You Look Good for 60!

One of my workout buddies, Kenny Wiggins mentioned recently that he really doesn't watch the clock during our workouts  but instead just looks for the "milestones."

Such as "half way through" or "5 minutes to go."   If he watches the clock, it's not as much fun. 

I had a pretty big milestone yesterday:  My 60th birthday.  I haven't been watching that clock:  60 has sort of sneaked up on me.  It really sneaked up on my wife--early this year she suggested maybe we should take a big vacation when I turned 60.  "Uh...honey...that's this year!"

Most people at 60 are starting to look at retirement.  Not me.  Not really.  I have no real plans for retirement.  I've always thought it sad that someone knew the days and minutes until they could finally retire.  I would not have wanted to work at a job that would make me feel that way. 

I'm not sure what I would do in retirement anyway--I enjoy what I'm doing now too much.  My life is complex but not complicated.  I do a lot of things.

I paint, I sing in a quartet, and I ride my bicycle. I dance, but only once in public.  I chase grandbabies.  I paddle a canoe, travel a lot, and raise blueberries, cherries, and blackberries.  I try to grow apples, pears, and peaches but I'm not real good at those.  Still, it doesn't stop me.  Actually, not being real good at something doesn't seem to deter me from trying new things.

I really enjoy sharing in this space with you and plan on writing until the good folks at The Daily Times discover I've truly lost my mind.  It used to be that I was "Joe Black, the physical therapist."  Anymore, I'm "Joe Black, the guy that writes in the newspaper."  That's OK.

I've said many times that I'll quit my job when it stops being fun.  Well, it's still pretty darn fun.  For me, there is nothing like the dynamic of a clinic, particularly one that is truly focused on helping folks and being proactive about health issues.   It is still a thrill to walk into the room of a patient that is there to seek my expertise and guidance.  

It's been a really great 60 years and I would do it again the same way in a heartbeat.  Sure, I've made mistakes (even some really big ones) but the path has led me to a point in life where I'm truly happy, to where I feel I'm the luckiest man in the world, so why would I even change the bad stuff?  I'm pretty sure I've learned from the mistakes I've made and the trials I've been through.

60 really is only a milestone in my life that has now passed.  The clock is ticking and if I don't want to lose sight of what is really important, if I don't want to miss out on living life, I won't be watching the clock.  I'll simply get on with life.

I've got a lot to do.

Bullying By Any Other Name

Maybe you followed the story of Bearden High School senior Alex Notte and his prom date with professional golfer Belen Mozo.   This beautiful, successful 24-year-old stepped away from her busy schedule to join Alex on this special night. 

That Alex had physical and communication challenges didn't stop him from asking for a date with Belen.  That she said yes I believe is a testimony to her heart and her character.

I'm going to call the rest of this my Jane Doe story.  Maybe you were never this person.  Maybe you were. 

I can remember how badly we treated Jane.   She wasn't one of the "cool kids" and, truth be known, was pretty obnoxious.   The kind of person that might get on your nerves quickly.

I can remember never wanting to be seen talking to her because my buddies might think that I "liked" her.  So I shunned her.  Ignored her if she tried to talk to me. 

Was she that bad?  Oh heavens no.

We had a "fat girl" in our class too.  Shunned as though she had a contagious disease, I can't imagine what life must have been like for her.   I do know that we became re-acquainted as adults and I found her to be engaging, smart, funny, and an all-around decent person.   I think she was still big but I'm not real sure because I didn't see her that way anymore.

Stuff like this still happens every day.   What were we thinking?   We weren't bad kids but obviously we could be cruel.

Bullying is not just  physical beatings or even pushing someone down on the playground.  Bullying takes many faces.  Cruelty like this is a form of bullying. 

When you make fun of what someone is wearing, that's a form of bullying.   Did you ever stop to think that maybe that's all they had?  Or that maybe their parents were unable to make the kind of choices that you think are fashionable?

Or the way someone looks?  That's bullying too.  The kid with size 14 shoes in the 5th grade and you just think that's the funniest thing you've seen in a long time?  That is the same kid that will be 6'6" and a basketball star in just a few short years.

Or the girl that had to have glasses too young and gets called "Four Eyes" everywhere she goes.   Whose nose doesn't seem to fit her face.   She's the one who grows into those things and is knock-dead gorgeous and believe me, you will wish you had been nicer to her when you were younger.

I honestly believe that is all about our own insecurity.   We don't know who we are and are despite desperately searching for that person but in the meantime we elevate our status (in our own minds) by treating others badly.

There's this one guy that I knew well in college that may have helped me understand how this is just basically wrong.  When a bunch of us guys were hanging out together, he would pick the one person in the room that he saw as the weakest or least and make fun of  him.  What we called "teasing," although it was something much darker than that.

I was sometimes that person being picked on.  It took me many years to forgive him.   What he did do was teach me a little about how to treat people.     And what I've discovered is that if you treat others with respect, if you make yourself blind to whatever faults they might have, you're going to find some really great people out there.  

People that you have a lot more in common with than you could ever have dreamed.   And that's a good place to be.

Tie your shoes!

This may be one of those columns that confirms my old fogey-ism but have you ever wondered why (mostly) teenagers never want to tie and untie their shoes?  Maybe you haven't  noticed but I sure have.  

I guess it starts with injuries because that's mostly when I see them.  

Without a shadow of a doubt, the most frequent sports injury is the ankle sprain.   The classic sprain is where the foot turns to the inside, injuring the outside of the ankle.  More commonly the result of jumping and then landing on someone else's foot, it can happen while alone while simply stepping off of a curb.

If you have injured your ankle, there are a couple of keys to deciding maybe what you've done.  First, let me teach you a couple of terms.  "Inversion" is when your foot turns to the inside.  Since the ankle sort of goes out, some people mistakenly describe what happened to them by saying that their ankle turned "out."   What's important here isn't what happens at the ankle but what happens to the foot.

"Eversion" is where the foot goes to the outside.

Now here's the important part of that.  If you have an eversion injury and it hurts on the inside of your ankle, you can probably ice it and watch it for a few hours to see what happens.

If you have an eversion injury and it hurts on the outside of your ankle, you very well may have broken your ankle and need to avoid weightbearing and get it evaluated, particularly if the pain is severe.

If you have an inversion injury and it hurts on the inside of your ankle, you can probably ice that one too and watch it for a few hours.  However, if an hour later you can describe the pain as severe, then you should have it seen about.

And if you have an inversion injury and it hurts on the outside of your ankle, you probably have a garden-variety ankle sprain and need to put ice on it, rest it, and elevate it.  If severe pain lasts for more than a few hours, get medical attention.

None of this is meant to be a substitute for medical attention to any injury.  But the fact of the matter is that most people will do one of three things when they hurt their ankle:  Do nothing, do the right thing (Rest Ice Compression Elevation), or do the wrong thing.  Maybe the first and last are the same.

In other words, most people self-treat ankle injuries anyway so I'm just trying to help you make smarter decisions and understand what is going on.

Now back to the shoelace thing.

Let me tell you first that laces on athletic shoes are there for a reason.  Do this:  Look at your running shoes.  See those stripes and bands on the side?   Those are there for a purpose.

When your shoelaces are snugged up, those stripes pull up on the shoe so that it cradles and protects the foot.   Bands that go from front to back are there primarily to assist in cupping and supporting the heel.  

You can prevent a lot of injuries by having well-fitted shoes with the laces up tight.  And that means also that you untie your shoes when you take them off and re-tie them when you put them back on.   Tucking your laces into your shoes, making them so you can simply slip them off and on without bothering with the laces defeats the purpose of the shoe.

You might as well wear houseshoes (or those flimsy, rubbery things that too many people wear that I will not name because I don't really like to be sued) around for all the good your shoes are to you.

So now parents, feel vindicated because what you've been preaching forever is now gospel.

It's not about me

It hasn't been that long since the MHS-Whitehaven football state championship game.  I remember vividly the tears shed by many of the Rebels...their dreams crushed.

Those were honest tears.  Any athlete will have that one thing-that one event that they dream of.  An Olympic Gold Medal.  A national championship. 

I've got a confession to make.  Yeah, I've made 'em here before.   Usually something embarrassing or at the very least personally cleansing.  I'm not sure what category this one falls under.

I'm a softie.  I cry easily. 

OK...now I've said it.  It isn't a very manly-man thing to say but it is honest.   And if I can't be honest here, then what's the point?  I find that as I get older that it is easier to be totally honest.

So when I watched those young men leave the field, I choked up a little.  Not for me.  Heaven knows I've had the blessing of so many of those same games on the winning side.  It was more because after spending months with these guys, their pain became my pain.

But I do get emotional easily.

Marley and Me?  Cried like a baby.   Don't even let me in the room if My Sister's Keeper is on.  Those Lifetime movies that my wife loves to watch?  If they aren't so obvious or the malady-of-the-day, I can easily find myself getting choked up.

So why admit all this now?   My latest grandchild was born 8 weeks ago.  Born prematurely, he is just now reaching his due date.  He was so tiny at birth, only 3 pounds, 2 1/2 ounces.  He spent a month in the NICU at Children's Hospital but I already wrote about that. 

This has been an eventful affair--certainly an emotional rollercoaster.  But he's here and he's fine (7 pounds and 2 ounces just this week) and now we can look forward to watching him become the man that he will be.

And along the way I want him to know that it is OK to feel emotion.  I want him to be able to feel deeply and to love unconditionally.  And that means to be honest with his emotions. 

I remember the time that my own dad cried in public.  Maybe it was the first time--it was certainly the first time that I ever saw him. 

It was at UT-Knoxville and I was getting an award that I was determined to blow off when a respected and kindly professor insisted that not only would I be there, but my parents would be too.

Keep in mind that my dad quit school after the 6th grade to go to work in a textile mill to support his fatherless family.   So here I am, not only about to graduate from college but getting some recognition for academic efforts.

So I get the award and hear the applause and I'm still pretty casual about the whole thing but then I turned to return to my seat and here was my dad, crying like a baby.  Sobbing really. 

And it was at that moment that it hit me that this had nothing to do with me but had everything to do with his dreams and aspirations for his only son.  You see, it's not always about me. 

Looking for Geritol?

I was asked a question recently (yeah, it does seem like I get asked a lot of questions).  It was "what is the secret to success?"

Not business success.  Not social success.  Not marital success (although more on that later)  Just plain ol' success.

I guess this person looks at me and see's a certain amount of success but goodness gracious I fail every day.   I preach about eating right and then go out and ignore my own advice.  I talk about exercising daily but know that every once in a while it's OK to sleep in and maybe do little or nothing.

I try to be a good grandfather but I know I don't have the patience I need.   I try to be a good co-worker but I know I can be too judgmental.  And dogmatic.   And opinionated.  And...well...you get the picture.

But as I fast approach the Geritol set (you'll have to look it up), I do find that I am happy, healthy, and have a lot of good relationships.   I get paid for doing something I love and have a wife that allows me to pursue so many interests that I have trouble keeping up with them all. 

Let me go down that path a bit.   Following on the heels of last week's feminism-based piece on Coach Pat Summitt, it hardly seems suitable to refer to the cliche that behind every successful man is a woman holding him up.   But that couldn't be more true for me.

I also had a strong foundation.  I was raised on principles.  I was raised to make a difference in the world.   I was already advocating for recreational opportunities for the youth in my hometown before high school graduation. 

Today, I find myself often in Nashville or Washington, advocating for health care issues that I find important.   And there is absolutely no way in the world that I could do any of that without a wife that supports me in that. 

Here lately, it seems like I've gotten more than my share of awards.  My wife half-jokingly asked me if I needed to tell her something--maybe that my demise was imminent, since I was being nominated for all these things.  Nope:  Nothing I know of.  But make no mistake about it--none of it would have been possible without the support of my wife. 

As we approach 37 years of being married (to each other), let me share the single bit of marital advice that I have given to many young  folks through the years:  Marriage is never 50/50.  You're gonna think it is 90/10 most of the time, with you on the short end, but it isn't.  And if you can stop looking for 50/50, life gets easier.  And happier.

As for the rest of the formula for being successful?   Be consistent.  Persevere.   Do it right the first time, the last time, and every time in between.   Remember that things don't matter--people matter.   Be reliable. 

Have integrity in everything that you do.  While I really like that little ditty about "dance like no one's watching," I believe we should make decisions like someone always is.

Pat Summitt

If you haven't read Pat Summitt's new book Sum It Up:  A Thousand and Ninety-Eight Victories, a Couple of Irrelevant Losses, and a Life in Perspective, go buy it today but reserve a little time by yourself or go ahead and call in late for work tomorrow because you won't be able to put it down.

It really doesn't matter if you are a Pat Summitt fan or even if you are a Lady Vol basketball fan, you will find it fascinating.  Sure, the basketball junkie in any of us will find the basketball stories worth the purchase price but the life stories...oh, my.

It's about her life and the progression of a disease that will most surely progress.   That may sound harsh but that's the terror of this thing we know as Alzheimer's Disease.  

I wrote about her disease when it was first announced but the book is so much more.   It reveals a lot about the person who is Pat Summitt.  A person that the universe would call Coach Summitt to her face but just "Pat" everywhere else (and "Your Mama" or just "Mama" to her players).

To sum it up, it is worthy, relevant, and nearly profound.  And it reminded me of how far women's athletics have come. 

Girl's basketball when I was growing up consisted of this bizarre half court game, where there were 3 offensive players on one half of the court and 3 defensive players on the other.   Elsewhere in the country, most girl's teams were already playing the 5-person full court game when know today.  Tennessee was one of the last states in America to make that switch.

I'm not sure why that was so but I do remember going to my high school principal with the idea of a girls-only "powderpuff" football game only to be told that girls should not be playing any kind of contact sports.  That it would "bruise their breasts" (I kid you not) which would lead to breast cancer.

When Coach Summitt was playing basketball, the women's game wasn't within a half court shot of second-class status.   They had no status. 

When she was given the job as Head Coach at the University of Tennessee, immediately after graduating from UT-Martin, she had to carry a teaching load in the physical education department to justify the position and was paid a pittance.  My wife actually took a Physical Education class from Coach Summitt in how to play tennis.

Scholarships?  Recruiting trips?  You're kidding, right?   They practiced and played in old Alumni Gym that I remember well as being run-down, dreary, and certainly lacking air conditioning.  You could never look at the program now and guess those humble beginnings.

You would also not guess at how badly women were treated.  In the book, Coach Summitt recalls her brothers and father holding their empty tea glasses up and rattling them at the dinner table, a message to any female in the vicinity that they needed a refill.

I know that if my son or I had ever tried anything like that, we would have gotten whomped or worse.  A friend my age tells the story of doing that little trick to his new wife one time.  One time.   It's just the way he was raised;  what his mom did for the males in the family.

Respect and opportunity for women came hard and took a long, long time.  And people like Pat Summitt on a basketball court are a big reason it ever happened at all.

Shared Experiences

What do you remember most about your days as an athlete?  I still remember details from football  games played long ago.   Like playing defensive tackle for part of a high school game against Cleveland after two more DT's went down with injury.  I had never even practiced the position.  And, as I've mentioned here before, I remember tiny details of the game between Loudon and Maryville my senior year.   Final score:  28-35.

But I remember the people and the shared experiences much more.

I remember running out Steekee Road with Mike Messamore for offseason training.   With about every other person today logging marathons, I'm sure it was nothing.  But it was tough for us.  I don't think it would have meant so much if I had been alone.  Something about shared suffering.

I remember standing in a long line during football practice to get a  thimble-sized cup of "Bike Aid," what we had before Gatorade came along.  Black, white, poor, not-so-poor.   All the same.  All just wanting to get a sip of something wet.

I can remember the ham and cheese sandwiches and the milk so cold you were surprised it wasn't frozen.  It was always waiting for us in the locker room after a game.   We would sit around and talk and unwind over those cold treats.

I remember the meager weight room that we had.  It seems like it was in a dungeon but I remember it fondly for it seemed to make us feel like real football players.  It seems like yesterday that Arthur Bright and I were in there trying to outwork each other.

I remember the disappointment etched into the face of Coach Gary Dutton after that final Maryville game.  He had coached most of those Maryville players in Junior High.

I remember dressing up with my buddies for the football banquet that meant the absolute end of our high school football careers.  I beat Mike Bivens out for the "smartest football player" award and we promised each other to remain friends for life (we haven't, really).

I've mentioned this before but I overheard a conversation between my son and MHS football Coach Ricky Upton one time.  They had played AAU basketball together whenever they were both 14 year-old 8th graders.  I had been their coach.  

We were pretty good that year and enjoyed a certain measure of success.   What these two early thirty-something's remembered was not the victories or even the games.   They remembered the times they shared off the court.

Going to the Rendezvous in Memphis for ribs after playing in a tournament.  Driving all over creation with half the team in my family van and the other half in Bill Hammond's red Suburban.  They remembered that we let them listen to their music instead of ours.

I think that's what we do--remember not so much the games but the people and the experiences.  The friends we made.  The laughter that we shared.  That's part of why those days are remembered so fondly.  It is also an important time in the development of the adults were are to become. 

So my suggestion for the day:  Sign your kid up for a team and then step away.  Let them enjoy those shared experiences.  Let them build their own memories.  If they are to get a college scholarship, the team and the coach and the system are less a factor than the gene pool and the love of the game.

The value of experiences gathered outside the scrutiny of parents should not be undervalued.   Don't deny your own kids those opportunities.