to look for an apartment and return to finish out the school year before moving that summer to begin a new life. She was heartbroken. I, as you can tell, was clueless.

This was pre-Internet, at least for me, so I had no idea how to pull this off. On New Year’s Eve, I mailed a typewritten cover letter and resume to the Los Angeles Unified School District in an envelope with no street address and a zip code I must have found in the reference section of the public library. I somehow expected it would get there—by divine courier if nothing else.

I never made the trip. Instead, while at a high school basketball tournament on New Year’s Day—the same day I had dated the cover letter—a beautiful young woman introduced herself and changed my life forever. That spring break, instead of driving to L.A., I proposed marriage. That summer, instead of moving away, we married.

At some point, my letter to the Los Angeles Unified School District was returned to sender—by divine courier, I suspect, but via the local postal carrier. It remains to this day one of my prized possessions.

Fast forward to last week, and our oldest daughter accepted a job teaching deaf and hard of hearing children at an elementary school in the Los Angeles Unified School District. Same day, our youngest daughter—around the age I was when I sent that letter—began her post-college life using her bilingual skills at a middle school in the San Antonio Independent School District.

I don’t know what to make of any of this. Still, after so many years, I remain clueless.

Clueless, yes, but also amused at the irony of life. And proud of those two young women that I have had the privilege to teach and to love.