This Explains It

Those of you who know Meredith know that she has a bit of an edge about her. In fact, she can be as tough as she needs to be when times call for it. This video may shed light on how she became that way. So, I guess I should say, "Thanks, John, this explains it."

The Haymaker

This video was made in the summer of 1987. John, Meredith, and I were at my parents house. This is vintage John. He was obsessed with boxing at this age. What I love about this video is my dad's laughter. He kept telling us, "He's got a real haymaker." And although my mom was one of boxing's biggest fans, she never condoned conflict in the house. So, she wasn't too pleased about John rough-housing with his grandfather. Watch for this in the video: John tries to get my attention. He doesn't actually say "Dad" or "Mark", but rather, he says something similar to "muhh". Funny thing was John and Meredith both called me "Mark" for years. People thought that I was their step-dad because of it. Who knows why they did it? You'll be happy to know that I did eventually break them of the habit. Strange kids...

Gaining By Losing

In 1995 John was selected to play on a baseball team that had high expectations. The team had been a .500 team the year before. However, they had two of the best pitchers in the league returning and a veteran catcher. In case you didn't know, pitching and catching in little league baseball is the key to winning. If you can't throw a pitch over the plate, you can't win. But after your pitcher throws a strike, somebody's gotta be back there to catch it. Seems easy, huh? It isn't.

In an effort to be concise, the team was great. We beat every team in the league except one. There were two divisions and we won our division, the other team won theirs. During the season, we shut a lot of teams down with our dominant pitching. At one game, the head coach asked me if John had ever pitched. I told him, "Yeah, playing around with me in the front yard." Next thing I know, John's out on the pitcher's mound. You need to know that we were way ahead of the other team. They had just seen our #2 pitcher for a couple of innings and he could really bring the fast ball. Now, all of a sudden, John is about to face the top of their line-up...in the first game that he's ever pitched...and I'm worried sick.

John had an interesting windup. He would get into what pitchers refer to as the "power position" and then he'd pause. Most pitchers go from the power position to the pitch in one fluid motion. Not John. Somehow he'd stretch his arms out as far as he could and then he freeze...momentarily. Then after the pause, his arm would start forward and the ball would come out like a piece of popcorn floating in the air. Now, you ballplayers out there are probably licking your chops right now, right? I can hear you saying, "Wow! I love those slow floaters." Here's what I have to say to that. "Pfffffft". :)~

Remember, we had just thrown our #2 pitcher at the other team. They were used to seeing a ball screaming by. Now, all of a sudden, they have to readjust to a much slower pitch...and one crazy windup. The outcome against the top of the lineup? He gave up three runs that inning. Not bad for his first time to pitch. Next inning...3-up, 3-down. For the final two innings, the coach put in our #1 pitcher and the batters were confused all over again.


After his first game to pitch

Well, that was a magical season. We won everything we needed to win except the very last game that year. We lost 2-1...beat by the other division's #1 team. But I can't explain the feeling you have being a part of a winning team like that. It builds confidence. It enhances your love for the game.

However, about mid-season, I began to put pieces of a puzzle together in my mind, and I was disturbed. The year before, the coach had given plenty of pitching time to the two kids that were now our top pitchers. But, this year, only John was getting experience, in a very limited role. What that spelled was tough times ahead.

Well, sure as the day is long, it happened. The next year, we were forced to use kids that had never pitched before. Can you say, "learning curve"? And, no, I'm not talking about learning to pitch a curve ball. We took it on the chin many, many games. Because of the special team from the year before, John had been accustomed to winning. Now, we were lucky to finish a game without being outscored by ten or more. And that's where he and I learned that we can actually gain by losing. Huh?

John wasn't counted on much the year before. We already had enough play-makers that year. But now...he was carrying the pitching load. And at first, I don't think he appreciated the pressure. But as the season wore on, I noticed John growing mentally and athletically. He began to understand his role as a leader.


The following year...THE pitcher

One game in particular, we were playing another team equally matched in talent. Late in the game, we were tied. We were the home team, so we had the last at-bat that night. Here's the setting: last inning, two outs, game tied, winning run on second base, John at the plate. I was coaching first base that night and I remember yelling things to him like, "Line drive! You can do it! Hit it hard!" I don't remember the exact pitch count when it happened, but John saw his pitch and made contact. The ball sailed out to right field. I quit looking at John and started yelling at our head coach, who was standing near third base, to send the runner from second to home. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, "SEND HIM! SEND HIM! SEND HIM!" I wanted the other team to have the pressure of making the play at the plate. They had to field the ball in the outfield and throw it to home plate before our runner could run from second to home. We had nothing to lose and everything to gain. The runner rounded third and I could see the head coach waving him home. I briefly turned just in time to see the outfielder throw the ball. Both the ball and the runner looked like they were on a collision course at home plate. Then, just like in the movies, everything slowed down..almost dreamlike. I remember the runner's cleats throwing up dirt as he churned towards home. And I remember seeing the seams on the baseball slowly rotating as it glided through the air towards the catcher. Both sides of the stands were screaming, jumping up and down, and cheering for their teams. The runner jumped into a pre-slide position just as the ball came down into the catcher's glove. Both the runner and catcher became engulfed in dust as the runner slid onto home plate. Then, suddenly, it became real time again...back to normal speed. The umpire looked down and yelled, "SAFE!". Game over. We won! This whole time, I had been watching the runner going to home plate. I momentarily forgot about John who had just hit the ball that scored the winning run. I turned and he was standing on first base...doing exactly what I was doing...watching the runner score. We looked directly in each other's eyes and he jumped into my awaiting arms. Now, I don't know how to adequately describe what happened next. But John and I both yelled in unison and our chests reverberated against each other's. It was one of the most exciting things that I've ever been a part of. I can still remember the "feel" of our chests screaming out in celebration.


Ready to knock the laces off the ball

So, when times are tough...when things aren't going your way, don't fret. Take a step back and look at things in a different light. You might be gaining something by losing. God usually uses those tough times to mold and shape us into something we need to become.

Plan Your Work, Work Your Plan

This is a story about a softball season where it all went right...sort of.

For some crazy reason, when Meredith turned seven years old, I decided to coach her team. The first year I coached was a tough. You see, there were so many girls that entered the league that the officials decided to create two expansion teams. What that means is two teams were created from nothing. My team started from scratch...no returning players...no previous coach...nothing. I assumed that the league officials would allow me and the other new coach to pick some older players first...before any of the other teams...to even things out. Well, that didn't happen. Instead they dropped us into the draft with nothing. Our consolation? We could have whatever was left over at the end of the draft. Then to pour salt on an open wound, they made us pick a number out of a hat from 1 to 8. Whatever number we drew decided which draft choice we had.

The other expansion team drew out the number "1". I drew the number "7". So, out of eight teams, I was picking right before the previous year's league champion. Six other teams were able to select players before me in every round. I was doomed before we even began. Oh, and I forgot to mention that I had to take Meredith in the 3rd round. Oh, and I forgot to mention that my next door neighbor had agreed to help me coach, but I had to take his daughter in the 4th round. Do you see how this was stacking up? Two picks...number 7 and number 14...and then Meredith and my neighbor's kid. After the 4th round, most of the kids are pretty much lumped together. You know, no one player is any better than another. So I had to pick two good players with my first two selections and then get lucky.

Long-story-short...I got lucky. No, we didn't have some magical year. We won only two games that year. My neighbor couldn't help much because of his work and his daughter quit playing around mid-season. I remember thinking that I had bitten off more than I could chew.

The next year, I went into the draft picking 2nd. Unfortunately, the two games that we won the previous season were against the other expansion team, which gave them the first draft pick. I made some good selections in the draft...or maybe I just got lucky again. At any rate, I went into the season with only one clear problem...who is going to pitch? I'll never forget the first practice. I asked my assistant coach to help me figure out which girls could throw a strike. He took half the girls to one side of the field and I took the other half. We lined them up and asked each of them to pitch to us. After thirty minutes, we took a water break.

Me: "Did you find anyone that could throw it over the plate? I've been fielding grounders over here."

Asst. Coach: "Yeah (laughing), several of them can throw it over the plate, but it might be 10 feet over the head of the batter."

Me: "Crap! What are we gonna do?"

We ended practice with no clear pitcher. One set of parents stopped by and said they would send their daughter to a pitching coach. I was thrilled; but deep down inside, I thought it was too late to make a difference. I told Angie that we would be lucky to win half of our games. Little did I know.

Our strength was speed. Our girls were fast to field the ball, fast to run the bases, and had incredible bat speed. And once our girls were on base, you'd better call 911, because the bases were about to be on fire. Speed, baby, speed! We went through most of the season undefeated. Only one team stood a chance to beat us that year and we had to face them near the end of the season. We had beaten them in our first meeting. But they had played without their best player, who was their pitcher. I'll admit I was worried before we played them and I think the girls picked up on my nervousness. We were soundly defeated that day.

The good news was that we still led the league because we only had one loss. The other team had two. All we had to do was finish the season without losing, which we did. But, then, the drama built. You see, every season they had a league champion and a tournament champion. How could we claim to be the true champs if we didn't beat the 2nd place team in the tournament?

I made a plan. I reviewed where the other team hit the ball the second time we played them. Over 80% of the hits were to the right side of the infield. Plus, I noticed that most of their scoring was done in chunks, with just a few players making the hits. So, my game plan was this: 1) Place my fastest player on 2nd base. She could gobble up anything hit in her general area and she was able to beat anybody to the base in a dead run. 2) Prevent certain players from hitting the ball. I told my pitcher that I would signal her when "special" batters came to the plate. I instructed her to wind up and throw the fastest ball she could muster. It didn't matter if the ball hit the back of the backstop 20 feet over anyone's head. I just didn't want certain players to have a chance to hit the ball.

The plan worked. I'll never forget the first time our pitcher threw the fast ball. The batter turned and looked at her coach with eyes as big as salad plates. It was a non-verbal way of asking, "How do I hit that?" I was so thrilled that our plan was working. But my joy was short-lived because the umpire immediately called me to come onto the field. In my haste, I failed to tell my catcher that we had a plan to throw super fastballs to certain players. And she, unsuccessfully, was forced to corral a "screaming Mimi". She hadn't prepared to do so. She didn't know it was coming. The ball ricocheted off her left knee, after the umpire called "Strike!" It took us a few minutes to find someone willing to stand behind home plate after that pitch. Let's just say that there was no line forming under the "Volunteer" sign.

Eventually, we found another girl willing to play catcher. The other team's best player never hit the ball that day. Nor did any of their other "big sticks". The final score: 9 to 2. League champions...tournament champions. Who da thunk?

That was a special group of girls...all champions in my book. That was a special group of parents...all supportive. Most of those girls probably don't remember how special that team was because they were so young. But when I see any of them today, I think, "There goes a champion!" You know, it ain't bragging if you done it.


Accepting the award as a team.
I'm wearing the red hat.


Check out the bandaged left knee
of the 2nd player from the left.
Her knee "caught" the first super-pitch.
She received a game ball that day.

Been There, Done That, Got the Bumper Sticker

While traveling down Hwy 34 the other day, I noticed the pickup truck in front of me had an amusing bumper sticker. I gotta hand it to ever wrote that one, because it made me laugh.



The guy failed to mention that he didn't waste any money on car washes.

Abundance of Life

I'm offering some more vintage photos today. As you may have noticed from my previous effort on Sunday, I've run across some old photographs. I was cleaning a cabinet over the weekend and the benefit was two-fold. 1) I threw away a bunch of junk which was cluttering our storage space; and 2) I ran across some old photos that I had to share with you.

These are of the infamous "Big Cat". This boy has been 200% since the day he was born. There are very few things that Daniel doesn't think he can do. He's very talented musically, artistically, and he's very bright. I'd like to take credit for two of the three; but, in reality, it all came from God. He reminds me of what Jesus told us in John 10:10: "I came that they may have life and have it abundantly."

Daniel is an abundance of life. Always has been...probably always will be.


mmmm...good


5..4..3..2..1..


blast off!!!


Mind if I take the car?


I dare you to throw me a strike


Daniel grew up at the ballpark.
People think I'm kidding when
I tell them his first words
were, "Good eye, good eye."
But it's true.

Princeton Markan Blue...aka, Smokey

When Angie and I decided to get married in 1984, I worked nights in the computer room at a bank and went to school during the day. Since I worked nights, we both agreed that it would be a good idea to have a guard dog at home while I was away. Only problem was we disagreed on which breed of dog to get. She wanted a Doberman Pinscher and I wanted a pit bull. Just like all good marriages, we compromised. She wanted a Doberman, I wanted a happy wife. We got a Doberman.

Smokey was a blue Doberman that we purchased from someone here in Monroe. Blue Dobies have a grayish-blue tint to their coats. Some would even call it smoky...hence the name. If you think Duke and I are buddies, you should have seen me and Smokey. We went together like peas and carrots...or maybe like Lieutenant Dan and Forrest Gump.

Our first home was rather modest...728 heated square feet. It had two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. We had one television and we couldn't afford cable. So we could only watch whatever the rabbit ears on the TV would pick up, which back in '84, was three channels. On Friday nights at 10:30, we had a choice of watching wrestling, wrestling, or wrestling. We usually chose wrestling.

Another problem was the TV itself. There was no remote control...you had to turn a knob located on the TV to change the channel. Did I mention that TV was used when we got it? After years of use, the knob had broken off. So, I had to use a set of pliers to turn the shaft that previously held the knob. As you would expect, I usually sat really close to the TV set. Well, strange thing...Smokey enjoyed watching TV too. It didn't matter if I sat on the floor, in a chair, on a bean bag, or on the couch, Smokey wanted to sit in my lap. He just enjoyed being around me.











But Smokey really loved Angie. He especially loved when Angie would lie down on the couch because he knew she'd let him lie down with her...or on her. Sometimes Angie would put her arms behind her head as she lay on the couch. If Smokey happened to walk by when her arm was poking out, he'd sit on her arm. It was really quite funny.











One of my favorite pictures of Smokey was taken the day I was gazing out the window. Much to my surprise, Smokey hopped on the bed and stared out the window with me. Angie walked in and captured the moment with a camera. Truly, he was man's best friend.



After John was born, we realized that we weren't giving as much attention to Smokey as we had before and it broke our hearts. Then, not long after John was born, we found out that Meredith was on the way. So we made the decision to find Smokey a new home. We learned of a gentleman who trained dogs to work with paraplegics and quadriplegics. We contacted him and allowed him to take Smokey. We later learned that Smokey was trained to work with a quadriplegic boy who lived in Columbia. We never got to see Smokey again but we felt good knowing that he was helping someone with a greater need than ours. We still missed him, though. He was some dog!

Winning Isn't Everything

I read a disturbing story comparing states on Yahoo News yesterday. Typically, Louisiana is either at or near the top of lists like these. Fortunately, my beautiful state didn't make the grade this time.

Check out the article for yourself.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090107/ap_on_he_me/med_teen_births



Congrats Louisiana! Remember, wining isn't everything.

The Theory of Intelligence

I don't think I've ever heard the concept explained any better than this.

A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Now, as we know, excessive intake of alcohol kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. And that is why you always feel smarter after a few beers.

Point / Infinitely Superior Counterpoint

My friend George sends me some of the best emails. This is one that he forwarded to me yesterday. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.



Luke AFB is west of Phoenix and is rapidly being surrounded by civilization that complains about the noise from the base and its planes, forgetting that it was there long before they were. A certain lieutenant colonel at Luke AFB deserves a big pat on the back. Apparently, an individual who lives somewhere near Luke AFB wrote the local paper complaining about a group of F-16's that disturbed his/her day at the mall.

When that individual read the response from a Luke AFB officer, it must have stung quite a bit.

Question of the day for Luke Air Force Base:

Whom do we thank for the morning air show? Last Wednesday, at precisely 9:11 A.M, a tight formation of four F-16 jets made a low pass over Arrowhead Mall, continuing west over Bell Road at approximately 500 feet. Imagine our good fortune!  Do the Tom Cruise-wannabes feel we need this wake-up call, or were they trying to impress the cashiers at Mervyns' early bird special? 

Any response would be appreciated.

The response:

Regarding 'A wake-up call from Luke's jets': On June 15, at precisely 9:12 A.M., a perfectly timed four-ship fly by of F-16's from the 63rd Fighter Squadron at Luke Air Force Base flew over the grave of Capt. Jeremy Fresques. Capt Fresques was an Air Force officer who was previously stationed at Luke Air Force Base and was killed in Iraq on May 30, Memorial Day. At 9 A.M. on June 15, his family and friends gathered at Sunland Memorial Park in Sun City to mourn the loss of a husband, son, and friend. Based on the letter writer's recount of the fly by, and because of the jet noise, I'm sure you didn't hear the 21-gun salute, the playing of taps, or my words to the widow and parents of Capt. Fresques as I gave them their son's flag on behalf of the President of the United States and all those veterans and servicemen and women who understand the sacrifices they have endured.

A four-ship fly by is a display of respect the Air Force gives to those who give their lives in defense of freedom. We are professional aviators and take our jobs seriously, and on June 15 what the letter writer witnessed was four officers lining up to pay their ultimate respects. The letter writer asks, 'Whom do we thank for the morning air show? The 56th Fighter Wing will make the call for you, and forward your thanks to the widow and parents of Capt Fresques, and thank them for you, for it was in their honor that my pilots flew the most honorable formation of their lives.

Only 2 defining forces have ever offered to die for you....Jesus Christ and the American Soldier. One died for your soul, the other for your freedom.

Lt. Col. Grant L. Rosensteel, Jr.
USAF

Knock Out, Round Two

In one of my previous blogs, I told you the story of the first time I was knocked out. It was a surreal experience, to say the least. Today, I give you the second time. This knock out was more costly than the others. The reason...I still have medical issues that haunt me today because of this episode.

It was summer in Monroe...early June, if memory serves me correct. Please note, my memory may be a tad lop-sided from this event. So, sue me if it happened in late May. School had just let out for summer and I had just finished seventh grade. I remember taking my textbooks and tying them to the back of my bike with a rope. I then proceeded to ride my bike through ditches and gravel...doing my best to tear the books to pieces. Obviously, this was the year that I started hating school. Unfortunately, I went through a period in my life when I thought school was my enemy. I detested it. I hated going to school. I hated reading books. I hated everything about it. Sad thing is I may have passed this gene on to my sons. I didn't ask for it...it just came on me like a demon.

I remember horsing around with some of my friends on the day I fell. Someone came up with the idea of spying on another one of our friends. So, we rode our bikes to his house with the idea of climbing a tree, waiting for the appropriate moment, and then jumping out and scaring our buddy when he came outside.

I remember sneaking into the backyard. I remember climbing up the sycamore tree. Then, there's a lapse in my memory. Next thing I remember is lying on the ground with three or four guys starring at me...in black and white...or maybe it was gray. Just like my previous unconsciousness, colors were absent. I remember asking for someone to call my dad. My mom was sitting at our house just three blocks away. But for some reason, I wanted my dad, who was at work. Fortunately, my friend's mom called my mother who arrived rather quickly. I don't know how she called my father because there were no mobile phones back then. I don't remember going to the hospital, but that's the next memory I can recall.

THUD! THUD! THUD! Yes, I remember the headache. I remember going to the X-Ray room. I remember the doctors entering my hospital room and talking quietly to my parents. I remember the cold, stark hospital hall that night because they took me out to the car in a wheelchair. Why did I leave that night? Well, what I didn't know at the time was that two patients had been diagnosed with viral meningitis that night on the pediatric floor. As a precaution, the hospital evacuated everyone from the pediatric ward. I should have stayed at the hospital, but the doctors feared the risk of contracting meningitis was greater.

So home I went. The doctor's orders were essentially this: bed rest. When I fell, I was approximately 15 feet up in the tree when a branch gave way. The doctors said that it was a miracle that I didn't break my neck. One of the doctors said that if my body had tilted another two degrees vertically, I would have snapped my neck like a toothpick. I could have died or been paralyzed on the spot. As it turns out, I landed partially on my shoulder and partially on my head. The impact broke a bone in the base of my skull that caused me to bleed out of my left ear for a week. I was in my bed for two months. I could only get up to go to the bathroom and to take baths for the first several weeks. Approximately one month later, I could walk to the living room window and watch all of my buddies playing outside in the beautiful summer weather. The doctors didn't want me to watch televsion because they feared the flashing lights might trigger headaches. So I sat in my room and daydreamed. Torture. Slow, methodic torture!

I spent two-thirds of that summer in my room. I'm not a big reader, so maybe that's where my intense imagination was born. Maybe that's why I don't act my age. Maybe I'm still searching for my lost summer. Only God knows.

That fall, during my eighth grade year, the English teacher asked his students to give speeches to the class as graded assignments. My first speech was about the knock-out experience. Back then, I didn't have enough courage to say "Boo" to a goose. After I gave my speech, I was expecting some compassion from the other students...especially from the girls...wink, wink ;) Instead, after my speech, the teacher stated, "That ought to be proof positive why you should never spy on anyone. That tells me a lot about you." All the other kids laughed and made fun of me that day. I started hating that teacher right then and there. Ironically, I went to a private school for my sophomore, junior, and senior years...and guess what? That teacher wound up moving to the same private school and was my teacher for three more years. I never grew to like him nor did he ever express any fondness of me. You can't say God didn't give us plenty of chances to work things out.

Around 1991, Angie and I lived in Mobile, Alabama while she finished her nursing degree. One week I was sick and couldn't get well. So Angie took me to an Ear, Nose, & Throat specialist. My sinuses had become infected and the infection was affecting both my breathing and hearing. The doctor ordered a hearing test during his examination. It revealed that I had partial hearing loss in my left ear. I told the doctor about falling from the tree as a youth. He carefully examined my left ear and said that he could see some deformity in my ear canal. He also said the week's worth of hemorrhaging probably damaged my drum and was the primary cause of my hearing loss. I already knew I had a problem, but it was good to get a professional opinion.

So, there you have it...my worst knock-out. Or maybe it was the greatest miracle that God has ever provided in my life. Had I tilted another half-inch, you might not be be reading this blog because I could have died on impact. And maybe...just maybe...that solemn time in my room that summer was the time when my imagination gave birth to the ideas that flow from my fingertips today. Like I said...only God knows.

The Short Bus

Some things don't have to be long to make a point. This video is only 10 seconds long, but it makes me laugh out loud every time I watch it.

Plus, I love it to see my kids being just as goofy as dear old dad.

Shake Your Groove Thing

Before Christmas, Meredith, Daniel, and Angie made a bunch of these ElfYourself videos. However, every time we tried to embed them into Facebook or Blogger, it wouldn't allow us access to a code. While cleaning my Gmail Inbox this morning, I went back to the site and watched the videos one last time. Much to my surprise, I was able to copy the embedding codes this morning. This one was my favorite. And, yes, I actually danced like that in the '70's.

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

What A Year Can Do

It doesn't seem that long ago, but last January, we were about to open "Oscar and Felix" at the Strauss. If you've followed my blog, you know that this was one of my most rewarding experiences in a play. The friendships that began during the play have lasted for over a year now. Plus, I've seen my three poker-playing buddies find the loves of their lives...and two of them have already married. Wow!!!

I'll never forget the first time that we read for our parts together. We were in the lobby of the Strauss with the director, Dennis, and Toby O and John, the two leads in the play. The four poker buddies were Matt, Michael Wayne, Steve, and me. We took turns reading the different parts. No matter which parts we read, we always seemed to go back to the ones that ultimately made it to the stage. I remember thinking that I was a rookie with a bunch of all stars. Similar to being starstruck, I didn't feel like I belonged in the play with these guys. Mikey entered during the initial rehearsals as the assistant director. But ultimately, Steve had to drop out and Mikey assumed the role of "Roy". After that, all the pieces of the puzzle were in place.

The run was successful and, in my humble opinion, was the most entertaining show offered last season. One night, Matt's sister filmed us. I watched some of the footage again today and decided to offer it to you. Every night, we tried to up the ante with something. Watch for this in the video...Matt slaps my shoulder after I say "twelve". I really believe he was trying to hit me harder and harder every night.