MY BUDDY

      Joe and I met the way many six-year-olds do, by accident.  It was the first day of first grade and we both, as little boys, wandered into the small classroom, wading into a new world of new experiences, new dreams and new acquaintances with excitement and fear. It was the first step for each into our future lives, alone.

     As the teacher instructed the group of twenty-five children to find a seat, both Joe and I decided on the same, small wooden desk.  As we began to argue, push and shove over who was going to have the desk, something happened between us, and we began giggling and laughing. We began to realize the desk; the seat was not important any longer, because we both had found our new best friend.

    From that day forward, our names were said in one breath: Jeff-and-Joe.  We were like two small shadows racing through childhood, inventing adventures out of empty fields and long summer hours.  We climbed trees taller than we were brave, skinned knees together, shared secrets whispered under blankets during sleepovers.  There were baseball games, Jeff-and-Joe, together in their ill-fitted uniforms, caps pulled low, ragged gloves in hand, living life, enjoying the game together. Each cheered on the other and each helped carry the other’s burden in failure. 

     As we both approached twelve years of age, there were other interests shared.  We learned to play the piano, guitar, trumpet and music became as important to us as baseball. Our sleepovers became impromptu jam sessions and summer days would find the two of us under a shade tree or carport with guitars in hand giving a concert for unappreciative neighbors.  Joe would teach me, and I would teach him, both encouraging the other toward a dream not fully understood. Saturdays, we would catch a bus to downtown Knoxville, and we would find our way to Fowler’s Furniture Store on Gay Street, where we would spend hours. On the third floor they had pianos, organs of all kinds on display and the two of us would play for hours, many times, the store employees would gather and listen as the two small, eleven-year-olds would play their music.  We didn’t realize it at the time, but we were probably the first ‘dueling pianos.’

     Summer trips camping with Joe’s family became one of my favorites.  With guitars in hand and mountains to explore, what more could two thirteen-year-olds desire.  We would sneak and buy Swisher Sweet cigars and find a safe place in the woods to smoke them, only to find ourselves sick afterwards but once again, we giggled and laughed and treasured our friendship.  Music was not forgotten while we camped and many times, we found ourselves playing for other campers and impressing the young girls with some of our pop song renditions.  As young boys, we were mischievous and found ourselves many times trying to explain our way out of a debacle with a Ranger or our parents, but never once did we leave each other’s side.  We always managed to carry the weight together.

       Teenage years made things messier, but not distant.  We warned each other about heartbreaks and celebrated first loves.  Yes, we got in trouble a few times-once for leaving school for lunch at Burger King but as we sometimes got in trouble, we also would get out of trouble together too.  Sports, tennis, baseball and hockey became treasured past times for Joe and me. As we were still not old enough to drive, my dad would drive us to the local ice rink to practice our skills. One night, Joe and I left the ice rink to grab a hotdog across the parking lot at the bowling alley.  As Joe ate his hotdog and began finishing off his desert of a cherry pie turnover, a hoodlum began picking a fight with us.  He was much older and bigger, and I suspected he had been drinking. There were several other guys with him and both Joe and I found ourselves in a bad situation.  We both got up to leave, and we quickly made our way across the parking lot back to the ice rink when the larger boy ran up behind us and started pushing Joe.  Before either of us could say or do anything, the larger boy hit Joe in the face.  I shoved at the larger boy and grabbed my buddy Joe, and we took off running.  As we came to the ice rink I glanced at Joe, and I saw what I thought was blood running down his face.  I was terrified.  We both ran into the ice rink, where my dad was waiting and as I explained to my dad what had happened, Joe began laughing.  What I thought was blood was just the remnants of his cherry turnover. What seemed funny to Joe and me did not seem funny to my dad.  He took both of us back to the bowling alley and I watched my dad walk up to the group of hoodlums who were now playing pool.  He yanked the larger of the boys up by the collar and threatened to beat the guy to death.  As Joe and I looked on, my dad gave a tongue lashing to the group of guys and as the manager of the bowling alley approached, my dad turned on him.  Cuss words, neither Joe or I had ever heard were spilling out of my dad’s mouth and as he motioned us to follow him out of the establishment, I glanced at the hoodlums who were now running for their lives and the manager stood speechless.  Both Joe and I, in hushed whispers, giggled and laughed in astonishment as to what we had witnessed. 

        In adulthood, our paths forked.  I built a family, and Joe built a career in music. There were moves, marriages, losses, illnesses…yet every time life’s weight pressed too hard on one, the other found a way to help shoulder it. 

       And then, somehow, sixty-seven years went by.

       Now I stand at the cemetery, the winter air cool, whispers of wind under skies of gray feeling empty.  The world was quieter without Joe’s laugh in it.  The kind of quiet that settles into the bones. 

      I rest my hand on the casket, fingers trembling but sure.  “We carried each other well, didn’t we?” I whisper.

      In my memory, Joe was still that boy, giggling and laughing, still the young kid that could make a piano sing, still the teenager who insisted we’d live forever, still the man who would stand by my side as my best man at my wedding and give me praise with the birth of my child.

      In the twilight of life, the carrying had changed form.  Not physical, not even spoken.  Just the steady comfort of knowing someone had walked beside me almost every step of the way.

     I draw a deep breath, heavy but grateful.

     “Thank you, buddy,” I whisper.  “Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for carrying me through the good and bad times.”

     Though Joe was gone, I felt it-one last time- the familiar warmth of being carried.

 

    My buddy, Joe Stafford died November 29, 2025. I feel as though a piece of my life died as well and the sorrow, grief and loss are overwhelming.  On December 4^th, 2025, under the dark gray winter skies, I helped carry my buddy to his final resting place. For that privilege I am grateful and will always feel indebted to him and his family for allowing me that honor.  I know he is now in heaven and at peace still helping me carry-on.

 

WHY

     

    Why?  A one-word question that I have asked many times in my life. As a child, I had often questioned my parents with that one word, and invariably I would get the same answer, “Because I said so! That’s why!”

     There was never any other conversation about why. I simply learned to accept their answer for what it was. I knew they loved me. I knew they did what was in my best interest and I knew they had much more experience in life than me. Therefore, even though I might not know the real answer as to why, I knew their decision was in my best interest. I had FAITH in them.

     It's interesting how life works, because as I grew older, I never stopped asking WHY. I simply stopped asking THEM why. I began asking myself that one word question, WHY. Why do I want to go to college? Why do I believe in God? Why do I have the hots for that new girl down the street? Why can’t I buy that 1965 red, convertible Mustang? Why does that new hot girl down the street keep turning me down? The why’s never stopped and I really couldn’t answer myself, as I had always been told, “Because I said so, that’s why!”

     I discovered I was at the point in my life where I would have to find the reason why for myself. I did not take this new responsibility lightly. As new why’s came into my life, I would investigate, study and ponder the options with great care, because I knew my decisions would formulate who eventually I would become. I found myself reading articles about politics, religion, and economics, trying to find the right answer as to WHY.

     It was always a triumphant feeling when I discovered that I had made a wise decision after careful consideration of all the information, but there were some questions, mostly philosophical, that could never be answered by my studies. Questions such as Why is there childhood cancer? Why do tragedies happen to good and righteous people? And most recently, Why do I want to walk the Camino?

     The Camino is an ancient pilgrimage in Spain of over five-hundred miles, ending in Santiago de Compostela. It is considered, The Way of St. James, where the Apostle was believed to have walked and now is buried beneath the Romanesque Cathedral in Santiago. For over twenty years there had been a yearning, to take on the challenge of walking from Saint Jean Pied de Port France, to Santiago de Compostela Spain, following the footsteps of Saint James. I kept asking myself WHY. I knew my urge to take on this Pilgrimage was much more than just to conquer another challenging adventure. It came from something much deeper within my soul.

     I’m a Christian but this was something beyond my deliberations as to WHY. I had to look up who Saint James was! I discovered Saint James was one of Jesus’ original twelve disciples and the stories of his discipleship across Western Europe was intriguing, but there was no answer as to WHY I should follow in his footsteps on the Pilgrimage across Spain. I studied the trail and even though there was a host of historical sites to be encountered, and there were huge numbers of people from around the World that walked this famous pilgrimage annually, I still could not figure out WHY I had the urge to do the Camino de Santiago. I wished I could have asked my Mother or my Father, although I kind of know what the answer might have been.

     Instead, I turned to God for an answer. It was done in prayer, over several days and nights, months.

  God, in all his wisdom, simply said, “because I said so!”

     My FAITH sent me to do the Camino, which I did in 2023. I walked five hundred thirty-eight miles, completing what is called the Camino Frances. I went back in 2024 and completed the Portuguese Route and the Finisterre (The end of the World). I learned so much on these treks. I answered so many of those, unanswered why’s. I realized I tended to judge people too quickly. I didn’t listen. Not to others, not even to what life was telling me. I discovered the true kindness of mankind, which I had begun to believe was extinct. I witnessed a deep spirituality of different religions, and the unwavering ability of tolerance displayed by most, if not all. On the Camino, I changed. I discovered a new purpose in my life, which in all its simplicity gave me something to live for. On the Camino, I found me, or at least who I wanted to be.

     Lesson learned. When you ask WHY and you hear, “Because I said so, that’s why.” Have FAITH!

Keep Your Eye On the Ball

 

This afternoon I watched the final of the Little League World Series.  Nevada Metro took on the Chinese Taipei team in a game that demonstrated the talents of these young players of what I consider the best sport in the World, Baseball!

Taipei’s pitcher was dominant with his one-hit performance leading Taipei to a 7-0 win over the Nevada team, but the quality of play, the maturity, and the sportsmanship of all the other players touched my heart as I watched their talents in action.  There were moments, if you watched closely, occasionally you could see the actual little boy in the player that performed his athleticism with skill and confidence.  I noticed the impressive skill of the little Taipei catcher as he backhanded a low inside pitch that even most major leaguers would have probably let slip by and I also witnessed him discreetly telling a young Nevada player as he took his position at bat within the batter’s box, that his pants were unzipped.  The Nevada player smiled sheepishly and tugged at his zipper till it was in its rightful place hoping no one had noticed. I saw the young Taipei player, standing in the dugout, cheering for his teammates as he non-apologetically dug for gold. Some might say he was digging twilight, or he was nose mining or a more scientific term, picking his nose.

              I watched closely as the Taipei best hitter came to bat, assuming his stance in the batter’s box.  He watched his coach for the signals and then let the first pitch, a strike, pass him by, willfully following his coach’s signals to take the first pitch. As the pitcher began to deliver the second pitch, the Taipei hitter once again glanced at his coach for the signals and then dug in with noticeable determination.  I watched as he stared at the opposing pitcher as he delivered the pitch.  A fast ball, low and inside.  The batter’s eyes were only focused on the ball as it spun its way toward the plate, and with a lightning-fast swing, he pulled the ball down the left line, crossing third base just fair. Three runs were scored as the batter ended up on third base with a triple. 

  It took me back to my days of Little League.  Dusty fields of sand and red clay. Most did have grass, albeit mostly crabgrass and dandelions, gracing the outfield and a few sprigs of grass within the infield, but to us, it was Yankee Stadium.  We stood proudly in our mismatched uniforms, our cap bills bent just like Roger Maris or Mickey Mantle and took our positions on the field feeling as if we were the best!  Yes, we were confident, but nervous as well.  As a team we had taken hundreds of practice grounders and flies in preparation, not to mention batting practice, where I was constantly coached, “Keep your eye on the ball!  Focus!”  I apparently had all the mechanics right except one. The coach would praise my stance, the good extension in my arms, stepping into the ball for added power, was all perfect he had said, but he would say I would have a much better batting percentage if I opened my eyes and focused!

I wanted to be a good player.  I didn’t want to be average.  I knew my parents were watching!  I wanted to make them proud.  I wanted to make my brother, my neighbor, my preacher and my teacher proud.  To me, the World was watching……..me I played second base.  I felt comfortable in that position.  Back then we used wood bats, and the crack of the bat, whether it was a hot grounder, a snapping line drive, or a soft floating fly ball, was what I waited for, to prove myself to the World.  Once at bat, I stood confidently in the stance my coach had taught and stared at the pitcher as he began his windup to deliver his pitch.  Before the ball ever left the pitcher’s hand, I had already decided whether I was going to swing or not.  I swung, sometimes missing, sometimes connecting.  I never knew unless I heard the crack of the wood bat.  Crack!  I then would open my eyes.  Sometimes a foul, sometimes a lazy grounder and sometimes a floater over the fence!  I loved this game!

One day, after practice, our coach called me aside.  He sat me down and complimented my fielding abilities and seemed amazed at the accuracy and power of my throws.  I listened and began to feel really good about myself until he sat in silence for a moment then questioned me in a whisper, “Do you ever see the ball spinning toward the plate when you bat?  Do you see the print of the ball as it spins?  Do you ever see the slow arching of the ball as the change-up is delivered?   It’s alright, if you don’t, I understand.  It comes naturally for some, and it is sometimes hard for others, but I wish you could see and feel the beauty of watching that ball approach, as I.  It floats, almost in slow motion, and the excitement one feels as you realize it is within the sweet zone of your swing.  You watch as the bat connects with that slowly spinning sphere and it is launched into the air like a rocket with a deafening crack of the bat!  I guess, it’s kind of like life, keep your eyes on the ball, stay focused and it becomes a beautiful thing.”  With that, the coach pats me on the shoulder, picks up some stray gear and walks out of the dugout, leaving me in my thoughts.

Our next game, I was determined to keep my eyes on the ball.  To focus.  During the first inning, I had made two good fielding plays and was feeling on top of the World.  I batted seventh in the line-up, and there was a part of me that dreaded it but I rehearsed in my mind exactly what I was going to do.  My time came, and I took my stance in the batter’s box.  I tapped Homeplate with my bat, loosely gripping the narrow wooden handle and stared at the pitcher forty-six feet away as he studied the catcher’s signals.  He shook off the first and then began his windup. I focused, I watched and for the first time in my life, I saw the ball spinning toward me.  It was just like the coach had said.  It was almost like it was in slow motion and it was coming right toward………..my head!  At the last split second, I ducked my head, otherwise, I would have seen it ricochet off the top of my helmet and into the umpire’s facemask.  “Runner, take your base!”  Yells the umpire as he shakes off the cobwebs from the slow spinning sphere colliding with his facemask. 

I take the base and eventually score.   The only run of the whole game.  I did get to bat two more times during the game and hit the ball both times.  One, a line-drive to right field and the other a grounder to second base, which I was thrown out at first. I saw the ball as I focused, all three times, and as the coach had said it’s a beautiful thing to see.

I played baseball from the age of seven till I was seventeen.  I loved the sport, and even though I was never a great athlete, I gave it my all.  The camaraderie, the friendships that developed from these experiences I have treasured my whole life and still connect with many of my teammates sixty-one years later. 

As I’ve grown older, I have come to realize, it wasn’t necessarily the game of baseball, but the camaraderie, the friendships, the dreams one creates for themselves and yes, waiting for that one pitch to find that swinging piece of wood by a skinny twelve-year-old boy, eyes closed, but looking for the stars beyond. Lessons of the game learned, I became much more focused in life. I now watch life with my eyes open and focused, just as I learned to watch the ball in the game as a twelve-year-old. Life is beautiful thing!