It was just another phone call, like many others I field every day. A young man on the line said, "I understand you have a place where I can hunt whitetail deer, and I'd like to come to Kansas and give it a try".
We had just purchased some land with a cabin, and were trying to establish it as a place for hunters, fishermen, and others to explore the abundant outdoor activities.
The young man was from Texas, and was to be our very first customer. I replied, "Sure, we'd love to have you". So, after we worked out the details, he headed north to hunt for one of our majestic deer.
His first hunt was less than successful. He shot at a nice buck, but his arrow was off the mark, and he had to watch as his trophy buck bounded off into the timber. He felt terrible about the hunt, but fell in love with our place, and asked if he could come back in December with his parents. He wanted to show them this new found paradise. He was such a pleasant young man, so of course, we agreed on the dates for a return trip.
Upon meeting his parents it was apparent where the young man came by his personality. His dad was tall with a warm smile, and his mother was delightful. You could just tell that she was a little dynamo who lived life to the fullest. Her eyes twinkled, and the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes told the story of someone who smiled easily and often. We immediately liked them both, and just like their son, they loved the cabin, lake, and land. They spent the weekend hiking and relaxing before heading back to Texas.
Like many of our guests, they left a nice note expressing how much they enjoyed the beauty of nature and thanking us for sharing it with them.
Then, there was this PS added by his mother.
"I bet this place is beautiful when it snows. The next time it happens I'd love to come back and bring my grand kids to share it".
We didn't give it much thought, and assumed there would be plenty of opportunities to share that experience with our new friends. It was not to be.
I hadn't heard from the young man, so the next fall I reached out to him to see about another hunting trip. His reply was unexpected, as he said,
"I'm sorry, but I won't be coming to Kansas this year. Mom passed away suddenly last month, and our family is devastated".
I was shocked as well, and felt his pain. I sensed that he and his mother had a very special bond, and that his loss was very deep indeed. His world would never be the same.
A year passed, and he reached out to me inquiring about a hunting trip for him and his dad. We visited a bit, and I again expressed my condolences. Miss Elizabeth mentioned that she thought we still had the notes his mother had written, and it might be something that they would like to have. I agreed, and after asking if they would like to have them, mailed the notes, including the PS about his mother's desire to see the snow.
November rolled around, and the two of them arrived for a week-long stay. Just the two of them this time, and I know it weighed heavy on their minds, not having that third member of the family to provide the additional spark that meant so much. The memory had to be bittersweet. They both mentioned how much she had enjoyed their last visit to Kansas, and how much they appreciated the notes we'd provided. It was good to see them again.
The next morning dawned bitter cold, and there was SNOW....She wanted to share it with her family and it was magical....
As you all know, I'm just a simple man, but my faith is strong, and I think God speaks to us through these special moments. We just need to listen.
They were back again this past week, but there was no snow. They've already reserved the date for next year. Yes, I believe they were listening...but really, What Do I Know.
Sunday, November 17, 2019
Sunday, October 6, 2019
1969 - Such a short time ago....
It was a simpler time, or perhaps that's just the picture in my mind - faded over time, and gathering dust in my attic. Regardless, the memories are mine, and from time to time a current headline will elicit the stark comparison of events over the course of a single lifetime. This past weekend Miss Elizabeth and I attended a milestone event of our own. People from across the country came "home" to celebrate the 50 years that have passed since we all bade goodbye to the high school where dedicated and proficient teachers had prepared us for life outside those hallowed halls.
My memories are of a time when days were whiled away with friends, Dads went to work, Moms stayed home, and people would have civil conversations, even when they disagreed. Schools were places of learning, teachers commanded respect.
My friends then, many of whom are still friends today, were an eclectic bunch. Color didn't seem to matter much to us, even though the National stage produced a different story. My friends were Mexicans, Indians, Blacks and Whites.....neighborhood families that welcomed all of us into their homes. We shared more in common than not. Most of us on my side of town were, shall we say, not "well-to-do". Our parents were for the most part, "working-class" who toiled at blue collar jobs and brought home just enough money for a house, a car, groceries, and clothes. Money was hard-earned, and wisely spent, with little left over for frivolous expenditures. It was just the way things were, and we didn't give it much thought.
Like in so many small towns across America, many of us left soon after graduation to pursue our dreams. College educations were deemed to be important, but so was military service, and many of our classmates chose one or the other. Others became second and third generation owners of the family business, while some started their own. As we mingled among our friends to catch-up on the last fifty years, the stories were as varied and interesting as the people relating them. After all, it was the class of '69, and in our minds, we were all destined for greatness. Our class produced doctors, nurses, lawyers, accountants, actors, engineers, bankers, entrepreneurs, ranchers, and just about every other vocation imaginable. Not unlike thousands of other graduating classes across the country, but this was "our" class and "our" story, and it was great to see how it has played out.
For many, the story continues, but for others, their stories were cut short. As the photos were projected on the wall, their young faces captured from 1969, when life was yet to be lived, but for how long? A few tears were shed for friends lost too soon, and for their dreams which were never fulfilled. Life's a journey, and for some, the journey ended way too soon.
It was good to rekindle those old friendships, some which go back much further than when we graduated. Some friends who were there, I've known since before elementary school. There are very few secrets among friends of that duration, but on the other hand, there are secrets that will never be shared.
Those years were a very special time in our lives, never to be lived again, except in our memories. Just like this weekend, it too, was a very special time, and sadly, the next time we gather there will be fewer of us at the tables, and more of us whose pictures will be projected on the wall.
Life's a journey, and friends make the journey all the sweeter.
Take care all my dear friends, and until we meet again, just remember, I'm Jack, and What Do I Know!
My memories are of a time when days were whiled away with friends, Dads went to work, Moms stayed home, and people would have civil conversations, even when they disagreed. Schools were places of learning, teachers commanded respect.
My friends then, many of whom are still friends today, were an eclectic bunch. Color didn't seem to matter much to us, even though the National stage produced a different story. My friends were Mexicans, Indians, Blacks and Whites.....neighborhood families that welcomed all of us into their homes. We shared more in common than not. Most of us on my side of town were, shall we say, not "well-to-do". Our parents were for the most part, "working-class" who toiled at blue collar jobs and brought home just enough money for a house, a car, groceries, and clothes. Money was hard-earned, and wisely spent, with little left over for frivolous expenditures. It was just the way things were, and we didn't give it much thought.
Like in so many small towns across America, many of us left soon after graduation to pursue our dreams. College educations were deemed to be important, but so was military service, and many of our classmates chose one or the other. Others became second and third generation owners of the family business, while some started their own. As we mingled among our friends to catch-up on the last fifty years, the stories were as varied and interesting as the people relating them. After all, it was the class of '69, and in our minds, we were all destined for greatness. Our class produced doctors, nurses, lawyers, accountants, actors, engineers, bankers, entrepreneurs, ranchers, and just about every other vocation imaginable. Not unlike thousands of other graduating classes across the country, but this was "our" class and "our" story, and it was great to see how it has played out.
For many, the story continues, but for others, their stories were cut short. As the photos were projected on the wall, their young faces captured from 1969, when life was yet to be lived, but for how long? A few tears were shed for friends lost too soon, and for their dreams which were never fulfilled. Life's a journey, and for some, the journey ended way too soon.
It was good to rekindle those old friendships, some which go back much further than when we graduated. Some friends who were there, I've known since before elementary school. There are very few secrets among friends of that duration, but on the other hand, there are secrets that will never be shared.
Those years were a very special time in our lives, never to be lived again, except in our memories. Just like this weekend, it too, was a very special time, and sadly, the next time we gather there will be fewer of us at the tables, and more of us whose pictures will be projected on the wall.
Life's a journey, and friends make the journey all the sweeter.
Take care all my dear friends, and until we meet again, just remember, I'm Jack, and What Do I Know!
Monday, November 5, 2018
Diversity or Unity....at the crossroads
It's a rainy Monday morning here in SE Kansas; a bit on the cool side as well, but I'm sitting in my cozy office, contemplating the state of affairs in our once proud Country. What the heck has happened?
I'm not a particularly political guy, and usually skirt those conversations when confronted by someone trying to convince me that they're right and I'm wrong. Maybe I am, but maybe it's in the gray area of "to be determined", and it's them who may be proven to be wrong.
But really, can't we just agree to disagree on the issues where we have different points of view?
We've become a humorless society. No one can say anything that someone else doesn't take offense. I mean, folks have become so adamant about diversity that we no longer have any unity. Remember when we celebrated the fact that we were the United States of America, not the many fractured, individual segments that previously united together as one....I miss those days.
Yes, I'm considered to be just another stodgy old man, whose opinions are to be cast aside by those who believe they know better. Perhaps they do, but maybe, just maybe, history will play out differently than they imagine. I struggle every day with some of the ideas that are put forth as being "main stream". Some of those are so radical, and foreign to my way of thinking that I've never even seen the "stream" they're talking about, let alone ever drifted downstream in it.
Tomorrow is election day, and the news is filled with the typical rhetoric, polls, and projections of which party will take control. The hot topics are fairly typical, except that there is more volatility from the people espousing both sides of every issue. In some cases, it borders on pure hatred for the opposition, rather than civil discourse regarding their opinions.
I'm tired of the mess that has become politics in our country. I'm tired of the terms "far left" and "far right". I'm tired of the divisive nature of the various factions that propose that their way is the only way, and if you don't agree, you're an idiot. But, most of all, I'm tired of what we've allowed our country to become. Yes, I'm old-school, and it's doubtful that, at this point in my life, I'm going to change my views on some of the issues that are deeply embedded in my soul.
So please, if you want to convince me to come over to your point of view, be prepared to have a civil conversation, based on facts, figures, and sound reasoning. Raising your voice does nothing to support your cause. Using profanities, threatening violence, or calling me names will lead me to quickly dismiss the validity of your argument, so please don't waste your time.
I realize that my words will have very little impact on those who oppose my views of our politicians, our divisive rhetoric, or on the issues which I hold close to my heart.....I weep for what we've lost in this once proud Country. But, once again, What do I Know.
I'm not a particularly political guy, and usually skirt those conversations when confronted by someone trying to convince me that they're right and I'm wrong. Maybe I am, but maybe it's in the gray area of "to be determined", and it's them who may be proven to be wrong.
But really, can't we just agree to disagree on the issues where we have different points of view?
We've become a humorless society. No one can say anything that someone else doesn't take offense. I mean, folks have become so adamant about diversity that we no longer have any unity. Remember when we celebrated the fact that we were the United States of America, not the many fractured, individual segments that previously united together as one....I miss those days.
Yes, I'm considered to be just another stodgy old man, whose opinions are to be cast aside by those who believe they know better. Perhaps they do, but maybe, just maybe, history will play out differently than they imagine. I struggle every day with some of the ideas that are put forth as being "main stream". Some of those are so radical, and foreign to my way of thinking that I've never even seen the "stream" they're talking about, let alone ever drifted downstream in it.
Tomorrow is election day, and the news is filled with the typical rhetoric, polls, and projections of which party will take control. The hot topics are fairly typical, except that there is more volatility from the people espousing both sides of every issue. In some cases, it borders on pure hatred for the opposition, rather than civil discourse regarding their opinions.
I'm tired of the mess that has become politics in our country. I'm tired of the terms "far left" and "far right". I'm tired of the divisive nature of the various factions that propose that their way is the only way, and if you don't agree, you're an idiot. But, most of all, I'm tired of what we've allowed our country to become. Yes, I'm old-school, and it's doubtful that, at this point in my life, I'm going to change my views on some of the issues that are deeply embedded in my soul.
So please, if you want to convince me to come over to your point of view, be prepared to have a civil conversation, based on facts, figures, and sound reasoning. Raising your voice does nothing to support your cause. Using profanities, threatening violence, or calling me names will lead me to quickly dismiss the validity of your argument, so please don't waste your time.
I realize that my words will have very little impact on those who oppose my views of our politicians, our divisive rhetoric, or on the issues which I hold close to my heart.....I weep for what we've lost in this once proud Country. But, once again, What do I Know.
Monday, February 12, 2018
Big Headline, No Substance....
The 2018 Winter Olympics are in full swing, so I was browsing through the headlines to see if there was anything extraordinary going on in the way of the athletic performances. Of course, it's the Olympics, so every performance is over-hyped, over-stated, and over-analyzed. It makes for interesting stories, but nothing I've seen so far has been earth shattering.
Then, there it was, in bold letters at the top of the page; Gay Athletes Make Huge Statement.
"How is that" I asked myself. What kind of "huge statement" was made, and who did they make it to?
It certainly couldn't be the fact that gay athletes were competing at the highest level, that's been happening for years. Perhaps there was something else, but as I scanned the article it was severely lacking on anything of substance, just the same old tripe about how important it is that "these people" are making a statement. Nothing really about winning a gold medal, or setting a world record, or even introducing a new political agenda. No, it was just some reporter trying to stir the pot where there was nothing of substance to be shared.....Big headline, no substance.
The statement was made long ago. We live in a country that allows freedom of choice, whether 100% of the citizens agree or not, it's a freedom everyone has. Women, Men, Blacks, Indians, Gays, Asians, and every other American citizen can pretty much participate in whatever endeavor they choose, and have been able to do so for years. Yet, we have those in the media who continue to find controversy where none exists. Under the guise of inequality, they continue to publish the big headlines, no substance.
True equality will only exist when the headlines don't begin with the words, Gay, African-American, Asian-American, etc. etc.. As long as we feel the need to attach an identifying label to every person who makes the news, applies for a job, or participates in the Olympics, we continue to create the division among our citizens.
Those are my thoughts on the subject, and they come from my heart, not my political beliefs. I refuse to assign labels to my friends and acquaintances, and certainly not written in big bold letters in the headlines. No, they are just my friends, some old, some new, and some yet to be made. But, as all of you know by now, I'm just an old man, so What Do I Know?
Then, there it was, in bold letters at the top of the page; Gay Athletes Make Huge Statement.
"How is that" I asked myself. What kind of "huge statement" was made, and who did they make it to?
It certainly couldn't be the fact that gay athletes were competing at the highest level, that's been happening for years. Perhaps there was something else, but as I scanned the article it was severely lacking on anything of substance, just the same old tripe about how important it is that "these people" are making a statement. Nothing really about winning a gold medal, or setting a world record, or even introducing a new political agenda. No, it was just some reporter trying to stir the pot where there was nothing of substance to be shared.....Big headline, no substance.
The statement was made long ago. We live in a country that allows freedom of choice, whether 100% of the citizens agree or not, it's a freedom everyone has. Women, Men, Blacks, Indians, Gays, Asians, and every other American citizen can pretty much participate in whatever endeavor they choose, and have been able to do so for years. Yet, we have those in the media who continue to find controversy where none exists. Under the guise of inequality, they continue to publish the big headlines, no substance.
True equality will only exist when the headlines don't begin with the words, Gay, African-American, Asian-American, etc. etc.. As long as we feel the need to attach an identifying label to every person who makes the news, applies for a job, or participates in the Olympics, we continue to create the division among our citizens.
Those are my thoughts on the subject, and they come from my heart, not my political beliefs. I refuse to assign labels to my friends and acquaintances, and certainly not written in big bold letters in the headlines. No, they are just my friends, some old, some new, and some yet to be made. But, as all of you know by now, I'm just an old man, so What Do I Know?
Sunday, January 7, 2018
I felt very small...
This year for Christmas, Miss Elizabeth's gift to me was an old set of books. I had mentioned that, although I had watched it many times on television, I had never read the Lonesome Dove series by Larry McMurtry. To my surprise she was able to locate a used set of the books and made the purchase. I'm already enjoying the first book.
I've always been an avid reader, even when I was very young. I would read anything I could get my hands on, magazines, newspapers, paper backs, or comic books. It didn't really matter, I just loved getting lost in the pages and seeing the characters develop in my mind. Heck, I even enjoyed reading See Spot Run, and the other introductory reading primers back in elementary school. As I got older I read a lot of sports books, mysteries, science fiction, and of course, many of the Mark Twain classics like Huck Finn, Life on the Mississippi, and Tom Sawyer.
Today, most of my reading material comes with the push of a button or the click of a mouse. I can browse through my Kindle, and with one click, have a new book at my disposal. Technology is wonderful, but it's robbed us of the pleasure of either giving or receiving the gift of a book.
One of my oldest friends, someone I met soon after we moved to town from the country, doesn't, to this day, know the impact he had on me regarding gifts and books.
We must have been eight or nine years old, and were fast friends, Every weekend I would be at his house, or he would be at mine, having sleep-overs or just hanging out. We would hike in the woods, swipe pears from old Mrs. Brittan's tree, or lie in the sun swapping tall tales about various escapades we'd either experienced or imagined. Young lads, living life and having fun.
That year, as Christmas approached, each of us was given a dollar to buy a Christmas present for the other. His mother took us downtown to the J.J. Newberry store where we were to find the perfect gifts and give them to her for wrapping. We split up and began our search. I spent my time in the toy section and found what I thought was something he would enjoy. He was lost elsewhere in the store, but delivered his selection to his mother as well.
Later, when we tore off the wrappings to unveil the gifts, we were both excited to see what the other had bought. Expecting a toy of some type, I was speechless when I saw a brand new book. I still remember it....Treasure Island. It was the first real book I'd ever received, and I was in awe that my friend had given it to me.
I also felt very small.....My gift paled in comparison, a toy versus a book!
He seemed to be thrilled with his new toy, but I felt as though I had failed to deliver anything of substance. I know it's supposed to be the thought that counts, but I've always felt a little guilty about the inequality of those gifts.....I still remember his gift to me like it was yesterday.
A dollar well spent my friend.
I've always been an avid reader, even when I was very young. I would read anything I could get my hands on, magazines, newspapers, paper backs, or comic books. It didn't really matter, I just loved getting lost in the pages and seeing the characters develop in my mind. Heck, I even enjoyed reading See Spot Run, and the other introductory reading primers back in elementary school. As I got older I read a lot of sports books, mysteries, science fiction, and of course, many of the Mark Twain classics like Huck Finn, Life on the Mississippi, and Tom Sawyer.
Today, most of my reading material comes with the push of a button or the click of a mouse. I can browse through my Kindle, and with one click, have a new book at my disposal. Technology is wonderful, but it's robbed us of the pleasure of either giving or receiving the gift of a book.
One of my oldest friends, someone I met soon after we moved to town from the country, doesn't, to this day, know the impact he had on me regarding gifts and books.
We must have been eight or nine years old, and were fast friends, Every weekend I would be at his house, or he would be at mine, having sleep-overs or just hanging out. We would hike in the woods, swipe pears from old Mrs. Brittan's tree, or lie in the sun swapping tall tales about various escapades we'd either experienced or imagined. Young lads, living life and having fun.
That year, as Christmas approached, each of us was given a dollar to buy a Christmas present for the other. His mother took us downtown to the J.J. Newberry store where we were to find the perfect gifts and give them to her for wrapping. We split up and began our search. I spent my time in the toy section and found what I thought was something he would enjoy. He was lost elsewhere in the store, but delivered his selection to his mother as well.
Later, when we tore off the wrappings to unveil the gifts, we were both excited to see what the other had bought. Expecting a toy of some type, I was speechless when I saw a brand new book. I still remember it....Treasure Island. It was the first real book I'd ever received, and I was in awe that my friend had given it to me.
I also felt very small.....My gift paled in comparison, a toy versus a book!
He seemed to be thrilled with his new toy, but I felt as though I had failed to deliver anything of substance. I know it's supposed to be the thought that counts, but I've always felt a little guilty about the inequality of those gifts.....I still remember his gift to me like it was yesterday.
A dollar well spent my friend.
Friday, December 22, 2017
We're moving to the city...
Until I was four years old, my family lived "out in the country". To be more exact, we lived in a rented farmhouse outside the town of Chetopa, Kansas. Since I was too young to go to school, the days were spent playing with the dogs, catching turtles and other reptiles, and skipping rocks on the pond. I remember little snippets of life on the farm, but not much. I'm sure I had a few friends, but I only recall playing with my sisters, and cousins who came to visit on occasion.
Let's just say that I don't remember having much of a social life before the "big event".
I vaguely remember walking through a brand new house that my parents were considering. I was fascinated by the vinyl runners that we were told to step on as we meandered through the "huge" five room house. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and one bath (indoors).
The next thing I remember was the announcement that we were moving "to town" where I would start school in the fall. An adventure for sure, and quite a different life than the one to which I was accustomed.
We moved to the town of Coffeyville in April of 1956, and one of the first kids I met was a boy named Sonny "Boy" Watson. His family lived across the alley from us, and like most kids on the block, he made his way over to our house shortly after we moved in. Sonny Boy was a big kid with a few extra pounds larded over a large frame. He also knew everything, or so it seemed to this naïve country boy. Yeah, you might say he had his bluff in on me from that first meeting. I could tell that he held a position of power with the other kids as well.
Sometime within the first week or so, Sonny Boy had me in tears and running home to mama. I don't remember if it was a physical altercation, or if he had just hurt my feelings. Regardless, I ran home to be consoled. All was good until the next day when it happened again, and the day after that as well.
Now, one would have to know my dad to understand exactly how, and why, he reacted as he did, but after about three or four days of seeing me run home to mama he had had his fill of it.
He stood up, looking down at me with fire in his eyes, and through gritted teeth said, "The next time you come home crying I'm going to give you something to cry about!" My dad didn't tolerate any sissified behavior, and he made it abundantly clear that I'd better learn to take care of myself when it came to handling that neighborhood bully. I guess that would be the end of that!
My social skills were still in the state of development, and I had yet to learn the fine art of diplomacy, so that left only one avenue available.....the manly art of self-defense. Trouble with that was that, other than some spirited wrestling matches with my cousins, I didn't know much about fighting either. All I knew was the fear of my dad's wrath outweighed my fear of Sonny Boy Watson.
Shortly thereafter, the opportunity presented itself; either go home and get whipped, or start flailing away. I was already crying anyway, so it didn't much matter if I got worst of it. I put everything I had into those punches, finding Sonny Boy's soft belly to be an adequate landing place, and soon we were both bawling and brawling until, much to my surprise, he just up and quit. It was over, and just like that, the bullying was history.
Sonny Boy and I never became best friends, but we learned to co-exist in the neighborhood. Maybe I earned a little respect, or maybe he hadn't expected the little skinny country boy to retaliate. Either way, I no longer ran home crying every time one of those city boys hurt my feelings, and that was a good thing. But, then again, what do I know?
Let's just say that I don't remember having much of a social life before the "big event".
I vaguely remember walking through a brand new house that my parents were considering. I was fascinated by the vinyl runners that we were told to step on as we meandered through the "huge" five room house. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and one bath (indoors).
The next thing I remember was the announcement that we were moving "to town" where I would start school in the fall. An adventure for sure, and quite a different life than the one to which I was accustomed.
We moved to the town of Coffeyville in April of 1956, and one of the first kids I met was a boy named Sonny "Boy" Watson. His family lived across the alley from us, and like most kids on the block, he made his way over to our house shortly after we moved in. Sonny Boy was a big kid with a few extra pounds larded over a large frame. He also knew everything, or so it seemed to this naïve country boy. Yeah, you might say he had his bluff in on me from that first meeting. I could tell that he held a position of power with the other kids as well.
Sometime within the first week or so, Sonny Boy had me in tears and running home to mama. I don't remember if it was a physical altercation, or if he had just hurt my feelings. Regardless, I ran home to be consoled. All was good until the next day when it happened again, and the day after that as well.
Now, one would have to know my dad to understand exactly how, and why, he reacted as he did, but after about three or four days of seeing me run home to mama he had had his fill of it.
He stood up, looking down at me with fire in his eyes, and through gritted teeth said, "The next time you come home crying I'm going to give you something to cry about!" My dad didn't tolerate any sissified behavior, and he made it abundantly clear that I'd better learn to take care of myself when it came to handling that neighborhood bully. I guess that would be the end of that!
My social skills were still in the state of development, and I had yet to learn the fine art of diplomacy, so that left only one avenue available.....the manly art of self-defense. Trouble with that was that, other than some spirited wrestling matches with my cousins, I didn't know much about fighting either. All I knew was the fear of my dad's wrath outweighed my fear of Sonny Boy Watson.
Shortly thereafter, the opportunity presented itself; either go home and get whipped, or start flailing away. I was already crying anyway, so it didn't much matter if I got worst of it. I put everything I had into those punches, finding Sonny Boy's soft belly to be an adequate landing place, and soon we were both bawling and brawling until, much to my surprise, he just up and quit. It was over, and just like that, the bullying was history.
Sonny Boy and I never became best friends, but we learned to co-exist in the neighborhood. Maybe I earned a little respect, or maybe he hadn't expected the little skinny country boy to retaliate. Either way, I no longer ran home crying every time one of those city boys hurt my feelings, and that was a good thing. But, then again, what do I know?
Sunday, August 20, 2017
No adult supervision required...
"Playing baseball just for the fun of it; No coaches, no parental involvement, and no pressure to perform."
I was half-watching the national news the other night when I heard the commentator utter those words. Of course in these days of "not keeping score", "no winners or losers", and "everybody gets a trophy" the story line wasn't particularly intriguing. I mean, it seems like every other day there is another story about how competition has ruined society.
We've removed it from the classroom, the sports field, and are working diligently to remove it from every aspect of life. Problem is, you will never be able to completely remove the competitive spirit from competitive people. That spirit is what drives us to succeed.
But, lets get back to sandlot baseball. I rarely see a group of kids gathered at a park, or at a vacant lot with makeshift bases and grass worn down to dirt along the base paths. I don't ever see games with both boys and girls enjoying the thrill of competing against each other, along with the jeers and cheers that often accompany the errors and bonehead plays that everyone makes from time to time. I don't see the variety of age groups engaging with each other as the older kids gently, and not so gently, mentor the younger ones in the "rules of the game".
So, somewhat interested, I began to watch the news story on television.
The first thing I saw was that it was all boys of the same age....no girls involved, and no older or younger kids on the field. There was also an umpire, replete with all the gear, and there were parents watching the game. Wait a minute, I thought this was "Playing baseball just for the fun of it."
Then, it all came out; one of the parents had decided that it was too "competitive" in the league games, so he organized these so-called sandlot games.
Trouble is, they in no way resemble the sandlot games of old. Really, we would have been embarrassed to no end to have our parents show up to watch us play baseball with our friends. No self-respecting kid would have tolerated it. Of course, our games were all-day affairs with kids coming and going as they deemed fit, and parents were either at work or too busy with other duties to waste time watching the kids play.
No, it was truly, "Playing baseball just for the fun of it." No umpires, no batting helmets, wooden bats with taped handles, shared baseball gloves left laying in the field for the one side to use while the other was at bat, and most of all.....no one telling us how it was supposed to work. Was it without competition? Not a chance. Did we keep score? Of course. Was there "No pressure to perform"? Not a chance. The younger ones wanted to impress the older ones, the older boys wanted to impress the older girls, and the girls....they did their best to impress the boys....Pressure to perform? Oh yeah, there was plenty of pressure to perform.
The difference was that it was all self-inflicted. No adults to organize it, no coaches, no parents, no umpires, but most of all, the freedom to just be kids. I'm glad I grew up in a time when we could spend all day with our friends, playing baseball, just for the joy of the game.....
I thought it was great, but what do I know?
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