Category Archives: Jewell in the Rough

Posts on various topics about my life.

Expectations, Dejection: San Diego Tradition, and Other Thoughts On Basketball

i believe it was the Charles Barkley curse.

San Diego State University lost to the University of Connecticut, 76-59, in the NCAA basketball tournament finals.

Barkley had been negative about the Aztecs and did not pick them to win any game, or at least the ones when i caught him in the pre-game folderol, UNTIL the championship game. Not only, did he pick the Aztecs to beat the Huskies, he went all in, praising them for their defense, and wearing a goofy looking red foam cowboy hat, looking as one of his talking head colleagues noted, like “Yosemite Sam.”

The tradition of San Diego not winning a major championship in any major sport at any level continues. Such a crown has not occurred here since the now gone to LA LA Land Chargers winning the AFL Championship in 1964. The streak is alive due to the Barkley curse. i am convinced.

As i watched the championship basketball game, i was entranced while thinking thoughts about a game i love.

UConn beat SDSU because they were better at the game they play.

Sports media has a love affair with the word “physicality.” i heard it a sickening number of times last night, enough to make my head burst into tiny pieces because not once was it properly used. i think they think its cool because it’s longer than “physical” or “athletic” and it makes them sound sophisticated. NOT. i know, i know, it’s a rant of mine, but dammit, speak correctly or it will lead to misunderstanding.

The game i watched last night was far from the game of basketball i knew growing up. Sometime in the ’70s, i was listening to sports talk show on the powerful Chicago radio station WLS. i don’t remember exactly when or exactly why i was listening. i expect it was because it was the rock and roll station for me in the weekday evenings up until WLAC began its blues programming. Regardless, the caller-in was expressing his idea about pro basketball.

“i think these NBA teams are messed up in their recruiting,” he opined, “They are recruiting the best college basketball players.” He continued, “They should be scouting the street games in Chicago. That’s where there are great athletes playing the game like the pros.”

Not anymore. i watched a street fight game of basketball all of the college season. The most physical, tough, team won. In fact, that was the what happened in all of the 32 teams in the tournament, as well as the 16 games in the National Invitational Tournament. The game is about physical toughness as well as basketball skills, tactics, and strategy (not “physicality”).

Grantland Rice, the king of sports writers in the “Golden Age of Sports” (the 1920s) and the mentor for my Fred Russell, once wrote the golden rule for sports: “For when the One Great Scorer comes to mark against your name, He writes—not that you won or lost—but how you played the Game.”

When i was a Navy lieutenant junior grade and the executive officer of MSTS Transport Unit One, i rode USNS ships carrying Republic of Korea troops to and from Vietnam. i quickly learned that in the Korean culture at that time, it was okay to get ahead by any means: abuse, payoffs, back stabbing, almost anything we consider heinous…until you got caught. When you got caught, you were cast into the lowest level of society and punished beyond belief.

Apparently, the Great Scorer’s thoughts on playing in an athletic CONTEST have been abandoned for cheating and the old Korean idea that anything is okay as long as you don’t get caught. A football coach has even been quoted, saying “…if you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying.” And it seems everyone has adopted another common quote among college and professional coaches: “Winning is everything.” i should add this appears the new way of living lives in our country, perhaps the world.

Fouling is not only forgiven but encouraged, as long as one doesn’t get caught. The aforementioned Barkley was adamant in his defense of the FAU player in the semis who, when the Aztec guard had gone up for the winning shot, reached up with his hand and grabbed Trammel’s side and pushed the guard as he was shooting, affecting the missed shot. Chuck’s reasoning, they shouldn’t call such fouls at the end of the game. This logic, or lack thereof, still stuns me: it’s okay to foul sometimes but not always?

Today’s players continually take more than two steps without being called for “walking” or “traveling.” Players continually dribble by putting their hand on top of the ball without being whistled, which was previously called “palming,” or “carrying.” And you weren’t supposed to touch the other player except when incidental going for the ball. None of these are called today, and touching an opponent is completely subjective by the referees or the interminable conference of the refs while watching video replays from every angle for…oh, about several days.

In spite of all of that, today’s game is fun to watch, exciting. The subjective nature of fouling and not fouling by refs, coaches, and players brings drama, if not honesty and sportsmanship. i had to laugh when in the FAU/SDSU game, the end was decided by the refs pulling out…a stopwatch because the technical timing had not been started correctly.

i, and many friends, have been concerned about the the “Name, Image, and Likeness” (NIL) rule changes for college athletes getting paid for folks using their image, was going to make the playing field for recruiting even less level than it already was, that the big name programs were going to cut off the little names from the big stars. We were also upset with the lack of loyalty and again giving the big boys an advantage with the “transfer portal.”

If that is true, it’s in the future, not now. To watch the underdogs win again and again in the conferences and in the tournaments was refreshing. The playing field was more level.

And most encouraging was, even with the big name programs and their alumni and fans throwing money at the stars like tinsel after a championship, there are programs who approach this in the right way.

i offer San Diego State as an example. The San Diego State Athletic Foundation determined their program shouldn’t chase athletes with money, but provide them with enough income allowed by the NIL ruling to live decently while playing a sport for the school. All athletes in a program on the mesa gets $2,000 a month. The school and the athletic department wants their athletes to play because they love the sport and want to win as a team. Apparently, that works real well, and the basketball program serves as a great model.

So the college basketball season is over. i am not shaking my head in dismay as i have in many previous seasons. Yes, part of that is because my two teams, San Diego State and Vanderbilt did very well, very well indeed. But more so, i am looking forward to next season for college basketball as a whole. Go Aztecs. Go Commodores.

But man, the rare drear of the Southwest corner seemed to return to its normal best weather in the world. Golf will be a bit more comfortable now.

And folks, it is time for baseball.

Photos for Family-2

 

As you can see, i still haven’t resolved a better way to get these photos to family. One comment: The one of Blythe the day she was born is a little worn. i carried it in my billfold until i quit carrying photos in my billfold. i had culled all of the others and it was the only one for years, but i finally decided i would completely ruin it and took it out. It was a great day, July 7, 1972.

Uncle Eulyss Lawrence of Gotha, Florida and citrus groves with the goofy kid, 1944.

Blythe, my heart still.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My father with me and Johnny and Pipey Orr in their backyard, Greenwich Avenue, Red Bank, Tennessee. circa 1961

Goofy kid when he had hair. 1952.

Wedding day with Martha and Joe. Paris, Texas. May 22, 1971.

Cousins goofy kid, sweet Martha, beautiful Nancy, and good guy Johnny. i betting it was Easter, circa 1948.

A repeat. Gulfport, MS, May 1944. The two adults in this photo could move mountains if they had wanted to.

Goofy kid. It’s scary to think i once again look like this except i think he had more hair then.

Photos for Family

i can’t find “albums” on Facebook any more, so i am using this to get photos out to our extended family. i may end up using dropbox but for now, i am  using my website. This is one of about what seems like thousands of small boxes with photos from various times. The two of Martha are priceless.

A happier Martha.
Martha quite a while ago.
Mister Grumpy, 1944
The goofy guy with cousins Nancy and Johnny Orr, circa 1947.
Eze, France on our trip to Monte Carlo, courtesy of Maureen’s work performance, 1993. Eze would be one place i would like to visit again.

The Misperception of an Anachronism

This, granted, needs to be severely edited. i wrote it this morning when i woke up way too early thinking of several things to write, and not able  to get them out of my head, or more accurately afraid i would not remember them if i did not record them, i got up and recorded them on this terrible enslaving, addicting machine. Then i wrote some more on the plane, and finished it after lunch in the incredibly comfortable home of my friends who live in San Francisco, if not life-long damn near and for eternity,  just a few minutes ago. And i wanted my friends to read it. In the rough, before the severe edits.

The old man woke up early this morning and could not quit thinking about how he was an anachronism now, and then the old man wondered why, and then he thought about it some more.

It was this small prism of time, and then it went away. Just like that.

Our country had won the great war. The folks who won it had come through chaotic times to, not only survive, but succeed. Many had seen the previous great war of the world and won that one too.

These folks had relatives who had fought against each other in a senseless war created by hotheads who somehow got others, not only to fight for their cause but to kill their brothers. Both sides. And all of it had so many reasons for happening and so many ways to deal with the outcome, they only managed to outlaw the name of slavery, morphing it into prejudice and hate and abuse and intolerance.

These folks had survived financial chaos and ruin when the financial finagling of greed brought that house of economic cards crashing to the ground.

The folks created this place in this prism of time through which this anachronism sees. His misperception.

These folks brought about great national pride, a sense of invincibility, a sense of rightness, a sense of economic prosperity.

It happened everywhere across the country. In my little slice of that pie in that small prism of time, i came into the world on one side of a small town the middle of a beautiful and very sheltered life. They called it a town, even a city, and it became that city thing eventually, but when i was born and grew up, it was, to paraphrase Sonny Boy Williamson although i’m pretty damn sure Sonny Boy certainly didn’t have Lebanon, Tennessee in mind…or maybe he did, it was too large to be a village and too small to be a town. The people i knew were magic, religious to a fault, friendly – we all went to church, not only on most of Sunday, but on Wednesday, to Vacation Bible School two weeks in the summer, to a revival every night of the week when that circus came to town. The folks there were the older, never to be questioned folks.

i grew up believing what i saw: Our American forefathers of stature were heroes with no flaws. George Washington never told a lie, especially about that chopping down that cherry tree. Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson loved people and believed in total equality. They fought the bad guys. Andrew Jackson was a hero. He too fought the bad guys. Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett killed bears with their knives and when necessary with their bare hands. Kit Carson saved the West. They all fought the bad guys. i knew. i read it all in books.

i believed what i was told: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Wash my hands. Red and yellow, black, and white, they are precious in his sight; Jesus loves all the little children of the world. Your body is a temple; don’t smoke or drink or cuss – well, okay: i knew that was what i was supposed to do, but i still wanted to smoke like every man i knew plus Humphrey Bogart did, and i sure wanted to know what was so bad (or good) about alcohol and i took cussing to a new level of art, fitting for a sailor-to-be.

i was to do what i was told. Little children were to be seen and not heard. Brush my teeth. Don’t suck my thumb. Work hard and you will succeed. Save your money and you will become rich. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.

And we went to the mountains to watch the Indians, the Cherokees dance, and they wore big headdresses of feathers flowing down their backs to their ankles and then we were boy scouts and wearing loin clothes and leather moccasins and dancing in unison hopping on the dirt floor of the main tent at the state fairgrounds. And those Indians for which we did not know there could be another name were the good guys in our cowboy and Indian games: scouts, partners, heroes,

And we played with abandon from when we got up until when we went to bed. Outside. All the time, heat and cold, snow, but not rain. Then we played on the porch, making up games. And we ran all over the neighborhood, almost all over the town. We didn’t feel poor. We went out after breakfast, played until dinner, aka lunch, were back for supper, and in the summer out again to catch fireflies and fight off mosquitoes until bedtime. We fought and were bullied and we learned right makes might, not the other way around; we learned the end does not justify the means; we learned to be honest and not try to get the best of anyone else in money, in games, and in life by cheating; we learned to play by the rules; we learned to obey authority, and because we believed authority played by our rules, we did just that, unless, of course, it was something fun and we didn’t think it would harm anyone; we learned to not show off after we scored, just hand the ball to the official; not to brag; be good sports win or lose. We were taught to be respectful, listen to our elders.

We didn’t lock our doors, car doors, house doors, any doors. We learned to give to the poor, to eat all the food on our plate (which was substantial and fried, not sautéed, with bacon grease and good, oh so good, especially with biscuits and butter. which also would be dessert with sorghum molasses) because the little children were starving in Africa (Yep, my mother really told me that more than once when we had broccoli or Brussel sprouts for supper). We drank milk because it was good for us. Suicide cokes were dangerous.

And we got the chicken pox, measles, the German kind, mumps, but we got to listen to the radio in the downstairs bedroom and “Fibber McGee and Molly,” “The Lone Ranger,” “Tom Mix,” “Gangbusters,” and “The Shadow” visited our bedsides, and we had our tonsils out after being put to sleep with that gross smelling ether, but it was okay even though it hurt when woke up because we had ice cream.

We played on the farms of relatives and milked the cows at first light for fun and ran through the fields and fished in the creeks and hunted with our Red Ryder BB rifles, then later with a .22 and then with the .410 shotgun, and then with the 12-gauge.

We cleaned the house and the windows and the dishes, and stripped and waxed the real wood floors, and cleaned the coal clinkers from the deep recesses of the basement. We mowed the lawn, raked the leaves, clipped the hedges, and early on helped hang out the wash on the clothesline in the backyard. We got spanked, this goofy guy continually, for doing wrong, but we knew it was because they loved us (teachers included) and because we had done wrong.

The boys respected, if not worshipped the girls, putting them on that pedestal, and the girls wore dresses, and we wanted to marry them, and we took them on dates to the movies and put our arms around their shoulders and tried to cop a feel, not knowing or caring or feeling bad about what was driving us to do such a thing. And we gave them our letter sweaters and our friendship ring to wear around their necks, and they ditched us for older guys. You know, the juniors and seniors when we were freshmen. But we loved those girls and began to go out with the younger ones and we would go up on Billy Goat Hill or on the gravel road down by Spring Creek and make out with the moon shining on us and never get very far and the ones that did got into trouble they married and grew up fast. But we always respected them for being women, different, but with a shared experience with us.

Then, we all grew up too fast. We wanted to. Why, i don’t know.

But things started hinting in the back of our minds maybe it wasn’t all that wonderful. We didn’t know the world was not this magical slice of earth, not the place too large to be a village and too large to be a town. because the slice was divided down mostly geographical lines but there were these other folks sharing this place too large to be a village too small to be a town, but we didn’t see them except when they were hired folks or we came across them coming down from the balcony at the movie theater because they weren’t allowed to sit downstairs. But we didn’t think about it…yet.

And all was right with the world…except for the Soviet Union, those damn communists…and what we didn’t know. The Soviets were the bad guys, eager to beat us, and never worrying about what was right to reach their goal of world domination, and they had bombs, big bombs that could blow us up like Nagasaki and Hiroshima, and we were sore afraid, and did drills to hide under those flimsy little desks and run like hell to the mustering spot out in front right after we learned about Jill and whatever his name was and their dog Spot.

And then there was this other thing about these people we never saw in this place too large to be a village too small to be a town because the slice was divided down mostly geographical lines, but they were these other folks sharing this place, but we didn’t see them except when they were hired folks or we came across them coming down from the balcony at the movie theater because they weren’t allowed to sit downstairs. But we didn’t think about it…yet.

They were there on the other side of town out of our mind until we started to grow up and wonder about that song, that children’s song at Bible school: Red and yellow, black and white; they are precious in his sight, Jesus loved all the little children of the world, and then we asked why. There were no good answers, only anger and fear embedded in righteousness expressed as a bad answer.

Then two cousins married two Indians, who never had heard of the words native American, and these men of the Lumbee tribe were good, loyal folks, even fighting in that next little war over there in Korea. And i loved those two guys who married my beautiful cousins and i wondered why we considered them different and why they lived on reservations.

But then it was time to move on, and i dreamed of the big cities, the big stadiums, the big big and starring there in my role of hero. And i dreamed of women loving me and marrying one for life with two kids, a cat, a dog.

And then…it didn’t happen.

The underbelly of this place too large to be a village too small to be a town began to reveal itself and the magical hero did not appear before thousands, but found out he had to work just like his folks told him and even then you could get whacked in the head if you played the game the way you were taught: you had to promote yourself, sell yourself to the highest bidder and then stab the bidder in the back so you could become the bidder and everyone else was the bidder, and you had to stand out, wear something outlandish, grow hair you had to take care of since you were different you had to be vain, and when you scored you had to do an act, a pantomime to show the folks you were cute, better than them, entertaining.

And it was true: this place too large to be a village and too small to be a town had existed for a only a small moment in that prism of time. And i was of it. i was an anachronism. And i had misperceptions. The world i long for really didn’t exist except for a glorious few of us in a prism of time and place non-existent before or after, here or there.

While thinking about it, i thought about what was: war, financial depression, hate, anger, brother against brother, greed and power winning over good sense and caring for others and the right thing to do, sides not caring about anything but their own interests, convinced they knew/know the right way for everyone when they weren’t/aren’t too good at doing what’s right for themselves. Hmm, sounds strangely similar. Oh yes, we’ve made progress. We live longer, we don’t have to do all of that hard word we did before, we eat healthier, we are more watched, monitored, sensitive, and politically correct is now a concern. We keep trying to make everything equal by endorsing the unequal. We know more and are less constructive because we know more. Children don’t play in the yards any more. They don’t have to handle bullies by themselves. They are monitored, coached, tutored to succeed, rather than to live well. Someone is always watching over them…like that is a good thing.

And the anachronism came to this conclusion: we are still okay. There are reasonable people who deal with people as individuals. If others try to take advantage, play the game to win at all costs, be self-centered, the reasonable ones give it up. Ain’t worth it. They know they can manage themselves and love and care and do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do. Been like that for eternity. Check it out.

Still, i would like to go back to that place too large for a village and too small for a town in that prism of time, where all i knew was goodness.

Like i said, an anachronism i am.

The Big Shift

The following was written a number of years ago and another version was published in my Lebanon Democrat weekly column shortly afterwards. Good memories:

SAN DIEGO, CA. – Several weeks ago, I had my truck’s air-conditioning repaired before a golf outing in the desert. Driving back, I recalled learning to drive a standard transmission.

Jimmy Jewell, my father, had a career as a mechanic in Lebanon. In 1920 when he was six, he stoked the wood-fired boiler of the mobile sawmill my grandfather, Culley Jewell, operated for Wilson County farmers.

Jimmy Jewell started working for Donald Philpot’s Ford dealership in Lebanon in 1933, located where McDowell Motor Company, owned by J.P. McDowell, later occupied the northwest corner of North Maple and West Main. . He later worked for Bob Padgett’s Dodge-Chrysler dealership until he went to work for Jim Horn Hankins at Hankins and Smith Motor Company on East Main in 1940.

In 1955, he and my Uncle, Alvin “Snooks” Hall started their automobile repair business. Bill Massey later joined them and the business became the Jewell-Hall-Massey Garage. I remember the Mobile “pegasus” above the storefront on West Main. In 1957, my father and his life-long friend, H.M. Byars bought into Jim Horn’s business. Hankins and Smith became Hankins, Byars, and Jewell.

My father, as most fathers do, taught me how to drive. He showed me the rudiments of standard transmissions, but he didn’t teach me how to drive a “stick” shift. I practiced in a used car he brought home on occasion. But it was difficult coordinating shifting with the clutch, and I pretty much gave up on the concept. My driving lessons were in my mother’s 1958 Pontiac Star Chief or in my father’s 1955 Pontiac, both automatics.

H.M. was responsible for me learning to drive a standard transmission. He really didn’t teach me, but he was certainly responsible. In Height’s 1960 spring break, about six months after I had turned sixteen, I was working at Hankins, Byars, and Jewell, mostly pumping gas, checking tire air pressure, and washing car windows.

One afternoon, H.M. came out and announced he had to pick up a Johnson Dairy milk truck and bring it back for repair. He asked me to accompany him. As we came out of the Johnson Dairy office, H.M. tossed me the keys, stating, “I know you can drive a standard transmission, right?”

As my parents can tell you, I was a bit stubborn and thought I could do anything well. So I acceded I could drive a “stick.” H.M. tossed me the keys and left without another word. I vividly recall getting in the seat and looking at the ominous gear shift rising from the center of the floorboard with a black knob on the end.

I was faced with a rather significant dilemma: start the milk truck, learn to shift on the fly, and drive back down the busiest street in town, around the square, and back up East Main to the dealership. Or I could admit defeat, call my father and have him come and get the milk truck.

As usual, I chose the worst option.

I bucked and stalled my way from West End Heights, past Castle Heights Avenue, and over the railroad tracks and onto the square. On the square to a symphony of bleating car horns, I stalled twice and bucked continuously, until I emerged on the east side and reached the shop.

Miraculously, the milk truck and I made it unscathed without wiping out one vehicle, pedestrian, or storefront. In fact, by the time, I got the vehicle to the service bay, I felt like I might have gotten the hang of driving a “stick.” I thought I was ready for a GTO. I don’t recall anyone agreeing, but I don’t recall any significant problems driving a standard transmission after that.

I was adamant about teaching both of my daughters to drive in a vehicle with a standard transmission. Both are admired by many of their friends because They can drive a “stick.” Both had cars with standard transmissions and appear to be glad, maybe even a tad proud, their father taught them.

When their grandfather started driving, it was a bit different. They didn’t have automatic transmissions, and they didn’t have drivers’ licenses. Jimmy Jewell was grandfathered when they began issuing those symbols of big government. It is a big shift from when he and I started driving and my daughters’ driving experience.

I’m glad they didn’t have to learn on a Johnson Dairy milk truck. I am also glad H.M. Byars made me learn in that way. It taught me a lot of lessons.