OVERBLOWN EMOTIONS

 (This piece was written a couple of weeks ago, but it continues for sports fans every weekend.) 

At this moment, I’m sitting on a couch at my daughter’s house in Hendersonville. I’m watching the Vols piddle away a football game against Arkansas. My heart is pounding as my blood pressure skyrockets, and my mental health is taking a beating. Yes, I know the entire scenario is ridiculous, but something about UT football makes me feel this way. 

I know that it’s only a game, if such a thing exists. For fans, a contest against anyone is as serious a situation as any that might arise in life. Sure, the sun will come up tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll get any sleep the rest of the night if Tennessee loses. (Arkansas just took the lead with one minute and seventeen seconds left in the game.)  

I’m exhausted, even though my body hasn’t participated in a single play. A fan can suffer from cramps as his muscles lock up from cringing and jerking on every play. (Arkansas just defeated our Vols.) Jaws ache from clinching teeth to keep from yelling obscenities over the poor play by the team. Headaches before the end of the game and pound throughout the night and into the next morning. Sometimes, rotator cuffs are torn as disappointed fans throw remotes against walls or across rooms.  

Are any of these reactions or emotions rational? I say “no.” However, fans are rabid about their teams. That includes youth teams and high school teams. I’ve even witnessed band parents exhibit these negative traits when their children’s bands don’t receive superior scores from judges. No, it’s not right, but it is reality. Fans and parents put so much time, work, and cash into their children’s activities that they lose control when contests don’t go the way they should.  

I remember a time when children’s teams played against each other, and not a single adult was watching. Children played and adults worked. A loss was sometimes a bitter pill to swallow, but those players soon forgot about the loss; more important was the playing. Maybe we’d all do better if we watched games with the same attitude. Yes, I always wanted my two children to perform well on teams, and because I insisted that they gave their best efforts, I spoiled the joy they felt in just playing and being a part of a team.  

Many of us no longer have small ones at home. Instead, we spend our time and energies rooting for a college team. We lose sight that athletes most often perform the best that they can. Sometimes, the other team is better prepared or more motivated to win the game.  

The week after a loss, fans are filled with gloom and doom. The polls aren’t kind to our favorite team. The chatter begins about whether this year’s team is up to the future challenges against strong opponents. We fret about records, players’ abilities, and playoff possibilities. Additionally, we worry about maintaining our recruiting prowess.  

In the end, none of this stuff matters. A game in no way should determine any of our moods, futures, or outlooks on life. The sun will come up tomorrow; the same serious problems will await our attention. The time is now that we put games in their proper places. If we put half the effort of our supporting games into solving the problems of the nation and world, everyone’s life would ultimately be better.  

DISAPPOINTMENT

 As usual, I’ve looked forward to summer since the first day of fall. The warmer days and longer nights just make me feel more alive, younger. Anything that can turn me that delusional usually is illegal, but summer weather is just the best. Of course, bad stuff has a way of ruining the fun. 

This spring, what I call early summer, has been marred by too much rain. At the same time, tornadoes have cut deadly trails through cities in “Tornado Alley” and the usual places, but at the same time, twisters also have hit in the northeast and even in atypical places like California. My work schedule at the golf course has been goofed up as well. Some days, I’ve driven to the course and arrived by 5:30 a.m., only to be sent home when the rain begins before I hop on the mower. On too many other days, the downpours held off until I was at the farthest point from the shop. By the time I reached a dry place, everything I had on was as wet as a bathing suit.  

Our pool opened late this year due to the cool weather. To my surprise, the weather has made the water feel the same temperature as that in the mountain streams. On a couple of occasions, I’ve “manned up” enough to take the plunge. The water felt fine after my lips turned blue and the feelings left my feet and hands. The mid-80's are preferable for most of us old guys to swim, but I prefer the 90’s on the days I swim.  

Amy and I spent a few days in Houston. Our “adopted son” Josh Fritts has lived there for 18 years with his wife and two children. This was our first trip to see them, we had a good time. The worst part was driving from the airport and across downtown Houston to Josh’s home 40 miles away. The Houston Airport is a construction mess and a security checkpoint nightmare. Arriving home was a relief. 

The worst event so far this summer has been my third bout of covid. It hit like a ton of bricks. The chills were so bad that my muscles were sore from the shivering and shaking. They hit a couple of times, but the elevated temperatures were the worst of all. I kept a temperature of about 102, and on one occasion the number reached 104. Most people remember the worst part of covid is the tiredness that sets in and stays for days. I’m still working through that and hope to have enough energy to return to Planet Fitness next week.  

I still am a fan of summer. The weather predictions are for the 90’s in the coming days. I won’t have to wear a jacket to work for a while, and I can refresh myself with a quick swim. As for illnesses, I hope no others decide to visit; I’d like to take a few day trips with Amy and our dog Sadie. I sure don’t mind sweating; in fact, I prefer sweating over cold hands and feet any time. I want to take advantage of every day of summer. 

SUMMER ISN'T COOPERATING

 As usual, I’ve looked forward to summer since the first day of fall. The warmer days and longer nights just make me feel more alive, younger. Anything that can turn me that delusional usually is illegal, but summer weather is just the best. Of course, bad stuff has a way of ruining the fun. 

This spring, what I call early summer, has been marred by too much rain. At the same time, tornadoes have cut deadly trails through cities in “Tornado Alley” and the usual places, but at the same time, twisters also have hit in the northeast and even in atypical places like California. My work schedule at the golf course has been goofed up as well. Some days, I’ve driven to the course and arrived by 5:30 a.m., only to be sent home when the rain begins before I hop on the mower. On too many other days, the downpours held off until I was at the farthest point from the shop. By the time I reached a dry place, everything I had on was as wet as a bathing suit.  

Our pool opened late this year due to the cool weather. To my surprise, the weather has made the water feel the same temperature as that in the mountain streams. On a couple of occasions, I’ve “manned up” enough to take the plunge. The water felt fine after my lips turned blue and the feelings left my feet and hands. The mid-80's are preferable for most of us old guys to swim, but I prefer the 90’s on the days I swim.  

Amy and I spent a few days in Houston. Our “adopted son” Josh Fritts has lived there for 18 years with his wife and two children. This was our first trip to see them, we had a good time. The worst part was driving from the airport and across downtown Houston to Josh’s home 40 miles away. The Houston Airport is a construction mess and a security checkpoint nightmare. Arriving home was a relief. 

The worst event so far this summer has been my third bout of covid. It hit like a ton of bricks. The chills were so bad that my muscles were sore from the shivering and shaking. They hit a couple of times, but the elevated temperatures were the worst of all. I kept a temperature of about 102, and on one occasion the number reached 104. Most people remember the worst part of covid is the tiredness that sets in and stays for days. I’m still working through that and hope to have enough energy to return to Planet Fitness next week.  

I still am a fan of summer. The weather predictions are for the 90’s in the coming days. I won’t have to wear a jacket to work for a while, and I can refresh myself with a quick swim. As for illnesses, I hope no others decide to visit; I’d like to take a few day trips with Amy and our dog Sadie. I sure don’t mind sweating; in fact, I prefer sweating over cold hands and feet any time. I want to take advantage of every day of summer. 

I'M GONING TO MISS HIM

 Today is May 23. I just received a telephone call to inform me that my cousin had passed. Right at this moment, I don’t feel much of anything. In fact, it’s hard to believe that the man is gone.  

Charles (Charlie) Quinton Balch might have been the smartest person I’ve ever known. As a child, he drew pictures that were far more detailed than anything other young’uns created. He drew all sorts of cars and trucks. Some were standard vehicles, but some were developed in his mind and then came to life on paper. Those cars were sleek, futuristic autos that had a variety of gadgets, many of which became standard equipment on future vehicles.  

At an early age, Charlie freehanded calligraphy. It came naturally to him, and he would write out things that we wanted with ease. He’d tell us that calligraphy was easy to produce, not in a bragging way but as a way to be self-deprecating.  

He began his first job at Mercer’s TV Shop. The owner realized how intelligent Charlie was and knew that some male attention would do the boy good. His parents had tough times, and Charlie could escape some of the drama by spending Saturdays at the shop. He learned to fix televisions and radios. He put his skills to work by fixing sets and radios for friends and family. 

My uncle asked Mother if Charlie could live with us for a time. Mother already had two boys in high school, but she said “yes,” and Charlie moved in for the next year. He fit in perfectly, just like another brother. He and I both were grounded for bad grades; neither of us had a girlfriend; and our lives were spent sitting at home with nothing to do since the television and stereo were both off limits during our terms of confinement.  

Charlie and I spent weekends together after finally achieving freedom. We ran the roads between the Copper Kettle on Western Avenue and other drive-in restaurants in Knoxville. It was at that point that we also began drinking some beer. Charlie had taken classes in printing at Fulton before coming to our house, and he mastered the art of making fake drivers’ licenses. We pooled money, although Charlie’s job gave him more than I had, and bought the suds that we drank. Most of the time, we went to a drive-in movie, and while the windows of other vehicles fogged from passionate necking, ours stayed down as we listened to the sound of empty beer cans clinking on the gravels.   

After high school, Charlie and I went in different directions. I made my way to Cookeville for college, and he stayed in Knoxville and worked for a local printing company. It was during that time that I received a call one evening with news that Charlie had been in an accident. His car left the road and slammed through a wooden fence. Charlie lost an eye and suffered several fractures to his facial bones. He never let on to it, but I suspect that the wreck was the beginning of a downward spiral. He didn’t much care to associate with me when I was home, and his love of beer grew. I suppose he was an alcoholic, but I never once saw him incapacitated by his beer consumption.  

In the last few years, I rarely heard from Charlie and saw him even less. I kept up with him via Facebook. After putting in some time at a marble quarry, he’d become the maintenance man for a site in Townsend. That place closed according to one of his posts, and he became a “jack-of-all-trades.” Customers loved him and found him to be one of the funniest persons in their lives. The man had a knack for ingratiating himself to whomever he was associating.  

Charlie Balch is gone. That harsh fact is difficult to accept, even though we haven’t been close in years. I know he could have been considered a brilliant person according to I.Q. and other assessment tests. The truth is that Charlie was a modern-day Henry David Thoreau. He chose to live a life of simplicity and freedom. He lived his life on his own terms as an adult. Perhaps he once again showed the rest of us just how smart he was. I wish Charlie had had just a little more time to enjoy retirement and to settle into his old age. I’m going to miss him.