The Teacher

One of my favorite things to do in life is to explain things to people. And not in a condescending way, but in a teaching manner where people can understand and, in some instances, take ownership of their actions. It's one of the reasons I gravitated towards coaching and certain professional leadership opportunities over the years. Yes, I have personal goals, but if we can all learn the right way to do something, then a rising tide raises all ships.

I often comment that if I had to do it all over again (and it paid well enough) I'd have been a teacher and coach at a high school level. 

I've said before that the thing I miss about Kyle is his voice. I miss talking to him. I miss arguing with him even. And I miss coaching him. And not just in sports, but in life. 

Upset with your mother? I had some advice.

Pissed that you committed an error? I had a drill I could show you.

You think a girl is cute? Talk to her like a person and ask her a ton of questions. People love to talk about themselves. 

Last month we took on a pretty aggressive renovation project in our backyard. We hired a team to demolish our deck and replace it with a stamped concrete patio and new landscaping. And mind you, this wasn't a two bags of Kwik-Krete and two mums sort of job - half of our backyard was a giant dirt and rock pile for almost a month. By the time they finished the grass was so tall I was convinced rat snakes were lying in wait for our dog as he took his morning bathroom break. 

But I digress.

In light of this project I was instructed by the landscaping contractor to water, baby, water until my utilities bill was higher than Billy Joel's cholesterol. And even with all the rain we receive in East Tennessee every year, a giant patch of seed and hay needed to be turned from its current muddy, sinking mess* into green fescue grass. So, I have been meticulously angling and moving our oscillating sprinkler for the last three weeks with pretty good results. Growing grass on this giant patch has seemingly become my life's work and I stress about this much like I assume Beethoven did over his 5th or Michelangelo did over the Sistine Chapel. Only I assume they both produced without the assistance of Coors Light and Zyn.

I'm digressing again.

Yesterday our hose started leaking at the faucet. I messed with the hose bibb, the hose and the sprinkler head. I checked for any kinks, tightened the screw in the hose bibb and it still leaked. It's then I realized that a small rubber gasket that fits inside the female end of the hose was missing. I took one randomly located in my toolbox, used the dull edge of a knife to nudge it into its housing and reattached the hose to the faucet. And guess what? No more leaking and no more wasted water. During this entire time I was speaking out loud to no one about what I was doing step by step. It didn't even dawn on me that I was talking to the air, but then it hit me. I was talking to Kyle. I was teaching him how to do something, giving him advice. He's gone, but my desire to teach my son new things is not. I became so conditioned to raising and schooling this young boy on how to grow and be a man that, even though he's gone, that part of my brain hasn't shut down yet. It's still humming along like nothing ever changed. 

You see people driving their cars nowadays and it's obvious they're on their Bluetooth speaker phone. 20 years ago you saw someone speaking in the car without any passengers and you assumed they were crazy. Now it's widely accepted. And sometimes, especially in parking lots, you sit next to someone and you get to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Hey lady, I'm glad mom's test results came back negative, but will you turn down the volume, please?"

Next time you encounter this scenario on the road maybe you won't assume they're on the phone. Maybe they're talking to a missing loved one about their day. Maybe they're looking for guidance or protection or both. Or maybe they're talking to their teenage son about the importance of keeping their hands at 10 and 2. 

* By the way, as a child of the 80's was there anything they tried to scare us more with than quicksand. The rankings of "Irrational Fears of Children Born Between 1979 and 1985  Brought On by Overbearing Mothers and Newscasters" is as follows:

1. Quicksand

2. Acid Rain

3. Kidnappers

4. Drug dealers looking to give away free drugs**

** Not what one would confuse with a profitable business model, which is why I called BS on this by my 8th birthday

Mother, Mother - Can You Hear Me?

When I was 9 years old I saw the movie "Field of Dreams" for the first time. At the end of the movie the ghost of Kevin Costner's father comes back to play "catch" with his son. And as a child I remember watching that scene and, for the very first time, crying at the end of a movie. I didn't understand at the time why that final scene made me so emotional. 

Some 35 years later I sat down and watched the movie again late one night on Netflix. And just like the first time in my parents living room back in 1991, I found myself in tears. But now I understood why. "Field of Dreams" isn't a baseball movie. It's a movie about regret, redemption and faith. And it's a movie about having enough time.

A Catch With Dad - Final Scene

I have no regrets about my relationship with Kyle. We squeezed every inch of life out his short 12-1/2 years. We told each other how much we loved each other daily and enjoyed each other's company.

We didn't, however, have nearly enough time. 

Yesterday would have been Kyle's 13th birthday. And being that it fell on Mother's Day it felt like it could be an emotionally heavy day for all of us. But something wonderful happened. In the midst of our grief we had a beautiful day surrounded by our best friends and family watching UT baseball, which is exactly what Kyle would have wanted. It's not the same without him there, physically, but his impact was everywhere I turned. His iPad pinged all day with birthday messages from his friends. Our phones lit up with text messages from people near and far. A Catholic Mass was dedicated in his honor through the loving generosity of my aunt and uncle in Oklahoma. Andrew Fischer, #11 for Tennessee, hit two homers and ran his mouth to Vanderbilt players as he rounded the bases - Kyle would have loved that. 

This week Erica received a deeply personal message from Kyle. It was so specific and tailored it couldn't be ignored. Suffice to say, knowing that he's protecting us, especially Leah, made yesterday an easier pill to swallow. 

I'll end with another scene from my favorite movie "Heat". It's in the final third of the movie where Al Pacino's character is pursuing Robert Deniro's character. It appears as if Deniro has gotten away, he's won. He outrun the big cat chasing his proverbial mouse. But there's a sliver of hope that Pacino may win. Realizing his small modicum of power he turns to a fellow detective and says, "Neil (Deniro) is here. I can feel it." It's the slightest motivation that keeps him going in pursuit of what he needs to feel complete. 

Kyle is here, I can feel it. I wear him around my neck, on my wrists and have him permanently etched on my skin. But these are just tributes. I can feel his spirit in me, see it in his sister and observe it when I see someone complete an act of kindness for a stranger. 

It's my sliver of motivation that I need to keep going - to pursue what I ultimately want more than anything. I want to hear my son's voice and play a game of "catch".