Month: October 2021

One Day Farther Away

I’m in a bit of a weird place right now. There’s been more introspection lately. That’s saying something for me. I spend a lot of time in my own head and emotions. But more so lately than ever before. I don’t really know where it’s leading but I’ve always been one to just let it pull me along. In a life where I have to have so much control, it’s the one aspect of my personality that I let drift.

I couldn’t think of a better word to describe my mindset when I get like this; other than drifting. And for good reason I suppose. I read once that “drifting” was when you “make a decision by not deciding.” That seems appropriate. I’m not moving forward and I’m not going backwards. I’m just drifting.

That’s where I’m at right now. I’m just living day to day and letting it unfold. It’s been both good and bad. I lay down a lot of nights wondering if what I did that day really meant anything at all. But then I lay down some nights and my mind is totally at ease; which isn’t a normal occurrence for me.

And before you think this is a cry for help; let me assure you it isn’t. This is all a part of my current introspective state. I’m trying to figure it all out. I’m not suffering in my own thoughts. I’m finding out a lot about myself. Some of the things I like and some I don’t. But that’s a part of reconciling who we are, I suppose.

My passion for nostalgia has been hypersensitive lately too. As a part of putting life in perspective, I think a lot about where I came from and what experiences make up who I am. I’ve spent a lot of time over the last couple months in and around the house I grew up in. It has changed a lot over the last 35 years and some memories are less vivid than others. But when I’m there, I always end up seeing something that makes me feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Sometimes it’s as simple as pulling a 1989 Score Ron Gant baseball card in the bedroom I grew up in. Or listening to the ceiling fan I installed myself when I was 16 or 17 years old. It’s still the only room in the house with a fan. I know that’s probably weird; but it’s a memory. It’s something that puts me back in a small moment in time when I wasn’t carrying all this weight around (mentally; before you crack a fat joke).

Sometimes the memories aren’t so simple. Sometimes I have to seek them out. I’ll ride around the neighborhood in my dad’s golf cart and stop in front of a house where I played basketball. Could be a house where I spent the night with a friend and we played Nintendo all night. Or sometimes I’ll just walk around the yard itself and mentally picture the baseball diamond in the front yard or the extension cord I stretched around in the backyard that made a 3 point line for my basketball court.

The memories may come from driving over to the old Legion Pool, or the building where the old Video Superstore was, or the softball field where I played with Corey, Jared, Jason, David, and other friends. I don’t know how many times I’ve driven really slow around my old middle school and showed my daughter where I traded baseball cards on the playground or played basketball. She doesn’t really care all that much anymore but she humors me.

Every day that passes takes me farther away from those memories. I don’t want to ever lose them. So I constantly remind myself of them; even if I’m repeating them over and over to people that get tired of it. It’s just who I am. I never want to lose the experiences that shaped me. So if I write about the same thing from time to time, be like my daughter and just humor me, please.

I know that when you lose someone, you go through some weird stages. Maybe that is what this is. I’m thinking so much about old memories. Those memories lead me down a path that holds other memories. Then I start to think about how long ago some of those memories are. Some of the people from those memories are gone. I don’t want the memories to go too. So I find little ways to tie them together. And sports cards have been a major conduit for those memories. That’s why they remain so special for me.

Sometimes it’s a tangled web of memories but it works for me. For instance, I’ve told the story about the 1990 Fleer Mark McGwire card that always makes me think of my grandmother. That card has sent me down so many roads. I pulled the card at my parents house not long ago and I had to drive out to the apartments where she lived much of my childhood. The apartments were owned by my great uncle, which unlocked memories. I had an aunt that lived there, which unlocked memories. Sort of like a reverse butterfly effect.

I ripped a box of 1990 Pro Set Football recently. Of course, that led me to Tecmo Super Bowl; which unlocked memories of sleepovers with friends and family. Those sleepovers unlocked memories of getting in trouble for staying up too late or watching horror movies I shouldn’t have been watching. I keep those memories alive today by playing NBA 2K with my cousin and his boys late at night when my kids have gone to bed. The same cousin that would stay up with me until daylight playing Coach K Basketball on the Sega Genesis.

I’ve written about the 1989 Topps Orel Hershiser that always reminds me of when I opened a pack of cards when my dad told me I couldn’t until we got to the lake house. He took the pack and I didn’t get it until the weekend was over. All I could think about was the Hershiser I saw on the back of the pack. But when I see that card now, I think about spending time at the lake – fishing and skiing.

1989 Bowman makes me think about those same lake trips. My parents bought me some packs when we would go to the grocery store in Eufaula to stock up for the weekend. There were also packs at the Pataula Creek Bait Store, back when cards where EVERYWHERE. Pataula Creek was where me and my dad would Crappie fish on the “Stump Row” and keep our eyes peeled for gators. Or we would bream fish along the rocks of the Pataula Bridge until mom got breakfast ready and would come out on the dock and yell for us. Yes, a 1989 Bowman Nolan Ryan can take me there.

I have a couple of 5,000 count boxes that have Atlanta Braves players in alphabetical order. It wasn’t an easy project but I’ve reached a point where it’s manageable when I get new cards in. I go through that box regularly. I skim through Dave Justice, Steve Avery, Andruw Jones, Brian Hunter, Javy Lopez, Sid Bream, and Terry Pendleton. Those cards take me back to sitting in our old dining room eating supper and watching the Braves on TBS. My mom was, and still is, a big Braves fan. We watched them when they were terrible in the 80’s and were rewarded with the great teams of the 90’s.

Our whole family would gather during the playoffs and cheer for the Braves while we yelled at Kent Hrbek, Kelly Gruber, and Jim Leyritz. Aunts, Uncles, Grandparents, Cousins; all in our living room yelling like we were in Fulton County Stadium. I’ve watched most of the playoffs with my mom over the last several weeks and it has been such a great experience. This past week, she even found her old T-Shirt with the AJC Headline and photo of the Braves swarming the plate and Sid Bream in the 1992 NLCS. I was there when the Braves went to their World Series in 1991 and I was there last week when they beat the Dodgers to go again.

I’m going through a lot of memories right now. A lot of it is helping me cope with everything going on in life. A lot of it is helping me stay in touch with my roots. A lot of it is helping me reconcile who I am and where I came from. You may read one of my posts about an old baseball card and not think twice about it. But more often than not, when I’m posting a picture of some random, seemingly meaningless piece of cardboard, there is a ton of thought behind it. That piece of cardboard is a door to my past. The year, set, or player usually determines where that door leads. But it always leads somewhere.

I don’t know where I’m going with this other than just putting in writing what is rattling around in my head. I see so much negativity on social media in the card community about who/what people collect and why. You never know the reason behind what they do when it comes to their collection. You may have never thought that deeply into why people collect. But it’s not always about money. Sometimes it has a much more personal reason. Sometimes it is a link to memories that are so cherished that you’ll go out and spend money on boxes of 1991 Fleer when nobody else will.

My only piece of advice in this post is to do things for you and your happiness sometimes. Obviously, you need to care for those around you and make yourself available to them. But when it comes to preserving your peace of mind, memories, sense of self, etc; do that for you. If it means old baseball cards from the Junk Wax Era, so be it. It could mean so many other things to each person individually. Just make it mean something for you. Every day is a step farther away from the past. Hold on to the good times and the good memories. You’ll need them one day.

J-Dub

The Legend

I am a lucky man. I’ve lived 44 years on this earth and my dad and mom have always been there for me. No matter what I did, they were there. They weren’t always happy to be in the situation but they never backed down in their support.

We all have various types of relationships with our families. Some good, some bad, some indifferent. Sometimes we experience all of that in our relationships. I did my absolute best to drive my parents crazy when I was a kid. I broke every bone in my body, climbed everything, jumped off of everything, and tried to eat everything.

I probably shouldn’t even be here today based on some of the things I did when I was a kid. In my “finest” moment as a kid, I don’t remember all the details. But I do remember being told my dad was seen sitting on the floor of the hospital, head in hands, crying for me. That level of fear is born out of love for someone. My dad loved me.

When I was a teenager, I continued my tormenting ways, just with a different means of attack. I pushed buttons. I didn’t do my school work. I grumbled every time I was asked to help work on his truck or tarp a load. I tore up every lawn mower we owned because I wouldn’t pick up sticks or rocks in my path. I left fish in the livewell to be found days later (unintentionally). I interrupted Sunday afternoon naps with constantly going in and out of the front door. I did so much more, but there aren’t enough hours in a day to go through it all. But over the course of those teen years, I always knew my dad loved me.

When I got married and started my young adult life, I called my dad for everything. “Why is this light flashing on my dash?” “How do I charge this battery for the boat?” “How do I get around Atlanta?” “How long before I have to change my oil?” “My sink is clogged, what am I supposed to do?” “My truck is making a weird noise, what is it?” The boat won’t crank, what am I doing wrong?”

But every call – every single one – he had an answer for me. It didn’t mean that he wouldn’t make fun of me at some point for not knowing that maybe the kill switch was disengaged on the boat and that was why it wouldn’t crank. But he didn’t deny me for not learning more than I should have when I grew up doing all of these things with him when he worked on his truck. He never left me in a bad spot. Because he loved me, and he wanted to see me do well for myself in life.

I didn’t learn how much he loved until I became a father myself. When I became a dad, I realized how debilitating it could be to worry about your kids when they were hurt. The love you have for your kids is all you think about when they are in trouble.

I didn’t learn that my dad was right about most everything until I started to argue with my own kids about how important it is to do their homework, or to put their things up when they are done, or to not lose (or break) things that they use that are mine. They grumble when I ask them to do something. They tell me I don’t understand how hard it is to be a teenager. And they usually don’t remember anything I tell them. But my love for them doesn’t waver. I learned that from my dad.

When I think back on it, I’ve learned a ton from my dad. I learned how to fish. I learned how deep to fish in certain temperatures. I learned what color BAB Fly to use depending on how muddy or clear the water was. I learned what a slab is. I learned what a titty bream is. I learned how to clean those fish. I learned all of this from the greatest fisherman in the world.

I learned how to drive. I learned how to change my own oil. I learned how to change a tire. I learned to pick up those sticks when I was mowing. I learned how to trust people and when to be leery. I learned how important credit was. I learned how important honesty was. I learned how valuable it was to have people be able to trust you. I learned to be a man of my word. I learned that from my dad. We are talking about a man that mowed the grass in a dress to pay off a bet we had about the Braves making the World Series in the early 90’s.

I learned that Rick Hendrick was a “nasty sucka”. I learned that Terry Labonte didn’t have the nerve to compete with Earnhardt. I learned that the great late 80’s baseball player’s real name was Joe’s CAN-suh-ko. I learned how to throw a curve ball, though never as good as his. I learned that you had to keep your head down on a ground ball, even if you were scared. I learned all of this from a man that outplayed his competition in Sunday Church shoes on the baseball field.

I learned an awful lot from my dad. I learned things from him until this very week. I learned how to fight. I learned how to keep pushing, even when you feel bad. I learned how much he loved my kids and how much they loved him. I learned just how important family is. I’m lucky. I can come to the same house I came to 30 years ago and see what a family is supposed to be based on; believing in God, working for your living, taking care of the people under your roof, and teaching those you’re charged with caring for how to survive in this world.

That’s what being a dad is all about. And I had the best. If I learned half of what he taught me, I’ll be just fine in my daily walk as a father and husband. He loved my mom. He loved his kids. He worked hard. He took care of those around him. He was honest, trusting, faithful, and a man of his word. I want to be like my dad.

I’m going to miss him a lot. The older we got, the better our relationship got. Because I understood more and more what he was trying to tell me all those years along the way. Love you Dad! A lot of people do. Despite what the seminar taught, a lot of people gave a damn.

J-Dub