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.