A Career for the Ages

The GOAT’s potential retirement is the most-anticipated news of the NFL offseason. 

Tom Brady, and his six super bowl rings may have thrown his last pass. He’s thinking of leaving Gillette Stadium and staying home with Gisele for good.

Tom and I have been linked together for years and if he does retire, I think we should do so at the same time. I’m from Michigan. He played at Michigan. He’s from California. I live in California. I don’t mean retire from teaching. I’ve still got a good 10 years or so to devote to the young minds of San Pedro. 

It’s time I officially retire as an athlete.

Though my athletic prowess never reached the professional or even collegiate ranks, I’ve had a long and widespread career at the amateur level. It spans the days of watching dandelions grow as a kindergarten outfielder to the pre-geezer era of slow-pitch softball. My coming out party as an athlete occurred when I was allowed to play infield as a first grader after a year of actually learning how to catch and throw a baseball. 

My time in the NFL (Nerf Football League) as a grade-school wide receiver featured some of the most glorious moments of my career. I was a go-to-guy pass catcher, able to dodge front-yard trees and backyard swing sets like Jerry Rice avoided linebackers. My hands were soft as cotton and I was as sure-handed as they come. On defense, I was always able to find a way to win and usually I let my skills as a free safety do my talking. I loved baiting the opposing quarterback to throwing in my direction before I’d step in front of the intended receiver to pick off the pass and sprint to the end zone/driveway.

The summers in my neighborhood saw us return to the diamond life of baseball. Our field was Alec Rogers’ front yard. We belted tennis balls with aluminum bats off the triple-decked façade of the house across the street. I was always on top of my game at Alec’s house, hitting missiles like Kirk Gibson in Tiger Stadium. Outfielders from Fenway to Wrigley marveled at how I played the caroms off Mrs. Rotschafer’s upper deck and dug line drives out of her rhododendrons. 

Afternoons were spent at the local swim and tennis club. I’d play tennis against my dad in epic five-sets showdowns, whacking cross-court winners like Bjorn Borg and charging the net like Johnny Mac. I always had to bring my A game in those summer battles of junior vs. senior. Those sessions on court were memorable and instructional. It’s where I learned to always play within myself and to figure out what it takes to win.

During high school, my tennis nemesis became my buddy Chip. Chip forced me to always give 110 percent and he encouraged me to take my game to the next level. Unfortunately, recreational tennis only has one level.

Chip was also the shortstop on our high school baseball team. I often played first base, and we were always on the same page. Back then Chip taught me to take our competition one game at time, except of course when we played double-headers.

My 20s and 30s were spent playing basketball as a speedy, height-challenged shooting guard. If your team won, you got to stay on the court, and I hated sitting out for a game or two. I was ultra competitive and I took pride in constantly doing all the little things that hoop victories required. I learned how to channel my high motor and great work ethic to shut down my opponent and drive in among the trees for my patented lefty scoop shot. 

Then I discovered softball and I tried to be a two-sport star like Bo Jackson. But I ditched basketball to focus on the position where my career began: leftfield. Season after season, my team dominated, not because we were the most talented, but because we just knew how to win. We also played the game the right way, and honestly, I just think nobody wanted it more than we did. For more than a decade I lived for our Sunday-morning games. I loved batting leadoff and nothing was better than chasing down fly balls or scoring from first on a single. 

A knee injury taught me how to overcome adversity while also providing a requisite sports sabbatical. Then a schedule conflict ended my career when my pastor moved church from evening to morning.

I hadn’t played for a few years, but last fall, I subbed for a friend’s team. As the newbie, I had to bat last. I was playing with a bunch of guys who were unaware of my past softball supremacy. To no surprise I picked up where I left off, with three straight hits. My new teammates seemed impressed. But then I tried to beat out an infield grounder. That’s when I knew retirement was eminent. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes said, “Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing.” But I don’t think Mr. Holmes ever pulled a hip-flexor muscle.

I was never the best athlete on the field or court, but I like to think I could keep up with those who were. I feel like my speed and hustle made up for anything I was lacking in power or height. And now, it’s time to retire. The legs just don’t move as quickly as my heart desires. Besides, five months later, my hip flexor still hurts.

I’m glad my career ended playing softball. It’s where I had the most fun and where I feel like I gave the fans their money’s worth. Plus, I’ve silenced all the critics who saw me as an undeveloped kindergartner. 

I’m going to miss the competition and the camaraderie. I’ll miss the down-the-line winners, the no-look passes, and stretching singles into doubles. I’m going to miss whiffle ball battles and the annual flag-football game at school. 

I probably won’t be elected to any of the various Hall-of-Fames, but my lack of notoriety has allowed me live free of the attention and glamour that plagues famous professionals. And now, I think it’s time to pick up the one sport that I’ve avoided all these years: golf.

Once I buy some clubs and take a few lessons, I’m sure the U.S. Senior Open will be calling my name.

Gifts for a King

“Oil! What kind of a cheap king hands out oil for a present? You get better presents from the firemen!”

-- Imogene Herdman, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

Every December, I love to read Barbara Robinson’s The Best Christmas Pageant Ever to my students. The 1970s classic is about a group of six misfit siblings, the Herdmans, taking over the local church’s annual Christmas pageant. The Herdmans are a group of unruly, cigar-smoking, cussing, lunch-money stealing bullies who strike fear in the hearts of teachers and classmates alike.

The mother of the narrator finds herself in charge of the pageant at the last-minute. Unexpectedly, the six Herdmans are cast in the leading roles: Mary, Joseph, the three wise men, and the Angel of the Lord. The only trouble is that the siblings are also Christmas-story newbies. So rehearsals have to start by first telling the Herdmans the story of the Christ child’s birth.

The whole narrative leaves Herdmans flabbergasted. They’re frustrated with Joseph for allowing Jesus to be born in a dirty stable, ticked off at the wise men and their gifts, and ready to storm the palace to string Herod up by his pinky toes. 

The book is a quick, humorous account of how the Herdmans not only transform the Christmas pageant, but also how the story of Jesus’ birth impacts them as well. Even though the dress rehearsal was a mess, they’re able to get through the pageant, albeit with a few minor changes to the story. For example, Claude Herdman replaced the Magi’s myrrh with a ham the family had received in a charity basket.

They didn’t like the trio of gifts, so they gave something more practical and from the heart. 

And this got me thinking. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh. What gives?

Why did the wise men give the gifts they did? And had I arrived on the scene, as a member of a royal party from the east or as a lowly shepherd in the silence of the night, what would I have brought to lay before the baby Jesus.

The Herdmans didn’t see the importance of the gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but I doubt the significance of these gifts was lost on Joseph and Mary. You see, the impact of the gifts rests in their great value—as they were indeed gifts fit for a king.

Ancient civilizations have associated gold with royalty, immortality, and deity. Because of its value, the gold was perhaps very useful in paying for Mary and Joseph’s flight to Egypt to escape Herod. Symbolically, gold was a gift for the king.

Like the gold, frankincense was also a very precious and highly valued commodity. Frankincense is a dried resin that’s been used in perfumes and incense for thousands of years. It was often valued for its aroma and ability to disinfect. Frankincense was a part of Jewish temple worship. Burning incense at the altar was a key part of the sacrificial system prescribed by God for use in the tabernacle and, later, in the temple itself. The book of Exodus calls for a specific recipe of spices mixed with “pure frankincense”. It was to be consecrated as “pure and holy” and was the only incense permitted at the altar. Thus as a symbol of prayer, Frankincense was a gift for the High Priest and mediator between God and man.

Myrrh is also a dried resin that’s been used in perfumes, incense, and medicines for thousands of years. It has been valued for its aroma as well as for its use as an antiseptic, analgesic, and other medicinal qualities. Myrrh was also a burial ointment used in embalming. Thus, myrrh was a gift for the one who would die.

We know what the Magi brought to Jesus, but if you were there in that stable, what would you bring as a gift to the newborn king? Would it be a gift of great value and of even greater symbolism like those of the Magi? Or would you opt for something more on the practical side, like a blanket and a crib as suggested by my stepdaughter? Perhaps you’d reach down into your treasure of talents to find a gift. A song, a poem, a painting, or your best homemade quilt. Maybe a drum solo?

Maybe you’d channel your inner Herdman and bring something to eat. How about some baked goods for the brand new bread of Life? 

Your family’s best tamales? 

A dozen Christmas cannoli? 

Your favorite bottle of wine?

Or would you bring something that’s weighing you down? Perhaps your grief as this is your first Christmas without a loved one. How about your worries over your job situation, the health of your child, an aging parent, or a big decision that’s keeping you up at night. Would you bring your unfulfilled hopes for a spouse, a baby of your own, or a more rewarding career?

Because a good 30 years later, that little baby asked all of us to pay him a visit. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30).

For me, past Christmases have seen my heart heavy with sorrow, concern, and longing. Thankfully, this is not one of those years. The future will undoubtedly see those emotions again. But this year I’m bringing the joy of my first Christmas with my new family. Included will be appreciation for Beautiful Karla’s large and loving extended family. Lastly, I’ll add some gratitude for a healthy dad, two wonderful sisters, and their quartet of talented children. 

I’ll even throw in a batch of ginger snaps in honor of my mom watching from heaven.

What would you bring to the baby Jesus?

May this day be full of joy and rest for your soul.

Merry Christmas!

Baseball Cards and Candlesticks

This past summer I moved to a new residence. The whole process of packing, moving, and

unpacking is a horrendous experience. I think one of the devil’s torture treatments will be commanding the citizens of hell to repeatedly move to a new home. As soon as you get settled, he orders you to move again. It’ll be an eternal game of musical chairs, only without enough U-Haul trucks.

I’ve had a semi-nomadic life over the years with more than 20 different addresses since leaving Butterworth Hospital in Grand Rapids, MI as a newborn. Every move over the last 30 years has involved toting several plastic storage tubs from house to house. From baseball cards to newspapers, I’ve been saving things since my youth. Occasionally, I still buy an LA Times when something monumental happens, like the Cubs winning the World Series. But mostly, the tubs have sat unopened, like buried time capsules, stacked in the back of each new garage. 

I can’t remember the last time I looked at what’s inside the tubs. So when I moved this summer, I decided to crack the lids and peer inside. I felt like an archaeologist opening the lost Ark.

Just call me Indiana Tones.

The items in the tubs brought back fond memories. For example, two boxes of baseball cards instantly had me retracing my steps along the Michigan country roads to the local general store. I remember having to step into the roadside ditch to avoid the hurricane-force winds produced by speeding trucks carrying grain or hay to the nearby dairy farm. 

A stack of college newspapers recalled the semesters of writing in a basement newsroom as a sports writer and editor for the Long Beach State Daily 49er. Additionally, I laughed at the massive volume of newspapers and Sports Illustrated magazines in the tubs. Years before the Internet, I somehow felt the need to preserve every important sports moment from being lost forever. 

I expected to see some of the items in the tubs because, well, I put them there. But others were precious discoveries of objects long forgotten. A fifth-grade autobiography told me that my life as a writer began long before my university days. Pecked out on a typewriter and covered with a piece of wallpaper it correctly predicted that I’d live in California. I missed on the forecast of becoming a professional baseball player however. 

Rediscovering a scrapbook from the 1984 Detroit Tigers Championship season felt like finding the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Bless You Boys” bumper stickers covered a cheap photo album, holding Scotch-taped box scores and summaries from every game of that magical season. 

A carton of High School graduation mementos carried me through the halls of my alma matre. It contained my cap (no gown), a VHS of the ceremony, and a few grad photos highlighting my 80s light-bulb-shaped hairstyle. I discovered a senior class group photo taken on Daytona Beach in the spring of 1986. I was able to share it on our class Facebook page, provoking threads of comments and questions for days.

A trio of baseball gloves chronicled my days fielding grounders and catching fly balls on the rocky Michigan diamonds from T-ball to High School. They whisked me back to the 70s and playing catch with my dad, honing my fastball together after he came home from work. 

 

Family heirlooms of both the Durbin and Gervase variety brought a smile. A photocopied scrapbook that my cousin made for grandma Ruby sat next to a pair of oval paintings that grandma Rose bequeathed to me in 1983. But mixed in with the little league trophies, autographed baseballs, press passes, and media guides, sat an unfamiliar shoebox.

 

“What’s in here?” I wondered to myself.

Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, were the two oldest occupants of my treasure chests: a pair of silver candlesticks. I have no memory of receiving them, but instantly remembered they also came from Grandma Rose. I quickly fired off some texts to my dad. He wasn’t sure how old they were, but he didn’t think they came from the old country. He said they belonged to his grandmother.

“She had nearly two dozen grandchildren, why did I get them?”

“I think she wanted you to have something to remember her by,” he typed back.

Yes, but why me? This is a little funny. I didn’t know my grandma very well. She always lived states away and visits were only once a year, if that.

To me, it was like stumbling upon the Holy Grail. I was holding two items that far outdated my 51 years. Remorseful, I wondered why I had hidden them in the plastic tubs and why hadn’t I opened them sooner. I’m sure they were packed in haste, maybe when I left Michigan. Perhaps all those years ago I figured that I set them up above the fireplace, when I had a mantle of my own. But somehow I’d forgotten them.

Like my baseball cards, I wonder what stories those candlesticks hold. Stories of Sunday pasta dinners and of my grandma baking cookies and folding ravioli in the kitchen. What memories did those candlesticks evoke in her? And what did she see in me to find me worthy of such a gift?

I don’t put many things in the tubs anymore. Memories are now saved in photos on my phone or on social media sites. I guess my inner Marie Kondo is more focused on decluttering. 

In my new house, the candlesticks have finally emerged from their garage-style exile and have taken up residence on a living room side table. I think they represent all the good things that this house holds: the love of a beautiful wife and the harmony we share together.

Blessings of peace. 

Gifts of joy. 

Treasures of hope.

They remind me that both my nomadic life and years of living alone are over. They tell me that God’s grace is quite amazing and that a new life and new beginnings are possible. I’ll never find out what those candlesticks meant to my grandmother, but I think she’d be happy to know how much they now mean to me.