Perfomer's Visit Produces Lasting Memories

A college baseball coach in the spring season is busy enough. But I mixed in some extracurricular activity early last week. And as always, I am entirely too willing to share the details of my personal life. Here goes. You may remember a few years back when I penned a couple columns pertaining to my favorite Christian contemporary band, FFH. I had the good fortune of attending several of their concerts and eventually met them in person at one of their performances. Unfortunately for us fans, FFH decided two years ago to take some time off to pursue individual ministries and to enjoy more family time. Understandable. As you may also remember, I have this “Things To Do Before I Die” list. It’s on my computer and each time I accomplish one of my goals, I highlight it in bold. One of my “To Dos” is to introduce my favorite band, FFH, to a crowd before a concert. When the band decided to take some time off, my dream seemed improbable. But alas, I recently got back in touch with Michael Boggs, my favorite FFH band member, and he actually remembered meeting me before. One thing led to another. And last Sunday night, I was afforded the awesome privilege of introducing Michael Boggs of FFH to an audience at my church. Not only was his performance outstanding, but he also proved himself to be an awesome guy who took time to get to know everyone who waited after to talk to him. Not only that, he accompanied some of the younger generation members of my church to an impromptu meeting at the coffee shop for some hangout time later that night. In case you’re wondering, I am not one of the younger generation. But I was thoroughly impressed with his openness and unpresumptuousness. (I know that’s not a word but hopefully it helps you understand how humble Michael is.) The following Tuesday I introduced him again- this time to the student body at Gardner-Webb before his performance there. And for icing on the proverbial cake, I drove him to the airport afterwards. As our journey began, I became a teenager in the 1960s seeing the Beatles for the first time. Only difference was that my Beatle was sitting beside me in my dirty truck carrying on a conversation with me while we ate Chick-Fil-A from a shared bag. One of my favorite moments of the ride occurred when I pressed the “Play” button on my CD player and it cranked up one of my favorite FFH songs, written of course, by Michael himself. “Recognize that?” I asked. After an adjustment of the volume button, Michael explained to me in detail what had inspired him to write the song and how he had sat down on a park bench with his guitar and composed it in fifteen minutes. Experiencing surreality, (again, not a real word) I mentally pinched myself a few times as he spoke- while the very song he described played softly in the background. Just before saying our goodbyes at the airport, I informed Michael that I would be crossing off an item on my personal “To Do Before I Die” list. He grinned and gave me that “Okay, whatever you say” look. If only the Beatles had been so humble.

Stolen Cellphone Dead and Gone Forever

My oldest son came home from school one day recently claiming that someone had stolen his cellphone. Considering that most everyone who has a cellphone misplaces it at least once a week, it was hard for me to take him serious. Especially when his average number of lost items per month is quadruple that of the average person. We went through the usual song and dance of trying to figure out all the places he could have left it. He was certain exactly where he had left it and when it was stolen. Suddenly, I had a remarkably intelligent idea. I called his phone to see if someone would answer. No luck. I’m not a great texter, but I tapped out a message and delivered it to my son’s phone stating, “Please return the phone to the office and no questions will be asked. Thanks.” Later that afternoon I received a reply. Word for word, it said, “Sorry, not happening, dude.” My knee-jerk response was to mentally edit a message in my mind for translation into text mode. The message would be short, witty, and profoundly insulting to the pilfering delinquent who lifted the phone and taunted me afterwards. Something like- “I’ve already contacted the phone company and they have tracked the phone and they know where you live, chump.” Or “God is watching you, and I’m looking for you.” A third possibility- “Get away from the phone. It has been reprogrammed to self-destruct in five minutes.” Instead, the portion of my brain that secretes good judgment prevailed and I quickly called the phone company and requested they kill the phone. Killing a phone would seem to be extremely complex, but within a minute, they assured me it was dead. They have no idea where it is but they can render it dysfunctional. Wonder if they could do the same to Osama Bin Laden? By that evening, my son had talked one of his friends into giving him an old phone. I thought we were in a recession. Apparently people have old phones they are willing to give to other people for free. Try to buy one at the store and see how much it costs. Once again, technology spun my head. One short conversation with a young lady at cellphone headquarters and the phone my son was holding began ringing with people on the other end asking for him. How do they do that? I’m still having trouble figuring out how television works and now they can destroy one phone and activate another one without ever looking at either. Impressive. And scary. So all is well now. But for a frantic four or five hours, a teenager was without a cellphone. Tragic. Especially considering that I was thirty-six when I got my first cellular and it was the size of a brick. Now most of them would fit into a matchbox. The teenager with the “new” cellphone entered the room and looked over my shoulder as I tapped out this column on my laptop a few days ago. “Tell them it’s not too late for someone to return my old phone,” he demanded. I told him I would mention it in hopes of it being returned, but I think I know the outcome. Sorry, not happening, Dude.

Last shall be first rules sometimes unclear

This photo of Olivia Newton-John was taken moments before she looked me directly in the eyes and sang to me during the taping of the "Midnight Special" in 1980. Read on to discover why the chance encounter was a minor miracle. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------I I am competitive by nature. Every coach I ever played for growing up taught me to try my best to win. Never to an unethical degree, but the drive to succeed was instilled within me. Nice guys finish last kinda thing. That’s why the whole “Last shall be first” deal is sometimes a foreign notion to me. We all strive to be first. First place finishers get the trophies, the parades, and the commercial endorsements. But if we want to be viewed as considerate individuals, we are told we must put aside our me-first nature and look out for the other person, even if it’s a stranger. I’ll admit I haven’t been very good at this most of my life. I weave my truck in and out of traffic determined to break free of the jams as quickly as possible. I will let people in once in a while, but for the most part, it’s me against the world when it’s bumper to bumper. I am a self-proclaimed expert when it comes to bobbing and weaving my way on foot through pedestrian traffic at places such as Disney World, Carowinds, etc. I don’t knock over baby carriages or anything, but I’m tunnel-vision aggressive when it comes to getting from point A to B in congestion. (Maybe because I’m claustrophobic.) Recently I caught one of the luckiest breaks a guy can experience while standing last in a long line of customers at the CVS store. A new register opened and I was the closest customer to the smiling employee. My first instinct was to jump toward the counter, make my purchase, and jet-bolt out of there while everyone else watched with resentful envy. Aware of the last-shall-be-first theory, I fully believed I was deserving of the reward. But fortunately I remembered the young lady directly ahead of me in line and how long she had been standing there when I walked up. I motioned her forward and invited her to check out before me. Astonished, she accepted the invitation and thanked me profusely. At that point, the personal theologian within me became thoroughly confused. I was last in line- therefore, by theory, I deserved to be first. But when afforded the opportunity to accept my just deserts (pronounced “desserts”), I chose to be last again. So does that mean I forfeited my rights under the last-shall-be-first rules of reward and punishment? Do two “lasts” still produce a “first” or do they cancel each other out and become a neutral. Don’t know. But I do know that when I visited California in 1980, my cousin and I were last in line outside at the Midnight Special. But once we got inside, Wolfman Jack pointed to the stage two feet from where we sat in the back and informed the crowd that Olivia Newton-John would be performing at our end of the building. Lucky for us because the Village People appeared on the other end near the front. No offense, but Olivia was a much better prize. Maybe I used up all my last-shall-be-first good fortune on that night. Either way, I think the whole last-shall-be-first conversation is based on putting the needs of others ahead of your own. Some great day, all the selfless last placers will get all their trophies. And rightfully so.

Snow Days not so fun for Parents

Exactly two years ago this week, I penned a column about a snow day. The kind school children love and parents dread.

In reviewing my notes, I realized that the snow day two years ago was a greater challenge. Ice, not snow. Nothing fun about ice. Can’t play in it, make snowmen or snow cream, and kids end up inside the house all day driving their poor stay-at-home Mom crazy.

Mom always tries her best on a snow day. She makes hot chocolate and prepares a special breakfast for the Stroupe boys. Such was the case recently when March arrived by dumping upon us several inches of snow.

I knew we were in for it the night before the snow day when the computer told the kids school was a no-go and they tore through the house screaming blissful shouts of pure, unadulterated joy.

It’s not that we don’t love spending some extra time with our boys. But a snow day brings a lot of pressure with it. I closed my eyes the night before the snow day assured that, the following day, several things were inevitable: nobody would sleep late, one of the boys would end up in tears, Mom would complain about wet clothes and tracked-in sludge, and somebody would nail me with a snowball.

The following snow-day-morning, at exactly 8:46 a.m. (I looked at the clock)- a child broke into tears. Not long afterwards, I was told to “go outside and play with your boys.” Which I did. Less than ten minutes later, I was the recipient of a point blank missile launched from a left-handed pitcher’s gloved hand.

Despite us taking our boots off in the garage, a significant amount of a brown, icy mixture-type substance found its way onto the laundry room floor. On cue, Mom responded by stating that there indeed would be school the next day, even if she had to get out and scrape the roads herself.

Around noon, I caught a huge break. The roads cleared enough for my truck to make its way out of the driveway. With responsibilities at work beckoning me, I zoomed off into the distance, leaving my stunned kids as a distant memory in the rear view mirror.

I realize this sounds cruel. Not the part about leaving the kids, but the part about leaving the wife to fend for herself.

But upon returning that evening, I realized right away that snow days have changed since two years ago. The early morning crying incident was the only one of the day. The kids had settled in to watch television and their mom actually made them some tasty snow cream, which they appreciated.

Far from creating problems, my middle son had actually helped solve one by aiding the neighbor in the shoveling of his driveway. My other two sons welcomed me home with hugs, not with iceballs to the face.

Later that evening, I told my wife we would someday miss snow days. “We’ll sit by the gas logs and wish the kids were here to track sludge into the living room.” And we smiled as we realized we are living in the “good ole days” even now.

Then suddenly from the other room we heard shouts and screams. “They’ve cancelled it for tomorrow!” a kid’s voice yelled. Here we go again.

Here's to the Mean Nurse and the Little Pill

I promised you a while back that I would report occasionally concerning my cholesterol numbers. If you remember, I had issues seven years ago and made some lifestyle changes after a mean nurse, whose name I can’t remember, informed me that I wouldn’t be attending my sons’ high school graduations. When I asked why, she said, “Because you won’t be alive at the rate you’re going now.” Tough love. I’ve declared war on high cholesterol and triglycerides ever since. I lost a few pounds along the way just by being careful about saturated fats and sugar overloads. I said goodbye to fried chicken, cheeseburgers, and fried bologna sandwiches. Hello to grilled chicken, skim milk, and oat cereal. I even ate a veggie burger at Fuddruckers a while back. I do, however, make some occasional exceptions to keep me from going crazy. In no particular order, here are a few: 1. Homemade ice cream and funnel cakes at Legion baseball games. Had they offered banana ice cream during the Regionals and World Series, I would have been doomed for life. 2. Pizza, minus the pepperoni. 3. Spaghetti (without the meatballs) and Lasagna, especially the kind my wife makes in the Crock Pot. 4. Lottaburgers made in my hometown of Cherryville, N.C. They are absolutely the best and I would never pass up a chance to inhale one. Gotta have it with cheese, slaw and tomatoes. I can taste it now. 5. Livermush, a specialty in my current locale. It’s not that high in fat content, anyway. 6. Covered dish get-togethers at my church. I completely throw my diet out the window when I show up for the food and fellowship. Sinful. Especially if one of the deacon’s wives makes a strawberry pie with whipped cream on top. These exceptions began to add up a few months back and my doctor recommended a daily pill to lower my numbers, which were much improved over seven years ago, but still a little concerning. Breaking an earlier promise to myself, I took the pills. I felt so free that I initially gained about 10 pounds over the Christmas holidays, which I easily lost once my new year’s resolution kicked in. Recently a kind nurse poked my arm and withdrew red lifeblood from deep within me. I’m not afraid of needles but I was a little nervous because I desperately ached to receive a positive cholesterol report in the mail a few days later. My phone rang at work one day and a wife claiming to be holding an unopened letter spoke on the other end. “Just give it to me straight,” I begged. “Don’t hold back.” She then informed me that my numbers were excellent. I realize the little daily pill had a lot to do with my numbers. But I’d like to think my change in lifestyle is part of the deal as well, despite my occasional exceptions. So here’s my plan, if God is willing. On the day of my third son’s high school graduation, I will fix livermush for breakfast, grab a Lottaburger for lunch, and settle in for my wife’s Crock Pot lasagna for supper. It’s a day I’m looking forward to, thanks to the mean nurse from seven years ago- who I love, but whose name I still can’t remember.