I miss the feeling of flying around the track

High school track and field season is underway here in Ohio. My dad always said he didn't mind watching my cold October football games nearly as much as he minded watching my cold (and usually windy) early-April track meets.

Having had a few of my own kids run track, I understand where he was coming from. And while I don't miss freezing in the stands, I do miss being a sprinter and long jumper like I was in the mid- to late 1980s.

I was the only guy I knew who played football to stay in shape for track season and not the other way around.

Like any sport, track had its good days and bad days. But looking back, the good days were so good that I've blotted the bad ones from my mind. My track memories consist mostly of sunny dual meets and long Saturday invitationals that offered up far more wins than losses for my teammates and me.

What I miss most is the feeling. The feeling of being at the peak of your athletic ability. The feeling of hitting the long jump board just right and flying 20-plus feet into the sand pit. The feeling of attacking the curve in the 200 meters and blowing by the competition.

There's really nothing else like it.

I stayed in touch with the track world after high school first as a newspaper sports writer then later as a track parent and now as a public address announcer for track meets. I watch these young kids speeding up and down the straightaway and I want them to know how fleeting these moments are. I want them to appreciate every race, win or lose.

I want them to understand it all goes away much more quickly than you think it will.

It's not that I abandoned running the minute they handed me my diploma. But for many years starting in my mid-20s, running no longer meant sprinting, but rather long, slow distance races. I can't remember the last time I full out sprinted, though I'm guessing it was sometime in the early 90s.

Nowadays if I tried going all out in a sprint, my hamstrings would probably explode in a gooey mess all over the track.

But there was a time when I and the kids with whom I competed could move. Like, really move.

If they could figure out a way to bottle that feeling, I would buy several cases. As it is, though, I have only my old guy memories of races long completed and medals fairly won.

And maybe, given the ways things work in this life, that's enough.

One thing I learned at the Olympics: We should let the Dutch run the world

Last week I was in Paris with my wife Terry, my daughter Elissa, and Elissa's boyfriend Mark. We were there for the Olympics, and other than coming home with a case of Covid to a house without electricity thanks to a powerful storm a few days earlier, it was incredible.

We didn't get to any of the truly high-profile events. Or at least I didn't. I was already coming a day later than Terry, Elissa and Mark, but a delayed connecting flight forced me to miss my plane to Paris and to arrive on Sunday morning, rather than Saturday afternoon as planned.

The result was that my three travel companions got to watch the U.S. women's soccer team defeat Japan 1-0 on Saturday while I was still hanging around the airport in Atlanta.

Even though I wasn't there, my favorite thing about that match was that a number of people apparently asked to take pictures with my family, especially Elissa and Mark, who were dressed like this:

Elissa is on the left and Mark on the right, The woman in the middle was one their adoring fans at the U.S.-Japan women's soccer match who asked to take photos with them.

I just loved that. Elissa says cowboy hats, in particular, are a novelty for Europeans, who quite naturally don't get to see them very often.

Anyway, I didn't make women's soccer, but I did get to attend women's field hockey and a session of track and field. For all the hassle it was to get to the some of the venues – and make no mistake, the endless subway rides and countless steps we took to reach these sites were a hassle by any definition – the atmosphere, energy and fan camaraderie at Olympic events almost can't be described.

As Ferris Bueller would say, I highly recommend it.

Among the people we encountered during our week in Paris, my favorite were the fans from the Netherlands. They come from a relatively small country, but when their nation is represented on the international athletic stage, they show up loudly and proudly in large numbers.

I quickly realized that all of us who don't happen to come from the Netherlands/Holland have quite a bit to learn from the Dutch. To the point that I think we would be better off if we formed some sort of world government and allowed the Netherlanders to oversee it.

Three reasons why:

(1) They're smart: Mark and I were standing in line between field hockey matches outside Stade Yves-du-Manoir waiting to refill our water bottles. The line was long and the sun was hot. At one point the two Dutch guys in front of us persuaded almost everyone to move the line about 10 feet to the left so we could all be in the shade. It was a simple idea, but it hadn't occurred to anyone else. They convinced several people with whom they do not share a common language the mutual benefit of shifting the line over. That takes impressive communication skills. And brains.

(2) They're very comfortably bilingual: We talked briefly with the two smart Dutch men, and their wonderful grasp of English reminded me how effortlessly people in that part of Europe switch among languages. I worked with many people at Goodyear who were fluent in at least three languages and it always impressed me. In my experience, people who can speak in multiple tongues are generally people worth listening to.

(3) They proudly wear orange in mass numbers: While the flag of the Netherlands is red, white and blue, the national color is orange. Their fans deck themselves out in orange shirts, orange pants, orange hats, orange socks, etc. When we saw them take on Great Britain in field hockey, the stands were a sea of orange and orange variants. The only people not wearing orange were the relatively reserved British fans and us. Everyone else was cheering in unison for a Netherlands team that would go on to win the gold medal in the event. Want results? Get everyone on the same page, no matter their role in the process. The Dutch have known that for years.

A year later, I finally turned off phone notifications from my now-graduated son's track coach

One of the advantages of being a parent in the 2020s vs. the 1980s, I imagine, is the ease of communication with your child's teachers and coaches.

When I was growing up, the authority figures in my life would usually depend on me to ferry important information about school, sports and other extracurricular activities to my mom and dad. It was almost always printed on mimeographed pieces of paper.

I was invariably the weak link in this system.

The teacher/coach would put much thought into their communications, taking the time to type it all out and making hard copies. More often than not, I would then proceed to lose the piece of paper they gave me, or else I would stick it in my backpack and forget about it.

Either way, Ma and Pa often didn't get the memo when school fees were due or important events were coming up.

Nowadays, however, schools use elaborate digital systems of communication, including phone apps through which the teachers and coaches of the 21st century can instantly send important bits of news directly to parents.

We've taken the 15-year-old boy out the equation, which (believe me) is a good thing.

Even though our youngest child has graduated, I continue to receive phone notifications related to the Wickliffe Swing Band because these are often still very relevant to me. I'm entering my 11th year as the band's announcer, so changes to performance times and other such details remain useful.

But as recently as a month ago, I was also still receiving texts from Jack's track coaches. These really aren't relevant to me at all, beyond the fact that I remain a fan of Wickliffe track and field.

All spring long I read news of practice times, bus pick-ups and other minutiae that had no connection to me or my family anymore. Yet I resisted turning them off and deleting the associated app from my phone.

Why?

The answer is perhaps obvious. Terminating those notifications and sending the app to the digital trash can is a symbolically final act. It severs the last connection we have to the high school track program after years of our family's involvement.

Continuing to receive those texts and knowing the details of practices, meets, fundraisers, etc. somewhat cushioned the blow of separation. Even if they had nothing to do with us, they were reminders of the fun times we had when our kids ran track.

But all good things really do have to come to an end. Jack graduated 13 months ago. It's time to move on.

And that's what I'm doing. I may still be processing the whole thing for a while longer, but I'm moving on.

One of my chief responsibilities these days is chauffeuring our suddenly busy 15-year-old

At some point during their high school years, many kids find themselves–for the first time ever–in need of a calendar to keep track of their schedule.

One day you're spending hours playing Minecraft or hanging out with your friends or whatever, and the next you have this long list of responsibilities and commitments.

My son Jack has reached that point this school year. The combination of COVID and unemployment means that I'm often the one to ensure he gets every place he needs to go. (For years with the other kids this responsibility fell on Terry, so I'm fine carting the boy around town.)

This spring, for example, a typical day for Jack looks like this:

7:55AM: I take him to school.

8:00AM-2:18PM: He's in school.

2:18PM: He gets picked up from school and brought home.

2:30PM: He's back at school for track practice (yes, it would probably be easier for him to just take his track stuff to school and change there, but we live very close, so...he gets a quick trip home)

3:30PM: I pick him up from track practice and take him back home.

3:45PM: He changes into his Chick-Fil-A uniform and I drive him to work.

7:00PM: I pick him up from Chick-Fil-A and take him home.

7:15PM: He's back home, where he immediately throws his work clothes into the washer, goes upstairs, and either chills out for the first time that day if he can, or he does homework.

NEXT DAY: Repeat.

All of us have gone through this process at some point in our lives. It's not that big a deal in the long run, but it is something to which you have to learn to adjust.

Until Jack turns 16 next winter and gets his own car, his mom and dad will be the ones making sure he gets from place to place.

Considering he's the baby of the family, I think I can live with that for another nine months.

My wife and I have been sitting in the bleachers since 1999

All five of our children have participated in sports of one kind or another.

The result has been that, over more than two decades, Terry and I have watched countless soccer, t-ball, baseball, and football games. And don't forget all of the freezing cross country meets and rain-soaked track invitationals.

I coached many of those events, which meant that in addition to the natural nervousness that comes from hoping your own kid does well, I also had to worry about equal playing time and securing post-game snacks for other people's kids.

I wouldn't change any of it, of course, but lately I've marveled at how big a part of our life it has been.

It started with Elissa as the cutest little 5-year-old t-ball player you'll ever want to see, and it's likely to end in a couple of years on a high school track just before Jack graduates.

In between there have been some truly incredible moments. There have also been a few lowlights, including the time I told a portly soccer referee to "lay off the doughnuts" after I watched my son get viciously fouled with no call. (There should have been a whistle, but I wish I hadn't said that.)

Jack is our last student-athlete, and his specialty is distance running. He runs cross country and does the middle- and long-distance events in track. I think he's crazy, but then again, as a former sprinter, I think all distance runners are crazy.

I keep telling myself to savor every race and appreciate every moment we have left watching him compete. Everyone says it ends sooner than you'd like, and I can see how that will be true.

But I'll admit that sometimes, when I'm shivering my way through an eight-hour, 35-degree track meet, I allow myself to think for just a second that maybe it would be OK if we could fast-forward to Jack's senior year.

Then, of course, he zooms past us on the track and we cheer for him as loud as we can and it's all good again.

It's amazing how fast you warm up when you have the increasingly fleeting opportunity to watch your formerly little boy do his thing.

Life isn't a sprint, it's...well, yeah, actually it is a sprint

Between the ages of 13 and 18, I ran competitive track and field.

I was a sprinter, and I was actually pretty fast. Not "state champion" fast, but faster than most of my classmates. I got to win a lot of races and feel somewhat athletic in the process.

Sprinting was actually a lot of fun, because your work day was a relatively short one. When our team ran in one of those all-day relay meets, my schedule would look something like this:

• 9 a.m. to Noon: Sit out in the sun and work on my tan.
• Noon to 12:05 p.m.: Take off warm-up suit and stretch a little.
• 12:05 to 12:10 p.m.: Walk over to the starting line for the 100-meter dash and try to look cool while waiting for the starter to tell us to take our marks.
• 12:10 to 12:10 and 11 seconds: Run 100 meters as fast as I possibly could.
• 12:11 to 12:15 p.m.: Put warm-ups back on and return to working on my tan.
• Later in the meet: Repeat process for 200-meter dash and the occasional sprint relay event.

This was in stark contrast to the distance runners, whom I never understood.

For one thing, they had to run a long way. I mean, a long way. At least compared with the sprinters. Why, I wondered, would you opt to run 3,200 meters when you had the choice to run 100? Or even 200? Certainly no more than 400.

And their practice workouts were horrible. They involved running for impossibly long periods of time without stopping, and doing so ideally without throwing up.

The sprinters' workouts, meanwhile, would consist of a couple of spirited fast jogs around the track, and then we all went home to do our homework. I think our grades tended to be better than the distance runners'.

Anyway, I mention all of this because I have two kids running track now, one of whom (Chloe) is a distance runner. And wonder of wonders, I've become one myself.

Sort of.

I get up most mornings around 5:15 a.m. and amble three miles. Not very quickly, but I do it.

Which gives me a lot of time to think while I run. I think about all sorts of "big picture" things, and about life in general, I guess.

Sometimes I think about how quickly the last few decades have gone. For example, I remember being 10 years old. Vividly. And it seems like it couldn't have been more than about three weeks ago.

Yet here I am at the ripe age of 43 1/2. Not "old," really, but certainly not young.

And I begin to realize how sprinting prepared me for life. It taught me to go all out and take advantage of fast-fleeting opportunities. It taught me to compete, and compete hard. It taught me how to dig deep and find that extra gear in order to accomplish my goals.

It also taught me how to sun myself. I seriously had the best tan in the late 80s...

Does The Calendar rule your life, too?

Our life is controlled by The Calendar.

This is both a good and a bad thing.

It's good in that The Calendar, by which I mean the large "Mom's Plan-It Calendar" hanging on our refrigerator, is an invaluable tool in helping us organize our life.

I always say, "If it's not on on The Calendar, it doesn't exist." If you want a ride, if you want to make sure the family attends your event, if you simply want to remind yourself, write it on The Calendar.

At the same, it's a bad thing because, well, since when did we surrender control of our schedules to a sheaf of laminated paper?

Since about three kids ago, I would say.

You people with children know what I'm talking about. Especially if that child is school-aged and/or involved in a lot of activities. Sports, music, Scouts, whatever. They all involve practices, meetings and games, and they all seem to happen at once.

You people with multiple children are already shaking your heads and saying, "I hear ya, brother."

As I type this, our family has, over the next four hours, a track practice (Chloe), a track meet (Jared), a soccer game (Jack), and another soccer game (Melanie).

I coach both Jack's and Melanie's teams.

Do you see the problem there?

This is not the first nor the last time this will happen. And I don't ask for pity because we brought this on ourselves.

But that doesn't make it any more fun.

If you wonder how I made the choice to coach Mel's game and not Jack's, it came down to the relative "importance" of their games.

I put importance in quotes because it's kids soccer. No game, no practice is anywhere really close to "important."

Their overall experience and what they take away from participating in organized team sports: That's important. Not a game. Not the final score.

But when you compare the two, I selfishly picked Melanie's game to attend because we're playing our intra-city rival tonight. Our opponents are a great bunch of girls with a great coach, but when we play each other, nobody holds back. It's actually a lot of fun, and win or lose, all the girls involved get something out of it.

So that's what I chose.

But I never like to choose at all. And I'm actually surprised how often I don't have to choose. With five kids (even with one in college), the potential for Event Conflict is enormous. Yet the schedules tend to balance out, for the most part.

Still, activities and events leave us very little down time. When we can, we all like to just stay at home and do whatever we want. Everyone in the family appreciates that.

But when we're "free," other people expect that's a good time for us to get together. And we really should, but those rare free nights are the nights when we rest and recharge.

Again, we made the choice in all this. I know that. But I'm still going to whine because it's my blog.

Except that I'm already late for a soccer game and I have to go...