Giving Back

As the holiday season is upon us, the time of year for goodwill and giving often brings out the onrush of generosity buried within humanity.  The spirit of the season sparks our altruistic senses, urging us to do good unto others, to treat those less fortunate than ourselves with kindness and joy. 

           

Sure enough, this philanthropic attitude does not stop short of the world of sports; it embraces professional athletics as a partner in making the world a better place, using it’s national recognition to aide those less fortunate, or in improving a community for all.

           

Athletes often get short-changed of their charity.  They make sums of money that most of us deem as unfathomable, raking in millions as we pay to watch them perform, donning jerseys with their surnames stitched between our shoulder blades.  We expect our idols to be perfect, and too often they fall short.  But there are beacons of light shining through the cracks in the world of sports, moments of great heart, actions commendable by even the biggest of Scrooges.

           

LaDainian Tomlinson: can cut on a dime, has a stiff-arm that can turn a jaw inside out, and also takes the time to care.  On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, you won’t find LT at the Jets’ practice facility.  He is in a Wal-Mart parking lot, passing out holiday meals.  Carrying the tradition from San Diego, he annually gives meals containing canned goods, stuffing, drinks, and 16-pound turkeys to over 2,100 needy families.  By Christmas, Tomlinson continues to demonstrate his willingness to help, as his “Touching Lives Holiday Program” gives away over 2,000 toys, books, and videos to children at local hospitals.

           

Moving from the gridiron to the hardwood of Indiana, we find the generous heart of WNBA star Tamika Catchings.  Catchings, a small forward for the Indiana Fever, hosts a fitness clinic for youth players every year before Thanksgiving.  It is free to participate, but Catchings asks each child to bring ten canned goods.  After the clinic, the kids get to travel with Catchings to the local food bank to make their donation.  As December approaches, her foundation, “Catch the Stars,” partners with the Indiana Pacers to host a Christmas party for over 100 disadvantaged children in Indianapolis.

           

Generosity even spreads to the diamond: Kevin Youkilis, the Boston Red Sox slugger, does charity work through his foundation, “Hits for Kids.”  In addition, Youkilis spends Christmas morning visiting patients at Boston’s Children’s Hospital.

           

Looking at the quarterback in our own backyard, we see the actions of Peyton Manning as ones we can be proud of.  Manning established the “Peyback Foundation” in 1999 to help disadvantaged youth by assisting programs that provide growth opportunities for children at risk throughout Indiana, Tennessee, and Louisiana.  The foundation has donated over $3.6 million to these areas, and continues to back programs helping underprivileged children.  St. Vincent Children’s Hospital was renamed Peyton Manning Children’s Hospital at St. Vincent in 2007 after the Colt’s quarterback generously donated a very large sum of money to the hospital, which specializes in treating children with complex, chronic, congenital conditions.

As the holidays surround us, the feeling of generosity urging us to reach out is a feeling we should accept with open arms.  Athletes like Catchings and Manning work in our own communities in ways we may not even realize as we watch their prowess during competition.  We can turn to people like these, hope in an often dreary world.  I now ask you to follow their example of giving during this time of year. 

You may not be able to affect people on the scale that professional athletes can, but you can make a difference.

To all, I wish a happy holiday, God Bless.

Indiana University Men's Basketball

Tradition.  Passion.  Five NCAA Division I titles.

           

This is the pride of Indiana University men’s basketball.

           

To understand what makes the Hoosier basketball program what it is today, you must look at the history of the team and the legends the once donned the crimson and cream.

           

“It’s not fair to say that Indiana’s program has a greater tradition than say, a North Carolina or a UCLA,” said long-time sports writer for the Bloomington Herald-Times, Bob Hammel.  “But it is up there with that group of programs.”

           

Indiana basketball is built on tradition, as are all great programs in NCAA basketball.  Tradition circles every aspect of the team, even to the uniforms.  The Hoosiers have wore their famous colors since 1901, when the school first fielded a squad in the Big Ten conference, known then as the Big Nine.  The style of these uniforms have never changed, the simplistic design only shifting in length and material with the times.

           

Time moves on in sports, as it does in life, but moments can solidify time, make traditions so concrete that they can never be erased.  The Indiana basketball program has secured their place in history, succeeding again and again.  The Hoosiers have won five NCAA championships in men’s basketball, the first two under coach Branch McCracken and the later three under Bob Knight.  The five championships tie North Carolina for the third-most titles in NCAA Division I history.  The program has added to their impressive history by adding 20 Big Ten Conference titles to their stat sheet.   Eight trips to the Final Four ranks seventh on the all-time list, and their 35 appearances in the NCAA Men’s Division I Basketball Tournament gives them the fifth-most in the NCAA.  In those 35 appearances, Indiana boasted a 60-29 record, seventh best all-time.

           

The most impressive title for Indiana came in 1976.  The Hoosiers strung together an undefeated season with a perfect 32-0 record and a national championship.

“The greatest moment in Indiana basketball, to me, obviously was the ’76 perfect season,” said Hammel.

The home of the Hoosiers is also a tradition in itself.  Assembly Hall, which opened its doors in 1971, replaced the older Gladstein Fieldhouse.  The court inside the hall is named after McCracken, the coach who led the Hoosiers to their championships in 1940 and 1953.

Those who have graced the hardwood of Assembly Hall who should be credited with the legendary status associated with Indiana. 

The greatest coach in Indiana history, and quite arguably one of the greatest collegiate basketball coaches of all-time, was Bob Knight.  Knight, known to some as “The General,” presided over the Hoosiers from 1971-2000.

“Coach Knight taught me how important hard work and dedication is,” said Damon Bailey, Indiana’s 1994 All-American player.  “He emphasized the fact that you wouldn’t just be able to have a lot of success; you had to work hard for it.”

Knight brought a military style of coaching from his prior position as the head coach of Army.  He often yelled and harassed his players, creating a love/hate relationship.  Always a hot topic for the media, Knight’s sometimes questionable coaching techniques led him to constantly be under the microscope of the press.

The players under Knight include some of the greatest talents to ever wear “Indiana” across their chests.

Kent Benson, nicknamed “Big Red,” was a 6 feet 11 inches tall forward that led the Hoosiers in the 1976 perfect season, playing exceptionally well in the championship game.  After his career at IU, Benson was the first overall pick in the 1977 NBA draft.

Another Hoosier of the 1976 team under Knight was Scott May.  May was named NCAA Men’s Basketball National Player of the Year in 1976, and won a gold a medal as a member of the United States’ basketball team in the 1976 Summer Olympics.  May was selected as the second overall pick in the 1976 NBA draft.

           

Yet another star on the 1976 team was Quinn Buckner, a four-year starter and three-year captain at Indiana.  As a senior in 1976 he co-captained the club to the 32-0 record, and was selected as the seventh overall pick in the NBA draft.

           

The next player, among many mentionable names, is Isaiah Thomas.  In 1981, Thomas led the Hoosiers to the NCAA Championship and earned the tournament’s Most Outstanding Player Award.  After accomplishing this, Thomas made himself eligible in the NBA draft, being selected as the second overall pick.

           

Moving forward, we come to Steve Alford, Indiana’s Mr. Basketball.  Alford became the university’s all-time leading scorer with 2,438 points, a record later eclipsed by Calbert Cheaney.  Alford was the first player to be named the team’s MVP four times.  He was a first team All-American, and was named Big Ten MVP during his senior year of college.  In 1984 he led Indiana in the NCAA tourney upset of Michael Jordan and North Carolina, and then past the favored Syracuse Orange to secure the national title once more.

           

Bailey, a four-year starter, finished sixth on Indiana’s all-time scoring list with 1,741 points. He also garnered a third-team All-American award, first-team All-Big Ten award, and he led IU to a Final Four appearance in 1992. 

           

In more recent years, players like Jared Jeffries have emerged.  Jeffries played for two years before choosing to forgo his junior and senior years in favor of entering the NBA draft in 2002, selected as the eleventh overall pick.  While in college, he was a part of the team that advanced to the NCAA title game before losing to the Maryland Terrapins.  He was named Big Ten MVP and All-American.

           

D.J. White is another recent Hoosier named All-American. During his freshman season with the Indiana Hoosiers, White led all freshmen in the Big Ten Conference in scoring. He was named by Rivals.com as a Freshman All-American. He was also selected as the Big Ten Freshman of the Year. In 2008 he was named Big Ten Player of the Year and to the First Team All-Big Ten. White was then selected as the twenty-ninth overall pick in the 2008 NBA draft.

Arguably the best player of this decade for the Hoosiers so far is Eric Gordon. Gordon played one season of college basketball at Indiana and was considered one of the top collegiate players in the nation that year.  Gordon finished his freshman season at IU leading the Big Ten in scoring and tied for 19th in the nation at 21.5 points per game.  He was named an All-American and was selected as the 7^th overall pick in the 2008 NBA draft.

Looking to the future of Indiana basketball, we watch coach Tom Crean, and the weight he carries on his shoulders.

“I think he’s done a great job,” said Bailey about Crean’s progression with the program so far.  “It obviously is something that isn’t going to be turned around over night.  It was basically torn down over night, but it will take awhile to rebuild.”

“The kids are working hard, and he has great recruiting classes coming in.  He definitely has the program moving in the right direction.”

To understand how most Hoosiers feel about their state’s game and their team, one only needed to watch Crean’s press conference in 2008.  When asked why he chose to accept the job coaching the Hoosiers, Crean replied, “It’s Indiana…It’s Indiana.”

A Man of Faith

The church is empty tonight, except for one young man sitting in the back pew.  The boy, of high school age, carries his basketball shoes with him.  He is quiet, not daring to break the silence, but continues to carry on a conversation that we cannot hear.

           

Jimmy Howell never prayed for a win.  He never asked his Lord to deliver him victory, to declare him champion.  This was not his way.  He did not see this as fair to the Creator to ask for such gifts—that was selfish.  God’s will is his own, Jimmy knew.  He asked his Lord only for the safety of himself and every player on the court, and prayed that God would help him, through the Holy Spirit, to play the game of basketball that night to the best of his ability.

           

Jimmy finishes his prayer with, “Amen,” and rises from the pew.  He walks silently out the doors of the church, and takes the walk he is so accustomed to, the walk he makes before every game, from the steps of the chapel he so loved to the hardwood he so cherished.

           

The opponent, Farmland was good; to Jimmy, Centerville was better.  He is the heart and soul of this 1950 blue and white Bulldog team, an athletic guard that will put up 20 points tonight, almost half of the team’s total score.  Throughout the game, Jimmy showed his basketball prowess, but the final seconds are where players become heroes. 

           

The Bulldogs trail 44-39 with 1:06 left in the game.  A jump ball is called on Centerville’s end of the court.  Back in those days, a jump ball was not awarded to a team by means of a possession arrow, but a tip-off would ensue at the free-throw line of the side of the court where the call was made.

           

Jimmy can jump.  Centerville knows it; Farmland knows it.

           

What would happen next, however, is not known by anyone in the gymnasium.  Jimmy faces his Farmland opponent, crouched like a spring.

           

The ball is released from the referee’s hand, moving straight up into the air.

           

Jimmy’s feet leave the ground, his white sneakers rising off the stained wood.  His hand meets the friendly feel of leather, and with a snap of his wrist, he tips the ball backwards.

           

The ball moves from Jimmy’s fingertips towards the rim.

           

Two points—Centerville.  Jimmy Howell had just tipped the ball into the basket; the score is 44-41 Farmland.

           

After a quick defensive stand by the Bulldogs, Howell’s teammate manages to score another field goal with 30 seconds remaining in the game.

           

One last chance; Centerville applies intense pressure to the Farmland offense, trying to force yet another turnover, hope fleeting as every precious second on the scoreboard melts away.

           

The defensive stand is successful; the ball is knocked loose.

           

Jimmy picks it up; off to the races.

           

10 seconds.

           

Jimmy rams through, one defender, two defenders, three defenders; he pulls up, releasing the ball.

           

It’s good! Centerville goes ahead 45-44 of Farmland with six seconds remaining.

           

The final seconds tick away, and the Bulldogs emerge victorious with a conference win, their leader, Jimmy Howell, a hero.

           

Ask Jimmy about his status after the game, and you will hear a very different story of what happened on the court.

           

“It was through God I was able to make those shots,” says Jimmy.  After all the effort and sweat poured into the game by the guard, the humble nature of this young man could still recognize what that there were things bigger than him working in the gym tonight, and only through the Holy Spirit was he able to achieve the seemingly impossible.

“It was through God,” says Jimmy.

Jimmy Howell, known as Jim in his adult years, is my grandfather.  He sits next to me on the couch tonight, his white hair falling above his wide rimmed glasses.  He is not in the same shape as his playing days, but his heart is still as warm as it was the nights he spent in that church before his basketball games.

Jim was born in Centerville, Ind., where he has lived his entire life.  He recalls a time when, if you needed a cup of sugar, you just went next door and asked, children played in the street, and neighbors would come out to their porches and visit every evening after their family dinners.

“We were poor,” says Jim, “but we didn’t know it; everybody was.”

The small town was full of gossip, so Jim attributes that to keeping him out of trouble because he knew his mother would find out.

Jim’s father died at the age of 52, when Jim was only 14.  The loss of his father had a major impact on his life, and his mother took over as head of the household.

Jim’s mother instilled values in her son, values he would carry with him his entire life. 

Every day, when Jimmy Howell would walk by the boy’s house in Centerville, he would wave. 

           

He was waving to the familiar face in the window, where the boy sat, smiling and waving to people as they walked by.  And when Jimmy would walk back home, children playing in the street, that smiling face would still be sitting in the window, ready to wave to anyone who would accept the greeting.

           

The boy was both mentally and physically handicapped.  His body was frail, and contorted, his small frame confined to a wheelchair.  He was virtually helpless, requiring the constant care of his mother, the boy’s only guardian; his mother loved him dearly, and strived to care for her crippled son as best as she could, all while working to support the family of two.

           

Jimmy was a basketball star in his town, a hero of the hardwood.  The handicapped boy could enjoy few things in life with his condition, but Centerville’s basketball team was his pride, what gave him joy.  His mother would be sure to wheel her son into all the games, courtside to watch his Bulldogs, to cheer for the one thing in his life he could cherish outside of his mother’s love.  The boy was a motivation to the team, a reason to play their best.

           

Jimmy was the boy’s favorite player, his talents with the leather ball dazzling to the young man.  Jimmy recognized his place in the boy’s heart, and accepted his role.

           

Before every game, Jimmy would walk over to the boy’s place by the court, the only player to do so.  The boy’s eyes would light up at the sight of his hero approaching, his grin widening from ear to ear.

           

“You’re my basketball player,” the boy would always say to Jimmy.

           

With a warm smile and a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Jimmy would answer, “You’re my buddy.”

Moments like these defined the warmth that Jim has in his heart, a truly altruistic person in a society were such beings are few and far between.

Besides his love for basketball, which would eventually lead him to play for the great Tony Hinkle at Butler University, Jim showed a place in his heart for animals—for  horses, especially.

“Animals have an affection for you if you treat them right,” says Jim.  His love horses would eventually lead him to the love of his life. 

Jimmy was in Marion, Ohio, to sell a horse for his boss.  Two other horsemen were with him; he was a junior in high school, the youngest of the crew.

           

Far from his hometown of Centerville, Ind., Jimmy stopped at bus station with the group for lunch.

           

In the bus station, a young lady waited on the men’s table.  Her brother ran the restaurant, and she worked for him as a waitress on Sunday afternoons.

           

Jimmy became a firm believer of love at first sight that day.  His friends urged him to speak to the girl, to get her number.

           

“Ah, I don’t know,” said Jimmy.  With the prodding of his company, that night he returned to the bus station.

           

“Could you tell me the telephone number of the waitress that was here earlier today?”

           

“I can’t tell you her number, but I can tell you where she lives,” said another waitress.

           

Jimmy took the bite and headed out towards the address; much to his dismay, he found he had been incorrectly informed.  The house he ended up at, fortunately, was owned by a farmer that lived not far from the girl, and he was able to supplement Jimmy with her correct address. 

           

Disheartened, however, Jimmy returned to his work crew.

           

“If we don’t sell the horse tomorrow, I’ll try again,” he ensured the group after their interrogation.

           

The horse did not sell in the next town, and the next day Jim headed back towards Marion.  He pulled up to a small farmhouse, and walked up the steps.  After a knock on the door, a woman answered, and he asked to see the girl. 

           

“Marjorie Ann, there’s a boy here to see you,” said the girl’s mother sternly.

           

Ask Marge about the meeting today, and she will swear, “I just knew it was him.  I don’t know how, but somehow I just knew.”

           

“Marjorie Ann, would you take a ride with me to see our horse?” asked Jimmy.

           

Marge was taken aback.  Who was this guy?

           

She spoke with her mother about the situation in private, and, Marge still does not know why, to this day, her mother allowed her to go with the boy.

           

Jimmy took Marge to see the horse, Snow Chief, a beautiful white palomino and returned her home.  This was their first date.

           

The next day, it was all Marge could do to think about this boy, who had just shown up on her doorstep after seeing her in the diner, who was brave enough to ask the young lady out on a date without ever meeting her.

           

That night, there was a knock on the door.

           

Marge could not believe it.  Could it be?

           

She answered the door.  It was Jimmy.

           

“Marjorie Ann, would you like to go for a ride?”

           

This time, Marge’s parents were not so accepting to the idea.  Her mother and father discussed back and forth, contemplating on allowing her daughter to go on yet another date with this out of town horseman, someone whom they knew nothing about.

           

“I never would disobey my parents. Never,” says Marge when asked about the night today.  “But something in me said I needed to go.  So I marched into the room where my parents were talking, and said ‘That’s it!  I’m going.’  Then I got my coat and marched right out the door with Jimmy.

           

The rest is a love that went down in history, Jim and Marge marrying as soon as Jim graduated from high school.

Later in life, the couple moved back to Centerville, and, after working his way through the ranks, Jim became principal of his alma mater. 

He took the values he had carried with him throughout his life into his job as high school principal.

“I always believed that in order to gain trust, you must give trust,” says Jim.  One of the first orders of business he conducted at his new position was to take all the locks off the lockers in the school.

“I always said, ‘This is not a prison; it’s a high school.  We are a family, we live together for 7 1/2 hours; we don’t talk about one another, steal from one another, we don’t lie to one another.’”

Jim made it a point to always be there for the special needs kids in his high school.  There were some students who had seizures and would pass out in the halls or in the classrooms; Jim made sure he was always the first one to be there when they awoke.  He believed that they needed to wake to a face they could recognize, a face they could find comfort in.  He was sure always there for his students.

           

There was a special education student in the school whose parents Jim had made arrangements with for her to be able to pursue a community education.   Once in a while the young girl would get out of hand, and Jim put the responsibility on his shoulders to handle the girl’s unique situation.  When the girl would get out of hand in class, she was to be sent to see her principal.

           

“Now, Jill, come over and get on my knee,” Jim would say in his father-like voice.  He would give her three swats, and she would get up crying.

           

She would rise with tears in her eyes, and hold Jim’s arm.

           

“I love you, Mr. Howell,” the girl would say.

           

Jim would look the girl straight in the eye, his warm face full of sincerity.

           

“I love you, too, Jill.  Now off to class.”

           

Jill would always be fine for a few months after this.

Jim values his own family, just as he did his school family.  He raised two boys, one being my father, with Marge in Centerville.

When I asked about my dad, he says with a smile, “Well, Brad was a squirt sometimes.”

Pulling into their driveway, Jim and Marge look into the backseat.  They’re older son, Mark, unbuckled his seatbelt and, with a yank of the silver door handle, shot out of the car and into the darkness towards their farm house.

           

Brad, the younger of the two brothers by two years, remained still, eyelids closed, head resting against the door, his curly black hair pressed against the glass.

           

“Well, I guess carry him up to bed,” whispers Marge.

           

The couple got out of their car, and gingerly shut their doors.  Jim opened the back seat of the car, catching his younger son, careful not to awaken the small boy.

           

Marge headed into the house, followed by her husband and his sleeping angel.  As quietly as possible, Jim takes the boy upstairs.

           

Careful as can be, Jim changed Brad into his pajamas, slowly and silently, as to not wake his sleeping son.  He carefully carried the boy to his bed, his strong arms holding his little son tightly.  He pulled back the covers, and laid his son down, placing his curls softly on the pillow.

           

He kisses the boy’s head and turns towards the door.

           

“Thanks, Dad,” says a little voice with a laugh.

Jim Howell is a man of values; spend enough time around him, and this becomes very evident.  He has lived a life to be proud of, one I can look up to, a life I can be proud to say is in my genes.

“You can do anything you want to do,” he says to me as we sit here on the couch. “You have to start with your school, you have to start with some intelligence, you have to start with you family, and you have to start with a belief.  And there always has to be divine guidance.”

A State's Game

In 49 states, it’s just basketball.

           

But here, few grow up without an iron hoop in their driveway and an orange ball of leather in their hands; the fascination with a game here sweeps a state, it is an identity.

           

Kids here grow up fantasizing about a Knight without armor, dreaming of a Bird that cannot fly.

           

Here, basketball is not a game; it is a lifestyle. 

           

Every Friday or Saturday night, the high school kings of hardwood steal our attention, entire towns coming together to rally around the boys of winter.  The roar of the crowd rejuvenates the love for the game, the community packed into a gym in hopes of witnessing a few hours of magic.

           

Here, some of the greatest Meccas of the game are constructed; nine out of ten of the United States’ largest gymnasiums reside on this soil, castles built for battle between silk clad warriors.  Chrysler Fieldhouse in New Castle, the house that Alford built, seats 9,325 fans, enough to host over half the town’s population.

           

Only here can an athlete rise to hero status by dawning crimson and white candy-striped pants, and Fever is an epidemic that people love to catch.

           

Here, Miller is more than just a beer, and only here can a horrific comb-over become a fashion statement idolized by a black and gold nation.           

           

Only here do coaches strive to achieve the status of Tony Hinkle and to have the winning percentage of Bob Knight.

           

Ask “What word best describes 1976?”

           

The answer returned would undoubtedly be, “Perfect.”

           

Isaiah Thomas, Kent Benson, Quinn Buckner, Scott May, Damon Bailey, Steve Alford, Jared Jeffries, Eric Gordon; the crimson and cream have treated these names well, basketball prominence at its finest.

           

Only here can one man put a small town called French Lick on the map.

           

Walk into Lucas Oil Stadium on April 5, 2010; what you would find is a sea of navy, a state behind an unusual representative, witnessing a run for a championship unparalleled in college basketball.  Only here could Gordon Heyward become a household name, a present day David and Goliath story becoming a reality.   Only in this stadium would every breath be stilled as the last precious tenths of a second melt away and the hopes and dreams of a Bulldog nation move in slow motion with a ball as it flies from the hands of a hero at half-court towards the open mouth waiting at the base of the glass.

           

Only in this state would this scenario be that of déjà vu, as those reflect back to 1987, where a Smart shot conquered the enemy at the buzzer.

Only here can a small school with an enrollment of 161 students play for a state title, backed by a community of Indians – and win.

           

And only here would a film be produced to honor this team’s journey to history, stealing the hearts of all who watch.

           

From the time kids here are old enough to pick up a basketball, they are dribbling in the driveway and challenging their friends to a game of H-O-R-S-E.

           

What can explain this love of a game, a passion that defines a community, an entire state, a hysteria for the hardwood?

           

Well, in 49 states, it’s just basketball.

           

But this is Indiana.

Lucy

Blue sky.  How blue the sky is, how open the stretch of firmament seems so inviting.  The blade of a cloud slices through the breadth of blue ocean, as if tainting the magnificence of the great expanse, perhaps the interruption being the harbinger of the events that are about to take place.  Funny, how I never noticed this before, at least not like this.  It seems to me a nice enough place to live, plenty of space to run; she’ll like that.  Among the clouds, I mean, in the free, open space that can never be settled by any of the flesh.  My thoughts and fears confined to my own conscience, I glance at my dad in the black leather seat next to me.  His hands are on the wheel, about eleven and seven, I would say, far from what my driver’s education teacher had bombarded over and over again until my hands automatically took their rightful positions on the circumference.  He doesn’t glance over at me, but I can tell by the deep forehead wrinkle in his hardened face that he is trying to recall his own personal experience, searching for words to console his own heart as searching for a personal memory relating to what I am going through and give comforting advice on the solemn subject. 

           

We pull into a parking lot at the Harrison Veterinary Clinic, both of us still silent.  The familiar red MDX parked beside us confirms that my mom and sister have already arrived.  No surprise, my dad is always late.  We climb from the truck and see the girls descend from the crimson automobile.  The look on my mother’s face is that of a woman wanting nothing but to console her broken child, but I feel in no state to accept such pity.  I am not here for my mother.  We move silently across the parking lot, the sound of passing cars and the soles of our sneakers oblivious to the silence. Up to the cement porch, I push aside the glass barrier to what seems to be none other than the gateway to pain and release.  I have been to this office many times, but it always seemed a place of comfort, a place of healing.  Normally we would drag Lucy by the leash through the door; it wasn’t her favorite place, though once inside she’d sit patiently next to me, her chin on my knee.  We would go in, get a shot or two, a routine ordeal, and go home with the dog that would leap out of the car and take off across the yard, then sprint back to me as if I was just arriving home after a long trip, greeting me with a wagging tail and anxious paws.  She was always thrilled to be back on our property, no damage done.  This was the cycle for years, nothing similar to this cold hell I was in now.  Today there would be no tugging on the other end of the green, frayed leash.  A stout, white haired, hobbit-like woman sits in one of the chairs, a large golden retriever lying patiently at her tiny feet.  The woman grasps the leash linked to this gentle oaf as if letting go will send the animal into a rabid frenzy, bent on destroying all humanity in the tiny office.  The dog blinks his eyes twice, then closes them for a quick nap on the cold cement floor.  My dad speaks briefly with the veterinary assistant at the front desk, then our foursome files slowly behind the desk, through a door, into a ten by ten foot room.

The room painted a lifeless pink with yet another continuation of the icy cement floor, my family stands compacted together and silent. Two pictures of some dogs unknown to me hang on the bare walls, standard photographs for a veterinary office, a seemingly cordial pair life-loving canines, but they do not demand my attention.  A door across the room opens slowly, and the veterinary assistant announces Lucy’s entrance.  The elderly Shetland Sheepdog stumbles through the doorway, into the room.  She greets me first, tail wagging quickly from side to side, jaw agape, tongue hanging out the side be her cheek.  This was always her high-spirited, life-loving attitude.  I sit down on the uninviting cement and put my arms around the animal’s neck, giving her a big hug, my face buried in her musty smelling, matted, beautifully aged fur, its calico pattern still as attractive as the day I picked her out at the kennel eleven years earlier, fused though with some slight graying at the tips of her erect ears and the end of her tail.  She is an old dog, the way she moves, stiff, in pain.  Her spirit remains strong, trying to run and gambol as she did in her younger years as a more limber, athletic pup, but regretting it later when she can hardly move her arthritic joints.  The chronic scab covering the upper part of her muzzle reveals the only visible sign of her inner ailment, evidence of the fight she wages against age.  Her eyes.  There are few things on this earth that really represent life and purity, at least that I have seen, more than these eyes.  Not the watered edges or the crusted corners of age, but the eyes themselves.  A rich, dark green edging encompasses dark pupils within the spheres, absorbing the surroundings and displaying depths of loyalty and understanding.  Life and innocence can be summed up in these eyes, the windows to a story of an entire life of love and companionship.

           

The veterinarian walks in and, and with a forces a smiling hello.  We talk about Lucy’s condition, and what would be the “best thing” for her.  I am quiet and remain silent as she speaks to us.  The gentle animal lies at my lap, face directed towards my own, as it has done for eleven years, demonstrating the tender courage and respect she has shown for years.  Her paw is blood-stained from the puncture of the IV forced to penetrate her aged dermis, the only real source of nutrition that has been keeping her from emaciating the past week.  My mom and sister, both sobbing, rise and exit the room and begin towards the red MDX.  I do not cry, just sit and stroke the matted fur of my friend.  She chose me as her owner that day when I was six years old, I remember.  All the other Shelties pups, her siblings, in the kennel, jumped and ran and wrestled playfully all around me.  Lucy, however, walked to me and lay at my feet, allowing me to pet her as if we had been best friends for years.  I continue to pet her today, letting her know that I am hear, but try not to allow the innocent life know what is about to happen.  The vet leaves briefly, and with a solemn face lets me know it is time for me to say my goodbyes.  Goodbye?  I cannot say goodbye to my friend.  A single drop flows down my cheek, a single drop that breaks the resistance, and my emotional conscience spills into my physical.  I cannot stop the flow and blink over and over to prevent the blurring of my vision.  I must see.  I put my hands on both sides of the dog’s face and place myself nose to nose and look into her eyes as she peers into mine.  How nature can dispose such goodness is a prophecy I will never understand.  I put my arms around her and squeeze her tight, her tail still wagging, but now at a slower pace.  I smell the stale stink of an old dog, my fingers dig into her coat and connect with her warm skin, The veterinarian reenters the room, syringe in hand, apology on her face.  She drops to her knees, and I help move the tranquil dog into a more comfortable position.  Her eyes remain open, looking at me as I continue to stroke her hair from the side of her face down to her neck, my other hand placed firmly on her ribs.  The veterinarian administers the first shot into her shoulder, easing the animal into deep sleep and eliminating any pain she might feel, the vet informs me.  I am still crying now, not a mournful sob, but the drops remain streaming down my cheek.  Lucy closes her eyes, her body lying motionless and peaceful in undisturbed rest.  The vet tells my dad and I that Lucy is now unaware of our presence, and we are free to leave before the second, lethal shot.  No.  I am not leaving.  Friendship entails duty, not only compassion and enjoyment.  She deserves to have me right here, I owe her that much and more.  I remain seated next to her, my hand still stroking the coat of my dog.  The vet administers the second shot, and the slow rise and fall of her abdomen evens out until it at last peaks, then eases into declination.  My friend is gone.

           

We walk out of that animal hospital, climb into the truck, and head home.  It is a strange feeling as we pass other cars, where life just goes on, people laughing, talking, unaware of those lives that do not.  I stare quietly out the window, my tears lessen, time growing between each sniffle.  My dad tells me I did what was right in my decision, that no animal should have to suffer like Lucy had been suffering.  I stay silent, only watch out the window at the open blue plains.  The slice of cloud is gone.

Why We Do It: Athletes and Concussions

I lie there on the ground.

           

“Not again,” I think to myself.  I rise to my feet with the help of a teammate.

           

“You alright?” I am asked over and over.

           

Yeah, I’m good.  I’m good.

           

But I am not good.  Far from it, actually.

           

I begin to play again, running around as if nothing ever happened, determined to “shake it off.”  As I continue activity, the pain in the side of my skull sharpens, and the left side of my vision begins to blur. 

           

“It’ll wear off,” I tell myself.

           

But it only gets worse. 

           

Finally, as I am no longer able to focus and a haze encompassed the left side of my sight, I walk solemnly to the trainer.

           

“I think I have a little problem.”

           

First concussion: tried to play the rest of the game, went to the hospital afterwards.

           

Second concussion: played the rest of the game, went to the hospital that night with a dent in the skull.

           

Third: think I would have learned?  Well, here I am again.

Why do I do it?  Why does an athlete refuse to accept that the hit they just received could be detrimental to his or her health, to his or her brain?  Why push on, “shake it off,” “rub some dirt on it?”

Because we view ourselves as fighters, as warriors of the pitch, immortal in the world of our sport, invincible heroes who have everything to prove.  We cannot be taken down, not like this.  It is a hit to the head, I am not sore, no broken bones, no sprained ankles, no cramping muscles; I feel fine.

Except for the nagging blur in my concentration. 

I cannot relay my pain to others; it is not an injury they can see.  Only I can realize the severity of the situation, and it is my duty to accept it and take responsibility for my body.

And as any true athlete can attest to, admitting you are hurt is the hardest thing to do.

Turn on ESPN, open a Sports Illustrated issue, what is the common injury, and sometimes link to death, of athletes?  The answer should scare me, but when you’re on the field, those images don’t come to mind.  All that I think about is getting back on the turf.

Most people cannot understand that desire, the desire to compete, the falsity that overcomes your conscience and ensures invincibility.  I can’t get hurt, not like this.

Not again.

The problem seems to stem from high school, where the athletic training staff, at least from my experiences, is not apt to handling such injuries.  Concussions, even if recognized, entail short-lived or nonexistent treatments.  And when concussions are not immediately dealt with, any more hits can cause serious consequences, even death.  Collegiate sports medicine teams are much more aware to the repercussions of head injuries, and professional sports have greatly raised their awareness to concussions as well.

With all the knowledge available today about concussions, why are they still so common and often becoming serious health hazards?  The answer does not lie with coaches or training staff; it lies with the athletes, athletes like myself.

I don’t want to admit I’m hurt.  I am an athlete; I play like an invincible warrior.  I don’t want to accept it.  Not again. 

“Yeah, I’m good.  I’m good.”  Athletes everywhere mutter these words as they rise from the ground.

And, as I said before, it is often far from the truth.

This story was originally published in The Franklin. 

Concussion

Senior night is not exactly going the way every athlete dreams; we are down by two goals with only about 20 minutes to go in the game.  I am playing center midfield, my usual position.  We are playing hard; South Dearborn was good, and we had produced a less than par season.

Our keeper punts the ball, the sphere moving farther and farther from his bright orange jersey and closer to me, ascending very high until it reaches its peak.

I keep my eyes on the white and yellow Wilson, tracking it as I move swiftly over the grass.  Falling, falling, I try to attack the object with my forehead.

There is a flash; it’s a spray of colors, a spectrum of neons and black.

I am lying on the ground, wondering what had just happened.  I get up, and begin to walk, the ball now being passed around the perimeter of our goal.

I look around and see the navy jerseys of South Dearborn, then watch as our jerseys flash the bright yellow of a highlighter.

But we aren’t wearing yellow jerseys, I think to myself.

Uh-oh.

I call for a sub and am taken off the field.  After our uniforms return to their original white, and after our assistant coach checks my eyes, I tell Coach Dennis that I’m good to go back into the game.

I was wrong.  After about five more minutes of play, the focus of my vision dissipated in a way I can only poorly attempt to describe.  It was as if I was seeing, but I wasn’t really seeing a single object at a time, only could grasp the whole picture without isolating any one thing or focus on an area.

I came back out of the game, informed my coach that I would not reenter, and took the bench, leaning forward with my elbows on my knee and my palms on my forehead.

After the game, all my friends gathered around for Senior Night pictures with their family.  I walked over to my parents, also.

“We need to go to the hospital,” I said. “Now.”

Cross Country Glory

Here I am, again torturing my body as I continue to run in agony in yet another 5K race. My breathing is fast and heavy, lungs sucking in air as if I were about to drown on dry land.

Greensburg is my favorite course, I remind myself; no hills, just a flat 3.1 miles to the finish.  By no means am I a cross-country star, but today I was looking to improve my personal best time.

           

As my vision bounces up and down with every stride, I spot the royal blue jersey in front of me.  Focus on picking off one person at a time, as my coach had always told us.

           

This blue jersey was my target.

           

I speed up, passing my adversary with just over three-fourths of the race behind me.  After making my pass, I cross back over to the right, into his running lane.  For whatever reason, I still do not know why to this day, I slowed down.  

           

The runner, from Batesville High School, smacked into the back of me, his feet tripping over my gray New Balances.  He almost fell, and I took off faster, avoiding further confrontation.

He was not happy with me, to say the least.

Further down the stretch, I hear footsteps behind me.  In a flash, my blue-clad foe ticks my feet as he runs pass me, causing me to stumble.  He offers me a new name as he runs ahead in his self-declared triumph, a word I would never say in front of my mother.

           

This is not over, I tell myself.  Body screaming for an end, jersey drenched in sweat, one thing was persistent in my mind; I will not lose to him.

           

We enter the final turn, and I see the blue jersey about ten paces ahead of me.

           

Despite every muscle in my body aching, side splitting with a cramp, sweat blurring my vision, I take off; I sprint as hard as my legs will carry me, numbness beginning to set in.

           

I pass the enemy five strides before the finish line.

           

I am overcome with accomplishment, the adrenaline coursing through my weeping muscles.  I bend over just a few feet past the finish line, and release a healthy amount of vomit onto the green grass as the crowd watches.

           

Ironically, I do not mind the puke.  I always throw-up at the end of a hard race; it is assurance to me that I had run as hard as my body could endure.

           

The Batesville runner walks past me to take his ribbon, acting as though he is the victor.

           

“Hold on,” I hear the race official tell him, “he beat you.”

           

The runner who had cursed my name, who had bested me, whom I had triumphantly conquered, stood there next to me, waiting as I threw up to watch me receive the number in front of his.

           

I continued to heave up my insides, while he can only stand there and wait.

           

But I don’t care; this is the most satisfying puke of my life.