More Than Being a Good Loser

 

Just because I'm not a sports fan, doesn't mean that I don't appreciate the lessons sports teach, in particular the root of good game play — sportsmanship. Usually this means a team or individual not pitching a fit after losing, but seeing it as a lesson about things to improve for future play. People usually view those who blame outside factors or claim unfair gameplay as poor sports. 

A few weekends ago, I traveled an hour away to watch a teenage grandson Ian's soccer team play in an end of season tournament. Because of traffic, I arrived a little late, and the game had already started by the time I got parked. After getting comfortably seated, I paid attention to the game going on in the field in front of me. I know the basic rules of soccer, but there are a lot of nuances and strategy that I don't know. It didn't take more than a few minutes to realize that the team I came to watch was simply not doing well. They seemed to be more interested in passing the ball back-and-forth rather than moving it forward or going for goals. Occasionally, the other team would make a drive downfield and score.

Because I arrived late I was not sitting with other parents that were also there to watch Ian's team. With that, and the lack of scoreboards (because of the asinine theory that kids don't need to know how well anyone is doing) I did not know what the score was. Based on what I had witnessed, only the other team that scored so my assumption was our team was losing.  

As play continued in the second half, the boys seemed a little more energetic but still were not scoring. When the game was over. I walked to where the teams were having a final meeting with their coach, knowing that with this loss they were out of the tournament. As the team meeting broke up, I heard people telling the boys on the team what great sports they were and how it'd been a great season. I really expected them to be more upset, but you can still hold your head high after losing to a superior team.

When I finally got Ian away from the rest of the crowd, I asked him what the final score was, and he told me his team had won by a sizable margin. Then he explained, in the first 10 minutes of the game they scored over 15 points. At that point, they could've just ground the other team into the dirt, but rather than doing that, the team took it easy and simply defend the lead. So, when they had possession of the ball they would just pass it back-and-forth, giving you the team a chance to steal. They were slow to run downfield to give the other team a chance to make a goal here and there. Ultimately, they did all this to spare the other team's pride, since their victory was assured. In fact, because of the win, they were going to play the final tournament game in about two hours. I told him I'd hang around for that.

It was a different lesson than the one you normally hear about sportsmanship. This was about how to be a gracious winner and taking the victory without demolishing the other team just because you can. I was proud of him and his teammates. They let the other team leave with their heads held high because they had played their best, despite being significantly outmatched. It feels good when you can walk away with something like that.

The last game? The opposing team was equally skilled, which made the game exciting to watch. Both teams left it all on the field doing their best making goals when they could and trying to hold the other team's scores as low as possible. In the end, the team I was rooting for one that game too.

Note:  The pix are from a few years ago, not this tournament.

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Start Your Engine, Mine's Running

 

Many of my memorable childhood experiences took place with me sitting on the living room floor watching TV with my family. Many significant and impactful events marked the late 60s. Space launches (to include the first moon landing), the assassination of MLK and RFK, Woodstock, Prague Spring, Viet Nam, and of course sporting events. My dad was a big football fan, so on Sundays the TV was tuned into whichever game he had an interest in the day. But one Memorial Day weekend in 1969, the TV was showing something I had never seen before––automobile racing. Not just any kind of racing, Indy car racing.

I was nine years old when I plopped down in front of the TV after the singing of the national anthem and Back Home in Indiana then I first heard the command “Gentlemen start your engines.” Thirty three cars took off and spent the next three hours turning to the left. It was exciting to me, and even though I was aware of what a race looked like I had never seen one quite like this. The cars looked like the ones that came with the racetrack that I got for Christmas a few months before. My toys had come to life.

As the race went on, I got used to hearing the announcer blurting out a play-by-play using vocabulary I was unfamiliar with and intermixing that play-by-play with facts and figures from today’s race and those in the past. I vividly remember the pit-stop problems AJ Foyt, the predicted winner, had. Those problems led to Mario Andretti winning his first Indy 500 after leading 116 of the race’s 200 laps.

I found things to get excited about in the race, pit-stops, almost crashes and the conversions with the crew chiefs during lulls in the action. The announcers explained about the wings on the front and their function. Before the race was over, I’d learned a layman’s lesson about speed and racing–and I found it interesting.

I’ve mentioned before that I have zero athletic talent and as a result, watching sports never held my interest. Looking back, this was probably because my ego demanded I win those things I took part in, but winning was rare so my attention quickly waned before I got better. Not sure if practice would’ve helped, but maybe. Of course, I’ve always enjoyed the Olympics, but never as a fan of a single sport. It was just a chance to root for the home team. But on the Sunday before Memorial Day in 1969, I found something that was called a sport that I liked.

One of my grandfathers was a big baseball fan. Specifically, the Atlanta Braves. He could quote stats on all the players, games, and who won what game going back eons. I always thought that was kinda cool, and it became one of those things that I saw as being a fan of the sport. Because the end of May is not the season for much else, most sports news turns to the event about seven days before the race. This includes a lot of history, as well as all the new rules and improvements to the cars since the last time the race was run. This made being a trivia maven for the race easy. By the time the race whirled around 1970, when Al Unser, Sr won, I was equipped with the knowledge to truly enjoy the race for the challenge of man and machine that it was.

Along with all the race science and safety information, I also learned about the traditions. From the quart of milk at the finish line, to kissing the track’s Brick Yard after winning, and of course the victory lap with the hand up and out of the cockpit raised in victory. I also learned about the importance of a good pit crew and why 1969’s race should never have ended the way it did.

From that first race, I’ve watched almost every Indy 500. Sometimes in the US, sometimes overseas, I’ve even listened when I couldn’t watch the race. The 109^th race was viewed at my local American Legion with some other veterans. Mostly, watching the race has been an almost solitary endeavor, so it was different being with a group of folks.

Alex Palou was this year’s winner. He made a pass 14 laps before the end of the race that allowed him to dominate the final scramble for the finish. As usual, I felt bad for the guys who wrecked early on, including Scott McLaughlin who crashed before the race even got the green flag. I didn’t hear of any injuries and that’s always a good thing.

For now, I'll tuck away all of my racing knowledge into the back part of my brain where it'll remain unused until next May when I prepare to watch the greatest spectacle in racing, that starts with those words Drivers, start your engines.

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The Magic Transporter. Why Should Kirk Have All the Fun?

 

I don’t remember the specific date when I used the Magic Transporter for the last time, but I think I was about eight or nine. I do remember the events that were going on the night it happened. 

My dad was very interested in the space program. So, if some event was going on, he’d call me into the living room to watch it on TV. I’d sit on the floor and listen to Walter Cronkite as I watched whatever NASA was up to on that particular mission. On that evening, the lunar lander had landed safely on the moon, but there was a lengthy delay between landing and when someone actually stepped out of the capsule. That knowledge narrows it down a little, since there were six crewed landings between 1969 and 1972.

I recall laying on the floor in front of the TV, and covered up with a woobie my dad had brought home. I remember Cronkite talking with his cast of experts and broadcasting live audio from Mission Control. Every radio transmission ended with a distinctive beep. 

At some point, I no longer heard the beeps as exhaustion overtook me and I fell asleep. 

What happened next was something almost everyone can relate to. Somehow, after falling asleep in one place, you mysteriously found yourself in your own bed, tucked under the covers, when you awoke the next morning. Of course, folks who were kids before Star Trek began in 1966 had to call it something else besides the Magic Transporter. Whatever you call it, it was an experience many of us share and I count this among the many wonderful memories I have of my childhood.

When I became a father, I found out what it was like on the other end of that magic, when I served as Magic Transporter for my children, taking them from wherever they fell asleep to their bed. Just like me, not one of them questioned how that magic happened. They just accepted it as part of life and went on.

Night before last, I served as transporter again. I had rocked my youngest granddaughter to sleep and with that mission accomplished I picked her up, put her in her bed, and covered her up. The next morning, she made no mention of the magic that moved her from one place to another. I know at some point in the future, she will take over my role and I hope that when she does, she remembers her rides on the Magic Transporter fondly.

By the way, something is simple as my dad sharing his interest in space, led to my own interest in it. Which, probably led to me taking my son to Space Camp. Yes, it is a real place.

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It Started By Staying Gold

 

Whenever a discussion takes place about what and when you began reading, I’ve always said the first book I ever read was Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham. It was the very first book I ever read by myself, and, since we are far beyond any statute of limitations.  I'll admit it was the first book I ever accidentally stole from the library. I had the book checked out from the  Ft Ord Elementary School library, then a few days later my father got orders and we were moving to a new base. Somehow, the book got packed with everything else in my room and I never returned it. My bad.

Even though Dr. Seuss’s book was my first book, it wasn’t my first novel. It never really occurred to me which complete novel I read first into low was writing my last entry. The very first novel that I read from beginning to end and owned several copies over the course of my life (not stolen from a library) was S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders. It wasn’t something we studied in class; it wasn’t something I read in the report on for extra credit, nor was it something that anyone recommended to me. While I was looking through the books in the Scholastic Books flyer, I discovered it and ordered it.

I am far beyond doing a report on that book now, so if you’re not familiar with it I would recommend you check out the write up on Wikipedia. It is kind of amazing that the book was still in the flyer considering it was released originally in 1967, and I discovered it in 1973. 

The book’s Tulsa, Oklahoma setting coincided with my time living on Ft. Sill, but aside from that and the fact that I was also fourteen, there was not really a lot of similarity between my life and Ponyboy Curtis’. I did not have older brothers; I was not in a gang, and both of my living parents were alive. What drew me into the book was the things he was going through emotionally and the common situations that all junior high school students run into. All the way down to the girl named Cherry who was from a different part of town but somehow ended up with Ponyboy. It was exactly the right book at exactly the right time. The next year, I was dealing with a similar situation with a girl from the civilian side of town. I’m sad to say I don’t remember if her name was Jennifer or Jessica, but I’ll never forget her beautiful, long, red hair.

What the book provided to me during that period of my life was reinforcement that all the things I was feeling were not just being felt by me. Those years can be difficult for some, and confusing to all. A little reassurance that you are not alone in what you feel is beneficial and helps you move forward. Books like movies sometimes just come to you at the right time.

Immediately upon finishing the first reading of the book, I read it again. There’s only been a few books that triggered immediate second reading. The thing was, I needed to know the characters and situations better. Not that I had poor reading comprehension, but the book was so important to me, I wanted to make sure I had missed nothing. Looking back, I don’t remember if I discovered anything or not. Since that time, I’ve read the book a few more times, and I took time to see Francis Ford Coppola’s movie version of the story. While the movie was okay, I’m glad I discovered the book first.

I read the sequel to the book, That Was Then, This Is Now, but I've never read Rumble Fish, the next S.E. Hinton book. I went from those books to My Darling, My Hamburger, which I thought was written by S.E. Hinton, but it was by Paul Zindel. From there, I moved on to topics that varied widely. I remember reading Go Ask Alice, and several other books about teenage drug abuse and teen pregnancy. Luckily, I guess these books served as warnings to me and I avoided those pitfalls.

It was somewhere after I started high school in Virginia that what I read became wide and varied, limited only to what I could find in the library. At that point I had become such a ferocious reader there was no way I could afford to buy everything and at some point, during this period Scholastic Books flyers disappeared. I also went through stages, reading only biographies or history, then on to horror, then fiction set in the present day. Even now, I have a tendency to read three books at once: one self-improvement or philosophy, one history, and one just for fun. I can we hope that kids in middle and junior high school are discovering the joy of reading in whatever way they can. It broadens the possibility that they will find a wide range of topics that interest them and makes for a more well-rounded life.

When my son was attending H.H. Arnold Middle School in Wiesbaden Germany, his teacher assigned the book not only as required reading but they spent an entire semester trying to understand the nuances of what it meant to be a Greaser or Soc. Because I wanted to discuss the book with him knowledgeably, if he chose to, I bought a new copy of the book and read it again. I could connect with him about the book, and that made it even more special to me. I’m wondering now if he will turn his kids on to The Outsiders.

Finding our that S.E. Hinton is a woman wasn't a disturbing revelation. I never really thought about it back then and when I found this out years later, my reaction was no reaction. She captured the emotion and I could relate to it. That’s what matters. Check here for more on S. E. Hinton. 

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Lesson Today, Appreciation Later

 

In my last entry, I talked about one of the who contributed to my enjoying reading and writing, Mr. Przygocki. The other was my 8th grade literature teacher, Ms. DeLong. I talked about them in the foreword to my book POMSILv2, but it was pointed out to me I never mentioned them here. Today, I fix that.

Ms. DeLong, my eighth-grade Literature teacher, introduced me to my favorite kind of written storytelling––the short story. I was attending Central Junior High in Lawton, Oklahoma (Go Cougars!) and like most 8th graders I was gradually turning into the human I’d be versus the kid I’d been until now. As I mentioned before, I had no great athletic talent, but I had a love of reading.

We spent a lot of time in Literature class reading passages aloud from our anthology. Since I was good at sight-reading, I’d get bored waiting on my turn and thumbed ahead through the book, looking at the other titles. Because of the short time between having to read segments and waiting for others, I sought titles that were not overly long.

The book contained an extensive mix of literary types, including excerpts from novels, poems, plays, newspaper articles. I focused on the short stories because I could skim a couple of pages and get away with it. I tore through the macabre and suspense stories first and then on to humor. When the Scholastic Books flyers came around every month, I sought short stories and soon had a dogeared collection on my bookshelf. I also read the unwritten required novel of my generation, The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton. Throughout my life I’ve spent thousands of hours discovering in each a new world and finding myself immersed in the joy of reading, thanks to Ms. Delong. 

Harold Przygocki was my high school English teacher at Denbigh High School in Denbigh, Virginia (Go Patriots!). On the first day of class, he made us learn to spell and pronounce his name properly, then he assigned a weekly 500-word original essay. This met with much moaning and groaning from the student side of the room. After all, we are being told we needed to write an essay the same length as War and Peace every week. In truth, 500 words are about five or six paragraphs of three or four sentences each. Not even close to the number of words Tolstoy wrote. 587,287 words to be exact.

After a few weeks, the initial shock went away, and I got into the routine. It gradually came to like the assignment. I figured out that an essay could be a story and sometimes could be longer. I enjoyed writing stories and trying to fit them into a 500-word container. Some were good, and some weren’t, but it didn’t matter. The assignment taught me that if you were going to write; you needed to write. Writing is a muscle that needs exercise to use it optimally.

Before I wrote my first novella, I prepared myself by writing 500 words a week to get my writing skills in shape. It was one of those lessons you don’t appreciate at the time, but you realize its value years later.

Both teachers affected the reader and writer I am today. I appreciate both.

NOTE:   One other teacher I wrote about was Charlotte Naffin who I had for four years of Latin. Last year, Mr. Przygocki celebrated his 100th birthday. He’s still going strong. I used his name for one of the characters in my book Ferdinand's Gold.

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Lava Lamps, Rick Neilson's Autograph, & 500 Words

 

Every Monday, I take a seat in my writer’s garret and with keyboard in hand try to capture things that have been wandering my mind from the week before. If I find myself without a topic, I have a list of things I thought about before; on weeks when multiple subjects came to mind. Today is a rare exception. I lack a subject and nothing on the list interests me enough to devote my time and energy to explore the nuances that interested me to begin with. In short, I’ve spent the last three hours surfing the web and listening to music.

It’s not a bad way to pass the time, but getting my blog entry done is serious business. After all, there are not millions of dollars at stake and if I cannot get something written, calamities will not befall all of humanity. Or will it? Maybe so, maybe not, but is it worth the risk? Probably not. I mean I’m still troubled by occasional memories of things I did in the third grade which should’ve ended with my apology — guilt for adverse reactions as result of my actions or inactions is a given for me. So here is sit.

My writer’s garret contains many toys, lights, and various other things that I enjoy having around. I've talked about my Zoo, and on days like today sometimes let my imagination room as my eyes move from one figure to the next. I have three lava lamps that, after a few hours provide visual entertainment as lava moves up and down within the colored oil. These lamps were on my wish list since I was an adolescent, and as is with many things I eventually bought it for myself when I was able. I’m pleased I finally have them. Autographed mementos line the walls. I can trace each one back to a specific concert or movie which lies somewhere on my list of favorites.

One productive thing that happened while I was sitting here was that I finally ordered a replacement set of speakers for my computer system. After all, the ones I have and use came with the Dell computer I bought back in 2000. After 25 years, it was time for an upgrade, plus the subwoofer had failed several years ago, but because of the way the system works I still had to keep it in place or the speakers wouldn’t work. I do not know who manufactured the speakers I have, but the ones coming in are Bose, which guarantees they will be a step up.

It’s about time to get up and fix myself some lunch. Then I need to get ready to take my recyclables to the recycle place so that they can be recycled. In short, it’s time I close out this entry.

In the forward to POMSILv2, I talk about my high school English teacher, Mr. Przygocki, and his weekly assignment of a 500-word essay. In the years since school, I believe such an assignment is a good way to keep writing muscles in shape. So, all in all I have completed something today. I did my workout. 542 words worth.

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Nock, Draw, Loose...

My daughter recently mentioned she felt it was important for children to travel. I couldn’t agree more. I think travel is one of the most mind and spirit expanding things a person can do.  

Growing up as a military brat, traveling was just part of the way life was lived. The major benefit of doing it that way, opposed to vacation traveling, was you usually got at least a year at a location. There was time enough to feel at home and enjoy it. 

Since travel was a given, my parents made sure I got whatever opportunities were available at each location. One of the most unusual was archery. My Dad was a bow hunter (standard longbow), but we lived anywhere he could teach me that skill. However, on Fort Benning (one of the most opportunity rich environments for dependent, or at least it was) the Youth Activity Center (YAC) had an archery class. So, among the other things I was signed up for while we were stationed was that class.

Every Saturday, me and about 20 other brats got together at the archery range. This was a dedicated archery range, not a multi-use field, with in-ground quivers at one end of the field and huge targets on the other. The first couple of classes were in a classroom, and we learned about different bows, various arrow tips, and how important the arrow’s feathers were. The instructor also covered basic safety rules to avoid accidents and emphasized the importance of the Range Master.

The Range Master owned the range and his commands were absolute. He told us when to load the arrow into the bow (Nock), pull back the bowstring (Draw), and fire (Loose). In general, he maintained order and told us when it was safe to retrieve our arrows from down range. Many years later, I learned the military rifle range management practices mirrored the Archery Range Master’s practices. I will say, at no time while I was there was anyone shot with an arrow accidentally. 

When we finally got onto the range, we learned how to use elevation to get our arrows into the center of the target and how to adjust aim for wind. It may sound kind of trivial now, but at the time they were all important lessons to putting that arrow into the center of the target. My memory may just be sweetening the experience, but I don’t recall ever completely missing the target. Of course, that doesn’t mean it was in the bulls-eye every time either. 

Years later, it became popular to give everyone a trophy just for participating, but in order to get a patch from YAC had to earn it. Military bases then were big on rewarding with a patch versus a trophy. I earned a patch for hitting the bull’s-eye x number of times. I recall getting quite a few patches growing up, but few of them got sewn on.

I can recall only a handful of times since that archery class when I picked up a bow and arrow. It’s just something that went by the wayside over the years, but still remains a fond and vivid memory. An experience I had when I was a kid that not everybody gets to do.

My fondest memory of my time in archery class was getting my first kiss from the blonde daughter of my dad’s Commanding Officer. I’ll never forget Mary Ellen Anderson. Maybe a combination of the two experiences is where my admiration of Robin Hood began.

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