Where others might commission tattoos, I have … t-shirts.
I fall in love with too many things and am way too scrawny to commit to tattoos.
I can be pretty much summed up by and/or reduced to the Billy Collins’ poem, “Aimless Love.”
“But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow.”
Much to the chagrin of my wife (and my closet), I find t-shirts inexhaustible objects for my affections.
While shopping local a couple months ago, I stumbled upon the most wonderful creation, whose artist happened to choose a t-shirt for their canvas.
The above captures Forbes Field’s manual scoreboard the moment right before Bill Mazeroski cemented his baseball legacy on Oct. 13, 1960 — the second before his Game7-World-Series-winning home run off the Yankees’ Ralph Terry in the bottom of the ninth inning.
For me it was love at first sight.
So I was bummed when, the day after I ordered, I got an email from Wild Card in Lawrenceville, informing me they were out of larges … and asking me if I’d be interested in a medium instead.
But then I noticed a second email from Wild Card in my in-box. From the same person. Mentioning that if I wanted to try the medium, she’d send me a self-addressed return envelope in the slim (ha) chance it didn’t fit.
Who does that? Wild Card in Lawrenceville does.
Turns out, the medium suited me as kindly as Ralph Terry’s high fastball did Maz.
First time I wore it, I thought of a kindred spirit who would appreciate it.
Texted a pic of my proud torso to my friend Jeff.
His reply reeked of pure Pittsburgh serendipity.
Get this: turns out I actually know the person who designed the shirt.
Not only that, it was Jeff who introduced us a few years ago.
How’s that for a confluence?
Jeff shot me the number of his good friend, Nick, who I texted immediately, informing him of the wellspring of exponential Pittsburgh joy presently emanating from my torso.
“Ha … I think that’s my favorite, too,” Nick replied all the way from LA, where he now lives with his acclaimed-author-and-TV-writing- wife and family.
He summed up the inspiration for the design so perfectly and profoundly.
“Next pitch changes everything.”
Wow.
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I’ve been walking around with Nick’s words in my pocket ever since our serendipitous exchange.
They keep grabbing me by my collar and shaking me awake.
We are all always only a pitch away from everything changing.
For the better … if you happened to be wearin’ black and gold on Oct. 13, 1960.
Or for worse, if you were wearin’ pinstripes.
Our existence is nothing but precious and fragile.
Yet always pregnant with possibility.
Which makes the choice of putting good into the world — even in something as temporal as a t-shirt — a sacred act.
As sacred as any kindness requiring intention … a self-addressed return envelope just in case, as an example.
If it wasn’t for the kind gesture of the person at Wild Card, I may not have ordered the shirt, and wouldn’t have thought of Jeff, wouldn’t have learned that I knew the designer, would never have sent Nick my gratitude, and would have gone a lifetime missing out on the golden wisdom he drew from Mazeroski’s heroic act.
Our tiniest gestures can be oxygen for campfires … that remind us that we’re connected in ways we can’t even imagine.
Visited Longwood Gardens (just south of Philly) with Karry and Emma last Saturday. It’s in the category of places I would never choose to visit of my own volition, so am grateful to be carried along in the current of their enthusiasms. It may be the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. I know this to be true based on the number of times I said WOW as an involuntary response. Been thinking since about how the WOWs were exactly the same size whether I was stepping back to look up at a sinewy redwood gathering to its greatness, leaning in to inhale a climbing rose’s secrets, or riveted in place listening to a catbird singing Saturday morning opera.
The place is sprawling, and there was a moment where Karry and Em headed to the conservatory (and its greenhouse of a thousand WOWs), while I went to track down a waterfall we’d seen only at a distance. Traced a canopied path (WOW) to a small landing a few feet from the middle of the waterfall, where I found an empty rocking chair.
So I sat and listened for a hundred years, by which I mean almost long enough.
Twenty-four hours later I’d exchanged the rocking chair for my backseat nook in Karry’s Jeep, where I was comfortably crammed for the long pilgrimage home so Em could finally begin savoring her summer. We’d either grossly over-estimated the Jeep’s storage capacity, or grossly under-estimated our daughter’s belongings. Or both. On our way outta town, they paused so I could enjoy a Father’s Day bagel and lox for the ride. I tuned into a radio program just as the interviewees were referencing Harry James, who was my Dad’s inspiration on trumpet growing up. The Universe’s serendipity game is indeed strong.
I was as comfy and content as a rocking chair by a waterfall.
Just wanted to bookmark a Father’s Day weekend that pretty much perfectly summed up the gig.
Carried on the current of their enthusiasms to places beyond my capacity to even imagine. Involuntary WOWs everywhere, if you only remember to look up, lean in, and listen. Grateful for the small wedge still reserved for me in the back seat of their adventures.
In no particular order … an incomplete, un-edited, accounting of the stuff that got me through the week:
Monday afternoon, inviting some student leaders from BYU’s Experience Design program to our team’s weekly meeting. Co-creating the agenda with Michaela, a senior in the program. Her showing up prepared with some custom slides to guide the menu we’d discussed (she, a badass). Their team giving us a prompt for our Story Circle, “How did you get here?” Every answer a window into each other’s Story. Me, choosing not to overthink it, confessing how I am here in spite of myself, and (still) basking in awe at that fact.
Not getting back to sleep Monday night and instead of the obligatory trying in vain to doze, getting outta bed and going downstairs to write, finishing something for Karry to read on her late morning work break.
Getting a hand-written letter in the mail from my niece on Monday, and saving it until Wednesday morning, when I knew I would need it most. Walking outside to tear the envelope so I could savor it while listening to the chattering birds whispering their reminders that today matters.
That letter filling my cup full, and me needing every ounce of it on a Wednesday that drained it to the dregs.
Leaving the office late, depleted, for home and Peter texting me asking about dinner. Said I was thinking pasta since I assumed I’d be solo. Five minutes later, he shooting me a recipe he found and a shortlist of ingredients to pick up on my way home.
Getting home a few minutes before him, filling the pasta pot, getting out the cutting board, peeling the garlic, making us salads. He coming home from his Wednesday classes and commencing to chef up the new recipe. Calling new tunes for me to hear (he’s digging Ghost these days). While he worked and I sipped from a freshly cracked Malbec, our easy conversation the best Wednesday medicine. Filling our plates full and watching Duquesne in the A-10 tourney. While the Dukes lost, Peter’s delicious dish earning an automatic bid to our future family dinner bracket. Coming this close to crushing an entire box of pasta between us. Sun-dried tomatoes … who knew?
In my Friday morning feed, a jet-lagged Patti Smith, from her tender room, her cat Cairo in her lap, honoring John Cale, her late-husband Fred Smith, and her kindred spirit Robert, on the anniversary of the latter’s day of passing, reading just the most beautiful passage from their story, Just Kids, the product of a promise kept, nine years in the making.
Staying up late Thursday night putting slides together for a Friday client meeting that I really wanted to slay. Rising early Friday morning on little sleep but with an epiphany. Scrap my slides. Tell a story. On my 45-mile commute into work, randomly tuning in a random episode of a podcast I’d only dipped toes in, and the episode the perfect pre-presentation pump up, had me literally clapping and shouting affirmations at the stop light into the industrial park, drawing the most curious stares from the car next to me. Clicking into my client meeting shot out of a cannon and fully caffeinated, naked of slides, armed only with a (glorious) story. Me OK with whatever the outcome, knowing I served their curiosity and attention as best I could, and gave them the best possible window into my humble offering. Authenticity over polish.
My Friday work week ending on the highest of notes with my monthly connection with my P.S.F. (Professional Serendipity Friend), and listening to her gloriously effervescing hours after returning home with her husband from a sacred return pilgrimage to New Orleans. Us feverishly making notes of treasures to share with the other. Our conversational jazz making time melt (like all good jazz does).
Karry calling me on my way home, confessing the weather too gray and cold to go back out in (me agreeing), and she calling in a takeout order from the Catholic Church Lenten fish fry across town, me picking it up, and us sitting lights out in the living room in the glow of Friday night whatever’s on, communing over church kitchen cole slaw, fries, hushpuppies and Heinz-baptized cod.
Saturday morning, listening to Miles Davis’ In A Silent Way, steaming coffee in my favorite Saturday mug, my antenna still up … and typin’.
On a Saturday morning last September, I went across the street to the high school track for a run.
It was my birthday.
“Run” is a generous term for the act. I prefer the more accurate “periodic reminder of how out of shape I am.”
I enjoy going to the track at the high school, its rubberized surface forgiving on the knees. I’ve been periodically reminding myself for years now, long enough to recognize some of the track’s recurring characters. There’s Gray-Bearded Yellow Hoodie Guy, who runs leaning forward with just the smoothest gait … and just smokes me. There’s Power-Walking Curly Headed Lady (very intense), who, over months, seemed to be re-habbing a hip injury and now bears little trace of favoring her one side. There’s Elite High School Cross Country Star, who’s always there with her Dad. She flat out fuh-lies. I’ve literally jumped when she passes me because she comes up so fast. Last winter when the track was snow covered, I saw her running laps around the school’s parking lot, which had been plowed clear. Inspired by her example, I took a few of those laps myself instead of returning home.
I am not religious about the days and times that I visit. But when I go on Saturday mornings, there is often an older gentleman already there when I arrive. I’m awful at guessing ages, but I assumed he had a good 5-10 years on me (he shaves his head, so there are fewer clues). He takes his time doing laps, his gait slow but knowing. I figure he paces himself only because that’s just part of his workout. After he does his laps, he moves to the infield, where he does a separate regimen of squats, push-ups and stretches. His approach is disciplined, methodical. It’s all I can do to lug my keister around the loop a few times, so I steal a glance occasionally when my tank is running low. Makes me want to push a little harder.
On the Saturday morning of my birthday he was there when I arrived, doing his thing. Had just wrapped his laps and was doing push ups on the side. He finished as I was slow-lapping around the track. Even though I’d seen him numerous times, we’d never spoken. But, for some reason I couldn’t resist calling out to him. Call it birthday courage.
“Sir … excuse me…,” I called out. I never talk to anybody, so am not sure of proper track etiquette.
He paused and turned around.
“I just wanted to say … you inspire me.”
He couldn’t resist a smile as he replied, “Well, I’m 82 years old.”
Stopped me cold in my tracks.
Note: it wasn’t like it broke me out of a full sprint or anything. Rather, imagine a bumper car easing to a stop after they turn the juice off.
“Your are kidding me.” Again, I thought the guy had, like, 10 years at the MOST on me.
“Yep, had my birthday in April.”
OK, I said. Thirty years his junior and having to play mind tricks to coax my keister another half lap around the track, I had questions.
“So, what’s your secret?”
His smile was as knowing as his routine.
“Well, I’ve always just tried to take care of myself,” he began.
“I’ve worked out all my life. Was an athlete when I was younger. Try to get plenty of sleep. Don’t smoke. Don’t drink …”
“ … except for a beer on Sundays if I’m watching the Steelers.”
Understandable. The Steelers will make a person drink, I said.
He laughed, then continued….
“You watch the NFL, huh? My grandson plays for the Colts.”
What?
“Yeah, Rodney Thomas.”
Told me he was a second year player, working his way up the depth chart. I asked him where his grandson went to college.
“Yale,” he said.
Whoa.
“Number 25,” he said. “Keep an eye on him.”
We exchanged names, shook hands.
I thanked him for the conversation. Told him it was my birthday and that he’d already made it memorable.
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Couple months later. Another Saturday morning. Forecast called for rain. I checked my phone, which indicated that the weather was only gonna get worse as the day wore on. So I pulled on my hoodie and lugged myself over to the track. Mr. Thomas was already there, getting after it. We waved to each other as I broke into my slow jog. After a couple miles I opted to walk and stretch a bit. Whenever I do this I turn around and go the opposite direction of the one I’m running. As I passed Mr. Thomas he asked me how I was doing. I stopped so we could chat for a minute. It was raining by this point.
He couldn’t resist sharing the big news.
“My grandson’s making his first start this Sunday night … against the Steelers.”
Me: “No way.”
“Yeah, the starting cornerback is a Pro-Bowler. My grandson was fifth on the depth chart as a rookie. He made second string this year. And this week in practice, the starter had an ankle injury.
“Rodney called me this week and said, ‘Pops, make sure you tune in, I’m starting.’ I’m so proud of him.”
I’d been meaning to ask Mr. Thomas about another Thomas I remember covering years ago when I worked for the local newspaper — Travis Thomas, who I remember went to Notre Dame on a football scholarship. Any relation?
Mr. Thomas said he and Travis’ dad are first cousins. Travis got injured at Notre Dame, which slowed down his football career, but is doing well in Indiana these days. Talked to him just last month. Said Travis was just so proud of Rodney, remembering when Rodney was little and running all over the fields at the Brownson House (a venerable sports facility here in Washington, PA). How, even at that young age, he had his sights on the NFL.
“Travis said he was just so proud of how hard Rodney’s worked his whole life.”
“The key is just getting after it,” I say to the 82-year-old taking Saturday morning December laps in the rain.
Mr. Thomas smiled. “Doesn’t matter what it is. Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”
I wished him well. Thanked him for the conversation. Thanked him again for the inspiring example. Told him I’ll be watching.
“Keep an eye on him,” he said to me again, as he had in our first encounter.
Monday morning I scanned the box score of the game, saw a couple tackles next to Rodney’s name.
I couldn’t help but imagine how good Proud Grandfather beer must taste.
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Couple weeks ago, my wife sends me a text, along with a link. “You see this?”
Rodney Thomas driving 100 miles in the middle of the night to be at the side of his good friend.
“I had a goal,” Thomas said Jan. 4, via Colts.com. “I knew where I was going, so I just got on the road and I just went. Laser-focused.”
Rodney Thomas working hard at his craft, and working harder to make sure it counts.
Anything worth doing is worth doing well.
“Keep an eye on him,” his grandfather said to me in the birthday gift of our first conversation.
I now realize he wasn’t referring to any stat line in a box score.
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I’ve learned a lot over the years lugging my keister over to the track.
Primarily, I’ve learned the importance of stealing a glance around us for inspiration when our tanks are running low. Doesn’t matter what shape you’re in.
And that inspiration is everywhere and can come from anywhere.
From those faster than us … who give us something to chase.
From those slower than us … who remind us that the important thing, if not the only thing, is just getting out there and putting one foot in front of the other.
From those younger than us … who remind us that time is precious and sneaks up on you fast when you’re not paying attention.
And from those older than us … who have logged miles and miles (and miles) of experience and wisdom. And who carry stories that none of us can even begin to imagine…
… unless we take the occasional breath … muster up a little birthday courage when needed … thank them for their example … and periodically remind ourselves that we’re all just momentarily sharing the same track.
Letters for Maggie 