Some of us will be headed down to Tuscaloosa later today so that Number One can attend Bama Bound, the student orientation at the University of Alabama. Needless to say, he’ll be facing some very tough decisions.

Nah, I’m not talking about classes. I figure that there’ll be plenty of sections of “N’Yuck, N’Yuck, N’Yuk–The Three Stooges in the 21st Century” and “Careers in Guitar Hero–You Too Can Be Ronnie Van Zant” to choose from.

I’m talking about more important stuff like football.

You see, since the resurgence of interest in Crimson Tide football following the hiring of multimillion dollar messiah Nick Saban, the student government moved last spring to only allow entering freshman to attend part of the scheduled home games so that more tickets could be spread around and more students could attend. Their solution was to divide the seven game home schedule into two “equally desirable packages,” one for four games, the other for three.

And here they are:

Package #1: Arkansas, LSU, Houston, Louisana-Monroe

Package #2: Western Carolina (the home opener), Georgia, Tennessee

I thought I would help Number One out in his decision and take an opinion poll among my readers. I know none of you would ever lead a nice young man like Number One astray, despite whatever misguided allegiances you might have. So, which of these packages would you choose and why?

I have a feeling I know which one he’s going with, but who knows what impact you might have on this decision? For road games, since he will have less than 65 credit hours at Bama, he’ll be able to choose two games from any of the road schedule–except the Big One down at that Barner school. Bummer.

If this poll doesn’t work out, I know who’ll I’ll ask–he’ll know.

Forrest knows best.

Fred MacMurray never had it this good.

(H/t to running buddy Joe V. and his big, long lens for the shot of Number One receiving his diploma).

Grissom High mercifully moved 469 grads through the line with machine-like efficiency.

Chaos did start to descend on the affair, though, by the time they got to the “S’s.” As the shout-outs and air horns grew louder and more boisterous, the grads who had received their diplomas returned to their seats and began to blow up the large number of inflatable balls that they had smuggled in beneath their robes.

At first the faculty members tried to confiscate the balls, but after they saw them propagating like rabbits, they finally gave up. After the ceremony, Number One exclaimed, “I got my hands on three of them!” As if that was the most important accomplishment of his high school career.

Eventually, the Great Grissom High Class of 007–the one with 28 National Merit Scholars, more than 30 grads with a GPA of 4.0 or higher and 12 million dollars in scholarship offers–played volleyball with a naked, inflatable doll. Classic line of the night from Principal Tom Drake:

“I see somebody brought a date.”

You know that tractor song? Well, he wasn’t just whistling Dixie.

Yes, I graduated from Franklin County High School, and today, needless to say, I am a proud alumnus.

If you think my John Deere’s sexy, then wait’ll you see that Bush Hog I’ve got parked out in the shed.

I searched through several boxes but I couldn’t find it.

Twenty-seven years ago, I delivered the salutatorian speech at Franklin County High School in Rocky Mount, Virginia. I thought that I still had a copy of it around somewhere and had planned to post it here, but apparently it’s at my mother’s house tucked away in a box or maybe the attic.

Or maybe it’s gone for good. Probably just as good. Who needs another speech anyway?

I recall that it was about 3-4 minutes long; even then, I liked ‘em short and sweet. On the morning of graduation, we came to school and read our speeches to a teacher, presumably to screen them for appropriate content. I read mine to the fresh-out-of-college, first-year English teacher who must have drawn the short straw. You know, the one with the mini-skirt and thick, dark, flowing ebony hair and large, brown, Bette Davis eyes. Not that any of that mattered at all.

After I read my speech, I looked up and asked, “Is it okay?”

Dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex, she smiled and said, “That’ll do.”

I really didn’t talk much about the future or the good times of the past. For me, high school had been defined mainly by two events–a major surgery which left me flat on my back for two months during my junior year and the death of my father less than a month before graduation.

I referred to those and recalled the assistance and compassion shown to me by so many of my classmates; the ones who came to see me in the hospital, helped tutor me back up to speed during my convalescence and stood by me, their arms around my shoulders, at the visitation and the grave site.

I told them that I would always remember their kindness and friendship during tough times, and I reminded them that there would be many situations in life when all the education in the world would not satisfy, that only a kind word and a helpful deed would do. I told them that it appeared to me that they had already learned that lesson–and thank you.

Afterwards, my friend Al approached me. He had been a year ahead of me and was already home on summer break from the University of Richmond. We had taken many classes together, played on the tennis team, and laughed a lot. Al never took anything too seriously, not even a friend’s major thoracic surgery. When I was carrying enough hardware around in my chest to make an airport metal detector scream from a mile away, Al felt that laughter was the best medicine–no matter how much it made me wince.

Embracing me, he said, “That was one helluva speech.”

Over the years, he’s mentioned that night every time I’ve run into him. And every time he says, “That was one helluva speech.” Once I was in a restaurant in Roanoke when we spotted each other across the room. “Helluva speech,” he mouthed silently.

Another time I ran into him at Roanoke Memorial Hospital. Al is a general surgeon now (scary thought), and a professor of surgery with the University of Virginia. He hadn’t changed a bit; same goofy grin, same head of tightly-wound, nappy curls. But this time, he had several of his residents in tow, and he introduced me to them. He told them I was an ophthalmologist (I didn’t correct him) and proceeded to regale them with a few high school tennis stories. He concluded with, “And at graduation, he gave one helluva speech.”

Al, I know you’re probably too busy removing gall bladders and resecting colons to read my blog, but if your eyes should ever fall upon these words, I just want you to know that I appreciate the compliment, although I’m not sure I deserved it.

And by the way–you’re one helluva friend.

The speaker at last night’s Grissom High Baccalaureate service was entertaining and spot on.

He basically said there were two types of buttons in life. First, there was the EASY button, and he held up just that, one of those from the Staples office supply store commercials. He told the grads that they could always take the path of least resistance, continue life in their high school mindset, and anytime they faced a difficult choice they could just reach down and hit the EASY button and hope for the best.

But, he warned, whatever you do, do NOT press this button!

Instead, he told them that there would be many times in adult life when the old familiar high school way of doing life just wouldn’t work. In those moments, a cold, hard reboot might be the only thing that would.

That’s right, he said, sometimes hitting the reset button will be the only solution.

Words of wisdom.

Yesterday was Senior Sunday at our church. That’s “senior” as in high school, not the over-the-hill, AARP type. There were 26 seniors this year, which, as we say in the South, is a whole big mess of ‘em.

They marched down the center aisle of the church, clad in their graduations robes–brown, burgundy, white, red, purple, power blue. This was the start of a new tradition this year. But just barely. It was announced last week that they would wear their robes, and as one might expect, there was a great hue and cry and a week’s worth of high drama. The seniors would like to have had more input into the decision, not to mention more notice. Much of the protest came from the young ladies, who, along with their mothers, had chosen that perfect dress for the occasion. Since we weren’t in that category and Number One didn’t really care that much, we were happy to sit that one out.

But the powers-that-be stuck to their guns, and I’m glad they did. The end result was a festive and apropos processional, some much-needed pomp, circumstance and color to spice up the usual gray, black and other muted tones. Those 26 pretty grads all in a robe were a sight to see. Put me down as a robe man.

As usual, they were an impressive bunch, with activities, honors, sports accomplishments, mission trips, service projects and Big Plans galore. There was a printed program (and a video at the brunch which followed) in which each of the grads recounted their fondest memories of youth group and relayed messages to their elders, ministers, parents and family. Needless to say, that had everyone reaching for those little mini-packages of Kleenex tissues that were tucked away in purses and pockets. If you own Kimberly-Clark stock, that big fat dividend check should arrive in the mailbox later this week.

Number One recalled several mission trips that he had been on, thanked his parents for preparing him well and reminding him to stay well-hydrated (an inside family joke) and his brothers for making growing up “so much fun.” And then he said something that left my mouth a little agape and had me reaching for the pack of Kleenex that I had just handed to Eyegal. In response to the question, “What has most influenced you?” he said this:

Do you know the sensation, the utter surprise and rush of blood to the face that one gets when they receive a gift that they truly do not deserve?

That’s Grace for you.

One of our traditions is to allow the young male grads to lead worship for the day. I like this because this means that the remarks and prayers will be short, sweet and to the point. Since most of the guys just want to get up there, get it done, and get outta there, you can bet that there will be no prattling on about how the memories of Aunt Gussie’s homemade apple pie are sorta like the Lord’s Supper if you just stop and think about it hard enough or long, wind-filled prayers to God containing detailed laundry lists of announcements of things that He probably already knows about anyway and other various and sundry sermonettes. I hope the guys who usually run The Show were watching–and learning.

Number One came to me earlier in the week and told me that our youth minister had said that he would be doing the talk for “the juice.” You know me and earwax. I thought he said that he would be doing the talk for “the Jews.” I thought, man, that’s not an easy topic to talk about your first time up there. Couldn’t they have given him something a little easier?

But Number One understood his assignment well, and in his brown robe and gold Honors sash, he stood before 1500 people and delivered the following words:

We seniors are starting our journey into the real world. We’ve learned a lot about traveling by watching those of you who have gone before us, and one of the things that you’ve taught us is the importance of this meal that we share together weekly. We’ve already broken the bread that represents Jesus’ body and now we will drink together the cup that represents his blood.

This cup is an intersection of things past, present and future. We recall from the past the blood that Jesus shed on the cross and the way that he conquered death and blazed a trail for us to follow. In the present, Jesus draws close to us during this meal and gives us comfort and strength for the long and difficult road we travel each day. The Cup is also a sign of things to come, a future free of suffering and death, as well as the victory meal we will all share together when we reach our ultimate destination.

Jesus invites you to partake of this cup now just as he did long ago when he spoke these words: “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”

I was proud of him and the other young men who participated. The service had a wonderful brevity and rhythm, a chant-like cadence which bore us along with words “fitly spoken,” pointing toward and praising the God who made the day possible.

I hope I live to see the day when our female grads will also be allowed to share their talents and gifts with us in public worship, but this is the South and this is the Church of Christ, so that may take a while. But one can always hope. Hope is a good–and sustaining–thing.

But I can say that I have lived long enough to witness a Church of Christ service which started with a colorful processional and was conducted by young men in priest-like vestments.

And that, as they say, is a sight for sore eyes.

Guess which Huntsville high school student was named to the First Team All-USA High School Academic Team?

Johnny Hu, that’s who.

Johnny, a friend of Number One Son at Grissom High who scored a perfect 2400 on his SAT and a perfect 36 on his ACT, was among 20 students named to the team. Of those, 15 were of Asian or Indian descent. I don’t know precisely how much genetics has to do with that (my guess is quite a bit), but I do know that many of those kids are second generation Americans whose immigrant parents have instilled in them a killer work ethic which makes me and my progeny look like absolute slouches.

If you go to this gallery, Johnny is number four and is pictured standing next to some rockets, symbols of Huntsville’s brain power and who knows what all else.

Number One, who’s had a good view of Johnny’s rear license plate these past four years, tells me that not only is he very bright but that he’s a nice guy and pretty funny to boot. In the senior video, he played a hard-core captain of the math team in a spoof of MTV’s “Two a Days.” Over the past week, the rumor had been circulating around school that Johnny wouldn’t be allowed to graduate next week because he failed to take a required keyboarding class in 9th grade. The source of that rumor was hard to pinpoint, but one wonders if it wasn’t Johnny himself.

Johnny is Harvard bound and no doubt destined for great things. We’re proud of him, as well as all the other seniors in the great Grissom Class of ’07.

Go Johnny go. Go Grissom.

I wasn’t a fan of his, but I didn’t really think he was a monster either. What ever happened to “you don’t tug on Superman’s cape, spit into the wind, pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, mess around with Jim, or dance on someone’s grave?”

I’d like to think that when I die, no one will dance on my grave. But there’s probably someone out there who will.

“No more stinky glasses, no more stinky glasses!” they’ll joyfully bleat as they stomp and strut around my grave like a barnyard animal, stirring up a cloud of dust from the freshly dug dirt.

Pardon my dust, but I’ll be moving my blog to a new host server over the next few days. As a result, things may appear a bit scrambled and disorganized for a while until that’s completed.

But then again, what else is new?

The more the words,
the less the meaning,
and how does that profit anyone?

–Ecclesiastes 6:11

How ironic that those words were spoken by someone named The Preacher.

We’re preparing to enter a season of senior sermons, baccalaureate services, keynote speeches and prayerful send offs. May all who dare to speak do so with modesty, a sense of the occasion, and a modicum of “fitly spoken” words.

Just say “no” to verbal sprawl.

With Number One’s high school graduation drawing nigh, we’re going through a season of Last Things: last prom, last high school term paper due, last final exam and, most bittersweet, the last soccer match.

We had played the moment in our fast-forward minds many times. We would be gathered round the Lads in Orange on Saturday, May 12th, 2007 as they hoisted the Alabama 6A High School soccer trophy high above their sweaty heads, champions of the state on an expansive pitch of freshly-trimmed grass in front of an undulating sea of hometown orange and black.

But it did not end this way. Instead, our campaign closed on a more cruel note, on a fast, unfamiliar and unforgiving artificial turf in front of a large, hostile crowd in the quarterfinals of the state tournament Friday night. The 1-0 loss to Vestavia Hills High School was not a major upset (they have an exceptional squad whom we beat 1-0 in the finals of the preseason state tournament in February), but for our Grissom High Tigers, who were ranked number one in the state and 19th in the nation, it was not the ending we had hoped for.

It was a tight tussle which remained scoreless 10 minutes into the second half before a Vestavia forward broke through our back line and launched an unexpected strike from just past the center circle–a good 30 yards out–that caught our keeper just a step too far off his line and arched just over his finger tips for what would prove to be the game winner.

We attacked furiously after that, wave after wave, but the Vestavia back line stood stout and firm. Our last best chance came with less than five minutes to play, a laser of a cross from our right wing that caught our striker in full stride at the six for the potential equalizer. But the resultant collision of boot and ball sailed a mere inch over the cross bar and the head of a greatly relieved Vestavia keeper. In the final moments we pulled our keeper who kept launching one desperate heave after another into the massive mix gathered inside their 18, but Vestavia’s thick wall of defenders turned back our every attempt.

It’s always easy to do post-mortems and find the reasons for failure. Our unfamiliarity with artificial turf gave Vestavia an unusually large home field advantage (our passes, normally weighed in just the right proportions for perfectly timed and immaculately placed through balls, were always just a few feet too long that night). The large expectations which weighed especially heavily on the shoulders of our eleven seniors played a factor too, and Number One noted that in warm-ups, everyone seemed unusually tight and nervous. A poke to the eye of our right back which resulted in his leaving the field at a critical moment was one among many small things which, when added up over the course of a match, matter greatly in final outcomes.

But in the end, it came down to one man making the shot of his life–one that he will replay over and over even while rocking on the porch at the old folks’ home–and our many close chances that we failed to finish. Soccer, more than any other sport, turns on such razor thin margins.

After our first round playoff win on Tuesday night, Number One told me, “That was my Last Game.” He’s a reserve midfielder who played a good many minutes that night and had two assists, one of them a dandy of a one-touch chip which looped over the opposing back line and found the foot of our striker who tucked it away neatly just inside the right post.

He didn’t mean that he expected his team to lose, only that the margins would be so tight that Coach wouldn’t go as deeply into the bench. But I was in full denial and didn’t want to believe him. Surely, in the Alabama heat that so often characterizes our state Final Four, our outside runners would need some relief and Number One would come into the game for some quality minutes, perhaps serving up another fine assist or, if the situation presented itself, finding the back of the net. Maybe we would be up and in control of the final, and Number One would enter the championship game as his family and legions of friends cheered him on.

But the old boy was right. Number One didn’t see any action under the Friday night lights, and in the closing moments of the game, he stood near the bench, warm-up jacket still on, urging on his teammates, soaking in the final moments of a long and memory-filled career. As the final whistle tolled three times, his drained teammates limped toward the bench, many with tears in their eyes, warriors who left the last full measure on an unfriendly battleground in a far away place. Seeing that some were too distraught to make the trip back out to meet their opponents in the traditional post-game greet, Number One made his way onto the pitch and proceeded to shake the hand of every Vestavia player and coach.

Everyone has a role to play.

We waited for him at the end of the stadium near the parking lot. Soon he arrived, clad in his black and orange kit, the click-clack of his boots resounding against the concrete sidewalk.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He nodded and smiled thinly, walking past us and dealing with it in his own way. In olden days–win or lose–there would have been orange slices and little boxes of juice, a romp on the playground, and maybe later, a trip to McDonald’s.

But here, at this poorly-marked intersection of things past and things future, there was for Number One only a regular roast beef sandwich from an Arby’s on Highway 31 in Birmingham and a long, quiet ride home in the darkness of the Alabama night, his iPod filling his ears with a dirge of his own choosing.

The Explainer at Slate does it again. I commented on this the other day, but little did I know then that I was actually a “code shifter” when I’m hangin’ with the clan back in Vah-GIN-ya and talking mountainspeak.

Hillary’s not the only one trying to convince us of her Southern bona fides. In Full Professor Elrod’s case, the more hard-core secessionists among his rowdy and far-flung boiled peanut gallery may have finally disabused him of the notion. I think it was the part about lapsing into Delawarespeak that did him in.

Huntsville is about as cosmopolitan as you can get in Alabama with so many transplants from all over the country and world. But if you cross the Whitesburg Bridge and the Tennessee River and head down ’round AAY-rahub way, the Southern dialect suddenly grows twangier than a Flannery O’Connor dialogue.

Evrathang is RAY-low-tif.

Michael Winerip’s touching and elegant essay, “Young, Gifted, and Not Getting Into Harvard” is the most sensible piece of writing on today’s hypercompetitive college admissions game that I’ve read in a long time.

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If brains were transmissions, then mine would be a four-speed manual that I’ve red-lined and ground to bits in the quest for maximum performance. Number One Son, on the other hand, has a silky smooth six that he rarely shifts into overdrive. Instead, he cruises down the highway in fifth gear, the top down and the wind in his hair, making good time and covering a lot of ground, but not so fast and so far that he can’t take in the view and enjoy the glory days.

Early in his high school career, he noticed the hectic and harried pace of his Ivy League-bound classmates and decided that he would rather cruise at a different speed and and take a more scenic route. He worked hard, but he played hard too: soccer, Ultimate, banging out “Free Bird” on Guitar Hero, Powderpuff cheerleading, road trips to T-town followed by late night poker games, an eleven-on-a-scale-of-ten senior prom, long mountain hikes and plenty of burnt-orange sunsets—hanging out with friends for no particular reason at all.

I’ll admit to thinking at times, Can’t you go any faster? If I had a brain like yours, oh, the places I would go and the things I would see!

But he knew what he was doing all along, that boy, and he was right; cruising down the highway with the top down and the wind in his hair–iPod blaring–leaving behind a trail of memories longer than Route 66 and few, if any, regrets.