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PERSPECTIVE

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Facing my first baseball season after retirement I began thinking about players I had coached and coached against. This story from “Winning Was Never the Only Thing…” is about the best player, in my opinion, I ever coached against and a very special baseball team.

“Two, three, the count with nobody on
He hit a high fly into the stand
Rounding third he was headed for home
He was a brown eyed handsome man.
That won the game; he was a brown eyed handsome man”
“Brown-eyed Handsome Man”-Chuck Berry

The 1992 Riverside baseball team began the season hotter than any team I have ever coached and finished the regular season ranked second in the state just behind Belton Honea-Path. With playoff brackets already drawn, everyone circled the second game of the upper state series. Riverside would host Belton in the second round winner’s bracket game if the baseball gods saw fit. Unfortunately, sometimes the baseball gods get a kick out of not allowing things to happen as they are supposed to. In a game we could not have played any better, we lost to eventual state champion Lugoff-Elgin, one to nothing in extra innings. Riverside still got to host Belton but it was in the loser’s bracket. Belton had also gone down to defeat in its respective first round game. I could hear the giggles from above.
Belton was a perennial upper state power we had faced in the playoffs my first year at Riverside. I was almost tarred, feathered and run out of town on a rail when I opted to put their best hitter on with the bases loaded, even though it walked in a run. I did this rather than risking a grand slam homerun with the score six to two in our favor in the seventh inning. Six to three sounded a lot better than all tied at six. As I retreated to the safety of our dugout I was serenaded with a chorus of boos, accusations of cowardice and a couple of descriptive terms or phrases questioning my canine parenthood or when exactly I might have been conceived as compared to my parents’ wedding date. The hitter I had walked, Chad Roper, might have been the best high school hitter I had ever seen and in 1990 was just a sophomore. We escaped with a victory although BHP got their revenge later in the playoffs. Roper had the game winning triple in that revenge game and pitched BHP to a two to one victory.
As a senior, Chad stood about six foot one, weighed two hundred pounds and in addition to his ability to hit, had sprinter’s speed. On the mound Chad was also a pro prospect. He truly was the total package. Unfortunately, for him, a freak preseason horse riding injury had limited his innings on the mound. Prior to this 1992 edition of what became a mutually respected, if somewhat one sided rivalry, I had made the decision we were not going to allow Chad to beat us with his bat. We were not going to give him an opportunity to hit anything good. What should have been sound logic turned out not to matter at all. He hit two solo home runs on pitches that were well out of the strike zone. One low and inside pitch was golfed over the left field foul pole, the other pitch thrown up and way away was hit over the trees beyond the left field power alley and into orbit…around Pluto. (I spoke to several of my pitchers from this era and no one will own up to being the guy who gave it up) When I decided to intentionally walk him, he stole second, then third and scored on a ground out. We played well; he played better, eliminating us from the playoffs. We went home for the summer while he went on to win the State AAA title. I guess I should have said BHP went on to win the state championship, but they would not have won it without this rare player.
I have always had mixed feelings when a season has ended. You are sad that you lost your last game, on the one hand, and question yourself on what you did wrong and congratulate yourself on what you did right. On the other hand, you are a little glad because the hard work is over until you realize spring football practice has started so your own work goes on. After the great season we had just completed, I was a little sadder and questioned myself even more about what we could have done differently. As I puttered around the dugout, picking up gear, speaking to parents and waiting for the field to clear, I picked up a box that was supposed to be full of unused game baseballs and found it to be empty. I knew we had not used that many balls. We started with one and one half dozen baseballs and I could account for six we had used. I am not a mathematical genius but calculated quickly twelve baseballs were missing. As I looked around, I found twelve of my players in a huddle around Chad Roper. They were getting him to autograph the baseballs. There was also a lot of joking and laughing taking place between Chad and my team. That brought more than a little clarity to the importance of losing a baseball game. Mad at first, I suddenly found myself smiling as I realized how young people could put the minor bumps in the road into perspective so quickly. As disappointing as losing is, baseball was and still is a game to be played and not a life or death situation. Most of these young men would not play baseball past high school but would be successful in so many ways. My third baseman William Patton comes to mind. He was offered a full scholarship from NASA and it was not to play baseball. He was unable to find Chad’s home run ball either though I understand he sent several unmanned space probes out to try.
Chad was drafted in the second round of the Major League Draft in 1992 by the Minnesota Twins and spent ten seasons kicking around the minor leagues never rising above double A. He seemed to be one of the unlucky ones who were unable to overcome the obstacles life sometimes places in your way. Sometimes success is the biggest hurdle to overcome. I am sure some people would say he was a failure because he never got to the “Big Show.” I believe those people were wrong and narrow minded. Chad got to do something he loved to do for ten years longer than most of us and got paid for doing it. Professional sports are professional sports at any level, and it takes a special talent to get paid to hit or field a baseball wherever you play. How was that a failure? I believe it was pretty special and would have given up a reproductive body part to have had the same opportunity. My biggest regret from that particular day was not getting him to sign my baseball.
Inspirational true stories in WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING by Don Miller #1.99 on #Kindle goo.gl/DiO1hcX

“STUPID MAN TRICKS” explained in Don Miller’s FLOPPY PARTS $.99 on Kindle http://goo.gl/Ot0KIu
“Baby Boomer History” in Don Miller’s PATHWAYS $3.49 on Kindle http://goo.gl/ZFIu4V

BOOMER

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Boomer was named by one of Linda Gail’s basketball players, Cullen Gutshall, during a celebratory gathering to honor their basketball team at the end of a successful season. Celebration wasn’t an unusual occurrence as most of Linda’s basketball and tennis teams were successful. And as usual, I had been roped into assisting. “Have spatula – will grill.” Cullen had decided, with reason, that our large, beautiful, one-eyed and one-legged Rhode Island Red looked like a “Boomer.” I would have named him “Long John Silver” or “Lucky” for obvious reasons…but I am getting ahead of myself.
We had purposely not named any of our chickens for two very good reasons. First, you shouldn’t name what you are planning to eat. Second, chickens and roosters don’t usually come running when you call their names unless, of course, you have a handful of scratch feed to bribe them with. I should clarify that in number one I said planned to eat because I am here to tell you, “We ate nary a one.” Nor did we eat any of the “meat” rabbits we were raising; however, between the rabbits and chickens, we grew wonderful sweet-tasting tomatoes using their droppings as fertilizer. Can you say “organic?”
Boomer was either the luckiest or the unluckiest animal in my barnyard… depending upon your perspective. Unlucky because he was locked in the chicken coop with his son for an entire day. Do you know what two cocks do in order to while away the hours when locked in a chicken coop? I don’t know how long they fought but when I discovered the closed door and opened it, the yet un-named Boomer quickly exited having lost multiple feathers and an eye during the fracas. He had also lost his standing as the flock’s “alpha” male. Boomer did what any loser might do, he ran away and hid. He disappeared for several days until I thought I heard what turned out to be the weakest of “cock-a-doodle-dos.” He had managed to get himself trapped in an old lettuce sack and was in the process of thirsting to death. I had to cut him out as one plastic strand had become wrapped tightly around one of his legs just below where the “drumstick” began. The normally bright yellow shank had turned a shade of sickly gray. I feared he would die from gangrene but instead, several days later, the leg just fell off and he survived! Boomer was as lucky as any one-eyed, one-legged rooster could be!
All things considered, Boomer adapted quite well. He developed a gait that involved stepping with his good leg and then flapping his wings to get him back onto his good leg. It was a “step-flap-step-flap” cadence. When in a hurry, he was quite humorous to watch and as quick as you would expect a one- legged rooster to be. Unfortunately, he was not quick enough. Normally there were two times when he was in a hurry – to get away from the younger rooster or when he was “à la recherche d’amour” …and he was always looking for love. There was a problem. All the hens knew they were faster than he was or knew that all they had to do was hop up onto a fence to escape his advances.
Hopping onto a fence was how he got his name. Cullen watched him use his wings to propel himself onto the fence between two hens. After wobbling like a broken weathervane, he fell off, landing with a thump and a cloud of dust. Cullen laughed like the crazy person she was and exclaimed, “He fell off and went Boom!” After the third or fourth time the name Boomer had stuck. Poor Boomer was no luckier with the ladies than he had been at life. He eventually arrived at the idea of hiding in the shrubbery in hopes that “une jeune fille” might happen by. If he was lucky and a hen walked by, he would explode out of the shrubs and…well this story is rated for all audiences. Unfortunately, the hens adapted and began to stay away from the shrubs. I believe I had said in a previous story that chickens weren’t too bright. I may not have given them enough credit!
I don’t remember how long Boomer lived but I’m sure it was much more than the somewhat average seven years. I am also sure that his longevity was due to the special care and love given to him by Linda Gail. Short of playing the role of a pimp, Linda saw to his every need. Extra food, yummy beetles and caterpillars, a warm place to sleep in the shrubs…I should have had it so good. I’ve always said if the Hindu’s are correct and we are reincarnated, I want to come back as one of Linda’s animals…except the beetles and caterpillars.
Late in his life, Boomer took to lying in the sun in the one spot of the heavily-treed yard that does receive sunlight for a long portion of the day. He would stretch out his wings which were still inky black and the sun would reflect off of them like a freshly-polished black car. The red, orange and yellow on his neck were just as bright as they had been years before. I don’t guess feathers turn gray like hair. Despite his bad luck he had outlived all of our original chickens. In fact, he was so old that he no longer paid attention to the “spring chickens” in our small flock. That was how I found him on his last spring day. He had died quietly in his sleep while lying in the warm sun. When you think about it there might not be a better way in the world to go…in your sleep, contented and warmed by the sun.

AGING AIN’T FOR THE FAINT OF HEART

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It’s 1-13-16 and many of my goals for the year are in jeopardy. On 1-4-16 I decided I would begin the week by being productive, one of my major goals for the year. Really maintain and dig into the “honey-do” list that I will need another life time to complete. Do my five miler and then load my chainsaw, axe and maul onto my tractor. Time to cut and split a little wood and clean up some deadfall along with it. “Get back to my self-reliant roots!” No problem. I got a great little chainsaw, cuts like a “hot knife through butter.” Light and modern, its anti-vibration technology allows me to cut forever…if I so desire. The axe and maul on the other hand…and there lies the problem I think.

I had cut, split, loaded and unloaded about a pick-up load of wood when it hit me…or grabbed me later in the day. My hip is a little sore and became increasingly so. I had felt this pain before and knew it would gradually work its way down my leg. I joked with my wife, “If I can walk in the morning I’m going to….” I don’t remember what I was going to do because it became a moot point. While I could walk, it was too painful to want to. Recliner to bathroom was about as far as I could go. SCIATICA!!! I’ve had it before. Usually after the Wednesday practice of the first week of baseball season. Too much torqueing due to hitting ground balls or throwing batting practice. Narrowing of the spine due to…AGE! Funny not, I don’t feel old…most of the time. I know my knee is shot but mentally, when I sitting in my recliner, I don’t feel old…until I get up and go look in the mirror. “You don’t look too bad for…AN…OLD…GUY. Right. It took me five days of Advil and stretching, along with hot and cold treatments, to get over this. No walking, no exercise and no productivity.

Finally, I feel great. It’s 1-11-16 one week and one day since my attack of sciatic began and three days since it ended. I’m going to do an easy three and one half miler and then go out with my weed eater and a rake and do a little preparation for spring in my yard. Just maybe fifteen minutes with the weed eater and another fifteen with the rake. Just to test things out…I wonder if it is going to take me a week to get over this bout. I am at a loss. I refuse to give in to my age. Let’s see, there are only fifty-two Mondays in the year. That’s not a lot of productivity and will make a very small dent in my “honey-do” list. Being laid up in the hospital will make me even less productive. Decisions, Decisions.

A ROOSTER IN THE POPLAR

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Even when Linda and I have attempted to portray ourselves as actual farmers, more times than not, we have found ourselves in a cross between “Green Acres” and a gothic horror story…or gothic comedy. Most of these forays involved our attempt at “domesticating our animals” which at various times have included goats, rabbits, chickens or all three. I have learned lessons from all but will focus on what I learned from raising chickens…other lessons will be shared later.

I learned very quickly not to say “I need…” or “I might get…” or “We ought to…” in front of my father-in-law. I wish I had mastered this lesson before saying, “I might get a few chickens since we have a coop.” Never allowing grass to grow under his feet, my father-in-law Ralph Porter immediately went on a quest to get Don and Linda some “yard fowl.” I had to stop him when our flock topped thirty “mixed bag” laying hens and three roosters to go with them. Ralph had gone anywhere there might have been someone who was trying to get rid of chickens, tossed them into the back of his covered pickup, and transported them to “Hemlock Hills.” Rhode Island Reds, Plymouth Rocks and American Bantams Game Hens began to lay more eggs than we could even give away…until the wildlife came by to sample our “bill of fare.” We found out very quickly that our Reds and Rocks were fair game for foxes, raccoons and possums. Never quite getting the coop secure enough, we reduced our “flock” by about two-thirds. For some reason out of the coop the roosters and game hens seemed to be well-suited to escape the critters. So, “free range” roosting became a safer option… but that led to more lessons to be learned.

Of all the animals on “God’s Green Earth,” chickens must have been hiding when the Good Lord was passing out brains. My God, being a humorous God, decided to do them no favors by creating a bird that can’t really fly. Our surviving game hens who were brighter and more mobile than most breeds took offense to our robbing their nest for eggs and decided to take advantage of our free range farming techniques. They just disappeared. After a while we believed they had been kidnapped by Br’er Fox who had been shopping for dinner. Later in the spring, while sitting in my upstairs study, I was startled to hear the “peep, peep, peep” sounds of baby chicks emanating from outside the open second-story window. The game hens had laid their eggs in the squirrel nests high in our hemlock trees and were hatching them out. Temporarily struck stupid in amazement, Linda and I never considered how they would make their way to the ground. Their mothers hadn’t considered it either. Chickens fly only slightly better than rocks. Chicks? They don’t fly at all but simply make a sound reminiscent of a nut being cracked when they hit the ground. Returning from a local coach’s clinic I was greeted with the vision of sheets strung from tree to tree. Linda Gail had decided that sheets strung under the trees was a better option than running around trying to catch the helpless little things with a butterfly net which we didn’t have. My wife is one of the brighter animals God created and was able to save most of the babies.

As if cascading biddies were not enough, one of my two remaining Rhode Island Red roosters seemed intent on committing suicide. He was the Alpha rooster if there was such a thing. He was a beautiful bird with a mostly black body but with the characteristic red, orange and yellow feathers on his neck and back. He was also rather…confused.

One morning after an attack by the local predators I couldn’t find him. I had heard him but had not been able to locate him when I went on a search. As I walked away from his coop I heard him again, “Cock-a-doodle-doooooooo!” His crowing was coming from far above me. When I looked up into the tallest poplar tree in my yard, I spotted him. Had he been any higher in the tree he would have been on a cloud! Imitating a weathervane, he was swaying from side to side in the light morning breeze. He had hopped to the very top of the poplar tree, limb to limb, until he had run out of limbs. “So how are you coming down?” I muttered to myself just as he decided to show me. In a method resembling an old “football” death dive, “Boomer” as he would later be named, jumped into the air, beating his wings frantically. Scientifically, his efforts at “horizontal velocity” had little effect on his downward or “vertical velocity.” In non-scientific terms, HE FELL LIKE A STONE! Just before landing…crashing…totally wiping out, Boomer tried to get his landing gear down but to no avail. It would be his chest and beak that would stop his fall…all five times that he bounced. I knew he was dead and had visions of WKRP’s Les Nessman exclaiming “Oh, the humanity!” But Boomer fooled me. Picking himself up and ruffling his feathers, he looked at me as if to ask, “Hey, how did I stick that landing? A ten right?” More like “any landing you can walk away from is a good one.” Another lesson learned – Roosters are a lot more resilient than turkeys!

Don Miller has self-published three books which may be downloaded or purchased in paperback on Amazon.
A Southern boy comes of age during the Sixties in PATHWAYS http://goo.gl/ZFIu4V
Forty years of coaching and teaching in “WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING….” http://goo.gl/UE2LPW
An irreverent look at FLOPPY PARTS http://goo.gl/Saivuu

A PIRATE LOOKS AT…THE MOUNTAINS

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An excerpt from the short recollection “A Pirate Looks at…the Mountains.” The complete story is found in “PATHWAYS” and may be downloaded or purchased through Amazon at http://goo.gl/v7SdkH

Springs, my parents’ employer, was truly a family-oriented employer who wanted to give back to the communities that provided the labor and raw materials for their mills. Springs Park on the Catawba, golf courses, bowling alleys, and my favorite, Springmaid Beach, the benevolent owners of Springs provided all.

The facilities at Springmaid were primitive. Bring your own…everything. Built in the late fifties, Springmaid Beach reflected Col. Springs’s military background, austere and Spartan. Concrete block buildings built with concrete beds with mattresses thrown on top. You brought your own towels and sheets and were responsible for cleaning during your stay and before you went home.

There was a large dining hall that provided family-style meals at breakfast and dinner. You were responsible for providing your own midday meal, so we ate a lot of fifteen-cent hamburgers. After a day of sunbathing, body surfing or fishing off the pier there were evening softball games, volleyball, shuffleboard, or badminton that provided a family experience.

In the summer of my fourteenth year, I discovered that family beach experiences were not necessarily what teenagers wanted… but I was stuck. It was just the nature of the beast. I had also discovered the Beach Boys along with Jan and Dean and their songs about surfing, hot cars and most importantly…tah, tah, tah, taaaaaah, GIRLS! Well, I was too young for my driver’s license and would have been armed with a four door Galaxy 500 that would not spin its tires in dirt. I swam like a rock and had never been on a surfboard. Soooo, “how you gonna get girls?”

Dress the part! White cotton ducks, a starched white shirt with vertical wide blue-gray stripes and a black nylon shell jacket if it was a little cool in the heavy nighttime sea breezes. Accessorized with oxblood penny loafers and no socks, I was too cool for school! Dang that flat top!

The cool thing, and a prayer answered from heaven, was there were other teenagers near my age who were not happy about family beach trips either. One was a fifteen-year-old guy from Lancaster who had access to his parents’ shiny burgundy 1964 Chevy Impala Super Sport. Got wheels! Hot wheels with a 327 V8 and a four-speed that would spin its wheels on anything.

There were also teenage sisters who we found would happily ride in it, one fifteen and one thirteen. The thirteen-year-old was a slender and athletic brunette who wore her sedate two-piece like any other prepubescent teen girl. There wasn’t much to cover up. What has happened? Girls didn’t look like women fifty years ago. Beef hormones?

Can you sing, “Little surfer, little one, made my heart come all undone, do you love me, do you surfer girl, surfer girl, my little surfer girl?” There was no real “pairing up” but to be near a member of the opposite sex…who seemed to want to be near me…. “Heaven, I’m in Heaven…” for five days until her family took her home to…I don’t remember. All I remember is sitting on a bench that last night feeling the electricity of our touching shoulders. There was a very sedate goodbye kiss, but it WAS A KISS NEVERTHELESS!!!!!!!!!!!! Finally, something to write home about. That was a stupid statement.

I know, the title has nothing to do with the story, except that I was looking at the mountains when I thought of it.

Don Miller has written two other books reflecting a life spent teaching and coaching. They, along with PATHWAYS may be downloaded on Kindle or purchased in paperback at Amazon.

Forty years of coaching and teaching in “WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING….” http://goo.gl/UE2LPW

An irreverent look at FLOPPY PARTS http://goo.gl/Saivuu

GOOD OLD DAYS

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My first paying job was working for my Uncle James Rodgers bailing hay, chopping corn or plowing the river bottoms below the high school or off the Van Wyck Highway. Your first paying job tends to leave behind very profound memories. This is an excerpt from one of those stories.

Flashback toooooooooooo, ohhhhhhh, 1962 sounds good. Twelve-year-olds probably shouldn’t drive tractors but I did. I also drove a thirties model Chevy or GMC hay truck as soon as my legs were long enough to reach the accelerator and strong enough to depress the clutch. I learned to drive on a big 1940’s era John Deere Model A in hay and cornfields or on roads that led to the river bottoms. Six-foot tall rear tires, two smaller wheels in a tricycle configuration on the front, hand clutch that I could barely engage and six forward gears. This was John Deere’s first tractor to offer rubber tires. I sat in a backed bench seat which was unlike the seats on other similar era tractors. That is when I sat! Mostly I stood on a flat platform so I could see over the long hood that covered the old two-cylinder gas engine that at low revolutions made a “pap, pap, pap, pap” sound as each cylinder fired. Even at high revs you could still hear each individual cylinder fire. The Model A had been top of the line from the late Thirties to the late Forties and I’ll bet that there are Model A’s and its little brother the Model B still in operation today. The B was a smaller version of the A but it was not small. Driving those tractors and the old “one-ton” were the high points of my farmhand career…that and the two dollars a day plus midday meal I was compensated with for an early-thirty to dark-thirty day.

Excerpt from the GOOD OLD DAYS, a story in PAHTWAYS which can be downloaded on Kindle or purchased through Amazon at http://goo.gl/v7SdkH.

GUN CONTROL?

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I must be a dumbass. Please feel free to agree or disagree, BUT ON THE SUBJECT OF GUN CONTROL ONLY! Ex-wives need not reply. I’d love to hear from the rest of you. I am watching the President speak to his executive action to close gun sale loopholes and other measures. I must be a dumbass because it makes sense to me. From what the President said, I am not in the minority. Because I trust no one, especially politicians, I looked the numbers up and despite finding little information after 2013, it seems President Obama is correct to the tune of sixty plus percent. THEN I found a 2016 PEW Research Center poll and according to their site 85% of the population agree with background checks for gun shows and private sales. Over 70% agree with laws to restrict gun ownership by the mentally ill and federal tracking. So where is the disconnect? Is it just my own disconnect from reality and, I MIGHT ADD, the reality of at the very least sixty percent of the population…including a majority of NRA members? Are Pew, Newsweek, US News and the Washington Post all lying. Is this simply an opening salvo “to take our guns” despite assurances to the contrary and a Second Amendment? “This is not a plot to take your guns,” said President Obama.

If I decide to go out and purchase a gun and it takes me a few days or even weeks longer. If I am required to be licensed to buy or sell a gun or if an online dealer is subject to the same laws as a “walk-in.” What’s the big deal? Before you say it, “You are correct.” It might not make the difference in even one death but to me, one would be enough. “Good guys with guns…,” “The bad guys are still going to get guns.” I understand the arguments, but I don’t believe they are germane to this argument. Legally and licensed citizens will still be able to buy their guns…as required by the Second Amendment. Am I missing something here? If I am, leave a comment.

Is President Obama overstepping his executive powers? I don’t know… well maybe. Constitutional law scholars seem to be split to. From the USNEWS.com, “Obama’s assertion of unilateral executive authority is just routine stuff. He follows in the footsteps of his predecessors on a path set out by Congress. And well should he. If you want a functioning government — one that protects citizens from criminals, terrorists, the climatic effects of greenhouse gas emissions, poor health, financial manias, and the like — then you want a government led by the president,” wrote University of Chicago Law School Professor Eric Posner. But Michael McConnell, a former federal judge who is now a professor of law and director of the Constitutional Law Center at Stanford Law School disagrees, writing, “While the President does have substantial discretion about how to enforce a law, he has no discretion about whether to do so. … Of all the stretches of executive power Americans have seen in the past few years, the President’s unilateral suspension of statutes may have the most disturbing long-term effects.”

My counter question is, “If the majority of “WE THE PEOPLE” desire rational and prudent gun control, why didn’t Congress pass rational and prudent gun control?” Again, I may just be a dumbass but as I have said in previous blog posts “there are dark forces at work…” and there may be bigger bulges in our Congressmen’s hip pockets than in the front of their pants because of those forces.

Don Miller is a retired school teacher and coach. While blogging on broad range of subjects, Miller has also written three books which can be purchased or downloaded on Amazon and Kindle.
“FLOPPY PARTS” $.99 on #Kindle http://goo.gl/Ot0KIu
“WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING….” $1.99 on #Kindle goo.gl/dO1hcX
“PATHWAYS” $3.49 on #Kindle http://goo.gl/v7SdkH

DECISIONS, DECISIONS…ALREADY?

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It’s the third day of the new year, 2016, and I am already facing a decision. Not an earth shattering one…unless it is. Just a slight adjustment but one I hate to make…despite my New Year’s Resolution #1 that included the admonishment to “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff!” It is a concession to age and oh how I despise making a concession to MY AGE! For over a year now I have battled my arthritic and injured knee and my running. Over the same year I have mulled over my orthopedic surgeon’s prognosis, “There is a knee replacement sometime in your future.” He said other things but for some reason I didn’t hear much after the “knee replacement” part. I probably ought to get some clarification. I did make the decision to put it off as long as possible…which brings me to the decision to discontinue—GASP—running.

Running has been a constant companion since April 9, 2006. I had been a “hit or miss” kind of runner the decade previous…make it more miss than hit, but in 2006 I made the decision that I needed to make a lifestyle change. A heart attack will cause you to contemplate such modifications and, when it occurs on your birthday, remembering the anniversary of your heart attack is that much easier. I really don’t have a problem recalling the feeling of an elephant sitting on my chest and the fear that went with it. Because of that fear I made major alterations that included exercise and a new diet that allowed me to drop sixty-plus pounds. One of those alterations was twice a day bouts of walking and running. Mostly walking but some forty or fifty mile weeks of running thrown in for good measure. Since my injury my bouts are once a day and focus much more on walking than running.

My problem is not with the exercise. I can replace my running with more cycling and fitness walking. I really need to be more consistent with strength training. Maybe a rowing machine or a membership to the Y. Yeah I can do that…but what about my head? I should mention I once suffered from clinical depression…but not since I began running consistently. That’s the small stuff I am sweating. I’m not sure I can out walk my ghosts or the grim reaper. I just know if I don’t stop running I may not be able to out walk anything.

So the decision is made…right? As I walked into church this morning I picked up a bulletin and immediately noticed a runner on the front in starting blocks along with a Bible verse from Hebrews, “Let us run with endurance the race that lies before us, keeping our eyes on Jesus.” Okay…looks like their maybe a bit of prayer before my decision is fully made.

Don Miller is a retired teacher and coach who, in addition to his Blog, has written three books that have drawn heavily from his childhood and years in teaching. They may be downloaded or purchased in paperback at the following links:
“WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING…” goo.gl/dO1hcX
“FLOPPY PARTS” http://goo.gl/Ot0KIu
“PATHWAYS” http://goo.gl/v7SdkH

2016

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I don’t make resolutions but I do set goals. Is there a difference? Probably only in my mind as I tell myself goals are harder to break. Unlike resolutions I do try to create a plan of action to accomplish those goals. That being said….

I am squinting down the barrel of a rapidly approaching sixty-sixth year and once again it is time for reflection and assessment. I look at my goals from 2015 and find I was able to meet some, other’s not so much. The ones met or almost met dealt with physical fitness but I am not sure I did anything about my emotional and mental well-being at all. Consequently, my 2016 goals will reflect a change paradigm…I hope.

1. I will focus on the effort of my physical labor and not on the outcome. Running, walking or cycling are as important for my head as they are for my body but I am not going to sweat the small stuff…my knees on the other hand….

2. I will become more self-reliant and self-sufficient. No I’m not going to build an “end of the world bunker” but I will adopt some of the philosophies of my grandparents. I will grow heirlooms veggies and save the seed for next year…starting with tomatoes. No matter how hot it is in August, I will can the bounty of my garden. A few chickens…? For some reason I want to make cheese.
3. I will take control of my life and my yard and my home with it. I will no longer be a “rudderless ship” with a “honey do” list that grows longer while my life-line grows shorter. I will learn to work better instead of longer.

4. I will write something daily…even if it is just a shopping or a “to do” list.

5. If I write a “to do” list, I will complete at least one “to do” before I sleep.

6. I will read something daily…even if it is a cereal box at breakfast. If it is a cereal box, I will make sure it is a healthy cereal.

7. I will not let Social Media control my life but I will confront lies and unfriend poisonous people. Life is just too short.

8. I will be more aware and diligent of the needs of my family and friends. Again life is too short.

9. I will become more spiritual. Not just my relationship with my God and my Christ, I will become spiritually in tune with my life and its surroundings. I will be a good steward of my world. Again life is too short.

10. I will quit saying “life is too short” and live my life as if “life is too short.”

11. I will be the husband, father, grandfather, brother and person I need and want to be.

12. I will take time to “smell the roses” and enjoy the “little” things because “Life’s….” Damn, I have already broken 9…it’s okay it is still 2015.

I welcome you all to 2016 and hope we will all work together to make it a memorable year. May we all put our political, cultural and racial differences aside. As I embrace my aging “Spock” “Live long and prosper.”

GET AFTER ‘UM TIGERS!

/ cigarman501 / Leave a comment

I am a long time Clemson Tiger fan, albeit a bad one. I actually pull for the Gamecocks when they are not playing the Tigers. I have just had too many former players who opted to play for the “dark side” not to pull for USC East. Tiger friends, please forgive me.

I began my worship of football at a Clemson game in the early Sixties when invited by a friend and his family to go and watch my friend’s brother play at Death Valley. I guess that is when I became a full-fledged Tiger fan and began to worship before the altar that is football. Memorial Stadium was not the cathedral it is now but Death Valley sure did beat the heck out of Indian Land on a Friday night.

I got to meet the “minister” of the gridiron Tigers, legendary coach Frank Howard, and could not help but remember our introduction later when I went to a coach’s dinner featuring him as a speaker. The man was a riot and I had a hard time reconciling this Frank Howard with the same man I had met earlier. I guess it was his pregame jitters. A different time in 1976, Howard told a joke on Willie Jefferies, the hall of fame coach for the predominately black South Carolina State University Bulldogs. Howard joked about attending a State practice trying to pick up a nugget of information that might lead to a victory and noticed all of the footballs were painted dark green with lighter green stripes. When asked why Jefferies responded with a question, “You ever seen a black boy drop a watermelon?” The laughter was led by Jefferies, a black man himself with tears rolling down his cheeks.

My playing days were different from my coaching days. I never played with or against anyone who was a different color. When I coached I found out there was but one color that mattered on a football field and that was the color of the jersey you wore. An avowed racist of any color would help, hug, stand up for and drink after members of the other races during their entire careers. I hope this carried over into their lives after football, as well. Things said inside of the locker room might get you beaten severely or worse if they were said to anyone other than your teammates outside of that locker room.

I found myself in rarefied “coaching” air in the spring of 1981 while attending a coaching clinic at Clemson. Those were much different times to. The NCAA didn’t care if you had a coach’s clinic featuring the Clemson staff that ended with BBQ and beer served in sixteen ounce Hardee’s cups. They also didn’t care if food and libations were brought to your seat by very attractive Tiger cheerleaders or “Rally Cats.” Beer and BBQ! I would guess these were a Danny Ford party staple. There was even a “good old boy” comedian with a “tree climbing” coon dog for entertainment.

The clinic and entertainment portion was over and we were sitting around a table shooting the bull. I had managed to seat myself by the right hand of one of the “soon to be” Southern football gods, Danny Lee Ford, head football coach of the Clemson Tigers. To be honest I was more in awe of Jim Frasier. Seated across from me, he was the head football coach of the T.L Hanna Yellow Jackets. I didn’t know Coach Frasier but I had gotten to know Danny when Danny had been our recruiter at Mauldin during the Charlie Pell years. Danny had taken over for Pell in 1978 and was still just as “down home” as could be despite his new title. In his first full season in 1979, after a Gator Bowl victory completing Charlie’s tenure, Ford went 8-4 with a Peach Bowl loss. In 1980 the Tigers had a dismal 6-5 season and this was the subject of our conversation as we sat sipping at least one beer past too many. Had Danny been two or three beers ahead of me, he might have been in tears. He was lamenting being on the proverbial coaching “hot seat.” I remember Coach Frasier peering over his sixteen ounce Hardee’s cup, his eyes struggling to focus on Ford…or maybe it was my eyes struggling to focus on Frasier. “Boy” he said, “You helped recruit ‘em, all you can do now is coach ‘em up!” Danny and his staff must have done a pretty good job of “coachin ‘em up.” The rest they say is history. A story book 12-0 season and a National Championship during the 1981 Orange Bowl were realized and Ford went from “hot seat” to Southern football “Sainthood.”

This year’s 13-0 version is also “story book” but still two victories away from a National Championship. I cannot help but think about the differences and similarities between the two teams and their coaches. Actually, on the surface, there seems to be more differences when discussing the coaches. Aside from both having played at Alabama and “dismal” second full seasons, Dabo Swinney, this year’s “Saint-in-waiting”, would seem to have little in common with the Danny Ford I knew. Dabo is certainly a better speaker and Ford would not be caught dead “whipping it.” Despite a difference in styles, deep down I would guess there are many similarities when it comes to attention to detail and motivation.

With today’s finesse offenses it would be easy to say Ford coached a much tougher game. Strong offensive running attack and “snot bubble” knocking defense…WAIT! NOT SO FAST! It would appear you could make the same statement about the 2015 version.

Much has changed during the past five decades I have worshipped at the alter that is football. For the most part I think they are good changes even though it is sometimes hard to recognize the game today as the one I played as a boy and coached as an adult. Do I think our brand of football was tougher? Most assuredly! But I don’t guess Ford’s “three yards and a cloud of dust” was nearly as much fun as Dabo’s new version. One thing that has not changed is our pride in Southern football. “Go Tigers, Beat Oklahoma! The Orange Bowl is still ours!”

If you enjoyed this story I have written three books that maybe downloaded on Kindle or purchased in book form using the following links:
“Winning Was Never the Only Thing…” goo.gl/dO1hcX
“Floppy Parts” http://goo.gl/Ot0KIu
“Pathways” http://goo.gl/v7SdkH