Jeffrey Griffin

Losing Sucks

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.

February 14th

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.

The Official

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.

Rebound.
Play defense.
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.

The NFL

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.

1979

Some folks are alarmed and distressed when faced with the arrival of a birthday ending in zero. Not me. This was a big one. 5. 0.

The people around me were near frantic. Should we have a party? A surprise trip? What do you want? What shall we do?

Everybody… calm down.

I like birthdays. I like my birthday. It’s a relatively simple process. We’ll eat at home. Hamburgers. French fries. The homemade kind. Fried, not baked. Cooked onions. Cottage cheese with a cherry on top. Birthday cake from Harris Teeter. A quarter sheet cake. White cake. White butter cream icing with roses in any color.

Gifts are fun, but unnecessary. We’ll sing. We’ll play.

As a child, I never had a birthday party. Not in the way we think of birthday parties nowadays, anyway. It was family.

Courtney Craver tried to plan a birthday party for me before she married Michael. It didn’t work. My mother had a conniption. Thankfully, I missed the moment. Courtney cried and my mother was angry.

Y’all. Y’all. Y’all.

I tried to explain to my mother. It was useless.

I’ll forever and ever and ever love Courtney for that moment. It was the only birthday party I almost had.

Anyway. Bring on 50. It’s time I started getting discounts for navigating half a century. I’m ready.

This whole annual festivity preparation set me to thinking. 1979.

I was nine years-old. Groundhog Day. February 2^nd. A Tuesday.

I rode the bus from Old Town Elementary to North Forsyth.

The kids were practicing the musical in what is now Griffin Auditorium. Mrs. Trotter was leading the rehearsal. I walked in the back door and the cast began to sing, “Happy Birthday to you…”

That was neat.

“Your mama is in her room.”

I bolted for Room 150. Right next to the gym. I crashed through door. Mama was practicing with a handful of kids while Trotter had everybody else on the stage.

“Go next door. Leon wants to see you.”

Next door meant the gym. Leon meant Leon Williams. Number 14. My favorite North Forsyth basketball player. Ever. I loved Leon. Leon loved me.

It was not uncommon for me to cry if the Vikings fell behind on the hardwood. It was equally likely that Leon would “accidentally” throw the ball into the stands wherever we were sitting. He would jump into the bleachers, pat me on the head and say, “Jeffrey, don’t cry. We got this. Don’t worry.” And off he would go.

The coach was Olon Shuler. He was never happy when Leon tossed the ball into the stands. It didn’t matter. Most of the time, with rare exception, Leon and company did got this. North won. All the time. That team never learned how to lose.

I loved that team. That team loved me. I went to LOTS of their practices. Coach Shuler would occasionally call my name at the end of practice.

“Jeffrey, come here. One shot. If Jeffrey makes it, practice is over. If he misses, y’all run.”

I invariably missed. I couldn’t shoot then. I can’t shoot now. Shuler knew I was unlikely to make contact with the backboard.

Every player on the North Forsyth varsity basketball team did everything they could to teach me how to shoot the ball. It didn’t stick. I felt bad for them. They ran countless sprints thanks to me. I like to think I helped them win games by increasing their stamina in late-game situations. It’s the little things.

I peeked in the gym. The team was waiting. It was Tuesday. I was ready for the game. North and Page. In Greensboro. I could hardly wait for Mama to get done with practice so we could pick up Nannie and Virginia, eat dinner and get on the road. I was bouncing off the walls.

Leon called my name, “Jeffrey!” I ran into the arms of my hero. He had a basketball. It said, “TEAM – 1979.”

Everybody had signed the ball. Leon. Coach Shuler. Mike Muse. Walter Faye. Mike King. Bobby Kimbrough. Elmer Davis. The ball was mine. The best birthday present. Ever.

“Tonight is for you. This is your game. We’re gonna win this one for you. We got this.”

I was beyond excited. It was Christmas and Disney and birthday cake, all at the same time. I think the players sang.

Dinner happened. Nannie and Virginia got in the car. We headed for Alma Pinnix Drive in Greensboro, home of the Page Pirates.

The game was close. North was down three. Less than a minute to play. Leon got fouled. Somebody hollered, “Timeout!” His mama climbed out of the stands, stood behind Leon in the huddle and rubbed his shoulders while Coach Shuler drew a play on the floor with a piece of chalk. (He would rub the chalk away with his wingtip dress shoes as the players returned to the court.)

I was in tears. It was loud.

The referee handed Leon the ball, “Two shots.” The first shot bounced off the back of the rim, sailed straight up five feet into the air and dropped through the basket.

Down two. “One shot.” The second free throw hit nothing but net. Down one.

Page inbounded the ball. Leon went to the floor. A Page player jumped on top of him. There was a pile of humanity. It got louder. Fans hollering. Coaches waving. Whistles blowing. Leon came up with the ball. The official said, “Jump ball.”

Jump balls in 1979 were not what jump balls are today. None of that alternating possession stuff. The two players fighting for possession would literally jump for the ball at center court.

I don’t know who it was, but the Page player looked to be at least twelve feet tall. And Leon. We had no chance. Everybody knew it. Everybody except Leon, that is. It got real, real loud.

Leon and Shrek jumped. The Page player tipped the ball to a streaking teammate, who found himself all alone with nothing but air between the Pirates and victory. The crowd roared.

10. 9. 8.

The Page player went up for the coronation dunk. My cheeks were wet with tears. This was my game.

I couldn’t hear the ball bounce. The last moments unfolded in slow motion.

7. 6. 5.

The giant in a Pirate uniform missed. The ball clanked off the back of the rim. Mike King collected the rebound near mid-court.

4. 3.

The final pass to Walter Faye, standing underneath the goal.

2. 1.

Dunk. Horn. Vikings win. One point.

The North side rushed the floor. The Page side stood in silence. My mama would not let me join the fracas on the court.

Leon found me. “Happy Birthday! I told you, we got this! Love you.”

Love you, too, Leon Williams.

The best birthday present. Ever.

Common Sense

Before the teacher left the room, she would choose one kid to be “in charge.” That child, which was rarely me, all too often found purpose and meaning in life by scribbling every possible name on the blackboard, along with an infinite supply of check marks. It was an admirable effort to thoroughly document every inappropriate word, deed and thought.

The experience tainted my perception of the universe. I’m not a big believer in rules. They are what they are. The people in charge get to be “in charge.” Good for them.

I’m enamored with the idea of common sense and good judgment. We have few rules at home. Very few. I implement a handful of expectations in my classroom. In every moment, I hope the children in my charge will do the right thing.

That said…

Some rules should be broken. There are consequences, of course, for every choice.

I asked Sophia and Miles this morning, “What’s more important: doing the right thing or following the rules?”

They looked at each other and delivered the unison response, “Doing the right thing?” Their answer lingered in the air, full of uncertainty.

“I agree. But, there can be consequences. People might not be your friend. Other people might talk about you. The boss might take away your job. I got kicked out of a class because I told a teacher to stop bullying another student.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I made up my mind, but I got thrown out of class. You will have to make up your mind, too. Just know there are always consequences.”

It was quiet for a while.

“I don’t think you have too much to worry about. God’s not worried. I’m not worried. Do the right thing and we’ll figure out the rest.”

That pearl of fatherly wisdom seemed to appease their concern, at least for the moment, if not the day.

Common sense.

In the early days of her teaching career, a Central Office administrator told my mother she would never get a “Superior” rating at a choral festival.

“Maggie, you let too many black kids in your chorus. They don’t have the right sound. You won’t have the point on top of the chord.”

She never got over that. She flatly refused to make kids audition for the chorus. Everybody could be in the musical. And she never-ever returned to THE choral festival in North Carolina. Anytime somebody asked, she explained, “I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me how kids should sing a song.”

Common sense permeated everything we did. Church. Summer School. Home. It didn’t have to make sense to the rest of the world, and it frequently did not. If it seemed like the right thing to do, we did it. If it didn’t, we found another way.

There were consequences. Oh well.

I’ve inherited the same sense of whatever-it-is. “Damn the torpedoes…”

I’m not a sign-reader. “Do Not Enter” is a philosophical quandary, but hardly a rule to be followed without hesitation, isn’t it?

What’s right is right and what’s wrong is wrong. People grow. People learn. People change.

My grandmother was Blanche. She ran a boarding house on College Street in Thomasville. She made and served breakfast, lunch and dinner in her kitchen and dining room for about 200 men, seven days a week. White folks in the front door. Black folks and “indians” could buy a plate at the back door.

It was the way of the world.

Time passed. Nannie (Blanche) moved to Winston-Salem and started living with us in 1982.

My mother frequently got phone calls from the Winston-Salem Police Department. The Twin City’s finest had invariably taken one of Margaret’s students into custody for something. Fighting. Driving drunk. Walking the streets. Being black.

“Ms. Griffin, this is Sargent Blah-Blah-Blah… we have one of your students in custody. He says he has nobody else to call. We’re not gonna keep him and we’ll let him go if you’ll come down here and get him. Keep him ‘til morning. You know…”

“Of course. I’ll be right there.”

She would holler at me, but I was normally already awake.

“Jeffrey, get some shoes on. We have to go down to the jail.”

Off we would go, to claim one of her children and then back home. Whoever it was would sleep on the couch. Mama would make breakfast and then we’d take him wherever he needed to go.

(The Po-Po phone calls usually came on a Friday night.)

The phone rang a few weeks after Nannie moved in. Steven was in jail. I loved Steven. My mother loved Steven. Blanche was asleep. Off to the jail. Mama signed the paper. We went home. Steven got on the couch. We went to bed.

6:00 AM. My mother was sitting on the side of my bed. She was shaking me and whispering. “Jeffrey! We have to get Steven and go. If your Nannie wakes up and finds him on the couch, she’ll have a stroke.”

Nannie’s bedroom door was still closed. Mother and son headed downstairs. The couch was empty. We walked in the kitchen. Blanche was sitting there with a cup of coffee. Steven was eating breakfast. Eggs. Biscuits. Bacon. Grits.

“Margaret, I found Steven on the couch this morning. You should have told me we had company. I would have gotten up earlier. The youngin’ is starving.”

Steven kissed my grandmother and we took him home.

What’s right is right. People grow. People learn. People change.

Common sense.

The 1995 ACC Tournament. Randolph Childress with the cross-over. 107 points in three games. The game winner against North Carolina in overtime. It was, and remains, one of the greatest tournament performances in the history of college basketball. The voting for the Most Valuable Player award was not unanimous. Randolph won the award, but somebody voted differently. One vote.

Wow.

Cooperstown. The Major League Baseball Hall Of Fame. The class of 2020. I’m not a baseball guy. The game takes too long to play and I’m impatient. I’ve been to one major league game. Yankee Stadium. The Yankees and the Mets. My grandmother said, “There are two teams in baseball. The Dodgers, and we’re for them. And the Yankees, and we’re not for them.”

That’s the way it was.

Derek Jeter. Five World Series rings. 14 All-Star selections. Five Gold Gloves. Five Silver Slugger awards. The captain of the New York Yankees. The Hall Of Fame vote was not unanimous. Jeter is in the Hall, but somebody voted differently. One vote.

Wow.

Common sense? Good judgment?

Too many black kids in the chorus. From the back door to the kitchen table. One vote.

People grow. People learn. People change. Some rules should be broken. Do the right thing, folks. Do the right thing. What’s right, is right.

The Group – Donald

I don’t know how other folks feel, or what they remember, but… I’m not fond of what I recall about myself from elementary school. A fat little kid. Poor. Some friends, but hardly the most popular. Smart, but not a part of the “GT” class. G. T. Gifted and Talented.

People picked on me every day. Every day. I was the poster child for kids who got bullied long before it became a hot topic in today’s social media circus.

I was invited to one birthday party. Roller skating. I didn’t know how to roller skate, so I watched from the side.

I was invited to one person’s house to play video games after school. It was Atari, the only video game anybody knew about at the time. (Pong had fallen out of popularity by then.) Three boys. Me and them. They played. I watched. I went home.

I played one season of little league baseball. We were terrible, but we were good. Amy Hauser, the coach’s daughter, saved us almost every Saturday morning at the Northwest Little League complex. She would hit home runs and I would stand in left field and watch. I held down the bottom of the batting order.

When my father left, I got sick every day at school. It continued for weeks. My teacher was mean. M. E. A. N. I’ll never forget sitting in the office and hearing her tell my mother on the phone, “You’re a terrible parent. You’re trying to replace his father with food and that’s why he’s so fat.”

Life at Old Town Elementary was brutal.

My mother was eventually assigned to teach a half-day at North Forsyth and a half-day at Old Richmond Elementary. (Mercifully, I had to switch schools, too.) We moved to Pfafftown. She rented a house on Seven Hills Road. Gigantic yard. Enormous. The biggest yard I’d ever seen.

Donald Marler lived on the other side of the vast expanse that sat before our house. I looked out the window the first morning and saw Donald trudging across the field carrying a bat and a glove. His younger cousin, Win, was not far behind.

“Hey. Can you come out and play?”

“Play what?”

“Baseball.”

“We don’t have enough people.”

“We’ll play rolly-bat.”

Now, it’s damn-near impossible to play rolly-bat in a field with chopped-off corn stalks dotting the territory, but play we did. The greatest game of rolly-bat ever.

So began our friendship.

My first confidant, comrade and codefendant.

My mama would beg me each morning as she left for school at North, “Jeffrey, you have to stay awake for the bus. You cannot miss school, son.”

I would be sound asleep as the bus passed our house and headed for Old Richmond. I would wake up in a panic, grab my book bag and run across the field to Donald’s house.

“Mr. Marler, Mr. Marler, I missed the bus. Will you please take me to school?”

“Don’t worry. Get in the car.”

Five minutes later he would drop me off at Old Richmond, the best elementary school in the history of the universe, so I could wrestle with the long-division monster in Mrs. Nance’s classroom.

Our friendship kicked into high gear when we were reunited at North Forsyth. Donald is almost entirely and solely responsible for the joy I discovered on the campus hidden on Shattalon Drive.

Donald completely disrupted Eloise Brown’s Spanish class when he started hollering while listening to the ACC tournament on a transistor radio hidden in the collar of his Member’s Only jacket. That was a beautiful day.

He fell out of his desk and rolled around on the floor when Mrs. McCarthy and Mrs. Moultry started to trade blows during an argument over dictionaries during a 5^th period English class. I couldn’t stop laughing.

Geometry with Sylvia Chadwick. Donald was one of her favorite victims.

“Donald, please stand and recite theorem 4.3 for the class.”

Donald always obliged.

“Theorem 4.3. For the Lord saith, ‘the most reverant pointeth shall disecteth the plain’ and it shall be so, forever and ever with the power invested in me by the city of Pfafftown, with liberty and justice for all. Amen. Member F.D.I.C.”

Germaine Lane would snicker. Mrs. Chadwick’s eyes would turn dark. I would hold myself to keep from belly-laughing, because I knew my mother would shoot me with a bazooka if she found out.

“Thank you, Donald. You may have a seat. That is all.”

“Are you sure? I can recite more, if you would like.”

“Sit down.”

Mrs. Chadwick would subsequently give up and regale us with tales about her husband’s liquid diet for the remainder of the class.

To this day, it is the only class (elementary, junior high, high school and college) during which I learned nothing beyond the value of laughter and friendship. Which is to say, of course, it was one of the greatest classes of which I have been privileged to attend. And it had nothing to do with geometry.

We performed in all the shows together. North Forsyth and Summer Enrichment. I’ve been in a lot of shows. I’ve worked on a lot of shows. I’ve seen a lot of shows. I don’t think I’ve ever said this, and it is way, way, way overdue. Donald’s role as Jacob Marley in SCROOGE may be the finest performance I’ve ever seen in a high school theatre production. It was phenomenal. A tour de force. Bravo.

Donald’s daddy passed away. I cried more for the loss of that man than I did for the loss of my own.

When my mother made the decision that was so rightfully hers and moved into Hospice, I was a bit discombobulated. Lots of people reached out. There was a seemingly endless line of visitors, telephone calls, text messages and voice mail messages. I got lost in the swell.

I picked up Sophia and Miles from school and we made the drive across town to the Kate B. Reynolds Hospice Home. We walked into Margaret’s room.

A man was standing there. Tall. Beard. I glanced at him since he was lingering near my mother’s bed.

I offered the customary John Deere-inspired-downward-head-bob greeting, “Hey.”

He smiled.

My mother looked at him and said, “He has no idea who you are.”

Well, that caught my attention. It was true. I had no idea. I looked again.

“Donald?”

The twinkling eyes gave him away. It was the only time I cried in the days before my mother’s departure.

Donald has always appeared when I needed someone most. Kinda like an angel. A ridiculously funny angel with an under-appreciated gift for sarcasm. An angel, nonetheless.

I wanted to pull him into the front yard at Hospice and make him play rolly-bat with my children.

We’ve seen each other since. Our children think of Donald as “the man with the motorcycle.”

I think of him as my oldest friend. I’m eternally grateful he made the long walk across that field on Seven Hills Road.

L’Chiam.

The Group – Jamie

Every boy needs a man. One of those men. I didn’t have one. My father was not around and most of the men in my life were artists or teachers or coaches. Which, of course, is not traditionally where one encounters one of those men.

I’ll explain.

He has rough hands. He wears the same outfit to work almost everyday. He gets his hair cut at a barbershop. He can fix stuff. He drinks a little bit. He plays cards. A man.

Jamie’s daddy was one of those men. My car (“Brunhilda” – a green, 1968 Chevrolet Nova that once belonged to my Uncle J.C.) could drive itself to Jamie’s house. I loved his father. Jerry tried and tried to teach me how to play poker. It didn’t stick.

Jerry Franklin was not a rich man in the traditional sense. Small house. Poor neighborhood. Blue-collar jobs. His wife and his children loved him. That was obvious.

Jamie was my friend. Jamie is my friend. His father never missed our shows. His father always laughed with us. His father always loved us.

It turned out, I loved Jamie. Although he never complained, I know I drove Jamie crazy. I frequently (daily) asked, “Am I your best friend? Are we best friends? Are you my best friend?” I thought it was cute at the time but now I think it was obtuse and incessant and unnecessary.

Jamie invariably answered, “Yes. Best friends.”

For whatever reason, I needed Jamie.

Our paths diverged.

One of our friends, who shall remain unnamed, appeared in my mother’s room at North Forsyth one day after school…

“Jamie called me last night. It was 3:00 AM. He said, ‘What are you doing?’ I said it’s three o’clock in the damn morning and I’m married. I’m sleeping or doing one other thing – either way, I should not be on the phone with you. What do you want?”

Turns out, Jamie called our friend to “come out.” Jamie is gay. He wanted our friend to know.

Well. I’ll never forget that afternoon in Margaret Griffin’s classroom.

Our friend wanted to know, “If Jamie is gay, does that make me gay? We’ve been in the shower together. We’ve slept in the same bed!”

My mother laughed and laughed and laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. No, you’re not gay. And I’ve always known Jamie is gay. How did you not know?”

I interrupted. “Wait, Jamie is gay? No, he’s not.”

My mother looked at me, “Jeffrey, son, where have you been?”

Alright. Jamie is gay. I waited for my phone call. My best friend. He would tell me.

The phone never rang. The week passed. Months. Indeed, years.

I was left with the notion that perhaps Jamie was angry with me. I was no longer a part of his life. Nor he, mine.

He lived in another city. I would occasionally see his sister or his mama and our conversations were always pleasant, but we never spoke of Jamie.

My life experience had led me to a place where I was firmly convicted in the belief that gay people are not bad, but they’re wrong.

I started to wonder about all I had seen, all I had heard and all I believed.

I frequently thought about Jamie. How could I dislike someone I loved so much? What is up with people hating other people?

I watched people I loved and admired condemn others because they are homosexual. Or heterosexual. Or poor. Or rich. Or old. Or young. Or disabled. Or black. Or white. Or liberal. Or conservative. Or Catholic. Or Baptist. Or Methodist. Or fat. Or skinny. Or women. Or men.

Come on, people. Really?

Every preacher is not chosen by God. That’s a shame. Righteousness is not the sole purview of the ordained.

Over time, I’ve encountered a few holy men on the way to the pulpit. Very few. Three, to be exact. Wise men.

Claude. Buzz. Jeff.

I called each of them. I asked what I wanted to ask. They answered. I listened.

I was wrong. I. Was. Wrong.

God wants us to spend a little more time loving and lot less time judging.

It brought me back to Jamie. He wasn’t angry nor embarrassed nor ashamed. Perhaps I pushed him away. Maybe I had been so grounded and steadfast in what I believed to be right, that I had made it impossible for my best friend to talk with me.

I was so ashamed. I was so disappointed in myself. I was so embarrassed my behavior. I missed my best friend.

Jamie returned to Winston-Salem. He is in “The Group.” We’ve been to the movies. We call. We text. We laugh. We talk. We’re thinking about going to the Patti LaBelle concert. I trust Sophia and Miles with him. He is a good man.

We finally had the conversation we should have had years ago. I confessed. I apologized. (And I asked for permission to write about this.)

I promise I won’t be obtuse or incessant or unnecessary.

I love Jamie. Maybe someday we’ll learn to play poker. Jerry would like that.

Best friends.

The Group – Oliver

Odd how some people can be in your circle of life so long, you don’t remember when or how you met. They’ve simply been there.

And so it goes with Oliver Helsabeck.

Was it elementary school? Junior high? Surely not. But, perhaps. (I was, and remain, so disillusioned with the whole junior high experience, I’ve repeatedly tried to eradicate it from my memory.)

Let’s share a moment of honesty. Middle school. Junior high. Whatever. It’s terrible. It sucks. It bites. (This sounds like I’m describing an unwanted encounter with Dracula.) I wouldn’t revisit the seventh or eighth grade for any amount of money. I’m not particularly fond of middle school kids, either. I realize they probably can’t help it, but how do they morph into such obtuse little people? Really. This is why parents drink and wear mismatched pajamas.

The circumstances of our meeting are lost to history. I am, however, certain our friendship was firmly cemented before we arrived at North Forsyth in the fall of 1984.

Oliver was always the most stable member of the group. The most reliable. The most responsible. The least likely to engage in irresponsible behavior or say inappropriate things.

Springtime of some year between ’85 and ’88… A party. Everybody found trouble. Everybody got busted. Parents were furious. My mother gave birth to a billy goat when I confessed I’d left Win Craft at a Wake Forest frat party on Polo Road upon my return home well after 3:00 AM.

It was memorable, but not especially pleasant. We were in the middle of a musical. My mother started grounding people to whom she was not related. It was Titanic-sized anger.

Standing in the hall between the auditorium and the courtyard, she was pointing at people and calling names. Beau (he was first.) Donald. Al. Win. Jamie. Me. Everybody was grounded.

Except Oliver. Margaret Griffin looked him squarely in the eye and said, “Oliver, I know you can’t possibly be as stupid as the rest of them. You can go.”

It was the only time Oliver abandoned the group. He walked down the hall and left us to navigate the remnants of Hurricane Magnolia.

For our senior beach trip, Oliver was the parental choice for designated driver duty. (We forced Allen Tyndall to drive a couple times, because everybody fit in the back of his truck.) Otherwise, we didn’t go anywhere if Oliver didn’t know the way.

Oliver was smart. A North Carolina Teaching Fellow.

Oliver played in the band. He spoke eloquently. He swept the stage floor before Kathryn Crosby visited our school.

Oliver Helsabeck was, by all accounts, a good kid. Oliver Helsabeck is a good man.

Somewhere along the way, our paths diverged. He went to school. He fell in love. He married Susan. He is a terrific daddy to Elizabeth.

I’m redirecting the apple cart. Elizabeth. Their bouncing baby girl. Elizabeth is incredibly talented. She does practically everything. She performs. (I think she can play every instrument in the orchestra except bassoon. And I might be misinformed about that.) The kid has got talent, talent and more talent.

***UPDATE*** God has a fabulous sense of humor. I just learned Elizabeth played bassoon in her most recent concert. Of course she did. Love it.

The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

Oliver let go and let God. He is a pastor in the United Methodist Church. He plays with the kids in the neighborhood. He feeds the hungry. He clothes the needy. He shepherds the flock. He prays. He weeps. He laughs.

He even resurrected a bee during a children’s sermon, but that’s a story for another time. Oliver does all the things I wish I was better about doing.

When “The Group” reconnected, the conversation was honest, but not always pure. The first time somebody used a grownup phrase, there was an immediate apology.

“Oliver… I’m sorry.”

It was understandable. I don’t think any of us are particularly proud of uttering one of Mike Krzyzewski’s favorite phrases in front of a preacher.

His response was swift and replete with grace.

“I loved you then and I love you now.”

Hhhmmm. I’ll give you a moment to think on that.

Quite a man.

I still think he should have been grounded with the rest of us sinners. But, quite a man.

I loved you then. I love you now.

The Group – Susi

My mother preferred boys over girls. She frequently said, “God gave me a boy, because He knew I’d throttle a girl.” Everybody would laugh and pretend like she didn’t really mean what she had just said.

Margaret meant exactly what she said.

It began with Richard Newman. Hair Bear. He was the first boy. Terry Bowman. Mike Wilson. Junior Clyburn. Zeke. And a million more. The list went on and on and on.

Girls were a bit different. Margaret didn’t like the drama. Or the trauma. The crying. The whining. The complaining. She had the patience of an eight year-old on Christmas Eve when it came to girls.

For a brief while, Margaret was the sponsor of the Valkyries. For the uneducated, the Valkyries was the dance team at North Forsyth, back when the school colors were still crimson, Columbia blue and white.

That didn’t last long. Fun times for everybody watching from a distance!

There were a few gifted, outspoken ladies who escaped her wrath and earned a seat in the inner circle.

Rose Bruscia. Ginger Edwards. Judith Tuttle. Janet Clyburn. Marsi Hellard. Kristen Dobbins. (Some of the names are different, now. Some grew up and got married. Some may be in the Witness Protection Program. I know better than to ask.)

And Susi. Susi Holladay. Susi Hamilton.

When other girls would pitch a fit and ask, “Why Susi?” My mother invariably replied, “Whatever Susi wants, Susi gets.” That response always garnered looks of disbelief from the wannabees.

Susi was brash. Beautiful. Smart. Ridiculously talented.

Boys are stupid. Not men. Boys. Girls like Susi are one in a million. (Cue the 1980 single by Larry Graham.)

Every boy that walked the halls of North Forsyth during the Susi Era, myself included, was stupid. She was the one.

Susi. Red hair. A voice like Katherine Hepburn. Looks that could have landed her on the cover of any magazine. I was smitten.

I’m not easily intimidated by women. I asked a student teacher for a date in the library at North Forsyth on her first Friday in the building. (She said, “no,” but that’s not the point.)

I’m not easily impressed. I’m rarely dazzled. Susi has impressed and bedazzled me for more than thirty years. It takes all of my bravado and self-confidence to not be intimidated when we’re together.

I instinctively knew I was not in Susi’s league. I didn’t know any guys in Susi’s league. She was, and is, in a class of her own.

As it turned out, Gretchen (our choreographer extraordinaire) chose me to be Susi’s dance partner in shows and recitals. Thank you, Gretchen. I was the envy of all of masculinity.

Beyond everything else (and there is a LOT to love and admire about Susi) she was invariably kind. She tolerated me. And Beau. And Donald. And Oliver. And Jamie.

She played with us. She ate with us. She danced with us. She hugged us. She forgave us. (Many times.) She loved us. We never wanted to fail Susi.

Our relationship is not like that of an old married couple. I love my wife. Vikki is the icing on my cake. My partner. She balances my perspective and keeps me grounded when the world spins wildly out of control.

My relationship with Susi is different. Not better. Different.

I love Susi. I trust her judgment. She is brutally honest, for which I’m eternally grateful. She doesn’t accept excuses. She challenges me to be better than I imagine. She laughs loudly. Susi is the best of the best.

Here is the difference… If I suggest an outrageous idea to Vikki, my wife will likely respond, “OK. What do we need to do?” Most men would do anything for that kind of unwavering support. I’m fortunate.

If I share the same suggestion with Susi, she will probably say, “Alright. We can’t do that. But… we can do this. I think it should be bigger and louder and faster. Can you make that happen?”

“Yes, ma’m!”

If you don’t know… Susi is the Secretary of Natural and Cultural Resources in Governor Roy Cooper’s cabinet for the great state of North Carolina. Yes – she is in line to be governor. I think, one day, she WILL be our governor.

I’m addicted to applause. I thrive in the spotlight. I like center stage. The bigger the crowd, the better.

Susi is one of the very, very few for whom I would step aside and follow. I’d put all my eggs in Susi’s basket and sleep peacefully.

Sophia is my daughter. She is the spittin’ image of her mama. In every way. Outspoken and opinionated. Italian attitude and Irish temperament. Vikki and Sophia can tangle. Maybe it’s a mother-daughter thing. I don’t know.

That said, it has become obvious that Sophia will have to learn some things the hard way. Vikki will tell her one way and Sophia will insist on trying it a different way, despite her mother’s time-tested wisdom and experience.

I don’t think Miles and I behave that way. Again – mothers and daughters.

If Sophia feels convicted that she must test everything her mother says, I am left with the hope that perhaps she will have the opportunity to watch a woman like Susi. There is no better role model for any young woman, especially one with my last name.

To be in Susi Hamilton’s inner circle is one of THE privileges of my life.

When it’s time to die, I want to go first. I don’t want to be here without my wife or my children or my friends. I hope my grandmother will be standing at the river, next to my mama and holding a piece of cantaloupe pie. And I hope Susi will be my next-door neighbor.

Susi, you are loved. Thank you for being my friend. Always loved.