Gods With a Little “g” (Sept. 9, 2014)

They won’t leave me aloneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Who has a bike race on a rainy day like today? Okay, I did go out running but it wasn’t raining when I left and I have a lot better traction than bikes do. I was determined to erase a bad memory from yesterday! Instead of running the Swamp Rabbit it would be up and over the hill on Chinquapin down to Cherokee Valley and then up and over the hill back home. Easy! A mere seven hundred feet in elevation gain and that one and a half mile “Hill from Hell!” Easy! It is in the bag. I just hope it’s not in a body bag.

Up at five and lets take time to make sure our legs are in fact attached to our feet. They were but I thought the same thing yesterday before losing a duel with a very pregnant lady pushing a double stroller. Out at six thirty, wait what is this falling out of the air. According to the weather map there is no rain in the area. Maybe it is just a glitch in technology? The little voice in my head said “I think the running gods are going to frown on you if you go out that door.” I should have listened to my little voice but instead I decided to just wait it out. An hour and a half later no rain is falling and no rain is showing in the area. Out I go and forty seven minutes later I am a very large, drowned rat. Thank goodness I put my IPhone in a plastic bag but I sure wish I had packed that poncho.

The “gods” of running were frowning on me. I believe that if you believe in the Holy Spirit, which I do, that an argument can be made for the existence of “unholy” spirits. Not the devil or evil incarnate, just little ah…I don’t know…gremlins or what I call gods with a little “g.” Football fans understand what I am talking about. A little imp called a “football god” that made the field goal kicker miss two easy field goals after breaking the record for consecutive field goals. What about the “scrum” on fourth and less than a foot with just a little more than a minute to go? I am sure the little gremlin moved the ball one centimeter in the wrong direction as in “the football gods were frowning on us tonight.” Please understand I am not worshiping these gods. I have already broken too many commandments to break that one. I just believe that they might exist. Just in case they do exist sometimes I pray to God and ask him not to let the “little g” gods interfere. My little voice whispers to me that I should realize that God is really too busy to intercede on my behalf in such trivial matters.

As I made my turn around in the rain and began my seven hundred foot ascent to the top of the small mountain that Chinquapin Road runs over I saw a sign that read “Bike Race Today.” Okay it must be left over from the last one, because only an idiot would race today. When I got to the Baily Mill Road crossroads I found out that I was incorrect. There were about five hundred idiots on the road besides me and they were moving a lot faster than I was. Not just the cyclists were out in mass but their fans, pace cars and police were also present. As I ran weaving through Baily Mill on the wrong side of the road, I knew the cheering fans were not cheering me. I was amazed how fast the cyclist came screaming down the “Hill From Hell” while making the turn on to Baily Mill. All of those cyclist with their hideous colors and spandex were going so fast and leaning so deeply in to their turns I worried that they might drag a pedal and cause a dozen bike pile up. I was terrified for them and worried about the little “g” gods causing a blowout. As I continued my snails pace up Chinquapin they kept coming and kept coming. Flight after flight flew by me, each group a little slower than the last. I think I feared for them more that those who were obviously the elite riders. I hope the cycling gods were kind to them. At least it quit raining.

I made it home safe and sound albet quite wet. Considering the conditions and the hills, 11:30 miles were pretty good. Suddenly I feel that what I accomplished was not very important. As I type this I hear sirens heading up Highway 11 toward the race area and I say a little prayer for whatever has happened. I hope that the cycling gods were smiling today and not frowning. Please be smiling.

A Quest

One Southerner’s search for the truth about his Southern Heritage and Hate

The aftermath of the Charleston Massacre has caused me to examine one of the very cornerstones of my life – my Southern heritage as it relates to “War of the Rebellion.”  Recent calls to remove monuments and rename buildings has renewed this examination.

Born on an Easter Sunday (April 9, 1950) a mere eighty-five years to the day the most revered man in the South, General Robert E. Lee surrendered at Appomattox Court House, I grew up re-fighting “The War of Northern Aggression.”

As a child I really did not understand any of the dynamics of our Civil War and, at one time, could not understand “why” North Carolina had invaded South Carolina and “why” much of the fighting had taken place in far away from Virginia or “out west.”  In my defense, I was very young and uneducated.

I thought that it might have been something like the Gillette “Fight of the Week” and held in a neutral ring. This was in 1957 and I know it was this year because of my favorite TV series – the one year wonder “The Gray Ghost” – aired only in 1957. This program is what caused the “why” questions to first be asked as it chronicled the exploits of Confederate cavalry commander John Singleton Mosby and his men who rode rings around the foolish “Damn Yankees” located in distant Virginia.

A year or so later, after the worst decision since James Buchanan sent the “Star of the West” to provision Fort Sumter, “The Gray Ghost” was canceled. By this time I had had a geography lesson or five and my program of choice became “The Rebel” starring Nick Adams as a former Confederate soldier and aspiring journalist named Johnny Yuma.

Complete with Rebel kepi, Colt revolver, and a sawed-off shotgun, Yuma traveled the Texas countryside righting wrongs and defending the weak while making amends and trying to come to grips with what he had experienced during the “War of the Rebellion.” He would then write about his travels and adventures in a journal that had been given to him by a friend. I too wore my kepi and packed my cap pistols proudly as I defended the chickens and hogs around my grandparent’s old barn.

Both Mosby and Yuma were heroic figures, Mosby in real life, although maligned like James Longstreet for choosing to serve in Grant’s “Yankee government” after the war, and Yuma as a knightly character in black and white television. They were portrayed as chivalrous characters like all of the men who wore gray or butternut and who fought to preserve the Southern way of life against the invading blue-clad Yankee hordes. They were as knightly as the character Ivanhoe in Walter Scott’s book by the same title.

For some reason, “Ivanhoe seemed to be required reading in order to become a true Southern gentleman. I am unsure if I am a gentleman but I have read the book and saw the Robert Taylor version of the movie repeatedly. I confess that I still watch it to lust after a young Elizabeth Taylor whose character Rebecca is the Jewish object of Norman Knight Brian De Bois-Guilbert’s desire as played by a way-too-old George Sanders.

I was too enamored by Elizabeth Taylor’s green eyes to recognize the parallels between the Civil War and the movie at the time but realize now that there were many. The story and movie are about Ivanhoe’s quest to ransom King Richard’s return to the English throne. He led an outmanned and ill-equipped army that featured Robin of Loxley and his “merry men.”

The movie emphasized the cultural strife between the Normans and the Saxons and their class inequalities and also displayed the racism and anti-Semitism shown to Rebecca and her father Isaac. All could be metaphors for the United States during the period leading up to and including the war.

During the climactic “wager of battle,” Rebecca sits stoically awaiting her fate as Sir Brian De Bois-Guibert, who is willing to destroy what he loves rather than allow her to love another, seems to have the upper hand until Ivanhoe prevails and mortally wounds the Yankee at the end. Did I say Yankee? I really meant the Norman knight.

To the point, Ivanhoe was just like our chivalrous young men who rallied to the flag to defend their states. It was always assumed that they would find a way to prevail at the end against the more numerous and better equipped Yankee invaders. Instead, the best the South had to offer spilled their blood and the blood of their enemy. The South was destroyed in the attempt…well…maybe reborn.

A great yarn.  It became much more than a story for those chivalrous young men who rallied to the flag. Two of those young men were John R. and Marion DeKalb Rogers, my great, great, great and great, great grandfathers. Both enlisted in what would be Company H, Twelfth Regiment of the South Carolina Volunteer Infantry in August of 1861.

John, according to family tradition, died of typhoid fever less than six months into his service but died under the flag NONE-THE-LESS. Marion would go on to fight in twenty-eight battles including Gettysburg. Most of these battles were fought under the standard that we know as the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia and were led by the famed Confederate commander General Robert E. Lee. Unfortunately for the South, it would be the Yankee flag and Sherman’s “bummers” who would have the last say in South Carolina and Grant’s Army of the Potomac in Virginia.

According to my great, great grandfather’s military records, despite fighting gallantly in a rearguard action to allow Lee’s Army to escape Petersburg, he and a thousand other Confederate soldiers would be overwhelmed and captured at a Virginia village named Sutherland (Southerland?) Station on April 3. (According to actual historical records the battle took place on the 2nd.) He was lucky as over five hundred were killed in action. This was less than a week before Lee would surrender but not have to hand over his sword to Grant at the McLean House at Appomattox.

After my grandfather’s capture, he would be held at Hart’s Island in New York until his release in July. Of the original one hundred and thirty-seven recruits in Company H, only seventeen made it home alive. M. D. Rogers was one of those lucky seventeen, which for my particular lineage was fortuitous.

After the massacre in Charleston, there was a decision to remove from the South Carolina Capitol Grounds the Battle Flag – the same flag that my granddads times two and three fought under and the same one that many Southerners are now trying to keep flying. Their point has been that the South was not defending its peculiar institution of slavery as one of the reasons to go to war. According to many supporters, slavery was just a “side issue.”

My great grandfathers were part of the eighty to ninety percent who shouldered arms but were not slaveholders. So…they could not have fought to uphold slavery, could they? The war was about regional rivalries. It was about how the Northern economic interests desired to control the South, a “red-haired” stepchild, with illegal tariffs so as to ensure that Southern cotton was cheap when it was acquired by the Northern factories. They wanted to steal Southern chattel and not honor laws that would return Southern property to us. It was an argument over State’s Rights and sovereignty.

When we had had enough and seceded from the Union, the Federals broke a promise and took over an uncompleted fort in Charleston Harbor. Later, when an attempt was made to re-provision this fort, our gallant military opened fire to drive the ship away. Eventually, we opened fire on Fort Sumter itself in order to force the Federal garrison to abandon our newly acquired property and the rest is history…or is it?

A teaching friend of mine and a true Son of the South often makes the argument that Civil War history has been victimized by “revisionists” who have attempted to defame the South with inaccurate and adjusted claims. Until a while ago, a dozen or so years before Charleston, I would have agreed with him. Unfortunately, I believe now that we both have been victimized by what became known as “The Lost Cause.”

I also acknowledge that I will never be able to convince him or other diehard “Sons of the Confederacy” of that victimization. The phrase Lost Cause was coined by Virginia writer Edward Pollard who wrote the book The Lost Cause in 1866. (1)

In an essay about Pollard’s book, Origins of the Lost Cause, Michael Speiser of the University of Virginia states, and I quote because he says it better than I ever could, “In the immediate aftermath of the Civil War, a number of white southern writers and political leaders worked to construct a favorable history of the old South and the Confederacy.

Seeking vindication of the white South in the wake of seemingly crushing defeat, they resurrected pro-white southern imagery and ideology of earlier years. In doing so, these advocates for the white South constructed a “Lost Cause” mythology and memory of the Civil War and white Southern history and culture. Specifically, they celebrated the South’s natural beauty and idyllic plantations, supported a white supremacist racial hierarchy in southern society, claimed liberty as a southern principle and the American Revolution as southern heritage, wrapped their sectionalism in a constitutional theory of state sovereignty, and nostalgically glorified the southern past.” (2)

One might want to think of Gone with the Wind or the original Birth of a Nation at this time.The Lost Cause was what I was taught and in turn, I repeated this same history when I taught it, at least at the beginning of my career. My indoctrination was so complete that I would not dig more deeply into my heritage until many years later. My teaching wasn’t about slavery but about Southern rights with “Tara’s Theme” playing in the background.

Most slaveholders held one or two slaves, not hundreds, and only ten or twenty percent owned slaves at all. Most slave owners weren’t abusive. Why would you beat something as valuable as a slave? Would you beat a horse or is that a bad analogy?  Those were the “facts” I was taught.

Scenes of happy slaves singing while toiling in the fields flitted through my mind again accompanied by more strains from “Tara’s Theme.” The North was attempting to commandeer Southern cotton and the profits made on the backs of these happy slaves for the sake of the Northern industry. Dah, Dah, Daaaah, Da, Da, Daah …wait… that was the theme to the “High and the Mighty” not “Tara’s Theme.”

The Lost Cause IS a part of our true heritage, but not our true history. So is the heritage of hate that racism, slavery, the Civil War and its aftermath have left to us…even today. So is the fear that it all fostered…for both races. It is the heritage of both SOUTHERN BLACKS AND WHITES and doesn’t even begin to cover the heritage of Jim Crow, forced prison labor, red lined districts, etc.

Our Southern heritage is not just a white heritage; it is also a black heritage like two sides of the same coin. We all have to recognize this fact and accept it. I believe that we can keep our heritage, both black and white, despite or, maybe, in spite of the hate and fear.

Much like an abuser in a twelve-step program, we must be truthful and that starts with being truthful to ourselves. One place to start might be to recognize that our racism is as much an American phenomenon as it is a Southern one. Northerners, Westerners, African-Americans, Hispanics, and Asians also display prejudice. After all, I have had it pointed out to me repeatedly that the North is just as racist as the South, if not more so. Okay… that makes me feel better.

Despite my heritage, I realize that the removal of the Battle Flag was right and a long time coming. I believe that much of what has been discussed about removing other parts of our Confederate history is not only hurting White Southerners but Black Southerners as well. Instead of tearing down monuments or removing the bones of our sometimes conflicted and dark history, whether black or white, why don’t we add to those monuments?  Why don’t we admit to our hate and our heritage.

In South Carolina, for every “Pitchfork” Ben Tillman or Strom Thurmond, there is a Charles Townsend, a Harold Boulware, a Matilda Evans, a Pat Conroy or a former student like Phillip Boykin. Let us remember those folks who have worked hard to unite our South and to move our “multi-racial” society forward. We might also want to remember that like Strom Thurmond or Ben Tillman many of us have some secrets that we would like to hide and forget.

The history that was—WAS… and can NOT be changed…although I have never taught history using a flag or a statue. We must accept and recognize our history, both good and bad. Despite their racism, both Tillman and Thurmond accomplished much good for our state. That statement is not an excuse for their travesties.

We should admit that the flag and our monuments represents two sides of heritage and unfortunately, one of those sides is hate. To say that slavery was a side issue, despite all of the evidence otherwise, simply marginalizes a large percentage of our population. To me, our heritage of racism and white supremacy is not worth doing that.
(1) Edward Albert Pollard, The Lost Cause: A New Southern History of the War of the Confederates (New York: E. B. Treat & Co., Publishers, 1866).
(2)  http://www.essaysinhistory.com/articles/2011/6

“GOD HAS NO RELIGION”

“GOD HAS NO RELIGION”
-Mahatma Gandhi, Indian Philosopher

Today, I see so many divisive posts, it angers me and also makes me wonder if I need to invest in assault weapons and the canned bean industry. During my US History classes I usually taught that 1968 might have the most divisive year since the end of the Civil War. Tet, Walter Cronkite telling us that the war was unwinnable, war protests, continued Civil Rights issues and the assassinations of Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were just a few of the reasons that I cited. Now I am not so sure that I could still say that. Any type of opinion is met with ridicule and name-calling from the other side – gay marriage, Black Lives Matter, the issue of the Confederate Battle Flag, our “entitlements,” illegal immigration. Now things that should never be an issue have become one. Case in point is religion. Christians versus Muslims; Christians versus Atheist; Christians versus gays; Christian conservatives against Christian liberals…do I see a trend here? At least, Christian conservatives are supporting the Jews in Israel, and perhaps, the Jewish presidential candidate Bernie Sanders.
I grew up Methodist, went to a Lutheran institution of higher learning, flirted with Episcopalians and Presbyterians and married three, that’s right, three Baptist women. While I find women to be a type of religious experience, that last admission is what keeps me out of the gay marriage debate along with any kind of statements about abortion and keeps me from agreeing to be a Deacon, which is a blessing. My tiptoeing through so many Protestant religions, not to mention three marriages, has also caused me, despite my public dunking into the Southern Baptist Church, to develop my own form of the Christian religion – one that I have mentioned before in other writings – The Evolutionary New Testament Church of Christ as “hallucinated” by Don. As of this moment, my newly-founded church has an enrollment of one.
I would characterize my Methodist upbringing as being very conservative. There weren’t a lot of amens coming from the Amen Corner and our music was very straight-laced. My wife would say it was “tight assed.” This description comes from a woman who went to church every time the doors were opened, sometimes when they weren’t , and as you might know, was instructed that dancing was against the tenets of God. I believe this prohibition developed because while Moses was up on a mountain talking to God, the Israelites were dancing naked around an idol. But didn’t David dance to celebrate the Ark’s arrival in Jerusalem? Was he naked like that Greek statue? Well, this taboo did lead to my favorite religious joke. Why don’t Baptists make love standing up? It looks too much like dancing!! “Cha-Ching!”
We, the members of my church, did have our moments of religious fervor, usually around revival time when we put our “high church stuffiness” away. I remember a particularly hot August evening before our church was air-conditioned. During a weeklong revival it was hotter than…you can fill that in. I remember hearing the roll of distant thunder as lightning flashed just above the visible horizon that I was watching from the opened window. The only air circulating came from the hand fans provided to us by Wolfe Funeral Home. They were working overtime and probably just spread the heat produced by our exertions. Our visiting minister brought me back from my thoughts as he finished the “hellfire and brimstone” portion of his sermon by slamming his hand onto his Bible and shouting, “If you think its hot tonight, JUST WAIT! Benediction Please!” His admonition drew a good number of amens and hallelujahs, along with a record altar call which may not have been due to his sermon but to the misty cool breeze of the building storm that suddenly cascaded through the windows.
As I limped out to attempt to complete my morning run before church, I could not get thoughts of divisiveness out of my mind. When I arrived back home and watched some of the news programming, the divisiveness became more entrenched in my mind. One should not watch “The Donald” on Meet the Press before church. I continued to ponder divisions as I sat in church, not paying attention to the sermon. For some reason, I thought of a former student who was the strangest mix of religions. He grew up as a Musdu or a Hinlim. Take your pick because I know he didn’t know which one. Mo’s parents (yes, short for Mohammed) migrated LEGALLY to the United States several years before Mo was born. They had grown up and met in an area between Pakistan and India called the princely states of Kashmir and Jammu which have been a bone of contention since the partition of Pakistan and India in 1948. The conflict erupted into a shooting war at times. The problem? First, the states are coveted by Pakistan, India and China but a major issue is…wait a minute…religion. Pakistan is largely Muslim and India is largely Hindu. In Kashmir there is a Muslim majority and in Jammu a Hindu majority. You can probably figure out who wants to be aligned with whom. If you put them together, the population is still largely Muslim. China doesn’t practice either religion and just wants the land. Into this mix “love would spring eternal” in the form of Mo’s Muslim father and Hindu mother and would not be denied. Love would conquer all but it would require a trip of several thousand miles and a huge change in culture. At least, they got away from the in-laws. Mo was a product of his parents and their progressive belief that he should grow up and decide for himself which religious path he would follow. Sometimes you get exactly what you weren’t expecting.
Should you want to interject another religion into this story, Mo looked like a short, round, brown Buddha. Oh no, I just had a vision of Mo as the Buddha sitting in a loincloth. While a product of his parent’s genes, he was his own man and a free thinker who had an extremely rebellious side. You see, Muslims eat no pork, while Hindus eat no beef. In order to display his disdain for his parents’ predominantly vegetarian diet, Mo would periodically stop off at The Clock for a bacon chili cheeseburger; take it home; and eat it in front of his mortified parents who were equally concerned about their son’s soul. According to the Quran, alcohol is forbidden but that didn’t stop Mo from throwing down a brew or five with his burger. Today, Mo has further complicated matters. He has married a Southern Baptist woman. I wonder if he has been publicly dunked and, if he has, my guess is that he still dances.
It concerns me terribly when I hear or see that “all Muslims are terrorists.” I keep wondering if I am missing something because I can’t hear that and not think about Hakeem, Mo’s father, and the few Muslim students that I have taught. None of them would turn out to be terrorists…would they? I despise how judgmental we have become as Christians. “Judge not, lest ye be judged!” Learned that at my grandmother’s knee. “To err is human, to forgive is divine.” In Don’s Evolutionary New Testament Church of Christ, it is not our place in life to judge. If you believe in God, you have been taught that judgement is His responsibility, not ours. Our responsibility is to help those who want to convert. We should not try to force our Christian values down the throats of non-believers. Today, however, I fear many Christians are doing just that!

Enjoy a great read for Labor Day. FLOPPY PARTS by Don Miller http://goo.gl/GIssEq

THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING BETTER
There were no baseball cups at my high school in 1967 or 1968, or if there were, no one took any time to explain the need for one to me. Instead, we had a chest protector with an extension that hung down between our knees when we went into a squat. This particular chest protector probably had been acquired when catchers still set up ten or twelve feet behind the batter and caught the ball on a hop in the early 1900’s.
IT WAS AN ILLUSION OF PROTECTION! IT WAS A BELIEF IN A FALSE GOD! Take a common household sponge and rest it against your face. Now let me uncork a baseball into it. Really, no one wants to do that? You know you are going to get a broken nose, black eye or lose some teeth. I should have known that a little extension, the thickness of a common household sponge, would not protect my little friends but bought into the belief that if struck by a bounced pitch or foul tipped ball, the little boys would be ok. In other words, the seventeen year old me was A DUMBASS! Just so you know a foul tip on to a cup will still take your breath away. A foul tip to an unprotected man part will make you contemplate suicide to make the sickening pain stop. To quote a friend who had tried to cauterize a wound with a red hot poker, “the pain was exquisite.” I knew exactly what she meant as I remembered a foul tip that bounced off of the plate and up into my chest protector extension making solid contact with my man parts. One definition of exquisite is keen or intense. Yeah, the pain was exquisite in its intensity and sharpness. It was also sickening to the point of regurgitation, and it wasn’t even a direct shot. Sick, Sick, Sick!
Strangely, somewhere in the small portion of my brain that was not dealing with pain receptors, I remember thinking, “Don’t grab them. Don’t grab them.” This I thought, despite the almost uncontrollable urge to do exactly that. “DON’T RUB IT! IT MIGHT SPIT AT YOU!” That was not very likely to happen for a long, long while. Even today there still seems to be an unwritten rule that keeps a catcher, or any other player for that matter, who has just taken a hundred mile per hour shot directly off of his cup, from grabbing his little friends. Even sportscasters will skirt the issue by saying, anything other than “OOOOh, he just took one off the nads!” Well, Bob Uecker might, but Curt Gowdy would say something about “…a glancing blow to the groin” or “he has just got the air knocked out of him” as the poor catcher was being led stiff legged into the dug out for an “equipment adjustment.” As the replay unwinds, over and over, you can almost hear the collective intake of breath as millions of male baseball fans react to an event that we are all too familiar with. Just in case you are ever in a sports trivia contest, Hall of Fame catcher Johnny Bench holds the dubious career record for broken cups, seven. From someone who knows the truth, this should be one of his least coveted records.

SUGAR AND SPICE

Excerpt from Don’s book “Winning Was Never the Only Thing…” which may purchased using the following link. Enjoy! goo.gl/dO1hcX

“Sugar and Spice
And everything nice
That’s what little girls are made of”
Nursery Rhyme-Robert Stanley

Few people know that early in my coaching career, I coached soccer. I have tried very hard to keep this a secret because I was always afraid that I would be forced to coach it again. I don’t have anything against soccer or soccer players; it’s just that they don’t think like football players. If you were to tell a football player to run through a wall, he would do it and then ask to do again. If you were to tell a soccer player to run through a wall he would ask why? The word why is not something a football coach really wants to hear. When I really think about it, I probably think more like a soccer player than a football player. Please don’t tell anyone.
The first soccer match I saw was the first soccer match I coached in. This was in 1975. The internet did not exist. There was no Soccer Channel or even YouTube to search for help. We had these odd, rectangular shaped objects made of paper called books. They actually contained information on a plethora of subjects including soccer. I read books, talked to soccer coaches and went to clinics to learn the game of soccer. A crop of athletic, soccer playing freshmen came through Mauldin in the late 1970’s and I rode them for four years. They won four region championships and an upper-state title to go along with a state runners-up trophy. I actually “retired” with the second highest win total in state history at that time, seventy seven. The game has since changed to the point that you can’t find my name on the list anymore.
In the early 1980’s our court system decided that girls had the same right to play soccer as the boys. Unfortunately the courts decided too late for the girls to have their own teams and for that one year the fairer sex was allowed to try out for the boy’s teams. None of the soccer coaches expected any of the girls to make their team but none of those soccer coaches had Laena Marie Karnstedt. Laena had played a lot of soccer and had a skill level on the par with my best guys. What she lacked was speed and strength. Laena made up for this lack of athleticism with determination, hustle, great ball handling and passing skills. She made the team as a midfielder where speed was an asset but not a necessity.
Laena had a bubbly and vivacious personality to go with blond Germanic good looks. I cannot remember if she had blue eyes but it is my guess that she did. Laena was of medium height and her frame reminded me of a cheerleader more than a soccer player. Guys know what that means. Ladies if you don’t, go ask a guy. I did not know what to make of my newest charge but decided to treat her exactly like “one of the guys.” I did not really convince myself and ended up treating the guys more like her. Those “good job” slaps on the butt had to come to an end.
I had never coached girls before and have coached very few girls since. Only one season as a junior varsity girls’ basketball coach and one as a junior varsity girls’ soccer coach made me an authority on how NOT to coach girls. I went into each season thinking the only difference between girls and guys besides the obvious, was that girls looked and smelled better. I found out by season’s end that there were huge differences in the way male and female athletes view their game. At this time, men were more team sport oriented while women were still learning. I also found out that emotionally men and women were just wired differently. Remember, the Mars and Venus book would not be published for several decades and I only had my experiences with a few girlfriends and two ex-wives to go on. Two guys will get mad, explode and fight, and then shake hands. Later, they will go get a beer and then, together, chase after girls. When women get mad they stay mad and plot how to get even. Women will usually wait several weeks and ask a question like “Do you remember three weeks ago when…?” Seriously, I don’t remember the football score from three hours ago much less some perceived slight. They will also try to get as many of their friends involved as possible. Another difference is that guys cry when they are very, very sad. Girls cry when they are very sad, very happy or when they are very mad. Guys have a hard time determining which of these three situations are in effect until it is too late. For this humble coach, women are at best, a conflicted mine field of emotions. Laena did not really fit this mold except… when she did.
Women have always been confusing to me. The only one I really understood was my mother but that was because she actually had my best interest at heart. Sometimes I even understand my daughter, but even she is not a sure thing. Laena was confusing when she wasn’t actually on the field. She reverted to the “girly” girl. She would bring cookies and brownies to practice. I never had a player do that before or since. They might bring bubble gum or sunflower seeds. Sometimes they would bring pork rinds. Never did they bring cookies and brownies. Whenever she was not playing, she became a cheerleader with all of those cutesy cheers you have heard before: “Chewing tobacco, Chewing tobacco spit, spit, spit….” She always seemed to be in very close proximity and underfoot when she was on the sidelines. I think it was because she knew if she was tucked in under my shoulder that I would not curse too much or if she made me uncomfortable enough I would put her in the game. She made me uncomfortable a lot. She even had a unique way of falling down which involved somehow landing on her butt with her feet still planted on the ground while giggling the whole time. Soccer players shouldn’t giggle.
Hidden behind her blonde good looks and cheerleader personality was a competitive streak the width of the Potomac River. Her competitive streak, along with a high level of technical skill made her formidable. She was especially formidable if you underestimated her because “she was a girl.” Please don’t misunderstand; Laena was a good person until you treated her like a girl. Then you should watch out because you just might get hurt.
It does not matter if you are a girl or not, new team members have to prove themselves to their teammates. It is an unwritten law and Laena was no exception to it. She came to me in private before practice and told me that a couple of the more Neanderthal of our guys were giving her grief about being a girl on a boys’ team. Not exactly bullying her but doing what guys do when guys think there is a weakness. Immature boys will try to pick any perceived weakness like a scab and make it bleed. She did not know what to do. I didn’t know either. I told her that anything that I did would probably make it worse. I told her to ignore it unless it got worse and then come back if it did. As with most women I have given advice to, Laena didn’t listen and decided to take matters into her own hands or in this case her feet. We had a one on one drill we called The Gauntlet. Everyone lined up in two columns facing each other. Two people went to each end of the column and a ball was placed in the middle. On a whistle, they had to attack the ball, gain control and dribble the ball to the opposite end of the column. To be honest it was a type of “anything” goes kind of drill that are frowned upon today. I can see Laena in my mind’s eye, running with a purpose, shoulders over her driving knees with determination written on her face as she went hard into a shoulder tackle. Before the drill was over, Laena had put both Neanderthals out of the practice with bloody and bruised ankles. Unless you count their pride, they sustained no permanent injury and had perhaps learned their lesson. The problem went away. Maybe women are the smarter gender.
As we approached the first match of the season an interesting situation occurred. It appeared Laena was the only female soccer player playing state wide and it was deemed news worthy. Media coverage was not something that high school soccer teams expected in 1982. This was still the era of print media coverage and sixteen millimeter film. We were rarely covered by the newspapers or local TV. Suddenly that changed. Laena was a star. She was interviewed, I was interviewed, along with team members, parents, ball boys, administrators, and my third cousin twice removed. No one ever asked what kind of team we were going to have. It was always the same variation on a theme. “How does it feel to be the only girl on a team of boys?” “How are coaching girls and boys different?” “How do you like having a girl on your team?” Blah, Blah, Blah.
Our first match of the season was against Greer. Greer, during this period, was known for its football and not its soccer. Midfield is the most strenuous position on the soccer field because you are running from penalty box to penalty box. I always tried to rotate midfielders to keep them fresh. Laena was in the rotation. As the match proceeded, I sent Laena to the substitute’s area to await a stoppage so she could enter. When it occurred, she was waved onto the field by the referee and a new era in South Carolina athletics began. Almost immediately she found herself shoulder to shoulder with a Greer player, fighting for control of a ball, and she went down hard on the ground. The young man, being a fine southern gentleman, did the chivalrous thing and offered her his hand to help her up. It was chivalrous but it was not smart. She took his hand, stood up and cut both of his feet out from under him. He went down hard right in front of the referee. He whistled play dead and pulled out a yellow card. She actually giggled as she received a warning from the referee. If she had not been accepted by her team before, she became a team member after her warning.
If this were a novel, the Mauldin Mavericks would have gone on and made it to the State Finals. They would have found themselves down by a big score, crawled back into the match to tie and then after two overtime periods, Laena would score the winning goal on a penalty kick. Sorry, this is not a novel. Laena and the Mavericks did go on to have a great season and went deep into the playoffs but no State Championship winning kick. The next season Laena had her own team to play on and I had moved on to Greenville High. I wonder if Laena would have rather competed with the boys. I have not been in contact with Laena since she graduated from Mauldin but we are Facebook friends and it appears that her successes have continued. She became a doctor and there are pictures of Laena smiling her big smile and of her family and home. I see two blond daughters. I wonder if they play soccer or whether they know what their mother did in the early 1980s. I doubt Laena has told them that she was a pioneer of sorts nor does she know what a tremendous impact she had on my own life. Maybe I’ll get to tell them.

Exactly One Year Ago….

From a suggestion from a friend, Linda Collins, I decided that I would call these rants: Tails of the Swamp Rabbit Trail. Tails is spelled exactly the way I want it. Also, don’t expect a weekly “tail.”
I had a great run Saturday if anyone moving that slowly can actually claim to be running. After much work I appear to have perfected the art of running slowly. There was less congestion, no pack riders and very little spandex. What spandex was seen was on people who should not be wearing it outside of the solitude of their homes.
Due to so much uncluttered time I was forced to do something I rarely do…think. What I thought about was how thankful I was to be on the trail this beautiful if somewhat humid morning. What made me thankful were the large numbers of people who appeared to be, like me, refugees from a geriatric ward. These were “seasoned” men and women who were trying to outride, outrun or out walk the grim reaper. I was particularly motivated by the much older couple who strolled up the slight incline using walking canes while holding hands. There was a young man who came screaming up the incline on his low slung hand powered bicycle, useless legs just along for the ride. AMAZING AND MOTIVATING!
I want to apologize to the three older men I met. Not for what I thought but for the fact my jaw went slack and agape when I saw the large expanse of white skin from their shirtless bodies. Guys I know it was hot and humid but you should not run without shirts. In fact anything you might do without shirts should be privately contained. My tee shirt had gained about a pound of sweat but I would never take it off in a public place. I am in pretty good shape but have reached the age that I now try to sneak up on mirrors when naked or partially naked. Despite all of the bicep curls I do, my arms are stick like. Pushups can’t keep my chest from falling into my stomach, sit ups and planks can’t keep my stomach from collapsing into my rear, and I don’t know where my rear is going. I guess into my feet because they are still growing to. Guys, I apologize for my facial expression but you looked like three very pale Mr. Potato Heads.
Finally to the cyclist I stepped out in front of, I am sorry. It was my fault but I was at the end of my LSD run. It is supposed to be LDS for long duration slow speed but due to the hallucinations I was having at the end of my ten mile run and walk, I call it an “LSD” run. I was not paying attention, thinking instead about the cool air conditioning of my truck and a glass of chocolate post run milk when I reversed in front of you. I did not hear your whisper quiet machine and I am sure you were just too busy to say “on your left.” I should have seen you. Who would have thought about putting all of those colors together on the same jersey? You actually reminded me of one of my grandmother’s patchwork quilts but I guess I thought I was in one of those LSD light shows. I also agree that I was a “damn idiot” but am somewhat concerned. First, physically I just could not accomplish what you asked me to do and I am really concerned about your eye sight. I was running and not riding a horse. I don’t think horses are allowed on the Swamp Rabbit and again why would you want me to do that to myself and a horse?

AN INCONVINENT TRUTH…OF SORTS

This has nothing to do with Global Climate Change or a documentary of the same name produced by a former Democratic vice president but I feel the need to express my belief that while the climate has changed as much as the South’s most revered river, the Mississippi, has meandered, both will continue to do so without help from the human population that inhabits our little blue ball. That being said, I also believe that, despite what superstitious conservatives say, the human population is helping to speed up and worsen the outcome of those changes and that Al Gore did not invent the internet. Hopefully the audience that is reading this has a clue as to what I just said.
There is a problem with history because it is just that—history. We weren’t there and we have to rely upon the writings of others in the form of what are called primary documents to attempt to put together the pieces of the puzzle that is that history. We must also view what is being said using the “light of the times” which has dimmed as time has marched on. Most of us, unless we are historians, don’t want to go to the trouble of pouring over dusty historical texts that are decades old. We want the CliffNotes or we want someone to teach us the history that we need to know and if it is an inconvenient truth we look for a different set of CliffNotes or teachers who support a more convenient truth. We also tend to look at it in the light of our times which sometimes reminds me of that beautiful “honky-tonk angel”… when the harsh light of closing time comes on…not that I have spent any time in honky-tonks lately unless Linda Gail was in attendance and she looks beautiful whatever the light.
For instance, “We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal.” Ever heard this statement before? Sure you have. Civics and US History classes or if you slept through mine, Fourth of July celebrations. Sometime in your life you have heard it even if you can’t remember if it is the Declaration of Independence or the Preamble to the Constitution. Which is it? Hint—July 4, 1776. But what did it mean in 1776? That’s right it was the Declaration of Independence but what did “all men” mean. We think that “these truths” meant “all men and women.” The old universal man because we are seeing it in the light of today. But “these truths” didn’t mean that. Our founding fathers could have just as easily said “Only white men of voting age who are landowners are created equal.” No slaves, no women and no white men who didn’t own something. Universal women’s suffrage would not be enacted until 1920 although women in Wyoming territory had the right to vote in 1869 the same year that the Fifteenth Amendment was ratified giving all citizens the right to vote…except women. Male ex-slaves would have the right to vote, although severely abridged, before women and Native Americans who were not made citizens as a group until 1924. I also believe that there are a group of old white guys in blue suits who wish it was still that way. Yeah I’m an old white guy but the closest I will come to a blue suit will be a predominately blue Hawaiian shirt.
As the Civil War is being re-fought throughout social media I keep seeing statement after statement, reported as truth, which as a history teacher has me reaching for the Preparation H or at least the Gold Bond. Excuse my indelicacy but, “It galls my ass!” The latest had to do with the most revered man of the Confederacy, Robert E. Lee and the most defamed man in the Union, Abe Lincoln. Over and over posters stated that Lee “freed his slaves before the war” and that Lincoln was actually a “closet” slave owner. I also something about him being gay but he never appeared to be too happy. From my research, I am not sure how many slaves Lee actually owned, if any, and he may have freed what HE owned but he certainly did not free the ones his wife, and therefore he, inherited from her father until 1862 when the point was mute because the Union Army had already taken over his inherited home at Arlington. Why did he not free them? In his own words Lee stated that he needed them to avoid bankruptcy “and to put things right.” Should this make him any less revered? Should we defame him for having the worst comb over prior to Donald Trump? Viewing it under the light of times, I would say not, but stating what are at best the half-truths in today’s light makes one wonder.
Abe Lincoln a slave owner? Except for a short stint of time in Washington, Lincoln spent his entire life in Illinois, a free state. His family was so poor that his father “contracted him out” to pay for the families debts. Maybe that is where the confusion came from. Lincoln was a type of indentured servant for his own family which is a type of forced servitude but he owned no slaves. Grant owned slaves, as did eleven other former US Presidents but not Lincoln.
While I am on stupid statements about slavery, “There was just as much slavery in the North as the South!” Really? Not including the Border States, which were considered Upper South and in which Delaware was included, only two Northern states, Connecticut and New Jersey, had not abolished slavery by 1848. According to the 1860 census Connecticut had no slaves to free in 1865 while New Jersey had a whopping two hundred and eight-six too many. And while we are at it, Lincoln could not free the slaves in the rest of the United State with the Emancipation Proclamation. It would take an Amendment to the Constitution to do that and it did in 1865.
I was taught that if you were unsure of an answer or were sure you did not know the answer try and “baffle them with bullsh!t.” It would seem that I was not the only person to learn this lesson. I have seen much bul sh!t lately whether is dealt with the Civil War, religion, gay rights or our presidential candidates. Anytime someone states an opinion other than yours, rather than take the time to look up and research a rebuttal, we throw out what are at best half-truths or at worse total lies. When all else fails we just call each other names.

SOUTHERN CROSS From the book FLOPPY PARTS

An excerpt from FLOPPY PARTS by Don Miller
http://goo.gl/GIssEq
Every time I run I listen to music on my pink IPOD Shuffle. It helps with the monotony and pain of mile after mile after…. With me for nearly every running or walking miss-step for the last several years, it has long outlasted several less colorful IPODS or Shuffles and due to its longevity, owes me no service. What is disconcerting about my IPOD is that it seems to have a mind of its own or, at the very least, is inhabited by a ghost. No matter what playlist I transfer to it, the Crosby, Stills and Nash song “Southern Cross” somehow finds its way onto the playlist. I even have a Jimmy Buffett version which doubles the chances of it haunting me. It is not as good as the original but not bad and when I hear it or the original I am transported back into my memories. It’s not that I don’t like the song, I do. I like it very much because the memories that the song invokes makes me think of a longtime friend who was for a short time the object of my floppy parts and affection. She left this world several years ago and I find that the song makes me a bit sad and introspective. After a while I do begin to smile over our antics from almost four decades ago as we traveled a bumpy path toward “hooking up.” If you have read the “Devil’s Spawn” you are ahead of the game. After teaching together for several years, we would both go through trashed marriages and without consulting each other decided to make the typical lifestyle changes associated with newly divorced folk. As a male I felt duty bound to go out and purchase the requisite sports car that I could not afford while Jane lost forty pounds in weight, which she could afford. Yes, typical, and for a brief period I found Jane riding around in my sports car.
Kindle Floppy

Lamentations…and Humiliation

I am a realist most of the time. I know I still believe that the Cubs will play in a World Series and our government will actually…well…ah…govern. I also believe that these events will occur before I leave this world and go to meet my deserved rewards. Really…most of the time I am a realist especially as it relates to my running. I am enough of a realist to grimace a bit when I use the term runner when describing what I do. I just have too much going against me to be more than an average runner, even in my age group. Look at me. No really look at me and say with a straight face, “Now there is a runner.” It can’t be done with a straight face. When I look in a mirror I see a gourd with shoulders. A mesomorph from the waist down attached to an ectomorph from the waist up. My gene pool did not assist me in my running endeavors. Now, sitting in my recliner keeping my greasy pizza hand separated from my remote hand…that I got.
I didn’t beginning running with any regularity until I was in my forties and didn’t commit to it until after a heart attack in 2006. Soooo, realistically I just want to set an attainable goal, work at it, train effectively, stay healthy and attain it. A sub nine minute per mile 5K ain’t gonna happen. Maybe one mile might be run in a sub nine minute time. Now I do think sub ten’s are possible or at least I did until today. The Ache Around the Lake is just around the corner. Last year I ran it’s up and down five mile course in 50 minutes and some change. All I need to do is shave less than a minute off each little ole mile. 49:59 sounds so much better than 50:00…but it ain’t gonna happen.
Since I retired from teaching I don’t even like to set goals. There is something to be said for wandering through life without a road map. How can you get lost if you don’t know where you are going? Running is different. I knew where I was going today. A nice slow, long for me, nine mile run on the Swamp Rabbit as I move toward the mileage needed to run a half marathon. A nine mile “Jeff Galloway” run averaging around eleven minute miles. Easy, I did eight and a half last week. Just a little long run from the railroad car at Furman uphill through Travelers Rest for five miles and then back again. Bull hockey! I knew I was in trouble during the first mile and a half. Half mile walk to warm up and a one mile…jog. I know my legs were attached to my feet when I put on my shoes but where are they now? Physically I see them but for some reason they have become very large strands of over done pasta.
Miles two and three of the course are actually the hardest part of an easy course. After mile two I said to myself “Firetruck it” I am going to gut this out. Too bad my guts weren’t listening or doing the running. For some reason I am singing an old Dave Dudley song in my head. Actually I was hearing “Six Days on the Road” over my IPod. There is a line that says “my rig’s a little old but that don’t mean she’s slow, there’s a flame from her stack and that smokes blowing black as coal.” I decided I was going to be Dave Dudley’s Rig. I was gonna bring it home tonight! It worked…for about a half mile. I really tried to believe it but then she passed me at the three and a half mile mark. If I was Dave Dudley’s rig she was George Jones’ Corvette and she whizzed by me on the incline like I was rolling backwards. I am used to being passed by young ladies and it really doesn’t bother me. Nubile twenty something’s wearing spandex and going fast are usually motivating. So are thirty or forty year olds. Fifty…well maybe…oh yeah! This twenty something year old pushing her baby stroller with two year old on board really bothered me. Worse than that, she was really–really pregnant with another child. The tires on my rig just went flat! A nice little three and one half mile walk back to the railroad car on flat tires. Yeah I can attain that goal.
#blog #amwriting
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