Mistaken Identity

As near as I can tell, I don't have a doppelganger. But I have been mistook for others here and there.

About six years ago I was working at the radio station and was wearing my sports guy hat. We carried the Kansas City Royals games, so a few of the players and broadcasters would hit the highways of the Sunflower State in February to do meet and greets, sign autographs and get folks excited about the upcoming season. It was my treat to rub elbows with people like Frank White and Jeremy Affeldt, Bob Davis, Ryan Lefebvre and the like.

It was during one of these events that I was mistaken for a Royals player. I'm sitting at the table doing my thing and a little seven-year old says he liked watching me play. My playing career ended at age 14, as I've documented, and I think the kid's father came by and explained things to him.

The second episode happened in church this morning. About the only things I share in common with my parish priest is that we are both middle-aged men, a few years apart in age, and that we both have significant facial hair. I have a goatee, while he has a full beard. But a five-year old walks by me this morning and says, "Hi Marc!"

I suddenly felt a huge burden. But this child is a source of Sunday church happiness, and we had some yuks because of the event.

Christmas for the First Lady and me has been a happy one. We attended the early service at the downtown church, since our friends also worship there, and they were kind enough to invite us to their house for supper afterwards. The service and the music were fantastic. I love going to church, but this service is truly a special event for me, and I was not disappointed. The meal and the company were also top shelf. These friends of ours have two munchkins, a 19-month old and a three-month old, so entertainment was provided. I helped put a train set together, so hopefully I'll hear about some serious Christmas-morning smiles.

We got home in time to sip a little bourbon and soak up some Christmas Eve vibe and head to bed. It wasn't too late of a night, since we were up early to deliver meals on wheels this morning and making it back to enjoy the Christmas morning service at our regular church. The numbers were understandably a little lower, but there was just as much joy.

Prayer

My wife and I are faithful and church-going Episcopalians. As I've said before, we love our church, our priest and the people with whom we attend.

Prayer is one area in which I struggle. I think of all the things I want for others or for myself, and there seem to be so many things that it just makes my head spin because I can't touch every base. Then I wonder if it's the right thing to pray for, then think if there's anything/anyone I've missed (because I want all these good things for all my friends). Then I wonder if God would want it... etc. I think these things into the ground and then I revert to the Lord's Prayer, which I think of as a 'catch all.'

In addition, some of what we pray during the service is 'corporate' prayer, where one person reads the prayer and the congregation responds. After 40 years in the Episcopal church, I'm starting to come around on this kind of prayer, but it seems a little automatic to me. I need to 'feel' my prayer-- have it come from the heart. Yet I realize that's not always possible.

That leads me to ponder a little more what prayer is. I've always thought of it as a discrete act-- where I stop whatever I'm doing and pray. But can prayer be more of a permanent way of thinking-- a kind of 'who you are/what you want/what you believe in' sort of state? I'm no theologian, but if the Lord knows the wants and desires of our own heart, and if no secrets are hid from him...

Anyway, Christmas has been here for five weeks for us retail types. I had no idea so many people bought shoes as presents. I've allowed myself to get a little more wrapped up in the spirit of the occasion. Typically, if everyone else likes it, I hate it. Simple as that. I know it's wrong, but it's where I'm at. So I've been playing my favorite Christmas CD and kind of ingesting it, since I seem to do a good job of absorbing my religion musically. There's a reason we do this, I get it, but it's also OK to enjoy the season and have fun.

I'm starting to understand that a little bit.

Snow Stories

I read tonight that my friends back in Kansas are dealing with a lot of snow. 40-minute work commutes now take two and three times as long. School districts are canceling classes, and undoubtedly, basketball games. It's a way of life for coaches and athletic directors to have to reschedule games in that part of the state, and it was always tough to stay up with all the make-up dates and pass them along to listeners at the radio station.

It reminds me of covering a league basketball tournament in Frankfort, KS. It's an annual tournament that plays in mid-January, starting one Saturday and ending the next. All 13 teams played, and just about everyone played that last Saturday. games started at 10 am, so I drove the hour up there in a Ford Contour in just about an hour. But snow fell while I was in the gym the whole day, so when I drove home at 9:00 that night, there was enough on the ground to double my travel time in a four-cylinder, front-wheel drive car. Fun.

But that drive wasn't as much fun as either of the snow drives I made when I lived in Lubbock, TX in my mid-twenties. The one I remember most was in December of 1997, when I worked at the NBC affiliate and had a whopping two days off, since we didn't do a morning show on Christmas day. The boss' daughter, a coworker (with a bit of arm twisting), talked me into driving the 5+ hours home on the 24th. I got home shortly after noon, and even talked to dad before I left, managing to withhold the fact that my bags were packed and I was ready to go.

The weather was fine and the roads were clear as I stopped only once (I was single) for gas and pop in Carlsbad, NM. I surprised my parents' with a joyous overnight stay, and I would do it again.

But I left at noon on Christmas day, and the snow had begun to fall. The same asphalt that was problem-free the evening before was free of traffic but also very slippery. This made for a great time, driving at 35 MPH (with a Diamond Rio Greatest Hits tape playing), knowing that first thing in the morning was 2 AM to start a 3 AM shift at the station, and that I'd lose an hour on the time change.

It snowed the entire 300+ mile way back. Every mile. I had never seen so much snow in my life. Remember I hadn't moved to Kansas yet, so I had no idea what this much snow looked like.

Eventually, I made to Guadalupe Pass, through the mountains of the same name. Driving through the mountains, I eventually caught up to and passed a Texas Department of Public Safety trooper. Keep in mind I can't do more than 35 MPH. He pulled me over a little bit further down the line and chewed me pretty good. I probably deserved it, too. I let him get up the highway a little bit, but I eventually caught him again, at which point he decided he didn't want any part of the trouble I was courting, and turned around to go the other way. He was the smart one, since there wasn't much other than a metal railing between me and a drop into a snowy abyss. I never felt out of control except for once, when I spun out on flat ground east of El Paso. But in reminiscing, I wonder how I made it.

Nine and a half hours later, exhausted, I returned safely to my apartment, called my folks, and went to bed. 2 AM wasn't too far away, and another morning show needed a producer.

I did the same thing a few years later, but stopped for the night with a buddy in Hobbs. I was working for the same man but in a different job, who said to ring the alarm if I was in that spot again. I called him late that second night and he took care of things.

Meanwhile, in Alabama, 63 was today's high temperature, and the highs won't get under 60 until Christmas Eve, and even then it's supposed to be 58, with low 50s on Christmas Day.

BOWL TRIP!

The First Lady and I are unabashed K-State fans. She much moreso than I, since she's a native Kansan and has two degrees from KSU. I've devoted a lot of space here talking about the trip we took to KSU's Pinstripe Bowl in December of 2010-- truly a marvelous time.

This year, we're headed to the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, as our Kansas State Wildcats play Arkansas in the Cotton Bowl, January 6. It's been a remarkable season for the Cats, and defibrillator sales should have spiked in Manhattan, Kansas. The Cats have gone 10-2 in the regular season, far exceeding anyone's expectations. Even ours.

I am truly looking forward to this year's trip, since I am no longer a bowl trip virgin. So much to see, so much to do and so much fun out there for the taking. We expect to see more of our friends this time around, as well as catch up with some others.

Can't wait.

Super Six

The Alabama high school football season closed Friday night. The Super Six brings the two finalists from each classification (1A-6A) for games Thursday and Friday to Bryant-Denny Stadium, where the Crimson Tide plays. I've had the privilege of serving as a volunteer (one of maybe a few hundred). Two years ago, I wrote the promo that appeared on the jumbotron. This year, I guarded a parking lot by sitting in a lawn chair and checking credentials from noon to five both days. Hard work, to be sure, since it was so nice to be outside. Did a little reading, caught up on a few podcasts, even cleaned out the car. There was plenty of traffic driving by, just not many VIP types coming to park in my lot.

Once my shift was over, however, it was back up to the spacious and palatial press box to rub some elbows and hopefully make a few new media contacts. I watched some of the football, but it's difficult when I don't have a rooting interest or a game to broadcast. I did manage to meet some folks from Alexander City and from Hoover, who each have their own operation. This is the view from the Hoover high broadcast booth, just before kickoff of the 6A state championship against Prattville:

The picture faces the Prattville side, with the Hoover sideline on the near side. The gentleman in the lower right-hand corner is Jeff Lloyd, who teaches broadcasting at HHS. To his left is the color commentator, and then the Internet engineer guy. Not pictured is the statistician (you can see the stat monitor) and his spotter. That's a five-man crew for a high school football game. Granted, Hoover High has gobs of cash, so they can afford a broadcasting teacher as well as snazzy broadcast equipment. It's all a very intricate operation, and I found myself being extremely jealous of all this.

So I hung around Thursday until the middle of the third quarter to watch a co-worker's alma mater play (Hartselle), and I left the Hoover game shortly before half. Great games and much goes on to make sure everyone has a good time. I like that I got to be a very small cog in the machine.

Little League

I played little league baseball between the ages of 9-14. Dad's Optimist club put together four different leagues from tee ball on forward, ending at age 15. This formed the entirety of my athletic career-- I never played any school ball or anything. I went to big enough schools to where I could blend in and be as anonymous as I wanted. It contrasts with some of the schools whose games I covered in Kansas, where the graduating classes often didn't exceed 15 and every kid played every sport.

I didn't play tee ball, but I jumped in as a nine-year old in 1981 with the Tigers, in the Midget league, for nine and ten-year old kids. I recall not being very good on this team, which finished fourth out of eight and was coached by Jack Adler, who I know was an Optimist later on, but I don't remember if he was at this time.

I stayed on the Tigers the next year, and we got beat down a lot, losing by 30 runs a lot of the time. I think I played well on this team-- I hit well and was a catcher for the only time in my life, since there was a left-handed catcher's mitt. I even remember pitching and not being able to find the strike zone and our coach telling me to roll the ball to the plate. Needless to say, it wasn't a good year.

In 1983 I moved to the frosh league Red Sox, for 11 and 12-year olds. I played a little first base and right field. The next year, I played for the Indians. This started out as a good team, but our coach got busted using an ineligible player, and told us he was 'going on leave' after he got caught. So there was much disarray. But we stuck together and won a few games toward the end of the year. We did poorly in the standings, but we were proud of those two wins.

I played first base on this team, and I hit the ball pretty well that year. One play stays in the memory banks-- a time where I hit one into the gap right-center and took off. I was a chunky lad and was running out of gas coming around second base. I took the turn at third and drew a throw to the plate halfway there. They threw to third to try and catch me, but threw it away. I was gassed and would have been happy to stay at third, but I loaded up my piano and headed home, not so much sliding into home as collapsing on it, exhausted.

The next league up was the soph league, for kids ages 13-14-15. I played on the Giants as a 13-year old, basically with many of the same guys as were on the Red Sox. This was a league championship team, beating the Angels in three games. That Angels team had the famous Camet boys, who were roughly nine feet tall and could hit a ton. I played right field and a little second base, as I was going through a bit of a Ryne Sandberg phase. But I noticed that when I played second base I hit in the two hole, and I batted ninth when I played right. So I stayed in the outfield.

Next season, 1985, I was an Angel, with the same coach as the guy who started off as our coach with the Indians two years prior. I think we took second this season, behind many of my former Giants teammates. I never really understood how to lock in and focus as a ballplayer, until my last at bat, a ground out to second base. I guess I saw how fast those guys were pitching and just freaked out.

I chose not to play as a 15-year old, opting to umpire tee ballers back at Franklin Field, where it all started. But that's another story for another time.

Boot Camp

My life took a dramatic (though expected) turn on August 9, 1989. Barely two months after I graduated from high school, it was the day I got on a plane and headed to Recruit Training Command, Great Lakes, Illinois to begin my four-year stint in the Navy.

The day actually started the day before, which was actually supposed to be ‘the’ day, when they told me things had been pushed back. I didn’t really mind, since it meant a second straight day of Domino’s Pizza. Keep in mind that I’m two months shy of my 18th birthday, so I think this is awesome.

I had no idea what kind of culture shock I was in for.

That day started at about 5:30 as the recruiter came to take me downtown for some last-minute processing, and then the bus took us to El Paso International for a flight to Chicago, via DFW. I don’t really remember how late it was that night when we got off the bus at the base—maybe 8 pm or so and they started shouting at us and then herded us into a big room and were informed of all the stuff we wouldn’t be needing for the next nine weeks of our lives. Clothes, hairbrush, etc. Some got put into storage (to be returned upon departure from RTC) and some of the other stuff got donated to charity.

The next stop was a drug test. Peeing into a cup. Now I had to go pretty bad once I got off the plane, so I had no chance here. Drink some water, drink some more, watch a group of recruits go by, repeat. It took a while to get the job done, seemingly an hour and a half or so, but it felt like a lot longer, given how long the day had been. They never told me whether I passed, but I’m guessing I did since they let me stay.

The next thing I remember is wanting to get as much sleep as possible, so I got a quick shave (I didn’t have much need of a razor in those days) and butchering myself. The popular notion of the company commander (drill sergeant) banging on a trash can to awaken sleepy recruits is likely true, but I vividly remember hearing the lights flipping on at the switch box every morning. That was what I heard as boot camp started the next morning. It reminds me of not being able to sleep on one of those first mornings and seeing our CC get out of his car and feeling dread as he headed inside for another day.

Those first days as a sailor were foggy—there were times when I could hardly believe where I was, and feeling so dog tired that I hoped I would wake up and realize it was just a dream.

WVD

In the Fall of 1994, my good friend Drew and I went to watch our Texas Tech Red Raiders play TCU in Fort Worth. We’d gone down to see his family in Lufkin for Thanksgiving, and we headed back up for the game. We had a great time, though the game didn’t go so well, as the Frogs sacked our QB ten times enroute to a 24-17 win.

We were kinda bummed, so we stayed in the Metroplex and got a hotel room and commenced to looking for things to do, and settled on a minor league hockey game, the Fort Worth Fire against the Tulsa Oilers. As was my custom, I bought a game program, and noticed that the games were broadcast by a man about my age who also did play by play of other events in the neighborhood. It was a bit of a defining moment for me—if he can find work broadcasting games, then so could I. I knew this was what I wanted for myself, I just didn’t know how to go about breaking into the business.

I had started working as a weekend board monkey at an AM talk radio station—running ESPN radio, Cowboys football, Rockets basketball and Rangers baseball, and in asking around, I learned about Woody Van Dyke, who had a bit of a network set up and aired area high school games. I recall having to make two trips to see him that first day, having forgotten something. Nevertheless, in the summer of 1995, I began working for his Sports Ticket Radio Network. This started a string of 14 straight years where I covered high school football on Friday nights. Every night, every game was special, even if it didn’t seem like it at the time.

Woody was one of my first mentors in the radio business. I learned earlier this week that he died at the age of 74.

He gave me a chance and helped me get my foot in the door in Lubbock radio. I wasn’t broadcasting, yet, but I didn’t care-- it was a start in my chosen profession. My first assignment was as a studio host, calling around for other scores and coming on for updates. Ahead were trips to Dick Bivins Stadium in Amarillo, Kimbrough Memorial Stadium (aka The Buffalo Bowl) in Canyon, and Ratliff Stadium in Odessa to cover high school football, as well as trips to Roswell and Plainview, and points beyond and in between. I got to meet people like Joe Fan, a big name to El Paso types, Steve Dale (Jack’s son) and Thomas Howard, who was a linebacker for Texas Tech and the Kansas City Chiefs. I worked baseball and football for parts of three seasons, eventually getting an on-air opportunity my third year.

One particular trip stands out—might’ve been the 1997 playoffs, Friday night and Saturday afternoon games for Woody and me. I remember having trouble for that first game, and I still have no idea how we got on the air to beam that Shallowater/Stanton game back home that evening. Woody rang the alarm and got someone down there so that Saturday’s game would be free of concern. This was Lubbock Coronado against Permian. The same Permian I’ve spoken about here before. The same PHS that owned my alma mater, Andress, as well as every other school to advance out of El Paso. So my hatred of all things Mojo was (is) deep. Now there’s a universal gameday rule that there’s no cheering in the press box. People are trying to do their jobs. I was new to the biz and broke that rule, as CHS beat the Panthers 20-7. Woody understood and followed this rubric and tried to calm me down while doing the game.

Good times, great experiences, and great experience. They all helped me get my first full-time radio job in Levelland, Texas in 1998. I couldn’t have done it without him.

Thanks, Woody.

Defeat

I never played a down of football. Never went through steamy summer practices in pads, never puked into a trash can after sprints, never prepared for a game. So I don’t know what it’s like to pour your heart and soul into something like that and lose the game. To put forth that kind of effort, to give your absolute best and still come up short. It’s something I can’t possibly understand.

But I did suffer a crushing defeat today. I interviewed for a job I really wanted two weeks ago, and I felt I had everything going for me. I’d done some volunteer work for them in the past—helping with some writing, so they knew who I was. Two of the three people on my reference list were men who were in the interview room with me. Ann’s boss (the third name on my list) knew the director and made a call on my behalf. I’ve interacted many times with them outside of this arena. The third person in the interview room, a lady, knows a coworker of mine and got a good report back (my coworker called me to inform). The position was for something in my wheelhouse, relating to things I’d done in the past. I can’t imagine the interview going better. Thank you cards went out that afternoon to all three people. In the two weeks since, I still can’t think of anything I would’ve done differently. I felt really good when I left the meeting.

So I felt I had a lot of things going for me. Midweek (the time frame last week when they said they’d know something) and the weekend passed with no word, while people are out twisting in the wind. It didn’t bother me much—they’re typically busy with their own jobs and the things that swirl around it. But I did find out first thing this morning from the jobs web site that I was not chosen for the position. From people I know and people who have been in my home, I got no phone call, no letter, no common courtesy, nothing. Just an empty shell where promise and opportunity once stood.

I don’t know what cost me the job. I just know that when a football team loses, they can look at film and improve or go to the weight room and get stronger. I don’t know what I can do—I don’t know what went wrong. How do I know what to fix if I don’t know what’s broken?

There are only questions with no answers, and stunning and utter disbelief.

And we go back to the crossroads.

40

I turned forty years old on Thursday of last week. The days of getting excited about birthdays are long gone, since the day feels pretty much like any other. Still have things to do and places to be, and not much time to concentrate on what’s happening.

I had the day shift at the running store, so it helped to be around people and to make the time go by. I stopped by the grocery that morning to pick up treats for my coworkers. It was the custom at KCLY, Clay Center, but apparently not here in the Deep South. Nobody seemed to understand that if it’s your birthday, you bring treats. I did manage to leave out the part of how I still don’t bring any baked goods for treats. I got some (and ate some, mind you) shortbread cookies with orange sprinkles on top and chocolate frosting on the bottom. Yummy.

Ann and I went to one of our favorite fine dining places that evening, and it was a special meal. We started with an appetizer of lobster rolls, and I had some pork tenderloin with mashed potatoes and polenta. I can’t do the plating justice, but suffice it to say they would’ve scored the full point total on Iron Chef America. New York-style cheesecake topped off the meal, which was magnificent from start to finish.

Even with the weekend in the rear-view mirror, I’ve not been too reflective of the birthday thing, mainly for reasons already stated. I’ve been blessed with extraordinary health and honestly don’t feel any different now than I did 10-15 years ago. I’m the same guy who was knocking around when I was nine and thinking that being 40 seemed like a long way off.

But I’m roughly at the halfway mark of my time on earth, and I'm at the point where I don't need stuff anymore-- I need relationships and good times, and I've got both. I suppose it’s natural as you age to think about dying some, and I’m no different. I do realize how I’m a whole lot closer now than I was when I was nine. Don’t misunderstand my curiosity for being in a hurry, but sometimes I wonder what’s out there. Ann and I have some great friends and we have so much fun with them and when it’s just the two of us. I listen to great music that touches my soul. And I just wonder if all that will be waiting when I get to the train station.

Andress Football

I worked as an equipment manager for the football team at Andress High School my sophomore and junior years.

My good friend David had already signed up, and one day while we played basketball at the park, he asked if I wanted to join him. It sounded like fun, and also like something that was out of reach. I’d gone to the games since that time in 2nd grade when we got discounted tickets at Newman Elementary next door. That was against El Paso High, and we lost huge that year if I remember correctly. I recall wind and rain that night, so it was pretty crappy in more ways than one. Anyhow, it seemed like a good time and a chance to be around Andress football.

But it came about. There were four of us my first year—two seniors, David (a junior) and me. I might have been 135 pounds soaking wet, and maybe 5’8” or so. I just remember lugging sled dummies back into the garage from wherever the linemen pushed the sled, which typically was as far away as possible. The fire hoses which marked the lines of scrimmage weren’t too bad, just unwieldy. David could carry one on his shoulder and another one in his hand and not appear to have too much trouble. I just tried to time it to where I didn’t have to lug another one.

As for gamedays, things started the day before when we organized the jerseys by tens to give to the players. At the stadium, our job involved many elements. Place the footballs for warm-ups, have the toolbox ready in case a face mask, cheek pad or chin strap needed work; making sure the kicking tees got to the kicker punctually, as well as dashing out for the orange tee once the kickoff team took care of business. Postgame, we’d get the jerseys back and all our equipment back in the ‘cage,’ and things like that. The stadium was darkened and the crowd long gone by the time we went home.

I don’t remember much about our preparation or work, but I do recall some great games, since AHS was in the middle of what became a 38-game winning streak in district play. These days, the Golden Eagles still make the playoffs pretty regularly, but these were special times. Beating Carlsbad at home after being down by two scores in a driving rainstorm/lightning storm/power outage.

I remember being on the field my junior year at the Sun Bowl for the first-round playoff game against Hanks. We didn’t lose bi-district games in those days, and we beat the Knights pretty soundly. It was the next week we were excited about—a trip to Odessa to play the Permian Panthers. The following year would be the year Buzz Bissinger chronicled a year of PHS football. Permian came to the Sun Bowl the next year and beat us 41-13, so we made the book, albeit inauspiciously.

But my junior year, we headed east for Ratliff Stadium, knowing full well the task before us. These were the days of the Midland, Odessa, San Angelo and Abilene teams comprising the “Little Southwest Conference,” as it was called. The football in this neighborhood was outstanding in these days, and our excellent 1988 district championship team lost 34-0. One factoid I remember (it’s funny what sticks sometimes) is that team gave up three points in the third quarter. All season. Twelve games, and only Carlsbad could kick a field goal on opening night. I also remember getting lit up by Coach Culberson (defensive coordinator and a big man) for not running our football out to the game officials that day. I threw them out there, and he made sure I heard about it. I understand why he was upset, given how the game went.

There were lots of great memories over those two seasons, but truth be told, that job was probably bigger than me. I was OK with it as long as I was an underling, which was the case my junior year too. I’d have been the head manager as a senior, but I got into a bit of a snit when I didn’t get a letterman’s jacket after we won district, so I quit and didn’t tell anyone on the football staff. It’s a regret, and something I wish I had to do over.

Every Day You See One More Card

A round number birthday is approaching the week, roughly marking the halfway point as a space traveler. I feel like I should be a little more contemplative—thinking about where I am, what I’m doing, where I should be, etc. But I want storytelling to be the point of this here blog, so I think those things are being accomplished, in a way.

Occupying my mind the most has been a job interview I had last Tuesday, for a position that would open a lot of doors. I interviewed first, and I think it went really well. I truly believe nothing more can be done from my end—I have a lot of things in my favor here. A few other folks have interviewed, and the waiting, as Tom Petty would say, is the hardest part. We should know something this week sometime.

This past Saturday, the First Lady and I went into Birmingham with our church friends, as a batch of deacons, including two women from our own parish, were ordained and sent into the world. I’ve spent time here saying how much we love our church, and we were not disappointed. The music on that enormous pipe organ, in that church which began its history in 1871 and has sent men off to several wars, was incredible. The liturgy I’ve known since I was a boy was uplifting and soothing all at the same time. Truly a special event for us.

So maybe I’ll get a little more reflective as this birthday approaches. Right now, it’s a day this week much like any other day; a birthday that for now feels like any other.

9/11

So today marks the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks in New York, Washington, DC and Pennsylvania. I've spent time reflecting on what I felt then and what we now know about the attacks.

First, a little background. I'd accepted a radio job in Woodward, Oklahoma a month before, and my folks had come up from El Paso to see me. They spent some time knocking around the area, since Dad has family whose roots are more toward Enid. Saturday, September 9, we'd gone to the Oklahoma State/Louisiana Tech football game at (then) Lewis Field on the OSU campus. Turned out to be a close game, won by OSU late. I well remember Dad laughing and waving in time to the Waving Song, which the OSU band plays when the team scores. He seemed to be a little kid, and it made me happy to watch him.

We drove back to Woodward the next day, since the boss called a Sunday afternoon meeting. The folks drove home and I went in to the station.

The morning of the attacks started the same way as many others did-- out of bed about 7:30 for a shower and into the kitchen for breakfast as I listened to the station. The news we carried at 7:57 am talked about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. I didn't think a whole lot about it, since there had been an incident involving a kid flying a small plane into a building in Tampa a month earlier. Now when the news finished, our morning guys (station owner and one other) typically started talking about whatever. Not this time. This was my first indication that something was not right. They were watching the TVs in the studio and were speechless.

Arriving at the station close to 9:00, I recall splitting my time between checking the news wire and watching the screen in the studio. I was a news and sports guy at the time, and I spent some time getting MOS (man on the street) interviews, eventually riding out to Woodward Regional Airport and spending a few hours covering a bomb threat. It turned out to be false, but you have to follow up on it, since we really didn't know the scope of things quite yet. It's about 2 pm and I hit the drive through for a quick bite to eat.

This part of the afternoon is a bit sketchy in the memory banks-- I guess I went back to the station to edit sound bites for our local newscasts. I believe it was this afternoon, maybe four or five pm when I went to St. John's Episcopal Church (my church, for the time being) for a healing/reflective service. More audio editing followed back at base camp.

I made it home about 9:00 that night, and finally sat on my couch, watched some news reports and tried to process what happened this day. I was in full work mode and adrenaline was racing, so I'd not followed the news reports very closely and hadn't done any emotional searching yet. I think I went to bed about 11, since the next day figured to be as full as this one, as we started to make sense of what happened.

Our station stayed with the network news coverage instead of normal programming that day, and went with more somber music to fit what became a time of national mourning. I think some parts of Oklahoma didn't play football that Friday (I know I didn't want to cover or watch any), but the Woodward Boomers played Saturday evening against Great Bend (my first Kansas high school game) and won. There was also a city-wide service at the First Baptist Church Friday night, in place of football.

Pictures!

I've finally figured out how to add pictures from my phone! So far, I've added visual aids to some of the Tampa Trip and Pinstripe Bowl posts, so enjoy. More will follow.

Otherwise, the game goes on pretty much as before. Seven-plus inches of rain Sunday night into Labor Day Monday, meaning my front lawn got a good drink. Friday will be a rake and mow day. We camped out most of the day, watching The Right Stuff in all its three-plus hour entirety.

And football season is here in Alabama. The First Lady and I are newly-minted season ticket holders, section NN (upper deck, north end zone), row 15. This means we're roughly in Azerbaijan as we watch the game.

But we're there, and we stayed for the first three quarters of a season-opening win over Kent State. We had to leave early due to my work, but we saw what we needed to see. And let's just say Parking Services did us no favors that day, and let it go at that.

After my shift, I got home in time to see Kansas State score a TD and win (thankfully, I missed five purple turnovers), and to read about (no TV) a UTEP rally from two scores down to win in overtime.

House Blessing

The First Lady and I have been in our new home for a little over three months and pretty much have the kinks out, and have things where we want them. We knew we wanted to have a house blessing, it was just a matter of getting back to town and finding a day where our priest was available. Saturday, August 20 turned out to be that day.

The day started early, with a 5K road race I ran as a member of a local race team. 5:45 wake up for a 7 am start. I was home by 9:30, and after an apple fritter and a Bavarian crème-filled long john, I cleaned up and got about the business of being a host. We had the munchies and antifreeze already, so some light cleanup work was all that we needed.

We invited friends from all our different circles, and they started to arrive about 3:10. We had a full house about a half hour later. We were absolutely thrilled that so many people (41 by our count) wanted to share in our joy—we love our house, our friends and our church, so this was a great chance to put it all together. Father Marc started by blessing the water and praying over each room, sprinkling the water throughout the room at the end. Entryway, kitchen, living room, dining room, bedroom and even the master bathroom were covered. Not covered in the prayer book were storm cellars, of which we have one, so that was the last room to be blessed prior to coming back upstairs for closing prayers and dismissal. I’m on record here as truly loving our church and its priest and people, so it was really special for Ann and me.

We’d timed the event for 3-6 and the actual blessing at 4, since we knew folks had plans. But our trivia friends hung around and helped us get rid of some of the beer in the fridge. Much food, music, fun, libation and laughter were had by all. The conversation had found a dull point at one juncture, and the music from my Ipod got a razzing. The Wayman Tisdale albums had run their course, so I continued with more jazz from my Weather Channel collection. I like the stuff, but it was kind of like bad wallpaper. So out came the rap. I have no idea who most of the artists were, but I did learn that I have friends who know their rhymes.

The whole day turned out to be something really special for Ann and me—a home we love, surrounded by friends we love. I know it sounds corny, but it really was a day we’ll both remember for a long, long time.

EAOS +18

August 9, 1993 was a great day in world history. It was the day that marked the end of my active obligatory service in the U.S. Navy, closing the first four-year chapter of my post-high school life. I marked the occasion back then on my brother’s couch in San Diego, on my way back from Honolulu. It’s where I came to love that town. Great climate and lots to do. Went to a few Padres games, even an Angels game as Robert picked me up at LAX early one morning.

One thing disappointed me on that trip—my good friend John, with whom I grew up swimming and playing games with, was on the USS Constellation, which had just pulled in to town after dry dock in Philadelphia. I left a message onboard, but got his last name wrong, since his mother had remarried before he was born. We could’ve touched base back then and been better friends, instead of seeing him for the first time since high school in Harrison, Arkansas, stopping for lunch on our way to Alabama. We were virtually strangers, but I was happy to reconnect.

By now, August 9 is just another day, and I spent it at the running store. It was a very busy weekend there, with Alabama’s statewide tax-free weekend in full effect. Our store isn’t very big to begin with, and it was pretty crowded most of the time. Our new manager has taken over, and he seems like a nice guy. There’s another new guy there also—someone looking for a few extra bucks. He was in the store all the time anyway—I used to joke that we should put him on the payroll, but I didn’t think he’d take me seriously! But he’s a nice man, and will be fun to work with.

Yesterday I had to change a tire on the SUV for the first time in two years. I was on my way to the bank and took a corner too tight (a sewer drain corner, btw) and blew the right rear tire. You know how it is, when you hear rattling—you hope it goes away. But then that old familiar sound that reminds of a helicopter swooping down kicks in, and suddenly, plans change.

Now it’s 9:15 am in Tuscaloosa, but it’s still steaming hot. I was on the shady side of the car as I got down to business, but it was a small comfort, as sweat just poured off me and onto the pavement. It reminded me of the time I changed a tire in the parking lot at KCI after our house-hunting trip in July 2009. That was midnight, midsummer in the Midwest, and it was way worse then as compared to Wednesday.

Things worked out well enough—I got chores done and got back in time to open the store at 10, but I was an absolute mess. Thankfully, it was the first day of school in Tuscaloosa County, so business was slow enough to where my condition wasn’t an issue.

Tampa Trip, Vol. II

We’re back to the grind in Tuscaloosa, some time after returning from vacation in Tampa. Boy, was it a helluva time. Most of the trip has already been documented, but I thought I’d take a minute or two to talk about the experiences that didn’t involve food or running.

First off, church. Ann and I absolutely love going to church together. We go for pretty much the same reasons, and we take great joy in worshiping together. We went to St. Mary’s Episcopal Church, which is just down the street from our cousin’s home. It was the final sermon for their rector (priest in charge) before retirement, so he spent time hitting some of the highlights of our prayer book—things he thought were most important, since it would be his last time in the pulpit. We’ve always found Episcopal hospitality to be some of the finest around, and this was no exception.

The same can be said for the following Sunday, as we traveled downtown for a trip to St. Andrew’s. The building is a Spanish mission-style building, built around 1904, according to their web site. The parish itself formed in 1874. It’s also on the National Register of Historic Places. We thoroughly enjoyed the worship experience. We noted a plaque in the sanctuary after the service, and an usher, likely noting that we weren’t regulars, told us the story of a gentleman whose name was on the plaque. Apparently there was a storm many moons ago, and he, I believe a vestryman, was on a ship at the time, and apparently is still on patrol.

Tuesday was tour day, as Ann and I toured Raymond James Stadium, where the Tampa Bay Buccaneers play. Six bucks per person, but truly a bargain.

There were about 75-100 people there, basically with the intent of taking pictures, ourselves included. Locker rooms, on the field, near the famous pirate ship, skyboxes, etc. It’s quite the excellent facility.

The Tampa Yankees were also at home, playing the Palm Beach Cardinals, in minor-league baseball.

We sat six rows behind home plate for six bucks a ticket for a thirsty Thursday game. It was pretty steamy outside, and I had my polyester Cloud County baseball jersey on, so it was a little rough. The stadium is pretty good-sized, so as to handle large spring training crowds, so it kind of looked like nobody was there. Decent crowd, just spread out all over the park. The rugrats in the stands didn’t have much competition as they chased the foul balls.

Wednesday afternoon was soccer day, as the U.S. Women’s National Team played France in the World Cup semifinals. As I drove to the waterfront for my runs, I noticed a bar that would show the match, set for a noon kickoff on the east coast. . I’m a soccer watcher and follower, but I’m not hard core. I watched Abby Wambach head the ball in late against Brazil Sunday, so I was already invested, and ready for some ball. An early goal meant free beer as long as the gals were ahead. France tied the game, but our side scored again, so more beverage, followed by a victory.

The finals were Sunday against Japan, which made it interesting, logistically, since it was getaway day. Saw our first goal at the house, heard about the second one on gametracker on my phone, heard the US take the lead as I was going through security, and the rest on an airport TV. We were pretty bummed, but I saw an Asian (presumably Japanese)walking in the terminal and smiling from ear to ear.

I also hit the local running store, and was pretty jealous of how much space there was there, as compared to my store. I’d forgotten my body glide, so we had to pick some up.

Sadly, I had to leave Florida and Ann behind, but lots of great memories remain.

The Week in Tampa, vol. I

I've been back from Tampa nearly two weeks now, and reliving the week I spent with Ann in Tampa. I flew back Sunday evening, leaving the First Lady to dog sit two sweet Border Terriers (Fred and Ginger) on her own. But it sure was a week I’ll always look back on fondly. I’ll talk more about my runs on my Woodrow Miles blog, and try to break down the rest of the trip here.

I’ll start with the food. Ann is a world traveler, and loves good food. She knows where to look and how to get to some great restaurants. First off, Monday night at Mad Dogs and Englishmen in Tampa proper. It’s not a very big place, but they’ve been doing this for 20 years, and we were not disappointed. We split a yummy raspberry brie as an appetizer. I had a shepherd’s pie with blue cheese as the main course that was the best I’ve ever had. I’m into portion control, so I ate half and saved the rest for another day. But I definitely was not disappointed either time.

Tuesday night, The Columbia in Ybor City.

A bit of a historical district, as I believe Teddy Roosevelt got some dirt on his shoes from the area, during the Spanish-American War era. The restaurant is Spanish/Cuban, and has been in business since 1905. I started with a bourbon and coke, and I believe we had some fried calamari as an appetizer. I had some delicious pork here that was so tender it didn’t even need a knife to be cut. Add in black beans and rice, yuca and platanos, and it was quite a feast. The Columbia also has entertainment, in the form of a 20-minute Flamenco dancer show, which was also very entertaining.

Thursday we went to the Tampa Yankees game, and feasted on Square One burgers for pregame. The place is owned by a guy from Norman, Oklahoma. Hamburgers are all they do. I actually suggested the artichoke hummus with chips as the appetizer, which made Ann’s eyes pop out of their sockets, as she’s not used to me wanting to eat such fare voluntarily. I ate the bleu bacon burger, which had bacon and bleu cheese crumbles. Delicious.

Friday: The Refinery. I wasn’t really hungry, so I had a bowl of soup and several bottles of chocolate milk. Ann’s cousin came up from Ft. Myers and they told old family stories. Fun to be a fly on the wall, and also fun to realize I married into this family.

Saturday: Crabby Bill’s, St. Pete. I wasn’t feeling too well this day—must’ve been all the good food I’d been eating. Bowl of clam chowder and a salad and some Devil Rays baseball on the TV. And an excellent view of the Gulf of Mexico, realizing that Houston was about 1100 miles to my right.

Sunday: Circles, South Tampa. This meal followed church downtown. An excellent cup of coffee got us started. We enjoyed some fresh bread with a mixture of butter and strawberries—something I’d never tried before. Yummy. Next up was one of the best Western omelets I’ve ever eaten. I’m starting to grasp the concept of using all my senses when it comes to good food, and the combination of the company, the meal, the service and the atmosphere certainly contributed to an excellent dining experience.

Oh yeah—I also liked the honey-roasted peanuts Southwest Airlines handed out.

Top Five Cold

Whenever it gets really, really cold outside, I always refer to it being top-five cold. It’s a reference to one of the five coldest times of my life. Now that I think about it, they all involve ball games. In honor of the dog days of early summer, here they are, in no particular order.

1982 Sun Bowl, North Carolina 26, Texas 10.

El Paso is known as the Sun City. Sometimes, the Chamber of Commerce doesn’t get the memo. This was one of those times. Dad was radio/TV editor of the El Paso Herald-Post, the former afternoon daily newspaper, and he had an assignment that involved covering those who covered the game. In other words, he was in the press box, drinking hot chocolate. Meanwhile, mom, Kenny and Ursula and I were sitting on our seats on the east side of the stadium. I don’t remember much about this game, except for the famous Coca-Cola episode. We bought a Coke from one of the vendors (who probably also suffered that day), and Ursula put some antifreeze (rum, I think) in said drink. I’m 11 and won’t be introduced to the concept for several years. We’re shivering, dad’s in the press box, and I made mom buy me another drink. It’s lost to history, but I’m guessing I didn’t have too much Coke that day.

Tiger baseball

I lived in Clay Center, Kansas for 7 ½ years, covering high school sports across the area as the Assistant Sports Director for two stations in North Central Kansas. Great times, to be sure. One fine spring day (2008?) in the Sunflower State, I broadcast Clay Center Tiger baseball, as they were in Manhattan to play the Wamego Red Raiders. Wamego, east of town, is in the process of remodeling their ball field, so we played our scheduled doubleheader at Cico Park in MHK. Spring in the Midwest can be a finicky old lady, and this day was a prime example. No snow, just a cold and constant wind from the north at about 25-30. It’s not like there’s lightning or rain or snow, (read: no chance of postponement) so play ball. The folks at WHS were always very helpful (thank you, Athletic Director Mark Stephan) and as was customary, provided a chair and a folding table so I could set up shop. Thing is, the cold north wind cuts right through you after a while, and there’s no getting away from it. The kids and umpires are out there trying their best, but the innings go on and on and on. There doesn’t seem to be enough Kleenex to wipe my nose. Finally, game one comes to an end. If you can find a wall that blocks the northerly wind (i.e. near the men’s room), it’s not all that bad outside. Sadly, this is not where they’re playing baseball. I call Ann, who was my fiancée and lived in Manhattan. She saves the day by bringing me a nice warm blanket so I can broadcast/survive game two.

8-Man state football championships, November, 2005

Duane Toews (aka the Moundridge Mauler) is still the farm director at our two-station conglomerate, and in those days, he and I would do a lot of ball games together. He was an all-league DE for the Wildcats back in the days of leather helmets. We’d do eight-man finals, league basketball tournaments, etc. And have some great times. This event took us to Russell, KS (home of Senator Bob Dole) for a football doubleheader that started at 11 am. I did these games in Russell and in Newton, and apparently Ma Nature didn’t like the games being played at RHS, because I can’t remember doing games there when it was nice. But when the finals moved to Newton, the chamber of commerce ordered up some fine (if atypical) Kansas weather. I’ve gone prepared for cold weather and have had to take off coat, gloves, and hoodie, with nothing but sunglasses and a t-shirt and jeans.

No such luck this time. DT reads the weather at least 427 times a day during his weekday morning shifts, yet has no idea it’s gonna be cold for the games. I’ve got layer upon layer on, and I’m getting by, but Duane is severely underdressed for the occasion. He brought a medium-strength jacket and some gloves, but he’s got no shot against this northerly wind. I don’t recall the first game being as cold as the second one, when the sun starts to set behind the school building, but I do remember us sitting in the company car with the heat cranked up so as to thaw as much as possible before game two. The biggest problem I had during the nightcap was that it was so cold, my pens wouldn’t write anymore, making it hard to keep stats. I had to carry the broadcast, since I’d look over at ol’ Duaner and he’d just be there shivering like a freezing bobblehead. South Barber and Waverly were your winners and eight-man champions (two divisions) that day.

1984 Sun Bowl, Alabama 28, SMU 7

This was another year where the phrase ‘Sun Bowl’ was a bit of a misnomer. Highlights included the Mustang mascot hurting an ankle doing cartwheels/flips during pregame, and the SMU types being very vocal in their displeasure about coming to El Paso, thinking they deserved better. The entire Woodyard clan went to this game, which turned out to be my first Crimson Tide game. Much coldness here, too. The four of us wrapped up in blankets, one of which was spread across the laps of all four of us, with me on the far left of the formation. Now I’m cold, but gee, mom sitting next to me doesn’t look to be as bad off as me, so I start badgering her to swap with me. Eventually she relents and we switch, and I learn that it was warmer where I was. Crap. I don’t even remember if I tried to get my spot back. I *do* remember that there was no booze at this event, as there was in ’82. We left this game at halftime, it was so damn cold.

Okay, so that’s only four. But a couple of entries on the honorable mention list can make up the difference.

Whitharral/Valley six-man football coverage, 1999. Valley HS is near Turkey, Texas, and a Saturday evening game over Thanksgiving weekend. My parents were up for the weekend, joining me at base camp in Levelland, and were along for the ride. They sat and enjoyed the matchup between the Panthers and Patriots. I was in the press box, and sort of bundled up, but my feet were cold, and you know how that goes. If your feet are cold, your whole body was cold. That was me that night.

Hanover at Axtell, sub state eight-man playoff game, 2008. Yikes. They put heat machines on each sideline, and even the typically hardy (if somewhat crazy) Kansas high school football player didn’t stray far, and likely didn’t look forward to heading out to play ball and leave what little warmth there was. This game was in sharp contrast to the following Saturday’s state championship game in Newton, as mentioned above.

Okay, now go back outside and warm up a little.

Tampa Two

The First Lady and I have touched down safely in the Sunshine State (still finding no travel trouble issues) for a house and dog sitting job. Her cousin is crossing the pond for two weeks and asked us to come down to help. The dogs are two Border Terriers named Fred and Ginger. Sweet as can be. Ginger has already pegged me for a softie, as I've already had a stint of 20 straight minutes of belly scratching.

Her cousin Ellen has already treated us to a wonderful seafood supper-- the three of us and Ellen's ten-year-old son. I had delicious pecan-breaded trout with two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. The food, the company and the conversation were all top shelf.

It has been a bit of a culture shock-- both Ann's and my legs have been bitten up by mosquitoes, requiring a trip to Whole Foods for bug ointment. Truly a remarkable store. It's on the first floor, with a Target store on the second. So we're seeing a lot of things we've not seen before, or in a long time. We were here two years ago for our first Thanksgiving as Southerners.

Who knows what we'll see or do in the days to come-- we really have no agenda. But it's gonna be a hell of a ride.

Memory Loss

I don’t remember significant portions of my life. Not because of any kind of substance abuse or anything, but because I was only physically present. I chose not to look around. My lack of music knowledge has me playing catch up nowadays. I can’t really participate whenever my friends debate whether David Lee Roth or Sammy Hagar was the better lead vocalist for Van Halen. When we talk about movies, oftentimes I get, “YOU HAVEN’T SEEN (insert movie here)?” It puts me behind the times in Animal House and Caddyshack conversations. I just didn’t get out much growing up. I guess I watched too much TV or played too much Nintendo as a kid.

So my cultural knowledge is rudimentary at best.

I also don’t remember much of what happened to me when I was in college at Texas Tech, from 1993-97. Part of it was not looking around much, though I did manage to make friends, which helped. But I also worked my tail off. I guess I was young and idealistic and trying to get somewhere, and not stopping to smell the roses. Part of the work involved the early-morning shift at the NBC-TV affiliate in Lubbock. My first year, I woke up at 3 am to make a 4-8 shift, where I was the associate producer (video editor) of Daybreak 11, which started at 6 am.

My second year, I advanced to producer of Daybreak (probably because nobody else was crazy enough to do it). This meant waking up at 1:45 am to make a 3 am shift. And it seemed someone was always getting home and slamming their car door shut in the parking lot about 30 minutes before my alarm would go off. And I was a full-time employee working a split shift-- after the morning show ended at 7, nothing happened at the TV station until the morning news meeting at 9 and the noon news, which I either produced or cut video for. My workday typically ended around 12:45 pm. So it was rough.

Both years, I’d go to bed about 6:30 pm, so my contact with the outside world was limited to recorded versions ER (before it got too depressing) and Touched By an Angel (it was a phase). I knew the Colorado Avalanche won the Stanley Cup in 1997 only when I saw the highlights on the morning news feed, when Uwe Krupp scored to beat John Vanbiesbrouck of the Florida Panthers. Had to get to bed and had to get to work. And you know what a playoff hockey geek I am.

The TV job was one of three I had at the time—I was also a weekend board operator at the talk radio station. Running commercials for ESPN Radio, Texas Rangers baseball, World Champion (at the time) Houston Rockets basketball, and the coast to coast and border to border Dallas Cowboys radio network.

And I also worked as an engineer for a high school sports network on Friday nights. Sometimes they were home games, other times we’d head to Plainview, Canyon or Amarillo.

So I worked a lot of long hours in those days. Drew and Heather, who stopped by to see us last summer, were an item during this time, and I really had no recollection of what their relationship was like, since I was gone most of the time. I had to have them tell me about those years—1995 through 1998, since I was seldom around. And if I was, I was dazed and confused. Most of the time, I was at work or at school. And half conscious due to a lack of sleep.

Of course, there are things I’d do differently if I had the chance to do them over, but I'd rather not look back, and just prefer to take a look around every now and then, and remember that it’s OK to like things that everyone else likes. Maybe they’re right—maybe it’s fun.

So I’m trying to read a little more, write a little more, and perhaps put myself out there a little more. You know—look around a little bit.

Flag Day

This blog post is about two weeks too late, but it’s too good a story to pass up.

I was an excellent student through eighth grade or so. I think it had a lot to do with getting thrashed regularly in Monopoly by my older brother. I knew how much I owed if I landed on Illinois Avenue with three houses, how many houses and/or properties I had to hock, and what I needed to roll to stay off his hotels. That and being raised by a librarian and the son of an English teacher meant I had much of what I needed for those elementary/intermediate years.

But I found high school a bit harder. As a result, my grades were decent, but I didn’t put enough into it. This meant I had few alternatives upon graduation. So in March 1989, I signed up to join Uncle Sam’s Navy, actually enlisting in August of that year.

Following basic training and “A” school (stories for future entries), I got orders for Pearl Harbor, Hawaii to the USS Benjamin Stoddert, reporting onboard in February 1990. Benjamin Stoddert was the first Secretary of the Navy of the United States. My rate (MOS) was Operations Specialist, tracking air, surface and subsurface contacts, meaning we had very little to do inport, with nothing to track.



One day, June 14, 1990, was Flag Day, an inport day, and an off day, or so I thought. The plans of the day of the week leading up to the 14th made no mention of a Federal holiday. I stayed in my rack anyhow, thinking it was a free day. For some reason, I thought if I played the part thinking, somehow, as an 18-year-old and lowest man on the totem pole, that I could make myself and others believe it.

No dice. My shipmates went up to morning quarters and returned, with me still in my pit. I think I got laughed at, and never got in trouble or anything. The thought was that this was so utterly preposterous that all I ever got was a serious dogging. Besides-- that was far from the worst stunt I pulled on the Benny Sweat. I am now Facebook friends with a lot of those guys I served with, and I’m happy to say they've made sure the legend of Flag Day continues.

Randomness

There doesn't seem to be much news of lasting significance around here these days, so we'll shoot from the hip a little bit and maybe tell a story later on.

We're nearly a month into home ownership, and out of cardboard boxes, for the most part. We've unpacked much, thrown out some, and put some into storage. That's right, we finally have more space than we have stuff to put in it. We had our trivia friends over for food and games last night, so that did lend a sense of urgency to the last few days. We still absolutely love this house, and there's more to be done, but we've traveled a good distance.

I've taken to my front yard just a little bit-- watering every other day, as well as checking to make sure the ant hotels are vacant. It'd just be nice to have a little rain here and there, as it's been pretty dry here the last three weeks. Today I went and bought some Roundup and a weed eater to help with the weed action I've been getting.

I've been back to running four days a week, basically in the same neighborhood. The paved trail is 13 minutes away now, not four. Two weeks ago my mileage was 18, 14.5 last week, and a projected 20 this week. I hope to be near 30 miles most weeks. There needs to be a marathon in my future, but there are some things on the horizon toward the end of the year, making those plans a little murky.

Okay, now story time.

I worked at the radio station in Levelland, Texas for two and a half years-- April 1998-December 2000. News, sports and sales. I was half of the full-time staff. I covered school board and junior college regents meetings, did the crime beat, did newscasts morning noon and evening, sold advertising the best I could. Long hours and there were never enough fingers to put in the holes in the dam, especially when the station manager (who hired me) took a job in Temple ten months after I started. That made me the entire full-time staff.

However, all I ever wanted to do was broadcast games. And this gig offered no shortage of opportunities. I'd done some baseball games the previous spring.

But football is where it's at, and my first game was September of 1998 at Dick Bivins Stadium in Amarillo, Texas. A Saturday afternoon tilt-- LHS against Amarillo Caprock. Several teams in town use the stadium, so if two teams (say, Tascosa and AHS) were at home, one would move their game to Thursday or Saturday. Anyhow, my folks were along, and they were drilling me on the Lobo names and jersey numbers on the two-hour drive north on I-27. I'd been to this stadium many times in the past, as engineer for another network that did games, so the turf was familiar. Assistant principal Mel Gierhart was my sidekick for road games. I remember him bringing up the town of Notrees, Texas (near Midland/Odessa, I think), though I forget the context. Likely something to do with game travel. But my mother, who always travels with a full pack, broke out her trusty map of Texas and found it. Yeah-- it's pretty remarkable what sticks in your head 13 years later.

I was still learning my craft, so my game performance is up for debate, but I do remember Levelland winning my first game, 32-13.

Following the game, we got back into the company car-- a Dodge Neon, and headed south for the Texas Tech-UTEP game, scheduled for that night in Lubbock. The first half went OK, but the game overall was not a good one for my guys, as my alma mater beat my favorite team on the planet. Tech 35, UTEP 3.

There were three seasons of Lobo football for me, and this was the first. The win over Caprock got the seaosn off to a good start.

Sweet Baby James

The El Paso Diablos minor-league baseball team and I go way back. Dad, Robert and I would go to two or three games a year at that old crackerbox Dudley Field, right next to the city zoo. The park was so small, pitchers’ ERAs came to El Paso to die every year. Robert and I would stalk the ice cream stand for whatever helmet we needed… And we’d watch the baseballs fly out of the park and watch old Texaco scoreboard light up. Great times, to be sure.

Anyhow, Paul Strelzin was the public address announcer for a lot of years. A legendary voice in El Paso for decades, but he also had a way with ruffling feathers. He’d nickname the players every year-- right about the time when Chris Berman at ESPN went places with his nickname shtick. Daryl ‘Jaws’ Sconiers, 'Chilly' Willie Lozado and Bill ‘Shotgun’ Schroeder were just a few of the players we watched pass through town every summer.

In 1982, Dion James was our center fielder, a player who found success with the Brewers, Braves, Yankees and Indians. Strelzin dubbed him Dion ‘Sweet Baby’ James. I’m not quite 11 years old at this time, so I have no idea what this means or where it comes from.

It’s not until a few decades later that my rudimentary music knowledge tells me that Strelzin must have been a James Taylor fan, since it’s the title of what’s become my favorite JT song. He played in the second set of his show in Birmingham Tuesday night, a show which the First Lady and I were delighted to attend. He’s in his mid-60s, still tours and still obviously loves what he does. He basically sang the same songs he’s been singing for the last 40 or so years, but they were sung with a passion and with heart. We truly enjoyed every note of every song.

But the concert was the perfect cap to a perfect day the wife and I spent in the Magic City. I started the day mowing my lawn for the first time with our brand-new rotary mower. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t so awesome, but it’s a new thing for me. We headed into town and grabbed lunch in the Five Points district, at a restaurant called 26 Twenty-Six. The décor was a 1960s meets The Jetsons motif.

But the food was great—I had Carolina barbecue pork with macaroni and cheese on top. The pork was very sweet, and it was complemented perfectly by the mac and cheese. It was the kind of meal you don’t want to eat, because it’ll be over soon. We also split a chocolate chip ice cream cookie, served open face. Homemade ice cream and a delicious cookie. Definitely a meal to remember.

We spent the balance of the afternoon shopping and browsing for items to furnish our new home. We managed to pick up some dishes and other accessories, as well as get a few ideas together for the long-term plan.

Five Points hosted our pregame meal, a Tex-Mex place called Fuego. We took advantage of half-priced margaritas and two-dollar tacos on Tuesdays. Another excellent choice, since we’re both used to the homogeneous Mexican food restaurants that seem to be everywhere.

After we eat and drink, it’s off to the show, and our first trip to the Birmingham-Jefferson Convention Center. We both noticed that most of the crowd seemed to be our age, though there were a few pups in attendance. Great music sung and performed by people who care about the music.

Cardboard City

We are at the close of another week-- moving week for the wife and me. We moved out of our second-floor apartment and into a really nice three-bedroom home about a mile and a half away.

So Sunday, Monday and Tuesday were big packing and moving days, and I spent those days off from work. You never realize just how much crap you have until you start to put it into boxes. So a little bit during the week prior, and some on Sunday, then Monday and Tuesday were hard-core. Starting at 7:45 Monday and at 7 Tuesday, we loaded our lives into cardboard boxes and plastic storage bins. The springtime weather in Alabama actually cooperated and provided temps in the 70s, unlike some of those Texas summertime moves, when the mercury really got up there. The only time we really stopped was to play semi-final trivia with our friends Monday night (we advanced to the finals, btw).

The movers arrived Tuesday morning and started hauling and loading as we packed out the kitchen and living room. By 3 pm, most of what we own had been transported. Strange thing is, we had everything done by 5 pm. Cable guy stopped by on time, as did the delivery types with our brand-spanking new king-size bed. Clockwork. The most important things got covered that evening-- putting the entertainment center together, as well as rigging cable TV and our wireless Internet.

So the last several days have been spent unpacking boxes and sorting their contents, deciding where things should go, and figuring out what all we need. Stuff like trash cans, watering hoses, a mailbox and stuff for the ant beds in the front yard. There will be more to be sure, but we love our new home. We'll get more stuff unpacked as the weeks go by. It's a great problem to have.

Character Flaws

I don't do confrontation well and I don't stand up for myself.

I'll avoid making a scene or getting into arguments at all costs. Unfortunately, it doesn't always work out. And when it doesn't, I sit and simmer and ponder and think about the whole thing. The things I wish I'd said. The possible scenarios-- how things could have played out. What would've happened if I'd done/said X. How I feel I'd have to watch my back if I did stand up.

Our society seems to thrive on conflict. Not constructive conflict that makes our world a better place, but silly, meaningless Jerry Springer-type stuff. I don't even do conflict on TV well. Conflict scenes in shows or movies? Can't do 'em. I guess I put myself in the position of the oppressed. Perhaps it has something to do with being in that position many times in the past.

Spending time dwelling on negative things is not healthy. I tense up and my temples tighten and I'm sure my blood pressure spikes. Not to mention the positive things or productive things or 'advance the ball' things I need to be focusing on. The negatives are all I can think about.

It's part of the ride-- you spend time around people and there will be differences. I understand that. It's the dealing I have trouble with. Even with things that happened 25 years ago. Even with something as small and trivial as what's in my head tonight.

So in the absence of coherent and organized thoughts, maybe getting this out in the open will be a catharsis somehow and help me figure things out.

Back to Work

Following last Wednesday's tornado, I had four consecutive days off. There was no work, since there was no way to get to the running store. The First Lady and I have spent some time volunteering at our church, though we both admit we can do more. There will be chances for us to pitch in.

But Monday, I went back to the store I started at-- basketball and children's shoes. Relearning where things are, since the stockroom had been reorganized. Though the two store are owned by the same people, working at each is vastly different. Pulled three shifts there-- Tuesday and Wednesday as well.

This morning, I opened the running store-- my first time back since about 3:45 the previous Wednesday afternoon. My first time going south of the campus since that storm cut a swath through my state and my city. Intersections were unrecognizable, vans on the wrong side of the street from the not-there-anymore restaurant, fractions and splinters of trees still standing, gas stations blown away... It was all amazing, in a way. That one single event could do this much damage.

But I also saw things to be encouraged by-- construction types and clean up crews on the job at 8:45 (though I'm sure they'd been there a while already), a major laundry detergent company setting up its free washing machines, battery companies setting things up, and more. People moving forward.

Elsewhere in the news...

I'm starting to get back into the running groove, after a minor injury. It's difficult to start back up after a break. Something about an object at rest tending to remain at rest. Working our way back slowly.

And the tornado also brought my spring semester at UA to a screeching halt. I had an accounting assignment due the next day, and a test scheduled this past Monday. Both were canceled, with students choosing to take the final or take their grade as of April 27. So after much gnashing of teeth, I took my B in Intro to Accounting and ran. And I'm also not giving up on this as a potential career path.

One Was Too Many

Wednesday, April 27 started with a bang. Loud thunder and a lot of lightning roused us from a cold sleep about 5 am. An hour and a half later, I woke up, sent my dear wife off to work and went out for a short 3.5 mile run. It was a nice morning-- just a little breeze a little humidity. My right Achilles had been bothering me (due to overtraining) and I was just starting to work my way back into shape. I also took note of power crews that were already out at 9 am cleaning up after the storm.

I then cleaned up and headed off to our prospective new home for final walk through, after which I headed off to The Athlete’s Foot in Midtown Village for my 12-4 shift. I passed through the intersection of McFarland and 15th street as I hit McDonalds. Since I’m starting to run up against time, I hit the drive through and head to work.

Now we’d known that the day would be eventful from a weather perspective, because of the advance warnings that technology gives us. We’d heard about the havoc this system caused in Arkansas, so it was hard to stay focused. Get a little work done, look at the radar. Work, radar. The wind started to blow more intently. Finally, the radio station we listen to ran EAS tones, signifying the start of the weather situation for the state of Alabama. My blood ran a little cold. Tuscaloosa had a brief tornado hit the southern parts of town a few weeks earlier, and we considered ourselves lucky.

About 3:15, the boss called. We discussed the situation, and he said he’d call back. Our stores will shut down if the weather’s nasty. Happened a few times back in December, with winter weather. A few minutes later, I got instructions to close the store. About 3:35, we’re out of there. My coworker Chris and I have no idea what’s coming. Just that there’s a southwest-to-northeast flow to these storms, and they seem to be gaining strength.


So I start home by turning onto McFarland from 15th street. The same intersection I used nearly four hours earlier. I call Ann, who is headed for a basement on campus at the University of Alabama. She asks me to join her. I readily agree. She is my wife and I want to be with her, but the place we’ll be is much safer than the second-floor bathroom in our apartment. I drive in on University Boulevard and notice that a giant tree has fallen on some power lines in front of a frat house that is under construction. Crews are on the scene. It’s close to 4 pm. Some traffic lights are still out, traffic is a little slow and I’m getting a little anxious, so I turn left onto Hackberry, in front of Canterbury Chapel, where we worship. I see college kids in flip flops, shorts and ball caps returning from class, at a somewhat leisurely pace. Meanwhile, the TV weatherman simulcasting on the car radio is not mincing words in saying that he hasn’t seen a storm like this in the 32 years he’s been on the job. Most times, they deliberately speak clearly and calmly so as not to alarm people unnecessarily. Not this time. James Spann is very stern in his warnings in that this storm has the chance to make history. The students I see seem to have no sense of urgency. I am incredulous.

I get parked and go meet my wife and we hunker down in the basement in Doster Hall at the University of Alabama, literally across the street from Bryant-Denny Stadium, where the Crimson Tide plays football. It’s a touch after 4 pm. We are happy to be together as we are joined by about ten other people, mostly students. It’s a pretty loose environment—we’re watching Spann online and we see the storm stay together and start to take aim on Tuscaloosa. More students join us, upping the total to about 25. We hear warnings on the campus-wide intercom—the first two or three tell of a tornado warning. The next… says a tornado is heading toward campus. The weatherman says it could be headed for the stadium. Swell. The vibe in the room becomes more serious. Then the lights go out, and along with the power, the intercom system is done. Ann and I start to hold hands. A few minutes later, we lose the wi-fi connection. So we’re literally in the dark and have no way of knowing what’s happening. Faces in the room are lit up as people use their phones to find out what’s going on.

Last word we had before wi-fi went out was that the tornado warning expired at 5:45. About six, we’re able to learn that the coast is evidently clear. We start to poke our heads outside and decide to head home. Though we have two cars, Ann and I go home together. On our way to the car, three students start to fill us in on what went down. The hospital and 15th street are torn up. The gravity of the situation creeps in. The store I left a few hours earlier is a half-mile away from sheer, complete and utter destruction. And there’s plenty of it.

We know not to go back up University, so we go home through downtown. All we see are some power outages and some small branches in the street. We get home to find out that we have electricity but not cable TV or Internet. But we do have our phones, and we do the Facebook and Twitter thing, telling the world of our safety, and starting to learn what happened, and the true gravity of the situation. This monster missed us by about 500 yards. Way too close for comfort.

We see pictures and some video. People dying. Widespread serious damage. Buildings demolished kind of damage. Serious damage to the McDonalds where I got my lunch. The tornado seemed to head east on 15th street. Restaurants and strip malls do not exist anymore. Places where we’ve eaten. The intersection I drove through twice earlier in the day is unrecognizable. I contact a few coworkers at the running store and learn of their safety. So we park on the couch and try to unwind and process.

Now Wednesday night is trivia night, and we initially decide we don’t want to go—the situation is too serious. However, we start to think that human contact is needed. Since the outage hit the bar where we play, we go to the store for provisions. Our friends call and invite us to their place for a spell. Salt of the earth, these friends of ours. We bring beer and pizza and crank the oven and at about 7:30 start to think about supper, when someone knocks at their door.

It’s a man and his wife and about six-year-old daughter. They can’t get to their home or car because of tornado damage, and got a ride to the neighborhood thinking they had some help lined up. When said help wasn’t home, they came here. The four of us don’t know who these people are—it could be anyone. But our friends did not hesitate to let them in. The man was trying to get in touch with his mother a little further up the road so they’d have a place to spend the night. I’m ashamed to say I spent a lot of the time in or near the kitchen, frightened of people I don’t know and what they might want. But my wife and my friends showed them much kindness, sharing our food and drinks and offering fellowship. Eventually, I warmed up and joined the crowd.

The gentleman contacted relatives, and soon, they were on their way. I wonder what kind of courage it took for him to knock on the door. He doesn’t know who’s on the other side, whether they’ll even be willing to help. So the four of us go on with our evening. And as we thought, we needed our friends. It was good for us. But this episode was very powerful for me—watching my friends display the love of Christ without hesitation.

About 11 that night, we went home to further decompress. Hanging out on Tweetdeck, and spending more time learning from the outside world what happened in my own backyard. An hour and a half later, Ann and I went to bed, becoming more and more thankful. We had each other, our health, and the tornado stayed south of the river. Nothing we own was damaged. But life as we know it will never be the same.

I find myself drawing parallels to the ice storm that hit Kansas in December 2007. Nasty stuff. Power outages, trees snapping in two under the weight of the ice, and ice-covered roads. My apartment had no issues. Heater worked, I had power and hot water and my automatic coffee maker came on every morning. I had it easy compared to folks who went to the armory for a shower. We have it pretty easy now, as well.

Playoff Hockey

Everyone seems to think that the NBA and NHL playoffs take too long. And in the case of hoops, I tend to agree. I'm not a real big NBA fan. But I do enjoy watching the NHL playoffs. I'm no expert, but I enjoy the intensity of two teams slugging it out for an entire best-of-seven series and shaking every hand of every opponent at series end.

The genesis of my love for hockey comes from the den in my childhood home in El Paso, from my living room in Levelland, and elsewhere along the way. ESPN was my only outlet for NHL in the mid-1980s, and they'd show every minute of every three and four-overtime playoff game. It didn't matter which teams played-- I couldn't get enough as a teenager. If we had company, I'd go be sociable with guests (and stay out of trouble) during the intermissions and then go back when play resumed. I found myself drawn to the desperation with which the two sides played. One goal. Sudden death. Somebody's season ends tonight.

I found myself drawn to the Calgary Flames in those days. I respect the hell out of Wayne Gretzky and those great Oilers teams, but I liked that Calgary seemingly gave as good as they got. The Cs even hoisted the Stanley Cup in Montreal in 1986, which is a big thing, given Montreal's tradition.

In Levelland in the late 1990s, The Dallas Stars were really good, after coming south from Minnesota. My good friend Sean and I would watch the game, he from his living room and I from mine. When the Stars scored, my phone would ring. I knew who it was, and as soon as I picked up the phone, I'd mimic the sound of the 'goal' foghorn, which Sean joined in on.

And living in Clay Center, I followed the Flames making it all the way to the Cup Finals in 2004, losing to Tampa Bay. I recorded game seven and watched it when I got home from church league softball.

So, needless to say, I love watching playoff hockey, and the stories and memories that are created. And my dear wife has been very patient as my hockey Jones is sated.

Tornado Warning

The last two Mondays at the running store have included some type of severe weather. Mainly heavy rain and wind, but nothing too bad, even though the tornado sirens went active on Monday of this week. All we do is watch the rain and watch the radar, since very few customers come to a specialty store in that type of weather.

Friday was another severe weather day in Alabama. A little background: I was scheduled to cover my last Mountain Brook High School baseball game. I was out and about at noon, following class, and learned that schools in Tuscaloosa had already dismissed, and that all MBHS afternoon events were canceled, including my game.

So I had a rare afternoon off. Knowing something was coming, I watched the radar and saw the storms race across Mississippi and trigger storms in Tuscaloosa around 2:30 or so. I turned on the weather guy, one on TV and one online. I heard the warning sirens twice, and the weather wonks were talking about a twister heading my way, so I decided precautions were in order. I've seen damage in Cordell, Oklahoma and heard about it here as well as in Chapman, Kansas. So, respecting the storm, I fetched two couch pillows, my jacket, a blanket and UTEP football helmet all went to spend time in a second-floor bathtub. Yes, I put on a football helmet.

Thankfully nothing really came near our apartment, although apparently a tornado touched down for a bit in the south part of town. Some damage and no injuries. The TV types spoke of the storm heading to the east, so I went on with my day.

But storms raged eastward, and there was a lot more severe weather where that came from. The way I understand it, the meteorologist-types at the TV stations were on the air nonstop, from about 2:30 to 8 or so. This makes a lot of people upset, since they're missing ER or the ball game or whatever, and the weather doesn't affect them. Me? I used to work at a TV station, and I was (and still am) astonished at how people complained. I'm glad we have the technology that lets those guys spend all afternoon on the air.

And to be sure, we rag on those guys a lot. Even the guys on The Weather Channel seem to get pretty excited whenever there's nasty weather. I was even one of those guys for a few years, covering severe weather on the radio in North Central Kansas, and know how the adrenaline starts to flow. For me, it's all good fun. I like knowing, and I'm glad there are people with resources who want to tell me.

Running Store

I've returned from an eight-hour shift at The Athlete's Foot. My store is one of four owned by the company, and is specifically a running-oriented store. Shoes, apparel, fuel, advice, etc. I've worked for the company for 4 1/2 months, and at my store about six weeks, at about 35 or so hours a week. I like working there. The people are nice, and I get to meet a lot of cool folks and help them pick out a good pair of running shoes.

In January 2002, I found a new radio job and moved to Clay Center, Kansas, following an unsuccessful five-month stint in Northwest Oklahoma. But that's another show. My new coworker invited me up to the middle school to play a little basketball with some friends of his. Rocky was very kind to me in this way, and in making sure I met a lot of people and getting me out there.

But as far as the hoops was concerned, I never was very good, and hadn't really played since playing at 'The Park' with my friends, and infrequently at that. But I went anyhow, and soon found out I couldn't get up and down the floor without gasping for air. Full court, side courts-- it didn't matter.

That night was a night I remember, because it inspired me to work a little harder to get into shape. I tried the stair master and stationary bike, but I never saw the results there that I saw when I ran. I got into shape and could run well, but didn't really lose a lot of weight. When Ann and I got married and I started to eat (a lot) better, the weight really came off.

So I love running and like getting a chance to help others do the same. I've been on a bit of a hiatus because of a little tendinitis in my Achilles tendon, and will be back on the roads myself here in a day or two. I'm ready.

Story time: football

For three seasons, 1998-9 and 2000, it was my treat to cover Levelland High School ball games. Football, baseball and hoops. Our station also covered some games involving area teams. Earlier, I promised to tell some ball stories, and here are a few more.

I want to say the first event took place in 1998. LHS at Andrews, home of Shaud Williams and the Andrews Mustangs. Shaud would eventually sign as a running back with Texas Tech with Spike Dykes, then leave when Mike Leach came to town. He eventually wound up at Alabama, and I've been able to play that card a few times, telling the locals in Tuscaloosa that I got to see him way back when.

Anyhow, anyone who knows me knows that I'm chronically 15 minutes late for everything, including games. And at the station where I started out as half of the full-time staff, I was now the full-time staff. So I never had enough hours in the day. Not a good combination for someone like me.

On this night, I was strangely ahead of schedule, and arrived at a good hour to get ready for the Friday night broadcast. I found a booth, which seemed rather spacious, and started to set up. My control board, legal pads, dry-erase markers, all ready. Everything in its place. I felt good about the upcoming broadcast.

Then the Andrews broadcast team showed up and proceeded to tell me that I had set up in their booth. Swell. It was four against one, and it was *their* home, so I had to pick up and move to a broom closet of a broadcast booth, where things were suddenly much more cramped, and my broadcast partner, Mel Gierhart and I were basically shoulder to shoulder. And I ran about 75 feet of cord for my crowd mic, and the closest place to put it was the entrance to the press box, where we heard the crowd, sure, but everybody coming and going.

So I kind of felt like a moron. It's one of those things I wish I could do over.

As for the game, Andrews took the opening kickoff and absolutely drilled the clock, taking the opening possession down the field for a touchdown, taking ten minutes off the clock, enroute to a 35-7 win over Levelland. I don't remember the number, but I'm sure Shaud Williams had a nice game.

One other quick story. LHS played Estacado on a Thursday, due to field availability. So that left an open Friday for us, which we filled with a broadcast of Sundown at Hale Center. Roughnecks vs. Owls. I don't really recall much about this week 10 matchup, other than seeing a great friend from college at the game. Jacky married his college sweetheart and moved to Midland, where he was on the coaching staff at Lee High School, helping with the first steps of the football career of some guy named Cedric Benson. But by now, I think he was coaching at Greenwood HS, and was up for a scouting trip, since the playoffs started next week.

Anyhow, he poked his head in the window and scared the crap out of me, which was (and still is) completely in character. I responded by threatening to put him on the air at halftime. I believe Sundown beat Hale Center and made the postseason. We did the SHS game the next week, at Denver City, where they lost a lead late and fell in the first round.

So-- that's all for Woodrow's Tales From the Broadcast Booth. More to follow.

Podcasts

I'm taking an intro to accounting class at the University of Alabama, Tuesdays and Thursdays. 9:30 and 12:30. I'm enrolled in one class but not the other. I started the spring semester taking two classes and working two jobs, which left very little time to spend on schoolwork or with my wife. The first casualty was Calculus I, nearly two months ago.

So there became a void, which I filled by finding an accounting class to sit in on, hoping to pick things up a little faster. And it was on the way to this class that I heard a Writer's Almanac podcast by Garrison Keillor (yes, *that* Garrison Keillor). He briefly discussed a writer, Donald Barthelme, who said to write what you're afraid of.

I've not been able to find anything that could expand on the meaning behind that phrase, but I did find meaning in it.

Because while I feel I've carved out a bit of a niche for myself in Alabama and have more of a sense of stability these days (in contrast to the months following our move to Tuscaloosa), I still look around and wonder what direction to choose. Accounting doesn't feel like it. I've picked up a little work doing high school hoops and baseball for some folks around here, but I've been ready to make broadcasting a second option for a while now.

So I'm searching for something. I don't really know what to look for or where I'll find it. I just know I'm trying to get out there and learn things and meet people and see what happens. Maybe that's what frightens me. The unknown. Fear of what I could find. Fear of how I perceive myself and how I blend into the world, and how that perception hinders my progress.

I don't really know if any of this makes sense, as it's more of a spontaneous post today, but these are the things I think on-- it's how I feel and where I'm at right now.

Yeah, yeah.

Okay, so it's been three months since I posted here. Really busy around here, and much to catch up on. Work, school, basketball, baseball, etc. Hopefully I'll get to it all.

But that third day in New York for the my inaugural K-State bowl trip was as awesome as the previous two. We walked from our Chelsea hotel with some of Ann's friends (she knows someone everywhere, it seems). Cafe Martinique (just off Broadway, between 31st and 32nd), followed by a brief trip to a snow and icy Central Park, and then off to the Bronx for pre-game.

The bar the KSU types had reserved apparently got a better offer from the Syracuse crowd, so we were adrift for beer. Went to the bar next door, which still had orange, just not as much. Drank a beer and then went to the Hard Rock Cafe, which is attached to the stade. And from the 'small world' department, we ran into a high school football coaching buddy from Kansas (he coached at Linn and just completed a run to the state finals with Hill City), as well as some folks from Randolph, KS, who were also wearing purple. Then I sang a verse of Wildcat Victory in the ticket line. And my dear wife, who sings with a group in town, a double KSU graduate, who got props from the AD, jumped in at the very end. That's it.

But we somehow made it to Monument Park and to our seats in time to see the K-State band do their pre-game thing. I watch their youtube video regularly, and to see them in person was music to my eyes and ears. We sat down the right-field line, at about midfield. The field was way the hell out there. But we had a great time. We even had some magic potion to help keep us warm during the game. It wasn't nasty cold, but cold enough to cut through you if you're sitting in it for four hours.

The element of the game that will be remembered most was 'the salute.' Adrian Hilburn scored a KSU touchdown late in the game to bring us to within two points (sadly, our defense also made the trip) at 36-34. Adrian's a military brat and thought it'd be a nice idea to salute the K-State partisans in the end zone seats. A game official decided he was cold and wanted to go home, so he flagged us 15 yards for unsportsmanlike conduct. I missed it live, and didn't see the replay, but I did see it on TV afterward. I also saw no fewer than three celebrations during the Tennessee-North Carolina game that were worse, and also weren't called. So yeah, I thought (and will always think) that we got screwed. Ann and I couldn't really commiserate together, since we were enjoying things so much. We weren't gonna let that ruin our fun.

The next morning, we walked around the neighborhood, since we had time to kill before our plane left. School was out at General Theological Seminary, so the few folks that were there let us have the run of the place. Not as memorable as Trinity Church, but we visited the sanctuary where they've trained and ordained priests since 1817, including our own parish priest at Canterbury, Tuscaloosa. We also wore purple this day, and ran into a local couple who remembered the salute from the night before, and pretty much were in agreeance. Then a quick stop at Starbucks (they grow em on street corners in NY) and back to the hotel to gather up and go home.

Again, our flights were on time. We had no issues whatsoever. Our travel was so hassle free, we almost, *almost* felt bad for the folks who didn't make it. The rain in Alabama was something to contend with, and was the only weather-related issue for us. We made it home about 8 that night, and settled in for New Year's Eve. On the couch, together. A couple of homebodies, we didn't care if we didn't go out. We'd had our fun. What a trip.