College on the horizon

     My son is a junior in high school. He is ranked #1 in his class and scored a composite score of 34 when he last took the ACT test back in May. He is, in short, an amazing young man.

     Today his mother and I met with his high school counselor to discuss his senior year class load and college planning. It was all a little overwhelming for both of us. There is a lot of financial aid paperwork in our near future, along with campus visits and more.

     It certainly doesn't feel like 16+ years ago when I held Eric for that first time. Watching him and his siblings grow has been my greatest joy in life and I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact he'll be off to college in less than two years, quite possibly hundreds or even thousands of miles from home.

     Most people say to themselves, 'Where did the time go?' That question bounced around in my mind as Eric was telling the counselor about his preference to attend MIT or one of the Ivy League schools. Wasn't I just in college myself a few years ago? Now I'm helping my son plan for his post high school path and beyond. How can this be? 

     I've been fortunate to witness the landmark events in my children's lives. Baptism, the first steps, the first words, first day of kindergarten, the Little League games, the school awards, and the list goes on and on. Soon that list will add, 'First year of college' for Eric and two years after that for Ryan as well. 

     Perhaps typing this out is therapy for me. Perhaps it'll help me reach acceptance that this is all happening, that my babies are almost grown and that they will be leaving the nest soon. Perhaps I love them so much that the thought of all of this has me in tears. 

Tears of reflection that fall when thinking about this parenting journey. 

Tears of proudness triggered by knowing they are amazing people today.

Tears of joy that He has given me such incredible gifts.

Tears of sadness that their childhoods can't last forever.

Tears that say I love my children deeply, unconditionally, and forever.

     

APBA Baseball

          A co-worker asked me the other day what stress relieving hobbies I have in my life. I sort of chuckled and said, 'I have one main one. And it's magical.'

          When I was an 8 year old boy I discovered this amazing thing called APBA Baseball. People who have played the game know how it all works but for those that don't, it's a board baseball game that sees the action triggered with dice and player cards. Those player cards are created in a way that allows them to have the optimum chance to recreate the actual statistical performance of any given player from any given season, depending on the year of the card set and name of the player at hand. There is a basic game for beginners, a master game for advanced players, and countless innovations that one can pick and choose from so that the gamer can set the amount of detail to his/her liking.

          Anyway, it's now some 38 years since I first discovered this game and my love affair with it has yet to dwindle. I played in a fun and competitive league for 14 years with some of the nicest and most interesting people I've ever known and even though I'm no longer in the league I've kept in touch with several guys, two of which have become close, lifelong friends. I highly doubt I ever would have crossed paths with Mark or Dan had it not been for this incredible game.

          Since I left the league several years ago I've gone back to playing solo. I'm currently in the midst of a project that involves great teams from the 1970's and I find myself daydreaming about it often. I get to rekindle the careers of guys such as Hank Aaron, Mike Schmidt, Nolan Ryan, Jim Palmer, and Reggie Jackson. The Swingin' A's, the Big Red Machine, Earl Weaver's Orioles, Tommy Lasorda's Dodgers, and Billy Martin's Yankees are all back in action whenever I have the time to play. It's like getting in a baseball time machine and enjoying their careers all over again.

          A co-worker asked me the other day what stress relieving hobbies I have in my life. While I didn't share APBA Baseball by name, I did close my answer by saying, 'It's a game that allows me to forget about the stresses of life and travel back in time. It has brought me joy, laughter, surprise,  and even lifelong friendships. If everyone had a hobby that they enjoyed as much as I enjoy this game, I think we'd all be just a little bit happier and a little bit better off than we are now. It's really not 'just' a game. For me, it's a passion.'

          APBA Baseball. Stress relieving hobby. And so, so much more.

         

         

          

A Childhood Memory Revisited

I was in my basement earlier today and stumbled upon one of my old bowling trophies while looking for something else. It's time to tell the story of how it was won.

I participated in a Saturday morning bowling league from ages 8-13. I still remember so many of the details, such as my final average for each year (102, 120, 136, 150, 152, 158) and that I rolled a 581 series one of those years to win the 'High Series' trophy for the overall season.

When I was 12 the powers that be decided to hold a stepladder tournament at the end of the year with those that finished in the top 5 in average on the season. This format was the same one being used on the Pro Bowlers Tour; each week ABC's 'Wide World of Sports' would show this tournament and crown the champion for that particular tournament.

I finished the 1979-80 season with the top average on the season, so this meant I held the #1 seed and would only bowl one game for the title. That was the good news; the bad news was the fact I had to sit and watch three games before getting my turn to compete.

The wait was excruciating. I was nervous when I arrived at the bowling center but by the time it was my turn to bowl, my knees were practically knocking together. Each bowler was allowed a few practice frames before starting the match. Getting loose helped my muscles but not my nerves, as I was chock full of anxiety by the time the championship match was scheduled to begin. There were 50 or so spectators and no other active bowlers within the bowling center during our match. I felt every bit in the spotlight. It was the first time I had ever been in such a situation in my life.

My opponent was Chuck Meyers. We would chat from time to time during the season and got along fine. There was zero animosity between us and we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries immediately before our match began. Chuck was my opponent on the scoreboard, but my real opponent was myself. I knew I could win. It was just a matter of whether or not I could mentally get myself together to do it.

I remember the first frame vividly. My first ball hit to the right of the pocket and I left the 1-2-4-7 pins standing for my second ball. Unfortunately my second ball ended up in the same spot as my first and there I was with a 6- mark on the scoreboard after one frame. Talk about an awful start!

Things started to look up from there however. Chuck had come from the '4' spot in the stepladder brackets and thus was on his fourth game of the day. His prior games had seen scores in the 170's and 180's but luckily for me, his hot streak cooled off. While Chuck was struggling, I managed to convert back to back spares and then struck in the fourth frame. After 8 frames I held a comfortable 18 pin lead.

Chuck converted a spare in the 9th and then it was my turn. I recall taking a deep breath and doing my best to block out any other noises around me. I was fortunate to throw a strike ball in that 9th frame and after Chuck missed a spare try in the 10th, I knew it was over. The final score saw me on top, 162-134.

When it was all over Chuck and I shook hands and he was sincere in sharing his congratulations for me. I remember being so relieved and so HAPPY. I held that trophy tight for the rest of the day and was on cloud nine for weeks after that match.

I have had countless happy moments in adulthood but I don't know that there's ever been anything to compare to the triumphs I felt in childhood. Those feelings of exuberance and excitement were so much different and so wonderful at that age. I don't know if it was that way for everyone, but it certainly was that way for me.

Those were incomparable feelings, the kind that can only come within the magic that is childhood.

A Ballgame, a Cemetery, and a Mental Beatdown

          1998 was an historic year in baseball. Two players launched an assault on the single season home run mark set by Roger Maris of 61 homers in (coincidentally) 1961.

          By the time May arrived on the calendar one of those two players was well ahead of the pace needed to break the esteemed record. His name was Mark McGwire and he played for the St. Louis Cardinals. Fans across the country packed the stadium when McGwire and his Redbirds played, many of whom wanted to say they were there during one of the games McGwire crushed one of the homers on his way to 61+ and history.

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          I've known my Dad's friend Danny my whole life. He worked with my Dad at the post office and was my first Little League coach. It just so happens that Danny is a St. Louis Cardinal fan so when McGwire's assault on Maris' record started to take shape, Danny had even more interest than the average baseball fan.

          One day that spring my Dad called to let me know he had landed three tickets to an upcoming game between the Cardinals and Brewers in Milwaukee. He shared that he and Danny were going and asked if I'd be interested in joining them. The word 'YES' was out of my mouth in about .3 seconds and soon thereafter it was settled: They would drive to Milwaukee from Aurora, IL and meet me at the game, as I'd be coming from Janesville, WI. Dad mailed me my ticket so I didn't have to wait for them to arrive.

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          I had a difficult time controlling my excitement while at school during the day of the game. When the work day finally ended I headed straight from school to Milwaukee. By the time I pulled into my parking spot at the ballpark after the 75 minute drive I was downright giddy! I was at the game!

          I was indeed at the game, but I was so early that the gates were yet to be opened to the public. I planted myself in line outside one of the entrances behind a half dozen others and waited. And waited. And waited.

         

          An hour plus later and my feet and back were killing me from standing the whole time and a certain percentage of excitement had drained from my being, but the pain seemed to magically disappear when I saw a couple of people unlocking and opening the gates. The long wait was over! My thoughts went through a checklist of sorts as the line started to move forward: Bathroom, concession stand, find my seat, kick back and eat/watch batting practice until Dad and Danny arrived. The excitement had returned! The wait outside the ballpark was painful, but I was convinced that this would all work out now that I was headed inside. Nothing but positives ahead on this night!

Or so I thought.

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          So there I was, inside the stadium with my little cardboard tray filled with a couple of hot dogs and a soda. I check my ticket and head toward the gate that will lead me to my seat. As I walk up the ramp I glance at the playing field for the first time that day. My heart rate and pace quicken as I simultaneously check row numbers and sneak more glances at the field.

         

          I arrive at my designated row and look up to find my seat, only to find my Dad now standing right in front of me! Before I can say anything he grasps my elbow and starts to guide me back down the steps, saying, 'Come on, we have to go.'

         

          Shortly thereafter I find myself being led out of the stadium just minutes after I ended the excruciating wait and entered. Confusion reigned in my mind but I continued walking because, well, he's my Dad and he was obviously distressed about something, although I had no idea why at this point in the evening.

          Soon I found myself walking past the very same spot I had stood for an hour plus just minutes beforehand. I saw that spot and stopped dead in my tracks, looked at Dad, and said with a sense of urgency, 'Just what in the heck is going on? Why are we out here?????'

          'We need to go get Danny. He's laying in a cemetery (Dad points to a spot in the distance). Let's get your van and go over and get him. Where'd you park?'

          On the walk to my van further conversation reveals that Dad and Danny had parked at a bar several blocks from the stadium, had a few drinks, and then decided to save money on parking and walk over to the ballpark. They took a direct route, cutting through fields until they came upon a low lying stone wall. Danny, in his excitement to get to the ballpark, ran ahead of Dad and vaulted himself up and over the knee high wall. However, on the other side of the wall the ground was a few feet lower and Danny landed awkwardly, crushing his left heel upon landing in what was a cemetery. Dad (smartly) peeked over the wall before going over and when he did, he saw his friend lying on the ground writhing in pain amidst the countless gravestones.

         

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          Dad and I weave our way through the parking lot and come to my van. It's immediately obvious to me that we won't be going anywhere with this vehicle anytime soon. There are tailgaters everywhere, grills humming, tents out, and people lounging in chairs in the open areas between cars. Dad grasps the problem too and says, 'Well, we'll have to walk over' as he points to a spot (uphill of course) in the distance that doesn't appear to be anywhere close to where we currently stood.

          So we head toward the cemetery on foot. It turns out to be at least a mile walk uphill and I can't help but notice the sounds of the ballpark fading from earshot behind me as we venture further toward our downed friend. I'm trying to be compassionate over his plight in my head, but I'm fighting it with thoughts such as, 'I just want to watch the game!' and 'We're going the wrong way!' going through my head as well.

          As we move toward the top of the hill my Dad says, 'He's just over the top here.' We come to the peak and look down at the cemetery below. It is every bit the scene of gravestones and flowers you're picturing in your mind, sans one important detail: Danny isn't there. I turn to my Dad and say, 'So...............you think they just cut to the chase and buried him?'

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          We're now standing in the cemetery. There isn't a Cardinals hat, jersey, no one playing Taps, not a sign of him anywhere in the graveyard. My Dad is bewildered and mumbling, 'He was right here!' It's obvious he doesn't know what to do next, so I walk over to a guy I see directing traffic on the adjacent road and ask him if he happened to see an overweight 50 something year old man dressed in Cardinal red from head to toe laying (above ground!) in the cemetery. The 20 something African American replies with, 'Aw yeah, I saw that guy. They just rolled him out of here in an ambulance a few minutes ago.'

          I sigh and say, 'Any idea where they would have taken him?' and he points to (another) far off spot in the distance and replies with, 'The Veterans' Hospital is up there. That's my best guess.'

          So on we trudge toward this hospital, not even really knowing if he's actually in the building. During this latest mile plus walk I hear cheers from the ballpark and realize the game is about to begin. I grit my teeth and trudge onward, thinking what I'd like to do to Danny's other heel if I had one of Mark McGwire's bats handy.

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          We arrive at a side door of the hospital. I push a button on an intercom and a voice says, 'Can I help you?' I have a fleeting thought of saying, 'Do you have a son of a b**** with a broken foot in there?' but I think better of it and ask if they have a guy named Dan (last name) inside. It turns out they do (even though he's not a veteran) and they buzz us inside.

          When I enter the hospital room I see Danny lying in bed with his leg propped up and wrapped in a cloth or cast of some sort. It becomes obvious he's drugged up when he sees us and says, 'Hey! Come on in you two! I have the game on right here!' as he nods toward a tiny television hanging from above. A doctor enters and shares that they've taken some X rays and are analyzing his heel. He adds that Danny won't be going anywhere for at least a couple of hours. After some awkward silence my Dad says, 'Do you want to go back to the game?' I don't know what else to say or do so I nod and we head back toward the stadium.

          My Dad and I can talk about baseball for hours. It's always been that way. This night however sees absolutely no interaction between us, despite the fact we're now sitting side by side (with a second set of tickets) at a major league baseball game. We're both reviewing the evening's events in our head while trying to watch the game. After McGwire flies out to the warning track to end the 7th inning he says to me the first two words we've shared inside the stadium since he said we had to go some two hours prior: 'Wanna go?' I did want to go. I wanted to go straight home, bury my head in my pillow, and forget this entire debacle of an evening.

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          The story ends with Danny begging to be released from the hospital with the promise that he'll go straight to the hospital in Aurora if they let him go. The doc reluctantly agrees but there of course had to be one more element to further ruin my evening. Danny is instructed to keep his leg elevated the entire drive. When he gets in the passenger seat of his pickup truck he discovers that the only way to follow that order is to have his foot sticking out of the window. So Dad and Danny end up taking my van back to Aurora, as he can sit in the back with his leg up and inside the vehicle for the long drive back home. Meanwhile, I'm driving back to Janesville in a pickup truck, which will be my sole mode of transportation until I get my van back. God only knows when that'll be.

          When I get home my wife says, 'How was the game?' and before I can answer she asks, 'Whose truck is that out front? Where's our van?' I just sigh and walk upstairs, mentally and physically exhausted.

It was the crappiest sporting event of my entire life.

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My Initial Post: A College Memory

            In 1987 I was enrolled in a communications course at the local community college. The instructor was a friendly, upbeat, portly 40 something gentleman who enjoyed both teaching and interacting with the late teens/early 20 somethings in his classroom.

          There were many times in which the group conversations veered off topic. The instructor seemed to relish those moments and would let his opinions be known with little/no reservations.

          During a class somewhere around the middle of the semester, the topic of subliminal messages hidden in songs somehow came up during discussion. Like other times earlier in the semester, he was adamant with his opinion, this time stating that there was 'no such thing' as audible messages that could be heard when playing a record backwards. This sparked some disagreement with the class, and a back and forth began between instructor and students.

          Members of the class tried to convince him of the legitimacy of such messages, but he flatly refused to believe these could be true. He upped the ante several minutes into the argument, stating the following in forceful fashion:

          'What you people are claiming to hear is simply hogwash. In fact, I am so sure of this that I will make the following offer to any member of this class. If I can hear a clear message within a record being played backwards by any member of this class, I will give that person an 'A' for my class and he or she will not have to attend any classes from this point forward!'

          My jaw dropped but I recovered from my shock quickly and entered the discussion by asking, 'Are you serious about that?' He assured me he was a man of his word and indeed serious about this offer, while adding the dates and times of his office hours, as well as the fact that he had a record player at the ready in his office.

          The next morning I presented myself at his office door with Prince's 'Purple Rain' in hand. I played the following clip for him (0:40):

          http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gnm-u4Xq9ag

            The man almost fell out of his chair and was speechless at first. He then said, 'Well (pause). I was wrong. I........can't believe what I just heard, but I admit that I was wrong.'

          I asked him if he would stand by his word and give me an 'A' for the course. He said he would and restated that I did not have to come to class anymore. He offered his hand and I shook it, then smiled and laughed the entire drive back home.

          I did not attend his class for the rest of the semester and I didn't really think twice about it. The rabbit had outsmarted the fox in my mind and that was that.

          Approximately two months later I received a letter from the community college. I recognized it to be my report card for the recently concluded semester.

          I started to open it and then suddenly realized that it was perhaps me that had been outsmarted. I had not attended class for the entire latter half of the semester. That report card could very well have an 'F' and I'd really have no recourse. What could I say? 'Oh, we had a discussion in class and I played a record for the teacher backwards and he said he'd give me an 'A' so I'm protesting this grade!' My word against his? I wouldn't stand a chance.

          I put the envelope down and began to pace around the house, trying to think this whole thing through. Finally, I ripped open the envelope, took a deep breath, and looked over my grades............

Straight A's across the board on the report card, including the communications course. The man kept his word.

What was he possibly thinking in making such an offer to the group? Did others follow up by playing records for him too? Did he end up with a class of a half dozen kids or less? Or was I the only one who reaped the benefits of his offer?

I'll never know the answers to these questions.  Perhaps he learned something from that experience. I have to think he never made such a fly by night offer to any of his classes again.

Did I learn anything from it? That's hard to say but for once (and maybe the only time in my life), I felt I had one upped the system. However, the anxiety I felt in the moments before looking over that report card certainly makes me wonder if I really did beat the system, even though I did get the 'A' in the end.