memories

memories / Monday / overwriting / photo — Comments Off on You’ve got two thumbs for a reason
5
Jan 26

You’ve got two thumbs for a reason

I did what I always do after we invade the airspace of another country and perform some as-yet-ill-described snatch and grab of the sovereign power of state, I went shopping.

Why do you ask?

I recall, through the fog of now almost 25 years and the haze of long hours and weird schedules and watching, with empathy, the people that were in real fear post 9/11. I recall when President Bush said the necessary things, “our financial institutions remain strong” and the American economy was still “open for business.” I remember he told you to get on that plan. Go to Disney World. Help the airlines. Vice President Dick Cheney, long before he was shooting his friend in the face, said we should stick our thumb in the eye of the terrorists. That’s how we win, for it’s our freedoms they feared, and our BOGO sales they wanted. And it seemed silly, then, too, on a micro level. If the health of the nation depends on me showing my fierce Americaness at Best Buy, we’ve got a problem. It’d be months, after all, before Toby Keith delivered a soundtrack for the moment.

I think of that, from time to time. Not the song. It’s a level of saccharine that hasn’t aged all that well, even Keith had something to say about that later. I think about the urge to push people out. It was about confidence and normalcy and distraction in the face of fear and trauma. And, of course, keeping the gears of this machine churning.

Today, we’d be told to jump right back into Meta! Open that ChatGPT window and ask it some foolish question and earnestly accept its reply. We’d have to buy all of our American flags direct from Amazon. We’re all Prime members today. Your flags, made abroad, would arrive in 25 minutes or less, or the DoorDash guy picks up the bill himself.

It will, of course, be the gig guy that takes it in the teeth.

And if he’s not available, we’ve got these robots with 360-degree panoptic sight and sound monitors, to make sure you aren’t watching the Venezuela episode of Parks and Recreation in anything that’s not a suitably detached, ironic fashion.

Well, bub, I’m from Generation X. Watch me work.

Anyway, I went shopping. I needed to get out of the house. I’ve been a bit under the weather. That’s overstating it. The weather was above me. No, that’s not quite right, either. I have had the sinus whatever it is that I get. This version has had two defining characteristics. First, it has been the lightest version of this I can ever recall experiencing. Second, it is persistent. Will not go away.

So I figured, why not experience some of what life has to offer on a gray winter day? This was my Saturday thought. I had only work ambitions today. Saturday I visited an antique mall.

No place, I’m pretty sure, was built to be an antique mall. It is fun to figure out what this gussied up and semi-permanent flea market by another name might have housed in a previous life. The place I went to, I think, was a furniture store. It felt, in fact, like it was still a bit of both of those things. Also, it was clean. It was nice. Nothing terribly old. Nothing terribly interesting. Most distressingly, I did not feel as if I needed a shower when I left the building.

That’s the mark of a true antique market experience, the American experience, if you will.

So I went to another, in the opposite direction. This place is built into a big barn-looking building. And that was built into a hill. And that hill marks a secondary, but important intersection in its town. Across the street is the fire department. At the top of the fire department, inside, but visible from the street, they display the old fire house bell. This is an antique mall, then, that sits opposite people that respect what was.

Inside the red barn shaped building, sharing a wall with the antique mall is a restaurant. It may be the same people. The restaurant does three things. They make a lot of food. They hired the best food photographer in three counties to shoot it. (Food photographers get my ultimate respect. That’s not always the easiest subject matter to shoot.) And they try to tell me that a pulled pork sandwich should cost $20.99.

And, for me, it absolutely will not.

But the antique mall, now here’s a place you could prowl around. Here is a place where the floor creaks beneath you and you wonder if it was your holiday diet, or 100 years of termites. Here is a place where you wonder, How is< that shelf standing upright with a lean like that? Here is a place where you overlook the Star Wars plastic junk for maybe something interesting. Here is a place where you feel like you need to rinse off after your time inside is done.

I wasn’t looking for anything. I just enjoy the experience. Oh, if the right sort of thing jumped out at me, maybe I would be anxious about it for a moment before I moved on, but mostly I was proud to walk around somewhere and not think about work — or, ya know, the state of things — for a couple of hours.

I saw a bunch of hand planes and spokeshaves and other old hand tools I don’t have a need for or a place for. But I have watched people restore them on YouTube and it’s a satisfying transition. At least in a 12 minute video, maybe not the entire process.

Remember, if you don’t watch a good restoration video now and again, the terrorists win. Stick your thumb right in their eye, so they can’t see to click away at the good spots. Stick a thumb in your eye, so you can’t see to skip the pre-roll ads, because commerce!

I got buzzed on the way home.

I drove responsibly. And only had the chance to get a quick shot through the time of the windshield, which has that extra bit of tint, explaining the colors of the sky.

And that was Saturday afternoon.

memories / photo / Rowan / Tuesday — Comments Off on Back to … wurk … Wurk? What is wurk? Why is wurk?
30
Dec 25

Back to … wurk … Wurk? What is wurk? Why is wurk?

It was not my best idea, but it was a good idea. I spent most of the day in front of a computer, beginning the class prep for the spring term. (Just twenty-two days away, but let’s never bring that up again.)

Cleaned off the desktop of my work machine. Moved the subdirectories filled with material from last term’s classes into a larger Fall 2025 directory, which I will open less. I started working on some syllabi. Here’s how that is going.

Sometime in junior high I learned that the plural of “syllabus” is “syllabi” and that’s always just be a fun word to say. Thank you, Mrs. Newman, for that. Here she is, in a quick shot from my high school yearbook, which is full of soft focus shots like this.

(I did not shoot for my high school yearbook. But I worry that I might have inadvertently taken on its soft focus style.)

I had Mrs. Newman for English in the 7th grade, and she did not care for that. She taught high school, but she wanted to be at our school. That was her first year there, 7th grade English was her foot in the door, and she made sure we knew it. She didn’t like us much that first year, was our impression. But, by quirk of scheduling, and her progression to where she belonged, I had an English or literature class with Mrs. Newman in 7th, 9th, 11th, and 12th grades. By the time we made it into honors English as juniors and seniors, my cohort was much more her speed. We’d earned a bit of respect. And she’d shaped us into something.

She was a demanding teacher, and she was excellent at what she did. We had to write, daily, on a random topic of her choosing. I wish I still had those notebooks — I am glad I do not. On Fridays we had to write a précis (her class, in the 7th grade, was where I learned the word “précis”) on a magazine article of her choosing. There we all were, 7th graders subscribing to Newsweek. (It was still a terrific magazine back then.) We did this in every class, for four years across junior high and high school. For whatever reason, she graded these things on a scale of one to nine. I recall I once got a six or a seven on a paper and she wrote in the margin that she expected better out of me. In terms of writing, she made me expect better out of myself, too.

She bragged on her Lexus. Bragged on her son, the actor. Bragged about the writers she’d met. She told a story about randomly knocking on an aging William Faulkner’s door, and every time I think of it, now, I’d really like to know if that story was true.

I credit her often, mentally, but that amount could never be enough. Whatever writer I could become, she did the most formal shaping of it. Oh, I had wonderful training in college, and there’s nothing like reading and writing to up your game, but Mrs. Newman was the one that made me try. She smoothed the firmament and laid the foundation for me. She taught me how to be comfortable with volume, made me learn how to synthesize complex and nuanced works, made me write every day, opened the door that allowed me to expect more from what I’m reading, All of this has served me well. All of it was in her classroom in what was, then, called The New Building.

I talked to her once when I was in college. Called her out of the blue, made her tried to guess who I was. She figured it out. I had a question about a paper I was writing and knew she was the person to ask. That was the last time we spoke. She retired soon after that. Presumably she realized she couldn’t improve upon the good work she’d done on us. Her husband, a prominent attorney for decades, died a few years ago. She still lives in the area, I think.

I’m going to write her a letter later this week.

Anyway, I’m working toward three classes for the spring term. One is an online course, Digital Media Processes, I have taught twice before. This might be the first class in the history of me that I’ve taught three times. My hypothesis is that it takes three times to get a class right, but I’ve never been able to try it. If nothing else, I am excited to have a class that’s already prepared.

I’m also teaching my new Criticism in Sport Media again. This will be my second time with that class. The first experience, in the fall, was positive. I saw ways I could make it better. A few weeks ago I started sketching out how that will look. The student feedback was encouraging. They also professed enthusiasm for the point of the class. (High school teachers and librarians are seeing the same thing: kids know they need to be more literate in the world they are growing into.) Will I get to teach it a third time, applying polish from that second effort? No one knows.

But, for now, it’s another syllabus I don’t have to start from scratch. There are a few key changes to make, but it only took a few minutes on this first pass.

I’m also teaching another brand new class, Communicating Rituals and Tradition in Sports. So this syllabus, the lessons, the outline, everything is … well, not a blank slate … I have many scribbled notes and an outline on my phone and a dozen or so open tabs and things I’ve emailed to myself.

Whereas last semester I had three new preps — my 9th, 10th, and 11th since — fall off 2023 — I only have the one new prep this term. It won’t feel leisurely, but in comparison …

Today I started putting it all in the right order. I got about half of the semester situated in some kind of way. The idea here is that we’ll study individual rituals and team and organizational traditions and try to figure out why they are so important to us as fans. And we’ll also work with the athletic department at the university to try to help them come up with some new ideas for cultivating their campus fan base. This class could be really fun. I have it on the books for the spring and again next year. Whatever I learn this time out, then, I’ll be able to improve upon for fall 2026. Will I get to teach it a third time, applying polish from that second effort? No one knows.

Ah. Well. The same worries as every day are now the worries for a different day.

Now, it is back to finding interesting ways to talk about a variety of theories to make this class interesting and useful.

adventures / Instagram / journalism / memories / photo / Rowan / television / Tuesday — Comments Off on No title Tuesday
23
Dec 25

No title Tuesday

When we got in last night, the first thing I did was put my things down.

No, that’s too early, let me back up.

When we got in last night, we stood on the curb at the airport for some time. The place we used as a park-and-ride had one shuttle running to the airport the week before Christmas, which seemed smart. It was cold. We waited. But it was at least night to be out of an airport, off of planes. Our trip began just before 6 p.m. and we landed just after 11 p.m. Not bad, considering we had a short layover in Detroit. It turned out that we took the same plane, so we disembarked long enough to grab a bite, and then get back on the plane. For our first leg of the flight I sat next to a retired Delta pilot. He is now flying rich people around out of Detroit. There are, he said, five wealthy families in Detroit and six jets. Then he showed me his Christmas card from Bob Seger, who is one of those families.

We covered a lot of ground as we were flying over the ground. The styles of flying, how much money people typically earn before they buy a plane of their own, some of his anecdotes, and so on. He asked me what I do for a living, and I told him, and he found this interesting, so we talked about media for a long while. One of my former students is in Detroit, and he has surely seen him on CBS. He was very curious about the nature and process of media, and the conversation gave me more grist for my “people don’t understand what we do” mill.

It goes both ways, of course. I’ve been on many planes, and I can fly one just as well as he could produce a media product. We think we know about other things because of our experience, but it’s not an expertise. He told me the progency of the plane we were on, and told me about the insulation properties of the fuselage. I know nothing about his business. Now, let me explain the basics of local media economic models.

There’s going to be a hypothesis in there, somewhere, eventually.

We left him in Detroit, it was his last work for a week. It sounds like has a pretty good gig for a retired man. On the second leg of the trip I sat with my lovely bride. She watched a documentary, I caught up on the day’s news. I also learned that one of my former students will be on national television on Christmas Eve. She’s a meteorologist, having gone from Greenville, North Carolina to Albuquerque to San Francisco, a real talent, a credible forecaster and now she’s getting turns on national TV.

I bet she could have told me whether I had on enough layers for the curbside cold. Standing there, getting on the shuttle, getting to the car and getting home, might have taken about the same amount of time as either one of our flights this evening.

And so, finally, the first thing I did was put my things down. Then I petted the cats. They were very insistent and full of attitude, as if to say “These are the hi-jinx you could have enjoyed if you’d been here the last week.”

Today, there has been a lot of desperate cuddling.

And a lot of loud complaining.

One of their friends spent the week with them. They had a good time. I saw the photos and videos. I’m not sure who they think they’re fooling with this act.

But the kitties are doing well. And all of the cuddling slowed down today’s grading. This last batch took the afternoon and the first half of the evening. Much longer than necessary, but the class was the class was the class.

I’ll submit the final grades tomorrow, marking the end of the fall term. I’ll take a few days off. And then, starting Saturday, I’ll go back to designing a new class for the spring term. This will be my third brand new class in as many terms, and my 11th new prep in six semesters.

That, if you are not in this business, is a lot.

memories / Monday / photo — Comments Off on It was July of 2002, maybe August
8
Dec 25

It was July of 2002, maybe August

I was taking the garbage out last night, because that’s one of the things I do on Sunday evening. My mind wandered back, because that’s one of the things that it does on most any day, to a conversation I had in the summer of 2002.

I was talking with my news director about this and that and he said to me, “You have to look after yourself, because no one else will do it as much or as well.”

It was one of those things that made sense at the time, and felt more right the more I thought about it. This was what it was to be accidentally deep. Two weeks later, I walked back to his office and offered him my resignation. Not because he was right, but because I was already on my way out the door. And, also, he was right, of course. Since I think far too much about work, I’ve always thought of that as professional advice. Maybe that’s the way that he meant it.

But there I was, standing in the drive, in the dark, and just as I walked under the motion sensor and the flood lights clicked on I thought, What if he was talking about everything in your life? The fun stuff too? The rewarding stuff? The valuable stuff? What are the things we’re all looking to fill our days with to have a day well spent? What is that thing?

It’s a part of a long-running puzzle. Some passive part of my brain has been working on that for, I don’t know, seven, eight years. And I did not figure it out tonight, standing there in the driveway. It’s too cold for all of that.

But, yes of course a conversation from almost a quarter of a century ago came to mind. You don’t do that? I remember precisely where I was standing when it happened. Right where this dot is.

Every now and then, over my many years working with students and young journalists, I’ve found a way to work that same advice into conversation. Most of them are well equipped to realize that already, but it is worth repeating. That guy, my former news director, is working in Nashville now. He’s been there … for more than a decade, which is a substantial amount of time in one spot in his line of work. He seems very happy there, but he’s one of those relentlessly happy sorts.

What do those guys know, anyway? Aside from occasionally stumbling into good greeting card caliber advice, I mean.

Let’s have a look at the kitties, who are insisting that I get back on the schedule. They make a good point. They’re the most popular feature on the site, and Monday is traditionally theirs. Why mess with what works?

So here’s Phoebe, getting in the holiday spirit.

And here she is, getting all cuddly and cozy under a blanket. What a cute little face.

Poseidon, meanwhile, is ready for his closeup.

But, also, his pink nose is cold.

When they sleep like that it just kills me.

Maybe I should ask them about living right. They know how to spend a day.

memories / sport / video / Wednesday — Comments Off on Another extra piece
19
Nov 25

Another extra piece

I tried to get this published elsewhere, but failed. I still like it. I’m sharing it here.

We fall in love for a lot of reasons.

I recently asked a bunch of people to tell me about a big sports event they participated in, watched in the stands, or even on TV. You could group their specific answers into a few categories, pure sport, inspiration, and family.

In no particular order …

Someone mentioned the 2021 James Madison-Oklahoma softball game. The Sooners were on their way to becoming the irresistible force in collegiate softball, and JMU played the underdog role to perfection. The two sides faced off three times in the Women’s College World Series.

College softball is perfectly packaged as a televised sport, and that series proved it. The pace is fast, the game moves quickly and the athletes are incredible.

Someone else recalled the 2017 Minnesota Vikings playoff miracle as the moment he became a football fan. Not a Vikings fan, but a football fan, because the play showed him that anything is possible.

And Joe Buck’s “DIGGS!” will give you a little pep, even when you know what’s coming.

A couple of people talked about their own personal moments, being on the field when a championship goal was scored, winning a state championship in track and field, being a part of a David vs. Goliath style upset … I asked them what it’s like to be a momentary folk hero. It must be pretty good, humility wouldn’t let them say so, but the little smiles gave them away.

Ricky Pearsall had a triumph of the human spirit last year. Robbed and shot, he was on the field for the 49ers less than two months later. It’s easy to see why someone might pick that game, especially.

Some of the memories people shared were straight up sports moments, as they should be. Giancarlo Stanton digging in with the bases loaded and delivering, just like every kid that’s ever picked up a bat has imagined, was one such sports memory.

Others were personal. One recalled going to the Yankees Old-Timers Day with his grandfather, seeing some of the greats on the field, and meeting some of the legends in the stands. And to do that with your grandfather … it’s a lifetime highlight. I hope if someone asks him that question one day, it makes the short list.

In every generation, in every Olympics, we are reminded that sport is about our future. Someone recalled watching the 2008 Beijing Games, being inspired by a 14-year-old Tom Daley and becoming a diver, too. I asked, springboard or platform? This is how young that child was when inspiration struck: My mom wouldn’t let me dive off the platform. Moms are moms, and sometimes a mom’s fear overrules the drama of athletic feats and stories well told.

While Daley towered above us, balancing on the edge of cement structures, we were also all looking up as Kawhi Leonard bounced … and bounced … and bounced a ball all over a forgiving Toronto rim. Two people mentioned this one.

Drama is why we keep coming back, no? This year’s 4 Nations Face-Off and basically the entire 2012 NHL Stanley Cup playoffs were mentioned as two great examples of peak hockey.

Some moments just live on the circumstance and the visuals they give us. Maybe that is a part of what we want fandom, at our most romantic, to give us. Like when Bryce Harper delivered “the swing of his life” against the Padres’ Robert Suárez, who saw his ball sent to left-center, and the Phillies saw their season continue into the World Series. Or perhaps Saquon Barkley doing any number of Saquon Barkley things. He comes up a lot with this question right now, as you might imagine. The greats always do when you ask a question like that. Tom Brady and his many rings, Lebron James in Miami, women’s gymnastics at the 2024 when Simone Biles and Jade Carey and Jordan Chiles and Sunisa Lee and Hezly Rivera won gold, all of them no doubt inspiring another generation of talent to follow them.

Early impressions are lasting ones. We are so often fans of teams or players because we either grew up in a broadcast radius, our folks liked them, or they were at their peak when we were coming to fall in love with the sport. It was no different for one person who told about his introduction to the Australian Grand Prix because it roared by his neighborhood a decade-and-a-half ago. There was also the guy who smiled through a memory of going to see the Pittsburgh Steelers’ training camp to meet his heroes, because Mom and Dad made it happen. Similarly, another watched Tiger Woods make his improbable run in 2019 with his grandfather. I wish the older man had been in the room, so I could have also asked him what he thought about that moment with his boy.

It is easy to see how sport can reflect us socially or culturally. We bring a lot of reasons and a history of our own to these things. We put a lot into it. Sometimes we must explain the context of a particular event to help others truly appreciate a memorable moment. It is much easier to explain how they resonate on a personal level. The great plays and best outcomes — the swing, the stick, the deep bomb, the dagger, the buzzer beater, a woman runs fast, a man dives, an incredible backhand, a preternatural putt, a fine day in the sun, a long leisurely afternoon in the autumn shade, the fabled pimento cheese sandwich, the roar of crowds, the improbable post-season runs, high-fiving strangers — really, they’re all just permission, some of the world’s most ridiculous permissions, to fall in love with these silly things.

May we carry them forever.

What’s the best sports play or event you saw live? Why does it stick with you?

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