Costa Rica 2011

The plane touched down at 12:40am on Wednesday, May 25th. After riding the train back to the main terminal, we claimed our baggage and waited for the van that would take us home. It was just a few minutes before 2am when we finally arrived. The kids went to bed immediately, having to arise only five hours later for school. Kelly retired shortly after them, and I followed a couple of minutes later, after checking all of the doors and feeding the fish.

It was a terrific vacation. Zip lining, swimming with dolphins, a second death march, poison dart frogs and four different kinds of monkeys. We did it all, and it was incredible. I'll write more about our trip in the coming days, but for now, please enjoy some photos from Costa Rica.

A Terribly Bitter Pill

I took my first PMP class a little less than two years ago. PMP, for the uninitiated, stands for Project Management Professional. It's the gold standard for Project Managers, which I am.

I sat in that class at Learning Tree International and thought to myself, "What in the heck is this guy talking about?" It hadn't been too long before that I'd never even heard of the PMP credential. I'd never knowingly put any of PMI's (Project Management Institute) principles into practice, and though I had been a Project Manager for more than 10 years, I sat in that class with the most bewildered look on my face and a sense of being lost in a vast new world.

I felt exactly the same way yesterday as I sat for my PMP exam. What in the heck am I doing here? What language are these questions written in? What in the world are they asking me?

I read every question at least twice, and most of them I read five or six times. Two hundred questions and four hours of sheer torture. To say the least, it did not go like I'd hoped it would.

I was not prepared sufficiently for this exam. I'd probably answered a couple thousand practice questions in my meager preparations, but none of them were used on this exam and none of them were anything like the questions I had to answer yesterday. It made me feel like I'd been told to study my Spanish because I was going to be tested on it, only to have the exam written in French. It was awful.

The very first question should have been a signal to me that I was not going to carry the day. I don't remember exactly what the question was, but I do remember that I had no idea of the answer. I sat, literally, for five minutes staring at the computer screen, only to guess in the end. It was a common theme throughout the day. I probably guessed on a majority of the questions, and now I know that guessed wrong on most of them.

As I look back now, I'm not surprised that I failed. But as I sat there and saw the word "FAIL" come up on the screen, it made me feel like a loser. That one word was screaming, "You stink! You'll never pass this exam! Ba ha ha ha ha ha!!!"

I felt the blood rise from my toes and quickly disperse throughout my whole body. Every corpuscle in my body was filled to its maximum capacity and I almost felt like passing out. I felt horrible, like a 112-pound palooka getting into the ring for the first time, only to look up and see Mohammad Ali in the other corner.

I clicked the End Exam button with 1:12 left. I'd reviewed all of my answers and thought I had a pretty good shot at passing. Then the word FAIL popped up and I felt like I'd let everyone in my life down. Five hundred dollars right down the tubes.

Failure comes in many different flavors. This failure was especially hard for me to chew up and swallow. It was very, very bitter. But swallow I have, and now I'm moving on to the next big thing. Oh, I'll take the exam again, and I'll pass the danged thing. I am just looking ahead, instead of back.

I memorize scripture as a "hobby". I guess it's more of a life's venture than it is a hobby, but I do it every morning for about an hour. I don't know how many I've memorized, but it's a lot. I start when I get in the shower, and I quit when I get to work. It kind of sets the table for the whole day. I've been doing it for about 12 years.

Currently, I am memorizing one from Romans 8:28-31. Yesterday, as I was getting ready, verse 31 stuck in my head. I was especially nervous about the exam, so it had special significance to me. It reads, "If God be with us, who can be against us?"

That one verse really hit me and the nervous feeling I had just went away. I was confident. I was ready!

Well, not quite.

As I stood in the shower this morning, the warm water washing away yesterday's dirt and pain, I was reviewing the same four verses. Today, the first verse stuck in my head instead of the fourth. The verse reads, "For we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose."

I love God! I have been called according to His purpose! This will all work out in the end. I don't know if it's God will that I go down this road, but I'm confident that He's going to leave that decision to me. I think He is happy to know that I am trying to better myself.

I also know that bumps and bruises, such as this one, will make me stronger in the end, and will actually give me a reference point somewhere in the future. Who knows but that I'll be able to help someone with their problem, just because I failed and can understand what the pill tastes like?

The next time will be different. I'm going to give it the very best I have. I know how to study now. I know what to study. And maybe that's one of the things I'm supposed to learn from all this. I didn't know the material like I should have. Next time will be different.

And the next pill I have to swallow regarding this will be made entirely out of sugar...nice and sweet.

My Most Prized Possessions

In my home I have a small, fireproof safe that my brother Marc gave my family for Christmas several years ago. In it we keep all of our important documents, like our marriage license, a letter my dad wrote me before he died, and a host of other important possessions. There's nothing in there that cost us a lot of money, just birth certificates and such like that that we don't want to lose. They are important for life and they're important to me.

I also have a few other possessions that are really dear to my heart. One is a small, red Swiss Army knife my brother Eric gave me when we went to Europe together. I love my brother, and the fact that he would buy me a Swiss Army knife, in Switzerland no less, and have my name engraved on it, touches me deeply. I've misplaced it several times, which caused no small anxiety in my soul. Luckily, I've found it each time and now I carry it with me everywhere I go.

I also have an old key ring that my dad used to carry around that's made out of a buffalo head nickel. My dad was always one of my best friends and it means a lot to me that he owned this key ring and carried it around in his own pocket. It resides in my small "stuff" drawer in my dresser.

Another of my most prized possessions is a 12-string guitar my mom and dad bought me while I was going to school at BYU. It has a gorgeous cherry neck and a beautiful tone that makes me happy when I play it. I toted it back and forth from home to school every year, except once when the airline wouldn't let me take it on the plane. I missed it terribly that year. It's in my computer/music room and I love to go down there and play it.

There are a few other things I'd try to save in an emergency, such as my bike, a 50-cent piece that was given to me by a student I once had, and a couple of poems and drawings my kids have made for me over the years. They all hold a small, sentimental place in my heart because the people who either once owned them or gave them to me mean a lot to me. Again, there's nothing that cost me a lot of money, but these things hold certain importance to me because of who gave them to me or how I got them.

I'm sure everyone has things like this. Granted, they are only things, but they still mean a lot to us and we'd actually risk life and limb for some of them. Some, like our important documents, we keep in a lock box for safe keeping. Others are kept in safe deposit boxes and we trust the banks to keep them safe for us. Others we keep in a different safe place.

All of these things, though, compared to the actual people I got them from, mean absolutely nothing. In the event of a fire or other emergency in my home, I'd run back through the blaze to save my wife, my son and my daughter and think nary once about the other stuff. I wouldn't think twice about it. Sure, it would hurt a little bit if I lost the stuff, but if I lost those people it would be the most devastating thing in my life. I'd gladly sacrifice my own life for these people, but I'd let the possessions burn. I'm sure it's that way with most people.

Our Heavenly Father loved (and loves) His Son more than anything. The scriptures call Jesus His "Only Begotten Son" and His "Beloved Son". Think about how much you love your own son (or daughter) and then multiply that by a God's love. He was the chosen Savior, prophesied of for centuries. He was the Creator of the world who worked side by side with His Father in the effort to bring to pass "the immortality and eternal life of man." The world was made by Him and for Him. So, you can imagine how Heavenly Father felt when it came time for the Atonement and the Crucifixion.

I'm sure there was a lot of pain associated with those two critical events, not only here on earth, but in the heavens. It could not have been an easy thing for Heavenly Father to watch, though He knew, of course, the eventual outcome and its eternal ramifications. I don't pretend to know what He felt, but parents, even Eternal Ones, I'm sure, never like to see their children suffer. But suffer He did, more than any human being had ever or will ever suffer again. So much so, in fact, that the scriptures say He "trembled because of pain," and bled at every pore and would that He "might not drink the bitter cup and shrink."

And yet, despite all of that excruciating pain and seeing His Beloved Son suffer so unbelievably, Heavenly Father chose to run back into that burning house and save you and me, leaving His Only Begotten Son inside to suffer and die. As precious and unblemished and beloved as that Son was, He saved you and me instead.

I consider myself akin to a dust bunny under the bed of life. Compared to the Redeemer of the world, I am an insignificant speck, a very unprofitable servant. The thought that he would save me, a proud and sometimes arrogant, foolish, lazy man, makes me shake my head and weep.

But I also realize why He made that choice. It's because we're family. He is my Father. For better or for worse, He loves me. And so does Jesus. Me. Me! Even me.

"For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world, though Him, might be saved." - John 3:16, 17

Jacob's 6th grade Choir Concert

Last night Jacob had a 6th Grade Choir Concert at the school. They sang about five different songs, one of which was Casey Jones. That's the video clip I've uploaded. They did great, and although Jacob needs a haircut, he did a great job, too. I'm proud of him for doing this. I don't think he enjoys it like his old man would, but he's doing it nonetheless. Good for you, skipper.

My Atrial Ablation

Hospitals. I hate them. I've spent way too much time in them over the last year, and though it's only been about five days, that's plenty. I know that's nothing for a lot of people, and for them, I have complete empathy. But for me, five days is way too much.

I lost another day of my life to a hospital just last weekend. After a year of increasingly aggravating atrial fibrillation, I finally consented to have an atrial ablation on, you guessed it, April Fool's Day. Serves me right, I guess, for all the cruel jokes I've played over the years.

The ablation is a procedure in which, basically, the doctor goes into your heart and either burns or freezes the openings of your pulmonary veins, creating scar tissue over which the rogue electricity can't pass, thus (hopefully) eliminating the a-fib. They don't usually cut you open. They go in through insertion points in your groin. Yes. Ow.

My brother-in-law, Paul, had this done several years ago. My cousin, Lisa, had it done earlier this year. My wife told me last year that I needed to do it. So did my sister. But did I listen? No, not until the procedure cost me another $2000 instead of costing me nothing.

I know. Knucklehead is my middle name.

Update: (I've been asked to say here that Julie and Kelly were right. OK. You were right. Now let me out of the full nelson.)

The whole affair didn't really start out like we'd planned. Kelly and I showed up at the hospital at 6:30am (which was hard enough) and were promptly told that I'd be spending the night there. This was contrary to what the surgeon's office told me a week before. Good thing I'd packed the jammies, just in case. I don't really fancy walking around the hospital with my ugly tushy hanging out of those horrible hospital gowns.

My doctor wasn't long in coming in to visit. He's a very nice guy, named Dr. Wish. I just wish he'd told me everything BEFORE I got there. Yes, I know. Cheap joke.

After signing my life away (almost literally), he told me that I'd be having a TEE done. That's short for Transesophogeal Echo, which is a camera stuck down my throat to look for existing clots. Barring those, they'd do the ablation.

A painful IV and several more doctors later, I was in the OR getting that ugly tushy up onto the operating table. I sat there with my toes on some warm blankets and the anesthesiologist said, "OK, I'm going to start putting this into your IV." I said, "Do you want me to lay down first?" He said, "Nope, no one's fallen off of the table yet."

Then, total blankness.

You might think I meant to write blackness there, but I did not. It wasn't blackness. It was blankness. I remember nothing. It is a space in my life about which I have absolutely no recollection. No memories. No blackness. No dreams. Nothing. Just blank.

They tell me I was on the table for about five hours. Considering the bruises on my groin and chest, it's a good thing it is blank. I'm sure it was plenty painful. It still is.

When the doctor came into the waiting room to tell Kelly that it all went swimmingly, she asked the same question I would have asked. "Did you find the place?"

Blank stare. "What do you mean?"

"Did you find the place that was causing the a-fib and burn it?"

"We didn't do that," he replied.

This response, while accurate, caused my darling wife to nearly break down. She thought they'd either done the wrong procedure on me or operated on the wrong patient.

Needless to say, she was not happy. Just ask Beth, the first nurse I remember after waking up. She sat with her arms around Kelly endeavoring to calm her fears and assure her that I was all right.

Of course, I don't remember any of this. Kelly tells me that I was awake during some of it, but again, I was in the big blankness. The first thing I do really remember is Dr. Del Negro (another of the surgeons) coming in to tell me that I couldn't play basketball for three months, and that I was probably at that age when I should probably give up competitive sports altogether.

Excuse me?

Give it up? Come on, man. I'm 52-years old and you want me to give it up? I'll give you my answer right now. Um, NO!

Anyway...

After a few hours of recovery I started to see some strobing lights. They looked like a backwards C and were made of very, very bright colors. The doctors thought I might be having a stroke, so they took me upstairs and did a CT scan on my head.

Negative. Nothing. Nada. Doctor took a picture of my head and found nothing. I figure it was anesthesia wearing off, but boy, it was weird. I saw it again the next night, but not for nearly as long and not nearly as brilliant.

The rest of the night was pretty uneventful. I awoke at about 3am, sat in my bed and watched "Public Enemies" on my phone. Great movie. I'd tried to watch it on the plane last week going down to Dallas, but I couldn't hear what in the heck was being said. Next trip...noise canceling headphones.

I was discharged about 1pm Saturday afternoon. Kelly and Jacob had come back to the hospital to pick me up and after walking around a little bit with my boy, the doctor finally came in and sent me home. Going home never felt so good.

So, I bet you're wondering, "Did it work? Did it take care of your a-fib?". Yea, that's a good question, and one to which I won't have a clear answer for another three months. It seems that a-fib ablations are only about 70% effective, and for about three months post-op you can still have a bunch of it, even more than you had before.

But so far, so good. I still feel some arrhythmia, but it's nothing I can't live with for a few months. Dad always told me that you can live with anything as long as you know it's going to go away. Well, I don't KNOW it's going to go away, but I've got a 70% chance.

Paul's went away.

So did Lisa's.

I'm hoping mine goes away, too.


Coming soon - Answers to Blessings

58 Seconds - Part IV - Conclusion

I wrestled Robert Linkous again the day before every match for the next three weeks. Coach kept both us on the team, so to see who would be the first stringer, he had us wrestle for it. I beat Robert Linkous every single time.

I was 3-1 at the end of the first two weeks, having beaten other kids from Radford, Giles and Shawsville. The only loss, a pin at the hands of the eventual State runner-up at Carroll County. Our next two opponents were a home match against Galax and then a match at Blacksburg.

None of us at Christiansburg ever liked the Blacksburg Indians. They were always so smug because they were better than us at football and basketball. We were bound and determined that wrestling would be their Waterloo. Everyone wanted to compete in that match. It was going to be in front of their whole student body.

There turned out to be just one small problem. The home match against Galax was on Wednesday night...during Mutual.

I don't know how it is in other places, but in my ward you did not miss Mutual. I NEVER missed. Not for sickness. Not for death. Not for wrestling. And so, with trepidation, I told Coach that afternoon that I wouldn't be there.

"That's up to you, son," he said. "But you'll have to wrestle second string tomorrow against Blacksburg. Robert will get your spot in both matches."

I looked at Coach with confusion etched all over my pubescent face. "Second string?" I said, voice quivering like Quaking Aspens. "But, but..." My voice trailed off into the vespertine air. "I'm FIRST string!"

Coach shook his head. "Not if you miss tonight's match. There'd be no time to wrestle it off between the two of you before tomorrow. Since he would wrestle first string for us tonight, he'd also be first string tomorrow. I'm sorry, son, but that's the way it is."

Crushed. Crestfallen. Deflated. Defeated. All good words to describe my feelings at that moment, but none came close. I felt like I'd been stabbed in the back. Robert Linkous had had his revenge.

There was never any doubt what I would do that night. Though I felt a duty to wrestle for my school, I felt a stronger call to duty at Mutual. I don't remember what we did. We probably had Toastmasters, then some sort of Scout stuff. It didn't really matter. I was where I knew I was supposed to be, and it made me happy.

The next day, though, when I saw the student body pouring into the gym, I longed to be the starting 112-pounder. I pleaded with Coach to turn me loose, but he was adamant. I'd skipped the match the night before, so I was second string. The fact that Robert had lost to the wrestler from Galax didn't matter. The message was clearly sent and received. I hadn't been loyal to the team and now I had to pay.

When the match finally began, I sat on the bench and scanned the bleachers. Some of these same students had been at Mutual the night before and had told me they were anxious to see me compete. I didn't tell them that I was going to be a bench warmer, and when Robert was called at the 112-pound slot, I sank into my chair and endeavored to hide myself from their wondering gazes.

Robert quickly lost his match by pin, and it angered me to no end. I knew I'd have whipped that kid, a point I proved two weeks later when they came to our gym. That match was over in less than one period as I pinned him with about five seconds left. Tony Davis and his myrmidons were on the front row.

On this day, though, I felt the fury wash over me like a fierce, warm summer's rain. Sitting on the bench was the hardest thing I'd ever done, and watching my weight class fall to an inferior wrestler made it even worse. "Doggone it!" I said under my breath, squeezing my lips together tightly and wrenching my hands.

After a few more matches, I was a fine, well-cooked stew of anger and self-pity. Just as I was dipping into that stew to dish myself out a good, heaping helping, the announcer said that the match was going to pause for a few moments while they gave the second string teams their chance for glory. I looked down the bench at Coach with mouth agape and brows furrowed. He looked back and motioned to the mat, almost challenging me to show him what I had. Finally, here it was. My chance to show Coach what a big mistake he'd made.

A sudden excitement pounded in my chest when they called my name. I strapped on my helmet and nearly ran onto the mat. Shaking the other wrestler's hand, I turned and went back to my spot, anxious for the match to start. Determination and resolve boiled over in my heart like water in a teapot. If ever I was ready, this was the time.

The referee had barely put the whistle into his mouth before I was on that poor kid like stink on a skunk. Though I was just a scrawny 112-pounder, I felt like Thor, God of Thunder. In my mind, my muscles rippled threateningly and I exuded invincibility.

Shooting across the mat, I got a one-legged take down and had him on the mat within 15 seconds. Lying on his back, I took occasion to quickly scan the crowd. The eyes of every student and teacher in the building were on me and it boiled my blood and excited me beyond measure. I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline course through me and I almost felt sorry for the kid on whom I was lying.

Shooting a quick chicken wing, I got a half nelson on him from the opposite side. In what would soon become my signature move, I stacked the kid onto his back, hooked his leg and listened for the referee's hand to slam down on the mat, signaling my victory. To his credit, he kicked and made every effort to loose himself from my grasp, but the kid really had no chance. In what seemed like no time at all, it was mercifully over. I'd pinned him in 58 seconds.

I stood in one bound, reached down and helped him up. I shook his hand and the referee raised mine as I looked over at Coach. He grinned and gave me the thumbs up and I smiled broadly knowing that he wished he'd sent me out during the main match.

I lettered in wrestling that year and even did all right in the District championships. I didn't win, but I didn't get pinned, either. Somewhere along the way, though, wrestling lost its appeal.

When the school year ended, Coach Griffith left for another job. I tried to warm up to the new coach, but it just wasn't the same. The year after that there was another new coach, but I was never able to recapture that zeal for grappling.

Tony Davis beat me up once more and would continue to pick on me throughout my high school career. In fact, one day in Industrial Arts he had one of his bootlicks come up and bump me while I was working on the band saw. If I hadn't been watching what I was doing, it might have cut my finger off.

I hadn't seen "Touchdown" Davis in 25 years when he passed me on one of the roads in town and showed me with one finger how high his IQ is. I haven't seen him since, which is way too soon for me.

The Kylye's, luckily, backed off just a bit. And I mean just a bit. They still made fun of me, but neither of them tried to do anything physical again. Thankfully they moved away from the neighborhood a short time later. They're out there somewhere, though, probably picking on the 112-pound guy in the cube next to theirs.

Robert Linkous never gave me any more trouble. While I would never say that we became friends, he never picked on me again. Years later we'd see each other from time to time at the store or at a game somewhere and he'd say hi. We'd stand and visit for a few minutes and relive the glory days.

It was the first year CHS ever had a wrestling team and we were always quite proud of that fact. Today, they've won 10 State wrestling championships in a row, and I like to think that I helped set the stage for that.

But like the Springsteen song says, those days were gone "in the wink of a young girl's eye." I never got another letter for wrestling, nor did I ever win District, Region or State. But when I look back at it, I'm glad I went to Mutual. Though there were consequences, it was the right thing to do. I'm glad I had to wrestle second string, because now, no matter what else I do or fail to do, I'll always have those 58 seconds.

And the knowledge that at least once in my life, I did what I thought was right.

58 Seconds - Part III

I didn't sleep much that night. Thoughts of being torn to shreds the next day spilled from my conscious to my unconscious thoughts. They burned the back of my eyes like fire the entire night until my alarm clock uncaringly buzzed at 6:30 the next morning.

Dragging myself through the daily routine of shower, teeth, comb, dress was agonizingly painful. "Let's just get it over with" was the one thought that pounded incessantly through my brain.

Sitting in English class that morning I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Wooly.

"You ok?" he asked.

Slogging through the inky fog of self pity back toward reality, I looked at him and said something like, "Yea, I'm fine."

But I wasn't. I knew I had no chance against Robert Linkous. Short of discovering a secret strength pill or a long lost cape on my back, nothing would save me from my impending misfortune.

Except for maybe one thing. Fear.

I wished for a reprieve that whole day, but sooner than I wanted, practice was upon me and I found myself putting on my practice singlet and helmet. Being only 112 pounds, I would be one of the first to take the mat. After Joe Miles whipped some other kid at the 105-pound class, Coach called Robert and me to the center of the mat.

Robert stared into my eyes with a look of equal parts disdain, anger and loathing as Coach instructed us to have a fair fight. I looked at my feet. Then, in an instant, the whistle blew and the match was on.

The excruciating fear I felt at that moment was stronger than any other emotion I'd ever felt. Not even telling Lisa Howell how I truly felt about her had made my knees shake so uncontrollably. I was terrified, and it was oddly empowering and strengthening.

Robert was the first to make a move. Sauntering confidently over to me, he smacked the left side of my helmet, just to get my attention. Then he smacked the right side a little harder, making my ear ring slightly. At that point, all of the noise from the gym funneled directly into oblivion and all I could hear was my own heart beating frantically.

As Robert tried to shoot in and grab my legs for a two-leg takedown, I instinctively put my hands under his arms in defense, sprawled as quickly as I could, and fell violently toward the blue and gold. This action alone drove Robert's head directly into the mat beneath me. Spinning quickly toward his back, I laid down on top of him and grabbed him around the waist.

"Two points Schetselaar!" bellowed Coach. I'd scored the first points on a takedown I hadn't even started, but I somehow felt that it wouldn't be enough.

Putting my full weight on Robert's back, I tried to grab his legs. Cradling him onto his back would spell the end of the match, but it would be much more difficult than I'd planned.

As I pushed my left arm under his head and tried to pull his right leg toward his chin with my right arm, he stiffened his back and legs and tried rolling away from me. I countered by sinking a half nelson from the opposite side and tried to use his momentum to carry him over onto his back. It didn't work.

Robert grabbed my left hand and pulled it out from behind his head, rolling his legs on top of mine and trying for a reversal. I didn't know much about wrestling technique at this point, but I'd wrestled enough with my dad on the living room carpet to know what didn't feel right...and this didn't feel right.

Pulling my legs quickly to the side, I stepped back over his legs and caught him on his side. I quickly sank the half nelson and pushed as hard as I could. Slowly, ever so slowly, I rolled him onto his back and put the entire weight of my body on his chest. I ground my chin into his right shoulder, hoping it would discourage him from trying to roll against me. It worked. I quickly grabbed his right leg and listened as Coach counted one, two, three. It was over, and I had pinned Robert Linkous!

Getting onto my knees, I pulled my weight back over my feet and stood, looking down at Robert's prostrate body. He stayed there for a second or two and then stood. Like a roaring wave, the sound in the room returned and I could hear nothing but the deafening silence. No one had given me a chance to win, including me. It was the most stunning upset anyone had ever seen.

Coach raised my hand as the victor and I walked quietly and meekly back to my place at the edge of the mat. No one spoke to me, but they all looked at me with mouths agape. No one had expected it and no one yet believed it.

Coming soon - Conclusion

58 Seconds - Part II

Unfortunately for Wooly, he didn't survive the first cuts. He was gone after the first day. He was always more of a baseball player, anyway, so he really didn't care. I, on the other hand, was still there for day two.

The next day, I felt the loogie hit the back of my t-shirt before I even knew they were behind me. "You'll never make the wrestling team," said a squeaky, yet raspy voice, which I knew instantly belonged to one of the Kylye brothers.

The Kylye's had just moved into our neighborhood, and had been causing trouble for me ever since. Neither was particularly large, but they both had bully in them like stink in a skunk. They were some of the biggest jerks in school and were toadies of the kingpin jerk himself - Tony Davis.

I'm not absolutely sure why they liked picking on me. Most likely, it was because I let them do just about whatever they wanted without fear of recrimination. They spit on me, pushed me around, bumped into me, and said whatever they wanted to me, and I didn't do a doggone thing. I now wish I had, but as a skinny, pimply teenager, I simply didn't want to fight.

The oldest, David, was a year younger than me, but was just about as tall, and had a nose that looked like a dog's hind leg. I'd heard he'd taken a baseball bat to the face in Little League, but it wasn't something I was going to ask him about. The youngest, Mike, was a year younger than him, but just as mean. Together, they were about as unpleasant as two pre-pubescent toughs could be.

I continued to walk across the gym floor toward the front of the line, ignoring them as much as possible. We were doing layup drills in gym class and it was my turn to rebound.

"Hey, stupid," one of the brothers said when we got to the end of the shooting line. I didn't know which one it was, though I had looked him in the eye. They were interchangeably evil, so it really didn't matter. "You hear me, stupid? You'll never make the wrestling team. You're not tough enough, ya little girl. Give it up now before the whole school sees what a big sissy you are."

"Come on, ladies!" erupted Coach Griffith as we did monkey rolls on the wrestling mats that afternoon. "Pick it up! Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!"

Coach was actually a relatively likable guy when he wasn't in a gym. Once he stepped across that threshold, however, all bets were off. He'd played middle linebacker on his college football team and had been on the practice team for the Chicago Bears. He'd also been a drill instructor in the US Army, and he treated his students like they were plebes.

We did monkey rolls until our clothes were soaking with perspiration, after which Coach divided us up into the same weight classes we'd been in the day before. Robert Linkous, his cousin Donald, Ray Hepner and I were all in the 112 class.

"Here's how we're going to whittle this down, gentlemen," Coach bellowed as we all sat down around him. "I'm going to divide you all into pairs. Each pair will wrestle and the winner will move on. The loser will go home."

Every boy in the gym glared at the others sitting next to him, as if his whole future depended on this victory. I, on the other hand, looked at Robert like my very life depended on it.

When the names were read off, however, I was paired with Donald Linkous. He'd been in my class since my family and I had moved to Virginia three years earlier. Like everyone in Mrs. Pollet's 7th grade class, we felt a certain kinship, almost an "all for one and one for all" type of thing. Today, though, it was every man for himself.

I put Donald on the mat with a single-leg take down, shot around to the back and rolled him over onto his back like he was a piece of bacon. Three seconds later I was climbing off with my head held high and a smile on my face. The whole affair had taken less than a minute and a half. Donald shook my hand and raised it in the air. I patted him on the back as we walked off the mat and he headed for the showers.

The heavyweights came next. Tim Franklin pinned Tom Bissinger in about five seconds. Then Evan Helms beat The Bald Eagle, Randy George, on points. Finally, Robert Linkous and Ray stepped onto the blue and gold.

Closing my eyes, I silently prayed that Robert would lose. My hands shook violently as he shot into Ray's legs. I closed my eyes and grimaced when he got the chicken wing and grabbed a leg. And I hung my head in desperation when he cradled him and rolled him onto his shoulders. I ached to help Ray, but I was helpless to assist him. One, two, three and the match was over.

Robert shot to his feet and ran toward me. Sticking his unctuous finger in my face, he bellowed, "You're next, chump!"

Coming soon - Part III

58 Seconds - Part I

Robert Linkous was as mean as a striped snake.

And twice as tough.

I was so afraid of him that I'd wait until I got home from school to use the bathroom. I didn't want to get caught by him in the men's room at school because I knew it would mean a powerful beating. So, on more than one occasion, I nearly floated home on the bus.

Christiansburg High School had never had a wrestling team before the fall of 1974. Early that spring, the School Board had hired a former drill sergeant as the school's first coach. He started teaching Math when school was back in session, finally starting up the wrestling team just after Columbus Day.

I'd seen the fliers about the team taped to the school walls near the gym. They piqued my interest. Having never been a particularly tall or large boy, I figured basketball and football were out. Wrestling, I thought, just might be my ticket to jock-dom.

"I want to go out for the wrestling team," I said that night at dinner.

My mom almost choked on her macaroni casserole. "Wrestling team? At school?"

Dad beamed. "You know," he said, "I was on the wrestling team when I was in high school, too."

"Really?" I said, between bites. "How did you do?" This was virgin timber to me. I didn't know much of anything about my dad's high school days beyond a Vitalis-laced crew cut staring out from the 1947 yearbook.

"I was pretty good," he crowed. "I had to beat a guy named Dan Jackman to get onto the team. He was the meanest kid in school."

I took another bite in anticipation.

Protesting ever so slightly, Mom said, "But what if he gets hurt?"

Dad shook his head and swallowed and said, "He'll be fine. It's not football. Wrestlers don't get hurt very often and when they do it's just muscular stuff. He'll do great."

Wiping his mouth with the paper napkin, he asked, "When are tryouts?"

"Tomorrow after school," I replied before spitting out the next, most important question. "So, can I try out?"

Mom readjusted herself in her chair while Dad stood to take his plate to the sink. "I don't see why not," he declared. "I think it will be good for you."

Mom pursed her lips and nervously acquiesced. "I'll pick you up when you're done."

There must have been 60 boys sitting in the old, wooden bleachers after school the next day waiting for Coach Griffith to come out of the locker room. Wooly and I sat near the top, hitting each other’s knuckles with the teeth of a black, plastic comb, each drawing a small amount of crimson on the other's hand.

"Listen up!" said a booming voice from the gym door. The comb flashed back into my pocket.

From behind his clipboard, Coach Griffith thundered. "I assume all of you are here to try out for the wrestling team." We all nodded.

"That's great," he continued. "But let me give you the plain, hard facts. There are 14 weight classes in high school wrestling. We'll need a couple of backups who can fill in from time to time. That brings the number to a maximum of about 20 boys who will make this team. That means that more than half of you are going to go home after this week's tryouts and will not come back."

Wooly and I looked at each other with mouths agape. I guess we thought it was more like the track team, where everybody got to run. Never did we think the attrition rate would be that bad.

"Does anyone want to leave now?"

Nobody did.

"All right then, let's get to work."

Coach started by dividing us into groups according to our weights and sizes. Wooly, being much stockier than me, was put in the 126 pound class. I was 112.

Standing barefoot on the large, blue and gold wrestling mat in the center of the gym, I looked around me to see what other losers were in my class. Nearly choking on my own anxiety, I saw Robert Linkous standing right next to me. He was 112 as well.

Coming soon - Part II

Birthday Boy

Saturday was Jacob's 12th birthday. Unbelievable, really. Twelve years since he was born? Seems like a week and a half. I can still remember everything about that day like it was yesterday. It's almost sad to think that he's way more than halfway out of my house. Actually, it's very sad.

Anyway, last in the morning I took him and his sister over to the stone house for some sledding. Having just bought two nice sleds that morning, I figured the kids were ready for some serious sledding. I was right, but only half right.

Jacob took to the hill and didn't want to let up. He must have gone down two dozen times in the two hours we were there. It was literally slide down the hill, walk back up to the top and get right back on the sled. To the right you can see him carrying his new sled. Actually, I didn't give either one of the sleds to either one of the kids. They were both given to both of them. Therefore, there was no fighting about which one they were going to use. I'm so smart. And they call my sister oeyes1.

Hannah, on the other hand, hit her head on the very first run and was never the same until we left. Well, let me take that back. For a while she was very grumpy and didn't want to go down the hill at all. But when we started going down together, all three of us on two connected sleds, she was ready to go for it again. To the left you can see her in her grumpy state.

The snow was very, very icy and very hard, so I can see why she would not be anxious for that to happen again. When we all went down together, however, we stayed going straight down the hill and no one was hurt again. Below you can see videos of them on the hill with their brand new sleds. Perfect day for sledding.