Offended by Bill Parcells

I wrote the piece below back in 2005. Seems kinda interesting over 10 years later.

For several years now, I have had the privilege of serving as the disc jockey for Decatur Central High School’s Spring prom, an event I always enjoy. Almost 10 years ago, at one of the first proms I played for them, Tim McGraw’s song, Indian Outlaw, was a big hit. This song, his first single, had launched his career into the stratosphere, and it was one of the most requested songs I had at the time.

That evening, in the glitz of the Hyatt Regency ballroom, amid a traditionally non-country-music-enjoying crowd, I had already played the song once, and had received several requests to play it again.

So I did, and that’s when it happened.

Some pimply-faced adolescent walked up to my table and said, “My family is part Indian, and this song offends me and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t play it anymore.”

Given that I couldn’t understand what about the song would offend anyone, and that it was the second time I had played it that evening (by request,) and that it was highly unlikely I would play it again, I replied, “I won’t play it again, look at all these people dancing, and I don’t care if you’re offended.”

He huffed, and walked away, mad, I could only suppose.

You see, the song, basically about an Indian stud, and not in any way casting a dark light on Indians, had caused a big brouhaha. Admittedly, the song is a bit stereotypical (at least, I think it is, since I really don’t know much about Indian culture except what I’ve read in Indiana history books,) but beyond that, I can’t really hear anything in the lyrics that should make an Indian mad. I mean, the song, more or less, is about an Indian’s sexual conquests, so I should think Indians would be flattered.

I was wrong.

Indian officials everywhere started popping up and saying this song was offensive to Indians, that it stereotyped them, portrayed them in a bad light, and that Indians weren’t like that anymore. Then they started calling for Tim McGraw’s scalp.

So – and let me just say that I usually think very fond of teenagers’ intellect – this kid, who clearly did not know his head band from his teepee, found out that Aunt Margie was one quarter Iroquois on her brother-in-law’s side and decided that he ought to be offended too. He had told me off good, and he didn’t like that I did not respond favorably.

I’m reminded of all that this morning as I read a story on ESPN.com about the coach of my favorite football team, the Dallas Cowboys, making reference to special plays in their repertoire they call, “Jap plays.” Apparently, Bill Parcells held a press conference and sometime during the 45 minutes he spoke, the subject of play calling came up, and he mentioned they like to call trick plays every now and then Bill explained they, “have a few… no disrespect for the Orientals, but what we call Jap plays. OK? Surprise things."

The ESPN story claimed that there was, “a murmur in the room of reporters, which included a Japanese journalist,” and that Parcells repeated, "No disrespect to anyone."

I finished reading the story and thought, “Why am I reading this story?” I mean, why is this news? Have they nothing else to report about? Is this still a story?

First of all, anyone who’s been in a room full of reporters knows that the murmur could just as well have been gas caused by bad media room catering. Who knows, maybe it was the Japanese journalist.

And secondly, since when is it offensive to merely refer to someone, or even a group of people? I know, the whole “politically-correct” phase has been in full swing for some years now, and I know there’s been about two million or so articles written about it. Which is why I’m so surprised we keep seeing stories about it all. The only time we hear about it is when some bonehead decides he’s offended by something, or when some journalist, (like I’m doing right now) writes about how dumb the whole thing is. And by the sheer volume of those types of stories, most regular people agree that this is a non-issue.

And yet, a first class organization like ESPN features a story about a “problem” so mundane it makes ‘em look like morons.

You see, a “Jap” is an abbreviated reference to a person indigenous to one of the many islands of Japan. Unlike the term “spic,” which was created as a purposefully derogatory reference to Hispanics, “Jap” was merely an abbreviation. And while the word “Japan” is only a two syllable word that doesn’t take that long to pronounce, “Japanese,” as in, “a Japanese journalist” is a bit longer. Thus, the term “Jap” was somehow coined to refer to any “Japanese” person.

Ah, but that’s not the whole story. One day, long forgotten, (much-like September 11 is now,) the “Japanese” army, under the orders of the “Japanese” government, decided they didn’t like Americans very much and blew up a bunch of our ships without being provoked, and before breakfast. All of the sudden, the term “Jap” took on a whole new meaning.

Four years later, after we blew two “Japanese” cities into oblivion, Americans felt better about themselves and the “Japanese” people didn’t. So we decided to start making friends again and so Americans, over the years, have now at least attempted to stop calling “Japanese” people “Japs.” Not because they are not “Japs,” but because the term “Jap” was not so flattering anymore, even if it did become not so flattering because they hit us with a cheap shot.

So Bill Parcells, who is not a Harvard major, but a football coach, calls plays, “Jap” plays, not because they refer to how a “Japanese” player, (or even a “Japanese” journalist) might execute those plays, but because they are surprise plays, along the lines of the surprise, before-breakfast play the “Japanese” once played on the United States.

Just a reference, that’s all.

And so ESPN, for reasons only God himself could ascertain, found some “Japanese” goof, who doesn’t know a football play from his teepee, and wasn’t even at the press conference, as far as I could tell, and quoted him.

"Bill Parcells is a brilliant coach," John Tateishi of the Japanese-American Citizen's League, a national civil rights group, told DallasNews.com. "Unfortunately, he is ignorant about racial slurs. I take great offense by what he said. Parcells ought to know better. He sorely needs more education on what is offensive and non-offensive to Japanese-Americans. I am shocked that he would say this."

Shocked.

The problem, of course, is that Bill wasn’t referencing anything that had anything to do with a “Japanese-American,” whatever that is. He was referencing something the “Japs” did back in 1941. And even if it is a stupid thing to do, he’s not wrong by doing it. And I can assure you, even though Bill did the politically-correct thing by issuing the pre-fab apology statement later, he’s still going to call those plays “Jap” plays in the locker room and on the field. Because the bottom line is that we’re all only politically correct when everybody else is watching and listening. When we are alone, or with our comfort groups, we say and do exactly what we want and how we want.

And so we continue to refer to things like “Southern-fried” chicken, or “French-fried” potatoes, whether they are or not, with no disrespect meant to southerners or Frenchmen.

We will say “Muslim” terrorists, because they are, with no disrespect meant to law-abiding muslims.

We will continue to call the pro football team in Washington the “Redskins,” and the high school in Tonganoxie, Kansas, the “Chieftons,” (don’t ask me how I know this,) and the pro baseball team in Atlanta the “Braves,” or the one in Cleveland the “Indians” (go figure) because they merely are nicknames that reference some former Indian or Indian culture with no disrespect meant to Indians.

African-Americans will still be called “blacks” even though they are not black, and “blacks” will never refer to “white” people as “Caucasian-Americans” even though we are not really white. And “black” people will still insist we “white” people call them “African-Americans” even though they call themselves “niggaz” and “homies,” which “white” people now often get shot for doing. And “black” entertainers will still make fun of “white boys” and everyone, including “African and Caucasian-Americans” will laugh. But Fuzzy Zoeller will joke about “black” people liking fried chicken, and ESPN will feature the story as the lead on SportCenter.

We will continue to call people from Indiana “Hoosiers.” Nobody knows why, and while at one time it may have been a slur, it certainly isn’t used as a term of disrespect anymore, unless you attend Purdue University.

And yes, even if only when we are alone or amongst friends, we will continue to call “Japanese” people “Japs,” as in, “Boy, those Japs sure can cook.” Because they can.

It’s time we all get over it.

Irma: My First Hurricane.

We dodged the bullet, it looks like -- for now.

Many, many prayers have gone up for us, and by us, over the past few days, and we're very thankful and appreciative and feeling very, very blessed this morning.

Irma could still shift today, I suppose, but probably not. And there's still a storm surge threat to ride out throughout the day, but we're not anticipating anything coming from it where we are. (We're also, as luck would have it, in a period of King Tides, which are unusually high tides that hit about once or twice a year, so that's added to the uncertainty a bit.)

For those who know me, you know I don't get stressed out all that often. But this storm stressed me to the max. My wife and mother were even surprised.

My emotions have run the gammet.

1) We knew what we were getting into. We understand a long time ago that moving to the place of our dreams brought with it the risk of storms like this. But we also reasoned -- fairly, I think -- that living in the Midwest our whole lives brought with it the risk of tornadoes (and floods!) and such, most of which you usually couldn't see coming. So we believed it to be a fair trade off. Even now, we still do.

2) Having just dealt with our house flooding in Indiana two years ago, and the subsequent upheaval in our lives it caused for the following two years, moving to South Carolina was not just the culmination of a dream, it was also the relaxing closure of a chapter of our lives we were ready to put behind us. To put it bluntly, we were just very tired and worn out after the past couple years, and were finally able to just relax. It was that relaxation I was hoping to enjoy for a while. For eight months, we really had, and while I was fully aware we would someday have to stare down a hurricane, I just wasn't ready for it to be this quickly. I cannot begin to tell you how much we were really just digging the vibe of our new home, and I'd hoped this monkey wrench would stay on the shelf for at least a few years. Shows you what I know.

3) I now live in the nicest, prettiest, cleanest, biggest home in which I've ever lived in my life. It's brand new and we love it. We've loved showing it off to our family and friends. Vanity will get you nowhere, I know, but I have no shame in telling you how proud we are of our new house. And while I have insurance, I am in no hurry to have it blown over by a hurricane. And after the aforementioned flood, during which we lost a great deal of our possessions -- including some things we can never replace -- we've spent the last two years reacquiring household items and furnishings, and since we've been here, we've had a great time redecorating, and basically just starting over fresh and new and making our home -- maybe really for the very first time -- truly our own. And we love it all. I did not want to lose any of it to a hurricane, really, ever, but certainly not this quickly.

4) Speaking of insurance, I still had a few things to tidy up. We have what was required, and needed for the area, and are covered for any major loss (except a flood, ironically) but we were not in as good of shape as I could have been. We needed a few things to resolve to get everything tidied up. That hasn't happened yet, but will soon. Dodging this bullet is a big relief for me, as I will be in much better position when the next one hits.

But here's the real kicker, and it's what I struggled with during the flood back in Indiana, and what I'm struggling with now. I know no matter how bad we might have it, others will have it worse. Even now, I know the storm basically missing us means it's hitting others elsewhere. I'm so thankful it has weakened so quickly and dramatically just in the last 24 hours, because that means so many others have been spared too. But that doesn't change the fact that many people's lives have been destroyed in this storm. Just as we were afraid ours could be. Many millions of people didn't dodge the storm. My gain was someone else's loss.

I know, I know. We can't think that way. That's the way life is, that's the way the cookie crumbles, yadda, yadda, yadda. Two years ago, my house flooded, and I lost a lot of stuff. Most Mooresville residents didn't flood. They had it better than me. Other's flooded worse than we did, and took a far greater hit than we did. They had it worse.

I see the pictures and videos from Hurricane Harvey and my heart breaks. I know floods, but my flood was up and gone in 3 hours. It flooded no more than 4 feet of my home. Some of those people's houses were completely submerged for more than a week! I cannot fathom.

What does this all mean? Well, first, let me be clear about something: One prevailing thought in all this resides around Global Warming. I'm not going there here, because I don't believe Global Warming has anything to do with any of this. It never has, and never will. I am a man of faith. Fail though I may, I still believe God is bigger than any storm, and certainly bigger than stupid plastic water bottles.

For those who say God has a plan for everything, and that this whole hurricane business is somehow just a part of God's big plan, you're wrong. You're just plain wrong. The idea that God somehow just randomly decides what to destroy and who dies and lives, and "I'm just gonna blow away this state today for no reason," is not Biblically correct in any way.

Here's what IS Biblically correct: That Satan comes to steal, and kill, and destroy. (John 10:10) That "Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour." (I Peter 5:8)

You see, every time disasters like this happen, we're always quick to blame God. Christians are especially bad about it. "Well, it's just part of God's plan." "God has a reason for everything." That's hogwash. The Bible doesn't teach that God just wanders around randomly killing off people, or whole neighborhoods, or whole states, or whole countries. Not anymore. The New Testament teaches that we are now waiting for Jesus to return for the final judgment and the final defeat of the devil. The days of God destroying the world with a natural disaster are over. (And that's why HE owns the rainbow!)

I know what you mean when you say, "Well, God just called old Uncle Jim home today." I know that makes you feel better, but what you are really saying is, "God decided to kill off Uncle Jim today." And that isn't true, and it certainly isn't Biblical.

What IS true is that God holds the keys to death and life, but as it relates to our final determination for eternity. If we choose to follow him here on Earth, we get eternal life. If we don't, we get eternal damnation. It really is that simple, and it will ultimately be God's choice, not anybody else's. He will be the final judge.

But as it relates to our time here on Earth, because of sin, we live in an imperfect world. (It's why God created a Heaven.) Because of sin, we are in a battle with Satan every day. Satan knows his final judgment, and he wants to take as many people with him as he can. The Bible teaches us that it is the DEVIL who steals and kills and destroys. You wanna believe GOD sent a hurricane? Why? Why is it so tough to believe that it was Satan instead?

Our broken world is a result of our sin. And we are in a war every day with the Master of Sin! Ephesians 6:12 tells us, "For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms."

In wars, people get bloodied and injured, and yes, even sometimes die. Occasionally we win a battle in the war. Sometimes we lose. And I don't want to go into a big, theological, doctrinal debate about how we can, through our sin, sometimes remove ourselves from the protection of the Lord, or even why God will sometimes choose to spare some and not others. Those decisions are up to God, according to His plans and purposes. I will say confidently that God did indeed choose to save some in this storm, for specific purposes, and maybe not others, and yet at the same time tell you that I can't even begin to completely understand why. That debate is for another time and place, and probably won't be resolved anyway until we meet Jesus again.

But I can say without equivocation that God didn't send this hurricane. The devil did. Satan came to kill and steal and destroy. It's that simple. He does it all the time, and tries over and over again, and the best I can do is to put my trust in the Lord, do my best to cover myself in his love and grace and mercy and protection, enjoy his wonderful creations and blessings as long as I can, and know that whenever the devil does end up taking me out, whether it be from a big ole storm, or just old age, I'm going to spend the rest of eternity in Heaven with Jesus, where Satan can't hurt me anymore.

And still none of that can completely assuage my guilt in knowing I was spared this time and others weren't. It even makes me feel guilty to pray for my own protection.

Second, what all this means is that I'm lucky, today, and maybe next time I won't be so lucky. The experience of living through one will hopefully make me better prepared the next time, and the next time. Because there will be a next time, that's for sure. All I can do is be as educated as possible, and as prepared as I can be.

Third... I ain't going anywhere! All this does is make me love the beauty of this place more than ever, and make me even more determined to enjoy of moment of it while I can, while I have them! I can't really begin to describe how beautiful and wonderful and nice it has been virtually every day we've here. Seeing the look on my wife's face every time she looks over the May River, or sees a dolphin in the ocean makes any hurricane we could face well worth it. If one comes and blows my house away someday, as long as my wife and family and I are safe, I'll rebuild it and carry on.

Because that's what we do. We carry on. We all do. Today, there are millions who need our help and our prayers. Please, please, please continue to do anything you can do to help ease their pain. Send money if you can. Volunteer if you can. And pray, if you can and are so inclined. Pray that God will save all He can. Pray that funds, and supplies, and volunteers, and resources will be there for those who need to rebuild. Pray that God will ease suffering, and pain, and anxiety, and worry. Pray that people will have peace in knowing that God is in control, even though it might not always seem so, and even though we might lose some to this battle, we'll ultimately win the war with God's helping hand.

That's my prayers. Today, it looks like we were the lucky ones. If we're not the next time, then I would hope those prayers and help will come my way.

I'm thankful. I'm very, very thankful.

Pete Rose

Here's the thing about Pete Rose:

It's time to just move on.

Everybody knows I'm a huge (YUUUGE! -- see what I did there?) Cincinnati Reds fan. My Reds memorabilia room is becoming the stuff of legend, and a big part of that room is dedicated to the Big Red Machine. And without Pete Rose, there simply is no Big Red Machine.

Some would say I'm biased. I, along with the many thousands of other Pete Rose fans out there, are accused frequently of simply being blinded to the realities of not only Rose's life, but his character.

And my answer to that is, "No. No we're not."

And it isn't that we don't care. It's more simply that at the end of the day, it doesn't matter anymore.

Let me explain.

First, we must all remember why Pete Rose is so loved by his fans. It is, quite simply, because he was one of the best baseball players to ever play the game. His records are endless, and his style of play was like no one else before or after. His nickname of "Charlie Hustle" is not only apropos, but it is one of the greatest nicknames ever given a player.

His countless MLB records, not the least of which is the All-Time Hits record, speak for themselves. He was a winner on the field, playing in more winning games than any other player in history, and he represented an attitude and toughness that was unique to the city of Cincinnati, and to the millions of Reds fans who grew up, like me, watching him play.

He was not loved because he was a great guy. And let's keep something in mind here -- very few professional athletes ever are. Hardly any, in fact. That's not to say there aren't great guys out there. Rather, it speaks to the reality that most athlete's level of fame is based on their abilities. The better they are, the more popular they become. The more they win, and the bigger numbers they put up, the more famous they become. It usually is only until after this fact that we as a fan base show any real interest in whether or not the person is a good guy, or a creep.

And even THEN, that perception we have of them is most often fashioned by the media's coverage of them. Generally speaking, in today's world, if the athlete has a contentious relationship with the media, they very much tend to be covered in a negative light, no matter how good the guy is in the community. And that often sways what the public thinks of him.

That was most recently seen in Redsland with Ken Griffey, Jr. His heralded arrival in Cincinnati was derailed by devastating injuries, and he was never really able to live up to the stardom he'd reached in Seattle. As such, the Reds floundered throughout the early 2000's and in the media, Junior came to be seen as the poster boy for the Reds' futility. He was also far more interested in talking about his family and others than he was in talking about himself and baseball, and could sometimes be surly when pressed to do the latter. Consequently, his relationship with the local media soured, and public opinion of him began to wane.

Meanwhile, he was a huge philanthropic force in the community, donating and helping raise hundreds of thousands of dollars per year for local charities, with countless acts of kindness behind the scenes going largely unreported, all the while playing hurt, when he could crawl his way on the field, sometimes with medical-defying injuries.

Public opinion of Junior swayed to the point that he actually wanted out of the city, a mere eight years after demanding a trade back to his home town.

What we know now, after the last 30 years or so, is that Pete Rose is a creep. Outside of the ballpark. Between the lines, he was a winner. He was accessible to the fans -- still is, in fact -- relishing their praise and returning it with hard-nosed hustle and a never-lose mentality. And in the clubhouse, he was a great interview, always cordial with the scribes, and an all-around likable guy. And that's why he was loved then, and is loved now.

Back in the day, fans didn't love Ty Cobb because he was a racist buttface. They loved him because he was a one of the greatest hitters of all time. Fans didn't love Babe Ruth because he was a fat party animal. They loved him because he was the greatest home run hitter of all time. Fans didn't love Mickey Mantle because he was a womanizing alcoholic. They loved him because he was a winner, and hit prodigious home runs. Fans didn't love Johnny Bench because he could be a surly jerk to fans out in public who tried to invade his privacy. Fans loved him because he was, hands down, the best catcher to ever play the game. Fans didn't love Mark McGuire because he was a steroid abuser, or Sammy Sosa because he corked his bats. They loved them because they captivated the world with the greatest home run race ever seen in baseball. Fans didn't love Barry Bonds... well, fans didn't love Barry Bonds.

Conversely, fans didn't love Lou Gehrig because he bravely battled ALS. That was after the fact. They loved him because he was one of the best ball players to ever play. They didn't love Hank Aaron because he was a nice guy. They loved him because he broke mythic-like records. Jackie Robinson certainly didn't make many fans because he was black.

I'm speaking in general terms, of course. Many fans will have some story about why some fringe, non-All Star player is their favorite because he was nice to their kid, or otherwise displayed some generosity or act of kindness that endeared them forever. And of course, some other fan will harbor ill feelings towards a particular player forever because that player refused an autograph, or in the heat of the moment otherwise was rude or unkind to the fan. Happens all the time.

So the sad reality is that Pete Rose, on a personal basis, is just kind of a lousy guy. He's a gambler, was a tax-dodger, and, if current allegations are to be believed, perhaps a pedophile.

The apologist in me can say, well, the details in all those issues are murky, at best. Think what you want about his gambling problems and accusations. The truth is, MLB's handling of that entire situation is highly suspect, with Commissioner Bart Giamatti and MLB counsel, John Dowd, engaging in some pretty backhanded tactics throughout. And the Hall of Fame's subsequent rule change (after Pete's suspension) making permanently banned players completely ineligible for the HOF ballot, conveniently months before Pete would have been placed on said ballot, is absolutely laughable.

There are those who believe that Pete's conviction for tax evasion in the early 90's was little more than a witch hunt, given the amount of tax that was evaded, and the fact that despite the "mountain of evidence" MLB claimed to have regarding Rose's gambling allegations, they simply couldn't prosecute him on anything.

And now, information comes to light about an affair Rose had 40 years ago with a girl he "thought" was at least 16 years old (while he was 34, and married) and her acknowledgement that the affair started when she was "14 or 15" and that it went on for years. Interestingly, her allegations aren't accusatory at all. All in all, it seems to have been consensual, and there's no hint of assault or coercion, or any such thing that would indicate this girl was being taken advantage of against her will, and certainly doesn't rise to the level of the allegations by Dowd that Rose was routinely having 12-14 year old girls paraded to him for sex in the 1980's, allegations for which Rose is now suing Dowd for defamation.

None of that will make a difference to those who will see nothing in this but sick, illegal pedophilia. And I get that, I really do. There's something to be said for the question of how I would feel if it were my own 14, 15, or 16 year-old daughter with whom Rose was having sex. (I don't actually have a daughter, but you get the point.)

And none of any of that changes the fact the Rose was one heck of a baseball player inside the ballpark, and one heck of a bad dude outside of it.

Rose has been banished from MLB -- the only real thing he's ever known in his adult life -- for the last 28 years. That's longer than a lot of prison sentences for pedophiles. And last year's MLB ruling against Rose's application for reinstatement means that that banishment will remain in place for a good many more years, at least.

But what they DID do, is basically say to the Reds (and the Phillies), "Hey, we're not gonna reinstate him, but at the team level, feel free to honor him however you wish." Which was the right thing to do, because at the end of the day, it is the fans in Cincinnati (and Philadelphia) who really wanted to see him get his due, from a baseball perspective. His popularity outside of those cities, though better than average, is marginal at best.

And so, the Reds have spent the last two years honoring Rose and bestowing on him the accolades and awards he deserves as one of the best baseball players ever to play the game. They officially retired his number, named him to their team hall of fame, and erected a statue of him outside the ballpark. All befitting a player of his caliber, and ONLY because of his accomplishments as a baseball player.

And that's important to remember. All of those recognitions were done under the banner of his performance as a baseball player, and nothing else. Because the truth is, those of us who know anything about Pete Rose already know what kind of a guy he was -- and maybe, still is. You think I didn't know Pete Rose was a creep? Of course I did. These most recent allegations don't change a thing. You think the Cincinnati Reds organization didn't know what kind of guy Pete Rose was? Of course they do. And the reality is, it simply doesn't matter to us.

And that's why it's just time we all move on. Pete has gotten his awards with the Reds. Awards he richly deserves for the player he was, notwithstanding the person he was. Fans got the chance to properly honor him for that play, an exercise they were robbed of by MLB 28 years ago. Because, you see, it wasn't Pete Rose they were punishing when they banned him from the game. It was the fans. Every young boy, perhaps fatherless, like myself, whose life was given a little more meaning each night Rose laid it all out on the field, was robbed of the chance to say thanks in their own, personal way.

But, like me, those little boys grew up, and mostly learned along the way that being able to hit a baseball better than most people on the planet doesn't necessarily make one a man of great character.

I learned how to play hard, give it everything you got, always hustle and play to win from Pete Rose. I also learned that being a dad and a husband the way Pete Rose was wasn't going to get me all that far in life.

Going back now and yanking down those awards and statues isn't going to change any of that. All it's going to do is prolong the parts of the Pete Rose story that we all knew was there, but were more than willing to just move past and be done with. We're not sweeping it under the statue. We know the statue wasn't put there because of his character.

Pete Rose is an old man. And those of us who are is fans know just about all there is to know about him. There's not much new to learn. He was one of the greatest players to ever play the game, and outside of that, he's a pretty shady guy. We're more than happy to honor him for his achievements, and we're OK to let him just fade away for the parts of his life he chose to screw up.

Its time to just move on and be done with it.

Were the Reds Racists?

As most know, I am a huge Cincinnati Reds fan.

It was the 1970’s when I first got interested in and started watching baseball. And in the ’70’s, if you were watching baseball, you were probably watching the Big Red Machine pound on someone. Hard not to become a fan.

Being as objective as I can, the Big Red Machine is considered one of the greatest teams of all time, right up there with the 1927 Yankees. The everyday starting lineup of their World Series winning years of 1975 and 1976, known as the “Great 8,” is widely considered to be the best everyday starting lineup ever fielded. When starting together, they were virtually unbeatable.

That lineup alone featured 4 different MVP winners, collecting six MVP awards, four home run titles, six RBI titles, seven hits titles, six runs titles, three batting titles, 26 Gold Gloves and a staggering 65 All-Star selections. Among them, there are 3 Hall of Famers, a fourth in Pete Rose, who would be if he weren’t banned from the game, and a fifth, Dave Concepcion, who deserves to be inducted but isn’t, despite his overall stats being better than most other shortstops who are already in the HOF.

It’s staggering how good they were, and much more could be written about their greatness.

But there is something else that set that team apart from others of their era.

Among the Great 8, there were 2 white players, 3 black players and 3 latino players. One of them is my favorite all-time player — my baseball hero — Dave Concepcion, who hails from Venezuela. A picture of him hangs on my living room wall.

Of the Hall of Famers, there is one from each ethnicity. In fact, of the whole Reds roster in 1976, 59% was white, 21% was black, and 21% was latino. This, during a year that, according to SABR.org, saw all of baseball at just over 70% white,18% black, and just over 11% latino. Heck, according to the same site, MLB had no players of Asian decent in 1976. But the Reds had a player on their roster named Mike Lum, who, while technically American, having been born and raised in Hawaii (the only Hawaiian in baseball at the time) was of Japanese decent, and is noted as the first such player ever in the Major Leagues.

So, as it turns out, not only were the Reds the superior team on the field in the mid 70’s, they were also superior to all of baseball in terms of ethnic diversity. Even by today’s standards, their diversity would be ethnically superior to all others.

Why do I tell you all this? Well, first, let me say that I never cared about those ethnic statistics. I never researched them until now. Overall, I knew of the ethnic diversity of that team, but never knew the actual numbers until researching this blog.

The truth is that I never cared about who was black, white or latino on that team. I still don’t. As a kid, it never occurred to me that Dave Concepcion was a foreigner, let alone Venezuelan. I never paid attention to the fact that Joe Morgan was black, or Johnny Bench was white. The only thing in my mind that distinguished Pete Rose was his hustle and head first slides. The only thing that stood out about George Foster was his monster home runs. Did you know Foster was the only player in MLB to hit over 50 home runs in a season between 1961 — when Roger Maris hit 61 — and 1990, when Cecil Field hit 51? I did. It never occurred to me that he was black.

Truthfully, it wasn’t until I was well into my adult years that their diversity even became apparent to me. I honestly do not remember, prior to the age of, say 20 or so, ever thinking, “you know, he’s a black guy, and he was Cuban, and he was white.” It simply never crossed my mind.

But somewhere along the line, it did. And that’s the purpose of this blog.

In the past days, I’ve gotten into another heated discussion on Facebook. (Shocking, yeah?) The same cast of characters all pretty much spouting the same things, and yet no one, really, getting the actual point.

The discussion centered around the issue of a group of black students at Harvard getting ready to hold their own graduation ceremony, in addition to, but separate from, the regular graduation ceremony Harvard holds for everyone. Even though they say all races and ethnicities are invited, the event, according the article I read, is called “Black Commencement 2017, (and) is the first university-wide ceremony for black students at Harvard and is designed to celebrate their unique struggles and achievements at an elite institution that has been grappling with its historic ties to slavery.”

So it’s a black graduation ceremony, make no bones about it. And it is designed for, and will cater to, black students. Which is all fine and good, I guess, as long as you’re a black student.

During the heated discussion on FB, I was asked, “what expressions of the black experience have you been okay with?” And my response was unequivocal:

None. None at all.

But before you go nuts, let me explain, because “none” is not quite accurate, so let me clarify.

I’m not a racist. Anyone who knows me well will confirm that. I know that’s what most white people say, especially when they’re trying to convince others they’re not racist. They try to tell you how many black friends they have. And I have some, but not many. Those with whom I am friends know I'm not a racist. At least not by the real definitions of racism. (By today’s societal definition, I’m probably close to leading the KKK.) But by any real standard, I’m not.

That’s not to say I don’t see race. We all do. In the same ways we notice that some people are blonde, or have dark hair, or bald, or are overweight, or thin, or tall, or short, we also notice the color of their skin and their ethnicities. It’s unavoidable, and if you say you don’t, you’re probably lying. Real interracial friends not only notice those differences, but can joke about them, and not be offended.

The definitions of racism lie in what we think when we see those differences. What we really think, and the conclusions we make about someone’s character — absent of any other data —when the skin tones are noticed. And ultimately, how we treat the person based on those conclusions.

As most rational people know, race and ethnicity alone have absolutely nothing to do with a person’s character. White, black, asian, latino — those traits alone have no bearing on whether someone’s a great guy, or a jerk. They matter not whether you’re a criminal, or a law-abiding citizen. And they certainly don’t make you a better baseball player than the next guy. (Although, to be completely fair, regardless of race, there are physical attributes that play a large role in determining someone’s athletic ability. But that’s a topic for another time.)

Rather, there are vast cultural, economic, familial, and social aspects that ultimately determine someone’s character. And we’d be lying if we didn’t say that sometimes sheer, dumb luck — good or bad — can play into someone’s ultimate lot in life. But the reality is that race or ethnicity alone have very little to do with it.

I have found that most who disagree with me on that assessment have their issues confused. For example, simply being black isn’t necessarily the same thing as growing up in a black neighborhood. Heck, you don’t even have to be black to grow up in a black neighborhood. If you’re a black man growing up on the streets of East LA, being black doesn’t define your character. Who you choose to associate with, how you spend your time, what you interest yourself in, and even some things you might not have any control over, such as your economic status and living conditions do.

Likewise, if you grow up in a white, affluent neighborhood, the color of your skin doesn’t define your character. A whole host of other factors do. And without bogging us down in a discussion about what some believe to be white privilege, the bottom line is what kind of person you decide to be comes down to you, and little else. Other outside factors can certainly influence you, but at the end of the day, you, and you alone, decide what type of person you want to be.

Racism — real racism — ignores all this and not only makes its character assessments based on little other than the color of the skin, but then acts on that assessment often in vile and unspeakable ways. In this respect, most people in this country are not racist. We all, it could be said, are guilty of sometimes erroneously lumping someone into a group into which they do not deserve to be lumped simply because of some cultural or other societal similarities, and we do so to our detriment. And we need to work on those flaws. But it doesn’t make us racists.

Which brings me back to my point. In today’s society, we have mis-defined racism. The idea of racial equality that was fought from the days of the Civil War until the civil rights leaders of the 50’s and 60’s was just that — equality. They wanted nothing more than to be treated as equals. Same rights, same drinking fountains, same transportation, same schools, same jobs, equal pay, etc. They fought, and sometimes died, just to get an equal footing.

But today’s racial push has shifted away from “equality” and more towards “special treatment.” Today’s racial leaders are no longer pushing for equality. Though there are still strides to be made, in many respects, they’ve achieved that. Rather, they’re pushing for a separatist view of special treatment.

Today, we are inundated with “diversity” events. Black History month was just the beginning of an endless stream of events and “celebrations” that serve to do little more than reinforce just how different we are.

My beloved game of baseball now has “Jackie Robinson Day” every year, when, by all accounts, all Jackie Robinson ever wanted to do was blend in! The Reds have three different “Los Rojos” nights each year, where every latino stereotype is flaunted before, during and after the game to remind us just how different the latino players are from all the black and white players.

And that’s the problem. Events like this, and the aforementioned “Black Commencement” at Harvard do nothing but separate the races back into their own little slices of society. Instead of bringing people together, they push away those who aren’t like them and force everyone to take a side. If the students at Harvard really wanted equality, they would simply sit through the same graduation as everybody else and revel in the fact that they are graduating from an elite university, getting the same diplomas, with the same benefits, as all the other white kids sitting among them. That’s what their forefathers fought for, and as the racial struggle for equality goes, that’s huge! But that’s no longer good enough for them.

The more “cultural celebrations” and “celebrations of diversity” we see today just reinforce the idea that our races and ethnicities aren’t equal, but different. And the moment everyone begins to notice the differences, then the screams of equality begin anew.

White people can’t hold these types of events, because the moment they do, it congers up visions of slavery and the holocaust. And yet there’s plenty to celebrate in my culture and heritage, just as there is in any other culture. But we’re told that to exclude other races from whites is racism. When another race excludes all others, it’s “diversity” celebration.

It’s insanity. And it’s harming the cause. If for no other reason than it takes the focus away from some of the real issues I mentioned earlier. There are serious economical and societal problems that need to be worked on, that much is true. But we can’t, because we have to now focus on just how different we all are.

I never noticed the racial and ethnical differences in my favorite baseball players until somebody pointed out those differences and made an issue of it. To me, they were all just great baseball players, whipping all comers. Pete Rose was as good as Tony Perez. Perez was as good as Johnny Bench, and Bench was as good as Joe Morgan. It didn’t matter to them their differences (and in reading many of their autobiographies, I can tell you that that was true), and it didn’t matter to me. And apparently, if their popularity with the fans is any indication (and their popularity is still off the charts today) it didn’t matter to them either.

Today, I never pay any attention to Reds 3rd baseman Eugenio Suarez’s ethnicity every time he makes a play or hits a home run, any more than I notice Billy Hamilton’s black-ness every time he steals a base, or Zach Cozart’s white-ness every time he smacks a double. Who knew Joey Votto was Canadian? The only time I notice Suarez’s latino-ness is on “Los Rojos” night, when they make a big deal of it and shove it in everyone's face.

Listen, I understand that cultures like to stick together. That's natural in every facet of life. It is human nature to gravitate to others who think like you do, have similar interests, and much in common. Hispanics like to hang out with other hispanics. Same with all races. That's why most white people have mostly white friends, and many blacks tend to hang out with other blacks. I have no problem with black churches, or women's clubs, or gay chat rooms. To that, you probably say, "right on!" But how would you feel if I also told you I have no problem with a KKK meeting, Black Panther parties, or the Muslim Brotherhood movement? I mean, in this country, you have the right to be stupid and wrong, right?

And look, I also have no problem with a celebration of heritage and culture. As mentioned before, we all have reasons to celebrate our histories -- even if whites aren't allowed to play. But that's the problem. There isn't an even playing field. In today's world, those celebrations are only allowed if it's socially acceptable at the time, and even then, they still honk off other minorities. When those celebrations move past mere celebration, and seek preferential treatment, there's a problem.

I understand the backlash I’ll get from this piece. Some will label me an even bigger racist for just thinking some of these things, let alone saying it publicly. Some will say I have no idea what it’s like to be a minority in today’s world and therefore have no basis for any kind of opinion. Some will say these types of celebrations are no different than family get-togethers, frat parties, or birthday celebrations. Some people will just roll their eyes.

That’s fine. It’s my blog. I can write what I want, and I’ll take whatever comes with it. That’s never bothered me before, and it won’t bother me now.

What will bother me is that 25 years from now, we’ll be having this same conversation because today’s mentality has set the whole racial divide back 50 years. The fight for equality has been pushed aside, replaced by a coddled generation who now needs to feel “special.”

And even though those black students get to graduate right alongside the white students at Harvard — something they couldn’t do 50 years ago — they want us to believe they’ve got it really tough, so mistreated and beaten down. Yet they are destroying the very progress they claim they want.

It’s not getting better. Look around, it’s getting worse. Bet on it.

Pete Rose would!

Have Patience... on Ode to Hugh Tipton.

I was 10 years old.

We were living in Plainfield, Indiana. We’d only been there a few months, having moved away from Mooresville, where I’d lived most of my 10 years of life.

It was evening time — dark outside — I remember that. But I don’t remember exactly what time he knocked on the door. Mom answered, and there stood Hugh and Nancy Tipton.

We’d been attending Mt. Gilead church in Mooresville for the last couple years. At least that I remember. Memories prior to your 10th birthday can tend to be kinda fuzzy, but what I do remember is that Mom would take me to church, and we would often sit in the same pew as Hugh and Nancy.

Yes, we had pews. And they were wooden. Those a bit younger than me might remember Mt. Gilead two buildings ago. But if you’re my age and older, you remember Mt. Gilead THREE buildings ago. Today, the previous Mt. Gilead location is known as MG2, and it stands on Kitchen Rd. as it has for the past 30 years or so and serves as a satellite building to the current campus.

But in the open yard just to the front of MG2 is where the building before that stood for nearly 100 years. (In fact, the cafe area in the basement of MG2 today was a part of the original basement to this earlier building.)

It was in THAT building I first remember Hugh and Nancy, and as a young pre-ten-year old child, when I’d get bored at church — as kids of that age are wont to do — I’d crawl out of the pew and play around on the floor and under the pews under Hugh’s and Nancy’s feet. I remember that well.

And so here they were, at our house, and they weren’t there to see Mom. They were there to see me. Actually, Hugh was there to see me, and talk with me, as Nancy chatted up Mom. Hugh asked if I’d considered asking Jesus as my Savior, and if I was interested in getting baptized. I was — I guess he’d sensed something in me at that young age. He talked with me for quite awhile, and left me with a little handbook that detailed the ins and outs of the plan of Salvation, and what it meant to get baptized and ask Jesus into my heart. We’d go over the book, Huey said, and we’d reconvene in a week or two to talk some more about my decision.

A few weeks later I was baptized, as a ten year old boy, because Hugh Tipton came to my house and talked to me about Jesus.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I re-upped, so to speak, a few years later, and was re-baptized by my friend Kenny Fulk as an older teenager. Even though I realize now it was unnecessary to do so, I felt at the time that I hadn’t had a full grasp on what it meant to follow Jesus when I was baptized as a 10 year old, and felt it best to do it right after I had a better understanding.

But it doesn’t change the fact that Huey left his home one night and drove to the next town so he could share the Gospel with a 10 year old.

Because that’s the kind of man Hugh Tipton was, and that’s how much he loved Jesus.

If you’re reading this, and you know Huey, then you probably have a hundred stories, just as I do. And individually, those stories can’t possibly capture the man he was. It is only when they are examined as a whole that you can begin to see the true and more complete picture. All the stories — yours and mine — that really tell the story.

But I’d like to tell one — one that most people younger than me probably wouldn’t recall, and more likely wouldn’t believe if you came to know Huey in the latter half of his life.

Many years ago, Mt. Gilead began periodically putting on musicals. Perhaps they even predate my memories, I can’t say for sure, but they started innocently enough, with adults within the church performing in them. Those led to some great youth musical productions (The Light Brigade and The Race is On, anyone?) Over the past 15-20 years, they’ve morphed into full blown, near-professional theatre productions. We’ve always had great talent at Mt. Gilead for as long as I can remember, especially musical talent. And there’ve been some great performances along the way.

Somewhere along the line — I do not recall if it was before or after my baptism — the church put on a musical entitled The Music Machine. It was fantastic! It was a story about this magical machine that would spit out songs about Christianity if you fed Biblical words into it. In this case, the words of the fruits of the Spirit. You know… love, kindness, joy, self-control, patience, etc. It was wonderful! A conductor (portrayed by Clyde Grammon, if I recall) would turn the big crank on the side of the machine, and it would start chugging this great noise…

{Whir-whir, chicka, chicka, bom-bom, psst….}

And out would pop a song about a certain Christian attribute. Each song sung, of course, by members of our own church.

While I remember precisely the sound the machine would make, I really don’t remember much of the songs themselves.

Except one…

The song about patience. In the musical, the song is sung twice by two different characters, first a snail named Herbert and secondly by his wise old father who had a very deep voice. I honestly do not remember who sang the father’s part.

But I remember Herb the Snail, and he was portrayed by — you guessed it — Hugh Tipton.

Have patience, have patience.

Don’t be in such a hurry.

When you get impatient, you only start to worry.

Remember! Remember! That God is patient too,

And think of all the times when others have to wait for you!

Yes, indeed, sung with vigor in a unique, rich baritone that could only belong to Huey!

Believe it or not.

To this day, I do not know why that has stayed with me so vividly. Not only Hugh singing it, but the exact words to that part of the song. I can only guess, but I think it’s because it was such a different facet of Huey — before or since — than any one of us was used to. Oh, I believe over the years I might have seen Huey in a random choir performance at the church here or there, but if you knew Huey, you knew singing, dancing, performing, or being on stage — in any capacity — wasn’t his forte, and certainly wasn’t his burning desire.

Yes, Huey was many things, to many people. That’s my story, and I’m not alone, I’m sure, in recalling it. You most assuredly have your stories. I’ve known Huey for nigh on 40 years, and we traveled a long road together — from the little boy crawling under his feet under the pew, to working on staff as an adult at the church under his Eldership. Along the way, he showed me tremendous amounts of love and respect and grace and mercy. And we shared laughs and tears. To me, he was a friend, even when he was my boss or colleague, and a brother in Christ. I’ve seen others who knew him post great things about him on social media sites in the last couple days. Impressive lists of who he was, and what he did, and how he touched people, and to what I’ve read, all true, and still don’t come close to accurately describing what a massive Man of God he was.

There are, and will be, multitudes of people in Heaven because of Hugh Tipton. I dare not attempt to even estimate the number. It won’t come close. How many other people can you say that about?

I’ve missed him, and will still, until we meet again, which we will. That makes me smile.

EPILOGUE: As a child, we actually had the album (yes, the LP) of the soundtrack to The Music Machine musical. I listened to it often, and remember marveling at how closely the voices and characters I heard on the album matched those who’d performed it church. I remember being particularly amazed at how closely Huey’s voice matched Herb the Snail from the record.

After writing this column, I decided to poke around on the internet to see if I could find anything from The Music Machine, and wouldn’t you know it? There it was, the full album, start to finish, on YouTube. Amazing thing, that interweb!

Check out the link here. I listened to it all over again. Tell me I didn’t nail the sound of the machine! And my recollection of the lyrics to “Have Patience” was dead on accurate!

And just in case you’re wondering, which you should be by now, the “patience” song starts at the 13:00 minute mark. Herb the Snail is just how I remembered — and he sounds just like Hugh Tipton!

Greetings from South Carolina!

Greetings from South Carolina!

Down here, we call it the Lowcountry. People on the news call it part of the Coastal Empire. We tell people who don't know where it is that we live in Hilton Head. That sounds snooty enough. For everyone else, we live in Bluffton.

Bluffton, SC, is now our hometown. And we love it!

It's hard to believe, but it's now coming up on 2 months since we've moved. And I haven't communicated a whole lot with the outside world during that time, as we've been consumed with getting our new house in order.

We left December 4, and spent a week in Nashville, TN, to watch our son and daughter-in-law graduate from college. Set to close on our house December 12, things got a little bit hairy with underwriting during that last week. (Anyone who's ever gotten a mortgage knows what I'm talking about.) So we arrived in Bluffton on Sunday night, Dec. 11, not knowing if we would actually have a place to live following the next day.

But, as God always does, He provided, and smiled, and we closed on Monday evening. After, as it would happen, the builder's office closed, so we couldn't get the keys! Finally, they dropped them off in the new mailbox (which is more than the Post Office could do, but that's for later.) So there wasn't any big key ceremony. We grabbed them, unlocked the door and walked in.

And thus began the next journey in our lives. And it's been great! It's been wonderful, exhilarating, frustrating, fun, exhausting, and exciting all at the same time! The events of our lives over the past two years had put us so much in flux that we didn't really know what all we had until we got here and unpacked it all. So we've had fun rediscovering things we'd forgotten we owned, shopping for things we realized we needed, and unpacking old favorites and memories. It's been a ride.

And the weather here has absolutely rocked! It's been as advertised and then some. Everywhere I go, the locals peg me as a Northerner because I'm always wearing shorts and short-sleeves. Even the chilly days would be days we would rejoice over in Indiana in December and January. With the exception of some hairy storms that roamed throughout the South a week or so ago, most of the days have been mostly sunny, with temps in the 60's and 70's. The chilly days here have been in the 50's with the occasional dip into the 40's. Absolutely beautiful.

Christmas came and went without much fanfare from us this year. We just got here too late in the cycle to really get into the season, and before we knew it, it was over. But, we had our kids and some of Ginger's family in town with us, so at least we got to share some of it with loved ones.

The boys and the daughter-in-law showed up and worked their tails off for 3 weeks. And for that, I'm deeply thankful, and sorry that the time wasn't more jovial than it was. But I was glad they were here. We love that Cody is nearby, and visits often with his new squeeze: a precious little Carolina girl with a killer southern accent! And we can't wait to see Cory and Amanda again.

It's taking time for Grandma Jean to acclimate. She loves the weather and the house as we do, but misses her grandbabies. I don't blame her. And she is not as familiar with the area as we are, so it's taking her time to get her bearings. But little by little she's coming along, and if you've been following along on Facebook, you know that she recently purchased her some new toys, which has perked her spirits. Won't be long for Grandma!

The house is just fantastic! We love it beyond measure, and couldn't be happier with how it turned out. And we've had a blast furnishing and decorating it. I love it so much that right now, I don't care if I ever go anywhere again! I love it right here.

I've begun my sales efforts here locally, and have already made some sales and met with some great business people. I've no worries at all about how things will go. And business from my clientele in Indy has been brisk, so all is well right now on that front.

There have been some setbacks. First and foremost was the post office. Apparently, nobody in the history of mankind has ever built a new home, because our doing so threw the USPS into a complete tizzy! Even with a big, black, shiny, new mailbox installed by our builder before we ever arrived, and even though we are just one block away from an existing mail route, delivering mail to us was unfathomable to them during those first few weeks. But, after much arguing and huffing and puffing (and many trips to the post office) I think we finally got it all worked out.

Second was the license branch. Drop what you're doing right now, go to your closest branch and kiss one of the workers smack on the lips, and then, write a letter to former Governor Daniels for streamlining things so well in Indiana, because, believe me, you don't know how good you have it until you have to go back to the way it USED to be in Indiana.

Long waits, ridiculous amounts of paperwork and red tape just to get a license and registration here. My 75-year-old mother clearly looks like a terrorist to these people because despite her current legal Indiana license AND her birth certificate AND her Social Security card AND her new mortgage papers, they insisted she produce a copy of her marriage license from 1962 just to prove her name change 50 years ago. Oh yes they did.

But we got it all worked out, and aside from those couple items, everything else here has been fantastic.

And to the most pressing question we've been asked: Yes, Ginger feels better. She picked up the cold bug a couple weeks after we got here, and she's had a headache or two from time to time. We weren't naive enough to believe she'd instantly be healed of all her ills and never feel sick again, but overall she's felt much better than before, and doesn't nearly have the daily struggle she had with Indiana weather.

Yes, it's been good. And being here has been everything we'd hoped it would be and more.

I miss friends and family. But I want to make a confession now publicly: I don't miss the stage. For the last 25 years of my life it just seemed that I was on the mic for one thing or another seemingly every day. Either I was playing guitar with some band, or announcing a football or basketball game, or DJing someone's wedding, or talking on the radio, or emceeing some community event and playing worship every Sunday.

And please know this: I loved it all. I truly did. I love all those things. I've cherished every wedding, every gig, every game. But together, I just got wore out. I was very tired, and I was desperately ready for a break. The myth about me has always been that I looked for the spotlight. But the truth is that the spotlight always found me because it's what I'm good at. Some people are good at fixing brakes, or drywalling, or designing the next big technology. I'm good at singing, and playing, and talking to crowds. It's just what I do. I was proud to do it, but I needed to step away.

Perhaps someday I'll miss it all tremendously. I've learned to never say never. And I'll be playing music in my first worship service here in just a couple weeks. But for now, it's very nice to just be anonymous for awhile. I'm really enjoying being out of the limelight, just being a regular guy. Someday I might seek again. Right now, I just wanna play for me.

So I've set up my drums, and my guitars, in my Reds Room, just for me. For when I want to go and just play, and not have to work. And I have a few things lined up to scratch the itch, should it occur. In a few weeks, I'll be home to emcee the Spotlighter Invitational, which is something I'm really looking forward to. And on July 4, I'm coming back to emcee and play for the celebration and fireworks at Pioneer Park. Because I choose to. That's nice.

So, meanwhile, we are now officially open for business! We are ready for our friends and family to come and visit. The house is unpacked and decorated, and the guest bedrooms are ready to be utilized! For those who wondered before... no, we were not kidding or just "being nice." We REALLY want people to come down for a stay, so we can show off a little about what made us fall in love with this place. If you've ever been to this area, you already know. If you've never been, you're in for a treat.

So come on down! Give us a buzz or drop us a line and let us know when you're coming, just so we can make sure someone else hasn't already spoken for your bed. If we're full up when you want to come down, there's plenty of places I can recommend for you to stay while you're here. Otherwise, our home is your home.

(The only caveat is that we aren't allowing smoking anywhere on the property. Sorry, but even out on the porch, the smoke can really get to Ginger and Grandma. My house, my rules, I guess you could say, but I know you all understand and appreciate your sensitivity in this matter.)

There's lots to see and do, but I do have to work, so even though I'm pretty flexible with my schedule, you might have to entertain yourselves a bit while you're here. But if we can't get out to show you around each day, we'll point you in the right directions, and just enjoy the fellowship!

Now that we're settled in, I'll be sure to try to check in a little more and keep you all updated on how things are going here, and perhaps, you'll keep me posted on how things are back in Mooresville. Remember, you can take the boy out of the town, but...

Cheers. See you soon!

A Love Story.

The first time he saw her was in the cafeteria at high school. She was young — just a freshman — and he thought she was cute. What he noticed immediately was her huge smile. It spread from ear-to-ear, and lit up the whole room. It was clear she was reserved, but it would be some time before he found out just how shy she really was.

He was rebounding from a breakup with his first love. That’s tough, and if you’ve ever been through it, you know how much it hurts, and what a confusing time it can be. He was currently dating a crush he’d had since junior high school, but it was on and off, because of his own immaturity, and it was now cooling off.

He was outgoing, and fairly popular, and president of his Junior class. But mostly he just loved being a musician, and playing music for Jesus. As fate would have it, the younger sister of the crush he was dating, was herself dating another musician — a young keyboard player. They met one evening and formed an instant friendship.

The keyboard player’s cousin was the shy girl from the cafeteria.

They were introduced for the first time at a school music program. And as the musician friends began to hang out together, so did the shy girl hang around as well. And so the friendship began.

She was beyond shy. Not popular — not because she couldn’t be, but because she didn’t want to be. She was nearly an introvert. But for some reason, not with him. Oh, she was always quiet — still is, to this day — but she could talk to him. And she would listen as he would unload all the hurt from his recent breakups. She was a good listener. They would secretly talk on the phone until the wee hours of the morning, whispering into the phones to each other as they hid in their beds. And the friendship blossomed.

They were accused of secretly dating long before they actually were. In fact, as the accusations flew among their friends and family, he took her aside to assure her his intentions were only to be friends, and that he wasn’t interested in dating her romantically. She nodded in agreement, but he knew later she was hurt to find the friendship would go no further.

But he was stupid. And it only took him a few weeks to figure it out. She was a great girl. Quiet, and shy, and cute, and supportive, and loyal, and loving. And they had developed into great friends. And he loved being with her — near her. Two days after Christmas, 1986, he asked her for a date, and kissed her for the first time. Oh boy…

Dating for them was an uphill battle in many respects. Most of their family and friends didn’t believe the two completely diverse personalities could succeed. But what the others couldn’t see or possibly understand was how the two complemented each other. He providing spontaneity, and excitement, and a silliness in her life that she might not have had on her own, and she providing quietness, serenity, and unconditional love that wouldn’t be there otherwise for him. Opposites attracted a perfect match.

Four years of dating gave way to marriage in 1991. She worked in the healthcare field, while he pursued his music and self-employment endeavors. She supported him completely, and always encouraged him. And he loved her all the more for it. Like most young couples, they had little money. They dreamed of living at the beach someday. But all they really wanted to do was hang out with each other. And they did that a lot. They still do.

But things weren’t simple, and they certainly weren’t easy. Her health has always been precarious at best, and life-threatening at worst. Non-working sinuses sent her back and forth to the doctors and the operating tables, and continue to cause problems to this day. The really rough stuff was still to come.

Five years of marriage saw their first child arrive. The second two years later. The former, a beautiful baby boy, put her in pre-term labor and 10 weeks of bed rest, and arrived a full month early. The latter, another beautiful baby boy, put her in the hospital mid-term as he arrived 11 weeks premature. And it was here that he began to see just how strong and courageous she really was.

And she was a world class mother. A real pro! Quite frankly, the best he’s ever seen. She has the pure, ingrained skills that most mothers envy, but not all have. Watching her with his boys melted his heart. She gave up working to stay home with the boys. And she joyfully handled the bulk of the day-to-day work of raising two boys, while he worked to provide for the family. And when she’d fall ill, he’d take care of her. But she was always better at taking care of him and the children.

Five years of marriage turned into 10. Through each chapter, and every hardship, he fell further in love with her. They still dreamed of living at the beach someday. Money stayed tight, but they managed to earn enough to pay the bills (mostly!) and create memories with the family. Going to Reds games was the favorite past time, and they went to a game every time they could save up the few extra bucks to do so. They’re so glad they did. And so are the boys. With every game, every new adventure, and every new memory, he fell in love even more.

It was the year between their 10th and 11th anniversary that changed their lives forever. In the previous few years, she’d had some serious health setbacks. More sinus surgeries, a battle with a nasty little fungus that attacked as a result of some of the meds she’d taken for her sinuses, and a hysterectomy brought on by complications (and negligence) from the second pregnancy.

But 2002 was the year of the brain tumor.

Fifteen hours of surgery, and six weeks later, 11 more. Massive complications resulted in 3 spinal fluid leaks, and 3 more surgeries. The whole ordeal left her with deafness in one ear, and half a smile. But he thinks its the biggest, most glorious half smile on earth. And still brighter than most others.

He loved her ever more. But he learned as he never had before that she was the strongest, toughest person he’d likely ever know. She powered through things that would have broken normal people. She stood up to pain that would have leveled most anyone else. And through it all, she made sure the children were covered, made every practice and activity, and got all their homework done. Amazing.

She survived, and they celebrated with a trip to Disney World, thanks to her parents. Vacationing near an ocean, in the warmer climates, would become more regular. She felt better near the ocean. And they dreamed of living there even more.

Ten years became 15. Self-employment had given way to an everyday job. He still played music, and she still supported it. They made a little headway in the world, and still spent all their time together as a family. As 15 years turned into 20, their love continued to grow even more. He became his own boss once again, and with her continued support and encouragement, he was able to grow the business into the most prosperous years of their marriage.

The boys were growing up. And he was becoming more and more clingy. The older he got, the more he just wanted to be with her. He didn’t realize it all those years ago, but from the moment he first saw the shy girl, the rest of his life would be consumed with being with her. They began spending twice a year at the ocean. The salt air helped her headaches and cleared her sinuses. And he loved when he could see her feel good.

The boys graduated high school and left town to pursue their own lives and dreams. But there was sadness too. They lost two good friends, and another family member. Very suddenly, and very sadly, and far too young. And as God blessed his business and their marriage, the dream of living at the ocean became much more. It became a quest.

As 20 years came and went, they put the wheels in motion. But the wheels got stuck one night when a flood visited their home and took away well over half their possessions. But it couldn’t take away their dream, and couldn’t slow down their love as it grew for each other through every hardship. They’d long since learned that nothing could stop them. Certainly not three feet of water.

Twenty-five years arrived. Their children threw them a party, and their friends and family gathered to celebrate with them. Many who’d never thought it would work over 25 years earlier. And they were happy to be there, and happy to share it with the people they love.

And now the dream is coming true. In a couple weeks, they’re moving to the beach. In a brand new home they never could have imagined when they were kids just learning what love was really all about. They’re older now, and their bodies a little more wrinkled and broken down. But not so old and broken down that they can’t enjoy holding hands on the beach. He’ll still work, and she’ll still take care of him and their home, and still encourage his endeavors. And she’ll still love him in that innocent, quiet, unconditional way she always has.

And she’ll still take his breath away every time she’s near him.

And for maybe the first time in her whole life, she’ll get to wake up every morning in a place where she doesn’t feel sick all the time. A place where her head doesn’t hurt every day. In a home she’s always dreamed of, with the man she’s loved for 30 years.

For him, he’ll be happy to see her feel better, to be sure. But mostly, he’ll just be glad to wake up next to her every day. Doesn’t matter where it is.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted.