Night Games

A good night's sleep is predicated on the body actually being ready to sleep.

Therefore, a belly full of caffeine probably isn't the wisest choice to speed this condition along. So true, even a caveman understands. So why don’t I?  No longer considered a Cro-Magnon of our species, why on earth would I consume three full glasses of ice tea with a later than usual dinner the other night and expect the Sandman to quickly come-a-calling? I don’t know. But I sure as hell couldn’t sleep. And after counting about ten thousand sheep- and their offspring- I eventually gave up.

So, as the lovely Amy slumbered on peacefully, I tip-toed to the living room, my place of refuge whenever a long restless night awaits me. I tried to find something on TV, an Infomercial, a bad movie, anything to lull me into dozing. But that didn't work.

Next I tried reading. That didn’t work either. Concentrating on the story made me even more awake so after a couple of chapters I gave up, too.

I laid my head on the sofa and demanded my brain shut down and go into sleep mode. But on this night, making unrealistic demands on my central nervous system was like asking Lake Tahoe to move a little to the left so all of it would be in California. It just wasn't going to happen.

The house was church-like quiet, the neighborhood fast asleep and as the cold moonless night crept along, I tossed and turned on the couch waiting for unconsciousness to come. Silently cursing the makers of ice tea, I glanced at the clock-- 12:55 am- and with hours to go till dawn, I felt like the only person in the world still awake. I also felt very alone.

During this time, although in quiet solitude, my mind became very active. It’s amazing the things that run through your head in the middle of the night when all you want to do is find sleep. The demons and dragons all seem to come out of the woodwork.

Every mistake ever made comes back magnified a gazillion times.

Every dream that hasn't come true, all the things I wish I'd done but haven't.

All the things I did do but wish I hadn't; or at least done them differently.

They were all there to punctuate the futility of my existence so far: hop-scotching though life, blindly doing it my own way, without a plan and without much of a clue. And I couldn't shut it off.  Whatever had been in that ice tea, a stream of unsettled consciousness was spilling over the dark hours of a Wednesday morning, running amok and roughshod though my head.

I thought I was alone, too. But in the dark, Satan's presence crept beside me and began whispering glad tidings in my ear.

You're still the biggest loser to ever draw breath.

 You're a failure.

 You've done stupid things.

You're going to lose your job.

You're incompetent.

Nobody likes you. 

God hates you.

Give up.

Pretty crazy, I know. But at 1:30 in the morning, I couldn't find the will or energy to punch holes in his lies.

I really haven't lived with much intelligence or morality.

I'm not the sharpest scalpel in the operating room.

I have friends, but the jury's still out whether I'm a good friend in return.

And I really don't think I've lived up to expectations either; my own or anyone else's. Squeezing the bare minimum out of what God has chosen to bless me with, all I've got to defend my life with so far are a bunch of squandered years, stumbling around and generally lost.

Yet I never thought I’d get to this place. I did have goals and direction. I was going to be the best center fielder in Oakland A’s history. Or a revered and respected teacher of youth. Or the best d.j. ever heard, bar none. Or maybe even the successful owner of my own radio station. I’d be a loved and generous boss, a pillar in my community and, along the way, accumulate three cars, two houses and two kids--or maybe three kids and two cars. Whatever. But it kind of sucks getting this far, living this long, and realizing none of that ever happened or ever will, and my best years are probably behind me. 

Good morning!

So what did happen?

Let’s see...I was a lousy baseball player; the inability to hit a curve dooming any hope of setting foot on a real baseball diamond.

I let my teaching aspirations get derailed and eventually dead-ended.

I messed up with people, chemicals and alcohol and now I can’t go back and fix things or make them right- with past acquaintances, or my body. And though I did have some time in the sun during my on-air radio career, I eventually took it for granted and eventually lost it. Now I’m toiling anonymously in the bowels of a benevolent broadcasting behemoth, but hardly in a position I ever thought I’d  end up; and certainly not one I’d ever be envious of. Frankly, my heart's often not completely in it, and some days I feel I'm not even pulling my own weight. I never thought I'd feel so useless and so irrelevant. Damn!

I call myself a Christian, yet in moments of despair like this, sometimes it feels like I've lost my soul, lost my way, God. And that I’m never going to find Him again. As a Christians, I guess this makes me consistently inconsistent. However, as the clock struck 3, it’s the stuff that keeps me up at night. That and imminent death.

Someday soon I'm going to be gone;  like, not here, as in dead, buried, dust, ka-put, no more and no mas. Oh well. It's just the way it is. But my personal mortality is always a subject for much late night mulling over. And its not that I'm not afraid to die. I'm just afraid of the process. So if I have to go, I want to croak in my sleep at home, exiting quickly, quietly, and without a lot of fuss. I don't want stick around with a lot of tubes stuck in me, lingering around for weeks or months in a hospital with the only signs of life an active heart monitor. Like they say, "How can we miss you if you won't go?"

So I pray I don't overstay my welcome and when it’s time to go, I just go.

When the end comes, I hope it’s not drawn out, like the night was doing at 4:00.....4:01….4:02...

Then staring out the front window at the stars in the black backdrop, I began to re-think things.

Maybe my life has played out like just about everybody else's so far. Lots of mistakes, starts and stops. Times when the plot's read like real bad fiction in a dime store paperback. Yet there've been other times when it’s been the fun and fluffy stuff of fairy tales. I’ve been to the edge of ecstasy and to the far depths of despair.

But haven't most people? Haven't they too felt like life's a bad dream they couldn't wake up from? And other times like a fantasy they hoped would never end? Of course they have, because we all share one thing in common. We're all merely human. 

So at 4:45, I decided my life doesn’t suck as much as I think it has. Oh make no mistake; if I never sin another day, I've already messed up enough for a whole lifetime. A whole couple of lifetimes. Regardless, God comes along often enough and when I most need Him- like this night- to focus me back on the truth: I'm loved, and forgiven. For the past, for yesterday and today. Yeah, I'm weak and have a tendency to get lost in clouds of confusion and uncertainty. But eventually the sky's gonna clear.

 

And it's true- I'm in a struggle that isn't going to end until I take my last breath and I'm going to lose more battles along the way. But Lord willing, I'm not going to lose the war. I have to hold on to that. With all the lies I tell myself, it's really the only truth that’s left to grab on to.

 

It’s just that I’m so tired. 

I just want these burdens and this stuff to go away. But maybe I don't deserve to be at peace. Maybe these long nights of anguish are my penance, or the Biblical thorn in the side to remind me how desperately I'll always need God.

 

Or maybe there’s just some mistakes in life you never stop paying for...

I finally dropped off about 5 a.m. and woke up an hour later when I heard Amy in the shower. But I felt like I'd played a baseball double header in the afternoon and a hockey game in the evening, all on the same day. I was exhausted; not just from the lack of sleep but from all the stuff that'd run through my head over the long empty pre-dawn hours. Pretty crazy what goes through your mind when it’s just you and the darkness. But I was glad to be awake and away from beating myself up over my life, its mistakes and all of the over self-analyzing that tends to take place while whiling away a long night of sleeplessness.


However, when I got to work, I dug back in my in-box and found this blurb from an email trade magazine blast I get every week. This particular article came a couple years ago, but I've hung on to it because the message is so clear and applicable- at least to me. I keep kicking myself over past sins, failures and mistakes- especially in the middle of the night- and it’s all so freaking counter- productive. The writer's name is Tim Moore and though he's speaking about business mistakes, he just as easily could be taking dead-aim at our every day personal lives-at least mine. And especially after a night like I'd just gone through, it offered me another little ounce of encouragement to start my day—and who can't use a little extra encouragement?

The flickering lamp of history gropes along the trail of our past, trying to reconstruct its decisions, to revive its echoes and to retrieve our irretrievable youth. The light shines on the "what-ifs" and "should-have-beens" that linger from decisions made: opportunities seized and those forsaken. What good does this do since our best intentions clouded with indecision are no match for the Fates or life's ironies? The perspective of time has lengthened, and yesterdays are always seen in a different setting.

Timing is the essence of life: in crisis, in decision-making, in triumph and tragedy. If we could only turn back the clock and take back a few seconds here or a few minutes there, what difference might there be?  In reality, we’ll probably never know. And self-recrimination based on our belief that "we blew it" through a bad decision is like blaming the gravitational pull of the Moon. Retracing footsteps back down the slope to rethink or to regret, is a colossal waste of our time and emotion.

What really matters is that we made a decision: a job, a move, a friend, a marriage. We figure our odds, calculate the risks, project the implications good and bad, then weigh anchor and shove off…

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So if you're spending time in the small hours, agonizing over a plan gone wrong or an opportunity missed along the way, let yourself off the hook. You can't turn back the clock, but you can wind it back up again when the right wave rolls toward you. There's no such thing as "the last great chance," and recognizing which to engage and which to let pass by, can make all the difference.

 

That morning as I began work, I really needed to read Tim Moore's piece again. In four paragraphs it put my long miserable night into a much more manageable context before facing the day. It's true I can't go back and re-write history. But as a believer, it’s also true that my past is forgiven. 

I've had a career, too, a good one, with many years of growth and success. 

I've been loved and am loved; had good days with more ahead still possible. 

I've had an okay life so far, and it ain't over till it’s over. All good stuff.

 

But why does it always take till the light of day to make me see it all? I don't know. But from now on, if I'm eating supper after 8 p.m. I'm going to pass on the ice tea

Teaching the Children Well

Teaching is a noble profession. And I actually went to college with the intention of becoming an elementary school educator. Other things distracted me, though, and eventually pulled me in a different direction. However, knowing how shaky I still seem to get whenever I’m put into a group setting, this was probably a good career move.

 

I just can't see myself standing in front of 30 munchkins every day, 5 days a week, and pretend to know what I'm talking without folding up like a cheap accordion somewhere in the process. So, to the hundreds of kids who may have been in my classroom if the states of Washington and California had ever  issued me a teaching credential, you may now go ahead and thank Providence I ended up in radio instead of slowing down your primary education.

 

Still, I sometimes wonder if I'd have done okay despite my doubts. I wonder if I'd have made a positive difference or a lasting impression after all. I don't know. I'll never know. I do know I was taught by a number of teachers during my schooling days and each made an impression. Some good, some bad. Some were pretty cool; some were at the end of their careers and clearly going through the motions. Many I enjoyed, the others I endured, and all were competent. 

 

One, however, was an outright bastard.

During my one year at American River Junior College I took a modern history class from a grumpy, foul-mouthed, surly old man named Gottlieb Baer. Professor Baer conducted his class using the Socratic method. There were no lectures; he merely railed at, dressed down, cursed at or insulted any student who couldn’t answer correctly or tell him what he wanted to hear.

 

So every Monday, Wednesday and Thursday morning from 8 till 8:45, I lived in a constant panic. Shoot, the man had already made three girls cry. Most of the guys went through the hour living on fear and trembling, too- the fear of being called on and if so, not trembling enough to wet their pants. And even if I knew the material, I had no doubt that was the fate awaiting me, too. You just didn’t know when, which was almost as scary as letting 'ol Gottlieb just go ahead and grill and verbally slice you into pieces.

 

The text he assigned was about as stimulating as chewing sand. I read it out of fear but, unfortunately, remembered almost nothing. However the one time Mr. Baer did call on me other than to answer "here" for roll call, was the easiest question I think he asked all semester: Which Soviet foreign minister gave his name to a gasoline bomb?  It was like he'd asked me to spell "cat". I was so relieved to blurt out Molotov, I thought he'd ask a follow up question to make sure I didn't just get lucky. But he went on to someone and something else and then never called my name again. To this day, I have no clue why I escaped his class without once more getting in his cross hairs, but thank God I did.

 

Professor Baer was an ogre and, to a person, everyone who sat through that semester with me hated his guts. I don't think he cared though. It seemed he lived to intimidate and used that classroom as his private little mind-game torture-chamber. He would've made a terrific Gestapo officer. I guess it worked though because I've never forgotten the name 'Molotov'....or Gottlieb Baer, although I still don’t know how I ever managed to get out of his class with a ‘C'.

 

But that was college, and though Mr. Baer left a lasting impression- completely negative- the two teachers I remember most and most fondly came many years before that: Miss Lubin in fourth grade and Mrs. Shuckle in 6th.

Miss Lubin was young, which made her cool. But she gave lots of homework, which wasn't cool. Yet she also knew how to make a kid feel like the most valuable member of the class when he wasn't feeling so good about himself (see "Shepherds and Yulelogs"). She was very caring and had a big heart; in contrast to Mr. Baer who apparently was born without one. She did fun things with us, too, like conducting class outdoors on warm spring days and leading us on field trips, like the afternoon at the Wonder Bread factory.

The Wonder Bread plant in Sac was on Arden Way, across the freeway from Cal Expo, although the day we were there, Cal Expo hadn’t been built yet. It was a noisy place, but as soon as we walked in, I remember being drenched in the most wonderful aromas. It was like being in heaven's bakery. By Monday, we were supposed to write a report on our visit, but that disappointment was tempered by the tiny little loaf of Wonder Bread, freshly made, and chef’s hat we all got on the way out.

 

Later that year, Miss Lubin took us to the Campbell’s Soup Plant in the Florin area, down near the old Sacramento airport. The fragrances in that place were tasty, too. And though it was interesting watching them make soup and Spaghetti O's, we didn’t get any souvenirs on that visit. She also helped us create our own class newspaper. It featured little articles about the goings-on in the fourth grade, an occasional interview with the principal, and any other classroom gossip we uncovered. And somehow, I ended up being the editor of this junior publication.

 

As a hide-out refugee from the back row, I had no intention or desire to be put in such a "high profile" position. But when Miss Lubin asked for nominations for editor, my friend Gary McKenzie raised his hand and nominated me.  He probably did it as a joke, but it was seconded by someone else and after the votes were tallied up, I’d won. Then we had to decide on a name for our little rag. If left up to me, I’d have come up with something cleverly esoteric like “‘The Fourth Estate”. Get it? Fourth Estate; Fourth Grade?

 

No, that’s ridiculous. That would’ve never registered in my puny little brain. I didn’t know a fourth estate from a fourth down; that it’s a generic term for the press. I didn’t know any of that until college. So I’m fooling no one here. But because I wore a silly blue Snoopy sweatshirt darn near every day and my friends all called me "Snoop", the class wanted to call the paper, “The Top Snooper". Which I thought was stupid. But Miss Lubin loved it. And it made more sense to all of us than “The Fourth Estate.”

As editor, I had my own column to write each month and, with Miss Lubin’s help, reviewed everything that’d be included in each issue. That part was always a treat because she always smelled real good, like a spring garden. It was nice being within sniffing distance. "The Top Snooper" would win no awards for journalistic excellence, but once I settled into the role of editor, working on it was a real good time.

Later, Miss Lubin directed us in the 4th grade spring play. Now, it’s already been clearly established how shy I was as a kid, and how I’d already bombed on stage before, so there was no WAY I'd ever want to be in the limelight again. But for some ridiculous reason, Miss Lubin wanted me to play one of the leads in this theatrical extravaganza. What was she thinking? Had she not seen the humiliating helmet disaster during the now famous Yule Log fiasco? Of course she had. She was there but chose to single me out again anyway.

The story was 'Hansel and Gretel' and  while some kids got to be stage hands or make the sets, and a few others got to be volunteer animals or trees, she wanted me to play ‘Hansel.” When I tried to get out of it, Miss Lubin spoke sweetly and said she wanted me to try so I could prove to myself that one bad experience didn't equate to another one. She promised it was something I could do, and promised it’d be easier than the time before because this wasn't an all school production. It was only for the 4th grade and the performance would be confined only to our classroom. And she promised she’d be there with me the entire time.

That was all fine, I guess, and better than being asked to play ‘Gretel’. But that was the only other consolation. Okay, I got to play opposite cute Candy Parfitt, who was "Gretel". That would be pretty cool, too (though I’d never admit it). As for my part, I don’t know exactly how many words I had to speak, but there were a lot them. I knew I couldn’t remember them all. I wasn’t sure I’d remember any. However, Miss Lubin exercised great patience, coaching and coaxing, and even stayed after school to help me learn my lines. Just as she promised.

Still, leading up to performance day, I was pretty petrified and wasn’t sure I could pull it off. But Miss Lubin never wavered in her encouragement and, somehow, I made it through the production. My wardrobe stayed on, I got to hold Candy’s hand when we entered or left the stage, and I only messed up a couple lines. I’d survived and afterwards, Miss Lubin said I did good and gave me a big hug. Mom was there, too, as were most of the other moms and some dads, too, and they all gave us a standing ovation.

 

When we took our ‘final bows’, Candy was next to me and gently rested her arm on my shoulder. Knowing I’d been a pint-sized basket case all morning leading up to show time, she leaned closer and whispered, “See, they like us! We did good. You did good." Then she smiled. I was so stoked that it was over and that I’d never have to act in a play again, I wasn’t even embarrassed that a girl had laid a hand on me in front of the whole class.

Crazy as it sounds, I thought about this the other night as I was waiting to get my Ten Years of Service Award at our employee recognition night. I remembered Candy saying, "You did good" again. But just like back in fourth grade, I’d been so distracted all week by the fear of  failure- and all I had to do was walk across the stage and get my plaque- I never considered even the possibility of it being a positive experience. So I ran across the sage so nobody would notice me- which was dumb because I was the only one who did that so everybody noticed. And this was in a huge auditorium filled with all my co-workers, not my tiny fourth grade classroom.  

 

But being recognized by my peers and co-workers last Friday night turned out to be awesome and fun; being in that play when I was 9 years old was awesome and fun, too. And had it not been for Miss Lubin's dogged belief in me (she always said, "You can do this"), I might have missed the fun and all the other cool things that happened back in fourth grade. She was in my corner and wasn't going to let me, or any of the other kids in fourth grade, fail. For that, she remains one of my all-time favorite teachers.

 

However two years later I ended up in the classroom of Miss Lubin's polar opposite, Mrs. Shuckle. Everybody at Kingswood Elementary loathed and lived in mortal fear of Mrs. Shuckle. And at the end of fifth grade, when I found out I'd be in her class the next year, I prayed September would never come. 

 

Mrs. Shuckle was a piece of work. She was wrinkled, stood hunched over, walked like she had a yardstick up her ass and pretty much looked like the Wicked Witch of the West. She scared everybody. She even had an involuntary nervous nose twitch, which added to the effect. Her straight lifeless hair, red but turning gray, was tied in a severe bun and not only that, she had to be at least a hundred years old. The woman looked ancient and she was ugly. But as grotesques as Mrs. Shuckle appeared to us, I guess the real question should’ve been what did Mr. Shuckle look like? Perish the thought.

And we'd all heard the Shuckle horror stories: she yelled at kids, smacked their hands daily with a ruler- just for kicks- and may even have killed one or two along the way, too. So I was terrified when I entered her classroom on the first day of 6^th grade. It felt like I was walking to the gallows. I didn't think I'd ever breathe free air again. But you know what? Mrs. Shuckle didn’t exactly live up to her billing.

 

Sure, she was strict and intimidating but more so from hype and rumor, than fact;  which she cleverly used this to her advantage. And yes, she did walk around with a ruler and occasionally cracked a desk to get someone’s attention with it. But she never hit anyone or ever raised her voice. The lady was no witch, she wasn't dead woman walking, and sixth grade wasn't a prison. On the contrary, Mrs. Shuckle 's classroom was alive and dynamic, and as a teacher, so was she.

 

There were no slow times in her class. Mrs. Shuckle kept things moving, always interesting and interactive, and made us learn. In fact, she expected it. And if you were trying and making progress, she was fair and, in her own way, was kind. But she accepted no excuse for lack of effort and no one was allowed to lag behind. If you weren’t getting it, she'd make you work at it till you did. Nobody slipped through the cracks and no matter how well or not-so-well anyone was doing, she took the job of educating the 33 of us in her class that year, dead seriously.

 

Yeah, it was difficult to warm up to her and she was certainly no Miss Lubin. But I most definitely learned under her.  Mrs. Shuckle may have scared the hell out of me, but I got almost all A’s that year. Old fashioned and a tad intimidating, the lady knew how to teach and run a classroom. Though at first I feared sixth grade was going to be hell, like a fly waiting to be devoured in Mrs Shuckle's spider web, turns out I had nothing to fear but my own, and everybody else's, imagination.

 

Mrs. Shuckle wasn't a witch, a spider, mean or horrible. In reality, she was a teddy bear; a teddy bear that scowled a lot and carried around a ruler, but a teddy bear nevertheless, caring about the lives and futures of her 33 students.

 

I loved Miss Lubin and feared Mrs. Shuckle. No, fear isn't the right word. I feared Mr. Baer- who didn't?- but I grew to respect Mrs. Shuckle. Regardless, Miss Lubin and Mrs. Shuckle, each in their own way, managed to get the most out of everybody they taught, including this shy and not so terribly bright, little kid. And for the effort they poured into their profession, classrooms and, most importantly their students, both ladies have earned a lifetime of "A's" and gold stars.

 In my book anyway, they both rocked.

 

My Ten Seconds of Fame

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I work for a Christian radio network, one of the largest in the country.

I hesitate to name it because, though raised in a Christian home, I spent an awful lot of time wandering around blind and lost, did a lot of crazy and not very spiritual stuff and don’t want my current employer’s reputation sullied or marred by the mistakes of my past. I wouldn’t want to be let go either, although I suppose that wouldn’t happen unless I suddenly resorted to those old ways someday while on the clock. Not that there are any perfect people working anywhere, I just think that here we’re probably held to a higher standard. Yet unfortunately, even now, I’m still not there yet.

But that’s not the point of this essay.

In fact, although I’ve worked in a lot of different places and d.j’d within the confines of a handful of contrasting formats in secular radio, playing Christian music and working in a Christian radio outlet was never on my radar. It was neither my ambition nor desire.  However, God must really have a wonderful sense of humor because that’s exactly where He’s put me and where I’m at now.

I never planned to stay here though. This was just another stop in a long and varied broadcast career; a stepping stone on my way to somewhere or something else. Someplace better. But I guess the joke’s still on me, because during 2010 I became a ten year employee. Ten years on the job. In the transient world of radio, that just doesn’t happen; it certainly doesn’t happen very often. But I’ve spent a decade of my life at this place. Amazing.

But who’d a thought? I didn’t, anyway.

When I was hired in March of 2000, the original position, though in programming, was a support job and in the background. Not my first choice. I was a jock; I’d always been on the air. However, out of work for six months and without a lot of prospects in the fire, beggars can’t be choosers. And when I saw the job description on the website, though the guys who hired me didn’t seem to be begging for me in particular to fill the opening, it sure read like maybe they were.

They were looking for someone with at least five years’ experience, could write copy, could do production, run the board, announce and had overseeing experience. Umm, that’d be me, me, me, me, me and me. I’d done all that stuff.  It was like somebody had designed the perfect job for me.

Maybe someone had…

Anyway, when I was hired, they called me a programming assistant. That’s what the title said on the business cards they gave me. But the position seems to have always been in flux. It never stayed the same very long, and just when I’d get comfortable in a certain role, they’d increase the work load, or move me into a different role- all under that same catch all of a programming assistant. I didn’t care, though. I was always busy and the checks always cleared. (There’ve been a few places I worked where that simple transaction wasn’t always a given. The ol’ don’t-cash-this-till-Monday- or until you hear otherwise mode of doing business).

During my first five years, at various points I’d edited phone calls for air play, produced sweepers for air play, filled in on the air, oversaw the weekend crew, and wrote copy for spots and the monthly magazine the ministry published until recently. But then I was moved into a completely different position, the one I'm in currently, and, except for sales, the last department I ever saw myself working in, in radio. I’m doing traffic and continuity; or scheduling spots for the network and the 200 or so affiliates that carry us.

In some ways, the work isn’t quite as taxing, but in other ways it’s been really, really hard on me too. For over 20 years, my vocational identity was shaped and defined by what I did on the air. It’s why I got into radio in the first place. But though I’ve come to accept that my role at this large radio network is never going to be what it was when I was in commercial radio, I always thought I’d remain in the higher visibility end of the business; if not on the air then producing things that played on the air. However, now I’m basically just doing data entry.

I shouldn’t say just data entry, though, because there’s a lot of it, it’s super important to what we do and important that someone competent is doing it. They trust me to hold up my end, and, after five years of it, so far, so good. However, never a stand-out jock, just one that people knew from being on the radio every day, as an ex-jock, I can’t deny that my ego (such as it is) has taken a bit of a punch to the gut. It hasn’t been the easiest of transitions stepping into a role that isn’t exactly in the forefront of why people turn on the radio, and performing tasks that hardly anybody even notices- unless you make a mistake somewhere. Then you get noticed; but not in such a good way.

However, I still work in programming, I’m still in radio and I still get paid for it. Which, even in a roundabout way, is exactly what I set out to do all those years ago. So what if I’m doing something I didn’t necessarily sign up for?  You can’t always get to do what you want, to paraphrase the old song. More often than not, stagnation is bad, change is good and the only guarantee life comes with is that, sooner or later, it will end. Once more, though, none of that stuff is the point of this essay. However for point of record, it does establish that I’ve been working at the same place for ten years. And this past Friday those of us who met that criteria, were briefly honored during out yearly Employee Recognition Banquet.

And, at last; that’s the point of the essay.

I’ve known for weeks this night was coming. And I’ve been to enough of these functions to know I’d probably have to go up on stage at some point and receive a plaque. Which is all cool; our company does this stuff up really nice and makes a nice presentation out of it. They treat everyone well, but on these special nights they make a bit of a fuss over the milestone employees- the five, ten, fifteen year and beyond team members. So it's no surprise what was going to happen. It’s just that, for the past six weeks, I’ve been dreading it.

Even though there was nothing to it.

I wouldn’t have to say anything or do anything unnatural- just walk up on stage, pick up my award and walk off. Easy as cake. And I was dreading it. I guess I didn’t want to do it because as far back as I can remember, anytime little Rocket was put in the spotlight it was always a very difficult thing to handle. I’d do anything to avoid it- which, I know, seems very counter-intuitive since just three paragraphs ago I was lamenting my lack of current, and likely future, broadcast visibility. Oy; sometimes I’m so inconsistent.

 

But as a kid, I was expected to be seen, not heard, shine, don’t bring attention to myself, yet look good nonetheless. And whatever “look good’ meant, I never got there without some sort of fight or argument with someone bigger and older. Even when it was just relatives or cousins coming over, there was this underlying ‘expectation’ to live up to something. And whatever it was, I’m not sure I ever quite met it, at least not without a lot of shouting and in-fighting. Though I always had fun with my cousins, the lead-up to their arrival was not something I generally looked forward to.

So I hated being singled out for anything. It never meant anything good.

In school, unless we had desk assignments, I'd always try and sit in the back of the room so the teacher wouldn’t notice me, or spot me easily. That didn’t always work out so well though because no matter where you sat, the teacher always had your name written down on a seating chart which, whenever the threat of being called on in class came around, left me pretty much with no place to escape. Though I usually knew the answers, I also knew I’d have to stand and deliver and everyone would be looking at me. It terrified me. On those days I could feel my knees shake until either my turn had passed or the teacher had moved on to something else. I hated getting called on.

I wasn’t in a lot of school productions either, because I was shy and wouldn’t volunteer, even though when I got roped into them, I usually did okay. Or okay enough that it wasn’t the worst experience ever, or the end of the world. But because of the inner terrors of having to be “out there” it was an experience I couldn’t enjoy. I think that's really too bad because I probably jipped myself out of having a good time. I was fine when it was over, but by then, the enjoyment factor had decreased significantly, and then it was too late to savor the experience.

Then there were the dreads that accompanied getting new clothes or a haircut, because- again- the other kids would notice and pay more attention to me than I wanted or was used to. The guys would make wise about my ears getting lowered or laugh because I was wearing something different than my Snoopy sweatshirt or holy jeans. Though the teasing was usually mild- much less than I feared- and I was in familiar surroundings and among friends, on those days I felt as out of place and alienated as if I’d just got in from the other side of the planet. It was awful.

But in high school I played freshman baseball, and JV and varsity soccer in front of crowds. Okay, these “crowds“ were generally a group of  not less than 15 not more than 50. They didn’t bother me, though. I usually ignored them, concentrating on the game. And I played hockey in front of small gatherings too. Shoot, there were close to a hundred people at my only All-Star game. That didn’t bother me either. I guess the team atmosphere, the safety in numbers thing, muted the fear of failure. Or at least block it out. Except for striking out (which was more than a rare occurrence) unless I really screwed something up, in a team game it’d be hard to spot me much at all, so I wasn’t all that concerned about the few souls who showed up to watch me play. My focus was the game.

Yet all that aside, generally scared to death of my own shadow, of being noticed or having people pay any attention to me at all, what profession do I choose? Why, of course, broadcasting. Talk on the radio to thousands of people for 4 to 5 hours every day. Naturally. It’s a perfect fit. Just what any vocational counselor would recommend, and exactly what any other self-conscious bashful boy does, right? 

Ummmm…..wild guess? Probably not.

But against my own not-so-better-judgment, as well as all odds, and once I got past the fear and got the hang of it, truth be told it was actually pretty easy. I was in a small room and by myself most of the time. Nobody could see me. From there it became all theater of the mind. Nobody knew what I looked like so I couldn’t possibly be a disappointment – unless Mom was around. Or I had to do something out in public. That part was scary. So I limited those opportunities or would only do them on Halloween when I could go in costume. Left alone or incognito, I can do great things. Having to actually show myself, well, I always perceived that as a recipe for failure or humiliation.

But here’s a dirty little secret. Even under those conditions, I didn’t fail. I wasn't humiliated. When I met listeners, they seemed to like me. At least when they said, Oh, you don’t look at all like you sound”, they generally meant it as a compliment. That was my take, anyway. They seemed to have been accepting me at face value. Friends in and out of my profession accepted me at face value, too. Almost everything I set out to do or accomplish in my career, I’ve been blessed to have done it successfully; even with this face, this voice and this persona. So I should enjoy a little recognition now and then, shouldn’t I?

I dunno because Friday night, as I waited through two hours of eating and entertainment and music and mingling, I wanted to be anywhere but there. Negatively anticipating hearing my name called to go up on stage, I felt my heart racing at about a mile a minute and I wanted to race home.

Earlier in the day, though, I’d been given the opportunity to opt-out. I didn’t necessarily have to go up and receive my award. They’d just give it to me at my desk next week. It was an offer almost too good to pass up. But for some reason, I declined. I guess, citing a chance to get “out of my comfort zone” I talked myself into walking that last mile. But as it got closer to 9 pm, I was beginning to regret making that choice. 

The auditorium was huge, and with all the regional employees in town as well for this special evening, the place was packed. I don’t know how many people for sure but I’m guessing there were 4-500 in attendance. Or 800 to a thousand eyes.  And they’d all be looking at me- and laughing- and mocking, just like I thought as a little boy. Of course it wasn't true. Never has been. But it’s what I was thinking as I mentally counted down the minutes until my group would be recognized.

Fortunately- and don't tell anyone- during the course of the evening, I’d been self-medicating. Just in case. Alcohol wasn’t being served, but I brought along one of my anti-depressants, a med that always makes me feel, if nothing else, kind of drowsy. Drowsy equals calm and calm is what I needed to be when it was time to head to the stage area. I took that upon arrival, and then later, half a Benadryl. And as time went on, the two meds working together began to render me mellow enough to, hopefully, get through what was coming.

And I guess it worked. Or something did because as I joined the other ten people celebrating ten years of service, calm came over me. But it wasn’t the calm produced by the medicine. I could tell. This was different because more than calm, I felt at peace- the peace that passes all understanding. Instantly I knew it’d been stupid to take my pills- all they’d done was dull my senses- and instantly I knew someone had been praying for me. And I knew it’d been someone, because in the chaos of just getting through the evening without throwing up I knew it hadn’t been me.

So who was it? The people at our table- all friends who knew I’d been this close to weenieing out? Maybe the lovely Amy. Or maybe it was just God Himself covering me with his reassuring presence because whatever effect the meds had had on me, it was gone. And I knew it. I was fully alert and aware of everything going on around me. I felt relaxed and okay. My pulse was normal and I was ready. And it had nothing to do with the medication but everything to do with Jesus. Then the time came. Six weeks of worrying about the future and this night, had at last come down to now. My name was called. I went up, got my plaque shook a few hands.

And then, literally, I sprinted off the stage.

Though we’d all been instructed to walk, like hurrying to catch up with a departing bus, I ran. I forgot all about how calm I was and how God was right there with me, and darted right off the stage. Must've looked ridiculous, too. I ran like a dinosaur was after me. Like I’d been caught stealing. Like I’d just peed my pants. And then it was over. I didn't hear if anyone applauded. I don’t remember who I talked to on stage, I don’t even remember being up there. All I know is, it was over.

I got some high fives on the way back to my table, but it was over. My ten seconds in the sun had come and gone and like all the other great moments and events in my life, I’d worried about it so much, I missed it. Oh I was there. I wasn't mocked or spat on, jeered, judged or had any other horrible thing I'd imagined happen. But as with just about everything else for me that seemed hard, when the time came to face and overcome it, though I did it, it all happened so fast I missed the moment. Or missed being in the moment. For sure I missed much of the significance.

But that will come. Writing about it helps. Getting feedback from others will help.

And though the fear factor robbed me of recalling much of what I "accomplished" Friday night, it doesn't always have to be that way. Though its true I don’t want to do any more of these out-of-the-box things, I think I need to; at least, every once and awhile.

Friday night should have been fun. But it wasn’t that way until it was almost over. And I don’t think that’s how God intends life to be. As far back as I can remember, though, that’s how I’ve been doing it; I’ve been doing life backwards. It shouldn’t be that way. And I don't want to do that anymore.  Besides the plaque I took home Friday night, going forward I want to try and take a little different attitude with me, too- that life’s not always going to be a party, but when you’re at one, it’s okay to act like it. Duh.

As I get later into my life and career, these times to be in the spotlight are going to be fewer and farther between. I should treasure them. I want to treasure them! I don’t want to get to the end of my life and only then realize there was gain with some of that pain. I want to remember some pleasure came with it, too; that there was joy. That it was fun!

So I want to thank the Academy….actually I want to thank God and my employer for treating me to a moment in the sun Friday night, a moment to feel special, a moment to feel important. I needed that. Everybody needs that. And , not to sound selfish, but even if these things tend to terrify me or I feel unworthy of them, I hope there’s more of them to come. Not just in my career, but every day.  That’d be awesome. Yet even if there aren't, I had this one.

And, as it turns out, this one was pretty cool...at least, from what I've been told.