Happy Birthday, B3x

Bex will be (or is already, depending on how long this takes to see the light) 17 and I find it distressing that spending time with me/us has become more a duty than a source of pleasure or enjoyment. A far cry from the 3-year old who introduced me at the pool as, “And this is my best friend, Grandpa.” Or the kid who took my hand as we explored together.

This, despite my obvious charm, wit, love, support, intelligence, all those qualities I’ve tried to mindfully manifest to become the grandpa I (think I) always wanted, not just for myself but for my own daughter. We don’t have a legacy of superior grandfather models in this family (not bad, mind you, just nothing particularly close or enviable).

 

And I channel the Martina McBride song, “At 17 she’s just like me so I don’t blame her.” I didn’t want to be around adults either at that age, and the lack of proximity (living in Belgium) made that an easier task. Also, not really “just like me.” Kids today have much more freedom of self-expression (a good thing, IMO) than we did 60 years ago, plus I was not even within shouting distance of Bex’s expression and sense of self (of which I now realize I had none). #clueless

 

It does help (some) that I know it’s nothing personal. Anecdote: “She was so mad she actually came out of her room!” The cause of that “mad” actually offers me hope because while we rarely converse, Bex, Nicci & I do the daily WORDLE and share our results via text every day we play (which, of course, is every day for me). In addition to that interaction, as limited as it is, I do get the occasional ❤️ reaction to a text I randomly send on topics (I actively curate my offerings) I hope Bex might find interesting, humorous, or entertaining. I even got one today for my “Happy Birthday Eve” text greeting. (Sent in the WORDLE group thread, to be sure she’d see it.)

 

So I’ve become the texting Grandpa and while that is not the fantasy relationship I envisioned and hoped for, it’s (going to have to be) enough for now, while they find their way and their own path to authenticity — another journey where Bex has a huge head start over me. 

 

Even though it may be years (if ever) before you see this, Happy 17th birthday, Bex. Know you are, have been, and will always be loved beyond measure, that I am astounded and proud of the person you’re becoming, that we will always be there for you. May that love, along with your parents’, be the safety net you (we all) need as you traverse the uncharted road ahead that is life.

 Short version: Being gay and proud ≠ Proud of being gay

Pride — As Pride Month drags to a close (sorry, couldn’t resist) and SCOTUS offers a “Get Out of Jail Free” card to discriminatory businesses (although, tbh, I do not think I would WANT to patronize any business that marginalized me or my friends, and there are too many options of providers who are either friendly or neutral; for me it’s like flying a Confederate (or Trump) flag on your business property, a guarantee that you won’t be getting any of MY money), I want to visit the bigger picture surrounding the word, Pride.
Because I’ve stopped following most Neanderthals and the proudly “unwoke,” I saw only a few anti-Pride, “Straight Pride” memes. I am proud of my success in achieving my goal of no longer tilting at the Windmills of Ignorance without compensation, so I didn’t respond, thus neither “wasting my time nor annoying the pig.”*
Still, there’s a bigger point that needs to be made, and it’s not one that I have seen anywhere else, so I’ll offer my take (it or leave it).
The word “PRIDE” has more nuance than some understand (nuance, like empathy, seems increasingly endangered). Of course there’s the initial thought, having PRIDE in some accomplishment, skill, developed character trait, action, etc. Something deliberate and/or mindful. None of my gay (or Black or….) friends tout their identities a source of pride, however, because identity is intrinsic, not a choice, certainly not an achievement. That’s NOT what the marches, t-shirts, buttons, posts, etc. are about.
For full understanding of a word, we need to know its antonym. The antonym for PRIDE is SHAME; marginalized groups have long been expected to be (or least act) ashamed of their innate identities, that they are somehow unworthy of love or respect. Pride means refusing to accept the shame, refusing to remain out of sight, invisible. “In the closet,” if you will. Pride is about sharing the courage, opening the doors of acceptance, demonstrating, “You are not alone.” 
Pride movements are people demanding to be seen, refusing to be disrespected, cancelled, marginalized, or viewed as somehow “less” than the majority (read “in power”) group. Having once seen a friend, neighbor, or relative proudly display their authentic identity forces people to confront the discomfiting realization that maybe someone they love might belong to that group they hate, dislike, discount, or marginalize. Unless they’ve embraced the blinders of prejudice and bigotry, they can never unsee that person’s authenticity. The courage of PRIDE movement pioneers sends exactly that message, and the spread of that message is why society is slowly, grudgingly proffering acceptance, despite backlash and obstruction from those who fear change, who fear those who are different. That is the beauty and value of Pride movements, validating the right to be proud of who you are, no matter who approves or disapproves.
If you read the comments supporting the anti-LBGTQ+ legislation (both passed and proposed), the sub-text (and occasionally, in a burst of accidental honesty, literal text) is: “You are not welcome here. If you insist on staying (or, heaven {their version only, of course} forbid, advocating for your rights to be seen and treated like everyone else), you’re not going to like the atmosphere.” 
Ameristan, Love It or Leave It. PRIDE offers another, wider, more inclusive, path.

*Don’t try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig.

Mindful Maintenance

Relationships may develop organically, but they don’t survive without work. 

I’d like to blame COVID…. 

....but the fact of the matter is that, as an introvert, I’ve never been very good at the friendship thing, at least not in the way I always thought friendships were ‘spozed to be created and developed. For a long time some of my closest friends had to overcome their initial dislike of me. That journey from antipathy to acceptance was nudged  along by the fact that those (eventual) friendships mostly developed from professional relationships. Apparently I became more tolerable if you had to work with me — or if you knew or spent time with Carolyn. I appreciate that she represents a perpetual stock boost  for my reputation. One colleague (although not a friend on any level) only tolerated me because of my wife, and she died never  understanding how Carolyn could possibly put up with me. I’m sure that’s still a challenge. 

With Ken Trammel

    Nevertheless, despite my multiple shortcomings, I have managed to not only make, but keep, friends I cherish, and what I’ve learned over the past few years  is that those few friendships need nurturing and attention. If they’re going  to survive and grow, it takes work; it takes commitment. (That’s true of family relationships, as well, of course.) 

    I’m not complaining, not one bit, about having to do that “work.” Work, at least for me, is a positive word. Carolyn and I loved our work, our professions. It  doesn’t mean our jobs weren’t hard, often challenging and frustrating, but we loved them. 

With MaryAnn & Bob McGrane

    In the same way, I’ve come to understand that if our love for our friends is going to stay alive and grow, it takes work; it takes regular maintenance. I schedule (monthly) lunches with dear friends, and we do not leave “our” restaurant without putting the next date in our calendars and sending an invitation. Life being life, “stuff” (to paraphrase the old bumper sticker) happens, but we never just cancel, we immediately reschedule. None of this, “We’ll call you,” or “Call us” or “I’ll get back to you.” Surely friends deserve the same level of commitment that we give to our self-care appointments. 

With Norm Berkowitz

     To be sure, I’m still a work in progress. I want to be better with the maintenance of more friendships; I want to expand my friendship pond into at least a small lake with regular connections. I need to be better with checking in on my out of town friends, where the lack of proximity means a lack of opportunity to connect in person. But even there I’m working, working at staying connected and even reconnecting with people from my past I cared about. 

     Yes, it is work, but it’s work that brings me joy and contributes to my, and, I hope, their well-being.

The Stuff of Memories

Patience, please, as I sort this out. I’m also digitizing slides from 35-40 years ago, so memories have been bubbling to the surface. But the primary motivation was....

As the Webster Groves softball girls reveled in their victory a couple weeks ago, securing our program’s first ever trip to Final Four of the state tournament, my friend, and the head coach, Bryan Gibson, handed me the game ball. Seventeen of the 19 girls on the team had played for me, and they graciously applauded the honor. It was a touching moment, one I appreciated, one that will stay with me for as long as I have my memory.

Shortly thereafter I passed the ball to the de facto team captain and tearily tasked her with collecting the girls’ signatures and returning the ball to its rightful place, in the home of the head coach who has committed himself to building an enviable program and is reaping his well-deserved reward, because teams don’t win championships so much as programs do, the trophy holders standing at the finish line on the shoulders of those who paved the path in previous seasons.

Don’t misunderstand, the last thing I want is to seem ungrateful or unappreciative. His gesture (and our friendship) made my heart happy, brought me to tears, especially when combined with missing our irreplaceable Tim Cerutti* and the heartfelt post-game hug (we’ve joyfully shared several hugs recently!), plus the many kind words from individual players and their parents as we celebrate this historic journey of our Statesmen winning the school’s first ever state championship in softball, only the second WG girls’ sport to accomplish such a feat. 

It would be silly to try to deny my sentimentality; it’s been on full display too many times in front of too many people. My WG softball girls know they can pretty much count on me choking up at least once or twice every season. Because I knew fairly early on that this year would likely be my last, the 2020 season had perhaps a few more leaky-eye moments than others. And if you ever given me a note, picture, or card, you can be sure I still have it. I’m on my second tote bag of storage.

But I don’t need stuff to keep my memories alive, although I’ve saved all of that, too. Over the years I’ve accumulated numerous mementos from appreciative students, players, and parents. Most sit in a crate in the attic. I have plaques galore, balls, gavels, pictures, a framed newspaper, and more, plus, of course, all the yearbooks I sponsored. Those, along with the cards, pictures and notes, can perhaps be repurposed by my daughter as decorations at my (not imminent) funeral party. While all are capable of stimulating joyful memories, those memories live on in my soul without any need for physical, tangible clues. 

The medal is great, but it's the people
I shall remember and cherish.

Bottom line, it will always be the people I remember, and almost all those memories are connected with specific individuals and/or groups. My fellow teachers and coaches with whom I’ve had the privilege to work at four different schools, all the students, the young men and women, several who are now personal friends, some who are no longer young, and too many who are no longer alive, endure almost immutably in my brain, an immortality which I hope I have been able to pass on to the those I have encountered on my life marathon.

The brilliant Isaac Asimov said human immortality is about the mark we leave on life, through our progeny and through those whose lives we have touched. That is a core component of my belief system, but it’s a two-way street. Because if I somehow touched you, you can be fairly certain that you touched me, changed me, as well. The interconnectedness of people and of this earth also lives in me as a core value. We are bound together, for better and worse. We cannot isolate or separate ourselves, we cannot afford to compete in a “Winner Take All” life. If my winning comes at your expense, I believe, in my soul of souls, that it’s a zero sum equation in Life’s Big Picture, and, therefore, no real victory at all.

I cannot, will not try to predict what new memories await, but my cup runneth over (a mess in which I reside happily) from those with which I’ve already been blessed. While I’m not yet ready to live in the past, as we age our minds naturally tend to wander backward more frequently (and, really, Facebook, you’re not helping having all those “Your Memory on this Day,” uh – stuff pop up multiple times a week). 

I know, and express frequently, that I’ve lived a blessed life, and while I don’t need “stuff” to remind me of that, the abundance of so many joyous memories keeps the awareness of my bounty alive.

Many thanks and much love to all with whom I’ve been so lucky to share this journey.

*We have confided among ourselves, and the feeling has been reinforced, unsolicited, by several players, the comforting belief that, somehow, Tim was able to share this joyous journey with us.

Another Chapter Ends

All good things must come to an end. If you’re lucky, you can choose your own ending. I chose my exit time when I left my classroom behind and now I’m choosing my time to exit the field. And that time is now.

Part of life is leaving it behind, and endings are always bittersweet. I will undoubtedly miss working with my friends and players. I have yet to address the nagging worry that with nothing to do that is exactly what I will get done. I’ll save the “inside softball” thinking about the decision and its timing for the end if you’re interested, but, if you know me at all, you know I espouse multiple causation and reject simplistic answers in favor of simply complicated. So it will not be a short section.

What I want to share today is simply a reflection on another aspect of my life where I have been blessed beyond what I deserve. I’ve detailed elsewhere the accidental/serendipitous path I took to becoming a coach, a path I’ve traveled for 35 years now, a path that has afforded me true, lifelong friendships, joy and purpose. 

And hope for the future of my community and nation. I’ve been touched by so many remarkable young women, been privileged to share a segment of their lives that reinforces my faith in humanity and the future. No matter what was happening in the world around me, I always had “my girls.” As politically incorrect as it may be, they will always be “my girls” no matter how successful and accomplished they have, or will, become.

Thank you ladies (and your parents), for allowing me to share with you this small part of your life journey. I love you all.

Why now? 

• Although not identical, the reasoning behind my departure from a regular classroom is parallel to my decision to give up my own classroom. (Click here to read that analogous piece.) 

• 2020 – For better and (maybe) worse, my style, such as it is, was up close and personal. I like to think my most effective coaching (softball and otherwise) came on the bus rides and conversations from the games. My girls tolerated sharing a seat as we talked about their game that day, and anything else that surfaced. Obviously, 2020 precluded that; we didn’t TAKE even a single bus. Close-in conversations were rare to non-existent. (I would be remiss if I didn’t offer a special note of thanks to my last squad for their compliance with masking; I took their care and concern personally and appreciated it accordingly.) While the thought of retiring had been percolating for some time, 2020 was certainly a disincentive to continuing.

• I was blessed to have been befriended by Tim Cerutti and to spend five years working together. Being in the same (age) cohort and sharing a philosophy of life and temperament made the relationship special. His death this spring created an unfillable void. Tim was actually the third coach/friend/mentor to die during my career, but I’m following his (and our shared) mantra of “Choose Happy” – my Rule #1: “You don’t get a discount on the Happy Meal just because you’re not.” But it just wasn’t as much fun without him. That was no surprise.

• Thanks to the leadership of our head coach, Bryan Gibson, and the commitment of many community leaders, Webster has built a softball program that expanded to 3 full teams even as other communities were and are struggling to field even a JV team. 2020 also shelved the WGBSL rec league this spring and the “Feeder” team that funneled girls into the program. I feel safe in predicting we won’t have sufficient numbers for three teams next year (I’d love to be wrong about that). We’ve recently added some new, young, female coaches who may represent the future of the program. It’s time for me to get out of the way and not block their development and connection with the program.

• My wife and I have things we want to do and places we want to go that are best done either during the Fall softball season or the Summer pre-season. Not that we didn’t know it before, but 2020 has reinforced doing what you can while you are still physically able. 

• We’ve been making a conscious effort to de-junk, even before the inspiration of the COVID-quarantine. I’ll be passing along most of my coaching wardrobe, thus freeing up significant closet/storage space, because Bryan Gibson and WG always reinforced the belief that looking good was part of good performance). 

• But mostly I’m tired, struggling to summon the energy the prepare for games and practices. To be clear, it was never the kids, never the parents, never the administration, never the varsity or JV coaching staff that wore me out; on the contrary, it was those groups that energized me to continue as long as I did. In many ways this was the longest short season, but even last year Tim and I both were forced to admit that our energies were not always sufficient to meet the demands to do the job in a way that would live up to our standards. As those who know me can attest, modesty is not a dominant quality for me. I know what I can bring to the party on any given day. While I might fool some people with my 80%, it’s not good enough, not good enough for me to be satisfied and continue. Even if I still have (or ever had) an “A Game,” I can’t always bring it. Time to move aside.

I may not have been all that mindful when I started the job, but the least I can do is make a mindful decision about when it’s time to go. So it’s time to say good-bye, and thank you, thank you for 35 years and close to 50 different teams in two school districts, Hancock Place and Webster Groves.

Apropos of nothing, as I typed this I realized that every school with which I have been regularly associated had at least two names.

#Blessed.

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