How I Became a Man, Part 2: A Complimentary Coach

In part 2 of my series on men who taught me to be a man, I profile a coach who kept me on his teams for a good number of years.

As an athlete, there were physical reasons for my lagging-behindedness. To be honest, I never told my teammates about my eyes or my asthma unless they asked. I always fought to be the best that I could be. Athletically, though, there were just some things that I could not overcome.

When it came to baseball, I think that I loved practice more than I loved games. Shoot, at games, I knew that I wasn't a good hitter, but I sure didn't swing at pitches that weren't strikes! Looking back, it makes me smile to think that maybe I always batted 14th because of my high on-base percentage, the coach knowing that I would be a smart baserunner and would come in to score thanks to the hitters at the top of the order. But, digression aside, practice was action. It was playing catch, reps at the plate. When I got older, it meant batting cages, too. I've held back tears at times, thinking of how much I loved baseball, wishing that I were better at it, but practice was pure immersion in the sport(s) that I loved. There was a boy a year ahead of me in school whose dad always got me on his team. Here are the values that I learned from that:

My coach, one year, after giving awards to the great athletic performers of the team from the previous season, gave me special recognition. Perhaps, he doesn't recall saying it, but he said that I was the player with the most heart. He loved having me on his teams.

As a side note, it's weird to think back on how, in school, I was "the smart kid," but, somehow, my teammates in sports never teased me... and I was, in all honesty, one of the least-talented players on my team, regardless of sport. I don't know whether it was the coaches looking out for me or my teammates respecting my hustle, but it's an aspect of my childhood for which I am very grateful to my teammates, and it's worth mentioning.

This was one of those things that seemed small to me at the time: the awards show ended, my mom emphasized that he'd said that about me, and that was it. But, it stuck with me.

So, there was the compliment, but I remember him pitching to me at practice. I remember his smile and the way that he always seemed glad to see me. Here was this father of two, a man whose familial and financial lifestyle was nothing like the one that this little boy knew (he had wonderful grass in his back yard; one year we had our end-of-year picnic and played whiffle ball), a man with very strong shoulders and I a little boy with virtually no physical strength: we were different. But, he reached out to me in ceaseless, tireless acceptance and support.

Aren't the comments of those who rarely give us any time the ones that we hold so closely to our heart? I remember three such occasions in the case of my sire, baseball-wise. Once, I was throwing at a fence, and he said that I should use the strength in my legs. One season, when I was not on the team of the coach about whom I write today, I got to pitch, and he, my father, actually attended a game, and afterwards told me that I threw faster than he had; the third time was when he played catch with me and showed me the basics of throwing a curve. How much I cherished those brief moments! ... Yet, they were almost as nothing when compared to the body of work of my coach.

I love to think about the butterfly effect, how one seemingly small act begets so many others... The buttefly effect has always served an amazingly positive influence in my life. In the example of this coach, his simple act to always include me on his wonderful teams led to me meeting another couple who coached our team. Despite the fact that I couldn't hit a damn beach ball, the lady coach said that I had a beautiful, level swing, something that I worked very hard to develop: when I make mistakes, often it's from trying to follow directions too much to the letter. I had learned, from an early age, the value of swinging through the ball. Here, years later, was validation of my efforts!

Finally, a very important aspect of character to mention (in the realm of example-setting lessons that I learned) about this coach: he and his wife attended, literally, every athletic activity in which their boys took part; the missus kept score at all the games. That kind of support has really stuck with me, and it served as a strong counter-attack to my father's dismissal of my endeavors as less important than his own desires. This couple's children grew up genuine, stable, and respectful; even as a child, the older boy and I sat having a conversation where we discovered common ground - by our peers, we were held to ridiculously high standards, he, as an athlete, and I, as a scholar; this supportive boy never showed me anything but friendship. I cannot help but make the assumption that this quality of character came to him largely from his marvelously supportive father.

How I Became a Man, Part 1: A Man with an Open-door, Open-Heart Policy

I recently tweeted (@MapNMusicMan) that I did not become a bad-ass all on my own. This series I'm beginning now profiles the powerful and/or subtly helpful influences of the men in my life who taught me how to be a man.

...One of the keys to a person being successful at her job of single-mothering is to understand her weaknesses and find ways to overcome them. My mother chose to overcome what she, deep down, probably knew was a flaw on her part - her insistence that I my father try to act like a dad – by annoyingly insisting that I get out of the house and do stuff… With some of these things, I think that it was harder to force me than others. She had a tough time getting me to go to school, a somewhat difficult time to get me to go to Boy Scout meetings (I don’t recall being difficult about camping trip departures, at least from a motivational standpoint), a little difficulty with church youth group. On the other hand, I think that I made it pretty easy for her to motivate me to go to soccer-baseball-basketball practice, but, in any case, I'm glad that she did. All of the men whom I met set some sort of good example for me or gave me some good idea of how I could find the path to success.

So, further ado to be left in the dust, here we go, starting off with the man through whose influence I am writing this blog in the first place.

Note: In order to protect privacy, I'm not going to use names.

My college communications instructor

Sometimes in life, I think that we run across people who, for some reason or other, we just want to sit and listen to them talk to us. I've been blessed to meet several such people. This gentleman's kindness has been so powerful for me. I say kindness because he gives me lots of advice; as I grow older, I believe more and more that advice freely given by others is a precious gift. When people take the time to give you advice, they often are people who deeply, truly care about you. How many people sit by and watch us fail, enjoying our pain?

A couple of the gems of sage-ness that he's shared (not direct quotes):

Make your job what you would do anyway; then, your work is just you being you, and it's not a job

What's your band going to offer that no one else has really done? Lyle Lovett uses Western swing to tell stories that have nothing to do with cowboy life. Living Colour is a band from Harlem that plays metal.

Sometimes, the best advice comes from a person not telling you what to do, but helping you to avoid making mistakes:

On my idea to make textbook audio books:
I think that you'll find that creative path fraught with difficulties for which you're not yet ready. Your time would be better spent focusing on something more basic.(Paraphrased)

I have stopped by his office numerous times just to talk, or to vent, or to throw out some random creative idea that I have. He always listens to me, encourages me. Every time that I apply for a job, I call him up and read him my cover letter, and he always finds something to make my cover letter slightly better and more professional-sounding.

He never tells me what I want to hear unless he thinks that I will have a chance to succeed. Sometimes, he's talking to me, and I just sit there, trying to be cool and hold back a smile, but I just love listening to him.

If he reads this, I hope that he knows that I don't know how stable I'd be, or if I'd have even been able to choose the few mildly-committal directions that I've chosen.

What being a vocalist means for me

Being a vocalist means that I don't eat chocolate before 9 p.m.

Being a vocalist means having a feeling that the waitress scoffs at me behind my back when I order a water with my beer.

Being a vocalist means taking a good breath before picking up the phone and saying, "Thank you for calling Courtyard by Marriott of Salina, this is Michael."

Being a vocalist means that I don't talk for more than five minutes straight, and being grateful when people give me hinting looks if I ramble anyway.

It means that a night of singing karaoke is a night to say, "Damn the audience, I'm gonna sing this song because I FREAKING FEEL LIKE IT!" ... because I just need to pretend that someone likes the stuff that I like to sing when I'm at home.

It means "Ooooo, macaroni and cheese sounds good! ...oh, wait, I have a show tomorrow/tonight... Ramen, broccoli, and apple juice it is."

Ditto for a bowl of cereal when I wake up on show day. Not happening.

Being a vocalist means riding the exercise bicycle because I reeeeally need to hit those F#s, Gs, and G#s with more ease.

It means that no, I cannot belt powerful head voice/falsetto songs by progressive metal band Dream Theater all night long the night before an evening of barbershopping for some retired folks.

It means that I cannot shout my malcontentions at bandwagon Red Sox fans all through a 3-hour game at Kauffman Stadium (home of the Royals) in Kansas City, MO.

It means, "Thank you, director of the Salina Chorale, for moving me away from all of the other tenors so that I don't have to shout just to hear myself well enough to know if I'm on key" or "Please, guys, can you turn your guitars down just a little so that I don't have to shout?"

It means that I must not, no matter how much fun it is, try to imitate Steven Tyler... I'd prefer not to have vocal chord surgery twice before I turn 70.

Being a vocalist means saying to myself, "I don't care if you're not thirsty! Walk over to that sink and pour yourself a glass of water and drink the whole thing until it's gone."

It means that I may not, when I take my Grama to church at 10:30 a.m., belt out all the hymns. For heaven's sake, my voice should still be in bed. Gently, now, gently.

No screaming in anger. Just, none. Nope. Can't do it. Doesn't matter if a certain un-named somebody stole my beer.

Being a vocalist means speaking in the easiest way possible, even if it means that, at 25, I sound like I'm 16.

It's massaging my throat and my jaw and that, somehow, most sung sounds have a little bit of "n" in them.

It's remembering that high notes should feel low, and low notes should feel high.

It's taking breaths that fill my lungs to my hips, and pushing them out 'til it hurts.

It's carrying a bottle 'o' water in my car... just in case I need to fill it.

Being a vocalist is putting feeling into everything that I say or sing.

In short, it sometimes seems like nearly everything that I do is in preparation, in waiting, and in anticipation of, the next time that I put my heart on the line, expressing myself in the way that I've always felt compelled to do so since before I can even remember.

Being born to rock

I was created to learn.

But I was born to rock.

Note: "To rock," in this instance, is defined as "to energetically perform and/or express oneself musically.

The end.

Fergie vs. P!nk

P!nk wins.

Because Fergie sucks, that's why.

Because P!nk does not, that's why.

Fergie almost single-voicedly ruined the Super Bowl half-time show. P!nk's style would fit in great with a football game... Plus the dancers would not have to suffer the embarrassment of not being in-sync... they could just jam to the beat.

Fergie tries to sing like a rocker. P!nk can actually do it, and does it better than a lot of mainstream rock stars, regardless of gender. I'm talking to you, Green-Day lead singer guy.

P!nk did "Raise your Glass," which provides emotional support for social outcasts. Fergie needed the other members of Black-Eyed Peas to even accomplish the recording of a passably-lame song that pretends to care about the children of the world, "Where is the Love?"

P!nk has an I-will-bite-your-nose-off-if-you-sass-me attitude. Fergie has a look-at-my-boobs-that's-why-I'm-famous attitude. Fergie shows off those boobs as much as she can. P!nk has a nose ring.

P!nk's stage name is better than Fergie's. As a matter of fact, P!nk's real name (Alecia) is better than Fergie's stage name. Yup, P!nk would be a better pop star than Fergie even if she just went by Alecia and never died her hair.

P!nk could kick your ass, while Fergie does not sound even slightly good without Slash. (Yes, I realize that the two points do not relate to each other. I just like the rhyme.)

P!nk sounds cool live, at least on this Youtube video. Fergie... well.... let's just say she can't even keep up with the over-rated Axl Rose. Skip to 4:15 to get an idea of what I mean.

Fergie tries to sing radio-friendly songs. P!nk doesn't care if her content isn't family friendly. Heck, Alecia doesn't even care if she has words bleeped out.

So, like I said, P!nk wins.

Note: In short, what you have basically just read is an oversimplified, fallacy-ridden post about why I don't like Fergie and think that P!nk is more worth one's time to listen to and money spent. I was biased against Fergie long before I realized that I really respected P!nk. I want to clink glasses and party at a club with P!nk. I want someone to punch Fergie in the face... not a guy, because that would be wrong.

Bernard Spiel tells you about standing outside the fire... or not

Nope. I am totally walking inside the fire, hoping that I get burned.

In a series of posts that I will hope will be wildly successful such that it will double my followers, I will break down, or (for those of you who like bigger words) analyze song lyrics.

How does one stand in the fire? Well, it's a country song, so it's not like it's hard to figure out. Here are the lyrics to "Standing Outside the Fire" as recorded by Garth Brooks.

We call them cool
Those hearts that have no scars to show
The ones that never do let go
And risk it the tables being turned

We call them fools
Who have to dance within the flame
Who chance the sorrow and the shame
That always come with getting burned

But you got to be tough when consumed by desire
'Cause it's not enough just to stand outside the fire

So, to stand inside the fire, one simply has to do the opposite of what the song says that many do. That being wait around for love, or, worse yet, not try for it at all. But, and perhaps this is a criticism of a song that I loved growing up, how many people really don't try for love? Most of us, each in our own way, no matter what love means to us, try for love. Even the religiously celibate pursue a close personal relationship with their Creator.

In other words, this song is merely an affirmation of a lifestyle of continuing to "take a chance [that] love might exist." The chorus goes on to say "I can't abide standing outside the fire," effectively using a word that pretty much no one uses in a song that discusses an otherwise common topic, that of "taking a chance on love."

So, cheers to this single from 1993's "In Pieces" album for following the tried-and-true guideline for successful country lyric song-writing: tell the folks something that they already know, and probably already do. Oh, and if you make a video, the use of a little fire probably wouldn't hurt. (Skip to about 1:57 in to see some awesome early-90s pyrotechnics. Hey, it beats what Billy Joel did.)

Oh, and, of course, the video has nothing to do with someone chasing love... it depicts a disabled kid trying to make the regular track team. C'est la vie.

The secret to cliff-jumping

I, Bernard Spiel, nom de plum maker extraordinaire (according to the only opinion that matters in self-ego feeding, my own), have discovered for myself the secret to finding the guts to overcome the death-will-come-to-you-if-you-do-this inhibitor that is largely present in human psyche, at least as it applies to cliff-jumping. Read on!

Before you attempt to jump off a cliff for the first time, shout a battle cry. The battle cry can be anything. For me, I shouted TROGDOR!!! the first couple of times, and, then, I started to shout names of bands that I liked.

Funny expressions can also work. Really, anything that gets your blood flowing a little, getting you excited for the plunge, is worth a shot.

Just take a couple of steps, proclaim your phrase of choice, leave the rocky security beneath you feet, and enjoy the free fall!

It worked for me, and for my good friend who brought me with him to his family's vacation spot, so, perhaps, it will work for you.

Happy jumping!

P.S. You may wish to point your toes if you pencil dive. Just f.y.i.