Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians

As you know from some of my previous columns, I have reconnected with a number of friends from my past thanks to the internet. And with each passing day, those folks become more special to me. I spent two summers as a church camp counselor during my college years. I’ve lost touch with most of my fellow counselors from those summers, but I’ve been back in touch with a few of them lately. George was one of my bestest buddies and favorite sidekicks one of those summers. We spent most of our time trying to show off to the girls- each trying to outdo the other in athleticism, wittiness, outdoorsmanship, and other feats of manliness that college guys do to try to impress people. But there was never any resentment or competitiveness between us. We were tight. In fact, one of George’s utterances is a constant in my life even now. I’ll always remember the day and the context in which he made the statement now etched in my memory. When you’re in charge of a group of small kids at a summer camp, you are an eye blink away from utter chaos at any given point in time. George and I both knew this and worked hard to maintain control of the wild things whose entertainment, safety, and general well-being were our responsibility. I observed George in action one day when he was unaware anyone was watching. His kids had obviously drank too much Bug Juice (kool-aid) because they were all jumping around like they had ants in their pants. A couple of them were hanging on his arm begging him to go swimming. Others were screaming something about creekwalks or what not. At one point, an exasperated George, speaking to no one in particular, looked heavenward and exclaimed, “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.” It was one of the most appropriate and funniest proclamations I had ever heard in my life. I pull out George’s quote for my own personal use quite often. Being a coach, you have to remind folks every once in a while who’s in charge. Ditto for being a father and the head of the household. I was reminded of that fact on a recent bus trip with our baseball team. As we neared our destination, there was some discrepancy as to which route would get us to the stadium the quickest. The bus driver, an assistant coach, three players, and my cellphone GPS each possessed opposing opinions on the matter. At one point, the bus driver heard three people say to go right as another advised we should go left. Since the one who said “Left” spoke last and loudest, we went left. Later on, when we pulled up to the stadium 30 minutes behind schedule, I had to say it- “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.” These words of wisdom seem appropriate in a number of modern venues if you ask me. Perhaps if the right people would accept responsibility and lead properly, the followers wouldn’t complain so much and feel the need to set out on their own. George probably didn’t invent the phrase but I’m giving him credit for it because I like the quote and I like George- mainly because he showed me how to be a good chief.

Believe Me or Not, It's True

There has been some concern over the years as to the integrity of the columns I write each week. “Surely that didn’t happen,” I’ve been told by loyal readers, “You made that up, didn’t you?” Fair question. First let me point out that writers are prone to the use of “colorful” expressions to describe events and I am no exception. And sometimes quotes and comments are contextual instead of verbatim. Guilty I am. But the events of which I write are non-fiction, unusual though they may be. So I have decided to take a look back at some columns of the past and verify their authenticity so as to squash any rumors of fictional fantasies on my part. In no particular order, I verify the following stories from previous columns as true. A man in my church really did think I was near death due to a misunderstanding about a fellow church member’s dog named Rusty. He walked up and heard the part about Rusty lying in the front yard “listless and unresponsive” and immediately he assumed it was me they were talking about. We all got a good laugh out of it later. I really did ride the Vortex at Carowinds in a driving rainstorm with my kids and it truly was one of the most thrilling things I’ve ever experienced in my life. My favorite pair of winter shoes were indeed purchased at a yard sale for 25 cents and my current favorite pair of jeans came from a thrift shop. Many of my least believable stories involve my 17-year-old but trust me, I do have a pair of underwear in my drawer that he handed down to me and yes, I like them. And I did chase him around the yard after he cut my hair too short last summer. (The part about me being faster than him was true at the time, but is probably not factual anymore.) When this same son’s cellphone was stolen at school, I texted his phone asking the culprit to return it. And the verbatim reply I got was, “Sorry, not happening, dude.” (minus the commas). My youngest son and I actually did have one of our most meaningful conversations while we sat on top of the roof one afternoon. It is a memory I will cherish forever. The Stroupe family’s recent defective microwave really did make a firecracker popping noise each time we pressed the Surface Light button. And it did produce a sizeable spark each time as well. If you don’t believe us, ask our neighbors. We demonstrated for them one time. While on vacation at the beach, I did get pulled over by a policeman while transporting my wife and youngest son in a golf cart. And I really was wearing a paper Krispy Kreme hat at the time. And yes, it’s true I got whacked in the head by a chairlift on our winter ski trip in January. There’s more but that pretty much covers it for now. The thing most people have the hardest time believing is that my family doesn’t know what I’m writing about until they read it in the paper. That’s true 95% of the time. And the kids have never read or cared much about Dad’s column anyway. True story.

Tunes From My Era Rock the Park

Consider for a moment some song titles and the artists who produced them. That’s Amore, by Dean Martin. I’ve Got the World on a String, sung by Frank Sinatra. Crazy Man Crazy, performed by Bill Haley and the Comets. Should I continue? Okay, I will. Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes, by Perry Como. Pretend, shared by Nat King Cole. And Going to the River, from Fats Domino. What do they all have in common? They were top hits in the year 1953, ten years before I was born. But they also have this in common- I’ve never heard them played at a baseball game, at least not since I started coaching twenty-three years ago. I point this out simply to remind anyone who will listen that the music of my generation is the bestest of all time. It’s not that other eras weren’t good, it’s just that the music I went to high school and college with reigns supreme. As a coach, I arrive for pre-game batting practice two hours before a baseball game begins. And normally the music is blaring over the loudspeakers from the moment my team arrives. And guess what they’re playing? That’s right- the songs from my teen and college years. It’s so obvious sometimes it’s distracting. The players have long since grown tired of me quickly naming the title, artist, and year of the song’s release. Classics such as Jump (Van Halen), Freeze Frame (J. Giels Band), Two Tickets to Paradise (Eddie Money), Don’t Stop Believing (Journey), Photograph (Def Leopard), Crazy Train (Ozzy Osbourne), More Than a Feeling (Boston), Come Sail Away (Styx), and Summer of 69 (Bryan Adams) are merely a few that I’ve heard even in the last month. The pre-game music often takes me back to a time and place I can remember as though it were yesterday. And then it hits me, the memories elicited by the song happened thirty years ago or more in some cases. And suddenly I don’t feel so young anymore while I’m throwing batting practice, especially when my arm wiggles more loosely in my shoulder socket with every pitch. The players like to take jabs at me about my age sometimes. When I tell them that a particular song was from the summer of 1980 when I was in high school, they will remind me that 1980 was ten years before they were born. Of course, I’m rarely one to be at a loss for words, so I remind them that 1953 was ten years before I was born. And none of the songs from 1953 ever get hummed or sung by cool kids and ballpark patrons. Proof that the songs of my day are more popular than ever. And I believe they will stand the test of time. My players seem to like my songs better than those of their own era, which is a source of pride for me. Recently one of my players and I sat on the bench during pre-game and sang the words to Hold on Loosely while watching the other team finish batting practice. “.38 Special, 1981,” chirped a proud old coach. And as we sang together- even though 1981 was 29 years ago- for a moment me and my holding on loosely sore arm didn’t feel so old anymore.

A Fashion Guru I Am Not

My parents will attest that I had very few fashion requirements growing up. Most of the time I simply wore what they bought me or fished hand-me-downs out of my older brother’s drawers. I wore his old faded blue Grand Funk Railroad t-shirt more times than I can count. I’ve never been one to follow fashion rules much but I do remember a few instances from my childhood worthy of note. In kindergarten, I refused to wear any jeans that didn’t have a cowboy on the snap thingamajig above the zipper. And he had to be riding a horse. Of course it was so small nobody every noticed but I certainly knew. And in third grade I demanded Mom buy me a t-shirt all the other kids were wearing. It had a picture of JJ from the TV show “Good Times” and the word Dyn-o-mite! written above his picture. And if I remember correctly, in my hometown, you could only get it at Belks. In junior high I had a couple of those collar shirts with the alligator on the left chest. I guess everybody had to have at least one (Izod-Lacoste I think) but I never really got hooked on them. Eventually I caved in and wore one of those with the polo player on the left chest (Polo brand) but again, I wasn’t picky about having one in my closet. When I went off to college, I wore a Members Only jacket only because somebody gave it to me as a gift. Ended up being too preppy for me but I had to wear it some because everybody except a first semester freshman knows you get laughed at if you wear your precious high school letter jacket on a college campus. During my college days in the 80s, girls got away with wearing all kinds of outlandish stuff like leg warmers, jelly shoes, and shoulder pads. For no legitimate reason, when I set out to choose a future wife during my college years, I avoided girls who wore the aforementioned items. Guys weren’t much better. We wore both our long shirt sleeves and our blue jean bottoms rolled up and I still have no idea why. For a short time, we even wore our shorts on the outside of our sweat pants. Ugggh! I wish we could have worn Camo stuff back then like you can now but if you did, people either thought you were military or a terrorist. I share all this with you because kids today have their own set of requirements. My boys request items made by people with names like Abercrombie- who I think hangs around with two buddies named Fitch and Hollister. There’s also an Aeropostale guy who everybody seems to appreciate. Add to that American Eagle clothing and Oakley sunglasses that cost over $100 a pair and it gets pretty confusing to me. And hardly anyone wears Croakies to hold their sunglasses on their head anymore, a trend that ended ten minutes after I bought one. So onward I trudge. A fashion guru I will never be. Maybe that’s why my college girlfiend agreed to marry me. And so far it’s worked out well, mainly because we’re both perfectly content to buy our sunglasses at the dollar store and our jeans at the thrift shop.

Old Enough to Remember Baseball Players Wearing Stirrups

Recently one of the players on my college baseball team entered my office with an interesting request. I could tell right away some of his teammates offered him up to be the sacrificial lamb who, after being rejected, would then return to his brethren humiliated and properly put in his place. He explained that some of the guys wanted to wear a particular style of socks as part of our game day outfit. After a nervous rambling about how the players would pay for them, he shoved the catalogue in front of me and anxiously awaited the verdict. The socks looked like something Dr. Suess would wear and I immediately made note of that fact by making some smart aleck comment about they would be perfectly suited for the next time we scheduled a game in a circus tent. But upon further review, I noticed something. At the bottom of these socks was something known in baseball as a stirrup. And my mind raced back to 1972 and my first year of Little League, when I was allowed to wear the beloved red and white striped stirrup socks donned by all the members of my Club Carolina team. “Okay,” I finally said after lecturing him about not wanting to embarrass the program, “Ya’ll pay for them, ya’ll can wear them.” He tried to hide his surprise. What he forgot was the fact that I am now considered old when it comes to sports. I distinctly remember wearing stirrup socks and having to use medicine tape to keep them up around my knees. I also remember using a wooden bat in Little League and the only pitches you had to worry about hitting were a fastball and a curveball. One finger for fastball, two for curve. Nowadays a catcher has to use every digit he’s got and then some to tell a pitcher what to throw. Cut fastball, Running fastball, Two-seamer, Four-seamer, Slider, Change-up, Splitter, etc. They’ve got them all now. When I was a kid, Big League pitchers wore jackets whenever they got on base. And when relievers came in from the bullpen, there was a guy whose only job was to transport them in a golf cart and drop them off at the mound. In the old days the starting pitcher in a game often pitched all nine innings. Relief pitchers were simply known as relievers. Nowadays starting pitchers are expected to throw six innings and turn it over to the “holder”, whose job it is to hold the lead until the “closer”- who stereotypically tends to have an eccentric personality and odd quirks- can arrive and pitch the ninth and final inning. Speaking of holders, baseball isn’t the only sport that’s changed. In ancient times, football field goal kickers moved straight to the ball held by the holder instead of attacking it from the side- “soccer style.” Nowadays they call those old-timers- for lack of a better term- “straight on kickers” and they’re obsolete. At any rate, I have no idea if the Dr. Suess retro-socks will arrive in time for the guys to wear them before the end of the season. But if they don’t go over well, don’t point the finger at me. Blame it all on the kid with the catalog, the eccentric closer.

Revealing Too Much Online Can Make Things Complicated

I heard former President Bill Clinton say something recently that piqued my curiosity. He pointed out that when he first took office in 1992, there were only 50 websites on the internet. My, how times have changed. Now there are 200 million sites and tons of people of all ages have their own Facebook account. You can learn most anything you want to know about people on the internet. Think I’m kidding? Google yourself sometime. But as one of my comedian buddies says, don’t do it in public. Case in point: the dating lines are very blurry these days. Recall me telling you about one of the college girls on a recent mission trip telling me about her “almost boyfriend.” Another girl on the trip claimed she wasn’t sure where she stood with her significant other until he introduced her as his girlfriend at a function of some sort. Facebook provides a remedy to all that. It is now plain for the world to see. If a friendship develops into something deeper, a person’s Facebook status will reflect this by claiming that they are now “in a relationship.” If the relationship is strained, the status will change to “It’s complicated.” My mom entered the Facebook world a few months back. Recently she upgraded her status to “In a relationship” with my dad, her husband of nearly 52 years. This has created quite a stir among her friends and has led to questions about the circumstances of my birth. She has been advised to change her status to “Married” but I think she’s enjoying the hullabaloo too much to change it right away. Obviously my occupation is not that of a professional writer. As you may know, I am the coach of a college baseball team. And in the past few years, especially this season, I have noticed that opposing fans know more about my players than ever before. Recently a group of exuberant college students from an opposing school did their internet homework quite thoroughly before we showed up. One of my pitchers had made the mistake of calling his girlfriend “Baby Doll” on his Facebook page. And one of our outfielders had admitted to doing some male modeling along the way. These college student hecklers were all over my guys. From the outside looking in, it may appear that these antics are a distraction, but to be honest, our players sorta enjoy the attention and, if you ask me, even play better when they’re being taunted. As a coach, fortunately I have developed selective hearing when it comes to taunts and insults, hearing pretty much what I want to hear. At the end of the weekend, I was poking a little fun at some of my guys for revealing too much online. Then our trainer reminded me that I had little room to talk. I had no clue what she was talking about. “Didn’t you hear them when you went out on a mound visit (to talk to the pitcher) on Saturday? One of them kept hollering, ‘Hey Coach, are you Embracing the Chaos yet?’” Darn that website (www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com) and that little book. At least they didn’t read anything about my mom and dad being “in a relationship.” That would have made things even more “complicated.”