Tag: love

Call Me Woo Woo

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20222 Comments

Dear Will:

By any objective measure, I think you could say that throughout my life I have been an above-average athlete—assuming, that is, that you include all of the certifiable non-athletes in the worldwide population. On the playground, I was never picked first, but also never last. As I grew, I was good enough to make the team, but never a star.

Ninth grade at Goddard Junior High was suitably representative of my athletic prowess. In my only year of tackle football, I was a backup tight-end—140 pounds of grit, squeezing into the huddle and whispering: “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do on this play.” To give you a sense of the intimidating figure I cut on the gridiron, the coaches nicknamed me Woo Woo.

Perhaps more impressive was the fact that I was one of only a dozen or so guys who made the Goddard basketball team. Less impressive was the fact that I began the year as a starter (!) but ended it as a third-stringer at the end of the bench. On the track team I was a high-jumper with neither technique nor natural ability, also pressed into service as our last guy in the 440-yard dash. In that race I never finished better than fourth.

In spite of that manifest mediocrity, as a kid I was full of aspiration. Jerry West was my guy, and I dreamed of one day playing in the NBA like him. I once I even wrote him a letter asking what I could do to become a better dribbler.

But I never mailed the letter. I knew without posting it what my idol’s answer would be: “Practice.” Even at that young age, I knew he would urge me to spend hours doing drills with both hands, honing and then mastering skills that could eventually find their way into a real game. It would take work and focus and determination—none of which I had. Rather than mail the letter, I turned it into a paper airplane. (True story.)

That airplane does not fully explain why I never made it to the NBA (or onto the varsity at Glendora High, for that matter). But it is emblematic of my athletic career. Perhaps because I had so many other interests as well, I never chose to dedicate the time and effort necessary to be really good. To this day I am more enthusiastic about playing the game than working at it. You want to have fun? Hang out with me. You want to get good? Find a different training partner.

My true talents (and lack thereof) emerge in just about any sport I try. For instance, around the time I was not mailing letters to Jerry West, I remember golfing with a friend who was a ranked junior golfer. During one backswing, I had him laughing so hard that he hit his ball about two feet . . . straight out of bounds. It’s not as if I don’t have skills, is what I’m saying. But as you can plainly see, they’re not the sort of skills that help you (or your playing partner) shoot a better score.

However—and this is key—there was one critical time in my life when my athletic inclinations aligned with my actual skills in a beautiful way:

I was in graduate school. My friend Chris told me that they were offering free aerobics classes in the church nearby. The price was right, the time was convenient, and there was this added bonus: the teacher was a total babe. So Chris and I went to her class a couple of times a week, presumably to try to stay in shape. We weren’t the most determined aerobicizers in the Southland, to be sure, but we did keep the class laughing. They could have gotten a better workout without us, but with us making cracks from the back of the room, they definitely had more fun.

Plus, I ended up marrying the teacher. They didn’t call me Woo Woo for nothing.

PW

Avie Was Here

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20227 Comments

Dear Will:

Maybe you read recently about the vandals who scratched their names into a boulder in Big Bend National Park, defacing in the process an ancient petroglyph that had survived there for over 5,000 years. Apparently such is the irresistible urge of some to let passing strangers know “I was here”— even if their destructive doodles unquestionably leave the world worse for the rest of us.

Contrast this act with those of another hiker I sometimes see on the hills near my home. When he treks along those local trails, he carries two things: a long-armed grabber and a bag that he uses to gather and remove trash left behind by indolent neighbors. It seems like the sort of thing one might do as part of a group service project, right? But this guy comes alone, week after week, quietly doing what he can to make the world a little better.

Which kind of mark would you rather leave for those who come after you?

Every day we encounter untold opportunities to make the straightforward choice between making things a little worse or a little better for everyone else. For instance, do you leave your grocery cart in among the cars or walk the 20 feet necessary to put it away with the others? Do you speed up to close the gap in stop-and-go traffic or make room for that guy who is trying to move into your lane? Do you spend your time on social media arguing your point or spreading good cheer? None of these choices may be particularly consequential in the grand scheme of things, but the accumulation of such choices by millions of people stretched across the weeks and years does have an impact—for better or worse—on the world in which we live.

These are the small and simple things by which great things are brought to pass. Or not.

You’ll find examples all around you. Not five minutes ago—as I was writing that previous sentence—my doorbell rang. There stood a dear friend bearing gifts: a dozen beautiful eggs from her backyard chicken coop and a bouquet of flowers for my wife Dana. Why? Just because, as it turns out. Consider how that small and simple act of kindness and generosity sent a burst of light into our home. It was both unexpected and delightful. This is not the first time that friend has appeared on our doorstep with an armful of love. This is, in fact, who she is.

I recently attended the funeral for another woman who had mastered this great art. Everywhere she went, Avie spread love and goodness. Invariably, those she encountered came away feeling better about themselves, as if each one were just about the most important person in her life. She taught her children to love others in this same way. Personally, I found that being around her always—always—made me want to be a better version of myself. One man who visited her during her final days described how, even in that fading state, she found a way to make him feel wonderful. He said that when he left her room he felt a powerful urge to go back and sit quietly in the corner—just to be in her presence and bask in the grace she still radiated.

Imagine being such a woman. Imagine a world filled with millions of people just like her. It’s a lofty, perhaps impossible standard. But I can’t help but consider how much better and brighter my tiny little part of the world would be if I could follow her inspiring example, choosing from moment to moment to find a way to make things just a little bit better for someone else.

That sort of beneficence doesn’t come naturally to me. I have to think about it, work at it, pray for it. But I do find that as I think and work and pray for the kind of effortless goodness she embodied as a sincere disciple of Jesus Christ, I can see myself becoming a little bit better, one small and simple thing at a time. And you know what? I can’t think of a better way to let passing strangers know “I was here.”

PW

Perhaps This Time, or Next Time, or Soon

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2021Leave a comment

Dear Will:

This is a story about soccer (football without hands). But note: This is not a football story.

I first heard about the Brentford Bees at a business dinner in 2003. It was the same night in which I met Monty, a master raconteur who spent the evening entertaining us with stories about his sad-sack, lower division English football team. He recounted tale after tale about how his Bees sustained long periods of incompetence with occasional flashes of pretty-goodness—just enough success to create twinges of hope in the hearts of loyal fans, followed by the inevitable, almost unthinkable pratfall that would remind everyone of the true essence of Brentford. I was not much of a soccer fan at the time, but I found the Bees’ ineptitude irresistible. That very night I decided that Brentford would be my team.

Over the next several years, Monty had to teach me about promotion and relegation, why at the end of every season we seemed to sell off our best players and start over, how it was that we played in League Two which is actually the fourth division of English Football. (You understood that right: My Bees weren’t second-rate; they were fourth-rate.) I learned that Brentford supporters even have a saying—“It’s Brentford, innit?”—a shared bit of understanding that eventually, no matter how much you love them, the Bees will break your heart.

Allow me to illustrate: In the final seconds of the final game of 2013 (against Doncaster Rovers), the Bees had a chance to win the game and the league by converting a last-minute penalty kick. Alas, the ball hit the crossbar and bounced away, and in the scramble that followed Doncaster took the ball to the other end and scored as time expired. Thus the Bees turned near-certain victory into heartbreaking defeat—precisely the sort of thing you should expect if you are going to root for Brentford.

Fast forward to 2019/20. With the help of new ownership and better coaching, the Bees had climbed all the way into the second division (known as the Championship in order to maximize confusion). A victory in either of their last two games would have meant automatic promotion to the Premier League, considered the greatest league in all of football. (By now you should know where this is going.) Of course (of course!), the Bees lost both games and the playoff that followed—their ninth playoff failure in as many tries. Then, within weeks, we sold off our two best players, because, well, it’s Brentford, innit?

Given that fire sale, the 2020/21 season promised more of the same disappointment. A shorter off-season and a condensed schedule resulted in numerous injuries, forcing Brentford to scrap their way through the season with makeshift lineups. In spite of all of that, somehow the Bees pieced together two long unbeaten streaks, even rising briefly to the top of the league table. A late-season dip left us in third place, facing yet another playoff to try to secure promotion to the Premier League. Facing a two-goal deficit in the semi-finals, the Bees mounted an unimaginable comeback, scoring the winning goal with just minutes to play. The following week, Brentford did what their unwavering fans could only have dreamed of, beating Swansea 2-0 in the playoff final to earn their first-ever place in the Premiership. Fans wept openly, not quite believing what had happened to their beloved Bees. After decades of suffering, their faith in the team had finally been rewarded.

But like I said, this is not a football story.

The way I see it, we’re not so different from the Brentford Bees, you and I. We too are full of aspirations and good intentions, but too often our execution falls short. We try (for the most part), but on too many occasions we fail to perform at our best. Carelessness, bad habits, self-destructive behavior—they all get in the way. Repeatedly. As a result, we disappoint those we care about the most. Sometimes we even break their hearts. And yet through all of this fall-shortedness, those who love us never quite give up hope. They may not always like us, but having seen us (on occasion) at our best, they know what’s possible and cling to the notion that our Best Self could become our True Self—if only. Perhaps this time, or next time, or soon, at any rate, we will put it all together, rise above our weaknesses and become who we were meant to be.

This story about football is for all of us who break promises we cannot seem to keep, no matter how hard we try. And it’s also for all of those who believe in us in spite of all the disappointment, who hang with us through failure after failure, who continue to hope against all reason that eventually we will get it right. It’s about the kind of love and commitment that does not waver even though we do. Above all, it’s a reminder that, no matter on which side of disappointment you may find yourself, you should never give up hope that someday your day will come.

PW

Photo: Getty Images