“Palaces and piers. Trumpets, towers, and tenements. Wide oceans full of tears” – The Waterboys
I like Barnes & Noble. It feels like a family member. Maybe like the wise likable uncle who has always been there – observing, listening, chronicling, dreaming. He stands still holding a cup of coffee watching a busy and chaotic world rush by, but occasionally reminding you – ‘Hey, I’m still here if you need anything‘ – a standing open invitation to come, sit, walk, rest, study, converse, remember.
I like to wander the store taking note of the people. Young purple-haired mothers reading their children books in the kids area, conservatively dressed proper widows buying gifts up front, young men in the self help section searching for meaning, and middle-aged grey-haired observers like me wandering the aisles… not unlike this post. I’m kind of wandering right now, or maybe meandering is more suited to this post.
Barnes & Noble has been in existence of some sort since Charles Barnes had a book business in Illinois in 1873. His son, William, partnered with Clifford Noble and they opened the first Barnes & Noble in NYC in 1917. Like any 100+ year-old family member though, the retailer has had it’s share of highs and lows, bustling prosperity combined with humbling moments that surely considered a world without large corporate-owned book stores. Under new private ownership since 2019 (Elliott Management Group), B&N has seemingly caught wind in their sails again having opened between 50-60 new stores per year the past two years, and though I do enjoy supporting the small mom and pop used book stores, I do find the existence and the ease of this large retail bookstore to be comforting.
Yes, you climbed on the ladder With the wind in your sails You came like a comet Blazing your trail
Browsing the aisles a few days ago, I picked up Matthew McConaughey’s latest book published in September of this year titled “Poems and Prayers.” I flipped it open and read only one page. That page is all I needed to finish this post which has had this particular song bouncing around in my head for weeks. Maybe I’ll read other pages in the future, but this is all I needed for now:
I saw the rain-dirty valley you saw Brigadoon
Born and raised in Edinburgh, Mike Scott formed the Scottish group known as The Waterboys in 1983. He has been the only constant member over the years of a band typically comprised of members from the UK and Ireland. I didn’t listen to The Waterboys in the 80’s, and honestly this song and this group easily slipped by my hair-metal, rap, top-40-focused teenage eyes back then. But, because of that narrow focus, it became a wonderful thing some 40 years later when discovering or perhaps “stumbling” upon this beautiful song.
Not an especially big chart success when it was originally released in 1985 off of The Waterboys’ “This is the Sea” album, the re-release in March of 1991 saw it achieve more accolades and numerous covers of the song subsequently followed through the years. The song is an incredible arrangement of instruments featuring a trumpet, synthesizer, an electric violin, and a saxophone solo at the end of the song that screams “80’s!” The lyrics by Scott are vast and wondrous, well conceived and apparently a composition and ode to many artists and writers and deep thinkers throughout history.
I saw the crescent, but you saw the whole of the moon.
And so maybe another reason I enjoy Barnes & Noble is because in there I am surrounded by inspiration. Enclosed by names on book sleeves and album covers and art designs by people who didn’t just see the crescent, but for a time and a place, like Mike Scott in 1985, they too saw “The Whole of the Moon”…
Go create something.
sincerely,
the80s
I too thought I saw the whole of the moon back in the late 70’s and early 80’s. Turns out it was just The Death Star.
For the majority of his 37-year life, Clayton Edward Kershaw has been in the mold of an elite baseball pitcher. For the last 18 years, it has been that of a paid professional pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers, where he has struck out over 3,000 batters and pitched to the tune of a 2.54 lifetime ERA – the lowest such in the “live ball era” excluding fellow Dodger and knuckleball pitcher, Hoyt Wilhelm who retired with a 2.52 ERA in 1972. But that long-lasting mold which has produced a lifetime of greatness is about to change for Kershaw as he took to the mound for his final home regular season start last night in Los Angeles (it’s possible he could make another home start or multiple ones depending upon how far the Dodgers advance in the playoffs). Now, other aspiring pitchers of a new generation will and already are trying to fit into the mold Clayton Kershaw is leaving behind.
Kershaw made his major league debut as a 20 year old on May 25, 2008. He was the youngest major leaguer at the time and threw six innings against the St. Louis Cardinals that day giving up two earned runs while striking out seven and walking just one batter on 102 pitches, a very Kershaw-esque statline. He finished last night’s effort by throwing 91 pitches over four and one-third innings while giving up two earned runs and striking out six. He struck out the Giants’ Rafael Devers, and then manager Dave Roberts came and got him.
I was lucky enough to see Kershaw pitch this year. Working his way back from injury, he had a rehab start for the Dodgers’ Double A affiliate, the Tulsa Drillers when they played the NW Arkansas Naturals (Kansas City’s Double A affiliate) just a few miles from my house. It was announced on the day so anyone paying attention could have easily bought a cheap ticket and had a good seat to watch a future hall of famer in action as you can see from these photos I took from about 10-15 rows up on the third base side. There were approximately 3,800 in attendance as Kershaw threw 60 pitches that night over three and two-thirds innings giving up four hits and one earned run while striking out four. He got a standing ovation when the manager pulled him out of the game in the fourth inning. It wasn’t because he pitched great. It was because he’d given over 17 years of his life to being one of the best baseball pitchers of all-time.
“I’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down.”
“That’s the cruel thing about baseball is that your career will be gone in an instant and the game keeps going. But that’s also the beautiful thing about it, too, is that this game doesn’t need anybody.” – Clayton Kershaw
A lifetime of memories built around a game. It’s really all that most professional athletes know. It’s what scares them and excites them all at the same time as they finish up their playing careers. It’s what motivates many of them to hang on at the end, many times well past their prime. The athletes need the the game more than the game needs them. Clayton Kershaw understands this better than anyone and has probably been pondering for days, weeks, months, maybe even years what life without pitching at the highest level is going to look like now that the game is finally discarding him like all of the nasty sliders he used in discarding overmatched hitters through the years. Maybe the game doesn’t need him, but the game has rarely had anyone as good as him.
Many lifelong hikers will tell you that the hike and journey in reaching the summit are easier than the descent back down. The time at the summit is very brief, and as Clayton Kershaw sat in the outfield last night during his pregame routine soaking in the sights, the sounds, the smells, all the feels from 18 years of triumph and tribulation, he knew it was time to descend back down the mountain. He may turn back on his way down for a few more glimpses of that summit he spent so many hours and weeks and years getting to as his Dodgers navigate their 2025 playoff path over the next several weeks in search of another World Series title, but as surely as the sun sets below the horizon so will Clayton Kershaw’s magnificent career. A one of one mold.
“Cause it’s a bitter sweet symphony, that’s life.”
Known for his consistent, precise routines throughout the week and especially on days he pitched, the road of Kershaw’s 18-year major league pitching routine are about to be replaced with something new and something different.
This song by The Verve was being played by the organist in Dodger Stadium as Kershaw made his way off the mound to a standing ovation in a place where memories have spun and dipped like the devastating slider he’s known for throwing to hitters over the last 18 seasons. It was an apropos song, as you would expect, contrasting the beauty of life with the harshness of reality.
Hitting the charts in 1997, The Verve became a household name in the States with this lead single from their album, “Urban Hymns.” It reached #2 in their home country and #12 in the U.S.
Sampling from an orchestral version of 1965’s Rolling Stones song “The Last Time” (a whole different story in itself), here is the unique sound of lead singer Richard Ashcroft and his band The Verve with their Grammy-nominated song and highly regarded video filmed in London and which helped define the “Britpop” era of the 90’s, “Bitter Sweet Symphony”…
Thanks for the soundtrack, Richard, and thanks for the memories, Clayton.
“…where everyone’s on your case? From the teacher all the way down to your best girlfriend?” – Motley Crue
As I write this, the first day of school is in effect in my area, and teachers all over are getting on the cases of children everywhere!
The first day of school. You remember don’t you? First day wardrobe decisions to make, car lines to navigate, crossing guards on patrol dressed in their finest brights, and young parents walking their children down the street and dropping them off for the beginnings of another school year.
My wife and I made that first day walk for six years with our daughter Caroline from kindergarten through 5th grade when she finished elementary school. We only lived a block from the elementary school so it was easy. We’d hold hands and walk our excited daughter to the school chatting all the way about being good for the teacher, listening more, talking less, and about being a good classmate. It was just a matter of minutes before we were there and taking her into the school, and ultimately into what would be her homeroom classroom for the next nine months.
The walk back home for my wife and I was a little quieter, and a little more reflective knowing that those times were precious and fleeting. Those walks were mere minutes and they’ve been followed by thousands of days that are now a blur. We have the pictures though, because that’s what you do on the first day of school, right? You’re either posing for the pictures or you’ve become the parent and you’re taking the pictures. It’s a first day right of passage fulfilled on the Facebook pages of proud parents and grandparents around the world at this point in our technology-driven lives.
But in the 80’s, oh those 80’s, you had a camera with actual film in it. You snapped a few pictures and the results were left to the Kodak gods after you drove your film to Walmart or a Kodak photo lab somewhere, filled out the owner information and sealed your film inside the special envelope. Then, you waited weeks to get a phone call from the photo lab saying your photos were in and then you drove to pay for and pick up your photos. It was all so very 1980’s inefficient!
Anyway, first day of school photos have probably been around a lot longer than just the 80’s, but I always thought Gen Xers like myself were likely the first kids to be publicly humiliated outside of our houses every first day of school. I have no actual proof, just a hunch, and photographs from a bygone era. Speaking of…
1st day of school, Norman, OK 1985 with my sister.. She hates these pictures with a passion because of her haircut. So, you’re welcome, sis!
Checking out the halls, making sure the coast is clear Looking in the stalls, nah, there ain’t nobody here My buddies, Sixx, Mick, and Tom To get caught would surely be the death of us all
One guy that wasn’t smokin’ in the boys room in the 80’s is that stud in the picture above. BUT, I was just starting to really get into “heavy metal” music when Motley Crue released their album, “Theatre of Pain” in June of ’85. You can look at the picture above taken in August of 1985 and just tell I was into heavy metal music by my luxurious, dark, long, curly heavy metal hair in the back! Actually, I’m more likely the very definition of rocker meets banker when you combined my wild hair, the “crazy” shorts I’m wearing called “jams,” and the pristine white banker polo. I was a big Polo guy back in the day mostly because my mom thought I looked very nice in them so she stocked my wardrobe with several colors from Ralph Lauren.
My journey into hard rock had probably only begun about a year or two earlier with cassette purchases of Def Leppard’s “Pyromania” and Van Halen’s “Diver Down.” Motley Crue was still a little more “on the dangerous side” because their previous album from 1983 was called “Shout at the Devil” and I’m pretty sure anyone listening to that album around that time was high on drugs and probably going to Hell, except me of course. I never paid money for that particular album though, instead settling for a cassette copy someone made me. It wasn’t one of my favorite albums, but I played it several times and actually preferred “Looks That Kill” on that album. I didn’t listen to it a whole lot also for fear that mom would bust in my room with a “what are you listening to?” bewildered look on her face which in turn would lead to her shipping me off to a private Catholic school somewhere where the nuns would force me to listen to monks singing daily Latin chants as my only source of musical education.
Listening to dangerous music in the 80’s was a very real concern for teenagers, and there was no antagonist quite like the teacher.
Now, teacher, don’t you fill me up with your rule ‘Cause everybody knows that smoking ain’t allowed in school
I remember that we had smoking sections (or maybe just one particular section) at our high school, but I never really hung out with the smokers of the day. I had a few friends that would light up a cig on occasion, but it was never my thing, plus it was tough being an athlete running the basketball court with black lungs because you were chugging Marlboros all the time.
Released in June of 1985, this was Motley Crue’s first top 40 hit as it climbed all the way up to #16 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100. A cover of the original performed by Brownsville Station in 1973, here is Vince, Nikki, Mick, Tommy and actor Michael Berryman portraying the principal as the Crue try to get their smoke on in “Smokin’ in the Boys Room”…
Thanks for reading, and go thank a teacher somewhere because you can read.
It’s no secret. I love live sporting events. There’s no better reality entertainment than sports. It’s why millions of us attend, tune into, and/or play them. Sure the lines are sometimes too long, the logistics stink, the weather is unpredictable, the parking, the crowds, the claustrophobia. But oh how sports can make us feel connected. They can make us feel alive. One can run the gamut of emotions – joy, sorrow, laughter, tears, and everything in between… sometimes in a matter of hours or minutes or even seconds.
A little over a week ago at America Family Field in Milwaukee, chalk another one up to the “this is why we love sports” column. It was my second trip to the ballpark for a Brewers’ game. The previous one ending in a loss to the Reds last summer. It seemed this time as if the baseball gods were going to send us home without a Brewers’ win once again after the Washington Nationals rallied for two runs in the 8th and one in the top of the ninth to take a 5-3 lead heading into the bottom of the ninth.
As a lifelong Cubs fan, I have no emotional currency invested in the Brewers, but I also care very little for the Washington Nationals. If at all possible when I visit a stadium, I try to always side with the home team. So, there I sat with my navy-blue Brewers cap on my head, my wife to my right, and my sister and brother-in-law, my 10-year-old nephew, and my 8-year-old niece in seats directly behind us.
Before the rally
Sending in their closer, Kyle Finnegan, to the mound my sister and brother-in-law debated slightly in between frames whether or not they should leave a little early to “beat the traffic.” Repeat after me: Never. Leave. Early. To my nephew’s credit, he was not on board with this plan at all, and he was holding steady. I would not have been surprised if his 10-year-old self would have melted down in front of hundreds just to remain in his seat for three more outs. I turned around and told him “get your rally hat on.” A quizzical look came across his face as he asked “what’s a rally hat?” I informed him of this long-standing ritual and the importance of the rally hat in dire circumstances like this. I told him there is no set way to do it – you can turn your hat inside out, backwards, sideways, sit it on top of your head like a shark – they all can work. So, we both decided upon the backwards Brewers’ cap as the home team came to bat in the bottom of the ninth.
Brewers’ stars Jackson Chourio and Christian Yelich pumped life into the stadium beginning the bottom of the ninth with an infield single and a walk respectively. The buzz level was growing. The lone Nationals’ fan sitting in the row in front of us was beginning to take heat from his family and friends after having spent the top of the 8th and top of the 9th in an over-the-top wild frenzy cheering on the Nationals mostly to annoy said friends and family.
Newly acquired first baseman Andrew Vaughn roped the first pitch he saw, a 97mph four-seam fastball, into the gap for a two-run double. The game was tied 5-5 and the crowd was the loudest it had been all day. The lone exception – yes, the aforementioned Nationals fan in the row in front of us.
Andruw Monasterio pinch ran for Vaughn and Jake Bauers pinch hit for Isaac Collins. Bauers grounded out, but Monasterio aggressively took third base on the throw to first base to get Bauers. The Nationals intentionally walked left-handed hitting Brice Turang to set up what they hoped would be an inning-ending double play and chose to pitch to the hot hitting right-handed hitting Caleb Durbin. Durbin watched a called strike, but then promptly laced the second pitch down the right field line for the game winning hit.
As the announcers like to say when the home team wins in their last at-bat, Durbin “walked it off,” And in unison, we all walked it off that day. We walked up the stadium stairs and through the stadium and out to our vehicles all the while slapping high-fives and fist-bumping random strangers on our way out. The only one not fist-bumping or high-fiving – the Nationals’ fan in the row in front of us who had scurried out of the stadium as quickly as possible much to the delight of his Brewers’ friends and family.
Ahh, the beauty of sports. The beauty of the rally cap. The beauty of a common cause culminating in a walk-off win together.
I’ll quote the late, great Jack Buck and say, “Go crazy, folks. Go crazy!” Here is Caleb Durbin doing the walk, doing the walk-off of life. Oh yeah, the boy can play.
And after all the violence and double talk There’s just a song in all the trouble and the strife You do the walk, yeah, you do the walk of life Hmm, they do the walk of life
Whether 2025 or the release date of this song and video 40 years ago in 1985, there’s always going to be a song in all the trouble and the strife. There was trouble and strife in Milwaukee a few weeks ago, but the Brewers persevered. May you take heed from a simple game with a stick and a ball, may you persevere through your troubles and your strife, and may you do the walk of life.
Today’s classic choice hit #7 on the U.S. charts and #2 in the UK. With apologies to those of you who prefer “Money for Nothing,” this lively and upbeat song remains my favorite Dire Straits song. The video below with all of the vintage 80’s sports highlights (and lowlights) is also a reminder of some of our sports stars of the past. I always loved the video too, because it features one Larry Legend running onto the parquet floor of the 80’s Boston Garden.
Written by the red head-banded one, Straits’ frontman Mark Knopfler, let’s all do the “Walk of Life…”
Thanks for reading and may you have a walk-off win this week in whatever it is you are doing!
“Don’t need no credit card to ride this train.” – Huey Lewis & The News
Was it just me, or did anyone else alive in 1985 think that in 40 years we’d be time-traveling for sure… with or without a flux capacitor? Just me? That’s fine, but hey Elon – less rocket ships and X rants, more time-machine research!
If you were a young teenager like I was on July 3rd 1985 when “Back to the Future” was released, 40 years mine as well have been a million years. I thought I’d never get to 16 and earn my driver’s license much less make it to 2025 where I would be writing this thing called a blog on this thing called the internet.
No, the days were not 24 hours long in 1985. God stopped the clock on many an occasion I was convinced. Much like our basketball team manager(s) would (shoutout Stevie Jones with the quick fingers) occasionally pause the timer on the scoreboard for just fractions of seconds so we could all complete certain conditioning requirements under the allotted time, I felt like God would do this to me as the days of the 80’s sometimes lasted 240 hours instead of the ridiculous 24 hour number we were brain washed into believing. Michael J. Fox was going to look like this forever, and I was never going to actually graduate from high school.
Now, sitting here in 2025 I’m kind of amazed that Marty McFly traveled back in time just 30 years to 1955. Filmed today, he would only go back to 1995, a good decade short from the movie’s original equivalent. Great Scott! Where has the time flown since Ronald Reagan, “the actor?!” and Jerry Lewis were running our country?
Alas, if I could go back to 1985, I’d probably take in a Huey Lewis & The News concert at some point since I’ve never seen them live and unfortunately never will since Huey no longer performs as he continues to battle Meniere’s Disease. The disease is an inner ear disorder that I guess has also led to a loss of his hearing which obviously affects his ability to hear music frequencies and hold vocal pitches.
The recent years and decades have also been difficult for Michael J. Fox as he valiantly battles onward hoping for a breakthrough of any kind against Parkinson’s Disease of which he was diagnosed back in 1991.
Lea Thompson recently was quoted as saying the original Back to the Future “is just the perfect screenplay.” The movie is definitely a top 10 favorite of the 80’s for me, and one which I’ll still watch from time to time whenever it magically appears on my television like a friendly voice from the past.
After changing lanes and removing Eric Stoltz from the Marty McFly role and going with their original choice, Michael J. Fox, it was just fortunate “density” that the movie would go on to become a huge success.
Written, produced, and directed by Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale, the movie grossed over $380 million. This is the original trailer you might have witnessed had you been in a movie theater or possibly watching it on tv somewhere in the spring/early summer of 1985.
“The Power of Love is a curious thing. Make a one man weep. Make another man sing.”
This was the band’s first #1 hit on the Billboard Hot 100, and arguably their most famous song. Filmed at Uncle Charlie’s Nightclub in Corte Madera, Cali, it will keep you up at night. It’s “The Power of Love”…
Happy birthday America, and if you do have a time machine, hit me up, got a few things I need to change from the 80’s. Thank you.
Yesterday (Sunday morning) just before church service began, our pastor’s wife came up to me and said something along the lines of it’s an important night tonight. For a moment I was caught off guard and a little confused. After a moment, I realized what she was saying and so I simply asked her to pray for thunder, pray specifically for THE Thunder right around 7 pm CST Sunday night.
Well, prayers or no prayers (don’t think God is particularly interested in who wins a NBA title), at approximately 9:49 CST, the Oklahoma City crowd erupted and the Oklahoma City Thunder won their first NBA title as an Oklahoma City franchise.
Thunder sensation Shai Gilgeous-Alexander (only 26 years old) became just the fourth player in NBA history (and first in the last 25 years) to win the NBA scoring title, the NBA regular season MVP, and the NBA Finals MVP award joining these three other decent players – Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Michael Jordan, and Shaquille O’Neal.
It was July of 2019, when the Thunder acquired Shai Gilgeous-Alexander and started stockpiling draft picks that led to the drafting in 2022 of Chet Holmgren (#2 out of Gonzaga) and Jalen Williams “Jay-Dub” (#12 out of Santa Clara). And just like that, a new, very formidable “big three” was born. With subtle and smart picks and acquisitions over the following years (trading Josh Giddey to the Bulls for Alex Caruso, acquiring Isaiah Hartenstein from the Knicks, etc.), the Thunder slowly built themselves into a contender and ultimately into a NBA championship team.
This photo below is from Christmas 2015 give or take a year.
I know it was Christmas because I bought all three of those Oklahoma City Thunder hats as Christmas gifts to myself, my brother-in-law Nick (center), and my dad. Living in Norman for many years after retirement, my mom and dad became big Thunder fans upon the arrival of the Thunder (thank you Seattle) in 2008. Success was almost instantaneous as the Thunder made their way to the NBA finals in 2012 behind their original “big three” of Kevin Durant, Russell Westbrook, and James Harden. They lost in five games that season to a better big three in Miami – LeBron James, Dwayne Wade, and Chris Bosh. The Thunder traded Harden before the start of the following season, Durant left via free agency in 2016, and Westbrook was the last to go – traded in July of 2020 officially ending that initial era of success.
My dad and I always had Thunder basketball to talk about through the years. How they needed to get Kevin Durant more shots and Russell Westbrook needed to turn the ball over less. How Serge Ibaka couuld be the X-factor. How fun Steven Adams was to watch and was for a soundbite, and how Kendrick Perkins was making way too much money for the Thunder. He would see many of the Thunder players in the Poker Room at the local casino he frequented and report back to me – “Durant was playing the big stakes tables today… Perk was there with his bodyguard so no one would bother him I guess… stood next to Russell Westbrook getting poker chips. He’s not very tall…”
I once typed out a full-page letter and mailed it to my dad which laid out how much money Perkins was making per point and per rebound, compared him to some of the other “true stiffs” around the league, and called my dad “a crazy old fool who just didn’t understand basketball,” and then I signed it “Big Perk.” My dad, the lifelong basketball coach, got a kick out of it, and I think it only fueled his passion for Perk-bashing. We went to a Thunder game one time with my best friend from high school, Barry. The three of us sitting there watching the Thunder that night and Barry (also by then fully aware of my dad’s disdain for Kendrick Perkins), would jump out of his seat and give a standing ovation every time Kendrick Perkins made a shot or did something really well. Granted, it only happened a couple of times the whole game, but it made my dad laugh each time. And to my dad’s defense, Perk finished with somewhere around 4 points and 2 rebounds that game, which just further solidified his whole point of him being grossly overpaid.
The irony of it all is that Kendrick Perkins was on hand last night in Oklahoma City as part of the ESPN crew broadcasting the game. At halftime, Perk let some of his former OKC Thunder allegiance step in when he said “Chet Holmgren and J-Dub, ya’ll gotta step the hell up.“
Better “step the hell up” they did in the second half, and this Thunder team became an instant legend. There’s only one first in the history books and this group of guys will always be “the first” OKC NBA champion team.
This August will mark four years since my dad passed, and I miss him and I miss our conversations about the Thunder. He would love this Thunder team right along with the hundreds of thousands of fans that do at this very moment. So last night as the post-game coverage wrapped up, Big Perk said his final words and I turned off the television, I rubbed the same OKC Thunder ballcap that I had on my head that I’m wearing in the photo above, and with eyes slightly welling up I looked and pointed upwards and simply said…
“Dad, we’ve been Thunderstruck.”
Several hours later, the song still lingers in my head. Released in 1990, it became a top five U.S. Rock Tracks song for AC/DC off of their “Razor’s Edge” album. One of their most famous and beloved songs, “Thunderstruck” became the official song of the OKC Thunder in 2017 edging out “The Thunder Rolls” by Oklahoman Garth Brooks. I love Garth, but the fans made the right decision on this one as the 2024-25 Oklahoma City Thunder etched or shall I say thundered their their way into the history books.
I think most every family has that relative. The one who you’re never quite sure where fact and fiction deviate. The one with a slight aura of mystery who lives in a general location and has a job in a generic industry (insurance, construction, real estate, etc.), but you’re never one hundred percent of the factual basis of any of it. You just shrug your shoulders and kind of blindly accept as reasonable what you’re told from others.
My Uncle Ricky was that person for my family. He passed away in his sleep late last Sunday night in Texas at the home he shared with his longtime partner, Michele. Receiving the message early Monday morning that he had passed was jarring. He was only 66.
He was my mom’s brother and the youngest of the four Duke children (by several years) growing up in Pawhuska, Oklahoma. He was the “surprise” of the family for my grandpa Kay, a rancher, who was in his 50’s and my grandma who was nearly 43 by the time she gave birth to Ricky Reed Duke in June of 1958. Athletic and handsome, Ricky was an all-sports star at Pawhuska High School, With just 12 years separating us in age, my Uncle Rick served more like a cool older brother than an uncle. When I was growing up, I read a few of his newspaper clippings and he became an early sports idol for me reading about his time playing quarterback, running point guard, playing baseball and golf and everything in between for the Huskies.
Rick Duke, Point Guard and Homecoming Queen escortRick Duke, QB
A lot of us were never really sure where he lived or exactly what job he was working, never entirely sure of his relationship status or his exact whereabouts at any given time. But he also was not an absent relative, dutifully showing up at any and most family holidays and events. He loved family. He loved getting together with his mom, brothers, sisters, and relatives for family reunions and hearing the same old stories and laughing like they were the first time he’d ever heard them. He was there for Easter and Thanksgiving dinner. He was there on Christmas eve to (as tradition dictated) pitch in his singing voice on “We Three Kings” with the other men in the family, but performed only after some frantic last-minute shopping and/or the wrapping of gifts in a back bedroom somewhere with minutes to spare. He was cool. He was funny. He had an easy laugh and kind eyes, and yes, he was a complete enigma at times, but we could always talk about family and we could always talk about sports. He loved being around my dad the basketball coach and talking and watching hoops. He’d watch football or baseball with you. He had a John Daly-esque backswing on the golf course and still had a smooth jumpshot on the basketball court well into his 30’s. And Ricky loved his OSU Cowboys from his days and time spent in Stillwater frequently meeting up with old pals and fraternity brothers at football games and an annual calf fry every year.
Rick, my dad and I after our golf tournament that saw dad come away as the winner.
It’s funny the things you remember about relatives or friends for seemingly no particular reason, but I remember one time in my teens that Rick asked me what kind of music I was listening to. I responded with the mainstream stars of the day – Van Halen, Journey, Prince, Michael Jackson. After nodding along he asked, “What about Lynyrd Skynyrd? You should listen to some Skynyrd!” I knew of “Sweet Home Alabama,” was kind of familiar with some song about a bird being free, but surely couldn’t spell the name of the band nor tell you one person in the band. Was Leonard Skinnard the lead singer? So upon his recommendation sometime along the early 90’s I bought “Skynyrd’s Innyrds: Greatest Hits” cd. It was then that I learned how to spell Lynyrd Skynyrd, learned that no one in the band was named Lynyrd or Leonard or Skynyrd or anywhere close to the group’s name. I listened to the cd several times and dutifully reported back to Uncle Rick that “they have several pretty good songs,” which I’m sure was obviously a proud moment for him. I still have that cd, and it has obviously gained just a little more meaning for me this week.
Go Pokes
Famously known for never being on time, Ricky Duke was as cool to me as Ronnie Van Zant was to his legions of fans, and anytime I’d hear a Lynyrd Skynyrd song through the years, my mind would often drift to my Uncle Rick and to wondering where he was and what he was doing. He lived most of his adult life in the Dallas metro area, but he did live with my parents at their house in Norman for a period of time before my parents moved closer to me in Arkansas in 2017. I never was really quite sure what precipitated the need to live with them temporarily, and I never asked. I just figured I probably wouldn’t like the answer and like the saying goes, sometimes ignorance is bliss.
The last time I saw Ricky Duke was at my mom’s funeral last July where I tasked him with reading mom’s obituary, and he did. Our last correspondence was last Christmas Eve when I texted him a link to a YouTube video of an old VHS tape I had recently uploaded. It was a short video from our time together as a family at my parents’ house in Norman, Oklahoma on Christmas Eve, 1988. It featured Ricky and his siblings, their spouses, nephews, nieces, and his mom (my grandma Ruby). It was about 3pm and I told him in the text that I was thinking about him and wished him well imagining that he was probably just starting his Christmas shopping. I told him I was going to get him a Blockbuster gift card for Christmas as a thank you for all of the Blockbuster Video gift cards he got me and the rest of my cousins over the years when we were younger, but that I was having trouble finding one. He responded via text that evening laughing at the memory, thanking me for the video link, and that it “made my Christmas!” He hoped we were well, wished us a Merry Christmas, and signed off with a “Love ya.”
I’m thankful those were the final words I have from him. I love ya too, Uncle Ricky.
Uncle Ricky and I sometime in the ’90’s.
For I must be traveling on, now ‘Cause there’s too many places I’ve got to see
It may have been more appropriate for me to tie this post to Skynyrd’s “Simple Man,” another favorite of mine. But to do that would have also unintentionally created (while maybe appropriate) a too simplistic analogy of my Uncle Rick. He was a simple man, simple at heart. He was “a little country and also a lot of class,” as Michele described him. But like all of us, he was also a flawed person who made some poor choices along his path. He was in and out of favor with family members and friends for different periods of time, but one thing I never questioned was that he loved me and that he loved his family. Flaws, mistakes, regrets… that’s what make us human, but ultimately love can conquer all. Love will ease pain and cleanse guilt. It’s the greatest commandment, and I think about love when I hear this song, even moreso now. Even though the lyrics themselves point to a man leaving a woman, maybe a lost love even, the music itself is soaring and reflective and rocking and limitless and beautiful, “Free Bird” is Skynyrd’s nine, sometimes ten, sometimes eleven plus minute lovely masterpiece.
With Gary Rossington making his guitar sing in this video, using it to imitate the sound of birds chirping, Lynyrd Skynyrd was at the height of their fame and one of the most famous bands in the world in 1977 when this was filmed. It would have been just a year or so after Ricky graduated from high school, and I like to think that he could have been there with his friends on that sunny afternoon probably shirtless, in cutoff jean shorts with his long brown hair dancing in rhythm with the rest of the Skynyrd Family to the emanating sound of the time, with no cares, no worries and a whole life of limitless possibilities hanging before him on a blank canvas.
Performed at a packed Oakland Coliseum just three months before the tragic plane crash that claimed the lives of Ronnie Van Zant, guitarist Steve Gaines and his sister and backup singer Cassie Gaines, here is classic Skynyrd with “Free Bird”…
This post is several months overdue, but now that the boys of summer are back, it seems an appropriate time to make it up.
I love baseball, and so the next few months are really great for me. I don’t really care about the trivial complaints – “too boring,” “too slow,” too whatever. I just politely nod along and smile, but inside, secretly, I’ll be thinking something is wrong with you or whomever raised you. Judgmental? Perhaps, but in the middle innings of my life, I’m too secure in myself to really care much either way. I don’t have the desire to debate the beauty of a sacrifice bunt during a day game at Wrigley, or the euphoric feeling of a late inning home run cutting through the thin air in Denver, because I know the final innings are approaching, and I have more important things to focus on rather than whether or not you care for America’s past time.
But there is something missing this season, or better yet, someone missing this season. With due respect to Joey Votto, I truly only miss one player who retired with very little fanfare at the end of the 2024 season. His name is Charles Cobb Blackmon, aka “Chuck Nazty” for those of you in the know.
Drafted out of Georgia Tech University in the second round of the MLB draft in 2008, a baby-faced Charlie Blackmon broke into the major leagues with little notice in June of 2011 just shy of his 25th birthday. He played left field and batted seventh behind the likes of Todd Helton and Troy Tulowitzski. Blackmon got his first major league hit, a single, in his second game as a pro the next day in his first at bat off of San Diego Padres’ pitcher Dustin Moseley. He bounced between the big club and their AAA squad in Colorado Springs over the next two seasons, but from 2014 on, Charlie Blakmon was a fan favorite and fixture in the outfield and on the base paths for the Colorado Rockies.
Fast forward to 2024, and a now grizzled 38-year-old Chuck Nazty, hair flapping in the wind as he rounded first base, singled up the middle off of Los Angeles Dodgers’ pitcher Landon Knack last September. After that hit on a sunny afternoon in front of the home crowd, Blackmon called it a career. The dash in between 2011 and 2024 represented a career spent entirely with Colorado, which saw Charlie garner over 1800 hits including 227 homers, and a very solid lifetime OPS of .832. The years also included four all-star appearances and a 2017 season where Charlie finished 5th in the MVP voting.
I was not a huge Rockies fan, but I spent two weeks every summer in Boulder for banking school (it’s a real thing, I swear. Shoutout GSBC). While there for those six cumulative weeks between 2017 and 2019, I attended five Colorado Rockies’ games and came to love the ballpark and the chance to watch Charlie Blackmon. His style reminded me of a modern-day version of Pete Rose. Batting from the left side like Charlie Hustle, Colorado’s own Charlie was a grinder as well, working every pitch, every at-bat, and hustling his way around the bases while tracking down fly balls and line drives in the outfield. But unlike the clean shaven, clean cut Rose, an aura of coolness surrounded Blackmon that seemed to allude Rose. And where Rose seemed aloof, the unassuming Blackmon seemed more likely to join you and your pals at the bar for a beer or two.
Charlie Blackmon is not a hall of famer, and I don’t think anyone is arguing he is, but Charlie Blackmon was at a bare minimum very good and at other times, a great player. I appreciated his game. I appreciated his dedication. I appreciated his demeanor. Charlie Blackmon was solid, and there’s nothing wrong with that when you’re a professional athlete.
The final innings are coming at all of us whether we care to see or it not. And while most of us might dream of finishing out our game like a triple-digit throwing closer, or hitting a towering walk-off 400 foot blast into the upper deck, I have absolutely no problems being that guy who blisters a grounder up the middle between short and second base and hustles his way down to first base before taking my curtain call. And there’s a way to define that moment. Solid.
“I just want to use your love… tonight!”
Ahh, the outfield or The Outfield. The iconic walk-up song for outfielder Charlie Blackmon was just another reason that I loved watching Charlie play at his home ballpark. The Outfield was a band from London (who knew very little about American baseball) that formed in 1984 and found immediate success like homering in your first major league at bat. I’ve long loved this song, and apparently Charlie has also been a fan for many years…
The Outfield peaked with this song, which was their first release from their 1985 debut album, “Play Deep.” Reaching #6 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 in 1986, here is the band that early on was actually known as The Baseball Boys (a nod to the gang in the movie “The Warriors”), before changing their name to The Outfield. It’s their biggest hit and one that played over the loud speakers at Coors Field for many years. May you always think of Charlie Blackmon when you hear… “Your Love” by The Outfield.
A tip of the cap, and a thanks for the memories, Charlie.
As another birthday rolled by several weeks ago, I was asked by a colleague at work for some words of wisdom or a life motto that I ascribe to. For the life of a 54-year-old man, I had no reply. I had no words to impart. No immediate wisdom to instill into future generations. Nothing. Not even a clever or sarcastic remark. All I had was a half-hearted stupid smile, a shaking of the head, a shrugging of shoulders, and an air uncomfortable silence.
Uncomfortable silence. Which begs the question or questions – should we all have something to contribute to this question? Does it even matter? Should I regurgitate a common phrase or motto I’ve heard a hundred times elsewhere? Am I possibly just overthinking an innocuous question? Maybe. But if so, why does it keep perpetually popping into my head at random times like a song that plays on repeat in your brain at 2 a.m.? As Dave Gahan’s recitative singing suggests in today’s post, are words simply trivial, unnecessary, truly meaningless, and forgettable? Maybe it is simply context related – the theme applies to situational relationships as today’s song seems to imply.
While I could have easily reached into my 80’s bag and suggested that “life moves pretty fast…” or “stay gold,” or “always do the right thing,” I guess by now, I’ve apparently taken a more contemplative, thoughtful approach much like I’m writing my own obituary or preparing a speech for a high school or college graduating class. Surely the question is not worth nearly that amount of reflection, my mind says. Yet, here I am, some 270 plus words into a post that has gone nowhere to this point except maybe to one of great philosophers of the 80’s and early 90’s – Beer Professor Norm Peterson with one of his most profound statements on the final episode of “Cheers”…
Surely love is a beautiful and worthy answer. But we obviously know and inherently understand that words are not meaningless and forgettable, because we have endless amounts of data supporting this. Some of us have more to say than others, but as a society, we rely on words… we hang onto words for generations. Jesus even stated some 2000+ years ago that “Heaven and earth will pass away, but My words will never pass away.” Proof that words will never be forgotten.
But sometimes the problem with words is that they produce noise. And there can be a lot of noise when you open yourself up to it. The noise can be perpetually endless, and it can be aggravating and messy and ugly and toxic and yet the noise can also produce a beauty you never saw coming, but getting there can be the difficult part. It should be the goal, but as I read recently in an article about Paul Skenes, the pitching phenom for the Pittsburgh Pirates, Skenes said that a coach of his reminded him that “You can’t master the noise until you master the silence.” Is his secret pitching coach Dave Gahan? Unknown at this point, but the statement made me pause for thought. Master the silence.
Maybe I’ve succumbed to Proverbs 17:28 which says “Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent, and discerning if they hold their tongues.” Skenes finds solace and meaning and sometimes answers to his art in the silence, which is interesting to me. Silence, stillness, both often perceived as passive laziness or indifference are often, in my opinion, misconstrued conclusions. Silence and stillness can be active signs of strength and even as a powerful act of surrender, of letting go. Maybe we all can’t let go a 100 mph fastball like Skenes can do, but we can let go of the problems, of the difficulties, and yes even of the noise.
And so we carry on through the ages with words that may be remembered and many which will be forgotten. Yet for most of us, we may constantly find ourselves challenged to produce more of… and sometimes only at a moments’ notice. So, as I prepare to fulfill the request of my coworker and address her harmless question from weeks ago, I will steel my resolve and prepare to relay a monumental, surely life-altering unforgettable moment, one that she will surely never forget as I walk the 10 steps, stop by the office door, peer in, and ironically utter noise from my mouth about being still and about mastering and yes, even enjoying the silence.
“All I ever wanted, all I ever needed Is here in my arms ”
Depeche Mode began recording their “Violator” album in 1989 which included today’s featured song. When the song and video hit mainstream in 1990, the band suddenly became a spark of interest in my musical journey that had (up until that point) been comprised largely of top 40, rap, R&B, and hard rock genres. Considering this song peaked at #8 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 in July of 1990 and has been Depeche Mode’s highest charting single to date, one could argue I was still stuck in top 40 music, but it did unleash a certain curiosity into the older catalog of Depeche Mode which in turn led to my purchase of the Depeche Mode 101 live double cd, which had been released in 1989. I also purchased DM’s follow up cd/album “Songs of Faith and Devotion.” And honestly after that, my Depeche Mode “phase” had run its’ course as I stuck to pre-1993 Depeche Mode anytime I was in the appropriate mood.
I’ve forgotten how much I actually enjoy the video featuring “King” Dave cloaked in a royal robe, wearing a crown and carrying a foldable deck chair marching through the Scottish Highlands, along the coast of the Algarve and finally into the Swiss Alps in search of a suitable place to “Enjoy the Silence”…
Words are definitely necessary to prolong the life of a writer, so carry on my writing friends.
A very kind St. Patrick’s Day wish to you all in this fine month of the calendar.
I am very fortunate having had three really good basketball coaches in my life, four if you count my dad (and I do). Arguably the fifth best basketball coach I ever had passed away at the age of 95 a few weeks ago. I never met him in person and I never actually played basketball for him. His real name was Gene Hackman, but his portrayal as the tough but tender Norman Dale, coach of the fictional Hickory Huskers in the 1986 film “Hoosiers,” was a very real coach for me and for many of us who grew up in the 80’s and who have carried their love of this coach and this film for nearly 40 years.
Sure he may have been a fictional coach with well written lines read off of a script, but it didn’t make him any less real to those of us who couldn’t and still can’t get enough of his one season and the miraculous run to the Indiana State high school basketball championship in 1952.
I was a sophomore in high school in November of 1986 when “Hoosiers” was released into theaters. The very first viewing I had was with my Norman High School basketball teammates several days after its’ release. With apologies to Dr. J and “The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh,” “Hoosiers” was (and still is) the finest basketball movie ever made. I remember watching it and thinking “I am ready to run through a wall to win a state basketball championship.” The Norman High Tigers were a really good team that year, but unfortunately we lost in the Area championship in spring of 1987.
Coach Dale was a coach not unlike thousands of other coaches of that era – a hard-nosed, passionate, teacher of the game unafraid to stand on his principles with a “my-way-or-the-highway” authoritarian leadership. It was certainly a different time and high school basketball was not a democracy. Basketball teams were run by coaches who demanded effort and required loyalty. Was it always a perfect system? Of course not. Times change, philosophies and style change, but I can’t say it’s better or worse. That is a matter of opinion. But it sure was different from today’s game that hails the “players’ coach” and finds nothing unusual about players who transfer from one year to another, from one high school to another, from one college to another all in search of something they themselves can’t quantify. Most don’t know what they want or what they need in a coach or school. Today makes 1952’s Hickory Huskers even more bizarre and peculiar when viewed through the lens of those who are barely old enough to drive or vote. Yes kids, coaches were once very demanding, yelled at you, and didn’t care a whole heck of a lot what you wanted. But if you cared, if you became part of a team, and if you put forth maximum effort then sometimes the reward was met with a gold trophy at the end of the season. Even when it wasn’t, there was still a reward just in the journey of trying to get there.
If you put your effort and concentration into playing to your potential, to be the best that you can be, I don’t care what the scoreboard says at the end of the game, in my book we’re gonna be winners”
The 1952 Hickory Huskers were based upon the 1954 Milan Indians. The Milan coach (Marvin Wood) was only 26 years of age and not a middle-aged coach with one last chance as was Hackman’s portrayal. Milan also had 10 players compared to Hickory’s seven (and a half if you include manager/hero Ollie; an event that was fictionalized by the movie). Milan was also coming off of a 1953 final four appearance at state the previous season. They didn’t exactly come out of nowhere to win the title in 1954.
“Five players on the floor functioning as one single unit: team, team, team – no one more important than the other.”
Milan did have a real life Jimmy Chitwood. His real name was Bobby Plump. Though he didn’t tell Coach Wood “I’ll make it” at the end of the real life championship game in 1954 against the larger, powerful Muncie Central Bearcats, the final 18 seconds did unfold just like in the movie.
Here is the real life Jimmy Chitwood, Bobby Plump, with his game winner in 1954…
Bobby Plump went on to play college ball at Butler University in the same Hinkle Fieldhouse on Butler’s campus where the championship game took place. After his time at Butler, Plump played three seasons (1958-61) in Bartlesville, Oklahoma for the AAU powerhouse Phillips 66ers. In one of those “small world” coincidences, my dad Jim Kerwin also played for Phillips for six seasons beginning in 1964. I’ve always thought this to be a great connection knowing that my dad met and knew Bobby Plump from the numerous Phillips reunions which used to be held every year after the team disbanded following the 1968 season.
(Note the “Standing” and “Kneeling” are backwards above. My dad, Jim Kerwin, kneeling #30)
sincerely, the 80's 