Looking at the trajectory of the ball in the photo above, I am quite certain that this was the most embarrassing kick I ever made. The ball is blurry in the photo. It came off my foot in a hurry. In the time you could blink and take half of a breath, the ball struck the cross bar and came furiously back toward the line of scrimmage with nearly as much force. I had to duck to miss the ball’s return. Needless to say, the fans in the stands enjoyed this Keystone Cop scene; I have never heard a crowd collectively laugh at a football game the way this one did. I get it. The good thing is that we won 33-0 over a Mitchell team that came in about as cocky as any group I have ever seen. This was 1984 and Mitchell’s first football visit to North Harrison. I am certain that some of their players figured we would run out of the locker room and run to the tennis courts by mistake. The best part is we went to Mitchell the next year for North’s first ever sectional game and beat the Yellowjackets on their own turf.

This kick was not without consequence. As I said, we won the game 33-0. I was in a computer programming class during first period that semester. Huge computers and floppy disks that looked like pizza coasters. Our teacher was Mr. Harvey Trowbridge, a high school computer pioneer. Harv also filmed our football games. On the Monday after the game, when I walked into class, Mr. T said, “Well if isn’t the old crossbar kid!” I was not amused. I walked over to his desk, leaned in, and said something I won’t repeat here. I’ll give him credit. He had every reason to send me to Mr. Davis. He didn’t. I think we both made our point and that was that. Mr. T never held it against me. I didn’t hold it against him. More than forty years on, it’s still a good story.

Special Teams. That is the dumbest title ever given to any athletic endeavor. It is worse than calling that little flat ball they use in hockey a “puck”.

When teams punt or try to return the punt, or when a team kicks off and the other team tries to return it, or when a team attempts a field goal or extra point, this phase of the game is called “special teams”. Offense is offense. Simple definition. Defense is defense. Simple definition. Special teams is a terrible name for a phase of the game that is an urgent endeavor that takes skill unlike offense or defense. Urgent, eh? Yes. URGENT TEAMS! That’s the name this phase of the game deserves.

Look, I have been on the football field when it was my responsibility to deliver a punt with my feet doing everything they could not to step backwards on the backline of the end zone. Doing so would be a “safety” and would give your opponent 2 points. Do you think I was out there thinking about what a SPECIAL time that was? No! Urgent. The was an urgent time. Urgent times call for URGENT TEAMS. For the love of mankind, can we not give this phase of the game the moniker it deserves? “Special Teams” does not get it. URGENT TEAMS is much better. Seriously. Call it URGENT TEAMS and maybe you won’t see so many high school kickers happy getting a kickoff to travel inside the 20. No, an urgent kicker wants that ball inside the 5.

The die is cast. The mission is on. The football lexicon that we know needs to come alive and realize the importance of that third phase of the game that goes so very far in deciding a team’s field position. You read it here first. It may take twenty years. It may take seven. But I will rattle every cage and bug enough coaches that sooner or later they will either get their heads out of their butts or they will do what they have to do to shut me up. URGENT TEAMS will one day be a thing. I believe it.

Believe it. Just like I believe the Indiana Hoosiers Football program will have to continue to deal with good old-fashioned Deep South envy and hate. Indiana had nothing to do with Ole Miss getting beat by Kentucky last year. Indiana had nothing to do with Alabama getting beat by Vanderbilt last season. Last year the Indiana Hoosiers beat both of the teams that were in National Championship game the year before. Nobody wants to talk about that. No SEC team can claim that. I know. Geography is everything. Maybe Geography is everything. I read three pre-season magazines with total dedication. Athlon Sports, Lindy’s Sports, and Phil Steele.

What a shock! Lindy’s Sports in published out of BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA. There is a pattern here.

Lindy’s has picked the INDIANA HOOSIERS to be the 31st best team in the country. THEY HAVE TO. Paul Finebaum might look ill on them if they don’t.

Athlon, published in California, has the INDIANA HOOSIERS to be the 16th best team in the country.

Big Ten Predictions? Lindy’s picks in Indiana to be the 9th best team in the conference.

Athlon picks Indiana to be the 5th best team in the conference.

Get your popcorn ready. As the Indiana Hoosiers of 2025 rack up win after win after win, there will be SEC pundits, see Paul Finebaum, that will do everything they can to poo-poo the teams on Indiana’s schedule. It is the SEC way. I don’t blame them. The SEC TV contract is chasing The BIG TEN. There, I think I said it all.

I’ll warn you. There is a great deal of “stuff” here. Read at your own risk.

Today at my desk at school, as I was eating cubes of turkey, broccoli, and a baked potato, I did something I must say is uncharacteristic of me. I am not ashamed of it. I’m not. Perhaps the whim came for a reason. It was a “dink” lightbulb over the head moment.

I am sad to say that I am of an age where many of the folks that I have known and have made a great impact on my life are no longer with us. For whatever reason, I thought about Bruce Hemphill today. Forty years ago, when I was 17, Coach Hemphill was an important man to me.

The last time I talked to Coach Hemphill was on the phone many years ago when he was working in athletic administration at UNC-Chapel Hill. The Tarheels. This was more than 20 years ago. That was that. I don’t remember the context of the call. No doubt, I needed something.

Fast forward to 2016. I think about Coach Hemphill again and use the mighty power of the internet to find that he is now the athletic director at McNeese State. I wrote him a letter. I like to write letters. They are much more personal than this forum. Less than a month later, I heard back from him.

That was that. Coach Hemphill remembered me. How did remember me? Well, once upon a time he was the receivers coach at Louisiana Tech University and in charge of the peons on the recruiting list.

Don’t get me wrong. It meant the world to me in 1985 when I would get a letter in the mail from him. I remember he sent me a postcard that started “Thinking of you as we are flying to West Texas State…”

I was no great recruit. I was a walk-on. I was a walk-on with connections. My second cousin played for the Woodlawn High School Knights State Championship Football Team in Shreveport in 1968. Seventeen years later, his high coach, A.L. Williams was now the head coach of the Louisiana Tech Bulldogs in Ruston. On a visit a week after I played my last high school game, we, my Dad, my cousin, and I were walking through the Tech locker room, and my cousin came upon the Tech Offensive Coordinator. “Billy Laird!” my cousin shouted. Billy Laird said, “Nick Hodge!” They shook hands like it meant something. Billy Laird played quarterback at Woodlawn eight years before my cousin played there. A couple of the quarterbacks that came after Billy Laird at Woodlawn were Terry Bradshaw and Joe Ferguson (on my cousin’s team). There is more than 30 years of NFL experience between them.

That night the Louisiana Tech Bulldogs were playing the Northeast Louisiana Indians led by a quarterback name Bubby Brister. NLU beat Tech 13-9. This was a HUGE rivalry back then.

After the game, Coach Hemphill literally came to see me and my Dad and my cousin at a reception we were attending after the game. I still remember how Coach Hemphill and my cousin talked about the loss and “what it meant”. They understood each other.

My time at Louisiana Tech was short. I spent one season swinging my leg in practice. I doubt there is any proof I was ever there. I do remember smiling when I looked and saw that my name had been added to the team “training table” for the winter quarter. This meant I was approved to eat the team food. All I have are a few memories. And some things I wish could forget.

I enjoy remembering Matt Stover holding a 54-yard poke I put over the goal post and Matt telling me that was a “good ball” or “hell of a kick”. I held his kicks too. When that happened, I knew I was out of my league. He had a pop in his leg I had never heard before. Matt Stover in currently the National Football League’s 6th all-time leading scorer.

My favorite memory of that time was when I got knocked out by a 2nd round draft choice. True story. I heard Coach Mills, the coach of the scout team yell, “I NEED A FULLBACK!” He was just down the hill from me, and I sprinted. I don’t know what got into me. I got down there and said, “I’m your fullback!” Someone said, “Coach, he’s a damn kicker!” Coach Mills grabbed my facemask and gave me look, and said, “Nah, boys, he wants to play football! He don’t even have a mouthpiece!” I got in the huddle and was instructed to play fullback and to break to the right flat and look for the ball. I did just that. I caught the pass. I lowered my helmet, and was met by defensive end, Walter Johnson, and to this day I have never been hit like that. I was out! It didn’t last long. When I came to my feet, Coach Mills said, “Damn son! You held on to that ball. Now get out of here before you get killed!”

Walter Johnson was a 2nd round draft pick of the Houston Oilers. He played in the NFL for a while.

So, all these things came back to me today. I have never written of this stuff before. It was not a good time. My grandfather was dying of lung cancer in Shreveport, and I was just plain out of my head. Nothing made sense. That is why I only lasted one football season there.

In 2019, I caught wind that Coach Hemphill, now the AD at McNeese State University, was in poor health with a heart ailment. I wrote him some words of encouragement right then and there. Not long after that, he wrote me back.

So, I have been avoiding the rest of this. Today, I thought about Coach Hemphill. In a search engine, I typed the following: “F. Bruce Hemphill obituary”. My suspicions were correct. He passed away last year. I wish I would have known. I don’t know why I thought all this. Bruce Hemphill was 68.

From here, my mind wandered. I never stopped kicking the football. As time went on, I started punting the ball as much as I kicked it. I knew an old-fashioned square-toed kicker had no chance in life. My punting was my ticket, I thought. The more I punted, the better I punted. The length of the football field couldn’t hold two of my punts. I remember a hangtime of 6.96 seconds. A few years ago, I was talking to someone who had paid attention while I was in my punting heyday. He said it looked like the ball was dropped from an airplane. These are days I enjoyed, and I like to remember.

I was working in the stock room at Sears in 1990. A lady came looking for me and told me there was a Frank Lauterbur on the phone wanting to talk to me. I told her I didn’t know him. She then said he was an NFL Scout. My attitude changed. My 1966 Mustang had a bag of balls in it. I crossed the Ohio River into Louisville and picked up Coach Frank Lauterbur at a motel and we travelled, in my Mustang, to the practice field at Manual High School. This is where Coach Lauterbur worked me out. Those of you who know me know that I have an audible memory. It has something to do with the songwriting I do. Anyway, I can still hear Coach Lauterbur yelling out, “Hell of a kick!” I can also hear him yelling, “Aw, come on, show me something!”

This is the actual critique sheet that Coach Frank Lauterbur was using that day. He gave me one. This one. He told me I had good numbers. If you look toward the bottom, there is a “Touch To Toe” category. This means how much time it takes the punter to catch the ball and kick it. I did not excel here. I was slow. That was that. The reason Coach Lauterbur gave me this one is because he wanted me to work on it. He told me to call him when I got them all at high marks.

When I drove Coach Lauterbur back to his motel, he asked me to come up to his room to chew the fat. It was discovered that a good friend of his, a legendary NFL Scout, was also my Dad’s high school coach in Shreveport. Coach told me all kinds of stories, including one about Ohio State punter Tom Tupa and how a special teams coach in the NFL has “messed him up.” I assure you I paraphrase.

Coach Lauterbur chewed my butt that night too. He told me to get back into school. He told me I would be a good football coach someday. And so, a friendship was settled.

Over the years, Coach Lauterbur wrote me a few kind letters of reference. Know this… Coach Lauterbur was the head coach of the Toledo Rockets during a time when his 1969 and 1970 teams were a collective 23-0 and winners of back-to-back Tangerine Bowls. He then was hired as the head coach of the Iowa Hawkeyes. He didn’t find that kind of success in Iowa City. After the 1973 season, the AD told Coach to fire his defensive coordinator. He refused. The AD then fired the entire coaching staff. Coach Lauterbur went on to long career as an NFL assistant coach. He then transitioned to scouting.

For me, the best of it all is Coach Lauterbur signing this letter, “Your Friend.”

This friendship came in handy in 1996. I was working at a high school that did not have a football program. A school board member came to me and asked if I would be interested in looking into starting a football team there. I called Coach Lauterbur and told him about it. He told me to contact Bill Mallory at Indiana. Coach Lauterbur and Coach Mal coached against each other in the MAC in 1969 and 1970. I can still hear Coach Mal. “Frank? My God, how do you know Frank?”, and away Coach Mallory and I went.

This school’s flirtation with football was short lived. A week after the school board member asked me about coaching the team, the school’s principal found me and told me otherwise in no uncertain terms. Many years later, this school did acquire a football team and I smile when I think about that.

Only recently have I given up on my football coaching dream. I hoped that I would be there when a North Harrison kicker kicked a field goal longer than the one I kicked 40 years ago this coming fall. I saw myself running out to the field and throwing the kid over my shoulder and carrying him to the sideline.

I would have told Coach Hemphill about it.

Much has been made of the NFL Draft this spring that saw Shedeur Sanders, the former Colorado QB and son of Deion Sanders, fall from faith and hope and land clumsily and sheepishly to the 5th round of the NFL draft. Drafted by the Cleveland Browns. The Browns drafted a quarterback, Dillion Gabriel of Oregon, in the third round. Like I said, this was clumsy and sheepish and just downright awkward.

Some NFL pundits, see Mel Kiper, thought Sanders would and should have been a high draft pick. Sanders landed where he landed. Why? Who knows? There have been stories circulating as to why he fell from grace, be it poor behavior during interviews with teams or his so-called entourage that apparently followed him around from place to place. I said it already. Who knows?

Was it the writing on the wall at Folsom Field in Boulder, Colorado? Maybe so. Who else gets their number retired and their name on the stadium when they had a record of 13-12? He is Deion Sanders’ boy. Do you want to draft a quarterback that was 13-12 in college and gets his number retired? No, you don’t. You’re like me, you would pass. You don’t want that record. You don’t want his dad calling the GM complaining about fill-in-the-blank. It could be anything.

Dave Schnell is no household name among Indiana University Football fans. In the late 1980s, he produced a 20-13-1 record as the starting quarterback of the Indiana Hoosiers. He is the only quarterback in school history that beat Michigan and Ohio State in the same season. That season was in 1987. Dave Schnell passed away in 2011. He had leukemia. You won’t find his name on the wall in Bloomington. Maybe there should be a petition to put Schnell’s #11 on the side of the Memorial Stadium? No. That is not going to happen. The only number in Indiana Athletic History, including all those championship players coached by Bobby Knight, is #32 worn by Indiana running back Anthony Thompson. If you don’t know this, you won’t know. There is no grand mention to be found. A.T., as he as affectionately known, was a teammate of Dave Schnell. All four years from 1986-1989. ALL FOUR YEARS. Remember those days? Dave Schnell was the one who handed the ball to A.T. Schnell was an Elkhart boy that did good.

Look, when they write the history books one day, providing they hold any truth whatsoever, the age we are living in right now will be subtitled THE AGE OF HYPERBOLE. This due to how things are playing out these days. The age of hyperbole is how we get Shedeur Sanders’ number retired and his name on the side of the stadium. It is a sign of the times. Strange times indeed.

The question left over is can this Sanders kid throw an NFL ball? We have all been fooled before. We thought Ryan Leaf was going to shell the corn. His popcorn was burnt. We thought Jamarcus Russell was going to save the Raiders. He’s the reason NFL rookie contracts have been held in check since. Brock Purdy was Mr. Irrelevant. The last man drafted. He is now a star for the 49ers and earned his Jamarcus Russell-like payday. Remember Tom Brady? If Drew Bledsoe hadn’t been knocked out a game to make way for Tom Brady to take the field, who knows what would have happened?

I thought for sure this afternoon one of my casts while I was fishing in Blue River was a trash cast.

Then a catfish came along to prove me wrong.

Moral of the story: time will tell. I assure you the Age of Hyperbole was nowhere to be found along Blue River this afternoon. I like it that way.

I still remember the first time my dad let me stay up and watch Monday Night Football and I didn’t have to go to bed at halftime. November 20, 1978, when we were living in Brownstown. There was this rookie running back who had won the Heisman Trophy the season before as he led his Texas Longhorns to the 1977 National Championship. Oh yes, we are talking about Earl Campbell. That night, Campbell’s Houston Oilers were taking on the Miami Dolphins in what was only the Oilers’ fourth appearance on Monday Night Football which began in 1970.

I can’t imagine what went through the mind of Miami defensive back, Tim Foley, when he realized he was charged with tackling the thighs of Earl Campbell. One of them was bigger than the 194-pound Foley. The statistician that night should have been fired. That was a 200-yard game. I know it was. I know it was. Luv Ya Blue signs were all over the Astrodome. The Oilers won 35-30 on Monday Night Football that night for the first time. Earl Campbell rushed for 199 yards officially. 202 in the reality of a ten-year-old. Even all those years ago, I knew I was watching something special. It was one of those. There aren’t many. The game lived up to every anticipation. Bob Griese threw for 349 yards and kept the Dolphins close, of course. I think Bob threw 22 touchdowns in 1978. No, I didn’t look that up. I will now. I was a year off. He threw 22 TDs in 1977. He only started 9 games in 1978.

This is the field of my youth. I played on this on this field as a 4th and 5th grader attending Brownstown Central Elementary School. I played for the Bears in 1977. I played for the Oilers in 1978. I hauled in one pass each season, playing tight end. And I tackled a few folks from the defensive end position. I came back to this field in 1981 playing guard and defensive tackle for the North Harrison Cougars Middle School team. We lost badly. I cried on the bus home until we got to Salem. There would be two more trips as a player for me in high school. They were two victories for the road team. Those were enjoyable bus rides home and made some tough times a little better.

I will say it again. This is the field of my youth. Recently I discovered something that I had never known before. My dad coached at Brownstown for twelve years. Never heard a word of this. I am curious. I need to know. I want to visit the spot. Conventional wisdom will tell you that Brownstown Central Football began in 1965 after the great consolidation that was a fashionable move in that day.

In 1912 and 1913, Brownstown High School played football and compiled an 11-1 record. The only game they lost in 1912 was to the defending state champions, Brownsburg. Brownsburg beat Brownstown 169-0 that day. And I thought we did something in 1984 when my North Harrison team beat Brownstown Central 59-0.

These 1912 and 1913 teams played French Lick, Mitchell, North Vernon, Bedford, and Clearspring. They played some of these teams multiple times during these seasons. The 1912 team beat Clearspring 141-0. The two wins over French Lick in 1913 were by scores of 19-0 and 19-12. They beat North Vernon 85-0 that year.

So, what about the 1914 season? Not enough players. The football boys graduated. The football boys. I have never heard that before I just typed it. I have heard “The basketball boys” all my early life and my professional life at Medora, with a sense of “reverence” that just does not hold much weight in 2025.

What’s next? I need to know where they played these games in Brownstown back in 1912 and 1913. I owe them that much. It’s a football way.

Well, here we are. A new writing platform. A new day. The picture above was taken a year and a few months after I began writing my previous endeavor speaktherights-dot-com. speaktherights is no more. You won’t find it. But…that old content is still archived on this new page.

On this day in 2015 pictured above, I was 47 and still convinced that kicking anything less than a 40-yard field goal would be unacceptable, unheard of, unreal. I’m 57 now. If I could kick one 40 yards today, I would think THAT was unreal. I miss it. I really do. Few things in this life have made more sense to me than spending three hours on a football field swinging my leg and watching a ball fly over a goal post. After a while of that, I would punt the ball. Turn it loose at five yards shy of the 50 and watch a nice spiral that came down at the at the 7-yard line and rolled out of bounds at the two. That was a reason to run down the field with a great deal of joy and meaning and do it all over again in the other direction. There was a time on the North Harrison football field when I knew exactly what the ball would do, depending on where the ball landed. I knew every inch of the field.

I was born into a football family. My Dad was a coach. I lived that life. Surrounded by players, characters really, that I will certainly get around to writing stories about. So many players I remember like they would not believe.

The game of football has been great to me. The game of football has been the bane of my life. I don’t know how else to describe it. These are stories we will get to, I assure you. I need to tell these stories for cathartic reasons. Let those chips fall where they may. Some of these stories are glorious. Some are just plain telling and sad. I won’t hold back.

In the process, we will look at every week of the college football season and make those predictions. I have been fortunate to be able to cover Indiana University Football games the last few years from an interesting perspective. Hopefully, that will continue. Either way, I will be in Bloomington to witness what I predict will be a season for the IU Football team that will be every bit as enticing as the 2024 IU Football season. Trust me, I have my reasons. And Paul Finebaum will hate every minute of it!

This is going to be fun. Let’s enjoy it.

If I could put together a soundtrack for this post it would start with the song I am listening to now. Edge of a Dream by Joe Cocker is playing. Yes, the same one I wrote about recently when I spoke of the movie TEACHERS.

Maybe I would play the TRAIN songs This Ain’t Goodbye or The Finish Line. I was playing those two incessantly ten years ago when I knew I was leaving Medora Schools for North Harrison. This is the first time I have mentioned that. But, as was the custom in mornings before school, I walked laps around the basketball court at Medora. Those two TRAIN songs I played over and over again as I walked and readied myself to say goodbye to a place that had been very kind to me. I am glad to say North and I are on great footing these days also.

I just put on Pink Floyd’s The Final Cut. The one that was the last one with Roger Waters. It was time for him to go. I loved the David Gilmour led reclamation in 1987 that was their next album A Momentary Lapse of Reason. One could argue it was the best comeback after a band’s lead singer and songwriter left them high and dry.

There is a theme building here.

This was the first picture I posted on speaktherights.com in July of 2014. On that post I explained the origin of the name speaktherights.com:

Speak the rights really took on a life of its own when I was broadcasting high school football games.  My buddy Gus Stephenson and I had a grand time for a while relaying the plaudits of the athletic endeavors of teenage heroes on the gridiron.  We enjoyed doing so for a number of years until it was time to move on.  When I would agree with Gus at times, I would steal a line from a Shakespearean play where the character says to another: “Thou speak’st aright”. “YOU SPEAK THE RIGHTS, GUS!”

That is where it all started.

This is where it ends.

speaktherights.com took off nicely. I thank those of you who have read consistently. I know I have certainly had fun with it. We have shared stories about family, music, football, school endeavors, travel, golf, politics, and life in general. I have enjoyed it all. I never sat down to write without wanting to do so. This is post number 794 of speaktherights.com. That is a great deal of writing. I know there are over a million words here.

Let me take one more time to thank Dr. Millard Dunn and Dr. Bill Sweigart for helping me understand that my words do matter and that I do happen to know how to craft them without sounding like a complete dunderhead. Teachers matter. Without the two aforementioned gentleman, I have no idea what I would be doing today. They gave me permission to use my voice the way I need to. I have written about them here.

I wrote about Dr. Millard Dunn at length ten years ago. He told me he thought it was a little scary that I knew him so well. I paraphrase there. I only know him because he opened the door for me.

I had no idea that the year I would begin writing the speaktherights.com that my Granny, Floreta Johnson, would fall ill that autumn. I used these pages as a cathartic release.

I wrote more about The Moody Blues than anyone ever wanted to read about. I make no apologies. It was worth it. Their music has had a positive impact on my life. I wish more had listened too.

I have spent more time than a little bit writing about the Indiana Hoosiers Football Team. My disdain for Coach Kevin Wilson. My true affection for Coach Tom Allen. My skepticism turned belief in Coach Curt Cignetti. I have had a nice look at IU Football from the stands, press box and the field.

This photo with my friends Adam Disque, Andrew Evertts, and Russell Harrell is indicative of the IU season last year. This was a special time with these guys.

Family time is special time.

I said I would not use this photo again. WRONG. Thank you, Aunt Barbara. My Ole Miss Football watching buddy has been gone more than a year now. College Football has not been the same. I miss you so much. We covered so much ground the last few years of her life. I am honored and thankful.

I was glad to see Charlie Brown and my Dad hanging out in an old Braves jersey.

Speaking of my Dad, I would not trade this photo for anything. I’ll say it. These were his favorite players at each of his head coaching stops. Barry Hall from Brownstown Central and Kevin Samons from North Harrison. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.

What was better than me and granddaughter Penny watching IU beat Purdue on the laptop this past November in Florida? Nothing. Look at our intensity! This while IU was leading by more than 50.

I can’t do it. There is not enough room.

There is not enough time or room to talk about all the football games, all the travel, all the walks around Walden Pond, all the fun in the classrooms, all the good times.

I will leave you with a few scenes from a great night at The Rose Bowl in 2016.

My Dad turned around as he walked in the tunnel that led us to The Rose Bowl Stadium. It was a dream come true. I always wanted to take my Dad to the home of our January 1st heroes. The UCLA-USC game was the next best thing.

I hope no one ever wonders why I have a soft spot for UCLA and The Rose Bowl.

After all, I was 2 for 2 there (The Rose Bowl).

I know I have left out more folks and loved ones that I can comprehend right now. My speaktherights.com page has more than 3100 pictures in it.

I have been asked which speaktherights.com post is my favorite. That is easy. The post I wrote about my friends in the BROWN family was my favorite. I was there. And I love these guys.

Footballs are BROWN – speaktherights.com

I am moving on to new platform that will be made known. This is last time I will speaktherights.

Know that I have enjoyed it all and I thank you for reading. I am not going away. Keep watching!

It’s worth a look. Yes, I know. It is 41 years old. So am I and 16 more.

School plights have always been popular with movies. Wildcats. Hoosiers. Fame. The Principal. Lean on Me. Mr. Holland’s Opus. Conrack. The Breakfast Club. All the Right Moves. The Paper Chase. Do we need to go on?

No, we don’t need to go on. But we can look at the list we have here and notice most of them were made in the 1980s. The one that means the most to me from this era is the movie TEACHERS. TEACHERS stars Nick Nolte. I have a soft spot for Nick. He played the lead role in Pat Conroy’s novel turned motion picture The Prince of Tides. I hold Pat Conroy and The Prince of Tides with the same regard I have for The Moody Blues and Days of Future Passed. Conroy is that important to me.

Over the years I have watched the movie TEACHERS many times. It is a good one to put on and exercise by. I know what is going to happen, just as I know I need 30 more minutes on the elliptical. This movie keeps me moving. I never give up on it. In turn, this movie never lets me down.

Sure, it is a movie. There are moments that are a little hard to believe. I have been an educator for 30 years and I don’t know a story about a guy from a mental institution posing as a substitute. I never saw a student bite a teacher on the wrist so viciously it drew blood.

Filmed in a school in Columbus, Ohio, there is little externally most of us educators can relate to when we watch this movie. The security guards opening the school in the morning don’t resonate. A student getting shot in the hallway doesn’t resonate, even if he did have a piece in his hand. But we have seen some of the administrators in the movie. We have seen some of the teachers in the movie. We have seen some of the teacher union reps in the movie. We have seen some of the school board members in the movie. Most of all, we have seen some of the students in the movie. Some of it is very real.

What is real for me, as always, is the music. Recently, I finally acquired the soundtrack for this movie on CD. Legal fights and music licensing has made this a tough piece to get a hand on, unless you wanted to part with some serious coin.

I finally found the CD for a decent price. I am listening to it as I type these words. The cassette tape in this picture is an original. It still plays after all these years. I acquired the vinyl a few years ago. On recently did I acquire the CD I have been looking to get for years. You won’t find this on streaming services. The highlights for me on the soundtrack are the songs Understanding by Bob Seger, Teacher, Teacher by 38 Special, and the great Joe Cocker tune On the Edge of a Dream.

I don’t have many musical regrets. That I did not see Joe Cocker sing live is one of them. This tune, On the Edge of a Dream, is one my favorite songs. I never tire of listening to it. I listen to it often. Fortunately, this tune has shown up on Joe Cocker compilations and is easy to find on streaming services. I listen to it more than once every week. I can’t say that about many songs. There is just such a strength to it. Cocker was a soul singer. And on this tune, he brings it all with class and soul and earnest. Had I been in the studio listening to him sing this song, I never would have thought about stepping foot in a studio to sing myself. I guess I am glad I was not there.

Speaking the rights…

Danny Johnson

Editorial Note: I just found out that Joe Cocker will be inducted in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Class of 2025. Too late for Joe to see it.

Looking back doesn’t cost as much as looking forward.  I suppose that is why so many of us do it from time to time.

The story has been conveyed before.  I graduated from high school in 1986.  From that time until the spring of 1991, I was a man with very little direction. As one friend tried to put it, he said I was finding myself.  I disagreed and told him I was right here all along. Through it all, my mind has always been open.  That is no great secret.  At least I hope it is not.  

In and out of school over the course of more than four years, I finally heeded the call to return to academia in earnest thanks to a serendipitous conversation I had with Mrs. Nancy Totten.  Nancy worked at the Indiana University Southeast library and also taught some writing courses, one of which I was a student.  With me, it always circles back around with the process of putting words on a literal or mechanized piece of paper.  

So in the spring of 1991, I was back in school for real this time.  Still unsure of the end game, I felt it.  This was the right thing to do.  Thank God I was paying attention.  

In my life I have never been short on coming across the right person at the right time for inspiration, affirmation, and direction.  This correlates with that open-mindedness we mentioned earlier; I am sure about that.  At the top of the list is Dr. Millard Dunn.  I have written about Millard here on many occasions.  He showed me an English classroom could actually look and sound like one I might be in charge of some day.  The dominoes started to tumble.  The snowball gained momentum and rolled with ease.  All of that sort of stuff.  

Around this time I was in my natural habitat.  I would spend three consecutive falls on a football field as a high school assistant coach.  After deciding on English as a teaching goal, in the fall of 1992 I had my first “field experience”.  This is where the college student is assigned a particular high school to visit and also assigned a particular teacher to observe.  Once again, I was seriously smiled upon.  

“You’re assigned to New Albany High School”, my college professor said.  “Your teacher to observe is Mr. Danny Tieken.  Good luck.”   

With that, I was given an assignment to go to New Albany High School, meet Danny Tieken, and work up a schedule with him that would include a set amount of hours of observation in Mr. Tieken’s classroom.  When I walked into his classroom, I met a short, portly gentleman with a bit of a scraggly beard that he had a habit of scratching at when he spoke to you.  His eyes?  As kind as any set I had ever seen and sincerely interested in everything you too had to say.  I was at ease in a single moment.  Check that box and then, check every other box.  

Within five minutes of conversation, I discovered Mr. Tieken was Coach Tieken.  And we were off.  He called me Coach.  I called him Coach.  I learned more about the vertical passing game sitting at his desk XXXXing and OOOOing than I had ever learned before.  And I thought I knew something.  Our time was special.  I gained even more affirmation that an English classroom could indeed work like I wanted it to.  His rapport with his students was genuine. Again, Coach Tieken was “one of those”.  One of those folks that left an indelible mark on my life.  Every day I was there at New Albany we ate lunch with New Albany legends Don Unruh, Lee Kelly, and Jim Miller.  I had a blast every time we sat together.  I listened and I learned.  I spoke when I was spoken to.  I did not want to get in the way.  I didn’t.

I lost track of how many coaching stops Danny Tieken made.  I was envious.  I don’t get that way.  Head Coach at Dugger, Mitchell, and Brown County, and assistant coach at the likes of New Albany, Bloomington North and Evansville North among others.

Coach Tieken and I would meet up in subsequent years going to coaching meetings.  We then kept up with emails now and again.  Ultimately, we became “friends” all over again on facebook.  

Our last back and forth messages were on March 20th of this year.  I was giving him encouragement, as I knew he was dealing with health issues.  He said he appreciated it and said he was feeling better.

Coach Tieken passed away this past Tuesday.  I was not shocked.  Just sad.  He was one of the good guys. There is a legion of players having a difficult time saying goodbye to their Coach.  They knew him better than I did.

I know. I know. Things aren’t all bad. They just seem that way from moment to moment now and again.

What was not bad this past week was when a senior, at the high school where I work, walked into my office to ask a question. He was dumbfounded when he looked at my office decor and found many Moody Blues related items. Then it was my turn to be dumbfounded when he started rattling off song titles like Melancholy Man, Legend of a Mind, Ride My See-Saw, and Lost in a Lost World. Two of these songs would be considered Moody Blues “deep cuts” I would not expect anyone, besides myself in that building, to have any inkling of. This young man, sporting a Pink Floyd t-shirt, was delighted to know I saw Pink Floyd in concert once. We talked music for a while. In earnest, I am glad the person he came down to talk to was out of the office. This little exchange was a nice piece of punctuation on a week that was more than trying.

Speaking the Rights here on this space is more difficult than it used to be. I blame that on myself. The political climate and our country’s willing attack on the democratic process has really had me down. My writing habits have never been ones you could call negative. I prefer optimism. Seems optimism has lost some of its popularity.

I’ll never get it. As long as I live, I will never get it. Folks burning Tesla automobiles – not smart- are deemed domestic terrorists. Folks beating down the gates and smashing windows of the United States capitol building (January 6th) are considered patriots. This is messed up.

I don’t spend a great deal of time on social media sparring with folks over political issues. That could be a full-time job. They don’t listen anyway. When I think about the folks beholden to Donald Trump, I think about the line in the old 80s movie Some Kind of Wonderful when the foil was getting his. “I can’t do anything to them that haven’t already done to themselves.”

Celebrating some guy (Elon Musk) holding a chainsaw over his head as he brags about the ruination of American families and their ability to sustain rightful, gainful employment is, again, messed up. What is the immigration status of that guy anyway?

When I think about all of this hateful Republican stuff, I hear the old hymn “Send a Great Revival”. That is one of my favorites. Nope. Never mind. Not gonna hold my breath on that. Not when the White House Faith Leader, Paula White, is selling Easter Blessings for $1000 in the name of Donald Trump. This old practice reminds me of the old Hank Williams Jr. song The American Dream. He sings about a preacher on TV in a suit and a tie and a vest. He tells you to send your money to the Lord and he gives you his address. Well, here we go again. My apologies to a real Republican, Ronald Reagan.

See what I mean. This stupidity is unfathomable. More is on the way. Indiana School Board elections are going to be partisan soon. Mark my word. That will be interesting. So far, decorum has ruled the day with non-partisan school board elections. After all, the kids can’t vote, and they are the political football. Non-partisan makes sense. Republicans are in charge in Indianapolis. They don’t make sense. Monkey see monkey do is the copy and paste mentality they are led by. So, when the board elections are partisan, I suppose decorum will go out the window with it. Teachers will be given a license, based on the leadership of the corporation’s ruling board, to hang a Donkey or an Elephant in their rooms. Right? Like I said, so much for decorum.

This was one of the first pictures I put on speaktherights.com over a decade ago. It was a much simpler time. Times like these are what I hope we can return to our youngsters coming up. We can apologize for being the imbeciles that we are and acknowledge that they will, no doubt, do better. No doubt they will be wiser. They are paying attention.

Speaking the rights.

Danny Johnson

I have told the story many times. On March 18, 1983, I walked into the Sears store in Clarksville, Indiana, a place I would come to know well, and found a cassette tape that changed me. This was my Ed Sullivan moment. This was my Buddy Holly moment. I looked down and saw this curious artwork on what, compared to an old vinyl album, looked like a postage stamp. It said: Including Nights in White Satin. I like that song, I thought. On my 15th birthday, I received a gift that has stayed with me all these years on.

As I type these words, I am listening to that exact cassette 42 years later. It still sounds great. I found the music that would be the soundtrack of my life. It still is. Even though I have written and recorded three proper albums. Even though just the last few weeks I have been practicing the most important song I have written this decade, when I listen to The Moody Blues things just seem a little better.

Only a couple of weeks ago, I saw The Moodies’ John Lodge and his band for the first time. I have seen Justin Hayward, and his merry group of players, perform ten shows. This on top of 54 Moody Blues concerts between 1986 and 2017. In 2017, my dear wife, Carrie, and I left The Ryman balcony before the last note of the encore Ride My See-Saw died. Never reaching the end is the way I needed to leave it. From The Other Side of Life to playing Days of Future Passed Live. It was a full circle experience for me that most fans can’t comprehend. But I was there. Was I ever.

So, I turn 57.

The year went by too quickly. I have enjoyed it for the most part. In my 56th year, I saw the Indiana Hoosiers become ultra-significant on the college football landscape for the first time in my life. I didn’t expect to live that long. Thanks goes to Indiana AD Scott Dolson and IU Football Coach Curt Cignetti. My sources tell me that Scott Dolson, who chose Coach Cig, will be able to select the next IU Basketball Coach. Dolson was not afforded that chance the last hiring cycle. I wanted it to work out for Coach Woodson. I watched him play at IU. He was a better college player than he was a college coach.

The fact that the number 56 above is a bit fuzzy is nice symbolism. As a high school football player, the only full-on season I played was in 1982 as a freshman. A back injury stole 1983. That back injury relegated me to punting and kicking in 1984. After a rough start to the season in 1985, I played the last 5 games at center, in addition to kicking and punting. I don’t think it was a completely popular decision at home. The results were there. 2-3 and much more competitive in the losses, after an 0-5 start. We gave the top two teams in the conference a tussle in two of the last three losses. We won the first sectional game ever played at North Harrison in 1985 in the next to last game of the season. All of that seems so far away now. There is probably a reason for that.

What’s next?

We keep pressing onward. I plan on playing my guitar more and listen a little closer for the next song to come into my life. Sometimes there are things you need to do so you can do the things you want to do. On that very special occasion, these two things merge together and change your life for the better. For me, music brings these two worlds together, as long as you do right by the song. Yes, Tim Krekel, your words and your voice still resonate with me.

I suppose one of the greatest gifts I have been bestowed is my audible memory. Between the things people have said to me, the songs that move me, the sports announcers I hear in my head and heart, or listening to Justin Hayward sing Nights in White Satin or Forever Autumn one more time, my ability to listen closely has led me on. Writing songs with no formal training and holding my own in a room with guys I had no business being around, I am thankful for my listening discernment.

Only this week have I found another great Birthday gift. Justin Hayward with Mike Batt and The London Philharmonic Orchestra recorded a version of one my favorite songs from my teenage years. They revisited The Dream Academy’s Life in a Northern Town, and it is a wonderful listen. I never imagined I would hear Justin Hayward sing this song. I am glad he said yes to whomever suggested this recording. It worked.

Full circle. I end this listening to the 2017 Days of Future Passed live recording.

For old time’s sake, I’ll lift the needle before the last note of Ride My See-Saw dies. Never reaching the end.

Speaking the 56-57 rights…

Danny Johnson