Sunday, April 27, 2014

Lost in Mexico,+AZ/El+Fuerte,+SIN,+Mexico/@29.2018376,-110.0512996,7z/data=!4m13!4m12!1m5!1m1!1s0x86d665410b2ced2b:0x73c32d384d16c715!2m2!1d-110.926479!2d32.2217429!1m5!1m1!1s0x86b90e1dbd9d1aaf:0x7cdd4b45562640ca!2m2!1d-108.619199!2d26.414207

When I was 7 or 8, I piled into an old pickup truck with my dad and brother, and we drove from Tucson into old Mexico for a fishing trip.  I still remember a good bit of it … like being hot all the time and eating baloney sandwiches and my brother Jimmy pulling fishhooks out of my dad’s hand.  (Long story.)

Every day was a new adventure.

We even wrote a poem (or maybe it was a song) after a long hard day of fishing.  It went something like this:

Hidalgo, Hidalgo,
Where the fish don’t bite
All day and all night
At Lake Hidalgo.

Copyright pending.

And the poem was true.  We had spent the better part of a couple of days fishing and caught almost nothing.  We felt like Peter and the other apostles, just waiting for Jesus to come along and tell us where to cast our nets.  Our superior fishing skills were going to waste in this dry and barren land.

So—400 miles south of the border—Dad decided it was time for us to pack up and try another lake that he’d heard about.

Should I mention this was in the days before GPS?

So we rolled out of our sleeping bags early the next morning, loaded up the truck, and went off in search of a new place where the fish did bite.  And we proceeded to get more lost that I have ever been in my entire life.  A whole day’s worth of lost.

We drove around in circles and zigzags and other geometric patterns.  We may have even crossed into Canada at one point; I’m not sure.  And from time to time, we’d stop and ask someone for directions.

Just one problem, though … we didn’t speak any Spanish (other than gracias and Buenos Dias!) and we couldn’t find anyone who spoke a lick of English.  Not a word of it.

So we’d just pile back into the truck and keep on driving.  Canals flew by us on both sides of the road.  And, speaking of roads, there were roadrunners everywhere.  Like real live bird roadrunners.  We must have seen about a thousand of them.

It was sweltering and dusty and—even with the windows down—we were sweating through our shirts.

Lost and miserable, right?


It was one of the best days of my life.

We laughed.  We sang.  We counted roadrunners.

And—eventually—we found the lake … where the fishing was much much better.

Jimmy and me in Tucson.

Have you ever been
A little bit lost
Father on one side
Brother on the other
Protected and loved
And finally finding the way
Sound familiar?

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Broken-down dreams

When I was a kid, I had a very specific and vivid daydream … of growing up to play baseball for the St. Louis Cardinals.

There was only one problem, as far as I could tell:  The Cardinals were owned by Anheuser-Busch, a beer-making company, and the Cardinal players were sometimes pictured drinking beer—or pouring foamy bottles of it over each other’s heads.

That was sort of an issue for me because my family was against drinking any type of alcohol, or wearing t-shirts with beer logos, or even kidding around about that kind of stuff.

And beer tasted terrible, from what I’d heard.

But that was the only problem I could foresee.  Otherwise, I was pretty sure I could make it to the big leagues (and that my friends Gregg and Scott could make it in the NFL and PGA, respectively).

So, setting the drinking issue aside, I decided to practice as much as possible.  Because, if you practiced hard enough, you could achieve anything you wanted.

So I’d stand in my front yard for hours, Rawlings glove on one hand and tennis ball in the other.  Sun beating down on me until my palms were thick with sweat.  I’d take a full wind up from the sidewalk and aim my pitch at the stairs on our front porch.  If I hit the riser—the tall forward-facing part of the step—the ball would come back at me lightning-quick as a ground ball.  If I nailed the tread—the part you actually stepped on—the ball would fly through the air as a popup.  Wherever the tennis ball ricocheted, I’d chase it down and fire it over to “first base”.

I was going to be the next Ken Reitz.

First base, by the way, was a metal vent at the base of our porch.  If I threw the ball accurately, it would make a sweet-sounding “plink” and the imaginary runner would be “out”.

(Over the course of several “games” the vent started to become flat and smooth, resembling an aluminum cookie sheet.  When my father discovered the vent transformation—how shall I put this?—he was none too pleased.)

While I played these games, college students would pass by my house on their way to the Old Married Students Apartments.  They’d see me whipping the tennis ball around, and they’d nod and smile and say “Hello.”  They could tell that I was something special, that I was going to make it big someday.

And so I kept after it.  Full windup and then the pitch:


I’d lose myself in the rhythm of it.

And, of course, there was a lot of real baseball stuff too … like playing catch with my brother or dad.  We’d exchange ground balls and popups and—the most difficult thing of all—short-hops.  Oh how I hated those short-hops.

And, as if that weren’t enough … I played endless games of Wiffle® Ball in the neighborhood.  I played on summer baseball teams.  I wore ball caps all the time.  I constantly watched baseball on TV.  I listened to Jack Buck broadcast Cardinal games on the radio.  I drew pictures of baseball players with captions like “Hot shot at the hot corner”.  I even made plans to go to David Lipscomb University, a school that I’d heard had a terrific baseball program.

I did everything I knew to do to become a pro player.  And then, one day, I realized I probably wasn’t going to make it.

Searcy Little League had just announced 2 all-star teams for the end of the summer.  As I looked over the rosters and talked to other players, I realized that I had made the “B” squad … that I wasn’t quite as good as a thought I was … that I’d probably never play for the Cards.

And I took that broken-down dream and slowly pushed it to the side of the road.


And now—a good many years later—I look in my mind’s rearview mirror and see a number of those rusting hulks of dreams.  Some of them are antiques by now.  And honestly, it can make me feel a little sad.  Or to use one of my mom’s occasional words:  “melancholy”.

And yet on a good day, I can wake up with my head full of gray hair and a pair of bifocals on my face and think that maybe I spent too much time dreaming about the wrong things.  That maybe my life was influenced too much by Joe Garagiola and Star Wars and Magnum P.I.  That maybe there were better dreams to be dreamed ...

Like finding myself … 

In the midst of a loving family
Surrounded by good neighbors
Working a job that I (mostly) enjoy
With a handful of really good old friends
A God who cares for me unconditionally.

That maybe these were the things I should have been dreaming about.

That a good number of my dreams really did come true.

Photo from a 1970s Arkansas Travelers' scorecard.