A Little Something About the Game

 

A Little Something About the Game

By Paul Greeley

     You couldn’t help but notice him. He walked as if he had no kneecaps, his legs undulating under him. Cerebral palsy was my guess. I cursed life for doing this to an 8 year-old and wondered if he ever did the same. But judging from the smile on his face as he came out to play third base, I doubted he ever did.

      It was a hot day and I was there to watch my son, Jordan, play in a Little League baseball game. I didn’t know that a kid from the other team was about to teach us both a little something about the game.

      It wasn’t long before this kid at third was tested. The second batter up on Jordan’s team topped a slow bouncer down to third. The kid fielded it (truth is, the ball pretty much jumped right into his glove), then struggled to plant his feet. His legs wobbled inside his metal and plastic braces. It must have been like trying to throw from the deck of a violently pitching ship. He threw, but by the time the ball reached first, the runner had long since crossed the bag. The whole play seemed to take forever; I don’t think there was a sound. The second baseman looked down, disappointed, then looked up, and yelled over to the kid at third, “Good stop, Timmy!”

     Timmy led off the bottom of the inning. He had a decent swing, considering. But he couldn’t stop his momentum, and the force of each swing corkscrewed him around. Several times he had to drop his bat, lest he lose his balance and fall. It was hard to watch. I saw Timmy’s manager say something forceful to him.  I don’t know what he said, but it worked, because on the next pitch, I heard a crack. The kid had connected. 

      They say the hardest plays for outfielders are the ones hit right at them. There may be some truth in that because the right fielder took a few steps in. Then, just as the ball appeared to sail right over his head, his glove shot up and he leaned back awkwardly, the ball hitting squarely in the mitt as if drawn by magnets.

     Timmy, only a third of the way down the line to first base, turned toward the dugout, the manager and his teammates waiting with outstretched hands and pats on the butt.

    Several innings passed without incident until the fourth. A batter on Jordan’s team popped up toward third. If anything can be said to be a routine pop up, even for Little Leaguers, this was it. Timmy got his glove up and began circling under it, his legs like jelly quivering. At the last second, he lunged forward, lost his balance and fell, the ball dropping softly right into his glove. He made the catch! As I started clapping, I realized I’d been holding my breath. A few parents clapped with me, a knowing glance passing silently between us. As the whole infield gathered round to pick Timmy up and head into the dugout, I thought any one of them could have made that catch, but no one called him off.

     Since there’s a time limit to these games, the managers had agreed that this would be the last inning, and since Timmy’s team was the home team, they got to bat last, trailing by a run.

     Jordan was now playing third base. At this level, the players are moved around throughout the game, giving each a feel for the different positions. I watched Jordan’s manager survey the field and say to no one in particular, “gotta keep it in the infield.” His haphazard rotation had placed the smaller, weaker players in the outfield.

    The first batter up on Timmy’s team hit a fly ball the right fielder misplayed. It bounced over his head and rolled to the fence. By the time the play was over, the batter stood at second. The next batter up was Timmy. I’m ashamed to say that as he made his way to the plate, I thought ‘easy out.’ And two sad swings later, it looked as if Timmy would oblige. But the kid surprised me. He met the next pitch solidly, sending it between center and right field. The runner scored easily, tying the game and although Jordan’s team threw the ball all over the place, the kid barely made it to first. It looked as if this was his first time on base.

     I don’t remember if I clapped or not, but Timmy’s teammates erupted from the dugout, clapping and yelling. The manager, clipboard in hand and pretty excited himself, ushered them all back inside the dugout. There, they pressed their little faces against the fence and continued yelling.

    The first base coach held Timmy by the shoulders as he gave him instructions. The kid nodded, adjusted his helmet, and turned back to survey the field.

     I wondered what was going through the manager’s mind. After all, Timmy represented the winning run. I know what I was thinking. I saw a woman approach the dugout and say something to the manager.

     Timmy stood close to the first base bag. He looked down to the second; it would be a long run for him. But he didn’t have much time to think about it. The next batter hit the first pitch up the middle, a hundred-hopper, and the kid started driving for second base.

Whatever was wrong with Timmy’s legs, running just wasn’t in them. I thought he’d fall for sure. The ball was coming in from the outfield; it looked as if the kid was going to be out. Then the kid surprised me again. Just feet from bag, the kid slid, head first. I say slid, but with no momentum at all, it was more like he plopped on the bag. It was ugly. His chin hit the dirt hard, knocking his helmet askew. But he beat the tag!

      I was up and clapping now, yelling, too. Jordan shot a glance at me from third. Timmy’s manager was halfway across the field, meeting Jordan’s manager at the mound. I overheard Timmy’s manager say that the kid’s mother was afraid he’d get hurt. He was taking Timmy out for a pinch runner.

      I don’t know what the manager said to Timmy, standing out there at second base. But whatever it was, Timmy wasn’t buying it. He shook his head emphatically. The manager paused, then trotted off the field. He whispered something to Timmy’s mom standing next to the dugout and she looked out at Timmy and nodded.

      In the meantime, Jordan’s manager was reminding everyone that the winning run was on second. At third, Jordan nodded to his manager. The next player up already had a couple clean hits in this game. The pitching machine delivered, and the batter ripped a hard line drive, but just foul down the third base line. The manager looked at me and rolled his eyes. 

     “Hey coach,” I yelled, “want me to warm up another machine?” He grinned.

     The batter roped the next pitch over the shortstop. At second, Timmy took one wobbly step and stopped. The third base coach was yelling at him to go, but he looked confused. If the kid had any chance to make third, he needed a good jump. Hearing the coach, Timmy started for third. Jordan was at the bag waiting for the throw. Timmy, his face red with effort, was only half way there when the cut off man took the throw, turned, dropped it, then deftly picked it up and fired to third.

     Jordan and I use to practice this all the time. Take the throw out in front, sweep the glove across the base path, tag the runner. But this time, Jordan let the ball handcuff him in the belly. He couldn’t seem to get his glove down. Timmy, just moments ago a sure out, again plopped ugly onto third without a play.

     The place was going nuts! Players, parents, and coaches screaming, yelling, and clapping. I stood and looked at Jordan for a sign of some kind. The third base coach hauled Timmy up and dusted him off. I saw Jordan say something to Timmy and the kid smiled. His face was bright red. I’m sure he’d never run that far in his life. He leaned down to adjust the braces on his legs. I looked at his mother.

      She stood against the fence clutching a handkerchief to her mouth as if all the air in the world were inside it.

      I don’t remember the next batter coming up or the machine delivering the pitch. But somewhere in all the mayhem, a batter put one in the outfield. Timmy dragged himself toward home. He looked tired.

     I never saw a kid put so much effort into moving, his whole body was pumping, gyrating, his every being focused on getting to home plate. For him, running was a total body effort. I got the feeling he would have crawled on his hands and knees if he had to.

    What happened next is open to conjecture. The ball came in from the outfield in foul territory down the third base line. Maybe Jordan got excited. He took the throw, turned, and fired the ball way over the catcher’s head.

      Timmy scored easily; his teammates flew from the dugout, piling on him in a cloud of dust at thome plate. The kid scored. The game was over. They won. 

     I don’t know if there were any other tears being shed anywhere; I was too busy hiding mine. However, I can tell you nobody was sitting. Jordan walked toward me, and we watched the celebration together quietly. He’s not a good loser and I used to worry about that. But as I put my arm around him, he looked at me, smiled, and said, “good game, huh, dad?” I swallowed hard and said, “yeah, son, real good game.”

      As Timmy’s team filed past us toward the concession stand, I heard him ask, “Mom, can I get an ice cream?”

 

Copyright by Paul Greeley

Paul Greeley

1556 Shadyside Rd.

West Chester, Pa. 19380

Pgreeley98@aol.com

817-578-6324

 

A Long Way to Lubbock

By Paul Greeley

For many North Texas moms and dads, the end of the school year at Texas Tech in Lubbock triggers the annual trek in station wagons and SUVs via ancient migratory routes (in my case, RT. 114) to collect their sons and daughters for the summer.

So, like the swallows of Capistrano, I joined a flock recently to bring home my freshman son.

But this bird didn’t fly far before getting his wings clipped by a Bridgeport policeman for speeding. I tell the policeman that if he’d give me a break, he’d be preventing a crime.

“What crime is that, Mr. Greeley?”

 “Murder,” I say, “’cause my wife is going to kill me if I go home with a ticket.”

 Sadly, issuing speeding tickets trumps crime-prevention and humor in Bridgeport.

 My first plan was to drive out one day, spend the night and drive back the next. When I tell my son that I plan on sleeping in his dorm room, he too fails to see the humor.

I think the thought of his old man walking down the hall to the showers carrying a shaving kit with nothing but a towel around him must be horrifying.   

So I decide to make the trip out to Lubbock and back in one day. Alone in the car for 6 hours through empty miles of black cows and brown horses on a sea of green Texas grass puts me in a reflective mood. The years peel away to my freshman year at a college in Pennsylvania. 

I didn’t realize then that it was my first step on a journey away from my parents that would take me around the country eventually depositing me here in Texas. I think about my son and wonder--no, I know--that this is his first step, too. 

At 80 miles an hour, the vast landscape seems other worldly. Oil derricks feed rhythmically on the ground like some strange robotic animal. 

In this part of Texas, head gear is dominantly of the cowboy variety and vehicles are predominately pick-up trucks, dirty pick-up trucks. Real cowboys drive dirty pick-up trucks. And like horses in these parts, trucks aren’t just for riding--they’re for working.

I stop for breakfast at the Green Grog diner in Jacksboro, where a group of guys joke with the waitresses in the corner.

In the parking lot after, a big old good-old boy in denim over-all bibs who follows me out asks me if I got my share of abuse from the waitresses.

“No,” I joke, “I didn’t see it on the menu.”

“They serve it up anyways,” he says, laughing as he heads off, working a toothpick back and forth.

After my freshman year, I came home with a wispy, see-through mustache that I thought made me look older and distinguished. My dad thought otherwise and said so. It was just another point of view among many on which we seemed to differ. 

I wonder what changes, if any, I’d see on my son, and vow to say nothing if he has a mustache. 

At a pit stop in Seymour, on the corner of California and Main, an older couple sitting in a big older van with a raised roof and extended cab with “American Cruiser’ stenciled on the side tell me they’re California-bound. They must have seen me eyeing the van curiously. I point to the street signs and say, “You’re already there.” The old guy cranes his neck out the window to see the sign and laughs, “how ‘bout that!”

The roadkill is mostly armadillo, skunk and unrecognizable with an occasional coyote to break up the monotony. I’m in the middle of nowhere where even cell phones can’t reach. 

My GPS shows nothing but a featureless straight line---no Starbucks here for sure.  I drive past Pitchfork Land and Cattle Company, Since 1933, and into Dickens, a town where even if you know where you are, you’re lost. Where the Dickens are we? 

Eventually, I pull onto the sprawling and beautiful campus of Texas Tech and find a spot right outside my son’s dorm. I’m anxious to see him. As he walks across the parking lot to my car, I hardly recognize him. He’s taller, straighter, wearing glasses and a broad smile. There’s no sign of a mustache. We hug and I tell him, “I like your goatee.”

 

 Going Squirrelly In My House

By Paul Greeley

 

I'm matching wits with a certain furry rodent this winter that is getting into my house somehow.

When I realized I had a squirrel or possibly his entire family in my walls, I did what every modern person does when they have a problem and need a solution, I googled ‘how to remove squirrels from your attic’. In .24 seconds, I got more than a million results. So I’m guessing this is a common problem. 

If you think of squirrels as those cute little furry animals that dart through the trees in your yard with amazing acrobatic grace like I did, then you’ve never had one in your house. Because once they cross that line of demarcation, once they go from outside to inside, they become evil rodent aliens. 

Matching wits with a squirrel that’s in your attic will, well, drive you squirrelly. This one is in a section of our house that is inaccessible, in the walls right next to our bedroom and between the chimney and our built-in bookcase.

Squirrel shows up at night just as we're getting ready for bed and gnaws or scratches. I sit up with my ear to the drywall listening to this wondering what squirrel could possibly be doing and why. Picture me on one side of the drywall and the squirrel on the other.

f I had a gun, I would shoot him/her right through the drywall! If I'm a squirrel, I'm lying down and pulling some warm attic insulation over me like a blanket and keeping quiet.

 The next morning, I call the local animal control place and they give me the name of Brian the animal guy.

“He’ll help you”, they said.  I call Brian. He doesn’t handle squirrels, just raccoons, possums, and skunks. But he gives me the name of another guy, Kerry the squirrel guy, and I call him and leave a message. 

Meanwhile, I scurry all around the house looking to seal up any openings that squirrel might be using to get in. I almost fall off the roof sealing up one opening. 

That night, I waited, thinking that I got squirrel locked out. Around midnight, I hear squirrel gnawing and scratching in the walls. I think of Bill Murray using dynamite to blow up gophers in Caddyshack. I tell squirrel through the wall that whatever it takes, including nuclear, is on the table.

The next morning, I get a neighbor and we replace a roof vent which we think is how squirrel is getting in. Not so, as wire mesh prevents entrance for squirrel.

We search the roof for entrances, all corners everywhere. Finally, we find a vent pipe on the roof that is below the rubber flange which has tell-tale signs of being chewed.

We seal it with heavy gauge wire mesh. Squirrels have amazing powers of gnaw. Only metal thwarts them.  Now hopefully we didn't seal squirrel and his babies inside. 

The next morning, Kerry the squirrel guy returns my call. I give him an update. He seems very interested in my progress. He tells me that squirrels are very territorial and will fight other squirrels that violate their territory. I wonder why I haven’t seen a National Geographic special on this. He warns me that if I trap squirrel, I‘ll need to take squirrel at least 3-5 miles away to release squirrel.

I laughed while imagining squirrel with suitcase hitch-hiking back the 3-5 miles to my walls.

That night, no squirrel noise. The next morning, I look out the window and see a squirrel in the yard.

We eye each other contemptuously. He flashes me some gang signs. I swear he mouthed to me, “Wait ‘til next year”. 

Where Do They Find These UnReal Housewives

 If I were a housewife, I would sue the creators of “Real Housewives of New York” (and New Jersey, Atlanta, DC, LA, Dubai and a soon to be announced small town version, Podunk) for slander, libel, defamation of character, and conduct unbecoming a housewife.

 These shows sully the well-earned reputations of every housewife in America. Where do they find these women? Ads on Craigslist?

 Wanted: Women who are self-absorbed, self-important, vacuous, shallow, self-centered, petty and catty. Must be mostly rich through marriage and divorce. It’s OK if you’re connected, if you catch our drift. Should spend your days getting boozed up. We’re looking for women with breast enhancements who wear tight jeans or fancy dresses with spiked heels day or night regardless of body type. Must spend most of your time planning parties with themes, going to parties with themes, and fighting at parties with themes.  Must like to argue, take sides, and talk behind friends’ backs and sometimes to their faces. Must live lives that are more soap opera than any scripted soap opera on TV. We’re looking for women who have no jobs, never clean the house or shop for groceries. Women who have socially redeeming characteristics, take up social causes, or are concerned about the economy, wars, or the human condition need not apply.

I can see finding someone who has one or two of these dubious characteristics, but all of them! And pity the poor guys unfortunate enough to be married to one of these housewives. We rarely see them as they’re probably working 8 days a week to finance the plastic surgeries and shopping sprees for new homes, new cars, clothes, and jewelry.

I think they should get their own reality show, “The Wimps Married to the Real Housewives”. And what about their children! Surely, some child protection agency should step in to keep this vicious cycle from repeating itself!

These housewives are just unreal, literally.  

Winter Tennis

 

Winter Tennis

By Paul Greeley

 

On a freezing cold and breezy winter night, we 12, a motley crew, come together. Outside. To play tennis.

When I hit the courts, I suggest that if 3 others want to join me and get a beer instead, the remaining 8 could still play. No takers.

In weather more conducive to football in Chicago, ice fishing in Green Bay or skiing in Colorado, we dozen gathered to play doubles.

If you think of tennis players as sunny day-only country clubbers who wouldn’t be caught dead on a freezing winter night hitting lobs on public courts, then you don’t know the right tennis players. We’re talking fanatics here. We don’t want to play in the cold; we just want to play and it happens to be cold.

Wearing an assortment of hats, caps, berets, skull caps, and wool pull-overs, we start hitting balls. One guy is wearing a knitted wool hat with tassels hanging down over his ears, the kind Tyrolean sherpas might wear trekking up Mt. Everest. 

The balls don’t bounce well in this cold. They make tennis balls for clay, for soft courts and hard, but they don’t make a version for winter.

Our outfits are a mish-mash of designer gear, sweatpants and sweaters. No one is thinking about making any fashion statements tonight; it’s all about keeping warm while still being able to move.

One guy’s got cut-off jean shorts over what looks like black leotards. He looks more dressed for a sandlot football game in South Philly than Southlake Tennis Center tennis in Texas.

And he’s wearing garden gloves to top off this fashion statement. 

There’s very little chit chat before or during the game. No one sits down between games to cool off. We laugh when one guy’s top freezes on his water bottle. 

Teams are quickly picked, and for the next two hours, we play.

Lobs tossed up into the air become the property of the wind, drifting aimlessly this way and that, as players circle under it wondering where it will land. Drop-shots die a quick death as the semi-frozen balls refuse to bounce. A common tactic in doubles is to poach at the net, picking off a weak shot and drilling right at the net guy across from you, often hitting him in the body somewhere, winning the point. Over the years, I’ve been hit directly in the face twice. It only hurts for a few seconds. Tonight at the net, the players are wary; no one wants to risk the feeling of getting hit with these frozen balls.

To stay warm, we remind ourselves of nights during the summer, when we played in 100 degree heat. Sweaty and thirsty, we all would sit down and down copious amounts of water, and pour even more over our heads. On those hot evenings, there was no hurry to change sides quickly.

By the end of this night, we’d all warmed up to some degree or another. And as we all gathered our gear to leave the courts, we were still divided on whether it was too cold to play. But when one player barked an expletive about where he stood when it came to the cold, we were unanimous about how we couldn’t wait for spring, warmer weather and tennis balls that bounced true.

 

 

 

Philly to France, By Car, in 7 Hours

Philly to France, By Car, in 7 Hours

Or stop for lunch in Saratoga Springs and make it 8 hours.

In Montreal, French is not an affectation, a cloak, something the residents put on and take off as a reminder of their history and heritage. Something to impress the tourists.

Montreal is totally French, spoken everywhere, written everywhere, menus, street signs, store fronts, etc.

You are in France in many respects. As you walk by stores, you have to look in the window to see whether it’s a restaurant or a grocery store, a laundry mat or a vision center.

The only nod to English speakers is in the more touristy areas, like Old Montreal, where you hear more English and there’s usually an English version to whatever’s written, like on the menus.

Most of the residents can speak English, and do so willingly I’ve found, but it usually comes with a slight smile.

The people look and dress different here. On the subway, I was struck by the mix of races, and ethnics--Middle East, Asian, European, African, South American. Most of the passengers were either wearing headphones that made them look like Martians or looking at their phones which made them look normal.

While it seems more people here smoke, on the whole, people in Montreal seem fit, and thin.

We’re staying in a residential part of Montreal, the Plateau, where we’ve rented a 2 bedroom flat via Airbnb.

The plateau section is hip, stylish, trendy, young, and happening. There’s dozens of trendy bars, cafes and restaurants, all with open windows so the noise, the talking, the music spills out on the streets like a welcoming song. Off the main streets, the avenues are tree-lined, brick residential houses with curved metal staircases to the second and third floors.

Montreal is extremely bike friendly with clearly marked, designated paths on every street. You’ll often find cars parked almost in the middle of the street because to park against the curb would block the bike path.

Walking down Mont Royal, one of the main drags here in the plateau, the other evening, I looked down as some colorful pieces of paper blew across my path, like little bits of litter. I reached down to grab it and suddenly realized it was money, Canadian bills, 2 twenties and a five, that had fallen out of a man’s hand. I picked it up just before another guy and quickly found the owner, a young man who seemed quite grateful. The other guy asked the owner for the 5 dollar bill, and he gave it to him. I guess he figured it was good luck.

You often see people walking the streets carrying unopened bottles of wine, something Americans would probably hide in a bag.

In one big open area, there was this strange vehicle that had about a dozen people sitting on it, each sitting over bike pedals. They were all talking and laughing, some kind of pedal-powered party bus that road around town, some of the passengers dancing in the aisle to the loud music it played.

Normally, if stranded in center city Philadelphia, I wouldn’t know how to take the subway home if my life depended on it. But we all ventured down into Montreal’s subway system to visit Old Montreal. We each bought a 3-day pass for $18, which gives you unlimited use of all public transportation for 3 days.

Old Montreal is the more touristy part of the city, along the St. Lawrence River, and it’s spectacular, with lots of narrow, curving cobble-stone streets lined with shops and restaurants. Flowers are everywhere, adding a festive touch.  There’s a walkway that runs right next to the river where you can watch tour boats and other recreational boaters ply the waters.

Last evening, after walking all through Old Montreal, we came home and after a short rest, walked down to Parc la Fontaine, an enormous park with gently rolling hills that sloped down to a lake that snaked through the park. Although there were many people picnicking on blankets, some barbecuing, some playing games, the park never felt or looked crowded.

I’m told there are tennis courts somewhere in the park, an activity for another day.

We ended the evening at a crowded, small restaurant, where the main feature was poutine, French fries covered with fresh cheese curds, and topped with brown gravy. There are no limits to what can be added to a basic poutine, vegetables, ground beef, pork, you name it. It reminded me of how red beans and rice are a staple for dinner on Monday nights in New Orleans, the tradition being that people had spent all their money drinking on the weekends and needed some stick to your bones starch in their bellies.

The profit margin on essentially a French fry dinner must keep many restaurants in business.

Coming up, visits to McGill University, Mont Royal, and an underground city of shops and restaurants, the perfect place to spend a rainy day.

A Long Way to Lubbock

A Long Way to Lubbock

By Paul Greeley

Published: May 25, 2010

 

For many North Texas moms and dads, the end of the school year at Texas Tech in Lubbock triggers the annual trek in station wagons and SUVs via ancient migratory routes (in my case, RT. 114) to collect their sons and daughters for the summer. So like the swallows of Capistrano, I joined a flock recently to bring home my freshman son.

But this bird didn’t fly far before getting his wings clipped by a Bridgeport policeman for speeding. I tell the policeman that if he’d give me a break, he’d be preventing a crime.

“What crime is that, Mr. Greeley?”

“Murder,” I say, “’cause my wife is going to kill me if I go home with a ticket.”

Sadly, issuing speeding tickets trumps crime-prevention and humor in Bridgeport.

My first plan was to drive out one day, spend the night and drive back the next. When I tell my son that I plan on sleeping in his dorm room, he too fails to see the humor. I think the thought of his old man walking down the hall to the showers carrying a shaving kit with nothing but a towel around him must be horrifying.   

So I decide to make the trip out to Lubbock and back in one day. Alone in the car for 6 hours through empty miles of black cows and brown horses on a sea of green Texas grass puts me in a reflective mood. The years peel away to my freshman year at a college in Pennsylvania. I didn’t realize then that it was my first step on a journey away from my parents that would take me around the country eventually depositing me here in Texas. I think about my son and wonder--no, I know--that this is his first step, too.

 

At 80 miles an hour, the vast landscape seems other worldly. Oil derricks feed rhythmically on the ground like some strange robotic animal. In this part of Texas, head gear is dominantly of the cowboy variety and vehicles are predominately pick-up trucks, dirty pick-up trucks. Real cowboys drive dirty pick-up trucks. And like horses in these parts, trucks aren’t just for riding--they’re for working.

I stop for breakfast at the Green Grog diner in Jacksboro, where a group of guys joke with the waitresses in the corner. In the parking lot after, a big old good-old boy in denim over-all bibs who follows me out asks me if I got my share of abuse from the waitresses.

“No,” I joke, “I didn’t see it on the menu.”

“They serve it up anyways,” he says, laughing as he heads off, working a toothpick back and forth.

 

After my freshman year, I came home with a wispy, see-through mustache that I thought made me look older and distinguished. My dad thought otherwise and said so. It was just another point of view among many on which we seemed to differ. I wonder what changes, if any, I’d see on my son, and vow to say nothing if he has a mustache.

 

At a pit stop in Seymour, on the corner of California and Main, an older couple sitting in a big older van with a raised roof and extended cab with “American Cruiser’ stenciled on the side tell me they’re California-bound. They must have seen me eyeing the van curiously. I point to the street signs and say, “You’re already there.” The old guy cranes his neck out the window to see the sign and laughs, “how ‘bout that!”

 

The road kill is mostly armadillo, skunk and unrecognizable with an occasional coyote to break up the monotony. I’m in the middle of nowhere where even cell phones can’t reach. My GPS shows nothing but a featureless straight line---no Starbucks here for sure.  I drive past Pitchfork Land and Cattle Company, Since 1933, and into Dickens, a town where even if you know where you are, you’re lost. Where the Dickens are we?

 

Eventually, I pull onto the sprawling and beautiful campus of Texas Tech and find a spot right outside my son’s dorm. I’m anxious to see him. As he walks across the parking lot to my car, I hardly recognize him. He’s taller, straighter, wearing glasses and a broad smile. There’s no sign of a mustache. We hug and I tell him, “I like your goatee.”