A playground with too many rules and regulations and their strict enforcement stifles the playground. The results are kids spending all their recess time against the wall and losing their privileges to use the playground equipment, the sports balls, or the jump ropes.
Nothing gets accomplished. Nobody grows.
A playground with no rules, regulations, or enforcement results in chaos. The playground devolves into complete chaos. Nobody has any fun and the only means for structure falls to the law of the jungle.
Nothing gets accomplished. Nobody grows.
The ultimate playground monitor establishes and enforces enough rules to provide an environment where the kids are allowed a generous amount of freedom. These kids tend to have fun, work with each other to solve problems, and discover better ways to operate without spiraling into chaos or choking development.
Things get accomplished. People grow.
As I write this in the United States of America in the Spring of 2024, our nation has been derailed over the past 40 years by a fight between the first and the second model of playground monitoring. As a result, we’re getting nothing done. We are pushing our problems forward to tomorrow instead of developing solutions today. We are eroding what we can be as a nation.
Our confusion and bickering have let us become victims of the worst bad players from the fringes. Our confusion and bickering have let the proverbial fox into the hen house. It’s time to turn that around and get us back on track.
In short, we need to find our way back to electing government officials on all levels who will work to establish our governing bodies with the ultimate playground monitor as the primary guiding force.
The first step is to pay attention. Seek the truth in what’s real. Learn to sift through the bullshit. Walk around and see that things are not as bad as people tell us. Someone is always screaming that the sky is falling but, you know what? The reality shows otherwise.
Observe, analyze, and decide for yourself.
Let’s build better playgrounds!
State Government Photographer, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
I had to add this image because it reminded me of my school days at Christ The King Catholic School where our playground was the church parking lot. We played hard and I went through a lot of Toughskin jean knees there. DimiTalen, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
The Family Curse has to do with sports fandom. In particular, our beloved Kansas City Royals. My maternal grandmother, Grandma Bosley, first exhibited the curse back in the 1970s. For the record, Grandma Bosley was a character and full of life. Those of us fortunate enough to spend time within her life circle are indeed blessed human beings.
I remember visiting her and Grandpa for vacations at their house on Tuttle Creek Lake when I was young. Their place and the surrounding area were pure heaven to us grandkids. In my memory banks from those summer days are burned images of Grandma, a baseball lover to the core, watching or listening to Royals games. When things weren’t going well for the boys in blue, she would always throw her hands in the air and say, “Every time I pay attention to the Royals, they play terribly.”
That my friend, is the Family Curse. Whenever attention is paid to the Royals, they perform poorly.
I’ve laughed at the Family Curse for over 50 years. I’m not laughing anymore. There’s an increasing probability it’s real and, as previously mentioned, its power may have fallen to me.
Grandma Bosley would religiously watch Royals games on TV or listen to the radio. When they gave up a run or two though, she’d scamper from the room citing how she’s cursed the team by watching or listening. Grandpa would ignore her while we kids would laugh at her, which made her madder. Grandma usually ended up on the back patio, again listening to the game on her transistor radio.
One or more of us grandkids (and often Grandpa) would also migrate to the patio to enjoy the summer evening and listen to baseball with Grandma the way it was meant to be enjoyed…on the radio. Baseball fandom at its best with the backdrop of summer twilight magic, cicada chirps echoing through the wooded valley, the smell of cooling red cedars, ice cream bars, and family.
Inevitably, the pastoral summer scene would again come to a screeching halt thanks to the Family Curse. The Royals’ opponent would take the lead, and our hitter would take a third strike with the bases loaded or hit into a double play. Grandma would throw in the towel and pretend to do some chore attempting to trick the curse into thinking she wasn’t paying attention.
After Grandma died, I didn’t think much about the curse. It still made me smile to think about those old times following Royals games with her. Then, a few years after Grandma Bosley passed, I noticed something strange. My Mom started exhibiting the same behaviors as her mother.
The Family Curse had passed to her!
I’d call and ask her if she was watching the Royals. She’d tell me she started to watch but switched channels because…you guessed it, “Every time I pay attention to the Royals, they play terribly.” I’d laugh at her and tell her she was acting just like her mother, which she did not like the comparison at all.
Her behavior continued through two Royals World Series appearances and multiple one-hundred-loss seasons. It did not matter if the Royals’ product on the field was successful or not, Grandma and Mom blamed every bad thing the Royals did when they were watching or listening on the curse. The curse they brought upon the team by paying attention to them.
Mom died last September. I didn’t think at all about a Family Curse in the wave of emotions and the empty space in our world left by her death. However, in the past few weeks, I’ve noticed something that’s never happened before. When I pay attention to a 2024 Royals game, they don’t play well. Recently, I cleared the schedule to listen to a game. I sat down at my desk and turned my MLB At-Bat app to the Royals radio broadcast to find out they were already down 7-0. In the first inning!
That’s when it hit me. The Family Curse has been passed to me.
What was funny when it happened to Grandma or Mom, is not so funny when it’s happening to me. The Family Curse hangs over the family despite the logic that a single person watching or listening to a baseball game from many miles away cannot affect the outcome or performance of the team.
In a way, even though it might end up with some horrible play from my favorite MLB team, my heart tells me the Family Curse might be a blessing. Carrying the Family Curse has a silver lining, if you can believe it. Having the curse now makes me feel closer to two women I miss dearly. Knowing I’m still connected to Grandma and Mom in this small way makes life, and a 7-0 first-inning deficit, a little brighter.
But don’t worry fellow Royals fans, I will wield my new Family Curse power wisely and in a way that promotes the greatest chances of not losing 100 games ever again…or at least in my lifetime.
January 25 is the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul, Apostle. It’s a cool story that always captured my Catholic boy attention growing up. My middle name is Paul so naturally the story of my namesake should get my attention. But man, to put it mildly, Saul of Tarsus (Paul’s name before his miraculous conversion.) was an asshole. This was a guy who “breathed murderous threats against the disciples of the Lord.”
He was old school, Jewish religious establishment to the max. This upstart Christianity movement pissed him off to no end. He chased down and persecuted Christians at every turn. When the story of his conversion from Act of the Apostles, Chapter 9, begins, he was so pissed off he went to the religious leader and asked him to grant letters of permission to go after Christians in Damascus. Saul basically asked for a license to go kick ass and take names of all Christians in the region.
But a funny thing happened on the way to Damascus. Of all the seemingly better people Jesus could have picked on the planet to turn into one of the most fervent disciples, he chose Saul. Man, I love that. There’s hope for redemption in even the most a-holes of a-holes.
When I read and think about the Conversion of St. Paul story, it brings to mind the Gospel from a few weeks ago, where several Pharisees were harassing Jesus for hanging around with sinners and tax collectors. Jesus said to them, “Those who are well do not need a physician, but the sick do. I did not come to call the righteous but sinners.” (Mark 2:17)
Ah, it is no accident Jesus called Saul of Tarsus, struck him blind for three days, and lit the fire of conversion in his mind, heart, and soul. Saul didn’t know he was sick and in dire need of a physician. He thought he was a righteous man doing righteous acts. But the Lord knew Saul was in dire need of healing and the rest is history.
Parmigianino, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
When I look around the world today, especially within the world of American Christianity that I am a part of, I see a whole lot of Sauls and not enough Pauls. I see a need to pay attention to the blinding light of God’s Word, to go temporarily blind and reboot what it means to live a faithful life in today’s world.
I wish I could remember where I read this the other day but it slips my mind. The author posed the question of how fervent we Christians are to put the Ten Commandments everywhere yet we rarely express the same fervor for The Beatitudes in modern Christianity. I look around and see this observation is true.
Why this is?
Is it easier for us to be a Saul rather than a Paul? Is it easier for us to follow what we want to follow or what’s easier to follow rather than listen & live the teachings of Jesus?
I don’t know. All I know is Saul went from being an asshole to being one of the greatest Christians we have. Paul is the perfect example that the Lord never gives up on us. Sometimes we just need to get knocked on our rear ends, contemplate our blindness, and then be awoken in the light of renewed faith.
I’m going to make a real effort to be more Paul than Saul in 2024. How about you?
Acts 9:1-22 Saul, still breathing murderous threats against the disciples of the Lord, went to the high priest and asked him for letters to the synagogues in Damascus, that, if he should find any men or women who belonged to the Way, he might bring them back to Jerusalem in chains. On his journey, as he was nearing Damascus, a light from the sky suddenly flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” He said, “Who are you, sir?” The reply came, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. Now get up and go into the city and you will be told what you must do.” The men who were traveling with him stood speechless, for they heard the voice but could see no one. Saul got up from the ground, but when he opened his eyes he could see nothing; so they led him by the hand and brought him to Damascus. For three days he was unable to see, and he neither ate nor drank. *There was a disciple in Damascus named Ananias, and the Lord said to him in a vision, “Ananias.” He answered, “Here I am, Lord.” The Lord said to him, “Get up and go to the street called Straight and ask at the house of Judas for a man from Tarsus named Saul. He is there praying, and in a vision he has seen a man named Ananias come in and lay his hands on him, that he may regain his sight.” But Ananias replied, “Lord, I have heard from many sources about this man, what evil things he has done to your holy ones in Jerusalem. And here he has authority from the chief priests to imprison all who call upon your name.” But the Lord said to him, “Go, for this man is a chosen instrument of mine to carry my name before Gentiles, kings, and children of Israel, and I will show him what he will have to suffer for my name.” So Ananias went and entered the house; laying his hands on him, he said, “Saul, my brother, the Lord has sent me, Jesus who appeared to you on the way by which you came, that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit.” Immediately things like scales fell from his eyes and he regained his sight. He got up and was baptized, and when he had eaten, he recovered his strength. *He stayed some days with the disciples in Damascus, and he began at once to proclaim Jesus in the synagogues, that he is the Son of God. All who heard him were astounded and said, “Is not this the man who in Jerusalem ravaged those who call upon this name, and came here expressly to take them back in chains to the chief priests?” But Saul grew all the stronger and confounded the Jews who lived in Damascus, proving that this is the Christ.
I snapped these photos of the neighborhood trees and one of our oak trees yesterday. It was a cool, overcast, and drizzly morning but the colors of the leaves popped. The same view this morning, with the bright November sunshine radiating the colors is also beautiful, but, in my opinion, not as striking.
Something hit me as I stood and looked down the street. The first thought that jumped out of my brain didn’t jive with the beauty before me.
What was that first thought?
I saw all those leaves in their various stages of color transformation and thought, “Man, I’m going to have to rake up all those SOBs soon.”
The other side of my brain quickly jumped in. “But, they’re so beautiful. Just take a few deep breaths and enjoy.” I took that advice.
Even standing in a cold drizzle couldn’t rob that moment of natural wonder. It made me wonder, though, why I would think such an initial negative reaction. Truthfully, it made me feel a little guilty. Why didn’t I just immediately go glass half full instead of starting glass half empty?
I was reminded of a chapter I’d recently read in Secrets of the Mind compilation from Scientific American on how our brains learn by processing information in interconnecting neural maps. The negative thoughts and experiences on raking leaves are neurally associated with leaves turning vibrant colors and falling to the ground.
I didn’t feel so guilty then. My brain was just doing what brains do. It processed the visual information as an awesome sight and triggered a little response to remind me I would have work to do. My brain was taking care of me!
I also learned an important take-home lesson. Amazing things require work.
Whether it’s art, athletics, family, school, work, or something as simple as the leaves changing, remarkable things in this world are built on a scaffold of effort. The glass is half full because somebody put in the effort to fill it.
It’s your choice. Do the work and fill the glass? Do the work and fill your space with kindness and beauty? Or not?
I know which I choose. I know there’s a cost and work to be done. But, that’s okay. The end result is worth the work. Enjoying a remarkable and beautiful sight in my neighborhood is worth the work I’ll do picking up the leaves.
Silver linings are sewn from the thread of effort.
Rest in peace, Jimmy Buffet. This loss hits hard. Few performers or creators affect who I am to the level Jimmy Buffet does. From day one of being introduced to his music as a kid in the 1970s to streaming Margaritaville Radio on the road. His book, A Pirate Looks at Fifty, is a fantastic read. If you’ve never heard his 1994 release, Fruitcakes, you need to run and find it now. It’s one of his best and his cover of the Grateful Dead’s Uncle John’s Band is magnificent (It was a standard inclusion on the burn CDs we’d play during summer conditioning back in the day.)
I don’t know what else to say except to attempt to express an appreciation for his work. He will be missed but leaves us with a full bucket of words, music, and reminders to relax and enjoy life.
Come Monday it will be alright…
I sure hope so.
Thank you, Jimmy, for a lifetime of entertainment.
A Pirate Looks at 40
Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall You’ve seen it all, you’ve seen it all
Watched the men who rode you switch from sails to steam And in your belly, you hold the treasures few have ever seen Most of ’em dream, most of ’em dream
Yes I am a pirate, two hundred years too late The cannons don’t thunder, there’s nothin’ to plunder I’m an over-forty victim of fate Arriving too late, arriving too late
I’ve done a bit of smugglin’, I’ve run my share of grass I made enough money to buy Miami, but I pissed it away so fast Never meant to last, never meant to last
And I have been drunk now for over two weeks I passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks But I got to stop wishin’, got to go fishin’ Down to rock bottom again Just a few friends, just a few friends
I go for younger women, lived with several awhile Though I ran ’em away, they’d come back one day Still could manage to smile Just takes a while, just takes a while
Mother, mother ocean, after all the years I’ve found My occupational hazard being my occupation’s just not around I feel like I’ve drowned, gonna head uptown I feel like I’ve drowned, gonna head uptown
The “500” image colors are for my three favorite teams, the KC Royals, the Clay Center Tigers, and the KC Chiefs. These three teams have inspired at least half the posts on the blog.
Holy moly, Batman! This is the 500th post on The Coach Hays blog since its start back in 2010. Wow! It’s hard to fathom this ever happening. The blog started out for two reasons. First, I wanted to learn WordPress. Second, I wanted to write posts that made my mother laugh.
Seriously, that’s the not-too-exciting origin story of The Coach Hays blog. Since then, it has become a place for me to share all the stories, the rants, the history, and generally wild and wacky stuff that’s pretty much constantly bouncing around inside my head.
Here are a few quick stats:
111,453 views
73,746 visitors
Biggest single day: July 13, 2022
Most searched post: Fire Baton Dad Duty (Yes, you read that right! I guess people need to learn how to prepare fire batons.)
I want to thank everyone who has read this blog over the years. Whether you’ve read one post or read 499, I appreciate you and hope you keep reading. As I’ve said over the years, I write these because the stories are itching inside my head to be told. The drive to sit down and write these stories is rooted in the thought there might be at least one reader out there who might want to read them.
Again, THANK YOU! Here’s to 500 The Coach Hays blog posts with hope there’s at least one hundred more stupid ideas inside my big Bubba head.
It was 97 degrees and the “feels-like” temperature hovered around 104. Yes, it was hot.
It was especially hot for an old Bubba like me. But I had what they call in sports and in rocket science, a “window of opportunity”, so I drank a lot of water and got the job done before the evening’s festivities began.
While mowing, my mind often wanders. Sometimes my brain rants. Sometimes it attempts to solve highly complex problems. But sometimes it kicks up memories of things not remembered for years.
In this particular instance, it was a trip down memory lane to the Fourth of July, 1981, and an American Legion baseball doubleheader road trip to the Fort Leavenworth Army base in Leavenworth, KS.
If memory serves, we only had 9, maybe 10, players make the 45-minute drive with our coaches to Leavenworth that day for a noon first pitch. Four or five players couldn’t make it because of family commitments or work. The legendary Kansas Hall of Fame baseball coach, Dennis “Harpo” Hurla was our manager. This was back in the day before he was a legend. Back then, Dennis was just a great baseball coach and a fabulous human; his well-deserved legendary status would come with time. I think our assistant coaches, “Easy” Ed Hernandez and Dom Dumovich, also traveled with us that day.
It was hot. Triple digits. We were smack dab in a month-long heat wave that eventually convinced my dad it was time to upgrade to central air conditioning. That had to be some serious heat (and maybe a little bit of whining from the family) if it convinced my dad to spend money on air conditioning.
There was a great crowd on the Fort Leavenworth base that day, even though 90% of onlookers were there for the holiday festivities on the post and not to watch a bunch of rowdy, 17-18-year-old baseball players play.
Inside my 58-year-old brain, I feel we swept the doubleheader. I know we at least won one game because we almost always won at least one game, right? I remember being completely drained physically at the end of the second game. This was before the time when everyone felt the need to make every senior-level baseball field a mini, professional-grade baseball field. The infield was dirt. The outfield was dry, sun-burnt grass. The kicker, however, was the dugouts, which were the open-air, chain-link fence versions with no roof or sun protection. In short, it was miserably hot with no means of escape until the final out of the final inning.
After the game, we packed up the gear with the normal high school boy smack-talking and giving Harpo crap about his talent for scheduling games at the worst times of day under the worst environmental conditions. We carried the team gear and our gear to Harpo’s red and white VW van. He must have felt sorry for us or maybe he appreciated the fact we showed up and played the games because, shortly after pulling out of the Ft. Leavenworth front gate onto K-7 highway, he flicked on the right blinker and turned into Pizza Hut. I can still visualize him turning around in the driver’s seat with that million-dollar smile of his, and asking, “Boys, how about some pizza?”
Our mothers would have been impressed with the speed at which nine teenage boys threw off their sweaty and stinky t-shirts, slapped on a clean one dug from the recesses of their bags, and headed for the Pizza Hut door. The blast of cold air as I stepped into the restaurant and the smell of pizza wafting through the air is a memory I hope never slips from my neural storage.
Never before had ice-cold Pepsi from the tap tasted so refreshing.
Never before had a pizza been so utterly satisfying.
There may have been a shared pitcher of beer somewhere in the mix for the 18-year-olds (wink wink) only. The camaraderie around those two tables in an almost empty Pizza Hut restaurant on a blistering Fourth of July baseball road trip evening is the essence of what sports and teams are about. Good times.
As I finished mowing and sat in the shade with my mental faculties firmly back in 2023, I smiled at the memory of that summer day in 1981. I smiled thinking about those teammates. I smiled thinking about Easy Ed and Dom. I smiled thinking about Dennis “Harpo” Hurla and the opportunity he gave me to enjoy baseball at a high level. Mostly, I thought about ice-cold Pepsi, a belly full of pizza, and a day spent playing the game I loved with the best teammates one can hope to spend time with.
I also thought of young athletes today existing in our uber-connected cyber society. A hope I have is the younger generations of players don’t miss the experiences these lifetime connections offer as they navigate the slippery slope that is the modern corporate youth sports model.
I recently sat with a friend for a few peaceful minutes at our grandsons’ t-ball game. It was classic 4-6-year-old baseball. Bat hits the ball (after several violent swings with the bat knocking over just the tee) and it rolls across the infield. None of the dozen or so defenders in the field are paying attention because military helicopters are maneuvering in the airspace over town. Defying all laws of friction and physics, the ball rolls all the way to the outfield grass. Upon verbal prodding from the coaches, a group of defenders races to the ball and devolve into a scrum fighting over who gets to throw the ball to first base. One player eventually wrestles control of the ball and throws it within a city block of first base while another melts into tears in the outfield because that was “my ball”. The first baseman chases down the ball after verbal prodding from the coaches and launches it in the general direction of home plate where the next batter is waiting. (Thank God for backstops!)
The process is repeated until every batter on both teams has batted three times and then the teams line up, shake hands, and sprint to the dugout where the postgame treats are waiting.
A nearby parent mentioned to me how her husband, who is helping to coach one of the t-ball teams playing, privately mentioned to her how the way his kid and the others play drives him crazy. I laughed and agreed. I told her it was all about transitions. It’s the steps one has to go through to learn something new. Sports, or any other endeavor, are about improving through a series of transitions. We can also call it “leveling up”.
It’s the Fail Cycle. Try something. Fail. Step back. Evaluate. Work hard. Try again. Repeat until successful. Try something harder.
In baseball, there are transitions.
No idea how to play the game to the t-ball basics.
T-ball basics to coach or machine pitch.
Coach or machine pitch to kid pitch. A (HUGE transition landmark that can be very frustrating to watch and has been known to burn the eyeballs of the fans.)
Kid pitch to full-on competitive baseball.
The challenging transitions as one progresses up the competitive baseball ladder.
One of the harsh realities of sports is you work through the transitions to level up or you don’t and stagnate. These transitions get progressively harder and often become the point where individuals quit playing the game. Middle school to high school to college to the minor leagues to the major leagues all involve challenging transition periods for the athlete.
Transition periods are always challenging and rarely things of beauty.
As an adult or advanced player in any sport, it’s often frustrating to coach or parent inexperienced individuals. There’s often an assumption the kids know what they should be doing. As adults on the other end of the playing rainbow arc, the exit side, we often forget that kids beginning their journey on the entry side don’t know what we know and can’t do what we do. They’re on the uphill side of that playing arc, with emphasis on uphill, looking and searching for handholds and footholds to move upward and onward in their playing career. These handholds and footholds often take time for each individual to find.
They need a guide through the transitions. That is where coaches and parents do their work. That’s where instead of frustration, you teach and encourage. You work to develop and perfect the developmental skills of the game. The parent and coach must nurture trust and drive in each individual.
You must listen and trust their judgment and decisions while only gently nudging when absolutely necessary. This is important because they need to have the agency and freedom to pursue their dreams as far as they want to go with them. The higher the leveling up goes, the more it requires hard work, sacrifice, and risk to reach the next handhold on the steepest developmental slope where competition is most fierce.
Moral of the story. Next time you’re at a beginner-level event, whether sports, music, art, etc., remember this particular event is an early transition, not a finished and polished product. Enjoy the ride because tomorrow’s performance is often better than today’s, even if today’s performance consisted of 50 pitches with only 12 of those being close enough to home plate to be called a strike.
Celebrate the baby steps. Transitions are just part of any journey.
My favorite MLB team, the Kansas City Royals, is in rebuilding mode, for the fifth straight season. They are struggling with their current, mostly high-drafted, young players in their 2nd or 3rd whole or partial season and their farm system is ranked 29 or 30 in most rankings. In comparison, the Baltimore Orioles have young players thriving in their 2nd or 3rd season and their farm system is ranked in the top 3 in most rankings.
I have also adjusted my GM for a Day philosophy from rebuilding mode to rebuilding the rebuild mode. This means we need to take our current assets and attempt to swap them for a rebuild of the farm system. The goal would be to bring in at least two players for one. It means we need to part ways with some beloved players. As GM, me and my staff would be on the phone at least 8 hours a day trying to make a deal.
MLB had this graphic showing the needs of some of the “buyers” entering the 2023 MLB trade window. The Royals have players to offer to fill these teams’ holes,s and most have decent farm systems to mine for prospects.
The LA Dodgers need a SS and have a top 5 farm system. I’d try to work on a trade with Bobby Witt, Jr.
The Seattle Mariners need a DH. The Royals have trade material to offer with Salvador Perez or Vinny Pasquantino, MJ Melendez, or Edward Olivares
The San Diego Padres need a catcher. See you, Salvy!
The Houston Astros need a 1B so we can offer Nick Pratto or Vinny.
The Texas Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals need relief pitching, we have Aroldis Chapman (Trade him before he implodes, please!) and Scott Barlow
The Milwaukee Brewers need a CF. We should offer the pick from our whole outfield kitchen sink.
The Minnesota Twins need a 3B. Maikel Garcia is a promising young player who’d fit well there.
There you have it. My GM for a Day: Royals 2023 Edition, version 1, basically is chucking the current rebuild and starting, again. This time, however, the system needs to not only focus on attaining talent but direct resources to developing this talent.
As with many of Pink Floyd’s great songs, Wish You Were Here stands on its own. All the gushing and blubbering I can do about it merely fades in comparison to the work itself. It’s a beautiful piece of art. The song tugs at the heartstrings. It brings a sense of longing to the soul of the listener. The universal humanity in the song’s five or so minutes is astounding.
Wish You Were Here is on the 1975 album of the same name. It’s the follow-up album to The Dark Side of the Moon, which is often considered the greatest rock album of all time. It’s also the second release in an almost surreal string of four exceptional pieces of creative work Pink Floyd released in the 1970s.
The Dark Side of the Moon (1973)
Wish You Were Here (1975)
Animals (1977)
The Wall (1979)
These four albums are all stunning in their own right. The only downfall of the second, third, and fourth albums is the fact they weren’t the greatest rock & roll record of all time, The Dark Side of the Moon. Last week at work, I had an enormous amount of paperwork I’d been putting off for far too long. I showed up intent on sitting down and working through my self-imposed paperwork problem. So I opened Spotify on my desktop and played The Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, Animals, and The Wall in succession.
Wow.
That’s really the only word to describe the experience. The paperwork got done. The songs echoed past, present, and future in my brain. I’d forgotten how good and underrated Animals is. Hell, I’d forgotten how great all four of these albums are. I highly recommend revisiting each of these four records if you have the chance. Fabulous creative work.
Wish You Were Here is one of the songs that keeps bouncing around in my head. It hits my soul in a completely different way in 2023, at age 58, than it did in the late 1970s as a young teenager. That’s exactly what creative words do. They seep their way into your being, set root, and grow.
Running over the same old ground What have we found? The same old fears Wish you were here
A Word’s Look: Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd
So, so you think you can tell Heaven from hell? Blue skies from pain? Can you tell a green field From a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?
Did they get you to trade Your heroes for ghosts? Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze? Cold comfort for change? Did you exchange A walk-on part in the war For a leading role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here We’re just two lost souls Swimming in a fish bowl Year after year Running over the same old ground What have we found? The same old fears Wish you were here
THE COACH HAYS 