Category: 2020-February

I detest losing. It’s a work in progress, but I make every effort to set aside my uber-competitiveness in deference to the more ideologically uplifting and redemptive qualities of competition.

Teamwork. Respect. Responsibility. Effort. Fun.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

That’s nice. Now, kick butt and win. Trophies (and sprinkles) are for winners. The champs.

My mother and I agreed about a great many things. We differed when it came to losing. She routinely pointed out that there is no shame in finishing second. I invariably countered her supposition. “Second place means you’re the first loser.”

My grandmother was in the Jeffrey camp for this multi-generational debate. I heard Blanche say it more than once. “Why win by ten if you can win by twenty?”

Nowadays, I’m a father. Sophia and Miles. I cannot build everything on winning and losing.

When Miles winds up on the floor during a basketball game, which happens A LOT, the daddy in me wants to pick him up and push his hair out of his eyes. The man in me wants to shout, “Get up! Hold on to the ball!”

Hhhmmm. I wish I could tell you I’ve found a balance between the two. I wish.

Losing sucks. Don’t like it? Work harder. Sweat more. Practice.

Sophia is playing her first year of organized basketball. I’m not exactly sure what “organized” means, but I’ve heard plenty of people say it on television. I’m borrowing the phrase.

I’m of the firm belief that if you can play in the Griffin driveway, you can play anywhere. There are no fouls in our league. A scrape here and there. Some pushing and shoving. Occasional finger pointing. Plenty of trash talking. A few tears. And no pity. Dad-O is 6’3” and 320 pounds. Eventually, Sophia and Miles will win. Today ain’t that day.

Sophia played for the Yellow Jackets this year. She is not THE player on the team.

Not the tallest. Not the quickest. Not the strongest. Not the best shooter. Not the best ball handler.

She works the hardest. She gives enormous effort. She does not quit. She will not give up.

Sophia Griffin has made extraordinary improvement from the beginning of the season to the end of the season. She plays terrific defense. Typically, she is assigned to guard the best player on the other team. On more than one occasion, I have heard opposing players yell at my daughter. “You can’t guard me that close!”

“Yes, you can. Don’t give up. Don’t let her have the ball.”

The girl is tough. She has taken more than her share of elbows this season. We had to buy a mouth guard.

The conversation during the car ride home after the game has never included the phrase, “She was bigger than me.”

If the West Central Community Center Winter Basketball League gave a MOST IMPROVED award, I think Sophia’s effort would merit serious consideration.

As it happens, the Yellow Jackets won the regular season. Our team. The number one seed for the post-season tournament. The girls gave up two field goals in the second half of the regular season finale to clinch the top spot. It was impressive.

Way. To. Go. Proud of y’all.

I looked at the playoff bracket. I was immediately concerned. Sophia’s team was scheduled to play the 8^th seed. The Seminoles. Winless on the year.

I heard my mother saying, “They’re due to win one eventually.”

Sophia sounded incredulous. “They haven’t won a game all year? We’ve got this.”

I knew we were in trouble. I preached all week. I prayed.

I never pray to win. My mama said that was being selfish. Alright, mother. I prayed that Sophia and the Yellow Jackets would “do the best they can do.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“You can win any game and you can lose any game. Sophia, you have to work harder than you’ve worked all season. Go after every rebound. Get your butt on the floor for every ball. Don’t give up. Drive them crazy with defense. You can do it.”

Vikki joined the conversation. “Sophia, they have nothing to lose. They are going to give it everything.”

The Griffin children trotted to the driveway for practice.

Vikki said to me, “You know… that really, really, really tall girl plays for the Seminoles. She is big.”

Vikki’s description couldn’t have been more accurate. She was tall. Really, really, really tall. Big.

The first half was close. Closer than I wanted, but we had the lead at the break.

I pulled our bouncing baby girl aside for a conversation during halftime. It was direct, honest and far enough away that her mother couldn’t hear us.

What was said will remain between father and daughter. Sophia nodded and popped in her mouth piece. She was brewing. Few things are more powerful than a determined woman.

Sophia tangled with the Tall One time and time again. She was easily a foot taller than our daughter. Probably a foot and a half. Really. The tallest kid in the league and it’s not even close.

I’ll say this, Sophia gave as good as she got. The Tall One ended up on the floor wrestling with Sophia more than once.

The second half didn’t go quite so well. It happens. The Yellow Jackets missed layup after layup after layup. We missed every free throw. Really.

The first victory of the year for the Seminoles. The top-seeded Yellow Jackets were done.

Shake hands. Pick up your basketball. Go home.

The tears rolled.

That’s a heavy lesson to learn at the ripe old age of ten. The rankings don’t matter. The seeds mean nothing. You can win any game. You can lose any game.

You have to earn it. Every time.

I opened her door and she climbed into the back seat. “You cry because it matters. Nothing wrong with that. Anything worth having, matters. Make up your mind. Are you gonna give up or are you going to play next year?”

The love of my life looked up, her face wet with the disappointment of failure and said, “I have to decide now?”

“Yes. Right now. Is this how you finish or will you try again?”

“I’ll play again.”

Yes, you will, Sophia, Yes, you will.

Losing sucks.

The youth group at Maple Springs United Methodist Church went to the beach every summer. Myrtle Beach.

Jack Hughes drove the bus. Miriam Wilkins cooked all the meals. Elinor Heermans was the Director of Christian Education and responsible for everything else.

It was neat. Not the greatest experience of my youth, but it wasn’t a week at prison camp, either.

Except for the one night Elinor and Jack and Miriam took us to the Pavilion and the Magic Attic.

Well, I’m not a Myrtle Beach guy. I like the beach. Seashells. Sand castles. The absence of neon lights. Lengthy UNO games. Myrtle Beach? Not so much.

For an overweight teenager, without a girlfriend, the Magic Attic was the most depressing destination one could find. A nightclub for kids. The beautiful people flocked to the dance floor and flirted with strangers.

For me, it was a four-hour prison sentence, each hour served consecutively.

Ever since, any notion of love and romance has conjured the desolate feelings of isolation and loneliness I first encountered at the Magic Attic.

During high school, Valentine’s Day was sweet, but I couldn’t help but succumb to the inevitable envy that boiled up whenever I saw “those couples” exchanging teddy bears and roses and Hallmark cards.

Marriage changes a lot of things. Love letters give way to grocery lists. Romantic getaways are rescheduled to accommodate piano lessons and basketball practice.

For Jeffrey Griffin… marriage emphatically altered my perception of the day. I was no longer condemned to an evening of solitary confinement. Vikki loves me. I’m the man. Her guy. King of the world. No matter what I do, we’ll fall asleep between flannel sheets and the world is fine.

Better than fine, actually. We do flowers and balloons and dinner. We enjoy the romance. We like each other. Vikki no longer says, “You don’t have to go crazy.” She knows I will, anyway. And I don’t feel obliged to hit a home run with every gift. My wife enjoys construction paper and glitter as much as I like the Pandora box from the jewelry store.

There is comfort in our familiarity. There is an intimacy I cherish. Our bond is sealed. It gives us the freedom to fall short. Grace gives us the capacity to forgive and the commitment to try again.

We’re in a good place.

Sophia and Miles. I want the Valentines of their childhood to take on ethereal majesty. I’m not so naïve as to think a father’s kiss and a mother’s hug can fill the void when a boy or girl long for the affection of another. But, I try to create a memory of all-encompassing love for our children.

Today. Vikki and Sophia and Miles. The loves of my life. The day of love.

Also… today is February 14th. My mama died two years ago, today. Valentine’s night.

I’m torn. I’m not ready. Unprepared.

How do I reconcile mourning the loss of Margaret, a woman whose legacy has taken on near-mythical proportions, with my desire to woo my wife and show my children what genuine love looks like?

Should I cry? That would throw water on the fires of passion. Should I laugh and play? That would be disrespectful of the memory.

It’s a rare moment for me. I’m uncertain how to proceed.

I should do better than a dollar store balloon and Walmart candy.

Now, it’s a different kind of day.

I still have a few hours. I’ll think of something.

Sophia is ten. Miles is nine.

I think that’s right. I don’t know. It seems like we celebrate birthdays all the time. Until further notice, they’re ten and nine.

They play basketball at West Central Community Center. It’s a fun place. The concession stand has good food. Really. Surprisingly fine cuisine for a youth basketball league in the metropolis of Pfafftown.

The league is competitive. Parents volunteer as coaches and scorekeepers. It’s a family environment. Lots of sponsorship banners hanging on the walls and from the rafters.

It works. The teams are assigned names from ACC squads. Tar Heels. Deacons. Tigers. And on and on and on.

Sophia is a Yellow Jacket. Miles is a Cavalier. Cool.

It’s a relatively small gym. Bleachers on one side. It is what it needs to be.

The crowd is typically quiet. Suspiciously reflective. Especially, especially, when the ball is in play and precious seconds are ticking off the clock.

Come on people. It’s a ballgame. Be loud. Let’s get – a little bit rowdy, R – O – W (hand clap) D-Y!

“We got spirit, yes we do. We got spirit, how ‘bout you?”

I’m the disruptive one at WCCC. Everybody knows it. I’m loud.

I can’t help it. I’m Margaret’s son. Vikki’s husband. Dad-O to Sophia and Miles. Catherine and Emmett are our best friends. Our family and our circle do “loud” really, really well. It’s a gift.

From my days as the Viking at North Forsyth, I’ve taken great pride in my ability to cause a ruckus in any gym, during any game.

It’s accurate to say that 90% of everything I holler and bellow is encouraging. Uplifting. Meaningful.

I implore Miles to make the pass. I remind Sophia to play defense. Get on the floor. Rebound the ball. Everybody guard. Box out. You can do it. Don’t give up. Keep trying.

I don’t second-guess the coach. I leave that to others.

Occasionally, I’ll bellyache about a call, but it’s not a frequent occurrence.

Who argues with referees in a youth league game? That takes a jackass.

I hope for that which every coach and every parent hope. When it comes to officiating, that is.

Consistency. Fairness. Let the kids play. Keep them safe.

That’s it. Nothing more. I don’t think that is too much to ask.

Well…

WCCC is home to several officials, but there is one in particular. I’m not a fan. He is wildly inconsistent.

One week, dribbling is essentially optional. The next week, he’ll blow the whistle fifteen times for traveling. In the first half.

One week, there will be no fouls for moving screens and the next week, the coach will have to shuffle the lineup thanks to foul trouble.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also a youth league. Make the obvious calls. Let the children play. He invariably stops the game to lecture third-graders about the technicalities of “freedom of movement” and inbounding the ball.

In Miles’ division, you cannot guard your opponent, or attempt to steal the ball, until the ball is in the front court. (Past the mid-court line for you football people.)

The Cavaliers were down three. Miles waited until his counterpart crossed the line, picked his pocket and took off for an uncontested layup.

A whistle. Technical foul on number four for guarding in the backcourt. Miles wears jersey #4.

I couldn’t contain myself.

“Miles, do it again. You were absolutely right. Do it again.”

Seven seconds later, the whistle blew. Again. Personal foul. Number four.

The official turned and glared at me. Miles was at least twenty feet from the play. Ridiculous. Vindictive.

In retrospect, I should have been quiet. I wasn’t.

“Miles, don’t sweat it. He called that one on me. Keep playing. You’re fine.”

The Cavaliers got pounded the rest of the way. There was no comeback. Oh well. We lost.

I don’t worry, and I don’t want Sophia and Miles to worry, about missed shots or losses. So what? It happens. Keep playing. Work hard. Be a great teammate. Don’t quit. Listen to the coach. All that stuff.

We never-ever-ever talk about missed shots. It is what it is. We don’t dwell on losing.

“Did you do everything you could do to help the team? Did you hustle? Did you thank your coach?”

We practice three things in the driveway.

1. Rebound.
2. Play defense.
3. Make the pass.

Everything else will work out. We’re also big on the whole “be a great teammate” thing. Enjoy the game.

It’s not as complicated as fans and commentators make it out to be.

During one of Sophia’s recent games, Vikki and I (in our customary spot on the front row) were talking about husband-wife stuff. A private conversation.

My least-favorite official ever was standing next to me, preparing to hand the ball to a kid so the game could resume.

He held onto the ball, looked down at me and said, “I’ve had enough of you.”

Surely he wasn’t speaking to me, was he?

He said it again, staring straight into my eyes.

“I’ve had enough of you.”

“Alright. I heard you the first time, I’ve had enough of you, too.”

“I’m serious. I’ve had enough of you.”

Awkward pause. Uncomfortable silence.

I guess he doesn’t like my vocal enthusiasm. I don’t like his random interruptions. We’re even.

Consistency. Fairness. Let the kids play. Keep them safe.

The last two weeks, the Cavaliers and the Yellow Jackets have found their mojo. Both teams are peaking. It’s starting to come together. The post-season tournament looms in the not-too-distant future.

Back to the man in prison stripes. He has apparently decided to stop calling anything except the most egregious fouls and jump balls (his favorite violation.)

Herein lies the problem, when kids start to ignore the rules and proceed recklessly without the benefit of common sense, injuries happen. Players get hurt.

I think it is imperative for the adults in charge to make sure kids don’t harm other kids. Coaches can only do so much. The officials are responsible for what happens on the floor.

Two weeks ago. Sophia’s team. A Yellow Jacket was knocked down multiple times. Hard. She was in tears. It happened repeatedly. I fully expected her daddy to make his presence known. I was irritated. She was finally carried off the floor and watched the end of the game from her seat on the end of the bench.

No whistles. No fouls. The score didn’t matter. I don’t know if we won or lost.

Last week. Sophia’s team. Same official. Close game. Two more Yellow Jackets pushed down from behind. Injured.

I’m not blaming the other players. They were trying to get the ball. It was wrong, but understandable.

No whistle. No foul. Another child carried off the court. She sobbed in her father’s arms until the game clock read 00:00.

The official wandered to the far end of the court while players scheduled for the next game started warming up.

I walked toward Sophia, gathering my thoughts for our traditional post-game father-daughter moment.

Sophia is tough. Hard-nosed. Strong-willed. A steel magnolia. Like her mama. Like her grandmother.

The tears caught my attention. It’s not like her to cry after a game.

“Sophia.”

She looked up. A bloody lip.

“When did this happen?”

“At the end.”

I had missed it. One thing was certain, I hadn’t heard another whistle. There was no foul.

I knew better than to approach the official, who bears a striking resemblance to Captain Merrill Stubing from THE LOVE BOAT.

I walked to the scorer’s table. A league representative was sitting there. I didn’t say what I wanted to say. I said what I needed to say to make the point.

Consistency. Fairness. Let the kids play. Keep them safe.

Sophia’s coach was nearby. I pointed to the coach and spoke to league rep, “You know, that whole wrong call or right call, consistent or inconsistent, fair or unfair, winning or losing – those are all his problems. He can handle those things.

But when we have players carried off the floor in consecutive weeks due to injuries that could have been prevented, that’s your problem.

My daughter’s busted lip is my problem.

He’ll deal with his and I’ll deal with mine. You need to deal with your problem. And it’s standing down there in stripes, holding a whistle.”

Consistency. Fairness. Let the kids play. Keep them safe.

I’ve had enough of him.

Vikki and I chose the “Surprise!” option. We waited, sometimes patiently, sometimes impatiently, for the arrival of our bouncing baby to be determined. It was a girl. Sophia. On Father’s Day, no less. The ultimate gift.

The second time around, we went the other way. 18 months later, we knew. We had photographic evidence. Miles was on the way. A boy.

A matched set. One of each.

I was immediately planning tea parties and trips to the Big Apple, during which we would take our daughter, clad in the traditional red velvet Christmas dress with white tights and black, patent-leather shoes, to attend the NUTCRACKER at New York City Ballet.

I bought a football. I wanted to play catch in the snow with my son the day we brought him home. Miles and Daddy. Father and Son. Me and him. He and I. The men. I couldn’t wait. I know Super Bowl tickets are expensive, but we have to go. I’ll buy him a beer. I don’t care if he is 21 or not. I think any boy attending the Super Bowl with his father ought to be able to have a beer. Anything less is un-American.

I read every book I could find about parenting. Dr. Spock. James Dobson. Even Max Lucado. Surely he has published something about being a daddy.

Guess what I discovered? There is no manual. You have to live it. Advice is egregiously overrated and frequently unnecessary.

Alright. I’ll find my way.

What kind of example do I want to set for our daughter and our son? Hhhmmm.

“Be twice as good as your daddy and half as good as your mama and you’ll be great.”

I said it. A lot. But I quickly realized there had to be something more.

“Maxim.” A wonderfully inappropriate magazine. For men. I had a subscription. Beautiful women on the cover. Irreverent writing. Humor. Alcohol. Sports. Sex. Clothes. (I was, and remain, curious about what skinny guys wear and how big boys might find the same options in grownup sizes.)

Sophia was sleeping in the crib at the foot of our bed. I looked up from the latest issue and realized I didn’t want my daughter to think my love for her was dependent on her ability to look like the women in “Maxim.”

I dialed the 800 number and canceled my subscription. I walked to the bathroom, gathered the stack of unread issues and tossed everything into the trash can.

Good for me. I didn’t want to be “that guy.” This is my last chance to be a hero. I want to be Mr. Incredible. A beginning.

Miles… THIS is the NFL. (Say it in your best James Earl Jones voice.) Football. I started explaining everything. “We’re for the Panthers. Your Nannie loved the Cowboys. Your mother doesn’t care. John Rushton played for the Dolphins.” There was SO much I wanted to tell him.

He threw a block at me and laughed.

Oh, son. I can’t wait to share this with you.

Greg Hardy. A defensive end with Carolina. Arrested on charges of domestic violence.

Wow. The franchise did not, in my view, respond quickly nor emphatically.

Was this the kind of example I wanted to set for my son? You can beat a woman and keep your million-dollar job because you’re a professional athlete.

Nope. No way. No how. I was disappointed.

I made the declaration, “The people in this house are not watching NFL games this year. We’re protesting. There are plenty of people without felony arrests or convictions that would love to play pro football. Why don’t they hire some of those guys?”

Sophia was dancing in the living room. Miles was practicing with his Harry Potter wand. Vikki asked me to help set the table.

Well, so much for that.

“Were y’all listening? We’re done with the NFL for this year!”

“Fine. Wingardium leviosa. Daddy, do you like my dance?”

I put my Julius Peppers jersey in storage and the season passed.

The Panthers traded Greg Hardy to Dallas. Linebacker Thomas Davis was named the NFL’s Walter Payton Man Of the Year. I listened to his acceptance speech. Davis spoke of character and responsibility and community.

Bravo. I bought Miles a Luke Kuechly jersey. My protest shriveled to an unexpectedly quiet ending. NFL games are back in the rotation.

“Miles, come here. Let’s watch. Do you think they’ll run or pass? What would you do?”

Sophia was not as enamored with the spectacle as her baby brother. “Will Wake play the Panthers?”

“No. Honey. Two different leagues. Come here, let’s watch.”

“Daddy, we need to practice our dance…”

“We will. I promise.”

I spent the rest of the game twirling and dipping in the kitchen and visiting the couch to explain why going for it on 4^th and 23 from your own 18 is probably a bad idea.

Good times.

The Super Bowl. Kansas City and San Francisco. I don’t care about either team, really.  February 2. My birthday.

The plan: Go to church. Come home. Eat. Take a nap. Get snacks and food and drinks and all that good stuff. Settle in for an evening of commercials and entertainment and football.

The National Football League has always presented itself as family entertainment. Howard Cosell to Carrie Underwood. Mean Joe Green to Peyton Manning. Up With People to Michael Jackson.

The league NEEDS fathers and sons to watch the games together. The league is built upon little kids wearing jerseys who will eventually grow into big kids wearing jerseys.

The Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders have been the standard of dance groups, spirit squads and cheer teams for decades.

The rivalries. The coaches. The fans. The commentators. The traditions.

Contrary to popular opinion, football is America’s game.

Legends. Villains. Heroes. Stories. Modern day gladiators.

Whitney Houston’s rendition of THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER is one of the most memorable performances of any song, at any time, in any place.

So…

Jennifer Lopez and Shakira. Again, I don’t care. Not really.

It happened. I’ve watched and read the post-performance proclamations from near and far.

“I hope I can move like that when I’m 50. They’re sluts. Hips don’t lie. That was un-Christian. If you don’t like it, don’t let your children watch.”

Alright. Enough with the ugly words. Everybody stop.

Don’t blame J Lo and Shakira. They did what they were asked to do. Fair enough.

Beautiful people? Absolutely.

Talented? Yes.

Energy level off the charts? No question.

Technically, the show bordered on perfection.

Here is my problem…

Did the NFL put a price tag on its integrity? Was that performance appropriate for families? What kind of example have we set when everything is for sale?

How much did Pepsi pay for right to sponsor the halftime show? $25 million? $50 million? I don’t know. I hope it was worth it.

I would offer no objection if that performance took place six nights a week in Vegas.

If Vikki and Sophia and Miles were not a part of my life and I was watching the big game with “the guys…” Sure. I’d probably think an impure thought or two and express my gratitude for 65 inch 4K televisions.

You want sex appeal? Who doesn’t? Tina Turner is ridiculously sexy and I’ve never been embarrassed to sit beside my wife and watch Miss Turner perform PROUD MARY.

One of the first rules of the stage: If a woman wants to be seductive, cover it up.

I don’t want it if they’re giving it away for free.

Fact is, Vikki, Sophia and Miles are my life. I’m a father. And a husband. I am responsible for what my children see (and say and do and everything else.)

I am responsible for teaching a little girl that she doesn’t have to shake what the good Lord gave her to earn the respect, affection and devotion of a man.

I am responsible for teaching a little boy that he should value faith. Intellect. Common sense. Compassion. Honesty. Loyalty.

Son, there is so much more to a woman than boobs and butt.

I don’t want our children to identify the strength of a woman by counting the number of pelvic thrusts completed in four minutes.

I don’t want our children to define ladylike behavior as that of spinning on a stripper pole.

Thrust your pelvis any which way you want, with whomever you want. That’s your business. It worked for Elvis. He was fully dressed, too.

Mount a pole in your bedroom and make your husband’s wildest fantasy come true.

Not a problem.

When the National Football League, one of the world’s largest and most consistent producers of family entertainment, brings a performance targeted at an adult audience and plants it in my living room… that is a problem.

I object.

I fully expected Sophia to start duplicating the gyrations before the second half kickoff. Miles said, “Dad-O, I think her boobs are gonna fly out if she’s not careful.”

“Me, too, son. Me too.”

Closing the electrifying performances with a stage full of kids? Seriously? Come on, now. I’m about as free-spirited and open-minded as they come. That was a bit much.

The line wasn’t crossed, it was obliterated. The National Football League got what it wanted.

Dear NFL, will you let my children, be children? We don’t have them for long. The world wants our babies to be grown long before we wish to let them go. Innocence is fleeting.

You can’t have it both ways. The NFL is family entertainment, or it isn’t. Don’t publish stories about Patrick Mahomes’ faith and couple it with a halftime performance that was anything but G-rated.

Which is it? Make your choice.

Sophia and Miles are watching.