Olympic Thoughts, Spoilers, and Judo!

Au Revoir Paris and hello Los Angeles. 

I’ve always loved the Olympics, and this year was another treat. Back in the day, mom and dad watched and thus a sports-obsessed kid was easily hooked. Mary Lou’s perfect 10. Zola Budd tripping Mary Decker. Carl Lewis and FloJo. Classic memories. And now, some XLIV years later, I’m still captivated. (top secret: I love the winter games just as much as the summer ones).

 

From the pool to the track to the beam and bars, I’ve been completely stuck-the-landing-glued. This year’s crop of American athletes has been captivating. I wish I could list and recognize them all. But I figure since they dedicated zillions of hours perfecting their crafts to get to Paris, I can devote three hours each night to cheering them on. 

 

I preferred watching the Paris in Primetime episodes. Watching during the day would distract me from my own summer Olympic pentathlon: kickboxing, 1600-meter dog-walking, one-man pool lounging, post-cruise Covid couch surfing, and diving into great books.

 

Each night, Beautiful Karla and I waited until about 9:00 p.m. to watch what Mike Tirico and Snoop Dogg had on the menu. We avoided all the commercials and wrapped things up in time for bed. Of course, sometimes being eight hours behind is problematic. So, it takes some gold-medal discipline to avoid getting results in real time. Sometimes I forgot and accidentally got an update when checking the baseball scores. And other times, things were out of my control. True story: the men’s 100m was about to start. It’s the cornerstone track and field event. The crowning of the fastest man alive. Noah Lyles, who hadn’t won any of his heats is leaning into his blocks. I’m on the edge of my seat, I turn and nervously say to BK, “I feel like he’s going to lose.”

 

Without hesitating, she says, “No, he wins.” I nearly triple piked over the back of the sofa. The photo-finish excitement of the race was at least a saving grace. It was the biggest spoiler since going to see The Empire Strikes Back with my dad in 1980. We’re in line for the tickets and the guy in front of us turns to his wife and says, “By the way, Darth is Luke’s father.”

 

George Lucas couldn’t have dreamed up a more exciting Olympic fortnight. A few random thoughts:

 

Dan Hicks and Rowdy Gaines are the best announcers in sports. If they called soccer matches, I might actually watch one. And if the execs at NBC were smart, they’d get Dan and Rowdy doing football on Sundays. 

 

France has a great national anthem. Who knew?

 

Lyles contracted Covid and still earned a bronze in the 200m. I couldn’t walk around the block with Covid.

 

Favorite moments: Gold -- Simone Biles and Jordan Chiles bowing to Brazilian gold medalist Rebecca Andrade on the podium for the women’s floor medals presentation. Silver -- Steven Nedoroscik’s reactions after his pommel horse performances. Bronze -- every time an American won a medal!

 

Jamaican hurdler Hansle Parchment owns my favorite name of the games. Followed closely by Femke Bol, who produced one of the most exciting moments on the track when she came from a million meters behind to grab the gold for the Netherland in the mixed relay. She looked like she was wearing a jetpack. 

 

Two things blow my mind while watching the Olympics. 

 

1.        The times. I can’t wrap my mind around missing a place on the podium by hundredths of a second. I don’t know what’s worse, coming in fourth by a hundredth or missing a gold medal by a hundredth? All that work. All that time. Dedicating yourself for four years, all day, every day and then come up a milli-fraction of a second short. Try this out: open the stopwatch on your phone. Hit start and stop in rapid succession as quickly as possible. What time did you get? My fastest is .13 seconds. That’s an eternity in the Olympics. 

 

2.        The fearlessness from the gymnasts. Many sports are dangerous and ghastly injuries are common. A crushing tackle from a 250-pound linebacker. A 100-mph fastball to the head. Football players have been paralyzed. A baseball player died from getting beaned … 100 years ago. But gymnasts risk breaking their necks during every routine. In practice. In warm-ups. Being able to block that out and do what they do is mind-boggling. The same goes for downhill skiers. I liken it to someone who has a sky-diving bucket list item. For most, it’s a one-and-done occurrence. But gymnasts and downhill skiers are jumping out of that airplane, all day, every day. Without a parachute.

 

There’s a cool website that reveals your optimal Olympic event based on your height and weight. It said I’m a good height for diving, but just a smidge (ok, like 40 pounds) overweight to challenge the Chinese divers. Stretch me out six inches and I’m perfectly built for rowing (Big Tones in the Boat). I was hoping for handball, because that sport looks like it’s a blast. My result: judo. I don’t know a thing about judo, but it’s close to ju-jitsu, which I can do at my kickboxing gym. Let the training begin! The USA has won 14 medals in judo, but none since 2016. I’m ready to bring back the judo glory to the land of the free in 2028. South Korea’s Dae-Nam Song is the oldest athlete to win a judo medal. He was 33 years old. I’ll be 60 in four years, but I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer.

The 2028 games are going to be in my backyard. If my judo career doesn’t pan out, I’m going to see if I can volunteer. How fun would it be to work the swimming events at Stade de Sofi? I can see myself inching my way to the booth to photobomb Dan Hicks and Rowdy Gaines. When the swimming has concluded, I’ll invite them both over for dinner and to watch Track and Field on the flatscreen. The primetime telecasts will be live. Which is good thing, because then there won’t be any spoilers. 

Dreams of Assurance

I’m not much of a dreamer. 

By that I mean when I’m sleeping. When I wake in the morning, I rarely recall a dream from that night’s slumber. Most of them dissipate like the morning fog and the chirps of birds. Except for one dream that I’ve carried with me for almost 20 years. My mother came to me in a vision, in the early hours of my 36^th birthday. The first birthday since she passed away eight months earlier.

In the dream, my mom, sick with cancer, was confined to a hospital room that looked like my sister’s house in Monterey where my parents had lived. I could visit her there, but she was not allowed to leave. General Hospital meets Shawshank. 

 

However, there was one condition: when she was healed and no longer sick, she could come home. Of course, in the next scene, that day arrived. Full of joy, I rushed to her bedside in my sister’s kitchen and found her looking whole and completely healthy. I exclaimed, “Let’s go home, mom!”

 

She looked at me, a mixture of peace, compassion, love, and serenity on her face and said, “I don’t want to go home.”

 

I was dumbfounded. 

Shocked. 

Incredulous. Her words hit me like a punch to the gut.

 

“What do you mean?” I screamed with much less love and compassion. “But you’re all better!”

 

And that’s when I woke up, on the floor, a tsunami of grief washing me out of bed.

 

Some birthday present.

 

Later that morning, my younger sister met me for breakfast, and I told her about my horrible dream over pancakes and omelets. When I was done, she smiled, not quite catching my downer vibe of having the worst-dream-ever on my birthday.

 

She smiled. “Tony,” she said putting down her fork, “That’s a good dream.”

 

I wasn’t buying it. “What do you mean?” I said.

 

She spoke clearly and calmly, embarking on a crash-course in Afterlife 101. “She’s in heaven. She’s all better. The cancer is gone. Her body is whole and she’s in the presence of her Lord and Savior. Why would anybody want to leave that?”

 

“Well, to be with us!” I cried, knowing she was right, but still having a hard time going from bad dream to good dream on the turn of a dime. She reached for the syrup and gave me a look that said enough. I started seeing the dream for what it was.

 

A well-timed birthday gift that I haven’t forgotten.

 

I’m not an expert on heaven, but I believe it’s real and it’s where my mom is living. I’m confident that it’s so great that once you get there you won’t want to leave. I believe that it’s where everything is exactly as God intended the world to be.

 

That’s how things started out here on Earth. Remember the Garden of Eden. All was perfect. Created by God without blemish or mistake. Then Adam snacked on an apple, sin entered the world, and Earth and its inhabitants have been in a state of decay ever since. 

 

In heaven, everything gets a reboot. Decay is destroyed and everything thrives. The Apostle John, exiled for his faith in Jesus Christ, had a dream about heaven. Jesus met him in a vision which John transcribed into the Bible’s last book, Revelation.

 

There’s a telling passage in Revelation 21:

“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

 

No death, no pain, no crying. I wouldn’t want to leave either. Imagine a place with no death. A place where physical pain is in the past. Then consider everything that causes us emotional pain, and the tears that result, being completely absent: lying, deceit, misunderstandings, arguments, pride, immaturity, selfishness, foolishness, stubbornness, and defiance. To name a few. All left at the door.

 

And if the actions above are absent from heaven, think about what else isn’t there. Their effects:sadness, anxiety, depression, grief, distress, loneliness, isolation, panic, rage, shame, worry, and worthlessness. Banished. Each and every one of them. 

 

Sign me up. 

 

Actually, I signed up a long time ago. I have a one-way ticket. Bought and paid for by Jesus with his perfect life, death, and resurrection. 

 

Jesus talked about the Kingdom of Heaven a lot. He wasn’t referencing just the heaven we ascend to after this earthy life is over. When he arrived and started his ministry, he also started the eternal clock on the Kingdom of Heaven.

 

To paraphrase my pastor, the Christian life isn’t just about people getting into heaven when they die. It’s about getting heaven into people in the here and now.

 

In the Lord’s Prayer, Jesus taught us to request our daily bread. Before that he said to petition for his kingdom to come. I think, the word “daily” could also be inserted there. As in “thy kingdom come, daily.” If bread is to be requested daily, so can heaven. A daily kingdom of heaven starts in your heart. From there it leaks into your home, your workplace, your school, your neighborhood, and yes, your car when on the freeway.

 

While it’s hard to prevent physical pain, sickness, and death, the goal of thy daily kingdom is to try to eliminate the things that cause emotional pain and its long list of side effects.

 

The daily kingdom is exemplified by love, peace, gentleness, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and self-control. Add in some honesty, integrity, submission, selflessness, compassion, and service of others. A lot of times I feel like the worst at living these out. Good thing I can come back the next day to try again.

 

Thankfully, in heaven we’ll exhibit them perfectly. When I get there, I know on whose door I’ll be knocking first. 

 

It’ll be a dream come true.  

 

Happy Mother’s Day, mom!

 

A Lifetime of Memorable Moments

More than any other sport, baseball is chronicled in numbers. Certain numbers like .401 and
56 instantly summon names, or years, or faces. And baseball, more than any other sport, is ruled by memories. 

Do you have a favorite baseball memory? I have a few. Author Joe Posnanski came up with 100. In his book, Why We Love Baseball, a History in 50 Moments he counts down the top 50 moments in baseball history. He also added 50 more moments that are less historical but equally memorable. They are grouped in categories such as five trick plays, five duels, five meltdowns, etc. 

It's an enjoyable book for any dedicated baseball fan and an entertaining follow up to 2021’s Baseball 100 about the best players in history. Since I didn’t grow up driving my Model T to the ballpark, many of his top 100 moments took place before 1968’s second-most memorable moment, my birth. The Tigers winning the World Series being the first. I wish I could have seen Carl Hubbell’s 1934 All-Star game in which he struck out five consecutive future Hall of Famers. Or Johnny Vandemeer’s back-to-back no-hitters in 1939. And it would have been incredible to watch Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, and Jackie Robinson in person. 

Fortunately, two-thirds of Posnanski’s top moments occurred in my lifetime. I’ve watched many of them on TV. Heroics from players like Rose, Gibson (Kirk), Fisk, Jeter, Reggie, Ripken, and Aaron may cause you to conjure up the action in your mind. Or you might instantly recall where you were when it happened. Were you a kid staying up past your bedtime when Fisk crushed his famous homer? I was in my freshman dorm room when a “little roller up the first baseline” went through Buckner’s legs. Watching the moments with others make them more special. Some were viewed with my dad, others with baseball-loving roommates.

For now, my list of memorable moments only includes in-person games, and none of them landed in Posnanski's book. Leading off, would be my first-ever game at Tiger Stadium. Reggie Jackson hit a homerun. Before his next at-bat, my dad hollered, “Move the fences back!” Only six-years-old, I confusingly wondered whether the outfield walls were really retractable.

I saw The Bird defeat the Yankees in the summer of 1976. Then in 1984, mom, dad, and I witnessed the Tigers’ 35^th win of the season. Truly remarkable, it came in just their 40^th game played. In 1986’s Opening Day, I watched Gibson (Kirk again) slam a pair of go-ahead homers to beat the Redsox. In high school, my buddies and I would sit in the Tiger Stadium bleachers. The tickets were cheaper than a movie. I remember watching a rookie named Wally Joyner mash a homer off the facing of the right field upper deck. 

With a few of those buddies, I road tripped to Chicago for my first-ever game at Wrigley in ‘87. We sat in the last row of the upper deck behind home plate and witnessed Andre Dawson hit three homeruns. When he went to right field after the third blast, the Cubs’ fans in the nearby bleachers bowed down to him in reverent worship. In October of '87 I saw the Tigers take the first game of final-weekend, three-game sweep of the Blue Jays that clinched the AL pennant for Detroit.

The final game at Tiger Stadium also makes my list. A Robert Fick grand slam capped a night of saying goodbye to the grandest stadium in my heart. And I was in Anaheim when the Angels won game seven of the 2002 World Series.

But my top baseball moment came in 1997. I was on an east-coast stadium tour with a good friend. We began in Fenway Park, a first for both of us. It was the highlight of the trip, a baseball worshipper’s trip to Mecca. It was also former Redsox great Roger Clemens’ first start in Boston after becoming a Toronto Blue Jay. It was hot, 90 degrees at the 5:00 p.m. game time. Our seats were in the corner by right field’s Pesky Pole. We were near the visitor’s bullpen and had a good view of Clemens warming up. We were also in earshot of every Redsox fan, male and female, completely berating him for leaving. I hadn’t heard cussing like that since, well, just about every movie set in Boston has cussing like that.

What happened next bordered on a magical Hollywood script. As the sun went down and the ancient stadium began to glow under the lights, Clemens went on a roll. He began to strike out Boston batters at a mighty clip. Five, then ten. As he reached a dozen K’s you could feel the mood shifting. He notched No. 16 to end the eighth inning and walked off the mound to a standing ovation. The fans who vehemently booed him in the first inning now stood together, cheering him on, a Sunday of redemption and forgiveness in baseball’s grand cathedral. And I’ll never forget it.

Fast forward to 2024. Today is Opening Day. My hometown Dodgers had a quite the off-season, using creative contract hijinks to restock their roster. I know some who have threatened to give up baseball this year because of how the Dodgers revamped. As if baseball is something you can quit for a period in life, like fasting from chocolate during lent. But not me. 

The Dodgers may win 125 games this year, but they have to win in October. Which isn’t a lock. You only need to go back to last year to see what Arizona did to the Dodgers. So, I won’t be quitting baseball. Because today, baseball is back and I'll be watching.

And I hope you will be too. You just might see something memorable. 

Something you’ll remember forever.

A Presidential Reunion

If Kevin Costner can gather a bunch of dead ballplayers in an Iowa cornfield, I decided to assemble our

former presidents in honor of today’s holiday. Reagan and Nixon both have libraries and museums in the greater LA area. I chose Nixon’s as my meeting location because it’s an easier drive from my house. Calling them all together wasn’t hard to do. I just whispered, “If you overspend, they will come.” 

At once, all the living and deceased former presidents materialized in the replica of the White House’s East Room. It was a grand reunion. The recent presidents swarmed the founding fathers. Old friends were reacquainted, and rivals made amends. 

The room was abuzz with debates, discussions, and friendly banter. The two presidential members of the Adams family, John and his son John Q. spent the most time together, talking in length with both George Bushes. Former generals and war heroes Andrew Jackson, U.S. Grant, and Dwight Eisenhower discussed military strategies. FDR was happy to be out of his wheelchair. Washington was admiring everybody’s teeth, Reagan was passing out jellybeans, and Ford was celebrating the Michigan football National Championship. Clinton wisely kept his distance from Trump, who chatted with Grover Cleveland Alexander for an hour. Then, as if on cue, the room fell silent as Obama embraced Lincoln, tears dropping from both their eyes. 

We toured the museum and library together. Many reminisced when we passed through the models of the Lincoln Sitting Room and the White House family quarters. We walked the grounds and entered Nixon’s childhood house. Taft had to stay outside because he couldn’t fit through the door. Nineteenth-century leaders awed at the sight of Army One, the helicopter in which Nixon left the White House after waving goodbye with hands raised in victory. 

Then it was photo time. I took my own Mount Rushmore picture of Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and Teddy Roosevelt. I next shot (with my camera) the four presidents who had been assassinated: Lincoln, Kennedy, Garfield, and McKinley. Then I snapped a photo of the four who died in office: Harrison, Taylor, Harding, and FDR. Then, I grouped the nine vice-presidents who assumed office (Can you name them all?). I had the shortest president, Madison at five-foot-four, standing on a chair next to Lincoln, who at six-foot-four was the tallest. 

I knew that these dignitaries would soon want to get down to political rhetoric, so we reconvened in the East Room for dinner and discussions on how to mend the country’s woes. News must travel quickly through the great Oval Office in the sky because each president was abreast on current events. Soon topics such as the economy, gun control, immigration, homelessness, and the environment were all being debated. 

 Several presidents took the floor. Many founders marveled that the nation had grown and thrived beyond their wildest hopes. Madison praised both the changes and stability of the constitution. Monroe beamed about the superpower that America had become. Jefferson raved about the progress and equality that had been achieved for women and African Americans. 

Everybody agreed that President Biden has his hands full. The dialogues were intense. There wasn’t any finger pointing, but nothing was getting accomplished. Tension was building. Then, voices started to rise, some even yelling. The mood of the room had dramatically shifted. It was becoming a shouting match. I looked over at Lincoln, who was sitting as quietly as a spectator at a tennis match. I rushed to his side, imploring him to do something. He nodded, grabbed Teddy Roosevelt’s riding stick, and brought the room to order by whacking it violently against his chair. 

I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say. He cleared his throat, “Gentlemen, our host would like to say a few words.” He looked at me. 

“What? Me? No, I’m not very political. You say something,” I told him. “Something profound, something Gettysburg Address-ish!” 

“No, son, you brought us here. What would you do if … if you were one of us?” 

What should I say? My mind raced. I love America, but it’s so upside down. Baseball players make more per inning than teachers do in a year. Our inner cities are battlegrounds, but we send trillions to wars overseas. I have to show my ID to pick up an online purchase at Home Depot, but I don’t have to at the ballot box. We send spacecraft to Mars, but we can’t stop drugs from crossing our borders. A college freshman knows not to spend more than he earns, but the government doesn’t. We put limits on plastic straws, but the rich and famous zoom around the globe in their private jets. Bags don’t fly free anymore. 

I didn’t have any answers. So, I said, “Maybe we should do what they did before Continental Congress sessions.” 

“What’s that?” Lincoln asked. 

“Pray.” 

“I knew you’d have the answer,” he said. 

All heads bowed. Just then, Washington stood. He walked over to Lincoln and I.

“Mind if I lead us?” he said.

Water on the Heart

Heaven's leaning over the rails wondering if we'll be as courageous as God thinks we are.

-- Bob Goff

Ever heard of MrBeast? Yeah, me neither until the other day when an article about him popped up in my news feed. I asked my third-grade students if they’d heard of him. Every hand enthusiastically shot up as if I’d asked them who wants homework canceled for the rest of the year.

 

Mr. Beast is a Youtube influencer with 167 million subscribers. In his videos, he does attention-grabbing stunts that cost $1 million each. And he gives away mountains of money around the world. He recently paid for 100 water wells across five African countries.

 

I need to become a Youtube influencer.

 

That’s because I think about water wells all the time. You could say that I have water on the brain. Medically speaking that’s not a good thing. Maybe it’s more accurate to say I have water on my heart. Or water in my dreams. 

 

I thought about water during a trip to Las Vegas to see U2. There are 152,000 hotel rooms in Las Vegas. They all have free-flowing faucets. It’s not like you have to request a water-plentiful room like you can choose a smoke-free hotel. How is that possible that a desert city has so much water?

 

It’s early morning. I’m the only one awake and I’m alone with my coffee. My thoughts turn to water as I sit and stare out the window at the raindrops sprinkling the surface of my pool. We have a large pool containing probably 20,000 gallons of water. That’s the same amount of water that an American family of four uses in 50 days. I make up one-fourth of an American family of four. How is it possible that I have so much water? 

 

I thought about water last summer when we had a busted pipe under the house and all of a sudden water wasn’t all that accessible. For two days we couldn’t use the sinks in the kitchen and its nearest bathroom. Mind you, we still had one working bathroom and I could wash dishes outside with a bucket and hose. 

 

Talk about first-world problems. 

 

People in Mozambique would laugh at such a dilemma. If water were money, I’d be Jeff Bezos. We’d all be. Meanwhile much of the world is struggling to get by on the salary of an Uber driver with an expired license. 

 

Yes, the world is filled with heartbreaking issues. There’s the unspeakable evil inflicted by man in the form of war, terrorism, and child-slavery. And billions of people struggle under the weight of poverty, the lack of food, and the absence of clean water. I can’t stop the wars currently raging. But I’d like to do something about the clean water crisis.

Water on the brain. Water on the heart.

 

It would take another blog of this length to adequately describe the world’s water crisis and how a lack of clean water negatively impacts lives. For starters, 703 million people need access to clean water. Some die or get seriously ill because they don’t have clean water. Kids miss school and women spend billions of hours each day just getting water. 

 

I have water on the heart because I saw a picture of a muddy hole in the ground that the people in Marorea, Mozambique use to draw their drinking water. Marorea is a rural village community. But even in the cities, unlike Las Vegas, faucets can run dry for days. In my three trips to Mozambique, I’ve seen people pumping water from wells and women carrying plastic cans of water on their heads. But nothing pierced my heart like that photo.

 

The muddy water of Marorea

Muddy water on the heart. 

 

The people of Marorea received a water well in 2022. The muddy hole of Marorea is no longer mandatory. I’d like Marorea to be the beginning. 

 

This is my dream, to see 500 wells installed in Mozambique (via my church’s ministry Life for Mozambique). It’s petrifying to even type those words. Back to U2. The band’s latest song Atomic City features the line, … “if your dreams don’t scare you, they are not big enough.” Research traced the line back to a commencement address by Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. “The size of your dreams must always exceed your current capacity to achieve them. If your dreams do not scare you, they are not big enough,” she said. Sirleaf, I bet, knew something about dreaming. Because she, as the president of Liberia, was the first women elected as head of state of an African country.

 

I understand that alone I don’t have the capacity to achieve this dream. That many wells would require $5 million, give, or take. And in Mozambique things don’t exactly happen with the speed and efficiency of a Chick-fil-A drive thru. But dreams don’t always run on logic. Sometimes there’s a whole lot of faith involved. And I’ve got a God who can move mountains. I’ve seen him plant 535 churches in Mozambique. If you told me that’d be the case 10 years ago, I wouldn’t have believed you. I bet he has the capacity to make 500 water wells happen by 2034.

 

The well in Marorea was our fourth in Mozambique. Four down, 496 to go. Fund-raising efforts for well No. 5 are ramping up. We need an additional $3,000. From there it will be one well at time, in places like Nhangulo, Missica, Maxara, and Manga Ubozi.

 

Water on the brain. Water on the heart. Whatever number of wells we can drill … 5 or 10 or 496, it will be well with my soul.

 

But for starters, does anyone have MrBeast’s contact info?

 

(If you’d like to contribute toward the completion of well No. 5 … or host your own fundraiser for a separate well, please message me).