Basketball lessons (yeah, Bama beat Kentucky)

I watched the University of Alabama defeat the University of Kentucky in men's basketball last night. in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, a feat not quite so rare as some would believe, but, rare enough.  The crowd was great, I saw a lot of old friends in my superstitional  half-time stroll around the concourse, and we beat the Wildcats again. I'm glad I cheered from the stands instead of the sofa.  Plus I got another free t-shirt and another plastic cup.  I can now serve a party of about 240.

I am a bit of a basketball geek.  It is a fairly benign means of escape.  And I have learned a lot of life's lessons through the years watching and playing the game.

There was a turning point in last night's game.  Alabama had trailed by eight to ten points.  Kentucky's big man was on his way to setting a record for blocked shots as Bama players aggressively attacked the lane.  As they approached the Kentucky giant they would finesse, go under and up, or attempt to stop and out jump the big guy.  He pounded enough spikes to build a railroad track half-way to Lexington.  But something important happened a little more than half-way home.

Andrew Steele, fifth year senior guard for the Tide, the old wise man of the squad, had the ball in the right corner, a few feet outside the lane.  He beat his man off the dribble and headed toward the lane.  There was no finesse, no dipsy doodle.  Just enough movement to avoid the charge, making the the defender move his feet and lose a little of his balance.  Steele, a strong physical player at about six feet two, subtly put his shoulder into the big man's sternum and jumped straight through him, his shot moving through the up stretched arms of the off balance mega-Wildcat like a football through an upright, then rolling over the rim into the basket. And one.

The momentum was shifted. The giant had been conquered. It was Alabama's game after that moment.

At least that's my opinion.

Sometimes that's what it takes.  You gotta take it straight to the heart of the giant. He'll always beat you if you give him his space.  Sometimes you gotta get so close he can't effectively swat you anymore.

But that is unnerving.  It is illogical. And, of course, with a giant, it seems a little dangerous. A little risky.

There is a time for dancing. A time for finesse.  A time for  the 3-bomb.  But if you don't deal with the giant in the middle  .   .   . you're going to lose.

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I-65 Rest Stop

Last Thursday I was headed to Huntsville from Oneonta, a drive of sixty or so miles that should take a little over an hour.  I had heard the weather folks saying that snow would be coming. I heard the same weather folks saying that there would be no travel issues at all because temperatures would be too warm for the falling snow to affect roadways.  So, being the weather expert that I am I figured that trying to get through the snow band in the warmer middle of the day would be better than waiting until later in the evening after sunset, when the air would get colder and any water on the road might freeze. I also thought that I-65 would be better than lesser traveled highways, or highways that moved through higher elevations.

I was wrong.  And so were the weather folk.

It was snowing hard but traffic was moving along in fine fashion on I-65 north around 2:00 in the afternoon.  I passed the last exit for Cullman, traffic still moving along famously.  I made the right decision, I thought.  Then I saw the brake lights ahead of me.   .  . as far as I could see.  And none of them were moving.

And that's the way it was for the next fourteen hours. Until some of the lights went out for lack of fuel or electricity or sliding into a ditch.   I was able to move around 4:00 a.m. Friday morning.

It was no big deal.  The Prius is a great car to get stranded in.  With my full tank of gas I  probably could have sat there with the heat running for two or three days before I ran out.  I found a half a box of chocolate covered Christmas pretzels under the seat, so I wasn't going to starve.  In fact I had a couple of boxes of girl scout cookies in the back seat that I had forgotten about and never opened.

I had no water.  That was a good thing for the first ten hours or so.  Being dehydrated, I didn't have to worry about where I was going to go to the bathroom.  Of course, there wasn't a bathroom. But I saw a few people head toward the tree line and back.  I assume they had not had the foresight to become dehydrated.

But, after awhile, dehydration didn't feel too good.  So, being the good Boy Scout that I am, I looked around me.  There was snow and ice everywhere.  (actually a good Boy Scout would carry a couple of bottles of water in his car always, so I'll have to take a refresher course later)  But that which was immediately accessible was muddy and oily and nasty.  And slippery, as it turned out, when I stepped out of my car to further my plan.  But I was thirsty.  I looked to the tree line.

Hmmm.  It was going to be important to find the kitchen portion of the tree line as opposed to the bathroom area.  So I set out, slipping and sliding across the icy ruts of the emergency lane before reaching the crunchy  undisturbed snow off the right of way.  I wasn't thirsty enough to risk gathering snow that might have been made yellow by other travellers, something I couldn't detect in the dark.  But I ran into a limb of a bush, about head level, that was bent down with the weight of snow . . . fresh clean snow.  I made a quick determination that it was unlikely that anyone could have hit the height of the branch with  . . . .well, you know.    I made a couple of snow balls from the limb's generous offering, walked back to the car, and sucked on the unflavored all natural snow cone.

And so I survived the boredom of fourteen hours in the car.  I wish I had a more exciting tale to tale, but it was just the opposite.  The only real danger I faced was being bored to death..

It was a treacherous ride at 4:00 a.m. on I-65 North creeping down Mt. Lacon.  Apparently that incline was the problem.  Cars and trucks were stranded on both sides of the slope as I moved down at glacier like speed.  And then suddenly, everything was clear, and I moved on.

I learned a few things from this unexpected winter retreat.  .In Alabama we do not know how to handle even a little snow and ice.  I learned that local news outlets, radio, TV and Internet, sometimes miss reporting important real time events.  I still do not know what really caused that delay of 14 hours.  Me and a couple of thousand of my traveling companions really wanted and needed to know, but it just never happened.   I saw close up that eighteen wheelers do not do well on packed snow and ice. And I was affirmed in my belief that cleaning out your car on a regular basis is over-rated.  I learned practical things like that.  The first two made me a little angry after a while.

I have traveled that part of  I-65 over a hundred times I suppose.  I never noticed Mt. Lacon, except for the exit sign. But now I have, because I had to. Because it stopped me.

And that's the way it is, unfortunately. .

What else have I failed to see as I speed through my life, with nothing to stop me?

 I haven't been laid off from my job, so maybe I haven't noticed the hardship of the unemployment line.  I haven't been homeless, so maybe I have been oblivious to those stuck in place as I pass by except for the signs they hold on interstate exits. . I haven't suffered serious illness, so maybe I have avoided the pain and isolation of others. I haven't fought in wars for my country, so maybe I haven't taken time to know enough about it and fight for those who have. And so on .  .  .

I haven't tried to find out what happened to these folks and all the others who are fighting uphill battles and told their stories loudly and clearly when they could not.  I haven't tried to find ways to help them find their footing on their slippery slopes. I haven't helped them find a clear safe path.

I haven't had time to stop and see for myself.

Fourteen hours is a long time, but really, it's nothing.

Except an excellent time to stop . . . and think.

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Ready on the right, ready on the left, ready on the firing line . . .

Stand down.

We have a second amendment to our federal constitution, and most states have constitutional provisions, that protect citizens' rights to possess firearms. The Supreme Court has upheld that right.  Sure there are nuances and interesting arguments to make, but it is fairly simple and straightforward in the eyes of the U. S. Supreme Court.

It is equally well settled that the federal government has the constitutional authority to reasonably regulate that right.  The Supreme Court has upheld that premise as well.

Politics makes strange bedfellows, but the history of gun rights and gun control discloses clandestine lovers worthy of exposure.

If you want to read a really good article on this, this article in Atlantic is great.  If you are a fan of lesser quality and fewer words, read on.

The second amendment is in the Bill of Rights of the U. S. Constitution, which was adopted a few years after the original document.  Our founding fathers limited the right at the time, contrary to the rhetoric of today.   Only qualified men could own and possess firearms.  In fact, eligible men were required to own and possess firearms  (interestingly, one of the earliest basis for the mandate for health insurance required in Obamacare).  Those eligible men who were required to possess firearms were also required to muster from time to time, with their weapons. They were required to register their ownership of the weapons. And you could only own a gun if you made oath to support the young government of our country.

The National Rifle Association came along after the Civil War.  One of the founders was a reporter with the New York Times. (Who would've thought?)   The NRA, in the early twentieth century, proposed and advocated many of the same gun control measures that are being debated right now. Registration. Permits required to carry concealed. Waiting periods. Eligibility requirements. All advocated, some even originated, in the NRA.  They supported these positions well into the 1960's.  They mostly just wanted gun owners to be better marksmen. It was embarrassing when we started getting into wars in other countries and so many of us were bad shots.  Weird, huh?

It gets weirder.

The original proponents of the modern second amendment gun rights movement were . . .the Black Panthers in California in the 1960's as inspired by Malcolm X.

The original opponent of the modern gun rights movement was .  .  .Ronald Reagan, governor of California.

It will be inspiring.  Alabama libertarians and California Black Panthers marching hand in hand to defend constitutional protections for all people.

And that's what makes America great . . . and a bit humorous sometimes.  C'mon, we gotta laugh at ourselves. Otherwise we're all gonna go crazy, if it's not too late.

What is not funny is that we are becoming callous to our children being killed.

Jesus said we can't serve two masters.  .   .

Neither the  Remington GameMaster that killed Martin Luther King back in 1968, nor the BushMaster used in Sandy Creek, nor any of the other inanimate instruments of deadly violence fashioned by the hands of man that have become the master to a few. Certainly not every gun owner.  But apparently to an increasingly scary few.

Guns don't kill people. People kill people.  There is a lot of truth in that bumper sticker.

When I was young I was fascinated with my dad's guns.  He was a quail hunter. I loved to watch him clean his shotguns. I can still smell the sharp odor of the cleaning fluid. I loved it when he let me shoot it.  And I will never know if he knew of all the times I snuck his shotguns or pistols outside while he was away and did a little target practice of my own. Or shoot a rattlesnake. But those are different stories. Don't tell anyone.

But one thing I do not have to guess about.  Guns were serious business. They were dangerous. He had me convinced they could jump off the wall and go off  unprovoked if I didn't show proper respect.  And to suggest that they would or should be used against another human being would have resulted . . .well I don't even want to think about what the results of that kind of talk would have been.

Would he have protected his family with his guns if it was necessary?

Probably.  If it was absolutely necessary.

But  not to protect his stuff.

And certainly not to attack his own country.  That's just crazy talk.  So I agree. It is true. It is not the inanimate guns that scare me so much.  It is the people who apparently worship them.

I watched an interview with some of the parents of children who were killed at Sandy Hook.  The talking head followed the interview by saying that the course of the gun control debate was solely in the hands of those parents at Sandy Hook. They would have to be the advocates. It was up to the victims to get something done.

What a sad thought. As if they were in this all alone, even more than the tragedy must have made them feel. As if that tragedy belonged only to them.  It belongs to all of us.  Gun advocates and gun control proponents.  It doesn't matter.  It is our country. It is our tragedy.  Surely we are better than that.   Surely we can work on this problem together.

 I don't know the answer.  But I do not accept that the daily tragedy of American gun violence can be excused as the price of freedom.  There is a reasonable solution that is consistent with the second amendment and our real history.

And I am sure we can begin to find it.  All sides together.

But not by looking through the cross hairs.

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Advent

He watched, devastated, as  the children were being torn apart by relentless, vicious evil.  To enter into that place, once a picture of idyllic happiness, would require putting Himself in the midst of the horrific destruction, becoming almost as helpless as the children themselves.  But the children were powerless to get out on their own.

And so He came.

We are the children.  All of us. From infants to senior citizens, from the beginning of time until the end of time, we are the children being torn apart by an unnatural evil.  Our childish ways and weaknesses leave us helpless to find our way in the dangerous darkness.

And so He comes..

But He comes empty handed, no shield, no weapons. Is He kidding?  We hesitate to follow because the evil has convinced us that evil can only be vanquished with greater evil.

And the darkness grows.

But, the darkness has no power.  It is a fraud.  It is defenseless against the light of the One who comes.

His hands he leaves empty, and open, perfect to hold onto, or to carry the ones who are too weary..  But how does He carry the light into the darkness?

In His heart.

And in yours.

And mine.
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