Olympic me

It is eight minutes after midnight.  Sunday night/Monday morning.  I have to be up for work in roughly five hours.  Yet here I am on the couch, devouring Ruffles like some wild animal, my adult bib most would call a t-shirt covered in potato chip crumbs... and shamelessness.

I should be in bed, but I have to know how the women's table tennis match turns out between Bruna Takahashi of Brazil -- I know!  I thought she'd be Japanese, too -- and Offiong Edem of Nigeria.  Yes, I realize this is a replay, but I have managed to go the entire day without hearing who won all for this singular life moment.

This is how I Olympic.  (Not Ozempic. Hopefully, I would have lost more weight had I been doing that.)

At long last, the vast dearth-ness of the sports world that stretches from the end of hockey and the NBA until the beginning of American football has been assuaged.

There's something for everyone!  (Except easily offended poli-Christians, evidently. Yikes!  Let's hope they never see Michelangelo's David.)

Like running, jumping over hurdles, and stepping in a kiddie pool?  Get your steeplechase shoes on.

Have you always excelled at horse jumping, fencing, swimming, running, and shooting?  Don't fret, oddball.  You and your extremely specific abilities will be properly recognized in the Pentathlon.

Want to enjoy two svelte, glistening bodies moving in tandem without any of the guilt of watching porn?  Welcome to synchronized diving.

Olympic Me stays up late.  Regular Me stays up late, too.  But this is likely healthier for my state of mind than “Air Disasters” and murder shows on Investigation Discovery.

Olympic Me hotspots his phone so that he can watch at work on the plum 26-inch TV someone had discarded in a storeroom.  What's that you say? 1982 called.  It wants its technological magnum opus back?  Sorry, Olympic Me no can do.

Olympic Me sometimes gets irrationally upset when the US fails to medal.  That's especially rich coming from Mister Potato Chip Crumbs over here.

Olympic Me spends hours trying to decide which sport he would have the best chance of medaling in at his current age.  Probably equestrian, except I've never ridden a horse.  So let's go with table tennis  They don't look all that muscular.

Table tennis: For people who like tennis, but dislike exercise.

Olympic Me wonders things like how one decides upon the career path of badminton umpire.  There was never a booth for that at career day when I was in school.

Also, field hockey players?  Did they just really love hockey but never mastered ice skating?  They're like the people who ride those motorcycles with three wheels.  The freedom of the road and the open air for those who don't know how to ride a bike.

Besides, if this whole "global warming" thing turns out to be real, one day there won't even be any ice, and field hockey will be the only kind of hockey left.  

*Thinks about the ice caps melting and much of the world being covered with water.*  

OK, maybe we'll go with underwater hockey.  Dystopian hockey?  Did they have hockey in the Hunger Games?  I have no idea.  But that'll be a perfect icebreaker the next time I run into Jennifer Lawrence.  

To top it all off, Snoop Dogg is providing commentary and highlights.  And Olympic Me is here for it.

Alas, I do need to get back to this tense badminton match between Denmark and China.  (It's Monday night now.)  I've had it paused this whole time.  Let's go Dutch.  Or... Danish...  Danes!

Yet as we cheer those who win medals and perhaps shed a tear for those who come up short, let us not forget the real heroes.  People like this badminton umpire.  He dared to dream, then dedicated his life to making it come true.  

And look at him now, making critical calls that could determine which team wins a gold medal.  His decisions are final.  Except when they're overturned by instant replay.

Kinda makes one think.  What was my dream?  What was yours?  And how in the world is Olympic Me going to stand up without getting crumbs all over the couch?  My own personal Olympics.

Siri, what is the oldest table tennis participant in Olympic history?

Hmm, sixty-one!  

Guess I better get to work on my penholder grip.  Or, you know, buy a paddle.

...to live there

Rooster crowin' from an unmowed lawn
Grandma in the kitchen with biscuits on
Singin' old-time hymns of hope and despair
When the roll is called up yonder
She aimed to be there

Door was never locked one time that I knew
Coffee always on, come in and sit a few
Carson comes on after the news goes off
Her face was hard and weathered
But her eyes were soft

See her sitting in her chair and swattin' flies

Smilin' at the grandkids and the passing time
Bag of chips and a flat RC to snack on
With a freezer full of "Here,
Take you some of this home"

Down the hill if you follow the dirt path

Lead you right to the back of Aunt Dessa's house
It's long gone now, it was nearly gone then
I see her with a pinch of snuff
And a missing-tooth grin

It's a nice place to visit
I'm so blessed I got to live there
All arms and legs and full of years
And unruly sandy blonde hair
Climbing trees, throwing rocks
Drinking water from the hose
With no clue how fast the time goes

Mama cried when I moved out on my own

She knew another part of life was gone

There's a time for laughter, and a time to weep

But the apple didn't fall
Very far from its tree

Had a soft-top Jeep wish I'd never let go
"She's in Love with the Boy" on the radio
Driving just to drive and feel the nighttime air
We were Katie and Tommy,
Didn't have a care

Eight hundred square feet, two-eighty for rent

Barely scraping by, counting every cent
Free curbside couch, still had a corded phone
Leave a message at the beep
When I wasn't at home

Basketball in the yard under streetlight glow
After Midnite blaring on the stereo
Pringles from the can and a cold Mountain Dew
"She's in Love with the Boy"
Makes me think of you

It's a nice place to visit
I'm so blessed I got to live there
Life was mostly in the windshield
Still sportin' nearly all my hair

Skipping class, wasting gas
Drinking something cheap and cold

Too young to care how fast time goes

Kids calling "Daddy" running down the hall
Magic marker drawings taped on the wall
Thinking "Who'da thought this would ever be me?"
"Cruel Summer" on the radio
"Bluey" on TV

But I don't have to visit

I'm so blessed I get to live there
They're all arms and legs and full of years
She's got ketchup in her long hair
Playing school and hide-and-seek
Amid a minefield of Legos
Reminding me how fast time goes

Rooster crowin' from an unmowed lawn
Grandma in the kitchen with biscuits on
Singin' old-time hymns of hope and despair

I'm so blessed I got to live there

Profane refrain

We might talk about the weather or the football team
Or how the kids are back looking like James Dean
Might help a stranger, might not feel so confused
If we would all stop watching the goddamned news

Might drink a little less, smile a little more
Not feel like the whole damn country's at war
Pull back the curtains on a Van Gogh view
I won't be persuaded by the goddamned news

My Momma, she's afraid of everything
I said, "Momma, there's a life you're not living
Jesus loves the children, red, purple, and blue
Turn on Andy Griffith, turn off the news

Many spew lies behind a virtual wall
If you can't say it nice don't say it at all
Won't judge my neighbor, haven't walked in his shoes
And I'm so sick of the goddamned news

An ostrich don't bury its head in fear
They do it 'cause they've got babies in there
What kind of world will we leave our babies to
If we keep on listening to the goddamned news

Hard to know what's real, hard to know what's fake
Seems we're low on compassion and high on hate
Whatever happened to the golden rule
They never mention that on the goddamned news 

Won't let 'em determine my right and wrong
Gonna try to live more outside of my phone
Edward R Murrow where have you gone to
Wish we could turn our weary eyes to you

Money talks louder than "we the people" are
As long as they keep us afraid and apart
I'll keep reading the books they tell me not to
Won't pay my attention to the goddamned news

If we all turned it off wonder would we see
It's not all darkness and catastrophe
The enemy never was me or you
But you wouldn't know that from the goddamned news

A night at the Stratford

Two-lane road through
New England countryside
Waybury Inn 
Homes in the Cape Cod style
Golden Pond feel
Muted Mancini theme
Rest easy, Bob
What a hell of a dream

I didn't watch Newhart during its regular run.  Seemed like an old people show.  But at some point in my considerable bachelor years, I discovered it.  One of the local channels aired it in syndication late at night.  They would air two episodes of Cheers at 10, followed by two episodes of Newhart at 11.

Let it be stated for the historical record that these were the days before streaming services, DVR, on-demand, watch-whatever-you-want-whenever-you-want.  We had VCR's, but you had to remember to set them.  Then if your VCR clock wasn't in sync with the television station, you'd catch the last couple of minutes of The Nanny and it would cut off the ending of your show.

By and large you had to be home, awake, and in front of the TV at the exact time your show aired.  Today, my kids would claim child endangerment.

(We'll get into TV Guide during our next historical blogging exhibit.)

Back to our show.  Those opening scenes of Newhart were so peaceful, and the cozy Stratford Inn was always a place I wanted to be.  Like the bar on Cheers, the studio at WKRP, or hanging out at The Max on Saved by the Bell.

Feeling welcome in a fictional setting is very important to me.

As I began to write stories from my life on these virtual pages, I started referring to myself as Larry, and the two friends I hung out with for a large part of my thirties as the Darryls.  This obviously was from the running gag on the show where upon every entrance, Williams Sanderson's character would say, "Hi, I'm Larry.  This is my brother, Darryl.  And this is my other brother, Darryl."  And the brothers, who never spoke (until the series finale), would salute.

Seeing Bob Newhart pop up in later years would always bring a smile, a feeling of comfort.  Letterman.  NCIS.  Elf.  Hearing of his passing takes me back to those late nights in the '90s in my old 2-bedroom apartment.

Losing someone famous who has existed for most or all of my life, someone who entertained and provided so many laughs, it feels as if I have lost a part of my life.  My younger days.  And it's always an unwelcome reminder of the endless march of time.

To quote the aforementioned Mr. Newhart: "Laughter gives us distance.  It allows us to step back from an event, deal with it, and then move on... I guess I laugh to keep from crying."

So sometime late tonight I plan to pour a bit of bourbon, put some Newhart on Prime Video, raise a glass and laugh a little pain away.  

Probably right around 11:00 p.m.

A priceless nine

Must have been around three months ago he found my old golf clubs in the corner in the garage.  Spider-webbed and dusty.  There were some years I'd be golfing once or twice a week, March through November, but that was another lifetime.

Curious about every single aspect of every single thing that exists or ever has existed, he began to ask questions.  Asked if he could go out in the backyard and try hitting a few balls.  In no time, we had to switch to plastic balls due to him whacking a couple of shots over the fence.  

Almost immediately, he began watching golf tip videos on YouTube.  I purchased him a used set of junior clubs.  Then, just as he was learning about birdies, pars, and bogeys, sand traps and divot tools, someone mysteriously dug two golf holes in the yard.  

We began going to the soccer fields and practicing, using light poles as our "holes."  The 4th of July trip to Wisconsin included his first visit to a driving range.  I suppose there was only one thing left.

So on a 97-degree Sunday afternoon, we packed a cooler with water, Capri-suns, and Goldfish, and I took him to play his first round at an actual golf course.  We rode nine.

He was excited about the scorecard.  He was excited about the pin flags.  But I'm pretty sure he was most excited about driving the golf cart.

Kid started off with a legitimate eight on the first hole, a par four.  He matched me on two holes.  Granted, one was a snowman on my worst hole of the day, but the other was a bogey on a par three.  And sure, he may have five-putted a couple of holes.  But in the all-important balls lost category, he trashed me--losing only one, to Dad's three.

I had been worried a bit about pace of play.  And while it was expectedly slow, we went late enough in the day so that there was only one group behind us.  They played through on the second hole and we enjoyed a casual round the rest of the way.  

A few clouds, along with the sun fading behind trees at times, helped to keep the weather bearable.  It was down to 85 by the time we wrapped up play around 7:30.

"Sorry, Daddy, that it took us so long."

"Oh, buddy, don't apologize for that.  We were having fun, right?  Why would we want to rush through that?  We got to take our time, and hang out together, and have a snack, and just have fun."  

I'd told an old golfing buddy a couple of days ago that I was planning to take Luke for his first round.  He texted Sunday night to ask what I shot.  I realized I hadn't even added it up.

Turns out it was a 48.  Definitely no course record.  This was something immeasurably better.

"Daddy, do they have souvenirs we could buy?"

"Daddy, can we come here a lot more?"
"Daddy, I think I will be on the golf team."
"Daddy, could we buy a range finder."

(Well, at least it's not a Range Rover?)

Going golfing, like virtually every other thing in life, is both a new and remindful experience when you see it through a child's eyes.  There was a lightness.  A fresh appreciation.  And moments that conjured up memories of myself.

Perhaps my favorite part of one of my most favorite days occurred as we were walking off the last hole.  

"Daddy, do you think since I hit it over the water on the last hole, I could hit this old ball into the water to celebrate?"

"Absolutely, buddy."

He promptly took out a short iron and plopped one about twenty yards out in the pond.  Then giggled a giggle of pure life-loving joy.

My only regret is that I didn't join him.  Next time I will.

Because while we didn't get any souvenirs, and the golf team and range finder are likely still a few years away, I have more than a hunch we will be coming here more.

And yes, buddy, probably a lot more.

Apocalyptic muse

I always knew the world would end
Sometime in my lifetime, friend
But secretly I always hoped I was wrong
Now all the movies have been made
We watch our sins being repaid
And we've finally sang up every single song

So if this is the end of everything, my friend
I want you to know what a treasure you have been
And if there is a life beyond this blue sky dream
I want you to know I will find you again
If it takes until one day short of never
I will not give up on us, not ever
I will look for you and I will find you again
If this is the end

Here's to second steps never taken
All the times we were mistaken
And plans waylaid that made the life worth living
Give me one first goodbye kiss
I thought I'd be sadder than this
Giving up and trying
The end of everything

So if this is the end of all we've seen, my friend
I want you to know what a godsend you have been
And if there is a life beyond this blue sky dream
I want you to know I will find you again
If it takes until one day short of never
I will not give up on us, not ever
I will look for you and I will find you again
If this is the end

Give me one more goodbye kiss
I thought I'd be sadder than this
Rest your mind as we watch the dying sun
Of all the roads and all the lifetimes
For you to have crossed mine
Those chances must have been so close to none

Things that recall you

There are things you will remember
For always
Until your time expires
Or some wretched disease
Steals
Those precious fragments
From your mind

The name of your fifth-grade teacher
The phone number of your grandmother who has been gone for thirty years
The street address of the house you lived in when you were three

These things you may recall

And then

There are things that will recall you
Teleport you
Back

In an instant

And you smell the chalk dust as you clean the eraser in first grade

You hear the ocean as you hold hands at night, legs hanging off a gulf balcony
You taste her lips in an eleventh-grade hallway, when kissing was everything
You see your mother when she was younger, and years were longer
You feel the butterflies the first time you saw your wife
The sense of finally being home found in that first embrace

It's a song that brings back the finality of driving away
From something, someone, somewhere
And knowing you would never be there again

The perfume that lingered in the blankets

For weeks after she left

That stretch of 434 where the car flipped onto its side
The coolness of the April night
As you climbed out and walked four miles

Or a movie they play every goddamned December
And you watch it every year
No matter how much it makes you miss them

The number of your tears

Because in the deluge
You find 
A sliver of a smile

You recollect the good, before the bad
The love, before the loss

The blue hot flame, before the cold, empty ashes

You remember the faith, before the doubt
The hope, before the hopelessness
All the life lived... before the death

Yes, there are things your mind may remember

But these

These are the things
Your heart
Cannot forget

The things that recall you

Beckoning you to return
These are the memories that prove

You didn't simply exist
You were alive

Goosebumps

Slow-to-heal scars
Impromptu road trips
Al fresco dinners in new towns
Scared to death
Make it up as you go
Laugh until you cry
And cry until the tears run dry
Alive!

Warning:

These memories
They will steal your breath

And it all happens at lightspeed
(The teleporting, and the life.)

I never knew there was so much I didn't know

"Daddy... hey Daddy."  

He says it often as we walk along as if to get my attention, even though it is just us two.  

"Yes, buddy?"

"Daddy... um, Daddy.  If we ever move can we get a pool with a house?"

He and his sister started swim lessons last month.  And he's probably starting to realize that hopping into some body of water is the only way you can survive outside in these sweltering, six-month-long Alabama summers.

"I think that would be awesome, buddy."

That reminds me of a joke.  How can you tell the difference between a pond and a lake?

If livestock defecates in it, it's a pond.

This is the fourth day in a row he's come along on my evening walk.  My fifteen-minute miles have turned into twenty.  For every two steps I take, he takes three or four, struggling at times to keep up.

"Daddy, hey Daddy.  Why doesn't Mama want to get a third baby?"

"I'm not sure, boog."

"Well, Daddy.  You know how Kristen's mom has three and Sadie's mom has three, right?  All our friends have three."

"I suppose that's true."

"Yeah, so we should, too."

Who can argue with that logic?  (If you're curious, the answer is: Mrs. Bone, that's who.)

He chatters on, pausing only long enough to hear my responses.  He points out a large anthill as we pass, ponders why we don't have sidewalks or a walking trail on our road, and asks at least twenty questions I can't answer.

"Daddy, hey Daddy.  What would happen if a wasp stung a bee?"

What?  I was all prepared for the birds and the bees.  OK, not really, but I figured the stork theory would get me through at least until he was eleven or twelve.  No one mentioned anything about wasps and bees.  Which one is the wasp?  And where do the stingers come in?  The wasps and bees are just wrestling, kinda like Mama and Daddy do sometimes when you're asleep.

"Uh, I'm not sure, buddy."

"Ooo, Daddy, look!  They have a big yard!"

"They sure do."

"Daddy, you should have bought that house.  We could have our football field by the shed, and then our golf course could be right up here."

I may or may not have dug two golf holes in our backyard (but definitely did).  And much like the baby situation, Mrs. B has put the kibosh on number three.

"That would be perfect, boog."

"Ooo, Daddy!  They have another big yard on the other side.  So, Daddy, one side could be mine and the other side could be Harper's.  And there's a pond where we could catch fish."

I move towards the center of the road to create a little space, but wherever I go he's close as skin, causing me to occasionally bump into him.

"Hey Daddy."

"Yes, bud?"

"Daddy, um, what will happen when the sun is swallowed by a black hole?"

I never knew there was so much I didn't know.  Also, when?  Not if???  What are they teaching this kid at school, other than grooming him to be a freedom-hating, non-binary liberal?  (Obviously. ◔̯◔)

At least the black hole question I can Google.  But rather than illuminate his mind with talk of quasars and accretion disks, I respond instead with, "Well, that probably wouldn't be good.  I hope that doesn't happen anytime soon." 

"Well Daddy, you know we wouldn't be alive anymore anyway," he chuckles.

I lean down and kiss him on the head.  Today he is wearing a bandana, a la yours truly.  Mrs. B often asks, "How does it feel to have a miniature version of yourself?"

It feels incredible.  Scary at times.  Amusing and heart-melting at others.  And humbling as all get out.

"Daddy, look."  He says this quietly, as we pass a white-haired gentleman holding what I surmise to be a 7-iron.  "I think that man might be playing golf."

"I think you're right, buddy."

The man looks up and smiles before returning his attention to his golf ball and taking a swing.

"Well, Daddy, at least he has a good yard for it."

We are headed back towards home by this time, and as we crest the hill, sunset pastels are beginning to color the sky in front of us.  I stop to take a couple of pictures and begin to sing "Pink Skies."

After a bit, I catch him quietly singing along to the parts he knows.  "Clean the house, clear the drawers, mop the floors, stand tall..."

Though he'll never admit to it, and probably doesn't even realize he's doing it, I'm so proud.

"Ooo, Daddy, that house has stake sprinklers!"

He's been wanting to get a spike sprinkler system set up in our backyard to make his football field greener.  🤦‍♂️  I find he isn't all that concerned with the cost of things at this point in his life.

As we near the end of our route, I spot the neighborhood ducks near the pond.  There used to be four.  It was common to see both lanes of traffic completely stop so they could patiently amble their way across the road, single-file.  For a while now, there have only been these two.

"Daddy, um, hey Daddy.  I wonder what happened to those other two ducks?"

"I'm not sure, boog.  I hope nothing bad."

"Hey Daddy, you know what I think probably happened?  I think these two are the kids, and the other ducks were their mama and their daddy, and they are probably grandparents now and have flown off."

Ducks retire and move to Florida.  Makes sense.  And sounds much happier than my theory that some fox probably had them for dinner.

"Hmm.  Maybe so, buddy."

"Daddy, wanna race the rest of the way?"

"Sure."

"Ready....  Go!"

He's off in a flash, a giggling blur of arms and legs.

Gone are the days of letting him win.  Now it is I who is struggling to keep up.