Over my many years, i have been assigned many nicknames: Mighty Mouse, Junior Jock, JJ the DJ, Lieutenant Short Turkey, and Crazy Uncle Jim orCUJ, just to name a few, some bestowed on me, others created by own feeble mind. Stories abound about each one, but this about the latest nickname: Old Man Crazy or OMC.

You see, it’s been raining in the Southwest corner and many things have occurred since my turning old day about two weeks ago. It has been raining off and on. Then last Thursday, i earned my new nickname, Old Man Crazy.

You see, i have earned another title. i am a pocket of resistance. This probably started when i was around three years old. My father would admonish me, frequently with a smack on my bottom when i sucked my thumb. This happened enough that i took to sucking my thumb only when he wasn’t around. Then one morning, Daddy had gone to work. i asked my mother if Daddy was gone. When she said yes, i immediately popped my thumb in my mouth. Mother kept a paddle, unattached from the original rubber band and rubber ball, atop the refrigerator for a certain purpose. i’m pretty sure she didn’t wear me out that day with the paddle for sucking my thumb. i think it was because i had flaunted my disobedience to Daddy.

Several years later when i was eight or nine, Mother watched me very closely when i had checked out books, usually one or two a week, from the city library, that wonderful old home down on West Main with large rooms chocked with shelves of books, and the smell alone of old books could make you feel smart. Mother knew i was forgetful. One day, she instructed me to return the book i had or it would become overdue and i would have to pay. i decided i didn’t want to go. The next day, i took the book back, the nice old lady (probably significantly younger than i am now) checked the stamped date on that little check out card and charged me a nickel. i reached into my jeans front pocket and pulled out a nickel, my nickel. Mother never knew.

Somewhere, somehow, i also took on things that were unknown or having little chance for success. This occurred in many facets of life. i played racquetball against world class athletes. i hardly ever won, but i played them close. i ran with guys in much better shape and faster than me, but i finished. i volunteered for something unknown when i was on an amphibious squadron staff. The commodore asked for a volunteer with no explanation. i was the only one to raise my hand for what turned out to be one of the most challenging experiences in my Navy career and one of the most rewarding.

i remember when i laid claim to being a pocket of resistance. i was the first lieutenant of the USS Anchorage (LSD 36), to me one of the best jobs ever anywhere. It was late on the evening watch (2000-2400) about 300 miles off the coast of Okinawa. i had the deck and the conn. The weather was cloudy and heavy, i.e. miserable. The LORAN navigational fix machine was not working. The quartermasters were doing the required dead reckoning tracking rules to plot our course. They recommended i make a course change. i looked at the chart and their track. i looked at the weather and studied the wind and the current on the starboard bridge wing. i then ignored the quartermaster’s recommendation and came to a new course. The morning navigational fix showed i was correct. Somewhere in that process, it dawned on me i was a pocket of resistance. It was also the moment, i felt as one with the sea.

So back to last Thursday. The TMG golf group, formally the Friday Morning Golf (FMG) group, had studied the weather. It did not look good. In fact, it looked terrible. Most of us declared we would go to Sea and Air, the Naval Station, North Island golf course, have breakfast, and return home.

The first guy to arrive after me shortly before 0600 was Rick Sisk, a retired SEAL captain. He commented it didn’t look like the storm would arrive until around nine and perhaps, perhaps be benign until we finished the eighteen holes. i had agreed to breakfast only, but i felt something click inside. i knew i was going to play. Rick and Karl Heinz, another retired SEAL captain, and i teed off while the others who had showed were munching on their breakfast sandwiches with coffee.

The wind was pretty rough. We had some light rain intermittently until the seventh tee when it got serious. We were drenched by the time we reached the ninth green. During the downswing on my chip shot, the club slipped out of my wet hands; i bladed the ball; and it ran across the green to the rough on the other side.

i had made my point and headed to the car and home. Rick and Karl, somewhere between 10 or 20 years younger, plodded on in the rain. As i pulled out of the parking lot, i saw them walking down the tenth fairway in a torrent of rain. i wish i had continued on.

After all, i am Old Man Crazy.