Author: okralaw

Way back when Ashley first described her younger brother and baseball to me, she said he was “pretty good.” I saw him play shortly after, and I agreed. The picture on the far left of this collage is a freshman Riley Self meeting the media for the first time after he dominated Texas Tech in his 2nd career game. He was the toast of Bulldog Nation and the SEC on his way to a Freshman All American year. Life zigs when you think it should zag sometimes, and not every road was straight in the years that followed. There were high-highs and low-lows over the past 5 years. Alex Box called Baton Rouge and the Vandy Boys whistled (a lot), and The Dude even got a makeover about 1/2 way through the trip. Sometimes the right arm cooperated, and honestly, many times, it didn’t.

In all of our lives, we reach a point when our sliders no longer slide and our cutters don’t cut anymore. Athletic glory is intoxicating but all too fleeting. Today’s hero is tomorrow’s memory. How a person acts when the lights aren’t on is when true character reveals itself. The next two pictures are Riley now. He might have had to step away from the mound and into the coaching box, but his leadership and his attitude never changed. For five years, Riley lived his dream for all of us to witness, and he ended it as a national champion.

In some perfect Disney world, Riley came in tonight one last time and found ways to get Vanderbilt hitters out just like he did so many times. But life isn’t perfect, and sometimes our greatest disappointments show us the way to something special. As the writer Ryan Holiday termed it, “the obstacle is the way.” Riley’s career had plenty of obstacles but it ends with that big smile in the middle. His playing days might be over, but his influence over others, on or off the diamond, is just beginning. Ashley was right— Riley is “pretty good.”

And he always will be.

Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.”— A. Bartlett Giamatti

We were ordinary kids who wanted to play ball. We didn’t discuss politics or finances or anything heavy. We just wanted to play ball.

When I was 11 years old, the kids in my neighborhood gathered almost daily at an open lot to play baseball, football, or whatever the sport currently in season. About eight of us kids lived in the neighborhood at the time, and we were like something out of central casting for The Sandlot. We had a pecking order just like any other neighborhood crew — we had the older kid, the talented kid, the big kid, the fast kid, the smart kid, the small kid, the shy kid and of course, the younger kid whose mother rarely allowed him to go outside. Not an evening passed without some combination of our group playing ball while our parents circled the neighborhood block, quietly making sure our childhood bickering didn’t need an adult referee. Our neighborhood was our village. Our field was maintained by the kind man who drove his riding mower down the street every few days. We tracked time by the adults driving by our game on their way home from their jobs, and everyone in the neighborhood knew to keep their eyes out for an errant baseball or even a stray kid when passing that open lot in their car. Every day, we met and played ball.

One particular Saturday afternoon, we were playing when we noticed another group of eight kids edge up to the lot. They were walking so softly you couldn’t hear their feet shuffle on the pavement, as if they thought if they walked quietly enough, then no one would see them. In hindsight, these kids had only traveled from maybe three blocks away but, at that time, in our history, they might as well have traveled from another planet. Like the Greasers and Soc’s in The Outsiders, sixteen kids sized each other up in complete silence as if we were about to rumble. These new kids were basically the same ages as us, and had their own pecking order of ages, sizes and skills. But these kids were different.

These new kids were black. 

After a couple awkward moments of staring at each other, which would have been more awkward had we understood it should be awkward, I recognized someone from the park commission soccer team I played on the previous spring. His name was Joe.

”Joe, do you guys want to play baseball?” I asked.

Joe nodded and looked at his group. They nodded. Not one of them had bats or gloves with them. But they were kids, and we were kids, and that’s all we needed.

Silently, their group walked out to the field while our group dropped our gloves and walked towards our makeshift homeplate. My friends grabbed bats to hit. Joe’s friends all took their positions wearing the gloves we left at our positions. Thus began a bizarre sandlot baseball game featuring two teams divided by race. With the exception of balls clinking off an aluminum bat or the thud of that ball hitting a leather pocket, the game was initially played in silence. Then, as the contest progressed a little, a chatter began— first to our teammates and then to the other team as we passed each other after the third out of every half-inning. Our game continued at that same pace until someone suggested we re-pick the teams and start the game over. Thirty-five years later, I don’t remember the suggestion arising because the game wasn’t evenly matched. Instead, I think it was made because boredom comes quickly to children, and we were always trying to do something more “fun.”

The two best players, one black and one white, were naturally elected as captains and after a quick flip of the glove (we didn’t have a coin), new rosters were chosen. The result? Teams were no longer split along racial lines. Instead, sixteen kids, eight white and eight black, were completely mixed between two teams. We laughed and argued over balls and strikes and safe and out like all kids do. We marveled at how far some kids hit the ball, and we snickered when someone struck out. Just as we were before, we were ordinary kids who just wanted to play ball.

All of us quickly became friends that afternoon. Our group of eight was now a group of sixteen and it remained that way the rest of the summer. We would meet every afternoon to play. It might have been the best summer of my life. In the years that followed that summer, some kids moved away or some lost interest in sports. Boys will be boys and we all fell for the intoxicating combination of girls and gasoline. To this day, though, I still think about those guys. That open lot in our old neighborhood, the scene of so many simple games that unknowingly taught me so much, is no longer open. On it sits a beautiful brick house, a home filled with love and the scene of a new set of memories for another group. But in mind’s eye, I still see the open lot and my friend David’s sweet lefty swing sending another ball into orbit with my other friend Joe chasing down that same ball as it returned to earth. I see myself pulling down my red cap over my eyes and slipping on my brown Rawlings baseball glove, broken in to perfection for another epic chance to pretend I’m the second baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals. I remember everything about the best summer of my life. I learned a little bit about baseball but a lot more about life.

Pitchers and catchers have reported to their ballclubs for the spring, and it’s nearing Opening Day. My attention is everywhere and nowhere all at once, and I haven’t played in a baseball game since the Reagan administration. My eleven year old self would be disappointed that I really can’t tell you who plays in the middle infield now for the Cards. But no matter how times change and life gets busy, the game stays the same. Like James Earl Jones says in Field of Dreams, “one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it’s a part of our past.” 

Gosh damn that’s accurate. Let’s play ball.

1. A good steak needs no type of sauce, and especially not ketchup. While we are on the subject, you can order your steak past medium rare if you wish. However, you might as well chew on a Michelin.
2. Beer is not really drinking. The police tend to disagree with this statement, but beer is what you drink when you don’t really want to drink.
3. If you want something, and someone tells you that you can’t do that it, then work harder and show them you can. And by all means, if you have a law degree, then you have tangible proof you can do anything. So go do it.
4. In every situation, it’s always better to listen than to talk, and pay attention to the person in the meeting who is quietly measuring the room. Inevitably, that’s the wisest person in the place.
5. You’re going to make mistakes in your life. Learn from them and try to avoid making the same mistake twice. Your reaction to your mistakes will ultimately tell the tale.
6. Never be afraid to lead or think differently than the rest of the pack. This world has too many followers. Have confidence in your own ability to lead any group. Why shouldn’t you?
7. Try as we might, people, including your own children, cannot be protected from themselves. All you can do is give good guidance when you can and hope like hell they make the right decisions.
8. No matter how wonderful it seems at the time, the Ole Miss Rebels will eventually break your heart. While we’re talking about sports, understand when your sports team needs you most, you must find your Lucky Spot. The team is counting on you. It’s the least you can do.
9. Whatever you do, act like you’ve been there before and never let anyone see you uncomfortable. You are good enough and talented enough to handle any situation. Show the world you believe that fact.
10. If you’re going to be a lawyer, then dress like someone has actually paid you to be their lawyer before. Don’t dress for work like you’re going to the beach, a concert, or a gym, and for God’s sake, never wear white socks with brown dress shoes. People will think you went to Mississippi State if you do. No one has ever said “he dresses too nice,” so remember what you wear is important. And make sure your clothes fit. Otherwise you look “seedy.” No one likes seedy.

From 1987 to 1993, Axl Rose would sprint across the stage and shriek, “DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE? You’re in the Jungle, baby. And you’re gonna dieeeeeeee!” 

Millions of people filled huge arenas and screamed at the top of the lungs their approval of this call of the wild from the frontman of the Biggest Rock and Roll Band in the F’ing Universe. Axl pranced and preened nightly. In the same show, he would growl about that old man being a real motherfucker and then he quietly assure a sad woman to take it slow. Nightly, and to the delight of their legion of fans, Axl begged to be taken down to the place where the grass is green and the girls are pretty before sitting down at a piano to sing quietly about the cold November Rain. For six short years, Axl and Guns’n’Roses could do no wrong. The worse they acted, the more hotels they wrecked, the more controversial they became (check out the shirt in the picture above), the more we wanted them. Their shows became a straight up rock and roll revival with Axl as lead evangelist every single time they hit the stage. 

Then one day, it stopped.

The band’s penchant for self-destruction overtook their penchant for making great music. People quit buying their records. MTV stopped showing their videos. Another band soon took their place at the top. The arenas weren’t quite as full. The band, or at least the incarnation of the band that made them superstars, split up.

What happens next?

“Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.”- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Psalm of Life.

I started thinking about this stuff when I heard Tom Brady tell reporters after the Super Bowl that he was planning to play until he was 45 years old. Hell, if he keeps winning world championships, then I don’t blame him. He should play forever. But his comment struck me because I distinctly remember hearing Brady say years ago he wanted to play until he was 40. Now he’s moved it back to 45. I haven’t had the pleasure of hanging out with Tom and Gisele, but I have a feeling Tom might even say 50 years old once we’ve had a cocktail or two. So this question eats at me— What drives a person in the spotlight to stay in the spotlight? Is it competitive fire? Is it the love of the spotlight? Or is it the fact that he’s now been “Tom Brady, superstar quarterback” longer than he has been Tom Brady? When you’ve been the center of the stage so long, it’s got to be damn tough to move to stage left. Is it the fear of what comes next? If you’re someone like Archie Manning, then I guess you step back and become a dad. But Archie is not a good example. Thanks to his sons, Archie might be more famous now than when he played in the NFL. He’s still a god to the Southerners who remember his playing days but quite honestly, Archie has remained relevant largely because of Peyton and Eli. (If you asked every NFL general manager in 2005, then I would bet more than half would have invested six figures in an experiment consisting of freezing Archie and Olivia’s sperm/egg combination to be thawed out when their team was in need of a signal-caller.) But for every Archie Manning, there are 50 guys like Danny White or Dave Krieg or Neil Lomax— stars of the moment who become trivia questions as the years mount. What becomes of their life when they are no longer the center of attention? Is that all there is? F. Scott Fitzgerald allegedly said there are no second acts in American life. Catchy line, but I don’t know about Scott’s veracity. Although he didn’t do anything better than The Great Gatsby. Maybe he was right?

I don’t have the answer to any of my questions this week, and these questions nag at me like Edith Bunker nagged at her husband. Maybe it’s a sign of my middle age, but I can’t help but wonder— what happens when the lights quit shining bright? Better yet, what happens if the lights never come on? I went to a funeral of a friend of mine a couple years ago, and the eulogy for this 45 year old husband and father focused on his high school athletic prowess. Were those the best of times for him? I just don’t know. Maybe Neil Young was right— “it’s better to burn out than fade away.” 

I don’t know. 

But I still dig Guns’n’Roses.

When we got to Ruleville, I started the questions.

“Dad,” I would begin. “Tell me a story about Archie.” 

He was only happy to oblige my request. “Archie” was Archie Manning, the fabled Ole Miss quarterback who went on to sire two pretty fair quarterbacks in their own right. In our home, just like so many other Southern homes in the Seventies and Eighties, Archie didn’t need a last name. It meant “Archie Manning.” “Folk hero” doesn’t do justice to the reverence Archie was, and is, shown in the South. He is like what would happen if Tom Sawyer had a son with Johnny Unitas. Fans of all schools still rave about Archie being the best they’ve ever seen play the sport. The entire 42 years I knew him, Dad was never prone to hyperbole and never in awe of much of anyone. But Archie brought out the rare Fan Boy moments from my father. Every.Single.Time. 

I would ask for an Archie story right when we turned on Highway 49 in Ruleville toward Drew (Archie’s hometown). Dad would begin telling me the familiar stories I had heard so many times before, and I always hung on every word. He would tell me about Archie Who and Hee Haw Kiner or the time Archie was hurt early in some game only to emerge from the locker room midway through the third quarter and jog to the sideline by himself ready to lead the Rebels to a come from behind victory. I heard that story so many times I could practically hear the murmur of the crowd myself. Dad’s tales of football games past would eventually leave Archie’s era and he would end up telling me about other great football games and trips, right down to who went to the game, what bottle they drank on the way, and how everyone always knew it was a big game if the Rebels were wearing the navy blue jerseys. Understand Dad was usually not a man fond of the spoken word, so I cherished these rare loquacious moments. The stories would take us through Drew and Tutwiler and then through the final turn at Marks as we pushed our way toward Oxford to make that day’s memories together. As I think back now, it’s hard to guess who was more excited those days- me hearing the stories or Dad telling them? I wouldn’t trade those slow Saturday morning 93 mile trips to Oxford for any amount of gold. I recall every trip and can still taste all of the pimento cheese sandwiches Mom packed for us to eat in the Grove. It’s glorious. Simply glorious.

That’s what college football is to me- a tradition passed from one generation to the next with each generation adding another helping of personal yarns like it’s cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving. For some folks, today’s college football has become an obsession of stalking the internet and television for information about their favorite team to help in the time-honored tradition of talking trash to your friends about a game being played by 18-22 year olds. But for me, it’s the memory of riding a two-lane highway toward the Mississippi hills with my dad and the fantastic stories about Archie that I can now tell my own boys when we make the same Saturday ride. It’s the sound of the CBS college football theme mixed with Uncle Verne welcoming me to another afternoon of football.  It’s Herschel and Bo and Peyton and Eli and all the other one-named Saturday afternoon heroes. It’s my two older boys hugging each other as small children when Senquez Golson snatched away an Alabama touchdown in 2014 to ensure a Rebel win, and then them praying with tears in their eyes for Laquon Treadwell’s broken leg later that same year. It’s the sweet smell of Jim Beam and Sprite on a cool Saturday evening- an unmistakable smell that never fails to bring a long Deuce McAllister touchdown run to my mind’s eye the moment it invades my nostrils. College football is the explosion of noise in Vaught-Hemingway Stadium when Travis Johnson runs back an early interception for a touchdown against LSU in 2003 and the hush when Eli is tripped by his own man at the end of the very same game. It’s Johnny Football being Johnny Football, Tua being Tua, Dak being Dak and the LSU playing “Neck.” College football is Saban scowling and the Head Ballcoach smirking. It’s the Grove with your family surrounded by little boys throwing footballs hoping to have the chance to throw it in the big stadium one day. It’s looking at the scoreboard in Braly Municipal Stadium at North Alabama in 2000 and realizing my alma mater just won a national championship, but also looking up at the same scoreboard in 2010 and realizing my alma mater had just lost a national championship on the final play of the game.  

College football fans can’t remember our wedding anniversaries half of the time, but we can all recite the starting quarterback of our favorite college football team and remember specific games and plays. We know our team’s history better than our own. At some level, though, our favorite team’s history is our own.  I love it all. The pageantry, the excitement, the tailgating, the bickering, the wins and even the losses. It is part of my soul.  

I hear we are playing for a national championship Monday night. I will watch the game and hang on every play. One of the teams will hold the trophy and become immortal. Neither of the teams is “my team,” but my hope springs eternal.

Next year could be our year.

Can we go ahead and kick off?

In the next week, the “Best” lists will descend upon us. Best movies, music, books, tv shows, whatever. Every year, these lists come out. I always enjoy reading the various lists, if for no other reason than to see how much I’ve missed. You don’t realize how many movies you haven’t seen until you don’t have a film theater in your city. You don’t realize how little television you watch until you have kids.

Should there be a “Best” list in 2020? Honestly, the best thing about 2020 will be January 1, 2021. It’s damn hard to put “Best” and “2020” in the same breath, but one positive thing about a global pandemic is its ability to lend itself to catching up on reading. A check of my Amazon account would reveal I read a lot. A whole lot. I read just about every imaginable genre as my mother and father taught me to have varied interests. I’m rapidly running out of shelf space at my house for all of my books and I’m already spilling over to my office. (No, I’m not moving to the Kindle or Nook yet. To me, reading is still holding a book and straining my 46 year old eyes.)

Without further adieu, here’s my list. Since it’s 2020, I didn’t stop at the usual top 10. I went ahead and threw in another one to make my list as odd as this year has been. Note not all of these books were released in 2020. A couple were released in earlier years, but I just read them for the first time this year. I write this list knowing Jason Isbell probably had it right when he said, “No one gives a damn about the things you give a damn about,” but what the hell, it’s 2020. Let’s do it.

11. Dad’s Maybe Book by Tim O’Brien. What happens when a man who thought he would never have children has two sons later in life? Will he be around long enough to teach them all of the things he’s learned? How will they remember their dad if he passes away before they are grown? You write letters to them, of course. O’Brien’s memoir is poignant and laugh out loud funny at times, and so well-done. As a 46 year old father of a son under two myself, I have had many of the same thoughts as O’Brien. I just wish I could put my thoughts on paper as well as he does.

10. His Truth Is Marching On: John Lewis and the Power of Hope by Jon Meacham. Jon Meacham speaks my language when it comes to history so I snap up everything he writes. His biography of the late John Lewis is an engrossing tale of bravery, courage, and the virtues of causing “good trouble.” We are a better America because of men like John Lewis.

9. Burn the Ice: The American Culinary Revolution and Its End by Kevin Alexander. My son Walker made fun of my love of good food writing a couple days ago. Released in 2019, I was turned on to Alexander’s book right about the time the world told us we couldn’t eat in restaurants anymore. If you like food, and you’ve ever worked in a kitchen, then you will love this book.

8. The Last Trial by Scott Turow. I don’t usually read legal fiction because I find it unrealistic and quite honestly, it makes me anxious. But Scott Turow is a wonderful novelist, and I read anything he writes. Sandy Stern is a character unlike any other, and he will be missed.

7. 100 Days: How Four Events in 1969 Shaped America by Harlan Lebo. Here’s another 2019 release. In 100 days in 1969, America saw a moon walk, Woodstock, the Manson family murders, and the invention of the internet. As historical events go, that’s a summer like Ted Williams in 1946. By contrast, we’ve been in a pandemic for over twice that long, and we really only have the third season of Cobra Kai on Netflix and a President who won’t accept defeat as our highlights.

6. Alright, Alright, Alright: The Oral History of Richard Linklater’s Dazed and Confused by Melissa Maerz. I think a film of the action behind the scenes might have been more entertaining than the movie itself. Such a fun read.

5. Reaganland: America’s Right Turn 1976-1980 by Rick Perlstein. Perlstein’s entire series on the conservative movement in the United States is so good, and he deftly blends political history with pop culture to take the reader through American history. This last book of the series was exhaustively researched, and brings to life my earliest memories of politics.

4. The Vapors: A Southern Family, the New York Mob, and the Rise and Fall of Hot Springs, America’s Forgotten Capital of Vice by David Hill. Let’s see—you want me to read a book about the Mafia, gambling, family and the 20th century South?? Yes, please. This book is absolutely fascinating, and reveals that Hot Springs, Arkansas was straight-up crazy at one point in its past.

3. Memorial Drive: A Daughter’s Memoir by Natasha Trethewey. Sweet Jesus, what an intense read. Natasha’s former stepfather murdered her mother, and Natasha has told the story in haunting detail. I can’t shake the mental image of a high school Tretheway waving to her former stepfather sitting alone in the crowd at a football game after she and her mother snuck out of his house. He told the police later that he planned to kill her, too. Harrowing is not a strong enough adjective to describe this story.

2. Members Only by Sameer Pandya. A story about race and the dangers of the cancel culture told through the prism of an elite tennis club. I heard an interview with the author on a tennis podcast, and I loved every page of his book. It will definitely make you think. And laugh. Then think while you’re laughing.

1. (tie) Pappyland by Wright Thompson. I love bourbon and I love the South, so I knew I would like this book. Wright is a native of my Mississippi Delta, and his writing skills are as rare as Pappy Van Winkle itself. Wright spins out a story more about family and finding purpose than about sweet tasting bourbon. I don’t care if you don’t know Pappy from Popeye, grab a copy of this book.

1. (tie) The Wax Pack: On the Open Road in Search of Baseball’s Afterlife by Brad Balukjian. Growing up in the Eighties, I watched the Superstation religiously for my baseball fix. I collected baseball cards and knew every player in the big leagues. Even dudes like Rance Mullinks and Gary Pettis. But what happens to these guys when they’re no longer on my television at 6:35? I grew up. Where did they go? How cool would it be to take a road trip to find out the answer to that question? The author did. I wish I could write the sequel. Great book.

“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

Abraham Lincoln

‘One of the greatest Mississippians’: Former Gov. William Winter remembered by friends, dignitaries

I am a couple days late lamenting the loss of former Mississippi Governor William Winter. Governor Winter’s political life is a remarkable tale in and of itself, from being elected to the Legislature as a law student in 1948 to finally being elected Governor in 1979 after being defeated in an earlier bid. He was a moderate on race when being moderate was both politically and personally dangerous. The product of a one room schoolhouse in Grenada County, he changed public education in Mississippi by the sheer force of his will and determination. He was a public servant with few peers in our state.

I wish I had deep and meaningful stories about my personal relationship with him. But I do not. I do, however, have a couple nuggets about him. From the moment I introduced myself to him as a law student in 1997, Governor Winter remembered my name and always asked me about my father and Dana Moore. I chalked the inquiry up to a natural politician’s ability to connect a name with a story— In his mind, my story was tied to my relatives who were his contemporaries. But Governor Winter was different. After Dana’s death in 2007, I received a note from Gov. Winter expressing his condolences. When Dad passed away in 2016, another note from Governor Winter arrived a week or so after the funeral. It’s the little things that count, and I’m sure he would send hundreds, if not thousands, of similar notes every year. But there was no election in his future and our relationship did not hinge on my voting for him. Instead, he simply being a human being caring for his fellow man. Our world needs more of those men.

Godspeed, Governor Winter. Our state is better because of your bravery, your courage, your humility, and most importantly, your humanity. You were Mississippi at our finest. Thank you for being one of our better angels.