A Friend: Tony West

 I threw up in his car.

And when I say I threw up... I. THREW. UP. This wasn't some small urp in my throat. I completely hosed the inside front of his car, and quite a bit down the outside passenger side once I got the window down. But more about all that later.

I met Tony West on the first day of my sophomore year of high school. I was fortunate enough to have been tabbed as the guitar player for our award-winning high school show choir. Sophomores RARELY made it into the group at all, and I was indeed the only male 10th grader in the group that year.

Tony was a junior, a year older than me, and, up to that point, one of only two freshman to had ever made the group. He was the drummer, and a good one -- to this day, still one of the best I've every played with -- and now, in his third year in the group, a seasoned veteran, as it were.

I walked into the 4th period class that first day of school, and not knowing the protocol, simply sat in one of the empty seats in the choir room. As the performers started straggling in and taking their seats, I finally heard someone from the back yell at me... "Hey! The musicians sit here in the back." It was Tony, along with the senior bass player, Mike Bridgewater. Their statement to me dripped with the disdain of, "oh, the stupid new kid."

I quickly moved to my seat next to Tony, and what developed over the next several weeks and months was a fast, if not odd, friendship that grew strong for the next two years, and then, as quickly as it had started, was over in a flash, to my detriment and through no fault of Tony's.

Although just a year older than me, I looked up to Tony as a mentor. I was solidly wet behind the ears, and yet Tony oozed with a maturity beyond his years. And though I have no idea why, Tony took my under his wing, befriended me, showed me the ropes, ultimately treated me as an equal, and helped me grow up.

First of all... Tony could drive and had a car. As a 15 year old yet to have his driver's license, having a friend with a car was a BIG deal, and Tony would regularly usher me along and invite me on whatever outing he was taking at any given time. We spent a lot of time in that hatchback over the next couple of years.

Tony taught me how to tie a tie. Before our first Spotlighter performance that year, as we were getting dressed for our Fall show, I was fumbling with my tie in the bathroom. Tony, in his frustrated voice, said, "What the hell are doing?" -- a question I would hear often from him. In a whip, he spun me around facing the mirror, and quickly tied my tie into a knot with a simple technique I still use to this day.

Though I'm sure he wouldn't have been overly proud to admit, Tony introduced me to chewing tobacco, which, all things considered, was certainly not the worst thing to which he could have exposed me. Tony loved his Skoal, and while he never pressured me to partake, was more than happy to share from his can if I asked. Which wasn't often, but memorable when I did. (Foreshadow hint!)

One evening, I was riding in the back of his hatchback, while another friend occupied the front passenger seat, and I asked Tony if he had any Skoal with him. "I only have these Bandits. They didn't have any cans at the store today. You can have one if you want." And he handed me a Skoal Bandit. Several minutes later on, I hear Tony's voice boom from the driver's seat. (I'd be lying if I told you the following exchange was verbatim. As it took place 40 years, ago, I may have a few of the details a bit mixed up. But this sums it up pretty good.)

"What the hell are you doing?" I look up to notice he's eyeballing me through the rearview mirror.

"I can't get this stupid little pouch open," I exclaimed.

"Dear God," Tony exhaled. "You don't tear the pouch open, you moron, you put the whole pouch in your mouth and suck on it." I had no idea. I'd never seen a Skoal Bandit, and I just assumed they were little pre-packaged portions of can tobacco. Which they are, of course, but you don't open the pouch to get to the tobacco. The pouch is a akin to a tiny tea bag, and you just pop it in your mouth. I was sufficiently mortified with embarrassment, and it was just another reason to question why Tony hung around with me in the first place.

Tony introduced me to music I'd never heard before. A myriad of classic rock bands I'd simply never listened to before. But mostly, I remember listening to The Doors. Tony loved The Doors. I'd never heard of them. And much to my wife's disappointment, I'm still a Doors fan today. That's because of Tony.

Which mostly highlights the irony of our friendship. Other than being musicians, we had little in common. Tony was not a school jock. I was a hotshot baseball player. Tony and I ran in different circles. We listened to different music. We looked different. We talked different. We acted differently. Being a young teenager not knowing any better, Tony wasn't the kind of guy who I would have immediately gravitated to as a friend. Outside of being thrust together in a choir room, there was no reason for us to bond. And yet we did, and he deserves the most credit for it.

I don't know what he saw in me, but he befriended me. So much so that when he graduated high school the following year, I openly wept as we hugged after his graduation. He was truly one of my best friends at that time, and I knew I would seriously miss not having him around during my senior year of school. And I did. Spotlighters simply was not as much fun without him.

And then, just like that, it was over. We bumped into each other a time or two over the next year, and at a couple friends' weddings, but that was it. I honestly don't think I ever saw him again after that. There's no one to blame, although I'll gladly bear it. We simply moved on with our lives. I was seriously dating my future wife by that time. I was in a regularly gigging band. I went off to college, then started a career and a family. He lived his life as well. I can only assume he continued to be the same cool dude I'd known him to be.

For most of the next 30 years, I stayed in our hometown, and Tony lived just a couple towns over, but we never reconnected, outside of social media. I moved to South Carolina eight years ago, and as friends on Facebook, we occasionally commented on the other's posts, but had no serious conversations. A couple years ago, he sent the sweetest private message to my wife congratulating her on her weight loss journey, which was somewhat out of the norm as we didn't carry on any regular relationship, and yet typical Tony, just being nice to someone even when it wasn't necessary.

I regret not meeting his wife and kids. I take that blame. It would have been a pleasure, and I would have told them this story:

It was our first year in Spotlighters together, and the previous day -- a Saturday -- we had traveled to Piqua, Ohio, for our first show choir competition, and we won the Grand Championship. As Piqua was just a few hours away, it was only a day trip for our group, but we didn't return home until about 3:00 that Sunday morning. I crashed asleep, and woke back up around 10:00 am, having slept so hard I actually had a head ache -- much like I hear from people with hangovers, though I wouldn't know personally because I don't drink alcohol and have never been drunk in my life.

About 10:30, my house phone rang and it was Tony on the other line, sounding as hungover as I felt, and asking me if I wanted to ride along with him as he was going to go out shopping for new speakers for his car. I said sure, and before he arrived, I scarfed down a couple slices of cold pizza I found in the fridge left over apparently from the night before.

Tony arrived and I hopped in. The speaker shops Tony was hoping to visit ended up being closed as it was a Sunday. So we ended up hitting a couple places looking for a trench coats, of all things. And hour or so into the trek, I asked Tony to share some of his chewing tobacco. He gave me a pinch of Skoal, and I chewed on it briefly, but I didn't enjoy it, and spit it out after just a few minutes.

We finally ventured into an open flea market on West Washington Street in Indianapolis -- not a high-rent market, if you catch my drift. I'm sure my Indy peeps know the one of which I speak. We strolled around inside, and I took a refreshing drink from their water fountain in the back of the building. After several minutes, bored, worn out, and trench-coatless, we left and headed for home.

About 10 minutes into the drive home, it happened: Very suddenly, I didn't feel well. I looked at Tony and said, "Man, I don't feel too good." And almost before I could finish the sentence, I spewed forth. In a panic, not knowing what else to do, I thrust my hands to my mouth, which did little else but make the spray spread laterally.

Tony exclaimed, "Shit! Roll down the window." Which I was already trying to do as the excitement mounted. Not before I had hosed most of the inside front of the car, I got the window down and hung my head out the window. As Tony desperately tried to find a place to pull over, I finished up by spewing down the side of his car as well.

Tony finally got the car pulled over, and we both sat in stunned silence for what seemed like an eternity. Finally able to compose myself, I immediately began apologizing. Not only was the entire dash covered, and windows splattered, but the floorboard where I sat was filled an inch or so deep. As I apologized further, Tony sat in a daze and finally said in the most hurt voice possible, "I've never had anybody puke in my car before, let alone on me." I looked and Tony had indeed not dodged the line of lateral fire, and his right leg was pretty soaked.

Inexplicably, in a mystery I haven't been able to solve to this day, but in the world's largest stroke of luck, the only thing Tony had in his car that day besides us and a can of Skoal was several new, freshly washed and folded large beach towels in the hatchback. Why? I have no idea and he didn't explain. And there, on the side of the road, we began to sop up the mess with those beach towels. Every couple minutes I would hear Tony exclaim from his side of the car, "Oh God, gross, there's more under here!" Every time a beach towel became completely sogged, it was discarded into the ditch. And that went on until every towel was used up.

And yes, Tony left every one of those brand new, now-destroyed beach towels in that ditch to rot forever.

On the way home, the car reaking, and our clothes sufficiently stained, I continued to apologize. And I asked him, "C'mon, Tony, this is embarrassing man. Don't tell anybody about this."

"I won't," he assured me, though his frustration with me was palpable in his voice. The mood lightened a bit by the time we got home, and he dropped me at my house. I offered again to help clean up anything further. He assured me he'd take care of the rest of it when he got home we'd never speak of it again.

The next morning at school, as I walked to my locker upon arriving, no less than three different people passed by and said something to the effect of, "Hey Paul... puke in anybody's car lately?" Apparently, Tony took the opportunity to phone anyone he could later on after we got home to tell the tale, despite his promise to me not to do so. I couldn't complain. Had to admit I deserved it. But there was one more humiliation to suffer...

Moments after arriving at my locker, I turned to a tap on my shoulder to come face-to-face with Tony, who had a very unpleasant look on his face. In his most deadpanned, disdained voice, with no, "Hey, how ya feelin'?" he drolled... "Don't ever... try to... dilute the smell... of puke... with Lysol."

"Oh, Tony... no."

"Oh yeah... when I got home," he explained, "I cleaned a few up a few more spots and thought I'd try to get the smell out of the car. So I sprayed down the inside with Lysol and closed it up for the night. This morning, when I opened the door, the car REAKED of puke AND Lysol. It was worse than yesterday!"

And just for good measure, since it was winter time, he shared that when he turned on his defroster that morning, some remnants of the previous day's festivities blasted forth from the register on to the windshield. He was still totally disgusted and I was totally mortified.

And that was that. In the following days and weeks, there was some debate as to the cause. I was sure it was a combination of the tobacco and cold pizza, but Tony was convinced it was bad water from the fountain at the flea market. According to him, he'd had another buddy who'd gotten sick after drinking from that same fountain. As time went on, it because just another funny story, though Tony stayed pretty disgusted by it for some time.

To this day, I tell people I've got to be the only guy on the planet who's never been drunk to both puke in a buddy's car, AND have to take a breathalyzer test. Some other day, I'll tell you about the breathalyzer.

An now Tony's gone, and I strangely miss him. Maybe nostalgia from bygone days... maybe. But I miss a long-ago friend, and I'm sorry I didn't make more of an effort. I feel like Tony and I would still have gotten along well, and it would have been nice to spend time with each other's families. I blame me.

So rest in piece brother. Maybe again, someday.

Next time, I'll clean up.

How did I know?

Mere days after Donald Trump won the 2016 election, I predicted his next opponent for President in 2020 would be a black woman. I felt so strongly that I bet someone a $250 steak dinner on it. In 2018, I was convinced it would be Kamala Harris, and I almost placed a bet on her at the Bellagio Sports Book in Las Vegas. Not totally understanding how professional betting works, I ultimately passed on making the bet.

Of course, we all know now, in the interest of full disclosure and ultimate humility, I ended up being wrong. But BARELY.

In fact, after Biden was crowned the nominee in 2020, I STILL predicted he'd either bow out before the election, or would most surely pick a black woman as his running mate. And on that, I was right. When Kamala Harris was the first candidate of any gender or race to withdraw from the primary cycle of 2019/2020, I was not convinced she wouldn't be on the ticket in some capacity. Even after all my Democrat friends told me, "Paul, she's out. Nobody likes her," (irony-intended) I still replied, "No, it ain't over. I'm betting Kamala is on the ticket."

Flash forward to 2023. As 2023 was drawing to a close, and it was looking more and more like Joe Biden would run unopposed in the primaries, I again predicted there was no way the Democrats would run Joe Biden in 2024. I told anyone who would listen. My friends and acquaintances have heard me droll on about it for almost a year now... "Not a chance Joe Biden is the Dem nominee in 2024."

I explained again and again: I fully believed the Dems would allow Joe Biden to go thru the primaries unopposed, and then would either be removed beforehand, or would step down during the convention so the party could then choose their nominee without leaving it in the hands of the voters. If I said it once, I said it a hundred times.

Ask anyone who knows me.

It's hard on me being right all the time.

Which begs the question: Why was I right? How did I know all this? How did I know that a black woman would either be the nominee or at least on the ticket in 2020? Especially Kamala Harris -- even after her horrid primary campaign in 2019?

And how did I know the Democrats would do exactly what they've ended up doing with Joe Biden? A full year before they did it?

How did I know all that?

Do I have special prognosticative powers? Am I psychic? Do I know a Washington insider, much less a Democrat insider? Am I someone special who can see and figure out things other people can't?

And why me? Some nobody born and raised in Indiana, now wasting away in Margaritaville? A hopeless Cincinnati Reds fan who can't run a washing machine?

I'm not a political insider. I've never run for office. I don't have any sort of political science degree, or otherwise any other political experience. And no... I'm not a psychic and I don't have any special powers.

Simply put... I'm nobody special. And I didn't see anything anybody else couldn't see if they just paid attention.

And that's what I do: I pay attention. I watch what's going on. I strive to be an informed voter. I watch the news and check a variety of news sources. But I don't blindly follow one over another and swallow hook, line, and sinker everything they tell me. I don't mind saying that after 54 years of life, I've come to know some news outlets are better than others, and end up being more truthful and factual than others, but I'll leave that debate for another time.

I watch what's going on around me. I pay attention to what my leaders -- those I support and those I don't -- tell me. And then I see if they follow thru. I look at the big picture. I don't look at single events. I look at events in context to other events. I watch for trends, practices, paths. I watch to see how one event precedes or follows another, and how they play off each other. I listen to what they say, and then I watch what they do.

See, this isn't a commentary on the policies. Make no mistake... I have strong feelings and opinions about the policies, but the policies are irrelevant in this matter. The question is why can some dopey guy in Bluffton, SC, with no political background tell you what the Democrat party is gonna do a year before they do it?

Sadly... the political arena in general has become very predictable over the past several years. However, during a climate where a non-political, non-insider businessman can come in and completely turn one party on it's ear, and fundamentally change the way Washington works, he simultaneously has made the Democrat party more predictable than ever.

I watched events play out with Barack Obama -- a political outcome that couldn't have been more predictable -- and I watched how they ditched Hillary Clinton in 2008 only to groom her for eight years to set her up for 2016. In that context, the moment Donald Trump rode down the Trump Tower elevator in 2015, I knew he'd win. When everybody else thought it was a joke, I called my son the very next day and told him Donald Trump would be the next President.

I'm not bragging or boasting -- indeed, I'm rather shocked more people haven't been clued in to what's going on. Bigger still -- I'm stunned the Dems and their media minions still can't see how Donald Trump played them all then, and is still playing them today. Perhaps one of these days I'll write a blog explaining how I know these things. But if others would just open their eyes, see the big picture, and pay attention -- and, more importantly, quit ignoring or outright denying the facts before them -- they could see it too.

The lefts hatred for and in turn, fear of Donald Trump is unprecedented. Whether you hate him or love him, you have to admit that what he's been thru in the past eight years has no rival in our presidential history. For four years, they made up every lie they could about Trump. From fake dossiers, to Russian collusion, to inane impeachment allegations, they threw everything at their political opponent that would have otherwise taken down any normal politician. When that didn't work, they created and manipulated a worldwide pandemic to unconstitutionally change election laws to literally steal an election.

In the four years since, when most new administrations simply move on from former presidents, they continued to pursue Trump to a degree never seen in American politics. From falsely prosecuting his supporters, to falsely prosecuting him, to attempting to unconstitutionally remove him from ballots, to -- dare I say it -- a failed assassination attempt, they're desperate in a way we've never seen.

In THIS context, how they're eating their own and the paths they take are evident months, sometimes years ahead of time. In their claims to "preserve democracy," they have, in reality, highjacked democracy. After 8 years, I saw it coming a mile away. I just paid attention.

For your own good, I would suggest you do too.

And you heard it here first... in 2028, the Dems will run a gay man for President.

A Shrine to Plummer... and a Nod to Bobby

So, back in the mid 2000’s, I met and had the pleasure of working with one of the most talented musicians I’ve ever worked with in central Indiana. He had been a child prodigy at one point, and had actually played stadium organ with the Indianapolis Indians at only 9 years old! Weeks into our friendship, he found out I was a big Reds fan, and commented, as many people do, how big a fan he had been of the Big Red Machine growing up as a young boy. He told me Johnny Bench was his favorite player growing up.

He went on to relay a story to me that his father had taken him to his first Reds game sometime in the mid ’70’s, and he was so excited to get to see his idol, Johnny Bench play. He said, “I got to the game and looked around to see Johnny on the field, and I looked down the base line to the bullpen, and I see some guy named “Plummer” catching!”

I said, “Yeah, Bill Plummer.”

“You know who Bill Plummer is?”

“Of course I do,” I commented. “In fact, I may be one of the few people you’ll ever meet who knows who Bill Plummer is, but he was Bench’s backup in those days.”

“Yeah, well, imagine my disappointment,” my buddy complained, “to go to my first Reds game to see Johnny Bench play, and some weirdo named “Plummer” is catching. I never did see Bench the whole game!”

I laughed and jokingly teased him that he just happened to be at one of maybe three or four games Plummer ever played. It was a funny moment for both of us.

Flash forward about a year. I’m attending RedsFest, and as you may or may not know, autographs for Reds players are free once you pay your admission. So after years of attending the fan festival, I’d never had to pay for a single Reds autograph. However, this particular year, a local non-profit that had a booth set up had none other than Bill Plummer in the booth signing autographs for charity, and they were charging $20 for a signature and photograph. I told my wife, “I’m gonna get Plummer’s autograph and give it to my buddy as a gag gift.” So I did. I paid $20 for Bill Plummer’s autograph — the only Reds player autograph I have ever paid for in my life — and made sure my wife got a picture of him signing his name.

I bought a black and white Plummer 8x10 at another booth, and when I got home, I assembled the 8x10, the autograph, a 1978 Plummer Topps card and the picture of him signing into a frame. At our next band practice, I eagerly approached my buddy and told him I had procured him a gift from RedsFest. Excited it might be some Bench memorabilia, I instead handed him the Plummer frame. I exclaimed that he is now in possession of what might possibly be the only Bill Plummer shrine ever assembled. BIG laffs! And a big hug. He loved the gag, and the gift, and we laughed about it time and again.

Flash forward another three years. At 47 years old, my friend tragically died from a massive and very sudden heart attack. Having been summoned to his home by his family as one of his close friends, I was walking around his house in a grief-ridden fog. I strolled through his bedroom, and on top of his dresser I saw three items… One was a Colts football signed by Peyton Manning. Another was a signed photo of an Indiana Pacer who I cannot remember now. And in between them both was the 8x10 shrine of Bill Plummer. I’m tearing up now writing this as I did at that moment I saw the picture.

I walked outside and spoke to my buddy’s father-in-law, a local pastor and another dear friend of mine. I told him about the picture and that I didn’t want things to be odd, but I’d like to have it back if and when the family decided it was OK. He said to me, “Paul, nobody knows anything about that picture. Go take it now. No one here is going to be bothered by that.”

I took it home with me, and it hung in my Reds Room in Indy, and I am proud to say it now hangs right by the door in a very prominent place in my Reds Room here in South Carolina. It was one of the first pieces to go up when I moved here seven years ago and it is one of my most prized pieces. I’ve included a picture of it here for you to see. Perhaps you’ll find it as amusing as we did.

I share this with all due respect to Bill Plummer, who had a fine MLB playing and coaching career, and will live forever in our hearts as a special member of the BRM. My sympathies and prayers go out to his family at his loss. For me, seeing the glee on my buddy’s face as an adult at my gift after what must had been a massive disappointment as a young boy in not getting to see his idol play is one of the most cherished memories I have.

Thanks, Bill. Maybe say Hi to Bobby for me.

Bryce Mansfield: Not Quite 10 Years and Counting

I suppose I could wait until next year. Next year, it'll be 10 years.

10.

That's hard to believe. Doesn't seem possible. But then, writing something up on the 10 year anniversary in some ways just seems too cliche and formulaic, and if there's one thing he wasn't, it was formulaic.

Our best friend... my buddy... my brother... an uncle, if only symbolically, to my kids... a stranger to absolutely no one... Bryce Mansfield, passed away on this date 9 years ago today. He was 42 years old. Far too young. Far too early.

I miss him. Early on after his death, the times he crossed my mind, the times I would see something, or encounter something that would make me think of him was much more frequent that it is now. To some, that might sound somewhat demeaning. "What? You don't think of him everyday?" No, I don't. Just being brutally honest, perhaps, but then, I think if we can all just be honest for a moment, that's most likely the case with all of us.

It makes us feel better to say things like, "I miss him everyday," or even post something of that sort to our social media accounts, even though it might not be true. We do it because it makes us feel better just to think it, even if we don't actually believe it. Bryce, and the countless thousands and millions of other lost loved ones aren't here to console us. We must console ourselves with their memories.

And yet, for most of us, somehow, someway, we seem to survive and move on and the daily reminders of those we've lost become more infrequent, replaced by the everyday goings on of whatever paths our lives take after the loss. Sad, in many ways, and too bad, and yet, there's very little we can do about. Building the shrine and not moving on has rarely, if ever, worked out for anyone.

And still, is it so sad after all? Is it so bad that we are frequented less and less with the memories of our loved ones that remind us of a loss that will only surely depress us? I don't think so.

I don't think Bryce would think so either.

You know what happens? As time and distance do their thing, we heal. More slowly for some than others, but we heal nonetheless. And with that healing comes comfort. Time and distance have a strange, mysterious, glorious way of stripping away the bad memories and unhappy moments, leaving behind only the good memories and happy thoughts. It happens in every aspect of our lives. A breakup, a divorce, a lost job, and the loss of a loved one. Over time, the hurt slowly fades away and we're left to remember only the good things.

In every symbolic and spiritual, if not biological, sense of the word, Bryce and I were brothers. As such, we could get on each others nerves and exasperate each other at times. Bryce made decisions in his life I didn't agree with, and I made decisions he didn't like. But you know, I don't remember much of them now. The times I DO remember that exasperated me at the time make me laugh now.

And what I wouldn't give now for Bryce to exasperate me somehow.

If you knew Bryce -- and many people did -- then I don't have to explain him to you. You are full aware of everything that made Bryce, Bryce. From his massive hands, his superhuman strength, his magnificent autograph, and his infectious laugh, to his stupid sneezes, his beautiful photography, his incredible compassion, and his love for Jesus.

A big man, who truly had the biggest heart of anybody I've ever known. Saw the good in everybody, and fiercely protected those he loved. Though not related, he treated my boys as sons, even though they -- and all their friends -- called him Uncle Bryce. True story: My son played basketball with his buddies on their Christian school Jr. High team, and a game -- underway and in action -- came to a halt once when Bryce walked into the gym after tipoff and the boys on the team stopped mid play, yelled "Uncle Bryce!" and ran over and gave him a hug. I'm not kidding.

Bryce had that kind of effect on people.

Look, I could go on and on. Some people complain my blogs are too long anyway. I could write a book about Bryce, and who knows, maybe some day I will. I could tell story after story.

If you knew, you knew. If you didn't, then I feel bad for you, because you missed out on one cool, special dude.

As for me, I have a picture of Bryce hanging in my living room. I hung it on that wall when I moved into this place six years ago, and it will hang there until somebody takes it down long after I'm gone myself. There's a story behind that picture, but it's a little too long to tell here. If you want to hear it sometime, let me know.

But I guess I get to think of Bryce a little more often than I realize, because I walk past that picture and look at it several times a day. So maybe he's not so far back in my memories after all.

I'll tell ya what though. I'm jealous of the Bryce in that picture. Today, Bryce would be 51 years old. I'm sure his body would be breaking down more than it was back then. That's part of what sucks about getting old. But in that picture, Bryce is 40 years old. I'll die someday, and I'll be at least 53. I might be 100. Who knows? But Bryce will be 40 forever. We were roughly the same age for 40 years, but I will never know Bryce as an old man, even though I'll become much older than him.

I don't know, that makes me feel good for some reason. He'll never age. When I'm old and gray, God willing, he'll still be a young man, and in many ways, he deserves that.

Nine years. Next year will be 10. Then 11, and so on. And I'll keep moving on. Missing him, yes. And, maybe, more daily than I realize. And that's OK. It's the good in Bryce that still inspires me to try to be a good dude myself. And if someone, long after I'm gone, writes that I was a good dude, well then I hope Bryce would approve. I think he would.

My youngest son who is loaded up with tattoos that his mother and I hate, was especially close to Bryce. I was glad for it then, and I'm glad for it now. I mentioned above that Bryce had a magnificent autograph. And he did. Just a glorious signature. Very cool. A representation of that signature was my son's first tattoo. I think he did it because he knew his Mom and I couldn't get mad about it.

Bryce would have liked it. That's all that really matters.

Salaries: No One to Blame but Us

Seen several meme's in the past week or so with regard to the recent near-tragedy of Buffalo Bills player, Damar Hamlin. The meme in question is a picture of the ambulance on the field, usually circled by an imaginary red marker, with words to the effect of... "The least paid people on the field are the people who saved Hamlin's life..." The implication, of course, being that the first responders who showed up -- in the tow of the Bills and Bengals medical staff who were actually the first to administer care to Hamlin - are severely underpaid. The football players on the field that night earn massively more money than do the emergency and medical personnel who saved Hamlin's life.

It's true, of course. And quite frankly, I'm tired of hearing about it. There is most certainly a huge chasm between the salaries of the likes of professional athletes, and those of medical and emergency personnel, and, for the purposes of this debate, teachers. And there's only one group of people to blame for that wage gap...

Us.

It's our fault. And the reality is, most people want to complain about it, but they really don't want to do anything to fix it. And, sadly, the only group of people who can change it is, again, us.

Firstly, most teachers and medical and emergency personnel are paid by the government. (I realize some EMS workers are paid by hospitals or some other private medical firms. But not all) Be it local, which is where most of the funds come from, or state and federal funds, the wages and salaries of those workers come from tax money -- yours and mine. I won't get into the weeds of exactly where that money comes from, and what taxes are specifically used to pay those salaries, but the bottom line is, they are public employees, and they are paid with our tax money.

So the simple reality is, we, the general public, through the mechanism of elections -- again, at both the local, and the state and federal levels -- choose representatives who then determine what funds are available for those salaries, and at what levels those salaries are set. Our representatives set the salaries of our public employees with our tax money. It's really not more complicated than that.

So, they make what they make based on those parameters. To increase those salaries, one of two things (or a combination of both) has to happen: Either more tax money has to be collected and allocated to said salaries, or other government funding has to be cut and THAT money has to be allocated to salaries. That's about it. There is no magical place where money comes from, and no magical formula our representatives have that can magically increase salaries.

And there's the rub. Most people don't want their taxes raised... period. How many of you have complained about how much a teacher or a policeman makes, and yet have voted against a tax referendum that would raise more revenue for a school? How many of you griped about how much a fireman or an EMS worker earns, and yet have allowed your representatives to give money away to China, or to fund a grant study on cow farts?

But here's the real doozy: Raise your hand if you'd be willing to see our government cut spending on something like cancer research or autism research if that money could be used to raise teacher's salaries? Who would be in favor of cutting disaster relief if we could use that money to pay policemen more?

THAT's the real problem. We ALL think these people deserve more money, we just don't want to do the things necessary to make it happen. We foolishly vote for the same representatives over and over again who make the same decisions and pass the same laws (even AFTER we cry and complain that we should "throw them all out!" How many of you who think we should "throw them all out" actually voted for a different candidate last election?) We vote against tax increases (and we should, by the way) and yet at the same time don't want funding cut to whatever pet cause we happen to support. Ask a person who's parent just died from cancer if they'd like the government to cut funding for cancer research to raise teacher salaries. Ask a parent with an autistic child if they'd like funding cut for autism research for the same reasons. Ask liberal abortion supporters if they'd like funding for Planned Parenthood cut to use the money to pay policemen and firemen more.

You get the point.

But here's the second issue:

There's only one group of people to blame for the exorbitant salaries made by professional athletes (and other entertainers):

Yep. Us.

We pay athletes salaries. We buy the tickets. We buy the concessions. We pay the parking fees. We buy the merchandise. We buy the products that are advertised during the games we watch on television. We pay the streaming fees to watch the games. It's our fault.

Do you think a pro sports team owner would pay a player millions of dollars per year if he didn't have the revenue to pay it? And where do you think that money comes from? And you think athletes are OVERPAID? If a McDonald's franchise owner charged $50 for a Big Mac, and people paid it willingly, do you think it would be fair to pay the employees minimum wage who make it and serve it to you?

If we, as a society, are willing to pay the prices we pay for entertainment, et al -- and we are -- thus earning the owners of those entities sometimes billions of dollars in revenue, then why shouldn't the guys who generate that revenue get a fair share of it? We don't like it because it's massive amounts of money we can't wrap our heads around, but the truth is, we all feel exactly the same way when it comes to our own salaries, even though we're talking about much smaller sums of money.

Generally, most employment sectors pay their employees fairly based on the revenue they generate. (I did say "generally"!) Labor unions demand it. And because Big Macs only cost about $5 each, the average worker at McDonalds isn't going to get a million dollar a year contract. Many of you reading this right now work a job for which you think you are fairly compensated. And if you don't, you're either complaining about it, or trying to do something about it. In any event, you're either being fairly compensated, or looking for a job where you'll be fairly compensated, whatever that means to you. If you go to McDonalds and demand a 5 year, $1.5 million contract, it probably ain't gonna happen.

Regardless, athletes make what they make because the public pays what they pay to generate the revenue from which they are paid. That money doesn't grow on trees. It comes from us. Every time a team raises their ticket prices, we pay it. Every time they raise the price for a jersey, we pay it. And if we'd stop paying it, they would eventually have to adjust salaries back down.

And before you say... "Not me! I don't give the NFL a dime of my money," or some other such nonsense, first of all, you're either lying, or lying to yourself. Every time you buy a Bud light, or a bag of Doritos, or watch a TV program on any major network, you're giving money to a major sports team. Like or not, directly or indirectly. In some cases, it's inevitable. Unless you wanna become the Unabomber and move to a cabin in the woods, money you're spending somewhere is likely helping raise revenue for a pro or college sports outfit.

But worse... we're back to the Cancer vs. Autism debate. You may not support the NFL. You may hate the NBA or Major League Baseball. You might not even ever go to the movies. But I'd bet my grandchildren you're doing something to help the entertainers of our society make a whole bunch of money. Maybe you don't go to the movies, but you watch every episode of every iteration of CSI ever put out on TV. You might hate the NFL, but you watched the NCAA football championship the other night. You might boycott the NBA, but you bought your kid those Jordans he wanted so bad for his birthday. You downloaded Taylor Swift's latest songs, which just happens to be on the same label as that rapper you hate so much.

You buy the products, watch the programs, or otherwise support whatever it is that gets your own juices flowing. And if you didn't, whatever that is wouldn't generate as much revenue as it does.

And what is so terrible anyway? Think about what we would do in our society if we didn't have these recreations to turn to. To get away from life for awhile and just enjoy something. Sports, movies, and all other forms of recreation are necessary to our society to provide us all a respite every now and then, if for no other reason than to help prevent us all from killing one another eventually. What would we do without them?

Nevertheless, I'm tired of hearing people complain about it. I really am. If you believe our public employees are heroes and deserve higher salaries, then start making the changes that will make it happen. If you think athletes are overpaid, stop spending your money on things that support the industry.

But remember this... you're a very small fish in a very big ocean. You can do your part, but good luck getting several hundred million of your friends to follow your lead. If you think NFL stadiums are going to go empty anytime soon because most of the free world suddenly decided to take a moral high road... well... good luck with that.

Similarly, if you think society is suddenly going to agree on how to force our government to spend our tax money... well... good luck with too. You can take this to the bank... you're never gonna get the cancer research guy and the Planned Parenthood guy to agree on much of anything when it comes to how government money should be spent, even IF they both agree that teachers and EMS workers should be paid more. Call me a fatalist. I prefer to think I'm a realist.

Meanwhile... either do something about it, or stop griping about it.

Bob Keane: A Treasure.

A good friend of mine died today.

Born and raised in Mooresville, IN, I lived there until I was almost 47 years old. Growing up and living in a town like that, you get to know everyone and everyone knows you. And in those years, unfortunately, you have to stand by and watch as good friends sometimes pass on, often too early.

I moved to South Carolina six years ago. Ironically, in fact, today is our 6-year anniversary here in the Lowcountry. When Ginger and I moved here, we didn't know a soul. We literally moved from a place where we knew everyone to a place where we knew nobody. Of course, it took us a while to begin to integrate into the various aspects of our society here, and making new friends with people who didn't grow up around us was a new challenge. After six years, we've made some, but we haven't quite matched the familiarity of 40+ years in the same place.

The primary place we've made friends is in our church family here. And one of the first people to befriend me was Bob Keane. Bob is an interesting guy. You know the type: a teddy bear under a gruff exterior. There's a million of him, and somehow he's still one of a kind.

Bob is older than me, although I never bothered to ask how old. Old enough to be my senior, maybe even old enough to be my dad. I certainly respected him as a senior, but he never treated me as anything but an equal. Bob has a prosthetic leg. And he didn't bother to try to hide it. (We share an affinity for short pants -- and for a particular style of dress, which I will note shortly.) Took me awhile to get around to asking him what happened to his leg. One just doesn't jump to that early on, ya know. Like, "hey dude, what happened to your leg?" Even I wasn't that brave. But he had no trouble telling me when I asked.

As the past few years went by, it turns out Bob and I shared an affinity for many things. A fondness for St. Augustine, and a similar political worldview, just to name a couple. And, as luck would have it, we both liked clothing that prefers comfort over style. We both like to dress with an eye towards comfort over conventionality.

But before I tell you the rest of the story, I have to tell you this one.

Several years ago, I played drums in a band in Indiana. It was a Christian band, and after many years as a front man and guitarist in other bands, it was my first full time gig in a band as a drummer. Our guitar player had written the lyrics to a song titled Treasure Chest. The core of the song revolves around the death of his father, and how he had left behind a closet full of clothes that his son will now wear. As the years go by, the threads begin to bare, but the son still hopes to preserve his father's shirts. And yet as much as he treasures those shirts, they pale in comparison to the treasure we have in Heaven with Jesus.

Our band leader had fashioned those lyrics into a song, and the music had already been recorded for an album before I joined the band, but the lead vocal had not yet been completed. For some reason, the song resonated with me, having lost my father several years earlier, and the moment I heard the demo, I asked our band leader if I could take a crack at recording the vocal. Remember... to these guys, I was just the drummer. They conceded, I laid down the track, and they loved it. It made the album, and it is the only track on the project featuring me on the lead vocal. I've copied the lyrics for your review at the end below, and if you'd like to hear the track, you can do so through this link.

Me singing, about wearing another's guy's shirts.

Flash forward to just a few years ago. I had began to play music here with our worship band at church, and my wife and I were still getting our feet wet in our new hometown. One Sunday after service, Bob approached me and said, "I have something for you if you want them." I did not know Bob well at all, and up to that point, our only conversations had been an introduction and passing pleasantries.

I said, "OK, whatcha got?"

"I see you like to wear the same kind of shirts I do, and I have a couple that don't fit me anymore. I'm gonna give them to you. If you like them, you can keep them. If you don't, you can get rid of them."

Seeing as how it was clear he was giving me the shirts whether I really wanted them or not, "OK," I said, and the next week, he showed up with two shirts and handed them to me. "I figure you can use these," Bob said, "and if you can't, then just throw them away."

I did not throw them away. Tommy Bahamas... not cheap shirts. I like Tommy Bahamas.

And with that, Bob and I struck up a friendship. We would brag about he and I prancing around in shorts in below-60 degree weather when everyone else was bundled up like Winter. Kindred spirits, us. As the next couple years went by, Bob and his friends invited and accepted me into their circle of friends: a group of older gentlemen in the church who are now retired and get together regularly to fellowship. Tuesday morning breakfasts with just the guys, and Friday night meals out with the families. And Bob was a primary organizer of that group. They invited me with open arms, even though at 53 years old, I am considerably younger than most of them -- just a "pup," as many have referred to me -- and I am not retired. Yet they have included me as one of their own. It is both an honor to me and a privilege.

Bob could be gruff, and even a little crass... but he was very complimentary of me, telling me often how much he enjoyed it when I led worship, and how he always felt a genuineness with me, and how much he always got out of the services I led. Rarely do I seek validation or acceptance, but we'd all be lying if we said we aren't comforted by it when it is received. Bob's compliments meant more to me than most would know.

Bob was not my first friend in the Lowcountry. But he is the first friend here I've lost, and I will miss him. One of the primary reasons Ginger and I made the life-changing choice to move close to an ocean is because we watched some very dear friends pass away far too young -- including the leader of that band for which I drummed in Indiana, a dear musical friend of mine who passed away at the age of 47 just a few years after I recorded Treasure Chest. Ginger and I recognize that life is short... and we want to live out some of our dreams while we still can.

Bob didn't die young. But then, doesn't everyone die before we think they should? But Bob left me a gift -- a "treasure," if you will. He left me his shirts.

I wear them often. If you know me here in South Carolina, especially if you attend church with me, you've seen me in them, although you likely didn't know it was a shirt Bob gave me. I'll have one on this Sunday, and I will continue to wear them often, until the threads begin to bare. Then I will store them up as memories from a friend.

In closing, here's the kicker. The song, Treasure Chest, is about my friend's father. My own father passed away in 1993, long before I knew any of the guys in that band, and 30 years before I met Bob Keane. But I do not have a single possession of my father's. Aside from a few pictures, I have nothing tangible or real that connects me to him. It's just the way it played out, but I am OK with it.

But I will cherish even more the song I recorded, and the shirts Bob gave me, because they will remind me not only of my friends and my own Dad, but that the treasures Jesus has stored up for me in Heaven are greater than any other memento I could have.

Maybe that's the real reason Bob gave me his shirts.

Treasure Chest: Words by Darren Duerlinger. Music and Arrangement by Bobby Raikes.

I know I don’t look wealthy
Though I sometimes play the part
Even there I wouldn’t stand a chance
Without my dad’s old shirts
Left hanging in the closet, how could he have known
Going to work that day, I’d be the next one
To wear his clothes

It’s been several years now, and the threads are growing bare

I long to preserve the shirts I have been wearing
But I now they have grown, beyond repair
I watch them hanging in my closet
I look at his old pictures, and wish that he were there
And turn back time, yes turn back time

Chorus
And yet I have a treasure
It’s true I often neglect
Full of riches
It’s true I often forget
The mystery of Jesus
In whom all wisdom and knowledge
It’s hard to understand
How big he must be
But, yet I have a treasure

Like precious remnants left over from the storm
I guard little things left out before his leaving
A book, a clock, a camera, anything to help
Anything to help us through our grieving
We all want to keep these faded jewels
In a little box, like a treasure chest

Goodbye to Riverfront...

Written back in 2002…

It was July, 1984. I was 14 years old.

My mom, grandmother and I were on a vacation. We had visited historic Madison, IN on the Ohio river, and eventually snaked our way up some riverside road into Cincinnati. We stayed at what would become my all-time favorite hotel, a round building just across the river in Covington. We had a room on the very top floor facing the river that gave us a breathtaking view of downtown Cincinnati.

We lived in Indianapolis, but I’d been to Cincy lots of time. We had family there. But this was the first time I’d ever stayed downtown, and I spent the time standing on our hotel balcony and staring at what still is my favorite place in the entire world… Riverfront Stadium.

We decided to venture down to the river one afternoon, and we made our way up to the plaza of the stadium. While they were gazing over the edge at the water, I was snooping around the outside of the stadium itself. The Reds weren’t in town that day, but I eventually found an open door and walked in.

I’d only been to the stadium once before – four or five years earlier to see the Reds play the Astros-- but I was in love with the place nevertheless. I walked around in wonder for awhile, and eventually sat down in one of the green seats and just stared, imagining my heroes were lighting some poor team up out there on that field. Someone in a red jacket – I still don’t know who it was – was jogging around the warning track, and he was the only person I saw in the stadium for nearly 20 minutes.

I had a picture in my pocket of the girl I’d just fallen in love with, and I was sitting in the Taj Majal of the baseball world, at least to me. I was in heaven.

Finally, some guy came by and asked me what I was doing there. I told him I’d found an open door, and now I was sitting there looking at the field. He said I’d need to leave soon, and he walked off. I left a few minutes later.

I’m not kidding when I say that experience changed my life.

I’d been a Reds fan since I was little. When I first remember watching baseball, it was the mid 70’s, and if you watched baseball back then, you more often than not were watching the Reds pound somebody. My dad and my older brother were Reds fans. I guess I didn’t have a chance.

My dad, who wasn’t around much, would buy four or five packs of ball cards. We’d open them together and look through them, so we kinda knew who was in there. Then, he would turn them upside down and shuffle them like a regular pack of cards, and then deal them, one at a time, to me and my brother. It was like digging through a bucket of dirt to find the gold nugget when he got through. Which Red players did we each get!? Man, I used to love that! I couldn’t have cared less about the other cards. I wanted the Reds! To this day, I really only collect Reds baseball cards.

I was a Johnny Bench fan for awhile, but as I grew older and began to play the game myself, I became a Dave Concepcion fan. And boy, did we play baseball. My brother and I would play from the time we woke up, to the time it got too dark to play. If other guys from the neighborhood showed up, so be it. If not, then just he and I would play. I was number 13, and my brother was number 14.

The only thing that mattered more to us than actually playing was how the Reds did themselves that day. When Marty would say, “And this one belongs to the Reds,” all was right with the world.

I was as destroyed as anyone to see that team taken apart, one at a time. First Perez, then Rose, Morgan, Geronimo. The last to leave was Griffey and Foster. Bench retired. Oh, but Davey kept on. That kept me alive during the 80’s.

I was in my uncle’s Cincinnati living room later that summer when Rose returned. I was the teenager jumping up and down on my uncle’s couch when Pete got a hit in his first at bat and did a head first slide into third base. I was watching the tube when Tony Perez returned and became the oldest man to ever hit a grand slam home run.

I taped the game on September 11, 1985, because I was at a school function. I told everyone to keep their mouths shut so I could watch the game for myself. I didn’t have to watch long. A clean base hit to left-center field in the bottom of the first.

I was destroyed again in August of 1989.

I got to actually go to only a few games growing up, but my heart and ears were in that magical place every night.

In the 90’s, when I married, and eventually had kids, I made it a point to trek my family to several games a year. The Bible says to raise your children in the way they should go, and when they get older, they will not depart from it. I’m raising my kids to love God and be Reds fans! They don’t stand a chance.

The Reds hold this wonderful event every year called RedsFest. And you can get autographs from and have your picture taken with your favorite Red. My son’s favorite player is Aaron Boone, and he now has a couple of pictures of him and Aaron together. He doesn’t know it yet, but he will grow to treasure those. If I’d had a picture of me and Dave Concepcion together when I was a kid, it would be my most prized possession today.

They have this great game there called Reds Jeopardy. Four Reds players pick one person out of the crowd, and then they all compete in a Jeopardy contest of Reds trivia. Me and Brett Tomko won three years ago. And each session I’ve watched, I would’ve won hands down if I would just have gotten picked to play.

Why am I telling all of this? Because last Monday night I went to the last game ever held at Riverfront/Cinergy Field. Oh, it was just a softball game, but for one final time, they were all there. Rose, Griffey, Morgan, Perez, Bench, Foster, Concepcion and Geronimo… in that order. Along with other great Reds names like Billingham, Sabo, Davis, O’Neill, Oester, Dibble and Browning.

I got to see “Mr. Perfect” Tom Browning pitch again, and “Nasty Boy” Rob Dibble throw one over some guy’s head, and “Eric the Red” hit one out to center field. But the real show was that for one last time, I got to watch Davey make a backhanded stop. I got to see Foster hit a homerun. I saw Bench behind the plate, and Morgan flap his arm. And yes, I got to see Charlie Hustle do a headfirst slide into third base.

It was an historic event. This was not just a bunch of old-timers from somebody’s favorite team. This was a lineup that boasted FIVE legitimate Hall of Famers, with a couple of above .300 hitters and a league MVP thrown in the mix. There are enough gold gloves on this team to start a mint. There’s four home run champs, three batting titles, three Rookies of the Year, five RBI winners, six MVP’s, six division championships, four National League champs, and two World Championships! This was a team who was nearly unbeatable, at 69-18, in 1975 and ’76 when they played together.

No, this was not just another team. They were quite possibly the best team of all time. And we will very likely never see them all together ever again. For one last moment, they weren’t old guys who can barely move anymore. They were the heavy hitting, slick fielding, ever exciting, greatest baseball team that ever played. And every person in the stands was a kid again.

In the movie City Slickers, a girl asks the rest of the guys what the big deal was about baseball. I really don’t remember their answer. But I can tell you what it is for me.

Baseball is about being a kid and not having to worry about the stock market or Iraq. The Cincinnati Reds shaped my life. Watching Davey make a throw on the run like nobody’s business gave my life meaning during a time when my parents were divorcing and when I was a teenager discovering the path I was going to take.

Watching the Reds was about spending time with my brother, and making him proud every time I made a great play in a high school game. It was about collecting cards and putting my favorite player on my wall. Listening to Marty and Joe as I fell asleep at night, and pouring over the newspaper the next morning to see if they won. Winning the World Championship in 1990 helped kick off my marriage and my wife, the poor girl, is now a Reds fan whether she wanted to be or not.

Plus, she thinks Aaron Boone is pretty cute.

Now, being a Reds fan is going to games with my family. It’s staying in that round hotel and sleeping out on the balcony just so I can fall asleep looking at the stadium. It’s standing on the bank just across the river from the stadium and throwing rocks into the water with my boys just because we like the view. It’s getting a hot dog with my sons, something my dad and I never got to do. It’s watching my 7 year old son grab a bat and swing it nonstop during the entire Reds telecast on Fox Sports Net. It’s hearing him explain how Larkin could’ve avoided making that error if he’d just made the play this way and high-fiving him when Aaron hits one out. And being Reds fans is coaching my little number 17 over there at third base, even if we are the Carlisle and Son Funeral Home Cubs.

Yes, my family and I share special times together now because of the Big Red Machine all those years ago. I’m gonna miss the old place, but I didn’t care about the carpet, or how round it is, or whether its called Riverfront or Cinergy. Call it what you want. It’s where the Reds play baseball.

I know now that there are more important things in life than baseball, but when your wife and kids are standing there with you cheering on another Reds homer, I really can’t think of anything better.

There were over 41,000 people there last Monday night. But for one last time, I was all alone in the stadium, staring at the field, watching my heroes, and being a kid again.