3 AM Friends

 

I saw an old friend recently. Lonnie Hawkins is one of the few people I graduated from high school with that I’ve stayed in touch with. I’ve been gone from our hometown for a long time. Lonnie and I played football together. We’ve been friends since the 7^th grade.

Prior to the 7^th grade, the schools in my hometown were segregated. The black kids in town had to travel to another town, some of them literally riding past schools in the town where we all lived.

That changed when we went into the 7^th grade and the schools were integrated. We had no idea about the politics with all that, we just knew that the kids that we played with got to go to the same school as us.

And we got to play on the same sports teams. We were happy and excited. Lonnie and I were in the same homeroom, became friends, and are close to this day. Seeing him again was truly joyous.

Do you have those kinds of friends? Those friends that time and distance might separate but when you get together the friendship is still strong? That’s sort of a hidden joy that you can allow yourself. And it’s a blessing when you see each other again.

I saw a bit on social media just this week. It talked about two kinds of friends. The 3 AM friends and the 6 PM friends.

The 6 PM friends were definitely your good friends, somebody you might call on if you needed something. Somebody that knows you, knows your faults, and likes you regardless of what is going on. Somebody that will answer the phone if you call at 6 PM and might drop what they’re doing to help you out.

If we’re lucky, we have several of those. I’ve heard that if you can count five good friends, that you’re fortunate. I can and I definitely feel lucky.

The 3 AM friends are a different matter. They’re the ones that will answer the phone even if it is 3 AM when they see your name. They’re the ones that figure that if you’re calling at that time that you really need something so they’ve already started getting dressed.

There’s a Ben Affleck movie where Ben’s character walks in the room and says “I need your help. I can’t tell you what it is, you can never ask me about it, and we’re going to hurt somebody.” His friend doesn’t think twice and answers “whose car are we gonna take?”

I’m not advocating violence but that’s a 3 AM friend. Somebody that trusts you and doesn’t have to have a long explanation. I’ve got a couple of those in my life and they know who they are.

My friendship with Lonnie Hawkins started in a classroom, where we found that we had a lot in common. It was solidified on the football field, where we were teammates.

Teammates. There’s something about that term. Being teammates means that you have fought the same battles. It means that you have shed blood, sweat, and tears together, and drank out of the same cup.  Most of the friends from high school that I’ve stayed friends with were teammates. It’s a special bond.

Lonnie and I used to haul hay together too. We would sometimes see who could toss a hay bale the farthest or highest. We didn’t know it then, but we were training for the football field when we did that.

Sports generate a relationship like few others. It’s a brotherhood (or sisterhood) of people who might be completely different off the field, but on the field will fight for each other to the very end.

The life lesson there is not just about the value of friendship, but the lesson that when you’re part of a team, trust is integral part. Playing on a team builds that trust. Or it doesn’t and you fail. And there’s something especially cool about playing sports with your friends.

I’m not sure about calling at 3 AM but I feel certain that if I really needed Lonnie to do something for me, he would do it. And I would do it for him.

Athlete at any age

 

I have never had any qualms talking about the candles on my birthday cake. It looks like a bonfire. 70 is a bunch. It doesn’t bother me.

Some may argue, but I consider myself an athlete. You’ve heard probably too much about it. Bicycle. CrossFit. Yoga. I played basketball until I was 59. Going snow skiing tomorrow.

No one could argue that my buddy Ken Bell is an athlete. Just chase him down a hill on a mountain bike and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Years ago, I introduced him to rock climbing. He immediately climbed easily something I struggled to climb.

We did a tennis clinic one time. He and I started at the bottom end of the group. By the second day, he was on the first court. I stayed on the lower end. He has always been that kind of an athlete. And he still is that kind of athlete.

His kids are too. His oldest is a beast on a bicycle. His second was an All-American high jumper and can still jump out of the gym. His third was a late bloomer but is definitely athletic. His youngest could have done anything athletic he wanted to.

Retired pediatrician Dr. Charlie Raper is still running longer distances than you and I can imagine. It hasn’t been that long since he ran the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim.  He’s an athlete.

Bill Carl and Caroline Haynes will beat much younger people at tennis on any given day. They’re definitely athletes.

I’ve talked about pickleball a time or two. I’m not really interested in playing but I do know that a lot of people are playing that have never played anything. That’s a good thing.

Anything that gets people out and active is a good thing. And I can tell you that there are a lot of people on those pickleball courts. I will show up at John Sevier with my grandson to play tennis and we might be the only people on the tennis courts but there will be a line of people waiting to play pickleball.

It seems to be a game that just about anybody can play and enjoy.  And that’s a big part of it—if you enjoy something, you’re more likely to stick with it.

So, here’s the (loaded) question: If you’re not on a team or competing, are you an athlete? Of course you are. Athletes come in all shapes, sizes, and ages.

If you’re moving your body in a skilled fashion, I would consider you an athlete. Dr. Jim Gillespie, local senior golfer extraordinaire?  Of course, he’s an athlete. He might not run a mile, but he can hit a golf ball that will fly far enough that you think they’re going to sell inflight movies.

Emil Herran, who will ride a bicycle more miles in a year than most people will ride in their lifetime?  Sure, he’s an athlete.  You don’t have to break records or win championships to be an athlete.

What does that mean in the long run? I think it means a longer, healthier life. It means that you can do ordinary things like climb stairs and get up and down from the couch easily for a whole lot longer.

Sir Isaac Newton’s first law of physics says that “a body in motion tends to stay in motion unless acted on by an external force.” I believe more and more each day that is true for all of us as well.

So, fight through the tough days. Get up. Get out. Move. You don’t have to join a gym or run a marathon.

What does it take?

 

To understand part of this story, you probably need to understand what my office looks like. Well, it’s not really an office like you might expect, but it’s what I call my office.

Let me explain. I’m a physical therapist and an athletic trainer, but most of you knew that. I work in a clinic called Total Rehab-Cherokee, usually shortened to just “Cherokee.” My building is basically a warehouse-type building, with a high ceiling and wide-open spaces. 

The clinic takes up about half of the space, while a fitness center occupies the rest of the space. They are separated by a wall on one side and a counter-top around the rest. My “office” is a space about half way down that counter top.

I’m about as much in the middle of the whole building as you can possibly be, straddling the world between the clinic and the gym. There are several other clinicians that occupy that countertop, but all of them face inward, toward the clinic. I face outward, toward the gym.

This is where I sit most of the time when I write my column for this space (and too much of the time, really—such is the world of medical documentation).

This whole arrangement is very purposeful. This makes it much easier to take care of my patients on the rehab side and opens me to engagement with the fitness members. Just about every day, someone from the fitness side walks up with a question.

Usually, it starts like this: “I know you don’t like to be bothered, but….” That’s not true. I don’t consider it a “bother” at all. I’m honored that people want my opinion about their health and fitness. It’s part of what keeps me going.

Sometimes it is a simple ache or pain that doesn’t really require medical intervention but just some common sense advice. I’ve said many times that good health care is often merely good common sense.

Sometimes it is a question about their training program. Just yesterday, I was asked what exercises might be of benefit to prevent back pain. With multiple college degrees in fields related to exercise science and a lifetime spent in a gym, I sort of know what I’m talking about.

I got a different sort of question yesterday. “What separates an elite athlete from an ordinary athlete?” The person posing the question added that it didn’t seem like it was only talent.

No, it’s not. The cliché is “hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work.” That’s mostly true. I mean, there isn’t any substitute for good genetics. Aaron Douglas comes to mind. Maybe the best high school athlete I’ve ever seen, Aaron’s parents were a Lady Vol All American and an NFL lineman. Phil Fulmer offered him a football scholarship in the crib.

But Aaron worked hard. And remained coachable. So did Brandon Warren. And Lester Whitted. John Garrett might not have impressed you physically, but he was talented and never made the same mistake twice as a state champion quarterback.

Those of us around back then knew that Randall Cobb was something special. We knew he was talented. We knew he worked hard and stayed coachable and all that. But I’ll not lie and tell you that I thought he would have a long NFL career when he was a high school star.

Randall took care of that. He stayed committed to excellence. He dedicated himself to being the best he could be. Commitment. Dedication. Work ethic. Persistence. Staying coachable. Doing the little things.

And that is the answer to the question.

Helicopter Moms

 

I found myself derisively using the term “Helicopter Mom” recently. Let me explain.

Every week day at 7 AM, we open the doors to Total Rehab-Cherokee to local high school and middle school athletes. We bring all of our Athletic Trainers in to evaluate those kids with injuries.

It’s a great system, allowing our Athletic Trainers to intervene in injuries in their earliest stages, before they can escalate to something more severe. And if there is a problem that is already more serious, we’ve got a great system for that as well.

The orthopedic surgeons at OrthoTennessee-Maryville come in early and will see any athletes that we bring them at the front end of their schedule. And sports physician Dr. Ben England always saves his first spot for someone from our 7 AM Athletes Clinic.

It works well.  We’ve been doing it that way for over 25 years.

On the day I’m talking about, I saw it coming. Mom walked boldly into the clinic, followed by her in-need-of-a-haircut son. She was a bit demanding at the front desk and then takes the simple form that we have them fill out while complaining about the paperwork.

She fills out the form (a pet peeve of mine-a high school kid can tell us what their address and phone number is) and then, when I sit down with her son, she promptly answers the questions that I specifically addressed to him.

She even interrupted when he tried to speak. I tried not to be rude but finally asked her to wait in the reception area. Too crowded, you know. The kid was actually pretty bright—and once Mom was gone, was quite good at describing what brought him to the clinic that day.

It’s not just Moms.  It can be Dads too. So, what is it with Helicopter Parents?  What are they trying to do?

I do get it. Sort of. Maybe they have had bad experiences and want to protect their child from the misery that can be found just around the corner. Maybe they’re afraid that their child is growing up and is going to leave them behind (it will happen—it’s called life).

There is nothing wrong with parental involvement. Involved relationships with your children are healthy. I’ve said many times that if you are engaged with your children when they’re growing up, they have a better chance of becoming healthy, well-adjusted adults.

I believe that Helicopter Parents (it’s not just Moms) have good intentions. Maybe it is all about giving your kids opportunities that you wish you had. Maybe the child has some problems that we don’t know about.

On the good side, children of Helicopter Parents are more likely to feel the love, the protection, the security, and the acceptance.

But on the negative side, children of Helicopter Parents may be more likely to lack self-confidence and self-esteem. They may be more likely to avoid taking responsibility for their actions and lack the ability to make independent decisions. 

What’s a parent to do? Protect your child, by all means, but don’t do everything for them. Allow your child to make a mistake once in a while. Mistakes can be important lessons and can lead to crucial life skills that they can’t learn if they are sheltered from the situations they need to grow.

Give your child space and the latitude to make their own decisions. You can guide that decision-making but give them some latitude. Instead of handling their problems for them, give them the tools to handle their own problems.

And when they come in to the clinic, let them fill out their own form.

What might have been

 

I’ve been thinking about my Dad lately. I wasn’t sure why but then I realized that January was the month of his birth and of his death. I don’t remember birthdays particularly well, but I remember his. January 20^th, 1913. 

And for some reason, the date of his death has stuck with me too—Janary 27^th, 1997 84 years and a week apart. He shouldn’t have lived that long. No way. He had his first heart attack at age 45, when men didn’t last long when they started that young. He had several more but they didn’t kill him.

The science of cardiology in 1958 was nothing like it is today. Back then, they would put you on blood thinners and tell you to go home and sit. No physical exertion. No exercise. No excitement.

We dried clothes on an outdoor line (ask an old person) but cardiac patients weren’t allowed to even reach overhead. He and I built this step thing to where I could hang clothes on the clothesline. He made regular visits to the hospital lab for blood work, monitoring the effect of the Coumadin that he took for decades and which ultimately killed him.

Today, it is completely different. Stents placed in the arteries of the heart have transformed cardiac care. We now know that exercise is essential for cardiac rehabilitation, and that reaching over your head is completely OK. New medicines, new techniques, new technology, all mean a longer and healthier life for those having suffered a heart attack. But that wasn’t the case back then.

At 13, I built a tree house in the back yard while he sat in a lawn chair down below and coached me through it all. He would listen to my football games on the radio, because those games really excited him.

My dad wasn’t a big man, standing but 5 feet, 6 inches tall and weighing maybe 145 at his biggest, but he could outwork men twice his size. His reputation at the factory where he worked before he had to retire early was that of someone that could always be counted on to get the job done. And then he would turn around and help you do your job too.

I know that because when I worked at that same job during college summers, the expectations for “Carl’s kid” were immense. Uneducated and having never worked at anything that wasn’t hard labor, he still set a high bar for everything I ever aspired to do.

He raised a garden, bees, grapes, and cherries.  Since he couldn’t lift much because of his heart, I did the labor. My first Boy Scout merit badge was beekeeping because at 11, I was an experienced beekeeper.

There was a lot about my dad that I didn’t know much about and I will always regret that. During the Great Depression, he lived alone in a basement room in Knoxville and worked at a dairy. That’s all I know. It was only when I was going through some old photos after my Mom died that I discovered that they attended the opening of the GSMNP at Newfound Gap.

I didn’t know that at all. I also have a photo of my Dad standing at the precipice of Bald River Falls. I was never brave enough to do anything like that.

He never got to play sports of any kind. He dropped out of school after the 6^th grade and went to work in a factory after his dad died. In recent weeks, I’ve written about missed opportunities and he sure had them.

No school, the Great Depression, World War II, a new father at 40. What a life! He always loved motorcycles and one of my favorite photos is of him standing beside one, it had to be in the 30’s, leather helmet on his head, surrounded by a snowy street. He once told me he had pounded nails in the hard rubber tires to give him traction in the snow.

What would have been his sport if he had the opportunity? Today, I bet he would be a wrestler. He was tough as nails and, pound for pound, the strongest person I’ve ever known. Or a distance runner. He could outwork anybody. Maybe he would have defied all odds and been a tough-nosed football linebacker.

Oh wouldn’t that have been something to see!  Happy birthday Dad.

 

Country Strong

 

You may not know this, but I grew up country. My hometown had three stoplights and often only one of them worked. We lived about a mile from town, surrounded by family farms. We were bordered on one side by Highway 11 and by Southern Railroad on the other.

I was not a member, but the FFA (Future Farmers of America) was a big deal. The 4^th of July parade featured horses, bicycles, tractors, and the high school marching band.

There were about 4000 people living there then—about the same number now. Boys that graduated from high school often went to work in one of the local factories. If you grew up on a family farm, you likely followed that tradition.

I started working on those surrounding farms at about age 12. I also had a newspaper route and several yards to mow but that’s part of another story.

My first job was hauling hay for Jimmy Greenway’s Aunt Marie. At lunch, she fed us a mountain of fried chicken and a variety of vegetables. I was too tired to eat anything the first time I worked there.

Two doors down from where I lived was Dennis Williams and his wife, a school teacher. With his brother, Mr. Dennis owned the family farm about a mile away. The brother lived on the farm and Mr. Dennis lived near me.

Back then, there was this thing called a “tenant” farmer. Those people were provided with a house on the farm and paid for their work. They usually had the opportunity to farm a piece of land, usually put into a tobacco patch.

The tenant farmer on the Williams’ farm was a Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown and his wife lived in a small house on the farm, near the railroad tracks. A slight, grizzled man, I thought he must truly be ancient, but he was probably younger than I am now.

Mr. Dennis was even older. He would drive the tractor. I would pick up the hay in the field and set it up on the wagon. Mr. Brown would stack the hay. Then we would head to the barn to store it away.

Again, I would toss the hay up into the hay loft and Mr. Brown would stack it. Then back to the hay field again. Field after field, we would clear the bales of hay. Throughout my teen years.

We had a few weights at the high school I attended and, after winning the state championship in football, we got this fancy multi-station weight machine. But we didn’t need all that because we were “country strong.”

That meant that we spent our summers hauling hay, hoeing and putting up tobacco, shoveling grain, and, well, you get the picture. We didn’t have to adjust to the heat when fall sports rolled around because we had spent our summers working under the hot sun.

We had no idea how much we could bench press but we knew how far we could toss a 60 pound bale of hay.

When my son reached his teen years, he started helping local people that were still putting up hay in bales. As he entered high school, he definitely spent time in the weight room, but his summers also included lots of farm work and heavy lifting. I believe it served him well.

Young athletes tend to get caught up with the latest greatest. They think you just have to have a strength coach, personal trainers, position coach, masseuse. All the things. When what they really need is just to put in the work.

Lift, throw, push, pull. Work hard. Move heavy things. Sweat. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable.

No Child Hungry

 

I write often about sports nutrition. It was just a couple of weeks or so ago that I wrote about “garbage in, garbage out.” We know that what you eat has a huge impact on sports performance.

I also wrote recently about those unfortunate young athletes that simply cannot participate in sports because the cost has gotten so high.  Now imagine, if you will, what it might cost to supply an athlete with a high quality diet.

Lean meats, fresh vegetables, and fruits are the base for a healthy diet. Sports performance often requires high calorie content but the cheapest way to accomplish that is to load it up with sugar. But that’s counterproductive.

One of the reasons us Southerners fry so much of our food as it is a way to take lesser meat and vegetables and make them tasty. And we do love our condiments and sauces. Same thing. Not good.

When everybody in the household works, there often just isn’t the time to do a lot of food prep. It’s easier to open a can and heat it up. Or pick up fast food. I get that.

My advice on that is just do all you can do.  Avoid frying anything and pay attention to the sugar intake. Those are cheap calories and won’t provide the athlete with the fuel for peak performance.

But let me take a tangent here. I want to tell you a story about one of those athletes who couldn’t finish their high school career. He was a football player and had asked the coaches if he could leave practice early. It was a Wednesday and the coaches just figured he was going to church, with this being the Bible Belt and all.

Nope. Not the case. There was a local restaurant that was having an all-you-can-eat affair and his mom was taking he and his siblings. It doesn’t really matter what was served, it was a chance for the whole family to get all they wanted to eat, something that might have been rare in their family.

It was sad, really. I thought about this after my family and I had enjoyed Christmas dinner—more food than we could have eaten in a week. My thoughts turned to those less fortunate.  There are hungry people everywhere.

We would like to think that nobody in our community goes to bed hungry, but that simply is not the case. A principal recently told me that 60% of his student body is on meal assistance.

When my wife worked as a school bookkeeper, the number of children getting free lunches was staggering. Some schools also offer breakfast and lunch and it is an unforunate fact that those are the only meals a lot of those kids get that day.

Politicians banter about cutting out that breakfast. Teachers will tell you that a free breakfast is essential for academic participation. Not academic excellence, but the ability to sit in a classroom and pay attention and do the basic work.

Social services are a hot topic in Nashville and Washington, but those in the midst of the argument never went to bed hungry, much less not sure what they were going to find to eat the next day.

We complain about the price of eggs while too many can’t afford eggs at any price. 

I’m a big fan of 2^nd Harvest Food Bank and Community Food Connection of Blount County.  They can’t feed everyone, but they can often be the difference for hungry families. The Empty Pantry Fund ended up short this year but provides a huge bag of food for a whole lot of people.

And The Welcome Table at 1^st Methodist Church of Maryville and New Providence Presbyterian Church plus the Salvation Army free lunch at Broadway Baptist Church (there are others) insure that at least for that day, somebody doesn’t go hungry.

2024 is here. It’s a new year. It’s OK to appreciate how blessed we are but let’s not forget those less fortunate than us. Let’s strive for a world where no child goes to bed hungry.