The Stories We Tell

July 27, 2020

Greetings from the storyteller,

How do you feel about your life in these strange days?  All of these adjustments and accommodations.  Staying home, washing hands, wearing masks, doing Zoom meetings, sacrificing, and delaying gratification for some grander purpose.  Well, and maybe for own purpose too.  The truth is, how we feel about any of this is no different than how we chose to feel about the days before, and the days to come.

We live our lives, and we create stories to tell ourselves as to how it is.  We have our day, recount it as we undress to go to bed, and find solace, or discontent, or some other thing.  Lay on the pillow and sift through the images and cringe or smile or simply dive quickly into dreams to create some other day.

This is how we feel about our selves, our life, but it is only a part of it.  If we are honest, the rest of how we feel is when we hold our story up to compare to everyone else’s story.  Other stories come to us, and we ask which color is brighter, who has the richer experience, the deeper love?  Who had it better, or handled it better, or got lucky? Was it fair?

You say: I spent a lovely day in the yard.  Thought it might rain and it didn’t, so I had time to trim the hedge and work in the garden.  It felt good to have my hands in the dirt, the sun on my back.  And we cooked that steak I got on sale and it really wasn’t bad.  I would liked to have had the neighbors over, but it was fun talking to them at the driveway and we promised to do something soon.

Or you say: Another day wasted on yardwork, nice sunny day made for the beach.  Must be nice to have a service come once a week like some people.  I shouldn’t have planted so much garden it just sucks up my free time and half of it goes to the rabbits.  I don’t know what the neighbors are thinking, having all those people over for a party.  And not everyone was wearing a mask. Tsk.  I’d love to go to a restaurant instead of eating frozen steaks.  When will this be over?

I don’t mean to oversimplify our lives, but the example helps me to check my own story.  Almost everyone is living with some version of change right now, and I want to make the best of it.  But, if I’m honest, some days I paint a less than encouraging scene of my life.  Some of it is the grind, the isolation, and some of it is spending a minute too long comparing my tale to the impression I get from others.

We have our own quiver of stories.  We accumulate them, weave them with others, sort out some and save some.  Some we can tell, and do.  Some are only for the dim moments alone, when we take them out and imagine the world knowing.  And either smile or wince.

The stories of other’s lives come to us and we shape a perspective about our own existence.  When someone is doing well, does envy form, or inspiration?  When someone is struggling, do we feel empathy or judgment, or gratitude for having been spared that burden?  Or is it just scorekeeping?

We are the narrator of our lives, pointing to pains and disappointments, or outlining the wonders and beauty we have experienced.  I don’t want to live in a naïve, Pollyanna existence, but I also think I am made for more than just cataloging my struggles. 

I wasn’t going to share this, because not everything is about running for me, but it made sense in my head so here: When I run a marathon I have a running dialogue in my head.  It is me telling myself the story I am in.  It is a description of how I feel, mentally and physically.  I also look at how others are doing but that is not my story.  It is like being at a Twin Drive In, where I am watching my movie, but I am aware of the one playing on the other screen.  That show is not driving the plot I’m involved in.

I can hold this conversation as I run, this narration of the experience, and it shapes how the next mile goes, and the next, and how I feel when the race is over.  I am conscious of it even as I create it, and I am aware that the words I choose to tell the story will matter.  I am telling myself the story I am in, and I get to choose if I am a hero.

The stories around me matter.  I am curious, I want to know how they arrived at this place, I want them to enjoy, to feel satisfied, in some cases, to not give up.  I am driven to reach for more because of them, I am given the chance to see more possibilities.  I can ask more of myself because those around me are doing it.  It’s possible because that’s the story I tell as I run.

But, in some races, thankfully not many, I begin practicing the story I’ll tell people later that will explain my slow time, or failure.  It is the heat or the shoes or cramps or the hilly course or my poor training. It is these moments when people pass me and I think, “How can that guy be faster than me?”  Not my proudest experiences, but it happens.  What I learned is that when this narration begins, it can spoil any chance I have to change for the better.  I ruin my run in advance with this voice-over.

It is a lesson I am lucky to carry with me off the road into my life.  That’s really how I got here this morning.  What story am I telling about my life this morning, and how will that shape the rest of my day?  Am I going to tell this, or will I let someone else give me their story?

It is a different time, we can’t always say everything we want to the people we are separated from, we can’t include them in our story.  Things are taken away, or harder, or just different.  I know, I know.  But it’s still our story to tell.  I’m writing this for me and for you.  Choose the narrator, choose the one you want.  Tell the story that gives you the rich, satisfying day.  You are your own happy ending.

Hope this finds you creating your voice, 

David

Copyright © 2020 David Smith

Henry

July 20, 2020

Greetings from the messengers,

God has a friend named Henry.

When Henry was grown up, God sent him a message, which he didn’t get, and so he sent him several more, all of which were missed.  Finally, God lifted him from his little village, and they had a long talk.  From that day on the two of them were lifetime friends.  Which means a lot when you consider it.

Henry caught God’s attention because of the way he prayed, which always included questions, and strangely, laughter.  Henry was not a devout man, he had his frailties, but there was a peace about him that drew people to him, he was kind, and above all he was a good listener.  Plus, he had a great laugh.

When Henry first met God it was awkward, of course, but over time he grew comfortable with having coffee with the creator of the universe.  After a while, Henry realized that he had been chosen, at first as a prophet, which didn’t work out, and then as a messenger of a different sort.

“What do I call you, I mean, I feel like I should say Mr. Something, or Your Majesty.  You know?” Henry asked.  God thought this was funny, and reminded Henry that people used many names, from many faiths and beliefs.  “Don’t get too twisted up in formalities.  We’ve known each other a long time.”

Every so often God would ask Henry to visit Earth.  Henry would walk around and listen to people, get a feel for what they were feeling and thinking.  He would stand in lines with them, ride subways, bale hay, do grocery shopping. One summer he stayed in an internment camp in California, another time a sweat shop in New York. For a while he lived in a Maori village and learned all manner of beautiful words, which he memorized to tell God.

When he sat with God later, Henry would describe what people were doing, and use the words they used.  Henry was very good at expressing the feelings of the people he met, because they were imprinted on him.  He understood them because he listened and wanted to understand.

Henry would dare to go anywhere there were people to listen to.  Henry listened to people who were in hospice, he listened to people working in factories, listened to the homeless, the desperate, the prisoners, the addicts.  He listened to the people who were afraid to pray, or didn’t for other reasons.  He listened and asked simple questions. And in between he laughed with people.

Some days he listened to children exclusively because it was refreshing. 

Henry visited with everyone and he was everyone. Henry was a Masai hunter, an Irish peat farmer, a woman in a refugee camp, a hairdresser in Brooklyn, a politician in Colombia.  He marched with protestors in Biloxi, in Tiananmen, he stood near barbed wire at borders, in prisons, in drug houses.  He worked on a farm for a few years and heard about raising crops and raising children.  He listened to the corn.

For generations he listened, and then came back and sat with God and told him what people said and felt.  God said: “What are they afraid of?”  And Henry said; strangers, death, snakes, going hungry, being forgotten.  Sometimes You.  “What makes them happy?”  Loving and being loved.  Chocolate. Living an interesting life. Creating things. Sometimes You.

Henry knew that God already had these answers, but somehow it was good to hear them out loud. And then they would visit, elbows on the table, steaming mugs of coffee in front of them.

And God would talk to Henry.  He told him about apteryxes and black holes and how science and religion both are sometimes disappointing.  He told him about how time really passed, and how hard it was to watch people suffer.  He told him the secret of light.  Some days it was simple things like laundry, and other days it was harder things like the lost sheep.  But what Henry realized was that God just liked having him to talk to.  He really was a good listener.

Henry brought the messages back from the people he listened to and listened while God sifted through things, and asked the questions.  One day Henry asked God if he was ever lonely.  God laughed, which he did often when they were together, because Henry had a good laugh, and it inspired others.  “No, Henry, why would you ask that?”  Henry was a little self-conscious, but said: “I just wonder how you feel when I’m not here.”

God said, gently; “Henry, you are not the only one I send to listen.” 

Hope this finds you listening,

David

Resign or reconcile

July 13, 2020

Greetings from beyond the iron bars,

I have been talking with friends around the country who are now struggling with the resurgence of the virus, watching their communities become restricted again.  It is a discouraging thing to have life become nearly normal again, only to have that autonomy we sometimes took for granted, wrested away. 

It is not the only challenge we have, not even addressing the impact of the illnesses and death that comes with it.  But after months of dealing with these limitations, the frustrations are apparent. 

When I was a boy, one of my favorite books was ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ by Alexander Dumas.  In this story the main character, Edmond Dantes, is falsely imprisoned for life, and after years in jail, his spirit nearly broken.  Then, he makes friends with another inmate who provides him with a gift of education, teaches him mathematics, the beauty of literature, the history of the world, as it was known in the 1800’s. 

I haven’t thought about the book in years, not sure if it is still in my library.  It is a complex book, but what brought it to mind was the catalyst for Dantes’ salvation.  Faced spending the rest of his life in tortuous confinement, he found hope in friendship, and in learning how large the world really was through his education.

Even as we set aside concerts and races and family reunions and travel, even as we chafe under the masks and lines and inconveniences, we are given hope, if we allow ourselves to see it.

Many of you have made positive changes in the face of the disappointments.  You have adapted and found creative ways to keep fun in your life, to maintain relationships, to fill the hours with something beyond even the screens that seem to dominate our lives now.  You are a part of my inspiration for this morning. 

Another book, now one of my favorites, is ‘A Gentleman in Moscow’ by Amor Towles.  In order to tempt you to add it to your collection, I will tell you it is a rich, beautiful story, written in a style that is a delight to read.  And this; the main character, Count Alexander Rostov, is sentenced to life imprisonment in the Metropol Hotel in Moscow. 

There are many wonderful lessons of humanity in the story, but this morning I have been focused on Rostov’s philosophy of life, probably dormant until called upon in his confinement.  The first lesson he calls on is: “Master your circumstances, or they will master you.”  Sometimes an ambitious thought, but consider it.  It does not demand you change your circumstances, but merely be the one directing them.

The next, a more lasting ideal that he holds to for a generation, he explains in a conversation with a new friend.  In this sentence he shows what we are all capable of.  It is the thought of a mature, seasoned person, who understands that life will not always offer exactly what we expect. 

 “As both a student of history and a man devoted to living in the present, I admit I do not spend a lot of time imagining how things might otherwise have been.  But I do like to think there is a difference between being resigned to a situation and reconciled to it.”

Each of us is given this morning to respond to.  We may not always be given the freedom of all choices, but we have the first one, how we take this moment and do with it as we best can.   It isn’t failure to accommodate around a difficult passage in life.  It is how we make the best of each moment.  Go to a dictionary and read the definition of ‘reconcile’ and I promise you will find the word ‘harmony’.

The two Counts found freedom in their confinement.  They passed through frustration and disappointment and hopelessness, and reached moments where the spirit, the ‘arete’ given them by their Creator, provided an independence from their prison, one that could not be taken back.

I know what waits in my day today, it will be challenging.  Before I turn to face the first thing I will gather strength from the gifts I am given, a wonderful collection of experiences and memories, the company of my family and friends, the fullness of love in my life.  Yes, I am building gratitude in my life to balance what could take its place.

In a scene from ‘A Gentleman in Moscow’ Rostov responds to a friend who points out his rich life, before his arrest.  He says: “Life has been generous to me in its variety.”  This obscure sentence in a four hundred page book gave me a tool that I treasure.  I ask myself, and now you; “How has life been generous to you?”  The answer is also the answer to how we can summon the gratitude, the courage, to combat what life may offer instead of what we expect.

I didn’t even have to ask myself this morning, the answer was given to me as I sipped my coffee.

There is magic in the Summerlight.  It eased out of my day yesterday in a brilliant orange, dotted with the tiny beads of fireflies seasoning the grass.  This morning it began with a pale blue tint in the gray, pushing the last of night into shadows in the woods, and then this whiter light, the first hint of what the sun will be today.  Two fawns stood in the grass as the sun buttered the green around them.  Life has been generous to me in its beauty.

Let’s go change our world.

Hope this finds you feeling free,

David

Copyright © 2020 David Smith

Running to and from

July 6, 2020

Greetings from the purpose,

Some time ago a fellow runner offered a quote: “All runners are either running from something, or toward something.”  And then asked which category I fell into.  In the moment I didn’t have an articulate answer.  I think I said ‘neither’ which was not entirely satisfying.  Some months later the question surfaced again, and I thought long enough to better say what I meant.

It occurred to me perhaps the quote is false, that it is one of those ‘overthought’ truisms that somehow have survived runner’s conversations over the years.  Maybe it’s a good illustration that we will talk about anything to do with the sport.  From chafing to child rearing, we can connect it to running.

For the non-runner, and some casual runners, none of this might matter.  “Run, don’t run, whatever,” they think, “just don’t bore me with another story about being injured.”  Understood.   But don’t give up reading yet.

Simon Sinek’s book,  ‘Start with Why’ gave me some clues.  His approach addressed the question to organizations but certainly applies to individuals.  We know what we do, we know how we do it, but if we understand the ‘why’, the purpose behind what we do, it makes it possible to move past challenges that may otherwise divert us.  Provides meaning.  Hm.

I’ll agree that some runners, maybe sometimes me, are running ‘from’ something.  They run to lose weight, from failures, to escape responsibilities, to try to move away physically and philosophically from whatever they want to leave behind.  I’m not sure I run to escape anything, although there is a certain uninterruptible sanctuary in the act. 

And I see the perspective of running ‘toward’ something.  To accomplishments, to goals, literally to a finish line.  Or perhaps running toward some better version of ourselves.  The miles we run provide us a way to be healthier, and the time on the road is a great place to create a healthy philosophy of life too.

A couple of nights ago I sat on the deck with Sawyer and Tim, all runners, talking about training.  Sawyer, accustomed to the stratospheric weekly miles, Tim and I bound by gravity and age to less ambitious plans.  I dropped out of the conversation but listened as they talked mileage, speedwork, repeats, ladders, off weeks, tempo runs. 

Sometime in the last decade I found myself clinging less to some of these details.  I know the value of a plan; I know that to accomplish anything of significance you have to be intentional.  It is important to set some standard to achieve, to hold yourself accountable, or it is too easy to give up or be distracted by other things.  But even knowing all this, I think less of it as something separate, or as part of something I am running toward, or trying to conquer.  I have developed more of an instinctual, organic feel for my running, formed more by the ‘why’ than the ‘how’.

Yesterday morning I ran along the river.  The sun was already up, and by the time I reached the path that follows the curving water I was just past the aching and stiffness that might have kept me at home. 

As I ran, I peered through the trees and saw a man standing in the river in waders, working a rod over the water, making elegant waves with his line, long graceful calligraphy in the air.  He had no creel, no other equipment but a small bag on his hip.  I watched him long enough to see a fish strike, to see him reel it close enough to release it back into the water and then cast again.

Maybe half a mile downriver I saw a heron standing near the shore, poised still over the water, watching a small eddy at his feet, waiting for his breakfast.  Intent on his purpose.

Both were fishing, one for the simply pleasure of the act, the other to eat, to survive.  I shouldn’t speak for the heron, perhaps there is pleasure in the act of waiting and watching as well.  There is value and beauty for both fishers.  One with a specific goal, the other, an expression of something he enjoys.

The starlings wheel and whirl in clouds of living art, and I have come to believe they do it simply out of the joy of being able to.  That is why I run, to express the sheer joy of being able to.  Somehow, maybe after many years of pushing my body to run, I have found that this is one of the things I am made for.

Each of us have gifts we will connect with during a life, and we feel this exhilaration, this ‘rightness’ when we make use of them.  It is as close to knowing our ‘why’ as it gets.  I feel this when I run.  To borrow from Eric Liddel in ‘Chariots of Fire’ “I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast.  And when I run, I feel his pleasure.”

It’s likely that during a lifetime of it I have been running to, or from, something at one time or other.  But for the most part, especially now, I run simply for the experience of running. 

It may not seem relevant in this moment, but sometime today give it some thought.  Whether you are intentionally moving away from something or toward something, or if you are simply enjoying the experience, does it fill you with the sense of joy that we were made for?

Hope this finds you finding your why,

David

Copyright © 2020 David Smith

Summer

June 29, 2020

Greetings from where I blossom,

Morning takes its time in summer.  The first light, still choosing which color to pull on, is barely showing through the trees.  There is a coolness in the air, a kindness given for those open windows.  Sheets shifted, pillows turned, and dreams went deeper.

The birds were whispering in the forest, the first conversations about the day.  Probably some practical things that early birds are prone to, but I recognized a different lilt, the giggling chirp that was joy in the day.

Summer arrived.  No announcement, no parade, no fanfare.  Just this gentle easing from one day to the next, almost unnoticed.  The sun arrived a little early, unable to contain itself in its delight.  And then it begins.

To be fair, there were signs.  The lightning bugs danced in the warm evenings. There had been a rainstorm, the kind that serves to refresh, not punish, but came with the bass rumblings within the sighing splashes.  The buds on the trees seemed to fan almost instantly, filling out the branches that had endured nakedness long enough.

I knew.  I had been waiting for the first minute, the slight shift from this day to that.  Even in my expectation I felt a little ache, knowing that as soon as Summer began, it began to mark its end.  But that is for another morning.

The sun had chosen a rosy-peach.  There were soft white things it pulled off as it raised up into my day, little wisps of pure cotton against the royal blue.  But in the space between the trees, where the sun began Summer, it was warm, the color of passion, of flowers, of melons and of blushes.

I chose what to wear, a favorite activity in the summer since it really amounts to one thing, a pair of running shorts.  I set out into the world and filled my lungs with the moist air, still clinging to the last bits of dew.

In a few miles I felt myself immersed in the season I was born for.  Summer surrounded me, warmed me in places that had been shadowed since last fall.  I worked my way into the farmland, already lined with the promise of corn and beans, nascent rows of green filling the open places between proud maples, already fluttering their new outfits.

There was something satisfying in the feel of the sun on my skin, not unlike being hungry and tasting the first forkful of your favorite food.  Before long I was covered in sweat, shining in the first light, Summer’s gift to me, the only clothing she knows will always be right.  In those miles I felt myself click into the perfect fit, felt the rightness of the season surround me.  The run was effortless, and faster than I expected, and even in the last miles I was smiling.  I resolved to spend as much time as possible feeling just like this.

Ah, but events conspired otherwise. 

Later in the week, I was chiding myself for letting the days pass without being in a kayak or throwing a frisbee or simply idling in the sun, letting it bake me into my natural state.  It was a momentary thing, like when you realize you haven’t called your best friend for a while.  And there was Summer, patient, but not eternally so.  Summer peered into another morning and felt my ache and offered me this;

The yard was framed in a line of shrubs and wild plants bordering the woods beyond.  It was green within green, but in the magic hour, it was tinted in the blue light of predawn.  I was on my deck, second cup of coffee in my hand. 

Into this tableau two deer stepped from the brush.  They had been nibbling on the low berries and eased into the yard to see what else was on the menu.  They moved with contained grace, the hint of power and strength, but contained in small steps, slow, simple movements.

Behind them appeared three fawns.  They bristled with energy, prancing into the grass with bouncy little steps.  They danced around the deer, springing into the air like ballerinas, teetering on the tips of the grass, barely giving gravity its due.  They played in circles, chasing each other, their dappled coats blurring as they whirled around the adult’s legs.

They spun around, bouncing on spindly legs, now zig zagging across the damp grass.  The deer had barely moved, while around them in the yard the three fawns were flashes of brown and white, and the contrast was a little dizzying.

Suddenly one of the fawns bolted from the group and raced across the yard, head forward, legs stretched out, galloping across the grass and off into the neighbor’s lawn.  I watched her make a wide circle around a tree there and head back.  It was so quiet I could hear her hooves drumming the grass, feel the vibration of her striking the earth as she blazed back into the yard.

As I try to share the beauty of these few seconds, I’m ashamed to lack the words.  This creature, so new to the world, so full of life and promise, and in this moment feeling her power, her potential, and just letting it all out in this wild ride through the summer morning.

The others were still in the same circle as the fawn flew between them and then crashed into the brush and rocketed out the other side.  I saw her burst into the open space beyond the brush and fly across the field.  I know she was unable to stop because her legs were not finished running.

Creation whispered to me: “Summersmith, it’s always here for you to see.  Don’t grieve a misspent day, don’t waste a moment on that, instead look at what I brought you, now.”  I heard it this morning as I watched the sun paint the grass yellow, watched the living things float in the quiet outside my window, the baby bunny pop into sight from the low ground cover, which delighted me so much I laughed until I snorted. 

I realized as I wrote this that the fawn and I are soulmates.  While my legs are not as fresh as hers, we both know the wild joy that is in doing what you are made for, and for us it was to run into Summer, reckless and wild and gasping and for no other reason than the doing it.

Somewhere in the book ‘Jayber Crowe’ the author tells us “..some of the greatest beauties are the briefest.”  In that simple sentence we are shown a truth that beauty will exist in the most mundane moments, in unlikely places, but also it is a warning that we have to pay attention, or we could miss it.  Even when it is us.

Hope this finds you soaking it in,

David

Copyright © 2020 David Smith

Father's Day

June 22, 2020

Greetings from the magic,

I have at times drifted into the caricature of a father, the one you see represented in Hallmark cards.  The one who alternately naps and bumbles repairs when he is not mowing the lawn in dress socks and sandals or farting.  The stereotype must come from somewhere.

I like to think of myself as a wise, patient father who has guided his children through the challenges of life, dispensing sage advice, teaching valuable skills, setting a sterling example to follow.  I also like to think of myself as James Bond, and all any of this has demonstrated is I have a good imagination.  The truth is somewhere in between my self-image and the parody.  I sometimes shudder to think of my spotty performance as a parent, but thankfully I have been redeemed by the resilience and forgiveness of my children. And perhaps their faulty memory.

This morning I am wearing a t-shirt that has ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ embossed on it.  No, I didn’t get it at Goodwill, it was awarded to me.  Admittedly it was so many years ago I can’t put a number to it.  With this advanced perspective I now possess, I suspect there was not an international contest where I earned this designation.  And, it has been shown that the title is not meant to be held in perpetuity.

Becoming a parent asks that you consider being patient, generous, that you sacrifice for someone else’s benefit.  There is also a need to examine your own wisdom, your own personal philosophy, not only to guide your choices as you raise your progeny, but also on the off chance that one day they ask your opinion of something.

And so, it would seem, that fatherhood would add a maturity that otherwise might not have developed.   Fatherhood tempered the selfish in me, although it didn’t extinguish it.  I would also say it stretched my horizon, meaning that I began to consider whatever might occur beyond the day I was in.  I’ll admit I had to be given this lesson a few times before it took. 

When I think of being a father, I always picture the days when my children were small, which is when I was most actively engaged in their lives.  Changing diapers and feeding them.  Making choices for them, taking them places.  Waiting for them.  Bundling them up, teaching them simple things, taking them to the dentist, soccer practice, karate, church, school. Every day there was conversation about one child or another, it formed decisions and choices and created a lifestyle. 

Today my role is more Father Emeritus. 

My children make it possible for me to be a father, literally of course, and philosophically.  They provided the environment for me to learn to care for other people, to think about their needs or their future.  In that process I recognized that our purpose in life is not nearly as self-centered as I was given to believe in the first decades of living. 

Now that my children are adults and our relationship has changed that of infant and caregiver,  the truth is they still make it possible for me to be a father, which hold a lot of the elements of being a good human.  I’m lucky there are four of them and one of me. 

When you qualify for the title of ‘father’ you are also reminded of your place in the sequence of fathers that stretch back to Eden.  And, presumably, continue into eternity.  I’m lucky to see the next in the line that will take us to that future.  I’ll also say that it delights me to no end.

Yesterday I shared the celebration of Father’s Day with, possibly, billions of World’s Greatest Dads.  Among those I would nominate my Son-in-Life Tim as the authentic title holder.  Already kind, empathetic, already one who considers the future as he makes his choices, he has been made into something more by the magic of Ila. 

Tim chose to stay home from work in the first months of Ila’s life.  I know a little of what guided that choice, but it still impressed me.  I see his devotion to my granddaughter, see the love.  He is a dedicated learner, I know that whatever he needs to know to be an excellent father, he will find it and own it.  This morning as I listened to Tim reading to Ila, his natural gentle voice softened just a shade for his daughter, I caught a glimpse of all that is to come between them, and it inspired me and brought me to tears.

Last night as we sat talking the conversation slipped into the new parents plans for Ila, and I was reminded again of what it’s like to have your mind full of raising a child.  Tim has become a father, already possessing the strengths that are needed, and now fully transformed when he met his daughter.

In time there may be other fathers among my children, and as I considered each of them this morning it made smile to realize the gifts they all carry that will be transformed into what their children will need most.  The wonderful news in that is that those same traits make such a difference in their lives already.

As I put these last words here, my World’s Greatest Dad shirt is in the dryer.  I want it to be ready to wear when I give it to the new title holder.

Hope this finds you being the world’s best,

David

Copyright © 2020 David Smith

Sports Purgatory

June 15, 2020

Greetings from the stands,

A few months ago when things began to shudder under the weight of Covid, one of the early casualties to normality was spectator sports.  Naively, I believed that the juggernaut of televised sports would resist.  When billions of dollars are at stake, and a nation of rabid fans are waiting to be distracted, I felt certain that somehow sports would continue.

But I was wrong.  Admitting I was wrong about something I don’t know anything about is not an earthshattering revelation.  Here I was going to insert a sports metaphor for how little I know about sports, but you an see my conundrum.  Perhaps just that last sentence says it all.

Crowds evaporated and so did the players who performed for them.  There were some weak attempts at sports in empty venues, but that was just sad.  And prompted the existential question: If a ball drops in a stadium and there is no one to see it, is it fair or foul?

And so we moved into this unprecedented sports purgatory, now a trademarked era called  ‘Sporgatory’. 

According to scientific research, which may be invented by me for this paragraph, the human brain has evolved from the primitive hunter/gatherer phase to the more advanced watcher/eater stage.  This development aligned perfectly with advent of spectator sports which connects with the need to see athletes perform arcane gyrations while ingesting hot dogs and hoagies.

Just as we as a specie have reached the apex of our development, sports were removed from our world.  It has created a void in the collective fan-psyche.  Sports fans have done their best to fill the need, watching the talking heads review stats from the last games, now months old, and making predictions about trades between teams that are currently on hiatus.  Hiatus, as you know, is an island off the coast of Florida where millionaire athletes shelter their endorsement income.

Of course, it’s not just hard for the spectators, the athletes have suffered too. (Pause here to consider support groups for sad millionaires.)  Some die hard fans (not fans of the Christmas movie, I mean dedicated sports nuts) have taken to wearing their logos on their Covid masks to show support.  (Google: ‘millionaires lives matter’)

Recently the Chinese Professional Baseball League started its season.  One team, the Rakuten Monkeys (not made up by me for humor purposes) is filling the stands with robotic mannequins so that the players don’t feel silly as they perform, particularly arguing with umpires.  The robots are programed to boo the Monkeys whenever they make a bad play.  (Boo The Monkeys may be a perfect name for the next great rock band and/or software company.)

There is no way of knowing when the pandemic will fade to the point that sports can return to filling the stands with happy fans booing their favorite teams.  There has been some talk about having the teams play spectatorless.  There is already some experimentation with this concept over the last decade or so, including WNBA games, cricket matches, spelling bees, whittling competitions, and curling and caber toss tournaments. (Curling and caber toss are not actually one event, but that would definitely boost viewership if they were.)

Recently we visited my mother in law who introduced us to her friend Hilda, a spry 90-something who lives next door.  I was told that Hilda loves sports, all kinds, watches everything.  I said to her that it must be hard now, with the dearth of athletic events.  She chuckled a little and said that she watches reruns of all the games.  She is losing her memory so she can’t remember if she has seen them before or how it turns out.  So, it’s all the same excitement to her.

It’s possible that Hilda has achieved the apex in sports maven evolution.  I will say, parenthetically, (but without the use of parentheses) that Hilda has forgotten more about sports than I ever knew.  At any rate, I can imagine that any real sports aficionado would envy her place in fan development.  To her every game is exciting, every play is breathtaking, every score is the winning point. 

In some ways, it may be a place to aspire to for anyone, including the sports atheists, among whom I am numbered prominently.  (Numbered Prominently may also be the perfect name for the next great rock band/software company.)

Hope this finds you purgatorial,

David

Copyright © 2020 David Smith