the sleepy bear

It has been way too long since my fingers have raced across the keys to punch out some seemingly thought that to no one else makes sense but me.  While I steal a minute away from my life I wanted to see if I could unearth some thought in me that has been hidden in the recesses of my heart and mind just dying to be exposed to the light of the blogosphere.

While I am really starting with no ending place in my (dangerous, I know), I at least have this thought bouncing of neurons in my brain: it is funny how passions can be de-passionated by our lack of use or involvement in them.  If you look back it has been nearly "forever" since I last posted to my blog.  Here is the question: did my passion for writing go away or did I just fail to fuel the passion?

Let me give a life example.  I grew up playing baseball.  That may be understated, I played baseball all the time. I played summer league, I played in the neighborhood, I played with tennis balls and tennis racquets, we played wiffle ball, I played imaginary games where the Cubs seemingly won the World Series every year and I either hit the walk-off home run or was the shut down closer.  Baseball was my passion.  Somewhere around 17 that stopped or at least faded away.  Sure I followed the Cubs on Sportscenter, I even attended a few games, but that passion for the grand ole game was not the same...until I had boys.

Two summers in to my sons' little league experience and I find myself not only oiling their mitts, but my own.  I not only am teaching them the fine art of hitting, running and fielding, but am finding my desire to sharpen the skill set (just in case this is the year I get drafted, in terms of baseball).  What lied dormant has been breathed new life on.  It is like the hibernating bear - sure the bear is asleep, but it is still a bear with all the power and fierceness of a bear.  And if you awaken that sleepy grizzly you will see all the power and fierceness come to life.

So the question then becomes: what are the hibernating bears in our life?  I realized I will never play professional baseball and for the most part understand it is a long shot for my boys.  But I have enjoyed awakening the bear.  But there are other bears in our lives that have gone to sleep...the bear of our marriages, the bear of our spiritual lives, the bear of a friendship or relationship with a family member, the bear of gift or talent that we use to give back to others.  In all of our lives there is something that has fallen asleep that when awake has a great passion to inspire us and move us.

The challenge is to awaken the bear...this post is me poking a stick at the writing grizzly asleep in the cave.

Louis Jacobs

On this brisk summer morning while dropping my oldest son Andrew off at his baseball game, I had one of my random thoughts.  Thoughts for me are like unexpected visitors who drop in and stay awhile.  Some of them welcome, some of them are the kind you continuously hint that they need to go.  Today's passing visitor lead me down the road of memory lane to being an insecure eight grade, slightly arrogant, student. 

In the midst of all that pubescent ignorance is some lessons that I never saw coming, taught by someone I least expected it from.  His name was Mr. Louis Jacobs or simply Mr. Jacobs.  Mr. Jacobs was the eighth grade English teacher and usually the butt of our jokes.  He was an older gentlemen that had suffered some sort of major medical issue in his life that had left his entire right side nearly unusable.  As he walked, he sort of limped and jumped dragging the nearly dead leg with him.  In all of our eight grade genius we dubbed him "Leaping Louey". 

I was above the jr. high games, so I just called him that in private.  "Louey" always just seemed old and cantankerous, ready to threw you out of class and send you to the principal.  Then I remember the moment it happened.  The moment me and Louey gained more common ground than I had ever realized.  Mr. Jacobs had worked for years part time on the local AM radio station covering high school sports, but his primary responsibility was the station's correspondent for the Chicago White Sox.  Now understand, I am a Cubs fan, I have been, always will be.  I have waited for next year for too long to switch allegiance. 

Then the moment happened when I realized the connection between Mr. Jacobs and I.  The White Sox where tearing down the Old Comisky for New Comisky (now called we paid too much for name on the building "The Cell").  This single event brought ceremony to Louis Jacobs.  Every media correspondent that followed the White Sox was honored with a clear plaque in the center was 2 inch square of brown.  Mr. Jacobs in his perfect grammer as only an English teacher would use explained that that small piece of brown was very dirt Frank Thomas, Black Jack McDowell and Ozzie Guillen played on. It was a living piece of history, it was the dirt of Comisky Park.

Suddenly, me and Mr. Jacobs were not so far apart, we were both baseball men.  I came to find out while I was boy playing the game I loved, that game had been robbed from Mr. Jacobs.  He dreamed of playing, just like it was my dream of playing.  A few months later at my 8th grade graduation I would be honored with a citizenship award, one of the biggest surprise of my life.  Come to find out Mr. Jacobs was the one putting my name in the running.  Maybe it was the baseball passion we shared.  Maybe it was because he could see past my imperfections, when as I as boy  struggled to see past his...maybe, just maybe little things like baseball can bring two different people one step closer together.

Fatherhood and/vs. Coaching

I have the great honor of being an assistant coach for my son Isaac's baseball team the Mets.  While Ike is still just learning the game of baseball, in his first year in an organized league, I on the other hand am returning to the game I loved as a kid.  So faithful readers, I wanted to share some of the lessons I am learning, while trying to a teacher of America's Pasttime.

The word "Coach" at times have more weight than the word "Dad".  Let me explain: part of our practices consists of hitting baseball in a batting cage.  Lined up along that cage is the dad of whatever kid is hitting.  And like everything else, Dad knows best.  So in typically father-like fashion a dad will shout instructions to his son in the cage such as "don't step out", "swing level" or "keep your head in".  All great pieces of hitting advice, usually met with a glare from the player that without saying a word says more than enough.  Oddly enough, as "coach", I can say those same things and low and behold Coach Jeff is a genius and ball comes flying off the bat.

But "Coach" does not trump "Dad" when dad is the coach.  In this same routine of batting practice, I will try to help my son Isaac only to be met with the same beaming glare that every other dad has recieved.  But here is the kicker, if one of the other coaches says it, low and behold, the swing is fixed. 

What I have learned is that between the chalk lines of third and first base, coaches have the opportunity to get through to players/sons where dads do not have permission to.  But in life it is still the responsibilities of a father to keep their sons and daughters between the foul poles and in play.  I am thankful for those helping Isaac become a better baseball player.  I am thankful to help other dad's sons become better baseball players, but I am most grateful to be the coach of the game called life for all three of my children. 

Go Mets!