A playground with too many rules and regulations and their strict enforcement stifles the playground. The results are kids spending all their recess time against the wall and losing their privileges to use the playground equipment, the sports balls, or the jump ropes.
Nothing gets accomplished. Nobody grows.
A playground with no rules, regulations, or enforcement results in chaos. The playground devolves into complete chaos. Nobody has any fun and the only means for structure falls to the law of the jungle.
Nothing gets accomplished. Nobody grows.
The ultimate playground monitor establishes and enforces enough rules to provide an environment where the kids are allowed a generous amount of freedom. These kids tend to have fun, work with each other to solve problems, and discover better ways to operate without spiraling into chaos or choking development.
Things get accomplished. People grow.
As I write this in the United States of America in the Spring of 2024, our nation has been derailed over the past 40 years by a fight between the first and the second model of playground monitoring. As a result, we’re getting nothing done. We are pushing our problems forward to tomorrow instead of developing solutions today. We are eroding what we can be as a nation.
Our confusion and bickering have let us become victims of the worst bad players from the fringes. Our confusion and bickering have let the proverbial fox into the hen house. It’s time to turn that around and get us back on track.
In short, we need to find our way back to electing government officials on all levels who will work to establish our governing bodies with the ultimate playground monitor as the primary guiding force.
The first step is to pay attention. Seek the truth in what’s real. Learn to sift through the bullshit. Walk around and see that things are not as bad as people tell us. Someone is always screaming that the sky is falling but, you know what? The reality shows otherwise.
Observe, analyze, and decide for yourself.
Let’s build better playgrounds!
State Government Photographer, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
I had to add this image because it reminded me of my school days at Christ The King Catholic School where our playground was the church parking lot. We played hard and I went through a lot of Toughskin jean knees there. DimiTalen, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
January 25 is the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul, Apostle. It’s a cool story that always captured my Catholic boy attention growing up. My middle name is Paul so naturally the story of my namesake should get my attention. But man, to put it mildly, Saul of Tarsus (Paul’s name before his miraculous conversion.) was an asshole. This was a guy who “breathed murderous threats against the disciples of the Lord.”
He was old school, Jewish religious establishment to the max. This upstart Christianity movement pissed him off to no end. He chased down and persecuted Christians at every turn. When the story of his conversion from Act of the Apostles, Chapter 9, begins, he was so pissed off he went to the religious leader and asked him to grant letters of permission to go after Christians in Damascus. Saul basically asked for a license to go kick ass and take names of all Christians in the region.
But a funny thing happened on the way to Damascus. Of all the seemingly better people Jesus could have picked on the planet to turn into one of the most fervent disciples, he chose Saul. Man, I love that. There’s hope for redemption in even the most a-holes of a-holes.
When I read and think about the Conversion of St. Paul story, it brings to mind the Gospel from a few weeks ago, where several Pharisees were harassing Jesus for hanging around with sinners and tax collectors. Jesus said to them, “Those who are well do not need a physician, but the sick do. I did not come to call the righteous but sinners.” (Mark 2:17)
Ah, it is no accident Jesus called Saul of Tarsus, struck him blind for three days, and lit the fire of conversion in his mind, heart, and soul. Saul didn’t know he was sick and in dire need of a physician. He thought he was a righteous man doing righteous acts. But the Lord knew Saul was in dire need of healing and the rest is history.
Parmigianino, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
When I look around the world today, especially within the world of American Christianity that I am a part of, I see a whole lot of Sauls and not enough Pauls. I see a need to pay attention to the blinding light of God’s Word, to go temporarily blind and reboot what it means to live a faithful life in today’s world.
I wish I could remember where I read this the other day but it slips my mind. The author posed the question of how fervent we Christians are to put the Ten Commandments everywhere yet we rarely express the same fervor for The Beatitudes in modern Christianity. I look around and see this observation is true.
Why this is?
Is it easier for us to be a Saul rather than a Paul? Is it easier for us to follow what we want to follow or what’s easier to follow rather than listen & live the teachings of Jesus?
I don’t know. All I know is Saul went from being an asshole to being one of the greatest Christians we have. Paul is the perfect example that the Lord never gives up on us. Sometimes we just need to get knocked on our rear ends, contemplate our blindness, and then be awoken in the light of renewed faith.
I’m going to make a real effort to be more Paul than Saul in 2024. How about you?
Acts 9:1-22 Saul, still breathing murderous threats against the disciples of the Lord, went to the high priest and asked him for letters to the synagogues in Damascus, that, if he should find any men or women who belonged to the Way, he might bring them back to Jerusalem in chains. On his journey, as he was nearing Damascus, a light from the sky suddenly flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” He said, “Who are you, sir?” The reply came, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. Now get up and go into the city and you will be told what you must do.” The men who were traveling with him stood speechless, for they heard the voice but could see no one. Saul got up from the ground, but when he opened his eyes he could see nothing; so they led him by the hand and brought him to Damascus. For three days he was unable to see, and he neither ate nor drank. *There was a disciple in Damascus named Ananias, and the Lord said to him in a vision, “Ananias.” He answered, “Here I am, Lord.” The Lord said to him, “Get up and go to the street called Straight and ask at the house of Judas for a man from Tarsus named Saul. He is there praying, and in a vision he has seen a man named Ananias come in and lay his hands on him, that he may regain his sight.” But Ananias replied, “Lord, I have heard from many sources about this man, what evil things he has done to your holy ones in Jerusalem. And here he has authority from the chief priests to imprison all who call upon your name.” But the Lord said to him, “Go, for this man is a chosen instrument of mine to carry my name before Gentiles, kings, and children of Israel, and I will show him what he will have to suffer for my name.” So Ananias went and entered the house; laying his hands on him, he said, “Saul, my brother, the Lord has sent me, Jesus who appeared to you on the way by which you came, that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit.” Immediately things like scales fell from his eyes and he regained his sight. He got up and was baptized, and when he had eaten, he recovered his strength. *He stayed some days with the disciples in Damascus, and he began at once to proclaim Jesus in the synagogues, that he is the Son of God. All who heard him were astounded and said, “Is not this the man who in Jerusalem ravaged those who call upon this name, and came here expressly to take them back in chains to the chief priests?” But Saul grew all the stronger and confounded the Jews who lived in Damascus, proving that this is the Christ.
Rest in peace, Jimmy Buffet. This loss hits hard. Few performers or creators affect who I am to the level Jimmy Buffet does. From day one of being introduced to his music as a kid in the 1970s to streaming Margaritaville Radio on the road. His book, A Pirate Looks at Fifty, is a fantastic read. If you’ve never heard his 1994 release, Fruitcakes, you need to run and find it now. It’s one of his best and his cover of the Grateful Dead’s Uncle John’s Band is magnificent (It was a standard inclusion on the burn CDs we’d play during summer conditioning back in the day.)
I don’t know what else to say except to attempt to express an appreciation for his work. He will be missed but leaves us with a full bucket of words, music, and reminders to relax and enjoy life.
Come Monday it will be alright…
I sure hope so.
Thank you, Jimmy, for a lifetime of entertainment.
A Pirate Looks at 40
Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall You’ve seen it all, you’ve seen it all
Watched the men who rode you switch from sails to steam And in your belly, you hold the treasures few have ever seen Most of ’em dream, most of ’em dream
Yes I am a pirate, two hundred years too late The cannons don’t thunder, there’s nothin’ to plunder I’m an over-forty victim of fate Arriving too late, arriving too late
I’ve done a bit of smugglin’, I’ve run my share of grass I made enough money to buy Miami, but I pissed it away so fast Never meant to last, never meant to last
And I have been drunk now for over two weeks I passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks But I got to stop wishin’, got to go fishin’ Down to rock bottom again Just a few friends, just a few friends
I go for younger women, lived with several awhile Though I ran ’em away, they’d come back one day Still could manage to smile Just takes a while, just takes a while
Mother, mother ocean, after all the years I’ve found My occupational hazard being my occupation’s just not around I feel like I’ve drowned, gonna head uptown I feel like I’ve drowned, gonna head uptown
The “500” image colors are for my three favorite teams, the KC Royals, the Clay Center Tigers, and the KC Chiefs. These three teams have inspired at least half the posts on the blog.
Holy moly, Batman! This is the 500th post on The Coach Hays blog since its start back in 2010. Wow! It’s hard to fathom this ever happening. The blog started out for two reasons. First, I wanted to learn WordPress. Second, I wanted to write posts that made my mother laugh.
Seriously, that’s the not-too-exciting origin story of The Coach Hays blog. Since then, it has become a place for me to share all the stories, the rants, the history, and generally wild and wacky stuff that’s pretty much constantly bouncing around inside my head.
Here are a few quick stats:
111,453 views
73,746 visitors
Biggest single day: July 13, 2022
Most searched post: Fire Baton Dad Duty (Yes, you read that right! I guess people need to learn how to prepare fire batons.)
I want to thank everyone who has read this blog over the years. Whether you’ve read one post or read 499, I appreciate you and hope you keep reading. As I’ve said over the years, I write these because the stories are itching inside my head to be told. The drive to sit down and write these stories is rooted in the thought there might be at least one reader out there who might want to read them.
Again, THANK YOU! Here’s to 500 The Coach Hays blog posts with hope there’s at least one hundred more stupid ideas inside my big Bubba head.
My favorite MLB team, the Kansas City Royals, is in rebuilding mode, for the fifth straight season. They are struggling with their current, mostly high-drafted, young players in their 2nd or 3rd whole or partial season and their farm system is ranked 29 or 30 in most rankings. In comparison, the Baltimore Orioles have young players thriving in their 2nd or 3rd season and their farm system is ranked in the top 3 in most rankings.
I have also adjusted my GM for a Day philosophy from rebuilding mode to rebuilding the rebuild mode. This means we need to take our current assets and attempt to swap them for a rebuild of the farm system. The goal would be to bring in at least two players for one. It means we need to part ways with some beloved players. As GM, me and my staff would be on the phone at least 8 hours a day trying to make a deal.
MLB had this graphic showing the needs of some of the “buyers” entering the 2023 MLB trade window. The Royals have players to offer to fill these teams’ holes,s and most have decent farm systems to mine for prospects.
The LA Dodgers need a SS and have a top 5 farm system. I’d try to work on a trade with Bobby Witt, Jr.
The Seattle Mariners need a DH. The Royals have trade material to offer with Salvador Perez or Vinny Pasquantino, MJ Melendez, or Edward Olivares
The San Diego Padres need a catcher. See you, Salvy!
The Houston Astros need a 1B so we can offer Nick Pratto or Vinny.
The Texas Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals need relief pitching, we have Aroldis Chapman (Trade him before he implodes, please!) and Scott Barlow
The Milwaukee Brewers need a CF. We should offer the pick from our whole outfield kitchen sink.
The Minnesota Twins need a 3B. Maikel Garcia is a promising young player who’d fit well there.
There you have it. My GM for a Day: Royals 2023 Edition, version 1, basically is chucking the current rebuild and starting, again. This time, however, the system needs to not only focus on attaining talent but direct resources to developing this talent.
As with many of Pink Floyd’s great songs, Wish You Were Here stands on its own. All the gushing and blubbering I can do about it merely fades in comparison to the work itself. It’s a beautiful piece of art. The song tugs at the heartstrings. It brings a sense of longing to the soul of the listener. The universal humanity in the song’s five or so minutes is astounding.
Wish You Were Here is on the 1975 album of the same name. It’s the follow-up album to The Dark Side of the Moon, which is often considered the greatest rock album of all time. It’s also the second release in an almost surreal string of four exceptional pieces of creative work Pink Floyd released in the 1970s.
The Dark Side of the Moon (1973)
Wish You Were Here (1975)
Animals (1977)
The Wall (1979)
These four albums are all stunning in their own right. The only downfall of the second, third, and fourth albums is the fact they weren’t the greatest rock & roll record of all time, The Dark Side of the Moon. Last week at work, I had an enormous amount of paperwork I’d been putting off for far too long. I showed up intent on sitting down and working through my self-imposed paperwork problem. So I opened Spotify on my desktop and played The Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, Animals, and The Wall in succession.
Wow.
That’s really the only word to describe the experience. The paperwork got done. The songs echoed past, present, and future in my brain. I’d forgotten how good and underrated Animals is. Hell, I’d forgotten how great all four of these albums are. I highly recommend revisiting each of these four records if you have the chance. Fabulous creative work.
Wish You Were Here is one of the songs that keeps bouncing around in my head. It hits my soul in a completely different way in 2023, at age 58, than it did in the late 1970s as a young teenager. That’s exactly what creative words do. They seep their way into your being, set root, and grow.
Running over the same old ground What have we found? The same old fears Wish you were here
A Word’s Look: Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd
So, so you think you can tell Heaven from hell? Blue skies from pain? Can you tell a green field From a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?
Did they get you to trade Your heroes for ghosts? Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze? Cold comfort for change? Did you exchange A walk-on part in the war For a leading role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here We’re just two lost souls Swimming in a fish bowl Year after year Running over the same old ground What have we found? The same old fears Wish you were here
I was never a big fan of oranges growing up. I liked orange juice. I liked orange jello. I liked orange soda. I also truly enjoyed putting quarter slices of oranges my mom put in our sack lunches into my mouth and acting like an ape. That was fun.
The idea of eating an orange did appeal to me, though. I just never could get past the white pith inside the peel and how dang hard it was to peel an orange. Seeds, although a pain, were tolerable since they could be spat out either as projectile weapons against siblings/friends or, like the watermelon seed of summer, expelled for distance.
As an adult, I’ve turned my childhood dislike of oranges into them becoming a seasonal staple of my diet. What changed? First, the emergence of the navel orange gave the consumer a seedless, yet, delicious citrus product. Sure, one lost the necessary basic component of seed-spitting but gained threefold in pure edible joy.
The second, and most monumental, change occurred early in my teen years when dad taught me an orange peeling trick. It was brilliant. It was effective. It transformed me into an orange-loving citrus-phile. This food hack my dad showed me was to gently roll the orange around on a hard, flat surface with slight pressure. When performed properly, the white pith loosens from the fruit and makes peeling the orange a breeze. Over the years, I’ve found the technique also works by rolling the orange between your palms. It’s magic.
My dad was by no means handy or comfortable in the kitchen. He could hardly make himself a sandwich. When my youngest brother was born and mom had to stay a few nights in the hospital, I’ll never forget the meal dad made for the rest of us five kids that first night before grandma showed up to help. He browned a couple of pounds of hamburger. He put a piece of white bread on each of our plates. He scooped a serving spoon of hamburger on each piece of bread. To top off the delicacy, each plate got a healthy shot of ketchup over the mound of hamburger. We each put our heads down, side-eyed each other, said a prayer that mom would be home soon, and quietly and quickly ate.
Thanks to my dad, I have become a joyful eater of oranges. The fruit is one of the bright spots of winter for me and has been since learning the peeling trick. Dad simply taking five minutes one dark winter night after a long work day to show his kid a better way to peel an orange made a lifelong impact on me, my kids, and my grandkids. It’s one of the many pieces of him I carry with me to this day.
A small and seemingly insignificant piece of advice went a long way to enrich my life.
Think about that little nugget for a minute.
Small kindnesses can make huge impacts on people’s lives.
I was born a Kansas City Chiefs fan. I was five when they won Super Bowl IV on January 11, 1970. They were good for a year or two after that but began a slow decline into a miserable existence by the mid-1970s forcing many of us young football fans to alternate fandoms. Me? Like many, I turned to the Pittsburg Steelers under Coach Chuck Noll.
The Pittsburgh Steelers dynasty of that era held tremendous appeal to a 10-year-old, football-loving, lower-middle-class kid from Kansas City, Kansas. They played aggressive and physical defense that earned the nickname, The Steel Curtain. They had an effective offense built on the legs of their running back Franco Harris and the arm of Terry Bradshaw. Most important to me, however, was the fact they beat the hated Oakland Raiders in several high-profile games, including the Immaculate Reception game (a life-changing event for this kid!).
Franco Harris passed away today at age 72. I’ve been thinking quite a bit about Franco and the Steelers recently due to the NFL’s plan to celebrate the upcoming 50th anniversary of the Immaculate Reception game. It’s a sad day for this 58-year-old “kid”. Not only has another childhood sports hero died, but one who also appeared to have been as great of a human as he was a football player. I never met or saw Franco in person, yet I feel we lost a favorite uncle.
That’s a great compliment to Franco and his Steeler teammates. They were Everyman’s Team. They were tough-as-nails and blue-collar. The team, like Franco Harris, wasn’t loud or outrageous as a general rule. They did their job and won football games with class and honor.
Hard for some of us to believe perhaps, but it’s the truth.
Sports in high school are called extracurricular activities for a reason. They are activities students have the option to do outside of the classroom. They are not required. They are not the reasons our high schools exist. They are voluntary. Students aren’t entitled to participate in these activities.
There was a local incident this past fall where a student-athlete got into legal trouble but was still allowed to participate in an extracurricular activity. The situation was called out in public and it caused quite a heated debate in our community. I don’t know all the details, I don’t need to know all the details. What I know is there are a defined set of rules and consequences the school district put in place back around 2007-2008 to deal with these types of issues. However, in this case, it doesn’t appear to the outside observer these rules and consequences were enforced.
One crucial piece was left out of the discussion and ensuing arguments, though. Extracurricular activities are privileges, not rights. Students who operate within the rules and expectations earn the privilege to participate. Students who fail to operate within the rules and expectations do not. They are not entitled to participate independently of their behavior.
Being able to play a high school sport is earned.
This type of behavior problem is something that has been around as long as there have been high school sports. I dealt with it as a player. I dealt with it as a coach. Teenagers don’t always make good decisions. When they fail to make good decisions, especially ones contrary to the rules, they should have to suffer the consequences.
We, as parents, coaches, and administrators, don’t do our athletes any good to look the other way. We don’t help them to become responsible and productive citizens/team members by ignoring or selectively enforcing the rules. It’s not fair to the student-athlete involved or to their teammates. Part of our job as the adults in these situations is to help our young people make better decisions and show them the value of earning the privilege to participate.
Personally, my philosophy in dealing with kids who get into trouble is to guide them through their punishment and make them earn their way back into the trust of their teammates and coaches. We used to have a hell-ish series of physical challenges the player would have to complete to go along with their game/event suspension. Once they served their punishment, all was good. They earned their way back. Their teammates saw firsthand the road to redemption the player traveled and, in the end, we were a stronger team because of it.
We’ve seemed to have lost sight that extracurricular activities are privileges.
We’ve seemed to have lost perspective of the true endgame of high school.
There truly are things bigger than sports.
And that’s the damn truth.
Clay Center @ Abilene 2009. Photo credit: Logan Hays
Sunday, September 11, 2022, was a good day. The sun was in full force after an entire Saturday of much-needed rain that brought home exciting victories for my two favorite Kansas college football teams. We had a great dinner with the family followed by some outside playtime with my grandsons. It was also opening day for the National Football League which I always look forward to with great enthusiasm.
While waiting for the Chiefs game to begin, I sat for a few minutes on the porch to read a book as research for a new writing project on French physicist, Léon Foucault. People were walking. Kids were riding bikes. Cars were out on Sunday drives. It gave me a good feeling. A beautiful day. NFL football. A good book. A full belly and a full heart.
All is good in the world but then the date wormed its way from the core of that full heart and into my thoughts. It’s still a tough day 21 years later even for someone like me, whose only direct connection to the victims and the heroes are the shared bond of being American. I wrote previously about the experience of being a high school football coach during that terrible week in our country’s history in a piece called, Game of Tears.
21 years later I sit on my porch and think back on 2001. I think more and more with the recent dumpster fire of extreme political ideologies about 2001 and the aftermath of the September 11th tragedy. It was America at its best. Working together, helping each other out, consoling and comforting our fellow citizens. The “Never Forget” t-shirts and prayer vigils. The horrifying images juxtaposed with heroism by first responders, airline passengers, volunteers, and our leaders working together.
Where did that spirit, the spirit at the heart of this great nation, go? How easily did we allow the wedge driven by our enemies split us and fracture the “Never Forget” spirit of 9/11/2001? Can we ever get that back without enduring another national tragedy?
I hope so. I pray we can.
P.S. While watching the 60 Minutes piece on 9/11 yesterday after the Chiefs game, the video footage affected me not as it has in many years. It was tough, I admit it. I don’t know why it hit me harder in year 21 than it has in a while. I’m trying to figure it out.
The Twin Towers of the World Trade Center burning before they collapsed on September 11, 2001. This photo was taken nearby the Statue of Liberty. Via The National Parks Service and Wikimedia Commons.
THE COACH HAYS 