Heroes Come in All Shapes and Sizes

I was ten years old in 1974 when NC State University won the national championship in basketball. I clearly remember the entire family gathering in the den to watch the nail-biting victory over powerhouse UCLA in the historic semi-final game. Everybody’s favorite was the local hero, David Thompson. And the giant in the middle of the lane, Tommy Burleson, was also a North Carolina boy. I loved those guys, but my favorite player was from Indiana. Monte Towe was five feet, six inches tall on his best day and ran the team from his point guard position. Being a little undersized myself at the time, and one who enjoyed playing some hoops, I could relate. Towe had heart, and there’s no doubt the National Championship banner than hangs in the basketball arena at NCSU today wouldn’t be there had Monte Towe never been born. Recently, I took my oldest son to visit State, and on the Friday night of our visit, attended a State basketball game and viewed the aforementioned banner in person. I also noticed on the bench an undersized assistant coach who I immediately recognized as one of my childhood heroes. My mind drifted back to that Saturday in the family den many years before. When State sealed the victory in overtime, I jumped high enough to touch the ceiling for the first time in my life, even putting a small dent in it. Monte would have been proud of me. On the second day of my State visit, I was able to procure football tickets for my son and his friend, but had some trouble getting one for myself. A last minute call from the NCSU baseball coach saved me. “Meet me at Gate 6 in about twenty minutes. I found another coach who has an extra ticket and we’re coming to give it to you,” claimed my friend. A few minutes later, the crowd of about 100 people waiting in line parted like the Red Sea (pun intended since they were all wearing red) as my ticket carrier arrived. We were ushered to the front of the line by security and it was there I received my ticket. Monte Towe was the coach with the extra ticket. In the moments before I shook his hand, I thought of a million things I could say to him. Something he didn’t hear a thousand times a week. Something about he inspired me as a child to be the best I could be- not only in sports, but in life. Maybe I could mention how I jumped high enough to touch the ceiling for the first time that day so many years ago and went on to become a point guard for my high school basketball team. Maybe I could tell him that he’s inspired thousands and thousands of people around the globe and given them reason to hope. Or I could keep it simple and tell him what a class guy I think he is. All these thoughts raced through my mind as my big moment finally arrived. After being introduced by the baseball coach, I looked Monte Towe right in the eye and uttered these immortal words- “Good game last night.” Sometimes you gotta keep it simple. Thanks for the ticket, Monte. But most of all, thanks for the memories.

A Flash in the Pan (Or rather, the Truck)

Flash has been at it again. As you may remember from a previous column, Flash is the Stroupe family dog. Fully grown I suppose, but still a puppy. Previously I relayed to you the tale of Flash getting a fish hook stuck in her nose. The story ended happily but not before Flash relieved herself (number 2) in our driveway during the fish hook removal procedure. I’ve always been more of a dog guy than a cat person. Cats make my eyes itch and my throat scratch. And I get freaked out when cats purr their little feline motors. I realize they make good pets, but I don’t trust them. Those little motors are tools of manipulation. So when I tell you that Flash is driving me a little batty lately, please understand I’m not down on the canine kingdom. I’ve always liked the image of me driving down the road in my pickup truck with my dog propped up in the back cab biting at air and such. But when my wife encouraged me to take Flash on a little ride recently, I was hesitant because I knew I had to make a few stops. In the end I relented and Flash jumped in the back bed. We did fairly well until the trip home from the grocery store. About a mile from our house, I noticed that an impatient Flash had crawled atop my tool box in the back, a precarious perch from which to operate. Soon afterwards, the image in my rear view mirror revealed only two legs and a wagging tail, indicating that Flash’s front legs were on top of my truck and she was seeing open road ahead of her. At this point I slowed down and called home so everyone could witness the scene when I drove up. Upon hanging up, I discovered that the scene in my rear view mirror no longer revealed any animal body parts- eerily similar to the sled scene in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” The scratching on top of my truck above my head filled in the blanks for me. I slowed to a near crawl as my house appeared in the distance. To my left I saw on the ground a dog shadow postured proudly and majestically just over my head. When I pulled into the driveway, a completely cracked up family laughed as Flash slid down my windshield, darted across the hood, then leapt to the pavement below. A minute or two later, as things were calming down, an 11-year-old Stroupe hollered, “Hey Daddy, why is there shoo-shoo (number two) in the back of your truck?” That was it. I pretended to come unglued as everyone else laughed hysterically. “You just took your last ride in my truck,” I scolded an unashamed puppy. My wife tried to make excuses about how Flash was nervous and excited. I replied by reminding her that Flash turns every scene into a bathroom incident. And my poor truck has now been victimized three times by number two. Twice in the bed and once in the backseat. Expect to hear more about Flash in the future, though the stories will unlikely be about her riding in the back (or on top) of my truck anytime soon.

Maybe it's Time to Get With it

Get with it. That was the main gist of a column I produced a few weeks ago. In it I reminded you that time flies these days. And if you’re not careful, you’ll drift through life and your dreams will drown in a sea of “what ifs.” For the record, I’m not encouraging folks to quit their jobs and try out for the NFL. I’m not condoning a mid-life crisis where you forsake your family responsibilities to go cliff diving in Mexico. None of that. I’m simply reminding my fellow human beings that fear shouldn’t hold us back from accomplishing those things we have dreamed of all our lives. I’m reminding others (and myself) not to put things off until later or later may never show up. Take for example, something on my “To Do Before I Die” (Bucket List) that I have now done three times. One of my goals was to speak in a foreign country, in a foreign church, in a foreign language. I did it in 2009 on my second mission trip to the Dominican Republic. Three nights in a row in a small church. And I did it again on my most recent trip to the Dominican. But this time was different. It was in front of a much larger crowd. And due to human error (mine), the task was made even more difficult when I discovered that my neatly prepared, properly translated into Spanish sermon was not on my person when I boarded the airplane toward my destiny. Upon discovering that I had left my notes in the USA, I attempted unsuccessfully to kick myself in the rear end. Instead I whispered “Stupid” over and over until the person next to me on the airplane started staring at me. It was obvious I would have to explain to my friends in the Dominican that I couldn’t preach because I had left all my notes at home. Then, for no particular reason, I started jotting down, in Spanish, some of the phrases I remembered from my message. Within minutes I had two full pages of notes (all in Spanish) and with it a whole new perspective. I can only say it was divine intervention, because to refer to my Spanish as shaky is too high of a compliment. I delivered the message in two different churches on the mission trip. And no one threw tomatoes. And just like in 2009, I think I heard an “Amen” or two from the congregation. I tell you all this so you can learn from my experience. First, make sure you have your notes with you before you speak. Second, it is physically impossible to kick yourself in the rear end. Third, anything worth accomplishing will have its share of setbacks. And fourth, God is good. So my question is this: Have you responded to the challenge? What have you done to “get with it” recently or in the past? I’d like to hear about it. I promise to keep you anonymous if I write about it. But I want to know. I crave inspiration. Email me at rstroupe002@carolina.rr.com and tell me about it. Yes, I’m taking a risk by throwing out my personal email address for possible junk mail and anonymous criticism. But in this case, I think it’s worth it. Inspire me.

Dancing at a Haitian Wedding

I’ve never been accused of being a good dancer. During my junior high and high school days, my moves at the school dances were limited. Typically if it was a rock n’ roll song, my “Too cool for school” friends and I would conservatively move to the beat and raise our hands in the air and pretend to be playing the drums. It was the only real move I knew until a buddy of mine taught me how to “break dance” in college. As a counselor at summer camp during my college years, in addition to the break dancing, I briefly mastered all the steps to “New York, New York,”- achieving a modest amount of respect among the kids at the camp. But my glory quickly faded when I returned to college that fall and forgot the steps almost immediately. I was reminded of my dancing deficiencies on my recent mission trip to the Dominican Republic. It’s a long story but basically, my group was invited to a Haitian wedding in the pastor’s backyard and I got a little bit out of hand. The fact that it was obviously a shotgun wedding is relevant only to provide context. That being said, most of the patrons were not in the dancing mood when the evening began. But the father of the bride was. And I noticed that for quite some time after the music started, he was dancing by himself near the cake. Across the way some children eventually got cranked up but the adults didn’t seem to want to participate. Feeling sorry for Dad, I started filming him with my video camera and eventually grooved back and forth a little to provide a measure of support for his efforts. Not long afterward, the spirit of the evening and the beat of the music drowned out the section of my brain that secretes discretion and restraint. Figuring that being in a foreign country would significantly lessen the likelihood of me being embarrassed or humiliated, I went for it. I joined the children at first but Dad soon took notice of my gyrations and began emulating my movements. Before long he motioned for me to join him and the next thing I knew I was right beside the about-to-be-cut wedding cake, dancing with the bride’s father unashamedly. To clarify the image in your mind, we danced side by side, not face to face. At that point, I believe they would have let me cut the cake if I so desired. One of the girls in our group told me later that I looked extremely “white” during my performance. I don’t think it was intended as a compliment but I didn’t care. I had a blast. And I would do it again. But there’s one thing I might do different. In a moment of weakness, I handed my video camera to another team member. And when I checked the tape later, there I was, movin’ to the groovin’ for the whole world to see. But I still have no regrets. When I returned home, I simply clicked on my “Things to Do Before I Die” (bucket list) on my computer and added, “Dance with the father of the bride at a Haitian wedding.” It wasn’t originally on the list, but it shall reside there forever.