HONORED

I  want to send a sincere THANK YOU out to the BHS Alumni Association for honoring me with an Achievement Award in the arts for Four By ONE. It was a great evening at Undo's and a privilege to meet Colonel Carl Johnson. 

NEVER SAY NEVER

Certainly never thought I'd be signing copies of my own book one day.

Your overwhelming support of #FourbyONE has been such an unexpected blessing that I do not take for granted. Thank you!

- Dave

LIFE GOES ON

At the age of ten, I found myself at home plate, bat in hand, with the score tied and the bases loaded. It was our last chance to win the game. I swung…and missed. The crowd wasn’t very large, but I could hear their collective sighs clearly as my opponents celebrated. I was crushed.

With my head hung low, I returned to the dugout. On the way, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see my dad. At that moment, he seemed to be the only friend I had in the world. He smiled, looked down at me with his dark brown hair and blue eyes, and said, “I know you feel horrible, like the world is coming to an end. But it’s not. The sun will come up tomorrow, and life will go on.”

I wanted to believe him. He had always been right. Sure enough, the sun came up the following day, just as he had predicted. Life moved forward, mercifully ignoring the tragedy that occurred the day before.

At age seventeen, I stood alone in the end zone. Time seemed to stand still as the ball hit both of my hands, and then careened off, landing in the grass. Again, I felt that sturdy hand on my shoulder. I looked up to a head of gray hair. His crystal blue eyes gleamed as he said, “Remember son, life goes on. There will be other chances on other days. The sun will rise again tomorrow. It always does.”

He’d been right so many times before. Through the agony of the hours that remained that day, I hoped and prayed he would be right again. And he was. The sun came up the next day, mercifully ignoring the tragedy of the day before.

At 43, I watched in agony as my daughter missed a shot at the buzzer. Her high school team had suffered defeat, and tears streamed down her cheeks. I hugged her tight. Remembering my father’s words, I whispered, “Honey, it’s not the end of the world. Life goes on. The sun will come up again tomorrow.”

She looked up at me with her misty blue eyes as she fought to hold back her tears. I could see she wanted to believe. Standing nearby was an old, balding father, smiling with pride at his son.

The sun rose again the next day, right on schedule, mercifully ignoring the tragedy of the day before, and returning the smile to my little girl’s face.

One bright, autumn Sunday, I received a phone call. My father had died without me even having a chance at a last goodbye. I was swallowed up by grief, crushed like a lost ten year old again. And then I remembered his words: “It’s not the end of the world. Life goes on. The sun will come up again tomorrow.”

I didn’t want to believe it. I prayed he’d be wrong. How could life go on? How could the sun dare to rise?

But it did, cruelly ignoring the tragedy of the day before.

FEARLESS BY MAX LUCADO

Once again Max Lucado manages to bring the message of The Bible to life through simple real-life anecdotes. I’m a huge Max Lucado fan, having read—or reread—three of his prior books. In Fearless, Max examines the reasons so many of us live in fear, from problems with our health, families, and the economy, to the simple desire to fit-in in a fast-paced world. Then, he highlights Bible passages where God reminds us He never intended for us to live our lives in fear. Instead, our faith should serve to quell those fears.

Reading Fearless was like sitting by the fire with Max as he quietly explained, “Fear herds us into prison and slams the door.” He’s correct when he points out that our anxiety stems from a concern that we don’t matter, either to others here on earth, or to God. He goes on to say, “Fear corrodes our confidence in God’s goodness and causes us to forget what God has done.” According to Max, when fear strikes, we tend to grasp at controlling that which we believe we can control, and safety becomes our primary goal. At that point, we worship a risk-free life, and nothing great is ever accomplished in safety.

For over 200 pages, Max identifies the real-life situations that scare us the most. He also points out that today’s media brings real disaster to our living rooms, and he reminds us through statistics of the constant risk of eating the wrong foods, drinking polluted water, or living in a dangerous city. Then, with a calm, fatherly voice, he provides scriptural evidence that God does care for us, that God has not, and will not, abandon us. God calls us to “Fear Not”, to have courage, and to pray in times of crisis. Max’s message is clear: We don’t have to be afraid. We can choose faith over fear.

I must confess that as a Christian, I succumb to fear all too often. It’s no coincidence I chose to read Fearless. While I’m a work in progress, I thank Max Lucado for Fearless, and I’ll try to recall its wisdom the next time the world throws me a curve ball—which should be sometime tomorrow.

THE PLAYGROUND

Birthdays are times for reflection. I just “celebrated” my 59th. I received well-wishes from Facebook friends I haven’t seen in years, so it got me thinking about my childhood…and the playground at First Ward School.

I was fortunate to live three houses from the school grounds, the most versatile sports venue in the nation. I was also fortunate enough to live in a neighborhood full of characters I will never forget. Without air conditioning, our lives were spent entirely outside. We came in only for lunch and dinner, and in the evening when the streetlights came on.

The asphalt basketball court also served as the wiffle ball “field”. The distance to the tall chain-link fence was not nearly as daunting as the three 50-foot maple trees just inside that fence line. Catching a small plastic ball as it careens from limb to limb develops great hand-eye coordination.

In autumn, the playground became a touch football venue. The out-of-bounds markers changed depending on the number of participants. The sliding board, and various other playground apparatuses, were in-bounds. Avoiding the flagpole in your pass pattern was a must.

The side yard was great for tackle football as long as the offense always went uphill, and local rules required that no one be tackled near the sharp-edged “No Trespassing” signs in the grass. A wall jutting from the side of the school served as a one-on-one baseball complex. We bounced a rubber ball off the wall, daring our opponent to catch it. We developed rules as to what was deemed an out, a double, and a home run. Many a game ended prematurely when the ball rolled into the storm sewer on Guernsey Street.

Usually, one kid in the neighborhood had a football, and another a basketball. There was no need for two balls of the same sport. Everyone in the neighborhood was free to borrow the balls. Parents understood the rule and gave them up even if their sons weren’t home. I don’t ever remember someone losing or taking a ball belonging to someone else. The consequences of not having one were too severe—such an offense was akin to horse thievery.

We made all the rules for each sport ourselves, modified them when necessary, and resolved every conflict without resulting to violence—usually, but not always.

For years, we competed, we fought, we shared stories, and we formed bonds. We’ve all gone our separate ways now, and even though we left the playground, it never left us.

COINCIDENCE

Albert Einstein said, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining Anonymous.”

I’m not smart enough to explain his theory of relativity to you, but let me take a crack at explaining why I feel he was right about coincidence.

On a warm sunny day in late May of 1973, I pushed open a door at the end of a hallway in Bellaire High School and entered an outdoor courtyard. At the exact same time, on the opposite side of the courtyard, a door opened and a girl with long brown hair and blue eyes rushed out wearing bell-bottom jeans and a gray Ohio State t-shirt. I see the moment vividly as I write this. Fortunately, a good friend of mine was nearby to answer what is probably the most important question of my life: “Who is that girl?”

The following day, armed with her name, I asked another friend if she knew the girl who had caught my eye.

“She’s my cousin.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were introduced. A week later, we went on our first date to a class picnic.

It wasn’t love at first sight, but we spent the summer getting to know each other. We discovered we had a great deal in common. Our relationship grew stronger, and while I was thankful for the chance meeting on that May afternoon, I soon learned there was yet another coincidence to consider. This girl I had fallen for had been born on Long Island. She moved to Ohio when she was four years old. Her father was from Ohio, but he had married a New Yorker. He had convinced that New Yorker to move to Ohio to raise their family. That move occurred at least a dozen years before I could appreciate its significance.

As I’m sure you have guessed, I married that girl and have somehow managed to keep her mine through 37 years of marriage and four grown children. She is, and always has been, my love, my rock and my best friend. When I think about what would have happened in my life had these coincidences not occurred, I think about Albert Einstein’s quote and realize I was never in trouble. God was in control. He was just choosing to be anonymous.

Happy 37th Denise Liberati!  I love you now more than ever.

THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA (REVISITED)

I recently reread “The Old Man and The Sea”.  Though I am not a real Hemingway fan, I love the story of Santiago and the marlin. If I were coaching today, I think I’d make it required reading for every player, and here’s why.

Santiago is a fisherman. It’s not just what he does. It’s who he is. Though he hasn’t had any success for 84 days, and all who are around him scoff at his bad luck, he looks upon his past success to find the confidence to push forward. Doesn’t every athlete have to do the same at some point in a season?

Santiago respects his competitor. He recognizes the beauty and strength of the marlin. He measures his own success by the fact he is battling such a worthy opponent, even going so far as to call the fish his brother. Santiago struggles to hide his weakness from his opponent, and he believes that even though he is older and weaker, he is smarter. His confidence never sways. Does that sound like someone you want on your team?

When Santiago is fully engaged in the battle of his life, he recognizes that his past success no longer matters. Though he is suffering physically, he concentrates on the task at hand. He knows he is over-matched, that he has gone out too far, but he clings to the belief that, “a man can be destroyed but not defeated”. That type of mental toughness is a must for an athlete to be successful.

With no crowd to cheer him on, and no witnesses to the feat, Santiago wins the battle of his life. He is totally exhausted and in excruciating pain, but it does nothing to damper the glorious satisfaction he gains from the victory. He has proved to himself that he is worthy, and that’s all that matters. Most athletes cherish these private moments when they realize they have done something they did not think possible.

Like most victories, however, this one doesn’t last long. Though Santiago fought valiantly for several days, he returned essentially empty-handed.  Without the magnificent Marlin, he had no trophy, no food, and no money. In the end, all he had to show for his extraordinary effort was the effort itself, and that won the respect of his peers. It always does.  Physically and emotionally spent, all Santiago could do was talk about his next fishing trip.  After all, he was a fisherman.  It’s who he was.

I’d love to have Santiago on my team.

RUNNING A MARATHON?

In 1982, I was a 3rd year law student at The Ohio State University, and a friend—let’s call him Dennis—stayed with us to run the Columbus Marathon. I was 26 years old and to me running a marathon seemed just plain senseless. I remember asking my friend why he would run a race when the first person who did, died. For those of you who don’t know, a marathon is 26.2 miles, the distance from Athens, Greece to Marathon. Legend has it that a messenger ran that distance to report the outcome of a major battle. He uttered the word, “Victory”, and then he died.

To this day, Dennis reminds me how I told him after the race that I thought he looked worse than any person I had ever seen who was still alive. This coming from an experienced emergency medical technician.

On October 18, at the age of 59, I will try to complete my second marathon. Yes, I survived the first. So when did I move over to the dark side and why? Like any addiction, it starts out innocently enough. My days of playing basketball and an occasional touch football game came to an end. I managed to extend my baseball career through much of my 30’s, but it eventually came down to this: Putting one foot in front of the other is about all I can do.

I started with a few 5K’s and then wondered if I could finish a 10K. After a couple of those—and a few more years of running—I wondered if I could complete a half-marathon. I signed up for my first, promising my wife I’d never, ever try to run a full marathon.  I made that promise enthusiastically because at the time I still thought running 26.2 miles was senseless. But after a few successful half-marathons, I secretly told myself I just might run a full one, someday. That same day I realized I was 57 years old, and someday had better be soon.

Training for a marathon is time-consuming, but the reward of crossing that finish line after such a grueling race is indescribable. It’s one of those moments of private victory that only the runner can truly appreciate. So, wish me luck and say a prayer for this old guy because I’m adding it to the list of things I said I’d never do. And for all you scoffers out there, you know the rule: Never say never.