VOLUME 1, CHRONICLE 5: Let me tell you a 2021 story from the steps. On this day in 2019, I wished my coach Doug Moser a happy birthday. I didn’t know it would be the last time, I didn’t know how sick he was because that was the type of man he was, I didn’t know that in July of ‘19 I would say goodbye. What follows was posted in 2021 as a story for my granddaughter on the 2nd anniversary of his passing. Lately, due to personal circumstances or maybe wiser s catching up to older, I see the value of giving a flower now rather than a bouquet at the funeral home. I let myself be able, well before 2019, to express my gratitude to Coach, to give the flower & I’m glad I did, especially on days like today or the first day of the NCAA basketball tournament when we can’t find out whose bracket busted first. Today, this week, find one you love, one that provided you metaphorical pine tar & tennis balls, & give them a flower of thanks or appreciation because a flower is prettier than a bouquet. It’s harder than it should be, but you’ll be glad you did, given that you better love people hard & give flowers while you can, ‘cause God’s gonna want us all back one day…

PINE TAR & TENNIS BALLS, LET ME TELL YOU A STORY: Insomnia has raised the curtain at 2:37AM & taken the stage between my ears with the thespian Memory & begun their play. Two years ago tomorrow, as a construction superintendent waiting on subcontractors to begin the day, I got news of Coach Moser’s passing, that’s him, back row on the right end. On an emptied, upturned drywall mud bucket, in a 15 minute fury of memories & tears & words I had a writing experience that Hemingway described as “…sit at the typewriter & bleed.” I began:

VANISHING POINT: I was in the first class Doug Moser taught at Elbert Long School. It was art, one of those nine week exploratory classes. I was no artist but I still remember what a vanishing point is. It’s the place where a painting fades into the horizon. With yesterday’s passing of Coach Mo, every man not named Dad or Grandad that impacted my youth, is gone, my life imitates art. They have all crossed the horizon…

My words that followed were more general, less personal as I completed my tribute. Two years on, it’s time to get personal, time to bleed again. It starts under that basketball rim. Coach opened the gym in the summer, I strolled in one day to work on my free throws. As I stepped on the court, dribbling a Wilson Jet, I noticed my baseball bat, my 33″ Jackie Robinson model, it’s thick handle coated with grip aiding pine tar precisely applied by me, leaning against the wall on the opposite end of the gym. Under the pictured goal, stood Coach Mo, glove on one hand & a supply of tennis balls at his feet. I had finished the just completed season with a less than stellar 0 for 26 slump, or as he put it when I asked what was happening, “you couldn’t hit water if you fell out of a boat, we’re going to fix that.” I guess we did okay. Somewhere in a box is a trophy & in a scrapbook a photo stuck to a page with the yellowed patina of adhesive tape, recognizing my being the All City 2nd baseman the next baseball season. One truth, the trophy & the face in the picture should be his. He put in the same amount of work as me. The other truth, the effort to be Coach to his players was never ending. He was a constant star in my constellation & I’m confident he was in others, whether times were bitter or celebratory. There is no testimony without the test. When a spring football injury put me in a cast for a summer, he found time to leave his new job at his alma mater (a job that would result in a state basketball title) & visit me in the hospital. Through rehab, college, to my marrying your grandmother, your dad & uncle’s births, reunion lunches with teammates, sharing sad hugs when his first wife & your Great-granddad passed, comparing March Madness brackets, a note after a house fire expressing his belief in my ability to have a personal comeback & lead a family in one with a Benjamin added for anything I might need, becoming friends, he was, from that little art room to his grave, an important part of my life. As you get older, I’m sure you’ll get tired of hearing about that crackerbox gym & the people in it, but here’s why their stories will stay alive. Before your Great-granddad passed, I asked him what made that school, that gym often feel more holy, more consecrated, than our church just a quarter mile up the road. He never hesitated when he answered, “unlike most of our houses of worship, half the folks in a locker room ain’t faking it.” In the case of Coach Moser, he couldn’t have been more accurate. Somewhere, there’s a pine tarred bat & tennis balls to testify…