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.

A Mother's Day Gift

While Sunday is fast approaching and all the buzz here in Lexington, KY exists around two major events -- 1) the Kentucky Derby (I just watch for the hats) and 2) UK graduation on Sunday.  These two bustling experiences are slightly overshadowing one of the greatest moments we have, the ability to honor those that gave birth to us.  So what to give the woman who wiped your butt and face clean the first two years of your existence?

I have thought long and hard about this.  While flowers are pretty and say a lot, there not quite the right choice.  While mom may enjoy the newest Fabio covered romance novel, probably not your best choice.  So mom here is your gift THANK YOU!!!  There I said it.  Thanks.  The greatest gift I could give is one that comes years too late and in too short of  a quanity.  It is a gift that as children we never thougth to give.  While mom must have loved the macaroni necklace or the Crayola colored self-portrait, the words moms longs to hear is simply THANK YOU!

Thanks for taking the only two things in the house (macaroni and hot dogs) and making a gourmet meal.  Thanks for sitting tirelessly on hard metal bleachers where you frooze on cold spring days and burned your biscuits on hot summer nights while I strived to become the next Ryne Sandberg.  Thanks for the moments I have no idea about - days you fought for me, nights you prayed for me and afternoons that without me realizing you putting wisdom inside of me.  Thanks for trusting me with keys to the car and giving me the keys to life.

So mom sorry there is no bouquet of edible fruit or perfume that will make your skin break out.  My best gift this year is the simplest I could give, but I hope makes the biggest impact.  It is all my gratitude and thanks for being the one thing I could have never lived without a MOM.

The Toughtest Road

This entire blog is prefaced with the fact that I love Dave Ramsey. About three years ago I had a moment.  I am cautious to call it a "God" moment, though I think it is what God wants for our family.  Nonetheless in while driving my 2000 silver Dodge Dakota it was as if a switch went off with this thought: "we have to get out of debt." 

Now we had sort of taken Financial Peace, I say sort of because we had the materials, but never attended the class.  But it was if I finally was rocked by the proverb that says "A borrower is slave to the lender."  All of you know what I mean, your credit card company out of the goodness of their heart takes individual concern for your credit rating and gives you a "courtesy" phone call to remind you that you owe them money.  And it is at that moment you suddenly realize you have lost your freedom.  Lost freedom to spend your money as you want, but are indebted to Citi Card or Chase or Bank of America or whoever has your freedom tied to line of credit. 

So for three years we have been navigating this road of debt reduction.  We have reduced our debt by about 50% (our starting debt was over $90,000).  As Dave says with Gazelle Intensity, which at times has been little more than a turtle's pace as in the midst of becoming free of debt we have made some other transitions.  This road has not been easy.  Case in point, I type this blog on a Dell computer (yuck!) instead of the sleek and super cool Mac that I desire.  On the other side that silver 2000 Dodge Dakota parked in front of my house, all mine, no more payments.  But we are doing our best "to live like no one else, in order to LIVE like no one else!" 

FREEDOM!!!! -- Willam Wallace

Tuesday's Tune May 3rd

It is time for this week's Tuesday Tune.  I think we all agree that the last week was a devasting week for the Southeast.  As many of our friends literally pick up the pieces of their lives I wanted to send them a song that might lifted their spirits.

I have not hidden my affection for the band NEEDTOBREATHE.  While relatively unknown by most, they at the same time might be one of the most widely recognizable bands.  They have had their music featured on tv on NBC's The Biggest Loser and had their hit song "Something Beautiful" feature on an Overstock.com commercial.  By stock in NEEDTOBREATHE now as they might be the hottest band of the summer.  They got the distinct honor of being tapped the opening band for Country/Pop superstar Taylor Swift on her North American leg of the Speak Now Tour. 

Tuesday Tune is none other than "These Hard Times" by NEEDTOBREATHE.

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!