Rambling Josh

Legends and myths are commonplace this time of year, and each generally have threads of truth winding through them. When you find that thread, and you take the time to tug on it a bit, more and more of the factual side of the story might begin to show itself. That thread, woven into the tapestry of the infinite, begins to take shape, begins to become more clear and finite.

Her mom was gone, her father got sick, and she was the only one of her siblings that was willing to put her own life on hold while their father held onto the last of his. It’s a decision she never regretted. Those three years of caring for the man that always saw the good in her, no matter how bad she tried to be, served to expand her heart beyond that which she had believed a heart could stretch. Now he’s gone, now she needs to take care of herself, now she needs to fill that big heart that now has space to spare.

She hadn’t intended on buying a pumpkin to carve when she went to the store to stock up on the unlimited 2-for-1 Hot Pocket deal advertised in the sale ad. Hot Pockets were the go to meal during those years she cared for her father. Quick and easy, it seemed selfish to take too much time to herself when his time was so short.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, but this was probably the very same reason she had taken to wearing floral print moo moos around that same time. Quick, easy, little time or thought required. We only have so much thought we can attend to in a day, and she wanted hers available to attend to him.

Besides, she joked that they were slenderizing. Slenderizing much in the same way throw pillows make a couch look smaller. She really wasn’t in need of slenderizing, but the covers on the magazines she saw while waiting in line at the supermarket told her otherwise.

She is aware that magazine covers are not a rational metric to measure one’s self-worth or body image against, but squeezed between rational thought and general checkout line daydreaming, she found herself planning to start a diet sometime soon, even while still rationally convinced that a diet wasn’t what she needed or wanted. Perhaps after the Halloween candy was properly disposed of, perhaps after the last of the Hot Pockets, perhaps…

Her cat Whisker, it used to be Whiskers, but time and circumstances have whittled away the plural, sat with its crooked, mangy tail flicking about as she transformed her pumpkin into a jack-o-lantern. Many more years ago than she can remember, the cat showed up on her doorstep. Not cold or hungry, just in search of company it seemed. Whisker was a fine looking calico then, a proud feline. She knows that, she remembers that, and chooses to see that, rather than the tattered cat before her now.

She senses that Whisker extends the same empathy and graciousness to her. Whether flowing out or in, empathy feels good. Good to understand, good to be understood. Understood for who you actually are, not who you appear to be through the lens of whomever decides to point their lens your way.

It’s easy to say that someone’s life is a fine mess, when we only see the messy parts. Messy parts tend to sparkle in the spotlight we shine on them, making them seemingly represent the entirety of that person. We don’t see, or choose not to see, all that falls outside the periphery of that spotlight.

The normal, the mundane, the kindness, the day-in and day-out compassionate displays of humanity extended to all who take the time to hold up their hand and shade the brightest part of the light and see it all. All of that is who she is, and when we see that who she is just might be a shade better than who we pretend to be, we can either move our hand and continue to be blinded or hold it there and feel shameful.

Shameful for missing all that is good, shameful for laughing at all that was different. Different from our normal. Maybe our normal needs to be different, maybe we need to just keep looking, keep getting closer until that thread of truth reveals itself. Even if it’s not found, at least it was sought. There’s no shame in that.

I wasn’t sure where this was going when I started, and now that it’s finished, I’m not sure where it went. The start of a story bigger than a column? A ramble turned babble? Is there a difference between the two? This nonsense is yours to make sense of. So it goes.

Something that I know to be true and factual is that later this week, November 5th to be exact, is our daughter Sierra’s 22nd birthday. We’re going to head to Bozeman and help her celebrate her day, so if you have any suitcases full of money, or extravagant gifts that you don’t trust to send through the mail, I can deliver them.

The holidays are coming…consider yourself warned.

There was a time, not so long ago, that we innocently viewed “getting your bell rung” as an indelible part of many sports. Simply a part of the game, as innocuous as a jammed finger or a rolled ankle. Maybe even more so, as you can see the swelling of a jammed finger, you can see the limp from a rolled ankle. The injured brain suffers in silence. The swelling, the cognitive limp, unseen, ignored, trivialized and often deemed a weakness by those that didn’t know or care to know.

That time is past, we now know, we now see what we were unable to see before. We can no longer claim ignorance to the words Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy and the cascade of issues those that suffer from CTE must endure, often without knowing they are enduring. Possibly unaware that they are not entirely the being they were prior to “getting dinged” playing some game.

Athletes are often told to play hard and “leave it all on the field”, a platitude meant to motivate and inspire one to transcend themselves, to extend their reach beyond their grasp. I take no issue with this, and believe that sometimes sport has the ability to move us toward a better version of ourselves. I am only concerned with the prospect of leaving something that can’t be regained on the field, and being left to deal with a shell of our former selves. A shell under the command of a commander that is limping into the sunset, stumbling in the dark.

Although we know, there are still those that don’t understand, or simply refuse to acknowledge the gravity of this issue. No, we’re not making too big a deal of this, and I really don’t care if you feel the safety measures being put into place are “ruining the game”. It’s not a matter of “toughness”, you can’t “toughen” your brain by concussing it. Dumber yes, tougher, no.

Given all that we know, choosing to err on the side of ruining a game rather than err on the side of protecting another human from the possibility of ruining their life for your entertainment is irresponsible, idiotic, and a lot of other words that my mother taught me but aren’t publishable in a family friendly newspaper.

I played in that time before we knew. I “got dinged”, I “got my bell rung”, I even managed to get knocked out a time or two. But nothing “looked” injured, so I counted the coaches fingers, managed to guess the day of the week with relative accuracy, and tottered back onto the field. Now, I’ve spent about 20 years as an athletic trainer, someone’s whose job it is to recognize when someone has been “dinged” and keep them from tottering back into harms way, to keep them from leaving it all on the field.

It’s my job to know, and knowing can be frightening, but if we know we can try and make things better. We can better prevent the occurrences and better treat those afflicted. I’m hopeful that I didn’t leave too much on the field, but concern creeps in from the fringes sometimes. I’ve never shared this with anyone, but for those that have never had a traumatic brain injury (TBI), it may be helpful to “hear” the thoughts and concerns that linger in the minds of those of us that have.

He lay there troubled from within by something contrary to the idyllic life he lives in the light. In the light, darkness dims and recedes, driven to sulk in seclusion. Sulk, simmer, and gather strength that may one day be too powerful and overwhelming for the light to drive away. What if the light fails? What if darkness fills the space entirely, tethered to nothing, in possession of all. He can see the madness for the madness it is, but worries that some night, day will fail to appear, and the madness will be all that is known, and eventually all that he is known for. Darkness covering the entirety of life, blurring, then obliterating the light. A progressive series of dark, heavy blankets placed silently upon him, bringing no warmth, no comfort, only suppression of the senses. Mind, body, and being, all that he’s spent a life to build, brought down by darkness.

A work of fiction? One can hope. Ruin a game? Don’t care.

My wife and I recently ventured to Aberdeen, South Dakota, for the Northern State University homecoming festivities, along with a few friends that are also NSU alumni. Gypsy Days has been a yearly tradition each fall at Northern State since 1916, and we try to get back for it as often as life permits.

The exercise of mentally tacking 25 years onto people you shared your college experience with can be exhausting. Equally exhausting is chit-chatting and catching up with so many people, but, for the most part, it’s a good exhausting. A lot can happen in a quarter-century of living.

A “quarter-century”…I don’t like the sound of that, it sounds sort of old, sort of wrinkly, sort of greying and/or balding, sort of like everyone I ran into this weekend. At least those that have embraced the white walls and opted to forgo some topical magic in a bottle.

As one tends to do when surrounded by those that you were last surrounded by when your body was relatively shiny and new, I indulged a bit too enthusiastically in the consumable magic in a bottle. When that magic wore off there were a lot of rough looking pumpkins that shouldn’t have pushed the midnight hour as far as they did. So it goes.

The majority of the students traipsing around the campus now were not of this world during the time of my own traipsing. Which makes sense, because I’m the same age as all of their parents. I’m in that age range that is supposed to try and make themselves invisible.

Most of those a quarter-century our junior would probably prefer we all worked the night shift in dimly lit surroundings, so they could avoid witnessing the grizzly effects of aging in full, unflinching daylight.

We visited with a few current students (a.k.a. kids) while we were roaming around, and they were all very kind and polite, and respectfully laughed at all of our attempts at humor. Cross-generational humor is a gap that is rarely traversed successfully, but when you get to a certain age the humor is more for your own entertainment anyway.

There was a kid that went above and beyond in his duties to take care of his elder alumni. We were setting out to walk the 2 miles to the football stadium to catch the homecoming game, when some grumbling in the group regarding such a jaunt prompted me seek out alternative means of travel.

I successfully flagged down a well-worn Subaru being driven by a member of the NSU marching band. He stopped to give me a lift, and was more than a bit shocked when I jumped in the passenger seat and informed him that I had five other people with me. Quincy was a good sport and a nice kid. He made my day, not just because of the ride, but because young people like him, and there are lots of them, generate great hope in our future for me.

We paid him for his troubles, and helped him carry his bass guitar amp into the stadium. To top it off, he let me wear his marching band hat…another bucket list box checked. A lot can change in a quarter-century, but a lot can also stay the same. With young people like Quincy on campus Northern is in good hands.

Enjoy the homecoming season.

“They seemed like such a real person, so normal, and so down to earth.” Have you ever heard anyone proclaim something along those lines after meeting a person that has been granted some level of celebrity status by whoever it is that grants such a status? The word “celebrity” encompasses a pretty broad swath of people, which are known for a pretty broad swath of reasons. Some reasons more desirable than others.

Usually it’s the movie star variety of celebrity that has the fan sincerely fawning about the individual’s level of realness, normalness, and earthliness. I’m not sure why these qualities would be surprising attributes for someone who appears to be of the homo sapient lineage.

They are people, sort of, or at least they play real people in their movies occasionally. Other than that, most live pretty unreal existences. Personal assistants, private chefs, on-call astrologists and spiritual advisors. Things people need in the world of the unreal. Us common folk make due with toaster ovens and Miss Cleo (R.I.P.).

They say that imitation is greatest form of flattery, and movie stars play us, real people, so they’re the ones that should be fawning over our every move. Maybe if we real folks were allowed access to the inner circles of celebrity blah-blah fests we’d hear things like, “Did you see what Bill, the butcher at the Piggly Wiggly, did yesterday? He’s so real, he smiled at another human and said something nice, and I think he actually meant it!”

Why do we give such a big stage and amplified voice to these people that pretend to be other people, normal people like us (“normal” may be stretch), for a living? This has always been a source of confusion to me (not the only source…math…mimes…hot dog eating contests…etc.). They play us, they pretend to have heartache, to lose loved ones, to go to war, to fight fires, to teach, to love, to do all that real people do every minute of every day.

The most glaring difference between us real folk and those pretenders, other than their shiny white teeth and luxurious hair, is that we do it all in one take. There is no, “Cut! Okay Tom let’s try that again with a little more passion. That volleyball is your best friend, how would you react if your best friend were drifting out to sea in front of your very eyes and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to save them? Take 26, and, action.”

Real life is the real deal, no “cut”, no “that’s a wrap folks, come back tomorrow and we’ll hand you sacks full of money to pretend some more”. No nothing, but moving onto the next minute of each and every day, day in, and day out, until one day we don’t. One shot at so very many passing moments.

Of course, we can learn from one experience to prepare us better for the next, but sometimes there may not be a next, or sometimes we’re just really slow learners. Sometimes we only get one shot, and when we miss it, it’s gone, and regret most likely takes the place of applause from our adoring fans. Regret is quite the rascal. It can leave deep furrows when it hits and skids through our consciousness. So it goes.

There are a few movies I regret exchanging my time for, mainly because they were one-way exchanges. They took my time (and money) and didn’t reciprocate with anything of substance (other than gas pains from fists full of popcorn). Popcorn farts are transient, loss of time is permanent. I suppose whether or not a given exchange is deemed mutually beneficial, and possessing substance, is subjective to the viewer.

This viewer’s subjective definition of “time well spent” in front of a big flickering rectangle, surrounded by strangers that have whistling nostrils, and low-grade whooping cough, doesn’t include anything starring Hugh Grant (unless he’s playing a mime…a mime savagely beaten by rogue troop of Red Hatters). That’s a romantic comedy I would suffer transient gas and loss of time for.

Keep it real my friends, the unreal need us for inspiration.

We have two seniors. No this isn’t the beginning of a ransom note that arrived at the retirement home shortly after it was discovered by the staff that Merle and Edna had went to, but had not returned from, the monthly workshop at “Stitch n Suds” (the fabric store/brewery formerly known as “Serge n Soused”).

The owners, Phyllis and Sid, thought the new name would help attract a more civilized and refined class of clientele. The kind that sip a little and sew a lot. The opposite had become an issue, and the cause of few altercations (not alterations). This month’s workshop “Knotty Tree Skirts” was particularly popular and well attended.

Sierra, our daughter, and Jackson, our son, are both seniors this academic year. Sierra is wrapping up her bachelor’s degree in Film at Montana State University, and Jackson is making a run at graduating from Stevens High School. Good for them. Then what?

There’s always a “then what”, life is a perpetual series of beginnings and endings. Like Sisyphus, sentenced by Zeus to push a big heavy rock up a hill in perpetuity only to have it roll back down again. Then what? Push it up again…and again…and again. Why? Zeus is a grudge holding jerk. But on a positive note, it builds chiseled glutes that will be the envy of all on Mount Olympus.

What else do we have to do with our time? Begin this…end that…and repeat. Repeat until those chiseled glutes sag and the rock rolls over you on its way back down. Then what? Then I guess it’s someone else’s turn to pick up where you left off. I’m sure they’ll be thankful for the path you’ve worn into the hillside, the bit of rock you’ve worn away. Thankful, but not completely beholden, the rocks still heavy, the hills still steep.

It always sounds a bit pompous to start a sentence with “as (insert historically significant person here) once said…”, but as Henry David Thoreau once said, “Enter into the great experiment of life and strive to be a humane being living a whole human life.” That seems to be a fair response to the question of “Then what”.

If you continually “strive to be a humane being living a whole human life” all should be well and good…no matter the mass of the boulder or the pitch of the hill. Sierra and Jackson, listen to Henry…or not…you’re adults now, and every adult needs something to regret.

So, as Sierra and Jackson kick-off their senior years, I wish them the best in this beginning of an ending. Then what? Push that rock with a smile, it’s your rock, the hills always been there, and most likely always will be, but the rock is yours.

Push it fast, push it slow, pause when you’re tired, and when you get to the top, and it starts to roll back down again, take that time to relax and reflect upon the journey a bit before heading down to fetch it for another round.

I’m always here to help if need be. I’ve got time. The odd, but kindly, old guy across the street is trying to firm up to wear his disco pants to a class reunion, and agreed to push my rock for a bit.

Happy academic year to all you back to school folks.

It is said that we stand upon a narrow precipice between the vast abys of past and future, between all that has been and all that is yet to be. A small sliver in the vastness of time is all that we are granted. What we do with that small sliver of time, our life, is sort of up to us, sort of up to chance.

My Grandma Rose’s sliver of time recently passed, released from bodily constraints and turned over wholly to memory on August 2nd, 2017. Her physical existence here in this time, this place, this life, may be no more, but it is far from gone, for it lives on amongst us. It lives on amongst those that she so unselfishly shared her time with. Those that were fortunate enough to share in her life go on, and will go on, and on, for many generations to come. For the love that that one beautiful woman encompassed can’t be contained in one lifetime. One lifetime is not enough for all that she was.

Who was she? She was a grandma, she was a mother, a daughter, a sister, a wife, a friend…many things to many people. Many things done well, many things done better than seems possible. Done with the utmost of grace, done with a quiet peaceful strength that seems beyond the capabilities of a single being.

Grace, defined as “simple elegance or refined movement”, that was my Grandma Rose. Never hurried, never needy, but always needed, and always there when needed. Needed for her quiet strength, her peace, her love. I have cried many times since she passed, many times for many reasons, but mostly for learning how much she meant to so many. I’ve cried because she is gone, but more so for the manner in which she touched so many lives. Those tears are of course of sadness, but are also of overwhelming pride and happiness for the life that she lived, the life she gave to each of us, a life well lived.

Her life was a life of service, a life of giving…always giving…never asking for anything for herself. “What do you wish for” is what she would always ask when you were in need, and whatever it was you wished for she would provide without question. She provided nourishment with her perfectly prepared meals, she provided love, support, and encouragement through listening with a wide open heart, and a kind gentle smile that always made you feel as though everything was going to be alright.

I guess “selfless” is the word, if a simple word would do, but a simple word can’t encompass all that Grandma Rose was. I have written of her many times, simply because she touched my life in so many ways. Touched…and touched…and touched with the quiet serenity of someone that isn’t trying to try, but merely is able to do because of who they truly are.

Who she was is beautiful. Beautiful, pure, authentic, unflinching love. A love that never questioned, never judged, just loved, just listened, just smiled, just made each and every one of us feel as though we were the center of her life. Always in the moment, always present, seemingly never wanting anything to be other than it was at that very time and place. The Latin phrase for such a way of moving through life is, “amor fati” or “love of fate”. She seemed to take great delight in her fate.

There is so much to say of this wonderful woman that managed to say so much with so few words? What would you tell her if given a second more of her time? For she would give it to you without question. I would simply say, “I love you Grandma…we’ll take it from here…we’re going to be alright…we’ll be careful…we’ll try to be nice…we’ll carry you in our hearts forever more.”

Thank you Grandma Rose…thank you. I promise to pay it forward, I promise to strive to be a bit more like you. Like you…not you, for the Rose you were was a very rare bloom, but we can try, and simply by trying we can make the world a bit more worthy of a person like you.

Grandma Rose…a life well lived.

These vagabond shoes just returned from a few days of baseball, sightseeing, and several miles of walkabouts in New York City. I’ve been to NYC before, and it continues to hold the spot at the very top of my “Favorite Big City in the US of A” list.

I’m sure that stamp of approval puts the 8.5 million citizens of NYC at ease, although I get the feeling that the citizens of NYC could care less what anyone thinks, says, or feels. Please read the following in your best NYC accent…“We’re here…you wanna come here, fine…you don’t, fine…Now shut up and eat your cannoli, I got things to do.”

NYC is like a brutally honest best friend, “those shoes make your fingers look fat, and your hair looks like half a raccoon…the not so good half”. Also best read in your best NYC accent. Brutally honest, but kind and hospitable when kindness and hospitality is deserved.

I’m of the opinion that a big city is best explored on foot. Being on the hoof allows one customized contemplation of all that is offering itself up for processing. You can stop or slow if the mood (or a gelato stand) strikes, or you can double time it so a honking cab doesn’t strike.

One place that was on my list of stops for this foray to the Big Apple was the White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village. The rest of the gang humored me on this excursion, and after a 5 mile forced march they were more than happy to settle their dogs on the wood floor of a tavern that has provided such a respite for the weary (and thirsty) since 1880.

The White Horse was where the Clancy Brothers

Well “The Boy” turned 18 this Sunday, and I, the number doesn’t matter much anymore, but I managed to make 45 on Monday. Five more years and I will accept being referred to as “middle aged”. We got to spend Jackson’s day together on the ball field, toiling through a double-header on a hot afternoon.

Jackson had a great day, hit the ball well, did a nice job in the field…enjoyed watching him having fun and playing some good ball. As for myself…I’m 45 now, and I played at an age appropriate level. For those of you scoring at home, I did not hit well, I managed to track a few fly balls down in the outfield, and struggled through four innings pitching. It is time to hand the ball over to “The Boy” for good. Besides, sweat logged Depends make it hard to beat out an infield single.

I told Jackson at the beginning of the season that if I started to embarrass myself out there to let me know. Jackson asked, “How will I know if you are embarrassing yourself?” I replied, “You will know, because I will be embarrassing you too.” I have no intentions of being some old fart novelty that shuffles around the dugout just to hear those ball players in their prime say, “he’s pretty good for his age”.

I don’t want or need to be “pretty good for my age”, my ego doesn’t need a condescending pat on the butt from some kid that will be able to get out of bed the morning after a game without a hitch in his giddy up. I had my time as a ballplayer, I enjoyed that time, but it has past, and I am fine with that. I am fine with that, because it is passing on to the young man that made me love the game again. The young man that let me be a kid again.

My mom told me that when you become a parent you get to see the world through a child’s eye’s again. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed that view, and feel as though I’ve wrung all I can out of it. Both the kids are officially adults now, so I suppose it’s time for me to grow up a bit as well…just a bit.

I realize that baseball is just a game, but it has been a game that has served as a commonality between myself and Jackson from the beginning. As his father, his coach, and now for a brief moment, his teammate, I have enjoyed oh so many days of playing catch, of throwing him batting practice, of just passing the time together.

This passing of time together became more enjoyable when I stopped trying to make him a major leaguer, and just decided to play with him for the sake of playing. There is a very, very small percentage of ballplayers that make it to the major leagues, and there is a very, very small percentage of time before your little boy becomes a man. I chose to bank on the second percentage, the sure bet, and it has paid out handsomely.

Happy Birthday Jackson, you’re a good man.

It’s been a hot few weeks here of late, as is generally expected in the summer I suppose. Expected, but seemingly always surprising. We slowly shake our heads and exclaim in a hushed breathless tone, “man it’s hot”. As if we’re trying not to let the heat hear us for fear that it will kick it up another tick or two just to spite our whining.

Those of you that have little choice but to spend your working day under the angry relentless glare of that fireball, I commend you. Your whining (if you so choose) is completely justified, for anyone else, it is not. Not justified, but highly likely, as the weather is what a good amount of idle chit-chat turns to when nothing else seems to make itself available for discussion.

I’m not very good at extended bouts of idle chit-chat or small talk. I need a good wingman or wingwoman when venturing into those types of social situations. I can hold my own for the first three minutes or so, but then it’s time to withdraw and let the wingperson swoop in so I can commence to smile and nod for the remainder of the interaction. I can smile and nod with the best of them.

If your wingperson is particular adept at carrying a conversational load you can even slip away and stare quietly at the potted plant in the corner or act like you’re intently reading something (anything…VCR instruction manual, recipe cards, mattress tags, etc.). I have two such wingpeople in my life, who I am quite thankful for, my wife and my good friend Paul. Both world class chit-chatathoners, whom I have stood by and cheered on for years. Or at least smiled and nodded once the plant got uncomfortable with the incessant staring.

The heat at least puts a bit of a damper on people’s willingness to stand on the hot asphalt in the middle of the grocery store parking lot and carry on about whatever their chosen carry on topic may be. The heat also seems to put a damper on some of the vacation bound motorhomes ability to carry on down the highway.

There was a particularly vintage looking motorhome fueling up next to us in Broadus Montana a few weeks back on a particularly hot day. In this case “distressed vintage” would probably be a more accurate description. It looked to have been a top-of-the-line RV at one point and time, a point and time, much like the paint, that had long faded. So it goes.

They rolled out about 15 minutes before us, as we had to let the dog sniff around a bit, and I had to make short order of a gas station Sundae Cone. Gas station Sundae Cones are always a gamble. Sometimes the cone is like chewing on a soggy Pringles can (don’t ask), but this one was crisp, crunchy, and cold…delightful.

“Delightful” would not be the word that probably best described the mood of the owners of the before mentioned vintage RV. When we went past them about 5 miles removed from Sundae Cone’s and Broadus, all involved looked a little overheated. Somebody had stopped to help them, somebody that could probably do more than stare at the motor like it’s a potted plant, so we continued on our way.

We moved on, but my thoughts stayed with them for quite some time. Times like that I wish I had the financial means to airlift in a new RV for those folks. Folks that obviously were just trying to get a little further down the road. Towards something…away from something…most likely both. Maybe they had all they needed. I’d have liked to have been able to give them a little more, but then who am I to decide what someone else needs.

Maybe a kindly rancher took them in, the RV people’s son fell madly in love with the ranchers daughter, they got married, and all lived happily ever after. Now the old RV sits in a tree grove out by the pasture, finally at rest, a pleasant reminder of the circumstances that brought two families together. Such a lovely story.

Sundae Cone brain freeze induced hallucination? It’s all part of the experience. Stay cool my friends.

Happy Father’s Day to all you fine folks that answer to the call of “Dad” or whatever brand of call your children have settled on. I spent the first part of my father’s day watching my son play in a tennis tournament in Mitchell, South Dakota. Then around high noon we loaded on the bus and headed back to Rapid City to cover the 275 miles in time to make our 5 o’clock double-header baseball game.

It seemed like a good idea to take up the tennis coach’s offer of riding with him and the team to the tournament on the bus. I thought since I wouldn’t have to drive I’d have some time to nap and read a bit while enjoying a leisurely ride to Mitchell. It has been a few years since I’ve ridden on a school bus, there is nothing leisurely about lumbering down the highway in those grain bins on wheels.

I thought longingly of the comfort of my car as I sat bolt upright, continuously shifting about trying to find comfort, but having to settle on varying levels of discomfort while simmering in a small vat of my own sweat. Thankfully it was loud enough in that rattle trap that I couldn’t hear myself complain. The kids all seemed to find some variation of body positioning that allowed them undisturbed sleep. Apparently, teenage bodies have a wider variety of comfort settings than this later model.

We made it back to Rapid City in time to get our uniforms on and head for the ballpark. My son, Jackson, and I are teammates on the Drillers, an amateur baseball team in the Black Hills Amateur Baseball League. We didn’t have a team last year, and I thought my baseball career had finally come to a close, but here we are…back on the field. The things we do for our kids.

I play right field and Jackson plays second base. Right field is about as far away from the action as I can get without sitting in the stands, which is my plan for next summer.

I’m sure I’ve shared this story with you before, but when I was about 12 I went with my dad to one of his softball games in Columbus. Columbus’s field had those old wooden grandstands, pert near a major league ballpark to me. I always liked going with to dad’s games to chase foul balls, play a little catch, and of course watch my dad play ball. Dad played left field, and he dove for a ball down the left field foul line, and was a bit slow getting up.

He walked back to his position, and as he stood there I remember thinking, “I don’t think his left shoulder normally hangs that much lower than the right.” He waited for Martin Halverson (the barber) to throw a few more pitches, and then called time and slowly came off the field. It ended up being a grade-three shoulder separation, and put him in a brace for the remainder of the summer.

During our game on Father’s Day, I dove for a ball in right field, and when I not so gently descended to the ground, I felt and heard quite a racket from various parts of my body that were voicing their objection to such foolery. As I stood up the vision of my Dad standing in the outfield in Columbus rushed into my mind. Jackson yelled out to me, “Are you all right?” I wanted to shake my head up and down, but left and right seemed much closer to reality.

“Reality”. In reality I am going to be 45 next month. In reality I have no business trying to make a diving catch. In reality I stood alone in right field afraid to take stock of the end results of my stupidity. Thankfully the cosmos decided to just deal me a bit of a warning shot, perhaps a Father’s Day gift. In the end I fared better than my dad, probably a bit less than a grade-one shoulder sprain, nothing a little time won’t heal. Nothing a little acting my age won’t prevent from occurring again.

It’s hard to act your age on a baseball field. Maybe it’s time?