Saving an LTJG

“We will accept nothing less than full victory!” Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower

I wrote this story on the 77th anniversary of D-Day. Today, it is easy to call someone a fascist, but those heroes on the beaches at Normandy fought and beat real fascists. They were a great generation of heroes.

I served in the US Navy flying against Soviet, Chinese, and North Korean targets. I cannot say there was anything heroic about it… and I’m glad the Cold war did not get pushed to an actual shooting war making it necessary for Americans to fight again against totalitarian regimes. However, that possibility is still out there.

I spent a lot of time flying over the Northern Pacific, Western Pacific, and Indian Oceans looking for Russian submarines and non-allied surface combatants. We found plenty. Back in the early and mid-80s, it was an adventure for P-3 aircrews to fly into Mogadishu, Somalia. We stayed in a large home rented by the Navy on the outskirts of the capital. We called it the Mog (long “O” sound rhymes with rogue) House. It was very Spartan. The furniture consisted of cots and chairs. Our crew got into Mog at least four times in early 1984. We would fly into the international airport. Um… hit the pause button… calling what’s now known as Aden Adde International Airport an “international airport” 40 years ago was somewhat deceptive. I saw very few commercial aircraft on the tarmac, and our P-3 was usually the only plane taxiing from the duty runway to transient parking. Not many people around and even fewer later in the day because the airport was closed at night… there was no airport ground lighting. Why? Airport maintenance crews would install lighting for the runway environment only to have the locals sneak onto the airport grounds at night to steal the wiring connecting the lights. The locals would sell the copper wiring for much needed cash.

So, the “exotic” allure of Mogadishu began to fade fairly quickly. I truly felt sorry for the Somali people. They were ruled by warlords who controlled the populace with armed force while they hoarded goods needed for everyday existence… like food. Real fascists.

Mogadishu was not a good liberty port. No real attractions and the local markets were places for native residents to buy or barter for essentials… no deals for tourists. There were very few places to eat, so we ate our meals at one of the restaurants recommended in our littoral site briefing guide. You dared not drink the water. The locals did, but they had developed immunities to the bacteria and other unseen life swimming in a glass of water. We off loaded American beer, sodas, and a small amount of bottled water that we carried to the Mog House. Yes, we carried beer on a US Navy aircraft, but we only imbibed on the ground after our flights were finished. You really don’t think about how much pleasure a glass of cool, clean water can bring to someone who is very thirsty and all they’ve had to drink is warm beer and soda. I’m not exaggerating the perils of drinking local water in Mogadishu. One of crewmembers rinsed his face with tap water being very careful not to get any water in his mouth. Fifteen minutes later, the skin that lined his eyes became puffy and red. His eyes did not swell shut, but we worried nonetheless… there was no Navy medical support in Somalia. In fact, the only Navy support personnel deployed to Mogadishu were an aviation mechanic and another enlisted person to help refuel out P-3. We were contemplating finding our way to a local hospital as we used some of our precious bottled water to flush the area surrounding his eyes. In another fifteen minutes, the puffiness and redness started to dissipate. An hour or so later, just some residual redness remained and that went away over the course of the afternoon. This episode gave new meaning to the phrase, “Don’t drink the water.”

Typically, we would land in Mogadishu after transiting 2,000 or so miles of open ocean. We were often tasked to spend a couple of hours en route to locate and update the position of a Russian warship. The next day, we would fly in a specific block of airspace off the African coast assigned by our operations center in Diego Garcia. Our crew would search for Russian submarines under the water, Russian naval combatants on top of the water, and pirate ships. What looked like small fishing vessels might have been pirate boats, but we could not be sure. We just logged and reported their position. When that mission was over, we would fly back to Mogadishu for the night. The following day we would fly back to Diego Garcia. Our trips to Mogadishu ordinarily meant spending a couple of nights in the Mog House. The Navy didn’t invest much time or money in Mogadishu in those days as American P-3s could operate on short fields and handle routine maintenance tasks without having to park the plane in a hangar for servicing. We could operate fairly independently. If there was a need for more assets or a stronger Navy presence off the Somali coast, the US could send the USS Kitty Hawk or USS Ranger to patrol the waters from the Arabian Sea down to Madagascar.

Sometimes our missions to Somalia would include stops in Kenya or Djibouti. On one such series of flights into and out of Somalia, our plane was diverted to Djibouti to pick up a young officer, about 24 years old, who had sustained a severe injury on board a Navy ship. Djibouti surgeons had operated on his knee in a Djibouti hospital. Our assignment was to pick up the patient after surgery and transport him to Diego Garcia where he would be transferred to an Air Force cargo plane and flown to a military hospital in the Philippines. That new mission included tasking to turn south and locate a Soviet warship before heading east to Diego Garcia.

We landed in Djibouti, and an ambulance rolls out to our aircraft. I’m guessing some State Department rep or maybe someone in the military outfitted in mufti boards ahead of the young officer. The rep advised us the patient was still sedated from the knee surgery and when he regains full consciousness, we should give him some medication. The rep handed me a bottle of pills. What?! We’re expected to fly thousands of miles over open ocean with an unconscious surgery patient who should still be in a recovery room? Yes. There are no US military hospitals anywhere in the Indian Ocean, so we are now a link in the chain of events to get this young Lieutenant JG (short for Junior Grade and the Navy rank equivalent to a Marine 1st Lieutenant) to an American military hospital.

The patient is carried on a stretcher and up the ladder… actually a set of retractable stairs that allow entry and egress for aircrew and passengers. Not this time… this passenger is out cold. Oh, yes… and make sure the glass jar catching the pinkish fluid draining from the surgical wound remains lower than the young officer’s knee. Goodbye.

Although the aircraft is equipped with two fold-down bunks, they are not used during takeoffs or landings as a safety precaution. The bulkhead (wall) next to the bunks could collapse in the event of a crash. However, we had no choice but to strap the patient into a bunk and launch. I checked on the Lieutenant JG shortly after takeoff… no change in his condition. That’s good… I think. I sat down at the pilot controls (a second pilot was flying while I checked on the JG) and my flight engineer turns to me and asks, “What do we do if the JG goes into cardiac arrest?” I thought about that question… looked outside at the ocean… and replied, “Didn’t you complete an EMT course?” He answered affirmatively. I told him if that happens, he could start CPR and we would bingo to the nearest airfield with any kind of medical support. If we’re over open ocean, then we’ll press on to Diego Garcia at our maximum airspeed. I added, “You are our 9-1-1.” Fortunately, none of that happened… not even close.

Remember that “Spartan” existence in Mogadishu? Well, we actually ate better on our 10-12 hour missions staged out of Mogadishu International than if we were on the ground. Our P-3 was loaded with huge ice chests in Diego Garcia to keep foodstuffs from perishing and some cuts of meat iced down. We prepped and cooked homestyle meals on the plane.

A couple of hours into the flight out of Djibouti, our radar operator starts sauteing some onions then frying up diced potatoes while scrambling a huge batch of eggs. It was about this time the JG wakes up and looks over at our crew’s “cook.” The radar operator says, “Good morning, sir. Would you like something to eat?” The JG… groggy and queasy… just shook his head. Our guy then held up a cold can of beer… “Maybe something to drink?” The JG just closed his eyes. I’d like to think he must have been asking himself… “Why didn’t I go into aviation? These guys have home cooked chow and beer.”

We didn’t find that “missing” Soviet ship. It could have been anywhere in a 50,000+ square mile area of open ocean. I didn’t want to spend one more minute than necessary looking for a ship with little strategic value on this particular day. I wanted to get to that Air Force transport flight waiting in Diego Garcia.

I was a Lieutenant without any command experience. However, if I had been tasked with that same mission later in my career… deliver a surgery patient after looking for an inconsequential surface target… I would have changed my orders and flown straight to Diego Garcia. Of course, I would not have done so without advising the operations center of the change in my flight plan. I’d let someone else try to cancel my flight plan and then only after receiving authority to cancel from my commanding officer. I know that sounds like tough talk decades later, but Navy officers are trained to make decisions and adapt to emerging conditions. In my view, the primary mission should have been to get that JG on a plane bound for a hospital. Nothing else mattered.

The flight was uneventful. No cardiac arrest. The JG was fully awake but the pain meds from surgery were wearing off. As I recall, the pills we received from the rep in Djibouti were most likely antibiotics. I landed and taxied off the duty runway then halted the aircraft. An ambulance was waiting for us on a nearby taxiway, and it started rolling toward us as soon as we were stopped. The JG was carried from the airplane, loaded into the ambulance, and spirited away in the direction of the Air Force plane (maybe a C-141). When we were cleared, I continued taxiing to our parking spot. By the time I shut down all four engines, the Air Force transport was starting its takeoff roll. Gosh, was that JG some senator’s son? It looked like either extra special treatment for a JG or maybe one of Air Force pilots had a date waiting for him in Manila. I guess things worked out for the JG… I never heard otherwise. No, it wasn’t “Saving Private Ryan,” but I’m glad our crew was able to help another service member in a time of need. I think Ike’s concept of “full victory” is made up of a lot of little victories along the way. On this day, my little victory was helping to get a very junior officer to a place that would allow him to start healing. That’s a victory in anyone’s book.

I Corinthians 15:55

“O death, where is thy sting?” I Corinthians 15:55 (KJV)

In the spring of 2021, I visited with a neighbor to ruminate on the past year. Of course, life in the COVID era dominated our conversation. However, it was odd… neither of us knew anyone who had died as a result of the pandemic. I mentioned my great grandfather (on my dad’s side) who died during the Spanish Flu pandemic about 100 years earlier. It was also odd that neither of us had any real close acquaintances who had become ill with COVID. Shortly after I returned home, I thought about someone who had died earlier that year. He was a former student of mine and only 27 years old. Maybe that is death’s sting… such a young man dying way too early.

I coached Justin Shamlou in football and served as his US History teacher during his junior year in high school. Justin was demonstrative on the football field and animated in the classroom. As a kid, he just wanted to fit in… and he did. It was hard not to like him. Justin was on the JV football team when I first met him at the beginning of the 2008 football season. The older players on the varsity squad took him under their collective wing. He benefited from their nurturing… it gave him the confidence he needed to succeed on the football field when he was an upperclassman. The older players nicknamed him, “Shamu.” He wore that sobriquet like a badge of honor.

Justin returned the favor when he moved up to the varsity team. He actively mentored players that were following in his footsteps. As a coach, you can break down techniques and assignments but having an encouraging player like Justin willingly step up to demo what to do on a specific play was tremendously valuable. He was part of a continuum, and the players that Justin helped learn the ropes repaid the favor. They would find themselves helping younger players when it was their turn to assume a team leadership role.

Justin was a bit of an anomaly at a school known for high academic expectations especially in its math and science curricula. He was not interested in trying to grab the brass ring for admission to schools like MIT, Cal Tech or other top engineering programs. He just wanted to go to a college where he would fit in.

He did OK in my US History class. I noted that he enthusiastically participated in group discussions. Like I said… he was animated in the classroom. I also noted that he would sometimes rush his work and not fully develop his thoughts before setting pen to paper. The good news was that Justin continued to enthusiastically express himself during his short life, and he learned how to effectively communicate his thoughts in writing. Not too long before he passed, he had been hired as a senior staff writer for “Daily Grit.” It was an online news website which covered a wide array of topics. Things like entertainment, technology, current events, and social causes. Justin’s editor remarked that Justin was eager and talented. He was making his way as a writer well before the advent of AI. Justin put a lot of care into his articles to make sure they were accurate and that those articles would bring something meaningful to a reader.

As I look back on Justin’s short walk on Earth (4/21/93 – 2/15/21), I see the kind of person we need in our lives. Yes, the verse from I Corinthians tells us we will triumph over death, and in the end, death really has no sting. Yet, when someone like Justin suffers a seizure and is wrested from our world… it does sting. Maybe Justin’s legacy is not one that says we should be enthusiastic and caring in life. Maybe his legacy is a reminder that we should not just embrace life with enthusiasm and caring but rather selflessly make it our life’s purpose to invest enthusiasm and caring into the lives of others.

To say I was shocked to hear the news about Justin’s passing is an understatement. I wrote on his tribute wall after he died:

Justin… His passing is beyond sad. I was Justin’s US History teacher and one of his football coaches from JV and on to varsity. When you spend time with a young athlete over their sports career, you get a chance to see a kid on his way to becoming a man… but even as he grew… sometimes succeeding and other times falling short… there was always a great kid inside Justin. He was energetic, emotional and he possessed a good heart.

Many times during practice… Justin would ask me a question or ask my opinion about something unrelated to football. I’d try to look stern and tell him to stay focused. Then, I’d circle back in a few minutes and give him my answer. That smile we all know would break out with a “Thanks, coach.” He just had the capacity to be more than the task in front of him, but make no mistake… when the game was on… Justin was on. He was all business until the final whistle… then he was a kid, again.

Sometimes you feel…

like you’re in a movie.

I coached softball during my time teaching high school history. It was very rewarding. I think girls are easier to coach than boys for this reason… they listen, then they try to follow the coach’s instructions… in practice sessions and in games. My own daughter, when she was a teenager, would listen, then do things her own way. I think I know why. I was her dad not her coach. Go figure. I saw girls on our softball team use the things they learned in practice sessions so they could succeed in games. Maybe they didn’t realize it, but they were setting goals for themselves and putting together an action plan to achieve those goals. They learned there is truth to the adage… you play the way your practice.

Our star pitcher was a quiet, yet confident athlete named Alison. She was left handed but pitched with her right hand. That’s how she learned when she was younger. Her primary pitching coach was right handed, and it was easier for him to teach her how to pitch as a righty. It worked out… she was a great pitcher. I’m guessing it’s partially because the pitching technique she learned very early was not her natural throwing motion. After literally thousands and thousands of pitches, she mastered the technique of pitching with her right hand. That was good for us.

Alison could pitch with her right arm but her regular overhand throwing motion with her right arm did not look natural. You can try an experiment that will demonstrate why her pitching motion looked a lot like someone whipping or slinging the ball instead of throwing a conventional looking pitch. Pick up a ball with your dominant hand. Wind up any way you like and pitch the ball as fast as you can at a target. Now, switch hands and try to duplicate the pitching motion used when pitching with your dominant hand. The second pitch will not be as fast or accurate. Ali had trained herself to pitch with her non-dominant hand, and she was astonishing on the mound. However, her throwing motion with her non-dominant or right hand while fielding a ground ball was not always accurate particularly if she rushed her throw. In games, whenever she fielded a ball hit straight back to the mound, a chorus of “Slow Down!” would rise from the coaches in our dugout. That seemed to improve her accuracy when she threw the ball to first base.

During an away game, Ali fielded a bunt. She rushed to the ball, picked it up cleanly, and popped up ready to throw to first base. Here comes that whip! Her teammate playing first base saw Ali’s arm cock back. The teammate’s eyes widened… she knew what was coming… an extremely fast and possibly wild throw. What did she do? She ducked sideways as Ali released a hurried throw. The ball struck another fielder moving to back up the play at first base squarely between the eyes and above the bridge of the fielder’s nose. That had to hurt… a lot. Play stopped by both teams even before the ump called for time out. That’s the way it is sometimes in softball. The girls care more about each other than the score. Fortunately, she was OK… stunned and a little teary but OK. She implored us not to call her mother. Mom was not a fan of her daughter playing a sport that could lead to injury. We called her dad. No one was more upset about the direct hit than Alison. The injured player took a week off. She was more embarrassed walking around campus with two black eyes than failing to catch Ali’s throw.

In the fall of the next school year, during the off season for softball, the school held a carnival-themed fundraiser. All kinds of fun stuff for students, especially the younger kids. The fun stuff included games of chance and games of skill.

One of the most popular attractions was the dunk tank. It featured a teacher or other school staff member known to students sitting on a platform above a large, clear Plexiglas tank of water. The student would trade script for a chance to throw a softball at a metal disk on the side of the tank. Striking the disk would set off a series of levers causing the platform to collapse and deposit the teacher or staff member sitting on the platform into the chilly water. Watching a teacher flail about in the clear water tank was always a crowd pleaser.

I was working at the football-toss booth near the dunk tank when I noticed Alison just meandering through the carnival and enjoying the fun all around. She eyed the dunk tank. The varsity football head coach, Karriem, was on the platform. He was a bigger than life presence on campus. Our school was K-12 and Karriem taught PE to the younger kids during the school day. However, in the afternoons, he coached football and wrestling at our high school. The kids loved Karriem. He mentored students as they progressed from elementary school to young adulthood. Today, he was calling out high school kids he had known for years and daring them to try and dunk him. Lots of kids tried, but Karriem remained high and dry on the platform. He continued to challenge kids when he spotted Alison and he turned his attention to her.

I paused to watch what happened next. Alison picked up a softball and looked at the disk while trying to clear her thoughts as Karriem, in good fun, teased her. The target, a little smaller than a catcher’s glove, was about 30 feet away. She launched the softball at the disk with her regular overhand throwing motion. The ball missed the mark by a good 18 inches. Karriem’s banter seemed to work… another miss. Kids trying to dunk him were distracted by Karriem’s prattling from the platform. Alison turned to walk away.

I called out, “Ali! One more time. Give him one of these!” as I imitated her underhand pitching motion. Karriem heard me and he kicked into overdrive telling everyone within earshot that Alison will never… never… come close to dunking him.

Alison picked up another softball and walked over to the cone marking the distance between the tank and where she had to queue up to throw at the disk. She nudged the cone a little sideways so it would not impede her footwork during the second throw. It was reminiscent of her toeing the dirt on the mound just before rocketing a pitch toward home plate. I had seen that determined look on her face many times. She leaned in. Her eyes narrowed as she focused mind and body on the disk. Ali was back somewhere she had been before… maybe on the mound with a one run lead and two outs in the bottom frame while facing a batter with two strikes. The next pitch would decide the outcome of the game playing in her head.

Alison goes into her windup and fires a laser at the disk which is suspended over an imaginary home plate in her mind’s eye. Smack! The ball struck the disk dead center, the platform collapsed, and Karriem went into the water. He pops up spitting water and calls out, “You couldn’t do it again!” Ali walked away with smile that said, “Yeah, I could. I could do this all day.”

It was like being in a movie.

God, if you get me out of this…

“God, if you get me out of this…”

In 2015, I rode my Suzuki V-Strom 1000 cross country on US Highway 6. It is mostly a two-lane highway that stretches across Western open deserts to Midwest farmland through cities, big and small, before closing out in green, hilly countryside on the East Coast. Back in the day, Hwy 6 was used by travelers driving from Long Beach, California to Provincetown, Massachusetts on Cape Cod… 3,652 miles. The route was shortened in 1964. Today, it runs from Bishop, California to its Cape Cod terminus.

I’m an old school type of guy… just give me a map and some directions… I’m good. Well, not this time. US Highway 6 is marked with a collection of confusing signage. It might be designated US Hwy 6, Historic Hwy 6, Business US 6 or Old Trail 6 as well as a couple of other locally named variations on the Hwy 6 theme. Without GPS and a map function on my smartphone, I might still be wandering around somewhere between the Sierra Nevada range and the Berkshire Mountains in Massachusetts. At least three times (maybe four) I would roll into a small town and say to myself, “Hey, this isn’t on Hwy 6!” Sure enough, I would check my bearings and discover I had missed a turn somewhere between 10 and 20 miles behind me. The detours were annoying but not too time consuming. Those course corrections became part of my larger adventure.

I planned my trip to skirt the lower portion of the Chicago area before stopping in Indiana for the night. It was dusk and just starting to get dark when I pulled into a gas station on the edge of Westville, Indiana. I didn’t need any gas… it was only about 16 miles to my destination in La Porte, Indiana via Kingsbury. However, I noticed a few raindrops on my windscreen, so I stopped under the pump island awning to pull on my rain gear. It’s always better to don some rain gear and not need it than the alternative. I was banking on the theory that if I stopped and took the time to slip on rain pants and a jacket that I wouldn’t need any protection against the weather.

I was wrong.

June had been a very busy thunderstorm season for this part of northern Indiana, but it was now July and the weather was milder. By the time I got back on the road, it was raining… steady. That’s OK. I have ridden in rain before. If you have quality rain gear, you’ll stay dry except maybe a couple of places where a small amount of water might sneak in. I was not worried. I had taken the precaution of gearing up for some precipitation.

I would ride to Kingsbury, Indiana, then north about 5 miles to La Porte, Indiana where I would check into a hotel for the night. The total distance from Westville to La Porte was well under 20 miles. Even with the rain, it shouldn’t take too long to get to some dry sheets and a cold brew or two. I was wrong again. After only a mile or two, it got dark… real dark… the depths of hell dark. I looked in my rear view mirror and the lights from Westville had disappeared. I was swallowed up and completely enveloped by the blackness. Now, the rain came… real hard. Actually, the rain was coming at me nearly horizontally from my left to my right. I was not being pelted by thousands of raindrops… instead, the rain was gushing sideways like a geyser.

The rain deluge and darkness got my attention, but I was more worried about the accelerating, ferocious winds. So much for quality rain gear… with the gushing rain torrents and near gale force winds, I was getting soaked. I had to heel my 500-pound motorcycle into the wind to keep from being pushed off the road or worse, being pushed over onto my right side. Every 10 seconds or so, I would lean hard against a gust only to feel the wind abruptly drop off. That would force me to correct back to my right while anticipating the next blast of wind from my left. The new blast would force me to heel once more to my left.

This was insane! What was I doing? I said silently to myself, “God, if you get me out of this…” I didn’t finish that prayer as the entire sky and landscape were instantly illuminated in a blinding, super bright, and ghostly electric whiteness. Then, seconds later, the loudest cannonade of thunder I have ever heard rolled across the sky above pushing down on me. Just as suddenly… the flash-bang was gone.

I thought the rain and the darkness and the wind were my only concerns, but the very real possibility of being struck by lightning flashed through my brain. The only metal object on this roadway was my motorcycle. The sky lit up again followed by booming thunder. This time, I tried to make out my surroundings when the countryside was momentarily and eerily visible. Nothing… just the road, some trees, and a farmer’s fields.

I was so startled by the lightning and thunder that I stopped focusing on the rain which had continued unabated. Between the bolts of light and explosions in the night air, I could only see a short distance in front of me. My headlight was a thin and all too short finger of yellowish light that seemed to extend only 20-25 feet in front of me. I could see nothing outside the beam. I looked straight down but the ground water obscured the roadway. I could see a wake trailing my front tire. Without any visual reference to anything but the water, it looked like a motorboat’s wake plowing through rough and unsettled waters.

I slowed down… a lot. Even so, I thought if I hit an unseen pothole or drove across some railroad tracks hidden by the water, I’m going down. There were no other vehicles on the road. That’s not a good sign… that meant the locals were staying inside as long as a powerful thunderstorm was directly overhead. Fortunately, I could still see the fog line on the right hand edge of my lane even though it was submerged in water. That gave me the confidence to push on. I gambled on the prospect that moving toward Kingsbury was better than stopping in the middle of this storm.

Then, I started to second guess myself. Maybe I will see a porchlight or some kind of shelter next to the road when the sky lights up again. I was looking for anything that might have a roof. There was more lightning and thunder, but no place to stop.

I made a wrong turn at an intersection and pressed on into the darkness. Something told me to go back to the intersection. I’m convinced God heard me ask for help to get out of this predicament. I turned back into the teeth of the storm, and when I got back to the intersection, I saw a sign pointing to Kingsbury. I was back on track.

It took a little more than an hour to drive about 16 or so miles through that storm to La Porte. Was I scared? Absolutely. The thunder cells were clearing and moving east by the time I got to La Porte. I stopped a local taxi driver to ask for directions. He calmly described how to get to my hotel, but he kept looking at me as if I were crazy. I guess I might be a little crazy and thankful. God did get me out of the storm. I’ll never walk on water, however, that night, I rode on water. Maybe God was saying he will guide me through personal storms, too… all I have to do is ask.

It is what it is, and…

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Sigmund Freud

As a police officer, you have to make judgments and assessments about people with only what you have in front of you. To be fair, whenever someone is contacted by a police officer, that person will make judgments about the officer based on what they have in front them.

My last assignment in law enforcement was riding a motorcycle in our traffic unit. What a great job! In most of the Bay Area, you can ride a motorcycle comfortably eleven months a year… maybe more during a drought season. I rode and I issued lots of citations,

I took my job in traffic enforcement seriously and I made sure that I took extra time preparing the tools of my trade. Are citations a source of revenue for cities? Yes. Do citations change traffic patterns and make streets safer? Most emphatically… yes.

I attended the radar instructor school operated by the state. You know the old joke about how someone says their hands are registered as deadly weapons? Well, that’s not true… there is no such registry. However, when I completed the radar instructor’s course, I was authorized to make visual estimates of a vehicle’s speed, and my estimate… without the corroboration of any speed measuring equipment like radar or lidar… was admissible in court. So, I guess I could say my eyeballs were “registered” as an independent way of validating a vehicle’s speed. I kept that ace card close to my tactical vest but never used it in court.

Every day, before leaving the station on my motorcycle… a BMW 1150RT… I would thoroughly check my radar equipment. I would test the internal circuitry, and I would use a tuning fork to verify the radar device’s lab calibration. Finally, I would conduct a field test in the police department back lot. I completed this routine, without fail, every time I intended to use a radar device that particular day. I wanted to be 100% certain the device I used to assist me in issuing citations was working properly. I felt I owed that to any motorist I stopped for speeding. There was one more precaution… I locked the radar device assigned to me in my locker at the end of my shift. That meant I was the only officer who had access to that particular radar device. No one else on the traffic enforcement team used it. I wanted to be able to say with total certainty in court that the device was in perfect working order and had not been damaged.

Back to the business of traffic enforcement… writing tickets is a “grievance breeder.” Motorists sometimes feel that it is their word against the officer’s word, and that if they complain to the officer’s supervisor, their citation will get tossed. That ploy did not work at our agency, but people tried. I made it my practice to never stop anyone for speeding unless I was absolutely positive a violation had occurred and the equipment I was using was working properly. My precautions paid off in court and other officers began copying the techniques explained by me during my testimony at traffic trials. Defense attorneys would take notes on my methodology and use that information at other traffic trials when questioning officers about their traffic stops. Even a couple of traffic judges pulled me aside to ask about the mechanics involved in making traffic stops.

My tour riding a police motorcycle started and ended before cops wearing body cameras became fashionable. Oh, how I wish I had a record of motorists swearing at me, calling me names, and just being generally surly when I approached them during a traffic stop. Which leads me to describe how I conducted my stops. I had a script, and I delivered it each and every time I made a stop. I would give the motorist my name, tell them why they had been stopped, then I would ask for their driver’s license, vehicle registration and proof of insurance. Once I had the documents, before walking back to my Beamer, I would advise the motorist that I would be issuing a citation for the offense. Every time… not some of the time or most of the time… every time.

Who gets stopped? Drivers who are operating their vehicles unsafely or in violation of a Vehicle Code section, e.g., failing to stop at a stop sign. A traffic enforcement officer may notice that a vehicle is being maneuvered in a manner that does not conform to the rules of the road… that officer may stop such a vehicle. While working radar, an officer typically does not know who is driving a particular vehicle. However, there are times when an officer can see who is driving. There were some officers in our department who did not stop black drivers. They freely admitted they did not want to be accused of stopping someone due to the driver’s race and deal with a complaint that the traffic stop was racially motivated. I understand not wanting to be falsely accused of racism… no one wants to be placed in that position. However, if folks who belong to one specific race get a pass because of their race… how is that fair to drivers with other skin colors?

Then, it happened to me.

While working radar on a stretch of state highway, I stopped a black motorist for speeding. The posted limit on this roadway was 35 mph, but I made it my practice to stop vehicles traveling 50 mph or faster. I approached the driver and delivered my script. The driver gave me the requested documents and said, “I know the real reason you stopped me… because I’m black.” I was taken aback. How am I going to convince this driver that race is not the reason he was stopped?

I asked him to step out of the vehicle. Immediately, he became tense and responded that he would rather remain seated in his car. Opps… I realized he thought only bad things can happen if he gets out of his vehicle. I also recognized his past experience with any white cops had probably been negative. I goofed. I took a breath before explaining I simply wanted to show him how the radar equipment worked. His expression changed from one of concern to curiosity. He said, “OK.”

I demonstrated how the radar device captures the speed of an approaching vehicle. I asked him if he would visually estimate the speed of a vehicle traveling down the highway and coming in our direction. He agreed to try. I asked him how fast he thought the red car coming at us was moving. He said, “46.” I locked the vehicle’s speed at 47 mph on my radar device. I asked him if he could see the race and sex of the driver in the red car. He leaned forward and squinted… he could not answer those questions until the vehicle had nearly reached where we were standing on the side of the road. That’s when I turned to him and said, “Sir, I stopped your vehicle because you were speeding. I could not tell who was driving the vehicle.” Nothing else was said as we walked back to his vehicle. I issued a citation.

This was the first time I had encountered this type of situation, but it wasn’t the last. It happened a couple of other times with the same outcome. I treated everyone the same on traffic stops regardless of race, gender or any other characteristics. I wrote thousands of citations… more than anyone else on our team during my time riding a police motorcycle. I also gave more warnings. During my three year assignment to traffic enforcement: zero complaints filed.

Sometimes a car stop is just a car stop.

First, forgive yourself…

Forgive yourself and others can forgive you, too

Nearly 30 years ago, as a police officer, I had multiple contacts with an incorrigible youth who was about 15 or 16 years old. We’ll just call him “Rory Richards.” Rory was man-sized. He was at least 6’2” and weighed about 230 pounds… a big kid. Rory was also a lot of trouble for his mother, school officials, and the local police. He was into drug use, vandalism, and theft… that’s more than garden variety incorrigibleness.

I remember watching an old Pat Boone movie titled, “April Love,” late one night. Pat’s character, Nick Conover, was a youth who made mistakes and got into trouble with the law for joyriding. Something Rory would have done if he got the chance. At the end of the movie, the sheriff prepares to arrest “Nick” for driving without a license and send him back to jail. However, Nick’s friends vouched for him, and the sheriff released him. That was a close call for Nick. He was looking at jail time for driving without a license. Today’s world is a lot different. Kids have to do something pretty bad to get booked into juvenile hall.

Rory was the kind of teenager who needed to get booked into the hall.

There were lots of cops regularly dispatched to Rory’s home. He had a couple of teen brothers, and the entire family was uncooperative on most occasions and combative on other occasions. There was no father in the home. Police dispatchers would always send an extra officer to Richards’ residence when a 9-1-1 call involving Rory and his brothers came to the police department.

I was dispatched to Rory’s home nearly 30 years ago to pick him up and transport him to juvenile hall on the orders of his probation officer. Rory didn’t want to go. He resisted getting into the back of my patrol vehicle, but my cover officer surprised Rory by bending him at the waist and “guiding” Rory into the back seat. No more drama.

I heard later that Rory was involved in a serious fight on a local community college campus. He was not a student at the college. Did I mention that Rory was incorrigible? That’s when I kinda lost track of him.

Oh, maybe five or six years ago, I met another retired cop for lunch. He asked if I had heard anything about Rory since the days when local cops, including myself, would take Rory into custody. No. Well, it turns out that Rory is now working in the City’s public works department. You don’t say! I guess wonders will never cease.

As luck would have it, I was driving through town a year or so after that lunch meeting and I noticed a city crew repairing sections of a sidewalk next to a busy thoroughfare. I looked over to see a particularly tall crewmember pushing a wheelbarrow full of cement mix. Could it be? I drove a block past the work site, parked, and hurried back to where the crew was working.

I stopped next to some freshly poured concrete. Yes, it was Rory. I called his name, and he looked up. I pulled my pandemic mask off and said my name. Rory remembered and smiled. I told him that I had heard he was working for the City after turning his life around. Rory, now a lot more articulate than the surly teenager who almost always seemed to be in trouble, nodded affirmatively before unashamedly telling me how his life had changed.

Football was a big part of his transformation. He played football at our local high school and that made all the difference. He qualified for an athletic scholarship and finished college at a west coast state university. Rory was the first person in his family to earn a college degree. He met the woman of his dreams almost 25 years ago, and he started working for the city as an entry-level maintenance crewmember. Rory is now father to four children, and he is buying a home in the East Bay.

I just kept telling Rory how proud I was of him. I had seen too many young people unable to escape their circumstances or worse… continue down a destructive path. I was just elated; I’m sure Rory could tell how happy I was to hear his story.

I caught him up with what I had been doing since retiring from the police department. I mentioned offhandedly that I helped the head football coach at a high school in a nearby town by attending the varsity games and preparing stat reports and press releases for the school. Rory’s eyes lit up. It’s a small world. The coach at that nearby high school was Rory’s first high school football coach decades earlier. Rory’s coach and I were buddies. Here’s what happened so many years ago… the coach approached Rory at school one day… remember, Rory was a big kid… and recruited Rory to play defensive line. Rory said he couldn’t play because he was on probation. The coach went to bat for Rory and contacted Rory’s probation officer to make a deal. The coach agreed to take responsibility for Rory on game days. He would supervise Rory on Friday nights then drive Rory to juvenile hall after the game so Rory could spend the rest of the weekend in detention. The arrangement worked.

Soon, as a young adult, Rory found himself out of school and off probation with no prospects. College? No… he had missed too many classes during his four years in high school to qualify for college admission. He was OK with getting a job and moving on with his life. Football to the rescue again. Rory met the coach of the local community college football team. The coach told Rory that he was going to start playing football… now. If Rory didn’t start playing right away, he would never get another chance to be part of football team again. Rory played and he was wildly successful. He earned all-state honors as a defensive lineman which led to a scholarship offer at an out-of-state public university.

Rory has told his story many times; he is justifiably proud of what he has accomplished. He was headed down the wrong path, but he started to grow up, take stock of where he was going in life, and start making some changes. It worked out.

I told Rory again how proud I was of the things he had done in the face of great adversity. It was not easy and it took years to finally get on the narrow path. It made me feel good inside to see someone most likely destined to become a statistic turn toward living a good life. We shook hands, and I told him that if I see him around town and he can break free for a few minutes, I’d love to buy him a cup of coffee. We said good-bye.

I emailed Rory’s high school football coach and shared the details of my chance encounter with Rory. I ended the message with an “atta boy” for the coach. He believed in Rory. It just goes to show you what an impact a teacher, coach or caring adult can have on a young person’s life.

Johnny Chung rides again!

Johnny Chung Rides Again!

One of my favorite sports stories is the football hoax created by a couple of New York stockbrokers almost 85 years ago. They invented a fictional college football team that played in a fictional league comprised of made-up teams. The Plainfield Teachers College Comets were led by a hard running, slashing halfback named Johnny Chung. The stockbrokers reported bogus game scores that were dutifully published by New York newspapers. The Comets were unbeaten and untied late in the season when the hoax was discovered. Then, the story got smothered by other events in the news. About three weeks after the hoax was exposed… the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

The faux success of the Plainfield Teachers College Comets and Johnny Chung was fun while it lasted. The stockbrokers paid for a separate phone line that supposedly rang at the desk of the college’s sports information director, Jerry Croyden. During my first year teaching US History at a private high school, I had a chance to resurrect Jerry Croyden.

I was hired, along with a half dozen other educators, to teach during the 2007-2008 academic year. The other new teacher hired to teach in the history department was a recent Princeton grad named Heather Jackson. She was adored by her students. Unfortunately for her students, Heather only taught for two years. Fortunately for Heather, she left teaching to begin pursuit of her dream to become a professional athlete. Not many folks would abandon a secure and stable job to start a new career with a lot of unknowns, but Heather did. She moved from the Bay Area to San Diego to train for triathlons, and in a relatively short period of time, Heather began moving up the ranks of international triathletes.

Another popular teacher was hired that same year… Andrew Irvine. Like Heather, Andrew was in his twenties, and the youthful exuberance he brought to his chemistry classes endeared him to his students.

In the second semester of my first year teaching US History, I signed on to coach offensive and defensive line for the varsity football team beginning in the fall of 2008. Andrew was also bitten by the coaching bug. In the spring of 2008, he signed on as an assistant coach for the school’s newly formed girls lacrosse team. He didn’t have any real experience coaching or playing lacrosse, but he was willing to learn.

Heather, Andrew, and I became fast friends. The school made intense academic demands of its students and intense demands of its faculty… but you can always find a way to have some fun.

Enter Jerry Croyden…

I created an email account for my new nom de plume… Jerry Croyden. Once again, Jerry was “working” as the Plainfield Teachers College sports information director. “Jerry” emailed Andrew and asked him if he would be agreeable to meeting with two graduate assistants who were researching start-up sports teams on the secondary school level. The assistants were Hannah Jensen… code for Heather Jackson… and Raoul Flores… code for Ray Fowler. Andrew, ever the accommodating soul, said he would be glad to help.

Then, Andrew became a little worried. He asked “Jerry” if Andrew’s school’s athletic director had referred the Plainfield Teachers College to him, but Jerry did not respond. Andrew sought advice from his school’s AD (Athletic Director). The school’s AD said it would be OK to help the grad assistants during their visit to the West Coast in a few weeks… if Andrew could verify their credentials. The lacrosse head coach said the grad assistants could observe team practices as long as the visitors’ research project did not take too much time away from Andrew’s coaching duties. Neither the AD nor the head lacrosse coach was part of the prank. Andrew was becoming worried because all he had from Jerry and Plainfield Teachers College were a couple of vague emails.

This is where the plot thickens…

At private schools, the person performing the duties most people associate with a school principal is often designated as “Head of School.” You know… like Albus Dumbledore. I contacted our Head of School… who was coincidentally a successful high school basketball coach… and asked him if he would like to be part of the prank. His eyes lit up and sly smile appeared… he was all in. So, we set up a bogus campus visit by a couple of bogus grad assistants.

Jerry sent Andrew an email to advise him that Hannah and Raoul planned to interview him using a questionnaire they had developed for coaches of start-up high school sports teams. Jerry’s email continued by saying Hannah and Raoul planned to present Andrew with some complimentary Plainfield Teachers School athletic gear to thank him for helping with the project. The email closed by saying Hannah and Raoul were en route to meet Andrew. At this point, Andrew was becoming very nervous as he had not been able to verify the grad assistants’ credentials. Things were spinning out of control for Andrew. This is where the Head of School… Andrew’s boss… stepped up like a trooper. He called Andrew to his office after Hannah and Raoul had allegedly checked in with the Head of School at the school’s main office.

Anndrew rushed over to the Head of School’s office. Upon arriving, he tried to explain that he had not been able to verify Hannah and Raoul’s credentials largely because Jerry Croyden had not answered Andrew’s emails. The Head of School sternly instructed Andrew to locate the visitors and complete the questionnaire developed by the Plainfield Teachers College researchers. He read a sampling of the questions to Andrew. They included queries like… would a lacrosse stick with baskets on both ends increase team scoring? Do molded cleats perform better on artificial turf than cleats attached individually to the soles of field sports footwear? The questions became increasingly obscure. What was going on? The Head of School set aside the questionnaire and reached into a bag next to his desk. He pulled out a Plainfield Teachers College sweatshirt and tossed it to Andrew who had just realized he had been pranked. There is no Plainfield Teachers College or Jerry Croyden or Johnny Chung.

For years, Andrew kept that sweatshirt in a drawer in his classroom, and every once in a while, he would show it to his students and tell the story. Andrew is still teaching chemistry with that same “youthful exuberance” seventeen years after two Plainfield Teachers College grad assistants stopped by to interview him. Andrew promised he would get even with Heather and me one day. He never did. I’m guessing there’s a chance that sweatshirt may still be in Andrew’s classroom.

Me and Al Bundy

“I played high school football.” – Al Bundy

Here is another high school football story. I was really fortunate in my high school football days… I played all four years and never played on a team with a losing season. Statistically, it was likely that I would. It’s not always easy to find a lot of data or numbers for losing high school football programs because the focus is on championships and the “winningest” teams in prep history. Even with the advent of MaxPreps and the ease of reporting, head coaches are not apt to publish negative results. I did a quick and admittedly unscientific study looking at how high school teams fared over the course of a typical football season. It seems like year in and year out, 40 to 50% of teams post a sub .500 W-L record. So, unless a kid plays on a perennial superpower, the odds of playing on a team with a losing record at least once in four years seems likely. I did not. Like I said… I was really fortunate.

That brings me to a special game in my senior year at Glendora High School. A game played almost 55 years ago. Unlike Al Bundy, I was not the star of the team. I didn’t score the winning touchdown in any game. I was usually slogging it out in the trenches. However, our 1970 game against the La Puente Warriors stands out in my mind for other reasons.

Football coaches at all levels will tell you that they do not have a crystal ball, but they do. In their minds, they see the outcome of a game before it is actually played including the likely score. They just don’t advertise… very often… those predictions. Why? Too many times such predictions are way off.

My alma mater, Glendora High School, played in a very tough league. In my senior year, it was a toss-up between the Glendora Tartans, West Covina, and La Puente for the Sierra League championship. Although our league was in the second tier “3A” CIF Southern Section, we played as tough as some very good 4A schools. In fact, in a tri-scrimmage before the 1970 season, we spanked two 4A stalwarts. There was a team in our league, Los Altos High School in Hacienda Heights, California, which did not win a league game during the school’s first three years competing in the Sierra League. After I graduated, the CIF Southern Section realigned its divisions. Los Altos and some other Sierra League teams moved up to 4A status. A year later, Los Altos won the 4A championship. They went from doormat to dominance. Los Altos repeated as 4A champs in 1973. It was clear that the Sierra League played a good brand of high school football during the late 1960s and into the 1970s.

Back to the La Puente game… in his pregame pep talk, our head coach, Ralph Chalifoux, told us that we would not lose to La Puente. He said it with conviction. Coach Chalifoux was an intense man who lived for football. He was a cross between Bill Belichick’s tenacity and Bobby Knight’s “demonstrativeness.” Back in the day, a lot of high school football players imbued their head coaches with God-like qualities. If Coach Chalifoux said we would not lose to La Puente, then that’s the way it was going to be. Every coach in America wants to send players onto the field thinking they can win, but that night, Coach Chalifoux went a step further… out came the crystal ball.

Coach said both teams would score two touchdowns, but we would not lose. He explained that we were a running team, and we can move the ball with consistency. Our opponent, La Puente, passed the ball a lot more than we did. The difference between running the ball and passing would determine the outcome of the game. Then came the most prescient part of his pep talk. Coach repeated that we were a running team and that La Puente had a better kicking game. However, no team can stop us from making a two-point running conversion twice in a row. That meant we would score at least 14 points. If La Puente scored twice and kicked two PATs, the game would end in 14-14 tie. That was back when games could end with a tie score. Here was our coach’s prediction… both teams would score two touchdowns, but Glendora would not lose.

It kinda happened that way… while Glendora never trailed on the scoreboard, the early part of the game pitted two evenly matched teams slugging it out near the midfield stripe. In the second quarter, with the score knotted at 0-0, we drove 70 yards mostly on the legs of our star halfback, Dave Lecocq. He plunged over the right side of the line… that was my side… for a 1-yard touchdown run. You know we’re going for two points. Glendora quarterback Todd Gordinier rolled to his right… he can sprint across the goal line or toss the ball. He completed a short pass, and we took the lead… Glendora 8 – La Puente 0. Our opponents answered by marching down the field primarily on the arm strength of the Warriors’ quarterback, Dan Carriaga. He was good. He fired a 15-yard pass for La Puente’s first touchdown of the evening. Remember, La Puente is a kicking team, but they were facing the possibility of Glendora adding two-point running conversions for every touchdown we scored. The Warriors coach called for a pass play instead of kicking the PAT. Our defensive line hurried Carriaga and his pass fell incomplete. At halftime, the score stood at Tartans 8 – Warriors 6.

In the third quarter, Glendora drove 66 yards… all run plays with the ball carried each time by Lecocq. He bulled his way ahead for another 1-yard score. Our side of the stadium cheered loudly its approval, especially Dave’s sister, Ariane… my steady girlfriend. The Glendora faithful in the bleachers didn’t know what the Glendora players on the field knew… it was beginning to look like Coach Chalifoux’s crystal ball prediction would come true. Then, our coach made a decision that turned the game in the direction he wanted. We were a running team, but coach sent our kicking team into the game for the PAT attempt. If we make this kick and La Puente scores their second touchdown, they cannot win the game with a two-point conversion. We would prevail 15-14. If we miss the kick, La Puente will have to turn away from their strong kicking game and try another two-point conversion just to tie the game at 14-14. Coach’s prediction was coming true… both teams would score two touchdowns, but Glendora would not lose. We made the kick and extended our lead to 15-6.

La Puente was not going to roll over. They started a drive for that second touchdown. With less than a minute left in the third quarter, Carriaga was rushed out of the pocket and missed completing a pass to a teammate. In frustration, he kicked a Glendora defensive lineman right in front of a referee. The ref ejected Carriaga. That lineman was my brother, Buck. Things did not look promising for La Puente until Carriaga’s replacement stepped up in a big way. He took control of the Warrior offense, and mixed running and passing plays successfully to set up a 15-yard 4th quarter touchdown pass. The Warriors trailed 15-12. A two-point PAT pass will not win the game for La Puente. If that pass fails, they will need a last minute field goal just to tie the game. However, if the Warriors kick is good, they will trail Glendora 15-13. That means they would have a chance to win the game 16-15 with a field goal in the closing minutes. In that scenario, La Puente does not need a third touchdown to win. La Puente can beat Glendora with two kicks. If things went La Puente’s way, both teams would score two touchdowns but Glendora would lose. So, the Warriors’ coach decided to stay with his team’s strength and kick the PAT. The kick was good, and the scoreboard now read: Glendora 15 – La Puente 13.

Glendora could not ice the game and run out the clock. We had to punt and La Puente came storming back. With time running out, the Warriors had the ball on the Glendora 29-yard line. They had to get closer to attempt a game winning field goal, but Glendora’s defense stiffened, and the Warriors could not advance the ball. La Puente turned the ball over on downs and time expired… Glendora 15 – La Puente 13. Coach Chalifoux was right… both teams would score two touchdowns but Glendora would not lose. That’s quite a prediction.

Winners…

Winners don’t always score the most points

Success is not measured by the final score. Years ago, when I was teaching US history, I was also coaching football. I coached offensive and defensive linemen. The school had a full coaching staff for the varsity team but only one JV coach dedicated to coaching the younger players. So, a couple of the varsity coaches helped with the younger players at practice and during games. Believe me… coaching from the sidelines is not just standing around with a clipboard while watching players run up and down the field…there’s always a lot going on. Fridays were brutal: JV pregame prep followed by a full four quarters that involved watching, analyzing, substituting, praising players who were doing well, consoling and trying to motivate players who were not playing well, and feeding information to the head JV coach. When the JV game ended, I turned my attention to the varsity game. By the time the varsity players were filing out of the locker room, I was already exhausted. Fridays were 8+ hours nonstop on my feet, but what was even more fatiguing was the emotional rollercoaster that goes with being immersed in back-to-back high school football games.

In the 2010 season, our JV team lined up against a large public high school’s JV team. I was coaching 14 and 15 year-old boys. The Capuchino High School JV team players were young men. They were bigger, stronger, and faster than my players. That day in October, we had only six linemen ready to play.

This story is about one of those linemen… a freshman named Nathan Dhablania. It is a story that proves success is not measured by the final score. One of my six linemen got injured, so I’m down to five players. That means no subs.

The visiting team was running all over our kids. During a timeout, Nate asked me what he should be doing… I told him… just give your best effort. He did. Later in the game, the Capuchino JV team was up by five scores and they still had their starters in the game. We really couldn’t move the ball on offense, but it wasn’t because Nate and the other offensive linemen weren’t trying. They were just physically overmatched.

On defense, our guys could slow Capuchino down, but they could not stop their opponents. On one particular play, Nate got blocked hard… the other team’s player just pushed Nate straight to the ground. The whistle blew and Nate looked over at me on the sideline. My heart ached for him. I held out both hands and moved my palms up as if to signal him… it is what it is… it will be OK… let’s see this through to the end. Then I pumped my right fist and shouted to him, “Let’s go, Nate! You’re my guy!” Nate got right back into the fray… again and again until the game was over. He never gave up. We lost, badly, but Nate’s performance was not measured on the scoreboard.

Nate’s dad was not happy that Nate put so much time into football, and he urged Nate to get involved in other extracurricular activities. Clubs and programs that would look good on a college application. Nate was firm; he wanted to play football.

A couple of years later, I was Nate’s US history teacher. He asked me to write a college recommendation letter for him. I was glad to do it. I asked him to fill out a worksheet for me concerning what he believed were his greatest accomplishments during his junior year. Nate’s worksheet included three references to football. It was clear that he valued the lessons he learned on the football field: responsibility, commitment, teamwork and working hard… even when he might be overmatched… to achieve his goals. In my recommendation letter, I mentioned that October afternoon and Nate’s experience of falling short time and time again but refusing to surrender. I could certainly write laudatory words about Nate’s academic performance in my class, but more importantly, I could write admiringly about his character and integrity.

If you were a college admissions officer, isn’t Nate the type of student you want to select? The University of Southern California’s answer was, “Yes!” Nate has since graduated with bachelor’s and master’s of science degrees in stem cell biology. Then, he moved to a research assistant position at Stanford’s School of Medicine before settling in at Loyola University Chicago to start earning an MD. Do you think Nate would be the kind of researcher who would set aside inconclusive lab results for later or would he pick himself up and try again… and again?

The postscript to this story is that Nate’s dad sought me out one day at school. He told me that he had been wrong about Nate’s desire to play football. He didn’t understand how much playing football really meant to his son. Nate’s dad had started to enjoy being the father of a football player. He added that he wanted to show his appreciation for what football had done for Nate and their relationship. Dad found a way. I guess the post postscript would be Nate’s LinkedIn profile. The last item in the education portion includes Nate’s participation in JV and varsity football.

Today, Nate is a huge success. He defines success on his terms, and that success is not measured by numbers on a scoreboard.

Kids are just kids…

Kids are just Kids.

In July 2014, I had a chance to accompany a group of volunteers sponsored by Professional & Educational Services International (PESI) to teach English at a small rural high school in central China. If you would have told me when I was flying against the Evil Empire (USSR) thirty years earlier that I would one day visit Communist China, I would have seriously doubted your sanity.

The morning PESI volunteers arrived, Pingle Secondary School students took a break from their studies to attend an assembly so the school’s principal could introduce us to the student body. All the other volunteers (15) were ethnic Asians, and most were born in Hong Kong, Taiwan or mainland China. When the principal introduced me, he mentioned that I was a former police detective. A loud and collective “Oooh! came from the students. Then he added that I was also a former US Navy pilot which elicited an even louder “Oooh!” I realized later that a lot of these kids had formed their perceptions of Americans based on American movies. My introduction was as if Dirty Harry and Maverick from Top Gun rolled into one had strolled onto campus.

Later, I met the students I would be teaching. This was not anything like English composition or literature… it was really an opportunity for the students to converse with an authentic English speaker. That would be me. My class had 24 very lovely young ladies. They were excited to start our two-week summer school session. As it turns out, students had to apply for the course I would be teaching, and it was very popular.

I was initially worried about a possible language barrier. I don’t speak Mandarin. However, that would not be a problem because high school students in China study the English language. Why? There is an English language section on the Chinese college entrance exam. Top scores on the Chinese equivalent of our SAT, called the Gaokao, can help a student get into one of China’s prestigious universities. It is a super competitive admissions process. The passing rate for the Gaokao is just over 50%. That means only 1 out of every 2 students taking the exam will be able to attend college. It’s easy to see why Chinese students take their study of English seriously. So, except for a couple of the girls who had rough accents, I was able to converse in English with my students without a translator.

Most of the girls came from modest backgrounds. They learn the value of work at an early age, and their world view is much different than the students I taught in the US. While they had to face some of life’s realities at an early age and mature faster than their US counterparts, they still retained a certain quality of naiveness. What did they ask me about when we first met? They wanted to know everything about my American students. To them, America was a magical place far, far away.

The girls took American names to use in their English language classes. They chose names like Hillary, Snowy, and Kara. The girls picked their American names based primarily on what the names sounded like when spoken. My favorite student was Jay. She was the class clown and everyone liked her. Jay was tall and you noticed her right away in the classroom. Even so, she did her best to blend into class activities… she just wanted to be one of the girls.

Jay always had a smile, and it was infectious; she made everyone feel good. When I learned a little about her life story, I was amazed at her resilience. Public school from pre-school through the elementary school grades is funded by the Chinese government. However, high school is not free. Families must pay tuition for sons and daughters to attend. It is a small amount compared to Chinese private high schools, but Jay’s family could not afford public high school tuition.

Her costs were paid for by a scholarship from PESI. That made me feel good to be part, albeit only temporarily, of an organization that was committed to helping a young Chinese girl get an education. There is more to Jay’s story. A couple of years before I met her, Jay’s mother passed away. It was understandably tough on her father. He was the breadwinner and now a single parent. Jay and her father moved in with Jay’s grandparents. As Jay’s father worked in a factory a couple of hundred miles away, that meant Jay and her father lived apart most of the time. Then, Jay’s grandmother passed away. Jay was left to help care for her grandfather and go to school. A lot of Chinese kids have one parent who works far away from home. That’s common especially in rural areas like Pingle. However, Jay’s only parent was absent, and she had to become a caregiver for an elderly grandparent. Yet, she shows up every day at school with that beaming and genuine smile. School is her respite. A time when Jay can just be Jay. She was my favorite student in China. She’s in her late twenties by now, but I can still see that beautiful smile in my mind’s eye.

Kids are just kids, and people are the same everywhere.