Miles – Page 3 – Jeffrey Griffin

Good Friday

A difficult day. It’s not fun. It’s not joyful. Movies and sidewalk chalk and cupcake decorating are out-of-place. The darkest day in the history of ever.

I know what’s coming, but…

Children don’t really understand. Maybe, they do. Kinda. Sorta. Not really.

I didn’t.

School is always out on Good Friday. Whether the school calendar said so, didn’t really matter. At least, not to my mother.

“We won’t be going to school on Good Friday. It’s not a school day.”

And so, Margaret and Jeffrey Griffin never ever went to school on Good Friday. I have news for the world. Jeffrey, Sophia and Miles Griffin will never ever go to school on Good Friday. That ain’t gonna happen.

Somewhere along the way, the people at Maple Springs United Methodist thought is was a good idea to have a Good Friday service.

Great. Another church service. I was less than excited. Friday lunchtime. A handful of people sat in the sanctuary. The preacher did his thing. We sang slow, boring hymns. It didn’t last long, maybe thirty minutes.

The altar and the cross were draped in black cloth.

For me, the best part was lunch in the fellowship hall after the service. Pat Craver served grilled cheese sandwiches. Elinor Starling made vegetable soup.

The Good Friday service at Maple Springs continued for years. A lot of years. It might be happening right now. I don’t know.

Eventually, I started to understand. I noticed nobody smiled during the Good Friday service.

I tried to say something mature and wise. “Y’all know, He’s gonna rise. The Good Guy wins.”

I should have been quiet.

Sometimes, it is impossible to look past the loss. The grief is overwhelming.

Mel Gibson made the movie. “The Passion Of the Christ.” Alright. The world was paying attention.

Somebody at church thought we should gather in Craven Hall and watch the movie on the big screen. Good Friday night. Well, fine.

Are we gonna have soup and grilled cheese for dinner, too?

I had no idea. Preachers have a way of painting pretty pictures with words. Nothing I had ever heard or read or sang had prepared me for what I saw.

Are we really capable of such?

I’d always thought the crucifixion was brutal, but I had not visualized the pain. The agony. The rejection. The guilt.

Nobody smiled that night.

It finally made sense. All those noontime Friday services on Reynolda Road.

It’s not a show. I’m not being dramatic. Good Friday is hard. I don’t pick. I don’t laugh. We don’t play games.

I hurt. It takes a Herculean effort to climb out of the bed and be even minimally pleasant with my family.

I relive every harsh word I’ve spoken. Every ill thought. Every flash of anger. Every poor choice. Every betrayal.

How is this a good day?

“Y’all know, He’s gonna rise. The Good Guy wins.”

Hush, Jeffrey. Hush.

The Power Of Inclusion (The 5th of 5)

Some people won’t like this. Oh, well. See your therapist.

I have enormous respect for the basketball program in Chapel Hill. Carolina. Excellence is not easy. It requires hard work and a bit of good fortune. In necessitates the right people in the right place at the right time doing the right thing. That seldom happens.

Frank McGuire. Dean Smith. Bill Guthridge. Roy Williams.

Longevity at the highest level is rare. The pedigree of the Tar Heel hardwood is unparalleled.

Beyond the wins and the championships… Carolina basketball is all about family. The boys in baby blue look after each other. I admire the loyalty. It’s painfully obvious to the rest of us, who peek in from the outside.

Inclusion. Part five of five. This is it. The final story. I’ve written about church and church again. The ACC Tournament. One lost soul. And now…

Family.

Growing up, I didn’t have a big family. I’m not bitter. I feel sorry for those people obligated to attend a family reunion of 50. Or more. Yuck. I cannot imagine. No thanks. I’ll pass.

Beyond Vikki and Sophia and Miles and a few chosen others… my family is as it has almost always been.

Gretchen. Uncle Larry. Terry. John. Summer Enrichment. Summer school. There are others, too, of course. But, these are the big four. Four of the biggest. The brightest. The best.

Every summer of my life. People talk about it, but it’s impossible to fully understand without having lived it. These supremely gifted individuals defined my existence. They refined my perspective. As much as, and likely more so than, any array of hearts and minds found in any universe, these souls are collectively responsible for who I am.

My mother always said Gretchen’s loyalty was unmatched. “We could call Gretchen in the middle of the night and ask her to bring Krispy Kreme doughnuts to church, and she would.” Gretch joined the Summer Enrichment family when she was barely a grownup. She was immediately “good.” She grew into brilliance. And smart… The good Lord knows, Gretchen knows more about everything than almost everybody. She is the person I trust most in the world. She has never ever been less than honest with me.

Uncle Larry. My mama and Larry found each other at North Forsyth and remained together until, well, forever. I love my Uncle Larry. I LOVE my Uncle Larry. He’s not really my uncle, but that was never the point. The superintendent’s office called North one day for clarification, because (unbeknownst to the rest of the world) there was a running argument as to whether Maggie and Larry were really brother and sister. Larry was the best man at my wedding. Any artistic flair or vision or whatever it might be that dwells within my soul is primarily a result of the hours I spent standing beside him, trying to see what he saw.

Terry. He was not one of the “originals” at Summer Enrichment, but he was the missing piece that, once present, elevated everything from outrageously fantastic to freakin’ ridiculous. He is, without question, the finest musician I know. His music is not his own. I wish I could explain it. No mortal is that good. God chose Terry. The artistry flows from his heart. I wish I could be as good at anything as Terry is at everything. His passion for doing the best we can do is unbelievable. When my school children ask, “Why do you think we can do this?” Terry is the answer.

And John. He didn’t do Summer School “forever.” He slayed other dragons and conquered other realms. John has always been a part of my life. We played football. We clogged. We acted goofy in choir practice. We talked about girls and eventually women. He may, or may not, have provided me with an adult beverage before I was of age. John was the source of much of the fun in my life.

This was my family. They cheered me. Challenged me. Provoked me. Disciplined me. Trusted me. Taught me. Loved me.

More than anything, they loved me. They gave me every chance to be good. Sometimes, we were great.

It wasn’t only me. Along with my mama, they gave thousands of kids the chance to be good. They created a family that did the impossible year after year after year. All of us belonged.

Margaret liked some kids more than others. Gretchen would deal with some. Terry claimed the rest. For the most part, the summer school kids (the smart ones, anyway) didn’t mess with Uncle Larry. John loved everybody, except that one guy with all the bandanas…

We were included. Everybody. The shows were invariably good. Occasionally, there was unrivaled excellence.

The orphans from ANNIE. The last number in 42^ND STREET. Kids flying amid indoor fireworks with BARNUM. THE SOUND OF MUSIC cast was spectacular from top to bottom.

The moments were unending. Some people (a LOT, actually) were unforgettable. Michael. Candace. Tony. Mary.

My brothers and sisters. My family.

The power of inclusion. Ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Longevity. Pedigree.

The right people in the right place at the right time doing the right thing.

Summer School was, and these people are, the source of much of the good in my life. I miss it, terribly.

I yearn to find my own Gretchen and Uncle Larry and Terry and John. I hope to discover another collection of artistry and brilliance for another generation.

“A rope made from three strands of cord is not easily broken.” – Ecclesiastes 4:12

I wish, for the world, that you each may know the joy that comes from being intentionally included. It is powerful. Jesus knew it. I know it. I hope you find it.

You are loved. Amen.

The Power Of Inclusion (The 3rd of 5)

I held no aspiration to be an announcer. Ever. It was about as far from my top ten life goals as imaginable.

Medical school. A pediatric neurologist. “Here I am, to save the day!” A doctor with a cape. I liked the image.

Law school. An attorney specializing in cases involving children and teenagers. I may have watched too much MATLOCK as a kid.

So much for life plans. I landed in the world of theatre and music. It was fun. I wasn’t bad. Applause is addictive.

Radio and public speaking. Wake Forest called. The voice of the Demon Deacons.

My mother was excited. She wanted me to be the announcer for the Dallas Cowboys. I don’t think it had anything to do with me. She wanted tickets to see the Dallas Cowboys.

I composed a bucket list.

As a child, Saturday mornings were reserved for the Fintstones, Scooby-Doo and SOUL TRAIN. Don Cornelius was the man.

Number one on the bucket list? I want to be the announcer for the opening segment of SOUL TRAIN, whenever it returns to network television. (I am certain it will return.) I’d resort to blackmail and other immoral acts to get that job.

Number two. The stadium announcer for the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympic games. I’m holding onto hope for 2028 in Los Angeles.

Number three. The ACC tournament. It’s the best college basketball tournament in America. I believe it’s better than the Final Four. I grew up watching the games during school on that fateful Friday in March. For me, it is the pinnacle of sports announcing.

A few years ago, somebody from the ACC called Wake Forest University and asked for my telephone number. I got a warning call from an anonymous source in the athletic department.

Sure enough, my cell phone soon rang. It was the Atlantic Coast Conference. “We’re looking for an announcer for the tournament and we’ve been to games in Winston-Salem. We also know you’re busy, so we’re concerned about your availability.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. Yes, I’m interested. Yes, I’m willing. And my availability is to be wherever you need me, whenever you need me. How can I help?”

A dream come true. Literally. I was excited. My feet hardly touched the ground in the days leading to the end of the regular season.

It wasn’t the Dallas Cowboys, but, short of SOUL TRAIN and the Olympics, this was IT.

The ACC folks were incredibly kind. And prepared. And patient. And encouraging. It was a world-class experience. I had lunch with Phil Ford on the first day.

Gary Strickland and Dan Collins took me to the post-game media room at the hotel. I couldn’t believe I was in the room with all those famous people. They called me by name. The director from ESPN wanted to meet and talk about the introductions for the championship game.

Another year in Greensboro and another tournament. There is nothing like the big show. They asked me to announce the tournament in Washington D.C. the following season.

“Yes. Of course.”

The ACC people were the best. I wrote thank you notes after each tournament. They wrote back. I may not be the best public address announcer in the world. I make a mistake every now and then. But, I try. I do the best I can. My goal is to be the finest announcer in the world every time I sit behind a microphone. Nobody expects more than I expect of myself, and I’m nearly impossible to please.

Off to Brooklyn. “We have to use the arena announcer due to the union, so we don’t need you in New York.”

It was hard to hear, but, it is what it is. I was sad.

Two years later, the ACC headed to Charlotte. “We’re going to use the Hornets staff.” O.K.

“Do you need me to work in the media room? Anything?”

“No. We’ve got it covered, but thank you.”

2020. Back to Greensboro. I’ve had the tournament marked on my calendar for a year. I hadn’t messed up. I’m not high-maintenance. Greensboro is right down the road.

Not a word. Silence. I reached out. “I’m available if y’all need me. I would love to be a part of the tournament. I’ll do anything to help.” No response.

As I understand it, the league hired a professional wrestling announcer from Charlotte to help call the games.

Yes. I am heart-broken.

To have never had it and never know what it is like is one thing. To have been the voice at center court and lose it is something else.

It’s a ballgame, but it is so much more to me. I don’t collect a big paycheck. I have earned no title. I’m a man. I’m not the greatest at anything. At the end of my life, I wish my children could say, “Our daddy was the best…” something. Anything.

For a while, I thought I would retire after 30 years of calling the ACC tournament. Sophia and Miles will be able to tell their children about the family legend on Tobacco Road.

So much for that. I watch the games on television because I can’t afford a book of tickets.

The failure is mine. Included. Excluded. Looking in from the outside.

“They will say, ‘You started building, but could not finish the job.’” – Luke 14:30

I am left to wonder how, or when, I was uninvited from the nation’s premiere college basketball tournament. It’s not easy to find out you aren’t good enough.

A friend said, “You can’t take it personally.”

Well, I do.

I could not finish the job. I doubt SOUL TRAIN executives or the Los Angeles Olympic committee will call, either. It would be nice. Maybe I can take Miles to see the Cowboys. Maybe.

The Power Of Inclusion (The 2nd of 5)

Vikki and I left the church of my youth. Don’t think it was easy. It wasn’t.

For people who have worked on a musical or played a season in any sport… remember the morning after it ended. The first day there was no rehearsal after spending three months of every waking moment singing and dancing. The first realization there are no more practices after preparing and competing together. It’s over.

Now – multiply that indefinable moment of recognition 30 times. If you haven’t lived it, comprehension is an impossibility.

Parents console. Friends commiserate. Directors stop and breathe. Coaches look to the next season.

The rest of us are left to balance fond memories with the ache of solitary confinement. Self-inflicted or not, it’s hard.

So, we left. I had no desire to go anywhere. I was done. My wife felt differently. We visited. Here. There. Everywhere. Over the course of twelve months, we visited nearly 100 churches. Sunday morning. (Twice.) Sunday evening. Wednesday night. The occasional Saturday. Offerings during Monday lunch and Thursday afternoon. Every denomination. Big. Small. In-between. Traditional. Contemporary. Blended.

Mrs. Griffin liked a few. I liked none. We finally found a place I thought I could tolerate. We returned for the Sunday night service. A well-intended usher stopped me at the door. “You’re welcome to stay, but, so long as you know, tonight’s service is for people 35 and younger.”

I smiled. “Got it. Thank you.” I took Vikki’s hand and we proceeded to walk in.

The usher followed us. “I mean, you might be uncomfortable. It’s a service for young people.”

I could feel Vikki’s grip tighten as I spoke, “Just so you know… God doesn’t have an age requirement. Nor a dress code. He likes everybody.” I thought my illustration was clear. Apparently, it was not.

“Well, like I said, you’re welcome to stay, but it really is for people younger than you.”

Well. Damn. I looked at my wife and apologized. We headed for the door. Another, more seasoned church member chased us down in the parking lot.

The second effort was commendable, but the damage had been done. “We gone.”

I was officially done with church. I’d had it.

A dear friend suggested we bring Sophia to the Harvest Celebration at Center Grove Baptist Church in Clemmons. Lewisville. Somewhere in between. Out there.

It was cool. Lots of people. Tons of candy. Food and drinks. They invited us to return on Sunday. We went.

I loved the choir. David Newman, one my mother’s all-time favorites, sang a solo. The preacher could preach. We kept going.

Lifegroups are big at Center Grove. For the uninformed, lifegroups are the latest reincarnation of Sunday School classes. I’m not a Sunday School person. I enjoyed Ruby Cocklin’s 5^th/6^th grade class at Maple Springs, but everything that followed was, well, less than scintillating.

We found a lifegroup. We made friends. Dinners on Wednesday nights. We decorated our car for Trunk-Or-Treat at the next Harvest Celebration. We wore ugly sweaters at the lifegroup Christmas party.

I’ve always felt enormous pity for folks that spend their life going from church-to-church, always finding a reason to complain and never fully investing in the life of the church.

Church is not a noun. Church is a verb. Vikki. Sophia. Miles. Jeffrey. All in. Our church home.

As unlikely as it sounds, Center Grove did not have a music ministry for children. I was astonished. I was pretty vocal about my belief that children should absolutely, positively, without a doubt, be involved in a church choir as early and as often as possible.

They scheduled a meeting. I went to the music store and got several demo packs of children’s Christmas programs. “We could do this or that or… I really like this one! Or we could write our own.”

The church leadership decided we should do a children’s Christmas program. I was delighted. I offered to help. I mean, really, I’m not a stranger to Christmas programs. Especially children’s programs.

I got the first notice… “Jeffrey, we appreciate your willingness to serve, but you cannot help in the children’s ministry until you are baptized. In Jesus’ name…”

“I’ve been baptized.”

“Sprinkled or immersion?”

“I was sprinkled.”

“The church doesn’t recognize the baptism unless you go under.”

“So, I have to get dunked to teach songs to children?”

“There is more to it than that, but, yes.”

I met with multiple church leaders to share my testimony and convince them of my heart for service. I went to class. Four classes, actually. The day arrived and, with Sophia and Miles watching, the preacher put me under in a hot tub on the front lawn at Center Grove Baptist.

Praise the Lord. It was fine. I don’t think it hurts to be baptized twice but I was, and remain, convicted on the premise that once is enough.

The second notice arrived…

“Jeffrey, congratulations on your baptism! We are happy for you and we’ll be praying for you. Again, we appreciate your willingness to serve in the children’s ministry, but we have a church member that is familiar with how-to-do a children’s program and we think it would be best if you watched this time around, so you can learn how to do a program. In Jesus’ name…”

I wasn’t thrilled. Leave it at that.

Vikki got dunked as a kid, so she was immediately eligible to work on Wednesday nights. They put her right to work. Sound and lights.

The first Wednesday night. The person who was supposed to “lead” didn’t show up. I was sitting in the corner. About 200 kids looking around, on the verge of going bat-crazy. My wife started walking in my direction with “that” look.

“Jeffrey, get up and teach those children.”

“Nope.”

“Jeffrey! Stand up and teach those children. Sophia and Miles are out there. You wanted this. I don’t know how to do it. Don’t be difficult.”

“No. They told me I’m supposed to watch so I can ‘learn how to do a program.’ It’s not my problem. Call somebody else.”

Vikki Griffin isn’t often angry. With anybody. Especially me.

I hollered after her as she stomped back to her sound board, “And I don’t have the music.”

A music book promptly sailed past my head.

60 minutes later, we had learned four measures. I was hot. The children were roaring. My wife was speaking and we were on our way to a Christmas program that saw about 250 kids leading in worship.

I wanted to continue. I made the plea. “Children’s choir every Wednesday night. We have the momentum. We should do it now. Don’t wait. The kids are excited.”

For the record, I firmly believe when a kid grows up singing JESUS LOVES ME and DO LORD and WHO BUILT THE ARK, that is the bedrock of faith that will sustain them when they are faced with the opportunities to buy a nickel bag or bully the new kid or face-down depression in the darkened corner of a dorm room.

This – THIS – is what the church should be teaching our children. Jesus loves you. Yes. Yes. Yes.

A third notice…

“Jeffrey, thank you for your assistance helping lead our children in worship during the Christmas season. We have decided to continue our Wednesday nights for kids with an emphasis on service and missions. There will not be any additional music rehearsals. In Jesus’ name…”

Alright. It was nice while it lasted. One and done. It wasn’t right, but I was not going to be “that guy,” always finding something about which to complain.

Our lifegroup was good. Good people. Great people, but a change was blowin’ in the wind. The leader of our lifegroup succumbed to brain cancer. We sat together at the funeral. A sad day. We prayed. We sang. We prayed some more.

Eventually, I started helping lead the lifegroup. Prayer time. Teaching. The group kept growing. New folks joined. I was concerned we were losing some of the “old folks.” (As in… some of the lifegroup members that had been around for a while and were uncharacteristically absent far too often.)

Monday morning, one of the church leaders called my cell phone. The conversation would inevitably be good or bad. Might as well find out now.

“Jeffrey, it has come to our attention that you used an inappropriate word while teaching the lifegroup yesterday.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I guess it’s possible. I might have said something I should not have said. What did I say?”

“You used the word, ‘boobs.’”

I had to stifle my laughter. “Boobs? When did I say ‘boobs?’ That’s right, I did. I absolutely said ‘boobs.’ I don’t understand the fuss. Everybody’s got ‘em. We’ve all seen ‘em. God made ‘em.”

In hindsight, I should have said less in that conversation.

I vividly recall the moment. The lifegroup was talking about gender and church leadership. I made the statement: “If Sophia Griffin came home and said, ‘Daddy, I want to be a preacher,’ it would be a terrible thing to look at her and say, ‘I’m sorry, baby, you can’t be a preacher because you have boobs.’”

Somebody was offended. Oh well. Somebody is always offended. I’m offended that they’re offended. How offensive.

It was the last time I was asked to teach the lifegroup. I didn’t receive official notification, but it felt like a formal suspension.

A few weeks later, a member of the lifegroup criticized the Pope. I was offended. I spoke up in defense of the leader of the Catholic church. To be a protestant, I’m a very good Catholic. We spend every Christmas Eve with the Pope during the NBC broadcast of midnight mass from the Vatican.

People let details get in the way of worship. We’re on the same team.

Needless to say, that didn’t go over well. Another reprimand.

The dynamic of the lifegroup was changing. It was less and less about sharing life. From where I sat, it was becoming a group that acted in accordance with whatever social activities were calendared by those in charge.

I was not allowed to bring Sophia and Miles to a children’s outing for lifegroup families because “it really is a time for the kids to play while the mothers get together. You would be uncomfortable.”

The men in the group seemed destined to spend time together only if it had something to do with shooting or racing or camping. I don’t shoot things. I know even less about racing. And camping? Hahahahahahahaha.

Vikki flies most weekends. She repeatedly asked if we could get together and do something on a weeknight. One of the newest-self-proclaimed lifegroup leaders responded, “Vikki, this is convenient for most of us. If your schedule changes, let us know.”

My wife cried. I was angry. The last straw. (Almost.)

The same lifegroup member that incorrectly diagnosed my comfort level during the children’s outing and subsequently told my wife to “let us know” approached us Sunday morning.

“Vikki, Jeffrey, we’re planning a bowling party for the group and we were thinking that y’all could introduce us like Pat Sajak and Vanna White on WHEEL OF FORTUNE! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Vikki looked stricken. I said, “No. We don’t work for free and you probably can’t afford us.”

“Oh. We thought it would be neat to be introduced…”

In the weeks that followed, we said little, if anything, during lifegroup. It had become painfully obvious we didn’t belong. We didn’t fit in. Sophia and Miles sensed something was not quite right, but they didn’t know what questions to ask.

One of the best, if not the best, developments of our adventure at Center Grove is my friendship with Emmett. My best friend. I love Emmett. He is irreverently outspoken. Ridiculously smart. Wildly funny. He is passionate about two things: Jesus and family. The man will do whatever needs to be done. He is one of the heroes of my life.

Emmett and I talked about the lifegroup. A lot. The next best step was obvious. We met with the church leadership. We asked for permission to create a new lifegroup. We said nothing negative about the current group. Not a word. There was no reason to whine or complain.

“The church is growing. We think another lifegroup would be helpful. It is becoming increasingly difficult to stay connected with individuals due to the sheer size of the class roster.”

One of Emmett’s jobs is teaching. The man has a master’s degree. He’s an ordained minister.

Then, of course, you have me. I am what I am. Husband. Father. Teacher. Musician. Worship leader. User of inappropriate words.

A saint and a sinner.

Together, we’re actually pretty good.

We submitted the required paperwork. The church leadership said our request would be reviewed and they would “be in touch.”

Emmett and I felt good. We were excited. We went to dinner and argued over hush puppies.

A few days later… An email arrived.

“Emmett, Jeffrey, thank you for your willingness to serve in a lifegroup but, after prayerful consideration, the church cannot grant your request to establish and lead a new lifegroup. In Jesus’ name…”

I quit reading. Emmett reached out, “Why?”

“Well, Emmett, we feel it would be inappropriate for two men to lead a lifegroup if their wives cannot be present.”

“So… Jeffrey’s wife is a flight attendant and works weekends. My wife teaches in the children’s ministry. And because they are working and volunteering, we can’t lead a lifegroup?”

“Correct.”

We talked. Emmett and I chose to remain quiet. We don’t believe in arguing in church.

“They became so angry that they got up and threw him out of town. They dragged him to the edge of the cliff on which the town was built, because they wanted to throw him down from there. But Jesus slipped through the crowd and got away.” – Luke 4:29-30

There is nothing quite like being out of the club. I never went back. Vikki, Sophia and Miles finished the school year. We slipped away, unnoticed.

Out is one thing, but we weren’t even missed. Guess I’ll stay at home and watch Pat and Vanna. That’ll be fun…

Redemption

We have two children. A girl and a boy.

One is decidedly independent and passionate about her ability to do anything and everything. Irish temperament and Italian attitude. One day… she will be Queen.

The other is deeply compassionate and notable in his ability and willingness to see the big picture. Faith and laughter guide the way. One day… he will be King.

It was more than a tad surprising when we received an email from the boy’s second-grade teacher about his behavior.

Most parents would have washed away the offense with the customary “Boys will be boys.”

Nope. Not us. We don’t roll like that.

We talked. Mostly, I talked. He listened. He accepted the consequences of his choices. He apologized to the class. He apologized to the teacher. All was well.

Two weeks later. Another email. Another outburst. The teacher was rightfully concerned for his well-being.

“He is spending too much time with another student who makes poor choices and I think that child may be a negative influence. But, you said you wanted to know if anything else happens…”

Miles is responsible for Miles. No excuses. Discipline and accountability happen at home. “We’ll take care of this tonight.”

More consequences. A few tears. His rear-end was tender. The point was clear. “If it happens again, this will happen and this will happen and this will happen. Do you have any questions?”

He fell asleep on my chest after the heaves subsided.

The next week. A phone call. “Miles said something ugly in art class…”

I left school. “I’m going to get my son.” The drive to Vienna Elementary School was longer than I expected. I checked in at the office and headed toward the lunch room.

The look on his face was nothing less than sheer terror when he turned the corner and ran into my legs.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“My behavior?”

“Get your stuff and say goodbye to your teacher.”

His head tilted with that confused-dog look.

“I told you last time… you are not allowed to stay in school if you cannot be a good person and act responsibly. Your time here is done. Say goodbye.”

He gathered his belongings, hugged his teacher and followed me to the car.

It wasn’t the best afternoon of his life.

Everything in me wanted to rewind the day and give him a do-over. But, better to have the conversation now than to wait until he is fifteen and realize I am too late.

I drove to the police station for a sidewalk conversation about responsibility and consequences. We circled the block housing the jail in downtown Winston-Salem. Off to the prison on Cherry Street for a lasting image of felons playing basketball. Our last stop was the Juvenile Detention Center on Shattalon Drive. I drove to the gate, stopped our car and opened his door.

“The choice is yours. I know you can, but will you behave? Will you speak respectfully? You are responsible for you. There is not a next time. This is unacceptable and it will not continue. Are you going in or are we going home?”

The boy I love more than life sat in the front seat and sobbed uncontrollably. The lesson learned.

We went home. Vikki was standing at the door. Our son had cried so much he could hardly walk into the house.

“Beyond Scared Straight: The Griffin Experience.”

“You will write a letter of apology to your teacher and the class. You will wash the tables in the art room. You will not be a ball boy at anymore Wake Forest games this season. You will not participate in Weed Whackers. The television and every electronic-anything are gone. Don’t ask. And you are officially done with basketball at West Central for this year. You have let down your teammates. Due to the choices you made, they will have to play without you.”

And a spanking.

He had no more tears to shed.

It was the worst afternoon of my life.

Miles fell asleep. I cried and cried and cried. Vikki and Sophia ate dinner alone.

“Boys will be boys” is crap. Parenting is not always trips to Tweetsie and Halloween candy.

A boy who behaves inappropriately and speaks disrespectfully and consistently makes poor choices will grow to be a man that does the exact same thing.

He returned to school. He called the basketball office at Wake and resigned from his ball boy responsibilities. He called his coach at WCCC and explained why he could not return. He watched me delete the Weed Whacker registration from our computer. Eventually, the television and the other electronics were reinstated. The art tables were cleaned. The apology notes were delivered.

He did not have any more contact with the “negative influence” at school. Vikki and I talked with his teacher almost every day.

The boy got it together. He did everything we asked him to do. His attitude was, and is, spectacular.

He asked for another chance to be a Wake Forest ball boy. He asked for another opportunity to play basketball at West Central.

Fair enough. He earned it.

The Deacons welcomed him back with open arms. He was drafted to play on the Cavaliers at WCCC. (And for the curious, he is three weeks into Weed Whackers field hockey camp at Kentner Stadium.)

Miles sorely missed the post-season tournament at West Central last year. It was a bitter day, knowing his friends and teammates were battling on the hardwood and he could not participate.

This is another year. The Cavs finished in third place during the regular season. They would have to win three games in eight days to claim the tournament title.

First round: the 6^th seeded Yellow Jackets. It wasn’t particularly traumatic nor dramatic. A win. Survive and advance.

Second round: the 2^nd seeded Deacons. Semi-finals. The teams split during the regular season. Miles hit the game winner in overtime in the second match-up. Another close one, but Cavs win again.

Third round: the number 1 seed (and undefeated) Wolfpack. Championship Saturday. Due to winter weather, they had only played once during the regular season and the Cavs got trounced the first time around. The margin was somewhere around 30. I tried to forget as quickly as possible.

The Wolfpack is good. Much of the time, they’re great.

As normal, Miles was assigned to defend one of the best players in red. He had his hands full.

The game plan was easily apparent. The Pack had decided they were not going to let Miles play his regular game. He was pressed, pushed, double-teamed, blocked, trapped and harassed from baseline to baseline.

The boy could not score. Driving to the basket was not an option. He would have to find another way to help the team.

Rebound. Make the pass. Get on the floor. Talk. Encourage your teammates. Play defense.

Boy, did he. He battled every second. He sustained an elbow injury and a knee injury. During the 4^th quarter, while he was trying to not limp and could not straighten his left elbow, I asked him if he needed to come out. He waved me off with a Rocky Balboa-esque glare, determined to finish the fight. He finished the game in tears.

With some help from his friends, Miles held “the other guy” to two points. One basket.

20-19. Cavs won. It wasn’t Miles and the Pips. The team won.

Charlie converted an incredible jump shot. Nate dived out of bounds while trying to save the ball. Ethan made buckets in transition. Josh was a hawk on the ball. Evan was never out of position. Max chased down loose balls. Jordan provided help defense. Mason made his second free throw of the season. And Colin – dominated down low and nailed the winning free throw.

A glorious Saturday. The big trophy. Medals.

He congratulated the Wolfpack players and sprinted across the court. I caught him in mid-air and we hugged a hug that only fathers and sons can hug. One of the best moments of my life.

I kept thinking about that long trip to Vienna and the consequences that cost my son so much.

He could have given up. He accepted the responsibility. He washed the tables in the art room. He found a way.

Miles found redemption. Any man can.

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.

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.