Opinionated jerks? Not always

"It helps to be an opinionated jerk. It's expected of you." -- Jim Murray, on being a sports columnist

      He was one of the greatest sports columnists of our time, Jim Murray was.
      The top honor in sports journalism, however, is named the Red Smith Award, presented annually by the Associated Press Sports Editors organization. Walter "Red" Smith was its first winner, in 1981.
     Jim Murray was the second winner, in 1982. They could have reversed the order and called it the Jim Murray Award, and I suppose not many people would've objected.
     But where Red Smith -- opinionated as he was -- was known for his prose and his brilliant command of the language, and he was regarded as a class act in every way, Murray was known for his razor-sharp wit and his often unkind commentary.
     Murray was, from all accounts I've read, a humble guy without much ego. He had a lot of people fooled the way he wrote. He came off as ... an opinionated jerk. Red Smith didn't.
      We were fortunate for about a decade (mid-1960s to mid-'70s) to see their work regularly in The Shreveport Times when their columns were syndicated by The New York Times (Smith) and Los Angeles Times (Murray).  It was brilliant writing, of course, and it was a nice balance to the local copy.
      I was always more of a Red Smith guy, loved his take on things. Murray, to me, was a novelty act -- a series of one-liners. As great (and wacky) as my sense of humor is, I just never was much for a column full of that. But lots of people thought Murray's work was hilarious.
       And he was great. His columns on his blindness and on the death of his first wife were classics, as moving as anything I've read.
       Anyway, this discussion is about sports columnists -- a more narrow focus than my piece earlier this week on sportswriting in general these days.
       I've known a lot of "opinionated jerks" and I've worked with some. But many sports columnists are fine people, genteel even, and they could be critical, yet not leave people with hurt feelings.
      Some really can be jerks, intentionally slamming people, and I don't like dealing with them (nor them with me). Still, they are effective columnists. People read their stuff and talk about it -- and that's what a newspaper wants from a columnist.
       Opinionated columnists can carry a sports section; they can help sell newspapers, they provide that "edgy" factor we talked about earlier this week. No question. That's why some make big bucks, bigger than sports editors. No problem with that.
        What I've found over the years is that these people often had large egos and were terribly self-involved. They had "I" problems; they couldn't see the world outside of their own viewpoint. No opinion counted, except their own. They were absolutely convinced they were correct.
       (Having been called "condescending" repeatedly this week by a co-worker, I can identify. Obviously, I may fit into the "opinionated jerk" category at times. I'm sure I've left that feeling dozens of times over the years, and sometimes I'm guilty. Bedside manner, dealing with what I perceive as mediocrity, is not a strong suit.)
      Being a columnist, sports or otherwise, requires dealing well with criticism. I didn't have thick enough skin or enough writing confidence to be a fulltime columnist. I do admire people who have that.
       I'm also grateful to those columnists who, when a copy editor (such as me) points out something that might not be factual or expressed correctly, are appreciative of input. That is often the case ... but not always.
        Some resent any input, any correction. And their final fallback position is this, "It's my column; it's my voice; that's how I want it to read."
       Here's an example.  In the first of my 10 years at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, a columnist writing about the Dallas Cowboys quoted coach Dave Campo on something he screamed at the officials during a game. What he had Campo saying wasn't correct; I know it wasn't correct because I saw the moment first-hand. When I called the writer to voice that, he didn't want to hear it. He insisted Campo had screamed what he had written.
        I left it the way he had it. I knew it wasn't correct. I also knew I couldn't trust what the guy was writing; it wasn't the first questionable thing I had seen by him.
        He was being an opinionated jerk. In this case, he twisted reality for what he needed to make his case.
        He wasn't at the paper much longer.
        So there's a lot of opinion and there are a lot of jerks in this business. There are not a lot of Red Smith Award or Jim Murray Award winners. But we -- writers and editors -- should all strive to do the work we do with integrity, don't throw a bunch of crap out there. That's just bottom-line important.
    

It's still worth reading, but ...

(from mediaroomhub.com)

   I've thought about this for a long, long time -- almost a lifetime, really -- because sports journalism has been my business.
    Is sports journalism today better than ever? Yes, it is.
    Is sports journalism today worse than ever? Yes, it is.
    You can have it both ways, and in my opinion, we do. And let me draw a distinction right away ... I'm going to talk about the written word -- newspapers and Internet -- not spoken ones.
    That's because I am no fan of sports television -- be it play-by-play announcers, analysts, pregame/postgame analysis, newscasts (local, ESPN, whatever). More often than not I prefer to watch games without sound. To me, the announcers clutter what I'm trying to watch.
     (I will make an exception for radio announcers, especially for baseball. Maybe because that's where I started, but it's still a neat way to take in a game. Thank Irv Zeidman in Shreveport and Gene Elston of the Houston Colt 45s/Astros for that.)
     But I still love to read sports sections, and I'll read for news on the Internet. I am, however, pretty selective.
      I believe this: There are more good writers today than there have ever been; they are more versatile, more educated, they had more opportunities early in their careers; they have the advantage of a lot more technology than ever; and there are more ways to find those writers (thanks to the Internet).
      Look, I read for information and to try to stay current. I want to know what's going on with my teams. I do not read, necessarily, to be entertained.
      But this is where sports journalism has gone. Where it was once a news/facts business, the emphasis is now -- as David Humphrey, one of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram's deputy sports editors, like to say so often -- on being "edgy."
       So columnists -- and even beat writers -- jump on any controversy they can find (with Jerry Jones and Mark Cuban in the Dallas-Fort Worth market, that's easy). And while the columnists have the "in my opinion" tags on their pieces, I want to be able to form my own opinion. So put the arguments out there, but I resent the columnists who tell me what to think, who preach to me, who make it clear that their opinion is the only one that counts.
      I'm sorry, but some of the things I read are so far out there -- just for the sake of being sensational -- that they're just ridiculous.
       Don't tell me in August that the Cowboys are going to make the playoffs, period. Don't tell me that Dirk Nowitzki or Jason Kidd are washed up. Don't tell me day after day that the Rangers' starting pitching is going to be a problem (see spring training a year ago).
     Don't tell me the BCS is a sorry system (because you telling me that is a waste of my time). Don't tell me that Mark McGwire/Roger Clemens/Rafael Palmeiro, etc. will never make the Baseball Hall of Fame. You just can't know what future voters will do.
       Don't give me nicknames on every reference (Owner Jones, Cowsheep, Coach Wade, A-Fraud)   or gimmicks (the infamous Bottom Ten, interviews with fictional characters) or abbreviations at every opportunity (GP, CGP, MY, VY, RHG) or references such as Dallas Cowboys of Arlington, Hated Yankees. When I see someone referred to as "dude," I know I'm in the wrong generation.
      And I especially abhor seeing this in any form, in any section: The. Worst. Writing. Technique. Ever.
      Instant turnoff for me. End of my reading that piece.
     In summary, there's far too much "cute" in sections for my taste.
      I still see many excellent beat writers who cover their teams thoroughly, who know how to write, how to give the readers information on the everyday business of sports, who keep you up to date on one team.
     But I also see writers who can't find the best stories from a particular game, who are repetitive, who jump to conclusions, who have little substance in their copy, who don't make it very compelling to read, and who simply screw up the facts.
     And I know from being a copy editor for many, many years, that far too many writers are weak on grammar and punctuation. Unfortunately, some of that gets into the newspaper. Because I'm a copy editor, I probably see those things more critically. My wife's theory is that most readers aren't concerned with that; that it is a copy editors' thing.
      I can say that I wrote a lot of things over the years -- or edited them -- that I look back and regret, and offered some opinions that looked ill-advised afterward. So I shouldn't be too critical of today's sports journalism. It's changed, I believe, and "edgy" is in more than ever. That's not necessarily a bad thing; it's just not my thing.
  

Postseason? How about postmortem?

    With apologies to my LSU friends, and my Tennessee, TCU and UT Arlington friends, our men's basketball teams don't need to be playing tonight.

     If you are excited about being in the National Invitation Tournament (NIT) -- or in TCU's case, something called the College Basketball Invitational -- have at it. I'm not joining you.
    If a team can't play in the NCAA Tournament, it shouldn't play anymore at all. Thank you.
    LSU's goal -- or anyone else's -- should not be the NIT. That tournament, once upon a time, was played entirely (with only 12 or 14 or 16 teams) at Madison Square Garden in New York City -- the only reason it was glamorous.
    They could have quit after the 1970 tournament, which was glorious because LSU was in it (the Tigers' first postseason appearance since a Bob Pettit-led NCAA trip in 1954). That gave us four extra games in Pistol Pete Maravich's career -- and he had a spectacular Garden party.
     After that, don't know that I've ever cared much (or any) about the NIT, exception being an occasional Louisiana Tech appearance.
      So I read this Monday: There are 148 men's teams playing in the basketball postseason -- 68 in the NCAA, 32 in the NIT, 32 in the College Invitational Tournament, 16 in the College Basketball Invitational.
     Too many, way too many.
      Like the college football bowl season ... and I'd do away with about 20 of those bowl games right now. Teams with 7-5 and 6-6 records don't need to keep playing.
       The college basketball season starts far too soon, and lasts far too long. There is now a Preseason NIT and dozens of other warmup tournaments in November. I'm still footballing then, OK.
      And now we're playing basketball on several fronts deep into baseball spring training.
      Here's what else makes no sense about the NIT ... LSU is playing at Oregon tonight, UT Arlington is at Washington. Exactly how many Tigers and Mavericks fans are able to make that trip?
       Used to be, the NIT would have regional matchups in the first round. At least the organizers -- which is now an NCAA-run committee -- put Tennessee, Middle Tennessee, Savannah State and Marshall in the same pairings for the first two rounds. That's regional.
     Why not, say, LSU and UT Arlington, Oral Roberts and Ole Miss or Mississippi State together in a "pod?"
        I can even be critical of the NCAA Tournament expanding. Look, it was perfect at 64 teams. Didn't need the expansion to 65 -- the Tuesday "play-in" game -- and now it's 68, with four "play-in" games (two tonight, two Wednesday).
      The NCAA's first two full-schedule days are compelling -- the prospects of the smaller schools from the smaller conferences (Butler, Valpo, Western Kentucky, Northwestern State, etc.) knocking off one of the big names. Great stuff, great television as they roll from game to game. It's wall-to-wall basketball.
       It's almost as good in the women's tournament, but not quite. Honestly, the parity in the men's game doesn't carry over to the women. If they cut the women's NCAA field to 32 instead of 64, a lot of bad matchups would be avoided.
       Sorry if that sounds sexist. I wish there were more competitive women's teams. It's just not so.
       Anyway, if you're a college hoops fan, enjoy the games. I'm only going to watch some of them. Won't even watch LSU at Oregon live on TV tonight (Bea wants to watch the Dallas Mavericks' game, as always, and the postgame show).
       Besides, it's the NIT -- the Not Interesting Tournament.  And that's not even the CIT or the CBI ... or the CIA. Whatever.   

Reflections on Trey

    After my "Fallen Warrior" post on Feb. 10 about Henry Lee Prather III -- "Trey" -- I received several e-mails and Facebook comments. Here is a sampling:

     Bruce McMellon: "You are on the mark about Trey. When my father was buried at Arlington, I went to "The Wall", to Panel 34E, Row 24. In a way, that was more difficult than my father's funeral. Trey left behind his future on earth, and it had so much promise. We know that God is putting together a fine football team, just from Woodlawn."

    Pam Shaw White: "The last time I saw him, he came by the house a few days before he left for Vietnam.  He was driving a convertible.  He seemed happy.  Who knew we would never see again."
   
    Dr. Leonard Ponder (one of Trey's junior high coaches):  "The teacher/student and coach/player code required the teacher or coach to maintain a wall (albeit a glass wall) between the two. So I didn't know Trey nearly as well as you did. I had little personal contact with him after he left Oak Terrace so we were never able to establish an adult relationship like the one you and I enjoy. I did recognize early on what a fierce competitor he was. Joe Ferguson tended to hang his head when he made a mistake. Some saw that as a weakness, but I saw it as his method for drawing internal strength to do better the next time. Trey, on the other hand, never hung his head. He kept his head high and one could almost see his resolve to not let that particular mistake occur again. I am sure his mistakes bothered him, but he was among the best at playing in the present---not letting the last play adversely affect the next one and not getting too far ahead of himself."

     

    Anonymous: "[We] were at Trey's funeral as well. Do you remember the pastor's story about a family in Baton Rouge who named their son Trey Prather and asked for a picture of Trey to keep for their son? I had forgotten it until one afternoon I Googled 'Trey Prather' and found that son's website. It really sent chills down my spine until I remembered the burial service and the preacher's story. The information on the web would confirm that he is the baby discussed at Trey's funeral.

    "My personal view is that Trey’s death is the result of an era when (for young men of a certain age), the draft was waiting for you if you could not (or chose not to) attend college or otherwise arrange for a deferment.  ... I can’t say that I think of Trey every day, but he is often on my mind.  I visit his grave every time I visit my parents’ graves at Forest Park West. I also make a point of mentioning Terry Bradshaw’s comments about Trey at every opportunity. In short, the Vietnam “war” left its mark on our generation and on our nation and its leadership. The WHS Class of ’65 has a personal reminder of that mark, as does the class of ’64 (Glen Ogburn). ... Sorry for the disjointed comments, but 44 years just seem like the blink of an eye."

     David Worthingon: "I wanted to respond to your article about Trey Prather…'Fallen Warrior.'  I am only slightly older than Trey and remember his high school feats at Woodlawn very well. I had played quarterback at FP when Joe Geter  was QB at Woodlawn. After my five years of college, I spent three years in the Army. I had gone through Army ROTC at Northeast and took a 2nd Lt. commission upon graduating and became an officer in the Transportation Corps. My first year was in Virginia, my second year in Vietnam, and my last year in California. It was a time that impacted my life significantly.
     "Last year, here in Monroe, I was involved with a group of people that worked with our Chennault Aviation and Military Museum in bringing “The Vietnam Traveling Memorial Wall” to our town. We had it here for three days around Veterans Day. It was an awesome event, and former soldiers treated it very reverently and respectfully. I made sure to look up the name of Trey Prather. Although, I never knew him personally, I felt connected to him through following his high school career and realizing what a superb athlete he was. I sadly learned of his death and remember feeling a sense of shock and loss.
     "Thank you for remembering him through the flow of your writing. ... I am a Vietnam Vet and there will always be a part of me that will honor and remember those 'Fallen Warriors' for how they fought for the freedom of an oppressed people group. There is never any shame in the tears that remember a fallen soldier. It is an appropriate way to show them honor and respect."

     Jim Robinson: "Trey's picture in the LSU uniform hangs in the foyer of the Woodlawn High School gym. There probably aren't a handful of students or athletes currently at Woodlawn that actually know what Trey means to Woodlawn High School and Woodlawn athletics. They should have an orientation class for all students and especially athletes that teaches them about the pride that we had to be part of one of the greatest athletic departments and one of the finest schools at the time in Shreveport."

     
     Bill Smith: "When people bring up Bradshaw, I always tell them that the best was Trey Prather. Although I was just a sophomore on the team when he was there, he was always the one we looked up to."

     Deborah Valentine Collins: "I visited the memorial in Washington DC and found Trey's name and traced it onto paper. I suspect there are lots of former Knights that did the same. Everyone loved Trey."

     Joyce Williams Brown: "Deborah, I agree with you, been there and as the Platters would have said, Many a Tear Must Fall when you see something so touching as this and know the person so well that it happened to. So touching to know that your classmate loved our country enouth to give his all!!! God bless him!"

     Herman Garner: "Trey was my hero growing up. Thanks for these beautiful words."

     Earl Hebert: " I visited the 'wall' in Washington several years ago. It was an emotional experience, one everyone from our era needs to share. I made sure we visited every one of the Woodlawn graduates that gave their lives for our country. I didn't know any of them very well, but at the time it sure felt like I had."

     Gary Ferguson: "My wife and I have also seen the Wall in D.C. I think I went thru a box of tissue. Not only did I see Trey's name but I saw other friends on the Wall who I knew when I was in Nam."

    Brenda Laird: "I will never forget where I was when I heard of Trey's death."

     Elizabeth Loftin: "I once saw Terry on TV tell the audience about the best, Trey Prather. Your blog brought tears to my eyes and an ache to my heart."
     
      Barbara Shaw Clark: "A meaningful and heart rending tribute to someone I had known from 4th grade on. We weren't close, but athletes seem to become a part of all students' lives. I was the one who told Palais Royal that Trey would pose for a photo in the football program ad when I was on on the ad staff. I had no clue if he would, but if it would help me sell the ad, I was going to try. Palais Royal had never bought an ad and I wanted badly to make that deal. I didn't get to attend the service held for Trey. I was expecting my first child and was extremely ill and weak. Jerry and I have been to The Wall in D. C. It took a while for us to go. Jerry had bad memories from Vietnam he had to deal with before he could go and we had several on The Wall we knew or knew those who survived them. I ran my fingers over each name and tears fell. Thank you for bringing back memories. While they are sad and are a part of my life I wouldn't want to relive, I'm glad I have them."

  

JKey ... always our J-Man

      Late summer 1976. My relationship with Beatrice was growing. Was this the girl? Was this my future?
     I was wavering. I knew she had a 2-year-old boy; I could become an instant daddy.
     I wanted to meet him, and she brought Jason to my apartment. I opened the door and there he was, the cutest kid I'd ever seen, blond as could be, dressed in overalls, big belly, he waddled when he walked. He had a prominent dimple in his left cheek.
   Cute doesn't describe it. He was beautiful.
   He talked a little -- he could tell you he was Jason Shawn Key -- but that night what he mostly said was, "No, that's my mommy. I want my mommy. Don't touch my mommy."
     Talk about falling in love at first sight.  I've always joked that I really married Jason; Bea was just part of the package.
     Soon we were a threesome. He was sweet and animated, self-assured, a people pleaser, he behaved ... he could make you laugh with his animal sounds -- "dobble, dobble" and "ka-doo" were the best -- and his expressions such as, "Don't see me" and "forgot about it." Everywhere we went, people stopped to converse.
     I became "Nito," as when I first took him to the newspaper to visit and after about five minutes, he said, " 'Bout ready to doh, Nito?" Then I became Daddy Nito, and finally just, Daddy.
    It evolved into Dad. He was JJ at first, then at age 6, he came home from school and said he wanted to be "Jay" or "Jason." Later, when his school clothes had to be marked, his mother wrote, "JKey." So he became Jake, or the J-Man.
     He loved entertaining his Paw-Paw and Granny Shaw in Jamestown and his new Oma Ro and Opa Louis in Shreveport with his songs and his flourishes -- "tah-dah" -- and his bear-hunting in restaurants and, when deep in the woods, asking, "Are we too lost, Paw-Paw?"
     He was a good big brother to Rachel, five years younger; he was always curious, always wanting to try something new. He took to SPAR Stadium and Centenary's Gold Dome, and made them his own. He came in when I was watching games on TV and said, "Who we rooting for, Dad?"
      He began his soccer career at age 6 on a schoolyard in Hawaii. The first day his coach told his mother, "He's our franchise." He could run fast from the start, and he was naturally aggressive. He was always one of his teams' top players, though seldom the best. He just played; he didn't need motivation. Even with a maniac dad baiting referees, he kept his cool.
      He became a good junior high athlete, in football and basketball and especially track. Ran back an opening kickoff for Elm Grove Middle School for a touchdown one night with his mom, usually not demonstrative, screaming, "Go, baby, go!"

Jay as a high school senior

     He didn't do a thing the rest of the first half, and Dad -- I swear I didn't do this often -- went down at halftime and had "a little talk" with him. On the second-half kickoff, he flattened the ballcarrier. Ken Kruithof and Bobby Marlowe, who had been coaches at Parkway High but were then the Elm Grove principal and assistant principal, looked at me sitting a couple of rows away and had a big laugh.
       At Orange Park High, Jay played soccer, mostly as a defender in his junior year because of his speed and tenacity, then up front as a senior. He scored 10 goals for a team that made the Florida Class 5A state semifinals. For me, the feeling of being so involved with a team brought memories of Woodlawn 30 years earlier.
      Through the years, he went to hundreds of games with his sportswriter dad, including trips to LSU football in the early 1980s. Couldn't get him that interested in the Yankees and Cowboys, but LSU caught his attention.

The Cajun Tailgators: Jason and Ann

       Never a great reader but a conscientious student, he got plenty of help from someone in our family preparing for tests and projects. His grades were good and he thrilled us when early in his senior year, he announced he wanted to go to LSU. And he qualified, plus we got in-state tuition because his father (Jerry Key) still lived in Sulphur.
      He spent five great years at LSU, saw the Tigers bring back the magic in football and then lose it again. He graduated in 1997, immediately got a job in Dallas -- and he's been there ever since, through ups and downs in business and through a 10-year courtship with the beautiful Miss Ann, who he met early in their time at LSU.

Jacob and Kaden

      He's still as intense an LSU fan as ever -- he's attended national championship games in football and baseball, an NCAA Regional in basketball in Atlanta. He's the No. 2 guy in a plumbing construction supply firm, a do-it-all type with amazing energy and business acumen, still a people pleaser, with a great number of friends and contacts. Ann has begun her Cajun Tailgators food truck business in Dallas-Fort Worth, and Jay is all in.
       Most importantly, Ann and Jason have curly-haired Jacob, 3, and Kaden 1, two blond boys who give me a sense of deja vu of the little boy I fell in love with all those summers ago.
     Jay turns 38 today, the boy now a man with a purpose.  But he's still sweet (although a bit more cynical) and self-assured; he's still our J-Man. And the dimple remains just as prominent.
      

Matters of death, and life

   What a week this has been, the grieving and acceptance of the death of a beloved brother and brother-in-law one day, the joy of the birth of a family member the next day.
    On Monday, we drove four hours to southwest Texas -- to the Stoneham community -- for the funeral and burial of Howard Clinton Shaw Jr., who passed away Feb. 23 one week short of his 65th birthday.
    It was a sad occasion; personally, the tears came often Monday.
     On Tuesday, the word came out of Portland, Ore. -- the arrival of Max Joseph Wellen, my younger sister's first grandchild, my parents' fourth great grandchild. Happy day.

Taking Howard and the tagged casket to the final resting place.

    Happy, except I couldn't get Howard's voice out of my head that day. Back in our apartment in Fort Worth, where he had spent three days visiting with us last May, I could feel his presence all day.
     When we had arrived at his and Nance's house the day before, the loss was palpable. This was the house he had built himself, and had renovated, and had added on; he built a garage and apartment behind the main house; he had worked the land; and he had built the wraparound deck and the patio in the past couple of years.
      Going into the house, there was an abundance of food -- much supplied by the community in that Navasota/Hempstead/Stoneham area -- and an abundance of family.
      The family had held a rosary on Sunday night; we couldn't make that. It had been emotional, and there was some carryover. But the full effect of the emotions didn't hit us until we arrived at the church.
    St. Joseph's Catholic is a quaint building deep in an area with acres and acres of scorched land after last summer's wildfires. The 10-minute drive from the house to the church brought back last summer's scare when Howard and Nance twice had to abandon their house as the fires drew near.
     Beatrice, two years older than Howard (there are two younger sisters), had remained composed through the days since we learned of his death. But the sight of an open casket and four of Howard's daughters -- there were seven kids --  tearfully sitting at the edge of that casket was difficult.
     I had to turn away as Bea sobbed into an equally tearful Theresa's shoulder.
     "I had been dealing with this possibility [Howard's death] for a year," Bea said today. "I had been preparing for it. But to walk in and see where his kids were, to see their pain, it was overwhelming."
      But those kids -- those lively, loud, close-knit kids -- gave their dad a "tagged" casket. People were invited to write their final message to Howard on that casket, or draw a picture (as his  grandkids did). It was quite something.
      The ceremony in the church was beautiful. So was the graveside ceremony, just a hundred yards from the church. It included the Jewish tradition of people shoveling dirt on the lowered casket -- something Nance and Howard had first seen at my dad's funeral.

Max, with daddy Adam.

     It was difficult to say good-bye. But we all felt that we had honored Howard's life and his influence on all of us in the proper manner.
    And then it was on to the next day. Bea awakened me with the news, "The baby is here!" 
    Max, whose parents are my nephew Adam Wellen (Elsa and Jim's oldest) and his wife Tania, weighed in at a hefty 9 pounds and 5 ounces. He was born 11 days past his due date. 
    We were eager to see the photos and it took a while, but there he was, and the smile on his proud daddy's face was like the baby, a beautiful sight.
    Max is nice and round, like Howard had been.
     We're going to miss those bear hugs from Howard, but we are looking forward to holding little Max in a couple of months at his uncle Josh's wedding in Baton Rouge.
    "One soul out, one soul in" is the way Bea described it. How true.
    What a week it has been.

Just call her Pat

   In midday Aug. 22 last year, son-in-law -- Russell Smith, who is a sports talk show director/co-host in Knoxville -- sent me a text message:
     Pat Summitt has Alzheimer's.
     Stunning news. Devastating.
     Later that day, Pat made the televised announcement explaining the diagnosis she had received after a visit to the Mayo Clinic -- early onset dementia, Alzheimer's type.
     Certainly you know the story, and you know that Pat is still coach of the Tennessee Lady Vols' basketball team, as she has been for 38 seasons. But you have to know -- and this is just a guess -- that things are much different around the Lady Vols' program.
     I would also guess -- and again I have no knowledge of the situation -- that she won't be coaching much longer, perhaps not even past this season. At age 59, she might not be ready to step away -- and surely no one wants her to.
     I don't know Pat Summitt, only met her a couple of times -- once at the 1995 Florida state high school girls basketball tournament that I covered (for Associated Press) in Lakeland (she was recruiting); once when Louisiana Tech came to play in Knoxville and she was visiting with Tech coach Leon Barmore, my friend from when he played at Tech in the mid-1960s.
     But I know this: Leon thinks the world of her. And Pat and her teams kept Leon and Louisiana Tech from at least doubling Tech's three national women's basketball championships.
      Leon thinks she's an outstanding coach; he doesn't think that of many of the people he faced in his time as a Hall of Fame coach (several Halls of Fame, in fact). He had as much success against her as any coach (other than maybe UConn's Geno Auriemma), but her relationship with Leon is a thousand times better than hers with Geno.
      Yes, she's known for her demanding ways and rock-hard discipline with her players, her steely will for her teams to succeed. But Leon also will tell you that she's warm and gracious and family-oriented. She's sat in Leon's home and had his twin granddaughters in her lap.
      Her son, Tyler, is the center of her world; every Lady Vols fan has seen Tyler helping Pat cut down the nets since he was a little boy. He's 22 now, and he's the one most bearing the weight of Pat's present-day existence.
      While her on-court presence is that stern, serious one, she's never -- as far as I know -- treated the media with anything but respect. And just think of how many great coaches you know that can be testy or short -- or flat-out demeaning -- with the media.     
     And I know from my six years living in Knoxville how strong Pat is in the community. Her influence carries far beyond basketball. She's been out front for all kinds of causes, a true ambassador for her state, city, school -- and nation.
      The basketball numbers are astounding: 1,092 victories -- most ever in major college basketball; only 207 losses (an 84.1 winning percentage); 31 combined SEC titles (regular season and tournaments); 22 Final Fours; 8 national titles.
      An all-time home record of 353-23 (.939); a 100 percent graduation rate for the players who completed their eligibility; since 1976, every Lady Vol has played in a Final Four.
      That last fact is in jeopardy. This team, which with a 21-8 record isn't anywhere near one of Pat's best teams, must make the Final Four to continue that tradition. Don't be surprised if it happens.
     And don't be surprised if this weekend the Lady Vols again win the SEC tournament. They are the No. 2 seed, but they lost by only one point on the floor of the No. 1 seed (Kentucky) and they won by 37 in a rematch in Knoxville.
       Honestly, I've never pulled for the Lady Vols. I was partial to the Lady Techsters or LSU and now it's Baylor, where ex-Lady Techsters star and assistant coach Kim Mulkey has built a powerhouse. But how can you not have anything but respect for Pat Summitt?
       Her players simply call her Pat.      
        I call her the greatest coach in the history of college athletics.
       To take a program from scratch -- she was paid $8,900 a year when she started in 1974 and now makes millions -- in a sport which had no following -- the Lady Vols now routinely draw 19,000 or so a game at home -- and to so consistently dominate nationally, to win so much ... she's the best ever. Only John McDonnell, in track and field and cross country at Arkansas (42 national titles), comes close in my mind.
      Not Bear Bryant, not Joe Paterno, not Eddie Robinson. Not even John Wooden.
     Some would say she is women's basketball's John Wooden. I say John Wooden was men's basketball's Pat Summitt.
      She is a national treasure, the gold standard of her sport, and it always will be that way.

Death hits close to home

Howard and Nance on their wedding day.

      Yesterday, the news came in the form of a text message. The day before, it was an e-mail.
      But the call this morning was an especially tough one. Bea's brother, Howard -- my brother-in-law -- had passed away.
     Death has become a daily part of life. It looks strange writing it that way, honestly.
      The older we get, the more presence it has. Every day, it seems, someone dies that we know or love, or someone who is related to a person from our past. One of my friends kiddingly calls me an "obit hound," and I guess it's true. First thing I check each morning online is The Shreveport Times' obit page.
      On Tuesday, it had been Sheryl Lawrence Basinger, 64, a sweet and beautiful Woodlawn girl who lived in Fort Worth and had been married 8 1/2 years to David Basinger, who was our shortstop at Woodlawn.
      It was one of those wonderful stories ... they were sweethearts in high school, broke up and married other people and after some 35-40 years and divorces found each other again.
      Yesterday it was Yvonne "Giffy" Marshall, 88, mother of one of my best friends, John W. Marshall III, and a fellow journalist and friend, Tommy Marshall. She was a calm, lovely, somewhat wondrous woman whose four kids were a tribute to the kind of person she was.
      There's a hurt for the families, but also the knowledge that these were good people who lived good lives, and left good feelings.
      But today ... today is really difficult.
      Howard Clinton Shaw Jr., 64, a week short of 65. My age, two years younger than Bea, older brother of two other sisters.
      Married to Nance, the girl from Baton Rouge he met at Louisiana Tech (they married before he graduated). Father of seven, grandfather of 12, great-grandfather of one. Believe me, it was one lively family.
      It was a massive stroke this morning. It came a year after he had a slight stroke and had congestive heart failure. So it was not unexpected.
      He had done a great job losing weight -- he had plenty to lose -- and he was trying to eat healtier food (he did love to eat). But he was pale and weaker when we saw him last, and he had slowed down.
      "We knew and he knew; we talked about it," Bea said this morning. "It was just a matter of when. He was ready for it. He had done what he needed to do. He raised his family. He built his house. He had done his job and he had retired. He enjoyed his kids, and having his grandkids in his lap."

The Shaw kids, from left: Brenda, Howard, Bea, Alice.

       Still, the shock is there. It's a numb, empty, surreal feeling.
       He came from that little house in rural Jamestown, La., that house on Shaw Hill, as we called it, and like his dad, he could do most anything. For instance, he built his own house, literally, deep, deep, deep in the woods just south of Navasota, Texas.
     "He's been building for 35 years, and he's never finished it," Nance often said. And now his work is done.
    Like Bea, he went to Ringgold High School. Like me, he went to Louisiana Tech in the same years (1965-69). He was a civil engineer and he went to work for Texas Eastern in Shreveport, then was transferred to Houston and stayed with that company in its various forms for three decades.
      He traveled the world, a problem solver in oil transportation, a "troubleshooter." He made  enough money to retire at about age 52, to live a nice life in central Texas (except for worrying about the wildfires), travel with Nance so many places practically coast to coast -- Howard always insisted on driving the van. He drove his older sister, Bea, to Massachusetts so she could sell in the big antiques show she'd always wanted to do.
       He converted to Catholicism, and was a devout follower. He was well-read and, well, opinionated. He shared those opinions, and if you didn't agree, he didn't change his opinion.
       He was not a sports fan at all, yet we got along very well. We found things to talk about; there was never a cross word between us (imagine that, people). He was a generous guy; if we went to dinner, he was buying, unless we just insisted. Anything we needed, anything anyone needed, he would provide if he could.
      In the end, he did all he could to take care of Nance and the kids, to leave them -- and the house -- in the best shape possible.
      Here's the kind of thing he did for us. He enjoyed photography, so he spent most of Rachel and Russell's wedding weekend taking photos. We have a great collection. But you won't find Howard in those photos; he took them all.
      Photos is a good segue to end this. I am including two photos we treasure: The one of Nance and Howard on their wedding day, and the one taken a year ago of the Shaw kids at Bek E.'s wedding party on the piece of land in Navasota that Howard treasured so greatly.
      And we treasured him.
  

Miserable? No way

    My wife says I'm miserable when my team loses, and miserable when my team wins.
    Which makes me ... pretty happy. Which makes me a fan.
     After further review, I will say that I would rather be a helluva lot more miserable winning than losing. Give me another World Series title for the Yankees or a national football championship for LSU, and I will be perfectly content ... for a few months anyway.
     But I admit that I'm not much fun to be around when games are on and I'm absorbed in them. My family knows this, many of my friends do, and I know my co-workers do.
     Watching LSU football this fall with one of my son Jason's friends for the first time, he told Jay afterward that I was the "worst" fan he'd ever seen, or words to that effect.
      I respectfully disagree. Aw, heck, I don't do it respectfully. That's just wrong.
      Substitute "intense" for "worst." Or "most caring." Or "critical."
      I'm demanding of my team's players, and of my team's performance. I expect perfection (and somehow it rarely happens). I'm grateful when my team wins, but not satisfied with a subpar showing.
     I'm a nervous fan, and I can be terribly emotional. Furniture, garbage cans, objects on a desk are not safe in my presence. I'll scream. Language is often out of bounds.
     I'm quick to pick up on things happening on and off the field, love trying to guess what coaches and managers are thinking, and trying to anticipate what strategy comes next. What comes with that is a running conversation, mostly with myself. I don't really need the TV announcers (and there are not that many I like anyway).
      But the running conversation does irritate people watching with me.
      So if I'm watching, say, a Dallas Mavericks' game with my wife -- who is a huge Mavs' fan (and I am not particularly an NBA fan) -- she will just tell me to "shut up" or "go somewhere else." And Jason, during LSU games, will say, "Dad, don't start with that negativity."
      I don't see it as "negative," but ...
     OK, I apologize to those who have been through the experience. A one-time apology, that's it.
      Bottom line: If it's a team I really care about -- the Yankees, LSU football, the Dutch soccer team -- I'd rather watch by myself. (The Dallas Cowboys used to be in that category, but Tom Landry doesn't coach them anymore.)
      I am, however, a much more subdued fan if I'm watching a game in person. And there have been times in the past decade when I've had 93,000 or so people in the stands with me. There's nothing quite like LSU football.

I can watch games in this place with 93,000 of my best friends.

   Sometimes in the heat of a great game, I can be totally absorbed. Such was the case in the greatest college football game I've witnessed -- No. 1 undefeated LSU 28, No. 9 defending national champion Florida 24, at Tiger Stadium in 2007.
       That was the night LSU three times was behind by 10 points (10-0, 17-7, 24-14), when Tim Tebow ran off to the dressing room at halftime doing the Gator chop, when Les Miles went 5-for-5 on fourth-down gambles -- a couple on LSU's game-winning, 60-yard drive to Jacob Hester's dive into the end zone (on the end where we were sitting) with 1:09 remaining.
      Through that whole final drive, the crowd was in an uproar, as it was when Florida's last-second pass to the end zone fell incomplete.
     When it was over, Jay turned to me and said, "Dad, you didn't say a word the whole time."
      "I couldn't talk," I answered, "because I wasn't breathing."
      That night I was a miserably happy fan.    
     
      
     
          
   

Fallen Warrior ... Trey

    On my daily walk more than a decade ago in Knoxville, I saw a sign at a small shopping center near our house that read: "Vietnam Wall replica," with an arrow pointing the way.
    I wanted to see it, or so I thought. It was down the road a bit in an open area, and I walked that way. The closer I got, the more choked up I was.
    I couldn't do it. By the time, I got close, I couldn't hold back the tears.
    I knew I couldn't look at the name on Panel 34E, Row 24: Henry Lee Prather III.
    Trey Prather.
    People who were Woodlawn High School fans in the '60s, my schoolmates, know him. So do LSU and North Louisiana fans from that time.
     Those who were close to him will never forget him.
     Let me capsule this: Grandson of the longtime Northwestern State College basketball coach and then school president. All-State quarterback 1964, Class 3A (biggest class in Louisiana then). Strong arm in a pass-oriented offense, not fleet but fast enough and a tough runner when he did run. Star basketball player (forward or guard). Star baseball player (catcher or center field). Track and field athlete (good discus thrower). Smart, strong build, ruggedly handsome, popular with everyone especially the girls). Went to LSU on a football scholarship, starting QB on the freshman team (1965), backup QB for the Tigers in 1966, played sparingly. Dropped out of school, joined the Marines, sent to Vietnam. Dead a year later.
     Died in Vietnam.
     For five years -- two in junior high, three in high school -- Ken Liberto and Trey Prather were teammates in just about every sport. I was the manager/statistician, saw almost every game they played. We were tight.
      Ken was one of my best friends in high school; I didn't run in Trey's group, but we were buddies. Ken and I spent many hours at Trey's house between our junior and senior years, watching Woodlawn football films.
      They were planning for a big senior year together as the quarterback and wide receiver combo, and that's what they had. Both made first team All-State.
       We wanted Trey to join us at Louisiana Tech, but LSU's pull was too powerful for him. Who knows all the reasons LSU didn't work for him.
      What we do know is that the news in January 1968 was devastating. Marine PFC Prather, two months after going to Vietnam, stepped on a land mine while on patrol in the Quang Nam area. One leg was amputated below the knee at a Da Nang hospital. Two days later, he was gone.
       I was a student assistant in sports information at La. Tech. Calling in a story on a Sunday night, I got the news in a phone call to The Shreveport Times. Walked across the street to a dorm and broke the news to Liberto and Jon Pat Stephenson, our other four-sport teammate at Woodlawn who was two years older.
      A memorial service at Woodlawn and the funeral services, in the church and at graveside, were a week later. We were there together -- Ken, Jon Pat and I. It's the saddest funeral I've ever attended.
       Trey Prather's story is one that has fascinated me. I always thought of doing a book or series of stories, have mentioned it to many people. I have done a number of interviews, and considered the process of how to write a book.
        But I'm going to do it through this blog. This is one of the reasons I began this blog -- to write about Trey Prather. If it were a book, it would be called Fallen Warrior (suggested by my friends Cindy and Ron Marrus).
      Had another friend, another Woodlawn teammate, Warren Gould, ask me how Trey's story would be pertinent to today's world. Thought about that a lot. Here's my answer:
     Trey was the most dynamic, fiercest competitor I have ever been around. And when you consider how competitive and skilled all-around athletes such as Billy Laird, Jon Pat and Tommy Spinks were at Woodlawn (and Tech), that's a real compliment.
    Trey gave it his all at every moment, and he, unlike the others, literally  would fight. I saw it often.
      I love competitors. So he was an inspiration for me, and I'm sure he was for others. Not kidding, I think about him every day. And I have lots more to say about him. Hope you'll indulge me.
      Still haven't seen the Vietnam Wall, either a replica or the real Wall in Washington, D.C. Some day ... http://thewall-usa.com/info.asp?recid=41527

She loves being 'Granny Bea'

Granny Bea with Kaden and Jacob

    We've reached 35 years today, Bea and I have. We were married on Feb. 6, 1977, in the living room of my parents' house.
     Some people said it wouldn't last. But it has. It's been rocky at times ... I like to say that most of the 35 years have been happy ones.
     I could write volumes on how wonderful she is, how conscientious and caring, how she's supported me -- no, how she's carried me -- and how aware of the world around her she is. Our kids are as solid as they are mostly because of her.
      She's one of the best people persons I know; she can find the best in people, and she seemingly knows when someone isn't genuine.
      The volumes will have to wait. I'm going to focus on one aspect today: Granny Bea.
      She always wanted to be a grandmother. But in 2002, the prospects didn't look good. Our kids weren't set to become parents, but the bigger problem was she didn't feel good. There were recurring episodes in which her food wouldn't stay down.
       Because we're stubborn, she didn't go to the doctor for a long time, and I didn't insist. We kept thinking it was food poisoning, a bad salad, a spoiled piece of meat, etc. She was anemic and gaunt, and hurting.
        Finally, she went to a doctor, and he did a blood test. It didn't look good; he sent her on to have a colonscopy.
        Dr. Balu Chandra -- who would play an important role later -- gave me the news: Colon cancer. He had the pictures and my response was, "How do you know it's colon cancer?"
    "I do this every day," he answered, somewhat offended. What I'd meant to say was, can you show me on the pictures how you know that it's cancer?
     The large black spot is how. That was the tumor.
     Bea had been drowsy; now she was awake enough for him to tell her. She stopped breathing, and Dr. Chandra had to tell her, "Just relax and breathe. It'll be OK."
       Surgery in October 2002 was a tough day. The surgeon came out to tell us it was Stage III, some lymph nodes were affected, her colon was shortened and restructured, and chemo was a must. He sounded alarmed, at least that was our impression.


Josie and Granny Bea

       Chemo was tough, recovery was tough. It took a long time and what seemed like a hundred doctor visits before Bea began to feel like she was going to make it. Dr. Chandra was a cheerleader; he took special interest in her case.
       Four years later, with Rachel's wedding approaching, more bad news. One day the cancer doctor -- almost always upbeat -- sounded panicked. A scan showed cancerous cells in lymph nodes by Bea's spine.
       After a series of doctor consultations -- from Fort Worth to M.D. Anderson in Houston -- two cancer doctors and a surgeon decided that surgery would be too risky. Chemo and pinpointed radiation were her only hope.
      But first the wedding. Then the treatment began. Again the worry; again the chemo/radiation was an excruciating process.
      It worked like a charm. The cancer around the spine disappeared.
      One more problem since.The scar tissue from the original cancer surgery built up, blocked the colon wall to the point that a couple of years ago, Bea had another colon resection surgery. Recovery then, too, was a process, but the good news was that cancer wasn't a part of it.
      Since then, she's been relatively well, and the grandkids have come -- Josie first 4 1/2 years ago (Bea was in the delivery room). Then Jacob (he turns 3 Wednesday) and Kaden (last March 1).
      She relishes the role. They call her "Granny," just as our kids called her mother "Granny." Those three grandchildren cherish her; she cherishes them -- and she spoils them. Just like she's spoiled her kids ... and she's spoiled me.
     She's one of the toughest people I know, and you're going to say that being married to me for 35 years is the toughest assignment one could face. And you'd be right.  
       I've made a lot of mistakes, and made some good decisions, too. Marrying Miss Bea -- the girl from Jamestown, La. -- is the best decision I ever made. Happy anniversary, my love.

Recruiting (I haven't changed my mind)

   Old joke: The groundhog saw his shadow Thursday -- six more weeks of college football recruiting.
   Oh, no! Not more recruiting. Haven't we suffered enough?  

     In the sports world, National Signing Day is one of the days I like least. Which makes me an exception among college football fans -- and I am a college football fan.
   But Signing Day -- aw, heck,  the whole recruiting process -- bothers me. It is the most overblown, overdone, overpublicized production other than Super Bowl Media Day or the televised first rounds of the NFL and NBA drafts.
   And I have felt that way for years. I despise the terms "offered," "lean," "verbal commitment," "commit" and the ubiquitous "ATH" designation ... what other ones have the "recruitniks" come up with?
   To see these kids -- with their hats to choose from, their gym-full of schoolmates and fans and the band and the cheerleaders and their glorified "news" conferences -- announce their decision is just part of much too much.
    We don't need to pamper these kids. Don't need to see their pictures in the paper. Let's pamper the academic scholarship kids instead.
    From a newspaper standpoint, I understand the business. I understand recruiting news -- or draft news -- sells newspapers. Speculation is great.
    When I was first at The Shreveport Times in the late 1960s/early 1970s, we didn't do a whole lot of recruiting news. We didn't deal in rumors, didn't chase down kids for their "verbal commitments." When they signed, we reported it.
    Almost always, area football/basketball signees for LSU, Louisiana Tech, Northwestern State, Northeast Louisiana, Centenary and other schools of interests were pictured in the paper signing the papers, with parents and/or coaches who had recruited the athlete in the picture.
   As the sports world expanded, there was not enough space in the paper to continue that (needless) tradition.
    Increasingly, recruiting coverage increased, both the buildup and Signing Day itself. Recruiting "experts" began their ratings, the dubious task of comparing a linebacker in southern California to one in North Louisiana or East Texas.
    Just as dubious? The "rankings" of how colleges fared on Signing Day. But I'm telling -- people take this stuff seriously.
    Here in Fort Worth and Dallas in the 2000s, we have had special sections covering National Signing Day, plus all the speculation leading up to it -- the Top 100 charts for area, state and national recruits.
      Unless I am editing the recruiting news, I am NOT reading it. I don't give a rip about "verbal commitments." That is my biggest gripe. It means absolutely nothing. Until that athlete signs on National Signing Day, he remains free to change his mind.
    If I'm the prep editor -- and I haven't been in a long time -- I'm telling my writers, you get one (1) mention of a commitment. No more than one. I'm wondering how many times The Shreveport Times referred to Toshiro Davis as an LSU commitment over the past year? What a waste of space.
     Right here you are saying, well, you are an LSU fan and you are bitter because two players -- Davis, a defensive end, and QB Gunner Kiel, from Indiana -- gave LSU verbal commitments, and didn't end up there.
     Kiel chose Notre Dame on the day he was to have reported to the LSU campus as an early enrolee.  Because Davis  went to my high school (Shreveport Woodlawn), which rarely has major prospects anymore, I went to the LSU signing board early Wednesday -- the only board I check -- to see if Davis had signed.
      Nope.
     Then the news came --  he had announced he was going to Texas.
     At first, it felt like a betrayal, it felt personal.
    How crazy. I haven't been to Woodlawn in years, don't know anyone there, sure don't know Davis. And I thought, he's an 18-year-old kid. He can change his mind. He's entitled to pick the place where he thinks he can be happy, where he thinks he can play. And I hope he is happy and does well.
     LSU's program shouldn't be so fragile that losing one or two -- or several -- kids to other schools hurts the program.
     It's a joke; it really is. What counts is what happens on the field in the fall, not the Signing Day rankings. And so many things factor into building a football program that wins. Good football players can be developed, they can be walk-ons, they can come out of nowhere. "Blue chip" recruits can never make an impact.
     There's no sure-fire formula on any of it.
      If they'd let me make the rules, I would do this:

•  No signing "ceremonies.
•  No paid "official visits" for recruits to campuses, no wining and dining.
•  No coaches making scholarship offers during summer camps.
•  A miminum of letters, calls, texts visits -- all the methods of "contacts" -- by one coaching staff to a recruit (say a minimum of one, so the colleges save tons of money and time.
•  An early signing day (say, Aug. 15), so the process doesn't have to drag on all football season. Another signing day about Jan. 15 (again, let's get it over with).
• Absolutely no calls by boosters or by kids on the campus.
•  Kids must be qualified academically to enter college before they can even be contacted for recruiting (no exceptions).
•  No news conference by the coach to talk about the recruits. (Question: Have you ever heard a coach say he had a bad or so-so recruiting year?
• Strict penalties for recruiting abuses (loss of bowl bid, loss of scholarships, loss of revenue, restrictions on coaches, etc.)

        I'm sure college coaches, recruits, recruiting "experts," media can shoot holes through all my ideal world of recruiting.
      Yeah, they're ridiculous ideas. Ridiculous, just  as college football recruiting is now.
 
  

Survivors' son (Part 2)



Rose and Louis Van Thyn

    I often think about this: What must it have been like for my parents coming back to Amsterdam after more than two years in the Auschwitz concentration camp?
   Their lives had been shattered in young adulthood; their families (parents, siblings, first spouses) and many friends gone by way of the gas chambers.
   Rose and Louis had been in the midst of death, disease, starvation, filth -- the smell of the rotting bodies all around -- and they had survived.
   How?
   They always said luck had a lot to do with it -- one day the healthy ones were chosen to be exterminated, next day it might be the sick ones.
   But so did their strong will, their determination to live.
   That strong will helped them give up much of what they had -- friends, what few family that was left (my mother's first cousin, my dad's sister-in-law from his first marriage and her husband), possessions -- to make the move to the U.S.
   It carried them through health problems and to lives that lasted until they were both almost in their 90s.
   But -- understandably -- they were fractured, fragile people, too. They rebuilt their lives, but that never went away.
   My parents never thought they would have kids; my mother had been among the women used by the Nazis for medical experiments in the Auschwitz concentration camp; all but a handful of the women were sterile. But my mother was among the lucky ones, and she was stunned to find she was pregnant (with me) late in 1946.
   So with two kids -- two miracle kids, if you will -- there was a lot of love in our house. We were spoiled kids. Anything we wanted, within our means, we got..
   But with that love, there was something else: anger, sometimes rage.
   Our house was loud, lots of screaming. My best friend for years, Casey Baker, said a few years ago that it was the loudest house he'd ever been in -- and he was there a lot.
   My dad was mostly a sweetheart. He could -- and would -- talk to anyone, and it was easy to tell he was an upbeat, pleasant guy. But he had his frustrations, sometimes because of the language (he spoke a broken English, and I found out when we went back to Holland, a broken Dutch).
    I saw his temper more than a few times. But he never took it out on me in a physical sense.
My mother was the engaging person and great talker so many people saw when she spoke on the Holocaust in public. She had a zany, crazy sense of humor -- we got it honestly -- and she was opinionated. If an opinion didn't match hers, she didn't give in very often or very easily.
   She also was depressed at times. There were crying fits -- screams -- for long periods. You remember these things as a kid; it was scary, puzzling and frustrating. In those times, my dad was always gentle with her.
   (Once when Elsa and I went with her to the Louisiana State Fair, we went into a house of mirrors, a maze. It was like we were trapped, we were in there so long. When we finally got out, my mother was a wreck. She was crying and screaming, and my dad had to come pick us up. And you wonder why I never liked the fair?)
   She had a fierce temper, and at times she struck out at us. She raged. She was the disciplinarian in our house.
   My wife points out that parents are our first loves, who comfort and protect us in every way they know. And in the process, we are scarred for life by their best intentions.
    It was passed down. Anyone who has been around me for a period of time -- family, friends, co-workers -- has seen the temper ... and the rage. It's not pretty. It's harmful. It is, unfortunately, memorable. It's cost me some jobs, it's caused me more trouble than I could have imagined.
   My family has paid for it. I'm lucky -- extremely fortunate -- to have a wonderful, understanding spouse and two great kids who came through it all in pretty darned good fashion.
   This isn't an excuse or a copout. I'm a survivors' son, but I'm responsible for my actions. Still trying to do better every day.
   Rose and Louis carried me a long, long way -- and they still do today. I miss them more than I ever thought I would.

Survivors' son (Part 1)



Rose and Louis Van Thyn, with symbols of the Holocaust

   The name of the book that I'm not going to write is Survivors' Son.
   Many things define who I am, but none is more critical to shaping my personality than being the son of two Holocaust survivors.
    What is a little surprising is that many people from my past were not aware of that. A coaching friend of mine, dating to the days at Louisiana Tech in the mid-1960s, expressed his regret at not knowing until I sent out a notice recently about my parents being honored in a program at Centenary College.
   Classmates from a long time ago also have told me they had no idea.
    My mother and dad received a tremendous amount of recognition in Shreveport-Bossier and North Louisiana, primarily because my mom's "mission" was to speak to school, civic and church groups about the Holocaust experiences.
    The first publicity my parents received in Shreveport was in the fall of 1957 just before a stage version of "The Dairy of Anne Frank" came to town. A lengthy article in The Shreveport Times, written by Patsy Farmer, appeared in the Sunday magazine section with a large photo of Rose and Louis, and it told their story to that point. I remember the reporter and photographer coming to our house in Sunset Acres, just a couple of months after we moved there.
     My mother occasionally would speak to a class at my school or my sister Elsa's school, but the bulk of her speaking "career" came over a 25-year period long after Elsa and I had been out of the house for years.
     Actually, while my mother was the noted speaker, my dad was the more engaging story teller. My mother had her story, and she stuck to it. My dad's experiences were much broader -- he traveled much more; for instance, he wound up in Russia right after the war -- and he had fantastic recall of events and places, dating to his boyhood.
    But my mother was much more comfortable with the English language, and she deserved the honors for her dedication to educate people about the Holocaust. My dad almost always went along and he was supportive. He was much more than her chauffeur, as he was laughingly described.
     Some survivors didn't want to talk about the Holocaust at all. Some, it was all they could talk about. When my dad and I returned to Holland in 1991 -- my first trip back since we left in late December 1955 -- we were with a group of survivors, and the Holocaust was almost the only topic of discussion, to the point of almost everyone watching old newsreels and films.
     My parents weren't obsessed with it. They answered any questions we had -- or anybody had -- but it was not a topic they forced on people.
     The numbers on their arms were enough of a clue to people who noticed. The kids in the schools where my mother spoke noticed.
     My dad was 70726 -- in fairly large numbers. My mother was 62511, a smaller tattoo.
    When he was about 5, our son Jason asked his mother, "Why does Oma have her telephone number on her arm?"

    NEXT: Survivors' son, Part 2 

 

Here's the idea

Once a Knight, always a Knight ... but once a Knight is enough.

   Throughout most of the 1960s, a statue of a knight sat on Coach Jerry Adams' desk in the Woodlawn (Shreveport, La.) High School coaches' office. It was given to him -- if I remember correctly -- by a sporting goods salesman, probably Larry "Squirrely" Shirley, and it had an inscription that read ... Once a Knight, always a Knight ... but once a Knight is enough.
     Coach Adams liked the way the knight looked, and had the design made into a patch that was on the sleeve of the Woodlawn baseball uniforms for several years in the '60s.
     Jerry Adams was a terrific football coach and, while not a baseball man per se, coached baseball at Woodlawn for 10 years and made it fun. He and I were always close, and in all my years in athletics and sportswriting, he's one of my favorite characters -- and favorite people.
      Many years after the '60s, when I was working in Knoxville, Tenn., I received a package in the mail from Lawrenceburg, Tenn., where Coach Adams and his family moved in 1974, and made their home there to stay. In the package was a picture frame; in the frame was one of the patches of the knight.
    "Last one of these I have," Coach Adams wrote in a note. "I wanted you to have it as a keepsake."
    Across the top, above the knight, he had handwritten, "Not the triumph but the struggle." Across the bottom, "Ours is not to wonder why."
    (Coach always was one to motivate people, even managers/future sportswriters.)
     It sits on the dresser next to the bed at home. It's a good memory of good times in the '60s and good times at Woodlawn High. It reminds me of one of the many great people in my life.
      It's an inspiration.
      Those years at Woodlawn -- I was a student from the fall of 1962 to the spring of 1965, but remained a loyal fan through the rest of the decade -- don't define me totally. But it was where I began my sportswriting career. It was where I learned a helluva lot about how an athletic program should be run. It was where I saw how a school could tie a community together. It was where I learned how great it was to win, and also how you learned to deal with losses.
      Since I've become a retired sportswriter -- actually, I'm still doing some work, so I'm saying I'm semi-retired -- many people have suggested I write a book about my experiences in life and in work.
      I don't want to write a book; too much work, thank you. So I decided I would create a blog, and write the pieces for it. I can comment on the sports world and the world in general, if I like; I can write about the people I've worked with and the people, the teams and the games I've covered; I can write about any damn thing I want. And I can write whenever I want, for however long I want.
      Had to have a title for the blog, though. And on one of my daily walks -- I'll write about them -- it came to me. That statue, that inscription ... Once A Knight.
      Perfect, I think.
      Hope you enjoy what I have to say.