As good as my memory is…and if anyone here has read much of anything I have written on these pages you know I have a vault…I still fail miserably at remembering to get to all that I need to in order to make things right.  Well, if not right, a least a little better.

When Doug Rothrock’s Dad passed away I failed to send him an email.  I failed to send him a card.  I failed to call up.  I failed.

What was my excuse?  I read about it online when I was out of town. Of course, I thought, I will get around to getting word to Doug as soon as I get back in town.

If Doug reads this, it will be the first he has heard me make mention of it.  Shame on me.  Don’t ask me how long that has been.  That is even more shameful.

Doug and I went to church together.  Doug and I played softball together.  Doug and I did business together.  I suppose if I had needed a loan, he would have heard from me sooner.  More shame on me.

I have no idea where Mrs. Patti Miller is these days.  She had no idea how a few strokes of a pen helped my ego when I needed it most.  “You are an excellent writer”.  That is what she posted not online…but in my 10th grade high school yearbook some thirty years ago.

Mrs. Miller knew I loved to write.  And guess what?  One of the few things I feel I can actually give my high school credit for…understand I am talking about the school and not the great teachers I had…the school let Mrs. Miller teach a Sports Literature class.  It was the first of its kind and probably the last of its kind.  Why they let Mrs. Miller teach it, I have no earthly idea.  Don’t care.  I do know her sports acumen was limited.  Mine was abundant.  Also abundant was my curiosity with putting words together to both sound good and stir some kind of emotional chords.

I was writing prose.  I was writing poetry.  I had no idea why and very few around could understand why or how I was so attached to my notebooks that housed verse after verse after verse of my attentions of the day.  Well, I guess things have not changed a great deal in thirty years after all.  I was mistaken.

But I was not mistaken by the words that Mrs. Miller put in my yearbook.  They were encouraging words.  I believe they were honest words.  She didn’t have to choose those words.

Though I have not looked upon her handwritten message in many years, I still remember how it is sitting on a page somewhere in my office.  That old yearbook is holding up a great deal of significance.

Words like that matter.  I am fortunate to have other first-hand knowledge.

We’ll call her “Annie”.

Annie was in a 9th grade English class I was teaching and she worked very hard.  She was a fair athlete.  On the track team that spring, she threw the shot-put.  When she found out a meet was going to be held never my old high school…I live nearby…Annie asked that I come to the meet and give her what I call an “inspirational address”.   I gave said address.  Annie broke the school record that day in the shot-put.

When Sectional time came at the end of the season, Annie asked that I I give her another “inspirational address”.  I told her I could not be at the meet.  I then told her I had an even better idea.

What I did was write Annie an inspirational address.  I gave her a pep talk on paper.  The words were in a sealed envelope with her name on it.  I gave her explicit instructions on when to open it along the bus ride…about half way to their destination.

I wish I could report some great result from the Sectional Meet.  I can’t.  I don’t remember what she did.  I do, however, remember her thanking me for my words of encouragement.  I was thankful she was thankful.  Then I went about the rest of my business of the day and probably never gave it another thought for nearly year.

Annie never asked for another inspirational address from me.  I never asked if she wanted or needed another one.

When the Sectional Meet came around at the end of Annie’s sophomore year she participated again.  When the team loaded onto the bus, Annie was carrying a shot put in one hand and a year-old envelope in another.  When the bus driver quizzed Annie about the envelope, she told him it was Mr. Johnson’s “inspirational address”.

The words I never gave Doug Rothrock.

The words Mrs. Miller gave to me.

The words I gave Annie.

They all matter.

So…speak the rights.

Danny Johnson

Our son Jarrett sent us pictures of himself and his lady-friend, the delightful Hillary, today from Nashville, TN where they have spent the day sight-seeing.  Seems they have been having a good time.

Jarrett  got out of the military earlier this year.  He was in the Army.  He was a crew-chief  on a Blackhawk Helicopter and did one year-long stint in Iraq and two deployments in Afghanistan.  He currently works as a consultant for a large company that is in the business of helping the Army with their helicopters.  He has been working at the Kandahar Airfield in Afghanistan.  He  has been on ” leave”, for lack of a better term, and will be going back to work there on July 31st.

Five days shy of exactly four years ago, my dear wife, Carrie, and I were in Nashville to see Paul McCartney sing.

Circumstances led me to write what follows.  This is the first time I have ever published these words, even though they are four years old.

Hey Jude…Let it Be

My dear lovely wife, Carrie, and I were in Nashville, Tennessee recently.  We were there on business.  The business of witnessing history and taking in the songs of the most important singer on planet earth.  We heard Paul McCartney sing.  And did he ever.  Thirty-eight songs.  Five minutes shy of three hours of continuous song…no intermission here.  And I swear during the first thirty-two songs before the first of two three-song encores, the old Beatle never once took a drink of water.

It was the third time Carrie and I had gone to see Sir Paul.  As always…he shelled the corn.

He sang songs recorded over a span of five decades.  Beatles tunes, Wings tunes, solo tunes, Fireman tunes, John Lennon tunes, a George Harrison tune, he sang them all.  I once likened going to a Bob Dylan concert to visiting a museum.  You can listen…but you can’t touch.  Paul McCartney, however, grabs you by the hand and puts you in position to sing back-up.

The first time I ever saw Paul sing was in Indianapolis.  I vividly remember the Conseco Fieldhouse campfire sing-a-long that concluded the song ‘Hey Jude”.  You know the one… where everyone is singing Na-Na Na- Na Na Na- Naaaa.  I remember thinking to myself…if only we could get all the people in the world that are throwing rocks at each in this basketball gym and start singing this together, folks would stop throwing rocks at each other and try to be friends.

I know.  That sounds a bit simplistic.  It is.  But good grief…that moment is so powerful.  Music helps to sustain us.  Even though life sometimes throws us off key in mid-verse, music is there for so many of us to help provide some harmony…even if it is in the background.  For every life does indeed have a soundtrack.

For Carrie and me on this night in Nashville, listening to “Hey Jude” brought on even more gravity this time around as we sang along.  We were also singing right along with Paul as he sang John Lennon’s “All we are saying is Give Peace a Chance”.   The gravity and the rumble in the stomach fell hard during these tunes.  Our son, Jarrett, is flying around in a Chinook helicopter around the mountains of Afghanistan.  He has his legs wrapped around a big gun he holds with both hands around it.  This ain’t no twelve-gauge shot gun.  He’s hanging on to this thing and there are folks around there that, like me, wish he was back home again in Indiana….but they aren’t very nice about it.

Was it tough listening to Paul McCartney singing about peace?  Darn right it was.  But…we need that.  We need that spirit…regardless of what may come.

In the hotel lobby the morning after the concert, my cell phone rang.  It was Jarrett. At the outset of our conversation, I was thinking about how he was on my mind the night before as we sang of peace and hope.

He proceeded to tell me of the crash landing his Chinook made around the time we were having our sing-along with Paul inside the Bridgestone Arena where the biggest battle we faced was jockeying for position at the T-Shirt table.

Jarrett lived to tell the story.  That is the victory I’ll take any day.

Right now I going to find a nice quiet place and listen to “Let It Be”.

Jarrett punching out the Chinook

Your old Uncle Dan remembers when MTV, Music Television, actually played music videos on a regular basis.  I miss that.  You turn on MTV today and who knows what you might find.

A celebrity being treated at a psychiatric facility?  Maybe.

A group of people yelling at each other because they are paid to look like fools in hopes someone may tune in?  Maybe.

Some folks that can’t talk without having every seventh word “bleeped” out even though we know exactly what they are saying?  Maybe.

Hey, I’m no Puritan.  I grew up in a high school football locker room, my Dad was a football coach.   I know all those words.  I’ve used a few of them myself.

What you won’t find much of on MTV is…well…music.

Before I go further, let me say it is a total and complete shame that all this television technology such as HD and Super HD and 3D TV and 6D TV…none of which I have on a television in my house…had to come along when there is so very little for some of us to enjoy on television.

Truth be told, 83% of my television watching comes during football season.  If a football game is on, I am probably watching it.  It can be NFL or NCAA Division II.  I don’t care.  I will watch a football game.  In fact, I have really enjoyed tuning into ESPNSomething to watch a few Canadian Football League games that are already in full swing.  They have to start their season earlier because they want to get their playoffs in before all the football fields in Canada freeze.  They call their championship “The Grey Cup Game”.  This championship has been around a great deal longer than the Super Bowl.

Did you know that the Super Bowl was inspired by the late Kansas City Chief’s owner, Lamar Hunt?  The game was originally called the NFL-AFL Championship Game before the leagues merged in 1970.  Lamar Hunt, as the story goes, had a son playing with a “super ball” in the Hunt’s driveway.  Dink…light bulb over the head… and now we have the Super Bowl.  Pretty cool.

Oh how I miss television.  Things have changed so much in such a short time.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

Me, Jerry, and John K. were over at Mike’s house on a classic 5th grade “sleep-over”.  There we were, sitting in front of the TV watching “The Dukes of Hazzard” on CBS.  Dallas would follow.

I reiterate the fact that I am not a Puritan.  Jerry and Mike were not Puritans either.  Remember how I said I grew up in a football locker room?  Jerry’s brother Jim and Mike’s brother Dave were team captains for my Dad in 1975; enough said.

Still…if you can imagine…as the four of us boys were sitting watching the Dukes with Mike’s parents Leroy and Sarah, we were totally mortified when Boss Hogg called Roscoe a “jackass”.  We boys all froze in our tracks, knowing you just don’t say that in mixed company.  I couldn’t look at Mike’s Mom again for a week.  Am I overreacting?  I don’t think so.  That is the way it was.  Guess what?  I miss those times…those values…and I miss Boss Hogg calling Roscoe a jackass.  If that is as bad as it was gonna get during the 8 o’clock hour, well…we had it made.

Look…I am gainfully employed as a professional educator.  Do you have any idea….have you ever stopped to think…how difficult it is to compete with television these days?  I mean… think about it.  The school is one of the last public harbingers to promote goodness.  If a teacher talks like what the student and the parent heard last night on TV said teacher is in a spot. They should be.

Double Standard City.  That is the fine line that we are dealing with.  The school is still trying to promote values similar to what kids saw on television in the 1970s.  There are dos and don’ts that we all must adhere to in education.  Those same things are nothing but free-for-alls on television and what you will hear elementary school aged kids talk about during lunch may or may not startle you, depending on what is important to you.

What do I miss?

I miss The Midnight Special.  Wolfman Jack bringing us what the people looked like that were singing to us on the radio.  They sounded the same on TV, as they were lip-syncing.

I miss Newhart.  Recently I saw a rerun of an old Newhart where the town was trying to re-think “Ye Old Apple Days”.  Look it up on youtube.  You will laugh.

I miss Monday Night Football.  I still watch it.  But I miss it being SPECIAL.  The one game all of us in America would be watching.  I miss Howard Cosell, Frank Gifford, and Don Meredith.

I miss having just 3 networks.  We all came to school or work the next day talking about what had happened on M*A*S*H the night before.  We had a little more togetherness thanks to our limited choices that have since separated families with limitless choices.

I miss Hill Street Blues.  And I miss the Hill Street Snacks I made and devoured every Thursday as I watched what was happening on ” The Hill”.    I found “The Hill” a couple years ago.  In this picture, my dear wife, Carrie, is standing in front of the mythical Hill St. Station.  Don’t tell anyone…but it is really a police building for the University of Illinois-Chicago on southwest side of town.

Let’s be careful out there.

And while you’re at it…speak the rights.

Danny Johnson

Last summer as my dear wife, Carrie, and I were on vacation in Williamsburg, Virginia.  The place was great to visit.  There is more historical business over there than we have time to talk about.  I can tell you we visited Colonial Willamsburg, Jamestown, and Yorktown.  It was awe-inspiring to witness such historical places.  We are fortunate we had the opportunity to make that trip.

For Carrie this time was not quite as enjoyable as it was for me.  On vacation, mind you, she was rising and shining at 5 am or earlier and putting her nose in a book to study for a test she had to take to put herself in a position to maintain her employment and continue to make progress, as she always does.

Watching her toil over her book work as I rolled out of bed a couple hours after she did while we were on vacation…awkward… I called an audible that I am so glad I made.  It has changed my musical horizon for the better.  The result:  I found another band to listen to and enjoy beside The Moody Blues.  Know this, I have never been much of a “group” guy when listening to music.  I started with “The Bay City Rollers” and have graduated to “The Moody Blues”.  My music shelf is full of solo artists in comparison to musical groups.

So…I called the audible.  The band “Train” was playing at an outdoor barn near Virginia Beach… not far from where we were staying.  I knew Carrie had a couple Train cds.  She enjoyed listening to them.  I thought they were okay.

Regardless, I knew she needed a break from her book studying on vacation.

Enough was enough.

In what Carrie called another one of my “pot-bellied schemes”, I don’t know what that means, I bought tickets the day before the concert to see Train at Virginia Beach.  We went over to the Virginia Beach boardwalk and enjoyed that for all of twenty minutes before a giant storm sent all of us running for cover.  The concert was in doubt.  Finally, it cleared up.

So we went to see Train.  Before they came on two opening acts performed: Gavin Degraw and Michael Franti warmed us all up before Train took the stage and they proceeded to find a permanent place in my musical heart and run a distant second place on my IPOD to The Moodies and and just ahead of Paul McCartney and Tim Krekel on my playlist.

Train is great.  They are the most unpretentious bunch of great musicians I have ever seen. They seem to be like Minnie Pearl, just proud to be there.  And in the process, thanks to a complex sound that can take you up, down, sideways, and to places you didn’t know existed, Train becomes a part of your musical soul; at least they did that for me.  And I feel I am a tough musical nut to crack.

Yesterday my lovely Carrie and I relived our Train days of yesteryear.

Carrie and I were fortunate enough to attend a Train concert at FUNFEST in Kingsport, Tennessee.  We found FUNFEST to be one of the greatest civic-minded events we have ever seen.

The whole town seemed to be involved.  Thanks for sure goes to the Eastman company for helping to bring Train to Kingsport.

Look…our tickets to see Train at this festival concert cost $20 a piece.  40 bucks didn’t cover one of our tickets at Virginia Beach last year.  Thanks again to Eastman (hint…hint).

We were on the 38 yard line of a high school football field last night sitting in our own bag chairs and loving every minute of it.  Mind you, this was not just any high school football stadium.  Hopefully the pictures will add some perspective.

Did I ever expect to love a band from San Francisco?  No.  But it has happened twice.  I have seen Huey Lewis and News three times.  They too are from San Fran.

Still… from Calling All Angels to Drops of Jupiter (brings a tear to my eye) to Drive-By to Hey Soul Sister to This Ain’t Goodbye to The Finish Line to Marry Me to Angel in Blue Jeans to We Were Made for This….these are great songs.  I am so glad Carrie bought a couple Train cds a few years ago.  What a difference it has made.  And thanks to goes to Train for being what they are: any thing but phony.

They speak the rights.

A lady from the Kingsport paper took our picture

before the concert last night.

There was a great crowd there for Train and the opening band from Knoxville, The Dirty Guvvnah’s.Train spoke the rights.

I hear that Train a-coming.

Details this weekend.

This Train really speaks the rights.

Danny Johnson

When I was a youngster, the principal of my elementary school was the most intimidating figure I thought existed on the planet.  His name was Harry Spurgeon.

Looking backwards, I am delighted Mr. Spurgeon was what he was.

One day when I was in kindergarten, I was a little too rambunctious for the teacher’s good.  I was probably fine with it. She was not.  There was almost a hint of devious glee in her voice as she took me to the hallway and left me there to myself for a little while.  Her words are still piercing to my memory cells. She said, before she quickly shut the door, “You better hope Mr. Spurgeon doesn’t find you out here.”  At that moment I was wondering how far a five year old could go on a Greyhound Bus.  I was ready to run.  Fortunately, my teacher had pity on me and allowed me to rejoin the fray in short order.

As much as we feared the man, we loved him also.  By this time his career was winding down; he retired after my 4th grade year.  Our elementary school had 5 grades.

Mr. Spurgeon had a gleam in his eyes when he talked to you.  The truth is…he could not hear very well.  He looked at us and smiled  a great deal.  When you tried to talk to him he would shake his head in agreement….and give you some verbal affirmation.  If he did not have a good feeling about what was being said and needed more information he would yell “WHAT!?”

He always told us to “BE NICE!” when we were eating in the cafeteria.  It just came from nowhere.  “BE NICE!”

“EAT THOSE GREEN BEANS!”  “EAT THAT CORN!”

When he would yell those edicts out, forks and spoons moved at breakneck speed.

He also had a reputation of being a fair swat with the old paddle.  It was said that if Pete Rose could have used Mr. Spurgeon’s paddle as a bat he would hit .450 in 1976.

There are urban legends.  Like how Mr. Spurgeon paddled Craig Lewis for puking on the new carpet.  That never happened.  It just sounded good.

I can tell you, however, it did not feel good in 1978.  It was to be Mr. Spurgeon’s last Springtime to Swing the Paddle.  I capitalize those words in honor.

My dear friend Jerry and I got a personal meeting each with Mr. Spurgeon and his board of education.  I think he gave us three swats each.  What was the crime, you ask?

We got caught chewing gum in music class.  I told you Harry was old school.  Was he ever!  I am in earnest when I say Jerry and I were his last board meetings.  Knowing he paddled half the kids in Brownstown our age or older, we consider ourselves to be the last two home runs.

I don’t regret any of it.  Neither Jerry nor myself had to attend therapy to calm ourselves of Mr. Spurgeon.  Our biggest chore was not letting word get back home about the incident.  Remember when a Dad would say “Whatever you get from the principal at school, it will be much worse when you get home.”  We might as well of signed our own death certificates.

Our folks never found out until years and years later.  Jerry’s Dad died in 1991 (I loved that man).  I know he never found out.

Be nice.  That was the mantra over and over and over again.  Mr. Spurgeon told us to be nice.

I wish more folks could have spent some time with Harry Spurgeon.

I recently had the misfortune of dealing with a lady in a professional setting…a college campus to be exact.  It was her job to assist me.  She gets paid to help folks when they need certain services that are of a clerical nature.  She was nasty.  She was not nice.

Her directions were not clear.  Her posture, her voice, and her attitude all matched: mean.  She had a secretary I talked to on the phone and she had emailed me some stuff.  That same lady was there trying to be helpful as that old battleaxe…oops…I know, I need to be nice.

I will be nice.  I think I am going to send that lady’s secretary a sympathy card.

Today and tomorrow do us all a favor: “BE NICE!”

As we…speak the rights.

Danny Johnson

Ratings.  Most ratings are a bunch of hogwash, the best that I can tell.

Music critics try to rate albums…it is their job to be, well… critics.  How do you think that’s gonna work out?  I read a critic that once called Justin Hayward of the Moody Blues vocal style “basset hound sounding”.  This is a man crying out for a punch in the stomach.

My dear wife, Carrie, and I stayed at a place in the Berkshires this summer that had a 3.6 rating out of 5 according to multiple internet rankings.  We thought the place was a 6.  Guess we are just not as hard to please as others.

Football season is coming on.  I have decided to rate the best football stadiums, be they college or pro, that I have seen the game played in.  I am doing this in part because living in Southern Indiana can be depressing if you are a football fan.  I made the mistake of watching the local (Louisville Market) news at 6 PM today and when they came to sports the two lead stories were about college basketball.  Hel-lo!  Football season is just around the corner.  Why are you making me listen to Tom Crean talk about IU Basketball?   It is a long time before I will walk out to get the morning paper and be able to see my breath.

Blessed is a good word to describe my travels to different stadiums across the country.

Before I get into the best, let me just point out and try to forget about a couple of the worst.

Worst:  University of Louisville’s Papa John’s Cardinal Stadium.  Why?  Because they sell beer and hard liquor at a college football game.  If someone is going to partake, they should be given the option of sneaking it in knowing it is not available at the concession stand.  Though I do not practice said option, it only makes sense.  Also, how many times do we need to see a capital D held up next to a faux picket fence?  That is so yesterday…but you will find plenty of them in Papa John’s Cardinal Pool Hall.

Worst #2:  University of Kentucky’s Commonwealth Stadium.  Why?  Because fans talk too much about basketball during a football game.

Now…on to the good stuff.

The speaktherights.com top ten college or pro football stadiums:

#10  Cincinnati Bengal’s Riverfront Stadium 1970 to 1999.  Why?  Because I watched Ken Anderson play quarterback there.  I saw his last start there in 1985.  The pro game changed for me after that.

#9  University of New Hampshire’s Cowell Stadium, Durham, NH.  Why?  It is small.  There are no lights.  If you kick off at noon you better play fast.  It gets dark in New Hampshire in a hurry in November.  Also…folks will pass around a plate of hot fresh cut french fries for no other reason than to offer them to you.  I passed the plate.  But it was nice of them to offer.

A great place to watch a game. UNH Wildcats.

#8  Minnesota Viking’s Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome 1982 to 2013, Minneapolis, MN.  Why?  I saw Brett Favre heave a great pass or two there in 2009.  Like the RCA Dome, the Metrodome was LOUD!  The had a great song to sing “Skol Vikings!” every time something good happened for the Norsemen…and the people there were just glad to be indoors having a good time.

#7  University of Tennessee’s Neyland Stadium, Knoxville, TN.  Why?  Even though my Ole Miss Rebels got creamed, it was cool to hear as much enthusiasm for one song, “Rocky Top”, in the fourth quarter as it had in the first quarter.  The close quarters of Neyland Stadium have caused some to call it “One Cheek Hill”.  Sitting is a challenge at times.

#6  Ole Miss’ Vaught-Hemingway Stadium, Oxford, MS.  Why?  If for no other reason, to listen to the locals break out in the “Hotty Toddy!” chant.  It is a thing to behold, especially if the Rebels are obviously going to win.  I saw Eli Manning throw for over 390 yards against South Carolina in a 43-40 win his senior year.  My Aunt Barbara and I have seen a few games there together.  That is even more fun.  The sight lines are not the best as the seats along the sidelines go out more than they go up.  Regardless.  This is a special place for anyone who loves college football.

#5 Mississippi Veteran’s Memorial Stadium, Jackson, MS.  Why?  The sight lines are better than they are in Oxford.  The Rebels don’t play here anymore, which is a shame.  Have seen both college and pro games here and it is just a great place to watch a football game.  A horseshoe design, the stadium is easy to negotiate throughout.  High on my nostalgia list just because of the Rebels and my family in the area.  Would like to go back some day.

#4  The Hoosier/RCA Dome in Indianapolis.  Why?  It was a great place for Indiana to start a pro football team, although we stole this one from Baltimore.  The Dome was loud.  The dome was filled with excitement and people were piled on top of each other…which was great when Peyton Manning was playing quarterback and we were all having a good time.  I have not been to Lucas Oil Stadium…it looks like such a big barn compared to the confines of the Hoosier Dome.  It is gone now, and I miss it.

#3  The Joan.  Marshall University’s Joan C. Edwards Stadium in Huntington, WV.  Why?  While not the most historical, maybe one of the most special.  Why?  The people there have a connection with their program like none other I have seen.  Is The Joan filled every game?  No, not even close.  But witness once the “We Are Marshall!” chant and you too will be hooked.  It’s about the town as much as the stadium…which is in the town.  Everywhere you go in Huntington people are talking football.  The fans can be serious grumps too.  They like things to go their way and will raise heck if they think they know how to do it better, which is…all the time.  Can’t wait to go back this year.

A Game vs. East Carolina.  Go Herd!

Marshall at home vs WVU 2010…the largest crowd in Marshall history.

#2  Notre Dame Stadium, South Bend, IN  Why?  Wake up the echoes!  That is why.  Though I have never been a great Notre Dame fan, I was elated to be there last November with my Dad as the Irish handled BYU in snow and COLD.  Thought I was gonna freeze.  Dad smiled and bounced up and down through it all.  History?  You will find it here.  Be it the statues around the stadium or looking in the direction of a piece of real estate that reminds you of what happened during the game in the decade of your choice is humbling…at least it was to me.

Wake Up the Echoes.

#1  Indiana University’s Memorial Stadium, Bloomington, IN.  Why?  Good question.  If you go there to watch a game you will know why.  If you are lucky enough to be there when the Hoosiers win a game against an opponent other than Pea Ridge State or Squash Hollow Tech, it is a great deal of fun.  I was there in the best of times…the late 1980s when Anthony Thompson actually ran better than his legend has.  Bottom line:  It is the best place to physically watch a game.  The sight lines are great.  The place has a concave design that gravitates to the middle.  The rows go up instead of out.  When you walk out of one of the tunnels to get to view level you feel like you just opened a great present in front of you.  The best football?  What do you think? It’s IU.  Still, it is the best place to watch a football game if your stomach can handle it.

IU vs. Minnesota 2013.  The Gophers won’t be back until 2018.

IU vs. Iowa in 2010.  The Iowa game in 1988 was the greatest college football game I have ever seen.  Indiana won 45-34.  Iowa’s quarterback threw for 551 yards.  What can I say, I like offense.

We spoke the rights.

Danny Johnson

Tonight is the Major League All-Star Game.  It is the traditional game that pits the National League All-Stars against the American League All-Stars of Major League Baseball.

The notion of a Major League All-Star team is kind of oxymoronic to me.  Given there are so many minor league teams out there…look it up…it will amaze you, it seems to me that any player making a major league roster is somewhat of an All-Star.

Still, I know, they have to play an All-Star game and every year there are clear cut selections to the team, head scratching selections to the team, and questions as to why some guys were left off the team.  No wonder these little league all-stars have the problem they do…they are already trying to be like major- leaguers…at least their Dads are.

For me the 1979 Major League All-Star Game still holds forth in my memory unlike any other I can remember.  Though I do remember one ended in a tie about a decade ago and seems like Dave Concepcion or was it Ken Griffey…hit a homer at Dodger Stadium and won the MVP Award in 1982… I think.  I’ll have to look that up.

On July 4th 1979, a midst fireworks in the background, I was part of a moving caravan that moved my great-grandmother from her house on Bridge Street in Brownstown, Indiana to a house next door to her son (my grandfather) on Alma Street in Shreveport, Louisiana.  My grandfather and I were in a U-Haul truck; it was no big deal as my grandfather was a commercial truck driver.  My grandmother and her mother were in a Dodge pick-up truck with a cab on it.  My great-grandmother, whom we were moving, was in a Cadillac with Illinois license plates that belonged to her other son.  He was driving his mother down along with his son.

If you are keeping score I was in the midst of two great-grandmothers, one grandmother, one grandfather, one great uncle, and one second cousin.  It was a real good time.

After the move was finished, I stayed in Shreveport with my grandparents.  It was a bit of a strategic move, I suppose, on the part of my parents.

My Dad was looking for another job at the time.  My mom was looking forward to selling our house in Brownstown.  It was most convenient for all involved if I was 800 miles away.  I was.  I I was in Shreveport.   And I was there for a good while.

Earlier in that same year, March to be more specific, my Dad was told he could no longer be the head football coach of the Brownstown Central Braves.  Dad wanted to continue coaching and I am glad that he did.

On July 17th, 1979,  the  Major League All-Star Game was being played in the Kingdome in Seattle, Washington…the then home field of the Seattle Mariners.

The phone rang at 1439 Alma Street in Shreveport as I was watching the All-Star game with my grandmother.  It was my Dad.  He called to tell me that we were moving to Harrison County,  Indiana.  He was to be named the new head football coach at North Harrison High School.  I was puzzled…not sure where he was talking about.

“Remember the place we went to last basketball season.  That old cracker-box of gym with the rims you made fun because they shook so much.” he said.

Well, I did remember.  I ended up graduating from high school in that same cracker-box in Nineteen hundred and eighty-six.

I also told Dad under no uncertain terms that we would go back to Brownstown and “kick their …uh…butt.”  I was eleven at the time.  It was the first time I ever used such language so freely when speaking to my father.  But…we did.  In 1982 we took a 6-1 North Harrison team into Brownstown’s Blevins Stadium to take on a 7-0 Brownstown team that was ranked #3 in their class.  We won 27-14.  It still ranks as the most impressive win in North Harrison history.  I was a freshman player on the team.

As vivid as that 1982 football game is in my mind, none of it stands out like the throw Dave Parker made from right field to get Brian Downing out at the plate to help the National League preserve a 7 to 6 victory in the 1979 All-Star Game.

That is why I am going to turn this computer off now and go find a piece of 1979…if only in my mind…as I watch a little All-Star game action.  They are in the bottom of the third and the American League is leading 3 to 2.  Where is Dave Parker when you need him?

Danny Johnson

When I first saw this page a few hours ago as it appeared to me as a mental picture, I thought for sure I would be writing about toilets.  My dear wife, Carrie, pokes a little bit of fun in my direction because of a word I use whilst trying to be proper when asking where I can relieve myself… shall we say.  I can’t help it.

Today was no different.  While at a place of professional business, I asked a receptionist if there was a “facility” handy.  She looked at me and asked, “Is there a what?”

Of course this throws one’s attempt at subtlety straight down the toilet.  After a little bit of coaching, and some slight embarrassment on both of our parts, I was correctly directed to the room I needed at the time.

How I got from there to wanting to share a poem may be beyond psychological help.  Still, that is where I am.

Where do you come up that stuff to write about?  That is a question I have been asked on a regular basis since I was in high school.  Answer:  I don’t know.  I would really like to think it is more a matter of inspiration finding me than my looking for it.  A partnership is in the mix somewhere, for sure.

I enjoy writing.  All kinds of it.  Songs, poems, these little columns; I even wrote a 74 thousand word novel.  It is unpublished mind you…until the right treatment for it comes along (if ever).

A few reports have already come down the line that I will tire of this (blogging) in three weeks time and not have enough steam to keep it up during football season.  Hopefully more about football will be written then!

In earnest, I have been looking for this writing chance again for some time.  In my first post, “Why Speak the Rights?”,  I gave my dear wife, Carrie, thanks for inspiring me to write more again.  Now I must give her the credit too.  She doesn’t want it, mind you.  But it certainly doesn’t belong to me.  So, I’ll just thank the Good Lord for giving me the opportunity and the ability to share.

In my younger days I fancied poetic verse over all others.  The romance of it all, I suppose.  We all have passions that run so wild when we are young.  To this day my favorite poem is by James Wright.  The poem is called “Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio.”  It is a poem that melds the human condition and the game of football, unlike anything I have ever read. I have always loved football.  If you played and still love this game, you understand what the term “suicidally beautiful”…with all apologizes to that word’s use in other connotation…can begin to mean and you celebrate it!

The following poem is of a brighter nature.  I wrote it in March 2012 as I was looking at the Atlantic Ocean off a lovely porch in North Carolina.

Carrie and I visit the North Carolina shore…one little piece of it in particular…as often as we can.  The two or three times a year we get down there is much more than we deserve.  Such a sentiment brought forth…Ocean Visit.

OCEAN VISIT

My spirit is lifted                                                                                                                                     My breath purposeful                                                                                                                              My eyes see colors                                                                                                                              They will not see again                                                                                                                          Unless they return                                                                                                                                   Hope and pray they will                                                                                                                         When I close my eyes                                                                                                                          When I ignore my breath                                                                                                                      A serenity greater still                                                                                                                          Overcomes my soul                                                                                                                              Thus the sounds of the                                                                                                                           Wind acquiring my ears                                                                                                                      Pelicans that swoop and glide in formation                                                                                        Waves that sing in and out                                                                                                                  And occasionally crash about

March 29, 2012

Danny Johnson

Tim Krekel …friend and music master

The Dubois County Bombers baseball team had a game tonight against the Madisonville Miners.  My dear wife, Carrie, and I were in attendance in the small town of Huntingburg, Indiana in Dubois County.  Also with us were our two sons Jarrett and Cody, and Carrie’s brother Stevarino.   It was a hot night for baseball with a temp well into the 90s at the 6 PM first pitch.  A cold front is on the way now as it is after 10 PM.

The Bombers were winning after 7 innings by the score of 6 to 3.  Minor League Baseball, even a college league game like the one we saw tonight, is usually a great thing to behold.  Though we have not been there but a few times, the visit to League Stadium where the Bombers play is a treat.  It was the “home stadium” of the Rockford Peaches in the movie about women playing baseball during World War II.  The movie was called “A League of Their Own”.

In between innings there is usually some wholesome tom-foolery going like a musical chairs contest or kids trying to hit the most water balloons…or the obligatory musical numbers that play before the next batter.

Tonight the song “I Can Help” by Billy Swan was playing in between innings.  I can say that other than the music I listened to in church…we actually talked about Zacchaeus this morning during preaching, you probably remember the song about the “wee little man”…Billy Swan’s 1974 hit song “I Can Help” is THEE song that caught my attention and opened up a new world of sound for me.  I was six years old when I heard that song the first time.  It left me wanting to hear it over and over and over and over again.  I stayed as close to the radio as I could.

There is a guitar lick in the middle of the song that repeats a couple of times.  If you know the song, you can hear it now.  If you don’t know it, well, it’s not hard to find these days.  It would be worth listening to.

Though it is a very long story and one I will no doubt divulge one of these days,  I, at the age of thirty, began to write words and music to go along with them and eventually did some recording.  I still enjoy playing immensely.  I pick up my guitar often.  My guitar playing  prowess is nothing like I wish it was.  Seems every time I pick up the guitar I want to write a song.  I have let others do the heavy guitar lifting.  My favorite guitar player to play on my material was a guy called Tim Krekel.

If you have heard the studio version of Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” you have heard Tim Krekel play guitar. His handy work is all over Buffett’s “Son of a Son of a Sailor” album.  I add this reference for the sake of mainstream recognition.  Tim was much more than this.  He was one of the greatest guitar players I have ever seen or heard.  He was economical in his playing.  He could get a great deal out of minimal effort.  He was a virtuoso of the rock and roll guitar. He was also a gifted songwriter and released many great solo efforts.   Look into it.  You won’t be disappointed.

Tim Krekel had recorded some albums with my friend Jeff Carpenter.  When Jeff knew I was wanting to get back in the studio to record another cd,  he told drummer Mike Alger I was down for another session of recordings.  Tim Krekel was in the room.  He asked if I was the guy that recorded a song called “The Lewis Grizzard Highway”…as it gotten some local airplay on the public radio station in Louisville.  Jeff told Tim I was that guy.  He then asked Jeff if he could talk to me about playing on and producing my next cd during those recording sessions.  I have never been so flattered in all my musical life.

One day, late in the recording process, after all the rhythm  tracks were finished, Tim, Jeff, and I were sitting in the studio chewing the fat as we were trying to decide what direction we were going to take some of the numbers.  Tim scratched his scraggly little beard and said, “I got a call from Billy Swan last night.  He said he’s tired of the L.A. scene and he is moving back to Nashville.”

I immediately quizzed Tim about Billy Swan.  It turned out that Tim played lead guitar for Billy as they toured Europe with Willie Nelson in 1974 and Tim routinely played the guitar lick on the song that changed my life.  And here we were in a recording studio together.

Tim produced my finest musical recording work.  “The Best Thing You Did Yesterday” is a cd with my name on it.  It was a finished product thanks to Tim Krekel and Jeff Carpenter….the best recording partners a guy could ever ask for.

Tim Krekel died of cancer on June 24th, 2009.  Carrie and I saw him on his wedding day, June 14th, 2009.  We told him we loved him.

In his music, Tim Krekel always spoke the rights.

Danny Johnson