Rusty Stroupe

I have attended many baseball games in my life. Though I could speak of winning pitchers, dramatic homeruns, and dazzling catches- I have decided instead to use valuable column space to share with you some experiences I have had with foul balls. And if you’re still reading at the end, there will be a point to this column.
My first foul ball encounter occurred when I was eleven and my parents took me to see my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates play. At one point during pre-game batting practice, Manny Sanguillen- one of my favorite players- lifted a foul ball near the left field foul line that magically guided itself directly toward my personal space on planet Earth.
Every child’s dream. The fact I wasn’t wearing my glove was irrelevant. I was about to catch my first foul ball.
At about the same time my eyes recognized the distinctive red seams of a baseball, the self-preservation area of my brain secreted a message to the rest of my body, causing that body to bail out and duck for cover. A split second later the ball struck the seat behind me and bounced back onto the playing field. I was crushed and embarrassed.
Some twenty years later I was attending a jam packed high school state playoff baseball game and decided to place my folding chair on a hill far down the right field line so I could be alone and peacefully evaluate some players I was recruiting.
About midway through the game, a player stroked a line drive foul ball in my direction. I calculated the odds of a ball striking a person sitting all by himself to be extremely low and concluded that the best thing to do was not move and play it cool.
A millisecond before would-be impact, my brain again secreted survival waves and I moved my head slightly to the right just in time to avoid a natural disaster. Most of the crowd laughed while a few hissed at the “cowardly moron” sitting by himself who didn’t have the sense to get up and move when a line drive was headed his way.
And so the saga continued. Until a recent high school JV game in which my son was playing. While I was sitting in the bleachers, a foul ball was launched high into the air and appeared to be descending in my vicinity. Again, knowing the odds were against it landing on me, I kept my seat as usual.
But the ball, my right hand, and destiny would all meet in one dramatic instant. I reached up at the last moment and the ball stuck like glue in the palm of my hand. I tossed it back onto the field as an impressed crowd observed.
A friend a few rows away yelled, “Hey, you can mark that off your list just like catching a (miniature) football from a cheerleader!” Maybe she has a point, I thought.
So as soon as possible I checked the “To Do Before I Die (Bucket List)” on my laptop and there it was, bigger than life: “Catch a foul ball in the air at a baseball game.” As I crossed it off the list, I couldn’t help but think that Manny Sanguillen would be proud, even if it was almost forty years late.

It has become apparent to me that you, the reading public, are in need of a “Flash” fix. Of all the subjects I have written about, the Stroupe family dog Flash has gotten the most response.
And though I am not one to cave in to the whims of a fickle public, I have decided in this case to quench your thirst for more by incorporating an occasional update which will furthermore be known as the Flash Report.
Flash is quite the icon these days. Neighbors ride by and wave at her in the front yard all the time. She just sits there, not realizing why human types raise their arms above their heads and wave their hands back and forth when they see her. Unable to understand or respond, she simply stares.
Even the UPS delivery woman is familiar with our dog. She told my wife recently, “I felt safe to leave it on the porch because I didn’t see Flash outside.” Apparently she knows Flash from the newspaper.
The relationship between Flash and deliveries to our home is the main topic of this week’s Flash Report. Flash, like the Grinch, nearly stole Christmas.
As you may remember, Flash has the unpleasant habit of chewing and destroying most anything she can sink her teeth into. Examples include plastic water bottles, Penny (her stuffed tiger), six bags of mulch, the stuffing of her bed, and three of those spigot covers we use for winterizing our pipes.
She also chewed up the first 38 chapters of Genesis from one of our Bibles. That’s what I call digging into the Word. Even so, it did not deliver her from further temptation.
Christmas was particularly challenging. She intercepted a front porch shipment of those free trial fluorescent light bulbs Duke Power has been sending out. She got a hold of a box containing two pair of shoes. When we opened the tattered box, it held three shoes. The fourth was discovered in the side yard, salvageable but traumatized.
When one important shipment was way overdue, a search revealed an expensive hat in a bush next to a couple thousand pieces of cardboard that had previously served as a box.
We’ve held our breath on several occasions, hoping that the recipient of a particular gift would not notice the teeth marks in the item.
We were advised to put a cooler on our front porch near the front door with a sign attached that reminded delivery folks to place items in the cooler. Not to be defeated, Flash ripped up the sign and went straight back to her pillaging.
That was the breaking point. I decided something drastic had to be done. I took immediate and deliberate action- I made a new sign and taped it high enough on the front door where a dog couldn’t get to it.
Now that the holiday season is over, the sign and the cooler have both been removed- but the menace remains. After hearing the doorbell ring recently, I opened the front door and observed the delivery lady and the dog playing together in the front yard. “Don’t trust her,” I said.
But it was too late. Like the neighbors and the reading public, the delivery lady was charmed by Flash’s magic. While the Stroupes are left to clean up the messes.

It happened one afternoon when I was a teenager a few months away from receiving my coveted driver’s license.
On that particular day, I was perched in the front seat next to one of my friends in a truck driven by his father. We came to a stop sign and my friend’s dad never slowed down but kept on truckin’ right past the sign.
The stunned look on my face begged an answer, so my friend quickly explained, “He doesn’t think that stop sign should be there.”
Thus began one of my first informal training sessions in Driver’s Ed. It’s a wonder I ever survived to see high school graduation.
Over the years I have developed my own philosophy of driving, which I am more than willing to share with my sons. My middle son recently completed Driver’s Education and for now, he’s my responsibility on the road as I ride along in the passenger’s seat.
He’s extremely cautious, which is a positive, but also leads me to admonish him to “give it a little juice” from time to time- which does not go over well with Mom. But I feel like I’m doing a fine job instructing the chap. I have trained him to complete the following phrases:
Dad: Know all the rules and assume everyone else . . .
Son: Has forgotten them.
Dad: Never text and drive but assume . . .
Son: Everyone else is dumb enough to be texting and driving, especially teenagers like me.
Dad: Never be an idiot behind the wheel, but assume . . .
Son: Everyone else I meet on the road is an idiot.
Dad: Never drink and drive, but assume . . .
Son: Everyone else I meet on the road is drunk.
Dad: If you ever drink and drive . . .
Son: First you will take my license and then you will castrate me.
(The first time I said that he ran to the dictionary to see what it meant.)
I think kids these days have it a little easier than we did in my day when it comes to driving and such. We had to use either maps or some vague sense of direction to find our way. They have GPS.
We had to turn the radio station with a knob while we were driving (not a good idea) and they can press one button and it goes straight to their favorite tunes. They have cruise control and we had a sore right foot. They have automatic transmissions where we had to learn to operate a clutch and grind the gears. (But they can’t catch second gear like we did.)
They have cellphones if their car breaks down. I had to walk two miles in the rain to a friend’s house to call home when the truck I was driving broke down. (Long story, one I still don’t like to mention to my dad.)
Regardless, I’m proud of my middle son’s driving. He comes to a complete halt at stop signs (even if he doesn’t think they should be there) and obeys the speed limit obsessively. So forgive us if we’re a little tardy now and then. The kid is just being safe and assuming everyone else on the road is an idiot. Just like his old man taught him.

I don’t do politics in this column. And I certainly don’t endorse candidates in my 550- word-space each week. Not to say people won’t encourage me from time to time to speak on the issues. Take a stand and stick to it, they might say.
I’m not afraid to take a stand on issues. But in case you haven’t noticed, my little column is best described as a humor/insight column that is sometimes lacking in both in the opinions of some.
Even so, I admire people who take a stand and aren’t afraid to put their views out there for the inevitable criticism. People can talk all they want to about how our politicians in this country are crooked. Unfortunately, some deserve the label. But in general, I admire their bravery to stand up.
If they stand up against their party occasionally, I respect them. If they go against popular opinion in the name of what is right, I applaud them. But if they spew rhetoric, debasing and personally vilifying everyone that disagrees with them, I am turned off.
Speaking of turned off, that’s what I want to do to my television when the pundits all start talking at the same time and hurl insults and dirty names at each other. Seems many are incapable of carrying on a rational discussion. Turn on the tube and scan for ten minutes and you’ll see what I’m talking about.
Take, for example, the Democrat Congresswoman who was shot in Arizona recently. Despite an outpouring of love and support from across the country, there are those who want to get their faces on TV and talk about how it’s her opponent’s party’s fault that she got shot because of the “atmosphere they have created” in this country.
Here’s my opinion, for what it’s worth. The atmosphere created exists mainly in our government, not among the vast majority of Americans- who simply want positive and effective representation.
Most of us red, white, and blue Americans admire people for their character, not for their political affiliation. But some of the pundits have created a situation where even politicians themselves are scared to compliment members of opposing parties for fear that it will give their opponent credibility as a human being.
I don’t care whether Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords is a Democrat, Republican, Independent, or whatever. She’s an American. And she was doing her job representing and interacting with her constituents when she was shot. Unfortunately innocent others were hurt and several died.
There are some out there who want to blame Republicans for the shooting as much as the lunatic who did it. And others would be irritated that by humanizing her and offering my deep respect for her- and by opining that the President gave a fine speech after the incident- that I am somehow advancing liberalism and harming conservative causes.
If you adhere to either of these two opinions, I’m going to step out on a limb here and say that you are in the vast minority in this country. Most of us red-blooded Americans care about people more than we do parties. And we want all the rhetoric to cease so our representatives can get something done that will benefit all of us.
That’s my stand and I’m sticking to it.

The weather’s been misbehaving lately. I’m not complaining, mind you, because I enjoy me some winter wonderland weather as much as the next guy, as long as it’s gone by college baseball season. Some thoughts: Observation #1: The more snow, the more snow cream. I am currently enjoying my fourth batch of the stuff even at the moment. And better yet, the kids do the collecting so I have remained warm and toasty inside while they gather. I don’t know how fattening snow cream is, but at this particular moment, I don’t give a rip. Observation #2: Snow cream collecting requires more talent than it did before we got a dog. Flash’s “movements” are clearly visible in the snow (it seems I’m the only one grossed out by this) so the kids have to be reminded that the snow cream should be entirely vanilla with no lemon or chocolate flavor from outside mixed in. Observation #3: Video gaming systems are some of the absolute best things ever invented. Okay, I know we’re supposed to lament how the younger generation is going to the pits what with all the Playstation, Wii, and computer game junk these days. And snow days provide the perfect opportunity for the family to gather by the fireplace and read classic novels, discuss politics, and talk about our dreams for the future. But the reality is different for most of us. And the games can keep stuck-at-home school kids busy for hours at a time. I know this observation doesn’t get me Father of the Year, but would it help your opinion of me to know that I grab a control stick and play along sometimes? Observation #4: The older you get, the more you enjoy watching the snow more than playing in it. I can’t hurl snowballs with near as much accuracy and velocity as I used to so I stay inside. And in my younger days, I slid around in my truck in empty parking lots for a cheap thrill. I still give it a try now, but I’m way too careful for it to be any fun. Observation #5: The reporters and commentators on TV say the same stuff over and over every time there’s a winter weather outbreak. Example: Bob: Let’s check in with Jane out on I-99. Hey Jane. Jane: Hey, Bob, they’re gearing up out here. The city has 763 trucks rolling and officials say they’ve poured 43 billion tons of salt on the highways and byways in preparation for this storm. Bob: Thanks, Jane, and remember folks, the D.O.T. says not to get out on the road unless you absolutely have to. Here’s some footage of somebody who didn’t take that advice. Now, let’s check in with Bill. Bill: I’m here outside the supermarket, Bob, where the manager says it’s been a mad rush throughout the day as shoppers flock to the milk and bread sections. And I just left the hardware store where they now say they’ve run out of snow shovels, tire chains, sleds, and generators. Bob: Wow! That’s amazing, Bill. (No, what is amazing is that the same exact conversation as above has occurred sixty thousand times on TV since 1956.) Gotta go. Gotta finish my snow cream before it melts. (Vanilla only, no chocolate, please

As you may already know, my profession is that of a coach. This writing thing is a hobby of mine, therefore I have vowed not to turn this space in the paper into another sports column. But sometimes sports and life intersect, which is the case this time of year as it pertains to the college football bowl phenomenon.
First let me say that I am a fan of college sports, football being right at the top of my list. And I’ve been to a bowl game before and loved it, so don’t say I’m sour about the whole deal.
My purpose is not to criticize, but simply to make observations. Let’s take it from the top.
TOO MANY MEN ON THE FIELD- My senior year of high school (1981-82), there were 15 bowl games (30 teams). Nowadays there are 35 bowl games, meaning 70 teams will play in a bowl and only 50 Division I teams will stay home for the holidays. You don’t even have to have a winning season to go bowling. Some teams finish 6-7 after losing a bowl game.
DELAY OF GAME- Most teams finish in November but they don’t play a bowl game until several weeks later. The two teams in the championship game haven’t played since December 4 (37 days). Coaches like it because it gives them over five weeks of extra practice, but I bet the coach’s families don’t appreciate it so much.
ILLEGAL SPREAD- The first of the 35 bowl games starts on December 18 and the last doesn’t end until January 10. That’s 24 days of bowl games. They used to all take place on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day. Now 29 bowl games are played on days other than January 1. Sports junkies love it, but it drives common housewives batty. And there may be a shortage of sports junkies because I noticed a lot of empty seats in the background at some of the bowl games.
PERSONNEL FOUL- Coaches who are asked to depart at the end of the regular season are rarely invited to stick around the extra 4-5 weeks to coach in the bowl games, which leads to an interesting dilemma for some schools: Who coaches in the big game?- an irritated lame-duck coach, an auditioning assistant, or an incoming new coach whose name the players can’t even pronounce yet.
MEDIA TIMEOUT- When I was growing up, the bowls had simple names, often involving a fruit such as the Peach Bowl or the Orange Bowl. Other plants like the Rose, Cotton, and Sugar were represented, too. Some of them are still around today, but you have to look pretty hard to find their names in the title due to all the sponsors. Did you see the Franklin American Mortgage Music City Bowl? It was a great game but try fitting all that on a t-shirt.
OVERTIME- Even with the new BCS system (I’m nowhere near smart enough to figure it out), the national championship could still be decided the next day in the newspaper like it was in 2004 when the coaches selected one team to be champions and the writers selected another. Can anyone besides Jim Mora say playoffs? Playoffs? PLAYOFFS?
Gotta run. The BBVA (Banco Bilbao Vizcaya Argentaria) Compass Bowl is about to start.

The beginning of a new year. Yet another opportunity to present to you my annual list of resolutions. First, let’s take a look at last year’s list and see how I fared.
I was not invited to a White House Beer Summit so I wasn’t afforded the opportunity to order a Caffeine Free Diet Sun Drop at said event. So that resolve is neither a success nor a failure. But I guess not being invited to a Beer Summit indicates that I haven’t been in trouble. For now at least.
As promised, I didn’t grab a black snake in the grass like a friend of mine did and I didn’t donate one of my kidneys to someone, only to ask for it back a few months later. (Someone actually did that in 2009). And I didn’t complain about the mispronunciation and misspelling of my last name last year. So I did pretty well in 2010.
That brings us to 2011, the Year of the Rabbit or the Year of the Forests, depending on whom you ask.
I, Rusty Stroupe, (pronounced Strap), hereby commit to the following resolutions in the Year of the Rabbit:
I will not, under any circumstances, attend the Cricket World Cup in India in February, the Rugby World Cup in New Zealand in September, or the Royal Wedding of Prince William and What’s Her Name in April. Royal weddings have traditionally led to royally complicated divorces, though I hope this one will be an exception.
And I will not, if at all possible, utter from my mouth or type on my keyboard (other than now) the phrase, “I’m just sayin.” And I won’t end any of my sentences by saying, “and stuff like that,” or “and junk”. That’s so 2009.
And unlike the so-called cool macho guys of the younger generation, I will not get a Mohawk haircut in 2011. I’m not sure my hairline is capable of such an arrangement anyway. I saw a small kid with a green Mohawk recently and I all could think was, “Why?”
I will not run for sheriff nor will I spill oil into the Gulf. And I will not feel sorry for either the players or the owners in any strike conducted by Major League Baseball, the NFL, or the NHL. Come on guys, most of us would play for meal money. Okay, I wouldn’t play hockey without a good dental plan but you get the picture.
And to honor rabbits, I will not hunt them this year. I haven’t bagged one since I cheated and shot one in our family garden when I was 14. Come to think of it, I haven’t hunted them since then so that will be an easy resolution to keep.
So much for the “will nots”. Time for the “I wills”. I will experience a white Christmas, just like the one I knew in 2010, which was the first of my lifetime. I will publish a book and I will, despite whatever low-fat diet I am on, indulge myself with homemade ice cream at every game of the locally hosted American Legion World Series this coming summer. (I’m hoping for homemade banana.)
So there you have it. Blessings in 2011. Be on the lookout for Mohawks at the Royal Wedding. I’m just sayin’. (Ooops)

I do it every year around this time. I put together a list of those who have inspired me in some way during the past year and call it something silly like, “Thumbs Up Award for Regular Folks Who Don’t Get Recognized But Probably Should.” Sounds good so I’m going with that for 2010.
You won’t see any of television’s Real Housewives on my list this year. The very few times I have wasted a few moments of my life by tuning in, all I could hear were beeps. Maybe they get bonuses based on who can curse the most. Cursing is bad enough, but is particularly unattractive among females.
Enough for the negativity. I am an optimist and I’ve had plenty of reasons to smile this year.
NOSTRADAMUS OF THE SEA- Paul the Octopus was a stud when it came to picking the winners in last summer’s World Cup soccer matches, correctly predicting the outcome of the last eight matches in a row by lowering himself onto a box with the country’s flag located at the bottom of his tank. Poor Paul didn’t enjoy his fame for long as he left us in October due to “natural causes.” (If only he had picked Team USA to win)
CLASS ACT- Major League Baseball umpire Jack Joyce blew the call that would have given Detroit pitcher Armando Gallaraga a perfect game. But Joyce, Gallaraga, and the normally harsh fans of Detroit all handled it with grace and dignity, giving me hope for the game I have loved since my youth.
CLASS ACT #2- Also involving baseball but a little closer to home, I witnessed an act of true sportsmanship this past summer at a youth league baseball game. One of the kids was playing with a cast on his arm, forcing him to bunt each time he came up to bat. When he came up with two outs in the last inning, the opposing coach- who could have easily seized the opportunity to win the game at that point- chose instead to intentionally walk the kid so that the game wouldn’t end on a fluke out. He saved the kid embarrassment and chose class over the “win at all cost” mentality. Kudos.
MISSION POSSIBLE- Seems like I mention my mission trips every year. Get used to it. The team of college kids I led on a trip to the Dominican Republic made quite an impression on me. But also my friends there in the Dominican remain close to my heart, and are in my thoughts and prayers daily.
MISSION SERVE- I also had the opportunity to serve as worship leader for a week of Mission Serve this past summer, where teens serve less fortunate others through short-term construction projects. On the last night, during a song where we were all kind of letting loose together, one boy looked at me and said something I’ll never forget. Jeremy was someone I would probably have never hung out with in school. He was uncoordinated and socially awkward. But he looked up at me during the last verse of the song and said simply, “Coach Rusty, you’re my favorite person.” It was one of the greatest compliments I have ever received and I’ll cherish its sincerity forever.
Thanks for a great 2010. Blessings to all.

A few thoughts, if I may, about Christmases past, present, and future.
Christmases past and present have been and are filled with clichés. Folks say, “You ready for Christmas?” and others reply, “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.” And you hear people ask, “Did ya’ll have a big Christmas?” to which the standard reply is, “Yeah, too big.”
People complained back then and still worry now that Christ is being taken out of Christmas. And even though we now know X is a Greek symbol representing Christ, it’s still not kosher to put up a sign with “Xmas” written anywhere on it. And you can’t say “gay apparel” anymore as freely as you used to could.
The most memorable Christmas decoration I can remember from my youth was a Santa propped on a toilet next to a defunct truck tire with flowers in it, proudly displayed in somebody’s front yard. I made my parents ride by that house over and over again.
Christmas past meant that one of my uncles would tell his “Randolph the Brown-nosed reindeer” joke on Christmas Eve. It was something about how Randolph could fly just as fast as Rudolph but couldn’t stop as quick. Us kids always got a kick out of that one. (At least he didn’t do the “pull my finger” trick.)
But Christmas Eve also meant a candlelight service at my home church, where a choir member, usually Martel, would sing “Oh Holy Night.” I still visit my home church every Night Before Christmas and eagerly anticipate getting my “Oh Holy Night” fix, which never disappoints me.
No Christmas is complete for me unless I’ve seen the Grinch and Charlie Brown specials. The other night, while watching Charlie, my fifteen-year-old said, “Dad, you know the reason I know all the words to this show? Because you make us watch it every year.” Dang straight I do. (Everyone should hear Linus’ oration every year- the part where he tells about the birth of Jesus.)
And every year in the past and now in the present, we sing about winter wonderlands and sleigh rides with bells jingling. Yet I’ve never seen white on Christmas Day and I’ve certainly never dashed through the snow on a giant horse-drawn sled headed for Grandma’s house or anywhere else. But we sing it anyway because hope springs eternal.
In Christmases past, present, and future- based on my nut allergy- I have been and will remain on the alert for goodies laced with nuts. Beware of fudge, banana bread, fruitcake (Ugh!), cookies, and everything else Christmasey you can think of.
Concerning Christmases future, you may be expecting to hear gloom and doom but fear not, I bring you good news.
Christmases future will witness an end to shoppers getting trampled with their treasures (more online shopping) and protests over the words people greet each other with during the season will cease. You’ll be able to say “Merry Christmas,” “Happy Hanukah,” or “Happy Holidays” because people will finally realize that a greeting is simply one’s way of expressing peace, love, and joy to the world- as opposed to trying to force a religion on you.
And Linus, the Grinch, Randolph, and “Oh Holy Night” will still be around, even when I’m long gone. And Christ will still remain in Christmas. Because hope springs eternal.

In this season of gratitude, I have much to be thankful for. Faith, family, friends, a job, health, church, and a home come to mind. Also I count my freedom and those who protect it among my many blessings. There’s more but I have chosen to take a different angle this week.
After much introspection, I have come up with a list of things I am not thankful for. Or better stated, the “thankful I am not” list.
ALL THAT JUNK ABOUT TOUCHING- I’m thankful I’m not traveling by air during the holiday season. I consider myself an affectionate guy, but I won’t be getting patted down, body scanned, or molested in any form or fashion at the airport. As appealing as all that may sound to some, I’m happily married, thank you.
NO STAR ON THE SIDEWALK- I’m relieved not to be a Hollywood star. Most, not all, of them have skyrocketing divorce rates and plastic surgery bills. And their mug shots when they get in trouble are beyond hilarious. Plus they’ve got that whole paparazzi deal crowding around them all the time. The closest I’ve ever come to that was when I gave out cheese crackers and crayons to some children in the Dominican Republic.
DANCING FOOL- I am thankful not to be a finalist on “Dancing with the Stars” despite the fact I produced unforgettable performances at a recent football game (recall column about dancin’ and textin’) and a few weeks later with the father of the bride at a Haitian wedding. I don’t watch the show but it seems to me everybody who gets voted off is 1) embarrassed 2) grouchy and 3) bitter.
ROYAL PAIN- I’m extremely thankful that I wasn’t born into royalty. I hear the wedding of the future King of England and his bride will cost their families $40 million. Of course they can afford it but I prefer thrift shops, flea markets, and blue light specials. Plus they have to remember which fork to use to eat their salad and I like to just dig in face first.
EFFORTS IN FUTILITY- I am a sports fan but not a fanatic. Thus I don’t live and die by the performances of my favorite pro teams. I am thankful for that because my football Panthers are the worst in the NFL right now. The Bobcats are second to last in their division in the NBA (yawn . . . who really cares) and my beloved baseball Pirates were recently voted the worst professional sports franchise in the history of mankind. Despite my ridiculous loyalty, I’m thankful I don’t lose sleep over their haplessness.
MINER SIXTY NINER- I am thankful that my professional duties do not include underground mining. Thirty-three Chilean miners recently “enjoyed” sixty-nine days and nights trapped below the earth’s surface before being rescued. I would have never made it. I attempted to hide in the trunk of a car to sneak in the drive-in during high school but started screaming bloody murder five seconds after my friends tucked me in and closed me up. I’ve gladly paid the admission fee ever since.
That’s about it. So don’t forget during this season of thanks to not only count your blessings, but also your not-blessings. And give someone a hug. (But don’t pat them down.)