Category Archives: A Pocket of Resistance

A potpourri of posts on a variety of topics, in other words, what’s currently on my mind.

Deserved

She is elegant with a beautiful smile. She is tall. Her skin tone is darker than mine. She is thoughtful, courteous, and caring. She is athletic, athletic enough to star in college basketball, and play in the Women’s National Basketball Association. She is intelligent, smart enough to get a masters and a doctorate from a prestigious university. And she is dedicated to doing it the right way.

♦︎♦︎♦︎

Yesterday afternoon, about 2500 miles and two time zones from me, i watched a football game. When it concluded, i was a happy but nervous wreck. i was exhausted. i had found myself twitching with a run, yelling at completed pass, cussing when the opponent made a great play, grimacing when the officials made a call against the team, reluctantly admitting the call was correct while watching the replay.

The game took me back to the autumn of 1963. The colors were crisp in Nashville, the temperature at game time was perfect with little wind. Sitting in the student section, which then was situated in the north end of the east side of the stadium…and was always full regardless of how the team fared. The runner sprinted up the west sideline, the defensive back made a classic tackle. The runner’s helmet came loose and rolled on the field.

i thought then, “This is a whole different kind of football.”

Alabama beat Vanderbilt 21-6 that autumn afternoon. The Tide has ruled the roost for the past half-century, losing to the Commodores only twice.

To be honest when the ‘Dores beat Bama yesterday, 40-35, my emotions were pretty much in a vacuum. After all, it is rare when a team that was predicted to be last in the Southeastern Conference to beat the number one team in the nation. i was exuberantly happy for many of my friends and family who had ties to Vanderbilt.

i wanted to, and will later today, let one of my best golfing buddies for the last forty years know about a fact i caught from the commentators yesterday. Tim Beck is the Commodores offensive coordinator. As head coach of the Pittsburgh State (Kansas) Gorillas, Tim won the NCAA Division II title in 2011. Rod Stark; Marty Linville, who left us too early three months ago; and Marty’s father, Big Don Linville all played for the same coach, Carnie Smith who coached there from 1949-1966. It was an unexpected link to me and my pals.

i wished i could just sit down with Clark Lea, the head coach, and talk for a while. As a matter of fact, i would like to talk to all of Vanderbilt’s head coaches. i would like to hear them, individually, articulate their vision of their sport at Vanderbilt and where their sport is headed, hopefully learning how their vision aligned with the school’s vision of athletics.

i learned of that vision when i went back to Homecoming, my class’ 45th reunion, in 2011 (not wishing to pose as an academic wizard, i point out that i didn’t graduate but have been a loyal supporter. i graduated from Middle Tennessee in 1967). Alan Hicks and i went to a presentation by David Williams, the Vice-Chancellor of Athletics.

At the Q&A, some ardent fan asked Williams why didn’t Vandy have separate dorms for football like Florida. Williams replied Vanderbilt didn’t do things the Florida way. Vanderbilt did things the right way, the Vandy way, explaining further that the university wanted their athletes to experience college life and mix with the other students.

Williams comment became a guidepost for athletics. His assistant and the resident writer for the sports department became keepers of his watchword.

Andrew Maraniss remains the resident writer in the athletic department. He and i became friends after he wrote the book Strong Inside: Perry Wallace and the Collision of Race and Sports in the South. He has helped me in my writing efforts and reflects doing it the right way in all he does.

i thought of David Williams and imagined him smiling beyond that bridge he crossed.

i thought of Andrew and decided i would speak to him later about his impressions of the win yesterday. i suspect he is busy responding to all sorts of reactions to the win.

♦︎♦︎♦︎

i decided the person for whom i was most happy was Candice Lee, that lady i wrote about in the first paragraph above. She has carried David Williams flame high up the mountain. She has done it in the swirl of crazy major college athletics. Vanderbilt continues to improve and be competitive in all of their sports. Yesterday’s victory over Alabama signals they are truly competitive in major college football.

Candice Lee is most deserving of the victory and ensuring it was accomplished the right way, the Vandy way.

110

Hands

When most folks meet him,
they notice steel blue eyes and agility;
his gaze, gait and movements
belie the ninety-five years;
but
those folks should look at his hands:
those hands could make Durer cry
with their history and the tales they tell.

His strength always was supple
beyond what was suggested from his slight build.
His hands are the delivery point of that strength.
His hands are not slight:
His hands are firm and thick and solid –
a handshake of destruction if he so desired, but
he has used them to repair the cars and our hearts;

His hands are marked by years of labor with
tire irons, jacks, wrenches, sledges, micrometers on
carburetors, axles, brake drums, distributors
(long before mechanics hooked up computers,
deciphering the monitor to replace “units”
for more money in an hour than he made in a month
when he started in ’34 before computers and units).

His hands pitched tents,
made the bulldozers run
in war
in the steaming, screaming sweat of
Bouganville, New Guinea, the Philippines.

His hands have nicks and scratches
turned into scars with
the passage of time:
a map of history, the human kind.
Veins and arteries stand out
on the back of his hands,
pumping life itself into his hands
and beyond;
the tales of grease and oil and grime,
cleaned by gasoline and goop and lava soap
are etched in his hands;

they are hands of labor,
hands of kindness, caring, and love:
oh love, love, love, crazy love.

His hands speak of him with pride.
His hands belong
to the smartest man I know
who has lived life to the maximum,
but in balance, in control, in understanding,
gaining respect and love
far beyond those who claim smartness
for the money they earned
while he and his hands own smartness
like a well-kept plot of land
because he always has understood
what was really important
in the long run:
smarter than any man I know
with hands that tell the story
so well.

Marty Tales: The First Golf Trip

Marty had retired from the Army. He was working for a military contractor in human interface with weapons computer controls. I was getting close to retiring. So we decided to hit the road for a golf outing in the desert.

i had been on several such trips with my friend Jim Hileman and Mike Kelly, telephone guys. We would go out to the Palm Springs area sometime between June and August. With coupons, costs were essentially cart fees. The drawback is the temperatures were always between 110 and 120 degrees. We would play 6-8 rounds in five days.

So Marty and i decided to try it. We would go the mountain route, which included switchbacks with climbs and descents ranging up to 5,000 feet. Naturally, we chose to go in my Mazda Rx7. It was July.

Now, being an Army retiree and a Navy retiree, we naturally put a case of beer in behind the seats with our clubs and minimum luggage. We didn’t drink the whole case, but we downed a number, yes, illegally, on the two-hour plus drive. Consequently, we were stopping at almost every turnoff for one of us to take relief in the bushes. i was happy it was over when we reached Marty’s condominium.

The next morning, we had the first tee time at PGA West’s Jack Nicklaus Resort Course in La Quinta. It was so new, the pro shop was a trailer, no club house yet. They had just finished watering the course. This resulted in a mist over the course. Marty noted it looked like the British moors. That image quickly faded as the temperature accelerated from a comfortable 80 degrees to 115 before we finished. On the back nine, the mist had been replaced by mosquitoes, the only time i encountered them on desert courses.

Being brilliant, we chose to play from the black, championship tees. That meant we played a 7,204 yard course.

Marty commented he had never hit so many drivers, three woods, and wedges on a round.

We drove from PGA West to the La Quinta Citrus Course, a public course. Back then, it was a 7400 yard course from the championship tees, which, of course, we chose to play. By the time we reached the pro shop, it was past noon and over 120 degrees. The only person on the course was manning the pro shop. He was amazed we were playing.

We teed off on a lovely first hole we thought. But when we had holed out, we couldn’t find the number two tee and realized we had played the tenth hole. So we drove back to the pro shop and began over on the first, correct tee.

To say we were beat when we finished the two rounds would be an injustice. That evening, we sat out in the unheated spa, drinking gin and tonics, a signature libation for Marty and me. We calculated the yards of golf we played that day. Because of the extra hole at the citrus course, we had covered over 15,000 yards of golf for our introductory twosome rounds in the desert.

We often laughed at how ridiculous that was. But in our way, we were proud of it.

Thoughts in Year Eighty

i’ve used most of my eightieth year,
thinking about things,
coming to conclusions
like the undeniable conclusion
i’m going to die…
maybe not tomorrow:
i might even be around for twenty more
or
go bye-bye tomorrow
but
for sure, i’m going to die.

having accepted that fact,
i discovered i have no fear,
not of dying, not of anything
when it seems damn near everyone over sixty
is fearful of something:
fear of going broke;
fear of their children going broke;
fear of being overrun by folks they perceive as alien
(having been to sea for a good chunk of my eighty,
i’ve seen folks of all kinds of folks,
realizing all groups of folks have the same mix of folks
only different in their beliefs, good, bad, saintly, evil);
fear of someone not believing what they believe,
believing their beliefs are fact:
as if their beliefs were fact:
then they would be Truth
and
we are still chasing that Truth thing down;
only Time will tell the Truth,
but
most folks can’t handle that,
almost as if they enjoy slopping
around in their fear, their beliefs
like muddy hogs in the sty:
fearing the unknown,
which
grows into hate,
which
becomes disagreement,
which
becomes conflict,
which
becomes war,
which
begets Death on a grand scale.

so, i no longer fear
anything
and
try to focus on living life as a good man
attempting to do the right thing,
not fearing, not hating,
caring for people regardless of their beliefs
because thinking about things in my eightieth year
i believe (there’s that word again)
treating humans, each one, as a human being
is the noblest thing
a man in his eighties can do.

Marty Tales

Marty Linville on active duty in the Army.

i have written two posts about my friend, an inadequate description for the relationships we had and what many other folks had with Marty Linville after he crossed over the bridge. i plan to post more of stories about him. They are meant to honor him. This is one of my favorite ones:

After Marty finished the Army’s Officer Candidate School and artillery training, he reported to Fort Carson and was in charge of a 105 mm Howitzer unit. A large exercise between Marty’s side and the “Orange” opposition.

On the first day, Marty’s unit was directed to set the battery and conduct a non-live firing operation. As it began, a gas attack was simulated and Marty and his unit donned protection against gas warfare, including gas masks. When Marty began to give his unit orders for operating the system, the soldiers could not understand him, and he couldn’t understand them. Finally, in frustration, he yanked off his gas mask so his troops could understand his direction.

An exercise umpire overseeing the howitzer unit, halted the action. He then proceeded to chew out the second lieutenant, vividly pointing out that all exercises should be treated as if they were actual conditions, not simulated. Marty saluted and snapped, “Yes, Sir,” taking the admonition to heart.

The operation continued the next day. Marty’s unit was ordered to move into a position to fire on the orange forces. They proceeded down a rough road headed for the position when they were confronted with a problem. The orange forces had downed several trees and blocked the road with the logs making the passage through the road impossible. The unit would have to detour, a significant added distance, which would prevent them from reaching their objective on time.

Remembering his chewing out and the direction to treat the war game as if it were real, Lieutenant Linville called his top sergeant to his side. He asked Top what he thought about clearing the blockade with the howitzer. The top sergeant was excited about the opportunity to shoot the howitzer in live fire.

The backed up the big gun up and blew away the blockade.

Marty relates the next morning, he had breakfast with the commanding general. Or rather, the general had breakfast while Marty stood at attention while between bites, the general let Marty bear the philippic in no uncertain terms.

A letter was entered into Marty’s service record noting the general’s reproof of the incident. i’m sure the letter kept from Marty from being promoted beyond major. He proved his mettle and leadership in Vietnam, receiving the Silver Star and Purple Heart for his actions when a North Vietnamese company conducted an attack on Marty’s 13-man Howitzer unit.

Marty is one of the finest military officers i ever met.

The general made a huge mistake.